Tim had tried to keep his smirk hidden for as long as possible, but it finally broke free as he pulled up to the curb down the street from Ibsen's house. Kathryn had let him have it for the entire ride, so he was glad it was a quick trip. And while he would never say so aloud because he was sure she could be formidable-even deadly-when properly provoked, he thought her animated shouting made her look like a cartoon character, which he found endearing. He was glad his request for directions had been merely perfunctory, because he didn't think she'd stopped disparaging him for long enough to have pointed him the right way if their lives had depended on it.
"Listen, Deputy," she finally said, "While I appreciate your enthusiasm, and you are obviously quite capable in your own law enforcement capacity, I am of the opinion that you would be more of a liability than a help to this case." She turned to look at him, making steady eye contact and reigning her facial expressions in to level him with a far more serious look, "There are things about Ibsen... about all of this that you don't know, and you do not want to be a part of."
Tim's smirk faded and he turned off the car. "Be that as it may, I've already taken the PTO days. I left my badge at the motel and this here," he tapped his holster, "is my personal firearm, not my Marshal issue. That means I'm here as a private citizen on my vacation. You can come or not, up to you."
Tim hopped out of the car and tucked the keys in his pocket before walking down the sidewalk toward Ibsen's ugly brown house. The daylight did nothing to improve its curb appeal; it was clear that Ibsen did not have a knack for landscaping. The minuscule front yard was overrun with weeds, and the paint job had last been touched up in 1982. Tim approached the house casually, hands in his pockets, as if he were appraising its value before making an offer. He found that as long as you looked innocent enough, neighbors weren't very likely to be concerned, and given the high fences maintained by both of Ibsen's neighbors, Tim figured he was being overly cautious in that regard, anyway. Though he trusted Kathryn's information that Ibsen was not currently home, he peered cautiously through windows to assess the interior. He saw nothing.
Kathryn came up behind him just as he rounded the corner of the house and walked onto a small enclosed porch. Tim tugged on the backdoor, but it was locked. "Do you often spend your vacations breaking and entering? Seems like a strange hobby for a Marshal to pursue, even in his free time."
Tim looked around the porch and started picking up knick-knacks from a nearby shelf to check for a spare key. He ran his hands over the door frame and knocked a key off the top. He grinned over at Kathryn, standing at the bottom of the porch stairs with her arms crossed defiantly. "The name's Tim, ma'am. And I didn't break anything."
#
The inside of Ibsen's house was as drab as the exterior, though instead of weeds, there were dust bunnies. Truthfully, if someone had told Tim the house was an abandoned property, he would have believed them. He made his way carefully through the house, clearing corners out of habit with his right hand resting lightly on his holster just in case. Each room was just as empty as he'd guessed from the outside, and he relaxed minutely when he reached the front entrance without incident.
Tim heard the back door close and called to Kathryn over his shoulder, "You sure your buddy Ralph lives here?"
"He's been occupied by business in Kentucky, so I'm not surprised he hasn't been here in a while. But this is his house, yes."
Tim cast a glance at Kathryn who moved through the house toward him as if every object and surface in Ibsen's house were poisonous. "What makes you think he'll come back here?"
"There are things he is unwilling to part with, no matter where he plans on running. Trust me, he'll be back."
Tim walked through each of the rooms again, this time observing the smaller details; pictures of Ibsen with his different classes over the years, and an extensive collection of porcelain dolls that Tim found downright terrifying. He found every item his eyes found more depressing than the last. He thought absently that even his sparsely furnished apartment was superior to this dank excuse of a living space. There was dark wood paneling on almost every wall and a thick orange shag carpet in the living room. Even the bathroom was carpeted, and Tim wrinkled his nose at the thought of a squishy, wet floor on his bare feet after a shower.
"What are you doing here, Deputy?" Tim turned and saw Kathryn standing just outside the bathroom door, looking highly irritated. "If you're going to insist on a vacation, you should at least check out the speedway."
"Who do you work for?" Tim asked. He hoped that he might take her by surprise and catch her off guard, though he knew that was unlikely.
"Would it surprise you if I said that information was classified?"
Tim shook his head, "You aren't military, though, so that leaves only a few exemplary federal agencies." Tim leaned against the sink, mimicking Kathryn's folded arms. Kathryn gazed calmly back at him, not budging, and he wondered how long they could stay locked in a stalemate stare before one of them blinked.
And then her phone rang.
Kathryn answered with the kind of quickness Tim usually reserved for pulling his weapon on an armed suspect. "Yes," she said. And then after a moment, a curt nod and, "Yes, thanks." And she hung up.
"Should I gather the welcome committee? Ralphie boy coming home?"
She looked at him and he knew he was right about the content of the call, but it was also clear she was in no mood for teasing. "Deputy Gutterson, I need you to understand that if you stay now, I-and the people I work with-cannot and will not take responsibility for what may happen to you. You were brought in as a sniper, you failed to complete your mission as instructed, and as such, you have compromised everything I've worked for over the past 8 years. I have the slimmest of chances to salvage this mess, and I will do whatever it takes. And what it takes may not be, strictly speaking, above board."
Tim stood up, intrigued by her change in tone. Her return to a brusque and businesslike demeanor was disheartening. He realized that some part of him had been hoping the banter they'd developed was an indication of a burgeoning partnership. But here, she was making it clear that she was running an operation and he was merely collateral. But that was fine, he could certainly play the role of dedicated subordinate.
"Whatever you need, and I can provide, I'm happy to help."
Kathryn hesitated a moment before walking to the living room and pulling all of the curtains closed. "Cover the windows," she said, "Ibsen will be here within the hour." Tim pulled down the blinds in the bedroom and kitchen, then returned the key to its original hiding place on the porch and locked the door from the inside. When he walked back inside, he found Kathryn rooting through Ibsen's kitchen drawers and he watched as she pulled out some duct tape, a lighter, and an old ethernet cable. "Grab one of the dining chairs," she said without looking up, "and meet me in the basement."