OK – who is Jen? You've been outed, I know you're there!

I don't know that I have adequately described the house for the events in this and the next chapter – imagine it as a rectangle (longest side parallel to the road) with a porch that takes up half of the front portion of the house – so there is a room (with a window) looking onto a porch with a door into the house on the inside corner, with another front room (and a large window) taking up the rest of the house – the side wall of this bounds the porch. There are neighbours both sides and behind – but across the road are forest and mountains. Clear as mud? Good. Let's get this party started shall we?

Chapter 11

There was absolute silence, Rachel moved away from Tim to prop her hip against Art's desk. Tim lowered his eyes back to the room, seeing three pairs of eyes fixed on him: Art's shocked, Raylan's slightly appreciative and Rachel's worried.

"At the risk of my head exploding, (1)" Art said slowly. "I'm going to ask that you clarify that statement Tim." He took a breath. "When you said you 'know' Marion Arnold – which definition were you referring to?"

"Either: both I suppose," replied Tim reflectively. "Although apparently the second understanding is more complete." He paused for a moment. "She had a tattoo of a snake on her ankle."

Art poured himself another glass and drained it and Raylan shoulders abruptly stopped shaking.

"You see what you did?" demanded Art, looking at Raylan. "He was a perfectly good deputy before you got here. You've been here what? Less than a year and look what you've done. You've broken him. Rachel – tell me that you're not sleeping with anyone inappropriate? Witness, criminal, contract killer, protectee – you're not sleeping with Winston are you?"

Rachel raised a haughty brow that clearly said she had no time for his shit and looked at Tim. "So you met Marion Arnold? Here – in Lexington?"

Tim focused on her and nodded. "Thursday night," he replied. "At a bar." He caught Raylan's expression as he remembered Tim declining his invite for a drink after work. "I'd noticed her; it was hard not to, especially in that bar. She'd noticed me too but made no move to talk to me. Then the rednecks started annoying her – so I strapped on my cape and rescued her," he said it with some sarcasm – her file showed to the infinite extent why she hadn't needed that although he had perhaps saved their lives. "One thing led to another and we went to a motel together."

"Which motel?" demanded Rachel, pen and paper in her hand.

Tim shrugged, "some dive on Kingston – has a purple flower out front."

"She target you?" asked Art keenly, his head back in the game, as Rachel's brow rose at the address.

"It did cross my mind," admitted Tim. "But if she did – she's a damn good actress. I could swear that she didn't know that I was a Marshal until the next morning."

"Did she ask you anything in particular," asked Rachel.

"We didn't talk that much actually," admitted Tim and Raylan laughed, getting a glare from both Rachel and Art and waving his apologies (albeit without real conviction).

"And Friday night?" pressed Art. "It was her I presume?"

"We met at the same bar – not by design. The phone number she had given me didn't work – I went to the bar just on the off chance – she was coming out as I came in. Maybe she'd gone to meet me and given up or changed her mind – she said she'd had a run in with the same rednecks."

"Same motel?" asked Rachel.

Tim grimaced. "My place."

"You took her to your house?" Raylan's eyes widened. "Violets," he said suddenly and Art looked at him strangely. "Smell in the shower," he explained.

Tim smiled slightly first freesias, then violets. "She is apparently a fan of flowers," he nodded. "I left her there Saturday morning too," he added.

"Alone? At your house," Art sat up straighter. "Did you have anything at home?"

Tim shook his head. "Nothing current. Some cold cases – that's about it. Didn't look like there was anything touched," he added. "With the exception of the fridge and the pantry," he noted wryly.

"She did that?" Raylan's brows rose. "Filled them with food," he added for Art's and Rachel's benefit.

"But she had your phone," said Rachel.

Tim nodded. "Only while I had a shower. She said that she didn't do anything else."

"And you believe her?" Art was slightly incredulous.

Tim shrugged, funnily enough, he did. "She told me all of that," Tim pointed to the file still in front of Art. "She didn't lie to me."

"She told you that she was a contract killer did she?" snorted Art.

