Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set (70 page)

“ ’Scuse me, Sam,” I said, smiling like an idiot.

“What’s up?” He closed the catalog of bar supplies he’d been studying.

“I need to stash someone in here for a little while.”

Sam didn’t look altogether happy. “Who? Has Bill gotten back?”

“No, he’s still traveling.” My smile got even brighter. “But, um, they sent another vampire to sort of guard me? And I need to stow him in here while I work, if that’s okay with you.”

“Why do you need to be guarded? And why can’t he just sit out in the bar? We have plenty of TrueBlood.” TrueBlood was definitely proving to be the front-runner among competing blood replacements. “Next best to the drink of life,” its first ad had read, and vampires had responded to the ad campaign.

I heard the tiniest of sounds behind me, and I sighed. Bubba had gotten impatient.

“Now, I asked you—” I began, starting to turn, but never got further. A hand grasped my shoulder and whirled me around. I was facing a man I’d never seen before. He was cocking his fist to punch me in the head.

Though the vampire blood I had ingested a few months ago (to save my life, let me point out) has mostly worn off—I barely glow in the dark at all now—I’m still quicker than most people. I dropped and rolled into the man’s legs, which made him stagger, which made it easier for Bubba to grab him and crush his throat.

I scrambled to my feet and Sam rushed out of his office. We stared at each other, Bubba, and the dead man.

Well, now we were really in a pickle.

“I’ve kilt him,” Bubba said proudly. “I saved you, Miss Sookie.”

Having the Man from Memphis appear in your bar, realizing he’s become a vampire, and watching him kill a would-be assailant—well, that was a lot to absorb in a couple of minutes, even for Sam, though he himself was more than he appeared.

“Well, so you have,” Sam said to Bubba in a soothing voice. “Do you know who he was?”

I had never seen a dead man—outside of visitation at the local funeral home—until I’d started dating Bill (who of course was technically dead, but I mean human dead people).

It seems I run across them now quite often. Lucky I’m not too squeamish.

This particular dead man had been in his forties, and every year of that had been hard. He had tattoos all over his arms, mostly of the poor quality you get in jail, and he was missing some crucial teeth. He was dressed in what I thought of as biker clothes: greasy blue jeans and a leather vest, with an obscene T-shirt underneath.

“What’s on the back of the vest?” Sam asked, as if that would have significance for him.

Bubba obligingly squatted and rolled the man to his side. The way the man’s hand flopped at the end of his arm made me feel pretty queasy. But I forced myself to look at the vest. The back was decorated with a wolf’s head insignia. The wolf was in profile, and seemed to be howling. The head was silhouetted against a white circle, which I decided was supposed to be the moon. Sam looked even more worried when he saw the insignia. “Werewolf,” he said tersely. That explained a lot.

The weather was too chilly for a man wearing only a vest, if he wasn’t a vampire. Weres ran a little hotter than regular people, but mostly they were careful to wear coats in cold weather, since Were society was still secret from the human race (except for lucky, lucky me, and probably a few hundred others). I wondered if the dead man had left a coat out in the bar hanging on the hooks by the main entrance; in which case, he’d been back here hiding in the men’s room, waiting for me to appear. Or maybe he’d come through the back door right after me. Maybe his coat was in his vehicle.

“You see him come in?” I asked Bubba. I was maybe just a little light-headed.

“Yes, ma’am. He must have been waiting in the big parking lot for you. He drove around the corner, got out of his car, and went in the back just a minute after you did. You hightailed it through the door, and then he went in. And I followed him. You mighty lucky you had me with you.”

“Thank you, Bubba. You’re right; I’m lucky to have you. I wonder what he planned to do with me.” I felt cold all over as I thought about it. Had he just been looking for a lone woman to grab, or did he plan on grabbing me specifically? Then I realized that was dumb thinking. If Eric had been alarmed enough to send a bodyguard, he must have known there was a threat, which pretty much ruled out me being targeted at random. Without comment, Bubba strode out the back door. He returned in just a minute.

“He’s got him some duct tape and gags on the front seat of his car,” Bubba said. “That’s where his coat is. I brought it to put under his head.” He bent to arrange the heavily padded camouflage jacket around the dead man’s face and neck. Wrapping the head was a real good idea, since the man was leaking a little bit. When he had finished his task, Bubba licked his fingers.

