Page 20 of Brimstone Hollow

SIX

ISIT ON THE EDGEof the road, my heart still thumping hard and fast, as I try to collect my thoughts and assess the damage. My leather jacket and jeans took most of the abrasion. Little bits of bloody grit are embedded in my left knee, where my jeans have shredded, but my adrenaline is still high enough that I don’t even feel it. The observation is more academic than anything else. I take a deep breath and realize my ribs are a little sore. I’d landed with a hardoomphas my chest hit the pavement and I had the wind knocked out of me.

The scent of sulfur burns my nose as I get carefully to my feet and try to take stock of my surroundings. When I hear the sudden roar of a truck engine in the direction I’ve just come from, I whip around and am nearly blinded by the truck’s bright headlights. It approaches slowly but, even though I try to wave it down, it passes me by and then suddenly speeds off into the darkness.

“Weirdo,” I say, as it whizzes past. In the pale moonlight, I can just barely read its make and model. A black Ford F-150.

Before it disappears, I notice a long scratch down the back fender and catch a glimpse of the truck’s back plate. It might be nothing but, even in the backwoodsiest of backwoods towns, I’ve never known people to let a woman walk home by herself in the pitch-black of night without at least asking if she wants a ride.

I take a deep breath and look down the bank at Honey.

“Oh man,” I breathe raggedly, my throat tightening with emotion.

It looks like she smacked every tree on the way down to where she now rests, the passenger side smashed against a huge old oak. The engine has cut off, but her headlights and cabin light are still gleaming. She seems so forlorn, lying there in her half-alive state, barely hanging on, that I can hardly stand to look at her.

“God,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Honey.”

I remember the day Tina handed me her keys. The way my heart swelled when I understood that she was mine. The promise I’d made to keep her safe. Tears suddenly sting my eyes and I scrape them away before getting into a crouch and starting the slow, awkward slide down the bank toward her.

“I’m sorry, Honey,” I say when I reach her. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m relieved, at least, to find that it doesn’t look like she’s going to slide any farther down the hill. Aside from the oak that’s holding her steady at the middle, her front fender is lodged against a tall, skinny birch, its white bark scarred with Honey’s amber paint. Carefully, I reach in and retrieve my bag from the passenger seat. I also open the glove box and pull my gun case from it, open the lid, and run my fingers along the inscription there.

ANNIE GET YOUR GUN, it says, the words engraved in purpleheart wood.

I take my revolver and slide it into the holster at the back of my jeans, then close the case and slip it into my satchel. I pull my phone out and I’m disappointed to see that, while it’s still functioning, there’s no signal.

“Damn boonies,” I mutter. I open the notes app anyway and tap in the number plate from the truck that passed me. And then I sigh as I pat Honey’s wheel and say, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Okay? We’ll get you out of here.”

Tapping the flashlight on my phone, I shine it around, make sure I’m not about to leave anything obviously valuable or dangerous behind. Then, with a grimace, I turn the key backward.

Honey’s lights go out.

Clenching my teeth together, angry with myself for crashing and scared about leaving Honey here overnight, I lean forward, press my lips to her wheel, and give her a kiss before making my way back up the hill.At the top, I fish out the bright tactical flashlight I keep in my bag and, finally, I start the slow walk back to town.

It’s after three o’clock in the morning when I make it back to my room at the Mount Zion Motel. I let myself in, throw the dead bolt, slide the chain lock in place, wedge a chair against the door, and then drop—jacket, shoes, bag, and all—onto the bed, exhausted.

This was no accident, I think to myself as my eyes close. And I mentally catalogue all the people I’ve spoken to over the course of the day. All the places I’ve been. Everyone who might know about my investigation. It’s half the town, I realize. Place like this, everyone knows when a stranger comes to town. Everyone knows what they’re up to.

I think about Katie and her intuition, her apparent premonition, her history.

My mom left my father, Katie had said.And took me with her.

My mom left my father.

The words rattle around in my head. Echoing.

My mom left.

It’s my own voice I hear, as I slip into sleep.

I am ten years old, standing in the kitchen. It’s Saturday morning and, typically, my mom would already be awake, would have been for hours. She liked to make a big breakfast on Saturday mornings. Pancakes, usually. Which would sizzle on the griddle while the radio hummed low in the background.

But on this particular Saturday morning, she isn’t there.

Instead, there’s a note on the kitchen table. My mother’s handwriting. I pick it up and read it.

Johnny,