Living Dead in Dallas (12 page)

Hugo thought that over, his big freckled hands moving restlessly on the steering wheel. “Okay,” he said finally. “Like I said, I’m not much of an actor, but I think I can bring that off.”

I acted all the time, so I wasn’t too worried about myself. Taking a drink order from a guy while pretending you don’t know whether he’s speculating on whether you’re blond all the way down can be excellent acting training. You can’t blame people—mostly—for what they’re thinking on the inside. You have to learn to rise above it.

I started to suggest to the lawyer that he hold my hand if things got tense today, to send me thoughts that I could act on. But his ambivalence, the ambivalence that wafted from him like a cheap cologne, gave me pause. He might be in sexual thrall to Isabel, he might even love her and the danger she represented, but I didn’t think his heart and mind were wholly committed to her.

In an unpleasant moment of self-examination, I wondered if the same could be said of Bill and me. But now was not the time and place to ponder this. I was getting enough from Hugo’s mind to wonder if he were completely trustworthy in terms of this little mission of ours. It was just a short step from there to wondering how safe I was in his company. I also wondered how much Hugo Ayres actually knew about me. He hadn’t been in the room when I’d been working the night before. Isabel hadn’t struck me as a chatterer. It was possible he didn’t know much about me.

The four-lane road, running through a huge suburb, was lined with all the usual fast-food places and chain stores of all kinds. But gradually, the shopping gave way to residences, and the concrete to greenery. The traffic
seemed unrelenting. I could never live in a place this size, cope with this on a daily basis.

Hugo slowed and put on his turn signal when we came to a major intersection. We were about to turn into the parking lot of a large church; at least, it had formerly been a church. The sanctuary was huge, by Bon Temps standards. Only Baptists could count that kind of attendance, in my neck of the woods, and that’s if all their congregations joined together. The two-story sanctuary was flanked by two long one-story wings. The whole building was white-painted brick, and all the windows were tinted. There was a chemically green lawn surrounding the whole, and a huge parking lot.

The sign on the well-tended lawn read
THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE SUN CENTER
—Only Jesus Rose from the Dead.

I snorted as I opened my door and emerged from Hugo’s car. “That right there is false,” I pointed out to my companion. “Lazarus rose from the dead, too. Jerks can’t even get their scripture right.”

“You better banish that attitude from your head,” Hugo warned me, as he got out and hit the lock button. “It’ll make you careless. These people are dangerous. They’ve accepted responsibility, publicly, for handing over two vampires to the Drainers, saying at least humanity can benefit from the death of a vampire in some way.”

“They deal with Drainers?” I felt sick. Drainers followed an extremely hazardous profession. They trapped vampires, wound them around with silver chains, and drained the blood from them for sale on the black market. “These people in here have handed over vampires to the Drainers?”

“That’s what one of their members said in a newspaper interview. Of course, the leader was on the news the next day, denying the report vehemently, but I think
that was just smokescreen. The Fellowship kills vampires any way they can, thinks they’re unholy and an abomination, and they’re capable of anything. If you’re a vampire’s best friend, they can bring tremendous pressure to bear. Just remember that, every time you open your mouth in here.”

“You, too, Mr. Ominous Warning.”

We walked to the building slowly, looking it over as we went. There were about ten other cars in the parking lot, ranging from aging and dented to brand new and upscale. My favorite was a pearly white Lexus, so nice it might almost have belonged to a vampire.

“Someone’s doing well out of the hate business,” Hugo observed.

“Who’s the head of this place?”

“Guy named Steve Newlin.”

“Bet this is his car.”

“That would account for the bumper sticker.”

I nodded. It read
TAKE THE UN OUT OF UNDEAD
. Dangling from the mirror inside was a replica—well, maybe a replica—of a stake.

This was a busy place, for a Saturday afternoon. There were children using the swing set and jungle gym in a fenced yard to the side of the building. The kids were being watched by a bored teenager, who looked up every now and then from picking at his nails. Today was not as hot as the day before—summer was losing its doomed last stand, and thank God for that—and the door of the building was propped open to take advantage of the beautiful day and moderate temperature.

