I broke the surface, gasping, filthy water pouring from my face. My fingers found loose stones on the steep bank. I scrambled for footing on uneven rock, then turned and started pulling on the rope. Reeling in against the pain.
Slack, slack, slack … tension.
How long had Mom been under? How deep had she gone? Bound as she was and with her useless legs, she could have done little to resist the current. Ignoring the burn in my palms, I waded back a few steps and cranked on the rope, willing her to surface.
“Come on!” I screamed.
Something splashed nearby. Voices called out. I was too focused to pay attention.
My bottom lip was split, bleeding.
My arms near spent.
My legs and torso aching.
Shaking, I could feel my body giving way to the pull of the hungry river at my feet.
A glimmer of color sloshed beneath the Cumberland’s muddied palette.
Mom!
Feet came crashing through the shallows, and then Detective Meade was at my side, tugging with me. The snap of the rope resonated through my bones. The rope’s angle grew sharper until she was there, rising from the water into the land of the living.
She came up, gasping, crying, sputtering for air—but alive.
I stumbled toward her, peeled back the soggy tape, and lifted her body into my arms. She was lighter than I’d expected, yet so tangible. So real. Tears spilled down my cheeks as she breathed my name.
There was no sweeter music.
46
Black’s espresso shop, 2216 Elliston. This was the place to be.
Glistening coffee bags stood in the retail rack beneath a sign introducing my newest blend. At a table beside the display, Dianne Lewis Black shook customers’ hands, accepted hugs, and signed bag upon bag of Mom’s Memory Blend, putting my brother’s autograph lines to shame.
I crouched beside her wheelchair. “He’s on his way.”
“He’d better be,” she said, eyes twinkling. “My wrist is cramping.”
I laughed, fearing it might unleash another rush of emotion I could not control. This scene was surreal. Despite all the years, we’d been brought together again.
Mom was here. In my shop. Sipping my coffee.
“Mom,”—it felt good to say that—“you wanna take a break?”
“What? No. I’m making you money hand over fist. Which is a good thing, considering your fists are out of commission.” She nodded to my bandaged hands, and I smiled. She asked, “How much longer till Johnny Ray arrives?”
“Not long now. He’s canceled tonight’s show to be here.”
“I hope I’ll get to hear him play.”
I pointed to the corner stage. “You’re gonna get your wish.”
“He always dreamed of being a big music star, you know? Even as a little boy. I had to scold the two of you for jumping around on the bed, playing air guitars.”
“Me? I don’t remember that.”
She touched my cheek. “There’s a lot I don’t remember, Aramis. A lot I don’t wanna remember. But that picture’s one I’ll never forget.”
Coffee beans are among the most studied natural substances in history. A number of researchers believe the aroma of brewing coffee can release mood-enhancing endorphins. Some say these chemicals can trigger the healing process. And all agree that smell is closely linked to memory.
I ground another batch of Mom’s Memory Blend, breathing in the rich aroma, praying for healing of my family’s memories. We had so much to look forward to. So much to be thankful for.
And a few things to be aware of.
Earlier, Detective Meade had stopped by. He hinted at a coming shake-up among the Kraftsmen. Even if not admissible as evidence, the discovery of blood on the horsewhip had stirred the suspicions of local law enforcement.
“In the weeks to come, Freddy C may be called as a witness.”
“I’m sure he’d be honored,” I said.
Meade also explained that Mr. Hillcrest’s trip to Nashville had involved the gift of a new computer system for his son. Diesel’s grades proved he was climbing the academic ladder. He and I would have a few things to discuss, but I couldn’t be too hard on him. He’d never meant to cause any damage.
Most of us never do.
“Oh, and one last thing, Aramis.” Meade’s coal black eyes froze me in place. “We found some evidence downriver.”
“Spill it.”
“Fresh footprints and bloodstains along the bank a quarter mile beyond the Fort Nashborough site. We’ve sent alerts to medical facilities throughout Middle Tennessee. The man using the alias Boniface Newmann has been wounded, but I don’t think he’ll be foolish enough to stay in the area. Not with police bulletins out for his arrest.”
