On the Bourbon Trail – chapter nine
Raylan pulled up in front of Kurt's rooming house expecting another samba, or a rumba at least, the blue and red flashing lights reminiscent of a dance stage if he squinted, but Hole didn't come twerking around the corner like the last time, and Raylan was oddly disappointed. The car slowed to a roll and drifted onto the dirt shoulder while Raylan eyed the scene, local sheriff's cars in a haphazard herd of brown and star-branding gathered in the front pasture.
"Huh." The sound came out of Raylan in a short and decisive burst from a sudden and confident awareness that somehow this was all a part of that – 'that' being a bourbon theft – and that he was about to get lucky with his unofficial investigation. He turned off the engine, climbed out, stretched lazily, then sauntered over to see what all the fuss was about.
Raylan and Art had agreed over a glass of Buffalo Trace's namesake whiskey at work the previous evening, drinking from a bottle that Art, like Tim, had bought from the gift shop at the distillery and slipped into his desk drawer rather than face explaining it to Leslie, that maybe it was worth one more check-in on Teddy Newton and his cousin to see if either men had turned up at the rooming house overnight. Teddy appeared to have disappeared from the state. Raylan had been turning over pebbles in his search for him until he'd finally given up, falling into bed the previous night, or rather early that morning, defeated. He'd even followed up with the locals, but apparently no one cared enough about Teddy to call in a missing persons. The fact that Teddy had defied his efforts at finding him so far was incentive enough for Raylan to keep looking, a matter of pride at this point, but it was the hint of a whiff of some fine sipping bourbon that really helped the motivation along. There were still sixty-five cases of Pappy van Winkle in the wind, and finding Teddy hopefully meant finding some bourbon, too.
Raylan smiled congenially for the sheriff, nodded at the house. "Morning. What's going on here?"
"Got a call of shots fired in the wee hours," said the sheriff.
"Anyone hurt?" Raylan thought about Kurt/Courtney and figured he'd be sorry if anything had happened to him.
"No. The owner thought someone was breaking in, fired a couple rounds from his…" and here the sheriff paused and looked confused.
"Or her…" said Raylan, trying to help the story along.
"…or her…shotgun. Turns out the intruder that he…" Again a pause of uncertainty.
"Or she…"
"…or she…was shooting at was a friend of one of the fellows renting a room."
"That fellow maybe Teddy Newton?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"He's on our radar for something. These things tend to play out this way, a string of coincidences."
"Well anyway, it's a good thing the landlord isn't a better shot – though we'll be charging him, attempted murder maybe, assault at least – 'cause it turns out the intruder was a friend of Teddy's, just here to pick up some stuff. Got a key and all, and a note with permission even."
Raylan looked around while the sheriff explained, eyes settling on a woebegone figure sitting cuffed in the back of one of the cruisers, minus the pretty dress and red lipstick, then he continued his perusal of the characters in the congregation in front of the house and found another face he recognized standing talking to one of the sheriff's deputies.
"That's the friend of the tenant…the intruder?"
The sheriff looked where Raylan was nodding. "That's right."
"Uh-huh. And you say he had a note? How convenient when you're going through someone's apartment in the wee hours. Did he say what he was looking for?"
"Too shook up. But we did search the premises for more weapons and you'll never guess what we found in the owner's rooms?" The sheriff looked pleased with himself, chest puffed out, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, trying hard to give the appearance of casual.
"The missing Pappy." Raylan didn't even bother framing it like a question.
The sheriff collapsed in on himself like a pricked balloon, disappointed that Raylan guessed. "Two cases, yeah. How'd you know?"
"Just a hunch. Can I make a recommendation?"
"Shoot."
Raylan twitched, sighed, said, "I wish my boss would say that more often. No, actually, I was going to suggest that you let Kurt go and take the other fellow in for questioning."
"What? Why?"
