A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

“He did.”

  “I can guarantee you that Diesel had nothing to do with it.”

  “I never thought so. And thanks to the strength of your group presentation, I’ll be raising Desmond’s scores without violating my own ideals.”

  “That’s a good thing. So lemme guess. Did Mr. Hillcrest cut your shoulder?”

  “I tried to resist, naturally. But—”

  “He’s a big dude. Show me the cuts.”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “I think he might’ve done the same thing to my brother.”

  He sighed. “I feared as much. It’s what I warned you of on the phone, Mr. Black. Of course when I saw in the Sunday paper that Johnny Ray was leaving on tour, I had hopes he would escape this man’s holy terror.”

  “If only it were that easy.”

  “There is something to be said for a person who’s willing to act on his convictions.”

  “Oh, there’s something to be said all right.”

  “In your offhanded manner, Mr. Black, you did address that very thing in your oral presentation—the need for personal conviction. It’s disconcerting in the extreme, the way it decays further each year in our homes, churches, and schools.”

  “Yeah? Well.” I drew in air. “It doesn’t justify what he’s done.”

  Blond hair … a slack mouth … pinkish blood …

  “Show me the cuts,” I demanded again. “Don’t be shy.”

  Wearing a sheared sheep’s expression, Professor Newmann slipped an arm from his jacket and tugged the turtleneck down to reveal an all-too-familiar pair of initials.

  Five cuts. Thin, but deep, in his pasty skin.

  “AX.”

  “Yes, I examined them in my mirror.” He slipped back into his jacket, trying to appear unfazed. “Of course, in light of Mr. Hillcrest’s collegiate accomplishments, they came as no surprise. Alpha Chi is a prestigious honor society.”

  “Alpha Chi.”

  “In Greek the initials are AX.”

  “What?”

  “A for Alethia, meaning ‘truth.’ X for Xapakthyp, meaning ‘character.’ The society’s limited to the top echelon of the nation’s universities. With his boasts of being a member, is it any wonder that he derives from this such narcissistic pleasure?”

  39

  Cheek Road cuts south off of Harding Pike and, less than a hundred yards later, passes the old entrance to Cheekwood Gardens. No longer used by the public, the spear-tipped iron gate is rusted, chained shut, and shaded by juniper trees. Statues of American eagles perch atop tall stone pillars where moss and grime have collected over the years.

  All very imposing at first glance.

  But I’d taken second and third glances.

  With my car parked outside an animal hospital on Harding, I walked along Cheek—a neighbor out for a late-evening stroll—then slipped to the trees left of the gate. Here, behind the greenery, a chain-link fence stood between me and the estate. Between me and my Desert Eagle.

  I scaled the fence and dropped down beside a pump house. Blue plumbing fixtures curled from the soil like periscopes searching for possible invaders.

  This was one invader who would go unseen.

  The Cheekwood estate spans fifty-five acres, its various gardens dotted with offices, greenhouses, a learning center, a museum, and a restaurant. Security cameras eye such structures, but they have little need to probe the outer darkness for petunia-stealing grannies. Uniformed guards patrol the property—maybe even my ol’ friends Taciturn Chuck and Jolly Jerry—but by hugging the vegetation and moving slowly, I was sure of recovering my pistol.

  That is, if I could locate the exact shrub.

  My advance from the pump house, past flowers and bushes and boxwoods, over trails and a paved drive, brought me to the Perennial Garden within ten minutes. I spent an equal amount of time creeping along hedges, trying to recognize terrain that had seemed so distinctive in daylight.

  Where was the stinkin’ thing?

  The fountain, the feel of the spray … If I just followed the sound of water.

  When at last my fingers stretched beneath the correct shrub and snagged my treasure, I was dirty and sweaty. I brushed it off and reassembled the pieces.

  Recovering my .40 caliber would’ve brought a smile to my face under normal circumstances, but I could think of nothing other than Thursday morning and my confrontation with Mr. Hillcrest. He had my mother.

