I have arrived, I guess. Jameson Wills, the quiet kid in the back of the room, has finally made his mark in the world. My canvas is ready for viewing. But it’s only just begun, I remind myself as I click the front door shut, throw my backpack in the corner of my bedroom’s closet, and return to the couch to wait. The thought of what’s to come thrills me in ways I’ve never felt in sixteen years of life. Well, in a half-life, I realize. Everything before tonight now seems like another lifetime, another person.
I am awakened.
I am home.
I am him.
Rule 4: Never underestimate the pull of the flame.
Don’t keep matches within reach. Store them somewhere slightly out of the way: the shed, the basement, a locked box. Anywhere that it will take a moment to get to them. Sometimes, those extra steps are enough to weaken the pull enough for you so you can overcome it. Sometimes.
Sometimes not, in truth. But you have to at least try. You can’t set fires all the time. Even an alcoholic has to come up for air sometimes, drink a glass of water. So do you.
It’s something I’ve learned the hard way. Because you never know when that gnawing craving is going to sink its teeth into your belly, is going to make your hands shake with the need to flick that match. The temptation is too great. The risk is too high. If you don’t keep it under control, you’re sure to make reckless mistakes and land yourself with a long sentence and a lack of freedom. Because sometimes, as I’ve come to realize, it doesn’t matter who you hurt or what you destroy. It’s all about getting that high. And I’m too afraid I’ll hurt the people I love. That scares me the most about this addiction, this high, this life.
Would I do that, you ask?
I don’t know.
I really don’t know.
That’s perhaps the scary part of this profession. It’s the part that keeps it both riotously exciting and sinisterly volatile. One never knows when the flame will beckon you in or when you will be prey to the omnipresent power of the burning. One never knows how far you will go to feel that power, that passion engulfing you. And you never know who will be caught in the wreckage, get injured in the aftermath. It’s one thing when you are a lone arsonist with no one to care for. It’s another when you’ve got people in your life counting on you. It’s a hard balance beam to walk. Double lives debilitate.
It’s not about hurting people, make no mistake. Sure, I’ve set out on vendettas with flame, as I’ve said before. I’ve settled scores through ashes. I know I’ve killed with the power of the fire god at my hands. But that’s not what it’s about at the core. It took me a long time to truly psychoanalyze it as my therapist would. That’s not what persuades me to flick my wrist, to toss the match, to bask in the glow of a fire well lit.
It’s about appreciating the knowledge that everything is flammable in life and anything can go up in smoke at a moment’s notice. More than that, it’s about the energy pulsing through my body when I am the master of the flame, when I decide where it lands and what it destroys. There’s a godlike quality to being an arsonist, which is stunning but also something to be wary of.
For if you let it consume you, it absolutely will. It can destroy everything you believe in, know, and love. Once you are intoxicated with the immortal power of fire, you cannot go back.
You will never go back.
So don’t keep the matches within an arm’s reach. Like a fireman, you must control the flame until it’s time. Until you can keep your distance. Until you can be sure you won’t burn down the almighty, swaying platform you stand on.
Chapter Fifteen
Pete
The lukewarm water swirled about his body. The rust stains around the tub normally would have horrified him, but the bourbon swishing in the back of his throat mingled with the pain of the day and helped him ignore it all. Pete Andrews settled lower in the tub as he set his red cup on the edge of the dingy ceramic. He stared up at the watermarked ceiling in the motel bathroom.
He’d buried his son. In the middle of a gorgeous, sunny day when other families were at parks or on their porches or swinging their children high in the backyard, he stood in a black suit and sunglasses to mask his tears as they lowered his son into the musty ground. The coffin had been so small, so insignificant. It almost looked like a toy instead of the very real reminder that all was gone.
Anna had refused to look at him or even to stand near him. As the service dragged on, the priest’s cold words lingering in the air between them like a fog, her parents wrapped her in their arms across the way from him. They both glared holes into him. He couldn’t blame them. He’d done this. He was partially responsible. No, he was mostly responsible. If he’d been a real man, he’d have been there to protect his family. Strong men stood up to threats. Where had he been?
He would make himself pay in due time. That was for certain. But there was work to be done, first. Unlike the other night in the bathtub, he knew he couldn’t take the coward’s way out now. He wouldn’t let himself bask in the sweet release of death until he’d done his penance and set things right. Like a real man.
The Carettas had told him he could stay with them as long as he liked, but he couldn’t stand to be under their watchful eyes any longer. He needed to be alone, if not for the luxury of mourning in private, then for what the next steps were.
It was arson, plain and simple, the officers had said. It was connected to the Elmwood arsonist. They could tell by the specific burn patterns, by the accelerant used. And they could also tell by the arsonist’s signature item left by the criminal on the front lawn.
An Ace of Diamonds. The term floated in his head over and over, like some serial killer’s cipher no one could decode. It didn’t make sense. A card left at the scene. What kind of sick, twisted fucker had done this? What did it mean? He hated how his son, his life, had become poker chips in some sick gambling game.
The officers had gone on the news with the information, except for the calling card. They wanted that to be a secret from the media for now. Something about having a leg up on the investigation. They assured him they knew what they were doing. He had little faith, though. If they were so skilled, the man who killed his son would be in prison already—or worse.
