The Best of Evil Page 17

  Brianne?

  I dropped the unconscious man’s legs and swung around to see the corridor on fire, the blaze already licking at the baseboards and the lower walls. At the other end of the hall, Brianne had scrambled free from Parker’s grasp. She kicked back at him, then tumbled through a door. Behind her, a bed and nightstand offered meager hope for protection.

  “Get back here!” Parker shrieked. “You can’t tease me like that! Live up to your part of the deal.”

  He was holding a pair of scissors as he crashed after her.

  THIRTY

  Scissors.

  I jumped past the blackened sweatshirt, the disabled Taser, the growing stalks of jagged flame, and ran toward the bedroom.

  Parker turned and sneered. Threw the door shut.

  Still two strides away, I had no time to stop; I careened into the wood, the impact jarring my depleted frame.

  A loud crack rang through the condominium.

  “Brianne!” I yelled.

  I lifted a leg and thrust my heel against the handle. Another crack rang out, then screws popped loose, the strike plate peeled back like a half-opened tin can, and the door panel sprang free. Before me was a room with glowing sconce lamps and plush curtains that matched tan and cinnamon patterns on the king-size bedspread.

  Brianne, on her knees, had both hands joined around the butt of a gun. The drawer of one nightstand was open and dangling, about to fall.

  On the carpet, Leroy Parker was dying.

  Curled on his side, he had blood throbbing from the holes in his back and chest. I could see she’d nailed him as he’d turned and shut the door, then again after he’d fallen.

  The scissors were open on the floor beside the fallen parole officer. In his hand, he held blond strands matching the bare patch above Brianne’s right ear. He must’ve cut them during their struggle in the bathroom.

  “Why did he make me shoot him?” Brianne was shivering. “Why didn’t he stop? Why?”

  With tears spilling over soft freckles, she clicked the safety on the gun, ejected the clip into her palm, and set it on the bed.

  Activated by the gathering flames, sprinklers kicked on. Brianne was motionless. She stared at the man on the carpet, letting the water soak her from above, as though it were a healing shower capable of cleansing her stain.

  Leroy Parker’s blood had spread into the tan carpet, and he was dead.

  Brianne continued to stare.

  There was something surreal about the moment. We were together again, facing the horror of humanity gone bad. A part of me shut down, refusing to process the obvious.

  “The fire,” I blurted out.

  I grabbed a towel hanging from the bathroom shower rod, ran it under the tap—gritting my teeth as water hit my burns—then helped the sprinklers by beating out the blaze in the hall. The smoke was noxious, scratching at my throat. I crouched beneath its deadly haze and moved toward the ICV man at the far end.

  He was still out, stone cold. His chest was moving up and down.

  I stood guard and called to Brianne to pick up the phone and dial 911. Guilt was her enemy now, able to paralyze. I knew all about that.

  When the sprinklers turned off, I flicked on the lights.

  No doubt about it. It was the same man who’d been in my shop. He’d acted so casual, complimenting me on the drink and dropping change into the tip mug before killing Mr. Michaels to keep him from passing on secrets to me.

  I shook my head. At least Mrs. Michaels might find bittersweet justice for her son’s death.

  Brianne nudged up behind me.

  “Make sure he doesn’t move,” I said.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “My hand.”

  She recoiled at the sight of blistered skin that was elastic and angry red. “There’s gauze and ointment under the sink. Let me help you.”

  “I’m fine. Keep an eye on him.”

  After running the wound under cold water, I wrapped it gently. My fingers throbbed, and a flash of dizziness swept over me. I gripped the sink with my good hand and looked into the mirror, willing myself to deal with the pain.

  Two men had crept into the condo and ambushed us soon after the cops’ departure. Was there anyone else? How had they gotten in? What about the anarchist dude who’d jumped me in the alleyway? Where was he? I made a sweep of the condominium, checking every closet and dark space. In Brianne’s bedroom, I stepped around the dead man on the floor—focus on your objective, Aramis—and noticed her window cracked open with dirty footprints as evidence on the carpet.

  “Brianne, has he moved at all?”

  “Nope.”

  I checked under her bed, peered into the walk-in closet. Talk about a penchant for footwear. Brianne’s collection was impressive. What is it with women and shoes? I swept my arm along dresses, skirts, and jackets, all hung in immaculate rows.

  Nothing to worry about. No one hiding behind the hosiery.

  “Everything all right?” Brianne asked upon my return.

  I nodded.

  She pointed at the unconscious man. “You must’ve got him good.”

  “It’s the man from the shop. The one who shot Darrell Michaels.”

  “Then he deserves whatever you did to him.”

  Her words were bitter. I put my arm around her shoulder, comforting her in the way she had done for me in Black’s. She seemed smaller now, shrinking inward. She was gonna have a rough next few days, facing her own demons.

  “Brianne.”

  She tucked her head against my chest.

  “You did what had to be done,” I said. “You’ll be okay.”

  She glanced toward the bedroom, where Parker’s feet were visible in the doorway.

  I asked, “What did he mean, about you living up to your end of the deal?”

  “I told him that I …” She hung her head. “That I’d let him have his way if they’d just let you go. I was so scared. I thought they might kill you.”

