Jigsaw – Chapter Ten
Tim figured sooner or later he'd end up full-time down in Louisiana, handling training at the SOG headquarters at Camp Beauregard. They asked him every year. Originally he'd planned to avoid it, thought the complete change of career from Ranger to Deputy US Marshal might be enough to distract him from the things he missed about his time with the regiment, and it did for a while, but he was beginning to feel the frustration of the constraints put on him by the Marshals Service. He understood it, but it jarred like a weapon malfunction – you've got the target in your sights and you know he's yours and you press the trigger and nothing the fuck happens. Maybe full-time at tactical wouldn't be a bad thing.
At least they let him have a rifle, and he was usually the one that got the call in the office when there was a situation, a raid or someone needing backup. No one there had more experience getting shot at than he did.
He volunteered for the Special Operations Group as soon as he was able. The twenty-seven day training course, designed to test the hopefuls' mental and physical toughness, went by quickly. He dubbed it the Ranger Indoctrination Program Lite, but never out loud, waltzed through it with the added advantage that they were teaching very little that was new to him. Breaching, helicopter insertion, close-quarters battle techniques, precision shooting – that was regular training back with the regiment. The Marshals running the course stopped paying any attention to him after awhile, leaving him alone to help the other candidates when they were having problems, and they let him test for a sniper position at the end of it, welcomed him with open arms to the teams. He had what they wanted and he came pre-packaged and fully-assembled.
Sitting behind the line at the outdoor shooting range in Frankfort, waiting for a spot to open, Tim thought about his days with the Ranger regiment, thought about what it would be like to do the selection program again if he decided to reenlist. He knew he could do it, tighten up and get through the eight weeks of RASP – he was sure he could – but he'd have to want it badly to go back to day one of that hell. They couldn't take away his Ranger tab, but that regimental scroll, that baby expired, and for good reason. He'd have to earn it again and it would hurt. It wasn't like he was eighteen anymore.
The Kentucky State Police Special Response Team was practicing on the range today and Tim watched them putting their AR-15s through a shooting routine. When the team was finished, Tim walked over to the range officer and explained what he needed and set up and made his shot and got the nod then he followed up with some more shooting since he was there anyway, satisfyingly tight groupings that got the attention of the men still talking behind him. Tim probably spent more time at the range keeping up his skills than the rest of the Lexington office combined. It was important to him.
He chatted a bit with some of the SRT members while he diligently filled out his data book, some good-natured ribbing between them.
"Didn't know the Marshals had rifles."
"Let alone someone to shoot them."
"Oh, there's always someone willing to shoot us," said Tim, purposely misunderstanding.
"Shit, he didn't mean nothing by it." The range officer had walked up with the paper and signature for Tim. "We all know about your Chief. How's he doing?"
"I didn't take it wrong, don't worry. And he's recovering, thanks."
"I hear you got the guy that shot him."
"We should've, but it wasn't us."
"I don't get it," she said, her mouth full of sandwich. "Why do you have to do the qualification with a cold rifle?"
"The bad guys don't let us take practice shots. Go figure."
Jo went very still. It was a brief reaction but Tim caught it in his periphery.
"You actually shoot people?"
"Sometimes they just don't get the hint when we show them the gun, they make us pull the trigger. Maybe they honestly think we don't know how to use it."
She turned her head to stare at him, the uncertainty on her face obvious.
"Wasn't me that shot Bambi's mother," said Tim, hands up, playing at defensive.
She didn't look like she believed it, any of it, leaving nothing to believe. She laughed through another mouthful. "I can't tell when you're joking."
"I never joke."
"See?" She finished her lunch and brought both legs up onto the bench so she could face him, touched on the morning's subject. "So are you free tonight?"
"Nope."
She looked disappointed, but just for a moment. "I guess I'm going to have to watch Sons of Guns by myself."
"Like you fucking watch that show." Tim had given up on the idea of not seeing Jo again, it was just too much temptation and he decided to follow it wherever it went. "No, I'm pretty sure I got plans with my neighbor after work."
