The Cantaloupe Thief (28 page)

“Wow,” she said. “You're the best guide ever.”

Demetrius was sitting on a black iron bench, one leg crossed over the other, foot pumping furiously. His head jerked as his eyes followed people passing on the Main Street sidewalk or entering the courthouse. He hopped up and circled the Johnny Reb statue, then sat back down, talking to himself. This manic energy was not what Branigan had expected, and she asked Malachi about it as they watched from the car.

“I never seen 'im like this either,” he said. “Maybe his meds ran out.”

“What kind of meds?”

“I don't know, but Pastor Liam's counselor been tryin' to meet with 'im. And he's been all slow and groggy like. Now look at 'im.”

“Well, we're in a public place,” she said. “What can go wrong approaching a bi-polar schizophrenic just out of prison?”

Malachi snorted. She realized she'd not heard him laugh before.

They exited the car and approached Demetrius quietly. Branigan slid onto the far end of his bench, while Malachi stood under a nearby maple, close enough for Demetrius to see him. Branigan had seen Liam and Dontegan do the same with their female social worker, letting a client know they were nearby.

She knew enough to approach him gently, to speak softly. But she didn't get the chance. Demetrius turned to her and launched into what must have been streaming through his head. He batted the air in front of him.

“Didja-see-those-flies-they're-everywhere-they're-bitin'-mean'-they're-gon-bite-you-an'-they're-gon-bite-that-man-over-there-an'-that-woman-an'-that-baby-those-people-gon-into-court-takin'-them-black-flies-in-the-courthouse-my-granny-said-don't-let-flies-in-her-house...” He was rocking now, then abruptly got up and circled Johnny Reb again and sat back down. He continued to murmur.

“Demetrius?” She made eye contact. “I'm Branigan Powers from
The Grambling Rambler
.”

He looked at her. “Hey-Branigan-Powers-are-those-flies-botherin'-you-they're-sure-botherin'-me...”

“There are no flies, Demetrius. No flies.”

He continued swatting, his huge hands coming dangerously close to her face. Malachi took a step forward.

“I'd like to talk to you about Alberta Resnick's pool house,” she said.

“I-can't-go-swimmin'-ain't-got-no-swimmin'-trunks.”

“But do you remember when you lived in that house beside the swimming pool?”

“Granny-ain't-got-no-swimmin'-pool-but-'Lanta-does-I'll-go-swimmin'-when-I get-to-'Lanta-got-to-get-a-Greyhound-ticket.”

“But one time you lived in a pool house, didn't you?”

“South-Car-lina-DOC-don'-have-no-pool-but-'Lanta-will-I'll-go-swimmin'-when-I-get-to-'Lanta-on-the-Greyhound-bus-Greyhound-don'-have-no-pool-but-my-house-in-'Lanta-will.”

Branigan looked at Malachi, who shrugged. She tried one more time.

“Billy?”

He swung around and looked at her, cocking his head.

“When your name was Billy, you moved into a house beside a pool, didn't you?”

For the first time, he didn't respond with a stream of words, but instead searched her face.

“Did someone live there with you, Billy?”

“
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,”
he said.

“Yes! Someone read that book.”

Billy wrapped his arms around himself, and rocked until Branigan felt the bench move beneath them.

“
Invisible Man
,” he said, then turned abruptly to Malachi. “You're-the-invisible-man.”

“Because he's black? Because Malachi is black?”

“
Cold Sassy Tree
.”

“That's exactly right, Billy,” she said quietly. “All those books were in the pool house. Who was reading them? Were you?”

“Oh-no-not-me-she-reads-to-me-she-reads-to-me.”

“Who, Billy? Who reads to you?”

“My-granny-reads-to-me-See-Spot-run-the-cat-in-the-hat-eats-green-eggs-an'-ham.” He laughed loudly.

“But the pool house, Billy,” she pleaded. “Who read in the pool house?”

“
Invisible Man.
Invisible-man-eats-yellow-eggs-and-bacon-not-green-eggs-and-ham.” He emitted a shrill giggle.

Before Branigan realized what he was doing, Demetrius stood abruptly and seized the iron bench. He flipped it over and sent her flying. The hard landing knocked the breath out of her, and she lay on her back, gasping. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Demetrius lumbering away, his gait hitching.

