Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

He left the bed, walked over to Driscoll, drew his pistol, and pressed the barrel of it against the doctor’s forehead. “If she doesn’t survive this, I am killing you first, then Bernie Croft.”

“Gastric lavage,” Driscoll said.

“What?”

“Pump her stomach. I need to pump her stomach with salt water. I’ll need my equipment.”

“Describe it.”

Thatcher was amazed by how suddenly Driscoll slipped into professional mode. In seemingly perfect control, he gave Scotty a description of the tubing device he required and told him in which cabinet it was stored in his office. “But the house is locked.”

“Kick the damn door in. Shoot out the lock,” Bill said to his deputy.

Scotty rushed out and thumped down the stairs.

Daisy groaned pitiably and extended her hand toward Bill, who holstered his pistol, but shouted to Driscoll, “Do something now!”

The doctor shrugged off his coat. “We need to induce vomiting.”

“She’s been vomiting for days.”

“But she hadn’t ingested half a bottle all at once. This is acute. We need to induce vomiting.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Where can I wash?”

“Across the hall.”

Thatcher followed him as far as the door to the bathroom and watched as he lathered up and rinsed his hands. As he was drying them, his gaze met Thatcher’s in the mirror above the sink. “Are you expecting an apology for my false accusations, Mr. Hutton?”

“I don’t give a fuck in hell about an apology from you. But you owe your wife one. How’d you do it?”

“I hit her on the back of the head with an iron skillet. The skillet in which she baked the shortbread you enjoyed so much.” He folded the hand towel and hung it just so on the metal bar, then went past Thatcher and returned to the bedroom.

Daisy was lying on her side, knees pulled to her chest, moaning and gripping her midsection. Bill was leaning over her, stroking her face and talking softly.

Thatcher noticed a half-full bottle of name-brand bourbon sitting on the bureau. He went over and got it, knowing it would be valuable evidence against both Driscoll and Croft.

As he left the bedroom unnoticed, Bill was holding back his beloved’s hair as she retched into a basin held by the man who had poisoned her…at the direction of Bernie Croft.

* * *



Bernie said, “Hello, Gert.”

“Ain’t you heard? We’re shut down. Good as anyway.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“We’ll talk when you get the law off my back.”

“In due time.”

“Due time,” she said scornfully. “No more graft, you hear me?”

“I’ll get you back to normal soon.”

“You been sayin’ that, but in the meanwhile, Bill Amos is having our road patrolled nightly. All that attention is keepin’ away customers too scared of being caught in another raid.

“Much longer, and we won’t have any hooch to sell, ’cause Lefty’s drinkin’ it all up. Stays drunk, ain’t no use to me. No pussy to sell, neither, ’cause all them twats upstairs has sneaked off one by one. Took their inspiration from that Corrine, I guess. I’m losing money by the hour, and you’re doin’ nothin’ but takin’ up space, Mr. Mayor.”

He smiled. “I’m here to make it up to you, Gert.”

She honked a laugh. “Ain’t likely. Everybody knows you look after your ownself.”

“This benefits us both.”

She squinted at him through an exhalation of cigarette smoke. “Whut does?”

“I’ve brought you a present.”

He turned. Hennessy was standing at the side of the town car. At a signal from Bill, he opened the back door and pulled a bound and gagged woman from the car.

Croft said to Gert, “I believe you’re acquainted with Mrs. Plummer.”

* * *



Laurel had gone into the kitchen, expecting to find her father-in-law rummaging for the makings of breakfast.

Instead, Bernie Croft had been rifling through her recipe box. Fanning one of the cards at her, he’d greeted her pleasantly. “Good morning, Mrs. Plummer. This lemon chess pie sounds delicious.”

And then from behind her, a heavy hand had been clamped over her mouth at the same time an arm as strong as an iron band had encircled her waist.

She’d raked her nails across the hand over her mouth and knew by the profanities grunted near her ear that she’d drawn blood, or at least had caused pain. She’d struggled and kicked, but she’d been held fast while Croft had tied her hands behind her with a thin but sturdy cord that dug into her flesh. The hand over her mouth had been removed and replaced by a handkerchief, which had caused her to gag.

She’d been carried to the long, black car she’d seen parked in front of her house the day before. She’d been thrust into the backseat, no doubt by the burly chauffeur. Croft had climbed in beside her. They could have been out for a Sunday drive for all the attention she paid him until they’d made the turnoff to Lefty’s.

She’d looked at him then, and his chuckle had been villainous. Or perhaps it had only sounded that way to her because she knew him to be a villain.

When they’d reached the roadhouse, Croft and Hennessy had gotten out. Croft had gone to the door, which had been answered by Gert. After a brief conversation, Croft had signaled Hennessy to get her from the car and bring her forward.