Dead as a Doornail

been shot—right on the verge of making the leap—but at the last instant, he drew back. “You didn’t see anything or hear anything that would help us? Was there anything different about the night Sam was shot?”
    “No,” I said. “Nothing. Why?”
    He didn’t answer, but I could read his mind like a book. The bullet from Sam’s leg didn’t match the other recovered bullets.
    After he left, I tried to dissect that quick impression I’d gotten, the one that had prompted me to duck. If the parking lot hadn’t been empty, I might not have caught it at all, since the brain that had made it had been at some distance. And what I’d felt had been a tangle of determination, anger, and above all, disgust. The person who’d been shooting had been sure I was loathsome and inhuman. Stupidly enough, my first reaction was hurt—after all, no one likes to be despised. Then I considered the strange fact that Sam’s bullet didn’t match any of the previous Were shootings. I couldn’t understand that at all. I could think of many explanations, but all of them seemed far-fetched.
    The rain began to pour down outside, hitting the north-facing windows with a hiss. I didn’t have a reason to call anyone, but I felt like making one up. It wasn’t a good night to be out of touch. As the pounding of the rain increased, I became more and more anxious. The sky was a leaden gray; soon it would be full dark.
    I wondered why I was so twitchy. I was used to being by myself, and it seldom bothered me. Now I was physically closer to people than I’d ever been in my house on Hummingbird Road, but I felt more alone.
    Though I wasn’t supposed to drive, I needed things for the duplex. I would have made the errand a necessity and gone to Wal-Mart despite the rain—or because of the rain—if the nurse hadn’t made such a big deal out of restingmy shoulder. I went restlessly from room to room until the crunch of gravel told me that I was having yet more company. This was town living, for sure.
    When I opened the door, Tara was standing there in a leopard-print raincoat with a hood. Of course I asked her in, and she tried her best to shake out the coat on the little front porch. I carried it into the kitchen to drip on the linoleum.
    She hugged me very gently and said, “Tell me how you are.”
    After I went over the story once again, she said, “I’ve been worried about you. I couldn’t get away from the shop until now, but I just had to come see you. I saw the suit in my closet. Did you come to my house?”
    “Yes,” I said. “The day before yesterday. Didn’t Mickey tell you?”
    “He was in the house when you were there? I warned you,” she said, almost panic-stricken. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? He didn’t have anything to do with you getting shot?”
    “Not that I know of. But I did go into your house kind of late, and I know you told me not to. It was just dumb. He did, ah, try to scare me. I wouldn’t let him know you’ve been to see me, if I were you. How were you able to come here tonight?”
    A shutter dropped over Tara’s face. Her big dark eyes hardened, and she pulled away from me. “He’s out somewhere,” she said.
    “Tara, can you tell me how you came to be involved with him? What happened to Franklin?” I tried to ask these questions as gently as I could, because I knew I was treading on delicate ground.
    Tara’s eyes filled with tears. She was struggling to answer me, but she was ashamed. “Sookie,” she began at last, almost whispering, “I thought Franklin really cared about me, you know? I mean, I thought he respected me. As a person.”
    I nodded, intent on her face. I was scared of disrupting the flow of her story now that she’d finally begun to talk to me.
    “But he . . . he just passed me along when he was through with me.”
    “Oh, no, Tara! He . . . surely he explained to you why you two were breaking up. Or did you have a big fight?” I didn’t want to believe Tara had been passed from vamp to vamp like some fang-banger at a bloodsucker’s party.
    “He said, ‘Tara, you’re a pretty girl and you’ve been good company, but I owe a debt to Mickey’s master, and Mickey wants you now.’ ”
    I knew my mouth was hanging open, and I didn’t care. I could scarcely believe what Tara was telling me. I could hear the humiliation rolling off of her in waves of self-loathing. “You couldn’t do anything about it?” I asked. I was trying to keep the incredulity