Jigsaw – Chapter Twenty-Five

"Not your type, huh?"

Tim shrugged at the jab, gingerly. A shrug never looked convincing when you were lying down, and Rachel smirked at him.

"She was trying to get past the guard we have on your door. I got the call when she wouldn't go away. 'Tim's neighbor' says the officer, so I say, 'tattoos, short hair, cute?' and he says 'yep'. I figured you wouldn't mind if she came in."

"Nah, I didn't mind."

"Jo? Short for…?"

"Josephine."

"Cute name. Art told me about her."

"You two gossip like a pair of old women."

Rachel only smiled coyly in response.

Jo had tried, but had no luck convincing the doctors that Tim could come home with her. Eventually she had gone home alone, needing some sleep before work in the morning. She and Rachel had passed in the hallway – Tim could hear them talking – and he knew Rachel wasn't about to let the opportunity slide to tease him, and to gloat a little for being right in her prediction. He had braced himself for it before she had even walked into his room with, "Not your type, huh?" At least it wasn't a blatant I was so right, or I know you better than you even know yourself. Which was true enough – she apparently did know him better than he knew himself, and it pissed him off. He was grumpier about it all than he should have been, but he was stuck in a hospital room again. It might even be the same one. It was the same color.

"Jo." Rachel said her name again and her eyes questioned, wanting some kind of confirmation of her abilities to read people.

Tim pretended not to get the hint for more information about his love life. Instead, he asked for some information about his work life. "So what the fuck happened today? I only got pieces, a bit from Jo, who wasn't even there. The usual cryptic bullshit from Raylan."

Her hand brushed his, and she offered her version of sympathy, and an apology for kicking him, however so gently, when he was down. "Hey, first off, how are you feeling? You look a little…" Rachel grimaced and left off the descriptor.

"Oh, I've been worse off."

"Not often, I'll bet."

"I didn't lose any teeth." The grin he added hurt, his lip swollen.

"It was pretty impressive how much force Heywood Humphrey could get into a handcuffed two-handed punch. I'm amazed your nose isn't broken, or your cheek bones or something. Maybe it was better that he almost knocked you out when he slammed you against the floor. You were more…rubbery." Rachel grimaced again. "Nelson did good," she said, changing the topic.

"Raylan said he shot someone."

"Brian Carvill."

"Brian Carvill? Why is that name fam…?" Something jammed in his brain, and when it finally slid loose, it spit out a series of pictures: three stacked bodies, an interview room at a prison, sitting in the car with Rachel and a list of people to be questioned, before Art was shot, before Jo and a bed, before a series of dead bodies and detached significant digits, a long-barreled Desert Eagle with his name on it, a quick shot and a dead Carvill, but Patrick Carvill, not Brian Carvill. He hadn't met Brian Carvill. "Shit. Their mother should have stopped at two."

"Maybe she should've stopped at none. They're all trouble, or were. Anyway, sorry, for what it's worth. I should've sent somebody else to Big Sandy to question the brother." She waved a hand, looked up and left, remembering. "Darryl Carvill, right? I guess he talked to his brother after, put the idea in his head to come after you. We could try to get him on conspiracy."

"Forget it. He's already in for murder. And, Rachel, this is not your fault. I probably shouldn't have told him it was me that shot Patrick."

"You told him?"

"Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It got the interview going."

"Wait till Art hears about this."

"You wouldn't?!"

The sound that came out of Rachel's mouth was a loud affirmative. "Leslie's desperate for things to keep him amused. I wouldn't deny her."

"Shit. Why me? Can I go home?" Tim tried to look pathetic, but couldn't top how pathetic he already looked.

"No. But I can." She smiled to soften the taunt. "The doctor said no, no, and no. I already asked him because I knew you'd start complaining. I'll make sure someone comes around in the morning to give you a ride."

Tim looked around the room again. He hated hospitals. There was no particular reason he could think of to hate them so much, except the lack of privacy, and, of course, the obvious – you only found yourself in one if something shitty had happened.

Rachel stood up to go.

"Wait," he said. "You haven't told me what happened yet."

"I'll give you a full report tomorrow. I still haven't completely sorted it out myself. I need to talk to Nelson." She patted his shoulder and left.