  “Don’t ever let a guy like that touch you. He was scum.”

  “And I killed him.”

  “He was armed and threatening you.”

  “Will I go to jail?”

  “No.”

  “What’ll happen to me?”

  “You had every right, Brianne. I mean, the guy was coming at you with a pair of scissors.” I ran my good hand over the thin spot above her ear. “Maybe we should’ve let him finish the haircut. Kinda cute.”

  “Aramis.” She screwed her eyes shut as sirens wailed in the distance. “That’s not even funny.”

  “Sorry.” I took her hand in mine. “Listen, we’ll get through this.”

  “We?”

  The sirens were close now. Staring into her emotion-wracked face, I saw a fair maiden waiting for the knight to raise his standard and declare his love. After years of reckless decisions, I wanted to prove I could be honorable, could be that hero every boy dreams of being.

  “You and me,” I said.

  She wrapped herself in the words. “You and me.”

  Was it brash and illogical? Why do men turn goofy and goggle-eyed in the presence of beautiful young women? Was I setting up Brianne—and myself—for a crushing fall?

  I’d only known her for eight days. Criminal psychologists can give you case after case in which life-threatening situations have created inexplicable bonds between people. Fellow victims call each other years later to rehash jarring moments no one else understands. Romantic inclinations flourish. Of course, this link can become a sick thing too. Hostages and kidnappers have formed symbiotic and emotional relationships, now recognized as the Stockholm syndrome.

  I guess I realized it was unwise, ill-advised.

  And I just didn’t care.

  She felt warm and comforting, and she needed me. Sometimes that’s enough.

  “Aramis?”

  “Yeah. Just me, Johnny.”

  I closed the front door of the brownstone and paused in the entryway. Did I really wanna talk to my brother?


  “How’d dinner go?” Johnny inquired. “One in the morning? Does this mean my little brother’s back in the saddle and done moping around?”

  “Give it a rest.”

  “That bad? Well, just keep swingin’. You got a message today from Los Angeles, so that’s a good thing. Carla Fleischmann says you and Uncle Wyatt, you got the green light.”

  “Great.” I kicked off my shoes.

  “They’ll be flyin’ you outta here on the eighth of November.”

  “Together?”

  “Separately.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  I braced myself in the kitchen doorway and watched him dice carrots, his version of a midnight snack. The man’s not right in the head. He turned to see my disheveled appearance and knew instantly to drop his line of questioning.

  “The cops got him,” I said. “The dude who murdered the Michaels kid.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “He broke into Brianne’s place. Ambushed us.”

  “Are you kiddin’? You’ve had one heckuva week, kid. How’s she doin’?”

  “She’s in a hotel for now. Shaken up a bit.”

  “If I know my brother, the man didn’t last long.”

  “Yeah? Well, after he Tasered me a couple of times, I busted his head open.”

  “Tasered? Is that what happened to your hand?”

  I looked down at the gauze and grunted. “Let’s drop it. I’m dog-tired.”

  “In the morning I’ll expect details, the whole shootin’ match.”

  “Deal.”

  “Glad to see you alive.”

  I stopped. “I need to talk to Dad.”

  “Out like a light on the couch. The man likes his booze, but he’s pretty harmless. Not as torn up as he used to be, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “Not really.”

  “Sorry about the other night. Guess we were pretty rough on you.”

  “I wasn’t exactly on my best behavior either.”

  “Dad’s been wrestlin’ with a lotta things, and I think it’s done him some good. Cut the ol’ man some slack, Aramis. All this trouble you’ve been facin’? I’m figurin’ it’s all tied together.”

  “He’s got some stuff to explain.”

  I stalked to the sink, filled a glass of water, and marched toward the living room. Johnny Ray followed, picking up the intensity in my stride. He set a hand on my forearm and asked where I was going.

  I stiffened and stared down. “Let go, Johnny Ray.”

  “You’ve had a long night. Why don’tcha take a minute to calm down?”

  “Let. Go.”

  He let go.

  I spun toward the slumbering figure on the couch. In a movement that barely scratched the surface of the aggression racing through my mind, I flung the water flush into the face of my prostrate father.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Arms flailing, he came up from the cushions. He was spluttering and disoriented. His foot slipped on the spilled water and careened into the coffee table, causing him to dance on his other leg. He cursed at the air, then at me, as his senses reminded him where he was.

  “Aramis?”

  “We need to talk. Now.”

  “Don’t see no call for throwin’ water in the face of your old man.”

  “A lot softer than a fist.”

  “What? Why, you little runt!”

  “Come on, show me what you got. You were more than willing to dish it out when I was a kid. Come on!”

  My father glanced toward the kitchen. Still groggy and without any alcohol to fortify him, he seemed unsure what to do. I’d never challenged him like this.

  “Get away from me. You’re just a know-it-all punk.”

  “What do you know that you’re not telling me? Need me to spark your memory? Tell me about Meriwether Lewis and the whip. Why would you say Mom gave it to me?”

  “You lost me, boy.”

  “What do you know about ICV?”

  “Icy what? What’s gotten into you?”

