The World Changes That Fast

PART 3

Chapter 21

He's by himself in a crowd, a separation of his own making. There's a buzzing of voices beyond the police barriers but on this side it's forced stillness and whispers, a collective holding of breath. He ignores it all but for a defensive visual and aural awareness and focuses his energy inward, gathered and purposeful, and waits for a command. He has complete confidence in himself but he's aware that the law enforcement personnel collected in the square don't, not today. There are many secrets kept in this community of professionals despite the plethora of gossips, but it's impossible to keep quiet something as dramatic as the abduction and beating of a US Marshal. The rumors and facts mixed equally through the ranks the weeks and months after he was found. It was the first subject of discussion in squad cars and precinct lunch rooms. What does that do to a man? They conjectured in private, and now they'll see for sure as they watch him assemble his rifle then walk the perimeter looking for his angle.

He's always prepared for a request for help from LPD or KSP. Skills sharp, rifle in good condition. There haven't been many occasions to show off his talents since he joined the bureau in Lexington, and only half of those times has he had to pull the trigger, but he hasn't missed yet. That's the reputation that makes his name. He's a sniper only once, maybe twice a year, but he doesn't miss. Now he's the go-to guy even outside the Marshals Service, everyone hoping to avoid the show that is the tactical response team. There's nothing wrong with SRT's training, but calling the Marshal's sniper means a desirably quicker and quieter result.

Today's events are more public than usual. A high-speed chase ending with a collision and a car in the fountain near the Rupp Arena. A young woman has been dragged into the mess as a hostage in a standoff at the corner park in full view of the surrounding streets and shops jammed with people in celebration of the first truly summer day. Roller blades, skateboards, strollers, coffees and newspapers, cell phones, suits, skirts and shorts, all are resisting being pushed back to a safe distance, gaping at the spectacle, hoping for drama and a story to tell to set them apart at the next social gathering.

It's close enough to the courthouse that the Police Chief didn't hesitate. The phone call to Art Mullen was made and Tim bagged his rifle and jogged to the scene.

Rachel wanted to follow, anxious, but Art pointed sternly at her, pinning her to her desk, and barked, "Stay!" and hustled after Tim himself. He's out of breath when he catches up with him. Tim pierces the Chief's bullet-proof vest with a look that goes straight to the doubt.

"Don't look at me like that," says Art. "It's a lovely day for a walk and I'm allowed to go out if I want to. I'm the boss."

Tim turns away and ignores Art too. He turns his cap brim around and gives his attention to his weapon, pulls down the legs of the bipod and sets the rifle gently on the hood of an LPD cruiser, settles the butt into his shoulder and peers through the scope at his target. All through the routine he's trying not to think about Art's reaction to the phone call. He virtually tiptoed over to Tim's desk then said in a voice of forced calm, "That was LPD. They're looking for a guy with a rifle. Do you want to do this or would you rather I tell them you're not in?"

He managed to refrain from saying the first thing that entered his mind – This is why I keep my shit to myself – thinking that if he hadn't lowered his defenses at Art's house yesterday, if he hadn't melted in his emotional acid with Raylan the night before that, there would be no doubting today. And he bit back the second – Fucking Christ! Are you fucking serious? You think I'm gonna hide here behind my desk? – before saying the third in a tone of forced boredom, "Where?" And now here he is.

He hears Art behind him talking to the senior officer on the scene, Sergeant Somebody. Tim's met him before but he can't remember his name. The two men are discussing the face in the crosshairs. "He's desperate," says the Sergeant. He looks desperate, thinks Tim, but doesn't everyone who ends up centered in his scope. "He killed a gas station attendant outside of Frankfort, put a Statie in the hospital." Tim blocks the voices and concentrates on the job. It doesn't matter to him what the guy did – he'd just as rather not know. 'Take the shot' or 'stand down' is all he needs to hear and when it comes to it, he honestly doesn't care which it is.

The standoff is broken by a show of aggression, shots fired at the nearest cruiser. The man has an assault rifle and those rounds are traveling far enough to put everyone in the square at risk. There's a thrill of reaction from the crowd still gathered despite the continuing police efforts to move them back, a spattering of instinctive screams, nervous murmuring. Some take a step or two away, the smarter few duck down and move for cover. The police can't let this go on. Somebody else on the sidelines is going to get hurt today if they don't stop this. Tim drops his finger onto the trigger, anticipating the call, and breathes easily.

