“Felipe de Castro . . . That sounds exotic,” I said.
“I haven’t met him, but I understand he’s very, ah, charismatic,” Sam said. “I wonder if he’ll be coming to Louisiana to live or if this Victor Madden will be his agent here. Either way, it won’t affect the bar. But there’s no doubt it’ll affect you, Sookie.” Sam uncrossed his legs and sat up straight in his chair, which shrieked in protest. “I wish there was some way to get you out of the vampire loop.”
“The night I met Bill, if I’d known what I know now, I wonder if I’d have done anything different,” I said. “Maybe I would’ve let the Rattrays have him.” I’d rescued Bill from a sleazy couple who turned out to be not only sleazy, but murderers. They were vampire drainers, people who lured vampires to spots where the vamps could be subdued with silver chains and drained of blood, which sold for big bucks on the black market. Drainers lived hazardous lives. The Rattrays had paid the full price.
“You don’t mean that,” Sam said. He rocked in the chair again (squeak! squeak!) and rose to his feet. “You would never do that.”
It felt really pleasant to hear something nice about myself, especially after the morning’s conversation with Quinn. I was tempted to talk to Sam about that, too, but he was edging toward the door. Time to go to work, for both of us. I got up, too. We went out and began the usual motions. My mind was hardly on it, though.
To revive my flagging spirits, I tried to think of some bright point in the future, something to look forward to. I couldn’t come up with anything. For a long, bleak moment I stood by the bar, my hand on my order pad, trying not to step over the edge into the chasm of depression. Then I slapped myself on the cheek. Idiot! I have a house, and friends, and a job. I’m luckier than millions of people on the planet. Things will look up.
For a while, that worked. I smiled at everyone, and if that smile was brittle, by God, it was still a smile.
After an hour or two, Jason came into the bar with his wife, Crystal. Crystal was looking sullen and slightly pregnant, and Jason was looking . . . Well, he had that hard look about him, the mean look he got sometimes when he’d been disappointed.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Oh, not much,” Jason said expansively. “You bring us a couple beers?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking he’d never ordered for Crystal before. Crystal was a pretty woman several years younger than Jason. She was a werepanther, but she wasn’t a very good one, mostly because of all the inbreeding in the Hotshot community. Crystal had a hard time changing if it wasn’t the full moon, and she had miscarried at least twice that I knew of. I pitied her losses, the more so because I knew the panther community considered her weak. Now Crystal was pregnant a third time. That pregnancy had maybe been the only reason Calvin had let her marry Jason, who was bitten, not born. That is, he’d become a panther by being repeatedly bitten—by a jealous male who wanted Crystal for himself. Jason couldn’t change into a real panther but into a sort of half-beast, half-man version. He enjoyed it.
I brought them their beers along with two frosted mugs and waited to see if they were going to place a food order. I wondered about Crystal drinking, but decided it wasn’t my business.
“I’d like me a cheeseburger with fries,” Jason said. No surprise there.
“What about you, Crystal?” I asked, trying to sound friendly. After all, this was my sister-in-law.
“Oh, I don’t have enough money to eat,” she said.
I had no idea what to say. I looked at Jason inquiringly, and he gave me a shrug. This shrug said (to his sister), “I’ve done something stupid and wrong but I’m not going to back down, because I’m a stubborn shit.”
“Crystal, I’ll be glad to stand you lunch,” I said very quietly. “What would you like?”
She glared at her husband. “I’d like the same, Sookie.”
I wrote her order down on a separate slip and strode to the hatch to turn them in. I had been ready to get angry, and Jason had lit a match and thrown it on my temper. The whole story was clear in their heads, and as I came to understand what was going on, I was sick of both of them.
Crystal and Jason had settled into Jason’s house, but almost every day Crystal rode out to Hotshot, her comfort zone, where she didn’t have to pretend anything. She was used to being surrounded by her kin, and she especially missed her sister and her sister’s babies. Tanya Grissom was renting a room from Crystal’s sister, the room Crystal had lived in until she married Jason. Crystal and Tanya had become instant buddies. Since Tanya’s favorite occupation was shopping, Crystal had gone along for the ride several times. In fact, she’d spent all the money Jason had given her for household expenses. She’d done this two pay-checks in a row, despite multiple scenes and promises.
