They’d bumped Walk from the case the morning after, left him to arrange the safeguarding of the scene till they were done. Two days, tech vans and busy people, Walk liaised with locals, closed half the road. They moved on to the King house. Again, Walk was left to safeguard. They deemed him too small town, Cape Haven PD too small to cope. He had not argued.
“They’ll put him to death.”
Robin looked over at his sister, his eyes tired but intense, the last flares of a dying fire.
“Duchess—”
“It’s what they’ll do. A man like that, there’s no coming back. Shooting a woman, unarmed. You believe in an eye for eye, Walk?”
“I don’t know.”
Duchess fished a fry in her ketchup and shook her head like she was disappointed in him. She spoke of Vincent often, the man that shot her mother dead and left her brother hiding in the closet.
“Eat your burger,” Duchess said to Robin, and he ate. “And the green.”
“But—”
She stared.
He picked up a piece of lettuce and nibbled the corner.
Another hour and Walk saw the sign for Dearman. Razor wire ran a quarter mile, keeping people in and out of fractious lives. A guard in a tower, eyes beneath a wide-brim hat and one hand on a rifle. In the mirror Walk was tailed by dust, like he’d stirred the calm.
Robin slept in his seat, face tight like his dreams were keeping pace with his days.
“That’s a prison,” Duchess said.
“It is.”
“Like the kind they got Vincent King in.”
“Yes.”
“Will he get beaten in there?”
“Prison’s not nice.”
“Maybe he’ll get all raped.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Fuck off, Walk.”
He more than understood the hate, but he worried what it would do to her, those cinders, the lightest breeze and they’d flare.
“I hope he gets beaten so bad. I see it, you know, when I’m lying down at night. I see his face. I hope he gets beaten till there’s nothing left.”
He pushed back in his seat, aching bones, tremoring hands. That morning he’d lain so helpless he worried it wouldn’t pass, that the girl would have to fetch help. He thought back to the start, a pain in his shoulder, just a pain in his shoulder.
“I worry I won’t remember Cape Haven.” She spoke to the views they passed.
“I can write you. I can send photos.”
“It’s not home now. Where we’re going, that’s not home either. He took it all.”
“It’ll be …” He stopped himself, the words catching.
She turned and watched Dearman till it smoked to nothing, then closed her eyes to Walk and the changing world.
An hour off the hottest part of the day, heat rose in calling waves while both children slept. Duchess, her eyes sunken, swollen from the strain because she didn’t cry. She wore shorts. He saw grazed knees and pale thighs.
For a hundred miles the land had pitched and fallen, the arid now lush, the thirst quenched by westerlies that blew relief from the water. Montana arrived with little fanfare, just a sign, a blue, red and yellow welcome. Walk rubbed his neck and yawned, then itched at the stubble on his cheeks. He had not eaten much since. He had dropped five pounds.
Another hour and he turned by the Missouri River. Helena behind, the sky a canvas so big not even God’s work could distract from the blues that afternoon. The roads and a track, the farm appeared like it belonged, painted into the landscape with delicate strokes, mud red barns white topped, three in total, and two silos that nested with cedars. The house was wide, the porch wrapped it with seats and a swing and timber that was gnarled and beautiful. Walk saw her watching now, wanting to ask but keeping her mouth tight.
“That’s it,” he offered.
“Is there people anywhere?”
“Copper Falls, only a few miles. They have a movie theater.” He’d checked it all the night before.
Gum trees tangled from both sides and shaded them, white picket needed painting. He followed the curve and saw Hal, standing still and watching, no smile or wave or anything at all.
Duchess craned, her head over Walk’s shoulder as she slipped her belt off.
When they stopped Walk climbed out and Duchess did not.
“Hal,” he said, walked over and extended a hand.
Hal shook it firmly, his tough and calloused. He had blue eyes that shone with more than age but no smile, not till his granddaughter emerged from the cruiser and stood just as still, a vision of her mother.
Walk watched the two, eyeing each other, exchanging judgment. He tried to beckon her but Hal shook his head once. She’ll come when she’s ready.
“Long drive. Robin is sleeping, I didn’t know whether to wake him.”
“He’ll be up early enough tomorrow. The farm has its hours.”
Walk followed Hal up to the house.
The old man was tall, muscled, unforgiveness in every step. He walked with his head high, chin up a little; this is my land.
Behind, Duchess wandered, looking at the long stretch of world, a new life already growing old. She bent and touched the grass, made her way to a barn and peered into cool dark. The smell was strong, animals and shit but she did not turn away.
Hal brought beer so cold Walk didn’t turn it down. He wore his uniform and they settled onto hard wooden chairs.
“It’s been a long time,” Walk said.
“It has.”
Montana, portrait to landscape, the kind of open that was almost too much to breathe in.
“What a mess,” Hal said. He wore a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled over muscled forearms.
Mess was the wrong word, but as close a fit as any.
“Did she see?”
Walk looked at Hal but the old man kept his gaze on the acres. “I think so. After. She ran at the cops and made it into the living room.”
Hal cracked a knuckle, scarred hands, grizzled voice. “The boy?”
“No. Maybe he heard something, screams, gunshot, he won’t speak about it. He was locked in his bedroom. He’s seen someone a couple times, a doctor. He’ll have to see someone
