At an hour far from bedtime Hal sent them up. Duchess struggled with their case. She would not let him help.
She changed Robin into his pajamas and then brushed his teeth in the small bathroom that led from their sparse bedroom.
“I want to go home,” Robin said.
“I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“You’re a prince.”
Duchess dragged the nightstand across the scarred wood floor then heaved and pushed until the beds were joined.
“You’ll say your prayers now,” he said from the door.
“The fuck we will,” she fired back. She watched him take it, hoped to see him flinch but he did not. He stood there, mouth perfectly straight. She traced his face for a sign of herself, her brother, her mother. Maybe she saw a little of all of them or maybe he was just an old stranger.
A few minutes till Robin moved fully into her bed. He pulled her arm around himself till he slept.
In a breath a steady buzz made its way into her dreams. She reached over and slammed the alarm clock, then sat up quickly and for a few, cruel moments she thought of calling out to her mother.
Robin slept on beside her, she reached across and covered him and then heard Hal below, the whistle of the kettle and the heavy step of boots.
She lay back, tried to sleep but saw the light of the hallway tip into the room as Hal climbed the stairs and opened the door.
“Robin.” Her brother stirred to the old man’s voice. “The animals need their breakfast, would you like to come help?”
Duchess watched her brother, the thought pattern easy to place. She had seen how curiously he eyed the barns and the chickens, the big cows and the horses. He climbed from the bed, turned to her till she went and fetched his toothbrush.
Below were bowls of porridge. Duchess emptied hers into the trash. She found sugar and spooned some into Robin’s bowl. He ate quietly.
Hal appeared at the door, behind him light mist steamed like a fire burned beneath the land.
“Ready to work.” Not a question.
Robin finished his juice and hopped down from the chair. Hal reached out a hand and Robin took it. Duchess watched from the window as they walked toward the barn, the old man speaking words that did not carry, Robin staring up like the last six years no longer counted.
She pulled on her coat, laced her sneakers and headed out into dawn air.
Behind, mountain sun crept, the promise of something new lay heavy on her chest.
* * *
Walk had driven through the night, the states and the scenes all much of the same in the darkness, just signs counting miles, telling him to take a break, tiredness kills. When he got home he’d unplugged the telephone, pulled his drapes and lay, not sleeping, just thinking of Star and Duchess and Robin.
Breakfast was two Advil and a glass of water. A shower but no shave.
At eight he arrived to a reporter standing in the lot, Kip Daniels from the Sutler County Tribune. Beside Kip were a couple of vacationers and locals. Walk had heard it on the short ride in, that the state of California was preparing to charge Vincent King with the murder of Star Radley. He didn’t buy it, just stations trying to make news.
“Nothing new to tell you, I’m afraid.”
“Anything on the weapon?” Kip called.
“Nothing.”
“Charges?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
Vincent was back at Fairmont. That he wouldn’t speak, that he was at the scene, it made for a simple puzzle. There was no one else in the frame. State cops occupied the back office, Boyd and his men, pulling in locals and making noise. It was winding down already.
Inside the station he found Leah Tallow on the front desk, lights on the phone blinked frantically. “Crazy in here this morning. You hear the news?”
Walk watched her pick up another call and make no comment.
They’d called in Louanne Miller, a decade older than Walk. She sat behind her desk and ate nuts, a neat collection of shells by the telephone, mute to the furor.
“Morning, Walk. Busy in here. Got the butcher in.”
Walk stopped and scratched the stubble on his cheek. “Where?”
“Interview room.”
“What have they got him in for?”
“Think they tell me anything?” Louanne ate another nut, choked a little and washed it down with coffee. “You need to get some sleep, Walk. And maybe a shave.”
He looked around, the appearance of normal. Leah’s sister owned the florist on Main and dropped an arrangement in each week. Blue hydrangea, alstroemeria and eucalyptus. Sometimes he thought the station resembled a set, maybe a daytime TV cop show, they played their parts, background extras, nothing more.
“Where’s Boyd?”
She shrugged. “He said not to talk to the butcher till he gets back.”
He found Milton in the small room at the back of the station that they might’ve used for interviews, had they ever had to take a statement. Milton clutched his chest, massaging like he needed to get his heart firing again. Stripped of his apron, Walk still smelled blood, as if it were matted to every hair that carpeted Milton’s body.
Walk shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He found himself doing that more now, the drugs again, nothing helping.
Milton stood. “I don’t know why they told me to hang around. I have to get on. I came to them, after all.”
“With what?”
Milton looked at his shoes, loosened his collar and fired his cuffs. He’d dressed for the occasion. “Remembered something.”
“And?”
“I like to look out, right. Watch the water, the sky, got my Celestron, computerized now. You should come over one time and we could—”
Walk held up a hand, too tired for it.
“That night, before the shot. I think I heard yelling. Had my window open, I was broiling a little rabbit, you know, leave it overnight, soften the bones.”
“Think you heard?”
Milton looked to the lights above. “I heard yelling. An argument.”
