Chapter 17

He has a shadow.

He ignored every general invitation for lunch and snuck out by himself when no one was paying attention. So he thought. But he's aware that someone is following him. He stops on the sidewalk and turns abruptly, hand over his holster.

"Nelson, what're you doing?"

"I need to talk to you."

"So, talk."

"Out here?"

He appreciates Nelson's particular strengths, the unique talents that he brings to the job – really, he does – but the man frustrates the hell out of him. "Bless Nelson. He's an old soul." That's what the clerk downstairs says, the one with the motherly smile for all the young officers and deputies, the one with the paper always open to the horoscope page. He disagrees with her assessment; he sees Nelson as a first-timer peeking wide-eyed at the world and looking under every rock expecting Easter eggs. He wants to smack some sense into him, see if he can't at least knock him hard enough to jumpstart him into a second round through life. It's an ernest face looking at him. Tim drops his head then rolls it in the direction he was walking, his body following. He waves Nelson onward.

"I was just going for a sandwich. C'mon." He slouches, stuffs his hands in his pockets, careful of the new scabs formed on his right knuckles, and resigns himself to company he doesn't want. "So, what's up?"

"I was…" Nelson eyes the two people walking toward them, looks behind him, side to side. "I was talking to a friend in LPD." It's almost a whisper.

"Uh-huh."

"Apparently the guy you punched out, Evelyn's husband…"

There's a long pause, so Tim pushes. "Uh-huh."

"His partner…" Nelson looks around him again, a pantomime of situational awareness.

"Uh-huh."

"He and another guy, they want to get even with you."

Nelson's voice rises at the end of the sentence turning the statement into a question, and Tim questions it too. "Seriously? They want to get even with me? Fuck. The way I see it, I'd have to do a lot more damage to Evelyn's husband in order for there to be any talk of being even. That's just fucking stupid." He can't help it, he snorts. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah, well, my friend says they're the only ones. Most of the guys are quietly cheering what you did – and all the women too...I guess."

Tim starts laughing but there's a sharpened edge to it. "I guess."

"I don't think this is funny. Aren't you worried?"

"Nope. I'm hungry though." They've arrived at the sandwich shop and Tim is holding the door open, waiting. He gives Nelson a meaningful look, finally says, "In. Food."

By the time he's halfway through his sandwich and his iced tea he finds he's not minding the company. Nelson is entertaining today, and full of information about the asshole.

"So these two guys who supposedly have it in for me, they work with..."

"Nick Ogden."

"That's his name?"

"Yeah, didn't you know?"

Tim takes another bite of his sandwich and shakes his head. No, he didn't know. He didn't know Evelyn's last name. He never asked. She never said. Looking back, he realizes it was her way of preventing him from confronting her husband. She's a cop's wife; she understands. Guns and violence and no good ending. He tries out the name – Evelyn Ogden. It doesn't fit her somehow. But then who's he trying to kid? He didn't really know her enough to say one way or the other.

"What department is he in?"

"Personal Crimes, Homicide."

"Thankfully not Special Victims. That'd be ironic." He finishes his lunch, wipes his hands on his jeans and then crosses his arms. The body language is loud. "Fucking idiots. Don't they have something better to do? Maybe I'll give them a homicide to detect, keep them busy so they can't bother me."

"I think you should just steer clear of them, except the uniforms. I think you're okay with them."

"How will I know them to steer clear of them if they're not in uniform?"

"Uh…"

"Fuck, Nelson, I'm messing with you. You can spot a cop a mile away. Look out, here comes the po-po." He starts laughing again, a more honest laugh, memories of a bar brawl in Tacoma, the comedy of a drunken getaway attempt with his platoon buddies. He can't remember who yelled it out but it killed their escape, all of them buckled over in hysterics. They're good memories, tinged with something bitter. They never fail to bring up a longing, and a laugh.

"I really think you should be taking this more seriously."

"And I think you need to chill. Besides you're not even supposed to be talking to me. I'm not here, remember? Art said."

"I know. That's why I followed you out a couple of minutes after you left. I've been waiting all morning for an opportunity to warn you."

Art made the announcement to the bullpen first thing, standing in front of Tim's desk where Tim was, at that moment, sitting in plain view of everyone present.

