The Summer Man

Chapter TWENTY-NINE





For Aaron reese, the summer had started off shitty, as usual. He was still two classes short of his diploma, which his mother wouldn’t let up about, even though he was going to f*cking summer school. His stepdad said if he couldn’t do better than hanging around with his dumbshit friends at retard school, he better get his GED and get a f*cking job. Aaron hated his stepdad, Michael; he was always saying how Aaron was lazy because he was a year-plus behind and that his friends were stupid, and he’d never even met any of Aaron’s friends. Not that Aaron had any, unless he counted Calvin, who was even more of an outcast than Aaron. Calvin was heavy into porno and was superugly. Aaron wasn’t ugly, at least; a little plain but not deformed or anything. He maybe wasn’t as smart as some, but if anybody ever bothered to try to get to know him, if anyone gave him a chance, ever, he figured he’d do OK. He just didn’t talk so great; words got stuck in his head sometimes, and he’d stand there and stare at whoever had spoken to him, and they’d act like he was retarded.

Aaron had spent nineteen years being lonely, feeling frustrated, becoming angry, seeing how poorly he fit into the world. The things that came so easily to other people were a struggle for him, and that wasn’t his fault, it was just the way things were, and that was somehow the worst of all; that made him burn inside.

In late June, he’d lit his first fire, a neighbor’s unlocked garden shed. It had pretty much been a dud in terms of damage, but the smoke, the alarm, the excitement…watching all those people scramble, that had been awesome. He’d gotten away with it, too. Mr. Winters kept a gas can in the shed, and everyone thought it was an accident, brought on by rising temperatures. The incredible ease with which he’d gained such bone-deep satisfaction…a next time was inevitable.

In July, there had been the barn on the empty lot outside town. Aaron didn’t know who owned the land or why they’d allowed their sagging wood barn to slowly decay over the years, although it had become kind of a landmark. The abandoned barn was the first thing you saw as you turned off the highway to come to Port Isley, standing in an overgrown field backed by evergreens, the roof hanging like an old horse’s back, the paint weathered away. There was even a postcard of it in one of the stores downtown. The rush he’d gotten from burning Mr. Winters’s shed had set him daydreaming, imagining places where he could do it again, where no one would catch him…and then he’d just done it, said he was going out to a movie one evening last week and he went to the barn and went inside, parking in a ditch farther along and coming back through the woods so no one would see him or his mother’s car. The place was empty except for a lot of trash and broken shit that had been dumped there over the years, plus about a hundred giant bales of rotting newspaper. It stank. There was rat shit and mold everywhere, although it hadn’t rained in so long, everything was dry. There were a few signs of occasional human habitation—cans and bottles and wrappers, what looked like a girl’s panties crumpled and faded pink beneath his flashlight’s beam, stuffed in a convenience store big cup. There were a lot of birds in the rafters; after he started building his fire against one corner of the dried-out wall, once the smoke started rising, he heard panicked fluttering and cries. Too bad for them if they couldn’t get out. Not everyone was a winner.

He’d stayed until he’d started coughing and then watched from the woods as his small fire grew, as it swept up the walls and the smoke glowed and the firemen came. He’d wanted to stay, very much, but hadn’t wanted to be caught, not after he’d seen what he was capable of doing.

There was no local paper for some reason, but there was a report on TV and there was some footage of the smoking wreckage in the early morning and firemen gathering up their equipment. The lady reporter looked so serious when she said that the beloved landmark would be missed and that arson was suspected. Aaron went to the library the next day and watched it again online. After some hesitation he looked up fire, and by clicking from link to link he found a lot of useful information about accelerants. He’d never had much use for computers past video game/porno capacity, but the ease with which he navigated the sites for articles and videos made him feel smart and capable. He wanted to do something bigger than the barn, something fantastic, and after watching a clip of a kid throwing a propane tank on a fire, he thought he knew just the thing.

