A Favor For Teddy

by Arianna18

Mark reluctantly agrees to do a favor for Teddy, and the usual complications ensure. (A 'season four' episode)

A FAVOR FOR TEDDY

by Arianna

ACT I:

Heading home to his lonely apartment, Teddy Hollins slipped into the dark alley through the back door of the bowling alley after finishing his evening shift on the desk. The job wasn't particularly interesting, and he had grown to loathe the stench of the sweaty shoes that were loaned out to customers who didn't bowl often enough, or couldn't afford, to invest in their own. Still, the job didn't take much thought, leaving his mind free to roam the shores of the unknown future and explore pathways to imaginary products that could, just possibly, make him rich. Like a spray that made those awful shoes smell like roses or popcorn, or that idea he'd had for frozen coffee, dispensed in cans like Coke or Pepsi, or in tall plastic cups with ground ice. He was smiling because Teddy knew it was just a matter of time before he hit on that big idea that would be the bonanza of all time, and make him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

Hands stuffed in his pockets, in no particular hurry, he sauntered along the dark lane behind several shops, a local eatery, and the back of a ramshackle warehouse. Though lost in thought, he remained subconsciously alert enough to notice things around him, like the black or dark blue sedan that was parked behind the restaurant – nice car – and to stick to the shadows. It was so quiet at that hour, everything closed up for the night, that he was startled when the back door of the eatery banged open, sending a shaft of blindingly bright light into the alley. Three people emerged. The first was a tall, lean man, his hands half-raised, who stumbled a little, his gait uncertain, as if he was drunk. The next was a small woman, her arm held tight by another man, also tall, who was growling at them to hurry.

Teddy squinted, trying to see them better, but they were just shadows in the brilliant light behind them, moving toward the car. Try as he might, he couldn't make out their features. He was about to move on, figuring whoever they were wasn't any of his business, when he heard a muted sob and froze, realizing that something was wrong. Heart hammering, he told himself he should do something, should intervene, offer help – but he was afraid and he had no weapon. Besides, maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe the woman had just gotten bad news or something. Not sure what to do, cloaked by the darkness, he edged closer to see if he could figure out what was going on.

"You don't have to do this," the lead man said. "At least let her go." Teddy gaped. He knew that voice. He glanced again at the woman, suddenly realizing who she must be. Something was badly wrong here. Teddy knew he should do something – anything – but he didn't know what.

"Shut up and get in the car," the other man snapped, even as he pushed the woman into the back seat and waited while the first man got into the front and slid behind the wheel. The dim light inside the car washed over the three people. They had their backs to Teddy and he still couldn't see their faces – but he could see the gun in the man's hand.

The guy with the gun …. He knew that voice, too. Stunned, Teddy's breath caught in his throat. No, he thought with a sharp shake of his head. No, it couldn't be. That wouldn't make any sense. No, not possible. There had to be another reason, another explanation for what was going down. Then, it hit him. Of course! Oh, God, how had he found out? That guy was real trouble, crazy dangerous. But they'd been so careful. How could he have known?

Terrified now, Teddy wanted nothing so much as to turn tail and run. But he couldn't. That was his friend and he had to do something to help. Silently, sticking to the shadows, he got as close as he could to the rear of the car, to make out the license plate and the make and model of the vehicle. As the car rumbled to life and moved away from him, he memorized as many numbers as he could. Only then did he step from the shadows, hoping the driver would see him in the rear view mirror, and would know that he'd seen what had gone down and would get help.

"Oh, man," he gusted as he hurried to the restaurant and yanked at the door, smacking it hard in frustration when it refused to open. Desperate, he looked back and forth, up and down the alley and then, panic nipping at his heels, he raced back to the bowling alley. The phone there was closer than the one in his apartment. He had to get help right away!

Ten hours earlier …

Mark's slouched sprawl in his usual seat in the back row belied his intense focus on the professor's words. He'd thought this class in Ethics, Justice, and the Law would be one huge waste of time, good only for being light on content and workload in contrast with every other course on his roster. But he'd been wrong. The other courses challenged his mind, his ability to reason and remember facts and details. This course was different. This course went deeper, forcing him to really think about things he'd long ago stuffed into a box and buried deep in the furthest reaches of his mind. Forced him to grapple with what he believed to decide what he really stood for – not just intellectually, but at a gut level, with his whole being.

Seemed he wasn't alone. The other students in the class appeared just as absorbed and engaged in the lecture. The professor had gotten their attention by asking them to call out their top three values and had listed them on the blackboard: honesty, hard work, truth, loyalty, freedom, dependability, courage, duty, equality, fairness, devotion to family, compassion and so on. Once they were all up and no one had any question or disagreement with the worth of any individual value, the professor had asked them if there were any on the list that the average member of a Nazi Youth Group wouldn't also hold dear. Though the question shocked the class, the professor pointed out that those youths were doing what they had believed was right. He told them that the way values were actualized often depended on whether individuals had a sense of abundance or a fear of scarcity. By the time the discussion ended, there was a general agreement that, with the possible exceptions of equality and tolerance, it seemed that no one in the room had values much different from those who stood for all kinds of things that made Mark's skin crawl.

The professor explained that it wasn't about claiming to have the 'right values', but about behaving in accordance with specified ethics and principles. Ethics provided a foundation and framework for behaviour: client confidentiality was given as an example of one of the core principles in both professions – and was probably drawn from the original example of the binding confidentiality of the confessional. Ethics was about how values related to human conduct with respect to the rightness and wrongness of certain actions and to the goodness and badness of the motives and ends of such actions.

Ultimately, it wasn't so much what a person thought or felt that mattered, but how they behaved in any given situation that enabled the predictable, consistent, civil interactions that allowed society to flourish. Without such a framework of agreed-upon rules – or laws – civil society could quickly deteriorate into the brute realities of who held the most strength or wealth.

The discussion moved on to reflect on what the law had to do with justice and fairness. He still harboured a core of bitterness that what had been 'legal' in his case hadn't been either 'just' or 'fair'. Intellectually, he understood that the application of the law relied upon the consistent interpretation of the rules as they applied to what might be very dry, even cold, 'facts'. Otherwise, individual prejudice or bias could and probably would undermine the fairness and equity of how the law was interpreted in any particular case.

The bell rang and the class ended abruptly at that point.

