Sookie 04 Dead to the World (14 page)

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you some other time.” For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to phrase it. I looked down at my hands, which were busy rinsing out a beer mug, and I could feel my cheeks burning.

“Calvin’s an okay guy, as far as I know,” Sam said slowly. “He works at Norcross, and he’s a crew leader. Good insurance, retirement package, everything. Some of the other guys from Hotshot own a welding shop. I hear they do good work. But I don’t know what goes on in Hotshot after they go home at night, and I don’t think anyone else does, either. Did you know Sheriff Dowdy, John Dowdy? He was sheriff before I moved here, I think.”

“Yeah, I remember him. He hauled Jason in one time for vandalism. Gran had to go get him out of jail. Sheriff Dowdy read Jason a lecture that had him scared straight, at least for a while.”

“Sid Matt told me a story one night. It seems that one spring, John Dowdy went out to Hotshot to arrest Calvin Norris’s oldest brother, Carlton.”

“For what?” Sid Matt Lancaster was an old and well-known lawyer.

“Statutory rape. The girl was willing, and she was even experienced, but she was underage. She had a new stepdad, and he decided Carlton had disrespected him.”

No politically correct stance could cover all those circumstances. “So what happened?”

“No one knows. Late that night, John Dowdy’s patrol car was found halfway back into town from Hotshot. No one in it. No blood, no fingerprints. He hasn’t ever been seen since. No one in Hotshot remembered seeing him that day, they said.”

“Like Jason,” I said bleakly. “He just vanished.”

“But Jason was at his own house, and according to you, Crystal didn’t seem to be involved.”

I threw off the grip of the strange little story. “You’re right. Did anyone ever find out what happened to Sheriff Dowdy?”

“No. But no one ever saw Carlton Norris again, either.”

Now, that was the interesting part. “And the moral of this story is?”

“That the people of Hotshot take care of their own justice.”

“Then you want them on your side.” I extracted my own moral from the story.

“Yes,” Sam said. “You definitely want them on your side. You don’t remember this? It was around fifteen years ago.”

“I was coping with my own troubles then,” I explained. I’d been an orphaned nine-year-old, coping with my growing telepathic powers.

Shortly after that, people began to stop by the bar on their way home from work. Sam and I didn’t get a chance to talk the rest of the evening, which was fine with me. I was very fond of Sam, who’d often had a starring role in some of my most private fantasies, but at this point, I had so much to worry about I just couldn’t take on any more.

That night, I discovered that some people thought Jason’s disappearance improved Bon Temps society. Among these were Andy Bellefleur and his sister, Portia, who stopped by Merlotte’s for supper, since their grandmother Caroline was having a dinner party and they were staying out of the way. Andy was a police detective and Portia was a lawyer, and they were both not on my list of favorite people. For one thing (a kind of sour-grapey thing), when Bill had found out they were his descendants, he’d made an elaborate plan to give the Bellefleurs money anonymously, and they’d really enjoyed their mysterious legacy to the hilt. But they couldn’t stand Bill himself, and it made me constantly irritated to see their new cars and expensive clothes and the new roof on the Bellefleur mansion, when they dissed Bill all the time-and me, too, for being Bill’s girlfriend.

Andy had been pretty nice to me before I started dating Bill. At least he’d been civil and left a decent tip. I’d just been invisible to Portia, who had her own share of personal woes. She’d come up with a suitor, I’d heard, and I wondered maliciously if that might not be due to the sudden upsurge in the Bellefleur family fortunes. I also wondered, at times, if Andy and Portia got happy in direct proportion to my misery. They were in fine fettle this winter evening, both tucking into their hamburgers with great zest.

“Sorry about your brother, Sookie,” Andy said, as I refilled his tea glass.

I looked down at him, my face expressionless.Liar,I thought. After a second, Andy’s eyes darted uneasily away from mine to light on the saltshaker, which seemed to have become peculiarly fascinating.

“Have you seen Bill lately?” Portia asked, patting her mouth with a napkin. She was trying to break the uneasy silence with a pleasant query, but I just got angrier.

“No,” I said. “Can I get you all anything else?”

“No, thanks, we’re just fine,” she said quickly. I spun on my heel and walked away. Then my mouth puckered in a smile. Just as I was thinking,Bitch,Portia was thinking,What a bitch.

Her ass is hot,Andy chimed in. Gosh, telepathy. What a blast. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I envied people who only heard with their ears.