There was no end of targets but he picked the community theater because it was all wood inside, and it would burn well. Also, no one was using it for anything, so far as he knew; he walked past two days in a row and everything was locked and shaded.

He spent endless stuffy hours of remedial geometry survey dreaming of the fire, imagining the thrill of seeing it devour a beloved landmark that wasn’t an empty, stinking barn. He fell asleep thinking of that computer video, how it had taken a full minute at least for the tiny, hand-size propane tank to explode after the guy threw it in the fire. The tank strapped to Michael’s expensive, rarely used barbecue was way bigger; it would blow the burning walls to pieces, spreading the fire everywhere; he could throw it in once the fire got going really good and be all the way back to his car before it exploded.

He parked a block behind the theater on a silent street. It was very late and very dark, the very dead of night, a few minutes before four. He shouldered the backpack of accelerants—stuff he’d found in the garage or in the bathroom, turpentine, motor oil, some kind of degreaser made with alcohol, a bottle of nail polish remover, and most of a bottle of rubbing alcohol—and took the propane tank under his arm. The tank weighed about twenty pounds, and he thought it was mostly full, the little gauge thing said so, anyway, and except for one forced, unpleasant family picnic on the Fourth, Aaron couldn’t remember the last time the barbecue had been used.

He cut through an open backyard and around a fenced one, and then he was at the rear of the theater. There was a narrow back alley and then some hedges, and there were a couple of places where he would be hidden from everybody, where he’d have time to build something substantial. He had the perfect place in mind, too, a wooden door to the theater’s basement. It was down a half dozen steps—cement—but he thought if he could block the drain hole at the bottom of the stairwell, he could build a fire that practically covered the whole door. Plus the stairwell would be ideal for dropping the tank into, once he was sure it was hot enough. If the door hadn’t burned by then, the blast of the tank would blow it open and the fire would be sucked inside. Of course, the explosion might just blow everything out, but the backpack was heavy with cans and bottles; he thought he could make something that would spread.

He’d only brought some newspapers, thinking that he’d find something else he could use; there’d been a ton of shit in the barn. He figured at least old bark dust or dried branches from around the theater, but everything was well watered, the hedges trimmed, the wood and dirt moist from an automatic watering system, one that obviously had been at work only recently; some of the low branches on the hedge he pushed past still dripped. Whatever. He was committed; he’d figure something out.

Aaron set the tank at the top of the stairs and lowered himself to the dark bottom, crouching, opening his backpack. By the light of a tiny keychain LED flashlight he slid the newspapers out and started twisting some of them into tight little logs, crumpling other sheets into balls, building a varied pile. After a moment’s consideration, he crammed the storm drain with some of the heavy twists, sticking as many in the metal holes as would fit, and poured a quart of motor oil—10-30, whatever that meant—over them, clogging the drain. He spread his crumpled paper all around the drooping, oil-drenched wicks and stacked more paper on top, then upended the can of turpentine over everything, splashing the door liberally.

He climbed to the top of the stairwell with the backpack and carefully moved the propane tank around the corner, maybe ten feet away. He returned to the stairs and crouched, the sharp tang of the turpentine searing his nose. He struck a wooden match with shaking fingers and threw it at the sodden pile of paper, throwing himself back at the same time.

Nothing. After an eternity of waiting, afraid that he’d stand up and look down and then there’d be a big movie explosion and he’d be thrown twenty feet, outlined in fire, he carefully crept forward and aimed his tiny flashlight down the stairwell. It wasn’t bright enough to show him anything; he couldn’t see the match, and there wasn’t any fire.

He lit a second match, held it until half its length was ablaze, and threw it into the pit, quickly stepping away. Counting, slowly, to ten, and…nothing.

Shitballs. It was just one of those little boxes; there were only a dozen matches left in it. He sat down and spent a moment arranging the matches so that all their heads stuck out one end of the box, the wash of fumes alerting him to the possibility of a fireball. He would throw it and dive, throw it and dive…

He lit the box, the sudden hiss and flare of the multiple match heads catching like a promise, a chemical reaction that would flare all the way down to the soaked paper, and he threw it and dived, crashing into the wall of the theater with one shoulder in his hurry to get away.

