Deadlocked

Sam was behind the bar talking to Hoyt Fortenberry, who was taking an early lunch hour. I stopped to visit for a second, told Hoyt I'd seen his mom, asked him how the wedding plans were going (he rolled his eyes), and gave Sam a pat on the back by way of apology for my emotional excesses over the telephone the day before. He smiled back at me and continued poking at Hoyt about the potholes on the street in front of the bar.

I stowed my purse in my shiny new locker. I wore the key to it on a chain around my neck. The other waitresses were delighted to have real lockers, and from the stuffed bags they carried in, I was sure the lockers were already full. Everyone wanted to keep a change of clothes, an extra umbrella, some makeup, a hairbrush ... even D'Eriq and Antoine seemed pleased with the new system. As I passed Sam's office, I saw the coatrack inside, and on it was a jacket, a bright red jacket ... Jannalynn's. Before I could think about what I was doing, I stepped into Sam's office, stole the jacket, and retreated to stuff it inside my locker.

I'd found a quick and easy solution to the problem of getting Jannalynn's scent to the noses of Bill and Heidi. I even persuaded myself that Sam wouldn't mind, if I were to tell him; but I didn't test that idea by asking permission to take the jacket.

I'm not used to feeling underhanded, and I have to confess that for an hour or two I kept away from Sam. That was unexpectedly easy, since the bar was really busy. The association of local insurance agents came in for their monthly lunch together, and since it was so hot, they were almighty thirsty. The EMT team on duty parked the ambulance outside and ordered their food. Jason and his road crew came in, and so did a bunch of nurses from the blood bank truck, parked on the town square today.

Though I was working hard, the idea of bags of blood reminded me of Eric. Like all roads leading to Rome, all my thoughts seemed to come back to the certain prospect of misery to come. As I stood staring into the kitchen, waiting for a basket of French fried pickles for the insurance agents, my heart felt as if it were beating way too fast. I revisited the single disturbing scenario, over and over. Eric would choose her. He would leave me.

What weighed on me with incredible heaviness was the idea of using the love gift given by Fintan to my grandmother, the cluviel dor. If I understood its properties correctly, a wish on behalf of someone I loved would surely be granted. This fairy object, which Amelia had heard was no longer made in the fae world, might come with a penalty for its use. I had no idea if there would be a price to pay, much less how steep that price would be. But if I used it to keep Eric ...

"Sookie?" Antoine said, sounding anxious. "Hey, girl, you hearing me? Here's your pickles. For the third time."

"Thanks," I said, picking up the red plastic basket and hurrying to the table. I smiled all around, put the basket neatly in the middle, and checked to see if anyone needed a drink refill. They all did, so I went to get the pitcher of sweet tea, while taking one glass with me to refill with Coke.

Then Jason asked for more mayonnaise for his hamburger, and Jane Bodehouse wanted a bowl of pretzels to go with her lunch (Bud Light).

By the time the noon crowd thinned out, I was feeling a little more normal. I reminded Jason I was making his sweet potato casserole and that he should come by tonight to pick it up.

"Sook, thanks," he said with his charming smile. "Her mom is gonna love it, and so will Michele. I really appreciate you taking the time to do this. I can grill meat, but I ain't no kitchen chef."

I worked the rest of the shift on automatic. I had a little conversation with Sam about whether to change insurance companies for the bar or whether Sam should insure his trailer separately. The State Farm agent had spoken to Sam at lunchtime.

Finally it was time to go, but I had to fiddle around until the storage room was empty and I could open the locker to remove the borrowed jacket. ("Borrowed" sounded much better than "stolen.") I'd found an empty Wal-Mart bag, and I stuffed the jacket into it, though my hands were clumsy because I was trying to hurry. Just as I tied the plastic handles together and opened the back door, I saw Sam go into his office; but he didn't come out again to yell, "Where's my honey's jacket?"

I drove home and unloaded the bag of groceries and the bag containing Jannalynn's jacket. I felt as if I'd lifted the collection plate from the church. I took off my uniform and put on some denim shorts and a camo tank top Jason had given me for my birthday the year before.

