A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  My mom. Dianne Lewis Black …1959–1986.

  There was no part of me that wanted to touch that blood money. Instead I’d left a clue for my brother, spelled out in the pages of a book. Coming from a different father, Johnny had none of Lewis’s DNA, but I figured if he located the gold, fine. He could do with it as he saw fit. I’d left it at that. No questions asked.

  Until now.

  “Did you find it?” My words were barely audible.

  “Mm-hmm. Few months back … in Memphis.”

  “You figured it out?”

  He recited the clue I’d left. “In a cave where the wolf’s mouth opens and Indians bluff.”

  “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  “Just like you said—near Chickasaw Bluffs, north edge of the Wolf River.”

  “So you’ve been there. You’ve seen it.”

  “Twice.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “ ’Course not.”

  “No one in the band? None of your girlfriends?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Then who was this guy on the phone? A relative?”

  “Said something’d been stolen from him.”

  “Great.”

  “Told him he had the wrong number, and he started threatening me—‘the wages of sin is death’ and that sorta thing. Right before I hung up, he said, ‘Courage grows strong at a wound.’ ”

  “You ever heard that before?”

  “Never.” Johnny Ray wobbled to his feet and arched his back in pain as his shirt fell against the fresh incisions. “Let’s get outta here.”

  A few excited yells carried over the trees from the well-lit park. Chigger held a beer bottle aloft, surrounded by a bevy of women.

  “I’m running you to the hospital.”

  “What do you take me for, some kind of wuss?”

  “Now that you mention it.”

  “Just help me to my pickup, idiot.”

  “Keys first.” I held out my palm.

  Half-sloshed, he handed them over. “Get me home to my bed.”

  His uncharacteristic surrender worried me. “What about the police? Shouldn’t we report this?”

  “It’s midnight. We’ll be stuck sitting around, answering questions, and all they’ll do is file a report and forget about it. We don’t got any witnesses, weapons—nothing.”

  He had a point. I surveyed the nearby environs for any sign of a razor blade or knife, any evidence that might help us pinpoint his assailant. Nothing but soda cans, concert fliers, and a few cigarette butts.

  “We do have two initials,” I pointed out. “And these ropes.”

  “Later, kid.”

  “Not to mention a good lead on a redhead who might’ve been an accomplice.”

  “Or a victim. What if they knocked me out to get to her?”

  I paused, then slipped my arm under his to guide him toward his truck. “Okay, I didn’t think of that.”

  “ ’Course you didn’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His gaze turned my way, full of that watery-eyed wisdom of the inebriated. “Shoot, I can’t blame you for being suspicious of women, Aramis, not after your last go-around.”

  “What?”

  “Fact is, you’re bitter.”

  “I am not.” I helped him into the pickup and slammed the passenger door.

  Bitter. A strong word describing bad coffee and lifelong grudges. I couldn’t deny I’d had my share of trouble with women, creating some trust issues, but the fact was someone had sliced up my brother. Whether man or woman, it didn’t matter.

  When I found the responsible party, I’d hit hard and hit fast.

  We followed West End Avenue toward our brownstone, with the moon slipping behind the Parthenon in Centennial Park and silhouetting stone griffins along the ramparts. I thought about my homeless friend, Freddy C, who often sleeps here. During daylight, I love to walk around the structure—the world’s only full-scale replica of the famed Grecian complex—but nighttime gives it a menacing feel.

  “What if it’s a stalker, someone jealous of your success—that guy who called? You’re out in the public eye now and going on tour in three days. Which means”—I slapped at the steering wheel—“we need to track down and nail this whack job. What kind of person goes around slicing people up?”

  “If you knew that, you’d be as twisted as the one who did it.”

  “What if they’ve done it before?”

  “That’s where the policemen come in, little brother. Give ’em a heads-up in the morning, maybe talk to that detective friend of yours.”

  “Detective Meade.”

  “That’s the one. You fill him in and let him do his job.” He ignored my noncommittal grunt. “Appreciate the brotherly concern, I really do, but I know how you can be, always pokin’ around. Nearly got yourself killed last year.”

  “What about your back?”

  He blew air from the side of his mouth. “Maybe you’re right about some jealous husband or whatnot. Soon enough I’ll be on tour, and it’ll all be forgotten. Just promise me you won’t go stirrin’ up trouble. That a deal?”

  “Look. We’re home.”

  “Promise me.”

  We pulled into our parking lot, and the dipped entryway made Johnny grimace as his back bounced against the seat. I eased into a space. My thoughts turned to Meade, my unlikely friend, the unflappable detective who’d lent his capable assistance in the past.

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Which means you’ll keep your nose clean while I’m gone?” He waited for me to nod. “And you’ll also stay outta the cops’ way?”

  “Yes, already. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”

  We headed up the brick steps and locked and deadbolted the door behind us. Johnny moved into the kitchen to put on a pot of herbal tea. I popped open a can of Dr Pepper, ignoring his look of dietary concern, and chugged it.

  “Ahhh.” I crumpled the can in my fist. “Good stuff.”

  “Sugar water’s all that is.”

