Dead Ever After
Page 8

"What did I forget?" He was looking at me with the sidelong wide eyes of a nervous horse, and his back was stiff as a board. Somewhere in his head, he knew what had happened.
I held out my hands to him, palms up. Do you really want to do this now?
"Yeah, I guess I should know," he said. Bernie crouched by her son's chair in a distinctly nonhuman way. She was looking at me with a level gaze. She knew I wasn't going to say anything that would make Sam feel better. I could understand her unhappiness with me, but Bernie or no Bernie, I had to go through with it.
"Since Jannalynn turned traitor and almost killed Warren with neglect while she held him hostage, she and Mustapha Khan fought," I said, paring down the story to the essentials that affected Sam. "You remember Mustapha?"
Sam nodded.
"She got a trial by combat, though I don't know the hows and whys of that. I was surprised they'd give her the privilege. But she and Mustapha were fighting with swords."
Suddenly Sam's face went white. I paused, but he didn't say anything, so I went on.
"Jannalynn was doing real well, but instead of focusing on beating Mustapha, she decided to make one last attempt to control the pack - at least, I guess that was her goal." I exhaled deeply. I'd thought about that night over and over, and I still didn't understand. "Or maybe she just had an impulse, to get the better of Alcide, to have the last word, sort of. Anyway, Jannalynn maneuvered the fight until she was close to where you and Alcide were standing." I paused again, hoping that he would tell me to stop, that he remembered what came next.
He didn't, though by now he looked almost as pale as a vampire. I bit my lip and braced myself to continue.
"She leaped for Alcide and swiped down with her sword, but Alcide saw her coming in time and jumped to the side. Instead, you got cut. She never intended to hurt you."
Sam didn't respond to my lame attempt at consolation. Sure, your lover killed you, but she didn't really mean to. 'Kay?
"So . . . the blow was bad, as you know. You fell down, and there was . . . It was pretty awful." I'd thrown away the clothes I'd been wearing. And Sam's shirt, the one he'd left at my house. "You got cut," I said. "You got cut so bad you died."
"It hurt," he said, hunching over as if a strong wind were blowing at him. Bernie put her hand over her son's.
"I can't even imagine," I said quietly, though I was certainly no stranger to pain. "Your heart stopped beating. I used my cluviel dor to heal you and bring you back."
"You were calling me. You told me to live." Now he was finally looking at me directly, meeting my eyes.
"Yes," I said.
"I remember opening my eyes again to see your face."
"Your heart started beating again," I said, as the enormity of it swept over me. My skin tingled all over.
"Eric was standing behind you, looking down at us as though he hated us," Sam said. "And then he was gone, vamp quick."
"Do you remember us talking on the way home?"
He ignored that question. "But what happened to Jannalynn?" he said. "Isn't that what you were going to tell me?"
He'd walked right by her body - and her head - as I'd helped him get to his truck. He'd looked at the corpse. I could see why he didn't want to recall that. I didn't, either, and I hadn't even liked Jannalynn.
"Mustapha executed her," I said. I didn't elaborate.
Sam's gaze was fixed on me, but there wasn't anyone home. I had no idea what he was thinking. Maybe he was trying to recall what he'd seen. Maybe he remembered very clearly and didn't want to.
Bernie was shaking her head at me from behind Sam's shoulder. She thought Sam had had enough, and she was ready for me to go; that was easy to read even if you weren't a telepath. I'm not so sure I would have walked out otherwise - I figured I needed to offer a little more debriefing - but this was Sam's mother. I heaved myself to my feet, feeling about ten years older than when I'd knocked on the trailer door.
"See you later, Sam," I said. "Please come back to work soon." He didn't answer. He was still staring at the spot where I'd been sitting.
"Good-bye, Sookie," Bernie said. "You and me need to have a talk later."
I would rather walk on nails. "Sure," I said, and left.
Back in the bar, the working day proceeded in a strangely normal rhythm. It can be hard to recall that not everyone knows all the big events that occur in the supe world, even when those events take place right under the noses of the general human populace. And even if every human soul in the bar knew, they might not care very much.
