The Smaller Evil (8 page)

DUE WEST
.
JUST KEEP HEADING
west.

You'll get there.

Before setting out, Arman had thought the heading west thing would be a simple enough proposition. And maybe it would've been, if the road leading away from the compound had been anything close to straight or straightforward. Like the world's worst metaphor, the road he was on wound westward through the semi-coastal mountain range like a coiled snake, turning in on itself, again and again, as it crept through valleys and cut across hilltops.

But Arman kept going. He had no other options. His phone, which he'd considered turning off in case his stepfather decided to track him down via GPS, ran out of juice on its own, effectively making the decision for him. So he walked and he walked. Until the sun rose high in the sky and his knee swelled and his hoodie came off and he went back to wishing he were the kind of person who maybe wore shorts every now and then. There was no shade down by the roadside. No ferns or woodsy clearings or burbling creeks. There was nothing but yellow grass. Cracked asphalt.

A soaring heat index.

More time passed. Arman's allergies flared and his head filled with worry—pointless, irrational thoughts, each fretful one landing in his brain like a rock in a water cup to push his anxiety level higher and higher. First, he worried he'd made a wrong turn and gotten lost. Then, he worried he might die of sunstroke. Next, he worried everyone else in the world had been Raptured and he'd be alone for all eternity. Finally, he worried that no one else besides him had ever even existed in the first place.

Wouldn't that be something?

To be fair, none of these scenarios seemed implausible; Arman hadn't seen a single car or house or person the entire time he'd been out here. And now he'd walked for so long, he didn't even think he could make it back to the compound if he wanted to. Which he didn't.

But still.

Then it happened. Without warning, Arman came around a sharp bend in the sloping road and found signs of human life. Right in front of him! It wasn't much, true, but there was a large red barn with the words
LOS
PADRES MARKET
painted in block letters on its roof. There was even a parking lot in the back. He could make out the shadowy shapes of cars that sat in the shade beneath a pair of elm trees.

Maybe, if Arman had been the type to show emotion or wear his heart on his sleeve, the sight of the barn would've gotten him to kick up his heels or whoop with joy. But he wasn't. He simply hurried forward with hope in his veins. He didn't know what he might find inside the market, but there had to be people. If nothing else, he'd at least get a good idea how much farther he had to go. That would ease his mind, he thought, if not his feet, which were starting to blister. But maybe he could get a ride from someone. Maybe luck would be on his side.

For once.

• • •

Arman pushed open the market door and stepped inside. A bell jangled overhead. He was smacked in the face by air-conditioner chill and the smell of burnt pizza. But the assault felt good: sweet relief from the day's heat.

There were no people he could see. Rows of packaged foods and various sundries stretched before him. An ice machine stood against the far wall, and on Arman's right, a long ramp led down to a second room, one filled with empty tables and chairs. A huge television was mounted to the wall. He ducked to see what was on. It was baseball. Stupid Giants.

People or no people, Band-Aids were a high priority for Arman at the moment. He cruised the grocery aisles until he found them wedged between a can of jock itch spray and medicine meant to stop diarrhea and heartburn. Arman wasn't sure how Band-Aids might be used to bridge that gap, but whatever. He grabbed the first box he saw.

“Nice pants,” a voice said.

“Huh?” Arman looked up. A teenage boy about his age stood at the very end of the aisle. He was tall with a long nose, short black hair, and he wore a blue apron with the message “Welcome to the Los Padres Market. How May I Help You Today?” printed on the front. “What did you say about my pants?”

“Looks like you pissed yourself.”

“It's
sweat
,” Arman said. “They're sweatpants. It's hot out there, you know.”

The boy smirked. “Whatever you say. Where you going anyway? You walked here. No one walks here.”

“I'm trying to get to the highway.”

“Which highway?”

Were there others? “The PCH.”

“Dude, you got like twelve miles to go.”

Arman gaped. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Holy shit.”

The boy grinned. “Why don't you come get something to eat? Take a load off. We got pizza. Game's on. Band-Aids are on me, okay?”

Arman nodded. He followed the boy into the far room, opening the Band-Aid box as he went and jamming a few in his pocket before stuffing the rest into his bag. He took a seat at the first table he came to.