  “Better than killing a million brain cells.” I dropped the can into the waste bin under the sink and grabbed the first-aid kit. At the dining table, my brother laid his head on his arms while I dribbled hydrogen peroxide on the cuts. “Sting?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Be worse if they’d used a dull blade.” I finished with the A, then dabbed at the X where his tanning-booth brown gave way to raw layers of tissue. I did my best to draw together the severed skin with bandages. The smell of antiseptics clouded the room. “Just be careful,” I said. “Try not to brush against anything.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Nurse. Where’s your little white outfit anyway?”

  “Sicko.” I shoved at his chair. “Go get some sleep.”

  Stretched across my bed, I blew out a minty breath of toothpaste and hoped my rest would be undisturbed. The A/C kicked on, the cool air sweeping the swampy warmth from the room. My eyes began to lock up for the night.

  Instantly the cuts on my brother’s back snapped into view.

  “Please, God.” I stared up at the ceiling.

  Since childhood I’ve been plagued by nightmares and dreams. Sometimes I see my mother at the riverbank—crying out, falling. Other times I’m racing through tall grass, pulse pounding. Recently I’ve had a recurring vision of my last girlfriend, half-hidden behind a handkerchief as she raises the polished barrel of an automatic.

  Brianne … Seems like only a few weeks ago.

  I closed my eyes again. Pushed away images of Johnny’s incisions. An old Radiohead song played through my head, leading me into a dream …

  I’m walking across a bridge. Fog surrounds me, muffles my steps as I cross. I see a shape rising ahead, a circle around three stars, emblazoned over a double-edged sword—the emblem of the Tennessee Titans.

  This is good. I love my Titans.

  A loud crack tears through the air. What now?

  The sword is fall
ing, plunging, sharpening into substance. As I turn, I see it swoop along the earth and head my way. I run back toward the bridge, the blade singing through the air behind me. My feet slap at the soft ground. I’m getting nowhere fast. Gasping.

  Where’s the bridge? It’s gotta be close.

  “You’re no good, Aramis,” a voice hisses. “We’re giving you the ax.”

  I stagger and sprawl headlong across the pavement. The sword zips overhead.

  “Who are you?” I cry out. “Leave me alone.”

  Rolling onto my side, I try to spot the speaker. That voice. Do I know it? Nothing but a slim, fading shape. And a strong sense of déjà vu.

  3

  Detective Meade stepped into my espresso shop the next morning, set a hand on the bar, and turned to scan Black’s dining area. His skin was darker than my mahogany counter, his eyes black as coal, revealing little. A member of the old school, Meade’s never been the warm, fuzzy type. We met last year during the investigation of a murder that happened in my shop, and he proved to be a man of dignity, of restraint—a person I could learn from.

  “The usual, please.”

  “It’s been awhile, Detective.”

  “Work and more work.”

  “Know how that goes. One Hair Curler coming right up.”

  I pulled two shots of espresso, poured them into a cup of dark roast, topped it off with a squeeze of lime. It’s my own concoction, loosely based on a cafe romano served in Rome but unknown to most in the US of A. Not for the faint of heart. Which, I’m sure, is why Meade likes it.

  He said, “You free for a moment?”

  “You bet.”

  I removed my apron and passed off counter duties to my morning crew. I used to run the place with one other person, but all that changed a few months back when a brief stint on a reality TV show, The Best of Evil, turned me into a reluctant star. Channel Five News did a follow-up segment; the Tennessean did a write-up; I was even billed as a local celebrity at a charity auction in nearby Franklin.

  Though I still pull shots behind the bar, I’ve become more of a true owner of Black’s, managing my employees and tending to administrative duties. Some days I miss the customer contact. Other days not so much.

  I joined the detective in a window booth.

  He set down his cup. “I received your message this morning. You say someone attacked Johnny Ray with a knife?”

  “Tied him up and cut into his shoulder.” I provided details in a voice low enough not to upset customers at neighboring booths and tables.

  “You should’ve called from the park when it happened.”

  “It was late. I thought it was a prank or some crazy initiation.”

  “Until you saw his injuries.”

  “Exactly.”

  “A code thirty-seven.”

  “Which means?”

  “Aggravated assault.”

  “Johnny said he had an ominous call a few days back, some stranger speaking in riddles, talking about courage and wounds. Think it rattled him.”

  “No caller ID?”

  “Unidentified. We could probably go back through the calls. He’d recognize it.”

  “Could be helpful. We can subpoena phone records too. What about this party?”

  Detective Meade took notes on a pad while I told him about the Hyundai at the Musica roundabout, the names of the attendees, the music execs, and the catering outfit. I handed over the severed ropes in a garbage bag.

  “You took these?” He frowned.

  “Hey, don’t criticize my methods. That stuff could’ve been long gone by this morning.”

  “Which is why you should’ve called it in.” Meade leaned back and smoothed long, large-knuckled fingers down his ruby-colored tie. His gaze shifted toward the shop’s front door as though willing a suspect to enter and confess.

  Along Elliston Place, cars and pedestrians streamed by from nearby clinics, Baptist Hospital, eateries, and Vanderbilt University. A set of slender female legs jogged past, and I looked away. Beauty’s made a fool of me one too many times.

