“The least I can do is take a look. Thank you, Irv.”
“Don’t thank me till you’ve seen it.”
The house couldn’t be more of a nightmare than this shack she was living in. She appreciated that her father-in-law had listened to the concerns she’d raised with him this morning, and had taken her ultimatum seriously enough to act on it.
In gratitude, she smiled at him. “You look worn out. Try to get some rest.” She then retreated behind the partition with Pearl, who had become restless again and was mewling pitiably.
Eleven
Thatcher repeated the sheriff’s confounding words. “Tell you where Mrs. Driscoll is?” He looked over at the man who’d tried to attack him. “Are you Dr. Driscoll?”
“Yes, you son of a bitch. And I want to know what you’ve done with my wife.”
“Nothing but talked to her. Why? What’s happened?”
Sheriff Amos said, “She’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“It’s feared she was abducted from her home sometime between ten o’clock p.m. and one o’clock a.m.”
Thatcher glanced at the wall clock. It was going on five. He looked at each man in the room in turn, and the reason for their judgmental glowers took on meaning. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “That’s why I’m here? You think I know something about it?”
“You were seen talking with her today on her porch.”
“I said as much. I was looking for a room to rent. You can ask him.” He tipped his head toward the mayor.
“Mayor Croft told us that he gave you directions to their house.”
“A decision I regret,” the man boomed.
The sheriff, looking irritated, turned his head partially toward the mayor and said in an undertone, “Bernie, I’ll handle this.” Coming back around to Thatcher, he said, “Where’d you get the bruises, Mr. Hutton?”
“Your deputy Harold there poked me in the face with that pump-action.”
Harold, who was still rifling through his belongings, shot him a dirty look over his shoulder.
“Not the bruise on your cheek,” the sheriff said, “the one on your noggin.”
“Oh.” He reached up with his cuffed hands and touched the discolored goose egg at his temple. “I jumped off a freight train, had a hard landing, rolled down an incline.”
The sheriff tilted his head and eyed him speculatively. “When was that?”
“This morning. Early. Before dawn.”
“Where?”
“Eight, nine miles southeast of here. The middle of nowhere. I walked to town.”
“You were bumming a ride?”
Given the circumstances, he felt that admitting to one malfeasance would be to his advantage. “Yes.”
“Where were you headed?”
“Amarillo. Or as close to there as the railroad goes these days.”
“What’s up there?”