A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  Waiting, I pretended to browse through trinkets and artsy gifts. There in plain view, a locked case held replicas of the glittery objects now on exhibit at Cheekwood.

  Fauxbergé again. Another coincidence?

  “Would you like me to open the case for you?”

  “Uh. Sure.” I looked up and met the eyes of a saleslady. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I saw your picture. Is it Aramis? Did I pronounce that right?”

  “Air-uh-mis. Close enough. Have you been waiting for me?”

  “Not at all, no inconvenience. You take your time, sweetie, and look around.”

  “But. Well. Do you have something for me?”

  “Yes, it’s behind the counter. All wrapped up, ready to go.”

  “I’m ready now.”

  “I don’t mean to rush you.”

  “I’ve gotta get going anyway.” Following her to the register, I trolled for information. “So this … item. You think it’s a good choice? Did you see it?”

  “Exquisite.” She set a bag on the counter. “She’ll love it. She truly will.”

  “She …”

  “A perfect gift. I’m sure she’ll play along and act surprised.”

  “Is this my mother we’re talking about? Long black hair. Wisps of gray.”

  “And beautiful, soulful eyes. Actually, you favor her. You share similar coloring.”

  My breath quickened. “Did she seem okay?”

  “I suppose so. She was quiet but very polite.”

  “When was this?”

  “Thirty minutes ago or thereabouts.”

  Wonderful. The e-mail had been sent to me after the fact.

  “And was she alone?”

  “Yes. She said her husband was waiting in the lot.”

  “Her husband?” That must’ve been part of the act. “Did you see him?”

  “I didn’t. I offered to have someone wheel her out, but she insisted it wasn’t necessary.” The clerk was looking past me. “I’ll be right with you, ma’am.”

  My fingers brushed the gift bag. I thought of the riverbank and that first shot that had ripped into my mother’s thigh. The image of a wheelchair seemed appropriate, almost inevitable. If anything, it seemed to confirm her identity.

  I heard the saleswoman tell me a price, with tax, found myself pulling twenties from my wallet. She gave me change and tucked a receipt into the museum gift bag.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Wait a sec.” I looked up. “You said you saw a picture of me.”

  “A yearbook photo actually. They’re not always the best, but there was no mistaking your dark skin and wavy hair.”

  Had Mom got ahold of one of my pictures, saving it all these years?

  “Thanks for shopping with us,” the saleslady said. “And don’t you feel bad, sweetie. Your mother seemed very understanding about the late Mother’s Day gift.”

  I didn’t make it past the museum’s rest rooms. Standing at a hand basin, I hung my head and gathered my thoughts. Mom had been here half an hour ago.

  And she had my picture.

  My hands trembled on the gift bag, peeling away pearl-colored paper, exposing a Fauxbergé within. Already I’d left one of these creations tucked beneath the front seat of my car. Here was a second, emerald in color, with translucent jewels.

  In the Russia of a hundred years ago, before the days of Lenin and his revolution, the Romanov family commissioned these jeweled creations to be presented each Easter. I recalled that locked within the very first egg, a tiny golden hen had represented spiritual rebirth.

  Rebirth.

  “Mom.” I looked into the mirror. “Don’t die on me again.”

  What now? With groping fingers, I searched for the egg’s unlocking mechanism. What would I find inside?

  My legs found new strength and took over. I hurried through the front doors of the Frist, pounded down the steps, and curved left toward the edifice of Union Station, an old railroad depot that’s been refitted into a first-class hotel. Rising into a cloudless sky and boasting a statue of Mercury, the station clock tower said it was ten past one.

  This had to be the place.

  Inside the Fauxbergé, I’d found a locker-style key and a slip of paper. The printed words said: “If there’s to be a union between mother and son, you will need to get on track.”

