Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“What time did he leave?”

“I can’t—”

“What time?”

“Four-thirty. Thereabouts. He interrupted me while I was busy setting up the sideboard.” She sniffed. “Which I didn’t appreciate one bit.”

Thatcher stepped back into the hallway and addressed all the boarders who now were watching curiously from their open doorways, as they had the night he’d been taken into custody. Some shrank back. “Anybody know where Chester Landry was going? Did he ever say where he was from?”

“All I ever heard was Dallas,” one said. That was followed with murmurs of agreement.

“He ever mention family?”

No one answered, but one asked, “Wha’d he do?”

Thatcher said, “If anyone hears anything from him, or about him, come get me. Sorry to have woken you up.” He jogged down the stairs and out the front door.

Five minutes later, he stood dripping rainwater in the waiting room of Dr. Perkins’s clinic, explaining to Bill what he’d learned. “Landry had prepared to run even before the ambush.”

“Leading you to believe he may have been instrumental in that?”

“He might have planned it, but he didn’t participate.”

In unison Thatcher and the sheriff turned toward Laurel, who’d spoken from the chair that Patsy Kemp had occupied days before. Laurel looked small and defenseless, with shoulders hunched, hugging her elbows.

She said, “He was at my back door when the shooting started.”

Bill walked over to her. “What was Chester Landry doing at your back door?”

She was about to answer, when Dr. Perkins came out of the interior room. His lab coat was bloodied. Laurel shot to her feet. He didn’t keep them in suspense. “My nurse and I successfully removed two bullets. The third went through his lower left abdomen. I’ve done what I can. He’s still with us.”

“Is he out of danger?” Laurel asked.

“No, Mrs. Plummer. He survived the surgery, but he’s not in the clear.” Seeing her distress, he said, “But he’s young and strong. His vitals are good. If he can stave off infection, he has a good chance of recovery. Men with far worse wounds have recovered.”

Laurel covered her mouth and took a deep breath. “Does he know about Davy?”

“He demanded that I tell him,” Bill said to her. “It was just before he lost consciousness, so it may not have sunk in.”

“It did,” Dr. Perkins said, looking bleak. “He came to and was most fretful over it before we sedated him.”

Laurel gave a soft sob. “Can I see him?”

Dr. Perkins looked her over. Her dress, shoes, and stockings were spattered with mud and streaked with Mike’s blood. “He’s still out cold, Mrs. Plummer. He won’t know you’re there. And, uh, infection is a major concern. Tomorrow would be better.”

Only then did she seem to realize how bedraggled she looked and the reason for the doctor’s hesitancy to let her near his patient. But she stood proud and composed. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

“I need to get back.” Dr. Perkins retreated and shut the door.

The three of them filed out of the waiting area, Laurel leading the way. Bill and Thatcher had conferred briefly at the scene of the ambush before Thatcher had gone in search of Landry. At the time, the sheriff had dispatched men to comb the woods on both sides of the road in search of clues. They recovered dozens of shell casings from numerous weapons, but nothing else.

Bill had remarked then that he hoped the rain would hold off until daylight tomorrow when a more thorough search could be made of the woods and the road on which the getaway car had sped away.

Thatcher could tell how disheartened Bill was when they reached the exit of the office building to see that the lightning and thunder had moved east, but a hard rain was being driven sideways by a strong wind.

“So much for tire tracks and footprints,” Bill said as he motioned Laurel and Thatcher toward his car. They dashed through the rain and piled in.

When they reached Laurel’s house, it was in total darkness. “Thank you for the ride.” She opened the backseat door herself, got out, and ran toward the house.

Thatcher watched her go inside, then turned his head and looked at Bill.

Bill gave him a knowing smile. “Busy day in store for tomorrow. Gabe Driscoll. Now this ambush with one man dead. You’re only a reserve, Thatcher. I’ve got no claim on you. But I’d sure appreciate your help.”

“I’ll stop by the stable and see if Fred can spare Roger to tend to the horses tomorrow.”

“Early then.”

Thatcher nodded, got out, and ran through the torrent to Laurel’s door.





Fifty-Five



The electricity was out in Laurel’s house. When Thatcher entered the kitchen through the back door, she was lighting a kerosene lamp. She blew out the match and situated the glass chimney.

She said, “You know what’s funny?”

He propped Barker’s rifle against the wall and hung his dripping hat on the wall peg. “I can’t think of a thing.”

“Davy would’ve been the first to laugh over being killed for a truckload of pies and fruit fillings. It was his and Mike’s idea. They’d cooked it up even before I told them about Mayor Croft and Chester Landry visiting today. I was—”