Dead Until Dark

sits in the jail.”
    “You think another man did this to him? Framed him for this murder?”
    “Yes, I do.” I leaned forward, trying to persuade this skeptical lawyer by the force of my own belief. “Someone envious of him. Someone who knows his schedule, who kills these women when Jason’s off work. Someone who knows Jason had had sex with these gals. Someone who knows he likes to make tapes.”
    “Could be almost anyone,” Jason’s lawyer said practically.
    “Yep,” I said sadly. “Even if Jason was nice enough to keep quiet about exactly who he’d been with, all anyone’d have to do is see who he left a bar with at closing time. Just being observant, maybe having asked about the tapes on a visit to his house . . .” My brother might be somewhat immoral, but I didn’t think he’d show those videos to anyone else. He might tell another man that he liked to make the videos, though. “So this man, whoever he is, made some kind of deal with Amy, knowing she was mad at Jason. Maybe he told her he was going to play a practical joke on Jason or something.”
    “Your brother’s never been arrested before,” Sid Matt observed.
    “No.” Though it had been a near thing, a couple of times, to hear Jason tell it.
    “No record, upstanding member of the community, steady job. There may be a chance I can get him out on bail. But if he runs, you’ll lose everything.”
    It truly had never occurred to me that Jason might skip bail. I didn’t know anything about arranging for bail, and I didn’t know what I’d have to do, but I wanted Jason out of that jail. Somehow, staying in jail until the legal processes had been gone through before the trial . . . somehow, that would make him look guiltier.
    “You find out about it and let me know what I have to do,” I said. “In the meantime, can I go see him?”
    “He’d rather you didn’t,” Sid Matt said.
    That hurt dreadfully. “Why?” I asked, trying really hard not to tear up again.
    “He’s ashamed,” said the lawyer.
    The thought of Jason feeling shame was fascinating.
    “So,” I said, trying to move along, suddenly tired of this unsatisfactory meeting. “You’ll call me when I can actually do something?”
    Sid Matt nodded, his jowls trembling slightly with the movement. I made him uneasy. He sure was glad to be leaving me.
    The lawyer drove off in his pickup, clapping a cowboy hat on his head when he was still in sight.
    When it was full dark, I went out to check on Bubba. He was sitting under a pin oak, bottles of blood lined up beside him, empties on one side, fulls on the other.
    I had a flashlight, and though I knew Bubba was there, it was still a shock to see him in the beam of light. I shook my head. Something really had gone wrong when Bubba “came over,” no doubt about it. I was sincerely glad I couldn’t read Bubba’s thoughts. His eyes were crazy as hell.
    “Hey, sugar,” he said, his Southern accent as thick as syrup. “How you doing? You come to keep me company?”
    “I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable,” I said.
    “Well, I could think of places I’d be more comfortable, but since you’re Bill’s girl, I ain’t about to talk about them.”
    “Good,” I said firmly.
    “Any cats around here? I’m getting mighty tired of this bottled stuff.”
    “No cats. I’m sure Bill will be back soon, and then you can go home.” I started back toward the house, not feeling comfortable enough in Bubba’s presence to prolong the conversation, if you could call it that. I wondered what thoughts Bubba had during his long watchful nights; I wondered if he remembered his past.
    “What about that dog?” he called after me.
    “He went home,” I called back over my shoulder.
    “Too bad,” Bubba said to himself, so softly I almost didn’t hear him.
    I got ready for bed. I watched television. I ate some ice cream, and I even chopped up a Heath Bar for a topping. None of my usual comfort things seemed to work tonight. My brother was in jail, my boyfriend was in New Orleans, my grandmother was dead, and someone had murdered my cat. I felt lonely and sorry for myself all the way around.
    Sometimes you just have to roll in it.
    Bill didn’t return my call.
    That added fuel to the flame of my misery. He’d probably found some accommodating whore in New Orleans, or some fang-banger, like the ones who hung around Blood in the Quarter every night, hoping for a vampire “date.”
    If I were a drinking woman, I would