We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  “Where’s that?”

  “Utah.”

  “Alright.”

  As they drove she watched the world, view high and commanding. The cab smelled of leather. The big guy was Malcolm, like his parents expected him to stop growing at five seven and work accounts. There was a plant on the dash, she took that as a good sign. And a photo of a girl not much older than her and a woman beside.

  “Is that Annie-Beth?” she said.

  “My girl.”

  “Pretty.”

  “Sure is. That’s old now … nineteen. University, political science.” Pride colored every word. “I check in with her every night. She’s just, she’s so smart we didn’t even know where it came from. A blessing.”

  “That your wife with her?”

  “Used to be. I liked to drink.” He pointed to a pin on the dash. “Eighteen months sober.”

  “Maybe she’ll take you back.”

  “Not on the cards for me yet. I got a plant, cactus, I keep that healthy for six months then maybe. It’s all about taking it back, right.”

  She looked at the cactus on the dash, long dead. She wondered if he knew, and also just how hard it was to kill a cactus.

  He tried asking her a little, she gave nothing so he quit, pushed his visor down to cull the bright and then rode mile after mile.

  She slept a little, woke with such a start he told her it was alright. She saw red rock, dried-out yellows and orange, sunset on a road so long and straight she wondered if she was dreaming.

  At a truck stop he told her that was all. She thanked him and he wished her well.

  “Go home,” he said.

  “I am.”

  At the edge of a town that did not have a clear name, Duchess walked beneath a silver sky, her feet so heavy it was all she could do to keep them moving. Tall buildings either side, painted colors that lightened with each step. Yellow planters and sapling trees, dying stores and floating noise, a bar across the street that fluttered neon. Sounds that told her not to go in. She stood there, her bag pulling the skin from her shoulder, eyes so tired edges blurred and streetlights smothered. Across, each step wayward and hard to point. She breathed in stammers, not knowing how to be any longer, her hands numb from the weight, the occasional memory of Robin lighting up her chest, all fire and hatred for the man who had stolen her old life and discarded it so carelessly, like litter in the wind.

  She pushed the door against better judgment, fought her way to the bar, the men, and some women, parting, the light all red.

  The bartender was old and she asked for a Coke before she realized she didn’t have enough. As she fished in her pockets he set it down, read her well and then pushed it toward her in an act of kindness so distant she had almost forgotten it existed.

  She found a corner and put her bag down, sat on a low stool and closed her eyes to the sweet drink. A man with a guitar held the other corner, and he called on regulars and together they played and sang and the bustling crowd watched and sometimes laughed. There wasn’t one that could hold a tune, but Duchess stared on like she hadn’t heard music in the longest time.

  For a moment she closed her eyes, wiped dirt and sweat that crossed her face and found her mother, holding Robin up to the stars like he was something blessed instead of another mistake.

  And then she found herself on her feet, and she was moving and again the people parted, the women watching her like she was a child, the men watching her with something like curiosity.

  She passed the pool table, breathed smoke and beer and the breath of tired men, leaning on each other, some swaying to the guitar.

  When the music died she reached the corner, and the guitar player dipped his hat and she dipped her own in reply.

  “You want to sing, girl?”

  She nodded.

  “Alright then.”

  She took a seat and looked out, meeting them in turn, some smiles and some not.

  She leaned, whispered because she wasn’t sure of the song’s name, only the words, but the man got it and smiled like she’d chosen well enough.

  He played and she sat silent, he didn’t seem to mind when she closed her eyes and missed her cue, there were murmurs but she blocked them out and instead let those chords carry her a year back, when her mother was someone she could reach out to, never quite grasp but the feeling was there. She saw her brother, and then her grandfather, the reparation in his love stealing all the air from her chest.

  She opened her mouth and sang.

  She told them she was on their side, when times get rough.

