The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  Still running, I catch sight of her on a riverbank, on her knees.

  “Mom!”

  Stretching my arms to their limits, I feel the wind create lift beneath me. I need to reach her. I rise from the ground and launch forward, brushing over golden tips of wheat. On pinions of flight, I swoop to her rescue.

  Then gravity has its say.

  I crash and somersault into the mud, end over end through coffee-tinted earth, catapulting straight past my mother and over the edge. Plunging down. Down. Into liquid nothingness.

  Seconds later she, too, plunges below the surface.

  Her hair swirls about her face. She brushes it away so that her eyes catch mine.

  And she smiles.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Nobody’s dead?” said Johnny Ray. “I figure that’s a good thing.”

  “Is Dad sleeping?”

  “Like a baby. So the two of you got things all squared away?”

  I shrugged, then pointed at his Tabasco boxers. “You ever change those?”

  “Don’t see as how it’s any of your business, kid.”

  “We share the same roof.”

  “If you must know,” he said, “I’ve got eight pair, one for each day of the week.”

  “And the spare?”

  “For emergencies.”

  “Stop.” I held up my hand, which I’d dabbed with burn ointment and rewrapped, and curled away from him into the kitchen.

  “Help yourself to the grapefruit juice,” Johnny called. “Fresh squeezed.”

  I swigged it straight from the pitcher, clenched my teeth, shook my head, and uttered one of my tribal grunts.

  “That’ll wake you up. Good stuff and good for you.”

  I grunted again. Filled a bowl with cereal. “You’re right, Johnny Ray. Nothing like some fruit to kick off the day.” I ate a heaping spoon of Froot Loops.

  “A healthy start’s always good,” he said from the living room. “ ’Bout time you listened to your big brother.”

  Another bite. Crunchy, processed, artificially sweetened, and wonderful.

  “Yeah, Johnny. What you said.”

  Johnny was strumming his guitar, working on a new tune. He played a chord progression that sounded clear and bright, ringing over the hardwood.

  He paused to speak. “You heard the news?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Johnny Ray Black is turnin’ a new page. Generating some interest in high places.”

  I gulped down my bite. “Someone on Music Row?”

  “Even better.”

  “Musik Mafia?”

  “Along those lines. The independent route’s lookin’ mighty fine, with room to be yourself, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “What about lookin’ the part?”

  Johnny laughed. “That’s already in the bag, they tell me.”

  “The things they’ll say to make a buck.”

  He was ignoring me, easing into the lyrics: “Life got brighter when the lights went down. It’s been an uphill road to reach this down-home gal. She said we’d never happen; it was just a weekend thing. I said, ‘Here’s what I been thinking … Let’s have a lifelong fling.’ ”

  My bowl and spoon clattered in the sink. I pulled on a light jacket and shoes.

  “Catchy. Any particular lady in mind?”

  Still gripping a pick in his fingers, he wagged his hand back and forth. “I don’t tell my inspiration, you know that. Gotta make the song your own.”

  “Sarah the bimbo?”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Samantha Rosewood?”

  His eyes shifted to mine, sparkled, then danced away.

  Trees shook in the morning breeze that whipped across the pond. As I headed with hunched shoulders through the park, the chill shoved aside my drowsiness and stirred questions to the surface.

  Had I failed my friend Freddy C?

  Had he been crying for help all these months, tortured by his own depravity?

  If, indeed, he’d done those things to Jessica Tyner and the other girls, he deserved any punishment coming his way. Had he been throwing out clues?

  Shouldn’t show my face … If you’re smart, you’ll get him … Stay outta my hair … I’m not safe to be around … He’ll no longer take what doesn’t belong to him.

  Tina stood from a bench, motioning at me as her dog yipped.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Recycling man, he had a plan.”

  “That wind’s cold, Tina. Are you stayin’ warm?”

  “Hiding and waiting, ceaselessly baiting.”

  “Are you talking about Freddy C? Did you hear what happened?”

