The Smaller Evil (9 page)

NOTHING MORE.

Every system has a purpose. But purpose is not the same as having a plan.

When the heart pumps blood or the atom splits or the last train out of the city departs five minutes late, there's a reason these actions occur. But reason has nothing to do with wants. Or needs. Or strategy.

Or even fate.

Like the unraveling of the most twisted lie, meaning works backward. The end can explain the means, but nothing is ever justified. Systems are not in the business of morality. They exist to serve themselves. This is the reason inequity breeds cruelty, shame fosters compliance, and hypocrisy creates denial.

These are systems that work.

There are other systems, too. Everywhere, all around us. Ones we operate within, ones we choose to chafe against, and ones we don't even know how to see. They exist nonetheless. They assert their will upon every aspect of our lives—from the smallest parts of our world to the fever-dream depths of our humanity to the ragged edges of the universe. And beyond.

Death is a system, too, of course. But that's an easy one.

Don't you see?

With death comes the end of life.

That's all.

There's nothing more.

OH, BEAU.

Why'd you do it? Why?

This isn't kindness.

This isn't the road either of us should be on.

Blood poured down Arman's forehead. It dripped into his line of vision, mixing with his tears and his snot, but he didn't bother wiping any of it away. He just kept driving as best he could, racing the white van back up the mountain toward the compound. He had the gas pedal pressed to the floor. He had his arms locked tight. Arman wasn't used to handling a vehicle of this size—hell, he wasn't used to
driving
, period—and that meant he took the curves too wide and the hills too fast. Tires screeched and the vehicle swayed, but he didn't slow down. He kept going. And going.

He
had
to
.

The iron gate was open when he got there. With a sob of relief, Arman cut the wheel to make the turn. The van lurched, then skidded before regaining traction. It chewed up the drive like a beast.

Arman didn't bother parking in the designated lot or anywhere he was meant to. He flew past all the other vans and headed up the hillside
straight for the domed building, leaning on the horn the whole way. But the road soon grew steep and narrow, and when the wheels spun helplessly in the gravel, he had no choice but to slam on the brake, throw the van into park, and jump out.

Staggering on legs weak and shaky, he cupped his hands. Managed to shout, “Hey! I need help! Please!
Someone!
”

There was no response. The only sound was the faint rustling of the long grass as a gust of ocean wind fluttered up the mountainside, cool as a promise in the late-day heat.

Arman took off running. Adrenaline coursed through him as he bounded up the path and sprinted for the dome on winged feet. His legs burned with each stride and his lungs strained like bellows as he breathed in the heady scent of licorice and eucalyptus. The wood smoke puffing from the towering chimney.

It all filled him with the oddest sense of déjà vu.

He kept running. The doors to the meeting hall were shut. Arman grabbed the handle of the first one he came to and pulled. It opened, thankfully, and he flew inside with a tingle of relief. His world went from light to dark.

“Hey!” he called out, gasping for air. “Is anyone here? I need help. I need someone. It's an
emergency
!”

• • •

The unexpected happened: A pair of strong arms reached from the shadows to grab on to Arman. They caught him like a trip wire, wrapping around his chest, his shoulders, and stopping him in his tracks.

Arman gave a yelp of pain. He was yanked backward and his feet skidded, nearly upending him. He thrashed wildly against whoever was holding him. “
Fuck.
Fucking let
go
of me!”

“Shut up,” snarled the person who'd grabbed him, gripping him tighter and pinning his arms to his body like a straitjacket.

Arman kept up his thrashing. “
What?
”

“I said shut up. You can't come in here. Where the hell did you come from anyway?”

“What do you
mean
?” Squirming sideways, Arman caught a glimpse of his accoster. The sunlight spilling down from the cribbed rafters in the center of the dome didn't reach here, the edges of the hall, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out the shape of the man holding on to him. He was big, brutish, and he wore those strange gauzy clothes. Arman thought he could feel something beneath the fabric, like a holster, running across his chest. Panic filled him. Maybe Dale wasn't kidding about guns.

“This is private property, kid,” the man growled.

“But—”

“Is something going on, Brian?” a woman's voice called out.

