Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Eight

He was from the north part of Georgia, and the nickname stuck, Georgia, since everyone thought it was funny that of all the men in the sniper teams posted at Fort Benning, GA, he was the only one actually from the state. He had good eyes, good instincts, everyone's pick for a spotter in the action, everyone's but Tim's. The other guys on the sniper teams figured Tim didn't choose him because he didn't like him. Georgia spoke softly, never swore, too clean-cut and good-natured for the edgy Sergeant with a 'fuck' in every sentence, still younger than some of them but still two deployments up on most of them, ranked and jaded. But the truth was the enemy would target the spotters and Tim couldn't stand the thought of it happening right beside him when he was on the rifle.

It didn't; it happened in front of him one night when they were clearing a house to set up a nest, two teams together heading for the top floor to cover the one-eighty for a midnight raid. Tim was burdened down with the M107, always insisting on carrying it during patrols because he thought it made him most vulnerable without an automatic in his grip, and Georgia was on protection with the combat rifle, the M4A1. Georgia was armed and competent, night-vision equipped, peeking around the corners. But shit really does happen and bullets don't care; they don't even believe in luck. There was unexpected contact and Georgia did his job. He was dead before he hit the ground. It went sideways; the whole patrol was called off. Georgia was airlifted out on the first helo.

Tim and the rest of the team hunted him down later at the airbase, tagged and in a coffin. They were present for the ramp ceremony; Georgia went home for good and left Tim alone.

It was Will's turn to listen. Tim lay with his face turned away, head tucked up under Will's chin, sweaty cheek on his chest and bourbon breath, speaking in clipped, unfinished phrases, anger, bewilderment, sorrow filling in the pauses. There was a tension that followed the story, like something might break, like the slightest sound would shatter it all to pieces, the here, the now, them. Will kept silent, working his fingers slowly and in a rhythm through Tim's hair, present but not intruding. The bourbon breath evened out, deepened, and all went still. Will lay awake a good while longer and tried to imagine.


"Get your ass up and let your fucking dogs out. They keep licking my face."

The command cracked the morning haze through to the center. His face deep in a pillow, Will mumbled, "You do it. I'm too comfortable."

Tim started pushing him toward the edge of the mattress but Will was dead weight.

"Fine," Tim huffed, throwing back the blanket and throwing himself out of bed. "I'll do it. I don't want them pissing on my bike."

Will finally started to wake up with the guilt alarm. "No, I'll go."

He sat up slowly and Tim shoved him back down.

"Forget it, asshole. I'm already half-dressed."

Will heard the front door open, the clicking of canine nails on the wood floor, Tim's voice, "Hey, stay away from the bike!" and he grinned. He padded downstairs and put on some coffee.

Tim walked into the kitchen behind him and dropped his head against Will's shoulder. "Can I stay a few days?"

"Longer if you want." Will assumed it was a nod, the head movement against his back then nothing, the pressure gone. It left a warm spot.

"Can you get me in to see Hannibal again?"

Will spun around, leaned back on the counter trying to look casual while the dread trickled in and filled the room. "Why?"

"He and I need to have a talk."

"Jesus. You're kidding, right?"

"Nope."

Will tried to imagine the conversation, tried to understand Tim's impulse to see the killer. He gave up. Tim was impossible.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, threw his hands in the air at the same time. "Let me…make a phone call."

"Maybe you could get me near enough Chilton to whisper a threat?"

"No. No, Tim. I'm not…doing that."

Tim laughed. He was laughing at Will, but Will didn't mind because it was a good laugh, an easy laugh, splashing out and filling the room and cleaning out the dread. Will waited for it to drain away and it did eventually. Tim turned and headed for the couch.

"Tim, does anyone else know…about him, Georgia? Have you ever talked to anyone else about what happened?"

Will felt the last of the laughter evaporate.

"No." Tim shook his head, turned back. "No. Who could I tell? Seriously."

"Me."

"Yeah."

Will smiled encouragement.

"Yeah."


The chair remained empty. Tim had walked down the hall casually, then past the chair and right up to the glass, leaned on it and smiled.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal looked surprised. The ends of his mouth twitched trying to decide whether to turn up or turn down. They settled for up, rather stiffly.

"Deputy Gutterson. I'm happy to see you well. We were all concerned." He stood and approached the glass, stopping directly in front of Tim.

Tim didn't move, said, "Did it add a little excitement to your day?"

"It did. I would like to thank you for the diversion."

Tim nodded, screwed his face up and took a long breath. "You didn't get to hear what all happened though, did you? It's like missing the season finale of your favorite show."

"There is still the bruising on your cheek. That tells a story." The mouth straightened out. "However, it is enough to know that you and Will survived the ordeal."

"Is it?"

"It is."

"You're a lousy liar."

Hannibal stared back blankly a moment, returned to his cot and picked up a book.

