WALK FELT THE GRACE SLIP from Cape Haven as the summer finally began to dim.
It began the morning after Star, when reporters blocked Ivy Ranch Road and police tape streaked alien across the Radley home. He felt it then, the streets a degree cooler, the vista a shade off bright. Mothers ushering their kids, shutting big gates and smothering warmth from within. He shouldered it as best he could, offers rescinded, the cop that was friends with the killer. He spent lazy summer evenings walking every street in the Cape, from the pillared mansions on Calen Place to the small clapboard homes on the highest roads. He knocked doors, hat in hand, beard there but trimmed a little neater, and he offered a tight smile as the desperation seeped from him. He asked, implored, leaned and probed and led memories places they never had been. No one saw anything that night. No cars or trucks or anything out of the pristine normality of their summer.
He watched security tapes from every store on Main. The quality was shitty so he could not skip forward. Instead he viewed in real time, ten hours, sun down to up, his eyes propped open only by the torment that fell when he closed them.
He looked at Darke, tentative, no interview could be called without raising the interest of Darke’s lawyer, and, in turn, Boyd and the state cops. He made a couple of calls, spoke with a Sutler cop and ran FasTrak tolls, hoping to catch an easy lie. He got nothing.
Martha had still not agreed to formally represent Vincent, though Walk picked up the phone most evenings and filled her in on what he’d got, which was mostly nothing. One Sunday morning he drove her to Fairmont, and the two sat with Vincent and reminisced about old times. When talk turned to mounting a defense Vincent signaled the guard.
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.”
A glance around the room, wood-paneled wall, shag beneath his feet. Boulder rocks around the fire, suburban ranch throwing back to the seventies. Air sweetly freshened, cans all over but still, it was there, the blood beneath.
Milton cleared his throat. “You can’t do what isn’t right. You can’t just skip a piece of the past, highlight the good. You know?”
“You called us before, lot of times, seemed like every time Star had a man stop by. Even when it was Darke, right? Said you were worried.”
Milton bit his lower lip. “It’s part of the Watch. But maybe I was mistaken those times. Darke’s a good man. It’s the way he looks, that’s why people talk. I know. I know how it feels. You don’t think I hear the kids? Brillo. Wookiee. Furby. Meatpacker. Joke’s on them because I don’t even pack the meat.”
The clock chimed, sunburst, ten minutes slow. Milton turned his head, Walk saw sweat pool beneath his arms.
“Hey, Walk. You want to head up the Mendocino again?”
Walk smiled. “I enjoyed it, but I think I’m more of a fisherman than a hunter. Get me out on the waves and I’m happy.”
“Not me. Never did learn to swim. I had the lessons, but I used to open my mouth all the time, try and swallow it all down. I like the chlorine.”
Walk didn’t know what to do with that.
“Doesn’t matter, I got other friends into it.” Milton looked like he was desperate to share.
“Yeah?” Walk took the bait.
“I went hunting with him.”
“Who?”
Milton grinned. “Darke. He took me in his Escalade. You seen it? I tell you, that man can shoot. Brought back two blacktail.”
“That right?”
“You’ve got him wrong, Walk. He’s …”
“Different?”
“A good friend.” He said it firm, eyes locked on Walk. “He said he’d come here for the next shower. Not till February but still. I think he’ll actually show.”
The barb was there, but Walk didn’t have the energy to feel any guilt.
“I asked him to come away in the spring. A week, the hunt. I bought him a veil, gaters, the wax kind.”
Walk looked at the spilling shelves beside, so many books, most on hunting. “You don’t know him. You should be careful, Milton.”
“So should you, Walk. You look sick.”
“I also wanted to let you know that I talked to Brandon again. Leah said you called in.”
Milton stiffened at that. “Well, it didn’t do any good. He does it because he knows I have to be up early. Last night I went to the window and he was just sitting there revving the engine. And when he saw me he smiled. I’m not a kid now, Walk. This isn’t like school. You know he used to bully me. Flushed my head down the toilet. I don’t have to put up with it. I should—”
“Leave a sheep’s head in his yard?”
Milton stared, wild eyes, hair spilling from the top of his shirt. “I don’t know nothing about that.”
“You said he urinated in your yard.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’d you know it was him.”
“Caught in the act. I opened the drapes and came eye to eye with it.”
“Jesus.”
“I filed a report. 10-98.”
“Jail break.”
“And you know he’s got a boat, fixed it up nice. He keeps it at Harbor Bay. I figured maybe he’d sell the car and spend his time on the water.”
“He said he’s willing to try if you are. He said you’re a decent neighbor and he feels bad about it.”
“He said that?”
Walk knew Milton could not read him at all. “So you’ll knock all this shit on the head.”
“It was never on me, Walk.”
Walk stared, pleading in his eyes.
“Maybe one day I’ll send him over a cut or something. Nothing too special, not at first. Chuck. How does that sound?”
“Thank you, Milton.”
Milton followed him to the door.
On the porch Walk stopped and looked over, across the street.
“I miss her,” Milton said. “I’m real sorry I …”
“What?”
“I’m just sorry she’s not there anymore.”
“We owe it to her and the children to arrest the man that did this.”
“You already did, Walk.”
Milton would not meet his eye, instead letting his wander to the night sky. He stood there, hands deep in his pockets, lost to Walk and the town and the blood that was spilled.