Watching the press conference unfold, Pete had felt embarrassed all over again. Pitied looks, sorrowful calls and texts all poured in from everyone he’d ever encountered in his life. But he didn’t want to be in the spotlight. He wanted nothing more than to fade away.
Maria hadn’t called. Last he’d heard, she was locked away in some sort of asylum a couple towns over. The guilt she harbored was too much for her to handle. He didn’t blame her for what happened, though, or for her undoing. It was a messed-up situation, and she’d been entangled in it. She was a victim, too. In some ways, he envied her; he would like nothing more than to be put in his own white, padded cell and spend his days talking to the tortured spirits walking the halls.
Pete reached for the bourbon to wash down the grief once more. He’d never been an alcoholic. That wasn’t his particular vice, he’d learned in recent years. He had arguably darker ones. But now, he needed all the help he could get to numb the pain, to wash away the memories, to put aside the emotions.
For Tanner. For Anna. For himself.
The officers assured him they would find who did it. But they’d been telling Elmwood that for weeks now. His son had still died. If they’d have done their fucking job right the first or second time, his son wouldn’t have been a victim. How many people would lose in this game of roulette until the police did what they needed to do?
You couldn’t depend on anyone. Pete knew that more than ever.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the plastic cup, a prayer to himself, to the universe, to the son who was now nothing more than ash. Tears fell into the fiery liquid. He finished the drink, crinkled the cup, and tossed it aside in the musty room, sitting up with a newfound determination.
There would be time for grief later. There wo
uld even be time for insanity and padded cells if he so chose.
For now, it was time for the reckoning to begin.
Chapter Sixteen
Pete
You never know what you have until it’s gone. That cliché line fucking burns, Pete thought as he stood on the pristine stoop of his in-laws. How many years had it been since he had to ring the doorbell like a salesman here? He stared at the Brownings’ sign on the door that his mother-in-law, Cathy, had painted. He’d always thought it was hideous when he first started dating Anna with the gaudy sunflowers. That felt like a lifetime ago. Now, he’d give anything to not have to stand on the doorstep like a dysfunctional pizza delivery boy. He’d give anything to be in bed beside Anna, her smooth skin up against him.
He’d had it all. The wife. The kid. The job. The house. It hadn’t been enough. Why was it never enough for him? He was spinning out. That wasn’t what he had come for. After a long moment, the white door creaked open an inch and interrupted his internal monologue.
It was her. His heart skipped a little bit as if it were their first date. She paused, and he thought she would slam the door in his face. He took a risk, squeezing his hand in the crack.
“Anna, please,” he whispered.
She cracked the door open a hair more, and a familiar sense of encouragement surged within him. The familiar butterflies he once thought were gone returned. It was like they were new again.
“Honey, who is it? I told you I’d get it,” a grating voice called from the kitchen area. Meddling Cathy. Of course. He didn’t have much time. Hope faded.
“You look like shit,” Anna murmured, her voice breathy as if she hadn’t used it in days. Or as if she’d been sobbing for days. It hurt to realize he didn’t know which it was. He used to know everything about her at every moment. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to hold her, to cry with her, to feel that immense heartache with her, if for no other reason than because maybe with two broken hearts, the weight would be a bit more bearable. Survivable even.
“You really do, Pete. You look like total shit,” she reiterated. Under other circumstances, he would make some smug remark and retort with his signature ego she often poked fun at. Times were different, though. He stayed silent, studying her. The comments bounced off of him. For the first time in his life, how he looked or guarding his ego didn’t mean anything to him.
In fairness, she didn’t look great either. The bags under her eyes, her sallow skin—it aged her. Yet, even with her weathered face and sickly complexion, she was gorgeous in a way that filled his mind with lustful thoughts. Why hadn’t he seen it? Hands in his pockets, he exhaled, looking up at the roof over the porch as if some answer would be written up there for him. It was not.
He looked back to see Cathy, the Mama Bear, stepping in front of Anna. She protectively shoved her daughter behind her as if she were ready to take a bullet for her. He shook his head.
“You, get the hell out. What are you even doing here?” she asked, her wide berth covering her daughter.
“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his hands up. “I need to talk to Anna for a minute.” He kept his hands up in the “don’t shoot” pose, but Cathy was poised for a fight she’d been waiting to engage in for years.
Cathy stepped forward, her chin up and her eyes crazed. “Not likely.”
“Mom,” Anna barked from behind. “Please,” she said.
After a long moment and a meaningful glare, Cathy slinked into the recesses of the cluttered house. She muttered in the background, and he heard plenty of expletives. Pete breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the interaction could’ve been so much worse. He’d seen Cathy’s maniacal rage several times over the years, and it wasn’t something he wanted to be on the receiving end of today. In normal times, he could give his meddling mother-in-law a run for her money. Not today. He had enough to deal with.
Anna was the only one who could tame that difficult woman. She offered him a weak smile, and Pete’s heart was alight with a fragile sense of hope once more. A familiar, wordless exchange happened with a single glance between them. They were them for a split second. They exchanged their story without saying a word, the magical moment when you feel an invisible connection to someone at the deepest level.
