Part IV Bully for You

"I hear your daddy's in jail again, Ray-lan." Dickie Bennett's sing-song voice greeted him as he got on the bus. He slid into the seat next to Becky Gorslin, avoiding the stares of the other kids, and tried his best to ignore Dickie's jab.

Becky clutched her books to her chest and smiled at him, shy. "Mornin' Raylan."

"Mornin'."

"Hey, Givens, I'm talkin' to you," Dickie sang. "What'd your daddy do this time? Bust up the VFW? Oh, wait, that was last month. He beat up your mama again?" Dickie's crew of boys sniggered.

Raylan gritted his teeth.

"Don't pay no mind to him," Becky said in a whisper. "He's just a no-good troublemaker."

Raylan managed a grin.

"Lookit Raylan and Bucky over there," Dickie cat called. "Woohoo, must be true love. Bucky and Raaaaaaylaaaan."

Becky flushed and ducked her head. She had mousy brown hair, huge gray eyes and an unfortunate set of buck teeth, currently restrained by a set of railroad track braces that the orthodontist down in Harlan promised would give her a million dollar smile.

So far, all it did was give assholes like Dickie new ammunition.

"Shut up, Dickie," Raylan half stood, illegal on the bus, and Ronnie, the driver shot him a glare in the mirror.

"Sit down," Becky hissed. "Sit down. You're only gonna make it worse."

"Shut up?" Dickie taunted. "You gonna make me, Ray-lan?"

"That's enough," Ronnie said over the radio. "Dickie, sit down and shut up. Raylan, just sit down. It's Friday, give a guy a break."

Andy Pankin, who provided the muscle to back up Dickie's mouth, sniggered. "Yeah, Raylan. Go sit in your girlfriend's lap."

"She ain't my girlfriend." The words shot out of his mouth before he realized he'd just hurt Becky's feelings.

Her eyes narrowed and she shoved him. Hard.

Since he'd been half-standing, he went sprawling in the aisle on his ass, to the amusement of Dickie and his buddies.

"Raylan likes it rough like his mama," Dickie sniggered. "Go on, Becky, show us how you beat on your man."

Dickie made the mistake of leaning out into the aisle to hurl this last insult. Raylan pushed up and launched himself at Dickie, hitting him in the gut. Before he could collect himself and hit the asshole again, Andy grabbed him by the hair with one hand and bloodied his nose with the other. Girls started screaming and the bus screeched to a halt.

He sweated it out all day, but the office didn't call for him until last period. Now, Raylan squirmed in the hard, uncomfortable chair outside the guidance counselor's office. Miss. Maxwell was new. The junior high school never had a guidance counselor before this year, but a government grant had brought her and what Arlo called her 'bird-brained new fangled ideas' to Harlan. "Government oughta find better ways of spending our money than sendin' some citified prissy girl here to talk to our kids about what they should do. Isn't that our job?"

Helen, over for Sunday dinner, had just laughed at him and lit another cigarette, giving Raylan a wink.

He thought Miss Maxwell was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. All the boys did. Their mamas eyed her warily with her tan legs in short skirts and high heels, but to them she was a gift from the heavens. More than one boy had picked a fight or sassed a teacher in hopes of spending a few minutes alone in her tiny office.

His stomach turned a flip when the door opened and she stuck her head out. "Why don't you come on in, Raylan."

He let his eyes wander the room to avoid looking at her. The office was nothing more than a glorified closet, but the walls were painted off white and there were yellow curtains at the window. Framed diplomas and certificates hung on the wall. The only one he could read said University of Cincinnati in gold letters.

"Sit down." Miss Maxwell said. She walked over to the desk and picked up a file.

He sat in another uncomfortable chair, his hands folded in his lap. Instead of taking a seat behind her desk, Miss Maxwell pulled a chair up to his, sitting down to face him. He could smell her perfume and a bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

"You know I'm going to have to call your mother," she said, opening the file and glancing down at the note on top. "This is the third fight you've been involved in in the last month. There's nothing on record before that. I've looked at your marks. You seem to be a smart, well-liked boy." She turned her gaze to him. "So, what's the problem? What's going on, Raylan?"

