Whiskey Tango Foxtrot – Chapter Ten

Miljana's breath caught in her throat when she saw Raylan at the door. He looked worried, rolling his hat in his hand, loosening a stone stuck on the door mat with his boot. Bad news, she thought unconsciously wrapping an arm around herself. She pushed the screen door open and waited.

Raylan was trying to decide how best to ask a question. A glance up at her face forced a quick rewrite of the conversation playing out in his head and his first words were instead reassurance. He hastily put on a smile. "He's fine. He was sitting at his desk when I left."

Miljana closed her eyes and raised her hands in surrender to relief. "Thank you. That's the perfect way to start a conversation with the partner of someone in law enforcement."

"I just wanted to ask you something." He tapped his hat back on and grimaced. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

"You couldn't help but. It would've been worse if you were Art." She moved over and held the door open, inviting. "It's almost four and it's Friday. Do you want a beer?"

He accepted the offer and stepped inside. They made small talk for a while but when Miljana decided he was as comfortable as he was ever going to get on this visit she prodded, "You had a question?"

Raylan opened his mouth then stopped and shut it. He worked his face through a few more false starts while she waited patiently then finally rejected his rehearsed smoother versions and asked bluntly, "Was Tim ever in Iraq?"

Her shoulders sagged. "Honestly, every psychologist should spend time in a Marshals office to experience first-hand all the pitfalls and perils of their profession." She looked at him thoughtfully. "I assume you have a good reason for asking?"

Raylan sized her up. This girl was not Deborah Yoder. "I assume he told you he's under suspicion for some contract murders?"

Her face closed faster than a betting gate at the bell. "Yes," she confirmed. "His having been in Iraq or not is going to clear his name?"

"It'll help clear it with me."

"You don't trust him," she stated, a sliver of sadness, for Tim maybe, for Raylan maybe. "Who do you trust, Raylan?"

"Myself," he shot back. His voice betrayed a touch of annoyance at the question, though she hadn't asked to irritate him, hadn't meant it as an attack. Her manner suggested curiosity and it disarmed him. He felt his anger evaporate before it had time to build and he added to soften his tone, "I don't get Tim, or what motivates him. It's hard to judge what someone is capable of doing without knowing what motivates them."

She reached over and grabbed his beer bottle. "I think he just wants people to be able to picture him without a rifle."

"That's not that easy," Raylan commented.

"Stretch yourself, Raylan," she suggested. "Fresh eyes, every day."

"Are you suggesting people change?"

"No. I'm suggesting that our perceptions can be wrong and need constant supervision." She paused, considered the beer a moment, took a good drink and passed it back. "There, we've shared the peace pipe."

He looked at her, his expression bemused, hers mischievous. His mouth slipped into a lop-sided grin and he began to understand her relationship with Tim. He decided they deserved each other.

"The answer is yes, he was in Iraq," she offered, solving one piece of the puzzle for him, "but not even twenty-four hours. In fact, I think he said he was there for, like, twelve."

"Twelve hours?" Raylan repeated incredulously. "Did he get lost on his way to Kandahar and decide to take a bus tour of the sights?"

"No." She rolled her eyes and grinned at the idea then explained, "He tells me that Special Ops troops would often be sent out on patrol immediately upon deployment, straight from the landing strip to a briefing then out. They hadn't gotten far from base, Bombaconda he called it, when their convoy was attacked. IED I think. You'll have to ask him for the details. He ended up in a hospital somewhere and filed his discharge papers right after." She shrugged and finished. "He never went back."

"Bombaconda? Descriptive, I hope, not the actual name?"

"They also call it Mortaritaville. Sounds like a nice place for a vacation, doesn't it?"

"You've learned some lingo," he said, quirking a smile at her.

"He's my pet project. If he were Plato, I'd be throwing in some Ancient Greek."

He wiped the condensation off the label on his beer bottle and took another drink. "Iraq. Huh. He's never spoken of it."

"Not much to say, really."

"I guess not."

Miljana was sitting facing Raylan and studied his expression while he was distracted. "How are things with you?" she asked kindly, aware of his troubles with Arlo and Winona.

He looked sideways at her and grinned wryly, wagging a finger. "Uh-uh, we are not going there. Two Marshals on your couch? You'd be burned out trying to save us all and Tim would hate me for it. He's already threatened at least a dozen times to shoot me."

"A dozen?" she laughed. "He must really like you."

"Why? 'Cause I'm still breathing?"

"No, more of a 'steal the girl's hat in the schoolyard' sort of thing." She turned serious. "Should I be jealous?"

"I don't think you need to worry. You're much prettier than I am."

"That's not saying much."

"What," he joked, pulling back and looking offended. "You don't think I'm pretty?"

"Raylan, I'm just not that kind of boy," she teased.

He grinned, finished off his beer and got up to leave. Stopping on the porch, he turned to ask her one more thing. "I don't mean to put you in an awkward position, but would you mind…"

She crossed her arms. "I can't promise anything, but I'll keep this conversation to myself for now unless you give me reason not to."

"Fair enough," he conceded, "and more than I expected." He tipped his hat courteously and walked slowly down the steps thinking, opened the gate at the end of the walk and headed to his car.

Tim liked coming home Fridays. It wasn't because he had the next two days off, in fact he was on the schedule as first-call this weekend for the Lexington Bureau and his SOG team was on standby as well, but Fridays Miljana only worked a half day and she generally did some shopping, made sure there was cold beer in the fridge and often had dinner waiting. Provided he wasn't kept late, Fridays were a wind-down bliss. Five years ago, he would have scoffed at so much domesticity, now he craved it.

He got out of his truck and was greeted by Chickenfoot blasting out onto the porch and carrying on down the street. The song ended as he approached the door and he heard Miljana laughing before an older Chili's tune started up, The Righteous & The Wicked. Fucking Weaver, he thought, so much for domestic bliss.

"Turn it the fuck up," he yelled, stepping inside.

Miljana bounced into the hall and jumped on him. "Howdy," she said and kissed him hard.

He laughed, feeling the week evaporate. "Company, huh? You started drinking without me. I'm hurt."

"How else am I supposed to cope with your friends?"

On cue, Tim Weaver popped his head out from the kitchen. "Hey buddy, hope you don't mind the music. I know it's a little soft for your taste but I can't stand your heavy-metal dweedly-dweedly guitar shit."

Weaver was looking scruffy, growing his beard again, maybe setting up for a trip to Pakistan. He had his arms spread wide reminding Tim of Sunday school pictures of Moses parting the Red Sea. Tim was sure Weaver was responsible for the new suits showing up and chasing away the old ones, and looking at him walking down the hall he wondered what other miracles he might conjure on this visit.

"Drop your girlfriend and I'll give you a hug," his buddy offered.

Tim hoisted Miljana into a more comfortable hold and carried her into the kitchen.

"Fine, asshole," Weaver grumbled. "So this is the thanks I get for saving your bacon."

"I thought I could smell you," Tim jabbed. "How much shit did you get for that photo?"

"Not too much. It was worth it. I told my people to get you off the list when they showed it to me last month but the fuckers wouldn't listen. I forced it. Couldn't have the Feds looking too hard and tripping over me without anyone knowing, so I put it front and center to shut them down."

"Well I appreciate it. Seeing your face in that photo floored me," Tim admitted and set down his girlfriend. "Do you really need a hug or is another beer and some dinner enough?"

"I'll take a beer, dinner and a hug from your girlfriend instead."

Tim thought the price steep but Miljana paid out before he could protest.

He chambered a round, shouldered the rifle, aimed, breathed, squeezed, the entire process taking less than five seconds. A standing shot of any accuracy was difficult with a sniper rifle. The military didn't spend much time training their snipers for it since every Ranger was a rifleman anyway and a shoulder shot would never be good at any distance, not until the technology got there. Tim found it a handy skill in his civilian career, however, and took time out at the range every Sunday morning to practice at least a magazine's worth. It was his prayer time, his version of church.

It wasn't that good a grouping, using a borrowed rifle, but he hit his target center of mass. The Feds still had his and Tim wondered if he'd ever get it back. It pissed him off.

He finished up and turned back to the trailer, the office for the distance range. Most Sunday mornings would find him here. Fischer, the owner, let him shoot whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted, only paying for the rounds, and in return Tim zeroed in the rifles and helped with maintenance when he could, civilized symbiosis.