  “Someone broke in tonight and attacked us—me and this girl I’m seeing—and there was a fire. Another man’s been shot dead. All because they want this thing, this whip. I don’t know where it is, not even sure what it is. But they’re convinced I have it. Why would you tell them that?”

  “I ain’t told no one nothin’.”

  “So they were lying?”

  “I don’t got any idea who they are, and I don’t take kindly to you throwin’ accusations at your old man. What I see here is a snot-nosed little tyke havin’ hisself a tantrum. But then again, I’ve been wrong before.”

  “There’s a news flash,” I said.

  I set both palms on his chest and shoved him back onto the cushions. The flare of heat in my right hand ignited a deeper explosion of anger, and I felt its power curling through my belly, up into my lungs. My shoulders flexed.

  Dad looked toward my brother. “You gonna tell me what’s the trouble here?”

  Johnny Ray shrugged. “That’s between y’all.” And then he headed outside, closing the door behind him.

  How many times had Johnny rushed to my aid? How many nights had he sat next to me on the bed after Dad’s drunken outbursts had run their course? How many mornings had he walked with me to the bus, side by side, as brothers, as equals?

  For all those things, I loved the man. I’d fight for him. Heck, one day I hoped to be a part of his big break.

  But it was for this moment that I loved him the most.

  Johnny Ray was giving me the chance to regain the manhood Dad had torn from my fabric.

  My chest swelled.

  My father’s gaze moved from the closed front door to me standing over him. There was no one left for him to impress. The anger of his wet awakening subsided, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of the broken man inside.

  “Wasn’t right of you, dumpin’ that water on me.”

  “It’s one in the morning, Dad. Works better than an alarm clock.”

  “Did you even try shakin’ me?”

  “The way you used to do to me?”

  He looked away. “You think I don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “I know the things I done weren’t right.”

  “And this is just coming to you now?”

  “I knew all along.”

  “So now that the tables are turned, you think to tell me this. After twenty years? Nothing like a little fear to bring things into focus, huh?” My wounded hand was a ball of fire, but my left was still good. I could do extensive damage if necessary.

  “Whatchu want from me, Aramis?”

  “An apology wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m here, ain’t I? Why do ya think I drove myself down to see you?”

  “Simple. For the fabulous Johnny Ray Black. Live and in concert.”

  “I won’t deny that’s part of it. But reason number one”—he held up his index finger—“was you. When I got word about that shootin’ at your shop, well, it got me to thinkin’. You ain’t gonna be around forever. Ain’t none of us gonna be. And so I figured I owed you an explanation.”

  “You’ve been here—what?—two or three days? You said you had things to tell me and that they had to do with Mom. Well, I’m still waiting.”

  “Just ain’t been a good time.”

  “Can we stop the back and forth, Dad? Spit it out!”

  Kenny Black’s posture changed. I watched it happen—his shoulders and arms slumping, his legs relaxing. He ran one hand over the top of his head, closed his eyes, and exhaled. He’d been the hard-as-nails figure for so long that he seemed relieved to slough off the tough demeanor.

  “No big secret,” he said. “Just a matter of layin’ it all out on the table.”

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “It’s the things I done, the way I was firm with you—”

  “There’s an understatement.”

  “When your mother died, I just didn’t have a
ny way of dealin’ with that. I loved her more than anything on this earth. She was my world. Knowin’ she was gone, knowin’ I couldn’t go back to tell her I was sorry for the things I done and said—it was more than I could bear. And all I’ve done since is shame her with my deeds. Grief and regret—they can lay a man flat quicker than just about anything.”

  My throat constricted.

  “Thing of it is, I picked you out, Aramis. That’s the shameful part. Guess I needed someplace to push all that anger holed up inside of me, and you got the job. Plain and simple.”

  “That’s the way it happened, huh?”

  “That’s the way it happened.”

  “Why not someone else?”

  He closed his eyes. “Diggin’ this up won’t do a bit of good.”

  “Why me? Tell me!”

  “Can’t leave well enough alone, can ya?”

  “Because I was the youngest? The weakest?”

  “No.”

  “The least likely to succeed?”

  “Ain’t no use in sayin’ it, Aramis.”

  “Gimme one reason, Dad. Just one. Help me understand.”

  “Told you I was wrong already. What more d’ya want from me?”

  I wanted to see him grovel, see him humiliated and on his knees. After all these years, I wanted to feel the power over him that he’d exerted over me. One simple answer. Was that so hard?

  In a voice raked with sorrow, my father said, “Okay, ya wanna know why? It’s ’cause, from the very beginning, your mother loved you most, and it was too much for this old man to deal with. I never had her love, not fully. Never had me a chance to say good-bye, either. And for them reasons, Aramis, I made you pay.”

  With the loss of my mother, I’d lost my father too.

  Colors shift and blur in my dream, running into one. Through a crimson veil, I see Dad coming toward me. He shakes his head, muttering. His fists are wrapped in gauze.

  “Ain’t never gonna find it on your own,” he says.

  “Find what?”

  He waves Mom’s handkerchief.

  I snatch it from him and dash off, pressing the soft material to my face and drawing in its fragrance. Her fragrance. She’s near, of that I’m certain.