An Insane World – Chapter Twenty-Nine

The next morning, Tim appears at the door to Alex's office for his ten o'clock session.

"Hey, Tim."

"Hey." Tim shuffles in, sits in his usual chair.

Alex is sober now and practical. "How did you get out?"

Tim pauses before he answers. "I'm not sure I want to tell you. I was going to make some money selling my secrets to the other inmates."

"One of the maintenance staff was, uh...cleaning gum off the magnetic locks on the east doors this morning."

"Huh. Really." Tim feigns innocence.

"Were you going to come back?"

Tim cocks his head. "I put the gum there so I could sneak back in."

Alex blinks. "Oh. But then, how did you get out?"

"You know, one of the skills you pick up in the military is how to get shit done. Now, it's not explicity offered in a course, it's just something you learn as you go, kinda necessity. You lie, cheat, bribe, sneak, get creative, sticky tape and bubble gum – whatever it takes to follow orders, no matter how ridiculously impossible they seem. You just get it done. Nobody cares how as long as you don't get caught doing anything you shouldn't be doing."

"Lucky for you Bridget was with me last night or I might've dragged you up in front of a court martial."

"Oh now, it's a smart officer who appreciates a little entrepreneurial spirit, a little ingenuity."

"Where'd you get the gum?"

"I'm no snitch."

Alex nods. "Okay, fine, be like that. So, uh...what were you hoping to accomplish, going to a bar in a sleet storm?"

"I was just obeying orders."

Alex pauses. "Whose orders?"

Tim grins, taps his head. "I get orders all the time. The military planted a chip. They make me do things."

"That's not funny."

Tim drops the grin. "Yeah, it is. So, you wanna talk about my dad or yours?"

Alex picks up the grin. "You first. If we run out of time, I'll talk about my dad with Bridget."

"Fair enough."


"I think this is about the dumbest place you could choose to hide out – in a bar. You must've known it'd be the first place we'd look."

Tim glances up, caught, but it doesn't stop him from downing the last of the liquid in his glass, licking the remains off his lips, and he doesn't look guilty about it.

"If I wanted to hide, Art, I'd be in a church. I'm not hiding. I'm drinking."

"Yeah, I can see that." Art signals the bartender for another round, pulls out a chair and sits and eyes his deputy. "What're you doing?"

"Is this a trick question?"

Art stares back blankly, sucks all the hot air out of Tim's reply.

"The hospital's frantic, Tim. They reminded me, when they called for my help finding you, that you have rather extensive and intimate knowledge of firearms. Like I needed reminding."

"That sounds erotic."

"It does, doesn't it? Kinda Freudian. Though, they may not have said it exactly like that. They may have said that they were concerned about suicidal thoughts and wondered if you had any guns at your apartment."

"They? You mean Alex?"

"Dr. Sullivan."

"He called you?"

"Suicidal thoughts?"

"He's over-reacting. I don't have any suicidal thoughts. Murderous, maybe…"

"Tim…"

Tim's chest constricts, sudden, tight. "Why do I have to keep doing this? I'm fine – I'm over it. I want to get back to work."

"Oh, sure – you're so over it, and that's why you're here drinking."

Two glasses appear on the table, the server's hands fast and neat and eager to get away from the tone and the looks of these two customers. Art stops the man's escape by waving some cash at him.

"We'll be settling up now. This is our last."

"Alright," the voice attached to the hands says, "I'll bring you your change."

Neither Marshal even glances at the face, too busy staring each other down, locked in their war of intentions.

"I'm done with the hospital, Art. I'm done."

"Then, Tim, I'm sorry to tell you but you're done with the Marshals Service too."

The expression from Tim is as honest an emotion as Art's seen from him – it's desperate, pleading – but Art has others to think about. He has to look at the big picture, he has to be firm.

"There's no going back now, do you understand? It's forward or sideways. And I don't think you want sideways, 'cause the way I see that path ending is you working some shitty job to pay for your drinking and then eventually that gets in the way of that too, and then what?" Art lets it sink in, watches Tim sink a little in his chair. "Deal with this, Tim, once and for all, and then come back to work. You're valuable to me – you're more than a warm body filling a seat in the bullpen, more than the rifle with your name on it. What is it you military boys say? You're more than a pair of boots on the ground. I want you back at your desk. How can I help?"

"Tell them I'm okay. Tell them I can…"

"No. I not gonna lie for you. You're not okay."

"I can't do this."

"Yes, you can. Jesus Christ, Tim, you've done shit way harder than this."

"No, I haven't."

Art drops his head, stares at the bourbon, slides Tim's glass a little closer to him and picks up his own. "Okay, you're probably right. But are you really saying you haven't got the guts to do this thing? I think you do – I know you do – so get on it. You're a little smart-mouthed, tough-ass, piece-of-shit, and the best goddamned marksmen I've ever had the pleasure of working with. I know you can do this, so do it, dammit. I'll make sure there's a promotion at the end of it."

"I don't care about a promotion. I just want my job back, Art. I just want my life back."

