Act of Mercy – Chapter Eighteen
Tim was supposed to call her Friday night. Cecily had gotten tired of waiting for him to ask so she'd handed him her cell number before he left the range the previous week and told him the exact date and time that he was to call her. She'd made it easy, really. So it was hard for him to screw it up, but he did.
Tim was supposed to call her Friday night so they could make plans for Saturday night. Friday night came and he went for a long run after work, thinking hard about Nick, about what to say to a ten-year-old whose father was in prison. Then Rachel called. Someone had reported a car stolen in the area around where the Mustang had turned up. She fumed a while, complaining about the locals and how long it took them to finally inform her about it. She had put out another BOLO on the vehicle and told him to cross his fingers and to have a good weekend and to show up hungry on Sunday. Then Neil called, on the road, in no hurry to get back to his own empty apartment and wanting a drink. The two of them did a repeat of the last drunken stupor, only this time telling stories about their fallen comrades and this time ending with Neil hanging off Tim's couch.
Consequently, Tim was nursing a bad hangover late into Saturday morning. Finally he accepted that the hangover was going to hang on a while yet and he got on with his day. He drove over to his former teacher's house to replace the worn boards on the steps to the back yard. Every hammer stroke jangled his head and she brought him out a tall glass of water and two Tylenol and a knowing smile. He accepted it all, grateful and sheepish, then got back to work.
"Thank you for answering his phone," Rachel said, showing up at the door later, arched eyebrow and long-suffering shake of the head. She stood on the porch, professional, geared up for Marshal business on a Saturday.
"He's told me all about you, Deputy Brooks, so I thought it was probably important. I'm Josephine Hall." She smiled pleasantly and held the door open, inviting Rachel to step in. "I told him you were on your way over."
Rachel offered up one of her rare award-winning smiles, predisposed to like this woman, and accepted a friendly handshake. She was curious about Tim's former teacher, curious why he would feel an obligation to her and spend precious time here on his weekends. She had decided to pick him up just so she could meet the enigmatic Miss Hall.
"I was just making tea," Josephine said, speaking lightly, socially, as if fully-armed US Federal Marshals always showed up at her door. "Do you have time for a cup? I think Tim has a nasty hangover and could probably use something stronger but I don't keep anything in the house. Tea will have to do for him."
Rachel followed her into the kitchen, her face screwed up to keep the laughter threatening to break under control. "He's hung-over?" she managed to get out. It probably wouldn't have been so funny if she weren't hearing it from his old school teacher, gray-hair escaping a haphazard bun, well-worn blouse, well-worn sweater and well-worn pants, everything about her worn, everything except her eyes, pools of deep water, intelligence and mischief. Rachel suspected she'd have liked math more if Miss Hall had been teaching it at her high school.
Josephine poured the boiling water into the pot then turned around to face Rachel. Her mouth twitched and the pools rippled with amusement. "Oh yes, definitely hung-over. Hard to miss. He looks pretty rough. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to step out the back and yell too loudly that his tea's ready."
Rachel and Josephine shared a look. Rachel checked her watch.
"We definitely have time for a quick cup. I'll just call him in for you," Rachel offered kindly, gesturing with a casual motion, one elegant finger pointing to the back of the house.
She squeezed past the table and opened the back door, and opened her lungs, "GUTTERSON, TEA'S READY!" and let it swing shut again with a bang. She could hear Josephine chortling behind her.
"And they picked up Price in the stolen car," Rachel explained as she drove Tim down to the city lock-up. "The BOLO got a lot more attention with a federal warrant attached to it."
Tim was still trying to piece together in some kind of logical order the news that Rachel had given him. It was difficult forming a coherent picture when he had to take his thoughts on rough back-road detours past wasted brain cells. One thing that she said did stick out because it struck him as odd and he repeated it and waited for Rachel to put it in place for him.
"In Lexington?"
She savored a lengthy pause before she answered, letting his thoughts scrape painfully for a while longer.
"Yes, in Lexington," she replied, speaking more slowly. "He had gone back to Corey's house."
"Oh. That's dumb."
"Tim, just how much did you drink last night?"
He groaned; it was easier than adding it all up. "It was the FBI's fault," he explained. "Maybe I could charge them for attempting to poison me with alcohol."
"Neil?"
"Mm."
"How much?" she repeated.
"Way, way too much," Tim answered then added with feeling, "Fuck."
Rachel stopped for coffee.
They stayed in the car in the parking lot at the Lexington lock-up, blew the steam off their coffee and sipped at it and planned what they were going to say to Albert Price. The planning was mostly one-sided. Tim sat quietly, sunglasses on, cap pulled down, his free arm across his torso holding himself tightly like he might fall apart if he let go. He was straining to get past the agony in his head and listen carefully to what she was saying.
