We Begin at the End(41)

Duchess looked down at the gun, her mind on her mother. The hole torn in her chest. She thought of Vincent King.

“Yes.”

Out to the green field, crops no higher than Duchess’s ankle. Beyond they came to the first of the cedars, tall, ladders to the sky.

On a trunk wider than them both were a smattering of marks, pocks, neat and ordered. Leaves long dead and settled, green moss crept to fallen sticks and puddles that shone with the canopies above them.

Hal led them back fifty paces, removed four bullets and showed them the chamber as he loaded. He ran through the safety and sight, the correct two-hands and how to breathe nice and even. And then he handed each a pair of ear protectors.

The first time Hal fired Robin jumped clear back and Duchess held him. The second he did it again. Third and fourth a little less.

Duchess loaded next, Hal instructing. She handled the bullets with care like he said but her heart still quickened, the memories fluid, carrying her back so totally. Walk and the other cops, her brother. The tape and the news vans and the noise.

She missed six in a row, each time yanking her hand back from the kick instead of planting her feet. Robin grew bolder, still clutching Hal’s hand but not turning his head.

She loaded again, this time only the forest noise with her, Hal watching close but letting her figure it out.

The first time she hit the tree she took a chunk from the edge.

Then she put two in the center, Robin whooping and clapping.

“You can shoot,” Hal said.

She turned back before he could see the small smile.

She worked her way through the box, till she could sink them into the middle of the cedar, or a little higher or lower. And then Hal moved her back twenty paces and she learned all over again. Correcting the angle, shooting as she knelt, then from her stomach. Devoid of emotion, adrenaline, the human traits that ruined finesse.

As they walked back toward the farmhouse Robin ran on ahead to check on his birds. The chickens. He collected the eggs each morning, his job alone and he lived for it.

Duchess watched the land as the sun began its drop, not low enough to splinter the colors but she felt the heat dying. Summer was breathing its last, Hal said fall was spectacular.

She drew up by the gray, who came to her. Duchess stroked her gently.

“She doesn’t come for me,” Hal said. “She likes you, and she doesn’t like many people.”

Duchess said nothing, not wanting to fall into conversation, not wanting to lose that fire that kept her moving through each day.

That night she ate dinner alone on the porch, stomach tight as she listened as Hal laughed at something Robin said. It was moments like those it came for her, and dragged her back to the Cape. The old man laughing, smiling, after what his grandchildren had been through. A bond was forming.

She walked back into the kitchen, opened the cabinet and pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from the top shelf.

She took it down to the lake, unscrewed the cap and drank. She did not flinch at the burn. She thought of Vincent King, drank some more, then Darke, and drank again. She drank and drank till the pain eased, her muscles unwound and the world began to spin. Problems melted, edges softened. She lay flat on her back and closed her eyes, feeling her mother.

An hour till she puked.

Another till Hal found her.

Through the haze she saw his eyes, those watery blue eyes as he gently scooped her up.

“I hate you,” she said in a whisper.

He kissed her head as she pressed her cheek to his chest and let the dark find her.





16


IF HOUSES HAD SOULS STAR’S place was black as a December night.

Walk figured Darke would’ve got on as soon as they released it, maybe freshened it up for a new tenant, or just pulled the place down and started over. But it stood untouched, the street door replaced with plywood, a window popped out and boarded up. The grass was long and yellowed.

“I know you miss her, Walk. I do too. And the kids.”

Walk didn’t need to turn, he smelled the blood right off.

“Any news on Vincent King? I thought they would have charged him by now. Newspapers say he’ll be put to death when they find him guilty.”

Walk tensed a little. Last he’d heard the D.A. asked Boyd to have another look for the murder weapon. With the parole violation Vincent wasn’t going anywhere, time was on their side.

“I like the beard by the way. Nice. Real nice. It’s coming in thick. I could grow one, you know. We could both have beards. That’d be funny, right, Walk?”

“Sure, Milton.”

Milton wore sweats and an undershirt, the thick hair swirled from his shoulders down to the backs of his hands.

“This place, what happened here. It’s frightening, right. Blood and all. It’s alright when it’s an animal. I mean, vegans see it different, but then they’ll eat the white meat, so long as it’s sliced thin enough.”

Walk scratched his head at that.

“But Star, when I think of her lying there.” Milton clutched his stomach. “Don’t worry, I’ve been watching the place. If I see kids or anything, I’ll call it in. 10-54.”

“Livestock on Highway.”

Milton turned and headed back across the street, shuffling feet, that metallic smell trailing him.

Walk headed up the path and banged on Brandon Rock’s garage door.