A Shred of Truth (23 page)

My appetite is a fickle beast. More than once I’ve worked a fourteen-hour shift at the espresso shop, pouring nothing but triple lattes down the hatch. Other times I’ve missed breakfast and felt like smashing things by ten o’clock.

Right now I had an appetite for something more stable.

An evening with Sammie Rosewood.

I had just under two hours before our meeting at J. Alexander’s in West End, no more than twenty minutes from here. So far my “escapades” hadn’t derailed our supper plans.

Sitting in the hotel parking lot, I pulled out my cell. Tapped in a message using the alphanumeric mode. Hit Send. I was hoping to goad my foe. Any reply might bear a clue and, more important, maintain the tenuous link to my mom. If AX was there, I could cling to the belief that she was too.

Instead, a prompt response said that address was no longer valid. I double-checked it, tried again. Same error message.

Like a drunkard at the bar of hope, I’d been cut off.

I departed the hotel feeling desperate. What had happened? Was AX simply covering his tracks, or was there something more sinister to it?

A crazy notion caused me to turn the wheel to the left, making a detour to the airport. Mr. Hillcrest had exhibited some strange behavior. If he was still fuming at the departure gate, a passenger page might draw him out to talk to me.

I needed ten minutes—that was all.

A
t Nashville International, I jogged up the escalator from short-term parking and headed through automatic doors. I mumbled an apology after bumping into a guitar-toting man in Wranglers and boots. A seasoned musician? Jilted newbie? The oversize cowboy hat suggested the latter, since most locals avoid such obvious clichés.

I followed the lines of ticket counters, where suspended banners juxtapose Tennessean images against international ones—catfish and sushi, irises and tulips, country music and classical.

Once I’d located Southwest Airlines, I requested a page for passengers Mr. and Mrs. Drexel Hillcrest.

Quick and painless. Just a few questions before supper.

Mr. Hillcrest appeared after the third page. Heavy jowls swayed with his steps, while droopy eyes stared straight ahead. He gave no acknowledgment to a woman who swerved her luggage cart out of his way.

“Mr. Black.”

“You’re not surprised to see me.”

“I certainly didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but with the mounting annoyances of this day, I would say very little qualifies as a surprise. That in no way negates my impatience with said annoyances—you being first and foremost at this particular moment.”

“You’re a straight shooter, aren’t you, Hillcrest?”

“Pardon me?”

“You say it like it is.”

“See no reason to do otherwise. At my age, I—”

“Your wife? Where is she?”

He stepped back as though physically struck by my interruption. Judging by his size, his bulldog demeanor, his behavior toward his son, I was certain he was unaccustomed to losing the advantage in a conversation. Cowards—that’s what these types are. Bullying their way through life, afraid of anything that cannot be controlled.

Which meant he better fear me.

“Mrs. Hillcrest,” he replied, “is waiting at the gate.”

“But I paged her also.”

“I instructed her to stay with our carry-on luggage. Desmond told you we were here, did he?”

“He’s been worried about you guys. Diesel’s a good man.”

“He has no right inviting others into our family’s affairs.”

“Interesting word,
affairs
. Does your wife know about last night?”

“Your tone disturbs me. To what, exactly, are you referring?”

“Your visit to the hotel lobby. Champagne on ice.”

“That was you who nearly bumped into me on the stairs.”

“That was me.”

“Would you like to explain why you were spying on me?”

“Would you like to explain why you make passes at women half your age? Was the hotel clerk the only one? Or did you start off with Felicia?”

His eyes were stone chips. His thin smile was a putty knife sliced into his fleshy cheeks. “Have you come to insult me, Mr. Black? Most of my day has been spent in this airport, and I’ve little desire to put up with infantile accusations.”

“
Most
of your day, huh? Did you leave the airport at any point?”

“I’ve been waiting for my flight, young man.”

“One that’s been delayed. You’ve had time to do some sightseeing, haven’t you?” I was reaching here, but I wanted to gauge his reaction. “A quick taxi ride downtown. A visit to the Frist Center.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are insinuating.”

“Or maybe you just used the rental car. The green Hyundai.”

“Your insolence is disturbing in the extreme. With your and your brother’s influence, it’s no wonder Desmond has slid into debauchery of late. Do you realize that ‘every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire’?”

I straightened, the nerves in my fingers prickling. “Where’d you hear that?”

“The King James Bible, son. You’d do well to familiarize yourself with it.”

What were the chances he’d spout off that verse? Was he playing me? He’d made his feelings about my brother loud and clear, but how did that carry over to my mother? And what did a Masonic ring have to do with any of this?

What disturbed me most deeply was the fact that he’d been seeking guidance from the same Scriptures I was learning to read. The Bible is often called a sword of truth. But my foe had been using it as a weapon of manipulation and fear.

“You’re quite the sightseer,” I pressed on. “The Frist today, Cheekwood yesterday, and the
Musica
roundabout on Friday night. Guess it’s fitting you’d tie my drunken brother to a statue of naked people. A bit of ironic justice?”

Mr. Hillcrest sneered. “Tied to a statue?”

“That was you circling in the Hyundai, wasn’t it? No. You would’ve been too worried about being seen. Bet you had Mrs. Hillcrest do that bit for you.”

He stepped toward me. “You are despicable.”

“Dude. You still haven’t answered my questions.”

“I won’t dignify such falsehoods with a response. I’ve served as a deacon
at my church for years. I’ve been married to the same woman for nearly twenty-five. I’ve attained degrees from multiple universities and been accepted as a member of the esteemed Alpha Chi honor society. My only desire is to see my son excel in his studies so that he can undo the damage of the free-love, drugged-up flower children. It was my misguided peers who led this great country down the primrose path of degradation.”

