by Eric Wilson
“Okay. I wrote about an investigation of subliminal messages conducted in the fifties. Maybe you remember hearing about it?”
“Not likely. I was born in the early sixties.”
“My bad. Thing is, this study showed what happened when the word popcorn was flashed between images on a movie screen. Even though it happened faster than audiences could recognize consciously, concessions sales went through the roof.”
“Snap,” said Diesel. “That must be what happened to me last Friday.”
The professor ignored a smattering of giggles. “Fascinating. And the sources you cited? Newspapers? Scientific journals?”
“Basically.”
“Did you include the comprehensive findings of the USPA?”
“Uh. You mean, the United States Psychology Association,” I improvised.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sure I did.”
“No, you did not.” Newmann rushed forward and hovered over my seat, thin, vulturelike. “There were no such findings, nothing substantiated by reputable publications. This study and its results were fabrications of a mind no more active than your own.”
“But I read—”
“Commendable. A skill for all students to master. And in your reading, you may want to check into the history of the USPA.”
“Extra credit?”
“Not unless they offer social psych at the U.S. Parachutist Association.”
Snickers flitted about the hall, the fallout of my own lackadaisical research. As one who prides himself on critical thinking, I’d been duped by an erroneous article and beaten by a stinkin’ sub. Once again, my failures last year to distinguish deception from reality came rushing back.
That evening in the lecture hall, I vowed I would not be made a fool of again.
Felicia was real, of that much I was certain. Minutes ago I’d left her sliced and trembling while I chased after a phantom. It seemed like ages.
Navigating the one-way streets, I returned to City Cemetery. I parked at the corner of Oak Street and Fourth and spotted my homeless friend pacing in mismatched shoes and a tattered jacket. I climbed from the car.
“Freddy C.”
“Artemis.”
From the start, Freddy’s mistaken my name, and I’ve given up correcting it. “Thanks for coming down here. Guess you recognized me at the corner.”
“Saw you bleeding.”
“Did you call Metro?”
“No phone. Too late now anyway.”
“Don’t worry. There’s nothing you could’ve done. C’mon, I need to check on my friend.”
I started across the street, but his glazed eyes slowed my steps. He shook his head.
“Freddy, you look scared.”
“I letcha down.” A pungent odor wafted from him, a mix of salt and onions.
“Not at all. Look. I’m fine.”
I continued across, and Freddy trudged after me.
“Who did that to her?”
“Did what?” I asked over my shoulder. “The cuts?”
He pressed a fist to his temple, then pointed at my cheek. “They cut you too.”
“Yeah.”
“Least you got away.”
“If only I could’ve gotten my hands on that guy—”
“I wanted to help,” Freddy blurted. “You believe me, don’tcha?”
“Of course I do. You’re a good man, a crime-fighter.”
“She was scared of me.”
“Not surprising. Alone, on a dark street. I’ll let her know you’re harmless.” I slipped around the parked panel truck, to the place I’d left her. “Felicia?”
“No.” He stopped in his tracks. “I told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Too late. It’s my fault.”
“What’re you talking about?” I hurried toward Felicia, her legs curled on the sidewalk. “Come over and give me a hand.”
“No use. No use.”
“We can get her to a hospital.”
“She’s dead,” he barked. “Dead! Don’tcha get it?”
18
Studies over the years have indicated that psychology students are those with the highest levels of childhood trauma and abuse, damaged souls looking for comfort, for explanations, for a cure.
I don’t doubt it.
While I believe this lends credibility to the motives of professional counselors, it may also challenge their level of objectivity.
My objectivity, as I knelt beside Felicia, was already in question.
“I tried to help,” Freddy C vowed. “Found her right there.”
The pool of blood had grown and oozed over the concrete to settle in the cracks. There were plenty of reasons to leave everything untouched and call the cops. Of course, Meade would eventually connect this with my surveillance at the hotel, so any hopes of my escaping future interrogation were negligible.
I looked down. I had to know. Had to see for myself. My fingers eased around the nape of her neck to her carotid artery.
“She didn’t budge,” Freddy was saying.
Clammy skin. No pulse.
“Tried talking to her, but not a word. Not one.”
“She’s gone.”
“Didn’t touch her,” Freddy repeated. “I tried to help.”
“I know. I believe you.” I lifted my head. “Are we all clear?”
He looked toward Fourth Avenue, where a car sped by. Sounds of drunken bravado rang out, most likely from the strip club two blocks away, the one place open late here on a Saturday night. Along Oak Street, a breeze stirred residual heat and lingering odors.
“I’m gonna turn her over,” I said.
My homeless friend filled his lungs, gripped his beard with one hand.
“Felicia?” I rested my palm on her back. She was gone, yet some misguided sense of formality had me talking to her. “Sorry, but I need to see what he did to you.”
Freddy tensed. “I didn’t—”
“Not you. Keep watching for me, okay?”
My hands moved over her wounded shoulder, took hold, and eased her onto her side. Blond hair dangled over a slack mouth where pinkish blood had foamed.
