The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  I inhaled. Ah. From the oven, the food sent heavenly aromas my direction. Garlic and prosciutto ham. Oregano, mushrooms, and olives. And was that Gouda cheese?

  Yeah, this was gonna be good.

  “Are you a wine drinker, Aramis?”

  I grimaced. “Last time I had some, I made a fool of myself.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you’re capable of that without wine.”

  “Oooh. I’ll let that slide.”

  She handed me a corkscrew and a bottle of Riesling. “You mind doing the honors while I change?”

  I filled each glass halfway, waited for her return.

  When she entered from the hallway, she looked stunning. Her hair was pulled up, with thin tendrils brushing the pearls on her neck. Although her sleeveless top was casual, the aquamarine material brought her eyes to life. Dark slacks and pumps accentuated the length of her legs.

  “A girl likes to feel good about herself. What do you think?”

  “Amazing.”

  She was still beaming as she carried in a stoneware platter bearing toasted calzones sprinkled with herbs and grated cheese.

  “Dinner is served.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  I’ll admit I have a pesky desire to settle down someday with a wife and kids. Sure, I used to brag about being able to make lots of women happy—a different one every night. I swear, though, I haven’t got a clue how the married men do it. Keeping the same woman happy for years on end? In my book, that’s a miracle with a capital M.

  After the meal we moved to the black leather sofa. Brianne snuggled in the corner, her shoes off and her legs folded beside her. With her head cocked, her hair dangled along her bare arm.

  Friends, I reminded myself.

  Yet when our fingers started touching on the cushion, they soon found a way to link our hands and draw us closer. The music played on, soaring to cover the night’s noises, lulling us from the concerns of the day. I slipped my arm around her, and Brianne laid her head on my shoulder. I caught the scent of her hair, light and herbal.

  “Are you really going to be on that reality show?” she asked.

  “It’s looking like a good possibility.”

  “So tell me, Mr. TV Star, what’s been going on? You’ve been acting strange.”

  “Strangely,” I corrected.

  Brianne poked my side. “You think you’re so smart.”

  I winced.

  “You all right?”

  “Sore. A little bruised, that’s all.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Those cops.” I jerked my head toward the curtained window. “They were there because of me.”

  She gave a false gasp. “Why? What’re you going to do to me? I do know how to protect myself, so no funny business, mister.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What happened?”

  “You remember last night when I took out the garbage?”

  “During Johnny Ray’s gig.”

  “While I was out there in the alley, a guy attacked me. He told me he would hurt you if I didn’t help him find something.”

  “Oh, Aramis. What’d he do to you?”

  “A couple of body blows. Some bruises. No big deal.”

  “What’d he want? How’d he even know me?”

  “I’m still trying to piece it together myself. Has nothing to do with you. It has to do with my mother and”—I knew this would be hard to swallow—“Meriwether Lewis.”

  “Meriwether Lewis? Okay, now I’m really confused.”

  “Believe me, so am I.”

  “Help me out here. Tell me what you know.”

  For the next half hour I shared all the details. She was a good listener, asking just enough questions to keep me talking.

  “It’s so horrible,” she said. “I can still see Darrell’s body lying there on the floor. You think he was trying to warn you? Why didn’t he cooperate with Parker if they were in on it together?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure about Parker’s motives.”

  “So are we talking about a good chunk of money?”

  “Gold. Worth a lot more now, two hundred years after the fact.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Who knows? Maybe a half million.”

  Her eyes grew big, blue irises capturing the candlelight and diffusing it through gray specks.

  I kissed her.

  She responded with surprising tenderness, then pulled away.

  “So why don’t we find this treasure, you and me? Can you imagine, Aramis?”

  “It’s not ours. If it exists at all.”

  “But what if? Honestly, wouldn’t that be incredible? You could sell the shop and live on a yacht. Or go skiing in the Alps and drink Swiss hot chocolate every evening. You could take me along, your own little snow bunny.”

  “Tempting. All sounds fun.”

  “But?”

  “I live here in Nashville. Johnny Ray’s my family.”

  “What about a family of your own? Doesn’t that interest you?”

  “Maybe someday.”

  “What about ‘I do’ and ‘till death do us part’?” She fixed me with earnest eyes. “Don’t you believe in all that? Behind your big tough act, I know there’s a romantic hiding out.”

  “You caught me.”

  “So let’s do it.”

  “Uh. I was just hoping for another kiss.”

  She giggled. “No, I mean, let’s find the gold and run away.”

  “But I have no idea where the whip is or if it even exists. I don’t even know why they’ve targeted me, except that my mother may have been a Lewis herself, a direct descendant. They think I know something, but I don’t.”

  “What about that handkerchief? Your mom said it was special.”

  “It was a gift. Yeah, she told me it would show the way.”

  Even as the sentence spilled out, it took on meaning and weight. I’d always thought of it as an abstract sentiment, Mom’s thoughts and love guiding me along. What if she’d been trying to guide me to a specific location? Beyond sentimental value, I’d never seen the memento as anything more than a piece of material with initials and some patterned embroidery. Now it was gone.

