Chapter 13

There's a knock at the door. He stands up to go see who it is. A quick check of his watch – past ten. It's likely Raylan looking for an extra finger on a trigger, or Art to see what he's made of the report. Art's been patient, not a word spoken about it in the office. He reaches across the papers spread out over his kitchen table, sticky notes and highlighter marker streaks in garish neon dividing and corralling the black and white into a mad pattern, and picks up his handgun before heading to the hall. He won't be caught off his guard a second time. He can see an outline silhouetted on the privacy glass by the light from the street, a halo of hair in shadowed black. He stares a minute trying to make sense of his confused feelings, then turns back to the table and hastily gathers the papers one-handed, dumps them without ceremony into the kitchen's junk drawer. A last look around the room then he trots to the front door and opens it. It isn't until he's let them in that he realizes he's still carrying his handgun.

He tucks his right hand and the weapon it's holding behind his back and flattens out the left, palm up, down at knee level for a slap from Cecilia Rose as she skips past him into the house. Evelyn slinks in behind her but doesn't shy away from his eyes when they catch hers. He has questions.

"Let me get her to bed," she says, her voice low, "then we can talk."

"I now know why she doesn't want me near her house."

Rachel looks up from her sandwich. "She? Evelyn?"

"She and the little miss are back."

"At your place?"

Tim nods around a mouthful of burger.

"Tim…" Rachel clearly disapproves but stops herself from speaking, reconsiders her words, a bare shrug. "Is she okay?"

"Not really, but only bruises this time."

"And why doesn't she want you near her house?"

"She's married to a cop, LPD."

"No." It's drawn out and expressive, unusual for Rachel. She drops her sandwich and covers her face with her hands. She knows what this means. It's unwritten but scrawled in blood on every surface in this line of work – you don't mess with someone you might have to rely on for your life. The Lexington Marshals Office works hand in hand with the Lexington Police Department, every day. "For God's… Tim, don't go there. Send her…"

"Send her where? LPD to file a report?" He takes another bite of his burger, looks over the crowd in the restaurant. It's a local law enforcement haunt, and there are ghosts lurking today. He wonders if the asshole is in here right now.

"Tim, you can't…"

"Hey, don't think I don't know it. I probably know it better than anyone."

"Tim…"

"I know." He stuffs in the last bite and sits back in the booth and picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth. "It's fucked," he says. He can see she's not sure what he's referring to and he's not certain he's sure either. Maybe everything.

Art strides through the bullpen from the hall pulling Nelson and a clerk from downstairs behind him like flotsam and jetsam in the drafting wake of an ocean liner. He's clearly in a mood. He loses his train of debris halfway to his office, the two slink off to Nelson's desk to complete whatever task has been assigned to them. Tim glances up briefly then back to his work.

"Tim. My office. Now."

So that's how it is today.

He slaps the report he's been working through onto his desk and then carefully lines up a pen underneath the sentence he was reading when he was interrupted. It's a dull account of a robbery investigation and he doesn't want to have to read it twice, not one word of it. He hopes the detective who's name is penned at the bottom doesn't have hopes for a career as a true crime author. He glances at Nelson and the clerk, heads together in a tête-à-tête, and learns nothing from their body language to explain what's led to Art's gruff mood. He unfolds from his chair at a leisurely pace, stretches, then purposely takes his time, strolls the fifteen feet to the office, hands buried in his pockets. He pulls them out when he reaches his destination, crosses his arms and leans on the doorjamb, half in, half out, a good tactical position.

"What's up?"

Art's had time to sit, log in and start reading something, his lips moving slightly to help the words along. The lips pause and pucker, a subtle acknowledgement of Tim's presence, but the eyes don't look up. Art says, "You rode with Raylan yesterday afternoon."

It might be a question; it might be a statement; it might be what's on the screen now and Art's decided to read it aloud. Tim can't tell and Art's giving nothing away. He proceeds carefully. "Yeah, we, uh…did a run out to the back forty checking for strays. Ran across a posse out near Behan's ranch trying to run down a pair of boys who stirred up some mischief in town last night, shot up the saloon. We offered to help and it was gratefully accepted on account of we know the area. We ended up catching the outlaws ourselves so the owner of the saloon bought us and the sheriff a round. It was right kindly of him. On the way back we circled by the cut up at the northeast end, found a dead calf near the creek. Figure it was wolves got at it, maybe wild dogs. We should keep an eye out. Then – wouldn't you know it? – my horse took lame…"

Art looks up midway through the bullshit but doesn't interrupt right away. He's amused; his mouth twitches. Finally he says, "Behan?" He makes a face, thinking. "Wasn't that the name of the sheriff in Tombstone or something?"