I blinked. Took a breath.
This afternoon these lips had pressed against mine. Earlier this evening they’d downed white zinfandel. For three years Felicia and I had shared a rocky relationship, and we’d spent the last two apart. I wasn’t the man for her—that much I knew—but she’d flown to Nashville to see me. All she’d wanted was another chance.
My inexpert examination continued, but the work of the razor knife was clearly responsible for her death. Even with the moon working as a spotlight, the depth of the stab wounds was impossible to judge. Muscle and skin had contracted at these points, her body’s attempt to hold itself together. A coppery-blood scent stirred in the breeze, almost triggering my gag reflex as I took in the damage to her midsection.
I winced. Gimme strength here.
I knew I shouldn’t be handling anything—“contamination of a crime scene” and all that desensitizing mumbo jumbo. Nevertheless, I closed the folds of her robe and draped her jacket gently over her.
I looked up at Freddy nervously shifting side to side. “Let’s get you outta here.”
“The police. They need to come.”
“Yes, I’ll call them. First, let me take you somewhere safe. You don’t wanna be mixed up in this. You’re sure you didn’t touch anything?”
“Nothing.”
“No blood on your shoes? Double-check.”
He nodded and checked. Pointed to me. “Your hands.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“But … who did this? We can’t leave her. No, we can’t do that.”
“Doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“She’s all alone.”
“You wanna wait for the cops?”
“Me? I … Maybe you.”
“Here’s the plan,” I said, scrubbing my hands against my jeans. “We rush down
town and make a call before anyone else stumbles upon her. Metro will be here within minutes. They’ll take care of her.”
Freddy nodded.
We tramped to the car and headed downtown. Soon I’d be a prime suspect. Detective Meade knew of my contact with Felicia. I needed extra time. A police investigation would only complicate things with AX.
Turning onto Sixth, I nearly collided with an old Pontiac GTO descending from the direction of Fort Negley, a Civil War site atop St. Cloud Hill. The gleaming muscle car blasted its horn. Beside me, my friend grabbed his armrest.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologized. “My mind’s not all here.”
I couldn’t shake the questions. Had Felicia bled to death? Would I have been able to save her with a makeshift tourniquet? She’d been more concerned that I go after my mother—at least who she thought was my mother. Had she known AX’s plan all along?
Go. Before he … takes her.
One selfless act before breathing her last.
Next to me Freddy C was muttering, “Too late. I was too late.”
The same self-accusation kept grinding through my head.
Ten thirty-two p.m. I called the cops from a pay phone at Third and Broadway. I spoke anonymously, gave a minimum of details, and prayed they’d respond rapidly.
Driving back toward Centennial Park, we watched a pair of Music City’s finest speed by in a noisy bluster of spinning red and blue lights. My heart raced. Freddy flinched in the seat beside me. Minutes later we eased along the park’s perimeter.
“Sure you don’t want a soft bed for the night?” I asked.
“No, thank you.”
“We have a spare room. My brother won’t mind.”
“I’ll be fine, just fine.” He waved at a flowering magnolia. “Drop me here.”
I braked and watched him clamber out. “Freddy.”
He turned toward me with a haunted expression.
“I was with her before you got to her,” I told him. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Seriously,” I said. “Thanks for waiting there with me.”
“That’s the way friends oughta be.”
“Absolutely.”
A police cruiser sat at the corner, with a clear view of our brownstone building. Meade had been true to his word, providing extra patrol on our block. Even with the security cameras watching the property, my brother seemed better guarded by a person toting a gun and a badge.
I could hear it now though: “A call was placed at 10:32, Mr. Black. A woman’s body was discovered on Oak Street, with multiple stab wounds. Officer So-and-So reports that you pulled into your residence thirteen minutes later. Circumstantial? Really? And what about the bloodstains on your pants? Or those hair follicles and ski-mask threads in the back of your car?”
I rolled forward. Evidence on wheels.
My course of action was obvious: Proceed directly to Metro. Do not pass Go. Play on the right side of the law. But a different game was already in motion, and until I could track down Felicia’s killer, his new set of rules was in effect.
Nosed the other direction, I stopped beside the cruiser. My hands dropped into my lap. The sliced side of my face stayed turned away. No fear. No guilt.
“Hi there.”
The cop’s window came down, and he gave me a wary eye. “Good evening.”
“Everything okay, Officer? I’m Johnny Ray’s brother.”
“Johnny Ray Black? Good song that boy’s got on the radio.”
“He’s worked for it.”
“Catchy, no doubt about that. ‘Where’d I go so wrong …’ ”
I joined him. “In tryin’ to do things right?”
“Nothin’ like a good country tune. Back in the early days of the Grand Ole Opry, my mother’s cousin played the Ryman a couple of times. Great fiddle player.”
Clipped to the man’s uniform, a radio squawked. With an uplifted finger, he angled his head to listen. The dash lights and on-board computer painted him in hues of green. Though I don’t know much about cop lingo, the subject of the transmission was clear: “unidentified Caucasian female …”
I exhaled through narrowly parted lips.
