Up Looking Down; Down Looking Up – Chapter Six

So I was thinking maybe Mike talked to her. She showed up at my door a couple of weeks later with my tools and a plate of homemade cookies, oatmeal chocolate chip. I wasn't home. She probably thought I was because my truck was in the driveway. I had been on an all-night run with Jen, chasing leads on some violent offender on a warrant. Now there was a good use for the term 'offender' – the guy had been in and out of jail and prison, half-a-dozen different charges, repeats, assault, larceny, drug trafficking, possession. He was a sweetheart. We traced him to a house, thin leads and a hunch so no search warrant, and sat in a car from six in the evening until we finally got eyes on him when he went out at three in the morning to find some drugs. He was wired and desperate and ran, and I tackled him in the street after some tag. He punched and kicked like a wild man, and both Jen and I ended up with bruises. We were a sight when we took him to lock-up, had a good laugh about the night when I went back to Jen's place after and we drank a bit and I slept over, at least for the two hours we had until we were expected back at our desks.

"Go home and get some sleep." Rachel waved us out when we walked in.

"I got court, Chief," said Jen. "Probably most of the morning."

Rachel looked at me, arched that eyebrow.

"No way. Uh-uh. I'm not leaving early if she's not. I'll never hear the end of it. It'll be all 'see, girls are so much better than guys. Guys are pussies,' and then she'll strut around and be unbearably smug and loud and annoying."

"Fine then, you can sit here and do walk-ins and help me with the budget."

"Joy." I headed for the coffee machine. Apparently Rachel watched me go.

"Tim, couldn't you have put on a clean shirt?"

I was going to as soon as I had some coffee – I had a change of clothes in my locker. I turned around walking backward, grinned, nodded at Jen. "She didn't have anything in her closet my size."

Jen was tall, about five-foot seven or eight, slender, deceptively strong though, a good shot with a handgun, needed work with the shotgun. She was beautiful in a walk-into-a-bar-in-boots-and-jeans kind of way, always wore pressed dress shirts that screamed 'don't hug me' and really worked that star on her hip. I had seen men stopped mid-sentence, mid-step, mid-bite, mid-turn, mid-text, mid-life when she sauntered by drawing their stares and drawing out their fantasies. She was a female version of Raylan in some ways, but so different in others. For one, I trusted her, and not just as backup but as a friend. She said what she meant and meant what she said, and never reneged on a promise or a commitment. At least she never had with me. But then again I didn't demand much of her, and she liked me and didn't demand much of me.

We both caught Rachel's look, eyes flicking between us with a question on her lips when I hinted that I'd been at Jen's house last night, this morning.

"You don't want to be late, now," I said to Jen, tipped my head to the door. "Hope it's not Reardon presiding." He always flirted with her and she hated it.

"It is. I already checked."

"You want me on the rifle?"

She left laughing and so Rachel directed all her curiosity at me, hand under her chin, concern.

"She's not my type," I said, answering the look. "Or me hers." I shrugged. "Now you on the other hand…"

"Tim, don't."

That's as far as my flirting ever got with Rachel – she wasn't my type either – but that wasn't what I meant today. I didn't correct her, though. I went to my desk and drank coffee and checked numbers and dealt with phone calls. The only walk-in was someone for one of the other deputies. Quiet day.

Jen drove me home later, early, leaving work just before four. We were both bagged, crusty and silent on the drive.

"I need a favor," she said, almost demanded actually, around a yawn.

"Sure, what?"

"I need a date for a wedding."

"Do I have to behave?"

"Yes, please. It's my family."

"Can I drink?"

"Open bar," she said, dangling that carrot.

"Jen and guest. RSVP. I'm in."

"Thank you. I'll text the details. Put it in your calendar." She pulled up by the curb and leaned around me and we both eyed the girl at my door.

"Fuck me, it's her." I just wasn't in the mood for Miss Brierly, made it clear enough, and Jen said, "Who's her?"

"That's the girl I told you about, the one with the voodoo doll of me. She was probably beating it against her kitchen table last night."

"That would explain the bruises. I mean, it's not like you were wrestling on the pavement with a heroin-addicted Neanderthal or anything."

"I tell you, it was that evil witch right there. That guy was probably one of her voodoo zombies."

"I think the evil witch has a plate of cookies."

"They're probably poisoned."

"They're probably delicious. I'm hungry. Get out of the car so I can go home and have a shower and eat and go to bed."

"I might need backup."

"Tim…"

"Alright, I'm going. But if I don't show up for work tomorrow…"

"Oh, for..." And then she got out of the car, me watching, walked up to the house, smiled and said something to Christine, took a cookie off the plate and came back munching on it.

"What're you doing?"

"Bye, Tim. Just cookies. Nice girl. Go get a date for the Christmas party this year. She looks yummy."

"She hates me."

"Go." She said it around a mouthful of oatmeal.

Christine was trying to balance the plate on the tools when I got out of the car and closed the door. She was watching us curiously, smiled when she saw me, tentatively anyway. She looked awkward, a bit confused, standing there holding the plate balanced on the tool bag. The cookies were heading for the ground, tipped sideways, and one slid off and made the drop before I could get there to rescue them. I scooped it off the step where it rolled to a stop and popped it in my mouth, then made a grab for the plate before any more could get away. They were big cookies. I didn't think I could stuff two in. Jen honked and Christine turned to look and I flipped a finger at my disappearing backup.

"Who was that?"

"Jen," I said, all oatmeal.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

I finished chewing, swallowed. "None of your business."

"Uh, sorry. I just came to return the tools and say thank you." She jammed the bag into my free hand and headed for the sidewalk.

