Chapter Twenty-Nine
TWENTY-NINE
A FEW MINUTES LATER, I get back on the road myself, and drive through Brimstone Hollow for what I feel sure is the last time.
The sulfur smell, mixed with the crisp scent of coming rain, floods my senses.
I imagine the network of sulfur springs that run under the town, the deep, dark caves this whole area rests atop.
The Appalachian Mountains are old. Some of the oldest in the world.
And as I drive under the alternating light and shadow of Brimstone Hollow’s dense canopy, I have the eerie sensation that there are still a thousand secrets here yet to be discovered, a thousand secrets going back a million years, likely never to be revealed.
On the way back to town, I call Katie again, put her on speaker, and tell her everything we learned from Ezra’s car.
“You think he was going to Mexico?” she asks.
“That’s what it looks like.”
She groans and I hear the baby gurgle.
“And he turned around because he lost all his money in a casino,” she says flatly. “I suppose it doesn’t surprise me. And you don’t know why he came back to the church? What was hidden there or where it might be?”
“No,” I say. “But I’d guess it was either cash or something he could sell for cash. Since it seems likely him running out of money is the only reason he returned.”
The baby starts to cry, and as I pull into Mount Zion’s downtown, I listen to Katie coo and burble until he settles down. When she’s done she says, “What a mess.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry the news isn’t more … pleasant.”
After a moment she sighs and says, “I’ve been thinking about what I told you earlier and …
I keep remembering my mom telling me that I could be just like him sometimes.
Me screaming at her, saying I didn’t see why that was a bad thing.
Now I know the truth and … I have to make myself not wallow in it.
You know? I mean … we can’t choose our parents or the qualities we inherit from our parents.
We can only be aware of it. Try to make the most of who we are.
Try to turn our worst impulses into something useful. ”
“That’s very wise,” I tell her.
“Thank you, Annie,” she says. “For all that you’ve done.”
“Just doing my job,” I tell her.
“You said the DEA or whoever is coming to town, right? To continue the investigation?”
“Yes,” I say. “They’ll probably be swarming this place by tomorrow morning.”
“Then they can sort through the rest of my father’s sins,” she says. “I think I’ve learned enough. Will you come back home? I’d like to take you to lunch tomorrow. Settle up and … I don’t know. I feel like, after everything you’ve done for me … I’d just like to say thank you.”
“Well,” I say. “I’ve never been known to turn down lunch.”
Though, even as I say it, I regret not doing more here. Not finishing what I started. Not finding a solid connection between Ezra King and Joel Shepherd. Not finding what it was Ezra tried to retrieve from the church this morning.
Still, Katie’s right. The DEA is on their way. The FBI likely won’t be far behind and, hell, the IRS will probably be right behind them. Even if I wanted to stay here, I’d be pushed out or else risk contaminating evidence.
“I’ll be there,” I tell her, and we hang up.
Then I call Tina.
“You didn’t wreck that Bronco, did you?” Tina asks by way of answering.
“Looks like I won’t have a chance. I think we’re wrapping things up here, but I don’t have a ride back to town. You wouldn’t—”
“We can be there in a couple hours,” she says. “Let’s get you home. Get you back in your own bed tonight.”
“Thanks,” I say, and hang up.
As I’m pulling back through town, my stomach rumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten all day.
I park almost before I realize what I’ve done and find myself floating through the Dairy’s doors—cartoon-like—on the scent of fried food and biscuits.
But as soon as I’m inside, I regret it. Between the open staring and the whispers that wash through the room once I’ve stepped over the threshold, I think maybe I should just get a meal somewhere else, maybe the less-busy sandwich shop downtown.
I could take a turkey club back to my room and eat while I pack.
I’m turning toward the door when I hear my name.
“Annie! Hey, Annie! Wait—”
It’s Zelda. She’s wearing her Cherry Dairy uniform and a red apron, smudged with flour and grease, and she breathes out a phew! as she catches up to me.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “It’s just … I’m hungry but it’s way too busy in here. I just need to grab something quick so I can get back to the room and pack.”
She looks around at the people gawking at us and then says, “Come back to the office. I’ll get something fixed up for you and you can eat in peace. You look exhausted.”
“Sure,” I say.
