Night of Fear Page 7

  On the other hand, what if the police made a mistake and had the wrong man in custody? What if Brody did have a gun?

  Win with your wits, not with your fists. I’m trying, T.J. thought. I’m trying, Grandma Ruth.

  As the truck sneaked down the lane past the vegetable fields, T.J. looked back at the house. Light now glowed in an upstairs window. What were the people doing? Maybe they heard our voices or heard the pony, when it got near the house. Had they seen the fire? Had they called for help?

  T.J. thrust his hand toward the steering wheel and pushed on the horn. It responded, barely, with a weak beep before Brody shoved T.J’s hand away.

  A yard light went on, flooding the front of the house with brightness. T.J. saw a man step outside and look in all directions before he ran down the porch steps and crossed the yard. A small child ran after him. At the far side of the yard, the pony waited quietly, the tether hanging from its neck. The man moved toward him. The pony stood still while the man and the child approached.

  Despite his weariness and anger, T.J. smiled. The pony was safe. That was something. T.J. was riding around with a lunatic who burned down other people’s property, but at least, because of him, the pony was alive.

  Brody didn’t turn the headlights on until he reached the main road.

  T.J. watched for a police car or fire engine but none appeared. Surely the fire had been discovered by now. The man would try to put the pony back in the shed and would find the smoldering ruins. But there was no reason to call the fire department; the fire was already out.

  Would the farmer call the police? Maybe not. He might think the fire started spontaneously. Or maybe he was glad to be rid of the little building. Maybe he could hardly wait to collect his insurance money so he could build himself a new, bigger shed.

  Brody said, “I bet that one will be a shocker. Way out here, with their pretty garden and their open space, they won’t be expecting it.”

  Something in T.J. snapped. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “How could you stand there and let that poor pony burn to death? All you had to do was untie him. You could have turned him loose before you lit the fire.”

  Brody looked startled. “What pony?” he said.

  “What pony? The pony I rescued. The pony that was screaming because it was tied in its stall while you set fire to the place.”

  “I didn’t see any pony.”

  “You must have heard it.”

  Brody shook his head.

  “Then you must be blind and deaf,” T.J. said, “because there was a pony right inside the door, plain as day, and it was yelling its head off the whole time.”

  “When I’m getting revenge, the rest of the world fades away. Everything else disappears.”

  “And your revenge is to burn down other people’s property?”

  “My revenge is to make the rich people of the world pay attention, so they’ll know what it’s like for the rest of us.”

  “I doubt if those farmers are very rich.” T.J. leaned his head against the seat.

  “Their shed is gone now.”

  “It’s gone,” T.J. agreed, “and the people who owned it will get stuck cleaning up the mess and building a new shed.” He looked at Brody. “I could have been killed, you know. It wasn’t easy, getting that pony out before the shed collapsed.”

  “You went in the shed? You went in while it was burning?”

  “There wasn’t any other way to get the pony out.” He glared at Brody. “And if I had been trapped inside, it would have been all your fault.”

  “Only a fool would run into a burning building. If you don’t have sense enough to stay out of a fire, it isn’t my fault.”

  “It’s your fault that there was a fire to begin with. It’s your fault that the pony was left in there.” Memories of the thick smoke and the leaping flames made T.J.’s hands sweat. He had nearly lost his life and he would not soon forget the smell of that smoke or the terrified cries of the pony.

  “I didn’t push you in that door.”

  “What would you have done, if I had been trapped inside?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I didn’t even know you were in there. I told you, when I’m thinking about my revenge, everything else fades away.” Brody glanced over at T.J. “Even if I had seen you, I wouldn’t have done anything different. I’m not fool enough to go into a fire. Not me.”

  T.J. pictured himself trapped in the burning shed while Brody strolled happily back to his truck.

  “Why did you go in?” Brody asked.

  “I just told you. To rescue the pony.”

  “It wasn’t your pony.”

  “What does that have to do with anything? No matter who it belongs to, I couldn’t let it burn to death when all I had to do was untie it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . .” T.J. tried to think what to say that Brody would comprehend. He remembered when he was about three years old and Grandma Ruth caught him smashing ants with a rock. “You must be kind to all creatures, T.J. Each one is important; each has a special place on Earth.”

  “Ants don’t.”

  “Oh, but they do.” She explained that ants have lived on Earth for more than 100 million years. “They live in colonies,” she said, “and each colony has a queen.” She told him how hard the ants work and showed him an anthill, with the ants climbing in and out.

  T.J. had been fascinated by the anthill and had spent several hours looking for the queen ant, expecting it to be wearing a tiny golden crown. After that day, he never again killed an ant intentionally.

  T.J. looked at Brody. “All creatures are important,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “The pony deserved to live.”

  “It wasn’t any use to you. You couldn’t take it with us.”

  “That doesn’t mean his life had no value.”

  “You’re nuts. You know that? ‘All creatures are important.’ What kind of crazy talk is that? You’re just as nutty as the saint back there, singing in the barn.”

  Sure I am, T.J. thought, and you are Citizen of the Year.

  The more he thought about the pony, the angrier he got. Where he had initially felt only fear when he looked at Brody, now he felt rage. As the fury built in him, it pushed his fear of Brody away.

  “Exactly what are you getting revenge for?” T.J. asked.

  “The fire.”

  “What fire?”

  “They burned my store.”

  “Who did?”

  “All of them! I don’t know who. They burned my store and everything in it. People went crazy, running in the streets, smashing cars and setting fires. They burned my store.”

  T.J. had seen clips on the news of riots in different cities, with people looting and burning. Whole neighborhoods sometimes went up in flames. “Where were you, when it happened?” he asked.

  “I was on my way home from a delivery when the trouble broke out,” Brody said. “A gang surrounded my truck and wouldn’t let me through. I finally abandoned the truck and walked home. Mobs of people were shouting and throwing rocks through windows and overturning cars. I couldn’t believe it! The closer I got to home, the worse it was. They ran from one store to the next, smashing windows, helping themselves to the merchandise, and setting fires. All of the businesses in my block were owned by local people, like me. My old man opened that furniture store with money he earned as a janitor. Why would our own customers want to burn it down? Why would they destroy everything my old man had worked for?”

  “It must have been terrible,” T.J. said.

  “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 p
roud 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.