The Smaller Evil
Page 15
“Do you want to go?”
“Yes. I think so. I do.”
“Then go,” she said. “That’s your choice. When you’re here, you’re always free to go.”
25
AND THEN HE WAS WITH the cook. They were in the shadows. In her room. In her narrow bed. They lay facing each other with their heads on the thin sheets, and the moonlight drifting through the window he’d crawled through to get to her. She reached to touch his forehead, near his injury, and more than anything, Arman wanted to lose himself with her, be lost, be anyone but who he was in that moment. But he couldn’t get his mind to stop spinning.
“How did it happen?” she asked, slowly sliding her fingers from his stitches to his chin. Slowly setting a fire loose inside of him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember?”
“No.”
“That must be a strange feeling. Not knowing how you were hurt.”
“It is.” Arman ached for her to stroke him more.
“Poor you.”
He rested his cheek on her arm. Relished the way his eyelashes brushed against her skin. “It wasn’t easy getting here tonight, you know. It took forever. After what you said about the rules, I wanted to make sure no one saw me.”
She gave a grin. “A real hero’s journey, huh?”
“I suppose.”
“How’d you do it?”
“I came up through the woods. Then I had to walk all the way around that old building and down into the gully. It was steep, too. And muddy. My shoes got wet. I left them outside.”
“What old building?”
“That square one. Where the doctor’s office is. There was a light on in there. On the second floor.”
“What doctor’s office?”
“You don’t know where it is?”
“I didn’t know one existed. Who’s this doctor?”
“Gary. He’s one of the trainers. Short, silver hair. Kind of paunchy.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I know who you’re talking about. Look, stay away from him, okay? All of them.”
“All of who?”
“Those trainers. The three of them.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust them. Beau doesn’t either.”
Arman propped himself up on his elbow. “He doesn’t?”
“No.”
“Do you mean Mari, too? I like Mari.”
The cook snorted. “She’s the worst of all. She hates me. She’s been trying to get me fired for ages.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I think they’re the ones who got Beau called away this morning.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To get people on their side.”
“But I thought it was just Gary who wanted to close the compound. Keep the place isolated. Or uncontaminated. Or whatever.”
“Maybe it is,” she said. “I don’t know. I told you I don’t like any of them.”
“But you all work for Beau, don’t you?”
“No one works for anybody. That’s the whole idea. Everyone’s here because they want to be. When Beau first bought this property, he’d already been running weekend workshops up in the Bay Area. But he wanted a space that was dedicated to healing. Where he could do more intense work. People responded by staying here longer and longer, wanting to be a part of what he was creating. Beau was fine with that, but we had to work. Pay our way. Help keep this place running so that he could go out and make a difference in the world. It was good. Really good. And everything was fine until last January.”
“What happened last January?”
She sighed.
“What?”
“That’s when Beau had to leave us for a little while. Not long. Just a few months, but it was enough time for things to . . . change. And not in a good way.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You and Beau are pretty close,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“He’s everything to me.”
There was something about those words and the way she said them that didn’t sit well with Arman; it also made his courage wither. If she cared so much about the man she’d dedicated her life to, then he didn’t know how to tell her he was dead. That he’d killed himself.
So he decided not to say anything.
“So what happened to you today?” she asked. “After you left?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Did you forget that, too?”
“I mean something happened to me that couldn’t have. And no one believes me.”
“I believe you,” she said quickly.
“But you don’t even know what happened.”
“I don’t need to know.”
“Then how can you know it’s true?”
“I didn’t say it was true. I said I believed you. There’s a difference, you know.”
Arman felt flustered. Hadn’t Beau said something similar to him? That the truth could be a lie. “But how can you believe something that isn’t true?”
“Well, you do, don’t you? You just told me you did. And I believe you. There’s just something believable about you. I saw it the first time we met.”
“You did?”
She nodded.
He gave a sigh. “But impossible things keep happening.”
“Like what?”
“Like tonight. During Vespers, I could’ve sworn I saw—”
“You saw what?”
“A ghost,” he whispered.
“Then I believe that, too,” she said.
• • •
Later.
Under the cover of darkness, the cook did all the things to Arman that he wanted her to do but didn’t know how to say. Or ask for. Or even fantasize about. And there was a magic to it all, he found, in the way acts so glaringly obvious could be so brilliantly singular.
But the cook also did things that set off his worrying, fears bright and unbidden. Of course, it was possible his worrying had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him, seeing as Arman was pretty sure the needle on his anxiety meter had been cranked past HIGH DECIBEL WORRYING into the realm of madness ever since he’d stepped off the compound property that morning.
It was also possible that this was how he was supposed to feel when he was naked and with a girl and filled with so much heat. After all, he would do anything to have her.
