A Shred of Truth (34 page)

He says something to me in French.

“I don’t understand,” I tell him.

Adorning his white tunic, a splayed red cross indicates he is one of the Knights Templar. My own tunic displays the same shape. We are brothers in arms, I realize, joined by a history of protecting the church’s treasures while warding off the heathen horde. We ourselves will plunder and kill—if that’s what is required—all in the name of the one true God. Amen!

“I don’t know French,” I tell my comrade. “Do you speak English?”

We resort to primitive hand gestures.

What?

There, you fool! Take it
.

I follow his pointing finger to the dead girl’s clenched fist. I kneel to pry
it open and take hold of a ring, one marked with dates and inscriptions. Behind me, the warrior drops to his knees and plunges facedown into a pile of dry horse dung.

He is dead, I realize.

And so am I.

The charging steed is upon me before I can react. I’m already wounded in the chest, but my mounted foe’s sword catches up under my chain-mail skirt and nearly slices me in two. I rise through the air and come down hard, already leaving the world behind.

As I’ve heard in stories, I feel my spirit rise. Spiraling, like the flight of a bird.

A curious sensation. Then …

Coming back down, falling, spinning against the grain.

My body quickens, with fluttering eyes. The ring remains in my grip, warmed from the heat of battle. With halting movements, my corpse rises to its feet. Steps over the dead and dying. Reaches the bank of a crimson-tinged river.

I am driven by a need. A desire to be renewed, made clean.

Legs march at my command, taking me down into the water, out into the rinsing torrent. I go all the way under. Open my eyes. I see swords and a crucifix wedged between stones along the river bottom.

Then the current tears at me, ripping the tunic and armor from my body. I watch my stains wash away. My wounds pucker and begin to draw closed.

I come up to the shore again, naked and new.

In my hand, the ring sparkles.

“You’re not listening to me, Johnny Ray.”

“What time is it?”

“Five fifteen,” I replied.

“In the morning?”

“I had this crazy dream. We need to talk.”

“Can we do this later, kid? Had a show last night in Tallahassee, and now we’re on the road to Birmingham.”

I switched tactics. “How’d that go? You pack the place again?”

“To the gills.”

“You get to try out that new song?”

“ ‘Livin’ with Your Ghost’? Crowd loved it, even had ’em singing along.”

“And then you stayed up late and partied. I know the scoop.” I paced the bedroom, my eyes playing over the items on my windowsill. I knew that a tired and hung-over Johnny would be easier to press for information. “Listen. Can you just tell me where that ring is? I’m begging you.”

“Done told you already. It’s in Oregon.”

“The lady’s name—that’s all I’m asking. Then you can go back to sleep.”

“Aramis—”

“And don’t give me that line about stirring up trouble. I’m a big boy. I can handle it. There’ll be a lot more trouble if you don’t cough up an answer.”

He yawned, long and unrestrained. “Don’t mean to sound like one of them prima donnas, but this tourin’ stuff’ll wear serious holes in your hide.”

“Give. Me. The. Name.”

He sighed and surrendered.

“Thank you, Johnny. Thank you. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Jillanne Brewster …

One call to Oregon’s directory assistance, and I had her phone number.

With less than twenty-four hours till my meeting at Bicentennial Mall Park, I knew of no delivery service that could get Ms. Brewster’s ring to me
in time, assuming I could talk her out of it in the first place. And considering the gap between Central and Pacific Time, I knew I’d have to wait before dialing her number.

Six thirty a.m. here. Four thirty there.

Catching my brother half-asleep was one thing, but waking a complete stranger was a different matter. I’d take no chances. I might have only one shot at coaxing information from her.

“Diesel, am I ever glad to see you.”

He clocked in and stepped behind the counter. “Are you leaving me?”

“I’ll try not to be too long.” I grabbed a cheese Danish from the bakery display. “Just something I have to do.”

To his credit, he faced the line of customers without complaint.

I hurried to my computer, intent on fitting together the final pieces of research. I took one big bite, then started tapping at the keys.

“Virescit Vulnere Virtus … Courage grows strong at a wound.”

Mary, Queen of Scots had used this phrase in the 1500s, and as I panned through her history, I realized she was my link between the Freemasons, the Knights Templar, and the present Brewster family.

I fixed my eyes on the screen.

“Mary, Queen of Scots … Royal heir to Templar secrets.”

Born in 1542 to Mary of Guise and King James V of Scotland, she became queen six days later upon her father’s death. With bloodlines linked to French, Scottish, and English thrones, she was a threat to many. A triple queen.

