…and Nothing Shall by Any Means Hurt You

(Chapter 10)

Vasquez slipped his pen into his folder and closed it. "Well, Deputy Gutterson, thank you for your time. I think that's that."

"That's that?" Tim was hoping for more clarity.

"Well, obviously my office is going to sign off on the shooting. You have witnesses corroborating your version of the events; the man was armed and threatening you. But you do understand that given the circumstances, I had to be thorough."

Vasquez stood and shrugged and Tim almost jumped out his chair to be free of the room.

"And," the lawyer continued his summary, postponing Tim's escape, "unlike Deputy Givens' situation with Tommy Bucks, the man you shot was threatening someone other than just you." Vasquez made a comical face. "Believe it or not, that's helpful in your defense."

The amnesty felt a little sour to Tim. "You'd have just signed off on it if I'd let him murder somebody first – waited for him to kill the prostitute and screw up the federal case with Drew Thompson and then shot him."

"Uh, yup. That's pretty much the shitty truth." Vasquez zipped up his folder and tucked it under his arm. "Makes you actually sympathize with the CIA and their hate-on for oversight committees, doesn't it? Poor bastards. My heart goes out to them." He shook his head, mock-sorrow, a sigh that wouldn't have been out of place in a silent movie. "But, hey, I'll bet you're glad the asshole that shot your friend's dead, right?"

Tim was caught off-guard by the blunt question, he looked over at the window, reaching for some distance but the blinds were tilted up to block the morning sun and he couldn't see much.

Vasquez pushed for a reaction with a smile of conspiracy. "Right? I mean, come on, we all cheered when Deputy Givens shot Tommy Bucks in Miami."

It was true. There was a silent roar of approval and whispered gleeful conversations from this side of the business when word got out that Raylan had gunned down Tommy Bucks and in so spectacular a fashion. Everyone had wished they'd had the balls to do it. And after the IED incident with the convoy in Harlan, no one in law enforcement in Kentucky was mourning the death of Colton Rhodes. But it still didn't sit well with Tim.

"I don't know what made Tommy Bucks the man he was," he replied finally, "but I get what pushed Colton Rhodes in the way of my bullet. Just a fraction of an inch, a second too late, too early…when you're in the shit...that's all it takes." Tim turned to face Vasquez, slid his hands into his pockets. "Excuse me if I don't feel like cheering, but like he said, if you go back enough times, bad things happen. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No, Deputy, I don't. I have no idea. I've only seen war from a comfortable chair."

Tim searched the lawyer's face, looking for scorn and finding none. Vasquez stuck out a hand and Tim reached over and shook it.

"Stay out of trouble," Vasquez quipped, heading for the door.

Art had come out of his office when he saw the interview was winding up, overheard the parting shot, said to the AUSA, "If everyone followed your advice, we'd be out of a job."

Vasquez spun lightly on his feet, walked backwards grinning widely. "Chief," he said, "I only say that to cops and US Marshals. It'd be a dull world without lawyers in it, wouldn't it, Deputy Gutterson?"

Art waited until Vasquez was completely out of the Marshals Office before turning to Tim and saying, "Well, you can stop looking so guilty now."

"If I do, will I stop feeling guilty?"

"You feel guilty? Seriously? After he tried to blow up this beautiful body?" Art did a comic hand sweep, head to toe.

Tim twitched a shoulder. "Yeah, I'll get over it."

"Get over it quick, will you? We've got work to do."

Tim trudged to his desk studying the floor on the way, looked up when someone put out a hand and stopped him. It was Rachel.

"What?" she said. "You don't look happy."

"No, yeah, it's fine."

She arched an eyebrow. "Which is it? 'No' or 'yeah?' You clear on the shooting?"

"Yeah, I'm clear."

She didn't look surprised. "Coffee?"

"Uh…"

"Tim, whenever you and Rachel are finished your dance class…" Art signaled for him to join him in his office. "I got something I need your expert opinion on."

Tim muttered to Rachel, "I hate the way he says that."

"Better go," Rachel commanded. "I make it a rule not to dance with boys wearing boots and you don't look very light on your feet today."

She walked back to her desk and Tim trudged into Art's office, hands back in his pockets.

"Chin up, Buckaroo. A visit like that from the AUSA's office usually leaves people feeling happy. You look like a cartoon character with a…" and Art waved a hand up over his head, "a dark cloud following you around."

Tim cocked his head. "Yeah, I'm aware of that cloud. I've been cursed by an evil witch. You know anyone who knows a counter spell for that sort of thing?"

Art stared, scrutinized. "Are you delusional or just melodramatic?"

"Oh, yeah, that's me – drama queen." Tim brushed it off, crossed his arms, took his post by the door.

But Art decided today was the day to dig. "What's with you? Sit down. Let's talk about this."

Tim sat. "Chief, I'm already talking to someone about this."

