Can I just say, I both love and hate how little we get of Tim's background? It's just enough to give you something to chew on, but there isn't nearly enough there to tell you what drives him. But the good part about this mystery is that it gives sad little Tim-girls like me room to play with his history and his family and his hometown and such. I just thought I should say that, even though it's really not important. I'm just too lazy to stop myself...

Anyway, this chapter plays off that scene when Tim is doing all those favors for Raylan and Art asks someone to check in with the girlfriend from the Hopkins case.

Heh.

Tim sighed as he rolled out of his bed that morning. He had today off, thanks to that week's schedule rotation, which left him with the night shift the next day. Still, he couldn't sleep past 6:30 in the morning. It didn't matter if he went to bed at 4 in the morning, he would wake up at 6:30 on the dot, or some time before. Tim stood and stretched, clad only in boxers and a little reluctant to move from his carpeted bedroom to the wooden floor of the hallway. His back muscles popped and stretched, his arm muscles did too. He shook out his legs, rolled his ankles, and walked over to the window, noticing the crisp air and falling leaves, but the fairly sunny sky.

It would be a good day for a run.

He hadn't been running just for the hell of it in a while. He'd ran to keep in shape for Glynco, he'd ran to stay alive, and he'd ran to chase down fugitives. But he hadn't been running just to feel the wind in his face and the concrete under his feet in a long while.

He went into his living room and started pilfering through boxes. You wouldn't know he was planning on being here in Lexington for another two years by the state of his apartment. Furniture he ordered online or bought disassembled at Walmart or Target was still in the boxes, laid up against the walls, boxes of his old possessions from before he went off to war (which his brother Steven had held for him because his other brother, Martin, moved a lot) sat unpacked, but opened and pilfered through, all around the apartment.

It was a simple set up: Kitchenette, living room, bathroom, bedroom, closet. He much preferred Maxine's place. Her house wasn't that much larger - at least, he didn't think it was. It was just homier and brighter and it looked like someone actually lived there. Tim's place felt clinical and temporary, like a motel room.

"Ah!" he said, victorious, as he found the last pair of running shoes he ever bought. They were old and most likely out of style because he had bought them back in 2000, but they were in his size and if he remembered right, they supported his stride well. He made his way over to his bedroom and grabbed socks, underwear, sweats (because it was a little nippy out) and his Army t-shirt. He yanked it all on and slipped on the old shoes, lacing them up tight.

Yeah, those'd work great.

He figured he should eat and hydrate first, and walked into the kitchen. He filled up a glass of water and drank it as he ate an orange. He then figured he needed to wait to digest so he didn't vomit on his run and started looking for his iPod. He found it in his dresser drawer, next to the box of Trojans and a spare key to his car. He knew he had an arm band for that thing somewhere, and by the time he found it, the clock was reading 9 in the morning.

He was out the door, bouncing down the apartment building's stairs while he shook out his arms and tried to get himself pumped up.

He walked out the lobby and looked at the street, wondering which way to go. Right or left?

He played a quick game of Eenie Meenie and wound up with right. So, he turned right and went down the street at a steady pace, Dave Alvin's voice rumbling in his ears.

Maxine hated days in the office when someone was missing. It wasn't like they had happened often in the few weeks she'd been in Lexington, but when they did, they were a little disconcerting. It was a small office, and everyone was used to strange workloads, but really, the strangeness came when everyone else in the office decided to get a personality.

When Raylan was gone, everyone tried to be just as overconfident and rude. When Rachel was gone, the entire office simultaneously decided to put their noses to the grindstone. But with Tim gone?

The damn office had turned into a playground. Garcia, the guy with the desk just across from Maxine's, next to the copier and the coffee pot, also the guy Maxine referred to as The Keeper of the Menus, had made a crossbow out of rubber bands, a binder clip, and some pencils. He was currently using said cross bow to fire paper wads across the walkway at Nelson and Reynolds, who were arguing over whether or not a girl's hotness coincided directly with her craziness.

