Шарлин Харрис - Dead As A Doornail

I didn't say a word. My face must have shown something, for Maryelizabeth looked alarmed, and then angry.

"Don't presume to judge how we live our life," she said. "We are not like you."

"That's true," I said, swallowing my revulsion. I forced a smile to my lips. "Thank you for introducing me around. I appreciate it. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"We can take care of it," said Terry, giving me another look that was a strange combination of respect and hostility.

"We should never have sent you to school," Maryelizabeth said to the girl. Her wide-spaced golden eyes were both loving and regretful.

"Good-bye," I said, and after I recovered my coat, I left the house, trying not to hurry. To my dismay, Patrick Furnan was waiting for me beside my car. He was holding a motorcycle helmet under his arm, and I spotted the Harley a little farther down the road.

"You interested in hearing what I've got to say?" the bearded Were asked.

"No, actually not," I told him.

"He's not going to keep on helping you out for nothing," Furnan said, and my whole head snapped around so I could look at this man.

"What are you talking about?"

"A thank-you and a kiss ain't going to hold him. He's going to demand payment sooner or later.Won't be able to help it."

"I don't recall asking you for advice," I said. He stepped closer. "And you keep your distance." I let my gaze roam to the houses surrounding us. The watchful gaze of the community was full upon us; I could feel its weight.

"Sooner or later," Furnan repeated. He grinned at me suddenly. "I hopeit's sooner. You can't two-time a Were , you know.Or a panther. You'll get ripped to shreds between'em."

"I'm not two-timing anyone, " I said, frustrated almost beyond bearing at his insistence that he knew my love life better than I did. "I'm not dating either of them."

"Then you have no protection," he said triumphantly.

I just couldn't win.

"Go to hell," I said, completely exasperated. I got in my car and drove away, letting my eyes glide over the Were as if he weren't there. (This "abjure" concept could come in handy.) The last thing I saw in my rearview mirror was Patrick Furnan sliding his helmet on, still watching my retreating car.

If I hadn't really cared who won the King of the Mountain contest between Jackson Herveaux and Patrick Furnan, I did now.

I WAS WASHING the dishes I'd used as I cooked for Calvin. My little duplex was peaceful. If Halleigh was home, she was being quiet as a mouse. I didn't mind washing dishes, to tell you the truth. It was a good time to let my mind drift around, and often I made good decisions while I was doing something completely mundane. Not too surprisingly, I was thinking of the night before. I was trying to remember exactly what Sweetie had said. Something about it had struck me wrong, but at the moment I hadn't exactly been in a position to raise my hand to ask a question. It had something to do with Sam.

I finally recalled that though she'd told Andy Bellefleur that the dog in the alley was a shapeshifter, she hadn't known it was Sam. There wasn't anything strange about that, since Sam had been in a bloodhound shape, not his usual collie form.

After I'd realized what had been bothering me, I thought my mind would be at peace. That didn't happen. There was something else—something else Sweetie had said. I thought and thought, but it just wouldn't pop to the top of my brain.

To my surprise, I found myself calling Andy Bellefleur at home. His sister Portia was just as surprised as I was when she answered, and she said rather coldly that she'd find Andy.

"Yes, Sookie?"Andy sounded neutral.

"Let me ask a question, Andy."

"I'll listen."

"When Sam was shot," I said, and paused, trying to figure out what to say.

"Okay," Andy said. "What about it?"

"Is it true that the bullet didn't match the others?"

"We didn't retrieve a bullet in every case." Not a direct answer, but probably as good as I was going to get.

"Hmmm. Okay," I said, then thanked him and hung up, uncertain if I'd learned what I wanted or not. I had to push it out of my mind and do something else. If there was a question there, it would eventually work its way to the top of the heap of the issues that burdened my thoughts.

What remained of the evening was quiet, which was getting to be a rare pleasure. With so little house to clean, and so little yard to care for, there would be lots of free hours to come. I read for an hour, worked a crossword puzzle, and went to bed at about eleven.

Amazingly, no one woke me all night. No one died, there weren't any fires, and no one had to alert me to any emergency.

The next morning I rose feeling better than I had in a week.A glance at the clock told me I'd slept all the way through toten o'clock . Well, that wasn't so surprising. My shoulder felt nearly healed; my conscience had settled itself. I didn't think I had many secrets to keep, and that was a tremendous relief. I was used to keeping other people's secrets, but not my own.

The phone rang as I swallowed the last of my morning coffee. I put my paperback facedown on the kitchen table to mark my place and got up to answer it. "Hello," I said cheerfully.

"It's today," Alcide said, voice vibrating with excitement. "You need to come."

Thirty minutes my peace had lasted. Thirty minutes.

"I'm guessing you mean the contest for the position of packmaster."

"Of course."

"And I need to be there why?"

"You need to be there because the entire pack and all friends of the pack have to be there," Alcide said, his voice brooking no dissent. "Christine especially thought you should be a witness."

I might have argued if he hadn't added the bit about Christine. The wife of the former packmaster had struck me as a very intelligent woman with a cool head.

"All right," I said, trying not to sound grumpy. "Where and when?"

"Atnoon , be at the empty building at 2005 Clairemont. It used to be David & Van Such, the printing company."

I got a few directions and hung up. While I showered, I reasoned that this was a sporting event, so I dressed in my old denim skirt with a long-sleeved red tee. I pulled on some red tights (the skirt was quite short) and some black Mary Janes. They were a little scuffed, so I hoped that Christine would not look down at my shoes. I tucked my silver cross into my shirt; the religious significance wouldn't bother the Weres at all, but the silver might.

The defunct printing company of David & Van Such had been in a very modern building, in an equally modern industrial park, largely deserted this Saturday. All the businesses had been constructed to match: low gray stone and dark glass edifices, with crepe myrtle bushes all around, grass medians, and nice curbing. David & Van Such featured an ornamental bridge over an ornamental pond, and a red front door. In the spring, and after some restorative maintenance, it would be as pretty as a modern business building could get. Today, in the fading phase of winter, the dead weeds that had grown high during the previous summer waved in a chilly breeze. The skeletal crepe myrtles needed pruning back, and the water in the pond looked stagnant, with trash floating dismally here and there. The David & Van Such parking lot contained about thirty cars, including—ominously—an ambulance.

Though I wore a jacket, the day suddenly seemed colder as I went from the parking lot and across the bridge to the front door. I was sorry I'd left my heavier coat at home, but it hadn't seemed worth bringing for a brief run between enclosed spaces. The glass front of David & VanSuch , broken only by the red door, reflected the clear pale blue sky and the dead grass.

It didn't seem right to knock at a business door, so I slipped inside. Two people were ahead of me, having crossed the now-empty reception area. They passed through plain gray double doors. I followed them, wondering what I was getting into.