“My daughter is a woman who runs around with witches,” Carmichael said. “She’s never been able to make her own living, not completely. I’ve been researching her ‘friends,’ very discreetly.” He sighed, sounding both angry and exasperated. “I understand their powers exist. I believe that now. Reluctantly. But what have they done with those powers? The strongest among them lives in a
shack
.” Carmichael’s knuckles rapped against the table. “My daughter could be a force in society in this town. She could work for me and do all kinds of charity stuff, but instead she lives in her own little world with her loser boyfriend. Like her friend Sookie. But I’ll even the score there. How many powerful friends could a waitress have?”
The devil glanced over to his left. Two tables away sat a very round man with dark hair, who was by himself at a table laden with food. The very round man met the devil’s eyes without blinking or looking away, which few men could do. After a long moment, the two nodded at each other.
Carmichael was glaring at the devil.
“I owe you nothing for Tyrese any longer,” said the devil. “And you are mine forever. Given your present course, I may have you sooner than I’d expected.” He smiled, a chilling expression on his smooth face, and he rose from the table and left.
Carmichael was even angrier when he had to pay for the devil’s whiskey. He never even noticed the very round man. But the very round man noticed him.
The morning after I raised my boss from the dead, I got up to find
him sitting half-dressed in my backyard on my chaise lounge. It was about ten a.m. on a July day, and the sun was bathing the backyard in brilliant heat. Sam’s hair was turned into a bright tangle of red and gold. He opened his eyes as I came down the back steps and crossed the yard. I was still in my nightshirt, and I didn’t even want to think about my own hair. It was pretty much one big snarl.
“How are you feeling?” I asked very quietly. My throat was sore from the screaming I’d done the night before when I’d seen Sam bleeding out on the ground in the backyard of the country farmhouse Alcide Herveaux had inherited from his father. Sam drew up his legs to give me room to sit on the chaise. His jeans were spattered with his dried blood. His chest was bare; his shirt must have been too nasty to touch.
Sam didn’t answer for a long time. Though he’d given his tacit permission for me to sit with him, he didn’t seem to embrace my presence. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how I feel. I don’t feel like myself. It’s like something inside me changed.”
I cringed. I’d feared this. “I know . . . that is, I was told . . . that there’s always a price for magic,” I said. “I thought I’d be the one paying it, though. I’m sorry.”
“You brought me back,” he said, without emotion. “I think that’s worth a little adjustment period.” He didn’t smile.
I shifted uneasily. “How long have you been out here?” I asked. “Can I get you some orange juice or coffee? Breakfast?”
“I came out here a few hours ago,” he said. “I lay on the ground. I needed to get back in touch.”
“With what?” I may not have been as awake as I thought I was.
“With my natural side,” he said, very slowly and deliberately. “Shapeshifters are nature’s children. Since we can turn into so many things. That’s our mythology. Back before we blended into the human race, we used to say that when we were created, the mother of all the earth wanted a creature so versatile it could replace any race that died out. And that creature was a shapeshifter. I could look at a picture of a saber-toothed tiger and be one. Did you know that?”
“No,” I said.
“I think I’ll go home. I’ll go to my trailer and . . .” His voice trailed off.
“And what?”
“Find a shirt,” he said, finally. “I do feel strange. Your yard is amazing.”
I was confused and not a little worried. Part of me could see that Sam would need some alone time to recover from the trauma of dying and coming back. But the other part of me, the one that had known Sam for years, was upset that he sounded so un-Sam. I’d been Sam’s friend, employee, occasional date, and business partner—all those things and more—for the past few years. I would have sworn he couldn’t surprise me.
I watched him, narrow-eyed, as he worked his keys out of his jeans pocket. I got up to give him room to slide off the chaise and walk to his truck. He climbed into the cab and looked at me through the windshield for a long moment. Then he turned the key in the ignition. He raised his hand, and I felt a surge of pleasure. He’d lower his window. He’d call me over to say good-bye. But then Sam backed out, turned around, and went slowly down the driveway to Hummingbird Road. He left without a word. Not “See you later,” “Thanks a lot,” or “Kiss my foot.”
