Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

* * *



Laurel had lost track of time under the barrage of Croft’s questions, few of which she knew the answers to. He didn’t believe that, so he continued relentlessly.

He hadn’t hit her again, but the threat of his doing so filled her with dread. Her ears were still ringing. The side of her face throbbed. She could feel it swelling.

The blow had also fueled her contempt. She took pride in knowing that the only way the Honorable Mayor Croft had managed to subdue her was to strike her while her hands were bound. Some big man he was.

He never raised his voice. He ignored Gert’s snorts of derision over his “going too easy on her.” At her suggestion that she take a whack at Laurel, Croft had said, “I don’t want her dead.”

“I ain’t gonna kill her till she tells me where she’s hid that girl. She ain’t reappeared at the shack.”

“You see, Laurel?” Croft spoke with the dulcet tone and phony smile of a public official making a campaign promise. “If you’ll just tell us what we want to know, we can end this unpleasantness.”

What you’ll end is me.

She feared she wouldn’t live out this day, but she didn’t know the answers to Croft’s questions about Chester Landry. Why would he think she would? And she would never give Corrine over to Gert.

Croft asked her the same questions repeatedly, her answers never varied, but she began replying with mounting hostility. With her hands bound behind her, and Gert’s evident affection for her shotgun, Laurel didn’t have any means of fighting back except to show her loathing and defiance of both of them.

“Let’s try one more time, Laurel,” Croft said. “Landry went behind my back and offered to form a partnership with you, didn’t he?”

“No.”

“You’ve admitted that he returned to your house last night.”

“Yes, but our conversation was interrupted by gunshots. We ran to the scene of the ambush. From there he disappeared. I’ve told you this a dozen times.” Brazenly, she asked, “Did you have Davy O’Connor killed?”

Ignoring that, he said, “You never saw Landry again?”

“No.”

“He just ran away.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t say where he was off to?”

“No. If you ordered my friend’s execution, may God damn you,” she yelled.

“Landry didn’t lure you into a business arrangement that excluded me?”

“He couldn’t have lured me into anything. He was slimy. I wanted nothing to do with either of you. If you want to know his whereabouts, go in search of him and stop wasting your time with me. I can’t tell you something that I don’t know.”

Croft sighed theatrically and looked over at Gert. “Get Hennessy.”

Those two words caused Laurel’s stomach to lurch, but she kept her expression impassive as the man came inside and took up a position to the left of and slightly behind Croft.

Laurel didn’t acknowledge that he was there, didn’t dare to look at him, not wanting to see on his ugly face either a fearsome threat or a taunting smile that would remind her of his groping hands.

Croft gave Hennessy a sidelong glance, then, when he came back around, slapped Laurel hard enough to knock her chair backward. Her head hit the floor with a crack. Hennessy stepped around, jerked her to her feet, righted the chair, firmly planted it in front of Croft, and pushed her down into it.

Croft’s arrogant face swam into her vision through tears of pain and fury.

“One last time,” he said softly. “Where is Chester Landry?”

“Go. To. Hell.”

He heaved another sigh and gave her the look of a disappointed parent. “Since you’re resistant to my rough handling, perhaps you’ll be more receptive to Mr. Hennessy’s sweet talk.” He waited a beat before smiling and adding, “Upstairs.”

* * *



Thatcher made his way back to where Bill was waiting. He got there just as a car bearing the sheriff’s office insignia pulled off the highway and rolled to a stop behind Bill’s car. Scotty, Harold, and three others got out. All were heavily armed with shotguns, rifles, and handguns.

Bill motioned for them to gather around Thatcher so he could brief them on what he’d observed. “I only saw Gert and Hennessy, but Croft is bound to be in there.”

“No indication of what was going on inside?” Bill asked.

“No. I couldn’t get close enough to hear anything without being seen. It was quiet, though. No ruckus.”

Bill asked Scotty for the warrant and placed it in his breast pocket. He addressed Harold and one of the other deputies. “You two set up a roadblock. Don’t let anyone get past you, either going in or coming out.” They nodded understanding.

“Scotty, and you other two, approach the house on foot. Flank it, cover the back. Stay in the trees and out of sight unless hell breaks loose. Thatcher and I will approach from the front in my car.”

As Bill continued giving instructions, Thatcher took off his suit coat, rolled it up, and placed it on the floorboard of Bill’s car. He didn’t want anything between him and his holster, which he tied to his thigh.

Those in the group noticed and exchanged looks among themselves. Thatcher ignored the suspicion and resentment still directed at him, but Bill must’ve sensed it. He said, “Gabe Driscoll has confessed to killing his wife. He alleges that Bernie Croft arranged to have her buried out at Pointer’s Gap. Thatcher was wronged.”