He wasn’t drunk because he never got drunk, but something was wrong. Twinkling lights were whirling round and round, caught in an accelerating tornado. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the spinning got worse. He rolled to his side and vomited onto the gravel. Someone must have slipped him drugs because he’d barely had anything to drink all day and he’d never been sick like this.
He reached out blindly for the garbage can. He grabbed the lid and tried to use it for balance, but he pulled too hard. The lid clattered off and a bag of garbage spilled out, making an unholy racket.
Upstairs, Katie flinched at the sound of something crashing. She was lost in her dream, and it took a moment for her eyes to flutter open. Groggy, she listened but wasn’t sure why, wasn’t sure whether she’d dreamed the sound or not. But there was nothing.
She leaned back, giving way to sleep again, and the dream picked up from where it left off. She was at the carnival, on the Ferris wheel, but it was no longer Kristen sitting beside her.
It was Jo.
Kevin was finally able to struggle to his feet and stay upright. He couldn’t figure out what was happening to him, why he couldn’t keep his balance. He concentrated on catching his breath, in and out, in and out. He spotted the cans of gas and stepped toward them, almost falling again.
But he didn’t fall. He lifted a can, then staggered toward the stairs at the back of the house. He reached out for the railing and missed it, then tried again. Got it. He lugged the can of gas up the stairs, toward the door, a Sherpa in the Himalayas. He finally reached the landing at the top, panting, and bent over to remove the cap. His head filled with blood, making him swoon, but he used the gas can to keep from falling. It took awhile before he could get the cap off because it kept slipping between his fingers.
Once open, he picked up the can and doused the landing, splashing its contents against the door. With every heave, the can got lighter, gas spilling out in arcs, drenching the wall. Getting easier now. He splashed left and right, trying to coat either side of the building. He started back down the stairs, splashing left and right. The fumes made him sick but he kept going.
There wasn’t much gas left in the can when he reached the bottom and he rested at ground level. He was breathing hard and the fumes were making him feel sick again but he began moving again, with purpose now. Determination. He tossed the empty can aside and reached for the other. He couldn’t douse the upper reaches of the walls, but he did what he could. He splashed one side and then circled around the back to the other side. Above him, the window still flickered with light from the television but all was quiet.
He drained the can on the other side of the building and had nothing left for the front. He scanned the road; no cars were coming from either direction. Upstairs, Erin and the gray-haired man were naked and laughing at him and Erin ran away and he almost found her in Philadelphia but back then she was calling herself Erica, not Erin, and now she pretended her name was Katie.
He stood in front of the store, thinking about the windows. Maybe they were alarmed and maybe not. He didn’t care. He needed lighter fluid, motor oil, turpentine, anything that would burn. But once he broke the window, he wouldn’t have much time.
He shattered the window with his elbow but heard no alarm. Pulling out pieces of glass, he barely felt his fingers getting cut and beginning to bleed. More chunks, the window coming apart in sections. He thought the opening was big enough for him to climb inside, but his arm caught on a jagged shard, deep. He pulled, tearing flesh. But he couldn’t stop now. Blood flowed from his arm, dripping and mingling with the cuts on his fingers.
The coolers along the back wall were still illuminated and he walked the aisles, wondering idly if Cheerios would burn, if Twinkies would burn. DVDs. He located the charcoal and the lighter fluid—only two cans, not much. Not enough. He blinked, looking around for something else. He spotted the grill in the rear of the store.
Natural gas. Propane.
He approached the grill area, lifted the divider, and stood facing the grill itself. He turned a burner on, then another. There had to be a valve somewhere, but he didn’t know where to find it and he didn’t have time because someone might be coming and Coffey and Ramirez were talking about him, laughing and asking whether he’d had the crab cakes in Provincetown.
Roger’s apron hung on a rack and he tossed it onto the flame. He opened the can of lighter fluid he was holding and sprayed it on the walls of the grill. The can was slippery with blood and he wondered where the blood had come from. He hopped up onto the counter and squirted some lighter fluid on the ceiling and got down again. He ran a trail of fluid along the front of the store, noticing that the apron had begun to burn in earnest. He emptied the can and tossed it aside. Opening the second can, he squirted more fluid at the ceiling. The flames from the apron began leaping toward the walls and the ceiling. He went to the register and searched for a lighter and found a bunch of them in a plastic bin, near the cigarettes. He squirted lighter fluid on the register and on the little table behind him. The can was empty now, too, and he stumbled toward the window he’d broken earlier. He climbed out, stepping on broken glass, hearing it crack and pop. Standing by the side of the house, he flicked the lighter and held it against the gas-soaked wall, watching as the wood caught fire. At the back of the house, he touched the flame to the stairs and the flames rose quickly, shooting up to the door and spreading to the roof. Next came the far side.