A Shred of Truth (25 page)

“All an act, of course. I learned it from you.”

My mind flashed to the airport, to my scuffle with Mr. Hillcrest. I took one step down and turned. “For me,” I said, “it’s no act.”

“That may be. But your rougher side’s only a remnant of the old you.”

“Remnants. Sometimes I wonder if they’re all I have to work with.”

“Aramis, honestly. Stop your navel gazing and go get some rest.”

In the brownstone’s shadows, Freddy C was waiting to talk to me. Bearded, layered in heavy clothes, he was a formidable sight.

“Hey,” I said. “You shouldn’t be lurking around late at night.”

“That’s my secret. That’s how I do it.”

“Do what?”

He cupped his hand into a C. “Fight crime.”

“Okay. Listen, Freddy. I don’t know what your deal is, but I need to know the truth. Last night did you hurt Felicia in any way?”

“If only I’d got there sooner.”

“Yes or no. Did you do anything to her?”

He clenched his jaw. “No. You must believe me.”

“You don’t know anything about that old van or the lady who was inside? You didn’t happen to go scissors-crazy today and cut someone’s hair?”

He took a step back, then glanced away. “Nobody believes. No believers.”

“I wanna believe you. But what were you doing out there, huh?”

“The envelope. Did you get it?”

“I got it. Tell me about that tattoo of the ax. I need tangibles.”

“Too dangerous. Not till tomorrow.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, stirring a stale odor. “Then he’ll be gone.”

“Who? The leader of the Kraftsmen?”

“I know where he lives. Might know a way inside.”

“What’s his name? Tell me that much.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll meet you at Black’s.”

“I open the store and don’t get off till two.”

“Two it is. Two o’clock.”

“His name,” I insisted. “Gimme something to know you’re sincere.”

“Just a nickname—that’s all I know.”

“Cough it up.”

“Chigger.” Freddy’s eyes darted along the sidewalk. “I gotta go, gotta keep moving. Good-bye.”

I slipped inside. A note from Johnny lay on the entryway bookcase, letting me know he’d turned in early and planned to see me at his morning departure. Did he believe me about Mom? Could I fault him for taking charge of his dream?

No. It wouldn’t be right to keep him here, not now.

I felt alone, empathizing with the words Sammie had spoken over dinner.

As I moved toward my bedroom, the wood planking carried the sound of my footsteps in front of me so that I felt I was chasing a figment of myself
down the hall. I set the two Fauxbergé eggs on my windowsill, beside the empty bullet casing, the bloody razor blade, and the ebony memento from my mom.

I tucked strands of her hair into the box, clinging to my belief.

At my bedroom computer, I decided to investigate amnesia. If Mom’s mind had short-circuited during the attack at the riverbank, she may have been pulled from the water without any knowledge of what had happened, possibly even without her own identity. It was possible presumptions about her death had curtailed the authorities’ search.

In the mideighties, identification techniques were less sophisticated and, by comparison, poorly organized. Maybe Mom had been stretched out in a hospital room and plugged into a machine—a Jane Doe.

I printed out some selected pages and plopped onto my bed.

I read how under normal circumstances the temporal lobe’s hippocampi use a process of consolidation to move short-term memory into long-term. Chemical changes then embed each memory for future access. But in an amnesiac, physical or psychological factors interrupt that consolidation. A head injury during a car accident could terminate the embedding process so that any recollection of those moments before the crash would be erased.

In the case of dissociative amnesia, defense mechanisms and incidents of high stress can cut off the brain’s storage feed. While new memories might be stored in the retrograde state, prior events are compromised.

Physical trauma. Psychological. In Mom’s case, they were both present.

Despite family tensions, long-held secrets, and a bullet in her leg, she had fought to survive, throwing herself over the edge into the cold, churning river. Evidently she had avoided the second bullet. But she could’ve hit a rock beneath the surface, jarring her memory.

I closed my eyes and imagined her washing downriver, being discovered by some well-meaning rancher’s wife. Wouldn’t such a person report it to the
police or local medical officials? Yet what if Mom had been found by one of her attacker’s accomplices? Where would she have been hidden?

At the Frist, she had referred to her abductor as her husband.

Could that be?

I didn’t want to think of the abuses she might have suffered. After all these years, was my mom still the same person? Had they stripped away everything that had made her Dianne Lewis Black?

On Oak Street, through the windshield of a Dodge van, we had locked eyes. I held on to that. Played it over and over. No matter what else had happened, I was still her son. Her blood.