"Assuming a bit?"
"Admit it, you got no life other than work."
"Well, imagine! We actually do have something in common."
Tim grinned like a six-year-old. "I'm sick of take-out, so I was thinking…steak?"
"I like mine rare."
"I can do that. What d'you wanna do after?"
And there was that amused look again. "Cold-bore qualifying?"
The heat spread from the center out and he covered his face chuckling, tried to cool off by remembering how he felt midway through Ranger school – miserable. That did it, mostly. "It takes on a whole different feel the way you say it."
"Have you seriously shot somebody before?"
"That's a bit like asking somebody if they're a virgin."
"I'm not a virgin."
"I wasn't asking. Will how I answer affect how much I get to see of you tonight?"
She paused before answering, tilted forward toward him and whispered, "You are so not my type."
"Funny, I keep thinking the same thing about you."
He watched while Jo stood up and stretched then folded her arms tightly, her back to him. He waited and eventually she turned around to face him. She leaned over and put her hands on his shoulders and kissed the cut on his forehead, then his nose and then his lips, putting some of last night into it until he could feel the heat building again. She straightened back up and left him sitting there, walked across the street to get back to work.
He was a little uncomfortable driving back to the court house.
Tim saw the grenade drop on the hood of the car as he pulled into the parking lot, watched in slow motion as it bounced, a glimpse of a second one rolling underneath out of sight. He jammed his foot hard onto the accelerator and prayed. The grenade caught the front windshield, the momentum carrying it up and over, along the roof and down onto the trunk before it exploded. Tim threw himself down sideways as the car lurched ahead, hoping the seats might provide some protection from the shockwave and the shrapnel. They detonated one right after the other, blowing out the windows and sending sharp projectiles in every direction.
The short concrete wall surrounding the parking lot stopped the car, the impact blowing the airbags, but the distance traveled was just enough to put the worst of the damage from the explosions into the back of the vehicle. And if the sound of the blasts hadn't gotten the attention of everyone in the court house, the car alarms screaming immediately after certainly did.
Shards of metal from the grenade shredded the airbags, dug into the car's trunk and roof and panels, ripped the headrests off their posts and chewed into the seats and through to skin. Slowed down by the upholstery they were only painful not lethal. Tim fought his way out the passenger side door and fell to the pavement along with a shower of broken glass, dazed, fumbled for his sidearm.
"Fuck!" He let it out in a scream but couldn't hear a thing except ringing.
The security guard at the Marshals' entrance got to him first. He was met by the muzzle end of Tim's Glock and threw his hands up and backed away quickly. Flames burst from the rear of the car and Tim scrambled in a three-legged crab-walk nearer the front and up against the low concrete wall, straining to hear anything, eyes wide open and scanning for threats. He adjusted his grip on his gun, his hands now slick with blood. A familiar Stetson came into view, mouth working beneath it but no sound coming out. Raylan ignored the Glock, yanked Tim to his feet and pulled him out from beside the car, away from the fire, the heat flaring up as they passed. He half dragged Tim toward the back of the court house and let him go when he was satisfied they were clear of danger and Tim slid down the wall that he was propped against, slid his gun back in the holster. He thought it strange that the fire trucks arrived without their sirens on.
Rachel crouched in front of him, lips moving, questions probably. No answers. Tim just shrugged, covered his ears and said, "Fuck," again. "Fucking grenades," he said. He caught the words on her lips this time. Stop yelling. He grinned, buzzing, said, "Fuck," once more, whispered, dropped his head back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.
An ambulance came and Rachel helped him into it and it took him to the hospital.
The doctors gave him a good once-over, cleaning cuts and repeatedly checking his hearing. They insisted on admitting him – two head rattles in one week made them nervous about sending him home. He didn't know what he was agreeing to until Rachel showed up later with some clothes out of his locker, sweats and a clean t-shirt without holes, and his book from his desk, and Raylan. Tim was able to hear a bit better by then, everyone talking to him from the inside of a pipe, muffled and distant, but the sharper background noises of the hospital were painful.
