Page 69 of Brimstone Hollow

“Well, not ahumanbody,” I say.

Someone’s shot a black bear—which is not currently in season—and dumped it. The corpse is fresh enough that its cause of death is clear: a shotgun slug to the head.

“I’ll call Fish and Wildlife,” he says. “They can deal with it, if they’re inclined.”

We spend another ten minutes poking around, but eventually the reality of the situation becomes clear.

“He’s not down here,” Dishman says.

“Nope.”

“Let’s head back up. You know how to use the ascenders?”

“The what?” I ask.

I may not be able to see his face, but, somehow, I canfeelDishman’s withering look.

“Come on,” he says. It’s sweaty, stinky work, but we climb out of the hole and strip off the masks and tanks.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Dishman says.

“Nah,” I say. “At least we know one place Ezra Kingisn’t.” I help him gather up the equipment and load it into the back of the cruiser. “Is it just me or is the sulfur smell stronger than it was before?”

“Well, it’s sort of both,” he says. “You’re gonna want to take a shower, otherwise you’ll be taking that rotten-egg smell everywhere you go.”

I pull at my T-shirt and give it a sniff. “God, you’re right.”

He runs a hand through his sweaty hair and looks back toward the hole.

“I was really hoping it’d be that easy,” he says, shutting the cruiser’s trunk.

“Me too,” I say. “But thanks for letting me go with you.”

“Lettingyou?” he says with a laugh. “Give me a break. If I hadn’t offered, you’d have driven straight to one of those adventure tourism places, rented the equipment yourself, and probably been down there before me.”

“True,” I say.

He shakes his head and goes around to the driver’s side of the cruiser and opens the door. He ducks his head in and pulls out a roll of black trash bags, peels two off, and hands them to me.

“What’s this for?” I ask.

“You’d better put those down on that Bronco’s seat or Hollis Patton will come for both our heads. Now, go take a shower. You smell like you’ve been rolling around in garbage.”

I spread the bags over the Bronco’s driver’s seat, roll the windows all the way down, and drive back to town. On the way to the motel, I stop off at a dollar store and buy a big bottle of dish liquid, a huge bottle of water, and a couple candy bars. Hollis must be keeping an eye out, because as I’m on my way to the room, he runs out of the lobby and strides up to me—at the last second taking a step back and pinching his nose shut.

“Jesus,” he says. “You stink.”

“I’ve been down in the Hell Hole.”

“Shit,” he says. “Looking for Ezra King’s body?” He jogs along beside me as I speedwalk to my room.

“You already heard?” I ask.

“Hell, it’s all over town,” he says with a loud laugh.

When we get to my room, he says, “You wanna know what I heard down at the pool hall?”

I give him what I hope is a look as wilting as the ones Dishman’s been giving me, but apparently I need more practice because Hollis just keeps going. “Folks are saying he was buried alive and escaped.”