A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  “Artemis.”

  “Hey.” I turned at the tap on my back. “S’up, Freddy?”

  In my experience, those who live on the streets are wary of human touch and rarely initiate it. My friend’s gesture was one of trust.

  “He’s gone. I watched him go.”

  “Chigger?”

  “Shh,” Freddy said. “Not so loud.”

  “Yeah, the band just headed out for their tour.”

  “But his people, they’re still around.”

  “The Kraftsmen.” Resting on my metal desk, the pamphlet he’d given me was full of vitriol and hate, assuring me I shouldn’t blow off his paranoia. “Go on. Grab your drink.”

  He poured himself a cup of Costa Rican and dropped a Sacajawea dollar in the tip mug. Seen from behind, with his brushed-back hair, oversize wool coat, and scuffed walking boots, he could’ve been a fireside companion of Tennessee’s Davy Crockett or a trail guide for a weather-beaten explorer. An explorer like Meriwether Lewis.

  My mind was still scrambling for clues, turning over stones. Who could I trust? Yesterday, despite our growing bond, I’d even suspected my well-meaning friend.

  If Freddy were involved, would he be standing in my shop? He could’ve simply disappeared if he wanted. Yes, he was homeless. Eccentric. So one out of four such men are felons.

  This was Freddy C—C for Circumstantial evidence.

  “We’re still on for this afternoon?” I asked. “Two o’clock?”

  “You drive, and I’ll tell you where to turn.”

  I’d done that routine before. Still had an X on my cheek as proof.

  “My car’s in the back alley,” I said. “Just meet me out there later.”

  Freddy held up two fingers—the peace sign or the time?—then wandered away.

  Customers kept me occupied through the morning. Diesel clocked in and helped alleviate the load. Between drink orders, he tested me on his notes from social psych and tossed in pop quizzes. I mustered some workplace enthusiasm and tried to play along, but he wasn’t fooled.

  “You look kind of dour today, Aramis.”

  “Dour? This is my cheery face.”

  “Just don’t wear it around the kiddies, or you’ll make them cry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “How’d it go last night? At Sara’s place?”

  He grinned. “You were right. She likes me.”

  “Ahh. You owe me one, dude.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Listen, I need to ask you something.” The chime of the front door cut me off. “After this,” I said, and we went about handling the customers like a well-oiled machine. Business as usual.

  Afterward, while wiping down tables in the dining area, I returned to my interrogation.

  “You’re in an honor society, right?”

  “Psi Chi.”

  “What about your dad? Wasn’t he in one of those?”

  “Why all this interest in my father? Honest, my parents are boring people.”

  I stopped wiping. I wanted to tell him that Mr. Hillcrest was at the top of my suspects list. There was the Hyundai, his presence at the hotel, his anger toward my family, and his self-righteous attitude.

  “He just seems to have a thing against my brother and me,” I replied.

  “He uses his intellect and moral standards to intimidate people. A control thing—that’s all it is. It’s part of his parenting philosophy too, but I think he probably had the same type of upbringing.”

  “Ultrareligious parents?”

  “His mother, she was a real Bible thumper. All hellfire and brimstone.”

  “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  “He threw scriptures at me like they were knives.”

  “There you go. That’s Drexel Hillcrest in a nutshell.”

  I straightened a display of Back-in-Black coffee bags. Due to recent events, I’d skipped my weekly coffee roasting, and retail supplies were running low. Life slowed down for nobody. I made a note to come in Tuesday night to replenish my stock.

  “In part, it’s my own fault,” Diesel confided.

  “What?”

  “The past week or two I’ve been hanging with Johnny Ray. He’s such a regular guy, you know, when he comes in the shop. And the parties are mostly innocuous. Good luck convincing my father of that though. The first time Johnny invited me out to Chigger’s, we had a few drinks, sat around listening to the guys jam.”

  “I’ve never been to Chigger’s.”

