Barry had never secured anyone with duct tape before, but he bound Amelia's wrists together behind the chair, and that would have to do.
"Now," Tyrese said. "You sit on the floor and put your hand on that table leg."
That would put him closer to Bob, and there was nothing Barry could do to help the witch. He sank to the floor and gripped the table leg with his left hand.
"Now duct tape your hand to the table," Tyrese said.
With a lot of clumsy effort, Barry managed, ripping off the tape with his teeth.
"Scoot it across the floor to me," Tyrese said, and Barry did.
Then there was nothing left to do.
"Now we wait," said Tyrese.
"Tyrese," Amelia said, "you ought to shoot my dad, not Sookie."
She had everyone's attention.
"It's my dad who got you into this. It's my dad who sold your soul to the devil. It's my dad who doomed your girlfriend."
"Your dad done everything he could for me," Tyrese said stubbornly.
"My dad killed you," Amelia said. Barry admired her courage and straight speaking, but Tyrese did not. He smacked Amelia across the face, and then he taped her mouth shut.
Barry thought Amelia was absolutely right. And maybe if Tyrese had had a chance to absorb the worst of his grief, he would have seen that, too. But in his rush to do something, anything, in the wake of hearing about Gypsy's suicide, Tyrese had committed himself to this course of action, and he would not be dissuaded. He would never admit he'd done something so incredibly stupid.
You have to admit, Barry thought, that Tyrese is loyal, in a weird way.
Barry thought of Mr. Cataliades and hoped he'd be alerted to the fact that something was wrong in the house. He was tough. He could handle this situation. Or maybe when Sookie and Diantha pulled up, she'd hear Tyrese's thoughts, though where she parked it was doubtful she'd be able to get a reading. But if she counted heads in the house, she might think something was off - though she'd have no reason to suspect danger.
Barry's thoughts went around in circles as he tried to think of some way to extricate them all from this situation, some way that wouldn't get them killed. Get him killed. He wasn't much of a hero; he'd always known that about himself. He did good when it would not put him in peril; he believed that in this, he was like most people.
Suddenly Tyrese, who'd been leaning against the wall, straightened. Barry heard a car coming, and there was another sound, too. Was that a motorcycle? Sure sounded like one. Who could it be? Would the presence of other people be enough to stop Tyrese?
But there wasn't any going back for the bodyguard, apparently.
As the car's motor died and the other motor, too, Tyrese grinned at Amelia. "Here goes," he said. "I'm going to make everything even. This woman is going to die."
But the person driving the car might not even be Sookie. What if it was Mr. Cataliades in his van? Tyrese didn't even look. He'd gotten the whole story set in his mind. This would be Sookie, and he would kill her, and then everything would somehow balance out.
Tyrese swung around to face the back door, the smile still on his lips. Barry started screaming at Sookie in his head, because that was all he could do, but he didn't think she'd hear him. He looked up at Amelia and saw the strain in her face. She was doing the same.
And then Tyrese took a step forward, and another. He was on the porch. He wasn't going to wait for Sookie to enter the house, which would have been a sure thing. He was going to meet her.
MERLOTTE'S
earlier
Sam's lips parted and I just knew he was finally going to explain. But then he looked past me and the moment passed. "Mustapha Khan," he said, and he definitely wasn't happy to see Eric's daytime guy.
As far as I knew, Sam had nothing against the werewolf. Surely he couldn't blame Mustapha for beheading Jannalynn? After all, it had been a fair fight, and Sam, though a shapeshifter, was very familiar with Were rules. Or was it Mustapha's job as Eric's daytime guy that made Sam so grumpy?
I wondered, things being how they were, why Mustapha was coming to see me. Maybe something had been decided about who would take over Fangtasia, and Eric wanted me to know.
"Hello, Mustapha," I said, as calmly as I could. "What brings you here today? Can I get you a glass of water with lemon?" Mustapha didn't take stimulants of any kind: coffee, Coca-Cola, anything.