"You know your Marshal history."

Art beams, happy for the praise, then ropes the smile back in and says, "Don't flatter me. I know you're trying to distract me from the fact that you disobeyed my orders yesterday."

Tim is sincerely confused. "What orders?"

"I told you to keep a hundred yards away from Raylan at all times."

"That? I thought that rule expired when I got back on regular duty."

"It expires when I say it expires."

Tim huffs, not in the mood today for Art's make-believe officiousness. "Can we just pretend you said okay?"

Art's done with playtime, voice brisker now and he gets down to business, the real reason he called Tim in to talk to him. "How's it going at the range? The shooting range."

"Didn't you already get that report from Raylan?"

"The long distance range."

"Oh. Alright, I guess."

"Just all right?"

"Better than expected."

"So you think you're ready if I need you on a rifle?"

"Yep."

"More confidence, please."

"Yessir."

"Better." Art peers over his glasses, studies the figure in his doorway. "Hell, Tim, look at you." He takes off his glasses and stands up, waves an arm up and down encompassing the full length of the deputy marshal that is Tim Gutterson. "That's the first time you've done that lean thing since what happened. I guess you are feeling better."

The doorjamb is a bit close to focus on but Tim turns his head anyway to amuse Art and gives it a good stare, and then looks down at his shoulder resting on it. "Shit, you're right. It doesn't hurt to bend like this anymore."

"That's wonderful. Now stop leaning on my door frame and get your butt in here and close the door behind you."

Tim pushes off and realizes he doesn't feel it, not anywhere. His recovery has been sneaking up on him. It took Art to see it, point it out. The advantage of an outsider's view. Tim takes a deep and incautious breath and feels just a hint of a reminder. He shuts the door as ordered and settles into a chair. Art comes around his desk to sit near him.

"Find anything useful in that report?"

"Do you need it back?"

"I've read it through a billion times, no a billion and one, well, maybe six…and a half. I can't find anything in it." He stops here to make sure he's got Tim's attention, pausing for emphasis. "Neither can they."

"So that's it? They're done?"

"Yep."

Tim nods, not surprised; surprised he's not disappointed; disappointed he's not surprised. "And they don't want me looking at it, do they? I'm not supposed to…"

"You're not even supposed to get a smell of it. I could get into some serious trouble for handing it over to you." Art slouches back, hands clasped behind his head. Not a worry in the world. "I'd probably lose my Chieftain, my bureau, maybe even my retirement benefits. Good thing Leslie has medical with her job." His voice is as light as a shell casing, the bullet already spent.

"You think they'd do that if they found out?"

Art considers the question, straightens up again and looks down at his hands dropped defeated into his lap. "I doubt they'd take it that far, considering how pathetic their investigation has been. But who knows? This kind of thing makes the uppers nervous. Being as near as they are to the full-time politicians they've learned the art of spinning anything to keep themselves shiny. Headquarters isn't in DC for nothing."

Art is fidgeting with the wedding band on his finger. He takes it off and turns it in a circle and slips it back on again. Then off again. Rarely does it leave his finger, only on those occasions when he has to go out into the real world with one of his deputies, when he anticipates getting his hands dirty. Those times it gets tucked safely into a desk drawer. Raylan takes off his hat; Art takes off his ring. Tim thinks back over the times he's worked with them both together, of the violence that always follows when Art bares his hands and Raylan sets his hat somewhere to keep it safe. Tim purposely doesn't carry anything he'd have to shed to be battle-ready. It's a habit learned, an expectation for his day that goes back years before he started this job. Light infantry – that's his training ground. His mind shifts through the things he owns and he wonders if any of them might work as that kind of anchor for him, a tether to the civilian world. Maybe he might find dating easier if he had something symbolic to slip on to put him in another mindset. It occurs to him that in fact he has the reverse problem – he has to take something off to feel a part of this world. He has to take off his weapons, all of them, including his knife, his holster. No way that's happening, not after the events of the past few months.

His hand slides unbidden around to his holster and his fingers read the violent Braille on the grip of his service weapon. The movement catches Art's eye and he appears to become aware of the symbolism that he's exuding subconsciously through his fidgeting. He pushes his ring firmly back on his finger and rubs his hands on his thighs, agitated after all.

"We all know who it was," he says, finally throwing the dirt up to catch the wind.

Tim understands that Art is setting something in motion. "Taylor."

