Chapter Text
Tim pulls up in the bar’s parking lot and cuts off the car. It’s early but the day already shows promise of heat, so he rolls his window down to let in the muggy, solid Kentucky air. He never bothers idling while waiting for Raylan. The man exists on his own timetable.
Art had handed the assignment out last night on their way out of the office. It was an open fugitive case that had been knocked to a lower priority thanks to Raylan’s ongoing Harlan Tango. A new sighting had just popped it back to the top of the pile. The roughneck, named Earl Jim Jones, was wanted for making terroristic threats before peacing out on his parole officer. Art had dug up his ex-wife’s location and wanted eyes on her in case she led them to him or else to something big enough to merit a search warrant for her house.
“Why don’t y’all carpool over there tomorrow,” Art had said. “Save the American taxpayer the gas money.”
“Sure,” Tim had offered, taking the file from Art before breezing past Raylan’s desk towards the elevator. “I’ll be there at 7:00, Raylan.” He hadn’t waited for Raylan’s response.
The first few times he picked Raylan up on assignment, back when he lived at that no-tell motel and they were still taking the measure of each other, he’d politely waited in the parking lot until Raylan came out. Now he kills five minutes before honking, simply for the pure pleasure of yanking Raylan’s chain.
Nothing happens. Usually the car horn brings Raylan out the bar’s front door squawking like a mad rooster. He taps the horn again, more for his own amusement than anything, then gets out of the car, which is when he finally notices that Raylan’s town car isn’t in the lot. He stalks through the bar’s front door and heads for the back stairs, ready to rain holy hell down on a sleeping Raylan’s door. But when he gets up there, panting a little, it’s open. He nudges the door open further with the toe of his boot. His sightline is clear.
“Raylan?” he calls as he steps inside. The lights are off, but the place is a wreck. Blankets are piled in a heap at the foot of the bed and there’s a half-drunk bottle of Jim Beam on the floor. He toes a joint out of the way. It’s not a palace at the best of times but this morning it looks like the inside of a sack of drowned cats.
The bathroom door is ajar and water’s running. Tim’s hand goes to his holster on instinct.
“Raylan?” A flicker from the corner arrests his attention. Tim pulls; pure instinct guiding his hands. He was trained on instinct—if something registers as wrong, pull immediately. He always does, even now, on Raylan.
“Wait!” Despite Raylan’s face looking at him and his body wearing his clothes, the flat accent that just issued from that mouth is decidedly not Raylan’s. Tim lowers his service weapon a hair, trying to get a closer look in the dark room.
Raylan’s hair is long enough to curl onto his collar. Tim had asked him last week if his barbershop hated him, so that’s the right length. He’s still got the mole under his eye; Tim can’t see the one on his jaw from there. The stance is off, though; if this guy, whoever the fuck he is, was Raylan, he would’ve cocked his hip out by now. And there’s something about his expression that’s rubbing Tim wrong.
“Do you have any credentials?” Tim’s hoping against hope for a marshal’s star, even if it’s from a Spirit Halloween store.
“Uh, I have elite Yelp status. And a driver’s license.” The man with Raylan’s face looks like he can’t decide if he’s going to start laughing or crying, and that’s it. That’s what’s bothering Tim. He isn’t used to seeing more than one expression cross Raylan’s face at a time.
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Show me a badge or get on the ground.” The man’s already kneeling, hands raised. Right away. With no back talk or hesitation. Huh. “If you’re here, where’s Raylan?”
Weird Raylan shrugs, hands still in the air, the kind of conciliatory shrug that attempts the impossible task of appeasing a highly skilled ex-ranger with a gun trained on him. Tim’s just fine with everyone thinking his trigger instinct came from his time in the service. It’s easier than explaining it was a survival mechanism he honed as a kid to survive his father’s dangerous, mercurial moods. He needs every bit of that careful caution now.
“Give me some information,” Tim says, gun raised again. “Now.”
“I don’t know! I don’t know. I went to bed last night in my invitingly spacious four bedroom, three bath Santa Clarita home, secure next to my beautiful wife, and woke up this morning wearing a pair of uncomfortable Levis in the saddest room I’ve seen since I flipped a half-condemned loft. And what kind of name’s Raylan?”
