Chapter 23

He's standing in his shorts and nothing else, fishes his phone from his pile of clothes and tiptoes into the kitchen of Zoe's apartment. His eyes opened automatically at six and he lay there in the stillness, not wanting to get up. Now it's 7:30 and he knows Art is awake having his coffee so he calls him at home to ask for a day off. The plan is to crawl back into bed and enjoy Zoe's company for a few more hours. If he were someone else he might just sneak in before lunch with an excuse ready, but the Ranger in him won't allow it. Late is not acceptable.

There's empty air after he says, "Morning, Boss," and makes his request, "Can I take a day?" At first he thinks he's dropped the signal. He checks for bars on the cell's display. All good. Between checking the signal and bringing the phone back up to his ear he realizes what's going on – Art is managing to be sarcastic without words or visual cues. It's impressive. He replies in kind. "Chief? Do I need to call 911? You having a stroke over there?"

"Just give me a minute to digest this. It's a bit early in the morning to be knocking my world off its axis."

The silence continues. He thinks he hears the sound of coffee being sipped. "Just yes or no, if it's not too hard for you."

A concerned, "Is everything alright?" Maybe some suspicion.

"Yeah, fine," he says, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he recognizes the lie. He's not fine. He's not sure he'll ever be fine. He thinks about it while he lies some more. "I have something I wanna do and there's nothing urgent on my desk."

A shorter pause. "What is it you wanna do?"

Fair enough, he thinks. Under the circumstances, he'd ask too. "There's this girl…and she's free today, and…" That's the truth and it makes it easy to say. He leaves the details for Art to assume.

"Oh. A girl. Alright. Then, yes. Enjoy yourself. Keep your phone on."

"It's never not on."

"I had to say something to cover the fact that I'm dumbfounded that you're taking a day off to spend with a girl. Is it that cute waitress from The Chase? I bet it is. Is she as nice when she's not bringing you beer, or was that the whole draw for you?"

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says and hangs up, cutting off the interrogation.

He takes a step toward the bedroom then stops. He thinks again about Raylan's half-assed way of handing out wisdom. Then he thinks about the wisdom. How ever awkward the delivery, there's truth in the words: There's some things that there's no coming back from. But Raylan's wrong to assume that he doesn't know that already. There was no coming back from Afghanistan. His world changed and he changed with it. He's struggling with it still, right now, coming to terms with who it is that came back from that place. He wonders if Zoe can like that man. He wonders if he can like that man. He has to. It's all there is. Acknowledge it; accept it; move on.

A couple of hours ago he might have said that things were getting better – so it appeared in the drugged contentment that follows good sex and a sound sleep – but talking to Art lifted the blind. He admits to himself that he sought out Zoe last night because the trip to New Mexico brought no satisfaction. It only added deeper layers of dissatisfaction. He's here because he doesn't want to think about it, and she's doing a fine job of distracting him. But she can't fix his world for him. That's entirely his responsibility.

He walks over to the little table at the end of her kitchen and sits down with his revelation. He looks at his phone and thinks about the plan he discussed with Art. He makes a decision, calls his friend in Ohio. It goes to voicemail again. This time he leaves a message. "Hey, asshole, call me. I need some help with something."

His eyes wander the kitchen afterward, subconsciously taking inventory. It's a learned trait. Zoe's not particularly neat, more practical, and it shows with what's handy on the counter, a clutter of things used every day. His eyes stop at a magnetic knife rack and he stands, curious, and walks over and picks out a knife and tests the blade. It's sharp. He grins, liking her all the more for it. He puts the knife back on the rack and tries another – it's sharp too. He replaces it and sets his phone on the counter and tiptoes into her bedroom to see if he can get back, if only for a few hours, to when he thought things were getting better.

He and Zoe are discussing their parents over breakfast at the little table in her kitchen. He skips lightly over the tale of his folks with a "They're dead. End of story." And he thinks he's getting away with something, happy to listen to her talk about hers when she doesn't push him for more. He even gets her started. "You said your dad was Army?"

"Delta."

He almost spits out an entire mouthful of coffee, swallows quickly, sets his mug down, sits back coughing. He covers his face with his hands. "Shit. Delta?" He's still coughing. "You should've told me sooner. I can't date you. Sorry. I gotta go." He stands up to leave.

She laughs and grabs his shirt and pulls him back down into his seat. "Don't you pussy out on me."

"You must be used to it. I bet it happens a lot."

"Only happens with the ones who understand what it means." She smiles and bites her lip. "Was your dad military?"

"No."

"What was he then?"

"Uh…" He picks up his mug again but he's already had the last mouthful. He stares at the dregs. "He was a hypocrite."

"I hear that pays well."

He grins at her joke. "Probably true most of the time, but he was a religious hypocrite. That doesn't pay worth shit. I can't believe people actually listened to his sermons."

"Oh. Like that, is it?"

"Like that."

"What happened to him?"

"It's kinda cliché."