"Well," Tim smirked slightly. "That's more of an omission than a lie – isn't it?"

Art rolled his eyes, looked at the bottle and decided against it, sighing. "I suppose we'd better get the FBI back in again."

"Ah let 'em have some fun with Boyd," Raylan waved the idea away. "Or let Boyd have some fun with them – whichever way works better for you."

Art frowned at his most senior but loose cannon deputy, but then looked up at Tim – his quiet, conscientious deputy. "I suppose it won't hurt to let them go down to Harlan first – while we try and sort this mess out." He watched Tim's head go down a little and his voice was gentler when he said "Whatever this is."

Three pots of bad coffee later – Art having recovered from his shock and remembering that it was well before noon – Raylan pushed back from the conference table and stared in disgust at the kaleidoscope of paper. "I got nothing," he said in disgust.

Tim leaned forward, resting his head on one hand and pursed his lips. "That's because there is nothing here," he said and put the photo he held in his other hand on a pile.

"Tim – what are you doing?" asked Art, looking across the table.

Tim lifted his head a little and then pointed to the three piles that he had re-arranged The Serpent's file into. "Hers, not hers, not sure," he pointed.

"How do you figure that?" asked Raylan, leaning forward to grab the 'not hers' pile.

"Someone who is sixth dan ninjutsu doesn't need to hit someone with a brick eight times," replied Tim dryly. "Nor does she remove the fingerprints and head from a body – what's the point of killing someone if you can't prove to your client that you did the job?"

"Maybe she used the fingers and the head," suggested Raylan, throwing back down the pile with a grimace.

Tim shrugged. "Not her style." He toyed with his phone, dialling the number that had been dialled ten times in the last few hours. Her voice echoed through the room 'Sorry but I'm not available...' before he cut the connection.

"She's not going to answer Tim," observed Rachel, still sifting through the papers from the other file and not bothering to look up.

"She's got to surface sometime," Art replied for him. They had already set up a trace on the phone – but so far nothing.

Rachel looked up. "She's made us Chief, she knows we know."

"How could she know?" demanded Raylan.

Rachel raised a brow. "You really think all of this," she indicated the table, "happens without someone on the inside?" She snorted. "I bet she knew before we did that those FBI agents were on their way down here – that's why she's not answering the phone," she glanced at Tim before turning back to the page.

Tim frowned something about what Rachel had said...

"Is there any chance that Miss Arnold is just down here taking photographs like she told Tim?" asked Art, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. "It is a legitimate aspect of the Arnold business isn't it?"

Tim sat up, still frowning and looking, but not seeing, the papers in front of him. "I did see photos," he started slowly.

"Chief?" they looked up and Amabel smiled at them. "I've just dropped the mail on your desk."

"Thanks Amanda," said Art.

"Amabel," whispered Raylan.

"Er Amabel," corrected Art and stood, walking into his room.

"Was that information what you were after Deputy?" she said softly.

Raylan reached out with a long leg and nudged Tim; he looked up and blinked. "Thanks Amabel – it was."

"Anything more you want me to do?" she asked.

Tim shook his head, frowning at the table. "No thankyou Amabel," said Rachel and the blond nodded, retreating from the doorway. "Really Tim!"

"What?" he looked up at the chastising tone.

Rachel rolled her eyes and stood, taking the piece of paper with her to her computer. Raylan chuckled silently to himself for a couple of seconds, and then sobered, watching his colleague.

"Why'd you do it?" he asked. Tim looked up and he clarified. "Why'd you get Amabel to do an internet search on Marion?"

"Because it would be illegal if I was to use my special Marshal powers," returned Tim lightly.

Raylan wasn't about to let him off that easily. "A drop dead gorgeous woman picks you up at a bar, sleeps with you – twice – cooks you dinner and you do a background search on her?"

"My Spidy sense was tingling (2)," Tim tried another light approach.

"Something wasn't right?" prompted Raylan, not giving up.

Tim sighed. "No Raylan, something wasn't right."

"Because she was drop dead gorgeous?" teased Raylan, but with a hint of persistence that made Tim sigh again.

