Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty-Two
Tim got on the phone to the penitentiary after he spoke with Rachel. He made a request to the prison administration, gave them a quick run-down of the unusual situation and got the okay to bring Nick through the main gates. Once inside he asked to see the warden. The warden was a busy man but he was curious and walked the distance from his office to meet the Marshals and talk to their tag-a-long. He pulled Tim aside.
"We need a letter from a parent or guardian if we're going to let him visit an inmate," he stated. "I'm sorry, but I won't budge on that, not even for you Marshals."
"That's okay. He's not visiting anyone," Tim assured him. "He just needs to figure that out. He thinks his dad's inside, ran away from home to come see him." Tim shrugged, leaned in to whisper, "This is the closest prison to his house. His dad's actually in a pen in Tennessee."
"So why bring him in then?"
"I want him to have proof, so he doesn't run away again, show up at your gate and scare his grandmother sh…" Tim swiped a hand over his mouth and wiped away the word with it. "…witless," he amended.
The warden considered the young Marshal then walked over to Nick, stuck out a hand and introduced himself, surprising them all, even the prison guards who stood uneasily watching the drama with matching hiked eyebrows.
"I understand you're looking for your daddy, young man," the warden said in a serious and professional tone. "What's his name?"
Nick was frozen to the floor. Now that he was here, his feelings were gluing his mouth shut.
"Clinton Ross," Tim supplied.
"Clinton Ross," the warden repeated thoughtfully. "Well, why don't you Marshals get on with your Marshal duties. Nick and I are going to check through the inmate registry for his daddy." The warden nodded reassuringly to Tim. "He'll meet you by the gate."
Tim looked over at Nick, smiled to lend confidence. "You okay with that?"
Nick nodded and followed the warden out of the room.
"Well, hell," said Dan after the door closed. "We hit a soft spot with him."
One of the prison guards concurred, "No shit."
Dan and Tim stood there a moment, each waiting for the other to lead the way. Grins cracked eventually when they realized that neither of them knew where to go. It was a first time to Big Sandy for them both.
"Fellows," Dan addressed the prison guards, "could you point us to…"
"You're here for Sean Delaney?"
Tim scrambled to get the paperwork out of his pocket, patted the creases out and passed it over.
"Did they give you that shiny star just for showing up to Marshals School?" the guard asked sarcastically then turned to his coworker. "Maybe I'll try for the Marshals Service."
Dan was too experienced to be embarrassed, just let the grin melt into a chuckle.
Tim took the prisoner's arm and led him to the car, talking in a low voice as he walked.
"We've got company for the ride," he said, nodding at the figure of Nick waiting, in view now at the guard house. "If you do anything to upset him, I will beat the shit out of you. Are we clear?"
The inmate turned to sneer, 250 pounds of head-shaved, bulked-up, hard-core, shit-kicking meanness. "I'd love you to try."
Stepping in front of his prisoner Tim held out a hand and stopped the procession, looked up at him squarely. "Then make me happy and test my short fuse right now."
Sean Delaney snorted like a bull, made a show of checking out the high walls, barbed wire, bird's nests with rifles. "They'd shoot me if I did anything stupid in range of those towers."
"And I'll shoot you if you do something stupid out of range of those towers," Dan added, stepping into the standoff. "So just don't do anything stupid."
Tim sat in the back with Sean Delaney, angled slightly, watching every move, every twitch, every breath taken by his prisoner. Both he and Dan were on high-alert, having Nick in the car made the duty even tenser than it had to be. Prisoner transport was always distasteful, riding for hours with someone who had every reason to hate you and you them. It was best carried out in silence. But Nick had no experience with the job and didn't understand the rules, couldn't understand that no one in the car had anything to say to anyone else that would make for pleasant conversation.
Nick knocked softly at the wordless gloom and distrust that had settled thickly like a wall. "He wasn't there."
It came out like the last bit of air in an old balloon, disappointed and tired. The adventure had lost its purpose, lost its fun. He had set out yesterday with a goal and today it was nowhere in sight.
"That can't be right." Nick knocked again, shifted in his seat. The three men persisted in their silence.
"He has to be in there. That man lied to me, didn't he?"
Nick, betrayed by something or someone but unsure what or whom, turned around to look at Tim, the closest thing he could get to a father at this moment, and focused his anger at him. "Why didn't you tell me he wasn't there?"
"I did," Tim reminded him, with a warning look at Delaney to keep his mouth shut. "It's just you were determined not to believe me."
"Well, why isn't he there? Did they move him?" Nick's voice was getting louder, knocking harder.
Tim wouldn't answer. In his mind there wasn't anything he could do to make this better. He held Nick's gaze openly and waited for him to run out of steam.
"Why can't I see him?" Nick demanded, pounding now, wanting in where they were hiding his dad.
Dan came to Tim's rescue. "Nick, I think these are questions for your aunt or your grandmother."
"He probably is there and he doesn't want to see me!" He was close to tears now.