The boy hovered. “You doing one of those Walk Across America things? Raising money for dick cancer or something?”

“What?” Arman's head still spun from the twelve-mile revelation. And had the kid said
dick cancer
? “No. I was just, I was at this retreat up the road. But now I want to leave. Walking's the only way to do that.”

The boy's smile vanished. “You were at a retreat up the road? You mean that Evolve place?”

“Yeah. That's it. You know about it?”

“I thought only old people went there. My dad says it's for rich retired hippies who want to walk around naked and pretend they've found Paradise.”

Arman shrugged. “I don't know. It's not that bad. But there
were
a lot of old people.”

“Naked ones?”

“Sort of.”

The boy made a face. “I better get back to work.”

“Okay.”

“You know, maybe you should ask that guy over there for a ride.
He's heading west. Probably leaving soon. Chip in for gas, shouldn't be a problem. He doesn't look too creepy.”

Well, that was an underwhelming assessment, but the prospect of a ride wasn't something Arman was about to pass up. He'd sit shotgun to Jeffrey Dahmer if it meant not having to walk around on his blistered feet anymore. “Which guy?”

“Him.” The boy pointed.

Arman twisted in his chair. The back door to the barn was open, letting out all the cold air, and sure enough, a guy was out there smoking, on a brick patio where there were more tables and chairs. He sat in the shade, and Arman stared at him. He stared for a good long time, with wide eyes and an open mouth, because this guy, who was wearing dark jeans, cowboy boots, and a polo shirt, who was smoking a cigarette, and who was apparently heading west, was
Beau.

A JUMBLE OF CONFLICTED THOUGHTS
ran through Arman's mind. Things like:

What is he doing here?

Is he pissed that I left?

Does he even know that I left?

I'm not sorry for what I did.

I'm not.

But I am sorry I disappointed him.

Arman also recalled what the cook told him that morning, in the warmth of her bed, a moment as far and fleeting as a favorite dream. She'd said that despite everything that had happened, Beau still believed in him. That he still thought Arman was special.

But what do I believe?

And wasn't that the crux of all his problems right there? Because even in the midst of running away, Arman wasn't completely sure if he was leaving because he'd taken a stand or because of his own self-defeating symptoms. His inability to stay in a place where he might actually want to be.

So which was truth?

And which was delusion?

Arman felt tingly. And lost. There was so much in this world he didn't understand. Like who he was. Or where he was going. But what he
did
understand was that an opportunity had presented itself. One he would never have again. So rather than
thinking
, Arman focused on feeling and doing. Like Beau told him to.

What Arman
felt
, he realized, was confusion.

What he could
do,
however, was get up, go outside, and talk to Beau.

So he did.

• • •

Beau sat beneath a tattered green umbrella that looked as if its heyday had come sometime during the Clinton administration. Although his eyes were open, a long stream of ash curled from the end of his cigarette. It gave the impression that he was sleeping. Or possibly dead. Arman walked over and stood in front of him, but Beau said nothing. He didn't even acknowledge his presence.

Arman's gut knotted. That familiar clench of rejection.

Stop it. No matter what he thinks or what he says, you've already had more than zero effect. You're already something more than nothing.

“Hey,” he said cautiously. And when there was no answer: “Hey. It's me, Arman.”

This got a response. Beau blinked, then met his gaze. That smooth trademark smile spread across his face, but it came almost a beat too late. Like his reflexes were on tape delay.

Or something.

“
Arman
,” he said. “It's good to see you. Come sit down, won't you?”

Arman hesitated. The sun scorched the back of his neck, the sweltering June air smelled faintly of manure, and something about this situation felt
weird
to him. Unnatural. He couldn't pinpoint it exactly.
But he sat across from Beau. Kept his butt on the very edge of his chair.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Mmmm,” Beau said. “Just out for a drive.”

Arman frowned. That didn't make sense. Not at all.

“I'm leaving, you know,” he said.

“I'm sorry to hear that. Have some water, why don't you? You look hot.” Beau pushed an already open bottle toward him.

