“On the lookout for what?”
Mike smacked his twin on the side of his head. “You never could keep your friggin’ mouth shut.”
“On the lookout for what?”
Mike shot his brother a drop-dead look, then said to Laurel, “The other night, a truck loaded to the gills with whiskey was hijacked between here and Ranger. The poor bastard was dragged from his truck, blindfolded, manhandled into the woods, pushed to his knees, and told not to move or speak. He had a gun held to his head while all his whiskey was taken from his truck and put into the other vehicle.
“He never saw how many of them there were, but they made short work of it. When they were done, he thought he was dead for sure. But he was threatened with the removal of body parts a man holds dear if he was seen on that road again. He was ordered to spread the warning to anyone whose ambition was to get rich selling ’shine in the boom towns. He was left there with a drained gas tank. But he lived to tell it.”
Laurel said, “The Johnsons are hijacking now?”
Davy and Mike shared a look, then Davy said softly, “He was a Johnson.”
“Lawmen don’t terrorize,” Mike said. “They would have identified themselves, confiscated the liquor, and placed him under arrest. Had to be a competitor who plans on taking over.”
Laurel lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table. Hearing of this on top of Thatcher’s warnings this morning, and the visit from Croft and Landry this afternoon, left her rattled. She needed time to assimilate all this and plan her next course of action. But in the meantime, people for whom she was responsible were more vulnerable than she. “Lord, I hope our stills aren’t cooking tonight. And you absolutely cannot make the trip to Ranger.”
Mike said, “We’re going.”
“I forbid it.”
“Our contact up there is waiting and watching for us,” Davy said.
“He’s not a patient man,” Mike said.
Davy added, “Neither are his thirsty customers.”
Laurel said, “Tonight they can get their whiskey from someone else.”
“One of Croft’s deliverymen would be waiting for just such an opportunity to wedge in. In which case, you’ll be handing Croft exactly what he’s after.”
Davy nodded in agreement with Mike. “That would be bad for our business.”
“So is being hijacked,” she said.
Mike placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’re making the delivery, as scheduled. Nothing to fret about. We’ve thought of a way to throw them off track.”
Davy winked.
Fifty-Two
Darkness had fallen by the time Thatcher returned to Barker’s from Pointer’s Gap. The auto garage was closed for the night. He needed to return Barker’s borrowed rifle, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t be delayed any longer than necessary.
He stabled the pinto and saw to it that he was well rewarded for his patience and endurance that afternoon. He stored the saddle and tack, went down the row of stalls to make sure that all the horses were content. Not all were. He calmed the restless ones with soft talk and stroking, then secured the stable with his own sixth sense of uneasiness.
Taking Barker’s rifle with him, he walked across the bridge into town. Martin’s Café was open, but there were few diners tonight. For the most part, downtown was closed and locked up, as though braced for a storm.
With reason. One was brewing. Distant lightning brightened the sky just above the horizon. Every surface, whether natural or manmade, radiated the heat it had absorbed during the day. The air felt charged by something more ominous than low atmospheric pressure.
Thatcher entered the boardinghouse and went upstairs unnoticed. By a stroke of luck the third-floor bathroom was available. He made quick work of bathing and exchanging his dusty work clothes for his black suit. He buckled on his gun belt, pinned the deputy badge to the lapel of his coat, and took Barker’s rifle with him.
In and out of the boardinghouse in under ten minutes, he set out on foot again. Only Bill’s car was parked in front of the sheriff’s department. Inside, he was alone but on the telephone.
Thatcher propped Barker’s rifle against the wall beneath the gun rack, took off his fedora, and slumped tiredly in a chair. Bill completed his call with a “Thank you very much,” and hung the earpiece in its cradle. “Dennis Kemp checks out,” he said to Thatcher. “Hasn’t missed a day of work since he began the job. He was there yesterday.”
“Mrs. Kemp told you you’d be barking up the wrong tree.” Thatcher looked toward the door that led into the cell block. “How is he?”
“Sullen when I took him his supper. The public defender hasn’t made it in yet.”