Maxine wanted to roll her eyes at the argument and tell them that there was no point in arguing. Anybody who had ever taken a statistics class knew that correlation did not directly mean a cause-and-effect function. God.

Maxine was ultimately relieved when an email came with a warrant for the arrest of a man in Bluegrass Station. He was cashing in the pension check of his long-dead uncle. She made the necessary phone calls, first. To put a stop to said pension checks. Then, she stood, grabbed her coat, and turned to find someone to go with her. Despite how often Raylan liked to go off on his own, it was protocol to always have someone with you.

She didn't know Garcia that well, and she wasn't sure she wanted to be in a car with him for an hour. Nelson was kind of scarily bland. Like, he had so little personality Maxine was pretty sure that he would be the one person in the office to kill someone and then wear their skin as pajamas. Rachel was busy, and Raylan was down in Harlan or something (she just always assumed that was where he went when he wasn't in the office).

"Reynolds!" she called, whistling to catch his attention. Reynolds' head snapped up and he caught one of Garcia's crossbow-propelled paper wads in the face. "Let's go!" she ordered.

"Where are we going?" he asked, grabbing his jacket and wallet and keys, joining her at the door.

"Bluegrass Station. A guy's been cashing in the pension checks for his long-dead uncle. I've already called to put a stop to the checks, but we gotta go and see if we can't find the uncle's place and see who's been grabbing the mail."

"Alright. Well, when we get there, we should start with the neighbors, right?"

"Naturally."

Maxine sighed from the passenger seat of Reynold's car. She had been a little miffed that he suggested they take his car, but not because she didn't like Reynolds' Chrysler, merely because she didn't like being the passenger. Being the passenger meant forfeiting control of the destination and that didn't sit well with her.

Reynolds slid back into the driver's seat, huffing. "Well, Mrs. Schumacher was no help. Said someone had been picking up the mail, but she didn't know who. The guy never had any kids of his own, yadda yadda."

"So, nothing we didn't already know?"

"Exactly."

Maxine let out another heavy sigh, this time with the word "fuck" thrown in there for effect.

"Yeah, pretty much," Reynolds sighed. "So, we wait."

And wait they did.

Tim had never felt better. He had ran a ten mile loop around the city over the course of an hour and fifteen minutes. He was drenched in sweat and his legs kind of ached, but that went away when he stretched and got himself a bottle of water at a gas station. His run had been interspersed with random little desires to jump certain things that were hurdle-height, like garbage cans and benches and things like that.

He felt like a kid again, sprinting at something top speed, only to sail over it and keep going.

God, it was a rush. Nothing like the rush of a nice shot from a rifle, but it was a rush nonetheless.

Tim, invigorated by his run, decided that he should get unpacked as he entered his apartment. So, he started with the furniture. It didn't take him long to get a bookshelf, coffee table, desk, and swivel chair set up in the living room. After that, he had some bar stools to assemble and put near the kitchen island. By then, all he had left were the boxes his brother had mailed him.

He began unpacking. High school photos and year books? Tim grimaced at them and decided he didn't need them, so he found a smaller box from his furniture and deposited them in there, stuffing them into his bedroom closet.

Oklahoma Track and Field Championships, Runner-Up, Men's 300m Hurdles, 2000. The trophy had been near the bottom of a box, and he held it up. It was dusty, and the metal plaque was kind of tarnished from years of sitting in storage back in Tulsa.

That had been his worst performance of his life. He had gotten the shit beaten out of him the night before, been bloodied and bruised, and had shown up with a shiner and a limp and a busted lip. His coach had been furious, convinced he'd gotten into a fight partying the night before. Tim didn't have the heart to tell his coach that it was his father that caused the injuries. Tim barely had enough energy for the race, and had started out in dead last. But he covered the distance between hurdles, barely clearing most of the jumps. In the end, it was sheer force of will that propelled him out of third place and into second.

He didn't remember getting a rush that race. He didn't remember being thrilled to be the second best in the state. Nah, what Tim remembered most was the pain in his knee and the recruitment office he saw down the street.

