A Shred of Truth (37 page)

“Where is my mom?”

“Nearby.” Newmann avoided my eyes.

“Is she alive? Tell me that much.”

“Life, as a concept, is greatly misunderstood.”

“Is she
alive
?” I repeated through clenched teeth.

“She is, Mr. Black. To come alive, though, one must be broken.”

“Take me to her!”

“The Romanovs, tsars of Russia, valued their heralded Fabergé eggs as symbols of new birth, and yet an egg must be broken to provide sustenance. The shell must be destroyed to accomplish its purpose. Am I wrong?”

“Your brain’s been scrambled. That’s what I think.”

This all had a strange sense of inevitability. His manipulative demeanor. The shifts in mood. His grandiose pontificating. Even his gaunt features suggested the low birthweight that could lead to a newborn’s detachment.

The detachment nurtured by psychopaths.

“Our culture has succumbed to lies,” he said, “trading the straight and
narrow road for one of carnality. I’m disappointed actually. Your oral presentation on Monday indicated you were latching on to this insight.”

“You! I can’t believe you stood up there so self-righteous.”

“Most students are simply interested in scraping by—”

“Like you had any place to be talking to us about deception.”

“Yet Desmond was different.”

“Did you arrange for our instructor to get nailed in that hit and run?” My eyes narrowed. “Or did you do it yourself?”

“For his father’s sake, Desmond was desperate to succeed,” he pressed on, undaunted. “I gave him a role in my social experiment, with extra points available toward his final grade if he would monitor you for me.”

“He told you about my lunch with Detective Meade.”

“A flagrant violation of the rules you and I established.”

My hands were begging to act, to lash out, but I forced myself to remain rational. Listening to this was the only way to get to the truth. And I might discover a chink in this man’s defenses. Or provoke him into a careless mistake.

“So, Professor, tell me. How does someone get like you? So seriously sick in the head?”

“I’m no one special. Like anyone, I’ve felt the burn of ungodliness.”

“Did you feel it with that homeless lady?”

He tilted his head, rubbing at his eyebrow.

“The one you set on fire,” I hissed. “Nadine Lott. Did you even know her name, you pathetic
runt
? Just couldn’t resist her, huh?”

“Yes. Very good. Which is why I, too, had to suffer at the edge of the blade.”

“Cutting yourself to fool me? That doesn’t count.”

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Detective Meade, no doubt. I hoped ignoring it would serve as a distress signal.

“What about Felicia?” I said. “How’d she get dragged into your schemes?”

“It was your lack of attention, Mr. Black, that drove her into my office.”

“What?”

“In Portland I had a small ministry. She was quite vulnerable at the time.”

“You?
You’re
the one she dumped me for?”

“It was short-lived. When she saw you on that television segment, she became obsessed with seeing you again, absolutely refusing to let go of the notion. And so I granted her that opportunity.”

“And then killed her for it.”

“She was alive when I left. If I recall, you were the last one with her.”

“There was nothing I could do.”

“Succinctly stated. The human condition in a nutshell.”

Only three cars had passed along First Avenue as I stood here beneath the trees. I was trapped here with a madman, hostage to his knowledge of my mother’s whereabouts. I could feel the gun tucked into my jeans, but I told myself to stay calm, wait.

“Felicia did not deserve to die like that,” I said. “No one does.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken. We all deserve that. There are no saints in this life.”

“Oh really?
Saint
Boniface.”

“Granted. But are you aware that he, too, received theological training?”

“What?” I scoffed. “You really think you’re some kind of priest?”

“He was an apostle to eighth-century Germanic tribes, distinctly aware that conversion required unorthodox, even drastic measures. One day he took an ax to a huge oak tree, their tribute to Thor. When the tree fell and split apart, he taunted the Saxons: ‘How stands your mighty god? My God is stronger than he.’ ”

“A fitting day to face your enemies,” I mouthed.

He grinned at me.

“And that’s why you get to chop into people?”

“The ax is a tool of salvation, as shown by Saint Boniface himself. We must all die to the old self.”

“It’s a
metaphor
, Newmann. You die figuratively, not physically.”

