by Eric Wilson
Watching him perform, I was happier than ever to have joined him in Nashville. The changes I’d made here were worth the effort, and yet my previous lifestyle seemed determined to tag along. Darrell Michaels’s murder had ushered it all back. But after my stroll with Mrs. Michaels, I was starting to make some sense of it.
Darrell believed there was a cache of gold to be found. He went looking for it, came up empty-handed, then turned back to old habits in disappointment. It seemed logical.
Last week, in desperation, he came to me. I could still feel Darrell’s fingers locked on my wrist.
Seconds later he was dead.
Then there was Parker. Following Johnny Ray and me. Tracking me the other night when I was alone. Did he hope to be led to some treasure? Did he actually believe it existed?
Perhaps Johnny Ray was right. Maybe we were descendants of Meriwether Lewis. Could that be why Mom died—trying to protect hidden gold?
“What’re you doing, Brianne?”
She had tied off a garbage sack and was half dragging it toward the alleyway door. The floors and walls throbbed as the band started the next song.
“I’ll get that.”
“I’m a big girl, Aramis.”
“Not that big.”
She smiled and let the bag rest. “It’s not heavy, but it sure smells.” She wrinkled her nose. “Thank you, Aramis. I’ll make sure the counter’s covered.”
I lifted the bag and pushed through the reinforced metal door. Humidity had settled in the alley, trapping odors, muffling sound. An SUV turned past the alley’s mouth, its lights splashing the brick wall before slicing around the corner.
Key in hand, I reached the Dumpster and worked the padlock loose. I’d tossed in the bag and reset the lock when a jolt exploded in my lower back. The impact waved a black curtain over my eyes, and I almost buckled. I was back in Portland. In the alleys.
Survival mode.
Instincts slammed into gear; in counterattack, I thrust back my right elbow as I dipped and swung around my right leg like a wooden plank.
Before I connected, another blow bounced off my shoulder.
I stumbled. Tried to regain control.
A third blow caught me in the side.
Reeling, spinning …
Dropping.
My forehead bounced against the dark green Dumpster, the impact wringing out consciousness like dirty laundry water.
I willed myself to hang on. Pain swarmed through me.
“Aramis Black. You lackin’ in smarts there?”
My face was down. A knee in my back.
“Why don’t we just make this clean and simple,” the voice continued as a zip tie was yanked tight around my wrists. “You help me out, gimme the 411 on this Lewis deal, and I let you go. Done and over. Nothin’ personal.”
I groaned.
“Here’s the other option, in case you got fool-crazy ideas in that head of yours. You don’t help me out. You decide to get smart with me … Well then, me and that cute little blonde in there get to be friends. Brianne Douglas? I say that right? Yeah, I take her hair and throw her down. Show her what she’s been missin’.”
I could see the man’s shadow on the pavement. I could smell his sweat and the stink of stale cigarettes. Something about his tone … I knew this guy.
I took deep breaths—regaining clarity, gathering strength.
“Tellin’ ya, Aramis. All you got to do is answer one question.”
“What do you want?”
“One tiny little question, and then I drop outta sight. Deal?”
The hollow thwump-bumpa-thwump of the bass was audible in the alley. My brother was rockin’ the place, and my father was proud as could be. Brianne was responsible for the bar and the customers. There was no one to worry about me, no one coming to my rescue.
“Okay.”
Smoker’s breath feathered through my hair. “Where is the whip?”
“The what?”
“The whip.”
“Parker,” I said. “Leroy Parker sent you, didn’t he?”
“The man’s pathetic, so forget about him. The guy I work for, he’s in a whole other league.” The breath got thicker, hotter. Closer. “I’m not messin’ around.”
Arching my spine, I thrust my head back into the man’s face, felt my skull slam into the ridge of his nose. He growled and cursed. I tried to roll, but his fingers twined through my hair and yanked back.
“The whip! Where is it?”
