Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Eleven

"So who're you jilting this time?"

Tim ignored the sarcasm, though the old-fashioned word amused him. He read the text again then deleted it. Will Graham was coming back to Kentucky and Tim wasn't going to think about it unless the man walked into the Marshals Office and up to his desk or showed up at the door to his apartment. He slipped his phone into a pocket.

"Did you ever get together with that attorney up in Cincinnati? I liked him."

Tim pressed a look into the side of Rachel's head until she felt it. She turned to him and lifted an eyebrow. Clearly she wasn't feeling it the way he wanted her to.

"Well, did you?" Persistent.

"No."

"Why not?" she snapped it out, all attitude. "I'd've called him if he'd handed me his card." She pretended to fan herself and got a laugh and a considering eyebrow and a half-smirk. "Don't tell me you didn't think he was hot?" She was pressing him tonight, bored sitting in a car watching a motel. Tim was providing amusement.

"Yeah, he was hot," Tim admitted.

"And so is that young clerk, the new one downstairs. You always get him all flustered."

"Do not, and anyway, he's too young."

"And that bistro owner – you never called him either, did you? Was he too old?"

Rachel had radar, a bit like Will Graham but narrowly tuned – social smarts. She could tell you, strictly by observation, who was into whom and how much and whether it was mutual. They had worked a case together when he was new to the bureau that took them into an upper-tier Lexington restaurant. The owner of the bistro, a tall broad-shouldered lady killer, had answered a few questions for them about a former employee. He was pleasant, reserved. Tim had loitered silently at the bar after the introductions, eyeing the selection of liquor and wishing he were off the clock while Rachel did the talking and the coy smiling to get information.

Afterward, out on the sidewalk, she had stopped, studied his face.

"What?"

"He gave me his number – made sure I wrote it down." Ripping off the page, she said, "Here. It's not for me."

"Uh…"

She huffed. "What is it with you guys?"

"Hey, I got no problem if he's gay."

"No, I meant, how do you guys know? How do you recognize each other? Can you smell it or something? Is there a secret signal you learn? It'd be nice if you'd share it, at least with us girls. Instead, you just stood there and watched, probably laughing it up while I worked it, wasting my time."

He didn't know her that well, pretended not to understand. "I dunno what…"

"Just tell me, are you going to call him? 'Cause if not, gimme that number back and I'll call him and I'll do my damnedest to convert him."

And that was that. She knew, and he never could figure out how. But he didn't get even a hint that anyone else suspected. He liked it that way. Don't ask, don't tell. The mentality stuck. Always have your hand on your weapon. That stuck too. It was all part of who he was. But it was nice to have someone to talk to and Rachel was as honest as she was discreet.

"Yeah, he was hot," she threw it back at him, flat, bringing him out of his thoughts. "I can't believe you didn't call him. What is wrong with you?"

"I don't really like one-nighters so much." He tilted his head in her direction, caught her eye. "One-nighters usually end up trying to be 365-nighters…or more. I don't have time for that."

"Heaven forbid you have to share your coffee in the morning."

"You blaspheme – besides it's more about having to share my special bourbon." Tim thought about Will when he said it, thought about him grimacing back the first sip of each glass. He squashed a grin.

"You have special bourbon? Is that like a special blankie?"

"Can't sleep without it."

She smiled at the jest. "I've been keeping track. That's the third text today that I know of." She pointed, wagging a finger in the vicinity of his phone. "Each followed by a grumpy face, a furtive look and a determined pressing of the delete button. Who is he? Or, maybe I should be asking 'who is the doomed-to-disappointment she?'" She waited a beat or two while Tim stonewalled, then, "Shall I guess?"

"It's no one you know."

"It is someone I know or you wouldn't have any qualms about telling me." Rachel ran the tips of her fingers across her lips and a grin appeared in their wake. "Special Agent Will Graham. Mm-hm. Nice curls, pretty face, didn't get a good look at his ass."

"Fuck off."

"I love being right."

"I dunno why. I'd think it'd be kinda boring by now."

"Three texts in one day? You must be awfully good in…"

"There's your guy," Tim interrupted, subtle head gesture out the windshield.

Rachel looked up quickly to the motel, spotted a man in a sloppy t-shirt and sloppy jeans stepping out onto the second-floor walkway that ran the length of the building. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing in the yellow glow of an outdoor lamp, a frenzy of summertime insects and moths orbiting.

"Well, hallelujah. That's him alright." She leaned over and smacked Tim's thigh. "Stop distracting me with your love life." She pulled her hair out of the tight pull-back, messed it a bit.

They climbed out of the car at the same time, kept up the argument.

"I didn't distract you. You were fucking nagging again," Tim said, just under a yell, a little extra drawl. "I'm fucking sick of your bullshit."

"Screw you, asshole," she screeched back, pitching her voice a little higher than normal, following closely behind him with her finger pointed and jabbing angrily at his back as he trudged the stairs. "This is all on you. If you were any sort of man, you'd've walked away. But no, you're just too fucking stupid and drunk as usual."

Tim teetered on the top step, lurched into the wall. "Leave it alone, already," he snarled. "I'll get it back."

But Rachel kept at him, looking for a fight and looking the part in a fitting tank and tight jeans. "There's nothing I'd like better than to leave it alone, but I got no money now. Where am I supposed to go? I'm so sick of your bullshit. My mama always said you were a…"

"Go fuck your mama," Tim snapped, coming up alongside their mark, next door down. He hunted around in his pockets and pulled out some keys, dropped them, picked them up again.

"Maybe I should. It'd probably be more satisfying than fucking you." Rachel snapped her fingers in Tim's face.