I follow her through the dining room and into the noisy, crowded kitchen. She veers off into a dimly lit hallway stacked with boxes of to-go cups and napkins, and then through another door into an office.
“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing at the old leather chair in front of the desk. “You look like hell. I’ll get you some grub.”
“Thanks.”
She disappears and I plop into the chair in front of her desk, lean my head back, and close my eyes. I listen to the tick of Zelda’s ceiling fan, the indecipherable din of noise on the other side of the door.
“Here you go,” Zelda says, suddenly. And I realize I’d drifted off.
“Told you I’d get you some good grub,” she says. “Fried chicken sandwich, coleslaw, and cheddar tots. Plus, a biscuit and honey. Oh, and a sweet tea.”
I sit forward and shift a stack of books and papers from her desk to make room. She sets the food down in front of me along with a wad of napkins from her apron. I reach for the sandwich and take a bite without another word.
Zelda sits behind her desk, leans forward, and filches one of my tots. “Before you go, I thought I’d get Katie’s information from you. If that’s okay. I’d like to call her. Tell her if she comes to town for her dad’s real funeral, whenever that is, that she can stay with me.”
Swallowing the huge mouthful of fried chicken sandwich, I say, “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear from you. She’s a tough woman and she’s smart but I know this has been hard on her.”
Zelda nods her understanding and says, “Also, I thought you should know—I took Crystal home today, after Chief Dishman questioned her. Made sure she got in safe and sound. She went straight to bed and was asleep before I left. Her mom’s taking the day off to stay with her.”
I take a big gulp of the sweet tea and ask, “You think she’ll be okay?”
Zelda shrugs.
“She’s pretty torn up. I think she really believed Ezra appeared to her, really believed he’d made her some important part of an even more important story … A lot of people are bad-mouthing her out there.”
“Bad-mouthing?” I ask. “Why?”
“Because the whole mountaintop resurrection was just the latest—and biggest—incident of Crystal saying she’d seen something paranormal. I think they’re more mad at themselves for believing her and trudging up a mountain at the ass crack of dawn, honestly, but they’ll never say that.”
The first bites of food having hit my stomach, I manage to make myself slow down and actually chew. I scoop up some coleslaw and say, “She told me yesterday that people think she makes stuff up to get attention.”
Zelda winces but then gives a little nod of confirmation.
“Yeah,” she says. “I admit, I’ve always found her sort of annoying but … I don’t know, more so because it bothers me when people like Crystal end up falling for snake oil and slick con men. It was frustrating.”
“You’re talking about Ezra,” I say.
She nods and takes another tot, chews thoughtfully, swallows, and says, “It wasn’t just him.
A couple years ago she went down a rabbit hole believing a bunch of nonsense some online guru spouted about raw food and charged crystals.
That was bad enough, but Ezra was local.
He was right here. Sitting at the counter listening to her go on about auras and angels and paying her all these compliments. ”
She leans back in her chair, knitting her fingers together over her stomach.
“I tried to tell her not to fall for his shtick, but Ezra King had charisma, you know? Those eyes and the way he moved and people were always in here talking about his voice, not that I could give a shit about that. But it bothered me. Because Crystal’s not an idiot.
She’s a smart girl. She actually had a scholarship to EKU, but she turned it down to stay in town and help take care of her sick dad.
Then, a couple years passed and he died and she was just sort of …
still here. Stuck in this rut. But she’s not a dope. ”
“No,” I say. “She was tricked. You don’t have to be stupid to be taken in by people like Ezra King. All you have to be is lonely or vulnerable or desperate. People like Ezra look for people like Crystal to manipulate and they’re good at what they do.”
Zelda nods and a long few seconds pass while I chomp my chicken sandwich and wash it down with extra sweet tea.
“When I was a teenager…” Zelda frowns down at her fingernails and then gives a little head shake and says, “When I was a teenager and my hearing started to go … this kid at school told me about Ezra King. His faith healing. His miracles.”
She pauses, sniffs, meets my eyes.
“I became convinced that I should go to him. That he could heal my ears and I’d be back to normal. I was so terrified of everything changing. Afraid of getting the implants, afraid of not getting them. I begged my dad to take me to Ezra’s church for faith healing.”
“What did he say?”