Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

When he closed his eyes, an image of Laurel Plummer came to mind. He fell asleep thinking about her in profile, the wind toying with her hair and holding her shapeless dress tight against her front.





Eight



Sheriff William Amos was awakened by the shrill ringing of his telephone. He squinted the clock into focus and cursed under his breath. Nobody called at three o’clock in the morning to impart good news.

As he threw back the sheet and got up, his wife murmured sleepily. He patted her on the rump, then went to the downstairs hall, where the telephone sat on a small table. He picked it up by the stand and lifted the earpiece from the fork, saying into the mouthpiece, “Bill Amos.”

One of his younger, greener deputies identified himself. “Hated to wake you, sir.”

“I hated you did, too. What’s happened?”

He hoped for nothing more major than rowdy boys being caught painting naughty words on a public building. But he mentally ran through the list of better likelihoods: A still had caught a cedar break on fire. Rival moonshiners had gotten into a skirmish with fists, firearms, or both. Lawmen in a neighboring county, tired of chasing a notable bootlegger, were officially dumping him into Bill’s jurisdiction.

Even before Prohibition had become federal law several months back, evangelicals had for generations voted in local laws that had kept many Texas counties dry. Thus the illegal making and selling of corn liquor was the second oldest profession in the state.

All the Volstead Act had accomplished so far was to turn the trade into an even more profitable enterprise. Demand was at an all-time high. Production was up. Competition was stiff. And the moonshiners in Bill Amos’s county were among the most industrious in Texas.

“We’ve got a situation, sir,” the deputy said.

“Something y’all can’t handle?”

“Thought so when we started out. But things has gone downhill fast.”

Bill heaved a sigh. “Somebody must’ve wound up dead.”

“Well, truth is, we don’t know yet.”

“What’s that mean? He’s either breathing or he isn’t. Is he a Johnson?”

“No, sir. It’s Mrs. Driscoll.”

With a start, Bill angled his head back and looked at the phone as though the deputy had started speaking in tongues. “Dr. Driscoll’s wife? Mila Driscoll?”

“Yes, sir. She’s gone missing.”

* * *



Ten minutes later, Bill entered the sheriff’s office, where Dr. Gabriel Driscoll was carrying on like a crazy person. Usually of an austere nature, the physician was clearly unhinged. His hair was standing on end, as though he’d been trying to tear it out. He was pacing in circles and aggressively warding off anyone who attempted to restrain or calm him down.

When he saw Bill, he lunged toward him. “Sheriff, do something! You’ve got to find her.”

Bill hung his hat on a wall rack. “Get us some coffee,” he said, addressing one of his deputies who looked relieved to be charged with something besides the physician.

“I don’t want any coffee!” Gabe made an arrow of his right arm, pointing to the door through which Bill had just entered. “Get out there and find my wife!”

“Gabe, I can’t help you if you don’t help me. First off, you’ve gotta get hold of yourself.” He pulled up a chair. “Sit down and tell me what’s happened.”

“I’ve told them.” The doctor indicated the several deputies watching him with a mix of pity and wariness, much like they would regard a wounded wild animal that hadn’t yet died.

“I need to hear everything for myself,” Bill said. “So take a breath and brief me on the situation.”

“He came and took her,” he shouted. “In brief, that’s the situation.” Then, as though feeling the impact of his own declaration, he collapsed into the chair, planted his elbows on his knees, cupped his bowed head with all ten fingers, and began to sob. “What if it was your wife, Bill? God knows what’s he doing to her.”

“Who’s he talking about?” Bill asked, addressing one of his most trusted men, Scotty Graves.

“I talked to the old lady who lives across the street from the Driscolls.”

“Ol’ Miss Wise?”

“Yes, sir. She said a man came to their house today, talked to Mrs. Driscoll up on the porch.”

“Miss Wise recognize him?”

“No, sir, and she said she knew a stranger when she saw one.”

The illogic of that statement caused Bill to run his hand over the top of his head. “Maybe this stranger was sick and looking for the doc.”

“The sign was out, saying the doctor was on a call, but Miss Wise said this man stayed for several minutes. He didn’t appear to be ailing, either.”

“He go inside the house?”

“No, sir. Didn’t go no farther than the porch. Mrs. Driscoll gave him something, but Miss Wise couldn’t tell what it was.”

“Something like what?”

“Something small enough to fit in his pocket.”

“A bottle of medicine, maybe? A jar of pills?”

“We thought of that, but the doctor checked his medicine cabinet. Everything’s accounted for. Besides, he keeps the cabinet locked when he’s away. Even Mrs. Driscoll doesn’t have a key.”