Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Fifteen

"Hannibal Lecter knows who you are. He knows your name, your history. He knows about us."

His head was tilted, eyes squinting in the early morning sunlight. Tim looked to be giving the information some serious thought. "Did you sleep in the car?"

"Yes."

A nod – Tim wiped a hand across his mouth. "It's Sunday. I go to the range Sunday morning. I was just leaving."

"Did you not hear what I said?"

"I heard you. Hannibal Lecter knows who I am. Okay. So?"

"So…he'll come after you just to get to me."

Tim nodded again. "He's more than welcome to try. Meantime, it's Sunday. I'm going to the range." He puffed out a breath, looked down at the rifle bag he was carrying, wrestling with what to do. "Look, you want to come along? I usually get breakfast on the way out. Unless you plan on driving straight back to Virginia now that you told me what you needed to tell me."

Will felt himself relax for the first time in two days, lulled by Tim's careless manner and the voice that conveyed it. Now that he was here, he really wasn't in a hurry to leave. He was on vacation after all – forced vacation. "Do you have some hearing protection I could borrow?"

Tim grinned – it involved his entire face – remembering. "Yeah, sure. Leave your car here. I'll drive."

His truck was parked on the street. Tim slipped his rifle behind the seats and climbed in, Will following. The doors closed with a thud, steel on steel, all the squeaks and groans included.

"Is this…vintage?"

"Yeah, I think it qualifies. I've done work on it to keep it running, a lot of non-original parts. I doubt it's worth much more than scrap."

"What year?"

"'76."

"It was born around the same time as me."

"That makes you both older than me."

"Great."

Driving around in the old pickup reminded Will of his childhood, simpler days, easier nights. Sometimes you find yourself in the exact situation you need to be in by accident, he thought, enjoying the familiarity of the rough ride. Every mile in the truck, the windows down, loosened the knots he carried. At some point he drifted off, slept soundly until the potholes jostled the pickup, cracked his head on the window frame. He snapped awake, looked over to see Tim swipe a grin off his face.

Tim put the truck into an empty spot on a rough, gravel and mud parking lot off a rough, gravel and mud back road and Will appreciated why Tim didn't bother keeping a newer vehicle. The lot was filled almost exclusively with pickup trucks. Will turned in a circle admiring the homogenous quality of the scene.

"No smart remarks about stereotypes, got it? Just one, and I'll shoot you myself if someone else doesn't do it first."

Will straightened his features, threw his hands up defensively. "I'm…not saying anything."

"Wise man." Collecting his gear, Tim pointed to a small building, the door hitched open, beyond it an open field and the popcorn sound of rifle fire.

The man behind the counter looked up when they walked in, a well-used smile for Tim. "Mornin', Guts. How's it going?"

"Oh, things are good, except there's a notorious serial killer who knows me by name."

"You mean Crusty? I thought he was deployed again. Is he back?"

Tim snorted at the misunderstanding, moved with it. "He never left. Got an email from him last week. They got him at Benning with the new guys."

The range owner's eyes widened at the idea. "He's training the fresh meat? Holy shit. Who's idea was that?"

"Yep, he's training and he's bored," said Tim. "Whines constantly. Misses the dust. Wants me back in to suffer with him. He's hoping for a move on Syria."

"He's an idiot."

"That's what I tell him."

He nodded at Tim's rifle case. "Shooting old faithful?"

"She's not old – she's experienced and gorgeous and all mine."

The range owner laughed and tapped the worn wooden counter for luck. "I hope she holds up for you." He waved Tim closer. Leaning over he said quietly, "See the fellow out on the range with the kid?"

Tim turned to look, huffed, knowing what was coming. "Yeah."

"The kid's good. The father came in a couple of weeks ago asking about you."

"How does he know about me?"

"Word gets out. Anyway, he's been bugging me to…"

"No."

The owner straightened up. "That's what I told him you'd say, but I also told him I'd ask. He'll probably bother you later, send him to me if he does and I'll have a chat with him."

