Chapter 2
Tuesday morning. This is when it starts.
"Who wants Sandoval?"
The room goes quiet, everyone avoiding eye contact with Art. It's a dull chore taking on a WITSEC case from out of district.
Tim ducks his head like a school boy, tries to look busy with something, shifts his eyes sideways and they meet Raylan's. They share a conspiratorial grin that says 'not me'. Glorified and overqualified and armed babysitting is what it is, he thinks. By the time the poor asshole gets to you, no one knows where that asshole is except the handful of deputies in the Marshals Service involved in the case, and the Marshals Service has a damn good record of keeping the faith of witness security. You go through the motions of protecting someone who's already so well hidden even the Tooth Fairy couldn't find them. It's boring. It's paperwork and chauffeuring. And despite all the stories written about beautiful and innocent witnesses, strong and weak in all the right proportions, undeniable chemistry, helpless and electric looks for the man with the holster watching over them, hot and forbidden sex in motel rooms, everyone in the bullpen knows that never happens in real life. Ever. The dirtbags turning state's evidence to save their asses are never saving a beautiful ass. They're always saving an ugly ass.
He snorts at the picture that forms out of his thoughts.
Art looks over. "Tim. Something funny?"
"Nope."
"Sure you don't want to share?"
"I was just thinking that for once I'm grateful to be on prisoner transport."
"Nelson, you take Tim's spot on the prisoner transport for him. I hate to see him happy. Tim, you've got Sandoval."
"Yessir," Tim says aloud and loudly, cheerful, grins like an idiot. "I hate my boss," he then says behind a hand wiped slowly across his mouth, quietly, head bent down. It's for the benefit of his neighbor only, the last comment.
Raylan leans over and whispers back, "Apparently not as much as he hates you."
Art's not smiling in a nice way when he turns again to Raylan and Tim's side of the room and says, "And Raylan, Reardon asked for a deputy, named you personally. He's taken a real shine to you."
The cowboy hat shifts to hide the look of long-suffering. "What does he want this time?"
"He wants to feel safe. There've been threats."
"Again?"
"Again. And you're his shadow until further notice."
"But…"
"But…?"
"But the thing I'm chasing, the Crawley warrant..." Raylan offers the excuse, hoping it'll buy him a pass. He knows it's lame.
"Right, Crawley. Rachel, you can take that over, free up Raylan for Reardon."
"Shit." The hat can't hide the disappointment.
And Tim smirks over at Raylan. "I'd rather be hated by Art than loved by Reardon."
"I hate you too, Tim."
There's an uncaring grin for that, and Tim stands up and reaches across his desk for the folder Art is waving at him. He flips to the photo, and sure enough, it's an ugly asshole.
"A deputy from Las Cruces is delivering him, somebody Taylor. Flight gets in just after two. Don't be late."
"A snitch by the look of him." There's nothing of the innocent bystander in that face.
"No doubt."
"So who's he snitching on to get hidden away up here in Lexington? Heisenberg?"
Art gets the reference but refuses to crack a smile. "I said Las Cruces, not Albuquerque."
"Whoa. That's got to be the new benchmark for ugly." Peering over the divider, Raylan screws his face into a knot of distaste. "I think Reardon's better looking."
Tim sighs loudly, drops the folder and dumps himself back in his chair. "I keep hoping for Scarlett Johansson to witness a murder. Honestly though, I'd settle for someone who's decent to talk to."
"You don't think Miss Johansson would be decent to talk to?"
"I wouldn't care if she was or not. Would you?"
"Probably not…for the first month."
"So we agree on something."
He turns his attention reluctantly to the job at hand, gets his end of the paperwork together, crosses and dots and John Hancocks in all the right places, then tops up his coffee and leans back in his chair, feet on his desk, and starts on the file. He's meticulous, page one, reads the contact report, the name of the liaising officer with the DEA, then known affiliations, priors, goes through the entire pile, through to page whatever – he's lost count. When he's done he flips back to the photo and mouths, "Fuck you, asshole," to the flattering mugshot. He swivels his chair to stand and stretch and sees Art, the lip reader, glowering in his direction. Tim grins for him. It's a daily occurrence.
The airport is busy. It's mostly business people midweek, the only ones who would bother finding a connector into Lexington rather than taking the busier leg into Louisville and a bus or limo from there. Louisville is fun to visit, but he prefers Lexington. It feels more grounded to him – the bars a little more casual, the service a little more personal. Maybe it's his imagination and he just likes being at home and Lexington is now home. He's seen enough of the world – thank you very much. He can see himself happily living out his days never leaving this city. Somehow though he doubts the Marshals Service will indulge that particular fantasy and he amuses himself thinking about where he might like to go next while he waits for the flight to arrive.
