Page 22 of Brimstone Hollow

A friend of mine in Louisville met Leo once and, curious about our relationship, had asked Tina exactly what we are to each other. She’d laughed and said, “They’re not a couple. They don’t cohabitate or go on dates. They’ll never get married and they’re not conventionally exclusive. But, at the end of the day, there’s no one else for either of them. They’re soul mates.”

I’ve never been able to come up with a better explanation than that.

“You sure you’re okay?” Leo asks. And his question, the tenderness in his voice, makes me more okay than before.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“Tell me about your case,” he says. “What the hell took you to Eastern Kentucky?”

I put him on speaker, push off the bed, wander into the bathroom. While I go about morning things, I tell him about Katie, her vision, her dad, and all the places I visited yesterday.

There’s a long pause and then he says, “Wait… did you say asnake-handling preacher?”

“Yeah. He had this church out in the boonies. You have to drive through this stretch of country called Brimstone Hollow and, apparently, in the middle of it is a sinkhole above a sulfur spring. People call it the Hell Hole.”

“Come on,” he says, “You’re shittin’ me.”

“Nope.”

He laughs now. It’s a deep, surprised belt of a laugh, and then he says, “Goddamn, I swear every time you leave Louisville, you get up to some of the most hillbilly horseshit. Jesus. You think his daughter was right? You think someone dusted him?”

“I think it’s possible,” I say. “Especially now. With what happened to Honey.”

“So your next call is Tina,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “But I won’t do it till after eight.”

“Good plan,” he says.

After years of terrible hours in the Air Force, Tina made it a rule never to be bothered before eight o’clock in the morning. Woe unto anyone who breaks that rule, especially if they’re calling with bad news.

“Actually,” I say. “I do have something you could help me with. You think you could get one of your contacts to run a plate for me?”

He makes a sound likepssshhh.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble. I tell him about the truck that went past methe night before and then open the note on my phone and read the plate number to him. I don’t worry about him writing it down or recording it. Leo just remembers things. Tell him something once, it’s in there forever.

“You got your gun?” he asks.

“After last night? I’m not taking it off.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Listen, I’ll let you know when I’ve got something,” he says. “I’m heading up to Boston later on.”

“The protection job?”

“Yeah,” he says. “But call if you need me.”

His voice wraps around me like silk and I grin. When I look in the bathroom mirror and see myself smiling like a dope, I don’t even mind it.

“Okay,” I say.

“Watch your six, Gore.”

“Always, same to you.”

I hang up and take another long drink of water. Normally, I run every morning, but standing there with my skinned knee and sore ribs, I decide to count my predawn trudge back to the motel as this morning’s exercise. I take a shower, put on a fresh black T-shirt and jeans, lace up my boots, and head out the door.

SEVEN