Jigsaw – Chapter Twenty-One

It took a little coaxing to get Jo out of the truck and up to the front door of Art's house. Tim wouldn't have tried so hard if it were any other day, but picking her up on the side of the road had plunked her squarely in the realm of vulnerable. He couldn't bring himself to leave her alone in the truck, in the rain, bleeding, and still upset.

"I'm soaked and muddy."

"Don't worry about it," said Tim, already past whatever anger had sprayed out inside the truck. "Art's used to it with the job. And Leslie…" He rang the doorbell. "…well, she's the perfect combination of Christian and cool. I think it's almost extinct from the gene pool, that personality type. It took a hit when Jesus was crucified."

"Christian? Shit, Tim, I'll wait in the truck."

She made a move for the driveway but Tim grabbed her arm to stop her just as Leslie Mullen opened the door. Taking it all in, Leslie's expression shifted from surprised to amused, and she laughed, kindly, in expectation of a funny story.

"Hey, Mrs. M. – sorry for dripping on your front step."

"Honestly, Tim, you could be six years old with that grin. What're you doing here? I thought you weren't on the grumpy-old-man entertainment schedule until tomorrow. Though you look like you could be very entertaining tonight. You forget to roll up your window driving here?"

"He had to jump in to rescue me," said Jo, stepping up, a polite and nervous smile, talking too fast. "Good thing he wasn't wearing his armor – it would've rusted."

"Jump in where? Did you fall into Hickman Creek?"

"No, it was a puddle I was drowning in."

"Aw." Leslie patted Tim's cheek, teasing. "That's so gallant. That puddle must've been a deep one by the look of you both. Come on in, you two. Let's get you out of the rain. We might stand a chance then of getting you dried off."

Leslie fussed with just the right amount of humor to put them at ease, threw a towel at Tim and pointed to the TV room and marched Jo upstairs for a hot shower and some dry clothes after watching her shiver. Jo told her tale of woe to Leslie, a more sensitive audience than she'd had in Tim.

"And he didn't stop to see if you were hurt?"

"No. I'm not sure he even noticed he hit me, except it made enough noise. My poor bike, scraping along the side of his car – I mean, he must've heard."

Tim was listening, stopped on his way down the hall to call up after them. "Jo, do you remember what color the car was? Which cab company? Anything?"

"I said no, didn't I? I told you, I was too busy being almost killed!"

Tim recalled times being 'almost killed', and he remembered details – who was on the line with him that mission, what weapons were being fired at him by how many enemy, the name of the village, the entrances and exits to the house, whether there was a moon or not – but he nodded because she was hopeless, said, "I guarantee that fucker knew he hit someone."

Leslie scolded. "Tim, not in my house."

"Sorry."

"Not that I don't agree, but there's got to be a better way to say it. Use a little imagination."

Tim tried, but his imagination couldn't come up with anything that could be said in Leslie's house. He ran the towel roughly over his wet hair and walked back to see Art.

"It's raining, okay? And hard." He answered the sarcasm before Art could get it out.

"Did Leslie go upstairs?"

"Yeah. She's finding some dry…"

"Quick, get two beers. She won't get mad at you if you say you got them. She likes you. I can't figure out why. Maybe she's disappointed we never had a son and it's showing as desperation?"

"Chief, I am not getting in trouble with her. She fucking scares me way more than you do."

"Get two cans, now! There's some in the fridge."

Tim shook his head slowly, eyes wide open. "Uh-uh."

"Dammit, Tim! I'm ordering you!"

"You're not the boss of me. Rachel is. And Leslie is like…the fucking emperor or something – Darth Ma."

"You're pathetic."

"It's my highly honed survival instincts. They've kept me alive until now. I don't relish the idea of dying at the hands of Leslie Mullen. And I don't want to have to pull a gun on her, either. I like her."

"Thank you, Tim." Leslie had snuck up behind him, patted him on the back. "Can I get you a beer?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"She's a sweet girl, your Jo."

"Sweet?"

"I can't believe that driver didn't stop. You should report him."

"How? She doesn't remember anything to identify him."

She reappeared with a Bud for Tim and diet soda for Art who managed to look grateful then she disappeared back upstairs.

"So when are you coming back to work?" asked Tim.

"I don't know. I'm moving around better. Doesn't hurt so much. It's driving me crazy being home all day. What am I gonna do when I retire?"

Tim didn't reply. The question was clearly rhetorical, and if it weren't, then it was dangerous territory to tread.

Art answered himself. "Maybe I'll write a book. I could tell some pretty good stories about working with Raylan – maybe sell the rights for a movie or a TV series. Like you with that book you're writing, the one set in Iraq."

Tim smiled for the joke – Art brought it up any chance he got, finding the idea of Tim writing more than six sentences together in one go worthy of a chuckle every single time.

He chuckled.

"You could put an IED in it," said Tim, slurping his beer loudly in retaliation for being the brunt of the joke.

"Yes, I could. Firsthand experience, even. Think about the stories you could write about your time in combat."

"Not happening. There's only so many ways to describe nighttime in Afghanistan…and rocks. It'd be a boring story."

"Somehow, I think not."

"Maybe."

"Why are you here, Tim? Did Leslie call for a babysitter?"

"Nope, I, um… I promised I'd keep you up-to-date on that Atlanta thing."

"It's a thing now, is it?"

"Yep. It's a thing. I had my friend at the FBI do her database magic. She turned up two dozen more bodies, all the same pattern. And before you say it, it's not a coincidence."

