Jo knew she was being habitually self-destructive, she bore no illusions otherwise. She'd long ago figured it was easier to pull the pin and implode a situation from the inside, rather than afford others the opportunity to get the jump on you. Sure, it wasn't the most productive way of living. Masochism, some would call it, but there's consistency and comfort in knowing you've got full control of a situation, especially its destruction.
Raylan had said his farewells to Arlo, or whatever constituted a goodbye given their stunted father-son relationship. He wasn't there when Arlo passed, but he circled back around to pick Jo up once he'd received the call. They drove to Lexington in silence, discussing none of the relationships the unfortunate day had claimed as its victims.
Her home was empty when she arrived; Jo held no delusion it would be otherwise. The key she'd gifted Tim sat dead center on her coffee table. The overhead lighting bounced off the grooved metal, its shine taunting her. The few items he'd left at her place were gone too. His clothes no longer hung in the closet. His bag of toiletries was absent from the bathroom. He'd wasted no time in making good on his promise, and Jo wasn't certain how she felt about it. Mostly apathetic, probably, in all honesty. Her mind swirled like a tornado, with countless conundrums spinning endlessly. The least concerning was her disintegrated relationship with the blonde Marshal. At least, that's what she willed herself to believe.
Jo packed up enough belongings to last the week and headed back down to Harlan. She rescheduled her many appointments and court hearings along the way. She'd spend the next few days planning Arlo's funeral, laying his body to rest next to Francis'. Now, the only headstone that sat without a body beneath it was Raylan's, for now.
Jo kept herself busy in the following days, fixing up the Givens' home, effectively distracting herself from all other issues that loomed. There was a dark cloud undoubtedly creeping towards her, but if she staunchly negated its existence, she could continue to pretend that everything was normal.
She was boxing up Arlo's old clothes, preparing to drop them at the nearest Goodwill, when Raylan called. "What's up?" Jo asked, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder, her hands working on folding one of the dead man's shirts.
"Please tell me you're back in Lexington," Raylan's voice called through the line. He sounded agitated, which had Jo dropping the faded fabric in favor of cradling the phone in her hand. He had her complete attention.
Her answer was hesitant. "No, I'm still at the house. I told you I was gonna try and clean up the place." Apparently, this was not the answer he'd been hoping for because he grumbled audibly into the phone.
"Alright, just stay put," he demanded before hanging up on her.
Whatever shitstorm Jo had been expecting to blow through their front door, it wasn't all of the Marshal's service with half the staties in tow. Guess her troubles had come due and then some. "What's with all the theatrics?" Jo asked as Art Mullen lumbered through the screen door. Raylan trailed behind him, dragging Shelby along by the arm.
"They're here for him," Raylan griped, his head tilting to indicate the handcuffed man beside him. "Drew Thompson."
Jo was rather impressed. The county sheriff had been the notorious fugitive eluding them all this time, hidden right in plain sight. "So, not your helicopter then," she observed, the blades whirling loudly overhead. An eye roll was all she received for confirmation.
The house bustled with officers and deputies trying to decipher a way out of this mess. Art was speaking with Lexington Air Ops, intending to get an air evacuation ready. Though, given that Tonin had his own copter loitering, Jo wasn't exactly sure how that would work. There was real potential for a chase through the skies of Harlan County. Tim was posted in the yard, rifle poised to shoot down the hovering machine if need be. Thankfully, he was outside, so they could delay that awkward encounter for a little longer.
"Our guys are with LPD Air Ops fueling the helicopter. It'll be wheels up in fifteen minutes, another thirty minutes of flight time," Art informed the room. That gave them an awfully long time to be nothing more than sitting ducks in their childhood home.
Raylan appeared to have the same thought. "We can't sit here for another hour," he argued.
"Thirty plus fifteen is forty-five," Art countered from his spot leaning across the kitchen bar window. He was doing that eyebrow thing, which said he didn't have much hope.
"The better part of an hour," Raylan conceded. "We don't know how many men Tonin's sent. You want the Battle of Bloody Porch?" It was a fair question. If Tonin's crew rolled up, they'd be in some dire straits, and Jo's unexpected presence only made matters worse.
Rachel abandoned her spot at the window where she'd been surveying the landscape for any impending threats. "The what?" She questioned, confused.
"The Wild Bunch," Art clarified. Yeah, that reference was a little before their time.
"Art, we got to move, and we got to move soon," Raylan pressed. He was growing antsy while they laid in wait for their opponent to make the first move. Being a bump on a log had never suited him anyway.
