Page 68 of Brimstone Hollow

“I live so much in my head,” I say. “Always mulling something over. It can get…”

“Obsessive?” he says.

“I guess. Sometimes I just need that physical touchstone. The pounding on the road when I run or the way the bag bends in half when I land a good kick. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean. I feel the same way when I swim. Here, this is the smallest harness we got. Try it on and see how it fits.”

I take the heavy canvas gear from him and pull it on over my jeans.

“Seems okay,” I say. “Why do you have this stuff anyway?”

“Tourists,” he says. “Hikers and spelunkers. A lot of folks come out this way hoping to do some adventure tourism and then get lost in a cavern somewhere. We end up assisting in rescue squad work a couple times a year.”

He tugs at the belt of my harness, making sure it’s tight. With him this close, the scent of soap and laundry detergent fills my nose again. There’s something nice about it. Comforting. If someone walked in rightnow, us standing this close, they might make tawdry assumptions. But there’s not a hint of steam between us. Instead, Dishman frowns at the harness like a parent checking his kid’s backpack before school. I think about how he must have done something like this with his own daughter, before she died. I wonder, as I watch the look of concentrated concern cross his face, whether he’s thinking about the same thing.

“All right,” he says. “I think we’re good. The Hell Hole’s on a measly little unmarked side road out in the middle of Brimstone Holler and it’s not on any map. So, you’d better follow me.”

I tell him I will and help him load up the cruiser with the gear. Soon, I’m easing Hollis’s old Bronco through the shadowy overgrowth of Brimstone Hollow onto a tiny one-lane gravel road, following all the time behind Dishman, who’s careful not to lose me. Finally, we emerge from the darkened canopy into a sun-drenched, overgrown field. Dishman pulls to a stop and I park behind him at the edge of a perimeter someone’s erected: a bunch of fence posts driven into the ground, with rusted barbed wire running between them. There’s a huge gap, though, where someone’s cut the wire.

Cicadas buzz as we emerge from our vehicles and, even though it’s only midmorning, we’re both sweating through our shirts. The rotten-egg tang of sulfur emanating from the hole is eye-wateringly strong, and I can’t stop myself from wrinkling my nose as I adjust to it.

“It’s toxic down there,” Dishman says as he hauls out the equipment and anchors some rope around a nearby tree. “So, keep your head on straight.”

We both gear up. The tank on my back is heavy and I have to adjust the holster in the back of my jeans to make it sit flush. I give the respirator mask an exploratory try-on to make sure it seals correctly, then tighten my harness and ask, “Does this look about right?”

He gives my harness a quick glance, nods, and tosses me a pair of sturdy leather gloves. I slide them on. They’re only a little too big.

“Okay. You just do this with your arm to brake—” I wave my arm out to the side. “And thenthisto get slack, right?”

Dishman tightens his own belt and then looks up, squinting at me suspiciously.

“You said you were in the military.”

“I was a special investigator in the Air Force,” I tell him. “Not an Army Ranger.”

He opens his mouth to argue and I say, “Don’t worry. I’ve seen it plenty of times on TV.”

I slide my mask down over my face.

“Annie—”

But it’s too late. I’ve already dropped off the side. In fairness to Chief Dishman, Ihaverappelled once before, but it was about ten years ago, on vacation. I’m definitely out of practice and my descent is a little joltier than I’d like, but I do at least make it to the bottom on my feet instead of my ass. Dishman is right behind me.

“You weren’t kidding about this place being a dump,” I say, my voice distorted through the respirator. I kick at the door of an old refrigerator toward the edge of the heap.

Dishman pokes at some newer-looking trash bags and a busted flat-screen TV.

“He would be on the top of the pile, right?” I ask.

“You’d think,” he says.

We both edge our way around the junk and mounds of detritus and I’m doubly glad—as I disturb some of the more liquefied areas of the heap—that I’ve got the respirator on.

“Oh…” I say, as I circle the pile and find a rolled-up blue tarp. “Give me a hand with this.”

Dishman comes to my side and we heave and ho and pull at the heavy tarp, finally getting it away from the pile enough to peel away one side.

“Oh hell—” Dishman says as we both jump backward. “Not a body.”