He considered packing a suitcase and getting out of town, but he didn’t. Instead, he laid on the sofa and stared at the sunlight on the ceiling as it faded through the morning hours. Then he listened to his bedside clock ticking the seconds away. When a few thousand had passed, he realized that at that very moment, varmints were taping the Steele show in Chicago. Spence Greene and Barbara Asher would rip Charlie a new one for being a no-show, but only if he talked to them. Another problem easily solved. Other than avoiding all human contact, he didn’t know what to do. So he did nothing and quietly waited for the world to go away.
The knocking came intermittently throughout the rest of the day.
Morbid curiosity about Dana drove Charlie to click on the evening news. He stared in disbelief as Susan appeared on the plasma screen, standing beside her Mercedes beneath the TransNationBank sign in front of Hanover Mall’s landmark clock tower. Channel Six reporter Trent Bozier asked, “How do you feel about your husband’s relationship with an alleged war criminal?”
Susan took a deep breath. “Obviously, he continues to engage in disgusting behavior and associate with dangerous criminals, on top of harassing my family, and I will do everything I can to protect the people that I love from him.”
“Does that include a restraining order?”
“Definitely. We’re getting the restraining order reinstated. It never should have been removed.”
Tears of frustration and rage welled in Charlie’s eyes. “You’ll pay for that!” he screamed. “You’ll pay and pay and pay! On your knees begging is too good for you!”
* * *
Charlie didn’t eat or sleep much for the rest of the day, and he continued to ignore phone calls, e-mails, and knocks on the door the next day. Tuesday afternoon, he worked up the nerve to watch The Matthew Steele Show, hoping the scheduled episode had been cancelled because he hadn’t shown up for the Monday taping. No such luck. The host, wearing his trademark black suit, opened the show with a seething denunciation of “Charles Sherman, the man in the empty chair.” Steele pointed to said chair and declared, “He didn’t have the courage to show up after his Eastern European lover’s arrest on espionage charges.” The crowd jeered. “Mr. Sherman, this is what people think of you.” Steele held his microphone overhead and urged the crowd to boo even louder.
“Why the fuck should I care?” Charlie muttered at the screen. “You idiots don’t read.”
Steele prowled the stage like a greedy preacher. “Theft and trespassing, domestic violence, child pornography, meth dealing, and adultery. With a spy, no less! Libel, war crimes, art forgery.” Steele, who didn’t care whose offenses he was talking about or if they’d actually been committed, sucked in a deep breath. “The list is endless, but the bottom line is that Charles Sherman is one reprehensible individual!” Steele stopped pacing and bowed his head, appearing to be deep in thought. When he looked up into the camera, he said, “Charles Sherman … is a vermin!”
He repeated the line. On the third try, the crowd took the cue and started chanting it. They kept this up until Steele silenced them by proclaiming, “And now, it’s time to meet Charles Sherman’s victims!”
“Victims?” Charlie jumped up from his seat on the sofa, yelling, “Them there is perpetrators!”
Uncle Stanley, Momo, and Evangeline walked out on the stage. To applause! As Steele introduced them, the clapping and cheers grew louder. All of them were dressed in black, like they’d flown straight to Chicago from Pappy’s funeral without changing clothes. What a pack of fakes! The hulking Momo, wearing a hateful scowl and dwarfing Steele’s security guards, wore a suit instead of his usual Confederate T-shirt. Stanley was wearing his legislative ID badge on his lapel, and Evangeline wore a black suit with her trademark mini-bouffant. Puffy-eyed, she broke into tears when Steele asked her how she was doing.
“My daddy died,” she said. “That’s how I’m doing.”
Steele knelt and patted her hand
Next to her sat Momo, forehead wide, brow low. “Pappy was the best man I ever knew,” he said. “He taught me how to hunt. Pap was always there to help. Until … until.” He hung his head.
Stanley spoke up. “Sherman was always trying to destroy the family, but things turned really bad when he got caught with child pornography on the computer in the house. He didn’t have a job, by the way. Except for writing porn.”
“My daughter wasn’t standing for any of that,” Evangeline said.
