“You went seeking the womanly kind of comfort Miss Blanchard could give you?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Then, in your words, why were you frantic?”

“Because Norma wasn’t there.”

“That’s close, but not exactly what we were told,” Thatcher said. “Mrs. Kemp’s words were that when you got there, you were ‘batshit crazy.’ You didn’t get upset after learning that Miss Blanchard wasn’t there. You were unhinged when you arrived.”

Softly, Bill said, “Why, Gabe?”

The crackup was gradual. It seemed to Thatcher that it started at his thinning hairline and worked its way down his long face. His brows drew together above the bridge of his nose. His eyes filled with tears. The tip of his nose turned red and dripped a bead of snot. Then his lower lip began to quiver and he blubbered, “I did something terrible.”

Fifty

Somewhere between his blubbered “I did something terrible” and the sheriff’s office, Gabriel Driscoll grew a pair.

That was the only explanation Thatcher had for the doctor’s change of heart. By the time he and Bill escorted him into the building, he had gone from a shattered man facing ruin to a haughty, self-righteous jerk.

Scotty and Harold, who were sharing a desk piled high with paperwork, stopped sorting through it and looked on with interest as Driscoll proclaimed that an affair was the only thing he had confessed to, and that if the sheriff and his fledgling deputy thought otherwise, they had misunderstood.

As though addressing a jury, he took the opportunity to profess his innocence. “When I said I’d done a terrible thing, I was referring to my infidelity. Nothing more. I sinned against my wife. And since you and your inept staff here haven’t uncovered a single clue as to what happened to her, she’ll never know how deeply I cared for her.”

Looking at Thatcher with malice, he said, “You still haven’t definitively accounted for yourself the night Mila disappeared.” Then he turned to Bill. “I’m not saying another word without a lawyer present.”

“Do you have one?”

“Not on retainer.”

“I’ll arrange for one, then. In the meantime, you’ll wait in a cell.” He instructed Harold to lock him up. As the deputy escorted Driscoll into the cell block, Bill quietly said to Thatcher, “I’m in no rush to call the public defender. Let’s give him a while to ruminate on his sins against his wife.”

When asked, Scotty gave Bill an update on the investigations being conducted relating to last night’s events. “We ran down two more ’shiners trying to disassemble their still for relocation. I think they were relieved it was us who found them and not the Johnsons.”

“Remember that the Johnsons were the targets and suffered the greatest losses,” Bill said.

“Which is why they’ll be primed for revenge,” Scotty said. “I think we can look forward to another active night. Meanwhile…” He passed Bill a slip of paper. “Somebody from the governor’s office. He’s called twice. Asked you to call him back.”

“He say what for?”

“He said the governor wants to know what the fuck is going on out here and what in holy hell you’re doing about it. Says moonshine wars make the state look bad.”

“The governor didn’t have the guts to call and tell me himself?”

“He was giving the invocation at a prayer breakfast.”

They all had a chuckle.

Harold returned. Bill asked him to put through the long-distance call to the governor’s office. He asked Scotty to call the coroner’s office in Dallas and ask about the timing of Norma Blanchard’s autopsy, while Bill himself placed a call to his house and spoke with Mrs. Cantor about Daisy’s condition.

While they were occupied, Thatcher wandered over to the county map tacked to the wall and began to study it. He half-listened as Bill conversed with his wife’s friend and then spoke to the governor’s toady. To an outlandish extent, Bill downplayed the seriousness of the previous night’s crimes, even referring to it as “mischief.”

When Bill hung up from that call, Thatcher said, “Mind if I get back to work? I’ve got horses to exercise.”

“Of course. I’ve got plenty to do here while Gabe wallows in remorse. If I need you, I’ll come find you.”

Thatcher left, knowing that he might be hard to find for the next few hours. Neither the sheriff nor anyone else would know where to look.

* * *

Laurel and Irv transferred the crates he’d brought from the stills to the cellar where they would be stored until the O’Connors came for them that evening. Irv apologized for being unable to do his share of the lifting, carrying, and moving.

“I’d rather you let your arm heal,” Laurel told him as she put the last crate in its place.

She also loaded supplies for Corrine and Ernie into Irv’s truck. As he climbed up into the driver’s seat, he said, “We’ll have to wait and see if hell breaks loose again before we decide whether or not to do runs tonight.”

“Don’t take any chances. If there’s the least sign of trouble, lay low. Promise.”

“I promise. Keep your pistol handy.”

She patted her skirt pocket and waved him off.

The kitchen was hot, and only got hotter from the ovens as she baked and the afternoon wore on. She had just taken the last pies out of the oven and set them to cool when there was a knock on her front door.

It was too early for Davy and Mike, and they always came around to the back. Pushing wisps of damp hair off her heated face, she went through the living room to the front door. The windowpane in its upper half gave her clear sight of the callers. Her heart stuttered, but since she’d been seen, she had no choice except to open the door.

In the background, a recent model car was parked in the street, a large man standing beside it. Out of reflex, she patted her skirt pocket, but she smiled. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Plummer. You may not remember meeting me. It was a cursory introduction in—”

“The sheriff’s office.”

Mayor Bernie Croft said, “Your baby daughter was very ill. I heard about her passing. My condolences are long overdue.”