Dead to the World (Sookie Stackhouse #4)(24)
Author: Charlaine Harris

There was nothing to be done. I didn’t even touch Ginger; she was so obviously dead. I didn’t say anything about her to Belinda, who was in too much agony to understand, anyway. She had a couple more moments of lucidity before I took off. I asked her where to find Pam and Chow so I could warn them, and Belinda said they just showed up at the bar when it became dark.

She also said the woman who’d worked the spell was a witch named Hallow, and she was almost six feet tall, with short brown hair and a black design painted on her face.

That should make her easy to identify.

"She told me she was as strong as a vampire, too," Belinda gasped. "You see…" Belinda pointed beyond me. I whirled, expecting an attack. Nothing that alarming happened, but what I saw was almost as disturbing as what I’d imagined. It was the handle of the dolly the staff used to wheel cases of drinks around. The long metal handle had been twisted into a U.

"I know Master Eric will kill her when he returns," Belinda said falteringly after a minute, the words coming out in jagged bursts because of the pain.

"Sure he will," I said stoutly. I hesitated, feeling crummy beyond words. "Belinda, I have to go because I don’t want the police to keep me here for questioning. Please don’t mention my name. Just say a passerby heard you, okay?"

"Where’s Master Eric? Is he really missing?"

"I have no idea," I said, forced to lie. "I have to get out of here."

"Go," Belinda said, her voice ragged. "We’re lucky you came in at all."

I had to get out of there. I knew nothing about what had happened at the bar, and being questioned for hours would cost me time I couldn’t afford, with my brother missing.

Back in my car and on my way out of the shopping center, I passed the police cars and the ambulance as they headed in. I’d wiped the doorknob clean of my fingerprints. Other than that, I couldn’t think of what I’d touched and what I hadn’t, no matter how carefully I reviewed my actions. There’d be a million prints there, anyway; gosh, it was a bar.

After a minute, I realized I was just driving with no direction. I was overwhelmingly rattled. I pulled over into yet another filling station parking lot and looked at the pay phone longingly. I could call Alcide, ask him if he knew where Pam and Chow spent their daytime hours. Then I could go there and leave a message or something, warn them about what had happened.

I made myself take some deep breaths and think hard about what I was doing. It was extremely unlikely that the vamps would give a Were the address of their daytime resting place. This was not information that vampires passed out to anyone who asked. Alcide had no love for the vamps of Shreveport, who’d held his dad’s gambling debt over Alcide’s head until he complied with their wishes. I knew that if I called, he’d come, because he was just a nice guy. But his involvement could have serious consequences for his family and his business. However, if this Hallow really was a triple threat – a Were witch who drank vampire blood – she was very dangerous, and the Weres of Shreveport should know about her. Relieved I’d finally made up my mind, I found a pay phone that worked, and I got Alcide’s card out of its slot in my billfold.

Alcide was in his office, which was a miracle. I described my location, and he gave me directions on how to reach his office. He offered to come get me, but I didn’t want him to think I was an utter idiot.

I used a calling card to phone Bud Dearborn’s office, to hear there was no news about Jason.

Following Alcide’s directions very carefully, I arrived at Herveaux and Son in about twenty minutes. It was not too far off I-30, on the eastern edge of Shreveport, actually on my way back to Bon Temps.

The Herveauxes owned the building, and their surveying company was its sole occupant. I parked in front of the low brick building. At the rear, I spotted Alcide’s Dodge Ram pickup in the large parking lot for employees. The one in front, for visitors, was much smaller. It was clear to see that the Herveauxes mostly went to their clients, rather than the clients coming to them.

Feeling shy and more than a little nervous, I pushed open the front door and glanced around. There was a desk just inside the door, with a waiting area opposite. Beyond a half wall, I could see five or six workstations, three of them occupied. The woman behind the desk was in charge of routing phone calls, too. She had short dark brown hair that was carefully cut and styled, she was wearing a beautiful sweater, and she had wonderful makeup. She was probably in her forties, but it hadn’t lessened her impressiveness.

"I’m here to see Alcide," I said, feeling embarrassed and self-conscious.

"Your name?" She was smiling at me, but she looked a little crisp around the edges, as if she didn’t quite approve of a young and obviously unfashionable woman showing up at Alcide’s workplace. I was wearing a bright blue-and-yellow knit top with long sleeves under my old thigh-length blue cloth coat, and aged blue jeans, and Reeboks. I’d been worried about finding my brother when I dressed, not about standing inspection by the Fashion Police.

"Stackhouse," I said.

"Ms. Stackhouse here to see you," Crispy said into an intercom.

"Oh, good!" Alcide sounded very happy, which was a relief.

Crispy was saying into the intercom, "Shall I send her back?" when Alcide burst through the door behind and to the left of her desk.

"Sookie!" he said, and he beamed at me. He stopped for a second, as if he couldn’t quite decide what he should do, and then he hugged me.

I felt like I was smiling all over. I hugged him back. I was so happy to see him! I thought he looked wonderful. Alcide is a tall man, with black hair that apparently can’t be tamed with a brush and comb, and he has a broad face and green eyes.

We’d dumped a body together, and that creates a bond.

He pulled gently on my braid. "Come on back," he said in my ear, since Ms. Crispy was looking on with an indulgent smile. I was sure the indulgent part was for Alcide’s benefit. In fact, I knew it was, because she was thinking I didn’t look chic enough or polished enough to date a Herveaux, and she didn’t think Alcide’s dad (with whom she’d been sleeping for two years) would appreciate Alcide taking up with a no-account girl like me. Oops, one of those things I didn’t want to know. Obviously I wasn’t shielding myself hard enough. Bill had made me practice, and now that I didn’t see him anymore, I was getting sloppy. It wasn’t entirely my fault; Ms. Crispy was a clear broadcaster.

Alcide was not, since he’s a werewolf.

Alcide ushered me down a hall, which was nicely carpeted and hung with neutral pictures – insipid landscapes and garden scenes – which I figured some decorator (or maybe Ms. Crispy) had chosen. He showed me into his office, which had his name on the door. It was a big room, but not a grand or elegant one, because it was just chock-full of work stuff – plans and papers and hard hats and office equipment. Very utilitarian. A fax machine was humming, and set beside a stack of forms there was a calculator displaying figures.