He shrugged his shoulders and turned his gaze to the window.

She looked at the note again. "You attacked Dickie Bennett on the bus? Isn't that the same boy you hit with a ball in gym last week? I've already talked to Mr. Bennett, and his friend Mr. Pankin, too. They say you started it, but that's not what the bus driver says. Are these boys picking on you?"

Raylan shrugged again.

"Mr. Lewis - Ronnie - the bus driver, says you were defending a young lady," she looks at the note again. "Becky Gorslin?"

Raylan didn't answer and after a moment she sighed and tried a different angle. "Is anything wrong at home?"

Swallowing, he found his voice. "No, ma'am."

"Raylan," she said, taking on a softer tone. "Harlan is a small town. I'm new here, but everyone seems to know everyone else. I asked your teachers, so I know your daddy's been in and out of jail lately and I know how hard that can be on a family. If you want to talk about anything, well, that's what I'm here for. That's my job." She smiled, tucking a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear.

He twisted his hands in his lap and looked out the window again. The buses were pulling in, and if she didn't let him go in a few minutes, he'd miss the bus. Mama would have to come to get him, or worse yet, Arlo. There'd be hell to pay if that happened. He bit his lip.

"So there's nothing you want to talk about?"

"No, ma'am." Raylan shook his head.

Miss Maxwell sighed. "Well, I suppose you'd better get along then or you'll miss the bus. You can serve your detention next week. Two hours, after school. I'll talk to your mama on the phone, this time." Her voice carried a warning. "No more fighting, okay?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

-o-o-o-o-o-

It took Raylan a mile or so to reacquaint himself with driving a stick-shift, but years of tooling around Harlan in various pick-up trucks had served him well. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and the van groaned in protest. He figured whoever took the car had a good ten minute head start, but he ought to be able to catch up at some point. He decided he'd give himself an hour and if he didn't have a bead on Brewer by then, he'd call it in.

Although the road followed a meandering river and was full of curves and potholes, so far there were no crossroads so he didn't have to make a choice about which way to go. Whenever a house appeared he slowed, scanning the drive and yard for any sign of the dark blue Crown Vic or Brewer. Most of the houses were run down, and more than one looked to be abandoned altogether. Good hiding places for a fugitive.

The sun was sliding toward the west and he was losing hope, beginning to wonder what employment opportunities he might have once the Marshal's service canned him. As he rounded yet another curve, a flash of light reflected off his rearview and he slowed, craning his neck. He spotted the car half way down the riverbank. He parked the van, locking it and pocketing the keys. Gun drawn, he slid down the embankment carefully. The car was tilted, sitting on two tires. Dirt covered one side and the trunk lid was open.

Holding his gun in front of him, Raylan opened the driver's side door. Some unlucky sap had picked the wrong car to boost. The apparent car-thief slumped out, empty eyes staring up at Raylan. His face was blue, his throat bruised, the skin torn where he'd fought the handcuffs that choked him. His tongue protruded from his lips, thick and swollen, but a quick touch to the young man's cheek with the back of his hand told Raylan he hadn't been dead long. Surely Brewer couldn't have gotten far. He peered into the trunk. His spare gun and his overnight bag were gone. Shit. The extra handcuff key was in the bag along with a bottle of Jim, fifty bucks, and a change of clothes. At least the clothes wouldn't fit Brewer.

Squatting, Raylan looked up and down the bank until he found a pattern of footfalls in the trampled grass. It looked like Brewer was doubling back toward the highway. Grabbing a flashlight from the glovebox and his cell phone, Raylan stuffed both into his pockets and took up the chase. He found the handcuffs, along with the discarded key about a half mile down the creek. Another mile and a patch of blue in the brush caught his eye. His bag, minus the money and the whiskey, lay in a pile of leaves. He checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes until his hour was up. He slung the bag over his shoulder and kept going.

A/N Thanks to MSBrooklyn for her welcome assistance with this chapter. You rock.