“It got violent,” Stanley said. “He beat Susan up pretty bad. She was able to call 911. He was so out of control the police had to draw guns— ”
Evangeline interrupted. “It would have been better if they’d a—” Suddenly she was staring cross-eyed at a microphone a foot away from her face. “Lord, I can’t say such a thing.”
“Shot him to death,” Momo said helpfully.
Stanley continued the narrative: “Sherman got kicked out of the house and soon after that, he began stalking us and plotting his revenge.”
“How so?” Steele asked.
“Well first, he tried to build up his credibility by putting his name as the author of that first book even though somebody else wrote it, and it wasn’t factual to begin with.”
“You’re talking about Flight from Forsyth,” Steele said. “So that never happened?”
“Not the way he told it, that’s for sure. Anyway, once he does that, he starts making up this cock-and-bull story about how this black man lived in Forsyth and how my father supposedly killed him and stole the land.” Stanley put air quotes around killed and stole. “Even worse things, nonsense and lies I won’t repeat.”
Without missing a beat, Steele asked, “When did he start worshiping the devil?”
Enough. Charlie turned off the TV. He paced around the room until he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He turned the TV back on just as Steele was cutting to a commercial: “When we come back, we’ll hear from someone who has a different perspective on these matters.”
Different perspective? Who could it be? Charlie wracked his brain for the answer while advertisers tried to sell him toilet cleaner and hemorrhoid ointment.
Steele returned. “Ladies and gentlemen, our special guest, Arlene Cartier!”
Aunt Shirlene!
The varmints’ mouths dropped open in unison at the announcement. Apparently, they had no idea this was coming. Nice touch, Steele. Charlie pumped his fist in the air and cheered raucously as Arlene, wearing a red dress, walked onstage. As she passed Stanley, he rose from his chair. She raised her hand to slap him. When he recoiled from the anticipated blow, she laughed in his face. The crowd broke out in guffaws and jeers. She turned and glared at this newest source of dissatisfaction, apparently scouting for more targets. Her eyes were lit with fire as she sat down in a chair set well apart from the others.
“Now, is Cartier your married name?” Steele asked, holding his microphone in front of her face.
“No. I never married. I changed my name as soon as I legally could. Wanted nothing to do with ’em.” She gave a backhanded wave toward her relatives.
“Now, sister,” Stanley cautioned. “I know you’re upset by Pap’s death, but—”
“Don’t you even talk to me!” Arlene screamed. Turning to Steele and calming slightly, she said, “First, I want to tell everyone that I believe every word in Mr. Sherman’s book. That … my father—” she patted down her red dress, which didn’t fit like it belonged on her “—was capable of what was described in the book, and I know ’cause I lived through it. You have no idea how many times I’ve prayed to be able to tell my story to the world.”
Charlie crouched by the sofa and bit his thumbs in anticipation. “Yes, I do. You go, girl!”
“That man was a monster. He raped me every week for three years, and the woman he married just looked the other way.” Arlene’s rapid-fire delivery let everyone know she would not be outtalked.
“Your mother,” Steele added helpfully.
“And as far a
s I’m concerned, the whole family can burn in hell.”
Stanley, now two shades paler than at the start of the program, cried out, “You can’t believe her! Sherman planted that story in her head!”
Arlene continued: “I left home when I was sixteen years old and pregnant by my own father.” Audience members cried out in disgust. “I was so ignorant I had no idea what to do. I heard about a place to have an abortion up in Ringgold and I went up there, but then they wanted me to have the baby so they could sell it. They took care of me all right, but when my baby was born, no one would take it. He was retarded. My boy’s nearly sixty years old and he’s in a state home, and that’s where he’ll stay until the day he dies.”
“No, no!” Charlie shouted at the screen. “That’s not what you told me! That’s not what’s in the book! Stick to the script, goddamnit! Stick to the script!” He reached up and grabbed his hair with both hands. “You were supposed to have an abortion!”
