Charlaine Harris - Dead in the Family

Not any more than I was. “No, not if Sam doesn’t want them in here, and as his representative, I’m telling you to leave.”

“You’re not Sam Merlotte, or his wife. You’re that girl who dates a vampire,” she said venomously.

“I am Sam’s right-hand person at this bar,” I lied, “and I’m telling you to get out, or I’ll put you out.”

“You lay one finger on me, and I’ll call the law on you,” she said, jerking her head.

Rage flared up in me. I really, really don’t like threats.

“Kennedy,” I said, and in a second she was standing by me. “I’d say between us we’re strong enough to pick up this lady and take her out of the bar. What do you say?”

“I’m all for it.” Kennedy stared down at the woman as if she were only waiting for the starting gun to go off. “And you’re that girl who shot her boyfriend,” the woman said, beginning to look properly frightened.

“I am. I was really mad at him, and at the moment I’m pretty pissed off at you,” Kennedy said. “You get your butt out of here and take your little sign with you, and you do it right now.”

The older woman’s courage broke, and she scuttled out, remembering at the last moment to keep her head up and her back straight since she was one of God’s soldiers. I got that direct from her head.

Catfish clapped for Kennedy, and a few others joined in, but mostly the bar patrons sat in stunned silence. Then we heard the chanting from the parking lot, and we all surged to the windows.

“Jesus Christ, Shepherd of Judea,” I breathed. There were at least thirty protesters in the parking lot. Most of them were middle-aged, but I spotted a few teenagers who should have been in school, and I recognized a couple of guys who I knew to be in their early twenties. I sort of recognized most of the crowd. They attended a “charismatic” church in Clarice, a church that was growing by leaps and bounds (if construction was any indicator). The last time I’d driven by when I was going to have physical therapy with JB, a new activities building had been going up.

I wished they were being active there , where they belonged, rather than here. Just as I was about to do something idiotic (like going out in the parking lot), two Bon Temps police cars pulled up, lights flashing. Kevin and Kenya got out. Kevin was skinny and white, and Kenya was round and black. They were both good police officers, and they loved each other dearly. but unofficially.

Kevin approached the chanting group with apparent confidence. I couldn’t hear what he said, but they all turned to face him and began talking all at once. He held up his hands to pat the air in a “back off and get quiet” gesture, and Kenya circled around to come up behind the group.

“Maybe we should go out there?” Kennedy said.

Kennedy, I noted, was not in the habit of sitting back and letting things take their course. Nothing wrong with being proactive, but this was not the time to escalate the confrontation in the parking lot, and that was what our presence would do. “No, I think we need to stay right here,” I said. “There’s no point in throwing fuel on the fire.” I looked around. None of the patrons were eating or drinking. They were all looking out the windows. I thought of requesting that they sit down at their tables, but there was no point in asking them to do something they clearly weren’t going to do, with so much drama going on outside.

Antoine came out of the kitchen and stood by me. He looked at the scene for a long moment. “I didn’t have nothing to do with it,” he said.

“I never thought you did,” I said, surprised. Antoine relaxed, even inside his head. “This is some crazy church action,” I said. “They’re picketing Merlotte’s because Sam is two-natured. But the woman who came in here, she was pretty aware of me and she knew Kennedy’s history, too. I hope this is a one-shot. I’d hate to have to deal with protesters all the time.”

“Sam’ll go broke if this keeps up,” Kennedy said in a low voice. “Maybe I should just quit. It’s not going to help Sam that I work here.”

“Kennedy, don’t set yourself up to be a martyr,” I said. “They don’t like me, either. Everyone who doesn’t think I’m crazy thinks there’s something supernatural about me. We’d all have to quit, from Sam on down.”

She looked at me sharply to make sure I was sincere. She gave me a quick nod. Then she looked out the window again and said, “Uh-oh.” Danny Prideaux had pulled up in his 1991 Chrysler LeBaron, a machine he found only slightly less fascinating than he found Kennedy Keyes.

Danny had parked right at the edge of the crowd, and he hopped out and began to hurry toward the bar. I just knew he was coming to check on Kennedy. Either they’d had a police band radio on at the home builders’ supply place or Danny had heard the news from a customer. The jungle drums beat fast and furious in Bon Temps. Danny was wearing a gray tank top and jeans and boots, and his broad olive shoulders were gleaming with sweat.

As he strode toward the door, I said, “I think my mouth is watering.” Kennedy put her hand over her mouth to stifle a yip of laughter.

“Yeah, he looks pretty good,” she said, trying to sound offhand. We both laughed.

But then disaster struck. One of the protesters, angry at being shooed away from Merlotte’s, brought his sign down on the hood of the LeBaron. At the sound Danny turned around. He froze for a second, and then he was heading at top speed toward the sinner who’d marred the paint job on his car.

“Oh, no,” Kennedy said and hurtled out of the bar as if she’d been fired from a slingshot. “Danny!” she yelled. “Danny! You stop!”

Danny hesitated, turning his head just a fraction to see who was calling him. With a leap that would have done a kangaroo proud, Kennedy was beside him and wrapping her arms around him. He made an impatient movement, as if to shake her off, and then it seemed to dawn on him that Kennedy, whom he’d spent hours admiring, was embracing him. He stood stiffly, his arms at his side, apparently afraid to move.

I couldn’t tell what Kennedy was saying to him, but Danny looked down at her face, completely focused on her. One of the demonstrators had forgotten herself enough to get an “Awww” expression on her face, but she snapped out of her lapse into humanity and brandished her sign again.

“Animals go! People stay! We want Congress to show the way!” one of the older demonstrators, a man with a lot of white hair, shouted as I opened the door and stepped out.

“Kevin, get them out of here!” I called. Kevin, whose thin, pale face was creased into unhappy lines, was trying to shepherd the little crowd out of the parking lot.

“Mr. Barlowe,” Kevin said to the white-haired man, “what you’re doing is illegal, and I could put you in jail. I really don’t want to have to do that.”

“We’re willing to be arrested for our beliefs,” the man said. “Isn’t that so, you-all?”

Some of the church members didn’t look entirely certain of that.

“Maybe you are,” Kenya said, “but we got Jane Bodehouse in one of the cells now. She’s coming off a bender, and she’s throwing up about every five minutes. Believe me, people, you do not want to be in there with Jane.”

The woman who’d originally come into Merlotte’s turned a little green.

“This is private property,” Kevin said. “You cannot demonstrate here. If you don’t clear this parking lot in three minutes, all of you are under arrest.”

It was more like five minutes, but the parking lot was clear of demonstrators when Sam joined us in the parking lot to thank Kevin and Kenya. Since I hadn’t seen his truck drive up, his appearance was quite a surprise.