Brambleman Read online

  The stakes grew higher as Forsyth’s population exploded and real estate values shot up. In the 1990s, developers showed up on Pappy’s porch, hats in hand, asking how much money he’d take for his land. For a man who claimed he was ready to give up his farm rather than pay property taxes, he was amazingly uncooperative, vowing he’d rather shoot them than desert his birthright. No doubt they’d heard he kept a gun handy. They left and didn’t come back.

  And so Pappy just kept rockin’ and spittin’ and gettin’ more ornery. The last time Charlie had been in Forsyth County, exactly two decades after his first visit, he and Momo got into an argument over flying the Rebel flag on the Fourth of July. Charlie, who had come to resent even being at Pappy’s house, saw the flag as an insult to the United States as well as his liberal Yankee world view. After Momo threatened to kill him with his bare hands, the old man called Charlie a “nigger-loving cocksucker” and ordered him to get off the property. Armed with his double-barreled twenty-gauge shotgun, Pappy followed Charlie outside. Charlie retreated to his van and stood beside it. Pappy fired once—not exactly at Charlie, but not away from him either, killing a crow in a nearby oak tree. As Charlie ducked behind his van, Stanley burst from the house yelling about hunting out of season. Bradley Roy came out behind his brother-in-law and calmly took the gun from Pappy, unloaded the shells, and put the live round in his pocket, saying, “That’s enough fireworks for today, don’t you think?”

  * * *

  Now, on a winter’s morning several months later, Charlie crossed the Fulton County line into Forsyth. Across the median, southbound cars and sport utilities poured into Atlanta. Along each side of the road stood a thin line of pine trees—a Potemkin forest that failed to hide office parks and residential subdivisions. Forsyth’s population was 12,000 in 1910; it had grown twelvefold since then. Charlie passed Cumming and exited Georgia 400, driving beyond Coal Mountain on Highway 9. The other lane was jammed with fuel tankers, dump trucks, flatbeds pulling back hoes, and septic service trucks, as well as BMWs and SUVs, all of them stuck behind an old clunker puttering along at thirty miles per hour. The hills were pocked with chicken houses. Some of their roofs were bright and shiny, while others were dull gray and twisted, rusted reddish-brown in spots. Many were vacant, and some of those were in a state of collapse. A survey crew worked in a pasture near some of those ruins, which would soon be replaced with another subdivision or shopping center. The sales prices for these dirt farms—undeveloped parcels, in developers’ terms—had to be astronomical. Millions of dollars, at least.

  Just past Coal Mountain Church of Christ, Charlie saw the old graveyard on a hill to the left, near the site of an old church that had burned down in the 1920s. He parked in the cemetery driveway and stepped out of the car. With his hands stuck in his coat pockets, the writer strolled about the burial ground, which was dominated by family plots: Fitzgerald, Mackey, Kirkpatrick, MacGregor. No Cutchinses. The Rankin family plot, with its tidy brick borders, was near the center of the well-kept graveyard. Silk flowers were everywhere, along with withered poinsettias left from Christmas.

  When he found Martha Jean’s grave, a deep chill colder than the winter air knifed through his bones. He stood still for a while, reflecting somberly about what had happened, hoping to absorb history by osmosis. He listened for a voice from the grave. Why not? After all, his mission was shrouded in weirdness. Wasn’t he a ghost writer, of sorts? Or maybe even a ghost’s writer. For all he knew, the good professor was behind all this.

  When he grew tired of the wind whipping his deaf-to-the-dead ears, Charlie returned to the car and drove east toward Lake Lanier. According to local legend, the stone Bernie Dent had used to beat Martha Jean was embedded in a giant white oak on the banks of Sodder Creek not far from the lake. Charlie parked his car near the creek and made a desultory search for it but found neither root nor rock. The air was cold and time was short. Under the circumstances, who was he to argue with local legend?

