Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty-Five
"'Bout time you showed up again," Fischer snarled. He was bent over the table in the trailer, squinting back and forth between the mess of gun parts spread out in front of him and a manual on his lap, his glasses nowhere in sight. It was exactly like the first day Tim had walked into Fischer's domain. Only the dialogue was different.
"Jesus, why do you do this?" Tim asked, gesturing at the gun montage. He walked around beside Fischer, and smacked him on the shoulder. "Move."
Fischer obliged, mumbling, "You know I like taking stuff apart to clean it properly." He poured Tim the last of the coffee from the thermos. "Besides, you need to feel useful. I'd hate for you to think the only thing you're good for is standing around looking stupid."
"Yeah, 'cause you've already got that role covered."
"And dammit, where were you last weekend?" Fischer grumbled, ignoring the jab. "The place was packed with turkeys prepping for turkey hunting season. I was run off my feet."
Tim stopped working and looked up. "I have a job, remember? I had to work the whole weekend. Thanks so much for reminding me. And why the hell haven't you hired anyone to replace Cecily yet?"
"Can't find anyone ugly enough."
"Then find someone to do your work and you can replace her. You fit the job description."
"You are on a role this morning. Did anyone ever tell you you're a little shit?"
"All the time. It's how I'm listed in the phone book. Makes it easy for people for find me."
"Who would want to?"
Tim grinned and bent back over the table as the door to the trailer opened. Fischer turned expecting another hunting season turkey but instead found himself looking at a familiar face. He stepped over to greet the customer with a friendly 'long time, no see' and a handshake.
"Morning, gentlemen," the man replied cheerfully. Tim's head jerked up, recognizing the voice. It was Art Mullen. "I've been standing outside a while enjoying the sunshine and the pleasant conversation between the two of you." He gestured over at his Deputy and shook his head sadly, whispering commiseration to Fischer, "He's like this at the office, too. I don't think he was raised very well."
"I had my suspicions," Fischer joined in. They looked over with artificial charity at Tim who raised his eyes heavenward, turned a cheek and went back to his work.
"What brings you out on a Sunday?" Fischer asked already forming his own suspicions. "It's been a while."
"Got a gun question for you, Abe."
"Abe? I thought the 'A' was for asshole," Tim commented.
Fischer chose not to listen. "What do you got for me?" He reached over to take the paper that Art was carrying. "Hell I can't read this, I don't have my glasses."
"Or absent-minded," Tim continued under his breath.
Fischer glanced back and narrowed his eyes. "Why don't we talk back down at the house? It's quieter there," he suggested to Art. "And I'm pretty sure I left my glasses in the kitchen."
"Or aggravating."
"Sure thing," Art replied trying hard not to laugh.
"Acerbic."
"Nice one," Art commented with a nod to Tim.
"Thank you. Annoying," Tim kept at it, then added as they headed out the door, "Hey, and bring up some more coffee when you come back, Abe."
"If I come back, you little shit."
"You'll come back. You want to see the puzzle finished." And the door swung shut.
Art and Fischer started their stroll down the hill toward the house, Art chuckling at the exchange.
"Don't encourage him," Fischer snarled.
"I can't believe he found this place. He must have a sarcasm radar. I'll bet he feels right at home here."
Fischer humphed.
"Either that," Art mused, "or he's just good at spotting a soft and easy target what with all that sniper training."
"Why are you here again?" Fischer grumped.
Art grinned, happy with his own marksmanship. He followed Fischer into his house, leisurely explained the case he was working on then asked his questions. Fischer looked over the information when he'd found his glasses and offered his opinion while he put on some more coffee. When they were both satisfied with their conclusions, Art folded the report and stuffed it back in his pocket with a "Thank you."
"You could've just asked Tim, you know," Fischer said. "He knows his stuff and he's more up on the newer weapons than me. He's a walking munitions encyclopedia."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. He helps me out quite a bit around here. Just, for god's sake, don't tell him that. He's an insufferable enough know-it-all as is."
Art filed that away, praise from Fischer on the subject of guns was worth something. He accepted a mug of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "Did you hear about the shooting down near Tennessee, the pedophile we cornered?"
"Yup."
Art nodded, casual, all the time in the world, just shooting the shit.
Fischer saw right through the act, commented, "Word around here is that it was a tricky shot. He's a natural, your boy." He sat down opposite Art and stretched his legs out.
Art nodded again. "I suppose you probably figured out it was Tim," Art said, just a bit of trade news, no importance. "Or maybe he told you?" He held Fischer's gaze innocently and the two continued their dance.
"I figured it," Fischer affirmed. "He doesn't talk much about work...other than complaining about his boss." He drummed his fingers on his mug and pondered his next words, finally he offered, carefully, "Tim came out here the weekend after. Something about it got to him. It shook him."
