Brambleman (3 page)

Charlie grimaced at the insult. After a
moment, curiosity overcame resentment. OK, the guy wasn’t going to
say who he was. He’d try a different tack. “Where are you
from?”

“I just told you.”

“Not exactly. Uh, how old are you?”

“What year is it?”

Charlie told him.

The stranger nodded and said, “Sounds about
right.”

“Huh? Never mind. Forget I asked.” Obviously,
the guy’s brain was cooked.

Lil Bit, who had been staring at them with a
curled lip, pointed to a sign above the grill:
Pancake Hut IS
Home of the Sausage Cake
. She blinked in surprise and yelled,
“Harley! Where’s the sign?”

The middle-aged white man working the grill
wiped his hands on his apron and looked up, then turned to Charlie
and said, “Supposed to be a sign says, ‘
We Reserve the Right to
Refuse Service to You
.’” Gray hair tufted over the top of his
T-shirt.

“The one you had to take down after Pancake
Hut got sued for discrimination?” Charlie asked.

“They didn’t say squat about stink,” Lil Bit
countered.

“Just serve us some coffee and we’ll be on
our way,” Charlie said. “
Ways
, actually.”

The stranger beamed impishly at Lil Bit.
“That’s right. A cup of joe would go down good right about now, yes
ma’am.” She responded by moving to the far end of the counter and
fanning her face with a rag.

“That reminds me,” the stranger said. In a
wire rack on the wall, there was an
Atlanta
Journal-Constitution
, already read several times. He reached
over and grabbed the Metro section, then leafed through it. “Hmm.”
He handed it to Charlie, pointing to a local brief:

Raccoon Gets Revenge

Georgia Department of Natural Resources
officials report that Forsyth County woodsman Phil McRae got more
than he bargained for last week when he went raccoon hunting. After
his hound treed the animal on a private farm near Lake Lanier,
McRae shot the raccoon, which then toppled from the limb and struck
the hunter on the head, chipping three vertebrae and sending McRae
to the hospital. Currently recuperating at home, McRae was
unavailable for comment.

Charlie shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He
jabbed the page. “That’s my brother-in-law.”

His companion, wearing a wistful expression,
nodded. “That was some of my best work.”

Charlie looked at him skeptically. “Are you a
reporter?”

“No. I was the raccoon. And he’s a liar. He
missed me. Do I look like I got shot?”

If Charlie had been drinking coffee right
then, he would have sprayed it over half the restaurant. Instead,
he shook his head and tried not to laugh. Recovering, he said, “Now
I know why Phil didn’t show up for Christmas dinner. The varmints
never tell me anything.”

“Varmints?”

“My in-laws, from Forsyth County. The
Cutchinses, more specifically—my mother-in-law’s family. Phil
married my wife’s older sister, Sheila. I married Susan. Their
maiden name is Powell, but take my word for it, they’re Cutchinses.
And Cutchins is as Cutchins does.”

“Ahh … I wondered why I was out in the woods.
Now I know. That explains a lot.” The stranger nodded thoughtfully.
“Now it’s coming to me. You’re the one.”

“The one?” Charlie asked. “The one what?”

The stranger cleared his junk-filled throat
and said, “So what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer.” Charlie caught the waitress’s
eye and stirred a nonexistent cup of coffee with an invisible
spoon. She scowled and turned away.

“Earn a living at it?” The stranger started
mimicking Charlie’s act, pouring imaginary sugar into a phantom
cup—then spilling it and rubbing make-believe crystals around on
the counter with his palm.

“Not right now. Got some things going on,
though.” This was true only if he counted as a prospect the one
literary agent who hadn’t bothered to write him a rejection letter.
(Agents tended to promptly decline to represent his work, so the
fact that Barbara Asher hadn’t responded gave him hope, even though
she’d held his query for nearly a year.)

“So you’re looking for work.”

“I will be in the morning.”

“I know of a job you can start tonight.”

Their steadfast refusal to admit they hadn’t
been served seemed to be getting on Lil Bit’s nerves. “Get out,”
she snapped.

“You can’t tell us to get out! That’s
illegal!” Charlie protested.

Harley stepped over to stand by her, arms
folded across his chest, fists clenched. “No it ain’t,” he said.
“You ain’t a—ain’t a minority.”

“I sure am,” said the stranger.