"Alright kids, listen up. Tim will not be in again today. LPD is still nursing their wounded pride so I have to make an official show of scolding him." He turned to him then and wagged a finger. "Bad, Tim. Bad." Then to the rest of the staff he said, "So we'll just have to do without him. He'll be back in next week when he's properly repentant. Everyone got that?"

A round of chuckles and nodding heads and some smart ass called out, "What if there's a hostage situation?"

"Then you say, 'Tim, please get your rifle and follow me.' Any other stupid questions?"

More chuckles. Everyone played it up all morning – talking about him loudly when they passed his desk, as if he weren't there. He figures Nelson is the only one who took Art seriously. Might as well take advantage of it. "You should probably get back," he says, "before Art suspects you're with me."

"Yeah, you're right." And Nelson rushes off, worried that Art might catch him conversing with the excommunicated.

Tim stops to pick up a coffee, maybe one for Rachel too. He arrives back at the courthouse well after Nelson, sets a coffee and an obscenely decadent bakery-made doughnut on Rachel's desk. She stares at it uncertainly. He walks backward toward his end of the bullpen watching her reaction, bumps into Raylan who's passing by on his way out.

"What the hell?" Raylan turns in a circle, pretending not to see Tim. "I always reckoned this place was haunted. Now I'm certain."

Tim flips him the finger, still walking backward, sits at his desk and picks up a paperclip and throws it at him, pings it off his hat.

"Poltergeist," says Rachel. "One just left me a…" She's still gauging the treat on her desk. "I don't know what to call this."

"I think you'd call that 'bad for you.' Let me take it off your hands."

Raylan reaches for it and she whips a leather sap from her drawer and threatens his fingers with it, a controlled snap, and he backs off with a "My, my, possessive about your treats."

"Damn straight. That has chocolate on it." She picks up the doughnut and sniffs, then nibbles, then takes an unladylike bite and makes a satisfied sound. "Oh my God, that's good." She puts down her pen and picks up her fresh coffee in her other hand and walks over and sits on the corner of Tim's desk, the first to blatantly ignore Art's announcement.

"So?"

"So?"

"Nothing yet?"

He shakes his head.

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Try Facebook."

"Facebook?"

"I realize that you are above social media, but most people put their whole lives out there. Look up your victims and see what you get."

"I hate Facebook."

Rachel stands and starts walking away, licking her fingers.

"Hey," he says, calling her back. He waits until she's close enough to keep their conversation private. "How's Evelyn doing? Do you know?"

"She's staying with friends. Her mother passed away last night."

"So she can go back to South Carolina now. She should, anyway."

"Is that where she's from? Would you be sorry if she left?"

He can't say 'yes.' It'd be a lie. "No. It'll be better for her, and I don't think I could handle losing at princess match-up one more time. I might have to shoot something if it came to that."

"She whooped your ass that bad, huh?"

He shrugs. "I was down when she kicked me."

Rachel stalls at his desk, observing. He won't give her anything, eyes back on his computer screen.

"Open a Facebook account," she says, "and I'll send you a friend request."

"Fuck off. I'm not opening a Facebook account. And friends are overrated."

"Only to assholes."

"I said fuck off."

"Okay, asshole."

"How's your doughnut?"

"Awesome."

"So Hardy quit?"

"That's an excellent summary of the situation, Raylan."

"What's your problem, Art?"

"You are just a bit too goddamn happy about all this. I get the impression you're pleased he's quit."

"Well, actually…"

Raylan looks to Tim for support but Tim's distracted. He was hoping to find a target today, something to get him closer to the life that he's always imagined for himself, the one where nobody hurts him without some kind of holy hellfire retribution. It's not coming fast enough. Now that he has the tiniest of trails to follow, he's impatient.

Retribution. That word may have to go on his gravestone. Or maybe he might appeal to the literary crowd and chisel in the phrase 'pride and extreme prejudice.' That'd get a laugh from someone walking through the cemetery.

Extreme prejudice in the act of retribution. It's been on his mind every day since he woke up to a beep and a drip. The only time he wasn't thinking about it was when he was naked with Evelyn. And even then, outside that fragment of minutes where time has no hand, where sensation subjugates thought, he could not fail to notice the marks on her, a mirror of his, and his hatred for the world was amplified, a peak on an already high plateau.

