by Eric Wilson
She pulled it closer.
“You didn’t see Trey Kellers shoot Darrell with a revolver because—”
“Because of the angle,” she said. “I could’ve lied and told the cops I saw him shoot. But I saw no reason to lie.”
“You? Lie?” My laugh was so acidic I thought it would burn my throat. “You were a few feet farther back. Right behind him. The detectives would’ve measured it out and known it was impossible to see him from there. That’s why you didn’t lie. One little truth trying to cover your guilt. You killed him in cold blood.”
She was shaking her head.
“You took the shot before the other guy. You were afraid Darrell would tell me everything, weren’t you? Or just afraid that he’d take the gold for himself.”
“You’re scaring me, Aramis.”
I stepped toward her. Lowered my voice to a throaty growl.
“Tell me, Brianne Douglas. Why?”
She dropped a hand into her daypack and moved with agility, stepping back even as my arm knocked the pack to the ground. She let the gun settle into her grip, holding it with both hands. Standing tall and skinny, she bit her bottom lip. “Don’t move any closer. I’ll pull this trigger. You know that I will.”
I was trembling with that old rage. “You had me fooled, Brianne. Greed’s been your thing from the start.”
“At first, maybe, but my feelings for you were real. Even now—”
“Even now? You’re pointing a freakin’ gun at me!”
“Drop that shovel.”
I stared. Daring her. Hoping to discover I was wrong about all this.
“Drop it!” Her finger slithered along the trigger.
“You would really shoot me?”
“I’ll do what I have to, Aramis.”
I dropped the shovel.
“You don’t know how it is,” she insisted. “My parents went off to help some faceless needy people while their own daughter was being bounced between boarding schools. I learned to take care of myself. Getting the things I want and need, doing it on my own terms. When it comes down to it, we’re all alone in this world.”
“We don’t have to be.”
“You and me? Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s what I wanted to believe. I should’ve known.” She punctuated her sentences by motioning with the gun—on the edge, rambling. “All you men, you’re the same. The businessman who conned my parents out of their money. My dad, who let my mother wither away because he had nothing left for proper treatment. And romance? That’s where it really gets ugly.”
“I did have feelings for you,” I said. “That was real.”
“These fickle feelings.” She huffed. “Darrell told me he loved me too, but I never loved him, never really loved any of the guys I was with. I hated Darrell for his hypocrisy. His drug habit. Everything about him made me cringe.”
“So you killed him for it?”
“I’d broken up with him months before.”
“But he came crying back to you, wanting your sweet little kisses and telling you he had a plan. Am I right?”
She blinked again. Fresh tears rolled down her face.
“Cry all you want, Brianne. He let you in on his secret. He thought you might run away with him and live happily ever after. Boy, that has a familiar ring to it. But you hated him. You gave him what he wanted for a night or two to get the information out of him, then broke his heart for the final time.”
“He wanted to die.”
“I’m sure he did. Once he realized that a little tramp had stolen his heart!”
Brianne’s finger was twitching on the trigger of her automatic. She said, “I had to get that parole officer of his to tell me the rest. Leroy Parker was gonna help me. That’s what he told me. But he turned on me. In my own condo.”
“You let him in that night.”
“He and I were going to let Kellers take the fall. All we needed was the information we thought you had. But Parker proved an even sicker man than I thought. He had his own agenda. And Darrell, he was practically dead anyway. He’d stopped helping. Stopped trying.”
“Big shocker.”
“I don’t know if he was going for the gold himself or just trying to clue you in so you could get it before the rest of us. But I couldn’t let him do either. Already I thought I was too late. Didn’t know how much he’d told you.”
“Just enough,” I said. “Enough to get me searching.”
Brianne nodded. “I waited too long. Should’ve killed him earlier.”
“You’ll have a long time to think about it, Miss Douglas.”
Brianne spun toward the resonant voice. “What?”
Detective Meade had risen from the underbrush, armed with a police-issue stun gun aimed at Brianne’s midsection. He was unflinching, his eyes dark and demanding compliance. Beside him stood a Metro warrant officer.
“I heard it all,” he said. “Now let’s set down the weapon.”
Her eyes watered again, but these tears ran faster. Angry tears. Her cheeks twisted while her gaze slid toward me. She mouthed my name as though I were the guilty one: Aramis.
The Taser electrodes took her down even as her finger pulled the trigger.
I never flinched.
Live by the Sword … Die by the Sword.
In the heartbreaking, trust-crushing finality of that moment, I accepted that the consequences either way were the result of my own bitter choices, my own blindness.
As the shot shattered the forest stillness, I was still standing. The bullet had gone wide, landing somewhere in the foliage, and my former girlfriend was lying on the dirt, quivering. Part of me wanted to kick her. Part of me wanted to drop to my knees and take her in my arms, calling to God for help, cradling her from the loneliness and greed that had stolen her soul. Her love of money and desire for security had eaten her up inside, turning her empty—incapable of truly offering love. Or receiving it.
I’ve seen that kind of thing before. I’m sure I’ll see it again.
