The Smaller Evil Read online

  “Well, that’s what it used to be. Back in the day. When Beau was actually interested in that sort of thing.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “Human potential.”

  Once inside, they headed down a long corridor that reminded Arman of the administrative wing of his grungy high school. It reeked of depression and foregone dreams. Passing by shut door after shut door, he noticed names had been painted above each entryway: JUSTICE. MERCY. PRIDE. RESISTANCE. All virtues, it seemed, although not necessarily Christian ones. He tried peeking into one of the small windows only to find it painted black.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “I told you. Storage.”

  “But why are the windows painted?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, don't you?”

  Arman cringed. “Sorry.”

  The doctor’s office was at the end of the hall. The word above his door was WISDOM, which Arman found reassuring. Again Dr. Gary used his key ring, switching on the overhead light, ushering Arman in.

  Surprised, Arman looked around. The space was far bigger than he’d imagined, and while the surfaces were dusty and the air stale, it was definitely nicer than the doctor’s office he went to back at home—the one with the waiting room full of shrieking children, surly teens, and stressed-out mothers. This room was large, open, and flooded with dappled light coming in through the plate-glass windows that looked out over the hills and toward the ocean beyond.

  “Have a seat.” Dr. Gary gestured to the black leather chair set in the center of the room.

  Arman took a step toward the chair. Then hesitated.

  “I know this all seems a little out of place,” Dr. Gary said. “But like I told Beau, if I’m going to work here, really work, it needs to be my best work. That’s why I’ve brought all of this equipment down here and why I wanted to set up my office in a space with real amenities. In the long run, it helps to keep us independent.”

  Arman sat tentatively in the chair while Dr. Gary cleared his desk, shoving books and papers, even a laptop, onto the floor and into boxes. Then he turned toward the far wall. Began opening cabinets, setting items on a metal tray.

  “What kind of doctor did you say you were?” Arman asked.

  “Those questions again.”

  “Forget it.”

  “No, it’s okay. I was trained in emergency medicine. Did ER work for years. Trauma. I knew it was what I wanted to do since I was a kid. I’ve always been good in a crisis. Level-headed. And I loved it at first. The power of saving people. Of having answers. But over time I realized I wasn’t saving anything. Sure I could bring a heart-attack victim back to life or take a bullet out of an organ, but by the time those people got to me, the damage had already been done. I was the solution for failure, which really isn’t an answer at all.”

  “Oh.” Arman picked at a hangnail he thought might be growing infected. He was sorry he’d asked anything in the first place. It wasn’t like he’d wanted to hear the guy’s life story.

  “Are you allergic to any medications?” the doctor asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you currently taking any?”

  “Isn’t that against the rules? Taking medication?”

  Dr. Gary tipped his head. “Good to know you’ve been paying attention to something around here.”

  Arman didn’t respond.

  “Now, how bad would you say your headache is right now, on a scale of one to ten?” the doctor asked.

  “A seven, I guess.”

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Sunday.”

  “What state are we in?”

  “California.”

  “Good. How’s your vision? Seeing double? Anything out of focus or just feel not right?”

  “Not really.”

  “Any nausea? Vomiting?”

  Arman shook his head.

  “Did you lose consciousness when you got hurt?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What about confusion? Any disorientation? Having trouble understanding what’s going on around you?”

  “Well, yes. Yes and yes. You know that.”

  “These symptoms are fairly common with concussions. So is memory loss.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure it means anything. I’m just trying to explain why you’re confused.”

  “But you actually think it’s possible that I somehow hit my head and imagined this whole thing? Everything that happened today?”

  “Definitely possible. Although it might indicate that there’s other stress going on in your life at the moment, as well.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not that kind of doctor.”

  Arman bit back a laugh. Stared up at the ceiling. “So I’m crazy. That’s what you’re saying?”

  Dr. Gary sat on a rolling stool. Pushed himself close to Arman until their knees were touching. “Look, I understand you had experiences today that felt real to you. But I also know that memory can be a tricky thing. It doesn’t always tell the truth the way we think it does.”

  “But—”

  “Beau’s fine, Arman. Trust me on that. You’ll see tomorrow when he returns. Meanwhile, you’re going to rest. Head injuries can take a long time to heal. Now I want you to stare at the wall behind me.” He pulled a penlight from the tray and flashed it into Arman’s eyes. After a moment, he rolled back. Handed him two pills and a cup of water.

  Arman looked at the pills. “What are these?”

  “They’re to help with the pain you’re feeling. Acute injury is one of the few times we make allowances for medication. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “My feet have blisters,” Arman said. Then he sat up. “Hold on. Look in my bag, will you? There should be a box of Band-Aids in there, right on top. They’re from that market. That’ll at least prove I was there!”

  “The Los Padres Market?”

  “Yes!”

