Arson Daze 2

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-Daigh pulled a new leather glove over his fingers and flexed the stiff leather. He grinned, thinking ‘the smoother the glove, the smoother the print’ On his bed were sitting everything he might need, large box of matches, two glass jars of moonshine, assorted cloths – ripped into long thin strips, and of course, his skeleton key. He carefully pushed the cloths down into the bottles of moonshine so they could soak on the walk over, making sure that none of the potent liquid spilled on his own floor. He tamped it down tight thinking of the feeling of sweet revenge that would come with the sickly, rank odor of flames and the screams of alarmed people. He stuck his materials in a large Carhart jacket with sleeves that were cut back past his elbows so not to brush in stray fluids.
- Locking his door securely, he stepped out into the crisp, chilly December air and began the short mile trek to Camelot subdivisions. 528 Jester Lane was stuck in his mind like a flaming brand, reminding him of the resident, Donald Smith. Donald may not remember him, but Daigh knew that would probably be a good thing. Donald was a con man. A very experienced and convincing con man. Living modestly in Camelot subdivision, he conned men like Donald for all they had by convincing them to buy ‘rising stock’ in oil enterprises, by taking the money himself and ‘depositing’ it in secure bank systems. Donald actually took the money (which was in Daigh’s case, about $70,000) and moved it to an offshore illegal banking sort – making it untraceable. He then changed his name and moved elsewhere in Charlottesville. Daigh’s hands began to shake at the thought of his misfortunes. He had sold his house, moving to a small apartment, losing in the process, his girlfriend, his pride and all luxuries. In addition to that, he now added a part-time job to his demanding full-time job. Daigh’s feet had led him to the walkway in front of the house. It was his time to work.
-Daigh sighed, reveling in the 3-o’clock emptiness of the world. He walked up the front steps, inserting his skeleton key, and opened the front door with a quiet click. He had to work quickly and silently. He knew his target usually arrived home at 7-o’clock in the evening, and fell asleep around eleven. He quickly drew out the two jars of moonshine and cloth, spreading each cloth out flat in a place most likely to catch. One went to the futon, a beautiful piece of cloth weave spread over the mattress underneath, another to the kitchen, into the oven, more in the dining room on the hardwood floor, and several onto the Persian carpet and many into the guest bedroom with extra blankets and towels. He dumped the spare moonshine on any other place that would ignite, onto the computer, the chest of drawers, and on walls, near insulation. He pulled out the matches, his hands trembling inside their leather protectors, and flipped one against the rough side.
-It trembled in the darkness, a wavering but deadly tongue in the middle of a pile
jumbled sticks – a poor excuse for a place to call home, for safety is never a gurantee. Daigh didn’t know what to do next. He had never committed arson, and just now was beginning to realize that his actions would bring the death of a human being, and perhaps his own. Daigh began to regret not going to the law instead. He might even have gotten his money back, and more. But he couldn’t go back now, not with all the evidence pointing to pre-meditated homicide and destruction. All this thinking had let the match burn too close to his fingers, and he dropped it as it burned him. It landed on the alcohol-soaked rag, and caught fire with a dangerous fizzle. The rug underneath also began to light, and Daigh ran to the window, cracking it three inches or so, for oxygen. He tiptoed from room to room, lighting and dropping matches in each and watching them catch light on all of Donald’s worldly possessions. As the rooms began to crackle, Daigh decided it would be time to evacuate. Still hearing no noise from upstairs, he opened two more windows, and then shut the front door on his way out.
-Daigh paused for a moment outside to reflect on his work. He thought of his name, Daigh Doherty, in Irish meaning ‘harmful fire’, when translated literally. He chuckled to himself, feeling a little euphoric. The house had begun to look like a massive, twisted jack o’ lantern, with flames beginning to show through the windows and smoke curling from windows and the chimney. He checked a watch in his pocket, the dial read 4-o’ clock in the morning. People would be waking up soon, and he began to walk nonchalantly away. At home, he began a fire in his small apartment, and burned the Carhart jacket along with the leather gloves. He poured out his own remaining ‘shine and washed the bottles meticulously. He then put his clothes into the washer and decided to go back to sleep.
-Waking promptly at ten, he walked down to the diner down the block. He didn’t have to work today, as it was only two days after Christmas. The news was on as he drank his black coffee – a reporter was standing right outside of 528 Jester Lane. Fire trucks had been called at five-thirty; more than an hour and a half after the fire had been started. The reporter stated that it had been too late to save the home, and all of the Smiths’ possessions had been destroyed, but fortunately, the Smiths themselves had not been home. Daigh’s head came up, his head spinning. Not dead? It was impossible. And there was only one solution. With a calm that disturbed even him, Daigh paid for his coffee, and walked back home.
-He opened the door of his apartment, and picked up the phone. He informed both of his bosses of his plan to resign immediately. He then called his landlord, and expressed his wish to sell his apartment – giving the landlord his mother’s number to wire the money in when the place sold. Daigh then packed all of his possessions into three medium-sized suitcases, and put them in the back of the cheap little Toyota he had bought after selling his brand-new Mazda when he lost his money to Smith. He started driving. He knew not where he was going; just knowing that he was leaving to start a new life, away from Charlottesville and everyone in it. As his car passed the county limits, he began to believe he could forget everything.