There was no fireball, but there was a sound like whooof, and the flames came up right away, orange and yellow and blue, the air heating quickly, and he leaned against the wall and felt himself swell with joy.

He waited a moment, then risked a look down the stairs—and was disappointed. The flames were licking at the door, and the pool at the bottom of the stairs was afire, but the brightness was already fading. The fire seemed content to burn itself, a guttering candle against the treated wood. It would get through the door eventually, but that wasn’t what he wanted.

He looked around. The night was still; there were no windows lighting up, no doors opening, no dogs barking. He stepped to the side of the building again and opened the backpack, selecting something plastic, nail polish remover, and threw it down the stairs.

Aaron waited, grinning, pressed against the wall, and seconds ticked past, and there was a brief flare of light accompanied by a furious crackling…and then nothing again.

Before he could reconsider, he picked up the entire backpack and threw it down the stairs, knowing at once that he was being stupid but unable to stop himself. He wanted something to happen so badly; he needed to see the thing he’d been dreaming, the great fire, the explosion.

Grabbing the propane tank, he stumbled away, leaning against the damp hedges as behind him, there were explosions, but muffled and flat, nothing like in the movies, more like aluminum cans stuffed with firecrackers, but then there was a big crack and a bright rattle of thin metal hitting concrete, and he was sure the door had blown open, was sure that his liquid fire was pouring into the basement even now, finding the ancient wooden support pillars, the storage racks of nylon and polyester costumes wrapped in plastic, acetate, old wooden props, and everywhere layer upon layer of thick, dry paint…

He found a safe spot on the other side of the theater, between a hedge and a dumpster, and he waited.

A few lights had come on, and two or three dogs barked. Someone had opened their front door, and Aaron didn’t hear it close, but a minute, two went by, and he didn’t hear anything, so they’d probably closed it again. He knew he wouldn’t have long once the call went out, but it seemed that God was watching over him, granting him another chance at happiness; the night went silent again.

Time passed, eternal moments, and he reveled in each one. Aaron could feel the fire working, could smell it and hear its gasping breath, even if no one else could. There were no cars, no lights or sirens. The world was deaf and stupid and blind, and only he knew the huge thing that he had done, that was happening right now.

He had to see it. He wanted to drop the tank into the stairwell and run, but first he wanted to see for himself. He’d waited as long as he dared.

He lifted the tank and crept back around the theater, between the hedges and the back wall, the smell of smoke thickening, the blaze finally catching on, he could see by the orange light coming from the far side of the building, shining against the hedges around the corner, fogged by gathering smoke. Aaron could hear the sizzle of frying heat, and he couldn’t remember ever being happier. Holding the tank in nerveless fingers, he stepped around to the side of the building where he’d set the fire…and was transfixed.

Bright flames swept up from the cellar door, over the wall, spreading up to the antique raftered ceiling inside in sheets of brilliant, wavering copper and white. He could hear glass breaking somewhere inside. The heat was intense, blasting his face, reddening his exposed skin, but he didn’t feel it, his wondering gaze fixed to the thing he’d made. Sparks cracked and popped into the troubled air, lifting into the sky, and the smoke was hovering over it all like a shifting, flickering mass of darkness, of hate, and he felt excited and peaceful all at once; he felt vindicated. The fire wasn’t just beautiful, it was a force of f*cking nature, and he’d unleashed it, f*ck you all very much, wouldn’t everyone just shit if they knew that ol’ Starin’ Aaron had given birth to such a magnificent creature.