Frowning in thought, Mark gathered his books together and left the class. 'Intellectually' he could agree with the principles involved but when it came to his own case, his gut still rebelled. He didn't think he'd ever really be able to accept that what had happened was right. Oblivious to the chaos in the hall around him, he headed outside to get some air, hoping it would help clarify his thoughts. Squinting in the bright sunlight, he headed across the broad, tree-rimmed concourse toward the library.

For the first time, he found himself wondering what the judge had felt that day when he'd rendered the judgement that had sent Mark to prison for stealing his own car. Whenever they'd talked about it – shouted about it – which was rarely and long ago, Hardcastle had always stated flatly that it was the law: Mark had taken a vehicle registered in someone else's name and that was theft. How the vehicle had been paid for or how it came to be registered in that person's name was irrelevant to the law. But what if the Judge had believed it really was his car and that it wasn't at all fair to sentence him to prison for what amounted to a misrepresentation by his ex-girlfriend? Would Hardcastle have lost any sleep over it all? Or had he just shrugged, maybe thought it was all unfortunate but it was the law and that was that.

Blowing out a long breath, Mark wondered if he could ever do that: pass a sentence that he truly did not believe was right or fair. Send someone to prison that he personally did not think belonged there? Did he have it in himself to subvert his own feelings and subordinate himself to the dictates of the law? Intellectually, he more than understood the issues and why personal motivations couldn't enter into objective application of the law but, emotionally, he was torn. If he was honest with himself, could he be that dispassionate? Scowling, he wondered what it would mean for a career in the law. Maybe he'd do okay as a defense lawyer because he really did believe everyone deserved the best representation they could get. But maybe he'd never be able to take on the role of prosecution or, God forbid, of judge. Or maybe he should stay away from criminal law, or even civil law, and stick to corporate law, or immerse himself in estates and trusts. Shaking his head, he decided he couldn't imagine dealing only with business or financial issues. People, not money, mattered the most to him.

So deep was he in thought that he didn't hear his name being called, and was startled when his arm was grabbed. Irritated, he pulled roughly away as he wheeled toward whoever it was.

"Sorry, Skid!" Teddy exclaimed, stepping back and raising his hands in peace. "I called your name a couple times but you didn't seem to hear me."

"Oh, sorry," Mark returned, blinking as he pulled himself away from his ruminations and back to the world around him. "No, no, don't apologize," he went on with a smile. "I was just thinking about something." But then the incongruity of Teddy being on the school's grounds asserted itself. Puzzled, Mark asked, "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"No, well, not exactly," Teddy replied even as he reached to draw another man closer. "This is Jimmy Cavalieri, an old buddy from way back. You know, from school, sort of. Well, from juvie."

Mark nodded and held out his hand to the stranger, who was casually garbed in a beige pullover and jeans. "Mark McCormick," he said as he shook the man's hand, noting that he was about the same age and height, with a sallow complexion, dark brown hair and eyes. When Jimmy didn't say anything, Mark looked from him back to Teddy. "Uh, so … you're here because …?"

Teddy's expression was almost furtive as he looked around and leaned a little closer. "Is there someplace we can talk – you know, private-like?"

Wondering what Teddy might be trying to get him into, Mark hesitated. But Teddy was an old friend so, with an internal sigh of resignation, he nodded. "Sure, there's a coffee shop just around the corner. This way."

A few minutes later, they settled into a booth against the wall in the back corner of the busy café and ordered coffee from the waitress. The ambient noise of nearly a hundred students arguing various intellectual points of interest combined with the clash of crockery and the shouts of orders back and forth at the window to the kitchen ensured no one could overhear their conversation. Mark added some cream to his coffee and looked questioningly at the two men across the table. "What's this about, Teddy?"

"Well, you see, it's like this. Jimmy has a problem and he needs to talk to someone about his options. Someone objective who he can trust to respect his confidentiality. I told him you were a lawyer and you'd know what was best."

"Whoa," Mark protested with a nervous laugh, his hands going up as he shook his head. "I'm not a lawyer yet. Won't be for a while."

"Yeah, yeah, he understands that. You know what I mean. You understand this stuff and you're smart, Skid. You can help him. I know you can."

Mark saw boundless trust in Teddy's open gaze, and he wondered if he was being conned. He never could be sure with Teddy if he was getting the whole story or not. But he also knew that Teddy wouldn't deliberately do something to hurt him. Sighing, he turned his attention to Jimmy. "Okay, so what's your problem?"

"You can't tell anyone," Jimmy started, sounding nervous. He even repeatedly glanced over his shoulder as if certain someone was hunting him or, at the very least, crowding in to hear what he had to say.

Figuring this was as good a time as any to practice client confidentiality, Mark shrugged and nodded. "Alright. This is just between us."

"I'm scared," Jimmy said, as if it was news; as if everything about him, from the tremble in his hands to the dark hollows under haunted eyes in his pallid face and the nervous twitches didn't already shout that information to anyone who took a close look at him.

"What are you scared of – or who?" Mark asked gently, not wanting to spook him any more than he already was.

Jimmy chewed on his lower lip as he dithered about whether to answer or not, then he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky, almost a hoarse whisper. "I have to get away. Disappear. I've got a crazy brother. He does things that get me into trouble. Nobody believes me when I tell them it's him, not me, that's bad."

"What kind of trouble? What does he do?" Mark asked. "And what's his name?"

"Joey. His name is Joey." Jimmy stopped to take another deep breath while he again glanced back over his shoulder. Leaning forward, he said, "He's dangerous and I think he's going to hurt someone. Someone I care about. Just 'cause he's jealous. We need to get away. Disappear."

"You said that already," Mark replied, not happy with the vague answers. Frowning, he said, "If Joey is doing or has done something illegal, you can go to the cops. If your life is in danger, maybe the U.S. Marshalls or the FBI can help you create a new identity –"

"No!" Jimmy cried, scaring himself with his shout. "No," he repeated, in a hoarse whisper. "He's my brother," he explained, sounding agonized. "Even when he got me in trouble before, he didn't come to court to testify against me. He just disappeared until the trial was over."

"Trial?" Mark echoed. "For what? Maybe my friend – he's a retired judge – Milton Hardcastle –"

"Hardcastle?!" Jimmy repeated. Eyes wide, he looked hunted and absolutely terrified. "No, you can't. You promised you wouldn't tell anyone! Hardcastle's the judge who didn't believe me. Who didn't believe Joey did the bad things. Hardcastle sent me away."

Grimacing, Mark figured 'away' meant 'up the river' to the 'house of many doors'; one more euphemism for prison to add to his collection. Making a calming gesture with his right hand, he urged, "Relax, okay? I said I wouldn't say anything and I won't. But I can't cover up a crime, if one has already occurred. I'm not sure what you want from me."