Tim waited until the door closed then said, "Fuck off," and growled, and then he indulged in some self-pity.

Jo snuck back in early the next day, five in the morning, before work, brought him some clean clothes and a fresh coffee and wiggled her way awkwardly onto the bed with him, trying to figure out which part to hug. He fell back to sleep when she left a half hour later, vanilla and antiseptic, woke again to the sight of Nelson sitting comfortably in a chair in the room. He looked different, tired.

"Hey," said Tim.

"Hey," said Nelson.

"I hear you nailed him – one nice shot, quick and clean and no hesitation."

Nelson nodded, jerky and tense.

"That was your first kill, wasn't it?"

Another nod. "Raylan, um, he took me for a drink and we talked a bit."

"Did it help?"

"Not really…maybe…I dunno."

"It'll be okay. You think it through and you can't figure out how else it could've gone down. And then it's fine."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Hey, thanks. The guy was gunning for me, I was told. If I remember right, the word Raylan used to describe your shot was 'brilliant.'"

"Really?" The clouds parted and Nelson shone through.

"Yep."

Nelson pointed at Tim, then himself, somewhere in the vicinity of his left eye. "Your face looks better today."

"Better? Better than what?"

That produced a smile and a chuckle and they both laughed.

With a little prodding, Tim finally got the details of yesterday's events in some sort of meaningful order from Nelson. It was five minutes of shaky camera action, and Tim suspected the story would be different depending on who was relating it. But however you spun it, it was an interesting chain of actions and reactions. Brian Carvill disarming a security guard and firing off a round in the courthouse main hall, Heywood simultaneously manhandling his handlers and tackling the target of all his rage, Tim, a man in leather and Outlaw colors diving into the melee to help pull Heywood off before he could get through Tim's thick skull and mash his brains into the floor, Nelson reacting in the middle of it and drawing and shooting Carvill, dropping him efficiently and neatly, all these pieces combined and coalesced into a bizarre but undeniable conclusion for Tim, the conclusion that his life had been preserved by the three most unlikely people in the world – Nelson Dunlop, Heywood Humphrey, and Jo's biker gang daddy.

"Well, fuck me," said Tim, after Nelson had finished his account, breathless.

"I don't know who the guy was who pulled Heywood off, but man, he had a killer right fist to be able to take down someone that size with one swing."

"That was Jo's daddy."

"Who's Joe?"

"My girlfriend." There, he'd said it again.

"Joe?"

"Josephine – Jo."

"Oh."

"Where's the doctor? I need to get out of here."

Someone had turned off his phone. Tim didn't notice until he'd been home a few hours. There were three messages waiting. The first was a call from Isabel – she sounded angry, but then again she always sounded angry, a long sentence hammered into a voicemail that could be summarized with two words, 'call me'. The second was from Art, wanting to talk. The third was from his buddy, Ryan – he was bored again and dealing with his frustration by calling Tim and leaving a string of expletives as a message. It was an impressive string, some creative cursing. It cheered Tim up to hear it. He called Ryan first, got his answering service and returned the volley with a short and concise "Fuck you" that he thought was brilliantly played, suited to his sniper training. He dialed Isabel next.

She answered in one ring. "What the hell took you so long to get back to me? I called you yesterday."

"Hey, Isabel. Nice to hear from you, too."

There was a long pause but without the sound of smoke being inhaled, and that wasn't in character.

"Is everything alright?" Tim said, hoping he hadn't gotten her in trouble again.

"I was just about to ask you that. You sound off."

"Uh, pain killers."

"What happened?"

"I got run over by a bull moose."

"In Kentucky?"

"It's a metaphor."

"For what?"

"For a really big and violent asshole."

"Yeah, I got a few of those in my building, so if you attract them naturally, it might be dangerous for you here…and for me."

"Thanks for the heads up. I don't have any plans to go to Virginia in the near future. Uh, did I get you in trouble?"

"No. You sound awful."

She was evading. "Really?"

"Yeah. Nasally."

"Issy, have you got some bad news for me?"

"How did you know?"

