Blind Tiger, page 29
* * *
Bernie Croft had eaten a late breakfast at Martin’s Café. Rather than ride to his office, he’d chosen to walk the short distance and was almost there when a deranged individual lunged at him from out of a narrow alleyway.
He was grabbed roughly by the lapel of his suit coat, jerked into the space between the two buildings, and forcefully pushed against a brick wall. Hands closed around his neck and began to choke him.
Dr. Gabe Driscoll was barely recognizable. His eyes were bloodshot. His bared and clenched teeth looked feral. But his fingers were like steel clamps around Bernie’s throat. “I’m going to kill you.”
Bernie gasped, “Jesus Christ, Gabe.” He planted his hands on the physician’s chest and pushed with all his might.
Obviously in a weakened state, Gabe wasn’t that hard to dislodge. He reeled backward and landed against the opposite brick wall, his shoulder catching the brunt of the impact. He clapped his hand over his rotator cuff and yelped in pain.
Hennessy came bounding in from the end of the alley. Bernie held up a hand. The bodyguard skidded to a halt. “I’m all right,” Bernie said. “But don’t let anybody wander in here.”
Hennessy looked at Driscoll with misgiving. Bernie patted the air. “It’s fine, Jimmy.” Hennessy backed out of the alley and posted himself at the entrance to it.
Bernie returned his attention to Gabe, whose ferocity had evaporated. He was slumped against the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Bernie hissed. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning, and you’re pissing drunk!”
“Why did you tell?”
“Tell what?”
Gabe glared at him with maddened eyes. “You want me to yell it out loud? You want me to shout it out so everybody will know about Pointer’s Gap?” Unmindful of Hennessy, he stumbled toward the street.
Bernie reached out, clutched a handful of his jacket, and yanked him back. Despite his rancid body odor and days-old breath, Bernie held him by the lapels and got right in his face, speaking softly, but with emphasis. “Nobody knows.”
“You promised me that no one would, but you told Norma Blanchard. Why? Why?”
Bernie instantly released him and took a step back. He felt like his head might explode. Every blood vessel in his body began to throb with wrath. But he clenched his teeth in order to keep his features rigid and his expression impassive. He tugged on the hem of his vest, shot his cuffs, assumed his customary intimidating, confident posture, and said blandly, “Insurance.”
Gabe blinked several times. “How did you even know about her and my…our…”
“Your grubby, adulterous affair? I make it my business to know who’s fucking whom. It comes in handy on occasions just such as this, Dr. Driscoll. I’ve got you by the balls, you see. You killed your wife in order to take up with your mistress and bastard child.”
Gabe flinched and gulped back a sob. “I came to you that night for help.”
“You came to me panicked, beyond any hope of getting yourself out of a nasty fix without my assistance. You were out of your mind with desperation and fear, and I responded immediately.”
“We made a vow.”
“Yes, we did. We made a vow to help each other. Quid pro quo. I held up my end of our bargain in a matter of hours. You, by contrast…” He sniffed with disdain. “Look at you. You’re a wreck, a disgrace.”
Gabe wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand. “You swore to me that no one would ever know.”
“But did you think that a man in my position would volunteer to get rid of your problem without holding some collateral? Did you think that, Gabe? Did you really? Are you that naïve? That dim?”
The man’s shoulders sagged. His head dropped forward as though the pin of a hinge holding it onto his neck had been pulled.
Bernie let him suffer in humiliation and silence for several moments, then said, “I assume Miss Blanchard is using this information for leverage of her own?”
“She’s come to the house twice,” Gabe mumbled. “Once in the middle of the night. I lectured her on how foolhardy that was, but she came back. In daytime, no less. She even brought the baby. She wants us to be together.”
Bernie made a sound of regret and sighed. “Typical female behavior. She’s wanting to nest.”
“It’s too soon. People would become suspicious.”
“Rightfully,” Bernie said. “You must drill that home to Miss Blanchard. Or would you rather I speak with her on your behalf?”
