Page 56 of Brimstone Hollow

Will says, “I don’t know. Brother Ezra did… well, he did a lot of things.”

“Will—” I start, but Will interrupts, looking from the bulletin board to the window, and says, “How’d you even see that from outside?”

Dishman turns from the photo and looks from Will to me and then to the kitchen window. A puff of laughter escapes him and he shakes his head, understanding pulling his mouth into a sudden smile.

He says, “She saw it in the reflection of the coffeepot. Didn’t you, Miss Gore?”

“Um,” I say, turning. The silver coffeepot is, indeed, polished to a mirror shine. Thelma Worley’s doing, I assume.

“Yes,” I say. “Yep. That’s correct.”

Dishman gives me another knowing look and then pulls the newsletter page from the wall and starts back outside, gesturing for me to follow him.

“Wait a second—” Will says, his voice pitched into a panic as he follows us outside. “Wait. Why are you so interested in Brother Ezra’s outreach work? It was a special pride to him! He was saving souls at Big Sandy.”

“Will,” Dishman says, gently. “We’re just doing our job.”

I don’t know if it’s Dishman’s calm tone of voice or his demeanor or the words themselves, but Will sighs and all the tension drains from his body.Apparently defeated, he nods and says, “I’ve got some work to do. If you need me, I’ll be in the office.”

We watch him go and then Dishman turns to me and whisper-yells, “That’s quite a stunt you pulled. Burgling a place in the middle of the night? You know everybody around here’s armed, right?”

“It’s a church!” I whisper-yell back at him.

“Annie, we’ve got a BOLO out on Nathaniel Nickels, but nobody’s seen him yet. I can’t keep constantly worrying about you stumbling right into a killer.”

“This isn’t some cozy murder story,” I say. “And I’m not an amateur. I know what I’m doing.”

But, when he meets my eyes, I see something besides worry and annoyance there. Something deeper, older. Sorrow, I realize. An aching, draining sorrow. He looks away from me and back toward the church. He turns away, raking both hands through his hair.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“I’m thinking Big Sandy—Joel Shepherd’s residence until recently—is nearly a two-hour drive from here. If that was Ezra King’s only jail outreach…”

He pulls out his phone and, after a moment, says, “Gavin, I need you to call around to all the jails and prisons around here. Say, within a hundred miles. Find out if Ezra King had a ministry at any of them. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome to thank me as well,” I say.

“For burgling a church and then getting me to cover for you with that lame coffeepot story? Not a chance.”

I scoff, “I don’t recallgetting youto do anything. Again, I think you’re underestimating my charm.”

He rolls his eyes and then, frowning into the early morning sun, he says, “All right, you might as well get in your truck and follow me to Joel Shepherd’s house. Save you the trouble of tracking down his address and showing up ten minutes later.”

I grin at him, get back behind the wheel of the Bronco, and follow him away from the church, through Brimstone Hollow, and back toward town.On the other side of Mount Zion, Dishman maneuvers onto a long stretch of highway and then, eventually, past a sign that saysWILLOW’S BEND. The land is split between hillsides too steep to farm, and wide swaths of bottomland all planted with soybeans. I follow behind as Dishman pulls onto a narrow gravel drive that winds past a stretch of maples.

Joel Shepherd’s place is an old two-story farmhouse in dire need of fresh paint. There’s a flower garden out front, overgrown with weeds, and on the porch are a couple of rocking chairs, faded and cracked. If I squint, I can see how—at one time—this place was beautiful. The home of a successful farmer and his flourishing family, it now sits in ruin, a shadow of its former self.

There’s a croaky “Who is it!” when Dishman knocks.

“Police,” Dishman says. “Just need a quick word.”

We wait through a series of loud, raspy coughs and then: “Door’s open!”

I follow close behind Dishman into a high-ceilinged living room. Dust motes swim in the early-morning light amid antique furniture and stacks of cardboard boxes. Slumped in an ancient leather easy chair in the corner of the room is Joel Shepherd. A tube runs to his nose from an oxygen tank at his side, and above his slippered left foot a neon-yellow light pulses slowly from within his ankle monitor.

“The hell do you want?” he asks when he sees Dishman. “Come to pay your respects?”

“For Billy?” Dishman asks.