Brambleman (62 page)

Friday morning, Charlie temporarily put
thoughts of the devil aside and read the e-mail from his attorney
confirming his right to pick up his kids that evening and keep them
for twenty-four hours. “Be cool. Be very cool,” Muncie cautioned.
“Susan is hostile, holding you responsible for her grandfather’s
death, and wants to revoke your visitation rights immediately, but
I worked with her lawyer and got her to back off.”

While Charlie was debating whether to
celebrate his victory or buy an athletic cup for his next trip to
Thornbriar, he received another e-mail, this one from his
publisher:

Charles,

Cutchins politician threatens to sue for
libel if we don’t pull the book. Since our lawyers vetted the ms
and the main bad guy is dead, I’ll stand firm. But if you lose, we
don’t pay for the defense. If there’s anything we need to step back
from, better let me know. Now. Just got off the phone with Cutchins
attorney, Georgia ex-governor—charming fellow, btw.

Spence

PS They claim you faked footnotes in the
other book. I said we have nothing to do with that. I hope for your
sake that’s another of their lies. They are lies, aren’t they?

PPS Be a man. Answer your phone.

When the phone buzzed, Charlie answered it
manfully. It was Crenshaw. Charlie refused to talk until he read
the morning paper—the real one, not the Internet version, so he
could see his relative importance—and the reporter didn’t want to
hang up, so Charlie slipped on sandals and stayed on the line while
he padded downstairs to get a copy of the
Atlanta
Journal-Constitution.
The article was atop the front: “Target
of Lynching Book Kills Self.”

Target?
What the hell does that mean
?
Charlie perused the article, then said, “Hey, where’s the
devil-worship stuff?”

“It was not for attribution.”

“As opposed to off the record,” Charlie said.
“Cowards.”

“Yeah. Managing editor wouldn’t let me print
it. No cheap shots without a name. Journalistic ethics, or some
such shit. Just when it’s getting interesting, too. I think it’s a
blatant conflict of interest. I mean, most editors worship the
devil, too. You were an editor once, right?”

“Yeah.”

“See what I’m sayin’? You should thank them
at your next black mass.”

“I’ll be sure to do that. Moving right along
…”

“So, if it wasn’t a suicide, as you maintain,
who do you think did it?”

“No comment.”

“That’s worthless. By the way, the Forsyth DA
calls you ‘Miss Marple.’ He doesn’t appreciate your speculation on
the manner of death. But that’s not what I’m working on. I got a
whole new thing. Yesterday I talked to some history professors.
They had questions about the documentation for
Flight from
Forsyth
.”

“Not
that
again. Why is it coming up
now?” Charlie asked, though he knew that his work represented the
mule’s toe in the tent on reparations, so to speak. Now he feared
he’d screwed the mule.

“Oh, to attack your credibility, definitely,”
Crenshaw said. “And I get to watch. Oh boy.”

“Old news. I’m concentrating on
American
Monster
now, so—”

“Charlie. Charlie. You promised me
documentation a year and a half ago.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Dude, I am so tired of you and the history
you rode in on.”

“Whatever,” Charlie said. “Gotta go.”

* * *

After spending the afternoon cruising
bookstores, signing
Monsters
, and buying a small library for
Beck and Ben, Charlie arrived at Thornbriar just before six
o’clock. It was hot and sunny, with a few hours of daylight left.
When she answered the door, Susan was wearing a white summer dress.
She looked good, except for her glower.

“Hey,” he said.

“I told them Pappy died. They’re sad, of
course. I’m not taking them up there for the service.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“You are
not
coming.” Her voice could
have carved an ice sculpture.

“No, of course not.” He thought he heard
something inside. Harold? He’d been repeatedly warned to be cool
during his visit, but he pushed his head inside the door, anyway.
“Sirius?”

Susan pushed back. He looked into her eyes.
They were smoldering like a poorly doused campfire.
What the
hell did you do to my dog
? “Do you want to talk?” he asked.

“Not to you.”

“Give your mother my condolences.”

“Fuck you, Charlie.”

“No. Really. It’s a terrible way to die, to
have somebody kill you.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “What do you
mean?
You
killed him with that book, even if–”

“I didn’t pull the trigger myself,” Charlie
twanged.