"It'd take too long to explain. May I?" A finger pointed at Teddy Newton's alleged friend, Raylan didn't bother waiting for the okay, walked with a purpose toward the group of deputies taking the man's statement. The smile under the cowboy hat was not meant to be friendly when he called out his greeting. "Hey Mikey, thought I recognized the biceps. Where's your boss at? I don't see the RV among all the cruisers here. Though it would be a bit like an elephant hiding in a cow pasture, I guess."
"Marshal Givens. I'm just…"
"Oh, save it, Mikey. I'm not interested in your bullshit. All I wanna know is where Wynn Duffy is and how exactly he's involved in the Pappy theft."
There was a Tool song playing in Tim's head but he resisted humming to it, though the urge was there. The teams surrounding him had made it an overnighter, trading off positions twice, flashlights and shuffling leaves, sticking to their routine patrols, and that meant that Tim was stuck in his bed of forest debris.
The morning sun was already toasting up Lexington, that and hot coffee somewhere, but in the hills the chill was still partying from the night before. The beautiful clear autumn blue that Tim had admired yesterday became a bitch of a cold night, and a shivering cold morning. He had early stages of hypothermia, not at all prepared for a night lying on the ground, but the sun was peeking up from behind the taller hill in front of him and he knew it would warm him soon enough. Of course the last thing you should do, and Tim was well aware of this fact from his training with both the military and law enforcement, was drink alcohol if you were at risk of hypothermia, but he had rationed himself to a mouthful from his bourbon buddy every few hours through the night, more to keep himself awake than for any sustenance or comfort, certainly not with any intention of getting drunk. It was strictly something to do, something to focus on. He remembered a story from somewhere about some homeless guy being found after a bitter night and surviving only thanks to the alcohol in his blood keeping it from freezing. He liked that story, reached over and had another mouthful of Old Pappy, then named the unknown alcoholic in the tale after his bourbon buddy, Pappy van Winkle.
Tim was getting hungry, beyond just skipping-your-lunch hungry – it was a twenty-four-hours-of-exercise-and-shivering-and-cold-and-nerves kind of hungry. He knew he could go a few days without food, but it wasn't something he cared to do if he didn't have to. Craig snipers-are-cowards Franklin hardly seemed worth a 'have to go hungry' situation, yet here he was, trying to ignore the ache in his stomach by bitching at his pride for chasing down an asshole because of words. Sticks and stones and all that. Where was his perspective? At least it now appeared this asshole was into more than just some petty smuggling to avoid customs charges. Nobody bothered with this level of security to sneak an extra bottle of alcohol, or even a box of undeclared imports, past the customs guards. This looked more like the smuggling of illegal or stolen goods, and that was interesting. The men who had infiltrated Craig Franklin's house were, by all appearances, seriously connected in the world of misdeeds and hired guns. And they were keeping Tim from his breakfast.
A pickup pulled up while he slapped his ego for making such a fuss about three words. Something new to look at was a nice distraction from the ache in one knee and the self-abuse. Tim focused on his surroundings again, peered through the scope at the newcomer. He pulled away from the eyepiece abruptly, worried that he was starting to hallucinate now, the cold slowing blood flow to his brain, rubbed hard at his eyes then set his right against the scope again. He couldn't believe what he was seeing, but there was no denying it – that was his buddy, Tim Weaver, ex-Marine sniper, now CIA, down at the house, arms waving wildly, voice loud and carrying easily around the hills, talking to one of the armed guards.
The hunting outfit on Weaver looked ridiculous, brand new with the store creases still on the jacket and pants, a bright orange hey-don't-shoot-me vest and a thermal mug from some fancy coffee chain. It was a brilliant disguise. He had a road map in one hand, his phone in another, switching back and forth between the two as if he were hoping to blur the images into a single answer to his problems.
"Hey, I'm hoping you can help me?" He waved the map at the closest hired gun. "I can't get a signal out here. No GPS. My buddies are meeting me here, supposedly," he said, jabbing at the map with his phone, "but clearly I'm not here, am I?"
Tim couldn't hear the response, but two more of the guards walked over and peered at the map.
"What road is this?"
