"You certainly have a varied and interesting medical history," the doctor remarked. The outpatient fracture clinic was not nearly as nice or well appointed as the supe doctor office I'd visited the previous week. The AC in the waiting room here seemed as ineffective as a screen door on a submarine, and I was coated in a fine sheen of sweat by the time they led me through the squeaky double doors into the clinic room. This doctor, a Dr. Rhea Ainsley, was a severe looking woman, her eyebrows plucked into sharp thin lines and her eyes accentuated with perfectly applied winged eyeliner.
"I suppose you could say that," I answered.
"A lot of injuries," she said, drawing out the word. "A lot."
"It was a hazard of the job."
Her laser-like gaze flicked up from my file to assess me and she said nothing. It was a routine check to see how my wrist was healing. It was that exact moment I realized my folly. I should've booked my follow-up appointment with the supe doctor rather than through the hospital. A letter had arrived unprompted for this appointment in the mail via the emergency room I'd first visited and so here I was. Like a dummy.
Dr. Ainsley stood and set two x-rays up onto the lightboard beside her desk. Each displayed my wrist.
"I take it you spend time with vampires," she said over her shoulder as she assessed the x-rays.
"What makes you say that?" A prickle of what could've been embarrassment or discomfort made itself known at the back of my neck.
"Last week you had a very visible and fresh fracture on your wrist. And today it is completely healed."
"I'm sorry… what?" I stood and got a look at the x-rays myself. She pointed from one to another and sure enough, the small crack had disappeared.
"There's only one way that could account for this rapid healing," she said. She said nothing more, merely looked me. I recognized her silence for the tactic that it was. She was waiting to see if I'd squirm and fill in the blanks.
I met her gaze coolly but said nothing.
"Vampire blood," she said.
"I understand what you're insinuating but you're wrong," I said rigidly. My face felt hot.
"You know the medical community still isn't clear on what the long-term effects are of V on the human body." Judgment dripped from her words.
"I'm not a V addict."
She made a little noise, one that conveyed she clearly didn't believe that, and moved to reach for the phone on her desk. "Give me a moment, and I'll get our tech to come in and remove the cast for you."
"If you don't believe me then don't bother." I went on to harshly tell her to forward my files to my supe doctor, and that I wouldn't be returning. I picked up my purse from where I'd slung it over the chair and stormed out. I marched straight past reception and right out of the clinic. Screw them. They could send my bill out in the mail.
I caught the next streetcar back toward the office. My anger was rapidly extinguishing with every passing building. As we chugged through Mid-City, I stared, eyes glazed, out of the window. Gray office buildings, the windows reflecting the dazzlingly bright morning sunshine, passed one after the other, indistinguishable. I couldn't believe the nerve of that doctor. What kind of medical professional had the audacity to be so judgmental?
The streetcar made a stop outside an office supply store and on a whim I exited. I strode into the store and a few minutes later, walked back out again with my purchase in hand. I made my way down the street to a narrow grassy park that ran the length of several blocks and sat myself on the nearest park bench. I began to hack at my cast with my newly acquired box cutter. It took some work, and I got some very strange looks, but I finally tore the damn thing free from me.
I brushed the plaster remnants off my arm. The skin had paled in the short time I'd been wearing the cast. I flexed, rotated my wrist, waved it around. It felt hunky dory. I hadn't lost any muscle tone or dexterity. Yippee for me, I guess? I didn't know how to feel about my healed arm. Surprised? Scared? Pleased?
I paused to really listen to my inner self and all I heard was… nothing.
As I considered this, life continued its bustling rhythm around me—birds darting between branches of the birch trees, joggers pounding the pavement, a mother soothing her crying infant in a stroller as they passed on by, and a couple strolling with their dogs leading the way. Across from me, an elderly man sat on a bench, engrossed in a crossword puzzle, his concentration fixated on a cryptic clue about something sinking underwater. Amidst the activity, I felt like a statue, a small fixed figure inside a shaken snow globe. Yet, it wasn't snow falling around me, but my sense of self.
I'd always wanted to be nothing more than human. Literally. Always wanted both my feet firmly planted on this side of normal. How much time had I spent agonizing over the fact that I wasn't? How much time had I wasted trying to prove to myself that I was something I wasn't? I had mostly given up wearing the hummingbird necklace, but I still kept it tucked in my pocket or in my purse everywhere I went, like it was some kind of lifeline. No, like it was the final chain tethering me to normality.
