Chapter 16

The morning rolls by in a series of dreamscapes and skimmed thoughts. Sleep comes and goes. He's rising and sinking in a sea of semi-consciousness, a dead-man's float buoyed by images that seem real until he breaks the surface and their absurdity is revealed. Rachel is sitting naked on his sofa, hurt. The question of blame is there but he doesn't hear her ask it – why did you do that? He tries to figure out what he's done but he can't focus on her, her voice ebbing and flowing like a weak radio signal, an SOS lost in the peaks and troughs of the storm he's in. He wants to help her but is thwarted by waves of ludicrous obstructions, things disconnected and unlikely. There's a fugitive in his bathroom and when he opens the door Cecilia Rose runs out. She's found one of his handguns and he's trying to get it from her but first he needs to take Tara to the airport and every light is amber then red and the streets are all dead ends. The frustration takes on a recordable decibel level. Then he's outside without actually getting there, on a snowy, sparsely treed mountainside, dark, picking up pink and purple and turquoise cards as the wind blows them, princesses and castles, farther down the slope into a kill zone between two rises. Fear shifts through him looking into the trough. He can hear a buddy from his platoon calling for support. There's gunfire. He's in civilian clothes, no gear, no helmet, no body armor. He can't find a rifle, a pistol, any weapon to use. He's unprepared, frantic, searching the landscape and his house is there and he searches each room. A car careens past the front, too fast for the neighborhood, pulls his thoughts to here and now and he twitches, the mountain gone but the urgency lingering. Another car, the radio loud, and a voice outside. Eyes flutter open unseeing, like the blind movement of moths against the light, close again. He's back in that room, in that chair. There's a soldier on a knee in the corner watching him. They went through RIP together, were assigned to the same battalion. He never did like him and he tells him that, and tells him too that he and his fire squad did everything they could to get him alive to the helo. He can hear it, the rotors batting at the thin mountain air. It's not far, he says again and again. This might not be a dream. He recalls the mission clearly. It's a memory, and it's real. Except the helo is always just over the next hill, the next, the next, each one steeper, the ground skittering and sliding underfoot and they drop him, urgency builds again. Another car moves past and he surfaces, wonders what time it is, what day it is. He thinks about coffee. A siren a block over, and Art walks into the office wearing a judge's gown and hands out ice cream to everyone. When he gets to Tim the ice cream is melting and dripping on his desk, on everything, on his hands and his shirt. He knocks a file onto the floor trying to wipe up and it lands with a thud and he opens his eyes and the bullpen is now his living room and Evelyn is on his sofa. Why is she here in his house now? The ceiling cracks and gapes and there's a hole and the rain is coming in, pouring in unnaturally and filling the room, rising past his waist, his chest. He tries to get her out but the water pushes him back toward the door. He twitches awake again when the water reaches his face.

There's a web hanging from the ceiling, turned dark gray with dirt and dust. There's another near the corner of the room, dangling and moving like a braided fast-rope dropped from a helicopter, swaying in a loose circle with the torque from unseen rotors. He watches it, not yet ready to be awake, and recalls another mission, too heavy a load and rope burn. He lifts his hands off the floor and checks them for blisters, rubs at the callouses that are there and knows it's just a memory.

He never looks up at his ceiling, not unless he's lying on the floor. Twice in two days now, and so it takes him a minute to remember what got him here this time. More drinking but a different excuse, different company. And that's where he is when he knows he's awake, stretched out on the carpet because Raylan has taken over the sofa. He turns his head and sees him snoring softly with his head propped at a neck-stiffening angle, his hat lifting and falling with his chest. There's an empty whiskey glass in an unaware hand.

It pieces together. They talked a while about women and then Raylan was asleep when Tim came back from a trip to the bathroom. He sat on the floor to gather up the report and put it back into some kind of order, wrote down on a separate sheet of paper the names of the officers who took the original statements from the victims of the sexual assaults in New Mexico. He wanted to stretch out for a minute. Just for a minute.

How long ago now? Tim checks his watch – almost three hours. He sits up cross-legged then rolls further forward onto his knees, bleary eyed, dry lips. Encore. He bends over and drops his forehead to the floor to stretch out his back and thinks about Muslim prayers.

Stiffly, he steps around the coffee table, around his report stacked messily on the floor, reaches down and carefully lifts the glass out of Raylan's hand then picks up his own from the table and carries them to the kitchen. He sets the glasses in the sink, puts the bottle of bourbon with the bare inch of amber liquid sitting accusingly in the bottom back into the cupboard, makes a pot of coffee and some toast, gets out peanut butter and jam and spreads it on thickly. He's hungry.