Tim turned and studied the pair again. "I don't think I've seen them here before."

"The kid does the shooting circuits. Apparently they heard about you, asked around to find out where you shoot and came by to see if…"

"No."

"And one more time just to make my day?"

"No."

"Beautiful. Go on then, have some fun."

Tim collected the ammunition he'd ordered and headed for the door.

"Hey, bozo, guests have to sign in."

"What?"

"If you're bringing your guest out to the range, he has to sign in."

"Oh." Tim turned to Will, shrugged. "Sorry, uh, this is Special Agent Will Graham. He's FBI. This is Ted Kressman. He was my range instructor at sniper school."

"Nice to meet you. FBI, huh? Still have to sign in." The owner scribbled Will's name in a book, turned it for him to fill in. "I need some ID. You two working a case together or something?"

Tim nodded. "Serial killer, remember?"

Ted gaped at him for a moment, trying to decide whether to take him seriously, decided not to. Back to business, he asked Will, "Are you shooting today, too?" as he copied out the information from his license.

"No." It came out forcefully from both men.

"My God – stereo. That bad?"

"I leave the…shooting to Tim," said Will.

"That's understandable. I would, too."

Outside, Will asked, "You've never brought anyone up here before?"

"No."

"Would you teach me how to shoot?"

"No."

Will nodded, chuckling at the blunt response, unbothered by it. He'd learned something else about Deputy Marshal Gutterson today and that was satisfying, and he couldn't help feeling a bit pleased about being invited along until Tim handed him some bulky headphones. He read the label on the side, Ear Defenders, and wondered why he'd agreed to come.

Everyone there stopped to watch as Tim lined up his first shot, taking his time, oblivious to being on stage. He squeezed the trigger and every head snapped up range. The shot hit the center of the target. Tim then proceeded to rhythmically fill out a nice grouping at the 500m marker, all touching.


Will took off his glasses and looked sideways at Tim, measuring the mood. He decided to chance a question. "So, what was he talking about – 'cold-bore cleaned' or 'cold-bore fouled'?"

Tim was agitated, still annoyed. He had finished his shooting and was packing up when the father approached, son in tow. "That first shot," he'd asked without any introduction, "cold-bore cleaned or cold-bore fouled?" He hadn't waited for Tim to answer, had followed up the question with his opinion, stated loudly so those within earshot could admire his knowledge on the subject. "I figure 'fouled.' Too accurate for 'cleaned.' Nice shooting, by the way. I see you're sticking with the tried and true – Remington 700 system. What kind of scope is that?"

Tim had responded with his usual grace – head tilted as a warning, but the man was blind to it. "Only an idiot wouldn't clean his rifle every time he used it. You think I'm an idiot?"

"I didn't mean..."

Tim dismissed the father, said to the kid, "If you know your rifle and you know your ammunition, you can compensate for a cold cleaned-bore shot. But it takes work." He walked away, said under his breath to Will, "And most folk are too fucking lazy to put the time in."

And that's when Will had asked for clarification. He half expected to get shot for his trouble but Tim seemed happy to explain.

"Most rifles will pull your round off somewhat if the barrel is cleaned and cold, a little less if it's been shot and not cleaned – in other words, it's fouled and cold." They were back at the truck and Tim stowed his bags and pulled a scuffed notebook out of the case, opened it and flipped through pages of hand-jotted diagrams and descriptions. "I retest each time I change something – new barrel, new ammo, different temperature, whatever – that way I know how to compensate that first shot. If you want precision and accuracy you got to be meticulous. People think it's some kind of God-given talent. It's not. It's work. I know my rifle."

"Any talent worth having is work."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Why won't you teach him how to shoot?"

"I won't teach anyone how to shoot."

"Why not?"

Tim slumped into the driver's seat, glared at his passenger. "Because they think I'm doing them a favor."

Will thought about that. "Good answer."

"Thank you. I've had lots of opportunity to hone it down to a point."

"One more question?"

"Oh, fuck, what?"