I turned my arm over to examine it again. Opened the palm. Flexed my hand and then my fingers, once, twice.
Did it really matter what I was? Human, telepath, fairy, otherwise? I mean I knew who I was. Sookie. Smart. Stubborn. Brave. And sometimes even foolish. So I healed again, whoop-de-doo. Was it necessary to continue worrying about what exactly was happening to me? I didn't seem to be worse off. I traced the lines on my palm with my fingertips, allowing that thought to settle. As long as I still recognized my reflection in the mirror, recognized my actions as matching my sense of self, my morals, my convictions, then in my book it was okay. I was okay.
I stood then, walked over to the nearest trash can and dumped the torn up cast inside.
The old man lifted his head from his crossword to regard me. His entire face smiled the way older folks tend to when their wrinkles follow the direction of their expressions. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
I hadn't even realized I was smiling, but his comment made mine broaden. "You're right about that."
He winked at me and returned to the puzzle.
"The answer to seven across is anchor," I said, as I moved to walk in the direction of the office.
"Well, I'll be damned!" I heard him say from behind me.
•───── ─────•
"You're in a good mood tonight," Bubba said. We were in my little car, making our way through the French Quarter. I'd tuned into a pop station on the radio and was bopping along to one of Ryan Seacrest's Top 40 hits.
"Yes, in fact I am." After my failed doctor's appointment the day before, it was as if a weight had lifted from my chest.
I navigated my way through the busy streets, pulled up outside Eric's bar and tooted the horn. He slid into the backseat with a grumble, stretching his long legs out diagonally.
"Someone got out of the wrong side of the coffin today," I said.
"That's not the first time I've heard you make that terrible joke," he said, rather snippily. Bubba caught my eye and his lips quirked; I couldn't help but laugh.
"You havin' troubles in that new bar of yours, Mr. Eric?" Bubba asked.
"You could say that," he muttered, but didn't elaborate. He was too busy engrossed with his cell phone.
We headed west back to Carrollton while Bubba and I kept up the good mood chatting. It was a misty night, but rain hadn't started falling yet. New Orleans was in its element when the weather was like this. It was like the city had wrapped her warm anticipatory arms around you, and you knew it wouldn't be long before the heavy clouds released their rain and took away all the humidity with it. Dew sparkled on the grass nature strips, the lights of approaching cars were diffused and glowed due to the moisture in the air. In weather like this, my hair would frizz out like nobody's business, so I'd pulled it back in a tight ponytail braid.
"You're not wearing a cast," Eric said, his head appearing between the two front seats.
"Why, how observant of you," I said, turning off the side street and onto a main road that led to the cemetery.
"It's healed?"
"Right as rain, apparently."
"Faster than a human would ordinarily heal."
"Evidently so," I said, focusing my attention on finding a suitable location to park.
"Good," he said, "and have you seen the supe doctor yet?"
I pulled to the side of the road near the wrought iron gate entrance to the cemetery.
"You know what?" I said, pulling on the park brake. "I'm done with worrying. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm in good health. Right now, there is literally no reason to worry."
Eric simply nodded but I got the sense he was satisfied with my response, at least for now.
The street was quiet and devoid of other traffic. I'd parked the car underneath the branches of a towering elm, its leaves falling everywhere onto the street. We got to the cemetery gate only to realize it was locked. I gave the thing a good rattle with my newly healed arm.
"That's annoying."
Bubba pointed to a metal sign detailing the cemetery's opening hours. We were much too late.
Eric wrapped an arm around my waist and lifted us together up and over. Bubba climbed over the fence, showing surprising agility, particularly when it came to avoiding the large metal spikes at the top of the bars. Maybe it wasn't so odd to think that he'd managed to make his way to Louisiana on foot all the way from Florida.
Eric and I walked alongside one another through the grassy rows of the cemetery, my flashlight bobbing as I stepped. Bubba trailed behind us. I explained to Eric again what Horace had seen the night of his attack, how everything seemed to center back on the cemetery, including the local urban legends.
"It's a good place to hide," Bubba commented from behind us. "Lots of spots to squirrel away in."
"I think too much time has passed to find any evidence of it," I concluded.
"You'd be surprised," Eric said, looking thoughtfully at the statue of a benevolent Virgin Mary standing atop a whitewashed stone mausoleum. "What part of the cemetery did your victim see the shadow figure retreat to?"
"This way."