"What's his name, kid?"
Tim stiffened.
"If he's in Big Sandy," Delaney continued, his deep voice daring, watching for Tim to react, "I could tell you. I'd know."
Tim hesitated. They didn't train for this at Glynco, not in the Rangers, either. He had no idea what to do. The only option open to him was to trust human nature and that just didn't feel comfortable to him anymore. Before Tim could figure out how to handle this, Nick twisted around in his seat, quick to slip his hope into the pause.
"Clinton Ross. He's my dad." He was desperate for something to take away for all his efforts and grasped at the offer.
Sean Delaney turned his attention back to the boy, held Nick's gaze, gathered up his eyebrows like he was concentrating hard, slowly shook his head. "I'd know if he was there," he said. "I know everyone inside. He's not there. I got no reason to lie to you. And if he was there, he'd definitely want to see you." He switched up to a slow nod. "He'd definitely want to see you. That's the way dads are."
Nick's face lightened a little, ready to believe every word. Tim's face darkened; he hated the lie. Maybe Nick's dad was like that; maybe he'd want to see him, but maybe not. He hated the lie. It would make the truth that much harder when it came.
"So where is he then?" Nick asked Tim, pleaded.
Tim looked away, out the window, "Let's talk to Aunt Rachel about it. Okay?"
Rachel and Mrs. Brooks were waiting at the courthouse. After squeezing Nick so tightly he complained, Rachel pulled Tim in for a hug. He accepted it awkwardly, blushing, then continued upstairs with Dan and left the family to sort through their emotions.
"Gentlemen," Art called, "you're late. I've been dodging calls from the lawyer since five." He arched backward, his hands supporting his lower back. "Good thing I stretched first."
"Anything yet on Quentin Hill?" Tim asked, looping his jacket on his chair then flopping in it himself.
A pout and a shake of the head was Art's reply. "Make sure you leave your phone on tonight, though. Someone'll call you if he turns up."
Dan followed Art into his office, the two men talking amicably as they went. Tim watched them through the glass. Art sat and pulled out his bottle, waved it invitingly for him. Tim smiled and stood to join them but was stalled halfway to the door by Rachel.
"Tim."
He stopped, turned, head tilt. "Don't tell me he's run away again."
Rachel was relaxed enough now to grin half-heartedly. "No. My mother's got a gun on him."
They chuckled.
"Let me buy you a burger and a beer?"
Tim blinked. "Shouldn't you be with them tonight?"
"Uh-uh. I don't trust myself not to yell. I'll let him and his grandma hash it out." She pointed at the exit and cocked an eyebrow.
"Sure," Tim replied. "I'd love a burger and I'd love a beer. Are you trying to get me fat?"
"No, Art is. Do you have any idea how many calories are in an ounce of whiskey?"
She was peering around him at Art, waving her hand to say no, thank you. Apparently he was being generous with his stash tonight. She pointed between her and Tim and mimed eating. Tim turned in time to see Art make a shooing gesture and he put all but two glasses back on the shelf.
They walked to the bar and Rachel listened while Tim gave her the details of the afternoon then she sat quietly in the booth pulling on her ear. Tim smirked.
"What?" she said tersely, confused.
He mimicked her, pulling on his ear.
"Tcha," she snorted and dropped her hand quickly. "God, you're annoying. I brought you here to say thank you so I guess that means I have to put up with you."
"Thank you? For what?"
"For finding Nick." She glared at him, couldn't believe he could be that obtuse.
"All I did was happen to be on the same road he was."
"And you saw him. You wouldn't have seen him, Tim, if you hadn't taken the time to get involved before."
"Maybe."
"Maybe," she repeated huffily.
He liked her sharp and pointed and no nonsense; didn't like her owing him. He poked around a little to provoke her. "Not only did I see him, but I stopped and picked him up, and took him to a federal penitentiary and let him have a conversation with a convicted felon - armed robbery and murder one, no less - and filled him up with donuts and soda on the drive back." He grinned at her. "I am an amazing role model. Do you think Big Brothers would take me on?"
"How many donuts?"
"Six. We bought a dozen. Me, Dan and the convicted felon shared the other half."
She closed her eyes in disapproval. "Probably not."
They split up a couple hours and a few beers later. Rachel promised Tim he could drop Nick in another puddle the following Sunday. He rode the elevator to his floor leaning on the back wall, nodded off once on the way up. He trudged down the hall, exhausted. The door to the party apartment opened a crack then wide as he walked past. He allowed himself a glare at the occupant, a young woman. He'd seen her once or twice since moving in, heard her more often and usually in the wee hours and loud. She smiled and it looked like an invitation but he didn't stop. She was one of those girls – too much make-up, too many friends, too many empty sentences, too much work.
"Hey," she called. "You want a drink?"
It took a few more steps for him to decide he didn't really feel like sitting alone in his apartment this evening. Against his better judgment, he turned and walked back.
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