When Kathryn stepped into the bathroom, Tim immediately felt awkward.
"Turn around," he said, and she complied, her face blank and unreadable. "If I uncuff you, are you gonna give me a hard time?"
"Probably."
Tim sighed, "Could you not? Please? I'm too tired for your bullshit today." Tim leaned down, deciding to release her legs first before standing and unlocking the cuffs around her wrists. She shook them out, flexing her fingers and rolling her hands around.
"Thank you," she said, and to Tim it sounded finally like the Kathryn he had come to know instead of the fugitive Sarah Geller.
Tim leaned over and turned on the shower, giving the stall a perfunctory sweep with his eyes to ensure there were no razors or other potentially hazardous implements. All he saw was a plastic bottle of bargain shampoo and a bar of Irish Spring.
"You need anything?" he asked, but she shook her head, so he turned his back to her and leaned against the doorframe to let her undress in privacy. He heard her start to shift out of her jumpsuit, but turned to look instinctively when she made a pained noise.
She had her back to him, and the cut across her right shoulder was bleeding. Whoever had bandaged it had done a piss poor job, and it looked about ten seconds from becoming infected.
"Jesus, Kathryn, stop a second."
"Don't call me that," she said.
"There aren't any bugs here, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm more worried about your nosey friend." Tim conceded this was not necessarily an overreaction on her part. Dealing with Raylan could certainly be tricky, and despite the man's every attempt, it was obvious he was more perceptive than he let on.
"Let me bandage this before you get in. Wait here."
Tim knew he was taking a chance leaving her alone, but the first aid kit was in the kitchen and he didn't think marching Kathryn half-naked through the house was going to do anyone any favors.
He was pleased to find her seated on the edge of the tub when he returned, seemingly not interested in making a run for it just yet.
Tim sat behind her and removed the sticky gauze covering the wound. He noticed, too, that her ribs were dark purple. A token, no doubt, from the overzealous guards who'd kicked her while she was literally down; crumpled and already injured on the floor.
"You get those ribs checked out?"
She snorted, "They barely gave me an ibuprofen for my nose."
Even though he'd expected as much, it made Tim angry to know her medical care had been neglected following the attack. "I'll see if I can get Reed or Art to schedule something for you."
She didn't say anything, but he knew she was grateful from the way her tense muscles finally relaxed against his fingers.
The cut wasn't too deep, but it was jagged and raw; the skin along the edge of the incision nearly shredded by the primitive implement used to do the slashing.
"This needs stitches. And a plastic surgeon if you ever plan to do any modelling."
He was rewarded for his dumb joke with a short laugh. "You gonna sew me up, Deputy?"
"All I can do is duct tape you back together for now," he said, and he remembered her doing just that to herself for a similar wound on her abdomen. Then his mind flashed through the last time he'd been in that room, bitter and hurting and out of control.
It was not a memory he relished, and so he forced it away by focusing on the task in front of him, sifting through the contents of the meager first aid kit until he found the tools he needed.
Tim was certainly no medic, but he'd seen his fair share of them work on injured soldiers in the field. At least he didn't have to contend with the chaos of battle or sand flying into the wound as he'd seen happen a hundred times.
She cursed when he took a gauze pad soaked with antiseptic to the cut, and he mumbled a bashful, "Sorry."
"It's fine," she said, and he truly hoped it was.
Tim didn't know if she understood why he'd done it. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to tell her that his only intention was to keep her safe while he figured out the best way to handle Mark Dawson before he had a chance to kill her.
Looking at her damaged body in front of him now, Tim wondered if his plan to keep her out of the hitman's clutches had been a gross miscalculation. She probably would have stood a better chance without his help.
"Chad Anderson is dead, by the way. Dawson got to him last night."
"Good," was her answer.
"Yeah?"
"If he's dead, he can't identify you and you're off the hook."
"It also means you're the only one left on Dawson's docket," he said as he laid fresh gauze over the long gash on her shoulder. He hoped the tape in the kit would be enough to keep water out of the dressing while she showered and until she could get it looked at properly. "There, that's as good as I can do."
"Thanks," she said, and his eyes lingered on her for a moment before he stood and resumed his station at the door, his back to her as she finished undressing and stepped under the showerhead.
"Try to keep it out of the water, if you can," he said, "I'm not exactly a professional."
When she didn't respond, Tim glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was all right, and he could see through a gap in the curtain that she was leaned heavily against the wall, eyes closed as the water cascaded over her.
He wished he could help her feel less weary and alone, but all he could do for now was continue to keep her out of Dawson's grasp and hope the rest would work itself out.
"Tim!"
Tim jerked his head back to the front, but not before Kathryn's eyes snapped open at Raylan's outburst and their eyes met for a brief second, so she knew he'd been watching her.
"What?"
"Come here."
Tim shot Kathryn a quick look. "Don't try anything, okay?"
Kathryn smiled, "Don't think I could even if I wanted to."
Tim nodded, satisfied after seeing her injuries that she was being truthful. He didn't think she was physically capable of outrunning him. Hell, at the present moment, she didn't look like she could elude Art in a footrace.
Raylan was in the living room, peering carefully through the lace curtains over the front window.
"What is it, Raylan?" Tim asked, half-expecting some lame joke about interrupting his special time with Kathryn.
"Someone's here," Raylan said, and when he looked at Tim, the elder Marshal was all business.
