A Shred of Truth (36 page)

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.

My cell quivered against my thigh. Detective Meade’s number.

“Morning,” I said.

“Get any sleep last night?”

“Tried. Didn’t work.”

“I’m headed over to Bicentennial,” he told me. “Should be there in ten.”

“What’s going on? Is Hillcrest coming this way?”

“Yes, he’s been on the road since very early.”

“Any idea if my mom’s in the car?”

“That has not been confirmed.”

“She could’ve been in his garage or basement. Out of sight.”

A cautious tone. “That’s possible.”

“Where is he now?”

“State troopers took over surveillance about an hour ago as he crossed in from Kentucky. They’re in unmarked vehicles, well back—a safeguard really, in case he pulls off and tries to switch cars or anything.”

My eyes were surveying my environs. “Don’t spook him. Please.”

“They know the situation, I assure you. Either way, I’m carrying a GPS unit that’s got Mr. Hillcrest’s number pegged. Can’t hide from the satellites, and I see that he’s coming down I-65 as we speak. Won’t be long before his arrival.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“You stay put while we get into position. And do nothing—I repeat, nothing—that will endanger yourself. I’d rather not wipe up your blood for breakfast.”

“It’s the other guy you better worry about.”

“I don’t like the tone in your voice, Mr. Black.”

“He’s got my mother.”

“We don’t know that, not yet.”

“I know it.”

In the spreading dawn, something caught my eye.

“I’ve acted on that belief,” Meade was saying, “but don’t think I’ve been fully convinced. This is a long limb I’ve gone out on.”

“And I appreciate that. Really. Bye for now.”

“See you shortly.”

I flipped the phone shut. Swallowed hard. I leaned forward to reposition my weapon in my belt under the sweatshirt, then climbed from the car and forged over grass and concrete toward the gray black wall. A specific section of the words carved into granite jumped out at me. They spoke of Lewis and his death in 1809.

Below, attached with packing tape, a sheet of paper gave me my orders.

I tore it free.

AX was still playing games, toying with me. Obviously, he’d put this here much earlier. He got off on this manipulation, pretending to be God. What he didn’t know was that even if he changed location multiple times, it would still do him no good. Wherever Hillcrest went now, he was being tracked from the sky.

Which raised a serious question.

I shoved the note into my pocket, then speed-dialed the detective even as misgivings flooded my stomach with a sudden wave of nausea.

Y
ou’re positive?” I asked, as I drove from the park.

“Absolutely. This is the first time he’s left Ohio since flying back on Sunday.”

“And you’re sure it was Hillcrest who got in that car last night.”

“There was visual confirmation, yes.”

“Then tell me,” I pleaded, “how he got a message taped to the wall here.”

“I’m still a few minutes away. Don’t move.”

“Too late. I’m already heading to the new location.”

“Where?” Meade wanted to know. “What’s the note say?”

“Says to be at Fort Nashborough at 5:50 a.m.”

“Down at the river front, less than two miles from your position.”

“I have two minutes to get there.”

“Won’t matter if you’re late, Aramis. Hillcrest is on I-65, already beyond the I-24 turnoff. He doesn’t appear to be headed there, and if he is, he’s delayed on his timing. Either way, we’ve got our eyes on wherever he goes. Hold up, if you would, and I’ll catch up to you at the park.”

“Can’t wait. Sorry.” I followed James Robertson Parkway, veered right onto Third Avenue. “Plus, you still haven’t answered my question.”

“About how the note got there? I have no solid answer.”

“I do.”

“Are you planning to divulge this information?”

“Diesel,” I said.

“Desmond Hillcrest, you mean. Drexel’s son.”

“Meade, I’ve been blind. Just didn’t wanna believe it. Diesel’s the only one who knew I was having lunch with you on Sunday. He also knew you’d come into the store to talk about the e-mails I sent you.” Church Street carried me over cobblestones and right onto First Avenue. “He’s lived his whole life under his father’s thumb, trying to make that man happy. Probably just acting as an errand boy.”

“I’d be cautious about that assumption. Children have been known to do unspeakable things for the sake of a parent.”

“Got that right.” I swerved into a parking spot. “I’m signing off.”

“Wait.”

“I’m at the fort. Made it just in time.”

“Keep talking to me, Aramis. Don’t disconnect or do anything rash.”

“But if Mr. Hillcrest’s still on the road, there’s nothing to worry about, right? I’ll just check this out.” I dropped the phone into my pocket.

For some reason, I was dead set on facing this alone. Was I doubting my own convictions about Mom’s survival? Preferring to face my self-deception in private?

Or maybe I believed I’d find Diesel here. He’d been through a lot with his control-freak father, and my empathy with his mistreatment made me hope that if he was involved in this, there might be a chance of winning him over, of building on the friendship we’d started.

