Spencer turned out to actually not be such a bad kid, just a little rude. Once he'd gotten over his initial shock, he'd quickly agreed to speak with Tim on the condition that the latter get out of his car and Spencer got to have his cigarette because he only got two 15-minute breaks his entire shift.

"So Spence, you worked here long?"

Spencer shrugged, finally lighting his cigarette with only slightly trembling fingers. "A while, I guess."

"Where'd you work before?"

Spencer paused, took a long drag of the cigarette. Too long, it turned out, as he sputtered and coughed, thumping a fist against his chest. "Why?" he finally choked out.

Tim looked at the young man in front of him, could see the way his whole body was tense and unsure. At least it would be easy to tell when the kid was lying, he was shit at schooling his body language. A relief, Tim thought, after all the other inscrutable individuals he'd dealt with related to this case.

"Because," Tim said, drawing out the final syllable with a long, buzzing emphasis.

"I was a junior ranger over at Daniel Boone State Forest," Spencer said, taking a more measured approach to his next inhalation.

"Why'd you leave?"

Spencer's leg started bouncing against the concrete, his knee jittery under his long grocer's apron. "Listen, man, I'm not trying to get anybody in trouble."

"What makes you think someone's gonna be in trouble?"

"I'm not trying to get me in trouble, all right?"

Tim adjusted his line of inquiry. "Tell me what happened with the truck."

There it was; the dawning realization in Spencer's eyes. Now that he was sure Tim already knew about that night, he felt like it was okay to say something. "Fuck, dude, I'm still not really sure what happened."

"Try and figure it out. For me," Tim said, leaning back against the side of his car with an effortlessness he did not feel inside. Rather, his brain felt coiled like a spring, intent to hold onto every syllable of whatever Spencer was about to tell him.

"It was late. Uh… I don't know what time, but it was dark. And I was supposed to already be home, but my boss, Ranger Warren? He'd asked me to stay late."

"Why?"

Spencer shrugged, tugging the last remnants of tobacco from the stub of his cig. "We'd had some guys come in after hours on ATVs. It happens a lot, but that week they'd run over a designated wildflower area and a protected wetland, so he thought maybe we'd try and catch 'em, I guess."

Tim nodded. "Go on."

"So it was late and the phone rang and I answered it because Grady… sorry, uh, Ranger Warren, was in the shi- - the bathroom," he corrected himself, "And it was this lady." Spencer paused, looking at his watch and then deciding to light another cigarette. "At first, I thought it was a prank call. I almost hung up on her, but she sounded… mean, I guess. Like a teacher or something."

Tim snorted, thinking of Delia in her white suit trying to wrangle a room full of snotty, dirt-caked second graders. "What did she say to you?"

"She gave me coordinates, and she told me to call the State Police. She gave me a message to give them."

"What was the message?"

"I don't remember, uh, exactly. I wrote it down then, but I don't know now. Something… something about a package from a Russian guy, I think? I don't know, I don't remember."

Tim had the urge to shoot the kid right in the foot. Just once, couldn't someone be more than half-helpful? "Okay, then what?"

"She hung up. Real quick. And I… uh… I called the State Police number we have at the desk."

"Who did you talk with?"

"A guy named Nettles. I remember because I thought it was a weird name, like the plant or whatever."

"And did they come?"

"The police?"

Tim almost rolled his eyes, but managed to keep his gaze level, though his teeth ground together as he answered, "Yes. Did the police come?"

Spencer nodded, tugging a hair off his tongue. "Yeah, maybe ten minutes later. When Ranger Warren got back, they were already driving in, so I filled him in."

"Was Nettles there?"

"Dunno. But a guy named Anderson came in and told us not to let anyone down the road, and to stay in the Ranger Station unless he called us. I remember him because that guy was a dick. Talked to us like we were morons. And he had some stupid porno 'stache, too."

Tim smiled. At least tracking down Anderson sounded like it would be easy enough. "Then what?"

