Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [300]
I swung the car around and drove out of the courtyard. The drive swept in a graceful curve and went across the front of the main building. For the first time, I saw the facade of the mansion. It was as beautiful—white painted siding, huge columns—as I had imagined. Russell had spent a pretty penny renovating the place.
The driveway wound through grounds that still looked manicured even in their winter brown state, but that long driveway was all too short. I could see the wall ahead of me. There was the checkpoint at the gate, and it was manned. I was sweating despite the cold.
I stopped just before the gate. There was a little white cubicle to one side, and it was glass from waist level up. It extended inside and outside the wall, so guards could check both incoming and outgoing vehicles. I hoped it was heated, for the sake of the two Weres on duty. Both of them were wearing their leathers and looking mighty grumpy. They’d had a hard night, no doubt about it. As I pulled to a stop, I resisted an almost overwhelming temptation to plow right through those gates. One of the Weres came out. He was carrying a rifle, so it was a good thing I hadn’t acted on that impulse.
“I guess Bernard told you all I’d be leaving this morning?” I said, after I’d rolled down my window. I attempted a smile.
“You the one who got staked last night?” My questioner was surly and stubbly, and he smelled like a wet dog.
“Yeah.”
“How you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.”
“You coming back for the crucifixion?”
Surely I hadn’t heard him right. “Excuse me?” I asked faintly.
His companion, who’d come to stand in the hut’s door, said, “Doug, shut up.”
Doug glowered at his fellow Were, but he shrugged after the glower didn’t have any effect. “Okay, you’re cleared to go.”
The gates opened, way too slowly to suit me. When they were wide, and the Weres had stepped back, I drove sedately through. I suddenly realized I had no idea which way to go, but it seemed correct to turn left, since I wanted to head back to Jackson. My subconscious was telling me we had turned right to enter the driveway the night before.
My subconscious was a big fat liar.
After five minutes, I was fairly positive I was lost, and the sun continued to rise, naturally, even through the mass of clouds. I couldn’t remember how well the blanket covered Bill, and I wasn’t sure how light-tight the trunk would be. After all, safe transportation of vampires was not something the carmakers would cover in their list of specs.
On the other hand, I told myself, the trunk would have to be waterproof—that was sure important—so light-proof couldn’t be far behind. Nonetheless, it seemed vitally important to find a dark place to park the Lincoln for the remaining hours of the day. Though every impulse told me to drive hard and get as far away from the mansion as I could, just in case someone went checking for Bill and put two and two together, I pulled over to the side of the road and opened the glove compartment. God bless America! There was a map of Mississippi with an inset for Jackson.
Which would have helped if I’d had any idea where I was at the moment.
People making desperate escapes aren’t supposed to get lost.
I took a few deep breaths. I pulled back out into the road and drove on until I saw a busy gas station. Though the Lincoln’s tank was full (thank you, Eric) I pulled in and parked at one of the pumps. The car on the other side was a black Mercedes, and the woman pumping the gas was an intelligent-looking middle-aged woman dressed in casual, comfortable, nice clothes. As I got the windshield squeegee out of its vat of water, I said, “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get back to I-20 from here, would you?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. She smiled. She was the kind of person who just loves to help other people,