Wouldn’t he?
just ask just ask just ask just ask her already
But asking was easier said than done. Always. So it wasn’t until she was already on top of him and he was already lost inside of her, that Arman gathered the nerve to pause, grip her soft waist, and whisper, “Shouldn’t we be using something . . . doing something to . . . I mean, you know?”
“What do you think?” she asked with a sly smile on her lips, not bothering to pause at all.
He nodded. “I think . . . I think we should.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Only it turned out what he was doing right then made the question inconsequential. Or hypothetical, really. He couldn’t help it and he hated himself for that, even though he loved the way it felt. And after, when she’d rolled off him and rolled over, Arman remained unsettled. Distressingly so, with the relentless purr of regret rumbling through his mind.
stupid that was so stupid of me
Arman clasped his hands over his ears. Tried to drown out his worries. Maybe he should stop thinking altogether. Maybe that was the answer. It’s what Beau told him to do, right? After all, when Arman was with the cook, he felt wanted. Needed. Wasn’t that what mattered? Wasn’t that the only thing?
Or am I being used?
THE DESTINY OF OTHER MEN.
As strange as it sounds, your own origin story is easy enough to imagine. And while it’s not something you choose to talk about—you don’t tell the girl and you don’t invite questions about yourself—it’s a story that’s important. It’s the stuff legends are made of. Almost too unbelievable to be true. But fantastic enough to have faith in.
You picture it happening like this: A man, a good man and a wise man, is put in jail for some small infraction. A misinterpretation of the law. An ungenerous act. You’re not sure about the details, but details are where the devil lies in wait, so it’s not like you look too closely.
This wise man is patient about his situation. It will take time to unravel, but he’ll land on his feet. He always does. And he’s wise enough to recognize this time as an opportunity for self-reflection. To think about his own weaknesses. His frailties. His power isn’t what it used to be. He lacks shine, if not vision, and for the most part, only a certain type of person is drawn to look beneath his surface anymore. Only they aren’t the people he needs to keep growing. It would be easy to convince himself otherwise, but self-deception’s the only kind that’s never gotten him anywhere.
While he waits for salvation in the form of a man of the law who saved him so many years ago, he makes the most of his current situation. Which is to say, he listens more than he talks. There’s a lot to listen to; the man he’s locked up with likes to talk and talk and talk.
This talking man’s a sad one. He’s lost hope and for good reason; every opportunity he’s had—and he’s had a lot—has been squandered. Or smoked. Or thrown away. He won’t be saved anytime soon and there’s nothing left to take away his pain. He speaks of his regrets as if confessing his sins. Worse even, as if he believes confessing might help.
The wise man knows it won’t help. He knows that shifting one’s belief system in the face of hopelessness is the most foolish sort of thinking. But that doesn’t stop him from listening and listening well.
After all, one man’s hopelessness can so often be another man’s destiny.
26
ARMAN LAY IN THE DARK with his eyes open, with his chest rattling. Listening. He waited until the cook was in a deep sleep, her breathing slow, heavy, and hot against his back. Then he slipped from under her arm and out of her bed. He found his clothes. Dressed. Crept to the window. It opened easily. He slid out feetfirst, letting himself drop the last foot or so to land in the soft dirt. That’s where his damp shoes were. He sat on the ground to put them on, then glanced into the woods around him.
His shoulders drooped to see the darkness. To see nothing. There was a part of Arman, bruised and sad, that didn’t want to walk back to his cabin and face reality. But he didn’t want to stay here, either. Or go anywhere else in the world. He simply wanted to crawl beneath a tree, curl in a bed of pine needles, and vanish. But he didn’t do that. A lack of courage, perhaps, or a lack of faith in his ability to ever finish what he started. Instead he picked at his arm until the feeling passed, which meant there was blood.
And pain.
Eventually Arman got to his feet and began moving. He didn’t know where he was going, but he marched with purpose, walking until he’d passed the meadow, where there was no sign of any bonfire, the domed building, which was now dark and still, and the spot where he’d left the van, which of course wasn’t there and maybe never had been.
Finally, he reached the far boundaries of his existence: the iron gate.
Arman wasn’t ready to leave, not yet, but it occurred to him that he could slip from the compound and check something. Just for the briefest second. He remembered the way the van’s tires had squealed as he’d turned up the drive. Surely that would have left burn marks on the asphalt. Surely seeing those would prove the van had actually been here and that he wasn’t crazy.
So he had to look.
The gate was locked. The heavy chain was wrapped around both sides, padlock dangling from the center. Arman walked up. Gripped his hands around the metal bars. He intended to climb over as he’d planned to before, although the task was more daunting now that he was actually facing it. He gazed up at the top of the fence, which appeared to be a good twenty-five feet high and lined with spikes. Arman prayed he wouldn’t get impaled for his effort. There was no harness or rope, this time. No one to coach him from below.