“I don’t stinkin’ know about any whip.”
“Last chance. Where is it?”
“I. Don’t. Know.”
He released my hair, directed a hard kick into my thigh. “If I was you, lover boy, I’d be keepin’ an eye out for Brianne. What happened to poor Darrell—that oughta be a warning to you. In cauda venenum.”
ICV—my old anarchist pals from Portland, Oregon. Why were they here now? Had Darrell been involved with ICV? Had the anarchists moved beyond Oregon’s and Washington’s borders?
They’re comin’ for you next … Darrell had tried to warn me.
In the stink of the alleyway, I willed myself into a sitting position. My attacker had vanished, giving me no clues to his identity except a rear glimpse of his hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and black high tops.
I found my keys in a pool of sludge and worked the edge of one against the zip tie till it popped free. Rubbing my wrists, I entered the shop and went to the back washroom to clean the blood and straighten my clothes.
“Aramis.” Brianne watched me take my place at the espresso machine. “You okay there? You’re limping.”
“Slipped. Out by the Dumpster.”
“No wonder you’re all dirty. Maybe you should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, anyway, clumsy,” she called over the music, “we’re falling behind. Can you help with these drinks while I clear tables?”
I reached for the order in her hand.
TWENTY-THREE
Unbelievable, Johnny Ray. You knocked ’em dead! If those Music Row executives don’t sit up now and pay attention, then I say they got their heads up—”
“Dad, I get the point.”
“It’s the truth, Son. You had ’em eatin’ outta your palm.”
“I still gotta pay my dues. Show some respect. They don’t take too kindly to outsiders throwing their weight around.”
“Outsider? You been at this for a couple of years now.”
“I’m just sayin’, is all.”
“Well, you done good, mister. Made your old man proud.”
Johnny tilted his hat back, ran a hand through his hair. He was basking in the afterglow.
I set a plate in front of him—a dill pickle beside a whole-wheat sandwich packed with lean turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, and sprouts. He didn’t even ask about the condiments, so I knew he must be famished. He took a bite and closed his eyes as he chewed. A woman slipped into the seat beside him and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“Thanks, Sarah.”
“Sure thing, sugar.”
I rolled my eyes. “That was our best turnout ever, Johnny.”
“Thanks, kid.” He poked my side. “I did have inside connections.”
I grunted. Tried to mask my dull aches and pains.
Dad jabbed me in the other side. “Aramis, whatchu think about this brother of yours? Wasn’t he amazing? Keep bookin’ him, charge a cover fee, and you might just get this place up and off the ground.”
“Yeah, Dad? Great advice. I agree Johnny’s ready for the spotlight.”
“That he is. On his way to the top.”
“First,” Johnny Ray noted, “I need to get a record label.”
Elegant, yet unimposing, Samantha Rosewood joined us in her glimmering dress. Her arms were slim, her hands laced around a small clutch purse. “Your songs are beautiful,” she told Johnny Ray.
“I was shooting for manly.”
“That’s precisely what makes them beautiful. A rare combination, actually.”
He tipped his hat. “Appreciate you sayin’ so, Sammie.”
Dad nudged my ribs. Again. “Even the fine Ms. Rosewood’s smitten with your brother.”
“With a voice like that,” Sammie said, “he could make any woman melt.”
Her face flushed then. Flat-out, no-mistake-about-it flushed. Having never witnessed such a reaction from her, I found my mind racing with sullen remarks.
“Well, he’s all mine,” Sarah cooed. “Aren’t you, sugar?”
“He’s my brother,” I cut in, “so you can all back off.”
Everyone laughed as if I’d discovered my calling on the comic stage.
I held my side, winced, then turned back toward the kitchen where Brianne—a woman threatened, a woman scorned—mopped the floor without complaint. Taking hold of her arm, I led her around the corner from the view of the dining area, pulled her close, and looked into her startled eyes.
The mop handle banged against the upright freezer.
