We Begin at the End(38)

“And Vincent?”

“He didn’t do it.”

She walked over to the window and looked out at a view of the highway behind. He heard the passing cars, the occasional horn, the roar of a motorcycle.

“You’ve done well here, Martha.”

She tilted her head a little. “Why, thank you, Walk. Your approval means so much to me.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I’m too tired for small talk. You want to tell me what you want?”

His mouth dried. He didn’t want to be there, calling on the kind of favor he had no way of repaying.

“Vincent wants you.”

She turned. “Wants me how?”

“Wants you as his lawyer. I know how that sounds.”

She laughed. “Do you, Walk? Because the way I hear you don’t have a goddam clue.” She took a breath and calmed. There was a plaque on the wall, Southwestern, and a corkboard beside, with cards and photos of smiling mothers and their kids.

“I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

“I know that. I told him.”

“No. That’s my answer.”

“Alright. I asked.”

She smiled. “Still doing Vincent King’s bidding.”

“I’d do anything to stop an innocent man being put to death.”

“It’s a capital case?”

“Yes.”

She slumped in her chair, kicked her sneakers up onto the desk. “I can recommend someone.”

“I already tried that.”

She fished a candy from a bowl, peanut M&Ms. “Why the hell does he want me?”

“Thirty years in there, it’s easy to forget, you and me are all he’s got now.”

“I don’t even know him. And I don’t even know you anymore, Walk.”

“I haven’t changed all that much.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He laughed. “You want to grab something to eat and catch up?” He spoke quietly, his cheeks beginning to redden. “If you’ve got eighty-nine cents I know a great taco place.”

“Can I be honest, Walk?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve spent a long time leaving Cape Haven behind. I don’t want to head back there.”

He stood, smiled and walked out the door.





15


WALK WATCHED THE SLOW WAKE of Main.

Milton stood bloodied, laying out cuts with an eye for the artistry, brisket and prime and short. Walk bought his steak there, at a price the vacationers wouldn’t get near.

He’d just got off the phone with Hal. He’d check in weekly, check on Robin, maybe the only one who might have heard something that night. Hal said they’d found a doctor, a shrink, a lady that worked out of her home twenty miles from the Radley farm. They mentioned no names, no towns. Walk was overly cautious.

“You want coffee?” Leah said from the door.

Walk shook his head. “You alright, Leah?”

“Tired.”

Some days it was clear she’d been crying, red eyes swollen. Walk guessed it was Ed, he’d always had an eye. Walk reasoned men were just wired different, flawed design, fucking idiots.

“I need to get on those files soon. The state of that back room.”

She’d been riding him about it for years, a change of system, new forms. It was no secret Walk liked things the way they were. Every time an application was put through to pull down an old house and replace it he lodged an objection.

The state cops had gone, left a trail of hamburger wrappers and coffee cups with Boyd promising to keep him updated.

“You reckon I could pick up some extra shifts? I mean, I know I’m doing the days but I wondered if you needed me to hang around later.”

“Everything alright, Leah?”

“You know how it is. Got one heading off to college, and Ricky wants some video game.”

“Sure. I’ll sort something out.” They had a limited budget but he’d make it stretch for her. Ed owned Tallow Construction and she used to work admin there, but then the market turned on them. Still, he wondered if that was all it was. She seemed to be at the station more, at the beach, anywhere but home with her husband.

He had the file open, Star staring back. The reports were in now.

Beside that he had Vincent’s file. He’d spent the previous night looking back thirty years. He read transcripts, the first, looking into the death of Sissy Radley. And then he’d looked at the second, the prison brawl that got out of hand. The dead man’s name was Baxter Logan, and the way Walk read it he was the kind of person the world was well shot of. He was already serving life for the abduction and murder of a young realtor named Annie Clavers. Walk read the interview, Vincent’s voice clear in his mind.

I did it. We got into it, I hit him and he went down and didn’t get up again. I don’t remember much else. I don’t know what more to tell you, Cuddy. You give me something to sign and I’ll sign it.

Three more pages and Cuddy had explained the facts, tried to coax and lead in that subtle way Walk saw so clear. Let us call it self-defense, because everyone knew that’s what it was.

It wasn’t self-defense. Just a fight. Doesn’t matter who started it.