Page 5 of Brimstone Hollow

Tears sparkle suddenly in her eyes and slip down her cheeks but she keeps her gaze steady, determined. And, despite my doubts, I can’t help seeing beyond all the outward differences between us. Beyond the clothes and hair and money and baby. Under it all, this is a woman carrying the scars she incurred as a girl.

When I look at Katie, I see a version of myself.

A girl who needs to understand her father in order to understand herself.

If I’m being honest, I don’t believe Katie’s dad died of anything but his own risky actions. A quick death certificate and next-day burial are odd but not unheard of, especially in small towns, and dreams—however prescient they may feel—are not a logical basis for an investigation.

I look across the desk, prepared to explain all of this, but instead what I say is “Okay.”

TWO

I’M ALREADY ON THEroad, halfway to the Eastern Kentucky town of Mount Zion, when my phone buzzes. I tap the button to put it on speaker and Tina’s voice booms out at me.

“I can’t help but notice,” Tina says, “that Honey is no longer in my garage.”

“You said she was done,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible after having snatched my car—a gorgeous and pristine Datsun 260Z named Honey—from Tina’s restomod garage.

“I said she was done with her tune-up,” Tina grumbles. “I also said I was getting Lewis in here for a detail later this week. Honey needs a fresh coat of wax and you know it.”

“Well,” I say. “I needed her. I have a case.”

“Annie, it’s Memorial Day weekend.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Shit,” she says, with the tone that also impliesWhat have you gotten yourself into now?

Then I listen to her sigh, her exasperation as obvious as possible, before she finally says, “You’re not in Louisville anymore, are you?”

“No.”

I explain where I’m headed and why, trying to keep it brief. I tell herabout Katie, Katie’s dead father, his snake-handling practice, his death, his lack of autopsy, and his quick funeral.

When I’m through, Tina makes a sound likesheewwwww. The noises of the garage have gone quiet and I’m guessing she’s stepped into the little office she keeps stacked with all the paperwork she’ll never do.

“How long have we known each other?” she asks, her voice suddenly measured.

Going by Tina’s tone, I get the sudden feeling I’m wading into a creek full of water moccasins. The answer is straightforward and she, of course, probably knows the exact number of years better than I do. We met in the Air Force, when she was on her way out and I was on my way in.

“Um—” I start, uneasily.

But she cuts me off and says, “I know when you’ve gotten into something nasty. Why did you really take this case?”

“I couldn’t tell her no,” I say. “She needs my help.”

After a moment, Tina asks, “Do you think she’s right? Do you think there’s more to the death of her father than a snakebite?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I think she needs some kind of closure.”

“Don’t we all.”

I hear the groan of her chair as she sits behind her desk. Tina’s a tall woman and built like a tank with huge, tattooed forearms and half-shaved hair that’s always some variation of eggplant or burgundy. Hard as nails on the outside, she’s got a well-hidden ooey-gooey center that almost no one ever sees.

“You’ll take care of Honey?” she finally asks.

I smile at the care in her voice. The unspokenAnd yourself too?

Several years before, Honey had been towed to Tina’s garage around the same time I arrived in Louisville. Nameless and neglected, she was a wreck. And, after my stint in the Air Force, I wasn’t doing much better. Tina recruited me to help with the job of fixing her up. Together, we gave Honey her name and by the time we were finished, the little Datsun wasn’t the only one who’d undergone major repairs. The moment Tina pressedHoney’s keys into my palm and told me she was all mine, I burst into tears. Embarrassingly, I still get all welled up just thinking about it.