Page 46 of Brimstone Hollow

“Annie, this isn’t your case,” Dishman says just as I say, “Youdidrecognize the truck!”

He shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest. “No, I had Gavin pull the registration for every late-model silver F-150 in town.”

“How long a list was that?” I ask.

“Long. But a name jumped out at me. Scarlett Nickels.”

“Because of course you know about Nathaniel’s record,” I say.

Dishman stares at me like he’s running some kind of appraisal, making a judgement. When he’s finally done, he just says, “That’s right.”

There’s a brief pause while we both look toward the Nickelses’ trailer, a yellow-sided double-wide set in a grassy field on a permanent foundation. A metal carport off to the left shelters a blue Mustang and a big, shiny Harley, the pink-and-blue shield of the Bluegrass Biker Babes embossed on a saddlebag. The silver F-150 is nowhere to be seen.

“How’dyoufind her?” Dishman asks, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Facebook.”

Dishman snorts and then I start toward the trailer. He falls into step beside me and we approach together. We walk past the carport, toward the front door, and Dishman says, “Truck’s not here.”

“Nope,” I say.

“Gavin,” he says. “You go around back. Just in case. Stay alert and be ready.”

Gavin says, “Yes, sir.” And he trots off, taking a wide circle around the home.

Dishman jogs up the little set of steps onto the porch at the front of the trailer and knocks. Music plays inside, some Top 40 pop song with a low beat. Dishman knocks again. The music cuts off. Thumping footsteps. Then the door swings open.

Scarlett Nickels looks exactly like her photo. Model-tall and thin, with blazing blue eyes and tanned skin that definitely did not come from a spray nozzle, Scarlett takes a look at Dishman and says, “What’d he do now?”

Dishman says, “We just need to ask your husband a couple questions.”

Scarlett leans against the doorway, hooking her thumbs through the belt loops of her shorts. She wears a silky black tank top and I notice a partially obscured tattoo over her left breast: two simple hearts, linked together. It looks like an old stick-and-poke, the thin outlines now blurry and faded to a muddy gray.

“Well, I haven’t seen him, Chief,” she says.

She looks at me, seeming to see me for the first time, and says, “Who are you?”

“She’s just helping me out,” Dishman says before I can answer.

Scarlett narrows her eyes at me, like a cat, and then looks back at Dishman and says lightly, “Well, I haven’t seen him since Friday afternoon. He took my truck, said he’d be back later, and I haven’t heard from him since. I had to take his shitty Mustang into town for my nail appointment this morning. Just got back and he still ain’t here.”

“Why didn’t you report him missing?” Dishman asks.

She snorts and rolls her eyes simultaneously. I get the feeling it’s a well-practiced expression.

“Seriously? You think this is the first time Nathaniel’s run off over a weekend? He’s probably piss drunk in some whore’s bed and I don’t give a shit if he is.”

I watch her, lips pursed as she studies her fingernails, definitely giving a shit.

“You said he took your truck—” Dishman starts.

Scarlett’s eyes flash back up to him, angry, as she says, “Yes, and he’d better goddamn well bring it back without a scratch or I swear to God that is the last time I let him in the door.”

“Okay, well, Scarlett, do you mind if—”

“Oh—” I interrupt him, almost pushing him out of the way, as I get Scarlett’s attention with my sudden jump.

“Oh my God,” I hiss. “Shit.”