I left a message on Bill's answering machine before I began cooking. I put a big pot of water on the stove so it could reach the boiling point. As I peeled the sweet potatoes and cut them into chunks for cooking, I turned on the radio. It provided background noise, at least until the Shreveport news came on. In the wake of Kym Rowe's murder, anti-vamp sentiment was escalating. Someone had thrown a bucket of white paint across the façade of Fangtasia. There was nothing I could do about that, so I pushed that worry to the back of my mind. The vamps could more than take care of themselves, unless things got much, much worse.

After I'd eased the sweet potatoes into the boiling water and turned the heat down to simmer, I checked my e-mail. Tara had sent some pictures of the babies. Cute. I'd gotten a chain letter from Maxine (which I deleted without reading), and I'd gotten a message from Michele. She had a short list of three wedding dates she and Jason were considering, and she wanted to know if all three were clear for me. I smiled, looked at my empty calendar, and had just sent my reply when I heard a car pull up.

My schedule for the evening was full, so I wasn't very pleased at having an uninvited guest. I was even more astonished when I looked out the living room window to see that my caller was Donald Callaway, Brenda Hesterman's partner in Splendide. I'd wondered if I'd hear from them after Sam told me about the break-in, but I hadn't ever imagined I'd get a personal visit. Surely a phone call or an e-mail would have been sufficient to handle any issues that had resulted from the destruction of the furniture I'd sold to them?

Donald, standing by his car, looked as crisp as he had the morning he'd spent examining the contents of my attic: creased khakis, seersucker shirt, polished loafers. His salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were freshly trimmed, and he radiated a sort of middle-aged tan fitness. Golfer, maybe. He seemed to be having some difficulty.

I opened the door, worried about the simmering sweet potatoes, which should be nearly done.

"Hey, Mr. Callaway," I called. "What are you doing way out here?" And why didn't he approach?

"Can I come in for a second?" he asked.

"Okay," I said, and he started forward. "But I'm afraid I don't have a lot of time."

He was just a little surprised that I wasn't more cordial. I got a waft of wrongness. I dropped all my shields and looked inside his brain.

He was on the porch now, and I said, "Stop right there."

He looked at me with apparent surprise.

"What have you done?" I asked. "You've screwed me over somehow. You might as well tell me."

His eyes widened. "Are you human?"

"I'm human with extras. Spill it, Mr. Callaway."

He was almost frightened, but he was becoming angry, too. That was a bad combination. "I need that thing that was in the secret compartment."

Revelation. "You opened it first, before you showed it to me." It was my turn to be astonished.

"If I'd had any idea what that thing was, I'd never have told you," he said, regret weighing down his voice. "As it was, I thought it was worthless, and I thought I might as well boost my reputation for honesty."

"But you're not honest, are you?" I glided through his thoughts, my head tilted on one side. "You're a twisty bastard." The wards around the house had been trying to keep him out, but like an idiot, I'd invited him in.

He had the gall to be offended.

"Come on now, just trying to turn a buck and keep our business afloat in a bad economy." He thought he could tell me this, and I'd accept it? I checked him out quickly but thoroughly. I didn't think he had a gun, but he had a knife in a sheath clipped to his belt, just like many men who had to open boxes every day. It wasn't a big knife-but any knife was pretty damn frightening.

"Sookie," he continued, "I came out here tonight to do you a favor. I don't think you know that you have a valuable little item. Interest in this item is heating up, and word's getting around. You might find it a tad dangerous to keep it in your house. I'll be glad to put it in the safe at my office. I did some research on your behalf, and what you think may just be a pretty thing your grandma left in the desk is something a few people do want for their private collection."

Not only had he opened the secret compartment and glanced at the contents before he'd called me to come look, he'd at least scanned the letter. The letter my grandmother had written to me. Thank God he hadn't had a chance to read it carefully. He was completely ignorant about me.

Something inside me caught fire. I was mad. Really mad.