It wasn't much of a surprise, Isabel's news. Good girl. Go fetch. And they'd tossed her a bone, her seniors at the bureau. We feel your talents would be appreciated more hunting down connections in relation to the missing daughter of… We'll pass this report on to our Behavioral Sciences Unit. There were multiple cases to get priority over the killing of street dwellers, victims that could be easily ignored for the more politically advantaged. Isabel raged and Tim listened, sympathetic, recognizing the bitterness underneath it all, the sour taste that defined Isabel these days. There was nothing innocent left for her, and she hooked onto any cause that carried that bitter knowledge, that would reinforce for her everything that was wrong in this world. He shouldn't have called her in on it. He should've known better than to rub that wound.

"Hey," said Tim, interrupting her outrage. "Hey, we'll figure it out. We'll work it out. Don't worry."

"How?"

"I don't know. Give me a day to sweat out some serious pain killers and I'll give it some thought. I'm not thinking clearly enough today."

"Are you okay?"

"Just a bit pulpy. I'll live."

"Call me when you're clean."

"Will do."

Will do. Will do what? Tim stared at his phone, feeling a bit down even if he were back home on his couch.

He'd left Art's return call until last, expecting a downpour of sarcasm that he wasn't feeling up to dealing with. But it was Art. He braced himself and dialed.

"You home?"

"Yep."

"I'll come to you. Christ, I need to get out of here."

"I don't mind coming…"

Art had already hung up. Tim walked to the bathroom and had a good look at his face.

The doorbell rang fifteen minutes later and Art was standing on the step with Leslie. She looked apologetic, already retreating guiltily to the car until she saw Tim. She stopped.

"Oh, honey," she said, reaching up and gently putting a hand on his cheek. "You should be more careful. Were you out alone?"

"Leslie, I told you," Art said, snapping. "It happened at the court house."

She looked at her husband like it was his fault that Tim had two black eyes and splits and bruises. "How could it? That place is supposed to be secure."

Art rolled his eyes and waved her off the step. "Go on. Get some time off from me."

A quick squeeze on Tim's shoulder in support, Leslie wagged a finger at Art. "Don't tire him out." Then called out as she left, "I'll be back to pick him up, Tim. You feel free to call him on it if he gets grumpy. Don't put up with it."

Tim smiled as best he could and nodded, "Yes, ma'am." They both stood dumbly and watched her drive off.

"Hey, boss," said Tim, finally acknowledging his presence when Leslie and the car cleared the street. He moved to let Art in. "Has she used the 'D' word yet?"

"Divorce? Not yet. Couldn't blame her though, if she did. I've been a right pain in the ass." Art clomped past Tim and made his way to the kitchen. "You got some bourbon?"

"Pretty sure."

"Pour me a glass."

Anyone else and Tim would've told them to fuck off, but not Art. He went to the cupboard and did what he was told and sat across the table from him.

"Shit, Tim, you look like a Saturday night barbecue, pre-grill."

"Trust me, this is well done." He pointed to his face as he said it.

"I believe it." Art smacked his lips in anticipation and sipped, drank up a bit of his old life then sat back in the chair and eyed his deputy. "Rachel tells me Nelson made the shot – outdrew everyone down there in the hall, and stopped a bad situation getting tragic."

"Apparently he did. I missed it."

"He'll be alright."

"That's what I told him."

"Looks like the extra practice is paying off." Art nodded. "I could only say this to you, and probably Raylan, but I think it'll be good for Nelson moving forward, having this shooting under his belt. I hate to say it though."

"Then don't."

"Okay. I take it back."

"I didn't hear a thing."

"You not drinking?"

Tim stood and got another glass and helped himself, and then Art got into what had brought him over. It wasn't sarcasm or a scolding or even teasing – it was thirty-three years of case work experience, and a month of boredom. Art had set the file down on the table between them when he came in, the file that Tim had left on Art's table the previous week, the crime scene photos and reports, and Tim had assumed Art was returning it, and that's all, an assumption that worked well until Art opened the folder and spread the reports out, layered, not chronologically, as Tim had left them, but by city first and then by date. The reports were paired, two in each location, separated by years, then months, weeks, and days finally as they got closer to the top of the pile, the spread in time shrinking as the murders became more current. Art pointed out the dates, a post-it note attached to each pair with the time between calculated and written out.

"I think you've got two killers, Tim." And then Art explained his reasoning, and Tim listened because it explained a pattern. He listened because it made sense.

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