Chapter Thirty-One
THIRTY-ONE
HEAT LIGHTNING FLASHES—brILLIANT, SILVERY purple—in the sky above what had once been Joel Shepherd’s fields. The Bronco spits gravel as I pull away. I glance at my watch. I still have at least an hour or so until Tina gets to town.
And then what? Would I have found and delivered that finger to Joel Shepherd? Or would I give it to the feds? Or maybe I’ll decide that it’s just not worth it. That Dishman’s a good man who made a bad choice and aren’t we all capable of that?
He saw the handwriting on the wall and, though the truth might have cost him his life, Daniel translated the message honestly …
That’s the story Will had told me my first night in Mount Zion. A story about a man who represented his people, who never backed down, never shied from the truth, even when it hurt him.
I breathe out a sigh as I drive, wondering whether it even matters.
Thinking to myself that I’ve got no idea where this finger might be.
I’ve already searched the church, after all.
Granted, I was looking for a large book at the time, but I think I’d have noticed if I came across a man’s pointer digit.
I could go back, make another search, but how would I get around the police presence?
Despite Shepherd’s insistence that I’m buddy-buddy with the cops, I doubt anyone besides Gavin would actually unlock the doors for me and, even then, it’s a long shot.
No, if I’m going to get in there, I’m going to need to be in and out quickly, before too many questions can be raised.
Which means I need to know exactly where to look.
I pull onto the highway, thinking back through each room in the church.
The sanctuary, the kitchen, the bathroom, the utility closet, the hallway, the office.
If I were a crooked, drug-peddling, snake-handling preacher with a penchant for drama and a latent gambling addiction, where would I hide a finger?
After a few miles spent pointlessly racking my brain, I give up and simply call Will.
“A hiding place?” he responds, when I ask him about whether he’d ever seen Ezra secreting something away inside the church.
“Yeah,” I say. “It wouldn’t need to be very big. Can you think of anything like that?”
He grunts in frustration, straight into the receiver.
“I know this is hard, Will,” I say. “I just need to do this so I can—”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I can’t think of anything like that. Brother Ezra apparently had a lot of secrets. He wasn’t the man I thought he was and … no, I don’t know anything about it.”
He hangs up without another word and I blow out a lip trill of frustration, but, honestly, I can’t blame him. Realizing the man you look up to is a fraud can put you on edge.
I call Thelma instead.
“Miss Gore?” she answers. “Good Lord, I’d have thought you’d be halfway back to Louisville by now.”
I ask her about possible hiding places, whether she’s sure she never saw Ezra squirreling away anything small.
“Well, honey, I sure can’t think of anything like that.
Shoot, I wish I knew. I hate that he was pulling the wool over all our eyes for so long.
I feel awful about it. I never liked the snakes and I always thought he was a little too slick, but it comes with the territory a lot of the time.
Every preacher seems to have his quirks, but I never thought he’d turn out to be such a wrong’un. Lord, I should’ve seen it.”
“No,” I say. “You couldn’t have known. Ezra King was good at what he did.”
She makes a sound like pheewww and then says, “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
We hang up, and as I’m getting back to town, I realize the Bronco’s gas tank is once again nearly empty. I pull into the nearest gas station, and as I cut the engine, my phone buzzes.
“Will?” I answer. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I know, it’s just … Well, I remembered something after we got off the phone.”
“Okay?”
“A few years ago, we needed a new altar. Ours before was awfully small, never sat level. Anyway, over in Lexington, there was an old Catholic church that was closing down. They were selling everything in the church, including the altar, for good prices.”
“Okay…”
“But, see, Catholic altars have relics in them. So, before they sold us the altar, they opened it up, took the relic out, and then sealed it back up. But the wood on the back side never fit quite right. It wasn’t a big deal because it’s pushed right up against the stage and the pulpit but … well, you see what I’m getting at.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Did you actually see Ezra use it as a hiding place?”
“Well, not exactly,” he says. “But one morning, I did see him pushing the altar back into place. I asked him what he was doing and he made some excuse about having dropped something and it went between the stage and the altar and, at the time, I didn’t think any more of it but … well, now I wonder.”
“Thanks, Will,” I say. “That helps a lot. I really appreciate it.”