  Dr. Gary went and got Arman’s bag from where it sat on the floor. He unclipped the front flap, opened it, and held it in front of Arman.

  There were no Band-Aids.

  Of course there weren’t.

  Arman slouched back. He placed the pills he’d been handed into his mouth and swallowed them.

  “Are you okay?” Dr. Gary asked.

  “I don’t know what I am.”

  “Then it’s no wonder you’re struggling with the program.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. Now why don’t you tilt your head to the right for me.” Dr. Gary pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, then switched on a portable light that nearly blinded Arman. “Go ahead and close your eyes. I’m going to rinse and clean the wound. Then I’ll give you a small shot of anesthetic before I stitch it up. The whole thing should be real easy. Okay?”

  Arman nodded. He hated needles, but didn’t want to say that. He was long past his childhood days of cowering and hiding under tables from nurses, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t scared. Although, at the moment, he realized, with his sanity in doubt, he was more scared of himself than anything else. That was a terrible feeling. The worst.

  So Arman did what he was told.

  He leaned back in the chair.

  He closed his eyes.

  18

  “JESUS. YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT.” At the sight of Arman appearing in the cabin doorway, Dale leapt off his cot like he’d sat in a nest of spiders. A gray haze of pot smoke swirled around his head.

  Arman didn’t move from where he stood. His brain felt empty. Scraped clean. He didn’t think he wanted to know what Dale had been doing before he’d interrupted him. He didn’t think he wanted to know anything. He just wanted to sleep. “Huh?”

  Dale,
who was simultaneously grinding a joint out on the dusty floorboards with one of Kira’s high-heeled sandals, waved Arman inside. “Well, sit down or something. Christ. You look like the walking dead. And is that blood? Gross, man.”

  Arman stepped inside the cabin. Then he stopped. Stared down at his T-shirt. Sure enough, there was blood streaked across the front of it.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “I hit my head.”

  Dale came toward him then, removing his sunglasses and inspecting him closely, red-rimmed eyes running from head to toe. “Fuck. Are those stitches? What happened? Who did that?”

  “A doctor did it. The stitches, I mean.”

  “A doctor did it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”

  “His name’s Gary.” Arman took a breath. “Sorry if I’m being spacey. He gave me some kind of painkiller. I can’t think too straight right now.”

  “A painkiller, huh? Well, I hope he gave you something good. Like morphine. Or Percocet.” Dale paused. “Did he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you get any more?”

  “No.”

  Dale sighed. “Well, tell me what you’ve been doing all day then. Kira’s been worried. She thought you’d been Jonestowned or something.”

  “And you weren’t worried?”

  “Nah. I don’t worry about a lot of things. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Where is Kira?” Arman looked around. She definitely wasn’t anywhere in the cabin.

  “She’s still down at that stupid meeting. She’s really into it, this whole thing, the whole program, all the denouncing your family—excuse me, your vectors—and finding wellness within. Figures. She’s the one who wanted to come in the first place. Not me. My family’s not worth denouncing. I mean, it’s not like they would care, so what’s the point?”

  “But you’re not at Inoculation,” Arman said, which wasn’t a question, but an observation about something that seemed wrong. Everybody was supposed to be at Inoculation.

  Right?

  “Well, you’re not there either.” Dale lowered his voice. “And just between us, I think it’s all a bunch of bullshit. That Beau guy wasn’t even there today, but it didn’t matter. Those so-called trainers jumped in all eager, leading the speeches, telling us we need to commit to the program or else. Like they were glad he was gone. They bring people here, too, you know. I bet we could if we wanted to. Get paid for our effort. They’re just a bunch of con artists, man. All of them.”

  Arman’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”

  “I’m saying it’s a total scam. Everything here. This morning we stayed in that room for hours while they yelled at us. They wouldn’t let us eat. Wouldn’t even let me take a piss.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Apparently bodily functions are against the rules. Deodorant, too. I snuck out during one of the group confessional things when no one was looking. They were making people stand up in front of everybody and talk about all the ways people in their lives were toxic. It sucked. People were crying and shit. Some lady fainted.”

  Arman put a hand to his heart.

  “What’s wrong?” Dale asked.

  “I need to sit down.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that already?” Dale gestured for Arman to sit on the cot, which he did. He let the heavy messenger bag drop from his shoulder to the floor with a thud.

  “You all right?” Dale asked after a moment. “You must’ve hit your head pretty hard.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, you still haven’t told me how you did it. Or what you’ve been doing all day.”

  “I don’t know what I’ve been doing all day,” Arman said. “That’s just it. I thought I knew. But I don’t anymore. I don’t think I know anything.”

  “I think I know you’re really stoned right now. You sound like a goddamn robot.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Hey, Dale?”

  “Hey, what?”

  “Have you ever had something happen only to realize later that none of it was real? That it couldn’t be real?”

  “You talking about acid? Don’t get into that shit.”

  “No, not acid.”

