A Shred of Truth (21 page)

“Kid, I’m packing up, hitting the road in the morning. This is it, everything I’ve been workin’ toward. Not trying to put you off, but …” His voice faded as he set the paper on the bed, smoothed it with his fingers. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“She’s here in Nashville. I’m convinced of it.”

“Throw me a bone here, and help me understand.”

“She’s being coerced. Same way Felicia was.”

“Your ex.” His eyes sought mine.

I nodded.

“The one who was left to bleed to death.”

I closed my eyes. “They’re still not sure that’s how she died.”

“She’s dead either way, so what’s it matter?”

“It matters.”

“And what’s any of this got to do with Mom being alive?”

I eased the tube’s other contents onto the bed, beside the letter. Black strands, mixed with some gray, slithered into a pile.

Johnny cursed out loud. “What is that?”

“Proof.”

“That’s human hair.”

“Mom’s.”

He cursed again. Pacing, he grabbed his own golden brown locks and
pushed them back out of his eyes. “That could be anybody’s. No. I … I can’t accept this.”

“She was at the Frist, in a wheelchair. She had one of my yearbook photos.”

“You saw her?”

“No. But the clerk did.”

“You’re grasping at straws, little brother.”

“I have a theory.”

Johnny Ray crossed his arms, waiting.

“You remember last year how that rapist collected hair from his victims, right here in Music City?”

“That was some messed-up stuff.”

“At least he’s behind bars now.”

“What’re you getting at?”

“What if he had an accomplice?” I said. “I’m thinking out loud here … But maybe I’ve put too much trust in my friend Freddy C.”

“The bum from the park? You telling me you think he’s a rapist?”

“Did you know that one out of four homeless men is a convicted felon?”

“Kid, you’re not making sense.”

“I’m trying to piece this all together. Remember that homeless lady who was stabbed and burned? Nadine Lott. Freddy knew her. Thing is, he’s faced accusations of sexual misconduct before, and then he got mixed up in our whole adventure last year. Even had his hands on that ebony box in my room, on Mom’s handkerchief too. You tell me. Maybe he got fixated and tracked her down.”

“What? Some bum succeeded where her own sons failed?”

“I don’t wanna believe it either. But if she’s alive, who cares?”

Johnny plopped onto the edge of the bed. His hand touched the severed strands, and he jumped back up.

“You know,” I added, “Freddy was alone with Felicia last night. For a few minutes anyway. What if he … did something to her?”

“She was hurt before he got there—that’s whatcha told me.”

“What’re the odds of Freddy being out on that corner when I drove by? Maybe he was told to be there. Maybe he’s working with the other guy, the one with the knife.” I shook my head. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Beyond crazy. This morning you gave the same paranoid speech about my guitar player—how he’s sneakin’ around in his Corvette and jonesin’ for Sammie Rosewood.”

“Tell me this. Does Chigger have a tat on his upper arm?”

“He plays lead guitar, so whaddya expect? He’s my axman.”

“A tattoo of an executioner’s ax. Am I right?”

“It’s a pretty common design, hardly rock-solid evidence.”

“AX. That’s his identity. Same as those letters he cut into your shoulder.”

Johnny expelled one of his when-will-my-little-brother-grow-up sighs.

“Okay then.” I gritted my teeth. “Explain the note. And the hair.”

“You don’t want me to do that, not right now.”

“I do too.”

“Do not.” When he saw I was serious, he pressed on. “All righty then. If you’re gonna hear this, you may as well hear it from me.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Way I see it, Aramis, you went through a genuinely traumatic experience last night, a double shot of terror. Ain’t no one gonna deny that. You saw someone special to you die—viciously murdered—and you feel responsible, feel like you coulda saved her if you had a chance to do it all over.”

I looked toward the ceiling. My guilt coiled around my ribs.

“So, because you’re exhausted and traumatized, that’s what you’ve done here.” He hefted the garment bag over his undamaged shoulder. “You’ve given yourself a chance to get it right, to ease away your shame. You dreamed
up this whole scenario—the license tag, this hair, everything. By resurrecting Mom in your mind, you think you can replace what you lost and somehow make it all better.”

My voice dropped. “That’s insane.”

“The world’s a crazy place.”

“No. You’re implying that
I’ve
gone insane.”

“With grief, which is a normal reaction.” He picked up his Stetson, snugged it down on his head until it shaded his eyes. “Honestly, I respect your beliefs—and I’ve seen you turn things around like nobody’s business—but you’ve let this Jesus talk fool you into thinking the world’ll be one big, happy place. Just doesn’t work that way, little brother. We gotta love people, do the best we can, and hope it all comes back to us.”

“I’m not an idiot. This world’s full of pain—I know that.”

“Then let this go. You’re just pickin’ at old wounds.”

“Your wounds look pretty fresh. So did Felicia’s.”

“Maybe we oughta just give this guy a few bars of gold to get him off our backs. I don’t want to see you get hurt next. And what about our deal? To let the cops handle this?”

“The rules changed.” I snatched up the note and the black tendrils of hair. “I’m going after Mom. You do whatever you want to do.”

W
ritten under the watchful eye of her abductor, my mother’s sentences were nothing more than dictated instructions. No emotion. No personality.

Still, she had held the pen that wrote this note. Her touch, her essence …

Johnny Ray was off doing errands for his morning departure. He’d left without a word. I sat at the kitchen table, my eyes roving across the flowing pen strokes as though they held long-desired nutrients. I brushed my fingers over her cut hair.

What if I was wrong about all this? What if it was a trap?

No. Mom had survived. While I couldn’t blame Johnny for his skepticism—if I were in his shoes, would I react any differently?—I refused to cave in to it.

I mulled the note’s contents again. Raked through it for shreds of truth.