The big topic of bar gossip was Halleigh Bellefleur fainting at the Rotary Club when she'd stood up to go to the bathroom. Since she was seven months pregnant, everyone was concerned. Terry, her husband's cousin, came in to get some fried pickles, and he was able to reassure us that Halleigh was fine, that Andy had taken her right in to her doctor. According to Terry, the doctor had told Andy and Halleigh that the baby had been pressing against something, and when the baby shifted, Halleigh's blood pressure had, too. Or something like that.
The lunch rush was moderate, which made sense since the Rotary was meeting at the Sizzler Steak House. When we were down to a light sprinkle of customers, I turned my tables over to An while I ran to the post office to pick up the bar mail. I was horrified to see how much had accumulated in the Merlotte's box. Sam's recovery took on a new urgency.
I brought the mail back to the bar and settled in Sam's office to go through it. Sure, I'd been working at Merlotte's for five years. I'd paid attention, and I knew a lot about how the business was run. Now I could write checks and sign them, but there were decisions that had to be made. Our cable contract for the bar was up for renewal, and Sam had talked about switching providers. Two charity fund-raisers had asked for expensive liquor to auction off. Five local charities just flat-out asked for money.
Most startling of all, we'd gotten a letter from a Clarice lawyer, a guy new to the area. He wanted to know if we were going to pay for the emergency room visit of Jane Clementine Bodehouse. The lawyer gently threatened to sue Merlotte's for Jane's mental and physical suffering if we didn't cough up. I looked at the figure at the bottom of a copy of Jane's bill. Damn. Jane had ridden in the ambulance and had an X-ray. She'd also required some stitches, which might as well have been of spun gold thread.
"Shepherd of Judea," I muttered. I reread the letter.
When Merlotte's had been firebombed the previous May, Jane, one of our alcoholic customers, had been cut by flying glass. She'd been treated by the ambulance drivers, who'd taken her to the emergency room to be checked over. She'd had a few stitches. She'd been fine . . . drunk, but fine. All her injuries had been minor. Jane had been reminiscing about that night in the past week or two, recalling her own bravery and how good that had made her feel. Now she was sending us a huge bill and threatening to sue?
I scowled. This was way beyond Jane's thinking capacity. I was willing to bet this new lawyer was trying to drum up some business. I figured he'd called Marvin, told him that his mom was due some money to compensate for all her suffering. Marvin, who was sick to death of hauling Jane away from Merlotte's, must have been very open to the notion of getting some money back from Merlotte's, after his mom had poured so much into it.
A knock at the door put an end to my speculations. I swung around in Sam's swivel chair to see someone I'd never expected to see again. For a second, I thought I'd pass out, like Halleigh Bellefleur at the Rotary Club.
"Arlene," I said, and got stuck. That was all I could manage. My former coworker - my former good friend - seemed to be waiting for me to say something more. Finally, I thought of adding, "When did you get out?"
This moment was not only awkward in the extreme but completely unnerving. The last time I'd seen Arlene Fowler (aside from in a courtroom), she had been part of a conspiracy to murder me in a particularly horrible way. People had gotten shot that day. Some had died. Some had been wounded. Some of those had recovered in jail.
Oddly enough, considering I was facing a conspirator in my murder, I was not afraid of her.
All I could think about was how much Arlene had changed. She'd been a curvy woman a few months ago. Now she was thin. Her hair was still defiantly red, but it was shorter and drier, lank and lifeless. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were cruelly evident in the overhead light. Arlene's time in jail hadn't been that long, but it seemed to have aged her in dog years.
"I got out four days ago," she said. She'd been giving me the same kind of scrutiny I'd given her. "You're looking good, Sookie. How's Sam?"
"He's sick today, Arlene," I said. I felt a little light-headed. "How are Lisa and Coby?"
"They're confused," she said. "They asked me why Aunt Sookie hasn't come by to see them."
