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I was scrambling into Dawson’s truck when I realized that this step dragged me even further into the Were war. Then I figured, Patrick Furnan already tried to kill me. Can’t get any worse.

Chapter 7

Dawson’s pickup, a Dodge Ram, although battered on the outside, was orderly within. It wasn’t a new vehicle by any means—probably five years old—but it was very well-maintained both under the hood and in the cab.

“You’re not a member of the pack, Dawson, right?”

“It’s Tray. Tray Dawson.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Dawson shrugged, as if to say No big deal. “I never was a good pack animal,” he said. “I couldn’t keep in line. I couldn’t follow the chain of command.”

“So why are you joining in this fight?” I said.

“Patrick Furnan tried to put me out of business,” Dawson said.

“Why’d he do that?”

“Aren’t that many other motorcycle repair shops in the area, especially since Furnan bought the Harley-Davidson dealership in Shreveport,” Tray explained. “That so-and-so’s greedy. He wants it all for himself. He doesn’t care who goes broke. When he realized I was sticking with my shop, he sent a couple of his guys down to see me. They beat me up, busted up the shop.”

“They must have been really good,” I said. It was hard to believe anyone could best Tray Dawson. “Did you call the police?”

“No. The cops in Bon Temps aren’t that crazy about me anyway. But I threw in with Alcide.”

Detective Cal Myers, obviously, was not above doing Furnan’s dirty work. It was Myers who’d collaborated with Furnan in cheating in the packmaster contest. But I was truly shocked that he would go as far as murdering Maria-Star, whose only sin was being loved by Alcide. We’d seen it with our own eyes, though.

“What’s the deal with you and the police in Bon Temps?” I asked, as long as we were talking about law enforcement.

He laughed. “I used to be a cop; did you know that?”

“No,” I said, genuinely surprised. “No kidding?”

“For real,” he said. “I was on the force in New Orleans. But I didn’t like the politics, and my captain was a real bastard, pardon me.”

I nodded gravely. It had been a long time since someone had apologized for using bad language within my hearing. “So, something happened?”

“Yeah, eventually things came to a head. The captain accused me of taking some money this scuzzbag had left lying on a table when we arrested him in his home.” Tray shook his head in disgust. “I had to quit then. I liked the job.”

“What did you like about it?”

“No two days were alike. Yeah, sure, we got in the cars and patrolled. That was the same. But every time we got out something different would happen.”

I nodded. I could understand that. Every day at the bar was a little different, too, though probably not as different as Tray’s days had been in the patrol car.

We drove in silence for a while. I could tell Tray was thinking about the odds of Alcide overcoming Furnan in the struggle for dominance. He was thinking Alcide was a lucky guy to have dated Maria-Star and me, and all the luckier since that bitch Debbie Pelt had vanished. Good riddance, Tray thought.

“Now I get to ask you a question,” Tray said.

“Only fair.”

“You have something to do with Debbie disappearing?”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah. Self-defense.”

“Good for you. Someone needed to do it.”

We were quiet again for at least ten minutes. Not to drag the past into the present too much, but Alcide had broken up with Debbie Pelt before I met him. Then he dated me a little. Debbie decided I was an enemy, and she tried to kill me. I got her first. I’d come to terms with it . . . as much as you ever do. However, it had been impossible for Alcide to ever look at me again in the same way, and who could blame him? He’d found Maria-Star, and that was a good thing.

Had been a good thing.

I felt tears well up in my eyes and looked out the window. We’d passed the racetrack and the turnoff to Pierre Bossier Mall, and we went a couple more exits before Tray turned the truck onto the off ramp.

We meandered through a modest neighborhood for a while, Tray checking his rearview mirror