Dead to the World

uncomfortable?” He was (apparently) completely contrite, blue eyes blazing with sincerity. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to continue your train of thought. Do you have some more TrueBlood? What clothes did Jason get for me? Your brother is a very clever man.” He didn’t sound a hundred percent admiring when he told me this. I didn’t blame him. Jason’s cleverness might cost him thirty-five thousand dollars. I got up to fetch the Wal-Mart bag, hoping that Eric liked his new Louisiana Tech sweatshirt and cheap jeans.
    I turned in about midnight, leaving Eric absorbed in my tapes of the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. (Though welcome, these were actually a gag gift from Tara.) Eric thought the show was a hoot, especially the way the vampires’ foreheads bulged out when they got blood-lusty. From time to time, I could hear Eric laughing all the way back in my room. But the sound didn’t bother me. I found it reassuring to hear someone else in the house.
    It took me a little longer than usual to fall asleep, because I was thinking over the things that had happened that day. Eric was in the witness protection program, in a way, and I was providing the safe house. No one in the world—well, except for Jason, Pam, and Chow—knew where the sheriff of Area Five actually was at this moment.
    Which was, sliding into my bed.
    I didn’t want to open my eyes and quarrel with him. I was just at that cusp between waking and dreaming. When he’d climbed in the night before, Eric had been so afraid that I’d felt quite maternal, comfortable in holding his hand to reassure him. Tonight it didn’t seem so, well, neutral, having him in the bed with me.
    “Cold?” I murmured, as he huddled close.
    “Um-hum,” he whispered. I was on my back, so comfortable I could not contemplate moving. He was on his side facing me, and he put an arm across my waist. But he didn’t move another inch, and he relaxed completely. After a moment’s tension, I did, too, and then I was dead to the world.
    The next thing I knew, it was morning and the phone was ringing. Of course, I was by myself in bed, and through my open doorway I could see across the hall into the smaller bedroom. The closet door was open, as he’d had to leave it when dawn came and he’d lowered himself into the light-tight hole.
    It was bright and warmer today, up in the forties and heading for the fifties. I felt much more cheerful than I’d felt upon waking the day before. I knew what was happening now; or at least I knew more or less what I was supposed to do, how the next few days would go. Or I thought I did. When I answered the phone, I discovered that I was way off.
    “Where’s your brother?” yelled Jason’s boss, Shirley Hennessy. You thought a man named Shirley was funny only until you were face-to-face with the real deal, at which point you decided it would really be better to keep your amusement to yourself.
    “How would I know?” I said reasonably. “Probably slept over at some woman’s place.” Shirley, who was universally known as Catfish, had never, ever called here before to track Jason down. In fact, I’d be surprised if he’d ever had to call anywhere. One thing Jason was good about was showing up at work on time and at least going through the motions until that time was up. In fact, Jason was pretty good at his job, which I’d never fully understood. It seemed to involve parking his fancy truck at the parish road department, getting into another truck with the Renard Parish logo on the door, and driving around telling various road crews what to do. It also seemed to demand that he get out of the truck to stand with other men as they all stared into big holes in or near the road.
    Catfish was knocked off balance by my frankness. “Sookie, you shouldn’t say that kind of thing,” he said, quite shocked at a single woman admitting she knew her brother wasn’t a virgin.
    “Are you telling me that Jason hasn’t shown up at work? And you’ve called his house?”
    “Yes and yes,” said Catfish, who in most respects was no fool. “I even sent Dago out to his place.” Dago (road crew members had to have nicknames) was Antonio Guglielmi, who had never been farther from Louisiana than Mississippi. I was pretty sure the same could be said for his parents, and possibly his grandparents, though there was rumor they’d once been to Branson to take in the shows.
    “Was his truck out there?” I was beginning to have that