Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twelve
Tim stepped through the cave opening softly, quietly. It might have been easier if he'd just pulled the trigger then and made up a story to cover his ass later. He had a clear shot. You could do that over there, but not here, not in Kentucky. Here you had to give a warning, you had to give the bad guy a chance to keep breathing, you had to say, "US Marshal. Drop your weapon!" At least he could put a healthy amount of threat into it, and anger.
Will looked lost, handcuffed to a chair, stared at Tim like he didn't recognize him. Maybe it was simply that he was seeing Tim out of context, separated from the intimacy of the night before. The Tim standing just inside the cave entrance was confident and steady behind his Glock, not a hint of uncertainty, cold and hard and in control. This wasn't the Tim that had fumbled with a belt buckle and zipper, heated and passionate, hands eager on skin. Will had forgotten this Tim for that Tim, forgot they were the same.
The man holding Will hostage dropped behind the chair for cover, a thin filleting blade in his right hand slipped up under Will's chin, sharp and already slicing skin and drawing blood, a revolver in his left, pressed against Will's temple.
"What're you doing?" Tim demanded. "I don't know how you think you're getting out of this. Let him go."
"No!"
"You want to die?"
"Not alone."
"Don't worry, you won't die alone." Rachel had stepped in behind Tim, moved to his left, gun drawn. "We're not leaving. Now put the weapons down and you don't have to die at all."
"I'm not doing anything you ask until I've finished my business."
It was a cultured voice; it surprised the Marshals.
"Whatever your business is," Rachel said, calm and level and matter-of-fact, "it'll have to wait. Meanwhile my partner here will put a nice 9mm round through your medulla oblongata, drop you like a stone if you attempt to do any more harm to Agent Graham. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Raylan had spread the story of the Jess Timmons shooting, loving how neatly it played out. He and Tim had bragging rights, saving a pregnant woman. It had become office lore, although Tim remained stubbornly quiet about it. All Rachel had to do was reword it to suit her style and hope Raylan wasn't exaggerating about Tim's skills. She had yet to see him pull the trigger on a warm target with his Glock, only been witness to his kill shots with a rifle. Accuracy with a handgun was a different thing. She had faith in him though, faith in Raylan too, come to that; she'd read the autopsy report from that incident.
The man blinked, glanced at Tim. "I doubt very much he could find my medulla oblongata," the voice taunted, "let alone hit it with a bullet from there. Do you have any idea how big that part of the brain is? One and a half, two inches, tops. You miss it and I'm slicing a throat or pulling a trigger before I die. I have no intention of leaving this earth while Graham is still breathing. That is my business here."
Will took a quick breath and held it, reaction to the suggestion, nerves. The man holding the knife leaned forward just enough, reacting himself to the reaction, wondering what was going on that he was missing, and Tim pulled the trigger. It was all the opportunity he needed and his target dropped like a stone and pulled the chair over with him as he fell back.
Tim and Rachel rushed over and cleared the weapons. Tim righted the chair and Will with it while Rachel checked the killer for vitals. She looked at Tim, shook her head and smiled for him. "Nice."
"Yeah, nice," he bit out, unlocked the cuffs and walked stiffly to the cave entrance and out, saying, "I'll call it in."
Rachel and Will watched Tim leave. Will stood up to follow, sank down on the chair again, a bit shaky. Rachel put a hand on his arm.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
A bare nod, Will dragged his freed hands down his face. "Oh, God. Good timing. Excellent…timing, actually. Thank you."
"Are you okay?" she repeated.
Another nod, a bit more definite. "Is…is he okay?" Will looked to the entrance again. "God, I'm sorry to…"
"He's fine. That's just full-on Tim. Give him a minute."
"Full-on Tim?"
Rachel smiled for him. She liked the man despite her professional prejudices, talked to calm him down.
"Tim's got three speeds, at least that I've seen – full-on, something a shade less than full-on, and off." She put a hand on Will's shoulder and tipped his head to the side with the other, inspected his neck above the collar bone. "Are you alright? I don't think the blade went very deep but it's bleeding."
"Full-on?" Will was stuck on it, still staring across the cave to the entrance.
"A hand on his weapon – whichever weapon – alert and edgy and impossible to reach and just the guy you want around in a situation like this." She pointed outside. "That's full-on Tim."
Will flicked his eyes across her face, looking for mirth, found none. "And what's the difference between…"
"Between full-on and a shade less?"
He nodded.
"The amount of sarcasm and a holstered weapon."
"Oh."
"And 'off' – 'cause I know you're going ask – means drunk and grumpy and usually in the company of one of his two best friends, bourbon or beer. I've never seen him 'off' and sober." She gave him a minute to digest the information. "Now, Special Agent Graham, are you alright?"
He looked at her again, briefly, nodded, turned in the chair to look at the body. "Call me Will, please."
"Okay – Will – is he a doctor?" She tilted her head at the body but kept her eyes on the FBI agent.
"I don't know. I have…no idea who he is. Why?"
"Because he knew right away what the medulla oblongata was. It's not like people hear that every day."
