Page 45 of Brimstone Hollow

Hollis barks out a laugh so loud that people up the hill turn to look at us.

He says, “Hell no. Scarlett ain’t the type to get her hands dirty. Her husband on the other hand…”

“What’s his name?” I ask, already opening a PI database on my phone.

“Nathaniel Nickels,” he says. “He’s a real piece of work.”

Nickels’s record pops up instantly. The guy has a history of brawling in public and resisting arrest, plus a few minor possession charges and one charge of assault and battery. Though, I notice, it’s been a couple years since he’s been in trouble with the law.

The photos from his record reveal a lean, athletic guy with long white-blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and a pouty mouth. Good-looking if you’re into that faux-Viking quality. And, scanning through Scarlett Nickels’s Facebook photos, she clearly is. There are tons of pictures of the two together, often posed in front of one of three vehicles: a Harley-Davidson bike, a blue Mustang, and a silver F-150 with a Bluegrass Biker Babes sticker. In the latest one, Nathaniel grins, posing with a plump trout.

“Have you seen him around town?” Tina asks me.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “But it’s hard to know for sure.”

“He’s known as a tough guy,” Hollis says. “He works for a security company in Lexington. Hired muscle. He shows up and looks mean. But I’ve also heard other things.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe he’s also a—what do they call it? A leg breaker.”

“An enforcer?” I ask. “For who?”

“Whoever has the dough, I guess,” Hollis says.

And who, around here, would that be?I ask myself, as I zoom in on another photo of Nathaniel Nickels. He’s standing next to a strung-up deer carcass, his rifle slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing sunglasses and a cap, his blond hair pulled into a ponytail. His mouth forms a straight, serious line.

I close the photo and then look up the address for Scarlett and Nathaniel Nickels.

“What you gonna do?” Hollis asks, as I slide my phone back into the bag at my side.

I shrug and say, “Don’t worry about it.”

He grunts.

“Don’t wreck my Bronco,” he says, and lights a fresh cigarette off the old one.

I stand, collect my trash, and walk Tina back to the wrecker and Honey. Hollis goes with us as far as the pick-up window, where he peels off to talk to a gaggle of wily old guys, likely to spread the word about everything I’ve told him.

When Tina and I reach the wrecker, I take another long, solemn look at Honey and do my best to swallow the thick feeling in my throat. Reaching up slow, as if she might flinch away from me, I gingerly touch Honey’s broken door; the metal is warm from the afternoon sun.

“You’ll fix her?” I ask, posing the question I haven’t even wanted to think about since I heard the sickening crunch of Honey’s steel. “She’s not… she’s not beyond repair, is she?”

“Come on,” Tina says, softly. “Who you talking to? Of course, I’ll fix her. The one I’m worried about is you. Are you just gonna go knock on the door of this guy that maybe killed someone today? And maybe killed the guy you’ve come to investigate? I don’t like just driving off and leaving you.”

“I’ll be okay,” I say, tugging the keys to Hollis’s Bronco from my bag. I start to turn and Tina catches me, her huge hand wrapping around my arm.

“You sure you don’t need backup?” she asks, making me meet her eyes.

“You know me,” I say. “I’m like a cat. And they say cats always land on their feet.”

“Yeah,” Tina says. “They also say curiosity gets them killed. Call me if you need anything, okay? Or, hell, call Leo. You don’t always have to do this stuff alone.”

I don’t reply, just lean forward and let her give me a big hug instead.

THIRTEEN

IT’S ONLY ABOUT Afifteen-minute drive outside of town, down a long country lane, to where Scarlett and Nathaniel Nickels live. I pull into the driveway, groaning when I see that Chief Dishman is already there, getting out of a cruiser with Gavin in tow. I park right behind him, hop out, and start marching toward them.