Dead Reckoning: A Sookie Stackhouse Novel

by Charlaine Harris

  Well, I was glad Bill and Judith had gotten to talk over fun times in the old days with Mama Lorena—murderess, prostitute, torturer. I couldn’t really hold the prostitute part against her, since there hadn’t been that many ways for a woman alone to make a living in the old times, even a vampire woman. But the rest—no matter what her circumstances had been, no matter how hard her life before and after her first death, Lorena had been an evil bitch. I pulled my hand away from Bill.

  “Good night,” I said. “I’m overdue for bed.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I’m just tired and sad.”

  “I love you,” Bill said helplessly, as if he wished those magic words would heal me. But he knew they wouldn’t.

  “That’s what you all keep saying,” I answered. “But it doesn’t seem to get me any happier.” I didn’t know if I had a valid point or if I was simply being self-pitying, but it was too late at night—no, too early in the morning—to have the clarity of mind to decide that. A few minutes later, I crawled into my bed in an empty house, and being alone felt pretty damn good.

  I woke up at noon on Friday with two pressing thoughts. The first was, Did Dermot renew my wards? And the second was, Oh my God, the baby shower is tomorrow!

  After some coffee and pulling on my clothes, I called Hooligans. Bellenos answered.

  “Hi,” I said. “Can I speak to Dermot? Is he better?”

  “He’s well,” Bellenos said. “But he’s on his way to your house.”

  “Oh, good! Listen, maybe you’ll know this. . . . Did he renew the wards on the house, or am I unprotected?”

  “God forbid you should be with a fairy unprotected,” Bellenos said, trying to sound serious.

  “No double entendres!”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, and I could tell he was flashing that sharptoothed smile. “I myself put wards around your house, and I assure you they will hold.”

  “Thanks, Bellenos,” I said, but I wasn’t completely happy that someone I trusted as little as Bellenos had been in charge of my protection.

  “You’re welcome. Despite your doubts, I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said, keeping all expression out of my voice.

  Bellenos laughed. “If you get too lonely out there in the woods, you can always call me,” he said.

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Thanks.” Was the elf coming on to me? That made no sense. More likely he wanted to eat me, and not in the fun way.

  Maybe better not to know. I wondered how Dermot was getting here but not enough to call Bellenos again.

  Reassured that Dermot was returning, I studied my list of shower preparations. I’d asked Maxine Fortenberry to make the punch, because hers was famous. I was picking up the cake from the bakery. I didn’t have to work today or tomorrow, which meant a big loss in tips, but it was turning out real convenient. So my to-do list was like: Today, complete all preparations for the baby shower. Tonight, kill Victor. Tomorrow, guests arrive for shower.

  In the meantime, like any incipient hostess, I was going to be all about the cleaning. My living room was still below par since the attic stuff had been sitting in it, and I started from the top down: dust the pictures, then the furniture, then the baseboards. Then vacuum. I worked my way down the hall, visiting my bedroom, the guest bedroom, and the hall bathroom. I got a squirt bottle of all-purpose cleaner and attacked the kitchen surfaces. I was about to mop the floors when I saw Dermot in the backyard. He’d driven back in a battered Chevy compact.

  “Where’d you get the car?” I called from the back porch.

  “I bought it,” he said proudly.

  I hoped he hadn’t used fairy enchantment or something. I was scared to ask. “Let me see your head,” I said, when he got into the house. I looked at the back of his skull where the gash had been. A thin white line, that was all. “Amazing,” I said. “How do you feel?”

  “Better than I did yesterday. I’m ready to get back to work.” He went into the living room. “You’re cleaning,” he said. “Is there a special occasion?”

  “Yes,” I said, smacking myself on the forehead. “I’m so sorry I forgot to tell you. I’m giving Tara Thornton—Tara du Rone—a baby shower tomorrow. She’s expecting twins, Claude believes. Oh, she got that confirmed.”

  “Can I come?” he asked.

