Page 65 of Brimstone Hollow

“My God…” a voice whispers.

I take a deep breath. The scent of death still clings to the untreated wood. The tang of rot burns my nose. I look past the coffin. Into the grave.

“Empty,” I say. “It’s empty.”

I look from the grave to the bare coffin to Chief Dishman and our eyes lock in a mutual expression that saysWhat the hell is going on in Mount Zion?

NINETEEN

AROUND THE GRAVE, WORDspreads through the small crowd. Whispers at first, then mutterings, then hissed questions and prayers—all coalesce into a jumbled cacophony of suppressed voices.

“It’s a miracle!” someone whisper-yells.

And then all eyes turn to Will.

“Yes,” he says, eyes wide and round with astonishment. “My God! It’s a miracle! The Lord has called Brother Ezra home! He isrisen!”

The susurrus of whispers swings into a loud, unbridled celebration of faith and wonderment with “Praise the Lord!” “Praise Jesus!” “Amen!” “He has risen!” all sounding at once.

I take a step closer to Chief Dishman, and together we watch as people prostrate themselves in front of the empty grave or fall to pieces in humble tears or join Will in prayer. I look up at Dishman and watch him shaking his head, taking in the same scene I am.

“Looks like this isn’t going to put an end to all the crazy talk,” I mutter to Dishman.

Under his breath, he says, “Jesus Christ.”

Then he moves into action, attempting to calm down the small crowd and roping Officer Gavin in to do the same. I back away and watch the scene from a distance. Will with tears streaming down his face. CoronerBradley talking to his gravediggers, gesticulating frantically at the empty coffin. Thelma Worley still sitting in her little camp chair, pouring herself a cup lid full of coffee, shaking her head.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Katie.

“Annie? Are you there?” she asks. She sounds panicked. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is—Wait, areyouokay?” I ask. “You don’t sound okay.”

I walk farther from the graveyard, across the gravel road, and down the hill toward the parsonage. The porch is crisscrossed with yellow police tape and I veer off and stand near the tree line.

“Katie?” I ask. “Are you there?”

I listen as she breathes out through pursed lips and then says, “I saw it again. The hand. I had the same nightmare and woke up and saw the hand again. It was writing on the wall.”

“What did it write?” I ask.

“The same thing.The king has been judged. His kingdom is no more.I had thisfeeling…like icy water rushing over me. I was chilled. I’m actually shivering.”

“You should call someone,” I say. “Have them come over and—if nothing else—watch the baby while you get some sleep.”

“You’re right,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than an hour or two at a time in… What day is it?”

“Wednesday,” I say. “You hired me on Sunday.”

“It’s only been four days?” she says. “Wait, what time is it? Did they—Has the exhumation happened?”

“Yes,” I say. And then I tell her what I’ve just witnessed.

“Empty?” she exclaims. A few silent seconds drag by and I almost ask her if she’s still there when she says, “Does that mean they buried an empty coffin?”

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t,” I say. “It seems clear that a bodywasin there.”

“Are you telling me that they buried my father on Sunday morning and then someone robbed his grave before you could have it exhumed?”