He shouted her name, but got no answer.
A bullet struck the floor within an inch of his face, sending up splintered wood. A chunk hit him on the cheekbone, barely missing his eye. He rolled away from where he was, came up in a crouch, and took cover behind a table.
“Bill, you okay?”
“I want these sons o’ bitches.”
“Hennessy’s not a worry.”
“Dead?”
“Yep.”
“Hear that, Bernie?” Bill taunted. “Your hired gun is in hell.”
Their repartee had given Thatcher time to scan the room. He couldn’t see Gert, but figured she was behind the bar, reloading. It had to have been Croft’s s
hot that had struck the floor near him, which gave him an idea of the mayor’s accuracy. He wasn’t a bad shot.
He waited, crazy to know where Laurel was. Was her neck broken, her back? Had she hit her head and was lying unconscious and defenseless?
Croft showed his head above the bar. Both Thatcher and Bill fired a volley. Soda pop bottles shattered against the back of the bar, but Thatcher got no indication that Croft had been hit.
Where was Gert and that goddamn shotgun?
Bill was off to Thatcher’s left. When Croft raised his head again, Bill fired two shots. Thatcher used the cover to take up another position. He still couldn’t see Laurel. He couldn’t place Gert, either, and that bothered him. He would have expected another blast from the shotgun by now. Unless one of their shots had struck her and she was down.
Couldn’t count on that. Too much to hope for.
He had to know where Laurel was and if she was hurt. From his present vantage point, he couldn’t see the bottom of the staircase where he featured her crumpled, broken, bleeding.
Croft was keeping him and Bill pinned down.
A shadow fell across the screened door. Croft fired at it. The shadow disappeared.
Thatcher, who was nearest the door, whispered, “Who’s that?”
“Scotty.”
“Hennessy’s dead. Croft’s behind the bar. Have you seen Gert?”
“No. Mrs. Plummer?”
“Alive when we got here. Now…” Thatcher couldn’t bring himself to venture a guess.
“What do you want me to do, Thatcher?”
“Stay put, but be ready.”
While carrying on the whispered conversation with the deputy through the screen, Thatcher had reloaded. Bill, who’d been exchanging potshots with Croft, also had to pause to reload. Thatcher waited until he was done, then motioned to Bill that he was going to intentionally draw Croft’s fire, giving Bill a chance at him.
Bill acknowledged.
Thatcher took a breath, then surged to his feet and ran toward the staircase, banging into tables, overturning chairs, reaching across his torso to fire back toward the bar.
Croft took the bait. As soon as he showed himself, he and Bill exchanged a barrage. From beneath his left arm, Thatcher turned and fired three rounds at Croft before diving beneath a table. He rolled onto his back and fired toward Croft again, but he had disappeared behind the bar.
Thatcher flipped the table onto its side and hunkered behind it so he could reload. “Bill?”