A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  “Miss Eloise led a long, pleasant life.”

  “But not everyone gets that option, do they? It’s like he’s swinging this sword around, and you’d better duck or suffer his wrath.”

  “You think he strikes people down in anger?”

  I kept silent.

  “The Bible shows God’s judgment—that’s without question—but it also shows large amounts of grace.” Her hand slid into mine. “Over and over he reached out in love to people. If we stop recognizing that, we’ll lose all hope.”

  “In here”—I pulled our joined hands to my chest—“I believe that. I do.”

  “But you’re a thinker, Aramis. That’ll always be a struggle.”

  The words cut to my core. She’d pinpointed that which defined my past couple of years. The past couple of days.

  “Are you hearing me?”

  I squeezed her hand and let go. Why was I the one falling apart here?

  “It’s the two sides of your sword,” she explained. “The Bible says God’s Word is ‘sharper than any twoedged sword … a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.’ Only he knows how to strike to the truth of a situation. As fallible humans, we usually slip too far over one edge or the other—all wrath and judgment or all grace and love.”

  “Hellfire or the holy hugs,” I joked.

  She gave a short laugh. “If you say so.”

  “Forgive me, Sammie. I shouldn’t have gone off like that, especially today.”

  “I understand. In fact, last night Anna and I discussed the same things at length. She’s a blessing. She may even stay with me while she gets back on her feet. Her divorce has devastated her.”

  “Any word on her husband?”

  “The police found him at a local motel, and he was strongly encouraged to return to Florida and let bygones be bygones.”

  “That’s right. He better not come back into my shop.”

  “Our shop.”

  We locked eyes. My heart was racing again.

  “My bad,” I said. “Our shop—that’s what I meant.”

  In the back office at Black’s, I went over inventory sheets and yesterday’s sales receipts. I was reminded of Sammie’s decision to come in last night to close the store while Diesel and I took our social psych final. She was a bulwark.

  So why had I vented out there on the City Cemetery lawn? What kind of idiot was I, airing my doubts when she needed my strength?

  I logged on to my computer. Checked my e-mail. Nothing from AX.

  While placing my weekly online order—cups, hot sleeves, sweeteners, etc.—I received an invitation to accept a new friend on my instant messenger.

  Reginald Meade, that wily detective.

  We went back and forth for the next few minutes. As far as I knew, this communication couldn’t be tracked by Mr. Hillcrest. When Meade asked for the story behind the coiled whip that Freddy C had handed over, I typed a reply.

  A: “Check for bloodstains. Could match homeless black man killed by train.”

  M: “Where?”

  A: “By the Marathon Building. Racial violence involved.”

  M: “Were you a witness?”

  A: “No. Freddy was.”

  M: “The whip came from the house on Highway 100?”

  This question was troublesome. An affirmative could lead to further probes into our methods of obtaining the item. I decided to skip forward.

  A: “Chigger is possible ringleader. White supremacist group called the Kraftsmen. Meets Saturday nights, Fort Negley. Please investigate.”

  M: “Already some suspicions. Will follow up.”

  Switching the topic to Mr. Hillcrest, I cited my knowledge of the man and his menacing behavior. Meade wanted to know why Hillcrest would attack Felicia. I noted his apparent weakness for the opposite sex and—going against my desire to believe otherwise—conceded there may have been a physical relationship between the two of them. My mom’s safety took precedence now.

  A: “Can you put surveillance on him?”

  M: “Possibly. I’ll talk to Columbus police to see if he has any priors.”

  A: “Check in Oregon too. Felicia said he found her there.”

  M: “Which city?”

  A: “Don’t know. Remember ticket paid for at PDX.”

  M: “Will investigate. Thursday deadline?”

  A: “5:45 a.m. Be careful. He can’t know he’s being watched, for Mom’s safety. If he drives here, I think he will bring her too.”

  Seconds rolled into a full minute.

  A: “Still there?”

