A/N: Hi. I am an idiot & apparently forgot to upload a chapter (the interface on is really not my favorite). There is a chapter between "Girl at the Rock Show" and "Let 'Em Eat Cake" that has now been added. It's... kind of an important one, so I hope you'll check it out if you have a chance!
When Tim walked into work the next morning, he was extremely pleased to find that Art believed he'd appropriately served his penance. He was welcomed back at the big kids' table and planted himself and his coffee in a chair in the conference room, which had apparently become the de facto home base for Special Agent Matthew Reed and his small team of FBI agents during Tim's brief absence. Tim let his eye wander along walls; a variety of photographs and sticky notes were spread all over them, detailing exactly how much everyone else in the room didn't know about their current investigation.
The most recent photo of Kathryn was a security still of her getting into a cab the night he'd followed her from the punk show in Lexington. He guiltily admitted to himself he was glad they didn't yet know she'd stopped after she got off the highway later that evening. He didn't need anyone questioning his story of how he'd lost track of her. With Raylan's insinuations nudging deeper into his brain every second this case remained open, he had zero interest in anyone else discovering he might have a larger stake in the outcome.
He was surprised to see that the Daniel Boone incident was confined to a very small corner of the room. He wondered, vaguely, why it had been relegated to the sidelines, when he knew it was the genesis of everything else.
By contrast, there seemed to be a lot of energy being wasted on the guy they'd picked up at Kathryn's house; some whiny little tweaker by the name of Phillip Kempler who kept saying he didn't know anything, which Tim believed. Despite the obvious diversion, the crack team of investigators before him was currently split as to whether they thought Vincent Dawson had hired Kempler to kill Sarah Geller, or if she'd brought him in herself and things had somehow gone sideways. Tim kept his opinions to himself because he knew the longer they spent trying to figure out Kempler's deal, the more time he had to understand what was really happening without interference.
Tim was more interested in watching Reed, anyway. The man's energy was chaotic and confusing. The first time he'd met him, Tim had assumed he was just some brown nosing hardass, but now he looked more like John Cusack in Con Air. He'd loosened his tie and tossed off his blazer, and he was pacing around the room, sweating far more than the air conditioning should have allowed as he listed every known associate of Kempler and Dawson, of which there were many.
Reed seemed like a man on the edge, and that intrigued Tim. If there was a dirty FBI agent somewhere in the mix, why not the guy who had brought the Marshals in to help? Why not the guy who clearly had a fugitive boner for Kathryn?
Tim flipped through the handout Reed had passed around with known associates of both men and Sarah Geller, but none of the names popped, and so he returned his attention to the man gesticulating wildly across the conference table. The more he listened to Reed extoll the virtues of "every beat cop in the tri-county" having a picture of Kathryn's face plastered in their squad car, the more he liked him for the Daniel Boone coverup and Romero's murder vis-à-vis Dawson. Reed reminded Tim of an overeager recruit who thought boot camp was the real thing; all bluster and bravado, but he'd piss himself when the fighting started in earnest.
Maybe it was just because the guy rubbed him the wrong way, but if it turned out Reed was his guy, Tim would have no problem believing it. He'd maybe even enjoying cuffing him, if he was being honest. He knew from his cursory search of Reed's FBI records that he had spent most of his career collaring drug runners and low-level cartel members who were apparently Dawson's usual clientele. That would give him the perfect in, as far as Tim was concerned. And anyway, it was a better lead than he'd had, yet.
Tim leaned back in his chair, fingers gently cradling his chin to hide the grin that sprouted as Reed accidentally sprayed Nelson with spit during a particularly vociferous flourish.
#
As Tim had expected, his day at the office had provided zero useful information. After the long and arduous task force meeting, he dug back through every shred of information he had about Sarah Geller and Vincent Dawson. He looked back over the crime scene photos from Daniel Boone and Romero's murder. He read every detail of Special Agent Reed's career.
And now, back in his apartment and still reading, his brain hurt.
Tim raked his fingers through his hair and tossed the pages he had been reading—details about Reed's time at Quantico (excellent test scores and horrible marksmanship)—across the room, letting them land unceremoniously out of order on his living room carpet. He knew he would have to pick them up eventually, but for now he was petulantly content to let them crease on the floor.
