My mind gave way to unnerving questions. Who’d returned this to me? Why now? How did the sender know my address?
Although the mysteries loomed large, I was thankful for anything bridging my memories to my mother.
Only as the moon faded into a cold, gray disk did I decide to call it a night. I lifted the lid of the ebony box on my windowsill and, for the first time in more than twenty years, laid the handkerchief inside.
Back where it belonged.
SIX
Voices echoed through my mind, tugging at my thoughts from the land of the dead. The swish of toothpaste and water failed to drown them out. I spit into the sink, rinsed with a handful of water, then braced myself on the porcelain and stared into the mirror.
My mother and a total stranger. Both had spoken the same words before being gunned down before my eyes.
Dianne Lewis Black’s gentle tone: Spare your soul …
Darrell Michaels’s urgent warning: … turn your eyes from greed.
It was 6:02 a.m. Too early to be thinking about this stuff.
I pushed away from the mirror, returned to my room, and curled up in my bed. Even there, chills lifted the hair on my arms as I thought back to yesterday. Michaels had told me something else, something ominous.
You need the whip. They’re coming for you next.
Who was coming for me? One of my anarchist rivals? Or maybe the same person who’d stolen Mom’s handkerchief in the first place, ages ago? Did the original thief send it back, hoping I’d reveal its mysteries?
Like I even knew Mom’s secrets.
With his final gasps, Michaels had tried to provide me a clue, through blood and saliva and a death-rattle cough.
Mary … Lewis.
Who was she?
Johnny Ray was repeating a guitar riff in the other room, layering the sound with impromptu vocals, pausing at infrequent intervals—probably to scribble lyrics on his pad. That’s his way. Spur of the moment. Chisel and sculpt.
I’d watched him go through the routine many times, and I admired the man, believed in his dream, supported him. I’d scheduled him to be on stage at Black’s in the coming week.
Six in the morning, though? I thought these musician types didn’t get up until happy hour.
The strumming stopped, and footsteps warned of Johnny’s approach.
“Aramis, you awake?”
“Nooo. You think?”
“There’s some food keepin’ warm in the oven. Figured you could use a good breakfast after what you’ve been through.”
My desire to roll over and wrestle sleep from the morning gave way to my stomach’s demands. I pulled myself to the edge of the mattress. “Sounds good. Be right out.”
I yawned. Groaned and scratched. Popped my neck.
Five minutes later I plopped into a chair at the dining table. Spying my brother’s handiwork, I lost my enthusiasm. Should’ve known we’d be eating whole-wheat waffles, turkey-bacon strips, and unsweetened grapefruit juice.
No complaints. But I would have preferred blueberry Pop-Tarts.
Johnny was wearing his boxer shorts, with a dishtowel flung over the shoulder of his bathrobe. He served me a plate of food still toasty from the oven and topped off my juice glass. “I already ate, but there you go, kid.”
“Thanks.” I chased down a bite of waffle with juice. “Why so early?”
“I was worried you’d curl up in bed and sulk the day away.”
“Me? It’s not my style.” I chewed on a bacon strip. “I am kinda stuck, though. The cops told me to stay away so they could sift through the mess at the shop.”
“Music City’s finest—they’ll get it all squared away.”
“Hey. Did you know Chief Serpas served in the Northwest? Seattle, I think.”
“That doesn’t exactly make him a local favorite.”
“Bunch of rednecks. What do they know?”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk. Been in Nashville just over a year, and you’re already pointin’ fingers. Kid, you’ve barely earned the right to switch lanes on I-40.”
“Like people here know how to merge.”
“Eat your food.”
“Just kidding. Nothing personal.”
“And you wonder why some Southerners dislike Yankees.”
“Easy. Because they’re always winning the World Series.”
Johnny Ray cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles. “This is my chance to live out my dream. Nashville’s my home now, even if the skies don’t part for me, even if the industry reps keep slappin’ me down till I’m shorter than Little Jimmie Dickens. I like this place. It’s more of a home than we ever had in Portland.” His voice faded, and his Adam’s apple bobbed once. “Dad was too busy working, and you and I lived separate lives.”
“Well, we’re here now. Right?” I said through a mouthful of waffles.
“You’ve cleaned up, I’ll give you that.”
“After what happened in that warehouse, I knew things had to change. That was the first time in years I felt like … like Someone was watching out for me. I was this close to dying.”
“Here we go.” Johnny rolled his eyes. “The way I see it, we’re best off trusting ourselves to make the world a better place. Oughta help each other instead of waiting for some cosmic being to put everything right.”
“You said it yourself, though. I’ve cleaned up.”
“And found some of that old-time religion, by the sound of it.”
“You know me better than that.”
“Hallelujah, brother.” Johnny Ray’s voice lilted into a church campfire tune. “You’ve come to the right place, smack-dab on the buckle of the Bible Belt.”
I kept my mouth shut.
The last time I darkened a church doorway an usher slipped an offering plate into my hands while, from behind a pulpit, the minister said, “If you’ve been spiritually fed, don’t you owe it to God to pay for the meal?”
Judging by his girth, the man looked plenty well fed already.
