Chapter 4
"Does that make him stupid or noble?"
"I suspect they go hand in hand."
"Go fuck yourselves." He rasps it out and it has no teeth. "I swore an oath, okay. I swore an oath. You did too."
Raylan and Art are grinning, relieved to see Tim awake and talking and pissy. It's a bit of normalcy in a crazy couple of weeks.
"So it was Sandoval they wanted." Art makes a noise in the back of his throat, disgust and disbelief. "You should've just given him up, oath or no oath. Did you read his file?"
"Of course he read his file, Art. This is Tim we're talking about."
"But I think I did give him up," says Tim, grateful for the raw voice so there is no emotion trace in the delivery of his confession. "I'm not sure. I can't remember. It's all so fucking messed up. Maybe I imagined it. He's fine?"
"Well, you didn't imagine this beating, so you must've held out, and for quite a while, and yes, he's fine." Art pulls a chair close to the bed and sits down and looks hard at Tim, questioning. "We put a twenty-four hour guard on any WITSEC cases connected with this bureau until we could organize moving them. Everyone's fine."
Tim is vaguely disappointed, a little angry, a bit lost. "Everyone's fine?"
"Well, everyone but you. How you feeling today?"
"Peachy."
"Terrific. So why aren't you back at work?"
"I'm milking it."
Art nods at the joke, but he's not laughing.
"That was a joke," says Tim.
Raylan's smirking, but it drops quickly and he leaves quickly when the phlegm catches on the word 'joke' and Tim crumples into another attack of violent coughing. Art waits it out and gets some water; Raylan sends a nurse in.
A face peeks in his room; he sees her through the slits his eyes are granting the world, through the haze of good drugs. It's a small round face with the remains of the baby in the cheeks, hair in cornrows marked with pink baubles. She slips in the door and tiptoes over to his bed. It's a comedy. Her movements careful and carefree as she examines the machinery, the figure in the bed, curious.
"Boo," he says.
Her eyes flatten out wide and dark brown, fear, and she runs away, out into the hall. Boo. It's not meant to frighten and she seems to figure that out, sneaks back into the room two minutes later, but stays back by the door, watchful.
He pretends to be asleep, watches her. She steps closer, reaches out to touch the bed, daring.
"Ow." He opens his eyes.
She jumps back. "I didn't touch you," she says, playful.
"You hurt the bed."
"I did not." Hands on hips.
He thinks of Rachel at four years old. He tries out a smile for his visitor. "What's your name?" he says.
"Cecilia."
"Really?"
"Cecilia Rose."
"That's quite some name."
"It's grandma's name too."
"Hm."
"What's your name?"
"Tim."
"Tim." She repeats it back.
It's a very small word coming out of her mouth, tiny. It sounds appropriately small to him. It dregs up an emotion he doesn't recognize, doesn't want to recognize. It grows large and fast and he's shaken by it and close to tears. She's come closer, reaches out a small finger and pokes the skin on his hand between the splint on his middle finger and the tape around the intravenous tube and pop, the emotion bursts and dissipates, disappears as quickly as it came. He watches her hand as it reaches out a second time to touch the tube and he anticipates more magic from it.
Cecilia! comes from the hall and she stiffens, puts a hand up to cover the 'oh' her mouth makes, turns and darts out the door. Tim smiles again before he realizes what he's doing and when he does realize it he leaves the smile there to enjoy how it feels. But it turns wooden quickly and he lets it go and it's lost to the present.
Raylan pushes into the room not ten seconds later. Tim imagines Raylan passing by Cecilia Rose in the hallway and a picture forms of him and Cecilia Rose face-to-face – a dichotomy of figures, a staredown. He smirks, can't decide who'd win the standoff.
"What are you smiling about?" says Raylan. "Wet dream?"
"I was imagining a four-year-old pulling on you and winning the draw."
"What drugs they got you on now?"
"Pink baubles, comes up to your knees." Tim's chuckling now.
"How hard did they hit you?"
"Come here and I'll demonstrate."