  “What then?”

  Arman sighed. “Forget it. I need to sleep.”

  “Hey, were you going somewhere?” Dale was staring at his bag.

  Arman nodded, collapsing onto his side with a yawn. He didn’t have the energy to stay upright any longer. “This morning. I tried to leave this morning.”

  “Why? You already paid to be here. You got room and board, man. The people are weird, but people are always weird. There’s a good view. The air’s fresh.”

  “Because I’m a fuck-up,” Arman said. “Because Beau wanted me to do something last night and I didn’t do it. Because I don’t want to keep fucking up.”

  Dale snorted. “Pretty ironic then, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, seeing as you tried to leave and you ended up back here anyway, it kinda looks like you fucked that up, too.”

  HOPE YOU CAN.

  They show up right on time and right in the order you told them to. The two guys arrive first, followed by the dark-haired girl. You can’t help but admire her confidence as she walks in. She’s serious, ready to do battle, even though this is far from a war. You can read her determination because she’s got her hair pulled back and doesn’t once look at her phone. She’s smarter than the boys, and she’s going to make sure they know it.

  You wonder again why she doesn’t smoke and what it could mean. Not that it matters much in the long run.

  But it might.

  When it comes time for you to start, you don’t play favorites. Your audience is rapt and your job is to keep it that way. You talk and you talk, and soon the expressions on their faces become the ones you anticipate. There’s awe. Affirmation. Followed by the desire for approval.

  Yours, of course.

  You talk more and they keep listening. But all the while, you’re listening, too. Group dynamics are your specialty. You glean information from every silence and passing glance until you know just what drives each one of them. Until you know how to play them to your advantage.

  Young people are the easiest to read, you’ve found, still pliable, still eager. And these three have been taught well, at least for your purposes. They’re products of their time, willing to take on debt and more debt with no job in sight because they don’t know any other way to try. Individualism is their birthright, their false ideal. This means they’ve learned to question the truth, but never their dreams, and that above all else, they believe deeply in what they want to see, not the image that’s right in front of them.

  What they want, of course, isn’t what you can give them.

  What you’re selling is the hope you can.

  19

  ARMAN’S DREAMS WERE ALL NIGHTMARES.

  In them, he was sliding open the van door. He was seeing the blood. It was everywhere, great quantities of it, spilling from Beau’s arms, dripping, pooling like a lake, reminding Arman of a video he’d seen in which a hockey player’s throat was sliced by a skate on the ice, severing his carotid artery and flooding the crease with his blood. The player’s life had been saved by a quick-acting doctor, but Arman wasn’t a doctor.

  He wasn’t anything.

  It doesn’t matter what you are, damnit. Help him already!

  Get a tourniquet.

  Stop the bleeding.

  Do something!

  Only Arman didn’t help or get or stop. Instead a gleam of light jolted him from his state of shock. A flash. A glint. The gleaming object lay on the van’s floor, right at Beau’s feet. Arman’s vision swam to see what it was—a knife. A knife he knew, its polished layers of steel having been hammer
ed into the most delicate of designs. The whole thing now splashed with red.

  That’s not possible. It’s not. That knife can’t be here.

  I threw it away.

  Then the dream shuttled forward. One minute Arman was staring down at the floor, at a knife that didn’t belong, the next he was leaping out of the van in a feral burst of panic and sunlight, sprinting for the market’s back door. There was pain in his head, a sickening ache, and blood was in his eyes and streaming down his face, only he didn’t know why it was there. He didn’t know how he’d been hurt.

  The barn door was locked. Arman bolted around to the front of the store, only to find that that door was locked, too. And all the lights were off. Despite his growing pain and growing weakness, he pounded on the glass and shouted for the boy he knew was inside to open up. Only he didn’t. Asshole.

  I need to get help. An ambulance.

  A medic.

  Someone!

  But the longer Arman stood banging on the door and pleading for compassion that wasn’t forthcoming, the more certain he became that at any moment the cops were going to show up. They were going to pull into the parking lot, and they were going to find Beau and the blood and Arman’s bleeding head and his bag that was filled with thousands of stolen dollars. The boy with the blue apron would probably have something to say about it all, too. The cops would start asking questions, lots of questions, and Arman didn’t think he’d like the conclusions they’d come to.

  At all.

  So of all the choices Arman could make in that moment, it was by far the easiest and most cowardly to turn and jog back to the white van that sat in the shade with the engine still running; to avoid looking at Beau or the knife, much less touch either of them; to hastily shut the side passenger doors and crawl into the driver’s seat; to back the vehicle out of the parking lot onto the main road and to head right back up to the compound.

  • • •

  Arman woke with a gasp.

  He sat straight up. Looked around. Recognition took its sweet time, but he soon figured out that he was on his cot, alone in the cabin, with his heart racing. Hummingbird fast. And he was soaked with sweat.