by Burton, Mary
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 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.
Motorcycle Man tossed back his head, clearing his dark hair from his eyes, and pushed his bike into the garage. She watched as he stretched his long, lean body and reached for the garage door handle. He glanced toward the Varsity and for a minute she thought he was looking right at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. But, of course, he couldn’t see her in the dark.
When he closed the door, she released the breath she’d been holding. He turned off the garage light.
Disappointment flickered. She liked looking at Motorcycle Man and wondered what he’d taste like if she kissed him. Darcy was acutely aware that there’d been no one in her bed since she and Stephen had broken up ten months ago. She missed the touch and feel of a man inside her.
But sex wasn’t a casual thing for her. It required trust, and mustering trust had been hard since Stephen. She’d been taken in by his megawatt smile and handy excuses.
Motorcycle Man. He looked like he’d been plucked out of Easy Rider. Clearly her judgment in men had not improved.
She turned from the window, moved to the door and checked the lock. It was secure. The grit from a night’s worth of customers crunched under her feet and she realized Trevor had not swept yet. She went into the kitchen and noticed her brother’s light was off. He’d left. She checked the back door. Unlocked.
Surprised that Trevor would have missed such an important detail, she turned the dead bolt. What the heck was the matter with him? Dad had always drilled security into their brains.
Trevor was getting sloppy.
Darcy woke at 6:00 a.m. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She glanced around the room and for a moment didn’t know where she was. Nothing seemed familiar to her. She blinked. Recognition dawned.
She rolled over and buried her head under the pillow. She dearly would have loved to sleep in another couple of hours but the Nero story wasn’t going to write itself.
Darcy got out of bed and stretched. After hitting the bathroom, she went to the small dresser drawers, dug out her shorts and T-shirt and put on her jogging shoes.
A run was what she needed. She would get out in the fresh air, blow the cobwebs from her head and burn some of the calories she’d consumed last night. This last year since beginning her weight loss quest, she’d started running for the exercise because it was quick and effective. At first she’d hated it, but as she grew accustomed to the workouts, running became her best thinking time.
Then, after she’d showered, she’d find Gannon.
She pulled back her thick hair into a ponytail and headed down the staircase. The tavern was quiet. The chairs had been stacked on the tables but the floor hadn’t been swept.
“Thanks, Trevor,” she muttered as the faint smell of beer and cigarettes filled her nose.
Her stomach turned as she moved toward the kitchen and the coffeepot. She dumped yesterday’s grounds down the disposal, scooped out fresh coffee and dropped in the filter. She filled the machine with water and flicked on the switch.
As the machine hissed, she leaned against the counter and stared at the kitchen. Her father had been an early riser and they’d often bumped into each other in the kitchen in the mornings. And they’d always managed to find something to fight about.
Darcy rubbed the tense muscles in the back of her neck with her hand. She could look back now and see that she’d started her share of the fights. She’d felt trapped in those days and could be a real bitch. If she’d had a little maturity, she’d have seen the old man was stressed out about the tavern finances. Throw in a roaring hangover, which he suffered almost daily, and you had an explosive mix.
She couldn’t forgive the drinking but she could have diffused a lot of the tension. Instead she’d stirred it up.
Darcy heard her mother starting to move upstairs. The idea of facing her mother over coffee didn’t appeal. She’d already dredged up enough memories for one day, so she headed out the back door to the alley and followed it to the street. She paused and stretched out the muscles in her legs and then started to run her old route.
Her muscles were tight and stiff as she started to jog down the sidewalk along Main Street, past the shops. By the time she reached the top of the hill, her legs started to relax and her gait fell into a steady pace. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead.
Her mind started to clear and her spirits lifted as the endorphins kicked in.
Her first night hadn’t been very productive story-wise, but she’d gotten herself established and that was a good thing. It wouldn’t take long to find Gannon in a town this small.
She jogged up a hill and her muscles groaned, demanding her attention. Breathing in slowly, she let the oxygen fill her lungs and nourish her muscles. The morning was warming up and she began to really sweat.
One of her first priorities was to
get her money from Trevor. Her car’s gas tank was on vapors, her credit card was maxed and she needed pocket money. No doubt Trevor was still sleeping but she’d catch up with him today. And when she did get her money, she would be mobile again.
Until then she was stuck.
As she headed down the hill, she heard the distant sound of sirens. She stopped, and wiping the sweat from her forehead, listened, trying to pinpoint the location. At first she thought they were police sirens but realized they belonged to fire trucks. Judging by the sounds, several trucks were headed out.
Another fire.
The sirens grew louder, coming from the north end of town. She started to run down the hill toward the warehouses. As she rounded a corner, she saw a large black plume of smoke rising up into bright blue morning sky.
Darcy ran toward the smoke and the sirens, which grew louder by the second. She hurried down the brick sidewalk and rounded the corner. She stopped immediately, coming face to face with the city’s two fire trucks parked in front of Snead’s Restaurant, which was engulfed in flames.
Snead’s had once been an old tobacco warehouse. Three stories high, the owners had converted it two years ago. Darcy had kept up with local news through the Internet and had read that the Snead’s restoration had cost over two hundred thousand dollars. It was set to open this weekend.
Through the windows she could see flames burning on all three floors. The fire had spread to the ceiling and had wrapped around the walls and door. The heat had shattered the glass, and smoke had blackened the red brick exterior.
The police had set up their cars as a barrier between the firefighters, and the policemen watched the growing crowd of onlookers.
She recognized the chief who watched as his captain dressed in his heavy fire gear and ordered crews to get in position with their hoses. Within minutes, a steady stream of water blasted the inferno. The fire hissed and spit. And the heavy scent of smoke saturated the air.
Darcy hung back, wrapping her arms around her chest. The heat was so intense that none of the firefighters approached the building. They continued to battle the blaze, but the building started to groan under the fire’s attack. Timbers snapped and gave way inside. She winced and took a step back. The blaze had a life of its own.
