her—our great-grandfather—leaped to his feet. But after a moment, he relaxed. “You
must be Jason,” he said.
My brother stared at him blankly. Jason had not been himself since the death of Mel. The same edition
of our local paper that had carried the story about the awful discovery of the body of Tray Dawson had
carried another story about the disappearance of Mel Hart. There was wide conjecture that maybe the
two events were connected somehow.
I didn’t know how the werepanthers had covered up the scene in back of Jason’s house, and I didn’t
want to know. I didn’t know where Mel’s body was, either. Maybe it had been eaten. Maybe it was at
the bottom of Jason’s pond. Maybe it lay in the woods somewhere.
The last was what I suspected. Jason and Calvin had told the police that Mel had said he was going
hunting by himself, and Mel’s truck was found parked at a hunting preserve where he had a share. There
were some bloodstains discovered in the back of the truck that made police suspect Mel might know
something about Crystal Stackhouse’s awful death, and now Andy Bellefleur had been heard to say he
wouldn’t be surprised if old Mel hadn’t killed himself out in the woods.
“Yeah, I’m Jason,” my brother said heavily. “You must be . . . my great-grandfather?”
Niall inclined his head. “I am. I’ve come to bid your sister good-bye.”
“But not me, huh? I’m not good enough.”
“You are too much like Dermot.”
“Well, crap.” Jason threw himself down on the foot of the bed. “Dermot didn’t seem too bad to me,
Great-grandfather. Least, he came to warn me about Mel, let me know that Mel had killed my wife.”