We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  Mrs. Kolene raised a hand and Robin grinned and waved as hard as he could, like he couldn’t read what was going on. They’d barely spoken to them, a couple of questions in broad Midwest accents, no way of placing them, just another couple looking for a way to make themselves whole but knowing right off the Radley children fell short.

  “Not the right fit,” Shelly said, on the drive back to the Price house.

  Mrs. Price had been pissed at them that evening, like they’d played it wrong, like she was tiring of them and wanted younger, fresher faces to drag to church each Sunday and show off.

  The next meet was bad. Mr. and Mrs. Sandford. He was a retired army colonel and she was a homemaker with an empty home.

  They sat on the same bench with Shelly, made small talk while they sized up the kids. The colonel kept laughing and slapping his wife’s knee, hard enough to leave a print.

  “He’ll beat us,” Duchess said, from her spot by the swing.

  Robin stared at him.

  “Probably want you to shave your head and enlist.”

  “Could be she’ll teach you to bake,” Robin said.

  “Motherfucker.”

  “You said that too loud.”

  They looked up at the colonel watching them. Duchess snapped off a salute. Shelly smiled nervously.

  Early March, the thaw began.

  Duchess sat at the window each night and watched the steady drip from windows as the color slowly began its return to Montana. Morning broke to cold sun, but sun just the same. Sidewalks melted, yards emerged from burial, shadblow shed browns to white blossom that reached skyward. She watched the change but could see no beauty at all.

  Duchess moved through her small life without feeling, each motion so automatic she sometimes forgot which day of the week it was. She cared for Robin, walked him to school and ignored Mary Lou and her sidekick Kelly when they cut her down, her shoes, her top, the brand of her jeans. Shelly came each week, sometimes she took them out for ice-cream and once even to the movies. Robin talked about a new family, how the father would be like Hal, teach him to fish and play ball. He held the belief in his small hands, tighter with each passing day.

  One Saturday Shelly took them to see the farm. Probate would take months so it was still Radley land for a little longer. They swung by to collect Thomas Noble.

  High spring morning. Robin took Shelly to see the coop and told her of the jobs he used to carry out. Duchess and Thomas Noble walked the wheat fields, no crops planted, just rows of weed and mounded earth. She felt a sadness so profound she could not speak for a long time. Hal in every step she took, cigar smell as they walked up to the porch and took a seat on the swing. She pushed back, the chains pulled and creaked and she wanted to cry but did not. She visited the field where the gray once ran, she missed her almost as much as she did her grandfather.

  After, they left the farm in heavy silence and Robin did cry. She held his hand in her own. When they got back to the Price house they sat idling on the street, watching the neighbor kids ride their bikes. It was warming up, summer a while off but making its intent known.

  “I’ve got someone,” Shelly said.

  Duchess could hear something in her voice, trace but it was there. Something different.

  “Who?” Robin said.

  “Their names are Peter and Lucy. They’re from Wyoming, where I used to work. Till now they’ve been searching just for one child, but I told them how special you two are—”

  “So you lied,” Duchess said.

  Shelly smiled and held up a hand. “Hear me out. They’re small town, he’s a doctor and she teaches third grade.”

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “A real doctor.”

  “A shrink? Because I don’t want some guy messing with my—”

  “A regular doctor. In a practice. Making sick people well again.”

  “I like them,” Robin said.

  Duchess sighed.

  “You can meet them next weekend if you want to.”

  Robin looked pleadingly at Duchess, till she nodded.

  * * *

  They rode Route 5 in her Prius, Medford to Springfield.

  A hundred miles from Salem they left bright lights and smooth asphalt for bumping down dark tracks that slivered through Marion and the kind of townships that existed on old maps and nowhere else.

  Martha slept. When the roads smoothed and held straight Walk allowed himself to glance over, and when he did he felt the sharp pain that had stabbed at him since the day he walked back into her life. She looked calm, at peace, so beautiful he sometimes fought the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

  Dawn broke over the Calasade Highway, Walk was so tired he veered over the double-yellows till Martha reached over and gently tugged the wheel.

