Bells of Heaven Chapter 5
A little PTSD, a little office aggro, a little Rachel...
5
It was a long night, empty of any kind of light, cold with the coming of a darker day. The gray dawn illuminated an ache that gripped him from skull to spine to heels, all his muscles tight with tension, a high-tensile fence wire straining beneath the bolt-cutter’s edge.
The dog stayed curled on him, liking his warmth.
Hard to press out his legs, pull his shoulders back from where they’d curled with instinctive fellowship towards his only companion through the night. He un-cricked his neck - left, right, left again - then gently pushed the dog off him and clawed his way to his feet.
There was a yellow sheen to the dull light in his kitchen, and he knew that snow was coming. It was early in the year for it, but nature paid no heed to calendars when she was in the mood, and her mood was bitter, he could tell. He knew he’d smell it when he opened the door - a clean, crisp threat. His own smell was sour, and he grimaced.
On the breakfast bar and the sink rested plates and cups. He wasn’t sure when he’d used them. Not for days, certainly; he ate at lunch, when other people were around, but had no appetite at home. Not for three weeks now. He thought he’d forced breakfast on the weekend. It wasn’t like him to leave dishes afterwards but he’d had other things to think about. Dog ownership. Snow coming.
In his bedroom clothes lay on the floor. It was as if he were leaving pieces of himself scattered behind, one layer, another. He hurried to the bathroom to clean what was left.
Walking into the warmth and light of the office set him to a subtle shiver.
Burl’s voice brought that shiver to a shake.
“Arghandab, oh man, fulla the worst kinda assholes. You’d see ‘em on the road, you know, the ANP, the police, they’d get outta their uniforms at the checkpoints and pretend to be bandits so they could fleece the locals as they came through. They saw us coming, they’d be back into their uniforms lickety split. One time I stopped, and I kinda stood over him, asked him how many folks he’d stolen from that day. Man, he nearly shit his baggy trousered self. So I hauled him up, shook him down, took everything he had on him and went back into town with it, handed it out to folks I knew needed the help.”
Nelson and Davey and Melissa Delgarno were there, beaming their admiration. Tim scowled his way past, even as Burl yelled out, “Mornin’, Tim!”
Raylan’s desk was empty as he passed it. He slumped into his chair, turned on the computer, tried to ignore the way it felt like fifth grade and that gradual separation all over again. That was Crazy, dragging that old shit back to light, and Tim didn’t do Crazy.
He got busy lining up the day’s tasks, focused on a screen and a list of names and addresses he’d asked LPD to send over late last night. So he couldn’t be sure who asked the question, but even as he tried to block out the obnoxious sound of Burl’s voice, someone said, “Say, Burl, why’d you think some folks won’t talk about their army stories?”
“Well,” Burl drawled, full of judicious consideration, “I figure there’s three likely causes. One is they sat on their behinds back in HQ all the livelong day, got nothing to talk about. Fella like that’d be real careful opening his mouth, ‘case a vet who actually knew something about something happened by.”
“I’ve heard a tall tale or two spun by folks who weren’t even born when it all happened.” That was Raylan’s voice, and Tim’s gut twisted tighter. It made no sense, why Raylan being over there, listening to Burl, would send that little spike of hurt into his belly. But then, Tim never could figure out just what was what when it came to Raylan. With all his self-absorption and pig-headedness, Raylan was no kind of team player; but Tim was on his team, nonetheless, and that meant something fundamental to him. He just wasn’t certain it meant the same thing to Raylan.
“That’s the truth. But a Marine would put down a man braggin’ where he don’t have the right.”
“So what’s the other reasons?”
“Easy. He’s a pussy.” A pause. “ Or he’s a Ranger.” There was a smattering of light, nervous laughter.
Tim smiled. This was better; he had a clear line of sight straight to the target. He hit print, got up, slouched over to the printer and took the list that came out. He didn’t listen to whatever they were burbling about, that tight little group at the coffee machine, by Burl’s desk. He slid the paper into a folder, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
Didn’t make it.
Burl’s voice, sotto voce, pitched low but sure over the plate.
“So what’s with Grim Tutterson over there?”
Tim stopped, even as he saw Rachel shake her head at him, felt nothing but the savage joy of combat as he slowly pivoted to face them all. He looked into their faces - Nelson and Davey, excited by the vicarious heroics, a little gratified, maybe, to see Tim ‘I don’t talk about the war’ Gutterson brought to heel; Melissa, unabashed approval of what she was hearing; Raylan - damn, some days he couldn’t read Raylan at all.