  Mom’s statement: I have secrets wrapped in here …

  “You could be onto something.”

  “So we get the handkerchief and go from there.”

  “Detective Meade thinks Freddy C has it. Or maybe my Uncle Wyatt.”

  “Does Freddy know about the gold?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “What about your uncle?”

  “If he took the handkerchief, I’d have to assume so. I just don’t know.”

  “But at least we have a plan. That’s a good thing, right? We’ll find the handkerchief and see where it leads.” She brushed her hair back with one hand and held it there while she gazed at me. “And a plan is worth celebrating, don’t you think?”

  She brushed her lips against mine. My throat tightened.

  “I’ll be right back.” She rose from the cushions. “Sit tight.”

  My discomfort had everything to do with squandering the peace I’d found during the past year in Music City. ICV was here, nearby and watching, waiting for me to lead them to a cache of gold. And Uncle Wyatt had experienced firsthand the bitterness still flowing through my fists.

  Now an assault on a different level. Temptation … in the form of a single woman.

  It took me a few seconds to register the scuffling. Gasps were coming from the bathroom. I bolted upright.

  These sounds didn’t fit the picture. Something was wrong.

  As a six-year-old, face planted in the mud, I had responded to my mother’s desperation, rising to my feet and working at the cloth between my lips until I was free to call out her name. I was small. Weak. Yet I believed there was a chance I could save her.

  In that split second on the couch, I had no time to reason it out. />
  Had to do something, had to help. No weakness. No fear.

  By the time Brianne’s first stifled cry reached me, I was charging—and ready to kill.

  PART

  THREE

  TALL SKINNY

  The most important thing we have

  to decide is … which of them loves money most.

  —Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers

  TWENTY-NINE

  Nothing prepares you for it.

  I rounded the corner, spotted Brianne crouched in the bathroom and struggling against the hairy arms of a man standing behind her. All at once a constellation of stars shot through my head. Electricity radiated through my chest and extremities. My tongue swelled and retracted, making me gag.

  Without realizing it, I’d fallen to the hall floor in a fetal position, shaking in a prolonged spasm.

  Had to get up. Help Brianne.

  With the current lingering in my curled torso, my body refused to respond. As the tension receded, I started to breathe again.

  “Don’t move,” Brianne pleaded.

  Was she talking to me?

  I could see her, still slouched in the bathroom doorway, squirming, trying to get free. She needed my help. The man’s head was down as he struggled with her.

  In the hall’s darkness, facing me and holding a futuristic-looking weapon, stood a second man. He seemed familiar in a disturbing way.

  I’d let my guard down, caught up in the moment with Brianne and deaf to the little creaks and groans that are typical in any residence. Except these hadn’t been typical. Someone had trespassed on her property.

  I pushed myself up for a better look.

  “Don’t hurt him again!” Brianne wailed. But it was too late.

  This time I landed hard on the carpet as my body convulsed, rigid and out of my control. A few seconds shook hours out of me. When it was finally over, the ebbing energy felt like physical fluid draining from my fingertips and toes.

  “This, my friend, is a Taser.”

  I knew what it was. As if the jolt hadn’t convinced me.

  My eyes jerked in increments toward the calm voice. I followed twin silvery lines to the rectangular contraption in his hand, where his finger wrapped around a trigger. I’d read about these, particularly since Nashville’s police force had adopted them, leading to a number of questionable deaths.

  “See those two electrodes stuck to your sweatshirt? They don’t have to penetrate your skin, as you’ve discovered. They use a shaped pulse to deliver fifty thousand volts, which results in neuromuscular disruption—a fancy description for that bacon impersonation you just did. And all perfectly legal. No special permit required.”

  I grunted. “Can I sit up?”

  “Can you?” He took a step closer and chuckled at my flinch. “Don’t worry. Move slowly, with your back against the wall and hands in your lap. That’s right.”

  My assailant’s face was in the light now, revealing a slightly crooked nose and wavy dark hair. I recognized my enemy. It was my customer from last week, the one who’d hidden the revolver under his coat.

  “You’re the one.”

  He peered down at me. “What?”

  “You killed Darrell Michaels.”

  He let out a mocking laugh that mingled with Brianne’s scream from the bathroom. She was throwing her body against her captor, trying to break free.

  When she failed to do so, she fell silent and still.

  The man with the Taser turned toward her. “I hope you’re listening, cutie. If Aramis does his part, he doesn’t get any more zaps. If you keep trying to fight or escape, he gets every last bit of juice from these batteries.”

  I leaned against the wall, exhausted and still pulsing with a dull ache. From what I could remember, most deaths linked to Taser usage involve multiple firings on those with existing heart problems or with a large amount of drugs in their systems. I was healthy, and I’d been drug free for more than a year.

  Of course, a couple more rounds, and I might prefer death. No more pain.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” Brianne insisted.

  “We’ve asked before, haven’t we, Aramis? Where is the whip?”

  “You’re with ICV.”

  “In cauda venenum,” he said. “Yes, you used to be one of us.”

