Page 48 of Brimstone Hollow

He stops me, pulling at my shoulder. His touch is firm but not threatening.

“Annie, what if he’d been in there? Nickels probably killed Dean Griffon.”

“Yeah,” I say. “He probably did. But it’s not like I went in without backup.”

Dishman shakes his head and does his best to look disappointed, but when he brings his fingers to his mouth and tries to whistle for Gavin, he can’t manage it because he’s smiling.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he mutters.

“What’d you tell her?” I ask. “On the phone, who’d you say you were?”

“Police charity,” he says. He finally does manage to whistle, high and long, and while we wait for Gavin to return like a faithful retriever he says, “I needed to keep her on the line and you’d be surprised how many shady people contribute. I think the theory is that if they have a police charity sticker on their car, the cops’ll let ’em out of speeding tickets.”

Gavin comes trotting up to the car and says, “I didn’t see anything, Chief. Nobody came out.”

Dishman nods and looks at me, his face going serious, as he says, “Listen, wherever this guy is, he’s dangerous. Like as not, he killed Dean Griffon. You need to leave finding him to me.”

“Not a chance,” I say. “I was hired to investigate and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Dishman opens the door to his cruiser and, for a moment, looks like he’s going to get in and drive away without another word. Instead, he pauses, looks past me at Scarlett’s trailer, and lets out a deep breath.

“This is not your case,” he says, still not looking at me.

“Chief, I didn’t come to your town to stir shit up. Truth be told, I didn’t expect to find anything suspicious about Ezra King’s death. But I show up and start asking questions and now suddenly you’ve got two murders on your hands and the likeliest culprit in the wind?”

“Annie—”

“Somebody came after me, Chief. They cut Honey’s brakes and I can’t leave until I know exactly why and—”

He waves as if he’s heard enough and says, “Okay, I admit, someone tampering with your brakes is suspicious. But Ezra King died by snakebite, for Christ’s sake.”

“But—”

“Look,” he says. “I get that you’re not gonna let this go. So, you find solid evidence—and I meanrock solid—that Ezra was wrapped up in something criminal? Arealconnection to drugs or Joel Shepherd specifically?Thenwe’ll talk.”

FOURTEEN

ON THE WAY BACKtoward Mount Zion, I think about the information I’ve managed to scrape together so far. Dean Griffon—who almost certainly interfered with my car—is now dead. He worked for Ezra King and stored Ezra’s RV—complete with traces of drugs—in his garage. Nathaniel Nickels, a local tough guy for hire, seems the likeliest suspect for Dean’s murder. But why would he do it? What was his motive? Where is he now? And how are either of them connected to Billy Shepherd, who burned alive with his finger cut off, the same night Ezra died?

“Goddammit!” I slam on the brakes as a coyote darts out in front of the Bronco. I gasp, heart racing, my foot still hard down on the brake pedal. My palms are slick with sweat and I let go of the wheel and shakily wipe them on my jeans.

“What the hell, man!” I shout at the animal, now stopped in the middle of the road. He stares at me, golden eyes glinting, and shakes his shaggy gray coat.

I’m glad the Bronco’s brakes are in good working order, but I realize I’m even more torn up over Honey’s wreck than I’d thought. I take three deep breaths and watch as the coyote licks its chops, and then, panting from the heat, lopes off into the opposite tree line.

With one more slow exhale through pursed lips, I push the throttleagain, and at the next opportunity, pull into a gas station. While the tank fills, I lean against the fender and close my eyes. I try to clear my head but, almost immediately, the image of Ezra’s parsonage materializes. I think about that house, now empty of its owner.

I think about the total absence of evidence that Ezra had once been a husband and father. No photos, no framed certificates, no memories. Instead, all I’d found were snakes in tanks, a closet full of black clothing, and the brand-new key to a freshly repaired door.

“Well,” I say to myself as I replace the gas nozzle. “It’s not much. But a lead’s a lead.”

Forty-five minutes later, I pull into the nearest Walmart. After a bit of a runaround I’m introduced to the assistant manager, a big guy in his fifties who looks harried and underpaid. When I ask to see the security footage from Friday night, he turns bright red.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But absolutely not—”

“Listen, if I could just—”

“No, ma’am,” he says. “You need to come back with an officer of the lawora court order. We had trouble a couple years back with a private investigator and we ended up getting sued. No, if my boss comes back from her trip and finds out I’ve given our footage to a private eye, she’ll tan my hide.”