Whiskey Tango Foxtrot – Chapter Three
Raylan walked the scene with the Sheriff, describing the events as they played out. Once the men in custody were handed over to the local deputies, Tim made himself scarce, grabbing his bag and rifle and hiking back down the road to get the car. He parked it at the foot of the yard and sat sideways in the driver's seat with the door open, staying out of the beams from the cruisers' headlights which were illuminating the house. He idly watched the activity until Raylan waved him over.
"I explained to the Sheriff how we ended up here," Raylan directed him. "But they'd appreciate it if you'd describe your part in it."
Tim nodded and went through his rehearsed lines.
Raylan, the night's director, stood to chat a little longer with the Sheriff and watched the players. He glanced over at Tim who was waving his arm, illustrating his actions for the benefit of the deputy taking notes. He looked for the girls next, and spotted them sitting in the back of one of the cruisers. He eyed them curiously, amazed at how much older Loretta looked, of course the stage make-up added on a few years. Girls grow up quickly, he thought. He noticed her wiping at her eyes.
"Excuse me," he said and motioned over to them. "I'm just going to check up on Loretta."
It appeared the night had finally worn her down. A drop of salt water was making an attempt to escape Loretta's life, leaving a streak of sorrow down her cheek. Her frown was crumbling, and Stephanie, reversing roles, had a thin arm wrapped around her friend.
Raylan checked his watch. It was almost 4am. Opening the cruiser door, he leaned in and said, "Hang in there girls. Someone should be able to take you home soon."
"Can't we go home now?" Stephanie pleaded, looking close to tears again.
"Marshal," Loretta pleaded, voice hitching, "can you take us home?"
Tim walked in, stage left, and Raylan turned to the Sheriff, "Tim's done, so why don't we head out and drop the girls off on the way. It's been a long night for them."
"As long as you don't mind. Or I can get one of my boys to run them home."
"I want to go with the Marshals," Loretta sniffed.
"Well, all right," agreed the Sheriff. "I know how to reach you all if I have any questions. Go on, then."
Raylan steered Loretta and Stephanie to his car, closing out the drama, Tim following. The girls settled into the back seat and Tim slumped tiredly in the front. They weren't ten minutes down the road when it became evident to Raylan that Loretta and Stephanie were acting out a play within a play and had manipulated them all. Teenage girls were good at it according to Art, so Raylan tried not to feel bad.
"Seems a damn shame that our whole night was wasted being kidnapped," said Loretta. She was back in character, miraculously dry-eyed and with the usual cynicism. "We didn't get to have any fun, did we, Steph?"
"None at all," her friend whined on cue. "I was hoping for a party tonight."
"I had no idea being kidnapped would be so boring," Loretta included in her complaint. "You Marshals didn't enjoy yourselves neither, I'm sure. Why, we'd like to make it up to you, seeing as there's still some night left."
"Hey, yeah," cooed Stephanie leaning into the front seat between Tim and Raylan, purposely rubbing an arm up against each of them. "We could have some fun. I mean, we don't really want to go home. Come on, there's two of us and two of you. Two boys and two girls. That sounds like a party."
"Holy shit, she can count." Saying it in a quiet voice but screaming scorn, Tim had a hand up massaging the bridge of his nose then his forehead, tense. He had shimmied closer to the door to get away from Stephanie. His hair was sticking up even more now, a cornered badger.
"What do you say, boys?" Loretta cajoled. "I've got some good weed, and we know a nice place to park."
Raylan swore expressively to himself and glanced sharply sideways over at Tim, willing him not to react. He rolled down the window, hoping to air out the tension. A hot summer night, an exhausted partner and two bored, hormonal teenage girls without a decent role model between them; this was not what Raylan had scripted. He caught the angry motion of arms crossing tightly over a chest and unconsciously held a hand out toward Tim, placating.
"That's enough now, Loretta," Raylan scolded. "We're taking you home and that's that."
"Awww. But it's very private," added Stephanie, reaching over and running her fingers up the back of Tim's neck.
Tim jerked his head forward and whipped around to look at her. "Fucking don't touch me," he snapped and shouldered open the car door. Raylan slammed on the brakes and skidded as Tim jumped out, stumbling to regain his balance with the car still moving.
"What the fuck, Tim?" he growled, but the door slammed shut and he was dismissed with an angry wave.
Raylan hesitated, not sure what to do. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Tim pacing, agitated and red in the brake lights, his back to them, clenching his hands into fists. Raylan decided to leave it alone for now, pulled back onto the road and kept driving.
