Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Taking Barker’s rifle with him, he walked across the bridge into town. Martin’s Café was open, but there were few diners tonight. For the most part, downtown was closed and locked up, as though braced for a storm.

With reason. One was brewing. Distant lightning brightened the sky just above the horizon. Every surface, whether natural or manmade, radiated the heat it had absorbed during the day. The air felt charged by something more ominous than low atmospheric pressure.

Thatcher entered the boardinghouse and went upstairs unnoticed. By a stroke of luck the third-floor bathroom was available. He made quick work of bathing and exchanging his dusty work clothes for his black suit. He buckled on his gun belt, pinned the deputy badge to the lapel of his coat, and took Barker’s rifle with him.

In and out of the boardinghouse in under ten minutes, he set out on foot again. Only Bill’s car was parked in front of the sheriff’s department. Inside, he was alone but on the telephone.

Thatcher propped Barker’s rifle against the wall beneath the gun rack, took off his fedora, and slumped tiredly in a chair. Bill completed his call with a “Thank you very much,” and hung the earpiece in its cradle. “Dennis Kemp checks out,” he said to Thatcher. “Hasn’t missed a day of work since he began the job. He was there yesterday.”

“Mrs. Kemp told you you’d be barking up the wrong tree.” Thatcher looked toward the door that led into the cell block. “How is he?”

“Sullen when I took him his supper. The public defender hasn’t made it in yet.”

“Have you called him?”

“Considering all the arrests last night, I’m sure he had his hands full today with arraignment hearings. Driscoll can sulk till morning.”

“How’s Mrs. Amos doing?”

The sheriff’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Still ailing. If she’s not better by tomorrow, I may take her to a doctor in Stephenville. Mrs. Cantor agreed to stay with her overnight if I can’t get home.”

“You’re expecting more trouble?”

He waved his hand to indicate the empty office. “I’ve got every full-timer plus a dozen reserves like you patrolling in pairs. I want to keep a lid on things if we can. Vain hope, probably.”

Thatcher drew his long legs in, leaned forward, and placed his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got plenty of trouble right in here, Bill.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of cotton fabric roughly six inches in length and three inches wide. One side was flat, the other gathered. The weave was unraveling at both ends. The cloth had been weather-beaten, but under its coating of dust, the scarlet color was vibrant.

Thatcher set the piece of cloth on the edge of the sheriff’s desk. He spoke softly so not to be overheard by the man in the cell. “I went exploring this afternoon and found this. I recognized it right off. When I talked to Mrs. Driscoll, she was wearing an apron made out of material printed with red and yellow apples. It had a red ruffled border.”

Through the window, Thatcher saw a lightning bolt, closer this time, but it took the thunder a count of seven to reach them. The storm was headed this way but wasn’t right on top of them yet.

Bill seemed not to notice the weather. He was fixated on the fabric scrap. “Where’d you find it?”

“Pointer’s Gap. Caught between some rocks, piled up, but not by God or Mother Nature. They’d been stacked.”

“Pointer’s Gap. Where Gabe took his missus picnicking.”

Thatcher scoffed. “The nearest I came to finding a picnic spot was a stream off the north fork of the Paluxy. No deeper than a foot at its deepest. It had a ripple, but not what I’d call a current. A few scraggly trees along its banks. If he was trying to romance his wife with a picnic, a prettier spot would have been in his own shady backyard.”

“When Bernie told us that Gabe had taken her there, I remember thinking that same thing.”

“That stream is about a quarter mile from the gap, and between them is wasteland. If he took her out there, it definitely wasn’t to picnic.”

Bill acknowledged that with a frown. “How’d you get out there?”

“Horseback.”

“That’s six, eight miles each way.”

“I’m used to it. Or was,” he said, wincing as he shifted in his chair. “I may be a bit saddle sore tomorrow.”

Both of them smiled, but they quickly became serious again. Bill asked, “Did you disturb the pile of rocks?”

“No, just tugged that piece of cloth from between them. It ripped when I pulled, so there’s more of it under there.”

“Could you find the place again?”

“With no problem.”

Bill smoothed his hand over his mustache a few times. “Gabe doesn’t have a horse that I know of. How would he have gotten her out there?”

“There’s a road, more like a trail, that comes in from the southwest on the other side of the hill. I figure he took care of Corrine at Lefty’s—”

“With Mrs. Driscoll dead in his car?”

Thatcher shrugged. “This is just my guess, Bill.”

“Go on.”

“When he finished up at Lefty’s, he drove out, circled back to the gap on that lonely road, carried her body the rest of the way until he found a suitable spot. Maybe he stumbled upon a natural depression, maybe he dug one. But he buried her and stacked those rocks on top. It was dark, so he missed that.” He pointed to the remnant of ruffle. “As hiding a body goes, he chose a good spot. If that cloth had been dull in color, I would’ve missed it.”