Tim couldn't hold a grin down, quickly wiped a hand up across his mouth to smother it. "Shut up, you stupid bitch," he growled and she hit him, hard, and he turned and shoved her into the man smoking.

"Hey, watch it," he barked, not noticing Rachel's smooth maneuver, glancing off him then stumbling behind him and cutting off his escape.

"Miller Mason?" Rachel said sweetly, reaching for her badge.

It fell in on his head then, the realization that he'd been outted and neatly cornered. He went for something in the back of his jeans. Tim drew quickly, not looking so drunk anymore. Rachel stepped back.

"Careful," she said. "He's definitely better than my mama…with a handgun. Up where I can see them. I'm Deputy Marshal Brooks…"

"Shit…shit, shit."

"…and this is Deputy Gutterson. We have a warrant for your arrest." She reached over as she spoke and lifted his shirt, slid a revolver out from the waist of his pants, then pulled out a set of handcuffs, twirled them on a finger. Tim didn't bother hiding his grin this time.


"Will Graham?" Rachel teased, thickening a Tennessee sing-song, trying to see the message Tim was reading.

"You are something tonight," Tim shot back. "Marry me?"

It was late, well after midnight and they were both punchy after a long day, a long and successful day. They were standing outside the police station in Richmond, the paperwork signed, Miller Mason tucked away for the night in a cell.

"Not after what you said about my mama." She smacked him. "So, your adorable jilted FBI agent, what does he want?" she pried, nodding at Tim's cell.

Tim shrugged, chewed a lip. "Oh, it's just business. He's heading back up here to look into things a little more thoroughly."

"Uh-huh."

"Shut up."

She got serious. "So what's wrong with him?"

"Nothing. I'm just not ready to go there. Besides, he lives in Virginia."

"I didn't have you pegged as a coward." She expected a comeback, an angry retort or at the very least some sarcasm but he was reading the message again, frowning. "And here comes the 'delete' part," she said.

"Fuck me," Tim swore under his breath.

"What?"

"He's heading up to the scene again."

"What time is it?"

"Almost one."

"Are you gonna go?"

Tim shook his head. "Nah, I'm bagged. I need some sleep." He wet his lips, took two steps toward the car, stopped, walked in a tight circle, head down. "Fuck."

"You want me to come? I don't mind."

"Fuck," he breathed, looked over at her, grimaced, nodded. Something was crawling around in his stomach, scratching its way up his spine and over his scalp. He stood there and she waited. His hand drifted to his side holster, fingers brushing the weapon then moving to his secondary that he hid under his shirt in the back. He gripped the handle tightly. "Fuck," he repeated, "I hate this."

"What? Caring?"

He looked at her blankly and as he did he started fidgeting, his fingers tapping without rhythm against his leg.

Rachel watched it all, strode over and grabbed his arm and pulled him backward toward the car a few steps before he resigned himself to the direction he was going and turned to walk forward with her.

"Alright, let go," he said, snatching his arm back.

"Tell me you don't like him."

"He's a bit quirky."

"So are you."

"I'll drive."

"Uh-uh. You're too twitchy."

"It'll give me something to do."

"Fine." She handed him the keys.

It was a shorter trip up to Olive Hill than Rachel thought it would be. She fell asleep when they hit the interstate and woke up with a start when Tim took a turn fast onto a back road and fishtailed the back end of the car. She peered over at the clock on the dash and huffed.

"I don't want to know how fast you were driving."

So he didn't tell her.

Another car appeared in the headlights, parked at the side of the road, Georgia plates. Tim stopped behind it, barely gave himself time to put the car in park and turn off the engine before bounding out of his seat. He pulled a flashlight and checked the interior of Will's rental – empty. He started into the forest at a jog, following a path.


"Will Graham."

Will spun around at the sound of a voice. The flashlight he was holding was knocked easily from his hand, his arm suddenly in a tight hold and twisted painfully, on his knees. He felt his handgun pulled from his holster and he was pushed unceremoniously into the dirt.

"Dr. Lecter said you'd show up. I just had to be patient."

The confirmation of his doubts was more like defeat than victory. Will had thought he'd felt Hannibal's hand in this but it was just a feeling until now, one he dismissed as paranoia. He wasn't prepared for a second betrayal. He wished he'd taken time to think this through.

The voice belonging to the gun spoke again, "You are Will Graham, right? Special Agent Will Graham, the guy who caught Dr. Lecter?"

"Is there any point saying I'm not?" Will stood up, faced him.

"No. Not really. I've seen your picture."

"Well, you…have me at a disadvantage. Who are you?"

"I could tell you my name, but it won't mean anything to you. Suffice it to say that Dr. Lecter is my friend."

"Hannibal has no friends." Will used the doctor's first name to taunt.

"You're wrong."

"You're…his patient or…were?"

"He helped me understand myself."

"He helped me understand myself too, but he…wasn't ever…my friend. Hannibal doesn't have friends, just…subjects for his experiments."

"You just don't understand him."

Will could only fight back with words. "Oh, you're wrong there. I understand Dr. Lecter better than anyone except himself and…maybe his therapist, but she's dead. He's manipulating you. You see, I also know…that you're not the one who killed the others in Virginia or North Carolina or Georgia. You're strictly," Will spoke disdainfully, "a lackey. Actually a pawn is…probably a more fitting description. You're a tiny piece in Hannibal's grand plans."

That riled him up. "You've got it mixed up. You're the pawn. Hannibal's been playing you."

"He's playing us both, and he's so very keen to put me in play, and often, that I must be a…a knight…at least, certainly not…a pawn. Think about it. No one would pay this much attention to a pawn."

"Whatever you want to think, but tonight, Will Graham, you get to be a king."


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