A Shred of Truth

  My cell quivered against my thigh. Detective Meade’s number.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Get any sleep last night?”

  “Tried. Didn’t work.”

  “I’m headed over to Bicentennial,” he told me. “Should be there in ten.”

  “What’s going on? Is Hillcrest coming this way?”

  “Yes, he’s been on the road since very early.”

  “Any idea if my mom’s in the car?”

  “That has not been confirmed.”

  “She could’ve been in his garage or basement. Out of sight.”

  A cautious tone. “That’s possible.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “State troopers took over surveillance about an hour ago as he crossed in from Kentucky. They’re in unmarked vehicles, well back—a safeguard really, in case he pulls off and tries to switch cars or anything.”

  My eyes were surveying my environs. “Don’t spook him. Please.”

  “They know the situation, I assure you. Either way, I’m carrying a GPS unit that’s got Mr. Hillcrest’s number pegged. Can’t hide from the satellites, and I see that he’s coming down I-65 as we speak. Won’t be long before his arrival.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “You stay put while we get into position. And do nothing—I repeat, nothing—that will endanger yourself. I’d rather not wipe up your blood for breakfast.”

  “It’s the other guy you better worry about.”

  “I don’t like the tone in your voice, Mr. Black.”

  “He’s got my mother.”

  “We don’t know that, not yet.”

  “I know it.”

  In the spreading dawn, something caught my eye.

  “I’ve acted on that belief,” Meade was saying, “but don’t think I’ve been fully convinced. This is a long limb I’ve gone out on.”

  “And I appreciate that. Really. Bye for now.”

  “See you shortly.”

  I flipped the phone shut. Swallowed hard. I leaned forward to reposition my weapon in my belt under the sweatshirt, then climbed from the car and forged over grass and concrete toward the gray black wall. A specific section of the words carved into granite jumped out at me. They spoke of Lewis and his death in 1809.

  Below, attached with packing tape, a sheet of paper gave me my orders.

  I tore it free.

  AX was still playing games, toying with me. Obviously, he’d put this here much earlier. He got off on this manipulation, pretending to be God. What he didn’t know was that even if he changed location multiple times, it would still do him no good. Wherever Hillcrest went now, he was being tracked from the sky.

  Which raised a serious question.

  I shoved the note into my pocket, then speed-dialed the detective even as misgivings flooded my stomach with a sudden wave of nausea.

  44

  You’re positive?” I asked, as I drove from the park.

  “Absolutely. This is the first time he’s left Ohio since flying back on Sunday.”

  “And you’re sure it was Hillcrest who got in that car last night.”

  “There was visual confirmation, yes.”

  “Then tell me,” I pleaded, “how he got a message taped to the wall here.”

  “I’m still a few minutes away. Don’t move.”

  “Too late. I’m already heading to the new location.”

  “Where?” Meade wanted to know. “What’s the note say?”

  “Says to be at Fort Nashborough at 5:50 a.m.”

  “Down at the river front, less than two miles from your position.”

  “I have two minutes to get there.”

  “Won’t matter if you’re late, Aramis. Hillcrest is on I-65, already beyond the I-24 turnoff. He doesn’t appear to be headed there, and if he is, he’s delayed on his timing. Either way, we’ve got our eyes on wherever he goes. Hold up, if you would, and I’ll catch up to you at the park.”

  “Can’t wait. Sorry.” I followed James Robertson Parkway, veered right onto Third Avenue. “Plus, you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “About how the note got there? I have no solid answer.”

  “I do.”

  “Are you planning to divulge this information?”

  “Diesel,” I said.

  “Desmond Hillcrest, you mean. Drexel’s son.”

  “Meade, I’ve been blind. Just didn’t wanna believe it. Diesel’s the only one who knew I was having lunch with you on Sunday. He also knew you’d come into the store to talk about the e-mails I sent you.” Church Street carried me over cobblestones and right onto First Avenue. “He’s lived his whole life under his father’s thumb, trying to make that man happy. Probably just acting as an errand boy.”

  “I’d be cautious about that assumption. Children have been known to do unspeakable things for the sake of a parent.”

  “Got that right.” I swerved into a parking spot. “I’m signing off.”

  “Wait.”

  “I’m at the fort. Made it just in time.”

  “Keep talking to me, Aramis. Don’t disconnect or do anything rash.”

  “But if Mr. Hillcrest’s still on the road, there’s nothing to worry about, right? I’ll just check this out.” I dropped the phone into my pocket.

  For some reason, I was dead set on facing this alone. Was I doubting my own convictions about Mom’s survival? Preferring to face my self-deception in private?

  Or maybe I believed I’d find Diesel here. He’d been through a lot with his control-freak father, and my empathy with his mistreatment made me hope that if he was involved in this, there might be a chance of winning him over, of building on the friendship we’d started.

  A nice idea, sure. But I was in for a surprise.

