The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  With head back, gazing through the leaves’ fire, I spoke to the sky. “Lord, I spend so much time focused on myself. This is awesome out here. Thank you.”

  Could’ve said more, but words were inadequate. If God is real, if he knows the thoughts in our heads and intentions of our hearts, he knew what I meant.

  From my pack, I pulled a water bottle, a Snickers bar, and my mother’s novel.

  The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas.

  I cracked open the worn cover and the smudged pages, relishing the image of Dianne Lewis Black with this same book—her hands holding and turning, her eyes reading, her imagination engaging. I kept my head down so I didn’t have to acknowledge the infrequent hikers in this back section of the park.

  My namesake. Aramis.

  I flipped through, trying to find references to the man. I discovered he was a musketeer, stout and amicable, with dark eyes and rosy cheeks. One passage in particular tethered the thoughts I’d had floating around for the past few days, the past year really: “To be obliging and polite does not necessarily make a man a coward.… Aramis is mildness and grace personified. Well, did anybody ever dream of calling Aramis a coward? No, certainly not, and from this moment I will endeavor to model myself after him.”

  Who would want to model themselves after my mildness and grace? Sure, I’d been changing, trying to get a grip. Still, though, I had a thing or two to learn. Just ask Uncle Wyatt.

  The whisssh of leaves and crackkk of a twig brought me out of my contemplation. In my peripheral vision, I spotted black high tops on a hiker still fifteen feet from me.

  The guy from the alleyway. I knew right away.

  Leaving the book on the bench, I jumped up, chest out, one foot slightly in front of the other. The bruises from our previous encounter were still healing, but he’d had the advantage of stealth and surprise that time around.

  “Bring it!” I said. “This time I see you comin’.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A sudden realization.

  “Striker?”

  The same ICV goon who’d held a gun to my forehead in a warehouse off Burnside Avenue.

  Now he was in jeans and an oversize Slipknot T-shirt, providing ample room to hide a large-caliber gun. His hand was resting on a silver-handled cane made of thick black wood. I could hear him wheezing from the ascent.

  “Smoking’ll do that to you,” I said as my eyes searched the area.

  He mumbled a few cuss words at me.

  I spotted a fallen limb and armed myself with it. “Should I beat you down now? Or wait till you’re ready?”

  “Just … want a few … answers.”

  “Yeah. Right. You could be more creative, at least. Did you use that same cane on me in the alley? When you hit me from behind? Coward.”

  “A walking stick, holmes. Ain’t … nothin’ wrong with that.”

  “Well, you need it apparently. Caught your breath yet?”

  He curled his lips at me, but there was little hostility left in him. He lifted one finger from the cane’s handle and pointed. “What’s wrong … with your hand?”

  “This? Training on a speed bag. Forgot to unwrap it.”

  The man stood taller. “Don’t mean ya no trouble.”

  “Why the cane then?”

  “Insurance.”

  “Dude, turn around and go back to Portland. I’ve had enough problems since your crew showed up. I just wanna live a normal life. A less violent one anyway.”

  “What you just said. I seen some messed-up things.”

  “Now your leader’s in jail. That other guy’s dead.”

  “Messed-up,” he said again. “And the gold? It don’t even exist. Just a lie to keep me goin’.” He shook his head, jabbed the cane into the dirt. “That whole life. A friggin’ joke, ya hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  Beneath three crisscrossed scars, his eyes had a lost look in them. “Ya coulda done it.”

  “Done what?”

  “Popped me in the face. Had my Glock, had me down.”

  “That’s last year’s news.”

  “And I was ’bout to kill you. Then …” He ran a finger beneath his scars. “Next thing I know—bammm—I was out like a light.” His grim chuckle faded until he was staring me in the eyes again. “Why didn’t you do it?”

  The guy was earnest in his desire to understand, and it threw me off guard. I’d figured the man had run back to Oregon, to the old life. Instead, he was here looking for an escape route.

  Staring at him now, I didn’t see an enemy. I saw a victim. A captive.

  “Wanna know the truth?”

  He was nodding.

  “When that fixture fell, it was a sign. It was a second chance, a chance to do things right. To honor my mother maybe. Couldn’t exactly start a new life by putting a bullet in your head.”

  “Now what am I s’posed to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My next step, homey.” The cane stabbed at the leaves.

  “Don’t have any easy solutions. Get off the streets. Change zip codes, and leave the old ways behind. If you’re really searching, you’ll find a God who cares about you. The God of peace. Still trying to figure it out myself, but that’s the way I see it.”

  The man set down the cane and lifted his shirt. I saw a gun.

  “Hey!” I hefted the branch in my hand.

  “Easy, easy,” he said. “Just puttin’ it on the ground.”

  I was on guard, coiled and waiting.

  He kept his eyes on me as he crouched down. “I ain’t used it since.”

  “Since the warehouse?”

  He nodded. His fingers ran over the Glock’s smooth metal before letting it go. With a soft thud, the weapon landed on the overlapping twigs and leaves. He stood, toed it away from himself, and then turned to face the trail ahead.

