Author's Note: One more time, please, ignore the chapter titles. They don't sync up with the fan fiction page chapter numbers because the story started with a Prologue, which was posted as Chapter 1; then Chapter 2 was titled Chapter One, and so on. It'll always be one chapter behind and too much trouble to fix. Sorry for the inconvenience!
Act of Mercy – Chapter Fifteen
There was a '68 blue Mustang. Neil and the Feds hadn't dug too deeply into Benjamin Corey's personal life yet and were no help, too focused on the computers. Tenacious, Rachel and Tim tracked it down. After dozens of phone calls they finally got a bite from a member of a vintage car club, a retired gentleman living the cold months of the year in New Mexico. He heard about the inquiries from the Federal Marshals through a friend and came back to Kentucky early, made himself available, happy to help and feeling important, and gave them the information they needed to pick up the trail again.
"The car wasn't registered at the time of the sale," Tim explained to Art after the phone call and the follow-up interview. "It wasn't road safe, was never insured or licensed. This guy had intended to fix it up, decided it was too much work and sold it to Corey 'as is' for cash. The whole deal was done through the mail a couple of months ago. Corey was supposed to take the ownership papers to the County Clerk's office for the title transfer. Never did. That's why it didn't show on the DMV."
"We have the VIN number and put out a BOLO for a '68 Mustang, blue, no plates or possibly stolen plates." Rachel shrugged, nonchalant, but couldn't completely hide her excitement. "With any luck, someone will spot it."
"With any luck." Art served up a satisfied grin. "And you went and talked to Randy Sullivan again, right? Still closed tight as a …?" Art started, stopped. "Well, still not talking?"
Rachel and Tim both covered smiles, filling in the part Art left out.
"Still not talking," Rachel confirmed. "And he's also denying any knowledge of the car we found in Corey's garage even though it's been reported stolen by an acquaintance of his in Tennessee."
Art nodded. "How did he react when you mentioned Benjamin Corey?"
"He definitely looked a little nervous. I imagine he's not too keen to be linked to another child pornography ring."
"We still don't know anything for sure," Art reminded her.
Tim shifted in the doorway, catching Art's eye.
"Good reason to try suicide though, if you're worried about being caught for something like that. Talk about your life going to the shitter," Tim stated graphically for them. "You know, I'd happily teach a class on how to hold a gun to blow out your brains properly if the others on our list are interested."
Art frowned and narrowed his eyes.
"Just trying to be helpful." Tim shrugged, stared back without blinking.
Rachel decided it was time to leave, pushed Tim ahead of her out of Art's office. "Sarcasm," she said over her shoulder to her boss as she gave Tim a final shove. "We'll keep you up-to-date."
Rachel followed on Tim's heels to his desk, hissed as he sat down, "Are you crazy or are you desperate for another go with the psychologist?"
"I think you just asked the same question two different ways," Tim pointed out, grinning.
"Seriously, Tim," she snapped. "I know you're kidding, but other people don't and you have a license to carry…" She made an open-handed gesture at his sidearm.
The office administrator walked past as Rachel was whispering at Tim. The woman smiled nervously, stood stiffly at the copier. Rachel looked over at her, raked her eyes down her back and over again at Tim.
"See what I mean? I'm sick of this. Aren't you?"
Tim wove his fingers together and stretched his arms out then behind his head, propping it up tiredly as he slouched. "Nope. I kind of like it. They leave me alone. And it amuses Dan."
"God, it's like I'm partnered with a pariah or a...a…"
"…a freak in a circus sideshow," Tim offered.
Rachel's phone rang before she could agree. She spoke briefly then hung up, sat on the corner of his desk and stared at the display.
Tim tried to read her expression and took a guess. "You win the lottery?"
"They found the Mustang."
He sat up. "No shit."
"Just north of the Tennessee border. I guess I did win the lottery." She grinned for him.
"Let's go check it out," Tim said, excitement bubbling then as quickly subsiding and he threw her a question. "Are we allowed to go?"
"Hell, yes," she threw back.
Rachel insisted that Tim drive while she made a couple of phone calls, then she took over for the return leg, steering them to the interstate along the dark roads after talking to the locals and inspecting the Mustang. The phone calls were just an excuse, her effort at manipulating the day so she'd be doing the driving into the evening. She didn't trust Tim to stay awake. She noticed his fatigue lately, wondered if he was having trouble sleeping. He didn't seem too bothered about the shooting but she didn't know him well enough yet to say for sure and wrestled with discussing it with him or maybe Art.
Like everyone else in the office she was curious, but she would never ask him about Afghanistan. He hadn't asked about Nick. Maybe she'd tell him that story one day; maybe he'd tell her something. But it had to come from him willingly to be worth anything.
She darted her eyes over, chancing a quick look. Tim was asleep. His cell rang. He almost killed them when he woke violently, startled by his phone buzzing and vibrating against his hip, hitting Rachel with a swinging arm. The car swerved, nearly careening off the road when he knocked her arm off the steering wheel. She corrected, swore at the thankfully not too soft, soft shoulder of the highway and snapped a glare sideways at him. She noticed her language becoming more colorful with her ex-Army Ranger around.