  “What’re you doing in Tennessee? I don’t have any whip or know about any whip or wanna know about any whip. I think someone’s making a mistake. Wasting your time.”

  “It’s no mistake. You are a Lewis, after all, a couple of generations removed.”

  “Don’t tell them anything,” Brianne said.

  “Aramis, you’re the next in line. The next descendant.”

  “This is all wrong.”

  “Not according to your father. He insisted your mom gave it to you.”

  My father? What hadn’t Dad told me? Had he been attacked as well? I hadn’t seen him since the night before, passed out in the studio.

  Brianne’s voice was strident. “Take your hands off me! Leave us alone.” She fought the man behind her. In their skirmish, his face lifted, and I caught a glimpse of his hooded eyes. It was a man I recognized: Parole Officer Leroy Parker. I should’ve known.

  I started to move.

  My body went into another teeth-grinding convulsion.

  My muscles thickened into steel cords, snapping taut and beating me against the floor. The contractions wrung the strength from me, subsiding at last with a chalky taste on my tongue. The stink of my sweat hovered in the air.

  “I’m sorry. Please, don’t hurt him any more. Please …”

  Her voice. Hollow and far away.

  The ICV man stepped closer—the tiger tamer, punishing me into submission to make me jump through his rings of fire. His finger was on that trigger, and I was still linked by insulated wires to the despicable toy.

  “Aramis, you won’t be much use to me if I have to keep this up. Of course, if you want to die, that’s up to you. For me, it just makes for a long evening.”

  I was quivering, fearful of another hit.

  Darrell Michaels’s murderer was standing here before me. And Leroy Parker was holding on to Brianne. Parker was involved all right—a crooked, lying weasel of a man. I’d seen his type before. Pathetic wannabes. Those who get into law enforcement for all the wrong reasons, seeking the power and control they know they lack.

  “Okay.” I gave a raspy cough. “I’ll tell you.”

  “That’s the sort of compliance I’m looking for. Thank you, my friend.”

  My body was cringing and subservient; my will, however, was far from surrendering. A plan was forming. From my brief reading about Tasers, I knew they could be volatile around flammable items. The hall was empty, though. Nothing in reach.

  I coughed again, exaggerating just a bit. “Listen. I swear I don’t know about the whip. But I think my mom’s memento holds a clue.”

  Brianne was crying, balled forward.

  Parker shoved her a step into the hall and addressed me. “It’s a map, isn’t it?”

  “I think it could be.”

  “Yes!” Parker told the other man. “I told you those papers were the real deal. But we don’t need them now, just the map. We’re going to be rich.”

  “All well and good,” said the tiger tamer. “I’m interested in the documents.”

  Parker smirked. “Have at ’em, pal.”

  “More proof of this government’s corruption, right back to its inception.”

  If not for the tension stretching every muscle tight, I might’ve laughed at the absurdity of the scenario—lost gold and subversive papers and an incapacitated man on the hallway floor. If this had been a movie, I’d have been wearing a bulletproof vest while sporting an M-16.

  No such luck.

  I coughed again, bent over in pain. And slipped my hand along my leg.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Leroy said. “In cauda venenum and all that anarchist mumbo jumbo. You just help me get to the gold, then you do y
our thing, and I do mine.”

  “So tell us,” the man with the Taser said to me. “Where is this handkerchief?”

  “I … don’t know.”

  “Think carefully. We hold on to your girlfriend here until we confirm the location, and then you’re both free to go back to life and love and making little Lewis offspring.”

  “Parker’s a crook.” I pointed a finger at the slump-shouldered man.

  “What?”

  I let my free hand fall back toward my chest. “Ask him. He already has the papers, and he’s just using you.”

  “Parker?” The man with the Taser shifted his attention. “You said that Michaels kid took the papers.”

  “He did. He swiped ’em from me. I swear it.”

  As the ICV man paused, I gripped my sweatshirt with my left hand and tore it over my head. In the same motion, with my right I lifted the lighter—the one I’d used to light our dinner candles—and flicked the flint wheel with my thumb.

  The man whipped back toward me.

  A half second later, the Taser’s pulse stretched forth. Carving through the material, it snapped with hungry electricity and bit down on the fumes of the lighter’s flame.

  I tossed the sweatshirt away from me, but the explosion was immediate.

  I yelled as the heat stripped off the hair and first layer of skin along my fingers and wrist. In the dark hall, the yellow orange burst of the sweatshirt was sudden and blinding. I clawed forward in a low crouch, drove my head into the man’s gut, and rammed him into the wall. I heard Brianne scream, followed by a deeper yell, as picture frames crashed to the floor.

  My opponent tried to counter my attack, stabbing joined elbows down onto my back, sharp and desperate.

  I found strength in his frenzied motion.

  Live by the Sword …

  I wrapped up his legs, lifted, and twisted him around.

  Die by the Sword …

  I snapped my upper body, hammering him down onto the floor where ribs and spine made contact with a sickening thud. His legs still in my grip, I pistoned him down the hall, shoving him before me until a closed door ended the forward progress of his skull.