Then it comes: "If you got a shot, Deputy, take it." Another gentle breath, his trigger finger pulling smoothly all the way through, a bullet explodes from the barrel. The man goes down and doesn't get up again. He sees but doesn't hear the scream from the hostage.

He works the bolt and gets another round ready just in case, watches intently where he last saw his target, then his view is interrupted by a vest, POLICE boldly stenciled, and he slips his finger off the trigger and rests it across the guard but doesn't stand down, not yet. Squawking from the radio. More movement. A sigh of relief that builds until it reaches him. "It's over. He's down. Nice shooting."

He pulls back from the scope and clears the redundant round from his rifle and thumbs the safety on, straightens and turns the brim of his hat around to block the sun again.

There's a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "I guess me and Raylan are buying again tonight."

He squints at the fountain, remembers a promise to himself just this morning, absolutely no alcohol until Friday at the end of the day. He shrugs, thinking one drink can't hurt.

Raylan appears beside Art. Tim wonders how he always manages to be there in the thick of it. He looks over the hood of the cruiser at the car in the fountain, looks at Tim and they share a thought.

Raylan gives it voice. "Shit, I guess we're drinking again tonight. I swore after Saturday night I wouldn't touch a drop till the end of the week."

"You could just buy me one."

"I'd feel bad leaving you to drink alone."

"I'm not sure what's harder to imagine – you not drinking or you feeling bad."

"Still an asshole."

"Still got some catching up to do."

"I think you've lapped me, you just didn't notice when you passed me the first time, too busy shooting off your mouth."

"Boys." Art says it like he's speaking to children.

Tim crouches down by his rifle case to disassemble his weapon. Something hits him from behind, not hard, but with enough momentum to tip his balance and he has to put a hand out on the car in front of him to stop himself toppling over. He turns sharply and is eye-level with corn rows and pink baubles and little white teeth presented with a soundtrack of giggles.

She hits him again, palms open, slaps his shoulder, then bends over and laughs. Cecilia Rose. Who else would dare assault him when he's so heavily armed? Only innocence can do that.

"Hey, little miss," he says and looks around for Evelyn. "Better stop being mean to me or I might have to arrest you. Where's your mamma at?"

The senior sergeant looks horrified that someone, even someone as small as she is, could manage to sneak past the barriers. "Where did she come from? McCullough!" He yells at an officer near the line, gestures at the little girl. "What're you doing over there?"

Tim spots Evelyn at the front of the crowd. She's covered much of her face beneath wide-lens '60s Hollywood sunglasses but he imagines the same expression of exasperation and apology as when he first laid eyes on her at the hospital, peering in the door to his room looking for her daughter. She's calling for Cecilia Rose, gesturing for her to come back. Tim pushes to his feet and passes Raylan his rifle and takes a little hand in his and walks the girl back to her mother.

Evelyn takes off her sunglasses and smiles. She looks better than the last time he saw her, but that's not saying much. She says a casual "Hello," but what he reads from her eyes is 'take care of me.' It's as if she's unwittingly laid open her entire history for his examination and he sees clearly the path that brought her here and the path she would lay out for him if she had her way. She's watching him, needy, and he doesn't like it. He's not judging, only honest with himself. He can't be that guy. He pulls the brim of his hat down tightly to put his face into shadow so she can't see the chill that's settled on it, and lifts Cecilia Rose into waiting arms and mumbles something like, "Glad to see you doing alright."

"Can we talk?" she says, but the crowd is relaxed and chattering again and someone yells out to him, "Nice shooting, buddy," and he takes advantage of the timing and pretends not to hear her, turns and walks back to Art.

"I recognize that look," says Art, his eyes fixed on the girls in the crowd. "Not something you need to be getting yourself involved with right now."

The comment pisses him off. Art didn't need to say that. He doesn't need to be told. He can hear her calling to him. He takes his rifle back from Raylan and finishes breaking it down.

"Art, no one will find out."

The three Marshals are walking back to the courthouse. Rifle bag over his shoulder, Tim lags a step behind to give the other two enough space on the sidewalk. Raylan is talking, using his talents at persuasion. Art sighs and makes faces and turns now and again to look back at Tim.

