Arson (20 page)

Josh and his friends tried to escape, but smoke caught them. Their bodies illuminated the sand at their feet. The screams ceased soon after, and they fell into an unconscious spell. Arson stared down at their bodies bubbling with blood and mucus and ash, the fire fusing their necks to their shoulders, arms to their sides, like tormented figurines. Arson then shifted his red gaze to the evening's vile host and released a brutal roar. At once, he sent fire so powerful that it sent her charred body flying into the water, carried in and out by the lake's slow, approving rhythm.

It was with a whisper that the world was hushed, the night cold and still. Arson dropped his head for a moment. He knew that this savagery was a poison, but it was a poison he willingly drank. For Emery. Stopping his rage was impossible until he knew she was safe again. He was Arson, and he'd burn all the cities down if it meant protecting her.

He breathed slow, desperate breaths, his clothes nearly incinerated, his flesh still glowing. The fire was now contained, and that was when the chill came. He looked around, first at the smoke evaporating from his bones and then at the carnage and gasps of the bodies that lay scattered.

He heard Emery's footsteps and turned toward her. “You're safe now,” he muttered, collapsing. 

 

Chapter 35

 

 

THE TREES NO LONGER stirred. The lake's slow and steady moans had died. Wind blew in and drifted by. The sandy dirt beneath Emery's feet felt more like quicksand. She blinked, shuddered, blinked again. Coughs echoed up from the ground, and her tormenters lay motionless.

Emery swallowed hard. With a deep breath, she ran toward Arson. Her hands couldn't stop shaking. Panic had seized her completely. Arson was cold, a blue tint covering his skin. His jaw hung wide while she fidgeted to find a pulse.

“Oh God,” she cried. “Oh God, please!”

A million thoughts trampled through her mind, a million days without him. “No, not him,” she begged the sky. “Don't take him away.”

The boy sat lifeless in her arms, his eyes misty with an ivory frost. She rubbed her face against his.

“Don't do this to me, Arson. Don't give up! Fight!” She felt crazy talking to herself. She held his body closer, grinding her teeth like she'd just been shot, knowing that would have been better than being alone like this.

Anger churned her stomach, eventually pouring out of her with a brutal scream. She couldn't think, couldn't feel. Emery ran her tired hands through Arson's curls, begging for forgiveness. The body didn't look like the boy she knew. His face and skin were so strange without life in them. Tears cascaded down blood-red cheeks, washing the dust and ash from her skin. Emery shut her eyes and kissed his black lips. She stayed, pressing into him, praying for him to return.

“I love you,” she whispered, kissing him again.

A split second took her from this place and then brought her back again.

Arson jolted, coming awake. He leaned up, eyes flashing white. “Oh God.” He rose with blurred horror in his eyes, staring at the scorched bodies. “What have I done? I—”

“Something I can't explain,” she said, panting for breath, weaker than seconds ago. Her mind kept telling her she was asleep. This wasn't real. None of it was real. If she'd pinch herself, maybe she could wake up.

Emery looked down at his arm, the icy veins inside his skin starting to fill with blood, returning to its natural pigment. His body felt warm again.

Arson breathed in. The memory of it all exploded in his mind. He shook with realization. “Are you all right?” he asked Emery.

“I am now.”

 

* * *

 

Kay didn't want to get out of bed. A yawn disturbed her longing mouth, emptying some of the bad flavor from her tongue. With a stretch, she slowly leaned up, the crack of knuckles and age settling in. When she blinked, sometimes she still saw him, shaped out of thinner air, a passing wind, or just pure fantasy. He'd offer to hug her, to kiss her, but as she went to press her mouth into his, he would vanish.

“Oh, my Henry,” she said coldly. “Come back, darling.”

Lethargic, she stumbled out of bed, thinking of him even more. The late nights he would climb into bed and nestle up beside her, smelling like his work from the lab. The lonely nights in Cambridge during the first half of their marriage were equaled only by these past few weeks.
For so long, you've been able to think he still loves you, her mind taunted. But you've been wrong. He's gone, and he's never coming back
.

