We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  Most of all she felt tired. Not from the work or the sleep, just from the wretched hatred that lived so deep inside her.

  17

  “I NEED TO CARRY A GUN to school.”

  “No.” Hal was anxious that first morning.

  Robin was anxious too, he had questions about the school, about where he’d meet her and what would happen if she didn’t show. There was no bus that ran out as far as their land so Hal said he would drive them and collect them. He groused about it eating into his day, till Duchess told him they’d hitch a ride with a rapist trucker instead, or maybe she’d sell her body to raise cash for a taxi.

  “Will the other kids like me?”

  “You’re a prince.”

  “Of course,” Hal said. “And if they don’t then they’ll deal with your sister.”

  “And yet you still won’t let me pack.” She finished her cereal, then checked Robin’s schoolbag, made sure he had his pencil case and his water bottle.

  Hal let her drive the track, just to the point where the gum trees folded over the sky. She left it idling as she climbed from her seat and Hal climbed from his. They crossed at the trunk, Hal nodding once and Duchess nodding a return.

  “You watch out for each other,” he said, eyes on the road.

  “In case the big kids take our lunch money?” Robin said, perking up and wide-eyed.

  “They can try. I’m the outlaw Duchess Day Radley and I’ll put a bullet between their eyes.”

  “You need to learn to ride the gray if you want to be an outlaw,” Hal said.

  “You know nothing. I can ride, it’s in my blood.”

  “I did some reading on Billy Blue Radley once.”

  Duchess looked over, the scowl replaced by interest.

  “If you want I could tell you about him sometime.”

  “Okay.” It was not a truce or offering.

  Robin tensed when they moved into the turn, the bus and the parents, noise and SUVs. She saw a Ford with muddied wheels and a Mercedes too shiny. She thought of Darke, his Escalade, his fading promise.

  “You want me to walk you in?” Hal drew the truck up to the curb.

  “No. People might think you’re our father. The bullying would be merciless.”

  She took Robin’s bag and his hand and they emptied into the street.

  “I’ll be here at three,” Hal said from the window.

  “We don’t get out till three fifteen,” Robin said.

  “I’ll still be here.”

  They moved between groups of kids, tan from the summer and catching up with loud, exaggerated stories. She caught pieces that made a similar whole, vacations and beaches and theme parks. They drew looks and she gave them back.

  She led Robin to his classroom and took him inside, a cluster of mothers knelt and kissed and fussed over their children. A little boy was crying.

  “He’ll be the wuss, don’t hang around with him,” Duchess said.

  The teacher was young, smiling as she made rounds, kneeling and shaking small hands. Duchess led Robin to the pegs and found his name and his animal picture above.

  “What animal is it?”

  Duchess squinted. “Rat.”

  “That’s a mouse,” the teacher said, appearing beside.

  Duchess shrugged. “Vermin is vermin.”

  The teacher knelt by them, took Robin’s hand and shook it lightly. “I’m Miss Child, and you must be Robin. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”

  Duchess nudged him.

  “Thank you kindly,” he said.

  “And you must be Duchess.”

  “I am the outlaw Duchess Day Radley.” Duchess pumped the teacher’s hand so hard she left it white.

  “Well, I hope you have a lovely day, Miss Duchess,” Miss Child said, affecting a sweet drawl. “Your brother and I are going to have lots of fun today, right, Robin?”

  “Yes.”

  Miss Child left them and went back to the crying boy.

  Duchess bent to her brother and met his eye, cupped his face till he stayed locked on to her. “Any shit at all, you come find me. You just go into the hall and you scream my name. I’ll be close.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, a little firmer. “Okay.”

  She stood.

  “Duchess.”

  She turned to him.

  “I wish Mom was here.”

  Outside in the halls, thinning with stragglers, boys carried a football, red-faced and sweaty. She found her classroom and took a seat by the window, far enough back to keep from being called up.

  “You’re in my seat.”

  He was tall, odd angles, his shirt coming up small and his shorts high.

  “You borrow your sister’s shorts? Keep walking, motherfucker.”

  He blushed, turned and went to a seat on the other side of the room.

  Beside her was a black boy, so thin she guessed he carried worms or some other parasite. He had a hand twisted into something that no longer looked like a hand. He caught her noticing and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He smiled.

  She looked away.

  “I’m Thomas Noble, you remember me?”

  The teacher came in.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Quiet now, I’m here to learn.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  She silently willed him to burst into flames.

  “I saw you that time in town. You’re the angel with the golden hair.”

  “If you knew anything at all, you’d know I’m about as far from an angel as you can get. Now shut the fuck up and face forward.”

  * * *

  Walk sat in the parking lot, window open to the smell of Mexican food.

  It was late, floods and moonlight replaced the sun as the sky purpled over the Bitterwater sprawl.