"Thank you. A glass of water would be refreshing," he allowed. As usual, Mustapha was wearing dark glasses. He'd removed his motorcycle helmet, and I saw he'd shaved a pattern in the stubble on his head. That was new. It gleamed under the lights of the bar. An Norr did a double take when she got a good look at the muscled magnificence that was Mustapha Khan. She wasn't the only one.
When I brought him an icy glass, he was sitting on a bar stool having some kind of silent staring contest with Sam.
"How is Warren?" I asked. Warren, possibly the only person Mustapha cared for, had been awfully close to dead when we found him at Jannalynn's folks' empty garage apartment.
"He's better, thank you, Sookie. He ran half a mile today. He walked the rest, with some help. He's out there waiting, right now." Mustapha inclined his patterned head toward the front door. Warren was the shyest man I'd ever met.
I hadn't known Warren had been a runner before his ordeal, but I figured the fact that he'd resumed the exercise was pretty good news, and I told Mustapha to give the convalescent my good wishes. "I'd have sent him a get-well card if I knew his address," I added, and felt like a fool when Mustapha took off his dark glasses to give me an incredulous look. Well, I would have.
"I come here to tell you Eric is leaving tomorrow night," he said. "He thought you should know. Plus, he left some shit at your place. He wants it back."
I stood very still for a long moment, feeling the finality of it hit my heart. "Okay, then," I said. "I do have some stuff of his in my closet. I'll send it - where? Though I don't suppose they are things he'll miss." I tried to not add any layers of meaning to that.
"I'll come get them when you get off work," Mustapha said.
The clock was reading four thirty. "I should be through here in thirty minutes or so," I said, looking to Sam for confirmation. "If India gets here on time."
And here she came, through the front door, weaving her way between the tables. India had had her hair done, a process she'd described to me in fascinating detail, and the jeweled balls on her braids clicked together as she walked. She spotted my companion when she was a couple of yards away. She had a startled look, which she exaggerated for effect when she drew up to us.
"Brother, you are almost enough to make me wish I was straight!" she said, with her beautiful smile.
"Sister, right back at you," he said politely, which perhaps answered a question I'd had about Mustapha. Or perhaps not. He was the most secretive and closemouthed person I'd ever encountered, and I must admit I found that refreshing - occasionally. When you're used to knowing everything, including a lot of factoids you wish you had never learned, it can be mighty frustrating to wonder.
"Mustapha Khan, India Unger," I said, trying to keep up my end of the exchange. "India's here to take over my tables, Mustapha, so I guess you can come out to the house now."
"I'll see you there," he said, nodding good-bye to India before striding out the door. He was donning his dark glasses and helmet as he walked.
India shook her head as she watched him go, thinking about how fine his ass was. "It's the front half that doesn't appeal to me," she said, before going to the lockers to put on her apron.
Sam was still standing in the same spot, and he was giving me a big stare.
"Sookie, I'm sorry," he said. "I know this has to be tough. Call me if you need me." And then he had to turn away to make a mojito for Christy Aubert. His shoulders were stiff with tension.
He was a problem I couldn't solve.
Diantha followed me out to the car. "Sookieunclejustcalledheneedsme. You'llbeallrightwiththewolf?" I assured her I would.
"Okaythen," she said, and went back into Merlotte's, I guessed to wait for Mr. C to pick her up. I wondered what India would make of her.
When I pulled out from behind Merlotte's, Mustapha was waiting for me. Warren perched behind him on the Harley. Warren was like a bird compared to Mustapha - small, pale, narrow. But according to Mustapha, Warren was the best shot he'd ever seen. That was a compliment Mustapha would not give out lightly.
As I drove home down Hummingbird Road followed by the Harley, I found myself feeling relieved that Eric would be gone soon. In fact, I wished he were gone already.
I'd never imagined feeling this way, but I couldn't handle this emotional jerking around. I'd start to feel okay, then I'd get poked in the sore spot, like taking a scab off my knee when I was a kid. In books, the hero was gone after the big blowup. He didn't stick around in the vicinity doing mysterious shit, sending messages to the heroine by a third party. He hauled his ass into oblivion. And that was the way things should be, as far as I was concerned. Life should imitate romance literature far more often.