“Okay,” he says. “I just … I just want all this to be over.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And, again, I’m really sorry for your loss. Your losses.”
We hang up and I spend the next eternity filling up the Bronco’s tank.
I buy a big bottle of water from the gas station and drink half of it on my way through Brimstone Hollow.
The canopy shivers above me, expectant and waiting, as if the trees know rain is coming.
By the time I emerge on the other side, the sun is just a rusty smudge behind low black clouds.
The land lies in shadow. Heat lightning flashes again, a warning.
I pull into the church parking lot and see Gavin’s cruiser parked out front, windows down, with Gavin in the front seat.
I slide from the Bronco, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to Gavin when he asks why I’m here.
I pull my leather jacket on as I walk. It may not be raining yet, but I know it will soon.
Already, the leaves of the trees are turned upside down and the scent of the coming rain—fresh and cool—almost replaces the burn of brimstone.
I approach the cruiser, but just before I reach it, I realize he’s fast asleep.
He snores, head lolled back against the headrest, an open thermos in the cupholder and a little paper plate of half-eaten, home-cooked food—macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, honey ham—on the passenger seat, the Saran Wrap wadded up in a ball beside it.
Gavin’s hours have been as turned around as my own, and with this recent trip to Carb City, it’s no wonder he conked out.
Still, not wanting to press my good luck, I go fast. I jog up the steps and gently pull at the church’s front door.
Locked. I open my bag, pull out my lock-picking kit.
I don’t bother with gloves since my prints are all over this door anyway.
It only takes a few seconds. The lock is old, my hands are fast.
As I open the door, lightning flashes behind me. Real lightning this time. A few seconds later, thunder. I won’t have long. This storm will wake Gavin up for sure.
I step into the church, jog down the aisle, and get my hands on the altar.
Will hadn’t been wrong. The thing weighs a ton, and pushed all the way flush against the front of the stage, there’s no getting behind it.
Instead, I let my bag slip from my shoulder and wedge my body up against the stage side of the altar as tight as possible.
I give the thing a push outward, with all my strength. It barely budges.
“Jesus,” I breathe, thinking I might actually have to go wake Gavin up and convince him to help me move it.
I take a deep breath, brace myself, push again. Both me and the wood groan as the altar shifts. I look down to see how much space I’ve made. Barely an inch.
Another deep breath. Again.
Maybe another inch.
I try to put my hand down into the space I’ve created between the altar and the stage and can’t get it in.
Lightning sizzles through the sky. Everything in the church goes bright white.
Thunder follows, long and rolling. The storm is close now. Almost here.
Another deep breath. Another push. Another groan.
“Phew—” I breathe. I try again. Finally, yes, I can get in enough to at least run my hand along the back wood panel.
“Oh, thank God,” I whisper, feeling along the edge of the panel.
I pull my Swiss Army knife from my back pocket and hinge out the flathead screwdriver, use it to pry the panel loose.
My heart thumps with exertion and nerves, and as soon as I get the panel open, I thrust my hand inside the dark hollow of the altar.
I feel fabric. Blue jeans, I realize. Ezra must have put Nathaniel Nickels’s clothes straight in here after stripping his body.
The finger must still be in the jeans pocket. I grasp the fabric and pull and—
KKKSSHHHHHHHHHHHH.
For a second—only a second—I think this is another hallucination. Another manifestation of my anxiety and exhaustion. I almost, almost don’t believe it’s real.
But then it is.
Pain sears through my wrist, my hand, my arm, up into my shoulder.
I gasp, yanking my hand back. On the inside of my wrist are two bloody fang marks.
KKKKssshhhhhhhhhhhhh.
The snake emerges from the darkness. Huge and heavy bodied, it’s a timber rattler, its mouth open and ready to strike again.
I scramble away from the altar, toward the pews, and barely manage to wrangle my gun from the holster at the small of my back. My fingers are going numb. My blood is burning.
My thumb barely works as I pull back the hammer.
The snake slithers out onto the stage in front of me, and I take aim.
And then … I pause. As angry and frightened as I am, I realize I don’t want to kill this snake. It’s only an animal. It’s only doing what animals do when cornered.