Durant Days
Chapter 3
A/N: Maybe the maple syrup is cooling…but it's still flowing. Some pretty incredible work coming out of other people's fingers. I am in awe. Still, I am not writing as dark as that these days.
It had been almost a week since the three young men had taken residence in Durant. They made Vic feel old. She had no idea how they made Walt feel, she rarely saw him. Instead, she and Ferg alternately conducted morning trainings, then took the guys out with them, having them shadow the tedium which was most of police work, most of the time. Walt came in to wade through the endless paperwork and decision-making, and to cover while she and/or Ferg were out with the new guys.
She had nicknamed them Tweedledum, Tweedledee, and Tweedledumber, which wasn't fair. They were all nice guys, but they all reminded her of Ferg about four years ago – or before she'd met and had corrupted his ears with her brand of Terror, including language.
Ferg had snickered after observing them for an afternoon. "Should we take away their bullets, like Barney Fife?" Appalled that she knew the reference, she answered, "No, they might need them, but we need to be sure they know when they need them."
She thought Ferg enjoyed being promoted to a 'Senior Deputy' for a while, although she had not been promoted beyond 'Undersheriff.' He had reverted back to his small desk after the Connally shooting, but with the new guys there, had moved back up to Branch's.
"Temporary," said Ferg, almost apologetically. He wouldn't say it, but she knew he hoped Branch would return as the man he could be.
"Fucking deserved," she said promptly, and she saw Ferg straighten a little as if in pride, but it made one of the rookies jump. They weren't used to a woman using coarse language as an art form. Ferg had early-on of necessity developed immunity to it.
One of the new guys had Ferg's old desk, one had a card table, and one had…nothing. He sort of worked from two opposing chairs with his laptop propped on his legs.
The rookies' names were Jon Blackburn (Tweedledum), Chet Strahan (Tweedledee) and Billy Lassiter (Tweedledumber.) Not one of them did she trust in the field with her, which prompted an edict from her on the second day of training. In fairness, she did leave a message on Walt's voicemail about it, since he wasn't in when the inspiration hit.
"It will be good training for us to wear tactical vests this week."
"Are there enough, Vic?" Ferg had a point. They had stocked up for the Sheriff and three deputies when a grant had presented itself, and here they would have the Sheriff and five deputies.
"I doubt if Walt will wear one, maybe I won't, either."
"Or we just wear them if we are on calls together with the new guys."
"Yeah, that makes sense," she agreed. Problem solved.
So she and Ferg broke the rookies out into sections, and she designed a curriculum to familiarize them with available weaponry, policies and procedures, her patented wristlock which had been known to make huge men cry, and the finer points of Absaroka County quirks and crazies, of which there were no dearth.
By the end of the third week, Jon, Chet and Billy seemed to be settling in a little. She and Ferg began taking them out on calls. Most of them were lost dogs, broken down cars and the occasional filch from the Kum and Go, but that Friday afternoon they received a call from Geordie Ainsley. It was a wildly-worded call that Ruby played back for all of them.
"He's convinced the IRS is coming to take his prized convertible," Vic said to the men milling about. He's done this before. I've gone out there with Walt a couple of times. Here's how we handle it: we don't want to spook him, so we do not draw our weapons. We engage him in conversation, and offer to protect his property from removal."
"So the IRS really doesn't want it?" asked Billy. She hadn't dubbed him dumb-er for nuthin'.
"Nope. Geordie is probably off his meds again. It happens."
"Oh."
"Just follow my lead, but this is one we'll wear vests for. He might be armed."
"Armed!" yelped Chet.
"Yeah," she replied drily, trying not to sound too sarcastic, "Like about ninety percent of Absaroka County."
"Oh, okay."
XXX
In the end, she took Jon, who seemed to be most in control of the three of them. They both had tactical vests on. The first day, she and Ferg had practiced entries with all the rookies, how not to get knocked over by fleeing suspects, how to announce their presence, so today, she let Jon stand to the side, knock, and shout, "Sheriff's Department!"
No answer. Well, someone had called the station less than fifteen minutes ago from this address.
She sang out, thinking a familiar voice might help. "Sheriff's Department. This is Deputy Moretti! Do you remember me, Geordie?"
A shuffling inside. Then, unmistakably, "Yep. Walt's girlfriend."
She inhaled sharply, oh, that was not good, to be thought of as that. She shot a quick challenging side-look to Jon, whose eyes narrowed.
"His deputy, Geordie. I'm Undersheriff to Walt, like second in command, and I'm here because you called us for help. Do you remember that?"
"Get back!" cried a voice from inside. "Get back!"
She scowled. That wasn't Geordie's voice. It sounded…female.
"Are you all right, Geordie? Are you alone?"
"No, I'm not all right, I told you dumbshits that this IRS thief is here to take my convertible."
