Chapter 6

Art picks him up at the hospital in the morning, solicitous, overly so. Every move Tim makes there's a hand out to protect, ready to intervene between him and a dangerous world. He feels like one of Art's kids and spares a moment from his resentful mood to pity them. He resents the wheelchair ride to the door; he resents the appointment already booked for rehab; he resents the instructions from the doctor and the prescription for pain medication that they have to fill before they can leave the building and that means another fifteen minutes sitting in the wheelchair; he resents Art's presence half an hour after arriving home, wishing he had time to himself; he resents the lunch that Leslie supplied for them that Art reheats in Tim's kitchen and the two of them devour. It's delicious. Art hovers while he waits for his replacement, trying every topic he can think of to keep the conversation off of the rehabilitation timeline, and more particularly the cause of that rehabilitation timeline. Art looks relieved when Nelson knocks not long after lunch; Tim doesn't. He doesn't want to let his coworker in but he resigns himself to the changing of the guard, not even trying to get up off the couch in time to race Art to the door.

"He can stay in the car. I don't need help sitting on the couch."

His suggestion is ignored. Despondent, he watches Art unlock the door. The whole maneuver looks awkward because Art is using his left hand to turn the deadbolt and then the knob, his right tucked defensively up against his shoulder holster, fingers on his service weapon, ready.

"It's only fucking Nelson," Tim says. He can see him through the front window. "I could kill him from here, and without a fucking gun."

Art shoots a look of disapproval Tim's way as he opens the door. "Really? I'd love to hear exactly how you'd do that."

Tim opens his mouth to oblige him with a description.

"Not now," says Art, snaps it out. Nelson is collateral damage, caught in the blast of annoyance, and he hesitates on the front step. "Not you, Nelson. Jesus, don't just stand there. Get in." Art is already putting on his jacket. "And don't put up with his attitude. If he gives you any trouble, shoot him."

Tim can't resist a parting shot. "Why'd you waste your whole morning being so careful with me if you're just gonna let Nelson shoot me this afternoon?"

"So I don't feel guilty at your funeral." Art pats Nelson on the shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow. Anything weird happens, call me."

"I wonder what he means by weird," Tim says as Nelson closes the door tight and locks it behind the Chief Deputy. "Do you think 'nothing fucking at all happening' counts?"

"I think he means if we see something suspicious. They might still be out looking for you and…"

"Fuck, Nelson, I know. I'm fucking kidding."

"Sorry."

"Shit." He lets out some air that might've been used for more futile swearing if he had the energy to spare but he decides to do something constructive instead, stands up, not without some difficulty, and limps to the kitchen.

"Where're you going?"

"To make something hot to drink since I can't have any of the cold stuff I want and I'm fucking sick of water."

"I'll do it. Go sit down."

Nelson moves awkwardly past him in the hallway. Tim follows anyway, watches curiously while Nelson peers into the cupboard directly above the coffee machine and the coffee grinder sitting in plain view on the counter.

"What're you looking for?" says Tim.

"Tea."

"Tea? I haven't got any fucking tea. I meant coffee."

"Should you be drinking coffee?"

"Oh, for fuck… Move."

"No, I'll do it."

It's too painful to watch. Tim humps back to the living room and drops onto the sofa then gets up again to collect his new service weapon, the one Art brought with him to try to cheer Tim up.

His old service weapon is gone. He figures he knows who has it. He wasn't emotionally attached to that particular gun but he had done some trigger modifications on it and it pisses him off to have to set up a new one. But everything pisses him off today, and the truth is he enjoys working on his firearms. He planned ahead for it, asked Rachel to order a third-party spring and connector, smooth trigger. It was the first thing he noticed when he walked in, the delivery box sitting by his computer waiting for him. He let it sit there until after Art left. Art looked uncomfortable enough handing over the new weapon, knowing what was on Tim's mind when he took possession of it. It's unlikely he would approve of Tim lightening the weight of the trigger pull. Art already feels shooting comes a little too easy for his office sniper.

Nelson walks in with coffee and sets a mug down on the coffee table beside the now disassembled weapon. "What're you doing?"

"Changing out the trigger."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's how I like it."

"What's wrong with it as it is?" Nelson sits down across from Tim and pulls his sidearm out of its holster, eyes it suspiciously like it might turn on him with its factory-installed trigger.

"Nothing's wrong with it. I just prefer it the way I prefer it."

Tim isn't offering much for a dialogue so Nelson starts talking about his cousin who did all kinds of modifications to his handgun and ended up shooting himself in the leg because of it.

"Sure it wasn't because he was stupid?"

Nelson doesn't know what to say in response. He changes the subject, starts asking Tim about his choice of backup and then he talks about his and his uncle's and his brother's without waiting for any input from Tim. Tim tunes him out and gets to work. He only starts paying attention to the monologue when he hears the name 'Cecilia Rose'.

Tim's head snaps up. "Did you meet her?"

Nelson looks embarrassed. "I'm the one who let her into your room. I thought she was pretty funny. I thought maybe she might cheer you up."

Tim nods, head back in his work. "Did you see her mother?"

"She was nice. I told her what happened to you and she told me about her mother and then she asked if it was okay if Cecilia Rose went in your room because she didn't want to disturb you and she was upset that I'd let her in the first time. I told her it was okay. That you didn't mind. I told her she could go in anytime and I mentioned it to everyone so it would be okay."