  Her eyes met mine for a fraction of a second, pleading for mercy. Then, as though ashamed of herself, she muttered something else and shuffled away with her wooden cart wobbling through dew-soaked grass.

  I tried to shrug off the facts: Freddy found outside Brianne’s condo with a pair of scissors. Videotaped outside my place hours before I found the clump of hair.

  Just one problem: Before taking two bullets, Parole Officer Leroy Parker had wielded scissors of his own. Used them to collect some of Brianne’s hair.

  Brianne arrived for work with blond hair poking through the back of a pink ball cap. Her eyes were puffy. I hugged her for a long moment, deciding that caffeine-craving customers could pause to remember that we’re all human, each one of us.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  I gave her a peck on the cheek. “You sure you’re up for work? You can take a day off if you need to.”

  “By myself? In that hotel? I’d rather be near you.”

  “Whenever you’re ready then.”

  She headed toward the back washroom.

  I turned to the woman at the front of the line. She wore nutmeg-colored mascara and glitter lip gloss and a jogging suit with stripes down the sides. A pedometer hung on her hip.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” I said.

  “Are my espresso shots cold?”

  I looked down. “Yeah. I’ll pull some new ones. A mocha, was it?” Using my left hand for everything, I tamped down the espresso and said, “Brianne’s condo was broken into last night. She didn’t sleep all that well.”

  “No whip,” the woman said. “Make it extra hot.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And that’ll be on the house. Appreciate your patience.”

  She took the drink and jogged out the door without a word.

  No worries. Under control. Just another day on the job.

  When the next customer stepped up, I braced myself for more of the same. The man was around my age, African American with tight dreads framing a caramel brown face and sandy eyes. His suit was loose and pinstriped, cut down the middle by a thin gold tie. He raised an eyebrow, told me to shrug off the haters, and tucked a pair of ten-dollar bills into my orange mug.

  “Just helpin’ a brother,” he explained. “We all have our rough days.”

  At twelve thirty I was supposed to meet with Detective Meade to view video footage and speak with Freddy C. I called Johnny Ray. He has Saturdays off, and he agreed to keep an eye out at Black’s as long as he could get a salad.

  On the house? Not a problem.

  Johnny was still en route when the phone rang. I’d just stocked the freezer, and Brianne was helping mop up a customer’s spill in the dining area. Brianne pursed her lips and shrugged as if to say, “I’m stuck out here. Could you get that?”

  “Black’s. This is Aramis.”

  “Oh, thank the Lord. I was hopin’ and prayin’ to catch ya there.”

  “Mrs. Michaels?”

  “Good mornin’, Mr. Black. Ain’t interruptin’, am I? Don’t mean to be a burden.”

  “Not at all.” I peeked at the counter, saw a patron still checking the menu. I thought about her son’s killer, now in custody. “Have you talked to the police this morning?”

  “Not so as I know. Why?”

  “I’m surprised.”

  “They might’ve tried callin
’ me, but the phone’s cut off. I’m using my neighbor’s mobile phone, on loan. Real sweet of her. Been doin’ my best, you know, but I just can’t keep up with them bills. Tell me, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Do you think we can talk in person?”

  “That’s the reason I called. Grown man like you’s gotta eat, am I right? Ain’t nothin’ better than a mama’s home cookin’.”

  I stiffened at the sentiment.

  “Mr. Black? All’s I’m sayin’ is, you’re without a mama, and I’m without my son. Might be nice for you to come on over and share a meal.”

  “That means a lot.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

  “There’s other reasons too. I’m hopin’ for some answers. Been thinkin’ on Darrell, so I started goin’ through his stuff this morning. Weren’t the easiest, but it’s gotta be done. A mama’s responsibility.”

  “You’re a brave lady.”

  “I found somethin’ might be of interest to ya.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A set of papers, brown and crackly and older than dirt. I’m thinkin’ my boy got himself in over his head, and maybe you can help me understand. If I’m readin’ right, this here’s got the name Samuel Whiteside, signed and dated, real official-like.”