"What?"

"He fell asleep after a lot of drinking…" – he pauses for effect, face mimicking the Joker – "…with a lit cigarette. Burned the house down. Fortunately, they were the only ones in it. The dog was sleeping outside."

"Oh my God, your mom too? I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I think you'd call her an enabler. A partner in crime at any rate." He puts his hand on his heart. "It was the Holy Father calling home to Heaven his beloved children. God, the number of times I had that bullshit spouted at me. He burned the fucking house down around him. If God was involved, then he loves a bit of irony."

He runs a hand through the bed head and thinks about his sister. They haven't spoken since the funeral. She didn't appreciate that he mocked her belief that their parents were in heaven now. He said if lying, cheating, child-beating assholes go to heaven, then hell is kinda redundant, don't you think? And that's when she called him a warmonger and slapped him for good measure. He hasn't been back to his home town since. His father stopped talking to him when he joined the army, the war machine as he liked to say. His sister pleaded with him outside the church at the funeral to quit and repent his sins or he wouldn't see his mother and father in heaven to reconcile their differences. He had just completed Basic and was given the weekend to attend the funeral before starting Airborne training. He hadn't been in long enough to have done any serious sinning. He pointed that out to her, and then told her his only regret in signing up was that he'd likely bump into his father in hell when he got there eventually. If he'd been smart, he'd have tried a more saintly profession. She has a least two kids, a niece and nephew somewhere that he hopes are doing okay without his influence. It's a sorry state of affairs when he considers himself a better role model than anyone else in his family.

He wonders if it's a full moon this week, or maybe there's a tragic anniversary looming, and so the melancholy thoughts. He looks up at Zoe. "I was hoping to save this conversation until, I dunno, at least the third date."

"Guess we'll have to find something else to do for that one."

"So, your dad's Delta. What's your mom do – SAS, KSK, Spetsnaz?"

"Couldn't say. I don't know her."

"What?"

"She didn't like being married to the military, single-parenting so much of the time. She took off on us one day when I was…" She reaches down so her hand is knee-high.

"She ever come back?"

"Nope. Dad left the army and moved back home here to Kentucky where he had family and that's when he opened the hardware store. He decided I needed at least one parent around to raise me."

"Good on him."

"We're pretty close."

"I can imagine. You ever look for her?"

"God, no. Why would I?"

He nods. "I guess we'll need to find something to do now on our fourth date too."

"We could go to a movie."

"Or make out."

She grins for that. "Did you really call your boss and take the day off?"

"I did."

She chews her lip again, sounds sorry when she says, "I have to help Dad at the store this afternoon. I promised him."

"Don't change your plans for me," he says. "I got things I can do." And then he admits something to her that he hasn't yet admitted to himself. "Honestly, I just didn't feel like going to work today." It surprises him coming out of his mouth.

"Why do I think that's not like you?"

"It's not. I would've gone in if this weren't so nice." He absentmindedly picks up his empty mug a second time, looks at the bottom and sets it back down.

She leans across the table and kisses him. "There's more coffee," she says when she sits back, a gesture at the pot on the counter.

It hasn't really registered with him that his mug is empty. He's focused on other things. Now it's Derek Hutter's daughter, and Sandoval sitting snuggly in a house in Cleveland.

She retrieves the pot for him. "Well, if it's a distraction you need, we're doing inventory at the store. The help would be welcome."

"Delta, huh?"

"Ex."

"There's no such thing as ex-Delta."

"I bet there's no such thing as ex-Ranger neither."

He likes the way she says 'neither' when she's not trying to impress anyone, sitting at the little table in her kitchen, tired.

"Delta. Jesus."

He helps her at the hardware store. He shakes hands with the Delta Force father who says, "Nice shooting in the square the other day. Zoe says you're a Ranger. What exactly does that mean to you?"

"Second Battalion, 75th Regiment."

Her dad nods his approval, smiles. "You in the sniper platoon?"

"That's right."

"Not much of a challenge for you then."

"Not really."

There's a measured look from him, then for Zoe, then back to him, and Zoe's father says, "I appreciate the help today."

He spends the afternoon with her counting screw drivers, shovels, boxes of nails. It's easy work. They talk. They joke. He gets his hands on her when he thinks no one is looking. He stays and has dinner with them. He drives her home and they end up in bed again. It's all easy. She's laughing while they're having sex. He's making up stories about his scars, each one more ridiculous than the last.

"That one? I was in a knife fight with a Yeti near the Pakistan border."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. He won't be bothering any Rangers anytime soon."

"You sure it was a 'he?'"

"He had his girlfriend's name tattooed on his right bicep."

"Underneath all the hair?"

"He was a skin."

"Good story."

"Thanks. And this one…shark attack."

"In Afghanistan?"

"No, right here in Kentucky."

"Didn't know there were sharks here."

"Don't know much, do you?"

She's on top, keeping a straight face but only just. "This one?"

"Spooning accident."

