“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Our visit today.” He gave her a look of rehearsed chagrin. “You have every right to be miffed.”
“Don’t talk down to me.”
He held up his hand in a pacifying gesture. “Mr. Croft often gets carried away. His strident manner is a character flaw which I’ve pointed out to him on numerous occasions. Sadly, to no avail. His overbearing approach to you was tactless and clumsy. He came on like a buffalo when a swan would have been more effective. It’s little wonder to me that you turned him down.”
“Did he send you to make amends?”
“No, I came entirely on my own.”
“I don’t want your apology. I want you to leave.”
“But I didn’t come to apologize.”
“To do what, then? Ask me to reconsider your deal?”
“No,” he said smoothly, “I came to offer you a better one.”
His statement startled her, but not as much as the gunshot that punctuated it.
Numerous blasts followed, the rapid popping sounding like the finale of a fireworks display.
Even before the barrage stopped, Laurel stunned him by shoving open the screen door. She shouldered him out of her way and began running in the direction from which the shots had come.
Landry went after her, shouting her name.
She didn’t even slow down.
* * *
Bill locked the door between the office and the cell block while Thatcher retrieved Barker’s rifle and took another from the rack for Bill. Moving swiftly and without a single word being spoken between them, they exited the building and got into Bill’s car.
While Thatcher loaded and checked the weapons, the sheriff drove at top speed through downtown. Main Street was already filling up with curiosity-seekers streaming in the direction of the apparent shootout. Thatcher noticed that one man in the crowd still had his napkin from the café tucked into his collar.
Bill shouted at the onlookers and angrily waved them out of his way. He used his horn to bleat out warnings for them to move aside or get bowled over. Bill gave the car more gas as it trundled across the bridge.
On the far side of it, they rounded a bend to find the road blocked by a disabled truck. Both doors stood open. The radiator was spewing steam like a teakettle.
The truck had been riddled by bullets. The driver had made it out. He lay sprawled in the road. The passenger was still in his seat.
“Jesus.” Bill used the handbrake to bring his car to a skidding stop. Thatcher, noticing movement in the underbrush to his right, was out of the car before inertia rocked it to rest. He leaped across the ditch in pursuit.
The woods were as dark as midnight. Bursts of lightning only served to momentarily blind him. But the brilliant flashes followed by complete darkness were reminiscent of nighttime battles, and he’d had plenty of experience with those. Conditioned reflexes took over. Rifle up, he ran on, dodging trees, ducking low branches, doing his best to avoid pitfalls in the undergrowth.
Ahead of him, men were shouting to each other. The words were indistinct, but their connotation was urgency. If they kept up the racket, they’d lead Thatcher straight to them. But then he heard the sound of an auto motor sputtering to life.
“Fuck, fuck.” He pushed himself harder, but by the time he reached the road, all he saw of the retreating car was the wink of its taillights as it disappeared around a curve. Any attempt to run it down on foot would be futile.
He didn’t even break stride as he reversed direction and ran back toward the site of an evident ambush. He cleared the woods and jumped the ditch again, then paused to catch his breath and take in the scene.
The crowd of onlookers had increased in number. Two more sheriff’s department vehicles were parked on either side of Bill’s car. Deputies had divided up. A few were grouped around the man lying face-up on the pavement. Others had formed a semicircle in the open passenger door.
Harold and another deputy Thatcher didn’t know had the tailgate down and were shining flashlights into the back of the truck.
Thatcher lowered the rifle and made his way over to Bill, who was kneeling at the side of the man lying in the road. It was one of the O’Connor twins, although Thatcher couldn’t have said which. He was bleeding from several wounds, but his lips were moving, and Bill was listening intently.
“His brother’s dead.” Thatcher turned. Harold elaborated without