Act of Mercy – Chapter Two
Tuesday mornings weren't Art's favorite, being only marginally better than Mondays and not nearly as promising as Thursdays. And this particular Tuesday was looking particularly grim. There had been trouble with the ovens at the coffee shop and they were out of his favorite muffins, an accident on one of the major roads had forced a detour and, to top it off, Art was annoyed to see someone in his usual parking spot at the courthouse. He pulled in on the opposite side, still early enough to have no trouble finding a place, but now his whole day was shit and he walked to the Marshals' entrance of the building anticipating that the elevators were going to be out of service and probably the coffee machine was going to be broken, too.
Reaching out to open the door, he cast an irritable look back at the truck parked in his spot. A young man was sitting in the driver's seat, his arms crossed on the steering wheel and his head bowed over. Art eyed him suspiciously. He didn't recognize the parking spot thief as any of the usual building staff and his law enforcement instincts kicked in. He became aware of the body language, aware that something was not right in this young man's world, something that plunked him square in the middle of the lot of Lexington's federal courthouse. Art decided to be prudent and investigate.
He lifted his hand to the weapon tucked up in the shoulder holster, gave it a tap for reassurance and started walking slowly toward the truck, eyes narrowed.
The driver lifted his head and unfolded his arms, running his hands roughly over his face before placing them back on the wheel and letting out a breath. Art was almost at the truck when the man looked over, his expression haggard, haunted, no hunted. Harrowed? Art couldn't decide which 'h' word best fit.
He heightened his alert status. The truck window was down, so Art addressed him. "Can I help you, son?"
"Uh, no, no sir, I'm fine," the young man stammered. "I'm early, is all."
He reached over and grabbed a jacket, rolled up the window and stepped out of his truck, locking it.
"I'm your new Deputy," he said uncertainly, his voice rising, questioning his own statement. "Tim Gutterson." He held out a hand.
Art shook it and smiled, relieved. Mystery solved. First day nerves. "Art Mullen," he replied. "But I guess you already knew that."
Tim nodded, a quick motion.
Art made small talk, leading the way inside and up the elevator which, oddly, was working just fine. He asked his new Marshal how the training went and used the time it took the young man to answer to give him a good once over, try to figure out how he knew him.
"Where are you from?" Art asked finally. "Cathy at Glynco, she says we met once."
"Uh," Tim stalled, jamming his hands in his pockets and looking down at the floor.
The action triggered a memory and Art snapped his fingers in recognition, pointing at him, recalling an afternoon in Lexington. "You're the kid with the nasty right hook, from the bar."
"I was hoping you wouldn't remember," Tim sighed. "That wasn't the…I wasn't…" He stopped, wondering how to salvage the introduction.
"Well, I'll be damned," Art swore, grinning. "I figured I'd be assigning you a cell not a desk. Shit, you actually did it. Well, I'll be damned."
Art, oblivious to Tim's discomfort, shook his head in amazement, pleased that someone had actually taken advice from him and followed through on it. In fact, he was blindingly flattered and wouldn't have cared if he'd witnessed this new Deputy murdering kittens before entering the Marshals Service. He mentally patted himself on the back for steering at least one young man clear of trouble during his career. His day brightened and it made up for the muffin disaster and the detour and the loss of his favorite parking spot. He couldn't wait to tell his wife.
The elevator opened on their floor. "Give me a minute to get settled then come on in my office for the welcome-to-Lexington chat."
Art held the door, ushering in his new charge, greeted Rachel, her back to them, and walked straight into his office, leaving her with the new kid. He took off his jacket, hooked it on the tree then stood behind his desk, spying on the bullpen. He suspected Rachel had a motive for being early this morning. She'd made it clear to him Friday that she was not happy with being assigned to do the training. He gave it five minutes before she marched in for another attempt at getting out of it.
Art watched expectantly, hoping to catch her expression when she finally turned and met the new Marshal, and wasn't disappointed by the open-mouthed, stunned look when Tim introduced himself. Art chuckled evilly. It served her right for stereotyping. It was a good lesson.
He quickly looked down and started shuffling papers when she made a bee-line for his door less than three minutes later.
Rachel, too, had arrived at work early this particular Tuesday, her back already up, ready to face-down her boss. She wanted out of this training assignment. She had stewed about it all weekend and was going to corner Art before the day started and demand he reconsider. There were other Marshals who could better deal with an ex-Army Ranger.
