Croft sighed theatrically and looked over at Gert. “Get Hennessy.”
Those two words caused Laurel’s stomach to lurch, but she kept her expression impassive as the man came inside and took up a position to the left of and slightly behind Croft.
Laurel didn’t acknowledge that he was there, didn’t dare to look at him, not wanting to see on his ugly face either a fearsome threat or a taunting smile that would remind her of his groping hands.
Croft gave Hennessy a sidelong glance, then, when he came back around, slapped Laurel hard enough to knock her chair backward. Her head hit the floor with a crack. Hennessy stepped around, jerked her to her feet, righted the chair, firmly planted it in front of Croft, and pushed her down into it.
Croft’s arrogant face swam into her vision through tears of pain and fury.
“One last time,” he said softly. “Where is Chester Landry?”
“Go. To. Hell.”
He heaved another sigh and gave her the look of a disappointed parent. “Since you’re resistant to my rough handling, perhaps you’ll be more receptive to Mr. Hennessy’s sweet talk.” He waited a beat before smiling and adding, “Upstairs.”
* * *
Thatcher made his way back to where Bill was waiting. He got there just as a car bearing the sheriff’s office insignia pulled off the highway and rolled to a stop behind Bill’s car. Scotty, Harold, and three others got out. All were heavily armed with shotguns, rifles, and handguns.
Bill motioned for them to gather around Thatcher so he could brief them on what he’d observed. “I only saw Gert and Hennessy, but Croft is bound to be in there.”
“No indication of what was going on inside?” Bill asked.
“No. I couldn’t get close enough to hear anything without being seen. It was quiet, though. No ruckus.”
Bill asked Scotty for the warrant and placed it in his breast pocket. He addressed Harold and one of the other deputies. “You two set up a roadblock. Don’t let anyone get past you, either going in or coming out.” They nodded understanding.
“Scotty, and you other two, approach the house on foot. Flank it, cover the back. Stay in the trees and out of sight unless hell breaks loose. Thatcher and I will approach from the front in my car.”
As Bill continued giving instructions, Thatcher took off his suit coat, rolled it up, and placed it on the floorboard of Bill’s car. He didn’t want anything between him and his holster, which he tied to his thigh.
Those in the group noticed and exchanged looks among themselves. Thatcher ignored the suspicion and resentment still directed at him, but Bill must’ve sensed it. He said, “Gabe Driscoll has confessed to killing his wife. He alleges that Bernie Croft arranged to have her buried out at Pointer’s Gap. Thatcher was wronged.”
To a man they shifted their gazes to him, but he gave a small shrug and kept his attention on Bill.
“Okay then,” the sheriff said, as though a weighty matter had been settled. “We’ll try to peacefully serve the warrant,” he said, “but I don’t expect Bernie to surrender without a fight. Thatcher, anything to add to what you’ve already told us of the situation?”
“Yeah. Croft’s man Hennessy is no amateur. Given the chance, he’ll kill you. If you get into it with him, don’t hesitate. Put him down.”
They acknowledged the advice with grim nods.
Bill said, “All right. Let’s go.”
“Who’s that?” one of the deputies said.
They all turned. Irv Plummer’s truck was rattling like a peddler’s wagon up the road. It came to a stop behind the second department vehicle.
Bill swore. “Get him out of here.”
But before anyone could act, Corrine hopped down from the passenger seat and came running toward Thatcher. “Mr. Hutton? What’s going on?”
“We’re serving an arrest warrant.”
“For Gert?” She turned to Bill. “I hope it’s for Gert.”
“Not today.”
“Fair warning, y’all. She keeps a loaded shotgun on the bar within reach.”