It was then that Tim's phone rang, and he was belatedly embarrassed by how quickly he leapt to answer it. He hadn't even realized he'd been expecting Kathryn to call him again until he heard it.
"Well, hello," he said, letting the smirk on his face ebb into his inflection.
"Hello to you too, Gutterson. What are you wearing?"
Tim almost choked on the beer he was sipping. "Randy! Hey, uh…"
"I take it you weren't expecting me?"
"Sorry, man, it's been a long day." Tim set his beer back down on the table, deciding he wasn't interested in being drunk in addition to stupid.
"I was just calling to let you know we set the date for this year's trip. September 24-28. I assume you're in?"
"Always."
"Great. Well, I've gotta call everyone else, but I hope whoever you're waitin' for calls soon. Sounds like she must cost at least a couple bucks a minute." Randy let out a hearty laugh that bellowed into Tim's ear so loudly he had to pull the phone away from it.
"As if I'd ever pay," Tim said, letting the smirk slice back across his features again.
#
On Wednesday, Tim managed to weasel his way into watching Kathryn's house. The Marshals office had been put in charge of doing so, and Raylan had been begrudgingly filling that role for several days since Tim had run into him. But today, Raylan had an follow-up appointment with his doc and some time he wanted to spend at the range, which left the spot open. Art had originally tapped Nelson for it, but Tim had pulled the older man aside under the guise of discussing a chapter from The Two Towers and convinced him to switch with him.
To be fair, Nelson was really getting a pretty good deal. Tim had been assigned with Rachel to transfer Kempler to the FMC from the holding cell he was in currently. It was a fifteen-minute drive each way, with plenty of latitude to make a detour for lunch at Nelson's favorite diner along the way.
Tim couldn't say that Rachel would be pleased, but he had other things to worry about, and he was sure she'd forgive him—at least mostly—as long as he brought her a nice caramel latte the next morning.
Tim parked a few blocks over from Kathryn's house and walked over, letting himself in the semi-repaired front door with the Marshals' key. He swept through the house first, not interested in being surprised as he had been by Raylan during his last visit. He was pleased to find the house empty; the broken back door now covered in ¾ inch plywood. He snuck a peak into the fridge, only to discover that the rest of the cake was missing. He assumed Raylan's sweet tooth was to blame.
Then, Tim made his way back into the basement, where he was happy to discover nothing out of the ordinary. Part of him had been afraid that Raylan would have gone nosing around after their encounter and figure out what Tim had been looking for. It appeared that was not the case—at least, not in any obvious way. Who knew how Raylan's mind worked, though. The man could be either stunningly oblivious or astutely observant, depending on the day, and Tim resolved to be far more careful around him in future.
Tim walked straight over to the utility shelves and looked at the silver box he'd discovered during his initial investigation of the space. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, Tim took out the key Kathryn had bequeathed him and pressed it gently into the lock, turning it firmly to the right. After he heard the lock click, Tim tugged on the shelf and a door swung open. It was a simple enough design; the shelving continued on either side of the door and because the shelves weren't all connected, no one would suspect that the section in the middle was attached to a door instead of a wall.
Tim steeled himself and stepped inside.
He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it was certainly something flashier than what he found. All of this secrecy, and he'd been rewarded with was essentially a dingy home office. Maybe he'd been hoping for something more suited to a James Bond movie; white and luminous, with large digital screens everywhere showing surveillance videos from across the globe. Instead, he found a narrow space stocked with a cork board, a computer desk with a bulky PC, clunky printer, and a tattered-looking swivel chair, with a mismatched set of filing cabinets to one side.
Tim leaned over the desk and turned on the lamp there as he sat down. Aside from the outdated computer, there was a notebook and a set of speakers attached to an auxiliary cable. He assumed Kathryn had taken whatever music device she normally used with her, because he didn't see one.
There was also a landline telephone. That might explain the fact that they'd only seen her take one phone call upstairs during all that surveillance. Kathryn could have easily made any necessary phone calls from here under the guise of doing laundry. Tim considered calling his cell from it so he had the number, but he figured that would be relatively useless until and unless Kathryn was able to come home.
