Author's Note: Sorry for the hiatus. Been a busy spring. I'm reposting this story after taking it down. Thank you for your patience to anyone who was reading when I pulled it. I have edited it a little bit, but not too much. Feel free to skip to the part where you left off. I'll be posting the chapters as I recover them and check them, and posting new chapters as I write them.

It's a silly story about a bourbon theft, and, at the request of some long-time readers, it includes Miljana, the OFC, the wayward psychologist.

Interestingly, the real Pappy theft has been solved since I started writing this. Nine people were indicted in Frankfort, Kentucky in April - a ring of illegal steroid and stolen bourbon pushers, all acquainted through the sport of softball. And yes, as suspected, the bourbon thefts were done by employees, an inside job, at both Wild Turkey and Buffalo Trace. I was hoping for international intrigue and crime syndicates, but apparently they were just drinking it and giving it away to friends or selling it at bargain prices.

There you go.

I own nothing, blah de blah... Enjoy the story or not, that's up to you.

(No steroids were used in the writing of this story, however, some bourbon was consumed.)

On the Bourbon Trail – chapter one

"Sixty-five." Art whistled expressively, opened both eyes wide. "Holy shit." He was standing by the coffee pot, one hip resting on the counter reading the morning paper. "Times twelve…that's…that's, uh…" He rolled his eyes up and right, thinking hard. "That's…"

"Seven hundred and eighty." Tim had his face in a file open on his desk, leaning in, staring at a report with singular intensity, as if the crosshairs were already in place for a head shot and he was waiting for the green light, but he spoke loudly enough that Art heard him just fine across the room.

Art did a slow, exasperated turn to look at his deputy. "You sure?"

"Yep."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"How'd you do that so fast? Do you have a calculator over there?"

"Nope."

"Well?"

"I'm a mental math fucking genius."

"You hide it well."

Tim tapped his temple with a finger. "I'm serious. Lots of math tricks hidden up here."

"What else is hidden up there? Do you see dead people?"

"All the time. Don't you? Or do you close your eyes when we get a call on a DB?"

"Only if Raylan was there first."

Art thought it a clever response, waited for a snort of appreciation for the humor, a laugh, a guffaw, some snark in return, a smirk even, anything. But Tim didn't look up, hadn't looked up once during the conversation, motionless, still-life with Glock. Art couldn't leave it alone this particular morning, a Monday morning. The imperturbable demeanor was a taunt, a dare even, precisely because it was a Monday morning, and Monday mornings were irritable mornings, made for poking at stuff that you shouldn't. You had all week, Art reasoned, to fix whatever got broken if what you were poking at reacted badly.

"Math tricks, huh? Do you fetch too?" This was said in Art's most insulting and sarcastic voice.

"Bark."

"Math tricks. Seriously, why?"

"For moments like this, Chief. I like to be prepared, plan for all eventualities, such as you needing to know what twelve times sixty-five is." Tim rolled a hand, some movement, but still not enough for Art. He couldn't get Tim's attention away from whatever it was that held it firmly, whatever was in that report.

"You're a regular boy scout."

Tim didn't reply; Raylan did.

"Tim's the guy with the cape, Art, remember? He's a superhero – Mathman." Raylan was smirking, even if Tim wasn't. "The mild-mannered Tim Gutterson is his alter ego."

Tim gestured vaguely in Raylan's direction. "There you go. My secret's out. I'm really Mathman."

Fresh coffee in his mug, Art folded his newspaper carefully, purposefully, and walked across to the other side of the bullpen, dropping the article he was reading face up on Tim's desk, covering the file and interrupting whatever Tim was contemplating.

"Do you mind?" said Tim, and then, finally, he looked up.

"You weren't paying attention when I gave you the 'piss off' look. Thought I'd hand-deliver it. …Tim?"

"What?"

"Piss off."

"Fine. Next time you can struggle your way through the multiplication. I ain't offering to help. Me and my alter ego will keep our mouths shut."

"I think," said Raylan, standing up from his desk and stretching, "that Art…"

"Oh fuck, he's thinking! Look out!" Tim pushed his chair violently to the right away from Raylan, and Art flinched.

"I think, Tim," Raylan said again, but more slowly and louder this time, "that Art wants to know why double digit mental multiplication is something that you'd bother with considering how little room there is in your teeny tiny brain in the first place. It's a bit like finding out your guard dog just won the Pulitzer for his literary work."

