Chapter 24

He and Rachel are leaning against her car watching the coroner remove the body from the house. Mr. George Grange, wanted for armed robbery and felony murder, some aggravated assault in the mix, is stumbling behind the gurney that's carrying his mother, his face distorted like a mask from an ancient tragedy, and he's weeping accordingly, the flood of tears seeping through a tangle of beard. He has an escort, two local deputies, one on each side, and his hands are cuffed.

"This is better than reality TV," says Tim.

Rachel turns her head to frown at him but he's too busy enjoying the spectacle to notice.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to send whatever you have over to the Special Investigative Team, let them handle it?" she says.

That gets his attention. "You know I appreciate your opinion, but no."

"What're you going to do then?"

"Gonna shoot 'em all." He lines up his index finger and takes four shots, makes childish but lifeless sound effects to match while he pictures his targets. "Bang, bang, bang, bang. First one's for Taylor." Even the last is deadpan.

"And would that make you feel better?"

He says simply, "Yup."

Rachel drops her head. "Tim, you can't."

"I know. But I can't just pass over my hard-earned information to those dicks in Washington and hope for the best either. Art said he'd help me get some justice as long as I didn't murder anybody. I'm not gonna murder anybody. But I'm not letting it go. Okay? Happy?"

"Okay, happy." She doesn't sound happy. They're silent while they watch the doors being closed on the coroner's truck, Grange being handed into the back of a Sheriff's car. Rachel pulls out her keys as the cavalcade pulls out from the curb. The show is over. "Come on. I'll drop you at home."

"No, I think I'll come in with you. Show my face. Maybe then people will stop asking if I'm alright."

"I don't think it'll help."

"Ouch."

"That's not what I meant."

Raylan is holding open the door at the Marshals' entrance when they arrive back at the courthouse. Apparently he's leaving for the weekend, five o'clock on the dot. He nods as they approach. He doesn't ask Tim if he's alright. He says, "Hey, Tim. You do have a gift."

"A gift?"

"For sniffing out happy hour. It's the stuff of legend. You disappear for two days then show up just in time for the Friday afternoon drink."

Nelson is next out the door. "Hi, Tim. Where've you been? You alright?"

"No. My goldfish died."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Raylan ruins the fun. "Nelson, Tim doesn't have a goldfish." He leaves Nelson to hold the door for Art who's bringing up the rear, and says to Tim, "The world won't let him have a pet. If the animal rights folks got wind of it, they'd descend on Lexington like a plague."

"That's why I keep a nest of vipers. Nobody seems to care too much about vipers. Come over sometime, Raylan, and I'll let you play with them unsupervised."

Art steps between the boys, slaps a hand on Tim's back. "Just couldn't stay away, could you?"

"Sure, go ahead, pretend like you didn't orchestrate this whole thing."

"Not the dying mother."

"Wouldn't put it past you."

"Excuse me," Rachel says, elbows Tim out of the way and moves around them all toward the open door. "Go on without me. I'll catch up."

"You're not coming?"

"I want to get the paperwork done first."

Arms out, Art takes a step backward and blocks the door. "Rachel, it's Friday night. It's drink night. For heaven's sake, it can wait till Monday."

Tim and Raylan exchange a look, both blurt out the same words with the same hurt expression. "You never say that to us."

"You two go drinking every night. It's not like Friday's special." Art points at Tim. "And the only reason I'm not making you go write this up is because you're not actually working today."

"I think this is reverse misogyny. Wait, is that even possible?"

"The word you're looking for is 'misandry,'" says Rachel.

Art grins, uncaring, and corrals the group toward the parking lot exit, a friendly wave for the guard at the gate. Rachel is still protesting but Art insists. "C'mon, relax a little. I'll buy you a drink for closing out that warrant."

Tim says to Raylan, "He ever offer to buy you a drink for closing out a warrant?"

"Nope."

A disclaimer is added. "...for closing out a warrant without a shot being fired."

"I did that just yesterday," says Raylan.

"…on a Friday."

"Misandry," says Tim, trying out his new word. "I told you."

Raylan asks the pragmatic question. "Where are we going?"

The suggestion comes from Tim, and quickly. "Why don't we just go across the street?"

"What?" says Raylan. "You too thirsty after all your hard work today to walk a block or two?"

