Scotty checked the wall clock. “Twenty-seven minutes ago.”

Bill turned to Thatcher. “Do you want to wait to confront Driscoll until we have more time?”

“Do you?”

By way of an answer, Bill said to Scotty, “When the Rangers come back, tell them we’re trying to squeeze a confession out of a prisoner, and ask them to cool their heels a while longer.”

“The governor?”

“Suggest he have a drink.” Bill pushed open the door leading into the cell block. Thatcher followed him and closed the door behind them.

Driscoll was fit to be tied. “Where is my lawyer? What the hell is going on out there? It sounds like a carnival. I’ve been yelling for someone to get in here, but I’ve been ignored.” Glaring at Thatcher, his voice went shrill. “And why is he still wearing a badge when he should be in here instead of me?”

In contrasting calmness, Bill said, “Because he’s not a murder suspect, Gabe.”

“I did not attack Norma. I would never have done that.”

“No, we don’t think you did. The patients on your rural route vouched for your whereabouts during the time frame when she was assaulted.”

“Then why am I still locked up?”

“Because you killed Mila. Didn’t you?”

“No.” He gave an obstinate shake of his head.

“Did you plan it with Norma, or did you act alone?”

“I did not kill my wife.”

Disregarding the denial, Bill said, “I think Mrs. Driscoll’s body was in the car with you when you went to Lefty’s. Eleanor Wise just missed you loading it because you had parked around back.”

Up till then, Thatcher had let Bill do all the talking. Now, he said, “I can’t figure the murder weapon.”

“Good point,” Gabe said tightly. “Sheriff, are you listening? What did you use, Hutton?”

Unfazed, Thatcher said, “No obvious weapon was found inside the house. Either you used something commonplace that wouldn’t be considered a weapon, or you took the weapon with you and tossed it somewhere along the way to Lefty’s, or you buried it with Mrs. Driscoll’s body at Pointer’s Gap.”

“I didn’t—”

“And why Pointer’s Gap?” Thatcher continued. “It’s rugged country.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Driscoll sneered. “You took Mila from our house that night and took her out there—”

“In what, Gabe?”

His head swiveled back to Bill. “What?”

“Thatcher was on foot. How would he have gotten her out there?”

Before the doctor could respond, Thatcher picked back up. “Why did you choose Pointer’s Gap?”

“I didn’t! I’ve never even been there.”

“What about the picnics with your wife?”

Driscoll looked at Bill. “What is he talking about?”

“The picnics,” Thatcher said, bringing Driscoll’s attention back to him. “The ones you and Mrs. Driscoll went on at Pointer’s Gap.”

“That’s absurd. First of all, I hate picnics. Where did you even get a crazy idea like that?”

Thatcher waited a beat, then said quietly, “From Bernie Croft.”

The doctor looked like he’d been struck with a two-by-four right between the eyes. He gaped at Thatcher for a ten count, then took several short, shallow breaths. “Bernie told you that?”

Closely monitoring Driscoll’s every reaction, Thatcher left it to Bill to explain how they’d come to hear about Pointer’s Gap, when and where their seemingly casual conversation with the mayor had taken place. “To aid us in our investigation into the assault on Miss Blanchard, Bernie felt compelled to mention your affair with her, and then your earnest attempt to atone for it by paying more attention to your wife.”

Gabe was swallowing convulsively.

Bill went on. “His offhanded mention of Pointer’s Gap—”

“It wasn’t offhanded,” Driscoll blurted. He slumped forward against the bars, clutching two of them to help himself remain upright. “It was his idea.”

“What was his idea?”

He remained silent and gave a mournful shake of his head.

“It was Bernie’s idea to do what, Gabe? Say it.”

“I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

Thatcher leaned in and whispered to him, “If you betray Croft, he may very well kill you. But if you don’t come clean, you have me to be scared of.”

Gabe looked at him with fright. Thatcher gazed back, unblinking. The doctor was quick to yield. He turned to Bill and stammered, “B…Bernie took care of the body for me. He had men meet me at Lefty’s. They took Mila.”

“Was she dead, Gabe?”

He nodded.

“You killed her?”

“Yes.” He lowered his head and began to cry.

Thatcher backed away from the bars separating them. He exchanged a glance with Bill. They’d gotten the confession they’d been after, but having Mila Driscoll’s fate confirmed was a dismal triumph.

“How’d you kill her, Gabe?” Bill asked softly.

Just then Scotty came barging through the door at the end of the corridor. “Sheriff?”

“Not now,” Bill said.

“It’s—”

“Not now!”

“It’s Mrs. Amos.”

Bill spun around to his deputy. Scotty spoke so hastily, he tripped over his words. “Her friend Mrs. Cantor called, says Mrs. Amos is in pain something awful. Her stomach. Said it might’ve been, uh…whiskey. Said she caught her with a bottle of bourbon half empty.”

“Jesus.” Bill looked at Thatcher. “I have to go.”

“And the Rangers are back,” Scotty added.

“Screw them. Stay with Driscoll,” Bill said to Thatcher. “Get it all on paper. Have him sign—”

“Wait! Your wife has severe stomach pains after drinking bourbon?” Gabe had stopped crying, but had turned whey-faced and his lips were rubbery. “He said it was for the Johnsons.”

In a matter of seconds, Bill had the cell door unlocked, had grabbed Driscoll by the throat, and had backed him against the wall. “Who said? Bernie?”

Driscoll gave a wobbly nod.