Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty
Art cleared their calendars and they sat with the Feds in the conference room for the remainder of the day, comparing notes, cross-referencing names, dates, anything that might help them close the net around Quentin Hill, the last man standing.
"We did a search of Hill's residence in Pensacola yesterday," Frasier informed them.
"And?" Art knew what the answer would be but didn't want to presume. It was too important to him.
"Nothing incriminating. He hasn't been there in a while. We did find receipts for a storage space, though. The team in Florida is going through it as we speak."
Art nodded, accepting. By quitting time they'd exhausted any ideas and agreed to sleep on it.
Frasier closed a folder and tossed it on the pile and rubbed his eyes. "At this point, I suggest we get a BOLO out. He probably already knows we're onto him so there's no advantage to stealth."
"I already did, right after you walked in with a positive ID on him," Art said. There was nothing apologetic in his tone. "I know Quentin Hill. Intelligent man, but no street smarts. He's probably still in Lexington wondering what happened to Price and with no idea how to run. He'll turn up." He added a folder to the pile, turned a murderous look at Frasier. "And I bet you I could guess what's in that storage space: photography equipment, video cameras, computers…"
Frasier watched as Art counted the items off angrily on his fingers. It took him until now, he hadn't given it much thought before, but he finally made the connection between this Art Mullen and the Deputy Mullen on Quentin Hill's original arrest report.
"I'll let you know as soon as I hear from the Florida office," he offered respectfully.
"Thank you," Art replied sincerely, "I'd appreciate that."
Art was courteous despite his mood and helped pack up the files.
"Tim," he called as he walked out of the conference room and into his office, "I need a word." He hooked a finger, beckoning.
Tim hesitated on one foot, a stutter-step. Neil gave him a quick shove as he walked past knocking him off-balance, and chuckled evilly as he headed for the door with the other agents. Wadding up a photocopy of Quentin Hill's picture, Tim twisted around while trying to steady himself and whipped it at the retreating Feds, bouncing it off the back of Neil's head. Rachel picked it up off the floor before Neil could grab it and start a war.
"Tim," Art barked out, exasperated. "Now!" He was tempted to grab Tim by the ear but refrained for the sake of dignity.
"Shut the door," he said gruffly when Tim walked in. "Was that really necessary?"
"Absolutely," Tim replied, straight-faced. "If you don't make the point with him that there are consequences for his actions, there's no end to it. You have no idea what that man is capable of." He pointed backward out of the office at an invisible Neil.
Art sat down heavily in his chair, rubbed his head vigorously, picked up a message left on his desk and tossed it down again without even registering what it said. "When do you finally grow up?" he eventually asked.
"I remember reading a sociology study saying something about maturity in the late 20's for men nowadays. There's progress for you."
"I was being rhetorical," Art snapped. He couldn't decide whether to take Tim seriously or not without Rachel here to guide him. He said his thoughts aloud, "I don't know whether to take you seriously or not without Rachel here to give me the signals."
"I have the same trouble with you," Tim commiserated. "You want me to get her?" He made a motion to stand.
Art caught himself actually considering it but waved Tim down. "No. I think it's time you and I managed on our own. Rachel won't always be here to interpret."
Tim's brows furrowed trying to decide if Art were serious or not. He settled with saying, "I'm glad we had this talk."
"Uh-huh. Well, now that we've got that out of the way there's something I need to ask you. Are you one of those Marshals who's going to want a transfer out of here as soon as you do your required three years?"
"No."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"What's wrong with you, then?"
Tim frowned, looking for the trap. "I like working for you."
"Are you kissing my ass? 'Cause honestly, I'm not in the mood for it today."
"No, it's true," Tim replied, head tilt. "It's one of those horrible truths that you wake up to, you know? Like 'there is no Santa Claus', or 'you didn't come from a stork, your parents had to have sex to have you', or…"
"You can stop right there. I get the picture."
Tim's eyes grinned and he added, "Besides, Dan explained to me what it would be like working in a big office as a new guy. Didn't sound like fun."
Art nodded in agreement. "He's right. And actually, it's Dan I wanted to talk to you about. He's decided to take early retirement."
Tim's disappointment must have shown because Art smiled for the first time that afternoon, a touch of melancholy.