  The way he’d looked at that hotel clerk while toting his ice bucket …

  The way he’d carved into my ex-girlfriend and left her to die …

  What had Diesel told me about his father a few days back? He’s got it bad for women, young or old. Maybe it’s wrong to say, but that’s a fact.

  Lost in these thoughts, I almost exposed my position to a passing guard. I reared back against a tree bole, took measured breaths.

  Did he know I was here?

  When he lifted a leg to pass gas, I was pretty sure I had my answer.

  Fifteen minutes later I was back over the chain-link fence and headed toward Harding Pike. My skin crawled in the humidity of this Monday night. I slipped into the driver’s seat. Sat silently.

  With the safety on, I wrapped my right hand around the Desert Eagle’s black plastic grip and its imprinted sword insignia. I let my finger rest on the trigger, while my other hand came up to brace the gun’s weight. Extended over the dash, the fixed dot sights guided my eyes to an inanimate target, and I imagined drilling round after round through the abdomen of Mr. Drexel Hillcrest—one to match each location of Felicia’s stab wounds.

  Live by the Sword … Die by the Sword.

  As he would soon discover, that was a credo that cut both ways.

  I turned the engine over and headed home for a meal, shower, and sleep—if sleep was even possible.

  “Hey, Johnny.” I was towel-drying my hair. “This is Aramis.”

  “Can’t go one night without calling your big brother, can you?”

  “It’s late there, isn’t it?”

  “An hour ahead, but the party’s just gettin’ started.”

  Part of me resented that. By willful denial, he was free from the concerns that had sucker-punched me the past few days. Another part of me worried about him, knowing the amount of alcohol that boy could throw down the hatch.

  “Just take it easy on the drinking, would you? For my sake.”

  “Got it under control.”

  “If you get roped up to any more statues, don’t come crying to me.” I switched gears. “So how’d it go?”

  “The show?”

  “No. The trip to the Hardee’s drive-through.”

  “Whoa now, you’re the junk-food connoisseur.”

  “You have a good turnout?”

  “Get this. We had over three thousand payin’, singin’, boot-scootin’ fans.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  “You’re tellin’ me, kid. Had a few equipment problems, being the first show and all, but the band was on fire. Chigger had ’em rockin’ from the get-go.”

  “Chigger, huh? You never told me he had a sister.”

  “You met her? Heckuva nice girl.”

  “You ever heard him talk about the Kraftsmen?”

  “Nope. What sorta craftsmen?”

  “Never mind. Have you been into those caves beneath his cabin?”

  “Caves? Can’t hear you too well.” Female giggles bubbled up through war whoops and sounds of clinking bottles. “Things’re fixin’ to get rowdy around here.”

  “Who’ve you got with you?” I inquired.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know. You shoulda come with us.”

  “You know me, Johnny. Trying to keep clean. Turning a new page.”

  “I’m just sayin’, is all.”

  “Actually, it’s nice having the house to myself.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I said, “Okay, wise guy,
guess what I’m doing right now. Eating Twinkies by the boxful and slamming six-packs of yummy, sugary Dr Pepper.”

  He turned serious. “One day you’re gonna wish you’d heeded your older brother. You’ll wake up with your hair fallin’ out and your belly saggin’ like a triple stack of flapjacks. Gotta take care of yourself, kid. Your health’s one of the few things you got some say over.”

  “Considering the brain-numbing activities you’re about to dive into, the concern is touching. And look who’s talking—Tanning Booth Man.”

  “Count your blessings. What you got naturally, I have to pay for.” The noise was growing in the background. “I gotta go.”

  “Don’t hang up. Please.”

  “What is it?”

  “That woman’s name in Oregon. You have to help me, Johnny. I know you think I’ve gone loopy in the head or something, but this is Mom I’m talking about. I need that ring. For one day, that’s all.”

  “Too late for that now, isn’t it?”