While cars were passing by on the street surrounding the cemetery, inside the locked gates it felt as though we were strangely cut off from the rest of the world, inside some eerie alternate universe.
"I hate this place," Bubba said. "Who would want to be buried above ground?"
"It's not a matter of want but necessity," Eric said.
I'd always assumed I'd be buried at Sweet Home cemetery, that's where Gran was buried, my parents too. I'd grown up treating that cemetery almost like an extension of our yard. Now all my assumptions were out the window. My future seemed to loom in front of me, like a darkened corridor. Who knew how long that corridor was?
It took me a little wandering and backtracking before I found the cemetery entrance nearest Horace's house. The vaults and above ground graves were older here. There weren't as many vaults as there were at the other end, and these were all certainly in disrepair. Situated here were numerous rows of raised graves, like tiny altars. All the stonework was mildewed and covered in moss, showing cracks and other evidence of decay.
"Look here," Eric said. He was standing beside a small mausoleum with a red tiled roof. "The entrance is ajar here. A perfectly good hiding place." He pushed the heavy stone door to the tomb with ease and stuck his head inside.
"No sign of the shadow man?" I asked.
"There's crypts down there with the stone doors open too," Bubba said, pointing. Eric grimaced as he straightened.
"I bet it's fresh as a daisy in there," I said and brushed a cobweb off his shoulder.
"It was fresh maybe five decades ago," he said. "And no shadow man, just a lot of dust and bat shit."
"Do you think you might be able to tell if one of the vaults had anyone in it recently?" I said.
Before Eric could reply, Bubba clamped a hand on my arm and, with a hoarse cry, yelled: "Duck!"
Let me tell you, when your vampire friend tells you to duck, you best get your ass on the grass. He tugged my arm, and I dropped like a sack of bricks, not needing to be told twice. I heard a whistling noise pass somewhere overhead.
"What was that?" Bubba cried. I wasn't exactly sure, but I knew it wasn't someone attacking us. It was someone attacking Eric. My mind was already racing past the perimeter of the cemetery following the assailant.
"A twoey," I called to Eric who dropped something on the ground and disappeared at vampire speed. I heard the squeal of car tires as whoever it was beat a hasty retreat. "He's heading west!" I army-crawled over to whatever he'd dropped.
"What is it?" Bubba asked.
"A crossbow arrow," I said in shock. Eric must've snatched it clean out of the air.
"Who's firing crossbow arrows at us?"
"Not at us. At Eric." These hired assassins were dogged, and twice now I'd been unintentionally caught in the firing line. I tossed the crossbow arrow out of sight into the mausoleum Eric had moments earlier been examining.
"Who has Mr. Eric upset?" Bubba asked.
"We'd be here all night if I attempted to answer that question," I grumbled, getting back to my feet. The twoey was gone. And the grass was wet. I couldn't see from the dim streetlight, but I had a feeling I'd be hand washing grass stains out of my denim shorts tomorrow. Eric returned with anger radiating off him, even beyond that of his usual unearthly vampire glow.
"Are you hurt?" he asked me.
"Fine." I brushed bits of grass off my thighs and knees. "Thanks for having my back, Bubba,"
"Any time, Miss Sookie."
"I take it you didn't catch up to them?" I asked Eric. Eric glowered at me and I felt a fuse within me spark. "It's getting ridiculous, is it not? Twice now I've been with you, and you've had an attempt against you. How many more are you not sharing?"
"I've got it in hand."
"That was a wooden crossbow arrow! What happens if you're distracted and something like that happens again?"
"Sookie, don't catastrophize. I've survived a millennium easily dealing with many threats."
I glared at him, and he glared back.
"Do you want my help here with your little investigation or not?" he asked stonily.
"Of course, I want your help." I threw my hands up. "But I don't wanna risk my butt when I'm in your company. And I can tell you right now, I don't feel comfortable with you relying on Curtis to get to the bottom of this."
Eric rubbed his forehead and let out a surprisingly human-like sigh. "I don't have enough hours in the night for all this shit."
"Hire a day person."
"I have one now."
"Great. Good for you. Then what's your long-term plan? Continue swatting away assassination attempts like blow flies until… what? Freyda's old fangbanger gives up? And then what, rely on the tiny chance that Curtis might be able to track her down?"
"I plan on dedicating time to finding her once the bar is open. I'll have more time then."
I laughed and the sound came back as a harsh echo off the surrounding crypts. "I think you forget what it's like to run a bar."