He gave a nod, and opened fire.
“Arghandab. ‘Bout twenty klicks outside of Kandahar? I know that place. Y’ever get into the US Special Forces building out that way? Just before the pass, used to be Mullah Omar’s place. Seven metres underground, guy just about caught a full on air raid and he walked out smiling at the end of it.”
Their faces were harder to parse, now, and that gave him a moment of satisfaction. He saw movement from the corner of his eye and Art appeared, Not Happy.
“I forget to tell you all this is a place of employment? If so, I do apologise for the lack of clarity when you signed up.”
Tim ignored him. He couldn’t help it; the wire was singing with tension, the bolt-cutter’s edge chill to his neck.
“Beautiful valley, all orchards and lines of trees, all kinds of fruit. There was a compound out there, to the west, and intel said some local Taliban shithead commander was holed up there, so me’n a couple of buddies, we settled in ‘bout 800 metres away, and waited, ‘cos it was comin’ up on Eid al-Fitr, and we knew he’d be coming out to pray in the open.”
Burl cleared his throat, as if to speak, but Tim wouldn’t let him.
“So we’re there, three days, just -“ he thought of Colton Rhodes, gave a disturbing smile, “just pissing and shitting in our helmets. And third day, sure enough, there’s people comin’ in from all over and we know our guy’s gonna come out, slaughter a goat, whatever the fuck, and we’re settin’ up, ready to go play. And just then - just like that, my buddy gets the most explosive case of the shits you ever saw in your life. I mean, he’d been cramping some, but that ain’t no rare thing, and then it just comes outta him like a burst balloon and we don’t know whether to laugh or cry, man, it’s everywhere.
“And then we hear this kid - we’d nicknamed him Mushtaq, seen him n the compound, he’s got one of them ‘peace and unity’ soccer balls got handed out to the kids -“
“Afghan flag on one side?” Burl nodded. Tim gave an encouraging grin.
“Right, yeah. One’s got handed out everywhere. So this kid is calling a name, over and over again, and we think, oh shit, it’s the dog, and sure enough, next thing we look up and there’s a goddamned dog hanging off the rock above us, barking like crazy, and my buddy’s got his hands just covered in shit, and my other buddy’s sayin’ we gotta stop that dog, and holy shit, here comes our target, right on cue, out to read in the field.”
He could see Art knew he should stop this, but Art was caught, like they all were, in the macabre rush of Tim’s story.
“I got some beef jerky left in my pocket, so I leave my weapon - right there, on the rock, leave that and go call the dog down. I mean, I know its name, I’ve been listening to the kid call it for fifteen minutes now. I call it, real gentle, and offer the jerky and got it close enough so I could grab it.”
He stopped, waited; Nelson obliged.
“Then what happened? You made friends with it?”
Tim smiled.
“Hell no. I jammed my knife up under its throat, right through the top of its head. Then I crawled back, shot the guy, one shot, I didn’t miss, and we hightailed it outta there, all covered in shit and dog’s blood and carryin’ my buddy. Was a good thing we didn’t see the kid or I woulda shot him, too. And I hate wasting bullets. You know, you’re right, Nelson.” He slapped the folder against his palm, upbeat. “War stories are fun.”
Rachel’s arm was on his elbow, and that was good, that was great, because he’d fallen so far out of his skin he was hitting pavement.
“Let’s go,” she said, quiet and sure, so he turned with her, unwilling to name what he saw on the faces of everyone gathered there.
_______________________________________________________________________________
He was fizzing with the pleasure of it as he left the elevator with Rachel. That lasted all the way to the car. He only realised it had left when he went to release the lock and his hand was shaking too much to find the button.
“Why don’t I drive,” said Rachel, and it wasn’t a question. He handed her the keys and climbed into the passenger seat to twitch his leg, incessantly, against the car door.
“Where am I going?”
Tim consulted the folder, gave directions.
They drove in silence for ten minutes before Rachel started.
“You gonna tell me why you did that back there?”
Tim looked out the window. People were hurrying along the sidewalks, feeling the snow coming, reading the sky or, more likely, their weather alert app. Stocking up on salt, or batteries, or water.
Scurrying under the looming sky as if they could outrun the cold, as if they could gather all they loved and cherished under one warm, happy roof and keep it inviolate against the deadly chill.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, you’re right. I never did do my basic asshole training.”