"Who else? He's covered himself nicely. And it's not like they can go down there and beat a confession out of him. It's not Guantanamo."

It's as if Art has seen past Tim's desperate trawling through the database, seen a future with Tim alone in a room with Taylor and it worries him. He should worry. The only thing stopping Tim from a road trip to New Mexico is that it would ricochet back on Art. Tim won't do that. By giving him the report, Art is trusting Tim not to do that. So, he'll dig deeper, look for a connection that he can then speak in Art's ear and Art can then pass on to DC. Failing that, he'll find another way to get to Taylor. He's had no patience for his recovery but he has patience for this, for a proper Old Testament chapter of retribution.

"It's DC," says Art after a moment. "It's politics. They won't do anything unless they're a hundred percent certain. They don't want a dirty deputy so they won't find one unless they have to, do you understand?"

Tim nods.

"Keep the report as long as you need to. Keep me informed though, if you find something."

"Alright."

Raylan is waiting in the hall for him at the end of the day. Tim suspects he's looking for a drinking buddy. He's not entirely wrong.

"Buy me a drink. I'll make it worth your while." Raylan says it in a lowered voice then waves Tim onto the waiting elevator with the rest of the crowd leaving for home.

"Is this a come-on? I'll bet it doesn't work with the girls either."

"I'll let you pick the bar."

He gives in to the inevitable. "Fine. The Chase. I like it."

"Apparently that's all you like. I'm getting the impression that you never intend to actually catch the girl you've been eyeing now for six months."

The elevator doors open onto the lobby. Tim steps off and to the left and stops, lets the hall clear then says to Raylan, "Here's an idea – why don't you just tell me what you want to tell me right here and save me the trouble of having to socialize with you."

Raylan smiles generously. "Rachel's worried about you."

"Is that what you want to talk to me about?"

"No. You just made me think about it, you being all surly. She says you're too serious since what happened."

"I'll lighten up again, don't worry. As soon as I find the three fucks that taped me to that chair and…" He can't think of an appropriately vengeful action to focus on, he's tried out so many in his head. The sentence ends in an unsatisfactory way.

"And… what?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Best get figuring that out before you find them. So, beer?"

Raylan repeats what Art already told him, only by way of Clive. The investigation is dead in the water, a bloated lifeless corpse floating just below the surface, unrecognizable, blurred and grotesque, stripped of dignity and purpose. They all suspect Taylor.

The beer tastes good anyway at the end of the day and Tim doesn't really mind sitting in the bar drinking with Raylan. His waitress is big smiles and talkative tonight. It's a step back, a reminder of what was and what might be possible again. He's not sure what's waiting for him at home, so he's not in a rush to get there. Evelyn is distant, hurt, hurting. She's beautiful and vulnerable and it makes him uncomfortable. He wants to fix it. Or he wants her. Both would be nice. Neither is possible.

"Who's paying this time?" she says, his waitress, standing holding the tally poised in one hand. She looks approachable and manageable and desirable, and yet she pales in contrast to the other woman that's on his mind. The realization makes him sad.

"That'd be me," he says and holds out his hand.

"Hold on." Zoe – she's introduced herself tonight – takes out a pen and leans over their table. She scribbles something on the back of the bill and then hands it to Tim. "Didn't want my phone number going to the wrong guy," she says and smiles for him.

He smiles back feeling like he's won something, a prize in a draw, unexpected, nothing earned, and nothing he can use. He feels like an asshole accepting the paper with the invitation on it while he thinks about Evelyn, but he hopes maybe it's just where he's at right now, that maybe the phone number will tug him back, kick off the next chapter.

Raylan is amused. "Now, Miss Zoe, heaven forbid I interfere in your life's business, but are you sure you want to be giving him your phone number? If we did a poll today of the people in his life, I think you'd find it'd come off nine out of ten that he's an asshole."

She doesn't look to be dissuaded from her purpose. "Well, all the guys I've dated so far have appeared to be nice guys and turned out to be assholes. Maybe I should be dating the guys that appear to be assholes. They might turn out to be nice."

Raylan concedes the point with a nod. "You might be onto something."

"I'm thinking of writing a book and imparting my dating wisdom."

"Best wait and see if he even calls you."

"He will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Nobody tips that good and doesn't want my phone number."

Tim ducks his head, embarrassed.

"I'm off this Saturday," she says and moves away to take orders at another table.

"Shit, Tim," says Raylan. "How much did that phone number end up costing you, all in?"

"It's just money." Tim counts out the cash and leaves a generous bit extra then carefully folds the phone number and slips it into his wallet.

xxxxxxxxx