Brambleman (77 page)

* * *

The remains of John Riggins, reunited with
his right middle finger, had been buried alongside those of his
wife.

Minerva and Arlene, who had filed her own
claim against the Cutchinses, dropped their lawsuits when they
found out that the Cutchinses’ vast wealth was gone with the
windbag and that fighting the developer would also mean fighting
the state Department of Transportation and attorney general, since
highway easements were now involved.

There was one chunk of change remaining,
however. Susan and Bradley Roy persuaded Phil and Sheila to give up
what was left of their share of Pappy’s ill-gotten gains. Minerva,
having learned of Arlene’s plight, split that money with her
half-sister. Arlene would use her portion to buy a new double-wide
and a pickup truck. During this process, Charlie had the
opportunity to talk to Susan’s hermetic aunt, and he asked her,
“What really happened to your baby? Did you have an abortion, or
was the child institutionalized?”

Arlene looked him in the eye and said,
“Neither. I had a miscarriage.”

Charlie was incredulous. “Then why ... why …
oh, I give up.”

“Best that you do,” she said.

Minerva used her money to set up a college
fund for Takira and hire lawyers for Demetrious. His lawyers were
able to negotiate a guilty plea in exchange for a ten-year
sentence
1
—a much better
deal than the death penalty or even the two mandatory twenty-year
sentences he faced if convicted. The deal went through after it
received the victim’s approval.

By that time, the old woman and young girl
had decided it would be best for Baby Shaundra if she was put up
for adoption. At John Riggins’s funeral, Minerva had asked Charlie
if he knew of any prospective parents, Charlie mentioned Angela
Talton and Sandra Hughes, who had told him at their commitment
ceremony in August that they wanted to adopt. Minerva thought it
was a grand idea for the girl to have two mommies. “I’m tired of
men, anyhow,” she said.

In November, news broke that fugitive
politician Stanley Cutchins had perished of dysentery in Costa
Rica. The money he’d taken was never recovered. Evangeline remained
in jail awaiting trial and refused to allow her public defender to
plea bargain. She believed that she’d be vindicated in a trial
because, in her words, Charlie Sherman “needed killing.”

* * *

While doing spring cleaning, Susan found
Charlie’s $12,000 painting in the garage. She insisted that he get
rid of it immediately. Charlie hated the idea of throwing away
something so expensive, even if it wasn’t valuable, so he took it
to Bay Street Coffeehouse to show it to Jean, whom he hadn’t seen
in nearly a year.

His favorite barista shook her head at the
sight of him. “You’ve gone from lone wolf to pirate,” she said,
then quickly added, “I told you Dana was bad news.”

Danger Girl had recently been sentenced to
twenty years in federal prison. Charlie didn’t want to talk about
her. He just shook his head back at Jean.

“Whatcha got there?” She nodded at the
painting, which he’d placed just inside the door.

“You want it?” he asked.

“Are you serious?” She came around the
counter to view it more closely.

He groaned in embarrassment. “I know. Really.
You can have it.”

“How much you asking for it?”

“It’s yours if you want it. In exchange for
your many kindnesses.”

“I don’t remember being
that
kind.”

“Consider it payback for that cranberry
muffin.”

“A muffin?” She squinted at him. “Your wife
making you get rid of it?”

“Yup.” He picked up the picture and peered
over the top of its frame. For the first time, he saw it as the
artist had intended. “Oh, my God! Is that … oh, definitely take it,
then.”

“Prude.”

“Former ascetic, actually.”

Her eyebrows perked up. “You really want me
to have it?”

“Absolutely.”

“In that case, I won’t turn it down.” She
grabbed the painting. “You realize this is a Travinci? No? Oh. He
was killed by terrorists a few months ago. And you know what
happens when artists die.”

“Hell, I just got
shot
and got rich. I
hope you do as well. Without getting shot, that is.”

She smiled and then gave him a kiss that
reminded him what he’d missed while under his wife’s prayer/curse.
He left, glad to know he’d found a way to repay her for being his
friend when he had no others.

He never found out how much the painting was
worth, but the next time he dropped by and tinkled the doorbell,
the place had been renamed
Jean’s Bay Street Coffeehouse
.
And while she wasn’t working at the time, there was a laminated
card taped to the counter that said
Free coffee for one-eyed
writers
. The barista on duty looked up at Charlie and said,
“You’re the one.”