Spencer kicked at the concrete, scraping the toe of his shoe and leaving a light grey scuff in the fake leather. "I went out to see what they were doing." Tim smirked and Spencer caught him. "I didn't… I was just curious, I swear. So I fibbed a little to Grady and told him Anderson had asked me to bring the troopers some flashlights. Grady's a little, uh…" Spencer gestured around his middle, "He's a little flabby, so he didn't mind me offering to do it myself. I took one of our four-wheelers and cut through the woods and when I got there…"

Spencer trailed off, sucking on the butt end of his cigarette without realizing he was out of paper. He yelped a little when he burned his finger, and then he stomped the end out on the ground, checking his watch and looking over his shoulder toward the door he'd emerged from.

"Don't worry about it," Tim said, "I'll tell your boss I'm the reason you're late."

This seemed to satisfy Spencer and he slid down the side of the building to sit on the ground, resting his hands on his propped up knees, fiddling with his singed fingers. "I never… I'd never seen a dead person before. And there were… there were a lot of them. The smell…"

Tim felt bad for the kid. He remembered the first time he'd smelled death like that. It was neither a pleasant memory, nor one he would ever forget.

"I didn't know it would smell like that. The police were just wandering around, looking at everything. And there was a truck there? My pa used to be a long-haul trucker. He moved farm equipment and I just, I don't know, for whatever reason, I just thought that must be what was in the truck because I couldn't see in from where I was, but then… then these girls started coming out of it."

Tim willed his jaw to relax. "Where were they going?"

Spencer looked up at him, eyes wide and earnest. "The cops had brought a van. They were getting in the van. And then… then more people came with another van, and they got in there, too."

"What other people?"

"They were in suits, mostly," he said and Tim knew those were the feds who had been onsite.

"Anyway, they started moving into the woods to keep looking for stuff, I guess? So I left and went back to the Station. I didn't say nothin' to Grady, just told him they didn't need the flashlights after all and sat back down."

"Anything else?"

"Anderson and this other guy came by a while later, after a few hours, I guess. And they told us not to mention anything to anybody. Told us they were handling it, that it was federal business."

"Did you get the other guy's name?"

Spencer shook his head. "No, he had a suit on, no name tag like Anderson. He did flash a badge that said FBI. Scared the shit out of me."

"Were you high then, too?" Tim asked and was satisfied by the suitably surprised look Spencer flashed him.

"Listen, man, I thought being a junior ranger was just gonna be a lot of smoking and walking in the woods. I didn't… I didn't sign up for that shit, and yeah, I was high and that fed almost made me piss myself!"

"It's okay, Spence, I'm not gonna tell on you. Is there anything else?"

Spencer shook his head again. "Not really. Just… I went back the next day and everything was gone except… there was still the blood on the road. I could still smell it." Spencer tilted his head back against the side of the store and closed his eyes. "I quit a few weeks later, I think, I don't remember when exactly."

Tim took a moment to digest the information. At least now he had a line on where to find his first dirty cop. And hopefully that would lead him to the next one, and quickly.

Suddenly, the employee door slammed open, narrowly missing Spencer as he sprang to the side. "Spencer, what the fuck! I told you last time…" The balding, red-faced manager stopped when he saw Tim. "Who the fuck are you?"

"You know, that's the second time someone's asked me that today." Tim turned away from the sputtering man, tugging a card out of his wallet and handing it out to Spencer. "Thanks for your help, Spence. If you think of anything else, you give me a call, okay?"

Spencer stood up and brushed the back of his pants off before grabbing the proffered card. "Yes, sir." The young man ducked back into the store, but he paused in the doorway. Without looking back at Tim, he asked, "What happened to them? The girls?"

Tim softened, just a little. "That's what I'm trying to find out, kid."

And then Spencer ducked back into the store, leaving Tim with the angry tomato-faced manager. He yanked out his badge again.

"Deputy U.S. Marshal Timothy J. Gutterson. Thank you for your cooperation."

He didn't wait for a response as he piled back into his car and drove off in the direction of Daniel Boone Forest once again.

#

Tim knew it was early, but he was too fucking tired to care and too fucking irritable to bother pushing himself. So when he made it almost to the State Police station he was looking for, he pulled off the main road intending to find a parking lot where he could sleep in his car for the night. Instead, he found himself pulling into the same X-shaped motel he and Kathryn had used the night after they'd thought they'd secured the truck.

