Chapter Text
Raylan doesn’t know left from right, up from down, back from forth when his phone rings at what must be closing in on six in the morning. He keeps his eyes closed as he fumbles for it, right hand reaching across the expanse of his bed and pawing for his phone until he turns, and his hand comes into contact with his nightstand. He grabs his phone before it has the chance in all of it’s buzzing to just flat out fall onto the floor, practically rips it off it’s charger and turns away from the nightstand before he can stop himself.
“Givens,” he says the minute he’s picked up the call. “And—who the fuck is this? Calling me this early?”
“It’s Art, asshole,” at the sound of his voice, Raylan straightens up on impulse. “I’m calling you to ask if you’ve heard from Tim—remember the thing he went to deal with, down in your usual ballpark?”
“The case with—with—” Raylan fumbles for the name as he gets out of bed, ambles toward his closet in search of a change of clothes. “The—give me a name or give me a minute, Art. It’s so goddamned early.”
Art laughs. “Quarter past five in the mornin’,” he says. “It’s the case with the Abernathys, the family of drug lords with as much shit goin’ on as your friends in the Bennett clan used to have?”
“And, Art, do me a favour and remind me of what happened with the Bennetts?” Raylan says, shucking off his undershirt in favour of a Henley and a decent pair of jeans.
“All Harlan natives are dead, but one.”
“Yeah, and that asshat is sitting in the Harlan County Detention Centre, by my own doin’,” Raylan says. “Same'll happen with all those Abernathy asses, should they think of doing one damned askew thing to Tim.”
“Speaking of—have you heard from him since yesterday? He was supposed to shoot Dunlop a message at midnight, give him an update as to how things are goin' on his end, but he never did. He was also meant to have given me a call, but he’s missed the mark on that by about sixteen minutes now.”
“You think something happened to him?” Raylan asks, pressing his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulls his jeans over his legs. “I mean—I haven’t heard a word from him since the last five-ish minutes before he left, we had a talk while he was waiting on his SUV to get a bit warmer since it’s been cold recently. He’s been gone for eight days now. How long ago was his errand supposed to end?”
“He should’ve been back here for five, hence why I’m up so goddamned early. You wanna head down there, see what’s what?”
“That’s the fuckin’ plan,” Raylan says, buttoning his jeans and glancing around the room he and Tim normally share in search of his shoes before remembering he’d left them downstairs, to the right of the entryway, next to a pair of Tims well-loved combat boots.
“I’ll send back up,” Art says.
“No,” Raylan disagrees, grabbing one of the button ups Tim could normally be seen wearing were he not stealing a Henley from Raylans side of the closet. “You don’t know shit about the Abernathy clan, Art. They sense lawmen after ‘em in a flock, they’ll kill all of the back up you send the minute they cross county lines. They’re—picture the power the Bennett family had over in that county, right? Take that, multiply it by about nine or ten, and then plop ‘em in several houses on the outskirts and in the centre of Harlan. There are twenty of them in Harlan county, not counting their kids or their spouses, and when one of ‘em gets word of something it travels through the family grapevine faster than the speed of light. If you need to send someone, send Rachel when she comes in, all right? Tims gonna want familiar faces to find him if he is in any danger, and Rachel and I are your best bets.”
He slips the button up over his shoulders, smiles when the scent of Tim meets his nostrils. Somewhat cigarette-y, but mostly the smell of semi-sweet bourbon, spiced rum, and floral-y scented laundry detergent.
“You just—Raylan,” Art says, and Raylan doesn’t have to be standing in his office to know he’s talking through gritted teeth. Raylan grabs a pair of socks and sits down on the bed to pull them over his feet. “You just said that they’ve got twenty people throughout Harlan, on the outskirts of the county and smack dab in the middle of it.”
“Yes, and?”
