by Eric Wilson
“A wig? That’s creepy.”
“It was in Felicia’s hotel room.”
“Hold on. You’re telling me that was your ex?”
“She was used to lure you away.”
“What with all that booze, I didn’t even recognize her.”
“It’s been years since you’ve seen her. Not like it matters now.”
“Sorry, kid. I really am.” He combed golden brown hair from his face and headed to the kitchen. I heard cupboards bang, heard the fridge door open. He returned with glasses of unfiltered grapefruit juice. “One for you. Should help clear your mind.”
“If you say so.” I took a swig, grimaced.
“How ’bout you change clothes and we ride down to the Pancake Pantry?”
“You don’t believe me, do you? About the woman in the van?”
“Listen.” Johnny’s bloodshot eyes turned away. Had he been up all night, tormented by my story? “I’ve buried the past, learned to live with it. Scares me to even think of letting those thoughts back in.” He folded his legs, pulled his Martin onto his lap. He was in his thinking mode. Most of his songs originate here on the hardwood floor in the morning hours. “Strange, though, isn’t it?” He strummed a few chords.
“What?”
“This new single I’ve been recordin’. I wrote the lyrics a few weeks back—like a premonition or something.” His fingers slid along the guitar frets, filling the room with rich tones as he sang:
I know you left me years ago, travelin’ long dark roads.
But in my heart we’re not apart. I’ve been livin’ with your ghost.
Your love, it’s always been here, faithful to the end.
In these eyes there’s no surprise, because an angel’s what you’ve been.
“You didn’t write that for a girl?”
“What girl in her right mind would leave a guy like me?”
“Dude. I could give you an alphabetical list.”
“Wanna know the truth?” He tapped his knuckles on the guitar. “I’ve just had this sense the past few days that Mom’s angel was close by. Maybe you felt the same thing. Maybe you just wanted to see her and—”
My whisper cut him off. “It was not my imagination.”
“I’m just sayin’, is all.”
These”—I indicated the slits on my face—“are real. My ex-girlfriend’s gone. There was a lady in that van who looked exactly like Mom, with gray streaks in her hair. Gray. Like my mind would’ve come up with that in the heat of the moment. She yelled my name, tried to protect me. You think a stranger would do that?”
“Easy there, kid.”
“And what about those lyrics? Maybe you’ve been tapping into something you don’t understand. Angels. Ghosts. Since when’ve you written stuff like that?”
“Hey now, don’t nobody know why I write what I do.”
“Yeah yeah. Don’t wanna jinx the magic.”
“Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with trying to broaden my appeal. It’s country music, buckle of the Bible Belt. Gotta give ’em what they want.”
“That’s lame.”
“Just takin’ Chigger’s advice.”
“Chigger.”
“Few days back we were hangin’ at his place with some friends and the band. Whew, you should see it—big ol’ log cabin off Highway 100, worth half a mil easy. He’s done good for his family, made his share of cash.”
“He’s got an attitude.”
“Goes without sayin’. But that boy’s a bona fide axman.”
My eyes darted to Johnny’s.
“Ax, as in guitar,” he explained.
“I know what it means. He’s going on tour with you, right?”
“Leavin’ tomorrow at the crack of dawn. Might not be Music Row’s way, but the same boys who recorded in the studio are coming on the road with me. DAD’s backing us one hundred and ten percent.”
“What if I told you I don’t trust that guy?”
“Chigger? He’s all bark and no bite.”
“He has a thing for Sammie.”
“And that’s gotcha worried?”
“He thinks you’re cramping his style. Professionally. Even romantically.”
“So he cut into me outta jealousy, is that it? How’s that link him to Felicia or Mom? Far as I know, he doesn’t even own a van. Ain’t nothing in that garage of his but American-made classics and muscle cars.”
“I don’t know.” My shins jarred the table as I stood. “Just seems to have an attitude is all.”
“Okay, let’s say you’re right about Mom. What kind of motive would there be for kidnapping her?”
“How should I know? To get to that treasure in the cave maybe.”
“The prank caller,” Johnny Ray mused aloud.
“Does Chigger have any Scottish blood?”
“Whoa now. That’s outta left field.”
“You’re the history buff. You know much about the Royal Stuart clan?”
“Um … I know some of ’em ended up here in the South. They go back hundreds of years, though, to the British monarchy. Had ties to the Freemasons and Knights Templar.”
“And their motto is …‘Virescit Vulnere Virtus.’ ”
Johnny turned a blank face toward me, and then understanding bloomed in his eyes. “Courage grows strong at a wound.” His hand moved to his bandages.
“And who in our bloodline was a Mason?”
“Meriwether Lewis.”
“The one who hid that treasure back in 1809.”
“This has got my head spinnin’.”
“Join the club.” I stood and straightened my shoulders. “Maybe someone found out about the gold, and they’re using Mom to blackmail us for it. All I know is, if there’s any chance she’s alive, I’ve gotta do something. Until I know, I’ve gotta act on the belief that it was her in that van.”
“It’s never been your style to sit still.”
“Better freakin’ believe it.”
