Aimpoint – Chapter Four
Tim and Art were finishing a second cup of coffee and discussing bullet trajectories when Raylan strolled into the diner an hour later. Tim collected up his napkin diagrams and slid over in the booth to make room for him.
"Did you know," Art asked Raylan when he was seated, "that you have to consider the earth's rotation if you make a long enough shot?"
"I did not," Raylan replied, looking over at the napkins. "Physics class?"
Raylan was grateful when the waitress came by and interrupted the lesson, bringing a clean cup and fresh coffee for the table. He asked Art if he could order something.
"What the hell. Go ahead. The day's shot anyway."
Raylan ordered a sandwich and Tim asked for pie.
"You have to eat as fast as Tim did, though" Art added. "You should have seen it. That poor sandwich didn't stand a chance."
"Worried someone would steal it?" Raylan asked Tim, grinning.
"Ha ha," Tim replied, twisting on the bench to face him. "At least I still have my hat, my gun and my badge." He pointed to each item in turn.
Raylan winced, "Now, that's not fair. The guy that took my car had a gun."
"Maybe the one that took ours did, too."
"Pointed at me," said Raylan.
"Details," Tim added peevishly, dismissing Raylan's comment with a wave of his hand.
"How'd it go here?" Raylan asked turning to Art. "Rachel explained a little about what was going on when she called."
"Tim killed a coffee," said Art.
"Didn't know they were in season."
"My first one," Tim said proudly.
"I'd mount it on a wall in the office, but there's nothing left of it," Art opined.
The waitress returned with the food and a refill. Art amused Raylan with the afternoon's events while he and Tim ate then they settled the bill and headed out to the car. Art's phone rang when they got out front.
"Hey, they tracked down our car," he said after ending the call. "It's just out of town."
Art pulled out a map and directed Raylan to the road where the car was found. It didn't take them long to spot the State Trooper parked on the shoulder next to a farmer's field. Raylan pulled over and they all got out. Art was hoping they'd be able to drive the car back, but it was immediately clear that wasn't going to happen. The car had rolled over into a ditch. Even if they could have hoisted it out and set it on its wheels, the front axle was bent. It would have to be carted back to Lexington on a flat bed.
The State Trooper was good-natured, amused and sympathetic. He shook hands all around and explained the situation.
"I've already called a tow truck. They'll take it to a garage in London. You can arrange for someone to get it back to Lexington from there," he said helpfully. "I reckon it was kids out for a joyride. It's pretty typical. It doesn't look like anyone was hurt, though the car's obviously going to need repairs. We found the keys still in the ignition."
They all stared at the car a moment.
"I don't mind staying till the truck comes," the Trooper offered kindly. "I know you folks have a bit of a drive back."
Art followed him over for a closer look, but Tim hung back, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drooping. Raylan stayed with him. They could hear the Trooper describing what he thought had happened then Art pulled out his phone to arrange for a tow truck from Lexington.
"This is going to dog me all the way to my grave," Tim lamented, looking woefully at the car.
"No need to be glum," Raylan offered. "By the look on Art's face, I'd wager it'll be a short trip."
Raylan thought it was a clear indication of Tim's state of mind when he didn't have a snarky reply for him. He was beating himself up about it. Art couldn't do much more damage.
Tim, worried, watched Art talking on the phone and pacing the side of the road, a stern expression on his face, his free hand firmly planted on his hip.
"How long do you think it'd take me to walk back, if I started before he hung up?" he asked Raylan.
"Depends," Raylan replied. "If I drive, you'd probably make it to Lexington sometime late tomorrow. If Art drives, you won't make it far up the road before he finds you and runs you over."
"I could go cross country."
"I'll distract him. Make a run for it," Raylan suggested, trying to be helpful.
Tim turned his head and looked longingly at the open field and the forest beyond.
"Too late," said Raylan, nodding in Art's direction.
He had finished the call and was walking back. Art stopped, facing them, and let out an enormous sigh. Tim waited patiently for the dressing down.
"Well kids, who wants to go for ice cream?" asked Art.
Neither of them responded.
"The Trooper says there's a great ice cream place on the way to the highway," he explained as he walked past them and got into the passenger seat of Raylan's car.
Tim and Raylan exchanged a look.
"Should I be worried?" Tim asked.
Raylan just raised his eyebrows and headed to the driver's side.
The ice cream was good, and Art seemed rather cheerful considering the day's events. He confessed around mouthfuls of waffle cone that the whole thing seemed rather amusing now.
"It'll make a great story at the next bureau chief's meeting – this whole afternoon's been entertaining," he said, motioning expansively with his arms.
"How did it go down in Harlan?" he asked Raylan when they were in the car finally heading back to Lexington. He was riding shotgun again and Tim was sprawled in the backseat, already asleep. "Did you find what's-his-name?"
