Act of Mercy – Chapter Twenty-Six
Mrs. Brooks answered the door. She eyed Tim thoughtfully, gave a martyred sigh and said, "You want to come in and have a cup of coffee before you leave? You've got plenty of time and you certainly look like you could use it."
"Yes, ma'am," Tim replied with subdued enthusiasm. He was a tad hung-over and no point denying it with her. She always knew.
Neil was the culprit; he'd point the finger there if he had to defend himself. His friend had hauled him around Lexington on a bar tour. Each establishment was a step down from the last in a run of increasingly seedier joints with an increasingly drunker FBI agent pulling his ID and trying to pick up increasingly scarier women until finally Tim had run out of patience and dragged Neil home. They'd wound up on his porch and continued the party until one of Tim's neighbors had marched over and shut them down. A good run and lots of water had cleared most of the rust out of his gears this morning and he'd arrived at the Brooks' early hoping for a cup of Rachel's mom's strong coffee to finish the job.
"Good morning," Rachel greeted. She stopped short in the doorway to the kitchen and looked him over critically, arched an eyebrow to communicate her feelings.
"Hey," said Tim, smiling sheepishly.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Rachel asked. "Seriously, I don't mind taking him."
"Uh-uh, no way. This is my gig. I'm fine."
The other eyebrow rose to meet the first, disapproval to disbelief. "Sure you are." Rachel poured herself a cup and joined them at the table. "You look like shit."
"Language, young lady," Mrs. Brooks scolded.
Rachel rolled her eyes. "Was the training that tough or are you hung-over? I still can't believe you let them talk you into volunteering for SOG duty."
"I didn't volunteer; I was told," Tim corrected her tersely.
"If it's any consolation, I think Art's already regretting it. He was complaining about the training schedule and the on-call schedule. He thinks he's going to have to replace Dan after all with the amount of time you'll be away from the Bureau."
Tim didn't look sympathetic.
"How was the training?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I've done it all before only in double-time and for longer at a stretch and with less food."
"So you got through it okay?"
Tim huffed, tilted his head. "Please. I hardly broke a sweat."
Her eyebrows went up again. "Then why do you look so tired?"
He held her gaze a moment then looked down and studied his hands, a repeat of the shrug. "It's hard sleeping with all that going on," he answered evasively, a dismissive wave encompassing the whole time in Louisiana. "They do it on purpose, keep you tired." Tim chewed his lip, knowing it was more than that she was seeing, but grinned reassurance at her. "Got to repel out of a helicopter again. I love that shit."
"Language," Mrs. Brooks admonished a second time.
"Sorry," Tim muttered.
Nick loped into the kitchen and plunked himself in a chair. "Hey. What's up?"
"Have you brushed your teeth yet?" Rachel asked. "You two have to leave soon."
"Where are we going?" There was no way Nick was going to all the trouble of brushing his teeth on a Saturday without a good reason.
"Indiana," Tim replied.
Nick made a face usually reserved for doctor's appointments. "Indiana? Why?"
"Pacers' game," Tim explained. "It's a three-hour drive and I want to get something to eat first, so you'd better get your ass in gear. A hotdog at the arena is not going to do it for me."
Nick tried not to look interested. "Pacers? You got tickets?"
"No, we're going to have to jump someone outside the stadium and steal a pair. It'd be nice to get there early to give us time to pick out our victims."
Nick's response was a sneer and a disappointed, "The Pacers, huh?" He slumped a little lower in his chair.
Rachel reached over and slapped his leg. "Do you want me to find a puddle for Tim to drop you in? Now go brush your teeth. He went to a lot of trouble to get these tickets."
"No, I didn't," Tim interjected. "I just called a friend." He pulled the tickets out of his wallet and slid them across the table, tapped them with a finger, said smugly, "And guess who they're playing tonight."
Nick leaned across the table to examine them, acting like he was doing them all a big favor and Tim turned to Rachel, asked, "Does he know how to read yet?"
"Tcha," Nick replied for her then his eyebrows shot up and he looked his age for that split second. "Grizzlies!" He jumped out of his seat and punched the air with a 'whoop'. "Come on, let's go!" he demanded, suddenly in a hurry. He ran around the table and started pulling on Tim's arm.
"Teeth!" Rachel ordered and pointed imperiously down the hall.
Nick fell asleep half an hour into the drive home. Tim didn't mind. He never had trouble staying awake and he never had trouble falling asleep either when the opportunity presented itself; it was staying asleep that he found troublesome. It was quiet on the roads at this hour, the headlights catching nothing but pavement. The steady rhythm of highway driving soothed after a busy couple of weeks, just enough alertness needed to occupy his mind and keep it away from unwanted memories but nothing to jar either, nothing other than the ticking white lines.