Tim had brought the folder in with him. He moved over to a chair next to Art and started handing him crime scene photos. After thirteen, Art tossed the pile back onto Tim's lap and sank tiredly into the cushions piled behind him, brought his hands up to cover his face. Leslie walked through again with a bundle of wet clothes, took one look at her husband, then Tim, then kept walking.

"Couldn't leave it alone, could you?" said Art.

Tim could hear a washing machine starting then Leslie walked through a third time, studiously ignoring them, on upstairs. The sound of her voice and Jo's sifted down and stirred in with the silence from Art's question, which seemed rhetorical too, and not worth answering. Tim shuffled the pictures into a pile and thought about dinner, suddenly hungry. Then he thought about Jo, soft and clean, warm skin, a scent of vanilla. Vanilla. He wasn't sure he would even recognize vanilla if he smelled it, but that's what came to mind when he thought of pulling Jo's shirt up over her head and bringing his face to her skin where the softness started below her collarbone. He put the horror show back under its cover and dropped it onto a side table and took his seat again across the room from Art.

He was still thinking of vanilla, or maybe he could smell it, and he wondered if it had been carried into the room in the bundle of Jo's wet clothes. "You know anyone at the Attorney's office who might kick at this?"

"Multiple murders in multiple jurisdictions – Tim, that's the feebs' purview, and you know it. Your friend's gonna have to push this one with her people."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, grimaced. "So, you don't know…?"

"I don't know anyone who wouldn't tell you to do what I'm just about to tell you to do – pass it along to the feds. They have the resources for this kind of shit."

"Alright."

"Is your friend okay? Have you heard from him?"

"I haven't been able to reach him. But I'm not too worried about him, to be honest. The guy was SOG in Vietnam. He's pretty capable, even when he's loopy."

Art looked up and smiled when Leslie appeared again, Jo in tow. "Art, this is Josephine Emmery. She's a friend of Tim's."

An odd look came over Tim's face. "Emmery? Is that your last name?"

Jo ignored him and walked over to shake Art's hand. "Just Jo is fine," she said, kicked Tim's foot on the way past.

"Nice to meet you, Jo," said Art, big bear smile, warm and friendly. "Did I overhear that Tim had to dive into a puddle to save you?"

"It was a big puddle." Jo stretched her arms wide and the shirt Leslie had scrounged for her out of her closet, a little short, pulled up toward her elbows and revealed a string of tattoos around both wrists and continuing up one arm. Her easy smile had settled back on her face and she accepted with enthusiasm the beer that Leslie suggested, plunked herself down beside Tim on the couch across from Art.

Leslie walked wide of her husband with a beer for Jo, handed it to her and said, "Don't feed the bear," pointed at Art. Then she put a hand on her hip and directed her attention to Tim. "Did I hear you say SOG? Are they dragging you around the country again? I don't understand why they don't keep deputies on full-time – I mean, seriously. It interrupts your work too much when they pull you out whenever and wherever."

Art answered for Tim. "That'd be too practical. This is the federal government we're talking about."

"It's crazy."

Tim cut in. "I don't mind it. But I was talking about a different SOG. I have a friend who was Special Forces in Vietnam, all that clandestine hush-hush stuff they did in Laos and Cambodia. He wouldn't even talk to me about it until I showed him the book that guy wrote. It's all out there now. Anyway, took some convincing, but he believed me finally that it wasn't top-secret anymore." Tim worked his fingers around his beer can, a quick glance at Jo, then Art – he settled on Leslie. "He's got some interesting stories."

"I'll bet."

"Nothing I'd repeat at a dinner table."

"Well, what are we going to talk about then?" That was Leslie's invitation to stay.

"Uh…"

"We can talk about my poor wrecked bike. Maybe a moment of silence for it would be appropriate?" That was Jo accepting for them.

"She seems like a nice girl, better conversation than you."

Tim walked behind Art to the door while Jo went with Leslie to collect her laundered and dried clothes. Art was moving, but slowly, stiffly, tense, and Tim imagined the pain that went with each step. It struck him again that Art might take his retirement a few months early, never come back to the office except to say goodbye, and who could fault him for wanting that? Certainly not the higher ups in DC, and not anyone that knew him on the job. The position of bureau chief was supposed to be mostly administrative, but that didn't stop shit from happening.

Art stopped in the front hall, leaned heavily on the stair bannister. "Where'd you meet her?"

"She's my neighbor. Her dad's an Outlaw." Tim made a face. "Is that a problem?"

"Is she an Outlaw?"

"No. At least, I haven't seen her on any bike but the pedal kind – it's the one that's now a pretzel in the back of my truck."

"Well, then, no problem. And anyway, I like her. She's got more tattoos than you. Feel a bit insecure about that?"

"You haven't seen all mine." Tim tugged at his shirt, untucking it from his pants.

"Stop right there," said Art, one arm out waving, the other covering his eyes, "and leave me with my illusions that you're clean cut and boring and conservative. I don't need to see your tattoos. I'll just take your word for it."

"But I got a couple nice ones."

"No, no, no."

Art called some advice from the door as they ran through the rain to the truck. "Tim, you might want to call over to Lexington PD, traffic. See if there've been any complaints against the cab companies. Maybe the fare called it in."

Tim signaled he'd heard.

When the truck doors were closed, Jo said, "Why do I feel like I just had the dinner-with-the-parents date?"

"They're not my parents," said Tim. "No swearing, no yelling, no taboo subjects, the food was too good, the TV wasn't on, and I didn't have this desperate desire to be somewhere else. And I was the only one drinking."

"I had a beer."

"Other than you."

"My daddy would never let us watch TV during dinner, and he's a good cook."

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Author's Note: Sorry folks, this is shaping up to be a long story. Strap in.