“What about my mom? Do you think he’ll come after her?”
“If he does, he’ll be walking right into my handcuffs and a loaded Glock.”
“Speaking of.”
Meade anticipated where I was headed. “It’s been recovered as evidence from the scene, a .40-caliber Desert Eagle registered in your name.”
“It scared me,” I said, recalling the surge of adrenaline. “I thought I was going to kill him.”
“To hold the law in your own hands is a powerful thing.”
“Yeah.” My eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that.”
Johnny’s set was unannounced, but the shop started filling as word passed around West End. Fifteen minutes before he kicked things off, the place was packed with friends, regulars, and fans of his brand of modern-edged country music built around traditional mandolins, fiddles, and an upright bass. Chigger was there too, his showmanship and artistry bringing the set to life.
No denying the man had talent.
I noticed Trish working at the music-merchandise table, and I walked over. “I see your brother actually let you outta the house.”
“Miracles never cease. I met your mom, by the way. I can see where you got those expressive eyes of yours.”
“Uh. Thanks.”
“I brought something for you.”
“For me?” I accepted a small bag. “If anything, I owe you an apology.”
“For sneaking onto our property and tranquilizing the dogs?”
“Yeah.”
“Just another day on the farm. Besides, you got me up and moving. Chigger’s other so-called friend never showed. What about Freddy’s leg?”
“He was here earlier. Said the stitches come out next week.”
“That’s a relief.” She waggled her finger. “Now open it.”
“Should I guess what’s inside?”
“I’ll give you a hint. Can you spell the name Robicheaux?”
“Burke’s new hardcover?”
She beamed as I pulled out the book and flipped through the pages.
“Thanks,” I said. “Hey, before I forget. Can you put aside one of the double-X T-shirts for me? Need to send it out to a lady in Oregon.”
“You bet.”
I went back to check on my mom.
“I’m fine, Aramis. Go on. You have a duty to your customers. We’ll talk more later.”
Reluctantly I weaved back through the crowd and took my place behind the mahogany bar.
Anna pulled two shots from the espresso machine. “There’s barely a seat left out there,” she said.
“We’re gonna be busy tonight.”
“You’re telling me, hon.”
“If it keeps up like this, I’ll have to give you that raise.”
“Really?” Her eyes brightened.
“Oh no. Wait.” I scanned the crowd behind me. “Hold on a sec. Sammie?”
Samantha turned from the other side of the counter, her hair sweeping the shoulder of her black satin top. “Yes?”
“Did you get that thing?”
“For that one thing?”
“Yeah, that thing.”
“Signed and sealed.”
“Well, Anna,” I said. “Look’s
like your raise will be on next week’s paycheck.”
“You jokers.” She winked. “But thank you.”
I slipped around the bar and nudged next to Sammie. “Played to perfection.”
She leaned into me to be heard over the rising clamor. “Your mother’s a sweetheart. You think she’ll be okay with the crowd?”
“She wouldn’t miss it. Johnny’s about to take the stage.”
“You certain of that?”
I followed her eyes. A black Stetson dangled from the microphone, but my brother was at the foot of the platform, his arms wrapped around Mom, his face buried in her neck. He’d been here nearly half an hour and had barely left her side. She brushed her fingers through his long hair, patted his back, then nudged him up.
“Go,” she mouthed. “Go.”
He nodded. Took a deep breath. Turned and hopped up to the mike.
The shop buzzed with anticipation as he combed back his golden mane, sniffed, and pulled on his hat. The band assembled and took up their instruments behind him. With one hand covering the mike, he addressed the crowd. “Thank y’all for coming. And thanks to my little brother for pulling this together at the last minute.” He nodded at me, and I nodded back. “Tonight”—he gestured with his hand—“is dedicated to my mother, who was taken from us years ago but has never left our hearts. And to my brother.” He looked my direction. “Thank you for bringin’ her back.”
