Everything had gone red.
He wasn't sure exactly how long it had taken to go wrong, but it hadn't been right away. At least he'd held his shit together for a little while.
He'd called Kathryn, hadn't he? Shit. Had he? Was she coming?
Was anybody coming?
He had to wash his hands, at least. Needed to change his shirt. But when he walked into the bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror, he was paralyzed.
There was too much blood. He'd gone too far, and now he was utterly fucked.
#
Trooper Nettles had proven to be exceptionally eager to help. Not only was he amendable to providing Tim with the details of the night he'd received the call from Spencer, but he was more than happy to offer Sergeant Anderson's home address, since he was off for the next few days and the Marshal made it clear his inquiry was time sensitive. Tim made sure to thank him exuberantly for the professional courtesy.
Tim had sat outside Chad Anderson's house for almost five hours before he'd caught a glimpse of the guy, pulling into his driveway on a vintage red Yamaha YR1. A beautiful bike, Tim had to admit, but the guy looked like a douche riding it in his Miami Vice button down and yellow aviators.
Tim approached Anderson before he'd even gotten the kickstand fully down, flashing his badge and his shit-eattingest grin as he did so. "Sergeant Chad Anderson?" he asked, enjoying the furrowed brow his question garnered.
"Yessir, and you are?"
"Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson. Hoping you can help me with some background on a fugitive case."
Anderson extended his hand and Tim took it, trying not to grimace at the clammy palm. Anderson's dark brown hair was slicked back—with sweat or product, Tim wasn't sure—and Spencer certainly hadn't been exaggerating when he'd called his facial hair a porn 'stache. The guy looked like a cartoon of a long-lost '70s ideal.
"Come on in, Deputy Gutterson."
"Call me Tim."
The house itself was nice, but Tim got the distinct feeling that wasn't because of Chad. The colors were all soft pastels and he wondered if there was a girlfriend or maybe an ex-wife somewhere who was responsible for the décor.
Anderson walked to the fridge and grabbed a beer, twisting the cap off and offering it to Tim, who refused as politely as he could. He'd had enough bourbon while he waited that he probably shouldn't even be speaking to someone in a professional capacity, and a beer seemed somehow a bridge too far. Anderson shrugged, sipping the beverage himself without skipping a beat.
"Have a seat, Tim," Anderson said cheerfully, plunking himself down in a comfortable-looking recliner and directing Tim to the couch. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm part of a task force currently searching for two fugitives." Tim pulled the mug shots out of his back pocket, tossing them onto the coffee table. "Sarah Geller and Vince Dawson."
Anderson gave the photos a cursory glance, then shook his head. "Neither of them looks familiar, sorry."
"They're both suspects in a shooting that happened at Daniel Boone State Forest," Tim said evenly, and there was a very slight narrowing of Chad's eyes that assured Tim he was on the right track.
"I don't know anything about that," Anderson said, but his body language told Tim everything he needed to know; he'd gone perfectly still and just a little bit tense, his muscles ready to spring into action out of instinct and a little bit of fear.
Tim smiled. "Don't fucking lie to me, Chad, I'm really not in the mood."
It happened very quickly.
First, Anderson threw the beer bottle at him and he had to duck out of the way, then Anderson was bolting for the front door. Tim's first instinct was to draw his weapon, but he focused on the situation and what he needed to do in order to not shoot a State Police Officer in cold blood, which would have undoubtedly been a messy endeavor.
Tim dove, tackling Anderson around the waist and knocking him to the floor just a moment before he could have made it through the door. Anderson swung, catching Tim in the temple and sending a jolt of adrenaline through his body. Tim rolled, pushing Anderson onto his stomach and pulling him into a headlock while straddling the man's torso in an effort to keep him still.
"Stop fucking fighting me," Tim grunted through his clenched jaw. Anderson was wiry, but much taller than Tim, and his gangly legs were flailing wildly, bucking Tim's body and thwarting his attempts to reach his handcuffs.
Finally, exhausted by the situation and out of other options, Tim pulled his service weapon and pressed the barrel hard into the back of Anderson's head.
Anderson stopped struggling almost immediately and Tim could smell the piss as his bladder emptied itself. Tim didn't waste any time, yanking out his cuffs and restraining the Sergeant before pulling him to his feet, keeping the pistol pressed against the man's temple as he marched him into the peach-colored kitchen.
Tim slammed Anderson down into one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs at the dining table and took two steps back.
"Sergeant Anderson, let me tell you a little bit about myself."
