Brambleman (54 page)

“If the good Lord’s willing and the creek
don’t rise.”

Charlie hung up, hoping that God had other
plans for him and already knowing that a hundred-year flood was on
the way.

* * *

Wednesday, Charlie taped a radio interview at
the local NPR affiliate to be aired on
All Things
Considered
. As he left the radio station, a GBI agent with a
search warrant accosted him. “Why do you all have to be such
stalkers?” Charlie asked.

The lawman didn’t answer his question.
Instead, he took the writer to the State Crime Lab to get his
fingerprints and a blood sample. Though no explanations were given,
Charlie figured it had something to do with the large amount of
blood recovered from the Store-All. (Well, that and mouthing off to
reporters about the governor.)

This time, at least, Charlie got a ride back
to his car. When he returned to Castlegate, he found a
cream-colored envelope in his mailbox from Cantrell, Bachman, and
Gaithers, the silkiest of silk-stocking law firms (John Cantrell
was a former governor). In the letter, attorney Ken Mason demanded
that Charlie “cease and desist making false statements about the
recent land sale by Isaac Cutchins, or legal action will be taken
against you on behalf of our client, Southland Associates.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Charlie said as he read.
Fair enough. He was in a cease-and-desist mood, having said too
much already.

* * *

For a writer who had tried for six years to
get an agent, it was strange to be hounded by one. But it was all
good. “Great news!” Barbara Asher exclaimed over the phone Thursday
afternoon. “I have a preempt offer. Spence Greene, the head man at
Brubaker Publishing, heard you on NPR yesterday and called me with
a deal just as I was setting up the auction. They’d already been
talking about it, but he is
terribly
impressed with you—did
you quote Orwell?”

“Yes. I said, ‘Being shot is interesting.’
From
Homage to Catalonia
.”

“Smart move. Plus he saw the
Times
review of your other book. Perfect storm!” she belted out the last
two words like Ethel Merman.

Charlie shifted his phone to his left ear,
since she’d just scorched his right one. “What’s the deal?”

“Two million! Your wildest dream has just
come true!”

Not quite. His wildest dream would be this,
plus Jean and Dana, along with a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Nevertheless, it was a struggle to recover from the shock of
suddenly becoming a millionaire-to-be.

“Not too shabby, eh, Charles? … Charles …
Charles!”

“Two million?”

“With all that money on the line, they want
to publish quickly. You should go with this.”

“Let’s sign the papers before they change
their mind.”

“Charles, you’re my kind of guy. I’m on it.
I’ve put everything else aside to work for you. Britney Spears’
makeup artist wants to do a tell-all. We need a ghost writer. You
interested?”

“I’m close enough to being a ghost already.
Her makeup artist?”

“They know everything. Absolutely everything.
It’s scary.”

Charlie hung up and danced around the loft to
AC/DC’s
Thunderstruck
. He jumped up and pumped his fist in
the air, shouting, “I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich!”

It was hard to believe that a month ago, he’d
been living in a van.

* * *

Friday morning, Charlie checked the
Forsyth Sentinel
website and found an interesting item:
State Rep. Stanley Cutchins announced he was tithing a million
dollars, to be divided among “all the Christian churches” of
Forsyth County. Either the varmints wanted to buy their way to
heaven, or Uncle Stanley had just launched the most expensive
General Assembly campaign in state history.

On the same page, he saw an article headlined
“Local Historians Denounce Forsyth Work.” In it, Cecil Montgomery
ridiculed
Flight from Forsyth
’s “many inaccuracies, factual
errors, and glaring omissions. For example, everyone knows Sodder
Creek runs west-east.” Charlie would have laughed off the criticism
if Montgomery hadn’t also challenged the footnotes: “I’d like to
see some of those land documents allegedly in the author’s
possession.”

“I’ll bet you would,” Charlie muttered at the
computer screen. “And so would I.”

However, now Charlie wondered if Montgomery
hadn’t already seen them. When he’d first found out about John
Riggins, Charlie thought Uncle Stanley was behind the burglary at
Kathleen’s house a year before. Later, he realized Montgomerys and
Logans would have had just as much motivation, since their ancestor
had stolen a farm, too.
Hmm
. Cutchins and Montgomery had so
much in common. Both were descended from lynchers. Both had
profited from land thefts. Both had secrets to keep.

