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 with 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.
My mom. Dianne Lewis Black …1959–1986.
There was no part of me that wanted to touch that blood money. Instead I’d left a clue for my brother, spelled out in the pages of a book. Coming from a different father, Johnny had none of Lewis’s DNA, but I figured if he located the gold, fine. He could do with it as he saw fit. I’d left it at that. No questions asked.
Until now.
“Did you find it?” My words were barely audible.
“Mm-hmm. Few months back … in Memphis.”
“You figured it out?”
He recited the clue I’d left. “In a cave where the wolf’s mouth opens and Indians bluff.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Just like you said—near Chickasaw Bluffs, north edge of the Wolf River.”
“So you’ve been there. You’ve seen it.”
“Have you told anyone?”
“ ’Course not.”
“No one in the band? None of your girlfriends?”
“Not a soul.”
“Then who was this guy on the phone? A relative?”
“Said something’d been stolen from him.”
“Great.”
“Told him he had the wrong number, and he started threatening me—‘the wages of sin is death’ and that sorta thing. Right before I hung up, he said, ‘Courage grows strong at a wound.’ ”
“You ever heard that before?”
“Never.” Johnny Ray wobbled to his feet and arched his back in pain as his shirt fell against the fresh incisions. “Let’s get outta here.”
A few excited yells carried over the trees from the well-lit park. Chigger held a beer bottle aloft, surrounded by a bevy of women.
“I’m running you to the hospital.”
“What do you take me for, some kind of wuss?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“Just help me to my pickup, idiot.”
“Keys first.” I held out my palm.
Half-sloshed, he handed them over. “Get me home to my bed.”
His uncharacteristic surrender worried me. “What about the police? Shouldn’t we report this?”
“It’s midnight. We’ll be stuck sitting around, answering questions, and all they’ll do is file a report and forget about it. We don’t got any witnesses, weapons—nothing.”
He had a point. I surveyed the nearby environs for any sign of a razor blade or knife, any evidence that might help us pinpoint his assailant. Nothing but soda cans, concert fliers, and a few cigarette butts.
“We do have two initials,” I pointed out. “And these ropes.”
“Later, kid.”
“Not to mention a good lead on a redhead who might’ve been an accomplice.”
“Or a victim. What if they knocked me out to get to her?”
I paused, then slipped my arm under his to guide him toward his truck. “Okay, I didn’t think of that.”
“ ’Course you didn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
His gaze turned my way, full of that watery-eyed wisdom of the inebriated. “Shoot, I can’t blame you for being suspicious of women, Aramis, not after your last go-around.”
“What?”
“Fact is, you’re bitter.”
“I am not.” I helped him into the pickup and slammed the passenger door.
Bitter. A strong word describing bad coffee and lifelong grudges. I couldn’t deny I’d had my share of trouble with women, creating some trust issues, but the fact was someone had sliced up my brother. Whether man or woman, it didn’t matter.
When I found the responsible party, I’d hit hard and hit fast.
We followed West End Avenue toward our brownstone, with the moon slipping behind the Parthenon in Centennial Park and silhouetting stone griffins along the ramparts. I thought about my homeless friend, Freddy C, who often sleeps here. During daylight, I love to walk around the structure—the world’s only full-scale replica of the famed Grecian complex—but nighttime gives it a menacing feel.
“What if it’s a stalker, someone jealous of your success—that guy who called? You’re out in the public eye now and going on tour in three days. Which means”—I slapped at the steering wheel—“we need to track down and nail this whack job. What kind of person goes around slicing people up?”
“If you knew that, you’d be as twisted as the one who did it.”
“What if they’ve done it before?”
“That’s where the policemen come in, little brother. Give ’em a heads-up in the morning, maybe talk to that detective friend of yours.”
“Detective Meade.”
“That’s the one. You fill him in and let him do his job.” He ignored my noncommittal grunt. “Appreciate the brotherly concern, I really do, but I know how you can be, always pokin’ around. Nearly got yourself killed last year.”
“What about your back?”
He blew air from the side of his mouth. “Maybe you’re right about some jealous husband or whatnot. Soon enough I’ll be on tour, and it’ll all be forgotten. Just promise me you won’t go stirrin’ up trouble. That a deal?”
“Look. We’re home.”
“Promise me.”
We pulled into our parking lot, and the dipped entryway made Johnny grimace as his back bounced against the seat. I eased into a space. My thoughts turned to Meade, my unlikely friend, the unflappable detective who’d lent his capable assistance in the past.
“Deal,” I said.
“Which means you’ll keep your nose clean while I’m gone?” He waited for me to nod. “And you’ll also stay outta the cops’ way?”
“Yes, already. I’ll be a good boy, I promise.”
We headed up the brick steps and locked and deadbolted the door behind us. Johnny moved into the kitchen to put on a pot of herbal tea. I popped open a can of Dr Pepper, ignoring his look of dietary concern, and chugged it.
“Ahhh.” I crumpled the can in my fist. “Good stuff.”
“Sugar water’s all that is.”
“Better than killing a million brain cells.” I dropped the can into the waste bin under the sink and grabbed the first-aid kit. At the dining table, my brother laid his head on his arms while I dribbled hydrogen peroxide on the cuts. “Sting?”
“Not too bad.”
“Be worse if they’d used a dull blade.” I finished with the A, then dabbed at the X where his tanning-booth brown gave way to raw layers of tissue. I did my best to draw together the severed skin with bandages. The smell of antiseptics clouded the room. “Just be careful,” I said. “Try not to brush against anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Nurse. Where’s your little white outfit anyway?”
“Sicko.” I shoved at his chair. “Go get some sleep.”
Stretched across my bed, I blew out a minty breath of toothpaste and hoped my rest would be undisturbed. The A/C kicked on, the cool air sweeping the swampy warmth from the room. My eyes began to lock up for the night.
Instantly the cuts on my brother’s back snapped into view.
“Please, God.” I stared up at the ceiling.
Since childhood I’ve been plagued by nightmares and dreams. Sometimes I see my mother at the riverbank—crying out, falling. Other times I’m racing through tall grass, pulse pounding. Recently I’ve had a recurring vision of my last girlfriend, half-hidden behind a handkerchief as she raises the polished barrel of an automatic.
Brianne … Seems like only a few weeks ago.
I closed my eyes again. Pushed away images of Johnny’s incisions. An old Radiohead song played through my head, leading me into a dream …
I’m walking across a bridge. Fog surrounds me, muffles my steps as I cross. I see a shape rising ahead, a circle around three stars, emblazoned over a double-edged sword—the emblem of the Tennessee Titans.
This is good. I love my Titans.
A loud crack tears through the air. What now?
The sword is falling, plunging, sharpening into substance. As I turn, I see it swoop along the earth and head my way. I run back toward the bridge, the blade singing through the air behind me. My feet slap at the soft ground. I’m getting nowhere fast. Gasping.
Where’s the bridge? It’s gotta be close.
“You’re no good, Aramis,” a voice hisses. “We’re giving you the ax.”
I stagger and sprawl headlong across the pavement. The sword zips overhead.
“Who are you?” I cry out. “Leave me alone.”
Rolling onto my side, I try to spot the speaker. That voice. Do I know it? Nothing but a slim, fading shape. And a strong sense of déjà vu.