Act of Mercy – Chapter Thirteen
Tim arrived better prepared for an Xbox tournament this time, jeans and a t-shirt. Nick was first to the door.
"I got a new game," he exclaimed, trying to be cool about it but not quite shaking off the kid in him, not jumping but definitely buzzing, impatient. "Come on." He headed for the living room, motioning at Tim to follow him, stopped, took two steps back toward the door, motioned again, a few steps forward, stopped.
Rachel's mom came up behind him. "Nick, where are your manners? Take Tim's jacket for him." She held out her hand for it. "Nice to see you, Tim. Thanks for coming. He's a little wound up."
"It's okay," Tim said, grinning. He wiggled both hands on an imaginary controller. "I'm ready."
"To get creamed," Nick almost shouted then whooped, ran and threw himself on the couch.
Mrs. Brooks took Tim's jacket and smiled apologetically. "You don't have to, you know. I'll still make you dinner."
"Yeah, I do. I have the honor of the entire 75th to defend. And don't think this isn't fun for me," he added in a lower voice. "Even if I do get creamed."
Rachel called from the kitchen, "You want a beer?"
"Love one, thanks."
After dinner, Nick bounced back and forth between texting his friends and chatting with the adults in the dining room. The third trip around he interrupted triumphantly with, "I just told Scott that I owned an Army Ranger at Call of Duty."
"Nick," Rachel snapped at him, her tone scolding, "what have I told you about gloating? It sounds ugly. And besides, you spend hours playing. How much time do you think Tim gets on an Xbox?"
Bewildered, Tim looked over at Rachel, wondering why she was defending him when he did get owned. He decided it had less to do with his feelings and more to do with parenting, and what could he possibly know about that. He kept his mouth shut.
"Yeah, but he gets to practice with a real gun," Nick grumped, sounding every one of his ten whole years.
Mrs. Brooks peered over at Tim. "And how many times have you had to use your weapon since you started working at the Marshals?"
Tim held up a zero, finger to thumb.
"Mm-hmm," she directed her point at Nick.
Nick slouched off dramatically.
"What happened to your arm?" Rachel asked, sitting up and noticing a dark red smear to the elbow.
Tim twisted it around, trying to see. "Uh, paint. I was helping a friend fix up her house."
"A girlfriend?" Mrs. Brooks teased.
"She's in her seventies," Tim clarified.
"He likes older women," Rachel ribbed him, hoping to see him squirm. "Watch yourself, Ma."
Tim turned an expressionless gaze on her. "Are you transferring out anytime soon?"
The corner of her mouth twitched up. "No. Why?"
"Just planning my revenge," he replied, a head tilt, evil glint, a look she was beginning to understand meant trouble, verbal usually but...
Nick marched back in abruptly, his thinking hard and quick. He was angry for being embarrassed in front of his new friend and he focused that spite on the elephant in the room, using it to climb back up on top. "Yeah, but he got lots of practice shooting people when he was in the war."
"Nick!"
Rachel was up out of her chair and her fury crushed Nick's anger. Nick couldn't unglue his feet in time to run before his eyes welled up with a righteous sense of injustice fueled by inexperience, insult on injury in his mind. He finally loosened his legs and ran.
Rachel brought her hands up to her face, turned to Tim. "I'm so sorry. I told him not to bother you about it. He overheard me talking…" She waved her hand helplessly at her mother then looked at the ceiling for an escape. "He was supposed to be in bed asleep when I…This is why I don't bring my work home," she finished, blaming herself.
Tim smoothed the tablecloth, twitched one shoulder, half an apology for disturbing their peace, half uncertain about his own feelings. "He's ten."
"And old enough to understand what I said." Rachel was embarrassed now, too, and angry because of it.
Tim ran a hand through his hair. "Can I go talk to him? Do you mind?" He asked more to be clear of the room. It unnerved him to see Rachel embarrassed.
Mrs. Brooks smiled her acquiescence, pointed upstairs.
Nick was in his pajamas sitting on the bed, just teeth to be brushed, believing it might lessen the trouble he was in. His face was set, hot and mulish.
"Hey," Tim said when he pushed at the door.
"It's not fair. I beat you."
"I never said you didn't. Why take it out on me?"
Tim leaned against the door frame and raised his eyebrows, looking sad in Nick's simple world.
Nick wiped at his eyes, an unformed shame niggling.
I'd've been laid out by my dad for less than this, Tim thought. Not my kid; not my problem.
"You can tell whoever you want that you kicked Army Ranger butt at COD, alright? But…plunk you on a mountain in Afghanistan and I own you." He pointed challengingly at his pretend enemy then raised an eyebrow for play.
Nick narrowed his eyes at him, quick to slap away the bad feelings and join the game. "Oh yeah? I can run fast."
"You can outrun a bullet from a high-powered sniper rifle?" Tim snorted. "I don't think so. A round leaves the barrel at over 850 meters per second."
Nick's eyebrows furrowed trying to understand, trying to draw a picture against an imaginary landscape of desert and mountains, patched together with photos from Geography textbooks.
"That's about 2800 feet per second, or 1900 miles per hour. What do you know that goes 1900 miles per hour?"
