Dreamspinner Press Year Eight Greatest Hits

by Brandon Witt

  Reading his mind, Wendy stepped up to him. “I’ll take care of the kids. You and Wesley go to the clinic.”

  He started to nod, but hesitated. “I’m not leaving you all.”

  “No. Go. I’m sure there’s nothing to be done for the cat, but you can’t just sit here, waiting. I’ll take the kids home. Just keep me updated.”

  Travis hesitated again, then nodded. She was right; he couldn’t just wait around. “Okay.”

  “Wait.” Wesley grasped Wendy’s arm as he spoke but looked back and forth between her and Travis. “Take the kids to Glen and Patsy’s.”

  “Why?” Wendy yanked away a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her face.

  “I don’t know. Just a feeling.” Wesley’s gaze locked on to Travis. “This has something to do with me. I can feel it. I don’t want the kids at home, just in case.”

  Though Travis couldn’t say why, there was truth in Wesley’s words, so much that it almost made some strange kind of sense. And he knew who—without a doubt he knew who was responsible. “Wallace. That fucker.”

  Wendy gasped, but Wesley nodded. “Yeah. I bet so.”

  Despite the business being on fire, having a face behind it erased any fear, leaving only anger once more. John Wallace. He wasn’t afraid of that sniveling asshole, but he was going to kill him.

  Then another thought. He whipped toward Jason. “The feedstore!”

  “Oh fuck!” Jason snarled. “Goddamned fucker.”

  “I gotta get out there. Maybe I can get there before he does.”

  Wendy shook her head. “No. Don’t do that. Just call the police. If you go there and he’s there—”

  Jason put his arm over Wendy’s shoulder as he joined her. “Travis, you and Wesley go. I’ll take Wendy and the kids to Glen and Patsy’s, then head to the feedstore. I’ll call Wally Sinclair and tell him to send some of his boys to CCF, let him know what we think is going on.” He nodded at Travis. “I’ll take care of Wendy and the kids. I promise. You and Wes go.”

  Wendy looked like she was going to argue, then let out a frustrated rush of air, hurried over to her purse, and pulled out her phone and a set of keys. She glanced at the screen and nodded. She had missed messages too. She held out the keys to him as she walked back. “Take my car. Jason and I will take the truck.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  JOHN WALLACE had waited for the Fourth of July. He didn’t really have any notions about independence or liberation, nothing quite so obvious as that. He’d just wanted to do it while fireworks were going off all over the town. Well, maybe that was obvious as well, but he shoved the thought aside. The time for reflection and planning had passed. It was time for action.

  To prove his point, he stuffed the bottle rockets in his back pocket, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his cock.

  As he urinated over the glass door of Cheryl’s, he stroked himself. Just a little. There was something so satisfying about watching the hot stream arching from his chubby as the splatter from his piss against the glass sprayed against his legs.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have worn shorts. He might burn his legs.

  That was dumb. He wasn’t gonna get in the fire.

  When his bladder was empty, he stuffed his now-full erection back into his pants. Picking up the plastic tub of gasoline beside him, he began to slosh it over the side of the building. He knew there was an alarm system in the veterinary clinic, so he wasn’t going to break a window or anything. There was more to do this evening. No sense running the risk of getting caught yet. He’d just make sure to get enough gas over the place that it would do the trick. He could manage to splash enough of the shit up onto the roof without covering himself in the process.

  John checked his watch, squinting in the darkness. Almost nine. Perfect. The fireworks at the ballpark were scheduled to go off at nine. Should give him enough time to get downtown before anyone noticed the fire out on Carman Road.

  After working his way around the clinic, dousing every area that looked likely to burn, John returned to the main entrance and placed the gas can on the bench that sat outside the front door. He had two other cans in the back of his truck. This one would help get the blaze really going.

  Shit! He’d forgotten the bottle rockets.

  Taking another lap around Cheryl’s, John stuffed the fireworks in random cracks and wedges in the building.