“Then let’s call your detective friend. The cops got the best chance—”
“No cops. That’s his rules.”
“They always say that. And how’s he gonna know?”
“This isn’t a stinkin’ movie, Johnny. You should’ve seen what he did to Felicia—he cut her open!” I flashed on the image and felt the constriction in my throat. My foot catapulted the table across the floor. “What if this really is Mom we’re talking about? That means he’s got her right now.” I paced the room. “You know, it scares me. I thought I had this thing beat.”
“What?”
“These!” I slapped at my tattoos. “My old ways.”
“So all that Bible reading doesn’t count for anything? I’ve seen you change since movin’ here. For the better, I might add.”
“If that freak so much as touches her, I’ll tear out his liver through his nose.”
“Gotta find him first. So we better get movin’ since I’m supposed to be on a tour bus to Atlanta in less than twenty-four hours.”
“The Georgia license plate. Let’s start with that.”
He set his guitar back in its cradle. “You know the numbers?”
“Got them burned into my brain, but”—I tossed a notepad from the end table—“I wrote them down just in case. There. Look that up. I’ll call Dad.”
“Now don’t go getting him all riled.”
“Maybe he knows something.”
“If so, he would’ve told us years ago, don’tcha think?”
“Considering his track record? No.”
“I still think you oughta hold off.”
“Fine.” I downed the rest of my grapefruit juice, then faced my brother. “Do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Could you pray with me?”
He raised an eyebrow, adjusted his Tabasco boxers. “If it’ll make you feel better, I s’pose I could.”
20
A hard rapping on the door punctuated our morning. Through the peephole, I spied a familiar face on the ste
ps and groaned—torn between wanting to enlist the detective’s help and wanting to sneak out the back window.
Sorry. I had my own investigation to pursue.
As the knocking continued, I crept from the entryway and held up a hand to my inquisitive brother. “We have no obligation to speak with him,” I whispered. “He’s on a fishing expedition, that’s all.”
“Is it Meade? He could be the answer to your prayers.”
“You’re a funny man.”
“Doesn’t he ever take a day off? Why’s he here so early?”
“I e-mailed him a picture of that wig. Before everything else happened.”
“Could he help us on the sly?”
“No. He’s a straight shooter.”
“Maybe he’s found some helpful info.”
“Or maybe he’s connected the dots between me and the wig and a murder. Which’ll only cause more delay.”
Johnny Ray wagged his head. “Fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
“That’s right. I’m to blame.”
“He’s gotta know we’re here, considering both our vehicles are in the lot.”
“It’s only seven twenty on a Sunday. We’re sleeping.”
“Just go talk to him, and get him off our backs.”
“In these?” My pants showed streaks of blood. “I need to clean up first.”
Eventually the knocking abated.
“You think he’s still out there?”
“I don’t know. Don’t care.” I poured a bowl of Froot Loops, waved off my brother’s predictable dietary criticisms. “Tell me as soon as you pull up anything on those Georgia plates.”
“You betcha, sugar lips.”
After sterilizing the cuts on my cheek and washing dried blood from my chin and neck, I ran a dab of gel through my hair and slapped antiperspirant under my arms. In my bedroom, I changed into fresh socks and boxers, black jeans, an “As Cities Burn” concert T-shirt, and a black knit cap. From the stained pants—which I later shoved into a bag at the bottom of our kitchen garbage can—I removed the empty bullet casing and the razor blade, retrieved from under the car seat.
I set the items next to a wooden box on the windowsill and caressed the smooth ebony. Inside, the pieces of a handkerchief show my mother’s initials: DLB. This box was a gift from my mother on the day she died.
One split second: the pull of a trigger, her body falling, tumbling …
Or?
One split second: her body tumbling, evading, as a bullet spiraled from the barrel and passed harmlessly through trailing black hair.
Warmed by the morning sun, I stared out over the expanse of Centennial Park, where the Parthenon’s griffins hovered atop the tree line. Crouched and beastly, they seemed ready to devour my fluttering hopes.
If that was her, why hadn’t she made contact years ago? Perhaps twenty-two years ago the physical and psychological trauma had jolted something loose inside her. Perhaps she’d suffered temporary amnesia.
Okay. But last night that woman had called out my name: “Aramis!”
I pushed back from the windowsill. Time to check my e-mail for any more messages.
On my bedroom computer screen, confirmation of Felicia Daly’s fate faced me. A news article described an anonymous call and the discovery of the body but no word as to the cause of death. Although the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation hadn’t yet listed any “persons of interest,” a TBI contact number was given for those with pertinent information.
With my own investigation to conduct, I wondered how long I’d have before the so-called “Toot, Burp, and Itch” fellows offered me to the media as the sacrificial suspect.
Great. I slapped my hands against the desk, and the Nashville Predators bobblehead on my monitor trembled in fright.
“Any e-mails from him?” Johnny Ray asked from my doorway.
“You ever knock?”
“That’s what you’re worried about right now?”
I massaged my neck. “None yet. He probably wants to make us sweat. I sent him a message telling him I have his license plate and won’t cooperate till I know what he wants.”
“Risky. Could make him mad.”