Art's not fooled, a knowing look and an annoying grin. "He just doesn't want us all landing in at The Chase and bothering his girlfriend. Did you piss her off already?"

"More like I don't wanna piss her off."

"You mean you finally called that waitress?" says Raylan.

"What waitress?" Nelson is scrambling again to keep up.

"Stop." Tim plants both feet refusing to go further, like a dog on a hot sidewalk. He was leading the way but now everyone has jostled past him. "I'm not going drinking with you if my love life is going to be the main subject of discussion."

"You're in love?"

"Fuck. That's it. I'm done here. I'm going home and…"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. He's attacked from behind, pulled backward in a chokehold. He reacts, lifts both legs and drops his full weight down, and when his feet find sidewalk again he pushes up hard, jumps backward throwing himself forcefully into his attacker. They stumble apart and Tim turns quickly, reaching back for his gun and clutching at an empty holster. He's lost his backup in the struggle. There's a second of panicked disbelief as he realizes his assailant is holding it.

Raylan and Rachel both have weapons out and aimed, but they hesitate when Tim, standing between them and their target, tilts his head in a familiar way, relaxes his fingers from the fists they had balled themselves into. He's projecting annoyance, not fear. He lets loose a "fuck" and there's more expression in the word than anyone's used to hearing from him.

Rachel lowers the barrel of her gun, her eyes darting between Tim and his assailant, waiting for something, elucidation. Raylan is still aiming at the man's chest, his arms not quite level because of the size of his target. He's over six-feet tall, easily two hundred pounds and none of it wasted, tattoos liberally covering both arms and disappearing under the sleeves of his t-shirt and reappearing again at the neck. He looks threatening enough but his behavior contradicts his appearance. He has a hand up rubbing his chin where Tim's head connected, testing his jaw by moving it back and forth. The action is comical. And the missing subcompact is lying harmlessly flat in the open palm of his other hand. It's being inspected.

Tim continues his swearing. "Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ. Jackson, you fucking... Do you ever think before you do your stupid shit? Have you got a death wish or something? Fuck. You're lucky you have my gun. I'd fucking shoot you in the face, you...fucking..." Tim looks over his shoulder at Raylan, anticipating his response to the situation. "Stand down, cowboy. I'd have to answer to an entire battalion of armed and angry Rangers if this idiot got shot on my watch. Unless I did it. They'd understand then."

Jackson is chuckling at Tim's tirade. He waves the pistol. "You got a little one too?" He's clearly delighted with it. "Cocked and locked – you are wonderfully predictable, Gutterson. What ammo are you using? Let me guess. Expensive." He releases the magazine and takes a peek. "And…oh? Not that expensive."

"If I'm pulling that trigger it's to stop some idiot like you standing a few feet from me. I'm not putting holes in targets at fifty yards."

"Does it shoot as nice as the full-size?"

"You bet. German precision." They grin at each other for a minute. Tim throws out his arms. "What the fuck are you doing in Lexington?"

"You weren't answering your phone."

"Did you call my cell?"

"No. I'm not gonna call your cell when you call at eight in the morning asking for a favor. I called your home phone. Cell phones are wide open. Fucking anyone can listen in." He changes up his tone, concern now. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You didn't sound it in the message."

"I'm fine." Tim says it again but is even less convinced of it. Seeing his oldest and best friend is triggering something, inking the outline of what's changed since the abduction. He's not fine. "It's good to see you." He walks forward and is enveloped in a hug. "It's been a while."

"You've been busy."

"Yeah, well…" He finishes with a grunt that's not an affirmation and realizes he's been avoiding this meeting. He wishes it weren't so public. He passes a hand quickly over his mouth, stopping words from coming out, turns once more to face the Marshals and offers a look of apology to Art. "Friend," he says.

"Uh-huh. Figured that out on my own. Well, invite him along and let's get going. If I wasn't in need of a drink before, I sure am now."

Tim makes a hasty introduction. "Uh, Jackson, Marshals; Marshals, Jackson."

Art steps up to take the handshake for the rest of them. "Nice to meet you. Art Mullen."

Jackson smiles, affable, deftly swaps Tim's pistol into his left hand to extend the courtesy that Art is offering, says, "This is like a scene from the Old West. It's a posse of Marshals."

