Chapter 52
Chapter Fifty-Two
A storm was coming. George could feel it. He’d seen the shadows, the dark sky. It was time.
The house was visible from where he stood in the woods. The porch light was on. So was a light on the second floor. Her room. He’d watched her from this very spot, many times from the dark. The first time, she’d been a vision, all in white. A glimpse before the curtain fell.
He dreamed of her then. He dreamed of her now. The past, the future he’d planned for them. Her hair as dark as a scorched forest floor.
George told Maggie’s father he wanted to marry her. He’d been about to turn eighteen. Malcolm Everson had laughed at him. Told him to stay away from his daughter. Then he’d up and fired him, sent him back to the prison ranch he’d come from.
Another placement in another state. Until he aged out of the state’s vocational program. They’d helped him find work in construction with a company that paid in cash.
The job took him to other cities, other states. Each time a job came up in western North Carolina, he found his way back to Evers Hollow.
His Maggie had moved away. Malcolm Everson held a shotgun the night he’d knocked on the front door of the big house to ask about her. She would come back. He felt it, knew she did too. He could wait a little longer.
Five years later, George attended Malcolm’s funeral alongside his half-sister and her family. His Maggie had a husband, and a freckled, brown-eyed daughter. Inconvenient.
He continued working for the construction company, bided his time, and made plans.
The kid grew up and moved away. When Maggie’s husband died, he thought he had a chance and took it. Her refusal, her interfering group of friends, put him behind bars. For ten years.
Tonight, things would be different.
He’d learned from past mistakes, planned. He had a shovel in hand, a rusty knife in his back pocket. It had come in use on his way here. The knapsack he carried held the rest of his supplies. He’d stolen what he needed. He’d had to pay a teenager to buy kerosene.
He rubbed his hands together to chase the chill away. His coat was old and worn. Maggie would buy him a new one.
Someone moved inside the second floor curtains, a feminine shape, a familiar one. He had to swallow the saliva that filled his mouth.
He’d seen the cameras on the front and back of the house. They were tests, ones he passed with stealth and the guise of a shadow.
To be sure, he’d visited the local hardware store earlier.
The fool owner didn’t notice when he slipped the can of spray paint into his coat pocket.
He was too busy scolding the boys George had paid to create a distraction.
He moved in shadow around the house until he coated the cameras in color.
The camera’s lights still blinked. He smiled.
They wouldn’t see him. Only Maggie would be granted permission. He was darkness and flame.
As he moved around back, his watch face showed he was on schedule. Even better, he remembered his safety measures. The bucket of water he carried hung heavy in one hand. He wouldn’t need it; he’d tested his plan on a cabin deep in the woods. Still, he set it within arm’s reach.
Camouflaged by mud and greenery, a metal trashcan lay on its side, mere feet from the house. Like the bucket, he’d found it in a yard of overgrown weeds. He pulled it from its hiding place. A layer of dry leaves and sticks filled the bottom.
He set it on the terrace, as close as he could to the house under the window he’d chosen. It made little sound. Both the lights on the porch and on the second floor went out.
Once more, he went back to the woods. His knapsack was full of useful things.
He turned it upside down. Everything fell out, some items with a clunk.
With his hands, he picked up the clothes dryer fuzz from his sister’s guesthouse and twisted bundles of old newspaper.
In they went. He opened the bag of Fritos he’d bought at the Gas n’ Go shop.
They lit real well. One chip went into his mouth before he dumped the rest inside.
Next, the batteries. He opened the coffee can he found in a garage. The dry leaves cushioned their fall.
Last, he grabbed a bunch of pinecones from the ground. Tossed those in, too. Dad used to throw them into the fire. Mom always hated the popping sound, fearing the whole place would go up. To him, it added percussion.
George breathed on his hands before rubbing them together. He did a quick stretch, a few jumping jacks. A limber and loose body was vital to his success.
His pet would be asleep now. Dreaming of him. About their future. Together. His gifts. The flowers. His poetry. Women loved pink ribbons and poetry.
George glanced at the watch on his wrist and frowned. He was three minutes behind.