Placing a foot on one of the decorative scrolls, Arman braced himself, then leapt, catching his other foot on a hold above the first. From there he pulled himself up with a groan, straining with each arm to reach above his head.
He made it to the top like that—slowly picking his way up the scrolls. Swinging his leg over was a dicier move, involving a lot of grappling and cursing, but he managed to do it without compromising his reproductive system in any way, thank God. Arman shifted his arms and tried lowering himself to the bottom, but he slipped halfway down, leaving himself dangling ten feet in the air. His shoes scrabbled for support but found nothing. Shit. He had no choice. He closed his eyes and let go, dropping to the ground with a thud.
For a moment, Arman lay stunned. He didn’t move. The fall not only wrenched his spine, it jolted his wounded head—a harsh reminder that pain could be sharp and jarring, not just smothering. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited until the worst had passed. Then, when he was able, he crawled to his feet and staggered down the long drive to the main road. It wasn’t easy to make out in the moonlight, but after walking in circles, he found what he was looking for: fresh rubber marks scorched into the asphalt, not yet faded by dust or time or sun.
Arman breathed a long sigh of relief. Well, he wasn’t totally crazy. He had proof of that now. The van had been here, and its subsequent disappearance meant someone was screwing with him. Or Beau. Or both of them.
That’s when he heard it. From somewhere behind Arman came a gruff voice asking, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
27
ARMAN TURNED AROUND. FELT HIS hackles rise. Sure enough, it was Brian. Stupid Brian.
“What do you want?” he sniped back.
Brian ignored him. Instead he pulled a military-looking walkie-talkie from under his weird clothes. Apparently the guy did have a holster of some kind. What else was under there?
“I found him,” Brian said into the handset. “Yeah. He looks all right. Couple scrapes, maybe. Looks like he fell or something. He’s down by the gate. I think he’s trying to leave.”
“I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. And who are you talking to?” Arman demanded. “Why are you following me?”
Brian put the walkie-talkie away. “I’m following you, idiot, because it seems there are some questions that you need to answer.”
“Well, what if I was leaving? How would that be any of your business?”
“It’d be my business because I’d have to stop you.”
“With a gun?”
“You think I need a gun to stop you? Yeah, okay. Maybe you are delusional, kid. Let’s go.” He took a step toward the now-open gate.
“Why should I listen to you?” Arman called after him.
Brian didn’t look back. “What choice do you have?”
Arman had no answer for that, and so he was marched back to his own cabin, where the lights were on. Kira and Dale were standing around worriedly, along with Mari, the dark-haired woman, and Dr. Gary. It was basically a shitshow of every single person he didn’t want to see at the moment.
“What are you doing?” he asked them.
“Where were you?” Kira’s eyes were wide. “We couldn’t find you.”
“Why do you care where I was?” He looked around the room. “Why do any of you care? It’s the middle of the night.”
“
Sit down,” Dr. Gary said.
“What?”
“I said sit down.” His tone was firm. “We need to talk to you.”
Arman sat on his cot. Held his stomach.
Mari sat beside him. The cot springs squeaked and sank beneath her weight. “Arman, Beau didn’t show up in San Francisco today.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“The person he was supposed to be meeting with called us. He hasn’t shown up. And no one can reach him on his phone.”
Arman glanced up. Everyone was looking at him.
“Did you hear what I said?” Mari asked.
“I heard you. And I already told you what happened. So it’s not surprising that he didn’t show up. He’s not going to. I wish that weren’t the case. I really do. But it is.”
Mari winced. “If something happened, you can talk to us about it. That’s all you need to do. Just be honest.”
“I am being honest! I swear.”
“I warned Beau about this,” muttered the dark-haired woman. “Bringing kids here for no reason. They don’t know what they’re doing. They never want to listen.”
“He had to know we couldn’t use them all,” Dr. Gary said. “I mean, look at them. It’s not like they’re—”
“Enough!” Mari glared at them both. Then she turned back to Arman, her expression softening. “Please, dear. You know I care about you. You know you can talk to me.”
Arman’s chest felt like an overfilled balloon. “But I told you what I know. I told you everything that happened!”
Dr. Gary huffed. “That stuff about the van disappearing? Come on.”
“But it’s true. I was just down by the road right now. There are fresh burn marks from the tires. I made those! When I was driving!”
“Burn marks?”
“Yes! I can show you!”
“Why would I care about burn marks?”
“The kid was leaving,” Brian said. “He’d climbed the gate.”
“I wasn’t leaving!”
“Yes, you were.”
“Fuck you!” he snarled.
“Arman!” Mari snapped, something he’d never seen her do.