A Shred of Truth (6 page)

“Got a lot on my mind right now. Don’t know what to think.”

“Then stop trying so hard. I see that hasn’t changed. You always wanted to analyze everything. Are you still trying to escape all those thoughts beneath that wavy black hair?” In moderate heels, she barely reached my shoulders as she stepped closer and pressed herself against me.

It felt nice. Soft in all the correct places.

“You had every right, Felicia.”

“Hmm?”

“To leave.” I swallowed and let my arms encircle her waist. “It was easier to be mad at you than accept my own faults.”

“I made mistakes too.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

She leaned back. “You’re still bitter, aren’t you?”

“Why do people keep saying that?”

Her face turned up, lips parted. Something there worried me, but I brushed it aside.

“You look nice,” I said.

“You like it? I dressed up for the steeplechase.”

“The Iroquois. That was today?”

“It was magnificent. The horses, the colors … I could feel their hoofs pounding the ground, right up through my legs.”

If she meant to draw attention to her toned calves, it worked. I envisioned her up on her toes, cheering with the thousands of spectators, the racehorses thundering past the stands.

The race was held at neighboring Percy Warner Park, named after the first American-bred horse to win the English Derby. In the late 1800s, he’d been the country’s leading sire, stabled at Nashville’s Belle Meade Plantation. The glory days had faded when strict rules against racetrack wagering went into effect.

“You always were a horse lover,” I said.

“You remember that? I’m touched.”

There was a lot I’d tried to forget, but I knew that, as a girl, Felicia had ridden an Appaloosa mare and tacked posters of stallions on her walls. She’d begged more than once to go riding on the beaches, but I’d never made it happen. Too busy with spoons and needles.

“I was a real loser, wasn’t I? Back in Portland.”

“You know I still loved you, doll.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Her eyes grew moist, and she looked down.

“What’s going on, Felicia?”

Blond tips stroked her collarbones as she shook her head, and I fought
the impulse to run my fingers through her hair. I’d come expecting a showdown with a killer, not this reunion in a museum. In a rush, logic pushed back up through my spinning thoughts, shoving my suspicions to the surface.

“Who put you up to this?” I breathed. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I … It started a few months back.”

“And?”

“I saw you on that reality show, and it set me thinking about all the times we’d shared. I guess … well, I wanted to see you again.”

“So you sent me the e-mail this morning.”

“E-mail?”

“Did you … Are you carrying a knife?”

“No.
Gosh
, no.”

I scanned the exhibit area again, then took hold of her slender arms. The image of my brother’s sliced shoulder filled my vision, followed by a descending curtain of red. I slid my fingers down. Stroked her warm skin. Was she the culprit? The question had to be asked, but our years of shared history were all the answer I needed.

She simply didn’t have it in her.

Really? You’ve been a fool before, you know
.

My fingers tightened into cuffs around her wrists. “There’s something you’re not telling me, Felicia.” Twisting her around, I pressed her against the wall and put my mouth close to her ear. Her hair smelled like flowers—or was that only the scent of the gardens outside?—and my rough actions sent a pang of guilt through me. “Cough it up. Just tell me why you showed up here today.”

“Please, doll, don’t treat me like this.”

I tried to recall my training in social psych. Had I learned anything about sifting out falsehood from fact? She yelped as I pushed harder. “I want some answers, darlin’. You hear me? The truth. Did you hurt my brother?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“You didn’t cut him up last night?”

She stiffened. “Have I ever hurt anyone?”

“He was attacked. The letters AX mean anything to you?”

“Like an ax?”

“You heard me. Someone told you to come, am I right?”

She fell silent.

“Who sent you?”

“This guy.”

“What guy?”

“I can’t say. It wouldn’t have been his real name anyway.”

“You can’t? Or won’t?”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

“Have you seen him? Seen his face?”

“I … He said his name was Axman. Please, Aramis, you’re hurting me.”

“What’s he look like? Sound like? Describe him for me.”

“There’s nothing to say. We talked on the phone. He told me he’d kill me if I didn’t do as he said or went to the cops. I wanted to see you, and at first he made it sound like you and I might work things out. He said he knew you. He sent me cash for my airfare, told me to buy some new clothes and come meet you.”

“There must’ve been a catch.”

“You were the catch. He was going to hurt you.”

“No, that was your job.”

“I know I left you, but please believe that I never stopped thinking about us.”

“Blah-de-blah. So what’s this guy want from you?”

“I’m supposed to give you this.” Trapped in my grip, she leaned her head forward against the wall. The hat scooted back off her head and onto my chest.

“Is this a joke?”

“He taped something inside.” Still captive, she craned around with a pleading look. “You have to obey the instructions if you want to know the truth.”

“Whatever.”

I released her to search the hat, telling myself it had nothing to do with the tears. Nothing at all. Not her quivering lip or the memories she sent racing through my head.

Footsteps clicked down the hall, and I caught a glimpse of the security guard’s polished shoes. A rent-a-cop? Or the real deal? The museum contained a fortune in art, but I’d never heard of a theft occurring here. What would he think of a crying woman pressed against the wall by a swarthy-looking man with tattooed forearms?

I corralled Felicia into an embrace and planted a long kiss on her mouth.

Call me quick on my feet. Call me unoriginal. Either way, it worked. Despite our age difference, she’d always been submissive. Even now, her stiffness melted into a willing response, and I discovered the hopes still trapped there, written across her lips like heat-activated ink.

“Folks.” The guard cleared his throat. “We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.”

I disengaged, waved a hand. “Thanks.”

“We do suggest visitors leave before the gates lock at four thirty.”

“Okay.”

“And please,” he said with a frown, “don’t brush against the walls.”

