Chapter 22

He's still waiting for the anger to show itself as he walks across the parking lot of the roadhouse and up the front step. Raylan tries the door. It's not locked. In concert they pull pistols from holsters and slip into the building.

Derek Hutter is bent over behind the bar directly across from them, straightens when he hears the click of the door closing and footfalls on the wooden floor. He looks at them curiously, then with a bit of fear when he sees the weapons out.

"Hands up on the counter," says Raylan with a nod, says it like he's ordering ice cream at a truck window.

Tim stops just inside, ostensibly to keep an eye on all four corners of the room, the entrances and stairways, but in truth he's riveted by the face. He's studying it carefully, looking for the angry man that he's been tracking, that he expects to see here, now. Instead there's just a man, not a monster, not something evil, inhuman and hated, nothing to fit the nightmare Tim remembers. He feels let down, confused. It puts him back in Afghanistan, on one mission out of hundreds in a half-dozen deployments. That night has been buried deep in his memories, unremarkable. He remembers a face, a target, kill or capture, preferably capture. They had to opt for the 'kill' in the order as things turned out. It was one of those goat-fuck missions, the war gods begrudging them an easy night, throwing in twists and bumps that left the lead team, his team, with no alternative but to finish the job with a bullet. At some point, standing next to the body in the compound, he remembers looking around and seeing evidence of what the man was before he became a mastermind for the Taliban's weapons trade. Here was a blacksmith, from generations of blacksmiths in a village where everyone knows everyone, a wall of tools and a forge, a father and a husband, his wife and kids huddled in horror-silence in a corner. It struck him as improbable that this was the monster who pioneered a cheaper and smaller and deadlier IED, the hated enemy on their hit list. He remembers looking down curiously at the body and seeing it differently, his feelings shifting abruptly from what they were when his team was shown the photo of their target at the briefing. He could see the man, commonplace in any other moment, human, relatable, a nine-to-fiver. After that night he didn't look around ever again. It wasn't a conscious decision, but something instinctive, a survival mechanism. He never went looking for any fucks to give from then on.

He tries to hold to the lesson, fixes his eyes on Derek Hutter looking bewildered at Raylan. He replaces the scene with memories of a room and a chair, of broken fingers and a metal pipe, of pain and fear and an angry face spitting.

There's a picture behind the bar of a girl on horseback, young and beautiful and smiling. He looks at it, but doesn't linger there.

He hears Raylan giving orders. "Come on out here, Mr. Hutter." Watches him kick a chair out from a table. "Have a seat. We just want to ask you a few questions." Watches Derek Hutter as he hesitates, glances desperately over at what is likely a shotgun hidden down behind the bar. "Don't," says Raylan. "Just don't." And he wags his gun slightly, gesturing between him and his partner at the door. "Neither of us misses often. In fact, I'm having trouble remembering a time when we did miss. Do you remember one?" The question is for Tim, and Raylan turns his head to look at him when he asks, confident that Tim won't take his sights off his target. Raylan doesn't expect an answer. He wants to draw Hutter's attention to the fact that there are two of them, both capable, and they mean to get what they came for. He turns back smiling the way he does when he knows he's on the winning side. "Doesn't matter really. Just know that we likely won't miss if you give us reason to shoot you."

Hutter is now staring at Tim, his gaze shifting his way after Raylan widened the circle of drama to include him. He studies Tim's face briefly then looks back at Raylan. He's trying to figure out what this is about. He has no idea what's going on, why they're here. Tim waits for the recognition that must come, for the horror to spread over Hutter's features at this ghost from his past coming to haunt him. But it doesn't happen. Hutter doesn't know him. How can he not know him? The realization is a blow, a sucker punch to the stomach, and Tim's face twists with the pain of it. The feeling of helplessness returns but the anger that follows is stronger. It pushes him, propels him across the room. He deftly changes his grip on his gun and smashes it into Hutter's face, half hoping it'll go off by accident. Blood spurts and Hutter crumples. "You fucking don't know who I am, do you?" He doesn't wait for an answer, holsters the gun and pulls his tormentor off the floor and punches him hard. "Recognize me yet, or do I need to break your fucking finger?" He yells in frustration between hits. The understanding that finally creeps onto Hutter's face gives no satisfaction.