He reached into the pockets of his nicest pants. The matchbooks broke into song as he took them out, all four of them. He crooned as he lit each book and dropped them in. Quiet like. He couldn’t have her hearing and calling the firetrucks. Not before he saved her.
He saw yellow, heard a pop. Started counting.
1, 2, 3, 4… all the way to six-hundred.
He checked the trashcan. Flames swirled at the bottom. One last step. He picked up two large rocks. Two was greater than one. The window in front of him shattered. The smoke needed to enter the house, make Maggie think she was in danger, just like her horse in the barn.
He jogged to the front of the house, shovel in one hand. The wind kicked up, messing up the hair he’d smoothed with gel. He pressed it back into place. Then made sure his button-down shirt was tucked in, his belt buckle centered, the laces of both his boots tied.
His hands became fists when he saw the front door. He’d never been allowed entrance that way. He’d tried the other night. Failed.
He’d been inside once, through the side door. The memory rushed through him, heated his blood. The way Maggie felt beneath his hands that night. He’d held her down and told her she would marry him. What happened after—he hadn’t forgotten those who stopped him.
Her friends wouldn’t be able to save her this time. He’d made sure of that. He pulled the rusty blade from his pants and examined it. Flecks of black rubber clung to its rough edge. He wiped it on his knapsack and returned it to the cardboard he’d wrapped it in, shoved it back in his pocket.
Lights came on in another building on the property, the old gardener’s place. Bitterness assaulted him, congealed inside him like Mother’s gravy. Maggie lied to him at the cafe. She’d hired someone. She’d pay. The gardener’s job was his.
He heard the slam of a door, a male voice. He picked up his shovel and crouched out of sight.
A man appeared, a baseball bat in hand. George’s mouth gaped. It wasn’t possible, but his eyes didn’t lie. Malcolm Everson himself, reincarnated, walking toward him. The dead man opened his mouth to speak.
George rushed him, hit him with the shovel.
Malcolm Everson fell.
George clutched his hand to his chest. Euphoria hurt, made his knees shake. The music came louder, its pops, its crackles. The greatest symphony he’d created.
Then he remembered. Maggie waited. He needed to hurry. The fire would go out soon.
He used the metal edge of the shovel to pry the seam of the front door. The surrounding frame cracked, giving way along the side. He kicked the maroon door three times. It swung open.
George stood in the middle of the house at the base of the stairs. They went up and up, into darkness, to her. The wall lights blinked like Christmas bulbs. He was inside the place that should have been his long ago. Now it would be.
Haze filled the space above him. So pretty in the dim light. His eyes misted.
He brushed off his sleeves, adjusted the tie he’d picked for this occasion. Then reached out, gripped the smooth wood of the handrail. He climbed. Two steps at a time. Up and up.
He reached the second story. Her door—the one that matched the window he’d seen her in. Joy rushed through him at the sight. Victory tasted like the smoke he created.
Only seconds now. She’d be his. He couldn’t wait to slide his fingers through her dark hair.
George turned the doorknob, threw the door open, and rushed in. He shrieked. Flames licked up the far wall.
No. No. This wasn’t right.
The bed had caught as well. Yellow and orange fingers wound around the posts.
No, no, no.
He rushed towards it.
This was wrong. Heat moved over his arms as he reached for the covers. He had to save her.
He pulled them away. Horror struck. The bed was empty. She was gone.
The canopy overhead showered sparks. He felt the pinch of each one on the back of his neck.
A crack sounded. The canopy fell. More pinches.
All wrong.
He’d practiced. At the cabin. The flames never left the metal trashcan.
The rest of the bed caught.
Despair, rage, and pain ripped through him.
He was on fire.
George ran from the room, slapping at his pants, his sleeves. He reached for the railing that led back to the stairs. He had to get out. Make a new plan. Find her.
Voices reached him.
He looked up and froze.
Maggie.
She stood in the smoke. The other side of the stairs.
Her long hair, a swirl of black around her face. His bride.
Their eyes met across the falling sparks. Like glitter.
They would be together after all. He only had to save her.
Then he saw she wasn’t alone. A man held onto her. He’d seen this one before, in the woods. Not Malcolm, but he’d have to die as well.
The pain upon his back receded.
Beside him, something black sat on a small table. He reached for it. An old phone. It would do.