  “Sweet place. Lots of land and one of those big, modern log cabins. He’s got two dogs the size of racehorses. Bull mastiffs, I think.”

  “Mastiffs, huh?”

  “And there’s this triple-car garage. I’m told he has some amazing wheels parked in there, but I haven’t been inside.”

  “Guess he’s earned some perks, being a Music Row hotshot.”

  “Nah, I doubt he’s earned it all himself. He has tons of pictures on his walls, relatives dating back to before the Civil War. He’s into that stuff. I bet that land’s belonged to his family for generations.”

  “Did he tell you about the Kraftsmen?”

  “The who?”

  “No. They were one of those sixties bands.”

  Diesel’s expression went blank.

  “Never mind. Hey, is your dad coming back to Nashville anytime soon?”

  “Not that he’s told me.”

  “No plans to be here on Thursday?”

  “I hope not. That’s just what I need with school finally out, him breathing down my neck.”

  In the early afternoon, Sammie called and told me she’d found a temp to cover Anna’s shift. Anna was hidden away, comfy on Tyne Boulevard, while the cops—with gentle but unyielding pressure from Miss Rosewood—were checking into Mr. Knight’s record for any history of violence or domestic altercations.

  “And I’ll be in to close the store,” Sammie ended.

  “That’d be great. You remember the alarm code?”

  “The date you moved to Nashville, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “And the day we first met.”

  “That’s right.” She gave a warm sigh. “We were in Davis-Kidd, and you were looking for books on small-business loans.”

  “That’s how it all started.”

  “A wonderful partnership. Thank you, by the way, for escorting us home last night. A very nice gesture.”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Yes, I know.” She paused. “I don’t want you to be worried about the shop this evening. You go to Lipscomb and pass that class with flying colors.”

  “Thanks, Sammie.” I thought of my plans to visit Chigger’s place at two this afternoon. “One other thing. You know where I could get any horse tranquilizers?”

  “That’s an odd question for a man without a horse.”

  “More like some nasty big dogs.”

  “Acepromazine would do the trick. ACP. My vet keeps it on hand.”

  “If you called in an order, do you think he’d let me pick it up?”

  “She,” Sammie corrected. “You taking up animal rescue now?”

  “Got a couple of dogs who just need a long, lazy nap, that’s all.”

  “I wonder about you, Aramis. Sometimes I really wonder.”

  32

  The vet’s office shrank into the distance as I passed the long perimeter of Percy Warner Park, funneling my Honda onto westbound Highway 100. In the glove box, Ziploc bags held my solution to all things furry and fanged.

  I passed a sign for Cheekwood Botanical Gardens and thought about making a detour to repossess my firearm—something about that reassuring weight tucked into my belt—but the place was closed on Mondays, and a rescue mission in broad daylight would be a bit obvious. Sure to get the neighbors talking.

  Hopefully later tonight.

  Beside me, Freddy C had the passenger window down and remained quiet as the breeze blew his hair back like a patch of thick d
une grass. The farther we drove from the city, the more contagious his increased fidgeting became.

  Three days till the exchange with AX. Where was Mom right now?

  I still believed Mr. Hillcrest was the culprit, but certain inconsistencies squirmed in my head. Where had he hidden my mother? for example. Had he spirited her away to Ohio somehow, driving all through the night to get back in time for his flight? That seemed ludicrous. There were also a number of reasons to suspect Chigger. His jealousy. His tattoo. His attendance at Friday night’s party in Owen Bradley Park.

  Was he my mother’s abductor? Was she out here on his property?

  Enough. Relax.

  I pointed out the window. “Freddy, you ever seen so many shades of green?”

  He shook his head.

  Coming from Oregon, I’d seen the Cascades’ sparkling snowcaps and endless evergreens, yet there’s something to be said for the meandering beauty that spills down from the limestone ramparts of the Cumberland Plateau. Sycamores and red oaks mingle with box elders. Lush hillsides curl against scalloped clouds and radiant blue sky. Streams bubble beneath arches of sundappled branches.