  Fuckin’ shit, he was brilliant! Who the fuck committed arson and offered a firework show at the same time? When he’d purchased the fireworks, his first inclination had been to get smoke bombs. He could just picture the blue, yellow, and green smoke pouring out of the fire. He’d been at the counter with scores of bombs when he realized it was going to be night and the colors wouldn’t even show. Instead he opted for bottle rockets.

  Headlights washed over him, causing him to jump. He whipped around to face the street, but whoever it was kept right on zooming down the road.

  Probably hadn’t even noticed him.

  Turning back around, he gave himself a little shake.

  Knock it off, Wallace. You’ve got this. You’re gonna show those faggots.

  Taking a final, appreciative glance over his handwork, John pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket.

  He dropped them.

  After scooping them back up, he withdrew a match, then struck it. He held the tiny flame up to his face and grinned. “All right, you little fucker. Do your shit!” He tossed the match toward the gas can.

  Even before the match hit the bench, the flame vanished.

  “Goddammit. Motherfuckin’ shit.” John stomped forward, stopping at the bench to glare at the worthless match.

  Withdrawing another one, he struck it once more. This time, he slowly lowered it to the pool of gasoline next to the tank.

  It blazed up in a small rush of an explosion.

  John flailed backward, barely keeping himself from falling. He swiped a hand over his face.

  He might have just singed off his eyebrows. He couldn’t tell. Then he looked back at the fire, and he noticed the flames licking at the side of the can.

  He turned and ran, nearly falling once more as his feet skidded across the gravel. He’d made it into his truck and slammed the door when the gas can exploded into a small ball of fire.

  Instantly a river of flame rushed over the walls of the clinic, and John realized he’d parked entirely too close. Jamming in the key, he turned the ignition. With a roar of life, the truck lurched backward, spraying the gravel, then screamed in protest as John slammed it into drive.

  He fishtailed onto Carman Road and zoomed off toward downtown, and as he glanced into his side view mirror, he saw the first of the bottle rockets zip up into the air.

  He howled in pure joy and retribution.

  JOHN HAD no delusions of getting away with it. None. He wasn’t even trying to.

  That was part of the glory of it all. Those faggots would know exactly who had ruined their lives.

  Besides, jail wasn’t so bad. He’d spent a few months there in his late teens. Not a big deal. He figured this time would be quite a bit longer than a few months. He wasn’t sure what the sentencing period would be for arson. Especially for three counts, but he didn’t care.

  Well worth it.

  Plus, he wouldn’t have to put up with his fat bitch of a wife harping all the time. Hell, if he’d thought about it, he could have set his own place on fire with Missy inside.

  Not that he’d really do it. He wasn’t a murderer.

  Plus, his boy would need his mom with his dad in jail—although being Missy-free was a pretty fucking awesome thought.

  As he turned off the highway about three minutes later and onto Main Street, another rush of joy filled him.

  They were gonna get theirs. All of their fucking businesses wasted.

  The original plan hadn’t involved that bitch Wendy’s store, but John couldn’t shake the image of that fucking faggot vet threatening to spread lies ’bout him all over town. Besi
des, Wendy’s place was right on the way to Travis’s feedstore. Right between the two places. Perfect trifecta.

  Trifecta.

  A perfect, flaming trifecta for the faggots. John laughed out loud, enjoying the crazed tinge he heard in the sound. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard that word, trifecta.

  Who cared? What did it matter?

  What mattered was that they were gonna get theirs. All of them.

  They’d taken everything and ruined his whole goddamned life.

  The original plan hadn’t involved fire.

  It had been simple enough.

  John was gonna go into Cheryl’s and fuck the damned faggot vet. Then he was gonna tell everyone in the whole town how the fucker had come on to him, and maybe say something about how Dr. Ryan had bragged about fucking little boys or some shit.

  John hadn’t really been certain when he was going to do it, but he was going to. Sometime. He hated seeing that fag around town. And he and Bennett flaunting that shit in everyone’s faces.

