Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“I didn’t—”

“And why Pointer’s Gap?” Thatcher continued. “It’s rugged country.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Driscoll sneered. “You took Mila from our house that night and took her out there—”

“In what, Gabe?”

His head swiveled back to Bill. “What?”

“Thatcher was on foot. How would he have gotten her out there?”

Before the doctor could respond, Thatcher picked back up. “Why did you choose Pointer’s Gap?”

“I didn’t! I’ve never even been there.”

“What about the picnics with your wife?”

Driscoll looked at Bill. “What is he talking about?”

“The picnics,” Thatcher said, bringing Driscoll’s attention back to him. “The ones you and Mrs. Driscoll went on at Pointer’s Gap.”

“That’s absurd. First of all, I hate picnics. Where did you even get a crazy idea like that?”

Thatcher waited a beat, then said quietly, “From Bernie Croft.”

The doctor looked like he’d been struck with a two-by-four right between the eyes. He gaped at Thatcher for a ten count, then took several short, shallow breaths. “Bernie told you that?”

Closely monitoring Driscoll’s every reaction, Thatcher left it to Bill to explain how they’d come to hear about Pointer’s Gap, when and where their seemingly casual conversation with the mayor had taken place. “To aid us in our investigation into the assault on Miss Blanchard, Bernie felt compelled to mention your affair with her, and then your earnest attempt to atone for it by paying more attention to your wife.”

Gabe was swallowing convulsively.

Bill went on. “His offhanded mention of Pointer’s Gap—”

“It wasn’t offhanded,” Driscoll blurted. He slumped forward against the bars, clutching two of them to help himself remain upright. “It was his idea.”

“What was his idea?”

He remained silent and gave a mournful shake of his head.

“It was Bernie’s idea to do what, Gabe? Say it.”

“I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

Thatcher leaned in and whispered to him, “If you betray Croft, he may very well kill you. But if you don’t come clean, you have me to be scared of.”

Gabe looked at him with fright. Thatcher gazed back, unblinking. The doctor was quick to yield. He turned to Bill and stammered, “B…Bernie took care of the body for me. He had men meet me at Lefty’s. They took Mila.”

“Was she dead, Gabe?”

He nodded.

“You killed her?”

“Yes.” He lowered his head and began to cry.

Thatcher backed away from the bars separating them. He exchanged a glance with Bill. They’d gotten the confession they’d been after, but having Mila Driscoll’s fate confirmed was a dismal triumph.

“How’d you kill her, Gabe?” Bill asked softly.

Just then Scotty came barging through the door at the end of the corridor. “Sheriff?”

“Not now,” Bill said.

“It’s—”

“Not now!”

“It’s Mrs. Amos.”

Bill spun around to his deputy. Scotty spoke so hastily, he tripped over his words. “Her friend Mrs. Cantor called, says Mrs. Amos is in pain something awful. Her stomach. Said it might’ve been, uh…whiskey. Said she caught her with a bottle of bourbon half empty.”

“Jesus.” Bill looked at Thatcher. “I have to go.”

“And the Rangers are back,” Scotty added.

“Screw them. Stay with Driscoll,” Bill said to Thatcher. “Get it all on paper. Have him sign—”

“Wait! Your wife has severe stomach pains after drinking bourbon?” Gabe had stopped crying, but had turned whey-faced and his lips were rubbery. “He said it was for the Johnsons.”

In a matter of seconds, Bill had the cell door unlocked, had grabbed Driscoll by the throat, and had backed him against the wall. “Who said? Bernie?”

Driscoll gave a wobbly nod.

“Said what was for the Johnsons?” Bill shook him, thumping him hard against the wall. “What?”

“Arsenic. In the bourbon.”

With the regard one would give a rag doll, Bill dragged the doctor from the cell and pushed him down the hallway with the unstoppable propulsion of a cowcatcher.

* * *



Scotty had come along. He was with Bill as he burst through the front door of his house, shouting his wife’s name. By the time Thatcher had towed Driscoll from the car, up the walk and into the house, Bill was on the landing, barging past a middle-aged woman who was wringing her hands with anxiety and saying repeatedly, “I don’t know what to do for her.”

Scotty hung back to explain the circumstances. “It’ll be all right, Mrs. Cantor. We’ve brought Dr. Driscoll.”

Thatcher, with a grip on the back of Driscoll’s collar, pushed him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Bill was seated on the side of the bed, bending over his wife, who was writhing in apparent agony.

She reached out and clutched Bill’s hand. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not going to die.” He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, hard. “You are not going to die. I’m going to fix it.”