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jon with his hand on his weapon. She made the sign for 'stand down.' Last thing they needed was Jon terrifying either Geordie or the woman inside.
"Who is your guest, Geordie?" she asked, trying to keep the dialog going.
"Ain't no guest, she's trying to take my car!" he shouted, sounding frantic.
"Is your gun out, Geordie?"
"Darn tootin'! She's trying to steal Clarisse!"
"Who is she, Geordie?"
"She says she's Mary Makilla from Cheyenne, here to collect for the IRS, but she says she's FBI."
She blinked. An FBI agent for real? "For not paying taxes, Geordie?"
"I don't owe taxes. It's a mistake."
"Ah, Geordie, you can't pull a gun on the FBI."
"She says she'll shoot us if I don't stand down."
"She could, Geordie. You should stand down."
"I will if Walt tells me to, otherwise, I'll shoot anyone who tries and take Clarisse from me."
She turned to tell Jon to call Walt and get him over there, but before she could say a word, she heard a 'snick, snick' sound and was thrown into the hood of her truck.
"What the fuck!" she said, rebounding by charging at Jon, whose Glock was suddenly out. She tossed him to the ground, putting the truck between them and the house. His gun flew out and fired, knocking out her headlight and generating another round of fire from inside the house, one of which hit her grille.
"You fucker!" she hissed. "You spooked him! Or her."
From the house came "FBI, stand down Deputy!"
She looked down, seeing two burn marks on her vest. Walt would be furious. She just had to make sure he didn't take it out on a Tweedle brother.
"Shit!"
XXX
The self-identified FBI agent came out of the house dragging Geordie by the collar like a human shield. Mary Makilla was tall, angular, and fuming, with scraped back greying hair, and wearing a black pantsuit. Not screaming 'FBI,' though.
"Officer down!" Oh, multicrappola, Jon was calling Ruby. She grabbed the mike. "Ruby, I'm fine! We're wearing vests! No one is down. Don't bother Walt until I figure out what's going on!"
That was immediately followed by, "Ruby, this is Unit 1. My 10-20 is Sheridan. On my way." So he'd been listening. She figured she had about a half hour to wind this up if he came in hot.
The Ferg pulled up in the badass Trans Am at that moment. Mercifully, the other Tweedles were not with him.
"FBI ID, please," she said, badging the FBI agent with her own. The woman looked daggers at her, as though she wasn't worth it, and didn't badge her back. Red flags went up.
"Release the suspect, please," she said, we'll take it from here."
"No, I'm here to get his car, dead or alive." She wondered idly if the woman meant the car or the man.
To her credit, she didn't shoot Mary or whoever she really ID'd as, just turned away a moment to deflect her attention, and used the quick reverse wristlock she preferred on her. The offending weapon clattered to the concrete. She deftly cuffed Mary to a table on the porch. Pretty sad for a pseudo-FBI, really. Pretty nifty that one of the Tweedles saw her use the wristlock they'd been practicing for almost two weeks.
"You're lead on this one, Ferg. Cuff Geordie too, process the crime scene and take them both in until we can get this sorted out. I'm driving to the ER now, or Walt will have my hide for not getting checked out." She winced at this last, because she was really very sore, but definitely not down.
She left Ferg showing Jon the finer aspects of getting suspects into a Trans Am. With several years' experience in thorny cases, she trusted that he would delegate all the shit duties and make it through most of the paperwork before she returned to the station later.
She hoped her exit was a spectacular as Walt's had been from the meadow a few weeks before, and that Jon the Tweedle hadn't missed it.
XXX
She had already been gowned, examined, and to X-ray twice. She'd been manipulated and studied from all angles. She had an icepack taped to the back of her right shoulder. She was pretty tired of it all and all along had been pretty sure she was okay.
Dr. Weston made a face. "You're going to have some spectacular bruising," he said, "especially on the back of your shoulder where you hit your car, but the second X-ray still shows no internal bleeding." He was once again feeling her ribs, when a commotion arose down the hall.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. She would make book, Walt, coming in hot.
The door almost blew open as Walt filled the doorway and it seemed like he teleported to her without stopping.
"You shouldn't be in here, Sheriff." Weston wasn't afraid of Walt, not a bit, and she definitely liked that about him.
She could see Walt's jaw working. Was he trembling?
"What happened?" His voice was almost feral, little more than a growl. He suddenly took one more step forward and threw her gown up without warning. She inhaled sharply, but said nothing. His large ends splayed over the two bruised areas, which flanked more promising territory that he pointedly ignored for the moment.
"Sheriff!" admonished Weston, then, "We took X-rays twice. No internal bleeding, no apparent damage," he said, trying to restore a professional demeanor.
"Leave us. Please." Walt seemed to have run out of words.
