Page 112 of Brimstone Hollow

KKKSSHHHHHHHHHHHH.

For a second—only a second—I think this is another hallucination. Another manifestation of my anxiety and exhaustion. I almost, almost don’t believe it’s real.

But then it is.

Pain sears through my wrist, my hand, my arm, up into my shoulder.

I gasp, yanking my hand back. On the inside of my wrist are two bloody fang marks.

KKKKssshhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The snake emerges from the darkness. Huge and heavy bodied, it’s a timber rattler, its mouth open and ready to strike again.

I scramble away from the altar, toward the pews, and barely manage to wrangle my gun from the holster at the small of my back. My fingers are going numb. My blood is burning.

My thumb barely works as I pull back the hammer.

The snake slithers out onto the stage in front of me, and I take aim.

And then… I pause. As angry and frightened as I am, I realize I don’twantto kill this snake. It’s only an animal. It’s only doing what animals do when cornered.

Instead, I fire into the floorboards at the foot of the stage. The snake flinches, hisses, and slithers away, off the stage and into the shadows under the pews. What is this snake doing here anyway? Did Ezra put it in the altar as a kind of booby trap? It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. All that matters is getting out of here.

“Shit!” I shout. “Shit… shit…”

My hand shaking, I holster my gun and look again at my wrist. It’s bleeding, burning, already swelling, and I realize I don’t have much time. I’ll have to get the finger, get out to the cruiser, wake up Gavin, and make him drive me to the hospital.

I kneel in front of the stage, lean back behind the altar, thrust my hand inside, and yank out the jeans. In the pocket, in a little plastic baggie, is a man’s severed finger. Half rotten but, maybe, with just enough fingerprint left for Joel Shepherd to take as my half of the deal. I jam the thing into my jacket pocket. Then, I’m about to grab my bag when I hear it.

CLACK.

The distinctive racked slide of a semiautomatic.

I turn.

Will Carpenter stands in the double doors, blocking my path outside, a Glock 17 in his hand. A cop gun, I realize. Almost certainly Gavin’s gun.

“Take out your gun,” Will says. “And drop it on the floor.”

I have to think he’s serious. His wispy brown curls are wild and windblown, the circles under his bloodshot eyes are deep and dark, and his pupils are blown. Whatever edge he’s gone over today, he’s not going to be talked back from it. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

And if he has Gavin’s gun, that means Gavin isn’t justasleep.Will must’ve drugged him. And he must’ve put the snake in the altar and lured me here to find it. If that’s the case, I think, he won’t hesitate to kill me. If that’s the case, he’ll either shoot me or stand there and watch me die.

My holster, clipped into the back of my jeans, is right-hand draw. And, even if I could somehow wrangle the gun loose with my left hand, I’m a right-hand shot.

“Do it,” he says. “Take out your gun. Drop it on the floor.” His hand trembles as he holds the Glock, but I don’t doubt he could hit me if he fired enough shots.

My wrist burns, the pain a sizzling, shimmering agony. But I will my hand around my back and under my jacket, as slow as I can. I get my half-numb fingers around the grip and take out the gun.

“Drop it,” he says.

“I’ve been bit by a snake,” I tell him. My voice doesn’t sound right. Like I’m in a tunnel.

“I know,” he says. “The Lord will decide your fate. It’s up to him whether you live or die. Now, drop it.”

Reluctantly, I obey. The lightning flashes. Or maybe it’s my vision.

He holds steady. My heart races, dangerously fast.