"Because she could drop a 240 pound redneck without raising a sweat, because she looked right down the barrel of my gun and didn't blink. Because on the anniversary of the worst day of my life I meet a woman who isn't scared of me, who isn't after a cheap thrill with the dangerous soldier boy, who doesn't want to fix me, who did more than listen, who could understand." Tim's reflective voice changed to one of bitterness. "Who knew – all I needed to do was look on bodacious contract killer dot com to find my perfect match."

"What anniversary?" asked Raylan, all joking gone from his tone.

"The day my spotter got killed," replied Tim dully, not mentioning the medal.

"That was why you didn't wear your dog tags?" asked Raylan quietly and saw the slight look of surprise. "You changed shirts here the next morning – I do notice some things." He paused, "I would have gone for a drink with you."

"I wasn't planning on being much company Raylan," snorted Tim. "I was drinking myself into a stupor."

"I can handle that," said Raylan.

Tim looked up, the pain almost but not quite hidden in his eyes, just as Rachel walked back in. "What and miss out on all of this fun?" he quipped lightly but Raylan recognised the technique and held his gaze until there was an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.

"Damn," swore Rachel, tossing the piece of paper back to the table.

"Something wrong?" asked Raylan, noting that Tim had closed back down again and was staring at the 'hers' pile.

"I thought I had it," said Rachel and suddenly had both their attention. "Well you said you met her Thursday? The day that you had settled Winston into the programme? The Chief said that Winston is hiding something, I thought perhaps..." She shrugged as they looked at her in confusion. "Tony Arnold has nothing electronic," she explained further.

"Phones are for ringing people, cameras are for taking photographs and the postman is for delivering mail," she said instructively and shook her head a little. "My uncle has the most up to date printing equipment – my camera is state of the art – but he will not send an email." Tim smiled slightly but turned his attention back to Rachel.

"The website for the Toronto business is pretty simple – it has contact details and a gallery of some of the photographs. There is no 'ask' ability, you can't order anything on line – you have to fax or send in an order form. There are no banking details – you either pay by cash or by cheque. Craig Arnold on the other hand," she picked up the photo of him. "His website is state of the art, orders, prints, interactive cells, Facebook, Twitter – the whole thing. I bet whatever records he has are electronic and I thought perhaps Winston may have stumbled onto them."

"You asked him?" Raylan straightened; an interested expression on his face.

"I did," nodded Rachel. "He said he had never heard of the Arnolds."

"What're the chances that he's lying?" asked Raylan, looking to Tim.

"Probably fair – but she can't have been in the 2nd car," Tim replied. "She has an air tight alibi," he added dryly as Raylan raised a brow.

Raylan grinned and even Rachel cracked a smile. "Still – it might be worth a drive," suggested Rachel.

"What's worth a drive?" asked Art, walking back into the room and carrying a large yellow envelope.

"Rachel thinks Winston may be able to help us with this whole ... thing," said Raylan.

"As in tell us something or being the actual target?" asked Art.

"Well he can't be the target can he?" asked Raylan, looking to Tim. "She's been down in Harlan all weekend – why would she wait?" he frowned. "Tim?"

Tim however was staring at the envelope in Art's hands – a large CM emblazoned on it.

"You really think all of this happens without someone on the inside?"

"Well howdy – name's Sherriff Rollins"

It was a large envelope, almost an inch thick – one of those used to transport documents between departments of large organisations – he could see 'SR' at the bottom of the list.

"This is my favourite," she said as a photograph of a bright red cardinal came onto screen. It was perched on a slender branch, light green growth visible on the tip – a pale blue sky behind it and looking straight at the camera. "Little bugger eluded me for a couple of hours, flitting back and forth between the tree branches, hardly staying still long enough to be able to aim, let alone actually taking the shot. I'd given up actually – and then he just propped – turned around and looked at me," she smiled and the camera flicked off.

"Oh shit!" Tim stood up abruptly. "She's a sniper and Winston is the target."

