The Arsonist. Mary Burton

“My mind is made up.”

      “Where are you going to go?”

      It had been years since he’d slept the night through or had drawn in a deep breath without the scents of fire. “I don’t have a clue.”

      Where he went didn’t matter now as long as he got away from this job, which was killing him by inches.

      Nero wasn’t dead.

      He sat across town at the breakfast counter of a local diner sipping his coffee and watching the late-breaking news. The reporter was Stephen Glass, one of his favorites, and he was talking about Nero’s unexpected death.

      A dark-haired waitress, dressed in a white-and-blue uniform, refilled his cup. Following his line of sight to the television, she said, “So what’s so important they got to break in on my game show?”

      He glanced down at his coffee, slightly annoyed that the ratio of cream and coffee was now off. “The cops trapped Nero. He died in his latest fire.”

      She popped her gum. “No kidding.”

      He glanced at the waitress, annoyed by her loud gum chewing. He was looking forward to getting out of this city. It wasn’t fun anymore. “Gannon closed the case.”

      “I knew he would.” She waved over another waitress. “Betty, come look at the tube. The fire babe is on the air.” The waitress winked at him. “Gannon is built like a brick house.”

      Betty joined her friend and the two women giggled like schoolgirls as Gannon gave his account of last night’s fire.

      Nero poured more cream into his coffee and carefully stirred it. Gannon was also smart. He’d been a worthy opponent, one who had kept him in the game far longer than was prudent.

      Five nights ago, Gannon had missed him by seconds in the Adam’s-Morgan restaurant fire. He’d known then that it was a matter of time before Gannon caught him.

      The time had come to quit the game. As much as Nero loved the thrill of the chase and the exquisite way his fires danced, spending the rest of his life behind bars didn’t appeal to him.

      So, he’d found a homeless man in Lafayette Square, and lured him to the warehouse with the promise of money. He had given the man one hundred bucks and a bottle of MD 20/20. Nero had watched as the bum unscrewed the top and drank liberally from the bottle laced with drugs. Within minutes the bum had passed out.

      Nero had dragged the man to the back entrance, doused him with accelerant, set the warehouse on fire and slipped into the shadows.

      The cops had dutifully found all the clues he’d left behind including the duffel in the alley that was filled with Nero newspaper clippings.

      The plan was perfect.

      He was free.

      For the first time in months, Nero felt relaxed and more at ease.

      The itch to burn and destroy had vanished.

      Nero sipped his coffee. It tasted good—the right balance of cream and coffee.

      Maybe this time, he could quit setting fires and live a normal life.

      Chapter 1

       One Year Later

      The informant’s tip was explosive.

      Excitement sizzled through Darcy Sampson’s body as she stepped off the elevator into the Washington Post’s newsroom. She hurried to her desk. The large open room was full of desks, lined up one behind the other. Only inches separated hers from her colleague’s.

      Her computer screen was off. The desk was piled high with papers, reference books and, in the corner, a wilting plant.

      Darcy dug her notebook out of her purse and then dumped the bag in the bottom desk drawer. She couldn’t wait to talk to her editor and pitch the story that would propel her byline from page twenty to the front page.

      “So where’s the fire?” The familiar raspy voice had Darcy looking up. Barbara Rogers, a fellow reporter, was wafer thin. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and her wire-rimmed glasses magnified sharp gray eyes.

      Darcy flipped her notebook open. She wanted to be sure of her facts before she talked to her editor. “Just kicking around a story idea.”

      Barbara had been in the business for thirty years. She knew all the angles. And she knew everything that went on in the newsroom. “Must be some story. You look like you’re about to start salivating.”

      Darcy didn’t dare confirm or deny. “I’ve got to run.”

      Barbara wasn’t offended. “Sure, cut your best friend out of the loop.”

      Best friend. Barbara had stolen two story ideas from her in the last year. She hurried toward her editor’s office. Visions of a Pulitzer prize and national exposure danced in her head. Through the glass walls of his office, she could see Paul Tyler was on the phone, but she knocked anyway.

      What she had was too good to wait.

      The phone cradled under his ear, Paul glanced up at her. He looked annoyed but motioned her inside.

      Darcy hurried into the cramped office littered with stacks of newspapers, magazines and piles of books on the floor. She moved the books from the chair in front of his desk and sat down. The heavy scent of cigarettes hung in the air. He wasn’t supposed to smoke in the building, but that didn’t stop him from putting duct tape over the smoke detector and sneaking a cigarette once in a while.

      Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. A swath of graying hair hung over his tired green eyes. “Right, well, do the best you can. And call me if you find another lead.” Hanging up the receiver, he sighed as he looked up at Darcy. “What is it, Sampson?”

      She sucked in a deep, calming breath, willing herself to talk slowly. “I have a story.”

      He stared at her blankly. “And?”

      Darcy leaned forward. “Remember Nero?”

      Paul sat back in his chair. A dollop of ketchup stained the right pocket of his shirt. “Sure. The arsonist that tried to torch D.C. last year. Killed twelve people.”

      “Right.”

      Paul glanced at the pile of papers on his desk as if the conversation was already losing him. “He died in one of his own fires.”

      She spoke softly. “What if he didn’t die?”

      He looked up. Interest mingled with doubt in his eyes. “He died. The fire department and police department had mountains of information on the guy … Raymond somebody.”

      “Mason. Raymond Mason.” She flipped her notebook open and searched several pages before she found the right reference. “He was a homeless man. Also, a college graduate and Gulf War vet. Volunteer firefighter.”

      “Right. I remember now. So why should I care about all this?”

      “I got a call from a woman yesterday. She is Raymond’s sister, Sara Highland.”

      “Why would she call you?”

      A valid question. Until now, all Darcy had covered were city planning and council meetings. “My ex-boyfriend, Stephen.” She hated giving Stephen-the-creep any credit for the tip, but he had been the reason Sara had contacted her. Stephen, a reporter for TV Five News, had made quite a name for himself covering the Nero fires. “He interviewed Sara last year and thinking she might remember something of interest, he had given her his home number—which in fact was my number because he was basically living at my place most of the time. Anyway, she called. When I played back Sara’s message on my answering machine, I knew I had to talk to her.”

      Paul’s glazed look was a signal that she was rambling. “Get to the punch line.”

      “Sara doesn’t believe that Raymond