Roll to Your Rifle – Chapter Fourteen
Art and Rachel pulled up mid-afternoon with Miljana in the back seat. Art had questioned her on the way from town and she had followed Tim's instructions to the letter. She truthfully told them that she had driven up before lunch, worried that she hadn't heard anything from him, and he had met her in the laneway, turned her around and asked her to go back to town and make the phone calls. Leaving out the hour's worth of drinking in between wasn't a difficult lie to keep up.
They passed the coroner looking after Garza and walked into the house. Tim was sitting at the table in the kitchen with the Sheriff drinking coffee. Art greeted the Sheriff familiarly, having met him on a couple of occasions over a dead body.
"It's not often we get to deal with Mexican cartel stuff up here," the Sheriff chuckled. "It's mostly just hunting accidents and drunk drivers and the odd lost climber."
Art had smelled the bourbon on Miljana's breath when they picked her up in Campton and thought the Sheriff was probably missing half the drunk drivers. He did a quick look around the kitchen for a bottle.
"We've taken a statement from your Deputy," the Sheriff continued. "It all seems pretty straight forward. Though he suggested that the FBI or the DEA are going to want to be involved in this." The Sheriff's voice rose a bit, turning the last statement into a question for the Chief Deputy Marshal. It was clear he didn't want to have to deal with anything higher up the law enforcement scale than Art.
"I've already talked to the FBI agent in charge," Art assured him. "This is part of an ongoing investigation between them and the DEA that we just happened to get embroiled in."
The Sheriff nodded happily, relieved to be free of the task. He turned to Miljana and asked, "Are you the young lady that called?"
She nodded an affirmative.
"I guess we need to talk to you, then," he smiled. "It's just a formality, really."
The Sheriff motioned for her to follow him outside to give a statement to one of his deputies. Art took one look at her face and asked Rachel to go, too. Miljana gave him a grateful smile and stayed close to Rachel on the way out.
A thick silence settled when the screen door closed and Art and Tim were left alone in the house. Art sat down at the table across from him and leaned forward on it with his arms folded and stared.
Tim tipped his chair back on two legs, unconsciously putting what distance he could between himself and his boss. He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, licked his lips and glanced over at the rifle leaning against the kitchen wall. Art followed his eyes and gave the weapon an appraising look. It was a Remington 700; the same model rifle Art had purchased for Tim when he found out about his sniper skills; the same model Tim used with the SOG team.
"Nice hunting rifle," he said, his voice loaded with innuendo.
Tim didn't respond. He dropped his eyes to the floor and cursed himself for giving so much away in the first minute. Art made him doubt everything.
"Well, from the smell on her I reckon you've already been serving bourbon in this kitchen today, so why don't you just go on and get me one, too," Art suggested, his tone predatory.
Tim looked straight back at him, knowing from that one statement that Art was already well past suspicious. Tim rubbed his hands nervously on his pants, stood up and got a glass and the bottle and poured one, sliding it across the table. Art didn't waste much time drinking it or getting to the point.
"You know that I know that you had to have known Garza would find out about this house and come looking for you," Art stated. "But please, tell me that she wasn't here with you while you were waiting for him to show up so you could shoot him."
"She's been staying with her parents."
"Well, I guess you're not a complete idiot," Art snapped. "So, she definitely wasn't here when…"
"No, she arrived right after. I told her to stay in Lexington but..." He shrugged helplessly.
Art looked hard at Tim then nodded. "Okay," he said. "And what about that rifle? I didn't know you kept one for your very own. The two with your name on them at work not enough? Do you sleep with it?"
"Uh, I've had it for a couple of years. I, uh…" Tim's voice trailed off as he realized that he just couldn't lie to Art. He sighed, defeated and looked down at his hands.
"Tim, this smacks of vigilantism."
When Tim raised his head again and spoke, he was pleading. "Chief, I had to do something."
Art considered Tim's words for a minute, looking thoughtfully across at his deputy.
"Well, I can't say I blame you," he agreed, satisfied at seeing some truth in Tim's expression. He sat back and rubbed his head. "And I admit it's nice to get the sonofabitch that shot up our office. But dammit, Tim, tell me you didn't take this nutcase on by yourself? That worries me. Jesus, you could've ended up in bits in a bag somewhere. I realize that it's a new thing for you to consider, but there are folk who would be upset if that'd happened."
"I had help."
"Another friend?" Art jabbed.
Tim frowned, obviously fighting with himself about what to say.
"Oh, never mind," Art muttered, letting him off for now. "Next time, go to Miami if you want to pull this kind of shit!"
Tim got up and pulled another glass from the cupboard and poured two more drinks. They sat in silence, wrapped in their own thoughts.
