Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

“He’ll be the wuss, don’t hang around with him,” Duchess said.

The teacher was young, smiling as she made rounds, kneeling and shaking small hands. Duchess led Robin to the pegs and found his name and his animal picture above.

“What animal is it?”

Duchess squinted. “Rat.”

“That’s a mouse,” the teacher said, appearing beside.

Duchess shrugged. “Vermin is vermin.”

The teacher knelt by them, took Robin’s hand and shook it lightly. “I’m Miss Child, and you must be Robin. I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you.”

Duchess nudged him.

“Thank you kindly,” he said.

“And you must be Duchess.”

“I am the outlaw Duchess Day Radley.” Duchess pumped the teacher’s hand so hard she left it white.

“Well, I hope you have a lovely day, Miss Duchess,” Miss Child said, affecting a sweet drawl. “Your brother and I are going to have lots of fun today, right, Robin?”

“Yes.”

Miss Child left them and went back to the crying boy.

Duchess bent to her brother and met his eye, cupped his face till he stayed locked on to her. “Any shit at all, you come find me. You just go into the hall and you scream my name. I’ll be close.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little firmer. “Okay.”

She stood.

“Duchess.”

She turned to him.

“I wish Mom was here.”

Outside in the halls, thinning with stragglers, boys carried a football, red-faced and sweaty. She found her classroom and took a seat by the window, far enough back to keep from being called up.

“You’re in my seat.”

He was tall, odd angles, his shirt coming up small and his shorts high.

“You borrow your sister’s shorts? Keep walking, motherfucker.”

He blushed, turned and went to a seat on the other side of the room.

Beside her was a black boy, so thin she guessed he carried worms or some other parasite. He had a hand twisted into something that no longer looked like a hand. He caught her noticing and stuffed it into his pocket.

He smiled.

She looked away.

“I’m Thomas Noble, you remember me?”

The teacher came in.

“What’s your name?”

“Quiet now, I’m here to learn.”

“That’s a funny name.”

She silently willed him to burst into flames.

“I saw you that time in town. You’re the angel with the golden hair.”

“If you knew anything at all, you’d know I’m about as far from an angel as you can get. Now shut the fuck up and face forward.”

* * *

Walk sat in the parking lot, window open to the smell of Mexican food.

It was late, floods and moonlight replaced the sun as the sky purpled over the Bitterwater sprawl.

He’d been to see Vincent again, three hours in the airless waiting room with nothing but CNN and a busted fan for company. And then he’d sat with him for fourteen minutes. And for each of those he’d begged and pleaded with the man to retain counsel, a criminal lawyer who could at least stand a chance of finding the truth. Vincent had said it was Martha May or no one. And though Walk said it, that she wanted no part of either of them, or Cape Haven and the memories it stirred, Vincent had said nothing more. And then he’d called the guard, and Walk had watched him leave.

The light still burned in Martha’s office, despite the late hour, despite her secretary leaving a couple hours ago. Walk had tried to get out of the car, felt dizzy enough to sit back and close his eyes for a while. He’d tried to call Kendrick, left a message then checked the leaflet that came with his medication. The side-effects were long enough to fill out two pages.

When he saw her emerge from the office he climbed out and walked slowly across the lot. It was emptying, last cars leaving, a couple of old beat-up sedans outside the Mexican and then Martha’s car, a gray Prius with a WWF bumper sticker. Walk remembered she liked animals. On her fifteenth birthday they’d cut school with Vincent and Star and gone to the petting zoo at Clearwater Cove. It was full of little kids, but Martha had smiled the whole day.

“Martha,” he called.

She saw him, tossed her case into the trunk and then stood and waited as he walked over, hand on her hip, like she was more than ready.

“I don’t see you in years and now it’s twice in a month.”

“I want to buy you dinner.” He said it with a confidence that surprised him, and maybe her, because, slowly, she smiled.

Yellow walls and green arches, small tables with checkered cloths. A fan spun slow, moving the smell of chili around the tired bar behind. They took a table in the corner, by the window with a view of the parking lot. Martha ordered for them, tacos and beer. She hadn’t lost her girl-next-door smile, and when she aimed it, the waiter hurried.

Walk sipped the cold beer and felt his muscles unwind, that tightness across his shoulders ease a little as he sank into the chair. Music played quietly, something soft and Latino.

They drank in silence, Martha draining her beer then signaling for another. “I’ll take a cab home.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Jeez, I’m drinking with a cop.”

He laughed. The waiter brought over the food and they ate. It was good, better than Walk had hoped for but still, he pushed his food around, barely eating.

Martha dumped half a bottle of hot sauce on her food. “Zing me, baby. You want in on this, Chief?”

“Not unless you want to continue this conversation in the restroom.”

“Hmm, have you seen the restroom?”

“I’m sure I will later.”

“I like the beard.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The other night, it had been a long day. And I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I should be apologizing to you.”

“You totally should.”

He laughed.

“So, you want to get it over with now or you want to wait till I’ve had another beer?”

“I’ll wait.”

This time she laughed, and it was the sweetest sound Walk had heard in a while.

He took a breath and told her. Everything, from Vincent’s release to Star, to Dickie Darke and Duchess and Robin. He told her about the state cops and how they cut him out. And he told her details of the case that hadn’t been released. Broken ribs, swollen eye, no murder weapon, Vincent unwilling to speak. She wiped tears from her eyes, reached across and took Walk’s hand when he told her about the funeral.

“Shit,” she said, when he was done.

“What a mess. Star, the way her life turned out. Back then I thought we’d be friends forever.”

“I don’t blame you for not looking back.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I looked back plenty. I just couldn’t go back.”

“Right.”

“And Vincent still says he only wants me?”

“He trusts you. The only other lawyer that worked for him was Felix Coke. And look how that turned out.”

“You know the kind of cases I handle, Walk? Battered wives. Adoption. A little divorce work. I do whatever I can to pay the bills each month, and after that I pick and choose who needs me the most. I have a line of women whose sole purpose in life is to get their children back.”

“Vincent needs you.”

“Vincent needs a criminal attorney.”

He moved to pick up his beer, felt the shake in his hands and set it down again.

“Everything alright, Walk?”

“Tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“It’s a lot to take.”

“Please do this, Martha. I know how it looks. I can see it, me showing up and asking for a favor. Believe me it hurts.”

“I believe you.”

“I can’t give up on him. Just come to the arraignment, stand by him while they charge. And then we can sort something out, we’ll make him see sense. I just … I know he didn’t do it. And I know how that sounds, like the words of a desperate man, but that doesn’t make me wrong. I need to figure things out. I need time to look into everything.