“Is that what you think?”

I watched him pace from the bench to the low fence overlooking the Cumberland, then back toward me with rage painted into every pore, every crevice of his face. Despite his thin frame, he carried himself with an imposing air. Gone was the weak demeanor that had served his disguise.

“You have
no idea
, Mr. Black. None whatsoever! I lost my first wife long ago. She was nineteen, I was twenty, and she was struck
down
, instantly dead. Taken from me by the sword of judgment.”

“And you think she deserved it?”

“Nooo!” He shoved a bony finger into my chest, staring at it as he pushed.

I swiped his arm away.

“Don’t you see?” he went on. “
I’m
the one.
I
deserved it.”

“That much I believe.”

“We were newlyweds. She was out for the afternoon, on the golf course. While I was fornicating with her best friend beneath our own bedsheets, my wife was struck by lightning. Only
nineteen
. Dead. Blown
right out of her shoes
.”

I considered his words, the agony behind them. “So now the rest of the world has to pay.”

He filled his lungs and brought his voice down to a level pitch. “God took her from me—a severe lesson. Woe is me if I fail to show others the true wages of their sin. It’s much more than a metaphor, Mr. Black. Much more.”

“And that’s what gives you the right to kill people? That’s crazy.”

“The shell of the old self must be destroyed. Few ever comprehend that.”

“Okay. Stop. Take me to my mom.”

“Earlier I invited you for a stroll. Have you changed your mind?”

I ground my teeth. “I’m dying for a stroll.”

“The Masonic ring. May I see it?”

“I have it. But what’s so important about an old heirloom?”

“You have your family secrets. I have mine.”

“In your e-mail you said I could join the family circle.”

“The ring, please. Assure me that you’ve followed through on your end.”

“Not till I see her.”

“I can live without the ring. Can you say the same about your mom?”

I shrugged. “It’s been over twenty years now. She’s a stranger to me.”

The words were sour in my mouth, biting in my throat, but I ignored the taste of them. I would eat my words—eat the bile of my own past sins—if it would give me back the one woman I’d ever loved without reserve.

“She’s no stranger to
me
,” he taunted. “She’s my wife.”

My hand slid around my back, trembling. In seconds, I could end this.

“The incident at the river crippled her. The first gunshot put her in a wheelchair. I cared for her, fed and bathed her, filled her prescriptions.”

“I saw you punch her full in the face!”

“We all require correction at times.”

I swung my Desert Eagle into view. Clicked off the safety.

“What is this, Mr. Black?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think I would come unarmed? Lay a hand on her again, and I’ll blow a hole through your skull.”

“The old self is still very much alive, I fear.”

“It’s not your place to change it.”

He shook his head as though his star pupil had failed an exam.

“Which way?” I snapped. “Take me to her now, ‘new man.’ ”

D
aylight splashed over the pitched roofs of the stockade and dribbled across the courtyard through cracks in the log fencing. I followed my foe along the walkway, behind and to the right, just out of his reach. His arms moved with military stiffness.

Where was Mom? What had she endured?

We rounded the corner of the blockhouse. My eyes ran ahead, hoping for an indication of her whereabouts. I had to stay focused. The details of her forced captivity—if she’d been married to him, that’s exactly what it had been—were more than I could handle right now.

First things first. Breathe, evaluate, act rapidly …

“Do you consider yourself a student of history?” Newmann asked, looking back at me. “Would you care for an abridged lesson on the Pilgrims?”

“Are you even a real teacher? Or was that part of the disguise?”

“Lipscomb is an accredited university. Don’t be foolish.”

I waved the gun. “Keep walking.”

He continued straight ahead along First Avenue. “A number of the Pilgrims were imprisoned for their secret gatherings of worship. Some went into hiding for printing religious tracts critical of the king. As a group, they were looked upon with suspicion by the Church of England, and they—”

“Would you shut up?”

“You asked about the ring.”

“The Stuarts. The Masons. Yeah, I know. And Brewster ended up with it.”

“Elder William Brewster—that’s correct. An intuitive bit of research.”

