Chapter 26

Tara hated almost everything about his house. She would constantly suggest changes, or more like demand improvements, trying to mold him into her version of perfection. "You need a new couch. This one is so ugly." "You should paint this room. Blue, or taupe would be better." "Why don't you move your computer upstairs? This is supposed to be a living room, not an office." "I'm not sleeping in those sheets. When was the last time you bought new ones?"

They spent most of their time together at her house. It was less painful. He's a little gun-shy about company since.

Zoe was supposed to be working tonight. He was supposed to pick her up after closing and take her back to her apartment again. But since she was let off early, for good behavior, she thought it would be nice to have a barbecue. He thought it would be nice too. There isn't one at her apartment – no yard – so they headed to his place. He anticipated some disapproval from her, some comment about the old couch or the weedy yard. He closed the door behind her and took a deep breath, bracing himself for it. But she didn't notice the wall color or the couch. She playfully ran her hand up under his shirt and kissed him. They ended up in bed before the barbecue, in his old sheets, old sheets that he hasn't had time to wash in a few weeks. She didn't seem to mind.

Now they're in bed a second time – the barbecue and the talking done – and for the second time he has her on her back on those sheets in the room with the tired beige walls, and she's still not complaining. Maybe this is what you get when you're raised by a single father who values function over form. She clearly didn't rebel.

He's holding another sweating beer bottle and is happily tracing her outline with it, because she likes it, up her thigh to her hip, swerving in at her waist. He pauses to lick the drips of moisture left in his wake then continues up to her ribs and out around the curve of her breast, lingering there. Zoe stretches her arms over her head so he has a clear run up to her finger tips. She hums a single husky note when she feels him hard against her as he stretches out to reach the bottle and his tongue up the full length of her.

"You're heating up my beer," he says, pulls away from her briefly to set it on the table beside the bed.

"Go get a fresh one. I'll wait. I'm liking this."

He kneels between her thighs and grins. "In a minute, greedy girl." He places his hands on her hips, a deliberate motion, then slides them up onto her stomach, her breasts, before dropping them onto the bed on either side of her shoulders to hold himself taut above her with the tip of his penis just touching, enjoying the anticipation. It's agony. In the haze of desire he wonders if women know this agony.

She's not in a patient mood, wraps her legs around his hips and pulls hers up and pushes herself onto him. It's a strong physical acceptance and he groans for the pleasure of it, for the satisfaction of getting what his entire body is screaming for. He lets his arms buckle and he collapses slowly down onto the bed with the weight of the two of them.

"Greedy girl," he says again into her neck, his smile so broad it hurts.

She chuckles and sways her hips.

He moans. "Slow down."

"I want that cold beer."

It's a lusty voice, and there's an invitation in the tone that he feels rather than hears. It drains his thoughts completely, funnels all his awareness and energy to the nerve endings on his skin in the places where it's pressing against hers.

"Jesus." It might be a prayer of thanks, or a plea. He gives in to her rhythm.

Hutter's daughter was a beautiful girl, blonde and richly curvy, like all of Sandoval's rape victims. His salacious leanings definitely had a type.

Tim doesn't want to be thinking about Sandoval's criminal history or his 'type' but there's something in his current situation that draws his mind there. He's lying on his stomach, his head turned to admire his bed companion. Zoe is sleeping, and like most people, she looks younger, more childlike when she's asleep, her features softened, all expressions born of experience removed. He thinks she's beautiful. He wants more than a look, but he won't wake her. He pushes up and rolls onto his side to face her, moves his head closer and takes a deep breath. She makes his sheets smell good. He thinks about what his type is and decides he doesn't really have one. He just likes women. And right now he likes this one especially. He's been accused of dating only for the convenience of having someone to have sex with and that might've been true in the past. But this doesn't feel like that. This girl is tugging at more than just his body parts. And oddly there's no anxiety when he thinks of her and him a year out. But there's no point planning too far ahead. Not with his history.

