A Shred of Truth (18 page)

Coffee in one hand, sealed envelope in the other, I went back to my office to look through what Freddy C had left for me. Last night’s images tumbled through my skull. My pulse pounded like twin mallets against my temples.

For the hundredth time this morning, I shut down.

Or tried to.

The picture of my mom in the seat of that Dodge van was a debilitating thing. What if I lost her again? What if I found her gutted on the sidewalk, bleeding her life away while I crouched helplessly at her side?

Stop. Get a grip
.

Or what if it was all just another deception?

Stop!

Beneath stark fluorescent light, I sank into the office chair, pushed aside the keyboard and my pocket New Testament. I peeled open the oversize envelope and shook its contents onto my metal desk.

A pamphlet. A handwritten note. And a piece of torn paper.

The first item was trifolded, inexpertly designed and full of typos. It was a call to arms for “The Kraftsmen,” those who wish to “rebuild our Country, taking it backe from the Mongrels and Sons of Ham who pullute our soil.” Aside from archaic King James Version quotes, the verbiage was crude and aimed at base fears, but I know from the study of human psychology that—sadly—these tactics often work.

The second item was harder to decipher, penned in shaky cursive from Freddy C’s hands. I’d seen his writing during last year’s intrigues. His scent
wafted upward. In the note he reminded me I had asked why he was out late yesterday evening. He claimed he was investigating “criminals called the Kraftsmen.” He wanted me to pass his findings along to the police.

How Freddy knew about these people was a mystery.

My eyes turned to the final item, a torn corner of cardstock. I recognized that it was a tattoo pattern. Most parlors offer huge books of such designs, opened for reverent contemplation like the verses of an ancient monastery’s illuminated text.
Write them deeply in your heart …

Or on your chest, your ankles, your lower back.

I grinned, imagining my homeless friend wandering into a parlor downtown, leafing through pages, ripping out this artwork. “Freddy, you didn’t.”

My grin froze at the sight of this particular tattoo.

An executioner’s ax.

According to his note, this mark could be found on the upper arm of one of the Kraftsmen’s leaders. As for what it all meant, I was only beginning to form an idea.

S
harpened by caffeine, I decided now was the time to salvage my Desert Eagle from the gardens at Cheekwood. Nothing like the reassurance of cold steel. Although the Israeli-made components were disassembled beneath a shrub, I was worried about pets sniffing around and kids playing hide-and-seek. What if someone found the gun? I could do without any more complications.

A bitter realization coursed over me, though, as I merged onto West End Avenue, headed in the direction of Belle Meade. I would’ve had my gun last night if it weren’t for AX’s shenanigans yesterday at Cheekwood. I could’ve drilled a round through that driver’s side windshield. Unwittingly, he had saved his own skin.

My palms slammed against my steering wheel.

Did the law of peace, of forgiveness, ever fit into real life? What actual power did it have to change any of this?

Live by the Sword … Die by the Sword
.

My old credo seemed so much more practical, so potent.

“Come on,” I growled at my cell. “Gimme something to work with.”

Set to vibrate upon receiving e-mails, the phone had yielded nothing yet from my enemy. No explanations. No instructions. My nerves were steel cables twisting into knots.

The dash clock told me I had a few hours before hooking up with Diesel
and Sara Sevier for our study session. After that, I’d join Samantha Rosewood at J. Alexander’s for our business dinner.

Supper
, I corrected myself.
Sorry, Sammie
.

Before I knew it, I was dialing her number.

“You’ll still be able to make it this evening?” she asked me.

“I want to. Definitely.”

“Please don’t feel any pressure. There’s always next week.”

“No, I’ll be there. It’s just that things are … getting complicated.”

“You and your escapades.”

“Yeah.”

“Aramis?”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean for that to sound dismissive.”

“You’re fine.”

“Or so you’ve told me on previous occasions,” she teased, and I cheered up at the uncharacteristic playfulness. “Though your lips may have been slightly loosened.”

By a couple of glasses of wine
, she could have added. But she maintained her Southern decorum.

“Gotta go,” I said. “Just wanted you to know you’re on my mind. And Miss Eloise, she was probably the sweetest old woman I ever knew.”

“Old? You’re never one to sugarcoat things.”

“I … No, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Aramis, you’re fine.”

“Thanks. That’s the first time you’ve told
me
so.”

“But not the first time I’ve thought it.”

She let out a mirthless laugh, and it struck me that she was grieving. Loneliness resonated beneath her tones. Though I was tempted to respond to her rare flirtation, I knew I couldn’t take advantage of it.

Even if it was Sammie. Especially because it was Sammie.

“You’re right,” she said. “There was no one sweeter. Miss Eloise was up every morning at dawn, ready to share a good Southern breakfast and tell me stories of her childhood. Were you aware that she was born the day the First World War ended?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“What will I do with this huge place now that she’s gone? She tended the flowers and fed the horses. She felt it important to do her part.”

“I can stop by and help with the horses,” I offered.

“I wasn’t meaning to burden you with my concerns.”

“Don’t be silly, Sammie. It’s no burden.”

“You’re such a man.”

“Tell me that’s a good thing.”

“Trying to come up with solutions. But I appreciate it, I do.”

“I hope so. Because when it comes to flowers, I’m useless.”

“Such a man,” she said again.

I was cruising past Montgomery Bell Academy, wondering if the same security men I’d faced yesterday would be patrolling Cheekwood this afternoon, when a nondescript sedan slid into the lane beside me. A tap on the horn brought my head around, and I spotted the honorable Detective Reginald Meade.

“Wonder Bread wonderful.”

He honked again. I kept driving, watching my mirrors for suspicious tagalongs, checking my phone for messages.