Raylan pulls a chair over, over to the spot where Cecilia was standing only a minute ago. The world changes that fast. It's not the first time he's thought it these past weeks. He's truly realizing it, is still marveling at how quickly things can go from light to heavy – pink baubles to a jaded Stetson – while he watches Raylan attempt to wrestle down a black mood. That's what Raylan has brought into the room with him – a black mood. Tim can see it in the set of his mouth, the way Raylan is looking at his hat in his hands now, the monotone rhythm of his voice. If he's onto something, Raylan's engaged, every part of him, trying to sell you his excitement by looking straight at you and using his enthusiasm to hook you into his schemes. But the look he saves for his hat – fidgeting with it like he is now – is either anger or frustration. Today Tim guesses it's both. He thinks maybe there's an evil djinn possessing that hat and it talks to Raylan, urges him to do something immoral when he's weak. And Raylan is weakest when he's frustrated. Tim doesn't want to interrupt the conversation – it's always a promise of entertainment when Raylan converses with his hat – so he waits.
"Art doesn't want any of us on this anymore. He says D.C.'s taken it over." He's talking to the hat.
"If Art says so."
Raylan looks up sharply, reads something in the tone. "And what exactly are you going to do about it, Tim? You're still in a bed, and you're going to be here for a bit and then..." He looks back at his hat.
It comes across a bit insulting but he doesn't take it that way. It's a statement of fact from a frustrated lawman. "I'm only thirty, Raylan. I got a few years left to look after stuff that needs looking after."
"Cold trail is rarely fruitful."
"Unless it's cold vengeance you're working. Goes well together then."
He feels a cough coming, holds it back but a little spasm of air escapes. The look of panic on Raylan's face is comical enough for a good laugh but he doesn't dare. The coughing is just waiting for that opportunity. He reaches out a hand and Raylan scrambles to put the water glass in it. Tim takes a quick sip and puts out the ember.
"You all right?" Raylan looks ready to bolt. "You want me to get someone?"
Tim swallows another sip of water and shakes his head. "I'm fine."
Raylan doesn't look convinced. "You sure?" When he receives a nod, he nods back to reassure himself, sits back in the chair. "Okay."
Tim nods again, sips more water.
Raylan sets his hat on the rolling table along with his frustration, an evil grin chasing out the black mood. "Seems Rachel's taken over the handling of your love life. Tara? That her name?" He makes a noise like a dog finding peas in the bottom of the dish after a thin helping of beef stew, shakes his head. "Nice to look at but…"
"It's done."
"Well if it wasn't before, it is now. She wasn't too happy to be left out of the picture."
"Rachel didn't tell her what happened?"
"No, you told her not to, she said."
"I think I did. Don't quite remember."
"You change your mind?"
"No."
"Like that, huh?"
"Yep."
"It's all good then."
"It's all good. Tell Rachel thanks."
"Tell her yourself. She's coming by after work."
"Why are you here then?"
"I just want you to know I'm not leaving this alone. Just between us – you think of anything, you tell me."
"Get anything from the sketches?"
"Nope. Not yet."
Raylan stands up, languid and ropey, settles his Stetson on his head. He gets to the door and turns back, a step or two toward the bed looking at his feet, thinking. "I don't get it. Why did they just leave you alone after all that?"
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean, they were prepared to beat you to death – which they very nearly did – why take any chance of leaving you alive when they got the information they were looking for?"
"Maybe they weren't done. Maybe they wanted to check and see if I was lying and then come back. Like I said, I'm not sure what I remember happened or not. It's all a fucking… Maybe I didn't tell them. I don't really fucking care at this point." He's tired of talking about it.
Raylan is looking at him, questioning, and it makes him feel guilty but he has no idea why.
"Lucky for you then those kids found you when they did."
"Lucky me."
"Yeah, lucky you. Alright, then. See you later."
"Yep."
Raylan leaves this time, all the way out the door without another thought interrupting the departure. Tim runs splinted fingers through his greasy hair after the door closes, takes a cautious breath, presses his fingertips along the stitches now bared to the world on his left cheekbone. Counts them again.
It's all he thinks about now. He tries to put some order to it, more for his sanity than for any investigation. A day or two in and it gets blurry and he can't sort out what's real, what really occurred, and what played out in his head in a delirium of pain and fear.
They nabbed him early, real early, Friday morning at his house. That much he knows for certain. A late run, still on the clock past midnight, following a thin lead to a dance club in the small hours. Stopping for gas. He decided to run home first and get something decent to eat since he missed dinner. His source told him that this guy whose warrant he was chasing always closed the club down so he had time. There must've been someone watching him leave the courthouse, then two guys waiting for him by his garage. His garage is in the yard, connected to the street by a narrow laneway between the side door of his house and a chain-link fence woven into something more solid by his neighbor's cedar hedge. He hadn't expected to be so late, no lights on. Private. He likes that about his house. He can sit in the yard and not have to smile for his neighbors. Good place for an ambush. Bastards.
