Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set

by Charlaine Harris

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Where is the ladies’ room?” she asked.

  “Through that door there. The one with ‘Restrooms’ on the sign above it.” I should be grateful I was clever enough to read signs.

  “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t notice.”

  I just waited.

  “So, um, you got any tips for me? About dating a vampire?” She waited, looking nervous and defiant all at once.

  “Sure,” I said. “Don’t eat any garlic.” And I turned away from her to wipe down the table.

  Once I was certain she was out of the room, I swung around to carry two empty beer mugs to the bar, and when I turned back, Bill was standing there. I gave a gasp of surprise. Bill has dark brown hair and of course the whitest skin you can imagine. His eyes are as dark as his hair. Right at the moment, those eyes were fixed on mine.

  “Why did she talk to you?” he asked.

  “Wanted to know the way to the bathroom.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, glancing up at the sign.

  “She just wanted to take my measure,” I said. “At least, that’s my guess.” I felt oddly comfortable with Bill at that moment, no matter what had passed between us.

  “Did you scare her?”

  “I didn’t try to.”

  “Did you scare her?” he asked again in a sterner voice. But he smiled at me.

  “No,” I said. “Did you want me to?”

  He shook his head in mock disgust. “Are you jealous?”

  “Yes.” Honesty was always safest. “I hate her skinny thighs and her elitist attitude. I hope she’s a dreadful bitch who makes you so miserable that you howl when you remember me.”

  “Good,” said Bill. “That’s good to hear.” He gave me a brush of lips on my cheek. At the touch of his cool flesh, I shivered, remembering. He did, too. I saw the heat flare in his eyes, the fangs begin to run out. Then Catfish Hunter yelled to me to stir my stumps and bring him another bourbon and Coke, and I walked away from my first lover.

  It had been a long, long day, not only from a physical-energy-expended measurement, but also from an emotional-depths-plumbed point of view. When I let myself into my brother’s house, there were giggles and squeakings coming from his bedroom, and I deduced Jason was consoling himself in the usual way. Jason might be upset that his new community suspected him of a foul crime, but he was not so upset that it affected his libido.

  I spent as brief a time in the bathroom as I could and went into the guest room, shutting the door firmly behind me. Tonight the couch looked a lot more inviting than it had the evening before. As I curled up on my side and pulled the quilt over me, I realized that the woman spending the night with my brother was a shifter; I could feel it in the faint pulsing redness of her brain.

  I hoped she was Crystal Norris. I hoped Jason had somehow persuaded the girl that he had nothing to do with the shootings. If Jason wanted to compound his troubles, the best way possible would be to cheat on Crystal, the woman he’d chosen from the werepanther community. And surely even Jason wasn’t that stupid. Surely.

  He wasn’t. I met Crystal in the kitchen the next morning after ten o’clock. Jason was long gone, since he had to be at work by seven forty-five. I was drinking my first mug of coffee when Crystal stumbled in, wearing one of Jason’s shirts, her face blurry with sleep.

  Crystal was not my favorite person, and I was not hers, but she said, “Morning” civilly enough. I agreed that it was morning, and I got out a mug for her. She grimaced and got out a glass, filling it with ice and then Coca-Cola. I shuddered.

  “How’s your uncle?” I asked, when she seemed conscious.

  “He’s doing better,” she said. “You ought to go see him. He liked having you visit.”

  “I guess you’re sure Jason didn’t shoot him.”

  “I am,” she said briefly. “I didn’t want to talk to him at first, but once he got me on the phone, he just talked his way out of me suspecting him.”

  I wanted to ask her if the other inhabitants of Hotshot were willing to give Jason the benefit of the doubt, but I hated to bring up a touchy subject.

  I thought of what I had to do today: I had to go get enough clothes, some sheets and blankets, and some kitchen gear from the house, and get those things installed in Sam’s duplex.

