Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty-Three
The phone call came as Art said it might, almost as though he had willed it, breaking into the quiet shortly before 6am. Tim had snuck back to his apartment a few hours before that and fallen asleep on his couch, a glass of bourbon untouched on the table. He woke in a daze.
"Gutterson," he mumbled into his phone.
"Tim?" It was Art. "I'm heading to the office. Meet me there ASAP."
Tim answered a military affirmative; Art had already hung up. Within a half hour Art, Rachel, and Tim and his rifle were speeding south on the interstate.
It had rained all night but the clouds were separating now to let in the early morning sun. Winter was tired and old and giving up more easily these days. The trees were soft in the morning glow, the edges blurred like a water color painting, like the sun was trying to set fire to last year's sodden leaves at the base of the trunks and was filling the branches with smoke. Another few weeks and the new leaves would start showing and the smoke would turn from gray-brown to green. But this morning winter was still moaning, making a last effort, and it blocked the warm rays with gray clouds and locked in the chill for another day. Tim shivered in the back seat when the shadow finally passed over the highway and covered the car.
The roadblocks south had smoked out Quentin Hill. The man was making a night-time run for the border into Tennessee. The state police had given chase cautiously, carefully, considerate of his young passenger, and forced him onto side roads and over hastily laid spike strips and Hill's car had limped along to a narrow bridge and finally run the rims to the ground. Hill, the man Art described as a wolf in sheep's clothing, soft hands, soft face, had acquired a handgun but whether he'd acquired the guts to use it was unknown and the law enforcement team grouped together at one end of the bridge were keeping their distance and discussing their options.
Art tried to talk him out, but Quentin Hill was the captain of this sinking ship and he'd steered it onto the shoals and refused to believe all was lost. He was not going back to prison and he was not stepping out of the safety of the car and he was not giving up his one bargaining chip and he was not considering any choices but the siren song of getting free and clear. They convinced him to roll down the windows so they could talk in earnest about getting him another car and Art sent his sniper to set up as they negotiated.
Tim ran the hill fast to the rock outcropping he'd noticed from the road, set up and lay on the ground ignoring the dampness, settling his cap on backward. Through the scope he could see them clearly now, the boy and the man. They were both emotional, salt-water faces from the tears streaking down their cheeks, the innocent and the guilty. Tim tasted bile as flashes of memories kicked at his stomach, another boy and another man. He was suddenly covered in a cold sweat and he took his hand off the trigger to rub it against his side, warming it. Then he did the unthinkable, took his eyes off the target and rubbed at them trying to push away the images intruding. They wouldn't be ready for him yet anyway. He made the excuse and it sounded good to him; they were still negotiating a happy ending down on the bridge. Maybe they wouldn't need him at all.
He put his eye back to the scope and watched as Hill shook his head violently, repeatedly, then sank down farther behind the boy he was holding tightly to, like a life-raft. They were flotsam and jetsam, awash at sea and a storm coming and no safe port. Hill knew it and he was getting desperate, a drowning man, pulling them all down with him, the boy, the police, Tim, everyone. The go ahead came, spoken coldly through the earpiece, Art's voice, without hesitation, "Tim, take him down." He thumbed off the safety.
The calm up on the hill felt like a betrayal, a cool denial of his turmoil. Tim fought with his memories and waited for the split-second to show itself and open a path for his bullet. He looked through the scope to the bridge, into the car, to the man and the boy, through the scope down the dry mountain to the shamble village, to the house on the edge with the red blanket hanging in the window, through the open door into the room, to the supplies on the table for a homemade bomb, the sack of rice, some money, and the boy crying, and the man moving his head slightly, enough for the width of a bullet.
Tim fired, staying with it for the follow-through on the trigger before turning to his side and throwing up while the old feelings and images rushed up and crashed over him, left him struggling for breath. Then the calm on the hill came back in a wave, pushing him into the present. When he sat up he felt himself starting to come undone after all this time, miles and years between, and it scared him. He clamped down hard on his emotions, allowing only a short sob, cut off. Sliding the rifle over to his lap he flipped on the safety, then pressed his hands against his head, sat cross-legged and rocked himself gently, letting the storm pass. He spat out the taste of vomit and dug down in his pockets for something to replace it with. Eventually he stood, stumbled down the hill still cold and shaky, sea-legs on land, pulled his cap back around and the brim down hard over his face.