Raylan stands back and lets it happen. When Tim doesn't stop after three or four hits, Raylan holsters his weapon and wades in. "Enough, Tim. We promised." He has trouble pulling him off. It's the reasonable voice more than the wrestling that stops the madness. "Where're you going with this, buddy?" "This ain't the plan." "We can't get what we came for if he can't talk."

The words are infuriating because they're familiar. They were said almost verbatim by another man in a room where he sat taped to a chair bleeding. He stops struggling against Raylan, knowing he's right, and strides an angry path back to the door, turns in a restless circle then storms out into a cool and still night.

"We got it mostly right," says Raylan. They're in the truck on the way back to El Paso. "Only part we didn't anticipate – and I see it as an understandable bias, us not wanting a fellow Marshal to be dishonorable – is that they didn't have to threaten Taylor. They paid him. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but any way you look at it, it sucks. It also took all Hutter's savings so he had nothing left to offer you. Nothing left now for his daughter either except the business which he borrowed on. Not thinking clearly. I'm sure she could use the money now."

"How much?"

"Just under a hundred grand."

Tim is staring out of the car window and doesn't respond.

"Knowing you I doubt you would've taken a bribe. Maybe if he had a nice rifle on offer."

Raylan's trying for a laugh, or a jaded smirk at the very least, but the anger is still roiling and Tim reacts to that, lashes out at the old pickup, hits the dashboard hard.

"Hey, that's not anyone's face. Not modern molded plastic either." Raylan puts out a hand to stop him. "You'll just break a bone if you keep that up."

"Fucking Taylor." Tim hits the door instead with the meatier part of his hand. And again. They're stronger than they look, his hands. You load enough magazines and shoot enough firearms and your hands develop a toughness. A few more slams on the door and he slumps back, hits the side of his head on the window to try and clear the noise. He can't think straight with the anger screaming in his head. "Fuck."

"Are you done?"

"I dunno." He clenches and unclenches his fists, testing, brings them up to smother his face. He's not certain even what he's angry about anymore.

Raylan lets a handful of dark miles go past before he broaches the subject again. "It must be a bit conflicting for you. I guess you saw the photo of his daughter? The 'before.' First thing I saw when we walked in. Hard to miss." He pauses for some input from Tim, gives up eventually and carries on. "He talked about her a good deal, trying to bargain with me. But that doesn't excuse what he did. I think your plan is a good one, and fair. Stick to your guns." He stops to consider his last statement. "Well, your plan, I mean."

The glow from El Paso, thirty minutes up the road, is spreading, growing into an orange dome on the horizon and beginning to compete with the light from the instrument panels of the truck. He rolls down the window to let in some air, and so does Raylan, and the wind and the grumbling of the old motor fill the cab and drown out the roar that's coming from inside his head. There's not much to look at in the dark outside but billboards illuminated, road signs and fence posts caught in the headlights. Tim fixes his eyes on something though, watches it intently. Raylan looks over once then settles back into his seat and focuses on the highway.

In the lull an animal runs across the road, a manic dash for safety and whatever is on the other side. Raylan, startled, brakes and curses under his breath. "Stupid... I don't understand Darwin's lording it over Creationism when there isn't one critter on the planet that has figured out a smart way to cross a road yet. You'd think..."

The movement has drawn Tim back and he lets out a sigh. Defeated. He interrupts Raylan's discourse on evolution. "Can we just head back tonight. Pick up our stuff and drive through?"

"Alright."

Tim shuffles in his seat, tries to get more comfortable but can't. Comfortable is elusive tonight. "You good till El Paso? I can take over then and you can sleep."

"Hell, I got enough adrenaline going to see me through to Arkansas." Raylan looks over. "But I'll let you drive when we get to the motel, just to make you happy. Promise me you won't run us off a bridge in a fit of…whatever."

"You don't gotta worry. Me and Darwin, we have an understanding."

He wakes up in the dark, the feel of wheels beneath him moving fast on a highway. He sits up abruptly, eyes open wide adjusting to the night.