He tiptoes up the stairs to the bathroom with his breakfast, eating and dropping crumbs as he goes. He does a proper job washing the gashes on his knuckles, stopping before wrapping them to finish his last bite of toast, sip some more coffee. He hears the door open downstairs and expects it's Art come to talk and it is. He listens, head turned and tilted. Two male voices, held soft – Art, and he's woken Raylan. They probably think he's sleeping. He turns on the tap and makes some noise, brushes his teeth, catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, stops brushing and stares at his reflection. He remembers the dream with Rachel and wonders how to interpret that one. He drops his head and spits. Maybe he's looking for the why of it but not certain he wants to hear the answer. In a flash of honesty he knows that it's guilt. He should never have encouraged Evelyn to find refuge here. He should never have crossed that small distance between them.

The anger was everything last night, dominating the event, and this morning there's something of it still lingering, but cooled. If he had a rifle and an opportunity he'd do what he couldn't last night. Wouldn't think twice about it. But it would be overkill in every sense and a bandaid for what ails him. It would help with the anger, nothing else. He thinks about his part in it and he's not proud. Learn and move on.

In that moment he realizes that the abusive asshole is genetically not likely to be Cecilia Rose's daddy. He's white-white, light haired. His eyes squeeze tight together, shutting out the sight of the hypocrite in the mirror.

He doesn't feel up to facing Art yet so he has a shower to procrastinate while he mops up the mess that is his feelings. The water stings the injured hand and he tells himself he deserves it. He sits after drying off and wraps his knuckles with care, like he might be readying for a boxing match. He's got a clearer head when he finally shows his face downstairs. The bubble that was the fantasy has burst and he knows he won't be allowed to see her again. Not that it would stop him if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to and that doesn't upset him the way he thinks it should. He thinks again about the dream with Rachel.

Art looks tired. Tim feels bad for him, but not for Raylan. Raylan has done things as stupid or worse and dragged Tim into all-nighters more epic than this one. It's a kind of pay-it-forward ledger they've got going between them and Tim's still in the black, even after last night. Art and Raylan have helped themselves to coffee and Raylan has dug out a box of cereal that Tim didn't know he had. He wonders what the best-by date is on it, and on the milk that Raylan is liberally pouring into the bowl. Apparently it's edible. Raylan isn't gagging.

Art is unusually quiet sitting watching him, sipping at his coffee and not looking to be in a hurry to get to anything, neither a point nor a destination. Tim watching Raylan; Art watching Tim. No one's talking. Tim has plenty of practice with silence and puts his experience to good use hoping to get a peek at Art's mood before he opens his mouth to make the requests of him that he needs to.

"Thanks for the coffee," Art says eventually. He held out for a good while.

The opening statement prompts Tim to remember his own empty mug and he steps across the room and fills it and tops up Art's too and Raylan's. He sets the empty pot back and turns off the burner and leans against the counter and waits.

Raylan nods a thanks, his mouth full. He meticulously works to the bottom of the bowl, picks it up and drinks to finish off the milk. He's not a patient man, so he ends the silent contest. "Since Art's too tired to talk, I guess I get to break the good news. It's official," he says, turning in the chair to face Tim. "No charges. Somebody likes you." He points straight up.

Tim sits down with them then still waiting on Art to say something more so he can get a picture of his boss's frame of mind.

Art obliges him. "You should be aware though that there is the possibility of a civil suit. I don't know what kind of man he is, but if I did what he did I'd feel I deserved what I got and leave it at that."

"I doubt he thinks he deserves any of it, Art," says Raylan, "not since he's the kind of guy who feels entitled to do that to his wife."

"Yeah, you've got a point. Best to anticipate some legal action." Art directs the last bit at Tim, and he sounds sorry to have to say it.

Tim takes that as a good sign. "I'll deal with that when it happens," he says. "Anybody know a good lawyer?" It's a joke; they're surrounded by lawyers daily. There's more than one that owes him a favor.

"Go talk to Everton," says Art. "He'd be my choice. Get some advice now."

"Alright, I'll do that."

Coffee gets everyone's attention for the moment, and then Tim starts in on his requests. "Am I allowed in the office today?"

"Depends on why."

"I was hoping to do some database digging. I think I might've found a lead. I think."

Art blinks. "On the Sandoval thing?"

He nods.

Art perks up a bit, happy not to have to rehash the night. "What'd you find?"

His report is still on the floor in the living room. He calls it 'his report' now and in every respect that's what it is. He's woken this morning with a sense that he can now take full ownership of that future. It's a gift of purpose, a path to follow. And no one else has the means or the opportunity or the will. Not like he does. He moves quickly to get it and returns at a slow walk, flipping through the papers. He chooses one and slides it across the table upside down for Art to read – Sandoval's arrest history. "Besides the usual drug-dealing asshole related charges, he's been brought in on three separate occasions for aggravated sexual assault."

Both Raylan and Art peer at it, curious, though Art's read the entire report through at least once and Raylan heard the highlights from Tim earlier, some time before the sun came up and they were both too tired take the discussion any further.

Art leans back after reading the indicated lines, rubs his eyes and says, "So?" Exhausted eloquence.

"So, I think the guys that grabbed me knew one of the girls. I think that's what this is all about. And I might be able to track them down from there."

