On the Bourbon Trail – chapter six

"Gentlemen." Art called a greeting from the photocopier, strolled over when Tim and Raylan came through the doors. He was trying hard to look uninterested, casual, blithe, blasé, but it wasn't working.

Tim pointed at Art's crotch. "Your marshal woody's showing."

Art couldn't check the head movement in time, dropping his chin for a look where Tim was pointing. Tim grinned, snorted, dodged the swat aimed at him, slipped past his boss and flopped into his chair.

"I'm not hiring any more Rangers – too much potty mouth."

"You're just mad 'cause I made you look."

"Nothing," said Raylan, stopping the war before it could get started, answering the question before it was asked. He shrugged for Art. "Got nothing. The guy hasn't shown up at his place for a bit. Landlord couldn't tell us much."

"What's a bit?"

"At least a week."

"He hasn't shown up at work for a bit either," said Tim. "Called in sick last Thursday."

"How do you know that?"

Tim sighed, like his life was stuck in a loop, a loop occupied solely by him and Raylan, a repetition of action and reaction and then this phrase in a bored tone: "I read the report."

"Maybe you should start reading reports," said Art, a curt nod to his senior deputy.

"Why would I bother?" said Raylan. "I got Tim."

Tim gave him the thumbs up, head in another report now open in front of him that he'd pulled from his desk drawer.

"But he's gonna be away for a week, Raylan. Who's gonna do it when he's vacationing?"

"I guess I'll have to struggle by without him. You can't imagine how empty and sad it'll feel without him here to give me grief along with that annoying and smug look for not reading," Raylan waved a dismissive hand, "whichever goddamn report I should have read that day, followed by him spewing facts from said goddamn report that are only marginally useful at the time that he decides to share."

Tim turned the thumbs up into a one-fingered salute. "Nice to know my work is appreciated. Read your own said goddamn reports from now on."

"What, and miss out on all this pleasant personal interaction?"

Most days at the office, Art would step in and stop the spitball fights that always erupted between Tim and Raylan when they weren't neck-deep in a case or being shot at by someone not connected to the office. The rancorous back and forth was generally amusing for anyone within earshot, for the first ten minutes anyway, and then it invariably became uncomfortable, at least to all but the combatants who appeared to enjoy it considering how often they chose to engage. But Art was only half-listening to the spat, caught up in his Walter Mitty-esque dreams of unveiling to the world the missing Pappy. He really was disappointed that Raylan and Tim hadn't arrived back with a truckload of fine whiskey for his office to display to the world.

"So, no leads then?"

"No, Art. No leads."

"Well, shit."

The next spitball flew over at Tim from Raylan's trench. "Hey, Tim, what are you gonna do with your week besides drink and shoot? Maybe you'd like to take some reports home to read?"

"No, thank you. I got plans."

"Plans?"

Tim sat back, smiled. "I'm a go huntin'."

"I thought you said you didn't care much for hunting anymore?"

Tim shrugged. "Good time of year for it."

"Oh, yeah? What's in season?"

"Fresh air, a walk in the woods, my best rifle by my side."

"So no particular game in mind?"

Tim ignored the question.

"There is no hunting like the hunting of man…" said Raylan. "Hemingway, right?"

"Aw, you remembered. And I thought you were all about pop culture – Dolly Parton and Elmore Leonard."

Art seemed to catch up to them then, sliding the bottle of bourbon away in its box in his dreams for the time being. "Should I be amazed that you two are discussing Hemingway? You did say Hemingway, right?"

"Fine, let's discuss Dolly Parton then since Art's back with us," said Tim. "She's fun." He screwed up his face, remembering. "What was it you said she said, Raylan? – something about batteries and positive and negative needed in a person to get energy going or something..."

"Well that certainly sums you up." Art delivered the comment along with a hard slap on Raylan's shoulder.

"Like I said, I love that woman." Raylan let the momentum from Art's slap carry him to his desk where he leaned over his computer screen to pick up a stack of phone messages and sort through them.