“Keep moving. This better be leading to my mom.”

“My wife.”

“Move it!”

He turned at the end of the stockade, led me up a set of steps back toward the river. “Initially,” he said, “Brewster’s boss, Secretary of State Davidson, received the ring from Mary, Queen of Scots as a bribe to aid in her defense, which he failed to do. After the execution, Queen Elizabeth shifted blame to Davidson for the entire debacle.”

“So why’s it so valuable?”

“Brewster removed the ring from Davidson’s belongings and claimed it as his own, even engraved his family name into it. He recognized its importance as a Masonic emblem and as a signpost leading back to Templar mysteries in the Holy City.”

“Jerusalem?”

“There are secrets still buried there.”

“On the phone you told my brother it’d been stolen from your family.”

“Mr. Black, in seeking to break loose from England’s restraints, many of the Pilgrims lost their lives. When Elder Brewster boarded the
Mayflower
, he understood the price they’d have to pay.”

“The old for the new.”

“Yes. I’m privileged to be a descendant of his wisdom.”

I realized we had circled and arrived back near our starting point. Beyond the low fence, the bluff dropped off toward the river’s muddied currents. “If you’ve hurt her”—I reached forward and pushed the .40 caliber into his back—“you’ll never see your precious heirloom. Where
is she
?”

“Doing penance.”

I followed his gaze over the edge just as he spun away from me with his own weapon, the tapered blade glinting in the early sunlight.

“You put her down there?”

“The ring first.”

“Where is she?”

“If one only has eyes to see.” Newmann moved to the fence and pointed with his knife at a rope knotted to the upper horizontal support. It disappeared into the thick foliage below. His hand snaked under the braided strands and brought the blade up underneath it, severing a few strands of the twisted fiber. “She’s in the water.”

“No!”

“She’s been baptized before, though the last time was warmer.”

I leaned out over the rail, tried to track the rope through leafy vines.

“Her mouth is taped, as are her hands,” he explained. “She’s almost completely submerged. If you were to pour one of your coffeehouse creations over ice, it would be no colder than she is now.”

The slope plunged forty feet to the river’s edge. Where did the rope end?

“The surface may look calm,” he went on, “but it hides a strong current. There are rocks and submerged hazards below. I’ve heard that search teams often discover corpses miles downriver, though that may just be urban legend.”

“I can’t see her.”

“If I were to cut the rope—and that would take very little, I assure you—she would plunge twenty-seven feet to the bottom. Assuming the measurements there are accurate.”

I followed his nod. Where the pier jutted into the Cumberland, a corner pylon showed depth readings in feet.

My eyes ran back along the bank, still finding no sign of her. Was he lying? Had I been played again? For six days I’d clung to a hope so ridiculous it strained the limits of credibility. It could all be one horrible deception.

The time had come, at last, to winnow out the truth.

“You’re full of it, Newmann.” My grip tightened on the Desert Eagle. “You’ve lied to me from the start.”

“Are you willing to take that risk?”

“She’s not down there.” I aimed the barrel at him. “She’s dead. She’s been gone for twenty-one years.”

“Oh?”

“And now so are you.”

My heart pounded in my throat, nerves jangling beneath my skin. My arm began to shake. The only thing keeping me from drilling a round into his smug head was my concern it would endanger my mother. If she wasn’t alive, if this was my psyche coming apart at the seams, then I had nothing to lose. I’d give this man a taste of his own religious psychobabble. The shell would be destroyed.

The old self into the new …

Yes, God transforms people. I was living proof. But rebirth didn’t come through my own good deeds or sacrifice. It happened through the redeeming act of God’s Son on the cross.

So why did I still struggle, wallowing in the sludge of my past? In the guilt? Why did I still feel the old credos dictating my emotions?

And what was I doing with this gun in my hands?

“Okay, listen.” I clicked on the safety and laid down my weapon. “I’ll play this your way. Just take me to her. Please.”

“She’s there. Try looking from that angle.” He jutted his chin.

My phone shook in my pocket. I ignored it, keeping an eye on him and craning for a view over the rail. Bushes, vines, and—