“Kill the engine and take the key out.”
He did.
She walked round. “I’ll leave the door open.”
He gripped the wheel, thick fingers, huge knuckles.
“We both know.”
She watched the sky. “We do.”
“Do you know about the principle of causation?” He looked so sad, so fucking big and tough and sad. A creature not of this world.
“Come at me.”
“You don’t know what you did.”
On the mat was a single spent butt, just stubbed and burned in. The brand her mother smoked.
“You’re not like your mother,” he said.
Duchess watched a bird hold still and perfect in the air.
Darke rubbed a hand along the wheel. “She’s got a way out. She owes rent. I need a favor.”
“She’s not a whore.”
“Do I look like a pimp to you?”
“You look like a cunt to me.”
The word sat there a while.
“That’s okay. So long as I don’t look like the man I really am.” He spoke with a flatness that chilled her.
“You took something last night.”
“You’ve got enough.”
“Who decides what enough looks like?”
She stared.
“Your mother can make this go away. You need to ask her. That would level things a little.”
“Fuck you, Darke.”
“The tape, Duchess. I need the security tape.”
“Why?”
“Trenton Seven. You know what that is?”
“The insurance place. I see the boards.”
“They won’t pay the money because the tape is missing and they think I had something to do with the fire.”
“You did.”
He took a long, deep breath.
She grit her teeth.
“I won’t forget.”
She met his eye. “You shouldn’t.”
“I really don’t want to have to come for you.” Something in his voice made her believe him.
“But you will.”
“I will.”
He reached across her, into the glove compartment, took out his sunglasses, not before she saw it, sitting there, the barrel facing her.
“I’ll give you the day. You tell your mother what you did. She can fix it, or I’ll have to. And you get the tape back.”
“You’ll give it to Walk.”
“No.”
“The insurance guys will get the cops involved.”
“Maybe. But you got to ask yourself something, Duchess.”
“And what’s that, Dick?” Maybe he caught the tremor then.
“Would you rather have the cops come looking for you? Or me?”
“I heard you stamped a guy to death.”
“He didn’t die.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Business.”
“The tape. Maybe I’ll hold on to it.”
He stared at her, those eyes that bore deep.
“You stay away from my mother and maybe one day I’ll give it back to you.”
She climbed from the car, then turned. He watched her, studied her, taking in every feature, committing her to memory. She wondered what he saw as she walked into the school building, beside other kids, their lives so light they dazzled her.
The day crawled. She checked the clock often, her eye on the window, the teacher’s words not reaching her ear. She ate lunch alone, watched Robin from the fence and felt what little control she once had slip from her grasp. Darke could do immeasurable damage. She needed the tape. She believed he wouldn’t take it to Walk. She reasoned there were two types of people in the world, the kind that called the cops and the kind that did not.
When the bell sounded she watched the other kids file in, kids playing ball tried for one last play, Cassidy Evans led her group.
Duchess slipped down the side of the main building, then ran across to the parking lot and drifted through Fords and Volvos and Nissans. She would get caught, no doubt about it, but she’d tell her mother she was feeling sick, time of the month, something the school would not press.
She walked fast, feeling the eyes of everyone she passed. She skirted Main in case Walk was looking out of the station. It was hot, so fucking hot she could barely breathe. Sweat all over her, T-shirt damp.
When she made it to Fortuna she found the old house, for once glad she had fucked up, that she didn’t make time to destroy the tape.
But then she stared at the yard, all the junk cleared, the garbage truck had already come.
The tape was gone.
She looked up and down, breathing hard, like her last hope had deserted her.
She spent the afternoon on the beach, sitting on the sand and watching the water. She clutched her stomach, the pain was hard and constant and followed her all the way back to collect Robin.
He talked the whole way home, about his birthday, about being six and what came with that. He asked for a house key, she smiled and stroked his hair, her mind someplace she hoped he’d never follow. In the empty house she fixed scrambled eggs and they ate together in front of the TV. And, when the sun fell, she got him into bed and read to him.
“Can we have green eggs one time?”
“Sure.”
“And ham?”
She kissed his head and cut off his light, closed her eyes for a moment, then woke to darkness. She walked through the house, turned on a lamp and heard music from outside.
Duchess found Star on the deck, the old bench needed painting. The moon lit her mother as she strummed the old guitar. Their song. She closed her eyes, the words cut her.
She needed to tell her mother what she had done, that she had taken a match and burned the very bridge that kept them out of troubled water. They were in the shallows now, but the deep would come for them, it would swallow them down till not even moonlight made it through.
Duchess took steps, feet bare, she did not notice the splinters.
The strum of soft chords. “Sing with me.”
“No.”
Duchess slid along till her head came to rest on her mother’s shoulder. No matter what she had done, no matter that she was tough and she was an outlaw, she needed her mother.
“Why do you cry when you sing?” Duchess asked.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I called that guy, the music guy from the bar. He wanted to meet for a drink.”
“Did you go?”
Star nodded slowly. “Men.”