Sam put an arm around me because I had started shaking.

“This is strange, though,” I was saying, when the door to the hall from the bar began to open. I glimpsed Kevin Pryor’s face. Kevin is a sweet guy, but he’s a cop, and that’s the last thing we needed.

“Sorry, toilet’s back-flowing,” I said, and pushed the door shut on his narrow, astonished, face. “Listen, fellas, why don’t I hold this door shut while you two take this guy and put him in his car? Then we can figure out what to do with him.” The floor of the hall would need swabbing. I discovered the hall door actually locked. I’d never realized that.

Sam was doubtful. “Sookie, don’t you think that we should call the police?” he asked.

A year ago I would have been on the phone dialing 911 before the corpse even hit the floor. But that year had been one long learning curve. I caught Sam’s eye and inclined my head toward Bubba. “How do you think he’d handle jail?” I murmured. Bubba was humming the opening line to “Blue Christmas.” “Our hands are hardly strong enough to have done this,” I pointed out.

After a moment of indecision, Sam nodded, resigned to the inevitable. “Okay, Bubba, let’s you and me tote this guy out to his car.”

I ran to get a mop while the men—well, the vampire and the shape-shifter—carried Biker Boy out the back door. By the time Sam and Bubba returned, bringing a gust of cold air in their wake, I had mopped the hall and the men’s bathroom (as I would if there really had been an overflow). I sprayed some air freshener in the hall to improve the environment.

It was a good thing we’d acted quickly, because Kevin was pushing open the door as soon as I’d unlocked it.

“Everything okay back here?” he asked. Kevin is a runner, so he has almost no body fat, and he’s not a big guy. He looks kind of like a sheep, and he still lives with his mom. But for all that, he’s nobody’s fool. In the past, whenever I’d listened to his thoughts, they were either on police work, or his black amazon of a partner, Kenya Jones. Right now, his thoughts ran more to the suspicious.

“I think we got it fixed,” Sam said. “Watch your feet, we just mopped. Don’t slip and sue me!” He smiled at Kevin.

“Someone in your office?” Kevin asked, nodding his head toward the closed door.

“One of Sookie’s friends,” Sam said.

“I better get out there and hustle some drinks,” I said cheerfully, beaming at them both. I reached up to check that my ponytail was smooth, and then I made my Reeboks move. The bar was almost empty, and the woman I was replacing (Charlsie Tooten) looked relieved. “This is one slow night,” she muttered to me. “The guys at table six have been nursing that pitcher for an hour, and Jane Bodehouse has tried to pick up every man who’s come in. Kevin’s been writing something in a notebook all night.”

I glanced at the only female customer in the bar, trying to keep the distaste off my face. Every drinking establishment has its share of alcoholic customers, people who open and close the place. Jane Bodehouse was one of ours. Normally, Jane drank by herself at home, but every two weeks or so she’d take it into her head to come in and pick up a man. The pickup process was getting more and more iffy, since not only was Jane in her fifties, but lack of regular sleep and proper nutrition had been taking a toll for the past ten years.

This particular night, I noticed that when Jane had applied her makeup, she had missed the actual perimeters of her eyebrows and lips. The result was pretty unsettling. We’d have to call her son to come get her. I could tell at a glance she couldn’t drive.

I nodded to Charlsie, and waved at Arlene, the other waitress, who was sitting at a table with her latest flame, Buck Foley. Things were really dead if Arlene was off her feet. Arlene waved back, her red curls bouncing.

“How’re the kids?” I called, beginning to put away some of the glasses Charlsie had gotten out of the dishwasher. I felt like I was acting real normal until I noticed that my hands were shaking violently.

“Doing great. Coby made the All-A honor roll and Lisa won the spelling bee,” she said with a broad smile. To anyone who believed that a four-times married woman couldn’t be good mother, I would point at Arlene. I gave Buck a quick smile, too, in Arlene’s honor. Buck is about the average kind of guy Arlene dates, which is not good enough for her.

“That’s great! They’re smart kids, like their mama,” I said.

“Hey, did that guy find you?”

“What guy?” Though I had a feeling I already knew.

“That guy in the motorcycle gear. He asked me was I the waitress dating Bill Compton, since he’d got a delivery for that waitress.”

