Page 59 of Brimstone Hollow

SEVENTEEN

LESS THAN HALF ANhour later, we’re standing in the gravel lot of the Church of the Healing Redeemer, watching as Will’s car makes its slow return back up the drive.

“God, he looks exhausted,” I mutter, as I watch Will park, then start to get out before he even turns the engine off. He’s carrying a to-go coffee cup from the Dairy and I guess he went into town for breakfast after Dishman and I left.

“Apologies for the intrusion, Will,” Dishman says. “We’re just—”

“Just doing your job,” Will says, “I know.”

He trudges up the parsonage steps ahead of us, and before he can pull out his key, Dishman holds out a hand to stop him.

“Just a minute,” Dishman says. “If you don’t mind.”

Dishman and I don gloves from his crime scene kit while Will tells him exactly the same thing he told me. He has no idea when the lock was replaced, and he got the current key from the kitchen drawer where they always kept a spare.

“Has anyone been inside the parsonage since Saturday morning when you found Ezra’s body?”

“The paramedics,” Will says. “And Officer Alvey. Oh, and the coroner, of course. Then, I came in yesterday to tend to the snakes. That’s when Miss Gore visited.”

“What about Thelma?” I ask. “Did she come in when the body was discovered?”

“No,” he says. “She stood at the door. It was… pretty clear what had happened.”

“Even so, that’s a lot of people leaving prints,” Dishman says. “EMTs would’ve had gloves on at least most of the time but not necessarily always. Whatever prints we take here can be sent to Frankfort. It’ll be a while before they come back to us with anything like a match but…”

“You’re thinking about Nathaniel Nickels?” I ask.

“We’ve got his prints on file,” he answers. “Gavin texted them to me on my way over.”

He dismisses Will, letting him know we’ll come and get him if we need to lock up again. Reluctantly, Will goes, heading back into the church through the side door.

“All right,” Dishman says. “Let’s get to work.”

Dishman kneels and opens the fingerprint kit. We dust the doorknob, the plate, and the dead bolt, inside and out. There are plenty of prints but, at least at first glance, none from Nathaniel Nickels. While Dishman dusts around the rest of the door, I find myself drifting into the kitchen, where I sit again in the heavy wooden chair.

“That kid’s not the only one who looks exhausted,” Dishman says. “How much sleep have you had since you got here?”

“Maybe four or five hours?” I yawn.

After a minute Dishman says, “It’s not just the hardware that looks new. Somebody’s patched the wood and painted it, too.”

“Which means the lock didn’t just jam up,” I say. “The door was damaged.”

He nods. “Seems likely.”

I look around the kitchen: the clean countertops, the plain white curtains over the window. Dust motes float through the air and I think about Joel Shepherd’s house. The old man in the chair, seething with bitterness. I replay the conversation with him in my head and a name bubbles to the surface.

“Chief Dishman?” I say, my voice turning his name into a question.

“Yes?” he says, only half listening.

“Who’s Janey-Beth?”

There’s a long pause before he answers. Then, after he goes back to dusting, he says, “My daughter.”

“Oh,” I say. “That’s right. I forgot you said you have a daughter.”

Shepherd had said the name so casually, but the way Dishman reacted to it, jaw clenched, posture stiffened, I realize there’s more to it. I look at Dishman and he stops what he’s doing and meets my eyes.