It was the strangest thing how memories returned, some scattered and too busy to focus, others so succinct. Like her mind was still twenty-something and fully functional, not cut up into meat—the way she felt now.

The late summer breeze chilled her naked flesh. Her body shivered; her chest sank. She dragged sockless feet toward the window and prepared herself to crank it closed. Dawn broke through the night's remaining disorder, and she swore in that moment that Henry was there, kissing her neck softly, his soft breath tickling her still. “Oh, stop it, darling,” she said with a smile. Upon her next blink, he was gone again.

Kay turned toward the vanity to fix the white mess atop her scalp and noticed a black car parked outside the cabin. The brown dirt tossed up by the tires was only now just beginning to settle back into the earth. “Who the blazes is that?”

Knock
! The door cracked downstairs, startling her. Heart heavy, she felt the jolt of panic spread through her. She scanned the dresser for her glasses. “Where did I put those awful things?” she said, only moments before locating them.

She picked the robe up from the bathroom floor—dust sticking to the threadbare sleeves—and slipped into it. There was another knock at the front door, this time more forceful and the sound of fists, violent and insistent.

“Who is it?” Kay called down, slowly heading out into the hallway. She tied her robe loosely on her walk down the stairs. The knock persisted a last time before ending completely. She pressed her eyes against what she referred to as the spyglass located in the center of the door and saw a man wearing a black coat and sunglasses. He appeared to be stretched far too thin, brown hair with spikes of gray blended in. He had a long face, jagged features, and sharp ears. She couldn't clearly make out the person within the face, though.

“What do you want?” she asked, remaining completely still. “Who are you?”

Slowly, she went to remove the lock bolting the door and wrapped her misshapen knuckles around the brass handle, bit by bit drawing the door backward toward herself. “I said who—”

The door broke open with enough force to knock Kay backward onto the floor. She dropped hard, her spine sinking with a crunch. The coated figure stepped out of the blinding light and removed his sunglasses, slowly revealing glad eyes.

“You!” she said, forming spit with her tongue.

“Hi, Kay. Did you miss me?” the figure replied, grabbing her jaw with a gloved hand, threatening to break it if she spit at him.

Their eyes met. “I let the devil in my house,” she weakly said, washing his face with her spit as she swung her ankle into his crotch.

A grin parted his younger mouth as he bent over in pain. He cursed at her several times, wiping the saliva from his cheek. He then grabbed her head and aimed to break the stairway's unpainted wooden spirals with it. A beam cracked, the top of her forehead spilling red.

“Get outta my house,” she seethed, crawling up the foot of the stairs. Kay pulled her body up and labored to gather what strength still lingered in her weak veins. Her mind raced—frantic, panicked, and tired with fear. In a staggering pant, she tried to get to the upper level, but the invader grabbed her robe and yanked her back down.

Without much thought, she struck her left elbow into the side of his head and watched the man spin back into the front door, veins bursting at the sides of each temple. His face was thick with frustration.

Gasping for breath, she finally reached the next floor. If she could make it into the bedroom, maybe she could—but there was her attacker, right at her back, a grin stitched into his face like fabric. His shadow slowly moved closer. She could smell his vile breath, began shaking when he put the black glove on her skin.

My God, where's Stephen
? she thought. The man eyed her, staring down. She must have seemed so weak and frail to him. “What do you want, you no-good filth?”

“Shhh.” With an index finger pressed to his mouth, he raised his eyebrows, clutching her throat with a grip that started loose but became choking. “He's not here, is he?” the man said.

Circling around her, he noticed a square mirror affixed to the wall. His eyes told her that what came next would be painful.

Spinning her around, his grip got tighter still, and he watched her face change color inside the glass. His teeth flashed white, a sick smile stacked behind thinly painted lips. With a grunt, he pulled her neck back and bashed her head into the mirror. Glass showered onto their feet, blood dripping from Kay's scalp and mixing into her white-gray hair. With great force, he swung her body around and threw her down the stairs. The crash of broken bones and pounding flesh against each stiff step chilled him as he watched. There was pain in her eyes, her cheeks flushed and cracking.

