groan as I got up from the couch. “And I’d appreciate your help. Would you bring me a pain pill and some water? They’re on the kitchen counter.” Sam vanished. I called after him, “I keep expecting Mr. Cataliades and Diantha to come in. Or Barry. I wish I knew where my houseguests are.”
Sam was back with the pill and a glass of water in nothing flat. “I’m sorry, Sook. I got so—distracted—by our talk. I forgot to tell you Barry came into the bar early this evening to say that he and the two demons were looking for something. Or someone? He said to tell you not to worry, they’d be in touch. Oh, and he gave me this. If you hadn’t called, I would have sent Jason out here with it.”
That made me feel some better.
Sam pulled a folded yellow sheet of paper from his pocket. It was legal paper, and it smelled faintly as though it had come out of a garbage bag. With no regard for the lines, one side was covered by large writing in very strange penmanship. Whoever had done the writing had used a fading Sharpie. It said, “Your front door was open, so I stored something in your hiding place. See you later.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “They’ve put something in the vampire hidey-hole, the one in the guest bedroom.” Bill had built it when I was dating him, so he could spend the day in my house if he had to. The floor of the closet in my guest room could be lifted up. Mustapha had come to get a few possessions of Eric’s from it before Eric left. I wondered if he’d had the chance to complete that task the day Warren had shot Tyrese.
“Do you think there’s a vampire in there?” Sam was startled, to put it mildly. He handed me the water and pill, and I swallowed and drank.
“If it were a vampire, he’d be up by now.”
“I guess we better check,” Sam said. “You don’t want to spend the night wondering what might come out of that hole.” He helped me up, and together we went to the guest bedroom. We opened the door and went into the room. Amelia had packed all her belongings and Bob’s, too, but the bed was disheveled. I spied a sock under the night table as I got a flashlight out of the drawer and handed it to Sam.
He had the unenviable job of opening the hole.
The tension got worse and worse as he figured out how to lift the floor of the closet. Then he swung it up and looked inside the hidey-hole.
“Well, shit,” Sam said. “Sookie, come see.”
I slowly made my way over to the open closet door. I looked down over Sam’s shoulder. Copley Carmichael was there, securely bound and gagged. He glared up at us.
“Close it up, please,” I said, and walked out of the room slowly.
I’d imagined spending a day or two relaxing and recuperating, reading in bed with maybe a foray into the living room to watch television or to try to learn how to play computer games. There was plenty of food in the refrigerator since I’d so recently stocked up for my houseguests. I would not have anything more to worry about than getting well and who was working in my place at the bar.
“But no,” I said out loud. “Unh-uh. Not gonna happen.”
“Are you feeling sorry for yourself?” Sam asked. “Come on, Sook, if we’re not pulling him out, let me help you climb into bed.”
But I sat down in the chair in the corner of my room. “Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. And I may whine a little. What’s it to you?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said, with a suspicion of a smile. “I’m all for a good sulk every now and then.”
“I’m just supposing that Mr. Cataliades or Diantha thought this would be a good after-birthday present for me, if they’re responsible,” I said. “I wonder what they’re doing for their follow-up. Maybe they’ll wash my car. I wish they’d call. I’m kind of worried about Barry.” In case it wasn’t obvious, the pain pill was beginning to work.
“Have you checked your cell phone or your answering machine?” Sam asked.
“Well, no, kind of busy getting shot and going to the hospital,” I said, my self-pity deflated by Sam’s practical suggestion. After a moment, I asked Sam if he’d bring me my purse from the kitchen.
I had all kinds of voice mail: