Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Ten
"Raylan, Tim," Art called from the doorway to his office. "Where are you going?"
"Down to McCreary, like you told us," Raylan replied, stopping and turning around.
"Forget that. I sent someone else," said Art, waving them over.
Raylan smiled at Tim. "I think our evil plan worked."
"I got a call from Rachel this morning," Art started as soon as they walked into his office. "She should be back tomorrow. She faxed this over for you." Art handed a piece of paper to Tim. "They identified your sniper. Jorge Garza, also known as El Tirador. Seems your source was right. He's Special Forces trained, Mexican military."
"You've got a source," Raylan said, peering under the brim of his hat at Tim.
"Yeah, but he's not sharing," Art complained.
Tim looked at the information on the page. There was a photo. It was the first time he had seen the man's face. He handed it back to Art without comment.
"About all this," Art said, frowning at Tim. "You need to have a sit down with the new shrink."
"Aw, come on, Chief," Tim huffed in disbelief. "I live with a psychologist."
"She's living with you now?" Raylan asked, raising his eyebrows.
Tim ignored him and looked at Art with his hands out in supplication.
"Nope, I'm sorry but I need a report to put on file," Art explained.
"But she's easy to talk to."
"Yeah, I know. She answers the phone anytime I call your house and we have a nice chat."
"Can't she sign off on it?" Tim pleaded.
"No, that's a bit like a note from your mother. It may be okay for your grade school teacher, but the Marshals Service needs something a little more official."
Tim blew out a breath and dropped his head.
"Aw, look at him," Art cooed. "He's so cute when he's discouraged."
"I should just move my desk down to the hall outside the psych office," Tim complained.
"That can be arranged," Art said getting grumpy. "Now, come on, I've got a fun job for the two of you today."
"Oh, shit," said Raylan.
Art scowled at them. "Some days, I just want to smack the both of you."
"Is that him?" said Raylan, nodding in the direction of a disreputable looking man exiting an apartment building.
Tim looked across the street then down to the file he had sitting on his lap.
"Nope. Too small. Think elephant."
Raylan sighed, took off his hat and rested his head on the seat back.
"How's it going with Arlo?" Tim asked turning his head to look at Raylan, grateful all over again that his dad had been thoughtful enough to die.
"Don't ask," Raylan replied wearily.
"Okay."
The sun was out, heating up the car and putting them both to sleep. Art had sent them out chasing a tip from a Crime Watch call. The fellow they were waiting for, Milton Haywood, had been arrested for theft and fraud in Atlanta, had skipped bail and had subsequently been implicated in an armed robbery. He had apparently skipped the state as well. The good citizen who called in the tip had been able to describe in detail the unusual tattoo on the man's neck making it a pretty sure bet. So Art wanted someone on it immediately.
Art wasn't convinced that Tim was up to 'being all he could be' today so he put the two of them on the call on the chance that the armed robber was still armed. The Marshals had been sitting in the car since they left the office. It was 11:30am and the caffeine was wearing off.
Tim started twitching.
"I have got to get out of this car," he said, gritting his teeth.
"How is it that you managed to sit on a target for three days in Afghanistan, yet you can't manage three hours in Lexington?" Raylan asked.
"Motivation. If I'd gotten up to stretch there, I'd have been shot," Tim replied. "I think I'm okay to get out of the car here." With that he opened the door and climbed out.
Raylan joined him.
"What do you say we go chat with the building manager?" suggested Raylan leaning on the roof of the car and squinting up at the sky.
"Didn't Art say to wait until Haywood showed up?" Tim reminded him.
"Yep," Raylan replied. "I'm just… going to wait inside." He headed across the street.
Tim jogged to catch up.
The building manager was a mean woman who could've been forty or sixty, they couldn't tell. As soon as she saw their Marshal's stars she started demanding they pay the back rent that Milton Haywood owed her. Tim stood back, keeping an eye on the hallway, and let Raylan do the talking. Raylan explained to the woman that they might be able to get her the money but only if Mr. Haywood was in custody. She started yelling at him. He just shrugged at her and turned to leave. She relented and suggested that they might want to try the pool hall down the next block. Haywood would shoot pool till they started serving and then he would shoot pool and drink till they closed.
Tim and Raylan headed down the street. While they were waiting for the light to change they watched Milton Haywood amble out of a convenience store on the opposite block, opening a pack of cigarettes. Raylan had his hands in his pants pockets and his jacket tucked behind so his star was visible on his belt. Haywood saw it, saw them watching him, turned abruptly and started running the other way. Half a block down, he ran out of steam and bent over double, puffing for air. When he caught his breath, he hobbled a bit farther then gave up and ducked into an open doorway.
Tim and Raylan dodged the oncoming traffic and weaved their way across the street, running once they reached the other side. They followed Haywood into the building. It was an all-day Bingo hall.
The room was reasonably large and littered with tables and chairs around a central raised platform where the Bingo caller was relaying the pulled numbers into a microphone. The tables close to the outside were empty but filled up rapidly closer to the caller. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and eerily quiet except for the shuffling of feet and the intermittent, reverent voice of the caller.
It was impossible for Haywood to be inconspicuous. He was over 300 pounds, tattooed and the only one in the hall, other than Raylan and Tim, who wasn't a senior. Red-faced and sweating, he was clearly not going to outrun them so he decided it was a good time to reach for his handgun. Tim and Raylan had their sidearms drawn before Haywood could get his out from the back of his pants. They split up and moved forward. Again, in unspoken agreement, Tim let Raylan handle the negotiating and he stayed back to cover.
