DUCHESS DID NOT EAT THAT first night on the farm.
Instead she watched Robin and made sure he finished his bowl. It was some kind of stew and he looked at her with those eyes that told her he wanted to cry. She fed him the last mouthfuls herself.
Hal stood awkward, watched a while then moved to the sink and looked out over the land. He was big to Duchess, broad and powerful and imposing. To Robin he must have looked like a giant.
Duchess took their bowls over.
“You need to eat,” he said.
“You don’t know what I need.” She dumped her food into the trash, then led her brother from the kitchen and out onto the porch.
Sunset. Burned haze that washed the rolling acres and cannoned from the water. Animals gathered far out, a cluster of elk that faced the falling light.
“Go run around.” She gave him a push.
Robin left her, walked the low hill, found a stick and dragged it in the dirt. In his other hand he clutched Captain America. He had not let it from his sight since he woke that morning at Walk’s house.
She’d already asked him, when it was late and Walk slept, she asked about that night and told him it was alright to tell if he’d heard something. He told her nothing at all, the place where the memory might have been lay in total darkness.
She had yet to process the death of her mother, the funeral, the new grave that stood beside Sissy’s on the Little Brook cliff. She wanted to cry, though knew if she did the grief would settle right there in her chest, not let her breathe when she needed strength most. She would be there for her brother. It was the two of them. The outlaw and her brother.
“I have a ball for him.”
She did not turn and did not acknowledge Hal. To think of him as family, his blood to hers. Not there when he was needed, which was too often. She spit in the dirt.
“I know it’s been difficult.”
“You don’t know shit.” She let it hang long in the dusk air, the dark sprinting at them so fast it was as if she had blinked away the color.
“I don’t like cursing in my house.”
“My house. Walk said it was our home.”
He looked pained then. She was glad.
“Tomorrow will be different in all kinds of ways. Some you might like and some you might not.”
“You don’t know what I like and what I don’t. Same for my brother.”
Hal sat on the swing seat, motioned for her to join him but she would not. The chains pulled on the cedar like they might wrench the soul from the old farmhouse. Her mother had told her about souls, vegetative to rational. She wondered what could be rational about the most base form of life.
He smoked a cigar and it carried to her, she wanted to move but wouldn’t, her sandals rooted. Her instinct was to ask him, about her mother, about her aunt and Vincent King. About where the fuck they were in the world, the land so different and the sky too vast. She got he would enjoy that, to talk to his granddaughter like a bond would form. She spit in the dirt again.
At an hour far from bedtime Hal sent them up. Duchess struggled with their case. She would not let him help.
She changed Robin into his pajamas and then brushed his teeth in the small bathroom that led from their sparse bedroom.
“I want to go home,” Robin said.
“I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“You’re a prince.”
Duchess dragged the nightstand across the scarred wood floor then heaved and pushed until the beds were joined.
“You’ll say your prayers now,” he said from the door.
“The fuck we will,” she fired back. She watched him take it, hoped to see him flinch but he did not. He stood there, mouth perfectly straight. She traced his face for a sign of herself, her brother, her mother. Maybe she saw a little of all of them or maybe he was just an old stranger.
A few minutes till Robin moved fully into her bed. He pulled her arm around himself till he slept.
In a breath a steady buzz made its way into her dreams. She reached over and slammed the alarm clock, then sat up quickly and for a few, cruel moments she thought of calling out to her mother.
Robin slept on beside her, she reached across and covered him and then heard Hal below, the whistle of the kettle and the heavy step of boots.
She lay back, tried to sleep but saw the light of the hallway tip into the room as Hal climbed the stairs and opened the door.
“Robin.” Her brother stirred to the old man’s voice. “The animals need their breakfast, would you like to come help?”
Duchess watched her brother, the thought pattern easy to place. She had seen how curiously he eyed the barns and the chickens, the big cows and the horses. He climbed from the bed, turned to her till she went and fetched his toothbrush.
Below were bowls of porridge. Duchess emptied hers into the trash. She found sugar and spooned some into Robin’s bowl. He ate quietly.
Hal appeared at the door, behind him light mist steamed like a fire burned beneath the land.
“Ready to work.” Not a question.
Robin finished his juice and hopped down from the chair. Hal reached out a hand and Robin took it. Duchess watched from the window as they walked toward the barn, the old man speaking words that did not carry, Robin staring up like the last six years no longer counted.
She pulled on her coat, laced her sneakers and headed out into dawn air.
Behind, mountain sun crept, the promise of something new lay heavy on her chest.
* * *
Walk had driven through the night, the states and the scenes all much of the same in the darkness, just signs counting miles, telling him to take a break, tiredness kills. When he got home he’d unplugged the telephone, pulled his drapes and lay, not sleeping, just thinking of Star and Duchess and Robin.
Breakfast was two Advil and a glass of water. A shower but no shave.
At eight he arrived to a reporter standing in the lot, Kip Daniels from the Sutler County Tribune. Beside Kip were a couple of vacationers and locals. Walk had heard it on the short ride in, that the state of California was preparing to charge Vincent King with the murder of Star Radley. He didn’t buy it, just stations trying to make news.
“Nothing new to tell you, I’m afraid.”
“Anything on the weapon?” Kip called.
“Nothing.”
“Charges?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
Vincent was back at Fairmont. That he wouldn’t speak, that he was at the scene, it made for a simple puzzle. There was no one else in the frame. State cops occupied the back office, Boyd and his men, pulling in locals and making noise. It was winding down already.
Inside the station he found Leah Tallow on the front desk, lights on the phone blinked frantically. “Crazy in here this morning. You hear the news?”
Walk watched her pick up another call and make no comment.