Malachi bent over her, his cornrow braids swinging below his faded green cap. “Breathe, Miz Branigan. Nice and slow. Breathe.”

 

Moments later she sat up, air making its ragged way into her lungs. She flexed her back gently. Luckily, she'd landed on a patch of grass rather than the exposed tree roots that could've caused some damage.

“You want to go home?” Malachi asked. “Or to your office?”

“Heck, no. Let me catch my breath and we'll go find Max.”

“You sure, Miz Branigan? That was some tumble you took.”

“I'm fine. Just curious about all that
Invisible Man
stuff. Do you think he meant the other person in the pool house was black?”

“Could be,” Malachi said. “Or homeless. Or both.”

“Like you.”

Malachi didn't respond.

 

Max Brody wasn't nearly as easy to find. Malachi and Branigan drove to several places she'd not been previously: a low bridge behind the city's riverside amphitheater, where they saw sleeping bags and discarded tennis shoes. Another riverside park, where they found two tents hidden in dense foliage. An encampment in the woods behind a popular chain restaurant, way out on an Eastside artery. There were plenty of signs of homeless people, but no Max.

“I don't get this,” she told Malachi as they walked behind the Eastside restaurant. “Why would homeless people live this far away from Jericho Road and the Rescue Mission and all those downtown services?”

“Lots of reasons,” Malachi said. “Maybe they don't like bein' 'round people. It's good money flyin' a sign at these red lights. And that restaurant gives out leftovers at the end of the night.”

“Did you ever live out here?”

He shrugged. She couldn't tell if it was a yes or a no.

“No, I'm interested, if you don't mind saying,” she pressed. “Did you live out here?”

“Not here, but in places like this. When I got out the Army, I didn't want to live 'round anybody. Lotta vets are like that.”

“So you're a veteran. Where did you serve?”

“Desert Storm. Kuwait and Iraq.”

This was the first information she'd gotten on Malachi's background. She wanted more, but didn't want to scare him off.

“I got one more idea,” he said. “Let's try Garner Bridge.”

“But isn't that where you live?”

“Yeah, but there are other places 'cross the railroad tracks where that bridge touches down. Every place it covers, there are more tents.”

“I had no idea.”

“Most people don't,” he said. “The other places are harder to get to.”

Malachi directed her back to town, through Randall Mill, past the convenience store where she and Liam had met before finding Davison. Was it only last week? But instead of turning onto the deadend road that led to Malachi's encampment, he had her continue another half-mile. The mill houses ended, and woods crowded to the edge of the road.

“Pull over here,” he said.

“Where?” She could see no entrance.

“Just right in here.” He pointed to a patch of weeds and dirt where the tree line broke for about the width of a car.

“If you had a four-wheel, we'd go through the woods,” he said. “But we best not try in your Honda.”

She eased the car off the uneven asphalt and into the shade. She was careful not to block the rudimentary dirt road in case someone wanted in or out.

“Now we walk,” Malachi announced.

Branigan's slacks and long sleeves offered protection from biting insects and scratching underbrush, and her boat shoes made for easy walking on the rutted ground. She and Malachi walked a quarter-mile or more beneath a heavy canopy of trees.

As they walked, Malachi pointed to a few isolated tents off to the right, down a slight ravine. “Those people don't want to be close together,” he said. “I used to sleep way back in those woods.” He pointed to a dense thicket. Even within the city limits, these Southern woods were engulfing. He seemed to read her mind. “You go so deep in there, you don't hear no traffic.”

At the end of the road, the trees ended abruptly, and Branigan looked up to see the Garner Bridge soaring above them. To their left rose an embankment topped by railroad tracks. Across those tracks, she knew, was the camp where Malachi lived. And where Rita's empty shack remained.

Directly ahead was another camp, much smaller. Three tents were grouped together, seemingly vacant this time of morning. Several sleeping bags were scattered in the open. Forty yards away — as far as you could get without re-entering the woods on the other side of the clearing — was a single tent of dullest green.

“That's where Max used to stay,” said Malachi, indicating the farthest tent. “But he got drunk one night and picked a fight with the wrong dude. Dude took his tent and kicked Max out. But that dude's in prison now, so maybe Max came back.”