  “It’s all right with me,” I said, taken aback. Most human guys would rather have their toenails painted than come to such a party. “You’ll be the only man there, but I assume that won’t bother you?”

  “Sounds great,” he said, smiling that beautiful smile.

  “You’ll have to keep your ears covered and listen to about a million comments about how much you look like Jason,” I said. “We’ll need to explain you.”

  “Just tell them I’m your great-uncle,” he said.

  For one fun moment, I envisioned doing just that. I had to give it up, though with some regret. “You look much too young to be my great-uncle, and everyone here knows my family tree. The human part of it,” I added hastily. “But I’ll think of something.”

  While I vacuumed, Dermot looked at the big box of pictures and the smaller one of printed material that I hadn’t yet had a chance to go over. He seemed fascinated by the pictures. “We don’t use this technology,” he said.

  I sat beside him when I’d put the vacuum away. I’d tried to arrange the images in chronological order, but it had been a hasty task, and I was sure I’d have to redo it.

  The pictures at the front of the box were very old. People sitting in stiff groups, their backs rigid, their faces, too. If the backs were labeled, it was in spidery formal handwriting. Many of the men were bearded or mustached, and they wore hats and ties. The women were confined in long sleeves and skirts, and their posture was amazing.

  Gradually as the Stackhouse family rolled along in time, the pictures became less posed, more spontaneous. The clothing morphed along with attitudes. Color began to tint faces and scenery. Dermot seemed genuinely interested, so I explained the background on some of the more recent snapshots. One was of a very old man holding a baby swathed in pink. “That’s me and one of my great-grandfathers; he died when I was little bitty,” I said. “That’s him and his wife when they were in their fifties. And this is my grandmother Adele and her husband.”

  “No,” Dermot said. “That’s my brother Fintan.”

  “No, this is my grandfather, Mitchell. Look at him.”

  “He is your grandfather. Your true grandfather. Fintan.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He’s made himself to look like Adele’s husband, but I can tell it’s my brother. He was my twin, after all, though we were not identical. Look here at his feet. His feet are smaller than those of the man who married Adele. Fintan was always careless that way.”

  I spread out all the pictures of Grandmother and Grandfather Stackhouse. Fintan was in about a third of them. I’d suspected from her letter that Fintan had been around more than she’d realized, but this was just creepy. In every picture of Fintan-as-Mitchell, he was smiling broadly.

  “She didn’t know about this, for sure,” I said. Dermot looked dubious. And I had to admit to myself that she had suspected. It was there, in her letter.

  “He was playing one of his jokes,” Dermot said fondly. “Fintan was a great one for jokes.”

  “But . . .” I hesitated, not sure how to phrase what I wanted to say. “You get that this was really wrong?” I said. “You understand that he was deceiving her on a couple of different levels?”

  “She agreed to be lovers with him,” Dermot said. “He was very fond of her. What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a lot of difference,” I said. “If she thought she was with one man when she was with another, that’s a huge deception.”

  “But a harmless one, surely? After all, even you agree she loved both men, had sex with both of them willingly. So,” he asked again,
“what difference does it make?”

  I stared at him doubtfully. No matter how she felt about her husband or her lover, I still thought there was a moral issue here. In fact, I knew there was. Dermot didn’t seem to be able to discern that. I wondered if my great-grandfather would agree with me or with Dermot. I had a sinking feeling I knew.

  “I better get back to work,” I said, with a tight smile. “Got to mop the kitchen. You going to get back to work in the attic?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “I love the machinery,” he said.

  “Please close the attic door, then, because I’ve dusted down here and I don’t want to have to do that again before tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Sure, Sookie.”

  Dermot went up the stairs whistling. It was a tune I’d never heard before, which figured.

  I gathered up the pictures, keeping separate the ones that Dermot had earmarked as featuring his brother. I was considering building a little fire with them. Up in the attic, the sander started up. I looked at the ceiling as if I could see Dermot through the boards. Then I shook myself and went back to work, but in an abstracted and uneasy mood.