"Guts?"

Tim snorted. "Not 'guts and glory' if that's what you're thinking." He started the truck, made the face. "More to do with 'Gutterson' – that and the fact that I used to throw up before every patrol. It got so the guys saw it as some kind of good luck charm."

"Did you get over it eventually?"

"Yeah. But I had to start again after a while – well, I'd fake it anyway."

"Why?"

"Guys died."


Abigail Hobbs was kissing him passionately and he was enjoying the sensation. She was pushing him backward. Then he was outside the pair, watching, anxious, and it was Tim she was kissing and she was pushing him too, backward toward the wall. They were in the antler room now and she forced her lover violently up onto a rack, piercing right through the tattoo on the chest, and the blood running down turned the shape of it into a man with horns. Will stood riveted to the floor, ineffective, hopeless, turned to see the man with antlers at the door behind him and felt a blade on his neck, a tattoo on the wrist holding the knife. He twisted, expecting Tim. It was Abigail then it was Alana…

"It's not real."

Will pushed up through the blanket of sleep, panting.

"It's not real. Will. Hey, Will. Wake up. It's not real."

An arm slid under Will's shoulders and a hand resting firmly on his arm, Tim spoke calmly, sleepy himself, shaking Will gently.

"Will. It's not real."

"But it is," he gasped, eyes snapping open. "It is." He sat up, both hands up to cover his face. "Jesus, that's the horror of it. It is real."

Tim didn't bother denying it. He pulled his hand through Will's hair and got out of bed, came back with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. "This is when the stuff really tastes good," he said, handed Will a glass and sat cross-legged beside him. He balanced his glass on his knee, uncorked the bottle, poured some for Will and some for himself, popped the cork in again, steadied his glass with a hand and leaned back to set the bottle on the floor beside the bed.

He held up his drink to toast. "The horror," he whispered in imitation of Marlon Brando, then made the face, just discernible in the light seeping into the room from the city outside.

Will laughed despite his feelings. "The horror," he mimicked.

They downed the shots; Will grimacing. Tim took the glasses and set them on the floor beside the bottle. "Just in case," he said, then he flopped back onto his pillow and pulled Will down beside him and slipped his arm back under Will's shoulders, rolled to face him.

Will turned his head and studied Tim's face in the shadows. Tim's eyes were open, black centers focusing somewhere past Will and on to a corner of the room. As he watched, Tim wet his lips and started talking.

"I read that the book Heart of Darkness isn't just some metaphor for the beast living inside man," Tim said quietly into the dark. "Apparently it was actually autobiographical. It was all about Conrad's real experiences in the Belgian Congo. Doesn't make it any scarier, either way."

"I believe it," Will said, breathing steady now. "You're not…afraid of Hannibal Lecter, are you?"

"No more than I am of anybody else."

"What's the tattoo…on your chest? What is it?"

Tim huffed and it tickled Will's ear. "It's the Pashto symbol for peace. Isn't that the fucking stupidest thing you ever heard? I gave up on it – never finished it. I'd get it removed but I'm too much of a baby to get the hair shaved again. I hate it when it's growing back. Itches like fuck."

"I find it hard to believe that you were ever…an idealist. That is so…desperately sad."

Tim huffed again and Will could see him grinning.

"Come to Virginia. I'll take you fishing."

"Fishing?"

"Fishing. And you can meet my dogs. They'll…probably like you better than me."

"Dogs?"

"Tim, you sound like an idiot."

"Fuck off."

It was Will's turn to grin. He leaned into Tim and kissed him, stirring something.

Tim said against his lips, "Once more – I don't do this. Okay? Just so you know. I go to work tomorrow and you go back to Virginia."

"Tim, you are doing this."

"You keep showing up at my door. That's different."

"I'd like some more bourbon," Will said, wide awake now and determined, if he were going back to Virginia in a few hours anyway, to stay awake until he left.

"Sure." Tim reached awkwardly behind him and picked up the glasses and the bottle.


xxxxxxxxx