A Shred of Truth (5 page)

Here’s the thing: I’ll read the classics someday, but for now I’ve got spreadsheets and bills to worry about.

At this rate, I’ll be a toothless wonder by the time I finish
White Fang
.

I waited for the ancient computer to boot up. Clicks and whirs preceded the monitor’s gradual awakening. I logged on to my e-mail account and found a smattering of messages, including a response to my complaint about a recent eBay purchase, but that could wait. The ultimatum from AX was all that mattered.

I moved the mouse, let the cursor hover.

Click …

The sender’s address was one of those encrypted accounts that requires no ID and makes it difficult to trace. My heart rate kicked up a few notches as I read the words once more.

Had he seen me talking to Meade? What was his objective here? My brother had mentioned the caller’s comments a few days ago, about something stolen. Was it connected? Or a false lead?

I hit Print, and my ancient IBM printer snorted, brayed in protest, then sent dots galloping across the paper. The message was evidence, a glimpse into the mind of some sicko. Was that scripture he had quoted? I thought of Johnny bleeding under the statue. Anyone willing to slash his fellowman and torch a homeless woman was either severely lacking in moral fiber or …

Or just seriously screwed up in the head.

I dialed Johnny’s number, then Sammie’s. Left messages for both. Didn’t they ever answer their phones?

My fingers tapped at the keyboard, shooting off a reply to the threatening e-mail. Contact the cops? I asked. No. I could deal with this one on my own. I’d get some solid answers, or I’d rip out someone’s throat.

Call it a character flaw, but I don’t have it in me to play into fear trips. I have no problem defending those I love, and with a quick jaunt back to my place, I’d arm myself for the approaching rendezvous. Johnny Ray and I may have our differences, but he’s family.

“Aramis? Knock, knock.”

“Hey.” I stuffed the printout into my pocket. “Need help with the lunch rush?”

“Pretty dead actually.”

“Bet a lot of our business is over at the festival at Centennial Park. What’s going on?”

Diesel glanced over his shoulder and punched at the doorframe. “Anna won’t quit with the mothering stuff.”

I smiled. “She’s got a big heart, Diesel. She cares.”

“Like I don’t get harped on enough already.”

“She’s your shift supervisor, so work with her the best you can.”

“If you say so.” He mumbled something unintelligible, then diverted my attention with a finger pointed at the monitor. “You seen how our urban legend’s doing?”

“Let’s take a look.”

With a quick Google search, we found links to the Wikipedia article, a genealogical site, even an editorial from a respected local newspaper. The legend had also been noted by Snopes.com with a yellow bullet to indicate “undetermined veracity.”

“Hey, that’s better than a red bullet,” Diesel said.

“Not bad so far, huh?”

Within a few weeks, thousands would be spreading the rumor that one of the founders of the Ku Klux Klan, Civil War general Nathan Bedford Forrest, had been the product of a tryst between his dirt-poor white mother and a strapping young slave from a nearby plantation. The KKK’S secrecy would only muddy the waters regarding his bloodline.

“Think we’ve got a winner,” I said.

“Bones better give me an A.”

“I’ll warn him to grade wisely,” I kidded.

“He’s a blow-hard. This is between him and me.”

Diesel’s intensity sounded an alarm in my head, but I saw no need to get involved. It was his life to lead, and I had my own blow-hard to warn off, with our introduction fast approaching.

Cheekwood Botanical Gardens would close in less than an hour, which meant most of the Saturday visitors were wrapping up their self-guided tours of the massive estate. I paid the fee at the gate and drove the long approach between the brick pillars, past the Pineapple Room Restaurant and the greenhouse, to the museum’s parking lot.

Was the freak watching? Did he know my Honda Civic?

I parked in the shade of an elm tree. Keeping my arms low, I double-checked the safety on my Desert Eagle before shoving it into my jeans, where it’d go unnoticed beneath my black T-shirt and the untucked button-down.

A dangerous combination, me and guns, I’m well aware. My heart pounded as I climbed from the car, and I cautioned myself to keep cool.

“Ready or not.”

The tranquil scenery lent a hand at calming my senses. Slopes of grass swept beneath Japanese maples and curled around terraced gardens, providing bright green contrast to tulips, violas, and pink and yellow trillium. From the herb garden, spicy whiffs mixed with the fragrance of roses, while bubbling fountains enhanced the serenity.

I’d done some quick reading at the Cheekwood Web site, gotten some history and an idea of our rendezvous point. Fewer surprises the better, right?

Annually, the estate draws over 130,000 visitors with its trails, gardens, and statuary. Totaling thirty thousand square feet, the original Cheek Mansion displays European and American art, a collection of Worcester porcelain, and rotating temporary exhibits.

While the Cheeks may not be familiar to most Americans, the source of their fortune is: In the 1920s, Joel Cheek developed a blend of coffee that was served in Nashville’s premier hotel, the Maxwell House. Postum, now known as General Foods, bought the business from him for forty million dollars, enabling the family’s purchase of this vast woodland on the west side of town.

Forty mil. And here I was, trying to pay off loans at my espresso shop.

I surveyed the rolling hills that surrounded the mansion and narrowed in on the massive structure. If this confrontation resulted in any damage, the Cheek family and their art foundation could afford the repairs.

I checked the museum’s rows of windows as I made my way along the curved drive. Was AX already up there? The gun—fully loaded with ten rounds in the clip, one in the chamber—poked into my stomach with each step. Overhead, clouds had formed a cast-iron lid over the Cumberland Basin, and the day’s heat simmered.

Cautious steps carried me through the entry into a two-story foyer, where an English mantel clock showed I was a few minutes early.

