A Shred of Truth

by Eric Wilson

  By doing so, she cut short the diplomatic career of his assistant.

  William Brewster… assistant to Secretary Davidson.

  This was same Brewster who once served as a local English postmaster, faced harassment for involvement with religious radicals, and later joined the Mayflower expedition to the New World in 1620.

  He became Elder William Brewster, spiritual leader to the Pilgrims.

  Thoughts swirling, I gobbled down the last of the Danish.

  Had Mary, Queen of Scots tried to bargain for her life with the ring? Had an illicit romance caused her to lower her guard, as she’d been prone to do in the past? What secrets had been handed down, stolen, or coerced from the ill-fated queen?

  At nine a.m., I called Jillann Brewster in hopes of answering that question.

  42

  The fourth ring, the fifth. Maybe caution had gotten the best of me. It was seven a.m. on her end, and she might’ve left for work already.

  Sixth ring.

  C’mon, answer. Someone, anyone.

  On the seventh ring, a breathless voice came on the line. “Good … ahh … morning … Jillanne speaking.”

  “Jillanne. Sounds just the way it looks.”

  “Yes … ahh … Do you mind telling me who’s calling?”

  “Sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”

  “Out for … ahhhh … jog.”

  “A fitness buff, huh? I used to live in Oregon. There’s a lot of that.”

  A long pause. Jillanne said, “Yes, I’m trying. Who did … you say is calling? Or did you tell me that already?”

  “Name’s Aramis Black. I’m calling from Nashville, Tennessee.”

  “Oh, really? I’m a big country-music fan.”

  “Not my thing,” I admitted. “With one exception.”

  “Don’t tell me,” she said in a resigned tone. “Shania Twain.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t tell you the name of one of her songs.”

  “Oh? I’m liking you more by the minute. Why’d you say you were calling?”

  “You know the name Johnny Ray Black?”

  “Isn’t he that new guy, the one who sings ‘Tryin’ to Do Things Right’? That man’s got prettier hair than I do.”

  “Yeah. Lotsa shampoo and conditioner.”

  “Hold on there. You’re a Black, you say? From Nashville?”

  “Yeah, Johnny’s my brother. He called you a few months back.”

  “If he did, I never got the message.” She sounded flustered, disappointed. “You sure it was me he was after?”

  “He says he sent you a ring that belonged to your family.”

  “A ring.” She breathed into the phone. “Yes, I did get that. But he never told me his name. If I’d known, I would’ve at least asked for an autograph.”

  “I can arrange that.”

  “Really? I don’t mean to be a burden.”

  “Not at all. He … I mean, we just need one thing. It’s about the ring.”

  “Please tell me he’s not asking for it back. It’s a family heirloom, Mr. Black.”

  “No no no. Nothing like that.”

  “It’s very precious to me.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. All I need are some details. The symbols, the Latin inscription—that sorta thing. After that, I’ll leave you alone.”

  “And you’ll send an autograph, you say?”

  “Even one better. How about a signed T-shirt?”

  Jillanne started to talk, stopped, then blurted, “Can you make it an extra, extra large?”

  “No problem.”

  “You need a place to send it, but I don’t feel right giving out my street address. Nothing personal, of course. Here’s a PO box instead.”

  “Good to be careful.” I jotted down the info. “One T-shirt on its way.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait. Now if you’ll hold on, I’ll go get the ring and tell you anything you’d like to know. Even better, I can e-mail a picture of it.”

  On my monitor, the photograph was clean and simple.

  Brewster and 1644 were stamped into the heavy gold band. Intricate patterns were carved into the signet circle, wrapping around a B monogram. Inscribed along the inner circumference was the favored Latin phrase of Mary, Queen of Scots.

  Did those patterns form a map or something? Was there some priceless bounty to be uncovered? Maybe a relic with miraculous powers.

  Based on my research, the ring seemed to have passed from the Pilgrims to Founding Fathers with Masonic ties. From generation to generation, it had worked its way down into the hands of Master Meriwether Lewis of St. Louis Lodge no. 111.