"I can't go to see Lindy, to tell her Joey might hurt her. Can't take the chance that Joey might see me there. And Teddy can't go because Joey knows him, would suspect he was up to something. But I need her to know that we have to go away." His gaze fell away, as if ashamed. And then he looked back at Mark with an expression of painful earnestness. "My family … well, it's the mob, okay? But I'm not like that; I don't want to be like them. I want to live my own life, my own way. When Joey framed me before, it was to teach me a lesson; to make me go to prison to 'toughen up'. Joey says I have no choice but to do what the family does. But I do have a choice, don't I? I can go away, start over someplace else? Live an honest life?"

"You're a free man, Jimmy. You can go wherever you want. You can leave right now," Mark replied solemnly.

But Jimmy shook his head. "No. I can't go without Lindy. I'm afraid they'd hurt her, 'cause they know I love her."

Feeling as if he was playing a game of 'yes, but', where nothing he said would be accepted, Mark leaned back against the booth. Forearms on the table, he asked again, "Why are you telling me this? What do you want from me?"

When Jimmy didn't reply, Teddy interjected with eager hopefulness, "We thought that maybe, well, that you could take a message to Lindy. About when and where to meet so they can run away together. He can't call, because her phone might be tapped. I'd go – her restaurant is just a block from where I work – but, like he said, Jimmy's sure his family would recognize me and know something was up."

Wary of getting into a problem he didn't understand and wasn't any of his business, Mark looked away. "I don't think –"

"Please," Jimmy begged, desperation clear in his voice and eyes. "I'll pay you. I don't have anyone else to ask. Please. I just need you to go to her, tonight, when her restaurant closes. To tell her that Joey is going to cause trouble and that I need her to meet me at the train station tomorrow night, so we can go away together, so I can keep her safe."

Mark's gut was telling him there was something hinky about the whole thing. He'd never heard of the Cavalieri mob but he supposed that didn't mean they didn't exist. Jimmy sounded paranoid – but then, that didn't mean that someone, maybe his brother, wasn't out to get him. Mark wanted to refuse; he really didn't have time for this. He had to get to the library to finish researching a paper that would soon be overdue.

On the verge of saying that he couldn't help, he made the mistake of looking from Teddy's hopeful, trusting expression to Jimmy's evident terror and desperation. And he just couldn't do it. Couldn't refuse to help. How hard could it be? How much time could it take? One visit to this Lindy, to deliver a message, and that was it. Not a big deal, really; nothing that would take much time.

Against his better judgement, but consoling himself that he should get used to it because once he was a starving lawyer he wouldn't be able to pick and choose the clients he'd help, Mark reluctantly nodded. "Okay. Write down her name, the address of her business, the time it closes, and what you want me to tell her, so I've got the details straight. I'll go over there tonight." He tore a page from his notebook and passed it, along with a pen, across the table.

Jimmy pulled out his wallet. "How much –"

Mark interrupted and waved him off. "No, that's okay. You don't have to pay me for doing you a favor." But he turned to Teddy to add, "Maybe you and me can have a little chat while Jimmy is writing down the information."

Looking uncertain, Teddy nodded and slid out of the booth to follow Mark to the front of the shop, where Mark paid for their coffees.

"Teddy, I know you just want to help people, but next time I'd appreciate it if you called me first and gave me a heads-up," he said as he stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. "You kinda put me on the spot here, you know? And how much do you know about this guy? Have you ever met his brother, Joey?"

"No, Skid, I haven't," Teddy replied earnestly. "But I've known Jimmy forever, since we were kids. You've been in the system and juvie; you know what it's like. Him and me, we didn't have no one else; he wouldn't lie to me. I know he wouldn't," he insisted. "Jimmy's a sweet guy. Wouldn't hurt a fly, you know? He's told me about other times Joey has hurt him or set him up. That Joey sounds like real bad news." He paused and looked briefly back at his old friend. "I knew you'd help him. I can always count on you," he said, beaming with gratitude.

Mark looked away. Teddy couldn't help being Teddy. So all he did was nod. "Next time, just give me a call first."

"Sure, Skid. Whatever you say," Teddy vowed. Mark huffed a laugh at the earnestness of Teddy's reply – no question about it, Teddy always had the best of intentions.

Jimmy joined them and held out the piece of paper, carefully folded over whatever he'd written on it. "I, uh, put my phone number down, too, so you can call me after you've seen her."

Mark opened the note and scanned the information. "Aren't you afraid your phone line is tapped? Isn't that why you didn't want to just call her yourself? If I call you, will that cause a problem?"

Dismayed, Jimmy looked utterly defeated. "I don't know what to do. What if … what if she won't go with me?"

"You can't control what she'll do," Mark said as kindly as he could. "That's up to her. I'll give her your message and if she's going to go with you, then I guess she'll meet you at the station. If she's not there, well … I guess that means she wasn't willing to leave everything behind." A thought occurred to him and, recalling another instance of life-changing confusion over a meeting at an unspecified train station, he hastily added, "We're talking about Union Station downtown, right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Jimmy affirmed, looking dejected. "I can't leave her behind."

Calling on all the patience he had, just wanting them to go on their way, Mark replied, "Then I guess if she doesn't show, maybe you won't leave, either. Let's not get all tied up with what might happen. Let me talk to her tonight and then I guess it will all just play out, one way or another." He hesitated, then added, "Look, in all honesty, I have to advise you that if you think your brother poses a real threat to you or anyone else, you really should advise the police, especially if he's got a history of criminal actions."

Jimmy stiffened, his expression suddenly mutinous.

"It'll all be okay," Teddy intervened cheerfully, patting Jimmy's back. "You'll see."

Mark wasn't so sure. There was something just a little strange about Jimmy, and Mark couldn't imagine anyone leaving everything to run away with him. But, stuffing the note in his shirt pocket, he resisted the urge to say so. After all, what did he know? Maybe it was the great love of the century, like Romeo and Juliet, only with a happier ending. With a wave, he turned away and headed around the corner, retracing his steps back toward the library.

When he got there, he looked up the business in the phone book. Impressed by the advertisement in the yellow pages, he spontaneously decided to have his dinner there. Maybe, if 'Lindy' was around, he could deliver the message and be home long before the place closed around midnight.

"Hey, Judge," Mark called as he stopped in at the main house when he got back from school early that evening. Without waiting for an answer, he ambled into the den, where he found Hardcastle reading the latest Tom Clancy thriller. "How's the book?"

