Night of Fear (10 page)

“I called for help,” Brody said, “but nobody came.”

“None of that is the fault of people around here. What good does it do to burn down this farmer’s shed? He didn’t do anything to you.”

“I want everyone to know what it’s like to have their property destroyed.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right. Starting other fires won’t get your store back.”

“It will get me some attention. Maybe you people will notice what’s going on in the world, for a change. You sit here in
your fancy houses, with your green lawns and your fresh air and you don’t care what happens to the rest of us.”

“That isn’t true! People do care; we care a lot.”

“Oh? Where was all that caring when my store burned down? I was left without any income—no money for food and no place to live. Did you care about that? No. Nobody cared except me.”

“People try to help,” T.J. said. “After the last earthquake in California, my school collected money and sent it to buy new books for a library that was wrecked. I worked at a car wash one Saturday and so did my friend, Dane, and we sent all of our profits to the library fund. And my parents sent money to help people in Florida after they had a hurricane.”

“Well, nobody sent money to me.”

“How could they? How could we have known that you needed it? You can’t expect ordinary people to know who needs help. That’s what agencies like the Red Cross and the Salvation Army are for. If you needed food, why didn’t you contact them?”

“It’s always been this way. Some people have more than they need and some never have enough and those who have the most won’t share.” Brody’s voice had a fanatical sound, as if he were giving a well-rehearsed speech to a roomful of people.

“Do you think I’m rich?” T.J. said. “Is that why you’re making me go with you? Because if you do, you are dead wrong. Since my mom quit work, my family barely has enough to pay our bills.”

“You have a house, don’t you? And food on the table?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Then you’re rich enough.”

“Other people have had trouble, too. Practically every time I watch the news, there’s a flood or a riot or a hurricane somewhere. You aren’t the only one with problems. Somebody always needs help, somewhere.”

“All the more reason to get revenge.”

“Look,” T.J. said, “I’m really sorry that your store burned down but why don’t you rebuild it? You could get a loan, and start over. It would be a lot better than running around setting fires and ending up in jail.” He glanced at Brody. “You
will
end up in jail, you know. Sooner or later, you’ll get caught.”

Brody’s response was to drive faster.

The anger continued to simmer inside T.J. Eventually, he thought, I’ll get away from this guy. When I do, I should have as much information as I can to give the police so they’ll be able to find him.

“Where do you live?” T.J. asked.

“Nowhere. I told you—they burned my store.”

“You lived at the store?”

“I had an apartment over the store. Best commute in town.”

So he had lost his home as well as his business. T.J. didn’t blame Brody for being upset. Still, going on an arson rampage wasn’t going to help.

“Where do you stay now? Where did you sleep last night?”

“Where you found me.”

“You slept in the Crowleys’ barn last night?”

“Nobody was using that old barn and I only stayed there one night.”

In other words, T.J. thought, he doesn’t have a regular
home. He sleeps in barns or abandoned buildings. It will be hard to find Brody again, once I get away from him.

“Where do you get money?” T.J. asked. “You have to buy food, and gas for your truck.”

“I use my paycheck.”

“You have a job?” That was a surprise.

“Sometimes.”

“Where do you work?”

“Here and there. When I need money, I go to a state employment office.”

That would help. The cops could alert the employment office to watch for Brody.

“They have jobs for a couple of days,” Brody added.

“Temporary work,” T.J. said.

“It’s better than robbing a bank.”

T.J. looked at Brody to see if he was serious. Brody gazed straight ahead at the road.

“How many fires have you started?” T.J. asked.

“I don’t keep track.”

“You must have some idea. Five? Ten?”

Brody shrugged.

“Did you burn down the tractor shed on Ridge Road yesterday?”

Brody shrugged again.

“Have you started fires in other places, or just around here?”

“None of your business.”

T.J. couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

“Dane! Telephone!” His sister sounded annoyed as she yelled down the stairs. No doubt she had hoped it was her boyfriend calling.

Dane looked at the clock. Who would call him this late? He turned down the sound on the TV and picked up the phone.

“Dane, this is Ted Stenson, T.J.’s father. Is T.J. at your house?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I thought he was home. He told me he was going to watch
Top Gun
and it’s still on.”

“He isn’t here and neither is his grandmother. We’re a bit concerned. When did you talk to him last?”

“A little after seven. I called to remind him that
Top Gun
was on and he said he was planning to watch it.”

“Did he say anything else?”

Dane thought for a moment. “No. We didn’t talk long. I tried to call again later, during a commercial, but no one answered.”

“What time was that?”

“About nine-thirty, I think.”

“Thanks, Dane. If you hear from T.J., call me right away.”

Dane promised that he would. After he hung up, Dane remembered the one other thing T.J. had said—that he was going to go feed the neighbors’ pets. Dane hesitated. Should he call Mr. Stenson back and tell him that? T.J. had been taking care of the Crowleys’ animals all week; it wouldn’t be news to Mr. Stenson.

