Chapter 14

He thinks about Evelyn when he's with Zoe; now he thinks about Zoe when he's with Evelyn. He didn't think it possible to be that stupid.

He was surprised to find the girls still at his house when he arrived back from the bar with a paid tab and a phone number, but there seems to be more permanence to their presence this time. Evelyn's brought a suitcase. He's not heard her say, "We'll be gone today." No apologizing. She's been shopping. She's bought groceries and alcohol and made dinner for herself and him. She's put Cecilia Rose to bed and opened a bottle of wine and now she's opening a little of herself for him to see. She's a bit drunk. She's waited to eat with him and that makes him wriggle in his seat thinking about whether she does that for the man who beats her regularly too. It's not a comfortable feeling imagining himself in the same company as that asshole. He constructs a façade to exaggerate the differences, prying wider the gap so Evelyn will see he's not him and relax. He talks softly, moves slowly, pretends a passivity. He works to ask questions about her and her world, things he imagines that her husband doesn't do. He asks about her mother, about Cecilia Rose's birthday just passed. He asks about her home in South Carolina. While she answers he watches her move, feminine in a way he's not used to, fluid, exotic, ethereal. He feels awkward and earthbound. He feels like he's watching a movie. Evelyn is not comfortable, not in any way. Evelyn makes him want something he's never felt the need for until now. Evelyn makes him want to hide the dirt and shine his shoes. It wouldn't feel like that with Zoe. In fact it doesn't. Zoe is earthbound, tethered to the ground like he is. She laughs loudly and swears when she thinks the bar's patrons are safely out of earshot. Like him she's comfortable with a bit of dirt, and he thinks he'd be comfortable with her. People say 'comfortable' like it's a dirty word. Maybe it is. But not like they mean.

Evelyn sets down her wine glass; her arm glides across the table for the bottle. He imagines that arm on the skin of his back, wrapped around him from the front. When his mind takes off and takes the daydream further he slams on the brakes, pictures something he hates – Sandoval, an angry face. The change in his demeanor infects the room. She becomes wary and begins to fidget, nervously stands and clears dishes.

Tim stands too and she backs away.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not like that. I'm not that kind of guy."

She looks down at the knife she's unconsciously gripping, sets it on the counter.

"I was thinking about the fuckers who put me in the hospital." He regrets the word 'fuckers' and self-consciously turns to look into the hall expecting to see Cecilia Rose, wide-eyed. He wipes a hand across his mouth then sits back at the table. "Nothing to do with you."

"What happened?"

"I got the shit kicked outta me."

"I saw that much."

She waits for more but there's nothing coming. Eventually she picks up the wine bottle and her glass and carries them into the living room, and he stands again to follow, gets another beer and they settle on the sofa. She's answered all of his questions and he can't think of anything more to ask. His eyes move to the TV and he's about to suggest a movie when she starts talking again, this time about the beatings. It's a story told from the beginning and it won't stop. Every detail is in it, including some that he recognizes from his own story, the things he can't say coming out of her mouth. It's as if the asshole has punched something loose, knocked the lid off finally and all of her is spilling out and Tim is caught unprepared with nothing to catch it in and he's smothered by it, by his own story, drowning in emotions, anger swirling, for him, for her, desires surfacing with other feelings and all flailing madly looking for a way to the surface and out.

She doesn't cry. He wishes she would. It would dampen the mood. He's not supposed to want her like this. He was serious when he told Rachel it'd be stupid to get involved with her. It is stupid. She doesn't need it; he doesn't need it. But her skin calls to him – notes rich and soft. He can feel something radiating from her, a song that he can't tune out or turn off, cutting through the noise of his emotions, and he's getting hard, unconsciously leaning in. His eyes slide down the curves of her neck and his tongue wants a taste. His hand detaches itself from reason, slips across the small space between him and her and sends out a finger, reaches the last quarter inch and touches her in the hollow between her thumb and her wrist, achingly beautiful. She turns her head, eyes down watching the touch, tenses, but doesn't move her hand away and now it's done. There's a flash of second thoughts that fragments and disappears as his finger moves up over the back of her hand and invites the others with it and they follow on a smooth path up her forearm, spreading out over her elbow and enveloping her bared shoulder. Everything quiets for him as he focuses on her skin. She moves now, but not away, closer, turns her arm over and slides her hand into the sleeve of his shirt. There's no part of him that doesn't react to her touch. He wonders when the last time was she felt safe with a man, safe like this. It's his rationale that she needs to know that there are other kinds of men, kinder men than the one she's been with. But what does he know about it? What does he know about kindness? Nothing. It's his rationale, nothing to do with her, nothing to do with kindness. He's the one who needs something. He needs some kindness, something gentle, and he pulls her nearer until they're sharing his space and the bit of air between their lips. The façade slips and he struggles to keep it in place while his desires recklessly tear it down.

