A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson

listen.” I crouched in the shadows, trying to think of questions she could respond to without raising an abductor’s suspicion. “Are you alone?”
    “You’d like to know?”
    “I’m serious. Yes or no?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re not in any trouble?”
    “Not yet,” she slurred.
    “You sound tired. Don’t tell me you finished off that bottle.”
    “Bottle? Did I even mention the wine to you?”
    “Uh. C’mon, I can tell.”
    “You’re here, aren’t you? Should’ve expected as much.”
    “What do you mean? I’m not there.” A pathetic attempt.
    “Doll, you never were good at fooling me. And truthfully, it’s always been a better part of your character, this desire to come to the rescue, to save the fair maiden. I knew you’d want to keep an eye on me.”
    “I admit, I am worried about you. But you say you’re okay?”
    “Why don’t you come up and see for yourself?”
    “What? I’m … How would I know which room to go to?”
    A giggle bubbled through my phone. “Don’t be silly. You need more than a rusty old railing to conceal that big frame of yours.”
    An upward snap of my neck gave me a clear view of her window. There, outlined by lamplight, a hand angled through the curtains and waved.
    “Hmm. Busted.”
    “Like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s sweet though. I flew into town hoping we could reconnect. What do you say, doll?”
    “I can’t stay very long,” I replied. “He could be watching.”
    “Sure.”
    Flipping the phone closed, I headed up the stairs. Growing dread dogged my steps. I was vulnerable here, visible to the traffic on Murfreesboro Pike. One step. Another. Mosquitoes goaded me along the landing, little vampires craving blood. Their buzzing matched the tension of my nerves, hurrying me forward till I was standing at the threshold of room 212.
    I stared at the door, thought I saw movement behind the peephole. I started to turn away. Heard the release of a latch.
    “Not leaving now, are you?”
    “Hi.”
    She was wearing a silk robe. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.” She stepped back, the bedside lamp lighting her silhouette.

14
    B ack in the day, Portland’s dealers and low-level alley dwellers knew me by name. For anonymity, I tried early on to go with a street handle, but it never stuck. Aramis, they called me. Or just Black. Knowing that this bit of personal data floated at the top of the scum pond worried me, so much so that I’d kept a loaded .357 within reach of my king-size waterbed and a sawed-off shotgun above the mirrored headboard.
    Not that I ever waited for the cover of darkness to deal with my problems. If heat was coming down, I believed in head-on damage control—in broad daylight or in the pouring Oregon rain. Long-term security was a demanding job.
    Which meant hitting hard, hitting fast. But playing fair. Down in the gutters, even your enemies expect the game to be played by certain rules.
    Then everything changed. Or at least I did.
    I haven’t talked much about this new faith of mine. I’m not one for spouting spiritual slogans. One thing Mom taught me was that actions speak louder.
    There was something wrong, though, about Felicia’s words.
    In the softly lit hotel room, she stretched out atop the comforter and propped herself on an elbow. Blond hair followed the gentle swell of the pillow while her free arm draped along her hip. “Don’t be shy, doll.”
    “I … just wanted to make sure you were safe.”
    She moved her hand on her thigh. “Does everything look okay to you?”
    On the nightstand, the paperback was opened facedown beside a wine bottle. There was the phone, the TV remote, hotel stationery. A coffee maker and plastic-wrapped glasses on the vanity. A damp towel was balled at the foot of the bed.
    “I guess so.”
    “You guess?” She pouted. “Is there any chance of us working things out?”
    “Uh. What’re we talking about?”
    “Please don’t be dense. You know I care about