“I blamed myself,” Arlene said, “but it was due to the inbreeding. I know that now because of this book. That Monster married his half-sister. I gave birth to my brother! There’s crimes against God going on in that family! Dig the (bleep) up! Do those tests on him and my son! He stole that land, and worse!”
This was too much even for Steele, whose face went pale. Charlie felt nauseous, too. His source was refuting him. What had he been thinking? Never trust a varmint! Never, never, never!
Arlene leveled her gaze at Stanley. “I heard you already took his money from selling the stolen land and been spreadin’ it around, like good works will get you into heaven. You livin’ a lie.”
“You should have come to us,” Stanley said, his face a mask of pain and suffering. “We would have helped you!”
“Come to you?” She scoffed. “Hell. You knew what was going on.”
“I protected my sisters.”
Charlie’s eyes widened at this admission.
“You protected your other sisters. Not me. You could have stopped him. Instead you decided that monster was your role model.”
“Oh my goodness!” Steele said in alarm. “Are you saying—”
“He tried to do it to me himself. Once. I fought him off with a butcher knife.”
“That’s a damn lie!” Stanley shouted.
“He has a scar on the inside of his left thigh. Pull down your pants and show your rape scar, you (bleep)! You’re lucky I didn’t cut it off. Maybe somebody did. He ain’t got no kids, you know.”
The crowd started chanting, “Pull ’em off! Pull ’em off!” Charlie, having recovered somewhat, joined in.
“And as for how that man died, I don’t believe he shot himself. Too damned mean for that.”
“Do you think somebody killed Isaac Cutchins?” Steele asked. “Police say it was a suicide.”
“Wouldn’t put it past his own people, not with money on the line.” She pointed at Momo. “His daddy burned down the courthouse, and he’s no better. Maybe he did it. You kill your granddad, boy?”
That was too much for Momo. “I can’t stand this no more!” he bellowed, and rose from his chair. He took a step toward Arlene, who stood to face him. As the security staff closed in, she pulled a small canister of mace from her bra and sprayed her nephew in the eyes, then gave two guards the same treatment. Audience members screamed. Steele jumped off the stage, and with security guards semi-disabled, the melee began in earnest as people in the crowd rushed to join the fight.
Arlene had also smuggled a knife into the studio, and she was determined to cut someone, bless her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The brawl on the Steele Show reminded Charlie of his brother-in-law Jerry Bancroft’s funeral, so he switched channels and happened upon a car chase in progress. At first he thought he was watching COPS and started singing the theme song. Then he realized it was live and local. Newschopper Six was hot on the trail of a silver sedan weaving through traffic on I-85 in Gwinnett County. He put down the remote. After seeing the horrific performance of Aunt Arlene … or Shirley (who was that woman, anyway?) Charlie was glad to watch bad news that didn’t involve him. Best of all, he knew that Channel Six (If it bleeds, it leads) would stick with the chase, preempting other local coverage—including the daily beat-down of Charlie Sherman. He settled in to watch.
The vehicle proceeded north, running on the shoulder at highway speed. Traffic reporter Trey Denison gave a breathless report: “The suspect car is taking the exit at Pleasant Hill. It’s on the grass now … almost slid down the embankment.”
Early evening anchor Gayle Huggins cut in. “Trey, we have some information on the suspects. Two black males in their late teens or early twenties, both about five-foot-six. Wearing baggy shirts and basketball shorts—”
Trey: “Did you see that? He just clipped a car when he ran the red light, then sideswiped another. Traffic’s too heavy to get through. This is Gwinnett Place Mall at rush hour we’re talking about! He’s going the other way now, taking a right, heading east.”
“Trey, where are the police cars?”
“The ones on I-85 are about a quarter-mile back, working up the ramp. I see some other police cars now.” The camera panned to show two units in pursuit. “One going westbound on Pleasant Hill just did a U-Turn at a traffic light to join the chase. The suspect is accelerating, but this can’t last long. He’s cutting through a parking lot, just hit a car. Look out. He almost hit a pedestrian.”
The anchor broke in: “For those of you just joining us, we are covering an apparent carjacking in progress. Police spotted the suspect vehicle northbound on I-85 after the alleged carjackers shot the victim about an hour ago. We’ve got a reporter at the shooting scene, and we’ll bring you a report when we’re able.”
