“How?”
“Paint rags,” said Dale. “I was staying in a rental house for free while I helped fix up the place, except the fucking owners reneged on the deal we made. Suddenly they were accusing me of stealing tools and demanding next month’s rent after they had promised I could work it off in trade. They knew I didn’t have a job, the assholes. So I got a bit careless with the paint supplies and left some oily rags too close to the furnace.”
“Spontaneous combustion.”
“An accident,” said Dale. “I lost everything I owned, but it didn’t matter because I was headed for the street anyways. I got a fresh round of sympathy, and the fire covered up the fact that a bunch of power tools were missing from the basement.”
“So no one suspected?”
“They could suspect all they wanted, but nobody could prove anything. There’s all kinds of solvents and chemicals around when a house is getting renovated.” Dale closed his eyes. God, he felt tired. That fire was the riskiest one he ever set because it connected directly to him and he knew – he fucking knew – everything had to be exactly right. And still, he had not anticipated every possible circumstance. It was supposed to be small, confined to the basement, but it grew too fast. Something flammable in the walls maybe. Dale barely made it out before the whole place lit up. The flames blew out a side window and spread to the fence. Totally out of control. That was when the lady next door ran out screaming about her house going up in flames next. In the middle of her freak-out she grabbed her chest, started gasping for breath and collapsed on the lawn while Dale stood there shivering in his underwear. All before the first fire truck arrived.
Afterward, the owners of the rental gave him no end of grief even though they were insured and should have been grateful to him for burning down their firetrap. Yeah, he learned a lot from that fire.
“Cops aren’t stupid,” said Chelsea, “and insurance companies are buggers for paying out if they suspect arson.”
“I personally never collected a cent from insurance, and the arson guys know a lot of fires are accidental – especially when there’s no obvious motive like money.”
Chelsea did not look convinced. “Not everyone has paint rags lying around.”
“Grease fires, candles at Christmas, careless smoking,” said Dale. “It’s like the holy trinity of arson, and that doesn’t include crazy shit like towels soaked with massage oil if the client happens to be a masseuse.”
“Client?”
“Ryan has a knack for finding the kind of people interested in fires,” said Dale. “It’s not a crime to talk about it, and that’s what we’re doing right now. Just talking. But there hasn’t been a direct link between me and any fires in over a decade.”
“You’re wrong. Ryan is the link,” said Chelsea. “That makes him dangerous. You have to get rid of Ryan.”
She was right, and if some young punk girl like her could figure it out, it was probably already too late, but cutting Ryan loose was risky too. It might give the shithead even more reason to talk.
“Do you want me to get rid of Ryan for you?”
“What?”
Chelsea repeated the offer. She stood at the end of the bed, wearing Dale’s T-shirt, the one he wanted back. Twin pinpoints of pain behind his eyes made the room spin when he tried to focus on her face, to see if she was serious. Dale could not think straight and suddenly nothing made sense – not Ryan, not the girl, nor the fact that sitting up was too much effort. He barely managed to wave an arm toward the door. Chelsea turned and left the room. Good. He needed her to leave.
“My grandmother didn’t die of a heart attack, you know. She had an asthma attack from the smoke of the fire you set – from the panic of seeing it spread to her house. Our house. I lost everything that day.” Dale dragged his eyes open. The girl was back. He could not tell if it was Chelsea’s voice or something else that had pulled him out of his stupor. She blathered on about smoke and fire until it filled his senses. Only then did he realize it was real. Acrid smoke rose at the side of the bed as the first lick of flame spread from her pink bra to other clothes, to random tissues and his pack of butts. Dale tried to roll away from the fire but his body did not respond. He looked helplessly at Chelsea as she tossed some pills on the bed.
“In the beer,” she said by way of explanation. “I slipped a couple to Ryan at the bar too, so he probably won’t remember too much about introducing us.” Chelsea popped a pill in her mouth before she dragged Dale partway off the bed, leaving him hopelessly tangled in the bedspread as smoke billowed across the ceiling. She stayed low the whole time; Dale wondered if her grandmother had taught her that, too. Toxic smoke killed more people than the fires.
