Dead to the World

lived at the club. I’d gotten the impression that Pam and Chow shared a house . . . or a mausoleum . . . somewhere in Shreveport.
    I was fairly sure that human employees came into the club during the day to clean, but of course a human wouldn’t (couldn’t) tell me anything about vampire affairs. Humans who worked for vampires learned pretty quick to keep their mouths shut, as I could attest.
    On the other hand, if I went to the club I’d have a chance to talk to someone face-to-face. I’d have a chance to read a human mind. I couldn’t read vampire minds, which had led to my initial attraction to Bill. Imagine the relief of silence after a lifetime of elevator music. (Now, why couldn’t I hear vampire thoughts? Here’s my big theory about that. I’m about as scientific as a saltine, but I have read about neurons, which fire in your brain, right? When you’re thinking? Since it’s magic that animates vampires, not normal life force, their brains don’t fire. So, nothing for me to pick up—except about once every three months, I’d get a flash from a vampire. And I took great care to conceal that, because that was a sure way to court instant death.)
    Oddly enough, the only vampire I’d ever “heard” twice was—you guessed it—Eric.
    I’d been enjoying Eric’s recent company so much for the same reason I’d enjoyed Bill’s, quite apart from the romantic component I’d had with Bill. Even Arlene had a tendency to stop listening to me when I was talking, if she thought of something more interesting, like her children’s grades or cute things they’d said. But with Eric, he could be thinking about his car needing new windshield wipers while I was pouring my heart out, and I was none the wiser.
    The hour I’d asked Catfish to give me was almost up, and all my constructive thought had dwindled into the same murky maundering I’d gone through several times. Blah blah blah. This is what happens when you talk to yourself a lot.
    Okay, action time.
    The phone rang right at the hour, and Catfish admitted he had no news. No one had heard from Jason or seen him; but on the other hand, Dago hadn’t seen anything suspicious at Jason’s place except the truck’s open door.
    I was still reluctant to call the sheriff, but I didn’t see that I had much choice. At this point, it would seem peculiar to skip calling him.
    I expected a lot of hubbub and alarm, but what I got was even worse: I got benevolent indifference. Sheriff Bud Dearborn actually laughed.
    “You callin’ me because your tomcat of a brother is missing a day of work? Sookie Stackhouse, I’m surprised at you.” Bud Dearborn had a slow voice and the mashed-in face of a Pekinese, and it was all too easy to picture him snuffling into the phone.
    “He never misses work, and his truck is at his house. The door was open,” I said.
    He did grasp that significance, because Bud Dearborn is a man who knows how to appreciate a fine pickup.
    “That does sound a little funny, but still, Jason is way over twenty-one and he has a reputation for . . .” ( Drilling anything that stands still , I thought.) “. . . being real popular with the ladies,” Bud concluded carefully. “I bet he’s all shacked up with someone new, and he’ll be real sorry to have caused you any worry. You call me back if you haven’t heard from him by tomorrow afternoon, you hear?”
    “Right,” I said in my most frozen voice.
    “Now, Sookie, don’t you go getting all mad at me, I’m just telling you what any lawman would tell you,” he said.
    I thought, Any lawman with lead in his butt. But I didn’t say it out loud. Bud was what I had to work with, and I had to stay on his good side, as much as possible.
    I muttered something that was vaguely polite and got off the phone. After reporting back to Catfish, I decided my only course of action was to go to Shreveport. I started to call Arlene, but I remembered she’d have the kids at home since it was still the school holiday. I thought of calling Sam, but I figured he might feel like he ought to do something, and I couldn’t figure out what that would be. I just wanted to share my worries with someone. I knew that wasn’t right. No one could help me, but me. Having made up my mind to be brave and independent, I almost phoned Alcide Herveaux, who is a well-to-do and hardworking guy based in Shreveport. Alcide’s dad runs a surveying firm that contracts for jobs in three states, and Alcide travels a lot among