He shook his head to clear it of the memories, staring at the trophy. Should he display it or hide it? He didn't really know. Was the memory good or bad? That was the day he signed up for the Army. But it was also the day he decided that if he got the chance, he'd kill his father.

He figured he could put it back in the box and decide on whether or not to display it later.

"I'm just saying, I've always thought Tim was gay."

"Well, he might be," Maxine replied, shrugging. "What business is it of yours if he digs guys or girls? Or both?"

"It'd just be surprising. Imagine finding out the office's resident bad-ass mother fucker is gay."

Maxine rolled her eyes, starting to get irritated with the guy in the driver's seat. "Reynolds, shut up."

"Like, how do you think that went over in the Rangers?"

"Don't ask, don't tell."

"I thought they were trying to repeal that."

"Look, Reynolds, it is literally taking every fiber of my being not to hit you in the nose. Just shut up for five minutes, please." Reynolds' jaw snapped shut and Maxine heard his teeth click together.

"I don't think the guys in Tim's platoon or whatever it's called would've cared that much," Maxine said after counting to ten in Arabic. "I mean, he's a good guy and a good shot and I'm sure he was a great soldier. They probably would've just said, 'oh, okay, cool' if he came out and gone on. Which is what you should do. It's not like his being gay affects you negatively. So what? He finds guys hot. What's the big deal?"

"It would be weird if he thought I was hot."

"Take it as a fucking compliment! Someone on the planet is attracted to you, treat it like the miracle it is."

"You're way more hostile than I thought you'd be."

"You're a bigger idiot than I thought you'd be," Maxine said icily. That was when a car, a beige Escalade, pulled up the road from behind them. They stayed at the curb, watching the car as it pulled up to the mailbox at the uncle's house and a woman leaned out, grabbed the mail, and tucked herself back into the car. She sat for a moment, presumably flicking through the mail, and then pulled a U-turn to drive back the way she came.

As she turned, Reynolds started the car and when the Escalade got to the end of the street, he pulled his own U-turn and followed. They stayed a safe distance back and tailed the car. The car made several twists and turns as the Escalade drove through an older side of town. Reynolds never lost sight of her, as far ahead as she might've gotten, but then they wound up at a red light two blocks away when the Escalade made a turn to the left. When they turned left, they discovered they had lost the target. Maxine and Reynolds started scanning every alley and street for the car. Then, Maxine found it.

"Turn right!" she ordered. He did. It was sudden, and he almost ran over a dog, but he wound up on the same street as the fugitive's car.

Suddenly, the door of the Escalade opened and a woman in her early to mid thirties bailed out, dark hair and not necessarily fat, but not lean. She sure could run though. Maxine bailed out and sprinted after her.

"US MARSHALS!" she hollered, running down the street. "STOP WHERE YOU ARE!"

Oh, yeah, she totally listened. The woman kept going, skidding and falling but scraping herself up as she ran for an alleyway. Maxine used her slip to her advantage, and she could hear Reynolds on his feet behind her. The fugitive had started climbing a fire escape, so Maxine made a motion for Reynolds to follow from the ground and she followed the lady up the ladders and stairs and walkways.

"US MARSHALS, FREEZE!" she demanded, way more authoritative this time. She finally did once she realized the door to the stairwell wasn't going to open. She sighed and laced her hands behind her head.

Maxine went to cuff her and wondered just how much other legal troubles this girl had to flee arrest.

"Anthony Hopkins," Reynolds spoke as they stood in the conference room, the girl cuffed in one of the chairs and silent. "Nephew to Tristan Hopkins and your boyfriend. You and he have been cashing in the old man's pension checks for the past fourteen months. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"So, if that's all you've done, why did you flee arrest?"

She didn't reply. She stared at the cuffs instead.

