Page 102 of Brimstone Hollow

And he really does seem sick of it. All of it.

His town is tearing itself apart. And, in the space of a week, five men are dead.

I picture the line again. Ezra King at one end. Joel Shepherd at the other.

Nathaniel Nickels, Dean Griffon, Billy Shepherd, and now Roman Bradley between them. All dead. And now, of course, Ezra is dead too. And sitting in his ruin of a house, slumped in his chair, Joel Shepherd, Kentucky’s King of Weed, is dying too. Slowly but surely.

“You know, I don’t really understand it,” Gavin says. “I mean, did Mr. King just pay Mr. Bradley to go along with all this? Burying the wrong body and getting the door hardware and all of it? I mean, were the Bradleys that hard up for money? I always thought they were well off.”

“The Bradleys have always had money,” Dishman says. “And Diana’s people are wealthy. But maybe the new funeral home was really cutting into their cash flow.”

“And you never know the truth about someone’s financials until you dig into it,” I say. “I see it all the time with people who came from money. They have a tendency to overextend themselves when times are tougher than they expect.”

“I guess that’s true,” Gavin says. “I guess it’s just hard to imagine. Mr. Bradley just never seemed the violent type.”

“Every man has his breaking point,” Dishman says. “But you’re right, Gavin. I looked at Bradley’s knuckles when we collected his body. There wasn’t any bruising or anything.”

“There wouldn’t necessarily be evidence on his hand,” I say. “Noses are a lot softer than knuckles.”

“You sound like you know from experience,” Dishman says.

I shrug.

A deep, bear-like groan emerges from Dishman’s chest. He scrapes his palms over his face and then says, “I’m going to get a court order, pullRoman Bradley’s financial records, get a warrant to search the funeral home. If he did help Ezra fake his death and then kill him to cover it up… God, if all this—five dead bodies in the space of a week—if it was over a pile of cash…”

“People have killed for less,” I tell him.

He nods, but I get the feeling my words are no comfort. He starts trudging toward the cruiser and I push off the wall and follow.

“I’m going to use the coroner van and take the bodies over to Frankfort,” he says. “Ezra King, Nathaniel Nickels, and now Roman Bradley. They all need to go.”

“Surely the other funeral home—” I start, but he shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “We can’t leave ’em there. Alba Lane’s got no official jurisdiction and their space is full as it is. Plus, I know for a fact the state pathologist has a backlog as long as my arm. But maybe if I drive the bodies over there myself, I could get them to move the process along a little faster. This town needs answers.”

And so do you, I think, as I watch him get back behind the wheel of his cruiser.

“You heading back to Louisville?” he asks.

“Probably,” I say. “I’ve got a feeling if I’m still kicking around when the DEA gets here, they’ll send me packing anyway.”

“Okay,” he says. “Well, if I don’t see you again… it was good working with you.”

“You too,” I say.

He revs the engine and then he leans out the window and says, “Stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Trouble?” I snort, though it’s half-hearted. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

He gives me a long, searching look, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and bittersweet sadness. Then, before he pulls away, he says, “Just be careful, Annie.”

“Sure,” I say, and watch him drive away.

TWENTY-NINE

AFEW MINUTES LATER, Iget back on the road myself, and drive through Brimstone Hollow for what I feel sure is the last time. The sulfur smell, mixed with the crisp scent of coming rain, floods my senses. I imagine the network of sulfur springs that run under the town, the deep, dark caves this whole area rests atop. The Appalachian Mountains are old. Some of the oldest in the world. And as I drive under the alternating light and shadow of Brimstone Hollow’s dense canopy, I have the eerie sensation that there are still a thousand secrets here yet to be discovered, a thousand secrets going back a million years, likely never to be revealed.

On the way back to town, I call Katie again, put her on speaker, and tell her everything we learned from Ezra’s car.