A Shred of Truth (33 page)

“In here”—I pulled our joined hands to my chest—“I believe that. I do.”

“But you’re a thinker, Aramis. That’ll always be a struggle.”

The words cut to my core. She’d pinpointed that which defined my past couple of years. The past couple of days.

“Are you hearing me?”

I squeezed her hand and let go. Why was I the one falling apart here?

“It’s the two sides of your sword,” she explained. “The Bible says God’s Word is ‘sharper than any twoedged sword … a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.’ Only he knows how to strike to the truth of a situation.
As fallible humans, we usually slip too far over one edge or the other—all wrath and judgment or all grace and love.”

“Hellfire or the holy hugs,” I joked.

She gave a short laugh. “If you say so.”

“Forgive me, Sammie. I shouldn’t have gone off like that, especially today.”

“I understand. In fact, last night Anna and I discussed the same things at length. She’s a blessing. She may even stay with me while she gets back on her feet. Her divorce has devastated her.”

“Any word on her husband?”

“The police found him at a local motel, and he was strongly encouraged to return to Florida and let bygones be bygones.”

“That’s right. He better not come back into my shop.”

“Our shop.”

We locked eyes. My heart was racing again.

“My bad,” I said. “Our shop—that’s what I meant.”

In the back office at Black’s, I went over inventory sheets and yesterday’s sales receipts. I was reminded of Sammie’s decision to come in last night to close the store while Diesel and I took our social psych final. She was a bulwark.

So why had I vented out there on the City Cemetery lawn? What kind of idiot was I, airing my doubts when she needed my strength?

I logged on to my computer. Checked my e-mail. Nothing from AX.

While placing my weekly online order—cups, hot sleeves, sweeteners, etc.—I received an invitation to accept a new friend on my instant messenger.

Reginald Meade, that wily detective.

We went back and forth for the next few minutes. As far as I knew, this
communication couldn’t be tracked by Mr. Hillcrest. When Meade asked for the story behind the coiled whip that Freddy C had handed over, I typed a reply.

This question was troublesome. An affirmative could lead to further probes into our methods of obtaining the item. I decided to skip forward.

Switching the topic to Mr. Hillcrest, I cited my knowledge of the man and his menacing behavior. Meade wanted to know why Hillcrest would attack Felicia. I noted his apparent weakness for the opposite sex and—going against my desire to believe otherwise—conceded there may have been a physical relationship between the two of them. My mom’s safety took precedence now.

Seconds rolled into a full minute.

My fingers hesitated over the keyboard, frozen by the potentially condemning nature of his answer. Did I really want to know? Could I live with myself?

Tingles spread through my jaws as my throat clamped shut. Sorrow and relief brewed together in my thoughts. Out on that sidewalk on Saturday night, those few minutes I had left her made no difference. There was nothing I could’ve done to keep her from sliding away.

I tilted my head back and drew in some air before continuing.

I grinned. Obviously I’d been weeding out IM hieroglyphics for good reason.

That wily Detective Meade.

A
nna, it’s good to have you back.”

“Thanks.”

Anna Knight had come in for her closing shift with no sign of the cowering fear from Sunday night. That was encouraging. She’s a good woman who can do without some creep diminishing her. She even went so far as to ruffle my hair as I passed by the espresso machine.

“Would you like a nightcap, hon?” she asked.

“Sounds vaguely naughty.”

“You”—she pointed and winked—“are the naughty one.”

“If you’re making me something, I’d love a good double latte.”

“At your service.”

“I’ll be roasting in the back. We’re running short on retail inventory.”

“The Back-in-Black blend? It’s popular with the college kids.”

I looked toward the ceiling, cracked my neck. “Not sure. Maybe a new blend, in honor of a special lady.” I was thinking of my mother.

“Not too fast, Aramis. Don’t get me wrong, Sammie’s a wonderful person, but she’s at a vulnerable point.”

“Of course. I know that.”