Charlie decided he should make the Logan and
Montgomery clans’ lives more
interesting
, as well. He owed
them that.

* * *

Groundhog Day: Wearing a new coat and tie,
Charlie arrived at Buckhead Booksellers five minutes before the
hastily arranged Saturday night signing was set to begin—the first
of what he hoped would be many. Inside, a line of people holding
copies of
Flight from Forsyth
stretched from a square black
table to the coffee shop, then disappeared into the travel section.
Charlie took a deep breath and sauntered over to the author’s
chair.

A young Goth bookseller named Esmerelda
briefed him. “We sold out of your book, but we received a rush
shipment this morning. There’s a stack of books behind the register
for people who can’t be here, so if you read the slips and sign
them, that would be cool.”

“Fine.” Charlie gave the crowd—a roughly
equal mix of black and white—a quick once-over. “Do you have
security here?”

“No. Should we?”

“My publicist was supposed to request it.” He
shook his head. “Too late to worry now. All right. Let’s do this.
I’ll sign as many as I can before they get me.”

“Interesting tattoo.” She reached to touch
his face. He pulled away.

“It’s not a tattoo.” The scab from the
gunshot wound had fallen off to reveal a bright pink rose-shaped
scar on his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You probably have
space issues after all you’ve been through.”

Space issues
. What a concept.

Charlie pulled out his trusty Waterman pen,
laid it down, and rubbed his hands together. He threw out his
fingers and stretched them like he was preparing to play piano,
then popped his knuckles.

He signed books carefully and quickly. People
congratulated him. Consoled him. Thanked him. Told him he was
brave. Esmerelda stood beside him, holding books open and cutting
conversations short, semi-politely encouraging people to move along
once they had Charlie’s autograph. A woman pushed her book toward
Charlie on the table, said her name, then added in a whisper, “I’m
from Forsyth County. I knew those men who tried to kill you. They
got what was coming to them.” Charlie kept his mouth shut as he
wrote. She gave him an embarrassed smile and left. After he’d
signed a book to Beverly Tucker, Charlie felt a tug on his
sleeve.

“Hey, Daddy.”

Charlie jumped up and cried out, “Benny boy!”
He picked up his son and hugged him fiercely. “I miss you, guy.
Incredibly much. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you. What are
you doing here?”

“Mommy brought us. I heard your voice.”

“Did she tell you I was here?”

Ben shook his head and stared at him
intently. “I heard you got
shot
,” the boy said,
overemphasizing the last word.

“Did Mommy tell you that?”

“No, Tyler told me at school. Mom said you
were OK.”

“I am. It’s not a big deal.” He waved his
hand to brush off the injury and sat down, then realized this was a
teachable moment of sorts. “I was lucky. Usually, guns kill. So
stay away from them.”

“You’ve got a scar.” Ben looked at the line.
“Are all these people here to see you?”

“Yes. They’re buying my book.” Charlie showed
a copy to his son.

Ben countered with his own book. “Can I get
this? Will you read it to me?” He held up Lemony Snicket’s
The
Bad Beginning
. A bit of a reach for a kindergartner, but
Charlie had to admire the boy’s ambition.

“Sure, I’d love to, but—”

Ben was already climbing up onto his lap.
Charlie grinned at an older black woman. “What can I do?” To Ben,
he said, “Stay with me, but I’ll have to read it later.”

Beck appeared, holding a copy of
Stellaluna
and rushed to hug him. “You got shot,” she
said.

“No big deal.”

“Is too. You’re famous now,” she said,
looking over the line of autograph-seekers. “We’re kind of famous,
too. You can sign my book.”

Charlie wrote “To My Special Princess—Love,
Daddy.”

Ben got similar treatment: “To My Favorite
Guy.”

While Ben sat on his lap, Beck stood by her
father’s left shoulder and read aloud softly. Susan stepped into
view around the corner of a bookcase with her copy of
Flight
. Charlie squinted at her, a bemused smile on his
lips. She gave him her semi-pissed look, as if he had, for the
thousandth time, made her late. In a dark blue dress and a trench
coat, her long blonde hair falling in curls to her shoulders, she
looked better than ever. The sharp features of the bank teller he’d
met in Macon had softened with age. He beckoned her; she ignored
him.
God, what a contrary woman
.