Seattle is a consideration – he has good memories from his time in Washington State with the Second Battalion at Fort Lewis, even if it does rain a lot there. He reminds himself that that was Tacoma really, not Seattle, and Seattle is too big a city for his taste. He likes the idea of a smaller office. There's a side of him that would welcome being posted to Montana or South Dakota or Utah. Or one of the 'A' options – Alaska, Alabama, Arkansas. Not exactly a good career move, but the more he thinks about it, sitting in an uncomfortable vinyl chair at arrivals, the more he likes the idea of a sparse population. People get under his skin. Who cares about career as long as there's a decent rifle range nearby?
He checks the board again, sees the flight he's waiting for has arrived so he stands up and wanders over to security and shows his badge and the paperwork and gets a pass to the gate. He leans against the wall and watches the passengers unload, oversized carry-on and laptops in shoulder bags and all of them looking hassled. He tries to define a type, a New Mexico type, but the group defies any patterning except that they all look hassled, and relieved to be off the airplane. He remembers too that this is a leg from Dallas, people from all over the southern states, not just New Mexico.
There's a gap in the group, a pause before the finale, and then two men appear, last to deboard. Tim pushes off the wall and saunters over to cut them off before they get to the magical airport security barrier.
"Deputy Marshal Taylor?" he says, addressing the face he doesn't recognize from a mugshot.
"That'd be me," says the man. "Gutterson?" Taylor smiles wearily when Tim nods, then he holds out a hand for paperwork and ID to make the exchange official.
Tim looks over his new ward, Jesus Sandoval, while Taylor looks over the transfer papers. Taylor looks like he's rid of a bad cold, or like he's about to go on holiday; Tim doesn't.
"When's your flight back?" says Tim.
"Twenty minutes if I'm lucky. Thanks for saving me another trip through security."
"No problem. Enjoy the flight home."
"Two fucking connections to get back today. Worth it though."
"Shit. Love the small hops." He doesn't miss the look of loathing that Taylor shoots Sandoval.
Taylor shrugs and turns without another word and beelines it to the nearest airport employee for directions and then he's gone.
Tim watches him until he disappears around a corner then he turns to Sandoval. "Let's go. Got a lovely seventies bungalow for you. Quiet street. Respectable neighbors. Public school only two blocks away. Prime Lexington real estate."
"Are you a US Marshal or a fucking real estate agent?"
"I'm your babysitter, or didn't they tell you?"
"Whose idea was it to fucking put me in Kentucky?"
"You don't like Kentucky?" Tim waves him through to the public area of the terminal, leads the way to the parking lot.
"I fucking hate Kentucky."
Tim smirks. Sandoval's reaction makes him ridiculously happy. Makes the job almost bearable.
He decides to serenade Sandoval on the way to his new house, his new life. He finds the top 40 country hits station and starts wailing with whoever it is who's singing. He doesn't know the words. He doesn't even know the tune, though that wouldn't matter.
"Fucking Christ. Stop singing. You suck. This song sucks."
And that makes him ridiculously happy too. That's twice in one hour. "You don't like country? Too bad you ended up in Kentucky. Shoulda made some different life choices. A bit late for that though, huh?" He's pressing the seek button while he talks, skipping from station to station until he finds what he's looking for, some death metal. He turns it up and starts singing along with that. He doesn't know the tune – not that there is one. He doesn't know the words. It doesn't matter. He can see the red burn deepening on Sandoval's face.
"I said, shut the fuck up!"
"No."
"You have to do what I say. I'm a witness. I got federal protection."
"Did they not explain how this works?" Tim flicks a finger between him and Sandoval. "I have to keep you from getting killed. That's all I have to do."
"Your singing is fucking killing me."
He grins, happier than he's been all day, sings louder.
"Fucking asshole." Sandoval rolls down his window and sticks his head out to get as far away as possible from Tim's singing. "Maybe I'll fucking kill you instead."
A few heads turn their way from the sidewalk.
"Now that'd get you kicked out of WITSEC, right quick."
The next song starts up and so does Tim. He taps out the rabid kick drum on the steering wheel while he waits for a green light.
"Here's your new name, new address, new life, at least until the US Attorney's Office decides they're ready for your testimony. You are not to contact anyone. No one. Got it?"
"This fucking sucks."
"And who do you have to blame for that?"
"Fuck you. Am I allowed out?"
"So they didn't explain how this works."