  “You should’ve pulled over.”

  “I’m straight.”

  On the Silver Falls Highway they watched the sun creep from the hills and color farmland a dozen greens. At a diner they ate eggs and bacon and drank coffee so strong Walk felt it sharpen him right up again.

  “It’s not far,” Martha said, looking at the map spread out across the table.

  They were headed to Unity, a private healthcare facility in Silver Falls. The same place Dickie Darke had been making payments to as far back as they could go in his bank records. Dee had come through, knocked on Walk’s door the night before and given him a slip of paper with the recipient’s name.

  Three cups of coffee and they left, caffeine coursing Walk’s veins as the Silver Falls State Park came at them. Martha navigated and before long the trees towered beside. Rocks rose above steep banks of green. Walk opened his window to the rush of sound as they passed a waterfall.

  Another turn and they came to the gates. Walk had called ahead, told them he wanted to look around the place. He gave his name through the speaker and watched the gates swing open.

  They followed the long road till the hospital came to view, sleek and modern, dark-framed glass contrasted sand bricks, the place could’ve been luxury condos nestled amongst the forest.

  The woman’s name was Eicher and she met them at the door with a hearty smile. She led them into a vast entrance hall, modern art, a sculpture that could’ve been an eagle. There was a calm to it all, doctors strolled by, nurses moved slow, no fuss, no worry. At first Walk thought it might’ve been a retreat, the kind of place harried execs came for some downtime. But then Eicher was back with them, and she reeled off the kind of work they did, the complex needs of their patients and the round-the-clock care they provided.

  She moved with purpose, despite the extra fifty pounds she carried. An accent, hard to place, might’ve been German but it was muddied by local phrases. She didn’t ask who they were there for, Walk had mentioned a relative on the phone, needed help, needed specialist care. Eicher had told him to come in and take a look around, nothing formal, the fit was important and couldn’t be rushed.

  Beside him Martha said nothing, just noted the sprawling day rooms, a bank of elevators and carpet so thick she felt her feet sink.

  Eicher detailed the history, the proximity to the State Park and the calm it inspired. They were equipped for any kind of emergency, five doctors on call, thirty nurses.

  She led them out into the gardens, which stretched their way down to a stream behind a low fence. Walk saw a couple of porters catching a smoke by a set of doors. Eicher shot them a look and they stubbed out their cigarettes and moved on.

  “Can I ask how you found us?” she said.

  “A friend of mine. Dickie Darke.”

  She smiled then, white teeth, a decent gap between the front two. “Madeline’s father.”

  Walk said nothing.

  “She’s an exceptional girl. And Mr. Darke is so strong, after losing his wife like that. Did you know Kate?”

  Martha stepped forward. “Not well enough.”

  Eicher looked sad then, the only crack in a pristine façade. “She was a local girl. Grew up in Clarkes Grove. Ma
deline is her double.”

  She led them back through the building, signed off with a brochure and a promise to call. Walk did not need to press further, he had found what he came for.

  “Will you give him my regards? I hope he’s healing up well,” Eicher said.

  Walk turned to her, she read the look.

  “I’m sorry. The accident. Dickie was limping, said he’d slipped.”

  Walk felt the rush then. “When was this?”

  “Maybe a week ago. Some people, bad luck seems to follow them around.” Eicher added another smile, then turned and left them.

  Fifteen miles to Clarkes Grove, and from there they took a walk along a colorful Main Street, distant from the Cape in miles alone. Walk liked the town right off. They found the old municipal library at the end of the street, quaint but tired, like the place was running on handouts alone. Empty inside, dark and cool, the smell taking Walk back to Portola and his two years of college.