It's over before his orgasm, before he helps her relax and coaxes one from her too. It's over before he knows her outline against his sheets, before he kisses her. It's over before his hand crosses no-man's land and steals the touch. It's over before she knocks on his door the night past, and the time before that, over before her daughter sneaks into his hospital room to interrupt his recovery. It's over before he's introduced to his vulnerability taped to a chair in a cold room. It's over before he enlists, before he discovers his own store of violence. It's over before his birth in one state and hers in another. It never starts. He wakes up alone. She's slipped from his bed in the night and back into hers. The door to the back room is closed, sparkly pink runners strewn in his front hall. He showers and dresses and heads to work, leaves quietly, a thief, buys his coffee on the way to the office so she can sleep longer.

They're gone again when he gets home that night. He's not surprised though he wishes he were. He feels a twinge of guilt; larceny doesn't sit well with him.

He only understands one cure for a confusion of feelings. He jogs the two blocks to the store and gets a bottle of Jameson, unscrews the top and takes his first mouthful while he's kicking off his shoes in the hall, turns on the Xbox then ignores it and picks up the phone and calls his buddy in Ohio. They both drink while they catch up. The bottle is three-quarters empty and the screen saver is a pixel blur when he finally gets to talking about Evelyn.

"You are so fucking stupid." His buddy has a way with words. "What an asshole."

"Yep."

"So you gonna call that waitress?"

"Not sure. I doubt she needs an asshole in her life."

"What she doesn't need is for you to be an asshole and not call her. Fuck. Do I need to come down there and fucking kick your ass around Lexington? She gave you her fucking phone number. Give her a fucking call or give me the fucking number. I'll call her. She's obviously not picky."

"Fuck you."

Their words are slurring now, a linguistic nightmare of sloppy consonants and curses. Tim is laughing and it comes out from somewhere deep and dark. He slides off the couch onto the floor and then lies down the rest of the way. He hangs up on his buddy midsentence, no warning, imagines his friend cursing at dead air and it keeps the laughter going. He tosses the phone across the room and it bounces off the chair and lands on the carpet.

He wakes up later with a dry mouth and a headache, stumbles to the kitchen for water and then stumbles upstairs to bed. He drifts in and out until the alarm wakes him at six and the first thought in his head after admitting to himself that he's still a bit drunk is that he's told his buddy about Evelyn and Zoe but still not a word of confession about what happened in that room, taped to that chair.

He puts on his runners and heads out as the sun comes up. The sidewalk is rolling beneath his feet in peaks and troughs of a rough whiskey sea. He dismisses the rolls his stomach is doing out of sync with the sidewalk and runs faster, studying each house on his route through the neighborhoods surrounding the corner of Loudon and North Broadway, looking for a hint of Evelyn or a flash of cornrows and pink baubles.

He hopes they've left Kentucky this time. He hopes he doesn't see a silhouette of a halo and a bruised angel on his front porch ever again.

He's close enough to sober when he gets back home that he showers and heads to the courthouse to work.

Tim suggested Rachel, but Art insisted on Hardy.

"He needs the experience," he said. "Besides, you're not expecting any trouble from this guy, are you?" Art motioned at the folder Tim carried in when he came to explain to his boss where he'd be spending his afternoon.

"No." No. No trouble. The warrant and the file outline a petty criminal, breaking and entering, simple assault. No trouble. Nothing he couldn't handle by himself except that he's tracked the man down to a rooming house that's notorious for agreeing to rent to felons. You never know who's going to walk out the front door and make your life miserable when you walk in. No pets allowed, but firearms are apparently encouraged. It's a standing rule at the office - no one goes there alone. That's why he asked for Rachel.

"Glynco trains them well," said Art, pushing Hardy. "You didn't have any trouble."

Tim opened his mouth to remind Art that he had some unique experience prior to applying to the Marshals Service. Most of the instructors at Glynco couldn't begin to compete with the training he'd already been subjected to. But his brain hurt too much to argue, the rebuttal died on his lips and he nodded, compliant. Alright, Hardy.

Now he's regretting being so amenable. And he has a hangover.

"I heard about this place from Nelson," says Hardy when they pull up in front of the rooming house.

Hardy is already jittery. Tim considers leaving him in the car.

"Are you all right for this?" he asks and Hardy says, "Yep, it's what they train us for, or did you skip that day?"

He wants to lean over and punch Hardy in the face but all unnecessary movement is torture. He grunts something and gets out of the car.

