Chapter 10

He half expects to find them gone when he gets up the next morning. He's awake early, five-thirty. It seems ridiculous to think they left in the dark, yet he imagines they've sneaked out sometime in the night and that he'll find his house empty but for him. He lies in bed listening. A car rolls by on the street; a dog barks. There's nothing he can do about it. He has no hold on them. He then reminds himself that he would've woken if the door opened in the night. He sleeps lightly since his time with the Rangers, unless he's drugged or beyond tired. Why's he even worrying about it? There's nothing he can do.

He rolls onto his back and throws off the covers and flexes his leg, obediently running through the stretches he was told to do for his knee, then he hops to the shower. Just that is exhausting. He needs to get back in shape. He feels cheated, robbed of something valuable and now he's going to have to work hard to get it back.

After the shower he flops onto the bed to get dressed rather than try to balance on one leg. He's not going to put any weight on that knee for the week. Nothing's going to make him mess this up again. It's important to him to prove Art wrong. The look on his boss's face when he dropped him off yesterday after the visit to the clinic suggested that he would be surprised if Tim stuck to the program the doctor recommended for him. So Tim is going to stick to the program. He hates someone telling him he can't do something.

The door to the back room is closed tight – it's the first thing he notices when he comes downstairs. There are little pink sparkly runners in his front hall. The girls are still here. He's surprised, and the feeling of pleasure that comes with it is even more of a surprise. Maybe he's not such an asshole. Fuck you, Tara.

He makes coffee quietly, hobbles out the back into the yard to use an outdoor socket to grind the beans. Just as the last of the water is dripping into the pot Evelyn appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

"We'll be gone today," she says.

He says, "Good morning."

She looks embarrassed.

"I can't say it any plainer – you can stay as long as you need to. Were you planning on going back to him today? I can guarantee he hasn't learned a damn thing."

"No, I'm not going back."

"Good. Coffee?"

"Please."

He looks at her, tilts his head. "I can't tell if that's bed-head or…" He does his afro charade again with his hands. He's trying to make her laugh.

She reaches up and touches her hair self-consciously.

"I'm kidding."

A weak smile is all he gets. "Permanent bed-head," she says.

"You're lucky I've had a shower. You couldn't begin to compete with mine."

Evelyn ducks her head and smiles more honestly and he turns around to pour the coffee, smiling himself. She hurries to take the mugs from him and carries them to the table, freeing up his hands for crutches. She gets the cream, asks if he wants sugar and then sits facing him.

"I gotta go to work today. Make yourself at home."

"Okay," she says, but her head is disagreeing – it's saying no, shaking gently. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"You have any family nearby?"

"I'm from South Carolina. He convinced me to move here with him last year. My mother moved up too to be closer..."

"How's she doing?"

She stirs her coffee in endless circles, eventually sets the spoon to rest against the side of the mug, looks out the kitchen window. Her hands come up to cover her face and she's crying.

He doesn't get an answer. He doesn't know what to do so he drinks his coffee.

"So."

"So what?"

Rachel keeps her eyes on the road but reaches over and swats him hard. "So, how long is she going to be staying with you and when exactly did she move in and what part of 'getting involved would be stupid' did you not mean?"

"I meant all of it but what was I gonna do? She called just after midnight, crying."

"Last night?"

"Yep."

"I'm glad you took her in, Tim. It looks good on you."

"Thank you."

"Ceci really does remind me of Shawnee. It's weird. Brings back memories."

"Does it bother you?"

"No. It's a safe distance now. Shawnee was precocious like that. She had everyone wrapped around her little finger. I hated her for it when we were growing up. I hate myself now for hating her then."

The smile comes involuntarily. He knows she can't see it with her attention on her driving. "Hey, could you do something for me?"

"Depends."

"Could you drop by the hospital and check on her mother? I figure better you than me. I'd probably get thrown out. You're cleverly disguised."

"Black female."

"Yep."

She laughs. "Sure."

"Thanks."

"So how long are they staying?"

"I'll let you know. I wouldn't be surprised if they're gone when I get home later."

They're pulling into the courthouse parking lot when it dawns on him that Rachel picked him up and not Art. He looks over for the Chief's car. It's already there.

"I was expecting Art this morning."

"He had a meeting."

"Before eight?"

Rachel's working at not looking at him, bustles ahead of him to the Marshals' entrance and opens the door for him.

"Who's he meeting with?"

She pauses, still won't meet his eyes. "Not sure."

He stops and leans heavily on the crutches, slouches down so he's level with her face, watches her. "DC, I'll bet"

Her aggravation is showing. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"You don't have to. Not talking is saying it all."