They both turned. Arman's heart surged with hope. It was
Mari.
She was standing on some sort of stage that had been set up in the center of the domed space, built against the crackling stone fireplace. Not only that, but she was surrounded by rows and rows of people who were seated in folding chairs, filling the entire room.

She was surrounded, Arman realized with a stab of terror, by
everyone
.

“Mari!” he cried. “It's me, Arman. I need your help!”

“What is it, Arman?” she asked. Then: “Brian, let go of him, for God's sake. He's one of ours.”

Brian released Arman but made sure to knee him in the back as he shoved him away. Arman stumbled, then squared his shoulders. Longed for the nerve to punch him. Instead he limped forward into the sunlight.

He felt all the eyes in the room land on him.

He heard the gasps when they saw the blood on his face and clothes.

Stomach lodged in his throat like a cork, Arman willed himself not to fall apart. Not yet. Not before he'd done what he'd come to do. He locked eyes with Mari because seeing her calmed him. Because even though he'd burst in and caused this big scene, she still looked at him with kindness.

And trust.

“It's Beau,” he said, his voice finally cracking. “I think—I think he's
dead
.”

A swell of shock rippled through the meeting hall. Followed by fear. Then disbelief. Arman didn't know what to do, so he simply stood and waited. He felt twitchy. And more than a little queasy. He hadn't realized how
hot
it was in here. All these bodies packed in tight with limited air circulation. The smell wasn't very good either.

Finally Mari raised her hand, quieting the room with the gesture. Arman watched with awe. Despite her age and gentle demeanor, she was far more commanding than he would've guessed. Or perhaps those qualities weren't the exception, but the rule.

“I'm sure Beau is fine,” she told her audience. “As you know, he was called away from us this morning on an emergency in San Francisco and won't be returning until tomorrow. However, seeing as young Arman here is one of our newer guests, the three of us are going to go with him now to help clarify what's happened and see how we can best help him. While we're gone, I'd like you all to remain seated and in a state of quiet self-reflection. Inoculation will resume momentarily.”

Three of us? Arman's heart sank as two people stood and followed Mari as she stepped off the stage and walked toward him. He recognized them both, of course. He should've known: It was the short man
and the dark-haired woman who'd scolded Mari for asking where he'd come from.

Beau's
not
fine
, Arman wanted to tell them as they headed outside and back onto the dirt path, with him leading the way like the world's most unlikely Pied Piper. But the words wouldn't come. He was too tight with emotion.

Too sick with guilt.

Making him feel even sicker was the way his heart gummed up upon reaching the crest of the road that dipped down toward where he'd left the van. His grief was kicking in at last, he thought. Finally overriding the numbness and shock.

“Come on,” he called, waving to those behind him. “He's right here.”

Mari and the other two hurried to catch up, as best they could, although for Mari, moving quickly clearly wasn't something in her aging body's current skill set. Arman turned to start down the steep-pitched hillside. Only he took one step and he stopped. And blinked.

Because it wasn't there.

The van wasn't there.

It was gone.

ARMAN STUMBLED DOWN THE PATH
in a state of utter confusion. He
knew
he'd parked the van here. He knew it. Yet there was no sign of it at all. No sign that it had even
been
here in the first place. He scoured the ground for clues. After a moment of squinting, he thought he could make out faint tire tracks in the dirt.

But maybe not.

It was too hard to tell.

He straightened up again. The van's brakes could have gone out, he realized. That would explain things. The hill behind him was angled sharply. It would've gone right over the side of the road.

Arman rushed to look. The trajectory of the runaway van would've sent it down the embankment and straight into a patch of manzanita and scrub brush. Only it wasn't there. And it wasn't in the parking lot, either. Well, there were plenty of white vans in the lot, of course, a whole row of them, but when Arman ran past and placed a hand on each of their hoods, all their engines were cool. None was the vehicle he'd just driven up here in a wild panic, no more than fifteen minutes ago.
That
van was gone.

Poof.

Arman stood, frozen. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know where else to look.

Am I losing my mind?

Am I?

That's what it felt like.

