Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Nine
If the pounding on the door hadn't woken him, his ringing phone would've – both crashing through the wall of exhaustion simultaneously. It had been a long couple of days. Will sat up, kicked at the tangled sheets trying to free himself and almost fell out of bed. He grabbed at his shorts on the floor. "Coming! I'm coming." He was yanking at his T-shirt, caught up on itself, rolling it over his chest when he answered the door finally.
"Will." It was Crawford; he hung up his phone and said in person, "There's been another murder. It appears to be The Chess Master. We have to go."
"What?" Will mentally grabbed for the words that Jack had thrown at him, tried to piece them back together. They seemed to come at him all out of order.
"He's killed again."
"But…but that's not possible. It's too soon."
Jack provided a thin-lipped grin in reply. "You can tell that to the victims when we get there."
"Where?"
"Georgia, not too far from Atlanta. We've booked a flight. Are you coming?"
Will looked down at his bare feet. "Yeah, yeah." Back at Jack then and he rubbed his eyes. "Do I have time for a shower at least?"
"Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes."
Will shut the door, opened it and leaned out, called to Jack's back, "Victims? He finished the scene this time?"
Jack turned back. "Yes. There are two bodies."
"I was worried maybe he was changing his pattern."
"He is. He's escalating his time frame."
Will closed the door again and stood thinking. It was too soon. He scratched his head to loosen his matted hair and remembered the night. A jolt went through him, head to toe – not at all unpleasant. When was the last time he'd shared a bed with someone? College? He glanced quickly around the room looking for signs of his guest, nothing that Jack would've seen from the doorway, in fact, nothing at all. Nothing. It was as if there had never been a Deputy US Marshal in his hotel room well after lights out, well after casual, well after sleepy and asleep. Even the glass had been rinsed and set back on the bathroom counter and what exactly did that indicate? It said something. Or maybe he had dreamed it all. Was this a recurrence of the encephalitis, a flare up – hallucinations and lost time? If it were, at least the hallucinations and the accompanying sensations were enjoyable this time.
He turned in a circle once, a last confused search then sat at the desk in defeat and pulled the hotel note pad over in front of him and a pen and drew a clock, a little paranoia residue that he'd missed cleaning house after his release, after the arrest of Hannibal Lecter.
"It's…" he turned to look at the radio on the bedside table, "…5:47am and I am in Lexington, Kentucky."
He finished the clock, putting the hands at the right position, then, ripping the page off the pad he folded it in half, found his pants and slipped it into a pocket. Satisfied, he hurried through a shower, tossed his belongings into his suitcase and headed to the elevator and down to the lobby.
Tim woke early, always early. He lay still while his eyes adjusted to the dark, comfortable – he was very comfortable and warm and relaxed. He could hear Will breathing beside him and turned his head to watch the man's chest rising and falling. He rolled over carefully, slowly, and carefully and slowly slid a hand across to Will's pillow, twisted a curly strand of dark hair around a finger. There was a strong desire to cram both hands through the curls, wake him, but he recognized this precipice, staring over the edge, and he was afraid of falling. This was the moment when he still had nothing to lose.
Time to go.
He slipped out of the bed and hunted around for his clothes, keys, quietly closed the door to the bathroom and dressed. A hand on the hallway door, he stopped, turned and studied the room. Leave nothing; lose nothing. He walked carefully back across to the desk, picked up his glass, tiptoed to the sink and dripped enough water into it to rinse it, set it noiselessly on the counter and left.
"What does this…look like…to you?" Will pushed the piece of hotel stationery across the small table to Beverly, pushed his glasses more firmly on and waited nervously.
Unfolding it, she set her hand on it to smooth it open, looked at it then studied Will. "Are you okay?"
Will shrugged. "I feel okay. Actually, I feel great. Do I look okay?"
"Maybe a little tired." Her voice climbed a step each word, questioning. "Did you sleep last night?"
He managed to look guilty, for no reason. "Yes. Why?"
"You're a lousy artist then," she quipped. "Your clock looks like a four-year-old drew it."
"Nothing unusual about it?"
"Other than you felt the urge to draw one? No. Quarter to six, if I can read your scribble."
Jack Crawford was seated a few rows back, talking on the phone. He hung up, stood up and walked over. Will saw him coming, snatched the paper back and stuffed it away, quickly steered the conversation to less personal territory.
"How fresh are they?"
"What?"
Will enjoyed Beverly's company; she usually kept up with his disjointed often seemingly irrelevant statements but she missed the reference this time, still preoccupied with his clock, his antics.
"The bodies – how fresh are they?"
"Oh." She caught up. "Very. Fresher than Kentucky. Somebody called it in."
Will's confusion showed. "Somebody…called it in? That's odd. Who?"
"It was an anonymous tip." Jack said sliding into the seat beside Will, watching him for a reaction to the information.
Beverly excused herself, anticipating a dismissal, stood up and walked down the aisle to join the rest of the team. Jack moved into her seat. He folded his hands, set them on the table and studied Will's face.
"What?" Will demanded, bearing the weighted silence for all of ten seconds. "I doubt our Marshal had time to race to Georgia and back."
Jack smiled easily. Will took that to mean Tim had slid off the list with this fresh killing. "He could have done it – last night, the night before maybe." He was teasing; it was obvious.
Will huffed impatiently. "I've kept him rather busy the last few days." He felt himself flushing at the extra meaning in the words, hoped Jack wouldn't notice.