Kevin and Kenya came in, too, very carefully not drinking. Theirs was a partnership that had given the people of Bon Temps much hilarity. Lily white Kevin was thin and reedy, a long-distance runner; all the equipment he had to wear on his uniform belt seemed almost too much for him to carry. His partner, Kenya, was two inches taller, pounds heavier, and fifteen shades darker. The men at the bar had been putting bets down for two years on whether or not they’d become lovers-of course, the guys at the bar didn’t put it as nicely as that.

I was unwillingly aware that Kenya (and her handcuffs and nightstick) featured in all too many patrons’ daydreams, and I also knew that the men who teased and derided Kevin the most mercilessly were the ones who had the most lurid fantasies. As I carried hamburger baskets over to Kevin and Kenya’s table, I could tell that Kenya was wondering whether she should suggest to Bud Dearborn that he call in the tracking dogs from a neighboring parish in the search for Jason, while Kevin was worried about his mother’s heart, which had been acting up more than usual lately.

“Sookie,” Kevin said, after I’d brought them a bottle of ketchup, “I meant to tell you, some people came by the police department today putting out posters about a vampire.”

“I saw one at the grocery,” I said.

“I realize that just because you were dating a vampire, you aren’t an expert,” Kevin said carefully, because Kevin always did his best to be nice to me, “but I wondered if you’d seen this vamp. Before he disappeared, I mean.”

Kenya was looking up at me, too, her dark eyes examining me with great interest. Kenya was thinking I always seemed to be on the fringes of bad things that happened in Bon Temps, without being bad myself (thanks, Kenya). She was hoping for my sake that Jason was alive. Kevin was thinking I’d always been nice to him and Kenya; and he was thinking he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. I sighed, I hoped imperceptibly. They were waiting for an answer. I hesitated, wondering what my best choice was. The truth is always easiest to remember.

“Sure, I’ve seen him before. Eric owns the vampire bar in Shreveport,” I said. “I saw him when I went there with Bill.”

“You haven’t seen him recently?”

“I sure didn’t abduct him from Fangtasia,” I said, with quite a lot of sarcasm in my voice.

Kenya gave me a sour look, and I didn’t blame her. “No one said you did,” she told me, in a “Don’t give me any trouble” kind of voice. I shrugged and drifted away.

I had plenty to do, since some people were still eating supper (and some were drinking it), and some regulars were drifting in after eating at home. Holly was equally busy, and when one of the men who worked for the phone company spilled his beer on the floor, she had to go get the mop and bucket. She was running behind on her tables when the door opened. I saw her putting Sid Matt Lancaster’s order in front of him, with her back to the door. So she missed the next entrance, but I didn’t. The young man Sam had hired to bus the tables during our busy hour was occupied with clearing two tables pulled together that had held a large party of parish workers, and so I was clearing off the Bellefleurs’ table. Andy was chatting with Sam while he waited for Portia, who’d visited the ladies’ room. I’d just pocketed my tip, which was fifteen percent of the bill to the penny. The Bellefleur tipping habits had improved-slightly-with the Bellefleur fortunes. I glanced up when the door was held open long enough for a cold gust of air to chill me.

The woman coming in was tall and so slim and broad-shouldered that I checked her chest, just to be sure I’d registered her gender correctly. Her hair was short and thick and brown, and she was wearing absolutely no makeup. There was a man with her, but I didn’t see him until she stepped to one side. He was no slouch in the size department himself, and his tight T-shirt revealed arms more developed than any I’d ever seen. Hours in the gym; no, years in the gym. His chestnut hair trailed down to his shoulders in tight curls, and his beard and mustache were perceptibly redder. Neither of the two wore coats, though it was definitely coat weather. The newcomers walked over to me.

“Where’s the owner?” the woman asked.

“Sam. He’s behind the bar,” I said, looking down as soon as I could and wiping the table all over again. The man had looked at me curiously; that was normal. As they brushed past me, I saw that he carried some posters under his arm and a staple gun. He’d stuck his hand through a roll of masking tape, so it bounced on his left wrist.

I glanced over at Holly. She’d frozen, the cup of coffee in her hand halfway down on its way to Sid Matt Lancaster’s placemat. The old lawyer looked up at her, followed her stare to the couple making their way between the tables to the bar. Merlotte’s, which had been on the quiet and peaceful side, was suddenly awash in tension. Holly set down the cup without burning Mr. Lancaster and spun on her heel, going through the swinging door to the kitchen at warp speed.

