The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  “That’s so not funny.”

  “Oh, come on. You’d love to say your boyfriend is a star.”

  She brightened. “Aramis, that’s the first time you’ve used that word.”

  “Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend.”

  “Girlfriend.”

  “We’re pathetic, you know that?”

  “I know it sounds corny,” started Brianne, “but I’ve never felt this way before. Always wanted to, just never really … ignited. You know what I’m saying? My other boyfriends were losers.”

  “There were others?” I slapped my hand against my chest in pretend horror.

  “All right, Aramis. Very funny.” She put her hands on her hips and tried to imitate my voice. “There’s work to be done. Gotta keep an eye on the counter.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”

  Detective Meade stopped in Black’s four days later.

  “What can I get you, Detective?”

  “A cup of your darkest coffee will suit me fine. To go.”

  “Got French roast brewed. Or … I can whip you up my own little concoction.”

  “Long as it’s legal, Aramis. Just keep it between the lines.”

  “And something to eat? Your order’s on the house.”

  “I’m not allowed gifts on the job. I’ll pay.”

  He scrutinized the display of bakery items and pointed to a fudge brownie. After ringing up his items—at the employee discount—I followed him to the door. I turned once, to let Brianne know I was coming right back.

  She was mouthing something.

  What? I mouthed back.

  You’re looking good.

  Woulda thrown my rag at her, but we had patrons at the tables.

  When I turned back, Meade was taking the first swig of his drink. His lips pressed together, twisting one way and then the other, and his eyes bulged.

  “That’ll curl the hairs on your chest, huh?”

  “Don’t have any hairs on my chest.” He took another swig. “Now tell me what’s in this concoction of yours.”

  “Let’s just say it involves espresso shots, coffee, and a couple drops of lime.”

  “You’re trying to poison me, Aramis.”

  “It’s what I drink to start the day.”

  Meade grimaced. “Well, I was just checking in with you. I know you have that TV show over the weekend, but let’s plan on getting together when you return. We’re gathering data for our case, and we need to be sure everything’s lined up. The district attorney’s office will also be contacting you to coach you through a mock trial. Just to be sure you’re prepared to face Mr. Kellers and his lawyers.”

  “So that’s the murderer’s name?”

  “The name of the accused, Aramis. But, yes. Trey Kellers. He still swears he never shot Darrell Michaels.”

  “Does he also swear he never tagged me with a Taser?”

  “He’s confessed to the other charges but not to the homicide. You’re our primary witness since no one else interviewed actually saw him draw the weapon.”

  “I still can’t believe that.”

  “Most everyone had their heads down, reading their daily papers, working on laptops. A few were looking around but didn’t see it actually take place. Your employee there—she witnessed the man lifting his arm but never spotted the weapon.”

  “I can talk to her. Jog her memory. I mean, a little white lie wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Mr. Black, my job is to uncover the truth. Not to create it.”

  “Sorry. It was a joke.”

  He didn’t laugh, didn’t smile. “Kellers is refusing to plead guilty or to plea-bargain. This thing may drag out.”

  “They’re all innocent, so they say.”

  “Same song and dance, yes. But he admitted to owning a revolver, and he’s submitted it for evidence.” Meade looked at me. “Which is a funny thing. I figured you must’ve had your facts turned around.”

  “Where’re you going with this, Detective?”

  “The day of the shooting we found an ejected shell casing on the floor over here near the window. You’re the only one who saw the weapon drawn and fired, yet you stated it was a revolver.”

  “I know what a revolver is. That’s what he had, no doubt in my mind.”

  “Absolutely. So then, where did the shell come from?”

  “Wait a minute. When you fire a revolver, it holds the shell in the chamber. An automatic expels the shell after it fires.” How could I have missed that?

  “Now we’re tracking.”

  “And I’m completely lost, Detective.”

  FORTY

  Showtime, boys and girls.