The show was winding down, and Art strolled away bored, back to gather the papers he'd left at the copier, then into his office and around behind his desk. He dropped into his chair, straightened the papers in his hand and set them in a neat pile next to another stack, then stopped, staring without reading, a frown forming. His head snapped up suddenly, eyes narrowed in the direction of Tim's desk. Back out into the bullpen, he reappeared in front of his deputy with surprising speed, finger pointed in accusation.

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who exactly are you hunting? Is it that philanthropist guy? I should've figured you were up to something when you came asking for vacation time without prompting."

Tim turned his head and glared at Raylan.

Raylan responded. "What? I was just quoting Hemingway, trying to class up the office. I didn't say anything about your plans."

Art jumped on the last word. "Plans?"

Tim logged out of his computer, picked up his bag and jammed a folder into it.

"Tim, what's in that folder?"

"Personal shit, boss. It's five. I'm on vacation. Bye."

"I can take that vacation back."

"I can complain to HR."

"You go right ahead. I'll set you up for that psych eval and tell them about that target."

"What target? I have no idea what you're talking about."

Raylan watched from his seat in the peanut gallery, smiling contentedly.

"Don't you deny it, now. I make a damn good witness."

"Hearsay. Burden of proof will be on you."

"Tim…"

"Chief, what do you think I'm gonna do this week? I'm on vacation. I'm gonna take my time drinking my coffee in the morning, clean my guns, catch up with some buddies from the Regiment, then I'm gonna sua sponte some shit that needs sua sponte-ing. It's all good. Go find some bourbon or something. Call me if you need me." Tim sprinted for the stairs, wanting to get clear of the building before Art could translate the Latin.

"What'd he say? Is he suing somebody? Does 'snipers are cowards' count as defamation? I don't think it does if it's not personally aimed."

"I missed it, Art. Wasn't listening. I was happily contemplating an entire week without Tim Guttermouth."

"I'm sure he'll miss you, too."

"Uh-huh."

Gun oil. And underneath that…bacon?

"Tim?"

And cheese. The music was loud for a Tuesday night, Tool playing, Lateralus. Tim hadn't played that album in a while, not since the last time his sniper buddy, Tim Weaver, had appeared for a weekend between jobs for the CIA. Miljana pulled out her cell phone, camera ready, toed out of her shoes and tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen hoping to find the two Tims doing something stupid, and amusing, and incriminating. There was always an opportunity for blackmail whenever Weaver was visiting. She liked him despite herself, despite the fact that she suspected he had sociopathic tendencies. He, at least, was a functioning sociopath, and loyal to a fault with her Tim, and very entertaining, and fortunately out of the country for most of the year.

She peeked around the corner into the kitchen, anticipation making her grin, a bit giddy, but there was only one Tim, her Tim, sitting at the table with his new favorite handgun in pieces, his laptop open, a folder of papers spread out, and his folding knife and boot knife laying beside a whetstone. On the chair next to him was a rucksack, open and partially packed and sitting squarely at attention waiting for more.

She felt an odd mix of disappointment and relief that he was alone; trepidation and amusement at the scene set before her. While she watched him studying intently an image on Google Maps satellite view, she decided that it was the music that was the source of her unease. It was his Ranger music. He had all the Tool albums, but the latter two, Lateralus and 10,000 Days, were his Ranger albums. He'd even said as much when it had accidentally come up on iTunes once on a chore-filled Saturday, teasing out from his memory a detailed description of his room in the barracks, and a funny story involving a large blow-up bowling pin and a skateboard in the hallway connecting the rooms, a story that may or may not have included a case of Jameson and some Skittles. The bottle on the table currently wasn't Jameson, but…

"Hey, sweetie. What are you up to?"

Tim twisted to face her, reached over and shut his laptop at the same time, pulled his rucksack off the chair and set it, suspiciously pulling it closed first, on the floor beside the table, all smoothly, casually, before standing up and walking over and kissing her.

"Didn't hear you come in," he said.

"Not surprised. I could hear the tunes from my office."

"Dinner?"

"You cooked?"

"Big, Bad Bacon Mac 'N Cheese. I'm gonna bourbon and bacon you to death, remember?"

"That sounds awful-ly good. And it smells dangerous. You didn't put gun oil in it, did you?"

"Nope."

"Bourbon?"

