A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  “If I’m not mistaken, that’s from our shop. Let’s see a receipt.”

  Home free.

  “Here you go.” I fished the paper from the bottom of the bag, handed it over.

  “Well, there you go. Purchased this afternoon in cash. See, Chuck? Nothing to get worked up over.”

  “But he was running away! He—”

  “Look at him.” Gazing my direction, Jerry draped a hand over his subordinate’s broad back and spoke in a winsome tone. “He’s a lovesick soul, Chuck. Maybe, just maybe, he can still catch up to this girl and win her back.”

  I nodded. “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “Just a bit of advice: think before you speak next time, and wear blinders if you have to.” Jerry gave a melodramatic nod to the gardens on his left, to the daffodils on the right. “Beautiful flowers are easy enough to find. But true love? That’s something special. Don’t go tossing away a rose for a peek at the latest blossoms.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “But worth it, son, I assure you.” He tapped his wedding ring. “Nineteen years.”

  “Wow. Way to go.”

  “Like anyone wants to hear this,” Chuck interjected.

  “Thanks,” I told the other man. “You’re a true romantic.”

  “Actually, just another wannabe songwriter. Hey”—Jerry lifted a shoulder—“doesn’t hurt to dream.”

  We all laughed, even taciturn Chuck. Guitar-packing troubadours come to Nashville by the thousands, many to be quickly chewed up, spit out, and crushed underfoot. Stardom’s a fleeting thing, as my brother can testify. He spent years paying his dues, earning his keep, sharpening his chops.

  Johnny Ray. I’d left him waiting at Black’s. At least he’d be safe.

  And what about Felicia’s part in this?

  I thanked the guards for their understanding, then darted toward the parking lot—the picture of a man chasing lost love. The contents of the bag in my hand demanded more exploration. Still muddled by a kiss and the events of the last twenty minutes, my mind was a blur.

  9

  I coasted through the front gates and past the guard post. I turned onto Page Road, took a left onto Belle Meade, where frolickers still spilled from the Iroquois Steeplechase, then headed into town on Harding Pike.

  Outside the windshield, a dragonfly buzzed along, iridescent, staying a foot or so ahead of my Civic. I watched it for a while until for some reason it struck me funny, and I laughed, bleeding off the past hour’s overload of adrenaline.

  On the seat beside me, the felt bag waited.

  I pulled into Elmington Park before the I-440 overpass and killed the engine. Three boys in baggy shorts kicked a soccer ball and laughed as a mom watched from a picnic table, her hand rocking a baby carrier beside her. I recalled the park where my mom had taught me how to swing. Those twinkling eyes when she tousled my hair.

  Six years compacted into one corner of my memory. So little to hold on to.

  I traced the felt bag with my fingers, realizing its contents could shake things up all over again. Despite promises to my brother, there might be more trouble ahead.

  A chance I’d have to take.

  I removed the Fauxbergé from the bag. The jewel on the sphere’s top caught my eye once more, and I twisted it, hearing the soft click of a lock opening. The egg’s upper third fell open on a golden hinge to reveal a hollow space inside.

  A bullet casing rested on the velvet lining.

  What in the …

  When I tipped the jeweled egg like a tiny teapot, the tarnished shell rolled into my palm, and I noticed a slip of paper tucked inside it. What if I ignored the note? I could just refuse to play this cat-and-mouse game.

  But I knew better. I had to do this for Johnny: for the sake of your loved ones …

  And Felicia.

  Whether innocent or involved, Felicia Daly was my best link to the culprit. I’d manhandled her, allowing the resentments of our breakup to take over, and now she was gone. I should’ve run after her. For her sake and mine. Of course, the guard in the hallway had put a stop to my meager attempt.

  Against my skin, the casing was warm. I tried to extract the paper, but it was furled and wedged in at an angle. I plucked at it. Attempted to grip it with my short fingernails. I pinned the sheet against the metal and began edging it out, millimeter by millimeter, until it popped free into my hand, and I spread it open on my leg.

