Page 121 of Brimstone Hollow

Thelma opens her bag and pulls out an old Tupperware container. The scent of citrus fills my nose as she hands me a lemon hand pie wrapped in wax paper.

“Get some sleep, honey,” she says.

They both leave the room and then Tina slips inside.

“You look amazing,” Tina says. “Like a Vogue cover.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “I always felt like I missed my calling.”

Her huge shoulders slump but she manages a smile.

“As soon as you’re better,” she says, raking a strand of hair from my forehead, “we’ll get you home.”

EPILOGUE

“IHEARD ABOUT THE BUST,”Tina says. “It was all over the news this morning. Guess you finally got ’em.”

I’m riding in the passenger seat of her restored 1975 Toyota Land Cruiser. The windows are down. It’s Fourth of July weekend and, though I’ve already declined an invitation to Tina’s annual extra-rowdy Independence Day cookout later that evening, she’s taken me out to lunch, and now we’re driving toward her garage.

“Yeah,” I say. “It was the sulfur smell on Bart Casada’s clothes.”

“Sulfur?” Tina asks.

I explain about how Bart Casada had visited my room reeking of rotten eggs. I knew the Hell Hole was too toxic to grow anything in, but the springs that fed that sinkhole ran, in less deadly potency, all through the cave system under Mount Zion. As soon as I could leave my room, I’d visited Gavin in his.

“He’s growing in caves,” I told him. “The pot isn’tonhis land. It’sunderit. That huge solar farm? Nobody needs that much power for personal use. I think he’s running electricity to aliterallyunderground grow operation.”

“The caves…” Gavin had said. “Chief’ll be so damn thrilled if we find it.”

He’d grinned at me and then tears filled his eyes. I took his hand.

“It’ll be okay,” I told him, and myself.

“Do you think he’s a bad guy?” Gavin asked. “The chief? I’ve looked up to him my whole life.”

“No,” I said. “I just think nobody’s perfect. He cares about you. And he cares about doing the right thing. That’s why he came back.”

Tina rolls over a speed bump and I hold my right arm protectively by instinct. It doesn’t ache near as much as it did at first, but the impulse is still there. My hunch had turned out to be right. After my conversation with Gavin, the Mount Zion police had brought down the last vestiges of Joel Shepherd’s operation, including Bart’s hidden grow caves.

“What about the old man?” Tina asks. “What happened to him?”

“Back in prison,” I say.

“Did he get the money? Was he able to use the finger to open the laptop?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I sort of hope so. Then at least some good will have come out of Billy Shepherd’s death.”

She nods, pulls away from the main road. We pass the Lebanese restaurant, the new bar, the old bar, the French bakery. It’s good, I think, to be home.

“How’s Katie doing?” she asks. “Is she all right?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think she’ll be okay.”

Ezra King’s funeral had been held—again—two weeks after I left Mount Zion. Katie had attended and stayed with Zelda while she was in town. Now the pair had plans to take a road trip together through the Smoky Mountains. They’d invited me along for their trip, but I’d declined. Between the aftereffects of the snakebite and the side effects of the antivenom, I’m still just barely getting around. I’m back to walking in the mornings but so far, no running. And while I’ve regained most of the use of my right hand, it’s still stiff and sore.

I squeeze it now, stare at my fingers. There’s a discoloration on my wrist from the bite. I’ve been told it will likely always be there. A souvenir from Mount Zion.

“I just want things to get back to normal,” I say, more to myself than to Tina.