We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  She stood and ran from the church, so fast and so far she could scarcely hear the call of damnation, pressing her into the dirt.

  She sat in the long grass and tried to breathe herself calm. She did not notice Dolly until she came to sit beside her.

  “Nice dress.”

  Duchess ripped up a handful of grass and tossed it into the light breeze.

  “I won’t ask if you’re alright.”

  “Good.”

  Duchess stole a glance at her, bright lips and smoked eyes, hair curled. She wore a cream skirt, navy top cut low, and silk scarf. So much a woman Duchess felt even more a girl.

  “That’s a lot of tit for church.”

  “I take my bra off and they’d roll down the aisle.”

  Duchess did not laugh. “It’s all bullshit. In there.”

  Dolly lit her cigarette, the smoke just about covering the perfume. “I see you, Duchess.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I used to hate like that. The flames get too hot sometimes, right?” The cigarette flared a little in the breeze.

  Duchess went back to tearing at the grass. “You don’t know shit about me.”

  “I know you’re still young enough. I didn’t work it out till I was old.”

  “Work out what?”

  “That I wasn’t alone in the world.”

  Duchess climbed to her feet. “I know I’m not alone. I’ve got my brother. And I don’t need anyone else. Not Hal, not you, and not God.”

  * * *

  Bitterwater was a sprawl of concrete and steel. Storefronts papered with fliers for bars and bands and cheap liquor. Twenty miles inland from the Cape, the kind of place where something critical went wrong during planning meets.

  Walk passed rows of industrial units, shipping containers stacked, self-storage and trade supplies, before he found the place.

  The law office of Martha May, part of a strip mall on the edge of town, was sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a Mexican place that advertised eighty-nine-cent tacos.

  Walk left the cruiser in a spot and crossed the lot.

  Bitterwater Dental, Spirit Electronics, Red Dairy. A salon where a masked Asian woman sprayed the nails of a tired-looking mother, who rocked a stroller with her foot.

  Above the sky grayed and beside the neon blinked. TACOS. He pushed the door and was met by wall to wall people. All women, all with kids and the kind of eyes that told similar, sorry stories. There was a desk, a secretary pushing seventy, blue hair and pink frames. She smacked gum as she typed, cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder and winked at a little girl who was screaming the place down.

  Walk stepped out again.

  He sat in the car till six, counted off the leavers and watched the secretary climb into a rusting Bronco and spend a good minute firing the engine. When she was gone he crossed the lot. The Mexican place was warming up with weary office workers sipping beer in the window.

  He tried the shop door but found it locked, so he knocked a couple of times.

  He heard her on the other side of the frosted glass. “We’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Sorry.”

  “Martha. It’s Walk.”

  A minute till he heard the lock snap.

  And then there she was.

  They eyed each other for a moment. Martha May, brown hair framed an elfin face. She wore a gray suit, Walk almost smiled when he saw the Chuck Taylors she paired with it.

  He thought of moving for a hug but she turned, no smile. She led him to her office, which was nicer than he was expecting. Oak desk, potted plant and wall to wall law books. She sat, then motioned for him to follow.

  “It’s been a long time, Walk.”

  “It has.”

  “I’d offer you coffee but I’m too beat.”

  “It’s nice to see you, Martha.”

  Finally a smile, and it got him the way it always had.

  “I’m so sorry about Star. I wanted to come, but I had a court date and couldn’t move it.”

  “I got the flowers.”

  “Those kids. Jesus.”

  There were files on her desk, stacked neatly but towering high. They talked a while, about Star, the shock of it and the way Boyd had taken over. He made it sound like he was on the case too. There was something strained there, the only way it could be when two people who’ve seen each other naked reconvene.

  “And Vincent?”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  She walked over to the window and looked out at a view of the highway behind. He heard the passing cars, the occasional horn, the roar of a motorcycle.

  “You’ve done well here, Martha.”

  She tilted her head a little. “Why, thank you, Walk. Your approval means so much to me.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m too tired for small talk. You want to tell me what you want?”

  His mouth dried. He didn’t want to be there, calling on the kind of favor he had no way of repaying.

  “Vincent wants you.”

  She turned. “Wants me how?”

  “Wants you as his lawyer. I know how that sounds.”

  She laughed. “Do you, Walk? Because the way I hear you don’t have a goddam clue.” She took a breath and calmed. There was a plaque on the wall, Southwestern, and a corkboard beside, with cards and photos of smiling mothers and their kids.

  “I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

  “I know that. I told him.”

  “No. That’s my answer.”

  “Alright. I asked.”

  She smiled. “Still doing Vincent King’s bidding.”

  “I’d do anything to stop an innocent man being put to death.”

  “It’s a capital case?”

  “Yes.”

  She slumped in her chair, kicked her sneakers up onto the desk. “I can recommend someone.”

  “I already tried that.”

  She fished a candy from a bowl, peanut M&Ms. “Why the hell does he want me?”

  “Thirty years in there, it’s easy to forget, you and me are all he’s got now.”

  “I don’t even know him. And I don’t even know you anymore, Walk.”

