“Be glad you missed it.”
“The Johnson place?”
“Thatcher, if that fire wasn’t an act of God, it was the work of Satan himself. There were kids in that house. Babies.”
Thatcher had seen charred bodies of soldiers on the battlefield and of civilians in bombed-out villages. He had hoped never to see such a grotesque sight again. Neither he nor Bill said anything for a moment, then Thatcher asked if Mike O’Connor was still alive.
“Last word I got, he was holding on, but they’re keeping him sedated. Doc Perkins said he’d let me know as soon as he’s stable enough to be questioned.”
Thatcher nodded absently, then asked about Gabe Driscoll’s present frame of mind.
Bill said, “I haven’t been in to see him this morning. Someone else took him breakfast.”
Thatcher took a look around the room. It hadn’t escaped others’ notice that he and Bill were conferring privately, a privilege that Bill didn’t afford everyone. Scotty and Harold tolerated Thatcher, but only to an extent. Most of the veterans of the department still regarded him with suspicion and hostility. He was sure that some held to the belief that he was guilty of doing something to Mila Driscoll. That continued to plague him. Whether or not they ever welcomed him into the fold, he had to lay that misconception to rest.
Which is why he wanted to speak to Bill alone. “Let’s go take a look at that road where the getaway car was waiting for the shooters.”
“I doubt we’ll find any clues.”
“I doubt we will, too, but I’m afraid these walls have ears.”
Bill gave him a sharp look, then announced to the room at large that he would be back shortly.
* * *
Laurel woke up later than usual, with a fully risen sun lighting the bedroom through the shades Thatcher had lowered last night.
Thatcher. At the mere thought of him, warm happiness suffused her. She was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t stayed until she woke up, but she knew the hard day he had in store.
At the same time, she was almost glad he wasn’t facing her across the pillow just now. She blushed at the thought of ever looking him in the eye again. The things he’d taught her!
Derby had regarded himself as quite a Casanova. His lovemaking had been vigorous, and he’d strutted that as a sign of his virility. He’d always taken for granted that she was satisfied, when the gratification had been his alone. The sex had been for him, not her. To be fair, she didn’t believe he’d been selfish. He simply hadn’t known any better.
If not for Thatcher, neither would she.
He had awakened her to levels of sensuality she’d never known were available or would have dreamed possible. In response to her apprehension over what he expected, over what she could expect from him, he’d been patient and persuasive. His touch, knowing smile, and whispered words had been temptation made manifest. His tenderness, passion sanctified. Throughout the night, he’d given her rapturous pleasure and had taken his.
But in addition to the fervent lovemaking, he had also attended to her wracked emotions. Without words, he’d held her close against him. Just that. His quietude had assuaged her grief over Davy’s murder, her anxiety over Mike’s condition, her distress over the unknown future.
That thought prickled something at the back of her mind, some revelatory thought. But it had been fleeting, as elusive as the glimmer of a single firefly in a dark wood.
Once, when she was a young girl, she’d chased a lightning bug through the woods that bordered her daddy’s cotton field. It had flickered only one time, but she’d been certain she’d seen it, not imagined it. She’d plunged after it in the hope of catching it to put in a jar near her bed. She’d darted through the trees and underbrush, had run in circles, until she had exhausted herself and had given up the chase in defeat.
She felt as frustrated and downcast now not to have netted that flash of clarity. It had been meaningful enough to give her instant pause, to raise goose bumps on her arms.
She closed her eyes, lay perfectly still, and strained to recapture it. But try as she might, she couldn’t. It had retreated into the recesses of her subconscious. Maybe it would show itself at another time, probably in a moment when she wasn’t searching for it.
Having been lazy long enough, she forced herself to get up. She washed and dressed, and was pinning up her hair when she heard the back door open and the scrape of footsteps in the kitchen.
Her heart swelled. Maybe Thatcher had come back for a good morning kiss after all.
More probably, though, it was Irv, returning from the stills. She dreaded having to tell him, Corrine, and Ernie about the O’Connors, but she also hoped that they hadn’t heard the dreadful news from someone else first.
She pushed the last pin into her hair, and then started downstairs, calling as she went, “Irv?”
* * *
Once in Bill’s car and on their way, Thatcher asked after Mrs. Amos.