A Shred of Truth (9 page)

Okay. Forget playing nice. The moral high road sounded so smug, so righteous—until the threats became personal. First I’d find Johnny Ray and Felicia, take them down to the station, and place them under police protection. Then, after nightfall, I’d sneak onto the Cheekwood estate to retrieve my gun. Prey would become predator.

New ways, schnew ways … I’d do what had to be done.

Chop, chop.

On the steering wheel, my fingers itched for the weight of my Desert Eagle, for the familiar resistance of the trigger.

D
esperado Artist Development. Johnny had to be here.

I parked along the curb on Sixteenth. Clouds hovered over the treetops, and I rolled up my windows. A warm gust stirred freshly cut grass around my feet as I got out and headed past DAD’s black and silver lawn sign. Though the studio occupies a two-level brick home, it’s all business inside. The living room’s been converted into a front lobby, the upstairs into offices, the downstairs bedrooms into a soundproof studio and mixing room.

At the steps of the wraparound porch, I turned toward Sammie’s late-model Mustang in the driveway. No sign of my brother’s pickup. She must’ve given him a ride.

“Got a kickin’ set of wheels, doesn’t she?”

“Huh?” I looked up. “Oh. Hi, Chigger.”

Johnny’s goateed guitarist was leaning against a porch post, taking drags on a cigarette between sessions. He was in faded jeans, a paint-splattered hoodie, and a baseball cap sporting the initials C.S.A. over a Confederate flag.

“Ever had yourself a ride in that car?”

“Couple times,” I said. “Went out to Percy Priest Lake in it last year.”

“You and Sammie? Not gonna lie to ya. I’m jealous.”

“Johnny was with us.”

“Johnny Ray Black.” Smoke writhed from the man’s nostrils, through his
sideburns. His mouth curled into its standard sneer. “Can’t begin to tell ya how many times that boy’s come between us.”

Meaning the car? Or Samantha?

“He’s keeping you employed,” I pointed out. “Is he inside?”

“Whoa now, let’s get one thing straight. Chigger keeps
himself
employed, and if Chigger’s not feeling it, he’s got other places he can go.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Man’s gotta take pride in his work.” He swatted his cap against a thick leg. “Can’t let no one push him around.”

“What do the initials stand for?”

“C.S.A.?” He looked the hat over as though contemplating things best addressed in reverence. “Confederate States of America.”

“You into all that?”

“All what? I’m proud of my heritage. My great-great-granddaddy, he gave his life for this land. Fought for his loved ones.”

“Sure. You gotta protect your family.”

“A God-given right, yes sir. Says it there in the Con-
stee
-tution.”

“And then there’s the whole thing against slavery, right there in the Bill of Rights.”

Squinting, he took a long drag, then dropped and crushed the cigarette with his boot. His next phrase rang like a battle cry. “Mark my words: the South will rise again.”

Though numerous responses rushed to my lips, I couldn’t pretend to have a grasp of the Southern psyche. I do know slavery was wrong, but I also know Union troops were as guilty of wrongdoing as those they fought against.

“So have you seen my brother?” I stepped onto the porch. “Is he in there?”

“He’s here, all right, and he’s gonna regret it if he doesn’t start showin’ a li’l appreciation. Chigger’s about artistic freedom. Maybe you could go in and bend his ear. He might just listen to his kid brother.”

“Name’s Aramis.” The steps lifted me onto the porch.

Situating the cap back on his head, Chigger droned on. “ ‘Tryin’ to Do Things Right,’ my foot. Johnny Ray’s more about doin’ what suits Johnny Ray.”

“That so?”

“A blind man wouldn’t tell ya no different.”

My fists swung like hammers as I moved toward Chigger’s leaning post. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.”

“Doesn’t change the fact. He thinks he’s above listenin’ to Chigger—one of
the
best guitar players on Music Row. Man’s gonna learn the hard way that ain’t how things work. Hear this: I can knock ’em down as quick as I build ’em up.”

“You wanna talk about knockdowns?”

With chests almost touching, we locked gazes. His left eye twitched.

“Not that I meant nothin’ by it, Aramis.”

“ ’Course not.”

He backed into the railing. “You smoke?” He tapped his pack on his wrist, extended it my direction.

“Been a year and a half. Things’ll kill you.”

He put the pack back, tugged on his goatee. “You know, you’re bigger than your brother.”

“Just looks that way.”

“Johnny Ray’s in there and Sammie too. Get on in.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Door’s unlocked.”

“Hey.” I ordered my fists to loosen. “No hard feelings?”

He lit another cigarette and studied the glowing tip. “You talk to your brother for me.” Then he turned and propped both elbows on the railing, hiding his face from me.

In the darkened hallway, the walls glistened with autographed photos and certified gold albums. I stood at the thick glass, watching my brother belt out the chorus to his new song. He stopped once to discuss vocal arrangements with the producer in the booth, then closed his eyes and faced the suspended mike again.

Even through the hall speaker, his intensity reached my ears:

I’d never known him to use religious symbols in his lyrics before, and I wondered what this new direction indicated. As he repeated the chorus, the words seemed prescient, strangely fitting.

For most of my life, I’d pushed my mother’s absence to the back corners of my mind. There was no replacing the loss of a parent. Sure, the past year had reconnected me to her in ways I never imagined, yet the unveiling of her secrets also had led to hard truths about my biological father, the abuse I suffered as an adolescent, even the bond I shared with my brother.

Johnny seemed to be processing similar things through his music.

A hand on my shoulder snapped me back to the present. I turned to find Samantha Rosewood, slender and frail looking in the corridor’s shadows.