Raylan is driving still, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel. He's wearing his hat. "You were tired," he says.

"Where are we?"

"We passed Midland about an hour ago."

"Shit, sorry." Tim digs at his eyes then looks back at the hat. "Did you stop and get our stuff at the motel?"

"Yep."

"I slept through it?"

"Unless you were faking. Were you faking?"

"Fuck."

"Coffee?" Raylan points to lights up ahead, a gas station and hopefully a pot of hot coffee. "We need gas anyway." He slips onto the off-ramp and pulls in next to a gas pump.

"I'm hungry," says Tim.

"If you're good, I'll buy you one of those packaged burritos. Maybe they'll have a microwave so I can heat it up for you." He drops his hat onto the seat and puts on Tim's baseball cap to cover his face a little.

"What if I'm not good?"

Raylan's already out of the truck, ducks and peers back in at him. "You pump gas. I'll get the food."

Tim picks up the cowboy hat and sets it on his head and immediately feels stupid wearing it. He keeps his back to the shop and the security cameras as much as possible and tries to move like he was born with a Stetson. It fits him all right, suits him about as well as a tiara.

Raylan comes back and passes in coffee and water and food. Tim has taken over the driver's seat and Raylan gratefully gets comfortable on the passenger side. There are no cup holders. Tim drives a bit with his knees when they get back onto the straight lines of the interstate. A coffee in one hand, he devours a chemical burrito with the other, and some fake-cheese-filled pizza pretzels. He rattles a package of frosted fruit pies trying to get at the treats until Raylan snatches them away and opens them for him. Then it's quiet for a few miles and Raylan starts snoring softly. Tim looks over at him and considers nudging him awake with a light backhand to the shoulder and some sarcasm, but doesn't.

He drives a long leg to Texarkana, watches the sun come up. They stop only once at the side of the highway so he and Raylan can take a piss. They make Memphis in good time and have an early dinner and then drive straight through to Kentucky, arriving back in Middlesboro after midnight. The doors of the old truck creak less than their joints as they climb out and walk stiffly to their motel room. They lie themselves out flat on the beds and sleep until morning.

Raylan is talking to Art when Tim comes out of the bathroom, showered and feeling somewhat human.

"Pretty much how we concluded," says Raylan and then he's listening and then talking again. "Not as much as you might think. Typical lack of thought by the criminal element…"

Tim picks up his phone to text Zoe and tell her he'll back this afternoon and to ask when she's free again.

They abandon the truck on an old dirt mining road that Raylan remembers from his school days, wipe it down and hide the keys nearby. It's well out of the way but worth the detour.

"It might still be there if you need it again," says Raylan when Tim gets into the Town Car with him.

"Assuming I could find it."

They backtrack and get onto the road to the interstate. Every small town has a gas pump and a corner store or a Ma and Pa restaurant. Tim points hopefully to each one they pass, an earnest and hungry face for Raylan. His stomach growls noisily as evidence of a neglected appetite.

But Raylan doesn't slow down. "There's this place in Corbin – best damn donuts. I'm holding out."

"They better be good."

"Better than good."

"They better be."

Half an hour later Raylan is standing on a street corner staring in dejected disbelief at the FOR LEASE sign posted on the door of his favorite donut shop. "Well, shit."

"I'm still hungry."

"You're hungry, but I'm disheartened. That's way worse." A disconsolate sigh, Raylan walks right up to the door and cups his hand to block the light and peers inside. "I tell you, this place has the best sugar donuts."

"Had."

Raylan steps back to the sidewalk and squints up at the sun glaring over the false front of the store. "Well, shit. This is disappointing. I guess we'll have to go to the other one."

"There's another one?"

"Yeah." Raylan waves east.

"Great. Hopefully it's still in business." Tim is already back in the car and waiting, talking through the open window.

Raylan follows slowly, sits behind the wheel and slides the key in the ignition but doesn't start the car. He peers around Tim, a last look at the shop. "There's some things that there's no coming back from. Not unless you could time travel and stop it happening. There's nothing that'll make it right again."

Tim looks at Raylan then at the defunct donut shop. "You're not talking about donuts, are you?"

"No."