  He’d gone a few steps before he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Don’t got no use for it. Do with it what ya think.”

  Blame it on Samantha Rosewood. A few months back I had gone to church with her.

  Repent.

  That’s what I learned. According to the minister, the definition has to do with making a 180-degree turn and charting a new course.

  All I can do is tell it to you the way it happened. As I watched Striker walk away, I felt as though I was witnessing a miracle. No amount of yakking at a person can make him do what he did. I’ve had friends who wore the proper clothes, learned the church lingo, but went wild once they left home.

  The heart. It’s all about what’s in there.

  So, yes, I saw it as a miracle. No water into wine—though that would’ve been pretty cool—and no walking on water. This was a no-frills miracle.

  Twenty minutes later at the lake’s edge, I made sure it was clear both directions and then threw the Glock as far as my left hand was capable. The gun plunged to the bottom of Radnor Lake.

  A business supper, that’s all it was. Our usual Sunday evening meal before the new week at Black’s. Seated in Fleming’s Prime Steakhouse and drinking my one glass of full-bodied Shiraz, I found it easy to maintain the front.

  “It’s a beautiful color,” Sammie noted.

  “Yeah.” I lifted the glass so that the candlelight pulsed at the center, warm and glowing red. “Looks like a little heart.”

  “It does.”

  I swirled the wine. “Now it’s a beating heart.”

  She lifted her gaze, and her pupils trapped the same warmth inside.

  I set the glass down so the little heart would stop beating.

  “You’re turning into quite the romantic now, aren’t you, Aramis?”

  “Me? Never.”

  “I’ve seen the way you and Brianne Douglas are with each other.”

  “Brianne?” I played dumb. “From work?”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. As long as it doesn’t interfere with business, as long as those boundaries remain in place, far be it from me to come between the two
of you.”

  I hadn’t yet thought of it that way, the two of us: Aramis and Brianne Black.

  “How’d you find her anyway, Sammie?”

  “Find Brianne? She found me.”

  “She has a way of doing that.”

  “Mr. Black, you are taken with her, aren’t you?”

  “Hey. You gonna answer my question or not?”

  “Actually, Brianne’s father and I are acquaintances. He’s quite the philanthropist. Spent much of his life overseas.”

  “Yeah. Brianne said they traveled a lot when she was a kid.”

  “He and his wife worked with charitable organizations, donating their time and money to help the poor and neglected. Some wonderful endeavors, I’m told. Then, during the early nineties, they lost everything in a scam. They thought they were investing in the plight of Kosovo orphans.”

  “And some fat cat took it all.”

  “Precisely.”

  “That stuff makes me mad.”

  “Don’t share this with Brianne, but Mr. Douglas approached me about a job for his daughter. He thought she needed a place to get her feet wet and work her way into the business world. He didn’t want her thinking he’d pulled strings for her, though.”

  “Well, she’s done a great job. Bright and full of energy.”

  “And a doll.”

  “Considering everything she’s been through recently, she’s hung in there. She’s been very reliable at the shop.”

  Sammie was holding her knife with such delicate grace that I wasn’t sure she’d be able to cut through butter. She seemed to have no trouble, though, slicing her sirloin into manageable bites. As she cocked her head slightly to the right, her auburn hair slipped over her shoulder and plunged in a shimmering waterfall to her toned upper arms.

  Sammie stayed in shape playing tennis regularly and shooting rounds of eighteen at the Governors Club. I could see why my brother was attracted to her, even if she wasn’t the type to go diving into a quarry pool or backpacking through the Rockies. “What is it you see in Johnny Ray?”

  “Your brother?”

  “Now who’s being silly?”

  Sammie touched her mouth with her cloth napkin, raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  When Brianne made such a face, her freckles hopped across her nose and down onto her cheeks, cute and playful. When Sammie did it, her lower lip twitched at the corner, and her long lashes seemed to curl just a bit more.

  Cute and playful. That was a better match for me.

  Still. Sitting across from Sammie was enough to give me second thoughts.

  “Johnny Ray,” Samantha was saying, “is a gifted individual.”

  “And to be able to say I knew him when.”

  “You should be proud, Aramis. He’s worked on his guitar playing, polished his songwriting, and he has … How should I describe it?”

  “A fake tan?”

  Another raised eyebrow but no comment.

  “That intangible quality,” she said after finishing a bite. “Yes, he’s handsome in his hat. And when he’s onstage, the audience wants to listen, hangs on his every word. Honestly, I think he’d have them on the edges of their seats even if he were doing a commercial for a hair-restoration product.”

  “You know, men who wear cowboy hats do have more problems with that.”

  She gave a weak smile.

  “In fact”—I threw in the clincher—“Tim McGraw’s getting pretty thin on top.”

  “And,” Sammie said, killing me with her kindness, “look at the lady he married. Faith Hill.”

  Ouch. These Southern women and their subtle jabs.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Nag, nag, nag,” I told Johnny.

  “Would it kill you to try some fresh mango? Picked ’em up at Wild Oats last night, and I can just hear ’em callin’ your name.”

  “Gotta run. Maybe next time.”

