Page 37 of Brimstone Hollow

“Nah,” Dishman says flatly. “That’s not it.”

I crack a smile at that and Dishman says, “I somehow doubt it was your charm that got you recruited into Special Investigations.”

“You looked me up.”

“I was in the Navy,” he says quietly. “First Gulf War. It’s been a while, but I still know people who know people. The team you were on was elite, to say the least. I’m surprised you didn’t go career.”

“I didn’t like taking orders,” I say.

He snorts. “Well, now, that’s no surprise. Turn in here.”

I pull onto the next road, winding between a soybean field on one side and a hilly subdivision on the other. The houses all look like they were built in the seventies, all of a kind, split-level boxes with deadly-looking blind driveways that cut onto the road. Without AC, we both have our windows rolled all the way down and the air whips in. It smells like sunshine and sounds like bugs.

I remember, suddenly, riding in the passenger seat. My dad at the wheel. Both of us laughing, squealing, screaming. He drove an old hatchback and healwaysdrove fast. As fast as he could get away with.

“Come on, Annie-Girl!” he’d shout over the wind thundering in through the windows. “You think we can catch air?”

He’d take the hills at full speed so—for just a second—the tires would leave the road and we’d feel the sudden weightlessness of being airborne and then the abrupt, lurching drop as we touched back down.

“This is the road, here,” Dishman says, bringing me back to the present.

I turn into the subdivision and Dishman directs me to the last house on the left. It’s a little brick ranch with a big RV garage next to it. The Ford F-150 is parked just in front of the RV garage, the doors of which are shut. The truck’s bed is still half full of the folding chairs Dean Griffon had been unloading before he took off from the picnic.

I grab my bag and slide out as Dishman starts toward the house. He stomps up onto the porch and knocks. Nothing. I walk around the big truck, to the passenger side. Down the back fender is the same deep scratch I’d seen in the middle of the night.

“This was definitely him,” I say.

“Dean?” Dishman hollers. “You there? Just need a quick word.”

I look around. There’re a couple of old metal rockers on the porch and a table that doesn’t match. The place looks a little run-down but mostly clean. I turn toward the garage and notice that while the big bay doors are closed, the little side door is standing ajar. Cautiously, I crunch across the gravel toward it. The doorknob and plate are scuffed, the wood splintered.

I push the toe of my boot against the bottom of the door and give it a nudge.

Behind me, I hear Dishman’s footsteps and then he says, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t just barge into people’s personal property.”

“The door was open when we got here,” I say. “Look at the lock.”

“Miss Gore—” he starts.

I ignore him and push the door the rest of the way open. The sun shines in through the doorway, sparsely illuminating a big RV, a concrete floor—and, lying in a pool of blood, Dean Griffon. There’s a stab wound in the side of his neck and his eyes are wide open and empty. He’s lying on his side and his hand is slick and shiny with blood, likely from his trying to staunch his own wound. The floor near where he lies is streaked with red lines made by his outstretched bloody fingers. The marks, though only evidence of the last flailing twitches of a dying man, look like some horrible, indecipherable writing. A message written in blood.

Dishman steps past me, over the threshold, and approaches the body. I watch as he carefully kneels and checks Griffon’s wrist for a pulse. After a few moments he shakes his head. He heaves a sigh and says, “Nobody’s questioning him today.”

ELEVEN

BEHIND ME, THERE’S Aclickas Dishman taps the nearby light switch with his elbow. A bank of fluorescents high above us illuminates the space in cold, buzzing light. Beyond Dean’s body is an RV, gleaming in maroon and silver, looking freshly washed. There’s a block of fancy scrolled text on the side in glittering white paint:

THERE ISHOPE! THERE ISHEALING!

EZRA KING: CHURCH OF THE HEALING REDEEMER

TENT MINISTRY AND GOOD WORKS

Past the RV, there’re a couple of motorcycles, a janky Honda, and a little dragster disassembled at the far end of the garage. Several big tables are covered messily with tools, among them the sort of metal file that could’ve been used to tamper with Honey’s brakes.

“We should check his phone,” I say, looking again at Griffon’s body.

Dishman stares at me as if I’ve just said,We should cut off his head.