"Harold Lair," Raylan supplied, drawing out his name like it was an entire story by itself. "No. He seems to have gone to ground. Rather intelligent of him. I guess he learned a thing or two inside. I didn't think he had it in him, but people do surprise you."
Art nodded in agreement and waited for Raylan to continue.
"I spoke with Limehouse again. He's almost as keen as Boyd to see that no Bennetts regain a purchase in Harlan. Though you're on a slippery slope with him – he's Switzerland, banker to the victors, whoever they may be at the time," Raylan mused. "He did say that he heard that the two fellows running with Lair are not from Harlan. He wasn't convinced about Ava's theory. I'm not either. The more I think about it, the more I don't get why they'd bother helping Dickie. What's in it for them?"
"I don't know. I'm inclined to agree with Ava's thinking," Art countered. "Why would they risk pissing off Boyd Crowder? And have you forgotten the Bennett money's still missing? You'd have to believe Dickie might offer them a cut. That's good incentive."
Art had a point. As far as Harold Lair was concerned the Bennett fortune was still up for grabs, and it was possible that Dickie had made promises.
They were approaching the turn off into Lexington when Art's phone rang again. Raylan smirked as he caught Tim waking with a violent start in the rear-view mirror. They exchanged a look and Tim flipped him the finger. Raylan laughed.
"What are you still doing in the office?" Art said into the phone. "I don't care. It's almost eight o'clock. Go home."
Art listened, then pulled out a note pad and pen and wrote something down.
"Rachel, you know the answering service is there just for this kind of thing," he said. "Now go home."
He ended the call. "That girl," he said shaking his head. "You two are going to end up working for her."
"Are you trying to tell us something, Chief?" Tim asked, leaning over from the back. "Retiring soon?"
"Not until I come up with some appropriately horrible job for you as punishment for today," Art replied.
"Just don't assign me to Harlan," Tim begged leaning back again.
"I was going to suggest prisoner transport for a year, but if you want Harlan…" Art shrugged then turned to Raylan. "It's your lucky day. Rachel says they took a message a few minutes ago. You got an anonymous tip."
"No shit," Raylan replied. "Is it about my personal life, or are we stopping at the track?"
"Apparently Harold Lair is hiding out in Lexington," said Art. "And someone either likes you enough, or hates him enough, to want to pass that information on to you. They left the address of the apartment."
Raylan pondered the information, his face screwed up in disbelief. "I suppose I should be grateful," he eventually decided.
"It's on the way," Art said, "and I've already missed dinner. Do you want to swing by? He can ride in the back with Tim if we find him."
"Great," said Tim, "I'm so looking forward to meeting him."
It was dark when they pulled up to the curb across the street and down a bit from the address. It was one of a strip of shops with apartments over top. Conveniently, Lair was standing out front, looking up and down the street as if he were waiting for someone, his hands in his pockets, hiding under a baseball cap.
"That's him," said Raylan.
The three Marshals sat in the car watching him.
"Well," said Tim finally, "what do you want to do?"
Raylan adjusted his hat and opened his door. "Let's go have a chat," he said calmly.
Tim hopped out of the back. Art sat a moment longer, wondering if he was needed. Probably not, but he decided to get out anyway and stretch his legs.
Raylan sauntered across the street while Tim continued casually on the far side. The hat, however, was a dead giveaway. As soon as Lair turned to look their way it was obvious that he recognized Raylan. He took off down the street at a run.
Raylan and Tim chased after him. Art watched them go then calmly retrieved the spare keys from the gas hatch, climbed into the car, started it up and followed them.
They chased Lair down the block, gaining on him. When he turned the next corner he didn't hesitate or slow down, he ran straight across the street and into a bar.
"Taking the back," Tim yelled and kept running as Raylan yanked open the door and followed Lair inside.
Tim turned and ran up the narrow walkway between the bar and the next building and came out into the service alley behind. He was still running full out when he took the corner and saw a baseball bat swinging at his head. Instinctively he threw his left arm up to block it. It connected solidly and Tim yelled out in surprise and pain as he heard the bone in his forearm snap. He grabbed his arm and pulled it to his body protectively, doubling over. He looked up to see the bat being raised again and threw his right shoulder and all his weight into the man holding it, pushing him in a football tackle into the wall and knocking the wind out of him. Before his assailant could catch his breath, Tim slammed him with a right hook and he dropped to the ground.
As his fist connected he felt a searing pain in his exposed side and turning his head saw a second man pull back with a knife and start to come at him again. Tim tried to react but his body wouldn't cooperate. The man lunged again stabbing him a second time before standing back and watching as Tim sank to his knees then crumpled to the pavement.
The first assailant staggered to his feet and kicked at Tim in frustration. They stood over him, watching him struggle to get up.
"That's not him," said the first.
"Shit. Well shit, who is he?" the second asked.
"I don't know. Can I take his gun?"
"No, Jesus, it's probably registered and shit. Let's just get the fuck out of here." He dropped the knife into a trash bin and they ran down the alley to the street.
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