Watched
Page 1
Copyright © 2014 by CJ Lyons
Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Cover image © Dewayne Flowers/Shutterstock; Tonkovic/Thinkstock
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Note to Readers
Where to Find Help
An excerpt from Broken
About the Author
Back Cover
To my patients who suffered in silence before finding the courage to speak out. Thank you for teaching me that heroes are indeed born every day.
“It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake.”
—Frederick Douglass
cap·ping [kap-ing] Verb, Slang:
1. The act of shooting or killing someone with a gun.
2. The practice of capturing covert screenshots, usually of underage girls and boys, and then using them to coerce the subjects into performing sexual acts on video. (See also: capper, noun, slang)
cap·per [kap-er] Noun, Slang:
1. An informer.
2. A person who captures covert screenshots for the purpose of blackmail, bullying, sexual gratification, or to trade among online communities.
Prologue
You don’t know what it feels like to hold a life in your hands, but I do.
There’s nothing like it. Better than sex, it’s a rush that leaves you panting, wanting more. And more is so easy to get. You, all of you, you’re just waiting for me.
And I’m coming for you.
You won’t know I control your life, your future, your every waking moment…not until it’s too late.
Best thing of all? Even once you know who I am and what I’ve done to you, there’s nothing you can do about it. You are mine. Forever.
Your life will never be the same—you might die or you might keep living, but your life will always be mine. Ants squirming under a magnifying glass, no matter where you run, no matter how you fight, no matter if you give up and kill yourself…I win.
The law can’t stop me. You can’t stop me. No one can.
—Confessions of an anonymous capper
1
Some guys think fire is sexy.
Watching the abandoned house burn, I spot a few of those in the crowd. While firefighters like my uncle are hard at work, these guys are hanging out, staring, licking their lips, one hand shoved deep down the front pocket of their jeans. Pyros.
That’s not me. I don’t love fire. I hate it. I envy it.
I need it.
I didn’t start this fire, but I understand whoever did: the joy of creating something so beautiful. The temptation to give it freedom, let it take control, destroying everything in its path.
One spark is all it takes.
You think you can control it. You know it’s wrong, but you don’t know what else to do. You’re trapped, a flame dancing along a match, running out of time, nowhere to go.
You figure you can stop. That you only need it just this once. Then everything will be okay and you won’t ever, ever do it again. You won’t have to, because you’re in control.
At least that’s what you think.
But sparks breathe and grow into flames. Flames surge into a full-blown blaze. You try to smother them, but it burns, hurts so bad you pull back. Lose control.
If you ever even had it to begin with.
That’s life. My life.
Some days I want to burn the world to ashes. Let the flames loose to scour the filth and dirt, devour the pain—my pain—and start fresh and new again.
But fire never keeps its promise. You can never give it its freedom—just like I can never let my feelings escape, never tell anyone the truth.
If I did, my whole world would burn like the house in front of me.
It’s mesmerizing, watching the well-rehearsed movements of the firemen attacking the flames. There’s no one inside the two-story frame house on Pine Street, so they’re coordinating an exterior attack. A few of the guys nod or wave at me. Most of them are grinning as they lean against the water gushing through their hoses—and they don’t even know it. In their own way, they love fire as much as the pyros do.
I wish I could love anything that much. Most days I just feel numb. Other times, there’s this rage burning inside me, consuming me, until it takes all my energy to keep it from escaping like the flames curling through the house’s busted windows.
Dave, the engineer, checks the gauges on the side of the pumper truck—lime green, emblazoned with the Smithfield, PA, Fire Department insignia—then joins me.
“You guys need anything?” I yell over the riotous clamor of water, engines, men shouting, the house groaning and moaning. Fires are noisy places. Most people don’t realize that.
Or appreciate the stench. Not like a wood fire you build on a cold winter’s night, safe at home. House fires mean all sorts of shit
going up in smoke: carpet and plastic and clothing and insulation. The smell is the main reason the crowd stays back, not heat or fear.
It always amazes me how little fear civilians have—if they could get close, they would. Their faces light up, eyes reflecting the flames, and if it weren’t for guys like my uncle and Dave keeping them back at a safe distance, they’d walk right into danger, like they’re in a trance or something.