Now Jason refused to give her any more money. He was doing all the grocery shopping and picking up any dry cleaning, paying every bill himself. He’d told Crystal if she wanted any money of her own, she had to get a job. The unskilled and pregnant Crystal had not succeeded in finding one, so she didn’t have a dime.
Jason was trying to make a point, but by humiliating his wife in public he was making the wrong point entirely. What an idiot my brother could be.
What I could do about this situation? Well . . . nothing. They had to work it out themselves. I was looking at two stunted people who’d never grown up, and I wasn’t optimistic about their chances.
With a deep twinge of unease, I remembered their unusual wedding vows; at least, they’d seemed odd to me, though I supposed they were the Hotshot norm. As Jason’s closest living relative, I’d had to promise to take the punishment if Jason misbehaved, just as her uncle Calvin had promised the same on Crystal’s behalf. I’d been pretty damn rash to make that promise.
When I carried their plates to their table, I saw that the two were in the jaw-clenching, looking-anywhere-but-at-each-other stage of quarreling. I put the plates down carefully, got them a bottle of Heinz ketchup, and skedaddled. I’d interfered enough by buying Crystal lunch.
There was a person involved in this I could approach, and I promised myself then and there that I would. All my anger and unhappiness focused on Tanya Grissom. I really wanted to do something awful to that woman. What the hell was she hanging around for, sniffing around Sam? What was her goal in drawing Crystal into this spending spiral? (And I didn’t think for a second it was by chance that Tanya’s newest big buddy was my sister-in-law.) Was Tanya trying to irritate me to death? It was like having a horsefly buzzing around and lighting occasionally . . . but never quite close enough to swat. While I went about my job on autopilot, I pondered what I could do to get her out of my orbit. For the first time in my life, I wondered if I could forcibly pin another person down to read her mind. It wouldn’t be so easy, since Tanya was a wereanimal, but I would find out what was driving her. And I had the conviction that information would save me a lot of heartache . . . a lot.
While I plotted and schemed and fumed, Crystal and Jason silently ate their food, and Jason pointedly paid his own bill, while I took care of Crystal’s. They left, and I wondered what their evening would be like. I was glad I wasn’t going to be a party to it.
From behind the bar Sam had observed all this, and he asked me in a low voice, “What’s up with those two?”
“They’re having the newlywed blues,” I said. “Severe adjustment problems.”
He looked troubled. “Don’t let them drag you into it,” he said, and then looked like he regretted opening his mouth. “Sorry, don’t mean to give you unwanted advice,” he said.
Something prickled at the corners of my eyes. Sam was giving me advice because he cared about me. In my overwrought state, that was cause for sentimental tears. “That’s okay, boss,” I said, trying to sound perky and carefree. I spun on my heel and went to patrol my tables. Sheriff Bud Dearborn was sitting in my section, which was unusual. Normally he’d pick a seat somewhere else if he knew I was working. Bud had a basket of onion rings in front of
him, liberally doused with ketchup, and he was reading a Shreveport paper. The lead story was POLICE SEARCH FOR SIX, and I stopped to ask Bud if I could have his paper when he was through with it.
He looked at me suspiciously. His little eyes in his mashed-in face scanned me as if he suspected he’d find a bloody cleaver hanging from my belt. “Sure, Sookie,” he said after a long moment. “You got any of these missing people stowed away at your house?”
I beamed at him, anxiety transforming my smile into the bright grin of someone who wasn’t all there mentally. “No, Bud, I just want to find out what’s going on in the world. I’m behind on the news.”