  “No. She could FedEx it to me tomorrow. I’d have it by Wednesday.”

  “Can’t we talk about this when I swing back through town? I’ll be at the studio real early, stocking up before we head toward Little Rock.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  “What? You gotta speak up.”

  “Please, just give me her name!”

  “And watch you throw yourself into trouble? Not this time, Aramis.”

  “Hold on. You’re not even—”

  “See ya Thursday.”

  The phone went dead in my hand, and I threw it against the cushions. On the coffee table, the box of Twinkies remained unopened beside a single soda can.

  After a fitful sleep, I bolted up from the sofa with anxious energy.

  Two days to go. Less than forty-eight hours.

  With Johnny’s departure early yesterday, I’d missed my walk through Centennial Park. But I made up for it by pausing a few extra minutes on my way to work.

  A warm breeze stirred over the lake, ruffling the feathers of waddling ducks. Huge blankets of grass bristled in the first rays of sun, as though the earth were coming awake underneath. In a Christian sense, there’s nothing spiritual about the Parthenon—in fact, the building houses a huge statue of the Greek goddess Athena. But I usually find peace in the stillness there. Jesus was all about ushering love and forgiveness into the most pagan of places.

  Still is. That’s what won me to his side.

  This morning, though, I wasn’t sensing that peace. Revenge was on my mind.

  Between the killer’s e-mails and the text of the Kraftsmen’s pamphlet, I’d read a number of scriptures these past few days. It was disturbing to think that words of truth and life could become weapons for evil in the wrong hands.

  Of course, the same tug of war was raging inside me.

  Love for my mom. Hatred for her abductor.

  I walked toward Black’s, more prepared than ever to kill my enemy. With my gun. My bare hands. With a stinkin’ thumbtack, if that’s what was given to me.

  Diesel helped me through the morning rush, his voice cheery, his eyes dancing. It was good to see him like this, free of the pressures—for a short time anyway. But how would he handle the revelation of his father’s depravity?

  “What’s got into you?” I said. “You’re like a new person today.”

  He grinned, kept working on a mocha order.

  “Nice to have finals outta the way, huh?”

  “Got that right, boss.”

  “Bet your dad’s gonna be proud of you,” I said.

  “If he is, he won’t show it.”

  “You don’t think so? Even if you snag an A?”

  “Nah. Always another hurdle for his favorite little racehorse.”

  He turned to hand over the mocha and to help the next customer. We worked our way through a stream of harried professionals and sleepy-eyed coeds—deadlines and hangovers colliding in our line.

  “Pop quiz,” Diesel said as the crowd subsided.

  “No. We’re done with that.”

  “True or false,” he went on undaunted, “after class last night, Miss Sara Sevier and I grabbed some ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery?”

  “Sweetness.”

  Diesel’s eyebrow lifted with rakish flair. “That’s what I’ve been learning, I guess. No matter what issues my father grew up with and how much he wants to shove those things onto me, he can’t live out his expectations through me. I have my own life.”

  “Dude. Definitely.”

  “Of course, my grade would’ve been sunk without your presentation.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You and Sara aced those written assignments and outlines. Way I see it, we all played a part.”

  “When you threw down your notes, I thought you’d killed us for sure.”

  “Me too.”

  “Then what made you do it?”

  “I was just tired of it all. It was like our class itself had become this big urban legend, and we had to discern what was real and what wasn’t.”

  “And therein lies the genius of Professor Bones.”

  I put a lid on a to-go cup and handed it to a customer. “Got a question for you, Diesel. You remember when you called me on Sunday, during my lunch with the detective? Did you tell your dad about that?”

  “Why would I?”

  “You called your parents at the airport. Maybe you mentioned it in passing.”

  “I could’ve. I don’t remember. But get a load of this. You know how you asked if my father was coming back to town anytime soon? Well, he called this morning. Say’s he’s driving down later this week.”

  A vein throbbed in my neck. “Did he tell you why?”