Now he heard doors and people; now he heard a neighbor shouting. It was time to leave. He lifted the propane tank and edged for the fiery pit, the metal warm in his hands, the heat from the burning theater like a wall, like a slap. He had to get rid of tank and go; it was past time. He aimed for the burning, blackening concrete well and threw, and the tank went right in, a perfect shot, and he turned to run. From the video, he knew that he probably had at least a minute before it blew, but to be safe he—

The tank gauge snapped off when it hit ground, ejecting a liquid jet of propane into the burning soup that Aaron had created. Traveling at better than seventy-five feet per second—a fairly low velocity, he might have remembered from his reading at the library—fist-size chunks of concrete and three separate twists of metal from the propane tank gauge and a substantial piece of the burning door slammed into Aaron’s back, taking him down. He had time to feel his body burning, but he was, in fact, dead before he hit the ground. Considering how far he was thrown, that was no great mercy, but then, not everyone can be a winner.





Officer Trey Ellis was doing his turn on night shift. They were all pulling it at least twice a week to deal with what the chief called “serious” stuff. He wanted one of his best people watching, all the time, and though the other guys crabbed about it, Trey was proud as all shit to be getting so much responsibility so fast. Vincent trusted him; he’d already shown how much by having Trey fix up that guy’s house, to get that f*cking cock-blocker Dean out of the port. A lot of things had changed since Annie Thomas had gotten herself killed. The way things were now, it was so much better. He and Leary had accidentally dropped a wife-beater on his face when they were taking him into custody last week. Five or six times, they’d accidentally dropped him, and that was f*cking job satisfaction, right there. The chief was all about justice since Annie’d died, and Trey was a hundred and ten on that shit. He had been pumped up all summer, seemed like, and Trey liked the rush; he liked being able to do the right thing because he said it was the right thing, he was the man, and Stan Vincent was one big-dick cop; he was walking the walk. Trey was ready to take a bullet for him, he just respected him all to shit, more than he could even say.

It was just about four when the chief came into the station, to the back room where Trey was keeping an eye on the roads, waiting for something to happen. When he saw Vincent’s pale, sweaty face, Trey was on his feet in a second.

“They’re coming,” Vincent said. He looked angry and…and afraid? No, no way.

“Who is?”

Vincent was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and his hair was sticking up, like he’d been sleeping. “Dean called me at home. Said he felt like it was professional courtesy to let me know. Smug f*cker. Him and one of his top IA people, they’ll be here first thing. By eight, he says.”

Trey clenched his fists. “What for?”

Vincent had a tic under one eye; the thin skin there spasmed as he spoke. Tic. Tic. “He said they’ve got some questions about how we’re running things out here. He says there’s been some complaints. He wants to talk about Elwes, too.” The chief smiled thinly. “Guy says he was set up, apparently, and some kiddie freak’s word is enough for a man like Dean.”

“What are we gonna do?” Trey asked.

Vincent shook his head slightly. Tic. Tic. His eyes were haunted by the shadows beneath them. “I think we should stop them,” he said. “What do you think? You think you might be able to help me with something like that?”

Trey clenched and unclenched his fingers, excited and a little freaked. He was all for banging some a*shole’s face on the pavement, but Vincent was talking about other cops.

Deputies, though, he told himself. And he’s asking me, not Henderson, not LaVeau. Wes Dean and someone off the rat squad, no great loss for law enforcement in the state of Washington, but it was some serious shit nonetheless, and Vincent had picked him.

“You bet, Chief,” Trey said, and that was when the explosion thundered down the street, and the phone started ringing out in the squad room.





The explosion woke Poppy up a few minutes after four. He told himself he’d dreamed the sound and got up and shuffled to the bathroom and shuffled back and sat on the edge of the bed. He heard the fire engine heading south on the waterfront. He heard his next-door neighbors, a young couple with a baby, outside on their porch, talking, and heard a car start up down the street and wondered what had happened.

He lay down on his bed, pulling the soft, aging comforter up to his chest, and thought about what Bob Sayers had said to him about helping people. He’d fallen asleep earlier thinking about it; no reason to think it wouldn’t work a second time. After a few minutes he closed his eyes, and a few minutes after that he was up and pulling his pants on over his boxers, looking for his shoes, wishing he’d been able to go back to sleep.