"Okay. Don't say anything, that's cool," Maxine said sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she stared at her nails. She and Reynolds were playing Bad Cop-Bad Cop. Reynolds was in-your-face Bad Cop, a role he played rather well despite being such a moron, and Maxine was cold-and-passive Bad Cop. She could play any role she needed to in order to get information. She could flirt, she could joke, she could be kind and empathetic, she could not give a shit, or she could be damn terrifying. But with Reynolds doing the 'damn terrifying' thing, she went with the second best option.

"I'm just saying," Maxine drawled, channeling her inner Tim Gutterson, "if you don't help us, we can't help you. I mean, if you cooperate, that'll look a whole lot better to Judge Reardon. You know, I heard he once gave a guy 10 years, no parole, for possession with intent."

Ten years was the maximum sentence in Kentucky for possession of a firearm with intent to cause violence, but the no parole part tacked onto the end had really stirred up some controversy.

"Did that guy cooperate?" the lady asked, glaring at Maxine.

Maxine shrugged. "Dunno. Didn't read the report that well."

Reynolds spoke once more. "Tell us what you did... You do know the Marshals Service doesn't investigate narcotics, right?"

"I don't do drugs. I don't deal 'em either."

"Then what?!" Reynolds demanded, smacking his fist on the conference room table. Maxine broke her nonchalant facade to stare at Reynolds. He looked genuinely pissed. She nearly went to call the USMS psychiatrist, because obviously Reynolds had mood swings someone needed to know about.

"I'm a witness!" she shouted, just as shocked by Reynolds' outburst as Maxine. Maxine stared at Reynolds. "Well, I mean, not me. But my boyfriend, Jack. He's a witness. From New York? And, anyway, he's been getting these phone calls and I saw that you guys were tailing me and since I was in his car I thought 'oh shit, these guys are after him.' "

"We identified ourselves," Reynolds said, confused.

"We could've been lying," Maxine said just at the exact same moment the girlfriend shouted "You could've been lying!"

"Fair point," Reynolds conceded. "Phone calls? What have these phone calls been saying?"

"It's some number from New York. Jack never answers, and they never leave a message, but it's a New York area code. He's been real jumpy since they all started."

Maxine and Reynolds exchanged looks. This didn't bode well.

Tim got a text from Steve at around 2 PM.

Steve Walters 2:03 PM: hey asshole

Steve and Tim had served together briefly in Bahrain together. Steve was a Marine, but despite that, the two of them had really hit it off. Tim figured it was because Steve was his polar opposite, so damn cheerful and impulsive. But Steve and Tim shared a sense of humor and they both loved to pass the time on base by being assholes and reading.

Tim Gutterson 2:03 PM: quoting your wife or did you just think that one up?

Steve Walters 2:04 PM: well damn. I was gonna invite you drinking with me tonight

Steve Walters 2:04 PM: but if you're gonna be that bitchy about it...

Tim Gutterson 2:05 PM: i take back everything I said

Tim waited. Usually after a conversation like that, Steve would let him know which bar in which city to be at and what time, but something must've been holding him up. Tim huffed, staring at the TV. Daytime television was fucking stupid. Like, what was so distinctive about having a Gypsy wedding in America that they had to warrant the new title? And what was the deal with the Duggars? 19 kids? They had a fucking football team right there.

Steve Walters 2:24 PM: be at yvette's at 6

Steve Walters 2:25 PM: bring a boyfriend if you've finally got one

Tim huffed at the insinuation, but decided to play off of it, just to seem casual.

Tim Gutterson 2:25 PM: I thought we were exclusive, steve

Tim Gutterson 2:25 PM: Does that mean you've been sleeping with other men behind my back?

Steve Walters 2:25 PM: yes tim yes it does

Tim Gutterson 2:26 PM: then you're on the couch tonight

Steve Walters 2:26 PM: does that mean I can't have any of your sweet ass tonight?

Tim Gutterson 2:26 PM: dude duh that's the point

Maxine and Reynolds stood outside Anthony Hopkins' apartment. Anthony Hopkins was his birth name, but since he'd entered WITSEC, he was Ryan Templer. They found his name on the list and hit the buzzer for his room.

The buzzer crackled to life. "Yeah?"