"Oh, that can be painful, I hear."

"Wasn't following the safety protocols." He points to another scar. "This nasty one…" He runs a finger across his scar from the beating, along his ribs on the left side. He's happy to joke about it. "Girl I slept with once whose daddy is Special Forces."

That's where she loses it and starts giggling. "Oh, I think he likes you well enough. He didn't pull his gun when he caught us kissing in the back."

"He's scary."

"He's alright."

"He's fucking Delta."

Later she asks him, in the quiet as he's drifting, "Was it as bad as they said in the papers? They said you were in critical condition."

"How do you remember that?"

"I went to the library and did a search on it. I honestly didn't remember. It didn't mean anything to me at the time."

He wants to brush it off but something in her tone drags the truth out of him. "It was bad. I was lucky a couple of kids decided to sneak into the building. Might not be here enjoying this if they hadn't."

"How do you get past something like that?"

"I'll let you know if I ever figure it out." He's fully awake now, thinking.

"Why don't you take tomorrow off too? I'm working nights the rest of the week. I don't have to be anywhere till four. "

It's tempting. He figures Art would let him if he confesses that it is the cute waitress from The Chase that's keeping him away, and she's just as nice without a tray of beer. In fact, better.

He spots the pool car as soon as he turns onto his block. It looks like the one that Rachel likes to use. As he drives past he waves, then pulls into his driveway and walks back up the street to meet her. He checks his phone to make sure he hasn't missed a call somewhere between lunch and dropping Zoe at the bar for her shift.

"What's up?"

"I was going to ask you that." Rachel is still working, her sidearm and star in view as she saunters across the street.

"I think you've been spending too much time with Raylan. You're starting to walk like him."

"Excuse me?"

That hit a nerve. He smirks. Bulls-eye.

Her walk changes up subtly in the two steps it takes for her to get up in his face. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Look at you strutting across the street."

"I do not strut."

"Not since I mentioned it."

She reaches out and swats him. "Don't be an asshole."

"What're you doing here, besides assaulting me?"

"I need some company while I go deal with a warrant. I was hoping you might be interested."

"I got the day off."

"I know. Truthfully, I can handle the warrant myself but I thought I'd come here and see what's up with you. Are you moping, or doing something stupid?"

"Are those my only options?"

"Tim, get in the car."

"Yes, ma'am."

He follows her back across the road to her car.

"Are you carrying?"

He scoffs.

The warrant file is on the dash. He reaches for it and starts reading as she drives. They're outside the city limits and heading south and west, Rachel talking and asking him questions. He grunts in response when it's needed while he scrolls through the pages. Eventually she asks a question that demands more than a guttural acknowledgement.

"Tim, is everything alright?"

He slaps the folder shut and drops it on the seat between them. "Why is everybody asking me that? I took a couple of days. So what?"

"So, it's not like you."

He has nothing to say to that.

"Raylan tells me you got confirmation that Taylor was involved."

"Yep."

"So?"

"So? They paid him."

"No, I mean, so what are you going to do with that information?"

"I'm working on it."

She huffs.

He taps the file. "Was Art gonna let you go after this guy alone?"

"You're changing the subject."

"That's right. I'm changing the subject. Was Art gonna let…?"

"No. He told me to find you and take you along."

"No one else was available?"

She looks over at him, guilty, and it's his turn to huff. But he likes her too much to stay angry. He taps the folder again. "This guy is like five times bigger than you, and mean. Did you read this?"

Rachel knocks. Tim stands against the front of the house to the side of the door so he can't be seen. They hear heavy footsteps inside. Rachel looks over and makes a face. She slides a hand down to her hip and unclips her sidearm but leaves it holstered. Tim moves his hand to his back where he keeps his subcompact, makes a face back at her.

The inside door opens.

Rachel looks up. "Mr. Grange," she says, putting on attitude. "I'm Deputy…"

"I know why you're here," he says. "And I'll come without any trouble. There's just something I gotta look after first." He pushes open the screen. "Come on in." There are tears streaming down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. His shoulders shudder in sympathy with a sob that escapes.

"Mr. Grange, I have a warrant…"

"I know." He falls to his knees, sobbing.

Rachel looks to Tim for help. He shrugs then pulls his gun out and steps behind her to cover her movements when she gives in to the absurdity and gets down on one knee and puts a comforting hand on her felon's shoulder. "What's wrong?" she says, all the attitude holstered for now.

"It's my momma. She just passed. Only just. She's in the den. I won't be any trouble. I can't… She made me promise that I'd stop my meanness. It was the last thing she said and then she…" He can't say it, voice hitching. He wipes a meaty hand across his face in an attempt to mop up. "I promised my momma. I promised."

Rachel pats his back awkwardly, waves at Tim with the other hand. "Call it in," she says.

He stares at her, raises his eyebrows to communicate his disbelief, mouths, "Handcuffs."

She glares.

He throws his arms out, holsters his weapon and pulls out his phone.

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