Chapter 9

He's managed to pull himself to standing, leaning now against the camper, rubs his right thigh above the offended knee. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He talks to it softly. Fuck is his word for sorry, hoping the pain will stop if he admits his stupidity and begs forgiveness. But the pain is excruciating and his knee isn't accepting the offered apology. He wonders how far back this has set him. He wonders too how much trouble he's in. He knows intimately the angles that define Art's angry face, imagines how steep they'll get when he hears about this. And he will hear about this. Usually he and Raylan could talk the Chief around to seeing the humor in it but for the blown-out car window. Even then they might be able to conjure a laugh from him except that one of his deputies was shot at – not so funny – and forced to return fire – really not funny – and that deputy was under orders not to wield anything more dangerous than a pen for six weeks minimum. Art won't be laughing about this until he's been retired a few years, maybe never. The only shiny bit in this whole mess is that Tim missed his shots so there'll be no inquiry to deal with. That'll please Art as much as it displeases Tim. He shouldn't have missed.

Roscoe is in handcuffs sitting in the dirt. Raylan safeties the rifle, calls his old high school acquaintance a string of names that all mean 'stupid' – he's the king of synonyms today – then he saunters over and stands in front of Tim.

"You okay?"

Tim looks up. "Fuck off." That's not an apology.

"What is it, your knee?"

He nods.

"Can you walk on it?"

"Got any pain killers?"

"I might in the car."

"Got any whiskey to wash them down with?"

Raylan taps the front of his jacket, grins. Tim puts out a hand and Raylan slips out his flask and they each have a mouthful.

"I think I can get to the car now."

Barely. He's hobbled. Raylan has to support him. He's got one arm around Tim's waist, the other holding the rifle and prodding Roscoe with it, a five-legged race to the car.

Tim is sweating when he gets there, opens the door and brushes the broken glass off his seat and sits gingerly, pulls his leg in after him. Raylan folds his catch in the back along with a proper number of threats to keep him in line, opens the driver's side door and brushes more glass out onto the road. He stops and stoops in farther and picks something out of the debris. He holds it up for Tim to see. It's what's left of the bullet that injured his Town Car. Tim gives it a cursory glance then he turns his head and stares out of the windshield at a bleak horizon. Raylan throws the crumpled bullet into the backseat, hits Roscoe on the forehead.

"I told you not to shoot my car, Roscoe. Look at this mess. Shit. Now I'm mad."

"It was an accident."

"That only works as an excuse in grade school. This is the real world and you were carrying illegally. 'It was an accident' doesn't fucking cut it."

Raylan's eyes, the whole time he's berating Roscoe, are fixed on Tim. Tim can feel it. When the tirade ends Tim says, "I'm fine," before Raylan can ask again. "Better drop me off at home after we deal with him." He pauses, sucks in a lot of air and then blows it out again. "Art." It's all the explanation needed.

Raylan nods. "You be okay for tomorrow? Might be best if he doesn't find out you messed up your knee." They're both anticipating trouble from the Chief Deputy.

"I'll ice it, take something for the swelling." He shakes his head, knows he'll still be limping tomorrow. "Might wanna pray to the saint of disobedient boys."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I'll deal with Art and…"

The sympathy from Raylan surprises Tim, draws out something other than the usual snark. He interrupts the apology, holds up a hand. "Don't. It wasn't like you forced me at gun point." He's angry, at himself. Where's the patience, hard learned in the military, that he's so proud of? Fucking amateur. "Shit, there's no way I'm escaping his wrath, short of shooting myself before he gets to me. Thanks though."

Raylan tries to distract Tim on the way to lock-up, even brings up the topic of guns himself, but Tim is resistant to cheering up and Raylan ends up talking instead to Roscoe. Tim is left to sit in the car at the local Sherriff's office while Raylan handles the administrative necessities of a captured fugitive. He picks stray pieces of shot-out window from the upholstery and flicks them out into the parking lot.

"If I didn't know you better I'd swear you were pouting," says Raylan when he gets back.

"Did I ever tell you you're my hero, Raylan?" Tim flashes a campaign trail smile and Raylan humphs in response and starts the car and pulls away from the curb.

"Roscoe told me to say it was a pleasure meeting you."

"I should've aimed better."

"Did you really try to shoot him?"

"He was shooting at me first."

"He's an idiot."

"He's an idiot with a gun. There's nothing more dangerous."

"Seriously. You'd have shot him?"

"If I hadn't of missed."

Raylan looks over. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"Do you need a nap?"

Tim doesn't respond. He's busy pouting.