“Sammie. Didn’t hear you come in.”

Accentuated by honey-colored hair, her hazel eyes trailed up to mine.

“You okay?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

Her gaze slid off to my brother in the studio. “Doesn’t he sound good? Try as they might, they just can’t manufacture that kind of conviction.”

“Where’ve you been? You haven’t answered my calls.”

She faced the glass.

“Hey,” I urged. “Did you get my messages? Is something wrong?”

“It’s Miss Eloise,” she said.

Miss Eloise: Sammie’s lone remaining grandparent, a gentle woman whose medical issues had been an increasing cause for concern.

“Is she …” My breath caught in my throat.

“She passed during the night.”

“Sammie, I’m sorry. Have you told Johnny Ray?”

Sammie moved her head up and down. “The funeral-home director left this afternoon, and I went over to the shop. Johnny was so sweet, even offering to sing at the memorial.”

“He’s a good man.”

“He told me you were off on another of your escapades.”

“Escapades? Actually I was …”

“You were what?”

“Never mind.”

She scanned my face. “What is it?”

I shook my head. I knew it was her nature to try to take on my burdens, and that was something she didn’t need at the moment.

“Did she go in her sleep?” I inquired.

“Peacefully, yes, thank the Lord.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t totally unexpected.”

“Still.”

Never one to wallow in emotion, Sammie laid a hand to her heart, and her eyes bored into me with a brief unguarded look. “Thank you.”

She was alone, I realized. On her own. After she’d lost her parents to health problems a few years back, she used her trust fund to further her education—as stipulated by her father—and to volunteer regularly in the community. On a more personal level, she shared her parents’ sprawling Tyne Boulevard estate with Miss Eloise—bathing, feeding, and nursing her grandmother without complaint.

That security was now stripped away. Aside from distant cousins and an uncle in Cades Cove of East Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains, her immediate family was gone.

I opened my arms to draw her in, and she didn’t pull away. For a few moments, we stood there together, her pulse feathering against my chest. In increments, her stiffness melted.

“What can I do to help?” I whispered.

She shook her head.

“Anything. You just say it.”

“I appreciate that. I do. But no, there’s nothing at this point.”

“Are you okay to drive? You need me to take you somewhere?”

Though her lips turned up in a brave smile, her eyes were round and moist. She pretended to brush something from my shirt, then moved back a step. “I’m not the one who was ailing,” she reminded me. “I think I can operate a vehicle just fine.”

From the hallway speaker, bits of Johnny’s vocals washed over our conversation:

Sammie’s chin shifted, then recentered itself. Seeking balance.

I said, “If you need to … you know, talk—whatever—call me.”

“I will.”

“You’re not alone.”

She rubbed a finger against her temple, looked off past my shoulder. Her face softened as high cheekbones caught the glow of studio lights. “I mean that,” I reiterated.

“You’ve gone through your own loss, Aramis, so I know your sentiments are heartfelt. In all honesty, I’m just not sure I’m ready to hear it.”

“Understandable. You want to skip our dinner tomorrow?”

“Our Sunday supper? We still have business to discuss, don’t we?”

“It’s your call.”

“Let’s go ahead. There’s always comfort in routine.”

“Is J. Alexander’s still okay?”

She lifted her chin as though catching a breath. “If you’d reserve a corner booth, that’d be wonderful.”

Her show of strength riveted me. How she does it, I have no idea. Occasionally I spot a carefree spark in those eyes, and I imagine under there, somewhere, a little girl who once dove into piles of leaves and ran through sprinklers with abandon. She may be hidden for now, but she’s still there. I have to believe it. “Six o’clock,” I said. “I’ll try to be on time.”

“You’re usually pretty good about that.”

In my pocket, the brass bullet casing pressed against my thigh, a reminder that I shouldn’t be making promises on a day like today. “Listen, if I’m held up for some reason, you go ahead and order without me.”

“Now you have me worried.”

“I’m sorry. It’s nothing.”

“And I’m to believe that? You seem anxious. Does this have something to do with your escapade?”

I mumbled an affirmative.

“Something important?”

“Could be.”

“Well then, Aramis, I will be patiently waiting. You do what you have to do.”

O
n the streets, if you cave to intimidation, you’re as good as gone. That’s the law I grew up with. On my desk in Black’s office, my New Testament reminds me of a different law: the law of forgiveness. I often think about how, even when he was under arrest, Jesus refused to retaliate, and the apostle Peter took matters into his own hands, drawing his sword and slashing off a soldier’s ear.

Now there was a man I could relate to. Three cheers for San Pedro.

Except Jesus wasn’t pleased.

With one touch, he healed the wounded man and instructed Peter to put away his weapon. He told him, “Those who use the sword will die by the sword.”

Yeah. I knew all about that. Even got the tattoos to prove it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever escape the old patterns that seem etched into my being.

Although I’d promised my brother and the detective that I would stay out of trouble, it was Sammie’s concern in DAD’s studio that caused me to reconsider. By putting aside her own grief, she released me to do what had to be done and unknowingly infused me with a sense of responsibility. I thought of Mom. I thought of Sammie. It was time to resolve this issue with AX, yes—but not the way I’d planned.

Forget the Desert Eagle. No .40-caliber revenge this time.

Once Johnny Ray and Felicia were tucked away under the cops’ watchful eyes, I’d turn over the evidence—the stained razor blade, the empty casing, and the note—and let Metro’s finest take over.

I’d do it to honor my mother. And Sammie too.

End of story.