Deputy U.S. Marshal Raylan Givens (i_justify) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-09-02 23:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | dinah lance, raylan givens |
Like a Badger in a Bear Trap [Open]
Raylan watched as Boyd Crowder drove off in Ava's Ford pickup truck and, though every instinct in him said that he ought to be frustrated and annoyed for the other man's sudden turnaround, he was pleased. In fact, a small smidgen of a smirk crept at the corner of his lips. Well, damn if he wasn't just a little bit surprised by the events of the last thirty minutes. This went far beyond hinky. But he supposed that some people were just meant to keep running into each other. Meant to have their lives intertwined on a never ending roller coaster. He and Boyd seemed to be two of those sorts of people. Like magnetic poles, attracting and opposing at the same time. Hell if Raylan was ever going to understand the mechanism of crazy that churned in a mind like Boyd Crowder. The man was beyond shifty. He was smart, and he was most definitely insane. But there was method in that madness, Raylan was sure of it. Which was why he had never fully fallen for his old friend's baptist rejuvenation. Something about woodland preacher just didn't sit right where a Crowder was concerned. He supposed, by law, he should have chased after the truck and arrested the man. But Boyd came back for him. (Such a strange relationship they had -- like jealous lovers, always returning to each other's side for more suffering.) And so Raylan decided to let him off. For now.
Which was just to say that he would give him a head start.
Raylan climbed into the black town car, on loan from the Marshals' office. (He was supposed to have it checked it two hours ago.) Funny how a shootout could distract a man from his civic duty of punctuality. When he buckled into the driver's seat, his phone buzzed. Winona was calling.
You've gotten yourself into a sticky pickle now, haven't you, Raylan? His subconscious was even more of a smart ass than he was.
The phone buzzed once. Twice. Three times before he started the engine and answered the call.
"What's wrong?"
"What is that supposed to be? Some kind of greeting?" Winona replied. She was a smart ass, too. But a smart ass before he met her. Of course, having been married to him for a spell, she refined her smart assery.
"I don't know. Just a weird time to call, don't you think?" Raylan asked, turning out onto the dirt road that led through the back hollers of Harlan County. "What can I do you for?"
"I was just wondering. You know ... When you'd be getting off tonight? You promised we'd talk."
She was hedging. Raylan didn't have time to decipher that alien aspect of woman's intellect.
"Yeah, I'm on a lead right now. I'll probably be late. But you can wait. You know where the key is."
"Alright. Well, I guess I'll see you-- Shit. Gary's calling. I gotta go."
She hung up.
Raylan looked and his phone, shook his head, and then slipped it back into the pocket of his coat.
The road forked up ahead, and Raylan veered to the left, towards the marker for the highway. As he drove, however, the scenery became more and more unfamiliar. Of course, he didn't think anything of it at first. His mind was on Boyd, on Ava, on Winona, on the Miami cartel, on how much he wanted to get the hell out of Kentucky. On everything but the road. That is, until, seemingly out of nowhere, he was entering a city proper. He slammed on his breaks, screeching the vehicle to a tire-burning halt. Twenty feet in front of the car was a large billboard sign welcoming him to The City.
What the-- He craned his neck behind him and looked through the rear window at the scenery in the distance. As familiar as a law-abiding Bennet. (Which had never existed in Harlan at least as far back as four generations.) He hadn't been drinking. But as he surveyed his surroundings, he felt drunk. He turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car. The sun blazed down upon him, glistening the silver medallion tie on the side of his hat, a good old fashioned beige colored Stetson. The brim cast a shadow on his face, giving him the appearance of someone from (a different time? a different world? a different story?) somewhere else. And were it not for the modern cut of his black sport coat, the shiny badge on his belt, and the newness of his (far from sandalwood) pistol, he could have been a former resident of The City.
But he had all of his fingers and his toes. (For the time being, that is.)
He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and tried to dial out. No signal.
"Why am I not surprised?"