Act of Mercy – Chapter Six
Dawn was making a tired and dreary attempt at an entrance; it had started to drizzle again. Despite the successful arrest of Randy Sullivan, the law enforcement troop gathered in front of the trailer felt an opportunity had been missed, dampening everyone's mood more than the weather could. Each of them was wondering about the identity of the two men that got away.
"What happened down here?" Rachel demanded looking at the mosaic of broken glass around Albert Sullivan's truck. "Whatever it was, it almost cost us the arrest."
Art stopped Rachel's indignant tirade with a warning look then brought her into the discussion he was having with the Sheriff. They all agreed that stumbling around in the dark was useless and dangerous. Tim's close call dulled everyone's enthusiasm and the manhunt was postponed, left in the hands of the locals to coordinate. The Sheriff called in a team to dust the shack for prints and extra men to watch the property in case anyone returned. The Sullivans were loaded into a cruiser and Art shook hands all around, thanking everyone for their help. Finally he rounded up his Marshals and led them to his car. Their business was done.
"Rachel," Art said, putting up a hand to halt her questions before she could start, "I promise a full disclosure of the fiasco at the trailer but only when we're all warm and dry, sitting in my favorite diner drinking coffee and eating bacon and eggs. I'm buying breakfast."
Exhaustion seeped in through their clothes with the dampness and they all started to sag. Tim shivered, wet through, shaking violently enough that Art caught it and looked closer, noting the dark circles around his eyes.
"You look like a drug addict," he said, ushering him into the back of his car with a blanket and cranking up the heat. "Cathy will be on my ass if she hears I've been neglecting you and you've caught pneumonia your first week. She'll never trust me with another new Deputy."
Tim learned an important lesson that morning. Art made him repeat it back.
"A Deputy US Marshal always keeps a complete set of clean clothes in his locker," he said dutifully, lulled sleepy and malleable by the warm car.
Dan volunteered to drive him home when they got to Lexington so he could have a quick shower and change before meeting Art and Rachel at the diner. He helped Tim carry his wet gear upstairs, and stood in the middle of the empty apartment, a bemused expression on his face and a twitch to his lip.
"Where do you want me to set this so it won't be in the way?" Dan asked in a sarcastic baritone. "Are you a minimalist or are you keeping the place empty to set up a grow op? Some free advice, I don't think an apartment is a good idea for that sort of thing. Neighbors are kind of close. Wouldn't know from experience, mind. Just a hunch."
Tim made excuses. "Uh, I haven't had time to go buy stuff."
"Two words from a man still paying the bills from his third, soon-to-be ex-wife: online shopping." He set down the duffel and the sleeping bag and shook his head. "This is sad."
"Third ex-wife and you think this is sad?" Tim retorted.
"Fair enough," was Dan's laconic reply. Tim didn't press for details.
Rachel looked up and smiled when Dan and Tim walked in. Dan loped a grin back.
"You look like a teenager with your face all lit up like that," he said. "What have you got to be so happy about at this hour of the morning?"
"I'm dry and I've got a nice hot cup of coffee," she answered smugly, the smile settling comfortably.
"And you got your man," Art added appreciatively. "You two defeated the Jonah. The Lexington Marshals Office is back in business and hallelujah for that. I was beginning to think we'd have to sacrifice some virgins."
"They're probably harder to find than fugitives," Tim said, slow and wry, then a pause. "But maybe that's the point."
He had slouched into the booth beside Rachel and he tilted his head to the side when he spoke. He looked like he was in danger of falling asleep on her shoulder. Art wondered how that would go over.
"Car alarm?" Rachel prompted, reminding him of his promise.
"Oh God, you won't believe what happened," Art sighed. "I didn't want to embarrass the Sheriff, he's a good guy, but honestly…"
The waitress interrupted with coffee and went around the table taking orders. The three senior Marshals fell silent after Tim, last, finished. He handed over the menu then contentedly picked up his mug. He looked over the rim, finally noticed them staring.
"What?"
"Are you really going to eat all that?" Art demanded.
"Uh-huh."
"Okay." Art took a wait and see approach.
Impatient, Rachel prompted a second time. "Car alarm?"
"Right. So, we're holding back till the agreed time," Art started, "and the Sheriff is completely hamming it up, all clandestine, like he's watched too many movies."
"Wearing those ridiculous cowboy boots…" Dan interrupted.
"No doubt he's a Texan," Art quipped.
"A wannabe," Dan corrected. "No self-respecting Texan is going to be caught dead in a pair of boots that ugly."
"Anyway," Art got back on track, "the Sheriff, wearing a ridiculous pair of cowboy boots with leather soles, slips in the mud and stops himself falling face first into a puddle by careening into Albert Sullivan's truck."