  The murmurs fell silent, and the men at the table stopped lining their shots and instead moved toward the little girl who sliced heaven wide open, her soul bared and burned, the man beside so transfixed he almost could not match her with his chords.

  She was down and out, on the street. Darkness had come and pain was all around.

  She was under no illusion, his blood would not cleanse hers. But she would do it, she couldn’t not.

  When she was done she let the silence hang. The old man came from behind the bar, and he handed her an envelope stuffed with bills. She frowned till he pointed to the sign. SING TO WIN, monthly, a hundred bucks.

  She did not wait for the cheers, she would hear them carry out into the lonely night as she left with her bag and found her way to the bus station.

  This was her path to perdition.

  A girl on her way to right a lifetime of wrongs.

  44

  WALK SPENT A NIGHT AND day dealing with the fallout.

  There were questions from Iver County PD, he said little, they were still trying to figure out why Darke had broken into the Noble house. Walk did not help much with that. He said he was tired, sick, that he’d write a full report in the coming days. He wouldn’t speak of Duchess and the tape. He’d find a better angle.

  He climbed into the rental and drove someplace he could sleep. A motel fifty miles from anywhere.

  In a tired room he lay on his bed and thought of Duchess, lost out there now. He did not fight the way his body shook, just caved to it. His pants were loose, he’d punched new holes in his belt three times now. If he looked in the mirror he would see a frown where his smile had once been. They said he’d never change. He’d clung to that.

  In the drawer beside he found a Bible and a pen and paper, and he wrote, resigned to resignation, he gave up his badge. There were still questions, maybe forever unanswered, but he would try, for the girl and the boy, he would still try.

  He called Martha, got her machine so left the kind of rambling message that told her he was good, knew she wouldn’t buy it but signed off with a promise to call again after he got some sleep. He also told her he was sorry, sorry for more than he could possibly atone for.

  His cell rang at nine.

  He expected to hear Martha’s voice but it was Tana Legros, from the lab. He hadn’t leaned heavy this time, just asked if it could be done quietly.

  “I owe you some bloodwork. I did leave messages, several over the past month.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been …”

  “Anyway, I made the gun a priority.”

  “The blood in Darke’s place. Milton.”

  “No, actually. Animal, not human.”

  Walk ran a hand through his hair as he thought of Milton, hunting with Darke then heading back to his place after. “Deer?”

  “Could be.”

  “Right.”

  “You okay, Walk?”

  “The gun. Did you get anything?”

  “We pulled prints.”

  “Vincent King?” He held his breath, the room doing its spin, all or nothing now.

  “No, actually.”

  Walk took it, too tired even for his pulse to quicken.

  “It’s small.”

  “Woman?”

  “Child. Small child.”

  Walk closed his eyes. And then he dropped the phone as the pieces began to fit. He ached, so beat he could barely hold his head up.

>   He thanked Tana, then dialed Vincent.

  Vincent answered on the second ring, a man that did not sleep anymore, one of the night people.

  “I know.”

  He listened to Vincent draw breath.

  “What do you know?” Vincent said it quiet, not a challenge, just acceptance now.

  “Robin.” The little boy’s name hung long in the air, the last year, all that had gone before. Walk stepped to the window, saw the freeway empty of cars, the sky empty of stars. “I found the gun.”

  The silence was long, just the two of them, holding together, like always.

  “You want to tell me?”

  “I took two lives, Walk. I can live with one of those.”

  “Baxter Logan. He paid his price, right?”

  “You think it makes that woman’s family happy, what I did to the monster that ruined her? Maybe. I know what I did. I live with that. But not Sissy. Each time … each one of my breaths is stolen from her.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “You already know.”

  Walk swallowed. “The boy shot his mother.”

  Vincent breathed.

  “But he was aiming at someone else,” Walk said, quiet, sad.

  “Darke.”

  “The girl burned his club. Insurance wouldn’t pay. How’d you fit?”

