We Begin at the End(99)

He stood, silent, nothing but the sounds of the house, the clock in the hallway, the steady hum of the boiler. He stood, took a step and stumbled over his bag, packed, ready. His parents had dropped him at camp, same every summer; they lived it up by the beach while he made sand art and tie-dyed T-shirts eight miles from his own house. He’d snuck out after dark, hiked it back, cut through woodland into his yard and found the spare key in the garage. It would hit the fan in the morning, by then he’d be on his way to California. Trailing her. Helping her.

His heart beat fast, he placed a hand on it and tried to calm.He listened but heard nothing, felt dumb for getting freaked out by the dark. He walked to the window and saw the neighboring homes lit, the porch lights burning. He knew where the box was, what to do when the power tripped.

He made it to the stairs when he heard the glass break.

He froze then, rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle.

He heard the lock turn, the door open.

The crunch of steps on glass.

He knew his father kept a gun and that it was locked in his office. He also knew he would not have the courage to aim it or fire it, not even with two good hands.

Steps again, hard on the kitchen floor then soft on the carpeted hall. He wanted to cry out, announce himself because half the fear was in going unnoticed. A nice house on a nice street, his mother had jewelry, the kind of showy pieces that might’ve been noticed.

He took a breath and moved fast, treading on the outer edges of the stairs, from the top floor to the middle and into his parents’ bedroom. He reached for the phone on the nightstand.

No tone.

He ran to the window, thought of yelling but heard steps again, closer this time, at the foot of the stairs. His mind worked fast, he looked at the drop, reasoned he’d break a leg, at least.

He spun, looked around, saw a gap beneath the bed, knew there was space in the closet, settled for the guest bedroom and moved fast.

Shadow on the stairs. He did not look back until he made it, slipped behind the door and pressed himself flat to the wall. He wanted to cry, fought hard not to, thought maybe whoever it was would think the house empty, take what they needed and leave.

“Thomas.”

He closed his eyes.

“I know you’re here. I’ve been watching from the woods. You tell me what I need to know and I’ll leave you be. I give you my word.”

He wanted to call out, to ask what the man wanted and then give him whatever it was, right away, no arguing. And then the man called out again, and Thomas Noble felt his blood chill.

“Duchess Radley.”

The guy with the Escalade. Darke.

Thomas Noble looked around wildly, saw nothing he could use, nothing heavy or sharp, nothing that could buy him precious seconds. Darke would find him now.

He thought of Duchess, of the first time he’d seen her and what she had been through, their first dance and the time she’d kissed him. He thought of his perfect home and loving parents, and where she was now, alone on the road, a gun in her bag and the courage to use it. He hadn’t been able to help her. But now he could, he could prove himself. He could be an outlaw too.

He watched the shape step through the door, big like a fucking monster, and as it neared Thomas Noble took a deep breath and launched himself through the darkness.



Gunshot.

Walk woke, jumped from the car and took off into a run.

Broken glass, open door, he barreled through, gun trained out, room to room. He moved up the stairs.

The kid was on the floor, backed up to the wall, knees against his chest.

“You hurt?”

He shook his head. Above was torn drywall, half the ceiling gone, a warning shot.

“Where is he?”

“Back door.”

Walk ran down the stairs. He saw the fencing at the end of the grass, jumped it and found himself in the woodland behind. He followed a loose trail, gun out in front as moonlight fell in silver shards that cut their way through thick growth.

“Darke,” he yelled, heard nothing so kept running.

He moved through towering trees.

And then, ahead, he caught sight of the shape, by a tree, moving slow.

Walk raised his gun.

He stood, feet apart, hands locked.

He fired once.

The big shape fell.

He moved on, slow.

By the time he made it to him Darke had propped himself back against a tree. Nothing in his hands, Walk saw the gun a couple of feet from him, bent and picked it up.

Darke breathed hard. Shoulder wound, painful enough but he’d live.

Walk listened out, heard nothing. The neighbors would call the cops soon enough.

At that moment Walk did not feel the twitches in his body, just focused solely on the job. His job, his place. He was not yet ready to give either up.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You want to get this done, Darke?”

“Sure, Chief Walker.” His voice was calm, no emotion, despite the end coming at him.

“You’ve been holing up all this time.”

“Healing up. There’s people, I owe them. They aren’t going away. You ever been shot, Walk? Twice for me now.”

“I’ve got questions.”

Darke did not press a hand to the wound, just let the blood run steady down his arms and drip from his fingers.

“We found Milton. Trawler hooked him.”