Again he digs around in his head to see if he has a type that he's not admitting to. Just willing seems to be the only common trait in the girls he's dated. He has a friend who has a list of attributes in his mind when he goes looking for a partner. He says he's more likely to find the perfect woman that way. Tim's not so sure. He's convinced it's simply luck and he leaves himself open to it by not narrowing his search. In his view, it's a more likely scenario that you simply stumble into the right person while you're wading through all the wrong ones. And who knows, this could be it. This girl right here. So far, so good.

He's grateful tonight that Zoe's not blonde and curvy, not Sandoval's type, because he thinks about Sandoval too much as is. But what she said earlier comes back to him and makes him think, what if she were? For a moment, a brief moment before he shoves the picture from his mind, he imagines it – Sandoval on top of Zoe. The distress is immediate. His heart reacts, pounding at his ribs in anger; his lungs can't keep up, flooding with air that hasn't enough oxygen to relieve his constricting chest. He can feel his jaw stiffen, teeth clenching. His entire body is tensing and he's angry, tapped back into the emotions he felt taped to that chair. In that room. He wants to scream. He hates being a victim. He wants somebody dead. He slips as carefully and quietly as he can out of the bed, grabs clothes, careless, a shirt, pants, shuts the door softly as he leaves. He tiptoes down the stairs to his computer desk and opens the top drawer and pulls out the file from the Special Investigative Team in DC. He flips through the pages until he finds a name.

Barefeet into boots, keys, a wallet, his handgun and back holster in place, he steps out into the Lexington night. As the door closes he's engulfed in the solitude of a city in the hours between bars closing and businesses opening, the streets empty, the cool night air calming his agitation. He walks quickly to the rare payphone and places a call.

A sleepy Jackson answers. "What? Fuck."

"It's just me."

"Buddy, you'd better be calling to tell me you plan on fucking doing something fucking nasty finally. What the fuck time is it?"

"I need to reach out to someone undesirable in New Mexico. I was hoping you'd make the call for me. Use a burner. You don't want these fucks tracing you."

"You got a number?"

"Sort of. I got a name for the guy in charge, and a business number where you can leave him a message."

"What's the message?"

"That we got an address for Sandoval. I wanna know what it's worth to them."

"Alright, then what?"

"I'll send you details for when they call back."

"You think they will?"

"I know they will. You got a pen?"

He hangs up the phone and thinks about the case the US Attorney is building around Sandoval's testimony. It's all about to come crashing down. There are bad guys out there who will not be arrested and charged and tried and convicted because of that phone call. His mental reaction is immediate and aggressive: So fucking what? I don't give a fuck. He thinks about his job. He likens it to flushing a toilet full of shit and the water rushing in to fill the bowl back up again, waiting for the next piece of shit to occupy the void. Today, he's not doing his job. He's not flushing. He's leaving the same shit floating.

"You are not fucking serious?!"

Art never says 'fucking'. Every head in the bullpen snaps to the fishbowl that is Art's office. He's on the phone and yelling and his door is open.

"After what my guy went through to protect that scumbag's ass, you have the nerve to call me and suggest that he might have had something to do with this? Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Red faced and on his feet in indignation, Art becomes aware that he is the center of attention in the office. He turns and faces the wall behind his desk but continues yelling. "No, you won't. Don't you dare come down here. Deputy Gutterson has nothing to say to you. I have nothing to say to you. And I won't guarantee your safety if you show up and so much as hint at allegations of any culpability to anyone in this bureau. Am I making myself clear?"

The phone is deposited with force into its cradle. Art huffs and puffs like an enraged bull. He yells one more time. "Fuckers!" There's a collective flinching in the bullpen.

When Art's finally in control of himself he walks with forced calm from his office and makes an announcement. "Sandoval was murdered in Cleveland early this morning." There's a buzz of disbelief. "Execution style. He was shot in the head. No loss to the world if you ask me." He turns slightly so he's looking directly at Tim. "Why didn't they move him after Taylor was implicated? They've had all fucking week. That's the first thing I would've done as Bureau Chief. The first thing! He would've been in a new location within twenty-four hours. The fucking idiots. And then they actually have the nerve to ask if they can come down here and question you. The fuckers." He swivels again and addresses the entire staff. "If any one of them steps foot in this office for any reason other than to apologize to Tim in person in the most sucking and groveling manner possible, I'm ordering you to shoot to kill. Got it?"