Arman reached for it gratefully. Took a few gulps, then wiped his mouth. “Well, I'm sorry about last night. I wanted to tell you that. I'm sorry for everything, but especially for throwing that knife of yours. I know it was special.”

“More than special,” Beau said. “Do you know what it takes to make a knife like that? A true Damascus?”

“I have no idea.”

Beau picked up the plastic cap to the water bottle Arman still held and spun it across the table. “The thing you don't see when you look at that kind of blade is that it's not made from a single piece of steel. Or even a single type.”

“It's not?”

“No.” Beau edged forward in his seat. “You see, the knife maker—and I don't mean just any knife maker, we're talking about a true artist, here—he or she will curate a selection of different metals, stacking them one on top of the next, before heating them all together. Then, when the metal's hot enough, the melted layers are hammered and stretched and folded back in on themselves, before being cut and stacked again. This process repeats over and over. Until the many become one.”

“But why?” Arman asked. “Why use all those different metals?”

“Why do you think?”

“I don't know. Does it make the knife stronger or something?”

Beau shrugged. “That's what most people believe.”

“But you don't? You don't think that's true?”

“I think it doesn't matter if it's true. The truth is nothing more than proving a lie. That's what the scientific method tells us. But if the blade cuts, you can be sure someone will have faith in its strength.”

“Oh,” Arman said.

“What else are you sorry for?” Beau asked.

“Huh?”

“Just now. You said you were sorry for everything. But throwing that knife's only one thing.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I'm also sorry I let you down. But what you wanted me to do on that mountain, cutting you like that, it seemed
wrong
.”

Beau arched an eyebrow. “What gave you the impression you let me down last night?”

“I didn't?”

“That's not what I said.”

“Then I don't understand.”

“Tell me,” Beau said. “Not doing something wrong, that's important to you?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course it is. I mean, when we're talking about actually
hurting
people or whatever. Then I always want to do the right thing. Morally speaking.”

At this, Beau nodded but slumped back in his chair. His river-rock eyes looked sad. Troubled.

“Are you okay?” Arman asked.

Beau waved a hand. “I've got a lot on my mind these days. What I've been trying to do, what I want people to know, it isn't easy. The work is constant. I'm not young anymore. I don't have the luxury of thinking about right or wrong.”

“What do you think about?”

“I think about beginnings. And the inevitable end.”

“Oh.”

Beau dropped his cigarette. Ground it out with his shoe. “Tell me where you're going, Arman. I want to know what the future has in store for you. Bright things, I'm sure. Wondrous things.”

Arman squared his shoulders. “I don't know about bright or wondrous. But I'm not going home. I'm not going back to my mom and stepdad. Or any of my family. The rest is a mystery, I guess. I'm walking to the highway. Gonna try and catch ride. Maybe head down south. We'll see.”

Something clicked in Beau's eyes then. They grew stronger. Clearer. “The highway? Why I'll give you a ride. That's too far for you to walk.”

“You'd do that?” Relief washed over Arman. “Really?”

“Of course. I told you that you reminded me of myself when I was your age. It's important to me that your journey is paved with kindness.”

“Thank you. That's awesome.”

“It's nothing. Give me your bag. I'll throw it in the back. And here”—Beau pulled a twenty from his wallet—“why don't you grab something to eat before we go.”

“Oh, I can't take your money.”

Beau set the bill on the table. Reached for Arman's messenger bag. “I insist. Get some food. When you're ready, we'll hit the road. Van's right there.”

Arman glanced over at the parking lot. Sure enough, one of the white passenger vans sat in the shade, collecting dust.

“Okay,” he said slowly, picking up the twenty because not picking it up felt rude. He planned to return it, though. Just as soon as he could. “Well, thank you. I'll be right back.”

• • •

Arman headed first to the bathroom to put the Band-Aids he'd stuffed in his pocket on his feet. Some things were more important than food. Once inside, he locked the door and sat on the toilet lid. Then he yanked his shoes and socks off.

And winced.

Ugh. The blisters were worse than he thought. Way worse. They dotted his toes and the bottoms of his feet. The ugliest one sat on the bone jutting out from under his big toe. It bulged from his foot like a frog's eye. Arman gritted his teeth and spent a good five minutes working up the nerve to pop it. When he finally did, all he could think was how unsanitary everything was. No doubt, he was going to get sepsis and die.