"Why would you think that when he's turning state's evidence? Don't you think that's a more likely reason to have enemies that would risk kidnapping a Federal Marshal?"

Tim mimics Art, sits back in his chair. He considers his answer. "Yeah, it is the more likely reason. Not getting us very far though, is it." He rubs a finger across the bandages on his right hand. "Do you have any idea how angry I was last night?"

Art has to get a dig in. He says, "I think, Tim, that all of Lexington knows."

The tilt of the head is not cocky, it's a concession. His display last night did no good for anyone but himself, and even then. "They were angry like that," he says. "It wasn't business. It wasn't like that."

"You sure?"

He's knocked back into memories when he tries to form the argument. He recalls vividly the feel of the chair, wet underneath him with piss because he'd long past had to let that go. Tell that to Hardy. He remembers a foot stopping the metal pipe from rolling away from him again, a hand reaching down to pick it up. Angry Face. The big guy of the trio, the one with the fist that he now knows intimately, reaching out and taking hold of the other end of the pipe, a momentary tug-o-war. "I'll do it." A growl, not of submission but acceptance of good judgment, and Angry Face releasing his grip and moving backward against the wall, moving like an aggressive animal on a very short leash. "Just find out where he is."

It's like he's there again, and the emotions that he thought had been dealt with, that he thought he'd absorbed leaving only a drop of the anger as reminder, are an ocean and he's lost in them. He brings up both hands quickly and presses his fingers hard into his eyes, stands and walks away from Art and Raylan on the pretense of making more coffee. He counts out the scoops deliberately, shaking but only for his notice, only to show him his vulnerability again. The cold creeps out from his memories and infects his limbs. His fingers are ice.

"He's sure, Art." Raylan answers for him and for once he's grateful.

"I understand you want to get on it, but can you wait a day – a show of propriety for my sake?"

"I can wait a day. It's been months. What's a day?"

It's how he and Art left it and it's okay with him. But now he's home alone and bored, overtired and fidgety. He pays some bills, vacuums, cleans the kitchen, organizes the toolbox he keeps specifically for his guns, organizes his kitchen cupboards and throws out all the packages with dead best-by dates including the remains of Raylan's cereal box. He cleans out his fridge too. He cleans the bathroom. He opens the back door and looks at the mess that is spring, turns his back on the moldy leaves and lets the screen door close with a significant bang. The nervous energy is depleted by the time Rachel shows up at the door. He's reminded again of Cecilia Rose when he sees her.

"Howdy," he says.

"Howdy." She repeats it back not as a greeting but in disdain for the choice of word coming from his mouth. "Are you drinking again?"

It's a fair question – it's after five – but he knows she's being critical when she asks like that. It's a left jab. "Why, you thirsty?"

"Yes. That cigarette yesterday has left a bad taste in my mouth that won't go away."

Another left jab. He's wary about a right cross. "If you've come here to beat me up about all this, you're too late. I've already done the job."

"Don't you want to know how she's doing?"

There's the right cross. He should've seen it coming. Evelyn. He doesn't belong near angels. He huffs, won't look at her. "You can just turn around and walk back out that door if that's the way you're gonna be."

He moves past her and opens the front door for her like a true gentleman would, but she doesn't budge. She reaches down and gently lifts up his right hand to inspect the bandages.

"She's going to be all right. They were worried she'd broken something serious but it's just a rib and her wrist. And a concussion."

He still won't look at her, checks out her shoes. "And the asshole? The one who took time to put clothes and the concerned-husband look on while he waited for the ambulance to show up?"

She lets go of his hand and leans her back on the hall wall. "He'll live. He's on administrative leave until they formalize charges."

"Wonderful. He and I can go drinking together."

"He's given a statement."

"A confession?"

"Yes."

"Then he should be in lock-up waiting on an arraignment."

Rachel doesn't have anything to say to the truth. She shrugs. "They said you scared him."

"Scared him? How?"

"He didn't think anyone knew."

"What an asshole."

"No shit." She reaches out to him again, pokes his stomach. "Are you hungry. Feel like pizza?"

"What is it with you and pizza?"

"I like pizza."

"I noticed. Yeah, sure. There's nothing here to eat."

That brings a smile to her face. "Raylan said all you had in the place was a box of stale cereal."

He picks up a hoodie from the floor where he dumped it in the early hours of the morning. "There was toast and peanut butter sitting on the counter. He's just blind."

"Now be nice."

"You be nice. I made him coffee and let him drink my good bourbon." There's blood on the front of the sweatshirt and he wipes at it then huffs and tosses it back on the floor, runs upstairs and comes back down wearing a clean one.

He holds the door open a second time and she walks through it, says as she passes him, "I wish I could've gotten a punch in."

"You had the address."

"I should've gone up there earlier and kicked him in the nuts."

"Why didn't you? Could've saved me a lot of trouble."

She doesn't have an answer for him.

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