  Before his doomed final journey, he hid the signet ring with the rest of his cache. I was sure he meant to come back for it, to continue guarding its mysteries.

  But fate had another plan.

  My workday dragged along in inverse proportion to the speed of my thoughts. Minutes ticked by, monstrous thunks of a clock hand, mocking my anxiety.

  I dropped off my rental suit and reflected on yesterday’s dialogue with Sammie. Something had changed between us.

  Or was I just hoping it had?

  Cloistered back in my cramped office, I went online in hopes of IMing Detective Meade again. I was still hesitant to contact him in person. Somehow AX had known of our lunch at Belle Meade plantation, which resulted in my mom’s hair getting chopped.

  Meade wasn’t logged in. But he had sent a detailed e-mail.

  Mr. Black,

  Bear with us. Investigations involve a lot of time and paperwork, not nearly as exciting as on TV.

  We’ve found no criminal record on Mr. Hillcrest, no fingerprints on file. During his childhood, his father faced domestic-violence charges more than once, but on paper Drexel himself is clean as they come. He makes occasional business trips, including to Oregon and Washington, but I find no indication he was in Nashville around the time of Miss Lott’s homicide.

  Our witness at the hotel has identified his photo and remembers seeing him the same night you were present. She cannot confirm that he tampered with or broke into your vehicle.

  I’ve convinced my commander to aid your cause. The Columbus police are also tentatively on board, posting surveillance on Mr. Hillcrest. He does have a single-car garage and a small utility shed. So far, though, they’ve seen nothing of a suspicious nature, no sign of an abducted woman.

  A judge has agreed to the undisclosed placement of a GPS tracking device on Hillcrest’s primary vehicle but was very concerned about the violation of personal rights and has limited its use till 5 p.m. on Thursday. If indeed Mr. Hillcrest appears headed for the rendezvous point, we’ll have officers and a sharpshooter in place. Make no attempt to engage him on your own.

  I’ve also initiated contact with Oregon law enforcement regarding your mother’s death and any potentially related incidents with Mr. Richard Lewis, the man once incarcerated for his part in her disappearance. Records show that Mr. Lewis spoke very little to cellmates, but he did allow occasional visits from a chaplain.

  As for the original investigation of Dianne Lewis Black’s disappearance, it was concluded that she suffered fatal wounds on the riverbank—based on blood spatters and witnesses to the shooting—despite the failure of diving teams to recover a body. There was no evidence of cerebral matter or cranial splinters, casting some doubt on the actual entry of a second round. Bullet casings were cataloged on the evidence sheet, but they are now missing, “probably thrown out long ago with similar junk,” I was told.

  I hope this helps. You have my cell number if you need it. I’ve called in all my favors on this, so please don’t take this lightly.

  Detective Meade

  West Precinct, Metro Nashville Police Dept.

  I fired back a note of appreciation.

  The sly dog was going beyond the call of duty. A few years back my anarchist buddies and I saw the cops as the enemy—and now look at me. If Meade had been in the room, I’d have hugged him.

  The Brewster ring was still in
Oregon, and I needed a substitute to wave at Hillcrest during our confrontation. Something to buy me time.

  So I went ring shopping.

  Branching from West End Avenue, Murphy Road crosses I-440 and boasts a number of unique storefront businesses. The Ooh La La Boutique caught my eye and greeted me with a whiff of perfume as I entered. Purses hung on the wall. Custom clothing ranged from feminine and exotic to stylishly casual—like something Sammie might wear for an evening at the Schermerhorn Symphony Hall.

  “Hi. How are you doing today?”

  “Good.” No use dragging others into my troubles.

  “My name’s Liorah. If there’s anything I can help you find, let me know.”

  She had a friendly face and eyes that seemed to dance with ideas. On a normal day, I might’ve asked about her handcrafted wares. Right now, however, I had one specific need to fill. I moved to the jewelry case, leaning down for a look at necklaces and bracelets beside sets of colorful earrings and rings.

  “There. Can I see that one?”

  “Sure.” She set my selection on the counter. “Is it a gift?”

  “Something like that. It’s for a man.”