"Now, now, Mr. Haywood," Raylan coaxed, walking slowly forward with his weapon pointed at the floor and the other hand out, entreating. "That's probably not a good idea."
"Shh!"
Raylan looked around to see who was hushing him and Haywood started backing his way into the area with occupied tables, raising his revolver.
"Mr. Haywood," Raylan warned, turning his attention back to the fugitive. "I don't want to shoot you and neither does my partner here." He motioned to Tim. "Though he's already shot someone this week so he's warmed up."
"Would you be quiet!" snapped a particularly tiny old woman in red runners sitting right next to Haywood. Both he and Raylan looked over at her in stunned disbelief. She was working eight cards at once and didn't even glance up at them.
"Mr. Haywood," Raylan repeated in a whisper, "how about you set your revolver down on the floor, nice and slow, and then put your hands up, nice and high, so my partner doesn't get jumpy."
Haywood hesitated and glanced at Tim. Tim twitched on cue. Haywood brought his free hand up to his chest and a look of surprise flitted across his face. He turned a funny shade of grey and fell face first onto the floor.
"Shit," Raylan exclaimed.
He and Tim ran forward with their weapons aimed at the suspect but he was no threat. He wasn't breathing. Raylan pulled the gun out of his limp hand and turned to Tim.
"Heart attack?" he asked looking confused.
Tim holstered his weapon and heaved the man over checking for a pulse then started CPR. Raylan dialed 9-1-1 and gave orders to the operator.
"We have a possible heart attack at the 24-hour Bingo Hall on…" he started.
"Shhhhh," the woman hissed. "I can't hear."
Raylan gave the address then turned to the woman. "Ma'am," he said politely, pointing down at Haywood, "this man's just had a heart attack."
"I said be quiet," she snapped. "You made me miss the last number!"
"BINGO!" a voice called from across the room.
The elderly woman who had hushed Raylan stood up and yelled out, "I didn't hear the last number. It's not fair!"
The caller just shrugged and awarded the win to a gentleman on the other side of the hall. She sat down angrily.
Raylan looked at Tim in astonishment. "Do you believe this?"
Tim was too busy doing chest compressions to respond.
Raylan called out to the room, asking if anyone there was a doctor. The woman stood up again, shuffled over to Raylan and poked him with her stamp.
"If you can't be quiet," she snapped at him, "I'm calling the police!"
"Ma'am," said Raylan a little less patient now. "I'm a Deputy US Marshal. Please sit back down and stay out of our way."
She drew back and walloped him with her purse.
"Hey," Raylan yelled out in surprise. "Lady, sit down. I don't want to have to ask you again."
"Or what?" she challenged, all four feet, ten inches of her quivering in indignation.
"Or, or," he stammered looking to Tim for help. "Or I'm going to arrest you for assaulting a federal officer!"
She pulled back to swing her purse at him again but he reached over and yanked it out of her hand. She opened her mouth in an 'O' of surprise and started yelling for help.
"Oh, for crying out loud," he snapped.
Fortunately EMS arrived at that moment, and Raylan had to give them his attention. He dropped her purse on her table and motioned them over to where Haywood was laying on the floor. Tim stood up to let the paramedics take over and put himself between Raylan and the irate senior, hoping he wouldn't have to handcuff her. She collected her cards in a huff and moved to another table.
The caller continued with the next game.
Milton Haywood was dead. The paramedics were not able to revive him nor could they give a pronouncement. Tim and Raylan followed the ambulance to the hospital to have a doctor sign off and make Haywood's death official. Afterward, they drove back to the office in silence.
Art held the door open for them when they returned.
"How'd it go," he asked.
"Tim killed him with a look," Raylan replied, walking past him to his desk.
"Military training," Tim added, following.
Art decided he wasn't in the mood. He'd read the report later.
Tim sat staring at his computer screen. Finally he looked through the barrier at the older Marshal and ran his hand through his hair. There was obviously something bothering him.
"Raylan, are you going to put that lady in your report?" he finally asked. His tone clearly said 'please say no'. "I don't know how I'm going to write it up without it sounding really bad."
"I'd rather we just left that part out," Raylan replied carefully.
"Okay, I can do that," said Tim looking relieved. "Hopefully she won't file a harassment suit. We might have to shoot her then."
Raylan smirked, then chuckled, then started laughing. Tim joined him, laughing until his sides hurt. Eventually he stopped, wiped the tears from his eyes and started typing.
"Do you have anything to eat over there?" Tim asked. "I'm starving."
Raylan opened his top drawer and threw him a chocolate bar. It hit the barrier and skipped out of Tim's reach landing on the floor to his right. He rolled his chair over and leaned down to pick it up. At that second, his window exploded inward sending shards of glass flying and his computer screen was blown off his desk in pieces.
Tim threw himself to the floor and yelled out, "Get down! Get down!"
The Marshal's office seemed to come alive. A series of explosions danced their way down the length of the room, blowing out windows, smashing computers and furniture, and blasting holes in walls and doors. Tim scrambled along the floor through the glass and debris to the hallway and headed to the armory. He grabbed his rifle and sprinted up the stairs, out onto the roof of the courthouse. He ran to the front of the building and peered over the low wall. Working the bolt to chamber a round he aimed his rifle over the top and started searching the roofs and windows opposite. He couldn't find anything.
He looked down to the street and saw Raylan, sidearm drawn, pacing out front, looking up. He turned and saw Tim and signaled to him. Tim shook his head. Nothing.
He scanned the buildings across the street one more time, looking for any movement then sat back against the wall and took a deep breath. He ejected the chambered round and switched the safety on and headed back inside.
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