"Sookie. Enough," he snapped. "Let me get this done so I can get on with my night."
"I didn't force you to come here, you know. I needed help. You offered; I accepted. You know, as friends do?"
He ignored me and began inspecting another vault. I let out an exasperated sigh. He removed his head from its dark interior and said to me, "You don't have to be here. Just go. At least then I can focus without your huffing and puffing."
"Fine." I marched with Bubba all the way back over to the entrance where I'd parked, only to realize I needed Eric to fly me back over the fence. I kicked the gate. "Dammit."
I shut my eyes, and drew several deep breaths. I hated how easy it was to get mad at Eric. It came effortlessly, almost reflexively.
"I can get us out," Bubba offered after several quiet seconds passed.
I sighed. "Just wait here a minute."
Bubba smiled and patted my shoulder. "It's not always a bed of roses," he said.
"What isn't?" I asked.
"Love. Believe me, I know."
"Do you just?" I said, and he merely replied with a sage smile.
I found Eric crouched by the entrance of the same mausoleum.
"Eric," I said. He looked up, brows pinched in consternation. "Thank you for your help."
Faint surprise crossed his features, then his expression relaxed a moment later and he nodded.
"You're not hurt?" he asked and motioned to my dirt-stained shorts. I pointed my flashlight down on myself and brushed away a bit of remaining dirt.
"No worse for wear. I have wet wipes in the car, it'll clean up."
"It's probably best you don't hang around in public with me until the matter with Claire Duvall is resolved."
I sighed. It was probably wise. I thought on Bubba's words. "Maybe, after that, when this is all resolved…" My gaze slid away from his. "We need to have a talk."
I could feel the weight of his scrutiny. He didn't say anything else, for which I was extremely thankful. The silence hung between us for a few moments more, before I forced myself to turn and head back to Bubba.
In my absence, he'd pried the wrought bars apart so we could both squeeze through. At my insistence, he closed them shut once we were out, leaving no evidence behind. When I got back in the car, I received a text message from Eric telling me to meet him back at his bar in a couple hours and he would update me on any findings.
"I guess we're going home," I said to Bubba and started the engine to my little car.
Bubba looked glum at the prospect, and I had to admit I didn't particularly fancy going home to wile away a couple of hours. On a whim, I called Diantha and asked her if she could recommend any quiet little bars where we could hang out under the radar. She directed me to a small French-themed bar on Dauphine Street that was converted from an old private library. Bubba and I spent a couple minutes in the car making ourselves presentable, and we found Diantha waiting for us at the front entrance, dressed in a leather minidress with knee-high neon pink latex boots. Not what I'd exactly call flying under the radar.
"Where do you find these clothes?" I asked her as she placed Bubba's tasseled diamanté cowboy hat on his head.
"I have a magic chest of clothing." It took me a beat to realize she was joking. "The world wide web, dummy. Where else?"
Bubba and I seated ourselves in a dimly lit corner on velvet wingback chairs with our back to the few patrons that were in the bar. It was by no means as busy here as bars in the French Quarter, though I didn't particularly like the idea of hanging out in public where Bubba could be recognized. This place seemed okay, however. Diantha came over from the bar with a TrueBlood for Bubba and a glass of white wine for us each.
In addition to the walls over the bar being lined with books, there were board games and various card games available for patrons, so we played a few rounds of Texas Hold-Em using matchsticks produced from Diantha's studded leather handbag.
"Look at this," Diantha said after she folded in the third round. She handed over her cell phone to me. On the screen was a photo of Agent Ray on a tropical beach, wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and board shorts.
"Where did you get this?" I asked.
"Just found it surfing the web."
"By accident or on purpose?"
She shrugged nonchalantly. "He's cute. Sue me." She swiped the screen and another photo appeared; an action shot of him waterskiing. "Roberto Ray," she said, rolling the r's provocatively.
"Give me a break," I said with a little laugh. "He's a straight-laced FBI agent, and far too lily-white for the likes of you."
"All I'm hearing is that he's corruptible," she said and flashed her pointed teeth.
"I'd rather you didn't. The FBI leave me feeling…"
"Icky," she offered.
"Sure." Though I did like the prospect of Roberto disappearing the file his employer had on me. In order to do that I'd need to help him solve this mystery first. Easier said than done.
"You always watch X-Files. That's all about the FBI," she said.
"And half the time the FBI are the bad guys," I complained, just as Bubba produced three of a kind—jacks. Darn it, there went my matchsticks.
