The man tells himself that he has grown smarter over the past several weeks. You might want to stand there and stare at the flame at your feet, watching it, greedy, lick at the grass or the pile of rotten lumber or the corner of a derelict house. You might want to follow the fire as it fuels itself, racing and growing and heaving and cresting and consuming. You might want to—
But you can’t. It’s not smart to hang around and watch the fire grow. Somebody might be driving along the road or watching from a window or looking on from some hidden spot and see what you’re doing and hotfoot it to the nearest telephone and call the Hot Dogs to come and put your fire out. And call Buddy Norris, too, and tell him about seeing you and name you because everybody in Darling knows who you are.
No, not smart, because if the sheriff puts you in jail, you can’t start any more fires. And you know that’s what you have to do, one more at least, better two, after this one. You have to do it—it’s all part of the plan, nine or ten altogether or maybe eleven.
What wasn’t in the plan, though, is the unexpected liking of it, a liking that has grown stronger and more compelling with each fire. Liking the speed and the ferocity and above all the cleanness of the flame. Liking the power and the attention and the masterful feeling of being the secret agent—the smart secret agent—behind the things that are making Darling people anxious and fearful during the day and wakeful at night, wondering whether they will be next. The power, yes. Especially the power.
And since he has to make his escape while his fire is still little bigger than a bright idea, he has come up with a clever doodad that gives him time to get away before the fire attracts attention. A time or two before, he had used a kerosene-soaked cotton rag, wrapped around a short length of loosely-frayed rope, like a fuse, with an open book of matches. This time, instead of the rag, he is using something he swiped from his wife’s bureau drawer and soaked in kerosene. He’s planting two, to be on the safe side.
Yes, he’s smarter now. And even a little pleased with himself, feeling that things are going according to plan. He’s always known that this one would be the hard one, the one that has torched his soul ever since he had understood what he had to do. If there had been another way, he would have taken it. But this is it, the only thing he can do. Now, it’s just a matter of doing it.
Take a deep breath, light the fuse, plant it. Plant another one and walk away.
Walk away. That’s all there is to it.
All there is to it, ever.