Something important surfaced through the day-old alcohol fumes and he interrupted, "Uh, Corey finally started talking, well, sort of. I think he's actually typing."
"When did you hear this?" Rachel demanded, a spike of annoyance at not knowing.
"Neil was telling me last night," Tim explained, missing the warning signals. "They found all kinds of illegal pornography at his house. He got a lawyer then made a deal. Apparently he was the hub. They were sending batches of files by Fedex through his business disguised as computer repairs, hard-drive recovery. Not as fast and convenient as the internet but Neil said the Feds are getting good at online forensics and these guys had gone to ground, so to speak, because of it. The Feds only caught on to the whole thing recently when one of the customers, some guy in Philly, started uploading some of the pictures, which was stupid since the whole point was not to. And they tracked him down and he knew Price but that's all, but it led them to Corey eventually. Corey said Randy Sullivan was brought in to lean on him because he was getting cold feet after that guy was caught, the one in Philly."
Rachel took another sip of coffee, sifted through Tim's rambling for the important information and counted to ten to keep from losing her temper. She then tried it in Spanish, the counting to ten, dredging up the words from memory. That took her a little longer. Tim started fiddling nervously with the rim of his cup.
"Sorry, I should've called you this morning with that but…"
"Shut up." She took another sip. "I suppose I'm grateful that you told me before I went in there and made an ass of myself. I should report this to Art, you being this drunk. Don't make a habit of it."
"I don't recall signing anything saying I was on the clock twenty-four/seven," he snapped.
Her response was quick.
"I don't care what you do as long as it doesn't affect my work."
"Yes, ma'am."
She jerked open the car door and climbed out and slammed it closed. Tim grabbed his head to keep it from shattering then followed her at a safe distance.
Albert Price was as cooperative as Randy Sullivan and more annoying. Tim wished he could have kept hammering the back step at Miss Hall's. Every nail felt like it was going into his head but at least it was penance of his own choosing.
Albert Price thought he was a comedian, and it was painful, too, though in terms of penance it was more like a hair shirt. He just aggravated. He called Rachel, 'Deputy Do Dah' which slipped into 'Dippity Do Dah' toward the end. His laugh, the only laugh in the room and making up for it, crawled over them like a rash. The two Marshals left more edgy than they'd been when they walked in.
Rachel didn't have much to say to Tim afterward and dropped him back at Miss Hall's. It was on the drive home that Tim finally remembered Cecily. He pulled over, steeled himself and called her. She was a little cool but told him where to pick her up and when and he did. They went to a bar for a bit of food and some drinks. He couldn't think of much to say but that was fine with her. She filled in for him, guessing wrong at his thoughts on everything from the food to movies to the war in Afghanistan, and with an ignorant certainty that was shrill over the music. And he was sober.
He shut her out after a while and wondered why he was so happy to sit and listen to Rachel's mom talk but not Cecily. One didn't talk any more than the other, except that Rachel's mom also listened and that made all the difference. With Cecily, it wasn't a conversation.
Tim was more than ready to go when she demurely suggested it. He just wanted to end this travesty of a day, sit in a dark room by himself for a while, but his escape was thwarted by a large and belligerent drunk who decided to cut in on their walk out. Cecily seemed excited that there might be a fight over her but Tim couldn't get up enough energy. He pulled his badge, hoping it would be enough to discourage violence, and told the guy to fuck off or he'd arrest him. It looked for a moment like the big guy might do as ordered. He took a step back and thought, reason racing bravado to the boozed brain. But bravado won handily. He lurched forward and grabbed Tim by the jacket.
"Make me," he spat.
Tim laid him out with one quick, violent right hook, coiled muscle and frustration. The drunken heap dropped hard and the bartender called the police.
Two hours later, Tim dropped Cecily at home. She invited him in but he'd had enough, made excuses for leaving and more excuses for the next weekend and drove back to Lexington.
The alarm in his head had him awake at 6am after a couple of hours sleep but it was worth getting up to spend some time with Fischer, even more of a lure when he remembered that last weekend was Cecily's last shift and Fischer would be alone. The drive up was quiet and the place beckoned like an old friend. He thought about applying for Cecily's job. He could sleep in the trailer.
"I told you you wouldn't like her."
Tim was loading a magazine and turned to glare at Fischer. "No, you didn't."
Fischer tried to cover a grin with a frown and ended up smirking. "Yeah, you're right, I didn't. You wouldn't have listened to me anyway, looking at those tight jeans, so I decided not to waste my breath."
"Asshole."
"Dipshit."
"I'm going to get us some more coffee," Tim grumbled and grabbed the empty thermos.
As he wandered back down to the house he could hear Fischer yelling after him, "Yeah sure, you just go right ahead and help yourself to my stuff."
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