We Begin at the End(96)

There was a board back on the gates, SULLIVAN REALTY, there would be an auction one day in the future and someone else would move in, take care of the land, run the same tired circle.

In the distance Duchess watched elk, clustered like always at the foot of the hills. The fields needed tending. She thought of Hal out there, a lifetime alone.

At the red barn she opened the door and saw his tools still where they were, nothing of value to anyone. She crossed into the shade and walked to the rug and dragged it back.

She pulled up the door in the floor, it was heavy. Sweat dripped from her chin. She propped it and walked down the steps.

A low store. Guns on shelves, a rifle rack.

An old leather chair, Hal’s place where he could be alone. Beside was a small table, and on it a thick stack of letters. She thumbed them, settled on the last and opened it, and as she did, two papers fluttered to the ground. She picked them up, two halves of a check. She pressed them together, swallowed dry, a million dollars. Post-dated, a couple months after the trial was due to start. The signature was simple, more like print. Richard Darke. On the back she saw Vincent had endorsed it, signed straight over to Hal.

She placed it all back, thought of the cost of atonement, warmed by the thought of her grandfather ripping it in two.

She stood.

Across she saw boxes.

She walked over, took a knee when she saw the colored wrapping paper. Gifts. She checked the tags, saw her own name scrawled, and then her brother’s. There were dates on each, going back each of her years. She sat back on the low rung and tore one open. A doll. Then another. A puzzle. She did not open any of Robin’s.

She stalled at the last one, dated that day. She opened it with care, took the lid from it and swallowed when she saw what was inside.

She lifted the hat out and admired it. Leather studs on the band, vented crown and four-inch brim. She thumbed the tag, the intricate gold.

John B. Stetson.

And then, slowly, she placed it on her head, the fit perfect.

She took two guns, hers and one of his. She took a box of bullets, the kind he’d shown her.

When she was done she placed everything back, loaded her bag and felt the weight.

His ashes drifted away by the water, in the spot they sometimes sat.

She steeled herself and dipped her hat. “So long, Grandpa.”





41


WALK SPENT A DAY DODGING calls from above.

News traveled quick, he would be summoned to Governor Hopkins’s office where they’d talk over his replacement, no doubt offer him a desk job. Three calls so far that day, like they ran with the assumption he was nowhere near fit to serve.

He sat at his desk, the file spread out, Milton’s bloated face staring at him. The man had no family to speak of, a distant aunt that lived in a care facility in Jackson. He’d called, she’d claimed she did not know a Milton.

He looked up when he saw her at the door, tried a smile but it was hard.

Martha closed the door behind.

“You been dodging my calls, Chief?” She said it with a smile.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy here.”

She sat, tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “Truth?”

“I haven’t been able to face you.”

“You hustled.”

“But I didn’t want to hustle you.”

She crossed her legs. “I’ll get over it. We both went into this with our eyes open, right.”

“I think me more than you.”

“I’ve got business coming in now. Fuckers on death row want me to run their appeals. Forget it. Give me deadbeat men and broken-down women. They’re my bread and butter.” She ran a hand through her hair and he watched every move.

She reached over, tried to take his hand but he drew it back.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“When we started this, I only saw the end. I saw Vincent walking free and the clock rolling back. That was enough for me. That was my end game. I’m sick, Martha. My cells, they’re dying. What’s happening, this is the early stage, it’s just the start.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? I’ve read up, spoken to the doctor, seen others in the waiting room further down the line than me.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t want you to be a carer. I want more for you. I always did.”

She stood. “You sound like my father. Like I’m some little girl that doesn’t get a say in her own life. I choose … you’re my choice. And I thought I was yours.”

“You are.”

“Bullshit. You choose yourself, your fucking noble, dependable self.”

He looked down.

She wiped her eyes. “I’m not sad, I’m mad. You’re a coward, Walk. That’s why you left it all this time.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“Well, I did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking say that. All these years you could’ve reached out, come seen me, shit, even picked up the phone. It was Vincent that made you, like he always did.”

“That’s not—”

“When I asked you about the Vincent you remembered, you highlighted the good, and didn’t say shit about all the times he fucked Star over. All the girls, all the times she cried on my shoulder. You used to cover for him, even lied to me. You always covered for him.”