Charlie was living a good life, loving his
wife and children, giving away money, even donating time and effort
to worthy causes. While
Flight from Forsyth
and
American
Monster
had both been bestsellers, the issue of reparations
died (again) without any concrete results, possession being more
than nine-tenths of the law in this case. Charlie was disappointed
that the books had not had a greater effect, even though he
realized that some of the blame for this lamentable outcome fell on
his shoulders. Still, he suspected that what had started that
December night wasn’t over yet. Something large was out there
waiting for him, just over the horizon.

On a sunny day in May, Charlie felt a burning
sensation on his thigh, like he’d struck a match in his pocket.
After a blazing instant of pain, the feeling subsided. That
evening, he heard the news that Redeemer Wilson had died,
succumbing to cancer after a long battle. When Charlie read
Crenshaw’s article about the civil rights icon, he wanted to make
another donation to the cause, but he couldn’t even find anyone to
take his money. The charity’s finances were hopelessly tangled, and
its prospects were beyond grim: The Hunger Palace had been closed
for more than a year.

The old civil rights warrior was laid to rest
on a Monday afternoon in overalls, with a bullhorn at his side,
just in case. His pine box coffin was carried on a mule-drawn wagon
to Eastside Cemetery, followed by thousands of marching mourners.
He was laid to rest just a few feet away from John Riggins. As
Charlie stood at the back of the huge crowd, he caught a whiff of
that old familiar stench. He looked around but saw no bad angel
lurking. Following the service, he slipped away unnoticed.

Redeemer’s death reminded Charlie of
something, and the next day, he started work in his home office on
his long-delayed article about unrepentant racist Clint Brimmer. It
was just after lunch, and he was by himself. The kids were at
school, and Susan was also at Gresham, doing PTA work. As he picked
up the phone to call Brimmer, Charlie heard the familiar rumble of
a MARTA bus—odd, since Thornbriar had no service. With a sense of
foreboding, he put the phone down and went to the front door,
opening it just as the vehicle stopped directly in front of the
house.

An emaciated old fellow stumbled down the
steps, tripping on the curb and stepping awkwardly on the grass. It
was Trouble, looking much more haggard and worn than Charlie had
ever seen him before. As the bus pulled away, he shuffled slowly
toward Charlie with tiny steps, then detoured to a concrete bench
by the Japanese maple in the middle of the yard, where he
collapsed. “Thirsty,” Trouble croaked.

Instead of fear or anger, Charlie felt pity
for the avenging angel. He ran inside and returned with a bottle of
water. Trouble was slumped over on the bench. Fighting his aversion
to the odor, Charlie gently grabbed Trouble’s shoulder and pulled
him up into a sitting position, then sat beside him to brace the
old guy. He realized that Trouble’s power was gone; not even a
static charge was left. He opened the bottle and held it to the old
being’s lips. After a few sips, Trouble said, “Enough.”

Charlie capped the container and set it on
the bench.

“I always liked water,” Trouble said. “Next
to fire, it’s my favorite element. How about you?”

“Earth,” Charlie said.

“Ha. With you, I figured it would be
wind.”

They sat in silence for a while. A blue jay
squawked. White butterflies flitted around the petunias the kids
had planted in the flowerbed. Charlie smelled a neighbor’s
fresh-cut grass mingled with Trouble’s stench. Finally, Trouble
spoke. “It’s over.”

“Is it? I never know.”

“That’s your problem.” Trouble wheezed a weak
laugh, showing a few blackened teeth. Most were gone. “I meant for
me, not you. Your trouble is just beginning.”

“Why should I listen to you?” Charlie said.
“Face it. You’re not very nice.”

“Niceness is overrated. Give me thunder and
lightning any time.”

“All you know to do is tear up and
destroy.”

Trouble twisted his neck until it popped. He
grimaced and shook his head. “You got me good with those rat traps.
I knew something weird was going on then. I figured it was revenge
for what happened to Raccoon boy. Your brother.”

“My brother-in—yeah, my brother.”

