Page 1 of Inferno

ONE

Twenty years ago

Conditions were perfect. Tonight was the night.

Richard sat in the front seat of his “nondescript compact.” Or so the police had taken to referring to his vehicle on the news. They had yet to get the color right, considering he repainted it every week or so—and switched out the license plates.

No one ever got close enough to see the VIN number.

Or his face.

He watched the building for a while, imagining the way it would look soon enough. His best work could never be rushed. The moment his desire couldn’t be swayed by prudence, it was going to prove his downfall. The ability to be patient had been his greatest strength thus far. Every night he waited for the perfect conditions to create his work.

One day he would achieve the ultimate…

The perfect fire.

Tonight had shaped up to be the night. For the past two weeks, he’d been working on this apartment building. A nudge here. A fix there.

Closing vents.

Sealing sprinkler heads or cutting the wires on the smoke detectors. Disconnecting the fire alarm systems. Finally, he had made sure the basement laundry room would be a tinder box, as it were. Getting in and out quickly, so he wasn’t seen or at least remembered much. He used different utility worker uniforms. Gaining access so he could do his work.

His lips curled up just thinking about all that lint buildup.

All that heat with nowhere to go.

As Richard eased out of the car into the muggy air, the door creaked like it always did. He hadn’t figured out how to get it to quit yet. Too busy working on his far more important occupation. He knew what the psychologist had said about his obsession, so he had endeavored to suppress the urge.

Until the time was right.

He’d taught himself to control the need to see sweet flames licking up. To feel the heat himself and know that anything burned would be destroyed. He could bring an end to everything, like God himself. It would all burn in the end, all the efforts of man destroyed by fire until nothing remained but what he deemed worthy.

Sweat rolled down the sides of his face as he carried the three shoe boxes down the sidewalk to the building. Downtown, close to the center of Benson. The building was at least forty years old. He had chosen well, not just because of the aging wiring and the lingering heat that made his shirt stick to his skin.

He used a master key copied from the building super to gain entry to the rear door, down the concrete steps. The one most residents propped open when they ran the dryers—at least in thelast week. Inside the laundry room the air hung thick, laced with the scents of detergent and fabric softeners.

Richard set the first device in a dryer, as planned. This one was full of hot clothes because Mrs. Edwin worked the late shift as a nurse and evidently got pulled into overtime tonight. Her son always forgot to retrieve the clothes for her, no matter how many times she asked.

Every component in the shoe box would burn along with everything else.

No evidence.

No way to find him.

He chuckled at the idea of standing in the crowd, watching the building burn like any other spectator.

A shuffle caught his attention. A sniff.

Richard spun around. One of the devices in his hands nearly slid off the other. Almost a disaster, but he caught it and righted the stack in his hands.

He laid them down and went to the source of the disturbance he had heard. Along the row of dryers, then washers. The shelves above were stacked with detergents and empty boxes of dryer sheets. Bundles of lint between them, handfuls tossed up there by the people who actually bothered to clean out lint traps but couldn’t seem to find the trash can. That was where he’d had the idea of backing up the vents, blocking all the airflow to trap the fire inside this room.

Wedged between the first washer and the wall, a scraggly dark-haired child wearing threadbare shorts and an oversize T-shirt sat clutching his knees.

Richard crouched. “Are you lost, little boy?”

He shook his head, eyes wide.

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