  M: “A hard sell with my commander. Limited resources. I’ll try to link razor blade with Oak Street homicide. Info on latents coming soon.”

  A: “He’s smart. Maybe under the radar all these years.”

  M: “What connection Nadine Lott?”

  A: “Same. Sexual contact and repressed guilt. Violent rage to cover his sins.”

  M: “Was he here last year, at time of Lott’s death?”

  A: “Maybe visiting Diesel at school.”

  M: “Checked. Desmond transferred in this year.”

  A: “Business trip? Don’t know.”

  M: “Will check flight records.”

  A: “One more question.”

  My fingers hesitated over the keyboard, frozen by the potentially condemning nature of his answer. Did I really want to know? Could I live with myself?

  A: “Coroner’s report? Cause of Felicia’s death?”

  M: “Brought on by pneumothorax.”

  A: “She bled to death?”

  M: “No. Collapsed lung. Bloodstream unable to absorb oxygen, no supply to vital organs. Death within minutes of lung-tissue damage.”

  Tingles spread through my jaws as my throat clamped shut. Sorrow and relief brewed together in my thoughts. Out on that sidewalk on Saturday night, those few minutes I had left her made no difference. There was nothing I could’ve done to keep her from sliding away.

  I tilted my head back and drew in some air before continuing.

  A: “Thank you, Detective.”

  M: “Anything else?”

  A: “Please check Hillcrest. Very careful please.”

  M: “Do my best. Stay in touch.”

  A: “Will do. TTYL.”

  M: “What?”

  I grinned. Obviously I’d been weeding out IM hieroglyphics for good reason.

  A: “Talk to you later.”

  M: “Right. CYA.”

  A: “See ya?”

  M: “Cover your ax.”

  That wily Detective Meade.

  41

  Anna, it’s good to have you back.”

  “Thanks.”

  Anna Knight had come in for her closing shift with no sign of the cowering fear from Sunday night. That was encouraging. She’s a good woman who can do without some creep diminishing her. She even went so far as to ruffle my hair as I passed by the espresso machine.

  “Would you like a nightcap, hon?” she asked.

  “Sounds vaguely naughty.”

  “You”—she pointed and winked—“are the naughty one.”

  “If you’re making me something, I’d love a good double latte.”

  “At your service.”

  “I’ll be roasting in the back. We’re running short on retail inventory.”

  “The Back-in-Black blend? It’s popular with the college kids.”

  I looked toward the ceiling, cracked my neck. “Not sure. Maybe a new blend, in honor of a special lady.” I was thinking of my mother.

  “Not too fast, Aramis. Don’t get me wrong, Sammie’s a wonderful person, but she’s at a vulnerable point.”

  “Of course. I know that.”

  “Maybe in a few months—a friendly date, a night on the town.”

  “Don’t worry. No sudden moves on my part.”

  “And you’ll remember to treat her like a lady.”

  “Haven’t you seen how far I can shove my foot into my mouth?”

  “I’ve heard.”


  I let that comment pass. “But, yes,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”

  “So there’s a future for you two?”

  “You are a little troublemaker.”

  She topped off my drink with a dollop of foam, handed it over. “Sometimes it’s just a way of taking my mind off my own problems.”

  I hefted the cup. “Thanks a latte.”

  “You mocha me laugh,” she answered back.

  In the roasting area, I found comfort in the routine. I scooped raw coffee beans—Venezuelan, Brazilian, and Ethiopian—into the rotating drum, then reset the time and temperature for something a little milder, but with good complexity.

  I’d name this blend after my mom.

  With the aroma seeping into the room, I printed new labels for the shiny black retail bags and affixed the first label. An act of faith.

  I still had no ring. I’d failed to sway my brother. How would AX react, less than thirty-six hours from now, when I showed up empty-handed?

  Please, Lord. Just bring Mom through this alive.