"Well, it's waiting for you, but you're not going to get it this way. Now, drink up and let me take you back to the hospital. That doctor of yours is in a panic. He confessed that it's the third time you've snuck out on him. Here's to putting one over on the guy who's trying to help you. Whoopee. That's really clever." Art holds up his glass and waits for Tim to pick up his.

The sarcasm is a little easier to swallow with a bourbon chaser and Tim lifts the glass to his lips but then he pauses.

"What?" Art hesitates too.

"Tell me to buck up."

"What?"

"You wanna help? Tell me to buck up."

"Alright, asshole – buck up."

They each down their ounce and half in one go and grimace together then Art stands up, sorts through the change to leave a tip, takes Tim by the arm and pulls him like a dead weight out of his chair and walks him to his car. There's not a word spoken until they pull up to the hospital. Alex is waiting by the entrance – he looks cold even in a jacket, shuffling back and forth.

"He wants a cigarette," says Tim dully. "You can tell."

Art peers out the window. "Reminds me a bit of you waiting on happy hour."

"I don't drink all the time."

"Enough of the time."

Tim can't look at Art now – he's pulled the sleeve of his hoodie out from the jacket cuff and is fidgeting with the loose thread. In the car, there's only the sound of a few long breaths, a building of courage. Art lets it hang a bit but eventually he has to push.

"The only way forward is to get out of this car."

Tim glances quickly over, brief eye contact, then shoulders open the door and gets out, shuts it behind him without another word, head down, and walks over to Alex.


It's freezing and Alex has been waiting outside the main entrance of the hospital for almost half an hour when the car finally shows up. He stuffs his icy hands in his pockets. They feel empty without a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, the skin on the inside of his middle and forefinger itching. He hates waiting without a smoke for company. He watches as Tim gets out and walks over, dragging his feet, a little slouched. There's a sudden stab of conflicting emotions, just below Alex's ribcage, crushing into each other in a seething mess of frustration. Anger, relief, sadness, fear.

Tim isn't looking at him.

Alex keeps his hands tucked into his pockets and nods toward the entrance when Tim finally does look up, and they head inside, up the stairs. There's a part of him that just wants to take Tim back to the ward, to his room with the familiarity of the scene as a crutch, and then leave this place and go home and get a good night's sleep and come back to it rested. It'd be easier in the short term – hoping to find a new thread to pull tomorrow, hoping Tim won't run again. He keeps to the path he decided on earlier though, turns right instead of left, to the hall with the offices.

"You're going the wrong way, Sigmund." Tim tests the tension first.

"No, we're going to my office."

"Ah, c'mon, man. It's a little late for a session now. I'm fucking bagged."

Alex doesn't reply. He continues down the hall, stops at his office, unlocks the door and steps to his desk. He doesn't turn the ceiling light on, turns the switch on a small work lamp instead.

"You're mad. I get it," Tim says, leaning against the door frame and watching.

Alex gathers up some documents and staples them together. He filled out the paperwork earlier but it's not signed yet. He holds it up.

"Your release form."

Tim stares, a bit of lightness in his voice when he reaches for the papers. "Just like that? You're shitting me, right?"

Alex doesn't relinquish them yet. "This will get you out of the hospital and back to your apartment, but it won't get you back to work." Alex clears his throat, tries to keep his tone level. "It's obvious that I can't keep you here and I, uh…I'm not going to try."

"What d'you mean it won't get me back to work?"

"I'm not signing off that you're okay, Tim. I can't. I can sign you out though. It's what you want, right?"

It's a punch. It's supposed to be.

"That's bullshit." There's bewilderment in the word.

"Bullshit? Can you honestly tell me that you're all right to go back to work? You're…" Alex stops. "You're not going to get past this, not with your attitude."

"I'm fucking here now, aren't I? I didn't have to come back. I'm not in cuffs or anything."

"Yeah, but why are you back? Because of your boss?"

"Fuck you, Alex. You're supposed to be helping me. What the fuck am I supposed to do if I go home now?"

"I don't know. That's your call, Tim."

"None of this has ever been my call. Do you get that? Or do you even give a shit?"

"Yes, I give a shit!" Alex is yelling before he can rein himself in. Not caring is the least of his goddamn problems, he thinks, and fuck if Tim hasn't managed to find that weakness and exploit it. Alex knows he should have seen it coming; he should've been prepared and distanced. He snaps his mouth shut, takes a deep breath and holds it, and when he speaks again his voice is steady. "It's my job to help you – not chase you around bars. It's my job to help you," he repeats. "I can't do anything but help. So I'm helping you get out, because that's all I can do. Clearly you don't want to be here, and if you don't, then at this point, there's just no point to any of it." He grabs a pen, signs, stuffs the papers in Tim's hand.

There's a noise outside the room, beyond the door. Tim turns, startled, sees a nurse coming up the corridor.

Alex slips past, careful to avoid touching Tim, memories of a bar and a bloodied nose making him cautious at this moment. "The nurse will help you get your things and see you out." He doesn't hesitate, walks down the hall and out.


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