“Oops – almost forgot,” said Chelsea as she crawled toward the door. “I’m supposed to lose something important.” She yanked the locket from her neck and tossed it back at Dale.
CIRCLE OF BLOOD
Simon Strantzas
I’d been staying at the Y for a few weeks, trying to keep a low profile. I signed in under the name “Robin Littlejohn” not only because the name made me laugh, and sometimes laughing was all I had left, but also because Detective McCray was on the warpath and the name Owen Rake on the register would have stuck out. McCray was built like a solid wall, and wanted me like I was the one who put that scar on his face. Sometimes I think he and Mrs. Mulroney had something going on and that was why he was so mad at me. Other times I think it’s just because my screw-up got her killed, but either way, the cop was gunning for me. For some reason, it seemed like the best way to avoid the law was by turning tricks in the dark of the YMCA.
Jake Rasceta was the kind of suited douchebag you see on the street all the time – a Bluetooth earpiece in wherever he went, speaking at a volume one decibel higher than everyone else. He was about a foot taller than me and a foot wider. When he approached me as I smoked by the emergency exit I’d propped open, I thought he was there to kick my ass. Instead, already sweating, he looked me dead in the face and said, “I’m looking for a blowjob.” I told him I knew where he could find one.
Afterward, things were awkward. He wanted to leave but had to get dressed. I wanted him gone so I could gargle for a million years but I couldn’t leave him alone in my eight-by-eight. The last thing I wanted was anyone going through my stuff and finding something they shouldn’t. So I waited while he put his suit back on, noticing how much more he was sweating than before. He was silent, especially compared to the shit he’d been saying to me only ten minutes earlier, and in that silence I heard the traffic outside my closed window and the coughs and gags of my neighbours. It was a peaceful Sunday morning, I thought. Not at all when I expected to see something bizarre. It caught my eye as he opened his thick wallet to pay me for services rendered. There, tucked within a clear plastic envelope, I saw his gigantic face mugging for the camera, behind him some cheap department-store backdrop. He stood with his wife and what I assumed was his kid, but the photo didn’t show all of that – at least, not clearly. It showed him and his wife, and something else I wasn’t seeing right.
Most people don’t notice these sorts of things – Rasceta hadn’t – but I’ve been around too much crazy shit in my years to let it go. Rasceta was fixing his tie around his throbbing throat when I got out of my chair and went to investigate what I saw. Rasceta immediately hid his wallet from me, glaring, and shoved me away, hard. His skin was red from overheating, but he continued to add more layers of clothes. I wondered if my ass-kicking hadn’t been so much cancelled as delayed, and started babbling small talk in hopes of avoiding a confrontation. If I got thrown out of the Y, I had no idea where I’d end up.
“Hey, take it easy. I just wanted to see that picture. Was that your family?”
He seemed startled by the question. He wasn’t really paying attention. I saw it in his glassy bloodshot eyes.
“In your wallet. The photo?” I said again, louder in case he hadn’t heard me the first time. “Do you mind if I take a glance at
it?”
He looked at his pocket, then at me strangely. “Why, ah, why would… No, I don’t—”
He was trying to protect them, I respected that. But it was clear something was seriously wrong with Rasceta, and I suspected that photo would give me an idea of what.
“Seriously, let me see it. I’m trying to help.”
For a second he hesitated as though he was going to do it. Maybe he knew, subconsciously, he needed help and wanted to reach out, but I guess his programming kicked back in because his face scrunched in anger and he increased a foot in size. At least, that’s how I remember it.
“Fuck off. You have your money.”
Which I did but that wasn’t the point. I would have explained if he hadn’t stormed out of my room without even a thank-you, slamming the door hard enough his cash lifted up and floated around the room. It was probably a good thing I’d closed the window.