  “Dated, huh?”

  “It’s faded bad, but the best I can make out, it says, ‘October twelfth, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and nine.’ ”

  “I’m on my way. And I’ll tell you the latest on my end.”

  “No dillydallyin’ then. Red velvet cake’s goin’ into the oven as we speak.”

  “Land speed records are about to fall.”

  She gave a cautious laugh—that of a bereaved mother trying to wear a strong face for her little ones. Some who lose loved ones never rediscover that spring of genuine mirth, while others lay their stones of grief in the water’s path, creating richer sounds of bubbling, gurgling life.

  I believe the spring’s out there, a source of heavenly strength.

  Each day, in my own fumbling way, I look for it. And I listen.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Detective Meade would have to wait. I called and left a message at the precinct, then marched home and jumped into my Honda Civic.

  Neely’s Bend.

  With construction-related traffic, the journey took nearly forty minutes. I wasn’t followed; I checked my mirrors to ensure against it. That left me with contemplation time behind the wheel.

  Neely … with one L.

  As in Agent James Neelly, the man who escorted Meriwether Lewis?

  The coincidence seemed too much to push aside. Many family names have changed and dropped letters over the years. Even the owners of Grinder’s Stand, where Lewis died, have been listed as the Griners in numerous publications. This is the South, where oral tradition has passed names along without concern for accurate spelling, where secrets have prompted slight permutations for reasons of a personal nature.

  I knew I should have an idea what these mysterious documents were, but my mind was too muddled to dredge up the right information.

  I turned up Lightning 100, Nashville’s progressive rock station, and let the music numb my frustrations with road crews and ever-changing detours.

  Maybe it’s a trait of my age group or a unique personality quirk, but music tends to occupy one side of my brain so that the other side can get to work. Even as a kid, I did homework better with my earphones in and the volume jacked up.

  My subconscious released the info and escorted it to the evidence room.

  Last night. Leroy Parker’s voice: I told you those papers were the real deal.

  The ICV man: You said that Michaels kid took the papers.

  Parker: He did. He swiped ’em from me. I swear it.

  And back in Centennial Park, Mrs. Michaels: Darrell and Mr. Parker, they found somethin’ … a gift from above.

  There was something else. Something that still eluded me.

  The Michaels house seemed more dilapidated than I recalled from my previous visit. A shrunken version of a Southern plantation home, the residence only hinted at bygone glory and was in obvious need of repair. I had to wonder how safe the children were, running through the place.

  Juniper and maple trees stood guard at the corners, but the house had been overrun by bushes and weeds that spilled over the pebbled walkway. Weather and age had warped the planking, and the pillars at the front porch stood at a discernible slant.

  This time Mrs. Michaels willingly opened the front door for me.

  “How d’ya do, Mr. Black?”

  She said it with such unaffected politeness that I thrust out my hand. What was the correct procedure here? I mean, I was raised in the Northwest.

  She smiled and looked at the offered hand, wrapped in gauze.

  “What happened to ya?”

  “Got caught playing with fire.”

  “Hope you’s smarter next time ’round.”

  “Sorry for the delay,” I said. “You know the traffic out there.”

  “I’m tellin’ you. Come in, come in.” She looked down and patted twin girls on the head. “Where’re y’all’s manners? Say hello to Mr. Black.”

  “How d’ya do, sir?” they voiced in unison.

  “Mighty fine, my dear ladies,” I said in mock chivalry. “And you?”

  They disappeared in a fit of squeals and giggles.

  Despite the home’s rundown condition, Mrs. Michaels had gone to great lengths to make it cozy and livable, and everywhere I looked I saw touches of a mother’s love. She gestured toward the dining table. I wondered when it would be best to tell her about the ICV man’s capture. Would she want to face the man who’d shot her son?

  Mealtime started with fruit tea and a basket of warm biscuits and salted butter, followed by turnip greens, corn, country-fried steak, and fried apples.

  Hearty fare. Delicious and satisfying.