Raylan opens his door to get out and help when they get to Tim's house, but Tim waves him off and limps up the walkway by himself, each step a knife to the kneecap. He hides the pain, stubborn to accept his penance. He doesn't have any ice made so he pulls out a bag of frozen peas and then collects up his emergency medical supplies, a glass of whiskey and a handful of ibuprofen, drops onto the sofa and feels his stupidity fully, without any pity filters or justifications to soften it. It's enormous. He doesn't bother forming up a parade of excuses for Art. He knows what he's going to say – "Boss, I'm a fucking idiot." Art will agree with him.

The cigarette burns are painful but trite, almost silly until they threaten his eye with a lit butt. It should scare him into answering their question but he can see they won't do it. They haven't got the stomach for it. He can smell their reluctance even through a nose clotted and heavy with blood. They chicken out, talk about shooting him in the kneecap. He's pretty sure they've got the stomach for that. They decide after a quick discussion that a gunshot might draw attention. He feels their options narrowing down, feels them in a finger that throbs more than the rest, that won't obey his commands to move. But they've almost run out of fingers. How many more punches to the head before he's unconscious again? It's not pleasant to think about but it doesn't scare him like the metal pipe does. The pipe is on the floor and it's rolling toward him – one of them has kicked it his way – rolls within a couple of inches of his left foot and then stops and starts to roll backward. It looks alive. It seems more violent than a gun, less civilized, and isn't that a statement of his current circumstance, and his past life, that he now categorizes violence by degrees.

The pipe is still moving, its weight giving it momentum. It hits another high spot on the floor and starts to roll back toward him again. He tries to turn his eyes away but he can't not follow its path. It's mesmerizing, hijacking his imagination. He can feel his breathing shallow and raw. That pipe is promising something worse than no tomorrow. He wrestles for control, looks desperately to the door and imagines his buddies blowing the hinges, lined up on the other side in full gear, cammies and M4s and attitude, ready to come through the opening and put a bullet into anything on this side that's not him. He's disturbed but not surprised that he looks to them for rescue and not the people he works with now, not Rachel, not Raylan. He's told himself time and time again that he trusts his fellow marshals as much as he trusted his fellow Rangers, but in this moment when he's stripped down to a truth barer and lonelier and more crushing than the cold floor of the deepest and darkest part of the ocean he has to confess that that's not right. He'll never trust them the same way. He looks at the door again and knows they're not coming for him, not any of them. Not his Ranger buddies either. How could they know? He left.

"Where is he?" One of his captors picks up the pipe.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again he's still lying on his sofa fully dressed, knee throbbing. It's swollen. He can feel the skin tight against his pant leg. The pain killers have worn off. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth reminding him that he drank a lot of that bottle of whiskey last night, and now it's morning. It was a stupid thing to do, almost as stupid as feeling sorry for himself. There's a knock at the door. It must be what woke him. He hears a key fiddling in the lock and the door swings open and Art walks in.

It's a staredown. Tim looks away first. He can't win this one. His body language says it all – I'm a fucking idiot.

"Raylan told me what happened. You alright?"

He sits up fully and tries to straighten his leg. It won't go, stiff and angry back at him. "No."

Art refrains from saying 'I told you so' but if it were possible to speak with elbows Art's are saying it loud and clear. They carve an impressively articulate angle when he plants his hands on his hips. "Do you need to see someone?"

"I guess."

"Can you walk on it?"

"We'll see."

"You say it like that and I take it as a 'no.' Did they send you home with crutches?"

"No."

"Should've sent you home with crutches for your brain. Raylan should've been born with them. Either that or permanent training wheels. C'mon, Nelson's out front with a vehicle. I'm taking you to the hospital. You shouldn't mess around with injuries like this. I know from experience." Art taps his bum knee. "But first, maybe some coffee for that hangover."

He's told to stay off it for a week. They wrap his knee to control the swelling, rap him on the knuckles, send him home with crutches this time, and little white anti-inflammatory pain killers. Art tells him he'll pick him up for work the next morning around nine because he doesn't trust him to behave, to stay home and rest. He says he might be a few minutes late if he decides he has to stop and buy a chain and lock on the way. Tim assures him that's not necessary.

After dragging a promise from him to stay no less than a hundred yards from Raylan at all times, except in the office, Art leaves him to himself for the remainder of the day. Tim takes his frustration out on a game of Grand Theft Auto, kills everything in sight on the screen, video characters exploding in a spray of blood and bullets. He imagines each with a face that he remembers seeing from chair in a room, a room that's damp, cold, poorly lit.