And what had he meant about my yard being amazing? He’d been in my yard dozens of times.
At least I solved that puzzlement quickly. As I turned to trudge inside—through some extraordinarily green grass—I noticed that my three tomato plants, which I’d put in weeks ago, were heavily laden with ripe red fruit. The sight stopped me in my tracks. When had that happened? The last time I’d noticed them, maybe a week ago, they’d looked scraggly and in dire need of water and fertilizer. The one on the left had seemed on its last legs (if a plant can have legs). Now all three plants were lush and green-leafed, sagging against their frames with the sheer weight of the fruit. It was like someone had dosed them with an elevated version of Miracle-Gro.
With my mouth hanging open, I rotated to check out all the other flowers and bushes in the yard, and there were plenty of them. Many of the Stackhouse women had been ardent gardeners, and they’d planted roses, daisies, hydrangeas, pear trees . . . so many blooming and green things, planted by generations of Stackhouse women. And I’d been doing a poor job of keeping them in good trim.
But . . . what the hell? While I’d been sunk in gloom the past few days, the whole yard had taken steroids. Or maybe the Jolly Green Giant had paid a visit. Everything that was supposed to be blooming was laden with brilliant flowers, and everything that was supposed to bear fruit was heavy with it. Everything else was green and glossy and thick. How had this come about?
I plucked a couple of especially ripe and round tomatoes to take in the house. I could see that a bacon-and-tomato sandwich would be my lunch choice, but before that I had a few things to accomplish.
I found my cell phone and checked my list of contacts. Yes, I had Bernadette Merlotte’s number. Bernadette, called Bernie, was Sam’s shapeshifter mom. Though my own mother had passed when I was seven (so maybe I wasn’t the best judge), Sam seemed to have a good relationship with Bernie. If there ever was a time to call in a mom, this was it.
I won’t say we had a comfortable conversation, and it was shorter than it should have been, but by the time I hung up, Bernie Merlotte was packing a bag to come to Bon Temps. She’d arrive in the late afternoon.
Had I done the right thing? After I’d hashed the issue over with myself, I decided I had, and I further decided I had to have a day off. Maybe more than one. I called Merlotte’s and told Kennedy that I had the flu. She agreed they’d call me in a crisis, but otherwise they’d leave me alone to recover.
“I didn’t think anyone got the flu in July. But Sam called in to say the same thing,” Kennedy said with a smile in her voice.
I thought,
Dammit.
“Maybe y’all gave it to each other?” she suggested archly.
I didn’t say a word.
“Okay, okay, I’ll only call if the place is on fire,” she said. “You have a good time getting over the flu.”
I refused to worry about the rumors that would undoubtedly start making the rounds. I slept a lot and wept a lot. I cleaned out all the drawers in my bedroom: night table, dressing table, chest of drawers. I pitched useless things and grouped other items together in a way that seemed sensible. And I waited to hear . . . from anyone.
But the phone didn’t ring. I heard a lot of nothing. I had a lot of nothing, except tomatoes. I had them on sandwiches, and the minute the red ones were gone, the plants were hung with green ones. I fried a few of the green ones, and when the rest were red, I made my own salsa for the first time ever. The flowers bloomed and bloomed and bloomed, until I had a vase full in almost every room in the house. I even walked through the cemetery to leave some on Gran’s grave, and I put a bouquet on Bill’s porch. If I could have eaten them, I’d have had a full plate at every meal.
ELSEWHERE
The red-haired woman came out of the prison door slowly and
suspiciously, as if she suspected a practical joke. She blinked in the brilliant sun and began walking toward the road. There was a car parked there, but she didn’t pay it any attention. It never occurred to the red-haired woman that its occupants were waiting for her.
A medium man got out of the front passenger seat. That was how she thought of him: medium. His hair was medium brown, he was medium tall, he was medium built, and he had a medium smile. His teeth, however, were gleaming white and perfect. Dark glasses hid his eyes. “Miss Fowler,” he called. “We’ve come to pick you up.”
She turned toward him, hesitating. The sun was in her eyes, and she squinted. She’d survived so much—broken marriages, broken relationships, single motherhood, betrayals, a bullet wound. She was not of a mind to be an easy target now.
