Dead to the World ss(v-4

by Шарлин Харрис

  You just wouldn't believe where specks of blood had landed.

  I realized that attention to these tiny details was helping me keep my mind off of the main event, and that the longer I avoided looking at it squarely—the longer I let Eric's practical words sink into my awareness—the better off I'd be. There was nothing I could undo. There was no way I could mend what I had done. I'd had a limited number of choices, and I had to live with the choice I'd made. My Gran had always told me that a woman—any woman worth her salt—could do whatever she had to. If you'd called Gran a liberated woman, she would have denied it vigorously, but she'd been the strongest woman I'd ever known, and if she believed I could complete this grisly task just because I had to, I would do it.

  When I was through, the kitchen reeked of cleaning products, and to the naked eye it was literally spotless. I was sure a crime scene expert would be able to find trace evidence (a tip of the hat to the Learning Channel), but I didn't intend that a crime scene expert would ever have reason to come into my kitchen.

  She'd broken in the front door. It had never occurred to me to check it before I came in the back. So much for my career as a bodyguard. I wedged a chair under the doorknob to keep it blocked for the remainder of the night.

  Eric, returned from his burial detail, seemed to be high on excitement, so I asked him to go scouting for Debbie's car. She had a Mazda Miata, and she'd hidden it on a four-wheeler trail right across the parish road from the turnoff to my place. Eric had had the foresight to retain her keys, and he volunteered to drive her car somewhere else. I should have followed him, to bring him back to my house, but he insisted he could do the job by himself, and I was too exhausted to boss him around. I stood under a stream of water and scrubbed myself clean while he was gone. I was glad to be alone, and I washed myself over and over. When I was as clean as I could get on the outside, I pulled on a pink nylon nightgown and crawled in the bed. It was close to dawn, and I hoped Eric would be back soon. I had opened the closet and the hole for him, and put an extra pillow in it.

  I heard him come in just as I was falling asleep, and he kissed me on the cheek. "All done," he said, and I mumbled, "Thanks, baby."

  "Anything for you," he said, his voice gentle. "Good night, my lover."

  It occurred to me that I was lethal for exes. I'd dusted Bill's big love (and his mom); now I'd killed Alcide's off-and-on-again sweetie. I knew hundreds of men. I'd never gone homicidal on their exes. But creatures I cared about, well, that seemed to be different. I wondered if Eric had any old girlfriends around. Probably about a hundred or so. Well, they'd better beware of me.

  After that, whether I willed it or not, I was sucked down into a black hole of exhaustion.

  14

  I guess Pam worked on Hallow right up until dawn was peeking over the horizon. I myself was so heavily asleep, so in need of both physical and mental healing, I didn't wake until four in the afternoon. It was a gloomy winter day, the kind that makes you switch on the radio to see if an ice storm is coming. I checked to make sure I had three or four days' worth of firewood moved up onto the back porch.

  Eric would be up early today.

  I dressed and ate at the speed of a snail, trying to get a handle on my state of being.

  Physically, I was fine. A bruise here or there, a little muscle soreness—that was nothing. It was the second week of January and I was sticking to my New Year's resolution just great.

  On the other hand—and there's always another hand—mentally, or maybe emotionally, I was less than rock-steady. No matter how practical you are, no matter how strong-stomached you are, you can't do something like I'd done without suffering some consequences.

  That's the way it should be.

  When I thought of Eric getting up, I thought of maybe doing some snuggling before I had to go to work. And I thought of the pleasure of being with someone who thought I was so important.

  I hadn't anticipated that the spell would have been broken.

  Eric got up at five-thirty. When I heard movement in the guest bedroom, I tapped on the door and opened it. He whirled, his fangs running out and his hands clawing in front of him.

  I'd almost said, "Hi, honey," but caution kept me mute.

  "Sookie," he said slowly. "Am I in your house?"

  I was glad I'd gotten dressed. "Yes," I said, regrouping like crazy. "You've been here for safekeeping. Do you know what happened?"