His knee banged harder against the door, and he dropped one hand down to still it before she said anything else. He almost regretted coming with her - or, more honestly, grabbing hold of her before he disappeared entirely under the concrete. But the truth was she was Rachel, and Tim was on her team, too.
“It’s just something you don’t do. Talk about it all.”
“Who says?” She wasn’t baiting him; she was genuinely asking.
Tim frowned. “No one says, you just know. It’s like a code of honor. You don’t go bragging about stuff, because...” Because too many good people weren’t here anymore to join in.
“Okay.” Rachel thought about that, and he loved that about her, the care she took with everything. “So why do you think Burl doesn’t understand that?”
“I dunno.” Tim shrugged it away, and knew as he did she wouldn’t let him escape that easily. He kept watching out the window, eyes gauging everyone they passed over, a hundred little stories born and gone as the car sped by.
“Maybe,” Rachel began, and she wasn’t preaching, he could tell that by her voice, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear it anyway, “he’s looking to make a name for himself because he’s not feeling too certain about what he’s doing being a Marshal. Maybe he’s still coming to terms with it all and maybe that’s why he’s staying in the world he knows better.”
And that sounded true. Or at least, as if it held enough of the truth that Tim could believe it. Whether he wanted to or not was another question.
“Or maybe he’s a loudmouth blowhard who thinks that everything we did over there was glorious and heroic and full of God’s own virtue.”
“I’m not asking you to give him any special pass.”
“Well, thank you for that.”
“But I am asking you to give him the benefit of the doubt until you get to know him better.”
“I know him plenty.”
Rachel sighed, and he knew he’d managed to piss her off. It sent another of those little spikes into his gut. He shifted in the seat, suddenly so tired he could close his eyes and sink into the car, just drop everything and go.
“It’s just here.” He nodded to a modern office building, and Rachel pulled in, switched off the engine, sat in the sudden silence. He waited, weary beyond thought of action, for her to take the lead.
“What you did back there... it was ugly. I’ve never seen that in you before.”
Stupidly, he felt a sting in his eyes. He opened the door with abrupt force and stood to catch the wind in his face, letting it scour the sorrow and the shame out of him with the first bite of snowflakes in the air.
5
It was a long night, empty of any kind of light, cold with the coming of a darker day. The gray dawn illuminated an ache that gripped him from skull to spine to heels, all his muscles tight with tension, a high-tensile fence wire straining beneath the bolt-cutter’s edge.
The dog stayed curled on him, liking his warmth.
Hard to press out his legs, pull his shoulders back from where they’d curled with instinctive fellowship towards his only companion through the night. He un-cricked his neck - left, right, left again - then gently pushed the dog off him and clawed his way to his feet.
There was a yellow sheen to the dull light in his kitchen, and he knew that snow was coming. It was early in the year for it, but nature paid no heed to calendars when she was in the mood, and her mood was bitter, he could tell. He knew he’d smell it when he opened the door - a clean, crisp threat. His own smell was sour, and he grimaced.
On the breakfast bar and the sink rested plates and cups. He wasn’t sure when he’d used them. Not for days, certainly; he ate at lunch, when other people were around, but had no appetite at home. Not for three weeks now. He thought he’d forced breakfast on the weekend. It wasn’t like him to leave dishes afterwards but he’d had other things to think about. Dog ownership. Snow coming.
In his bedroom clothes lay on the floor. It was as if he were leaving pieces of himself scattered behind, one layer, another. He hurried to the bathroom to clean what was left.
Walking into the warmth and light of the office set him to a subtle shiver.
Burl’s voice brought that shiver to a shake.
“Arghandab, oh man, fulla the worst kinda assholes. You’d see ‘em on the road, you know, the ANP, the police, they’d get outta their uniforms at the checkpoints and pretend to be bandits so they could fleece the locals as they came through. They saw us coming, they’d be back into their uniforms lickety split. One time I stopped, and I kinda stood over him, asked him how many folks he’d stolen from that day. Man, he nearly shit his baggy trousered self. So I hauled him up, shook him down, took everything he had on him and went back into town with it, handed it out to folks I knew needed the help.”
Nelson and Davey and Melissa Delgarno were there, beaming their admiration. Tim scowled his way past, even as Burl yelled out, “Mornin’, Tim!”