“I work with dumbasses—you are gonna be the reason my heart gives out, you know that?” Art laughs. “Twenty people before we factor in the husbands, wives and kids. Factoring in the spouses doubles that number, Raylan. Adding kids, assuming each couple has at least one, brings that number to sixty, at minimum. If each family has like, five? That number goes from sixty to more than a hundred. More than a hundred people in multiple houses across the entirety of that damned county, and you think I’m gonna let you do that shit all by your lonesome, or with only Rachel as your back up? Are you fucking insane?”
“I’ll be focusing on the house Tim went to, at least in the beginning,” Raylan says. “I’ve read the file on that specific part. In that house, it’s Jamie Abernathy, Lucas Abernathy, their wives, and somethin' like four kids between both families.”
“That’s eight people.”
“Half of whom are just kids.” Raylan responds. “Look—I’m knee deep in this shitpot already, Art. You take me seriously now.”
“I am—I am taking you seriously, Raylan, shit. Would they figure out we were onto ‘em if we sent back up along in phases?”
“How do you mean?” Raylan asks, grabbing his holster and his gun and sliding them into their usual spot on his waist. He grabs his badge and tucks his hat on top of his head, leaves the bedroom and rushes down the stairs.
“Like—you go now, we’ll send Rachel and Dunlop along with another two in about an hour, and then stave off for a bit before we send four more along. I’m gonna get in touch with local law enforcement, too, so that they can know what’s what.”
“No,” Raylan says. “One of ‘em—one that I went to school with? Elias Abernathy, he’s a cop. He’s the reason they’re so goddamned good at getting away with shit. If they figure out the Marshals are after ‘em because of their brother or cousin or nephew or father or whatever the fuck? Every damn car you send down, no matter how phased out you do it, is getting jacked, and the agents inside ‘em are windin' up dead on the side of the road. Get—get Lexington PD in on it, and—I don’t fuckin' know, whichever two areas are the same distance away, even if it’s across state lines, get ‘em if you can. I know this is a bit extreme, but with the rumors surroundin’ that fucking family and Tim not coming home? I’m not gonna lie to you because I know you'll see right through it, but I am fucking terrified right now, Art.”
He makes a quick detour to the laundry room to refill the cats food and water dishes, anticipating he’ll be gone for a while, and gets them another bowl of water just in case.
“I know you care about him,” Art says. “Given that you’re roommates, and all that other shit you two have goin’ on.”
“Is the homoeroticism that obvious?” Raylan laughs at himself. He and Tim, per the knowledge of everyone in the office outside of Rachel, are just super close. They like working together and they make a good team, so Rachel doesn't have anything to say about it because she knows that their relationship becoming common knowledge in the office means they're no longer partnered on any cases.
Raylan exits the kitchen and grabs his keys from the bowl to the right of the front door after he’s passed through the living and dining room. “Look—if you wanna come down with me, I can grab you from the office and we can get breakfast on the way or something like that.”
“Nah, the Lexington office is out of your way,” Art says. “I’ll head down with Rachel. I’m calling her next. Call me as soon as you’re down there, am I clear?”
“As crystal,” Raylan opens the front door, leaves the house that Tim hasn’t cohabited with him in more than a week. “Let’s just hope we can grab him before they’ve done anything too serious.”
“Whatever they do, we’ll nail all of them on somethin’ that lines up with the marshals purview.”
“Goodbye, Art.”
“Enjoy the drive down, Raylan. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Then the call is done, and Raylan is fighting himself in order not to sprint to his car. He unlocks it while he moves and gets into the drivers seat, pulls out of the driveway and into the road while only going a few miles above the speed limit.
-
As Raylan sits in his car, with a half-eaten bagel, some road food, an empty coffee cup, and his ever-so-constantly buzzing cell phone to keep him company, he wonders where Tim is.
Art calls him again somewhere near seven thirty, when he’s placed himself and his car a decent enough distance away from the house to avoid drawing suspicion, but still good enough to see the inhabitants as they enter and exit. He has a pair of binoculars tucked into his glove box, and when his phone rings, he has said binoculars in hand.
