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  Praise for

  A Shred of Truth

  “Mesmerizing! In A Shred of Truth, Eric Wilson delivers a twisting tale of suspense, sorrow, and repentance that will grab you from the start and keep your mind occupied well past the turning of the last page. Aramis Black never looked so good. Warning: reading this book may be hazardous to your sleep cycle!”

  —SHARON CARTER ROGERS, critically acclaimed

  author of Sinner and Two Graces

  “Eric Wilson can flat out write!”

  —CRESTON MAPES, author of Nobody

  “A Shred of Truth serves up another cup of addictive suspense from author Eric Wilson. The adventures of Aramis Black read like successive shots of adrenaline, offering readers fresh takes in Christian suspense.”

  —SIBELLA GIORELLO, author of The Stones Cry Out

  “Eric Wilson possesses a profound power of prose and dialogue that kept me riveted to the last, remarkable page. A great work from one of our most extraordinary writers of suspense.”

  —JAMES BYRON HUGGINS, author of A Wolf Story,

  The Reckoning, and Leviathan

  “Wilson has done it again! A Shred of Truth is a highly textured, superbly crafted story that will resonate with readers long after the last page has been turned.”

  —BRANDT DODSON, author of Original Sin, Seventy Times

  Seven, and The Root of All Evil

  “Eric Wilson continues to amaze me with every novel. A Shred of Truth grabs you at the first page and never lets go. From a hero who is flawed yet admirable to the demented evil out to destroy him, Wilson has given us his best work yet.”

  —BRIAN REAVES, author of Stolen Lives

  “Now that I’ve had my second cup of coffee with my favorite bad boy turned java-shop host, I’m hooked on Aramis Black. A Shred of Truth gives us a heaping spoonful of terrific writing, a double dollop of historical intrigue, and a custom blend of danger, mystery, and family drama. Is there any question that Eric Wilson is one of the best suspense writers around? Not by me—I’m ordering another cup!”

  —KATHRYN MACKEL, author of Vanished

  A SHRED OF TRUTH

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  A division of Random House Inc.

  Most Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations are also taken from the following: The King James Version. The Message by Eugene H. Peterson. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved. The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55039-2

  Copyright © 2007 by Eric Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  WATERBROOK and its deer design logo are registered trademarks of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  v3.1

  Dedicated to

  my sister, Heidi,

  for late-night talks and memories of Brazil

  and for yelling at me when my life depended on it

  and my brother, Shaun,

  for adventures together around the world

  and for being a brother who sticks closer than a friend

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: Bitter Brew

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part Two: Double Shot

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part Three: Over Ice

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Acknowledgments

  He was a killer from the very start.

  He couldn’t stand the truth because

  there wasn’t a shred of truth in him.

  —JOHN 8:44, THE MESSAGE

  1

  Put to the test, Johnny Ray Black failed and got cut—a literal, skin-splitting ordeal at the hands of a killer. One minute he was mingling with producers and industry insiders, drinking Jack Daniel’s, and giving an acoustic performance of his first Top Ten single, “Tryin’ to Do Things Right.” The next he was bound to a statue and bleeding.

  Still alive though. Thank God.

  It was supposed to be a celebration. A party for the rising star. In a park at the north end of Nashville’s Music Row, I jostled elbows with his fans while bursting with pride. After years of honing his skills and playing small shows, my older brother had beaten the odds by signing with an independent label and charting a hit single.

  He’d made a mistake, however, by admitting his weakness for redheads in an Entertainment Weekly interview.

  She came to him that Friday evening in Owen Bradley Park.

  A test in red.

  Beneath a moon turned soft and buttery by Middle Tennessee’s humidity, propped on high heels, she nudged between caterers in ruffled white shirts and bypassed the open bar. I’m told she wore a shimmering dress. She managed to evade my attention—a minor miracle, but recent experiences have made me wary of the opposite sex—and brushed up to Johnny as he finished his acoustic set.

  Coy smiles. A whisper.

  Johnny finished another shot of Jack, then stumbled off with her beneath tree branches strung with party lights, toward the darkness of the nearby ASCAP Building.

  I didn’t realize he was missing till a half hour later. Considering it was his own party, his disappearance was a bad publicity move. Where was his manager anyway? I’d seen Samantha Rosewood hurry away minutes earlier with a cell phone pressed to her ear, eyebrows knitted in worry.

  My gut clenched. What kind of trouble had my brother gotten into this time? I searched the crowd, then stopped near the publicity tent and tried to recall when I’d last spotted him.

