Dead to the World

handcuffs and nightstick) featured in all too many patrons’ daydreams, and I also knew that the men who teased and derided Kevin the most mercilessly were the ones who had the most lurid fantasies. As I carried hamburger baskets over to Kevin and Kenya’s table, I could tell that Kenya was wondering whether she should suggest to Bud Dearborn that he call in the tracking dogs from a neighboring parish in the search for Jason, while Kevin was worried about his mother’s heart, which had been acting up more than usual lately.
    “Sookie,” Kevin said, after I’d brought them a bottle of ketchup, “I meant to tell you, some people came by the police department today putting out posters about a vampire.”
    “I saw one at the grocery,” I said.
    “I realize that just because you were dating a vampire, you aren’t an expert,” Kevin said carefully, because Kevin always did his best to be nice to me, “but I wondered if you’d seen this vamp. Before he disappeared, I mean.”
    Kenya was looking up at me, too, her dark eyes examining me with great interest. Kenya was thinking I always seemed to be on the fringes of bad things that happened in Bon Temps, without being bad myself (thanks, Kenya). She was hoping for my sake that Jason was alive. Kevin was thinking I’d always been nice to him and Kenya; and he was thinking he wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. I sighed, I hoped imperceptibly. They were waiting for an answer. I hesitated, wondering what my best choice was. The truth is always easiest to remember.
    “Sure, I’ve seen him before. Eric owns the vampire bar in Shreveport,” I said. “I saw him when I went there with Bill.”
    “You haven’t seen him recently?”
    “I sure didn’t abduct him from Fangtasia,” I said, with quite a lot of sarcasm in my voice.
    Kenya gave me a sour look, and I didn’t blame her. “No one said you did,” she told me, in a “Don’t give me any trouble” kind of voice. I shrugged and drifted away.
    I had plenty to do, since some people were still eating supper (and some were drinking it), and some regulars were drifting in after eating at home. Holly was equally busy, and when one of the men who worked for the phone company spilled his beer on the floor, she had to go get the mop and bucket. She was running behind on her tables when the door opened. I saw her putting Sid Matt Lancaster’s order in front of him, with her back to the door. So she missed the next entrance, but I didn’t. The young man Sam had hired to bus the tables during our busy hour was occupied with clearing two tables pulled together that had held a large party of parish workers, and so I was clearing off the Bellefleurs’ table. Andy was chatting with Sam while he waited for Portia, who’d visited the ladies’ room. I’d just pocketed my tip, which was fifteen percent of the bill to the penny. The Bellefleur tipping habits had improved—slightly—with the Bellefleur fortunes. I glanced up when the door was held open long enough for a cold gust of air to chill me.
    The woman coming in was tall and so slim and broad-shouldered that I checked her chest, just to be sure I’d registered her gender correctly. Her hair was short and thick and brown, and she was wearing absolutely no makeup. There was a man with her, but I didn’t see him until she stepped to one side. He was no slouch in the size department himself, and his tight T-shirt revealed arms more developed than any I’d ever seen. Hours in the gym; no, years in the gym. His chestnut hair trailed down to his shoulders in tight curls, and his beard and mustache were perceptibly redder. Neither of the two wore coats, though it was definitely coat weather. The newcomers walked over to me.
    “Where’s the owner?” the woman asked.
    “Sam. He’s behind the bar,” I said, looking down as soon as I could and wiping the table all over again. The man had looked at me curiously; that was normal. As they brushed past me, I saw that he carried some posters under his arm and a staple gun. He’d stuck his hand through a roll of masking tape, so it bounced on his left wrist.
    I glanced over at Holly. She’d frozen, the cup of coffee in her hand halfway down on its way to Sid Matt Lancaster’s placemat. The old lawyer looked up at her, followed her stare to the couple making their way between the tables to the bar. Merlotte’s, which had been on the quiet and peaceful side, was suddenly awash in tension. Holly set down the