She nodded and sort of gave Dr. Weston permission to step out. As soon as Weston had closed the door behind him, Walt dropped a little, leaning in as her gown fell once more about her, his cheek resting on her now-covered breasts. His arms went around, and she knew he was trying not to squeeze.
It took only a moment for her to gather his head to her, threading her fingers through his unruly hair. He stepped in closer to her thighs where she sat on the gurney. She no longer wore jeans in deference to the X-rays, and wearing only blue bikinis, used her ankles to hook him in, abandoning the threading and resorting to spearing his hair. She wanted to be gentle, but she didn't think he felt that. She wanted him to feel she was all right.
"Walt, it wasn't the rookie's fault, not really," she began in a low, soothing voice, "and we were both wearing vests. Don't go looking for someone to punch." It was not a request.
"What happened?" he asked again, eyes still wild and somehow liquid. This time, she heard the mirror of the words she had said to him when he had returned from rescuing and stabilizing Branch after the shooting the year before, and realized his fear. She knew this time the fear was for her, but they both knew it might happen again, to either or both of them, and be much, much worse.
In a calm and measured voice, she filled in as much as she knew. "There was a crazy in there with Geordie. I am pretty sure she isn't or ever was FBI. I left Ferg as lead. He can handle it for prints, DNA and the works. I only left to come here because I knew you'd blow up if I didn't get seen first and info later."
"Someone should have driven you, or the EMTs," he growled into her unbruised shoulder and trailing hair. Her ponytail seemed to have disappeared in the force of nature which were his roving hands.
"I got here before they could have even picked me up," she assured him. "and I am betting that Ferg did great. We need to find out who this so-called FBI woman is, and why she was terrorizing Geordie. It makes me wonder whether she hasn't done this, before, or maybe to someone else."
He saw her vest sitting over on the Wife's Chair, bent over and examined it. It was like he was loathe to let her go, but he studied it very carefully before returning and putting his arms more judiciously around her neck, interlocking his fingers behind. He bowed his head so his forehead touched hers.
"I have tried, Vic. Tried."
She made a noise of not understanding. "Tried what, Walt?" She had her hands in his hair, again, this time, very gentle. He knew she was there, now.
"Keeping a strictly professional relationship, after I figured out Nighthorse had been behind Martha and Cady, and still employs Malachi, who was somehow behind Henry's arrest…"
"Yeah, so?" she asked mildly.
He shook his head as though it should be obvious. "We can't get closer, or I may put you at risk."
A chill ran through her. So that was it. That explained so much….
"…but I can't, anymore." He shook his head helplessly, his hands separating in supplication.
"That was what you wanted to talk about a few weeks ago?"
"A coward, I'm a sniveling coward when it comes to anyone else getting hurt."
She took a deep breath. She was sore, it was a shorter breath than usual, but she had been assured the ribs weren't broken or even cracked, merely bruised. Hurt like hell, though.
"Still protecting me," she said to his hair.
"It's just…me. How I am wired."
"I know. I like just you how you am wired."
He shifted from her, stood away and gazed at her with piercing, full eyes.
"Get dressed and I'll take you home."
"That's up to Weston," she reminded him.
"My home," he clarified. At her raised eyebrows, he rationalized, "Everyone knows to call me there, and I can monitor you all night."
"Oh. Yeah. Monitor. Like you were doing a few minutes ago?" Did she sound sarcastic enough in the department of sarcastic, yet?
"Yeah, maybe like that." Then, reflecting, "Um, no, more than that."
She tried to decide whether to let that go. He did indeed look very earnest at that moment.
"Don't ever offer me anything you and Martha shared again, okay? I almost filed an application for Philly after that."
His eyes flickered in surprise. "I won't. Point taken. But…she lived at the cabin…"
"For a very short time. It wasn't even finished. I'm okay with that."
"Well."
"I could go back to my house and use the sleep sofa."
"No."
"I may need some stuff from there."
"Noted. Make me a list, I can go over later, when you're asleep.
"Well."
"Well. Will you go to Durant Days with me?"
If she had been drinking, she would have spit it all over the gown.
"You serious?"
"Yep."
"You're asking me on a date in here." It was not a question.
"Figure if you're going to spend the night with me, you must like me a little. I might as well take the opportunity to ask before the Tweedles do."
She made another, more humorous noise through her nose. "The what?"
"You know."
She made a sound. "Yeahhhh, but…you shouldn't. Besides, they're all terrified of me."
"Is that a yes?"
"Well, since you asked so nice, and made such a pretty entrance…"
Her heart did a backflip flip as that elicited a private smile.
"You double-parked, didn't you?"
"Sort of."
That meant he hadn't parked at all. She began to laugh, which hurt her ribs.
"Go park. Put Weston out of his misery and send him back."
"Yes, ma'am," but his grin was for her only, as he disappeared out the door.