Bud said, “I’ll leave it on the table,” and he began reading again. I think he would have pinned Jimmy Hoffa on me if he could have figured a way to make it stick. Not that he necessarily thought I was a murderer, but he thought I was fishy and maybe involved in things that he didn’t want happening in his parish. Bud Dearborn and Alcee Beck had that conviction in common, especially since the death of the man in the library. Luckily for me, the man had turned out to have a record as long as my arm; and not only a record, but one for violent crimes. Though Alcee knew I’d acted in self-defense, he’d never trust me . . . and neither would Bud Dearborn.
When Bud had finished his beer and his onion rings and departed to rain terror on the evildoers of Renard Parish, I took his paper over to the bar and read the story with Sam looking over my shoulder. I had deliberately stayed away from the news after the bloodbath at the empty office park. I’d been sure the Were community couldn’t cover up something so big; all they could do was muddy the trail the police would surely be following. That proved to be the case.
After more than twenty-four hours, police remain baffled in their search for six missing Shreveport citizens. Hampering them is their inability to discover anyone who saw any of the missing people after ten o’clock on Wednesday night.
“We can’t find anything they had in common,” said Detective Willie Cromwell.
Among the missing is a Shreveport police detective, Cal Myers; Amanda Whatley, owner of a bar in the central Shreveport area; Patrick Furnan, owner of the local Harley-Davidson dealership, and his wife, Libby; Christine Larrabee, widow of John Larrabee, retired school superintendent; and Julio Martinez, an airman from Barksdale Air Force Base. Neighbors of the Furnans say they hadn’t seen Libby Furnan for a day prior to Patrick Furnan’s disappearance, and Christine Larrabee’s cousin says she had not been able to contact Larrabee by phone for three days, so police speculate that the two women may have met with foul play prior to the disappearance of the others.
The disappearance of Detective Cal Myers has the force on edge. His partner, Detective Mike Loughlin, said, “Myers was one of the newly promoted detectives, and we hadn’t had time to get to know each other well. I have no idea what could have happened to him.” Myers, 29, had been with the Shreveport force for seven years. He was not married.
“If they are all dead, you would think at least one body would have turned up by now,” Detective Cromwell said yesterday. “We have searched all their residences and businesses for clues, and so far we have come up with nothing.”
To add to the mystery, on Monday another Shreveport area resident was murdered. Maria-Star Cooper, photographer’s assistant, was slain in her apartment on Highway 3. “The apartment was like a butcher shop,” said Cooper’s land-lord, among the first on the scene. No suspects have been reported in the slaying. “Everyone loved Maria-Star,” said her mother, Anita Cooper. “She was so talented and pretty.”
Police do not yet know if Cooper’s death is related to the disappearances.
In other news, Don Dominica, owner of Don’s RV Park, reported the absence of the owners of three RVs parked on his property for a week. “I’m not sure how many people were in each trailer,” he said. “They all arrived together and rented the spaces for a month. The name on the rental is Priscilla Hebert. I think at least six people were in each RV. They all seemed pretty normal to me.”
Asked if all their belongings were still in place, Dominica replied, “I don’t know; I haven’t been checking. I ain’t got time for that. But I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them for days.”
Other residents of the RV park had not met the new-comers. “They kept to themselves,” said a neighbor.
Police Chief Parfit Graham said, “I’m sure we’ll solve these crimes. The right piece of information will surface. In the meantime, if anyone has knowledge of the whereabouts of any of these people, call the Tipster Hotline.”
I considered it. I imagined the phone call. “All of these people died as a result of the werewolf war,” I would say. “They were all Weres, and a displaced and hungry pack from south Louisiana decided the dissension in the ranks in Shreveport created an opening for them.”
I didn’t think I’d get much of a hearing.
“So they haven’t found the site yet,” Sam said very quietly.
“I guess that really was a good place for the meeting.”
“Sooner or later, though . . .”
“Yeah. I wonder what’s left?”
“Alcide’s crew’s had plenty of time now,” Sam said. “So, not much. They probably burned the bodies somewhere out in the sticks. Or buried them on someone’s land.”
