Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

“Serious?”

“One in Jersey, and then I worked the Keys. A lot going on in Cape Haven.”

“Too much.”

Walk held the bottle to his head and soothed the ache forming. His hand shook as he drank, he did not even try and hide it.

“I saw you at the funeral. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to come over.” Andrew had stood at the back, head bowed, stayed a few minutes then slipped out.

Andrew waved him off. “I was … it was sad. The whole thing, when I heard about her. I thought about the kids, even back then, the boy was a baby but the girl used to glare at me.”

Walk thought of Duchess.

“You know who did it, this guy?”

“Maybe.”

Andrew asked nothing else.

They watched a boat head in, low lights over calm water.

Andrew held his bottle to the dying sun. “It’d been five years since I last saw her. But I still thought about her. It wasn’t even … the one that got away, nothing like that. You know when you want to save someone, but you don’t have the first clue how to do it?”

“You saw her a while.”

“A few months maybe. Met her at a bar, watched her sing then bought her a drink, thought she was nice-looking and funny and kind of damaged, which wasn’t all that unusual in the kinds of bars I drink in.”

“And then?”

“We were together but not. Almost like friends. I wanted more.”

Walk watched him.

“Sex. We never did.”

Walk glanced over at a speedboat, out of place, white and garish, no doubt a vacationer bringing out their toy, the old and new colliding in a way that still pained him. FOR SALE sign, Walk hoped whoever bought it took it someplace far away.

“She was beautiful. Sex is something, right. I know we don’t talk about it, but it’s something. In a relationship, without it what have you got?”

Walk thought of Martha, the nature of their friendship, the undercurrent that pushed him every time he saw her, dragging his mind someplace it shouldn’t have been. She had closed off, the parts that were his, her mind, gone to ground with the child she once lost.

“Did she give a reason?” Walk said.

“She said you get one great love. And you’re lucky if you find that. Anything less might as well have been nothing.”

Walk thought of Star. She didn’t get her happy ending. Each night he prayed her children would.

* * *

Robin was nervous the day of the meet.

They lay awake the night before and Robin talked of Peter and Lucy like he knew them well. He decided he might like to be a doctor too, that, or a teacher. She told him to sleep, that he wanted to be fresh. He talked another hour.

She laid out his shorts and T-shirt, he exchanged them for his smart slacks and funeral shirt. He tried on his bowtie, discarded it. He shined his best shoes with spit and paper towels. She tried to untangle his hair, gave up and pressed it to a parting.

She wore jeans and a top, he yelled till she changed into a dress. He chose a yellow bow for her hair then asked if she should wear a little makeup. He ate no breakfast, just sipped his juice at the window.

“You need to relax.”

“What if they don’t show?”

“They will.”

The drive to the park, Robin was quiet, staring out. Duchess saw his small fingers crossed. They pulled into the lot, stepped out to sun, birdsong and gentle breeze.

Peter was short, a little overweight but he carried it well. Lucy smiled in the kind of wholesome way that made Duchess think she was born to be a mother or a third-grade teacher. Shelly waved and they began to walk over.

Peter turned and whistled. A black Lab looked up, one paw in the air, then began to run.

“They’ve got a dog,” Robin said it in a whisper.

“Just try and be cool.”

Robin looked up at her. She waited a little, then nodded and he took off, running at the Lab and waving like a madman.

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry,” Shelly said.

“He wanted to bring his suitcase, in case they want to take us right off.”

“Shit,” Shelly agreed.

It could’ve been awkward when they met, like the other times, careful handshakes and too much eye contact, but Peter and Lucy were warm and open right off. They introduced themselves, talked about how far they’d come, driven up with Jet, their Lab, from their small town in Wyoming. Peter set off with Robin and Jet, staying just about in sight as they crossed over long grass. Robin kept looking back and waving till Duchess waved back. Duchess did not say anything wrong, just did not really say anything at all. Lucy told her she liked her dress and Duchess told her thank you. She asked about school and Duchess said it was nice. And about living with the Price family and Duchess said that was nice too.

The whole time she watched and worried, Robin taking Peter’s hand and clutching it tight, then petting Jet and smiling too wide. When Lucy mentioned they kept chickens Duchess hoped and prayed Peter didn’t tell Robin the same thing.

Ten minutes later Robin turned and mouthed chickens to her. Duchess gave him a smile and Robin clapped his hands.

They kept to a safe limit, no talk of the past though Lucy said she was sorry about Hal, about everything. She told how her own mother passed when she was small.

When it was time, Robin hugged Peter so long Duchess had to intervene.

Robin talked the journey back, not stopping for air. He said Peter mentioned meeting again, how he’d let him hold Jet’s leash next time. Shelly told him he did good, that Peter and Lucy said how much they liked meeting them.

“And?” Robin said.

“We’ll see. But I’ve got that good feeling again,” Shelly said.

Robin clapped his hands, then he jumped from the car and ran up the path to the Price house. Mrs. Price met him at the door and smiled for Shelly.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that. Not till you know.”

“It’s important to stay positive,” Shelly said.

Duchess rubbed her eyes, the year long, the uncertainty draining.

She was not sure if she believed in God, but that night she prayed.

34

WALK FOUND HER AT THE church.

He stood by the door, rested a hand on the old clapboard and looked to the water, the flowers on graves.

Martha sat alone on the front bench, her eyes on the stained glass and the pulpit, the same seat she used to take each Sunday morning when her father was minister. Walk took his seat at the back, silent, not wanting to disturb her. He had spent the morning on the phone, first to Boyd, to fill him in on Milton. He told him about the link to Darke, that they went hunting together and that Milton was seen entering and leaving Darke’s place. He could not mention the blood, but Boyd said he would work on it, get a warrant.

And then he’d called a trial lawyer over in Clearlake, a guy named Carter, one of Martha’s contacts. Carter wanted a meet with Vincent King, Walk could not make that happen. It was looming, weeks away, not long enough for anyone to prepare.

“I need you,” he said, and the old church carried his words, causing her to stop, lift her head but not turn. She finished speaking whatever silent words she had chosen.

He walked down, together they sat before the old cross and the sainted neighbors.

“I need you. For the trial.”

“I know.”

He looked down at his tie, gold clip, starred collar, he had never felt so weak, or maybe he always had, but did not realize it till then. He had seen Kendrick again, upped the dose. There was no way to stop what would come.

“I’ll make mistakes. And they will matter.”

“I know it’s unfair.”

“It’s more than that. It’s life and death. I once wanted to stand up front and help people that way. A port of call when times were good and bad. He took that from me. My father.”