“He didn’t know my name?”

“No, and that’s pretty weird, isn’t it? Oh my God, Sookie, if he didn’t know your name, how could he have come from Bill?”

Possibly Coby’s smarts had come through his daddy, since it had taken Arlene this long to figure that out. I loved Arlene for her nature, not her brain.

“So, what did you tell him?” I asked, beaming at her. It was my nervous smile, not my real one. I don’t always know when I’m wearing it.

“I told him I liked my men warm and breathing,” she said, and laughed. Arlene was occasionally completely tactless, too. I reminded myself to reevaluate why she was my good friend. “No, I didn’t really say that. I just told him you would be the blond who came in at nine.”

Thanks, Arlene. So my attacker had known who I was because my best friend had identified me; he hadn’t known my name or where I lived, just that I worked at Merlotte’s and dated Bill Compton. That was a little reassuring, but not a lot.

Three hours dragged by. Sam came out, told me in a whisper that he’d given Bubba a magazine to look at and a bottle of Life Support to sip on, and began to poke around behind the bar. “How come that guy was driving a car instead of a motorcycle?” Sam muttered in a low voice. “How come his car’s got a Mississippi license plate?” He hushed when Kevin came up to check that we were going to call Jane’s son, Marvin. Sam phoned while Kevin stood there so he could relay the son’s promise to be at Merlotte’s in twenty minutes. Kevin pushed off after that, his notebook tucked under his arm. I wondered if Kevin was turning into a poet, or writing his resume.

The four men who’d been trying to ignore Jane while sipping their pitcher at the speed of a turtle finished their beer and left, each dropping a dollar on the table by way of tip. Big spenders. I’d never get my driveway regraveled with customers like these.

With only half an hour to wait, Arlene did her closing chores and asked if she could go on and leave with Buck. Her kids were still with her mom, so she and Buck might have the trailer to themselves for a little while.

“Bill coming home soon?” she asked me as she pulled on her coat. Buck was talking football with Sam.

I shrugged. He’d called me three nights before, telling me he’d gotten to “Seattle” safely and was meeting with—whomever he was supposed to meet with. The Caller ID had read “Unavailable.” I felt like that said quite a lot about the whole situation. I felt like that was a bad sign.

“You . . . missing him?” Her voice was sly.

“What do you think?” I asked, with a little smile at the corners of my mouth. “You go on home, have a good time.”

“Buck is very good at good times,” she said, almost leering.

“Lucky you.”

So Jane Bodehouse was the only customer in Merlotte’s when Pam arrived. Jane hardly counted; she was so out of it.

Pam is a vampire, and she is co-owner of Fangtasia, a tourist bar in Shreveport. She’s Eric’s second in command. Pam is blond, probably two hundred-plus years old, and actually has a sense of humor—not a vampire trademark. If a vampire can be your friend, she was as close as I’d gotten.

She sat on a bar stool and faced me over the shining expanse of wood.

This was ominous. I had
never
seen Pam anywhere but Fangtasia. “What’s up?” I said by way of greeting. I smiled at her, but I was tense all over.

“Where’s Bubba?” she asked, in her precise voice. She looked over my shoulder. “Eric’s going to be angry if Bubba didn’t make it here.” For the first time, I noticed that Pam had a faint accent, but I couldn’t pin it down. Maybe just the inflections of antique English.

“Bubba’s in the back, in Sam’s office,” I said, focusing on her face. I wished the ax would go on and fall. Sam came to stand beside me, and I introduced them. Pam gave him a more significant greeting than she would have given a plain human (whom she might not have acknowledged at all), since Sam was a shape-shifter. And I expected to see a flicker of interest, since Pam is omnivorous in matters of sex, and Sam is an attractive supernatural being. Though vampires aren’t well-known for facial expressions, I decided that Pam’s was definitely unhappy.

“What’s the deal?” I asked, after a moment of silence.

Pam met my gaze. We’re both blue-eyed blonds, but that’s like saying two animals are both dogs. That’s as far as any resemblance went. Pam’s hair was straight and pale, and her eyes were very dark. Now they were full of trouble. She looked at Sam, her stare significant. Without a word, he went over to help Jane’s son, a worn-looking man in his thirties, shift Jane to the car.