  "I went to a meeting with some new people," he said, doubt in his voice. "Didn't I?" He looked down at his WalMart clothes with some surprise. "When did I buy these?"

  "I had to get those for you," I said.

  "Did you dress me, too?" he asked, running his hands down his chest and lower. He gave me a very Eric smile.

  He didn't remember. Anything.

  "No," I said. I flashed on Eric in the shower with me. The kitchen table. The bed.

  "Where is Pam?" he asked.

  "You should call her," I said. "Do you recall anything about yesterday?"

  "Yesterday I had the meeting with the witches," he said, as if that was indisputable.

  I shook my head. "That was days ago," I told him, unable to add the number of them up in my head. My heart sank even lower.

  "You don't remember last night, after we came back from Shreveport," I pressed him, suddenly seeing a gleam of light in all this.

  "Did we make love?" he asked hopefully. "Did you finally yield to me, Sookie? It's only a matter of time, of course." He grinned at me.

  No, last night we cleaned up a body, I thought.

  I was the only one who knew. And even I didn't know where Debbie's remains were buried, or what had happened to her car.

  I sat down on the edge of my old narrow bed. Eric looked at me closely. "Something's wrong, Sookie? What happened while I was—Why don't I remember what happened?"

  Least said, soonest mended.

  All's well that ends well.

  Out of sight, out of mind. (Oh, I wished that were true.)

  "I bet Pam will be here any minute," I said. "I think I'll let her tell you all about it."

  "And Chow?"

  "No, he won't be here. He died last night. Fangtasia seems to have a bad effect on bartenders."

  "Who killed him? I'll have vengeance."

  "You've already had."

  "Something more is wrong with you," Eric said. He'd always been astute.

  "Yes, lots of stuff is wrong with me." I would've enjoyed hugging him right then, but it would just complicate everything. "And I think it's going to snow."

  "Snow, here?" Eric was as delighted as a child. "I love snow!"

  Why was I not surprised?

  "Maybe we will get snowed in together," he said suggestively, waggling his blond eyebrows.

  I laughed. I just couldn't help it. And it was a hell of a lot better than crying, which I'd done quite enough of lately. "As if you'd ever let the weather stop you from doing what you wanted to do," I said, and stood. "Come on, I'll heat you up some blood."

  Even a few nights of intimacy had softened me enough that I had to watch my actions. Once I almost stroked his hair as I passed him; and once I bent to give him a kiss, and had to pretend I'd dropped something on the floor.

  When Pam knocked on my front door thirty minutes later, I was ready for work, and Eric was antsy as hell.

  Pam was no sooner seated opposite him than he began bombarding her with questions. I told them quietly that I was leaving, and I don't think they even noticed when I went out the kitchen door.

  Merlotte's wasn't too busy that night, after we dealt with a rather large supper crowd. A few flakes of snow had convinced most of the regulars that going home sober might be a very good idea. There were enough customers left to keep Arlene and me moderately busy. Sam caught me as I was loading my tray with seven mugs of beer and wanted to be filled in on the night before.

  "I'll tell you later," I promised, thinking I'd have to edit my narrative pretty carefully.

  "Any trace of Jason?" he
asked.

  "No," I said, and felt sadder than ever. The dispatcher at the law enforcement complex had sounded almost snappish when I'd called to ask if there was any news.

  Kevin and Kenya came in that night after they'd gotten off duty. When I took their drinks to the table (a bourbon and Coke and a gin and tonic), Kenya said, "We've been looking for your brother, Sookie. I'm sorry."

  "I know you all have been trying," I said. "I appreciate you all organizing the search party so much! I just wish . . ." And then I couldn't think of anything else to say. Thanks to my disability, I knew something about each of them that the other didn't know. They loved each other. But Kevin knew his mother would stick her head in the oven before she'd see him married to a black woman, and Kenya knew her brothers would rather ram Kevin through a wall than see him walk down the aisle with her.

  And I knew this, despite the fact that neither of them did; and I hated having this personal knowledge, this intimate knowledge, that I just couldn't help knowing.