He's still not certain of his feelings for Evelyn. He'll never sort that out. It's Friday now, two full days since the incident at her house, a couple more since he invited her into his bedroom. Why did she accept that invitation? He hopes it wasn't fear. It wasn't, he tells himself. It was more complicated than one thing. He won't call it a one-night stand either, not in his own thoughts and not aloud. He's had plenty of those – bar nights off base when something as normal as dating just didn't make sense – but this wasn't that. This was beyond his realm of comprehension.

His thoughts are storm-water messy, further muddied by the current circumstances – Art deciding to go for a drink after work on the excuse that it was a 'helluva week.' It's not that he doesn't want a drink; it's where they're drinking that bothers him. Art chose the bar, and now here they are at The Chase. They're being served by Zoe and she leads his gaze like a dog on a leash. When he can wrangle his mind away from thoughts of retribution he invariably finds his eyes following her dance through the tables of patrons.

She catches him looking and smiles. Her invitation comes back to him – she's free Saturday, tomorrow night. He thinks about the phone number still carefully folded in his wallet.

"Tim, stop your sexual fantasies and back me up here. Hardy. Quitting." Raylan gestures toward Art, looks back at Tim expectantly.

"He quit?"

"Oh, for… Get your mind off the girl."

Art is diverted from Hardy. "What girl? Tell me you're not mooning over that cop's wife, 'cause if you are…"

"No, Art, that girl." And Raylan tips his head, Stetson and all, in the direction of the bar.

Tim glares at him.

"That's for not backing me up with Hardy," says Raylan, grinning while Tim squirms.

"Fine. I'm not sorry he quit. Is that what you want to hear? I'd have serious reservations about riding with him again."

"There. See, Art. It's not just me," says Raylan.

Art has his head turned away, checking out the waitress. "She's cute."

Tim reaches a hand out and snaps his fingers loudly in front of Art's face, says, "Hardy," trying to get the conversation back to something he's comfortable with. Too loudly. Zoe hears the international call for service and turns their way.

Art waves to her.

Tim lets go with a string of 'fucks', not loud enough to be heard over the music.

"You should ask her out," says Art. "Unless she's a cop's wife, then don't."

She's at the table. "You boys need another round?"

"I was not snapping my fingers at you," says Tim.

"That would be rude," says Raylan. "But while you're here, yes, Miss Zoe, we could definitely use another round."

The smile on Art's face isn't for the beer. "Actually – while you're here – we're hoping you could do us a favor."

"What's that?"

"First, are you married or dating anyone in law enforcement?"

"That's kinda personal."

"Just answer the question, young lady."

"Well, aren't you cheeky." She grins, good-natured, playing along, holds up a hand like she's swearing on a bible. "Not currently married to or dating anyone in law enforcement." She drops the hand. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Why?"

"Because we're hoping you'll put this boy out of his misery and give him your phone number."

"He already has it, Art. You're a few days behind the action." Raylan's smile is somehow worse than Art's. "And she's free tomorrow night if I remember correctly."

"Actually, I'm not. Sorry," she says to Tim, "but I've made plans." She flicks Tim on the shoulder and says to Art, "He took too long to call," then shakes her head sadly, not looking the least bit annoyed.

Tim wonders how it's possible she can be so affable faced with this. He'd shoot both Art and Raylan if it were legal.

"Another round will have to do then," says Art. "Not much of a consolation prize really. Not compared to what the winner got."

He gives Tim a pointed look and all Tim can think to say is, "I'm an idiot. Just ask them." He waves humbly at his drinking buddies. He's used the line before but not with Zoe and it makes her smile. It makes him feel like shit. The statement applies to more than just a missed date.

Most calendar weeks end on a Saturday. He's thinking he'll end this one early, on a Friday. It would be nice to put the week behind him, start off fresh tomorrow. It's just past eight when he gets home from the bar and he makes a conscious decision not to drink any more tonight. He makes himself promise. He flips through the channels looking for a distraction, settles on an action movie that he's seen twice already. It's appropriately mindless. The lack of a bottle in his hand gets him fidgeting and he goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge hoping for some snacks to keep his mind off alcohol, but there's just beer and something growing. It has been a helluva week. He fishes through the cupboards and tries to remember the last time he did a proper grocery shop, tries to push his mind past the last five days without dwelling on anything. He can't, gives up and goes back to the living room. He flops on the couch and watches the movie until the next commercial break then goes to the fridge once more and eyes the beer, shuts the door again with a bit too much force. After the third aimless tour of his main floor he admits he's tired, both emotionally and physically, buzzing, agitated. He needs alcohol to bring him down. But he promised. He can't focus on anything and he doesn't feel like going to bed. A run is the best idea he can come up with.