The phone doesn't wake him when it rings – he's too restless for sleep after a day sitting. It's difficult to get comfortable waiting for pain killers to kick in. He swears at his cell, and at himself because he's left it on the dresser across the room and now he has to get up and get there and that's no small thing. He slides carefully to the side of the bed and stands on one leg, gets his balance and hops over, picks up the phone and looks at the number. There's no caller ID to help him decide whether to answer or not. He answers. It's Evelyn.

It takes some patience to figure out what she needs. She's upset. He can hear Cecilia Rose crying, Evelyn trying to soothe her, crying herself. She speaks to Tim in whispers but he can't tell if her voice is low to keep the words away from her daughter or someone else. Maybe it's shame. She's begging help from a stranger.

When he finally understands that she needs a place to get away to, he offers to come get her, hangs up with a street corner address. He then wonders if he can drive. He dresses quickly, maneuvers the stairs on crutches, hall, keys, locks the door. He climbs stiffly into his truck, drags the crutches after him and over the seat into the back. He turns the key in the ignition. Just a light touch on the gas to start the engine and the knife is back attacking his knee, the metal pipe attacking his thoughts. He punches the dash once in frustration then puts the truck in gear and does what he has to do.

He drives too fast thinking about the girls out on the street at this hour. If he gets pulled over for speeding Art'll hear about it – he's like the director of the NSA sitting in his office with reports coming across his desk every second of every day. This is a good excuse though; this one would get him a bye from Art. There's little traffic at this hour and he gets to the rendezvous quickly. Evelyn appears to be back in control of herself but is anxious to be out from under the streetlights and in Tim's truck. He's saved having to get out and try to be helpful. Cecilia has stopped crying. She needs no prompting to climb into the seat and up beside him.

"Hey, little miss. A bit past your bedtime."

"Mama said it was okay."

"Well if Mama says it's okay then it's okay. Did you bring your cards?"

She digs into her pink bag while Evelyn does up the seatbelts, holds up the pack for him to see. Tim is already pulling the truck back onto the road, grateful that the painkillers are finally kicking in and it's a dull throb now in his knee as he pushes on the accelerator and heads home.

Evelyn pauses in the driveway and watches appalled as he pulls out the crutches, locks the truck and half limps, half hops up the walkway.

"I'm sorry," she says. "If I'd known…"

He cuts her off. "Long story. I guess we both got a long story to tell. But hey, we won't have any of those awkward silences to deal with."

"I'm sorry I bothered you. I…"

"I don't wanna hear another apology. I've been getting them all month. You and Cecilia Rose are not a bother."

"Can we play a game?" Cecilia Rose has no compunction about inconveniencing anyone. She runs ahead to the door and waits for the adults. "Can we play?" She's yawning as she asks.

"It's late, Ceci."

"Just one?"

"No."

"Just one?"

"Tomorrow," says Tim, "I'm too tired. It wouldn't be a fair game. You'd win too easily." He opens the door and waves her in. The reality of a child in his house hits him as she hops across the threshold and starts exploring, moving like a bird from corner to corner, touching everything. He hurries ahead of her and does a panicked check to ensure he's locked up his firearms. It's his habit to be cautious but he's not been himself, not since, still off-center, doubts still shadowing everything he does.

He offers the girls his bedroom but Evelyn won't hear of it, refuses outright, so he gathers up sheets and blankets and pillows for the pull-out couch that's in the back room where he keeps a computer and a desk. He tries to help but only gets in the way and ends up watching while she makes up the bed.

"It'll just be tonight," she says, stuffing a pillow into its case. "I'll find something tomorrow."

"It's okay. Stay as long as you need to."

"Just tonight."

She unpacks Cecilia's bag, finds pajamas and gets her ready for bed. Tim retreats to the front room with a cold beer, sits and listens to Evelyn reasoning with her little girl. Eventually it's quiet and Evelyn appears in the hall.

"Thank you."

He nods and smiles and gets nothing back. "You want a beer?"

She stands frozen, undecided. She looks like a photograph of a woman. He wants to see her relax. He wants to discover something about her that nobody else knows. He wants to offer her something that no one else can. For now it's a pull-out couch and a safe hiding place, and he's satisfied with that.

"You look like you need a beer," he says finally, can't handle the suspense so he moves to stand and that gets her unstuck, her arms up to stop him.

"No. I mean yes, I'd love a beer. But I'll get it. You stay sitting. I can find the fridge." She speaks in a rush, unsettled, quietly for the child who's hopefully sleeping. A step or two toward the kitchen then she turns, arms gripped tightly across her chest like she's barring herself in. "Can I get you anything?"

"Another beer would be great." He tries another smile and she smiles in return. He revels in that one small victory while she's gone to the kitchen, and then she's back. She gets close enough to hand him his beer then sits opposite him in a chair and avoids looking at him and drinks hers straight from the bottle.

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