Tim shoved the last few sheets in the copy folder and slipped it into his bag. He looked up, Rachel was in her office, so he headed in for any last minute briefings she might have had.
"Ready?" Rachel said, looking up when he tapped on the door.
"Yeah." Tim was ready, but he doubted Rachel knew or realized how ready.
Rachel sighed inwardly. She knew what was on Tim's mind, and she knew that she had virtually no chance of stopping him from looking. He was worried. Hell, they were all worried, but there was very little they could actually do, and Rachel figured it would probably sort itself out. Raylan had a certain catlike quality of always landing on his feet.
Raylan Givens had transferred back to Miami almost eighteen months ago. Back to Winona and his baby daughter. At first things seemed fine, they all kept in touch. Probably Tim and Raylan slightly more than Rachel and Raylan, but contact was regular.
Then Raylan upped and left the Marshals' Service and things changed. Raylan still kept in touch, but he was cagey. Then he moved to New Orleans, and contact was intermittent. Until it stopped altogether four months ago.
Tim gave her the look, "I'm going to find him, Rach."
Rachel sighed. "And how are you going to do that?" she said.
Tim pulled his little notebook out of his pocket. "I've got an address."
Rachel got one of those sinking feelings, ones normally reserved for Raylan's antics. "Please tell me you didn't do something I am going to regret to get that?"
Tim's smile was one of pure mischief. "Some people shouldn't leave access passwords in obvious places."
Rachel shook her head and put up a hand. "Stop right there. I am not Art, I absolutely don't want to know. If it can't be traced back to anyone, that is where that is going to stay." She rolled her eyes and added. "And someone is going to promise never to do that again."
Tim's expression grew serious. "It was a one time deal."
"Raylan is a big boy, he can look after himself."
"I know." Sure, he knew, but… Tim knew everyone could look after themselves until the odds were so badly stacked that they couldn't. He'd been here before, somehow he just knew that Raylan was in trouble, or they would be hearing from him.
Rachel pulled another file from the stack in her in-tray and waved him off. "Go on," she said, as he turned to go, "Tim, don't make me regret this."
Tim nodded. "You won't." he said.
[][][][][][][][]
Raylan Givens shoved his bag and his hat into the locker. No sense in wearing the Stetson, he was looking for yard-work, and in the last few months he'd rapidly learned that the Stetson earned him the sort of attention he could well do without.
Sometimes, late at night when he was cold and stiff and sore from hard manual labour and no proper place to sleep, he would lie there in his sleeping bag and wonder how everything had gone south so fast.
One minute he was doing everything that Winona wanted, he'd turned his life inside out for her, because he wanted to make things work, and then she was leaving him, and suddenly he was on the outside looking in.
No job, no home, no Winona. His daughter, that was all he had left. He'd tried to set up as a private detective, but Miami was full of them, and there wasn't really enough work to go around, especially for a man who was living out of his car by then. Someone said that he might have more luck in New Orleans, so he scraped together the money for gas and had driven up. Sold his truck, which gave him a little money for somewhere to stay. Of course that hadn't lasted, and he'd had to give up on the private dick idea in favour of getting food in his belly.
Raylan eyed the sandwich pack. One left. He could eat it now, but he wouldn't have anything to eat later, and if he didn't get any work today, he wouldn't have enough to buy anything. It wasn't a big sandwich, but Raylan figured he could halve it, and have enough for two days.
He had the coins for the locker and some small change, and that was it. He'd officially hit rock bottom. He tried to keep himself tidy. Looking tidy got you more work if you were lucky. He'd done laboring, yard-work, cleaning, but nothing lasted for long. He wrapped the plastic around the sandwich carefully, that had to last, and put it back on top of his bag, his hat on top. Reached for the baseball cap, mentally reviewed his clothing choices… he needed work so that he could hit the laundry, this was his last clean shirt. He locked the door, and put the key on its string around his neck.
He walked out of the station into the sunshine, crossed the road. The pay phone practically begged him to stop. It would be so easy, step up, reverse the charges, ring the number. But he couldn't do that, none of this was Tim's problem. He could ring Rachel, or god forbid, even Art. But none of this was their problem either. He could survive. He gritted his teeth and walked on. Trying to pretend that his stomach wasn't growling with hunger and occasionally a little pain, trying to ignore the two holes he had reefed his belt in so that his jeans stayed up, the sore patch on his jaw from the cheap razor, the twinges in his lower back from sleeping on the ground, and the intermittent cough; and how everything that he loved and missed just seemed further and further away with each step.
[][][][][][][][]
Damn, it was hot. Tim heaved his bag off the conveyor, and checked his weapons. He'd taken the early flight deliberately, so that he would have time to check in, and start to put out feelers for where Raylan might be before he had to officially check in at the New Orleans office.
If he could find Raylan, see that he was okay, and that it was just something up with his phone, nothing need be even vaguely official. Which would be the way Raylan would prefer it. But Tim knew his former colleague well enough to know that Tim's first estimate of the situation was probably right. Rumours through the grapevine said that Winona had left Raylan yet again.
Tim tried not to imagine how lost Raylan would be without the wife and daughter and without the job.
He picked up his rental, stowed his bags and headed out, plugging Raylan's last known and confirmable address into the GPS.
[][][][][][][][]
Raylan dragged the brambles away to the small bonfire as he cut them back, the memory of the stakeout where he'd done yard work in order to catch their fugitive kept springing to his mind. He really didn't want to dwell on that, this situation was entirely different.
The homeowner was one of those wealthy women who liked to do charitable things, but it didn't take Raylan long to see through the pretense. Her daughters were more upfront about it, casually eyeing him up like a piece of meat, and encouraging their friends to join in. He caught most of the conversation and speculation about him.
He dug in, ignoring the way the brambles tore at the skin of his arms, and drew the tattered remnants of his dignity about him. He wasn't a fool, he knew he was easy on the eye, even half-starved and living in his reduced circumstances; so when she tried to draw him into the house for a drink, Raylan dug deep into his Southern charm and tried to avoid contact.
If he managed to stick this job for a week, he had very few doubts she was going to win, because he needed the money and it was clear which way the land lay.
The pay phone opposite the station sprang into his mind's eye then, Raylan sighed, dignity be damned, he just needed to hear a friendly voice. He would finish the day out, and call. Just to hear a friend.