Tim pulled up and waited. Raylan was out the door and in the SUV before Rachel had closed it behind him. "I'd like to clarify; I think this is a bad idea."
"I know. I got it from the 'What would Raylan do?' handbook," he said lightly, pulling out and onto the main drag with little care for things like traffic laws and other vehicles.
Raylan got to scowl at his colleague himself this time, which was far more satisfying than scowling at air. "Oh, so there's a handbook?"
"Oh, yeah, Art gives out to let people know what sets off his angina," Tim changed lanes, speeding past the three cars that had been in front of him.
"Like screwing a former-fugitive protectee?"
"Nope, handbook only mentioned witnesses. Y'think he should issue an amended version? Include all the shit that's been pulled since the last one?"
"Oh, yeah," Raylan said, opting out of the scowl due to its lack of effectiveness, "maybe have two versions. Abridged. Unabridged. Little footnotes with anecdotes of similar shit pulled by amateurs."
"Amateurs? Huh? Like somebody asking his partner to find the guy he wants to threaten instead of finding the guy himself? That shit's fuckin' amateur."
Tim pulled up to an unassuming brick house that irrationally reminded Raylan of Macaulay Culkin, and said, "You backing me or not?"
"You're askin' now?" Raylan scoffed and got out the SUV and stared walking up to the door. Tim wasn't more than a step behind him.
It took a few minutes for anyone to come to the door and a mousy, beige-robed, menopausal woman wasn't quite what Raylan had expected... But then this wasn't his show.
"Mrs. Sullivan, I'm Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson. We met a few years ago..." he said through the barely open door.
"When you were looking for Clare. I remember you," Mrs. Sullivan finished hesitantly. "Graham doesn't want ya'll here. It's late." She started to close the door but Tim stuck his foot in.
"Mrs. Sullivan, we need to talk to your husband. About Clare," Raylan said, turning on his "We're-all-understanding-reasonable-people-no-need-to-not-cooperate" voice. "We won't take very long."
Her gaze flickered between them. She stepped back just a bit and opened the door. "She's not in trouble again, is she?"
"Did Graham mention Clare has a price on her head?" Tim asked softly, while Raylan took off his hat and took in the immaculate model-home feel of the place. At least Gary had done his stupid vanilla-on-foil trick to keep places from feeling this plastic.
Lou-Anne Sullivan wasn't much of a beauty, but she had strong bone structure unmarred by anyone's temper. But she was jumpy as his mother after Arlo'd been gone a few days though. Just waiting for a shoe to drop.
"Is Graham in, Mrs. Sullivan?" Raylan whispered as soon as Tim was done describing Clare's evening.
Mrs. Sullivan nodded, pale eyes gaping as wide as her mouth under her ladylike hand. "Is Clare..."
"She was fine when I left her. Sleeping like baby," Tim reassured.
"That poor girl. Graham's upstairs, resting. Said he rough day 'dealing with the unclean'. That was how he put it. How he usually puts it, really," she added with a childlike sheepishness, before catching herself. "He's under so much pressure at work. With Clare's return and all. He's always had the load on his shoulders, sometimes he's just too stressed to be graceful about it."
Tim's face hardened at her excuse but said nothing. Raylan pushed, "Has he told you what the problem is with Clare coming?"
"The business, of course. Michael, when he retired, that's Graham's father, Clare's grandfather, he divided the business equally between his three kids, and those shares between their kids, y'see? But Maggie ran off with that policeman at 18, never had anything to do with the business. And Brian, well, Brian's there by default. He's never really done well at much of anything. But my Graham, he's been there his whole life. It's how we met. My father managed a company Graham bought. He's given everything to it. We never had children, because we had so many social obligations to its success, we thought it'd be unfair to a child."
Tim gave Raylan a look that told him what he thought of that line.
Raylan continued, "More considerate than most prospective parents. Have you ever heard the name Wynn Duffy mentioned? Or perhaps a Tony Kender? Anthony Kender?"
Mrs. Sullivan bit her lip as she pondered, "The man who installed our security system-the owner, not the literal installer, his name was Fletcher." Her face looked ten years younger as her monologue digressed, too big of a change for even Tim to cut her off, "I remember because I had a cat named Fletcher when I was young-his name was Duffy. I never heard his first name. And Kender? Well, Edgar-Edgar Moss-he mentioned a Kender at dinner a few days ago. A little before Clare came back." Her lit up face deflated a bit remembering Clare. "Did they do this to her? This Duffy and this Kender?"
"Did what to her?"
"Frame her for that corruption," Lou-Anne looked off in the distance and swallowed, "I knew she wasn't involved. I was just too scared to say at the time. I was so afraid it was my fault they'd pulled her in it, but it wouldn't be going on like this if it was just because Clare and I talked?"
Tim formed his words very carefully as Raylan blinked at her, "Did you know they were falsifying things on the transplant lists, Mrs. Sullivan?"
"My sister, Megan. She needed a liver transplant. But she was AB positive..."
"The rarest blood type. Chances were she'd never get a transplant," Raylan finished.
"I'm B. I couldn't even donate blood to help with her operation when she had it," Mrs. Sullivan confessed in a whisper. "He said it would take years before Megan would even get a chance at one, with her statistics. Then he said he could help with that."
"Who said that?" Raylan whispered.
"The man taking Meg's information. Colin."
Tim and Raylan looked at each other. Shit.
"Did Graham and Colin ever meet?"
She made a barely perceptible nod and whispered, "For the money," and her voice cracked. "Clare was in the hospital, working the ER. She'd bring me lunch and sit with Meg and me. Sometimes she would just give a hug and rub my back when I cried. I couldn't have made it through without Clare, but I was afraid Megan would be the one to pay for what we did. But if they thought I'd gotten the liver through Clare and she was cleared, they wouldn't need to kill her... Right?"
Tim nodded, said grimly, "That's right. You said Moss used the name Kender?"
"Uh huh," Mrs. Sullivan nodded vehemently, reaching for a Kleenex. "I'm sure of it. Just before I served the Cornish hens and stuffing."
"Why is your husband's main competitor getting a home-cooked meal from your kitchen, ma'am?" Raylan asked.
"Oh, he and Graham are working on a merger, but it's very secret."
Raylan pinched his lips and didn't look at Tim. "We need to talk to your husband."
She looked to Tim briefly, "But he's sleeping. I shouldn't have even let you in, but Clare's here and I'm worried about her. But Graham-"
"We think Graham paid Colin Stark to implicate Clare," Tim said bluntly. "Stark recanted his accusation, Clare was cleared, and Stark was dead the day after."
"Graham would never-"
"Shooters have come after Brian Sullivan and his family, plus the car bomb. Everyone involved with that business but your husband-who's having dinner parties with Morley's CEO-has been a target. We need to speak to him."
"That's his brother, and his sister's girl!" she exclaimed. "I will not tolerate these attacks-where do you think you're going?"
Tim had gotten up and was on the stairs by the time Raylan had picked up his hat to follow. Tim's gaze flicked between the doors before picking one on the left and saying, "Sullivan, I said we were gonna finish that conversation from earlier."

Clare woke up scared, cold and alone. Cold because she's balled the sheets and blankets up in her arms and she was naked. Alone because Tim had left.
She could tell by the feel of the place he was long gone. And scared because she had that familiar twisting in the pit of her belly. She raced to the bathroom where they'd left her bag and she threw up.

Rachel had a damn good idea what the two jackasses, into whose hands she placed her life every day, were up to. She'd also like to not have to help clean it up. She gave them twenty minutes, then called Art.