A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  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.

  7

  The 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.

  “Mr. Black, is there a comment you wish to add to our discussion?”

  I started to zero in on a snappy comeback to send the class into howls. I imagined this slightly graying man at home alone with a microwave dinner, listening to Michael Bolton. Could he be any more pitiful? And then something moved in me: empathy maybe. Or godly compassion. How pathetic to ridicule a man I knew so little about.

  “No sir,” I said. “Sorry for interrupting.”

  Newmann studied me, testing my sincerity. Nervous giggles flitted about Ward Lecture Hall 150, but I remained stone faced.

  Bones turned back to his notes on the lectern. Head down, he said, “We have ten minutes remaining before dismissal. Would you please stand, Mr. Black, and give a summation of our discussion?”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  “No reason for a show of shyness. Speak for all to hear.”

  I rose and cleared my throat. I was working without a script, and the class probably had some perverse desire to see me fall.

  Time to face the nation’s number-one fear.

  “Professor, can I address the class from the podium?”

  “You can. More accurately, though, you’d need permission to do so.”

  “May I?”

  He peered over his glasses. “Yes, you may.”

  I strode to the front and faced my peers. Nabbing bits of info from our past hour of interaction, I layered them with facts uncovered in my weekend homework, including recent theories that human DNA is encoded with ancestral memories.

  “You’re losing our attention,” Newmann said. “Perhaps you can clarify.”

  “Okay. Who in this room is scared to death of cats?” I paused for a show of hands. “No one? But if a rat came skittering in under our desks, I bet this place would go crazy.” The mere mention caused a group of girls in the front to lift their feet and shudder. “What if there’s something in our collective heritage that triggers such reactions? Rats helped spread the Black Plague in the Middle Ages. Maybe the nightmares of previous generations passed down through o
ur DNA.”

  The lecture hall was with me now.

  “And think of déjà vu. We’ve all experienced it, right? Well, what if a particular bend in the river or a curve of the road seems suddenly familiar because Grandma saw that place years ago and passed that memory through her genes?”

  Eyes were round with contemplation.

  “Fear is a tool,” I said. “A warning mechanism to aid our survival. DNA, genetics, maybe even your grandparents’ memories play a part. Of course it gets tricky when it filters from our logical side into our intuitive side. A mom sees her kid run into the street, and she finds superhuman ability to protect her young. But emotions can also get in the way. Who was it who mentioned shooting free throws? You, Derek? I bet you wouldn’t have frozen at the foul line if your dad hadn’t been watching.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Bottom line,” I concluded, “in this age of science and rationalism, we can’t forget that the heart and brain are connected. They work in tandem. When we feel afraid, it only serves to underline that fact.”

  The professor’s jacket swept against me as he retook the stage. The applause and whoops from the class faded, and he threw me a scowl. “Speaking of feelings, how do you feel you just did with your little discourse?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “And how do you think you did?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “Which simply proves, Mr. Black, that thoughts and feelings don’t always coincide with reality.”

  All this raced through my head in seconds.

  Fear is a tool. Feelings don’t match reality.

  I shook my arms and took a step back. The ground was spongy, an unstable springboard. To my left, the Steeple Dance’s orange spires stretched upward. Straight ahead, the felt bag still dangled from the tree.

  BEAR … act rapidly.

  I made two running jumps, but my fingertips only raked along the soft material and set the object swinging back and forth above my face, taunting me.

  The cords were wrapped around the branch, defying my efforts.

  The razor. That was it. The freak had provided the necessary tool.

  I shifted my gun back in my waistband, held the blade between my teeth, and grabbed hold of a lower branch. I tried not to close my mouth on the bloody metal.

  To find piece …

  I braced a foot between the tree trunk and a branch, stretched my leg to reach the next. A grunt. Another stretch, and I reached the limb that held the bag. Gripping the wood between my thighs, I scooted out to the cord. I saw it was knotted, damp and thick, almost impossible to loosen by hand.

  After a few seconds of my sawing, the bag plummeted to the forest floor where it hit with a metallic clink. Didn’t sound like a body part.

  Other sounds now, not too far off.

  Heavy breathing. Pounding feet. The security guard!

  I dropped the blade and eased my legs over the cedar limb. My fingers released, and I landed in a crouch on the twigs and leaves below, the Desert Eagle squeezing over the rim of my jeans and thudding on the ground. I snatched it up, found the blade and the bag, and sprinted away as the guard came into view.

  “Hold it right there!” he called.

  He was no match for my speed, and he was in need of serious meds if he thought otherwise. Daily sit-ups, push-ups, and walking the mile to Black’s most days—and now riding my mountain bike to class at Lipscomb—kept me lean and mean.

  See ya.

  Without slowing, I crashed through the bushes and swatted away the branches that slapped at my face. Give the guard some credit for recognizing pursuit was futile. Behind me, I could hear him yakking into his handheld radio.

  8

  I high-stepped through dense underbrush, my mind racing.

  Would they try to stop me at the gate? Was there an alternate exit? Aside from some suspicious behavior, I’d done nothing wrong. Maybe I could get to my car and simply slip away.