  It’s a seductive mystery. Pulls you in unaware.

  Sammie Rosewood had grown up here in Tennessee. She shared this land’s qualities as if they’d been genetically passed through her.

  “Tell me when we’re getting close,” I reminded Freddy.

  “Not too far,” he said.

  A sign for the Loveless Café caught my eye. My brother and I had dropped by here last year for a delicious, down-home meal.

  I pointed. “This is the Natchez Trace Parkway up here. Is it beyond that?”

  “Little ways. Keep going.”

  Whole portions of my time in Tennessee have revolved around mysteries of the Trace. South of here, Meriwether Lewis died under strange circumstances in 1809.

  “Slow down, my man. This gate.”

  I started to turn.

  “Not yet. That next mailbox. There.”

  With its post wrapped in white chain links, the box bore the Southern Cross of the Rebel flag. Stereotyping, schmereotyping—I would’ve bet money that gun catalogs and truck-accessory magazines were regular deliveries at this address.

  “Just as I pictured it,” I said.

  Freddy sat upright as we dipped down the drive. The seduction was over. We were trapped now, captured by low stone fences and vine-draped trees that seemed to hover in on both sides. My attempts at distracting myself evaporated, and my vision narrowed to this thin gravel road that cut through the foliage.

  “Chigger’s gone, you’re sure?” I asked. “What about his buddies?”

  “Meet nights mostly.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I know.” Freddy wore a haggard look. “I went. One time only.”

  Gravel crunched beneath the tires, signaling our approach. “Sure we’re not heading into an ambush?”

  “Should be all clear.”

  “Except for the dogs.” I eased up to the house. “But we’ve come prepared.”

  Eyes brewing with consternation, Freddy stared at the monstrous log cabin that rose between peeling crape myrtles and hickory trees. Something about the place—the darkness behind the windows, the rack of antlers over the massive front door, the feeling of remoteness—kicked my heartbeat into an arrhythmic mode.

  To the left, a cedar-planked triple garage stood just up the hill.

  No sign of Thing One or Thing Two.

  “You think the dogs are inside? Or maybe Chigger dropped them off with one of his pals.”

  “They’re watchdogs.”

  “Meaning, they’re here somewhere.”

  Without a word, Freddy opened the glove box and removed the ACP.

  “You said you might know a way to get in. What’d you have in mind?”

  He gestured toward the garage. “Need to show you. Chigger was there.”

  “Where?”

  “By City Cemetery. On Saturday.”

  “When we were there? How do you know?”

  “Follow me.”

  The sounds of our car doors clicking shut and our footsteps on gravel broke open a can of curdle-your-blood snarls. I half expected to see bull mastiffs galloping into view from the dense bushes. Instead, the craackkkk of hard bodies against the cabin’s front door assured me they were contained.

  On the door’s upper half, narrow panes of smoked glass had the appearance of prison bars. The dogs sounded angry enough to vault through there, but the explosion of razor-sharp shards and splintered wood would eviscerate them on the way out, leaving nothing but bone, bowels, and fur to carry out their gruesome task.

  I wondered if it was enough to stop them. These were hounds of hell, aimed at tearing into our throats and devouring our souls. They sounded ready to—

  Okay, Aramis. Get a grip!

  The door’s mail slot beckoned. It was just wide enough to insert defrosting rib-eye steaks laced with acepromazine.

  “You got the stuff, Freddy?”

  “You do it.” His hands shook as he relinquished the bags. “It better work.”

  My own pulse was galloping at double speed. Stay calm. Read instructions.

  This medication was supposed to aid in the sedation of frightened or aggressive animals. However, treated canines had been known to temporarily overcome its effects when startled. Erring on the side of caution, I estimated each dog’s weight at a hundred pounds and then added a generous gram of the compound to each steak. The tranquilizer would block dopamine nerve receptors in the brain, quieting the beasts for hours.

