Brambleman (65 page)

“Now, sister,” Stanley cautioned. “I know
you’re upset by Pap’s death, but—”

“Don’t you even talk to me!” Arlene screamed.
Turning to Steele and calming slightly, she said, “First, I want to
tell everyone that I believe every word in Mr. Sherman’s book. That
… my father—” she patted down her red dress, which didn’t fit like
it belonged on her “—was capable of what was described in the book,
and I know ’cause I lived through it. You have no idea how many
times I’ve prayed to be able to tell my story to the world.”

Charlie crouched by the sofa and bit his
thumbs in anticipation. “Yes, I do. You go, girl!”

“That man was a monster. He raped me every
week for three years, and the woman he married just looked the
other way.” Arlene’s rapid-fire delivery let everyone know she
would not be outtalked.

“Your mother,” Steele added helpfully.

“And as far as I’m concerned, the whole
family can burn in hell.”

Stanley, now two shades paler than at the
start of the program, cried out, “You can’t believe her! Sherman
planted that story in her head!”

Arlene continued: “I left home when I was
sixteen years old and pregnant by my own father.” Audience members
cried out in disgust. “I was so ignorant I had no idea what to do.
I heard about a place to have an abortion up in Ringgold and I went
up there, but then they wanted me to have the baby so they could
sell it. They took care of me all right, but when my baby was born,
no one would take it. He was retarded. My boy’s nearly sixty years
old and he’s in a state home, and that’s where he’ll stay until the
day he dies.”

“No, no!” Charlie shouted at the screen.
“That’s not what you told me! That’s not what’s in the book! Stick
to the script, goddamnit! Stick to the script!” He reached up and
grabbed his hair with both hands. “You were supposed to have an
abortion!”

“I blamed myself,” Arlene said, “but it was
due to the inbreeding. I know that now because of this book. That
Monster
married his half-sister. I gave birth to my brother!
There’s crimes against God going on in that family! Dig the (bleep)
up! Do those tests on him and my son! He stole that land, and
worse!”

This was too much even for Steele, whose face
went pale. Charlie felt nauseous, too. His source was refuting him.
What had he been thinking? Never trust a varmint!
Never, never,
never
!

Arlene leveled her gaze at Stanley. “I heard
you already took his money from selling the stolen land and been
spreadin’ it around, like good works will get you into heaven. You
livin’ a lie.”

“You should have come to us,” Stanley said,
his face a mask of pain and suffering. “We would have helped
you!”

“Come to you?” She scoffed. “Hell. You knew
what was going on.”

“I protected my sisters.”

Charlie’s eyes widened at this admission.

“You protected your other sisters. Not me.
You could have stopped him. Instead you decided that monster was
your role model.”

“Oh my goodness!” Steele said in alarm. “Are
you saying—”

“He tried to do it to me himself. Once. I
fought him off with a butcher knife.”

“That’s a damn lie!” Stanley shouted.

“He has a scar on the inside of his left
thigh. Pull down your pants and show your rape scar, you
(
bleep
)! You’re lucky I didn’t cut it off. Maybe somebody
did. He ain’t got no kids, you know.”

The crowd started chanting, “Pull ’em off!
Pull ’em off!” Charlie, having recovered somewhat, joined in.

“And as for how that man died, I don’t
believe he shot himself. Too damned mean for that.”

“Do you think somebody killed Isaac
Cutchins?” Steele asked. “Police say it was a suicide.”

“Wouldn’t put it past his own people, not
with money on the line.” She pointed at Momo. “His daddy burned
down the courthouse, and he’s no better. Maybe he did it. You kill
your granddad, boy?”

That was too much for Momo. “I can’t stand
this no more!” he bellowed, and rose from his chair. He took a step
toward Arlene, who stood to face him. As the security staff closed
in, she pulled a small canister of mace from her bra and sprayed
her nephew in the eyes, then gave two guards the same treatment.
Audience members screamed. Steele jumped off the stage, and with
security guards semi-disabled, the melee began in earnest as people
in the crowd rushed to join the fight.

Arlene had also smuggled a knife into the
studio, and she was determined to cut someone, bless her heart.

