We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  She sprinted for the house, heart hammering as her mind ran to Darke.

  She calmed a little when she saw Hal on the porch, but his face was drawn with worry.

  “He’s upstairs, in the closet.”

  She took the stairs fast, into their room and saw him, on the floor, the blanket over his head.

  “Robin.” She didn’t touch him just yet, instead scooted herself under till she was close.

  “Robin,” she spoke softly. “It’s alright.”

  “I heard it.” So quiet she leaned in.

  “What did you hear?”

  “The gun. I heard it. I heard it again.”

  That afternoon Hal led them down to the red barn and told them to wait out in the sun. Duchess walked over to the door, peeked through the crack and saw Hal roll the mat back.

  “Grandpa said to wait here.”

  She hushed her brother.

  Hal pulled up a door in the floor and stepped down. He returned with a gun. He held it loose in his hand, by his side, a small tin box in his other hand.

  Duchess stood close to her brother.

  “This is a Springfield 1911. It’s a handgun, light and accurate. Every farmer needs a gun. What you heard before was just hunters, it’s important you get used to the sound. I don’t want you to be afraid.” He knelt and held the gun out to them. Robin took a step behind Duchess’s leg.

  “It’s not loaded and the safety is on.”

  After a minute Duchess reached out and took it, colder than she thought, heavy when he said it was light.

  She studied it with care, then Robin stepped out and looked. He ran a finger over the handle.

  “You want to try shooting, Duchess?”

  Duchess looked down at the gun, her mind on her mother. The hole torn in her chest. She thought of Vincent King.

  “Yes.”

  Out to the green field, crops no higher than Duchess’s ankle. Beyond they came to the first of the cedars, tall, ladders to the sky.

  On a trunk wider than them both were a smattering of marks, pocks, neat and ordered. Leaves long dead and settled, green moss crept to fallen sticks and puddles that shone with the canopies above them.

  Hal led them back fifty paces, removed four bullets and showed them the chamber as he loaded. He ran through the safety and sight, the correct two-hands and how to breathe nice and even. And then he handed each a pair of ear protectors.

  The first time Hal fired Robin jumped clear back and Duchess held him. The second he did it again. Third and fourth a little less.

  Duchess loaded next, Hal instructing. She handled the bullets with care like he said but her heart still quickened, the memories fluid, carrying her back so totally. Walk and the other cops, her brother. The tape and the news vans and the noise.

  She missed six in a row, each time yanking her hand back from the kick instead of planting her feet. Robin grew bolder, still clutching Hal’s hand but not turning his head.

  She loaded again, this time only the forest noise with her, Hal watching close but letting her figure it out.

  The first time she hit the tree she took a chunk from the edge.

  Then she put two in the center, Robin whooping and clapping.

  “You can shoot,” Hal said.

  She turned back before he could see the small smile.

  She worked her way through the box, till she could sink them into the middle of the cedar, or a little higher or lower. And then Hal moved her back twenty paces and she learned all over again. Correcting the angle, shooting as she knelt, then from her stomach. Devoid of emotion, adrenaline, the human traits that ruined finesse.

  As they walked back toward the farmhouse Robin ran on ahead to check on his birds. The chickens. He collected the eggs each morning, his job alone and he lived for it.

  Duchess watched the land as the sun began its drop, not low enough to splinter the colors but she felt the heat dying. Summer was breathing its last, Hal said fall was spectacular.

  She drew up by the gray, who came to her. Duchess stroked her gently.

  “She doesn’t come for me,” Hal said. “She likes you, and she doesn’t like many people.”

  Duchess said nothing, not wanting to fall into conversation, not wanting to lose that fire that kept her moving through each day.

  That night she ate dinner alone on the porch, stomach tight as she listened as Hal laughed at something Robin said. It was moments like those it came for her, and dragged her back to the Cape. The old man laughing, smiling, after what his grandchildren had been through. A bond was forming.

