Author's Note: My apologies to anyone who is confused about my chapter numbering. I made the mistake of calling chapter 1 a prologue and now the chapter titles are all one behind the site's chapter numbering. Just ignore my chapter titles and everything will be instantly better.
Act of Mercy – Chapter Eight
"Did you get attacked by a camel spider? A guy at school told me that they eat people alive."
Tim glanced over at the kid in the passenger seat who was looking up expectantly.
"Don't believe everything you watch on YouTube," he responded, wondering how the kid knew about him and Afghanistan.
The kid was still looking at him, said disappointed, "I bet you never saw one."
It was a sneering, utter dismissal and Tim gripped the steering wheel hard, explosively angry. He glared over at his passenger, all 4'8" and eighty pounds of him, and gave himself a mental dressing down. The kid was what? Ten years old? What is your fucking problem, Gutterson? He took a deep breath and loosened his hands.
"They are arachnids, but they're more closely related to scorpions than spiders. Did you know that?" he offered, tamping down his temper and tempting his audience.
His audience snorted and pulled out his IPod.
"I saw a few of them," Tim finally admitted.
The kid paused, earbuds poised for ignoring the world.
"The biggest one I saw was about the size of my hand," Tim continued, stretching out his fingers to demonstrate, his audience now hooked. "The locals told me it was an unusually large one. Probably a male, 'cause they have the long legs. And no, they don't chase people and eat them."
"But I saw it on YouTube," the kid countered.
"What you saw on YouTube," Tim explained patiently, "was a desert creature trying to get out of the sun. They all do it. They follow you around to stand in your shadow."
"Really?"
He didn't sound disappointed, more curious. Tim appreciated curious.
"Yep, but they will bite. And they are pretty creepy," he admitted, remembering. "Give me a snake any day."
"Did you get bit?" the kid asked eagerly, hopeful.
"Nope, my buddy did, though. He put his hand down on one, didn't see it. He said it stung."
"Huh. Wait'll I tell my friend. He's such a dumbass," he stated smugly to Tim. He shook his head then glanced at the Marshal slyly waiting for a rebuke for the swearing. But this adult obviously didn't have the same rules as the other adults. He continued his rant with growing confidence. "He told me once that Marshals don't carry guns. And I said I know they do 'cause Aunt Rachel has one. Actually, she has two. And he said that Marshals aren't as badass as cops." He trailed off, hoping maybe his friend was wrong about that, too. He turned to Tim to get the truth.
"Aunt Rachel? I thought she was your mom," Tim questioned, confused.
"No. My mom's dead," the kid replied tersely. He went quiet.
"So's mine," Tim said, dropping the fact to fill the breach, hoping to get the kid talking again.
"Yeah, well, you're old."
This time it was Tim's turn to snort. "Am not. Besides I was way younger than you when my mom died. And your Aunt Rachel's mom's still alive and she's older than me."
"I guess," the kid said, unconvinced by the logic. "What about your dad?"
"He's dead," Tim responded, as much emotion in the statement as you'd find in a nail clipping.
"Oh." The boy looked at Tim with new eyes, trying to puzzle out what this man's life was and failing. This was his first soldier. He decided to explain his, thinking maybe the man could puzzle it out instead. Something simple and short would be nice. "Mine's in prison."
Tim's eyes widened. This kid was full of surprises. He figured he'd better get the story straight before he opened his mouth again about family. He hit the reset and started at the beginning. "What's your name again?"
"Nick."
"Well, Nick. I'd say your friend's full of shit."
Nick's eyes went wide when he heard Tim curse and he let slip a grin and a giggle. The adults he knew never swore.
"'Cause let me tell you," Tim stated firmly, keeping the conversation away from parents and on safe ground. "Your Aunt Rachel's a Marshal and she's a badass."
Tim spent the rest of the drive drawing a picture for the kid, a picture of his aunt that Nick didn't get to see: Rachel with a gun drawn staring down a fugitive, stony-faced in an interview with a convicted murderer, going head-to-head with an AUSA or the local police or a Federal Agent. And Tim, the ex-Army Ranger, the sniper, he was just the back-up, her trainee. Nick was riveted. By the time they pulled into the driveway at his house, Nick had a new picture of his Aunt Rachel, Batman, Lara Croft, Black Widow. His aunt was a certifiable badass.
Court ran late. When she was finally dismissed, Rachel grabbed her bag and headed down the hall to the elevators. Art appeared at her shoulder and grinned ridiculously at her, trying to get her to smile. He'd known her long enough to recognize the frustration brewing under the calm.
"Hey," he greeted her cheerfully. "It's Friday. How about a smile?"
She looked up at him sideways and sighed.
"That good, huh? Well, I've got a new bottle of bourbon in my desk," he offered. "That usually cheers me up or at least settles me down."
"Thanks, but I have to drive, Chief. I'm picking up Nick and I'm already late." She looked at her watch and grimaced. "Really late."
"Now, calm down. Nick's taken care of," Art said hoping to lower her stress level. "I sent Tim to the school to get him and take him home. Your mom called. Nick was done early."
The news didn't calm her down. Her disapproval was tangible. "You what?!"
