Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

She’d covered her tracks. She was smart enough.

Her street and her yard, she moved as quiet as she could, left her bike propped and climbed back through the window. The house still slept. In the bathroom she stripped from her clothes, paid no mind to the cut, crept naked to the washer and got to work.

When she was done she got into the tub, ran water from the shower head and soaped and cleaned. And then, in the mirror, she pulled a half inch piece of glass from her arm and watched blood pour as it went. She looked at the red, at the history there, her outlaw ancestry steeling her.

They were not a family that had a medicine cabinet, or a first-aid box, but Duchess found a pack of children’s Band-Aids she’d picked up a year back, selected the biggest, stuck it down hard and watched it color.

She lay at the foot of her brother’s bed, curled like a cat, waiting for sleep that did not find her.

First light, the hot night behind, she wondered what would come.

It would be bad.

She cursed herself fully.

9

WALK FOUND HIM AT THE edge of the cliff.

The rear fence pulled down, Vincent stood with his toes free of the rock, the slightest wind would carry him a hundred feet down. He wore jeans and an old T-shirt, his eyes cloaked with tiredness. Walk knew how he felt. He’d been woken a little after one, the call about Darke’s club. He’d pulled on his uniform and driven the mile, the sky lit red. Fourth of July all over again. He’d followed the heat, noise and lights, left the cruiser across two lanes, a little traffic building but most having the sense to double back.

Darke stood apart from the onlookers as smoke rose and grayed the sky. No emotion.

“You want to take a step back from the edge, Vin? You’re kind of making me nervous here.”

Together they walked back up to the shade of the house.

“Were you praying or something, standing there like that? I worried you were going to jump.”

“Is there a difference between a prayer and a wish?”

Walk took his hat off. “You wish for what you want, and pray for what you need.”

“Pretty sure mine are one and the same.”

They sat together on the steps of the rear deck. New panels leaned beside them, not yet stained. It would take a lifetime to restore the place.

“You know that guy, Dickie Darke?”

“I don’t really know anyone, Walk.”

Walk waited, did not press.

“The Radley girl, and Star. He was giving them shit so I stepped in. No one else seems to.”

Walk took it. “Star says they’re friends. She won’t press charges.”

“Friends.”

Walk heard it again, that softest note of jealousy. Vincent still cared.

“His place, it burned last night.”

Vincent did not speak.

“He owns a club on Cabrillo, money in the jar. Darke mentioned your name, so I had to—”

“It’s alright, Walk, don’t even worry about it.”

Walk ran his hand along the leaning rail. “So, you were home last night.”

“I imagine a man like that has a fair few people pissed at him.”

“I’ve got a fairly good idea who I need to talk to.”

Vincent looked over.

“We had a call, driver, saw a kid on a bicycle.”

“Can you just, I mean, could you just leave it? I know what I’m saying, I don’t have a right to get involved, but she’s a kid. Star’s kid.”

“She is. Anyway, whoever did it had the good sense to take the security tape, so long as they keep quiet …”

“Right.”

And that was it, Vincent said nothing else and Walk left him to it. He logged the conversation, he was doing his job, he would always do his job.

He left Vincent, then found the girl and the boy on Sayer, the long route, away from Main. They walked, Robin out in front, crossing yards, every now and then checking back that he wasn’t alone. And Duchess, that careful way she carried herself, like she was listening out, expecting trouble at all times. She turned as he drew up and regarded him with that same equanimity he saw in Vincent.

Walk killed the engine, got out and stood, the sun creeping above a clad house. That morning his hands did not shake, the dopamine, the new dose. Respite would not last long.

“Morning, Duchess.”

She had those tired eyes too. She carried her bag and her brother’s. She wore jeans and old sneakers and a T-shirt that had a small hole beneath one arm. Her hair was tousled, blond like her mother, the bow there, like always. She was pretty enough that the boys would have lined up, if they didn’t know, if everyone didn’t know.

“Do you know about Darke’s place?”

He looked for a tell, she had none at all. He was glad of that. He willed her to play it right, to give the answers he needed.

“It burned last night. Someone saw a kid on a bicycle, around that time, you know?”

“I don’t.”

“It wasn’t you?”

“I was home all night. You can check with my mother.”

He rested his hands on his bulging stomach. “I buried a lot over the years. Each time I questioned myself. The times you got caught stealing—”

“Food,” she said, sad. “It was just food.”

“This is different. A lot of money, if someone was in there they could’ve died. Some things I can’t protect you from.”

They stood together as a car passed, a neighbor, old and looking on, a quick glance at them and then away. Star’s girl, not a hint of surprise.

“I know about Darke and what he’s like.”

She palmed her eyes, too tired, her muscles all tight. “You don’t know shit, Walk.” She said it quiet but he took it hard. “Why don’t you go stroll up Main and help the vacationers with their dogs.”

He looked for something to say, instead he dropped his eyes to the grass and thumbed his badge, redundancy fit him like a second skin.

She turned and walked on, not looking back. He knew if it wasn’t for Robin keeping her straight, his hands would be all full.

At the school gate she saw the car, the Escalade, black with windows that shaded out the world. It sat idle, the unknowing passed by. Yellow buses lined like flowers.

She knew it would come; Star always talked about balance, cause and effect. She waved off her brother and watched him into the red doors.

In the air was still fire, floating embers that charred her arms and clung to her nose. She wondered who’d seen her at that hour, that night hour when the socially concerned should’ve been home and sleeping off the perfect day. Bad luck, that was all. A part of her was glad, because fuck Dickie Darke.

She crossed the street and walked up to the window outside her school, where she was safe, with teachers and people who promised to notice strangers.

The window dropped. Darke’s eyes, swollen, bloated like he’d been dredged from the water, except instead of the ocean it was money and greed that filled him.

She stood still, her knees shaking beneath her jeans but she fixed him with a hard look.

“Get in.” Not angry, not loud.

“Fuck you.”

A group of kids from her class passed and did not see her, all excitement, last week of school. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like, a little more ordinary, a little more nothing.

“Kill the engine and take the key out.”

He did.

She walked round. “I’ll leave the door open.”

He gripped the wheel, thick fingers, huge knuckles.

“We both know.”

She watched the sky. “We do.”

“Do you know about the principle of causation?” He looked so sad, so fucking big and tough and sad. A creature not of this world.

“Come at me.”

“You don’t know what you did.”

On the mat was a single spent butt, just stubbed and burned in. The brand her mother smoked.