The brawl on the Steele Show reminded Charlie
of his brother-in-law Jerry Bancroft’s funeral, so he switched
channels and happened upon a car chase in progress. At first he
thought he was watching
COPS
and started singing the theme
song. Then he realized it was live and local. Newschopper Six was
hot on the trail of a silver sedan weaving through traffic on I-85
in Gwinnett County. He put down the remote. After seeing the
horrific performance of Aunt Arlene … or Shirley (who was that
woman, anyway?) Charlie was glad to watch bad news that didn’t
involve him. Best of all, he knew that Channel Six (
If it
bleeds, it leads
) would stick with the chase, preempting other
local coverage—including the daily beat-down of Charlie Sherman. He
settled in to watch.

The vehicle proceeded north, running on the
shoulder at highway speed. Traffic reporter Trey Denison gave a
breathless report: “The suspect car is taking the exit at Pleasant
Hill. It’s on the grass now … almost slid down the embankment.”

Early evening anchor Gayle Huggins cut in.
“Trey, we have some information on the suspects. Two black males in
their late teens or early twenties, both about five-foot-six.
Wearing baggy shirts and basketball shorts—”

Trey: “Did you see that? He just clipped a
car when he ran the red light, then sideswiped another. Traffic’s
too heavy to get through. This is Gwinnett Place Mall at rush hour
we’re talking about! He’s going the other way now, taking a right,
heading east.”

“Trey, where are the police cars?”

“The ones on I-85 are about a quarter-mile
back, working up the ramp. I see some other police cars now.” The
camera panned to show two units in pursuit. “One going westbound on
Pleasant Hill just did a U-Turn at a traffic light to join the
chase. The suspect is accelerating, but this can’t last long. He’s
cutting through a parking lot, just hit a car.
Look out
. He
almost hit a pedestrian.”

The anchor broke in: “For those of you just
joining us, we are covering an apparent carjacking in progress.
Police spotted the suspect vehicle northbound on I-85 after the
alleged carjackers shot the victim about an hour ago. We’ve got a
reporter at the shooting scene, and we’ll bring you a report when
we’re able.”

The chase continued for a few minutes without
commentary before Denison said, “Police have a roadblock at Highway
Twenty-Nine. Unless he … yep, there he goes on Ronald Reagan
Parkway. Police are setting a blockade there, too. It’s going to be
over soon.”

The camera zoomed in on the car as the driver
slowed to negotiate the snarled traffic. Two patrol cars rolled
onto the parkway’s grassy median just as the stolen car—now
identified as a Mercedes sedan—left the eastbound lane and barreled
across the median toward oncoming traffic.

Denison shouted, “He’s going the wrong
way!”

The Mercedes shot up onto the westbound lane,
going against traffic. It immediately collided head-on with a
pickup truck. The car spun into the median and came to a rest. The
camera closed in on one suspect as he jumped out the passenger door
and sprinted toward the mass of cars in the roadblocked eastbound
lane. He charged up on a car sitting in traffic. “He’s wearing a
red cap or something on his head, and it looks like he’s armed,”
Denison said, his voice on edge. “I think he’s trying to steal
another—”

The carjacker’s body jerked once, then
collapsed on the ground.

“He’s down.” The camera panned to armed
officers advancing on the suspect, guns drawn. The video shot was
too distant for Charlie to make out anyone’s features clearly, but
he had a bad feeling about what was happening.

The helicopter’s camera pivoted to show the
Mercedes driver running along the median grass back the way he’d
come. A county police car raced up behind him. The carjacker
scrambled up the incline to the westbound lanes and tried to sprint
across, but got clipped by a car and fell down. He staggered to his
feet and tried to hobble away, but an officer jumped out of the
pursuit vehicle and tackled him from behind. The camera stayed on
the suspect for a minute, then switched to his fallen accomplice,
who remained motionless.

“It looks like the police have the situation
under control now,” Denison said. “But at least one of the suspects
appears to have been shot. It doesn’t look like he’s moving,
either.”

Gayle Huggins cut in: “We’re going live to
DeKalb County and Monica Crowley at TransNationBank on Hanover
Drive. Go ahead, Monica.”

“No!” Charlie shouted as he stared at the
face of a woman he’d known for several years. “No!”