  She walked back into the kitchen, opened the cabinet and pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from the top shelf.

  She took it down to the lake, unscrewed the cap and drank. She did not flinch at the burn. She thought of Vincent King, drank some more, then Darke, and drank again. She drank and drank till the pain eased, her muscles unwound and the world began to spin. Problems melted, edges softened. She lay flat on her back and closed her eyes, feeling her mother.

  An hour till she puked.

  Another till Hal found her.

  Through the haze she saw his eyes, those watery blue eyes as he gently scooped her up.

  “I hate you,” she said in a whisper.

  He kissed her head as she pressed her cheek to his chest and let the dark find her.

  16

  IF HOUSES HAD SOULS STAR’S place was black as a December night.

  Walk figured Darke would’ve got on as soon as they released it, maybe freshened it up for a new tenant, or just pulled the place down and started over. But it stood untouched, the street door replaced with plywood, a window popped out and boarded up. The grass was long and yellowed.

  “I know you miss her, Walk. I do too. And the kids.”

  Walk didn’t need to turn, he smelled the blood right off.

  “Any news on Vincent King? I thought they would have charged him by now. Newspapers say he’ll be put to death when they find him guilty.”

  Walk tensed a little. Last he’d heard the D.A. asked Boyd to have another look for the murder weapon. With the parole violation Vincent wasn’t going anywhere, time was on their side.

  “I like the beard by the way. Nice. Real nice. It’s coming in thick. I could grow one, you know. We could both have beards. That’d be funny, right, Walk?”

  “Sure, Milton.”

  Milton wore sweats and an undershirt, the thick hair swirled from his shoulders down to the backs of his hands.

  “This place, what happened here. It’s frightening, right. Blood and all. It’s alright when it’s an animal. I mean, vegans see it different, but then they’ll eat the white meat, so long as it’s sliced thin enough.”

  Walk scratched his head at that.

  “But Star, when I think of her lying there.” Milton clutched his stomach. “Don’t worry, I’ve been watching the place. If I see kids or anything, I’ll call it in. 10-54.”

  “Livestock on Highway.”

  Milton turned and headed back across the street, shuffling feet, that metallic smell trailing him.

  Walk headed up the path and banged on Brandon Rock’s garage door.

  It opened to a blaze of light, Van Halen playing loud, the strong smell of sweat and cologne. Brandon wore Lycra pants, a muscle top cropped just below his chest.

  “Walk. That you talking to Sasquatch just now?”

  “You fixed that engine yet?”

  “Was he bitching again? You know I applied to do a little work on the house, I wanted to open the back, put a dojo above the garage. Guess who lodged an objection?”

  Brandon opened a bottle of water and dumped half the contents over his head. “Cool down. I earned it.”

  “Fix the car, Brandon.”

  “You remember him at school, Walk? I was dating Julia Martin at the time, and she said Milton used to follow her home. Fucking creeped her out.”

  “That was thirty years ago.”

  Brandon stepped out and stared at the old Radley house. �
�I wish I’d been here that night. Maybe I could’ve done something, I don’t know.”

  Walk had read the interview, brief as it was, they’d gone door to door. “So you were away that night.”

  “Just like I told the lady from state. Ed Tallow had me out with clients, looking to build on the edge of town. You heard? Japanese, you know how they like to party.”

  “Right.”

  Brandon worked his right arm. “Keeping it strong. When I get surgery on the knee I’ll be tossing again.”

  Walk didn’t touch that one.

  Brandon punched his arm gently, then headed back into the garage. He closed the door, cutting the light and muffling the noise.

  Walk stepped across into Star’s front yard, steeling himself as that night came back to him. He felt the tremor in his body, put it down to the memories and nothing more, and then walked down the side of the house.

  He opened the side gate, never locked, not in the Cape, and then he stopped still when he heard the noise within. He pressed close, peered in the window and saw the flashlight.

