Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,98

see that (with a few exceptions) the natives of Hotshot ran to two types: the small, dark-haired, quick ones like Crystal, and the fairer, stockier ones with beautiful green or golden-brown eyes, like Calvin. The surnames were mostly Norris or Hart.

Patrick Furnan was the last person Crystal reached. “Why, of course I know you,” he said heartily, beaming at me as if we’d danced at a wedding together. “This here’s Alcide’s girlfriend,” he said, making sure he was heard by everyone in the room. “Alcide’s the son of the other candidate for packmaster.”

There was long silence, which I would definitely characterize as “charged.”

“You’re mistaken,” I said in a normal conversational tone. “Alcide and I are friends.” I smiled at him in such a way as to let him know he better not be alone with me in an alley anytime soon.

“My mistake,” he said, smooth as silk.

Calvin was receiving a hero’s welcome home. There were balloons and banners and flowers and plants, and his house was meticulously clean. The kitchen had been full of food. Now Maryelizabeth stepped forward, turned her back to cut Patrick Furnan dead, and said, “Come this way, honey. Calvin’s ready to see you.” If she’d had a trumpet handy, she’d have blown a flourish on it. Maryelizabeth was not a subtle woman, though she had a deceptive air of mystery due to her wide-spaced golden eyes.

I guess I could have been more uncomfortable, if there’d been a bed of red-hot coals to walk on.

Maryelizabeth ushered me into Calvin’s bedroom. His furniture was very nice, with spare, clean lines. It looked Scandinavian, though I know little about furniture—or style, for that matter. He had a high bed, a queen-size, and he was propped up in it against sheets with an African motif of hunting leopards. (Someone had a sense of humor, anyway.) Against the deep colors in the sheets and the deep orange of the bedspread, Calvin looked pale. He was wearing brown pajamas, and he looked exactly like a man who’d just been released from the hospital. But he was glad to see me. I found myself thinking there was something a bit sad about Calvin Norris, something that touched me despite myself.

“Come sit,” he said, indicating the bed. He moved over a little so I’d have room to perch. I guess he’d made some signal, because the man and the woman who’d been in the room—Dixie and Dixon—silently eased out through the door, shutting it behind them.

I perched, a little uneasily, on the bed beside him. He had one of those tables you most often see in hospitals, the kind that can be rolled across the bed. There was a glass of ice tea and a plate on it, steam rising from the food. I gestured that he should begin. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer while I sat quietly. I wondered to whom the prayer was addressed.

“Tell me about it,” Calvin said as he unfolded his napkin, and that made me a lot more comfortable. He ate while I told him what had happened in the alley. I noticed that the food on the tray was the chicken-and-rice casserole I’d brought, with a dab of mixed vegetable casserole and two of my biscuits. He wanted me to see that he was eating the food I’d prepared for him. I was touched, which sounded a warning bell at the back of my brain.

“So, without Dawson, there’s no telling what would’ve happened,” I concluded. “I thank you for sending him. How is he?”

Calvin said, “Hanging on. They airlifted him from Grainger to Baton Rouge. He would be dead, if he wasn’t a Were. He’s lasted this long; I think he’ll make it.”

I felt terrible.

“Don’t go blaming yourself for this,” Calvin said, his voice suddenly sounding deeper. “This is Dawson’s choice.”

“Huh?” would’ve sounded ignorant, so I said, “How so?”

“His choice of professions. His choice of actions. Maybe he should have leaped for her a few seconds earlier. Why’d he wait? I don’t know. How’d she know to aim low, given the poor light? I don’t know. Choices lead to consequences.” Calvin was struggling to express something. He was not naturally an articulate man, and he was trying to convey a thought both important and abstract. “There’s no blame,” he said finally.

“It would be nice to believe that, and I hope some day I do,” I said. “Maybe I’m on my way to believing it.” It was true that I was sick of self-blame