Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

When they bowed their heads in prayer she found Star’s face behind her eyes, so clear and untroubled she wanted to cry out. She felt tears well so kept them locked tight. And when the old priest spoke again she stayed bowed, stayed locked to the gateway for fear she would lose that last image she was not yet ready to.

She felt a hand on her, a big hand, reaching over her brother and trying to offer her comfort when she needed it least.

“Fuck you,” she whispered. “Fuck all of you.”

She stood and ran from the church, so fast and so far she could scarcely hear the call of damnation, pressing her into the dirt.

She sat in the long grass and tried to breathe herself calm. She did not notice Dolly until she came to sit beside her.

“Nice dress.”

Duchess ripped up a handful of grass and tossed it into the light breeze.

“I won’t ask if you’re alright.”

“Good.”

Duchess stole a glance at her, bright lips and smoked eyes, hair curled. She wore a cream skirt, navy top cut low, and silk scarf. So much a woman Duchess felt even more a girl.

“That’s a lot of tit for church.”

“I take my bra off and they’d roll down the aisle.”

Duchess did not laugh. “It’s all bullshit. In there.”

Dolly lit her cigarette, the smoke just about covering the perfume. “I see you, Duchess.”

“What do you see?”

“I used to hate like that. The flames get too hot sometimes, right?” The cigarette flared a little in the breeze.

Duchess went back to tearing at the grass. “You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know you’re still young enough. I didn’t work it out till I was old.”

“Work out what?”

“That I wasn’t alone in the world.”

Duchess climbed to her feet. “I know I’m not alone. I’ve got my brother. And I don’t need anyone else. Not Hal, not you, and not God.”

* * *

Bitterwater was a sprawl of concrete and steel. Storefronts papered with fliers for bars and bands and cheap liquor. Twenty miles inland from the Cape, the kind of place where something critical went wrong during planning meets.

Walk passed rows of industrial units, shipping containers stacked, self-storage and trade supplies, before he found the place.

The law office of Martha May, part of a strip mall on the edge of town, was sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a Mexican place that advertised eighty-nine-cent tacos.

Walk left the cruiser in a spot and crossed the lot.

Bitterwater Dental, Spirit Electronics, Red Dairy. A salon where a masked Asian woman sprayed the nails of a tired-looking mother, who rocked a stroller with her foot.

Above the sky grayed and beside the neon blinked. TACOS. He pushed the door and was met by wall to wall people. All women, all with kids and the kind of eyes that told similar, sorry stories. There was a desk, a secretary pushing seventy, blue hair and pink frames. She smacked gum as she typed, cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder and winked at a little girl who was screaming the place down.

Walk stepped out again.

He sat in the car till six, counted off the leavers and watched the secretary climb into a rusting Bronco and spend a good minute firing the engine. When she was gone he crossed the lot. The Mexican place was warming up with weary office workers sipping beer in the window.

He tried the shop door but found it locked, so he knocked a couple of times.

He heard her on the other side of the frosted glass. “We’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Sorry.”

“Martha. It’s Walk.”

A minute till he heard the lock snap.

And then there she was.

They eyed each other for a moment. Martha May, brown hair framed an elfin face. She wore a gray suit, Walk almost smiled when he saw the Chuck Taylors she paired with it.

He thought of moving for a hug but she turned, no smile. She led him to her office, which was nicer than he was expecting. Oak desk, potted plant and wall to wall law books. She sat, then motioned for him to follow.

“It’s been a long time, Walk.”

“It has.”

“I’d offer you coffee but I’m too beat.”

“It’s nice to see you, Martha.”

Finally a smile, and it got him the way it always had.

“I’m so sorry about Star. I wanted to come, but I had a court date and couldn’t move it.”

“I got the flowers.”

“Those kids. Jesus.”

There were files on her desk, stacked neatly but towering high. They talked a while, about Star, the shock of it and the way Boyd had taken over. He made it sound like he was on the case too. There was something strained there, the only way it could be when two people who’ve seen each other naked reconvene.

“And Vincent?”

“He didn’t do it.”

She walked over to the window and looked out at a view of the highway behind. He heard the passing cars, the occasional horn, the roar of a motorcycle.

“You’ve done well here, Martha.”

She tilted her head a little. “Why, thank you, Walk. Your approval means so much to me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I’m too tired for small talk. You want to tell me what you want?”

His mouth dried. He didn’t want to be there, calling on the kind of favor he had no way of repaying.

“Vincent wants you.”

She turned. “Wants me how?”

“Wants you as his lawyer. I know how that sounds.”

She laughed. “Do you, Walk? Because the way I hear you don’t have a goddam clue.” She took a breath and calmed. There was a plaque on the wall, Southwestern, and a corkboard beside, with cards and photos of smiling mothers and their kids.

“I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

“I know that. I told him.”

“No. That’s my answer.”

“Alright. I asked.”

She smiled. “Still doing Vincent King’s bidding.”

“I’d do anything to stop an innocent man being put to death.”

“It’s a capital case?”

“Yes.”

She slumped in her chair, kicked her sneakers up onto the desk. “I can recommend someone.”

“I already tried that.”

She fished a candy from a bowl, peanut M&Ms. “Why the hell does he want me?”

“Thirty years in there, it’s easy to forget, you and me are all he’s got now.”

“I don’t even know him. And I don’t even know you anymore, Walk.”

“I haven’t changed all that much.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He laughed. “You want to grab something to eat and catch up?” He spoke quietly, his cheeks beginning to redden. “If you’ve got eighty-nine cents I know a great taco place.”

“Can I be honest, Walk?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve spent a long time leaving Cape Haven behind. I don’t want to head back there.”

He stood, smiled and walked out the door.

15

WALK WATCHED THE SLOW WAKE of Main.

Milton stood bloodied, laying out cuts with an eye for the artistry, brisket and prime and short. Walk bought his steak there, at a price the vacationers wouldn’t get near.

He’d just got off the phone with Hal. He’d check in weekly, check on Robin, maybe the only one who might have heard something that night. Hal said they’d found a doctor, a shrink, a lady that worked out of her home twenty miles from the Radley farm. They mentioned no names, no towns. Walk was overly cautious.

“You want coffee?” Leah said from the door.

Walk shook his head. “You alright, Leah?”

“Tired.”

Some days it was clear she’d been crying, red eyes swollen. Walk guessed it was Ed, he’d always had an eye. Walk reasoned men were just wired different, flawed design, fucking idiots.

“I need to get on those files soon. The state of that back room.”

She’d been riding him about it for years, a change of system, new forms. It was no secret Walk liked things the way they were. Every time an application was put through to pull down an old house and replace it he lodged an objection.