He didn’t notice the man at first. Sitting at the small table, palms up and open, like he meant no harm at all.
“You need to go into the living room,” Vincent said.
Walk noticed the sweat on his head, realized his gun was trained on his childhood friend but he would not lower it. Adrenaline carried him.
“What did you do?”
“You’re too late to change things, Walk. But you need to go, and make your calls. I’ll be here. I won’t move at all.”
The gun shook.
“You should cuff me. That’s what is expected. You need to do this correctly. If you toss them over here I’ll do it myself.”
Walk, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. “I don’t—”
“Pass me the cuffs, Chief Walker.”
Chief. He was a cop. Walk reached for the cuffs on his belt and tossed them onto the table.
He moved into the living room.
Sweat bled into his eyes.
The scene came at him.
“Shit, Star.” He crossed fast and knelt. “Oh, Jesus, Star.”
She lay on her back. For a minute he thought she’d chased with something bad, which had happened before. But when he noticed he fell back and cursed again.
Blood, all over, so much of it he fumbled for his radio, his fingers slick as he called it.
“Jesus.” He pawed at her clothes, tried to make sense of it before he found the wound, the hole, torn flesh, above her heart.
He smoothed hair from her face, pale and gone. He tried for a pulse, found nothing but started CPR. He looked around as he worked, a lamp lying, a picture on the carpet, a small bookcase upended.
Specks of blood climbed the wall.
“Duchess,” he called.
He worked on, sweating, muscles burning.
Cops and medics arrived and gently pushed him off. It was clear enough she was dead.
He heard yelling from the kitchen, Vincent on the ground, then led out.
Walk stood, dazed, the world spinning the wrong way as he headed into the street, the neighbors gathering. He saw in reds and blues as he sat on the porch and gulped air. He rubbed his head, his eyes, hit his own chest a few times to make sure it was all real.
They took Vincent before he could reach the car, he jogged a little but panted and dropped to his knees, each year of his life unravelled.
A team ran control, swept it from him, taped the area and moved people far enough back. News vans, lights and reporters. A tech van cut in and up onto the verge. It was a scene and they controlled it well, that was until Walk heard noise inside.
He stood, still dazed, made his way through and ducked the tape, and in the house he saw Boyd from state and two cops from Sutler County.
“What is it?”
A cop turned, eyes loaded with anger. “The kid … the boy.”
Walk stepped back, hit the wall and felt his legs weaken, braced for what would come as his vision tunnelled.
Boyd waved them back a little.
And then Walk saw him, squinting up, a blanket around his shoulders.
“He’s alright?” Walk said.
Boyd checked him carefully. “The bedroom door was locked. I think he was sleeping.”
Walk knelt by the boy, who looked anywhere but at him. “Robin, where’s your sister?”
* * *
Duchess pedaled three miles, traversed dark roads that led from her town. She held her breath as cars came at her, dipped their beams or flashed or sounded their horns. She could have taken the pretty streets, a mile added, she was tired enough.
The Chevron on Pensacola, blue sign on gray pillars. She leaned her bicycle against a coal-bin and made her way across the lot. An old sedan parked bad, the owner stretching the pump.
Robin would wake six years old, she would not let him wake to nothing.
Eleven bucks, taken from Star’s purse. Duchess hated her, mostly, loved her now and then, needed her totally.
In the gas station was a cop and he stood at the coffee machine, dark tie and slacks, neat mustache, shield on his chest. He eyed her and she ignored him, then his radio crackled and he threw a couple of dollars at the counter and headed out.
She walked aisles, passed towering refrigerators, signs that called BEER and SODA and ENERGY.
No birthday cakes, just a pack of Entenmann’s cupcakes, the kind with pink frosting. Robin would be pissed about that, inside at least, he wouldn’t say anything that might be deemed ungrateful. She picked up a pack and found some candles. Six bucks left.
Behind the counter was a kid, nineteen, maybe, acne cheeks, too many piercings.
“Do you have toys?”
He pointed to a rack that had the sorriest collection of plastic Duchess had ever seen. She carefully studied a magic set, a stuffed rabbit, a pack of colorful hairbands, and a figure that bore a libellous resemblance to Captain America. She clutched it tight, it was a find. It was also seven bucks.
She took it with her back to the cakes, saw she had the only pack that could pass as something special and cursed her mother once again. She stood beneath yellow strip light, so dim it drained the fight right from her. She thought of lifting the candles but saw the kid behind the counter watching on, like he could read the tortured turns of her mind. She squeezed the cake box, just enough to dent it.
At the counter she argued it, showed the kid the damaged cake, asked him to take a buck off. At first he refused, then the line started to grow and he took her money with a scowl.
She hitched her bag over the handlebars and set off toward home, pedaling slow as another cop car passed her, lights on and siren harsh against the warm night.
Later, when she knew, she’d look back at that last ride and wish she’d felt it, the