"And each and every one of us carrying. You're lucky we didn't shoot you. You like beer?"

"I do."

"Come on along then. And Tim, I never thought I'd have to say this to you, but get your gun back before I have a fit."

Art finishes the introductions while Tim tucks his handgun away. He uses it as an excuse to lag behind and tuck away his stray emotions.

Jackson is forgiven by the time the second round is delivered to their table. He's easy company, tells a good story. Tim sits back, content to let Jackson roll, content not to be the center of attention, until his friend decides to turn the spotlight his way.

"So, did you call that waitress?"

"Fuck off."

"He did," says Raylan.

"She nice?"

"No, I only date nasty girls."

Jackson nods in agreement. "That's true. I remember fucking what's-her-name."

"Tara," offers Rachel.

"That's the one."

"Fuck off, the lot of you."

"Zoe's nice," says Art. "We've all met her."

"Oh, so it's serious. You've introduced her to the family."

"No." Tim draws a circle in the air to encompass everyone at the table. "They all frequent the bar she works at."

"You law enforcement types, such fucking lushes," says Jackson. "Don't know how you stand it here, Tim, you being from a prohibitionist family."

"Prohibitionist only in word."

Raylan reinforces the label given them by Jackson, waves over at the bar for another round while Jackson lists off on his fingers what he's learned about Tim's latest girl. "So, she's nice. She works at a bar. She has lousy taste in men."

"Brown hair," says Raylan.

Tim adds, "And her dad's Delta."

It's Jackson's turn to choke on his drink, chuckling as he draws out the 'oh' in "Oh, buddy. You are so fucked. I'll bet she shoots better than you."

"You're probably right. We haven't gone there yet. I'll probably have to let her drive too."

"You can stay home and look after the kids."

Art leaves first, home for the weekend, Nelson behind him by only a few minutes. Raylan stands after another round, drops money on the table and mumbles something about an errand. Rachel frowns at the mystery in his vague excuse and looks like she'd like to follow him, keep him in line. But she can't be two places at once and she's clearly more concerned about what Tim and his friend are up to.

Tim knows why she's staying, but he doesn't mind. He has fewer secrets from her than anyone else in the office, less reason to keep the mask in place. He trusts her to only pass on what needs to be heard. He teases her. "You don't have to stick around. I already told you what I'm gonna ask him to do."

Jackson has his own ideas about the help Tim needs. "I been waiting for you to call so we could go fuck somebody up. Time for some payback."

"Payback?"

"For what they did to you?"

"What're you talking about?"

"They beat you fucking nearly to death. We were ready to do some damage even before you got out of the hospital."

Tim stares at his friend, mouth dropped open, manages a word. "Hospital?"

"Don't be a douche. I came to see you right after they found you. If you think I'm fucking standing on the sidelines while those fuckers get what's coming…"

"You came to the hospital?"

"The cop on the door wouldn't let me in. I made a bit of a scene. They threatened me with handcuffs when I snuck in later. They didn't tell you?"

Tim shakes his head, stunned.

"Yeah, well…" Jackson looks away.

"I was pretty out of it for the first couple weeks. Someone probably did tell me, or didn't bother's more likely." Tim feels stupid that he didn't know, and even more stupid that he thought his friend didn't know. "How did you know?"

"I can fucking read, asshole. It was in the papers. You better believe that shit would get my attention when it happens to a Federal Marshal in Lexington. What're the odds, I thought, but then you hadn't answered any texts for like fucking…days. We were all talking about it."

"We?"

"Me and Shag and Weitz." Jackson thinks about it, then lists off a few more names from Tim's platoon. "Weitz came down and staked out your house for a while." Jackson smiles at Rachel. "He got a nice photo of you."

She looks horrified, ready to protest, but Jackson keeps right on going.

"I figured you had your reasons for not talking about it, but I know it's been weighing on you 'cause…well, fuck, because you haven't been fucking talking about it. You never brought it up. Not once. And then you call three times this week and only leave a message the last time. And then you don't answer your fucking phone for two days…" He smiles for Rachel again. "I thought maybe they got him again." He twitches, says, "Oh, shit. That reminds me," and pulls out his phone. "I'd better tell the guys you're alright. Hopefully they're not on their way yet." His thumbs are moving in double-time.

