Brambleman Page 8

  “What’s that about?” he asked Kathleen.

  “She needed money to go to Florida,” she said. “She wants to be with her family.”

  Charlie took a step back and raised his eyebrows. “You’re paying her to get away from your daughter, aren’t you? What if Angela finds out?”

  “Don’t you dare tell her,” she snapped. “And I mean business, Buster.”

  Charlie gave her a look he used on Ben when the boy misbehaved. “You should check on her.”

  “What does it matter to you? She doesn’t care if you live or die.”

  “She may need medical attention.”

  “She needs to apologize and stop trying to kill the book. It’s my job to make sure it’s published, so I’ll do what I must do,” Kathleen declared, sounding righteous.

  “I thought that was my job.”

  “It’s my job to make sure you do your job,” Kathleen said, poking him in the chest. He stared at her expectantly, trying to make her feel awkward. She averted her gaze for a moment, then turned back to him. “You’re right. I do need to see her. Will you drive me over there?”

  “Glad you changed your mind. Let’s go.” Charlie moved toward the closet to grab his coat.

  It was a sunny day, though chill. Charlie drove the Volvo to Angela’s house in Decatur, a liberal enclave east of Atlanta and just a few miles from Bayard Terrace. He parked in the driveway and waited. Kathleen knocked on the door and disappeared into a house that looked remarkably like hers. She came out five minutes later and got in the car. “Not a pretty sight,” Kathleen said. “I don’t think she’s ready to get better yet. She needs to—how should I say this—come to Jesus.”

  “You said you were a Unitarian,” Charlie pointed out.

  “Well, that denomination has limits. I see things differently now. The past few days have been … spiritually enlightening.”

  “What about Hyacinth?”

  “Angela didn’t mention her and neither did I.” Her tone was snippy.

  “Don’t pray for anything bad to happen to me, OK?”

  “Don’t worry. We’re friends.” She patted his hand. “On the same side.”

  On the way home, they stopped at RightPrice Drugs on Vesta Drive to refill Kathleen’s prescriptions. While searching for shavers, Charlie heard Kathleen bickering with the blue-jacketed pharmacist. “I was here before her, and she’s getting service. You’re treating me unfairly, like always,” she fumed at the man. She came to Charlie and repeated her complaint. “He’s shifty-eyed. Cheats on prices, too.”

  At her insistence, Charlie went to the back of the store and watched the druggist in action. He did look a little sketchy, with slick black hair and narrow slits for eyes. Charlie felt a bump and turned into Kathleen, who was peering intently at the druggist from behind him. “Maybe dealing drugs has affected his world view,” Charlie said. “You wanna pull your prescriptions?”

  “No. I want him to treat me right. He’s never nice. Last week, I had to wait while he filled a prescription for a pretty young thing. Angela noticed too, and made a comment.”

  “About the young thing?”

  “No!” she snapped.

  “Well, go ahead and take care of your prescriptions. Uh, are any of them for anger management?”

  “Watch it. I’m not in the mood for your smart remarks.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  By the time she returned to the counter, another customer was standing there. Charlie watched as Kathleen tried to excuse herself to the front of the line, claiming she’d been there first.

  “I’m sorry,” the pharmacist told her. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  “It’s already been my turn. You’ll pay for this!” Kathleen muttered.

  Charlie paid for his grooming supplies, then looked for Kathleen. He found her hiding behind a display of paper towels, holding her old prescription bag, eyes closed, moving her head back and forth like Stevie Wonder in a creative trance, chanting an incantation.

  “Pestilence, Pustulation, Corpulence, and Stenches, a dose of these for favoring wenches!”

  “Kathleen!” Charlie cried out. “What’s with the bad rhyming? Are you a witch?”

  “No. I just put some thought into it, that’s all. And ‘witch’ doesn’t begin to describe my powers.”