Beck and Ben returned to the children’s
section. Charlie grew chattier and more charming with customers as
Susan drew nearer. When she stood before him, holding her book and
looking grim, Charlie gave her an easy smile and drawled, “Hey,
stranger.”

“How many books have you sold today?” Susan
asked, sounding like she expected a cut of the take.

Charlie glanced at Esmerelda, who said, “More
than a hundred. I’m counting the stack behind the registers.”

“That’s some stack,” Charlie replied.

Susan shoved her book at him. “Sign this
please, Mr. Sherman.”

Her tone was not especially friendly, and
Charlie could tell she was nervous. Clearly, she did not like
playing the role of supplicant. “Why of course, Mrs. Sherman.”

“Oh, are you two married?”

“Kind of,” Charlie said.

“I’m working on it,” Susan countered.

“Whatever
that
means,” Charlie said.
“Look, you didn’t have to do this. I would have given you one, if
only you’d asked.”

“You’ve been so busy,” she said with more
than a trace of sarcasm.

“Yes, getting shot by people who were paid by
those who shall remain nameless.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she snapped.
“Never mind. Just sign the damn book.”

Esmeralda backed away from the bad vibe
disturbing the air around the signing table. Charlie stared at the
title page. With a dozen people still in line, there wasn’t time to
talk to her much longer, nor did it promise to be a pleasant
conversation if he did. He had to write something. The Waterman
flew over the page, and he signed his name with a flourish.

Susan read, “Thanks for making this possible.
Love, Charlie.” She stared at the page. “
Love
?”

“Somewhere,” he said sadly. “Maybe not with
me right now.”

“No. I suppose you left it somewhere else.”
After receiving no response, she continued. “Why do you have to
take this psycho feud of yours public? That news conference was
over the top, claiming Uncle Stanley is in some kind of conspiracy
with the governor.”

“
My
feud? I’m the one getting
shot.”

“That’s what comes with—” she bent down and
whispered “—messing with drug dealers.”

“I keep hearing this. Is that what you
think?”

“It’s what the GBI thinks.”

“How would you know?”

“Because they showed up with a warrant and
searched the house for drugs,” she said, finishing by mouthing the
word
asshole
. “I don’t know why I bother.”

She turned on her heel and marched toward the
children’s section. Esmerelda flowed back into the vacuum.

“And she
does
bother,” Charlie
noted.

He kept signing. A few minutes later, Ben ran
up and hugged him. “I miss you, Daddy. I hope we can be together
again.”

“We will be.” Even as Charlie said it, his
spirits sank. Not only did he no longer believe what he’d just
said, but there seemed to be no way to make that lie the truth.

“When you get out of your dungeon,” Ben
said.

“Yes.”

Susan called for Ben. He ran off. Beck walked
past, waving happily to him.

“Mr. Sherman. Mr. Sherman.” A gray-haired
black man bent over the table.

“Huh? Sorry.”

“If you could make it to Clyde Simmons. My
grandfather was run out of Forsyth in 1912.”

Charlie looked up. “Rufus Simmons?”

“Why, yes.” The man stepped back, looking
shocked. “My Lord. Is he in the book?’

“Yes. A footnote, too, I think.” I’ll sign it
to Rufus Simmons’ grandson, Clyde.”

“Thank you so much for doing this.”

Charlie looked out the window and saw Ben’s
head bouncing up and down as the boy skipped along the sidewalk.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. You’re welcome.”

After the signing was over and his audience
had drifted away, Charlie learned that Susan had left the marked-up
and unpaid-for children’s books at the counter. He was irritated at
first, but then realized this gave him a legitimate, non-stalking
reason to return to Thornbriar. Where he’d left his love in the
first place. He’d see if any of it was still there.

* * *

Charlie showed up unannounced at Thornbriar
the following Saturday afternoon. “I come bearing tribute,” he said
when Susan opened the door. She wasn’t wearing her wedding ring.
Neither was he, but he wished he was, just to trump her. Prosperous
from Angela’s $20,000 buy-in, he waved a $6,000 check with a
flourish, then handed it to his stunned wife, figuring it would
bring him almost up to date on child support and get him inside the
house to see the kids. He pushed inside and patted Sirius on the
head. At least the dog was glad to see him.