“Aramis?”
“I love calzone,” I said. Then kissed her fiercely and walked away.
Before leaving Black’s, I placed a call to Detective Meade.
Everyone else was gone. Brianne helped me clean up, then caught a ride home with a girlfriend. My impulsive agreement to dinner with Brianne turned me into a bundle of nerves, stirring thoughts of boundaries, workplace ethics, and a young woman’s tenuous future.
I couldn’t ignore ICV’s threats, not in light of all that had gone on the past week. The anarchist’s words, his hot breath, still buzzed in my head: I take her hair and throw her down … What happened to poor Darrell—that oughta be a warning to you.
Memories straddled my daily activities, and a conspiracy pulsed around the secrets of Meriwether Lewis.
Ghosts. That’s what Mrs. Michaels called it.
Diggin’ up them ghosts …
First priority: Brianne’s safety.
“Would you like to come down and report the incident?” Meade asked.
“Fill out paperwork? Not really. Would it help anything?”
“It would lend credence to later criminal charges, should they be filed. It also starts a paper trail on this ICV group since I’m not aware of them being previously active in this state. It’s routine. And it’s always wise.”
“I’m tired. Right now I’m more worried about Brianne.”
Meade cleared his throat. “You think it’s the Rasputin Rapist?”
“The who?”
“The guy who assaulted Jessica Tyner.”
I swallowed a lump of anger that tasted a bit like fear. “Could be. Rasputin?”
“That’s his moniker within our precinct,” Meade explained. “Based on rumors—surely spurious—that Rasputin had a habit of deflowering virgins and then burying patches of their hair in his garden in glass jars.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s in several accounts. Who’s to say?”
“That’s wrong and twisted.”
“And sick too. If you would though, please keep it to yourself, Aramis. We’ve held back that bit of information from the press. They’d have a field day with it.”
“No kidding.”
“We don’t want to stir panic. By taking you into my confidence, I trust you’ll be able to help us.”
“Jessica Tyner wasn’t the first, was she?”
“The fifth in six months. Snips of hair seem to be his trophies.”
“One minute with the guy and I’d find out how he liked being snipped.”
“It’s neither your place nor mine to take the law into our own hands.”
“Not that I’d really do it, but …”
“Off the record, Aramis? I’d be right there with you.”
“Nothing better happen to Brianne.”
“I’ll have an undercover officer sent over to her place right away.”
“That’d make me feel a lot better. Oh, one other thing.” I thumbed through my wallet, found a card. “Might sound schizo, but I’ve had this car on my tail the past few days. Think you could run the plates, see what comes up? Is that allowed?”
“Why not? Have the number with you?” After he’d taken it down, Meade said he had another issue to discuss. “I met today with the Neighborhood Watch director.”
“That’s still creepy to me—Mrs. Vaughn watching our every move.”
“In light of what you’ve recently endured, I’d say you have better things to worry about.”
“Or worse.”
“Exactly.” Not an ounce of humor in his voice. “She gave a positive ID of your uncle. Wyatt Tremaine was there near your front door on Monday, the day of the break-in. Considering the hair specimen left behind, that qualifies him as a suspect in the sexual assault cases.”
“Uncle Wyatt? That doesn’t make sense. Not that I’m defending the guy—believe me—but I don’t see how he could be connected to the dude in the alley.”
“We have to keep an open mind in these cases. Look at it from all angles.”
“Wait … Uncle Wyatt just flew into town a few days ago.”
“A few days ago? What makes you say that?”
“Uh. Well.” My head was a flurry of thoughts. “After we had our confrontation, the television people put him up at an airport motel. Footing his bill, I’m sure.”
“You are correct that he stayed at a local motel.” Detective Meade’s hesitation set me on edge.
“But what?”
“Wyatt Tremaine never flew into, or out of, Nashville. Not recently anyway.”
“They made him ride Greyhound?” I grinned. “He deserves it.”