  Chop, chop, Aramis. Here’s a piece of your mother’s past. “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” Yes, by falling forward before the trigger was pulled, she cheated the grave. If you help me, you’ll get to see her again and earn your way back into our family circle. Perhaps you should give me a ring.

  “Sure,” I grumbled. “It’d help if you left me a number.”

  Our family circle? Who did he think he was? And this continued twisting of scriptures seemed an intentional affront against the respect my mother had shown for the Good Book.

  Obvious lies. I wasn’t falling for any false hopes.

  Could my dad be responsible? He seemed as unlikely as Felicia.

  I studied the cartridge’s tarnished brass, found myself reliving the moment when the gun had exploded and sent my mom reeling forward. An earlier shot in the thigh had brought her to her knees, and she’d cried out, black hair clinging to her cheeks. Then … she was toppling, falling, vanishing beneath the river’s dark currents.

  I have no memory of any blood. Or an impact wound. Her body was never recovered from the water. From previous discussions with Meade, I knew most police departments destroyed evidence long before two decades had passed. What were the chances of this casing being the one from that Oregon riverbank?

  Surely it wasn’t possible she had survived, was it? What if she …

  No! Stop!

  I stiffened in the driver’s seat. “She was shot,” I whispered. “She refused to give in to greed, and she paid with her life. I watched it with my own eyes.”

  If you help me …

  Why should I do anything for this deviant? He was an extremist, nothing more than an urban terrorist using Scripture and sick-in-the-head means to justify his actions.

  You’ll get to see her again and earn your way back into our family circle …

  The words were barbed arrows dipped into the disease of deceit. They had no effect on me. I was inoculated against the stuff.

  I read the note a second time and a third.

  See? No problem.

  I folded the paper and tucked it into my pocket along with the empty cartridge. The Fauxbergé went under the seat. I turned the key in the ignition, adjusted my mirrors, backed out of the parking space, and threaded my way through Saturday’s late-afternoon traffic toward Black’s.

  “Pop quiz.”

  “Not right now.”

  “This one’s easy, a simple true or false.”

  I surveyed the shop. “You want true or false, Diesel? Here ya go. I told my brother not to leave before I got back.”

  “True.”

  “So where is he?”

  “Last I looked, he was there at that table.”

  I followed his pointing finger to a lone salad plate beside a glass of melting ice.

  “He’s real down to earth,” Diesel continued. “One cool cat. He was telling me all about this latest song he’s been working on, but then Samantha came in.”

  “Sammie was here?”

  “Ohhh, yeah. Hard to miss. If you don’t mind me saying so, she’s got a nice—”

  “Stop, Diesel. Think. Was this five minutes ago? Ten?”

  “Been busy cleaning, boss. I don’t know. Maybe they headed back to the studio. Isn’t she Johnny Ray’s manager or something like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Beautiful and talented.” He gave a low whistle. “How old is she?”

  “Too old for you. Shouldn’t you be working?”

  He poured water into the coffee machine. “Sh
oot, if I showed up on my parents’ doorstep with Samantha on my arm, my dad would fall all over himself trying to welcome her in. He’s got it bad for women, young or old. Maybe it’s wrong to say, but that’s a fact. My mom was barely nineteen when they got married.”

  I dialed my brother, got his voice mail: “If you would like to leave a message …”

  Diesel said, “Would you want a serious relationship with a nineteen-year-old?”

  “No, I would not.” I slapped the phone shut. “Thank you very much.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Wait. I wasn’t—”

  He carried on while scooping coffee into the brew basket. “Guess Dad had to find out the hard way. He and Mom, I’ve never heard them raise their voices at each other, but it’s this constant tug of war, all these unspoken politics. What about your parents?”

  “Don’t have many memories of them together.”

  He shot me a glance. Turned away. The whole country had seen the re-enactment of my mother’s death played out on my segment of The Best of Evil, but most people still seemed uneasy mentioning it around me. What? Like I had to pretend it never happened?