"It was one of his options. He can't come back on active duty after what happened and he can't see sitting at a desk for the next year or so. He's agreed as a favor to stick around for another month, transition his work over, but if he has to go outside the office, you get to go with him." Art made a sour face as he spoke the last part and looked like he was going to protest his own orders. "You were his choice, not mine. I suspect because he thinks you won't coddle him. And I suspect he's right, and that worries me. I've agreed to it but…please, just don't do anything stupid like a repeat of that fiasco at the wrecking yard."
"Okay." Tim nodded looking serious and thoughtful and Art felt better about it, briefly.
"Could you define 'stupid,'" Tim requested, "just so we're clear."
"You can go now," Art said tersely, pointing at the door.
Tim went for a long run after work. The wind had picked up and he struggled against it up the hills but it worked better than a hot shower and a drink for relieving the tension from the day, though the shower and the drink were nice, too. The time in a chair that afternoon felt like waiting for the gun at the runner's block, only for hours not seconds. Some days, by 5pm he felt like a jack-in-the-box with a broken lid and someone continuously winding.
After the run and the shower and the drink he took some time and made a proper meal and ate it sitting at the table reading through a service manual for Fischer's Dragonuv. He grinned remembering what Fischer had said when he tossed it at him: Make yourself useful for a change. You do know how to read, don't you? Tim had flipped through it quickly and replied with a shrug: It's got pictures.
He got distracted afterward comparing stats on sniper rifles on the internet, detoured into a comparison of the factory-installed scopes, and four hours later was rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was about to give up the dry reading for the night, past 11pm now, and was grabbing another beer and thinking about his couch when his phone rang.
"Tim?"
Rachel's voice was tense and triggered his nerves to alert. He shut the fridge door empty-handed and forgot about the couch.
"Hey. They find Hill?"
"Nick's missing."
Tim didn't register the information quickly enough for Rachel.
"Tim," she pleaded, urgent, almost yelling, like she would reach through the phone, grab his shirt and shake him if she could. "Did he say anything to you Sunday? Anything that might…? Do you have any idea at all where he might be? We've checked with all of his friends, the school. We've been to all the movie theatres, basketball courts. We don't know where he is. We can't find him. He's not answering his phone."
Tim ran a hand over his mouth, shut his eyes tight, thinking, coming up blank. "I'll be right over," he offered.
He kept thinking while he drove. What was he doing at ten-almost-eleven-years-old? He was pretty independent and that's what worried him most. Curious, rash, but not carefree, not him, and not Nick either. Careless though, definitely careless. Careless and old enough and physically strong enough to take full advantage of the fact. He often thought it was a miracle or some sideline of Darwinian Theory that boys survived into manhood and that the world survived them beyond that. He ran a mental slideshow of everything he'd done since he was ten and wondered that he was alive to wonder about it.
Tim had nothing to offer but support and an extra pair of legs and eyes. He and Rachel split up and did the neighborhood again while Mrs. Brooks waited at the house for the Lexington PD. At 4am he was sitting with Rachel and her mom at the kitchen table drinking coffee, not his kid, but a hollow feeling all the same. He told them stories of the crazy and stupid and incredibly dangerous things he'd done at Nick's age and oddly it made them feel better. It gave them an option to the unthinkable.
At 6am he drove back to his apartment, showered and changed for work, arriving early. Art met him at the door.
"Rachel called this morning," he said, ushering Tim into his office. "You're welcome to go back if you want. I can call if something urgent comes up."
"Honestly, Chief, I don't know what else I can do." Tim couldn't get his hands any farther into his pockets, woebegone, tired and discouraged. "But I'm sure he's just…just running, you know?"
Art looked hard at Tim. "No, I don't know."
Tim dragged his hands free and up to his face, hiding it for a moment. "Remind me never to have kids," he mumbled through his fingers.
"I recall saying that once," Art reminisced, "Never say never." He looked at the picture of his family on his desk and said a silent 'thank you'. "Now go get yourself a coffee, you look like you need a pot, then you get back on the Hill case. If Rachel calls, do whatever she asks and fast. I give you permission in advance."
Tim nodded thinking it was good advice, all of it.
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