Author's Note: This is a deleted scene from 'Act of Mercy' – didn't make the final cut. An early Tim and Rachel moment for sorchauna.
On the Cutting Room Floor – Dead-Check
"What'd I miss?" Tim asked, walking up next to Art in a huddle with some locals.
Art turned around. "Nice of you to show up finally. We raided the place on a tip. Pig farm. All kinds of shit happened, excuse the pun. Full-out western showdown." He looked Tim over. "How was court? Still breathing, I see, but I can tell by the twitching that Reardon was presiding."
Not even six months on the job and Tim figured he'd seen it all working at the Lexington office, almost every situation that the instructors at Glynco had promised them they might have to deal with including a first stint in court all by his lonesome that morning. He understood why Rachel hated court appearances so much. The lawyers had a knack for making even the most competent witness feel like an idiot or an asshole on the stand, or both. He despised the entire process. And to add insult to injury, he'd missed a raid. The raids were fun for him, a dip back in the dangerous waters of wartime madness. The disappointment must have shown on his face because Art acknowledged it in his next comment.
"Aw, muffin, you missed the party. You look sad."
Tim was getting used to his boss. It had taken a while. He cocked his head, responded in kind, "Chief, if you call this a party, then I partied my way through college. I got a fucking PhD in partying."
Art started a grin then stopped it when he caught the bitter undercurrent. Tim was the only Marshal on his staff that didn't go to college. He had a different sort of education – more hands-on. But if he'd learned one thing about his new deputy it was not to pussy-foot around the topic. He pointed vaguely in the direction of an old barn, said, "Rachel's running a class in identifying body parts. Go help her."
"Oh, great. You know I used to run a practical in that subject." Tim spoke carelessly as he stepped around his boss and headed onto the property. "I was so good at it, they offered me an honorary doctorate in Bits and Pieces."
"Thank you, Dr. Tim, for volunteering to help even though you're so over-qualified," Art called after him, watching him walk away. "Around back." He turned to the locals leaning in curiously to listen to the conversation, and said, "Kids these days – too much time playing those violent video games."
Everyone grinned except the man who knew better.
Rachel was knee-deep in muddy rancid water, wading through a ditch and the remains of a week's worth of spring rain. She shuffled along slowly, dragging her feet, then stopped, closed her eyes briefly, opened them and looked heavenward. She sighed, long and loud, reached down with a gloved hand and felt blindly around her boots, fishing for something. She closed her eyes again as she straightened back up, a severed foot in one hand, tossed it onto the drier high ground where a woman from the coroner's office was helping collect the bits and pieces.
"You okay?" the woman asked her.
"Oh, yeah," Rachel replied, looked over at her and smiled. "Thanks for asking."
"Did I miss lunch?" A voice called out, all chipper and casual and clearly unaffected by the carnage.
She turned to see Tim strolling toward her, hands jammed in his pockets, an amused smirk. "They will go through bone like butter." His attempt at a British accent sounded silly mixed with the Kentucky. "You need at least sixteen pigs to finish the job in one sitting, so be wary of any man who keeps a pig farm."
"What?" Rachel was not predisposed to appreciate Tim's humor at this point. It was well past noon and if she had been hungry earlier, her stomach had given up hope and was complaining about other things right now.
Tim, for his part, was just happy to be outside. "You never saw Snatch?"
"What?" she repeated, more churlish the second time.
"Brick Top?" Tim looked at her, arms out, hoping for an encouraging warm glow of recognition so he could continue the lines. After a moment of freezing temperatures from her, he gave up. "You gotta see it. Brick Top - one of the best movie bad guys ever."
The coroner joined in, "Oh, he was great. Old guy with the glasses, the one in the movie with Brad Pitt."
"Yeah," Tim grinned for her.
Rachel had already tuned him out and was slogging forward through the ditch. The wind shifted and carried to her gently the aromas from the pig barn. She groaned, "God, I need a shower."
"Was that an invitation?" Tim teased. He waded in to help her, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket.
"Don't make me shoot you, Tim. I'm not in the mood."
"Not in the mood for what? For shooting me or being harassed or…?"
"Shut up."
He tried to, for a second, gave up and continued playfully, "So what pieces are we missing?"
"Does it matter?" Rachel huffed.
"Well, I'd like to know which ones to keep and which ones to throw back," Tim replied, thickening the drawl.
The coroner laughed, even if Rachel didn't, and answered Tim's question. "We've got most of one body without a head, but three feet." She shrugged. "I'm not sure I've put him together right."