  In the room’s stillness, through my six-year-old eyes, I saw the smile she used to give me as she sat with her morning coffee and took that first sip.

  Time for some late-night research.

  The store was closed, Anna had gone home, and I’d double-checked the timer on the roaster. From my office computer, I ran some Internet searches.

  “Knights Templar” … led to Rosslyn Chapel, the Crusades, and so on.

  My brother was correct that the Knights Templar, self-proclaimed protectors of the church and her relics, had been associated with the Masons. After years of secrecy, the knights faced growing persecution in Europe, where they were viewed by many as a cult. They survived, in part, by fleeing to Scotland during the fourteenth century. They imported great wealth and secrets, which they used to form alliances with the Royal Stuarts and the Sinclairs, cupbearers to the Scottish throne.

  “Freemasons” … led to Scottish Rite and secret societies.

  Their modern permutation was traced to 1717, when the first Grand Lodge in London brought together other smaller lodges. Before that, the trail is less clear. It’s a matter of record, however, that as far back as 1425 England’s King Henry VI issued a decree banning their annual gathering.

  Our own nation’s foundations were built by numerous Masons, from the presidency on down. Even the Lewis and Clark expedition, which expanded American territory from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, was touched by the Masonic influence of Meriwether Lewis.

  Lewis was an explorer, a governor, and Master of a St. Louis lodge. A museum in Missouri alleged to hold “the Masonic apron that belonged to Brother and Captain Meriwether Lewis and was in his possession at the time of his death on the Natchez Trace.”

  Last year I discovered my own blood ties to Lewis, which led to the cache of gold, trinkets, and documents he concealed before his demise.

  By my way of thinking, acts of treason and murder had desecrated the find.

  My brother took a different view. With a few hints, he’d tracked down the treasure near Memphis and found this centuries-old ring among the loot—a Masonic heirloom, dated 1644.

  How had anyone else found out about it?

  A mythic voice sounded in my head: the ring is a dangerous thing, Frodo.

  Not funny.

  With only a day till the exchange for my mom, I was starting to feel panic. I clicked on link after link, cross-referencing my information. Although I came across numerous legends and conspiracy theories woven through the history of the Masons and Knights Templar, I found no specifics about this ring.

  I rubbed my eyes and headed home. Still empty-handed.

  My chest is wet, sticky—that’s what first catches my attention. I’m standing on a battlefield, the clash of swords and shields ringing in my ears. At my feet, a dead woman’s eyes stare upward. She’s attractive, not much more than sixteen, and my heart bemoans a world that preys on its young.

  Labored breaths grow louder behind me.

  I turn to see a warrior stumbling forward. Friend or foe? I’m not sure.

  He’s in chain mail. His helmet is crushed down over his skull, indented from the blow of a heavy object—a mace, perhaps—and he is mortally wounded. That much is clear by the copious blood dripping along the raw wound of his right cheek.

  He says something to me in French.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him.

  Adorning his white tunic, a splayed red cross indicates he is one of the Knights Templar. My own tunic displays the same shape. We are brothers in arms, I realize, joined by a history of protecting the church’s treasures while warding off the heathen horde. We ourselves will plunder and kill—if that’s what is required—all in the name of the one true God. Amen!

  “I don’t know French,” I tell my comrade. “Do you speak English?”

  We resort to primitive hand gestures.

  What?

  There, you fool! Take it.

  I follow his pointing finger to the dead girl’s clenched fist. I kneel to pry it open and take hold of a ring, one marked with dates and inscriptions. Behind me, the warrior drops to his knees and plunges facedown into a pile of dry horse dung.

  He is dead, I realize.

  And so am I.

  The charging steed is upon me before I can react. I’m already wounded in the chest, but my mounted foe’s sword catches up under my chain-mail skirt and nearly slices me in two. I rise through the air and come down hard, already leaving the world behind.

  As I’ve heard in stories, I feel my spirit rise. Spiraling, like the flight of a bird.