  Worse than knowing, even, was the temptation to interfere. I told myself very sternly that I had enough problems of my own without causing problems for other people. Luckily, I was busy enough the rest of the night to erase the temptation from my mind. Though I couldn't reveal those kinds of secrets, I reminded myself that I owed the two officers, big-time. If I heard of something I could let them know, I would.

  When the bar closed, I helped Sam put the chairs up on the tables so Terry Bellefleur could come in and mop and clean the toilets early in the morning. Arlene and Tack had left, singing "Let It Snow" while they went out the back door. Sure enough, the flakes were drifting down outside, though I didn't think they'd stick past morning. I thought of the creatures out in the woods tonight, trying to keep warm and dry. I knew that in some spot in the forest, Debbie Pelt lay in a hole, cold forever.

  I wondered how long I'd think of her like that, and I hoped very much I could remember just as clearly what an awful person she'd been, how vindictive and murderous.

  In fact, I'd stood staring out the window for a couple of minutes when Sam came up behind me.

  "What's on your mind?" he asked. He gripped my elbow, and I could feel the strength in his fingers.

  I sighed, not for the first time. "Just wondering about Jason," I said. That was close enough to the truth.

  He patted me in a consoling way. "Tell me about last night," he said, and for one second I thought he was asking me about Debbie. Then, of course, I knew he referred to the battle with the witches, and I was able to give him an account.

  "So Pam showed up tonight at your place." Sam sounded pleased about that. "She must have cracked Hallow, made her undo the spell. Eric was himself again?"

  "As far as I could tell."

  "What did he have to say about the experience?"

  "He didn't remember anything about it," I said slowly. "He didn't seem to have a clue."

  Sam looked away from me when he said, "How are you, with that?"

  "I think it's for the best," I told him. "Definitely." But I would be going home to an empty house again. The knowledge skittered at the edges of my awareness, but I wouldn't look at it directly.

  "Too bad you weren't working the afternoon shift," he said, somehow following a similar train of thought. "Calvin Norris was in here."

  "And?"

  "I think he came in hopes of seeing you."

  I looked at Sam skeptically. "Right."

  "I think he's serious, Sookie."

  "Sam," I said, feeling unaccountably wounded, "I'm on my own, and sometimes that's no fun, but I don't have to take up with a werewolf just because he offers."

  Sam looked mildly puzzled. "You wouldn't have to. The people in Hotshot aren't Weres."

  "He said they were."

  "No, not Weres with a capital W. They're too proud to call themselves shifters, but that's what they are. They're were-panthers."

  "What?" I swear I saw dots floating in the air around my eyes.

  "Sookie? What's wrong?"

  "Panthers? Didn't you know that the print on Jason's dock was the print of a panther?"

  "No, no one told me about any print! Are you sure?"

  I gave him an exasperated look. "Of course, I'm sure. And he vanished the night Crystal Norris was waiting for him in his house. You're the only bartender in the world who doesn't know all the town gossip."

  "Crystal—she's the Hotshot girl he was with New Year's Eve? The skinny black-headed girl at the search?"

  I nodded.

  "The one Felton loves so much?"

  "He what?"

  "Felton, you know, the one who came along on the search. She's been his big love his whole life."

  "And you know this how?" Since I, the mind reader, didn't, I was distinctly piqued.

  "He told me one night when he'd had too much to drink. These guys from Hotshot, they don't come in much, but when they do, they drink serious."

  "So why would he join in the search?"

  "I think maybe we'd better go ask a few questions."

  "This late?"

  "You got something better to do?"

  He had a point, and I sure wanted to know if they had my brother or could tell me what had happened to him. But in a way, I was scared of finding out.

  "That jacket's too light for this weather, Sookie," Sam said, as we bundled up.

  "My coat is at the cleaner's," I said. Actually, I hadn't had a chance to put it in the dryer, or even to check to make sure all the blood had come out. And it had holes in it.