At the bottom of the driveway he stops, hands on his hips. A crossroads has appeared right outside his door. He looks right down the road and beyond where it leads to North Broadway and Loudon and it's like staring back at the week. He looks left and there's the old route, the one that beat him soundly not too long ago. He figures if he goes right he's just playing the devil's hand again, so he goes left and heads south hoping it'll bring him back around.

An hour later he's home, sweaty and satisfied. He's conquered it. He hasn't run that far successfully since before his abduction. He grins for himself, drops and does thirty pushups then rolls onto his back on the cold grass, still grinning. His lungs don't complain, only a dull ache in the knee. He stretches then goes inside and has a shower and heads to a grocery store that's open all night.

Fresh food in the fridge, the cupboards stocked, and residual endorphins in his system from the run, he's feeling all right. He paces the main floor once more then grabs his keys and walks outside and gets into his truck. He pulls up in front of The Chase, walks in and stops in the entrance to look for his waitress. She's at the machine behind the bar punching in an order, alone. He makes his way toward her, pushing through the crowd. He has to yell over the music and the talking. "Hey."

She startles, not expecting someone behind her in the employee-only zone. "Hey," she says back. "Did you forget something?"

"Are you seriously busy tomorrow night?"

She turns back and taps in two more items to finish the order, then turns again to face him. "Did you lose my phone number or something?"

"No." He opens his wallet and pulls out the slip with her digits on it. "It's just been…a helluva week."

"Work?"

"Partially."

"Well, I've made plans with my girlfriends tomorrow. I won't break my date with them for you. I hate it when they do it to me for some guy they don't even know yet, so I won't do it to them."

"Fair enough. You free during the day?"

She tilts her head and smiles. "Maybe."

"I go for a run in the mornings, then to the range. If you're free after that I'll buy you lunch."

"Lunch sounds nice." She steps closer so they don't have to yell as loud. "I'd go running with you but something tells me you go early and fast."

"I can run later, and slower. I'll make you earn your lunch though."

"Alright. It's a date, as long as you promise not to lap me."

"I promise. We won't run a circuit."

"Alright then."

"I'll call you when I'm ready to head out."

"Not too early. I won't be outta here for another three hours."

She smiles just for him one more time then slips past to pick up a tray of beer waiting on the counter. He watches her go and in the grace of a moment's clarity he remembers why he likes this bar.

Back in his driveway he puts the truck in park, turns off the engine, looks at the house. He phones Raylan. "You feel like closing a bar tonight?"

"Always."

"I was gonna head back to The Chase." He doesn't tell him it'll be his third time tonight.

"Sounds good."

"Hey, Raylan."

"What?"

"Did Nelson tell you about…?"

"The two idiots from LPD who intend a little tit-for-tat?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to be there when they try. Somehow I don't think it would be a good idea to sneak up on you right now. You're twitchy since those assholes got you. Maybe I should give them fair warning. I'd hate to see one of them end up hurt." There's a pause and Tim wonders if Raylan has hung up, but he hasn't – he's holding out for comic effect. He says, "On the other hand…" then ends the call without another word, typical of their phone conversations.

Tim sits a minute looking at the dark lane beside his house and wonders that his situational awareness, a skill drilled into him in the Regiment, could've softened enough that they were able to catch him off-guard here, on his own turf. Until Raylan's comment he hadn't thought about how intense he'd become about it again. Raylan's apparently noticed.

He turns the key, turns over the engine, backs out of the driveway.

Raylan is waiting for him. He's snagged two free stools at the bar. Tim settles in and looks at the jug of beer waiting, two glasses poured. He raises his and Raylan says, "To Friday and beer," and they both take a mouthful. So much for promises.

They're the last to pay and leave, closing out the bar. Tim watches Raylan drive away then waits around to walk Zoe home.

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