Chapter 12

He's at work early, sitting at his desk scrolling through a database of mugshots. He's looking for a face. One of the three has to have been arrested before, has to be a blip on somebody's radar somewhere – you don't get that mean and have no one notice. That level of violence doesn't come naturally. It's a hell-fire baptism, a way of life that builds on itself and should leave a trace trail for him to find. He's confident in this. His confidence falters though when he brings up a face to compare with the ones in his head. He's working from damaged memories. There are entire days that are gone. The memories he's relying on were scrambled in the beatings, distorted by fear, diluted by hospital drugs. The bits that remain to him are suspect, fitted together after the fact. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable and he's no exception. But he keeps looking. What else can he do? He knows how this might appear to his friends on the job – desperate. He also knows what's next, that if he gets frustrated with this he'll be flying to Las Cruces to beat a confession out of Deputy US Marshal Taylor. He looks around the empty bullpen, a mental roll call, and he knows it's no one here. He just knows. Sandoval was only in Kentucky for three days when his visitors showed up at Tim's house. Too little time between.

Art strolls in with a coffee, the morning paper tucked under his arm, stops inside the double doors and checks his watch and looks at his deputy. "Alright – one morning, whatever, but two weeks of early mornings? What're you up to?"

Tim stops scrolling. "Looking for a face. Not against the law, is it?"

"No."

Art's 'no' sounds as if it wants a qualifier tagged onto it, like he's holding back from adding a 'but.' Tim leaves it alone and goes back to his scrolling, pretends not to hear what isn't said. But his boss is speaking plenty through the silence, still watching him and Tim can feel it. He looks up again, belligerence in the movement, in time to see Art absentmindedly take a sip of his coffee while eyeing Tim. He's burnt his lip, careless with the hot liquid, pulls the cup away too quickly and spills a drop or two, swears under his breath while he wipes at the drip on his shirt.

"Dammit, this was clean this morning."

"I'm just looking," says Tim with more heat than he intends, gives a lot away in his tone. "Nobody else is doing anything about it. You want me to stop, then order me to stop."

Art has his tongue out worrying the burnt spot gently, looking affable not accusatory, innocent of anything that Tim is implying in his grumping.

"You all right?" says Tim, feeling bad now about snarling at him.

He gets a nod. Art is still focused on his burnt lip. "Shit, that hurt." He holds up the takeout cup and reads the side of it. "Maybe I'll sue."

"Don't. I like that coffee shop."

"Yeah, so do I. Maybe instead I'll smarten up and let my hot beverage cool a bit before I drink it rather than suing somebody for my stupidity. Seems unfair to get millions and be able to retire in luxury just because you're as dumb as a post thinking that coffee isn't hot." He starts walking toward his office but veers right and ends up at Tim's desk.

Tim watches the approach from the corner of one eye, anticipates a full interrogation and polishes his rationalizations and righteousness while he continues to scan the database.

"So, you're looking for a face, are you? Any specific search parameters? No, wait. Let me guess. Young, single, female, enjoys cheap beer and expensive firearms."

"Close. Male, Caucasian, twenty to fifty, smoker, enjoys duct tape and beating on US Marshals."

"Not what I would've picked for you, but…you know…live and let live. Though do you really think you'd be happy with somebody like that?"

Art lets the joke float a bit. Tim isn't laughing, eyes back again browsing the screen, surprising intensity for such a passive activity. Art sets his coffee and paper down, drags over the chair from in front of Raylan's desk, pulls it around beside Tim and sits. He watches the slideshow.

"That's all you got to go on – white male, twenty to fifty? They all start looking the same. Nothing to narrow it down?"

"Nope."

"Even with the bizarre hobbies, that's a lot of possibles. Every guy I know likes duct tape."

"Yep."

"And you're just gonna…" – he waves vaguely at Tim's monitor – "…keep doing this?"

"Yep."

"There's got to be a way to refine your search."

"The DEA won't let us into their database so I've been searching the general one, first just on Sandoval – known associates and known associates of known associates. Nothing. Then I went through anyone attached to the drug ring he's part of…"

"You'd think the DEA would want us to find the guys who are trying to kill their star witness." Art takes a more careful sip of his coffee, winces when it touches his lip. "It's a mystery how their brains work over there."

"Too much cocaine snorting going on."

There's a noise of amusement and agreement from Art. "I guess you already tried filtering for just Las Cruces addresses?"

"Yep."

"New Mexico?"

"Yep."

"Drug charges? Assault?"

"Yep."

