Chapter 11

He's a good boy for the next week, mostly. The crutches have become an extension of his personality, with him wherever he goes, and he uses them for more than their intended purpose. He's tripped Raylan with them once, just once. Shame on me, he thinks when he gets the glare from under the Stetson. He can't trip him again – Raylan's on the alert. He's tripped Nelson a dozen times, Hardy almost as many. Shame on them, he thinks and he'll keep doing it until they learn. He leaves Art and Rachel alone.

It's nothing but paperwork and he drowns himself in it, everything that Art or Rachel will let him have, even offers to do some for Raylan and Nelson. By the end of the week he needs to shoot something. Art can see it in the set of his sniper's jaw and suggests a whiskey late Friday, the clock just shy of five. It's not what Tim has in mind to shoot but it'll do until tomorrow. He plans to ditch the crutches the following morning and drive to a rifle range. He's been off the knee for over a week. He's been off the range much longer.

Word gets out. They're a surprisingly solicitous bunch, all the old boys at the range. He's respected there. It's a narrow slice of life with simple rules and nothing outside the gate matters and anyone who can shoot as well as he can without shooting off his mouth all the time is worshipped. It doesn't matter what you do off the range – who you are, how you earn your money, who you fuck, what make of truck you drive, which politician you hate least – it only matters what you do on the range. Can you shoot well and not be a braggart, and can you offer a sound opinion when it's sought out but keep it to yourself otherwise? If the answer is yes and yes, and yes and yes, then you're gold. Tim is platinum. He's all that, and he rules the short and long range. Furthermore he's quiet and decent to people who are decent to him. They crowd around today, breaking the rule of privacy for once, offer their help, commiserate in appropriate terms which Tim appreciates. Their commiseration is welcome since it's exclusive to escalating ideas for violent retribution, not sympathy. There's a bit of chatter and then they leave him alone to get his groove back. No one hangs around to watch him shoot, no one comments if they do watch him on the sly.

He's pragmatic and uses the tools at hand and currently that means anger. Again it allows him to focus and the morning isn't as frustrating as he imagined it would be driving up. The road back to his former shooting self might not be as long as he'd feared. There are little adjustments made for a stiff knee, a body that isn't quite as flexible as it was a couple of months ago, still tender and tight while the scar tissue around the ribs stretches out. It'll take shooting often and regularly to settle back into it and fortunately he has the opportunity to do that – he's not chasing fugitives and running overtime evenings and weekends. All in all, he's pleased with the day, until he decides to walk the range with the owner. Tired legs, lungs working too hard. He's horrified.

The range owner notices, pats him on the back and says, "Give it time, young man. You'll be alright."

"Fuckers." It shoots out from that well of anger. Tim then dips his head at an angle as an apology for the language.

The range owner doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't care, though Tim's never heard a curse from him.

"So what's gonna happen to them?" he says while he and Tim study the target, the grouping.

"Who?"

"The fuckers."

"Oh." Tim chuckles hearing his words back. "Don't know."

"They caught them though, right?"

Tim shakes his head. "As far as I know they don't got much, not one name even."

"And who are 'they'?"

"Special investigative team outta DC."

"Clearly not doing their job then. Special, my ass."

Tim chuckles again then starts laughing. Hearing that kind of language from an unexpected source is a wonderful tonic. "I didn't think you ever swore."

"I'm gonna have to pray extra hard tomorrow for this little transgression."

"Put in a good word for me. I've used my annual quota of curses in the last two months."

They walk back to the line talking about what Tim has to work on. Tim decides to stay longer, says he may try Hathcock's sitting position to take the pressure off the ribs and make breathing easier.

The owner stands behind him while he gets into a seated position, rifle supported on an arm on a knee, watches him fire off three rounds. He nods, says, "I'd be happy with that showing, but I doubt that's good enough for you. You've got the breathing right. Trigger work's still good."

Tim huffs – he's been doing that a lot lately. "It's not comfortable yet, even sitting. It's the twisting – the ribs are still getting me."

There isn't much talking left to do and neither of them is a talker anyway. Tim focuses on his rifle, sends three more bullets downrange.

The owner watches the trace to target, drops the binoculars and nods in appreciation of the skill. He describes where the three shots landed though Tim already knows, looking through the scope on his rifle. He comments on the wind picking up then says, "What're you gonna do about it?"

"The usual. Compensate. It's blowing pretty much straight across so..."

"Not the wind."

"The ribs?" Tim shrugs. "More stretching."

"No. I mean about the fuckers who did this."

Tim turns around and looks at his friend as if he's only now seeing him truly. "First things first," he says in response. "I gotta find them." He sets up again, left knee up, arms crossed around the rifle. A twinge in his left side and he tenses. He breathes through it. He chambers a round, pictures an angry face, aims.

