The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  “See for yourself, Mr. Black.”

  I dropped one arm under the table and leaned closer, peering through the glass. In ink scratched across fibrous parchment, the spidery signatures came to life. One belonged to Justice of the Peace Samuel Whiteside, the other to a doctor whose name was indecipherable.

  I thought of my brother’s comments at the memorial site in Hohenwald: A coroner’s inquest was never even filed … Papers like that were the personal property of the justice of the peace, but these just disappeared … Whoever had them could’ve just thrown them in a box and stuffed them in an attic.

  This was that inquest!

  These pages could rewrite the history books. Here, in black and white, the coroner’s conclusion was that Governor Meriwether Lewis had unequivocally and without question been murdered. His death was a result of multiple gunshot wounds—with bullets from separate weapons. Furthermore, he’d suffered knife wounds and a slit across his throat. The trajectories of the bullets suggested an attacker, or attackers, standing over the governor. And, most telling, Lewis’s own hands had no trace of gunpowder upon them.

  “A gift from above,” I whispered.

  “Mr. Black?”

  “Do you have an attic?”

  “I ain’t never been in it, not that I’d fit up there if I tried.”

  “Didn’t your son and Mr. Parker say they found something that was a gift from above? What if these papers were originally hidden up there? Maybe Darrell was looking for a new spot to stash his paraphernalia and—”

  “Stash what?”

  “Never mind. I think Agent James Neelly stole this inquest to cover his guilt, and he held on to these other documents as leverage against his superior, General Wilkinson.”

  “You done lost me completely.”

  “How old is this house?”

  “Built before the war. For a time Union bigwigs used it as a headquarters and even added on out back. Built themselves a stable for their horses.” Mrs. Michaels rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion. “Least that’s what the real-estate fella told me, but they ain’t got no record of the original owner.”

  “Neelly moved here. Maybe even built the place. Then he concealed the papers and took his secret to the grave.”

  “The grave.” Mrs. Michaels quivered at that, then said in a voice husky with grief, “And that’s where this all oughta stay, don’t ya think? My son got mixed up in this and got hisself killed for it. Spanish gold? Murder? No more, not in my house. We put this back where it came from and leave the dead in peace.”

  “What about the truth?”

  “This here’s my home, Mr. Black. And my family, my kin. I don’t bother no one, and they don’t bother me. Sure, I see we got a mystery on our hands, but it’s our mystery, and I reckon I can live with it stayin’ that way.”

  “What about the Lewis family?”

  “What of ’em?”

  “Don’t they deserve to know the truth about their forebear? He was an American figurehead. The schools should be teaching kids what really happened. It’s possible I’m even a descendant.”

  “No.” Mrs. Michaels pulled herself to her feet and returned to the cake, where she sliced tall slabs and laid them on plates. “What’s done is done,” she said, “and it ain’t my job to step in where the Lord’s already been.”

  My hands trembled at the thought of letting this go. She’d called me here, letting me in on a secret and finding a measure of understanding regarding her son’s death. Was there any way I could go against her wishes on this? No. This was her family and her home, a place of refuge from the things life had thrown her way.

  And overriding all else, this is the South, where outsiders ought not tread.

  I’d already waited too long. With this host of revelations still spiraling through the air, she deserved to know that at least one mystery had been solved. Darrell’s murderer had been apprehended and booked into the county jail.

  She was handing me dessert and a fork.

  “Mrs. Michaels?” I set the utensil down and took her hand.

  She searched my eyes, then took a deep breath and sank into her chair.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It was a despicable thing to do.

  Sharply aware of the document rolled and tucked into the sleeve of my jacket, I still had the nerve to take this sweet woman’s hand in mine. It was a genuine act of compassion, even if my motives were muddied and my methods questionable. Nevertheless, as Mrs. Michaels and I talked and dipped forks into moist slabs of red velvet cake, self-loathing settled in my stomach.

  I was wrong. Not an easy pill to swallow.

  “Thanks for the great meal,” I told Mrs. Michaels as I left the house in Neely’s Bend. “We’ll talk soon. At least we know that man’s behind bars.”

  She gave a grudging nod, her eyes still teary. “There’s some comfort in that.”

  “Your kids are the greatest.”

  “Ain’t no question. Thanks for comin’ out, Mr. Black.”

  I knew I would never reveal the secrets contained in the Michaels home, not against her wishes. The truth of Lewis’s death would remain undisturbed.

  Yet I still had my own heritage to consider. My mother.

  Had Dianne Lewis Black lost her life for the sake of these things?

  With this as my justification, I had removed the final document from the protective sheath and discreetly concealed it.

  The letter was signed by Meriwether Lewis.

  My ancestor? I needed to know before anyone else died.

  I headed back toward I-24 and eased into a gas station. With the car idling, I unfurled the two-centuries-old parchment and gripped it with the edges of my shirt to protect against fingerprint oils and corrosives.

  Although the words had an archaic feel, I could hear among them the faint echo of hidden gold and untold conspiracies. I couldn’t resist reading.