  A few feet away, the pharmacist stared in horror into an overhead mirror as his face erupted with horrible boils, swelling up instantly. It looked like his face was turning into to a batch of popcorn. Very oily popcorn. Toily, troubling popcorn. This was much worse than Angela’s affliction—as far as Charlie had seen, that is. Within seconds, a huge swarm of buzzing flies came from nowhere and surrounded the victim’s head. Then came the sound of trombones and tubas from hell as the poor wretch cut a series of the loudest, longest, soul-deflating farts Charlie had ever heard. The druggist went down behind the counter, grasping at it with white knuckles and groaning in agony as he tumbled out of sight.

  “That was truly nuclear,” Charlie said, marveling at the multiple afflictions. If he hadn’t met Trouble, he wouldn’t have believed such a curse was possible. Now, as a disciple of weirdness, he could only conclude Kathleen was getting good at it. He grabbed her elbow. “So quit it!”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear?” She smiled at him sweetly.

  “Giving people the plague. Put him back the way he was.”

  “He charges too much.”

  “This isn’t going to change things. Reverse the curse, or whatever it is you do.”

  “No.” She paused to admire her work. “He’ll think twice before he mistreats customers again.”

  “He doesn’t know what’s happening!”

  “That lecher had it coming,” she snapped. “He’ll be over it in a week. Or two. And you’re not my boss, so watch your step.”

  Well. She certainly was being huffy. “I didn’t watch my step. That’s why I’m here. You need to be a nice lady, not the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Or what?” she snarled.

  “Or else I won’t work with you.” He took her elbow and nudged her toward the door.

  “That’s not your choice anymore. All I’ve got to do is pray—”

  “I know there’s something strange going on. But you’re like a kid with a BB gun, running around shooting up the neighborhood. I don’t know what Trouble gave you, but it was a mistake. You should use it to make the world better, not settle petty grudges.”

  “It’s not him. It’s me. He came when I called, remember? I’ve got superpowers. So what if I punish evildoers? That’s one way to make the world better.”

  “You afflict your daughter and a guy who works in a store. How’s that improve anything?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “You don’t understand. Before you get high and mighty, remember we’re doing God’s work. Anyone who gets in our way will pay the price.” She nodded grimly and stared into Charlie’s eyes.

  He returned the look. “I’m not working with you if you go around starting plagues. Anyway, you know what starts plagues? Rats. Ha! Got you there. And I’m not working for a rat!”

  “You do not have me there,” she insisted.

  “Well, you need to get your prescriptions—if he’s in any shape to fill them.” Charlie peeked around the corner. The popcorn-headed pharmacist was wavering on his legs, shooing away flies. And spitting out a few. Charlie clamped his nostrils shut with thumb and index finger. “Oh, God. I can’t stand the smell. That’s at least fifty years’ worth of evil, right there.”

  “Come on,” Kathleen said. “I’m transferring my prescriptions. If they can’t treat me right, to hell with them. Don’t look at me that way. I’m only talking figuratively. I haven’t figured out how to do that yet. But when I do, watch out!”

  “You’re turning into the world’s worst Baptist,” Charlie groused. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The pharmacist cried out in agony and let loose a series of
gut-wrenching farts that chased them from the store.

  After a stop at a supermarket with a polite (and lucky) pharmacist, they returned to Bayard Terrace just after noon. Charlie brought in two bags of groceries and set them on the kitchen table. “I need to go to the Y,” he said. “It closes early on New Year’s Eve.”

  “No,” Kathleen declared. “You need to get back to work.”

  “I don’t think so. And don’t talk to me that way.”

  “You work for me. I say when you can take time off from the book.”

  “Get this straight. I’m not working under these conditions.”

  “You’d better read the contract.”

  “I don’t care about the contract. I’ll pay you back the money and walk out, if I have to.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that.” Her tone was chilling.

  Again with the creepiness. This was not the sweet, slightly demented lady he’d made a deal with. No, she’d definitely gone evil on him. He sighed.

  “Have you tried it?” she asked, sizing him up for some sort of a wizard’s battle. “Don’t have the power, do you? Ha! You don’t!” She gave him a cruel smile. “That’s because you’re just a hired hand.”