I don’t know about you, but if church services are all about motivation and the next emotional fix, I’d rather attend a good rock concert. Same group dynamics. A good show. And a better high. U2’s live show—now that was a spiritual experience.
“Okay.” Johnny Ray brought me back to the point. “So you’re walking the straight and narrow now—which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. Drugs, bad. Drunk driving, bad. But you’ve gotta live a little. Like last Friday night. That girl, the brunette with the belly ring—she was into you, and you blew it.”
“That was a tough one to pass up, believe me.”
“How ’bout that girl on the phone last night? Brianne.”
“Hey. I’m not saying it’s easy.”
“I know the way you used to be.”
“I don’t need the distraction right now.”
“Well, if women don’t do it for you anymore, I’d like a heads-up. Coming out of the closet’s one thing, but sleeping under the same roof with me—”
I slugged him in the arm.
He grunted. “You … you are my retarded little brother. You should know that right now.”
“Work it into your first big hit.”
“Very funny.” Johnny changed the subject. “So, any plans for the day?”
“With the detectives scouring my shop? Not really. I hate it that I can’t do anything about that mess inside.”
“How about we take the day off, go exploring?”
“You and me?”
“And my six-string.” He pointed to his guitar.
“Lousy two-timer. You just like her for her curves.”
“Not to mention she smells better than you.”
“Hey.”
“I’m just saying.”
“No. That’s definitely you. Go take your shower.”
“Twice a day, Aramis. All part of keeping up my image.” He ruffled his hair. “Seriously, I’ve got a place in mind for us to go.”
“Anyw
here. So long as I can’t see the Batman building.”
The tallest building in the state of Tennessee, the marble-and-glass BellSouth Tower stands on Third Avenue and Commerce in downtown Nashville. Visible from all over Davidson County, its twin peaks taper like bat ears. I like it. I do. But the sight of it reminds me I’m not far from the hubbub of neon lights and honky-tonk bars.
“And we’ve got to be outdoors,” I stipulated.
“Here’s my suggestion.” Johnny said it so casually. “We take a drive along the Natchez Trace, maybe follow the trail down to the memorial near Hohenwald.”
“The memorial?”
“It’s just over an hour from here. I’ve told you about it.”
“Oh. The site where that guy’s buried.”
“That guy?”
“The one from Lewis and Clark. The explorer dude.”
“Aramis, you’re in dire need of a history lesson. Didn’t you listen in school?”
“Just tell me the guy’s name.”
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s not William Clark but the other one.”
“Do I have to beat it out of you, Johnny Ray?”
He took a seat across from me and spread out the same yellowed section of the Nashville Scene I’d seen him tuck under his knee yesterday. “Clear your dishes,” he said. “I’m going to need your full attention.”
“What’s this about?”
“Dishes.” His finger jutted toward the sink.
Only fair, really. He makes the meals, and I clean up. The clinking of plates and cutlery nearly covered my brother’s next words, yet something brought me to a halt.
“What’d you say?” I set the stuff down and faced him.
“Meriwether Lewis.”
“Meriwether.” I rolled the name in my mouth.
“I wasn’t mumbling,” he said. “That was the other explorer’s name. We’re talkin’ the Lewis and Clark, the Corps of Discovery. These guys, they shaped our country’s future—crossing the Plains and Rockies, making friends with Indians, killing bears. This was two hundred years ago. They were the real deal, and we can’t remember their names? Kinda sad, don’t you think?”
“Not everyone’s a history buff like you.”
“It’s our country, our heritage.”
“To most people it’s old news.”
Johnny tapped the newsprint. “Old news is what got me interested in the first place. See this article? It’s about four years old, and the title alone got me curious. ‘The Strange Death of an American Hero.’ Most historians believe Lewis committed suicide on the Natchez Trace back in 1809, but there’ve always been rumors of a murder. So I’ve been poking around, turning up a few surprises, but only recently started connecting it to Mom.”
“Come on.” I faced him, hands planted on the table. “What’re you getting at?”
“Well, don’t know for sure. Not yet.”
“Just say it.”
Johnny squared his shoulders. “I believe Lewis was a blood relative.”
“What?” I laughed. “How does that make any sense?”
“Think about it. Our mother’s name?”
“Dianne?”
“Middle name … Lewis.”
“In honor of her grandfather. That’s what I heard.”
He hesitated. “Something like that. And you know where he was from originally? Virginia. Same place Meriwether Lewis was born. I’ve done some checking, researched the genealogies, and it seems to pan out—a matter of public record.”
I scratched my head. “I find all this hard to believe.”
“Consider this. Mom’s handkerchief reappears the night before a man gets killed in your shop, and what does the man say to you? ‘They’re coming for you next.’ Isn’t that how you told it to me?”
“Yeah.”
“And what’d you ask him?”
“Who was coming for me.”
“And his response?”
“Mary,” I said slowly. “Lewis.”
“Meriwether Lewis. That’s what the man was trying to tell you.”
“Oooh. So a two-hundred-year-old dead guy’s coming after me? I’m so scared.”
