Page 99 of Brimstone Hollow

“I—I feel like I should apologize,” I tell her. “I know what it is to wish your father were something else. To wish that things were different.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I needed to know. I’m glad you got to the bottom of all this. Thank, you, Annie.”

“You’re welcome,” I tell her.

“Are you done now? Are you coming back to Louisville?”

“There are still a few loose ends I’d like to tie up,” I say. “I’d like to know how Ezra convinced the coroner to go along with his plan. And I’d like to know where he was between Friday night and Monday morning when he murdered Dean Griffon in that garage. And, as much as anything, I’d like to know what he wanted out of that church.”

I don’t tell her that I’m still hoping for a more solid connection to Joel Shepherd. That I’d like to help Dishman uncover whatever remains of his operation. That, because it was my presence in Mount Zion that kicked off a series of events which culminated in Ezra King’s and Roman Bradley’s deaths this morning, I feel guilty. That I was sent here, like Daniel of the Bible, to interpret the writing on the wall and that, like him, I feel I can’t leave until I’ve finished it and told the truth.

“Let me know what you find out,” Katie says. “I want to know.”

We hang up and I go back into the bathroom, let the water out of the tub, spray fresh water from the shower onto my jeans. As I’m wringing them out, my phone buzzes.

“Hello?” I ask, not recognizing the number.

“Ma’am, it’s Gavin—er, Officer Alvey, I mean. Chief asked me to call you.”

“Is he—I mean, is everything okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m still at the church. Chief’s on his way over here and knew he’d be driving through that dead zone out in Brimstone Holler so when I gave him the news, he told me to go ahead and call you.”

“What news?”

“Oh, we found Ezra King’s car. The car he drove to the church this morning? He wanted me to let you know. Figured you’d be interested.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

ITUG ON THE JEANSfrom my first night in Mount Zion, carefully slipping the frayed knees past my toes so I don’t make the rips any bigger. I finish dressing in a hurry and grab my bag and gun, but as soon as I step outside and look at the sky—hazy orange with roiling, violet clouds on the horizon—I go back into the room and grab my leather jacket.

“Finally,” I mutter to myself as I walk to the Bronco. “This place needs a good rain.”

Soon, I’m pulling into the familiar church parking lot. Most of the cars from this morning are gone. Two police cruisers remain, along with Will’s and Thelma’s vehicles, and an old beat-up Kia parked near the end of the lot, where Chief Dishman and Gavin are standing and staring into its open trunk. I park the Bronco, get out, and start toward them.

When Dishman sees me, he gives me a long, meaningful look that seems to askYou okay?I shrug, half smiling, and he nods to me. Both of us, I think, are both okay and not okay after witnessing Roman Bradley’s suicide. And yet, the job goes on. When you’re a cop—even a private cop—the world doesn’t stop for your trauma.

“This is what Ezra King was driving?” I ask, as I approach the Kia. “Where’d he get it?”

Dishman says, “Bill of sale is from a little used-car lot a couple hours south of here.”

“I called them,” Gavin says. “And the guy gave me Mr. King’s description but that’s about it. Said he bought the car on Monday, paid cash.”

“And,” Dishman says, “our station got a call this morning, while you and I were out at Bradley’s cabin. State troopers found Nathaniel Nickels’s abandoned truck on a back road not too far from the car lot.”

“So,” I say. “Until Monday, Ezra was driving Nathaniel Nickels’s F-150. Whether he realized there were cameras at Griffon’s garage or not, he probably figured it wasn’t safe to keep on driving Nickels’s truck around so he dumped it and got a used car. Where the hell was he before then?”

Gavin hands me a pair of nitrile gloves and I snap them on before looking closer at the contents of the Kia’s trunk. A pile of clothes lies in a jumbled heap; almost all black, they’re definitely indicative of Ezra’s characteristic uniform. I push them away and, underneath, find an old canvas shopping tote. Inside, I discover a little less than a thousand dollars in cash, and a few parking and hotel bills from a tribal casino in Arkansas, dated for Saturday and Sunday. And, last of all, Ezra King’s passport.

“Passport,” Dishman says when I hand it to him. “We didn’t even think to check the parsonage for a passport. Jesus Christ.”

“You had no reason to,” I say. “Plenty of people don’t have passports, and besides, until this morning we all thought Ezra was dead.”

Dishman nods and slips the passport into an evidence bag before looking at the parking receipts from the casino.

“I’d bet he was on his way out of the country,” I say. “Figured he’d just drive Nickels’s truck into Mexico but stopped off in Arkansas and ended up sitting down at a blackjack table.”

“But why?” Gavin asks. “He was more than halfway to the border.”