After bandaging his feet and getting his shoes back on, Arman scrubbed his hands and face at the sink before he left. He even stuck his head under the faucet and let the cold water run for a while, relishing the chill that ran down his spine and into the small of his back when he finally stood up again. Exhaustion had set in, burrowing into his bones, and he stared at his dripping reflection in the scratched-up mirror. His face was distorted, all stretched and milky. It made his dull features appear more tragic than usual. He yawned at himself.

Then he yawned again.

There was a knock on the door. This was followed by pounding.

Arman turned to fumble with the lock. He had trouble moving his muscles, but he finally got the door open only to find the boy with the blue apron waiting for him in the hallway. The boy's arms were folded, and he didn't look happy. To say the least.

“Oh, hey.” Arman stifled another yawn with his hand.

The boy scowled. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I am.”

“You'd better.”

“I just said I was.”

“Then move your ass already.”

“What's your problem?” Arman asked. “What'd I do?”

“Don't play dumb with me,” the boy snapped. “I know what you were doing in there. It's disgusting. That guy told me all about you.”

Arman's brain felt thick, the gears churning slowly. “Wait. What are you
talking
about? What did he tell you?”

“You're real lucky, you know that? If my dad were working, you wouldn't be getting off like this. He'd—”

“He'd what?”

The boy's eyes flashed dangerously. “Forget it. Just get the hell out already. And don't let me see your junkie face around here again. Otherwise I'll call him down here. I swear to God I will.”

Arman got the hell out. He had no idea what was going on or why, but he knew better than to ask more questions. He knew better than to do anything but turn and go.

Once outside, he hobbled toward the white van. Bolts of pain shot up his calves with each step, and Arman balled his hands into fists. He hated confrontation, but he hated the way that kid had looked at him even more. Like he was worse than nothing. Heat flared within him, a generative rage, and when he reached the passenger side door, Arman yanked it open with a growl. Glared at the driver's seat.

Only no one was there.

Arman stepped back. That was strange. Maybe Beau was smoking again, although, since when did Beau smoke? Arman spun around, holding his hand above his brow. He looked in every direction. Saw nothing but grass. Trees.

The baking sun.

Something felt wrong again. Very wrong. Arman yawned once more
as his hands grew clammy. Suddenly the only thing he could think about was what was in the messenger bag he no longer had. All that money.

Why, oh why, had he let Beau take it?

Fuck.

Arman shoved his head back in the van, noticing for the first time that the key was in the ignition. Cool air was blowing and the radio was on. It was playing something country, real moany and sad sounding. He paused and listened for a moment, trying to pick out the words, to see if he knew them.

Something tickled the back of his knuckles just then, the lightest touch. Arman jumped, blinked, then looked down.
What the hell?
It took a moment to register what he was seeing. He was leaning against the passenger seat, but his hands were no longer locked into fists. They were open, relaxed, and he watched, confused, as a brown spider scurried out from under his thumb, bolting straight for the seat cushions. There was also a different song playing on the radio, he realized. No longer moany, it was now something upbeat and catchy.

Arman felt ill. Seriously ill. Something really was wrong with him. With his brain. That's what it felt like. It was almost as if he'd fallen asleep—he even had drool on his chin—but he was still standing, so that couldn't be it. He shook his head. Well, whatever had happened or how, a piece of time had apparently just skipped away from him—a loss he had no way of finding because he couldn't remember anything other than tipping his face into the cool air, wondering where the hell Beau was. Arman rubbed his eyes. Maybe he needed to lie down in the back of the van for a minute. Maybe he needed to—

Arman froze.

In the back of the van.

He jerked his head out of the cab. Stood upright. The sun blinded
him, stoking his resentment and dumping more sweat down his neck. Arman wobbled a bit, his legs unsteady, but managed to walk back to the van's side door. With a grunt and a heave, he used both hands to pry it open.

What he saw inside made him go cold.

Oh God. No. Oh no. This can't be happening.

It
can't.

But it was. Horribly. And what was it Beau had said to him earlier?

I think about beginnings.

And the inevitable end.