Tim watched him silently, watched him turn the page then said, "You'll learn nothing about me from that book, Dr. Lecter. I've read it. It's a mediocre account."

"Yet, it's all I have. It occurs to me that you are not the type of man to speak about himself without proper motivation. There are memories best left alone, Deputy Gutterson, would you not agree?"

"Can't argue with that."

"Well then, since I doubt you are inclined to speak of your past with me then perhaps you could tell me, as an experienced sniper and a killer, from an impersonal perspective if you wish, what would you add to this book in order to improve it?"

Tim dropped his head, thinking. "All the shrinks in here, I bet they're trying to show you how clever they are, how they understand how you felt when you gutted someone, right? They want to write it down and put their name on it. But they'll never get it right. There's no way. And no one who's never been to Afghanistan in full battle rattle will ever get what it's like to be over there, either." He pointed to the book. "You can't put in words how it feels. But Will gets close. You can see it, can't you? And he got closer to you than anyone, didn't he?"

"He is unusually empathetic."

Tim considered the word, shrugged it off. "Call it what you want, but you and I know it makes you vulnerable having someone look that clearly at you. But you feel alive, too. I bet you wish you could have that back. Even when you're hating it and trying to destroy it you want it. It must be a bitch sitting in here, waiting for second-hand accounts. He's almost out of reach now."

"And is he out of reach for you as well?"

"We'll see."

Hannibal approached the barrier again, lured back into the conversation. "What do you feel when you kill, Tim? Is there anything? Can you separate it anymore or does it go to bed with you…and Will?"

"Shit, you know, they should've called you the Chess Master. But now you don't have many pieces left to play and a lone king isn't a game at all."

"This is not a contest, Tim."

"Sure it is." Tim grinned widely, said with a thick drawl, "And now the matador shall dance with the blind shoemaker."

Hannibal tilted his head, confused by the phrase. He reminded Tim of one of Will's strays, the look similar to the one the Jack Russell would put on when Will would talk to his pack like they were people.

Tim laughed then leaned closer to the barrier and dragged his tongue across the glass, licking it obscenely in a line when he started for the exit. "You need to watch more Will Ferrell, buddy," he said and slapped his hand on the cell wall as he stepped out of view and down the hallway, still laughing.

Will was waiting for him at the outer door.

"What could possibly be…funny?"

"'Talladega Nights'. You ever see it?"

"I've never been to Alabama."

"No, the movie, you idiot."

"Uh…no."

"Well, I know what we're doing this weekend." They strolled toward the exit of the building. "I thought you were gonna wait in the car?"

"I didn't trust you not to…accidentally…run into Dr. Chilton."

"Uh-huh. Tell me you didn't want to sucker-punch him when you found out what he'd been doing."

"I'd like to see his license to practice revoked."

"Shit, that's boring. Let's go slash his tires. Which car is his?" Tim slipped a knife out of his pocket, thumbed the blade open, spun around once surveying the parking lot.

"I'm not telling you."


Hannibal sat primly at the back of the cot, back against the cold wall, eyes focused on the pages of a book. He was reading true-life accounts, anecdotes from sniper teams in Iraq and Afghanistan, Marine and Ranger mostly. He calmly brought a finger up, wetted it with his tongue and returned it to the book to turn the page, ignoring the hurried and anxious sounds of feet running past and voices barking orders in the hallway beyond the glass wall. The next story involved a patrol in an urban setting in Iraq; he read it with interest, trying to picture in his mind the scene, the anxieties, the blood, the thoughts behind the finger on the trigger. He closed his eyes briefly, lifted his chin and breathed, imagining the smells that would mingle and linger with the gunpowder and guts and the sweat and fear. It was delicious, a feast for the mind. He smiled.

Dr. Chilton appeared at his cell, so close but safely beyond the solid and transparent barrier.

"What did you say to him?" He hissed like a snake.

Dr. Lecter replaced the elegant, red, Chinese paper bookmark between the pages, a gift from Will Graham, shut the book and set it on the table extending from the wall beside the bed. He swung his legs off the cot and stood, smoothed his prison jumper and approached the glass.

"There seems to be a disturbance this evening, Dr. Chilton."

"What did you say to him? He sliced his throat and his wrists. The blood is everywhere."

Hannibal sniffed once, nodded. "Yes, I can smell it." He let his eyes rest on the keeper of the keys, drew a picture from the lines angled severely around the eyes, the dilated pupils, the drawn lips. "He's dead then?"

"What did you say to him?"

Dr. Chilton couldn't hide his fear and Hannibal was disappointed. He was hoping for a worthy adversary, someone close to his Will Graham at least. Nothing. A scurrying, scrounging rat. He turned and sat back on his cot.

"I said nothing but welcomed him to his new home. He was not very polite in return. You chose the location, Dr. Chilton. What were you expecting?"


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