A Shred of Truth (13 page)

Drip, drip …

Blood forged trails down my neck, beneath my shirt. One branched off over my right pectoral muscle while another pooled in the cleft of my collarbone.

Drip …

None of this concerned me. I’d been cut before, hit, kicked, bludgeoned. In most cases, pain was a temporary thing. The real problem was the powerful organ of the mind that turned traitorous, elevating the fear of pain into something worse than the pain itself.

Superficial wounds—that’s all these were. I’d be lucky to get scars out it.

The dash said it was just past ten. Most of the evening’s full-bellied diners had already headed home, and Vanderbilt kids were still gassing up their SUVs to go clubbing on Second Avenue. A lull had settled over the streets, and my Honda zipped along unimpeded. Despite my bluster, nobody was following us. Nobody knew where we were headed.

I tried to throw out a silent prayer, but it felt more like an act of surrender,
as though I was conceding victory too soon. That just went against my nature.

A primal urge began welling in my belly and surging through my limbs in a chemical cocktail of nerves and epinephrine—a call to arms, a slide back into the familiar survival mechanisms of rage and revenge.

BEAR …

Pinned in the driver’s seat by my captor’s locked arm, I breathed and evaluated. I considered ramming down on the brakes to loosen his hold, but that could send Felicia’s face into the window. What about a backward head butt? No, my headrest was in the way.

The razor blade. It was still in my pocket, wrapped in the envelope.

Yes, that was it. Two could play this game, I decided.

G
ame on.

At the corner of Elm Hill Pike and Murfreesboro, we passed the darkened Purity Dairy plant—source of award-winning ice cream and all things milky—and I slipped into a playful tone. “Cold snacks anyone?”

Silence.

I hoped the goofy comment would divert attention from my left hand easing into my jeans pocket. With a little patience and a couple more minutes, I just might get to go blade to blade with Mr. Axman.

Chop, chop, you sicko!

My throat worked for oxygen against his arm. His razor angled toward the corner of my eye, scraping past a small mole. Though there was no break in the skin, I made a conscious effort not to flinch.

We continued past the walled entry of Trevecca Nazarene University toward blocks of industrial buildings. On the north end of Lafayette Street, square brick structures housed hundreds of low-income families. Over the project lawns, darkness accentuated erratic sparks of light, which I’d mistaken for flicked cigarette embers when I first moved here from Oregon.

I gestured with my elbow for Felicia’s benefit. “See that?”

“Are those fireflies?”

“They’re called lightning bugs here.”

Another moment. Another diversion. My fingers were now creeping into my pocket, touching the edge of the folded envelope.

Felicia said, “He wants you take a left up here.”

How was he communicating this stuff to her? He had on a stinkin’ ski mask. If he was whispering, it was too quiet for me to hear. Had he given her instructions back in the parking lot?

“It’s a one-way.”

“No, not yet. Go under the freeway, and turn at the light.”

“Called the interstate here.”

“Just do as I say, please.”

The envelope was caught in my jeans, blocked by the crease at my hip.

“Left on Fourth,” I said. “Got it.”

As we approached, a lone figure on the other side of the street took a step off the sidewalk and waited for me to roll by. I tapped the brake to cover the straightening of my left leg. The envelope was out. In my hand. The razor was still wrapped inside.

“Look at that guy.” I shook my head. “He’s gonna get himself killed.”

But I knew this man. It was my homeless friend, Freddy C.

Beneath the streetlights, his ragged clothes and shuffling gait caught my attention, but it was his tapered beard that confirmed his identity. A resident of Centennial Park, most mornings he comes to my shop for the free java, and he always finds a few coins for the orange tip mug. He’s a jittery character who’s overcome a tainted past. Ever since Nadine Lott’s death, he’d been committed to fighting the crime and despair on the streets. His help in the police investigation last year had been instrumental.

“What’re you waiting for, doll?”