Raylan's insult appeared to hit Kevlar. It bounced off. Tim answered the question in the same monotone he always used, another short 'bark' aimed at Raylan the only evidence that it was felt at all. After the bark, he said, "This guard dog carries a rifle."

"Was that a threat?"

"Am I aiming at you?"

"Not yet."

"There's a lot of math involved in long range precision shooting. You get fast at it for what I hope are obvious reasons."

Art wasn't convinced. "I thought they had fancy targeting systems that do all that for you?"

"They do. But back in the day…"

The reaction to Tim's statement was immediate. Both Art and Raylan groaned.

"Back in the day," said Art. "Listen to him. Back in the day. How old is he anyway? Fifteen? Sixteen? Has he even gone through puberty yet?"

"I've seen him drinking at a public establishment – more than once actually – so he's got to be at least twenty-one."

"Right. I forgot you had to be twenty-one to apply to the Marshals Service. I guess they want to make sure you can drink."

Tim sat listening patiently, and when there was a lull he said, "Yes, there are excellent high-tech targeting systems. But the military still train their snipers with tried and true methods, good old trigonometry and algebra, to work out angles and distance to target in case the technology fails or your battery dies. Try finding a Batteries Plus anywhere east of Kabul."

"Boy Scouts of America in camouflage."

"Be prepared and all that," was accompanied by a bad imitation of the Scouts' salute, then Tim gave Raylan and Art a classic held tilt. "Good enough reason for you?"

"I suppose."

"Great," a hand waving a dismissal, "Back to your lives, citizens. Mathman's job here is done."

Settling his hat on his head, Raylan picked up his wallet and pointed casually toward the door. "Art, I'm heading out."

"What for? Where?"

Raylan hesitated before he answered, and Art reacted to that hesitation, strolling over in front of Raylan's desk, hands on his hips to make him feel, however temporarily, that he was in control of his deputies. But Raylan was saved having to explain himself by a rare emotional outburst from Tim.

"Sixty-five. Holy shit is right."

"Sixty-five what?"

Holding up the newspaper for Raylan to read, but far enough away that all Raylan could read were the headlines, Tim repeated himself. "Sixty-five cases…gone. Am I drooling?"

Raylan leaned over the barrier, squinted at the print. "Holy shit." The words came out in a softer unconscious mimicking of Art and Tim's reaction to the news. Raylan reached across and took the paper from Tim and read it more carefully. "Sixty-five cases? That's…"

"Seven hundred and eighty bottles of Old Pappy stolen from the Buffalo Trace distillery in Frankfort yesterday," said Art. "Not to mention the nine cases of Family Reserve Rye taken. That makes…"

Art looked at Raylan; they both looked at Tim.

"Eight hundred and eighty-eight bottles," said Tim. "And that's without my cape."

"That's one hell of a party." Art wiped a hand slowly down his face, gazed into the distance, off on a bourbon daydream. "Or at least one drink a day, free, until I die."

"No, that's not right…" A finger up, Raylan dropped it in Art's direction. "There's only three bottles in a case of Pappy, not twelve."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. It's special."

"You've seen one?"

"Maybe."

"A hundred and ninety-five then," said Tim, "plus the rye. Still one hell of a party, but maybe not a drink a day till you die. What's the average life expectancy for a male? Seventy-eight, I think. You're fifty-six, that's…eight thousand drinks, about fourteen thousand ounces… Nope, it wouldn't get you to the coffin the way you pour." He tapped his temple again. "Mental math fucking genius."

"If I ever get my hands on a bottle of Old Pappy, Tim, I'll open it and think about you and toast your mental math fucking genius." Art smiled, magnanimous.

"I'd rather you just shared."

"Like hell."

"I shared my math genius."

"So? Not even close to the same thing." Art turned to follow up on his conversation with Raylan, but Raylan was already gone, the door of the bullpen closing behind him.

"Dammit. Tim, you distracted me on purpose."

"Did not."

"Did too. Where's he going?"

"I don't know." Tim was back to glaring at the file. "I don't care."

