Chapter 18

It was a good idea to end the week on Friday. Saturday is shaping up to be a fine day. The sun is out and warming. His showing at the range earns him a slap on the back from the owner and a few of the regulars, and a grin from his own face. No stiffness, no pain – he's back in form. He arrives at the corner where he and Zoe arranged to meet – he's early as always – and she's waiting for him, and not in matching designer running clothes. The shorts are nice, the t-shirt and hoodie haggard, hair thrown haphazardly into an elastic, most of it anyway, and no make-up. It's as if she and her bed have only recently parted company. He has to work hard to stop imagining her still in it, soft, warm. He can hear Raylan saying, "Down boy." And see the smirk to go with it. He grins.

She misinterprets the smile and says, "I figure if you can put up with me looking like this then it's a good start." And then she yawns.

His smile widens. "You look good in 'just-woke-up.' I like it."

He runs till she starts lagging, then they have a casual lunch at a pub down the street from her apartment, still in their sweats, drink lots of coffee and talk about their lives from this Saturday backwards.

When it's his turn to confess his past and he mentions his first career, she sits back and frowns. "Figures," she says.

He seen that look before, can't tell if it's a deal-breaker though, so he plays it cool, like her reaction couldn't possibly have anything to do with the fact that he was in a war, and now he's not, and all that implies. "What?"

"My daddy was army. Could you tell somehow?" She lifts her shirt and smells it. "Does it leave an odor, some kinda signal to its own kind?"

"Was? He out?"

"He got out in his thirties. He owns the hardware store on Limestone."

"Yeah, I know it."

"He'll laugh at me if I bring you home."

"Explains why you were early."

She laughs at that. "I swear he still marches. It never leaves you, does it?"

"No, not really."

He walks her home again and books another date before she kisses him on the cheek and rushes off to shower for her girls' evening. It's oddly old-fashioned, and oddly, he doesn't mind. The day feels scripted and normal and he speculates that this is what life is supposed to be like according to some unrealistic ideal that he might've read about and scoffed at only a year ago. He wants desperately to live that ideal, to have the same feelings the next time he sees her. It's a bitter desperation.

He opens a beer after his shower and sits at his laptop, starts with the first name on his list of sexual assault victims, types it into the Google search bar. The top page of results has four hits for Facebook, and the rest for a doctor in New York who apparently likes to publish her latest thoughts online. One of the Facebook links looks like his victim. He bookmarks the page and goes to the next name, and the next. He spends the remainder of his first beer following the trails and comes to dead ends on all three. The pages aren't public. He gets a second beer and types in 'Facebook' and hits the 'Sign Up' link on the site and reads everything he can about it. He's even less inclined to open an account twenty minutes later when he's waded through everything there is to know about social media security. He empties the bottle and shuts his computer. Forty minutes after that he's standing at the entrance of Rachel's apartment building with his computer in a rucksack, his phone in one hand and a pizza box in the other, a six pack of her favorite lager on the ground at his feet.

"Hey," he says when she answers. "I need some help. I brought some advanced payment."

She buzzes him in.

"No, I'm not opening a Facebook account."

"Tim…"

"Seriously. Didn't you see where some fucking pro-ISIS hackers got a hold of a bunch of military personnel social media whatever-the-fuck data and posted a list of names and addresses with the invitation to kill on sight? No fucking way I'm putting myself out there. That's just..."

He's getting worked up. Rachel puts a hand on his arm to stop the rant, uses her other hand to pass him his beer.

"Chill. Have a drink. I don't want you shooting my laptop."

He gives her a head tilt with attitude.

She snaps her fingers in his face and he thinks about Zoe.

"I meant…" – Rachel wags her head like a pro – "…we should sign up as a fake person and send a friend request."

"Why the fuck would anyone accept a friend request from someone they don't know?"

"Because people want to win the friend race."

"The what?"

She stands up to get another slice, says over her shoulder. "You wouldn't even get a participation trophy."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Hm."

"How about pissedoffasshole?"

They're laughing, trying to come up with a hotmail account name that isn't taken.

"No luck."

"Shit, there's another one out there?"

"Apparently lots. They're suggesting pissedoffasshole207."

"207? Jesus. Nah, I hate being in a crowd. How about dropitassholeorIwillshoot?"

"That one's available."

"Now that surprises me. I figured Raylan would've taken it."

Rachel is having trouble giggling with a mouthful of pizza. A bit of pepperoni escapes. She wipes it up with a finger, covers her mouth with a hand to say, "Now we need a name."

"Dudley Do-right."

"It has to be believable as someone they might know."

It shoots out. "Katelyn Dougherty."

Rachel turns in her seat to get a good view of Tim's face, says, "Where did that come from?"

"Girl I tried to kiss in public school. Fourth grade. She made fun of me."

"Aw."

"Bitch."

They're laughing again.

"Wait. Stop. Back up."