"Like I could give a shit—"
"I am a bona fide U.S. Army Ranger. Specifically, I was trained in the service as a sniper, and I was the best one they had on every tour I served," Tim leaned hard on the every for Anderson's benefit, "Just some information I thought you should have before you decide to take your chances against me and my trusty side arm here."
Tim watched as Anderson mulled this information, weighing his chances.
"Of course, if you'd like to take a leap of faith, I'm happy to give you a demonstration of my abilities."
He could practically see the steam bursting from Anderson's ears, which only improved his cartoonish appearance. It also didn't help him look very intimidating, especially with the piss stain running down the front of his jeans.
"Who sent you?"
"It doesn't matter. What matters is what I want to know: Who paid you to cover that shit up, who helped you do it, and what happened to the victims."
Anderson sneered. "If I tell you, I'm as good as fucking dead anyway."
"Well, you might as well do something nice before you kick it, then, huh? Maybe save yourself a circle or two when you get where you're going," Tim's patience was waning and he could feel his headache returning, thanks at least in part to Anderson's punch. "Who paid you?"
"Some Russian guy. I didn't ask his name and he didn't give it, so I just called him Boris. Don't think he liked it much."
The strain on Tim's eyes was increasing, making it difficult for him to look at Anderson's too-bright shirt.
"Who helped you?"
"This fed approached me about being his local contact a while ago. Said there was a cartel or some shit moving drugs and stuff through the area; that if I caught wind of anything, I should call him first. He's the one who put me in touch with Boris."
Why was everything in this house so goddamn colorful? Tim couldn't find a neutral spot to focus on and it was making his vision swim a little.
"What's the fed's name?"
"Chris Romero."
Fuck. Tim kept his expression neutral, but his brain was racing. Kathryn's handler had been double-dipping. He must have also been the one who ratted her out to Solkov. Tim's grip on his gun tensed minutely. The fucker had sent her to die without any indication to her or remorse about it whatsoever.
Tim was suddenly quite happy that Romero had already been murdered. At least Dawson had saved him the trouble of shooting the fucker himself.
"You got any proof?"
"Text messages. My phone's in the living room if you want to grab it."
Tim didn't take the bait, and he could see that Anderson was disappointed. "Not as dumb as I look, Chad."
Anderson shrugged. "Had to try."
Tim's blood pressure was pounding in his ears and his headache had now fully blossomed, renewed tension blooming behind his left eye with unrestrained ferocity.
"What happened to the victims from the truck?"
Tim wondered if Anderson had known it was a mistake to smirk when he did it. He wondered whether the Sergeant had time to register the fact that his laughter had been a gross miscalculation before the butt of Tim's pistol whipped across his face and he landed on the floor.
How quickly had that laugh turned to an agonized shout as Tim knelt down and pummeled Chad's stupid goddamn face with his fists?
#
When the knock came, Tim was sitting in the living room and he was only half-aware of his feet carrying him over to the front door to pull it open.
Kathryn took one look at him and frowned. "Jesus, Deputy, get back inside."
He'd been sitting in the dark, and he flinched when Kathryn flipped on a light so she could see where she was going.
Tim watched dumbly as she walked into the kitchen and bent over Anderson's bloody countenance to check his pulse. "Well, he's not dead, at least." She looked back up at Tim, who was standing with his hands shoved in his pockets. He felt like he might pass out. He needed to sit back down. "What the fuck happened?"
"He laughed," Tim said. Kathryn's face made it clear she didn't understand. "I asked him where those kids went after they took them from the park and he fucking laughed."
Tim didn't like the way Kathryn was looking at him; like he was the last Tasmanian Tiger pacing around its too-small cage and she was afraid he might figure out how to open the door.
He watched Kathryn chew her bottom lip. But then instead of looking at her face, he focused on the simple black color of her jacket, letting his gaze soften, so she was nothing but a comforting blur.
Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure out how to get him out of this mess. Maybe he should have shot the guy, after all. At least the paperwork would have been more straightforward.
If his head didn't hurt so much and his body didn't feel so fucking cold, Tim thought maybe he'd feel a little appreciation—maybe even some genuine affection—for the woman who had just driven more than two hours to try and save his skin. As it was, every bit of his consciousness was going to keeping him upright, so there was no room for gratitude.
"We could leave him here," she said, but Tim shook his head.
"One of his troopers gave me the address and knew I was coming. They'll figure it out no problem."
Kathryn took another moment to weigh her options. "You told him who you were?"
"Of course I did." She rolled her eyes. "Listen, it's not like I intended to beat the shit out of him, all right?"
Kathryn's frown softened a fraction as she watched Tim run his hands through his hair, exasperated by himself and the situation. She nodded, agreeing with some silent plan in her head.