Art picked up his newspaper from Raylan's desk, tucked it under his arm then picked up the receiver of Raylan's phone, dialed a number he apparently knew by heart. He waited patiently, eyes settling on the page that had won the contest for Tim's attention, trying to make out the print upside-down. "What is that you're staring at anyway?" But he didn't wait for a reply, a voice on the line cutting in, distracting him, and he turned away. "Raylan, where the hell are you going?"

The conversation was brief. Art set the receiver back in the cradle and looked heavenward. "Shit. Harlan. Don't know why I bothered asking." But no one was paying him any attention.

Tim finished the last half of his sandwich in two bites while he waited for the printer to spit out the morning's work. The papers were stapled into three piles, except for the last sheet, a photo of a man's face which Tim folded in half, then again, and slipped into his jeans' pocket. Leaning over his computer he opened the top drawer of his desk and picked out a pen, signed the top sheet of each pile, threw the pen back on his desk, then walked over to Art's office and leaned on the door frame. Art was holding up his head with one hand while the other was scribbling notes beside a column on a spreadsheet. Tim waited a few minutes to see if Art would notice him, then gave up and knocked lightly on the door. Art looked up.

Tilting his head north and approximately west, Tim said, "I'm driving up to Frankfort to do my qualifying."

"Is it that time again already?"

"Yep. Every month."

"Okay, but you're not leaving until those reports are done."

Tim stepped into the office and dropped the stack of papers on Art's desk from high enough that when they hit, dust and phone messages wafted outward in a circle. "Done, printed, signed. See you after four. I'll be a few hours."

Art glanced at the finished reports, then at Tim's back moving toward the door. "Hey, Tim, wait up. I think I'll come with you." Standing up quickly, Art grabbed his holster and his jacket. "I haven't tagged along on one of your range trips in a while."

"The range officer can sign off on it, Boss. No need."

"I know. I just feel like getting out."

"It's nothing very exciting."

"Better than the boring shit I have to do today. Besides, it's Monday," said Art, as if that explained everything. "You're driving though."

"All right."

They walked together across the bullpen and out the door to the hallway. Tim headed for the stairs but Art snagged his collar and pulled him back. "Elevator," he said. "My knees are stiff today."

The elevators were refurbished, but still reasonably old in the 1930's court house, and always busy, so they waited, Tim less patiently than Art. Art watched, amused, while Tim pulled out his phone, checked for texts, put it away again, took a couple of steps toward the window then back, pulled out his sunglasses and put them on, then took them off. When Tim started pacing again, Art decided to distract him with an idea that came to him looking out at Lexington through the window at the end of the hall. He thought Tim might be interested.

"We live in bourbon country."

"News flash."

Art ignored him. "Ninety-five percent of the world's bourbon is made right here in this state."

"You can still buy it in every Walgreens in the country."

"That's not the point. Have you ever actually been to the Buffalo Trace Distillery?"

"No."

"Me neither. I've driven by the place often enough. I hear it's a nice spot."

"Is this just you making small talk?"

"No."

"I wasn't sure."

"What d'you say we stop by after? It's just down the hill from the Training Center."

"You thinking of working that theft, finding that Old Pappy for yourself?"

"I'm sure they've got everyone in the state on it. I don't know a law enforcement officer in Kentucky that wouldn't love to get their hands on a bottle of that bourbon. Nah, I'd just like to see the place."

"Uh-huh."

"No, really. And it's quiet today."

"Chief, do I need to remind you that Raylan's in Harlan right now?"

Art scowled. "I officially hate you. I had put myself into a practiced state of blissful forgetfulness about Raylan, and you smack me with that. I thought we were friends."

"You're my boss."

"Yeah, but still…"

"And you said you wouldn't share your Pappy van Winkle."

"I don't have any."

"That's not the point."

The elevator arrived. The ride was quiet, each man thinking about bourbon.

"Do you think they have a sampling bar?" said Tim when the elevator doors opened on the main floor.

"That's what I'm hoping."

"Probably no Pappy though."

"No, probably not. Maybe some Blanton's."

"… I'll be quick at the range."

xxxxxxxxx

Author's other note: For all you bourbon drinkers out there, I was told by an employee at Buffalo Trace that the closest you'll ever get to a bottle of Pappy van Winkle is a bottle of 12-yr-old Weller. Go find it. It's a nice bourbon finished with wheat rather than rye, like Old Pappy, but at a fraction of the price.