Hugo took my hand, which made me jump until I realized he was trying to make us look loverlike. He had zero interest in me personally, which was fine with me. After a second’s adjustment we managed to look fairly natural. The contact made Hugo’s mind just that more open to me, and I could tell that he was anxious but
resolute. He found touching me distasteful, which was a little bit too strong a feeling for me to feel comfortable about; lack of attraction was peachy, but this actual distaste made me uneasy. There was something behind that feeling, some basic attitude. . . but there were people ahead of us, and I pulled my mind back to my job. I could feel my lips pull into their smile.

Bill had been careful to leave my neck alone last night, so I didn’t have to worry about concealing any fang marks, and in my new outfit and on this lovely day it was easier to look carefree as we nodded at a middle-aged couple who were on their way out.

We passed into the dimness of the building, into what must have been the Sunday school wing of the church. There were fresh signs outside the rooms up and down the corridor, signs that read
BUDGETING AND FINANCE
,
ADVERTISING
, and most ominously,
MEDIA RELATIONS
.

A woman in her forties came out of a door farther down the hall, and turned to face us. She looked pleasant, even sweet, with lovely skin and short brown hair. Her definitely pink lipstick matched her definitely pink fingernails, and her lower lip was slightly pouty, which gave her an unexpectedly sensuous air; it sat with odd provocation on her pleasantly round body. A denim skirt and a knit shirt, neatly tucked in, were the echo of my own outfit, and I patted myself on the back mentally.

“Can I help you?” she asked, looking hopeful.

“We want to find out more about the Fellowship,” Hugo said, and he seemed every bit as nice and sincere as our new friend. She had on a nametag, I noticed, which read
S
.
NEWLIN
.

“We’re glad you’re here,” she said. “I’m the wife of the director, Steve Newlin? I’m Sarah?” She shook hands with Hugo, but not with me. Some women don’t believe in shaking hands with another woman, so I didn’t worry about it.

We exchanged pleasedtomeetyou’s, and she waved a manicured hand toward the double doors at the end of the hall. “If you’ll just come with me, I’ll show you where we get things done.” She laughed a little, as if the idea of meeting goals was a touch ludicrous.

All of the doors in the hall were open, and within the rooms there was evidence of perfectly open activity. If the Newlins’ organization was keeping prisoners or conducting covert ops, it was accomplishing its goals in some other part of the building. I looked at everything as hard as I could, determined to fill myself with information. But so far the interior of the Fellowship of the Sun was as blindingly clean as the outside, and the people hardly seemed sinister or devious.

Sarah covered ground ahead of us with an easy walk. She clutched a bundle of file folders to her chest and chattered over her shoulder as she moved at a pace that seemed relaxed, but actually was a bit challenging. Hugo and I, abandoning the handholding, had to step out to keep up.

This building was proving to be far larger than I’d estimated. We’d entered at the far end of one wing. Now we crossed the large sanctuary of the former church, set up for meetings like any big hall, and we passed into the other wing. This wing was divided into fewer and larger rooms; the one closest to the sanctuary was clearly the office of the former pastor. Now it had a sign on the door that read
G
.
STEVEN NEWLIN
,
DIRECTOR
.

This was the only closed door I’d seen in the building.

Sarah knocked and, having waited for a moment, entered. The tall, lanky man behind the desk stood to beam at us with an air of pleased expectancy. His head didn’t seem quite big enough for his body. His eyes were a hazy blue, his nose was on the beaky side, and his hair was almost the same dark brown as his wife’s, with a threading of gray. I don’t know what I’d been expecting
in a fanatic, but this man was not it. He seemed a little amused by his own life.

He’d been talking to a tall woman with iron gray hair. She was wearing a pair of slacks and a blouse, but she looked as if she’d have been more comfortable in a business suit. She was formidably made up, and she was less than pleased about something—maybe our interruption.

“What can I do for you today?” Steve Newlin asked, indicating that Hugo and I should be seated. We took green leather armchairs pulled up opposite his desk, and Sarah, unasked, plopped down in a smaller chair that was against the wall on one side. “Excuse me, Steve,” she said to her husband. “Listen, can I get you two some coffee? Soda?”

