and Nothing Shall by Any Means Hurt You

(Chapter 3)

After Raylan left the office, the bullpen rolled over lethargically into a kind of lull, the intermission in the show where everyone waited for the action to start up again, chatting quietly around the sink in the kitchenette or stalling at the copier for gossip. There was contented aimlessness in the movements, everyone milling, everyone but Tim. He couldn't switch off to be part of the lazy, languid morning. He couldn't fit in.

Each time the last cup of coffee was poured Tim would jump up to make fresh, grabbing the pot away from whoever had it. "I'm not in the mood today for your shitty coffee," he'd grumble, irritated at the hapless offender, "Get out of my way."

Sometimes he would stay and stare at the coffee dripping into the pot, waiting for it to run through. Anyone who hadn't hightailed it out of the vicinity after the snarling would definitely clear out with the shell-shocked act.

The sound of the water sizzling and spitting against the heated glass reminded Tim of the timber rattlers he'd hear and see on occasion in the Kentucky forest growing up and that got him remembering the copperhead he'd run into once and then the sign surfaced, unbidden...Behold I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions…And he was back in the church tent, pulling the trigger and watching the blood spurt out from a perfectly centered shot to the chest, the thin curl of smoke slithering up from the cigarette still burning, dropped onto the grass.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he spun around, startled, the cold glare he'd been liberally sharing with his coworkers already set in place. Art was holding out his mug, concerned eyes on Tim. Tim didn't miss a step – filled Art's mug and his own. The water, not all through the filter yet, dripped on the hot plate, hissing at him for his impatience. He slammed the pot back underneath to stop the noise and it sizzled and spit then stopped.

Art cleared his throat and Tim turned to face him again, reluctantly. The chief drew his eyebrows down, studied the younger Marshal before asking, "Everything okay?"

"I doubt it. I've only checked the local news today. They're probably still killing civilians in Syria."

Art treated Tim to a good copy of a Gutterson head tilt, gestured come with me with a curled finger, turned and started for his office.

Petulant but obedient, Tim trudged behind Art and took a seat on his couch then deliberately slouched down and tucked the arm not holding the coffee tightly around himself.

Art shut the door; Tim pretended not to notice or care.

Art started the conversation. "I think I understand now why they make subordinates stand at attention in the military. The officers all have sidearms, right?"

Tim looked up, wary, nodded.

"Well if you're any indication of a typical sergeant, I figure the officers would shoot so many of their enlisted men just for pissing them off with their attitude they wouldn't have anyone left to fight a war. I'm going to repeat my question. Is everything okay with you?"

Art was speaking loudly by the end; Tim replied coolly, "No, everything is not okay. I'm seriously upset by the situation in Syria. They need to take all armed conflict into a civilian-free zone and let the soldiers shoot and bomb the shit out of each other there. And maybe it would be helpful too if the area was tiled with a nice big drain in the middle of the floor so afterward they could just hose it all down and wash all the blood and shit off." He let go of himself long enough to mimic water flowing down a drain with his free hand. "Then it would be all clean and ready for the next conflict. Red or brown tile would probably work best – less upsetting for the cleanup crew."

Tim's response got the reaction he was looking for. Art was left gaping. The only sound in the room not sucked into the void was their breathing, and it was loud enough to give Tim the feel of its uneasy rhythm. He'd pushed it a bit.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Art said finally, all trace of annoyance gone.

"I think I'd like a suspension, too."

Art sighed and leaned back against his desk. "You'd have to do something stupid first so I could write it up."

"Well that can't be hard. Raylan managed."

"You missing him already?"

"Thought I might go help him paint the baby's room."

"Somehow I think that would be a bad idea."

"You're probably right."

All sound evaporated again except the breathing and the two men sipped coffee to fill in the blank.

"I think we need to discuss what happened yesterday. Something about shooting that ex-MP bothering you?"

Art might sound like a hick when he wanted to but the man chose his words carefully. 'Ex-MP' was a deliberate reminder of Tim's connection to the dead man, another veteran, and one he'd crossed paths with. Tim had already confessed as much and Art was looking for regret.

"He raised his gun, Chief. The man was a professional. He left me no choice."

"Yeah, that sounds good, doesn't it?"

Tim took another sip of coffee, hiding behind his mug.

"Do you want a mindless job today to get you out of the office? You're scaring everybody."

"I don't know, do I?" Tim wasn't going to commit without hearing what it was – experience had taught him to be wary of Art's 'jobs'.

"It's either that or you and I sit here and talk until you tell me what's bothering you. But I should warn you, you agree to do this job for me and you'll only be delaying the inevitable – sooner or later you and I are going to have this discussion."

"Sure, I'll take the job. What do you got?" Tim realized too late that he hadn't denied that something needed talking about.


The halfway house was an older home nestled between a new condominium and another old house being used as a business. Parking the black SUV in front, Tim climbed out, checked his phone then walked up to the door and knocked. The man who answered was older but hard to tell by how much, clean cut and neatly dressed.