"Me and Tim, we'll be stealthy. Air Force ain't got nothing on us. Right Tim?"

"You'll have to leave the hat behind if we're going for stealthy," says Tim.

"I can do that."

Art speaks finally. "You can't do anything stupid."

Tim pipes in again. "Not sure he can do that."

"You're supposed to be working with me here," says Raylan and turns to glare.

Another sigh from the Chief Deputy. "Shit," he says. "Alright."

Raylan smiles back at Tim. "Alright."

Art stops suddenly and turns so he can speak directly at both of them, puts emphasis on each word and on the heavy spaces between. "You can't do anything stupid. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Art, we got this."

"Jesus, don't make me regret letting you go."

Raylan hooks a thumb in the front pocket of his jeans, his swagger ramping up now he's got his way. "It's just Harlan."

"You make sure I can sell it like that when they start their investigation."

"Art, you worry too much."

Art wants to go back to The Chase; he likes their selection of local beer. It's only a fifteen minute walk from work and Tim needs to move, the restlessness getting to him by the end of the day. He sneaks out early, wanting to get there ahead of his coworkers and hopefully see Zoe alone, even for a moment, to get past that awkward post first-date hello without everyone around to watch. It seems there's a crowd intending to gather for this Monday night drink, a celebration. It's an odd thing to celebrate, a shooting, but there it is. He's the one who called everyone's attention to the irony, saying loudly in a voice with too much drawl, "It's a rootin' tootin' shootin' party," his sarcasm getting the best of him when it became clear that the event was going to be unusually well attended. Art scowled and reworked it to fit more comfortably within his personal moral constructs. "We're not celebrating. We're being supportive," and he patted Tim roughly on the back, hard enough to suggest a deeper layer of disapproval underneath the veneer of support.

Tim hustles the few blocks, hands jammed into his pockets, hot and sweaty when he arrives, opens the door and steps into the cool dim of the brew pub. He's not certain Zoe's working today. His eyes adjust to the lighting and he sees her leaning across the bar, on tiptoe with one foot lifted up behind her. He feels suddenly possessive. It takes him by surprise and then a smile happens all on its own, erases a few years off his face. The owner sees him and nods in his direction to give his staff the heads-up that there's a customer waiting.

Zoe turns, grins when she spots him and walks over. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

He has fifteen or twenty smart answers for that question but he just ducks his head and keeps smiling.

"I'm assuming drinks?"

"Yes, ma'am." He smacks himself mentally, wishing he'd said "No, I'm here for you." He looks up quickly and asks if she's still free Wednesday night, their pre-scheduled second date, to make up for not being the smoothest talker.

"I am," she says. "Are you?"

"I wanna be but it might not happen. I think work's gonna get in the way and there's nothing I can do about it."

"That's too bad." She looks away.

"When are you off next?"

"I have to check the schedule."

"I'll text if I can, if something comes up, if I can't meet you."

She blinks, studies him, a serious expression. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I was there today, by the arena, along with half of Lexington."

"Oh, uh…"

"It's a lot to ask of somebody."

"It's alright," he says, then wonders if the 'somebody' she's referring to is her, not him. "Look, if you don't like what…" He rolls a hand, can't figure out how to phrase what he wants to say.

She reaches over and runs a hand quickly and lightly down his arm. It seems unchoreographed, something just happening naturally. She's reassuring him. He watches the whole thing but still looks surprised when she then leans in close, backing up the first action with another display of comfortable acceptance. She's close enough that he feels her breath on his cheek when she whispers, "Tell me you're not drinking alone." She says it just loudly enough to be heard over the music.

He wants to put his hands on her, anywhere, but the desire ends in an awkward arm movement. He ducks his head again, gives it a small shake. "I wish. No, it's gonna be a team effort today."

"That makes me feel better about working tonight. So, really, you're okay?"

He wishes he knew how to answer to give the best impression of himself. By default, he goes with the truth, looks at her straight. "I'm fine with it. It is what it is."

She openly studies his face. "Okay then. So how many of you are coming?"

"I'm not sure. More than six."

"Go grab the big table before someone else comes in and steals it. Beer or whiskey?" She calls the question over her shoulder as she moves away back to the bar.

"Just water."

That stops her cold and she turns confused. "Pardon?"