  I boarded the plane at Nashville International amid the hoopla of friends, family, a few of the espresso shop’s customers, and a camera crew from a local news channel—everyone wanting to brush shoulders with destiny. Even Mrs. Michaels showed up, with all four children bouncing along.

  “You go get ’em.” Johnny Ray punched my arm.

  “I’m gonna wear this for you,” I said, holding up a T-shirt. “Let’s hope they don’t edit it out or make me change it.”

  Kinko’s had provided the technology; I had provided the design. “Johnny Ray Black” it read in gray letters over a black Stetson, with silver spurs hanging from the two y’s.

  “Thanks either way, kid,” he said. “It’s the thought that counts.”

  The cheers of my new fan club died out as I headed through security checks and long airport corridors. Alone, I felt a wave of anxiety. I don’t like flying, don’t like the idea of being thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube.

  I found my place on board, shoved my carry-on bag under the seat in front of me, then buckled in. Started chewing gum.

  I was ready.

  I pulled Mom’s copy of The Three Musketeers from my bag. I hadn’t opened it since that day at Radnor Lake, saving it for this flight. I wanted time to feel the pages, breathe in the scent of musky paper and ink, enjoy every word.

  I also hoped to connect with my mom’s favorite character and my namesake. Perhaps I’d get some insight into the way Mom thought. I had some six-year-old’s impressions of my mother, but there’s only so much you can understand at that age. So much hidden behind the eyes of every person.

  “Almost to the best part,” the man next to me said.

  I looked down at the book, opened to the title page. No, he meant our impending liftoff.

  I smiled and nodded like I was in full agreement.

  Show-off. Sitting there with legs stretched out and crossed casually, peering through the window with childlike wonder. Beaming with anticipation.

  Didn’t he understand the laws of gravity?

  The plane taxied, then turned and faced the runway while an attendant said something about preparing for departure. Like I could really do anything—a helpless victim, at the mercy of a jet-lagged pilot.

  “I love this part,” said my seatmate. “The raw power.”

  I was reading intently, or pretending to. A seasoned flier. Calm and cool.

  “It’s like an elevator.”

  For the second and third times I read over the title page.

  “Or a roller coaster.”

  I wondered how to pronounce the author’s name.

  “Yessss! We’re off!”

  “Dumas.”

  The man of boundless joy turned to me and asked, “What’d you call me?”

  I rolled up my sleeves and leaned back, feeling much better now that we were in the air. I let his gaze slide down my arms and over my tattoos.

  “The author of this book,” I explained. “Not sure how to say his name.”

  He read the title page, panned over my tattoos again, and said, “I think you just about had it. Those French and their strange pronunciations.”

  I was still on edge, still working with a hair trigger some days. I chided myself and thought of the verse that says, “Do your part to live in peace with everyone, as much as possible.”

/>   With Uncle Wyatt? Not likely.

  I turned my attention back to the book, scanning over the table of contents. There in front of me, in black and white, I read these words: “Chapter Four: The Shoulder of Athos, the Baldric of Porthos, and the Handkerchief of Aramis.”

  If I’d been at all uncertain that Mom’s handkerchief was a clue before, I was now convinced. I flipped straight past the first three chapters and started reading. I had a gnawing feeling that soon it would all be very clear.

  I arrived in Los Angeles in one piece, much to my relief. From the plane, I’d taken in the enormity of LAX and hoped someone would be waiting at the baggage-claim area.

  There he was. Greg Simone holding a sign with my name.

  “Greg. Hey there.”

  “Aramis.” We shook hands. “Welcome to North Tijuana.”

  “What? Oh, I get it.”

  It was all coming back to me. Growing up on the Pacific coast, I made my way up and down Interstate 5 numerous times, from Portland to San Diego, even into Tijuana. Some of those trips were for reasons not worth mentioning. I also have memories of a visit to Sea World with Johnny Ray and our girlfriends. I seem to recall that when we returned, I no longer had a girlfriend, and my brother had a new one.

  People talk about the good ol’ days, and I think, No thanks. I’m done with that.