  A doorman ushered me into a spacious lobby where gold-leaf mirrors, bas-relief statues, and a grand limestone fireplace greeted me. Built in 1900, the Romanesque structure must’ve once awed train passengers. Sunlight filtered through the lobby’s barrel-vaulted ceiling of stained glass, enhancing the hotel’s grandeur.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “The tracks.”

  “Sir?”

  “How do I get to the railroad tracks?”

  “Through those doors there,” he said. “But they’re not—”

  I careened out onto a covered platform, found a wrought-iron railing that looked down upon numerous sets of rails flanked by barbed wire. Apparently access to this area was limited to rail workers. Orphaned cargo cars sat on one set while a Louisiana-Pacific engine purred along another. Twenty feet below me an open coal car was motionless.

  I could attempt a jump, but I was doubtful of this location.

  “Okay,” I said aloud. “Where is it? What am I looking for?”

  In my hand, the key bore numbers. Were there old station lockers nearby? I wandered back inside to the polished registration desk. An outdated train schedule hung on the wall behind the clerks, a reminder of a bygone era.

  “Excuse me. Do you have any lockers here?”

  “No sir, we don’t. But if there’s something you need stored securely—”

  “Never mind. Thanks though.”

  I turned and stared at the clock above the lobby fireplace. The huge hands pointed, giving no true direction. What was I missing?

  25

  After two restless circles of the lobby, I shook my head and stalked past the doorman back toward the Frist Center’s parking lot. I was so close. Over twenty years had gone by, and I’d missed my mother by thirty minutes.

  The vibration of my phone brought me to a halt. Another e-mail.

  By meeting with your detective friend, you have violated the rules and your mother has paid a small price. “Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord’s will is.” Now that I know you are not being followed, proceed to the Greyhound station. The key will lead you to the locks.

  A small price? What’d he done to her?

  My jaunt through Union Station had been another false lead, but at least I’d come up clean. What if the cops had tailed me? What price would my mom have paid then? This guy was a certified nut job, spouting Scripture as though he was God’s emissary to earth.

  The Greyhound station.

  I hopped into my car and reached my destination in less than two minutes. Located on Eighth Avenue South, the terminal maintains a steady flow of travelers and vagabonds. I edged between the listless souls at the front doors and found myself inside the main waiting hall. Odors of urine and mildew hovered among the hard seats, while crushed cans and crumpled pretzel bags camped at the base of a trash receptacle.

  The lockers drew me in. The key was warm in my palm.

  I crouched, looked both ways, then opened the corresponding lock. Inside, a burnished silver tube was propped at an angle. No longer than my forearm, no wider than my wrist, the thing bore red plastic caps on each end.

  Couldn’t open it here. Not out in public.

  I tucked the object under my arm, left the key, and strode back to my car, where I slumped into the seat.

  Final instructions? Or more games?

  I pried a cap from the tube and felt a feathery tickle against my fingertips. Images of hairy-legged spiders fired through my nerve endings, awakening my imagination and barking orders at my muscles to drop this menace. I locked down the illogical fea
rs and forced myself to hold on, lifting the tube for closer examination.

  And then I understood.

  Your mother has paid a small price … The key will lead you to the locks.

  I braced myself against my seat, reached fingers into the opening, and grasped hold of the rolled sheet of paper that peeked through long, silky locks of black hair.

  “There. Explain that, oh wise and older brother.”

  Johnny was zipping up a garment bag containing a stage ensemble of tight, torn jeans, a belt with a pewter buckle, and a black and gray striped shirt. In a box on the bed, his Stetson still contained knife slices—for publicity purposes, no doubt.

  He set down the bag. “What’ve you got now?”

  “See for yourself.”

  He took the paper from my hand. His eyes darted over the slanted letters and slightly open loops, then widened—just as mine had—when he recognized this as the same handwriting we’d come to cherish among Mom’s old letters and scrapbooks.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “She wrote it herself, sometime in the last hour or so.”

  “And you know it was her?”

  “Yes. Did you read the whole thing? We need a few minutes to talk.”