  The toaster gave a satisfying popppp, and I snagged my breakfast goodies. Fast food for the walk to work. I knew Johnny’s obsession with my eating habits was just his way of showing affection for the little brother in the house.

  A drizzly Monday morning.

  Midway through the park, I paused for my ten minutes of silence, huddled close to the Parthenon’s soaring stone walls, hoping to stay as dry as possible beneath the columns and decorative roof. Halfway around the structure, I saw a familiar figure crouched beside a bag of empty cans.

  “Hey,” I called out.

  He turned and waited for my approach.

  “Freddy,” I said. “The crime-fighter.”

  He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. His hair was combed back neatly, and his beard was trimmed. Beneath his outer coat, layers of shirts and sweaters showed no concern for color coordination. Function over fashion.

  We shook hands, and he told me he’d been released the previous day. The police apologized for the misunderstanding, recommended he not approach other people’s property with scissors in hand, then provided a hot meal and coffee before delivering him to Centennial Park.

  “What’d you think of the jail cell?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad. At least it was dry. Not that I’d wanna live there.”

  “You like your freedom.”

  “Better than most.”

  “Krispy Kreme?”

  He smiled again. “You betcha, Artemis.”

  “Aramis,” I said.

  “Say what?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get moving before it really starts coming down.”

  On the east side of the park, near the band shell, we spotted Tina and her dog. She was glad to see Freddy. She joined the glazed-doughnut parade, muttering rhymes as she brought up the rear.

  Later that morning Detective Meade filled me in on the phone.

  Leroy Parker’s fingerprints had been lifted from the scissors found in the possession of Frederick Chipps. Tests were being run to match Parker’s DNA against previously collected evidence in the sexual assault cases. Three of the women had already identified Parker from random assortments of photos; each of them had been Tasered.

  Meade explained that authorities had previously received anonymous notes giving veiled clues about the rapist. After examination, the notes had been dismissed as hoaxes; the smell of sweat and alcohol, as well as the shaky writing and poor grammar, had further discredited them.

  Yesterday morning, sitting in his cell, Mr. Chipps had provided a sample of his handwriting. His own shaky handwriting.

  Freddy C was a free man again.

  The FedEx driver arrived in the middle of our morning rush.

  “You can just set it there.” I waved him to the counter, pulling his usual order of espresso shots while steaming the next customer’s skim milk.

  “Need your John Hancock on this one.”

  “You sure?”

  “They paid for signature confirmation. That’s the way it’s gotta be done.”

  I signed, then handed over his drink. “Two shots of rocket fuel.”

  “Attaboy.”

  “Drive safe.”

  It was well after eleven when I had a chance to open the envelope. Brianne was looking past my shoulder, playfully grabbing for it.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “Stop.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Just let me open this, please.”

  “I can’t look?”

  “Maybe. But can you cover the counter?”

  “Sure thing.”

  In the envelope were my plane tickets and an information packet. The television show’s logo filled the front page. Sharp and simple, red and gold, it incorporated the predictable horns and angel wings around the title The Best of Evil.

  The subtitle read When Good Things Happen to Bad People.

  Was Uncle Wyatt a bad person? Maybe not. Did I wanna do something good for the man? Not really.

  I’d heard nothing from the coproducers about Uncle Wyatt’s dream or unfulfilled wish. I was focused instead on the confrontation and the sma
ll victory of watching him squirm under the scrutiny of my questions.

  I hadn’t thought much about the fact that I’d be a party to some kindness shown him. Perhaps I’d overreacted to his failure two decades ago, but I wasn’t sure that made me a candidate for bighearted favors. Of course, I’d already signed the papers. There was no backing out now.

  Once I had the handkerchief, it would all be worth it.

  “Not fair,” Brianne said when she saw the tickets.

  “What can I say? I’m going to Hollywood, baby.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  I checked the tickets again. “Three days. Not too bad.”

  “Who’s gonna cover for you? I can’t run this place all by myself. Well, maybe I can.” She gave me a wry grin. “But I sure wouldn’t want to. I don’t want to completely lose my mind.”

  “I talked with Sammie about it last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Dinner. Our usual business meal.”

  “Business,” Brianne repeated.

  “She’ll hire someone from the temp agency. A former Starbucks worker or something.” I flashed a furtive look around the shop. “Just don’t tell any of our regulars. We don’t want them jumpin’ ship.”

  “Oh, they’re loyal. Look at what they’ve put up with already.”

  “Thanks for rubbing it in.”

  “I’ll have help—that’s the good news.”

  “Is there bad news?”

  “You and Samantha sharing a candlelight dinner, and—”

  “How’d you know? About the candlelight?”

  “Aha! See?” Brianne wiggled her finger at me. “As if you’d find a classy woman like Samantha in any other setting. She’s got the money, the looks … She can have things on her own terms, can’t she?”

  “She’s not stingy. She’s one of the most generous people I know.”

  “Why shouldn’t she be? She got it the easy way. Old family money.”

  Brianne went back to her busywork, straightening, cleaning.

  “These Hollywood types might really like me,” I said. “What if I get an acting role outta this?”