  When I was standing on a stepladder hanging the WELCOME BABY sign from the light fixture, I remembered I had to iron my great-grandmother’s tablecloth. I hate ironing, but it had to be done, and better today than tomorrow. When the stepladder was put away, I opened the ironing board—there’d been a built-in one in the previous kitchen—and set to work. The tablecloth was not exactly white anymore. It had aged to ivory. I soon had it smooth and beautiful, and touching it reminded me of high occasions in the past. I’d seen pictures including this very piece of cloth today; it had been on the kitchen table or the old sideboard for Thanksgivings and Christmases and wedding showers and anniversaries. I loved my family, and I loved those memories. I only regretted that there were so few of us to recall them.

  And I was aware of another truth, another real thing. I realized I really didn’t appreciate the fairy sense of fun that had made a lie out of some of those memories.

  By three that afternoon, the house was as close to ready as I could get it. The sideboard was draped with the tablecloth, the paper plates and napkins were out, the plastic forks and spoons. I’d polished the silver nut dish and a little tray for the cheese straws, which I’d made and frozen a couple of weeks before. I ran down my checklist. I was as ready as I could possibly be.

  If I didn’t survive tonight, I was afraid that the baby shower would be a bust. I had to assume that my friends would be too jangled to go ahead with the shower if I got killed. Just in case, I left detailed notes about the location of everything that wasn’t already out. I even brought out my present for the babies, matching wicker baskets that could be used as traveling cribs. They were decorated with big gingham bows and packed full of useful stuff. I’d accumulated the items for the gift baskets on sale, bit by bit. Bottles for supplemental feeding, a baby thermometer, a few toys, a few receiving blankets, some picture books, bibs, a package of cloth diapers for use as spit-up rags. It felt strange to think that I might not be around to see the babies grow up.

  It also felt strange that paying for the shower hadn’t been such a financial hardship, thanks to the money in my savings account.

  Suddenly, I had an amazing idea. That made two in two days. As soon as I’d worked it out in my head, I was in my car and on my way to town. It felt weird walking into Merlotte’s on my day off. Sam looked surprised but pleased to see me. He was in his office with a stack of bills in front of him. I put another piece of paper on his desk. He looked at it. “What is this?” he said in a low voice.

  “You know what it is. Don’t you give me that, Sam Merlotte. You need money. I’ve got money. You put this in your account today. You use it to pull the bar through until times are better.”

  “I can’t take this, Sookie.” He didn’t meet my eyes.

  “The hell you can’t, Sam. Look at me.”

  Finally, he did.

  “I’m not kidding. You put it in the bank today,” I said. “And if anything might happen to me, you can repay my estate within, say, five years.”

  “Why would anything happen to you?” Sam’s face darkened.

  “Nothing will. I’m just saying. It’s irresponsible to loan money without making arrangements to pay it back. I’m calling my lawyer and telling him all this, and he’ll draw up a paper. But right now, right this minute, you go to the bank.”

  Sam looked away. I could feel the emotions sweeping over him. Truly, it felt wonderful to do something nice for him. He’d done so many nice things for me. He said, “All right.” I could tell it was hard for him, as it would be for almost any man, but he knew it was the sensible thing to do, and he knew it wasn’t charity.

  “It’s a love offering,” I said, grinning at him. “Like we took up at church last Sunday.” That love offering had been for the missionaries in Uganda, and this one was for Merlotte’s Bar.

  “I’d believe that,” he said, and met my eyes.

  I kept my smile, but I began to feel a little self-conscious. “I have to go get ready,” I said.

  “What for?” His reddish eyebrows drew together.

  “Tara’s baby shower,” I said. “It’s an old-fashioned gals-only party, so you didn’t get invited.”

  “I’ll try to contain my misery,” he said. He didn’t move.

  “Are you getting up to go to the bank?” I asked sweetly.