"There's really no point in my trying to improve your hound dog instincts, is there?"

Tim stops scrolling again and turns to face his boss. "You come up with an idea I haven't thought of, I'll listen."

"Let me think about it."

Art gathers his coffee and paper, gets up and trudges to his office. He leaves the chair where it is, blocking Tim's escape. Tim huffs at it, at Art, stands and drags the offending chair back around to the front of his desk.

Once he's up, he doesn't feel like sitting again right away. He feels like some air. "You want anything from the coffee shop before somebody sues them and they go out of business?"

"Got a coffee, thanks. Burnt my lip, remember?" Art holds it up for him to see but Tim has his back to him already, heading for the hallway. Art waits until he gets to the door to say, "If they have any of those apple fritter things…"

"Alright."

He's lost in his thoughts and Rachel's distracted. Phone to her ear, hand on her forehead worrying something, she almost collides with him stepping off the elevator on the main floor. He glowers at her then walks past and through security and on out the door to the street. He hears her say, "I'll call you back" and then she appears at his elbow.

"Where are you going?"

"Coffee."

"How long have you been here?"

"Couple hours."

"A couple of hours!" She looks at her phone to check the time. "Is Art even in yet?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Yes, he's in and he wants an apple thingy."

"I'll come with you."

"You want a coffee?" She rarely has coffee before ten.

"No, I'm just coming to help you."

"Aw, that's so nice. I appreciate it. I was wondering how I was gonna possibly carry a coffee and that apple thingy." He glowers again. When they're out on the sidewalk he stops and turns to face her. "What?"

"What?"

"You know what."

"I thought I'd keep you company."

"Exactly."

Her eyes widen out expressively. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Tim?" It's Tara. The voice comes from behind him. He makes a face to match Rachel's before he turns around.

"Hey." It's all he can think to say. All that time naked and that's all he has for her.

"Hey? That's it? That's it?! Where've you been? Why haven't you called? You… I didn't even get a text dump. You managed to go one lower than that."

"You're right." He pulls out his phone and starts texting her.

"Fuck you!" She punches him, gets his shoulder, winds up for seconds.

Rachel steps in, stands between them. "Hey. That's enough."

He stops texting and looks at Rachel, bemused at her interference in this.

Tara doesn't take much notice of her, continues to let her feelings out verbally, yelling at him over Rachel's shoulder and jabbing a finger as far as she can reach. "My sister told me to dump you ages ago. I should've listened. She said I deserved better. She's right. You are such an asshole! Don't bother with the text. Don't bother me, period."

And that's it. She turns abruptly and leaves before he can say to her that it was exactly his intention not to bother her again, so what's the problem? It's just as well she didn't give him an opportunity to retort. He'd just come off as an asshole. He tries to feel it properly, that he is an asshole, but he feels nothing except the punch and even then she didn't put any shoulder into it.

He says to Rachel, "What are you, my bodyguard?"

Rachel doesn't turn around, she's watching Tara's exit. "You didn't call her after you got out of the hospital?"

He shakes his head then realizes she can't see it. "Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nope." A shrug. "Wasn't anything to say."

"What an asshole thing to do."

He's not entirely sure if Rachel is aiming that comment at him. She's still watching Tara storming off across the street and down the sidewalk away from them.

"I figured if she hit your ribs she'd set you back a few weeks." Rachel turns finally, takes his elbow and leads him to the coffee shop. "See, you did need my help. Next time, don't be such an asshole."

Now he's certain she's aiming the comment at him, but he's not entirely sure for what. The scene brings to mind his idea for an asshole apartheid and he outlines the concept for her. She's amused until he tells her when and where the idea occurred to him, then she's upset.

"You're not an asshole," she says. "You just behave like one sometimes. But I know you better."

He thinks that's splitting hairs, but he's grateful that she's trying to find a way to keep him on her side of the dividing line so he stops needling her about being his chaperone, lets her help with his errand. She carries Art's apple fritter.

Every time he looks up from his desk Art is watching him. Maybe the Chief is trying to catch him doing something wrong so he can put him back on a desk. Maybe he's hoping to catch him scrolling through the database on company time so he can practice being angry. Maybe, and most likely, he's more worried about Tim's early morning activities than he's letting on.

