A Shred of Truth (38 page)

There!

Through a gap in the foliage, forty feet below, I spotted her.
Mom?

Six years old … helpless … watching her plunge forward …

Salt-and-pepper strands obscured her face as she slowly twisted at the rope’s end, struggling to keep her chin above the water. Her body turned toward me, her hair parted, and her eyes crept up the slope to mine.

“Mom!” I yelled. “It’s me. Hold on!”

In that split second, she dropped, and Newmann’s grunt snapped my attention back. With one upward slice, his blade had severed the taut rope.

No!

I dashed forward, my scrambling sending the Desert Eagle out beneath the fence and over the edge into the thick greenery.

Newmann lurched toward the fence, his foot braced against the creaking post. The cut rope was twined around his other arm, digging into his skin.

He chuckled, her life now in his hands. “Take it,” he commanded. “I’m starting to slip.”

As the cord slithered from his grip, he turned aside, yelling in pain, and I grabbed at the rope, twisting my left hand around the remaining length before it whisked away. The fibers tore into my hand and wrist, and though it couldn’t have been more than 130 pounds cantilevered on the riverbank below, it was enough to demand my full attention.

My feet dug for purchase against the wood post, and I angled back, using the horizontal beam to fulcrum the tension. From this position, I could hold on forever. Till my tendons snapped. Till I sweated blood and it pooled in my shoes.

“The ring,” Newmann whispered in my ear. “Where is it?”

“Search me.”

“My pleasure,” he said, feathering his knife along the hair at the back of my neck.

I cracked my skull into his cheek.

He stumbled backward, growled, then moved closer. “You don’t realize the predicament you’re in. Do you want her to drown? Believe it or not, my wife has expressed a desire to see you.”

“She’s not your wife.”

“I assure you, she is.” The blade crept along my ear. “I labored for a time at God’s work in the Oregon State Penitentiary, where I met your father.” A hand dug into my back pocket. “Richard Lewis was a parishioner, if you will, who confided in me as though I were his priest. He led me straight to her.”

I felt the rope slacken a bit, and I wondered if Mom had found a narrow ledge beneath the water to pull herself up against. Hindered by soggy layers of tape, she wouldn’t be able to hold on for long.

“Did he talk about me?” I asked. I’d never known my biological father.

“Before the cancer? I don’t believe so. No.”

“He died in prison, serving time for her murder.”

“A pitiful irony, since she was very much alive.” His search moved to my front pockets. “An accomplice of his fished her out. The town assumed she was gone—and, yes, she did suffer short-term memory loss due to acute physical and psychological trauma—but she survived. She needed someone to watch after her, in her condition. And I filled that need.”

“You need serious help.”

The knife scraped at my cheek. “What I
need
is your cooperation.”

I wanted to turn and throw this guy off me, but I couldn’t let my mother slip into the powerful current. The rope was digging into my arm through my sweatshirt, cutting off circulation, and the fingers of my other hand were growing numb. But I had to buy her time. If she went under, if I lost hold of the rope, I doubted I would have time to plunge down the slope into the water and rescue her from the murky depths.

“Gifts for me?” Newmann was removing my cell and multitool and slipping them into his pocket.

If he wanted the ring, Jillanne Brewster’s number was in that phone.

“I’m moving my knife away now, but I’m sure you’re smart enough to keep holding on.” He knelt and patted at my legs, fishing his fingers into my shoes. “In your father’s soul-searching, he told me of a family treasure that had eaten at him with greed. When I realized the historical tie-in to Master Meriwether Lewis, I knew God’s hand had guided me to him.”

“How appropriate.”

He ran his hands across my back, staying low to search my abdomen. “The ring was guarded by the Masons and was last known to be in Master Lewis’s possession. When he met his end on the Natchez Trace, it was feared the Templar secrets had died with him.”

“Until you saw my story on that TV show.”

He stood and pressed against me. The knife was touching my ear again.

“The ring, Mr. Black.”

“I won’t propose till you get tested,” I gibed.

The razor edge was so thin, so sharp, I was unaware he had cut me until a hot droplet of blood splashed against my collarbone and ran down my chest.

“Last chance, Mr. Black. The next cut will dramatically compromise your ability to sustain your grip.”

“A felt bag.” My voice was beginning to quiver from my exertion. “Pull it up by the drawstring on my belt loop.”

To his credit, he did only as told, then backed up and emptied the contents into his hand.

“Yes, this is it!” The excitement in his voice suddenly caught. “Wait.”

I searched the river’s edge below, hoping to catch my mother’s eye again. I wanted to tell her the words I hadn’t been able to say in years—
I love you!
—but something about the gesture would feel like surrender. Like saying good-bye all over again.

That was unacceptable.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” I said.

“No.”

“It’s gotta be. The name, the date—it’s all there.”

“No!” From behind me, the force of the cry shook my throbbing earlobe. “This is a counterfeit! Nothing more!”

“How was I to know?”

“There’s only one way you could’ve crafted such a fake. You had to have seen the real ring. And I don’t believe for a second you would have risked your mother’s life by leaving it behind.” The blade circled round my neck, shaking. “Tell me.
Where
is it?”

His voice had a dangerous edge now. His mind was set.

My eyes ran down the slope once more and locked with my mother’s.

Mom
.

Somehow she had pulled herself up and was clinging to the edge on her elbows. Dianne Lewis Black. Forty feet of treacherous incline separated us. We were bound together in this moment. Warmth, longing, and fear passed through our gaze.

Mom, can you hear me? Stay down!

“It’s gonna be a little harder to get to,” I said.

He tore at my sweatshirt, lifting it with my T-shirt in one decisive motion. I was defenseless. His other hand slid in from the right, drawing the blood-wet blade up my abdominal ridges. “Is it possible you swallowed it? Perhaps a C-section is required.”