Art reiterated, "KSP's not ready," as another officer joined them inside.
"Got six units headed inbound. They'll meet us over the pass. Once we get to the highway, we can have those units leapfrog, shut down the on-ramps. Go 80, 85, should make it to Lexington in two hours," he notified. Two hours was a good deal longer than forty-five minutes and carried more considerable variables.
Jo voiced this concern shared by the room's occupants. "Yeah, but with Tonin's men following you, how many obstacles are gonna be thrown up in your way?" They all exchanged weary glances. Each option possessed its own pitfalls. They'd just have to choose the lesser of all evils and make do.
Raylan devised a plan to split up. Half would drive in a decoy through the pass; another would head to the secondary location where they could wait, unhindered, for Air Ops.
He pulled Jo aside while everyone else set about putting their plan into action. "You can't stay here," Raylan remarked. With everyone disbanding, she'd be an easy target if left unprotected at Arlo's house.
"I'll come with you then," Jo suggested, knowing the only remaining alternative was less than desirable.
His head shook in disagreement. "No. Drew Thompson is who they're after, and they won't hesitate in shooting either one of us in getting to him."
Jo's face fell into a stern frown. "Raylan, that's not a good idea," she said, already guessing at his preferred option. Now was not the ideal time nor circumstance to awake those particular demons.
"You'll be safest with the convoy, and I trust Art and Tim won't let anything happen to you." Yeah, maybe that was true for the former, but not for the latter, not anymore. It didn't seem she had much choice in the matter, however, because she was quickly being loaded into the back of Tim's SUV against her will.
Jo caught the driver subtly peeking at her through the rearview mirror, but once their eyes met, he swiftly averted his. "Keep your head down," Tim snipped and pulled out of the drive.
Heading through the pass, everyone was tensely mute and alert. KSP led, the tow truck followed, Tim's SUV came third, and bringing up the rear was Dunlop in Raylan's town car, wearing his infamous cowboy hat.
The vehicles were cruising along, when Tim suddenly slammed on the breaks and laid on the horn, instantly halting their motorcade. Jo's seatbelt strained painfully across her chest while being flung forward as their momentum came to an immediate standstill.
She and Art stared at him, baffled. "What the hell? What are you doing?" Art expressed in bewilderment. His hands clung to the dashboard, where he'd extended his arms to brace himself.
"It's not right," Tim announced, his eyes scrutinizing their surroundings carefully.
Well, that didn't give much in the way of an explanation. It just looked like a desolate stretch of road to both Jo and Art. "What's not right?" The Chief inquired.
"One abandoned car beside the road is no big deal, but two so close together? That's weird," Tim stated, pupils' searching the tops of their encompassing landscape.
Jo and Art spoke in unison. "Weird how?" She wondered. "That's Kentucky," he submitted skeptically. Clearly, they weren't seeing whatever it was Tim was seeing.
Unsurprisingly, he chose to acknowledge Art's statement, and not her question. "How about a third?" Tim pointed towards another abandoned vehicle ahead.
It could be considered unusual, but deserted automobiles weren't an entirely unheard-of phenomenon, especially in Kentucky. "What're you thinking, IEDs?" Art tried to follow his course of concern.
Tim's face was grim when he assured, "I'm not thinking confetti cannons." His incertitude could be chalked up to either experience or paranoia, but no one could say with certainty which was winning out in that moment.
Art readjusted uncomfortably in the passenger's seat, appraising his anxious deputy. "Are you sure about this?" He asked, still not entirely sold on the notion. It would take planning and forewarning to stage explosives on their route, and they'd been pretty tight-lipped with their escape plans.
"For all I know, I'm just having a full-blown PTSD episode," Tim confessed. There was still so much Jo didn't know about him, and that was currently being illuminated with stark clarity.
Art was cautious with his next question, not wanting to push too hard, or have him reveal too much given their precarious position. "You get those a lot?"
"Only when I'm handling firearms in public," Tim admitted. An underlying truth was held beneath the admission. His PTSD episodes happened with consistent frequency, given their occupation.
The radio sounded, interrupting their exchange, and Dunlop's voice buzzed through the line. "What are we doing, guys?"
Tim lifted the device to his lips and curtly instructed, "pull up behind us, and stay off the goddamn radio." Art's neck turned to look behind them, where Dunlop restlessly sat, impersonating Raylan.
"We got binoculars in here?" Jo asked unexpectedly. The two men pivoted to stare at her in puzzlement. "Would they set this up and leave, or sit and watch?" She aided in their understanding, her eyes bouncing between Art and Tim.