Raylan’s desk was empty as he passed it. He slumped into his chair, turned on the computer, tried to ignore the way it felt like fifth grade and that gradual separation all over again. That was Crazy, dragging that old shit back to light, and Tim didn’t do Crazy.
He got busy lining up the day’s tasks, focused on a screen and a list of names and addresses he’d asked LPD to send over late last night. So he couldn’t be sure who asked the question, but even as he tried to block out the obnoxious sound of Burl’s voice, someone said, “Say, Burl, why’d you think some folks won’t talk about their army stories?”
“Well,” Burl drawled, full of judicious consideration, “I figure there’s three likely causes. One is they sat on their behinds back in HQ all the livelong day, got nothing to talk about. Fella like that’d be real careful opening his mouth, ‘case a vet who actually knew something about something happened by.”
“I’ve heard a tall tale or two spun by folks who weren’t even born when it all happened.” That was Raylan’s voice, and Tim’s gut twisted tighter. It made no sense, why Raylan being over there, listening to Burl, would send that little spike of hurt into his belly. But then, Tim never could figure out just what was what when it came to Raylan. With all his self-absorption and pig-headedness, Raylan was no kind of team player; but Tim was on his team, nonetheless, and that meant something fundamental to him. He just wasn’t certain it meant the same thing to Raylan.
“That’s the truth. But a Marine would put down a man braggin’ where he don’t have the right.”
“So what’s the other reasons?”
“Easy. He’s a pussy.” A pause. “ Or he’s a Ranger.” There was a smattering of light, nervous laughter.
Tim smiled. This was better; he had a clear line of sight straight to the target. He hit print, got up, slouched over to the printer and took the list that came out. He didn’t listen to whatever they were burbling about, that tight little group at the coffee machine, by Burl’s desk. He slid the paper into a folder, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
Didn’t make it.
Burl’s voice, sotto voce, pitched low but sure over the plate.
“So what’s with Grim Tutterson over there?”
Tim stopped, even as he saw Rachel shake her head at him, felt nothing but the savage joy of combat as he slowly pivoted to face them all. He looked into their faces - Nelson and Davey, excited by the vicarious heroics, a little gratified, maybe, to see Tim ‘I don’t talk about the war’ Gutterson brought to heel; Melissa, unabashed approval of what she was hearing; Raylan - damn, some days he couldn’t read Raylan at all.
He gave a nod, and opened fire.
“Arghandab. ‘Bout twenty klicks outside of Kandahar? I know that place. Y’ever get into the US Special Forces building out that way? Just before the pass, used to be Mullah Omar’s place. Seven metres underground, guy just about caught a full on air raid and he walked out smiling at the end of it.”
Their faces were harder to parse, now, and that gave him a moment of satisfaction. He saw movement from the corner of his eye and Art appeared, Not Happy.
“I forget to tell you all this is a place of employment? If so, I do apologise for the lack of clarity when you signed up.”
Tim ignored him. He couldn’t help it; the wire was singing with tension, the bolt-cutter’s edge chill to his neck.
“Beautiful valley, all orchards and lines of trees, all kinds of fruit. There was a compound out there, to the west, and intel said some local Taliban shithead commander was holed up there, so me’n a couple of buddies, we settled in ‘bout 800 metres away, and waited, ‘cos it was comin’ up on Eid al-Fitr, and we knew he’d be coming out to pray in the open.”
Burl cleared his throat, as if to speak, but Tim wouldn’t let him.
“So we’re there, three days, just -“ he thought of Colton Rhodes, gave a disturbing smile, “just pissing and shitting in our helmets. And third day, sure enough, there’s people comin’ in from all over and we know our guy’s gonna come out, slaughter a goat, whatever the fuck, and we’re settin’ up, ready to go play. And just then - just like that, my buddy gets the most explosive case of the shits you ever saw in your life. I mean, he’d been cramping some, but that ain’t no rare thing, and then it just comes outta him like a burst balloon and we don’t know whether to laugh or cry, man, it’s everywhere.
“And then we hear this kid - we’d nicknamed him Mushtaq, seen him n the compound, he’s got one of them ‘peace and unity’ soccer balls got handed out to the kids -“
“Afghan flag on one side?” Burl nodded. Tim gave an encouraging grin.
“Right, yeah. One’s got handed out everywhere. So this kid is calling a name, over and over again, and we think, oh shit, it’s the dog, and sure enough, next thing we look up and there’s a goddamned dog hanging off the rock above us, barking like crazy, and my buddy’s got his hands just covered in shit, and my other buddy’s sayin’ we gotta stop that dog, and holy shit, here comes our target, right on cue, out to read in the field.”
