Dead as a Doornail

guess we need to get going.”
    “Sure, if we want to be there on time.”
    “We need to be there ten minutes early,” he said.
    “Why that, exactly?” I picked up my black clutch purse, glanced in the mirror to make sure my lipstick was still fresh, and locked the front door behind me. Fortunately, the day was just warm enough for me to leave my coat at home. I didn’t want to cover up my outfit.
    “This is a Were funeral,” he said in a tone of significance.
    “That’s different from a regular funeral how?”
    “It’s a packmaster’s funeral, and that makes it more . . . formal.”
    Okay, he’d told me that the day before. “How do you keep regular people from realizing?”
    “You’ll see.”
    I felt misgivings about the whole thing. “Are you sure I should be going to this?”
    “He made you a friend of the pack.”
    I remembered that, though at the time I hadn’t realized it was a title, the way Alcide made it sound now: Friend of the Pack.
    I had an uneasy feeling that there was a lot more to knowabout Colonel Flood’s funeral ceremony. Usually I had more information than I could handle about any given subject, since I could read minds; but there weren’t any Weres in Bon Temps, and the other shifters weren’t organized like the wolves were. Though Alcide’s mind was hard to read, I could tell he was preoccupied with what was going to happen in the church, and I could tell he was worried about a Were named Patrick.
    The service was being held at Grace Episcopal, a church in an older, affluent suburb of Shreveport. The church edifice was very traditional, built of gray stone, and topped with a steeple. There wasn’t an Episcopal church in Bon Temps, but I knew that the services were similar to those of the Catholic church. Alcide had told me that his father was attending the funeral, too, and that we’d come over from Bon Temps in his father’s car. “My truck didn’t look dignified enough for the day, my father thought,” Alcide said. I could tell that his father was foremost in Alcide’s thoughts.
    “Then how’s your dad getting here?” I asked.
    “His other car,” Alcide said absently, as if he weren’t really listening to what I was saying. I was a little shocked at the idea of one man owning two cars: In my experience, men might have a family car and a pickup, or a pickup and a four-wheeler. My little shocks for the day were just beginning. By the time we had reached I-20 and turned west, Alcide’s mood had filled up the car. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it involved silence.
    “Sookie,” Alcide said abruptly, his hands tightening on the wheel until his knuckles were white.
    “Yes?” The fact that bad stuff was coming into the conversation might as well have been written in blinking letters above Alcide’s head. Mr. Inner Conflict.
    “I need to talk to you about something.”
    “What? Is there something suspicious about ColonelFlood’s death?” I should have wondered! I chided myself. But the other shifters had been shot. A traffic accident was such a contrast.
    “No,” Alcide said, looking surprised. “As far as I know, the accident was just an accident. The other guy ran a red light.”
    I settled back into the leather seat. “So what’s the deal?”
    “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
    I froze. “Tell you? About what?”
    “About that night. The night of the Witch War.”
    Years of controlling my face came to my rescue. “Not a thing,” I said calmly enough, though I may have been clenching my hands as I said it.
    Alcide said nothing more. He parked the car and came around to help me out, which was unnecessary but nice. I’d decided I wouldn’t need to take my purse inside, so I stuck it under the seat and Alcide locked the car. We started toward the front of the church. Alcide took my hand, somewhat to my surprise. I might be a friend of the pack, but I was apparently supposed to be friendlier with one member of the pack than the others.
    “There’s Dad,” Alcide said as we approached a knot of mourners. Alcide’s father was a little shorter than Alcide, but he was a husky man like his son. Jackson Herveaux had iron-gray hair instead of black, and a bolder nose. He had the same olive skin as Alcide. Jackson looked all the darker because he was standing by a pale, delicate woman with gleaming white hair.
    “Father,” Alcide said formally, “this is Sookie Stackhouse.”
    “A pleasure to meet you, Sookie,” Jackson Herveaux