Brambleman (52 page)

“You may know by now that your would-be
killer was a Forsyth County meth dealer,” Sanders said. “We found
$10,000 cash in the truck toolbox. I also know Isaac Cutchins had
you arrested.”

“There you go.” Charlie grunted as he worked
on installing a lock.

“Which is interesting, since I learned from a
beat cop’s incident report of a break-in at … hang on … Bayard
Terrace … that Cutchins allegedly shot out your van window in
November. You were going to speak to a detective, but you
disappeared. So, there
you
go. Went. And the next thing we
hear from you is …
kablooey
!”

Charlie balanced his screwdriver on two
fingers and blinked at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

Sanders laughed. “I mean that you’re standing
there with a screwdriver because all your power tools got burned up
on Christmas Eve! Look, I know why you don’t want to admit being at
the Store-All. They shouldn’t have linked you to the meth lab in
the unit next door. I don’t believe you’re connected to it, even
though the GBI is still investigating that angle.”

Charlie gave him the blankest look he had
available.

“And when you pop your head up again, all
hell breaks loose on Castlegate. Again with the meth dealers. Speed
kills.” He shook his head in bemusement. “So who wants to do you
harm? Besides Mister ‘Get off my lawn’ and the dead guys, that is.
Did you know them?”

“Nope.” Charlie grabbed the level and peered
at its bubble. “Start with Cutchins’ son, Stanley.”

“Ah, the man finally says something useful.
That name sounds familiar.”

“He’s a state legislator.”

Sanders groaned, then jabbed his pen at
Charlie. “What did you take from the old man to cause this
trouble?”

“Right to remain silent and all that. I
suggest you ask the
alleged
victim.”

“The warrant doesn’t state what it was.”

“All the more reason to ask.”

“I’ve seen your book. I understand why folks
up in Forsyth County don’t like it, but the reaction seems … harsh
for something that happened nearly a hundred years ago.”

Charlie shrugged. “Ask
them
.”

Sanders gave him a peeved look. He shook his
head and glanced over his notes. “Something’s missing.”

“Besides one of my teeth and part of my
ear?”

“Yeah,” Sanders said. “Like honest
answers.”

“Well, that’s all I’ve got to say, for now.”
Charlie reached for a tube of caulk.

“Gee, thanks for all your help,” Sanders
said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He took down Charlie’s cellphone number and
handed him a business card.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said as he walked to
his car.

A moment later, Charlie’s phone buzzed.
“Hello.”

“Just checking.” The detective waved at him,
then hung up and drove off.

Charlie finished installing the door. While
cleaning up the job site, he heard a squealing engine belt behind
him. He turned to see a banged-up red Cadillac sedan veer across
two lanes of oncoming traffic and jump the curb, throwing a hubcap.
Charlie leaped over the porch railing, landing behind a scraggly
bush. The car skidded to a stop ten feet away, raising a cloud of
dust that floated toward him. Only when the dust settled and he
recognized the driver did Charlie come out into the open. A puffy
face wearing oversized sunglasses poked out the open car window.
“Did I hire you to do that?” the man rasped.

“No sir,” Charlie admitted.

Redeemer Wilson slid across the seat and
exited the passenger side. Wearing a suit without a tie, the old
man wobbled toward Charlie and flashed a grin. His breath reeked of
whiskey. Charlie grabbed his elbow to steady him and wondered if
the old icon/reprobate had been out carousing all night.

“I been meanin’ to get that fixed,” Redeemer
said. “But if I didn’t hire you, I don’t gotta pay you.”

“That’s true. It’s on the house,” Charlie
said.

“On the house of the Lord.” Redeemer frowned
pensively and wagged his finger. “I know you.”

“I interviewed you for a book about Forsyth
County.”

Redeemer snapped his fingers. “You the one
been in the middle of that mess all week. I was gonna pray for you.
I coulda told ya that those white folks up there don’t like people
criticizin’ ’em. Glad to see you survived. Bloody but unbowed. My
kind of guy.” He gave Charlie a hearty whack on the back.

“Here,” Charlie said, dangling the keys at
eye level. “I made spares. Three sets in all.”

Redeemer watched them swing. “It’s your
door,” he pointed out.

“No, I just fixed it.”

“You went and made it your door. You’re it.”
He laughed and tagged Charlie on the shoulder.