He knew about the treasure. Had he wrung the info from Mom?

Two hundred years ago Meriwether Lewis had concealed the gold before
his untimely death and had left clues for his descendants. But a natural disaster shifted the exact location. Although I’d hinted at the existence of the cache during the airing of
The Best of Evil
, only my brother and I knew the location of the family inheritance.

Could there be a Masonic ring in that cave along the Wolf River?

I thought back to yesterday’s e-mail: “Perhaps you should give me a ring.”

I stood and grabbed a Dr Pepper from the fridge. At the window over the sink, I guzzled while trying to put it all together.

What made a centuries-old Masonic heirloom worth killing for? And who would have something to gain from it? Yes, Lewis was a Freemason, like many of our nation’s Founding Fathers. He even served as master at Lodge 111 in St. Louis. Was he linked to the Scots though? The Royal Stuarts?

Virescit Vulnere Virtus …

Who had called and threatened my brother? Possibilities stirred in my head, bolstered by recent events.

Chigger’s animosity and racist leanings.

Freddy’s mysterious appearance near Oak Street.

Mr. Hillcrest’s self-righteous threats not only against his son’s professor but against Johnny Ray and me. He’d even thrown in that bit from Proverbs, about my brother being like a dog.

I bolted up. Thought of the scriptures sprinkled throughout the e-mails.

The stove clock told me it was time for the study session at Sara Sevier’s trendy Green Hills apartment. With Mom’s life in the hands of a madman, I would’ve felt no qualms in missing it. So what if I flunked our final exam? I’d taken social psych for no other reason than to clear the muddied waters of my own thought processes. What drove people toward—and away from—doing good? What was truth?

With only one day of class left, I was more confused than ever.

Diesel, though, might be able to clarify a few things about Mr. Hillcrest.

My study partners acted surprised to see me.

“Who are you again?” Diesel gibed. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“He’s
alive!
” Sara called out, playing the part of Dr. Frankenstein. In her Dolly Parton twang, it sounded more goofy than anything.

“You make me sound like a monster.”

“If the shoe fits,” Diesel quipped.

Sara slapped at his knee. “Y’all better be civil.”

“He looks even worse than when I saw him this morning,” he tossed in. “Though he’d probably look worse if he’d been stranded at the airport all day, like my parents.”

“Your dad’s still in Nashville?”

“If you can believe that. Southwest Airlines has canceled all flights to Ohio due to the storm warnings. And he must be livid by now, demanding answers from the ticket-counter staff.”

“Your poor mom,” Sara said.

“She’s learned to live with it.”

“Diesel. You been out partying with my brother recently?”

“He invited me out to Chigger’s place a couple times. Is that a bad thing?”

The strands of this web kept getting more complex.

I said, “Your parents seem to think so. Your father even threatened me.”

“He’s just a control freak.” Diesel shifted in his seat. “Here’s a pop quiz for you. True or false: John Denver, that folk-singer guy, served in Vietnam as a trained army sniper?”

“Think that one’s true,” I played along. Best to keep the conversation casual. “Over seventy kills, from what I heard.”

“You heard? There’s your first clue. Denver was never even in ’Nam.”

“Silly me. Denver’s in Colorado.”

Sara groaned, then gestured at a beanbag chair. “You gonna join us or not?”

“Sure.”

Course syllabi, research journals, and varied refreshments covered the wicker-and-glass coffee table. Diesel was stretched out on the carpet with a rolled issue of
Psychology Today
, while Sara’s ample frame filled the cushions of another wicker contraption. She cradled an iMac on her lap, probably surfing the Net.

“How’re things looking? Is our urban legend spreading?”

“I just Googled the keywords and came up with some fresh links.”

“Show him that one you showed me.” From the floor, Diesel arched a piece of popcorn toward a soda can, watched it miss the opening and land on the carpet.

“I
know
you’re not leaving that there,” Sara whined.

I picked it up.

“Thank you, Aramis.”

I tossed it in my mouth. “Five-second rule.”

“Ugggh. You know, studies show that bacteria transfers as quickly in two seconds as it does in five.”

I spit the popcorn into my hand and shook it back onto the carpet.

Before she could protest, Diesel swiped it up into his own mouth.

“Oh no you
didn’t
. Y’all are disgusting. Go. Shoo.”

Diesel was enjoying her discomfort. In class I’d wondered about his feelings for her, and now I was convinced. Typical playground antics. All very amusing, but deeper concerns were stirring in my skull.

“Boys, how can I concentrate?” Her glossed fingernails tapped the keys of her computer. “Am I the only one who wants to ace this final?”

“I know Diesel does.”

“Then why is he so … distracting?”

“I’m a man,” he spoke up. “We can be pretty immature.”

“At least you admit it.”

“Makes me sound more intelligent, doesn’t it?” Diesel crossed his legs on the floor and pulled a syllabus onto his lap. There was something boyish and vulnerable in his icy eyes, something “distracting” that Sara seemed to recognize.

“Ladies and gentlemen.”

No response.

“Hey,” I said louder. “Let’s get cracking here.”

Diesel broke away from her gaze. “Sure thing, boss. Time to focus.”

“And,” Sara said with a grin, “it’s time to take a vote. I move that Aramis do the oral presentation.”

“No. C’mon.”

Diesel seconded the motion. “You’re the best speaker in our group.”

“Every time I get up there, Newmann tears into me.”

“Professor Bones? He does that to everyone.”

“He’s tough,” Sara agreed. “But he gives mercy where mercy’s due.”

“You make him sound like a saint.”

“Maybe that’s who he was named after, Saint Boniface.”

“Yep.” Sitting ramrod straight, Diesel hitched up imaginary jacket lapels and spectacles. “Patron saint of turtles and tweed.”