Page 109 of Brimstone Hollow

Shepherd nods. “That’s why I brought you over here. I want to hire you to go in there and get that finger for me from wherever the hell Ezra hid it.”

“Why me?” I ask.

He leans back and even that small motion leads to another coughing fit. Bart refills his cup and the old man takes sips between gasping.

When he recovers he says, “I sure as shit can’t send Bart. There’s a cop out there watching the place. And from what I’ve heard, either the DEA or the FBI will be rolling in soon, and once that happens, there’s not a chance in hell of me getting that finger back. I know you’re buddy-buddy with the local pigs so I figure you can get yourself in there and look for it.”

“Seriously?” I say, breathing out a sardonic laugh. “Youmustbe desperate.”

“You’re goddamn right I’m desperate. I’ve not got much time left.”

“So what good is the money going to do you?” I ask, leaning closer, my hands on the table.

“It ain’t forme,” he says. “It’s for my great-grandbaby. Look, before my grandson died in that bar, he married a good, hard-working local girl and they had a daughter. Now, of course, his widow won’t come anywhere near me and that goes double for her kid and I don’t blame her. Not after… after everything. But they’re poor as dirt, barely making it…”

I squint at him, clenching my jaw shut, while I try to figure out if he’s full of shit.

He doesn’t look at me. Instead, he glares down at his hands as he says, “When I started this—all this—it was just a hobby. I liked pot and I liked growing it. Then it got bigger and bigger and when the government stopped subsidizing tobacco, I had a choice. I could sell the land that’s been in my family five generations to some farming conglomerate or I could try to keep us afloat with marijuana. I chose the latter and… I’d say I don’t regret it but… maybe we could’ve done without the land, without the farm, without the cash. Look where it got us. We had to sell the land anyway to pay off the legal expenses, the medical bills. Now my brother’s dead. My son’s in prison. My wife and grandson are both gone and I wasn’t here for any of it. I wasn’t…”

He stops, his voice so strained and thin that it merely disappears. I wait.

Eventually, he recovers and his voice is just a whisper as he says, “I should’ve been here for them and I wasn’t. But, before I die, I can be there forher. My great-granddaughter. I made the mess that she was born into. All I want now is—before I die—to do whatever I can to make her and her mamma’s life better.”

He meets my eyes with a look of hard, desperate determination.

“Help me,” he says. “Help me, Miss Gore.”

“You’re asking me to aid and abet a convicted felon, to corrupt what’s about to be a huge investigation. Even if I believe your story—and I admit, I’m at least halfway there—why should I risk everything to help you?”

“Because,” he says, almost a whisper. “I know the answer to the question you most want answered: Who killed Ezra King?”

I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, stare at him.

“Bullshit,” I say, as cool as you please, but my heart is thundering in my chest.

“It’s true,” he says. “We have a witness. Listen, it don’t take a genius to figure out theproblemEzra mentioned was that his church was full of well-meaning folks hoping for a miracle from a con man. He was getting everyone out so he could get inside without being seen. I guessed that finger must be in the church so I sent Bart over to watch the place. That way, when Ezra showed up, Bart could catch him on the way out, and get that goddamn finger back. And then—”

He starts coughing again, takes another drink, then waves his hand at Bart and manages to say, “Tell her what happened, Bart.”

Bart glares at him and Shepherd gives him a look that saysTell her, or else.

With a big shrug, Bart says, “Fine. I went over to the parsonage last night, jimmied the lock, and sat in there and waited. I figured that’s where he’d come in first. I waited all night, watching out the window. First thing this morning, I saw all them folks head out, going up the hill, you included. I made my way around the church and there he was: Ezra King, in the flesh. I watched him go in. I couldn’t follow him straight. I had to wait till he came back out or else I might not get the finger. I was all set to jump him when someone else pulled in, went inside, and came running hell for leather out of there not a minute later. You know the rest after that. You came thumping down the hill and went inside and that’s when I took off.”

“You want the truth,” Joel Shepherd says. “We can give it to you.”

“Your deal’s no good,” I say. “I already know who killed Ezra King. It was the chief of police, Matthew Dishman.”

Shepherd and Bart both look stunned, as if I’d lined them up and slapped them.

“Shit,” Shepherd spits. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice angrier, more thick with emotion thanI’d like. “Not for sure. Not until just now when I saw your face. Listen, I don’t need you to tellmewho did it. I need you to tell a court of law. What I need, Bart, is for you to testify.”

My stomach roils with sourness, churning over the betrayal I feel. Dishman could’ve just told me what happened. He could’ve sat down in that church and waited for me to come back and told me. And who wouldn’t understand? After all, it was only a punch. And didn’t Ezra deserve a punch in the face? After everything he’d set in motion? After all he’d done?

And yet, Dishmandidn’ttell me. He let me believe, along with everyone else—including Diana Bradley and her daughter—that Roman Bradley killed Ezra. And now he’s driving to Frankfort with the evidence. He’s going to cover it up and just keep going. Keep his job, his position, his power in the community. His kingdom.

If only he’d told me the truth. If only he’d trusted me.