Page 35 of Brimstone Hollow

He looks from her to me, startled. “What? What are you talking about?”

Tina pulls her penlight from her coveralls pocket and gestures for us to follow her. She leads us to Honey’s front half—raised with a big cable—and shines the light under the engine. The metal is beat up from its slide down the hill and lumps of dirt stick in some of the grooves. To direct our attention, she uses the beam to trace the path of a metal tube that winds around under the car.

“That’s the brake line,” she says.

“Okay,” Dishman says.

“You were right to call me, Annie,” she says. “I’m not sure anyone else would’ve noticed.”

“Noticed what?”

“That line’s been tampered with,” she says. “That’s why you went off the road last night.”

“You went off the road?” Dishman says, turning to me. His voice is intense but layered with concern. “Why didn’t you report it?”

“I’m reporting it now,” I say. “I had no cell service last night and had to walk back to the motel. This morning, I called Tina because she’s the best I know. I’m sorry, but I just didn’t trust anyone else to look at it.”

“Goddammit,” he says, pressing his hand to his forehead. He takes a deep breath and then uses the light from his phone to have another look for himself. When he’s done, he says, “It’s an old car. The line’s probably just rusted.”

“The hell it is,” Tina says, her quiet voice a whole lot more menacing than her loud one. “This car might be vintage, but her engine sure isn’t. I put that brake line in myself six years ago and I gave the whole thing a tune-uplast week. Trust me—No, don’t trust me. Look for yourself. Climb up there and look at the bends in the line. They’ve beenfiled, Chief. Just a little, just here and there. But somebody who knew what they were doing crawled under the engine and filed away at the bends in the line.”

A few people from the picnic have stopped what they’re doing to watch us. If Dishman notices the gathering crowd, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he climbs up onto the wrecker and uses his light to more closely inspect the lines.

When he comes back down, he says, “Why would someone mess with your car?”

“Why else?” I say. “The only reason I’m here is to investigate Ezra King’s death.”

He shakes his head and says, “The man died of a snakebite! Nobody killed him.”

“Then why is someone trying to stop me looking into it?”

He breathes out a low groan and walks away from me and Tina, down Honey’s battered passenger side.

“Look,” I say, going after him and shoving my phone in his face. “I saw this guy last night after my wreck. He sped past me on the road.”

“Dean Griffon?” he mutters, as he takes my phone from my hand and flicks through everything Leo sent me. He’s still looking at Griffon’s old rap sheet when he says, “He might not have even seen you.”

“Oh, he saw me,” I say, yanking my phone back. I look down at the phone, the pictures, and suddenly realize why Griffon looks so familiar.

“I saw him at the Cherry Dairy last night,” I say, picturing the guy in the camo cap with the spit bottle. “He sat down next to me.”

“So?”

“So, he knew I was investigating Ezra King’s death! Frankie—the waitress at the Dairy—recognized my name from some podcast. I told her what I was doing in town and that I was headed out to Ezra’s church.Griffon was sitting right there. Listen, he has a record. He’s a mechanic so he’d know how to do thisandhe drove the tent revival truck. He and Ezra are connected!”

“This is a small town.Everyone’sconnected.” His voice stays level, but the emphasis is still clear.

“Fine,” I say. “Fine. Look, I only called you because Tina said we should.”

“So we could report the tampering,” Tina says, crossing her arms and looking perturbed. “And so you—an officer of the law—can take evidence. Prints. Photos. Cop stuff. Or do you not have that in Mount Zion?”

Dishman raises an eyebrow at her and opens his mouth to say something, but I break in between them, as calm as I can manage, and say, “Just send someone to collect prints and take photos. I’m going to go track down Dean Griffon and question him.”

By now, several people have scooted closer to the wrecker, whispering. I can’t believe Tina pulled the truck all the way up to the picnic. The story of me going off the road is going to be all over Mount Zion. If it isn’t already.

“You’re not going to have to track down anyone,” Dishman says with an irritatingly casual air. “Dean’shere. I just saw him setting up chairs for the lunch.”

“Great,” I say. “Lead the way.”