"Yeah," Will agreed, a little embarrassed that he hadn't picked up on it considering it was his job to pay attention to those kinds of details. He chalked the lapse up to the effects of having a knife at his throat, took a steadying breath and started paying attention.
Scanning the cave quickly, the first thing he noticed was a gallon of paint sitting against the wall, and a funnel. His eyes stayed on them, they were mesmerizing his imagination and for long enough that Rachel noticed and turned to look. When she turned around again to ask about it he was staring back at the body.
"Soft hands, no calluses, trimmed nails. It all supports your theory. A doctor is likely." He looked closer at the neat bullet hole centered between the eyebrows. "That's…that's quite a shot."
"He has to be good for something. He sucks at warm hugs and comfort." She offered it as a warning.
Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders. He'd shrugged out of it eventually. The air was still warm and thick even in the dark in the cold dead hours of the night. He checked his watch. It had taken the local Sheriff an hour to show up. Crime wasn't on the clock, didn't keep regular business hours. They'd be here a while yet, lucky if they got to bed before the sun came up. Will sighed and continued watching Tim from across the clearing in front of the cave.
The Marshal was giving away very little in his expression or his posture. Tim stood stiffly, face blank, spoke quietly to the deputy taking his statement, the odd head tilt or wry grin for the other LEO. The only hint that he was feeling anything at all came when a plastic bag was held open and he was asked to surrender the weapon used in the shooting. Tim pressed his lips together tightly, unclipped his USMS-issued sidearm, ejected the magazine, ejected a chambered round all with efficient, angry motions, and dropped it into the evidence bag. He stared at it hungrily as the local walked away with it.
Will grimaced, feeling responsible. Felt worse when he saw Tim's right hand twitch once, twice, then slide around to his back and grip the handle of his secondary. Tim let the tired show then, turned away from everyone, walked to the edge of the clearing and crossed his arms, focusing on the blackness. He was still tense; Will could see it in the lines.
Rachel walked up beside Tim and smoothed a hand down his back, one light movement, said something and Tim nodded, then she turned, noticed Will and headed over. Two steps and she stopped, her eyes focusing on something just beyond Will's shoulder. She turned again, away from him, and made her way over to the Sheriff.
Someone took hold of Will's arm. He jumped, twisted, found himself face-to-face with Jack Crawford.
"Jesus, Jack, a little warning would be nice."
"I could say the same to you, but we'll discuss that later." Jack's anger was swirling just below the surface, held in check by the report that a killer had been dispatched. "What the hell happened here?"
The exhaustion was a weight. Will trudged the sidewalk to Tim's apartment, looking at the street now in the warm and gray light of pre-dawn. If he were going fishing, the early hour would be pleasant, but this morning it only highlighted his tiredness. He was looking at it from the wrong end. He pressed the buzzer for the superintendent's suite, pulled the official FBI business speech. The man let him in, ratty housecoat and slippers, curious. Will waved the badge and headed for the elevator and up. He knocked on Tim's door, not at all surprised when he answered, awake and still dressed and a little hollow.
Tim stood aside and let Will in and shut the door behind him. He looked like Will felt and Will wondered belatedly if this should've waited until they'd both slept a bit.
"I'm sorry," he said, since he was here and it'd be stupid to leave now without saying it.
"What?"
"I'm sorry. I should've been more careful. You wouldn't have had to...shoot him if I'd... I'm sorry."
"He had a knife at your throat," the eyebrows went up, "and a gun to your head. Forget it."
"It doesn't matter. It…you shouldn't have had to…"
"Shut up, okay. Just shut up."
"Tim, listen. I…"
"Shut up! I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to hear it. It's fine."
"No, it's not fine, it's…"
Tim pressed himself into Will, holding him against the wall, running his hands around his waist and kissing him hard just to shut him up. At least, that's what he told himself later when he could think back on it coolly. But the truth in the center of that moment was that he wanted to keep Will for a bit all to himself and all the empty words spoken were carrying the world in with them and getting in the way. He wanted to break out and feel, to have someone look at him and not think he was scratched and dented and understand that behind the cold and unreachable there was something breathing. He liked the way Will looked at him, like he was always watching the breathing. The emotions were painful as they came in a rush and he welcomed them, even knowing he'd deny them later.
But that was later. He moved his hands up and jammed them into the curls and started backing toward the couch.
Will wasn't having any of it. He pushed some distance between them, a few inches to allow a few words.
"I need to talk to you," he breathed. "I know you…"
"Later." Tim's eyes were half-shut, drooping toward sleep. "Later," he mumbled again tiredly, pulled Will up against him a second time, crowding out any chance for words.
Will was too exhausted to stand his ground, surrendered and let Tim pull his shirt out and slide his hands up underneath. Rachel was wrong, he realized. Tim had another speed: languid and sleepy and needy and not drunk. Will took control of the only part of this he could, took a fistful of Tim's shirt and steered him in the direction of the bedroom. He had already told Jack not to expect him up until noon and he was going to sleep right here where he felt some space around him, breathe in some of the air.
xxxxxxxxx
