Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

16

IF HOUSES HAD SOULS STAR’S place was black as a December night.

Walk figured Darke would’ve got on as soon as they released it, maybe freshened it up for a new tenant, or just pulled the place down and started over. But it stood untouched, the street door replaced with plywood, a window popped out and boarded up. The grass was long and yellowed.

“I know you miss her, Walk. I do too. And the kids.”

Walk didn’t need to turn, he smelled the blood right off.

“Any news on Vincent King? I thought they would have charged him by now. Newspapers say he’ll be put to death when they find him guilty.”

Walk tensed a little. Last he’d heard the D.A. asked Boyd to have another look for the murder weapon. With the parole violation Vincent wasn’t going anywhere, time was on their side.

“I like the beard by the way. Nice. Real nice. It’s coming in thick. I could grow one, you know. We could both have beards. That’d be funny, right, Walk?”

“Sure, Milton.”

Milton wore sweats and an undershirt, the thick hair swirled from his shoulders down to the backs of his hands.

“This place, what happened here. It’s frightening, right. Blood and all. It’s alright when it’s an animal. I mean, vegans see it different, but then they’ll eat the white meat, so long as it’s sliced thin enough.”

Walk scratched his head at that.

“But Star, when I think of her lying there.” Milton clutched his stomach. “Don’t worry, I’ve been watching the place. If I see kids or anything, I’ll call it in. 10-54.”

“Livestock on Highway.”

Milton turned and headed back across the street, shuffling feet, that metallic smell trailing him.

Walk headed up the path and banged on Brandon Rock’s garage door.

It opened to a blaze of light, Van Halen playing loud, the strong smell of sweat and cologne. Brandon wore Lycra pants, a muscle top cropped just below his chest.

“Walk. That you talking to Sasquatch just now?”

“You fixed that engine yet?”

“Was he bitching again? You know I applied to do a little work on the house, I wanted to open the back, put a dojo above the garage. Guess who lodged an objection?”

Brandon opened a bottle of water and dumped half the contents over his head. “Cool down. I earned it.”

“Fix the car, Brandon.”

“You remember him at school, Walk? I was dating Julia Martin at the time, and she said Milton used to follow her home. Fucking creeped her out.”

“That was thirty years ago.”

Brandon stepped out and stared at the old Radley house. “I wish I’d been here that night. Maybe I could’ve done something, I don’t know.”

Walk had read the interview, brief as it was, they’d gone door to door. “So you were away that night.”

“Just like I told the lady from state. Ed Tallow had me out with clients, looking to build on the edge of town. You heard? Japanese, you know how they like to party.”

“Right.”

Brandon worked his right arm. “Keeping it strong. When I get surgery on the knee I’ll be tossing again.”

Walk didn’t touch that one.

Brandon punched his arm gently, then headed back into the garage. He closed the door, cutting the light and muffling the noise.

Walk stepped across into Star’s front yard, steeling himself as that night came back to him. He felt the tremor in his body, put it down to the memories and nothing more, and then walked down the side of the house.

He opened the side gate, never locked, not in the Cape, and then he stopped still when he heard the noise within. He pressed close, peered in the window and saw the flashlight.

Up onto the porch, he drew his gun and was about to move through.

Walk took a step back, the man towered over him.

“Darke.”

The stare, no words.

“You scared me.” Walk holstered the gun as Dark sat on the bench.

Walk joined him, sat beside without an invite. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my house.”

“Right.”

Walk was more than accustomed to the heat but still wiped sweat from his head. “I heard you spoke with the state cops. I read the report but I wanted to talk to you myself. I was going to call but now you’ve saved me the trouble.”

“The kids. How they doing?”

“They’re …” He searched for the words.

“I wanted to talk to the girl.”

Walk stared at him then, his body stiffening. “Why?”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?”

“She lost a parent. She’s tough, right?” He spoke slow, like each word was chosen with great care.

“She’s a child.”

Moonlight found them through the trees.

“Where’d they go?”

“A long way from here.”

Giant hands rested on giant thighs. Walk thought about moving through life like that, crowds parting, people staring.

“Tell me about her.”

“Duchess?”

Darke nodded. “She’s thirteen, yes?”

Walk cleared his throat. “We got a couple calls over the years. Hilltop Middle. People said they saw a car sitting by the school fence. Black car. No one ever took the plates.”

“I’ve got a black car, Chief Walker.”

“I know.”

“You ever think about the things you’ve done?”

“Sure.”

“And the things you know you’ll have to do.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Darke looked to the moon.

“You know there’s rumors about you, Dickie.”

“Yes.”

“People say you’re violent.”

“I am violent. You tell them that.”

Walk felt his throat dry as the big man kept his eyes skyward.

“I see you at the church,” Darke said.

“I don’t see you.”

“I don’t go inside. What do you pray for?”

Walk rested a hand on his gun. “A fit and just end.”

“Hope is secular. And life is fragile. And sometimes we hold on too tight, even though we know it’ll break.” Darke got to his feet, casting Walk into shadow.

“If you speak to the girl you tell her I’ve been thinking about her.”

“I’ve still got questions.”

“I told those state cops everything. You call my lawyer if you need anything else.”

“And Vincent? You know about the house? He’s thinking about selling. Any idea why he changed his mind?”

“Maybe he found his price. Tragedy brings clarity of thought. I’m talking to the bank. I’ll get the money.”

He turned and left. Walk stood and pressed close to the glass and reached for his flashlight.

The kitchen, every unit pulled down. Ceiling panels popped, drywall punched through in spots. Whatever else Darke had been doing there, one thing was certain. He’d been searching for something.

* * *

Summer bled from Montana faster than it had in the Cape, first in small drips, then the deluge of shaded mornings, brooding dusk.

Duchess received a postcard from Walk, just a photo taken from the Cabrillo Highway. He wrote on the back in blue pen, his scrawl in shaking hand, so bad she almost could not read it.

I think of you both.

Walk.

She tacked it to the wall behind her bed.

She still did not speak to the old man, instead muttering to the gray horse. It became an exercise, she’d talk about the things she did not want to, Darke and Vincent, the time she fished vomit from her mother’s mouth with her fingers, the time she and Robin practiced the recovery position beneath the okame cherry at Little Brook.

Some nights she sat on the stairs and listened as Hal spoke to Walk on the telephone.

Robin’s coming along, loves the animals. He sleeps well. He eats well. That shrink, she said he’s doing better. Half hour each week, he doesn’t complain.