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Art was convinced more by Tim's conviction than the 'evidence'. The initials on the envelope was thin proof of Sherriff Rollin's involvement, and therefore the connection with Winston, and the photo was even thinner proof that she was a sniper, although Art agreed that there was no way she could have got a shot of a tree with the green growth this late in the season and he understood that only someone who climbed very high up a tree or with a powerful scope could have captured that photograph. Tim couldn't explain the second car or why, if she was indeed targeting Winston, she hadn't already taken a shot – although Tim did observe that Winston seemed allergic to sunshine and she probably hadn't had an opportunity. Rachel rang Winston while Tim and Raylan were strapping on their vests and gathering a small arsenal, including Tim's rifle, and warned him to stay indoors and away from the windows, not to answer the door unless it was one of them. She grabbed her own stuff while they booked out a car, meeting them outside the building.

"I'll let the State Troopers know what's going on," advised Art. "I'll also call the FBI and ... hell I don't know what I'll tell them yet. Bring him back here and I'll organise the transfer."

The drive was made in record time, Rachel suffering the most in the back seat on the bends through Harlan but it was all quiet when they pulled up to the house. Raylan parked the car but left it running, casting his eyes around the area and finding it quiet except for a neighbour a couple of blocks down gardening. He looked at him for a while, but there was no way that he could have been Marion in disguise so he turned away – and noticed Tim staring into the windows of the house while Rachel was knocking on the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Checking the trees," replied Tim.

"Why?" asked Raylan, turning his head to look at the hills behind them.

Tim sighed, turning his head. "To try and see if I could pinpoint her position without letting her know that I know."

"Oh," Raylan grimaced and turned back to the house. "Sorry bout that. You really think you could spot her?"

"With the sun where it is, it would reflect off the scope," explained Tim. "Of course, she's probably good enough to cover it but you never know."

"You reckon she'll be all camouflaged up and everything – wearing one of those silly suits?" asked Raylan.

"She knows I'm here," replied Tim dully.

"Coming out," called Rachel's voice and they both stepped up onto the porch and then turned back to face the outside, their hands on their guns. The door creaked open behind them and they heard the steps of Rachel and Winston.

"Up close Winston," instructed Tim, "keep your head down."

"Ok," Winston's voice trembled slightly, his bravado from the previous day gone.

Tim felt the man move into his personal space, almost too close – but when working against a sniper the margins of error were small. Of course – he was betting that she wouldn't just shoot through him. Raylan moved in close at his side, slightly behind so Tim's gun hand was free to manoeuvre. He took a deep breath, "let's go," he instructed and took a step forward, Raylan shadowing him, Winston on his tail and Rachel bringing up the rear with a bag over her shoulder.

"Whoa – hold up," warned Raylan as he heard something, turning his head and frowning as he recognised the pickup making the noise. "What the hell is Boyd doing here?"

"Boyd?" asked Rachel, totally blind from her position at the back of the group. "Boyd Crowder?"

"Yeah," Raylan glanced at Tim with a puzzled frown as the pickup turned off the road and paused on the grass verge in front of the house.

"Don't look at me – he's your frenemy," Tim snorted, feeling very uncomfortable suddenly. He took another step to stand at the edge of the porch, noting another vehicle pulling to a halt on the other side of the road and a little past the house and another vehicle parking a few houses back down the road. "I don't like this."

"Me neither," agreed Raylan slowly. "Rachel – take Winston back inside."

Rachel moved quickly, grabbing Winston, who made a sound between a gasp and a whimper, and dragging him back into the house. The door slammed shut behind them.

Tim walked around the side of the car, resting one forearm on the hilt of his weapon and tucking the both thumbs casually in his belt as he planted a hip into the wheel arch of the SUV. He eyed off the two men that had exited from the vehicle across the road; both wore open plaid shirts over beaters and jeans as if they were locals, but there was something about them that didn't sit true. The driver waited for the passenger to come around the front of the car and then they walked casually forward. Except they weren't so casual he thought, noticing a slight stiffness in the way they walked until they reached the edge of the lawn, where they paused and offered Tim a nod. Tim offered a slight one in return.

