Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty-Four
She tried a dozen times after dinner to reach him, calling his phone, hoping to reassure herself that he was okay. He seemed okay when she got back to the office with Art. Neil had, as promised, taken Tim for breakfast then dropped him back in Lexington. He seemed okay throughout the remainder of the morning and the afternoon, wading in to help with the paperwork. He seemed okay when most of the office went out at the end of the day, all of them crowding into Art's favorite bar to celebrate, catching the Chief's good mood. And he seemed okay, a few beers and a couple of bourbon in and exchanging quips with Dan, when she walked over to say 'goodnight.' But after pacing around her mother's kitchen after dinner and rehashing the day with her, she started to worry, remembering Tim's face under the hat.
"For heaven's sake, just call him if it'll make you feel better. I'm tired of the pacing." Mrs. Brooks picked Rachel's phone up off the counter and grabbed her daughter's hand and slapped it in her grasp with a 'tcha'.
When Tim didn't pick up, Rachel drove into town and banged on his door. And when there was no answer there she waded back into the bar, noisy now and not as friendly, filled with a different crowd from the one she'd left behind earlier. She started hunting in the corners for him and found him finally, sitting alone in the shadowy end at the bar. A glass of bourbon half done possessively cupped in one hand, all he needed was a lit cigarette burned to the filter wedged between two fingers in the other to round out the picture of down and out. She settled onto the empty stool beside him. Everyone else in the bar, the Marshal's party all gone home, was keeping their distance.
"Jesus, Tim," she scolded, looking at her watch and doing a quick calculation, "just how drunk are you?"
"Somewhat," he answered around the glass, taking a sip and refusing to look at her after the first quick acknowledgement.
She was concerned to see him sipping, a sure sign that he'd been at it a while. She sighed and brought her hand up to her forehead, rubbing it worriedly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed…I thought...You seemed fine with it."
Her voice trailed off and she hesitated and drew back when he turned to her finally, a perplexed look on his face. Maybe that's how he gets when he's drunk, she thought. Some men get mean, some get stupid, some get maudlin, perhaps some, like her ex-Army Ranger, get perplexed.
"What are you talking about?" he asked her, squinting a bit in the spotlight of her attention.
"The shooting today. I'm sorry. I should've…" Should've what? She didn't know. She had no experience with this.
He furrowed his eyebrows together, tried to work out why she was here then raised them slowly as he figured it out. "Oh. Shit, no. That?" He almost laughed. Almost. "Please. I could've shot that asshole all day, except I'd run out of ammo."
She might have been satisfied then and gone home if his body language didn't scream out that everything was not okay, making an absolute lie of his flippant response.
"What happened on the hill this morning, Tim?" she pressed.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
"It's nothing. It's just the kid that's…Do you think he…?" Start. Stop. "Aw, shit. What does it matter?" He sunk his exploding head in his hand and rested it all on his elbow on the bar, too much to think about drunk, settling with perplexed.
But Rachel was still thinking and something clicked. "Tim, did you get the go ahead? Did you shoot that man in Afghanistan, the one with the boy that you told me about?"
He looked over at her. Ate the truth down in a quick gulp and settled for a nod, barely there. But the truth wouldn't stay down today, too near to the surface. It boiled up, angry and reckless.
"Yeah, I shot him." Tim wet his lips nervously. "Without orders," he dared her, almost yelled it out. "I just went ahead and shot him. Made a fucking mess of him with the rifle I had. I couldn't watch it another day."
He slid all the way down onto the bar until his head was resting on it and stuck his arms out, wrists together, toward her. "You'd better arrest me, Marshal." His voice was muffled, deadened in his sleeve.
Rachel glanced around hoping no one else was listening then reached over and took one of his hands and held it in both of hers.
"A lot like today, then, I guess?"
When the cuffs didn't come out, he took his hand back, drawing himself in tightly again, pulled himself upright and finished off his drink.
"What happened to that boy?" she asked. She kept her eyes on his face looking for something that might slip past, but he just looked tired.
"How the fuck should I know?" he said, not angry with her, angry with the day, which day though was unclear. "He probably stepped on an old Russian mine or joined the Taliban and maybe he's the one that shot one of my buddies a few weeks ago or maybe he got sick and starved to death over the winter. It's not like I was going to stick around out there to see what happened next. Never would've made it back home to tell you the sorry tale."
Rachel sat patiently through the tirade. She knew from experience not to take the tone personally, not to take anything personally coming from a meth-head or a drunk Marshal.
"I'll tell you something," he started up again. "I try to convince myself that I made it better for him. But you know what? I figure…I figure I probably took away the only source of income for his entire family. And that's what it all is, when it's like that and you're one of those…those people that no one cares about. You just move from one hell to another. It's fucking hopeless."
She didn't say anything, all the words and consolation and sympathy were cheap tape. They wouldn't fix anything.