"Can you drive, Deputy?"
Tim nodded once, even though he wasn't entirely convinced.
"I'm gonna pull my car around back. Take those cuffs off."
Kathryn couldn't have been gone more than a few minutes, but it felt like ages. Tim looked at Anderson's mashed nose and mutilated lip and felt nothing. It was like he'd never left the sandbox; like looking at death was still second nature.
He's not dead, Tim reminded himself. Not yet.
He helped Kathryn drag the unconscious man to her car and lie him down in the backseat.
"Do we need to take anything out of here?" she asked.
"Dick's cellphone. It's in the living room."
Kathryn nodded and when she returned, she pressed the phone into Tim's hands. Tim was glad she hadn't opened it herself. What if there really were texts from Romero? What if Anderson had been telling the truth and someone Kathryn trusted had set her up and then sent her to slaughter?
"Follow me," she said.
Tim nodded again.
#
When Kathryn had pulled over, telling him to stay in his car and wait for her, he hadn't really known what she meant to do. But then he heard a single gunshot and a few moments later, Kathryn dove into his backseat and told him to drive, slowly, northwest toward the highway.
So he did.
He wanted to go back to his apartment, but Kathryn told him that wasn't an option.
"I can't be there. If anyone found out…"
"If anyone found out about anything I've been doing, I'd be dismissed and arrested."
"Pull in there," she said, ignoring his comment and instead pointing him toward a motel sign down a darkened side street. She was still lying down in the backseat, so he went in and got the room, and she didn't come up herself until twenty minutes after he'd let himself in, even though he told her that was stupid.
Kathryn collapsed on the end of the bed, letting her head fall into her hands. Tim sat near her but made sure to leave a reasonable space between their bodies. He looked at his hands—they were shaking, and he could still see dried flecks of blood under his fingernails where he hadn't scrubbed hard enough.
He realized he hadn't eaten anything since the breakfast sandwich he'd had more than twelve hours prior.
When he looked up, Kathryn was watching him with a serious gaze that made him feel like she was scolding him.
"I'm sorry," he said, lamely.
"What the fuck, Deputy?"
Tim didn't have a good answer. He hadn't lost his temper that completely in almost a decade. It was disgraceful, unnecessary, and it complicated an already double-fucked situation exponentially.
Rather than offer some feeble excuse, Tim remained silent. He could feel Kathryn's eyes still on him and he shifted uncomfortably.
"Tim, look at me."
When he did, he could see the concern clear and obvious on her face. He hated it. Hated the pity he saw written in the way her brows were knit together. He couldn't hold her gaze for long, and so he looked back down at his still trembling hands and talked to them instead.
He didn't even know why he said it. It shouldn't have been important, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
"You know my mother was born and died the same week, 45 years apart?"
He could feel Kathryn shift on the bed, bringing one knee up onto the mattress so she could turn her body toward him fully. He hazarded a glance at her and she nodded gravely.
Of course she fucking knew. It seemed like Kathryn knew everything about him, especially the shit he wished she didn't.
"Is it like this every year?"
"Not always," he said, which was true, though it had been before. "I'd say there's a few other factors this time." Tim attempted a wry grin, but he couldn't quite muster the energy.
"You're done, Deputy. I'll tell Delia. I'll make sure she doesn't involve you further."
Tim looked up at her and he could see she was being sincere. Her eyes were soft and kind.
He hated it. He wanted to slap that stupid expression right off her goddamn face. Wanted her to yell at him, slap him back; anything but this.
"Pity doesn't look good on you, ma'am."
"It isn't pity, Deputy. I'm fucking concerned. You're losing your shit. And when you lose your shit, you make mistakes. I don't want you to end up dead."
Tim's head was swimming. He needed to eat something.
Instead, he leaned forward and grasped Kathryn by the back of the neck, pulling her into a desperate kiss. For a moment, he didn't think she would return the gesture, but then she did, and it felt fucking good. He let himself get lost in her for the moment; pushed away every other stupid thing from his mind and just focused on the feel of her skin and the way she tasted.
But when he leaned forward to deepen the kiss, she pulled away and put an arresting hand on his shoulder.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Deputy."
Tim knew she was right, but he still pressed his forehead against hers, unwilling to break contact just yet.
Kathryn ran her hand through his hair and down the back of his head before she pulled away. For the few seconds her fingers caressed his scalp, his headache dissipated just a fraction. But then it was back, renewed in her absence as she stood from the bed.
"What do you want on your pizza?"
"No fruit, no veg."
Kathryn smirked. "You got it."