“Yes sir. I mean, no sir.”

He walked away with clicking strides toward the next room.

Felicia put both hands on my chest. “That was nice.”

“Tasted salty to me.”

“Oh, quit it. I see through the macho facade.”

“Macho. That’s me.”

“You haven’t changed.” She pushed away. “I wanted to believe otherwise. I really did.”

With the yellow-ribboned hat still in my hand, I watched her march off and wondered if she was right. The impulsive lip lock, the protective sarcasm, and emotional walls. Had I just hidden my old ways behind a wall of good intentions?

I turned the hat over and peeled off a small envelope taped to the straw. As I stood among the pristine displays of sparkling Fabergé creations, fear swelled against my rib cage. I removed a note and a blood-crusted razor blade, imagining the silver edge splitting my brother’s flesh. Flashing in the moonlight. Dripping red.

“Felicia, wait!” I darted toward the hallway.

“Whoa, slow down.” The guard appeared and blocked my path. “We’re closing, so you’re going to have to mosey on toward the parking area. Maybe save yourself some heartache.”

Not likely. The man’s advice went against the note’s instructions.

T
he note was a typed clue: “Hit the trail, but keep the razor. You’ll need it to find piece at the steeple.”

Find
piece
? I doubted that was an accident.

In my mind’s eye, I pulled up the Cheekwood map that I’d seen on the Web site. The Woodland Sculpture Trail ran along the back edge of the mansion, with sites on the path numbered according to the presiding displays.

The
Steeple Dance
. Third on the list.

With the clock ticking, I’d have to move quickly and avoid a confrontation with the estate guards. Though worried about Felicia’s safety, I was driven by a greater need to discover the identity and motive of the person behind this stupid game. He might be out there, waiting for me among the trees.

“Nice exhibit,” I said to the security guard.

He eyed me with distrust as I moved as nonchalantly as possible down the spiral staircase in the center of the mansion. I pretended to turn toward the front foyer, then cut back through a passageway that led to an outside arbor. He hadn’t followed me. Good. I padded up a stone walkway, then sprinted across the back lawn, past a swan fountain. Following directions. Heading for the trail.

Only minutes until closing. What would I find back here? Another person tied to a sculpture and bleeding onto the forest floor?

Felicia’s words:
obey the instructions if you want to know the truth
.

The truth. About what exactly?

I tramped through the underbrush. Darkness deepened beneath the merging clumps of trees, offering at least some concealment.

The trail. There. Should I veer left or right?

Left
.

I ran now, envelope and razor in one hand, Desert Eagle in the other. I knew where I was headed. The straw hat fluttered from my grip, but it didn’t matter. On either side of the path, the woods were so still I could hear my shirt swishing with each pump of my arms, my feet padding over bark and turf.

BEAR:
breathe, evaluate, act rapidly
. I’d learned that from one of my street pals as a teenager.

In the clearing ahead, rusty-orange spires stabbed at angles into the gray sky. I’d seen the
Steeple Dance
sculpture online and in the brochure. What I hadn’t seen was the object swaying on a cord from a branch of a cedar tree. A casual passerby would’ve missed it.

I took a deep breath, peered around, listened. As far as I could tell, I was alone. I walked closer and reached for the object. Too high. I tried to gauge the distance.

Seemed innocent enough. A small bag cinched with leather straps.

Find piece at the steeple …

A piece of what? I paused. A finger? An earlobe?

Whatever this was, whatever was in there, it was all part of the sicko’s game.

I glanced around the clearing and walked to the back of the sculpture into the thickening shadows. With a good jump, I might be able to snag it. But what would I be grabbing? Last fall I’d found the horror of a clump of hair in an envelope that sent shivers through my limbs.

C’mon. Just grab the thing. Get this over with
.

I told my feet to back up and get a running start, but they stayed planted like tree roots—heavy and thick.

What was wrong with me? Was I turning soft? For years rage had fueled my confrontations, erasing all other emotions while focusing my energies on rib-cracking victory. I’d taken on bigger men. I’d learned to throw the switch, cutting off any thoughts of injury or pain or consequence. I’d been unstoppable.

Eighteen months ago I’d made the decision to give up all that and start honoring my mother. Time for a change. Time to start thinking of others, not just myself. In choosing the high road, though, I’d been burned both literally and figuratively.

I looked down at my hand that still bore the scars. Apparently my psyche wasn’t faring much better.

I scanned the clearing. This was me, Aramis Black, gathering evidence, reconnoitering, considering his next move. This was
not
a moment of weakness.

So why couldn’t I budge?

PS3414—Social Psychology.

Lipscomb University, College of Natural and Applied Sciences.

In last week’s class, Professor Newmann had addressed the mental hurdle of limb-numbing fear, reminding us that public speaking—forget spiders or heights—was Americans’ number-one phobia. This set off a lively debate. Most of us could recount paralyzing incidents—two hundred feet up the face of a cliff, a chance at a game-winning free throw. One boy even admitted to freezing up during his first kiss and got a rousing laugh from the class.

“Look at Professor Bones,” Diesel prodded me. “He’s not even smiling.”

“Probably still waiting for his first kiss.”

“Naw. He was married once.”

“Really? Now there’s an urban legend for you.”

Newmann’s attention swiveled our direction. Behind tortoise-shell glasses large enough to frame a … well, a tortoise … his eyes locked on to mine. Above thin lips and pasty eyebrows, his hair was plastered across his forehead by one of those hair sprays that smells like something you’d use to polish your tires. His outdated tweed jacket didn’t do much to hide an almost anorexic frame. Poor guy. Even his role as a sub was nothing more than a scrap thrown his way after our original teacher was pegged and hospitalized by a hit-and-run on South Twenty-First.