Act of Mercy – Chapter Seventeen
An administrator at the Marshals office gave Rachel a bloody version of the events at the wrecking yard. It was short on facts and long on gory details. Art calmed her down when she phoned him in a panic. He directed her to the hospital Emergency Room where she found Tim leaning against a wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor, aggravatingly still. She took a similar pose beside him and waited to be noticed, couldn't tell if he was even breathing and wanted to poke him to be sure. The urge was overwhelming so she finally did and he grunted, turned his head to look at her.
"You okay?" she asked, checking him over.
He huffed and chewed on his lower lip. "Dan is definitely more entertaining to work with than you."
"How is he? Someone said he was shot."
"No, he was down before the shooting even started. All I got from the nurse was that he suffered from a...TIA?" He raised his eyebrows apologetically. "And before you ask, I have no idea. You wouldn't know any Latin, would you?"
Rachel smiled at his confusion and solved the riddle. "TIA is transient ischemic attack."
Tim mouthed an 'O' then waited hopefully for further explanation.
"He had a mini-stroke," she translated. "It happened to my aunt."
"Thank you. English, finally," he joked, not a glimpse of humor. "Is that serious? He seemed fine right after."
"It indicates a problem. It probably means light duty until he winds up his career."
Tim nodded, unsure whether or not to feel relieved. He thought backward through the chain of events from the day and then remembered why he was even along for the ride to the wrecking yard.
"Everything okay with Nick?"
Rachel did a good imitation of a saint, martyred sigh, heavenward roll of the eyes. "It's always fighting with him. Something sets him off and it usually involves mention of his father, or fathers in general."
Stressed, she tugged at her ear, a habit. It was an action Tim was becoming familiar with and he grinned at his shoes. She caught him at it and frowned.
"And that's funny?" She was still raw about it.
"No!" He straightened his expression. "Fathers are not a funny topic. It was you pulling on your ear," he explained, mimicking her action. "You look about five years old when you do it."
"Do not."
"Do, too."
Her face said clearly, grow up. He grinned again.
Art appeared down the hall and motioned for Tim to join him.
"Uh-oh," Tim sighed and pushed off the wall.
"Tim?" She sounded small.
He turned back.
"Would you come over this weekend and try talking to him?" she pleaded, looking embarrassed.
"Me? What do I know about fathers?"
"You had one, unless you were hatched."
"He was an asshole," Tim spit it out, a crack in the composure.
"Then you're the perfect person to talk to Nick," she countered, again pleading. "His father's in prison. And he likes you."
He didn't give her a 'yes' or a 'no'; he turned and walked over to join Art.
Tim opened the door just enough to slip in sideways. He felt awkward, like he was on a first date, not sure if he was really welcome. Dan was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, making it clear to everyone that he was not occupying it and had no intention of making himself comfortable in it. He was flipping through a magazine and looked up when the door opened.
"Gutterson," Dan Shaw barked it out like an order, and oddly it put Tim more at ease. "Art says you took care of my handguns."
"Yeah, I left them in the armory for you. Had them stencil your name on the barrels so they wouldn't get mixed in with the department inventory."
Dan blinked once then grew a sly grin slowly up one side. "You would never do that."
Tim tilted his head and thought about it. "Yeah, you're right. You know me too well."
Dan waved him into a chair.
Tim wanted to ask what the doctors had said but decided it was none of his business. "Art said you wanted to see me?"
"We never finished our conversation," Dan explained. "You were going to tell me what's been eating at you the last week."
"No, I wasn't." Tim looked at him, challenging.
"It's either that or you have to listen to me groveling and apologizing for getting you into that mess this afternoon."
Tim wiggled in his chair, started to get that first-date feeling back. He looked around the room then back at Dan who was waiting expectantly.
"It's nothing."
"No, it's something or you wouldn't have anything to call a 'nothing.' You can't cheat a Texan."
Tim smiled at the logic and added some of his own in a tone liberally sprinkled with sarcasm for flavor. "Sometimes not talking is more tiring than talking." He resigned himself, slid into neutral and stated the facts. "I got word that a couple of buddies were killed in a firefight."
"And you want to re-enlist, go back and kick some butt, get some revenge," Dan filled it out.
"You hear that from Rachel?"
Dan confessed, "She asked me to talk to you."
Tim figured that was one more reason not to let women in the Rangers – they were too mean, too smart and too tricky.
"There's no revenge possible out there," Dan added.
"Yeah, well, I'm plenty aware of that." Tim pondered his motives. "I'm not interested in revenge. Honestly, it just feels good getting in the way of couple of bullets coming at the guys, you know? One way or another."
The statement was a bit unclear but Dan understood it. Tim just wanted to play his part.