  The ring was solid and simple, fashioned from gold, with twining patterns along the band. A few modifications, and it might pass a cursory glance.

  “Do you have anyone who does engraving? I need it by tonight.”

  “I’ll call a friend of mine,” she offered. “I’m sure we can arrange it.”

  When I returned, the ring had been transformed. It bore the Brewster name and monogram, Masonic symbols, and the 1644 date. From a few feet away, it could pass as the real thing.

  “Looks good,” said Liorah, scanning my debit card. “I’m sure he’ll like it.”

  “He’d better.”

  Four fifteen a.m. Only ninety minutes till the confrontation. In this predawn hour, the trees and cars were drained of color. The world slept in dreary monochrome. As for me, I couldn’t sleep for fear of missing the rendezvous. I stood at my windowsill, cradling one of the Fauxbergés. It was so delicate, this symbol of new life. So fragile.

  In my other hand, the empty bullet casing represented deadly force.

  Where was Mom now? Lying in the trunk of Hillcrest’s car? Was he cruising down the interstate from Ohio, watching his speedometer to avoid attracting any police? What would he do if he suspected that he was under surveillance?

  Already Hillcrest had shown that he operated on his own sense of superiority. It’s no urban legend that most psychopaths endure a childhood of detachment. They lose connection. Become self-absorbed. For some, low birthweight results in a lack of bonding to parents. For others, that bond is severed by degradation and abuse.

  I had to believe I could rescue her. Somewhere south, my brother’s bus was also headed this way. I could just imagine his shock if I greeted him with Mom.

  She was alive. For now.

  As long as I produced the Masonic ring, AX would allow us to reunite. What did he want from the ring? Scholarly prestige? Riches? A map that would lead him on some religious pilgrimage?

  Whatever.

  Once I knew Mom was safe and alive, all I would need was one good look at Alpha Chi member Mr. Drexel Hillcrest.

  A .40-caliber round, and this sicko was going down.

  I flashed back to the gospel account of Jesus’s arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane. I thought of the apostle Peter dropping his sword after a rebuke from his master.

  But that was different, I told myself. Jesus knew that he was headed for the cross. When it came to my family, I had an obligation to protect them, didn’t I?

  You better believe it.

  43

  Far off between the trees, the first shades of pink and light gray stippled the horizon. Time to do this. I shoved back from the window, pulled on a knitted cap and a black, hooded sweatshirt. I dropped the boutique ring into a Fauxbergé felt pouch, then tied the strap to a belt loop and tucked the bag into my pants.

  Armed with my cell, my loaded handgun, and a multifunctional pocket tool, I stepped out into the fading night. The rendezvous point was only five minutes away, and I planned to arrive early so I could reconnoiter the park.

  How would this play out?

  In last night’s dream, I’d died on the battlefield but risen back to my feet. I’d gone under the water. Been baptized and cleansed.

  My intentions in this moment felt much grittier.

  I was marching down the walkway to my Honda Civic when a husky shape materialized from the shrubbery alongside our brownstone. He came at me in a bullheaded charge. He was a blur. Before I could identify him beneath his ball cap, he drove into my side, catching me midturn and driving me off balance.

  Mr. Hillcrest?

  Not so fast, old man.

  I planted my front foot. Swiveling, I brought my left arm around and deflected the attacker’s weight. As he stumbled past, my right fist pistoned into his thick belly, and air exploded from his lips. He started to go down. I slipped. Together, we landed in a sprawl of limbs on the dewy lawn between my building and the next.

  Did he think he’d just slice me early and swipe the ring from my corpse?

  Not gonna happen! This was a violation of our agreement.

  With one arm propping him up, he scrambled for a foothold. From a pivot point on the ground beside him, I swung my leg and took out his lone pillar of support. As I brought the leg back, I hooked his neck, flipped him hard onto his back. I sprang up. Lifted a knee. Stabbed it down into his ribs, pinning him to the turf.

  His eyes bulged, and we stared at one another.

  On the grass, dislodged during the scuffle, his cap showed three letters: C.S.A.

