Chris Whitaker: We Begin at the End

She handed over the ticket.

“Where do I go from there?”

“You want the quickest or the cheapest?”

“Do I look like I got money?”

A frown, then another look at the screen. “Cheapest seats I got is Denver. Then Grand Junction, on to LA. Long way, girl. Still a lot of money.”

Duchess left the bus station. She had seventeen dollars, a bag with two guns, a little food and a change of clothes.

Outside a bar named O’Sullivan’s she found a payphone, picked up the receiver but realized she did not have anyone to call. She wanted to speak to Robin, not even speak, just listen to him while he slept. She wanted to kiss his head and pull him close, sleep with her arm around him.

She found a park, a cluster of trees and a playground. She slipped into the woodland and lay back on the grass. In her bag she found a sweater and spread it over herself.

At an hour when the town still slept she hiked the half mile, each step heavy, leaden, every muscle resisting.

The motel was quiet, not even a clerk, not anyone at all. BIG SKY sign, COLOR TVS, VACANCY. She walked along the lot, family cars in front of each door, a cluster of trees that rose high above the low roof of dark tile. Drapes over the glass, she moved to the door with the Bronco in front. Calgary plates. Hank and Busy, their window wide open, that was them, unworried.

She laid her bag down and took the gun from it. And then she said a silent prayer as she climbed through and into their bedroom.

A shape that was Hank, sheet covering, dead to the world, a day of hiking would do that. Just enough light to make her way to the chair, where his pants lay. She fished the pocket, found a wallet, a photo of smiling children inside. She could not swallow as she slipped the bills from inside, could not breathe because her chest ached.

And then she saw Busy, eyes open and sad. Duchess reached behind and felt the gun tucked into her jeans. The old lady said nothing.

Duchess was broken as she left.

It was her job to remind them, to let them know the world was not good.

42

WALK SAT IN A RENTAL at the end of Highwood Drive.

A line of single-family houses, big, expensive, German cars on every drive. He wore his uniform though sunk low in his seat. Beside him, empty coffee cups, no food. He’d made the drive, the thousand miles. He thought of flying, facing his fear, but he needed his gun so left that fight for another time.

The Noble house was empty, Thomas and his family on their annual vacation. Duchess once told him they spent every summer in Myrtle Beach. Walk had given the address to Leah, knew Darke would show up if he thought the trail might lead to Duchess.

Walk had no newspaper, no book, nothing at all to distract him from the task at hand. An hour back he’d popped a couple of pills, the muscle pain was bad, the convulsing, the need to just lie back and let it ride over him.

This would be his last job as a cop, the last hurrah in decades of nothing. He gave no thought to Martha, to Vincent and the unfurling mess in the Cape; this was for the Radley children, he would keep them safe, he would do it for Star and for Hal. He did not know how close Darke was when he called Leah back, but guessed he was near Montana. Duchess, the tape, it was Darke’s last chance to save his crumbling empire.

Walk felt the tired like a warm blanket on the coldest night, heavy on him, pulling him deeper, his eyes heavy. The pills, drowsiness was one of the blessed side-effects, he reasoned he hadn’t slept well in a year so there was no danger of it finding him now. Still, he yawned once, then, slowly, he closed his eyes.

Thomas Noble was lying on his bed watching the television when the power cut.

He stood, silent, nothing but the sounds of the house, the clock in the hallway, the steady hum of the boiler. He stood, took a step and stumbled over his bag, packed, ready. His parents had dropped him at camp, same every summer; they lived it up by the beach while he made sand art and tie-dyed T-shirts eight miles from his own house. He’d snuck out after dark, hiked it back, cut through woodland into his yard and found the spare key in the garage. It would hit the fan in the morning, by then he’d be on his way to California. Trailing her. Helping her.

His heart beat fast, he placed a hand on it and tried to calm.He listened but heard nothing, felt dumb for getting freaked out by the dark. He walked to the window and saw the neighboring homes lit, the porch lights burning. He knew where the box was, what to do when the power tripped.

He made it to the stairs when he heard the glass break.

He froze then, rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle.

He heard the lock turn, the door open.

The crunch of steps on glass.

He knew his father kept a gun and that it was locked in his office. He also knew he would not have the courage to aim it or fire it, not even with two good hands.

Steps again, hard on the kitchen floor then soft on the carpeted hall. He wanted to cry out, announce himself because half the fear was in going unnoticed. A nice house on a nice street, his mother had jewelry, the kind of showy pieces that might’ve been noticed.

He took a breath and moved fast, treading on the outer edges of the stairs, from the top floor to the middle and into his parents’ bedroom. He reached for the phone on the nightstand.

No tone.

He ran to the window, thought of yelling but heard steps again, closer this time, at the foot of the stairs. His mind worked fast, he looked at the drop, reasoned he’d break a leg, at least.

He spun, looked around, saw a gap beneath the bed, knew there was space in the closet, settled for the guest bedroom and moved fast.

Shadow on the stairs. He did not look back until he made it, slipped behind the door and pressed himself flat to the wall. He wanted to cry, fought hard not to, thought maybe whoever it was would think the house empty, take what they needed and leave.

“Thomas.”

He closed his eyes.

“I know you’re here. I’ve been watching from the woods. You tell me what I need to know and I’ll leave you be. I give you my word.”

He wanted to call out, to ask what the man wanted and then give him whatever it was, right away, no arguing. And then the man called out again, and Thomas Noble felt his blood chill.

“Duchess Radley.”

The guy with the Escalade. Darke.

Thomas Noble looked around wildly, saw nothing he could use, nothing heavy or sharp, nothing that could buy him precious seconds. Darke would find him now.

He thought of Duchess, of the first time he’d seen her and what she had been through, their first dance and the time she’d kissed him. He thought of his perfect home and loving parents, and where she was now, alone on the road, a gun in her bag and the courage to use it. He hadn’t been able to help her. But now he could, he could prove himself. He could be an outlaw too.

He watched the shape step through the door, big like a fucking monster, and as it neared Thomas Noble took a deep breath and launched himself through the darkness.

Gunshot.

Walk woke, jumped from the car and took off into a run.

Broken glass, open door, he barreled through, gun trained out, room to room. He moved up the stairs.

The kid was on the floor, backed up to the wall, knees against his chest.

“You hurt?”

He shook his head. Above was torn drywall, half the ceiling gone, a warning shot.

“Where is he?”

“Back door.”

Walk ran down the stairs. He saw the fencing at the end of the grass, jumped it and found himself in the woodland behind. He followed a loose trail, gun out in front as moonlight fell in silver shards that cut their way through thick growth.

“Darke,” he yelled, heard nothing so kept running.