Aimpoint - Chapter Six

Art slept badly, got up early and went to the hospital to see Tim before heading into the office. He was pleased to find him out of ICU and in a room. He was not pleased to find Rachel curled up asleep in a chair in that room. He didn't want to wake her, so he moved as quietly as he could over to Tim's bed and had a look. He was as pale as a hangover, except for the dark circles under his eyes. If you ignored the stubble, he looked like a teenager.

He heard movement and turned to see Rachel stretching. She looked at him blearily and smiled. He smiled back. He never could stay mad at her.

"Were you here all night?" he demanded, trying to sound angry.

Her look was a combination of confidence and belligerence. It said 'of course' and 'do you have a problem with that?' at the same time. But all that was audible was a light acknowledgement.

"Mm hmm," she said.

"You really think he needs a babysitter?"

"I think you all need a babysitter," she replied cheekily.

"Do I need to worry about this?" he asked looking from him to her.

"Please," she huffed and rolled her eyes. "Tim's like a little brother. He's Nick, just ever so slightly more grown up. And you're the one who assigned him to me when he first started. I feel responsible for him."

"So now it's my fault you chose to sleep in a chair all night?"

"I'm just saying he could use a little help right now. Besides who else is there?" she added. "Did you know he comes over and hangs out with Nick sometimes? I owe him. Nick gets a little tired of his grandma and Aunt Rachel."

"Nick and Tim?" Art said in disbelief.

"Uh-huh. They play Call of Duty together," she smiled. "Nick loves it because he gets to tell his friends he kicks US Army Ranger ass. Last week, Tim did a 'rage-quit'. Apparently he shot Nick five times with a .50 caliber sniper rifle and couldn't kill him. Tim said it was stupid. I never had so good a laugh with Nick."

"Huh," Art grunted. Raylan was right. People do surprise you. "Has he come around at all? It would be nice if we could to talk to him."

"Briefly," she replied yawning. "But he was pretty out of it. Your friend, Dr. Burkhart, was by. He seemed pleased and said Tim was doing well considering. He also said not to expect much conversation from him today. Lots of drugs." She widened her eyes expressively and grinned.

Art nodded in understanding.

"Well, I just thought I'd check in," he told her. "Raylan and I are heading down to have a chat with Dickie Bennett. See what that gets us. We want to get there early. Why don't you head home and get some sleep, come in this afternoon."

"We'll see," she said. "I might run some pictures of Lair's associates from prison over to the bartender and see if he recognizes any of them. I really didn't sleep too badly. Sometimes being small is a good thing."

Art and Raylan passed through another set of locked and barred doors before entering the visiting room at the penitentiary. As they went through each set, Art could feel himself sliding into his hardened work persona, one he didn't have much use for anymore as bureau chief. It was a side of himself he didn't like very much that he reserved for the job, a side that his wife and daughters never saw, not even when the girls brought home their boyfriends for approval, a side that was only necessary for dealing with people like Dickie Bennett.

They had preplanned the meeting. Art sat at the table, waiting. Even at his age he was an intimidating man. Raylan stayed by the door, purposely out of sight when it opened. Dickie was led in by one of the prison guards and stood in the room looking insolently at Art. He refused to sit and tried hard to put on an air of confidence and control. But the Chief Deputy had put a lot of energy into his work persona today and his dangerous will filled the room and made Dickie wither. He had walked into the lion's den.

"Dickie Bennett," Raylan spoke up, moving in from behind him. "How's the leg?"

Dickie jumped. His attention was completely bound by Art and Art's silent glare and he hadn't noticed Raylan when he came in. He spun around and stumbled, trying to keep himself as far as possible from both Marshals, a double threat.

"Whoa, hey, Raylan," he said, staring at him in surprise and alarm, both arms up warding him off. "Whoa, huh, didn't, uh, didn't see you standing there."

"You didn't see me standing here, or you didn't expect to see me standing?" asked Raylan, watching him carefully.

"Uh, hey, Raylan. Yeah, here you are," Dickie stammered, a panicked look on his face, bowing to Raylan like a vaudeville host. "Raylan, huh. Okay. I'm not sure what you're implying here."

"We've got Harold Lair in custody," Raylan stated, and got the reaction he was expecting.

Dickie stared at him and swallowed. "I am not part of whatever Harold Lair is up to," he denied vehemently. "If Harold is doing something he shouldn't be doing, I have nothing whatsoever to do with whatever he's doing, at all, especially if it's anything to do with you, Raylan."

"Harold and his buddies attacked a Deputy Marshal with a knife last night. They thought it was me. Can you imagine their surprise? Well, actually, I suppose you can."

Dickie's eyes shifted to Art then back to Raylan. "Who was it?" he asked nervously.

"Deputy Tim Gutterson."

Dickie's expression changed from fear to spite.

"He's the one that shot Doyle, isn't he? Am I right? He is, isn't he? Is he dead? I hope he's dead." Dickie spat on the floor. "I hope he rots in hell," he said, pointing downward for emphasis.