He wasn't exactly sure why he asked for the same room, but he did, and once he stepped inside, he immediately regretted the impulsive decision to do so. There must have been other motels. And he knew there were other rooms. Why had he chosen this one?

Tim made sure the door was locked behind him, and then he found himself pulled toward the bathroom. He turned on the light and leaned against the doorframe, staring at the tub. It looked clean, but he couldn't help remembering how dark red-brown the water had been as Kathryn had patched herself up that night.

He decided against a shower, but he washed his face and brushed his teeth before tugging on a clean pair of boxers and a white t-shirt to sleep in. When he looked at the bed, his stomach fluttered embarrassingly. He remembered the way Kathryn had raked her fingernails against his scalp, how gently she'd touched him that night in some strange post-massacre ritual.

He remembered how good it had felt to have someone touch him like that.

"Jesus Christ, Gutterson, get it together." Tim plunked himself down in the chair in the corner, which had been moved and therefore held no strange or heavy meaning. He took a few long, measured breaths in through his nose and released them from his mouth with a sigh. He checked his pulse—it was racing. He knew this was bad fucking news and he didn't frankly have the time or the energy to deal with it. Instead, he willed his body to simply stop acting like an asshole.

This approach had no effect whatsoever.

As he tried to think of another way out of the oncoming panic attack, his phone rang. But when he picked it up from the pile of clothes he'd left folded in the bathroom, the screen was dark. Then he realized it was his other phone. His sneaking-around-like-a-goddamn-criminal phone. He scrambled to pick it up before it went to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Geez, Deputy, if you didn't want to talk to me, you could've just said so."

"We can't all answer with the speed of some weird cellphone ninja," he said, and he sprawled his body across the comforter, too tired anymore to care. He took a few more cleansing breaths.

"You okay?" Her voice was soft, the teasing edge from just a moment before utterly undetectable.

"'mfine," he mumbled, knowing he was not being entirely convincing. "What do you need?"

"Just checking in. How was Reed?"

"Surprisingly pliant," he said, "He agreed to give me a few days to see what I can dig up on the truck and… fuck, you know, I don't need to explain it."

"Did you find anything today?"

"Jesus, Kathryn, I'm tired, can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"No," she said, and Tim's eyes flew open. He was tired of this—exhausted. He didn't owe her or Delia anything and if they wanted to ruin his career, then fuck it, let them. At this point, he just wanted some fucking sleep and for his brain to stop feeling so full and jumbled.

"Fuck off, Kathryn, I'm going to bed. We can talk tomorrow or not, I don't really give a shit."

Tim jabbed the little red 'end' button with a ferocity he typically reserved for giving other drivers the finger when they didn't know how to merge. There was a pressure behind his eyes that he knew wouldn't go away without booze or sex, and he wasn't getting either of those. With each passing moment, the dream of sleep felt farther and farther removed from his reality.

The phone was ringing again and Tim answered with a shout. "What the fuck do you want?!"

"Sorry," she said, and she sounded almost demure. If Tim didn't know any better, he'd think she actually meant it.

"What do you want, Kathryn? I really don't have the energy—"

"I'm sorry, Tim. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't want to talk about the case, Kathryn."

"Not about the case. Not about any of it. How are you? Are you feeling okay? You sound…"

"What?" he asked, and the single syllable dripped with every ounce of anger and malice and frustration he'd felt over the past few weeks.

"You sound like you're having a shitty fucking day, and I just wanted to make sure you're all right."

Tim couldn't help it. He laughed. "Right. Of course. What, you gonna come hold my hand?"

"If you want," she said, "Might take me a minute, though."

"Where are you?"

"I'm not in Kentucky."

"Not in Virginia either, I hope?" Tim caught his mistake a moment too late.

"Why's that?"

Tim massaged the bridge of his nose. The dim lights of the room suddenly seemed far too bright. "Dawson. They got footage of him up in Northern Virginia."

Kathryn's end of the conversation went very quiet. He thought he could hear her writing something down, but he couldn't be sure over the sound of…

"Are those fucking bagpipes?"

He hated that Kathryn's laugh made his chest feel lighter. "Sure are. PBS has a special on the Black Watch."

"What the hell is that?"