“I’ll be down there in twenty,” is how Art greets him. “Nothin' on Tim yet, and I’ve got parties out searching as discreetly as they can manage. They’re all in civilian clothes, pretending to look for a golden retriever pup called Rudy. You think that’s convincing enough?”
“Well—did you give them a photo to show? In case any one of the hundred-some in the Abernathy clan is smart ‘nough to ask for a photograph?”
“I did,” Raylan can’t see him, but he knows Art is smiling. “Nelsons got a golden retriever, you know that? He’s the one who came up with the idea. Her name’s Ruth, though. Rudy might well have been a name I pulled from my ass.”
“Smart man,” Raylan says, praying that the Abernathys are convinced by the ruse put on by all search parties out and about, roving the Harlan county area as the two men spoke. “How fucked do you think Tim is right now?”
“Well, if he’s not injured, I’m absolutely gonna tear the bastard a new asshole when we find him,” Art laughs. “I mean—the stakeout was supposed to be for a week, Raylan. It’s been eight fuckin’ days, not a word in seven and half fucking hours? I don’t understand how you haven't started shitting bricks.”
Raylan laughs. “I’ve kept my mind off it pretty well by listening to some of the good country music from when I was a kid, but the coffee I’ve had with my breakfast should help the process along if you’re so concerned about that sort of thing. The minute you get a lead—”
“Yes, Raylan,” Art sighs. “The minute I get a lead, I’ll tell you so that you can chase it and hopefully find your intended on the other end.”
“My—my intended? How old are you, exactly?” Raylan barks a laugh, plays it off as a joke instead of acknowledging that Art might be admitting to knowing just how deep Raylan and Tims relationship runs. If he does know that Tim and Raylan have been together for nearly three years, he's not said fuck all. It's something Raylan doesn't really know how to feel about, grateful that Art has kept partnering them and for the fact that he's not said a damn thing outside of the occasional light and somewhat funny joke here or there, but anxious because if Art does know, it means that he and Tim are getting worse at just acting friendly in the workplace.
Art barks a laugh. Raylans grip on the binoculars tightens.
“Tim mentioned somethin’ before he left,” Art says. “Some rumors—I think they might’ve been noted in uh, Jamie Abernathys file? ‘Long with his wife, Liliths, I think, but I don’t remember. Some big ole crime, something bad, Tim mentioned.”
Raylan thinks for a minute, tries to jog his memory. He’s read the files Tim has kept on the Abernathy family before, tried his best to help him in the case where he was able, having grown up with eight or nine of them alongside the likes of Boyd Crowder.
“Oh!” he says, feeling a deep, dark, and angry sense of fear creep its way into the pit of his stomach as he remembers. “The cannibalism.”
“The—” Art says, voice raised about two octaves. He hears Rachel in the background, tries to fight a grimace as she shouts a few expletives. “You didn’t think to mention—Tim didn’t think to mention—Dear Lord, do not let today be the day i kill two of my best fucking employees. Cannibalism? Raylan. Details. Now.”
“Rumors have circled around the mill since my daddy was a boy, they’ve been around that fuckin’ long,” Raylan says. “Missing persons cases through the years, where the bodies were never found, where the last people the missing people were seen with was a member of the Abernathy family. Now that I think further, my momma told me to stay away from Elias because of the rumors. Tim must not have thought it was important, and I can’t blame him—it’s become an old folks tale over the years, really. Somethin parents used to use to guilt their kids into eating their vegetables, a story a camp counsellor will tell a group of kids sat 'round a campfire in the summer.”
“Damn it—damn all of this. Damn all of it straight to fucking hell, good Lord. Raylan, you keep scouting that house, all right? Act on any leads you see, and make damn sure you stay out of their lines of suspicion. This just got a bit more dangerous, even if it’s just a rumor through the mill of a thousand. I’ll call you if I get any leads.”
“Thank you much,” Raylan says monotonously. Art doesn’t have a rebuttal, and the line goes dead.