Praise for
The Best of Evil
“The world through Aramis Black’s eyes is mysterious, rich, and brewing with surprise.”
—BRANDILYN COLLINS, Seatbelt Suspense
“Eric Wilson masterfully weaves together mysteries from past and present in this gutsy thriller. Wilson is an extraordinary writer with one of the freshest voices in fiction today. The Best of Evil is first-rate suspense.”
—GINA HOLMES, Novel Journey/Novel Reviews
“In The Best of Evil, you get the best of Eric Wilson—the only novelist I know who can make you wish you’d paid more attention in your seventh-grade history class. Wilson manages to make Meriwether Lewis into a figure of contemporary fascination in this intriguing tale set in modern-day Tennessee. Aramis Black is serving up hot coffee and sarcasm when a customer gets shot dead, propelling us into a story with all the twists and turns of a Smoky Mountain road. A stolen hanky, a pretty girl, a lock of hair, simmering family tensions, and a complicated hero with a dark past—this mystery has it all.”
—MELANIE WELLS, author of When the Day of Evil Comes and The Soul Hunter
THE BEST OF EVIL
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
A division of Random House Inc.
The Scripture quotation on page ix is taken from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved. The Scripture quotation on this page is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. The Scripture quotation on this page is taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
eISBN: 978-0-307-55055-2
Copyright © 2006 by Eric Wilson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
WATERBROOK and its deer design logo are registered trademarks of WaterBrook Press, a division of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wilson, Eric (Eric P.)
The best of evil: an Aramis Black mystery / Eric Wilson. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Restaurateurs—Fiction. 2. Coffeehousees—Fiction. 3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Family secrets—Fiction. 5. Nashville (Tenn.)—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I583B47 2006
813’6—dc22
2006017541
v3.1
Dedicated to
my mother, Linda,
for loving me through the rough days
even when your own love had been depleted
and my father, Mark,
for showing me the grace in my adolescence
that you never found in your own childhood
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One: Single Shot Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Two: With Whip Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Part Three: Tall Skinny Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Don’t let evil
get the best of you;
get the best of evil by doing good.
—ROMANS 12:21
PART
ONE
SINGLE SHOT
Aramis … while seeming to have no secrets,
was actually steeped in mystery.
—ALEXANDRE DUMAS, The Three Musketeers
ONE
If she had lived, I know she would be ashamed of me.
I’m trying to change that.
My mother adored her morning coffee. I imagine her in my espresso shop, quiet, unimposing, lifting her drink and winking at me the way she did when I was a little kid in Oregon. A few months back I started the place with her in mind. She would love the mahogany counters, the polished brass rails and gleaming Italian machinery, the rich aroma.
Black’s—that’s what I call my shop, in honor of the family name.
Mom was always busy, they tell me. A dutiful housewife with a set jaw and silky, raven hair twisted back in a bun. She bore secrets no one should have to carry alone, and when at last she did seek support, she found only hostility and greed and a cup of conspiracy that spilled over into the lives of her family.
Dianne Lewis Black. Despite her weariness, her eyes sparkled. That much I remember and hold on to.
She’d still be with us if not for Uncle Wyatt’s mistake, and I still hate the carelessness that stole her life away.
I was six when she died. I watched her fall, a stone’s throw away. For two decades, that one moment held me in its grip. I wallowed in its rage through my young adult years, courting violence and a nasty drug habit. I tattooed my cynicism onto my forearms.
Live by the Sword on one. Die by the Sword on the other.
Despite all this, I’ve never stopped believing that we are created with the ability to soar. But then circumstances slash at us and pluck our feathers, and we get entangled in our sins. We fight to get free. We struggle, flapping our wings, beating at the air. Exhaustion leaves most of us numb.
Thirteen months ago I decided to break away. I packed a U-Haul and left Portland to live with my brother in Nashville, Tennessee—a place to start over, start clean. A safer world, I thought.
This morning proved me wrong.
Sitting here at my desk, putting it on paper, I hope to gain a glimmer of understanding. This is my way of processing, I guess. Not that it’ll change things.
My shop is in shambles, and a fellow human being is dead.
Two and a half hours before the shooting at Black’s, I was barely out of bed and shaking off my nightmares. I stumbled from the bathroom toward the kitchen, feeling cheated of sleep, quiet, and a general sense of sanity. My brother’s guitar strumming in the living room did little to improve my mood.