"Yeah, they explained, for four fucking hours. Blah, blah, blah." Sandoval moves his hand to imitate talking, gets it aggressively in Tim's face. "I've signed enough fucking papers..."
"Then you know the answer to the question." He points vaguely east. "Grocery store around the corner. Beer store. I think there's a porn shop too. The Marshals Service sure is considerate. There'll be a plainclothes officer outside watching for a while – orders from D.C. Apparently somebody prefers you breathing, hard to believe as that is. If you spot them, don't be an asshole and approach them. And you can play whatever music you like in here, but if I'm visiting, be warned, I like to sing along."
"Why do you have to visit?"
"They pay me to. I'm the babysitter. I have to look in on you now and then and make sure you're not fucking up and breaking house rules. By the way, you break it, you pay for it." The last part isn't strictly true, but it's fun to say.
"I dare you to try and collect."
He grins – "I'd like that" – hands Sandoval a cell phone. "My number's saved in there. Use it if you need it." He opens the door to leave. "We've bugged your phone."
"You can't do that."
"Fine. Rescind your offer to snitch and give me back the house keys." Tim pulls a set of handcuffs off his belt. "I'd be happy to arrest you for…uh, let me see if I can get it all out without having to take a breath…" He takes in a big breath.
"I fucking hate cops."
"I fucking hate scumbags. Welcome to Lexington, Mr. Sandoval. Enjoy your stay."
Art has taken pity on him for drawing the short straw for assignments, has suggested a drink at the end of the day. Raylan considers it an open invitation and leads the way out to the bar.
"So, was he as bad as he looks in his picture?" Raylan makes a face over his glass as he asks the question.
Tim stares back a minute trying to decide if the face is for the greedy end-of-day mouthful of whiskey that Raylan just swallowed too quickly or if he's reacting again to the mugshot from that morning – Sandoval's ugly face. He realizes it doesn't really matter which and answers the question.
"Absolute fucking lowlife fucking asshole."
Art sighs like a school teacher. "Tim, do you have to talk like that all the time?"
"I tone it down for Rachel. It hurts. I have to double it up then for Raylan or else all those fucks get stuck in my throat and I might explode one day at work when it's not appropriate. You wouldn't want that."
Art holds up a hand to stop the bullshit. "I had no idea you were only being considerate when you swear so much."
"I'm generally underappreciated."
Raylan holds up a hand at the same time as Art, gets the attention of their server, signals another round.
"Chief," says Tim, "can a snitch in WITSEC complain about their treatment from me?"
"Why?"
"Just wondering."
"They can certainly complain if you're abusive, or not diligent in your duties."
He appears to be considering Art's response, nods once. "What would you consider abusive?"
"Tim..."
Tim and Raylan are laughing now, happily accept the drinks that the waitress sets on the table. Even Art is smiling and comments on the contents of Sandoval's file. He and Tim give Raylan the Coles Notes version of a jacket of evil and villainy.
"Shit," says Raylan. "They always do everything bigger out west."
"You should've seen Taylor. He looked like he was gonna be sick, happier than shit to offload that asshole on me. He had himself booked on the next flight back. He turned and ran once he had the papers in hand."
"You know, I wasn't really punishing you this morning when I reassigned you," says Art. "I was told to handle this one with care, give him to somebody I trust. I guess the DEA is wetting themselves they're so excited about the names your guy is offering up. You just opened your mouth at the right moment and made my choosing between you and Rachel easier."
"Whoever they are that he's naming, they'd better be worth it. I'm trying to imagine a scummier fucking scumbag than that fucking scumbag. I'd think I'd won the scumbag lottery if I'd bagged this asshole."
Art sighs again but doesn't bother commenting on the language. "That was a compliment, by the way. In case you missed it."
Tim thinks back through the conversation, says, "How exactly did you get your wife to marry you if that is your idea of a compliment?"
Sandoval.
He struggles against the name, not wanting to think it every time he wakes up, but the beep and drip seem to spell it out in Morse code. Sandoval. How the fuck did that asshole become so central in his life? He doesn't deserve the attention. He deserves a bullet.
The doctor walks in and smiles when he sees his patient awake. "Good morning, Mr. Gutterson. My staff say you were downright perky yesterday afternoon. Let's have a look at those lungs and see if we can't get you off that machine. I'll bet you'd like a drink."
The thought of water pushes Sandoval aside for a time, makes the removal of the tube easier to bear. He wonders as he's gagging that he thought of water when the doctor said 'a drink'. Not even two weeks ago he would've thought of whiskey. The world changes that fast.
Fucking Sandoval.
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