Sammie squeezed my hand, and Mom threw me a smile that was full of pain and hope and love that had never died.
On the stage, Johnny Ray grabbed the mike in a dramatic sweep and called out, “So y’all ready to make some noise?”
Our brownstone was quiet. Mom was asleep in my bed, exhausted by the events of the day. I’d poked my head through the door, watched her eyes flutter with unknown dreams before settling into a peaceful state. She was beautiful. More beautiful than I remembered.
When I moved into the kitchen, I found my brother standing at the counter in his Tabasco boxers, draining a glass of vegetable purée.
“How can you stand that stuff?” I asked.
“Don’t start. When it comes to our diets, I betcha Mom’s on my side.”
I changed topics. “You did a great job tonight.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be home.”
“Home.”
“Got a whole different ring now, doesn’t it?” He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms. “Guess you’ve got another story to write.”
“I don’t know. It takes a lot out of me.”
“You gotta do it, kid.”
“Because you said?”
“Because Mom’s here. This time it’s not just for her memory. It’s so she can read it for herself.”
“Hard to argue with that.” Already ideas were forming in my head.
“You gonna leave me more clues to follow?”
“That’s exactly what I’ll do, but it won’t be so easy this time.”
“That a fact?” Johnny Ray studied me.
“This time you’ll have to string together the last letter from every chapter and see what it spells.”
“Another treasure to find?”
“You’ll just have to see.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Carolyn Rose (wife extraordinaire)—for backrubs, for energizing laughter, and for loving me despite everything you know about me.
Cassie and Jackie (daughters)—for your joy, for your ideas, and for protecting Dad’s writing time even when allowances were put on hold till the book was turned in.
Dudley Delffs (editor and friend)—for continued faith in novelists and words and for giving me that first opportunity.
Mick Silva, Shannon Hill, and Carol Bartley (editors)—for partnering to make this a better series in ways I could never conceive.
Commander Louise Kelton and Officer Bo Smith, Metro Nashville Police Department (North Precinct guardians)—for allowing a nosy novelist to ride along.
Linda Wilson (mother)—for ice-cream memories, garden tours, memorable cars, and years of encouragement to keep these fingers typing.
Mark Wilson (father)—for incredible support over the years and for recent insight into the world of law enforcement.
Sean Savacool (friend and writer)—for unconditional friendship and provocative ideas … May the Tennessee Inklings (the Tinklings) keep tinkling.
Valerie Harrell and Davin Bartosch (friends)—for insights from a Southern perspective and for putting up with this daydreaming co-worker.
Roosevelt Burrell and Hudson Alvares (management at FedEx Kinko’s)—for continued flexibility and full support of my writing goals.
Randy Singer, Kathryn Mackel, River Jordan, Robert Liparulo, Gina Holmes, Jeremiah McNabb, Todd Peterson, Ted Dekker, Vennessa Ng, Rick Moore, Chris Well, and many others (fellow novelists)—for honesty, friendship, and needed support.
Liorah and Kevin Johnson (friends and creative types)—for sharing your music and artistry for the cause of a local novelist … Ooh la la!
Ian Monaghan (brother-in-law)—for gallons of gas sacrificed on the altar of my research and for hands-on weapons knowledge.
Nashville Public Library (Edmondson, Bordeaux, and Main branches)—for places to study, daydream, and write in relative solitude.
As Cities Burn, Switchfoot, Demon Hunter, Mat Kearney, Flyleaf, Project 86, and Underoath (musical artists)—for sonic rejuvenation in the late-night hours.
I-Dragon-I (rock group)—for including my debut novel’s title in the lyrics of an honest, powerful song … Sweet!
Readers everywhere (the ones holding this book)—for following me on these journeys of plots, people, and ideas … Each word is dedicated to you.
I welcome your feedback at my Web site or e-mail address:
wilsonwriter.com
[email protected] The first in the
ARAMIS BLACK SUSPENSE SERIES
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Eric Wilson, A Shred of Truth
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