I guess we all have a love-hate relationship with fire. Some more than others.
“I can make a run to Sheetz, grab some sodas,” I tell Dave. Fighting fire is thirsty work. And these guys will be here for a while, long after the last flame is doused. Putting out the fire is the fun part; the real work comes during the cleanup.
“Thanks, Jesse,” he says. “But we’re covered.” We stand side by side in front of the pumper, arms crossed over our chests, and watch the fire’s dying throes. “No signs of a meth lab or any hazmat shit, thank God. She was a bitch, but your uncle, he grabbed her by the throat and throttled her good.”
Firemen talk like that, like fires are women, like conquering a fire is better than sex.
It’s not PC, but if you’ve ever been inside a building, smoke so black even the strongest light can’t penetrate it, thick with poisonous chemicals that would kill you if you weren’t breathing through a mask, your heart pounding in your head as you inch your way forward, desperate not to get lost or fall through the floor and drown in the water your brothers-in-arms are pouring into the flames…if you’ve ever been there, you’d talk like that too.
I’ve never told my uncle or any of the other guys at the station, but fire isn’t a “she” to me. Fire is me, like the blood in my veins or the electricity that jump-starts my nerves.
It’s the fury that wakes me with its acid burn every morning, the pain that curdles my insides until I clench every muscle, trying to regain control. Fire is the part of me I can never show the rest of the world, but sometimes I have to let it out or I’ll spontaneously combust.
We watched a video in health class last year. It was about not hurting yourself—drinking and driving, eating disorders, killing yourself, whatever. In it, a girl talked about cutting.
She said seeing her blood was like wrapping a chain around her heart, anchoring her to the real world. Without the blood, she’d just float away into nothing. Only by tearing into her own flesh, allowing the blood to escape, could she release the pain building up inside.
I’ll never forget that girl. She’s me—before they locked her up and fed her drugs and turned her into a zombie telling other kids, don’t worry; be happy.
Yeah right. Sometimes adults are so clueless, I wonder if they even live in the same universe as me. There are so many things going on right in front of them, inside their own homes even, and they’re so damn oblivious. Wandering around in the dark, never seeing—or maybe they choose not to see. Which, in my book, is even worse.
Doesn’t matter. All you can do is figure out what works for you. For that girl, it was cutting. For me, it’s keeping my mouth shut and lighting my fires.
“Come summer, it’ll be you,” Dave says, giving the dying blaze a nod. I turned sixteen a few months ago; now I can join the department as a junior firefighter. Everyone assumes I’ll follow in my uncle’s footsteps, so I guess that’s what will happen. No one ever asks me.
“Was it our guy?” We’re far enough away from the civilians I don’t have to worry about being overheard. Few outside the fire department and the cops know there’s a serial arsonist at work in Smithfield.
“Yeah. Sixth one. Same signature.”
“You think he’s a bug?” Firefighters call people like me, who start fires out of compulsion, firebugs. I hate the term, although I have to admit that when the need strikes, I do feel like a worm, unable to crawl away from it—lower than low, belly rubbing the dirt.
Then I light a fire, bring it to life, and I feel almost human again.
“No. This guy’s a pro. Cops are trying to follow the money trail, but it’ll take time.” Dave shrugs. Catching the guy isn’t his job—putting out the fires left in his wake is.
“They came around last night, talked to my uncle. At the house.” My uncle is assistant chief, in charge of personnel. Smithfield’s a small city made smaller by the recession, and firefighters don’t make much despite the risks they take to protect civilians. The temptation to earn extra money burning down empty buildings so owners can cash out puts even firefighting heroes at the top of the cops’ suspect list.
“I’ll bet he gave them an earful.”
“Kicked them out. Said to get a court record for the personnel files, they want them so bad.”
He looks at me, frowning. The lights flash across his face, red, white, red, white. “Jesse, you know anything about these fires?”
I shake my head. “No.”
It’s the truth. I can never lose control, let my fires enjoy a taste of freedom like this guy’s. If I did, I’d destroy everything: my life, my family, everything. “I’m just worried about my uncle, is all.” That part’s also true, but not the way he takes it.