You hit a guy hard enough and he'll go down.
He doesn't remember the ride. He came to taped to a chair. Fucking chair. He sat alone for a while, wondering: what the fuck?
He didn't have to wonder too long. They were polite about not keeping him waiting. Bastards.
"Where is he?"
He remembers his head tilting, mouth taped. Who? Dipshits. Can't tell you shit with my mouth taped shut. He thought they were pretty fucking stupid at the time.
"Sandoval." And they tore off the tape.
His first thought was: Sandoval must know something important. His second thought was: how the fuck did they find him? Find me?
There's only one way. He knows this with the same certainty that he knows the feel of his rifle when it's set right against his shoulder, and the drink past which the evening will end in a hangover. And he knows that Art must know it too. It's the only answer. There is no other. Someone must've squealed. Someone from the Marshals Service.
The soldier in him feels nauseous. The soldier in him is angry and ready to do battle. Fucking traitor.
"I know, Tim. It's the only way they could've known to target you."
"What are we gonna do about it?"
"We? Nothing. You are going to convalesce. Me, I'm already looking into Taylor and the rest of the office at Las Cruces, but through D.C. It's on the hush."
Fucking politics, thinks Tim. No one wants it out there that the United States Marshals Service WITSEC program just took a hit to the SEC part.
"It's only the Director and a special investigative team that's in on this. So no one knows about it" – Art wags his head in his comic way – "except you and me and Raylan and Rachel and Nelson and well…the rest of the Lexington office. I don't believe for a minute that it was someone here though. And if it was, it's too late now to keep it under wraps. Everyone's already signed your get well card." Art picks up the card that's fallen over on the table and sets it upright, pats it. "Nice card too. Leslie picked it out. She wants to know if it's okay with you if she comes by. She'll bring you something better to eat than you're getting here if you feel up to it, she said." His voice trails off and he looks at Tim looking at him and they're both thinking along the same lines. "I think it'll end up being someone in Las Cruces. I'm almost as sorry about that as I would be if it was someone here."
Tim doesn't say anything in response. What can he say? He wants to reassure Art that he doesn't believe it's anyone from Lexington either. And he truly doesn't. But to say it makes it a lie somehow, even if it's not. It sucks. It breeds distrust.
Art pulls the chair over and sits down heavily. "They're investigating everyone here too, just in case." He looks out the window. In sympathy with the mood in the room a cloud passes somewhere beyond the glass, blocks them from the late afternoon autumn sunlight and douses Art's face in sober shadow and gloom. "But that's between you and me," he says.
Cecilia Rose is back. He smiles for her. She hopscotches the linoleum squares over to his bedside. She traces the intravenous tube, stops when her finger gets near the bandage on his hand.
"Hey," he says, turns his head and shifts an eyebrow. "What're you doing sneaking around the hospital?"
She looks up, fast, looks away faster, ignores his question. She's already figured out that he's not a threat in his current condition. "What is that?"
"Antibiotics and stuff."
Her face screws up and she huffs. "What?"
"Medicine. It goes right into my arm so I don't have to swallow anything that tastes yucky."
"Oh." That makes sense to her and she nods, satisfied that once again the universe is within the realm of her comprehension. "What's that?" This time she points to his hand, the splint.
"It's to keep me from bending my fingers while the bones heal."
"Oh."
He asks her a question before she can point to something else. "Are you a doctor?"
She shakes her head and the stiff cornrows with bright baubles in the ends of the braids travel with the motion. "Mama's with the doctor."
"Hm. Does she know you're in here?"
"What's wrong with you?"
He thinks about it, says, "I got beat up by some bad guys."
She makes the 'oh' again but doesn't cover it. "Mama did, too."
The concern is instant on; the lawman is angry. Before he can settle his instincts enough to say something comforting to a child his door opens and a young woman peers in much like Cecilia did the first time.
"Cecilia Rose!" A harsh whisper and the woman motions frantically at the girl. "Get out of there." Then she catches Tim's eye. "Sorry," she says for the adult. She steps into the room fully and comes closer and tries not to look but her eyes linger on the stitches and the bandages, taking stock and drawing conclusions. She avoids his eyes now. "I'm sorry to bother you. Come on, honey. Leave the man to rest."
"It's alright," he says, smiles to reassure, to pretend he hasn't noticed the marks on her too. "I was bored. It's alright."
"I'm sorry." She repeats it twice while she rounds up Cecilia and hounds her to the door. "I'm sorry."
"It's not a problem," he says and the door closes softly on his last word.
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