Page 27 of Brimstone Hollow

The writing on the wall, I repeat in my head, almost laughing to myself. The sense of foreboding, the understanding that something is about to go wrong. I’d never thought anything of the phrase, what it truly meant or where it came from, until last night, when Will explained it to me.

“Anyway,” Zelda says, “All I knew when I was little was that I missed Katie. It broke my heart at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“We never knew where she went,” Zelda says. “There was gossip that Maggie had been cheating on Ezra and ran off with some guy and that’s why Ezra didn’t go looking for her. And, because she’d left a note, we all sort of let it go. Then, years ago, I heard that Maggie had died in a car accident. And that she and Katie had been living in Louisville this whole time. I wanted to reach out to Katie but… didn’t. It seemed too awkward. Anyway, when I heard you were in town, I guess I just wanted to know what happened. Why Katie hired you. I mean, Ezra King was bit by a snake, right? So, what are you doing here?”

“Well, Katie wanted me to look into her father’s death because there was no autopsy and the funeral happened so quickly and she had a bad feeling.”

Zelda cocks an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, did you saya bad feeling?”

“Yes,” I say, and leave it at that.

“Hmm,” Zelda says.

“What do you think?” I ask her. “Were you surprised to hear that a private investigator was in town investigating Ezra King’s death?”

Her lips squish to the side while she considers. Eventually, she says, “I guess so. I didn’t think there was anything mysterious about how he died. He was playing with snakes. That’s what you expect to happen, isn’t it?”

There are two tots left on the paper and I pop one into my mouth and slide the other toward her and she takes it. When we’re done, I wrap up the remnants of my meal and stand. Zelda gets to her feet with me. We walk back toward the Dairy in silence, but before we step onto the asphalt, I turn toward her and say, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Ezra King? Any enemies?”

She shakes her head. “No. People loved him.”

“Really?” I ask. “Because I get the feeling youdidn’tlove him.”

She looks down at the gray curb that divides the grass from the asphalt and then looks at me and says, “He’s the reason Maggie left with Katie and never came back. And I don’t think she would’ve done that—left her hometown and everyone she knew—if he’d really been as pious and God-fearing and wonderful as people seem to think.”

I’d like to ask her more, but she raises a hand, switches off her implant, and walks away, crossing over the already seething asphalt and disappearing through the back door of the Dairy. I guess that’s one way to end a conversation.

Twenty or so minutes later, after driving slowly through Brimstone Hollow—trying not to look too hard at where I went off the road the night before—I find myself back at Mount Zion Church of the Healing Redeemer. A man sweeping the floor tells me Will Carpenter is in the parsonage, so I head out of the church and go around the side and back to the little house that had stood empty the day before. The screen door is shut, but the front door is standing wide open. I knock briefly on the doorframe and then open the screen door with a creak and step inside.

It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the comparative gloom of the interior, but I look around, blinking, and see a living room with a small sofa and a large empty space big enough for an oversized easy chair. This room, I suddenly realize, is the room in which Ezra died. I recognize the sofa, the carpet, the pale wallpaper. On the far side of the room is a wide doorway and, beyond, a kitchen with a white tile floor. I start toward the room and then pause in my tracks when I hear the characteristic, stomach-dropping sound of a snake’s rattle.

Kkkkksssshhhhhhhh.

I look up, through the entryway, and see Will Carpenter.

He stands at the kitchen table, a huge black-and-brown timber rattlesnake twisting its body around his arms.

EIGHT

THERE ARE SEVERAL TYPESof venomous snakes native to North America, and a few of them—copperheads, coral snakes, timber rattlers, pygmy rattlers, and water moccasins—make Appalachia their home. The timber rattlesnake, as I recall from walks in the woods with my granny, is among the deadliest. Its huge dose of venom is capable of killing a full-grown man.

“Shit,” I breathe, as I freeze in place.

“What are you doing here?” Will asks, the forced evenness of his voice tinged with annoyance.

“I came to talk to the woman who found Ezra’s body. You said she’d be here today.”

Will looks away from me and back to the snake. He holds part of the snake’s black-and-brown banded body with one hand and its button-eyed, triangular head with the other. Will is a slender guy, but his arms are corded with lean muscle and his supple-looking, long-fingered hands are steady and sure.

The snake hisses, its tongue flicking.

The rattle shakes.

Kkksssshhhhhhhh.