Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

Three cups of coffee and they left, caffeine coursing Walk’s veins as the Silver Falls State Park came at them. Martha navigated and before long the trees towered beside. Rocks rose above steep banks of green. Walk opened his window to the rush of sound as they passed a waterfall.

Another turn and they came to the gates. Walk had called ahead, told them he wanted to look around the place. He gave his name through the speaker and watched the gates swing open.

They followed the long road till the hospital came to view, sleek and modern, dark-framed glass contrasted sand bricks, the place could’ve been luxury condos nestled amongst the forest.

The woman’s name was Eicher and she met them at the door with a hearty smile. She led them into a vast entrance hall, modern art, a sculpture that could’ve been an eagle. There was a calm to it all, doctors strolled by, nurses moved slow, no fuss, no worry. At first Walk thought it might’ve been a retreat, the kind of place harried execs came for some downtime. But then Eicher was back with them, and she reeled off the kind of work they did, the complex needs of their patients and the round-the-clock care they provided.

She moved with purpose, despite the extra fifty pounds she carried. An accent, hard to place, might’ve been German but it was muddied by local phrases. She didn’t ask who they were there for, Walk had mentioned a relative on the phone, needed help, needed specialist care. Eicher had told him to come in and take a look around, nothing formal, the fit was important and couldn’t be rushed.

Beside him Martha said nothing, just noted the sprawling day rooms, a bank of elevators and carpet so thick she felt her feet sink.

Eicher detailed the history, the proximity to the State Park and the calm it inspired. They were equipped for any kind of emergency, five doctors on call, thirty nurses.

She led them out into the gardens, which stretched their way down to a stream behind a low fence. Walk saw a couple of porters catching a smoke by a set of doors. Eicher shot them a look and they stubbed out their cigarettes and moved on.

“Can I ask how you found us?” she said.

“A friend of mine. Dickie Darke.”

She smiled then, white teeth, a decent gap between the front two. “Madeline’s father.”

Walk said nothing.

“She’s an exceptional girl. And Mr. Darke is so strong, after losing his wife like that. Did you know Kate?”

Martha stepped forward. “Not well enough.”

Eicher looked sad then, the only crack in a pristine façade. “She was a local girl. Grew up in Clarkes Grove. Madeline is her double.”

She led them back through the building, signed off with a brochure and a promise to call. Walk did not need to press further, he had found what he came for.

“Will you give him my regards? I hope he’s healing up well,” Eicher said.

Walk turned to her, she read the look.

“I’m sorry. The accident. Dickie was limping, said he’d slipped.”

Walk felt the rush then. “When was this?”

“Maybe a week ago. Some people, bad luck seems to follow them around.” Eicher added another smile, then turned and left them.

Fifteen miles to Clarkes Grove, and from there they took a walk along a colorful Main Street, distant from the Cape in miles alone. Walk liked the town right off. They found the old municipal library at the end of the street, quaint but tired, like the place was running on handouts alone. Empty inside, dark and cool, the smell taking Walk back to Portola and his two years of college.

An old lady at the desk didn’t look up from her screen so they headed to the back and the couple of computers. Martha got to work, sitting close to Walk, her leg pressed against his. He watched her, the way she furrowed her brow, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

“Are you checking me out, Chief?”

“No. Sorry. No.”

“That’s too bad.”

He laughed.

She typed quick, “Kate Darke,” the archives pulled up a dozen matches. They read in silence, the car accident, how Kate died at the scene and Madeline Ann suffered catastrophic brain injuries. There were photos, the ice, the Ford left the road and headed straight down a steep bank, meeting trees and popping the windshield. The lake behind, The Eight, the only calm in that shot.

A single photo of the family before.

Martha zoomed in close and Walk was struck by Darke, that emptiness, the hollow gaze, it was all absent back then.

“So Madeline would be fourteen now,” Martha said.

“Yes.”

“Jesus. She’s been in there nine years. Around the time Darke started making his moves. It’s a lot of money.”

Walk found another article, this one focused on Madeline and the work done at Unity. It said a lot and nothing at all. The girl was kept alive by a machine.

Darke was hoping for a miracle.

33

HARBOR BAY.

Walk made it there in thirty, didn’t flash the lights because Cabrillo was empty. The call came in an hour after he made it back from Portland.

He left the cruiser close to the gate and walked past the bobbing trawlers, a shiny Bayliner and a line of Navigators. Gaps between boards, water slopped beneath. He saw a cluster of catfish turning as an old man tossed what was left of the day’s bait.

Frenzied water, salt breeze, a sense of dread.

The trawler was a ’73 Reynolds but looked newer, fresh paint and blue trim, Andrew Wheeler on the deck, his eyes on breaking waves.

Walk knew him a little. Andrew had taken Star out a few times.

In the distance was the Cape, the cliffs, land trailing down to the beach and the King house commanding all of it. Andrew still worked with Skip Douglas, so old and grizzled he barely spoke a word on dry land. Skip stepped onto the boards, nodded once at Walk and headed back toward the lot, no doubt to grab a couple of beers to take the edge off the day they’d had.

Andrew came down and they shook hands, Andrew’s arms muscled and tan, sunglasses on his head despite the dusk sky. Lights flickered on as Walk stepped onto the boat.

“What happened?” Walk said.

“We were out with city people, group from Sacramento. Three of them, childhood friends out traveling their way up to Six Rivers.”

Lobster season ran October through March. There were limits, number and size and weight, but most of the customers just wanted a day out on the water.

“We were heading in slow when Skip called me over. The net was caught, happens often, always a pain in the ass. Sometimes I pull on a wetsuit and head in, cut away where needed.”

Walk placed a hand on the side though the waves were gentle.

“It was heavy, though. Skip even took off his ball cap and wiped his head, and that guy never breaks a sweat. I grabbed the trawl winch and we got it moving. Then it broke the water. The guys puked, all three. Gulls circled, more than usual, that’s how I knew, cries so loud Skip closed the dead man’s eyes.”

“You didn’t touch him other than that?”

Andrew shook his head, then stepped aside.

“The guys were so sick I had to try and cover him on the ride in.”

Walk pulled the towel back then fought for breath.

Milton.

Bloated, mottled, eyes swollen over.

“You alright, Walk?”

“Jesus.”

“You know him?”

Walk nodded.

He thought of the blood at Darke’s place, they’d match it soon enough, he had little doubt. More pieces to figure, so uneven.

“Sit down for a bit, you don’t look so good.”

They sat on the deck and waited for the coroner. Andrew passed Walk a beer, which he sipped as the color returned to him.

“Better?”

“You don’t seem all that shaken up,” Walk said.

“It’s my third body.”