They've been accepted as friends by two of the girls. Tim is stunned at how quickly they responded; Rachel just huffs at his ignorance of people. A quick message follows: "Where do I know you from? The name is so familiar." Or something close. Rachel has made up a line to explain a feeble connection, one for each girl based on a snippet of information from what's publicly accessible on their profiles. It doesn't take much and now they're scrolling through old posts when Tim stops her.

"Fuck. That's him." He doesn't have to say it – it's obvious in the stillness, the change in temperature in the room, his breathing. "That's him."

"You're sure?"

He nods, tight and quick, jaw tensed. "Can we get her address or something?"

"Probably. A phone number at least. Tim…" Rachel points to the photo, the tag underneath. "It's her father." He doesn't respond. He's scribbling the beginnings of a solid trail into his notebook – a phone number for the daughter. Rachel keeps scrolling as he stands and puts on his jacket. "Derek Hutter."

"What?"

"That's his name. It's tagged on another photo." She twists around and sees him heading for the door. "Where are you going?"

"The office. Gonna get an address."

"Then what?"

"I dunno."

"Tim, they'll know you've looked him up. Guaranteed you'll be on the list of suspects when they make the connection to Sandoval. They have access to your login history and activities."

"I'm so fucking close." He reaches for the door handle, stops. "What do you want me to do? I don't care if they find out. I need to meet this guy. On my terms."

"Art gave you the file, didn't he?"

He hangs his head and brings up his hands and rubs his eyes.

"Tim, he put her in a wheelchair." Rachel accents her words with her hand gesturing harshly to another photo, a succinct reminder of the evil that is Sandoval.

"I know." The words are hot and loud. "He shoved her out of a moving car." He reins himself in, says more quietly, "I read the fucking report." They're together in a silence full with uncertainty and emotion, grief, hurt, violence and injustice. Tim reaches for the door handle a second time but his hand falls short of its goal. "And you think that makes it okay? Did you see what they did to me?"

"Yes, I saw what they did to you. Jesus, Tim, I was at the hospital minutes after they brought you in. Art cried. Did you know that?"

He didn't know that.

"Sometimes still, I look at you and that's all I see."

"I'm sorry it was you."

"I'm not. I'm not, okay?"

He can't look at her, head down again. "I gotta do this, or I'll never… I can't let this…" He can't finish, at a loss. It's deeper than he's had to go since he gave up warzones as a hobby. It's bitter desperation again. "What do you want me to do?"

Rachel sighs loudly, stands and gets her jacket and bag and pushes him ahead of her out into the hall. "C'mon. I'm pretty sure someone at LPD will be happy to do you a favor if you ask."

"A favor for what?"

"For giving Detective Ogden a black eye."

"Seriously?"

"Mm-hm."

Tim gives her the victory sign, though his voice is still desperate. "I gave him two."

"And what're you going to do to Derek Hutter when you find him?"

"I told you, I dunno yet."

"Tim…"

"Don't go there. I'm not discussing this with anyone who wasn't in that fucking room with me. You got that?"

"Loud and clear." He's marching down the hall to the elevator. She catches up, grabs his sleeve and pulls him around to face her. "Just keep in mind the possible collateral damage while you're on your warpath."

The night sergeant is a big woman. She holds out her hand when Rachel introduces Tim, takes his when he offers it and admires the broken skin on the knuckles. "Aw, hon, those knuckles look sore. Of course, not as sore as Ogden's face." She cackles.

Tim has an address when he drops Rachel back at her apartment. "Thanks," he says. "I appreciate your help."

"Tim…"

His look is a warning.

"Could you at least let me know what you plan on doing?"

"So you can get in trouble too? No way."

She fires the last shot. "I'll visit you in the hospital, but you're on your own in prison."

There's a car he doesn't recognize parked on the street on his block. He drives past it, not slowing down, only eyes moving in its direction. He turns up the radio. When he pulls into his driveway he sits a moment in his truck with the engine running, head moving with the song's rhythm, lips making up words as he pretends to sing along. He checks that the magazine in his subcompact is full, chambers a round and decocks it, slips it into his left jacket pocket. He lets the song finish, taking the time to let his gaze wander the area, turns off the engine when the commercial break interrupts, steps out, locks up. He stuffs both hands in his pockets and walks to the side entrance.

They're waiting for him. He can see too much shadow by the neighbor's hedge along the side of the backyard to his left. He figures the second man will appear to his right, between him and escape, out from hiding somewhere in the front. He pulls his house keys out of his pocket with his right hand, casual, and that's when they show themselves, well choreographed. He gives them a facetious mental applause. Idiots. Maybe they don't know that he was attacked here before.

He pretends not to see the man in the yard, turns his back to him and watches the one walking up beside his truck.

"Stop right there," he says.

"Or what?"

He can hear the one behind him approaching, steady footfalls on the grass. It's hard to sneak up on your prey when he already knows you're coming.

"Or I'll start singing."

The bizarre answer makes the man in front hesitate. The one in the back keeps coming, another step onto asphalt, close enough. Tim turns quickly and ducks past him and pulls his weapon from his left pocket. They're both nicely in his line of fire now. He imagines shooting them – one, two – mentally maps out where he'll put his first, second, third, fourth bullet. At this range there's no chance he'll miss.