"I'm fine to go home." Tim complained to them. "It's just some fucking cuts and…"
"Don't make my life difficult," said Rachel. "Stay in the hospital tonight."
He pretended not to hear her so she wrote it out. He couldn't ignore that.
She had brought her computer with the surveillance footage from the parking lot, and the three of them scrolled through the day's worth. There wasn't a clear shot of the man's face but Tim had no doubt who had tossed the grenades – Heywood Humphrey, all six-foot fives inches of him loitering at the back of the building. It was a memorable silhouette.
"Heywood Humphrey," he said, pointing at the computer screen. "I'm pretty sure it's him. How many fucking other giants are there that have reason to get bitchy with me? I read the list of shit they confiscated from him last year. He's a grenade kind of fucking…dipshit asshole fucking coward."
"Don't hold back now, Tim," said Raylan. "Tell us how you really feel."
"I should've brought home the fucking deer meat and let it fucking spoil in the truck. We could've hung the antlers in the conference room."
Raylan turned to Rachel. "Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"
"Tim are you all right?" She eyed him, concerned.
"I'm fine."
"Then stop yelling at us."
"I'm not yelling."
"Yes, you are." Raylan and Rachel were together on that.
The hospital room felt like a jail cell after an hour. Tim tried sleeping, gave up and paced the floor then went through his pockets for his phone. He didn't know her number, didn't even know her last name. An idea surfaced past the headache now well-entrenched and he did a reverse look-up with her address – at least he knew that by heart. He dialed and it rang and rang and he finally gave up and hung up. Who the hell doesn't have some kind of answering service? Jo, apparently. He was surrounded by technophobes. He tried Max's burner again just for something to do. Again no answer. Stretching out on the bed he closed his eyes, sat up a minute later and walked out into the hallway.
There was a Deputy US Marshal sitting on a chair outside his door, Nelson. Tim frowned.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm on protection detail."
"What?"
"This is what happens when someone throws grenades at you." Nelson mimed as he talked. He looked ridiculous, especially when he got to the last part. "You get to have someone watching your ass."
Tim enjoyed the charades, eyebrow up. "I can hear you okay, you know. I'm going to see Art. You can come too if you want."
"I sat outside his door most of Tuesday. I was enjoying the change of scenery."
"Fine. Stay here then." Tim bared his teeth and growled at him and headed down the hall.
"Hey, are you even supposed to be up walking around?"
Art was awake and sitting up and looking more himself. He was sounding more himself too.
"Jesus, Tim, look at you. Has the dress code at the bureau gone to shit in my absence? I think you've taken the body piercing a bit too far for regulation. I may have to speak to Rachel about this."
"Hey, Boss. Good to see you feeling better."
"How many cars have you destroyed this week?"
"Only three. And really only one was my fault."
"Well, that's just great. How many do we have left?"
Tim pulled a chair up beside the bed and sank into it. "I missed you at the range today."
"Did you make your shot?"
Tim nodded. "I only make it look hard to make you feel better."
"You don't make it look hard enough to make me feel better. You okay? Grenades? Heywood Humphrey? Tim, you pissed off the wrong guy. It's not like this is a surprising move for him, at least not surprising to anyone who's read his jacket."
"Well, we might be able to get him finally. You know he was involved in shooting that game warden even if they can't find any evidence to prove it."
"Celebrating putting him away will be a whole lot of fun when we have to do it at your funeral."
"I'm fine. He's a fucking amateur. I had the car windows open in the front. He should've counted to two and lobbed one in. I'd have been shredded."
"Even amateurs get lucky. You be careful." The two of them shifted, both uncomfortable in one position for very long. "You here for the night?"
"Yeah. I'm thinking of signing myself out."
"It'd make this old man feel better if you didn't."
"What if I had someone to go home with?"
"That'd make me feel better too as long as it was a nice girl and not Raylan with a twenty-sixer of Jack."
Tim shifted in his seat again.
Art chuckled. "God, I hope it's not someone I know. I'd feel irresponsible not warning her off."
xxxxxxxxx