I wouldn’t have gone to the show if it weren’t for Johnny Ray and Sammie. They practically kidnapped me from my safe place on the couch. I protested but without much energy. They’d caught me napping during a televised PGA tournament.
“Headin’ out to Long Hunter State Park,” Johnny said. “On the other side of the lake.”
Sammie drove us in her new Ford Mustang. I thought the car was a bit out of character and blamed it on Johnny’s influence. Bringing out her wild side.
I thought of Brianne. Pushed the memory away.
The regrets would take time to fade, but there was no use wallowing in them.
We arrived at the park as a local animal shelter began its presentation. The trees, the water, the wildflowers all filled me with new wonder. Nature seems to do this to me. When I’m hiking along a massive limestone cliff, with a drop-off of hundreds of feet on one side, with vultures and eagles circling overhead, I realize my size. My place.
I feel small. And in some way, this makes me feel larger, more significant.
Proper perspective gives weight to our existence.
“This is what we brought you for,” Johnny said. “These animals are amazing.”
Sammie stood between us, her hair pulled up in a clip and catching the sun.
An animal trainer took us through an entertaining show, featuring creatures rescued in Middle Tennessee. We saw orphaned possums and raccoons, wounded foxes, a deer, eaglets that had been poisoned and barely survived. There was even a porcupine. We all backed up a few steps in nervous laughter.
The loudest laughs went to a crow with an eye for shiny objects. He frightened a few old ladies with large rings, then bobbed his head repeatedly, welcoming the crowd’s responses of mirth.
“Now the highlight of today’s presentation,” the trainer said. She donned a leather glove, and another trainer brought a hooded bird to her. “This is a red-tailed hawk. A male. It’s not uncommon to see these hawks soaring over the lake on a day like today. They are extremely efficient hunters, light and fast, with beaks and talons perfectly designed for capturing prey. You can imagine their grace in the air as they float on the thermals. They truly are works of art.”
The bird was turned, giving us a beautiful profile of amber and crimson feathers enhancing his streamlined shape.
“This particular bird was found after a tornado. He was a hatchling, blown from his nest.” The trainer turned and tapped the bird’s chest, causing it to stretch out its wing. “He was created for flight, and yet he’s never once flown on his own. As you can see, he’s missing a wing. The other was amputated after his fall from the tree.”
On one side, the red-tailed hawk had only a nub. I could hardly register that this magnificent bird was unable to lift off the ground. It seemed so wrong.
The trainer said, “Are you ready, boy? Let’s show ’em what you got.”
The woman started running, and the hawk, detecting the wind in its feathers, shot out the existing wing and lowered its head, visibly thrilled by the sensation of doing what it was created to do.
In that moment, I felt something so raw and beautiful that I almost burst.
It went through my mind, the image of Jesus with outstretched arms—feeling our pain and seeing our scars, lifting us up.
I pulled sunglasses down over my eyes and listened as the hawk screeched with pleasure, crying out for more. For the chance to soar.
Facing the waters of Percy Priest Lake, I heard them come up behind me.
“We have an announcement,” Sammie said. She linked her arm in Johnny Ray’s and lifted her chin toward me, trying to see my eyes.
I gave her cautious attention. Was I ready for this?
Johnny was beaming. “You listening to us, kid? Didn’t wanna tell you until it became official.”
I glanced at Sammie’s finger. No ring. “What?” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
Sammie grinned. “I’ll be sponsoring Johnny Ray Black. I’m putting up money for your brother to do his own album, on an independent label. With my connections from years of rubbing elbows with record execs, we’ve gained the ear of some of the nation’s largest radio distributors, signing agreements that’ll give Johnny’s first single guaranteed rotation.”
“Uh. Wow! That’s great.”
“Is something wrong, Aramis?” Sammie asked.
“I thought, well, that you two were involved. Together.”
“Oh, Aramis,” she said. “Always the romantic at heart.”
Johnny elbowed me in the ribs. “No wonder you’ve been mopin’ around. Mmm, now I see what you’ve been thinkin’.”
“Haven’t been thinking anything. Drop it.”
“I’m just sayin’, is all.”
Pretending to be oblivious, in her Samantha Rosewood way, Sammie slipped her arm into mine and linked the three of us. For a woman so light, she managed to lead us back to the parking lot without difficulty.
“Who would like to drive?” She dangled keys in front of us.
I snatched at them ahead of my brother.
Too late.
“Silly boys,” Sammie giggled, having switched the keys into her other hand. “You think I’d let some Yankee take the wheel of my car? You’d have to catch me first.”
She took off, dashing toward the Mustang and slipping into the driver’s seat.
Johnny and I turned and stared at each other.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” we said in unison.
The Mustang peeled alongside us, engine revving. Samantha was smiling, elbow propped in the open window.
“What’s keepin’ y’all? Can’t keep up with a woman?”
“Aramis,” Johnny asked later that evening, “did you ever figure out the patterns on Mom’s handkerchief? Not that I have any say in the matter, not technically. You’re the one with the Lewis blood.”
“How long have you known, Johnny? That we were half brothers, I mean?”
“Since we were kids. Why do you think you got the funny name and the darker skin? Not to mention the embroidered map.”
“A couple of people died for the stupid thing.”
“I hear what you’re sayin’. But don’t tell me you haven’t taken a shot at findin’ the gold. Could be lots and lots of money.”
“It has nothing to do with the money.”
“You did find it, didn’t you?”
I shrugged.
“I knew you would, kid, just knew it.”
“The clue in The Three Musketeers gave it away. In the fourth chapter, Aramis solves a problem by suggesting that a particular lady’s handkerchief be cut in half. Voilà. There you have it.”
“In half? You actually cut it?”
“Had to be done. When I turned the pieces around, the embroidered sections fit together to form a perfectly clear map, if you know what you’re looking for.”
“Where is it?”
“Still hidden.”
“You are a half brother, no doubt about it. I’d be diggin’ as we speak.”
“I can’t touch it. It’d be wrong.”
“What about for me? I’m not even a Lewis, not by blood.”
“It’s caused the Lewis family enough grief, I think. If it’s any consolation,” I added, “I’ve been putting it all down on paper. I hope to publish the story, the way it’s happened. I owe it to Mom.”
“She’d like that, Aramis. The way you helped out Mrs. Michaels and patched things up with Uncle Wyatt shows how things’ve changed. Mom would be proud.”
What others who sought the treasure never pieced together was the geographical and seismic influences along the Mississippi River. As I began my search, I came across information about an earthquake in 1811. The quake was so large that many inhabitants along the river claimed the water actually flowed the other direction.
Hyperbole? Old wives’ tales?
No. To this day Reelfoot Lake still exists, the result of waters that rolled back and got trapped in a massive area of sunken earth. Considere
d to be one of the nation’s greatest hunting and fishing preserves, Reelfoot is Tennessee’s largest natural lake.
During the same quake, the famed Chickasaw Bluffs, on which Memphis was founded, shifted and crumbled in places.
Which set me to thinking.
What if Lewis’s gold was disturbed during the earthquake? What if its location migrated a few yards? What if it was covered? Or buried?
Comparing old maps to current ones, I was able to determine where the river’s course had shifted. Even five or ten yards would make a dramatic difference. And with some perseverance, I found the spot.
Bars of gold. A hoard of Spanish bullion intercepted on its way to Wilkinson.
“Johnny Ray.”
He brushed back his golden brown hair. “What?”
“Here’s my promise. When I’m all done with the book, you’ll have a clue.”
“To the treasure? Why not give it to me now?”
“Nope. Gotta wait. I’ll spell it out for you though, using the first letter of each chapter in the story. Once you string ’em together, you can see where it leads.”
“Then ya better get to writin’, kid. Better do it now.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dudley Delffs (editor and friend)—for trusting me with the idea.
Mick Silva, Shannon Hill, and Carol Bartley (editors)—for making this story so much better.
Carolyn Rose, Cassie, and Jackie Wilson (wife and daughters)—for bringing joy into my daily routine, along with lots of hugs and kisses.
Heidi Messner (my sister) and family—for being examples in so many ways.
Shaun Wilson (my brother) and family—for being faithful friends through the years.
Jamie White and Louis Harrison (friends and neighbors)—for traveling with us on this artistic path.
Sean Savacool (friend and writer)—for friendship and inspiration as a member of the Tennessee Inklings … a.k.a. the Tinklings.
Sergeant Joseph Perrigoue and Specialist Holly Perrigoue (friends)—for going the extra mile to help us do the same.
Cherilyn Washington, Stephen Vail, and Roosevelt Burrell (management team at FedEx Kinko’s)—for flexibility with my schedule as deadlines loomed.
Davin Bartosch (friend and co-worker)—for brisket and unforgettable Belgian Triple.
Valerie Harrell (friend and co-worker)—for laughs at work and creative sparks.
My fellow members of Sta Akra (a group of novelists)—for forums, e-mails, ARCs, and much-needed encouragement.
River Jordan, Brian Reaves, Matt Bronlewee, Vernon Buford, Venessa Ng, Karri Compton, and many others (fellow writers)—for lifting me up with your words.
Ian Monaghan (brother-in-law)—for ballistics information and ideas.
John McClendon (hiking friend)—for that first visit to the Lewis monument.
Gary and Joni Morgan (pastors) and Mosaic Nashville—for a place to follow the threads of God’s design.
Nashville Public Library (Edmondson and Main branches)—for places to study, daydream, and write.
Flyleaf, P.O.D., White Stripes, U2, Plumb, Underoath, As I Lay Dying, Audioslave, and Day of Fire (musical artists)—for sonic energy in the late-night hours.
Readers everywhere (the ones holding this book)—for taking time to read my work.
I welcome your feedback at my Web site or e-mail address:
wilsonwriter.com
[email protected] ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ERIC WILSON credits his childhood as a missionary kid, smuggling Bibles through the iron curtain, for his becoming a novelist. After writing stories to impress schoolyard sweethearts, he eventually followed his wife’s advice to “write what was in his heart” and wrote two supernatural thrillers. Dark to Mortal Eyes (2004) and Expiration Date (2005) are the first in a planned five-part series exploring the five senses. Best of Evil is his first contemporary mystery. He and his wife, Carolyn Rose, have been married sixteen years and live with their two daughters, Cassie and Jackie, in Antioch, TN.
Eric Wilson, The Best of Evil
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