Mari, the short man, and the dark-haired woman followed him wherever he went and watched him closely. Expressions of concern were etched across their faces.

Doubt, too.

“I thought you said Beau was down here,” the dark-haired woman said finally.

“He
was
.”

“And he was dead.”

“Yes. I think so. I mean, I'm pretty sure.” Arman put a fluttering hand to his head. His memories of the recent past felt foggy. Distant.

He wasn't, he realized, all that sure of anything.

“So where is he now?” the woman asked.

“I don't know. Someone—someone must've found him. The keys were still in the van. Maybe they took him somewhere. To a hospital.”

She gave him a withering look. “And who would've done that? Everyone was in the meeting hall just now. Every single person. Except you.”

“Are you saying you don't believe me?”

“I'm saying there's nothing to believe.”

This was stupid. Arman pulled at his shirt. Pointed to it emphatically. “And where do you think all this blood came from?”

The woman shrugged. “Your bleeding head? Just a guess.”

“He was
here
! The van was here!” Arman shouted. He couldn't help himself.

“Well, he's not here now.”

“Then someone must have come in from the outside and found him!”

“Impossible,” the short man said. “No one drives up here. Road's a dead end. No one even knows we're here.”

Sure they do
, Arman started to say, thinking of the boy at the market. But he couldn't get the words out. His whole body started to shake. Great seismic shudders that emanated from deep within him.

Oh, Beau. Beau. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Mari came over and rubbed the back of his neck. Arman let her. Her concern soothed him in a way he didn't know how to describe, spooling some desperate need from his heart to her hands.
I don't understand what's happening
, he longed to tell her.
Please help me understand.

“He was here,” Arman said again, but his voice had lost its gusto. Could he really have been mistaken about Beau being dead in the first place? Maybe he'd driven himself somewhere. Maybe he was fine. Maybe Arman had gotten this whole thing all wrong.

But there was all that blood. So much of it. And the knife. Oh God, the knife—

His shaking grew worse, until his teeth chattered and his mouth grew watery. Until he had to sit on the ground and put his head between his legs. Mari crouched beside him, hand still on his neck, and while Arman focused on breathing deeply and not passing out, drifts of conversation between her and the dark-haired woman floated above him.

“—confused, in shock, maybe drugs of some sort—”

“—need to get back. This is taking too much damn time—”

“—head wound. Possible brain injury, memory loss—”

“Hey, is this yours?” a male voice called out.

Arman lifted his head. Maybe twenty yards away, the short man
stood beneath a thick-barked eucalyptus tree, and he had something in his hands. Arman stared. For a moment he was unable to make out what it was, but then realization hit him.

“Yes! That's my bag! That's
mine
.” He pointed, looking up at the other two. “See. I
told
you. That was in the van. Someone took the van and they left my bag. I'm not making this up!”

The short man walked over and handed the bag to Arman. He dug through it frantically, clothes spilling on the ground. A moan of relief escaped him. The money was still there. All of it.

The dark-haired woman watched him. “Were you planning on going somewhere?”

“I
did
go somewhere. I already told you that!”

“Why don't you just tell us everything that happened, Arman,” Mari said with a sigh. “Start at the beginning.”

So that's what he did. He took a deep breath and told them how he'd left the compound before dawn that morning and started his walk back toward civilization. He told them how he'd run into Beau at the market and that Beau was going to give him a ride to the highway. And—leaving out the part where Beau told the kid at the store Arman was a junkie and that strange moment of lost time—he told them how before they could drive anywhere together, the most horrible thing had happened: Arman had found Beau's lifeless body in the back of the van. And it wasn't due to any kind of accident or foul play. No, while Arman had been in the bathroom dicking around with his blisters and his Band-Aids, lamenting over the dullness of his looks, apparently Beau had been in the van cutting open his wrists and bleeding out all over the damn place.

The wrists I wouldn't cut.

With the knife I wouldn't use.

Everything after was a nightmare, moments too hazy and fractured for Arman to recall in detail. All he had were bright bursts of memory: the blood-soaked van; Beau's gray face and slack neck.

But that was it.

