Line of Fire Read Free Page A

for."
    "I can handle it." Denny's jaw stuck out, and he gripped his gun tighter.
    "Looks like you could use some help," Joe put in.
    Barbara Lynch looked' nervously at her boyfriend. "Denny — " she began.
    "Don't you start too, Barb," Denny burst out. He glared at the Hardys. "I don't need any help, in spite of what you all think." Turning his back on them, he stared off at the woods. "And I really don't need help that tells me to wimp out when some guy shoots at me. I thought the Hardy brothers had a better rep than that."
    Joe opened his mouth to answer, but Frank shut him up with a look.
    "Now, thanks to your so-called advice, you've kept me here while that guy got away." Denny rose to his feet, his gun ready. He started stalking toward the woods in a combat crouch. "If you want to help so much, why don't you do something useful, like call the cops?" he threw over his shoulder.
    Frank got up and took a step after him. "We shouldn't let him go alone."
    Barbara Lynch took his arm. "One of you can go with him. There's something upstairs I want you to see."
    Joe shrugged. "You go take a look. I'll babysit Captain Commando." He took off across the yard as Barbara led Frank and Callie into the house.
    "Mrs. Payson is out at the mall, shopping," Barbara explained as they entered the house through a basement door.
    "Probably just as well," Frank said, glancing around a neat, carefully tended workshop. He gazed at a vaguely familiar piece of equipment clamped to a workbench.
    "A reloading machine!" he said with interest. "So, Denny doesn't just shoot, he makes his own bullets. He must be a fanatic."
    "Fanatic," Barbara echoed. She started up the stairs. "A good way to describe Denny. I never really thought about that, until — well, I'll let you see."
    They followed her to the first floor, where Callie went to the phone to call the police. But Barbara beckoned to Frank, continuing on to the second floor, and one of the bedrooms— Denny's, from the look of it.
    "I think you should have a look at this. Since Denny's out beating the bushes, this is a good chance." She pointed at the desk facing the bedroom window—and the thick scrapbook sitting on it.
    Frank sat at the desk and began turning pages. They were covered with newspaper clippings, all about the Crowell Chemical disaster. He saw pictures of the firemen fighting the flames, the shot of the smoky Lucius Crowell leading a worker to safety, and portraits of the men who had lost their lives, including Mr. Payson.
    He went on through the pages, finding maps and diagrams, then stories about the building of a new, modern Crowell plant. "He must have everything that was ever printed about the fire and Crowell Chemical. There are even stories about Lucius Crowell's campaign for supervisor." He flipped through the book again. "And the pages are pretty worn. He must go over them a lot."
    "All the time," Barbara said. "He keeps reading and rereading those stories, still trying to make sense of it all."
    The scrapbook fell open to one page. It was a story about the lost workers. Lined up at the top were five photos, evidently collected from their families.' Frank looked from the picture of Mr. Payson smiling up at him to the wall, where the same picture was framed.
    Over it hung a long-barreled pistol. "A plinking gun," Barbara said, following Frank's eyes.
    "Denny's last present from his dad. They used to go out in the forest and knock over tin cans."
    She took a deep breath. "The two biggest things in Denny's life are his shooting and what he calls the mystery of the fire. Everything else takes second place, even me. I mean, I love him, and he loves me. But — well, yesterday proved it."
    Frank shut the book. "What got him started on Mr. Crowell?"
    Barbara shook her head. "I don't know. I was supposed to take him out, so Mrs. Payson could get ready for the party. We went downtown first, to the town hall to look at some records—"
    "Then to the county and state offices, and then