"Can we do philosophy class while we're eating?"

"Sure." Raylan turns the key and pulls out from the curb.

They arrive back in the office after lunch, the world still spinning in its usual way. Raylan's right, and Tim knows it. There's no going back. He learned it before he joined the Marshals Service. He knew it before he was even legal drinking age, not that he didn't get drunk anyway when that lesson was hammered home the first time. He can't set things right by going after Hutter or even Sandoval.

He goes through the motions of being a Deputy US Marshal then leaves right at five, declining offers of a beer after work. For once he doesn't feel like drinking; as usual he doesn't feel like company.

The house is particularly empty, particularly silent. He pours himself a large glass of water and drinks it and pours another and sits on his sofa and stares at what's across the room from him. He falls asleep after an hour.

A soft knocking at his front door wakes him. He checks his watch. It's almost eight. Rachel smiles when he opens the door. She's carrying a pizza box and a six-pack of beer, a mirror of him the weekend past. She holds it up and makes a show of enjoying the aroma seeping through the sides.

"I got your favorite," she says. "Sausage, pepperoni, eggplant."

"I hate eggplant."

"Guess I'll have to eat it all then."

"You did not get eggplant."

"Maybe it was roasted zucchini."

"I'll eat that."

He takes the box from her and leads the way to the kitchen. They sit at the table, not bothering with plates or glasses, drink their beer from a can.

"That's a long drive to Harlan. I can't believe you and Raylan survived the time together."

"I'm practiced at dealing with adversity."

She nods, picks off a slice of pepperoni and throws it on his piece. "You could've asked me, you know. I would've gone with you."

He stops chewing and considers the woman sitting across from him. "I didn't think you... I didn't know."

"Well, now you do."

He washes down a mouthful of pizza with some beer and thinks about that. "I have to go back again. Maybe in a couple weeks."

"Let me know. It's better if you're not out with Raylan twice. It'll be easier for Art to cover it all later. They wouldn't believe that we might all collude to help you. The closer you get to Washington, the less you believe in loyalty."

"Maybe I could ask Nelson to go up to Cleveland and find Sandoval for me."

"He'd probably say yes."

He thinks about that too. "Lambs to slaughter."

She purses her lips in agreement.

"I have a buddy in Ohio," he says. "I can ask him."

"You trust him?"

He opens the empty pizza box and peers inside, shuts it and sits back.

"Can you trust him?" she says again, invested now that all their futures are on the line.

"The shit we've been through, me and him. There's nobody I trust more." He wipes his mouth with a hand, catches her eye and says, "Sorry."

She shrugs.

The legal definition of stalking involves the very specific notion of unwanted attention. He's hoping this doesn't qualify. Zoe hasn't replied to his text from this morning and his after-work nap is interfering with sleep so he's sitting in his truck on the street near The Chase waiting for the bar to close, waiting to see her. Somebody lets her out the front and locks the door behind her. He gets out and leans against his truck and watches her hoping she'll look over, but she doesn't see him, her eyes locked on the screen of her phone, thumbs busy.

He calls out, not wanting to frighten her. "Hey, Zoe."

She looks up and sees him and smiles instantly and changes direction, a little bounce in her step that was lacking a minute ago. Only then does he stop worrying about a restraining order.

"You need a lift home?"

"Sure." She holds up her phone. "I was just replying. I'm free tomorrow night."

"I could take advantage of that."

"I think you should 'cause I'm working the entire weekend."

"I can work around that too."

"What're you doing here?"

"I need a hug." He can't believe what just came out of his mouth but he has no intention of taking it back.

She doesn't miss a step, right up to him and slides her arms around his waist and turns her head to lay it flat against his chin and squeezes hard, then she moves her hands up and around his neck and kisses him lightly. He's still leaning against his truck and uses it to pull her strongly against him, not satisfied with a light kiss. She doesn't seem to mind, opens her lips, inviting. She smells like beer and fried food. That's okay because there's another scent underneath that's very feminine, and it's overwhelming and completely different from anything else he's inhaled over the past three days.

She invites him home and he thinks that sounds like a good plan and he wags his tail. He feels like a stray dog being offered rare affection and a warm bed.

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