Instead, he lifted the receiver and dialed the number Kathryn had given him for her burner. It rang three times before he heard her answer.
"Deputy. Welcome to my home."
"I've already seen the house, ma'am, and I have to say, this is not my favorite room."
"Oh? Well, it's where I spend most of my time. What took you so long, anyway? I expected a call two days ago."
Tim leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet up onto the desk. "Things are a little… hectic at work; it hasn't been as easy to get away as I'd like. For the record, if I go down for letting you escape, I'm gonna squeal as loud as I can to get my sentence reduced."
There was a gentle laugh from the other end of the line. "Fair enough, Gutterson. Can't say I'd blame you."
Tim flipped open the notebook, skimming the pages carelessly. It appeared at first glance to be a relatively detailed schedule of Kathryn's movements and appointments, dating back to at least the beginning of the year.
"So what exactly am I looking for, here?" he asked.
"There's not much," she said, "But I thought you might like to see what I've got on the shit that went down in Daniel Boone. Maybe you can finally put it all together."
Tim rolled over to the filing cabinets and pulled open one of the drawers, mindful of the cord attached to the phone. "I stopped there after your file landed on my desk, actually," he said, flipping through the files and finding nothing that looked prescient.
"Anything of note?" she asked, and he tugged open the second drawer, but it was empty.
"Apparently some woman called in the State Police after we left. They had the park rangers shut down the road and a couple of Feds helped them clear everything out without a trace or any media. Very hush-hush, very strange." Tim pulled open the top drawer of the second cabinet. A file labeled "BOONE" in neat block letters was immediately at the front, and he tugged it out of the drawer. "Got it," he said. He was about to slam the drawer shut again when his eyes caught on the next folder. "PERSONAL," it said in the same uniform lettering. He hesitated a just a moment, then he pulled that folder out as well before finally closing the drawer.
"Deputy? Did I lose you?"
"No, I'm still here, keep your pants on."
"I'm sure you don't mean that," she teased, and he tossed both folders onto the desk before flipping the one marked BOONE open.
He had to admit, Kathryn was thorough. He was looking at printouts with every man they'd killed—he recognized a few of them from his scope—along with details about their criminal history and associates. She also had a copy of the map they'd used to decide where to search the park, and the trucking manifests that he assumed Romero had supplied her.
He continued sifting through the pages and stopped at one with a list of names.
"What's Reed doing on this list?" he asked.
"I was trying to think of anyone I knew of who might have the clout to pull off a cover-up. I doubt he would, but he's always been kind of a stick in the mud, and so I included him just to cover my bases. Essentially, I know that whoever is responsible for that truck going missing, and probably for Romero's murder, has to be relatively high up and well-connected. The problem is I honestly don't know whether we should be looking at the FBI specifically because there are plenty of other links in the chain of custody that could have been corrupted."
Tim nodded as he perused the list. It looked like most of the people on it were FBI, but she also had a few names from the Kentucky House of Representatives, Homeland Security, and the State Police.
"I'll look into all of these guys and see what I can find."
"Thanks," Kathryn said, "I never realized how much I depended on Romero's access. I'm flying blind and I don't like it. But the work I did on that case was sound, there's no reason it should have been buried like this. Romero made sure I kept all of the investigative work above board, so we wouldn't have any issues. Admittedly, I fucked up by bringing you along, but you already know that."
"Again, you're welcome." Tim closed the file and tossed it aside. His fingers skimmed the edges of the folder he'd pulled marked "PERSONAL," debating with himself whether he should look inside. On one hand, it was certainly an invasion. On the other, he was blatantly curious, and he could spin it as though learning more about her might help him understand the case.
"Hello?"
"Sorry, I'm just reading your notes."
"I want to find that truck, Tim. Those kids… I told them they were safe. I fucking lied to them."
Tim sat up fully and asked a question that had been gnawing angrily at him since he'd realized Kathryn had the same suspicions he did about the incident in the park. "Why didn't you contact me? I could've helped. We could've tried to figure this out together before…" he trailed off, not exactly sure before what. Before Romero's? Before he'd realized she lied to him about who she was?