  He fidgeted. “What was your mom like anyway?”

  “She was great.” I rolled my neck. “Very loving.”

  “And?”

  “Strong in a quiet way.” My hand brushed the old cartridge in my pocket. “And she loved her morning coffee. She cleaned houses to put food on the table for us.”

  “Johnny Ray’s told me stories.”

  “About my mom?” I wheeled on him. “Since when?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Listen. My family’s none of your business. And while we’re at it, tell me why your dad’s been making threats against me and Johnny. What’s that all about?”

  “That’s crazy. Dad’s never even met you guys.”

  “But he’s in Nashville, isn’t he? Gimme one good reason why.”

  “I am their only child, if that counts. He and Mom drove down to visit.” Diesel kicked at the rubber floor mat. “Forget I said anything. I was just trying to be a friend.”

  “This is work. You’re on the clock.”

  “But at school, we—”

  “That’s different. That’s college. Here I’m your boss.”

  “Ohhh.” Above solid shoulders, Diesel let his expression turn bland. “I get it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re afraid.”

  I coughed out a laugh. “What?”

  “It’s just like the stuff we’ve been talking about in class. Fear and lies.”

  My arms felt charged at my sides. In times past, less provocation would have led me to do severe damage to someone’s face. It cured the red and black squeezing in on my vision every time.

  “Shouldn’t have said anything,” Diesel mouthed. “I’m getting back to work.”

  “You do that.”

  Heading back into the kitchen, I found Anna Knight at the stainless-steel triple sink. Even with elbows deep in suds, she had a glow that seemed to fill the room and draw me toward her.

  “Just finishing up,” she said. “You need help out there?”

  “Diesel’s got it covered. Any idea where my brother ran off to?”

  “Sorry. I’ve been busy washing up. How’s your day going?”

  “Fine.”

  “Hardly a convincing answer.” Anna peeked past me. “Is it Diesel? He’s been in a mood all afternoon, and nothing I say seems to placate him. He’s really not interested in taking orders from me.”

  “When I’m gone, you’re in charge,” I assured her.

  “Yes, but … I think he resents it a bit.”

  “And you thought you were done raising kids. I’m afraid you’ve got your hands full with me and Diesel.”

  “You? Hon, you’re a piece of cake.”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Careful. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

  “Heaven forbid.” Anna slipped her hand from the soapy water and set it on my forearm. “You do know, don’t you, sometimes women like to see a soft side, some vulnerability?”

  “I don’t do ‘vulnerable.’ Made that mistake not too long ago.”

  “You’ll have to do it again.”

  “Who says?”

  “If you ever hope to find true love.”

  “Been there. Right now I’m just hoping to find Johnny Ray.”

  From Anna’s fingers, a caravan of soap bubbles trekked down my skin and washed over the edges of my tattoo. I ripped a paper towel from the dispenser above the sink and mopped at the suds.

  There it was, my call to action, in glistening green and blue.

  Live by the Sword …

  In the span of eighteen hours, someone had carved into my brother, blackmailed my ex-girlfriend, spun lies about my mother, and tried to snare me with empty promises. I could not sit by. I would not. Axman wanted me to relive my pain? Good. I would run to embrace it.

  Die by the Sword …

  Yes, I’d pull my memories close and squeeze every drop of grief from them until they were dead and gone, unable to harm me. No more waiting. Time to act.

  I marched out the door, got in my car, and peeled away from the curb. At the first intersection, a traffic light came slowly into focus through my quagmire of emotion. Red light … red light … red …

  Brakes!

  I mashed the pedal to the floor and corrected the Honda’s rubber-burning slide. A horn blared, and a man in a yellow hard hat gave me a one-fingered salute as his SUV slid by.

  “Same to you, pal!”

  I checked my mirrors, panned the traffic for any glimpse of a Hyundai sedan. Why had AX cut my brother? Why had he turned his attention to me? If he was after Lewis’s centuries-old gold, how had he known to come knocking on our door?

  The dash clock said it was a quarter past six.