They’d called in Louanne Miller, a decade older than Walk. She sat behind her desk and ate nuts, a neat collection of shells by the telephone, mute to the furor.
“Morning, Walk. Busy in here. Got the butcher in.”
Walk stopped and scratched the stubble on his cheek. “Where?”
“Interview room.”
“What have they got him in for?”
“Think they tell me anything?” Louanne ate another nut, choked a little and washed it down with coffee. “You need to get some sleep, Walk. And maybe a shave.”
He looked around, the appearance of normal. Leah’s sister owned the florist on Main and dropped an arrangement in each week. Blue hydrangea, alstroemeria and eucalyptus. Sometimes he thought the station resembled a set, maybe a daytime TV cop show, they played their parts, background extras, nothing more.
“Where’s Boyd?”
She shrugged. “He said not to talk to the butcher till he gets back.”
He found Milton in the small room at the back of the station that they might’ve used for interviews, had they ever had to take a statement. Milton clutched his chest, massaging like he needed to get his heart firing again. Stripped of his apron, Walk still smelled blood, as if it were matted to every hair that carpeted Milton’s body.
Walk shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He found himself doing that more now, the drugs again, nothing helping.
Milton stood. “I don’t know why they told me to hang around. I have to get on. I came to them, after all.”
“With what?”
Milton looked at his shoes, loosened his collar and fired his cuffs. He’d dressed for the occasion. “Remembered something.”
“And?”
“I like to look out, right. Watch the water, the sky, got my Celestron, computerized now. You should come over one time and we could—”
Walk held up a hand, too tired for it.
“That night, before the shot. I think I heard yelling. Had my window open, I was broiling a little rabbit, you know, leave it overnight, soften the bones.”
“Think you heard?”
Milton looked to the lights above. “I heard yelling. An argument.”
“And this has only come to you now?”
“I could be in shock still. Maybe it’s wearing off.”
Walk stared at him. “You see Darke that night?”
A moment before he shook his head. Maybe a couple of seconds but Walk caught it. There had been mention of Dickie Darke’s name in connection, but that mention had come from Walk himself. Duchess wouldn’t say anything about the man. Walk wondered if she was scared.
“Brandon Rock.” Milton puffed out his chest. “The car … this morning. I get up early, and that guy comes home at all hours. I need my sleep, Walk.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“You know we had another person drop out of the Watch. It’s like they don’t care about the neighborhood anymore.”
“How many you down to now?”
Milton sniffed. “Just me and Etta Constance. But she can’t watch all that much with the one eye. Peripheral.” He waved a hand around for effect.
“I sleep better knowing the two of you are looking out.”
“I document it all. Big suitcase under my bed.”
Walk could only imagine the kind of notes the man kept.
“I was watching a show and the cop took a civilian on a ride along. You ever thought about that, Walk? I could bring a little cotechino … spice up the cabin. And then after we could—”
Walk heard noise outside and turned as Boyd filled the doorway. Broad, buzzcut, soldier to cop.
Walk followed him out.
Boyd led him to his own office and then sat heavily in his chair.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Walk said.
Boyd leaned back and stretched, his shoulders big as he steepled fingers behind his neck. “I just got back from the D.A.’s office. We’re going to charge Vincent King with the murder of Star Radley.”
Walk knew it would come, but hearing it straight from Boyd still rocked him.
“The butcher told us he saw Vincent King get into it with Dickie Darke a few nights prior. Said it looked like Vincent was warning him off. Jealous. Right outside the Radley house.”
“And what does Darke say about this?”
“Corroborates. He came in with his lawyer. Big fucker, right. Sounds like he was seeing the victim, though he says they were just friends.”
“Milton, the butcher. He’s called a lot over the years, likes to watch the town, you know. He gets … excited. He sees things that maybe aren’t there.”
Boyd licked his teeth and pursed his lips. He was always moving, like holding still would see his middle fill out and his hairline race back. Strong smell of cologne. Walk eyed the window and wanted to pop it open.
“We’ve got Vincent at the scene, prints. His DNA on her. She had three broken ribs, his left hand was swollen. He won’t deny it, won’t say anything. It’s easy, Walker.”
“No residue,” Walk said. “The gun. No residue and no gun.”
Boyd rubbed his chin. “You said the faucet was running. He washed his hands. The gun. We’ve had people out, everywhere, but we’ll find it. He kills her, loses the gun, returns and calls it in.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ve had the ballistics report back. The bullet they pulled was .357 Magnum, hell of a kick. We ran the address and it turns out Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in the mid-seventies.”
Walk watched the man, not liking where he was going. Walk remembered it, a couple of threats were made toward the Kings, serious enough for Vincent’s father to keep a gun.
“See if you can guess the caliber, Walker.”
Walk stayed even, despite the way his stomach flipped.
“The D.A. wanted more. Now we’ve got the motive and access to the murder weapon. We’ll go for the death penalty.”
Walk shook his head. “There’s still people we need to talk to. I want to go over Dickie Darke’s alibi again, and then there’s Milton and I’m not sure—”
“Leave it alone, Walker. It’s open and shut. I want to hand it over to the D.A. by the end of the week. We’ve got enough on. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“But I really think—”
“Listen. It’s alright, what you’ve got going on here. I’ve got a cousin that works in Alson Cove and he loves it, the pace is slow, the work is easy. There’s nothing wrong with that. But when was the last time you worked a real case, I mean something more than a misdemeanor?”
Walk had not worked more than an infraction.
Boyd reached over and gripped his shoulder tight. “Don’t fuck this up for us.”
Walk swallowed, the wheels turning frantic. “If he pleads. If I can get him to plead?”
Boyd met his eye, didn’t say it but didn’t have to.
Vincent King would die for this.