A nice idea, sure. But I was in for a surprise.

I stood at my car, peering up and down First Avenue. My Desert Eagle pressed against my spine, and I adjusted it beneath my sweatshirt. My pockets still
held my cell and the multitool. The ring dangled in the felt bag between my jeans and thigh.

What now? Was anyone here?

Thursday. Five fifty a.m. The streets were mostly vacant.

On First, downtown buildings face the Cumberland River in an unbroken line, their historic facades brightened by the neon of the Wildhorse Saloon and Graham Central Station. Grass terraces descend to a vast concrete pier on the river front. Supply vessels used to dock at these banks, with porters walking up and down wooden planks, laden with burlap sacks and crates.

I crossed to the gated entrance of Fort Nashborough.

The stockade is a replica of the original fort that stood on this bluff above the river. Plaques tell the story of Colonels James Robertson and John Donelson who led a party of settlers here in 1780, then fought off Indian attacks and inclement weather so this seedling community could grow into present-day Nashville.

Through metal bars, I looked in at the stockade’s courtyards and dwellings.

Not one human in sight.

On three corners of the fort, blockhouses rose from the spiked walls. I wondered if my mother could be in one of these defensive battlements, held hostage by Diesel. When Mr. Hillcrest arrived, he would ask for the ring and then release her.

“Diesel!” I strode around the log structure. “Diesel, are you here?”

No answer.

“Mr. Hillcrest?”

Of course there was no response to that. He was still out on the road.

Another phone call to Detective Meade. “No sign of anyone here,” I said. “Where’s Hillcrest now?”

“Are you certain you have your facts straight, Aramis? Times, dates.”

“Positive.”

“Then I’m not sure what to think. He’s still on 65, proceeding south, and he’s bypassed all the downtown exits.”

“Maybe he’s kept my mother locked up locally. Could be going to get her.”

“Back to the theory of his son’s involvement?”

“I hate to even think it. But, yes.”

“We’re still on him. Hold tight, and I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.”

I circumnavigated the stockade once more, then took a seat on a bench beneath a group of trees. Clouds were moving northeast. Across the Cumberland River, the sun was cresting over LP Field, home to the Titans football team.

I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and read it again, wondering if I’d missed something in my rush.

The old self. And the new. A continued tug of war.

The scripture’s phrasing seemed to be from a more modern translation, going against both Chigger’s and Hillcrest’s stated preferences. Hillcrest had compared my brother’s drinking to a dog that “returneth to his vomit.”

Maybe I’d been mistaken about this.

From behind, in the deceptive stillness of the dawn, approaching footsteps caused my pulse to jackhammer. I spun on the bench and saw a gaunt
figure less than ten feet away. Even in the shadows beneath these branches, I recognized the tweed jacket and tortoise-shell glasses.

I jumped up. “Professor Newmann?”

He seemed more relaxed than in class, his look less pinched, his walk easy.

“Did I startle you?”

“I … Well, I thought you might be Diesel.”

“Desmond,” he said in his thin voice. “Is there a reason you’d fear him?”

“Never mind. What’re you doing here?”

“Morning strolls can be quite invigorating.” He came alongside me. “Why don’t you join me, Mr. Black?”

“Got something else going at the moment.”

“I’d enjoy the repartee.”

I stepped back and looked around. “You live down here?”

“Honestly, I have a certain fondness for this time of day.” He waved an arm toward the swirling hues of the sunrise. “It’s that moment when night fades and the new day dawns. It’s a true privilege to witness this transformation, the putting off of the old for the new.”

Heat rushed up my neck. “What’d you just say?”

“Time to become a new man.”

Professor Boniface Newmann removed the spectacles, dropped them to the cobblestone path, and crushed them deliberately beneath his heel. Thin fingers reached through his plastered hair and shook it until it hung into his eyes.

“Professor Newmann?” I said.

“If you prefer the alter ego.” His voice had turned deeper, devoid of the characteristic reediness.

“That’s not your real name?”

“In a sense. I’ve been renewed—a new man—so I’m no longer bound by such facades.”

I glanced at the trees and the stockade’s perimeter, where sunlight poked at the foliage. If he wanted surprise on my part or an angry denial, I could not—would not—give him that satisfaction.

I’d been so blind. My overactive mind had misled me.

Soon Diesel would be showing up for work at Black’s espresso shop. Mr. Hillcrest, at this very moment, was probably pulling into the student housing area at Lipscomb, hoping for the first glimpse at his son’s grades. Chigger was simply guilty of hating those whose skin didn’t match his. In his shoes, if someone had broken into my place with my sister alone in her room, I’d have been irate too.