Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty-One
There was no hope of concentrating. Tim had spread out in the conference room again and was reading through files and reports but nothing registered. His thoughts kept drifting to the conversation he had had with Nick on Sunday evening.
At noon Art walked in, noisily rapping on the door and jarring Tim out of a dream. The hill he was running up was endless and continuously steeper and he tripped awake, scrambling to keep a grip on something and stop his downward slide. He wasn't quite aware and pulled half the files onto the floor. Art wordlessly bent down and helped collect them up then sat in a chair next to him and eyed him thoughtfully, saw through the busy motions of tidying the files to the embarrassment and wanted to say something to reassure him. He decided that ignoring it would be best today.
"Timing is everything," Art said, sitting back.
It was a vague statement but the tone was clear, jaded resignation. Tim dug at his eyes, trying to shovel out the sand. He tensed a bit, anticipating that Art was going to send him back for a full psych evaluation.
"A man fitting Quentin Hill's description broke into a house last night, tied up the couple living there and stole their car," Art explained in a monotone, "and kidnapped their 8-year-old son."
Tim twitched, just once, looking for action, then stared at the mess of folders and wondered if the day could possible get worse.
"They got free about an hour ago, called the police. We've got a state-wide amber alert going. If it were me, I'd run straight north into Canada, it's closer than Mexico, hide out in a big city, Toronto maybe, or head a little west into the prairies where it's quieter," Art mused. "I certainly wouldn't kidnap a child, trip an amber alert and put the entire law enforcement community and the public on the lookout for me."
"He'll head straight for Florida," Tim said without thinking.
Art smiled. "You'll make a good investigator, Tim, if you stick it out. You've got good instincts." He heard through Dan about Tim's trip to the recruiting office, bent over to grab a missed report he spied behind Tim's chair and let his statement sink in. He grunted coming back up. "I'm thinking along the same lines. I've asked the state police and the locals in south Kentucky to be especially alert, concentrate their search on the roads crossing into Tennessee. And you," Art pointed a finger at Tim who sat up a little straighter, waiting for orders, "are doing a prisoner transport this afternoon with Dan."
"What!?"
"Tim," Art said, no accusation, "this isn't punishment. The office has to keep running. We can't shut down the courts for the day. You're exhausted and Dan's experienced. He's also waiting."
Tim stood up.
"But before you go, you'll want to hear what else I have to say."
Tim sat again.
"I talked to Rachel just now. One of Nick's friends finally broke down and confessed that he helped Nick plan to run away yesterday after school. Loaned him a sleeping bag and gave him some food." He nodded at Tim. "You called it. You told me this morning he was running."
Tim's shoulders slumped. He didn't seem too happy about being right and Art looked hard at him again, trying to x-ray through the Marshal into the man. He did some quick math and sighed when his calculations told him that Tim was closer to Nick's age than his. Between Dan Shaw and Tim, Art was feeling old, old, old.
"Rachel's on a rampage," he added encouragingly, false cheerfulness. "She'll find him."
Tim stood again, paused a minute, clearing the fog. "He's probably gone to see his dad. He mentioned him to me on the weekend, kept bringing it up. He's in a prison in Tennessee. I guess Nick'd know that, right?"
"How did you know that?" Art inquired, aware that Rachel kept that lid on tight.
"Nick told me the first time I met him that his dad was in prison." Tim ran a hand through his hair, looked guiltily over at his boss. "And I looked up his file after."
"Does Rachel know you know?"
Tim shook his head.
Art got up wearily, considered all the angles and made some decisions. "Well, we'll make efficient use of taxpayers' money today. I'll add Nick's photo to the alert, send it along to the roadblocks set up to the south and then call Rachel and tell her what your thoughts are on it. Hopefully she's too distracted to wonder how you figured out as much."
Tim started stacking the files.
"Leave it. I'll deal with it. Your guy's supposed to be back in Lexington by 5pm for a word with his lawyer before court tomorrow. We're already late. I let you sleep in."
Dan drove; Tim tried to sleep some more. They went through a roadblock on the ramp to the interstate heading out of Lexington, a second one when they turned off onto the Mountain Parkway. After that they passed signs periodically, amber alert information flashing, each one a reminder to Tim of their failure. By the time they turned off the parkway onto the road to Inez, Tim was in an emotional hole that he'd dug himself, fatigue, futility and worry compounded and pulled him down.
Dan finally reached across and slapped a back-handed 'hey' on his shoulder.
"Tim, stop it," he complained. "I don't appreciate being upstaged in my misery. I can't feel sorry for myself when you're looking so depressed."
"I'm just tired."
"Sure you are." Dan let a few miles pass. "Listen, you can't let a case like this get to you. There'll be more, I promise, and worse."
"This is a pep talk, right? Just so I'm clear. You're doing a fine job, by the way. Keep it up. I may get suicidal yet."