  “Kid, I’m packing up, hitting the road in the morning. This is it, everything I’ve been workin’ toward. Not trying to put you off, but …” His voice faded as he set the paper on the bed, smoothed it with his fingers. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “She’s here in Nashville. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Throw me a bone here, and help me understand.”

  “She’s being coerced. Same way Felicia was.”

  “Your ex.” His eyes sought mine.

  I nodded.

  “The one who was left to bleed to death.”

  I closed my eyes. “They’re still not sure that’s how she died.”

  “She’s dead either way, so what’s it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  “And what’s any of this got to do with Mom being alive?”

  I eased the tube’s other contents onto the bed, beside the letter. Black strands, mixed with some gray, slithered into a pile.

  Johnny cursed out loud. “What is that?”

  “Proof.”

  “That’s human hair.”

  “Mom’s.”

  He cursed again. Pacing, he grabbed his own golden brown locks and pushed them back out of his eyes. “That could be anybody’s. No. I … I can’t accept this.”

  “She was at the Frist, in a wheelchair. She had one of my yearbook photos.”

  “You saw her?”

  “No. But the clerk did.”

  “You’re grasping at straws, little brother.”

  “I have a theory.”

  Johnny Ray crossed his arms, waiting.

  “You remember last year how that rapist collected hair from his victims, right here in Music City?”

  “That was some messed-up stuff.”

  “At least he’s behind bars now.”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “What if he had an accomplice?” I said. “I’m thinking out loud here … But maybe I’ve put too much trust in my friend Freddy C.”

  “The bum from the park? You telling me you think he’s a rapist?”

  “Did you know that one out of four homeless men is a convicted felon?”

  “Kid, you’re not making sense.”

  “I’m trying to piece this all together. Remember that homeless lady who was stabbed and burned? Nadine Lott. Freddy knew her. Thing is, he’s faced accusations of sexual misconduct before, and then he got mixed up in our whole adventure last year. Even had his hands on that ebony box in my room, on Mom’s handkerchief too. You tell me. Maybe he got fixated and tracked her down.”

  “What? Some bum succeeded where her own sons failed?”

  “I don’t wanna believe it either. But if she’s alive, who cares?”

  Johnny plopped onto the edge of the bed. His hand touched the severed strands, and he jumped back up.

  “You know,” I added, “Freddy was alone with Felicia last night. For a few minutes anyway. What if he … did something to her?”

  “She was hurt before he got there—that’s whatcha told me.”

  “What’re the odds of Freddy being out on that corner when I drove by? Maybe he was told to be there. Maybe he’s working with the other guy, the one with the knife.” I shook my head. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  “Beyond crazy. This morning you gave the same paranoid speech about my guitar player—how he’s sneakin’ around in his Corvette and jonesin’ for Sammie Rosewood.”

  “Tell me this. Does Chigger have a tat on his upper arm?”

  “He plays lead guitar, so whaddya expect? He’s my axman.”

  “A tattoo of an executioner’s ax. Am I right?”

  “It’s a pretty common design, hardly rock-solid evidence.”

  “AX. That’s his identity. Same as those letters he cut into your shoulder.”

  Johnny expelled one of his when-will-my-little-brother-grow-up sighs.

  “Okay then.” I gritted my teeth. “Explain the note. And the hair.”

  “You don’t want me to do that, not right now.”

  “I do too.”

  “Do not.” When he saw I was serious, he pressed on. “All righty then. If you’re gonna hear this, you may as well hear it from me.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Way I see it, Aramis, you went through a genuinely traumatic experience last night, a double shot of terror. Ain’t no one gonna deny that. You saw someone special to you die—viciously murdered—and you feel responsible, feel like you coulda saved her if you had a chance to do it all over.”

  I looked toward the ceiling. My guilt coiled around my ribs.