"I can't go back," he said simply.
"Then don't."
He waved to the bartender.
"What are you doing?" Rachel demanded, but softly.
"Ordering another drink," he stated, "obviously." He rolled his eyes a little too vigorously and she was afraid he'd drop off the back of his stool like a character in a bad comedy.
"No, you're not. I'm taking you home." The bartender arrived and looked at Tim expectantly. "He needs to settle up now," Rachel said, no discussion.
Tim huffed and dug out his wallet. She watched him fumble with the bills for a minute before she finally reached over and took them from him and paid the tab.
When Tim didn't show up for work the next morning, Rachel told Art that he had called in sick, some kind of stomach flu. Art was properly concerned and nodded, not buying a word of it.
Fischer didn't rush out of bed this Sunday morning to open up, it was raining hard enough to chase away any shooters and it felt good under the old blankets. He could just tell, feeling so content hunkered down in his bed, that it was cold out and gray and dreary and damp and drizzling. When he had to pee badly enough he dragged himself out of bed, cursing the icy floor until he found his slippers. He shuffled into the kitchen behind the office and put on a pot of coffee and cranked up the heat and fed the dog and let her out then sat at the table with the mug steaming and groaned loudly as he stretched. He heard the first shot on the second sip. He set down the mug carefully and sat still, listening. The crack of the second shot was unmistakable. He glanced at the clock, thinking there was only one person that could be.
He dug around in a cupboard and pulled out his old thermos and put the rest of the coffee in it, black, and set it by the door. Then he went back to his bedroom, sat on his bed and pulled on an extra pair of wool socks. They felt good and he grabbed his extra sweater, too, his jacket, his hat, his boots, all the while listening to the rhythmic, insistent firing of the rifle, a coded message that he would read if he could. When he was ready he stood a moment looking at the patchy rug he was standing on in front of the door, stood thinking, then stepped out onto the porch then into the rain and trudged up the hill to the trailer.
Tim was prone, lying on a waterproof sheet, the rain streaming down the back of his jacket in a lone line from his shoulders, finding the easiest path home, back to the earth, dropping off his waist, some soaking into the bit of plaid shirt showing underneath and into his jeans. It was a sure thing that he was cold and wet by now, not so sure a thing whether he noticed. His hands though were warm and dry in a pair of combat gloves, working the bolt, aiming, firing.
Fischer pulled his waterproof jacket down over his bum and sat carefully on a log, cut up for the purpose and rolled near the line. He unscrewed the lid on the thermos but didn't take it all the way off or the rain would get in. He held it out.
"I always knew you were stupid. Didn't have to get me out of bed on a shit day like this to prove it."
Tim's head twisted at the sound of Fischer's voice but his face stayed hidden behind the hood. He pushed up and sat back on his knees and held out a gloved hand for the thermos. Fischer pressed it firmly into Tim's grasp so it wouldn't slip.
"Thanks." Nothing else. He lifted the lid and let the steam escape to mingle with the clouds from his breath and sipped carefully.
Fischer wiped the water off his nose and pulled his hood farther forward.
"I read about it in the paper," he offered his brand of understanding. "Figured it had to be you. Who else, right?"
The hood twisted his way again and Tim handed back the thermos. There was a long pause while the two men endured the rain, Fischer because he knew he was needed, Tim because it felt good to feel, even if the feeling was only wet and cold. The rain came down harder then, Tim could hear it picking up momentum first before he realized he couldn't see through it any distance anymore. He felt it too, heavier on him. He peered past the rain drops trying to make out targets down range but it started to blur after a couple hundred yards and he reached over with his thumb and flicked on the safety. He stood then, flipped the ground sheet over the rifle and took the step over to the log and sat down next to the man sharing the rain and the coffee.
Fischer caught a glimpse of Tim's face this time as he passed the thermos over. He unzipped his jacket and reached a hand into the inside pocket, fished out a flask and passed it over as a chaser.
"If you don't like bourbon, you can't shoot here anymore."
Tim's lips twitched. He took a pull and passed it back and said, "You're so full of shit."
"That's no way to speak to your elders."
"Sorry, I meant, you're so full of shit, old man. And lucky for you I like bourbon. You'd miss me."
Fischer hawed and slapped Tim on the back. The sound his hand made when it connected was an entire page description of 'wet' and the two men started chuckling.
"Grab your gear and come on back to the house. I'll put on some more coffee."
"Yeah, okay."
"You eat eggs?"
"I eat anything."
"You and my dog."
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Author's note: Yesterday was Remembrance Day here in Canada. The story behind this story is loosely based on a real incident that happened to a Canadian soldier in Afghanistan. He was given a Dishonourable Discharge when he reported seeing the rape of a young boy up the chain of command after having a breakdown. He took it to court and won an Honourable Discharge. A small amount of justice served.