Dead as a Doornail

she’d measured, and cursed under her breath, and worked and worked until finally she’d gotten them done. Jason and I had admired them extravagantly to make her feel it had been worth the effort, and she’d been so pleased.
    I opened one drawer, the one that had held all the keys. They were melted together. I pressed my lips together, hard. Jason stood beside me, looked down.
    “Shit,” he said, his voice low and vicious. That helped me push the tears back.
    I held on to his arm for just a minute. He patted me awkwardly. Seeing items so familiar, items made dear by use, irrevocably altered by fire was a terrible shock, no matter howmany times I reminded myself that the whole house could have been consumed by the flames; that I could have died, too. Even if the smoke detector had wakened me in time, there was every likelihood I would have run outside to be confronted by the arsonist, Jeff Marriot.
    Almost everything on the east side of the kitchen was ruined. The floor was unstable. The kitchen roof was gone.
    “It’s lucky the rooms upstairs don’t extend over the kitchen,” Greg said when he came down from examining the two bedrooms and the attic. “You’ll have to get a builder to let you know, but I think the second story is essentially sound.”
    I talked to Greg about money after that. When would it come? How much would it be? What deductible would I have to pay?
    Jason wandered around the yard while Greg and I stood by his car. I could interpret my brother’s posture and movements. Jason was very angry: at my near-death escape, at what had happened to the house. After Greg drove off, leaving me with an exhausting list of things to do and phone calls to make (from where?) and work to get ready for (wearing what?), Jason meandered over to me and said, “If I’d been here, I coulda killed him.”
    “In your new body?” I asked.
    “Yeah. It would’ve given that sumbitch the scare of his life before he left it.”
    “I think Charles probably was pretty scary, but I appreciate the thought.”
    “They put the vamp in jail?”
    “No, Bud Dearborn just told him not to leave town. After all, the Bon Temps jail doesn’t have a vampire cell. And regular cells don’t hold ’em, plus they have windows.”
    “That’s where the guy was from—Fellowship of the Sun? Just a stranger who came to town to do you in?”
    “That’s what it looks like.”
    “What they got against you? Other than you dating Bill and associating with some of the other vamps?”
    Actually, the Fellowship had quite a bit against me. I’d been responsible for their huge Dallas church being raided and one of their main leaders going underground. The papers had been full of what the police had found in the Fellowship building in Texas. Arriving to find the members dashing in turmoil around their building, claiming vampires had attacked them, the police entered the building to search it and found a basement torture chamber, illegal arms adapted to shoot wooden stakes into vampires, and a corpse. The police failed to see a single vampire. Steve and Sarah Newlin, the leaders of the Fellowship church in Dallas, had been missing since that night.
    I’d seen Steve Newlin since then. He’d been at Club Dead in Jackson. He and one of his cronies had been preparing to stake a vampire in the club when I’d prevented them. Newlin had escaped; his buddy hadn’t.
    It appeared that the Newlins’ followers had tracked me down. I hadn’t foreseen such a thing, but then, I’d never foreseen anything that had happened to me in the past year. When Bill had been learning how to use his computer, he’d told me that with a little knowledge and money, anyone could be found through a computer.
    Maybe the Fellowship had hired private detectives, like the couple who had been in my house yesterday. Maybe Jack and Lily Leeds had just been pretending to be hired by the Pelt family? Maybe the Newlins were their real employers? They hadn’t struck me as politicized people, but the power of the color green is universal.
    “I guess dating a vampire was enough for them to hate me,” I told Jason. We were sitting on the tailgate of his truck,staring dismally at the house. “Who do you think I should call about rebuilding the kitchen?”
    I didn’t think I needed an architect: I just wanted to replace what was missing. The house was raised up off the ground, so slab size wasn’t a factor. Since the floor was burned through in the kitchen and would