“Who are you?” she asked, standing her ground, though she knew the sun was mercilessly showing every line in her face and every deficiency in the cheap hair dye she’d applied in the jail bathroom.
“Don’t you recognize me? We met at the hearing.” The medium man’s voice was almost gentle. He took off his dark glasses, and a chime of recognition sounded in her brain.
“You’re the lawyer, the one that got me out,” she said, smiling. “I don’t know why you did that, but I owe you. I sure didn’t need to be in jail. I want to see my children.”
“And you will,” he said. “Please, please.” He opened the rear door of the car and gestured for her to get in. “I’m sorry. I should have addressed you as Mrs. Fowler.”
She was glad to climb inside, grateful to sink back onto the cushioned seat, delighted to revel in the cold air. This was the most physical comfort she’d had in many months. You didn’t appreciate soft seats and courtesy (or good mattresses and thick towels) until you didn’t have them.
“I been Mrs. a few times. And I been Miss, too,” she said. “I don’t care what you call me. This is a great car.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said the driver, a tall man with graying hair clipped very short. He turned to look over the seat at the red-haired woman, and he smiled at her. He took off his own dark glasses.
“Oh my God,” she said, in an entirely different tone. “It’s you! Really! In the flesh. I thought you was in jail. But you’re here.” She was both awed and confused.
“Yes, Sister,” he said. “I understand what a devoted follower you were and how you proved your worth. And now I’ve said thank you by getting you out of jail, where you in no way deserved to be.”
She looked away. In her heart, she knew her sins and crimes. But it was balm to her self-regard to hear that such an esteemed man—someone she’d seen on television!—thought she was a good woman. “So that’s why you put up all that money for my bail? That was a hell of a lot of cash, mister. More money than I’d ever earn in my life.”
“I want to be as staunch an advocate for you as you were for me,” the tall man said smoothly. “Besides, we know you’re not going to run.” He smiled at her, and Arlene thought about how fortunate she was. That someone would put up over a hundred thousand dollars for her bail seemed incredible. In fact, suspicious.
But
, Arlene figured,
so far so good.
“We’re taking you home to Bon Temps,” said the medium man. “You can see your children, little Lisa and little Coby.”
The way he said her kids’ names made her feel uneasy. “They ain’t so little anymore,” she said, to drown out that flicker of doubt. “But I sure as he . . . sure want to lay eyes on them. I missed them every day I was inside.”
“In return, there are a few little things we want you to do for us, if you will,” the medium man said. There was definitely a slight foreign cadence to his English.
Arlene Fowler knew instinctively that those few things would not really be little, and definitely not optional. Looking at the two men, she didn’t sense they were interested in something she might not have minded giving up, like her body. They didn’t want her to iron their sheets or polish their silver, either. She felt more comfortable now that the cards were spread out on the table and about to be flipped over. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Like what?”
“I really don’t think you’ll mind when you hear,” said the driver. “I truly don’t.”
“All you have to do,” said the medium man, “is have a conversation with Sookie Stackhouse.”
There was a long silence. Arlene Fowler looked back and forth at the two men, measuring and calculating. “You going to get me put back in jail if I won’t?” she said.
“Since we got you out on bail pending your trial, I guess we could make that happen,” said the tall driver mildly. “But I would certainly hate to do that. Wouldn’t you?” he asked his companion.
The medium man shook his head from side to side. “That would be a great pity. The little children would be so sad. Are you afraid of Miss Stackhouse?”
There was silence while Arlene Fowler wrestled with the truth. “I’m the last person in the world Sookie’d want to see,” she hedged. “She blames me for that whole day, the day . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“The day all those people got shot,” the medium man said pleasantly. “Including you. But I know her slightly, and I think she’ll let you have a conversation. We will tell you what to say. Don’t worry about her talent. I think all will be well in that regard.”
“Her talent? You mean her mind-reading? Some talent!” Arlene, surprisingly, laughed. “That’s been the curse of her life.”
The two men smiled, and the effect was not pleasant at all. “Yes,” agreed the driver. “That has been a curse for her, and I imagine that feeling will get worse.”