Art sat up and leaned forward on the table, intent. "What was it, do you know? Did he say?" He didn't bother trying to hide his eagerness for an answer.
Fischer considered the question, absently watching the vapors snaking over the surface of his coffee and disappearing up over the rim. "Don't know," he finally answered. "And good luck cracking that nut."
Art sat back, disappointed.
"Is that why you're up here on a Sunday?" Fischer queried. "Worried about your Deputy and come to wring his friends for information?" His tone wasn't accusatory, the two men were too familiar for that, and Fischer would tell what he knew if he knew anything. Art had earned his respect over the years.
"Well, maybe…partly…mostly," Art confessed. "I did want to confirm the case ballistics, too, that and ask you about Tim, that and get out of the house on a beautiful weekend morning before the wife could start the chores list."
"You should've stayed single like me."
"What was I to do? I had to choose one and get married to stop all the other girls from chasing me. It was hell."
Rachel parked in front of Josephine Hall's house and stepped out into the bright sunlight. The day had warmed up to the idea of full-on spring, and the leaves nudged out a little more, greening the street hour by hour. Rachel closed her eyes and turned to face the sun for a moment, relishing, and when she opened them again she could have sworn it was greener still.
"If you spin really fast you can get dizzy and throw up," Tim called out.
Rachel turned to the house and stuck out her tongue though she couldn't see him yet, opened the gate and headed up the walk. She found Tim on the porch. He had dragged a chair out from the living room, an old comfortable one with an upholstered back and wooden arms, and was lounging outside, enjoying the warm air and a cold beer. He dropped his feet off the railing and stood up to greet her.
She didn't feel the need to offer sympathy, he wasn't the type to take it, and she had already shown Josephine her respect by attending her funeral with Tim earlier in the week. Instead, Rachel offered a smile and her company on a Saturday afternoon.
He returned her smile with another smile but it settled uncertainly on him, looking like it had forgotten what it was supposed to do. Rachel thought he looked sad and she realized it was the first time she'd seen a soft emotion on his face. She wondered if this was a glimpse of the boy that Josephine Hall had encountered way back when and had taken under her wing. It made more sense to Rachel that way, an explanation for this odd relationship, and regardless of whether it was the truth or not, she accepted it as such because she wanted to. She liked the idea.
"She left you the house?" Rachel asked. "Is that what you said on the message?"
"She left me everything." He wagged his head. "Basically, that means the house. She didn't have much. It would have felt weird if she did."
"She liked you," Rachel declared. She knew it all along, all the evidence was there, but it still came as a surprise and she shook her head.
"You say that like it's incomprehensible," Tim responded to her surprise with a little attitude. "She had good taste."
"She had a lot of faith."
"And I owe her for that at least." He lifted the bottle in his hand. "You want a beer?"
"Sure."
He headed inside and she snagged his chair. When he came back out and saw her perched and purring like a cat in the sun in his stolen seat, he slumped his shoulders and glared at her.
"Fine, be like that," he grumped, handed her both bottles and stomped back inside.
He picked an even softer chair and dragged it out, seated himself smugly and took back his beer. The two sat in comfortable silence, the pleasant nothingness of the afternoon molding their bodies to the chairs and melting away the weight of the emotions and events of the past two months until it seemed that none of it had ever happened and it was light enough now to smile for no reason. Yet something must have happened to make it so easy for them to sit and ignore each other and think companionably about different things or nothing and that was the paradox that got Tim drifting philosophically and regretting that Monday might be different. But now was an eternity and he'd learned from war to accept these moments and grab every second and not let it go too soon.
"I feel like I've done a circle," he mused aloud after a time, sending a trickle of thought into the afternoon. "A big circle, mind you, and somehow I've ended up right back where I started. I'm not sure whether to feel really stupid or ridiculously clever." He looked sideways at her, inviting a response, and waited.
"Are you going to move in or sell?" Rachel inquired, always the pragmatist.
"My first thought? Sell. But then I got comfortable on that chair." He indicated her seat with a tilt of his bottle and took a drink in salute. "And then there's the problem of the party girl on my floor," he added cryptically and screwed up his face.
She raised her eyebrows but he kept it vague with a look of faked innocence and she didn't pry.
"And, well, I'm beginning to think she did this on purpose, leave me the house. I mean, she had two charities she worked hard for. She could've left it to one of them. And it's not like I need the money." He narrowed his eyes over at Rachel. "I think she was tying me an anchor."
Rachel dragged her chair a little closer to the railing so she, too, could prop her feet up. She settled more contentedly and decided the leaves were out farther now even than when she drove up. "I think she had three charities, Tim. She just donated it to the neediest cause."
"Piss off."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
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