Brambleman (72 page)

Romy came over to Charlie with her shoes,
wanting help to put them on.

“I hear you.”

* * *

Charlie placed the birth certificates in a
watertight (and hopefully bloodtight) container, then spent the
rest of the day caring for his sudden family and packing for
Friday’s move. He took Wyatt and Romy shopping, but first he
dropped by a storefront clinic for treatment. He received six
stitches for a gash just beneath his rose scar. His cracked ribs
and toes would heal on their own. Most significantly, his left eye
was a ghastly mess, beyond the expertise of the staff doctor, who
informed Charlie that he was lucky to be alive, referred him to an
ophthalmologist, and told him to wear an eyepatch in the meantime.
Charlie left with a handful of prescriptions for antibiotics,
ointments, and painkillers. His two loose teeth would have to wait,
since he had to find a dentist to replace Victor Blaga.

When he returned to Castlegate, Charlie
sported an eyepatch but no glasses. The vision in his right eye was
clear and needed no correction, an odd but welcome development.
Apparently, his eyesight had been beaten back into alignment—that
which hadn’t been destroyed had been restored. He was disappointed
that he’d been unable to visit Susan, but he vowed to do so the
next day. Exhausted and loopy from painkillers, he wanted to lie
down, but Wyatt and Romy insisted that he play the new Candy Land
game he’d bought for them.

Looking up from the board, Wyatt asked, “If
Mommy comes back, will you marry her?”

“I already have a wife. She’s in the
hospital.”

“I want to see her,” Romy said. “I’ll make
her feel better.”

“That would be nice. Maybe we’ll go
tomorrow,” Charlie said, grabbing her and pulling her onto his lap.
Wyatt threw himself on Charlie alongside Romy. They rolled around
on the floor, an activity that proved to be therapeutic for
Charlie.

Later, Charlie played a CD of piano music
while he packed. Romy interrupted him, pulling his hand to dance
with her. He stood and swayed unsteadily to the music while she
spun around like a dervish. The boy joined in the frolic. Playing
with them reminded Charlie of old times at home and made him wish
he could put together the missing pieces of his life. How would he
ever find his way back to Beck and Ben with Romy and Wyatt eating
his breadcrumbs?

Romy stopped dancing and stared straight at
his eyepatch. “Are you going to love us?” she asked.

Charlie gave her a quirky smile. “Yes, I
believe I will. And as your father, in accordance with state law.
I’ll take care of you, or die trying. That’s the deal, the way I
understand these things.”

“You won’t ever leave us?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Just checkin’,” she said, twirling away.

It is a strange and serious business, to make
a lie the truth.

* * *

When Charlie checked his voicemails, he heard
this: “Charlie, Muncie here. Wanted to let you know the divorce
trial is postponed, by consent of all parties. I heard Susan is
paralyzed from the waist down. That’s terrible … I’m so sorry. I
hope it’s not true. I do have some good news for you in the middle
of all this. My guy spent the day on your case and found out a few
things. Cops didn’t tell us the dead guy’s girlfriend was holding a
ransom note that she was supposed to phone into Channel Six. The
carjackers wanted a million dollars from you. But they got violent
and screwed that plan, so they stole the car instead. Demetrious
Warner claimed you took them to the bank. Which contradicts the
ransom note story, of course. Then a MARTA driver came forward and
told police they’d been on her bus and got off at Hanover. So
there’s some things that destroy your accuser’s credibility. Who
would have thought a bus driver would come to your rescue?”

Charlie looked up at the ceiling and blinked
his right eye. “I have great faith in public transportation.”

* * *

The kids were still awake when Charlie
watched the eleven o’clock news. The top story on Channel Six:
“Late Wednesday night, five men suspected in the murder of Shaundra
Warner barricaded themselves in a warehouse on Memorial Drive when
police arrived to arrest them. All five perished in an blazing
inferno.” There were few details, only footage of the fire.