Rachel met him at the bottom, peered up under his hat at him, the grim smile dropped. "Are you okay? You don't look so good."
"It's Thursday," he mumbled, continued past her and sat heavily on a rock.
She followed him, passed him her coffee, two cream, two sugar. She liked it sweet. He took it gratefully and had a few sips.
"Thanks," he said, handing it back but she pressed it toward him, insistent.
"You finish it." She waited until he had then asked again, "Tim? Are you okay?"
He looked at her steadily. "I'm fine, really. Just a little cold and wet, as usual."
He laughed. She wasn't convinced and reached out and squeezed his shoulder.
Art spied them and wandered over taking a seat beside Tim, spat his disgust on the ground and said, "Well, I'll be sleeping better tonight. Thanks, Tim. That was another good shot. I'm starting to understand why SOG wanted you so badly." He rested both hands on his knees and took a deep breath of the air, a hint of spring. "I know I shouldn't feel this happy about it, but fuck it. I am. This could've been a whole lot of hurt for a whole lot of people if we hadn't stopped it. Good work all around."
The day seemed tied to Art's mood and the sun found a hole in the clouds and broke through again.
"Well, there's some optimism for you," Art commented. "We may get summer yet."
It lasted a minute then slipped back. Art stood, exaggerating the effort with a groan, and walked over to help deal with the wreckage.
Another car pulled up and Art changed his route to meet it. Neil stepped out and waved in a patently un-FBI manner. Rachel tried again to peer under the brim of Tim's cap, chewed on the inside of her cheek thinking then turned decisively and headed over to talk to Art and Neil.
"Good morning," she greeted him.
"Sorry I'm late," said Neil. "Everyone is spread out everywhere with search warrants, confiscating computers that went through Corey's business for repairs. We've made seven more arrests. You got Hill?"
"He's dead," Art said succinctly.
Neil paused and looked over their heads to the scene on the bridge. "Oh. Frasier wanted to be here but I told him you wouldn't need us." He smiled ingenuously. "Then I volunteered to come down and keep an eye on you, just in case. I figured you rather have me than him."
Art laughed at the honesty.
Rachel smiled along pleasantly then slipped in a suggestion, "Since you're not needed here, why don't you make yourself useful and take Tim for breakfast. I think he's feeling a little under-the-weather."
Art and Neil both turned to look over at Tim who had just finished breaking down his rifle and was putting it away in the trunk. Rachel used the distraction to nudge Neil and try to get her concern across wordlessly.
Neil was quick to catch on. "No problem. I'll go collect him. I know how grumpy he is when he's hungry. I haven't eaten yet, either. I'll drop him back at the office for you."
Rachel watched him stride down and try to cajole a reaction out of Tim who was leaning unimpressed against Art's car with his arms crossed tightly and his cap still a barrier to the world. Neil finally gave up, grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him off the car, turned him around and pushed him toward Rachel and Art.
"Is he okay?" Art asked. His grin turned down at the corners to concern and he focused a piercing look at Rachel. "Is there a problem?"
"He missed his breakfast, Chief. He's a growing boy," she jested lightly.
"Rachel, I think you're tired. You're getting your boys mixed up. That's Tim, not Nick. Nick's at home with your mother," Art explained patiently then frowned. "He is at home with your mother, right?"
"Yes, Chief, he's at home with my mother."
"Okay then, well, I realize they both act like ten-year-olds, but I'm pretty sure Tim has finished growing."
Rachel gave him the unimpressed, raised-eyebrow expression that he enjoyed so much. "Thank you for clearing that up for me. Now, is there anything we should be doing down there?" She gestured behind her, turned and walked toward the bridge, away from Neil and Tim, and Art followed like she knew he would. She wanted to talk to Tim in private before Art got a good look at him.
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