Act of Mercy – Chapter Nineteen
"What happened to your hand?" Nick pointed at the cut across Tim's knuckles as he passed him an Xbox controller.
This wasn't a planned strategy. Tim didn't go on a lousy date and purposely antagonize a large drunk man just to make a point with Nick but he seized the opportunity that presented itself and ran with it.
"Oh, uh, I got into a fight last night." He exaggerated the tone, but it reflected his thoughts on the whole thing truthfully enough, disgusted.
"Yeah? Cool," Nick breathed, eyes wide looking up at him like he was Steve Nash or Kobe Bryant.
"No, not cool, stupid. The idiot didn't have any brains to fight with so he came at me with fists instead." Tim shook his head and added a dramatic sigh. "Then the police got called and I was stuck waiting around for two hours while they decided the other guy started it and I just stopped it before it went any further. It's not like I wanted a fight."
"But you're a Marshal. Why did the police come?"
"Because fighting is assault; it's not legal. It's not okay to just start beating on someone because they pissed you off, even if you are a Marshal. If I'd started it, they could've arrested me if the other guy decided to press charges."
Nick's face opened into worried. "Really?"
"Uh-huh."
Tim got the first kill, an unusual occurrence and he chalked it up to a distracted opponent.
"I got in a fight last week," Nick said quietly, just for Tim's ears, while he waited for his character to respawn.
"Oh, yeah?" Tim feigned ignorance. "Did some big, drunk idiot come at you, too?"
The reaction was so blasé that Nick relaxed a bit, laughed.
"No," he snorted. "I'm not old enough to go to a bar. I was at Jayden's birthday party last weekend and he just turned ten, like me, and he says that means we're old enough to go to jail now."
Tim choked on his beer, paused the game and turned to look at Nick.
"So that's the landmark for ten, huh? You can finally go to jail. Personally, I always thought driving at sixteen was something to shoot for, not a jail term. Are you planning on going to jail?"
"No!"
"Is Jayden?"
"I don't know. No, I guess." Nick shrugged.
He set down the controller and slid off the couch onto the floor beside Tim. They both were thinking hard.
"I started it, the fight last week," Nick fessed up and turned to look out to the hall, making sure no one was listening.
"I hope it was for something important."
Nick shrugged again. "This kid in my class, he's okay, I guess. His dad took him to an NBA game. He was bragging about it."
"My dad never took me to an NBA game. Then again," Tim mused, "Kentucky doesn't have an NBA team and I wasn't really into basketball. I grew up on a hill. It's hard to play basketball on a hill." He glanced over at Nick in time to see a look that said clearly, that's just stupid. Tim kept his expression serious. "You like basketball, don't you?"
Nick shrugged again. "It's okay, I guess."
"It's okay? That's why you have a NBA poster in your room, 'cause it's okay?"
Nick looked over slyly. "He's my favorite player on the Grizzlies."
Tim did a frantic search through his memory. "Memphis?"
"Yeah, duh." All sneer.
"You want to get dumped in a puddle again?"
Nick giggled and turned the game back on and shot Tim four times in a row. The last time, when Tim's character was respawning and Nick was waiting to shoot him again, Nick said, "If I went to jail would I get to live with my dad?"
Tim had read through the file, knew all about the car accident, the overdose. It was the kind of situation that afterward people would talk about and say, "Damn shame. Damn shame. What a waste." They'd say it with feeling then get on with their lives while those directly involved had their lives turned inside out, never to be got on with, stuck with the shame. He thought it'd be nice if in the real world, if you made a mistake and somebody died, you could just get a slap on the wrist and the dead person would respawn. No harm; no foul. Fresh chances all around. He ran a hand through his hair, distracted, and Nick shot him again. He watched his character die dramatically in a replay then respawn. He thought he'd better answer the question.
"No, you wouldn't be able to stay with your dad. You'd have to go to a Juvenile Detention Center. They don't put kids in adult penitentiaries." The whole conversation depressed him. He added sarcastically, to lighten it, "They wouldn't dare. All the adult inmates would riot 'cause they'd keep getting their asses kicked at COD by squirts like you."
Nick didn't laugh at the joke. He was still stuck at the first part of the answer. "What if I asked them if I could?"
Deciding to put a quick end to Nick's dangerous hopes, Tim laid it out straight. Paint it in garish truth, Tim thought, whitewash is unfair and cheap.