Charlie was still staring at the screen
open-mouthed when the anchor moved on to the next story and a
camera cut to a familiar landscape. “Our Forsyth County saga
continues,” reporter Trent Brown solemnly intoned. “Earlier today,
Sheriff Allan Burch announced the discovery of the skeletal remains
of a man and either a horse or mule. Currently, GBI investigators
are working to exhume the bodies, believed to have been there for
several decades. While Burch says no positive identification is
possible at this time, he told us that lawmen were acting on a tip
from someone who had read the controversial bestseller,
American
Monster
, which means it’s possible that they have found the
remains of John Riggins, a black farmer allegedly lynched by a mob
in 1937. Isaac Cutchins, the man author Charles Sherman has accused
of this crime, was found dead in his home a week ago. Cutchins’s
death, originally believed to be a suicide, is under investigation.
More as it develops.”

The newscast cut to a picture of the book’s
front cover, then the shallow grave and a section of an unearthed
skeleton. Wyatt looked up at the TV and sang out, “Dinosaur
bones!”

“Time for you to go to bed,” Charlie
declared. He turned off the TV and herded the kids to the bathroom
to brush their teeth.

After they were tucked in, Charlie went out
on the fire escape to be with the trains and that distant glimmer
of Tawny. He tried to collect his mashed-up thoughts. Tomorrow he
would leave this place, taking with him a laptop computer, an
overpriced painting, his wardrobe, some books, two new kids, and
not much else. What would happen after that, he hadn’t a clue.
Hopefully, each day would bring less pain. But no matter what, he
had to endure, because people counted on him.

He heard a noise and turned to see Romy
inside, comically splayed out against the plate glass, cross-eyed,
nose bent up, nostrils flaring. He laughed and slid the patio door
open.

“Sing to me,” she said.

He scooped the girl up and carried her back
to her mat. Wyatt was already asleep. Charlie knelt as she crawled
into her sleeping bag, shifting his weight away from his right
knee. When she was properly snug, he sang, though it came out as
more of a croak:

There was a man in our town, and he was
wondrous wise;

He jumped into a bramble-bush, and scratched
out both his eyes.

But when he saw his eyes were out, with all
his might and main,

He jumped into another bush, and scratched
them in again
.

Her dark eyes shining, Romy touched the
bristly scar on his left cheek and brushed his black eyepatch.
“You’re Brambleman.”

“I guess I am.”

“I love you.”

“I’m glad.”

“Do you love us yet?”

“I suppose I do.”

“It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for
hours
.”

Loud, insistent rapping woke Charlie. He
rolled out of bed and limped barefoot across the cool concrete
floor.
Endure
. Before he reached the door, it opened and a
surly, mannish-looking woman stepped inside, holding her key like a
weapon. She froze him with a glower and dropped an orange
five-gallon bucket filled with cleaning supplies at his feet.

“Your face is beat from shit,” she
declared.

Satalin’s Eastern European cleaning woman. He
knew her slightly, having declined her services in January after
Satalin’s next-door neighbor told Charlie, “We think she’s
ex-secret police.” And now she returned triumphant and vengeful on
this, the day of reckoning.

“Excuse me, but—”

“You must go now,” she said, scouting the
loft with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “And what are those?” she
said, pointing at Wyatt and Romy, both now awake and blinking in
fear at the strange and terrible creature. “Checkout time is ten
o’clock.” She gave Charlie an evil laugh.

He groaned, then looked at the clock. “Hey,
it’s not even—”

“I joke, I joke. Checkout time is
now
.
Don’t worry. I give you half-hour before I throw things out.”

The effects of his concussion lingered. He
had a headache and felt a heavy-handed stupidity controlling his
thoughts. By Charlie’s reckoning, he had fifteen hours left on his
lease, but he was no match for the cleaning lady. Fortunately, he’d
already packed up. Wyatt and Romy, accustomed to quick getaways,
dressed and threw their stuff, virtually all of it new, in their
sleeping bags. To honor the occasion, Charlie donned his
monogrammed shipping department uniform, a gift from Barbara
Asher—so he’d know who he was. Lately, he hadn’t been so sure.

They fled her toxic brew of ammonia and
bleach mixed together. Charlie packed the trunk and front seat of
the BMW. (So little to show for being rich!) He threw the kids’
backpacks on the rear floor, then walked them into La Patisserie
for breakfast.

