We Begin at the End(50)

The two drove the hundred miles back in heavy silence. She invited him in and again they sat on her porch and sipped beer. She cooked, some kind of stew so spicy his cheeks burned while she laughed and he stuck his tongue into his beer.

They talked a little about the past years, how she’d set up where she was needed most. Bitterwater had a low median income and a high crime rate. She spoke of her work with the kind of pride that made him smile. She showed photos of families she had brought back together, and letters from kids she had saved from abusive parents.

It was left unsaid, the exact time from their past when they’d been torn from each other. They skirted religion, he did not know her feelings anymore, after what had transpired between them, her parents, their faith. That was alright, they had a job to do and Walk didn’t ever let that slip from his mind. Not when he leaned in to kiss her cheek, or when she brushed his leg with hers. Sometimes she noticed the way his hands tremored, or the way he shook his head lightly when trying to recall something, and then she watched him like she knew. And when she did that he told her goodnight and drove back to the Cape, his place, his town.

At dusk he strolled to Ivy Ranch Road, the fundamentals of his job very much in the way of the bigger picture.

Brandon met him at the door, no top, just sweatpants. Behind was his old football jersey, framed on the wall. Beside that a pool table, an arcade machine, the staples of a bachelor finding his feet after a decade of perceived servitude.

“Is this about that freak across the street again?” Brandon looked past Walk and stared at Milton’s place. “You know what I found in my yard, Walk? A fucking head.”

“A head?”

“A fucking sheep or something. Deer, whatever. Hollowed out like a warning.”

“I’ll talk to him. But you know, Brandon, I hear that car fire up from my place.” Walk noticed the guy was standing on his toes, looking for an extra inch.

“Tell you what,” Brandon said. “It is quieter without Star rolling in late. I mean, it’s tragic and all, but maybe Milton will sleep easier now he’s not waiting up for her.”

“How’s that?”

Brandon leaned on the door frame. Tattoo on his chest, some kind of trite Japanese symbol. “Sometimes I got in late and I saw him at the window.”

“He watches the stars.”

Laughter. “Yeah, one in particular. You ask him about that, Walk.”

“He said you pissed in his yard.”

“Bullshit.”

“Whatever. I really don’t give a damn. I just don’t want either of you on me.”

“You look tired, Walk. Are you hydrating?”

“Listen, Brandon. I’ll go over and have the same talk with Milton but do you think you could just calm things down? I’ve got a lot on, and I could do without having to come over and see you over some bullshit dispute.”

“You need to exercise, man. Stress relief. Stop by one night and we’ll drop some circuits. Rock Hard. You know I tried to patent that, for my fitness—”

Walk left him talking and headed across the street. He knocked on the door.

“Walk.” Milton wore a smile so wide Walk almost felt bad for him.

“Can I come in?”

“Into my place?”

Walk tried not to sigh.

“Yes. I mean, sure, yes. Please.” Milton stepped to the side and Walk headed into the house.

“You want something to eat?”

“No, thanks.”

“You on a diet, Walk? You look thinner. How about a beer?”

“Sure, Milton.”

Milton smiled, a little too eager, then disappeared into the kitchen while Walk took in the living room. The place was stacked, Milton the kind of hoarder that saw even old TV Guides kept and piled. He stepped over a cluster of coasters bearing state names he knew well Milton had never visited. He ordered them in, from all over, the kind of crap that portrayed a full life, travel and friends. He had a photo frame on the television set, a picture of a Blacktail, dead eyes.

“Got that one in Cottrell. Nice, right?”

“Sure, Milton.”

“I didn’t have beer, just the coffee liqueur. I couldn’t find a date on it, maybe it’s been there a while. But liqueur doesn’t go bad, right, Walk?”

Walk took the glass, set it down, cleared a space to sit and motioned for Milton to join him.

“I wanted to talk to you about that night.”

Milton shifted, made to cross his legs but couldn’t quite manage it. Walk sipped his coffee liqueur, tried not to bring it back up.

“The way I hear it you’ve been talking to everyone in town about that night. But I already told the real cop everything.”

Walk took the blow, certain Milton didn’t mean it. “Now, you said you heard fighting.”

“That’s right.”

“You also said you saw Vincent and Darke getting into it a few nights before Star was murdered.”

He flinched at her name. Star used to tell how he’d take her trash cans out if she forgot. Small things, she needed them.

“Why’d they fight?”

“I think maybe Vincent King was jealous. I remember them, Walk. Back at school. They were like, they’d get married or something, have kids. I thought maybe Vincent had been dwelling on that inside, dreaming up a future based on the past.”