  An old lady at the desk didn’t look up from her screen so they headed to the back and the couple of computers. Martha got to work, sitting close to Walk, her leg pressed against his. He watched her, the way she furrowed her brow, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

  “Are you checking me out, Chief?”

  “No. Sorry. No.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  He laughed.

  She typed quick, “Kate Darke,” the archives pulled up a dozen matches. They read in silence, the car accident, how Kate died at the scene and Madeline Ann suffered catastrophic brain injuries. There were photos, the ice, the Ford left the road and headed straight down a steep bank, meeting trees and popping the windshield. The lake behind, The Eight, the only calm in that shot.

  A single photo of the family before.

  Martha zoomed in close and Walk was struck by Darke, that emptiness, the hollow gaze, it was all absent back then.

  “So Madeline would be fourteen now,” Martha said.

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. She’s been in there nine years. Around the time Darke started making his moves. It’s a lot of money.”

  Walk found another article, this one focused on Madeline and the work done at Unity. It said a lot and nothing at all. The girl was kept alive by a machine.

  Darke was hoping for a miracle.

  33

  HARBOR BAY.

  Walk made it there in thirty, didn’t flash the lights because Cabrillo was empty. The call came in an hour after he made it back from Portland.

  He left the cruiser close to the gate and walked past the bobbing trawlers, a shiny Bayliner and a line of Navigators. Gaps between boards, water slopped beneath. He saw a cluster of catfish turning as an old man tossed what was left of the day’s bait.

  Frenzied water, salt breeze, a sense of dread.

  The trawler was a ’73 Reynolds but looked newer, fresh paint and blue trim, Andrew Wheeler on the deck, his eyes on breaking waves.

  Walk knew him a little. Andrew had taken Star out a few times.

  In the distance was the Cape, the cliffs, land trailing down to the beach and the King house commanding all of it. Andrew still worked with Skip Douglas, so old and grizzled he barely spoke a word on dry land. Skip stepped onto the boards, nodded once at Walk and headed back toward the lot, no doubt to grab a couple of beers to take the edge off the day they’d had.

  Andrew came down and they shook hands, Andrew’s arms muscled and tan, sunglasses on his head despite the dusk sky. Lights flickered on as Walk stepped onto the boat.

  “What happened?” Walk said.

  “We were out with city people, group from Sacramento. Three of them, childhood friends out traveling their way up to Six Rivers.”

  Lobster season ran October through March. There were limits, number and size and weight, but most of the customers just wanted a day out on the water.

  “We were heading in slow when Skip called me over. The net was caught, happens often, always a pain in the ass. Sometimes I pull on a wetsuit and head in, cut away where needed.”

  Walk placed a hand on the side though the waves were gentle.

  “It was heavy, though. Skip even took off his ball cap and wiped his head, and that guy never breaks a sweat. I grabbed the trawl winch and we got it moving. Then it broke the water. The guys puked, all three. Gulls circled, more than usual, that’s how I knew, cries so loud Skip closed the dead man’s eyes.”

  “You didn’t touch him other than that?”

  Andrew shook his head, then stepped aside.

  “The guys were so sick I had to try and cover him on the ride in.”

  Walk pulled the towel back then fought for breath.

  Milton.

  Bloated, mottled, eyes swollen over.

  “You alright, Walk?”

  “Jesus.”

  “You know him?”

  Walk nodded.

  He thought of the blood at Darke’s place, they’d match it soon enough, he had little doubt. More pieces to figure, so uneven.

  “Sit down for a bit, you don’t look so good.”

  They sat on the deck and waited for the coroner. Andrew passed Walk a beer, which he sipped as the color returned to him.

  “Better?”

  “You don’t seem all that shaken up,” Walk said.

  “It’s my third body.”

  “Serious?”

  “One in Jersey, and then I worked the Keys. A lot going on in Cape Haven.”

  “Too much.”

  Walk held the bottle to his head and soothed the ache forming. His hand shook as he drank, he did not even try and hide it.