Miljana had come up with him today with a thermos of coffee. Art had suggested that it might be a good idea if Tim had an alibi wherever he went. Miljana's mother was not at all pleased when she missed church; the Orthodox congregation was small and her absence was noted and commented on. Tim could hear her chatting with someone when he pulled out the ear plugs and he wandered around behind the trailer to the picnic table to join her.

She was sitting with Ellstin Limehouse.

"Hey, I've still got some coffee left. Do you want some?" she asked smiling, obviously enjoying her conversation.

Limehouse turned in his seat and grinned. Tim nodded a yes to coffee, not taking his eyes off her companion. She looked from one man to the other and realized she'd crossed into his work life. With an effort she kept the smile on but it was now strained.

"More coffee, Ellstin?" she offered.

"That would be lovely." He held his cup toward her, still watching Tim.

Tim looked Limehouse over then moved his eyes in a sweep, searching the area.

"I'm all alone this morning, Deputy."

Tim ignored him and continued his surveillance, pulling a loose round from his pocket and slipping it into the rifle, working the bolt.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Limehouse?" he asked. "Raylan's not here."

"And I'm not here to see Raylan. It's you that's keeping me from church this morning, you and your lovely lady."

Tim walked over and sat down beside him, back to the trailer, leaning his weapon against his leg. "You're a ways from Noble's Holler."

"I was moved by your troubles with the FBI. Thought maybe I could help."

Tim looked over. "I suspect you're being here will make it worse. Just what d'you think you can do to help?"

"Offer up some information."

"Okay."

"There's some folk in Tennessee who are none too happy that their kin are locked up in Kentucky, and for kidnapping no less. That's a long haul. It'll keep them a while from family dinners, I reckon. These Tennessee folk have aimed their anger at a particular inmate that you and I are acquainted with."

"Dickie Bennett."

"Mm-hmm. Now, those Tennessee boys who are guests of our state's fine prison are keeping up their end of the bargain, keeping their lips sealed about any money out there, but…"

"But the folks in Tennessee are still sniffing around for it," Tim finished for him.

"That's right."

"Do you know who they hired to pull the hit on Dickie?" Tim was beginning to see where this was going and why it was in his interest to follow.

"Don't have a name for you, but I understand the FBI are looking for someone with your sort of training and from the rumors I've heard, they're not wrong in their thinking. I figure you'd have a better idea than most who else might be on a list with you."

Tim was silent, thinking, wishing he didn't know what Limehouse was talking about, wishing he could go disappear for a few months. "Actually I've seen the list," he eventually said.

Limehouse nodded. "I can help you get to the folks in Tennessee, maybe get something from them that'd help extricate yourself from suspicion. That's about all I can do."

"How did you know I was a suspect?"

"Word travels."

"How exactly does word travel?"

"There's a Marshal sniffing into this business, too. Only he's sniffing for a shooter not for money. He came to see me, asked if you and I ever did any work together. Told me about the FBI. Told me his suspicions. I'd like to see the trust restored."

Tim let out a sharp breath, angry. "What's in it for you, Mr. Limehouse? Maybe I'm cynical, but I just can't believe you're that interested in the restoration of harmony in the Marshals Office."

Limehouse dismissed the idea with a snort. "Maybe I could start a newspaper column. Dear Limehouse. You could be my first letter. Oh, woe is me, Mr. Limehouse. My friends don't trust me, Mr. Limehouse. They're thinking I contract out for wet work. What should I do? Signed a boy with a rifle, a deadly eye, and a good instinct for killing. Heh, heh, heh." Ellstin shook his head, chuckling at his own joke. "No, I am a business man, Deputy. You and Marshal Givens are an excellent resource and I always look after the tools of my trade. Now the Tennessee gang, they will be coming for Loretta. I need eyes on her and you might want to chat with whoever turns up. I get something, you get something."

"Is Loretta a tool of the trade as well?"

Limehouse grinned. "We all have our foibles."

He got up from the table and tipped his hat at Miljana. "Young lady, a pleasant surprise being able to pass some time with you this morning." He turned to Tim and said, "Deputy."

Tim watched Limehouse drive away then looked at Miljana.

"Wow," she said, eyes wide, shaking her head. "You get way more interesting characters in your job than I do. It's better than a TV show."

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