"Damn it, Tim. You're not supposed to know."

"Whatever. I don't know nothing."

"You remember that."

"It's the only thing I have to forget, so I can't. I know nothing else."

He and Rachel are early. Art's already in. So is Nelson, and Hardy, the new guy. Even the administrator is at her desk. Tim stops inside the door and checks his watch. It's unusual for the bullpen to be this busy at this hour. Criminals don't tend to be early birds. As he's pondering the strangeness of the scene, Hardy walks out of Art's office, walks past Tim and says, "Chief wants to see you."

"I'm barely out of bed. What could I have possibly done?"

Hardy shrugs. "You tell me."

Raylan doesn't like Hardy. Tim decides at that moment that he doesn't either. The man has no sense of humor. It's hard to work this closely with someone if they can't laugh at themselves. Even Nelson is good for a healthy dose of self-deprecation. Raylan says Hardy is a robot, no emotion, no nothing worth communicating with. Maybe he's right. A stab of distrust surprises Tim, jabs him in the temple while he watches Hardy, imagining him making a phone call to a thug in New Mexico. He flicks the thought away but not fast enough and it imprints and he hates himself for it. It's ridiculous. Hardy started the day before Tim was assigned Sandoval. He's straight out of Glynco. There's no way he's connected. That kind of finger pointing is self-defeating, and proving it wrong is now the only way to clear the suspicion from his head. He swears under his breath, does his three-legged walk into Art's office while juggling guilt and anger.

"Hey, boss. What's up?"

"I need to yell at you. I felt too sorry for you yesterday to do the job properly. Get in and close the door. And sit down so I don't start getting soft again."

Art begins when Tim is comfortably seated. "You should not have gone out with Raylan without my say-so."

"It was stupid."

With that admission Art has nothing to throw himself against. He continues feebly anyway, feeling he must. "And it's a pain in my backside. Now I have to make up a fraudulent report saying I gave you permission to return to active duty without a medical okay, then I have to date it the day before yesterday and sign it and then I have to explain my reasons – and I haven't got any yet – to HR."

"Sorry."

"Shit, don't lie to me. You're not sorry. Raylan wasn't sorry either." He rubs his head and shuffles some papers and then looks past Tim to the bullpen. "I guess I'll say we were short and… I mean, you're out of commission and Hardy is still training."

Art's wrong; Tim is sorry but it's not worth trying to convince anyone. There's a heavy silence that follows. He's expecting more. "Is that it?"

"Yeah. Go on."

There's more. Tim's sure there's more. Art seems heavier than usual. He makes an educated guess at what's weighing Art down. "I know you talked to the investigators this morning. They got nothing, right?"

And that's it. Art slumps back in his chair. "They were in yesterday afternoon and this morning asking the same damn questions. They're whacking around in the trees with a nine iron, outside the ruff, looking for any ball to play."

"Didn't know you were a golfer."

"I'm not. That's why that analogy came to mind. My ball always ends up well off the fairway. I've started using bright pink ones just so I can find them. My son-in-law drags me out when he's in town. I hate golf."

Tim gets to his feet, hobbles to the door, then stops and turns awkwardly. "Chief?"

"What?"

"What happened to Sandoval?"

Art is quick to say, "Why?"

"Just curious."

"Thought maybe you missed him."

"Oh yeah, sure. He's a peach."

"Like I told you, he was transferred. Raylan took over his file, passed him off before we even found you. He's not our problem anymore."

Again a silence, again it's heavy. He nods and turns and heads back to his desk, thinking. The fact that Raylan was put in charge of the sign-over is good news for him. He doubts he could get anything out of Rachel, but all it's going to cost him to get information from Raylan is a beer…or four.

Raylan is just coming in as Tim is sitting down. He swivels to face him.

"Buy you a drink later?"

"I never turn down a free beer." Raylan lifts his chin in Art's direction. "He still mad?"

"Not really."

Raylan takes off his hat and looks around, screws up his face. "I thought I was early this morning. What the hell?"

Raylan told him what he wanted to know. He knew he would.

He replays the conversation in the cab ride home. He waved off the offer of a drive from Raylan, leaving him and Rachel to argue over whether he should be behind the wheel of a car. They'd all had too many, especially for a weeknight. Even Rachel was keeping pace and speaking with uncharacteristic liberty about the job, her emotions pouring out easily like the beer. Tim figures they all needed a night like that after the last couple months, them more than him.

