Page 79 of Brimstone Hollow

I watch as Crystal takes the little paper cup and sips the drink, then, having had a taste, gulps it down.

“Thank you, Miss Thelma,” she says, then looks at me and seems only now to register who I am. “You’re the investigator woman.”

“That’s right. Can you tell me what happened? You said you had a vision?”

She nods, but when she opens her mouth to speak, she begins to cry. She raises her hands to her face; her many silver rings sparkle in the light. When I touch her shoulder, her skin is cool and slick with sweat.

“She needs to get warm,” I say.

Thelma looks at me, an eyebrow cocked.

“It’s ninety-eight degrees,” she says. “It can’t hardly get any warmer.”

“I think she’s in shock,” I tell her, looking at the goose bumps on Crystal’s skinny arms.

“He said…” Crystal breathes. “He said he has returned. Brother Ezra said he would minister… He will appear and… He said his work in Mount Zion was not finished and… he… he…”

“Good lord,” Thelma says. “Should we take her to a hospital?”

“No—” Crystal says. “Can’t afford it. No hospital, please. He said he… he would appear—”

She breaks down again and I go into the office and dig into the bag of donated winter clothes I’d found during my break-in, find a warm-looking flannel shirt, tug it out, and head back into the kitchen. The shirt’s a 2XL so I throw it around Crystal’s shoulders like a blanket and rub up and down her arms to get her warm.

“Crystal, have you eaten?” I ask her. “Have you eaten anythingrealtoday?”

She shakes her head.

“Okay,” I say. “How did you get here? Did you drive?”

Another head shake and then: “My cousin dropped me off.”

“All right, come on. Let’s go—” I grab her by the shoulders, flannel shirt and all, and tug her up out of the chair. “Come on. We’ll get you some food.”

I ask Thelma to let Dishman know what’s happened, then lead Crystal back out the side door, down the steps, and to the Bronco, where I buckle her in like a child. She sniffs and whimpers and stares out the front windshield at the church. The sky is a pale orange color and nearly translucent bugs swim through the gauzy air.

Figuring she spends enough time at the Cherry Dairy, I drive us to the little sandwich shop on Main Street and get us a quiet booth in the back. In a little while, I’ve got a turkey club and Crystal has a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese along with a steaming coffee, full of cream and sugar, and a big glass of water.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

She nods and dips a crust of her grilled cheese into the soup.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says. “I would’ve been fine.”

“Well, you seemed pretty torn up.”

Her slender shoulders shrug. She must be in her early twenties, but she seems so small, sitting there in her huge flannel shirt, with her thin, delicate fingers dipping grilled cheese into bright red soup.

“People are saying…” she starts, and then pauses.

“What?”

“People are saying Dean messed with your car… that he messed with your car and that’s why you wrecked. Do you think it’s true?”

I sit back with a sigh and say, “I don’t know for sure. But it looks like it.”

She sets aside the little bite of grilled cheese she was about to dip into the soup. Her frown deepens and tears slide down her cheeks.

I ask, “Crystal, did you ever know him to do anything like that before?”