WALK WATCHED THE SLOW WAKE of Main.
Milton stood bloodied, laying out cuts with an eye for the artistry, brisket and prime and short. Walk bought his steak there, at a price the vacationers wouldn’t get near.
He’d just got off the phone with Hal. He’d check in weekly, check on Robin, maybe the only one who might have heard something that night. Hal said they’d found a doctor, a shrink, a lady that worked out of her home twenty miles from the Radley farm. They mentioned no names, no towns. Walk was overly cautious.
“You want coffee?” Leah said from the door.
Walk shook his head. “You alright, Leah?”
“Tired.”
Some days it was clear she’d been crying, red eyes swollen. Walk guessed it was Ed, he’d always had an eye. Walk reasoned men were just wired different, flawed design, fucking idiots.
“I need to get on those files soon. The state of that back room.”
She’d been riding him about it for years, a change of system, new forms. It was no secret Walk liked things the way they were. Every time an application was put through to pull down an old house and replace it he lodged an objection.
The state cops had gone, left a trail of hamburger wrappers and coffee cups with Boyd promising to keep him updated.
“You reckon I could pick up some extra shifts? I mean, I know I’m doing the days but I wondered if you needed me to hang around later.”
“Everything alright, Leah?”
“You know how it is. Got one heading off to college, and Ricky wants some video game.”
“Sure. I’ll sort something out.” They had a limited budget but he’d make it stretch for her. Ed owned Tallow Construction and she used to work admin there, but then the market turned on them. Still, he wondered if that was all it was. She seemed to be at the station more, at the beach, anywhere but home with her husband.
He had the file open, Star staring back. The reports were in now.
Beside that he had Vincent’s file. He’d spent the previous night looking back thirty years. He read transcripts, the first, looking into the death of Sissy Radley. And then he’d looked at the second, the prison brawl that got out of hand. The dead man’s name was Baxter Logan, and the way Walk read it he was the kind of person the world was well shot of. He was already serving life for the abduction and murder of a young realtor named Annie Clavers. Walk read the interview, Vincent’s voice clear in his mind.
I did it. We got into it, I hit him and he went down and didn’t get up again. I don’t remember much else. I don’t know what more to tell you, Cuddy. You give me something to sign and I’ll sign it.
Three more pages and Cuddy had explained the facts, tried to coax and lead in that subtle way Walk saw so clear. Let us call it self-defense, because everyone knew that’s what it was.
It wasn’t self-defense. Just a fight. Doesn’t matter who started it.
The state went in heavy again, settled on second-degree murder. Vincent settled on twenty years tacked on.
He picked up the phone and called Cuddy, got him after five minutes.
“I’m looking through the Vincent King file.”
Cuddy sniffed like he was fighting a cold. “I thought Boyd was done with that.”
“He is.”
“Right.”
“The report I got, Vincent King and Baxter Logan. There’s not much detail in the autopsy.”
“That’s all we’ve got, I’m afraid. Logan died when he hit the stone floor. Twenty-four years ago, Walk. Reports weren’t as detailed.”
“How is Vincent doing?”
He heard the big man lean back in his chair, the leather stretching. “He doesn’t speak. Not even to me.”
“Did he see himself on the news?” The locals were ramping up the pressure on the D.A. to finally bring the charges.
“He doesn’t have a TV.”
Walk frowned. “But I thought—”
“Oh he could have one. I’ve offered, many times.”
“So what does he do in there?”
Silence, a long time. “Cuddy?”
“He’s got a picture of the girl. Sissy Radley. He’s got it on the wall, and that’s the only thing in that cell.”
Walk closed his eyes as Cuddy told him to stay in touch.
He checked the report. The autopsy was carried about by David Yuto, M.D. It gave an address and phone number. He called it, got an answering machine and left a message. Twenty-four years, he doubted the man was still there. And if he was, Walk wondered what the hell he’d ask him. He was trying to be a cop, to work a case as best he could. Despite Boyd’s warning, he’d push on. He just didn’t know which direction to head in.
Louanne Miller came in, sat down opposite, not talking, just watching the window, like always.
Walk flipped a page and stared at Star, her hair fanned behind, arm bent at an angle like she was reaching out for someone to help her.
“You need to tidy this office.” Louanne looked at the stacked papers, the mess all over.
“I want to talk to Darke myself.”
“Because you’ll do better than the state cops? You’re tough like that?”
“I’ve known Darke since—”
“Nothing, Walk. That’s what that means. Nothing. Look at Vincent King, and I see you looking his way, like you expect him to still be the kid that left here thirty years back. He’s gone, though, whatever you knew about him, it left him the day he stepped into Fairmont.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Serious, Walk. I know you didn’t change. But everyone else did.”
