Page 93 of Brimstone Hollow

“Not a problem,” I tell myself, and lug the gear away from the cruiser. “Who needs backup?”

Fifteen minutes later, with Hollis’s Bronco parked at the edge of the Hell Hole, I secure the ropes just as Dishman had, tighten my harness, and fit my mask to my face. I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves and yank a pair of sturdy leather gloves over them. Then, at the edge of the hole, I peer down into the murky darkness. The wind picks up, blows through Brimstone Hollow, and the papery song of thirsty foliage fills my ears. It rasps, skeleton-like, and sends shivers down my neck and arms despite the heat.

“Okay,” I say, my voice muffled by the mask. “Let’s see if anything’s been dropped in here recently.”

The rope makes aZzzrrrrrsound as I slide down, which stops as I land gently on a pile of garbage. I take stock of the place again. Old fridge, old water heater, old lawn mower.

The tarp with the bear in it. The other tarp with the bear in it—Wait.

“Two tarps,” I say to myself.

I look from the tarp at my feet to another tarp—body shaped and rolled up like a rug—across the pile.

“One of these,” I mutter, muffled, “is probablynota bear.”

I squat and pull back the edge of the nearest tarp, opening it just enough to get a fresh glimpse of the bear Dishman and I discovered only days before.

Standing up, I maneuver around the detritus and then crouch near the end of the other tarp and peel back the outermost layer, carefully, slowly—and the head and shoulders of a human adult, wrapped in gauze, emerge.

“Oh boy,” I say, taking a quick step back. Despite the mask, I feel sick,my body drenched with sweat and overheating in this warm, stinking, toxic place.

I reach around to my back pocket and pull out my Swiss Army knife, hinge out the little scissors, and kneel again. Snipping away the cloth, revealing an even more necrotic version of the face I’d first seen in the scene-of-death photos in Chief Dishman’s office.

I run a gloved finger over the man’s hairline where black dye or, possibly, boot polish has rubbed away to reveal naturally pale-blond roots. I peel away more of the tarp, more of the gauze, and see the bruising from a fight along the man’s collarbone, his shoulder. And then, peeling even more away, I sigh into my mask as my gaze travels to his left pectoral and the small tattoo inscribed there: Two simple, faded hearts, linked together. It’s exactly like the one I’d seen on Scarlet Nickels.

“Nathaniel Nickels,” I whisper, staring at the dead man’s ruined face.

Is it really possible that Coroner Bradley believed this was Ezra’s corpse?

Maybe he saw the pale roots under black hair color and made assumptions about the vanity of an ageing man. Maybe he saw the tattoo and assumed it was simply a relic from before Ezra took up preaching. Maybe, like everyone else at Ezra’s house that morning, Bradley saw exactly what Ezra wanted him to see. There’s only one way to know for sure.

“He’s not dodging my questions this time,” I say to myself. And then, looking down at Nathaniel Nickels, I say, “We’vegotto get you out of here.”

TWENTY-SIX

IPULL OUT MY PHONEand snap a few photos of the scene before using the ascenders to get topside. Once I’m back above ground, I strip off the mask, harness, and gloves and stomp over to the Bronco, where I grab a huge bottle of water and take several long slugs, trying and failing to wash away the smell, the taste, the sight of Nathaniel Nickels’s decayed corpse.

I pour some of the water over my hands and then the rest over my head, letting the clean water soak through my sweaty, stinking hair. I pull out my phone to call Dishman and pause when I’m suddenly reminded of my late night on the side of the road in Brimstone Hollow.

“No cell service,” I mutter at the lack of bars. “Damn it.”

I don’t want to leave the body down there, unguarded, any longer than I have to, but it’s not as if I can get Nickels out and transported to cold storage on my own. With a grunt, I climb back in the Bronco and head back the way I came, roaring down the dirt road and back through Brimstone Hollow. As I approach the church, I tell my phone to call Dishman’s number.

It rings. And rings. And goes to voicemail.

“Where the hell…?” I breathe, and press the gas.

Another minute and I’m back in the parking lot of Mount Zion Church of the Healing Redeemer. I jump out and flag down Gavin, who’s helping Jeanine take inventory of the cars.

“What’s going on?” Gavin asks, as Jeanine says, “Damn, where the hell have you been? You stink like a three-day-old diaper!”

I explain what I’ve found in the Hell Hole and Jeanine springs into action, calling the local rescue squad and grabbing the evidence kit from inside the cruiser. It looks like no one’s been allowed to leave yet. I assume that, until every vehicle and person is accounted for, they’ll all have to stay. And, with a crime scene in the sanctuary, it’s not like there are a lot of options to get out of the heat.

I watch as a man picks up his little girl and carries her to a table someone’s set up with water bottles and paper cups of Kool-Aid. The little girl, now hugged close to her daddy, pulls at the sunglasses hanging from a cord around his neck. The cord shifts and turns, reflecting the light with its metallic thread.

I squint at the scene, realize something about it is sparking a flint deep in my brain. I canalmostput my finger on it. The father. The daughter. The blazing heat. The bright sun. The—

“You get down there,” Officer Jeanine says, interrupting my thoughts as she thrusts the evidence kit toward Gavin. “I’m the world’s worst with heights. Guard the Hell Hole till the rescue guys get there, then collect whatever evidence you can. Stay with the body once they pull it up. We can’t have Nickels going AWOLagain. Meantime, I’ll call Alba Lane.”