  Nope. Couldn’t take that chance just yet. If the bag clutched in my hand contained more clues on this little treasure hunt, it might lead to another spot here on the grounds. I couldn’t mess this up. The bag’s contents warranted at least a few seconds of investigation.

  Still running, my feet hit a slope of grass and slipped from beneath me. I landed hard, juggling and cradling the stuff in my hands, careening on my backside toward the base of a fountain. With a bone-rattling jerk, I came to a stop.

  As good a spot as any. You take life’s lemons and make lemonade.

  I loosened the bag’s leather straps and peeked inside. Something glittered. Something smooth and polished. My cupped fingers brushed against paper before scooping the item into the daylight.

  A Fabergé egg?

  I’d seen many just like it in the exhibit hall, but this couldn’t be an authentic one. The shape, size, and array of gemstones around the deep blue oval all looked genuine and expensive, but it seemed too light. And I knew from the brochure how rare they were. Fifty-odd imperial eggs existed in the entire world, and only a few remained unaccounted for after the assassination of the Romanovs during Lenin’s revolution.

  Sure enough. On the bottom, a sticker read “Fauxbergé.” A clever fake. It was probably available at the gift shop in the restaurant.

  What was the point of this then? Was there another message inside?

  In the museum’s exhibit, plaques explained how Fabergé’s master craftsmen had designed these things originally to hold trinkets and treasures, revealed by the use of concealed mechanisms. I ran my fingers along the row of fake diamonds, felt for a seam in the translucent enamel surface.

  Nothing obvious. Maybe this jutting jewel on top?

  The squawk of a radio just up the hill interrupted my search.

  I pressed back against the cool stone of the fountain, felt the spray dotting my face. No doubt the rent-a-cop was gathering his buddies, tightening the trap. My Honda was close now, but even if I reached it, I’d still have to pass the guards at the front gate. And, of course, ditching the car to escape on foot would leave my license tag to be traced, like a giant finger pointing to the place my brother and I share off West End Avenue.

  Not much time. My options were limited.

  I wrapped the razor in the envelope and stuffed it in my pocket. I removed the clip from my gun, ejected the chambered round, then slid the deadly components far back beneath a bush that bordered the fountain, and scooped dirt and bark over the pile. I marked the location in my mind for later retrieval.

  Breathe, evaluate, act rapidly.

  As the guard’s large gut came into view, I realized my way out. Standing, I smoothed my shirt and headed toward his voice.

  “Sir,” I called out. “Excuse me.”

  “Take it easy now! Hold it right there.”

  “Did you see where she went?”

  “Where she … Listen, bud, you keep your hands where I can see them.” The security man puffed out his chest, sucked in his belly, then brought his hand to his mouth and spoke into his transmitter. “Yes sir, cornered him over here near the Perennial Garden.”

  Cornered me? I’d practically hopped into his lap.

  In a show of remorse, I let my shoulders slump a little and said, “Should’ve kept my mouth shut. That’s what I should’ve done. But no, I went and told her everything. You know the girl I’m talking about, the one I was kissing in the museum.”

  The guard studied me with obvious misgivings.

  “She just left in a huff. Can’t blame her,” I continued. “I should’ve never said a word, especially after last time.”

  “Last time what?”

  “It’s a free country, right? So what am I supposed to do, never look at another woman? Impossible, right? Tell me that’s possible.”

  “You admitted to looking at other women?”

  “Honesty’s the best policy. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Now hold on. I saw the girl leave out the front, but you went hurrying out the back. And wh
y’d you run from me when I told you to stop?”

  “Ah, that’s what this is about.” I chuckled. “Sorry for the confusion. I wasn’t running from you, not intentionally.”

  “I saw you with my own two eyes, so don’t even—”

  “I was trying to find her.”

  “Out the back door?”

  “First I had to go find the gift I’d hidden for her.”

  “On the trail?”

  “It was supposed to be romantic. A surprise.”

  “You trampled the flowers and ignored me to grab a gift? Didn’t I tell you to save yourself some heartache?”

  “Well, look. Now she’s gone.”

  The guard showed no sympathy.

  “This is her last day in town,” I explained. “I wanted to make it special.”

  He shook his head, and his cheek bulged where his tongue worked its way around. As another guard arrived at his side, his nostrils continued flaring like bellows, wheezing with each intake of air.

  “Trouble?” the reinforcement asked.

  There was that word again.

  “This man”—the guard lifted his meaty arm in my direction—“ran off from the museum and refused to obey my orders to stop.”

  “He’s not running now.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to let him get away, Jerry. Look at his pants. The grass stains. He was up to something.”

  “Didn’t mean to cause such a … a hullabaloo,” I said.

  Hullabaloo? Where had that word come from? I’d hoped to sound less threatening, but that was bordering on backwoods.

  Jerry lifted his eyebrows. “What’s that in your hand?”

  “This?” I removed the Fauxbergé from the bag. “A gift for my girlfriend.”

  “So he says.” The first guard huffed, then gave a recap of my story.

  Jerry’s face took on a bemused expression, and I got the feeling that a power play of sorts was at work here, that the first man had a habit of exaggerating situations to boost his own stock with his boss—cool-headed Jerry—who to his credit, listened all the way through before taking a step toward me, his palm outstretched.