Gabe raised his head and looked at Bernie with bleary eyes. “No, I’ll do it.”
Bernie gave Gabe’s arm a fatherly squeeze of support. “I suggest that before you go calling on your ladylove, you get sober, take a bath, and shave. Get a haircut. Buy Miss Blanchard something nice. Take the baby a play-pretty.”
Gabe nodded assent, but Bernie could tell that his heart wasn’t in it.
With vexation, he said, “I gave you two weeks to sort yourself out, Gabe. Instead you’ve lost ground, and your time is up. You start tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Hang out your shingle. Resume making house calls. Dispense pills, set broken bones, administer enemas. And, as agreed, begin your work for me.”
“Smuggling bootlegged liquor on my rounds.”
Bernie tugged on his lower lip. “Actually, since our last conversation, I’ve determined that any able-bodied person with half a brain can do that. I have plenty of them already on my payroll. You would be a wasted asset doing manual labor.
“No, what I have in mind for you now, Gabe, is something more complex, more suited to an austere and respected man who has a knowledge of science and the healing arts.”
Befuddled, Gabe said, “What are you talking about, Bernie?”
“Poison.”
Forty
Thatcher was working late. The sun had already set, making it dark enough in the stable to require a lantern. He moved it from stall to stall as he replenished water and feed for each of his charges.
The mare who had caused him to work overtime snuffled and tossed her head when he entered her stall. She had a bad reputation for kicking, so he waited for her to settle before closing himself in with her.
“I saved you for last because we need to have a talk.” He moved to stand where she could see him. He stroked her forehead. “You kick another board out of Mr. Barker’s fence, he may kick both of us off his property. I’d lose money. Your owner, who’s already put out with you, would send you to the glue factory.”
Her ears twitched. She was listening.
“What he would rather do is breed you with that handsome stallion he’s got. If you keep acting unladylike, you’ll miss out. He’s hung like a racehorse,” he whispered. “He is a racehorse. The other mares would give their eye teeth. Think it over.”
He lifted a coiled lasso from a hook and began rubbing it over her with one hand while smoothing her coat with the other. Dryly, he said, “Of course, I’m nobody to be giving advice in that department.”
He’d spent three restless nights since he’d gone to Laurel’s house and had seen her with the O’Connor brothers. She thought they were charming. They had the gift of gab. They made her laugh.
This was Thatcher’s first experience with jealousy, but it had sunk its claws in deep. He understood now how it could cloud a man’s judgment and cause him to behave irrationally. But jealousy aside, he didn’t see anything good coming from Laurel Plummer mixing with hell-raisers the likes of them.
Thatcher knew—damn his knack for reading people—that she didn’t always tell him the whole truth. Some of that wiggling around certain topics and giving less than direct answers could be passed off as part of her prideful nature. She was fiercely determined to stand on her own. But he suspected that her sidestepping pertained to something besides protecting her privacy.
And that bothered him, because he didn’t think she had taken his warning about Chester Landry seriously.
To get her to listen, to try and impress upon her how important it was that she heed his warning, he had held her and made out like he was going to kiss her again. The instant he’d put his hands on her, he’d gotten her attention, all right, but she’d for damn sure gotten his, too.
He’d counted on feeling a stiff corset or whatever it was women wore under their clothes to narrow this and plump that. But all he’d felt through Laurel’s dress was Laurel.
Her waist had been giving, each dainty rib delineated. The heel of his hand had brushed the underside of her breast. Not to cup that soft crescent in his palm… He deserved some kind of medal. He—
The mare’s ears twitched, and she restlessly bobbed her head at the exact moment that Thatcher heard a noise coming from the front of the stable. He lowered the lariat, but continued to run his hand over the mare’s withers to keep her calm.
A rustle. The faint crunch of straw underfoot. Maybe some kind of critter? Mouse, rat, cat, possum?
Then a clangor that would raise the dead. An animal might knock over an empty feed bucket, but it wouldn’t cuss a blue streak when it did.