“The fact that he didn’t die was a tip-off
that this wasn’t going to end well. From my perspective.”

“I don’t get it. Why kill him?”

“For the prevention of breeding more … what
do you call them?
Varmints
?”

Charlie looked at him in disgust. “Birth
control? Sheila’s forty-five years old.”

Trouble shrugged. “They were talking.”

“I don’t believe this. I’m only sitting here
because you’ve got connections. So what have you got to say? Spit
it out.”

Trouble appeared irked at Charlie’s
impudence. “
I’ve
got connections? You
are
a fool. But
I knew that ever since the fakey suicide attempt you made just to
get their attention. World’s worst prayer,” he muttered in
distaste.

“I’m not proud of that,” Charlie admitted.
“But it wasn’t a prayer.”

“Was too.”

“Was—”

Charlie was interrupted by the cawing of a
crow overhead.

“Look, I’m doing better.”

“That’s what I hear,” Trouble said. “And you
… you’re too stupid to know this, but it’s not just the little one.
It’s you. You must know you’ve been marked. That’s how life on
earth gets to us.”

Caw
!

Trouble winced. Looking to the sky, he said,
“He’s going to know in just a minute, anyway!” He leveled his gaze
at Charlie. “Crows. Biggest assholes in the universe. This or any
other.”

Charlie looked up and saw the black birds
approaching from all sides. Trouble waved a hand weakly. “You
managed to save the Cutchins seed from extinction.
Congratulations,” he said sarcastically.

“It’s my seed, too,” Charlie reminded
him.

“If you say so. Just don’t let them
compound—”

“Don’t go there.”

“I’m just sayin’. Recessive genes, you know.
We don’t need a comeback.”

“They’re not the only ones.”

“You’re talking about the carjacker’s baby
girl. Shaundra Talton-Hughes. Little kryptonite saved her, too.
Umbrella effect.” Trouble squinted at the early afternoon sun.
Meanwhile, hundreds of crows circled in the sky. “This is where it
ends for me.”

Birds were landing in the surrounding trees,
filling the air with raucous cawing.

“Don’t have much time left. Just came to
grant your prayer. As required.”

Charlie stood up. “No more miracles. You’ve
done enough already.”

Trouble broke out laughing, then started
coughing. Charlie slapped him on the back and felt the welts he’d
seen under Trouble’s T-shirt that night in the Pancake Hut. He had
a few of his own from the chain beating he’d taken that night in
the church parking lot, though his wounds weren’t as prominent as
the old timer’s. They really knew how to lay on a whupping back in
the day.

When he caught his breath, Trouble said, “You
are
a miracle. You
are
life after death. But you’re
more than that, you are—eh, I can’t even say it. The new thing. But
you’re not indestructible, just lucky.”

“That’s funny,” Charlie said. “But I’m leery
of miracles you have to pray for. I prefer the everyday kind. You
know, where the poor kid goes to med school and pulls the bullet
out of a woman’s back. Three-minute response times. Hookers with
guns. That sort of thing.”

“Your own reckless foolishness,” Trouble
added.

“Talk about reckless. Why’d you give the
smite power to Kathleen?”

“That wasn’t me. I just passed along the
request … with a recommendation of approval,” he added.

“OK. Why’d you pass along the request … with
a recommendation of approval, then?”

Trouble shrugged. “Self-defense. She was
worried, and I sure as hell didn’t trust you to take care of
her.”

“Fair enough.”

“Didn’t work out. They took it away.”

“I know. I was there. She could have used it
later.”

Trouble shook his head knowingly. “Timing is
everything.”

“So what kind of prayer were you going to
grant me? World peace? A million dollars?”

“World peace is impossible, and you got the
money, although it’s probably gone.”

“I got some left,” Charlie said
defensively.

“Your real prayer,” Trouble said. “The first
one. Your best one. They think you deserve it.”

“Somebody up there likes me?” Charlie asked
in amazement.

“I’d say
out
there.” Trouble gave him
a sly smile. “And I wouldn’t go so far as to say they like you.
Let’s just say it was the kind of prayer they couldn’t turn
down—one of those ninety-eight foot shots at the buzzer they find
so interesting. But you had to prove yourself. And somehow, in some
stupid, dumbass way, you did. So—”