The camera cut to the reporter on location.
“Gayle, right now I’m where the scene of this alleged crime in
north DeKalb County. I’m with an eyewitness, TransNationBank
assistant manager, Allison Fugate.” The blonde reporter put a hand
on the weeping woman’s shoulder. “Take a breath and compose
yourself.”

The bottom dropped out of Charlie’s
stomach.

“It was terrible,” Allison said, clearly
distraught. “I was looking out the window and saw it happen. When
Susan went to her car—”

“And that’s branch manager Susan
Sherman?”

“Yes,” Allison said. “They shot her and took
her car. They just shot her. They didn’t have to do that. They
already had the keys.” The woman sobbed deeply and gasped for
breath.

“Could you describe the suspects?”

“Two young black males. They were short. The
one who shot her was wearing a red handkerchief on his head.”

“This isn’t happening,” Charlie told himself
as Allison sobbed and sniffed her way through the interview. But it
was happening, and he needed to do something.
Get moving
, he
told himself.
You’ve got to help
. Through the fog of
confusion that was clouding his brain, he heard the reporter say,
“The shooting victim has been taken to Northeast Atlanta Regional
Medical Center with life-threatening injuries.”

Get Beck and Ben
. Where were they?
With the woman who babysat for them after school? He didn’t have
her phone number, so he’d have to drive there. He burst out the
door, sprinted down the hall with long strides, and hurtled down
the stairs, grabbing the handrails and taking a half-flight at a
time. He slid to a stop in the garage and thought for a moment
before deciding that luxury cars were bad luck and taking the
Volvo.

It seemed to take forever to reach his old
neighborhood. Along the way, Charlie listened to the news, fretted,
and kept switching radio stations. No updates, just traffic reports
telling him that the world was slowing down on its way home. His
gut churning, Charlie drove past the school and Thornbriar, feeling
like he’d entered hostile territory. And what if the worst
happened—if, at that very instant, that incessant beeping in the
hospital changed to a solid, flat tone?

The kids needed a parent, especially now. He
wasn’t going to apologize for doing his job. Thank God the
restraining order had been lifted. Or was a new one in place? Susan
was so vindictive, he couldn’t keep track. Damn! The letter with
his visitation rights was in the other car. He hit the steering
wheel in frustration. He’d had problems with this babysitter back
in October. Well, she’d just have to understand. He turned onto her
street. At least he thought it was her street.

But which house? They all looked the same to
him. He parked in the driveway of a likely looking tan brick ranch.
When he rang the bell, the woman opened the door a centimeter and
said, “Her sister came and got them just a few minutes ago.”

How did Susan get in touch with Sheila? “Why
didn’t she call me?” Charlie asked.

The woman closed the door in his face.
Charlie stood on the porch feeling dumb and empty. From inside, a
man said, “If you don’t leave, we’ll call the police.”

“Ridiculous!” Charlie shouted over his
shoulder as he stormed off. “I’m just trying to help!”

* * *

Northeast Regional Medical Center’s main
building was white, modern, and square, with two large wings
spreading east and west. Its windows shone golden against the
evening sun. When Charlie rushed into the emergency entrance, a
funky chemical smell filled his nostrils. He spotted a sign-in desk
and quick-stepped toward it. “I need to know about Susan Sherman,”
he said, slamming his palms on the counter. “She came in with a
gunshot—”

“She’s in surgery,” said an older white nurse
standing behind the young black desk attendant.

“Do you know—”

The woman shook her head, wagging her double
chin. “You can take a seat over there.” She pointed toward the
waiting area.

Charlie turned and saw Evangeline sitting on
an orange plastic chair, clutching a black purse with both hands.
His mother-in-law glared at him with dark eyes, her jaw clenched
tight, face ready to explode: The very picture of hatred and rage,
though it appeared that she’d survived the Steele show without any
noticeable wounds.

As Charlie approached her, she rose from her
seat and walked stiffly away. He looked around for his
father-in-law for a moment before recalling that Evangeline had
left Saint Bradley.

Evangeline returned, a white cop with a butch
haircut in tow. He took one look at Charlie and a storm of worry
crossed his face. “Holy smoke! You’re the guy who wrote the book
about the in-laws!” He turned to Evangeline. “And you’re the
in-law!” He spoke into the radio unit on his shoulder. “I’m at the
ER waiting room and I need backup.”