No cops. That was the rules.

Meade kept pace, making his wishes known with chiding stares and
shakes of his head. He wasn’t going away. After a few blocks, I caved and turned into a gas station. He pulled alongside with his window down.

“Why didn’t you pull over earlier?” he demanded.

“Didn’t recognize the car.”

“And my face? You going to tell me that all black men look the same?”

“Only the ones I don’t know.”

“You’re a regular comedian, Mr. Black.”

“Hey. You’re the one trying to play the race card.”

The detective lifted a palm. “Listen, I’d like to believe we’ve built some trust here. I need to speak with you.”

“You followed me from my shop, didn’t you?”

“Would you rather I’d gone in and made a scene? It may be in both our best interests to discuss what happened on Oak Street.”

“Oak Street?”

“Runs parallel to City Cemetery. Based on preliminary evidence, it’s the site of a criminal homicide. Frankly, with investigative responsibilities already passing over to TBI, I thought it’d be good to speak with you myself, get your version of things.”

“My version?”

“Of what happened between the time I hung up with you and the time a Caucasian female was found mutilated and still warm.”

“Am I under arrest or something?”

“No, I just—”

“Then I don’t have to say a word.”

“You’re under no obligation, that’s true.” Meade polished his watch with a thumb. “I just hoped to gather some facts.”

“There’s nothing to say. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You’re the last person known to be with the victim.”

“You think I’d be stupid enough to dial you up before some violent act?”

“You could’ve called for that very reason, to create reasonable doubt.”

“C’mon.”

“Or perhaps it was unpremeditated.”

I measured my words. “I did not hurt her, Detective.”

“Do you remember the question I asked last night, about whether you’d ever considered killing someone? Do you remember your reply?”

“Hold on! That was just conversation. A rhetorical question.”

“Inadmissible in court. Yes, I know.”

I put my car into gear. “Big mistake, pulling over for you.”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me about the incisions on your face? And the scuff marks on your hand?” Meade pointed at my grip on the wheel, where the swirled scar tissue of an old burn wound reaches from my fingers to my right wrist. “You look like you’ve seen some recent action.”

“First rule of fight club,” I quoted. “You don’t talk about fight club.”

“Always a snappy reply to avoid dealing with the truth.”

“What do you want? Why’re you doing this?”

“Because I know you and some of the trouble you’ve been facing. There’s no reason for you to hide anything—isn’t that what you’ve been telling me?—and, in fact, your knowledge could lead to the apprehension of the person or persons responsible.” He peered through his open window, waiting for my response. “If you’re hungry at all, we could discuss this at Martha’s at the Plantation.”

“Never been there.”

“It’s down on the Belle Meade property. Do crawfish cakes and black-eyed-pea salsa sound like something that might interest you? I’m buying.”

“Is that allowed?”

Meade’s eyes showed little amusement. “I have to eat, same as the next guy.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, checked my mirrors, vacillating on my course of action. From the station’s minimart, a lady and young child, perhaps six, exited with goodies in hand. She bent to peel the paper from the boy’s ice-cream bar, then smiled and tweaked his nose.

“Are we on?” Meade checked.

For Mom’s sake, I needed to keep my mouth shut. “No,” I said. “I’ve gotta go. Anyway, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“So you say. There is one thing, Aramis.”

“One thing?”

“That irritates me.”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll bite.”

“It seems strange that you still haven’t even asked the victim’s name.”

Ahead of me, the boy stumbled and stared down in wide-eyed dismay as his cold treat hit the pavement.

A
fter you,” Meade told me.

A hostess seated us at a cloth-covered table, and I placed my cap in my lap.

Pulled in two directions, I was the flag in a tug of war. If Detective Meade flexed his legal muscles, he could detain me regarding a homicide. On the other hand, if AX realized I was talking to the cops, he might harm my mother. But how would my enemy know? Was he watching even now?

Ridiculous. He couldn’t be everywhere at once. Plus, the detective was working in plain clothes, limiting his chances of being ID’d.

On the early end of the Sunday lunch crowd, we were sharing the airy dining room with two giggly women in sun hats and an elderly gentleman toting a trusty Nikon 35mm. The place had that casual yet refined charm that embodies the South.

After sucking down a tea-flavored punch, I passed on the crawfish and ordered a fried-green-tomato salad with horseradish sauce—sure to clear the nasal passages while also meeting my brother’s approval. Meade stuck with his standard fare.

“The chef here has never let me down,” he said.

I straightened my napkin. Adjusted my silverware. Looked out the window.

“Big guy like you, Aramis—you seem awfully nervous.”

“No, not me. Nice place.”

“Read all about it.” He pushed a brochure across the table.

I scanned the words while thoughts raced. My mom was out there somewhere. And there was nothing I could do but wait for her abductor to contact me. Couldn’t even go looking for clues at the crime scene since cops were all over that and—

Just read, you fool. Disassociate
.

Flipping through the brochure, I saw the words “Belle Meade, the Queen of Tennessee Plantations.” Once a mecca of thoroughbred racing, she’d encompassed more than five thousand acres. Her greatest sire, Bonnie Scotland, contributed directly to the lines of such horses as Seabiscuit, Seattle Slew, and Secretariat. Today a carriage house and stables stand on the remaining thirty acres, as well as John Harding’s 1853 Greek Revival plantation house, which endured Union occupation during the Civil War.

The ghosts of that War Between the States still haunt the hills and hollows of Tennessee, and according to the pamphlet I’d read this morning in my shop, another specter had appeared: the Kraftsmen. Their brand of bigotry was rooted in the Ku Klux Klan’s postwar years of propaganda, when certain Southerners feared the loss of everything sacred to them and distilled those concerns into hate.