The route he jogs is different from the one he ran before. It's been altered out of necessity and now it includes the neighborhood where Evelyn directed the cab driver to drop her off that day. He's looking for her. It helps. It's motivation to push it.

The doctor gave him the okay to start running. "Take it easy," he said. He should've given him a prescription for a tattoo – take it easy – had him ink it on his arm where he could read it when he tied on his runners the first day. What was he expecting after that long? That he'd just pick up where he left off? He still feels stupid about it.

He set out on his old route, made it only a few blocks before his lungs stopped him cold, bent double and dry-heaving. He thought it was the rehab knee that would handicap him. He didn't think about the scar tissue in the lungs. He had a fit of temper right there on the street, screaming obscenities and making it worse, limped home panting, every breath burning, his throat sore. He had a beer to soothe the burn because the thought of water put him in a destructive frame of mind, wanting to tear it all down. A house wrecking. He opened a second one out of spite, hurting only himself, then he chased it with a double shot of whiskey. Fuck it. He went to bed defeated, woke up determined and strapped on his shoes, limped home again, soundly beaten. That's when the idea of the tattoo came to him, standing on a street a quarter mile from his house with his lungs lashing out once again, rebelling and enticing his stomach to join in the mutiny. Eggs and toast and coffee blended with acid on the asphalt.

He keeps at it but it's not getting better. It seems he'll never get back to where he was before. Patience, he tells himself sitting on a curb not even a half mile from home on his sixth day out, chest and legs burning. Patience.

Day seven he wakes up early to run again before work but he doesn't get up, lies there instead, his morale exhausted. What's the point? Then he stops beating himself up. Day eight he turns right at the end of his driveway instead of left, new scenery, no distance markers in place to taunt him, running till the breathing starts to hurt, no further, then he walks home. He's up again the next day and the next. It's working for him.

The idea to look for Evelyn comes a few weeks later when he makes it as far as North Broadway and Loudon, a mile and a half. He plans to walk back as part of his routine, a good warm down for his knee and his lungs. He stops at the corner, breathing heavily and only a hint of a burn now, reads the signs at the intersection and remembers her voice speaking over the car seat to the cab driver. He didn't end up at that part of town on purpose but now he's here he thinks about her, wonders how she's doing. He half expects to see her, or a flash of pink. He turns in a circle looking.

He's out running late on a Saturday. A vehicle pulls in by the curb from behind him, the wrong way on a one way street. He reacts, jumps onto the lawn of the house he's running past, turns ready for battle. It's a black Town Car. The window rolls down.

"Fuck." He lowers his hands and steps closer to the car. "Raylan… Jesus."

"Do you carry when you're out running?"

Tim leans down and pulls a subcompact out of a back holster underneath his baggy t-shirt, taps the barrel on the bit of window still up. Tink, tink. The sound is properly threatening.

"Guess I'd better be more careful next time not to startle you," says Raylan. "Get in."

"Why? I'm out for a run on purpose."

"You look tired."

"Raylan…" The tone is impatience.

Raylan smirks. "I got someone you're gonna wanna meet."

"Who?"

"Get in and I'll tell you."

Tim straightens up, slips the gun back in its holster and walks around the car and slumps annoyed in the passenger side. "This is a one way."

"So, I'll turn around."

"Who are we meeting?"

"Clive Dunstan."

"And I care…why?"

"He's from DC – part of the special investigative team looking into your little mishap. He's curious to meet you. He's not supposed to be."

"Not supposed to be curious or not supposed to be meeting me?"

"Both, I guess."

"Well, I guess I'm curious to meet him."

"I bet you are. He's waiting for us at The Chase."

"The Chase?" Tim looks down at his clothes, the sweat stains, the worn hems, thinks about his waitress. "I look like shit."

"He won't care." Raylan turns to look at Tim and smiles. "Or are you more concerned about that waitress?"

"Forget it."

Raylan won't forget it. He's chuckling. "Why don't you just ask her out?"

"I said forget it." He takes hold of the front of his sweaty t-shirt and fans it, leans forward to let some air across his back. "What's he doing in Lexington?"

Raylan ignores the question, focuses on the actions. "You look fine. You got some of those hormones coming out in the sweat. I read somewhere it drives girls crazy."

"Fuck off."

Raylan's enjoying himself too much to oblige. "You do look like shit. You got a hole in the knee of those sweats."

"I said fuck off. Why's Mr. Clive Dunstan in Lexington on a Saturday? They suspect you of something?"

"He came to talk to Art again, look at phone records, check the house where we had Sandoval, take a tour of the horse farms. Like it matters."

Tim opens his mouth to reply, something sarcastic, but it's too personal. He lets Raylan keep talking.

"Me and Clive worked together in Miami briefly – he was moving out as I was coming in. We got along. I did him a favor."