"That's the side dish."

"Oh."

"Cheese bread." He gestured at the counter, enticing her to look.

"We've got a perfectly good bread knife," she said. "Or maybe you were using your boot knife on the veggies that I'm sure you've got prepared to go with dinner?"

Tim walked back to the table and swiped up the knives and sharpener and slipped them into the rucksack on the floor. "I got salad in a bag," he said.

"Brilliant."

"I got the recipe for the mac 'n cheese from the new cookbook. It was the easiest one in it. Thought I'd work my way up to the Bourbon and Bacon Waffles – maybe Saturday morning? – then Bourbon Molasses Braised Porkbelly with Fried Oysters for Sunday night."

"Mm. And the recipe for disaster?"

"What?"

"Tim…"

Innocent just would not stick on his face. "What?"

"Do I look stupid? I must look stupid. How have I been managing all these years through college and interning and then…all the time looking really stupid? I'm amazed you stayed with me. Was it pity?"

"Fuck, you really do sound like Art some days. I fucking married my boss."

"Imagine how that sounds to a psychologist."

"Imagine how that feels to me."

"What are you up to?"

"I got some time off, like we talked about. I'm just cleaning some of my…"

Miljana hung her head. "It was pity. I'm devastated. I look at myself in the mirror every morning. How could I miss how stupid I must look?"

Tim shut his mouth, pressed his lips into a line, head dipped to the right, eyes narrowed. "I should've stayed away from you."

"You don't mean that."

Tim took a step toward her, arms out, inviting. Miljana took two steps backward, arm up, blocking.

A huff of surrender. "Okay. So I think he's smuggling."

"Franklin?"

"Yep."

"Tim…" Miljana blew a soft and defeated raspberry, flapped her arms like a penguin disgusted to discover that it's actually cold in the Antarctic. "Do you really think he's doing something illegal, or do you want him to be doing something illegal?"

"Oh, he's definitely doing something illegal. Where's all his money coming from? I'm gonna have some fun this vacation, play like I'm in the recce platoon. I always thought it'd be cool. If I'd stayed in, I might've asked to go that way. I got to go out with them a couple of times when they wanted a sniper along. I enjoyed it, sneaking around for a few days. I think I've got the right personality for it – I'm patient, detail-oriented, and I can grow a decent beard." He rubbed his evening stubble and grinned.

"Tim…"

"I'd love to catch him at it, and I'm gonna try. Did you know he's got a little estate in the hills east of here? Nicely hidden away."

"Tim…"

"How about some mac 'n cheese and a bourbon?"

She left the question hanging while she considered the man in front of her. "He's invited me to his office tomorrow…for a chat."

"For a chat? Right. You going?"

"I feel I owe him that."

"Sure, whatever."

"Will you explain why you think he's bad – other than the stupid 'snipers are cowards' comment – while I stuff the calories in? If you can convince me, I won't try to stop you."

Tim's response was interrupted by his phone, incoming call. He picked it up off the table and peered at the number then answered it.

"Gutterson. – Hey, Mr. Bradley Bachmeier. What d'you got for me? – Really? Can you email me a copy? – Sure, a picture'll do it. Send it through on the phone, then you can stop thanking me for rounding up that witness. I think we're even. – What's that? – Oh I think the value of the favor is determined by the receiver, not the giver. This is what I was hoping you'd find when you talked to Ms. Whitshaw. – Yep. Okay. – Bradley, I'm hanging up now." And he did, then he grinned at Miljana, tossed the phone next to his handgun, his expression making it clear that the news he'd just received made the pending result of the dinner conversation favorable to him. "You got a deal," he said. "I'll walk you through what I know while we eat."

It wasn't in her to feel defeated, just fated, and she rationalized his win away by telling herself that it was already a done deal, the week's lineup decided long before she was even aware of the possibility of it. She walked to the counter and poked at the cheese bread. It looked tasty. She took a deep breath in and got a nose full of gun oil, turned and smiled. "You smell like gun oil. I find it weirdly sexy. I hate to think what that says about me...so I won't...think about it." Spreading her arms out wide, she offered her lips for a kiss. "Come here, my cowardly sniper."

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