“This chain discriminates against nearly
everyone,” Charlie grumbled. “Why bother to open the doors?”

The Rebel spoke up. “That’s why I come here.
They keep it clean. At least until you two came in here. I don’t
know what’s worse, nigs or homeless assholes.”

Grinning, Charlie’s companion swiveled to
face the guy.

“That’s right,” the young man said, jabbing
his finger at his cap so hard he looked like he was mimicking a
suicide. “This here means I stand for somethin’. And you two can
get the hell out of here so I don’t have to look at you. Or smell
you, you filthy fucks.”

The stranger turned to Charlie. “What do you
think of his hat?”

Charlie bit his lip. He’d nearly gotten
killed on the Fourth of July over a Rebel flag—at a family
get-together, of all places. This guy was just like the varmints,
and he saw no point in arguing with such people.

The cook chimed in: “We told you to git.
You’re stinkin’ up the place. Now git.”

“We should leave,” Charlie said. The stranger
spun and hit the tiled floor with both feet. With blinding speed,
he grabbed the Rebel cap by the bill. Flicking his wrist, he tossed
it like a Frisbee over the counter. It landed on a burner and
erupted in flames.

Arching out of his seat like a hunting bow,
the Rebel yelped, “The sumbitch tased me!”

The stranger strode to the door, calling out
over his shoulder to Charlie, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“I’m gonna kill both of you!” the Rebel
shouted, flopping around as he tried to exit the booth.

Charlie slid off his stool and sprinted
outside, shouting, “We gotta move, man! You know he’s got a
gun!”

The stranger kept his back to Charlie as he
walked at a leisurely pace to the MARTA bus stop on Hanover Drive.
Charlie caught up with him and looked at him in alarm. “You’ve got
to be kidding! This is your idea of a getaway?”

The Rebel, moving slowly, struggled with the
restaurant door on his way out, then stomped over to a Chevy pickup
and opened the passenger door.

“He meant what he said!” Charlie cried out.
“He’s going to kill us!”

“Ha! That would be doing you a favor.”
Charlie’s companion eyed their adversary in the distance. “He
recovered quicker than I expected. Too bad.”

“Too bad?” Charlie face was contorted in
worried disbelief.

The Rebel bolted toward them, but when he saw
they were just standing around at the bus stop, he slowed to a
leisurely saunter and laughed contemptuously. As he neared, Charlie
saw the silver glint of the man’s pistol under the light from a
streetlamp.

Charlie gulped, his throat bone-dry.

Just then, a bus appeared on the overpass,
barreling toward them at highway speed. Its wheels left the
pavement when it hit a bump, and for an instant, Charlie thought it
was flying. The Rebel was in shooting range when the vehicle slid
to a screeching stop right in front of the stranger. “Don’t look
back,” he told Charlie.

The bus door opened. The stranger climbed
aboard and Charlie followed, scrambling up the steps, shouting,
“Get us out of here! Get us out of here!”

The driver, a plump black woman wearing
shades, looked down at Charlie and said, “So loud. Tsk, tsk.”

Before she could close the door, a shot rang
out. Charlie grabbed his companion’s arm and felt a sharp pain.
Then there was only darkness.

* * *

A kick to the shin awakened Charlie, who was
lying in the aisle on the bus. He blinked and looked up at the
stranger. “Did I get shot? In the arm. Shoulder.” He ran his right
hand up his left arm seeking points of pain but found none.

“No such luck,” his companion said. “You
touched me.”

Charlie shook his head. He didn’t feel right.
He must be crashing after the adrenaline bender he’d gone through.
Reminding himself that he was lucky to be alive, he looked around.
They were the only passengers on the bus, which was squealing to a
stop. It was past twelve o’clock. Did that make it a new day, or a
long night? “Where are we?”

“End of the line,” said the driver, standing
up and stretching. “Bayard Terrace. Close to it, anyway.”

Charlie’s eyes widened at the unfamiliar
name. “Can I ride back?” he asked the driver.

“Why you wanna do that?” She opened the door.
“People shootin’ at you back there. Get real. Get out.”

The stranger stood and stretched, popping
several body joints. “This is the job.”

“What job?” Charlie asked.