  He’d been to see Vincent again, three hours in the airless waiting room with nothing but CNN and a busted fan for company. And then he’d sat with him for fourteen minutes. And for each of those he’d begged and pleaded with the man to retain counsel, a criminal lawyer who could at least stand a chance of finding the truth. Vincent had said it was Martha May or no one. And though Walk said it, that she wanted no part of either of them, or Cape Haven and the memories it stirred, Vincent had said nothing more. And then he’d called the guard, and Walk had watched him leave.

  The light still burned in Martha’s office, despite the late hour, despite her secretary leaving a couple hours ago. Walk had tried to get out of the car, felt dizzy enough to sit back and close his eyes for a while. He’d tried to call Kendrick, left a message then checked the leaflet that came with his medication. The side-effects were long enough to fill out two pages.

  When he saw her emerge from the office he climbed out and walked slowly across the lot. It was emptying, last cars leaving, a couple of old beat-up sedans outside the Mexican and then Martha’s car, a gray Prius with a WWF bumper sticker. Walk remembered she liked animals. On her fifteenth birthday they’d cut school with Vincent and Star and gone to the petting zoo at Clearwater Cove. It was full of little kids, but Martha had smiled the whole day.

  “Martha,” he called.

  She saw him, tossed her case into the trunk and then stood and waited as he walked over, hand on her hip, like she was more than ready.

  “I don’t see you in years and now it’s twice in a month.”

  “I want to buy you dinner.” He said it with a confidence that surprised him, and maybe her, because, slowly, she smiled.

  Yellow walls and green arches, small tables with checkered cloths. A fan spun slow, moving the smell of chili around the tired bar behind. They took a table in the corner, by the window with a view of the parking lot. Martha ordered for them, tacos and beer. She hadn’t lost her girl-next-door smile, and when she aimed it, the waiter hurried.

  Walk sipped the cold beer and felt his muscles unwind, that tightness across his shoulders ease a little as he sank
into the chair. Music played quietly, something soft and Latino.

  They drank in silence, Martha draining her beer then signaling for another. “I’ll take a cab home.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Jeez, I’m drinking with a cop.”

  He laughed. The waiter brought over the food and they ate. It was good, better than Walk had hoped for but still, he pushed his food around, barely eating.

  Martha dumped half a bottle of hot sauce on her food. “Zing me, baby. You want in on this, Chief?”

  “Not unless you want to continue this conversation in the restroom.”

  “Hmm, have you seen the restroom?”

  “I’m sure I will later.”

  “I like the beard.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “The other night, it had been a long day. And I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I should be apologizing to you.”

  “You totally should.”

  He laughed.

  “So, you want to get it over with now or you want to wait till I’ve had another beer?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  This time she laughed, and it was the sweetest sound Walk had heard in a while.

  He took a breath and told her. Everything, from Vincent’s release to Star, to Dickie Darke and Duchess and Robin. He told her about the state cops and how they cut him out. And he told her details of the case that hadn’t been released. Broken ribs, swollen eye, no murder weapon, Vincent unwilling to speak. She wiped tears from her eyes, reached across and took Walk’s hand when he told her about the funeral.

  “Shit,” she said, when he was done.

  “What a mess. Star, the way her life turned out. Back then I thought we’d be friends forever.”

  “I don’t blame you for not looking back.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “I looked back plenty. I just couldn’t go back.”

  “Right.”

  “And Vincent still says he only wants me?”

  “He trusts you. The only other lawyer that worked for him was Felix Coke. And look how that turned out.”

  “You know the kind of cases I handle, Walk? Battered wives. Adoption. A little divorce work. I do whatever I can to pay the bills each month, and after that I pick and choose who needs me the most. I have a line of women whose sole purpose in life is to get their children back.”

  “Vincent needs you.”

  “Vincent needs a criminal attorney.”

  He moved to pick up his beer, felt the shake in his hands and set it down again.

  “Everything alright, Walk?”

  “Tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  “It’s a lot to take.”

  “Please do this, Martha. I know how it looks. I can see it, me showing up and asking for a favor. Believe me it hurts.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I can’t give up on him. Just come to the arraignment, stand by him while they charge. And then we can sort something out, we’ll make him see sense. I just … I know he didn’t do it. And I know how that sounds, like the words of a desperate man, but that doesn’t make me wrong. I need to figure things out. I need time to look into everything.

  “I’ve thought about you over the years. Every day, I think about you and us and everything that went on back then. I know I can’t fix things, or roll back the clock, but I can help Vincent now. But I can’t do it without you.” He slumped back, exhausted, spent.

  “The arraignment. When is it?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Jesus, Walk.”

  18

  THE COURTROOM IN LAS LOMAS was busier than usual.

  A Tuesday in September, the air conditioning bust, Judge Rhodes fanned himself with a file and loosened his collar.

  Walk sat near the front, just as he did thirty years before.

  “There’s no hope of bail, not for a capital case,” Martha said. She’d met him outside early, and they’d crossed the street and grabbed a coffee. She was smart, suit and heels, light makeup, enough to make Walk feel dumb for ever thinking he might’ve had a shot at keeping her.

  He looked around, lawyers and their clients, navy suits against orange suits, pleas and deals and deficient promises. Judge Rhodes fought a yawn.