There's a mumbling of "Yessir" and "Got it" and everyone moves to look busy as Art turns and stomps back to his desk.

Tim wipes a hand across his mouth but can't hide the grin. He twists his head and sees Raylan grinning too.

"Well, shit," says Raylan. "I don't think I've ever seen Art that angry."

"That's because you were out of the office doing something stupid the last time. We took the brunt of it for you."

"You're not pissed?"

"About?"

"Sandoval."

"Why would I be? The guy's a fucking scumbag. He deserves worse than a bullet to the head, but I guess I'll have to settle for it."

"Yep."

It's another week before they get the details. In that time no one from DC comes to visit, not brave enough to show their faces in Lexington. Art has demanded and gets a copy of the follow-up report. He invites Tim and Raylan and Rachel for a drink so they can discuss it. Art's still angry, his meaty hand crushing the paper carelessly. He throws the report on the table and almost knocks his chair over when he yanks it out to sit down.

"Watch your blood pressure, Art."

"Shut up, Raylan."

The server shows up as Art snaps. He's about to retreat back to the bar but Raylan stops him.

"I'll take a Jim Beam, neat."

"Make it two," says Tim.

"Three."

Rachel orders a beer.

Jesus Sandoval is no more. An execution-style murder, shot in the back of the head while on his knees in the front hall of his Cleveland safe house. .357 caliber, two rounds, close range. Dead. They're sure it was the people Sandoval was snitching on who pulled the trigger. It just makes sense. The only thing they can't figure out is how they got the address. It's possible that Sandoval himself contacted somebody when he shouldn't have. It's possible that Hutter traded the information for financial security for his daughter. A little digging found an anonymous donation of one million dollars in a trust account for Derek Hutter's girl, set up the week of the execution, but forensics accounting can't trace it. It was done legally through a reputable bank from a Swiss account. There's no way to link the money with the drug syndicate that Sandoval worked for. They have evidence that Taylor was in contact with Hutter, but they can't find anything to confirm that either Taylor or Hutter were in contact with the drug syndicate. They're at a dead end.

"I can just imagine the smile on Reyes's face," says Art naming the drug boss who was the priority in the case being built around Sandoval's testimony. "And Hutter's too, I guess." He orders another round.

The four marshals sit quietly. There's sporadic eye contact.

Art opens the conversation again after a bit. "It's nice to lay this whole thing to rest even with the black eye it leaves on the Marshals Service. As far as I'm concerned that black eye is nothing compared to the injuries you had, Tim."

Rachel has a worried look, her gaze shifting again and again to Tim's face. She says, "Tim…?" then stops herself and fidgets with her beer glass.

Art watches her, but says to Tim, "Do you think you can put this behind you?"

"As much as I can."

"And how about you?" Art is speaking to Rachel now. "I'm sorry it was you who was there when they brought Tim into the hospital. You had to see what they did to him first hand. Something like that'll stay with you. Are you okay with all this?"

Rachel blinks once, twice. "I'm fine, Chief. It didn't happen to me." She shifts her eyes again to Tim, the worried look softening to something, memories, acceptance. "I'm glad Hutter's daughter is looked after."

Tim flicks his empty glass into the middle of the table, a needless action that betrays his restlessness. A fleeting look for Rachel then he sits back, hooks his arm on his chair. "They're letting her keep the money?"

"Far as I know," says Art. "They can't confiscate it without proof that it's dirty money."

"God knows she's gonna need it," says Raylan. "Lucky windfall."

"Yeah, lucky," says Tim. "No one would begrudge it to her, I hope."

"Mmm." Rachel looks at Tim again, tries one more time to get a read on him but the second round of drinks arrives and changes the mood and the opportunity slides past.

Raylan has to find humor in it. "Twice to the head, huh? It's just like that zombie movie," says Raylan. "Double tap."