“It’s your church.”

“I haven’t been able to keep it open. Or
closed.” He gestured to the boarded-up window. “So you can come
here any time you want. ’Specially if you’re going to fix it. It
needs a lotta work inside. Buncha derelicts trashed it. I ran out
of money. People won’t give anymore. Don’t know what’s wrong with
’em.” He paused. “Actually, I do. Buncha cheap-hearted bastards is
what they are. Glad to see somebody cares. Keep up the good work.
I’m goin’ home now.”

Charlie again tried to give him all the keys.
Redeemer consented to take one set. “You keep the others,” he told
the younger man. “Since you’re the only one who cares. You gotta
give her one of them, too, since she lives here now. I assume
you’re doing this to keep her safe.”

“Who?” Charlie asked, trying to look
innocent.

Redeemer gave Charlie a look that made him
blush, then guffawed. “The young woman with the kids. Does tricks.
She’s around here somewhere. Her little girl is special. You know
what I mean.”

Charlie didn’t. He tried to hand Redeemer the
rest of the keys. The old man refused. “Go on. Keep a set and give
one to the gal,” he wheezed. “I got cancer. No tellin’ how long
I’ll be around. How long? Not long. It’s a joke, son. You had to be
there. Take care of yourself. If you want to do more, here’s how to
get in touch.” Redeemer fished out an old, grimy business card from
his wallet and squinted at some writing on the back. He laughed.
“Don’t call that number,” he told Charlie, handing him the card.
“Call the one on the front.”

Redeemer turned and walked unsteadily to his
car. Charlie watched and worried about letting the man drive. Then
he recalled that, despite all the negative publicity, Redeemer had
never been convicted of a traffic offense or had a wreck. He
decided that the old man had some sort of protection, too, better
than anything some shot-up, just-out-of-jail white guy could give
him, especially in this part of town. Charlie trotted over to the
light pole and retrieved the hubcap. As soon as he had reattached
it to the wheel, Redeemer drove off, blasting the horn three
times.

Charlie unlocked the new door and immediately
felt better, like he’d just kicked Trouble in the teeth. He packed
up his tools and drove to a shopping center to get some gifts for
Romy and Ben, because he missed getting things for kids.

When he returned, Tawny and her children were
back from a shelter where they’d gone to wash up. Tawny looked nice
in the daylight—even beautiful. He gave her a set of keys, keeping
the last one for himself, only because there was no one else to
give them to and Tawny insisted he keep them. She thanked him again
for the sleeping bags, food, and the kerosene space heater he’d
brought by the night before. When he gave a stuffed bear to Romy
and building blocks to Wyatt, each child grabbed one of his legs
and hugged him fiercely, nearly toppling the big man. He handed
Tawny a fifty-dollar bill, surprising himself more than her,
especially since he was running low on cash.

When he said he had to go, Tawny walked him
to the door and played with it, opening and closing, stepping in
and out of shadow and light. “Thank you for all you’re doing for
us. Come back any time,” she whispered in his right ear, adding a
nibble and a lick.

He ducked away from her, smiling and gently
swatting his ear. The woman was dangerous, and if he let his guard
down—well, he wouldn’t let his guard down. He couldn’t afford … he
just couldn’t, not when she’d caused him so much pain, getting him
thrown out of his house and all.

Once in his car, he cleaned out his ear with
a moist towelette. Then another, for good measure.

One thing was certain: Since the ordeal of
his shooting and arrest, Charlie Sherman was no longer anonymous.
He had to come out of hiding and make a statement, so he set up an
interview with Bill Crenshaw, the reporter who’d been with him at
the beginning. After lunch Saturday, he parked the Volvo in Decatur
near the library and fed the meter. A young couple on a bench
across Sycamore Street snuck glances at him as he shoved his hands
into the pockets of his battle-worn duster and shuffled up the
sidewalk. He crossed at the light, passing a bearded young bohemian
in a blue peacoat who gave him a raised-fist salute.

A bell tinkled as Charlie stepped inside Java
Joe’s. Crenshaw sat at a table facing the door, working on his
laptop. “Congrats on surviving an assassination attempt and jail,”
the reporter said, giving him a once-over. “Looks like something
chewed on your face. You sure this is safe?”