"Maybe it's an experimental mutant farm." Tim suggested, hushed voice. "Have either of you had a close look at the pigs yet?"
"Maybe you'd like to shut up and help me?" Rachel snapped.
Tim leveled out his grin and patted Rachel on the shoulder. "Hey, take a break. I'll finish up if you want," he offered.
She sagged a little. "Doesn't this bother you?"
"They're not friends of mine." He waved vaguely up and down the ditch. "Who are they anyway?"
"The victims of a hostile take-over. Dixie Mafia is moving in here." She pointed to the foot she'd just found. "I have a suspicion that the guy with three feet is my fugitive. He's wanted in connection with a murder in Louisiana."
"So there you go. Why should it bother me? Besides, he's dead. No way being upset's gonna help him."
She gave him a look of disbelief and he pretended to misunderstand.
"You don't believe me?" he said. "I'll kick the body if you want me to but I can pretty much tell from here – he's dead."
"I'd have to agree with him," the coroner added. "In my professional opinion, he's dead." She looked down nodding at the human jigsaw puzzle.
Rachel wiped her forehead with a dry part of her sleeve – not even a grimace for their efforts to humor her.
"Look, why don't you climb out and dry off," Tim said. "I got a thermos of coffee in the front seat of the truck. Help yourself."
She looked like she wanted to argue but changed her mind and took a step toward the edge of the ditch, caught her foot on something and slipped. Tim reached out and grabbed her to stop her going down and they both stumbled precariously before regaining their footing.
Rachel let out an angry scream. "Shit! Fuck! I hate this!"
"Rachel, are you okay?" Tim looked worried.
"No!" She reached down again and came back up holding a head by the hair. "Oh, God."
A smirk snuck onto Tim's face, quelled quickly when she glared at him, then it reappeared, growing out of control. "You look medieval. Like some evil fantasy warrior princess."
"This isn't funny, Tim. You're…" Her phone rang. "Oh, come on," she huffed. It persisted.
"You gonna answer that?" He asked, gesturing to her pocket.
She huffed again and held out a hand. Tim pulled off her glove and she pulled out her phone, checked the display, screwed up her face in frustration, answered, "Ma?"
Tim began laughing and the coroner joined in.
"Ma, this is a bad time. I'm going to have to call you b…" She paused to listen. "You have to speak louder. I can't hear you."
Rachel waved her grisly catch impatiently at her companions, demanding quiet, but without the banter other sounds began to intrude. The moisture still dripping from the head onto the fetid surface of the water and the distant grunting of pigs seemed to amplify unnaturally, stirring a fresh round of giggles and snorts from Tim and the coroner.
"Ma, I really can't talk right now."
Rachel mouthed obscenities and looked desperately to Tim for help. He pointed at the head, gestured for her to hand it over. "You want me to take that?" he whispered.
She threw the phone at him, angry.
Tim caught it gamely, held it up to his ear. "Mrs. Brooks?" A pause while he tried to school his features into proper seriousness then he gave up and shared the mirth with a grin for Rachel. "Yeah, it's me, Tim. Yeah, look, sorry, uh, but Rachel is up to her eyes in it at the moment."
At that comment Rachel lifted the head to eye level and shook it, losing herself to the insanity. Tim sniggered.
"No, no, she's fine." A pause. "Yeah, I'm good." Another pause. "Yes ma'am, I'm eating better, but I'm all out of your leftovers," he hinted. "Sunday? This Sunday? Sure, I'd love to… No, I don't have any plans… No ma'am, I won't be missing anything important. I mean I'm gonna have to cancel a date with the entire collection of Victoria's Secret models to be there, but it's worth it for one of your dinners."
"Hey!"
Tim spun around.
"Is this really the time for personal calls?" Art marched over, reached out, snatched the phone away and barked at it, words soaked in sarcasm, "Excuse me for interrupting this obviously very important phone call but Tim is working right now. Why don't you call back later?" Then his eyes opened in horror. He stood at attention and sent a frantic look to Rachel. "Mrs. Brooks? What a nice surprise. And how are you today?"
"Uh-oh," Tim whispered, slogged his way through the water past Rachel and out of ear shot.
Rachel tossed the head next to the coroner, climbed wearily out of the ditch and headed for Tim's truck, Art puffing after her – "Yes ma'am, why she's the backbone of this office" – trying to give the phone back.
Tim took another sliding step through the water, reached down and pulled up an arm.
"Give me a hand, will you?" he said, grinned ridiculously and waved the spare at the coroner when she turned around to help, the giggles drowning out the horrors.
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