  “So, because you’re exhausted and traumatized, that’s what you’ve done here.” He hefted the garment bag over his undamaged shoulder. “You’ve given yourself a chance to get it right, to ease away your shame. You dreamed up this whole scenario—the license tag, this hair, everything. By resurrecting Mom in your mind, you think you can replace what you lost and somehow make it all better.”

  My voice dropped. “That’s insane.”

  “The world’s a crazy place.”

  “No. You’re implying that I’ve gone insane.”

  “With grief, which is a normal reaction.” He picked up his Stetson, snugged it down on his head until it shaded his eyes. “Honestly, I respect your beliefs—and I’ve seen you turn things around like nobody’s business—but you’ve let this Jesus talk fool you into thinking the world’ll be one big, happy place. Just doesn’t work that way, little brother. We gotta love people, do the best we can, and hope it all comes back to us.”

  “I’m not an idiot. This world’s full of pain—I know that.”

  “Then let this go. You’re just pickin’ at old wounds.”

  “Your wounds look pretty fresh. So did Felicia’s.”

  “Maybe we oughta just give this guy a few bars of gold to get him off our backs. I don’t want to see you get hurt next. And what about our deal? To let the cops handle this?”

  “The rules changed.” I snatched up the note and the black tendrils of hair. “I’m going after Mom. You do whatever you want to do.”

  26

  Written under the watchful eye of her abductor, my mother’s sentences were nothing more than dictated instructions. No emotion. No personality.

  Still, she had held the pen that wrote this note. Her touch, her essence …

  Johnny Ray was off doing errands for his morning departure. He’d left without a word. I sat at the kitchen table, my eyes roving across the flowing pen strokes as though they held long-desired nutrients. I brushed my fingers over her cut hair.

  What if I was wrong about all this? What if it was a trap?

  No. Mom had survived. While I couldn’t blame Johnny for his skepticism—if I were in his shoes, would I react any d
ifferently?—I refused to cave in to it.

  I mulled the note’s contents again. Raked through it for shreds of truth.

  “It is a disgrace for a woman to have her hair cut,” and you have dishonored your mother by your disobedience. To be allowed into the family, you must deliver to me the Masonic ring that was buried with your inheritance. Bicentennial Mall Park, 5:45 a.m. this Thursday—a fitting day for victory over my enemies.

  He knew about the treasure. Had he wrung the info from Mom?

  Two hundred years ago Meriwether Lewis had concealed the gold before his untimely death and had left clues for his descendants. But a natural disaster shifted the exact location. Although I’d hinted at the existence of the cache during the airing of The Best of Evil, only my brother and I knew the location of the family inheritance.

  Could there be a Masonic ring in that cave along the Wolf River?

  I thought back to yesterday’s e-mail: “Perhaps you should give me a ring.”

  I stood and grabbed a Dr Pepper from the fridge. At the window over the sink, I guzzled while trying to put it all together.

  What made a centuries-old Masonic heirloom worth killing for? And who would have something to gain from it? Yes, Lewis was a Freemason, like many of our nation’s Founding Fathers. He even served as master at Lodge 111 in St. Louis. Was he linked to the Scots though? The Royal Stuarts?

  Virescit Vulnere Virtus …

  Who had called and threatened my brother? Possibilities stirred in my head, bolstered by recent events.

  Chigger’s animosity and racist leanings.

  Freddy’s mysterious appearance near Oak Street.

  Mr. Hillcrest’s self-righteous threats not only against his son’s professor but against Johnny Ray and me. He’d even thrown in that bit from Proverbs, about my brother being like a dog.

  I bolted up. Thought of the scriptures sprinkled throughout the e-mails.

  The stove clock told me it was time for the study session at Sara Sevier’s trendy Green Hills apartment. With Mom’s life in the hands of a madman, I would’ve felt no qualms in missing it. So what if I flunked our final exam? I’d taken social psych for no other reason than to clear the muddied waters of my own thought processes. What drove people toward—and away from—doing good? What was truth?