  “I haven’t changed all that much.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He laughed. “You want to grab something to eat and catch up?” He spoke quietly, his cheeks beginning to redden. “If you’ve got eighty-nine cents I know a great taco place.”

  “Can I be honest, Walk?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve spent a long time leaving Cape Haven behind. I don’t want to head back there.”

  He stood, smiled and walked out the door.

  15

  WALK WATCHED THE SLOW WAKE of Main.

  Milton stood bloodied, laying out cuts with an eye for the artistry, brisket and prime and short. Walk bought his steak there, at a price the vacationers wouldn’t get near.

  He’d just got off the phone with Hal. He’d check in weekly, check on Robin, maybe the only one who might have heard something that night. Hal said they’d found a doctor, a shrink, a lady that worked out of her home twenty miles from the Radley farm. They mentioned no names, no towns. Walk was overly cautious.

  “You want coffee?” Leah said from the door.

  Walk shook his head. “You alright, Leah?”

  “Tired.”

  Some days it was clear she’d been crying, red eyes swollen. Walk guessed it was Ed, he’d always had an eye. Walk reasoned men were just wired different, flawed design, fucking idiots.

  “I need to get on those files soon. The state of that back room.”

  She’d been riding him about it for years, a change of system, new forms. It was no secret Walk liked things the way they were. Every time an application was put through to pull down an old house and replace it he lodged an objection.

  The state cops had gone, left a trail of hamburger wrappers and coffee cups with Boyd promising to keep him updated.

  “You reckon
I could pick up some extra shifts? I mean, I know I’m doing the days but I wondered if you needed me to hang around later.”

  “Everything alright, Leah?”

  “You know how it is. Got one heading off to college, and Ricky wants some video game.”

  “Sure. I’ll sort something out.” They had a limited budget but he’d make it stretch for her. Ed owned Tallow Construction and she used to work admin there, but then the market turned on them. Still, he wondered if that was all it was. She seemed to be at the station more, at the beach, anywhere but home with her husband.

  He had the file open, Star staring back. The reports were in now.

  Beside that he had Vincent’s file. He’d spent the previous night looking back thirty years. He read transcripts, the first, looking into the death of Sissy Radley. And then he’d looked at the second, the prison brawl that got out of hand. The dead man’s name was Baxter Logan, and the way Walk read it he was the kind of person the world was well shot of. He was already serving life for the abduction and murder of a young realtor named Annie Clavers. Walk read the interview, Vincent’s voice clear in his mind.

  I did it. We got into it, I hit him and he went down and didn’t get up again. I don’t remember much else. I don’t know what more to tell you, Cuddy. You give me something to sign and I’ll sign it.

  Three more pages and Cuddy had explained the facts, tried to coax and lead in that subtle way Walk saw so clear. Let us call it self-defense, because everyone knew that’s what it was.

  It wasn’t self-defense. Just a fight. Doesn’t matter who started it.

  The state went in heavy again, settled on second-degree murder. Vincent settled on twenty years tacked on.

  He picked up the phone and called Cuddy, got him after five minutes.

  “I’m looking through the Vincent King file.”

  Cuddy sniffed like he was fighting a cold. “I thought Boyd was done with that.”

  “He is.”

  “Right.”

  “The report I got, Vincent King and Baxter Logan. There’s not much detail in the autopsy.”

  “That’s all we’ve got, I’m afraid. Logan died when he hit the stone floor. Twenty-four years ago, Walk. Reports weren’t as detailed.”

  “How is Vincent doing?”

  He heard the big man lean back in his chair, the leather stretching. “He doesn’t speak. Not even to me.”

  “Did he see himself on the news?” The locals were ramping up the pressure on the D.A. to finally bring the charges.

  “He doesn’t have a TV.”

  Walk frowned. “But I thought—”

  “Oh he could have one. I’ve offered, many times.”

  “So what does he do in there?”

  Silence, a long time. “Cuddy?”

  “He’s got a picture of the girl. Sissy Radley. He’s got it on the wall, and that’s the only thing in that cell.”

  Walk closed his eyes as Cuddy told him to stay in touch.

  He checked the report. The autopsy was carried about by David Yuto, M.D. It gave an address and phone number. He called it, got an answering machine and left a message. Twenty-four years, he doubted the man was still there. And if he was, Walk wondered what the hell he’d ask him. He was trying to be a cop, to work a case as best he could. Despite Boyd’s warning, he’d push on. He just didn’t know which direction to head in.

  Louanne Miller came in, sat down opposite, not talking, just watching the window, like always.

  Walk flipped a page and stared at Star, her hair fanned behind, arm bent at an angle like she was reaching out for someone to help her.

  “You need to tidy this office.” Louanne looked at the stacked papers, the mess all over.

  “I want to talk to Darke myself.”

  “Because you’ll do better than the state cops? You’re tough like that?”

  “I’ve known Darke since—”

  “Nothing, Walk. That’s what that means. Nothing. Look at Vincent King, and I see you looking his way, like you expect him to still be the kid that left here thirty years back. He’s gone, though, whatever you knew about him, it left him the day he stepped into Fairmont.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Serious, Walk. I know you didn’t change. But everyone else did.”