"Well, tell her to hurry up and exorcise whatever's eating you. I don't understand you. How many kill shots have you had to make since joining the Marshals? And you usually just breeze into my office after with a 'I don't miss' and a 'where's the next target?' look on your face. What's different about this one?" Art waited a beat then said, "Tim, he murdered your friend."

"I know!" Tim threw his arms in the air. "I'm thrilled I shot the bastard, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

"No. I want to hear what's eating you."

"They were both drug addicts!" Tim had both arms out, reaching, pleading for some understanding.

Art just shook his head. "We get a lot of that in this line of work."

The begging hands drew back and over his face, and Tim schooled his features back to neutral. "What do you need me to look at?"

"Uh-uh. Not until you tell me what's bothering you about this. Was it or was it not a justifiable shooting?"

Private, was there a threat?

Sir, there were kids running between the vehicle and the…

Private, answer the goddamn question. Was there a threat?!

Yessir.

Then fire your goddamn weapon next time! Are we clear?

Yessir. Loud and clear.

Quietly, "It was justifiable," then Tim pressed his lips together.

Art continued to scrutinize Tim's face. Defeated, he picked up a folder from his desk and handed it over. "There's been a hunting accident down in Noble's Holler."

"A hunting accident? We're looking at hunting accidents now?"

"The interim Harlan Sheriff sent it up." Art paused, said in an off-hand manner, "Gee, you know, they've had bad luck with Sheriffs. It's like Juarez down there…only different. Anyway, the Sheriff doesn't think it was an accident, wants it investigated. She specifically asked that the sniper up in the Lexington Marshals Office have a look and see what he thinks. That's you, by the way."

"Thanks for clearing that up. I thought you meant the other sniper in the office."

Art was staring again and Tim started fidgeting.

"You look tired, Tim," Art said after a moment.

"I'm fine."

"Take the rest of the day."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

Tim hoped Miljana was free for an hour and dropped by her work to see her. She greeted him with a smile and he followed her into her office, stopped just inside the door, shut it and looked around. "You rearranged your furniture," he stated. It made him angry.

She stepped in front of him, hands on her hips, expecting a fight. "You don't like it."

"It sucks."

"Yes, it does," she agreed. "I'm seeing more veterans since I moved in with you – word gets out – and a few followed me from my sessions at the VA Center."

Miljana had reversed the room, her chair now closest to the door, and Tim knew exactly why – in case she needed a quick escape from a violent patient.

His words were biting, he gestured around the room aggressively. "Well, don't think they won't know exactly what this means. Jesus, we may be fucked up but we're not stupid."

"Fuck you, asshole," she said evenly, snapped her fingers, pointed at the chair farthest from the door. "If you're going to bring your shit to my office and spread it around then you can have a seat and talk to me about your shit."

He took a step back, held up the bag he was carrying, two sandwiches from the deli. "I was going to take you out. It's a nice day." She kept pointing so he slunk over to the chair and dropped into it.

"Are you really angry with me for rearranging the office or are you angry because I needed to?"

Tim wet his lips, acknowledged the truth with a head tilt. "Fair enough."

"And are you really angry about the furniture or are you angry about something else? Why are you here?"

"Art sent me home."

"Were you a bad boy?"

"I'm never a bad boy. He said I looked tired."

"He's right, you do look tired. You've been midnight running." She gave him a minute to respond to that and when he didn't she continued. "Why are you angry?"

He set the bag on the table between them and stared at it.

"Tim?"

"I'm angry that you needed to do this, okay?" He yelled it. "I already admitted as much."

There was a knock at the door, Miljana's business partner, another psychologist, urgent. "Miljana? Is everything alright?"

"Just fine, thanks," she replied calmly, watching Tim.

The interruption knocked Tim's anger off its course and he found himself looking underneath it at the shadows there. He watched the shadows under the office door too, waiting until they disappeared and he and Miljana were alone again.

Miljana walked around and pushed the sandwich bag over, sat down on the low table so her knees brushed against Tim's and said, "I'm not afraid of you. You know that, right? I'm just afraid for you. What are you so angry about?"

He didn't want her afraid; he didn't want to be angry at her anymore. He confessed a secret. "I hate them. It's like they're all just dragging me down. I hate them. After I got out, do you know how hard it was for me to find something to like about this? To find something to believe was worth the trouble? I mean, just getting up in the morning? Fuck." He started twisting his fingers together. "Sometimes I think I should tell Art to take away my weapons. I think, one more fucked up vet and I'll start shooting them on sight just to keep them from taking hold and dragging me under." His voice cut with an edge of desperation, ragged. "I can tell who they are – I spot them a mile away – and I can't let them get to me. I can't. I fucking hate them."

"It takes a lot of energy to hate something," she said.

"It takes a lot of energy to get out of bed some days."

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