Kay spent a few seconds trembling once her body hit the bottom. Through narrow slits, she watched the figure's footsteps draw nearer as he scaled the stairs down to where she had landed. All she could hear was the sound of her wrist bending backward with a sudden snap before she stopped moving altogether. 

 

Chapter 36

 

 

ARSON'S EYES PEELED BACK. He awoke to bright lights and a cold room. He'd been sleeping for several hours, and a task as simple as squinting became a challenge. After seconds of fighting it, he managed to look down at himself, disgusted by patches with cords attached and needles feeding life into his blood—or taking life out; he wasn't sure. There was a lukewarm towel across his forehead. He felt displaced, removed somehow, somewhere else. With each new breath, the stench of hospital sheets dissipated, and the sight of his weak, pale reflection brought on new paranoia.

Loneliness.

Fear.

Panic.

Get me outta here, he thought. I'm not Abraham Finch. I'm not Grandma Kay. I'm Stephen Gable, Arson G
—. The nature of his identity was a mystery to him now. Who was he? What was he? He didn't know.

A cold draft blew in suddenly from the hallway. It was Emery. She reminded his heart of what beauty meant. Reaching for his hand, she sat beside the hospital bed.

“You're awake. Thank God.”

It was strange seeing her without the mask on. “Yeah, looks like someone was looking out for me after all,” he said weakly.

“I'm just glad you're still breathing.” She turned on the television, as if it could help distract her from the questions begging to be answered; nothing was on but infomercials and sitcom reruns.

“Emery, you look pretty shaken up.”

“Oh, I'm fine,” she lied.

Arson brushed his hand against her back softly.

“Do you remember anything?” she asked, obviously distressed.

In the back of his head, he could hear the screams of people burning. All he said was, “Are they dead?”

Emery answered slowly. “I think they're all breathing. But their faces are burnt off. You went to town on them. No one's woken up yet; the doctors don't know if they ever will. Some kind of coma. Arson, what did you do?”

Arson turned away and shut his eyes. The time had finally come. “No more secrets,” he said. “I'm not like other kids. I was born with a curse.” He chuckled to himself, knowing how stupid the next part would sound. “Sometimes, I get a little…hot.”

“Hot?”

“Hotter than normal. Look, I can't exactly explain it. But think of it like a match. All it takes is a little spark. The right amount of pressure, and then—”

His hands made an invisible ball, and then he illustrated it blowing up.

“Wait. So you can, like, explode?”

“Sorta. I don't know what to call it. My body creates too much energy, heat energy. Maybe it's hormones or something else inside me, I don't know. But I”—he looked at her for a long moment—“can start fires with my mind.”

Emery sat down. To Arson, it seemed like she was experiencing a system overload.

“Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?” she said, raking her fingers through her hair.

He nodded. “But it's the truth. I was born with it.”

“How is somebody 
born
 with it?”

“I don't know.”

“Is there anything you 
do
 know?”

Arson sighed. “Whatever it is inside me killed my mother.”

“Whoa,” she said, sinking back into herself. “Heavy.”

“Look, I didn't want this curse, this ability, whatever you wanna call it. I've tried my whole life to blend in, to try and control it, so no one would ever find out. But it isn't as easy as it sounds.”

“Oh, right, you mean the part about you going nuclear!”

“Please keep your voice down. If somebody hears you—”

“Yeah, right. Sorry. This is all just a little too freakin' weird. I mean, this isn't a comic book. This doesn't even make any sense. Are you hearing yourself right now? You can create enough energy to burn crap just by thinking it.”

“Yeah. Are you…afraid of me?” Arson said weakly.

Emery glanced down at the floor, head hung low. She allowed the entire scene at Mandy's house to replay in her mind. How in one second he was just this normal kid and the next, he was going nuclear, burning people one by one. “No,” she said. “It's actually…kinda cool. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it all.”

Arson's eyes changed. “Emery, I'm not your normal teenager. I get it. I'm not even special or anything stupid like that. I'm actually pretty messed up. Something's wrong with me.”