  “I saw you at the funeral. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to come over.” Andrew had stood at the back, head bowed, stayed a few minutes then slipped out.

  Andrew waved him off. “I was … it was sad. The whole thing, when I heard about her. I thought about the kids, even back then, the boy was a baby but the girl used to glare at me.”

  Walk thought of Duchess.

  “You know who did it, this guy?”

  “Maybe.”

  Andrew asked nothing else.

  They watched a boat head in, low lights over calm water.

  Andrew held his bottle to the dying sun. “It’d been five years since I last saw her. But I still thought about her. It wasn’t even … the one that got away, nothing like that. You know when you want to save someone, but you don’t have the first clue how to do it?”

  “You saw her a while.”

  “A few months maybe. Met her at a bar, watched her sing then bought her a drink, thought she was nice-looking and funny and kind of damaged, which wasn’t all that unusual in the kinds of bars I drink in.”

  “And then?”

  “We were together but not. Almost like friends. I wanted more.”

  Walk watched him.

  “Sex. We never did.”

  Walk glanced over at a speedboat, out of place, white and garish, no doubt a vacationer bringing out their toy, the old and new colliding in a way that still pained him. FOR SALE sign, Walk hoped whoever bought it took it someplace far away.

  “She was beautiful. Sex is something, right. I know we don’t talk about it, but it’s something. In a relationship, without it what have you got?”

  Walk thought of Martha, the nature of their friendship, the undercurrent that pushed him every time he saw her, dragging his mind someplace it shouldn’t have been. She had closed off, the parts that were his, her mind, gone to ground with the child she once lost.

  “Did she give a reason?” Walk said.

  “She said you get one great love. And you’re lucky if you find that. Anything less might as well have been nothing.”

  Walk thought of Star. She didn’t get her happy ending. Each night he prayed her children would.

  * * *

  Robin was nervous the day of the meet.

  They lay awake the night before and Robin talked of Peter and Lucy like he knew them well. He decided he might like to be a doctor too, that,
or a teacher. She told him to sleep, that he wanted to be fresh. He talked another hour.

  She laid out his shorts and T-shirt, he exchanged them for his smart slacks and funeral shirt. He tried on his bowtie, discarded it. He shined his best shoes with spit and paper towels. She tried to untangle his hair, gave up and pressed it to a parting.

  She wore jeans and a top, he yelled till she changed into a dress. He chose a yellow bow for her hair then asked if she should wear a little makeup. He ate no breakfast, just sipped his juice at the window.

  “You need to relax.”

  “What if they don’t show?”

  “They will.”

  The drive to the park, Robin was quiet, staring out. Duchess saw his small fingers crossed. They pulled into the lot, stepped out to sun, birdsong and gentle breeze.

  Peter was short, a little overweight but he carried it well. Lucy smiled in the kind of wholesome way that made Duchess think she was born to be a mother or a third-grade teacher. Shelly waved and they began to walk over.

  Peter turned and whistled. A black Lab looked up, one paw in the air, then began to run.

  “They’ve got a dog,” Robin said it in a whisper.

  “Just try and be cool.”

  Robin looked up at her. She waited a little, then nodded and he took off, running at the Lab and waving like a madman.

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t worry,” Shelly said.

  “He wanted to bring his suitcase, in case they want to take us right off.”

  “Shit,” Shelly agreed.

  It could’ve been awkward when they met, like the other times, careful handshakes and too much eye contact, but Peter and Lucy were warm and open right off. They introduced themselves, talked about how far they’d come, driven up with Jet, their Lab, from their small town in Wyoming. Peter set off with Robin and Jet, staying just about in sight as they crossed over long grass. Robin kept looking back and waving till Duchess waved back. Duchess did not say anything wrong, just did not really say anything at all. Lucy told her she liked her dress and Duchess told her thank you. She asked about school and Duchess said it was nice. And about living with the Price family and Duchess said that was nice too.