I wouldn’t think of asking him to stop, though. Music is Johnny
Ray’s love, his life, his very breath, wrapped up in a three-minute, three-chord, country music ditty. The man has his dreams, and with a name like Johnny Ray Black, how can he fail? I’d do anything to make it happen for him.
“Sounds good,” I said, pausing in the doorway.
His eyes jerked up. “Aramis? Don’t scare me like that!”
“Jumpy, jumpy.”
“I thought you were long gone, kid.”
“Should’ve been. I’m running late.”
Cross-legged in his Tabasco boxers, surrounded by sheet music and scribbled notes, Johnny Ray shifted his guitar and tucked a section of yellowed newspaper under his knee. “Guess you better get movin’. Listen, grab yourself a muffin on the way out. Should be one left on the table.”
“Another of your bran concoctions?”
“You got it. All natural, from scratch, and still warm.”
“Ahh. That explains the smell.”
“Hey now.”
I pointed at his folded edition of the Nashville Scene, a weekly rag full of local news, events, and divergent viewpoints. “You hiding something from me, Johnny?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“I know. You’re looking to get me tickets to the U2 concert, aren’t you?”
“Don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.”
My brother pressed his knee down on the paper and shifted his attention back to his guitar, golden brown hair falling over his shoulders, bronzed skin glowing—evidence of his weekly tanning bed routine. He believes “you’ve gotta look the part, gotta be video friendly,” blaming his music aspirations for his obsession with health and appearance. Truth is, he’s always envied the fact that I got Mom’s Mediterranean coloring. I joke with him that he got the talent and I got the looks.
“How can you sit like that?” I asked. “Doesn’t your butt get numb?”
“As a rock.”
I slipped into the kitchen, scowled at the lone muffin, then rummaged in the cupboard. “Hey, what happened to my Froot Loops?”
“You finished them yesterday,” my brother called back.
“I did not.”
“You did too.”
“Did not.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” he said. “I wouldn’t touch the stuff, and you know it.”
“Fruit, Johnny. It’s good for you.”
“Very funny.”
Knowing that I lack any culinary skills, Johnny Ray gets a chunk of my change each month and does our grocery shopping and cooking; Froot Loops and Dr Pepper are his two concessions to my dietary needs.
He asked, “What would you do without me, little brother?”
“Spoil myself rotten.”
“Honestly, I worry about you. You can’t survive on caffeine forever.”
“It’s better than the stuff I used to do. Cheaper too.”
“And legal, Aramis. I’ll give you that.”
I went to the table, hefted the muffin, and took a bite. Yum, yum. Lots of fiber.
“Still, there’s something not right,” my brother said as I returned to the living room. “You’ve stayed clean for a year now—which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong—but I can see it in your eyes. You’re still on edge.”
“On edge?” I snorted. “I’m dog-tired. Drop it, okay?”
“You’ve always got a reason to avoid the issue.”
“What issue?”
“Uncle Wyatt. And the way Mom died.”
“What? Where did that come from? It was over twenty freakin’ years ago. Why keep dredging up the past?”
“See now, that’s your pain talking.”
“Dude.” I pulled on my jacket. “I know you’re trying to help me, but it’s too early in the morning for psychoanalysis. I have to get to work.” I took another bite.
“It’s come full circle—that’s all I’m trying to tell you.”
“Sure. If you say so.” With my mouth full, my words were pebbles rolling in wet gravel.
“I’m not sure you’re ready for it.”
“Gotta go. My customers will be lining up soon.”
“I’m probably gonna regret this, but … Aramis, does this look familiar?” My brother’s question brought me to a halt.
In his hand, waved into view from the folded newspaper, he held a silk cloth with Mom’s initials embroidered on it: DLB. Hours after my mother’s death, after the police had come and gone, I’d realized this memento was missing. She’d given it to me in confidence, saying that it held secrets, and then someone had stolen it away. I’d always wondered if the thief had known its significance. He must have.
“Is that …?” I took the cloth from my brother, cradling the soft material. I felt like a boy again. Six years old. Choked with emotion. “It’s Mom’s handkerchief.”
“I found it last night.” Johnny Ray gestured toward the front door. “On the steps, in a FedEx envelope.”
