He was going to kill his boss. He was sure of it now. Les had spent the afternoon in hardware...

He was going to kill his boss. He was sure of it now. Les had spent the afternoon in hardware stores all over town, picking up: masking tape, bleach, a pair of workman’s gloves and a 16-pack of heavy duty lawn bags. He’d been thinking about it for weeks and couldn’t make up his mind. But now that he’d actually shelled out the cash for what he needed, it was starting to feel like a foregone conclusion. In his head, his boss was already as good as dead. All that was left was the follow-through. Les drove confidently— the radio turned up and blasting Journey, the Eagles. When the Talking Heads came on, he beat his fingers against the steering wheel. Yes, he said. Yes. Yes. On Eastman, there were road flares and strobe lights; people in bathrobes crowding into the street. A cop up ahead was stopping traffic, waving cars off the road. Les checked himself in the mirror. He was in his late 30’s, white, slightly overweight. Not at all like a murderer, he thought. He edged his car up and rolled his window down. “Can you turn down the music, sir?” Les fumbled with the dial until it clicked off. “You’ll have to turn back,” the cop said. “We need the area clear for the emergency vehicles.” He wanted to ask her what was going on, but she’d moved on to the car behind him. He was sweating now. His mouth was dry. He thought he might throw up. Les put on his blinker and prepared to make a U-turn but instead found himself pulling to the curb and putting the car in park. He climbed out, and immediately he smelled smell smoke, burning rubber. On the street, the crowds were on their toes, murmuring to each other, shoving for a look. Les sat down on someone’s stoop hoping to settle his stomach. A porch light went on and a man in a robe stood over him. “Hey,” he said and Les said ‘hey’ back. The man sat down next to him. He took a joint from behind his ear and offered a toke to Les. Les shook his head. He asked the man if he knew what was going on. “There’s a fire down the block,” the man said. “It’s a mess out here but my bathroom window you can see everything.” They went inside to the upstairs bathroom. The man sat on the edge of the tub and smoked lazily. “Just out there.” He gestured to a pair of binoculars sitting on the cistern. Les took them looked out the window. The man was right. He could see the house, black smoke pouring out the windows. There was a fire truck and an ambulance, and police cruisers banked on the street. Firefighters were shooting their hoses into the flames and the cops were trying to keep the crowd back. Les panned the binoculars and he thought he saw something. “There’s someone in there,” Les said. The man stood next to him. “What?” Les pointed. “Third story window. I thought I saw a woman.” He handed the man the binoculars. The man looked out. “I don’t see anything,” the man said. “Are you sure?” Les looked again. He pointed the lens toward the third story window. If she’d been there, she was gone now. The man told him he should tell the cops. “You’d be a hero,” he said. “Yeah,” Les said. He lowered the seat on the toilet and sat down. “If she’s not dead already.”