  Mother,

  It is with much distress I write, as it is not certain or even of strong likelihood that I shall survive this night’s indications of intrigue. I believe even now there are agents expediting a course of violence aimed to hinder, or with all finality, dispose of my being.

  Hesitance and a measure of alarm have accompanied my good servant Mr. Pernier and me throughout the day, and we are now encamped at Grinder’s Stand within a short distance of the Natchez Trace.

  Two of my packhorses were said to have bolted during last evening’s immense thunderstorm display, burdened down as they were with my collection of documents and valuables. This circumstance has dissuaded our pestiferous escort Agent Neelly from maintaining our company as instead he rides in pursuit of the missing animals; it is my belief that Neelly has intended to pilfer the documents from the journey’s outset, for the service and protection of the one who appointed him. With courses of treason apparent on the part of these individuals, and with such concerns bearing upon my every thought, I have done as I saw fit.

  I wish therefore to divulge matters pertaining to my execution of certain duties personal and political in nature. The dangers presiding are certain and imminent, and I must force upon you this notion: Spare your soul, and turn your eyes from greed.

  At my own hands, a large procurement of gold has failed to arrive safely in the good graces of the aforementioned traitor, finding instead a circuitous route to a grave of earth and stone. It has been joined there with by specific receipts and letters attesting to his path of personal indulgence.

  Alone in my knowledge of this, I find it necessary to demand a forthright and full confession from the one whose conspiracies have become odorous to all in proximity. I have it in my power here to record that all is in order, should that day present itself. Together in their earthen grave, Spanish gold and documentation forge a verdict both irrepressible and just.

  As for my own person, I have relinquished all further hope. It is too late to introduce a remedy, and I bid adieu to my family and to you also, whom I hold in highest regard. This letter shall be sealed a
nd assigned delivery by the hand of my good Mr. Pernier, for he has agreed to pay you a visit and will be attended by a riding crop from my own collection. You have in previous encounters laid eyes upon this whip and may find its newly embroidered patterns of some aesthetic value.

  Take heed, I have penned one other letter of disclosure but foremost wish to procure your attendance to this matter. Should news of my demise reach your ears, you will need the whip to discern the bearings of gold and grave.

  I am with every sentiment of love and respect,

  Your Son,

  Meriwether Lewis

  I digested the letter with a sense that fate was spying over my shoulder. My mother must’ve been familiar with these words. Had she obtained the “other letter of disclosure”? How else would she have known to mouth a warning so specific?

  Spare your soul, and turn your eyes from greed …

  You will need the whip to discern the bearings of gold …

  Greed. There it was, driving its slaves forward, cracking the whip. How did the Bible put it? “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.”

  If my mother was indeed connected by blood to Meriwether Lewis, Darrell and Parker’s search would’ve led to Portland. Darrell, being a parolee, was confined to the state of Tennessee—except by official request, which he would’ve wanted to avoid—so Parker became the solution to that obstacle.

  Parker poked around. Asked questions about me. Probably used threats to pressure my incarcerated father for answers. He then crossed swords with my old ICV ties and found himself in a reluctant alliance, sealed by promises of gold and documents that could fuel anarchist fires.

  Yes, it was all conjecture. A theory. But it fit.

  Darrell Michaels had become a puppet. Resentful and ravaged again by his meth addiction, he hid the papers from the others to pursue the treasure alone. And who should he find standing last in the line of Lewis males?

  Yours truly. And right under his nose in Music City.

  He must’ve believed it was a sign.

  I can see Darrell that crucial Thursday morning, cookin’ and tweakin’, preparing to face me with his demands for the whip. Perhaps he believed God had led him to this point and the treasure would soon be his. Maybe his intentions were noble; maybe he had his mom and siblings in mind.

  He overlooked the competition and paid the price for it.

  At least as he lay dying, he had the decency to try to warn me.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  No, I’m not angry.”

  “You sound angry, Brianne.” And she did, even through the cell phone.

  “I’m hurt. Why do you do this to me, leaving me on my own? You’ve been gone for over two hours.”

  “I’m trying to wrap things up as quickly as I can.” I’d already secured Lewis’s document at the safe-deposit box used by Black’s. Now en route to the downtown library, I took the Broadway exit. Only a few blocks to go. “Has Johnny Ray been helping you? He’s still there, isn’t he?”

  “Of course he’s here, you doof.”

  “Doofus.”

  “You are so not funny. It’s been crazy, everyone wanting their precious coffee for the first chilly day of fall. People’ve been asking about you. A couple of days ago they seemed worried. Now it’s like they’re a little annoyed. At least Johnny’s kept them entertained with his guitar. He’s been taking requests and passing the hat around.”

  “Johnny Ray to the rescue.”

  “I suggested it. He did try to help behind the counter—I’ll give him credit for that—but the man doesn’t know the first thing about what goes on back here.”

  “Like our kiss by the freezer?”

  “Would you stop? I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work.”

  “I’m just trying to say I’m sorry.” I paused. “You’ve stuck with me since all this craziness started. I really appreciate it. I do. Sometimes I get so focused on my own stuff that I end up comin’ off like a jerk.”

