“I don’t know, and neither do you.”

“No, but I think he knows. That’s why he doesn’t want you to get caught.”

Forty-Nine

As Thatcher and Bill left Barker’s garage, Bill told him they were headed for Gabe Driscoll’s house.

“You’re going to question him about the attack on Norma Blanchard.”

“I am. But I should inform you that you’re still Bernie’s first choice suspect. He put in a call to me early this morning. He asked if I’d ascertained—his word—your whereabouts at the time Norma Blanchard was assaulted.”

“Should I take that personally?”

Bill chuckled. “He’s never going to like you, Thatcher.”

“That doesn’t hurt my feelings. I don’t like him, either. We rubbed each other the wrong way from the start.”

“Because you see through him. Also, he senses that you can’t be corrupted or controlled.” Bill gave him a sad look that said: unlike me.

“Gotta ask, Bill. Was he behind all that shit that happened last night?”

“I accused him.”

“And?”

“What do you think?”

“He was walking his dog when it started.” Thatcher swore. “We’re his damn alibi.”

“Hennessy’s, too. Although Bernie wouldn’t have wasted Hennessy on raiding other people’s stills. But you can bet orders came from Bernie.”

“What’s he after?”

“The Johnsons’ almost monopoly on the boom towns.”

Thatcher said nothing for a time, thinking about the tightening web of danger being spun around Laurel. Then he asked Bill if Dr. Perkins’s medicine had helped Mrs. Amos’s stomach ailment.

Last night while Thatcher was retrieving his gun belt from his room, Bill had commandeered the boardinghouse telephone to call a woman in Daisy’s bridge club, who had readily agreed to go sit with Mrs. Amos until Bill returned home, whenever that might be.

“The tincture seems to have helped. She hasn’t thrown up again, but she was very weak this morning. I hope she can be persuaded to eat something. Her friend Alice Cantor said she would stay with her for however long she’s needed.”

“That’s a huge relief.”

“It is. My county was on fire last night, and probably will be again tonight. I’ve called in all my reserve deputies to help the regulars, but, hell, at least half of them make moonshine themselves or take graft from those who do. That mess, along with the Blanchard assault, it’s like the damn sky is falling. Hated to pull you away from whatever you were doing at the stable.”

Thatcher gave a half laugh. He didn’t hate it near like Thatcher did. He’d have liked to have more time alone with Laurel.

Now, however, he needed to concentrate on the upcoming interview with Dr. Driscoll. Weeks ago, he’d realized that he would never be entirely cleared of suspicion in Mrs. Driscoll’s disappearance until someone else was proved to be the culprit. Even though he’d joined the ranks on the side of the law last night, he still wasn’t wholeheartedly accepted by the other men. The more Bill relied on him, consulted him on tactics and so forth, the more resentment Thatcher felt aimed his way.

This interrogation of Driscoll could turn that tide.

“I went out early to the Kemp house,” Bill was saying. “Took a look around. It’s as Mrs. Kemp described it. Norma’s room looked like a tornado had hit it. There was blood on the bed. I left Scotty out there to try and lift fingerprints, but, if they do turn out to match Gabe Driscoll’s, all that proves is that he’s been there. Which we already know. Doesn’t signify that he assaulted her.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“Us. That’s why I called you away from your work at the stable. You factor large in our approach.”

“How?”

Bill took a sheet of folded paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and passed it to Thatcher, who unfolded the sheet and read the lines written in a spidery script. When he finished, he refolded the sheet and handed it back to Bill.

Thatcher said, “You’re going to show this to Gabe Driscoll and gauge his reaction?”

“I’m going to show it to him,” Bill said as he slowed his car in front of the Driscoll house. “You’re going to gauge his reaction.”

As they went up the walk, Thatcher noticed that without the kindhearted lady of the house there to oversee its upkeep, the place was beginning to look neglected. Weeds were sprouting in the flower beds. The grass needed mowing.

The sign at the gate had indicated that the doctor was in, but there were no other autos there, and when Bill rang the doorbell, it echoed through empty rooms.

Thatcher hadn’t seen Gabe Driscoll since the morning in the sheriff’s office when the doctor had viciously accused him of abducting his wife. In the intervening weeks, his hairline had receded, he’d lost a considerable amount of weight, and his eyes were sunken into their sockets. He looked like a man who’d just crawled out of a hole or was about to crawl into one.

Upon seeing them, he clutched the doorjamb. “Mila?”

“No, Gabe, sorry,” Bill said. “But we’d like to speak with you. Are you with a patient?”

He shook his head and, after a second’s hesitation, stood aside and motioned them in. Bill removed his hat and used it to gesture toward Thatcher. “You remember Mr. Hutton?”

“I couldn’t very well forget him.” The doctor regarded him with hostility. “I thought you were on your way to the Panhandle.”

“Change of plans.”

Bill said, “I’ve made him a reserve deputy.”

The doctor tilted his head as though the sheriff might be joking and would add a punch line. Realizing Bill was serious, he said, “If this isn’t about Mila, why are you here?”

“We need your professional opinion on a matter.”

Still looking puzzled and a bit uneasy, he said, “Let’s talk in my office. The other rooms aren’t… I haven’t had anyone in to clean.”

He led the way and pointed them into chairs facing his desk. The doctor went around and sat down behind it. They didn’t make small talk. Bill leaned forward and passed Gabe the folded sheet of paper he’d shown Thatcher in the car.