"Hmm?" Hardcastle murmured before tearing his attention away from the story. "Good. It's good. Clancy has to have someone on the inside feeding him information."

Mark grinned. "Or maybe he just has a really good imagination, and he does a lot of research."

"Some of this stuff isn't in books, McCormick," the Judge growled. But, shrugging, he laid the novel aside and started to rise. "Guess it's time I got dinner started," he observed.

"Don't go to any trouble on my account," Mark replied. "I just stopped in to tell you I'll be going out for dinner."

"Want some company?" Milt asked, but with a pixie grin and a twinkle in his eyes, he teased, "Or are you wining and dining some hot co-ed?"

"Uh, not exactly," Mark replied evasively. For a moment, he considered sharing his mission and his impressions of the odd Jimmy Cavalieri with Hardcastle, but then he remembered that Cavalieri had specifically not wanted the older man involved because of their prior history. Besides, he reminded himself, it was a good time to practice the ethics of lawyer-client privilege. "Just doing a favor for Teddy," he finally added, more to pique the Judge's curiosity than because he felt a need to explain his comings and goings.

"Teddy? Not the Teddy Hollins that nearly landed you back in the big house a few years back? The one that traded on your friendship to rob your friends? The guy who's a slice or two short of a loaf, if you know what I mean? That Teddy?"

"Ah, Judge, don't be like that. He likes you," Mark drawled with a broad smile, knowing Hardcastle was just yanking his chain.

"Hmmph," Milt grunted, but a grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well, I guess he means well. Just don't let him drag you into some hare-brained scheme or other."

"Nah, nothing like that. Just dinner," Mark replied. "I shouldn't be late."

Hardcastle nodded, tossed a vague wave in his direction, and turned his attention back to his book. Not long after he'd heard the Coyote roaring up the drive, the phone rang, dragging him up from his chair and over to the desk. "Hardcastle," he said into the mouthpiece.

"Milt, hey, glad I caught you at home," Frank Harper said.

Hardcastle frowned at the concerned tone in his friend's voice. "What's wrong, Frank?" he asked.

The lieutenant sighed. "Do you remember a case about five years ago? A pscho you decided wasn't fit to stand trial; you ordered him into custody for psychological assessment and incarceration until he was evaluated as safe to return to society? He killed –"

"Yeah, yeah, of course I remember," Milt replied, sobered by the memories of what the disturbed young man had done.

"I thought I should give you a heads-up that we just got word that he escaped custody a few days ago, and might be heading back to L.A." Frank paused, then went on, "According to the reports, he's just as dangerous as he was then. Once his meds wear off, they're worried about what he might do. Apparently, he never stopped talking about you."

Grimacing, Milt rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Uh huh, well, I guess there's not much we can do but keep a lookout for him. Do we have a line on his known associates?"

"Well, that's a problem. He was a loner; didn't have any family, no friends, at least none that we knew of," Frank reported. "Watch yourself, okay, Milt? Keep your security system engaged – and let Mark know he should keep a look out for this guy."

"I'll tell him when he gets home. He just went out to have dinner with his old buddy, Teddy Hollins."

"Not the guy who robbed the poker game?" Frank asked with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Yeah, that's the one," Milt agreed with a smile. "Don't worry; he's reformed. Unless Mark falls for one of his wild schemes to make money – like iced coffee – the kid shouldn't get into any trouble with him."

Frank laughed. "Okay, well, I'll keep you posted if we get any leads on our escapee."

Milt thanked him and hung up the phone. For a moment, he stood staring out of the window, his mind miles and years away, reviewing the case of the broken young man who had no memory of slowly and brutally torturing two people to death. Saddened by the tragic circumstances but unable to either change the past or predict the future, he returned to his chair and his book.

However, despite his efforts to wilfully lock away the past, he found himself staring blindly at the page as he gnawed on his lip and wondered if the young man would hurt anyone else before he was again caught and safely incarcerated in a mental institution.

The Coyote rumbled slowly along the traffic-congested Sunset Strip, and then wheeled into a parking slot in a lot beside The Fire Pit. Mark climbed out of the car and pulled his sport coat on over his sky-blue shirt and jeans as he walked out of the lot and along the sidewalk past the high, wide windows of the restaurant. The sidewalk was busy with late shoppers, tourists, drifters and beggars. He gave a few bucks to a young, unshaven, sad-looking man with a sign around his neck claiming he was a veteran looking for work. Mark wasn't at all certain the sign was the truth, but he was sure the guy needed some kind of break; he could only hope the money wouldn't go to booze or drugs. Preoccupied with his thoughts as he entered the establishment, he didn't notice the man standing in the shadows of the alley across the street.

Or the flare of fury in the reptilian glare that watched his every move.

ACT II:

Mark couldn't help but smile as he stepped into the restaurant. The bamboo beams overhead, wicker furniture, lush greenery and the bright tropical blooms reminded him of the Tiki house in Disneyland. Plumeria and white ginger lightly scented the air, complementing the delectable scent of sizzling meats. Hawaiian music played softly over the good quality sound system. None of it was overdone; the place certainly wasn't a caricature of the south Pacific. He felt like he'd stepped into the real thing, an exotic holiday, and he could almost swear he felt a faint mist from the ocean on the light breeze created by the ceiling fans. He took a deep breath and could feel his muscles relaxing.

A pretty waitress with ash blond hair to her shoulders, sparkling green eyes and a wide smile framed by dimples, greeted him at the door. She sported a Hawaiian shirt with such bright rainbow colors that it would make the judge envious, and white shorts cut to show off her long, gorgeous legs. After welcoming him to The Fire Pit and ascertaining that he was alone, she led him through the busy restaurant to a quiet table in the back. Leaving him with a menu, she was only gone moments before she returned with an icy cold serving of the beer he'd requested. He ordered a steak and then leaned back in his chair, drinking it all in. Having however briefly owned his own bar and grill, Mark had a good idea of what it took to run such a successful establishment. He hadn't even met her yet, but he was already impressed by this 'Lindy' – and even more doubtful that she'd give up what she had created here to run off with Jimmy Cavalieri.

The steak was perfectly done, tender, and graced with a side of mushrooms, sliced tomatoes, and a stuffed baked potato. He took his time savoring every bite, looking around the restaurant as he ate. There was no hurry and whoever Lindy was, she would have more time to talk once the dinner rush was over, if she was even there. Finally, after swallowing the last delectable bite of warmed apple pie and cinnamon ice cream, he ordered more coffee and asked the waitress if Lindy was around that evening and, if so, would she join him for a cup of coffee.