“Why on earth would Beau kill himself?” the dark-haired woman asked. “What possible reason would he have to do that?”

“I don't know
why
. But he, uh, seemed kind of weird when I talked to him.”

“‘
Kind of weird?
' Is that a technical term?”

Arman glared.

“What did he cut himself with?” the short man asked. “I don't remember you saying.”

“That's because I didn't say.”

“Then what was it?”

“It was this knife. Beau had it last night. He said it was his grandfather's. A Damascus, he called it. It's got this thick blade, and there's a pattern to the metal. Like a fingerprint.”

At this, a look passed between the three adults. Arman didn't know what it meant. But he saw it. Clear as day.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

“But that knife—” started the short man.

“You threw it over a cliff last night, didn't you?” finished the dark-haired woman. “We heard about that. Beau told us. It was an heirloom. Irreplaceable.”

“It was. I did.”

“Then how could he have had it?”

“I don't know.” Arman faltered. After all, it didn't make sense to him either.

“Arman, how did you hurt your head?” Mari asked.

His fingers went to the wound on his temple. “I—I don't remember.”

“You don't remember?”

“I think I was running. Maybe I blacked out or something.” He looked at her. “All I know is that I thought—I thought I could still
help
him. I wanted to try. I had to try.”

“So did you call the police? Or try to find a hospital?”

“I couldn't! My phone didn't work! And the kid working at the market in Los Padres wouldn't let me use his. He didn't like me.”

“Did you go anywhere else?” Mari asked. “Or talk to anyone?”

“No.”

“But how can you be sure if you don't even remember hurting yourself?”

“I just am,” Arman said. “I came here. I came right here. I know that.”

Mari didn't respond. But she looked worried.

“You know,” the dark-haired woman began, and she spoke in the sort of taunting tone that made Arman want to poke her eyes out. “This whole thing reminds me of a movie I once saw where this woman goes to pick her child up from nursery school, only it turns out nobody's ever seen her child. Nobody even knew she
had
one and the kid's not enrolled at the school. She never was. Then the mother goes home and finds that all of her child's things are missing. There's no trace of the kid anywhere. Gary, do you know the one I'm talking about?”

The short man—Gary—nodded. “
Bunny Lake Is Missing
.”

The dark-haired woman smiled. “That's right. Bunny Lake. You're like Bunny Lake's mother.”

“What happened to her?” Arman asked cautiously.

“People thought she was crazy, of course. She was looking for something that didn't exist.”

“What are you talking about? Beau exists. You know he exists.”

The dark-haired woman waved a hand. “You're telling us to believe in
the existence of something you have no proof of. It's the same thing, really.”

Arman squeezed his hands into fists to keep from digging into his own skin. “It's not the same thing! The
proof
is that the van is missing!”

“‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence,'” Gary recited in a singsong voice.

Now Arman wanted to poke his own eyes out. He knew that old maxim. He knew it well. Last year, his physics teacher had had a poster with those same words hanging in the back of his classroom.

“Well, shouldn't we call the cops now?” he asked. “Let them figure things out?”

The dark-haired woman was still smiling. “And tell them what exactly?”

“I don't know,” Arman said, and even he felt his resolve dissipating. Considering the money in his bag and the blood all over him and the fact that a lot of people had seen him argue with Beau last night, talking to the cops was not high on his list of desirable activities. Even if it was the right thing to do.

Which it probably was.

But Mari, it seemed, could read his mind. And as always, she was gracious. “Arman, no matter what happened, you did the right thing. Okay? Going to the police or anyone else would've been confusing. They wouldn't have understood you. So please don't feel bad.”

Arman nodded.

“I think you should lie down and rest now,” she said gently. “You hit your head pretty hard. That could explain why you're confused.”

“Lie down where?” Arman asked.

“You don't remember where you're staying?”

“No, I
do
. It's just . . .”

“It's just what?”

Arman looked at her with pleading eyes. “It's just nothing about this . . . well, nothing makes
sense
.”

“Of course it makes sense,” Mari told him in the kindest way possible. Then she echoed the exact words the cook had spoken to Arman earlier that morning, “You just don't know how.”