The doors of the blue pickup opened and Tim's brows lifted as he saw Boyd in the passenger seat. "Well howdy Boyd, Devil," called Raylan from his position at the back of their SUV, its engine still humming, his jacket tucked behind his gun but his hand casually at his side. Devil he thought looked a little uncertain, perhaps a touch nervous. Boyd of course looked his normal nonchalant self, his teeth flashing in his typical wide smile.

"Raylan!" called Boyd, stepping out from behind the passenger door and walking to the front of the car. His eyes were calculating; he noted Tim's position and the position of Raylan's jacket and stopped just behind the nose of his truck. "I thought we agreed that you were going to stay away from Harlan for a bit?"

"Well you did suggest it," Tim heard Raylan acknowledge. "And I did think about it – but Art – well he suggested that I come down here and you know..." Raylan offered a shrug and Tim smirked a little.

Boyd offered another smile, flicking his eyes to the men standing to the side and slightly behind him and then to the deputy who was watching them.

"So what brings you to Redbud Boyd – it's a bit out of your stomping ground isn't it?" asked Raylan.

"I like to think that no part of Harlan is actually outside of my neighbourhood Raylan – having been born and raised here," replied Boyd. "But this party today is Devil's – I just came for the ride."

"Is that right Devil?" Raylan raised a brow, and Devil shuffled a little as he found himself the centre of attention.

Devil shrugged slightly awkwardly. "I was just showing Cal and Wayne around – they had a friend who has moved here recently and wanted to catch up with him."

"They do, do they?" mused Raylan. "Hey there again fellas," he nodded to the two men and Tim realised that these were the men Raylan had described as meeting at Audrey's.

"Hey there Marshal," replied one of them, moving forward. Tim tensed slightly, straightening. "What a coincidence that we run into you here."

"Isn't it just," nodded Raylan. "Who was it that you were looking for?"

"His name was Winston," replied Cal after only a quick glance at his partner, still moving forward. "Winston Anderson. Perhaps you know him?"

Raylan shook his head. "Sorry – afraid I don't. Do you Tim?"

"Nope," replied Tim without actually looking at Raylan, keeping his eye on 'Wayne'. "No Winston Anderson here."

"What a shame," added Raylan. "Looks like you've wasted your time fellas."

Boyd, who had been watching the conversation between the men closely, cleared his throat. "It seems that there's been a bit of a misunderstanding gentlemen – Devil seems to have obtained the wrong information," his eyes widened as Devil's mouth opened and it closed. "Why don't we leave the good deputies to their business?"

The man pulled a face. "But you see Mr Crowder," said the man, "I think the deputy does know Winston. And for some reason he doesn't want Wayne and I to see him."

"Be that as it may Cal," returned Boyd with a sardonic edge. "It is still time to leave."

"You afraid or something Mr Crowder?" sneered Cal.

"Not afraid no," smirked Boyd, his eyes meeting Raylan's amused ones with a twinkle. "However I have no desire to get into a gun battle with Deputy Givens."

"Deputy Givens," repeated Cal, scratching his head. "Say," he pointed. "Are you the deputy that put down Tommy Bucks?"

And there it was thought Tim, recognising the point where the slight chance that this thing was ending well vanished. Boyd recognised it as well and took a step back; Devil seeing him move, retreated but Wayne took some steps to the right, making Tim rotate slightly to be able to keep watch on him.

Raylan tipped his head a little. "Yeah – that's me. You a friend of Tommy?"

"Nah," admitted Cal. "But there's a bit of an urban myth about the deputy that shot him."

"Oh – and what is that?" Tim smirked again at Raylan's casual tones.

"That you shot him even though your gun was holstered and he had his under the table," replied Cal.

"Sounds about right," Raylan pursed his lips.

"That's a pretty quick draw there Deputy," laughed Cal, looking to his companion and getting an obligatory laugh.

"Yeah – it is," nodded Raylan and met Cal's eyes, watching and waiting.

For three seconds there was total silence; the neighbour's dog started barking and then all hell broke loose.

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(1) Just for Sophie

(2) That's meant to be Spidy as in Spiderman