  In laymen’s terms, these puppies were going to be very sleepy after a few mouthfuls from Black’s traveling smorgasbord.

  “What’re we doing up here?”

  “A way in,” Freddy told me. “Through this vent.”

  We were on the backside of the garage roof. Parked below us, out of sight of any surprise visitors, my car had done its part in boosting us to our spread-eagle positions. Before moving, I’d checked through the cabin door’s glass to make sure the watchdogs were immobile mounds of placid fur. I even knocked once—a little test. Nothing but heaving sighs from inside.

  “Why’d we drug the animals if we’re not going into the cabin?” I asked.

  “We are.”

  “Are what?”

  “There’s a way through. A cave.”

  “Under the garage?”

  “Keep following.”

  Freddy pried at the vent’s frame with a pocketknife. When the latch snapped, he lifted and locked the humpbacked fixture on its hinged arm. He pulled himself up, squeezed his legs into the opening, then fell through and landed.

  I ducked my head inside. “You okay?” The garage was in relative darkness, but he stood in a square of light on a wooden loft just below me.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. Saw this vent the one time he brought me out here.”

  “Chigger, you mean.”

  “The axman.”

  “Way to be observant.”

  I dropped beside my companion, sending a hollow thud through the garage. Together, we descended a wood ladder to the floor. With the guidance of the vent light, I scooted along the wall until my fingers reached a set of switches.

  First flick: a distant electrical whir.

  Second flick: nothing.

  Third: fluorescent lights winked on above a trio of classic automobiles.

  “Wow.”

  Freddy shuffled forward. “This middle one—you recognize it?”

  “Pontiac GTO. A ’69, I think.” The car sat on fat Firestones, ready to tear up the road and shove the driver back in the seat. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “It was there.”

  “Saturday night,” I realized, “as we took that curve on Oak Street.”

  My mind scrambled for clues again.

  Chigger. Out late. St. Cloud Hill, above the graves of City Cemetery. What if he had driven that old Dodge van, holding my mother hostage and circli
ng back toward the hill’s Fort Negley area where he switched vehicles? In my run-in with the GTO, had I nearly sideswiped the very car that bore my mom away?

  I looked at the other two cars.

  Closest to me, the whitewall tires of a ’54 Chevy Bel Air poked from beneath a fitted cloth. On the far end of the garage, the red and white Corvette convertible looked familiar. Was this the one that’d sped by two days ago on Elliston Place while Detective Meade and I met over coffee?

  What would Meade think if he found us tiptoeing through this garage? After yesterday’s lunch at Belle Meade, had he decided to just leave me alone? Or was he more curious than ever, surreptitiously logging my activities? Could he have planted a GPS tracker under my bumper?

  No way. Not his style.

  But he was a cop. Keeping an eye on me was part of his job.

  “Okay, Freddy. Let’s not hang around here any longer than we need to.” I scanned the garage. “Where’s this cave you talked about?”

  “Behind you.”

  At my back a door opened into a tool room. A table vise was anchored to a workbench, gripping a chunk of maple. Lathes, saws, axes, and chisels hung from the walls. On the workbench razor knives rested beside a box of spare blades.

  Mom, please be here. And please be all right.

  Beneath the workbench, apparently released by the first switch I’d thrown, a dummy panel opened into a tunnel. The pitted stone looked naturally hewn, but light bulbs extended beyond view in the direction of Chigger’s mammoth cabin.

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  Freddy nodded.

  Middle Tennessee is known for its subterranean honeycombs, places where water and the elements once carved and sluiced through rock. To ward off Indian attacks in the late 1700s, one of Nashville’s founders even dwelled in a cliff cave overlooking the Cumberland River. Demonbreun Street, where Johnny had been roped up to the statue, was named after the man.

  “Chigger showed you this?” I looked at Freddy. “Weren’t you a little freaked?”

  “We all came here.”