“It’s the name of the man whose jeans you’re wearing. And it’s who you look like.”
“Okay, interesting addition. If you’ll allow me, I’ll be mulling that over for a second. A lot’s changed in my life in the last month, so forgive me if I don’t have all the answers. I’m just as confused as you, maybe even more. When I woke up, I thought I got some bad weed, but now I’m starting to think there’s some kind of rift in the space-time continuum that sent me here and Raymond back to Santa Clarita.” He stops to think for a second. “Pretty sure that’s what Eric’s subreddit friends would call it, a space-time continuum.”
Tim discards about two-thirds of that information. “You think Raylan’s in some place called Santa Clarita?”
The man scoffs. “Some place, check this guy out. It’s only California! And yeah, I think he probably is. Once I found out my wife was a zombie, which I don’t mind telling you because I don’t think this is actually a conversation that will follow me back to my consequence-ridden real life, swapping realities isn’t such a leap.”
The man is clearly crazy. Tim feels like he’s eight again and up late watching a Twilight Zone rerun, scared of the dark and Rod Serling’s rasping voice.
“So you don’t know Raylan? You two aren’t in communication out there on E.T’s landline?”
“What?” the man says. “E.T. didn’t have his own phone, that was a whole thing—”
“—Do you know Raylan!” Tim’s patience is a wire being turned tighter by the minute.
“Scout’s honor,” the man says. “I’ve never met the man or had access to his brain in any capacity: spiritually, or, as feels necessary to disclaim these days, physically.”
Tim’s heard enough.
*
“He has Raylan’s face?” He can hear Rachel shuffling papers. She’s humoring him.
“Yeah, but it’s not Raylan. He’s either got a long-lost twin or Freaky Friday’s a documentary.”
“Thanks for narrowing it down to probable scenarios, Gutterson.”
“He doesn’t know a thing about Harlan County. And when he talks he sounds like he surfs instead of shoots squirrels for recreation.”
“Damn.” Rachel’s stopped shuffling. “Whatever’s going on, you don’t want Art mixed up in it if you can help it.”
Tim shifts the phone between his shoulder and his ear so his hands are free. “I know that.”
“What’s he go by?”
“Haven’t asked.” He pins the man who isn’t Raylan with a still-suspicious glare. “What’re we callin’ you?”
“Joel,” the man says, making a face like he’s trying to apologize for his whole existence.
“Joel,” Tim repeats to Rachel. “I’m taking this dude with me while I try to figure out where Raylan’s kicked off to.” He motions Joel over, closer to his car.
The man sure does what he’s told which makes handcuffing him easy. Placing him in the back of the car’s even easier. Tim throws Raylan’s hat back there next to him on the seat. Doesn’t feel right to see that head bare.
“Maybe you’d feel better if you wore the hat,” Joel says.
Tim sputters. “I don’t need the hat. And don’t you go putting it on other people, either. Raylan doesn’t do that.”
“I wore it one time,” Rachel cuts in, her voice muffled.
“You ain’t on speaker, Rachel. The bodysnatcher can’t hear you, but that’s great. Happy for you. Let’s make a poster for the office.”
“Shut up—” she returns over Joel saying, from the backseat, “I can hear her. Got ears like a bat. And I hate to say it, but if this stakeout is going to be more of an all-day thing, I will need to swing by a drugstore for some readers. Can’t be without them.”
Rachel’s laughing now. “Good luck, Tim,” she says. “Always knew you’d be a good babysitter. You got that mothering look to you.”
Raylan was always talking about leaving but now not only has he fucked off, he’s sent a funhouse mirror version of himself back to taunt Tim. Tim doesn’t believe in God much but somewhere someone is laughing at him. If—no, when he comes back, Tim’s going to knock Raylan upside the head. After Tim verifies it’s Raylan’s brain in there to rattle.
*
At CVS, Joel dazzles the cashier with a grin and pats his back pocket. “Oh, fuck. I don’t have my wallet. Tim? I’ll get you back.”
Tim swipes his credit card for Joel then resumes staring at the ceiling. He thinks about how, in every iteration, Raylan’s face goads him into paying one way or another. It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.
