Page 17 of Brimstone Hollow

I watch as the rest of the congregation bow their heads. I give a perfunctory bow but then watch as Will prays, eyes closed and head tilted back, face toward the heavens, thanking God for sending his only son to die on the cross, and then thanking him for sending Ezra, and then begging him to watch over the congregation. The rest of the crowd keeps their faces angled down, some of them leaning so far forward their brows touch the wood of the pews in front of them, some down on their knees, many still shivering or bouncing with their sobs.

Next, Will calls on the congregation to come up and testify about how Ezra changed their lives and I listen as one parishioner after another approaches the stage and, with the piano softly playing behind them, tells therest of the crowd what Brother Ezra did for them. Healing, prayer, visitation, counsel, turning them away from drugs, alcohol, violence, bringing peace and the Lord’s word into their lives. I listen, stifling a sleepy yawn, as the last person finishes up and Will says again, “Let us pray.”

I look at my watch. It’s been almost three hours since this began.

After this final prayer, Will moves to the big double doors at the front and, as the piano plays, he shakes hands, one by one, as people file out. Eventually, the pianist collects her things and joins the line, leaving the sanctuary silent except for the muttered exchanges at the door. I get in the back of the line and shuffle slowly forward.

“Mr. Carpenter?” I say, when it’s my turn at last.

He blinks at me. “Yes?”

I tell him who I am, what I’m doing there.

“A private investigator?” he says, his eyes opening wider.

“Yes, I was hired by Ezra King’s daughter, Katie.”

“His… his daughter?” Will says.

“Yes. Were you not aware that he had a daughter?”

Will blinks again and leans against one of the pews. He looks like he’s about to fall over.

“Yes,” he says. “But… well, it’s not something we really spoke of. I think it pained him a great deal to have lost her.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but I’d heard this was a snake-handling church. There were no snakes.”

Will bows his head so he’s speaking to the floor when he says, “It was only Brother Ezra who handled them in services. He is—hewas—the only one with a faith powerful enough, he said.”

“Had he ever been bit before?”

Will looks up and meets my gaze now.

“Yes,” he says softly. “But he recovered without treatment. A miracle.”

“You believe he was bitten and chose not to seek treatment again?” I ask.

He nods gravely. Tears well up in his eyes and he scrapes at them with the heel of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m… Brother Ezra meant a great deal to me. He guided my path to the ministry. It’s only because of him that I’m standing here now.”

Outside, I hear the last bit of chatter drain away, the last car door shut. I look toward the still-open doors as the flare of headlights sweeps past and the last car pulls out of the parking lot.

“There was no autopsy,” I say, as gently as possible. “And the funeral happened very quickly. I was hoping you could explain that for me.”

Will breathes out a quiet sigh, as if expressing some latent frustration, and says, “That was Brother Ezra’s wish. He left a note on the table beside him—it looked as if he’d written it in his final moments so he must have had God’s voice in his ear—it said he wanted to be buried like Jesus, wrapped in gauze and spices as it’s described in the book of John. A natural burial with his body intact so that it could be taken up to heaven whole and pure.”

I think back to the crime scene photos I’d seen in Dishman’s office. The puffy skin, glossy and black with necrosis, Ezra’s body covered in the blood he’d hemorrhaged from every orifice, the swollen hands and the slumped posture that uniquely signals death. I consider, for a moment, which indignity I’d rather suffer as I go to meet my maker: embalming and pancake makeup or being gift wrapped in gauze and presented reeking of eau-de-rot. I’m surprised to find that I’m not altogether sure.

“Did you perform his funeral?” I ask.

“Yes. It was my first one. I never expected to… not like this. Not so soon.”

“When was the last time you saw Ezra?”

“Friday evening. Around six o’clock, I guess,” he says. “Every month the congregation donates supplies for the Take Home Health program. I came by and got the donations that will be available for children before they go home for the summer.”

“And you saw him then? What about later? Did you come back?”