Charlie glanced around at the half-full room.
He’d given the subject some thought, but he didn’t believe there
would be another attack. After all, the varmints had their money
and the book was already published. Now they could hire someone to
read
Flight from Forsyth
and tell them Pappy’s murderous
land grab was not mentioned. (He could see the Cutchinses all
tucked in snugly, listening to
Flight
being read like a
bedtime story, complete with a happily-ever-after ending.) They’d
be fools to attack again. Unfortunately, they
were
fools. He
only hoped God’s imperfect protection would hold out, at least
until he could afford bodyguards. “Hell if I know. I may die
tonight.”

“Hey, your wife called. Said she’s been
trying to find out how you’re doing, but you didn’t give her your
phone number.”

“How do you think I lasted this long? Uh,
that was off the record.”

“That’s OK. It’s common knowledge that most
married people want to kill their spouses. By the way,” Crenshaw
said with a smirk, “we’re publishing that stuff you wouldn’t let me
see last year.”

“Heard y’all had to pay top dollah,” Charlie
drawled. “I’m getting coffee to celebrate. I’d offer to buy you a
cup, but that would be corrupt.”

Crenshaw gave him a sick grin.

Charlie ordered a double espresso and
returned to the table, taking a seat across from the reporter.
Crenshaw was on his cellphone. “Hey, Jack, I got him! All shot up,
dust on his boots and holy shit … is that a bullet hole in your
coat?” He reached out and fingered the shoulder of the duster.
“I’ll check.”

Crenshaw asked Charlie, “You talk to any
other reporters?” Charlie shook his head. “That’s a negative. Yeah,
hold it for me. And you’re welcome.” Crenshaw hung up and slapped
his laptop. “They just cleared the top of Sunday’s front page for
you. So tell me all about it.”

Charlie laughed. “Not so sure about that, but
I’ll give you twenty minutes. Which is twenty more than anyone else
is getting. I owe you that for old times’ sake.”

Glancing at his watch as he talked, Charlie
coyly answered Crenshaw’s rapid-fire questions. He admitted the
arrest had been the result of “a family feud” only after Crenshaw
told him he knew Isaac Cutchins was his wife’s grandfather. Charlie
wouldn’t speculate on the motives and identities of the people
behind the shooting, since it was under investigation. He did
mention the lack of cooperation he’d received from the locals and
suggested that many of Forsyth County’s most prominent citizens
would be unhappy when the newspaper published the excerpt showing
how blacks’ land had been stolen. He made no mention of John
Riggins or Minerva Doe. Of course, Crenshaw wanted to hear all
about the shooting, his jail time, his “false imprisonment” by
Finch and Drew, and his “charming little encounter” with the Canton
police. (For the record, the GBI would deny that any of its agents
had held him in a warehouse.) With less than a minute left of his
allotted time, Crenshaw asked, “What about Isaac Cutchins’s land
sale last week?”

“I’m not sure it’s his to sell,” Charlie
said.

“What do you mean? I didn’t see anything in
the book about his land.”

Charlie stood. “
Buzzzz
. Time’s up.
Good day.”

“Damn it, Sherman, this isn’t a game!”
Crenshaw said, but Charlie was already up and moving toward the
door.

* * *

After a good night’s sleep, Charlie tiptoed
into La Patisserie Sunday morning, worried that Amy Weller would be
pissed at him for nearly getting her customers killed. It would be
terrible if she was, since he still had a crush on her. Instead of
being angry, she rushed around the counter to hug him, clucking
like a mother hen over his injuries.

“Thank God you survived!” she said. “I was
worried about you.”

“I nearly got the place destroyed,” Charlie
said, savoring the cinnamon and nutmeg aroma of her clench.

“It was scary,” she said, pulling back, her
brown eyes popping wide open. “Why’d they do it?”

“Money.”

“But who paid them?”

“Somebody from Forsyth County.”

She nodded knowingly. “Those people should be
ashamed, all of them.” She brightened. “Hey, breakfast is on me.
You wouldn’t believe what it’s done for business. You getting shot,
that is. It sounds ghoulish, I know. But before, hardly anyone knew
we existed. Then all the reporters started hanging out here waiting
for you, like you were Godot or something. ‘
This is Casanthia
Clayton, reporting live from La Patisserie on Castlegate
,’” Amy
mimicked, holding a mixing spoon like a microphone. “Since then,
it’s been packed in here.”