"I thought it would be real weird if I visited them, all things considered." I held her eyes with my own until she nodded reluctantly and looked away. "Specially since I was sure you must have said some awful things about me. You know, when you decided to lure me to your place so your buddies could nail me to a cross."
Arlene flushed and looked down at her hands.
"Did they stay with Helen when you were away?" I asked, not knowing what else to talk about.
Arlene's new best bigot buddy had promised to take care of the kids when she'd taken them from Arlene's trailer before the shooting started.
"No. She got tired of 'em after a week. She took 'em to Chessie."
"Chessie Johnson?"
"She was Chessie Fowler before she married Brock," Arlene explained. "Chessie is - was - first cousin to my ex." (The ex whose name Arlene had kept, though she'd been married several times. Rick Fowler had perished in a motorcycle accident in Lawton, Oklahoma.) "When Jan Fowler died out at the lake in that fire, she left Chessie some money. Chessie ain't hurting. She loves those kids. It could have been worse." Arlene didn't sound angry with Helen, just resigned.
Frankly (and call me punitive), what I wanted to see was Arlene feeling angry with herself. Yet I didn't detect anything like that, and I could see Arlene inside and outside. What I heard from her thoughts was a bright streak of malice, a lack of hope or enterprise, and a dull loathing of the world that had treated her so ill . . . in her estimation.
"Then I hope the kids are doing well with the Johnsons," I said. "I'm sure they've missed their mama." I'd found two true things to say. I wondered where Sam's gun was. I wondered how fast I could get to it if it was in the right-hand drawer of his desk, as I suspected it was.
She looked as if she were about to cry, just for a second. "I think they have. I've got a lot of explaining to do to those two."
Gosh, I'd be glad when this conversation was over. At least there was one emotion I could recognize, and it was regret for what she'd done to her family. "You got out awful early, Arlene," I said, suddenly realizing what was most surprising about her presence in Sam's office.
"I got me a new lawyer. He bonded me out on appeal," she said. "And my behavior in jail was good, naturally, since I had a lot of motivation. You know, Sookie, I never would have let them hurt you."
"Arlene, you can't lie to me," I reminded my former friend. The pain of Arlene's betrayal was a red, sore scar on my spirit.
"I can tell you don't trust me," Arlene said.
No shit, Sherlock. I waited for the words I saw coming next. She was going to play the reformation card.
"And I don't blame you," Arlene said. "I don't know where my head was at, but it sure wasn't on my shoulders. I was full of unhappiness and rage, and I was looking for a way to blame it on someone else. Hating the vampires and werewolves was the easiest thing to do." She nodded solemnly, righteously.
Someone had had a little therapy.
I'm not mocking therapy; I've seen it do people a lot of good. But Arlene was aping the ideas of the counselor just as she'd aped the ideas of the anti-supernatural Fellowship of the Sun. When was she going to come up with some convictions of her own? It seemed incredible to me now that I'd admired Arlene so sincerely for years. But she had a great zest for life, she had an easy chemistry with men, she had two cute children, and she made her own living. These were enviable things to lonely me.
Now I saw her differently. She could attract men but not keep them. She could love her children but not enough to stay out of jail and take care of them. She could work and raise her kids but not without a constant stream of men through her bedroom.
I'd loved her for her willingness to be my friend when I had so few real ones, but I understood now that she'd used me as a babysitter for Coby and Lisa, an unpaid house cleaner, and a cheering section and admirer. When I came into my own life, she'd tried to have me murdered.
"Do you still want me dead?" I said.
She winced. "No, Sookie. You were a good friend to me and I turned on you. I believed everything the Fellowship was preaching."
Her thoughts matched her words, at least as far as they went. I was still not much of a person in Arlene's estimation. "And that's why you came by today? To mend fences with me?"
Though I saw the truth in her thoughts, I couldn't really believe it until she said, "I came to see if Sam would think of hiring me again."
I could not think of a response, I was so astonished. She began to shift around as I stared at her. Finally, I felt able to answer. "Arlene, I feel sorry for your kids, and I know you want to get them back and take care of them," I said. "But I can't work with you here at Merlotte's. You must know that would be impossible."