Here’s the thing: people don’t always know what’s best for them. They know what they want, but there’s a difference between want and need. I saw what Jake Rasceta needed, and all he could see was what he wanted. There was little I could do to stop him.
I should have let things go and forgotten about the guy. He’d almost taken my head off when I tried to help him, but that photograph in Rasceta’s wallet wouldn’t stop haunting me. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw his child squirming like some deformed reptile breathing slowly while mucousy black eyeballs rolled in its head. I knew if someone didn’t do something about it there would be dire consequences. And I was the only one remotely qualified for the job.
Nowadays it’s amazing how much information you can find about people using the internet. But what’s equally amazing is how much is available off the internet, and always has been. My life would be a hell of a lot harder if it weren’t. It’s there for anyone to dig up if they know where to look and aren’t afraid of getting their fingers dirty. Or taking their time, too. A whole lot of time. Luckily, I met all the qualifications. Jake Rasceta didn’t try too hard to hide who he was, but guys like him, guys who help me pay my rent when I have rent to pay, they don’t usually plan their actions too carefully. I make my money in more of a spur-of-the-moment fashion. Kind of like that chocolate bar at the cash register you don’t know you want it until it’s in your face, and less than an hour after you’ve swallowed the thing you start to regret it. But, oh, during that time nothing tastes better. At least, that’s what I imagine. For me, it was just a means to an end. And I knew Jake was going to come close to his if I didn’t get to him soon.
Finding where Rasceta lived and getting there were two different stories. At the time I was travelling lighter than usual, and the price of two buses – one out of the city, the other through suburbia – ate up more of Rasceta’s money than I wanted. I would have hitched it if I could, but few drivers are interested in picking people up anymore. Still, I made it to Collingwood in only a few hours. Everything was so quiet and still, and the trees on the streets weren’t in tiny concrete planters but in a long string along the side of the road. I felt horribly out of place, as though I were wearing a neon overcoat and marching to the beat of a bass drum. Those few couples I passed on the street stared at me like I was from Mars, and they were right; we were from different planets.
Rasceta’s house was one of those split-level ranch houses you see being built along the highway north of the city. It looked like every other house on the block, its bricks painted a godawful fake terra cotta. It was still early in the day, so I figured I’d catch him before he left for his sales job. I knocked on the door and waited. It was a nice morning out, which made it strange that I couldn’t hear any birds. Maybe they were avoiding the place? I rang again, then knocked.
When Rasceta answered the door he only had enough time to say, “What the fu—?” before the door slammed in my face. That half-second was enough to see the guy already looked worse. His face was sallow and sweaty and his shirt was plastered to his chest. I hoped he wasn’t dumb enough to call the cops; the last thing I needed was any cockeyed company. I rapped on the window when he didn’t come out and then looked inside. There was a dark-eyed woman there, terrified, hair plastered to her sweating face, holding tight to a familiar little boy. I was terrorizing them, which wasn’t something I normally liked to do. I would have felt worse about it if I hadn’t realized too late they were trying to distract me long enough for Rasceta to slip out the back door and sneak up on me. It was a stupid mistake, and I paid for it when his sweating hands reached around my neck and choked me. Everything went light and wishy, and in my oncoming daze I saw the face of that little boy in the window staring out at me. It seemed impossibly big, flickering as it filled the pane edge to edge, and it slowly turned. Then I realized it wasn’t the face that was turning but the world. In the distance I heard a voice cursing me, calling me names, telling me to stay the fuck away from his family. It was a normal reaction, considering. Weird how you can have a guy’s cock in your mouth but never really know him. I’d had enough of what he was dishing out, mainly because I knew that if I lost consciousness I’d probably never wake up again, so I did the only thing I could think to do. I grabbed hold of his balls and squeezed as hard as I could. He let go instantly, and as the blood pumped back into my head, my skull felt as though it were on fire. I coughed, my eyes a river of tears, and I knew better than to stick around long enough for him to recuperate. Instead, I stumbled down the driveway and out into the street. I half-expected him to follow me, and if he had there wouldn’t have been much I could have done, but he stayed away and I was able to find a backyard overgrown enough to hide in. Needless to say, the whole intervention could have gone better.