"You can do that right here in Kentucky, Tim. You don't have to go Asia for that kind of satisfaction." He tossed the magazine he'd been reading onto the side table a little too hard and it skidded straight off and onto the floor. He barked out an embarrassed laugh. "I can promise you some bullets if you keep working with me."
Tim tilted his head, just a bit. "Are you trying to make me feel better or are you threatening me? I can't tell."
"You saved my life twice today, so I'm returning the favor."
"Twice?"
"If I went back to Rachel without an answer from you, she'd kill me."
"Well?"
"Well, what?" Rachel questioned.
"Well," Art replied, "it's been six weeks. How's your ex-Army Ranger working out?"
"Fine. He works hard."
"You haven't noticed anything off about him at all?"
"Off?"
"Things like nightmares or flashbacks and the like."
Rachel shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts Art had just put into her mind, worked her face into confusion. "You want me to start sleeping with him?"
"No!" Art backtracked. "That's not what I meant. Jesus. That's just what I need, a bullpen romance, ending tragically with him on the roof across the street picking us all off."
Rachel arched a brow. "That's not even remotely funny," she responded angrily. Feeling the need to defend Tim she pointed accusingly at Art. "And you're the one who put a rifle back in his hands."
Art sat back and reassessed. The conversation wasn't going the way he wanted.
"Well I've obviously hit a nerve. So either you are sleeping with him or there is something off. Which is it?"
She hedged. "Dan's already taken full responsibility for what happened yesterday."
"We're not talking about yesterday, and besides, you weren't even there."
"I heard Dan's version and I heard Tim's and I think…"
"Do you want my job?" Art interrupted, annoyed. "Honestly, this week, I think I'd let you have it."
Rachel crossed her arms and sat stiffly in her chair. Art decided he'd better change tack.
"Rachel, this is not a witch hunt. I promised Cathy, at Glynco, a follow-up phone call," he explained, wagged his head and smiled. "She's got a personal interest in seeing that Tim does okay. Now, I intend to tell her that the people he's been working closely with are perfectly satisfied with his performance. But she'll ask about the other stuff."
"The other stuff?" Rachel tried to appear like she didn't understand, but it came across as evasive.
"I spent the weekend before he started looking up the indicators for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And before you get defensive again – of course, he's a likely candidate. He's human, isn't he? It wouldn't be fair to him to deny him his experiences."
"I looked it up, too," she admitted, looking guilty for switching sides.
Art sat back contentedly, relaxed a little and pried, "And why would you do that?"
"We almost got into an accident on the highway the other night. He can be pretty violent when he wakes up."
"Uh-huh," Art encouraged.
"And," Rachel hesitated, "I don't think he's sleeping well." She raised her hands to show her doubt, unwilling to conclude anything, uncertain about continuing. "But it's nothing that's affecting his work."
"Okay. Just keep me informed. If it becomes a problem then we get him some help."
She smiled for him, realizing they'd been on the same side all along.
"Honestly Rachel, did you think I was looking for an excuse to kick him to the curb? I'd miss his rifle."
Her face clouded again.
"I'm kidding! Yeesh." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure you're not sleeping with him?"
She finally allowed a joke from him, rolled her eyes, joined in. "Yeah, right. Scrawny, tattooed, white boy. So not my type." She had started for the door but stopped before opening it. "My mom likes him, though, or at least she's adopted him. She feeds him. He's like a stray."
"Well, I'm glad somebody's feeding him," Art commented, laughing at the picture formed.
And that was that. And Rachel walked out, back to her desk, not feeling like she'd just cut into Tim and not feeling like she'd kicked the downed-dog, Nick, by betraying his friend. She tried to figure out why she felt like she'd been walking on eggshells, why she always thought she was in it alone. She stared at her screen for a while, nothing interesting, just a screen saver, floating pictures of remembered happiness. She sank a little into her feelings, wondered if that was all there was, just remembered happiness.
"Okay, I'll talk to him." Tim had appeared in front of her desk while she was getting her footing in her new reality, his hands tucked, just the tips, into his pant pockets, shoulders tense but rocking easy on his heels and staring at a spot behind her on the wall. "Though I don't know if I can help, really, you know? Maybe I'll just listen. That'd probably be best, right? I can't imagine what I could say…" Tim shut his mouth and wrinkled up his nose in disgust. "I hated my dad."
"I loved mine," Rachel said. "At least I think I did. But I'm not sure it made any difference."
He looked at her, or rather used her as a movie screen, flickering scenes of his own past there, then blinked, refocused, lifted his eyebrows and walked back to his desk.
"Sunday again?" she called after him.
"I'll bring back your mom's food containers from last time. Clean and empty," he hinted.
He picked up a report he'd sent to the printer on his way past, folded it in four and slipped it into his back pocket. While Rachel was in chatting with Art, he'd done a search on her brother-in-law, Nick's dad. Found what he needed to know.
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