Evidently startled by the request, the waitress asked, "Why do you want to see her?"

Flashing his most charming smile, Mark replied, "I need to talk to her."

"Does she know you?"

"No, but we have a mutual friend who asked me to deliver a message for him."

She tilted her head, considering him, and then gave a brief nod before going to the serving station to fetch a second cup of coffee. Sliding into the chair opposite him, she stated, "I'm Linda McPherson. What's this all about?"

"You're Lindy?" he exclaimed softly, surprised and very disappointed that the waitress he'd been intending to ask out before he left was the woman his 'client' loved and hoped would run away with him. "Wow. Ah, sorry," he rushed to say when she blinked in bemusement. "It's just that, well, I wasn't expecting her to be you. I mean, I thought the proprietor of such a successful restaurant would be, I don't know, old and counting the profits in the back."

She grinned at that and shook her head. "More profit if I work and not just sit back, paying someone else to take care of my customers. Not that there's much profit at the best of times."

"It's a lot of work for not much return, isn't it?" Mark replied with an admiring glance around the room. "I used to have a place a bit like this. I know what it takes and how much it costs to stay in business." A brief silence fell between them, and then he remembered why he was there. "Uh, anyway, Jimmy Cavalieri asked me to tell you that he's really afraid you might be in danger from his brother, Joey. He wants you to meet him at Union Station tomorrow afternoon at three, so you can leave town together."

Her generous lips parted as she listened and a small frown of confusion puckered her brow. "I don't know any Jimmy – what did you say the name was? And I sure don't know why his brother might come after me. Are you sure you don't have me mixed up with someone else?"

Mark stared at her as he tried to make sense of her words. "You're kidding, right? Jimmy Cavalieri. Guy about my age and height, dark brown hair and eyes, nervous habit of looking over his shoulder? I just met him this afternoon and he gave a great impression of guy who is madly in love with you and terrified for your safety – and his, too, for that matter. I gather this Joey is bad news."

"Is this some kind of joke?" she demanded, leaning back in her chair, putting distance between them. "Are you making this up?"

"No, no, I swear," he vowed softly, even as concern blossomed in his chest. What was going on here? "Seriously? You don't know him? He's not bad looking just, well … he seemed a bit weak, maybe a little odd." He bit his lip, chastising himself for being less than complimentary about the guy who was, sort of, his client.

Her eyes narrowed. "Odd?" She tilted her head, thinking about it. "I wonder if you mean J.J.? He's a guy that matches your description except he's not nervous. If anything, he's so calm that it's surreal. He's been coming in here every day, for either lunch or dinner, sometimes both, for several days now. He's asked me out a few times, but … well, you'll think this sounds nuts," she said, hesitating.

"Believe me, nothing you could say at this point would sound any nuttier than a stranger asking me to deliver this 'run away with me' message to a woman who doesn't even know who he is," Mark asserted.

She looked away and, for a moment, he thought she wasn't going to say anymore. Then her green eyes met his, and he could see the worry growing in them. Unconsciously, he reached across the table to cover her hand. "Hey, whatever this is about, we'll figure it out, okay? What bothered you about this J.J.?"

Lindy blew a long breath and said, "It's just that the calm didn't seem real; more like he was working hard to seem calm when he really wasn't. And, um, well, once in a while … it was like there was someone else behind his eyes, someone cold, watching me." She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. "I told you it sounded crazy. But he gives me the creeps. If that's who you're talking about, there's no way in hell that I'd ever go anywhere with him."

"Something's not right here," Mark murmured, beginning to suspect that Jimmy, or J.J. as he apparently called himself to Lindy, was not so much a lover as a stalker. Belatedly, he recalled that the man had done time, but he'd been so distracted by Teddy, and the rambling story about being framed by brother Joey, that Mark hadn't asked what the crime had been. But Teddy said he'd known the guy a long time, and vouched for him, so Jimmy, at least, had to be harmless.

"You said he's a 'stranger'? If you don't know him, why'd you agree to deliver a message for him?" she asked, watching him warily, as if he might be as weird as the man who'd been frequenting her restaurant.

Mark lifted his hands in the traditional non-threatening sign of surrender. "I swear, I only met him for the first time today. A friend of mine knows him and vouched for him. You see, I'm a law student, and my friend thought it would be like a lawyer representing a client. Made sense to me. Never occurred to me that you wouldn't know who he is."

She nodded, if reluctantly, and her tense posture eased. "Okay, I guess I can understand that." She shrugged and started to rise. "Well, you've delivered your message. If I'm lucky, he'll get on that train tomorrow and I won't ever see him again."

Mark looked past her and felt a sudden chill of foreboding. Jimmy was striding swiftly toward them through the now nearly-empty restaurant. Only the guy wasn't acting like Jimmy. This guy wasn't nervous. Nor was he particularly calm. No, this guy's expression and posture looked scary dangerous. "I guess this isn't your lucky day," he said quietly as he quickly stood to get between her and Cavalieri.

She whirled and gasped in surprise, her hand going to her throat. "J.J.," she breathed.

"Jimmy," he confirmed.

"You're both wrong," the man said as he pulled a pistol from his pocket, holding it so only they could see it. "I'm Joey."

Mark gaped at him – the man was a dead ringer for Jimmy. "What are you?" he asked. "Twins?"

"Something like that," Joey replied with a slow, cold smile. He waggled the gun and lifted his chin as he said, "Sit down and make like we're all having fun until it's closing time and everyone but us is gone."

"What's going on here?" Mark demanded, still between Joey and Lindy.

Joey cocked the pistol. "I said sit. We've got the rest of the evening to sort things out." Glaring at Mark, he added with icy calm, "Don't even think about being a hero. You try anything and I'll shoot her. And then I'll shoot you."

"Okay, okay, no need to get excited," Mark soothed nervously, as he helped Lindy back into her seat and then took his own.

Joey sat between them, his back to the wall, the weapon hidden by the table.

Brittle silence fell amongst them. Lindy's fists were clenched to prevent them trembling and she stared at the table top; she had gone pale with fear – or Mark thought it was fear until she glanced up at him and he saw the fury blazing in her eyes. Only then did he realize she was struggling hard to maintain control and he wondered what she'd do if she lost the battle. Scream? Strike out? He desperately hoped she wouldn't do anything that would push Joey into pulling the trigger. He could feel the tension rising the longer the silence went on, and knew he had to do something. If he'd been alone, he would have taken his chances with trying to get the pistol away from Joey. But he wasn't, and he didn't want to risk Lindy's life, or the lives of the others still in the restaurant.