The girls giggled and whispered and Stephanie leaned forward again and said in his ear, "Three works for us."
"Just shut up," he replied tiredly, wishing he'd let one of the Sheriff's men take the girls home.
Tim had covered a fair distance by the time Raylan drove back to pick him up. He pulled a u-turn, and stopped beside him. Without a word, Tim opened the car door and settled into the passenger seat.
They rode in silence out of Harlan toward the interstate. Raylan expected Tim to nod off, but he just sat staring out the window at the landscape as it turned from black to grey to the dusky colors of pre-dawn. Spotting a McDonald's outside of Corbin, Raylan pulled into the parking lot, rolled the windows down and left Tim in the car. He came back ten minutes later with coffee and breakfast for them both and handed Tim his share.
"You okay?" Raylan asked finally, breaking the silence after watching Tim pick at his food, concerned that he wasn't eating.
"Seems to be the popular question tonight."
"Yep," Raylan agreed. "You know, in the few years I've been working with you, I've seen you angry like that maybe, what…I'm thinking hard here…twice?"
Tim looked over at him for the first time in an hour.
"Art tells me you're scary when you're angry," Raylan added lightly.
"Why would he say that?" Tim asked, looking hurt.
"I think he was worried I was pushing your buttons a while back," Raylan replied, grinning, trying to take the bite out of the comment. "He thought I didn't take your military training seriously enough for my own good."
The snort from the passenger seat settled one thing for Raylan, that maybe Art was right.
"Art doesn't need to worry." Tim looked over again, a bit of humor back in his eyes. "Yeah, Raylan, you annoy me sometimes, and I might want to shoot you, kind of like swatting a fly, but I don't ever feel the urge to beat you to death."
"There's a difference?"
The way Tim responded, Raylan felt like he'd just confessed to being a virgin. "Yeah. Huge."
"I always thought dead was dead."
"Uh-uh," Tim disagreed emphatically. "No, it's not." He tilted his head, staring at some shadow in the distance. "You shoot a man from a thousand yards, that's way different than shooting him from one yard. And killing someone with your bare hands, well that's different again. That's feeling it."
Raylan knew academically that what Tim was saying was true, but always being on the right side of the law he had never considered the difference from a more intimate perspective. He weighed the statement and wondered what he was capable of, what Tim was capable of. There was a question he wanted to ask but didn't dare. He decided to bring the conversation back to this particular night in Kentucky.
"The girls, they, uh, well…it's disappointing," Raylan stumbled, not sure how else to describe their behavior. "You're telling me you wanted to beat them to death?"
"Oh, come on, seriously? No," Tim huffed. "I just hate the lack of respect. I mean, shit, those guys were shooting at us. The girls, it was all a fucking game to them. It pissed me off."
"I noticed."
"I hate losing it like that. Shit, I just wanted to …" He left off the rest, his voice distressed and edgy. Tim let his head drop.
"But you didn't," Raylan noted. "That makes all the difference."
"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced.
"You over it?"
"I ran it off."
Raylan raised his eyebrows. "Explains how you got so far."
Tim finally took a bite of his breakfast.
"You ever think you might hit your girl?" Raylan prodded, worried.
Tim chewed, swallowed, replied, "No, never." He was oddly grateful for the question, relieved to be able to say it out loud.
Raylan heard the truth and the confidence and was satisfied.
"This job gets to you sometimes," Raylan offered up, "the people you got to deal with. Hell, I kicked Johnny Crowder out of his wheelchair. Not my proudest moment, but I was angry." He'd lost his appetite for breakfast, too, and set it down to pick up his coffee. "You're fine, Tim. But if it ever creeps into your personal life, talk to somebody. Me, Art, I don't care who. You hear me?"
Tim nodded.
Raylan watched the younger Marshal for a moment longer, measuring. "You know," he said finally, letting his gaze wander around the empty parking lot, "Dewey Crowe once told me he grew up here in Corbin. Apparently he still has some kin nearby." He looked back at Tim, waiting for a reaction. He didn't have to wait long.
"Fuck, Raylan, roll up the windows, quick. I didn't bring my bio-hazard suit."
It lacked the usual enthusiasm, but it would do. Raylan smiled and started the car.
"You want me to drive?" Tim offered.
"No offence, but no thanks. I don't want to end up eating the guard rail. You look like an extra from the Dawn of the Living Dead. Home or office?"
Tim ran his hands roughly through his hair and over his face, trying to rub away the frustration and disgust. "Home first. I need a shower."
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