Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Harold and another deputy Thatcher didn’t know had the tailgate down and were shining flashlights into the back of the truck.

Thatcher lowered the rifle and made his way over to Bill, who was kneeling at the side of the man lying in the road. It was one of the O’Connor twins, although Thatcher couldn’t have said which. He was bleeding from several wounds, but his lips were moving, and Bill was listening intently.

“His brother’s dead.” Thatcher turned. Harold elaborated without being asked to. “The twins came around the bend there, caught fire from the trees on both sides of the road. They didn’t stand a chance. Somebody wanted to make a point.”

“Whoever it was came through the woods from the road that parallels this one.” Thatcher pointed. “I chased them, but they had too good of a head start. Didn’t see how many, but all of them fit into one vehicle.”

Harold nodded, then said, “Hell of it is, if this had to do with the illegal liquor trade, they got the wrong guys. All they were hauling was a bunch of pies and jars of fruit fillings.”

“Get away from me!”

The voice was shrill but Thatcher recognized it instantly and spun around. Laurel was struggling to escape the grasping hands of Chester Landry. Thatcher was in motion before he even thought about it. He swung the rifle barrel to waist level and ran toward them, shouting, “Let her go!”

Laurel managed to wrestle herself free, but Landry reached for her again, catching hold of the back of her skirt and bringing her up short. She whirled around and slugged him in the face with her fist.

“Landry!” Thatcher yelled. “Let go of her!”

Seeing Thatcher bearing down on him, and recognizing the hellfire he represented, Landry immediately released Laurel and ran for his life, disappearing into the woods on the other side of the road.

Over his shoulder, Thatcher hollered to Harold, “Go after him.” The deputy took off running.

Thatcher ran to close the remaining distance between him and Laurel, but she was on an undeterred path toward the truck, and she was in a crazed state.

Thatcher overcame her and grabbed hold of her arm with his free hand. She turned her head and looked up at him, wild-eyed and frantic. “That’s the twins’ truck. I heard the shooting.”

She jerked free of his hold and continued on. Thatcher called her name, and, when he caught her again, they engaged in a tussle not unlike the one she’d been in with Landry.

“Laurel, stop it. Laurel!” He finally got her to stand still. “One is wounded but alive. The other is gone.”

It took several seconds for the message to sink in, then she threw back her head and wailed, “Nooooo.”

He tried to draw her to him, but she took in the badge, the gun belt around his hips, the rifle he still carried. When it all registered, she threw off his hands to free herself. “Damn you!” she yelled as she ran backward. “Stay away from me.”

Realizing the conclusion she’d drawn, he said, “No, Laurel. It wasn’t me. Wasn’t us. This was—”

But he was talking to the empty space where she’d been standing. She knocked onlookers aside as she plowed through them to get to where Bill still knelt beside the wounded man. She gave another wail when she saw him and dropped to her knees.

Harold huffed up to Thatcher. “He was too fast. I lost him in the dark.”

With cold determination, Thatcher said, “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

* * *



Hiram Johnson sat in a filthy, upholstered armchair with his bare, bloated right foot propped on a stool. An open jar of moonshine was on the windowsill, along with a flyswatter, both within easy reach. A Bible lay open on his lap.

Mayor Bernard Croft had never seen such a disgusting sight in his life and doubted he ever would. The old man’s rotting foot stank to high heaven. It was as though the walls of this house seeped the rancid odor of generations of Johnsons. The unmoving air smelled of dirty hair, dirty feet, decayed teeth, tobacco-laced expectorant, and baby shit.

The foulness of it all sickened Bernie. He could barely keep his dinner down.

Of course he’d known more or less what he was letting himself in for when he’d requested this meeting. He’d sent Hennessy to parley with Hiram, requesting an assemblage of the clan so that Bernie could address them collectively. Hennessy had been instructed to stress that Bernie would be assuming all the risks, because the meeting would take place on Hiram’s turf.

Bernie would be walking into the lion’s den, but the goal was to end the strife between his faction and the Johnsons. Give and take. Negotiation. Compromise. A fair division of territories. The goal being to end this silly and counterproductive war.

They had congregated. The house was overflowing with representatives of the myriad branches of the family. They had listened to Bernie’s impassioned speech. It was time to make his final pitch and close the deal.

He stood before Hiram. “This feud would eventually play itself out, Mr. Johnson. You’ve lived long enough, been a businessman long enough, to know that ultimately things work themselves out and life returns to the way it was before.

“But in the meantime, this destructive bickering costs us both revenue. People get hurt. People die. It’s a waste. If we stop fighting each other, we can devote ourselves to fighting our common enemy, which is this new goddamn federal law.” He ended on a high note that elicited guffaws from many.