“Just letting the man cross,” I told Felicia. “Is that a sin?”

My Honda inched onto Fourth Avenue South, pointing toward Freddy. What was he doing out at this hour? His watery gaze met mine. Then: recognition.
I angled my face to make visible my fresh wounds, and his sandy eyebrows wobbled with alarm.

You’re no dummy, Freddy. See this blood? Call the cops
.

Attention trained ahead once more, I accelerated by him. My sideview mirror showed him standing in the middle of the street with his hand held high, cupped into the letter C.

C for Crime-fighter.

“You know that guy?”

“I do believe he just gave us an obscene gesture,” I covered. “You believe that?”

“Nearly there. I suggest we slow down.”

“Rough neighborhood.” I tilted my head toward a graffiti-tagged building where two women in miniskirts—one tall and black, the other rail thin and bone white—leaned against a Buick Regal on blocks. Behind them, glass shards glittered across the entrance to an empty lot. “Not the best place for a pit stop.”

“Just do it, Aramis. Is this Oak Street? Okay, turn right and park.”

“At the City Cemetery?” A chest-high stone wall encompassed crumbling monuments and tilted tombstones while a wrought-iron gate guarded the front entrance. “You sure this is the place? The gate’s locked.”

“Park.”

“If you say so.”

“Turn off the engine.”

“But of course. Now what, dear?” My saccharine tone caused the abductor’s arm to tighten, yanking me into the headrest, forcing my chin up. As Felicia looked back for clarification, my fingers wedged the envelope against the seat and tried to unfold it.

The blade popped loose. Slid down the side into the carpeted space beneath me.

“Hello?” Felicia’s hand was extended. “You’re supposed to give me the keys.”

“My keys?” I nodded at the cemetery gate. “They won’t work on that.”

“Honestly, you’re only making this more difficult.”

“Call it a personality defect.”

“The keys.”

“This car Blue Books at nine hundred bucks. I’ll take seven fifty.”

Her lips pressed together in exasperation, she waited. At my throat, AX’s grip prompted obedience. I surrendered the keys, then watched my ex-girlfriend step from the car, draw back her arm, and toss them toward the graveyard.

From the stone wall came a metallic jingle.

“Oops,” I said.

“You’re not helping, Aramis.”

Still wearing the jacket over the silk robe, she trotted across the lane, located the keys, and lofted them over the wall. She brushed her hands together, but her eyes showed no pleasure in the accomplishment.

Did she know something I didn’t? Why were we here?

With the car now immobilized, I’d have to run for it and hope he didn’t have a gun. The razor was under the seat, still in the envelope, and my .40 caliber was tucked beneath a bush at Cheekwood.

Trying to prep my muscles for action without telegraphing my intentions, I let my fingers crawl toward the door handle. I could endure the razor as long as it wasn’t rammed into my throat or an eyeball. One good yank, and I might just clear the car with minimal damage.

Felicia was stepping closer. She should’ve taken off while she had the opportunity, but she probably hoped her compliance would ensure my release.

This was it. The handle was in my grasp.

“Run!” I started to yell at her.

The arm cranked back into my larynx and stifled my command. Before I could react, the back door flung open, and AX exited in a flurry of motion that inflicted a nick along my ear’s ridges of cartilage. Okay, that hurt. My involuntary pause of pain gave him the half second he needed to grab hold of Felicia and start shuffling her down the street. His mask and hooded sweatshirt disguised his size. As he held the blade against her neck, I saw it was a fully extended razor knife. No surprise there: a terrorist’s weapon.

I sprang from the vehicle. “Let her go!”

Felicia offered him no help. Limp prey being dragged off to the lair. I took a step forward, but he arced his arm, and the knife angled toward her throat. If I could just get close enough to tear away his cover, smash my palm into his nose …

“What do you want?” I demanded. “Why’d you bring us here?”

“Stay back.” Felicia’s throat worked against the razor. “Please.”