  Moving into a small, furnished place was a perfect solution to my housing problem. I had forgotten Sam owned several small houses on Berry Street, three of them duplexes. He worked on them himself, though sometimes he hired JB du Rone, a high school friend of mine, to do simple repairs and maintenance chores. Simple was the best way to keep it, with JB.

  After I retrieved my things, I might have time to go see Calvin. I showered and dressed, and Crystal was sitting in the living room watching TV when I left. I assumed that was okay with Jason.

  Terry was hard at work when I pulled into the clearing. I walked around back to check his progress, and I was delighted to see he’d done more than I’d have thought possible. He smiled when I said so, and paused in loading broken boards into his truck. “Tearing down is always easier than building up,” he said. This was no big philosophical statement, but a builder’s summary. “I should be done in two more days, if nothing happens to slow me down. There’s no rain in the forecast.”

  “Great. How much will I owe you?”

  “Oh,” he muttered, shrugging and looking embarrassed. “A hundred? Fifty?”

  “No, not enough.” I ran a quick estimate of his hours in my head, multiplied. “More like three.”

  “Sookie, I’m not charging you that much.” Terry got his stubborn face on. “I wouldn’t charge you anything, but I got to get a new dog.”

  Terry bought a very expensive Catahoula hunting dog about every four years. He wasn’t turning in the old models for new ones. Something always seemed to happen to Terry’s dogs, though he took great care of them. After he’d had the first hound about three years, a truck had hit him. Someone had fed poisoned meat to the second. The third one, the one he’d named Molly, had gotten snake-bit, and the bite had turned septic. For months now, Terry had been on the list for one in the next litter born at the kennel in Clarice that bred Catahoulas.

  “You bring that puppy around for me to hug,” I suggested, and he smiled. Terry was at his best in the outdoors, I realized for the first time. He always seemed more comfortable mentally and physically when he was not under a roof, and when he was outside with a dog, he seemed quite normal.

  I unlocked the house and went in to gather what I might need. It was a sunny day, so the absence of electric light wasn’t a problem. I filled a big plastic laundry basket with two sets of sheets and an old chenille bedspread, some more clothes, and a few pots and pans. I would have to get a new coffeepot. My old one had melted.

  And then, standing there looking out the window at the coffeemaker, which I’d pitched to the top of the trash heap, I understood how close I’d come to dying. The realization hit me broadside.

  One minute I was standing at my bedroom window, looking out at the misshaped bit of plastic; the next I was sitting on the floor, staring at the painted boards and trying to breathe.

  Why did it hit me now, after three days? I don’t know. Maybe there was something about the way the Mr. Coffee looked: cord charred, plastic warped with the heat. The plastic had literally bubbled. I looked at the skin of my hands and shuddered. I stayed on the floor, shivering and shaking, for an unmeasured bit of time. For the first minute or two after that, I had no thoughts at all. The closeness of my brush with death simply overwhelmed me.

  Claudine had not only most probably saved my life; she had certainly saved me from pain so excruciating that I would have wanted to be dead. I owed her a debt I would never be able to repay.

  Maybe she really was my fairy godmother.

  I got up, shook myself. Grabbing up the plastic basket, I left to go move into my new home.

  12

  I LET MYSELF IN WITH THE KEY I’D GOTTEN FROM SAM. I was on the right
side of a duplex, the mirror of the one next door presently occupied by Halleigh Robinson, the young schoolteacher dating Andy Bellefleur. I figured I was likely to have police protection at least part of the time, and Halleigh would be gone during most of the day, which was nice considering my late hours.

  The living room was small and contained a flowered couch, a low coffee table, and an armchair. The next room was the kitchen, which was tiny, of course. But it had a stove, a refrigerator, and a microwave. No dishwasher, but I’d never had one. Two plastic chairs were tucked under a tiny table.

  After I’d glanced at the kitchen I went through into the small hall that separated the larger (but still small) bedroom on the right from the smaller (tiny) bedroom and the bathroom on the left. At the end of the hall there was a door to the little back porch.