  Up onto the porch, he drew his gun and was about to move through.

  Walk took a step back, the man towered over him.

  “Darke.”

  The stare, no words.

  “You scared me.” Walk holstered the gun as Dark sat on the bench.

  Walk joined him, sat beside without an invite. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my house.”

  “Right.”

  Walk was more than accustomed to the heat but still wiped sweat from his head. “I heard you spoke with the state cops. I read the report but I wanted to talk to you myself. I was going to call but now you’ve saved me the trouble.”

  “The kids. How they doing?”

  “They’re …” He searched for the words.

  “I wanted to talk to the girl.”

  Walk stared at him then, his body stiffening. “Why?”

  “Tell her I’m sorry.”

  “For what, exactly?”

  “She lost a parent. She’s tough, right?” He spoke slow, like each word was chosen with great care.

  “She’s a child.”

  Moonlight found them through the trees.

  “Where’d they go?”

  “A long way from here.”

  Giant hands rested on giant thighs. Walk thought about moving through life like that, crowds parting, people staring.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Duchess?”

  Darke nodded. “She’s thirteen, yes?”

  Walk cleared his throat. “We got a couple calls over the years. Hilltop Middle. People said they saw a car sitting by the school fence. Black car. No one ever took the plates.”

  “I’ve got a black car, Chief Walker.”

  “I know.”

  “You ever think about the things you’ve done?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the things you know you’ll have to do.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  Darke looked to the moon.

  “You know there’s rumors about you, Dickie.”

  “Yes.”

  “People say you’re violent.”

  “I am violent. You tell them that.”

  Walk felt his throat dry as the big man kept his eyes skyward.

  “I see you at the church,” Darke said.

  “I don’t see you.”

  “I don’t go inside. What do you pray for?”

  Walk rested a hand on his gun. “A fit and just end.”

  “Hope is secular. And life is fragile. And sometimes we hold on too tight, even though we know it’ll break.” Darke got to his feet, casting Walk into shadow.

  “If you speak to the girl you tell her I’ve been thinking about her.”

  “I’ve still got questions.”

  “I told those state cops everything. You call my lawyer if you need anything else.”

  “And Vincent? You know about the house? He’s thinking about selling. Any idea why he changed his mind?”

  “Maybe he found his price. Tragedy brings clarity of thought. I’m talking to the bank. I’ll get the money.”

  He turned and left. Walk stood and pressed close to the glass and reached for his flashlight.

  The kitchen, every unit pulled down. Ceiling panels popped, drywall punched through in spots. Whatever else Darke had been doing there, one thing was certain. He’d been searching for something.

  * * *

  Summer bled from Montana faster than it had in the Cape, first in small drips, then the deluge of shaded mornings, brooding dusk.

  Duchess received a postcard from Walk, just a photo taken from the Cabrillo Highway. He wrote on the back in blue pen, his scrawl in shaking hand, so bad she almost could not read it.

  I think of you both.

  Walk.

  She tacked it to the wall behind her bed.

  She still did not speak to the old man, instead muttering to the gray horse. It became an exercise, she’d talk about the things she did not want to, Darke and Vincent, the time she fished vomit from her mother’s mouth with her fingers, the time she and Robin practiced the recovery position beneath the okame cherry at Little Brook.

  Some nights she sat on the stairs and listened as Hal spoke to Walk on the telephone.

  Robin’s coming along, loves the animals. He sleeps well. He eats well. That shrink, she said he’s doing better. Half hour each week, he doesn’t complain.

  And then the change, the swing reaching its high and coming back down, middling the gains. She’s … she’s still here, Walk. She does her jobs and she doesn’t complain. Some days I lose her to the land, she crosses the barley and she’s just gone. I panicked, at first I ran down the lines, crossed the dirt and drove the truck around. I found her on her knees, there’s a spot by the wheat, away from the water and hidden. It’s hollowed out, a space I made for a barn but never needed. And she was there on her knees and I couldn’t see her face but I think she was praying.