“And this has only come to you now?”
“I could be in shock still. Maybe it’s wearing off.”
Walk stared at him. “You see Darke that night?”
A moment before he shook his head. Maybe a couple of seconds but Walk caught it. There had been mention of Dickie Darke’s name in connection, but that mention had come from Walk himself. Duchess wouldn’t say anything about the man. Walk wondered if she was scared.
“Brandon Rock.” Milton puffed out his chest. “The car … this morning. I get up early, and that guy comes home at all hours. I need my sleep, Walk.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“You know we had another person drop out of the Watch. It’s like they don’t care about the neighborhood anymore.”
“How many you down to now?”
Milton sniffed. “Just me and Etta Constance. But she can’t watch all that much with the one eye. Peripheral.” He waved a hand around for effect.
“I sleep better knowing the two of you are looking out.”
“I document it all. Big suitcase under my bed.”
Walk could only imagine the kind of notes the man kept.
“I was watching a show and the cop took a civilian on a ride along. You ever thought about that, Walk? I could bring a little cotechino … spice up the cabin. And then after we could—”
Walk heard noise outside and turned as Boyd filled the doorway. Broad, buzzcut, soldier to cop.
Walk followed him out.
Boyd led him to his own office and then sat heavily in his chair.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Walk said.
Boyd leaned back and stretched, his shoulders big as he steepled fingers behind his neck. “I just got back from the D.A.’s office. We’re going to charge Vincent King with the murder of Star Radley.”
Walk knew it would come, but hearing it straight from Boyd stil
l rocked him.
“The butcher told us he saw Vincent King get into it with Dickie Darke a few nights prior. Said it looked like Vincent was warning him off. Jealous. Right outside the Radley house.”
“And what does Darke say about this?”
“Corroborates. He came in with his lawyer. Big fucker, right. Sounds like he was seeing the victim, though he says they were just friends.”
“Milton, the butcher. He’s called a lot over the years, likes to watch the town, you know. He gets … excited. He sees things that maybe aren’t there.”
Boyd licked his teeth and pursed his lips. He was always moving, like holding still would see his middle fill out and his hairline race back. Strong smell of cologne. Walk eyed the window and wanted to pop it open.
“We’ve got Vincent at the scene, prints. His DNA on her. She had three broken ribs, his left hand was swollen. He won’t deny it, won’t say anything. It’s easy, Walker.”
“No residue,” Walk said. “The gun. No residue and no gun.”
Boyd rubbed his chin. “You said the faucet was running. He washed his hands. The gun. We’ve had people out, everywhere, but we’ll find it. He kills her, loses the gun, returns and calls it in.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ve had the ballistics report back. The bullet they pulled was .357 Magnum, hell of a kick. We ran the address and it turns out Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in the mid-seventies.”
Walk watched the man, not liking where he was going. Walk remembered it, a couple of threats were made toward the Kings, serious enough for Vincent’s father to keep a gun.
“See if you can guess the caliber, Walker.”
Walk stayed even, despite the way his stomach flipped.
“The D.A. wanted more. Now we’ve got the motive and access to the murder weapon. We’ll go for the death penalty.”
Walk shook his head. “There’s still people we need to talk to. I want to go over Dickie Darke’s alibi again, and then there’s Milton and I’m not sure—”
“Leave it alone, Walker. It’s open and shut. I want to hand it over to the D.A. by the end of the week. We’ve got enough on. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“But I really think—”
“Listen. It’s alright, what you’ve got going on here. I’ve got a cousin that works in Alson Cove and he loves it, the pace is slow, the work is easy. There’s nothing wrong with that. But when was the last time you worked a real case, I mean something more than a misdemeanor?”
Walk had not worked more than an infraction.
Boyd reached over and gripped his shoulder tight. “Don’t fuck this up for us.”
Walk swallowed, the wheels turning frantic. “If he pleads. If I can get him to plead?”
Boyd met his eye, didn’t say it but didn’t have to.
Vincent King would die for this.
13
CLOUDS CASCADED DOWN THE MOUNTAIN behind, framing the farmhouse like it belonged in a print.
She worked, legs heavy, the skin on her hands torn beneath her gloves.
Whatever job he gave, mucking, cutting back the long vines by the house, shifting branches from the winding driveway, she did with quiet hatred. Hal playing grandfather now her mother was deep in the ground.
The funeral had been shamefully quiet. Walk had fished out an old necktie for Robin, the same he’d worn when his own mother passed. Robin had held her hand through it, the priest trying to lead them from their broken lives, talk of God’s need for another angel like he knew nothing of the tortured soul that had been taken.
“We’ll break for lunch now.” The old man snapped her from the memory.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat.”
She turned her back on him, reached for her brush and swept dirt from the cracked driveway with hard strokes.
Ten minutes then Duchess dropped her brush and walked back, slow. At the house she stepped up onto the porch and looked through the window. Hal with his back to her, her brother eating a sandwich, coming up a head over the table. He had a cup of milk.