"Come in," I said calmly. "We'll talk about it."

He was surprised, but relieved.

I smiled at him.

I turned and walked back to the kitchen. There were lots of weapons in the kitchen.

Callaway followed me, his loafers making little thwacks on the boards of the floor.

It would be very opportune if Jason arrived right now for his sweet potato casserole, or if Dermot came home for supper, but I wasn't going to count on their help.

"So you did open the bag? You looked at it?" I said over my shoulder. "I don't know why Gran left me an old powder compact, but it is kind of pretty. Gran was sort of a crackpot; a sweet old lady, but real imaginative."

"So often our elderly relatives love things that don't really have much intrinsic value," the antiques dealer said. "In your case, your grandmother left you an item that is of interest only to a few specialized collectors."

"Really? What is it? She called it something crazy." I was still leading the way. I smiled to myself. I was pretty sure it wasn't a very pleasant smile.

He didn't hesitate. "It's a turn-of-the-century Valentine's Day present," he said. "Made out of soapstone. If you can open it, there's a little compartment for a lock of the hair of the person giving it."

"Really? I couldn't open it. You know how?" I was sure that only the intention to use it could open the cluviel dor.

"Yes, I'm pretty sure I can open it," he said, and he believed that-but he'd never tried. He hadn't had time that day, had had only a quick glance at the cluviel dor and at the letter. He assumed that he'd be able to open the round object because he'd never been thwarted when he'd tried to open similar antique items before.

"That would be real interesting," I said. "And how many people are gonna bid on this old thing? How much money you think I could make?"

"At least two people are involved," he said. "But that's all you need, to make a little profit. Maybe you'd make as much as a thousand, though I have to take my cut."

"Why should I give you any? Why shouldn't I contact them myself?"

He sat at the kitchen table uninvited, while I went to the stove to check the sweet potatoes. They were done. All the other ingredients- butter, eggs, sugar, molasses, allspice, nutmeg, and vanilla-were arranged in a row on the counter, ready for me to measure. The oven had preheated.

He was taken aback by my question, but he rallied. "Why, you don't want to deal with these people, young lady. They're pretty rough people. You want to let me do that. So it's only fair that I get a little recompense for my trouble."

"What if I don't want to let you 'do that'?" I turned off the heat, but the water kept bubbling. With a slotted spoon, I scooped out the sweet potato chunks and put them in a bowl. Steam rose from them, making the kitchen even warmer, despite the air conditioner rumbling away. I was monitoring his thoughts closely, as I should have done the day he'd been here working.

"Then I'll just take it," he said.

I turned to face him. He had some Mace and a knife. I heard the front door open and shut, very quietly. Callaway didn't hear it; he didn't know this house like I did.

"I won't give it up," I said flatly, my voice louder than it needed to be. "And you can't find it."

"I'm an antiques dealer," he said with absolute assurance. "I'm very good at finding old things."

I didn't know if a friend had entered or another foe. Truth be told, I had little faith in the wards. The silence and stealth the newcomer employed could indicate either one. I did know I wasn't going to give up the cluviel dor. And I knew for sure I wasn't going to stand passively and let this asshole hurt me. I twisted, gripped the handle of the pot of hot water, and pivoted smoothly, flinging the water directly into Donald Callaway's face.

A lot of things happened then, in very rapid succession. Callaway screamed and dropped the knife and the Mace, clapping his hands to his face while water flew everywhere. The demon lawyer, Desmond Cataliades, charged into the room. He bellowed like a maddened bull when he saw Donald Callaway on the floor (the dealer was doing a little of his own bellowing). The demon leaped onto the prone dealer, gripped his head, and twisted, and all the noise stopped abruptly.

"Shepherd of Judea," I said. I pulled out a chair and sat in it to forestall falling down on the wet floor with the body.

Mr. Cataliades picked himself up, dusted his hands together, and beamed at me. "Miss Stackhouse, how nice to see you," he said. "And how clever of you to distract him. I'm not yet returned to full strength."