Kathryn was quiet for a long time. He could, as usual, hear music playing in the background. It sounded jazzy and upbeat, a stark contrast to the heaviness of their conversation and her ensuing silence.
"I thought about it," she admitted, finally. "I almost called you a few times. But it was my mess and I didn't want to drag you down into it. Hell, you weren't even there, officially."
"Well, non-officially, I'm just as responsible as you. I killed just as many of them as you did. If you're being framed for a vigilante murder, then I should be, too."
"Don't joke, Deputy. You stick to our story as it is, you got that? I'm not gonna be responsible for your—"
Tim tilted his head, listening carefully for any clue as to what had caused her to stop short. "Kathryn? You okay?"
"Sorry," she said, "I thought I heard something, but I think it's just my neighbor."
"Where are you?"
"I'm still in Kentucky," but she offered no further information. "Bottom line, Deputy, if anyone is gonna go down for this shitstorm, it's me. You didn't ask to be involved in this."
"No, but I volunteered when you gave me an out. And I stand by what we did; those guys were fucking scumbags and the world is better without 'em."
"I agree, and I'm sure Agent Reed does, too, if he's being honest. But his version of justice is extremely black and white. I myself have always fallen squarely in the grey."
Tim twisted the phone cord between his fingers. Their conversation was over, he knew, but he wasn't ready to hang up. He heard a rustling sound from Kathryn's end that sounded like she'd laid down, and he wondered whether she felt the same.
He didn't like investigating while the person who was essentially his partner twisted uncomfortably in the wind somewhere without backup. They should be working together, side-by-side, but there was no way he could bring her to the Marshals office without her being arrested, and he doubted Art would be so forgiving if he disappeared a second time.
"I should go," she said. Tim's heart sank a fraction of an inch and then she added, "I'll contact you tomorrow if I can." He hated that he smiled.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sittin' on your house today. Any chores you'd like me to get done while I'm here? Plants that need watering?"
"Just don't touch my liquor cabinet, Deputy. I know what a lush you can be," she said.
"I wouldn't dream of it. That shit you drink tastes like the ass end of a firepit." And he hated that his heart lifted back up when she laughed.
#
Tim spent the next several hours observing the details of Kathryn's house because he didn't have anything else to do. He'd tucked the two files and the notebook he'd found in his bag after he'd carefully reset the shelving in the basement. Kathryn's house was small, so that left him little room to explore, but explore he did.
He started in the living room, letting his eyes roam over the colorful paintings she had on the walls. There were three of them—all bright impressionist things that looked like they were from a local artist. He also opened the cabinet under her television to find nearly a dozen black CD cases filled with movies and music. He flipped through a few of them, but nothing stood out as particularly interesting. He did have to admit that her tastes seemed more eclectic than he would have expected; her entertainment ran the gamut from Buster Keaton to John McClane, and he found the entire Billie Holiday songbook tucked between Aerosmith and Chopin.
He couldn't help feeling somewhat insulted that, despite her broad tastes, she had obviously subjected him to the loudest, shittiest music in her collection.
Tim found the liquor cabinet pressed up against a wall in the dining room. Her collection here was more straightforward, a lot of scotch and a couple of bottles of gin. Despite what he'd told her, he considered trying a 25-year-old bottle with a stag on the bottle when it caught his eye, until he turned the box it had come in over and saw the price tag still stuck to the bottom.
Apparently, Kathryn was a more serious connoisseur than he'd realized.
It didn't take long for Tim to have exhausted his explorations of everything except her bedroom. After sitting on the couch for almost an hour, determined to ignore the room entirely, he finally relented.
The walls in the rest of Kathryn's house were a totally inoffensive shade of grey, every embellishment came from the furniture or the carefully chosen décor. Her bedroom was a different story. The walls in here were painted a deep, rich shade of teal that seemed to swallow the room whole. The ceiling was painted the same color, and it made Tim feel claustrophobic, like he was entering a cave. He noticed, too, that the curtains were designed to block out as much light as possible, which further contributed to the effect.
