Page 57 of Brimstone Hollow

“For my whole goddamn family,” the old man says. “Just about every Shepherd in Mount Zion passed while I was locked up.”

“I heard about Belinda,” Dishman says. “I’m sorry.”

Shepherd’s mouth twists off to the right. He jerks his trembling chin away from us and toward the window.

“She was a good woman,” Shepherd says, still staring out the window. “A fine wife and a hell of a mother. I never deserved a woman like her to begin with, but I missed what should’ve been the best part. Retirement. Grandkids. All of it. Stomach cancer’s an ugly way to go.”

“I know,” Dishman says. “I’m sorry.”

“I should’ve been there for her,” Shepherd says.

Seconds pass. In the kitchen, the fridge hums. The walls creak from the rising heat.

“Joel…” Dishman says.

“And who the hell’s this?” Shepherd croaks, his gaze falling on me. “I thought for a minute it must be Janey-Beth. Then I remembered—”

“No,” Dishman says, his cheeks coloring suddenly. There’s more raw emotion in that single syllable than I’ve heard from him the entire time I’ve been in Mount Zion. My reaction must be obvious. He stares at me and back at Joel and swallows whatever he might’ve said, clears his throat and—his regular calm mostly returned—says, “This here’s a private investigator down from Louisville.”

“Annie Gore,” I say, offering my hand to shake. Shepherd takes it. His fingers are thin and paper dry but strong. His eyes, when he meets mine, are clear and hawk-like, giving the impression that he doesn’t miss a thing.

“What you doing here, Miss Gore?” he asks, as I step away.

“I’m investigating Ezra King,” I say.

Dishman says, “We understand he visited Big Sandy as part of some kind of prison ministry.”

Shepherd’s eyes sparkle with amusement as he looks from me to Dishman. He waits for one of us to elaborate, and when neither of us does, he says, “So?”

“Well, I never knew you to be a God-fearing man, Joel,” Dishman says.

Shepherd shrugs, sits back deeper into his huge, ancient chair.

“Sometimes,” he says, “a man ain’t got nobody to turn to but Jesus. You know how that is, don’t you, Matthew?”

I try to keep my eyes on Shepherd but can’t help noticing, in my periphery, the subtle shift in Dishman’s posture, the strain of stress, the edgy agitation.

“Can I see your Bible?” I ask Shepherd.

The question seems to catch both of them off guard. Shepherd’s gaze shifts back to mine and his eyes narrow.

“Over there,” he finally says, pointing to the far side of the room. I treadacross the creaky floorboards, cutting a path through the tension between the two men. On an old end table is a stack of books, including a Bible. It’s the old-fashioned, ornate kind I recognize as a family Bible, not the type for personal use. It’s also at the bottom of the stack, which is itself covered in dust. This Bible hasn’t been opened in years.

“No,” I say, turning back to him. “I mean the one you kept in prison.”

“I was never much for reading,” he says, with a smirk. “And once my eyes went, I liked to have the storiestoldto me.”

Dishman scoffs and says, “And that’s what Ezra did? Drove all the way over to Big Sandy to tell you Bible stories?”

“Ezra came to the prison and talked about Jesus. Eventually, I got around to listening. That’s it. Why can’t you leave a poor grieving man in peace? You think I ain’t got enough trouble as it is? My wife and brother are dead. My son’s in jail for life and my grandson’s dead. Now, come to find out, my grandnephew’s also kicked the bucket. And you waltz in here asking questions about—”

He stops, his words drowning in a wheezing, wet cough. I go into the kitchen, find a clean cup, and fill it from the tap. When I return, I hand the cup to Shepherd and he takes slow, careful sips.

“Thank you,” Shepherd says finally, in a rattling whisper. Then: “Get the hell out of here.”

He doesn’t look at either of us.

“I’ll have more questions later,” Dishman says.