The Smaller Evil (19 page)

CREEPING DOWN THE HALL WITH
as much stealth as he could, Arman tried every door he passed. None opened. He aimed the flashlight above him, and as he walked, he ticked off the words painted over the entryways.
RESISTANCE
.
MORA
LITY
.
JUSTICE
.
MERCY
.

Arman reached the staircase at the end of corridor, on the far side of the building, and began to climb. Moonlight washed through the windows of the stairwell, guiding him up the steps and past the landing. Forget Dr. Gary's office, this was where he should've gone to begin with. It's where he'd seen the light last night and he suspected it was where Gary had brought Kira and all the other select community members. Kira had said the room was upstairs, and Arman was sure it was her he'd seen entering the building earlier—those sunlit braids. If there was evidence of collusion or blackmail or anything, it would be up here.

Wouldn't it?

When he got to the second floor, everything was grainy and still. An eerie grayscale space gaping like the mouth of a cave.

Arman took a cautious step forward, flashlight pointing ahead of him.

There were only two rooms up here. Neither was locked. In fact the
doors to both stood wide-open, begging for a choice. Arman squinted to read the words painted above each. The room to his left was
ARDOR
.On his right was
KINDNESS
.

• • •

It's important to me that your journey is paved with kindness.

Arman knew which room to choose, of course.

Beau had told him, after all.

He walked into Kindness bristling with rage. And certitude. This was the least he could do for Beau—follow the path toward truth. Refuse to give up.

He looked around eagerly, but also ignorantly—he didn't know what he was looking for. But as he scanned the space, Arman's rage faded into confusion. And despair.

There was nothing here.

Nothing
.
He stood in the middle of a conference room that was filled with plastic chairs and a couple of threadbare sofas. A folding table was set against the back wall, along with a couple of board games stacked on top of it and a few tattered romance novels. An empty water cooler and an ancient percolator both sat covered in dust. The whole place had the look and feel of an AA meeting where no one had bothered to show up.

Arman backed out of the room. It turned out there was nothing in Ardor, either. Just two chairs and an office phone and a pile of boxes filled with old pamphlets. Arman leaned to pick one of the pamphlets up. A dead spider fell out when he opened it. The date on the pamphlet was from five years prior, but it contained a basic outline of Beau's program and what he could offer. In the course descriptions section Arman learned there was a leadership track for people interested in fully committing to the Evolve lifestyle and supporting others in their
journey toward Immunity. It cost three times the amount of the other courses. There was also mention of “investment opportunities,” but no details were listed.

Arman scowled. This was clearly the room where Dr. Gary tried to get Kira to call her father. It had to be. In addition to the phone there was a musty-smelling mug with a moldy teabag pooling in it sitting on the windowsill.

Grabbing the phone, he sat in one of the chairs and scrolled through the digital call menu. The outgoing log contained ten calls. The first five were to random numbers. Probably relatives, Arman figured, and he wondered what the response had been. Arman's mom would no doubt burst into tears if he called asking for money. If she'd been drinking, that is. Otherwise she'd laugh long and hard. For good reason. She didn't have money. It's why she'd gotten remarried in the first place. Her new husband might be an asshole who hated the sight of her only son, but he was good for his share of the rent and so far had managed to keep his dumb ass out of jail.

Which was more than she could say about Arman's dad.

But the five most recent calls in the outgoing log were all to
Beau
's phone. Arman recognized the number. He'd programmed it into his own cell, on the day they'd first met and Beau insisted Arman could call him, day or night, with any questions he might have. Arman hadn't called—just knowing he could was enough. Only seeing that number now made no sense, because the time stamp on the calls were all within the last eight hours, which meant Dr. Gary had recently been in here, trying to reach Beau.

Over and over again.

On impulse, Arman hit the redial button and held the phone to his
ear. He knew Beau wouldn't answer. That was impossible, right? The dead didn't stick around to keep their promises. But he wanted to hear Beau's voice.

He
had
to.

The phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

maybemaybemaybe

On the eighth ring, Arman heard a click and a pause as the call switched over. This was promptly followed by a robotic female voice who came on the line to inform him that the mailbox he was calling was full.

He slammed the phone down.

Shit.