“Actually, he lives just over an hour away. Being his nephew, you shouldn’t be surprised.”
The words were like fists slammed into my gut. “We haven’t talked in years. Where did you hear this?”
“When he filed charges against you a few days back. He’s a resident of Lewis County.”
Lewis County has no large cities. With a short list of options, the answer to my next question was obvious.
“In Hohenwald?”
“I thought you knew that.”
“Seems there’s a lot I don’t know.”
I arrived home around midnight, exhausted and sore. In the dark entryway, a postmarked mailing tube bore my name. I peeled it open and found the Kurt Cobain poster I’d ordered off eBay.
I rolled it under my arm and peeked through the studio door. Dad was passed out, drunk, basking in the glory of his older son’s performance.
In the next room, with light oozing beneath the closed door onto the hall’s hardwood floor, my brother was performing an encore for an audience of one. Most certainly the girl named Sarah, whom he would set aside within a week. I’d seen the pattern. Lost in the revelry of fresh pheromones, he’s affectionate and cuddly, but he runs from deeper intimacy and commitment.
Embarrassing stuff.
I used to be the same.
After tacking up the poster by my computer, I dropped into bed. I thought about the fallout of Cobain’s existence. He changed the landscape of modern rock, and yet his personal life was a shambles. I used to idolize the man. I embraced his despair. And look where it got him. Six feet under. I knew it wasn’t right, the bitterness between my father and me. I’d fed it long enough, with no benefit to either of us. But how to cross that barrier?
My eyelids grew heavy. Still clothed, I pulled a blanket over myself.
I can see my father’s silhouette. He’s reaching for me, calling for me, then he morphs into a hollow-cheeked creature with bony fingers.
The fingers clamp onto me. I pry at them, and they snap off. Shattering.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
When I look up, I’m staring at Brianne Douglas. I hear distant screams, but my focus is on her shoulder where a creature rests, translucent red, its tail dripping poison. Brianne has tears in her eyes. She’s
shaking her head.
“Hold still.” I flex my fingers. “I’ll try to knock it away.”
“No,” she begs. “Just leave it alone.” In her hand, she’s clutching my mother’s handkerchief. “Please, Aramis. If you act like it’s not there, it won’t hurt anything.”
The tapered tail whips around.
“Brianne!”
But it’s too late. She disintegrates into a swirl of brittle leaves, floating down, covered by a square of white silk.
TWENTY-FOUR
There are some secrets better left buried, Aramis.”
“You sound like you know something I don’t.”
In his Tabasco boxers, Johnny Ray stretched, scratched, then lumbered into the bathroom. I was hurrying through my second Pop-Tart to avoid his disapproving look.
When he wandered back into view, I hid it under the table.
He picked up his six-string and found his cross-legged position on the hardwood floor.
“By the way,” I said, “you did great last night.”
“Thanks for settin’ it up. Had myself a heckuva time.”
“During? Or after?”
He waved his hand in a downward motion. “Shh. Sarah’s still sleeping.”
I could feel Pop-Tart crumbs landing on my toes. I was hungry, and I needed to leave for work in a few minutes. “It’s not right, Johnny. Taking advantage of her like that.”
“She’s knows it’s nothin’ permanent. That was clear from the get-go.”
“Oh, well, in that case …”
“You missed out. She woulda brought her friend for you, Aramis, but I told her you were in trainin’ for the priesthood.”
“You’re joking.”
He shrugged as he brought his guitar into his lap.
“Well. You might like to know I’m having dinner with Brianne tonight.”
“That girl who’s workin’ for you?” It was his turn to shake his head.
“Friends. Nothing more.”
“Mmm, I’ll take your word. I wouldn’t trust her though. She’s got her eye on you.”
“Can you blame her?”
He sneered at me. “Back to your other question, about Uncle Wyatt.”
“Yeah. He’s lived here all this time, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Only found out myself a few weeks ago.”