"Alright, we're all sitting down, just like you wanted," he began, wishing he had a clue about how to diffuse the situation. But he was blown away by how much Jimmy and Joey – and apparently, J.J. – all looked alike. It was possible that Jimmy called himself J.J. to Lindy, maybe to sound more 'cool'; but the way she described J.J, he was very different, except in appearance, from Jimmy. Triplets, maybe? The whole thing felt weird or maybe, he thought – a chill shivering up his spine – if 'they' weren't twins or triplets, 'crazy' would be a better adjective. Whatever was going on, he had to do whatever he could to diffuse the situation and ensure nobody got hurt. "Why are you here, Joey? What do you want from us?"

"I don't want anything from you," Joey snarled. "You were supposed to just give her the message and go. But no, you saw how gorgeous she is and you just had to make a move on her, didn't you, huh? You betrayed Jimmy. Everybody always betrays him, hurts him. Stupid bastard trusts the whole world and I have to clean up the messes he gets himself into."

"How dare you come in here with a gun!" Lindy hissed, fast losing her tenuous control. "I don't know you; don't know this Jimmy. I don't want anything to do with any of you."

Joey's head snapped back, as if she'd slapped him. "You don't mean that," he countered. "You're just saying that because you're upset. They love you, would do anything for you, you know that. Don't tell me you're just another faithless bitch!"

She opened her mouth to yell back, but Mark got in first. Kicking her under the table to distract her and get her attention, he quickly interjected, "Hey, easy, you've got it all wrong, Joey. I wasn't making any move on her."

"I saw you through the window. You were holding her hand."

"No, no, I was just, uh, comforting her because she was worried about J.J.; worried about why Jimmy thought they need to leave town tomorrow. She wouldn't do anything to hurt, uh, Jimmy, for anything," Mark cajoled, striving to sound convincing but he kept tripping over names. 'They love you,' Joey had said. So Jimmy and J.J. were two different people. And yet it seemed as if Joey was blaming Jimmy for trusting them, as if Jimmy knew Lindy. And how could Jimmy be in love with her if she had only ever met J.J.?

Joey snorted in disgust at Mark's efforts to smooth things over, clearly not believing him. Mark couldn't blame him – he was having trouble believing this was happening at all. There was something here that just didn't add up, but he couldn't put his finger on just exactly what it was. Unless, he thought, the chill of foreboding settling in his gut, there weren't three different Cavalieri brothers. At most, there might be two.

But Mark was being to suspect there really was only one.

And that thought scared the hell out of him.

Man, when was he going to stop letting Teddy talk him into stuff – it always ended up being trouble. Taking a breath, doing his best to sound calm, Mark asked, "What happens next, Joey? Once everyone else in the restaurant is gone – what are you going to do then?"

"We're going to go for a ride," Joey replied, again with that chilling smile that held only bloodcurdling menace.

"Where to?" Mark asked. "Why?"

"We're going to a place where no one will ever find us," Joey told him, a wild light of excitement in his eyes, "and then I'm going to punish you for betraying Jimmy."

"Oh boy," Mark breathed, his mouth going dry. This guy was a whack-job, completely out of his skull. And scary as hell. Taking a chance, he asked, "Do J.J. and Jimmy know you're doing this?"

"They can't stop me," Joey crowed. "They aren't strong enough to stop me."

"Not strong enough? Will they be there?" Mark asked, hoping that even if they were only personalities as opposed to different men, neither J.J. nor Jimmy would go along with Joey's ideas about 'punishment'.

"Uh, maybe. I don't care. Doesn't matter. I'm going to make you sorry for trying to steal Jimmy's girl," Joey said happily. "Very sorry. And you know what, I'm going to really enjoy because you're Hardcastle's friend – you told Jimmy that, didn't you? I've wanted to get back at him for a long time now."

"But you won't hurt Lindy, right?" Mark pushed, trying to find the boundaries to the guy's insane ideas about betrayal even as he shuddered at what could be in store for him. "She hasn't done anything wrong. And they love her. They wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her."

Joey just frowned and looked at Lindy, as if he wasn't sure what he was going to do with her.

"I don't understand any of this," Lindy stammered, fear having apparently won the battle over fury. "I don't know why you're doing this."

"I have to," Joey said with blunt assurance. "I have to clean up the messes. Have to fix things. Have to … to punish the bad ones. The ones who hurt Jimmy. I'm the protector."

"What about J.J.?" Mark asked. "Are you protecting him, too?"

Joey shook his head and growled venomously, "I hate J.J. He thinks he's so much better than us. He ignores us; pretends we're not here."

Mark stared at Joey, puzzled by the way he referred to his brothers. More and more he was certain that his assumption about what was going on was right on the money, and his certainty chilled him with a kind of horror. How did you reason with a mad man?

What the hell had Teddy gotten him into? More important and to the point: how was he going to get out of it? Jimmy was the only one who knew he was coming here and Mark was pretty damned sure that Jimmy wouldn't be any help at all.

Milt finished cleaning up the kitchen counter and sink after his simple meal of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. After pouring himself another cup of coffee, he turned to peer out the windows at the darkness. His gaze flicked to the clock over the refrigerator and he frowned. Mark had said he wouldn't be long, but he'd been gone over four hours.

Seemed like dinner with Teddy was taking longer than expected.

Uneasiness curled in his gut, but he shook it off. There was no reason to imagine Mark had run into trouble. Besides, the kid was good at taking care of himself.

Still … Teddy sometimes came up with some wild schemes. "Stop worrying," he chided himself. "McCormick knows better than to be taken in by Teddy's bright ideas."

But it wasn't really Teddy he was worried about, and he knew it.

Deciding he didn't need any more caffeine, Milt emptied his cup into the sink. Then he headed down into the basement to pull out the old case file. Wouldn't hurt to review his notes, just in case Frank was right about the escapee being a possible danger to him … and maybe to McCormick.

"Hey, Lindy, the kitchen's all cleaned up," the chef, a big burly guy with a Kiwi accent, blue tats and a hairnet, called from the doorway into the back. "You need anything else before I go?"

Lindy hesitated, but Joey glared at her and nodded down at the hidden weapon. Staring at him, her posture rigid, her voice holding only the slightest tremor, she replied, "No, Robby, that's fine. Have a good night."