"They'd wait," Tim responded begrudgingly. He wasn't thrilled Jo was tagging along to begin with, but now there were potentially explosives in play, and he'd just admitted to experiencing flashbacks. The fragility of their situation already made this excursion downright intolerable.
"Exactly, so give me some binoculars, and I'll look while you two figure something out," she concluded while presenting an open palm. Unlatching the glove compartment, Tim wordlessly rifled around for what she'd asked for. Withdrawing the item, he passed it along to the backseat. Their fingers briefly met as Jo took possession of the binoculars, and the contact burned, causing them both to retract their hands at once. Mere days ago, they couldn't keep their extremities to themselves. Now, they were like magnets with shared poles, repelling one another.
While this cringeworthy brush was taking place, Art put a call into Raylan, informing him of their predicament. "Raylan, we've stopped down. Tim's feeling a setup," he announced. The conversation continued, though they were only privy to the one side. "It could be. I think you should peel off right now. Go to the alt."
Nodding his head along with Raylan's assumed assertion, Art hung up the phone and turned back to the pair. "Well, what do we do? We go back?" He wondered aloud.
"Not if the car behind us is filled with high explosives," Tim countered, throwing his hand up in emphasis. They were damned if they pulled forward and equally damned if they tried to reverse.
Art pressed his certainty, "and you think it is?" It wasn't that he didn't explicitly trust his deputy's instincts, but if Tim was right, they were in a world of trouble.
"I think so," Tim assured him. Jo was more disquieted by his steely demeanor and potential for psychological relapse, than the possibility of car bombs.
"How could they pull this off?" Art asked, perturbed. It would have been a mighty good guess if their adversaries knew the Marshals were planning to head down the pass before they'd made the decision themselves.
Tim pulled out his cellphone and began searching through the contacts. "Boyd has an Iraq and Afghan veteran in his crew. Colton Rhodes. Ex-M.P., drummed out for drugs," he relayed casually.
"And you have his number?" Art showed his shock as Tim pressed the phone to his ear.
"Our paths have crossed," he explained simply, with raised eyebrows and his mouth set in a firm line.
Jo continued to scour the countryside throughout the discussion taking place in the front of the vehicle. She was utterly useless in this scenario. A burden, truly. She'd run to Arlo's with the intention of escaping the Marshals, albeit temporarily. The irony that, in doing so, she'd inadvertently placed herself directly in their path, wasn't lost on her. Karma really was a bitch, and she'd come back with a vengeance to exact her revenge on Jo for acting foolish.
They waited while the line rang, the sound echoing through the silent cab. The helicopter still hovering overhead, providing consistent white noise. "Hello, Bagram," Tim drawled when the call was answered. Art instructed him to switch over to speakerphone, so they could be enlightened to both sides of the conversation. "Am I right in saying that you were in the sandbox before Afghanistan?"
"I am a double winner," proclaimed the voice on the other end, Colton Rhodes. "Is that why you called, to ask me that?"
Despite their perilous position, Tim couldn't contain his smart mouth. "Oh, why? You busy?"
"I am in the middle of something." Even if Colton's tone wasn't suspicious enough, the same chirping of the helicopter blades could be heard through the speaker, indicating he was still close by.
This detail didn't go unnoticed by either Tim or Art. The former continued on with the spurious phone call. "All right, I'll make it quick. I'm writing a book set in Iraq. There's a chapter where a convoy of military police is transporting a criminal, and Lieutenant Dan, he's our main guy, he gets a bad feeling-"
Tim was interrupted in the course of his outlandish storyline description. "Forrest Gump. There's a Lieutenant Dan in Forrest Gump," Colton commented, further wasting their already precious time.
"Oh, shit. You're right. I'll change it. Lieutenant Colt." It was comforting to know Tim's smartass tendencies weren't exclusively reserved for close friends and coworkers. His biting wit couldn't even take a break when their lives hung in the balance.
The challenge in his words was clear. Both Tim and Colt knew precisely where the other was in that moment and what thinly concealed question their conversation was alluding to. "I would like a young Gerard Depardieu to play me in the movie. I'm honored," Colt mocked through the line.
"Well, you should be. He's a big guy, real badass, or he was. He's kind of losing his grip. When we meet him, he's lost someone. He started using dope that he confiscated," Tim taunted in return, effectively getting a rise from the fellow veteran.
