…and Nothing Shall by Any Means Hurt You

(Chapter 17)

"Send me in, he says, la-di-da, I'll hunt him down." Art spoke loudly, cutting through the quiet hum that was filling Tim's head, pleasantly disconnected. "So you get to spend the day strolling in the woods and I have to sit on nails and…sharp hot pokers and push my heart to the brink of cardiac arrest worrying about whether I've just hung myself by your rifle strap. And not one phone call until a minute after the deadline and then it's just, we're good, all deadpan, no emotion, no how're you doing Art? Lovely weather we're having. How's the arthritis? The hostages are fine, by the way."

"Hey." Tim tossed a greeting over casually as Art approached, nattering.

"Hey? Jesus Christ, Tim. That was the tensest, shittiest twelve hours of my life." He plunked himself next to his deputy, on the log Tim had found and taken possession of, and groaned loudly and exaggeratedly, getting a grin from the men within earshot. "They told you we got the third running to his car? Nervous as a liar in heaven. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Lovely weather. How's the arthritis?"

A scowl, then, "Rachel said that the first full sentence out of your mouth would be 'I'm starving.'" Art reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed wrapped sandwich, handed it over. "She owes me a drink."

"Do you think she'd buy me one, too? I could use a drink." Tim accepted the offering, turned it over in his hands. "You find this under your seat on the helo next to the chewed up bubble gum?"

"You don't want it?"

Art reached for it and Tim pulled away, just out of range of the wiggling fingers. He unwrapped the sandwich, wrinkled his nose at it wondering just how hungry he really was then took two large bites and decided he was definitely hungry, ravenous.

Art was happy to see him eating, took a deep breath and relaxed some more, surveyed the scene. "You done good, Tim. I don't know anyone else who could've fixed this."

"I appreciate the confidence, boss – you letting me alone that long to get into position for a shot. That was a leap of faith."

"Oh, not so very great a leap." Art pulled a flask out of his pocket, looked around to be sure no one was watching them, passed it over. "Besides, we were desperate."

Tim grinned widely, looking like a kid who'd been out playing in the mud with his face still streaked for camouflage, took the flask, helped himself to a good mouthful and handed it back.

Art took a sip too, hid it back in his jacket. "Went smoothly, I guess?"

"The guy was good. He kept his cool all the way through. The way he situated himself he would've seen us coming a mile away."

"If the guy was so good then how come you got him?"

"'Cause I'm better," Tim replied, matter-of-factly.

"Did you know him?" Art couldn't hide his concern. "Is he military?"

"I don't know." Tim took another bite of the sandwich and talked around a mouthful. "I don't know. Maybe." He turned to watch them load the body onto the helicopter. "I don't think so."

"You can have my spot on the helo if you want," Art offered. "You must be exhausted."

"Actually, I'd rather walk out. Last time I pulled this sort of detail I was still in my twenties. I need to stretch out my legs."

"You want me to take the rifle?"

"Fischer told me he'd kill me if I let it out of my sight and anything happened to it. I'll carry it."

"Glad to have it?"

"Nice to have the extra power shooting uphill."

They both looked up when the boy stopped in front of them, his eyes bugged out at the bizarre forest creature sitting on a log eating a sandwich. "Thanks, mister," he said, quiet, earnest. "My mom told me to say that. She said she couldn't 'cause she'd just start crying and she didn't want to upset you."

"Tell your mom it's no problem."

The kid held out a hand, opened it, Tim's smaller knife in his palm.

Tim waved him off. "You keep it. You've earned a souvenir from this day, don't you think?" The boy grinned, turned and ran to his mother before the soldier could change his mind. "Enjoy the helo ride," he called after him.

Art got slowly to his feet to follow. "I'd better go too, or they'll leave without me. I'll meet you at the car – my turn to drive." Art hated driving.

"I was hoping for some of Limehouse's barbecue first," Tim said, standing too and stretching his arms up over his head.

"We can do that. In fact, maybe I'll join you." Art looked around the scene, back at Tim. "You sure you don't want a ride? Someone would give up their spot for you."

Tim shook his head. "The walk'll be nice. I'm good."

"Coiled snake, then." The comment dropped from Limehouse like a stone dropped from a bridge and watched carefully to see how it disturbed the water.

Tim looked up. "That barbecue sure smells good." Not even a ripple.

"I thought snakes liked their dinners alive and struggling."

"I'd settle for some pulled pork, if you could spare some for a cracker like me."