I shuddered. Thank God I hadn’t had to be part of that; and at least I really didn’t know where the bodies were buried. After checking my tables and serving some more drinks, I went back to the paper and flipped it open to the obituaries. Reading down the column headed “State Deaths,” I got an awful shock.
SOPHIE-ANNE LECLERQ, prominent businesswoman, residing in Baton Rouge since Katrina, died of Sino-AIDS in her home. Leclerq, a vampire, had extensive holdings in New Orleans and in many places in the state. Sources close to Leclerq say she had lived in Louisiana for a hundred years or more.
I’d never seen an obituary for a vampire. This one was a complete fabrication. Sophie-Anne had not had Sino-AIDS, the only disease that could cross from humans to vampires. Sophie-Anne had probably had an acute attack of Mr. Stake. Sino-AIDS was dreaded among vampires, of course, despite the fact that it was hard to communicate. At least it provided a palatable explanation for the human business community as to why Sophie-Anne’s holdings were being managed by another vampire, and it was an explanation that no one would question too closely, especially since there was no body to refute the claim. To get it in today’s paper, someone must have called it in directly after she’d been killed, perhaps even before she was dead. Ugh. I shivered.
I wondered what had really happened to Sigebert, Sophie-Anne’s devoted bodyguard. Victor had implied Sigebert had perished along with the queen, but he hadn’t definitely said so. I couldn’t believe the bodyguard could still be alive. He would never have let anyone get close enough to kill Sophie-Anne. Sigebert had been at her side for so many years, hundreds upon hundreds, that I didn’t think he could have survived her loss.
I left the newspaper open to the obituaries and placed it on Sam’s desk, figuring the bar was too busy a place to talk about it even if we had the time. We’d had an influx of customers. I was running my feet off serving them and pocketing some good tips, too. But after the week I’d had, it was not only hard to feel normally happy about the money, it was also impossible to feel normally cheerful about being at work. I just did my best to smile and respond when I was spoken to.
By the time I got off work, I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything.
But of course, I didn’t get my druthers.
There were two women waiting in the front yard at my house, and they both radiated anger. One, I already knew: Frannie Quinn. The woman with her had to be Quinn’s mother. In the harsh glare of the security light I had a good look at the woman whose life had been such a disaster. I realized no one had ever told me her name. She was still pretty, but in a Goth sort of way that wasn’t kind to her age. She was in her forties; her face was gaunt, her eyes shadowed. She had dark hair with
more than a touch of gray, and she was very tall and thin. Frannie was wearing a tank top that showed her bra, and tight jeans, and boots. Her mother was wearing pretty much the same outfit but in different colors. I guessed Frannie had charge of dressing her mother.
I parked beside them, because I had no intention of inviting them in. I got out of my car reluctantly.
“You bitch,” Frannie said passionately. Her young face was rigid with anger. “How could you do that to my brother? He did so much for you!”
That was one way to look at it. “Frannie,” I said, keeping my voice as calm and level as I could, “what happens between Quinn and me is really not any of your business.”
The front door opened, and Amelia stepped out on the porch. “Sookie, you need me?” she asked, and I smelled magic around her.
“I’m coming in, in just a second,” I said clearly, but didn’t tell her to go back inside. Mrs. Quinn was a pureblood weretiger, and Frannie was half; they were both stronger than me.
Mrs. Quinn stepped forward and looked at me quizzically. “You’re the one John loved,” she said. “You’re the one who broke up with him.”
“Yes, ma’am. It just wasn’t going to work out.”
“They say I have to go back to that place in the desert,” she said. “Where they store all the crazy Weres.”
No shit. “Oh, do they?” I said, to make it clear I had nothing to do with it.
“Yes,” she said, and lapsed into silence, which was kind of a big relief.
Frannie, however, had not done with me. “I loaned you my car,” she said. “I came to warn you.”
“And I thank you,” I said. My heart sank. I couldn’t think of any magic words to lessen the pain in the air. “Believe me, I wish things had worked out different.” Lame but true.
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