“I hope so. That’s when people start making mistakes.”
“Well, you oughta hear what I dug up.” He stepped inside as I spun my seat toward him. “First off, the state of Georgia stopped issuing the ‘Georgia … on My Mind’ license tags at the end of ’03. Most of ’em are obsolete.”
“Narrows it down some at least. So the van’s tags must’ve been renewed.”
“Reckon so. And you’ll be glad to know we’ve got agencies here in Nashville that’ll run reverse license-plate searches for thirty-five, forty bucks.”
“Let’s do it then.”
“But why pay when I’ve already tracked her down for free?”
I rocked forward. “You’re kidding.”
“Say hello to your older, wiser brother.”
“Emphasis on older. C’mon, spill it.”
“Well, that particular tag was sold on eBay a couple months back. A cheap, ten-dollar collectible. It’s out of circulation and no good to anyone.”
“Unless, of course, you slap on some fake stickers.”
“And drive it outta state, where the cops are less likely to hassle you about it.”
“So it’s nothing but a dead end.”
“Don’t you wanna know the name of the buyer?”
“I thought that was private information.”
“Private? On the Internet?”
“Who was it?”
“A Miss Felicia Daly. Sorry to get your hopes up, kid. Just like you said, a dead end.”
I gritted my teeth and pinned him with a look. “That’s not even funny.”
“Aramis, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah.”
“Really. I’m sorry.”
My eyes clamped shut, and my head nodded until I heard his footsteps receding down the hall. A gale was brewing inside me. I couldn’t trust myself. Couldn’t trust my brother. Couldn’t trust my own memories. Who could I trust?
“Someone left you a sealed envelope,” Diesel told me over the phone. “He came into the shop just a few minutes ago. Said it was important. For your eyes only.”
“Who was it?”
“That street bum who’s always leaving us tips.”
“Freddy C’s not a bum. He’s homeless.”
“Here’s one for you then. True or false: on the average, one out of four bums—I mean, homeless men—are convicted felons?”
“Diesel, are you even working? Or are you cramming for our final?”
“Both. Things’ve been slow this morning.”
“I’m heading that way.”
“True,” he called into the phone as I hung up.
Normally I walk through the park to Black’s, threading along the shores of Lake Watauga, beneath the Parthenon’s pillars, or alongside monuments honoring Nashville’s civic leaders. But not today. Instead, after repairing my rearview mirror with a tube of epoxy, I drove the back streets to the shop. I saw no sign of surveillance, but Meade knew where I worked. I’d hear from him soon enough.
“Well, if it’s not Aramis himself,” a woman greeted as I entered the shop.
“Ms. Thompson. Good morning.”
Dressed in a fitted tan business skirt and jacket, she crossed her legs at her table and cupped her usual mocha. She’s a regular customer, the first to spot the camera crews last year when I was selected for the reality TV show. “To what do we owe the pleasure? I thought you did church on Sundays.”
“Sometimes I go with Sammie, but I don’t exactly ‘do’ church.”
“Please, I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
I waved it off. “It’s all good.”
“I’m probing here—you’ll tell me if it’s none of my business, won’t you?—but I know I’ve seen you reading your Bible here in these booths.”
“I love God, definitely. It’s ju
st the ritual of it that makes me feel awkward.”
“Having been born Roman Catholic, I rather liked the ritual.”
“Liked?”
“I haven’t attended Mass in years.”
“Maybe the ritual’s not enough. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Hmm.” Sipping her drink, she watched me round the front counter.
I would have loved to continue the conversation, but my thoughts had already jumped ahead to Freddy’s hand-delivered envelope.
21
Diesel. What’s going on?”
“Oh, hey.” He waved. “Just showing my parents around.”
I run Black’s on a tight budget and can’t afford to ignore county health codes or the high standard for roasting, grinding, and brewing in my little space. While employee guidelines are more lax, it didn’t keep me from balking at Diesel’s parents standing in the work area.
“Uh. No one but staff allowed behind the counter. House rules.”
“Sorry, boss. They’re just heading out, flying back home.”
“Okay, for now.”
“Mother, Father, meet Aramis Black.”
As the middle-aged couple turned from their tour of the kitchen, I took a quick visual inventory, concerned with good impressions. Anna had closed last night, and the floor still sparkled, the sinks still shone. Everything tidy and in place.
Mental note: speak to Ms. Knight about a raise.
“Mr. Black.” A small, firm hand was shaking mine. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Good to meet you, Missus … uh?” A hint of recognition triggered a sudden memory glitch. I’d seen this woman before … hadn’t I?
“Hillcrest,” she said.
Diesel stepped in. “Don’t take any offense, Mother. Around here, no one calls me by my full name.”
“Desmond’s a fine name,” she huffed.
“As is our family name,” his father agreed, heavy cheeks jostling.
I paused, trying to place the man’s face. I’d seen him before as well. “Uh, I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs. Hillcrest.”
“But of course,” she told me. “As for my son’s denial of his given name, that’s another matter.”
“He’s a good kid.”
Diesel’s eyes narrowed at me. His father’s did the same.