The chase continued for a few minutes without commentary before Denison said, “Police have a roadblock at Highway Twenty-Nine. Unless he … yep, there he goes on Ronald Reagan Parkway. Police are setting a blockade there, too. It’s going to be over soon.”
The camera zoomed in on the car as the driver slowed to negotiate the snarled traffic. Two patrol cars rolled onto the parkway’s grassy median just as the stolen car—now identified as a Mercedes sedan—left the eastbound lane and barreled across the median toward oncoming traffic.
Denison shouted, “He’s going the wrong way!”
The Mercedes shot up onto the westbound lane, going against traffic. It immediately collided head-on with a pickup truck. The car spun into the median and came to a rest. The camera closed in on one suspect as he jumped out the passenger door and sprinted toward the mass of cars in the roadblocked eastbound lane. He charged up on a car sitting in traffic. “He’s wearing a red cap or something on his head, and it looks like he’s armed,” Denison said, his voice on edge. “I think he’s trying to steal another—”
The carjacker’s body jerked once, then collapsed on the ground.
“He’s down.” The camera panned to armed officers advancing on the suspect, guns drawn. The video shot was too distant for Charlie to make out anyone’s features clearly, but he had a bad feeling about what was happening.
The helicopter’s camera pivoted to show the Mercedes driver running along the median grass back the way he’d come. A county police car raced up behind him. The carjacker scrambled up the incline to the westbound lanes and tried to sprint across, but got clipped by a car and fell down. He staggered to his feet and tried to hobble away, but an officer jumped out of the pursuit vehicle and tackled him from behind. The camera stayed on the suspect for a minute, then switched to his fallen accomplice, who remained motionless.
“It looks like the police have the situation under control now,” Denison said. “But at least one of the suspects appears to have been shot. It doesn’t look like he’s moving, either.”
Gayle Huggins cut in: “We’re going live to DeKalb County and Monica Crowley at TransNationBank on Hanover Drive. Go ahead, Monica.”
“No!” Charlie shouted as he stared at the face of
a woman he’d known for several years. “No!”
The camera cut to the reporter on location. “Gayle, right now I’m where the scene of this alleged crime in north DeKalb County. I’m with an eyewitness, TransNationBank assistant manager, Allison Fugate.” The blonde reporter put a hand on the weeping woman’s shoulder. “Take a breath and compose yourself.”
The bottom dropped out of Charlie’s stomach.
“It was terrible,” Allison said, clearly distraught. “I was looking out the window and saw it happen. When Susan went to her car—”
“And that’s branch manager Susan Sherman?”
“Yes,” Allison said. “They shot her and took her car. They just shot her. They didn’t have to do that. They already had the keys.” The woman sobbed deeply and gasped for breath.
“Could you describe the suspects?”
“Two young black males. They were short. The one who shot her was wearing a red handkerchief on his head.”
“This isn’t happening,” Charlie told himself as Allison sobbed and sniffed her way through the interview. But it was happening, and he needed to do something. Get moving, he told himself. You’ve got to help. Through the fog of confusion that was clouding his brain, he heard the reporter say, “The shooting victim has been taken to Northeast Atlanta Regional Medical Center with life-threatening injuries.”
Get Beck and Ben. Where were they? With the woman who babysat for them after school? He didn’t have her phone number, so he’d have to drive there. He burst out the door, sprinted down the hall with long strides, and hurtled down the stairs, grabbing the handrails and taking a half-flight at a time. He slid to a stop in the garage and thought for a moment before deciding that luxury cars were bad luck and taking the Volvo.
It seemed to take forever to reach his old neighborhood. Along the way, Charlie listened to the news, fretted, and kept switching radio stations. No updates, just traffic reports telling him that the world was slowing down on its way home. His gut churning, Charlie drove past the school and Thornbriar, feeling like he’d entered hostile territory. And what if the worst happened—if, at that very instant, that incessant beeping in the hospital changed to a solid, flat tone?
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