Out the window Walk saw the colors too bright, blues and white, polished glass and bleached flags.
“So what else is there?” she said.
“Burglary. The place was trashed.”
“But nothing missing. More like a fight that got out of hand.”
“Milton’s lying.”
“No good reason for that.”
“Let’s go burglary. Could be Star disturbed them,” he said, again reaching, so far he almost stumbled over his words.
“All of this, what you’re saying, you have to discount the fact that we found a man, sitting in the house, her blood on his shirt, his prints all over everything, possible motive.”
“No way,” he fired back quick.
“And yet here we are. On a hunch.”
“Vincent won’t say a word. He won’t say why, he won’t say how he got in, what time it happened. Shit, he called it in himself. From their phone.”
“He was vicious. Star … how many ribs did he break? You’ve got the photos in front of you.”
He looked at them again, the marks angry across her chest, blue to purple, streaks upon broken bones. There was feeling involved, a kind of hatred so hot Walk could feel it searing.
“And the swelling by her eye.”
“He’s there, however he got in, no sign of a break-in. She invites him in, something happens. He beats her. Shoots her dead. Runs, hides the weapon, returns and sits down in the kitchen, calls it in. And waits for us. The kid, Robin, he’s locked in his bedroom, mercifully, but there’s a chance he heard something.”
Walk stood and opened the window to the call of another perfect morning. An hour or two at his desk, that’s all he could ever take.
“I need to talk to Darke,” he said again. “There’s history with Star. He’s violent.”
“Alibi is tight.”
“That’s why I’ve called her in.”
“Boyd said to leave it alone. Don’t fuck with a state case.”
Walk took a deep breath, everything swimming, nothing clear at all, other than the fact he knew Vincent. No matter what Louanne said. He knew Vincent King. Fuck the thirty years, he knew his friend.
“You need to shave, Walk.”
“So do you.”
She laughed at that. And then Leah called through, and told him Dee Lane was waiting.
He found her at the desk, then led her through to the compact office in the back. A small table, four chairs and a wide vase bursting with Vendela roses. View out over Main, more grandmother’s guesthouse than interrogation room.
Dee looked better than the last time he’d seen her. She wore a simple yellow summer dress and her hair was styled. A little makeup, just enough to push the soft in front of the hard. She carried a paper bag and handed it over to him.
“Peach galettes,” she said by way of greeting. “I know how much you like them.”
“Thank you.”
He had no tape recorder, no pad or pen.
“I already spoke to the officers from state police.”
“I’m just running over things. You want a coffee?”
She dropped her shoulders a little. “Sure, Walk.”
He left her, found Leah and asked her to put a pot on. When he returned Dee was standing by the window.
“It looks different out there,” she said. “Main. The new stores and the new faces. I mean, it was gradual, right. You know about the application for new homes?”
“It won’t pass.”
She turned, sat again and crossed her legs. “You think I’m weak … with Darke.”
“Just trying to understand it.”
“He showed up, bought me flowers and told me he was sorry. One thing led to another.”
“Tell me how it started with him.”
“He came into the bank, opened a checking account. I thought he was … cute isn’t the right word to describe the guy. He was quiet but tough—Shit, Walk. I don’t know what to say. He came in a few more times, always got in my line. I asked him out. He said yeah. That’s how it goes, right?”
“Before, you said there was nothing natural about him.”
“I was pissed, the house. I was lashing out. I tell you one thing about him.”
“What?”
“He was good with my girls. Attentive. He used to watch them, push them on the swings, you know. Just be with them. One time I came in from the yard and found him with Molly on his lap. Watching a Disney movie. There’s not many guys that would take to another man’s kids.”
Leah brought the coffee and left them. His hand shook as he took his cup, so bad he set it down again.
“You alright, Walk? You look tired. And maybe you need a shave. I mean, no offence or nothing.”
“So he stayed all night. Darke?”
“I kicked him out early, before the girls got up.”
He slumped back in his chair, the tiredness washing over him, eyes dry and muscles aching.
“I know you don’t want to see it, Walk. Vincent and Star and all that. But Darke, the guy can be an asshole, but he’s not what you think he is. Or maybe what you want him to be.”
“What do I want him to be?”
“The guy that makes Vincent King innocent.”
* * *
When she was done with the corral she moved on to the stable, the smell of shit not so bad anymore. Two horses, a black and a smaller gray. They had no names, that’s what Hal said when Robin asked. He’d been puzzled by that, Everyone needs a name.
Mucking out, scooping damp straw and shit and bagging it. Fetching a small packed bale from the store and forking it out and over. She knew to leave the wet spots, let them dry before she covered them over. She filled their water, gave grain twice a day, same exact time, the gray could get colic. She led them to their place and closed the gate, sometimes watching them run hard then kick and thrash like they were about to be roped. Duchess liked horses, as every outlaw should.
