Arsonist

CHAPTER 18

Jesse Brichard finished his shift and found his sedan in the airport parking lot. He sat in the car for a moment and then took out the silver flask that was in the glove compartment and threw back a few drinks, spilling some drops on his pilot’s uniform.

He remembered why he’d wanted to be a pilot: the idea of freedom. The bastards could take your house and car, your money…but they couldn’t take the sky from you. His father had been a pilot and his father before him. It was a family tradition. But with each successive generation the pay and benefits shrunk to the point that he now worked a second full-time job just to support his family. It’d gotten so he could make more managing a fast-food restaurant than he could making sure three hundred people landed safely and got home to their families. Ah, to hell with it, he thought. Maybe they would just replace him outright with robots?

He started the car and pulled away and before long was on Interstate 5 heading home to his family in Claremont. The air was warm as evening was falling and it was a salty ocean air that sat well on his tongue. He turned on the oldies station and Moody Blues’ Nights in White Satin was playing.

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.