  “I wonder about you,” he said. “You seem to be developing a pattern of stumbling into trouble, and—”

  “Dude, tell me about it.”

  “And then calling my office.”

  “Uh. You told me to call if I ever needed anything.”

  He waved off my defensiveness. “Anytime.”

  “Growing up, I wasn’t a big fan of the cops. It’s a positive step for me.”

  He sipped from his mug, watching me.

  “Are you superstitious?”

  He set down the drink. “Why?”

  “In your line of work, I’m sure you’ve seen people with bad luck. Always stepping into stuff they can’t wipe off.”

  “Think that’s you?”

  I looked out the window. “I’ve stepped in my share of it.”

  “I’ve seen some. That Michaels kid last year—he didn’t have much of a chance. Way I read it, that kind of bad luck is the consequence of people’s choices.”

  “Cause and effect. My brother calls it karma.”

  “Reap what you sow, sure. Most religions have something like it, and it’s the foundation of any good legal system. A price must be paid for wrongs committed.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “If I find out who did that to my brother—”

  “You’ll report it to me.”

  I pressed my lips together and wrapped a hand around the back of my neck. I remembered my vow to Johnny Ray.

  “You don’t need any more bad luck.”

  I nodded. Smiled.

  What I wanted to say, what I suspected in my gut, was that bad luck had latched onto me back in Portland during my years of less-than-admirable behavior. My brother thinks people use the idea of a Supreme Being as an excuse, a crutch. Others say God is all about love and forgiveness, wanting to help, just waiting to be asked.

  Deep down I believe the latter. It’s like a knowledge that blew in on a soft wind and took root in my chest.

  There is also this weed called doubt that tries to choke it out.

  “I see those wheels turning, Aramis. Please listen to me, and refrain from any vigilante fantasies. I’ll speak with your brother, interview those who attended the party, and follow up on any leads. We’ll stay in contact, and—I hope you’re listening here—you let me do my job.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “I know you will. Thanks for coming by.” I extended my hand and rose from the booth, but he held me in place with an iron grip and a coal black stare.

  “One more thing. Does your brother know a woman named Nadine Lott?”

  “I … He’s never mentioned …”

  He released my hand. “You remember the homicide victim in the news last year, the one burned beneath a pile of trash on the north end of town?”

  “The homeless lady? Yeah. She came into the shop a time or two.”

  “It’s a nice thing you do, giving coffee to the less fortunate. As for Miss Lott, her cause of death remains undetermined, despite toxicology and tissue testing. She had an extensive arrest history—theft, prostitution, and criminal impersonation. Detectives from North Precinct believe the fire was set to destroy evidence, though they did find some drug paraphernalia in her sweatshirt.”

  “And—”

  “It could be related.”

  “To the attack on my brother?”

  Meade leaned forward, delivering data in his smooth baritone. “Tests show that Ms. Lott had consensual sex in the hour before her death. The coroner found massive cranial hemorrhaging caused by a blunt object—”

  “No! Johnny Ray had nothing to do with her. It’d go against his whole concept of karma.”

  Meade help up a hand. “If I can finish.”

  I crossed my arms.

  “He found something else, which we kept out of the newspapers. Abdominal wounds. Initials carved by a knife and nearly burned away.”

 
“AX?”

  The detective’s grim expression confirmed my guess.

  “So Johnny’s not a suspect.”

  “Should’ve made that clear up front.”

  “And you never caught her attacker?”

  “We had few leads, but this makes it look like the perp’s still in the area.”

  “And local records—”

  “Were searched, yes. For anything related to AX.”

  “Nothing, huh?”

  “Without substantial evidence, you can link two letters to pretty much anything.”

  “And you’re sure the American Xylophonists weren’t involved? Those boys can be dangerous.”

  Meade’s expression remained flat.

  “Bad joke. Sorry. You still haven’t learned to relax, have you?”

  “These days, Aramis, relaxing’s not an option.”

  “Must get to you after a while.” I recalled sitting in the Charlotte Pike station months ago, spotting photos of his wife and a daughter dressed in pink. “I’m sure it gets to your family at times.”

  He leaned back in the booth. “They’re the reason I do what I do, Mr. Black.” I saw his eyes narrow as a vintage Corvette convertible zipped by.

  “Sweet car,” I said.

  “Moving too fast. Just another cage of death.”

  “Dude. You seriously need time off.”

  “Please tell me you don’t drive at excessive speeds.”

  “In my beater Honda? I wish.”

  Jaw muscles clenching, he stood and smoothed his shirt. “I’d like to take a statement from your brother. Does he have a reliable contact number?”

  “Here.” I speed-dialed and handed over my cell. “If he doesn’t answer, my guess is he’s headed to DAD’s studio.”

  “Your dad’s a producer?”

  “No. Desperado Artist Development. It’s over on Music Row.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s been Sammie’s brainchild from the start.”

  “Samantha Rosewood?”

  “The one and only. Manages my brother’s career and of course helped finance this place. Pretty amazing lady.”

  “Hmm. And, as I recall, quite attractive.”

  “Wuh—um, right.”