  “Mr. Aramis Black.” A stubby man appeared in front of me. “You look lost.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Bet it’s hard on you.”

  “What?” My gaze zeroed in on this sl
ick-haired booking agent, with his goatee and ostrich boots. Every year Music City draws thousands of country-music wannabes, easy prey for men such as this. Who’d invited him anyway?

  “All the attention your brother’s getting. Must make you jealous.”

  “Not at all. He’s worked hard for it.”

  “That he has.”

  “You know where he is by any chance?”

  The agent chuckled. “In the stratosphere, that’s where. And still rising.”

  I gave a weak smile, scanned the cluster of partygoers at his back.

  “You ever think of sharing the spotlight, maybe singing as a duet?”

  “Nope.”

  He tapped my chest. “You’ve got the look, my friend. Maybe we should talk.”

  “Not gonna happen. Johnny’s the one with the voice and the guitar.”

  “What about some harmonies? Think Montgomery Gentry or Brooks and Dunn. Those boys won’t be around forever, and we’re always looking for—”

  “I’m not the type.” With a tug on my shirt sleeves, I revealed twin tattoos of banners wrapped around double-edged swords. Live by the Sword on one forearm, Die by the Sword on the other.

  “Come on now.” The dude winked—actually, full-on winked at me. “These days, country fans aren’t afraid of a little ink. Why live in your brother’s shadow?”

  “Go away. Please.”

  “Just think of—”

  “Before I hurt you.”

  “Oh. I … Okay.” He swung round and bellied his way back into the crowd.

  A voice from my right: “Aramis, you got a minute?”

  “What now?” I turned to find myself face to face with Chigger.

  The man’s mouth is curled into a perpetual sneer, and we eyed each other like wary boxers. He wore a ball cap, faded jeans over thick legs, and a Lynyrd Skynyrd hoodie. With his good ol’ boy quality and electrifying stage presence, he’s been a mainstay in the country scene for the past couple of years. Come Monday morning, he’d be joining my brother as lead guitarist for the first leg of a national tour.

  “Got somethin’ to show ya.”

  “Show me then.”

  “This your brother’s?” Chigger lifted a black Stetson into view.

  “Could be.”

  “Found it lyin’ out in plain sight near a bench. Not like Johnny Ray to leave his hat behind, so I figured you might wanna hold on to it till he gets back.”

  “From where?”

  Chigger shrugged. “Ain’t seen the man since he got up and sang.”

  “Me neither.” I took the hat, noted the initials JRB inside. “Appreciate it.”

  Chigger nodded and moved on without another word.

  I wandered toward the sidewalk that edged the park, my fingers rubbing the Stetson’s brim. Jagged flaps in the material signaled to me that something was wrong. On a roundabout across the street, spotlights pointed up at a forty-foot statue, and I examined the hat against their glow.

  Five slices in the brim, two letters:

  Through the narrow slits, my brother’s form came into sudden focus. He was tied to the statue, chin down, golden brown hair glued by sweat to his neck.

  “Johnny?”

  Dread tightened its grip around my stomach.

  2

  The statue is called Musica. Created by a local artist, it features bronze subjects meant to represent racial diversity and artistic inspiration. Five are caught in a dance on the perimeter, while the three in the center lift a woman toward the sky. In her hand, a golden tambourine serves as a fitting token for Music City USA.

  Only one problem. All nine of the figures are naked—or “nekked,” as some Southerners might say. Since its unveiling in 2003, Musica has symbolized this city’s clash between creative expression and conservative values.

  And there was my brother, strapped to the monstrosity.

  “Johnny Ray!”

  No response. Not even a hint of movement.

  I dashed toward the statue. Why had I let him out of my sight? At age six, I’d watched a killer pull the trigger and send my mother tumbling into a river below, and that memory still coursed through my veins like a poison. I’d wasted many years dabbling in drugs and anarchy on the streets of Portland, Oregon, wallowing in violence, leaving others with bruises and me with overlapping knuckle scars.

  Recently, I’ve been trying to turn things around. Take flight. Break free. Yet seeing Johnny’s immobile form, I had to wonder if this was retribution of some sort, my sins coming back to haunt my family.

  God, no. If anyone deserves this, it’s me.

  My dash was halted by a Hyundai circling the roundabout. Aimed for Demonbreun Street, the car slowed as though bent on blocking my path. Moonlight and shadows flowed over its shiny surface, turning the vehicle into an otherworldy carriage of gloom.

  Come on, come on, come on!

  With macabre stealth, it rolled along. At the Hyundai’s wheel, the driver was hooded, faceless, studying me with fiendish concentration.