Jack's smile grew. He enjoyed getting under Will's skin just that little bit. "Any new ideas?"
"None. At least, none worth discussing. Just…hunches."
"Your 'hunches' are usually worth discussing. Let's hear it."
Will took off his glasses and looked out the window of the jet. Private jets were nice, a rare treat. Unfortunately, it usually meant discussing business for the entire trip, no chance to be alone with your thoughts.
"I think Kentucky…was his golden ticket."
Interested, Jack leaned forward. "What makes you think that?"
"I don't know," Will said quietly, defensive, peevish. His eyes flitted around the interior of the jet. How did he know? He just knew. But how did he… "Because he's leading us away."
Tim shut the door to his apartment, walked around the couch, dropped his keys beside his computer and sat down to check through his email. He had a routine and he worked hard not to upset it.
The sniper teams were a tight group and they kept in touch. Two in particular emailed regularly – one struggling through a nasty divorce, struggling with a dead-end job, struggling with being back home on a medical discharge, another still in the ranks, twiddling his thumbs and going through the motions, waiting on another deployment somewhere, jaded about pulling out of Afghanistan, jaded period. He kept Tim up-to-date on Ranger news, and Tim was hungry for it, and once a week he would try to convince him to re-enlist. Tim wasn't immune to the lure so he was grateful for a job that kept him busy, or, more honestly, that he used to keep himself busy. He overdid everything and no one complained, especially not Art.
He invited the struggling friend up to Kentucky, enticing him with the promise of a road trip – two bikes and back routes, a shared hobby for small engines. But Tim knew before he hit 'send' that he wouldn't see him. His buddy was back in the world, a world with an ex-wife and maybe even ex-kids and no place for whatever went on over there 'in the shit.' Tim was fine with that – it was fun while it lasted and no one the wiser and no broken hearts. And that was the truth. It belonged over there.
What happens in Afghanistan, stays in Afghanistan – that was their joke. There were so many secrets to be kept from that time that it was easier than not keeping them. So many things censored, so much surreal, the enormity of events in a war made it simple to deny, as if the whole thing hadn't happen – a movie script, not reality. And that was the lie. That script came alive nights; it kept him awake over here.
His thoughts shifted to Will Graham then and he wondered how the serial killer hunter coped with his nights. Being witness to horror, even after the fact, was often as bad as being a part of it – either way it was a loss of control and it was frightening. And Will couldn't pretend that none of it happened. It was his job to dissect every piece of it and explain what should be left unexplained.
Tim had long since given up trying to explain anything.
He had an idea, logged onto his usual chess site and laid out a game, the first five or six moves, Karpov vs Kasparov, 1985, and sent out an open invite to anyone interested. Then he did it on two more sites. What the hell – why not? He grinned. The Feds would probably be knocking on his door within the week. Either that or a serial killer.
Then he logged off and grabbed a gym bag and headed out – weight training then swimming then work. It was a common enough problem among Rangers, bad knees. Long marches with hundred-pound packs tended to be rough on cartilage and bone, and jumping out of hovering helos with the extra weight didn't help either. The physiotherapist recommended swimming. So Tim took up swimming – 50 laps five times a week, give or take.
He showered at the pool and arrived at work early.
"Skin anyone at chess last night?" Art asked as he walked past on the way to his office.
"I'm not that good."
"Why don't I believe you?" Art stopped in front of Tim's desk, peered over the screen. "How did it go last night?"
"We broke up a notorious ring of ten-year-old pranksters."
"Did Raylan shoot one?"
"Nope. Will Graham tried to shoot Raylan though."
"Really? Raylan piss him off that much?"
"Nah, he didn't try to shoot him on purpose. He was just a bit jumpy."
Art humphed. "Like I said, he's a bit off, that boy."
"And like I said, you would be too if you chased psychopaths for a living." Tim sounded a bit touchy, a bit too defensive for his liking, but Art didn't seem to notice.
"Did he talk at all to you about the Hannibal Lecter case?"
Tim shook his head, no. "Why would he talk to me?" He chewed his lip, chewed on the lie.
"Too bad. I'd love to hear some of the dirt on that one. I'll bet he has some interesting stories to tell."
"It'd be tough to deal with, being close to all that."
Art looked at him funny. "Tim, are you going soft on me? Do you not remember Agent Barkley?"
"Boss, Will Graham's alright, even if he is a bit off…and a Feeb. I take my US Marshals Service sensitivity training seriously." Tim forced himself to look Art in the eye, adding a head tilt and wry comment to deflect any suspicions. "You shouldn't stereotype."
"You are so full of shit. How do you stay so skinny?"
"Fifty laps at the pool most mornings. You should join me."
"What are you insinuating?"
Tim hesitated, but only a second. "That you undoubtedly look great in shorts and shouldn't deprive the ladies of the view."
Art smiled smugly, patted his stomach. "It's true. When are you going next?"
"Tomorrow morning, 6am sharp."
"Have fun with that." Art strolled away to his office, yelled back, "Do the Feebs need you again today?"
"I doubt it," Tim called over. "I've told them everything I know, showed them the sights – the extended tour and everything. As far as I'm concerned, I'm done."
"Good. I got a fresh lead today. I need you and Rachel to get on it first thing. Grab her and bring her in when she gets here."
Tim's phoned pinged just after ten that morning, just after his meeting with Art and Rachel. It was a text from Will.
In Georgia. Fresh scene. Call me tonight.
Tim deleted it, tossed the phone on his desk and started digging through databases for his case with Rachel.
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