Dead Reckoning

even glance into the living room (which Bill sometimes called the parlor) or venture into the dining room.
    Bill had never told me exactly where he slept during the day. I understood that such a piece of knowledge was a huge vampire secret. But I’m reasonably alert, and I’d had a while to figure it out while we were dating. Though I was sure there was more than one such secret place, one lay somewhere off the pantry in the kitchen. He’d remodeled the kitchen and installed a hot tub to create sort of a spa area rather than a place to cook—which he didn’t need—but he’d left a small separate room intact. I didn’t know if it had been a pantry or a butler’s room. I opened the new louvered door and stepped in, shutting it behind me. Today the oddly high shelves contained only a few six-packs of bottled blood and a screwdriver. I knocked on the floor, on the wall. In my panic, and the noise of the storm outside, I couldn’t detect any difference in the sound. I said, “Bill, let me in. Wherever you are, let me in,” like a character in a grim ghost story.
    I didn’t hear a thing, naturally, though I listened for a few seconds in utter stillness. We hadn’t shared blood in a long time, and it was still daylight, though it wouldn’t be for long.
    Crapola, I thought. Then I spied a thin line in the boards, right by the doorsill. I looked very carefully and realized the thin line continued around the sides. I didn’t have the time to examine any closer. My heart thudding, out of sheer instinct and sheer desperation I dug the screwdriver into the line and levered up. There was a hole, and into it I dove, taking the screwdriver with me and closing the trap behind me. I realized the shelves must be set high to allow the door to swing up. I didn’t know where the hinges were hidden and I didn’t care.
    For a long, long moment I just sat naked in a heap on the packed dirt and panted, trying to catch up with myself. I hadn’t moved that fast, that long, since . . . since the last time I’d been running from someone who wanted to kill me.
    I thought, I’ve got to change my way of life . It wasn’t the first time I’d thought that, the first time I’d resolved to find a safer way to live.
    It wasn’t any occasion for deep thinking. It was time for praying that whoever it had been knocking trees down across my driveway, that selfsame “whoever” wouldn’t find me in this house stark naked and defenseless, hiding in the crawl space with . . . Where was Bill? Of course, it was very dark with the hatch shut, and since there weren’t any lights on in the house, nothing was coming through the outline of the opening because of the pantry door and the rain-dark day. I patted around in the dark looking for my unwitting host. Maybe he was in another hiding spot? I was surprised at how big a space this was. While I searched, I had time to imagine all sort of bugs. Snakes. When you’re buck naked, you don’t like the idea of stuff touching areas that rarely meet bare ground. I crawled and patted, and every now and then jumped as I felt (or imagined) tiny feet against my skin.
    Finally I located Bill over in a corner. He was still dead, of course. Somewhat more to my astonishment, my fingers informed me that he was naked, too. Certainly that was practical. Why get your clothes dirty? I knew he’d slept that way outside on occasion. I was so relieved to make contact with him that I really didn’t mind whether he was clothed.
    I tried to figure out how long the whole trip back from Merlotte’s had taken, how long I’d dashed through the woods. My best estimate was that I had about thirty or forty-five minutes before Bill woke.
    I crouched by him, gripping the screwdriver, listening with every nerve to catch whatever sound I could. It could be that they—the mysterious “they”—wouldn’t spot my track here, or my clothes. If my luck was consistent, of course they’d spot the clothes and shoes, and they’d know that meant I’d come in the house, and they’d come in, too.
    I spared a little disgust for the fact that I’d run to the nearest man for protection. However, I consoled myself, it wasn’t so much his muscles I wanted as the shelter of his house. That was okay, right? I wasn’t overly concerned with political correctness at the moment. Survival was more at the top of my list. And Bill wasn’t exactly at my disposal, assuming he’d be willing . . .
    “Sookie?” he murmured.
    “Bill,