Gunshot.
It shook the calm from Duchess with such force she fell to her knees. The elk, one foot raised, heads tilted. And then they scattered and ran, so fast they were gone by the time she stood.
She sprinted for the house, heart hammering as her mind ran to Darke.
She calmed a little when she saw Hal on the porch, but his face was drawn with worry.
“He’s upstairs, in the closet.”
She took the stairs fast, into their room and saw him, on the floor, the blanket over his head.
“Robin.” She didn’t touch him just yet, instead scooted herself under till she was close.
“Robin,” she spoke softly. “It’s alright.”
“I heard it.” So quiet she leaned in.
“What did you hear?”
“The gun. I heard it. I heard it again.”
That afternoon Hal led them down to the red barn and told them to wait out in the sun. Duchess walked over to the door, peeked through the crack and saw Hal roll the mat back.
“Grandpa said to wait here.”
She hushed her brother.
Hal pulled up a door in the floor and stepped down. He returned with a gun. He held it loose in his hand, by his side, a small tin box in his other hand.
Duchess stood close to her brother.
“This is a Springfield 1911. It’s a handgun, light and accurate. Every farmer needs a gun. What you heard before was just hunters, it’s important you get used to the sound. I don’t want you to be afraid.” He knelt and held the gun out to them. Robin took a step behind Duchess’s leg.
“It’s not loaded and the safety is on.”
After a minute Duchess reached out and took it, colder than she thought, heavy when he said it was light.
She studied it with care, then Robin stepped out and looked. He ran a finger over the handle.
“You want to try shooting, Duchess?”
Duchess looked down at the gun, her mind on her mother. The hole torn in her chest. She thought of Vincent King.
“Yes.”
Out to the green field, crops no higher than Duchess’s ankle. Beyond they came to the first of the cedars, tall, ladders to the sky.
On a trunk wider than them both were a smattering of marks, pocks, neat and ordered. Leaves long dead and settled, green moss crept to fallen sticks and puddles that shone with the canopies above them.
Hal led them back fifty paces, removed four bullets and showed them the chamber as he loaded. He ran through the safety and sight, the correct two-hands and how to breathe nice and even. And then he handed each a pair of ear protectors.
The first time Hal fired Robin jumped clear back and Duchess held him. The second he did it again. Third and fourth a little less.
Duchess loaded next, Hal instructing. She handled the bullets with care like he said but her heart still quickened, the memories fluid, carrying her back so totally. Walk and the other cops, her brother. The tape and the news vans and the noise.
She missed six in a row, each time yanking her hand back from the kick instead of planting her feet. Robin grew bolder, still clutching Hal’s hand but not turning his head.
She loaded again, this time only the forest noise with her, Hal watching close but letting her figure it out.
The first time she hit the tree she took a chunk from the edge.
Then she put two in the center, Robin whooping and clapping.
“You can shoot,” Hal said.
She turned back before he could see the small smile.
She worked her way through the box, till she could sink them into the middle of the cedar, or a little higher or lower. And then Hal moved her back twenty paces and she learned all over again. Correcting the angle, shooting as she knelt, then from her stomach. Devoid of emotion, adrenaline, the human traits that ruined finesse.
As they walked back toward the farmhouse Robin ran on ahead to check on his birds. The chickens. He collected the eggs each morning, his job alone and he lived for it.
Duchess watched the land as the sun began its drop, not low enough to splinter the colors but she felt the heat dying. Summer was breathing its last, Hal said fall was spectacular.
She drew up by the gray, who came to her. Duchess stroked her gently.
“She doesn’t come for me,” Hal said. “She likes you, and she doesn’t like many people.”
Duchess said nothing, not wanting to fall into conversation, not wanting to lose that fire that kept her moving through each day.
That night she ate dinner alone on the porch, stomach tight as she listened as Hal laughed at something Robin said. It was moments like those it came for her, and dragged her back to the Cape. The old man laughing, smiling, after what his grandchildren had been through. A bond was forming.
She walked back into the kitchen, opened the cabinet and pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from the top shelf.
She took it down to the lake, unscrewed the cap and drank. She did not flinch at the burn. She thought of Vincent King, drank some more, then Darke, and drank again. She drank and drank till the pain eased, her muscles unwound and the world began to spin. Problems melted, edges softened. She lay flat on her back and closed her eyes, feeling her mother.
An hour till she puked.
Another till Hal found her.
Through the haze she saw his eyes, those watery blue eyes as he gently scooped her up.
“I hate you,” she said in a whisper.
He kissed her head as she pressed her cheek to his chest and let the dark find her.