  Throughout, I joked with the kids, getting to know each of them by their nicknames. The youngest were wide-eyed and curious, the older ones quiet and less apt to laugh. Darrell’s death was a reality still settling. Like dust, this type of tragedy is never completely swept away; it sits quietly until stirred by simple words or memories, and on good days it dances through sunlight as a reminder that warmth and hope still exist.

  “Now why don’t y’all go play upstairs,” Mrs. Michaels told the children. “Do as you’re told, and you’ll be gettin’ yourselves some cake when it’s ready.”

  Although they grumbled, reluctant to leave their guest, they no doubt dreaded the boredom of adult conversation. They crawled over and around me before pounding up a creaking staircase with white banisters.

  “Thanks for the food, Mrs. Michaels,” I said. “Sure hit the spot.”

  “You saved yourself some room, didn’t ya?” The smell of the cooling red velvet cake wafted through the house, even as she prepared the frosting. “This was Darrell’s favorite, you know that? Always had a sweet tooth, that one.”

  I felt honored by this gesture. And sugar? I hadn’t had any since breakfast.

  Guilt tugged at me as I basked in this hospitality while Brianne held things down at Black’s. I reminded myself that Johnny Ray was there as a sentinel, and she’d have his helping hand if the situation required it.

  “So,” I said, “you have something to show me? The papers?”

  Mrs. Michaels pointed with a frosting-coated knife. “I moved ’em right there behind ya, in the bottom drawer.”

  I turned toward an antique secretary desk. “Mind if I …

  “Go on, go on. Have yourself a look. It’s why you came, ain’t it?”

  I detected a rueful tone, yet my attention was on the documents. They sat inside a clear sheet protector, yellowed and brittle. Although tests would be required for conclusive dating, there was nothing to make me doubt they had been penned nearly two centuries ago.

  “These were in your son’s belongings?”

  Mrs. Michaels nodded.

&nbs
p; “Were they hidden? You know, tucked away somewhere inconspicuous?”

  “That’s one way of puttin’ it. He was my boy, you realize, and he weren’t ever a bad kid at heart. Over the years, though, I learnt his ways. He put things where he figured his mama wouldn’t know what he was up to. S’pose it was nosy of me, but I done it for his own good, and that’s the Lord’s honest truth. After I moved the four young uns here from Memphis, that’s when I put my foot down, told Darrell and his older sister there weren’t gonna be no more of that in my house.”

  Pressing the plastic against the historic documents, I tried to make out the words on the first sheet and detected a date and signature, just as she’d relayed on the phone. I thumbed carefully through the others.

  “So when I started goin’ through his things this mornin’, I figured it was only smart to check his ol’ hiding places. Sure ‘nuff, found them papers taped in plastic folders on the back of one of his posters. I’d found money there before, and other things. A little bag of powder once, which I was just sure was more of them drugs.”

  “In the news, they said Darrell’s PO had been giving him clean reports.”

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Leroy Parker. And what’d I tell ya ’bout that man?”

  “That he’s dishonest,” I said.

  I’d reached the last document. It was a personal letter.

  Mrs. Michaels continued. “Had my doubts about him from the get-go. Know what I think? He was usin’ my boy to help him with this Lewis nonsense.”

  “You still think it’s nonsense?”

  “Don’t rightly know, Mr. Black. Just know I don’t trust that Mr. Parker.”

  “He’s dead now. He attacked a lady last night, and she shot him. Twice.”

  Mrs. Michaels dropped her chin, then leaned over the kitchen sink on both arms, her dimpled back pressing against her blouse. My hand was still on the letter. “God rest that man’s soul,” she murmured, “for things he done and for things he ain’t that he shoulda.”

  Seemed to be a fitting eulogy. She must’ve thought so too, because when she turned back, she had shirked off any sympathy or shock and had chosen to help me in my search. She scooped up a magnifying glass from atop the desk, lowered herself into the seat beside me, and moved the instrument over the top paper.