The tearing away of that which I’d hoped and believed in felt like a physical wound. A scream welled in my throat, got caught there. Tears burned behind my eyes, locked up. I’ve always been a fighter. Lived for years by my credo. For a brief moment, weighed by the cost of this woman’s actions, I thought of snatching up her automatic and making her pay for this pain—
No!
Instead, I did the one thing that’s always been the hardest for me—and simply walked away.
FORTY-FOUR
Fire marshal codes were being violated, no doubt about it. Under normal circumstances in Black’s, I would’ve insisted we conform to such guidelines.
But these were far from normal circumstances.
After a special preview following the Super Bowl, the pilot for The Best of Evil had debuted two weeks ago and taken first place in its time slot. My story was scheduled to run in the third week of the series.
Tonight.
Being on television has never been a personal goal; if I had it my way, I’d be standing like a kid at a parade, cheering Johnny Ray on his road to lasting stardom. Still, it was hard not to feel the excitement in my espresso shop.
Black’s was wall-to-wall with people facing the huge flat-screen television on the corner stage. We hadn’t advertised the gathering. Didn’t need to. Between my regular customers, Sammie and Johnny Ray, Mrs. Michaels and her brood, Tina and Freddy C—looking more claustrophobic than the rest—and a cluster of media sorts, we were fortunate to have oxygen.
On the stage, manning the remote and lending a sense of order, Detective Meade stood with a faint smile.
He was drinking a Hair Curler.
I smiled too as I propped myself on the counter. “No more drinks tonight, folks. The bar is closed. My apologies.” This was the night we’d been waiting for, and I wasn’t about to miss something while adding froth to a cappuccino.
A tinge of anxiety brushed over me.
What would these friends think of me? How woul
d this affect my relationship with Johnny Ray? And what would Mrs. Michaels’s reaction be? Had Carla Fleischmann and Greg Simone done justice to the segment or butchered it in the editing process?
Kenny Black hadn’t made it here for the viewing. I thought I knew why.
We all have our blind spots. We might know a man for years before we comprehend the one thing that’s emotionally crippled him. Kenny Black had admitted to his frustration after my mother’s death, but to a much greater degree now, I understood his vile tantrums. I’d pointed my finger, judged, and scorned, only to discover that my own ignorance was as ugly as the welts he’d inflicted.
It didn’t make everything right—on his side or mine—but one shared point of understanding can tap into the wells of grace.
Yes, the past was about to come into the light.
A good thing, of course. But painful too.
A thunderous cheer rose as the show’s logo filled the screen.
The gold letters glittered as though under a spotlight while angel wings curled slightly around their edges. Then the logo flipped, still gleaming and gold, but pierced by a pair of curled devil horns.
Detective Meade lowered the crowd’s noise with his hands, then pointed the remote and notched up the volume. Most of the watchers knew little about my past and sat in stunned silence for the majority of the broadcast. Although some liberties were taken with stand-ins and dialogue, the show captured the essence of the truth.
A hush fell over the audience in the shop.
Tension had settled in as the show reached its finale. All eyes were riveted to the screen. There was sympathy here, yes. Also criticism? Blame? The clip of me planting a fist in my uncle’s face had stunned many in the room.
The narrator, in suit and tie, stood against the backdrop of snow-dusted mountains. “And now,” he said, “we reach the last portion of our show, the moment of truth when the perceived victim does something good for the alleged wrongdoer. Reconciliation, not judgment.” He folded his hands. “Tonight you’ve seen two men who blamed each other. Both were victims. Both were wrongdoers. If we could grant them their wishes, what would those be?”
Wyatt, his face in the corner of the screen: “I’d wanna bring back my sister, give her the life she deserved.”
My face in the opposite corner: “I’d want my mom back. I’d wanna tell her how important she was and all that she meant to me.”
The narrator continued. “Neither of these men had a desire to accept magnanimous gestures or gifts from the other. Instead, they agreed to turn the spotlight on someone else. An unexpected party. But, as you’ll hear, a deserving one.”
The scene segued to the nighttime streets of Nashville. Broadway. Glitz and neon. Dance clubs and music outlets battling barbecue joints for tourist dollars.
A murmur of excitement moved through the crowd in Black’s.
It was our city on the big screen. Places we all recognized. Memories dancing in those lights. And those cirrus clouds stretched like gauze and tinted orange.
“Is this a live shot?” I heard a patron ask.
My own anxiety was building as the narrator spoke over the scenes of street life: “This week, a new twist. Our crew is in Music City USA. At this moment, in a shop on Elliston Place, a room full of people is watching this show unaware that they are about to become a part of it.”
The cameras were breezing through West End, peeling off toward Black’s.
My shop went stone silent. Faces turned.
I’d been waiting for this for months.
“You heard it, folks,” I called out. “The show continues here. Right now.”
The audience went ballistic.
From the shadows in the kitchen, Uncle Wyatt stepped forward. I put my arm over his shoulder and led him through the crowd to the stage.
