Page 94 of Brimstone Hollow

“Who’s Alba Lane?” I ask.

“Notwho,” Gavin says, as Jeanine pulls out her phone and steps away. “Alba Lane Mortuary, the new funeral home across town. They’ll be able to transport Mr. Nickels’s body and put him in their refrigerator.”

“You still don’t know where the coroner is?” I ask.

He shakes his head as he starts toward the cruiser and says, “No. That’s where the chief went. To track him down. He just left a couple minutes ago.”

I imagine Dishman driving through the same dead spot I’d driven through, just farther along, when I pulled onto the road and tried to call him. I’d likely just missed him.

“Thanks,” I tell Gavin, as he gets behind the wheel and starts the car.“And good luck down in the Smell Hole. I’m sorry you have to be the one to go down there.”

“Shoot,” he says. “It’s my own fault for figuring it out.”

He pulls away and I climb back into the Bronco, rev the engine, and soon I’m going back the way I came. Through Brimstone Hollow, past the side road that leads to the Hell Hole, and into Mount Zion. When I get there, I try Dishman’s number again.

Still no answer.

I try to ignore the gnawing sensation in my gut. It’s anxiety, I realize. But why? Dishman’s a grown man. A cop. He’s got a career’s worth of experience and he knows what he’s doing. Wherever he is, he’s almost certainly fine.

So why isn’t he answering his phone?

Following directions from my GPS, I pull in and park beside Bradley Funeral Home. There’s no cruiser here. No coroner van, either. The parking lot is empty except for a late-model silver Volvo.

As I start toward the front door of the funeral home, Diana Bradley—Coroner Bradley’s wife—emerges, wearing an apron over her silk camisole and jeans and carrying a hefty watering can. When she sees me, anxiety creases her eyebrows. She sets the watering can down.

“Did you find him?” she asks.

“Who?” I ask. “You mean Chief Dishman?”

“No,” she says. “The chief just came by a few minutes ago. He asked where Roman was. I told him that when the first call came in, I let Roman know what had happened, and he left.”

“But that was over an hour ago,” I say. “It doesn’t take an hour to get from here to the church.”

She shakes her head, impatient, her big blue eyes suddenly glimmering with tears.

“No,” she says. “He wasn’t… he wasn’there.”

At that moment, the door swings open behind her and a little girl bounds out. She’s probably around five or six, with honey-brown hair and eyes the same startling turquoise shade as her father’s. She squints againstthe sun, looking from me to her mamma, and asks, “Where’s Daddy? He still out fishing?”

“Yes, baby,” Diana Bradley says to her daughter. Then, to me, she explains, “He stayed at the cabin last night. That’s what I told the chief and he said he’d go track him down. I tried to call him again, but he hasn’t picked up since that first call. I’m getting a little worried something’s happened to him. It’s pretty far out.”

“Give me the address,” I say. “And I’ll go check on both of them.”

On the road, I try Dishman’s number a few more times, and every time, it goes to voicemail.

“This isn’t right,” I say to myself, taking the Bronco hard around a tight turn. Dishman had said that Roman Bradley’d been the county coroner for years. Why would he agree to help Ezra King fake his death? Did he take a bribe? Did Ezra lie to him, maybe make Bradley think he was in danger? Or was Bradley more involved than that?

And then I remember the morning I saw him outside the Dairy, geared up for a day of fishing, his dark sunglasses hanging around his neck with a shiny yellow strap.

“It wasn’t a necklace,” I say to myself. I picture the security footage from Walmart. Average height. Average build. Boonie hat. I couldn’t see his face, but from behind, I could see the back of a gold necklace.

“It was his fucking sunglasses strap,” I growl, and put my foot down. “He’s the one who helped cover up the busted door.”

I take the country roads as fast as I dare. Diana Bradley had said that the chief must’ve set out only a few minutes before me, so I can’t be too far behind. Still, my heart thumps as I finally turn onto the long, steep gravel drive, and watch as the dense foliage separates to reveal a rustic log cabin tucked into the hillside. Dishman’s cruiser is parked out front, along with Bradley’s van. I get out and tread up the steep wooden steps toward the cabin. There’s a porch out front, furnished with three rocking chairs, empty and still. Somewhere nearby, a rushing brook burbles past.

There’s no sound from within the cabin.

I break into a jog on my way up the steps, reaching around to the small of my back and pulling my gun as I go. When I step onto the porch, I realize the door is cracked open. As quiet as I can, I edge up to the door without touching it, and look inside. All I can see is part of a small, well-furnished living room. No people. But I can hear the tail end of a conversation.