A tear slid down her face. She wiped it away quickly. “Maybe not. You saved me, Arson.”

“I couldn't let them hurt you like that,” he said, flustered. “I didn't have a choice.”

Emery took a deep breath. “I know. It's okay.”

“It all just happened so fast.”

“So how does it work?” she asked, trying to distract his guilt.

He was surprised by her intrigue. In all his life, he had never had anyone to share it with—his horrible ability—if that's even what he could call it. He was always ashamed, afraid of it. But Emery was so different.

“It happens whenever I get emotional. Pissed off or scared or whatever. I 
am
 still trying to control it.” He stared up into her tearing eyes. “I've never been so afraid in my entire life as I was with you last night.”

“What did it feel like?”

Arson paused momentarily and then resumed. “Like a tornado rushing through my entire body, ripping and tearing me apart. It's never been that strong before. I mean, I thought my skin would peel off. Everything burned and ached. Then I lost myself in it. Didn't care who got hurt, even if it was me, as long as you were safe.” He bit his lip. “I blacked out. Next thing I see is you standing over me, telling me you love me.”

“Oh. You heard that?”

“It was the only thing I 
could
 hear while I was asleep.”

Emery looked away and collected her thoughts and the words to say. With a sigh, she broke the silence. “You weren't sleeping, Arson. You were dead. Man, it's like looking at a ghost. After it happened, you collapsed. I checked for a pulse a dozen times, but there was nothing. Your whole body was like ice, and your skin turned blue. You were gone for an hour.”

“Whoa,” he gasped.

“That's not the weirdest part. Try not to freak out, okay?”

He nodded.

“The strangest thing happened. I kissed you; then I held you for a while. Something felt different. Felt cold, and the back of my eyes and head ached. I know it sounds insane, and maybe I'm just really tired, but I saw you, Arson. You were gone.”

Arson didn't move. He couldn't.

“Please say something. Tell me there's an explanation for why you can do whatever it is you do. Things like this don't just happen. I mean, teenage boys don't spontaneously combust, die, and then magically come back to life.”

Arson stared blankly at her for a while.

Emery rubbed her face. “I sound mental.”

“You're not mental. This is all a little strange, I know. It's not easy. But thanks for not freaking out.”

She held up her index finger and thumb and pressed them within centimeters of one another. “I'm this close, trust me.”

Arson lay with a look of bewilderment in his eyes, thinking about the violent events of the previous night. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Please talk. I don't like this uncomfortable silence,” she said, biting her fingernails.

“Was I a good kisser?” Arson asked, trying to sound both charming and serious.

Emery shoved him in the chest.

“Look, I should be dead, and I'm not. I don't really need an explanation. Maybe, in time, we'll figure all this mess out. But for now, stay calm. I'm alive, and you're safe.”

“This isn't normal, Arson,” she answered behind clenched teeth.

“I've never been the expert on what's normal.”

There was a light tapping on the door. Emery jumped. “Oh, right. There's a guy out in the hall. Agent Lamont. He already questioned me, but I didn't give him anything. Not sure why the local cops are sitting this one out, but this loser seems like a total nut-job. He's going to ask you about what happened. Be careful, Arson. The guy creeps me out.” She leaned in. “Look, for the record, our lives might suck and be full of mistakes. But meeting you wasn't one of them. And neither was what you did last night. Thank you. They could've hurt me, but they didn't because you were there to protect me. You're my hero. My own personal guardian angel.”

Arson felt oddly all right.

“I'll know why you did it. No matter what happens, I'll always know.”

“Has anyone told my grandmother where I am?” he asked.

“Oh, I called her from the ambulance, but she didn't pick up.”

Odd.

“Could you let her know I'm all right when you get back to your house? She was probably just sleeping. Hasn't exactly been herself lately.” Arson fought the panic creeping through him, but he faked certainty pretty well.

“Of course. Well, the 'rents are probably outside having conniptions. They didn't want me talking to you. I guess they're still trying to figure this whole thing out. Don't worry, I didn't tell them about you, not the truth anyway,” Emery said. “Man, the way they're acting, you'd think it was the end of the world. Do you think things will ever go back to the way they were?