  After he quit his search, he drove across the bridge into Hall County. A few fishing boats dotted the lake. The green water sparkled blue by some trick of light. He pulled into a lakeside park to collect his thoughts. After years of drought and Atlanta’s constant sucking need, the coves had turned to mud flats. The boat ramp was long enough to deserve a county road number.

  Back in Forsyth, he stopped at Bud’s Quikie, a combination convenience store, bait and tackle shop, and fast-food restaurant. Two old men played video poker in back. Charlie bought a Diet Coke and a Baby Ruth for lunch, then sat in the car working up the nerve to see Pappy.

  He focused on how to approach the old man. This time, he’d be non-antagonistic, and he’d let Pappy spew racist venom all he wanted. The more, the better.

  When he’d properly steeled himself for his task, Charlie drove past Frogtown and a Cow Crossing sign, then turned onto Slide Road near the landfill. To the north stood the Blue Ridge Mountains. He passed the First Church of Varmintville (a.k.a. the First Baptist Church of North Forsyth), which permitted no sin. Just down the road stood the Second First Church of Varmintville, founded by parishioners banished from the first First Church who liked to drink, dance, and divorce, most likely in that order.

  Within a minute, Charlie was at Pappy’s place. He rolled up the semicircular driveway, tires crunching gravel. In the pull-off next to the house sat Pappy’s faded blue 1970 Chevy pickup. It was scary to think the old codger still drove, but the truck was kept in good running order by auto experts Bradley Roy and Phil McRae, Sheila’s relatively well-behaved, raccoon-troubled second husband. The Volvo’s door squawked open, and as soon as Charlie stepped out into the cold sunshine, the house’s red wooden door opened and Pappy came out, dressed in his trademark overalls and blue shirt. He stood on the stoop, forcing Charlie to stay in the yard and look up at him.

  “Hey, Pappy. Beautiful day,” Charlie offered.

  “You come all the way out here to tell me that?”

  Charlie laughed. “No, sir. Truth is, I’m working on something. Don’t know if you heard—”

  “You’re Susan’s, right?”

  “Uh … right.”

  “I heard you got kicked outta the house fer lookin’ at smut.” He laughed unkindly. “Got to take care of your own, not go looking through catalogs for somethin’ new.”

  “I’ll remember that. Actually, I wanted to talk about something else.”

  Pappy spit tobacco juice, hitting a boxwood. He stared at Charlie with remarkably clear, dark eyes. “So what’d you come here fer?”

  “I’m working on a book about Forsyth County history, back in the day.”

  A pause. “I ain’t sure I know what yer gettin’ at.”

  “You know. The rape, the lynching. Running people off.”

  Pappy’s mouth dropped open. After an instant, he recovered and squinted at Charlie. “Wait jest a minute. You mind tellin’ me zactly whatcher talkin’ about?”

  “Come on, Pappy!” Charlie laughed in exasperation. “Nineteen-twelve. Martha Jean Rankin.”

  Pappy’s face returned to its normal configuration. “Don’t know nuthin’ ’bout it. I was a baby. I can tell you the niggers moved out after they raped and murdered a white woman.”

  “Well, not all of them did that.”

  “They’s all capable. Can’t be safe with ’em around.” He looked north, then south, as if scouting the horizon for African-Americans. “Looks like you gettin’ your way. They comin’ back. I seen a couple last week. They better not come near me, if they know what’s good fer ’em.” He spat again.

  “I wanted to ask—”

  “Don’t let the door hitchoo on the way out.” Pappy retreated into the house. “One other thing,” he said through the screen. “If Susan ain’t got use for you, neither do I, so there ain’t no need for you to come by here. And it ain’t a beautiful day. It’s cold as hell.” He banged the door shut.

  That went well, Charlie thought as he drove away. Casting a sullen glance at Varmintvill
e in his rearview mirror, he shuddered, causing his vehicle to cross the center line before he regained control.

