Page 61 of Brimstone Hollow

“I didn’t see any,” he says, tears in his voice. “I’m so sorry. If I’d realized—I didn’t mean to clean up—Is it evidence?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

I let out a sigh and sit again in the chair, slumping.

“If Nathaniel Nickels was here,” Dishman says, “we haven’t found any trace of him.”

I start to pull my chair forward, reaching out to grip the edge of the table, then suddenly stop myself.

“Wait,” I say. “Give me the kit.”

He pushes the powder and brush across to me and I slide out of the chair and crouch down under the edge of the table. I bite my bottom lip as I dust. An old habit. This stuff goes everywhere if you’re not careful. It’s like black baby powder.

I watch as several dark blotches emerge on the underside of the table’s edge.

“Can I see the prints again?” I ask.

Dishman brings his phone over and holds it while I compare one print after another.

“He was here,” I finally say.

“Who was?” Will says.

“Nathaniel Nickels,” I tell him, as I get to my feet. “You need to lift that print before somebody comes along with another dishrag.”

Dishman crouches down to compare the print for himself.

“Damn,” he breathes. “You’re right.”

“If Ezra was connected to Dean Griffon, the driver and mechanic,” I say. “And Dean was murdered by Nathaniel Nickels, the local leg breaker. And Nathaniel Nickels washerethe night Ezra died…”

Dishman pulls some acetate from the kit and uses it to lift the prints from the underside of the table. He puts them in an evidence bag, then takes a scalpel from his kit and starts scraping at the blood in the scratched-up wood.

“Wait—” Will says, panicky. “That’s church property!”

“Not right now it isn’t,” Dishman says. “Right now this is a crime scene.”

“B-but—” Will stammers. “But—Wait, what about the snakes?”

Dishman says, “We’ll have to figure that out later. I’ll get officers up here to comb through this place properly. While they’re doing that, I’ll call the judge and get an exhumation order. We’re going to have to dig up Ezra King.”

EIGHTEEN

ITRY TO INSIST ONsticking around while the local police comb through Ezra’s house, but once I doze off on the parsonage’s front porch, Dishman gently shaking me awake, I begin to realize I might not be of use to anyone.

“Go back to your room,” Dishman says. “You need to get some sleep.”

“No,” I yawn. “I’m okay. I don’t want—”

“Listen, nobody’s gonna dig up Ezra’s body without you,” Dishman says. “I promise. I’ll let you know when we get the order. Go get some sleep, kid. You’re dead on your feet.”

Before I leave, I tell Dishman about the ledger I’d been looking for and he promises to keep an eye out for it. Then, he shoos me away. Grumpily, I get into the Bronco and drive off.

The scent of sulfur in Brimstone Hollow invigorates me just enough that I think I don’t actually need any sleep. That I think I should maybe go back to Joel Shepherd’s and question him some more, or maybe drive out to Billy Shepherd’s burned-out house and look for clues, or go talk to Scarlett Nickels again. But as I approach the motel parking lot, the lure of sleep is too strong. I park in the first spot I see and stumble into my room. I don’t even kick my boots off before falling into bed.

I think I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment, but within seconds, I’m dead to the world.

E’er since by faith I saw the stream