The chef nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen. In the silence, they could hear the back door to the alley open and close. Robby was the last staff member to leave for the night, and Mark knew they'd run out of time. He had to do something. Had to get that gun away from Joey. Even as he tensed, getting ready to flip the table up and over toward Joey, as a distraction if nothing else, the man swiftly stood up and back. Levelling the weapon at Mark, he said, low and dangerous, "Don't even think about it, hot shot." Gesturing with the pistol, he went on, "On your feet, both of you. Time to go for a little ride. Lindy, where are your keys. We're taking your car."

"In my purse, in the kitchen cupboard."

"Well, let's go get them," Joey directed. Lindy nodded nervously and turned around to lead the way.

Mark held back, to let Lindy get ahead of him. As soon as he was between her and Joey, he spun around, yelling, "Run!" while slicing his arm down to knock the pistol from Joey's hand. But he must have done something to telegraph his intentions because, once again, Joey anticipated the resistance, staying just far enough back that Mark's arm swept down through air. Before Mark completed his turn, Joey brought the pistol down hard, bludgeoning the side of Mark's head and dropping him to his knees.

Badly dazed, Mark heard Lindy yell, "Don't!" When he looked up it was into the barrel of the pistol that was only about five inches from the middle of his forehead. The weapon trembled slightly; Mark forced himself to look past the gun to the man holding it. Joey looked so livid with rage that his breath caught in his throat. Mark was sure his head was about to be blown right off. The silence that stretched between them was brittle with the threat of violence. Barely able to see straight for the pain hammering in his head from the heavy blow, Mark managed a sick grin and raised his hands. "Sorry. Bad idea, huh?" he joked in what he knew was a pathetic effort to break the tension. Behind him, he heard Lindy sobbing with fear.

"Yeah, very bad idea. Get up," Joey grated, taking a step back out of Mark's range. "Try that again and it's the last thing you'll ever do. And you'll leave me all alone with the lovely Lindy. You don't want that, do you, hero? Huh?"

"No, no, I don't want that," Mark agreed though, in truth, he didn't see how he was going to stop Joey from doing whatever he wanted. Swallowing against a sudden surge of nausea and fighting the dizziness, feeling utterly impotent, Mark stumbled to his feet and stood wobbling, hands half-raised. "She hasn't done anything, Joey. She doesn't deserve to be … uh, punished. Let her go."

Joey just laughed. "Turn around," he ordered. "Where are your keys?" he demanded of Lindy.

It was all Mark could do to stay on his feet. The way the world tilted and shifted, darkness swirling on the edge of his vision, he figured he must have a slight concussion. Whatever half-baked plans of escape he had faded dead away. They'd barely even started this dance and he was sorely afraid that Joey had already won.

They were in trouble. Big trouble.

ACT THREE:

Milt was at his desk, studying the old file, when the phone's sharp peal disrupted his concentration. Lifting the handset, his gaze still on the file notes, he grunted, "Hello."

"Judge! Thank goodness you're there! You've got to help, right away! He had a gun!"

Straightening sharply, all his attention on the call, Milt replied with brisk control, "Who is this? Teddy Hollins? Calm down. Who's got a gun?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me, Teddy. I think it's Joey – he took Mark and a woman, probably Lindy, just a few minutes ago. I got most of the license number."

"Give it to me," Milt ordered, and grabbed a pen from the desk drawer. He could find out who Joey and Lindy were later, as well as why Joey was waving a gun around.

"California plate," Teddy gusted, and Milt scribbled down the three of the five numbers and two letters that Teddy could recall. "Dark blue or black. Cutlass, I think."

"Okay, good, I'll get this information to the police. Where are you?"

"The bowling alley, about a block from the restaurant where they were taken. I was walking home when I saw –"

"Teddy, take a breath," Milt cut in. "Which bowling alley?"

"Hollywood Lanes, on Sunset."

"Stay there. I'll come get you."

"Alright, Judge, thanks."

Teddy was still talking – Milt heard 'I'm really sorry,' even as he terminated the call and dialled Frank's direct line. "Frank, a few minutes ago, McCormick and a woman, Lindy something, were taken by a gunman from a restaurant near the Hollywood Lanes on Sunset. Teddy Hollins called me; gave me a partial plate. You ready?" When he got the go-ahead, Milt relayed the information. "I'm going to get Teddy. Sounds like he might know the gunman – figures. I'll bring him down to the station."

With that, he slammed down the receiver, pulled his revolver from the desk drawer and bolted from his chair. Grabbing his jacket and ballcap in the hall, he headed out to his truck in a lumbering run.

Mark squinted in an effort to resolve the fuzzy double world into one that made sense, but the glare of oncoming headlights only aggravated the sickening headache thundering in his head. Giving up, he closed one eye and did his best not to hit anything. Fortunately the further they went, the less traffic there was – or maybe unfortunately. Less traffic meant fewer people around who might be able to help. The world grew darker and it took him a moment to realize it wasn't because he was passing out. Though they were only about five minutes from the restaurant, they'd entered a ramshackle neighborhood of rundown, boarded up, and abandoned houses, duplexes and tenements. Most of the streetlights had been shattered by well-thrown rocks. This was so not good.

"Stop here," Joey directed from the back seat, where he held his pistol pressed into Lindy's side. "We'll walk from here."

"Walk? Where?" Mark murmured as he let the car drift to the curb. Briefly, he closed both eyes, very glad to just stop and do nothing, if only for a few seconds. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel and seriously wondered if he could stand, let alone walk.

Not that he had a whole lot of choice. He was pretty sure that if he couldn't get out of the car, Joey would finish him off right there. And then poor Lindy would be on her own. With a muted groan, he forced himself to sit back to open the door.

"C'mon, get a move on. I haven't got all night," Joey snarled. Taking a deep breath, Mark eased out of the car and up, onto his feet. Weaving a little, he put one hand on the car to steady himself while he fought down the bile burning the back of his throat. "This way," Joey directed, gesturing to a narrow, overgrown lane between two dark, evidently abandoned houses. The windows were shattered, one door was hanging half off its hinges – the other house had boards nailed where a door had once been.

Taking a deep breath to clear his head, Mark walked as straight as he could in the indicated direction. It was nearly pitch black, which made his double vision irrelevant. When he nearly giggled in gratitude for such small mercies he knew he was really losing it and wondered just how bad the concussion was. He was jarred out of his thoughts when he stumbled badly and nearly fell. He didn't know whether it was roots from a nearby tree or abandoned toys or … well, he just didn't know. Didn't really care. He just had to keep walking because Joey was yelling at him and still had his pistol against Lindy's ribs. Mark was sure he didn't want to upset the man any more than necessary.