"A Canadian pipe band."

Tim located the remote for the tiny little TV on the bureau. He turned it on and flipped down to channel 003. Sure enough, the sound of militant drums and bleating bagpipes filtered through the static. He turned the volume down to just above a whisper and settled himself into a more comfortable position against the headboard.

"Wouldn't have pegged you for a fan of this," he said.

"I'm not, really. I just love watching people who are very, very good at what they do. The precision in their movements is hypnotizing."

Tim could see what she meant, though his background in the military meant he'd seen his fair share of such displays, and he was much less impressed by it than his phone companion seemed to be.

"Do they always wear skirts?'

"Uh-huh. I do love a man in a kilt," she said, back to teasing him.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, lifting his fingers back up to check his pulse. It was still elevated, but slowing down.

"Please do."

They lapsed into a companionable silence for the next few minutes, each content to listen to the other breathe as they both watched the same program from their respective motel rooms, miles and miles away from each other.

"Are you doing okay, Deputy? You scared me there for a minute."

"It's been a rough couple weeks," he said. He was too tired to dodge her questions anymore or pretend like this case—like just knowing her—wasn't taking an immense toll on him. "This case makes me feel like I'm neck deep in quicksand and pig shit."

"I hear you there," she said, "Nothing much on this end feels any easier, for what it's worth."

"Where are you, Kathryn?"

She sighed, "I'm in Tennessee. Nowhere near Virginia, but I'm going to let Delia know because she's in D.C. quite a bit these days. I don't like the idea that maybe he's looking for her."

"I get the feeling Delia can handle herself well enough. Just worry about yourself."

"You don't think I can handle myself? I thought you had more faith in me, Deputy."

"I don't trust you as far as I could spit a rat," he said, and he immediately regretted it because he knew she could tell that he meant it. The truth was, any trust he had in her had dissipated when he'd found out she was never an agent of any kind. When he had realized she'd lied to him about everything from her name and age to occupation. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to trust her again, not entirely. The silence that followed his confession weighed heavily between them as the pipes began a blared and grating rendition of 'Amazing Grace.'

"I should probably let you get some sleep."

"I doubt I'll be able to get much," he confessed, still sitting with his back against the stiff wooden headboard. "I'm back at the motel we went to after Boone."

"Feeling nostalgic?"

"Feeling stupid for not sleeping in my car."

"Well, I hope you can get some rest. You deserve it," she paused, and Tim could sense her hesitation even without seeing her; like she was perched at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean and was considering whether she should jump. "I hope that whatever is hurting you tonight gets better. I'll call you tomorrow."

And she hung up without giving him a chance to respond.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and he took his pulse again. Almost back to normal.

How talking with someone who frustrated him so much could help pull him back from the brink of an episode made no sense to his exhausted mind, but he was glad for the effect of Kathryn's presence, even if it had only been her voice.

His feelings toward Kathryn seemed to waiver by the minute, and it was exasperating. He wanted her and missed her, but she'd also dragged him unwillingly into a mess he wasn't sure he would ever be able to clean up. And there was nothing he hated more than being fucking lied to, especially by someone he considered a comrade, no matter how briefly.

Still, he supposed Kathryn had also been pulled into all this without her consent, hadn't she? Was it fair to hold her accountable for choices he'd made that had entangled them together far longer than either of them had meant? Tim was certain that if it weren't for Romero's murder, he never would have seen Kathryn again. It wasn't as though she'd intended for him to meet Delia or be dragged into her mysterious orbit, careening toward some faraway destination in the dark cosmos.

Tim took another series of deep breaths. The pressure behind his eyes was returning again, and he knew that trying to unravel his feelings about Kathryn the person and Sarah the vigilante was a futile endeavor, at least for now. He focused on the sound of the bagpipes, willing his muddled thoughts to drift away to the part of his mind he kept resolutely locked; the dark corner reserved for memories and emotions left ignored and unresolved, for better or worse.

Tim left the television on as he slid himself beneath the stiff sheets. He turned onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow, knowing he'd only smell whatever overly perfumed detergent the motel used to bleach away the gross and inevitable leavings of their guests, but hoping that somehow, maybe, he'd smell her instead.