  The courtroom hushed when he was led in. The people seeking Death, a case with profile.

  Judge Rhodes sat up a little straighter, rebuttoned his collar. Reporters at the back, no cameras, just pens and pads. Martha left Walk and went up to the bench, where Vincent settled beside her.

  The D.A. Elise Deschamps, straight, stern, took to the front and ran through the charges. Walk tried to read his friend, but from where he sat he could not clearly see his face.

  When Elise was done, Vincent stood. Walk felt the lean, edge of seats, eyes locked on the man that killed a child, then came back thirty years later for her sister.

  Vincent stated his name.

  Judge Rhodes detailed the charges again, then added the state would settle for life with no parole in exchange for a guilty plea.

  Walk breathed again. The deal had been offered.

  When Judge Rhodes asked for his plea, Vincent turned and met Walk’s eye.

  “Not guilty.”

  Now there were murmurs, talk till Rhodes quietened them.

  Martha looked at the judge, something desperate in her eyes led to a call to approach. “Mr. King. Your lawyer is worried you don’t understand the charge and the offer,” Rhodes said.

  “I understand.”

  Vincent did not look back as the guard led him from the room.

  Walk stepped out and into the morning sun. Las Lomas, the pretty square with the towering statue, a kneeling woman, her head bowed by the hallowed court.

  The trial was set for the following spring.

  The drive back, Walk’s body breaking to cold sweats, the quaking so bad it tired out his mind. He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror but could not rub the blood from them. The beard was long, he’d made a new notch on his belt. His uniform was big now, the shoulders fell over onto the tops of his biceps.

  He pulled into a liquor store by Bitterwater and bought a six-pack.

  Martha lived in a small house on Billington Road, far enough out of town. A white gate led to a path bordered by neat lines of flowers, the grass beside green and lush. Baskets hung from ornate hooks, the kind of house that would’ve made him smile on another day.

  Inside was cluttered with papers, every inch of the house spoke of work, of defending those less able.

  He found his way onto the privacy of the porch and was two beers down by the time Martha came out with a bowl of corn chips. He ate one and she laughed as the flavor seared off his taste buds.

  “You’re an animal.”

  “Some like it hot.”

  They sat close, side by side as they drank.

  It was not until the day fell away that Walk calmed. Two beers, that’s all he’d allowed himself. He wanted to get drunk, to scream and curse and shake sense into Vincent King.

  Martha sipped wine. “You have to get him to plea.”

  Walk rubbed the tension from his neck, always there now.

  “Vincent’s case is not winnable, you do know that,” she said.

  “I know that.”

  “Which means only one thing.”

  Walk looked up.

  “Vincent King wants to die.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “You sit here and drink with me while we lament the sorriest state of affairs.”

  “Tempting. Or?”

  “You work the case.”

  “I am.”

  Martha sighed. “Knocking doors and praying someone saw something isn’t working a case. You have to get out there and find your angle. And if it can’t be found you make it yourself. Balls, Chief. It’s all about balls now.”

  Wind blew across the highway and smoked
dust from the ground. Early evening, only a couple of pickups but Walk heard music before he reached the door. He stopped for a moment, looked at the wide strip of San Luis and thought of Star there, dragging the kids behind her.

  Inside was dull light, the strong smell of tobacco and stale beer. The booths were empty, just a couple of guys at the bar and a small cluster around a stage built from painted wooden crates. The singer was old, bluegrass, a long way from home but the men tapped their thighs as they drank.

  He had a description of the guy from Duchess, given over when he’d sat her down and they’d slowly gone through the kind of months and years that saw his head heavy by the time they were done. The girl had spoken with an evenness that wrenched his soul, like she knew nothing of childhood at all.

  He found him straight off, cropped hair and thick beard, strong arms that hinted at field work. Bud Morris. Walk sidled up as Bud rolled his eyes like trouble with the law was a consequence of his way.

  “Could I speak with you?”

  Bud looked him up and down, then laughed.

  Walk drank club soda. He was not a man who enjoyed confrontation, despite the training, the badge and what it meant. Words rang loud in his ears. Leave it to state. He gripped his glass hard. Martha’s words rang louder.

  Bud went to the restroom. Walk stood and followed him in, took a deep breath and drew his gun as the man was pissing.

  He pressed it to the back of Bud’s head.

  Adrenaline coursed, his hands shook, his knees shook.

  “Fuck.” Bud pissed on his jeans.

  Walk pressed harder. Sweat ran down his nose.

  “Jesus, alright. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Walk lowered the gun. “Now I could have done that at the bar, in front of your friends, made you piss your pants for an audience.”

  Bud glared, then dropped his eyes, defeat coming at him fast. Outside they heard hollers as the old guy moved on to “Man of Constant Sorrow.”

  “Star Radley,” Walk said.

  Bud looked confused, then it hit him and he sobered right up.

  “I heard you got into it with her, and her daughter. She was playing, you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

  Bud shook his head. “Nothing in that.”