"Oh God, I'm sorry," Tim rasped, scrambling to pull out his phone.
Both of their hearts were racing now, both their eyes wide open. Rachel reached over for her coffee, knocked at a funny angle, and took a good drink, lukewarm but it didn't matter.
Tim stared at the display, hit connect, said, "What the fuck? Couldn't you warn me before you call?"
Neil's voice: "How did you know it was me?"
"Said 'Agent Paulsen, Federal Bureau of Investigation' on the display."
"Really? It's not supposed to."
"You know, you haven't changed much, you're still gullible, and I'm still kidding. It said 'Private Name' or something, just I don't get many people calling me. What's up?"
"I'm checking up on you, asshole."
"Why? Am I under investigation?"
"No…At least I don't think so. Hey, did you get the email?" Neil's voice dropped a few levels to serious.
A pause. "Yeah."
"Don't do it."
Another pause, Tim questioned, "Don't do what?"
"Don't go to the recruiting office. Don't be stupid. Don't react. It's not your fault. You probably wouldn't even have been in the same area. If you want to go to the funerals, call me. I'll go with you."
Tim didn't respond and the silence was louder than the talking. Rachel looked over, caught Tim's eye. He flicked his away.
"I already did," he said and rubbed his forehead.
"Did what?"
"Went by the recruiting office." Tim let a little more of himself out for Rachel to see.
"Go back and pull the application." Neil's voice was demanding.
"The place was closed."
"Oh…Good."
"We found Corey's Mustang." Tim changed the subject.
"Really?"
"I'll send you our report. I owe you."
"Cool. Anyone in the car?"
"Nope. The engine had seized. It was ditched on a nothing road just our side of Tennessee."
"You should check into other stolen vehicles in the area."
Tim rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the tip, Mr. Suit. We already did. She's been in the business longer than you, you know."
"Geez, buddy, relax. Defensive or what? Just saying. You're in a car now, right?"
"Yep."
"In the company of the lovely Deputy Brooks?"
"Yep."
"Still on the clock?"
"Yep."
"Call me when you get home. Doesn't matter what time. Call me."
"Sure, okay."
Tim rang off and slid his head over against the window, yawned noisily just to hear Rachel let out a 'tcha'. It was fully dark now and he tried to make out where they were from the gray-toned shapes sliding by. 'London' a sign offered as the next exit, so another hour and a bit to Lexington. The white noise of the engine lulled him to sleep again.
"Recruiting office? As in Army recruiting?"
Rachel's voice smashed into his dream like a glass dropped on a concrete floor. He jerked awake again but kept his limbs to his side of the car this time. He was grateful for the intrusion. He didn't like the dream.
"Is this something we need to talk about?" Rachel was regretting her attitude his first couple of weeks, wishing to replay it. "Is there something about the job that's bothering you? You're not upset about the psychologist, I hope. Even Art complains about her. He wasn't angry with you. In fact, I think he feels bad."
Tim listened to her talking, trying to feel her way through his head, stumbling around like she was wearing a blindfold and searching for him, playing that game, what was it called? Marco Polo. He always thought that was a stupid game. Just how hard could it be to avoid someone stumbling around blindfolded unless somebody else interfered, came up behind you and pushed you into their path. But there was no one else here in the car to push him into Rachel's path and he was too good at this game to let her corner him.
The psychologist though, she had cheated; she peeked, lifted the blindfold.
"What did she say to make you so angry?"
Rachel kept trying, groping blindly to catch him. He thought she even looked the part with her arms straight out in front on the steering wheel, and he grinned at the image. She wouldn't give up; he knew that much about her. He let out a breath and pushed himself into her path so she wouldn't stumble upon something by accident.
"I hated the way she had me pigeon-holed before she even met me." He added, sounding angry all over again, "She'd read everything there was to know about me in my employee file and my military file. Accused me of looking at it all through the crosshairs, removed and unemotional, you know? When it was her who was guilty of that, looking at me through a tiny scope; so fucking narrow-minded. I might as well have had SNIPER tattooed across my forehead in neon. It's all she saw when I walked in."
"Tim, you are a sniper."
"Yeah, and you're a black woman."
Rachel laughed, surprised and spontaneous, not the reaction he was expecting. "My sessions are supposed to be private! Did she let you read her assessment of me or something?" She shook her head, took her hands off the steering wheel briefly to surrender. "Okay, point made and very succinctly I might add."
"I wonder what she thinks of Art." Tim amused himself for a moment trying to stereotype his boss.
"I don't think he's had to sit down with her," Rachel replied and thought, too, about how to draw Art in two-dimensions. That would take a talent that only Stephanie Ootes, psychologist to the cops, would have.
"I'm thinking of getting a life-size cutout of Charles Whitman and sending that to her for my next session," Tim mused. "Do you think she'd catch on it wasn't me?"
"You have to go back?" Rachel asked, worried.
"Well, it's highly likely," Tim replied. "I'm a sniper, remember."
That stopped the conversation cold and they drove on a few miles, both quiet. Tim drifted off again; Rachel dropped another glass.
"I don't think 'sniper', Tim, when I see you. And you make a good Marshal. Don't quit now."
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