  A curious sensation. Then …

  Coming back down, falling, spinning against the grain.

  My body quickens, with fluttering eyes. The ring remains in my grip, warmed from the heat of battle. With halting movements, my corpse rises to its feet. Steps over the dead and dying. Reaches the bank of a crimson-tinged river.

  I am driven by a need. A desire to be renewed, made clean.

  Legs march at my command, taking me down into the water, out into the rinsing torrent. I go all the way under. Open my eyes. I see swords and a crucifix wedged between stones along the river bottom.

  Then the current tears at me, ripping the tunic and armor from my body. I watch my stains wash away. My wounds pucker and begin to draw closed.

  I come up to the shore again, naked and new.

  In my hand, the ring sparkles.

  “You’re not listening to me, Johnny Ray.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five fifteen,” I replied.

  “In the morning?”

  “I had this crazy dream. We need to talk.”

  “Can we do this later, kid? Had a show last night in Tallahassee, and now we’re on the road to Birmingham.”

  I switched tactics. “How’d that go? You pack the place again?”

  “To the gills.”

  “You get to try out that new song?”

  “ ‘Livin’ with Your Ghost’? Crowd loved it, even had ’em singing along.”

  “And then you stayed up late and partied. I know the scoop.” I paced the bedroom, my eyes playing over the items on my windowsill. I knew that a tired and hung-over Johnny would be easier to press for information. “Listen. Can you just tell me where that ring is? I’m begging you.”

  “Done told you already. It’s in Oregon.”

  “The lady’s name—that’s all I’m asking. Then you can go back to sleep.”

  “Aramis—”

  “And don’t give me that line about stirring up trouble. I’m a big boy. I can handle it. There’ll be a lot more trouble if you don’t cough up an answer.”

  He yawned, long and unrestrained. “Don’t mean to sound like one of them prima donnas, but this tourin’ stuff’ll wear serious holes in your hide.”

  “Give. Me. The. Name.”

  He sighed and surrendered.

  “Thank you, Johnny. Thank you.
That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

  Jillanne Brewster …

  One call to Oregon’s directory assistance, and I had her phone number.

  With less than twenty-four hours till my meeting at Bicentennial Mall Park, I knew of no delivery service that could get Ms. Brewster’s ring to me in time, assuming I could talk her out of it in the first place. And considering the gap between Central and Pacific Time, I knew I’d have to wait before dialing her number.

  Six thirty a.m. here. Four thirty there.

  Catching my brother half-asleep was one thing, but waking a complete stranger was a different matter. I’d take no chances. I might have only one shot at coaxing information from her.

  “Diesel, am I ever glad to see you.”

  He clocked in and stepped behind the counter. “Are you leaving me?”

  “I’ll try not to be too long.” I grabbed a cheese Danish from the bakery display. “Just something I have to do.”

  To his credit, he faced the line of customers without complaint.

  I hurried to my computer, intent on fitting together the final pieces of research. I took one big bite, then started tapping at the keys.

  “Virescit Vulnere Virtus … Courage grows strong at a wound.”

  Mary, Queen of Scots had used this phrase in the 1500s, and as I panned through her history, I realized she was my link between the Freemasons, the Knights Templar, and the present Brewster family.

  I fixed my eyes on the screen.

  “Mary, Queen of Scots … Royal heir to Templar secrets.”

  Born in 1542 to Mary of Guise and King James V of Scotland, she became queen six days later upon her father’s death. With bloodlines linked to French, Scottish, and English thrones, she was a threat to many. A triple queen.

  After years of turmoil, she became a long-term prisoner to her relative, Queen Elizabeth. Many of her jewels and royal baubles disappeared. Eventually, she was put on trial at Fotheringhay Castle and beheaded.

  With many Scots claiming—even into the present day—that England’s throne had been built on this brutal injustice, Queen Elizabeth realized she needed a scapegoat. She threw forward her secretary of state, a Mr. William Davidson.