“Tim, what’s your reward number? I don’t have my card on me, but someone should get the points for this purchase.”
“What? I don’t have one.” He takes the receipt from the cashier, who’s busy giving Joel a hungry once-over. “You really worry about that? C’mon, man, we gotta go.”
“Okay,” Joel says, placating again, “I’m coming.” He takes the bag from Tim and pulls the reading glasses out. Peeling the sticker off the nose bridge, he continues. “As the great juggler Francisco Garibaldi once said ‘A wise juggler focuses on but a single blade.’ Let us go now to our single blade.”
Clearly Joel held no animosity about spending the ride to CVS handcuffed in the back of a Marshal vehicle. And clearly he’s no danger to anyone, so the cuffs (pity) can go back in the trunk.
Out in the parking lot, Tim’s brain feels overheated, his body hot from the direct sun on his shoulders. This whole thing is throwing him off. Joel’s still chattering about juggling as he wanders towards the car. Tim unlocks it and they both get in. Tim had left the passenger seat pushed all the way forward, so Joel’s legs are crunched up, his knees touching the dashboard. Raylan would’ve refused to fold himself into a space that small. But he’s not thinking about Raylan.
“Joel? Shut up for a second about juggling so I can deputize you. Put your hand up.”
Joel dutifully sticks up his right hand, left hand clutching the plastic bag. “Do I need a Bible?”
“Nah,” Tim says. “I’m not ordaining you, just covering my own ass.” Rote, like he’s reading off a teleprompter, he recites the deputy orders. “It is the right, as well as the duty, of every citizen, when called upon by the proper officer, to act as part of the posse comitatus in upholding the laws of his country. Got it?”
“Got it,” Joel says. “Posse comitatus and hakuna matata.”
Tim ignores that. “You are now a duly deputized U.S. Marshal."
“Sweet. I want to make a toast.” Joel pulls a Mountain Dew out of what Tim now suspects is a bottomless plastic bag.
“I got us a little go-go juice in there. That’s what my neighbor’s kid calls Mountain Dew. Makes it feel a little frisky.” Joel stops and takes a swig. “To being duly-deputized,” he says, and passes the bottle to Tim.
As long as Joel’s talking, Tim’s not thinking about how Raylan would look in a pair of readers with a book off Tim’s shelf in his hand. Something flickers across his face at that thought and he’s grateful Joel doesn’t know him well enough to catch it. He lifts the bottle and takes a small sip, swallowing that thought. Joel’s still talking.
“Calling Mountain Dew go-go juice cracks me up every time— I enjoy when legal things sound illicit, it helps me cope with doing illicit things and acting like they’re fully legal. Although, like. My wife Sheila kills and eats people because she has to. She’s got a medical condition. Obviously it’s not an advisable diet for most people, and I do try to keep us from getting too good at it. Actually—maybe you shouldn’t teach me how to shoot. The natural improvisation and languid pace that I bring to our human foraging is probably one of my biggest strengths. I’d hate to overegg the souffle with training.”
“Well sure, I’d hate for you to be too good at handling a gun in a situation where it’d save your life. Speaking of stupid shit, your explanation of Sheila’s eating-people-thing won’t hold up in court.”
The insult rolls right off Joel’s lithe back. “I know. That’s why I plan not to step foot in a courtroom. Not even—” Joel slashes his hand downward for emphasis “—if I’m invited.”
“They’re pretty persuasive.” Tim reaches over the console for the bag of Laffy Taffy.
Joel holds it out for him. “So I’ve heard—good choice, grape’s better than banana—but not if they don’t find me.”
Tim unwraps the candy and packs it in his cheek like tobacco chaw. “So you’re off the grid in Kentucky, sitting in a US Marshal’s car.”
“No plan’s perfect, Tim.” Joel says, and pelts him with a banana Laffy Taffy. It’s fascinating to see what harebrained optimism looks like cloaked in Raylan’s body.
“You know what, not my problem,” Tim says. “After this, I drop you back at Raylan’s and then it’s ‘Beam me up Scotty’. I hope.”
“Since you mentioned Raylan—” Joel dangles the name until it turns into a question. Tim cranks the car in answer.