I licked my wounds and wondered what I was going to do. I would have liked to hop on the next bus out of there but that thing was stalking Rasceta, and I wanted a better look at it. Besides, the way that kid had looked at me – maybe it was a choked-out hallucination but it didn’t seem right. The kid was flickering when I looked at him, for fuck’s sake. That sort of thing wasn’t normal, and it was worth investigating. I stayed in those overgrown bushes for a few hours, though, just to make sure neither Rasceta nor his wife called in any sirens. I didn’t hear any, but I haven’t survived this long without being careful. Once I was sure no one was looking for me, I straightened myself out as best I could and started walking back to the Rasceta house. The road was quiet in the middle of the morning, and when I got closer to their place, I saw there was still a car in the driveway. If he was smart, Rasceta would have taken his wife and split, but something told me the guy was too big to think straight. He probably felt invincible, probably told his wife I’d never come around again. Probably told her lots except about how he met me. I bet the last thing he wanted was for her and me to talk. As for me, I wanted nothing more. At the very least, I wanted a piece of their kid. But when I got back to the house, it looked empty. I peeked in as many windows as I dared, but Rasceta and his wife were gone. What passed for their kid was nowhere to be seen.
Normally, in the city I pretty much disappear on the street, which makes life a lot easier for me. I can get around and watch people that need watching or get into places to look around when they need exploring. Or I can simply wander, trying to understand all I’ve seen. The city is like an open book to me – its secrets are my secrets. The suburbs, though, are like another galaxy, one where I’d stand out less if I wore an actual astronaut suit and scowled at the primitive Earthlings as I strutted around. I felt people peeking out their windows at me from behind their silk curtains. All curious who I was and what I was doing there. I didn’t think I could stand the scrutiny for very long, so I did the thing I do best: I gave up and went to find somewhere to sit and ponder.
There was a park not too far from the Rasceta house, one big enough that I wouldn’t be too conspicuous. Suburban parks are little oases, filled with green grass and flowers. Just the sort of thing to make you forget about cockeyed cops and weird things that look like children but d
efinitely aren’t. I almost felt normal sitting there, listening to the kids on the playground close by, ignoring the mothers henning it up on the benches around me. Had I found a bed there, I might have lain down and taken a nap. As it was, the day was getting to me and my eyes were already feeling heavy. I wanted to close them but I was afraid of what might happen if I slept. I shook myself to keep aware and once I did, I realized something was wrong. There was a lot of noise, as though the volume on the world had been turned up two notches. I heard the kids louder, and the birds were kicking up a storm. I half-thought I heard ants crawling across pavement because there was the sound of footsteps moving quickly, but I couldn’t see anyone around who might be walking. I might not have noticed it if I hadn’t run into crazy shit like that before, but I did notice it, and whatever it meant I knew wasn’t good. As though on cue, as soon as that thought had formed, the sound dropped out. And this time it was noticeable, and not just to me. Even the hens stopped henning and looked around.
The birds were dead silent again. Have you ever seen a bird when a snake shows up? It was like that. Eerily silent, waiting for the predator to move on. Then I saw the Rasceta kid standing in the middle of the playground, staring right at me, his worn-down mother and sweating father not around. That did not inspire hope in me for their safety. Why else hadn’t they called the police after I showed up at their door? Why else had the house looked so empty when I went back later? The kid didn’t say anything or react at all to me. He simply stood there watching, and damn it if I didn’t see something other than a boy in his place. He looked at me with a sort of soulless gaze, an empty vessel steered by something malignant, and part of me wanted to go over and take the bait he was trolling, but before I moved I heard voices clucking behind me. The hen party had made me their concern.
“Excuse me, but is one of these your child?”
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