  "Hmmm" was all Sam said, before he loaned me a green pullover sweater to wear under my jacket. We got in Sam's pickup because the snow was really coming down, and like all men, Sam was convinced he could drive in the snow, though he'd almost never done so.

  The drive out to Hotshot seemed even longer in the dark night, with the snow swirling down in the headlights.

  "I thank you for taking me out here, but I'm beginning to think we're crazy," I said, when we were halfway there.

  "Is your seat belt on?" Sam asked.

  "Sure."

  "Good," he said, and we kept on our way.

  Finally we reached the little community. There weren't any streetlights out here, of course, but a couple of the residents had paid to have security lights put up on the electric poles. Windows were glowing in some of the houses.

  "Where do you think we should go?"

  "Calvin's. He's the one with the power," Sam said, sounding certain.

  I remembered how proud Calvin had been of his house, and I was a little curious to see the inside. His lights were on, and his pickup was parked in front of the house. Stepping out of the warm truck into the snowy night was like walking through a chilly wet curtain to reach the front door. I knocked, and after a long pause, the door came open. Calvin looked pleased until he saw Sam behind me.

  "Come in," he said, not too warmly, and stood aside. We stamped our feet politely before we entered.

  The house was plain and clean, decorated with inexpensive but carefully arranged furniture and pictures. None of the pictures had people in them, which I thought interesting. Landscapes. Wildlife.

  "This is a bad night to be out driving around," Calvin observed.

  I knew I'd have to tread carefully, as much as I wanted to grab the front of his flannel shirt and scream in his face. This man was a ruler. The size of the kingdom didn't really matter.

  "Calvin," I said, as calmly as I could, "did you know that the police found a panther print on the dock, by Jason's bootprint?"

  "No," he said, after a long moment. I could see the anger building behind his eyes. "We don't hear a lot of town gossip out here. I wondered why the search party had men with guns, but we make other people kind of nervous, and no one was talking to us much. Panther print. Huh."

  "I didn't know that was your, um, other identity, until tonight."

  He looked at me steadily. "You think that one of us made off with your brother."

  I stood silent, not shift
ing my eyes from his. Sam was equally still beside me.

  "You think Crystal got mad at your brother and did him harm?"

  "No," I said. His golden eyes were getting wider and rounder as I spoke to him.

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asked suddenly.

  "No," I said. "I'm not."

  "Felton," he said.

  I nodded.

  "Let's go see," he said.

  Back out into the snow and darkness. I could feel the sting of the flakes on my cheeks, and I was glad my jacket had a hood. Sam's gloved hand took mine as I stumbled over some discarded tool or toy in the yard of the house next to Felton's. As we trailed up to the concrete slab that formed Felton's front porch, Calvin was already knocking at the door.

  "Who is it?" Felton demanded.

  "Open," said Calvin.

  Recognizing his voice, Felton opened the door immediately. He didn't have the same cleanliness bug as Calvin, and his furniture was not so much arranged as shoved up against whatever wall was handiest. The way he moved was not human, and tonight that seemed even more pronounced than it had at the search. Felton, I thought, was closer to reverting to his animal nature. Inbreeding had definitely left its mark on him.

  "Where is the man?" Calvin asked without preamble.

  Felton's eyes flared wide, and he twitched, as if he was thinking about running. He didn't speak.

  "Where?" Calvin demanded again, and then his hand changed into a paw and he swiped it across Felton's face. "Does he live?"

  I clapped my hands across my mouth so I wouldn't scream. Felton sank to his knees, his face crossed with parallel slashes filling with blood.

  "In the shed in back," he said indistinctly.

  I went back out the front door so quickly that Sam barely caught up with me. Around the corner of the house I flew, and I fell full-length over a woodpile. Though I knew it would hurt later, I jumped up and found myself supported by Calvin Norris, who, as he had in the woods, lifted me over the pile before I knew what he intended. He vaulted it himself with easy grace, and then we were at the door of the shed, which was one of those you order from Sears or Penney's. You have your neighbors come help put it up, when the concrete truck comes to pour your slab.