She walked through the back door and into the kitchen, cheeks burning hot. At the table she picked up Robin’s cup and emptied the milk into the sink, rinsed it and pulled a carton of juice from the refrigerator.
“I can drink milk at lunch, I don’t even mind,” Robin said.
“No, you can’t. You drink juice, like you did at—”
“Duchess,” Hal said.
“You shut up.” She turned to him. “You don’t say my name, you don’t fucking say it. You don’t know anything about me or my brother.”
Robin began to cry.
“Enough now,” Hal said, gentle.
“You don’t tell me ‘enough.’” She was breathless, shaking, the anger coming up so hot she could barely control it.
“I said—”
“Fuck you.”
He stood then, raised a hand and brought it down hard on the table, sending his plate to the floor. It smashed on the stone and Duchess flinched, and then she turned and ran. Past the water and the driveway, arms pumping, across the long grass and into the rough and toward the trees.
She didn’t stop till she had to, till she took a knee and swallowed mouthfuls of warm, heavy air. She cursed him out, kicked a thick oak and felt pain shoot back through her. She screamed at the trees, so loud birds lifted and speckled the clouds.
She thought of her home. The day after the funeral, what little they owned outright was boxed by Walk. Nothing in the checking account, thirty bucks in her mother’s purse, nothing passed down.
She walked a mile before the Douglas fir thinned. She was mucky and sweaty, her hair damp and knotted. She slowed a little and walked the center line of a road, counting off broken lines.
Beside was grass and wood, edging out, a river in the distance and moving on, the sky all blue forgiveness. Sometimes she expected more, a clue, something wilting or graying or not carrying on, something that told her the world was a different place now her mother was dead.
A sign announced the town. Copper Falls, Montana. A line of stores, orange brick too new for the scene, flat roofs and fading awning, flags that fell limp. Bleached signs long forgot, Bush and Kerry, stars and stripes. A diner, HUNTERS WELCOME, convenience, pharmacy, Laundromat. A bakery that made her mouth water. She stood and looked in, saw old couples at each table, eating pastry and drinking coffee. Outside a man sat and read a newspaper. She passed a barber, the old kind with the glass pole and the offer of a shave. Beside it a beauty salon, women in chairs, heat reaching out the open door.
At the end of the street was a mountain that held the horizon, so towering like a challenge or reminder, there was plenty bigger out there.
She passed a small, skinny black boy. He stood on the sidewalk, coat over his arm despite the eighty degrees, watching her intently. He wore slacks and a bowtie, suspenders pulled the pants high enough to highlight white socks.
He would not turn, no matter how hard she glared. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Some kind of angel.”
She took in the bowtie with a shake of her head.
“I’m Thomas Noble.”
He continued to look, mouth a little open.
“Stop staring, you freak.” She pushed him and he fell back onto his ass.
He looked up at her through thick lenses. “That was worth it, just to feel your touch.”
“Ugh. Is everyone in this town retarded?” She felt his eyes on her all the way to the top of the street.
She took a seat on a bench and watched the pace, so slow her eyes weighed heavy.
A lady stopped beside, maybe sixty, so much glamour Duchess stole glances. Towering heels, lipstick and stinking of perfume, her hair falling in waves like she’d just stepped from the salon.
She set her bag down, Chanel, and jammed in beside.
“This summer.”
A kind of accent Duchess didn’t know.
<
br /> “I keep telling my Bill to fix the air conditioner but you reckon he has?”
“I reckon I don’t give a shit. And maybe Bill doesn’t either.”
She laughed at that, slipped a cigarette into a holder and lit it. “Sounds like you know him, or maybe you’ve got a daddy like him. Start a job and lose interest quick. That’s men for you, sweetheart.”
Duchess exhaled, hoping to ward her off with attitude alone.
The lady reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a smaller paper bag. She took out a donut, then offered one to Duchess.
Duchess tried to ignore her but the lady shook the bag a little, like she was enticing a wary animal. “You ever had one of Cherry’s donuts?” she persisted, shook the bag until Duchess took a donut, sugar falling onto her jeans as she bit into it carefully.
“Best donut you’ve ever had?”
“Average.”
The lady laughed like she’d made a joke. “I could eat a dozen maybe. You ever tried to eat one without licking your lips?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“Let’s give it a go then. Harder than it sounds.”
“Maybe for an old lady.”
“Only as old as the man you feel.”
“How old is Bill?”
“Seventy-five.” Heavy laugh.
Duchess ate, felt the sugar on her lips but didn’t lick them. She watched the lady do it too, for a while, fighting it, like an itch, and then she licked her lips and Duchess pointed and the lady laughed so raucous Duchess fought a smile.
“I’m Dolly, by the way. Like Parton, only without the chest.”
Duchess said nothing for a while, just letting it hang there, feeling Dolly look over once, then away.
“I’m an outlaw. You probably shouldn’t be seen conversing with me.”
“You’ve got swagger. Not enough do in this world.”
“Clay Allison’s gravestone read, He never killed a man that did not need killing. That’s swagger.”
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