on blood that Rene thought she’d turn into a vamp herself if he didn’t stop her. He gave her an ultimatum, one evening in her apartment. She talked back, said she wouldn’t give up her lover. She was tying her apron around her, getting ready to go to work as they were arguing. He yanked it off her, strangled her . . . did other stuff.”
Andy looked a little sick.
“I know,” I whispered.
“It seems to me,” Andy began again, “that somehow he decided he’d feel justified in doing that horrible thing if he convinced himself that everyone in his sister’s situation deserved to die. In fact, the murders here are very similar to two in Shreveport that haven’t been solved up until now, and we’re expecting Rene to touch on those while he’s rambling along. If he makes it.”
I could feel my lips pressing together in horrified sympathy for those other poor women.
“Can you tell me what happened to you?” Andy asked quietly. “Go slow, take your time, and keep your voice down to a whisper. Your throat is badly bruised.”
I had figured that out for myself, thanks very much. I murmured my account of the evening, and I didn’t leave anything out. Andy had switched on a little tape recorder after asking me if that was all right. He placed it on the pillow close to my mouth when I indicated the device was okay with me, so he’d have the whole story.
“Mr. Compton still out of town?” he asked me, after I’d finished.
“New Orleans,” I whispered, barely able to speak.
“We’ll look in Rene’s house for the rifle, now that we know it’s yours. It’ll be a nice piece of corroborative evidence.”
Then a gleaming young woman in white came into the room, looked at my face, and told Andy he’d have to come back some other time.
He nodded at me, gave me an awkward pat on the hand, and left. He gave the doctor a backward glance of admiration. She was sure worth admiring, but she was also wearing a wedding ring, so Andy was once again too late.
She thought he seemed too serious and grim.
I didn’t want to hear this.
But I didn’t have enough energy to keep everyone out of my head.
“Miss Stackhouse, how are you feeling?” the young woman asked a little too loudly. She was brunette and lean, with wide brown eyes and a full mouth.
“Like hell,” I whispered.
“I can imagine,” she said, nodding repeatedly while looking me over. I somehow didn’t think she could. I was willing to bet she’d never been beaten up by a multiple murderer in a graveyard.
“You just lost your grandmother, too, didn’t you?” she asked sympathetically. I nodded, just a fraction of an inch.
“My husband died about six months ago,” she said. “I know about grief. It’s tough being brave, isn’t it?”
Well, well, well. I let my expression ask a question.
“He had cancer,” she explained. I tried to look my condolences without moving anything, which was nearly impossible.
“Well,” she said, standing upright, returning to her brisk manner, “Miss Stackhouse, you’re sure gonna live. You have a broken collarbone, and two broken ribs, and a broken nose.”
Shepherd of Judea! No wonder I felt bad.
“Your face and neck are severely bruised. Of course, you could tell your throat was hurt.”
I was trying to imagine what I looked like. Good thing I didn’t have a mirror handy.
“And you have lots of relatively minor bruises and cuts on your legs and arms.” She smiled. “Your stomach is fine, and your feet!”
Hohoho. Very funny.
“I have prescribed pain medication for you, so when you start feeling bad, just ring for the nurse.”
A visitor stuck his head in the door behind her. She turned, blocking my view, and said, “Hello?”
“This Sookie’s room?”
“Yes, I was just finishing her examination. You can come in.” The doctor (whose name was Sonntag, by her nameplate) looked questioningly at me to get my permission, and I managed a tiny “Sure.”
JB du Rone drifted to my bedside, looking as lovely as the cover model on a romance novel. His tawny hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, his eyes were just the same color, and his sleeveless shirt showed muscle definition that might have been chiseled with a—well, with a chisel. He was looking down at me, and Dr. Sonntag was drinking him in.
“Hey, Sookie, you feelin’ all right?” he asked. He lay a finger gently on my cheek. He kissed an unbruised spot on my forehead.