  Okay. Forget playing nice. The moral high road sounded so smug, so righteous—until the threats became personal. First I’d find Johnny Ray and Felicia, take them down to the station, and place them under police protection. Then, after nightfall, I’d sneak onto the Cheekwood estate to retrieve my gun. Prey would become predator.

  New ways, schnew ways … I’d do what had to be done.

  Chop, chop.

  On the steering wheel, my fingers itched for the weight of my Desert Eagle, for the familiar resistance of the trigger.

  10

  Desperado Artist Development. Johnny had to be here.

  I parked along the curb on Sixteenth. Clouds hovered over the treetops, and I rolled up my windows. A warm gust stirred freshly cut grass around my feet as I got out and headed past DAD’s black and silver lawn sign. Though the studio occupies a two-level brick home, it’s all business inside. The living room’s been converted into a front lobby, the upstairs into offices, the downstairs bedrooms into a soundproof studio and mixing room.

  At the steps of the wraparound porch, I turned toward Sammie’s late-model Mustang in the driveway. No sign of my brother’s pickup. She must’ve given him a ride.

  “Got a kickin’ set of wheels, doesn’t she?”

  “Huh?” I looked up. “Oh. Hi, Chigger.”

  Johnny’s goateed guitarist was leaning against a porch post, taking drags on a cigarette between sessions. He was in faded jeans, a paint-splattered hoodie, and a baseball cap sporting the initials C.S.A. over a Confederate flag.

  “Ever had yourself a ride in that car?”

  “Couple times,” I said. “Went out to Percy Priest Lake in it last year.”

  “You and Sammie? Not gonna lie to ya. I’m jealous.”

  “Johnny was with us.”

  “Johnny Ray Black.” Smoke writhed from the man’s nostrils, through his sideburns. His mouth curled into its standard sneer. “Can’t begin to tell ya how many times that boy’s come between us.”

  Meaning the car? Or Samantha?

  “He’s keeping you employed,” I pointed out. “Is he inside?”

  �
�Whoa now, let’s get one thing straight. Chigger keeps himself employed, and if Chigger’s not feeling it, he’s got other places he can go.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Man’s gotta take pride in his work.” He swatted his cap against a thick leg. “Can’t let no one push him around.”

  “What do the initials stand for?”

  “C.S.A.?” He looked the hat over as though contemplating things best addressed in reverence. “Confederate States of America.”

  “You into all that?”

  “All what? I’m proud of my heritage. My great-great-granddaddy, he gave his life for this land. Fought for his loved ones.”

  “Sure. You gotta protect your family.”

  “A God-given right, yes sir. Says it there in the Con-stee-tution.”

  “And then there’s the whole thing against slavery, right there in the Bill of Rights.”

  Squinting, he took a long drag, then dropped and crushed the cigarette with his boot. His next phrase rang like a battle cry. “Mark my words: the South will rise again.”

  Though numerous responses rushed to my lips, I couldn’t pretend to have a grasp of the Southern psyche. I do know slavery was wrong, but I also know Union troops were as guilty of wrongdoing as those they fought against.

  “So have you seen my brother?” I stepped onto the porch. “Is he in there?”

  “He’s here, all right, and he’s gonna regret it if he doesn’t start showin’ a li’l appreciation. Chigger’s about artistic freedom. Maybe you could go in and bend his ear. He might just listen to his kid brother.”

  “Name’s Aramis.” The steps lifted me onto the porch.

  Situating the cap back on his head, Chigger droned on. “ ‘Tryin’ to Do Things Right,’ my foot. Johnny Ray’s more about doin’ what suits Johnny Ray.”

  “That so?”

  “A blind man wouldn’t tell ya no different.”

  My fists swung like hammers as I moved toward Chigger’s leaning post. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact. He thinks he’s above listenin’ to Chigger—one of the best guitar players on Music Row. Man’s gonna learn the hard way that ain’t how things work. Hear this: I can knock ’em down as quick as I build ’em up.”