“Been some commotion over on Fourth.” The officer tweaked the volume knob and leaned toward me. “A couple of these dispatchers, they just about yell into the dang radio. I’m getting up in age, true enough, but my hearing’s just fine.”
“You need to go?”
“Not yet. They’ve already sent the nearest units by GPS.”
“Hi-tech.”
“Causes some real mix-ups. A car might be close as the crow flies but on the wrong side of the interstate or miles away.”
“Never thought about that.”
“Neither did they.” He waved me on. “I’ll let you get where you were going.”
“Thanks for keeping an eye out.”
The radio squawked again, and he expelled a tired sigh. By the time I’d parked in the lot beside my brother’s Ford Ranger, the cruiser had completed a U-turn and sped away.
Well, his night was about to go down the flusher.
Johnny met me in the entryway. “Where’ve you been? Had me worried sick.”
“Don’t ask,” I snarled at him.
“What’s wrong, kid?”
I shook my head as he clapped a hand on my arm. If I’d rehearsed this, I would’ve looked him in the eye and conveyed the evening’s events in a dispassionate voice. Instead, by dealing with Freddy’s state of mind and Felicia’s fate, I’d sidestepped my own emotions. A knot began to form in my throat. “Forget it.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I sniffed. “Maybe I have.”
“Now you’re talkin’ nonsense.”
“Probably.” I bowed and shook my head.
“What happened to Felicia?” When my eyes snapped up, he added, “You ever manage to track her down?”
At that point I collapsed in his arms and let it all go.
19
A sword dangles over my head. Its razor tip skims through my hair, tingles along my skin. Its shadow sways against the wall that faces me, stabbing down the concrete toward my chair, then pulling away. Shackles hold me in place.
Movement at my back. She’s here, strapped to a chair behind me.
“Mom?” Our shoulders are touching. “Where were you?”
“I had to hide.”
“Why didn’t you come find us?”
“Why didn’t you find me?”
“You were gone. And I was six.”
“I never meant to leave you, Aramis. But I was alone too.”
From her lips, the sound of my name is a sweet ointment drawing bitterness from my chest. This is it, our chance to be mother and son again. Her shiny hair brushes against mine with assurance. My eyes cloud. Steeling myself, I sit up straighter, but the overhead sword swings by and splits hot furrows in my cheek. As I slouch to the side, I spot a mangled red tricycle in the corner. Cigarette butts litter the floor.
“Where, Mom?” I insist. “Where’ve you been?”
Her tone turns frosty. “With him.”
“Him?”
In response to my question, a metal door scrapes over the floor. My eyes grow wide.
Who has brought us here? Can we escape?
He is approaching. No, he’s here. Already in the room—spying, watching.
“Show yourself!”
“I’m right here.”
“Okay, I’ll play your game. Just let her go. Please.”
“And what gives you the leverage to negotiate?”
“I’ll do what you want. You want gold? Fine. Leave her alone—that’s all I ask.”
His voice is syrupy. “I already told you: I want you to give me a ring.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Yes you do.” From an unseen hand, splatters of red create dripping initials on the wall, with nothing but the sword’s thin shado
w to divide them.
“AX. I know. But what does that mean?”
“It should be obvious.”
“I have no idea.”
“Your sins have blinded you.”
The door slams, and the taunting presence seems to fade. At my back, my mother quivers with quiet sobs. I lean against her, to comfort her with my nearness, but her sorrow spreads into my own neck and shoulders, shaking me, shaking …
“Aramis, wake up.”
My eyelids peeled apart at the sound of my brother’s voice.
“Hey there.” He shook me again. “You were having one of your dreams.”
I lifted myself onto an elbow, found I was wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. From a guitar stand, my brother’s Martin six-string bounced early sunrays onto the living-room ceiling.
“You remember anything about last night?” Johnny probed.
Hotel rooms, wigs, razors, and tombstones … Mom.
I rubbed at my eyes. “Can’t believe I fell asleep.”
“You had a lot on your plate for one day.”
“He could be two states away by now.”
“Good. The farther away, the better.”
“But what if that was her?”
“Look at me.” Wearing only Tabasco boxers and the bandages on his shoulder, my brother edged closer. “You swear that what you told me last night is true?”
“Why would I lie about such a thing?”
“You really think she could be alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Coulda been a trick of the light. They say everyone’s got a twin.”
“No. It looked like her. Sounded like her. Felicia believed it.”
“You were six, Aramis. No one would expect you to remember those details.”
I swung into a sitting position. “You think I don’t remember?”
His gaze took in my bloodied jeans. “Put yourself in my shoes. After all this time, years of thinking she was gone. You sure you weren’t drinkin’? Maybe you and your ex shared some of that wine and—”
“Felicia’s dead!” I shoved him away. “What’s wrong with you?”
“With me?”
“Yeah, you!” I grabbed my cell from the coffee table, scrolled through photos, then held it toward my brother. “Recognize that red hair?”