  A tearful tone entered her voice. “You know, the only reason I came to work this morning was to be near you. After last night … I’ve got all these thoughts running through my head. I’m so scared about what’ll happen.”

  “The detectives said you had every right to protect yourself.”

  “Self-defense.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But it feels like it’ll still be there, like this mark on my record. What’ll people think of me?”

  “They’ll think you were a brave girl who—”

  “Girl?”

  “Lady. A brave, beautiful lady who defended herself at all costs. You’re strong. That’s part of what drew me to you.”

  “Really?” Her voice lightened.

  “You don’t let things stand in your way. Think of how you took the job in the first place, even after the shooting. Not to mention how you kept insisting that I have dinner with you.” I slowed and put on my turn signal. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Better not be.” She was sounding more playful.

  “I didn’t know how to deal with it at first, the whole employer-employee thing. We still need to be careful, I guess. But your persistence broke through.”

  “As if it was all my doing. Who was it, mister, that threw me against the wall and kissed me, huh?”

  “You know you liked it.”

  “I’m leaning against that very wall now.”

  In midturn, I caught the curb of the parking garage and nearly dropped the phone as the Honda bucked.

  “Aramis?”

  “I’m trying to drive here.”

  “Are you coming back this way anytime soon? Did you already have your meeting with that detective?”

  “Not yet. A quick detour and then that’s where I’m headed.” As I pulled into a spot beneath the concrete structure, the phone crackled. “I’m about to lose you.”

  “Just don’t stay away too long, or I’ll have to see what your brother’s plans are for the evening. He is kinda cute in his hat.”

  “Yeah? Well, he tans twice a week. Mine’s real.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Since the beginning, Lewis’s letter had been the catalyst. An American icon defending his country against treason, a secret trickling down through generations, and then a chance discovery by a parolee in his mother’s Davidson County attic.

  The ghosts of our nation’s past had stirred.

  Did it still exist, this old riding crop hiding a map to a cache of gold? Was the Spanish bullion still out there? And did my mother’s handkerchief contain a similar map, embroidered the day before her death?

  I’d held the material to my cheek many times, rubbed the silk between my hands, and traced her initials with my fingertips. The other pattern was intricate, with indigo thread winding about a thicker, turquoise one; yet I’d never seen anything like a map in its details. This was heady stuff. If true, it would give deeper meaning to Mom’s death.

  And my own survival.

  The Nashville Public Library system includes a first-rate collection of reading and research materials. If the twenty branch libraries throughout the county are glittering crown jewels, then the downtown branch is the practically flawless diamond at its center.

  The resources are extensive: the Metropolitan Government Archives, with more than five million records on microfilm; the computer lab; the Center for Entrepreneurs; the Civil Rights Room; and the Nashville Room, with its numerous genealogical materials. Many library visitors take their lunches from the downstairs café into the center courtyard where a fountain flows in the midst of the shade trees.

  At a computer I investigated the genealogy of Meriwether Lewis, from past to present, then did the same with the Black family, starting with Kenneth S. Black and moving back. In the middle, I hoped to find intertwining branches.

  No such luck. Two hundred years leaves time for lots of offshoots.

  I did learn that Lewis’s mother was a famed explorer, with medical training, culinary sk
ills, and a fearless disposition. His decision in his letter to leave such grave matters in her hands was calculated and wise.

  It’s a matter of record that Mr. Pernier did indeed visit her after Lewis’s death, but Mrs. Lucy Meriwether Lewis Marks declared that he must’ve killed her son, and she ran him off with a rifle.

  Did Pernier give her the letter and riding crop? No one knows.

  As my confidence in solving this mystery was building, so was my bitterness toward Uncle Wyatt. In a few weeks, we would confront each other once more, making an attempt at getting The Best of Evil by doing good.

  “Just got word,” said Detective Meade. His Titans clock by the door said it was 3:11 p.m. “The incision and residue pattern on Ms. Tyner’s hair specimen match the scissors.”

  “Which scissors?”

  “The ones Frederick Chipps was carrying.”

  “Frederick Chipps.”

  I chewed on that, having a hard time accepting it as the man’s full name. For the year I’d been friends with Freddy C, I’d held on to some romantic notion that the C stood for Crusader, wanting to believe the best about the man.

  “We’ve already contacted a former employer of his in the state of Illinois, as well as the school where he served as custodian. Court and police records will be sent to us to help establish patterns and build a case.” Meade leaned forward on both elbows, linking his long fingers as he gazed at me. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Are you sure about all this?”

  “The incision patterns, Aramis. His are the very blades that cut Ms. Tyner’s hair, implying related and far more serious crimes.”

  “What about Leroy Parker?”

  “He was a public servant, caught up in suspicious activities that are now under investigation. The man’s dead. I’d say he paid the price for his impropriety.”

  “I watched him chase Brianne with a pair of scissors.”

  “A different pair than those matching the Tyner specimen.”

  “He was chasing her. He cut a chunk out of her hair!” I pushed back in my chair, causing it to thud against the detective’s bookcase.