"Just water for now. I'm gonna wait for reinforcements before I start drinking."

She brings him a glass of cold water and a mug of hot coffee and cream, no sugar.

The next morning he and Raylan are in a car heading south on the I75 past Corbin. He texts Zoe from the car to cancel their date, feeling badly for setting her up as his alibi. It wasn't his intention.

Won't be able to meet tomorrow. Stuck in Harlan for a few days. Work. Call you when I get back.

Tim pays cash for an old pickup for sale on a side road once they leave the interstate. The old-timer he buys it from is casual about the transaction, more concerned with the cash in hand than the legalities of ownership transfer. He drives it, following behind Raylan through Harlan County. They rent a motel room outside of Middlesboro, leave their phones on the bed and the Lincoln in the parking lot and hit the road again, head east through Tennessee then Arkansas, on through the night into Texas. They take turns at the wheel, or with eyes closed slumped against the side window, until they arrive in El Paso a full day later. After finding a hotel room that'll take cash, they walk around to stretch their legs and take in the sights, the border fence and the bullet holes on the buildings facing the neighbors, Mexico and the City of Juarez. It wouldn't be right without a drink, so they stop at a bar for lunch and do tequila shots before heading back to the motel room for a couple of hours sleep on a bed. It feels good not to be folded into a car seat.

Tim wakes Raylan around ten and they drive the last hour across the state line into Las Cruces, New Mexico. Tim has an address. They pull up down the road and sit and watch.

It's a roadhouse on the outskirts of the city. It only took a little research for Tim to discover that Derek Hutter is the owner of the establishment and he lives upstairs. Interestingly, it's a biker hangout. Hutter isn't officially one of the gang but his establishment is their unofficial gathering place and so he enjoys the perks, which are a certain status with the bikers, protection, and muscle when he needs to get information from a US Marshal.

On the road from Kentucky, in the hours that they were both awake, Tim and Raylan mulled the facts Tim had gathered in his investigation. They pieced together a series of likely events, starting with the assault on Hutter's daughter, a reaction from the bikers to an attack on one of their own, the gang war that might've ensued if Sandoval's people hadn't cut him loose, washed their hands of him. It all led, inexorably, to Sandoval running into the wide-open arms of the Federal Witness Protection Program to hide – hide his 'chickenshit ugly ass' as Tim put it – and then to Tim being on the track when the unscheduled freight train careened through Lexington. That's where their speculation ended. They've talked it to death, now they're waiting for confirmation of their suspicions, sitting in an old pickup on the side of a dark two-lane highway in New Mexico.

"I don't think I could live in Arkansas or New Mexico," says Raylan.

"Why not?"

"I dunno. The trees maybe. I'd miss the trees the way they are in Kentucky."

"You said you liked Miami alright."

"That was different."

"How?"

"There were palm trees in Miami."

Tim snorts. "I call bullshit. Admit it, you don't like Arkansas and you included New Mexico just to hide that fact."

"Do you like Arkansas?"

Tim shrugs. "Don't really have an opinion. I could live there, I guess. Their gun laws are alright. I don't think I could live in California though, even with the palm trees. Washington State's good. Texas. Florida."

"So your entire criteria for where you'd like to live is based on what the gun laws are like?"

"Pretty much."

"So you'd like Alaska."

"That might be pushing it. It's cold up there."

"Your grasp of geography is impressive."

Tim turns in the car seat so he can give Raylan a properly aimed glare. "This from the guy who thinks palm trees are like oaks and maples."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

"No. I said I'd miss the trees."

"…like they are in Kentucky."

"I mean I'd miss trees, period."

"There's trees in Arkansas."

"Not like in Kentucky."

"You see? You said it again."

"What I mean…"

"Derek Hutter." Tim straightens, goes still, eyes focused down the street. "Derek Hutter." He says it again as if he could put more meaning into it. He finds it odd that he isn't angry. In fact, he feels nothing.

Raylan follows Tim's gaze to a man walking out the front door of the bar with a bag of garbage for the bin. "That's him?"

"Derek Hutter." He speaks the name one more time hoping for something to ignite.

They continue to watch until the neon OPEN sign is turned off and the last Harley clears the parking lot. "Let's get her done," says Raylan, opens his door and steps out onto the street.

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