“Don’t worry. He can take care of himself. Now you’d best get out of here before he sees you. He won’t like you out this late on a school night.”
I nod and head down the block toward my pickup truck, making my way through the lookie-loos. Like most of Smithfield, this street is a roller coaster of steep hills, old-fashioned cobblestones poking through worn-out macadam.
Sometimes it feels like Smithfield never left the first Great Depression behind. With its coal-stained frame and brick houses huddled against the wind whipping down from the Allegheny mountains that surround it, it hasn’t changed much since my mom and uncle grew up here. Except the problems Smithfield faces today are a lot different than they were in the last century. Meth, heroin, oxy—infecting both parents and their kids. And plenty more bad things going on in the dark behind closed doors. The lousy economy isn’t helping any. Smithfield is set in some of the most beautiful countryside imaginable, but you tend to forget that when you live here and all you see is the broken-down concrete at your feet.
It’s past ten on a Sunday night, but the block is crowded with men slouched against the shadows, using the spectacle of the fire as a chance to make a few bucks selling drugs. Dark hoodies hide their faces, but their hands give them away: fast moving, hand to pocket, money to hand, hands meet in exchange, nod of the head, hands back in pockets, saunter away.
I don’t know why they even bother hiding in the shadows; anyone can tell what they’re doing. No one seems to care. It’s that kind of neighborhood…becoming that kind of city if things don’t pick up soon.
Women gather with babies and young children, holding them tightly, talking to each other as they watch the destruction. One more drug house gone. No thanks to the city. They seem to think the arsonist is some kind of modern-day Robin Hood. They chat about planting a garden or having a new place for the kids to play since the house was on a large corner lot.
Wait until they see how long it takes the city to clean away the debris. Until then, the blackened, skeletonized remains of the house will beckon to their kids, daring them to risk falling into the gaping basement filled with soot and mud and water, climbing cracked timbers, combing through the ashes searching for treasure. Just last month my uncle’s crew had to rescue a little boy from an old coal chute he’d fallen through after a similar fire buried it from sight.
I stop as the roof on the burning house falls in, releasing black smoke and flames to swirl into the night. The crowd pulls back with a cry of terror followed by cheers. My uncle and his men lunge forward, their grins wider than ever. This is the final battle, the last of the fun part. Then comes cleanup—smoking cigarettes while raking through the ashes, dousing any smoldering embers.
The crowd applauds the firefighters as the blaze surrenders. They do
n’t understand what’s really going on inside the fire or the kind of men who run toward an inferno instead of away from it.
They don’t know fire like I do.
They don’t want to.
Lighting a blaze, breathing life into the sparks, watching the flames come alive then die, leaving behind ashes of despair…Every fire I start is a new beginning, a second chance—a way to release the pain and find the courage to go on living.
Without my fires, I would have killed myself long ago.
With my fires, I can imagine hope.
• • •
Sunday, five hours later…
Miranda’s fingers flew over her keyboards—both of them—as she followed the boy’s trail from the streaming video. Looked like the kid in front of the webcam was in a normal bedroom in a normal house—no one would ever believe what he was doing at three in the morning. She was certain none of it was his idea. Just like her being here watching wasn’t exactly how she wanted to spend a Sunday night, either.
She couldn’t believe her luck, finally tracking down one of the Creep’s private live feeds. She couldn’t close in on the Creep himself; he was much too careful. But his client, the perv from Tokyo, was an amateur at covering his tracks, giving Miranda the chance to trace the kid back to his home ISP.
If she could pull this off, the kid would be okay—they’d all be okay. At least that’s what she kept telling herself, typing furiously, seeing lines of code glowing against the back of her eyelids with each blink. She was exhausted, but it was worth it. She’d seen the kid before in the Creep’s glitzy teaser ads—movie trailers aimed at an audience with sick and twisted minds—but this was her first chance to track him to where he lived in the real world.
Occasionally she had to glance at the other screen—the one with the live action—to check the time code. 3:18 a.m. EST, 4:18 p.m. Tokyo. If they logged off before she finished, she’d lose the kid. Maybe forever.
She tried hard not to notice what was actually happening, what the Tokyo perv was making the kid do, but then realized it was important that she pay attention. Not to the action playing out but to the kid. His face.