As I steered slowly down the driveway, the wolves watched me go, Alcide standing apart from the rest, his black furry face turning to follow my progress. I wondered what wolfy thoughts he was thinking.
The closest hospital was not in Bon Temps, which is way too small to have its own (we're lucky to have a WalMart), but in nearby Clarice, the parish seat. Luckily, it's on the outskirts of the town, on the side nearest Bon Temps. The ride to the Renard Parish Hospital only seemed to take years; actually, I got there in about twenty minutes. My passenger moaned for the first ten minutes, and then fell ominously silent. I talked to her, begged her to talk to me, asked her to tell me how old she was, and turned on the radio in attempt to spark some response from Maria-Star.
I didn't want to take the time to pull over and check on her, and I wouldn't have known what to do if I had, so I drove like a bat out of hell. By the time I pulled up to the emergency entrance and called to the two nurses standing outside smoking, I was sure the poor Were was dead.
She wasn't, judging from the activity that surrounded her in the next couple of minutes. Our parish hospital is a little one, of course, and it doesn't have the facilities that a city hospital can boast. We counted ourselves lucky to have a hospital at all. That night, they saved the Were's life.
The doctor, a thin woman with graying spiked hair and huge black-rimmed glasses, asked me a few pointed questions that I couldn't answer, though I'd been working on my basic story all the way to the hospital. After finding me clueless, the doctor made it clear I was to get the hell out of the way and let her team work. So I sat in a chair in the hall, and waited, and worked on my story some more.
There was no way I could be useful here, and the glaring fluorescent lights and the gleaming linoleum made a harsh, unfriendly environment. I tried to read a magazine, and tossed it on the table after a couple of minutes. For the seventh or eighth time, I thought of skipping out. But there was a woman stationed at the night reception desk, and she was keeping a close eye on me. After a few more minutes, I decided to visit the women's room to wash the blood off my hands. While I was in there, I took a few swipes at my coat with a wet paper towel, which was largely a wasted effort.
When I emerged from the women's room, there were two cops waiting for me. They were big men, both of them. They rustled with their synthetic padded jackets, and they creaked with the leather of their belts and equipment. I couldn't imagine them sneaking up on anyone.
The taller man was the older. His steel gray hair was clipped close to his scalp. His face was carved with a few deep wrinkles, like ravines. His gut overhung his belt. His partner was a younger man, maybe thirty, with light brown hair and light brown eyes and light brown skin - a curiously monochromatic guy. I gave them a quick but comprehensive scan with all my senses.
I could tell the two were both prepared to find out I'd had a hand in the injuries of the girl I'd brought in, or that I at least knew more than I was saying.
Of course, they were partially right.
"Miss Stackhouse? You brought in the young woman Dr. Skinner is treating?" the younger man said gently.
"Maria-Star," I said. "Cooper."
"Tell us how you came to do that," the older cop said.
It was definitely an order, though his tone was moderate. Neither man knew me or knew of me, I "heard." Good.
I took a deep breath and dove into the waters of mendacity. "I was driving home from work," I said. "I work at Merlotte's Bar - you know where that is?"
They both nodded. Of course, police would know the location of every bar in the parish.
"I saw a body lying by the side of the road, on the gravel of the shoulder," I said carefully, thinking ahead so I wouldn't say something I couldn't take back. "So I stopped. There wasn't anyone else in sight. When I found out she was still alive, I knew I had to get to help. It took me a long time to get her into the car by myself." I was trying to account for the passage of time since I'd left work and the gravel from Bill's driveway that I knew would be in her skin. I couldn't gauge how much care I needed to tell in putting my story together, but more care was better than less.
"Did you notice any skid marks on the road?" The light brown policeman couldn't go long without asking a question.
"No, I didn't notice. They may have been there. I was just - after I saw her, all I thought about was her."
"So?" the older man prompted.
"I could tell she was hurt real bad, so I got her here as fast as I could." I shrugged. End of my story.
"You didn't think about calling an ambulance?"
"I don't have a cell phone."
"Woman who comes home from work that late, by herself, really ought to have a cell phone, ma'am."
I opened my mouth to tell him that if he felt like paying the bill, I'd be glad to have one, when I restrained myself. Yes, it would be handy to have a cell phone, but I could barely afford my regular phone. My only extravagance was cable TV, and I justified that by telling myself it was my only recreational spending. "I hear you," I said briefly.
"And your full name is?" This from the younger man. I looked up, met his eyes.
"Sookie Stackhouse," I said. He'd been thinking I seemed kind of shy and sweet.
"You the sister of the man who's missing?" The gray-haired man bent down to look in my face.
"Yes, sir." I looked down at my toes again.
"You're sure having a streak of bad luck, Miss Stackhouse."
"Tell me about it," I said, my voice shaking with sincerity.
"Have you ever seen this woman, the woman you brought in, before tonight?" The older officer was scribbling in a little notepad he'd produced from a pocket. His name was Curlew, the little pin on his pocket said.
I shook my head.
"You think your brother might have known her?"
I looked up, startled. I met the eyes of the brown man again. His name was Stans. "How the heck would I know?" I asked. I knew in the next second that he'd just wanted me to look up again. He didn't know what to make of me. The monochromatic Stans thought I was pretty and seemed like a good little Samaritan. On the other hand, my job was one educated nice girls didn't often take, and my brother was well known as a brawler, though many of the patrol officers liked him.
"How is she doing?" I asked.
They both glanced at the door behind which the struggle to save the young woman went on.
"She's still alive," Stans said.
"Poor thing," I said. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I began fumbling in my pockets for a tissue.