“And now you’re fighting back.”

“I hope to regain ground, absolutely.”

“Using guilt and fear.”

“ ‘Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’ Look around you, Mr. Black. How long can we call ourselves ‘One nation under God’ while bearing no fruit of godliness? Pandering to the whims of immoral politicians has gotten us nowhere.”

“And this justifies the way you berate your own son.”

“My family is
my
concern, and I’ll thank you to—”

“Diesel’s my employee and classmate.”

“Then you should’ve warned him away from your brother.”

“If Johnny’s been a bad influence, I apologize.”

“We’ve reached an impasse, Mr. Black. You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, and it’s time for me to put the ax to the barren trees. I’m done here.”

He turned to go, and I could barely blink.

Put the ax to the barren trees?

“Why did you kill her?” I hissed.

“Pardon me?”

“And where’s my mother?”

Hillcrest cast a pitying look over his shoulder. “You’re a strange one, Mr. Black. You start with accusations and end with calling out for mommy?”

A matchstick of fury scraped through my skull and sent flames charging through my limbs.

His pomposity. His mockery. The mistreatment of his own son.

I leaped, catapulted forward by emotion, and smashed my forearm into the base of his neck, driving his corpulent body onto the airport carpet. I grabbed hold of his thinning hair and lifted to slam his face down. He pushed back against my attack. He tried to roll and throw me off, but I braced my right leg on the floor and dug my left knee into his lower back.

Lift. Slam.

Aside from thin rings of pulsating red, my vision remained clear. In the past, I’d learned to focus and slow things down, and it happened again now as I anchored the man’s neck to the ground.

Voices were crying out around us. Running feet were drawing near.

“Where have you hidden my mother?”

He only grunted.

This was pointless. I was attracting unwanted attention. I decided against a final thrust and let him go.

As soon as I stood, rough arms encircled me and yanked me away. I was being handcuffed. Mr. Hillcrest was stumbling to his feet, touching his nose, and shaking his head. A sheen of blood gave his teeth a vampirelike appearance, as though he’d managed to suck the honor from my veins.

“Tell me where she is!” I demanded.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My mother! Where have you taken her?”

Hillcrest flashed a condescending smile and patted at his nostrils with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, but you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.” He turned his words to the police officer at my back. “There’s no reason to detain this young man. In retrospect, I see how he may’ve misconstrued one of my comments as an offense against his mother.”

“He attacked you without physical provocation.”

“A simple misunderstanding.”

“Would you like to press charges, sir?”

“That won’t be necessary. In fact”—he still wore a smile, but his flint eyes drilled into me—“if my own family were so maligned, I might have done much the same.”

The officer allowed him to go, then turned the inquiries my way.

I was concentrated on one thing only: Mr. Hillcrest’s deliberate stroll through the security area. He turned his head and lifted an eyebrow, as if to remind me that cops were against the rules, as if to say he could control me better than I thought. For now, he was beyond my reach, but he’d be back by Thursday.

Five forty-five a.m. Bicentennial Mall Park. In the shadow of the state capitol.

I’d be there.

And whatever it took, I would be ready.

I
nterstate 40 took me back into the heart of Nashville. The Broadway exit fed me into the westbound lanes of West End Avenue, familiar territory and only minutes from my business supper. With time to spare, I considered stopping for gas.

No. Better wait till Monday, when prices dropped back down.

Or was that an urban legend? So many things I took for granted, so many “truths” I’d never verified for myself. Even now, my long-held family history was being called into question. Did Dad know something he wasn’t telling me? Or was he simply unprepared to deal with a new reality?

I hit another red light. Was that four in a row?

I pressed my head back against the seat and told myself to stay cool.

Everywhere I turned, life was going on as though no one knew—or cared—that my ex-girlfriend had been murdered and my mother had been abducted.

Just ahead, people streamed in and out of a Blockbuster store. I wanted to roll down my window and yell, “Don’t any of you read the newspaper? Don’t you know how short life is? Where’s your respect for a young woman whose body will be flown home to heartbroken parents? She never got to go horseback riding on the beach. And while you’re at it, people, forget your stinkin’ movies and help me look for my mom!”

The streets were crowded for a Sunday evening. Based on the vehicles’
sticker prices, I realized they represented an influx of parents coming to sweep away their precious Vandy students for summer relief in the Florida Keys or the Bahamas or a Destin beach house facing the Gulf of Mexico’s warm surf.

Ah. Poor pampered babies.

Sammie Rosewood knows that world much better than I, never wanting for material things. The family home on Tyne Boulevard was owned long before her parents’ passing. The Rosewood estate includes a chalet nestled in Gatlinburg at the foot of the Smokies, and it more than pays for itself with year-round rentals. She plays tennis on the court behind her house, dines out without a second thought, and shops at the Mall at Green Hills.

If I didn’t know better, I’d envy her.

But I can’t.

There’s something behind her eyes, a melancholy spot that cannot be consoled by monetary things. And in two years of knowing Sammie, I’ve seen a generous side that goes beyond the cash. She truly cares about people and invests in them. Exhibit A: Black’s espresso shop. Exhibit B: Desperado Artist Development and the career of one Johnny Ray Black.

Enough said.

We’re different people from different worlds. Which may be why every time our lives brush against each other is a moment I tuck away.

By the time I dropped in at home, changed clothes, and ran back out, I was three minutes late arriving at J. Alexander’s. Passing on the golf-cart shuttle, I walked the long lot. As I entered through heavy doors, I let my eyes adjust to candle-punctuated darkness. Tall ceilings and partitioned seating areas muted the clinking of cutlery and conversation. From a side lounge, laughter trickled out.