Soon, at Bicentennial Mall Park, we would have a second shot at this reunion.

Please, God. Are you listening? Wherever she is, protect her for me
.

If I lost her again, I hated to think what I might do.

E
nough already,” I grumbled.

A slap of my arm sent my jangling alarm clock onto the rug, where it seemed to sound off in even louder protest. When a pillow pulled over my head failed to muffle the noise, I snapped upright and marched across the floor. Removed the battery. Climbed back into bed.

I was still clutching the Energizer AA when my brother shook me awake.

“Aramis, it’s four twenty-nine.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Aren’t you coming to send us off?”

“The tour …”

“On our own Prevost bus, if you can believe that.”

“Okay. Gimme a couple minutes.”

“Sure you’re awake, kid?”

I rubbed my eyes, saw his face swim into focus. “Think so.”

“Stay put, if you want. We’re swingin’ back through town Thursday, and you can send me off then.”

“This Thursday?”

“On our way back for a show in Little Rock.”

“No, I’m up.” I swung my feet to the floor. “I’m your biggest fan.”

“Not my prettiest.”

“Wait till I put on my makeup.”

“See ya there.” He waved from my doorway.

“Hold on.” I pulled on shorts and flip-flops. “Need to ask you something.”

“Gotta go.”

“It’s about Mom.”

He stiffened. “The band’s gonna be waitin’ for me.”

“They’re musicians. They’ll be late.”

“Here. Yak at me while we load up the truck.”

We shouldered loads from the living room to his Ford Ranger. Lemon and violet streaked the predawn sky while birds chirped in anticipation of a balmy Monday.

“That note.” I tossed a gym bag into the pickup. “Remember, the one with Mom’s handwriting?”

“What about it?”

“Did you read it all the way through? It talked about a Masonic ring, something that might’ve been hidden with my inheritance.”

“Which you won’t touch.”

“Just trying to make an honest buck these days.”

“And I’m not knockin’ that.” A street lamp winked off as Johnny closed the tailgate. “Tell me this though. How’d you know about the ring?”

“You still think I made up that note?”

“Don’t know what to think.”

“There is a ring then?”

“Was.”

“Past tense?”

“Had some Latin writing on it, dated 1644.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Would I make that up? And, yeah, there were some old Masonic symbols. I’m into that stuff. The term
Freemason
was used as far back as the
1300s. Some people think they were tied to the Knights Templar.” He climbed into the truck, rolled down the window. “Well, I noticed something on the ring’s band, a family name. Fair’s fair, so I did some searchin’, tracked down and contacted the owner’s descendants. I mailed the ring to a woman in Silverton, Oregon.”

“You did what?”

“She was the youngest and most direct descendant.”

“I need that ring!”

“Sorry, man. It’s hers now. She sent a thank-you letter, seemed real appreciative.”

“What’s her name?”

He fired up the engine, combed hair out of his eyes. “Here’s my advice. Drop it. Let it go. Whatever foolishness you’re mixed up in, don’t let it drag you down again. You nearly got yourself killed last year, and this time around you’ve lost an ex-girlfriend. Just leave it be.”

“But Mom’s alive!”

“You think I don’t wanna believe that? ’Course I do.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You’re stirrin’ up old ghosts, kid. I’m outta here.”

I ran back inside, pulled on jeans and the special T-shirt I had printed up. Stamped in gray over a black Stetson, the name Johnny Ray Black dangles silver spurs from the tails of both Ys.

Eight minutes later I was at Desperado Artist Development, parked behind a maroon and black tour bus that dominated the curb along Sixteenth. The bustle of band members, belongings, and schedules kept me from cornering my brother again. Sammie had shown too, tired but obviously excited. She gave a little wave.

Chigger lumbered by with his guitar case slung across his back. He wore
a Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top. On his thick right arm, an executioner’s ax gleamed in the breaking dawn. Avoiding my eyes, he kept his head down and bumped into me as he climbed on the bus.

Through Black’s panoramic windows, the Italianate Kirkland Hall bell tower on Vanderbilt’s campus told me I had twenty minutes until opening. Time for the local homeless to grab a cup of joe.

“Come in, come in,” I urged the raggedy line on the Elliston sidewalk.

Insulated coffeepots faced out along the mahogany counter so that each person could choose his or her own poison. Sweeteners and half-and-half stood at the end. A few slipped back to the rest rooms to freshen up after a long night on hard surfaces. A few others—the ones I really worried about—seemed beyond caring.

“Artemis.”