The distance was growing between us, eliminating any chance for a quick strike. I’d lost my keys, but they could be recovered with a little luck. Lost a bit of blood too, but that was nothing.

What was the purpose behind this? Why had I been forced along?

Felicia and the hooded figure hesitated at the rear of a parked panel truck. There was movement, a scuffle. She let out a gasp. Another. Then, still entangled in his clutches, she was pulled out of view.

The following scream tore at the darkness.

I catapulted forward, stumbled on uneven pavement, touched a hand down to right myself. Back on my feet, I tried to bridge the gap as quickly as possible. Reached the end of the truck. Stopped. Angled wide and low, anticipating an attack.

Whimpers drifted in the stillness.

“Felicia?”

I crouched and ran to her crumpled form on the sidewalk. She was facedown, blond strands splayed over cracks in the cement. She lifted a hand from her shoulder. Something moist glistened in the moonlight.

“What’d he do to you?”

“Don’t let him … get away,” she sputtered.

I scanned my perimeter. No sign of him. By all appearances, we were alone along this stretch of warehouses where parked commercial vehicles waited for Monday.

I peeled back the shoulder of her jacket and saw the same initials. These were shallower, sliced in a hurry.

Nearby an engine turned over.

“Go,” she said. “Before he … takes her.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

What?
The note in the bullet casing said my mother was still alive, but that was ridiculous. This surreal drama was trying to override all logic.

“Please.” Felicia’s back arched as she tried to lift herself. I saw defense wounds on her arms where she’d resisted him. She pulled herself forward and heaved onto the uneven sidewalk.

“Tell me what’s going on. Felicia—”

“Hurry.” A breath. “You have to stop … him.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“Go.”

I started to rise. “You hang on. I’ll be right back.” I saw an old white Dodge van lurch forward from the curb.

A cocoon of blackness surrounded the driver, shielding his eyes behind the ski mask. His head turned my way, taunting me. Still playing games. With one stomp on the gas pedal, he could be gone.

I tried to breathe, evaluate. What could I do? Maybe if I ran after him, I could reach a door handle before he sped away. Seemed unlikely though, with him watching me.

A visual sweep of the area produced another possibility.

A red tricycle left out on the grass.

I stepped sideways until his view from across the street was obstructed by the panel truck at my side. I grabbed the plastic-fringed handlebars at my feet, hefted the tricycle up on my shoulder, and crossed to the center of the street as he pulled out.

Sorry, kids. Should’ve put your toys away
.

The van, spewing exhaust, squatted on the gnarled pavement thirty feet in front of me. There wasn’t enough room for him to turn around, and if he accelerated, I’d have just moments to jump aside, ratchet back both arms, and crash this metal three-wheeler through the glass into the coward’s face.

“Bring it!” I beckoned.

Head to head—that’s how we’d do this. I bobbed on the balls of my feet, zeroing in on my mark behind the windshield.

One shot at this. Ready now.
Ready
.

The engine roared, and the front end leaped forward. For a moment I was blinded by the sudden glare of headlights. Then sharpened by adrenaline, I registered two things that would be forever seared into my memory.

A woman straining forward in the passenger seat.

And a weak yet distinct cry: “Aramis?”

I
f I’d paid more attention in social psych, if I’d noted the signals of subterfuge Professor Newmann was so adamant about, I might have been prepared there along Oak Street’s crenelated cemetery wall.

I wasn’t.

Back at the
Steeple Dance
sculpture, I’d grappled with irrational fear and used it as a tool. A catalyst for action. The emotional numbness that now took over, however, swept through my extremities like an injection of liquid ice, undermining any physical response. I was powerless. I stood in the path of the charging van, unable to breathe.

The Dodge gained speed, an old metal bull charging to gore its victim. It moved from beneath outstretched tree limbs into the moon’s gray yellow glow. The same guy who’d attacked Felicia and Johnny Ray leered over the steering wheel.