Victor Methos - Arsonist

He got home and pulled into his garage. His wife’s truck was already there and he took another swig of the beer in his hand and headed inside. His two boys, Hank and Dover, sprinted past him, Dover yelling something about Hank stealing the last orange juice.

“Hello to you too, boys,” Jesse said.

His wife was standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of fruit and whipped cream for the topping on an angel food cake. Jesse came over and stuck his finger in the bowl and came away with a big gob that he promptly stuck in his mouth.

“Wait till it’s done,” his wife said.

“What? No hello from you either?”

She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “How was your day?”

“Shit, but what’re you gonna do?” he said, going to the fridge and getting out a bottle of beer.

“Jess, I’ve told you about that language in front of the boys.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just Molly. She won’t let up. Today she told me, me , that my uniforms are too wrinkled and if I want to keep flying her planes I need to look professional. She’s like twenty and she’s my boss ‘cause she has some fucking degree?”

“Jess, the language.”

“I’m sorry, but I get excited about this.” He popped open the beer and took a long swig. “What’d you guys do today?”

“Nothing much. When the boys came home from school I took a nap and they played video games.”

“Those damn games. You didn’t have those when I was kid and you actually had to go out and play with other kids.”

She shrugged and went to the oven.

Jesse went into the living room and lay down as his boys ran up the stairs. He turned on the television and watched a random show on HBO as night fell outside.

Jesse Brichard had a dreamless sleep so it was odd when he heard voices. There was a male voice, calm and rusty, almost like it had a grain to it. His wife was crying and begging and the man was speaking to her softly. He’d heard this conversation before. His own father was a boozer: beer with breakfast and lunch and hard liquor for dinner. Sometimes on top of coming home drunk from the bar. He remembered nights of his mother crying and him in the next room listening, hoping that they would stop fighting long enough to remember that they loved each other.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood and Jesse was awakened by the impression that someone was watching him.

He opened his eyes.

Above him stood a man; bald and wearing a nicely cut Italian suit. He was handsome, or at least what would be considered handsome, except for the fact that his skin looked greasy and he had a thick forest of stubble on his cheeks and chin. The man smiled and tilted his head, like a dog observing something amusing.

“Hi, Jesse. Bye, Jesse.”

The last thing Jesse felt was the thick metal hammer slamming into the top of his skull.

Ocean Beach Park was nearly empty this early in the morning as the sun came up and roasted the sky a bright orange and pink. A couple of joggers were out, a few people walking dogs, but the majority of the dozen or so people out there were surfers. They were like a primitive tribe. With their own language, their own customs, and violently opposed to outsiders. In the fifties and sixties, even the police tolerated assaults against tourists in known local surfing spots. For the surfers, there was a spiritual aspect to surfing that made it different from all other, not just sports, but activities. It was communing with nature by submitting to its will. You were at the mercy of the ocean and if it chose to do so that day, it would show you the majesty of creation. And if it chose to that day, it would take your life as payment for your trespass.

Many of the surfers were rebellious youth. Religion and regular church attendance were not part of their lives. This-enveloping oneself in nature-was their form of worship. Nature demanded respect and nothing but the highest standards, from both the surfers and those on the beach observing. But like everything else, standards had deteriorated.

Of the new generation of surfers, half were drug addicts and half were maniacs. Fights were common and drug use on the beach followed by near-drowning in the sea as much so. Despite this, there were still those that, like descendants of some great ancestors from long ago, had faith in the ocean and saw surfing as those early surfers had. They were fewer, and didn’t come out when the beaches were packed to the brim with valley youth and tourists, but they were there.

Jon Stanton belonged to this latter group.

He waxed his board and zipped up his wetsuit. The sand was just warming and it felt silky as it ran through his toes. He stood and listened to the waves crackle against the shore for a long time before picking up his board and going in.

The water was cool, almost to the point of being cold. He sat quietly and adjusted and then began paddling out. When he was far enough, he turned toward shore, and waited for his set.

The waves were low at first but as time went on they grew. Eventually, all the surfers that were asleep in their cars or lying on beach towels waiting for their set filled the water. They dotted the massive waves like seals fleeing some predator, zipping back and forth and taking massive falls as their boards flew in one direction and they flew in another.

Stanton hit his stride on one wave in particular. It was a smooth ride and he was steady on it. He pointed his toes over the board and stood straight, as if the wave was a regal caravan carrying him back to shore. It lasted only thirty or so seconds, but it felt like years. He thought of his children, his two sons that he hadn’t seen in months, and wondered whether they thought about him anymore. He tried so hard to see them and be their father, but he knew his ex-wife was pouring poison in their ears. His sons saw him out of an obligation, some duty they’d learned at school, but they had turned to their stepfather for the guidance and love he was supposed to provide.

When he got back to shore after a good hour, he went to his towel and lay down. The sun was bright now and hot and it felt good against his face. There was a shadow nearby and he looked to see Billy Sakamoto zipping up his suit.

“You’re still wearing your badge,” Stanton shouted.

“Oh,” Billy said, noticing the detective shield around his neck. “You goin’ back in?”

“Not for a while. I’ll hold it.”

Billy tossed it to him, finished zipping up, and then walked over with the board under his arm.

“I’m actually glad I ran into you, Jon. I wanted to ask you how you and your new partner are doing.”

“Fine.”

“Stephen’s been treating you good?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Any reason they put you two together? At least any reason they told you?”

“No. They just said it was a random pairing.”

“Hm, it could be I guess. Did you know his last three partners asked for transfers or new assignments?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Stephen’s got a reputation. He’s kinda crazy, Jon. One of his partners was Jensen over in Missing Persons. You should talk to him. He told me Stephen once beat the shit outta this perp they were interrogating ‘cause he wouldn’t tell them where the kid he’d snatched was. It was a bad enough beating that the guy had to go to the hospital afterwards. He’d broken several bones and fractured his skull.”

Stanton shrugged. “Sounds like a product of the rumor mill.”

“Maybe. Just watch your back is all I’m saying. Partnerships are like marriages. What happens to him happens to you and what he does you do.”

“I appreciate it, Billy. Thanks.”

Billy nodded and then headed for the sea as Stanton lay back, letting the sun cook his face and dry his wet skin.