My cell rang. It was the number at Black’s.

“Hello?”

“Aramis. Diesel here. Guess who’s standing at the counter.”

“Listen, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”

“It’s Professor Bones. In the flesh. Get it?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Says he needs to talk to you. You must’ve missed class one too many times. Here he is.”

I sighed and waited.

“Hello, Mr. Black.”

“Professor Newmann?”

“You know, as we speak I’m indulging in one of your famed white mochas.”

“Glad you like it.”

“Of course, this’ll play no part in your final grade.”

“Sure.” I followed the foyer staircase to the second-floor landing. “Professor, not to be rude, but I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.”

His voice was reedy, breathy, like a woodwind instrument barely holding its tune. “I stopped in, hoping to speak with you in person. It could wait until
Monday evening, I suppose, but the classroom setting’s never ideal for one-on-one discussion.”

“Am I supposed to know what this is about?”

Tension filled the silence. “Excuse me,” Newmann said at last. “Listening ears, you understand.”

“Not exactly.”

“Were Desmond to know what I have to share with you, it might only increase the pressure on him to achieve scholastic excellence.” He paused again. “I’ve received threats from his father.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m half inclined to report it to the university’s president.”

“You should. But why’re you telling me?”

“Because Mr. Hillcrest mentioned your name as well. Apparently he blames you and your brother for his son’s struggles.”

“I’ve never even met Diesel’s dad. And what’s my brother got to do with it?”

“You’re welcome to ask. He’s just now come through the door.”

“There? At my shop?”

Scratching on the other end. Some whispering. “Howdy,” Johnny Ray said. I sighed in relief. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, kid. Been in the studio. You oughta hear this new track we’re layin’ down.”

“Did you get my message? I’ve been … you know …”

“Worried about me?”

“Yeah.”

“Still in one piece. My Palm Pilot slid under the bench in my truck. That thing’s nothing but a distraction.”

“Did Detective Meade swing by?” I scanned the museum’s foyer, feeling as if I was being watched.

“Yeah, but I was recording. I think they told him to come back later.”

“He was looking for details about last night. I’m thinking maybe you should lie low for a while.”

“Not gonna happen. With my tour kickin’ off next week, this was just some free advertising. My publicist sent out a press release: ‘A Cutting-Edge Artist.’ ”

“That’s sick and wrong.”

“Hey, we’re already getting calls from CMT and
Access Hollywood
.”

“Happy for you. But you make me a promise this time.”

“Yeah?”

“Stay put, and don’t leave the shop till I get back.”

“Nice to know you care, but you’re talkin’ to a hungry man here.”

“Grab whatever you like. It’s on me.” I saw a figure flit through a doorway on the second floor. “Do me a favor. I’ve got to go, but call Sammie. See if she knows anything about that redhead last night.”

“Good thinkin’. She knows just about everyone in this town.”

“I’m worried about her. She hasn’t called me back.”

“That’s not like Sammie. Is this about that urgent call she got at the park last night?”

“Yes yes. Call her for me. Gotta go.”

“You wouldn’t be getting into more trouble now, little brother? You promised.”

“Back as soon as possible.”

I snapped the phone shut and looked up at the mantel clock: 3:59 p.m. One minute to showdown. An elderly woman stood nearby, a museum volunteer with kind eyes and powdered cheeks. Behind her, a large-bellied security guard was making his rounds. After asking for the Fabergé exhibit and being given the option of an elevator or the sweeping staircase, I felt my .40-caliber gun jostle against my skin with the ascent of each stone step.

Time to do this.

I was armed, feeling justified and vindictive.

Nothing prepared me, though, for the sight of the person turned away and slightly bent at the waist, hands clasped behind the back, eyes gazing at a Fabergé imperial egg. The slender frame made me hesitate, but the face reflected in the glass case caused me some real confusion.

F
elicia?”

My former girlfriend straightened and swiveled toward me. We hadn’t seen each other since Portland, and volatile emotion whipped through my chest. What was she doing here, this woman who’d left me for another man? Had she sent the e-mail?

A part of me wanted to throw out hurtful words and head back the way I’d come. Another wanted to pull her into an embrace and keep her close, bury my nose in that shiny blond hair the way I used to do.

I stood riveted to the hardwood.

“Aramis, you look good.”

“What’re you doing here? You live in Nashville now?”

“Just visiting for a few days actually.” She tilted her head back, looked at me from beneath her straw hat tied with a yellow ribbon. Her knee-length spring dress was circled by a white belt matching her gloves. “I was hoping to see you.”

“Here I am.”

“You sound upset.”

“You cheated on me. Remember how we ended this two years ago?”

She took a step toward me. “You weren’t the same person I’d fallen in love with. And I lost everything trying to make it work.”

“And then you left. Didn’t seem you hoped to see me again.”

Another step. “Maybe I was hasty. You gave me no choice.”

“Hey, I didn’t tell you to go.”

She was three feet away now, her cobalt blue eyes studying mine. They were darker than I recalled, more melancholy. “I heard a rumor you’d changed.”

“From who?”

“Is it true?” she persisted.

I looked past her. We seemed to be alone in the exhibit hall, yet the threat of evil still lingered. What were the odds of her being here at this time? No, she had to be connected—maybe even responsible.

But that couldn’t be.

During our relationship I’d never seen her swat a fly, much less carve initials into human flesh. As for quoting Bible verses in e-mails, she’d come from an overbearing religious background but never been the Bible-thumping type herself. Far from it.

“It’s true,” I said. “I have changed.”

She stood a foot in front of me. “Your response here leaves some doubt.”