He was hoping to talk to Raylan alone, was disappointed when Raylan asked Rachel to join them and she accepted. He expected her to call it quits early like she usually does but she held in there. After the third beer he gave up waiting, put his question out there. She surprised him, hardly put up a fight when Raylan told him everything he knew about Sandoval.

"Everyone thought Art was overreacting. He made us take all three of our current WITSEC cases and pass them off out of state. I drove Sandoval up to Cleveland with the new guy, Hardy."

"I didn't think you liked Hardy."

"I don't. He's about as entertaining as a Monday. But he dealt with all the administrative bullshit, officious little jerk. I think he enjoyed it. And that allowed me to have a conversation with the one good-looking deputy they have up there, Clara something, redhead, so he's good for something"

"A nap. A redhead. That's nice. And all this while I was bleeding and hurting and taped to a chair hoping you'd come rescue me?"

"Actually, I think you were on the way to the hospital at that point. We got the word they'd found you on our way back."

"Tim," – this was Rachel interjecting – "we had nothing to go on. No trace of you."

"Don't worry, I know. I'm just fucking with him. And look at him. He's not feeling bad about it anyway."

Raylan clearly wasn't, grinning back at them. "I wasn't going to waste an opportunity."

"Did he go quietly?"

"Sandoval? He didn't say much. That was when I decided maybe Art had the right of it. Your guy was some spooked that you'd gone missing, did whatever we said without any attitude. The way you described him, I'd say that wasn't his usual charming self I was seeing."

"Raylan," – again, Rachel – "I don't think we should be discussing this. You know the investigation has been passed to DC."

"Fuck DC."

That Rachel didn't approve of the attitude was clear by the look on her face, but she didn't bother trying to set Raylan straight. She knew him better.

Tim hid his grin with a hand. He understood Rachel's position but he was fully on Raylan's side on this. Fuck DC. He couldn't have said it better himself.

He's still smirking at Raylan's choice and succinct expression as he arrives at his house. He pays the driver and hobbles up the driveway. The dark and the quiet and the place altogether trigger a flashback to the attack. Another memory of his captivity blows through like a hurricane and clears out the alcohol fog.

"Where is he?"

Fuck you. He's too far gone to say it aloud. He looks numbly about the room, his view compressed to a narrow landscape by the swelling in both eyes.

"Is he still conscious?"

They grab hair and pull his head back and he's looking at a curious face.

"He moved his eyes. He's still with us."

"Fuck. I thought this would be done by now. We're gonna kill him at this rate."

There's one who watches, the most agitated. He paces at the back of the room, keeping his distance, eyes angry. He pushes past the main interrogator and gets his face right up close, lets out an incoherent and loud burst of sound that seems to promise an explanation for everything if Tim could only think clearly enough to understand it.

"What the fuck's your problem? Sandoval's a fucking piece of shit! He ain't worth any of this. Tell us where he fucking is."

He's stunned by the outburst – everything is suddenly altered by this rage. He feels spit on his cheek and his forehead. It does nothing to cool the sudden heat. He remains silent while he tries to figure out how this fits. It's been cold until now. It's been calculated.

Angry Face grabs his hair again, yanks his head back again, close enough to kiss. "He ain't worth it, you stupid fuck. He ain't worth this broken fucking finger." He lets go of Tim's head and it drops painfully, not ready. He reaches down and snaps the first finger he can get a grip on. He's furious. He screams in Tim's face as he's doing it. It's primal, again no words form just raw anger, a blast of emotion and hot air and spit let loose.

Tim stops at the door, breathing hard. He works to calm down. He examines the memory.

It's personal, not business. He's only now realizing it. What did Sandoval do to this guy?

He watches it again in his head, remembers Angry Face stepping forward eagerly, leaning in with each blow from the fist of his accomplice as if he could add some energy to each punch. His anger transferred from the real object of his hatred, the man he can't get to, Sandoval, to Tim. And Tim's within reach.

"Where is he?" Words this time in the scream. He breaks a second finger without waiting for an answer.

Why is he so angry? That's what Tim needs to find out. It's something to move this forward. That's where he's going to start looking. He's going to find a name for Angry Face.

The house is empty when he steps in, dark and quiet. The girls are gone. There's a note – Tim, thank you. Evelyn – a scribble underneath in purple crayon that must belong to Cecilia Rose. He can just make out her name. He hopes they've left Kentucky, taken a bus out of town and away from the asshole. But Evelyn's mother is still in the hospital according to Rachel, unresponsive from another more devastating stroke and Evelyn won't leave her, and he knows from his job what the statistics say about domestic abuse and how it runs its course – there's a phone conversation and a promise and she's gone back to give the asshole another chance.

There's nothing he can do.

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