  This was a very basic accommodation, but it was quite clean. There was central heating and cooling, and the floors were level. I ran a hand around the windows. They fit well. Nice. I reminded myself I’d have to keep the venetian blinds drawn down, since I had neighbors.

  I made up the double bed in the larger bedroom. I put my clothes away in the freshly painted chest of drawers. I started a list of other things I needed: a mop, a broom, a bucket, some cleaning products . . . those had been on the back porch. I’d have to get my vacuum cleaner out of the house. It had been in the closet in the living room, so it should be fine. I’d brought one of my phones to plug in over here, so I would have to arrange with the phone company for them to route calls to this address. I’d loaded my television into my car, but I had to arrange for my cable to be hooked up here. I’d have to call from Merlotte’s. Since the fire, all my time was being absorbed with the mechanics of living.

  I sat on the hard couch, staring into space. I tried to think of something fun, something I could look forward to. Well, in two months, it’d be sunbathing time. That made me smile. I enjoyed lying in the sun in a little bikini, timing myself carefully so I didn’t burn. I loved the smell of coconut oil. I took pleasure in shaving my legs and removing most of my other body hair so I’d look smooth as a baby’s bottom. And I don’t want to hear any lectures about how bad tanning is for you. That’s my vice. Everybody gets one.

  More immediately, it was time to go to the library and get another batch of books; I’d retrieved my last bagful while I was at the house, and I’d spread them out on my tiny porch here so they’d air out. So going to the library—that would be fun.

  Before I went to work, I decided I’d cook myself something in my new kitchen. That necessitated a trip to the grocery store, which took longer than I’d planned because I kept seeing staples I was sure I’d need. Putting the groceries away in the duplex cabinets made me feel that I really lived there. I browned a couple of pork chops and put them in the oven, microwaved a potato, and heated some peas. When I had to work nights, I usually went to Merlotte’s at about five, so my home meal on those days was a combination lunch and dinner.

  After I’d eaten and cleaned up, I thought I just had time to drive down to visit Calvin in the Grainger hospital.

  The twins had not arrived to take up their post in the lobby again, if they were still keeping vigil. Dawson was still stationed outside Calvin’s room. He nodded to me, gestured to me to stop while I was several feet away, and stuck his head in Calvin’s room. To my relief, Dawson swung the door wide open for me to enter and even patted my shoulder as I went in.

  Calvin was sitting up in the padded chair. He clicked off the television as I came in. His color was better, his beard and hair were clean and trimmed, and he looked altogether more like himself. He was wearing pajamas of blue broad-cloth. He still had a tube or two in, I saw. He actually tried to push himself up out of the chair.

  “No, don’t you dare get up!” I pulled over a straight chair and sat in front of him. “Tell me how you are.”

  “Glad to see you,” he said. Even his voice was stronger. “Dawson said you wouldn’t take any help. Tell me who set that fire.”

  “That’s the strange thing, Calvin. I don’t know why this man set the fire. His family came to see me . . .” I hesitated, because Calvin was recuperating from his own brush with death, and he shouldn’t have to worry about other stuff.

  But he said, “Tell me what you’re thinking,” and he sounded so interested that I ended up relating everything to the wounded shifter: my doubts about the arsonist’s motives, my relief that the damage could be repaired, my concern about the trouble between Eric and Charles Twining. And I told Calvin that the police here had learned of more clusters of sniper activity.

  “That would clear Jason,” I pointed out, and he nodded. I didn’t push it.

  “At least no one else has been shot,” I said, trying to think of something positive to throw in with the dismal mix.

  “That we know of,” Calvin said.

  “What?”

  “That we know of. Maybe someone else has been shot, and no one’s found ’em yet.”

  I was astonished at the thought, and yet it made sense. “How’d you think of that?”

  “I don’t have nothing else to do,” he said with a small smile. “I don’t read, like you do. I’m not much one for television, except for sports.” Sure enough, the station he’d had on when I’d entered had been ESPN.

  “What do you do in your spare time?” I asked out of sheer curiosity.

