Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

No one worked the gatehouse during night hours, so Walk left the cruiser beneath trees that swayed against lightening sky, crossed the driveway and stepped through the smaller gate to the side.

No life in any of the houses, not even the place across the street. He moved without care, head up, no doubt caught on the cameras. He did not know if it was the lack of sleep or the way his body tremored but that morning he did not give a shit for the trouble he was inviting.

He moved down the side of the house, opened the gate and stepped into the yard, and then stalled when he saw it. The back door, a single pane of glass missing, removed with great care, no noise at all. He thought of the men looking for Darke as he reached in and turned the handle.

No sign of anything as he moved through the house, TV off, plastic fruit in the bowl, up the stairs and through the bedrooms, made up like a perfect family had stepped out for an hour so interested parties could get a look at their lives.

He checked beneath the bed, pulled the sheets back and then tossed the pillow to the floor. And then he saw it, far out of place. Right there in the bed, a sweater, small and pink. A girl’s sweater. He thought of bagging it, taking it, and then explaining it to Boyd. He left it, but made a note in his pad so he’d remember.

And then the flash of lights.

He ducked low, moved to the window and heard the car idle. He risked a look, different sedan but same two, the bearded guy rolled the window down, lit by the glow from his cigarette. He stared at the house.

Walk counted off the beats of his heart.

Fifteen minutes till they backed up, turned and slowly rolled away. He got the plates, for what it was worth.

Back in the kitchen he switched on the lights and searched every cupboard.

He almost missed it.

Down on his knees he checked the tiles.

No doubt it was blood.

It took three hours to get a tech van over, and that was all on favor. Tana Legros had been at the end of her shift when he called. Walk had once busted her son smoking weed at a party he broke up on Fallbrook. He’d recognized the kid’s surname and driven him home instead of writing him up. Tana would be grateful till the day she died.

Once Moses arrived at the gatehouse Walk tried to liaise with the guy, but found the easiest way to deal with his questions was to slip him a twenty.

He ventured through to the back where he found the small office. The computer was plastic, hollow, as fake as the ideal.

Tana came, one other guy with her, young and methodical and eager. The guy stood back and raised an eyebrow as Tana lowered her mask. She pointed in the direction of the kitchen, blinds pulled, luminol reagent set the floor aglow.

“Jesus,” Walk said. “Blood?”

“Yes,” Tana said.

“Is that a lot?”

“Yes.”

“Can you run it?”

“You got a warrant to be in here?”

He said nothing.

“Guess I can’t remove this tile then.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll swab and hold on to it. You give me something more and I’ll work up a profile. Won’t get nowhere if it’s not in the system though.”

He thought of the men after Darke. And then his mind ran to Milton.

He left the cruiser up on the sidewalk, ran across Milton’s front yard and hammered the door.

“Milton,” he yelled, then stepped back into the street and looked at the upstairs windows. He heard a noise behind, turned and saw Brandon Rock watering his grass.

“You seen Milton?”

“Vacation.” Brandon looked like shit, dark glasses, stubble, feathered hair collapsed.

“You alright?”

“Leah didn’t tell you?”

“What?”

“Those two don’t even talk anymore, she probably doesn’t even know,” Brandon slurred it.

“Know what, Brandon?”

“Ed let me go.”

Walk took a step nearer and smelled the booze.

“Me and John and Michael.”

“I’m sorry.”

Brandon waved a hand, turned and walked unsteadily toward his house. “Falling market. Failing economy. Bullshit. Ed ran the place into the ground. Booze, the women. Used to go to The Eight more than me, and I lived in that place.”

Walk dragged a trash can over, stood on it, pulled himself over Milton’s side gate and dropped into the backyard, feeling his bones jar as he hit the ground.

He found the key under a false stone. Five years back Milton had taken in a stray, a skinny mongrel that he turned so fat it was put to death a year later. So much meat it went happy. Walk had agreed to feed the thing when Milton’s father passed.

Inside.

He smelled blood right off, guessed Milton secreted the scent wherever he sat. He saw a calendar on the wall, two weeks marked, even had a circle on the day he’d be opening up again.

“Milton,” he called it loud, in case the guy was bathing, the kind of sight that’d chase dreams with nightmare for all eternity.

Nothing in the living room.

He climbed the stairs, tried the guestroom. A mattress on the floor, no sheets. And then he came to the master.

It was neat, thick blanket on the bed, despite the warmth, an old dresser with mirror above, maybe the kind his mother had used. On the wall was the head of a deer, mounted on mahogany, the dead eyes made Walk wonder what kind of man wanted the thing watching over him like that.

There was a bookshelf, heavy with texts on hunting, traps, maps of the wild. Nothing on astronomy.

He walked over to the window, saw the telescope, the Celestron, and ran a finger along the back. The dust was thick, like he hadn’t used the thing in a year.

He leaned down, peered through and took a breath when he found the telescope not angled at the sky but on the house across the street.

On a single window.

The window to Star Radley’s bedroom.

He thought of Milton, always offering help, the Comanche, taking out her trash, giving Duchess cuts of meat to take home. Walk always had him down as good, misunderstood, a little off, but basically a decent man. He cursed under his breath as he began searching through drawers.

He found the suitcase beneath the bed, hauled it out and dumped it on top of the mattress.

Neighborhood Watch. Scrawled in marker pen across the top. There was order inside, the photos cataloged. They numbered in hundreds. Some were Polaroid, some better quality. He picked one up and saw Star in a state of undress, bare chest, just underwear. And that was the theme. In some she was clothed, working the yard, some had Duchess and Robin in view, clear they were not the focus. He turned from the nudes, Star bent over, Star undressing for bed.

“Fucking Milton.”

Some of the shots were old, ten years of watching. He noticed a couple with a guy she was seeing, Walk couldn’t quite recall the name. He guessed Milton hoped to catch them fucking, instead got a series of shots of Star kissing him goodnight then the guy retiring to the living room.

And then he stopped.

The file marked June 14th .

The day Star was murdered.

With a shaking hand he turned the pages, and cursed again when he saw they were blank.

He took a final look around, then called it in. Leah Tallow took it and sounded shocked when he told her.

He’d bring Milton in, just as soon as he found him.

32

THEY SETTLED INTO FRAGMENTED LIFE.

They trailed in silence each morning as Mary Lou and her brother collected friends on the walk to school. The group stared back and whispered and laughed. One time Duchess slipped on the ice, tore her jeans and cut her knee. They did not stop to help. She limped on in quiet, still holding her brother’s bag as well as her own.

Mrs Price added a plastic sheet to Robin’s bed. It rustled so loud each night he climbed in with Duchess.