After years of turmoil, she became a long-term prisoner to her relative, Queen Elizabeth. Many of her jewels and royal baubles disappeared. Eventually, she was put on trial at Fotheringhay Castle and beheaded.

With many Scots claiming—even into the present day—that England’s throne had been built on this brutal injustice, Queen Elizabeth realized she
needed a scapegoat. She threw forward her secretary of state, a Mr. William Davidson.

By doing so, she cut short the diplomatic career of his assistant.

William Brewster…
assistant to Secretary Davidson.

This was same Brewster who once served as a local English postmaster, faced harassment for involvement with religious radicals, and later joined the
Mayflower
expedition to the New World in 1620.

He became Elder William Brewster, spiritual leader to the Pilgrims.

Thoughts swirling, I gobbled down the last of the Danish.

Had Mary, Queen of Scots tried to bargain for her life with the ring? Had an illicit romance caused her to lower her guard, as she’d been prone to do in the past? What secrets had been handed down, stolen, or coerced from the ill-fated queen?

At nine a.m., I called Jillann Brewster in hopes of answering that question.

T
he fourth ring, the fifth. Maybe caution had gotten the best of me. It was seven a.m. on her end, and she might’ve left for work already.

Sixth ring.

C’mon, answer. Someone, anyone
.

On the seventh ring, a breathless voice came on the line. “Good … ahh … morning … Jillanne speaking.”

“Jillanne. Sounds just the way it looks.”

“Yes … ahh … Do you mind telling me who’s calling?”

“Sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”

“Out for … ahhhh … jog.”

“A fitness buff, huh? I used to live in Oregon. There’s a lot of that.”

A long pause. Jillanne said, “Yes, I’m trying. Who did … you say is calling? Or did you tell me that already?”

“Name’s Aramis Black. I’m calling from Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Oh, really? I’m a big country-music fan.”

“Not my thing,” I admitted. “With one exception.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said in a resigned tone. “Shania Twain.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t tell you the name of one of her songs.”

“Oh? I’m liking you more by the minute. Why’d you say you were calling?”

“You know the name Johnny Ray Black?”

“Isn’t he that new guy, the one who sings ‘Tryin’ to Do Things Right’? That man’s got prettier hair than I do.”

“Yeah. Lotsa shampoo and conditioner.”

“Hold on there. You’re a Black, you say? From Nashville?”

“Yeah, Johnny’s my brother. He called you a few months back.”

“If he did, I never got the message.” She sounded flustered, disappointed. “You sure it was me he was after?”

“He says he sent you a ring that belonged to your family.”

“A ring.” She breathed into the phone. “Yes, I did get that. But he never told me his name. If I’d known, I would’ve at least asked for an autograph.”

“I can arrange that.”

“Really? I don’t mean to be a burden.”

“Not at all. He … I mean, we just need one thing. It’s about the ring.”

“Please tell me he’s not asking for it back. It’s a family heirloom, Mr. Black.”

“No no no. Nothing like that.”

“It’s very precious to me.”

“Yes, I’m sure. All I need are some details. The symbols, the Latin inscription—that sorta thing. After that, I’ll leave you alone.”

“And you’ll send an autograph, you say?”

“Even one better. How about a signed T-shirt?”

Jillanne started to talk, stopped, then blurted, “Can you make it an extra, extra large?”

“No problem.”

“You need a place to send it, but I don’t feel right giving out my street address. Nothing personal, of course. Here’s a PO box instead.”

“Good to be careful.” I jotted down the info. “One T-shirt on its way.”

“Oh, I can’t wait. Now if you’ll hold on, I’ll go get the ring and tell you anything you’d like to know. Even better, I can e-mail a picture of it.”

On my monitor, the photograph was clean and simple.

Brewster
and
1644
were stamped into the heavy gold band. Intricate patterns were carved into the signet circle, wrapping around a
B
monogram. Inscribed along the inner circumference was the favored Latin phrase of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Did those patterns form a map or something? Was there some priceless bounty to be uncovered? Maybe a relic with miraculous powers.

Based on my research, the ring seemed to have passed from the Pilgrims to Founding Fathers with Masonic ties. From generation to generation, it had worked its way down into the hands of Master Meriwether Lewis of St. Louis Lodge no. 111.

Before his doomed final journey, he hid the signet ring with the rest of his cache. I was sure he meant to come back for it, to continue guarding its mysteries.

But fate had another plan.