  “Says he has a gift for me. Shoot, I think it’s his excuse to be here when my grades get posted. If they don’t meet his standards, he’s threatened to pack up my dorm stuff and send me to his alma mater.”

  “Call him,” I ordered.

  “Right now?”

  “Use the work phone. I don’t care. I have a message for him.”

  Diesel eyed me, then picked up the cordless and punched in the numbers. “It’s ringing. What am I supposed to say?”

  “Tell him that—”

  “Hello, Dad. Yes, I’m calling from the shop. I think my boss has a message for you.” Diesel covered the receiver and said to me, “He doesn’t want to talk right now.”

  “Big shocker.” I snatched the phone away. “Mr. Hillcrest.”

  “Mr. Black, I presume. Until you’ve issued an apology for your outburst at the airport, I have no wish to—”

  “Here’s the deal.” There was no use kissing up to this guy. To give in to fear was to give him the edge. “Are you listening? When you come into town in a couple of days, stop by and I’ll give you a free drink. I’ll put as many shots in it as you need.”

  He scoffed. “To do so would only cut into your revenue.” And he hung up.

  40

  The casket was heavy. From the memorial service to the cemetery, the hearse bore along Miss Eloise Rosewood in confines of burnished metal and red maple veneer. The pallbearers and I reconvened at the back doors of the parked vehicle.

  I looked up and found Sammie’s eyes. She tilted her head, gracing me with a thin smile.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” said the minister. “Nice and easy.”

  We found our places, shouldering the weight as the casket slid out. Our dress shoes stepped in unison on dew-soaked grass. Insects hummed all around—in the leafy chestnuts, along age-blackened tombstones, around our heads.

  The casket was heavy. Would we drop her? What if one of us lost his footing?

  I found my focus narrowing to the strain on my arm tendons and the lint clinging to the suit of the man in front of me. The thoughts seemed so wrong, so irreverently ordinary.

  Anything to forget.

  Here. City Cemetery. Three nights ago.

  On our way through the corner gate, I’d spotted nothing on Oak Street
to indicate the loss of a young woman’s life. Detectives, coroners, and crime-scene specialists had come and gone already, picking the pavement clean. The question remained: if I had stanched the bleeding, would it have saved her?

  Focus, Aramis. A few more steps.

  After words from the minister, the casket was lowered amid stifled sobs. This graveyard has been closed for a hundred years, and only longstanding agreements allow for any more burials here. Miss Eloise would be one of the last laid to rest on this hill. She marked the end of a generation, of a way of life.

  “It’s up to me to carry on,” Sammie had told me.

  A ceremonial handful of dirt broke the glint of sun on the casket. I glanced at Sammie again, but she was turning to shake the minister’s hand. Her chin was set, her eyes moist with tears. Who was I to share in her grief?

  I aimed across the lawn toward my car.

  “Aramis.” Her footsteps came up behind me. “Thank you.”

  I turned. “You’re welcome.”

  “You men were all so gallant.” Sammie’s gaze lifted beneath her auburn highlights. “It meant a lot to have you here, and you were particularly presentable in your suit and tie.”

  “This old thing?”

  “I hope you didn’t go to any great expense.”

  “Found it in my closet.”

  Which was true. I’d found it there after renting it for one hundred fifty dollars from a place in West End. The entire ensemble was due back tomorrow.

  “Is there anything I can do, Sammie? You need help out at your place? Someone to pack things up or whatever?”

  “Let’s not think about that right now.”

  “Bad timing, huh? But if you ever need me …”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re a rock. You have been since I met you.” I rubbed my neck. “It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ve been left alone.”

  “I’m not alone.”

  “You know what I mean.” I took a step away, my head swimming. “Forget it. I’m sorry. You’ve got your own things to deal with, without my moaning.”

  She rested her hand on my arm. “I don’t pretend to understand it either. I’m not sure God intends us to.”

  “Seems pretty convenient since he makes the rules.”