She clamped her jaw shut. He could tell she
was in a slapping mood; he took a step backward.

“It’s not just about him.” Shining tears of
anger filled her eyes. “You called me a
mutant
. You’re an
asshole.”

Ah, so that was it
. He had debated
whether to put that in the book. “That just means I think more
highly of you than the varmints. Anyway, you called me a
pervert.”

“The difference is, you put it in a
book.”

Now it was his turn to show outrage. “You put
it in court documents!”

“OK,” she said, carelessly brushing back her
hair. “We’re getting nowhere.”

The powder keg was defused when Beck and Ben
marched up, freshly scrubbed and dressed in bright, clean clothes,
wearing backpacks like they were going to their first day of
school.

“Where’s Sirius?” Charlie asked Ben.

“In the back yard.”

Charlie gave Susan the evil eye. “Lawyers
didn’t say anything about not seeing my dog.”

Susan gave it back. “Didn’t say anything
about seeing him, either, did they?” She broke off the staredown to
stoop for goodbye kisses. “Bring them back tomorrow by six.” To the
kids, she said, “I’ll miss you.”

“Miss you too,” Beck said, embracing her. Ben
got dragged into the group hug, looking up at his father for
something Charlie couldn’t give.

Susan pushed them out and closed the door.
Charlie stared at it and shook his head before turning to tend his
children. He buckled the kids into their booster seats, then
climbed behind the wheel. When he started to back out, a horn
honked behind him. That obnoxiously big BMW had snuck up behind him
and was waiting to take his place—or bugger his car. So she was
going out, probably to celebrate being one step closer to all that
money. Despite his joy at being with his kids, he resented the fact
that Susan was using him as a babysitter so that she could step out
on him. Charlie couldn’t wait to see what Muncie’s detective dug
up.

“Always carry a spare.” Charlie scratched his
nose with his middle finger as he drove by Harold. “Let’s go
eat.”

Charlie took the kids to Chik-fil-A for
dinner. To his disappointment, they didn’t talk much. Everything
was basic with Ben (“Do you still have rats?”); Beck wasn’t in a
talkative mood. They didn’t ask him when he was coming back,
something they’d always done before. Maybe they’d accepted his
disappearance, or perhaps he’d already been replaced. Once he
thought he heard Ben say “Harold,” but Beck quickly shushed her
little brother. Charlie was afraid to ask them about the man,
fearing that he wouldn’t like their answers.

At the loft, Beck and Ben ran around and
bounced on the bed. They agreed that this place was much nicer than
the dungeon, and they especially liked the big TV. No rats, he
assured them. Charlie laid out mats and placed sleeping bags on
them, then read aloud from a new Lemony Snicket book. After that,
they camped out on the floor and watched a movie. Charlie fell
asleep with them, waking to find Ben cuddled next to him, breathing
warm and soft in his ear.
My boy
. Tears welled in Charlie’s
eyes. Being close to his kids made sleeping on the cold concrete
floor worth the discomfort, so he stayed there all night.

And woke up with a stiff back.

For breakfast, he took them to the bakery.
Amy marveled at the kids as they ate muffins and drank juice.
Charlie sipped coffee and read the paper, amazed that it didn’t
mention his name. He was glad, for even he had grown tired of
seeing his name in the news. Then he thought of that scumbag
Matthew Steele and shuddered. He glanced at his watch and realized
that Pappy’s funeral had started. The burial had been pushed up a
day, since several family members would travel to Chicago Sunday
for Monday’s taping of the Steele show. Charlie shuddered at the
thought of sharing a flight with them.

After flying kites in Piedmont Park and
visiting Fernbank Museum, Charlie returned to Thornbriar promptly
at six. The garage was open. Sitting inside was a new silver
Mercedes C300 sedan with dealer tags. So that was her ride now. He
wondered how much of his child-support money had gone to the down
payment.

Susan, dressed in black, opened the door.
After the kids went inside, she told Charlie, “From now on, don’t
get out of the car.”

He looked at her like she was crazy. “I’m
going to walk them to the door.”