His traveling companion was already climbing
down the steps. Charlie got off the bus and looked at its lighted
route sign above the windshield: Out of Service. The rain had
stopped. To their right, just ahead, stood Bay Street Coffeehouse,
famous for the fact that there was no Bay Street within ten miles
of it. They were in the Virginia-Highland section of Atlanta, many
miles from where they’d started. What a screwed-up route. Charlie
watched the bus pull away; he was unable to shake the feeling that
a door had closed behind him.

The stranger walked a few paces to Bayard
Terrace, a narrow side street, then turned and beckoned for his
confused companion to follow. “Come on.”

Seeing no choice, Charlie fell in step behind
the stranger. They hiked up the hill on the cracked sidewalk beside
Bayard Terrace. Rain-spattered cars glistened in their parking
spots on the street in front of close-set homes. After passing ten
houses, the stranger turned up the sidewalk of a bungalow with a
glowing porch light. He called to Charlie: “Forward or back, which
way do you choose?”

Charlie stopped.
This is absurd
, he
thought.
Insane
.

The rain started falling again, pushing
Charlie toward the house just as the door opened and a birdlike
woman with snowy white hair stood bathed in light, gazing out past
both men, calling, “Bounce! Bounce! Where are you?” She wore an old
burgundy cardigan along with black stretch pants, and she seemed
trim except for a little pot belly. Charlie thought she’d take one
look at them and slam the door. She didn’t. “My cat’s been gone a
week,” she declared to the stranger. “I think my daughter had her
executed. Maybe not, but I don’t like the odds.” She shook her head
sadly.

“Do not be afraid,” the stranger told her.
“We’re here to help.”

The old woman, showing no sign of fear, gazed
at them expectantly.

“Do you always say that?” Charlie cried out
in exasperation as he stood halfway between street and porch. “It’s
guaranteed to make people suspect you, which they should. You
almost got us killed.”

“You wish.” The stranger turned to the woman,
who seemed not to mind his aroma. “He’s the one. Charlie Sherman—or
is it Charles?—”

“Charlie’s fine.”

“—meet Kathleen Talton.” He neglected to
introduce himself.

“The one what?” Kathleen asked.

“The one who’s going to finish your husband’s
work.” He turned to Charlie and said, “You’re going to finish
Thurwood’s work, right?”

“Thurwood?”

“Her late husband. The history professor I
told you so much about.”

Charlie shook his head. “The professor you
told me
nothing
about.”

“Who are you?” Kathleen asked the
stranger.

“Ask him,” he said, pointing at Charlie.

“I don’t know who you are,” Charlie said,
perplexed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We—”

“That man found me,” the stranger said. “And
you were looking for him, and I found you. So here we are. And
there you go.” He seemed well-pleased with his logic.

“Who are you, the Riddler?” Charlie stepped
back. “Ma’am, I’ll be honest. I don’t even—”

“As far as you’re concerned,” the stranger
told Charlie, “I’m nothing but trouble. I thought I established
that.”

“Trouble?” Charlie stepped forward and looked
at him closely under the porch light. “Yeah, I see that now.
Trouble it is, then.” Suspecting he’d been lured into a
shakedown—or worse—he added, “This is a bad idea. Let’s go.” He
reached for Trouble’s arm, then thought better of it and withdrew
his hand.

“Nonsense. This is a great idea.” Turning to
the woman, Trouble said, “You asked for help, remember?”

Kathleen smiled uncertainly. “Did I?”

“In there.” He pointed into the house and
wagged his finger.

She turned and looked inside, then gave
Trouble a blank look. “How did you know that?”

He said something to her that Charlie
couldn’t hear. She retreated into the living room, and although she
opened her mouth, no sound came out. Trouble stepped inside and
beckoned Charlie, who asked, “What did you tell her?”

“I gave her my credentials.”

“Which are?”

“Impeccable,” Trouble said. Charlie followed
him reluctantly, believing he’d walked into some sort of offbeat
home invasion that happened to be going very smoothly at the
moment.

It was a well-ordered house, though a bit
dusty, with a closed-in, old-folk smell. Gas flames danced in the
fireplace. “What big eyes you have,” Kathleen told Charlie. “Pull
up those things so I can see your face.” Charlie pushed his goggles
up on his forehead. After scrutinizing him for a moment, she said,
“You look just like my son.” She pointed to a framed photo on the
mantel of a young man in cap and gown. “That’s Gary. He died in
Vietnam.”