Tim's been given the medical all-clear to return to active duty, a week and half now he's been let off the leash, and he's been behaving, but maybe Art's not as sure as the doctor. He can't think of anything – except the database search on an investigation that he's been warned away from – that might make Art edgy. He lets it go another hour but then, after hanging up the phone and crossing the last number off a list of potential contacts for a new fugitive warrant that was dumped in his lap this morning, he looks up and over at his boss and catches Art staring again. Tim tilts his head and raises his eyebrows and mouths 'what?' The insolence carrying across the distance even without sound. Art narrows his eyes then swivels in his chair so his back is to him. There's a cabinet behind Art's desk and he stands at it and opens a drawer, drops his reading glasses from his bald head to his nose, and leans over the files. Tim glares another thirty seconds hoping Art will turn around and notice, but he doesn't, so Tim gives up and starts into level two of his fugitive hunt.

He's combing through the DMV database matching names and dates against another list when Art appears in front of his desk with a folder. He's holding it like it's loaded, cautiously, two-handed. He won't look at him.

"Let's take a walk, Tim. I need a coffee."

"Now?"

"Now."

There's no point in any further questioning. Art's got his Chief's hat on and he's barking short orders and there's an expectation of blind obedience. Tim plays the subordinate part well. He keeps his rebellious thoughts to himself, pushes back his chair and logs off his computer and opens his drawer for his keys and wallet. Art is already out in the hall and is standing holding the door open, waiting. He hustles to catch up. Rachel is watching, as confused as Tim. Art gives her the nod which means that she's in charge until he gets back.

The folder has Tim's full attention. The drawer that Art went to before he demanded Tim's company for coffee is where he keeps all the employee files. It stays locked. Even Rachel doesn't have a key. This folder came from that drawer. It's thick. It's officious looking. Tim worries that word has come down from on high that he's to be taken off of field work, permanently. Maybe they don't think he's fit, mentally or physically, after what happened. He was there to hear the okay from the doctor, but he hasn't seen the report from the psychologist. He could if he wanted to. Art offered. He said no. He played it casual but it spooks him, that report. He's worried about what people can see that he's trying so hard to hide. His world has changed and he's changed with it and he's not sure how it's going to affect his job.

Art takes the folder firmly in both hands again, thumbs worrying the top, stares at the elevator door.

Tim's eyes are on the restless thumbs; his mind is occupied with the contents of the folder.

There's a veneer of normalcy in the bullpen these past two weeks that he can see, like he's got an outsider's vantage, face at the window wanting in. He's waiting for it to shatter at his feet and either let him in or push him out for good. He watches Hardy settle into his role, Raylan come and go stirring up the locals in Harlan, Rachel be officious and efficient, Nelson run to keep up. Tim acts his role, wooden, chases fugitives and does transport duty. He's keeping up appearances out of habit. He had to work overtime this past weekend helping Rachel on a stakeout. They talked in the car like nothing happened, like before. He goes to the bar with Raylan as much as he always did, sometimes with Art too, sometimes Rachel joining them. But still it's a sham. It's all a fake since. He's slipping and sliding on the surface of it. Holding his breath, waiting. Maybe this is what he's been waiting for – the other shoe to drop. He pictures a boot instead, steel toe, steel shank. Maybe he's won the battle but lost the war.

By the time they get to the coffee shop and are seated at a table as far back in a corner as is possible in the tiny storefront, steaming mugs standing like a last supper, Tim is resigned to his fate. He imagines what he might do next because staying with the Marshals Service on a desk is not in his future. Art sets the folder on the table and nudges it ever so slightly in Tim's direction.

Tim settles back solidly in his chair, bracing for the impact. He flips open the folder and takes in the first page of the contents. It's not what he's expecting. It's a shock seeing it. He wishes Art had suggested they go to a bar instead. It's a photo. It's a stack of photos, evidence pictures of him taken at the hospital when he was first brought in. He doesn't recognize himself. It takes a moment for him to understand what he's looking at. The first is a close up of his face, eyes swollen, his entire face swollen. He wets his lips and flips to the next one, and the next, burn marks, bruises, cuts. A graphic picture of the damage from the pipe, white ribs showing through a red, yellow and pink pulp that is his flesh. He squirms in his chair. Art reaches over after the sixth and thumbs through to the bottom of the pile of photos and flips them upside down off to one side, then drops a thick finger on what's underneath. It's the report, all of it, every detail, statements, interview transcripts, evidence drawings and diagrams, maps of Lexington, maps of Las Cruces. Everything.

"I'm hoping you can find something in here that'll help narrow your search. You've got a knack for connecting things from reports. Maybe you'll have better luck than the folks from DC. I'll see you tomorrow."

Art stands abruptly and leaves Tim with two full mugs of coffee and a loaded gun.

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