“What happened last night?” She did not ask often, but this time she needed clarity.
“Some people just can’t hold their liquor.” Star shot a look at the neighboring house.
“Brandon Rock. He hit you?”
“It was an accident.”
“He couldn’t take no for an answer.”
Star shook her head.
Duchess watched the tall trees sway against night sky. “So Darke didn’t do nothing this time.”
“Last thing I remember was him helping me into the car.”
Realization was cold, and for a while Duchess could not speak. And then she thought of Darke, his hands on her. She grit her teeth, steeled. Bad things happened to bad men.
“You know it’s Robin’s birthday in the morning.”
Star looked sad then, not broken but close, her lip still a little swollen, her eye still dark. The kind of look that made the pain worse. There was no gift for her brother. Her mother had not remembered.
“I did something bad, Mom.”
“We all do bad things.”
“I don’t think I can fix it.”
Star closed her eyes, still she played and sang as her daughter gently leaned on her.
Duchess wanted so desperately to join in, but her voice began to break.
“I’ll protect you. That’s what mothers do.”
Duchess did not cry, but right then she came close.
10
WALK SUFFERED THE INDIGNITY OF the fall alone.
Small blessing. One minute he was walking, the next he was on his back looking toward the sky. His left leg, just gone from under him.
He sat in the cruiser, in the lot at Vancour Hill. He did not go in. Kendrick said he could have problems with balance, still, that loss of control, it was frightening.
The radio was low, static and talk, 2-11 in Bronson, 11-54 in San Luis. A coffee cup from Rosie’s Diner, a burger wrapper on the mat. His stomach pressed his shirt and he rested his hands there. Slow shift. He’d driven by Vincent’s, the house was coming along, the shutters removed and stripped, ready for painting.
He searched for the night star, dwelled on the disease and felt it in his bones, his blood, his mind. Synapses firing slow, the correspondence not lost but delayed.
A little before midnight the radio jolted him from a light sleep.
Ivy Ranch Road.
He licked the dry from his lips.
And then the call again.
He reached for the radio and started the engine, ran the lights and lit the street as he headed back toward Cape Haven. The caller gave no detail, just that they needed to come. He prayed it was nothing, maybe Star was drunk again.
Past Addison. The quiet side of Main, no lights at all.
He slowed on Ivy Ranch Road, saw nothing but sleeping houses and breathed again.
Up to the curb outside her house. Calm till he saw the street door open, and then that feeling came, sharp in his gut, no air in his lungs. He climbed out and reached for his gun, which he hadn’t done in as long as he could remember.
A glance at the Rock house, then across at Milton’s, no sign of life at all. A calling owl, a garbage can fell a way off, maybe raccoons. He took the porch in one step and pushed the door.
The hallway, a side table with phonebook. Sneakers in a messy line. Pictures on the wall, art that Robin had made, tacked in place by Duchess.
In the mirror was a crack, Walk met his own eyes, wide and fearful. He gripped the gun tight, flipped the safety off, thought about calling out but stayed quiet.
He made his way down the hallway, two bedrooms, doors open to clothes strewn, a dressing table knocked over.
The bathroom. The faucet ran slowly, the basin filled and spilling. He shut it off, his shoes in the puddle.
Into the kitchen, nothing but the steady hand of the clock cut the quiet. He scanned slow, the mess that was always there, a butter knife, dishes in the sink; Duchess would get to them, she always did.
He didn’t notice the man at first. Sitting at the small table, palms up and open, like he meant no harm at all.
“You need to go into the living room,” Vincent said.
Walk noticed the sweat on his head, realized his gun was trained on his childhood friend but he would not lower it. Adrenaline carried him.
“What did you do?”
“You’re too late to change things, Walk. But you need to go, and make your calls. I’ll be here. I won’t move at all.”
The gun shook.
“You should cuff me. That’s what is expected. You need to do this correctly. If you toss them over here I’ll do it myself.”
Walk, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. “I don’t—”
“Pass me the cuffs, Chief Walker.”
Chief. He was a cop. Walk reached for the cuffs on his belt and tossed them onto the table.
He moved into the living room.
Sweat bled into his eyes.
The scene came at him.
“Shit, Star.” He crossed fast and knelt. “Oh, Jesus, Star.”
She lay on her back. For a minute he thought she’d chased with something bad, which had happened before. But when he noticed he fell back and cursed again.
Blood, all over, so much of it he fumbled for his radio, his fingers slick as he called it.
“Jesus.” He pawed at her clothes, tried to make sense of it before he found the wound, the hole, torn flesh, above her heart.
He smoothed hair from her face, pale and gone. He tried for a pulse, found nothing but started CPR. He looked around as he worked, a lamp lying, a picture on the carpet, a small bookcase upended.
Specks of blood climbed the wall.
“Duchess,” he called.
He worked on, sweating, muscles burning.
Cops and medics arrived and gently pushed him off. It was clear enough she was dead.
He heard yelling from the kitchen, Vincent on the ground, then led out.