"Shit." Raylan stepped aside so Tim could get a good look. "I didn't see anyone follow us on our way in."
"Neither did I, but it looks like somebody figured us out."
The house they were in sat at the dead-end of a street, and while there were certainly neighbors, none of them were quite close enough to necessitate parking directly outside. Yet, there was a bright red pickup truck idling just across the street, its windows so tinted they looked like they belonged in a black hole.
While it was possible someone had just gotten lost, or was looking for a secluded spot to get a blowjob without their wife noticing, every cell in Tim's body lit up, and he knew Raylan was right.
"You think it's Dawson?"
"Dunno; haven't seen anybody get out of the car, yet."
Tim flipped the curtains closed and marched quickly back to the bathroom, where Kathryn was still standing under the showerhead, rinsing her hair.
"Get dressed," he said.
"Why?"
"Somebody's watching the house and we may need to move quickly."
Tim was grateful that his history with Kathryn meant she knew he was being serious. She flipped off the water and caught the towel he tossed her with her uncompromised arm before he left her to dry off and get dressed.
"What are you thinking?" he asked Raylan, who was still waiting by the front window.
"Reed's supposed to be here in a half hour. Maybe if he shows up, it'll spook 'em."
"Not if it's Dawson."
"But maybe it isn't." Raylan's eyes drifted away from the window as Kathryn emerged from the bathroom, hair dripping, but re-clothed in her tan coveralls. "Ms. Geller, I'm gonna need you to stay away from the windows."
"Who is it?" she asked, but she was looking at Tim, not Raylan, and Tim knew his Raylan had noticed as much.
"We don't know."
Kathryn ignored Raylan's warning entirely, walking straight up to the front door and peering carefully out the window cut into the top of it.
"Ms. Geller, I said—"
"I know what you said, Deputy Givens, but I can tell you who that is."
#
"You know this guy?" Tim asked.
Kathryn nodded. "He used to work under Solkov until he got promoted and his job went to Popescu."
"Are those real names?" Raylan's face made it clear he didn't care for the clunky monikers in the least.
"Yep," Tim said, "I killed both of them."
"This guy—Dmitri Korsakova—was always a slimeball. He used to kiss me on the mouth every time we met, told me it was a 'Russian greeting.'" Kathryn's face wrinkled in disgust, "He was always chewing tobacco when he did it." Kathryn moved away from the window, which Tim had to admit was a relief, "I was honestly surprised it took him so long to move up because he's the exact kind of scumbag these people always seem to want at the top."
"Who are these people?" Raylan asked.
Tim answered, but his eyes were still locked on Kathryn's. "Human traffickers, mostly. What do you think we should do?"
"I—"
"Not you, Raylan."
Tim knew he was taking a risk, but if there was ever a moment he knew he could trust Kathryn, it was this. He'd take his ass chewing later, and plead his case for forgiveness to Raylan and Reed and Vasquez and the goddamn Director of the FBI if he had to.
For now, she was the person he wanted in his corner and on his six.
"He won't be alone," she said, "And I wouldn't be surprised if they had someone coming up through the woods in the back. That's what I would have done."
"How'd they figure out where you are?"
Kathryn shook her head, "They must have known you'd move me after I killed that idiot they sent. I assume they followed us from the prison."
"Hold on just a second." Tim couldn't stop the eye roll. He didn't have the time or patience for Raylan's bullshit. "Tim—"
Tim pulled his backup piece from its holster and held it out to Kathryn. She reached for it, but Raylan pulled his weapon first. Tim had nearly forgotten how quick he was on the draw.
"I'm gonna have to stop you right there, Tim. We are not giving the federal fugitive in our custody—wanted for murder, as I recall—a loaded weapon."
Tim could have pointed his handgun at Raylan to prove a point. He could have threatened to shoot him dead at point blank range. He was sure such a bluff would have worked. But he decided a more diplomatic approach might serve him better under the circumstances.
"Raylan, I am telling you, we can trust her. I trust her."
Raylan looked at Tim intently. "Well, I don't."
"We need her. If they're surrounding this place—and they probably are—you know I'm right," he paused, waiting to see if that was enough for Raylan to change his mind. When it didn't appear to be, he added, "I don't have my rifle with me."
Raylan considered Tim's words for a moment before he reluctantly lowered his weapon.
Kathryn took the proffered handgun from Tim and walked toward the back of the house, to the kitchen, where she peeked over the window ledge cautiously.
Tim unholstered his official weapon, waiting for Kathryn's confirmation.
"There are two men on the treeline," she said.
"Fuck."
"There could be more, but that's all I can see."
Kathryn reentered the living room and Raylan's gaze fell to the piece in her hands.
"I swear to god, Tim, if she kills you, I'm—"
"Trust me, Raylan, if Ms. Geller wanted either of us dead, we would be already." Tim decided that playing up Kathryn's ruthlessness now wasn't a bad idea, and from the smile that spread across her face at his words, he assumed she agreed.
What Tim neglected to mention was the fact that she'd had at least a dozen opportunities to kill him in all the time they'd spent together. Often, in much more vulnerable or embarrassing situations. He knew the trust he had in her as related to his own life was not misplaced, but he couldn't be entirely sure that would hold true for Raylan or anyone else from the task force; he could only hope.
Raylan didn't need to know that detail, however.