The Arsonist. Mary Burton
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a Gin Fizz and handed it to a customer at the bar.
He studied her trim figure. “You’ve lost weight.”
That compliment was her Achilles’ heel and she immediately started to thaw. “Yeah.”
Trevor opened his arms wide. “Is that the nicest thing you can say to your baby brother?”
Darcy really wanted to stay mad at Trevor. He’d left her in the lurch for most of the evening. But there was something about Trevor and his natural charm. She couldn’t stay mad at him.
She stepped into his arms and hugged him. He wrapped his long arms around her and squeezed her tight against him. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but in all honesty, she’d never felt more welcome than she did at this moment.
Since her breakup with Stephen, there’d been no one to hug or comfort her or tell her that everything was going to be all right after a bad day. Trevor’s hug made up for all of that. For just a split second, she felt safe, secure and loved. And for that she could forgive him almost anything.
Darcy choked back the tears crowding her throat and pulled back. “It’s good to see you.”
His smile lit up his eyes. “You too. So who’s the bastard that fired my big sister? I want a name because I’m going to have to rough him up.”
Darcy laughed and tears did fill her eyes this time. “Thanks, but I got it under control.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all, Dee. I can drive up to D.C., pound some flesh and be home before you know it.”
Gratitude choked her throat. “Just the offer makes me feel better.”
He hugged her again before he released her. “It’s a standing offer.” He moved behind the bar and drafted himself a beer. He took a long drink, nearly draining half the mug. “Hey, thanks for covering the delivery today. I don’t know what happened with the payment. But I’ll write you a check first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Darcy smiled. “So when did you start drinking?” Their dad had been an alcoholic, and, like her, Trevor had always sworn to stay off the sauce.
He rolled his eyes. “A half a beer is hardly a drinking problem, Dee.”
“That’s what Dad used to say.”
Michael Gannon often lost track of time when he was working on a new bike. Regularly, he worked hours under the garage’s fluorescent glare often skipping meals. Tonight, however, he was having trouble concentrating. He kept thinking about the fire at the Super 8. The fire at the motel possessed an intensity that had surprised him. An older hotel could easily have burned that fast, but new construction rarely did.
He shut off the flame of his blowtorch and set it and the solder down on the workbench next to the gas tank he was fabricating. He pulled off his faceplate and stepped back, easing the kinks from his back as he moved. He’d been working on a custom gas tank for a vintage old-school bike most of the day. The task should have taken a few hours. But his concentration kept wavering and he’d been forced to work well into the night to finish it.
The bike was expected to go to the paint shop in six days, and if he didn’t get it built in time, he’d fall behind schedule.
He picked up the tank and studied the cigar-shaped form. The seams and edges were rough now, but tomorrow he’d buff out the uneven spots. And once painted, it would be sweet.
Gannon set the tank down and walked over to the long window of his shop. Outside, the bulb above his front door cast a ring of light. Across the street, the neon lights of the Varsity tavern blinked. The tavern was winding down and the last customers made their way out the front door.
Thinking about their new waitress, he went outside. She had a real mouth on her, but he still couldn’t help but grin when he pictured her green eyes blazing at him.
He glanced again at the Varsity and then checked his watch. The tavern was open for another fifteen minutes, enough time to get a bite to eat. But he didn’t like being close to cigarettes when he was this edgy. He’d not had a cigarette in a year and he wasn’t going to mess up just because some fool had set an accidental fire.
A bike ride was in order. He needed to get out in the open air and let the wind clear the cobwebs from his brain. As he started back inside to get his bike, the leggy waitress pushed through the front door of the tavern. She had her arm around a guy who was clearly drunk.
Gannon paused, stepping back into the shadows. He imagined the waitress had handled her share of drunks, but he hung around in case there was trouble.
The waitress and her customer stood outside the tavern and he suspected they were waiting for a cab. The drunk swayed a couple of times and then his right hand drifted up to the waitress’s butt. She slapped it down.
Gannon grinned.
When the cab arrived, the brunette helped the drunk into the cab. She leaned in the backseat window, her ponytail swishing forward over her shoulder as she bade him good evening. When the cab drove off, she waved.
He watched her walk back toward the bar, admiring the way her jeans hugged her rear. He couldn’t resist stepping partway into the light and shouting, “Break any plates tonight?”
She whirled around searching the darkness until she saw him. For a moment she stared as if she didn’t know him and then she connected the dots. “Six. Run over any more people today?”
He laughed. “You’re it so far.”
Unexpectedly, she smiled. The smile lit up her face, making Gannon very aware that it had been a long time since he had been with a woman.
Shaking her head, she said, “I’ll be sure to look both ways. Have a good night.” She disappeared into the tavern.
He lingered a few more moments and watched her move through the tavern picking up stray glasses and plates.
Gannon started to whistle. As he turned to get his bike, he noticed his mailbox on the wall by his front door was full. He reached inside the rectangular box and pulled out two days’ worth of mail. Most of it was junk flyers and bills.
Standing under the porch light, he started to flip through the mail. He was halfway through the stack when a packet of matches fell out of the stack to the ground. The packet was red with lettering embossed in gold.
Little Rome—Great Italian Food.
His blood ran cold.
The matches were identical to the ones Nero had sent him after each Washington, D.C., fire.
He opened the pack. Inside was scrawled Day One.
He closed his eyes, then quickly opened them to refocus on the note. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. This was how it had begun with Nero in D.C. a year and a half ago.
Gannon exhaled, tipping his face to the stars. Anyone could have sent the matches. He’d made no secret of his past when he’d moved to Preston Springs and a good many knew he’d investigated the Nero fires in D.C. The matches were common knowledge, thanks to the Channel Five reporter, Stephen Glass.
He glanced down at the matches. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny.
Sick bastard.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed, trying to release the tension from his shoulders. He was twisting himself up in knots.
One fire. One pack of matches. Neither countered the mountains of evidence the D.C. fire investigators found that proved the body in that warehouse was Nero.
Raymond Clyde Mason had been Nero’s real name. The man who had terrorized D.C. for nearly a year was dead. Mason hadn’t fit his idea of Nero, but gut reactions didn’t hold a candle to the hard evidence that said Nero was dead. And whatever lingering doubts Gannon had had faded when the fires had stopped completely.
So why did