"…"
"Well, hell. How did I miss that turn?"
"…"
"I guess I better turn around. Thanks for your help. Hey, you know, this is a nice place. You boys live here?"
"…"
"Oh, yeah? Up here hunting, too, are you? Awesome. Maybe I should join you fellows, 'cause I'm already an hour late meeting with my hunting party."
"…"
"Don't suppose this place is for sale, is it? I'd make you a good offer. It's just the kinda hunting retreat I've been looking for."
"…"
"Too bad. It's a fantastic spot, nice views, pretty hills." Weaver was checking out the area while he talked, eyes wandering the buildings and the surrounding forest. When he was finished getting directions he waved his thanks and took a step back toward the pickup he was driving, a rental, Tim guessed, shiny new model. He made a show of looking at his map again, then turned his head once up then back down the road. He shrugged, a good comic shrug at his apparent stupidity, crossed the remaining ground to his vehicle, stopped at the door to call out another thank you and looked up the hill directly at Tim's hide, pausing just long enough to grin his Weaver grin and give Tim the thumbs up.
Tim grinned back, unseen. Though the men at the house probably thought the thumbs up was for them, Tim was certain it was aimed at him. It warmed him up, that certainty, and he felt better about things, the cold and hunger fading a little now that he knew there were friendlies around. He kept an eye on his buddy, watched him start up the truck and back out carefully onto the road, window down and Brad Paisley blaring from the radio. It was so out of character that Tim almost laughed aloud. His stomach rumbled and grumbled but he ignored it, wet his lips and shifted slightly with the morning breeze blowing to disguise the noise, and followed the pickup through the rifle scope until it disappeared around a bend in the road.
Two hours later a wave from one of the men by the house signaled that they were packing up. Tim counted bodies carefully as they loaded into the vehicles and then drove away. He didn't think their leaving after Weaver's visit was a coincidence, likely felt they'd overstayed their welcome now that they had been seen. He waited another half hour before he moved, crawling backward out of his nest, bending his legs happily into a kneeling position and letting out a pent-up sigh of relief. He stretched and popped joints and jumped up and down on the spot to get the circulation going again, get the heat turned back on, then he trotted across the top of the ridge and down the way he had come in, stopping where he'd hidden his pack. There were two granola bars and an apple and a full bottle of water left over from yesterday, barely enough to satisfy him, and he greedily devoured the lot. His feast was interrupted by a noise behind him in the forest. Handgun out, he stepped carefully into the cover of a small copse of trees and waited.
Someone was whistling a Brad Paisley tune, badly. Tim threw his apple core, left-handed, in the general direction of the tuneless.
"You missed," came back.
"Be happy I wasn't really aiming." Tim stepped out from his hiding spot and holstered his gun and accepted a bear hug.
"Dude, what the fuck are you doing out here? And who were those assholes?"
"Dude, what the fuck are you doing out here? And who the fuck dressed you?"
"You like it?" Weaver put out his arms and twirled. "It's a Walmart special, on sale for the hunting season."
"You'd blend right in at the gun show."
"That's what I was going for."
"Miljana send you?"
"Wow, how'd you guess?"
"She okay?"
"Worried."
"I was supposed to be home last night. Got held up. Hey, how'd you know where I was hiding? You looked right at me."
"It was an educated guess. We did the same training, dude. It's where I would've set up."
"You didn't see me?"
"Nope."
Tim nodded, satisfied with the answer.
"I got coffee in the truck."
"Seriously?"
"And bagels with ham and cheese and..."
"I love you, man."
"I know, but I understand why you feel you have to keep up the pretense with that girl."
"Seriously, what the fuck are you doing in Kentucky?"
"Vacation."
"Nice. Me, too."
"All right. Let's fucking vacation the shit out of this week then. What d'you got planned?"
Tim reached behind his pack for his treasure, presented the open bottle of Pappy.
"That'll go well with the coffee," said Weaver, reading the label.
"You pour even a drop of that into your coffee, I'll shoot you."
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