  God, he hated them.

  He wasn’t sure when he was going to march in there and fuck that vet. But he would have. He would have. It was just a matter of time.

  Then that fucking bitch from animal services did a surprise inspection four days ago.

  They’d cleared him. He’d made all the changes they required. Cost him a damned fucking fortune cleaning up his field and getting everything up to code. Whatever the fuck that meant. He’d managed to keep his temper during every single one of their inspections.

  He’d been cleared. He’d passed all the inspections.

  All that was left was to fuck that prissy vet and get the fucker kicked out of town. Or lynched.

  Then that bitch had shown up three months after they’d given him their approval. She showed up on his doorstep with court orders to seize all his livestock. Said she’d snuck in a few days before and hadn’t liked how he’d let things deteriorate again. Course the bitch hadn’t said snuck. But that’s what she did. Fucking snuck right onto his property so she could steal his cattle.

  Like it wasn’t even fucking America.

  He had rights.

  Fucking took all the goddamned cows.

  God, Missy was screaming. At him.

  Course he made her scream for an entirely different reason. He grinned at the memory as he pulled into the alley at the back of The Crocheted Bunny. Served her right. Fucking Missy. Goddamned cunt.

  It had actually been Missy who was the inspiration for John’s Fourth of July shindig. Well, kinda. She wasn’t smart enough to think of anything as grand as this, but it had been during her beating that it had come to him.

  It had been strange. In between his fist making satisfying cracks against her face, he saw the vet clinic exploding in flames.

  It wasn’t until later, with Missy moaning annoyingly in the bedroom, that his real brilliance had taken hold. Not just Cheryl’s, but Cedar County Feed too. Both of those faggots. As he played out the scenario in his mind, he realized the route he would drive would take him right past that shit crochet store.

  Trifecta.

  Fucking trifecta.

  JOHN HAD been fairly certain The Crocheted Bunny didn’t have an alarm system. Sure enough that he was willing to bet on it.

  As he broke the back door open, he wished he’d gone the extra mile and bought a lotto ticket. It was his lucky day—no alarm.

  Shit. If he’d won the lotto, he might even have been able to afford a fancyass lawyer to keep him outta jail. And divorce Missy the cow while he was at it.

  Wendy’s store was easier than the clinic. As full of shit as that bitch had filled the place, he probably didn’t even need to waste the can of gas.

  Still, he was gonna do things right.

  After sloshing the walls with the gasoline, John shoved a shitload of all the crap in the store toward the middle of the space. He doused the pile with the remaining liquid and tossed the can on top.

  It rolled down the pile and clattered on the floor.

  He left it.

  He glanced down at his watch.

  Fuck, he’d been in the store over a quarter of an hour. Surely someone had noticed Cheryl’s burning by now. He was surprised he hadn’t heard sirens.

  This time, as he tossed the match, the flame hit the pile and set it ablaze.

  He allowed himself just a moment to enjoy the heat and then turned. He walked casually through the store and out the back door.

  Glancing back, John realized the flames were already licking up the walls where he’d left the trail of gasoline. It was burning even quicker than he’d imagined.

  Perfect.

  He jogged down the alley toward his truck and the remaining gas can. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  One more stop.

  Then… trifecta!

  John reached his truck and had the door open when he heard the click.

  He ignored it.

  “John Wallace, you piece of shit.”

  Startled, John whipped back around.

  At first, all he saw was the rifle pointed at his face.

  “You are a pathetic excuse for a man.” The rifle moved a step closer. “Or for a human, for that matter.”

  The voice became clear in John’s mind as the woman’s face moved farther into the light. Wendy Bennett. Uppity bitch. He reached out to take the gun from her.

  “Give me a reason, John. I’m not Missy. I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  The sirens were getting closer.

  John lowered his hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  PART OF him felt ridiculous for going to the fire. There was nothing he could do, nothing either of them could do, but he’d go crazy waiting.