As quickly as it happened, though, it disappeared into thin air, gone into the recesses of the past. Her smile faded. His heart sank and returned to the continual state of torture it was in. He had lost her. Again.
“I came here,” Pete said, jarred by the retreat of the moment of normalcy, “to say I’m going to get him.”
“What?” Anna asked.
“Him. The bastard who did this. The arsonist.”
Anna shook her head, exhaling so forcefully that a strand of her hair blew into her face. He resisted the urge to reach out and bat it away from her lashes.
“You don’t get it,” she replied after a long moment, taking a step forward now. Anger rippled through her body in a way that was palpable despite the icy distance. He fought the unwavering need to wrap her in his arms yet again.
“It won’t bring him back. You can’t bring him back.”
Pete kicked at the ground, hands in his pockets in defeat. His eyes stung with the horror of his weaknesses, of the truth behind Anna’s assessment.
She continued on, her words more articulated. He looked up at her, struck by her laser-focused eyes.
“Where were you, Pete? Where the fuck were you?” A crescendo of anger rippled. He averted his eyes to the ground again in an uncharacteristic move. He walked the world with his head held high. Anna was the only one who could make him want to keep it low. It was a worthy question, but one he didn’t dare answer.
“I messed up, Anna. Big. I know you’ll never forgive me, and there’s no explanation for what happened. There’s no excuse for what I did or didn’t do. But I’m going to make it as right as I can. I’m going to get the bastard. I’m going to make sure he pays, that Tanner’s killer pays.” He raised his chin, the familiar stance settling into his jaw, his bones, his chest. He stared at her in defiance like he had during so many of their arguments over the years, but this was bigger than a discussion about mortgage payments or household responsibilities. This was life or death, and Pete was never one to back down from an impossible challenge.
He would do this for her. For them. For who they once were.
Before she could argue or press him or try to change his mind, he spun on his heel and beelined for his car. He didn’t look back at the woman he knew was now his past, a crisp memory in a photo album singed with sorrow and regret sandwiched between a few beautiful, breathtaking moments.
He didn’t look back.
There were a lot of things Pete Andrews could do—but this was one thing he realized he couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Jameson
It didn’t work.
Sitting in science class as Mr. Lexington drones on about chromosomes and other inconsequential shit, I stew in the reality that yet again, I’ve failed.
Doodling a pathetic excuse for a crow with one eye in my notebook, my mind travels back to the race from long ago. The one I thought would change it all in eighth grade. My gym teacher had noted that my long legs would make me a good candidate for track. He’d mentioned something about giving it a try, and for once, I sensed a new feeling bubbling up.
Pride. It felt good to be noticed. I’d forgotten that over my years in the back of the room, on the edges of my peers, on the outskirts of the lunchroom. I’d always thought maybe art was my way to get noticed, but I wasn’t going to argue if my gym teacher saw something I never expected. Visions of myself in uniforms, winning medals, and having my name on the record plaque at the school floated in my head.
I’d gone home and mentioned it to my mother, who had flashed a smile, the kind she got on her face when she was thinking of then, back when she was happy. Back before me, I supposed.
“What is it?” I’d asked.
“He ran track, too. That’s how I met him.”
For a long moment, I’d stared at her, not sure what she meant. And then it clicked. For the first time in my life, she’d mentioned him without a scowl or disdain.
I was sold more than ever. I joined the track team, put down my charcoals and books, and told myself it was my chance to shine. To be somebody worth noticing.
I ran my heart out. I ran my legs off. I ran and ran until I was even skinnier than the scrawny kid I was, until my calves ached with the heavy heat of overtraining. But I didn’t care. It was an invisible link to him, the man I hungered to know, to be.
I also thought stupidly, as naïve middle schoolers sometimes do, it would be my way of earning him back. I thought of him like some prize at the county fair. If I could throw enough darts or pop the right balloon, I would win him back. I daydreamed of what it would be like when I crossed the finish line, earned first place, and looked up to see him in the stands. I imagined somehow, my running would resurrect him from the confines of space and time. It would bring him back. If I could run fast enough, I could get him back.
On the day of districts, Mom took off work. She sat in the stands after school, the sun beating down on us. And when the gun startled me, I took off. It was my moment. I kept one eye on the finish line, and one on the stands. I scanned, looking for a man I didn’t even know, hoping for a ghost from the past who never made himself known. I think maybe it was the preoccupation that did it. Or maybe Mr. Johnson lied to me. Maybe with my pasty pale skin and my hatred for the outdoors, I wasn’t cut out for running, not really.
I didn’t win the race. Not even close. I didn’t win the next race or the following. And, more importantly, my heart cracked a little more each time I ran and he didn’t show up. I felt like a fool, naiver than I already knew I was. I quit track after one season and resumed my signature spot in the back of the class, the self-proclaimed and outwardly labeled emo kid with the ripped navy hoodie, bad attitude, and creepy drawings. I returned to blending in, and more importantly, I returned to a life where I didn’t know my father and never would.
The Arsonist's Handbook Page 7
