He stands when he sees her truck turn the corner. His stomach still cramps and he's pretty sure his eyes are still red. Her door slams and he makes his way down her walkway taking off his hat and smoothing his hair to no avail. They both slow when they see each other and he half expects her to punch him. His hesitancy and her fear don't propel them forward. The three-quarter turn of his hat in his hand breaks their stand-off as she steps forward and wraps her arms around his neck. He leans down but she's still on her tip-toes. He sighs into her neck and he stays there.
"Let's go inside." She says.
"Give me a minute." He says, closing his eyes, and he turns his ear into her shoulder.
She doesn't get what this is; the significance of this moment.
He lifts his head and drops his arms to his side; his hat hits his thigh, "I'm sorry for the way I left this morning."
She nods and glances his cheek with her fingertips. She moves past him toward the house and he turns in behind her.
"Vic." He says.
She turns and he says, "I don't want to go inside."
"Huh?"
He turns his head and spits on the grass shifting his weight and moving his hat to his head, "I, ah, I don't think, um." His lips curl as if it would temper his confession.
"Ok. Walt." She says.
His eyes avert and come back, "I just seem to hurt you and that's not what I want to do. It's like the complete opposite." He says slightly out of context.
She's facing him full on now, "Was I supposed to think I'm different from the rest?"
He tilts his head like a dog, "What?"
"I'm sure you loved them, too. In your own way." She replies.
"That's not true." He says.
She matches his head tilt challenging him.
He looks up searching the sky paralyzed by his inadequacies.
"Go home, Walt." She unlocks her door and he closes the distance.
"Vic."
"You said what you wanted to say."
"I just, uhm."
She stands her ground and he stands his. The quicksand sinking beneath their feet. They revert back to their common denominator.
"Don't worry, Walt, I won't play any passive aggressive games with you. I'll see you at work in the morning." With that, she closes the door, and leaves him standing on her porch.
Her vow not to cry lasts for a minute or two and she makes busy with laundry and cleaning, only thinking about him, he's everywhere. He's in her skin. There's no way to wash him clean now.
The days turn to weeks and they maintain their professional status which for them means they avoid each other. To their detriment, the excuses to get coffee and food only last so long, and they find themselves in uncomfortable silences. Neither reaches for the other. Their walls of defense are impenetrable.
He spends his time alone. His few attempts at reconnecting with Henry have fallen flat after Henry took over the Pony. He doesn't know how to fix that either. He notices the extra days she takes off and the obvious shift in her mood. She's happy and he doesn't know what to do with that. It confuses him. He genuinely thinks it should be about him because for him, it's all about her. That's what he tells himself. There aren't any more books to read or friends to talk too. This time, the self-reflection is genuine, or so he decides as he isolates himself.
The call to duty supersedes their unspoken agreement when Doc Bloomfield notifies them about a suspicious death.
"Her primary care physician signed off on the death certificate because she has been in his long term care but when I started the autopsy I noticed some suspicious bruising and petechial spotting in her eyes."
He notices the fullness of her hips when she bends over to look and he catches himself looking and he can feel his face flush even though he feels he has the right to look. He snaps his eyes back to Doc Bloomfield and verifies he was caught and his face gets hotter. If she notices, she spares him, "Did she have a specific diagnosis?"
"A multitude of complications but none of them with a fatal prognosis."
She pulls out her notebook and gets about the business of doing her job confirming that petechiae is consistent with strangulation and he gathers the next-of-kin and medical records
"You want me to meet you at her house or what?" She says.
"We can double-up." He pauses. "If you want."
"That's fine, Walt."
The relief he feels that she said his name is disproportionate to the action itself. She's strangely comfortable in the passenger seat and picks up where she left off.
"May Belle Smith, 86 years old, lives with her son Rufus Smith." She holds the inches think folder, "She had a shitload of problems."
He looks over his shoulder and back out the window rubbing his hand over his three day beard, "How've you been?"
"Fine." She says. Her ponytail looks longer and thicker and it flops on her shoulder as she looks out of her window. "And you?" She asks without looking at him.
"Good. Working on stuff."
"Finally fixing your bathroom?"
"I finished that about a month ago."
"Good for you."
He glances back out of his window and looks straight ahead, "I should have done better but I didn't know how." He skips a beat, "But I should have been."
She doesn't respond and looks through the same windshield. She wants to tell him it's alright but it's not and she can't tell him that either.
"I'm sorry about everything, Vic." He says and adds and glances in her direction, "I'd like us to be better."
"Are you doing better?" She asks.
Another mile passes and he turns right onto Citrus Road, "I've been working on me." He says and she looks at him and he sees his reflection in her Ray-Bans. The Bronco comes to a slow stop and he parks a few doors down from May Belle's address. They stride up to the front door and instinctively look for anything suspicious. Before he knocks he looks at her, "You smell that?"
"Yeah." She rolls her eyes, "Fuck."
Walt makes the Sheriff's Department announcement and no one answers. She goes to the back of the house trying to peek through the covered windows. She makes her way back to the front.
"Nothing."
"Back door may be easier to kick." He says.
He stands square and his huge boot lands in the sweet spot and the door comes off the hinges and falls as far as it can in the cluttered house. They follow the smell and find Rufus in his Lazyboy less the back of his head.
"Motherfucker." She says and he looks around taking notice of the handgun on the floor next to the easy chair.
They clear the house and return to Rufus.
"Looks like he had the decency to leave a note." She says, "I'm going to get my kit."
He stands over Rufus, cants his head, and reads the confession. He killed May Belle to put her out of her misery but it only took two hours for the guilt to consume him. He hopes to join her in heaven. He smacks his teeth and shakes his head.
She starts taking photographs and he bags and tags evidence. They work in silence as partners anticipating each other's moves and needs. He thinks how beautiful she is, more beautiful than ever, and how much he's at fault for ruining them.
"I'm guessing Rufus has been here about 30 hours or so." She says.
"Hmmm….that's about right." He says.
"You seeing anybody?" He asks and he regrets it but he wants to know.
Her eyes snap in his direction.
"I've noticed the extra days you've been taking off and you seem happy." His voice sinks, "I know it's not because of me." He gives her a faint smile at his sarcasm. She continues snapping pictures, staging the ruler in various places for measurement comparisons. They continue to work in tandem and in silence.
"You've been working out?" His lips curl like it's a compliment trying to push through the cemented wall.
"I always workout. You know that." She quips and notices the deep blue resolution of his eyes and how much she wants to just look at him.
"You lifting more weights? I mean it looks good." He shakes his head, "I didn't mean it like that I just mean you look healthy."
He picks up the Smith and Wesson .38 revolver and empties the live rounds into his palm. She stops taking photographs and the large 35 mm digital camera with the wide angle lens hangs from her neck almost too big for her frame.
"I better be." She says.
"Better be, what?" He asks.
"Healthy."
She stares at him, looks down at the camera and directly at the back of Rufus blown out head. She pushes her hair aside and pulls her lips in.
"Look Walt." She says. "I haven't figured out a way to tell you."
He clenches his fists to his side, his grip tightens around the gun, "Tell me, what?" He asks and shifts his weight.
Her hands hold the sides of the camera, "I'm pregnant." She says and he drops the gun on his tender big toe.