"Well, I doubt anyone's going to look very hard into this," Art finally said. "I think you're okay. But I want the whole story when this is done, and not the one you're giving to the locals. And, I want to have a sit down with Miljana and she and I are going to discuss you. And don't give me any doctor-patient confidentiality bullshit."
Tim just nodded, relieved he wasn't fired, yet.
They were ready to head back to Lexington within the hour. The Sheriff felt the situation didn't need much more attention than that. He even pushed the idea that Art take the rifle with him so the Feds could continue the investigation without coming to Campton.
Tim asked Rachel if she'd drive Miljana's car back to Lexington. After Art's comments about drinking, he thought it would be best. Besides, she was looking a little shell-shocked.
She was quiet in the truck for the first half hour and he became concerned.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked her. "I mean, I owe you at least two or three hundred sessions."
She smiled. "I've lost a lot of money dating you. You're a psychologist's cash cow."
"We could probably get it paid for through work."
"Now you tell me." She reached over and ran her hand through his hair to soften the words.
Thanks to the Herculean efforts of the contractors, the Marshals had been able to move back upstairs within two weeks. Art was just waiting on delivery of the new glass doors for the conference room and the space would be fully functional again. With Garza no longer a threat, the atmosphere among the Deputies was light and relaxed, with one exception.
"It's after lunch. We could slip across the street for a drink if it'd help," Raylan offered. He'd been watching Tim fidget in his chair for almost an hour and it was pity that made him suggest a trip to the bar.
Tim was trying to concentrate on finishing a report but having his girlfriend in the office talking to his boss was clearly destroying the usual calm that defined his character at work. His eyes kept wandering over watching their expressions and body language through the glass. Raylan was sympathetic.
"How much longer do you think they'll be?" Tim asked him, looking dejected.
"I dunno. How much do they have to talk about?" Raylan replied.
The look on Tim's face suggested that they could potentially be at it for a few more days.
Miljana sat comfortably through the pause, waiting for Art to ask another question. When nothing was forthcoming, she ventured a comment.
"I've been white-washing with psychology now for over half an hour. But you have to tell me, Art, what is it you're looking for? What did you want to get out of this?"
"I thought we were here to talk about Tim, not me," Art responded, beginning to get the feeling that he wasn't in control of this meeting.
"Tim is just the subject, not the object, of this discussion," she stated. "I suspect the real object of this discussion is to reassure you. If you would confirm or deny this for me, it would be helpful."
She waited patiently for Art to puzzle this out.
"Reassure me of what, exactly?"
She was hoping that Art would tell her. She was being put in an untenable position and had to maneuver carefully not to betray Tim's trust.
"Reassure you that, as your employee, he is not a danger to himself or anyone else."
"I can't have a loose cannon in my office," Art said decisively.
"A loose cannon?"
"Does he know when to stop?" Art decided to lay it out bluntly for her. "He's been involved in a number of shooting deaths, all of them in the line of duty," he added carefully, "and nothing seems to bother him. And now this last one, while I understand it, worries me. Does he have any feelings about these shootings at all? Any regrets?"
"His regrets wake him up most nights," she replied flatly. "If he appears numb to the events here, it's because he's still rationalizing everything that happened to him in Afghanistan. Has he talked to you much about that?"
"He did tell us one story, about shooting a Taliban sniper with a handgun from about a half a yard," Art replied. "He laughed about it."
"Yes, I remember that story – his longest shot. Did he tell you he threw up immediately afterward?" she asked calmly.
"No."
"No. Did he tell you that he was so upset his spotter had to set up and man the rifle for the first hour?"
Art's face fell. "No."
"Did he tell you that they had to stay in that position for a day and a half, watching the road, with the body beside them the whole time? Did he mention that he was angry at himself for vomiting because they were already dehydrated and they had only carried the minimum amount of water with them and he had to use more than his share?"
"No," Art replied, wishing he'd thought to put on his bullet-proof vest.
"Did he tell you that he can still describe in detail that man's face?"
Art shook his head.
"Art, I could not be in love with a man who had no remorse about killing."
When they finally stood up and shook hands and made their way out of Art's office, Tim tried to look occupied, like he hadn't been riveted by the exchange. She walked over to his desk and he stood up to see her out.
"What did you talk about?" he asked, not sure he really cared to know.
"You."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him you were a certifiable psychopath but that you were great in bed."
Tim blinked. "Did he believe any part of it?"
"Only the last bit. He seemed to need some reason to understand why I was dating you." She kissed him and stepped onto the elevator, waving and grinning mischievously as the doors closed.
He grinned back.
Art held the door for him when he returned.
"I feel like I just did ten rounds with the world heavy-weight champion," he said with a bemused expression. "She's way too smart. Why is she with you?"
Tim tilted his head and looked at his boss. "She likes the guns," he replied.
"Uh," Art grunted and frowned, not sure how to take that.
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