Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

“You took care of the girl?” he asked Gabe.

“Yes.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“In time. Can all this wait?”

The doctor’s patience was fraying. Bill had to keep him centered. “I’ve got to establish a time line, Gabe. What time did you get home and discover Mrs. Driscoll gone?”

“Late. On my way back into town, I stopped in to check on the breech birth. The baby had turned at the last minute. The delivery went fine. I checked out the mother and baby.” His voice hitched. “While my own wife and baby—”

“Gabe.” Bill spoke his name brusquely to keep him on track. “What time did you get home?”

“A little after one o’clock. I was exhausted, but hungry. I made a sandwich and ate it before going upstairs.” He looked down at his hands as though they held the answers. “Mila wasn’t in bed. Not in the bathroom. I turned the house upside down, searched the yard. When I couldn’t find her anywhere, I called here. That’s it.” When he looked up at Bill, his chin was quivering. “She wouldn’t have left on her own.”

“I don’t think so, either,” Bill said, briefly laying his hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “But let’s not panic. Backtrack a little. Was she in bed when you left for the roadhouse?”

“Yes. She wanted to get up and send me off with a thermos of coffee, but I wouldn’t let her. She needed the rest.”

“When you got home was there any sign of a disturbance? Broken latch? Anything like that?”

“No.”

Scotty chimed in. “We searched the house. Looked like nothing had been touched. No break-in. Led us to believe that Mrs. Driscoll let in whoever snatched her.”

Gabe Driscoll lunged to his feet. “Are you implying that my wife invited—”

“He’s not implying any such thing, Gabe,” Bill said. “Sit down.”

“I’m not going to sit down,” he shouted. “What’s wrong with all of you? Why are you just standing around? Why aren’t you out looking for her? She could be hurt. Dying. She could be—”

Suddenly the door was pushed open with a lot of impetus behind it. When Bill saw who filled the doorway, he thought, Shit! Drolly, he said, “Mayor.”

The Honorable Bernard Croft came inside and shut the door, bristling with self-importance. “Bill, what in hell is going on? Is it true? Mrs. Driscoll is missing?”

On a good day, Bill resented the city official’s meddling in the affairs of his department. The mayor had a way of creating a hullabaloo even when one wasn’t warranted, for his own aggrandizement.

Bill asked, “How’d you get wind of it?”

“Miss Eleanor Wise called me.”

“For what purpose?”

With condescension, Croft replied, “For the purpose of saving Mrs. Driscoll from the man who abducted her, Bill.”

“It hasn’t been established that—”

“Have you identified him yet?”

“Until you blazed in and interrupted, I was compiling the facts of the case.”

“How many facts do you need? Miss Wise described him to a tee.”

Everyone in the room gaped at him, Bill included. “What do you know about him?”

“I know I mistrusted him on sight,” he said. “I was reluctant to send him over there to your house,” he said, addressing Gabe. “But the ad was right there in Hancock’s window.”

Gabe placed his fingertips to his forehead. “Ad? For the room? I’d forgotten it was there.”

“He asked me for directions.” Then, in a defensive tone, the mayor added, “If I hadn’t told him, the next person he asked would have.”

“We stopped taking in a boarder a while ago,” Gabe said.

“I’m sure Mrs. Driscoll explained that to him, which means he had to look somewhere else for a place to stay.” Bill shouldered past the mayor and reached for his hat. “Scotty, stay with Dr. Driscoll. The rest of you, let’s go. Harold, bring a shotgun. Bernie, you can go on home.”

“You’ll need me to identify him.” Seeing that Bill was about to object, the mayor added, “Unless you’d rather take along Miss Eleanor Wise.”





Nine



When Thatcher had fallen asleep, it never crossed his mind that he would be awakened by having a gun barrel jammed against his cheekbone.

A German infantryman somehow had survived the no-man’s-land between his trench and the Americans’, and intended to chalk up at least one doughboy to his credit.

Thatcher flung up his hand and slammed the barrel of the shotgun into the soldier’s face. Flesh squished. Cartilage crunched. The man hollered.

Thatcher used that instant of the soldier’s shock and pain to come up out of the bed and leap over the foot rail, where he barreled into another of the enemy, previously unseen. This one was stocky and strong, but Thatcher had enough momentum to drive him back against a wall.

From behind, another wrapped his arms around Thatcher, pulled him off the stocky one, and wrestled him facedown onto the floor.

But there were more than just these three. Two others joined the melee. The five of them surrounded him, all shouting and grasping at him from every side, trying to secure his arms and legs. One had a hand on the back of his head, holding it down, his cheek against the floor.