The mare began to stamp and neigh, as did the other horses in their stalls. Thatcher hooked the lariat over his shoulder, unlatched the stall door, and slipped through. But he had to take the time to latch it back so the mare wouldn’t get out. Once it was secure, he ran to the wide stable door. As he cleared the opening, he caught sight of a fleeing male figure. Thatcher bolted after him.
It was full-on dusk, but Thatcher spotted the intruder skirting around the corral and running for the creek. Thatcher went after him, uncoiling the lariat as he ran. As the man began to slide down the steep embankment, Thatcher tossed the rope and lassoed him with ease, neatly dropping the loop over his head and trunk, pinning his arms against his torso.
The man gave a sharp cry as he was jerked backward and off his feet. When he landed butt-first on the rocky ground, he let fly another round of colorful profanities.
Thatcher walked toward him, taking up the slack in the rope as he went. The face that glared up at him was that of a young man still in his teens, about Roger’s age.
“Fuck you, cowboy.”
Thatcher planted the sole of his boot against the youngster’s chest and pushed him onto his back, holding him down with his foot. “You know what happens to horse thieves?”
Still glaring, the boy remained stubbornly silent.
“They’re hanged from the nearest tree.”
The young man’s rebellious, hostile expression wavered. “What I said, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Sounded to me like you did.”
The kid peered up through the gathering darkness into Thatcher’s face. “Heard about some cowboy who shot the head off a rattlesnake here in town. You him?”
“Um-huh.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Roger tell you?”
“Don’t know no Roger. Just picked up word of it somewhere.”
Thatcher tipped his head back toward the stable. “Horse thieves are a sorry lot.”
“I was just lookin’ around, is all.”
“Bald-faced liars are just as bad.” Thatcher removed his foot and hauled the kid up. “Before you kicked over that bucket and gave yourself away, you figured on helping yourself to a horse, didn’t you?”
“I kicked over that goddamn bucket on my way out. I’d changed my mind about borrowing a horse.”
“You saw my lantern?”
“Saw the horses. I thought they’d be saddled.”
In spite of himself, Thatcher chuckled. “A sorry, thieving numbskull. What’s your name?”
Thatcher’s insults had put the chip back on his shoulder. “What’s it to you, Billy the Kid?”
Thatcher looked around, his gaze landing on a large live oak. “That lowest branch ought to do.” He started toward it, yanking on the rope, pulling the kid along behind.
He dug his heels in. “Wait! Wait! Hold it! It’s Elray. My name is Elray Johnson.”
Recognizing the name immediately, Thatcher stopped and turned back. The sheriff had told Thatcher about Elray Johnson’s fearfulness following the murder of his cousin, Wally. Elray looked ready to jump out of his skin now. “Why were you trying to steal a horse, Elray?”
With no cockiness left in him, the kid choked up and gave a hard shake of his head. “You can hang me, mister, but I ain’t tellin’.”
* * *
Bill was summoned from home by Scotty. The deputy didn’t share much information over the telephone except to say that the matter had to do with Elray Johnson. That didn’t bode well.
When Bill walked into the department ten minutes later, he wasn’t met with the chaos he’d expected. The wall clock’s pendulum ticked loudly in the otherwise quiet room. Scotty was filing paperwork.
He said, “Sorry to bring you from home.”
“What’s the trouble? Where’s Elray?”
“He’s got him back there in a cell.”
“Who does?”
“Your boy wonder.”
Bill rebuked that remark with a stern look. “I assume you’re referring to Thatcher.”
“Are the rest of us supposed to consider him official?”
“Good question,” Bill muttered as he hung up his hat. He entered the cell block where all the barred doors stood open. In the first cell, Thatcher was leaning with his back to the wall, one foot flat against it, his knee raised. He had a bead on Elray, who was sitting on the cot gnawing at his fingernails and jiggling his knees.
When he saw Bill, he shot to his feet and aimed an accusing finger at Thatcher. “He roped me like a damn calf. He was gonna hang me!”