  Greg Simone was apologizing for his joke. “That was inappropriate of me, and rude really.”

  I stepped toward the conveyor belt. “Here’s my suitcase, and I have just this one duffel bag. Let’s get outta here.”

  “ ‘Outta here’ is a relative term.”

  I stared at him.

  “We have one more plane to catch. A smaller one.”

  “How small?”

  “A Cessna Grand Caravan. It comfortably seats eight. We told you we’d be shooting at an undisclosed location, if you remember our agreement.” He tilted his head, hoping for an acknowledgment, but got nothing from me. “It’s a short flight, just a hop and a skip into the San Bernardino Mountains. An absolutely incredible setting, just perfect for your segment.”

  “Let me guess. Big Bear Lake?”

  He snapped his fingers. “Hollywood’s back lot. You know, Magnolia was filmed there, The Parent Trap, oh, and that show Bonanza Now there’s an oldie but goodie. No green screens, all real locations. So you’ve been to Big Bear?”

  “Only heard about it.”

  “It’s an alpine community about a hundred miles from here, nestled around a lake. Don’t suppose it’ll be too cold yet, but the higher peaks have a dusting of snow from last weekend. The town itself is around six thousand feet, and some of the surrounding peaks reach nine.”

  “Well, the packet did say to bring a winter coat.”

  “Not everyone reads those. Good man, Aramis.”

  I decided not to tell him I’d left my coat at home. I’d figured a Windbreaker would do.

  I was wrong.

  Carla Fleischmann met us at the airport in Big Bear. She was the clock watcher, schedule keeper, all-around tough lady. She’d left the tight skirts behind, settling on a ski outfit and puffy down coat, and with dark sunglasses holding back her red hair, she showed off a flawless forehead and shaped eyebrows.

  A couple more years, and she’d be using Botox to maintain the look.

  “Hungry?” she inquired from the front seat as Greg and I climbed into the shuttle. “Or do you prefer getting to your cabin first?”

  “I’m starved,” I said. Then in a whisper to Greg, “And don’t you say a word.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  I’d lost my lunch in flight.

  “Grizzly Manor,” Carla told the driver. “Aramis, you’ll like this place. Their motto is ‘Send more tourists … The last ones were delicious.’ ”

  “Sounds … delicious.”

  “It is. Don’t worry, hungry man.”

  She was right. I ordered Big Bear’s Revenge—with a name as fitting as that, how could I pass?—and dove into a mess of chili, cheese, and onions. After dinner, we stopped at the Brewed Awakening Coffee Company, where I got a double latte.

  By the time we reached the resort, I was feeling the effects of the two-hour time change.

  The cabins were generously furnished, with fireplaces, fourposter beds, and huge windows facing the water. Lodgepole pine and white fir trees stood between the dwellings. In the shadows of the mountains, the lake was brooding and mysterious. The sunlight shining between two peaks slipped away in a blush of pink and gold.

  “Tomorrow,” Carla Fleischmann warned me. “Bright and early.”

  “What time’s breakfast?”

  “Don’t worry, Aramis. You’ll be well taken care of.” She slapped my cheek in playful condescension. “We’ll eat on location. We leave at five thirty.”

  “In the a.m.?”

  “Welcome to Hollywood, where time is money. Now go get your beauty sleep so you’ll be ready for the cameras.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Bored?”

  “Me? Never.” Shivering in my Windbreaker, I pushed myself away from a fir tree and gestured toward the lake below. “Talk about a view.”

  “I told you it was incredible,” Greg said.

  “Are we ready for the next scene?”

  “Hurry up and wait. It’s the name of the game in this business. The kid should be here any minute, on his way up from the airport.”

  “The one who’s playing me?”

  “That’s right.” Greg Simone pointed toward a Fleetwood RV parked down the hill. A woman in Levi’s and a yellow sweater was descending the steps, long, shiny, black hair pulled over one shoulder in a thick braid. “Here comes your mother.”