  “Uh, yeah, getting up right now.” He did get out of the chair and call down the hall to let the servers know he was running a quick errand. I got in my car at the same time he got in his truck. I don’t know about Sam, but I was feeling really good.

  I did stop by my lawyer’s to tell him what I’d done. This would be my human, local lawyer, not Mr. Cataliades. Whom, by the way, I hadn’t heard from.

  I swung by Maxine’s house to get the punch, thanked her profusely, left her a list of what I was going to do and had done for the shower arrangements (to her puzzlement), and took the frozen containers back to my house to pop in the little chest freezer on my back porch. I had the ginger ale set out on the counter to mix with the frozen juices.

  I was as prepared as I could be for the baby shower.

  Now I had to get ready to kill Victor.

  Chapter 14

  Sam called me as I was putting on my makeup.

  “Hi,��� I said. “You got the check to the bank, yes?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Since you told me like a million times. No problem there. I’m calling to tell you I just got a very weird phone call from your friend Amelia. She said she was calling me because you wouldn’t want to talk to her. She said it was about that thing you found. She looked it up. The cluviel dor?” He sounded it out very carefully.

  “Yeah?”

  “She didn’t want to talk over the phone to me about it, but she said to tell you urgently to check your e-mail. She said you were pretty bad about forgetting to do that. She didn’t seem to think you’d answer your phone if you knew from your caller ID that it was her on the phone.”

  “I’ll go look at my e-mail right now.”

  “Sookie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  Almost certainly not. “Sure, Sam. Thanks for standing in place of the answering machine.”

  “No problem.”

  Amelia had certainly figured out how to get my attention. I took the cluviel dor out of the drawer and took it with me to the little desk in the living room where I’d put the computer. Yes, I had a lot of mail.

  Most of it was junk, but there was one from Amelia, sure enough, and one from Mr. Cataliades that had come two days before. Color me surprised.

  I was so curious I opened his message first. Though he wasn’t brief, he was to the point.

  Miss Stackhouse,

  I got your message on my answering machine. I have been traveling so certain individuals cannot find me. I have many friends, but also many enemies. I am w
atching you closely, but I hope not intrusively. You’re the only person

  I know who has as many enemies as I. I’ve done the best I can to keep you a step ahead of that hellspawn Sandra Pelt. She’s not dead yet, though. Beware.

  I don’t believe you knew that I was a great friend of your grandfather, Fintan. I knew your grandmother, though not well. In fact, I met your father and his sister, and your brother Jason, though he will never remember it since he was quite small. So were you when I first saw you. They were all disappointments except you.

  I think you must have found the cluviel dor, since I plucked the term out of Miss Amelia’s head when I saw her at the shop. I don’t know where your grandmother hid it, I only know she was given one, because I gave it to her. If you have discovered it, I advise you to be very careful about its use. Think once, and twice, and three times before you expend its energy. You can change the world, you know. Any series of events you alter by magic can have unexpected repercussions in history. I’ll contact you again when I can, and perhaps stop by to explain more fully. Best wishes for your survival.

  Desmond Cataliades, attorney-at-law, your sponsor

  As Pam might say, “Fuck a zombie.” Mr. Cataliades was indeed my sponsor, the dark stranger who’d visited Gran. What did that mean? And he said he had read Amelia’s mind. Was he a telepath, too? Wasn’t that quite a coincidence? I had a feeling there was a lot to know about this, and though he’d only warned me about Sandra Pelt and using the cluviel dor, I got the distinct impression he was paving the way for a Big Bad Talk. I read over the message two more times hoping to extract some solid piece of information about the cluviel dor from it, but I had to conclude I got zilch.

  I opened Amelia’s e-mail, not without a deep feeling of misgiving and a residue of indignation. Her brain was open for the picking, apparently. Amelia had a lot of information in her head about me and my doings. Though this wasn’t exactly her fault, I resolved not to tell her any more secrets.