Less than two minutes later Tim has a situation on his hands. Hardy is barely standing, his pants soaked to the knee with piss. He's only upright because he's being supported by the felon with biceps like boulders who has him in a choke hold, a long and lethal knife pressed at his temple and already drawing blood. The felon is screaming at Tim to drop his weapon. That's my line, thinks Tim and stands steady, ready to shoot somebody, and he's considering Hardy as a target. His head is still hammering from last night's binge. He can't call for backup. He doesn't dare relax his aim to reach for his phone. Hardy is ghoulish white and pleading; the felon is yelling and trying to take control of the situation by dragging his hostage backward through the doorway. Hardy is dead weight and slowing down the escape. At least he's doing something right. There's a crowd gathering and Tim is becoming concerned about what he can't see behind him. He wonders what the hell they're teaching them now at Glynco if this is the way the new recruits are handling a show of violence. You don't cower. You don't hesitate. You don't turn your back on the threat. This guy is a threat. Tim didn't come to this address for this particular felon but he's found him, the one ready to make a kebab of Hardy's gray matter. He knows his face. This asshole's been on the Eastern District of Kentucky's top five for three months. It's no wonder he reacted badly to the sight of a US Marshals star. He's been here before. He's a repeat violent offender, wanted for murder, armed robbery, in the wind until now. Hardy should've known his face.

Tim wants this day to end, quickly. He's angry about being put in this position. Sooner or later he'd have to rely on his shooting again, but he wanted it on his own terms, not hungover, not with an argument pounding in his already aching head.

You can make this shot. You've made this shot a hundred times.

Don't be a fucking idiot. You are not ready for this. You miss this shot and Hardy dies, one way or the other.

Don't be a pussy – put the fucker down. Take the shot.

Don't take the shot. What if you hit Hardy?

You don't miss. Gather your energy and focus, asshole. Take the fucking shot.

He pulls the trigger. It's cold and it's calculated and the round hits its intended target and he knows it with the same certainty that he knows his name even as both Hardy and the man with the knife fall backward through the glass of the door in a mess of blood and screams and flailing limbs.

Tim watches as Art pulls his car into the crowd of cruisers. It takes on the same colors, blue and red, as the rest of the vehicles crowded into the scene. Art's shirt too, blue and red, as he stands and sweeps his eyes through the mayhem and settles them on his people. Tim and Hardy are sitting on the steps to the old brick rooming house. A few feet in front of them the coroner is zipping up a body bag. Hardy has his head down, hands hiding himself. Tim is leaning back, a look of disgust on his face. He's spent the last hour telling Hardy that he's okay. Everything that's happening, happened, will happen, is a normal part of the job. He says they're all used to the smell of urine. He knows it intimately after a handful of deployments and then his time with the Marshals Service. There's no shame. He's said it a dozen times since he helped Hardy disentangle himself from the asshole and the blood and brain matter and fear. He's tired of saying it. He doesn't really believe it, not in this case. Hardy is done.

And Tim is still hungover. He promises himself no more drinking midweek.

Art walks over, waving off the locals who try to intercept. "Tim?" he says. "What happened?"

Tim explains, bored look, eyebrows up.

"Craig Stephens?" Art turns and looks at the outline of the body in the bag.

"One and only."

"Shit. Did you get your guy?"

"Nope."

"What the hell?"

"For some reason, I forgot why we came."

Art snorts, nods at the coroner's vehicle.

"Well, I'm happy to have him where we can keep an eye on him."

"Morgue."

"Yep." Art and Tim share a look and a history and an understanding. Art directs his attention then at his other deputy. "Hardy. You okay?"

Hardy doesn't answer. Tim shakes his head and it's answer enough.

Art leans down and pats Hardy on the shoulder. "It's okay, son. It's not fun being on this side of things. Give me a minute and then we'll get you outta here." He motions to Tim then and Tim stands up and they walk, put some distance between themselves and all other ears. "You mind telling me what really happened?"

Tim explains, the whole truth this time. Hardy fucked up and there's no point adding sugar to sweeten it. It'll get somebody on their side killed next time.

"Well, I think I'm done questioning your proficiency with a handgun."

"Appreciate that. Me, too."

"You were doubting yourself?"

"I dunno. I guess."

"Helluva shot."

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Hardy though…"

Art turns and looks back at Hardy. "Not everyone is cut out for this." He holds out his hand and Tim unclips his sidearm and sets it in the open palm. He appreciates that it's Art he has to surrender it to. He thinks about the cost of the custom trigger parts and sighs.

"Didn't have it very long. You carrying a backup?"

"Yessir."

"Then I don't have to worry about you going into withdrawal." Art gets half a smile. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink." He looks at Hardy and waves a hand. "After..."

"Uh...it's a weekday."

"And you're on administrative leave until this clears. Mind you, shouldn't take too long."

"Right."

"It'll give you time to focus on other things."

Tim doesn't bother pretending he doesn't know what Art is referring to. He squints into the sun setting behind Art's shoulder. "I could use a drink." A bit late in the day for the hair of the dog, but he'll take it. So much for promises.

xxxxxxxxx