Tuesday, March 21

Morning

"Harry's about to hit bottom"

Cooper looked up at Hawk from the folder in front of him, concern in his eyes. "Is he eating?"

Hawk shook his head slowly, and Cooper exhaled a deep sigh as he set Josie's INTERPOL dossier down on the mountains of paperwork in front of him on the desk. "When do you think he'll come back to work?" he asked.

"I guess we'll find out soon," Hawk replied. He glanced over the desk. "Need a hand?"

"That's a question I should be asking you," Cooper shot back, taking a sip from his coffee mug.

Hawk smiled gently, but was deferential in his response. "You're the senior lawman, Cooper. Let's just let the rain fall as it has been." He shook his head. "Besides: I hate paperwork."

Cooper understood all too well. "This is worse than the Bureau with all this international documentation," he said, wearily. "Eckardt, Josie…" he reached into the pile for another folder. "This is the autopsy on her. Doc Hayward said he couldn't determine cause of death. The body only weighed sixty-five pounds."

He handed the folder to Hawk, who stopped cold before accepting it. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know," Cooper said. "Maybe it has something to do with what I saw in the room when she died."

"Maybe we'd better just whistle on our way past the graveyard."

Cooper reached for his coffee again. "Yeah."

"Anything on Earle?" Hawk asked, eager to change the subject.

"Trail's stone cold," Cooper said with a shake of his head. "Still waiting for his response."

Hawk nodded but was quiet for a long moment before asking his next, and final question. "When was the last time you saw your bed?"

Out of habit, Cooper glanced at his watch, only to realize that he couldn't rightly remember.

"That long?" Hawk intoned.

Cooper leaned back and smiled. "I'll manage. Lucy's been making double brews, and once I eat a little breakfast—"

"Go home, Cooper," Hawk said, shrugging off his jacket and slinging it over the guest chair. "We've got it from here."

If he was being honest with himself, he knew he could use the sleep. He was running on vapours, and it was starting to get difficult to read. He rubbed his eyes and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk before grabbing the files he'd been scouring when Hawk had entered the room. "I would like to stop in and see Harry."

"Good," Hawk said. "On your way to the hotel."

He practically pushed Cooper out the door, and no one gave him any grief as he strolled out of the station and to his car, which he drove—carefully, slowly—up the road to the Bookhouse.

His visit with Truman lasted all of five minutes, long enough for Cooper to leave Josie's dossier on a table before being tossed out by the grieving sheriff. He didn't take it personally, or think anything of it. His mind was trained on his shower, his bed, and a fresh change of clothes waiting for him in his room. The thought pacified him, refreshed him, and as he pushed open the doors to the lobby, he felt his drowsiness pulling on his eyelids with languid laziness…

"Agent Cooper?"

He snapped his eyes open at the sound of Audrey's voice, and saw her standing in front of him, arms laden with all the trappings of an outdoor picnic lunch. For a startling moment, he wondered if she had seen him coming, had been waiting for him, and that the picnic was for him. But his sleepy mind had planted that suggestion; when he truly registered the look of shock on her face, he knew he couldn't have been more wrong.

"Audrey."

"You look—"

"Terrible, I know," he ran a hand through his hair. "It's been non-stop since—gosh, since I don't know when."

She looked at him intently. "How are you feeling?" she asked. "Did you get your eye looked at?"

Cooper touched the still-tender spot below his left eye. "Oh, I had Doc Hayward take a look," he lied.

She smiled slightly, averting her eyes. "Maybe it will turn into a scar," she offered. "Girls like scars, y'know."

"Do they?" Cooper asked softly.

"Mm-hmm," she said, hoisting the wicker picnic basket into her arms, awkwardly balancing the blanket on top.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

Audrey shook her head, and glanced behind her, "No, I think I should be fine."

Cooper looked over her shoulder, and suddenly saw the hulking cowboy silhouette of a man he'd never seen before. He looked at the man—who was beaming, obviously, at the woman standing between them—and then back into Audrey's eyes, and the rest was obvious.

"Have we met?" the man drawled. He stretched his hand out. "John Justice Wheeler. Most people call me Jack."

Cooper reached out, slowly, to take his hand. "Dale Cooper," he said. "Sheriff's Deputy."

Wheeler nodded, and then smiled. "Aren't you the FBI Agent?"

"Currently on suspension," he said, glancing once more at Audrey. "It's a long story."

The cowboy tipped the brim of his hat up with his thumb. "Well, regardless of where your authority comes from, any lawman is a good man, and a friend of mine."

He watched as Wheeler took the basket from Audrey's arms. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she repositioned the blanket, but she narrowly avoided eye contact. To call it awkward would have been an understatement.

Cooper decided to be the bigger person. Summoning the last dregs of his alertness and awareness of social niceties, he smiled. "It's a beautiful day for a picnic."

"Quite," Wheeler said. "This is magical country up here."

"It is," Cooper replied.

Wheeler looked to Audrey and then back to Cooper. "You're…welcome to join us, if you want."

Audrey shifted uncomfortably, and Cooper had reached the end of his tether. He bowed out graciously. "No, but thank you. I've been burning what feels like six candles at all ends, and I'm in desperate need of a recuperative afternoon. Alone," he said, shrugging. "Besides which, days like today are set aside for youth."

Wheeler grinned. "Well then," he said.

"Enjoy," Cooper replied as he stepped out of the triangle. "Nice to see you again, Miss Horne."

She snapped her head up at his sudden formality, and as John Justice Wheeler walked away, with her slowly following suit, she kept her eyes on Cooper. She said nothing.

Cooper rode the elevator to his floor in silence; he trod the well-worn carpet between the elevator door and his own in silence; he undressed in silence and showered in silence and pulled the drapes closed and turned down his bed in silence. Only when he picked up the phone to schedule a wake-up from the front desk—he gave himself four hours, which would leave him just enough time to get back to the station for his afternoon meeting with Pete Martell and his next chess lesson—did he break the impenetrable quiet he'd slipped into. The sound of his own voice startled him.

He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, but for the first time in so many nights, he didn't dream of her.