  He retreated to the study and pulled his copy of the contract from its manila folder in the wire rack on the bookcase. As he read, his eyes widened. The terms had changed. Furthermore, his signature was now dark reddish brown, with two circular splatters underneath. He remembered signing it with his fountain pen in blue ink, but it now looked like dried blood. And what was this phrase? “The party of the second part will succeed, or die in the attempt.” He hadn’t agreed to a suicide pact!

  Charlie’s fledgling belief in God didn’t mean he had to accept this kind of double-dealing. If the Almighty was going to smite people on a crazy old woman’s whim, he’d reject the deal. He would not be trapped in her prayer and become a mime in her phone booth. Wait. If the contract’s in blood—

  He charged into the kitchen, where Kathleen was putting away groceries. “Deal’s off.”

  “You can’t leave,” she said.

  “Watch me.” He went downstairs and packed quickly, although he had no idea where he’d go. He just wanted out. As he stuffed his duffel bag, he heard a rumble and looked out one of the basement’s small, high windows. Clouds were rushing in from the south. To the north, it was clear blue. The rumbling grew louder as the sky darkened. He tossed his new laptop into a half-full duffel and reached for the knob on the patio door.

  Zap. He yelped at the shock. His hand flew from the metal as he heard a tremendous Crack! The house shook like it had been hit with a wrecking ball. He felt a strong charge of static coming from the doorknob, and then he saw a thin, jagged white bolt of electricity leap out, arcing … searching. But not for him. It retreated. A second later, Charlie heard loud, bizarre, guttural sounds coming from upstairs that sounded like an audio tape running backwards—or aliens slaughtering pigs. Absolutely horrific. Then there was silence. Curiosity and dread mixed in his gut. He crept up the stairs. Smoke and ozone filled the kitchen. No flames, though. He looked out the dining room window. Sunshine fell in shafts through rapidly dissipating purple clouds.

  In the living room, Kathleen sat stiffly on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen. The wall directly behind the old set was freshly blackened. “Kathleen.”

  She turned and looked at him blankly. “Are you my son?”

  “No. I came here to work on your husband’s book.”

  “Thurwood? Is he here?”

  “No ma’am. He died. Do you know what just happened?”

  “Did something happen? It’s smoky. Was there a fire?”

  Charlie looked into her eyes. They were mournful, not cruel. The malice he’d seen moments ago was gone. Some kind of operation had been performed on her.

  “I think lightning hit the house. I’ll check outside.”

  He went outside and walked around the house. There were no signs of damage. When he returned, Kathleen looked at him with friendly interest. “Who are you?”

  “Charlie Sherman. I’m an editor. I live in the basement.”

  She nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “I’d like to rest.”

  “Fine, yes. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “I wonder if you’d make me some tea. I feel empty-headed.”

  “Sure.” Charlie went into the kitchen and turned on the burner under her brass teakettle. As the water came to a boil, he wondered what all the fire and brimstone was about. Flight from Forsyth was just a book, voluminous and not particularly well-written, about events that happened long ago. Why would its completion have such cosmic importance?

  Charlie helped Kathleen up and persuaded her to sit at the kitchen table while she drank a cup of Earl Grey. He went to the living room and looked out the window. He prayed for a rainbow. Just as a little test.

  A crow flew by, circled low, cawed twice, and shit on his van’s windshield.

  * * *

  Kathleen gently slurped chicken noodle soup and then sat on the sofa listening to public radio. She didn’t seem capable of any more mischief. If she wasn’t herself tomorrow—her good self, because there were definitely two versions of her—Charlie would call Angela and see about taking her to a doctor. Or maybe the two of them could carpool to the hospital.

  At 10:00 p.m. Charlie helped Kathleen to bed. He hoped whatever damage she’d sustained would be repaired by a good night’s sleep.

  After that, he called Thornbriar, but Susan wasn’t picking up.