Bill looked at Thatcher, who said, “He sneaked into Barker’s stable to steal a horse. He bungled it, and I caught him. But that’s not why I put him in here.”
“Okay,” Bill said, “I’m listening.”
“He said he would rather me hang him than tell me why he needed a horse.”
Bill hadn’t seen Thatcher since the morning he’d come to the house. During their conversation on the porch, he’d told Thatcher more than was comfortable about his and Daisy’s personal life, but he knew instinctually that his secrets were safe with this man of few words.
He also knew that Thatcher wouldn’t have hanged the Johnson kid, but had scared him into thinking he would. Apparently Thatcher also had perceived that Elray’s desperation might signify a need to flee. Bill thought Thatcher was probably right.
Elray had dropped back down onto the cot. His knees were bobbing again at a frantic rate. Bill asked, “What’s going on?”
“Nuthin’.”
“Did you intend to steal a horse?”
“Naw.”
Thatcher said, “He admitted he was until he realized they didn’t come already saddled.”
Wanting to laugh, Bill managed a strict tone. “That true, Elray?”
Glowering at Thatcher, he said sullenly, “He didn’t have to rope me and jerk me to the ground. It’s a miracle my butt bone ain’t broke. I’d’ve stopped running if he’d’ve asked me nice.”
Bill said, “Where were you planning to go on horseback?”
“Just ridin’. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
Bill went over to the cot, motioned for Elray to scoot to the other end of it, and sat down where the boy had been. “My supper’s getting cold on your account, and you dare to bullshit me? Now, where were you off to that was so important you’d steal a horse to get there?”
Elray’s face muscles began working like a child’s on the brink of tears. “Somewhere, anywhere, to lay low for a while.”
“Why do you need to lay low?”
He choked on a sob. “If they find out I was here talking to y’all they’ll…they’ll…no telling what they’ll do to me.”
“Who?”
“Cain’t say.”
“Your family?”
Elray wiped his dripping nose on his sleeve. “Goddamn Wally.”
“What about him?”
“He was always stirrin’ up trouble, then skippin’ out, leavin’ it to everybody else to clean up his mess.”
“Is that what’s happening now? A cleanup?”
Elray didn’t answer.
Bill said, “Has something come to light about who killed Wally?”
Elray’s eyes darted between Bill and Thatcher, then he lowered his head and shook it no.
“Then why were you hoping to get away?”
“Just tired of everybody being all worked up over it, is all.” He sat up straighter, gave a belligerent roll of his shoulders, and looked across at Thatcher before coming back to Bill. “He don’t know what I wasn’t at the stable only to take a gander at the guy who shot that rattler. I weren’t in there more’n a few seconds and didn’t steal shit. Anyhow, I got nuthin’ more to say.”
Bill looked over at Thatcher, who raised a shoulder and said, “He’s not worth the trouble it would take to hang him. I doubt Mr. Barker would want to bother with pressing charges of trespassing.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
He gave another laconic shrug. “Notify his kin to come take him off your hands.”
Bill recognized it as a bluff, but Elray didn’t. He surged to his feet again. “No!”
Bill grabbed him by the waistband of his britches and jerked him back down onto the cot. “What’s got you scared, son? You tell me, or I’ll hand-deliver you to your great-granddaddy. What’s Hiram up to? Vengeance for Wally?”
Elray hiccupped several times, then said, “He’s been on a rampage. He ordered all us to comb the hills. Every square inch we could cover. Any stills we found, tear ’em up, he said. ‘Wreak havoc on anybody making moonshine who ain’t a Johnson’ is how he put it.”
He made another swipe at his nose. “The other night one of my cousins—we call him Tup. Don’t ask why. Me and him were explorin’ and picked up the scent of wood smoke. We followed it to a still. Two, actually, but only one man was camped out there. What had drawn us was the smoke from his cookfire. He weren’t doin’ a run, just tinkerin’ around.
“We watched him hide a crate of ’shine in a hole in the ground. After he went into his tent, we waited to make sure he was down for the night, then snuck up to the hidin’ place, and took his whiskey.”