  Out the window Walk saw the colors too bright, blues and white, polished glass and bleached flags.

  “So what else is there?” she said.

  “Burglary. The place was trashed.”

  “But nothing missing. More like a fight that got out of hand.”

  “Milton’s lying.”

  “No good reason for that.”

  “Let’s go burglary. Could be Star disturbed them,” he said, again reaching, so far he almost stumbled over his words.

  “All of this, what you’re saying, you have to discount the fact that we found a man, sitting in the house, her blood on his shirt, his prints all over everything, possible motive.”

  “No way,” he fired back quick.

  “And yet here we are. On a hunch.”

  “Vincent won’t say a word. He won’t say why, he won’t say how he got in, what time it happened. Shit, he called it in himself. From their phone.”

  “He was vicious. Star … how many ribs did he break? You’ve got the photos in front of you.”

  He looked at them again, the marks angry across her chest, blue to purple, streaks upon broken bones. There was feeling involved, a kind of hatred so hot Walk could feel it searing.

  “And the swelling by her eye.”

  “He’s there, however he got in, no sign of a break-in. She invites him in, something happens. He beats her. Shoots her dead. Runs, hides the weapon, returns and sits down in the kitchen, calls it in. And waits for us. The kid, Robin, he’s locked in his bedroom, mercifully, but there’s a chance he heard something.”

  Walk stood and opened the window to the call of another perfect morning. An hour or two at his desk, that’s all he could ever take.

  “I need to talk to Darke,” he said again. “There’s history with Star. He’s violent.”

  “Alibi is tight.”

  “That’s why I’ve called her in.”

  “Boyd said to leave it alone. Don’t fuck with a state case.”

  Walk took a deep breath, everything swimming, nothing clear at all, other than the fact he knew Vincent. No matter what Louanne said. He knew Vincent King. Fuck the thirty years, he knew his friend.

  “You need to shave, Walk.”

  “So do you.”

  She laughed at that. And then Leah called through, and told him Dee Lane was waiting.

  He found her at the desk, then led her through to the compact office in the back. A small table, four chairs and a wide vase bursting with Vendela roses. View out over Main, more grandmother’s guesthouse than interrogation room.

  Dee looked better than the last time he’d seen her. She wore a simple yellow summer dress and her hair was styled. A little makeup, just enough to push the soft in front of the hard. She carried a paper bag and handed it over to him.

  “Peach galettes,” she said by way of greeting. “I know how much you like them.”

  “Thank you.”

  He had no tape recorder, no pad or pen.

  “I already spoke to the officers from state police.”

  “I’m just running over things. You want a coffee?”

  She dropped her shoulders a little. “Sure, Walk.”

  He left her, found Leah and asked her to put a pot on. When he returned Dee was standing by the window.

  “It looks different out there,” she said. “Main. The new stores and the new faces. I mean, it was gradual, right. You know about the application for new homes?”

  “It won’t pass.”

  She turned, sat again and crossed her legs. “You think I’m weak … with Darke.”

  “Just trying to understand it.”

  “He showed up, bought me flowers and told me he was sorry. One thing led to another.
”

  “Tell me how it started with him.”

  “He came into the bank, opened a checking account. I thought he was … cute isn’t the right word to describe the guy. He was quiet but tough—Shit, Walk. I don’t know what to say. He came in a few more times, always got in my line. I asked him out. He said yeah. That’s how it goes, right?”

  “Before, you said there was nothing natural about him.”

  “I was pissed, the house. I was lashing out. I tell you one thing about him.”

  “What?”

  “He was good with my girls. Attentive. He used to watch them, push them on the swings, you know. Just be with them. One time I came in from the yard and found him with Molly on his lap. Watching a Disney movie. There’s not many guys that would take to another man’s kids.”

  Leah brought the coffee and left them. His hand shook as he took his cup, so bad he set it down again.

  “You alright, Walk? You look tired. And maybe you need a shave. I mean, no offence or nothing.”

  “So he stayed all night. Darke?”

  “I kicked him out early, before the girls got up.”

  He slumped back in his chair, the tiredness washing over him, eyes dry and muscles aching.

  “I know you don’t want to see it, Walk. Vincent and Star and all that. But Darke, the guy can be an asshole, but he’s not what you think he is. Or maybe what you want him to be.”

  “What do I want him to be?”

  “The guy that makes Vincent King innocent.”

  * * *

  When she was done with the corral she moved on to the stable, the smell of shit not so bad anymore. Two horses, a black and a smaller gray. They had no names, that’s what Hal said when Robin asked. He’d been puzzled by that, Everyone needs a name.

  Mucking out, scooping damp straw and shit and bagging it. Fetching a small packed bale from the store and forking it out and over. She knew to leave the wet spots, let them dry before she covered them over. She filled their water, gave grain twice a day, same exact time, the gray could get colic. She led them to their place and closed the gate, sometimes watching them run hard then kick and thrash like they were about to be roped. Duchess liked horses, as every outlaw should.

  Gunshot.

  It shook the calm from Duchess with such force she fell to her knees. The elk, one foot raised, heads tilted. And then they scattered and ran, so fast they were gone by the time she stood.