“I prefer a natural childbirth.”

The razor crept higher until it jabbed at an angle against my nipple.

I peered off across the Cumberland. As a small boy, I’d given my mom heart palpitations every time I ran in with a new scrape or bruise. She didn’t need to see this. Didn’t need to see the pain when it flared in my eyes.

“I’ve played your game, followed your rules,” I whispered.

“No, you haven’t.” The razor broke the skin, and I felt my blood trickle down. “Haven’t you learned? Don’t you see how Felicia had to pay for her sins? I really thought we might have something, you and I—as father and son. This is your final exam, Mr. Black. Will you do the right thing?”

The right thing
.

In that last phrase, I found the shred of truth I needed.

The right thing was to protect my mother, to fight for her life. I had set down my weapon—and that, too, was the right thing—yet I could not let this madman continue unobstructed.

“You win,” I said.

“I always do. You cannot stand against God’s hand of judgment.”

We’ll see who’s left standing!

I flexed one hand over the rope, twisted the other arm through the cord again, and took a short step forward as though losing my balance. The agony was intense where I’d been cut on my chest, but I’d felt pain before.

“Up here,” I groaned. “Check beneath my left sleeve.”

Newmann’s breathing quickened in anticipation. He came around on my side and tried to free my sleeve from the coils of rope. With hands clasped around the lifeline to my mother, I heaved my arms upward and dropped them down over my enemy’s shoulders in a suffocating embrace. Surging forward with my legs, I drove our joined bodies into the railing.

Fence joints popped. The wood cracked.

Together we plummeted down the incline, caught up in the flailing rope and rag-doll thrashing of arms and legs. Everything was spinning. Lush leaves and veins cushioned us near the cliff top, but protruding stones met us farther down, cracking against ribs and hips.

The rope, Aramis, Don’t let go!

A blade flashed, sliced across my sleeve, then ran in a long, blood-spurting track across Newmann’s chest before spiraling through sunlight toward the river.

Our awkward embrace came undone. Alternating gasps and moans punctuated the final seconds before the Cumberland roared up to slap my face.

Going under …

Nothing but bubbles exploding around my head, green-tinged darkness, and a horrible ringing through my battered body. I thought of my dream—the medieval battlefield, my corpse wandering down into the water, the stains washing away. Beside me, another body writhed in the murk and then slipped away, caught in the undertow, the way my mother’s had been all those years ago.

Air!

Caught in the current myself, I thrashed toward the surface, fighting the river’s desire to devour me.

Don’t panic. Act rapidly
.

I carved my hands through the cold depths, pulling my weight toward the dim light above. The rope slithered beside me, still entwined around my arm.

Desperate for oxygen, I sensed a ring of blackness tightening around my vision. My thigh brushed against something—an old grocery cart? a creature?—triggering another burst of adrenaline.

I broke the surface, gasping, filthy water pouring from my face. My fingers found loose stones on the steep bank. I scrambled for footing on uneven rock, then turned and started pulling on the rope. Reeling in against the pain.

Slack, slack, slack … 
tension
.

How long had Mom been under? How deep had she gone? Bound as she was and with her useless legs, she could have done little to resist the current. Ignoring the burn in my palms, I waded back a few steps and cranked on the rope, willing her to surface.

“Come on!” I screamed.

Something splashed nearby. Voices called out. I was too focused to pay attention.

My bottom lip was split, bleeding.

My arms near spent.

My legs and torso aching.

Shaking, I could feel my body giving way to the pull of the hungry river at my feet.

A glimmer of color sloshed beneath the Cumberland’s muddied palette.

Mom!

Feet came crashing through the shallows, and then Detective Meade was at my side, tugging with me. The snap of the rope resonated through my bones. The rope’s angle grew sharper until she was there, rising from the water into the land of the living.

She came up, gasping, crying, sputtering for air—but alive.

I stumbled toward her, peeled back the soggy tape, and lifted her body into my arms. She was lighter than I’d expected, yet so tangible. So real. Tears spilled down my cheeks as she breathed my name.

There was no sweeter music.

B
lack’s espresso shop, 2216 Elliston. This was the place to be.

Glistening coffee bags stood in the retail rack beneath a sign introducing my newest blend. At a table beside the display, Dianne Lewis Black shook customers’ hands, accepted hugs, and signed bag upon bag of Mom’s Memory Blend, putting my brother’s autograph lines to shame.

I crouched beside her wheelchair. “He’s on his way.”

“He’d better be,” she said, eyes twinkling. “My wrist is cramping.”

I laughed, fearing it might unleash another rush of emotion I could not control. This scene was surreal. Despite all the years, we’d been brought together again.

Mom was here. In my shop. Sipping my coffee.

“Mom,”—it felt good to say that—“you wanna take a break?”

“What? No. I’m making you money hand over fist. Which is a good thing, considering your fists are out of commission.” She nodded to my bandaged hands, and I smiled. She asked, “How much longer till Johnny Ray arrives?”

“Not long now. He’s canceled tonight’s show to be here.”

“I hope I’ll get to hear him play.”

I pointed to the corner stage. “You’re gonna get your wish.”

“He always dreamed of being a big music star, you know? Even as a little
boy. I had to scold the two of you for jumping around on the bed, playing air guitars.”

“Me? I don’t remember that.”

She touched my cheek. “There’s a lot I don’t remember, Aramis. A lot I don’t wanna remember. But that picture’s one I’ll never forget.”

Coffee beans are among the most studied natural substances in history. A number of researchers believe the aroma of brewing coffee can release mood-enhancing endorphins. Some say these chemicals can trigger the healing process. And all agree that smell is closely linked to memory.