* * *

After they left, the doctor’s knees folded and he dropped back into the chair. The mayor said, “Gabe is exhausted. He can’t even stand, much less think straight. He should be allowed to go home for a while and rest.”

“No, no,” he said. “I want to stay here, be here, in case something…something…” Unable to finish the thought, he rubbed his forehead.

“You see?” the mayor said. “I’ll see him home.”

“Scotty will see him home,” Bill Amos said.

The mayor seemed about to argue, but, instead, bent down and placed his arm around Driscoll’s shoulders. In a murmur usually reserved for priests and undertakers, he began reassuring the doctor that he was going to stay on top of things.

The sheriff turned to his deputy and spoke in an undertone, but loudly enough for Thatcher to hear. “Don’t let anybody talk to him. There’ll probably be a parade of church ladies bearing food. You take it at the door and thank them on behalf of both the doc and Mrs. Driscoll. If they start asking questions, say you’re not at liberty to talk about an ongoing investigation, and that if you do, I’ll have your ass chicken fried and served on a platter. And I will, Scotty.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Anything turns up, I’ll come directly there and inform Gabe of it myself. Anything anyone else tells you, regard as rumor or fabrication.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get to it.”

Scotty crossed the room and, after nudging the mayor aside, took Driscoll gently by the arm, lifted him up, and guided him toward the door. The doctor went along without objection. He looked like a sleepwalker.

As Scotty pulled the door closed behind them, Mayor Croft hitched his chin in Thatcher’s direction. “What are we going to do with him?”

“You’re not going to do anything with him. He’s going back to his cell, and I’m going to make some calls.”

“To whom?”

“To whomever I damn well please, Bernie. This is my desk, my office, my department, and my investigation.” Reining in his anger, he said, “Thank you for your help this morning.” He motioned toward Thatcher. “Identifying the suspect.”

“It was the least I could do. To my knowledge, nothing like this has ever happened in Foley.”

“You can’t say that yet because we don’t know what’s happened.”

“I want to be apprised as soon as—”

“News has a way of getting to you, Bernie. I’m sure you’ll be among the first to hear of any developments.”

“I’m depending on you to see that I do.”

The sheriff gave a nod that could have been taken either as acquiescence or could have signified nothing at all, and Thatcher figured the latter.

With self-importance, the mayor headed for the door, but when he came abreast of Thatcher, he stopped. Meeting him eye to eye, he said in a low and sinister voice, “I don’t care who you mistook me for. If you ever put your hands on me again, you won’t live to regret it. Do we understand each other?”

Thatcher met his threatening stare head-on. “Oh, I think so.”

Croft held his gaze as he said, “I’ll be checking in, Bill,” then he strode to the door and left.

The sheriff’s relief over seeing him go was obvious, even though that left him alone with Thatcher, who’d been referred to as “dangerous” and “the suspect.”

He lifted the metal ring that held the keys to the jail cells off a nail on the wall. “You gonna give me any trouble, Mr. Hutton?”

“No. But I could use the toilet.” He’d seen a door at the far end of the corridor marked as such.

“Can’t afford you the privacy when I’m the only one here. There’s a chamber pot under your bunk.” He signaled for Thatcher to precede him.

Once back inside his cell with the door locked, Thatcher stuck his hands between the bars. The sheriff removed the handcuffs.

Thatcher said, “I don’t know what’s happened to Mrs. Driscoll. I had no part in it.”

The sheriff backed up and propped himself against the wall opposite the cell. “Why’d you choose that ratty old shack of Irv Plummer’s to stop at?”

“It was the first place I’d come to. I needed a drink of water and directions to the nearest town.”

“You ever been to Foley before?”

“No, and I wasn’t headed here. Like I told you, I was aiming for the Hobson ranch. But I needed a town to get myself together, earn some money before continuing on.”

“You had your poker winnings.”

“They didn’t amount to much.”

“They did to the men who lost.”

“If they couldn’t afford to lose, then they shouldn’t’ve been gambling.”

The sheriff snuffled. “True enough.” He studied Thatcher as he thoughtfully stroked his mustache. “Irv seemed to have taken a dislike to you. How come?”

“I have no idea.”

“Y’all didn’t have a run-in of some kind yesterday?”

“I never even saw him. When I got there, Mrs. Plummer was in the yard hanging out her wash. I didn’t know for certain that anyone else was around until he called to her from inside the house. He didn’t show himself.”

Deliberately he neglected to tell the sheriff about the shotgun, although he couldn’t say where his reluctance to mention it came from. “Do you think the baby will be all right?”

“My boy had croup a couple of times when he was little. Sounds worse than it is.”

“What’s Plummer do for a living?”

“He’s a handyman. Drives an old truck.”

“It was parked in the yard.”

“It’s full of tools and gadgets, jangling around. You can hear him coming from a mile away. He’s quite a character.”

“I gathered.” Thatcher debated whether or not to leave it there, but decided to be up-front. “I know that Mrs. Plummer’s husband died by his own hand just a few months ago. Mrs. Driscoll told me.” He recounted how that conversation had come about. “She didn’t go into detail. Told me only that he shot himself.”

“He put a Colt forty-five under his chin and pulled the trigger.”