Tim was angry now, an easy lateral move from depressed. He lashed out at Dan, glared over at him. But Dan wasn't having any of it and stopped trying to cheer him up and Tim retreated back into his hole.
He stared out the window. His mood was a slippery slope into a backward plunge, supplying the shovel to dig unrelentingly into his past, remembering only the shit, the dead, the fear, the worn-down look in the face of a friend, the same worn-down look in the face of an enemy. Worst of all was the despair in the unknown face of a stranger, neither friend nor enemy, only a potential, and Tim unable to tell if it was their emotion he was seeing or just a projection of his own. He crossed his arms, hugging himself, sinking down a little lower in his seat. He thought he'd run away from all that but now he was seeing it here too, in Rachel's face, Nick's, Dan's.
He realized, an epiphany, that he had no enemies anymore. He wondered if that was a problem for him, if maybe he missed it, the stimulus and simplicity of having real enemies. Here in Kentucky he was probably his own worst enemy and how do you fight that? Even Quentin Hill wasn't an enemy, not a real threat, not to him. He wondered if Neil was up for another good drunk this weekend.
He felt a familiar tug, the same feeling he had when he entered the downward spiral then signed his papers and walked away from the Army. There was no way he was going there again and he mentally hauled himself back to the present, grinding his gears in an effort to change his focus, grasping finally at an old habit as a distraction. He started categorizing what he saw outside, gathering intel on the local population. He let his eyes take in the late Kentucky winter along the road and he started his list. Dwelling, outbuilding, large door for large machinery, well-worn grooves with no grass, recently used, initials A.W. Wells on mailbox, no farm animals, crop farm? More miles passed. Debris on the side of road, red plastic, rusted metal pipe, foot-and-a-half, two-inch diameter, rubber tire, torn, cigarette packaging, garbage bag, unknown content, heavy, not moving on a windy day. More miles passed. Field, plowed crop, abandoned dwelling, lock on gate.
"Shit!" Tim sat up abruptly, looking back. "Stop the car! Stop the car!"
Dan skidded to a halt and Tim had his seatbelt off and was out and running back the way they had come before Dan had a chance to ask why. The older Marshal followed Tim's lead, pulled over to the shoulder, parked, stepped out onto the road, heart racing, hand on his sidearm, strode quickly to the back of the car, watching, cautious. Tim leaped the ditch and stopped running at a tree fifty or so yards back. Dan squinted and spotted a figure sitting on the ground next to it. The younger Marshal made some exaggerated hand motions then fell onto the ground dramatically, a pratfall, ending up lying flat on his back. The figure stood up, a boy by the size of him, took a step toward Tim and kicked his boot. The boot hooked up quickly, caught the boy's legs and tripped him and he landed in a heap on the ground beside Tim. Dan could hear laughter jangling down the road toward him and he smiled.
Relaxed now, he pulled out his phone and dialed Art. "Hey Chief," he drawled. "Good news for a change. Call Deputy Brooks. I think we've found her nephew."
Dan strolled leisurely up the shoulder of the road and stepped across the drainage ditch to stand beside the boys sitting in the grass. He caught them mid-conversation.
"No, I promise. She won't kill you," Tim stated, holding out his phone to Nick. "She'll probably start crying then ground you for years. I can't speak for your aunt though. I mean, she does have a gun. Two actually."
Nick took the phone reluctantly and called home. Tim looked up at Dan, lifted an eyebrow and the two of them grinned contentedly.
"Gives a whole new meaning to prisoner transport," Dan commented. "Normally it's the world's most boring and annoying job."
After Nick spoke with his grandmother, he passed the phone back to Tim who reassured her that everything was fine. He then grabbed Nick's bag and tossed it and the boy into the back seat of the car.
"I'm sure there are regulations against taking a kid for a ride-along on a prisoner transport," said Dan looking over the roof of the car at Tim.
"Are you going to the prison?" Nick asked leaning out. "That's where I was going. Can I go with you?"
"No," Dan replied firmly.
"Buddy," Tim added, "your dad's not at Big Sandy."
"Yes, he is!"
Tim looked at him, trying to understand the confidence. "How do you know he is?"
"Why else would Aunt Rachel and Grandma move us here to Lexington?" He gave Tim the you must be stupid look. Tim was becoming familiar with it.
"We passed a nice big pond back a ways," he threatened, pointing. "It's not exactly a puddle, but I'd be happy to drop you in it."
Nick giggled, happy to be found.
"Well Tim," said Dan, "it's your call. What do we do?"
Tim thought for a second then said, "Let's go on to the pen. It's not much farther anyway."
Nick whooped from the back seat as Tim's phone rang. It was Rachel. He reached in and swatted Nick, motioning to him to quiet down then finally walked a ways down the road to speak with Rachel undisturbed.
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