Jeffery Deaver - Hell's Kitchen

They all took this so fucking seriously.

He was distracted too – by thoughts of the Antichrist cowboy, Pellam. Sonny thought he saw him everywhere. In shadows, in alleys. He’s after me…

He’s the reason I’m sweating. He’s the reason my hands shake.

Sweat poured from Sonny’s brow and soaked his hair. Usually the shade of pale citrus, the strands today were dark with moisture. His breath came fast and occasionally his tongue would protrude like a pink eel and dampen a parched lip.

A movie theater was next on his list. He’d debated about whether to burn a faggot porno theater or a regular theater. He decided on a regular one.

First, though, he needed some more supplies. Arsonist are lucky because, unlike bombers or snipers, the tools of their trade are completely legal. Still, they have to be careful and Sonny alternated the places where he bought his ingredients, never showing up at the same gas station more frequently than once a month or so. But Manhattan had surprisingly few gas stations – they were mostly in Jersey or on Long Island – and, because he had no car, he could only shop at those stations within walking distance of his apartment.

He was now on his way to the East Village, to a station he hadn’t been to for more than a year. It was a long walk and would be an even longer walk back with the five gallons of gas. But he was afraid to tempt fate by making a purchase any closer to home.

He thought about how many jars of his juice he’d need for a movie theater.

Just one probably.

Sometimes Sonny would crouch for hours outside a building and try to decide how he could burn it down most efficiently. He was very thin, excruciatingly thin, and when he squatted outside Grand Central Station, say, playing the how-many-jars game, people would drop coins at his feet, thinking he was homeless and had AIDS or just thinking That man is so damn thin and all the time he’d have a thousand dollars in his pocket, be fit as a fiddle and was merely squatting on the curb enjoying his fantasy about razing the baroque station with as few fires as possible.

Grand Central would require seven fires, he’d decided.

Rockefeller Center, sixteen. The Empire State Building, merely four. The World Trade towers, five each (those crazy Arabs got it all wrong).

Sonny now walked past the gas station, nonchalant, looking carefully for police or fire marshals. He’d seen more squad cars patrolling the streets around stations in the last day. But here he saw none and returned to the station, walking up to the pump furthest from the attendant’s office. He uncapped the can and began to pump.

The sweet smell brought back many wonderful memories.

Sonny had known from the first hour of his first visit to the city eight years ago that he would live and die here. New York! How could he live anywhere else? The asphalt streets were hot, steam flowed like smoke from a thousand manholes, buildings burned daily and no one seemed to pay that fact much mind. This was the only city in the world where somebody would ignite trashcans and cars and abandoned buildings, and passersby would glance at the fire and continue on their way as if flames were just a part of the natural landscape.

He’d come to the city after his release from Juvenile Detention. For a time Sonny worked office jobs – messenger, mail boy, Xerox operator. But for every hour in offices or in his probation counselor’s office Sonny spent two honing his craft, working for landlords and real estate developers and even the Mafia occasionally. Gasoline, natural gas, nitrates, naphtha, acetone. And his precious juice, created by Sonny himself, virtually patented, adored by him the way Bach loved the keyboard.

Juice. Fire that kisses human skin and won’t let go.

In his first years living in the city, on the West Side, he wasn’t as solitary as he was now. He’d meet people on the job and he even dated some. But he’d soon grown bored with people. Dates became awkward early in the evening and after several hours the only thing they had in common was a persistent desire to be rid of each other’s company. In restaurants he tended to stare at the candles more than his companion’s eyes.

In the end Sonny proved to be his own best friend. He lived alone in small, neat apartments. He ironed his clothing perfectly, balanced his checkbook, attended art films and lectures on nineteenth-century New York, watched This Old House and educational specials and sitcoms.

And he lived to watch things burn into exquisite, still ash.

As the gasoline can filled with tender, rosy liquid he found himself thinking again about Pellam. The tall, black-clad angel of death. The Antichrist. The moth frying itself to death against the bulb that so attracts him.

Ah, Pellam… Isn’t it astonishing how our lives have become so entwined? Like the strands of a wick. Isn’t it odd how fate works that way? You’re looking for me and I’m looking for you… Will you be my mate forever? We’ll lie together in a bed of fire, we’ll turn into pure light, we’ll be immortal…

Three gallons. As he glanced at the pump gauge he happened to look past it and he focused on the attendant, who was stepping quickly back inside the tiny cashier stand.

Three and a third gallons…

Sonny left the nozzle in the can, stepped toward the attendant’s stand, saw the man on the phone. He returned to the pump. Hmm . Problem here. Problem.

What do we do?

As the three squad cars rolled silently into the station the police officers found Sonny standing motionless, looking uncertainly toward the attendant station, the pump nozzle in his hand.

Problem…

“Excuse me, sir,” a cop’s voice called. “I wonder if you could hang that pump up and come over here?”

The police climbed out of the cars.

Five of the six cops had their hands on their pistol grips.

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“Just hang that up, that nozzle. Okay? Do it now.”

“Sure, officer. Sure.”

He shoved the high-test nozzle back into the pump.

“You have some ID on you, sir?”

“I didn’t do anything. I don’t even have a car. What do you want to give me ticket for?” He fished into his pocket.

“Just step over here, sir. And if we could see some ID.”

“Okay, sure. Did I do something wrong?” Sonny didn’t move.

“Now, sir. Step over here now.”

“Yessir. I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, Christ, no!” a heavily accented voice shouted from behind him. Sonny was surprised it had taken the station attendant so long to notice. “The gas! The other line’s the one turned on.”

Sonny smiled. When he’d seen the police cars in the reflection of the pump he’d dropped the open gas hose on the ground and grabbed the high-test hose – the one he’d dutifully hung up, as ordered. At least twenty gallons of gas had poured out onto the apron and was flowing toward the cops and their car, invisible on the black asphalt.

In an split second, before a single officer could draw his gun, Sonny had his lighter out. He flicked it. A small flame burned on the end. He crouched down.

“Okay, mister,” one cop said, holding up his hands. “Just put that down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

For a moment no one moved. But then, in a snap, they all knew it was coming. Maybe Sonny’s eyes, maybe his smile… maybe something else gave it away. The six cops turned, fleeing from the deadly pool.

Sonny was on a dry patch of asphalt, though when he touched the flame to the flowing river of gasoline he leapt back fast, like a roach. The fireball was huge. He grabbed the container and fled.

A huge whoosh as the flames swept under the police cars, igniting them. The fiery river continued past them, flowing down Houston Street, roaring, sending a black cloud rolling into the sky. Screams, horns, collisions, as cars stopped and backed away from the flames.