So, alright, I felt like a bit of an asshole, but a tired asshole, and a defensive asshole, and with reason. I just wanted to go into my house, put something meatier than cookies in my stomach and crash on the couch for a few hours. But then I thought about Mike and the last discussion we'd had.

He and I had met up again at the club the weekend after Christine moved in and I tried not to think about what she might have said about me to him in the interim as he walked up to say hello. But as it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. It was surprisingly un-awkward. He wanted to laugh it off, you could tell, and he grinned and said, "So, that's my daughter."

And I said, "You don't say? Wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't told me. I'm missing the family resemblance, other than a love of shooting from the hip."

He laughed out loud at that, let it out finally. "She, uh, could probably use some help with her aim."

"Nah, I think her aim's fine, though tell her if she wants to do more damage, she'll have to switch to heavier ammo considering her target of choice has a tough hide."

"Maybe she just needs to choose her targets a little more carefully."

"Choosing the right target, that comes with experience." Though probably not the kind he'd wish for her.

"Probably not the kind I'd wish for her."

I grinned, nodded. "Fair enough."

We understood each other just fine through one of the most cryptic dialogues I'd ever been a part of. I decided then that I really liked Mike, and I remembered that in time, holding a plate of cookies and watching Christine beat a retreat to her apartment, to try to change her mind about me. I called out after her, "Hey, hold up. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so rude. Let me make you a cup of coffee to go with these cookies. You got time?"

She stopped, huffed a breath and brought a hand up to her face, probably jabbing her fingers into her eyes to distract her from saying something nasty. "Alright." It was an 'alright' full of reluctance and dipped in loyalty to her father.

"Alright. Do you mind getting the door? My hands are full."

She was still awkward, and the whole thing was awkward, and I didn't help it along much. As I said, I was too tired. She started a conversation eventually after watching me grind some beans and fix a pot.

"That smells good." She sounded surprised, took a step closer and peered around me to the counter. "Where do you buy your coffee?"

"One of the, uh, owners of that breakfast shop – you know, the one just over on South Upper, the place where that girl goes once in a while, the one that always gives me the evil looks – anyway, she sells it to me at cost out of her stock."

She took that step back. "Nice."

"She's pretty cool – the owner. Then again, she's the one got me addicted to it. She's like my dealer."

I handed her a mug and she said thanks and no when I offered her cream or sugar. I dosed mine heavily with cream and then we stood there, awkwardly and me not being particularly sociable.

She tried again. "Dad says you were in Afghanistan, that that's where you learned to shoot."

"He's got it partly right. Fortunately they taught me to shoot before I went over or we might not be having this conversation."

She had that look again, little lost lamb, for a moment, before it turned predator. "Are you always this sarcastic?"

"Not always. Sometimes I'm more ironic."

"There are English PhDs who wouldn't know the difference."

"They haven't been to Afghanistan."

And then she smiled, a little more honest. She was determined – I'll give her that.

"How long was your tour?"

I smirked, which wasn't fair, I mean everyone says it like that, right? So I swallowed the sarcasm and explained so she'd know something that other people might not, the gift of a peek at my life. "I was in the Rangers – we would go over on regular rotations, three or four months at a time, in and out, then back for training." I rolled a hand, repeat and fade.

"Oh. I never knew that."

"Most people don't."

"How many times did you go?"

"Eight."

She did the math. "How old are you?"

"You first."

She pulled back a bit. "Okay. I'll be twenty-seven next birthday."

"Happy birthday, early. I'll be thirty-two."

"You seem older."

"You seem younger."

"Eight times…" She was stuck on that. "Did you…?"

"You still working at the Employment Center?" I interrupted the question – it was none of her business – waved her to the front of the house, too nice a day to stand in the kitchen. She couldn't walk and talk though, stalled in the hall answering my question.

"No, that was a work placement that I got through one of my professors. I was doing my paper on… well, you'll think it's stupid."

"Only 'cause I'm an idiot. And when you're an idiot, everything's stupid."

Now she was getting it, laughed right away, again tentative though. "Alright, I'll tell you, but don't you dare make fun of me."

"I'll do my best, but I can't make promises. You'll just have to brave it out."

"I'll sick my daddy on you."

I grinned for that, and she soldiered on, once more into the breach.

"I was studying the process that ex-offenders…ex-cons have to go through to get re-established in society after their prison term. You know they really need to prepare them better before they just push them out the prison door and slam it behind them. Some of them don't have a penny in their pockets, no ID, no nothing, just the clothes on their backs, so twenty-four hours later they're hungry and likely stealing and then they end up back in jail. It doesn't serve anyone. And we're paying for it, in every way."

I looked at her straight on. "You're right. It's a problem."

She studied my face, probably looking for sarcasm. "It is."

"I know. I deal with it every day."

"Yeah, I guess you do."

I moved her along, corralled her to the front step and we talked about it for a good hour. Finally she said, "I should've interviewed a Marshal. Probably would've gotten a better mark on the paper."

"Maybe – depends on the Marshal. If it was me, I'd just tell you to shoot them all, use that death penalty a little more liberally." She was definitely getting it now, laughing at my imitation of her parents' neighbor, Bill. I took at shot at the elephant in the room. "How's your friend doing, the one from the horse farm?"

She looked for sarcasm again, continued when she felt it was safe. "She and her mom moved back to New York. It'll be almost impossible for her dad to get any kind of decent work when he gets out."

"Have a little more faith. I always found that slimeballs tend to land on their feet. Something to do with the tail between their legs, a bit like cats."

"He's a nice man."

"No, he isn't."

"He was to me."

"Albert DeSalvo was a loving and dedicated husband and father."

You could tell she didn't want to ask. "Who is Albert DeSalvo?"

"The Boston Strangler."

"Oh, right."

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