Dane decided not to call.

Grandma Ruth shifted from side to side. It was cold on the ground and her back ached. Tired as she was, she was too uncomfortable to fall asleep.

She wished David would come.

Perhaps she shouldn’t wait for him, after all. Perhaps she should walk on and find her own way home.

Grandma Ruth stood up, clutching her purse. She had better hurry. Amelia and Marion would be coming home from school soon and Grandma Ruth liked to be there, waiting, when her daughters got home.

The winding country road passed farms periodically, but the buildings were always set back off the road. No one saw them drive by; there was no opportunity for T.J. to call for help.

“Where are we going?” T.J. asked.

“I don’t know. I never know until I get there.”

“In other words, we are driving aimlessly around looking for a building for you to torch.”

T.J. wished he knew for sure if Brody had a gun.
Wishing won’t help. Take action.

He looked at Brody; Brody had both hands on the steering wheel. The pocket of his jacket seemed flat—too flat to contain a gun. Had the bulge T.J. feared earlier been merely Brody’s fist?

T.J.’s hand shot out and reached for Brody’s pocket.

“Hey!” Brody’s hand came down quickly, shoving T.J. away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you have in your pocket?” T.J. asked.

“It’s mine.”

“I know it’s yours. I just wondered what it is.”

Brody kept his left hand on the wheel and put his right hand protectively over the pocket. “It’s been with me on every revenge,” he said. “Never failed me once.”

“What about the shed you just burned, the one with the pony? Did you use what’s in your pocket then?”

“Sure I did. What else would I use?”

It wasn’t a gun, then. Brody had not fired a gun back at the pony shed.

“Could I see it? If I promise not to touch, would you show it to me?”

Brody hesitated for only a second. Then, like a proud new parent displaying a photo of the baby, he pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. Cradling the lighter in the palm of his hand, he held it out for T.J. to admire.

T.J. stared. A lousy cigarette lighter! I’ve been terrified that he was going to shoot me and all he has in his pocket is a crummy lighter.

“It’s all I have left of him.” Brody’s voice was low; the hysterical edge was gone.

“Who?”

“My old man. He died last year, a couple of weeks after I took over the store.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That store was my old man’s whole life and it was gone in twenty minutes.” Brody slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “The fire department never came. The cops never came. Nobody helped me.”

“I’m sorry,” T.J. repeated, and he meant it. It must have been horrible.

“Every time I set a fire, I do it for him, to make up for losing
his store. I’m going to make people realize what it’s like to lose everything and not get any help.” Brody’s voice dropped and T.J. had to lean toward him to hear. “That was the worst part,” Brody said. “I shouted and shouted for help and nobody came.”

They rode on in silence.

The next time we stop, T.J. thought, I’ll make my break. Next time, I’ll get away. I could probably have done it before, if I had known he only had a cigarette lighter in his pocket, rather than a Saturday night special.

“Twenty-three,” Brody said.

“What?”

“Twenty-three. I’ve had revenge twenty-three times.”

Twenty-three fires! T.J. wondered if that was true or if Brody was exaggerating. If the number was anywhere near that many, it was amazing that he was still free.

“You’re lucky you haven’t been caught.”

“It isn’t luck. I’m smart. I pick places where it isn’t easy to get help. That’s the point, you know. And I keep moving.”

His luck can’t hold out forever, T.J. thought. Sooner or later, he will be caught, and I hope it’s sooner.

Take action, T.J. Make it happen.

T.J. closed his eyes and planned exactly how to make his move. He visualized himself getting out of the truck and running into a gas station. He wouldn’t say anything about a bank robber this time. He needed a story that would be believed instantly by the person who heard it, something that would make the person call for help immediately.

In his imagination, he heard himself cry, “I’m sick. I’m going to pass out. Call 9-1-1.” Then he would collapse on the floor. That ought to get help quickly.

Craig Ackerley could hardly believe his good fortune. First, his parents called from the Open House at school to say they were going out for coffee and would be late getting home, and then his brother, Ben, decided to go to the eleven o’clock movie.

Craig pretended to be watching television. He waved absentmindedly when Ben said he was leaving. As soon as the door closed behind Ben, Craig switched off the television and got to his feet. He peered out the window as Ben sprinted down the front sidewalk and climbed into his friend’s waiting car.

When the car drove off, Craig hurried to Ben’s bedroom and opened the closet. After pushing Ben’s clothes aside, he reached into the far corner for Ben’s suitcase. He dragged it out of the closet, opened it, and removed a can of beer.

Craig popped open the can and drank it as quickly as he
could. Belching loudly, he opened a second can and drank it, too. It didn’t taste as good as he remembered from the times when Ben took him along with his friends to a drinking party. The beer would be better if it was cold and it wasn’t as much fun to drink alone.