Tim's mouth is hanging open again. He shuts it and pushes his fingers into his eye sockets. "Did we get married or something and I didn't know? Like maybe that night when I got shitfaced and woke up in the bucket of that front loader? Fuck, tell me we didn't consummate anything."

"Fuck you, buddy. I'm here to either organize your rescue or kick your ass for being such a fucking dick. Did you forget who your friends are?"

"No. They're the loud and obnoxious ones. How can I forget?"

Jackson is still rapid-fire texting. Tim takes the time to sort through his feelings about this revelation. He looks over at Rachel and is dismayed to see sympathy in her face. He snaps at her. "I'm fine."

"Mm-hm."

Then he snaps at Jackson. "Are you texting the entire platoon?"

Jackson looks up but he's distracted, goes back to the texting, then finally puts away his phone.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah. So what is it you need me to do?"

He looks at Rachel again, the sympathy replaced by a warning. He ignores it.

"I need you to find someone for me…in Cleveland."

"Cleveland? Who the fuck's in Cleveland?"

"A fucking scumbag named Jesus Sandoval."

"Is he one of the fuckers that tried to beat you to death?"

Tim winces at a flash of phantom pain. "Not exactly."

"But this will help you get them?"

"That's what I'm hoping."

"Alright then. Jesus…?"

"Sandoval. Jesus Sandoval."

"I'm on it." Jackson pushes back his chair and stands.

"Sit down," says Tim. "You can't just Google an address. The Marshals Service has him hidden. I'll get you a name and a picture of the Marshal handling his case. You'll have to follow him."

There's disapproval in the way Rachel has her lips pressed tightly, staring down at her beer glass, her fingers tapping out the sound of a leaking roof. It puts him on edge. But he's thought it out. He doesn't want anything rebounding, not on anyone in the Lexington Office. There will be no subtle inquiries to the Cleveland Marshals, no favors pulled, no trace left from a computer search, nothing to point to Art or any of his people.

Rachel avoids him the next week, keeps to herself and keeps busy. There's nothing he can say that'll reassure her so he leaves her to it. Jackson will find Jesus Sandoval. It's just a matter of time, and as it turns out, not as much time as he'd anticipated. He gets the text toward the end of the week.

Got him. Butt fucking ugly scumbag. You didn't warn me.

He's at his desk when his phone pings. Work this week has seemed dull, meaningless. He goes through the motions and performs his duties diligently, but his heart's not in it anymore. He wonders if anyone else can sense it. He's had to remind himself constantly to stay focused. He escapes to Zoe's apartment whenever he can, stepping through an invisible wall that he's constructed to separate that world from this one. Now that the plan is in motion, nothing else is important in the day-to-day. It wears at him. He's grateful for the oasis he's constructed around her, shutting everything else off, living in the moment. It's a mirage and he knows it, but it's providing something he needs and he tries not to think too much about it, think it out of existence. He likes her. He likes her a lot.

Zoe is the first thing he considers when he gets Jackson's text. There's a thought that he's successfully ignored until now, that he should come clean with her if he's going to try to keep this thing with her going. Maybe he'll talk to her tonight, finally pull down that wall and see if the two worlds can coexist.

He pushes it out of his mind and replies to the text.

Thanks. Call tonight. And welcome to my world. Ugly scumbags.

He looks across the bullpen at Rachel. Time to let her in too. He stands up and slowly and deliberately collects his phone, his wallet, sunglasses. He walks through the buzzing bullpen, oblivious to it all, stops in front of her desk and waits for an acknowledgement. He knows she's aware, was aware even before he crossed the office, and he gives her all the time she needs to berate him with silence.

It's a long scolding, then, "What can I do for you, Deputy Gutterson?"

He plays along. "I have a warrant for a coffee. I need someone for backup. You look free."

"I'm free but I'm not easy."

"And I know it, but easy is boring. I hate boring."

She looks up when it's no longer possible not to. "What do you want, Tim?"

"You said you would've come with me last time if I'd asked. Well, I'm asking."

She leans forward and he meets her halfway, puts his hands on her desk and leans in.

The finger she points is inches from his nose. "I won't go in blind."

"That's why I'm offering to buy you a coffee, so I can enlighten you."

She humphs, stands up and walks around her desk. "A word of advice, Gutterson – next time just say up front that you're buying."

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