Feet were pounding on the floor and hands were banging on tables as we experienced the surreal effect of live cameras arriving outside our very door, visible to all on the flat-screen television. The place was in absolute, unabashed, joyful pandemonium. Mrs. Michaels’s children were bouncing up and down. Even Freddy C was clapping his hands.
A group of security men built like delivery trucks forged their way into the shop, making a path for lights and microphones and cameras. Greg Simone and Carla Fleischmann followed right behind.
We met on stage, backslapping, hands shaking.
Detective Meade and the Delivery Truck Boys tried to restore order.
Oh the mess I was going to have to clean up.
Carla Fleischmann called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are live. We have one detail to attend to if you’ll give us your attention. As you know, this nephew and uncle cannot replace what they’ve lost. After much discussion, though, we came to a consensus on how best to bring some good into the situation.”
Light applause was quickly squelched by Carla’s upheld hand.
Carla said, “Is there a Mrs. Michaels in the house?”
Everything fell silent as faces turned and eventually landed on the woman at the table with four young children.
There she was.
Her arms were crossed, the skin wrinkled and pinched. Her eyes were made up, overdone with blue eye shadow and dark eyeliner. And there, visible to anyone who was willing to look, sat a gorgeous woman who will stand before her Maker one day and put others to shame when her deeds are called out.
Greg Simone took the microphone. “Mrs. Michaels had no idea a few minutes ago that the evil that has robbed her of so much would come face to face with the generous thoughts of two men trying to do some good. Would you like to make the presentation, Aramis?”
I could see myself on the big screen as I took the stage. I turned to face the cameras and a live, nationwide audience, proud to be wearing the Johnny Ray Black T-shirt I’d made weeks ago.
“Mrs. Michaels.” I cleared my throat. Steadied my voice. Trained my attention on her. “My uncle and I know all that you’ve been through. We’ve both been affected by your son’s death and your loss.”
One of the cameras turned to catch her first tears.
I was struggling to finish. “A few weeks back I sent in an application regarding your home in Neely’s Bend, and three days ago we got a response from the state commission. Due to the historic significance of your home during the time of the Civil War and due to its period of architecture, the nomination has been accepted.”
My voice caught.
Carla slipped in with practiced ease. “We will be funding a complete and time-period-accurate restoration of your home. It will be added to the listings on the National Register of Historic Places.”
In overlapping shots, the cameras showed Mrs. Michaels soaking it all in. Too choked up to say a word. She tried to wave them off, to turn the attention in another direction, but her children were infused with the energy in the room—pulling on her and giving her kisses, hamming it up for the cameras.
Carla asked one of the twins, “What can you tell us about your mother?”
“She’s a good mama. She makes us good cookies.”
The other piped in. “Sometimes she’s mean, like when she gets angry.”
The first put her hands on her hips and said, “Nah, that’s just because you don’t clean up your room like she tells you. You just shove it all under the bed ’cause Mama’s too big to bend down and look there.”
Mrs. Michaels laughed. “That’s the Lord’s honest truth.”
I walked down through the crowd, no longer concerned with cameras or television audiences. I gave her a full hug, and she broke down on the spot.
I tried to hold it in, to be tough. Aramis Black. Cool and collected.
Mostly, I succeeded.
FORTY-FIVE
For the first time in weeks, I could feel life returning to normal.
“You still mad at me, kid?”
“What? Why would I be mad?”
I stepped into the hall and saw Johnny Ray leaning against the wall in his Tabasco boxers.
“For sending your name in to that show. For letting Uncle Wyatt have your handkerchief.”
“That caused me a lot of trouble.”
“Darrell and that parole officer of his contacted Wyatt. That’s why he called me in the first place. Once he knew they were after that gold, he knew the trail would lead to you. But he also knew you wouldn’t listen to him.” Johnny Ray scratched at his stomach. “Guess I figured that show might give you a chance to settle a few things all at once.”
“You were trying to help.”
“That I was.”
“You should’ve asked.”
He shrugged. “I knew you needed to know the truth, just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You’re a good big brother,” I said. “Or half brother, I guess.”
“After all we been through, you and me,” he said, “I don’t think it matters.”
In this city of fleeting fame and crushed dreams, my fifteen minutes had come and gone. The Elliston shooting was history. The Best of Evil was sitting high in the ratings, but I was no longer the celebrity of the week.
And that was fine by me.
Many things had been resolved. I understood the secrets that had penetrated my family and tried to tear us apart; I saw how half truths had driven wedges between us.
I also bore new burdens.
Had my impetuous attempt to save my mother, to be a hero, actually escalated into the violence that took her from me? Had I been blaming the wrong person all these years?
I felt entangled again.
There was also Brianne’s murder trial. She would face life in prison. I’d done the right thing, I knew that. But I still had regrets. Why hadn’t I seen it earlier? Why had Brianne allowed greed to fill her emptiness? Could I have intervened? No. By the time I was in the picture, she’d already committed her irreparable act.
I thought of Mrs. Michaels and her home.
There, at least, was something to smile about.
Today, during a live animal show at Percy Priest Lake, I saw one of the saddest things I’ve ever witnessed: a red-tailed hawk with only one wing.
This gorgeous creature. Unable to fly.