TWO
Numbed by this link to my mother, I kneaded the handkerchief with my fingers. In the last year I’ve been trying to pull things back together, honoring the convictions Mom once held dear. Not an easy task. Certain questions never go away, and I’ve come to the decision that faith is all about believing even when you don’t understand.
Which is a good thing, because there’s a lot I don’t understand.
According to my brother, the envelope arrived with the sender’s name left blank. The originating address: the Oregon State Penitentiary.
What was it doing there, at a prison? Who’d been keeping it all these years?
And why send it back now?
Still gripping the memento, I trekked on foot through Centennial Park’s morning fog toward my espresso shop. By leaving my car in the brownstone building’s lot, I do my part each day to protect the environment, and it gives me time to wake up, clear my head, sort my thoughts.
Against my will, my mind replayed clips of my mother’s final moments.
A gun barrel pushed into her hair. Fright on her dignified face. Refusing to speak. Dropping to her knees, then plunging into the river below as a madman pulled the trigger.
The day Mom died, she gave me a small ebony box containing this handkerchief with its intricate embroidery. Her whisper was full of urgency: Hold on to this for me, okay, Aramis? I have secrets wrapped in here. Someday it’ll show you the way.
I still have that box. Sitting on my bedroom windowsill, polished, visible to all who enter, it’s a statement that Mom’s still with me. Sometimes I run my fingers over the smooth ebony and imagine I catch her scent. Just a whiff.
Inside my shop, I stabbed a finger at the alarm code. Installed for insurance purposes primarily, the alarm gave a confirming beep, and I left the door unlocked. It’s a habit. My route through the park has helped me befriend two or three homeless people, and they know they’re always welcome to come in for warmth and a few kind words. Free coffee too.
Of course, I had no idea that today my shop was to be the site of a homicide.
Five thirty. Black’s remained in near darkness for my half-hour opening routine. I folded and tucked my questions away with the handkerchief in my chest pocket. I operated on autopilot, grinding espresso, brewing coffee, straightening chairs and tables, putting a till into the register.
Music City USA … home of the Grand Ole Opry, Chet Atkins, and Minnie Pearl. These names call forth a parade of down-home stereotypes: banjos and fiddles, rhinestones and whiskey, cowboy hats and boots, and some country yokel spittin’ tobacco juice into the dirt. But they’re preconceived ideas, mental ticks that latch onto your thoughts and suck away your objectivity.
I won’t lie. I arrived here with a few ticks of my own.
This morning, however, looking out my shop windows, I was reminded once again how far such caricatures are from the truth.
Situated at 2216 Elliston Place, in Nashville’s West End, my shop caters to the newest generation of java junkies. Many of Davidson County’s estimated one million residents commute to work in some of our nation
’s most respected halls of medicine and learning. New condos and high-rises are sprouting throughout the area. BMWs, Hummers, and Lincoln stretch limousines are common sights, and the hills boast mansions befitting the Vanderbilts.
Of course, the Vanderbilts helped build this city. Vanderbilt Hospital, Vanderbilt University, and a cluster of historic churches rub shoulders—or parking spaces—while the music and publishing industries grope for success. The War Between the States may have failed to change certain things, but the almighty dollar has proven mighty indeed, and the Southern way of life is crumbling beneath the demands of big business.
No wonder some call it Cashville.
Here’s a sobering fact, though: last year the Metro Police recorded one hundred homicides. Count ’em: one-zero-zero. Considering that, maybe I should’ve seen it coming, should’ve sensed trouble.
Without the usual morning sun, my espresso shop seemed drab and dull, and I had the feeling I was back running that mom-and-pop store on Portland’s east side.
Need a bag for that booze? That magazine? The hair gel?
You don’t see what you want on the shelves? Well, tell me what you’re lookin’ for. I know how to … find things, if you know what I mean.
No. That life was behind me. Thirteen months ago I’d had my Fight Club moment, staring hell in the face at the business end of a lowlife’s Glock, my nose shoved down into the error of my ways. But it was no movie, and I was convinced I was a goner.
Then a miracle … out of nowhere. A wake-up call.
Since then I’ve been holding on to the belief that I’m turning a new page, discarding the past, and putting things right. No more trouble.
Yeah, right.
As of today, it’s a documented fact: Black’s—site of this year’s homicide number seventy-nine.
A phone call broke through my mood. I answered it to stop the racket.
“Black’s. Can I help you?”
“Aramis, you sound tired.”
“You sound … perky.”