"You need to go to bed," Sam said astutely.
I could only nod. "Thank you, Sam. Thank you so much." We stood and I gave him a hug. It turned into a longer hug than I'd planned, because hugging him was unexpectedly restful and comfortable. "Good night," I said. "Please drive careful going back." I thought briefly of offering him one of the beds upstairs, but I kept that floor shut off and it would be awfully cold up there; and I'd have to go up and make the bed. He'd be more comfortable making the short drive home, even in the snow.
"I will," he said, and released me. "Call me in the morning."
"Thanks again."
"Enough thank-yous," he said. Eric had put a couple of nails in the front door to hold it shut, until I could get a dead bolt put on. I locked the back door behind Sam, and I barely managed to brush my teeth and change into a nightgown before I crawled in my bed.
The first thing I did the next morning was check on my brother. Jason was still deeply asleep, and in the light of day, I could clearly see the effects of his imprisonment. His face had a coating of stubble. Even in his sleep, he looked older. There were bruises here and there, and that was just on his face and arms. His eyes opened as I sat by the bed, looking at him. Without moving, he rolled his eyes around, taking in the room. They stopped when they came to my face.
"I didn't dream it," he said. His voice was hoarse. "You and Sam came and got me. They let me go. The panther let me go."
"Yes."
"So what's been happening while I was gone?" he asked next. "Wait, can I go to the bathroom and get a cup of coffee before you tell me?"
I liked his asking instead of telling (a Jason trait, telling), and I was glad to tell him yes and even volunteer to get the coffee. Jason seemed happy enough to crawl back in bed with the mug of coffee and sugar, and prop himself up on the pillows while we talked.
I told him about Catfish's phone call, our to-and-fro with the police, the search of the yard and my conscription of his Benelli shotgun, which he immediately demanded to see.
"You fired it!" he said indignantly, after checking it over.
I just stared at him.
He flinched first. "I guess it worked like a shotgun is 'spose to," he said slowly. "Since you're sitting here looking pretty much okay."
"Thanks, and don't ask me again," I said.
He nodded.
"Now we have to think of a story for the police."
"I guess we can't just tell them the truth."
"Sure, Jason, let's tell them that the village of Hotshot is full of were-panthers, and that since you slept with one, her boyfriend wanted to make you a were-panther, too, so she wouldn't prefer you over him. That's why he changed into a panther and bit you every day."
There was a long pause.
"I can just see Andy Bellefleur's face," Jason said in a subdued kind of way. "He still can't get over me being innocent of murdering those girls last year. He'd love to get me committed as being delusional. Catfish would have to fire me, and I don't think I'd like it at the mental hospital."
"Well, your dating opportunities would sure be limited."
"Crystal—God, that girl! You warned me. But I was so bowled over by her. And she turns out to be a . . . you know."
"Oh, for goodness sake, Jason, she's a shape-shifter. Don't go on like she's the creature from the Black Lagoon, or Freddy Krueger, or something."
"Sook, you know a lot of stuff we don't know, don't you? I'm getting that picture."
"Yes, I guess so."
"Besides vampires."
"Right."
"There's lots else."
"I tried to tell you."
"I believed what you said, but I just didn't get it. Some people I know—I mean besides Crystal—they're not always people, huh?"
"That's right."
"Like how many?"
I counted up the two-natured I'd seen in the bar: Sam, Alcide, that little were-fox who'd been standing Jason and Hoyt drinks a couple of weeks ago . . . "At least three," I said.
"How do you know all this?"
I just stared at him.
"Right," he said, after a long moment. "I don't want to know."
"And now, you," I said gently.
"Are you sure?"
"No, and we won't be sure for a couple of weeks," I said. "But Calvin'll help you if you need it."
"I won't take help from them!" Jason's eyes were blazing, and he looked positively feverish.
"You don't have a choice," I said, trying not to snap. "And Calvin didn't know you were there. He's an okay guy. But it's not even time to talk about it yet. We have to figure out what to tell the police right now."
For at least an hour we went over and over our stories, trying to find threads of truth to help us stitch together a fabrication.
Finally, I called the police station. The day-shift dispatcher was tired of hearing my voice, but she was still trying to be nice. "Sookie, like I told you yesterday, hon, we'll call you when we find out something about Jason," she said, trying to suppress the note of exasperation beneath her soothing tone.
"I've got him," I said.
"You—WHAT?" The shriek came over loud and clear. Even Jason winced.
"I've got him."
"I'll send someone right over."
"Good," I said, though I didn't mean it.
I had the foresight to get the nails out of the front door before the police got there. I didn't want them asking what had happened to it. Jason had looked at me oddly when I got out the hammer, but he didn't say a word.
"Where's your car?" Andy Bellefleur asked first thing.
"It's at Merlotte's."
"Why?"
"Can I just tell you and Alcee, together, one time?" Alcee Beck was coming up the front steps. He and Andy came in the house together, and at the sight of Jason lying wrapped up on my couch, they both stopped dead in their tracks. I knew then that they'd never expected to see Jason alive again.
"Glad to see you safe and sound, man," Andy said, and shook Jason's hand. Alcee Beck followed on his heels. They sat down, Andy in Gran's recliner and Alcee in the armchair I usually took, and I perched on the couch beside Jason's feet. "We're glad you're in the land of the living, Jason, but we need to know where you've been and what happened to you."
"I have no idea," Jason said.
And he stuck to it for hours.
There had been no believable story Jason could tell that could account for everything: his absence, his poor physical condition, the bite marks, his sudden reappearance. The only possible line he could take was to say the last thing he remembered, he'd heard a funny noise outside while he was entertaining Crystal, and when he'd gone to investigate, he'd been hit on the head. He didn't remember anything until somehow he'd felt himself pushed from a vehicle to land in my yard the night before. I'd found him there when Sam brought me home from work. I'd ridden home with Sam because I was scared to drive in the snow.
Of course, we'd cleared this with Sam ahead of time, and he'd agreed, reluctantly, that it was the best we could come up with. I knew Sam didn't like to lie, and I didn't either, but we had to keep that particular can of worms closed.
The beauty of this story was its simplicity. As long as Jason could resist the temptation to embroider, he'd be safe. I'd known that would be hard for Jason; he loved to talk, and he loved to talk big. But as long as I was sitting there, reminding him of the consequences, my brother managed to restrain himself. I had to get up to get him another cup of coffee—the lawmen didn't want any more—and as I was coming back in the living room, Jason was saying he thought he remembered a cold dark room. I gave him a very plain look, and he said, "But you know, my head is so confused, that may just be something I dreamed."