“Have you called him?”
“Considering all the arrests last night, I’m sure he had his hands full today with arraignment hearings. Driscoll can sulk till morning.”
“How’s Mrs. Amos doing?”
The sheriff’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “Still ailing. If she’s not better by tomorrow, I may take her to a doctor in Stephenville. Mrs. Cantor agreed to stay with her overnight if I can’t get home.”
“You’re expecting more trouble?”
He waved his hand to indicate the empty office. “I’ve got every full-timer plus a dozen reserves like you patrolling in pairs. I want to keep a lid on things if we can. Vain hope, probably.”
Thatcher drew his long legs in, leaned forward, and placed his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got plenty of trouble right in here, Bill.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of cotton fabric roughly six inches in length and three inches wide. One side was flat, the other gathered. The weave was unraveling at both ends. The cloth had been weather-beaten, but under its coating of dust, the scarlet color was vibrant.
Thatcher set the piece of cloth on the edge of the sheriff’s desk. He spoke softly so not to be overheard by the man in the cell. “I went exploring this afternoon and found this. I recognized it right off. When I talked to Mrs. Driscoll, she was wearing an apron made out of material printed with red and yellow apples. It had a red ruffled border.”
Through the 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 l
ike 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.”