“Might have reason to be,” Johnny cautioned. “You ask me, there’s some kind of evil at work here. Don’t know how yet, don’t know why, but I think it’s all linked to the reason our mother died.”
SEVEN
Evil, I believe, is a choice. We embrace or reject it. It comes at us in insidious guises, and we make decisions that push it back or let it edge closer. It never tires and never sleeps; it’s there every day—crouching on our doorsteps, hoping for a cozy place to shack up.
After a while, it seems easier to give in. Just a little.
Years ago my mother took a bullet and tumbled into a river.
Yesterday, Darrell Michaels’s life spilled across the tiles in my espresso bar.
Would another human fall today? Was there some malevolent presence lurking, waiting, with insatiable hunger and greed? And where was God in all this?
My thoughts turned to my responsibilities at Black’s and to Samantha’s financial investment in the place. Tomorrow, Brianne will meet me, and we’ll get the place back in order so I can get on with life.
As for today? Two choices. Turn my back on what happened, or track down and face the truth.
Hours earlier I might’ve called Johnny Ray a liar had he told me Mom’s and Darrell Michaels’s murders were dots on a time line leading from Meriwether Lewis to me.
But ignoring the coincidences seemed as crazy as accepting them.
Johnny accused me of avoiding the issue of Mother’s death, and when it comes to our uncle’s involvement on that horrible day, he’s right. I’ve been trying to change, to let go of my bitterness, but I still tense at the mention of Uncle Wyatt’s name. His actions precipitated his sister’s death. From twenty feet away, hidden and helpless in the tall grass, I watched it play out as hot tears clawed down my face.
I needed the truth now. No matter how painful.
My brother’s voice brought me back to the present.
“Are you just going to stand there?”
“I’m coming.” I set our cooler of meat, chips, and cold drinks in the bed of his Ford Ranger and climbed into the cab. “So how’s this brush with Lewis’s ghost gonna help us figure things out?”
“I’m fixin’ to tell you on the way.”
“You’re ‘fixin’ to,’ Johnny Ray? Nashville really is your home now.”
He buckled in beside me. “Only since you arrived, kid, and I mean that.”
I set my foot on the dash, staring out the window as we headed west.
The morning was gorgeous, a typical October day in Middle Tennessee. A spike in humidity gave the air a leafy, moldering scent.
Wearing his black Stetson, Johnny Ray drove us—me and his Martin guitar—along I-440. His trusty pickup then carried us south-west, away from the headaches of the concrete jungle. No more snarling traffic, sirens, or screeching trains, no Wal-Marts, Mapcos, or Dollar Generals.
Flanking the parkway, sugar maples waved red leaves in the breeze against a waxy green backdrop of magnolias. Ginkgo trees shot golden flames through the foliage, catching and intensifying the rays of autumn sun.
“Look at these colors,” I said.
“Pretty spectacular.”
“Think your boss’ll be mad?”
“He’ll get over it. This is my first sick day in three years.”
“Ah,” I said. “But that’s how it starts. A day here, another one there, a couple in a row. Dude, it’s a gateway drug.”
My brother played along. “I can quit anytime.”
“You want me repeating that to your boss?”
“Watch it now.” Johnny slid a guidebook across the seat. “Here, this’ll keep you quiet. It’s history-lesson time. Read up on the trace and its origins. You’ll also find some bits about Governor Lewis.”
“Governor? An explorer and a politician?”
&
nbsp; “In St. Louis and the surrounding area. Which makes his death that much stranger. He was a genuine American hero, but when he died, the first official report didn’t show up until ten days later in Nashville’s Democratic Clarion. The man changed the face of the modern map and couldn’t get a proper burial for months. There wasn’t a single government inquiry into his murder.”
“Suicide, you mean.”
“I mean it just the way I said it.”
“Maybe he took his life but they wanted to spare his family more shame.”
“He was found with multiple knife and bullet wounds.” Johnny raised an eyebrow at me. “And guess where he was headed when he died—to the capital to clear his name of some rumors and to Monticello to see his friend Jefferson. For years Lewis had been working on his journals from the expedition, and he was finally ready to publish them. Funny time to kill himself, don’t you think?”
“I’ve got to admit it sounds fishy.”
“The man was an icon and smart too. While in St. Louis, he helped set up their first publishing house and post office—”
“Maybe he went postal.”
“This is serious, Aramis.”
“Sorry. That wasn’t right.”
“I’m telling you, there’s some shady activity behind the scenes.” Johnny flipped on the AC to combat the rising humidity, then draped an arm over the steering wheel. “I believe the same secrets that gunned him down also came after Mom. Now they’re coming after you.”
“What secrets?”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.” He pointed to the guidebook. “Read up.”
I opened to the first page.
With my head against the truck window and my thoughts mulling over what I’d learned from the book, I let my eyes follow yellow wildflowers along the curve of the hills to a limestone edifice.
I know virtue and honor played roles in our country’s birth. I guess it’s no surprise that treason and greed also got involved. Rising from the American Revolution, Thomas Jefferson, Aaron Burr, Meriwether Lewis, and James Wilkinson became household names. Yet conspiracies and lies knotted their destinies.
And some of those shady scenarios played out along the Natchez Trace.