"The one with the alarm," Dan clarified. "In case you missed it."
"We heard," Rachel groaned.
"Then," Art sniggered.
"This is the best part," Dan chuckled.
"Albert Sullivan launches himself out the front door in his tighty-whiteys," Art snorted, "and blasts his own truck with a shotgun."
"He shot his own truck?" Tim repeated, aghast. "That was a nice truck."
"Blew the back window right out. I think he was a little jumpy," Art laughed. "Fortunately the Sheriff had gotten out the way and Sullivan only had one round on him. No pockets." A snort. "I tell you, it was quite a scene."
"Hilarious in the telling, but kind of messed up the timing of the bust a little. Sorry," Dan said, chagrined.
"That's okay. Fortunately, Tim's a fast runner," Rachel replied, offering a rare compliment.
Art looked pleased. Tim shrugged it off.
"Randy was trying to make a getaway in socks. I could've been Elmer Fudd and caught him."
"Must be a Sullivan thing, not dressing for the weather." Art started to giggle again. "Lord, Albert in his tighty-whiteys. It's burned into my eyeballs forever." He covered his eyes. "Yep, I can still see it."
They returned to the office to write up the report and close out the warrant. Tim sweated every line with Rachel looking over his shoulder then the two spent the afternoon going over photos of Randy Sullivan's known criminal associates. They drew a blank. There was no match to the face that Tim had seen in the beam of the flashlights.
Art called Tim into his office before the end of the day and handed over a new sniper rifle. They discussed USMS policy on the weapon and Art suggested sarcastically that Tim would have to find someplace other than the indoor police range to practice with it. He wrote down the address of a 500m outdoor rifle range in Lexington and watched, satisfied, as his new Marshal assembled the weapon easily and confidently while they talked.
"Call me if you plan to test drive it on the weekend," Art requested. "I'd like to see what you can do with it."
"Sure thing," Tim replied, distracted.
There was no 'sir' attached to Tim's responses this morning. Art figured they were making progress. He ordered him to go home and enjoy what remained of his Friday, hoping as he watched Tim pack up that he wouldn't regret letting him take the rifle with him. It felt way worse than letting his daughters have the car for the first time when they were of age. He bit his lip as Tim left the office.
Tim walked out of the courthouse with his new rifle and drove to the range but he didn't call Art. He worried it might seem odd, maybe a little too eager going there straight after and on a Friday. It was still drizzling, scaring away all but the diehards. He had the place to himself. Just the owner appeared, standing in the doorway, watching.
He bought rounds and shot for an hour, zeroing in his new weapon. It cleared his head, the focus and rhythm of shooting, familiar and comfortable. He would've liked to stay longer but ammo wasn't cheap. In the military they'd shoot through thousands of rounds in training, time behind the scope was the only way to improve and the army gave him all the time he could handle. He missed it. For a brief moment he missed it. Then he recalled what drove him to quit and packed up, feeling uneasy again.
"You shoot well," the owner said, frowning as he rang up the total.
"It's a nice rifle," Tim muttered.
"You a hunter?" the man pried.
Tim looked up at him, ready to brush him off until he saw the concern in the man's expression. He thought about his new career and set how he should handle this against how he wanted to handle this. He took out his new star and USMS ID and set it open on the counter while he dug around for a credit card.
"Just keeping it up for work," Tim finally offered. "The rifle belongs to the Marshals Service."
The owner picked up the ID and nodded, relaxing. "Well, you're impressive with it. Have much call to use it?"
Tim shook his head. "Just got it. Ask me in few months."
The owner handed back the ID. "They're pretty good now, straight from the factory."
"You know of any longer ranges?" Tim asked. "Anything at 800m or more?"
"Not in Lexington. You new here?"
"Yeah, sort of." Tim nodded, smiled stiffly and left.
There was some work he wanted to do on the rifle, little things, but he didn't have the tools and wasn't sure he was allowed to tamper with it. He decided to start looking into gun clubs outside of Lexington, see if he could find someone like-minded and work out an arrangement of sorts. He went back to his apartment and ordered in and browsed the internet for ranges over 500m. He called Art and arranged to meet him at a place the next day then read until he fell asleep.
At 3am he woke in a haze of jumbled images, his heart racing. He suspected he'd been dreaming and didn't want to think about it too long in case he remembered something. There was cold beer in the fridge, the apartment wasn't completely uncivilized, and he opened one and sat on the floor against the wall. Looking around, he decided this was stupid and spent four hours online, shopping for a life. The bed would arrive the following week, and a couch with it, sheets, towels, dishes, a TV, a desk for his computer and a lamp. He grinned when he hit the check-out link, a successful covert operation and a welcome distraction from the uneasy hours in the middle of the night.
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