Walk stood, dazed, the world spinning the wrong way as he headed into the street, the neighbors gathering. He saw in reds and blues as he sat on the porch and gulped air. He rubbed his head, his eyes, hit his own chest a few times to make sure it was all real.
They took Vincent before he could reach the car, he jogged a little but panted and dropped to his knees, each year of his life unravelled.
A team ran control, swept it from him, taped the area and moved people far enough back. News vans, lights and reporters. A tech van cut in and up onto the verge. It was a scene and they controlled it well, that was until Walk heard noise inside.
He stood, still dazed, made his way through and ducked the tape, and in the house he saw Boyd from state and two cops from Sutler County.
“What is it?”
A cop turned, eyes loaded with anger. “The kid … the boy.”
Walk stepped back, hit the wall and felt his legs weaken, braced for what would come as his vision tunnelled.
Boyd waved them back a little.
And then Walk saw him, squinting up, a blanket around his shoulders.
“He’s alright?” Walk said.
Boyd checked him carefully. “The bedroom door was locked. I think he was sleeping.”
Walk knelt by the boy, who looked anywhere but at him. “Robin, where’s your sister?”
* * *
Duchess pedaled three miles, traversed dark roads that led from her town. She held her breath as cars came at her, dipped their beams or flashed or sounded their horns. She could have taken the pretty streets, a mile added, she was tired enough.
The Chevron on Pensacola, blue sign on gray pillars. She leaned her bicycle against a coal-bin and made her way across the lot. An old sedan parked bad, the owner stretching the pump.
Robin would wake six years old, she would not let him wake to nothing.
Eleven bucks, taken from Star’s purse. Duchess hated her, mostly, loved her now and then, needed her totally.
In the gas station was a cop and he stood at the coffee machine, dark tie and slacks, neat mustache, shield on his chest. He eyed her and she ignored him, then his radio crackled and he threw a couple of dollars at the counter and headed out.
She walked aisles, passed towering refrigerators, signs that called BEER and SODA and ENERGY.
No birthday cakes, just a pack of Entenmann’s cupcakes, the kind with pink frosting. Robin would be pissed about that, inside at least, he wouldn’t say anything that might be deemed ungrateful. She picked up a pack and found some candles. Six bucks left.
Behind the counter was a kid, nineteen, maybe, acne cheeks, too many piercings.
“Do you have toys?”
He pointed to a rack that had the sorriest collection of plastic Duchess had ever seen. She carefully studied a magic set, a stuffed rabbit, a pack of colorful hairbands, and a figure that bore a libellous resemblance to Captain America. She clutched it tight, it was a find. It was also seven bucks.
She took it with her back to the cakes, saw she had the only pack that could pass as something special and cursed her mother once again. She stood beneath yellow strip light, so dim it drained the fight right from her. She thought of lifting the candles but saw the kid behind the counter watching on, like he could read the tortured turns of her mind. She squeezed the cake box, just enough to dent it.
At the counter she argued it, showed the kid the damaged cake, asked him to take a buck off. At first he refused, then the line st
arted to grow and he took her money with a scowl.
She hitched her bag over the handlebars and set off toward home, pedaling slow as another cop car passed her, lights on and siren harsh against the warm night.
Later, when she knew, she’d look back at that last ride and wish she’d felt it, the last night of anything at all. She’d wish she’d taken the long route, along the coast, noticed the endless water and night songs, the perfect glow of each lamp on Main. She’d wished she’d breathed it deep and held it, the last moment of her normal, because if it was bad before, and it mostly was, it was something altogether different when she made it back to her street, and watched the neighbors part for her bicycle, like she’d commanded them, like she was all powerful.
When she saw the cop cars her first instinct was to turn. An hour earlier, when she’d picked up her bicycle and wheeled it down the side of the house she’d made a stop outside Brandon Rock’s place. She’d found a stone, sharp enough, walked up his driveway, lifted the cover from the Mustang and dragged it down the door and fender, so hard and deep she could see the silver beneath. He hit her mother. Fuck him.
But this was too many cars, too much noise, more than Walk and that look he gave her.
She dropped her bike, dropped her bag, kicked out at a cop when he tried to move in front of her. He backed off, she knew that wasn’t normal.
She ran at the house, ducked the tape and another cop, cursed at all of them. All the bad words she knew.
She found her brother and calmed, with Walk looking on, his mouth set straight but his eyes giving everything, all of it. They wouldn’t let her in the living room, no matter the way she flailed her arms at Walk, the way she caught him by the eye, the words she used, the feral way her brother cried.
Walk half-carried her out into the yard, where the people could not see her. He set her down in the dirt and she called him a motherfucker and beside them Robin sobbed like tomorrow would no longer happen.
Strangers all over, men in uniform, men in suits.
When they thought she’d calmed she broke and ran and ducked them. She was fast enough to make it through. At the door and inside, through a home reduced to a single scene.
She saw her.
Her mother.
She did not fight when the arm closed around her, no longer kicked out and cursed, just let Walk carry her like the child she was.
We Begin at the End Page 8