He could see Art knew he should stop this, but Art was caught, like they all were, in the macabre rush of Tim’s story.
“I got some beef jerky left in my pocket, so I leave my weapon - right there, on the rock, leave that and go call the dog down. I mean, I know its name, I’ve been listening to the kid call it for fifteen minutes now. I call it, real gentle, and offer the jerky and got it close enough so I could grab it.”
He stopped, waited; Nelson obliged.
“Then what happened? You made friends with it?”
Tim smiled.
“Hell no. I jammed my knife up under its throat, right through the top of its head. Then I crawled back, shot the guy, one shot, I didn’t miss, and we hightailed it outta there, all covered in shit and dog’s blood and carryin’ my buddy. Was a good thing we didn’t see the kid or I woulda shot him, too. And I hate wasting bullets. You know, you’re right, Nelson.” He slapped the folder against his palm, upbeat. “War stories are fun.”
Rachel’s arm was on his elbow, and that was good, that was great, because he’d fallen so far out of his skin he was hitting pavement.
“Let’s go,” she said, quiet and sure, so he turned with her, unwilling to name what he saw on the faces of everyone gathered there.
_______________________________________________________________________________
He was fizzing with the pleasure of it as he left the elevator with Rachel. That lasted all the way to the car. He only realised it had left when he went to release the lock and his hand was shaking too much to find the button.
“Why don’t I drive,” said Rachel, and it wasn’t a question. He handed her the keys and climbed into the passenger seat to twitch his leg, incessantly, against the car door.
“Where am I going?”
Tim consulted the folder, gave directions.
They drove in silence for ten minutes before Rachel started.
“You gonna tell me why you did that back there?”
Tim looked out the window. People were hurrying along the sidewalks, feeling the snow coming, reading the sky or, more likely, their weather alert app. Stocking up on salt, or batteries, or water.
Scurrying under the looming sky as if they could outrun the cold, as if they could gather all they loved and cherished under one warm, happy roof and keep it inviolate against the deadly chill.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, you’re right. I never did do my basic asshole training.”
His knee banged harder against the door, and he dropped one hand down to still it before she said anything else. He almost regretted coming with her - or, more honestly, grabbing hold of her before he disappeared entirely under the concrete. But the truth was she was Rachel, and Tim was on her team, too.
“It’s just something you don’t do. Talk about it all.”
“Who says?” She wasn’t baiting him; she was genuinely asking.
Tim frowned. “No one says, you just know. It’s like a code of honor. You don’t go bragging about stuff, because...” Because too many good people weren’t here anymore to join in.
“Okay.” Rachel thought about that, and he loved that about her, the care she took with everything. “So why do you think Burl doesn’t understand that?”
“I dunno.” Tim shrugged it away, and knew as he did she wouldn’t let him escape that easily. He kept watching out the window, eyes gauging everyone they passed over, a hundred little stories born and gone as the car sped by.
“Maybe,” Rachel began, and she wasn’t preaching, he could tell that by her voice, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear it anyway, “he’s looking to make a name for himself because he’s not feeling too certain about what he’s doing being a Marshal. Maybe he’s still coming to terms with it all and maybe that’s why he’s staying in the world he knows better.”
And that sounded true. Or at least, as if it held enough of the truth that Tim could believe it. Whether he wanted to or not was another question.
“Or maybe he’s a loudmouth blowhard who thinks that everything we did over there was glorious and heroic and full of God’s own virtue.”
“I’m not asking you to give him any special pass.”
“Well, thank you for that.”
“But I am asking you to give him the benefit of the doubt until you get to know him better.”
“I know him plenty.”
Rachel sighed, and he knew he’d managed to piss her off. It sent another of those little spikes into his gut. He shifted in the seat, suddenly so tired he could close his eyes and sink into the car, just drop everything and go.
“It’s just here.” He nodded to a modern office building, and Rachel pulled in, switched off the engine, sat in the sudden silence. He waited, weary beyond thought of action, for her to take the lead.
“What you did back there... it was ugly. I’ve never seen that in you before.”
Stupidly, he felt a sting in his eyes. He opened the door with abrupt force and stood to catch the wind in his face, letting it scour the sorrow and the shame out of him with the first bite of snowflakes in the air.