Branigan's experience with camping was confined to Lake Hartwell and state parks at the beach. Camping meant a little sand in your eggs, sure, and maybe some sunburn. If it rained, she packed up and came home. It was nothing like this hard-baked ground with no picnic tables, grills, bathrooms or showers.

“Where do they go to the bathroom?” she asked, feeling intrusive.

“Anywhere they can.” He pointed behind Max's tent. “Woods. Jericho Road. Library.”

“How about at night?”

“Definitely the woods.”

“Don't they...” She stopped, realizing who she was talking to. “Aren't you afraid of snakes? Or poison ivy?”

“We got all that,” Malachi said. “And spiders. In the summer, you see a lot of swollen wrists and ankles and arms from spider bites. Lot of 'em get infected, and people go see the nurse at Jericho or the ER.”

“Is it harder in summer or winter?”

“It's harder when it rains. The hardest thing is keepin' dry. Winter or summer, the rain comes through here in rivers.” He kicked at a long, deep rut in the clay. “Everythin' in your tent gets wet. That's why they so many clothes thrown out on our side. They mildewed before we could dry 'em out.”

Their voices had gotten quieter in response to the ghostly silence of the camp. As they stopped talking, Branigan became aware of a buzzing. She looked around to the woods they'd just exited. Her mind flashed to the back porch where Gran had cut a watermelon every summer afternoon. Davison and she had to take turns standing with a fly swatter in order to eat the crunchy red fruit. The sweet juice ran in streams down their arms and legs and onto the concrete porch. Black flies must have put the word out all over the farm, because they came in hordes, lighting on the fruit, the porch, Gran's metal rockers, the twins. The buzzing was an irritating wave of noise, interspersed by the slap, slap, slap of the plastic swatter.

That buzz was growing now, as they approached Max's tent. Branigan slapped at a black fly that landed on her sleeve. She didn't kill it, but a red stain appeared there nonetheless. Her mind skittered to the watermelon rinds they'd seen outside Malachi's camp. She saw Malachi start slapping, and had a sinking feeling.

And so when they reached the tent and Malachi yanked open its flap to reveal an unmoving Max Brody, a broken whiskey bottle embedded in his neck, black flies swarming in his congealed blood, she couldn't say she was altogether surprised.

She calmly called the police, and then Liam. Only then did she have a meltdown.

First up was the morning's coffee. She had enough presence of mind to stagger away from the crime scene and those damn flies before heaving everything from her stomach. Then she remained on her knees, rocking in the silence, the buzzing, the silence, the buzzing. She was vaguely aware she was rocking as Demetrius had done. Was her mind breaking, like his?

Malachi looked stricken. “Miz Branigan, you all right? I thought you didn't know Max.”

“I didn't!”

“Then what's the matter?”

“I got him killed. My stupid story got him killed!”

Malachi pulled away and went to sit on a tree stump near an empty fire ring. Police cars — two, then three, then four, sirens blaring — rocketed in on the dirt road. Figures from beyond the embankment popped onto the railroad tracks to see what was going on.

Liam rushed in, his SUV skidding to a stop beside a police car. He and Malachi had a hushed conversation, then he knelt beside Branigan, stopped her rocking. But he couldn't stop her shaking.

“The psychics were right,” she whispered. “I woke him up. He thought he was safe and I woke him up. All my questions got Rita and Max killed.”

At first Liam murmured soothing shushes, as if she were five years old. But then he sat back on his heels. “You know, I'm not sure about that, Brani G. Didn't Jess say Max was talking to him in mid-May about an old lady getting stabbed? You didn't start asking questions until June.”

“Did you see his neck?” she moaned.

“And Rita,” Liam continued, as if she hadn't spoken. “Rita was mouthing off for years, according to Dontegan. That's probably how Max found out.”

“But Liam,” she said softly. “That's just it. They were both talking all along. But they were
alive
until this week.”

Her friend had no answer for that.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Malachi and Branigan stayed at the police station, answering questions, until after dark. There was no holding back now from Detective Scovoy. Fortunately, the local TV reporters weren't terribly interested in one more violent death in a homeless camp. Max Brody got twenty seconds on the 6 o'clock news.