Tim held up his ID. "Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. I'm here to pick up Walter Reynolds for a court appearance in Cincinnati."

"Well now that makes sense," the man said, an all-encompassing grin attached.

"I'm sorry?" It wasn't making sense to Tim.

"I wondered how Walt was going to make it to court in Cincinnati when his parole terms say he can't leave the state. You're going to escort him, right?"

"Right."

Tim figured there was some politics involved with this particular shuttle and babysitting service that he wasn't privy to and clearly neither was this man.

"I'm Brett Riley," he shot out a hand and gave Tim's a vigorous shake. "I work the day shift here, Monday to Friday. Come on in."

He led the way into the front room which served as an office, pointed to a chair. "I need you to sign in," he instructed, passing Tim a book for the purpose. "You're early. Walt's upstairs changing. I told him to shower and put on his best clothes for court. You got some paperwork for me?"

Tim hadn't taken the offered seat, signed the registry then did as thorough a check of the main floor as he could without being invited to. He peered down the hall from the doorway and settled finally against the wall beside a front window.

"I thought only veterans were so edgy about their surroundings. Marshals too, huh?" Brett was watching him grinning.

The photo on the desk answered the question Tim was about to ask – Brett in uniform. Tim recognized the street scene behind the soldier, a mosque in Kabul. He gave the picture a cursory nod, said, "Pul-e Khishti. You actually stood there long enough to take a nice picture? You suicidal?"

Brett's smile never dropped. "Hell, yeah. That was 2001, right after we took Kabul back, before the Taliban regrouped, you know. I guess you were there later?"

Tim nodded.

"Yeah, you're just a baby. You got there at the wrong time. You missed out on all the fun!"

Tim had to grin at that.

"We have a few veterans in here. I'm pushing to make it a veterans-only halfway house. I've got the VA on side with it now I just need to convince the Housing Coalition folks. I help the vets jump through all the right hoops to get their VA benefits and stuff once they're out and I run a weekly…I don't know what you'd call it…talk-out-the-shit session for them. They don't mind it 'cause I don't call it therapy. We just sit around and bitch mostly, exchange ideas."

Tim nodded again.

"Coming back, shit, it's a real mind-fuck, isn't it? It's almost easier being there. When you're there, you're there, you know? But when you get back here, you're still there and that's the mind-fuck. I still get all freaked out in traffic and it's been over five years now."

"Why'd you get out?"

"Medical discharge." With that he dropped his leg up on the desk he was sitting behind, pulled up a pant leg and showed off his prosthetic. "Carbon fiber. Best leg yet. People say to me, you're lucky you still have a good leg, 'cause you know, some guys, they lost 'em both. I just reply, and which is my good leg?" And he laughed. "Seriously, they make 'em better than they can grow 'em. No IED can hurt this baby." He rapped the pylon hard with his knuckles, laughed again. "What branch?"

"Rangers."

"Pussies."

"With that kind of delusional statement, I got to figure you for a Marine."

The grin was back on full. "Yeah. You're infantry then."

"Sniper."

"No shit." Brett pulled his leg off the desk and sat up straight. "I still see snipers when I walk the streets here."

And another nod. "Me too. And it took me a while to stop seeing IEDs in every pile of garbage on the side of the road." Tim shuffled a bit, looked back at the picture of the soldier, rubbed a hand up and down his face. "Who am I kidding – I still do."

It was Brett who nodded this time. He studied the Marshal a moment. "You should come."

"What?"

"To our meetings. You should come."

"I'm a US Marshal in case you missed the ID. These guys are parolees – they don't want me here. I'm on the other side."

"Brother, we're all on the other side, all of us, you included." He looked serious for the first time. "It'd be good for them to see you with your shit together but still dealing with the same shit they are. You'd be showing them that you can do it."

"Look, man, I still struggle with it."

"Exactly!"

Walter Reynolds walked into the room then and Tim and Brett looked over at him.

"Walt, you're in luck. This Marshal was in Afghanistan – with the Rangers." Brett looked extremely pleased with the morning when he turned back to face Tim. "Walt was a Marine in Vietnam."

Tim and Walt eyed each other cautiously, lawman and ex-con.


"I don't really care to be buddy-buddy with you, okay?" Walt spoke softly, leaning toward Tim slightly as they walked to the SUV, slipping it in under Brett's hearing who stood on the front step smiling.

Tim smirked. "Aww, and I was gonna give you my cell number after opening my heart and spilling my guts. BFFs."

Walt snorted. "Sorry to disappoint."

"I'll cope."

Walt hesitated at the car until Tim gestured impatiently, indicating that he walk around and get in. "You aren't in my custody, I'm just an overpriced chauffeur. Ex-cons get to open their own doors."

The man walked stiffly around to the passenger side and got in, eyed the pristine interior. "Nice vehicle. They must pay you well." Walt wasn't talking to be pleasant, the tone bled disdain.

Tim decided to end any conversation right there at the curb. "It's not mine. Company car on company time. I don't really care to get shit all over my truck."


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