  “I saw his car, went round back, the cut. Darke said he was searching the place, tried the kids’ bedroom door and Star lost it. The boy climbed out the window, heard his mother scream and came back.”

  “Brave,” Walk said. “Like his sister.”

  “Star shoved him in the closet, got him out of the way. The kid found the gun. Maybe he thought she was getting beat. He aimed out, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Still had them closed when I got there.”

  “Darke.”

  “Would’ve killed him. He had her blood on him. Kid’s the only witness, whatever he says, Darke’s at the scene. Darke goes down.”

  Walk rested his head against the glass as light rain began to fall. He thought of Darke, that perception and how he used it. Maybe he would’ve killed the boy, Walk didn’t think so. But the angle presented itself. “How’d you plead it?”

  “Told him I’d take it all. I’d take the fall, no one else for the cops to look for. He was never there.”

  “He bought that?”

  “No. The house, Walk. He wanted the house. So I gave in. He could buy it, if he left the kid alone.”

  “Why didn’t you just plead guilty?”

  “Plead guilty and I spend the rest of my life in that cage. Plead innocent and the end comes at me. The case wasn’t winnable. Questions would have come. The gun.”

  “You hid it.”

  “Darke took it. His insurance in case I changed my mind.”

  “You helped Robin back through the window. Washed your hands. Shit, Vincent.”

  “Thirty years inside, you learn about crime scenes.”

  “You plugged the holes and stayed silent.”

  “Your questions didn’t need answering. I look more guilty if I just stay silent. Start talking and you tie me up, no gun, I couldn’t explain that. Let them stick a needle in my arm. Let them do what they should have done thirty years ago.”

  “Sissy. It wasn’t murder.”

  “It was, Walk. You just didn’t want to see it that way. I’m ready now. I want to go. I’ve always wanted to go. But after I’d served my time. Hal said he was glad I was in there, that I should be punished. Death was too good.”

  “Darke couldn’t raise the funds to buy your place. Not the down payment, the taxes. Not after what Duchess did,” Walk said.

  “I didn’t know that. But then he wrote me.”

  “I saw the letter.”

  “Right.”

  “You must’ve been mad.”

  “I was. At first I was. Not for me … but the money. I needed that money.”

  “He gave the gun back because he couldn’t keep his side of the deal. A man of his word, right?”

  Silence for a long time.

  “People are complex, Walk. Just when you think you got them figured … he gave me an out if I ever needed it.”

  “Sometimes wishes do come true … the wishing tree.” Walk said it to himself, tired smile on his face, right there and he’d missed it.

  Walk thought of Vincent on the other end. He wondered how ground down he was, if there was any of the kid left in there. “You banked on the boy not remembering.”

  “I saw him, gone like that, out of this world. I don’t think he knows. So I told him I did it. That’s enough, just that doubt. Let someone else take it away. Fuck, he deserved that. I tried to bring her back. I pumped her chest with everything I got.”

  Walk thought of Star, the broken ribs. And he thought of Darke and Madeline and the cruel hand of fate.

  “You lied for me. You stood in court, wearing your badge, and you lied. You still know yourself, Walk?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t save someone that doesn’t want to be saved.”

  Quiet a long time.

  “How’s things with Martha?”

  Walk just about managed a smile. “That’s why you wanted her.”

  “A million tragedies began that night, Walk. Most of them I can’t fix.”

  Walk thought of Robin Radley. “I used to want to go back and do it all again. But now I’m just tired. So fucking tired. Maybe you did a good thing.”

  “I owe a debt to the Radleys. He might not remember. He’s small. I could die giving him his life back. There’s a chance it’ll all stay black.”

  “You near gave your life for a chance.”

  “I couldn’t let him be me.”

  45

  WALK DROVE DOWN LAST ROADS, each mile behind one he would not travel again. He had spent a life afraid of change. He had killed. Nothing outward was different, he knew it would not be. The bay came at him in such glory, he kept his eyes on broken lines.