  “Chigger?”

  “Hand it over!” he seethed.

  Hold on. Had I been looking at this all wrong? I ran back through the clues: the e-mails and religious quotes, his presence at Owen Bradley Park, not to mention his voiced envy of my brother and his violence in the caves beneath his cabin.

  Other things didn’t sit right though. Such as his lazy English.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  The tour bus must’ve arrived back in Music City a short time ago. With DAD’s studio only a few miles away, Chigger could’ve slipped away in the sleepy-eyed activity. Had he orchestrated the Thursday confrontation with me, working it around the tour schedule? Was it his way of throwing me off his scent?

  “Just give it to me!”

  “What? Are you after the ring?”

  “Don’t you play dumb with me.”

  He ran a stream of curses at my face and tried to break loose. I leaned the knee into him, held his arms down with my own. His gaze burned with fury in the dim glow of the walkway’s lanterns.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Hand over whatcha stole from me. I’m outta town, playin’ shows with your brother of all people—and that gives you the right to break into my cabin?”

  Is that what this was about? Had Trish told him of our visit?

  “I was checking on your sister.”

  “Don’t you lie, you scum sack! She tells me that she never let ya in, that you came up in the elevator.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong. We just talked.”

  “Well look at you, all smug and innocent.” He squirmed against my grip. “You just gimme that horsewhip, you hear? It ain’t yours.”

  The coiled whip. The evidence smuggled under Freddy’s clothes.

  No wonder Chigger was concerned.

  “What? You’re gonna threaten me?” I stood back and released him, reaching into my belt for my pistol. I kept the safety on as I brought it into view. The barrel pointed up at clouds the color of fresh bruises. “Not a good idea.”

  “Whoa there.” He scrambled to his feet.

  “That’s right, Chigger. Back off.”

  “You trespassed on my land.” Keeping his eyes on me, he scooped up his hat. “What were you doin’ down in them caves?”

&nbs
p; “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  “None of your cotton-pickin’ business.”

  “How do you justify hating other people in God’s name?”

  “You’re as blind as the rest of ’em.” He slapped his cap against his thigh, punched his fist into it before returning it to his head. “Y’all think you’re some kind of saints, comin’ down here to clean up the good-fer-nothin’ rednecks. Look at you, waving your gun. You’re no better than the next guy. ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ that’s what the Holy Bible says.”

  “What about ‘Do not judge others, and you will not be judged’?”

  “My Bible’s the King James authorized.”

  “Popular version,” I noted.

  He brushed dirt from his knee, started to turn. He looked over his shoulder at me. “You stay away from my land and my people, you hear? Your brother, he’s one thing. But you’re not welcome.”

  “Better keep your nose clean,” I said. “That whip’s already in Metro’s hands.”

  History is full of lessons to be learned, and I’m a tree drawing nutrients from those who have gone before.

  Nashville’s past is riddled with such lessons. Some rich. Some foul.

  Over a century ago, Hell’s Half Acre was a blight on this city’s landscape. Ramshackle huts and shanties spilled over with loose women, smudge-faced orphans, whiskey runners, and malcontents. This blister swelled at the foot of the state capitol, burst with a short period of criminal activity, then subsided.

  Today park lawns and gardens stretch like bandages over the old blemish. Completed in 1997 in honor of Tennessee’s two hundredth year of statehood, Bicentennial Mall Park runs northward from Capitol Hill toward a group of Grecian pillars. In the hot summer months, Johnny Ray and I have played Frisbee on the lawns near the amphitheater and bought fresh produce from nearby Farmers Market.

  My favorite part of Bicentennial Mall is its long granite wall, engraved with details of the area’s past and quotes from notable figures.

  This is where I parked.

  Five twenty-seven a.m. Eighteen minutes to go.

  I’d already circled the terrain twice, searching for signs of Hillcrest, my mom, or the cops. At this hour, the place was empty except for two men sleeping off bouts with booze near a clump of bushes. They could’ve been undercover officers, but I doubted it. The dirt rolls in the creases of their necks went beyond the imagination of most police makeup artists.