Colton didn't take the implied slight in stride. "Yeah, but then we find out that he's kicked again. And anyone who thinks he's in any way diminished is in for a big surprise," he tried to defend the previous offense to his temperament and habit.
Tim relentlessly riled up the man on the other end strategically. "Yeah, but he's the kind of character might say he's kicked, but we all know he's just one broken shoelace away from saying 'screw it' and picking up again." The assumption had Jo contemplating what he really thought of her disposition but had been too polite to relay. Was she continually teetering on the edge of a broken shoelace type breakdown?
The insult forcibly landed, and Colton's inflection became clipped. "How about you have him go into a bar and pick a fight with some Rangers, and he sends a couple of them to the hospital?"
"It's not a fantasy," Tim droned sarcastically. "Anyway, he gets a bad feeling when they pass an abandoned vehicle, sees a second and a third, so he's thinking IEDs triggered by cell. You ever come across anything like that?" Now, they were finally reaching the meat of the matter.
"Me, personally? No, but I did hear about this one convoy, couple of Frankensteins and a gun truck on Highway 10. So, the spotter, he calls a halt between the first two cars. Thinking the hajis will blow the second if it moves forward, and the first if it tries to go back." If there was any residual doubt about their current predicament, it had been obliterated with that statement. Tim's intuition had been spot on.
"Well, how'd they get out of it?" He questioned gingerly. Of course, a solution couldn't be reached by simply asking, but maybe they could glean some insight into how to escape this dilemma.
Colt's timber was light when he answered, the false levity ridiculing their dubious situation further. "Yeah, they didn't. Because they were too afraid to move, they just sat there in their vehicles. Pissing and shitting in their helmets, too afraid to toss it out the windows on account of possible snipers. Then they ran out of food. They started eating each other till there was only one left, and he blew his brains out. Do you want to know the sad part?"
"Oh, there's a sad part?" Tim asked in feigned sorrow.
"Yeah. Because they were so afraid to move, they never found out whether or not the cars had explosives. So basically, they all died from being pussies," and the line went dead.
Jo chuckled from the backseat, the binoculars still pressed against her eyes. "I believe he just called you pussies," she observed humorously, though it probably wasn't the appropriate occasion for such jokes.
Neither man gave her comment any credence. "And now?" Art questioned, peering out the back window. They'd been stopped for far too long, and he was growing apprehensive from the prospect that they may have visitors joining them shortly.
Tim set the phone aside and straightened himself in the driver's seat. "Well, the good news is I'm not flashing back. But now they're gonna try to make us move." That had to mean bullets would be raining down upon them momentarily.
"So, what do we do?" Art inquired.
Tim's answer was succinct. "Move." Tires screeched as their SUV pulled up alongside the tow truck. Raylan's town car blocked the front and the KSP patrol car reversed at the rear. They'd circled the wagons.
Art scrambled out of the vehicle first, and propped his pistol up on the hood, scanning their environment for threats. Tim grabbed his rifle and made a move to exit the same, but Jo held him back. "I've got them up there on the ridge," she pointed in the indicated direction. "Colt and a sniper, hiding in the trees. If you take them out, is our problem solved?"
Tim lingered in his seat, hand stilled on the door handle, exclusively giving Jo his attention for the first time that day. Actually, it was the first time they'd been alone since the prison infirmary, and the air between them sat heavy with the knowledge. "Probably not. We'd still have to deal with the IEDs," he admitted. Then, Tim sucked in a harsh breath through his nose, as though bracing himself. "You need to stay inside the car, Jo. I mean it this time." His voice held an air of authority, and his stare was unwavering. Clearly, he expected her to argue because she'd shown an unrelenting habit of being defiant.
However, her head gradually bobbed in agreement. "I know. Timeout on everything else, I'm really not trying to fuck this up for y'all," Jo aimed to reassure. Now wasn't the time for distractions or hindering resentments, they needed to get out of this quandary and go aid Raylan.
"Timeout on everything else," he nodded, then swiftly evacuated the vehicle and stationed himself, rifle at the ready, on the tow truck.
By now, Raylan, Rachel, and Drew would have arrived at the alternative location, Evarts High School. Yet, the cavalcade was squandering so much precious time stalled on the pass. Jo couldn't hear the dialogue taking place outside the automobile; she could only watch the men fumble about. Tim expertly shot the gas tank of the closest abandoned vehicle. The petrol began to pour out of the bullet holes steadily. They intended to explode it themselves before it could be ignited on them.
