Chapter Five #2
Will breathes out a quiet sigh, as if expressing some latent frustration, and says, “That was Brother Ezra’s wish.
He left a note on the table beside him—it looked as if he’d written it in his final moments so he must have had God’s voice in his ear—it said he wanted to be buried like Jesus, wrapped in gauze and spices as it’s described in the book of John.
A natural burial with his body intact so that it could be taken up to heaven whole and pure. ”
I think back to the crime scene photos I’d seen in Dishman’s office.
The puffy skin, glossy and black with necrosis, Ezra’s body covered in the blood he’d hemorrhaged from every orifice, the swollen hands and the slumped posture that uniquely signals death.
I consider, for a moment, which indignity I’d rather suffer as I go to meet my maker: embalming and pancake makeup or being gift wrapped in gauze and presented reeking of eau-de-rot.
I’m surprised to find that I’m not altogether sure.
“Did you perform his funeral?” I ask.
“Yes. It was my first one. I never expected to … not like this. Not so soon.”
“When was the last time you saw Ezra?”
“Friday evening. Around six o’clock, I guess,” he says. “Every month the congregation donates supplies for the Take Home Health program. I came by and got the donations that will be available for children before they go home for the summer.”
“And you saw him then? What about later? Did you come back?”
“No,” he says. “I was at the school with the other committee members the rest of the evening helping organize everything. I never came back. Not until…”
“Saturday morning?”
He nods, clenching his jaw shut as if trying to hold back tears.
“I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you.”
Another nod.
“Were you the assistant pastor?”
“Not officially,” Will says. “But, yes, that’s how it worked out.
I started coming here when I was a boy. Brother Ezra helped provide tuition for a special church camp one summer and it changed my life.
When I got back, I started leading the children’s Sunday school classes and, sometimes, the Bible study.
Then I started helping with the outreach programs. Eventually, Brother Ezra suggested that I go to Bible college. ”
“And that’s what you did?”
He nods.
“And then I came back here last year and started doing services whenever Brother Ezra couldn’t. When he was away on one of his ministry trips or if he was under the weather.”
“So, you’ll be taking over now?”
“I guess so,” he finally says, tears in his voice as he stares at the floor. “Brother Ezra always used to say that the church would be mine whenever he was ready to retire but … neither of us ever thought it would be so soon.”
He shakes his head, runs a long-fingered hand through his big curls, raking them away from his face.
They fall back into place as he slumps and says, “It’s …
it’s a big responsibility, leading a congregation.
And … the tent revivals? I don’t even have the first idea how Brother Ezra handled that side of things.
That’s where he did most of his snake handling, most of his faith healing. ”
“Where did he go?” I ask.
“All over,” Will says. “All over Eastern Kentucky, parts of West Virginia, down through Virginia into North and South Carolina. Eastern Tennessee, even down to Georgia sometimes.”
I look away from him, back toward the piano, the altar, the stage, the pulpit.
“Can you think of anyone who wished Ezra harm?”
His eyes widen and his lips part in stunned surprise.
“What?” he says. “No. Brother Ezra was beloved in this community. His good works speak for themselves. You heard it for yourself tonight in the testimonies. I’m so, so sorry for his daughter.
But, I can’t imagine how she would—why she would be suspicious.
I know it’s a little quick for a funeral, but with natural burials… ”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t that.”
I pause a moment, then tell him, “Katie had a vision. She saw her father in a dream—dying—and then woke and saw a hand writing on the wall. Only moments later, she got the phone call about his death.”
“A … hand writing on the wall?” Will asks, his brow furrowing.
“It means something to you,” I say. “I mean, beyond the common cliché.”
“The saying comes from the Bible,” Will says. “A story in the book of Daniel.”
“Will you tell it to me?” I ask.
I watch him, struggling with his exhaustion, his grief. In the end, it’s his call to the pulpit that finally wins out.
“The basic story,” Will says, “is that a king—Belshazzar—had risen to power and grown very rich and very proud. He hosted a feast where they drank from gold and silver vessels stolen from the Jewish temples. Suddenly, a hand appeared and wrote a message on the plaster of the wall. Neither the king nor any of his party nor any of his wizards or wise men could read what the words said. It was then that Daniel—a man of integrity and faith—was brought before them. He alone could read the words and, though the truth might have cost him his life, Daniel translated the message honestly.”
