Page 70 of Brimstone Hollow

“I saw the photos of Ezra’s body,” I say. “That man was definitelynotburied alive.”

“Well, hell,” Hollis says. “I agree with you there. But, if he wasn’t buried alive and he didn’t float out of his coffin on a one-way trip to heaven, then where the hell is he?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s my job to find out.”

I open the door to the room and head inside. Hollis stands in the doorway behind me, the light and heat filtering around him, while I crank up the AC and toss my bag onto the bed.

“Ezra King had everybody in this town thinking he was an upstanding man of God. Even if they didn’t like the snakes or the faith healing or the tent revivals, couldn’t nobody say he wasn’t right with the Lord.”

“Okay…” I say, unsure where he’s going with this.

“But I suspect, Miss Gore, that you’re about to disabuse them of that notion.”

I find myself smiling softly at his dark silhouette, limned in bright morning light, as I say, “You believe I’ll find his body? Find whatever he was into? Find whatever happened to him?”

He maneuvers his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket as he says, “I believe you won’t stop trying till you do.”

TWENTY

AS SOON AS HOLLISheads back to the office, I take my dish liquid into the bathroom, strip down, and climb into the shower. Even with the highly concentrated grease-fighting magic of my lemon-scented, sulfate-filled detergent, it takes three sudsy scrubs before I start to feel even close to clean. When that’s done, I throw my clothes into the tub with another squirt of soap, and fill it up. As I head back into the room, I’m grateful that—for once—I brought more than one bra.

Having now burned through two pairs of jeans (my best pair eaten up by roadside gravel, and today’s pair soaking in the tub) I pull on my third and final option—a pair of worn-thin but still mostly intact black Levi’s—and a mostly clean black T-shirt, and head out the door to find some grub.

The Cherry Dairy is the busiest I’ve seen it yet and even before I open the double doors, I hear the noise of the crowd from within. When I step inside, several people turn and stare, a hush briefly falling over the room.

“Wow,” Zelda says as she approaches. “You sure know how to turn a place inside out.”

“Guess so,” I say. “Is there a free spot?”

“If you don’t mind sitting beside Camper Van Dave,” she says, and points down to the end of the bar, where an old hippy sits hunched over the counter.

“If you know what you want,” Zelda says. “I’ll get it started for you.”

“Anything,” I say. “I’ll take anything. I’m starving.”

“Word is, you and the chief went down into the Hell Hole,” she says. “I’m surprised you don’t stink.”

“Me too,” I say, marveling at the virulence of the Mount Zion grapevine. As I make my way to the end of the counter I hear snatches of conversations, all of them about Ezra King.

“I thought you said it was a serial killer—” someone whisper-shouts. “But why go and dig someone up after you’ve done gone and serial killed ’em?”

“No, you’re thinking of bats,” a man at another table says. “It’s bats who turn people into vampires. Ezra was bit by one of those snakes he kept. Now, what the hell is a were-snake?”

“It was that private cop lady from Louisville,” a woman says. “I heard she went out there and dug him up so she could get the evidence for herself.”

“You that private investigator everybody’s talking about?” Camper Van Dave asks when I sit down next to him.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s me.”

Camper Van Dave looks me up and down and then nods to himself before going back to his coffee. Empty creamer pods and sugar packets surround the cup.

Soon, Zelda returns with a big chocolate milkshake, a mayo-tomato sandwich, kettle chips, fried okra, and some fresh-cut cucumbers. “I scrounged this up for you,” she says, and hands me the check. Before she can run off, I give her a couple twenties and tell her to keep the change.

I wolf the sandwich down, licking every glob of mayonnaise from both my plate and my fingers, and when I notice Camper Van Dave looking longingly at my fried okra, I push the plate toward him and let him help himself. Hungry as I am, I can’t not share.

“Thanks,” he says. “You know, I heard you were a CIA plant here to turn everyone in town against each other. But you know what?”

“What?”