Chris Whitaker: We Begin at the End

“Don’t fucking say that. All these years you could’ve reached out, come seen me, shit, even picked up the phone. It was Vincent that made you, like he always did.”

“That’s not—”

“When I asked you about the Vincent you remembered, you highlighted the good, and didn’t say shit about all the times he fucked Star over. All the girls, all the times she cried on my shoulder. You used to cover for him, even lied to me. You always covered for him.”

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know that. I’m just saying, you’ve lived the past thirty years for someone else. Isn’t it time you stopped?” She strode to the door, then stopped and turned and jabbed a finger toward him. “When you’re done, when the pity party is over and you find your balls again, you call me.”

The door opened and Martha brushed past Leah Tallow, who turned and watched her leave.

“Is she alright?”

He stood, closed the door and ushered Leah into the chair opposite. She wore no makeup, hair pulled up, face drawn.

He took his seat.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Walk?”

“Yes.”

He watched as she dialed from a burner cell.

Darke did not answer. Leah waited for the mechanical voicemail.

“I know where they are. Call me.” Leah’s voice caught as she spoke. Tears fell as she cut the connection.

“When he calls back you give him this address. You tell him the kid is friends with Duchess and might know where to find her.” Walk slipped her a piece of paper, the handwriting just about legible.

“Don’t do this, Walk. I’ll speak to Boyd, I’ll tell him everything.”

He watched her, what was left, and he tried to hate her but could not.

* * *

She knew to head south, to the bigger town, Fort Pryor, where there was a bus station. She did not know how far fifty bucks would get her, she guessed not far enough. Maybe Idaho, Nevada if she was lucky. She decided right off to look no further than the day ahead, any more and the task at hand reared up and pushed her back.

She rode single tracks, kept her pace slow, when the climbs began she got off and pushed, when they dropped she went with them, hand pulling the brake, cautious.

Montesse, Comet Park, areas of outstanding beauty all hidden by enveloping trees and shadow. Pretty houses spaced far apart, yellow signs calling for votes on Keystone pipelines that would pump life into stalling towns, the few trucks outside a grocery store nothing more than the twitch of death.

Two miles from anywhere she got a flat. A blow that brought her close to tears. She tried to move onward, the bike slow now, each pedal double the effort.

She cursed as she dumped Thomas Noble’s bicycle in the woodland beside Jackson Creek.

She sat on a fallen tree, ate bread already turning hard, drank the rest of her water, then moved off on foot, her sneakers not up to the land, the skin pulled from both heels.

She passed farmhouses and patchwork fields, every shade of green and brown, Trinity churches that still had bells and people to ring them. For a mile she trailed an old couple, rambling gear, long sticks and easy smiles. She listened to each of their steps, though she kept off the trail she at least had some sense of direction. They would be heading somewhere. She was still sure it was south.

She lost them, cursed again, feeling weak and thrown.

She came to a road so big and long and empty that she stopped beside and tilted her head toward the sky.

And then the old couple reappeared. Hank and Busy from Calgary. Retired, vacation, staying at motels and hiking trails, looking through old eyes at new sights.

She fell into step with them, gave them half a story, how her mother was sick and she was heading into the hospital in Fort Pryor to see her. They gave her water and a candy bar.

Busy spoke about her grandchildren, seven of them scattered, a banker far east, a doctor in Chicago. Hank walked in front like he was scouting the land, moving branches for the ladies, his neck red from the sun.

Hank noticed her limp, soon had her on the grass while he fished through his bag and found pads that he taped to her heels.

“Poor girl.”

They moved again. Hank had a map and he pointed out Lake Tethan.

“Another lake,” Busy said, and made eyes at Duchess.

“I used to live in a town called Cape Haven. When I was small.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Busy said. She had powerful calves, hiking legs. A broad face, handsome not soft. “Do you remember it well?”

Duchess batted blackfly from her face as they emerged on another trail. “No.”

They crossed Route 75 and took a road not wider than a truck. She did not question as Hank moved with such purpose. They were staying half a mile out of Fort Pryor and would get her there safely. She was due luck. Long due.

“Do you have any siblings?” Busy asked.

“Yes.”

Duchess saw Busy wanted to ask more, saw it in the sad smile and watery eyes. She let it go and the moment drifted high above them.

An hour of walking and they came to a set of gates at the curve of a road that climbed so far its end could not be seen. Beside honeysuckle and flowers that were dying they pushed through because Hank said they should stop for a little bit.

The house emerged large and stately. They walked to the front and looked up at the stone, blocks bigger than her head, windows ornate and pretty.

Hank looked around and Duchess watched him, clutching her bag tight and checking her guns.

“The house is Attaway, Hank likes architecture.”

Hank pulled out a camera and snapped off a dozen shots.

They circled to the back and saw neat and long bodies of water that stretched to woodlands.

“Smoke,” Busy said and pointed.

It rose from a fire by the clearing. Another couple, same age, same look in their eyes. Like they’d found heaven a decade before they were due. Introductions were made, Nancy and Tom from North Dakota, had an RV back at Hartson Dam but wanted to see the Attaway house.

They ate grilled hamburgers. Duchess thought of Robin, checked her watch and saw he would be eating now, alone. He would not eat without her. She got a pain in her stomach so bad she clutched it.

At sunset they made it to the motel. Fort Pryor was a ten-minute walk. Hank filled her hands with candy bars and another bottle of water. Busy hugged her tight and told her she’d pray for her mother.

Duchess walked downtown, her feet aching a little less. Dark fell on the mountain behind, a couple of lights, a diner, Stockman and Bob’s Outdoor.

She found the bus station on the corner, across from a body shop, shiny cars lined as streetlight bounced from their hoods. Inside was a black lady at the counter, not busy enough for Duchess’s liking. She guessed Shelly would have called the cops and maybe they would’ve taken a look at the farm, spoke to Thomas Noble, she doubted they’d have put anything more together.

“How far can I get with fifty bucks?”

The lady peered over her glasses. “Which way you heading?”

“South. California.”

“You alone? You don’t look old enough to—”

“My mother is sick. I have to get home.”

She watched Duchess, tracing her features for something, the lie maybe. Decided she didn’t care enough so turned to her computer.

“Buffalo, it’ll set you back forty.”

There was a map behind plexiglass. Duchess found Buffalo. It looked a long way but nowhere near far enough.

“It doesn’t leave till morning. You want to think on it?”

Duchess shook her head, pushed her money over the counter.

“We’re closing up soon,” she said, as Duchess eyed the cushioned bench. “You got somewhere to go?”

“Yes.”