  No. My head was playing tricks on me. Nothing I’d experienced—except a few ill-advised narcotic episodes—suggested that economy sedans could transport demons of hell.

  “Outta my way,” I yelled.

  I scampered behind the vehicle, then darted through a ring of low hedges to the monument’s base. My brother’s body faced the downtown skyline, the cords pulled tight across his chest, lashed around his wrists, and threaded between the bronzed dancers.

  “Johnny!”

  He groaned. He was alive, at least.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Hey, kid.”

  “How’d this happen?”

  “Should get me some … good publicity for the gossip papers.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  His weak snicker sent a whiff of liquor my way.

  Maybe that was it: he’d tossed back one too many, and his rowdy band had roped him up as a practical joke. Chigger’d probably given me the hat as a clue. Hey, for all I knew this was common hazing for chart-topping artists.

  “The guys in the band do this to you?” I dropped the Stetson to try to locate the knots. “Gotcha good, didn’t they?”

  He tried to focus. “Nuh-uh.”

  “You sure? You sound pretty drunk.”

  “I’m … I’m A-okay.”

  “Don’t smell like it.” The ropes were a tangled mass. “Who did this?”

  “She … she was pretty. We wanted to be alone.”

  “She?”

  In my peripheral vision, I noticed the Hyundai circling again. I craned to get a glimpse of the driver, but the car veered off down a side street. The rear bumper and license plate remained shrouded in darkness.

  “You recognize that car?”

  “Car?” my brother muttered.

  “It’s gone now. Tell me what happened. What’d this girl look like?”

  “A redhead and … whew, hot as they come. Big blue eyes. Soft lips. We were this close and then”—he tried to snap his fingers—“lights out. Just like that.”

  My hands were fumbling at his restraints. “Somebody hit you?”

  “Clobbered me good … and here I am.”

  “You didn’t see who did it? Could it’ve been the girl?”

  “A pretty young thing like that? No way.”

  “How can you be sure? Bet you didn’t even get her name.”

  “Wasn’t nothing but a kiss, okay?”

  I decided it was the wrong time to correct his grammar—all part of his country-music persona, he claims.

  “Was she wearing a rock?” I ventured. “Maybe you upset her old man.”

  “You and your … ideas.”

  “Did you even check?”

  “For a ring?”

  “Did you?”

  “Hey now, don’t you go judgin’ me. She … she made all the moves.”

  “Fine.” It wasn’t like I’d figure this out crouched in the dark beneath a monument to creative freedom. I wrestled wit
h the final knot. “Look, I’ve got you loose. Let me help you down.”

  He winced, gritted his teeth, as I eased him over my shoulder. Although I’m younger and stronger—my broad shoulders came with my mom’s Mediterranean heritage—it was tricky shuffling him down to the lawn. Not that I had any right to complain. Over the years, he’s had to cart my drunken butt around a time or two.

  Settled on the grass, he let out a moan. I pulled my hands away and noticed in the spotlight’s glare a tacky red-black substance between my fingers.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “S’all right.”

  “Where is it? Lemme see the wound.”

  My words had a strange effect on him, stiffening his neck and his arms, injecting his eyes with nervous energy. He mumbled something. “What’d you say?”

  “Courage,” he repeated, “grows strong at a wound.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” I knelt to assess the damage. “A phone call, just yesterday … Thought it was some prank.”

  “Here. Lift your shirt so I can have a look.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Courage, huh? Cut the tough-guy act.”

  When he refused to cooperate, I peeled the denim shirt over his head, eliciting from him a raspy grumble of pain. On his left shoulder, the wounds were thin but deep, still dripping. Someone had gone to work on him with a blade. In the amber moonlight, I grabbed the Stetson and stretched the material over the incisions. Whoever had carved up the hat had done the same thing to his back.

  Five cuts. Two letters.

  Anger flared in my chest as I used my own shirt to dab at the blood. If I found the person responsible, so help me …

  “Why, Johnny Ray? Who would do something like this?”

  Despite the late-night humidity, he was shivering.

  “You have no idea? The letters AX mean anything to you? Talk to me.”

  “The man on the phone,” he said in a husky whisper.

  “The prank call?”

  Johnny nodded. “I think he knew about the gold.”

  “The inheritance? How could he?”

  My mind raced through memories of last year: the discovery of my kinship to Meriwether Lewis, famed nineteenth-century explorer; the handkerchief given me by my mother that had held the map to Lewis’s hidden cache. Like my mom, I’d nearly paid for that secret with my life.