"I sent your ex-Army Ranger to get Nick," he repeated exaggerating the mouthing of each word. "Your mom cleared it with the school."
The elevator arrived and she almost forgot to get on. Art held the door for her, though by this point he was wondering why he was bothering trying to help at all.
She pulled out her phone and called Nick. He answered right away, cheerful and obviously distracted. Yes, he was at home. Yes, he was fine. See ya. He hung up before she could ask more.
"See," Art said with a pout, pretending his feelings were hurt. "He's fine."
"I can't believe you sent Gutterson." She looked up, impatient, watched the floor numbers scroll slowly.
Art huffed, "You don't think your ex-Army Ranger can handle a 10-year-old?"
She didn't answer. The doors opened and she was gone. She collected her things and was running down the stairs before Art even made it to his office.
"You're welcome, Rachel. You have a lovely weekend," he called out to the empty bullpen.
Rachel walked in the house a half hour later and called urgently from the front hall, "Ma? Is Nick okay?"
Her mom walked out from the kitchen to greet her, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes, dear. He's playing on the Xbox with Tim."
Tim? Rachel thought, out loud she said, "You mean Deputy Gutterson. Why is he even still here?"
The older woman planted her hands on her hips, annoyed. Recognizing the pose, Rachel inwardly cringed. When did she become her mother?
"I mean what I say, and I said Tim. What is your problem? You've been complaining about him since before he started at that office. He seems a nice young man. When are you going to get over this prejudice?" her mother scolded. "And it'd better be quick, young lady, because I've invited him to dinner." She spun on her heel and marched back to the kitchen.
Rachel huffed. Young lady. She was in her thirties and her mother was still speaking to her like she was a teenager.
She walked into the living room. The sight that greeted her would've been funny if she had allowed it. Nick was bouncing on the couch; Tim was stretched out on the carpet on his back, propped against the same couch, his head bent at an uncomfortable angle and bobbing in time to Nick's energetic movements.
"Boys," she greeted them sarcastically.
She didn't get a response.
"Isn't there some place you'd rather be on a Friday night, Gutterson?"
"Hey," he replied, "don't distract me. I'm getting my ass kicked."
Nick giggled at Tim's choice phrase; Rachel squeezed her eyes shut.
She turned away and headed upstairs to the bedroom her mom kept for her. She spent as much time at the house helping with Nick as she did at her own apartment in town. She flopped angrily on the bed and mentally mopped up the tears that were building, threatening to spill out. It was getting harder to juggle it all.
She never regretted convincing her mom to pack up Nick and join her in Lexington. It took some yelling and pleading, her mother was stubbornly set to stay in Tennessee, but in the end it was the idea that it would do her grandson good to get away from the stigma of a drug-addict father, the pitying looks, that had tipped the balance and won Rachel the argument and the responsibility. She had no regrets. She loved Nick.
Rachel showered and changed and lay back on the bed listening to the squeals and laughter from the living room. She tried to remember the last time she heard Nick laugh like that. She wanted to be angry with her ex-Army Ranger for stealing that laughter away when it should be hers. She closed her eyes, knowing that was childish and desperately selfish. Nick could never be her sister, laughing like she used to just for her.
Thoughts of Shawnee surfaced and brought up with them her mother's remark. When are you going to get over this prejudice?
Just how do I get over it? She wanted to ask her mom but then she'd have to explain and she promised she wouldn't tell.
She remembered every second of that evening, hanging around the field late after school with Shawnee, their friends all gone home. She never told anyone about that day, a promise was made and she'd kept it, too late for telling now anyway. Three men in army cammo came at them out of the woods that bordered the field. Rachel was the fighter, so she fought and kicked one of them hard in the nuts, ran away, terrified. She stumbled yelling for help into the neighborhood bordering the small forest. No one heard, no one helped. Shawnee followed her there afterward, crying, hushing her, saying the men had run off. Don't tell, please, don't tell. But it was all worse after that, more than just smoking pot, straight downhill for Shawnee, into heroin, into that relationship, into that car and into that night. She should have told.
The tears overran her defenses this time and she cried for Shawnee, again, and for herself. She cried for her mom, for Nick, and a little, too, for her ex-Army Ranger and the look on his face when he told her about that boy.
She came downstairs a while later, comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt. She stood watching the boys and took in the scene differently this time, more detached now, emotions drained away. Tim was still in his office shirt and dress pants, looking like he just got back from Sunday school not the Marshals Office with his baby face and his hair sticking up. The laughter from the two, especially Nick who was doing the ass-kicking, bounced around the house. It felt good and Rachel felt a grin but didn't show it. Her mother walked up beside her.
Rachel let out a breath and with it, "You're right."
Her mother wrapped an arm around her daughter's waist possessively. Rachel was going to get weeks of goodwill out of that one short statement.
"You wouldn't think Tim much older than Nick," her mother commented, smiling.
"Nick doesn't laugh enough," Rachel stated with authority, though she was just realizing it. "Makes him seem older."
"Mm," her mom agreed, distracted and content.
"Tim's just pathetic," Rachel added, finally grinning.
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