If the world operated according to romance principles, Mustapha Khan would tell me that Eric had always been unworthy of me and that Mustapha himself had harbored a deep love for me from the moment he'd met me. Did Harlequin have a line of books for guys-out-of-prison-get-redeemed romances?
I was just distracting myself, and I knew it. I noticed as I pulled to a stop that Barry's rental car was parked in my yard, but Mr. Cataliades and his van were in town, of course.
I got out of my car and turned around to tell Mustapha that I had company. "You and Warren come on in. I'll have Eric's stuff together in a jiffy," I said. I put my hand on my car door to close it, and Mustapha got off his bike. I raised a hand to Warren, and hearing the creak of the screen door, I turned my head slightly to see who was coming out the back door. I caught a glimpse of someone I hadn't seen in a long time. I couldn't recall his name . . .
And he had a gun. He called out my name in a terrible voice.
Mustapha, his eyes hidden behind his shades, was reaching toward me, quick as only a werewolf can be. When I saw that skinny blond Warren, still on the bike, had drawn the biggest handgun I'd ever seen in my life, I had a moment to be afraid. I had time to think, "Oh Jesus, that guy is going to kill me," when two things happened almost simultaneously. From behind me I heard a crack!, and my left shoulder burned as I staggered because Mustapha was flinging me face-first to the ground. Then a house landed on top of me. And I heard a voice screaming from inside the house, a voice that was not mine.
"Barry," I said. And a huge bee advised me that it had dug its stinger into my shoulder.
Life just sucked some days.
Chapter 16
At that point, it would have been nice if I could have fainted. But I didn't. I lay there and tried to gather my wits, tried to comprehend what had just occurred. My shoulder was warm and wet.
I'd been shot.
I slowly understood that Mustapha had tried to save me (and himself) by throwing us to the ground, while Warren had fired at the shooter. I wondered what had happened inside the house.
"You hurt?" Mustapha growled, and I could feel him sliding off me.
"Yes," I said. "I think I am." My shoulder hurt like the very effing hell.
Mustapha had gotten to his knees but pressed himself against my car, using the still-open door as cover. Warren moved past us, gun at the ready, looking like a different person from the wispy ex-con who normally seemed a mere shadow of his brawny friend. Warren looked utterly deadly.
"A rattlesnake in a moth outfit," I said.
"Say what?"
"Warren. He looks like a movie shooter now."
Mustapha glanced after his buddy-and-maybe-more. "Yeah, he does. He's the best."
"Did he get the guy?" I said, and then I groaned between clenched teeth. "Wow, this hurts. We calling an ambulance?"
"He's dead," Warren called.
"Good to know," Mustapha called back. "I figured. Good shot."
"How's Sookie?" Warren's boots came into my constricting field of vision.
"Shoulder, not fatal, but she's bleeding like a stuck pig. You calling 911?"
"Sure thing." I heard the beeps and then the voice of the dispatcher.
"Need at least one ambulance, possibly two," Warren said. "The Stackhouse place on Hummingbird Road." I felt I'd missed part of the conversation.
"Sookie, I'm going to turn you over," Mustapha said.
"I'd rather you didn't," I said between clenched teeth. "Really. Don't."
I could endure the status quo, but I was afraid any movement at all would make things worse.
"Okay," he said. "Warren's going to hold this jacket against your shoulder to apply some pressure, slow down that bleeding."
Big boots were replaced by little boots. "Pressure" sounded painful. Sure enough, it was.
"Shepherd of Judea," I said through clenched teeth, though I wanted to say something much, much worse. "Wow, dammit. How are the people in the house?"
"Mustapha's checking on them now. I just glanced in to make sure they were all friendlies. One of 'em's on the floor."
"Who shot us?"
"Big guy, looks black but with a lot of white mixed in," Warren said. "His features are real fine. Well, they were. And his hair is almost red."