ARMAN LEFT THE RESEARCH BUILDING
through the same window he'd come in. Only once outside he didn't turn back to the compound. He headed deeper into the forest, stumbling through the brush and following the moon westward. Toward the fern hollow. He didn't know where else to go.

He didn't know what else to do.

With nothing to show for the night's effort, Arman told himself he wasn't giving up on Beau and the search for truth. But there was too much he didn't understand. Too much he didn't know. Who was he to play amateur detective and go snooping around for a killer, anyway? He'd just screw everything up. Get himself killed.

But if the killer wasn't Dr. Gary, then who was it?

Well, Arman had no idea. That was the point. And given his general cluelessness, the best thing he could do, he decided, was to simply get the cook and leave this place. They'd go to the cops, who would know what to do. They could pull emails and phone records and bank statements, and find out who stood to gain the most from Beau's disappearance. Maybe Arman could even report the whole thing anonymously.
That way he and the cook could get on the road as soon as possible. Start a life together.

Without any burdens of the past.

Scrabbling down the steep ravine and into the dry creek bed, Arman kept the flashlight on to guide him. He wasn't worried about being seen. Not anymore. After all, it sounded like only Mari was looking for him, and she sure as hell wasn't going to make it out here in the dark. No way. He kept going. It wasn't long before he reached the bend in the creek. Saw the beds of soft ferns curling at his feet.

Using the light, Arman searched frantically for the flat rocks covered in pine needles. But he couldn't see them. Anywhere. Adrenaline pulsed through him. He set his bag down and searched more. Then gave a long sigh. There they were. Clearing the needles away, he crouched down and began to dig. He had to get the money now. It was imperative. Because he did
not
plan on coming back to this place once he'd left.

Ever.

The reality of his departure broke through as Arman dug deeper, loosing a guilty herd of what-ifs to thunder through his conscience.

What if I'd done the right thing when I first found him?

What if I'd really tried to get help?

Oh, Beau. I'm not forgetting you. I swear I'm not.

But it didn't matter, did it? Whether he forgot Beau or not was irrelevant. He'd failed. He hadn't found Beau's killer and that meant there was no foreseeable justice for the loss of someone so warm.

So wise.

Throat tight with sorrow, Arman felt his fingers touch plastic. Flashlight tucked beneath his chin, he reached into the hole he'd dug and
carefully pulled out the bundle of bills. Sweet relief. The money was all there and all dry. Arman had just shoved the whole thing into his bag when a bright glint from the bottom of the hole caught his eye. He blinked. Leaned forward. There was something else in there. But that was impossible. He would've remembered if he'd put anything else in the ground and there certainly hadn't been anything in there before. Arman stretched his arm down and grabbed the object. It was heavy and cold. He thrust it beneath the flashlight's glow.

His skin crawled.

Wait. No. No. It can't be.

In Arman's hand was Beau's
knife
. There was no mistaking that polished blade—the whorled gleam of layered steel, forced together by brute strength and intelligent design. Only the knife's blade wasn't actually all that polished at the moment. Not anymore.

It was caked with dried blood.

YOU ONLY FEAR WHAT YOU
believe will kill you, never what will.

Arman ran through the forest, sharp branches slapping his face, with Beau's heirloom knife still gripped tight in his hand. He didn't know where he was or where he was going.

All he knew was that his father had been right.

All this time.

The hows and whys of what Arman had done with the knife weren't all that important—an act of violence was an act of violence, no matter the reason—but he could still remember the white-hot rage he'd felt at learning Beau had told that market cashier he was a junkie. The way he'd stormed toward that van before blacking out.

Maybe that had been part of it. Hell, maybe that had been
all
of it. And every moment since, Arman had just been going in circles, chasing his own damn tail and skirting around things like logic and truth. Of
course,
he couldn't remember what had happened or burying the knife with the money—his brain was as cowardly as the rest of him, too chicken shit to face his own truth. And of
course
, he should've known. The clues were all there, right in front of him. No one else could've
planned this. No one else could've known he would return to the compound and not go get actual help.

No one but him.

Arman ran faster. There was pain in each step and he relished it all. Maybe his own body was finally caving in on him, crumpling under the weight of his own weakness. His sins. God, he should've just swallowed those damn pills earlier. He wished he'd never found the knife. But then wishing for that was cowardly, too. This pain was pain he deserved.

