Dead Until Dark (Sookie Stackhouse #1)(26)

Dawn’s bathroom window was so discreetly high that I couldn’t see in. She’d lowered the blinds in the bedroom, but hadn’t closed them tightly. I could see a little through the slats. Dawn was in bed on her back. The bedclothes were tossed around wildly. Her legs were spraddled. Her face was swollen and discolored, and her tongue protruded from her mouth. There were flies crawling on it.

I could hear Rene coming up behind me.

“Go call the police,” I said.

“What you say, Sookie? You see her?”

“Go call the police!”

“Okay, okay!” Rene beat a hasty retreat.

Some female solidarity had made me not want Rene to see Dawn like that, without Dawn’s consent. And my fellow waitress was far beyond consenting.

I stood with my back to the window, horribly tempted to look again in the futile hope I’d made a mistake the first time. Staring at the duplex next door to Dawn’s, maybe a scant six feet away, I wondered how its tenants could have avoided hearing Dawn’s death, which had been violent.

Here came Rene again. His weatherbeaten face was puckered into an expression of deep concern, and his bright brown eyes looked suspiciously shiney.

“Would you call Sam, too?” I asked. Without a word, he turned and trudged back to his place. He was being mighty good. Despite his tendency to gossip, Rene had always been one to help where he saw a need. I remembered him coming out to the house to help Jason hang Gran’s porch swing, a random memory of a day far different from this.

The duplex next door was just like Dawn’s, so I was looking directly at its bedroom window. Now a face appeared, and the window was raised. A tousled head poked out. “What you doing, Sookie Stackhouse?” asked a slow, deep, male voice. I peered at him for a minute, finally placing the face, while trying not to look too closely at the fine, bare chest underneath.

“JB?”

“Sure thing.”

I’d gone to high school with JB du Rone. In fact, some of my few dates had been with JB, who was lovely but so simple that he didn’t care if I read his mind or not. Even under today’s circumstances, I could appreciate JB’s beauty. When your hormones have been held in check as long as mine, it doesn’t take much to set them off. I heaved a sigh at the sight of JB’s muscular arms and pectorals.

“What you doing out here?” he asked again.

“Something bad seems to have happened to Dawn,” I said, not knowing if I should tell him or not. “My boss sent me here to look for her when she didn’t come to work.”

“She in there?” JB simply scrambled out of the window. He had some shorts on, cut-offs.

“Please don’t look,” I asked, holding up my hand and without warning I began crying. I was doing that a lot lately, too. “She looks so awful, JB.”

“Aw, honey,” he said, and bless his country heart, he put an arm around me and patted me on the shoulder. If there was a female around who needed comforting, by God, that was a priority to JB du Rone.

“Dawn liked ’em rough,” he said consolingly, as if that would explain everything.

It might to some people, but not to unworldly me.

“What, rough?” I asked, hoping I had a tissue in my shorts pocket.

I looked up at JB to see him turn a little red.

“Honey, she liked . . . aw, Sookie, you don’t need to hear this.”

I had a widespread reputation for virtue, which I found somewhat ironic. At the moment, it was inconvenient.

“You can tell me, I worked with her,” I said, and JB nodded solemnly, as if that made sense.

“Well, honey, she liked men to—like, bite and hit her.” JB looked weirded out by this preference of Dawn’s. I must have made a face because he said, “I know, I can’t understand why some people like that, either.” JB, never one to ignore an opportunity to make hay, put both arms around me and kept up the patting, but it seemed to concentrate on the middle of my back (checking to see if I was wearing a bra) and then quite a bit lower (JB liked firm rear ends, I remembered.)

A lot of questions hovered on the edge of my tongue, but they remained shut inside my mouth. The police got there, in the persons of Kenya Jones and Kevin Prior. When the town police chief had partnered Kenya and Kevin, he’d been indulging his sense of humor, the town figured, for Kenya was at least five foot eleven, the color of bitter chocolate, and built to weather hurricanes. Kevin possibly made it up to five foot eight, had freckles over every visible inch of his pale body, and had the narrow, fatless build of a runner. Oddly enough, the two K’s got along very well, though they’d had some memorable quarrels.

Now they both looked like cops.

“What’s this about, Miss Stackhouse?” Kenya asked. “Rene says something happened to Dawn Green?” She’d scanned JB while she talked, and Kevin was looking at the ground all around us. I had no idea why, but I was sure there was a good police reason.

“My boss sent me here to find out why Dawn missed work yesterday and hadn’t shown up today,” I said. “I knocked on her door, and she didn’t answer, but her car was here. I was worried about her, so I started around the house looking in the windows, and she’s in there.” I pointed behind them, and the two officers turned to look at the window. Then they looked at each other and nodded as if they’d had a whole conversation. While Kenya went over to the window, Kevin went around to the back door.