The Arsonist. Mary Burton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 he have the feeling that Nero was back?

      “You’re losing your mind, Gannon,” he whispered.

      Someone is jerking your chain.

      Nero is dead.

      He walked over to the trash can by the door and was ready to toss the matches away when he changed his mind and slipped them into his pocket.

      Chapter 4

      “Motorcycle Man, you are a pain,” Darcy said, smiling as she stacked the dirty glasses on her tray.

      Times were tough if she was semi-flirting with a redneck biker. Still, when she heard the roar of his bike engine, she moved to the window and watched him drive off into the night.

      “What are you staring at?” Trevor shouted from behind the bar.

      “Nothing.” Turning from the window, she flipped the sign on the door to Closed and turned the lock. She wondered where Motorcycle Man would be riding to at this time of night. She started to run through possible scenarios when she caught herself. Who was she kidding? She’d come to Preston Springs to find Gannon and get a lead on Nero. Not for a fling.

      Darcy moved to the bar where her brother was wiping up a spill. Trevor had lost his bright smile from earlier in the evening. Dark smudges hung under sunken eyes and judging by the way he moved, he was working on a headache. “Hey, Dee, do me a favor and finish closing up the bar.”

      She sat on a stool, groaning with pleasure to be off her feet. The counter behind the bar was littered with olives, limes and covered in a mixture of alcohols and juices. “I don’t want to do it and you seem to be doing a good job of it.”

      He seemed agitated. “I’ve got to close out the register.”

      “Where’s Mom?” Lord, but her back and legs ached. Hard to believe she held this job through high school and college.

      Trevor went to the cash register, positioned a few feet to the right of the bar and directly in front of the door. He opened the register and scooped out all the money. “I sent her upstairs. She was wiped.”

      Darcy rubbed the back of her neck. Closing the bar would take another hour and she could barely see straight as it was. This certainly wasn’t what she’d pictured when she’d imagined her return home. “This sucks.”

      He laughed. “Hey, you wanted the job. I didn’t come begging.”

      Imagining the Pulitzer in hand, Darcy stood. She moved behind the bar, punching him in the arm as she passed. She grabbed a rag. “Don’t forget my check.”

      Rubbing his arm, he nudged her to the side sending her slightly off balance. “First thing in the morning.”

      She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a real jerk.”

      He closed the register drawer. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

      “Hey, thanks.”

      He didn’t look up from the cash in his hands. “For what?”

      Tender emotions weren’t her strong suit. “For letting me come back to work. It won’t be for long. I swear.”

      His blue eyes softened. “You’d do the same for me.” He shoved the money into a bank deposit bag. “If you wipe down the bar, I’ll sweep up.”

      “Bless you.”

      The instant Trevor left for the night deposit box, Darcy realized she’d gotten the short end of the stick. The bar was a real mess. She could have left it until the morning, but she pulled her own weight. She went to the small sink at the end of the bar, soaked the rag and started to clean.

      A half hour later, Trevor returned from the bank. “I’m back.” He looked alert and he’d lost the edginess.

      Darcy wrung the rag out in the sink. “Good, you can sweep the floor.”

      He came into the bar. “I will. Hey, the bar looks good.”

      She lifted a brow—amazed at his energy. “Trevor you are the sloppiest bartender I ever met.”

      He shrugged good-naturedly. “Yeah, but no one makes a Gin Gimlet like I do.”

      No doubt it was a crusher. “So, get to sweeping.”

      “If you don’t mind, I need to do a little inventory in the kitchen and then I’ll come back and do it.”

      Darcy started to mop down the top of the bar. “You’re slacking, Trev.”

      He lifted his elbows as she wiped past him. “Hey, I’m a man of my word.”

      God, she was tired. “Fine go, but I’m not sweeping.”

      Twenty minutes later, she’d finished cleaning. Her body aching, she started toward the back stairs ready to dive into her bed. She noticed Trevor’s light was on in his office, but she didn’t bother to check in with him. Each leg felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as she climbed the darkened staircase. She made an effort to move quietly. Her mother had dog ears and she didn’t want to wake her.

      Two steps past her mother’s door and she heard, “Darcy, have you checked to see if the front and back doors are locked?”

      “I did the front. Trevor will get the back, Mom.”

      “Remind him.”

      If she’d had the strength, she’d have argued. But the end result would have been the same. She’d have to check the door. “Okay.”

      Turning, she flipped on the staircase light and headed back downstairs. As she crossed the empty tavern room, she heard the roar of a motorcycle engine.

      Darcy moved to the front tavern window and watched as Motorcycle Man pulled up in front of his garage. She paused and watched as he parked his bike under the streetlight and swung his leg over the side. Pulling off his helmet, he walked to the garage door and pulled it open. He flipped on the light.

      There was an arrogance about his gait that reminded her of men in the military or the police force. She’d interviewed enough like that to recognize the look. But his longish hair and scraggly jeans and T-shirt screamed anti-establishment.

      “So who are you, Motorcycle Man, and what brings you to this small town?” Her reporter’s mind started to click. Without even realizing it, she’d ticked through a half dozen scenarios for him and had come up with the questions she’d ask if she had the chance to interview him. Hometown? Service record? Reason for leaving your last job? Why the interest in motorcycles?

      Of course, she’d never interview him. His story, despite his action hero swagger, wasn’t likely the kind that grabbed headlines. She was after the big game—Nero.

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