“Maybe.”

She shrugged. “Just promise me you won't ever scare me like that again.”

“Cross my heart,” he whispered. “No more bonfire parties.”

She wore a slight smile. “Anyway, I should go.”

“You don't ever have to be afraid of me,” Arson said.

Emery hugged him. “I just want to stay here with you.”

Another knock at the door disturbed them, followed by two piercing eyes. Emery quickly wiped away her tears. She looked heavily into Arson's eyes and kissed him.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” he said. “More than anything.”

Once she exited the room, Lamont shuffled in. He was a stiff, awkward-looking man with no hair and a creepy-looking black beard. His eyes were bullets and his teeth gatekeepers of hot, stale breath. His shadow met Arson first.

“My name is Agent Lamont, FBI,” he said. “I know you've been through a very traumatic experience, but…” He waited for the door to close behind him. “Look, kid, I don't know what happened, but you better have some good answers.”

Arson tightened up and swallowed hard as Lamont pulled out a notepad.

“As it appears, your girlfriend's the only one without a mark on her. Except for that pretty little face of hers. So, Mr. Gable, what do you want to tell me?”

Every word came out like packaged poison. His teeth looked rotten in certain parts. In fact, the more he played with them, Arson realized some of his teeth weren't real. He popped them in and out of place with his tongue. The strange image was enough to make anyone queasy.

“I went to the Kimballs' home to party, all right? I wanted a good time.”

“Does a good time involve leaving eleven kids in a coma and one dead?”

Arson's neck jerked.

“Oh, that's right. One of them didn't make it. That's murder. Eyewitnesses said they saw you 
light
 up.” His voice cracked with disgust. “Care to elaborate?”

“That's crazy,” Arson replied.

“As crazy as someone coming back from the dead?”

An eerie silence plagued the room.

“Now don't screw with me, kid. I'm gonna ask you one last time, what happened last night?”

Arson felt his nose twitch as he snarled and moved within the hospital bed. How had anyone seen? The roads were quiet, not a soul around. No lights in any of the houses.

Nothing was adding up. Who was this man? What did he want? Arson slowly turned to face him. “I burn things,” he said in a low voice.

The grim-faced agent drew closer and was now peering out of two narrow slits. “Well, you cocky little punk, do you want to tell me what these kids did to deserve it?”

Lamont was recording their conversation, making a checklist that would undoubtedly be used later. Arson didn't care. Suddenly, everything replayed over again in his brain, as if his entire life had been recorded, not just this moment.

He pictured his mother screaming in pain, imagined what it might have looked like as the doctors pulled him from inside of her, soaked in blood and ash. He could see Danny taunting him to throw the firecracker that cold night in Cambridge. In an instant, there was Mandy, along with all her sick friends, burning and agonizing.

“I'm the one you came here for, Agent Lamont,” Arson confessed, the words spilling out of him. “I'm the one you want. Whatever you want, I'll do it. Leave Emery out of your investigation.”

“Emery, that's right. Emery Phoenix. That's her name, daughter of Joel and Aimee Phoenix. Age seventeen, like you.”

“You don't need to ask any more questions. I did it. I burned those people.”

“Why?”

“They were going to hurt her.”

“The beauty queen that just left? Seems to me like somebody beat 'em to it.”

Arson wanted to shut him up. Kill his awful laughter. The sick cackle echoing from this scumbag's wet throat sped up his heart rate. He locked gazes with the man and held it there.

Lamont got closer. “Am I getting you upset? Did mocking your little girlfriend hit a nerve? What do you really want to do to me?”

Arson held out his hands and unfolded each fist. With gritted teeth, he pictured Lamont's face melted off, quiet. 
Time to end this
, he thought.

He cracked his fingers and commanded his hands to burn. He'd felt the rage, let the fury bubble inside with his blood. He blinked and took a deep breath. Counting his heartbeats, he began picturing Emery as a little girl without her mask, without the fears or the confusion of the world. Arson could see her as she was, as she had always been, a beautiful face lit like the eyes of God.