Tim smirks. "Sandoval was ugly enough. Maybe someone mistook him for a walker."

"Didn't Rick have a .357 in Walking Dead?" says Rachel.

"Colt Python," says Tim.

"Nice revolver," says Art. "I shot one once. My brother-in-law in Georgia has quite a firearms collection."

"Maybe you could introduce me."

"It worries me how well you two would probably get along."

Zoe is helping him pack.

He holds up a shirt for her approval. "Does this even go with this?"

"Oh my God, Tim. Who cares? You're going for a weekend with your buddies. It's not like you're meeting the president."

"I was just testing you."

She stops folding clothes and looks at him, quizzical, but doesn't ask. He loves that about her. She doesn't ask and doesn't care. She's too confident to need to understand everything that's going on in his head.

"Besides," she says, reaches over and smacks his ass, "everything goes with jeans and you've only packed jeans. My only fashion advice to you is take stuff you're not gonna miss when it gets ruined."

"Just what do you think we're gonna do?"

"I wouldn't dare try to guess. I'd have to bleach my mind if I even thought about it. I've heard stories about what you Ranger types do when you get together. I'm just saying, don't take anything you're fond of."

He's meeting Jackson and two other buddies from the Regiment in Las Vegas for a four-day weekend of stupidness. Zoe's assessment of the trip is likely prescient. He remembers the last time the four of them met in Vegas, blurry recollections of a prostitute running after them and aiming an inventive string of swearing at Jackson, a bar fight that they started and snuck out on before it finished, Shag swimming naked in the fountain at the Bellagio, and then the inside of the holding cell at the Las Vegas Police Department's downtown precinct. They all ended up there when they tried to convince the uniforms that Shag didn't need arresting, just another drink. He had to play his US Marshal card in the end though he was reluctant to do so. That and a bit of sweet-talking, which hurt more than the hangover, eventually got them back to their hotel room without charges being laid. It was a good trip. And clothing did get ruined. He pulls a shirt out of his suitcase and hangs it back in his closet.

"Phew," says Zoe. "I like that one."

He gives her a facetious held tilt.

She drives him to the airport in his truck. He's leaving it in her care.

"Come back alive," she says and kisses him goodbye.

"Jesus, it's not a deployment."

"I'd probably be less concerned if it was. You get into trouble, call Greg, not me."

He likes that about her too. She refers to her dad by name.

"Like I'd ever live down being rescued by a Delta."

They spend the first night in the hotel room, drinking and catching up. Shag lives not too far away, in Flagstaff, Arizona, so he drives to Las Vegas toting a case of Jameson and an ample supply of beer in a cooler and they work their way through a good portion of it, up talking and laughing until dawn. The sun catches them all sleeping wherever they nodded off. They shower and traipse off bleary-eyed to the all-you-can-eat buffet where they drink a few gallons of water that the Nevada desert can hardly spare and stuff themselves with enough food to last them the day then they get into Shag's truck and drive south and east to Las Cruces, New Mexico. It's a ten-hour drive but there are four of them to share it and they do it in eight and half, even with a stop for dinner. Hutter's establishment has been sold and the bike gang has moved on, but Tim has done his research and found their new watering hole. Shag pulls up outside and they watch and wait.

Hutter's two Lexington accomplices show up eventually, swaggering with the confidence of being part of a gang. Tim points them out. The first one comes out of the bar early and they jump him in the parking lot and rope him with zip ties and toss him into the back seat of the double cab, keep him quiet with a pistol to the head. The second one is even easier to subdue, a bit drunk. One good punch from Jackson and he's on the pavement and they ball him up too and stack him on top of his buddy. It's not hard to find a deserted piece of real estate nearby. Weitz jumps out and pulls two folding chairs from the bed of the truck and sets them up in the headlights. They seat their catch and apply liberal amounts of duct tape.

Tim has a piece of metal pipe. He swings it carelessly as he walks toward them. "It's bad Marshal day," he says. "I've been waiting a while for this." He's glad he brought an old shirt.

fin