Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Seventeen

And then he was curled around his bottle. Tim was anticipating the nightmare the next night so he woke more shaken by it than he did the previous night, stared at the ceiling awhile before rolling out of bed for his bourbon-buddy then back in and working on perfecting the technique of drinking while lying down. He was getting good at it.

The next day at work he sat at his desk numbly, hoping for a long day at least or ideally an overnight stake-out. By noon he was checking the weather. At four he was sitting in Art's office.

"Sure you can have a couple days. Take a week. You do realize that your years with the military count toward your earned vacation time with the Marshals Service."

Tim looked at Art blankly.

"I'll take that as a 'no.'" Art looked over his glasses back at Tim. "You've got ten days left from last year and it's already August and you haven't taken any vacation this year. Please, take a week. Hell, take two weeks then maybe my conscience will stop bothering me every time I look at you."

"Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"I'll take a week."

"A week," Art sighed. "It's a start. If you change your mind on Friday and want another one, just call it in."

"Alright."

"Alright."

Tim paused by the door. "If I come back early?"

"I'll shoot you."

"Okay."


He jumped, startled by the body, and his heart thudded against his rib cage. Will startled easily - not from cowardice, it was just his nature to notice things in a rush, his feelings and awareness always acutely focused outward. And finding a body on your living room floor in the morning that wasn't there when you went to bed would be enough to startle anyone.

The dogs didn't seem upset about it, in fact, they'd evidently been cozying up with the body. Will could see at least three canine imprints on the sleeping bag that hid the intruder and he eyed his ridiculous watchdogs with disbelief as they stepped around and over the bundle on the floor, tails wagging. They trotted to Will to say hello and on over to the door, completely unconcerned. Will decided watching them that there was no threat and the intruder was probably someone he knew. He tiptoed across the floor and had a closer look.

It was Tim. He couldn't see a face but the tattoo on the wrist gave him away. Will smiled, a bit giddy, suppressed an urge to climb into the sleeping bag too. Then he considered the logistics: How did he get in? And why didn't the dogs bark?

He had heard them once, restless, a growl, when a motorcycle went by sometime last night and maybe, maybe they could smell Tim on him still, somehow.

Tim rolled over, opened one eye, pulled the sleeping bag up over his head, mumbled something.

"Coffee?" Will hazarded a guess in response.

Another mumble.

Will nodded. "Coffee."

While the coffee dripped into the pot, Will shuffled to the door and opened it – it was locked – and the dogs rushed past him and out and past the motorcycle parked in the driveway beside his Volvo. Talk about a dichotomy, he thought, a Volvo and a…

"Is that a Harley?" He turned around and watched Tim sit up and scrub his hands through his hair, flattening it a bit. "A Fatboy?"

A sleepy nod.

"Nice bike," Will said, admiring. "What year?"

Tim crawled out of the sleeping bag still dressed, looked around, taking in the layout of the house in the early morning light. "Where's the bathroom?"

Will pointed and Tim stumbled that way, said, "I had to use the other bathroom last night."

"What other bathroom? I only have one."

An arm waved toward the open front door then disappeared, shutting itself into the indoor bathroom. Will grinned at the cavalier attitude then walked outside to have a closer look at the bike. It looked like an older model, mid-nineties. He admired it, strolled a circle around it then joined the dogs in the other bathroom, peed against the tree and went back inside.

"How many dogs do you own?" Tim was back on the floor on his sleeping bag, sitting leaning against the couch. "When you said 'dogs,' I pictured two not…six?"

"I've had more. I take in…strays. It's been suggested that it's a…a personality flaw."

"Can't imagine why." Tim rolled to his knees to put away his makeshift bed. "Hope you didn't mind another stray last night. I came out to Virginia to see a couple of friends. I got the week off. I was too tired to make the ride back last night and there are too many mosquitoes for sleeping outside."

It was a simple and straightforward statement, but to Will's ear it was jagged and raw and hurting. An image flashed in his mind, a bleak reality of white headstones, and he imagined Tim walking the rows at Arlington, in Virginia to see a couple of friends. "Your friend at the FBI?" Will asked, trying not to give away his suspicions.

"Nah, she's in New York."

Tim left it there and Will left it there too, certain now.

The dogs interrupted the weighted silence, scratching at the door. Will let them in, half of them, and the largest trotted over and started licking at Tim's face. He pushed it away and stood up, wiped his cheek. Will walked over, close, dropped a hand on Tim's shoulder and pulled him in, ran the hand up the back of Tim's head and grabbed his hair. Tim leaned a little into it.

"How are your…friends doing?"

"The same."

Will slipped his other hand around Tim's back pulled him closer, briefly. "I'm still on vacation. I…well…I have five or six more weeks left. I was…going fishing." He let Tim go and walked to the kitchen and poured some coffee. "If you're not in a hurry to head out, you could join me."

He looked back to see Tim standing there, staring at the carpet.

Tim took a deep breath finally, moved a little, answered, "Yeah, okay. Sure."