Nick shrugged.
"Sound only travels at about 750 miles per hour. Can you outrun sound?"
Nick shrugged again, never having watched sound run.
"Okay," Tim said, thinking simpler. "A car travels on the highway at about 65 miles per hour. Can you outrun a car?"
Nick shook his head.
"You can't outrun a car going 65 miles per hour? Then how do you figure outrunning a bullet going 1900 miles per hour?" He made a sneering face, a playground jibe.
Nick smiled slyly, his woes forgotten. "I'll hide."
"I'll find you," Tim threatened. "You have to come up sometime for food, or to take a piss."
Nick giggled, still young enough to enjoy good bathroom humor. Tim grinned.
Nick planted his hands on his hips looking just like his Aunt Rachel. "Would you shoot me if you found me?"
"Nope, too much trouble for an Xbox squirt. I'd drop you in a puddle."
Nick laughed out loud, once, a gotcha, up on his knees bouncing again. "How are you going to find a puddle in the desert?"
"I'd make one. I'd use up the last of my water and it'd be worth it just to drop you in it."
"You wouldn't."
"Dare me."
"I dare you," he breathed, giggling and terrified.
Nick squealed when Tim grabbed him by the foot. He dragged him thumping down the stairs, hoisted him up in the air at the bottom then out the door to the end of the driveway. He dropped him, squealing and laughing, into a dirty puddle of icy water.
Tim turned to the house and saw Rachel, hands planted firmly on her hips, backlit in the doorway.
"Gutterson, what are you doing?" she yelled.
"Shit, I'm in trouble," he whispered to Nick. Then he pointed down, called out to Rachel, "I think he needs a bath."
"And you need civilizing!"
"Tim?"
He was just reaching for his phone to call another vintage car club, looked up from his screen. Art was standing at the door to his office, his face serious.
"Got a minute?"
After the door was closed, Art started gently. "Are you sure you're prepared to use that rifle?"
Tim took a deep breath, let it out, scrunched up his face to hide his thoughts. "It's what I'm trained to do," he answered.
Art fished around on his desk for a different solution, came up empty. He got to the point although he wasn't sure he liked Tim's reply. "Dan's got a situation with a fellow he's been chasing. A suicide-by-cop situation. Are you okay with making the shot if it goes down that way?"
Tim nodded.
"He's got his wife and daughter with him and he's…" Art made hand motions, squinted at his new Marshal, "…he's making threats."
"We should get going then," Tim responded.
Art nodded in turn; the reluctance showed.
They pulled the truck up behind the row of police cars, double parking. Art climbed out and waved to Dan Shaw while Tim set up his rifle and walked the line of cars looking at options for angles.
"Any change?"
"He just shot his wife," Dan replied.
"Shit."
"We cornered him in the laundromat here over an hour ago. We've tried to talk him out but he's determined and I think he'll take his daughter with him before it's over. And there are two other people in there, caught up by accident."
They had followed Tim while they talked. He had settled on a spot and set up and was peering through the glass front into the building.
"The wife's still breathing," Tim said.
"You sure?"
"Yessir. The little girl is petrified, literally. You want to try and get to her in time? I have a clear shot."
"Is the window a problem?"
"Nope."
Art looked hard at Tim. "Can you do this?"
"Can he, or will he?" Dan corrected sternly. "Which do you mean?"
Art looked at the ground, at the tragedy playing out. "Both."
"It's not a problem," Tim answered, a part of the rifle, detached.
"Take him down."
Tim was careful never to put the little girl in the crosshairs, a superstition and a precaution with his finger now on the trigger, safety off. He let his mind go blank, sent off a round. He was breaking down his rifle while the rest of the team were still holding their breath. Then a sudden back draft when everyone started moving toward the building, everyone but the shooter and the guy who made the call. Art studied Tim while he packed up. He'd remark to Dan later about the confidence, saying something about an uneasiness mixed in, maybe just hoping. Tim closed up the rifle case, closed himself.
Dan strode back over. "Clean shot, Gutterson," he acknowledged with a nod, "thanks. EMS has the mother. They say it looks good."
A local media truck pulled up close by, spilled out cameras and curiosity and opportunity for the 6 o'clock news. Art whipped off his cap and put it on Tim's head at the same time that Dan passed over his sunglasses.
"Get in the truck," Art ordered, pushing Tim along the row of cruisers, standing between him and the cameras. "You can handle things from here?" He nodded to Dan, more a statement than a question.
"Get going." Dan waved them on and slid between the cars to join the law enforcement crowd.
They sat quietly in the truck for a minute, watching the scurrying. Art checked the time then started the engine and drove them away from the drama.
"February," he huffed, "suicide month. I wonder if it's a full moon, too."
Tim took off the hasty disguise and scratched his head. He didn't feel like talking.
"I promised you a quiet job in the Marshals Service, didn't I? I think I remember saying something like that to you before you joined." Art glanced over. "Maybe I exaggerated a little."
Tim could feel a headache coming on and started craving caffeine. He pushed his fingers into his eyes.
"Can we stop for coffee?"
"Sure," said Art, looking sad in his complicated world.
xxxxxxxxx