He wound through the woods, his lungs burning, eyes still stinging, heading higher, until he rose above the clouds and the trees. Until the face of Echo Rock towered above him, more question mark tonight than exclamation point.

What are you going to do, Arman?

What now?

It wasn't hard to find the eastern trail that led to the peak. Arman started the climb. And unlike his first night here, he knew exactly what he was going to do when he got to the top. There was no doubt. No ambiguity. That path stood before him as bright and clear as the ocean on a sunlit day. It was all he could think of, that final leap. He didn't deserve a life with a beautiful girl.

Or with anyone.

The trail grew steeper. Arman's shoes slipped on the shifting earth and loose pine needles, throwing him off balance. Falling forward, he reached to grab onto the rocks above, trying to hold himself upright. In doing so, he was forced to drop the knife at his feet, and when he bent to retrieve it, Arman couldn't help but notice how easily it hid itself in the dirt and tree litter. A handy piece of camouflage. If not for the flashlight and the fact he knew the knife was there, Arman would never have been able to find it.

In fact, he realized, no one would.

• • •

Ten minutes later, Arman stood atop Echo Rock, with the wind rushing through his hair, huge whopping gusts that made the dark trees sway beneath him and the branches moan. If the truth was nothing more than proving a lie, then his proof—the knife—was now gone for good.

After giving a quick glance over his shoulder, Arman inhaled deeply and shut his eyes. Forced himself back to that first night here on this mountain, when he'd failed the one person who'd believed in him. He hadn't cut Beau that night because cutting Beau felt wrong. And Arman had wanted to be
right.

But now, he just wanted to live.

Legs trembling, he cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and took a step forward.

“I'm so sorry,” he cried into the wind. “Whatever happened, however it happened, and wherever you are, I never meant to hurt you! I never wanted that.”

And then came the answer, flung back to him on the wings of the night wind, although not with a hundred voices, this time. Just one. It said:

“I'm so sorry. Whatever happened, however it happened, and wherever you are, I never meant to hurt you! I never wanted that.”

AS IT SHOULD BE.

There's one last thing the girl wants you to know. One last thing she hasn't told you. At least, this is what she says when she calls in the middle of the night, after your invitation but before she fully commits.

You understand she's not having doubts in the true sense of the word. She knows what she needs, but knowing something and doing what it takes to get it are two fundamentally different processes. Knowing costs nothing.

Acting in one's own best interest can cost you everything.

So you listen to her worries with patience. With empathy, too. You're scared, you say to her in your soothing voice. You're leaving someone behind. This has to be it, because what else could it be? And that's when she tells you her story; the one about the boy with the cigarettes and the pretty mouth who broke her heart. Who left her for someone else. It's not a new story or a particularly poignant one, and it touches you only in its banality. In the fact that it's been told over and over and over again. There's a sadness in that.

It's tragic, really.

But confession breeds intimacy, which breeds devotion. After that the girl's yours. She's willing to follow wherever you go, and departure day arrives not long after. It's one of many for you. It's once in a lifetime for her. But you wouldn't have it any other way.

She meets you by the bank downtown, the big one. The Wells Fargo. You find her waiting in the parking lot not far from the ATMs. She hands you her bag and the final payment. She's good to go. She's more than ready.

When she's settled in the back of the van with the rest of the passengers, you hit the road. The girl's the last one you had to pick up and you like that. There's something to be said about the pleasure of anticipation.

There's something to be said about saving the best for last.

The trip down the coast takes hours, which is by design. Distance isn't
always measured in miles or space. Sometimes it's a feeling. Or a change. Often, a chance. You arrive at the compound just as the day is coming to a close. It's a fond farewell. A sweet sip of good-bye for now.

The girl steps off the van and right then, you can see it in her eyes. You see it in the way the sun lights her hair and her smile warms your heart. First impressions are everything, and you know she's not going anywhere.

That's all you need. Just a moment. A promise. It won't matter what questions she's come here to ask. You already know she's found the answer.

And you love that.

That's the thing about seeking hope and clarity, freedom and well-being. None of us are immune to kindness or flattery or admiration. None of us can resist the sway of charisma. But there's power in helping others believe they can. In crafting truths that work to our advantage. After all, we're no different from the people we find. We have wants and hopes. And as there can be no truth without faith, there can be no us without them.

We all need other people to find ourselves.

And that, my friend, is as it should be.