Raylan was grateful that Tim wasn't around to hear this. He wanted to hit Dickie, but he settled for a menacing step closer. "You'd better hope he's not dead. Because if he is, that's contract murder and you are never getting out of here."

"Contract, what? Contract murder? Whoa, Raylan, I don't know what you are talking about. Ha. I never. I had nothing to do with it," Dickie spluttered.

Raylan took another step and Dickie started to edge toward the table. Art stood up and crossed his arms on his chest.

"Harold was none too happy to find out that he's the only one who didn't know the Bennett money is all gone. Do you really think he's going to stay quiet to protect you?" Raylan threatened. "Harold Lair is singing us an interesting song. I like it so much I'm putting it on my IPod."

"I, uh…huh, I uh…I want my lawyer," Dickie stammered.

"It's never as fun as you think it'll be," Art sighed once they'd gone back out through the series of gates and were in the car. "It's like a high school reunion – disappointing."

"Well," Raylan responded, "at least now we can be pretty sure Dickie was paying Harold, or at least making promises to. If we can get Harold to snitch on him and keep his story up all the way to a court hearing it'll help us hold Dickie for longer. Shit, this whole business just makes me tired. I'm sorry Tim had to get involved in it."

Art didn't reply. He was confident that neither Raylan nor Tim was going to carry around any grudges or guilt from this, at least not for each other. The two of them were professionals. Having Raylan join the Lexington office was a mixed blessing. Art needed help sorting out the maze of intrigue in Harlan County and who better than Raylan. But lately, Art worried they'd opened a Pandora's Box and what had come out were a lot of skulking closet skeletons with Givens tags.

"I think I could get you a nice transfer if you'd like," he offered.

Raylan's face tensed up but he kept his eyes on the road and didn't respond.

"I'm sure you don't want to go back to Miami, but how about Atlanta?"

"Are you trying to tell me something, Art? Want to get rid of me finally?" Raylan asked. "Worried for the other Marshals?"

"The only Marshal I'm worried about is you," Art said defensively. He paused for a moment and wagged his head back and forth. "Well, and Tim, but I'm always a little worried about him. And then there's that new guy. He's a little strange, don't you think? I'm not sure he's cut out for law enforcement."

"Art," Raylan said impatiently interrupting his breakdown of the staff.

"No, I'm not anxious to be rid of you, this week," Art admitted.

"Well, then I'd like to stay if it's all the same to you," said Raylan. "Got some things I need to work out."

Art nodded.

"And I'd miss you," Raylan added.

"Aw."

Art decided to make a few phone calls on the drive back. He called the hospital and managed to catch Phil. They chatted a few minutes about Tim, and Art hung up satisfied with the news and passed it on to Raylan. He then rang Rachel and they exchanged information. She hadn't had any luck with the bartender and was planning a second canvas of the neighborhood. He suggested she hold off until he and Raylan had a chance to interview Harold Lair.

"So," Art said after finishing his call with Rachel, "shall we reverse rolls for Harold?"

"Sounds good," Raylan replied.

When they picked up Harold Lair, Art signed for him at the desk and kept up a running monologue back to the Marshals office.

"I stopped by the hospital on the way over. It's not looking good. He went into cardiac arrest again this morning. They're not sure they can revive him next time. Said they probably won't even try. I called his family – they're on their way. I told them to expect the worst, that there was severe trauma." Art's voice faltered and he shook his head. "Shit. I hate making those calls."

Raylan said nothing, but thought Art deserved an Oscar for his performance. Raylan settled for the silent treatment, fixing his eyes coldly on their prisoner. By the time they got to the conference room Harold Lair was a wreck. Art sat across from him, slamming the folder open angrily and Raylan stood behind, dangerously quiet. Harold was doing contortions in his chair trying to keep them both in sight.

"The charges being laid against you, Mr. Lair, are pretty serious," Art stated, jabbing a finger in his face. "If Deputy Gutterson doesn't survive his injuries you and your associates are looking at the death penalty."

"They were just supposed to rough you up," Harold said nervously looking around at Raylan.

"Bullshit," Raylan responded. "Dickie Bennett wants me dead."

"Dickie? Dickie who?" Harold asked, his confusion unconvincing.

Raylan put his hands on Harold's shoulders and leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Don't fuck with me," he threatened.

Harold sank down into his seat.

"We were in talking to Dickie this morning," Art continued sternly. "He was telling us a story about you bragging about your plans to kill a US Deputy Marshal. Now, we believe that the truth of it is that Dickie Bennett hired you and your friends to do the job for him. The courts will take into consideration any cooperation on your part when the sentences are handed out."

"What did he promise you, Harold?" Raylan asked, still leaning on him. "Money? Because there is no money. Mags Bennett's money is gone. Dickie is playing you."

"How did you find out it was Dickie?" he squeaked, sinking even lower.

Raylan flashed Art a smile.

"We want their names, Mr. Lair," Art said tapping his finger on the table. "And we want to hear about Dickie Bennett's involvement in this. Now!"

xxxxx

Author's Note: Picture the hair...