I didn’t need any more confirmation on the identity of the woman.

The two reached Sam and began a low-voiced conversation with him, with Andy listening in just because he was in the vicinity. I passed by on my way to take the dirty dishes to the hatch, and I heard the woman say (in a deep, alto voice) “. . . put up these posters in town, just in case anyone spots him.”

This was Hallow, the witch whose pursuit of Eric had caused such an upset. She, or a member of her coven, was probably the murderer of Adabelle Yancy. This was the woman who might have taken my brother, Jason. My head began pounding as if there were a little demon inside trying to break out with a hammer.

No wonder Holly was in such a state and didn’t want Hallow to glimpse her. She’d been to Hallow’s little meeting in Shreveport, and her coven had rejected Hallow’s invitation.

“Of course,” Sam said. “Put up one on this wall.” He indicated a blank spot by the door that led back to the bathrooms and his office.

Holly stuck her head out the kitchen door, glimpsed Hallow, ducked back in. Hallow’s eyes flicked over to the door, but not in time to glimpse Holly, I hoped.

I thought of jumping Hallow, beating on her until she told me what I wanted to know about my brother. That was what the pounding in my head was urging me to do-initiate action, any action. But I had a streak of common sense, and luckily for me it came to the fore. Hallow was big, and she had a sidekick who could crush me-plus, Kevin and Kenya would make me stop before I could get her to talk.

It was horribly frustrating to have her right in front of me and at the same time be unable to discover what she knew. I dropped all my shields, and I listened in as hard as I could.

But she suspected something when I touched inside her head.

She looked vaguely puzzled and glanced around. That was enough warning for me. I scrambled back into my own head as quickly as I could. I continued back behind the bar, passing within a couple of feet of the witch as she tried to figure out who’d brushed at her brain.

This had never happened to me before. No one,no one,had ever suspected I was listening in. I squatted behind the bar to get the big container of Morton Salt, straightened, and carefully refilled the shaker I’d snatched from Kevin and Kenya’s table. I concentrated on this as hard as anyone can focus on performing such a nothing little task, and when I was through, the poster had been mounted with the staple gun. Hallow was lingering, prolonging her talk with Sam so she could figure out who had touched the inside of her head, and Mr. Muscles was eyeing me-but only like a man looks at a woman-as I returned the shaker to its table. Holly hadn’t reappeared.

“Sookie,” Sam called.

Oh, for goodness sake. I had to respond. He was my boss.

I went over to the three of them, dread in my heart and a smile on my face.

“Hey,” I said, by way of greeting, giving the tall witch and her stalwart sidekick a neutral smile. I raised my eyebrows at Sam to ask him what he’d wanted.

“Marnie Stonebrook, Mark Stonebrook,” he said.

I nodded to each of them.Hallow, indeed,I thought, half-amused. “Hallow” was just a tad more spiritual than “Marnie.”

“They’re looking for this guy,” Sam said, indicating the poster. “You know him?”

Of course Sam knew that I knew Eric. I was glad I’d had years of concealing my feelings and thoughts from the eyes of others. I looked the poster over deliberately.

“Sure, I’ve seen him,” I said. “When I went to that bar in Shreveport? He’s kind of unforgettable, isn’t he?” I gave Hallow-Marnie-a smile. We were just gals together, Marnie and Sookie, sharing a gal moment.

“Handsome guy,” she agreed in her throaty voice. “He’s missing now, and we’re offering a reward for anyone who can give us information.”

“I see that from the poster,” I said, letting a tiny hint of irritation show in my voice. “Is there any particular reason you think he might be around here? I can’t imagine what a Shreveport vampire would be doing in Bon Temps.” I looked at her questioningly. Surely I wasn’t out of line in asking that?

“Good question, Sookie,” Sam said. “Not that I mind having the poster up, but how come you two are searching this area for the guy? Why would he be here? Nothing happens in Bon Temps.”

“This town has a vampire in residence, doesn’t it?” Mark Stonebrook said suddenly. His voice was almost a twin of his sister’s. He was so buff you expected to hear a bass, and even an alto as deep as Mamie’s sounded strange coming from his throat. Actually, from Mark Stonebrook’s appearance, you’d think he’d just grunt and growl to communicate.