Page 67 of Brimstone Hollow

Several feet away, it’s clear that Gavin is having trouble getting the rest of the parishioners to clear out. Three women and two men have stopped on the hillside, shouting solemnAmens. Their eyes are closed and they hold their hands to the sky as another woman prays in garbled syllables, supposedly speaking in tongues.

“I know you’re a man of faith,” I say to Dishman as we stand together, watching the believers on the hillside. “But you don’t believe this was a miracle, do you?”

“No,” Dishman says, flatly. “If Ezra King came out of that grave, it’s because somebody drove out here in the middle of the night and dug him up.”

Officer Gavin jogs back up the hillside. Behind him, a few people from town have their phones out, taking photos and videos. The mourners are still standing where they were, joined now by a couple more elderly ladies who hiked up the hill. A chorus of prayers rings out alongside the chatter of people on phones calling whoever they know to tell them the news.

“Chief, I can’t get ’em to budge. We’re gonna need more officers up here, I think.”

“Call Mike and Jeanine,” Dishman says. “Get them to come out. We need to tape this place off, catalogue tire tracks, footprints… anything.”

As Gavin walks away with his phone, Dishman rubs his hands over his face and a low rumbly growl emanates from his chest. When he looks at me again he says, “This place is a circus. We’ve got to find that body and I’ve got a pretty decent idea where to start.”

I think about everything I know so far, everything I’ve learned about Mount Zion, Ezra’s church, Brimstone Hollow, and the huge sinkhole atthe middle of it, the one where everyone disposes of the things they never want to see again.

I smile up at him. “The Hell Hole?”

He breathes out an exhausted laugh, shaking his head.

“You’ve been here three days and you already know about that place?”

“I’m good at my job,” I say with a shrug.

He starts walking toward the cruiser and says, “It’s not far from here. But it’s full of hydrogen sulfide from the spring that runs through it. Makes it too dangerous to go poking around so nobody ever goes down there.”

I fall in beside him and ask, “But you’re going down there?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m going down there.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

He stops and turns to face me. “Maybe you didn’t hear the part about it being dangerous.”

“No,” I say. “I got it.”

“You ever rappelled before?”

“Chief,” I say. “Come on. I was in the military.”

He grunts something like an assent and says, “Fine. Meet me at the station and we’ll gear up.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, HEleads me through theSTAFF ONLYdoor into an equipment room. Lockers line the walls and there’s an old squat rack and bench with iron plates set up next to a heavy bag with almost as much duct tape as leather.

“I’ll get the gear out,” Dishman mutters and disappears into another room.

I’ve never been able to stand in front of a punching bag and not hit it. I paw out a couple of quick jabs.Pop-pop!Then jab, cross, hook.Pop-pop-POP!Jab, cross, hook, low kick.Pop-pop-pop-wham.Jab, body kick.Pop-WHAM!Body kick, body kick.WHAM! WHAM!

“Jesus Christ,” Dishman says, when he emerges from the back room with a load of equipment. “I thought somebody was in here taking abaseball bat to that old bag. Since when do they teach kickboxing in the Air Force?”

“I sort of learned on the side,” I say. “There was a guy in my unit who’d been a pro Muay Thai fighter before he joined up. I got him to train me, and while I was stationed in Southeast Asia I had a few amateur fights.”

“And you keep it up?” he asks. He’s carrying a bunch of rope, old harnesses, oxygen tanks, and respirator masks. He starts untangling some of the equipment and separating it on the floor. I kneel down to help him.

“Yeah,” I say. “What about you? I’m clearly not the only one who’s been hitting this bag.”

“I swim, mostly,” he says, checking the level in the tanks. “I started in high school and liked it enough to keep it going. But, yeah, sometimes I come in here and let off steam. I’ve never been much of a fighter, but I admit it’s a little satisfying.”

I glance back at the bag, still swinging.