“I can’t even stand to have you on the
property.”

“Y’all get right testy about real estate,
don’t you?”

“I can’t condone what you’ve done.”

“What, tell the truth? If Pappy and his
supporters, including you, can’t handle it, that’s your problem.
You should come to the light.”

“
You’re
the light?” she scoffed.
“Listen. I love my family. And I’ll always protect them.” She took
a deep breath. “Don’t ever set foot in this house again. Consider
it fair warning. You know what I’m saying.”

“I assume you’re telling me you’ll kill me in
my own house.”

“Get over the notion that it’s your
house.”

“And you know the rule we’ve always had.
There better not be any guns in there.”

“You don’t make the rules anymore.”

“Those are my kids, too.”

“I don’t want to talk to you. Not after what
I went through today. You should go. So go.”

“You’re really hateful.”

She laughed bitterly. “I’m a varmint. Can’t
help it.”

Charlie expected her to slam the door in his
face, but instead she stood there looking slender and really quite
beautiful in an ugly way, watching him get in his car and back into
the street.

Charlie returned to the loft and dressed for
Aimee Duprelier’s Buckhead soirée. He thought he looked rakish in
his seersucker suit and blue polo shirt with suede bucks, along
with new rimless glasses—part of his spending spree for the
upcoming “Monster Book Tour.”

Just after eight, Dana knocked on his door.
She was wearing a little black dress; her raven hair was lustrous.
She twirled. “You like?”

“Always. Come in.”

She gave him a promising smile. “Do you have
anything to drink?”

“We must go out for that. My drinking days
are over.” It helped to remind himself of that.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Ve’ll have
to go to my place for a nightcap then, von’t ve?” she asked, her
voice an exotic purr.

Yes
. This would be the night.
Finally
. He fought back a whimper of desire. As they left,
Charlie caught their reflection in the wall mirror and thought they
looked like models in an upscale vodka ad. He was glad to see that
she wasn’t a vampire. (With all the supernatural crap he’d been
through, he was beginning to wonder.)

In the hall, she took his arm. “I like your
new look. Prosperous. Less of a bloody mess than I’m used to
seeing.” She laughed and squeezed his bicep.

In the garage, Dana ran her fingers along his
new BMW’s trunk. “I like.” And then she ran her fingers along his
face. “I like this, too. It’s … rugged.”

Charlie cast a glance back toward the
elevator, then reluctantly opened the car door for her. On their
way to Buckhead, Dana told Charlie about their hostess in a
clipped, Eastern European news-anchor delivery: “Aimee got half the
company in the divorce. It vas privately held back then … and not
vorth nearly so much as it is now. They did an IPO and raised three
hundred and fifty million. Baldvin sold off his stock and she ended
up vith the controlling share. Now he’s an employee in his own
company, and she votes on all his raises. He’s probably the only
chief executive officer in Atlanta vithout a stock option.”

“How do you know so much about her?”

She gave him a knowing smile. “An art dealer
has to know these things. I am so looking forward to meeting her …
and her money.”

“Dana the Dangerous.”

She gave him an impish grin. “You don’t mind,
do you?”

“No. Should be fun.”

* * *

Aimee Duprelier’s Buckhead “cottage” seemed
like a cross between a mansion and a grand hotel. It boasted
Italian marble in a foyer with a twenty-five-foot ceiling and wide,
sweeping staircases left and right. As Charlie and Dana entered,
Aimee broke away from a conversation to greet the new arrivals
underneath a chandelier that looked like it cost more than
Charlie’s BMW. “Why, Charles Sherman!” she cried out, her penciled
eyebrows etched in flight. Aimee—a woman of indeterminate age,
heavily bejeweled yet somewhat plain-looking, with the skin on her
face unnaturally tight—wore an emerald green dress with a gigantic
bow in the back. “Someone just told me you live in a
dungeon
,” she whispered conspiratorially as she touched his
arm.

Charlie found her air of familiarity amusing.
“I used to. Now I live in a castle, but it’s under siege.”

Aimee gave him a high, throaty giggle.
“You’re as funny as you are notorious. I’ve been reading about you
every day. You’ve caused quite a stir with that new book of
yours.”