Charlie ate a Danish. Amy fretted over his
ruined, swollen face and was surprised to hear Romy call Charlie
“Daddy.”

She whispered to Charlie, “Weren’t your kids
white last time?”

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Go figure.”

Amy turned away, then pivoted back toward
Charlie, her pretty face a picture of puzzlement. “So you’re their
father?”

“Long lost,” he said, nodding.

“But now you’re found.”

While the kids busied themselves with
coloring books, Charlie got a refill on his coffee and pondered his
changing fate. Realizing it might be a long time before he
returned, he bought another Danish. Halfway through his second cup,
Amy came hurtling out of her office and flopped her chest over the
counter, urgently beckoning him. “Charlie! You need to see this! I
heard them mention your book.”

He stepped around the counter and squeezed
into a tiny office decorated with clipboards hanging everywhere,
positioning himself so he could watch the kids and the
ceiling-mounted television at the same time. The set was tuned to
Channel Six, with a “Breaking News” graphic running across the
bottom of the screen. He heard helicopter rotors humming and saw
the aerial shot of an upscale house by a lake.

Charlene Guy held a cellphone as she stared
into the camera. “We’re talking with a neighbor who says the house
belongs to Marie Hastings. Apparently a family member is also in
the house.” Speaking into the phone, she said, “Mrs. Pilson, you’re
on air. Can you tell me if anyone else lives there?”

“Her son,” the woman said in a slightly
muffled, high-pitched voice. “They call him ‘Momo.’ He’s in trouble
with the law a lot. This may have something to do with him.”

Momo’s monster pickup sat in the drive. The
heli-cam panned to show a black-helmeted deputy run in a crouch to
take a position behind a stone wall. Other SWAT members advanced on
the house like ants on a picnic basket.

“Thank you. Please hold a moment,” the
morning news anchor said, then addressed the camera: “According to
the Forsyth County Sheriff’s Office, deputies were attempting to
deliver a murder warrant in the death of Isaac Cutchins this
morning when they were fired upon. Since then, there’s been a
standoff, and our source reported that just a few minutes ago, a
single shot was fired, apparently inside the house. SWAT members
look like they’re setting up to enter the house—”

“Charlene,” said the reporter in the
helicopter. “You can see smoke coming out under the eaves of the
house.” The camera zoomed in. “I see flames now. The house is on
fire.”

Then came a voiceover from Charlene Guy:
“We’re just had a report of another gunshot.”

Charlie groaned. Amy touched his arm and
said, “Do you know these people?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s Judgment Day.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Yes.” He stared at the screen and watched
flames quickly spread as black smoke roiled out from under the
eaves. “Yes, it is.”

He took a step back. “I can’t watch this
anymore.”

After he said goodbye to Amy and promised to
come back for Danish someday soon, Charlie slipped out with the
kids. He buckled them into their safety seats and traveled down
Memorial Drive, stopping at the Holy Way House to inspect the
damage from Wednesday night’s fire. Charlie had seen the news
coverage of the inferno that wiped out the gang of cutthroats
responsible for nearly killing him. Up close, the scene was
terribly stark. The warehouse and other buildings on three sides of
the church and the Hunger Palace had burned to the ground, and
their ruins were now wrapped with ribbons of fluttering yellow
tape. Redeemer’s church and the Hunger Palace had escaped the
flames unscathed and looked like they had risen from the ashes of
the surrounding destruction. He briefly considered going inside to
retrieve Romy’s and Wyatt’s things, then decided against the idea,
especially since they didn’t want to be there and neither one cried
out for anything they’d left behind.

* * *

When Charlie exited the hospital’s elevator
with Romy and Wyatt, he sensed something was wrong. The ICU nurse’s
station was deserted. The floor seemed unnaturally quiet, even
though he could hear unseen people talking and a far-off voice over
an intercom speaker. A hard chill stronger than any air
conditioning raised goose bumps on his arms, and the hallway was
filled with static electricity. A glance through a window revealed
storm clouds rolling in. He smelled deteriorating body functions
vying with disinfectants, and to top it off, a whiff of the street.
Trouble was near.