Tim chews on that but keeps his head down, concentrating on the job at hand. It's not easy work for healing fingers – the parts he's replacing are small – but he has patience for this. He goes at it meticulously then checks the mechanism when he's done, dry-firing to assure himself that the action is good. He goes to stand again but his knee has seized and yells at him for the sudden movement. He stumbles. Nelson offers to retrieve whatever it is he's getting up for but Tim waves him away and shuffles to the kitchen for a lockbox full of ammo and spare magazines, Nelson protesting and following.

"Did you get a good look at Cecilia's mother?" he says as he sits again.

"What do you mean 'a good look at her.' I talked to her a few times."

Tim doesn't respond, hoping Nelson will think about it and say more. He opens the lockbox and sorts out the right ammunition for the Glock. It's more effort than it should be loading the new magazine. He fumbles a few of the rounds and Nelson scrambles to pick them up off the floor.

Tim mumbles a begrudging thanks then decides to prompt Nelson. "Did you see the bruising?"

"Oh, yeah," says Nelson, but that's it. Another round escapes Tim's fingers and Nelson dives for it, hands it back. "You want me to do that?"

"No. I'm fine." He gets the last one in and slides the magazine into place, exploring the movement as he does, looking for anything that might slow him down in a firefight. Releases it and does it again, and then again. Satisfied he sets his new Glock on the table and pictures Cecilia's mother. She doesn't look like Rachel – lighter skin, one of those seventies' afros that the girls are happily letting grow, that are so cool now that forty years has gone by.

"She was pretty," says Nelson.

Tim doesn't like Nelson's choice of verb tense, corrects him. "She is pretty." Then covers his interest. "Rachel says Cecilia looks like her sister."

"Yeah?" Nelson is happy for a conversation. "The one that was killed?"

"She only has one."

"Right."

Rachel calls at five and makes him think about supplies. She shows up after grocery shopping and relieves Nelson, stays to have dinner with him. She hovers more actively than Art, leaves the place smelling and looking better than it has in a while. He shuts and locks the door behind her only to have Raylan knock on it before he gets back to the sofa – they must've waved hi to each other at the curb. Raylan doesn't hover; he sits comfortably in the living room while Tim gets him a beer, stays long enough to drink two and force some kind of estimate of when Tim thinks he'll be allowed back to work, pronounces that the date given is bullshit and that he predicts Tim'll be back before two weeks is up. Tim wants to argue with him just because, but he can't. It's the truth. He's going to go crazy sitting around the house all day every day. He'll just show up for work one morning, forcing Art to change the date. Once Raylan is satisfied that Tim has no intention of staying home the recommended time, he leaves and leaves the empties on the coffee table.

Tim locks the door a second time behind Raylan. He's alone finally in his house.

It's weirdly quiet after the hospital, the constant noises day and night. He picks up the empty bottles and walks them to the kitchen. He's not that fussy about his place but he likes things where they're supposed to be. Orderly is efficient. He shuffles around the main floor getting reacquainted with the feel of home, turns on the TV and flips through the channels, turns on his laptop at the same time to check email. He wishes he hadn't. There are over two hundred waiting for him. He could've asked Rachel to bring him his computer but he doesn't trust the hospital wifi, too open. It takes a while to sort through them all. Some are notices from subscriptions and forums; others are friends saying: where the fuck are you? He sits on the couch with his computer on his lap, ignores the TV and rips off a quick note to the few friends who are most likely to show up with guns loaded and ready for a rescue if he doesn't reply soon. All of them buddies from his time in the military.

"I'm not joking," he said to Rachel one day at the hospital. "If you see any guys hanging around my house when you go by to get my stuff, even if they don't look like one of the sketches, approach with caution." She laughed at the idea, but he was serious. One of his buddies from the sniper platoon, a guy he spent more time with than is socially healthy in the last three years of his career in the Rangers, he only lives one state north, not a long drive. There's nobody he's closer to in the entire world; nobody knows him better. The guy is crazy in a good way. His is the first email off. I'm alive, stand down, have a beer. He should've thought to text him earlier.

All this takes about an hour. The replies are necessarily short, fingers and keyboard not working well together. He cuts and pastes where he can. Then he's finished and the TV is annoying, not distracting. He's restless. He puts on his jacket, slides into his boots and ties the laces awkwardly, heads out to buy some whiskey. He was supposed to do it on the weekend, the one before the world spun out of orbit.

He stops by the cruiser parked across the street first to let the guys in it know where he's going. They shrug and follow him.

The closest liquor store is only a couple of blocks away but his legs feel weak with the effort of getting there. One boot lace is already undone and tripping him up. He looks down at it and thinks about having to crouch to retie it with his uncooperative fingers and then get back up again. He decides he can live with it undone. He picks out his bottle and pays for it and takes a breath and starts the walk home. It's exhausting. His loose boot keeps catching on the uneven sidewalk. The curbs seem higher than before, the twenty-sixer heavier. He thinks about asking his shadows for a ride but it's only one block. One block. His feet are dragging on the pavement when he gets back to the house. He sets the bottle still in the bag on the floor in the living room, kicks off the loose boot but leaves the other on, too tired to bother, and stretches out on the couch and falls asleep.

Two hours later, but still before midnight, the phone wakes him, shatters onto his consciousness and interrupts the nightmare as the metal pipe shatters his knee. It must be for the hundredth time. How many more? He yells at the phone, unnerved – "Fuck!" – and a reminder of the last few weeks works itself loose in his lungs with the force of the word and he answers the call in a fit of coughing. It takes the better part of an hour to convince his buddy not to come down the next day. He doesn't tell him what happened. He jokes. He's still shaking from being woken when he hangs up. The whiskey bag is within reach. He eyes it for a long and thick minute then he turns away, bends over to tackle the other boot. Upstairs and into bed for the remainder of the night.

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