Rachel already had a picture of him in her head. A six-foot, 200 lb, white, chauvinistic, muscle-bound, jaded, gun-loving, arrogant, thrill-seeking, out-of-control, moron. She'd met his type before, on the job and off, and she wanted nothing to do with him.
She made sure to be the first in, knowing that Art would be second. She reached over the computer screen to drop her bag on her desk and picked up the small stack of phone messages left from Monday.
Art waltzed in behind her with a 'Good morning, Rachel'.
She answered without looking around, reading through the notes. She grabbed her mug and turned to the kitchenette to start some coffee, planning on taking Art a cup to soften him. She jumped, surprised, finding herself face-to-face with a young man.
"I'm sorry," he said, taking a quick step back, his hands up in front in the universal sign of nonaggression. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"Can I help you?" Rachel asked stiffly, annoyed at being caught off guard and immediately wary.
"I'm starting work here today," he said nervously. Awkwardly he stuck his hand forward. "Tim Gutterson."
Rachel gaped. He was slight, clean cut, boyish, innocent. They must have sent the wrong man or the wrong file. He started to pull his hand back before she remembered her manners and shook it.
"Deputy Marshal Rachel Brooks." Her eyebrows rose up in disbelief and she punctuated the next line with a snort of dismissal. "You're the Army Ranger?"
His face lost the innocence. He set his mouth in a tight line and cocked his head.
"I thought I was starting a job as a Deputy Marshal," he replied, anger simmering, reacting to her tone with a warning salvo of sarcasm. "But if you've got a Taliban problem in Lexington, I guess I'm your man."
There was the mouth she'd been warned about. Right file, right man; wrong of her to stereotype. Maybe she needed a refresher on her sensitivity training, though she didn't recall them ever touching on the subject of how to be sensitive to the needs of gun-loving white boys. She decided to start right now letting him know his place in the hierarchy.
"If I hear a tribal war cry I'll be sure to call you," she responded coldly then carelessly waved a finger to her right. "You can make yourself comfortable at the next desk over. Get yourself some coffee if you drink it."
He nodded at her and marched over to his work space. She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she pretended to be busy rearranging papers. He stood at a loss, staring at his starkly empty desk then finally did a survey of the room, spotted the kitchenette and walked over to start a fresh pot of coffee. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing a rifle tattoo on his wrist and sealing her opinion of him.
Rachel continued studying him a moment, mouth set, annoyed for the sake of it. She dropped the papers she'd been playing with on her keyboard and, not wasting time knocking, strode into Art's office. She shut the door behind her and started her argument.
"There has got to be someone better suited to train him. I'm not the right person for this job. Seriously, Chief, do you really think it's a good idea pairing me up with an ex-Army Ranger?" She clearly thought Art was insane.
"Uh-huh."
"Have you heard how they train those guys? He's not going to be happy taking orders from me. They don't even allow women in the Rangers."
"Rachel," he soothed, cutting in, "you're exactly the right person. That's why I chose you. I know you won't encourage any attitude from him. And if he gives you any racial bullshit or any sexist bullshit, I'll have him out on his ass before you can say 'I told you so'. I promise. Now, go send him in so I can give him the new Marshal song and dance. I'll make the rounds and show him where the bathroom is and the like and you can have him when I'm through."
"And what exactly do you want me to do with him?" she asked petulantly.
"I don't know why we're worried about his attitude." He gave her an admonishing look and she immediately regretted her tone. "Just let him follow you around today. We can't get him access to the system until the techies are free this afternoon – they're on a nerd retreat – so you'll have to show him all that tomorrow."
Art sat down and started scrolling through his email. Rachel took it that the conversation was over and yanked open the door.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he called her back, passing her a slip of paper. "The locals spotted the license you were looking for and kindly passed on an address. Why don't you take Gutterson with you? The Sullivans have a history of shooting first, cooperating second, and I'll bet your ex-Army Ranger is handy in a gun fight."
"My ex-Army Ranger," she grumped. "I'll bet he's handy, he'll probably start it."
Art made a noise suspiciously like a giggle when she walked out. Rachel stopped just short of stomping her foot when she motioned Tim into Art's office with an impatient gesture and went to pour herself a cup of badly needed caffeine. She took one sip and huffed loudly, knowing instantly that the rest of her week was going to be shit because, dammit, her ex-Army Ranger made a fine pot of coffee.
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