He was glad for the uninterrupted time to puzzle over his reaction to the tactical training. He loathed it. He loved it. He felt like a drug addict, rolling in the adrenalin rush like a dog in road kill, and he wondered if he should worry about it, wondered if he should've stuck to his guns, a poor choice of words, and kept clear of the military methods of the tactical squad. He fell easily back into his training. There was nothing they could teach him that he didn't already wear naturally. And he wondered, automatic rifle comfortable in his hands, which side he belonged to. When he arrived at the camp in Louisiana, did he take off a civilian disguise that covered the clear-to-the-bone military grunt, or did he cover himself in the martial dress only to bury deep the real Tim Gutterson, the one he sometimes felt was trying to break through these days?
He was crossing the bridge in Louisville before he realized it, only an hour from home, crossing from Indiana into Kentucky. He decided then that maybe Tim Gutterson had something in common with the city he was passing through, split down the middle by two states.
"Tim," Art called, already out of his office and halfway to the door, "since you're in so early, you win the prize duty. You're with me."
Tim hooked his jacket, barely settled yet, off the chair and followed Art out of the building. "What's up at this hour?" he asked when they were headed out of the parking lot.
"You, apparently. Why are you in at 7am? I'm all suspicious now. You looking for another job? Checking available Marshal postings maybe?"
Tim looked sideways at Art and decided the ribbing gave him the right to complain. "Actually, I'm just trying to get caught up on a shitload of paperwork back-piled from when I was down in Louisiana last week for training. Somebody – can't recall exactly who the asshole was but I'm sure it'll come to me if I ever get a coffee this morning – told me I'd better say yes to the SOG invite, remember that? I'm pretty sure you were there."
Art grimaced in acknowledgement of the truth. He'd certainly stepped into it this morning, and that morning when he'd made it hard for Tim to refuse joining the tactical team. Rather than answer the accusation he made amends, pulled into the first drive-through they passed and ordered some coffee and donuts and handed them out.
"Feel better?"
"Marginally." Tim took a sip from his cup. "So where're we headed and why?"
"Tate's Creek Bridge," Art answered. "Some poor soul got shot in the back of the head last night, loosely linked to a group of white supremist assholes robbing banks and blowing shit up in my territory."
"Again, why are we involved?"
"The Marshal who came in last night, the one I had a drink with, is going to help build a case against the fellow running this Aryan Nation bullshit group. Boyd Crowder's his name."
"The Marshal or the Aryan bullshit guy?"
"The Aryan bullshit guy." Art shot an impatient look over at Tim and caught him smirking. "Grow up."
The smirk opened into a chuckle and Tim added sarcastically, "So the Marshal's the cowboy then, just so I'm clear. Wouldn't want to shoot the wrong guy."
"Yes, the Marshal's the cowboy. Raylan Givens."
"Is he from Texas?"
"Nope – Kentucky."
Tim settled lower in his seat, sipped a bit more of his coffee and dragged his fingers through his hair, "The name's familiar." He yawned extravagantly then asked, "Is he the guy that shot that guy in Miami?"
"Yeah," Art confirmed. He looked over at Tim who was now leaning drowsily against the car door, his coffee listing dangerously. "Why is it you're the only one who can say that and sound bored?"
Tim grinned, let his eyes slide shut, mused aloud, "Wonder what Dan would make of the hat?"
Art joined him with his own grin. "We'll have to ask him when we see him. Though I'm sure he'll give us an opinion without our invite. Maybe we can arrange to get them together at Molly's."
Twenty minutes later they pulled off the road by a bridge and got out, winding their way through the other vehicles to the scene. Art sent Tim to have a look at the victim while he learned what he could from the local Sheriff whose men had discovered the body. There wasn't much to say and the two ended up going over the items that had been found in a quick search of the area. The conversation ground to a halt with both men frowning when they came to a long green strap with two circles attached to it, neither able to identify it.
"I'm stumped on this one," the Sheriff shrugged.
"Looks military though, doesn't it," Art suggested. He turned his gaze over the milling law enforcement on the bridge, letting his eyes drift until he spotted his Deputy and called, "Tim," and waved him over.
"Yessir." Tim appeared at his shoulder.
Art pointed to the items on the trunk of the cruiser, tapped his pen on the unidentified strap. "Any idea what this is?"
"Huh. It's a cap from an M72 LAW," Tim replied without hesitation.
"A what?" Art asked impatiently.
"Light anti-armor."
"Tim. English."
"Rocket launcher," Tim simplified.
The Sheriff and the Chief looked at Tim then back at the item. "Huh," Art agreed then got on the phone.
A few minutes later Tim had left Art at the bridge to wait for the cowboy while he drove the Chief's car to meet Rachel in Lexington to investigate a church destroyed by a rocket launcher. Not even Tim, a firm believer in the old adage 'shit happens,' was tempted to consider it a coincidence.
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Author's humble grovelling: Thank you all for reading and a grateful nod to anyone who reviewed. As the note says, the author appreciates your time and comments. Sometimes one note is enough to inspire a whole chapter.