“What did it say?” I ask.
Will pauses, takes a deep breath, and then says, “In essence, it said that God had weighed Belshazzar’s deeds, found him wanting, and numbered the days of his kingdom. Belshazzar was killed that very night.”
The king has been judged. His kingdom is no more.
That’s what the message in Katie’s vision had said.
“And Daniel?” I ask. “Is this the same Daniel of lion’s den fame?”
“Yes,” Will says, with a soft, tired smile.
“But that came later. He refused to back down and it often got him into trouble with those in power. He always did right by his people. He was—” He pauses, yawning into his fist. When he finishes, eyes watering, he says, “I’m so sorry. It’s been a very long weekend.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“As for Brother Ezra’s daughter’s vision,” Will says, softly. “I hope the Lord reveals his meaning to her. The messages of our Heavenly Father are often subtle. Would you pass along my sympathies to her?”
“Of course,” I say. Though, now more than ever, I feel Katie’s dream and hallucination are nothing more than the latent images of a girlhood spent in church. It’s only a coincidence that her subconscious remembered that story on the morning of her father’s death.
Will sways on his feet, slightly, looking dazed. And I start heading past him, through the open doors, but I turn at the last moment to ask, “Who found the body? Was it you?”
“No,” Will says. “No, it was the church secretary, Thelma. She came in yesterday morning and went out to the parsonage to ask Brother Ezra a question. She saw him through the window and called the police.”
“Do you think I could speak to her?” I ask.
“Well, I…”
“Please,” I say. “The sooner I’ve made my rounds, the sooner I can head back to Louisville and report to Ezra’s daughter that there really was nothing going on here.”
He nods and says, “Thelma usually comes in on Monday mornings. She should be here tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say. I take a card from my bag and hand it to him.
He really does look like he’s about to drop. I finally let him go and walk back to Honey, rev her engine, and pull away.
I ease down the mountain and back into the heart of Brimstone Hollow.
I keep my eyes focused on the beam of Honey’s headlights casting a ghostly illumination on the road ahead.
On the passenger side, an intermittent guardrail is all that stands between Honey and the steep bank beyond.
Old and rusted, the railing looks to have been built in the 1950s and, like the cracked and pitted road, hasn’t been updated since.
I try to ignore the sulfur smell and the eerie feeling of the hollow and think, instead, about what I need to do the next day.
Talk to the church secretary who found the body.
See if I can worm my way into the coroner’s office to speak to him on a holiday.
Interview Ezra’s other parishioners, if necessary.
But, as my thoughts turn to the conversations I’ve already had, I begin thinking about what I’m going to say to Katie.
There’s nothing here, I imagine telling her. Your father took dangerous risks and it looks like those risks led to his death. He’d been bitten before and refused to seek treatment and got better, but these things have a way of catching up with us.
There’s nothing here, I repeat to myself.
And then I press my foot to the brake as we approach another sharp bend. And the brake has a weird, spongy feel. And then the pedal jitters. And then my foot hits the floor.
I pump. Nothing.
Whoomp!
My brakes are gone.
“Shit—” I breathe. The little braking action that I managed has only marginally slowed us down. The guardrail shimmers in Honey’s headlights, dull silver eaten away by orange-red rust.
Whoomp. Whoomp. Whoomp.
“Goddammit—”
I grit my teeth and cut Honey’s wheel to the side, hoping with everything I have that there’s no car coming from the other side of the blind bend.
“Shit. Shit. Shit…” I hiss.
We get lucky. There’s no one else on the road. Instead, Honey goes tailfirst into the guardrail. Her back end cuts through the rusted steel with a screeching scream of twisting metal. The bottom drops out of my stomach as her back fender lurches over the edge.
I unbuckle my seat belt, yank it off, and throw the door open. I jump, diving away from the car, and hit the pavement hard.
Behind me, I hear the smashing crunch of steel and the shatter of glass as Honey skids down the bank and careens into the trees.