Desperate for some illumination, Tim turned on the overhead light and took in the rest of the room. Unlike every other space, this room had nothing on the walls. He also found it more than a little amusing that such a small person would have a king-sized bed, but he admired how crisply it was made, and he envied the array of extremely plush-looking pillows. In contrast to the darkness of the rest of the room, the sheets and duvet were printed with a vaguely geometric pattern in shades of coral and mint green.
As Tim's eye scanned over the furniture; a single bedside table and a bureau made of dark wood, he noticed the Grizzlies shirt again, neatly folded and set out at the foot of the bed. He ran his fingers over the bear emblazoned on the front of it and wondered whether he should take it back. It was his, after all.
But would she miss it? Did he want her to?
He refused to think too much on it because he already knew the answers and he didn't like them. Instead, he flicked the light back off and left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
#
That night, Tim crawled into bed with the two folders he'd taken from Kathryn's house, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. The Kentucky evening was so muggy that even his AC unit could only do so much, and he found himself sweating again as soon as he stepped out of the shower. He considered, not for the first time, moving north to the far reaches of Maine where he could hate the frigid winter air and snow instead of the cursing the heat and humidity.
Tim sat up against his headboard and pulled open the Boone file again, scanning the pages for what felt like the hundredth time, hoping to find something new. As he read back through the list of names Kathryn was trying to investigate, his eyes drifted over to the other folder he'd brought with him.
He stared at it, wondering what he might find inside. The file was incredibly thin, there couldn't be more than a few pages inside. What could it hurt?
Tim placed the file in his hands on the table next to his bed, and he lifted the other into his lap before he reverently flipped open the folder. He had been right in thinking it there was hardly enough inside for it to be considered worthwhile. He found what he knew was a forged birth certificate, a social security card, and a couple of pages of medical records from hospital visits. The most recent sheet was dated the day after they parted ways at the courthouse.
There was nothing else particularly interesting; a list of passwords and account numbers. The rental agreement for the house.
Just as he was about to close the folder, something caught his eyes. Tucked at the very back was a folded newspaper clipping. He unfurled it carefully, mindful of the delicate newsprint.
It must have been from a small local paper because the story was inconsequential at best—a piece about an elementary school class performing songs at a nursing home on grandparents' day. There was a list of a few showtunes they'd sung and there was a quote from their teacher about how excited they were to spend time making their community a better place. And in the upper right corner was a photograph of three of the students: "Brian Jackson (7), Cari Lauder (7), and Andrea Bunting (8)," all smiling toothy grins.
Tim recognized her immediately. Even if the name underneath was wrong, there was no denying one of the faces in the photo belonged to Kathryn. He wondered at the inclusion of the clipping. He flipped the page over, looking for any indication of when or where it was from, but there was nothing.
Not knowing what else to do, Tim folded the clipping carefully and placed it back in the folder, deciding to leave that line of inquiry until after they'd at least cleared her of federal murder charges.
#
When Tim woke up, he knew there was someone in his room; he could feel it in the air. It was still too dark, even for him, to have woken up without cause, and he hadn't been dreaming. He had fallen asleep on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow, so he kept his breathing smooth and slow while he adjusted minutely to slide his right hand under his pillow, but the thing he was searching for was gone. The realization that someone had successfully removed the hunting knife he kept there without him waking up hit him like he'd swallowed a block of ice.
"I hope you don't mind," he heard a voice say—coming, he could tell, from his reading chair in the far corner—"but I've also taken the firearm from your table drawer."
Tim rolled over cautiously and sat up fully so it would be easier to fight or defend himself if he needed. "Well, I guess it's a good thing I don't need either one to kill you."
He could almost feel her smiling at him in the dark. "I'd expect nothing less from a friend of Kathryn's."
The lamp he kept next to the chair clicked on, bathing the room in soft, yellow light. Tim was suddenly quite aware of the fact that he was shirtless, as the woman across from him was dressed in a crisp, expertly tailored suit.
"I hope you don't mind the intrusion, Deputy Gutterson. I thought it was time to finally meet you in person."
"I'd like to say it's a pleasure, Delia, but I don't much care for strangers touching my things."