  Calvin was pleased I’d asked him a personal question. “I work pretty long hours at Norcross,” he said. “I like to hunt, though I’d rather hunt at the full moon.” In his panther body. Well, I could understand that. “I like to fish. I love mornings when I can just sit in my boat on the water and not worry about a thing.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said encouragingly. “What else?”

  “I like to cook. We have shrimp boils sometimes, or we cook up a whole mess of catfish and we eat outside—catfish and hush puppies and slaw and watermelon. In the summer, of course.”

  It made my mouth water just to think about it.

  “In the winter, I work on the inside of my house. I go out and cut wood for the people in our community who can’t cut their own. I’ve always got something to do, seems like.”

  Now I knew twice as much about Calvin Norris as I had.

  “Tell me how you’re recovering,” I asked.

  “I’ve still got the damn IV in,” he said, gesturing with his arm. “Other than that, I’m a lot better. We heal pretty good, you know.”

  “How are you explaining Dawson to the people from your work who come to visit?” There were flower arrangements and bowls of fruit and even a stuffed cat crowding the level surfaces in the room.

  “Just tell ’em he’s my cousin here to make sure I won’t get too wore out with visitors.”

  I was pretty sure no one would question Dawson directly.

  “I have to get to work,” I said, catching a glimpse of the clock on the wall. I was oddly reluctant to leave. I’d enjoyed having a regular conversation with someone. Little moments like these were rare in my life.

  “Are you still worried about your brother?” he asked.

  “Yes.” But I’d made my mind up I wouldn’t beg again. Calvin had heard me out the first time. There wasn’t any need for a repeat.

  “We’re keeping an eye on him.”

  I wondered if the watcher had reported to Calvin that Crystal was spending the night with Jason. Or maybe Crystal herself was the watcher? If so, she was certainly taking her job seriously. She was watching Jason about as close as he could be watched.

  “That’s good,” I said. “That’s the best way to find out he didn’t do it.” I was relieved to hear Calvin’s news, and the longer I pondered it, the more I realized I should have figured it out myself.

  “Calvin, you take care.” I rose to leave, and he held up his cheek. Rather reluctantly, I touched my lips to it.

  He was thinking that my lips were soft and that I smelled good. I couldn’t help but smile as I left. Knowing someone simply finds you attractive
is always a boost to the spirits.

  I drove back to Bon Temps and stopped by the library before I went to work. The Renard Parish library is an old ugly brown-brick building erected in the thirties. It looks every minute of its age. The librarians had made many justified complaints about the heating and cooling, and the electrical wiring left a lot to be desired. The library’s parking lot was in bad shape, and the old clinic next door, which had opened its doors in 1918, now had boarded-up windows—always a depressing sight. The long-closed clinic’s overgrown lot looked more like a jungle than a part of downtown.

  I had allotted myself ten minutes to exchange my books. I was in and out in eight. The library parking lot was almost empty, since it was just before five o’clock. People were shopping at Wal-Mart or already home cooking supper.

  The winter light was fading. I was not thinking about anything in particular, and that saved my life. In the nick of time, I identified intense excitement pulsing from another brain, and reflexively I ducked, feeling a sharp shove in my shoulder as I did so, and then a hot lance of blinding pain, and then wetness and a big noise. This all happened so fast I could not definitely sequence it when I later tried to reconstruct the moment.

  A scream came from behind me, and then another. Though I didn’t know how it had happened, I found myself on my knees beside my car, and blood was spattered over the front of my white T-shirt.

  Oddly, my first thought was Thank God I didn’t have my new coat on.

  The person who’d screamed was Portia Bellefleur. Portia was not her usual collected self as she skidded across the parking lot to crouch beside me. Her eyes went one way, then another, as she tried to spot danger coming from any direction.

  “Hold still,” she said sharply, as though I’d proposed running a marathon. I was still on my knees, but keeling over appeared to be a pleasant option. Blood was trickling down my arm. “Someone shot you, Sookie. Oh my God, oh my God.”