Juan Harrison's Arc

Chapter 9 of 9

Juan stood in his apartment and spread everything across the bed. The keycard sat next to his parking pass, both worn but still valid. His three alibi receipts lined up in a row—coffee shop, movie theater, hardware store purchases from different days. He'd memorized the timestamps. The notebooks filled with wrong information went into a cardboard box, useless now. He grabbed his fedora and checked the inside band where he'd tucked a small folded paper with the pay phone location and street grid. Everything had a place. Everything had a purpose. He picked up a book of matches from the corner store and turned the small box over in his palm. The final piece. No accelerants that could be traced, just paper and old wood that would catch fast once it started. He slipped the matches into his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. Tomorrow night, Casterton Industries would burn, and he'd be across the street watching every window light up orange. The anger in his chest felt calm now, cold and ready. Three years of planning had led to this moment. He was done preparing. Tonight he had one task left—timing the escape route. Juan walked six blocks under streetlights until he found the alley behind an office building. A weathered dumpster sat against the brick wall, its metal panels dented and scratched. Faded warning labels peeled at the corners. He checked both ends of the alley. Empty. Juan moved to the dumpster and crouched behind it, counting seconds in his head. Fifteen seconds to get low. Twenty to move around the corner. He stood and walked the route three times, faster each round. His boots scraped against pavement. A car passed on the street but didn't slow down. Nobody saw him. He checked his watch and nodded. The timing worked. Tomorrow night, after he started the fire, he'd follow this exact path while Casterton Industries burned. Every step was locked in now. Every second accounted for. He turned and headed home, the matches still pressed against his chest. He stopped on a rooftop two buildings down from Casterton Industries. The metal rooster weather vane spun slowly on top of the brick building across from him. Its pointed tail shifted west, then back to southwest. Juan watched it turn for three full minutes, checking the direction against the breeze on his face. Wind from the west meant the smoke would blow away from his watching spot. Wind from the east would send it straight toward him. He pulled out his small notebook and wrote down the direction and time. Tomorrow he'd check again at the same hour. The fire needed to spread through the building, not scatter into the street where firefighters could control it too fast. He studied the weather vane's numbered directions one more time, then climbed back down the fire escape. Everything was ready. The route was timed. The wind was measured. The matches waited in his pocket. Juan walked home through empty streets, his face calm, his plan complete. Morning came and Juan walked past The Liquor Hut on his final check of the area. An inflatable tube man towered over the sidewalk, shaped like a giant alcohol bottle with waving arms. The bright colors caught every eye on the block. People stopped to stare and point. Juan stood at the corner and watched the crowd gather. Perfect. Tomorrow night, any distraction would help. Witnesses would remember the tube man, not an older man in a fedora crossing the street. He turned away and headed back to his apartment. The last piece had fallen into place. Tomorrow Casterton Industries would burn, and he would finally watch them pay for what they'd done to him.