That comment, dropped, caused a ripple, rings spreading out from a smile. "Well, I doubt it you'd appreciate all the nuancing of my particular specialty, but," he wagged his head slowly side to side, "I might be feeling magnanimous this evening – services rendered and all. Come inside and have a seat on a stool and we'll fix you up." He added, "There's a large sink in the back of the kitchen, some soap. You can clean yourself up there."

"I hope I never have to do that again," said Art, one hand on the wheel.

"Well, I did offer up alternatives." The words slurred through a haze of exhaustion. Tim had given up the fight, his eyes sliding shut.

Art glanced sideways, responded to the comment. "Napalming the tree line just wouldn't go down well with the environmentalists and you know that. And an airstrike? I don't think that's something even the President could okay on US soil."

Tim shrugged, his head sliding up and down against the window where it was resting. "You people want solutions and then throw up all these roadblocks to any ideas at all. Where's your imagination?"

"I'm imagining you in a straightjacket in a cell at The Ridges."

"I don't think The Ridges is operational anymore."

"Shit. What do I do with you then?"

"If you could drop me at the courthouse so I could pick up my truck, I'd appreciate it."

"Okay."

The quiet hum was back, drowning out the noises from the highway and filling Tim's mind so that nothing else could get in. It felt good and he relaxed into it.

"You seem more like yourself tonight." Art's voice weaved its way into Tim's consciousness, unthreatening.

"I'm okay, boss. Really."

"You want to take some time off?"

"Nope."

Art nodded; Tim could see it through the gap in his eyelids.

"Seriously, Art, I'm fine. It just threw me, you know?"

"Yeah."

"I just needed a nice stroll in the woods."

Art snorted.

Tim straightened up, yawned. "Got any of that bourbon left?"

Art reached into his jacket and handed over the flask. "There might be a mouthful or two. I drank most of it between four and five this afternoon."

It wasn't warm enough, not yet porch weather, but she was there, waiting, watching. Tim pulled his truck into the driveway; his feet landed heavily on the asphalt. He gathered his gear. Miljana came down the steps to meet him, took his rifle bag from him to free up one of his arms and threw one of hers around him. He leaned into the affection and hummed a note in appreciation of warmth and softness and led her into the house. She wouldn't stop kissing him and he finally dropped his bags in the hall and returned the attention, hands sliding under her shirt and beneath the waist of her jeans and she tasted much better than any cigarette he'd ever tried and he was happy that he'd made his shot and come home alive to her.

Tim felt himself settle then, settle back on the vertical, a shift in the weight, the right tension on the hold and he was almost exactly back where he started, back before Mark dragged him to the VA Center, before Raylan went to talk to the Hill People and left him staring at Army issue boots and dead eyes and a recall to Bagram, before the thin curl of smoke slithering up, before the promise to Mark. No ground gained, though. But still, it felt good.

He awoke later, thoughts dripping from a leaky tap, slipped out of bed and went downstairs to the closet and fished the sunglasses out of his jacket where they'd sat for a week. He carried them back upstairs into the bedroom, into the drawer and into the box along with all the other shit that he hid, mostly from himself. He wandered the house in the dark, collected what he needed to clean Fischer's rifle and set up on the kitchen table. He made a pot of coffee and poured some bourbon and worked contentedly at the metal.

"It's raining."

A simple statement can carry so much baggage, Tim thought. He pointed to the blanket he'd carried out to the porch but hadn't bothered with. Miljana picked it up and settled on his lap and pulled it over them both. He bent to the side to rescue his glass of bourbon from the porch floor, switched it to his left hand and tucked her instead into the curve of his right arm. She watched the process.

"I remember you saying once that you were going to get rid of all the liquor in the house, just stock beer." He hadn't spoken yet and she was trying to gauge his mood.

"Pouring out liquor is like burning books," he said, took a sip and kissed her, leaving a film of bourbon and a scent of too many restless nights on her lips.

She licked it off, a bit of burn lingering. "Wow, Tim, waxing poetic about alcohol."

"It's not my line. I borrowed it. Don't remember from where – it just stuck with me. Seemed like something that fit my life. I knew I'd get a chance to say it someday."

"Art or Raylan maybe?"

"Nope. I read it. But I suspect it's been said a million times by people that think too much…them and drunks." He grinned and mischief loosed itself into the air.

She studied his face in the spattering of light from the street. "You're back," she said.

"I told you it would pass."

It said something that he would know that, know enough to say confidently that it would pass. She didn't care to think about how he knew, didn't care to think about that just now.

The End

Author's note: William Faulkner quoted again, for shadowgrneyes; I guess the man liked his liquor. Thanks to all for reading and an appreciative tip of the hat to anyone who found time to review. Have a great summer! (Or winter for those on the opposite side of the equator.)