  As he walked down the stairs to the dungeon, his phone trilled. “Hello.”

  “It’s late. Are you sober?” Susan asked.

  “For six years, seven months and … eight days,” he guessed.

  “You at that woman’s house?”

  “In the basement.”

  “I’ll have to check it out.”

  “Sure. Any time. Bring the kids. Are they up, by any chance?”

  “Probably. But they’re not here, They’re still—”

  “No! No! Don’t say it!”

  “Stop,” she said. “So why’d you call me?”

  “To wish you a happy new year. Happy New Year!”

  “Happy New Year. And good night.”

  He’d expected a longer conversation than that. Why, he couldn’t say.

  Charlie climbed into his sleeping bag and waited for sleep, but it didn’t come. He kept thinking about how a higher power had hunted down a loser named Charlie Sherman and given him a place to stay and a job to do. And protected him—or at least spared him. Other than that, he didn’t have a clue to this mystery. For some unexplainable reason, it was imperative that he bring some old dead book to life.

  A few minutes later, Kathleen cried out. Charlie rose and padded upstairs in his mocs, sweat pants, and blue thermal shirt. He knocked on her bedroom door. No answer, just sounds of anguish. He tiptoed into her room and stood beside the bed, watching her toss and turn. A look of distress was etched on her face. “Help me,” she moaned.

  He was sure she was still asleep. In the distance, a string of firecrackers exploded: pop-pop-pop-pop. Then came the whistle and bang of a bottle rocket. She whimpered again. He reached over and held her hand. A smile crossed her face and she fell quiet. He wondered who she thought he was, but since she took comfort from his touch, it really didn’t matter.

  * * *

  On New Year’s Day, Charlie kicked his way out of his sleeping bag and slipped on his mocs. A squeak from a dark corner told him he wasn’t alone. “Happy New Year,” he called out even as he plotted to kill his roommate. When he examined his face in the mirror, he noticed that he looked younger. The wrinkles on his forehead had disappeared. He felt better, too. He would credit his increased vigor to workouts at the Y, although he’d only had three so far.

  Still dressed in his sweat pants and thermal shirt, Charlie stepped out the dungeon’s back door, circled around the house, and retrieved the newspaper, which le
aned picture-perfect against the second concrete step at the edge of the yard. The sky was pale blue, with a few cottony wisps directly overhead. The air was chill, the grass dew-sparkled. Feeling strong, he took porch steps two at a time. He unlocked the front door, went into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. He pulled the paper from its wrap and laid it on the table. The front page headline declared, “Lawyer Killed by MARTA Bus.” Upon seeing the woman’s name, he jumped up, knocking the wooden chair back against a cabinet, and rushed to the dark cherry secretary in the living room. He grabbed the letter Angela had delivered Tuesday, raced back into the kitchen, and slammed it on the table next to the newspaper. Same name: Bethany Campbell.

  He looked up and saw Kathleen approaching. Her hair stood out in all directions and her eyes were blank. She zombie-walked toward him like an extra in a George Romero movie, her bathrobe open with nothing on underneath. Stifling a yelp, he looked away. She collapsed on a chair and gazed at him with those unfathomable blue eyes. “Coffee,” she croaked.

  That seemed somewhat human. He breathed a sigh of relief. “It’ll be ready in a minute. You’re going to catch a chill dressed that way. Go on, pull that robe closed. That’s better. Do you know what happened yesterday?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “I don’t feel good. It’s like I drank a bottle of wine. I rarely drink, and I only have a glass of sherry when I have trouble sleeping.” She groaned. “My head hurts.”

  “We should visit your daughter. Make sure she’s OK.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “I’m not.” He poured her a cup of coffee.

  “Milk please, and sugar. Is there something I don’t know?”

  “Her attorney was killed yesterday.”

  Kathleen pursed her lips and wrinkled her brows. “Oh. That’s too bad.” She dumped two teaspoons of sugar in her cup and stirred. “I didn’t know the woman.”