"What, you blow him?"

Raylan's smile drops, he turns a sharp eye on Tim. "You are in a pissy mood. You want me to let you out here so you can run it off?"

He is in a pissy mood. He's in a pissy mood every time he goes out running. He's in a pissy mood whenever he thinks about the investigation. "No. I wanna talk to Mr. Dunstan."

"Then stop being an asshole."

"I was just following your example, Raylan. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery."

"Well you're a quick study. If you're gonna be this pissy, you're buying."

"Fine."

They don't speak to each other for the few remaining blocks to The Chase. As Raylan pulls into a parking spot on the street, Tim says, "I don't have my wallet. I don't take it running. I got ID and a five dollar bill."

"But you carry a firearm."

"Makes perfect sense to me."

"Yeah, to me too." Raylan picks up his hat from the console between them. "Fine. I'll pay. You can owe me. Besides, I think I'm as curious to hear what old Clive has to say as you are."

"I doubt it. And you owe me anyway."

"Since when?"

"Since you… Well, always."

"I guess I'll take your word for it. I don't tend to keep track."

"I've noticed."

"Shut up, Tim."

"'Your pictures don't do you justice.' What an asshole." Clive Dunstan has caught a cab for the airport and left them drinking and Tim is happy to see the back of him. He didn't like him, is now mimicking what he feels were Clive's more stupid comments. "Was he trying to be funny?"

"They were some pretty horrific photos."

Tim tilts his head.

"Yeah, well," says Raylan, "maybe I forgot what a moron he is. Anyway, get anything useful?"

Clive's most redeeming quality is a loose tongue. He told Tim everything that he's been able to get out of the DEA agent in charge of the case being built on Sandoval's testimony. Most of it is information that Tim has already pulled from the files, but there are interesting tidbits in the gossip that didn't make it into any report. The DEA had been working on turning another member of that particular drug gang. Sandoval was, as far as they were concerned, bottom of the list of possible snitches. They steered clear of him. Never bothered. Sandoval was content in his role as an enforcer – mean, loyal, hardened to the life. The DEA's disbelief when he came to them voluntarily, said Clive, was almost greater than their disbelief at his reason for snitching. Sandoval said he was reformed, wanted out of crime. No one bought it. Everyone figured he was skimming, except he wasn't. Then everyone figured he was on the out with the boss, except he wasn't. It was a sudden split. It was a mystery.

It's still a mystery. Tim spent enough time with Sandoval to feel as perplexed as the DEA. Is all this useful? Maybe. "I think it confirms something for me."

"What's that?"

"That it's something personal he's hiding from. He did something he shouldn't have. I don't think it had anything to do with the business."

"Must've been bad, whatever he did."

"Yeah."

"At least, I hope so."

"Yeah." Tim understands what Raylan means. He doesn't want to entertain the idea that he might've suffered this much for something trite, money owing, or insulted pride. It'd better be something worthy of a Greek tragedy. "He'd better have killed somebody's mother."

"Or kid."

His favorite waitress is serving them. He has mixed feelings about it. She appears at the table as he finishes the last mouthful of beer in his glass. She asks if they want anything else, smiles at Tim and adds, "Haven't seen you in a while. Have you been sick? You look thinner."

He looks at her but only long enough to see the smile then he turns his attention to his hands and wrings his beer glass thoroughly. "Been away," he says.

Raylan clarifies. "He's been in the hospital."

"Oh my God," she says, properly concerned. "What happened?"

Tim glares at Raylan; Raylan pretends not to notice.

"You read the paper?"

She nods.

"Remember some weeks ago – US Marshal found beaten near to death?"

She nods.

Raylan indicates his drinking buddy; his drinking buddy mouths, "Fuck you."

The waitress squats down and rests her chin on her folded hands on the table and looks hard at Tim. "I thought you'd been transferred and didn't bother to come in and say goodbye. Shit, I wish I'd known. I'd have come visit you at the hospital."

"I wasn't much company." It comes out a mumble.

"Maybe just as well I didn't know. I'd probably have tried to sneak you in a beer, just out of habit." She's smiling again, trying to pull one out of him too.

"There were a few times I thought I'd like a beer."

"You want another one now?"

He tips his empty glass a little to ensure it really is empty. "Sure."

She looks at Raylan.

Raylan pokes his hat back and grins. "I'm drinking if he's drinking."

"Nice to have you back in one piece," she says, stands and squeezes Tim's shoulder and leaves a hot spot nagging at him. "This one's on me."

"No, that's alright," he says but she waves him away.

Raylan watches her slip behind the bar. "I think she likes you, Tim. You play it right, maybe you can show her your scars later."

"Stop helping me."

"Hey, I got you a free beer."

"You're paying, remember?"

"Right. Good for me."

"Yeah, good for you."

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