Will had noticed the case earlier. Tim had packed some clothes and other personal items, including a handgun in a small lockbox that Will caught a glimpse of in the saddlebags from the bike, but there was a case too that he had brought in with him when he snuck in during the night, set against the wall by his sleeping bag. It was locked too, and Will suspected it was another firearm and had his suspicions confirmed when Tim opened it and put together a rifle. Will watched, fascinated, as Tim fitted the pieces together smoothly, without hesitation, slung the rifle casually over his shoulder, though as a weapon it looked anything but casual, then fished around in one of his bags, pulled out a baseball cap and a water bottle.

Eventually, the scrutiny rubbed Tim and he twitched. "What?" he shrugged, tying his boot laces and looking up at Will.

"We're fishing, not…hunting. Or is that how people fish in Kentucky – they shoot them."

Tim snorted.

"Tim, there hasn't been a bear sighted around here in decades."

Tim shrugged again.

"Do you have a hunting license?" Will asked.

"It's not loaded," Tim responded, dismissive.

"Then why bring it?"

"Why does it matter?" Tim asked tersely. "I won't shoot you. I promise." He walked outside.

Will watched him leave then turned away and gathered up what he needed for the morning, his favorite rod and a spare, his box of gear, thinking while he packed, thinking steadily about the rifle while he went through his lures, selecting them for the season and the fish likely in the river that time of year. When he was ready he locked up and headed across the road and across the field and into the forest to the river where it snagged and formed a small lake with a clearing on the shoreline wide enough for casting without having to wade in. Tim followed along quietly.

Tim had never cast with a fly rod before and was content to watch. He liked being outside. Will explained the differences between fly fishing and spin casting and demonstrated how to flick the line in ever-growing arcs, smoothly, teasing the lure across the top of the water before letting it land. He got a bite with the first cast. It was going to be another hot day but the small lake was continuously refreshed by the stream and deceptively deep and the fish were active in the cool water. It surprised Will nevertheless and he swore and jerked the line and Tim laughed and that also surprised him. He landed a small trout, unhooked it and tossed it back into the water.

"I doubt I'll catch anything worth keeping today. It's too hot. The big trout will stay deep."

"Then why did you come out?"

"It's relaxing. It gets my mind off of…things."

Tim nodded in understanding. "I go to the range for that. This is a bit quieter."

"Yeah, just a bit."

Tim watched as Will gathered up the fishing line and cast again. It was elegant, the movement of the line a dance – it hypnotized. The sun came through the trees by the fourth cast, warming the air and coaxing a light mist off the cool pond that reached up to the light. The line cut through it, whipping up curls of moisture, a quiet zip and slice, repeated and repeated again, and then a light plop as the fly landed, barely disturbing the water. Tim closed his eyes to listen and fell asleep.

He awoke with a start only moments later, hand gripping the rifle that lay across his lap. Will was gathering up the line again, spooling it at his feet. He had seen Tim wake up, had seen the instinctive tensing on the rifle.

"Do you ever leave your house unarmed?" he asked, imagining the soldier, marching in his boots in his imagination, the fear of being caught unaware, unable to defend yourself.

Tim wiggled his fingers in the air. "Do you ever shut off your feelers and stop trying to get into people's heads?"

"I…try." Will flicked the rod back and started the casting cycle again, back and forth, effortlessly reaching out farther and farther over the water. Finally he let the line drop and started pulling it back in with his left hand, spooling it again at his feet. "Why do you think I live out here, a good two miles in any direction from human contact?" He chuckled. "The place had been on the market for quite a while when I found it."

"I like it. Though it's a little like a shed compared to most of the houses around here."

"It's old, an original, I think. You want a go?" He offered up his gear with a gesture.

"Next time maybe," Tim replied. "Are you done? Can I go for a swim?"

"Uh…sure. I'm…not here to catch fish."

"Watch my rifle." Tim stripped down to his boxers, waded into the pond and headed across at the widest part.

Will settled under the tree where Tim had been, pulled the rifle across his lap and looked it over. It looked well cared for and older and that was all he could say about it. He propped it back up against the trunk and tried to figure out the rifleman instead. Tim swam efficiently, fluid and confident, turned and started back across, then again. He swam for half an hour then sloshed and dripped his way back over to the tree and flopped in the grass in the sunlight just past the shade from the canopy to dry.

"We should've brought some beer."

"It's not even eight in the morning, yet."

"So? We should've brought some beer. Next time, bring beer."

Will focused on the words 'next time.' He liked the sound of that. "Next time, I'll bring beer…and a cooler."

"Cooler? Who needs to lug a cooler when we got a lake."

Tim smiled and Will wondered if it was a memory that prompted it or if he was inviting him nearer. He decided to play it safe and stay where he was.

Tim reached out after a while and took hold of Will's ankle and tugged. Will laughed at the antics and subtly helped the process as Tim continued to pull him closer. When Will was near enough he traced the tattoo on Tim's chest, once, then shook himself loose from Tim's grip, stood and strolled over to the shore to cast a line again, get his mind off things.

When he looked back, Tim was dressed, sitting against the tree and staring at something in the distance, hand on his rifle across his lap.


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