But there was no listing for “brothers” or “sisters.”
Okay, it wasn’t going to be that easy. I clicked on the boldfaced name of Bill’s sire, the late, unlamented Lorena. I was curious as to what her entry would say, since Lorena had met the ultimate death, at least until they learned how to resuscitate ashes.
“Lorena Ball,” her entry read, with only a drawing. It was a pretty good likeness, I thought, cocking my head as I looked it over. Turned in 1788 in New Orleans. lived all across the South but returned to Louisiana after the Civil War. had “met the sun,” murder by person or persons “unknown.” Huh. Bill knew perfectly well who’d killed Lorena, and I could only be glad he hadn’t put my name in the directory. I wondered what would have happened to me if he had. See, you think you have enough to worry about, but then you think of a possibility you’d never imagined and you realize you have even more problems.
Okay, here we go. “Sired Bill Compton (1870) and Judith Vardamon (1902).”
Judith. So this was Bill’s “sister.”
After some more clicking and reading, I discovered that Judith Vardamon was still “alive,” or at least she had been when Bill had been compiling his database. She lived in Little Rock.
I further discovered I could send her an e-mail. Naturally, she wasn’t obliged to answer it.
I stared down at my hands, and I thought hard. I thought about how awful Bill looked. I thought about his pride, and the fact that he hadn’t yet contacted this Judith, though he suspected her blood would cure him. Bill wasn’t a fool, so there was some good reason he hadn’t called this other child of Lorena. I just didn’t know that reason. But if Bill had decided she shouldn’t be contacted, he knew what he was doing, right? Oh, to hell with it.
I typed in her e-mail address. And moved the cursor down to the topic. Typed “Bill’s ill.” Thought that looked almost funny. Almost changed it, but didn’t. Moved the cursor down to the body of the e-mail, clicked again. Hesitated. Then I typed, “I’m Bill Compton’s neighbor. I don’t know how long it’s been since you heard from him, but he lives at his old home place in Bon Temps, Louisiana, now. Bill’s got silver poisoning. He can’t heal without your blood. He doesn’t know I’m sending this. We used to date, and we’re still friends. I want him to get better.” I signed it, because anonymous is not my style.
I clenched my teeth really hard together. I clicked on Send.
As much as I wanted to keep the CD and browse through it, my little code of honor told me I had to return it without enjoying it, because I hadn’t paid. So I got Bill’s key and put the disc back in its plastic case and started across the cemetery.
I slowed as I drew near to the Bellefleur plot. The flowers were still piled on Miss Caroline’s grave. Andy was standing there, staring at a cross made out of red carnations. I thought it was pretty awful, but this was definitely an occasion for the thought to count more than the deed. I didn’t think Andy was registering what was right in front of him anyway.
I felt as though “Thief” were burned onto my forehead. I knew Andy wouldn’t care if I backed up a truck to Bill’s house and loaded up all the furniture and drove off with it. It was my own sense of guilt that was plaguing me.
“Sookie,” Andy said. I hadn’t realized he’d noticed me.
“Andy,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t sure where this conversation would go, and I had to leave for work soon. “You still have relatives in town? Or have they left?”
“They’re leaving after lunch,” he said. “Halleigh had to work on some class preparations this morning, and Glen had to run into his office to catch up on paperwork. This has been hardest on Portia.”
“I guess she’ll be glad when things get back to normal.” That seemed safe enough.
“Yeah. She’s got a law practice to run.”
“Did the lady who was taking care of Miss Caroline have another job to go to?” Reliable caregivers were as scarce as hens’ teeth and far more valuable.
“Doreen? Yeah, she moved right across the garden to Mr. DeWitt’s.” After an uncomfortable pause, he said, “She kind of got on to me that night, after you-all left. I know I wasn’t polite to. Bill.”
“It’s been a hard time for you-all.”
“I just. It makes me mad that we were getting charity.”
“You weren’t, Andy. Bill is your family. I know it must feel weird, and I know you don’t think much of vampires in general, but he’s your great-great-great-grandfather, and he wanted to help out his people. It wouldn’t make you feel funny if he’d left you money and he was out here with Miss Caroline under the ground, would it? It’s just that Bill’s still walking around.”
Andy shook his head, as if flies were buzzing around it. His hair was thinning, I noticed. “You know what my grandmother’s last request was?”
I couldn’t imagine. “No,” I said.
“She left her chocolate cake recipe to the town,” he said, and he smiled. “A damn recipe. And you know what, they were as excited at the newspaper when I took that recipe in as if it were Christmas and I’d brought them a map to Jimmy Hoffa’s body.”
“It’s going to be in the paper?” I sounded as thrilled as I felt. I bet there would be at least a hundred chocolate cakes in the oven the day the paper came out.
“See, you’re all excited, too,” Andy said, sounding five years younger.
“Andy, that’s big news,” I assured him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go return something.” And I hurried through the rest of the cemetery to Bill’s house. I put the CD, complete with its little sticky note, on top of the pile from which I’d taken it, and I skedaddled.
I second-guessed myself, and third-, fourth-, and fi fth-guessed, too. At Merlotte’s I worked in a kind of haze, concentrating fiercely on getting lunch orders right, being quick, and responding instantly to any request. My other sense told me that despite my efficiency, people weren’t glad to see me coming, and really I couldn’t blame them.
Tips were low. People were ready to forgive inefficiency, as long as you smiled while you were sloppy. They didn’t like the unsmiling, quick-handed me.
I could tell (simply because he thought it so often) that Sam was assuming I’d had a fight with Eric. Holly thought that I was having my period.
And Antoine was an informant.
Our cook had been lost in his own broody mood. I realized how resistant he normally was to my telepathy only when he forgot to be. I was waiting on an order to be up at the hatch, and I was looking at Antoine while he flipped a burger, and I heard directly from him, Not getting off work to meet that asshole again, he can just stuff it up his butt. I’m not telling him nothing else. Then Antoine, whom I’d come to respect and admire, flipped the burger onto its waiting bun and turned to the hatch with the plate in his hand. He met my eyes squarely.
Oh shit, he thought.
“Let me talk to you before you do anything,” he said, and I knew for sure that he was a traitor.
“No,” I said, and turned away, going right to Sam, who was behind the bar washing glasses. “Sam, Antoine is some kind of agent for the government,” I said, very quietly.
Sam didn’t ask me how I knew, and he didn’t question my statement. His mouth pressed into a hard line. “We’ll talk to him later,” he said. “Thanks, Sook.” I regretted now that I hadn’t told Sam about the Were buried on my land. I was always sorry when I didn’t tell Sam something, it seemed.
I got the plate and took it to the right table without meeting Antoine’s eyes.
Some days I hated my ability more than others. Today was one of those days. I had been much happier (though in retrospect, it had been a foolish happiness) when I’d assumed Antoine was a new friend. I wondered if any of the stories he’d told about going through Katrina in the Superdome had been true, or if those had been lies, too. I’d felt such sympathy for him. And I’d never had a hint until now that his persona was false. How could that be?