The rear door opened, and Tim's head popped inside. "You got a lighter?" He asked, but Jo merely shook her head to the contrary. He huffed in agitation when her response was negative. "We're going to blow the car, so don't be surprised," he informed, before slamming the door shut. Once again, Jo was left unattended, with nothing but her own thoughts to keep her company.
Art was on his cellphone again, presumably conversing with Raylan. The helicopter, which had been incessantly skulking about the entire time, unexpectedly veered off in his direction. The convoy was left alone, without the ceaseless trill of rotating blades, for the first time. Tim was kneeled to the ground, working to fill a beer bottle with gasoline, plugging the neck with an old rag. That explained why he needed a lighter, for the Molotov cocktail he was building. However, it seemed no one had a convenient means of producing fire because he resorted to using a car battery and jumper cables to create a spark. The MacGyver look was kind of hot, Jo had to admit.
Once the rag was lit, Art and Tim momentarily squabbled over who would throw the flaming bottle. Art finally made the decision and chunked the burning glass at the still leaking car.
For a moment, the fire grew, licking at the dried brush along the highway, but nothing spectacular happened. Then, suddenly, a massive explosion blew, throwing a fireball high into the air as pieces of metal were violently flung about. All the officers and deputies quickly scrambled back to their vehicles, pulling off the shoulder, and heading back in the direction from whence they came. Speeding towards Raylan and the old high school.
When they arrived at Evarts, the same familiar scenario played out. Art hopped out first, and Tim turned to address her, but Jo cut him short. "Yeah, yeah, stay in the car, Jo. I know. Sitting idle is my new favorite activity. Just lock me in like a child waiting outside the grocery store," she commented, arms crossed and body sunk into the back seat. Her remark received a substantial eye roll before she was left solo yet again.
Jo had had plenty of time to think, sitting stationary in the back of Tim's SUV. Maybe the events of the day had put some things into perspective, life and death crises have a tendency to do that. Maybe she'd just been forcibly inactive in the backseat long enough for guilt and misgivings to set in. Who was to say, but, eventually, her mind began to wander to places she'd rather not travel.
If Raylan had finally caught Drew Thompson and managed to successfully get him out of Harlan alive, he could write his ticket anywhere. Conceivably, Raylan could leave Kentucky and go be with Winona and the baby. With him gone, there would be nothing left tying Jo to this life. That's what logic told her, but another minuscule voice in the back of Jo's subconscious whispered that this wasn't entirely true. And, it wasn't her job, growing friendship with Rachel, nor admiration for Art, which were giving her pause.
The juxtaposing arguments took turns batting her conviction back and forth like a game of badminton. Perhaps, if she stayed, she would only be in the way. Perhaps, it was time to allow someone to see the seasons of her youth. Perhaps, she could take something for herself, just because she could, if she chose.
Jo had been running this marathon away from her demons so long that she'd lost sight of both the start and the finish. Maybe it was time to give in to the chase unreservedly. Time to allow her monsters the opportunity to swallow her whole, and see what remained on the other side.
Men began gradually trickling out of the once deserted high school, their weapons lowered, so she had to assume the immediate danger had passed. Climbing out of the vehicle for the first time in so many hours, Jo stretched her legs, the joints popping and straining from prolonged disuse. Her arms extended above her head, and she arched her back, aiming to work out the kinks that had formed. She tried to relax her tense muscles, but they remained stiff, and not from her extended time relegated to the backseat.
"I thought I told you to wait in the car," Tim complained when he found Jo leaned up against the driver's side door. Although he wasn't entirely surprised, she'd remained stagnant for far longer than he would have expected.
Jo shrugged, "I was never great at following directions." Wasn't that the truth, and they both knew it. She and Tim assessed each other tentatively. Their timeout had expired, and now they were just two people trekking carefully across broken glass. "Think you can be a little late heading back to Lexington?"
Her question was unanticipated, and it showed in the sharp rise of Tim's eyebrows. "Why?" He asked, far removed from guessing at her ever veiled intentions.
"There's something it's high time I showed you," Jo explained without revealing much at all. "If you think they won't miss you." She deliberately left the ball in his court, saddling Tim with the decision whether or not to play along.
His eyes narrowed as he considered her. He'd proclaimed that he was finished with the chain she was using to jerk him around, but another invisible string tied them together, one which he couldn't ignore despite his better judgment.
Tim reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his car keys, tossing them at her carelessly. "Let's go," he concluded when she caught them easily.
I know a lot of this was lifted directly from the episode, but it's my favorite, so I couldn't resist. At least it was exceptionally long. The next chapter is going to be...something.