Page 41 of Brimstone Hollow

“Well, he was big news around here. The papers called himthe Kentucky King of Weed. Pot farmer, huge operation. He went to prison twenty years ago. I always believed that, after that, the operation passed from one Shepherd to another—Joel’s son, who went away himself after his drunk driving got some folks killed, and then Joel’s grandson, who was murdered in a bar fight a few years ago. Joel’s brother is long dead and his wife passed. So, that would’ve only left Joel’s grandnephew, Billy.”

“Okay,” I say. “So, where’s Joel Shepherd now? Is he still in jail?”

“Well, hewaslocked up in Big Sandy,” Dishman says. “But the prison system being as overcrowded as it is, and Joel Shepherd being near eighty now and not in good health, they released him—couple weeks back—on home confinement.”

“Ankle bracelet?” I ask.

“Yep,” Dishman says. “He can’t leave his house without alerts going off.”

Putting the pieces together, I say, “So, Billy—Joel Shepherd’s grandnephew—turns up dead in a house fire, only weeks after Joel gets out. I’m guessing the fire wasnotan accident.”

“Well,somebodyset it,” Dishman says. “Fire chief said there were traces of propellant all over the place and they’re not even close to finished with evidence collection.”

“And it happened on Friday night?” I ask. “The same night Ezra died?”

“Ezra’s death was an accident,” he says. “Don’t forget that. The man was bit by a snake.”

“But Billy Shepherd was murdered, right?” I say, my voice suddenly insistent, excited. “I mean, someonedidset the guy on fire?”

“They tried to,” Dishman says. “Thing is, Billy didn’t actually die in the fire. That’s what the Fire Chief told me yesterday when I got to the site.Billy managed to crawl out. Made it as far as the edge of the woods before he finally died. And it’s a good thing he did, too. Otherwise, he’d have burned up in that house and we’d never have found what we did.”

“And what was that?”

“Before Billy escaped the fire, he was beaten nearly to death, probably with a baseball bat or something like it. And…” He pauses, grimacing like the next part is especially distasteful.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

“Before they left him to burn to death in that house, they cut off the man’s finger.”

TWELVE

DISHMAN LEAVES MY SIDEalmost as soon as he’s dropped the missing-finger bomb. Refusing to miss anything, I hang around Dean Griffon’s property long enough that I start to get hungry. Just as I’m considering heading out, Chief Dishman and Gavin emerge from the garage. I edge closer and catch Gavin saying that their swabs found traces of fentanyl and heroin in the hidden compartment.

“We also got remnants of marijuana,” he says. “Wrapped up and stored in the RV’s rooftop cargo box.”

“It’s not much to go on,” Dishman says, more to himself than Gavin. “I doubt it’ll even be enough to get the DEA interested.”

“What about Billy Shepherd?” I ask. “Was he connected to Griffon?”

They both turn toward me and Dishman says, “Miss Gore—”

At the same time Gavin answers, “Dean was Billy Shepherd’s mechanic. He’s been fixing Billy’s speed bikes for years.”

“What?” Dishman says, obviously surprised.

“My cousin lives out Billy’s way,” Gavin explains. “She told me today that at least now that Billy’s dead she won’t have to hear him and Dean racing around on those bikes anymore.”

“Okay,” I say. “So, whether Billy’s running the family drug ring or not, there’s a direct line from Billy Shepherd to Dean Griffon to Ezra King.”

“Miss Gore—” Dishman tries again.

This time, I cut him off. “Wait, just listen: Ezra King is dead. And inside Ezra King’s RV are traces of multiple drugs. And now Dean Griffon, who went on revival trips with him, and who stored and repaired the RV for him, has been murdered. Andbothof them are found dead on the same weekend that Billy Shepherd—the possible heir to the Shepherd pot dynasty—is beaten and burned to death with his finger missing. Chief, come on, we can work this case together, share information. You can use my experience. And I could use your access.”

Dishman narrows his eyes at me and, for just a moment, seems to actually consider it.

Finally, he says, “Miss Gore, you’re not a cop anymore.”

“I’msort ofa cop,” I say.