"Delivery for Templer," Reynolds said disinterestedly. He played the part of bored mailman rather well.

"Come on in." There was a click as the main door unlocked and the two marshals walked inside and over to the elevator. It was one of the old fashioned contraptions, complete with two sliding metal grates for doors and a dial that ticked off the floor numbers as you passed them and - best of all - you could see the bricks around you moving.

"I hate this thing," Reynolds muttered, watching the bricks move nervously through the metal cage. Maxine smiled. It always warmed her heart to see grown men shaking in their boots.

"Really? I think it's pretty cool."

Thankfully for Reynolds, the elevator came to a stop on the 7th floor. Maxine jerked back the first grate and Reynolds grabbed the second. They exited and shut the grates back before heading down the hall to room 705. Maxine rapped on the door and they heard footsteps before the sound of the door unlocking.

The door swung inward to reveal Anthony Hopkins. Maxine had pulled up his photo before they showed up, but she was still unprepared for how intensely pretty this man was. He was scruffy at the moment, but he had a strong jaw and straight nose and cleft chin. He looked like a fucking sculpture, really.

"You don't look like mailmen," he said, eyes narrowing.

Maxine pulled her badge out from around her neck while Reynolds pulled his out of his coat pocket. "US Marshals," he said. "We're here to talk to you about a couple of things."

"Oh. Come on in then."

They entered the apartment, which smelled like chai tea and cigarettes and moth balls. Maxine got the feeling Anthony Hopkins was a bit of a hipster. She also didn't think he knew he was committing any wrong by the way he just let them into the apartment like that.

"So, what's going on?" he asked as he walked into his kitchen and picked up a still-smoldering cigarette from an ash tray. "I just talked to Nichols a few days ago."

"Did you tell Nichols you were cashing your uncle's pension check?" Maxine demanded casually, looking around the apartment. It was nice, and she figured rent would be cheap for being in such an industrial side of town. She should suggest to Tim that he get a place here. The halls were a little narrow, but the main areas were nice and spacious and there was still that fucking awesome elevator to consider.

"Fuck," Jack hissed, rubbing his forehead.

"Yep. That's our jurisdiction," Reynolds said. "So, we've got to bring you in for that. But we're also here to talk about some phone calls your girlfriend said you've been getting."

"You talked to Lydia?"

"She was the one we arrested for mail fraud," Maxine told the handsome man with the cool apartment.

"Fuck!"

"And then, this idiot decides that he wants a tattoo," Steve said, laughing as he explained to his wife the origin of Tim's chest tattoo. "And fucking Pirate Pete tells him there was some pirate with a flag that was just an arm with a sword and it meant 'we're ready to kill.' We were all plastered at the time -"

"Which is hard to imagine, I know," Tim said, rolling his eyes and winking at Patricia. Patricia was a cool woman, Tim had decided. She was friendly, but not flirty, and kind of mother-hen-ish to all of Steve's military buddies, which were consequently Tim's military buddies. Tim had seen her handle Steve's fits of rage and his nervous twitches like she was calming a spooked dog. It was easy for her, and Tim wondered if she took a class on how to be that calming.

Patricia apparently found Tim's comment charming, because she laughed.

Steve ignored the whole thing or he was too drunk to notice it because he was still telling the story. "- And Tim's like 'who's ready to kill?! Hooah!' And Pirate Pete finds a picture of the flag and prints if off and we all leave base and storm into this tattoo parlor in the middle of fucking Manama. And Tim just slaps this picture down in front of the tattoo artist and says, in the most fluent, drunken Arabic I have ever heard, 'I want this on my chest.' "

Tim remembered going and telling the tattoo artist that, but he hadn't recalled doing it in Arabic. "Dude, are you sure that was Arabic? I think I was just slurring my English really bad."

Patricia giggled as Steve insisted: "No! It was Arabic! You said, clearly, '-" And then Steve launched into the most flawless string of drunken Arabic that Tim had ever heard. Tim laughed at his friend, unable to contain himself.