We Begin at the End(25)

“I don’t think I can fix it.”

Star closed her eyes, still she played and sang as her daughter gently leaned on her.

Duchess wanted so desperately to join in, but her voice began to break.

“I’ll protect you. That’s what mothers do.”

Duchess did not cry, but right then she came close.





10


WALK SUFFERED THE INDIGNITY OF the fall alone.

Small blessing. One minute he was walking, the next he was on his back looking toward the sky. His left leg, just gone from under him.

He sat in the cruiser, in the lot at Vancour Hill. He did not go in. Kendrick said he could have problems with balance, still, that loss of control, it was frightening.

The radio was low, static and talk, 2-11 in Bronson, 11-54 in San Luis. A coffee cup from Rosie’s Diner, a burger wrapper on the mat. His stomach pressed his shirt and he rested his hands there. Slow shift. He’d driven by Vincent’s, the house was coming along, the shutters removed and stripped, ready for painting.

He searched for the night star, dwelled on the disease and felt it in his bones, his blood, his mind. Synapses firing slow, the correspondence not lost but delayed.

A little before midnight the radio jolted him from a light sleep.

Ivy Ranch Road.

He licked the dry from his lips.

And then the call again.

He reached for the radio and started the engine, ran the lights and lit the street as he headed back toward Cape Haven. The caller gave no detail, just that they needed to come. He prayed it was nothing, maybe Star was drunk again.

Past Addison. The quiet side of Main, no lights at all.

He slowed on Ivy Ranch Road, saw nothing but sleeping houses and breathed again.

Up to the curb outside her house. Calm till he saw the street door open, and then that feeling came, sharp in his gut, no air in his lungs. He climbed out and reached for his gun, which he hadn’t done in as long as he could remember.

A glance at the Rock house, then across at Milton’s, no sign of life at all. A calling owl, a garbage can fell a way off, maybe raccoons. He took the porch in one step and pushed the door.

The hallway, a side table with phonebook. Sneakers in a messy line. Pictures on the wall, art that Robin had made, tacked in place by Duchess.

In the mirror was a crack, Walk met his own eyes, wide and fearful. He gripped the gun tight, flipped the safety off, thought about calling out but stayed quiet.

He made his way down the hallway, two bedrooms, doors open to clothes strewn, a dressing table knocked over.

The bathroom. The faucet ran slowly, the basin filled and spilling. He shut it off, his shoes in the puddle.

Into the kitchen, nothing but the steady hand of the clock cut the quiet. He scanned slow, the mess that was always there, a butter knife, dishes in the sink; Duchess would get to them, she always did.

He didn’t notice the man at first. Sitting at the small table, palms up and open, like he meant no harm at all.

“You need to go into the living room,” Vincent said.

Walk noticed the sweat on his head, realized his gun was trained on his childhood friend but he would not lower it. Adrenaline carried him.

“What did you do?”

“You’re too late to change things, Walk. But you need to go, and make your calls. I’ll be here. I won’t move at all.”

The gun shook.

“You should cuff me. That’s what is expected. You need to do this correctly. If you toss them over here I’ll do it myself.”

Walk, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. “I don’t—”

“Pass me the cuffs, Chief Walker.”

Chief. He was a cop. Walk reached for the cuffs on his belt and tossed them onto the table.

He moved into the living room.

Sweat bled into his eyes.

The scene came at him.

“Shit, Star.” He crossed fast and knelt. “Oh, Jesus, Star.”

She lay on her back. For a minute he thought she’d chased with something bad, which had happened before. But when he noticed he fell back and cursed again.

Blood, all over, so much of it he fumbled for his radio, his fingers slick as he called it.

“Jesus.” He pawed at her clothes, tried to make sense of it before he found the wound, the hole, torn flesh, above her heart.

He smoothed hair from her face, pale and gone. He tried for a pulse, found nothing but started CPR. He looked around as he worked, a lamp lying, a picture on the carpet, a small bookcase upended.

Specks of blood climbed the wall.

“Duchess,” he called.

He worked on, sweating, muscles burning.

Cops and medics arrived and gently pushed him off. It was clear enough she was dead.

He heard yelling from the kitchen, Vincent on the ground, then led out.

Walk stood, dazed, the world spinning the wrong way as he headed into the street, the neighbors gathering. He saw in reds and blues as he sat on the porch and gulped air. He rubbed his head, his eyes, hit his own chest a few times to make sure it was all real.

They took Vincent before he could reach the car, he jogged a little but panted and dropped to his knees, each year of his life unravelled.

A team ran control, swept it from him, taped the area and moved people far enough back. News vans, lights and reporters. A tech van cut in and up onto the verge. It was a scene and they controlled it well, that was until Walk heard noise inside.