Chris Whitaker: We Begin at the End

Duchess took his hand as they crossed onto Fisher. “Why, what do you know about him?”

“That he killed Aunt Sissy. Thirty years ago. In the seventies, when men had mustaches and Mom wore her hair funny.”

“Sissy wasn’t our aunt, not really.”

“She was,” he said simply. “She looked like you and Mom. The same.”

Duchess had got the bones of the story over the years, from Star when she slurred it, from the archives at the library in Salinas. The same library where she’d spent the past spring working on their family tree. She’d traced Radley roots back far, then dropped the book to the floor when she’d made the link to a wanted outlaw named Billy Blue Radley. It was the kind of find she’d been proud of, something more when she stood up front and presented to the class. There was still a whole load of nothing on her father’s side, just the kind of question mark that drew an angry exchange with her mother. Not once but twice Star had been with a stranger, got herself pregnant, left two children with a lifetime of wondering just whose blood pumped their veins. Slut , she’d whispered beneath her breath. It saw her grounded for a month.

“You know he’s coming out of prison today?” Robin kept his tone hushed like it was a grave secret.

“Who told you that?”

“Ricky Tallow.”

Ricky Tallow’s mother worked dispatch at Cape Haven PD.

“What else did Ricky say?”

Robin looked away.

“Robin?”

He folded quick. “That he should’ve fried for it. But then Miss Dolores yelled at him.”

“Should’ve fried. You know what that means?”

“No.”

Duchess took his hand across onto Virginia Avenue, the lots a little bigger. The town of Cape Haven tumbled its way toward the water, land value inverse to the hills; Duchess knew her place, their home on the furthest street from the ocean.

They fell in with a group of kids. Duchess heard talk about the Angels and the draft.

When they got to the gate she fussed with his hair once more and made sure his shirt was buttoned right.

Kindergarten stood beside Hilltop Middle. Duchess would spend her break at the fence, looking over at her brother. He’d wave and smile and she’d eat her sandwich and watch him.

“You be good.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t say nothing about Mom.”

She hugged him, kissed his cheek and sent him in, watching till Miss Dolores took over. Then she moved on, the sidewalk thick with kids.

Duchess kept her head down as she passed the steps, where a group gathered, Nate Dorman and his friends.

Nate, collar flicked up, sleeves rolled over skinny biceps. “Heard your mom got fucked up again.”

Laughter chorused.

She squared to him straight off.

He stared back. “What?”

She met his eye. “I am the outlaw, Duchess Day Radley, and you are the coward, Nate Dorman.”

“You’re crazy.”

She took a step forward and watched him swallow. “Talk about my family again and I’ll behead you, motherfucker.”

He tried a laugh but didn’t quite manage it. There were rumors about her; despite the pretty face and slight frame, she could turn, lose it so bad not even his friends would step in.

She pushed past, heard him exhale heavily as she walked on, into school, eyes burning from another tortured night.

3

THE ERODING CLIFFS RAN A twisting mile before the road swept the bay and vanished into the tall oaks of Clearwater Cove. Walk followed the line, never edging past thirty.

He’d left Duchess and Robin then driven to the King house, bagged leaves from the path and picked litter from the yard. He’d tended it weekly for thirty years, part of his staid routine.

At the station he checked in with Leah Tallow on the front desk, just the two of them, Walk on call every day of his life. From the window he watched seasons change and vacationers come and go. Hampers were left. Wine and cheese and chocolate that saw him punch another hole in his belt each year.

They had an auxiliary, Louanne, she came in when they needed her, parades, shows, or times when she was just plain bored of tending to her yard.

“You all set for today, return of the King?”

“I’ve been ready thirty years.” He tried to keep his smile in check. “I’m heading out, I’ll pick up pastries on the way back.”

He strolled up Main, same every morning, the practiced walk, the cop stride he’d seen on TV. He’d tried a mustache, like Magnum, made notes when watching Forensic Files , and once even bought a beige raincoat. If a real case ever came in, he’d be ready.

Flags hung from streetlamps, shiny SUVs parked nose to tail and green awnings cast shade over a spotless sidewalk. He saw the Pattersons’ Mercedes double parked, wouldn’t write it up, maybe just offer a friendly warning when he next saw Curtis.

He quickened by the butcher’s but Milton came out fast, then stood on the stoop, whites splashed red, a cloth in his hand like he could rid the stains from his palms.

“Morning, Walk.” Milton was hairy. Thick swirls sprouted from every inch of him, the kind of man who had to shave to his eyeline three times a day in case a passing zookeeper shot him with a tranquilizer dart.

Strung deer in the window, so fresh a day back it had been roaming the Mendocino. Milton hunted, during the season he’d close up and don his deerstalker, load the Comanche with rifles and sheets and a cooler of beer. Walk had gone with him one time, couldn’t find an excuse that lasted long enough.

“Did you talk to Brandon Rock yet?” Milton spit the name, every word labored, like he’d run clean out of breath during a decent conversation.

“On my list.”

Brandon Rock had a Mustang that misfired so bad half the street called it in the first time it happened. It was becoming a nuisance.

“I heard about her. Star. Again.” Milton dabbed sweat from his head with the bloody cloth. Rumor had it he ate nothing but meat, and it was taking a toll.

“She’s alright. Sick, this time she was just sick.”

“I saw it all. Damn shame … with those children.”

Milton lived directly across from Star. He took the kind of interest in her and the kids that spoke more of a lonely life than the dwindling Neighborhood Watch group the man commanded.

“You always see it all, Milton. Maybe you should’ve been a cop.”

Milton waved a hand. “I got enough on with the Watch. 10-51 the other night.”

“Wrecker needed.”

Milton used police codes liberally, and badly.

“She’s lucky she’s got you looking out for her.” Milton pulled a toothpick from his pocket and got to work on a piece of flesh lodged between his two front teeth. “I was thinking of Vincent King. Is it today? People said it’s today.”

“It is.” Walk bent, picked up a soda can and dropped it into the trash, the sun warm on his neck.

Milton whistled. “Thirty years, Walk.”

It would’ve been ten, worst case ten, but for a fight inside. Walk didn’t ever get the full report, just knew his childhood friend had two deaths on his hands. Ten years became thirty, manslaughter became murder, a boy became a man.

“I still think about that day. Us walking the woodland. So, he is coming back to the Cape?”

“Far as I know.”

“You can send him here, if he needs anything. Actually, tell you what, Walk. How about I put a couple trotters aside for him. How does that sound?”

Walk searched for the words.

“So.” Milton cleared his throat and looked down at the ground. “The sky tonight … supermoon. It’ll be a sight, and I just got myself a new Celestron. I mean, I need to set things up, but if you wanted to stop by—”

“I’ve got something on. Another time?”