  I stood at my car, peering up and down First Avenue. My Desert Eagle pressed against my spine, and I adjusted it beneath my sweatshirt. My pockets still held my cell and the multitool. The ring dangled in the felt bag between my jeans and thigh.

  What now? Was anyone here?

  Thursday. Five fifty a.m. The streets were mostly vacant.

  On First, downtown buildings face the Cumberland River in an unbroken line, their historic facades brightened by the neon of the Wildhorse Saloon and Graham Central Station. Grass terraces descend to a vast concrete pier on the river front. Supply vessels used to dock at these banks, with porters walking up and down wooden planks, laden with burlap sacks and crates.

  I crossed to the gated entrance of Fort Nashborough.

  The stockade is a replica of the original fort that stood on this bluff above the river. Plaques tell the story of Colonels James Robertson and John Donelson who led a party of settlers here in 1780, then fought off Indian attacks and inclement weather so this seedling community could grow into present-day Nashville.

  Through metal bars, I looked in at the stockade’s courtyards and dwellings.

  Not one human in sight.

  On three corners of the fort, blockhouses rose from the spiked walls. I wondered if my mother could be in one of these defensive battlements, held hostage by Diesel. When Mr. Hillcrest arrived, he would ask for the ring and then release her.

  “Diesel!” I strode around the log structure. “Diesel, are you here?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Hillcrest?”

  Of course there was no response to that. He was still out on the road.

  Another phone call to Detective Meade. “No sign of anyone here,” I said. “Where’s Hillcrest now?”

  “Are you certain you have your facts straight, Aramis? Times, dates.”

  “Positive.”

  “Then I’m not sure what to think. He’s still on 65, proceeding south, and he’s bypassed all the downtown exits.”

  “Maybe he’s kept my mother locked up locally. Could be going to get her.”

  “Back to the theory of his son’s involvement?”

  “I hate to even think it. But, yes.”

  “We’re still
on him. Hold tight, and I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thanks.”

  I circumnavigated the stockade once more, then took a seat on a bench beneath a group of trees. Clouds were moving northeast. Across the Cumberland River, the sun was cresting over LP Field, home to the Titans football team.

  I pulled the crumpled note from my pocket and read it again, wondering if I’d missed something in my rush.

  Chop, chop, Aramis. Prepare “to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires … and to put on the new self.” You desire to see your mother, and indeed you shall. Take the ring to Fort Nashborough, 5:50 a.m.

  The old self. And the new. A continued tug of war.

  The scripture’s phrasing seemed to be from a more modern translation, going against both Chigger’s and Hillcrest’s stated preferences. Hillcrest had compared my brother’s drinking to a dog that “returneth to his vomit.”

  Maybe I’d been mistaken about this.

  From behind, in the deceptive stillness of the dawn, approaching footsteps caused my pulse to jackhammer. I spun on the bench and saw a gaunt figure less than ten feet away. Even in the shadows beneath these branches, I recognized the tweed jacket and tortoise-shell glasses.

  I jumped up. “Professor Newmann?”

  He seemed more relaxed than in class, his look less pinched, his walk easy.

  “Did I startle you?”

  “I … Well, I thought you might be Diesel.”

  “Desmond,” he said in his thin voice. “Is there a reason you’d fear him?”

  “Never mind. What’re you doing here?”

  “Morning strolls can be quite invigorating.” He came alongside me. “Why don’t you join me, Mr. Black?”

  “Got something else going at the moment.”

  “I’d enjoy the repartee.”

  I stepped back and looked around. “You live down here?”

  “Honestly, I have a certain fondness for this time of day.” He waved an arm toward the swirling hues of the sunrise. “It’s that moment when night fades and the new day dawns. It’s a true privilege to witness this transformation, the putting off of the old for the new.”

  Heat rushed up my neck. “What’d you just say?”

  “Time to become a new man.”

  Professor Boniface Newmann removed the spectacles, dropped them to the cobblestone path, and crushed them deliberately beneath his heel. Thin fingers reached through his plastered hair and shook it until it hung into his eyes.

  “Professor Newmann?” I said.

  “If you prefer the alter ego.” His voice had turned deeper, devoid of the characteristic reediness.

  “That’s not your real name?”

  “In a sense. I’ve been renewed—a new man—so I’m no longer bound by such facades.”

  I glanced at the trees and the stockade’s perimeter, where sunlight poked at the foliage. If he wanted surprise on my part or an angry denial, I could not—would not—give him that satisfaction.

  I’d been so blind. My overactive mind had misled me.

  Soon Diesel would be showing up for work at Black’s espresso shop. Mr. Hillcrest, at this very moment, was probably pulling into the student housing area at Lipscomb, hoping for the first glimpse at his son’s grades. Chigger was simply guilty of hating those whose skin didn’t match his. In his shoes, if someone had broken into my place with my sister alone in her room, I’d have been irate too.

  “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?”