  Twenty miles from home he found the place, a storage facility, West Gale, tired, red lockups, no office, just a number to call if you needed service.

  Walk pulled up, headed over and took the keys from his pocket. He checked the number on the tag and found one of the smaller units. He unlocked it and stepped into dark, found the switch, light flickered, strips cast dull yellow.

  On one side he found a couple of plastic storage containers. He worked slow, saw everything from an old, happier life. Wedding album, Darke looked young, tall but not so imposing, his wife was beautiful. And there were photos of Madeline, brown hair and light eyes, wide smile in every shot. She looked like her mother. A christening gown, an old wedding dress, the kind of things passed down generations.

  Walk would keep hold of it, pay the rental, let the people at the hospital know where it was in case miracles did happen.

  He was about to turn, to kill the lights and lock up when he saw a pile of boxes and garbage bags in the far corner. He checked them, old files, nothing of note, and then he saw a stack of junk mail. And he saw the name and address. Dee Lane.

  He trained his mind back a year before it came to him. Darke’s offer to store her things while she found someplace else to live. Before they made that deal she’d carry with her.

  He tossed the mail back onto the pile then cursed when the whole thing toppled. As he bent down it came to view. Out of place.

  A single videotape.

  He drove back toward the Cape, breached the town limit, saw a new sign, hard metal and towering scaffold, light fell on the promise of new homes, new stores. The motion had passed silently, Walk distracted, just another change in a changing world.

  The station was dark. He left the lights off, sat in his office and loaded the tape, then frowned when he saw The Eight, Darke’s club. And then he noted the date in the top corner, and his pulse began to quicken as he realized what he was watching.

  It covered a day, he rolled it forward till he saw her, Star, working the bar. He watched
her like the ghost she was, the way she smiled and flirted as the tips rained down. He skipped a little, stopped at a scuffle, bodies everywhere. Star fell back, clutched her eye and appeared to curse. She was stumbling, moving like the liquor had finally taken effect.

  Walk couldn’t see who the guy was, back to the camera.

  But then the man walked out.

  He recognized the limp, the pain it took to try and correct it.

  Brandon Rock.

  He searched again, rolled it forward till he saw her, clear as day. Small, blonde hair, face tortured with hate as she worked. He watched Duchess start the fire that would burn for a year.

  When he was done he stood. He took off his badge and placed it on the desk, then took the tape from the machine and stepped out into the night air. He walked a little up Main, snapped the tape from the case and pulled out the reel, then he dropped it into the trash.

  * * *

  The King house was empty.

  Duchess stood out front, an old Taurus parked up at the curb. She’d taken the keys from a lady playing the slots in a bar in Camarillo. She’d leave it there, keys inside, too tired to feel sorry now.

  She’d circled it and knocked on the door. There was doubt that lingered, that she could go through with it, despite the journey she had been on to get close to this moment.

  As she’d driven down Main she had stared at streets like she expected something to have changed in the year she’d been away, nothing major, just something that told her Cape Haven was not the same without her and her small family. Instead she saw the town at rest, nothing different, not even a yard left overgrown. Just gloss, like her mother’s blood had been painted over so thoroughly, like she had never been.

  She went round to the back again, found a rock and broke a window, crashing waves stole the sound.

  Inside the King house she walked through the rooms, gun in hand. Photos on the wall, Vincent and Walk, their backs to the water, the kind of carefree smiles she herself had never known.

  She climbed the stairs and checked each bedroom. Only moonlight to guide her. She saw a closet, Vincent’s clothes, so few. Three shirts, a pair of jeans, heavy boots. She thought of the making of a murderer, if it began long before birth, cursing the parents’ genes, the fatal bloodline. Or maybe it slowly crept, too many knocks, too many scars. Vincent King might have once been good, but a child’s blood did not wash from your hands. And thirty years amongst the most flawed of men, it would take the strongest to survive intact.