I could read his thought in its context because the sheriff happened to be an easy scan. I could feel the nuances of the idea. He was thinking, “Low-skill jobs, no college, screwing vampires . . . bottom of the barrel.”
Hurt and angry didn’t begin to describe how I felt at this assessment.
I went from table to table automatically, fetching drinks and sandwiches and clearing up the remainders, working as hard as I usually did, with that awful smile stretching my face. I talked to twenty people I knew, most of whom had thoughts as innocent as the day is long. Most customers were thinking of work, or tasks they had to get done at home, or some little problem they needed to solve, like getting the Sears repairman to come work on the dishwasher or getting the house clean for weekend company.
Arlene was relieved her period had started.
Charlsie was immersed in pink glowing reflections on her shot at immortality, her grandchild. She was praying earnestly for an easy pregnancy and safe delivery for her daughter.
Lafayette was thinking that working with me was getting spooky.
Policeman Kevin Pryor was wondering what his partner Kenya was doing on her day off. He himself was helping his mother clean out the tool shed and hating every minute of it.
I heard many comments, both aloud and unspoken, about my hair and complexion and the bandage on my arm. I seemed more desirable to more men, and one woman. Some of the guys who’d gone on the vampire burning expedition were thinking they didn’t have a chance with me because of my vampire sympathies, and they were regretting their impulsive act. I marked their identities in my mind. I wasn’t going to forget they could have killed my Bill, even though at the moment the rest of the vampire community was low on my list of favorite things.
Andy Bellefleur and his sister, Portia, were having lunch together, something they did at least once every week. Portia was a female version of Andy: medium height, blocky build, determined mouth and jaw. The resemblance between brother and sister favored Andy, not Portia. She was a very competent lawyer, I’d heard. I might have suggested her to Jason when he was thinking he’d need an attorney, if she’d not been female . . . and I’d been thinking about Portia’s welfare more than Jason’s.
Today the lawyer was feeling inwardly depressed because she was educated and made good money, but never had a date. That was her inner preoccupation.
Andy was disgusted with my continued association with Bill Compton, interested in my improved appearance, and curious about how vampires had sex. He also was feeling sorry he was probably going to arrest Jason. He was thinking that the case against Jason was not much stronger than that against several other men, but Jason was the one who looked the most scared, which meant he had something to hide. And there were the videos, which showed Jason having sex—not exactly regular, garden-variety sex—with Maudette and Dawn.
I stared at Andy while I processed his thoughts, which made him uneasy. Andy really did know what I was capable of. “Sookie, you going to get that beer?” he asked finally, waving a broad hand in the air to make sure he had my attention.
“Sure, Andy,” I said absently, and got one out of the cooler. “You need any more tea, Portia?”
“No, thanks, Sookie,” Portia said politely, patting her mouth with her paper napkin. Portia was remembering high school, when she would have sold her soul for a date with the gorgeous Jason Stackhouse. She was wondering what Jason was doing now, if he had a thought in his head that would interest her—maybe his body would be worth the sacrifice of intellectual companionship? So Portia hadn’t seen the tapes, didn’t know of their existence; Andy was being a good cop.
I tried to picture Portia with Jason, and I couldn’t help smiling. That would be an experience for both of them. I wished, not for the first time, that I could plant ideas as well as reap them.
By the end of my shift, I’d learned—nothing. Except that the videos my brother had so unwisely made featured mild bondage, which caused Andy to think of the ligature marks around the victims’ necks.
So, taken as a whole, letting my head open for my brother had been a futile exercise. All I’d heard tended to make me worry more and didn’t supply any additional information that might help his cause.
A different crowd would come in tonight. I had never come to Merlotte’s just for fun. Should I come in tonight? What would Bill do? Did I want to see him?
I felt friendless. There was no one I could talk to about Bill, no one who wouldn’t be halfway shocked I was seeing him in the first place. How could I tell Arlene I was blue because Bill’s vampire buddies were terrifying and ruthless, that one of them had bitten me the night before, bled into my mouth, been staked on top of me? This was not the kind of problem Arlene was equipped to handle.