window, Thatcher saw a lightning bolt, closer this time, but it took the thunder a count of seven to reach them. The storm was headed this way but wasn’t right on top of them yet.
Bill seemed not to notice the weather. He was fixated on the fabric scrap. “Where’d you find it?”
“Pointer’s Gap. Caught between some rocks, piled up, but not by God or Mother Nature. They’d been stacked.”
“Pointer’s Gap. Where Gabe took his missus picnicking.”
Thatcher scoffed. “The nearest I came to finding a picnic spot was a stream off the north fork of the Paluxy. No deeper than a foot at its deepest. It had a ripple, but not what I’d call a current. A few scraggly trees along its banks. If he was trying to romance his wife with a picnic, a prettier spot would have been in his own shady backyard.”
“When Bernie told us that Gabe had taken her there, I remember thinking that same thing.”
“That stream is about a quarter mile from the gap, and between them is wasteland. If he took her out there, it definitely wasn’t to picnic.”
Bill acknowledged that with a frown. “How’d you get out there?”
“Horseback.”
“That’s six, eight miles each way.”
“I’m used to it. Or was,” he said, wincing as he shifted in his chair. “I may be a bit saddle sore tomorrow.”
Both of them smiled, but they quickly became serious again. Bill asked, “Did you disturb the pile of rocks?”
“No, just tugged that piece of cloth from between them. It ripped when I pulled, so there’s more of it under there.”
“Could you find the place again?”
“With no problem.”
Bill smoothed his hand over his mustache a few times. “Gabe doesn’t have a horse that I know of. How would he have gotten her out there?”
“There’s a road, more like a trail, that comes in from the southwest on the other side of the hill. I figure he took care of Corrine at Lefty’s—”
“With Mrs. Driscoll dead in his car?”
Thatcher shrugged. “This is just my guess, Bill.”
“Go on.”
“When he finished up at Lefty’s, he drove out, circled back to the gap on that lonely road, carried her body the rest of the way until he found a suitable spot. Maybe he stumbled upon a natural depression, maybe he dug one. But he buried her and stacked those rocks on top. It was dark, so he missed that.” He pointed to the remnant of ruffle. “As hiding a body goes, he chose a good spot. If that cloth had been dull in color, I would’ve missed it.”
“Good work, Thatcher.”
“Knowing what you’re likely to find under those rocks, it doesn’t feel good. Not good at all.”
Bill waited a beat before continuing to theorize. “On his way back into town, Gabe’s conscience grabbed hold.”
“Or terror of being caught.”
“Either way, he realized the magnitude of what he’d done and headed to his mistress for solace. Then what, Thatcher? Did Miss Blanchard know he’d killed Mila, or not? Did she calm him down and coach him on what to do next, what to say and how to perform when questioned?”
“Mrs. Kemp doesn’t think so.”
“She could be lying. She may know all too well that Norma was complicit.”
“Could be.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“If Norma had lived, maybe her sister would’ve lied to cover for her. But why would she lie for her now?”
“To protect baby nephew Arthur from disgrace? Hell, I don’t know.” Sighing, he covered his face with both hands and pressed his middle fingers into his eye sockets, his weariness evident. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Two things you know,” Thatcher said.
Bill lowered his hands and looked across at him.
“One. Norma Blanchard can’t be held accountable even if she masterminded the murder. Second thing, you’ve finally got a piece of evidence. It’s not a decomposed body, but that apron trim might be enough to bring Driscoll to his knees.”
“He’s proven to be mule-headed.”
“Won’t hurt to try.”
Bill took the strip of cloth with him as he entered the cell block. Thatcher followed him to the last cell, where Driscoll was reclined on the cot, eyes closed, pale hands clasped over his stomach. “Unless you have a defense lawyer with you, go away.”
“You’ll want to see this, Gabe.”
Thatcher and Bill waited him out, and his curiosity got the better of him. He opened his eyes and levered himself up on his elbows.
Bill dangled the strip of red cloth. “Recognize this?”
“No.”
“Thatcher did.” Bill explained how Thatcher remembered seeing the ruffle on Mila’s apron.
Driscoll shrugged. “She wore an apron every day of