  Chapter Seven

  Charlie ditched his shipping department uniform, choosing khaki slacks and a blue sweater for his interview with reporter Bill Crenshaw. As he walked out the door, Kathleen patted his shoulder, making him feel like a kid going to a job interview. On his walk to Bay Street Coffeehouse, Charlie assured himself that it was all right to have his picture in the newspaper, since the police were looking for an unkempt slob in goggles, not a smart-looking editor with specs. He arrived at his destination a few minutes early. Jean—no longer Amazon Woman, now that he’d properly made her acquaintance—gave him a double-take as he stepped to the counter.

  “Newspaper interview,” he said apologetically.

  She raised a sculpted brow. “So the lone wolf is newsworthy.”

  The lone wolf. He liked that. He took a seat in the half-full room, sipped dark-roast coffee, and started reading a book Talton had cited frequently. Like the others he’d looked through, it told him little about Forsyth County.

  Shortly after one o’clock the thirtyish reporter arrived. Crenshaw was tailed by a balding and bearded photographer whose expression wavered between boredom and amusement. Crenshaw had dark, mischievous eyes and wore a blue tie so loosely it seemed like an afterthought. The two men introduced themselves to Charlie, bought drinks, and then sat at his table. Crenshaw plopped a digital recorder in front of his interview subject and turned it on. “Tell me about the book,” he said.

  “OK.” Charlie started with a short bio of Talton, then gave some background on himself before talking about Flight from Forsyth. The reporter jotted notes on a skinny pad. After taking a few pictures of Charlie, the photographer drifted off to make a phone call.

  “What do people up in Forsyth County think about this effort to dig up their past?” Crenshaw asked.

  “We wouldn’t have to dig it up if it hadn’t been buried,” Charlie said, glancing over at Jean, who winked at him, causing his pulse to quicken.

  Crenshaw was intrigued when Charlie told him that not only did Flight from Forsyth identify several black landowners who had been forced to abandon their property, but that Talton had obtained copies of records backing up claims of land theft. “Of course, a lot of these records were destroyed in a mysterious 1973 courthouse fire,” Charlie said, without mentioning the suspected arsonist’s name. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but a lack of documentation derailed claims by blacks for reparations in 1987.”

  “Little did they know the records were safely in a dead man’s care.”

  “Exactly so,” Charlie said. “Following Redeemer’s march, local officials paid lip service to the idea of reconciliation by forming a biracial committee. I was up at the library in Cumming the other day and read the committee’s report. Whites disliked any mention of reparations, and warned that attempts to seek damages over past events—here I quote—‘could produce widespread antagonism throughout the nation, with dangerous consequences.’ So Forsyth folks continue the tough talk. But, like I said, there are records to back claims for reparations. Unfortunately, the man who held them was unable to attend those meetings, being deceased. But with Flight from Forsyth’s publication—”

  “Assuming it gets published.”

  “—much will be revealed. Assuming, yes. Which I do, of course.”

  “Who said dead men tell no tales?” Crenshaw paused for a beat. “So, can I see the records?”

  Charlie gave him a knowing smile and shook his head. “That’s Dr. Talton’s story to tell.”

  “Come on,” Crenshaw wheedled. “Give me a break.”

  “Sorry.” No way was Charlie giving him that scoop.

  At Crenshaw’s request, they adjourned to Bayard Terrace to take photos of Kathleen. She protested unconvincingly about having her picture taken, then changed into her blue dress and put up her hair. After she posed with the manuscript, Charlie gave the journalists a friendly push out the door and rushed to pick up the kids, rehearsing apologies to their teachers for his tardiness.

  Less than an hour later, Crenshaw called Charlie’s cellphone. “My editors are putting pressure on me,” the reporter said. “You gotta let me see the records. This is Sunday front-page stuff.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie said, fighting back a grin. “The story will come out in due time.”

  “Well, forget what I said about the Sunday front page,” Crenshaw grumbled. “Monday back page now.”

  * * *

  Late Sunday night, after a weekend of plodding through Taltonic prose, smiling through Angela’s hints of lawyering to come, and watching a kiddie movie with Beck and Ben, Charlie finally got around to baiting two rat traps with peanut butter and placing them in a dark corner of the dungeon before crashing out.