Hugo and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

“Honey, this is—oh, I didn’t even ask your names?” She looked at us with charming ruefulness.

“I’m Hugo Ayres, and this is my girlfriend, Marigold.”

Marigold?
Was he
nuts
? I kept my smile pasted on my face with an effort. Then I saw the pot of marigolds on the table beside Sarah, and at least I could understand his selection. We’d certainly made a large mistake already; we should have talked about this on the drive over. It stood to reason that if the Fellowship was responsible for the bug, the Fellowship knew the name of Sookie Stackhouse. Thank God Hugo had figured that out.

“Don’t we know Hugo Ayres, Sarah?” Steve Newlin’s face had the perfect quizzical expression—brow slightly wrinkled, eyebrows raised inquiringly, head tilted to one side.

“Ayres?” said the gray-haired woman. “By the way, I’m Polly Blythe, the Fellowship ceremonies officer.”

“Oh, Polly, I’m sorry, I got sidetracked.” Sarah tilted her head right back. Her forehead wrinkled, too. Then it
smoothed out and she beamed at her husband. “Wasn’t an Ayres the lawyer representing the vampires in University Park?”

“So he was,” Steve said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his long legs. He waved to someone passing by in the corridor and wrapped his laced fingers around his knee. “Well, it’s very interesting that you’re paying us a call, Hugo. Can we hope that you’ve seen the other side of the vampire question?” Satisfaction rolled off Steve Newlin like scent off a skunk.

“It’s appropriate that you should put it that way—” Hugo began, but Steve’s voice just kept rolling on:

“The bloodsucking side, the dark side of vampire existence? Have you found that they want to kill us all, dominate us with their foul ways and empty promises?”

I knew my eyes were as round as plates. Sarah was nodding thoughtfully, still looking as sweet and bland as a vanilla pudding. Polly looked as if she were having some really grim kind of orgasm. Steve said—and he was still smiling—“You know, eternal life on this earth may sound good, but you’ll lose your soul and eventually, when we catch up with you—maybe not me, of course, maybe my son, or eventually my granddaughter—we’ll stake you and burn you and then you’ll be in true hell. And it won’t be any the better for having been put off. God has a special corner for vampires who’ve used up humans like toilet tissue and then flushed . . .”

Well, ick. This was going downhill in a hurry. And what I was getting off of Steve was just this endless, gloating satisfaction, along with a heavy dash of cleverness. Nothing concrete or informative.

“Excuse me, Steve,” said a deep voice. I swiveled in my chair to see a handsome black-haired man with a crewcut and a bodybuilder’s muscles. He smiled at all of us in the room with the same goodwill they were all showing. It had impressed me earlier. Now, I thought it
was just creepy. “Our guest is asking for you.”

“Really? I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I wish you would come now. I’m sure your guests wouldn’t mind waiting?” Black Crewcut glanced at us appealingly. Hugo was thinking of some deep place, a flash of thought which seemed very peculiar to me.

“Gabe, I’ll be there when I’ve finished with our visitors,” Steve said very firmly.

“Well, Steve . . .” Gabe wasn’t willing to give up that easily, but he got a flash from Steve’s eyes and Steve sat up and uncrossed his legs, and Gabe got the message. He shot Steve a look that was anything but worshipful, but he left.

That exchange was promising. I wondered if Farrell was behind some locked door, and I could picture myself returning to the Dallas nest, telling Stan exactly where his nest brother was trapped. And then . . .

Uh-oh. And then Stan would come and attack the Fellowship of the Sun and kill all the members and free Farrell, and then . . .

Oh dear.

“
W
E JUST WANTED
to know if you have some upcoming events we can attend, something that’ll give us an idea of the scope of the programs here.” Hugo’s voice sounded mildly inquiring, nothing more. “Since Miss Blythe is here, maybe she can answer that.”

I noticed Polly Blythe glanced at Steve before she spoke, and I noticed that his face remained shuttered. Polly Blythe was very pleased to be asked to give information, and she was very pleased about Hugo and me being there at the Fellowship.

“We do have some upcoming events,” the gray-haired woman said. “Tonight, we’re having a special lock-in, and following that, we have a Sunday dawn ritual.”