We Begin at the End(32)

Boyd licked his teeth and pursed his lips. He was always moving, like holding still would see his middle fill out and his hairline race back. Strong smell of cologne. Walk eyed the window and wanted to pop it open.

“We’ve got Vincent at the scene, prints. His DNA on her. She had three broken ribs, his left hand was swollen. He won’t deny it, won’t say anything. It’s easy, Walker.”

“No residue,” Walk said. “The gun. No residue and no gun.”

Boyd rubbed his chin. “You said the faucet was running. He washed his hands. The gun. We’ve had people out, everywhere, but we’ll find it. He kills her, loses the gun, returns and calls it in.”

“Doesn’t make sense.”

“We’ve had the ballistics report back. The bullet they pulled was .357 Magnum, hell of a kick. We ran the address and it turns out Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in the mid-seventies.”

Walk watched the man, not liking where he was going. Walk remembered it, a couple of threats were made toward the Kings, serious enough for Vincent’s father to keep a gun.

“See if you can guess the caliber, Walker.”

Walk stayed even, despite the way his stomach flipped.

“The D.A. wanted more. Now we’ve got the motive and access to the murder weapon. We’ll go for the death penalty.”

Walk shook his head. “There’s still people we need to talk to. I want to go over Dickie Darke’s alibi again, and then there’s Milton and I’m not sure—”

“Leave it alone, Walker. It’s open and shut. I want to hand it over to the D.A. by the end of the week. We’ve got enough on. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”

“But I really think—”

“Listen. It’s alright, what you’ve got going on here. I’ve got a cousin that works in Alson Cove and he loves it, the pace is slow, the work is easy. There’s nothing wrong with that. But when was the last time you worked a real case, I mean something more than a misdemeanor?”

Walk had not worked more than an infraction.

Boyd reached over and gripped his shoulder tight. “Don’t fuck this up for us.”

Walk swallowed, the wheels turning frantic. “If he pleads. If I can get him to plead?”

Boyd met his eye, didn’t say it but didn’t have to.

Vincent King would die for this.





13


CLOUDS CASCADED DOWN THE MOUNTAIN behind, framing the farmhouse like it belonged in a print.

She worked, legs heavy, the skin on her hands torn beneath her gloves.

Whatever job he gave, mucking, cutting back the long vines by the house, shifting branches from the winding driveway, she did with quiet hatred. Hal playing grandfather now her mother was deep in the ground.

The funeral had been shamefully quiet. Walk had fished out an old necktie for Robin, the same he’d worn when his own mother passed. Robin had held her hand through it, the priest trying to lead them from their broken lives, talk of God’s need for another angel like he knew nothing of the tortured soul that had been taken.

“We’ll break for lunch now.” The old man snapped her from the memory.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

She turned her back on him, reached for her brush and swept dirt from the cracked driveway with hard strokes.

Ten minutes then Duchess dropped her brush and walked back, slow. At the house she stepped up onto the porch and looked through the window. Hal with his back to her, her brother eating a sandwich, coming up a head over the table. He had a cup of milk.

She walked through the back door and into the kitchen, cheeks burning hot. At the table she picked up Robin’s cup and emptied the milk into the sink, rinsed it and pulled a carton of juice from the refrigerator.

“I can drink milk at lunch, I don’t even mind,” Robin said.

“No, you can’t. You drink juice, like you did at—”

“Duchess,” Hal said.

“You shut up.” She turned to him. “You don’t say my name, you don’t fucking say it. You don’t know anything about me or my brother.”

Robin began to cry.

“Enough now,” Hal said, gentle.

“You don’t tell me ‘enough.’” She was breathless, shaking, the anger coming up so hot she could barely control it.

“I said—”

“Fuck you.”

He stood then, raised a hand and brought it down hard on the table, sending his plate to the floor. It smashed on the stone and Duchess flinched, and then she turned and ran. Past the water and the driveway, arms pumping, across the long grass and into the rough and toward the trees.

She didn’t stop till she had to, till she took a knee and swallowed mouthfuls of warm, heavy air. She cursed him out, kicked a thick oak and felt pain shoot back through her. She screamed at the trees, so loud birds lifted and speckled the clouds.

She thought of her home. The day after the funeral, what little they owned outright was boxed by Walk. Nothing in the checking account, thirty bucks in her mother’s purse, nothing passed down.

She walked a mile before the Douglas fir thinned. She was mucky and sweaty, her hair damp and knotted. She slowed a little and walked the center line of a road, counting off broken lines.