  An hour later, he was awakened by a loud SNAP! The other trap sprang seconds later. That was one badass rat. Charlie listened closely but heard no anguished squeaks. He went back to sleep.

  He woke at dawn Monday with the realization that he’d be in the news that day. He poured a cup of coffee before pulling the newspaper from its wrap. He found the article next to the obituaries. “This was supposed to be a resurrection, not a burial!” he fumed, throwing the section on the kitchen table.

  The piece wasn’t all bad, but he had mixed feelings about seeing his picture in the paper. On the bright side, he could use the article to convince editors and agents of Flight’s importance—if only he had a sample to show them. Not Talton’s prose. God no. He needed something to persuade readers to keep going, not to kill themselves.

  While Charlie sipped coffee, Kathleen shuffled into the kitchen wearing her robe and slippers. He knew she’d see the story right away, since she checked obits first thing. She squealed in delight and clutched the paper like she was a kid with a new toy. The article included the photo of Thurwood she’d given to Crenshaw. “Isn’t he handsome?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it? Thanks to you.”

  “We’ve been lucky. It’s strange how things are falling into place. Fantastic, really.”

  “Speaking of fantastic,” Kathleen said, “I had the strangest, most vivid dream last night. I was in a courtroom, and Thurwood sat down beside me. You were there, too. You were the court reporter, the stenographer who takes down everything. A good sign, don’t you think? Thurwood was happy and thought things were going well. He said, ‘That young man is an angel, you know.’ I said, ‘He’s the answer to my prayer,’ and he said, ‘That’s what angels are.’”

  “I’m glad he thinks we’re going to succeed. But I’m no angel.”

  “You never know.”

  “I think I’d have an idea by now.”

  The phone rang. “Could you get that?” Kathleen asked.

  He picked up the kitchen wall phone on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Sherman.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “They did right, putting your story on the obit-chew-wary page,” said a man in a hard Southern accent. “That book comes out, you’re dead. What you got to say to that?”

  “I’d say it’s time to be rude.” Charlie hung up.

  “Who was that?” Kathleen asked.

  “Someone who doesn’t think we should publish the book.”

  “To hell with them!”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  * * *

  At Thornbriar that afternoon, Charlie read the article to Beck and Ben. They were impressed but mainly hungry, so he baked cookies. When Susan got home, she gave him her I Don’t Believe It look and said, “What did you do, pull strings to get publicity?”

  “Yeah, baby,” Charlie said, grinning. “I’ve got connections.”

  Later that evening, when he returned to Bayard Terrace, Kathleen said, “The house is cold even though I turned on the gas logs and set the thermostat to seventy-eight degrees.”

  “Seem
s hot to me,” he said. It was cooler in the dining room, however. He set the laptop on the table. He felt a draft as he moved closer to the study. He reached down and felt cold air blowing in from under the study door. When he opened it, the curtains flew up to greet him and a blast of arctic air hit his face. He flipped on the light. The window had been shattered.

  He stood gawking for a moment before realizing the room had been ransacked. Two file drawers lay empty on the floor. The computer was gone. So was the manuscript. “Shit,” he groaned. His feet seemed to stick to the floor as he walked to the file cabinet. With each step, the magnitude of what had happened increased. Someone had broken in and stolen his work in progress: not only Flight from Forsyth and his PC, but Talton’s notes and the documents he’d bragged about, as well—the breadcrumbs he needed to find his way home.

  “Fuck me,” he declared.

  “What’s wrong?” Kathleen stood in the study door, staring at the fluttering curtains as Charlie dropped to his knees. “Are you hurt? Oh my goodness.”

  Charlie gripped an open file drawer and hoisted himself to his feet, nearly toppling the cabinet. It crashed against his shoulder. He angrily knocked it against the wall like it was a tackling dummy, then tried to compose himself. “Burglary. Did you take a nap this afternoon?”

  She blinked. “Yes.”

  “Someone must have come in while you were asleep. Did you hear anything?”