"You better pray I don't start singing or you'll be begging me to shoot you, and how could I say no?"

There's a heartbeat, then another. The man farthest from Tim speaks. "We just want to talk…" The other one moves his hand toward his hip.

"Don't." Tim ignores the talker, shifts his aim and his attention as a warning to the quiet one with the wandering trigger finger, then back to the other. He won't be caught by a distraction. "You must've done some digging on me before you decided to come get some undeserved retribution for your shitbag wife-beating office buddy. Seriously."

"Yeah, we know all about you."

"Then you know I can shoot you both good and dead before you get your weapons out."

They're thinking about it, throwing looks between them trying to gauge how far the other is willing to go to get what they came here for.

"I wouldn't take too long thinking about it if I were you."

It's a fourth voice, a new one. It comes from the street, surprises them all. Two heads snap in that direction to see who else is sneaking around the neighborhood this night. Tim is as surprised as they are, but he keeps his eyes on his target. He recognizes the timbre and knows it's no threat to him.

Raylan steps into view. He's grinning like he's up four drinks on everyone. Maybe he is. He saunters up the driveway toward them, points down at the asphalt and says, "You are aware that Deputy Gutterson was violently abducted from right here. This very spot. I'm surprised he hasn't shot you already. Is this some kinda suicide pact you got between you? You got to believe he's a bit twitchy since what all happened."

The talker of the two speaks. "He shoots us, that's murder."

"Why, you must be in homicide to have figured that out all by your lonesome." Raylan crosses his arms leisurely and leans against Tim's truck. "Call it what you want, the question is will it ever come to trial? I wouldn't be so sure. But it might. So let's just take a moment here and imagine the defense lawyer's strategy, shall we?" He looks up into the black of the night sky, picturing a court room. "'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is a decorated war hero and a sworn-in Deputy US Marshal with an outstanding employment record. Not six months ago he was brutally attacked in the very locale where two vengeance-minded, recently-deceased detectives decided to ambush him in an unprofessional, mean-spirited attempt at settling the score for a perceived slight. We have a qualified court psychiatrist who has examined Deputy Gutterson and, in his professional opinion, believes my client is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, not from his time in a warzone defending my freedom and yours, but from right here at home as a result of the first attack at his house. The victims,'" – Raylan puts the word in finger quotations – "were seeking to do bodily harm to Deputy Gutterson, a man still recovering from the previous vicious beating, when they surprised him that night in the dark on his driveway.'" He stops his dramatic enactment and shrugs. "I like it. The PTSD could've manifested in a delayed kinda way. It wouldn't take a whole lot of acting to get a mentally unfit nod and then some therapy and then he's free and clear. And you two are, well, dead."

They're still thinking about it.

"Tim, I think you might have to just go ahead and shoot one of them. They're that stupid."

"I could do that."

"Happy to be a witness for the defense." He pushes off the truck and steps closer, up beside one of the detectives. "Imagine when the whole story comes out about whose honor you two were defending. What your partner did to his wife and how they found her that night. How you'd been turning a blind-eye to it all along. Doesn't reflect well. I wouldn't want to be the poor DA on that trial. They'd probably put a junior on it, someone fresh out of law school. No experienced lawyer would want to take it on." Raylan shakes his head. "On a personal note, I'm surprised you two aren't ashamed to be associated with that wife-beating asshole. Certainly not worth dying for." He doesn't sound so conversational anymore when he says, "I'm not giving you another opportunity to walk away. Get the fuck outta here. And don't come back, or I won't wait and watch and let Tim have all the fun – I'll shoot you myself. Or maybe just beat the stupid out of you."

They're done thinking; they walk quickly away down the driveway. Raylan follows, watches to be sure they get in their car and actually leave.

Tim stays where he is, drops his head, drops his arms and shakes them because his fingers feel cold. It's suddenly darker between the houses. He looks up expecting to see a light out on the street or in a neighbor's yard. Nothing's changed. There's no moon either. His eyes are messing with him. He focuses on his vision. He can see Raylan but his peripheral is black. The cold creeps steadily up his legs and he's nauseous, dizzy now. He bends over slightly, rubs his eyes. His knees buckle and he steps shakily over nearer his house and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself, can't and his body does a slow collapse onto the pavement.

Raylan is prophetic.

Now he's having trouble breathing, the air coming too fast and not enough of it. Flashbacks from his abduction are intruding. He's in a room taped to a chair and pain and fear and disgust at himself are swarming, overcoming reason. He's sobbing; he's been sobbing for some minutes now. Curled in on himself sitting on the ground, gun gripped tightly, sobbing. That's how Raylan finds him when he walks back up the driveway.

"Tim?"

He's lost.

"Well, shit," says Raylan, softly, expressive, crouches down and carefully takes the weapon from Tim's hand. He checks the safety and slips the gun into his pocket, sets a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Well, shit," he says again. "You just lost me some money in the office pool, buddy. I guess Nelson was right. You are human."

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