"Nick, buddy, if you end up in the prison system or in Juvie, you don't get any choices, none. You give them all up. You'd never get to see your dad."
Nick was obviously thinking about what Tim said because he let his character get shot and easily. They waited patiently while he respawned.
"Tim, do we have a problem?"
Tim looked up at Art, standing with his arms crossed authoritatively on his chest, eyes narrowed, mouth grim.
"Uh," Tim stretched it out, thinking hard, eventually deciding there was really only one answer to Art's question. "No?"
"No? You knocked a guy out in a bar. I'd like to know now if this is a hobby of yours."
"No! He came at me, so I defended myself."
"And knocked him out cold."
"And hurt myself more than him. You know, glass jaw." Tim gestured with a fake punch on his own cheek. "Chief, I swear, I just hit him in the sweet spot, a first round KO. He's fine; look at my hand!"
Art glanced down at the damage, unimpressed. "And what were you doing at the bar? Is that a hobby?"
"No." Tim felt a bit righteous being able to say that honestly. And anyway, he preferred drinking at home. "I was wasting an evening."
"Wasting an evening getting wasted," Art suggested.
"Uh-uh. Dead sober. I wasn't drinking at all." he corrected defensively. He threw an angry look sideways at Rachel but she shook her head almost imperceptibly and smiled reassurance. He looked back at his cut knuckles. "Might've been more fun if I was drinking."
"Right, well, in the future, I'd appreciate it if you'd try to stay out of any police reports unless you're arresting somebody."
"Not a problem," Tim replied, all innocence, and held Art's stare. A moment later he flicked his eyes toward the doors, aware of movement in the hall.
"Hey," he said, happy for the distraction, "it's Curly, Larry and Neil."
Art turned his head to see what had caught Tim's attention and watched three men walk into the office. He sighed, dropped his arms, let it out like a curse, "Feds," and sauntered over to meet them.
"Gentlemen, howdy do and welcome to the Lexington Bureau. I'm Chief Mullen. What brings you to our humble office?"
"We were hoping for a word with two of your Deputies," the lead replied. "I'm Special Agent Frasier."
A quick handshake, then Art said, "Any particular two or can I pick?"
"Deputy Brooks and Deputy Gutterson."
"Well, then this must be about Benjamin Corey and Albert Price."
Frasier frowned and nodded. "Your people seem to have a knack for sniffing out the characters in a child pornography ring we're investigating. We keep tripping over each other. I think it's about time we cooperated."
"Cooperated?" Art turned to Rachel, "Hell has frozen over and the Mississippi is flowing with bourbon." He flung up his arms as he spoke, a preacher on the hillside. "Hallelujah!"
Tim smiled behind a hand, every day liking Art more. Rachel stood up and ran interference.
She gave a smile to the guests, more economical than genuine, said, "We'd be more than happy to offer any assistance, especially considering the nature of the criminal activity. What can we do to help?"
"We're interested in why you're interested in Quentin Hill," explained Frasier. "We can't figure out what got you onto him in the first place."
Neil caught Tim's eye and the two worked hard not to laugh, still hurting from Friday, or remembering hurting. School boys.
"Why don't we take this into the conference room?" Art suggested, interested now, too. "Quentin Hill is on my personal Ten Most Wanted list."
Ten minutes and a fresh pot of coffee later, Rachel was explaining, "Deputy Gutterson is convinced that he saw Quentin Hill the night we arrested Randy Sullivan. We're reasonably confident that he escaped with Albert Price and they both ended up at Benjamin Corey's house. They took his Mustang and we tracked it just north of the Tennessee border then tracked them to another stolen car."
"Which you found Price in on the street where Corey lives," Frasier finished.
"Exactly," Rachel concurred.
"Well," said Frasier and sat back in his chair, smug at having new information for them, "you'll be pleased to hear that we have proof that Hill was in that car, too. We found a good print."
Rachel smiled at Tim; he mirrored it. Then Neil smiled at Rachel; Tim blocked it, leaning forward and glaring back at him.
"I can't begin to tell you how happy this makes me, getting confirmation on his identity," Art said, hard flint eyes and a smile of his own but like that of a fox that's caught a scent. "Let's get a warrant out." He rubbed his hands together, giving everyone at the table a split-second glimpse of the dangerous man he truly was.
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