  There was already a small crowd gathered around Cheryl’s as he and Travis stopped Wendy’s little car on the side of the road. He’d had some stupid vision of rushing into the burning building and rescuing the damned cat. The clinic was already too far gone; there was no way Horace was still alive.

  “Oh fuck.”

  Wesley looked over at Travis’s face, the fire casting weird shadows over his features, making him look older. Not like himself.

  “Wesley, I’m so sorry.”

  Wesley looked over from the passenger seat. “It’s just a building. Nothing that can’t be replaced…. Except for Iris’s cat. I don’t understand this. It just….” His voice trailed off as he looked back toward his burning business. Suddenly he needed to be closer. Even though there was no chance of rescuing Horace, Wesley needed to be there, to do something. He couldn’t just sit and watch. “Come on.”

  They got out of the car and rushed toward the crowd, then pushed through to the front of the group.

  Neither of them tried to go any farther. There was no point. There was nothing to be done. He’d already known, but still….

  A solitary fire truck was stationed nearby, and a few firemen rushed about. The water from the hose didn’t seem to be making much of a difference.

  The clinic was nothing more than flames. Brilliant orange lit what was left of the clinic structure from inside, making it look like a sinister jack-o’-lantern. Thick plumes of black smoke billowed in waves into the sky, blocking out the stars.

  Despite the growing crowd of people, it was oddly silent. The roaring and crackling seemed to consume the night air as surely as the fire devoured the clinic. Every so often a firefighter’s command would cut through the rush of the flames, but that was all.

  Wesley was hypnotized by the fire, watching his business be devoured. This was the symbol of his new life, his freedom, his regaining control. The loss swept over him, making the already blistering heat of the night combust.

  Wesley looked over when he felt Travis grasp his hand. Several moments passed before he was really able to focus on Travis.

  “Wesley, this was just one man. Not the entire town, okay?”

  Wesley just continued to stare at him, unblinking.

  “It’s just a building
or two, all right? Please don’t take it as a sign or anything.”

  Wesley tried to make sense of what Travis was saying.

  “Don’t make any rash—”

  A high-pitched wail cut Travis off. The sound was painful and shrill, cutting through even the roaring of the fire.

  The scream seemed to break Wesley out of his shocked stupor, and he looked away from Travis, searching.

  Then he saw the source.

  Still wailing, Iris Linley rushed through the crowd, shoving people aside in her panic. Over and over she screamed Horace’s name.

  It was painful to hear.

  She ran surprisingly fast for a woman of her size. Breaking through the crowd, she charged toward the burning clinic, the tails of her housecoat flapping behind her. One of her slippers fell off, causing Iris to stumble. She caught herself before she fell and continued her rush toward the fire.

  Her trip gave one of the firemen time to reach her. Grabbing one of her outflung arms, the fireman whipped her around, nearly causing them both to fall.

  To Wesley’s amazement and horror, Iris continued toward the clinic, dragging the fireman along behind her. His heart broke for her.

  Wesley started to rush toward them, but before he got more than a few steps, another firefighter caught hold of Iris. Between the two of them, they were able to bring her to a halt. After another moment of struggle, Iris crumpled to the ground in a sobbing heap, her wails increasing.

  AS INSANE as the night of the Fourth of July had been, it was nothing compared to the following two weeks. Wesley had never experienced anything like it. With the confusion of who was responsible for what in all the licenses, titles, and insurance documents that had been finalized between him and Cheryl Fisher less than a month previously, it was nothing short of a paperwork nightmare. He was surprised that the insurance company had yet to claim Wesley had some sort of involvement in the fire. It did look a little suspicious. The ink of signatures was barely dry and the place just happened to burn to the ground…. So far, they hadn’t. He wasn’t too concerned, though. Even if the insurance company put up some type of fight, the details were pretty cut-and-dried when the arsonist was caught red-handed and more than happy to brag about his victories.