“Like Davy O’Connor’s assassination. Firing the Johnsons’ house.”
“Exactly like that. Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “For months I’d been coordinating a countywide raid. Several agencies, working together, we were going to nail Hiram Johnson and Bernie Croft.” He made a helpless gesture.
“Croft moved first. Hard and fast and without my knowledge. Incidentally, we’ve identified the men who ambushed the O’Connors. All were on Croft’s payroll. They’ve got prices on their heads. Somebody will turn. We’ll get them.”
“You went to Laurel Plummer that night and told her you wanted to make her an offer.”
“I was going to reveal myself for who I am and ask her to become an informant for me. In exchange, I would see to it that she and her associates would be granted clemency for moonshining.” He chuckled. “Looking back on it, it was a bad idea.”
“For putting her in danger like that, I would have killed you.”
“As I said, a bad idea.” Again, he laughed softly. “I don’t advise getting on her fighting side. She has a wicked right hook.” He worked his jaw laterally.
When Thatcher didn’t react, he said, “I can see that you’re not amused.” He paused as though seeking a better way to express himself. “Let me assure you that I’m often bothered about the betrayal aspect of my job. But I don’t go after the small-timers like your Mrs. Plummer. I’m after the bad guys, the ones who would have ultimately gotten rid of her for no other reason than that she was becoming a pest.”
“Croft.”
“Or someone like a Chester Landry, but the real article.”
“I was afraid that was exactly what was going to happen.”
“I figured. Your protectiveness was apparent.”
Thatcher didn’t comment on that. “How’d you know I’d be on this train?”
“I knew you were in Amarillo, and the reason for your being here. I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks. But why were you keeping tabs on me?”
He smiled, a genuine, unaffected smile. “First because you’re damned interesting. Then because the more I saw of you, the more I came to believe that you had missed your calling.”
He withdrew a business card from the pocket of his vest and handed it to Thatcher. “There’s a good man, a sheriff, in Bynum. Know it?”
“No.”
“East Texas. Pretty country. Piney woods. Lakes full of fish. Bynum’s a sleepy little town where not much happens. Except that, on the county line, there’s a horse racetrack.” He punched Thatcher in the arm as he said that. “Racetracks draw sinners like moths to flame. But now that there’s no legal drinking or gambling, the sinners are restless, and the sheriff has more than he can handle. Think about it.”
He scooted out of the seat. “My stop is coming up. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you. I trust in your integrity to keep this meeting to yourself. And should we ever meet somewhere—”
“I wouldn’t give you away.”
“I know that.” He extended his hand. Thatcher shook it. Looking directly into Thatcher’s eyes, he said, “I’ve enjoyed making your acquaintance, Hutton. Take care.”
Then he turned and walked to the end of the car, opened the door, and stepped through to the next car.
Sixty-Three
One morning Laurel woke up with a grasp on that missed flicker of illumination she’d had after her night of lovemaking with Thatcher. She couldn’t let it go or even leave it to languish. It was so long overdue, she was compelled to share it without delay.
She dressed and went downstairs. Irv was finishing up his breakfast. “I left a pan of biscuits warming in the oven. Sit down, I’ll pour you some coffee.”
“Let’s go for a ride.”
He turned to her, a puzzled look on his face. “Now? Where to?”
“Just come, please.”
She lifted her straw hat off the peg and put it on, took down her purse, and went out through the back door. Mumbling something about “nutty female notions,” Irv followed.