“Maybe in a few months—a friendly date, a night on the town.”

“Don’t worry. No sudden moves on my part.”

“And you’ll remember to treat her like a lady.”

“Haven’t you seen how far I can shove my foot into my mouth?”

“I’ve heard.”

I let that comment pass. “But, yes,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”

“So there’s a future for you two?”

“You are a little troublemaker.”

She topped off my drink with a dollop of foam, handed it over. “Sometimes it’s just a way of taking my mind off my own problems.”

I hefted the cup. “Thanks a latte.”

“You mocha me laugh,” she answered back.

In the roasting area, I found comfort in the routine. I scooped raw coffee beans—Venezuelan, Brazilian, and Ethiopian—into the rotating drum, then reset the time and temperature for something a little milder, but with good complexity.

I’d name this blend after my mom.

With the aroma seeping into the room, I printed new labels for the shiny black retail bags and affixed the first label. An act of faith.

I still had no ring. I’d failed to sway my brother. How would AX react, less than thirty-six hours from now, when I showed up empty-handed?

Please, Lord. Just bring Mom through this alive
.

In the room’s stillness, through my six-year-old eyes, I saw the smile she used to give me as she sat with her morning coffee and took that first sip.

Time for some late-night research.

The store was closed, Anna had gone home, and I’d double-checked the timer on the roaster. From my office computer, I ran some Internet searches.

“Knights Templar” … led to Rosslyn Chapel, the Crusades, and so on.

My brother was correct that the Knights Templar, self-proclaimed protectors of the church and her relics, had been associated with the Masons.
After years of secrecy, the knights faced growing persecution in Europe, where they were viewed by many as a cult. They survived, in part, by fleeing to Scotland during the fourteenth century. They imported great wealth and secrets, which they used to form alliances with the Royal Stuarts and the Sinclairs, cupbearers to the Scottish throne.

“Freemasons” … led to Scottish Rite and secret societies.

Their modern permutation was traced to 1717, when the first Grand Lodge in London brought together other smaller lodges. Before that, the trail is less clear. It’s a matter of record, however, that as far back as 1425 England’s King Henry VI issued a decree banning their annual gathering.

Our own nation’s foundations were built by numerous Masons, from the presidency on down. Even the Lewis and Clark expedition, which expanded American territory from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, was touched by the Masonic influence of Meriwether Lewis.

Lewis was an explorer, a governor, and Master of a St. Louis lodge. A museum in Missouri alleged to hold “the Masonic apron that belonged to Brother and Captain Meriwether Lewis and was in his possession at the time of his death on the Natchez Trace.”

Last year I discovered my own blood ties to Lewis, which led to the cache of gold, trinkets, and documents he concealed before his demise.

By my way of thinking, acts of treason and murder had desecrated the find.

My brother took a different view. With a few hints, he’d tracked down the treasure near Memphis and found this centuries-old ring among the loot—a Masonic heirloom, dated 1644.

How had anyone else found out about it?

A mythic voice sounded in my head:
the ring is a dangerous thing, Frodo
.

Not funny.

With only a day till the exchange for my mom, I was starting to feel
panic. I clicked on link after link, cross-referencing my information. Although I came across numerous legends and conspiracy theories woven through the history of the Masons and Knights Templar, I found no specifics about this ring.

I rubbed my eyes and headed home. Still empty-handed.

My chest is wet, sticky—that’s what first catches my attention. I’m standing on a battlefield, the clash of swords and shields ringing in my ears. At my feet, a dead woman’s eyes stare upward. She’s attractive, not much more than sixteen, and my heart bemoans a world that preys on its young.

Labored breaths grow louder behind me.

I turn to see a warrior stumbling forward. Friend or foe? I’m not sure.

He’s in chain mail. His helmet is crushed down over his skull, indented from the blow of a heavy object—a mace, perhaps—and he is mortally wounded. That much is clear by the copious blood dripping along the raw wound of his right cheek.