Definitely Dead

The one that was dating her ex-boyfriend? That does sound like Debbie, huh?”
    Sandra nodded, but the duct tape wouldn’t permit her speech. Sandra had tears rolling down her cheeks.
    “You still don’t remember where you put her?” Gordon asked Eric.
    “I would tell you if I did,” Eric said. Not that I care, his tone implied.
    “You guys hired the two kids who attacked us in Shreveport,” Quinn said.
    “Sandra did,” Gordon admitted. “We didn’t know about it until Sandra had already bitten them. She’d promised them . . .” He shook his head. “She’d sent them to Shreveport on her errand, but they would have returned home to collect their reward. Our Jackson pack would have killed them. Mississippi doesn’t permit bitten Weres. They kill them on sight. The boys would have named Sandra as their maker. The pack would have abjured her. Barbara’s dabbled with witchcraft, but nothing of the level that would have sealed the boys’ mouths. We hired an out-of-state Were to track them when we found out. He couldn’t stop them, couldn’t prevent their arrest, so he had to be arrested and go into the jail system with them, to take care of the problem.” He looked up at us, shook his head sternly. “He bribed Cal Myers to put him in the cell with them. Of course, we punished Sandra for that.”
    “Oh, did you take away her cell phone for a week?” If I sounded sarcastic, I thought I had a right to be. Even cooperative, the Pelts were pretty horrible. “We were both hurt,” I said, nodding toward Quinn, “and those two kids are dead now. Because of Sandra.”
    “She’s our daughter,” Barbara said. “And she believed she was avenging her murdered sister.”
    “And then you hired all the Weres that were in the second van, and the two Weres lying out in the front yard. Are they going to die, Quinn?”
    “If the Pelts don’t take them to a Were doctor, they may. And they sure can’t go to any human hospital.”
    Quinn’s claws would have left distinctive marks.
    “Will you do that?” I asked skeptically. “Take Clete and George to a Were doctor?”
    The Pelts looked at each other and shrugged. “We figured you were going to kill us,” Gordon said. “Are you going to let us walk away? With what assurances?”
    I’d never met anyone quite like the Pelts before, and it was easier and easier to see where Debbie had gotten her charming personality, adopted or not.
    “With assurances that I never hear of this again,” I said. “Neither I nor Eric.”
    Quinn and Rasul had been listening silently.
    “Sookie is a friend of the Shreveport pack,” Quinn said. “They are very upset she was attacked, in their own city, and now we know you’re responsible for that attack.”
    “We heard she was no favorite of the new packleader.” Barbara’s voice held a trace of contempt. She was reverting to her own personality, since she no longer feared her own death. I liked them better when they were scared.
    “He may not be packleader for long,” Quinn said, his voice a quiet threat. “Even if he stays in office, he can’t rescind the pack’s protection, since it was guaranteed by the previous packleader. The honor of the pack would be destroyed.”
    “We’ll make reparations to the Shreveport pack,” Gordon said wearily.
    “Did you send Tanya to Bon Temps?” I asked.
    Barbara looked proud of herself. “Yes, I did that. You know our Debbie was adopted? She was a werefox.”
    I nodded. Eric looked quizzical; I didn’t think he’d met Tanya.
    “Tanya is a member of Debbie’s birth family, and she wanted to do something to help. She thought if she went to Bon Temps and began working with you, you might let something spill. She said you were too suspicious to warm up to her offer of friendship. I think she might stay in Bon Temps. I understand finding the bar owner so attractive was an unexpected bonus.”
    It was kind of gratifying to discover Tanya was as untrustworthy as I’d suspected. I wondered if I had the right to tell Sam this whole story, by way of warning. I’d have to think about that later.
    “And the man who owns this house?” I could hear him groaning and moaning from the kitchen.
    “He’s a former high school buddy of Debbie’s,” Gordon said. “We asked him if we could borrow his house for the afternoon. And we paid him. He won’t talk after we leave.”
    “What about Gladiola?” I asked. I remembered the two burning body sections on my driveway. I