Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [113]
Being even more scared was pointless. I had to concentrate on the here and now. I watched every foot placement, moving slowly. A fall would be noisy in this undergrowth, and he’d be on me in a minute.
I found the dead cat about ten yards south east of my perching tree. The cat’s throat was a gaping wound. I couldn’t even tell what color its fur had been in the bleaching effect of the moonlight, but the dark splotches around the little corpse were surely blood. After five more feet of stealthy movement, I found Bubba. He was unconscious or dead. With a vampire it was hard to tell the difference. But with no stake through his heart, and his head still on, I could hope he was only unconscious.
Someone had brought Bubba a drugged cat, I figured. Someone who had known Bubba was guarding me and had heard of Bubba’s penchant for draining cats.
I heard a crackle behind me. The snap of a twig. I glided into the shadow of the nearest large tree. I was mad, mad and scared, and I wondered if I would die this night.
I might not have the rifle, but I had a built-in tool. I closed my eyes and reached out with my mind.
Dark tangle, red, black. Hate.
I flinched. But this was necessary, this was my only protection. I let down every shred of defense.
Into my head poured images that made me sick, made me terrified. Dawn, asking someone to punch her, then finding out that he’d got one of her hose in his hand, was stretching it between his fingers, preparing to tighten it around her neck. A flash of Maudette, naked and begging. A woman I’d never seen, her bare back to me, bruises and welts covering it. Then my grandmother—my grandmother—in our familiar kitchen, angry and fighting for her life.
I was paralyzed by the shock of it, the horror of it. Whose thoughts were these? I had an image of Arlene’s kids, playing on my living room floor; I saw myself, and I didn’t look like the person I saw in my own mirror. I had huge holes in my neck, and I was lewd; I had a knowing leer on my face, and I patted the inside of my thigh suggestively.
I was in the mind of Rene Lenier. This was how Rene saw me.
Rene was mad.
Now I knew why I’d never been able to read his thoughts explicitly; he kept them in a secret hole, a place in his mind he kept hidden and separate from his conscious self.
He was seeing an outline behind a tree now and wondering if it looked like the outline of a woman.
He was seeing me.
I bolted and ran west toward the cemetery. I couldn’t listen to his head anymore, because my own head was focused so fixedly on running, dodging the obstacles of trees, bushes, fallen limbs, a little gully where rain had collected. My strong legs pumped, my arms swung, and my breath sounded like the wheezing of a bagpipe.
I broke from the woods and was in the cemetery. The oldest portion of the graveyard was farther north toward Bill’s house, and it had the best places of concealment. I bounded over headstones, the modern kind, set almost flush with the ground, no good for hiding. I leaped over Gran’s grave, the earth still raw, no stone yet. Her killer followed me. I turned to look, to see how close he was, like a fool, and in the moonlight I saw Rene’s rough head of hair clearly as he gained on me.
I ran down into the gentle bowl the cemetery formed, then began sprinting up the other side. When I thought there were enough large headstones and statues between me and Rene, I dodged behind a tall granite column topped with a cross. I remained standing, flattening myself against the cold hardness of the stone. I clamped a hand across my own mouth to silence my sobbing effort to get air in my lungs. I made myself calm enough to try to listen to Rene; but his thoughts were not even coherent enough to decipher, except the rage he felt. Then a clear concept presented itself.
“Your sister,” I yelled.