  She made sure not to go back to that place. She’d already scoped out a new one, a clearing in forest so thick she knew Hal would not find her again.

  She looked back at the night when her mother died, and she thought maybe she had been in shock each day since. But the grief came now, slowly, each hour, little by little, catching her out when she needed to be strong.

  Some days she screamed.

  When she was deep, half hour from the farmhouse, from her brother and his ruddy cheeks as he helped dig the soil, she’d tilt her head back and scream to the clouds. The kind of scream that saw the gray straighten, head up in her field, long neck so graceful. When she was done she’d raise a hand to the horse, tell her go on, eat the grass.

  At night, in the dark, they talked.

  “Those cops,” Robin said.

  “Yeah.”

  “They thought I was lying to them.”

  “That’s just the way cops look.”

  “Walk doesn’t look like that.”

  She didn’t argue. But whatever he was, the guy that came and filled their refrigerator and drove them to the movie theater, he was still a cop.

  “How did it go today?” she said, same each week.

  “She’s nice. She let me call her Clara. She’s got four cats and two dogs, imagine that.”

  “Hasn’t found the right man. Did you talk about that night?”

  “I couldn’t. It’s just … I try, but there’s nothing there at all. I just remember you reading to me, then sleep, then I think maybe I woke in Walk’s car.”

  She leaned up on her elbow as he rolled to the flat of his back. “If you ever do remember hearing something you should tell me first. I’ll decide what we do about it. You can’t trust these cops now. Or Hal. We’ve only got each other.”

  Each afternoon she fired the gun. Hal took her to the spot with the wide tree, Robin leading them now, unafraid. She still spoke only when she had to, and when she did she aimed for the gut, somet
hing about God or abandonment, but Hal took it different now, the barbs did not grip, the hook slipping harmlessly from his skin. She let him know she did not love him and never would, would never call him anything but his sanitary given name, and would think nothing about taking Robin and leaving him to die alone the second she was old enough.

  His response was to teach her to drive.

  The old truck bumping along wildly, the flattest acres saw her speed climb and Hal’s hands tighten on the seat. Behind them Robin sat in his booster, watching them, wearing his bicycle helmet and elbow pads because Hal worried she’d roll it. She got the hang of stick, not grinding out the gears so much, feeling the bite like he told her. Some days she got to sixty before he scolded her, when his eyes were on the sky like there was too much of the day now, waiting on first rain. A week in and she could bring the truck to a stop without Hal slamming hard into the dash, cursing for forgetting to belt himself in.

  After, they’d walk back toward the house, Duchess holding Robin’s left hand, Hal, his right. Hal would tell her she did good and she would tell him he was a lousy teacher. He would say she handled the runs smoothly and she would say his truck was a piece of shit. He would promise to take her out the next day and she would say nothing to that, because, well, she liked to drive.

  Some mornings she’d catch the old man watching Robin eat or watching him with the chickens or climbing on the harrow, and he’d get this look in his eyes that was part love and part regret. And those times she’d fight to hate him, a fight she’d won with ease when they’d arrived, but now a fight she was having to put more and more in to.

  She still kept her clothes in a case, folded neat. Sometimes he’d do the laundry and she’d yell at him to leave their shit alone. She’d find their clothes hung in the closet and she’d take them down and return them to the case. He’d buy the wrong kind of toothpaste for Robin and she’d yell at him, the wrong kind of shampoo, the wrong brand of breakfast cereal. She’d yell so much her throat would hurt. Through it Robin would watch. Sometimes he’d ask for quiet and she’d give it, she’d walk the acres and curse at the dropping sun like a fucking mad girl.

  She gave less thought to Vincent King, to Dickie Darke, they were turned pages in the darkest chapters of her life. She knew they would appear again, the twists, the sting in her tale.