We Begin at the End(5)

He’d left Duchess and Robin then driven to the King house, bagged leaves from the path and picked litter from the yard. He’d tended it weekly for thirty years, part of his staid routine.

At the station he checked in with Leah Tallow on the front desk, just the two of them, Walk on call every day of his life. From the window he watched seasons change and vacationers come and go. Hampers were left. Wine and cheese and chocolate that saw him punch another hole in his belt each year.

They had an auxiliary, Louanne, she came in when they needed her, parades, shows, or times when she was just plain bored of tending to her yard.

“You all set for today, return of the King?”

“I’ve been ready thirty years.” He tried to keep his smile in check. “I’m heading out, I’ll pick up pastries on the way back.”

He strolled up Main, same every morning, the practiced walk, the cop stride he’d seen on TV. He’d tried a mustache, like Magnum, made notes when watching Forensic Files, and once even bought a beige raincoat. If a real case ever came in, he’d be ready.

Flags hung from streetlamps, shiny SUVs parked nose to tail and green awnings cast shade over a spotless sidewalk. He saw the Pattersons’ Mercedes double parked, wouldn’t write it up, maybe just offer a friendly warning when he next saw Curtis.

He quickened by the butcher’s but Milton came out fast, then stood on the stoop, whites splashed red, a cloth in his hand like he could rid the stains from his palms.

“Morning, Walk.” Milton was hairy. Thick swirls sprouted from every inch of him, the kind of man who had to shave to his eyeline three times a day in case a passing zookeeper shot him with a tranquilizer dart.

Strung deer in the window, so fresh a day back it had been roaming the Mendocino. Milton hunted, during the season he’d close up and don his deerstalker, load the Comanche with rifles and sheets and a cooler of beer. Walk had gone with him one time, couldn’t find an excuse that lasted long enough.

“Did you talk to Brandon Rock yet?” Milton spit the name, every word labored, like he’d run clean out of breath during a decent conversation.

“On my list.”

Brandon Rock had a Mustang that misfired so bad half the street called it in the first time it happened. It was becoming a nuisance.

“I heard about her. Star. Again.” Milton dabbed sweat from his head with the bloody cloth. Rumor had it he ate nothing but meat, and it was taking a toll.

“She’s alright. Sick, this time she was just sick.”

“I saw it all. Damn shame … with those children.”

Milton lived directly across from Star. He took the kind of interest in her and the kids that spoke more of a lonely life than the dwindling Neighborhood Watch group the man commanded.

“You always see it all, Milton. Maybe you should’ve been a cop.”

Milton waved a hand. “I got enough on with the Watch. 10-51 the other night.”

“Wrecker needed.”

Milton used police codes liberally, and badly.

“She’s lucky she’s got you looking out for her.” Milton pulled a toothpick from his pocket and got to work on a piece of flesh lodged between his two front teeth. “I was thinking of Vincent King. Is it today? People said it’s today.”

“It is.” Walk bent, picked up a soda can and dropped it into the trash, the sun warm on his neck.

Milton whistled. “Thirty years, Walk.”

It would’ve been ten, worst case ten, but for a fight inside. Walk didn’t ever get the full report, just knew his childhood friend had two deaths on his hands. Ten years became thirty, manslaughter became murder, a boy became a man.

“I still think about that day. Us walking the woodland. So, he is coming back to the Cape?”

“Far as I know.”

“You can send him here, if he needs anything. Actually, tell you what, Walk. How about I put a couple trotters aside for him. How does that sound?”

Walk searched for the words.

“So.” Milton cleared his throat and looked down at the ground. “The sky tonight … supermoon. It’ll be a sight, and I just got myself a new Celestron. I mean, I need to set things up, but if you wanted to stop by—”

“I’ve got something on. Another time?”

“Sure. But come here after your shift, I can give you the neck.” Milton nodded toward the deer.

“Please, God, no.” Walk backed away, then patted his stomach. “I need to lose—”

“Don’t worry, it’s lean. If you stew it right it’s a decent cut. I’d offer up the heart but once I get a sear on it that flavor just sings.”

Walk closed his eyes, the nausea creeping up. His hands shook. Milton noticed, looked like he wanted to say something more so Walk moved on fast.

He saw no one around so popped a couple of pills. He was acutely and painfully aware of his dependency.

He moved past cafés and storefronts, said hello to a few, helped Mrs. Astor load grocery bags into her car, listened as Felix Coke bent his ear about the traffic on Fullerton.

He stopped by Brant’s Delicatessen, rows of pastries and cheeses filled the window.

“Hey, Chief Walker.”

Alice Owen, hair pulled back and a full face of makeup despite the workout clothes. She carried some kind of miniature cross so skinny Walk counted off its ribs as it trembled. He reached forward to pet it and watched the teeth bare.