  My mother? My mouth went dry.

  “Oh,” said Greg, “and here’s the kid at last.”

  Before the shuttle van had even stopped, a stout little tyke bounded from the sliding door and whooped once in excitement. They’d found a University of Oregon sweatshirt for him—just like the one I wore at that age. A production assistant corralled the boy and directed him toward the woman in the Levi’s. He nodded. Skipped toward the lady. Even from my place up the slope, I could hear his words.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  The little actor’s voice was so genuine. So warm.

  I cupped my hand to the back of my neck, took a deep breath.

  “Aramis, are you shaking?” Greg questioned.

  I gave no reply.

  “You are,” he said.

  “Just need a heavier coat. It’s cold up here.”

  “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  “I’m fine. I’m good.”

  His finger jabbed my shoulder. “I told you to bring warm clothing. Wait here, and I’ll go find something for you.” He returned with a dark blue parka. “This should solve the problem.”

  Without a word, I slipped it on.

  Down the hill, mother and child paced hand in hand while the cameras rolled.

  Carla Fleischmann had broken it all down for us. The hourlong show, she explained, would be divided by commercials into an introduction, two main segments, and a finale. Each started with a lead-in and a recap of events; each ended with a teaser. In the finale, one of the wrongdoer’s dreams would be fulfilled—with the help of the person wronged. Me.

  An act of sacrifice. Reconciliation.

  Because of weather and production costs, portions of the filming were shot out of sequence. As the day progressed, I wondered how it would all translate to the screen, but my worries were put to rest when I was allowed into a production trailer to watch the dailies and some of the mixing. Then, with a pair of headphones, I listened as a male narrator recorded the show’s introduction in a voice-over booth.

  This was it. This would go out to millions of viewers. He delivered the words in low, even tones.

  “The Best of Evil … When Good Things Happen to Bad People.

  Tonight’s story is a gripping drama of a family torn apart by violence and misunderstandin
g. One woman—shot down at a riverside. Two men—relatives by blood and enemies for years. Will they find redemption amid heart-wrenching loss?”

  Later, with my hands raised against the glare on the monitor, I heard the same narration accompanied by theme music as the camera panned the majestic beauty of the San Bernardino Mountains, snow sprinkled and lined with towering firs. A bald eagle soared over a deep blue lake. Then the camera dipped, zooming through tree branches to a river white with rapids where the child actor skipped alongside the woman with flowing hair and graceful strides.

  The narrator began speaking again: “As a young boy, Aramis Black shared a deep love with his mother. She read stories to him, and they took nature hikes together.”

  The mother and child were shown only from behind, through a filtered lens that gave the scene a surreal, aged look.

  “By all accounts, she was a hard-working woman. Is that the way you remember her, Aramis?”

  The scene faded to reveal my adult face.

  “Yeah. She cleaned houses for a living, so her hands were always dried out from long hours of scrubbing. Her last birthday I think I gave her some skin lotion.”

  The narrator said, “You loved her. That’s evident in your voice.”

  “She was everything to me.”

  “And how old were you the last time you saw her?”

  “Six years old.”

  “That’s a tender age for a boy to watch his mother die.” The man’s voice was deep and full of empathy. “Will you ever forget the images of that horrific day?”

  On film I stiffened. “Never. I think of her daily.”

  “And who have you blamed for that life-shattering tragedy?”

  “Wyatt Tremaine, my uncle.”

  The shot segued to a stretch of tall reeds. The camera moved through the stalks with the motion of a running child until the reeds thinned and revealed the black-haired woman at a riverbank. A man was grabbing at her. Pushing. Shoving. Pointing a gun.

  I turned away from the monitor.

  “What do you think so far?” Carla wanted to know.

  The sound of a gunshot tore from the speakers behind me, and I flinched.

  In the distance, visible between the reflection of wind-driven cumulus clouds, a familiar face moved behind the large side window of the Fleetwood. Uncle Wyatt was in there. Hiding. Awaiting our final confrontation.