sense of pride in his own roots. It hadn’t worked — that was a different life, and he had been a different, younger man then. But he had been intrigued by Bessie’s attachment to her past and her need to write it all down.
The Bible opened with a soft crack. And there it was, whole lives laid out on the frontispiece in a listing of births, deaths, and marriages.
Louis took the Bible over to the small window for more light. The names at the top said family record amos and phoebe brandt. Patting his jacket, he found his glasses and slipped them on. The listings began in 1800, and a quick calculation told him he was looking at Owen Brandt’s great-great-great-grandparents.
Name
Place
Birth
Marriage
Death
Amos Brandt
Hell, Mich
1800
Phoebe Poole
1879
Phoebe Brandt
Hell, Mich
1802
Amos Brandt
1872
Ann Brandt
Hell, Mich
1829
Clay Stafford
1869
Lucinda Brandt
Hell, Mich
1830
Randolf Rawls
Zachary Stafford
Kalamazoo, Mich
1849
Linda Wigginton
Joseph Stafford
Kalamazoo, Mich
1853
Sharon Potts
Thomas Rawls
Kalamazoo, Mich
1853
Joanne Sinchuk
Caroline Rawls
Kalamazoo, Mich
1856
Jeremiah Healy
Quince Stafford
Flint, Mich
1868
Catherine Carper
This confirmed that the farm had been in the Brandt family for generations. And at least Louis had hard proof that the Amos of Amy’s memories was a real man and that his name had been written down in a Bible that Amy could have seen.
As Louis studied the names, he found himself trying to imagine what kind of man Amos Brandt had been. And even stranger, he was trying to imagine what Amos Brandt would feel seeing his farm in ruin and worse, knowing his family tree had produced such rotted stock as Owen.
He glanced at his watch. He had to get out of here before Brandt returned. He was about to close the Bible when a thought hit him.
He looked again at the names.
There were two words scrawled under one of the death entries. The second word was cemetery; the other might have said brandt, but he couldn’t make it out.
He closed the Bible, took it and the tin of photographs, and climbed down out of the attic and went back to the kitchen. He retraced his steps through the cellar and closed the blue doors, pulling weeds over them.
Back in the Bronco, he tore a muddy, gravel-spewing path back to the Texaco station. No sign of the Gremlin, so he chanced a quick stop at the gas station, parking out of sight just in case.
Inside, a pimply-faced kid was tipped back in a chair behind the register reading a comic book. He looked up at Louis with eyes that said he didn’t get many black men in this part of his world.
“Hey, is there a cemetery around here?” Louis asked.
The kid frowned. “Well, there’s a big county one up near Pinckney.”
“No, I mean a small one, like just for one family.”
The kid shook his head. “Ain’t nothing buried around here.”
Louis thanked him and left. Back in the Bronco, as he waited for the heater to chase away the chill, he looked again at the Bible’s frontispiece.
Two things were gnawing at his brain. How had Owen Brandt come to inherit the farm and the Brandt name if Amos had no sons? And why had Amy screamed out Amos’s name in terror?
He stared at the name amos brandt at the top of the register. This was the man who would give him answers.
All he had to do was find him.