They crossed another darkened street, and seemed to walk forever though Mark knew it really couldn't be all that far. Joey directed them across a third empty street and behind yet another broken-down house. But this time, Joey led the way to the back door. Inside, the place smelled rancid and moldy, making an already nauseous Mark gag helplessly. Impatient, Joey pushed him forward, through a doorway. Mark lurched into what he'd thought was a hallway but flailed in terror when there was nothing but air under his foot. With a startled yelp, he tumbled down rough, wooden steps to sprawl on the basement's concrete floor.

Milt slammed on his brakes in front of the bowling alley, calling through the open passenger window, "Get in!"

Teddy didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled inside and was still connecting the seatbelt when Milt pulled back into the stream of never-ending traffic on Sunset Strip. "I thought you were having dinner with McCormick," Milt snapped. "What happened?"

"Dinner, no, not me," Teddy replied, looking confused. "I was working and was just on my way home when I saw them. Mark was just supposed to deliver a message to Lindy."

"Lindy who?"

"I don't remember her last name," Teddy admitted with a chagrined look.

"Okay, then what message?" Milt demanded with no little exasperation as he flashed a narrow-eyed glare at Teddy. "Maybe you better start from the beginning."

Teddy blinked and then frowned as he tried to get his thoughts in order. "Jimmy and me, we went to see Mark earlier today. Jimmy wanted someone to take a message to his girlfriend, Lindy. He couldn't take it himself because he thought his brother was following him, and his brother might know me, too. I've known Jimmy since we were kids, but I never met Joey. Or, I don't remember meeting him, anyway."

The names were jangling alarm bells for Milt, but he gritted his teeth, focused on his driving, and asked, "Jimmy who?"

"Jimmy Cavalieri," Teddy reported. "You see, Jimmy's family is tied into the mob, but he doesn't want any part of it. Never did. He's planning on taking off tomorrow, but he didn't want to leave Lindy behind."

Milt felt as if he was trapped in some nightmare. What were the odds? "Does this Jimmy know that Mark knows me?"

"Uh … yeah, Mark mentioned it this afternoon. I forgot to tell Mark that, well, you probably don't remember him, but Jimmy doesn't much like you, Judge. I guess you sent him away a few years ago. He says you wouldn't listen to him; wouldn't believe he was innocent, that it was his brother that framed him."

Cold with dread, Milt rubbed his hand over his mouth. "I remember him," he said with hoarse control and trying very hard not to remember the photographs from the trial, photographs of what had been done to the victims. "He doesn't have any brothers."

"What are you talking about?" Teddy asked even as he shuddered when they turned into the cop shop parking lot. "Sure he does; a couple of them. He told me all about them."

Milt shook his head as he climbed out of the truck and led the way inside. "He's James Joseph Cavalieri, an orphan – there's no mob 'family'." Hardcastle held the door open and waved Teddy in ahead of himself. Pacing briskly down the hall, he grated, "He does not have, and never did have, any brothers."

"But …" Teddy began, only to falter, his worried expression softening into sadness. "I knew he'd had a pretty rough time as a kid. We all did. I guess … well, I knew some of the other kids made up stories about their families, their past. Stories that were better than what really happened to them. Is that what he did?"

"Yeah, Teddy, I think that's what he did," Milt sighed, sick at what the psychiatric report said had probably been done to the boy; terrible things that had made the kid blank out reality and invent a tough brother who could make things right. Frowning, reflecting on what Teddy had just said as he guided Teddy along the brightly-lit hallway, he wondered what kind of 'rough time' Teddy had suffered all those years ago.

Milt stopped in front of the elevator, but just as he was reaching to push the button, the doors opened and Frank stepped out.

"Milt, good, you're here. You made good time," Frank said, his face carefully devoid of expression or judgment about the fact that Milt had to have broken every speeding law to have made it there in such a short time. "I think we've found the car – a black Cutlass sedan registered to a Linda McPherson. She owns a trendy restaurant near the bowling lanes."

"That's her: Lindy," Teddy confirmed, eager to please, to somehow make amends for having landed Mark in such trouble. "I'd forgotten her last name."

"Where's the car? Any sign of McCormick or the girl?" Hardcastle demanded.

"They found it over in East Hollywood. Abandoned, looks like. No sign of them," Frank replied. "Come on. I'm heading over there now and you can ride with me."

"I'm sorry," Teddy blurted. "Really sorry to have gotten Mark into this."

Milt sighed, and then laid a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I know you are, Teddy. This isn't your fault." Teddy didn't look reassured, but he didn't resist when Milt gently pushed him to follow in Frank's wake.

Jagged pain erupting in his side jolted Mark back from the brink of unconsciousness. Joey kicked him again, ordering, "Get up, dammit, or I'll shoot you right now." Mark tried not to groan as he struggled onto his knees. Bracing his hands on the wall, he staggered onto his feet. Everything hurt, even breathing. Especially breathing.

Joey had pulled out a flashlight and Mark winced at the brightness. One arm pressed across his body, the other hand sliding along the rough, cobwebby cement wall, Mark limped forward in the direction the light was illuminating. Behind him, Lindy put a hand on his back, to steady him. "You need to lean on me?" she whispered, only to be clouted by Joey.

"Don't talk to him!" he yelled.

Pausing to lean against the wall, Mark very badly wanted to take the bastard apart, but he could barely stand. "Why are you doing this?" he husked, breathing as shallowly as he could in an effort to stave off the blinding pain. "What do you want from us?"

"You betrayed Jimmy. You're going to pay for that."

Mark started to shake his head and then thought better of it. Fighting the dizziness and nausea, he retorted, "I didn't betray him. I only met him earlier today, and I did what he asked." He had to pant a little to catch his breath. "And Linda hasn't even met Jimmy. She only knows J.J."

"Don't lie to me," Joey screamed. "You tried to hustle his girl. I saw you!"

"Jimmy wouldn't like you doing this," Mark wheezed. "He doesn't want you to hurt Lindy – you know he doesn't. He's here, isn't he? Jimmy? And J.J., too. I want to speak to Jimmy."

"Shut up! You're a friend of that Hardcastle. I heard you say so. I can't believe anything you say! And that judge'll be sorry, when he finds you. I'll get him, too. But for now, you'll do," Joey snarled as he fiddled with something from a shelf just over his head. Mark heard a strange, loud scraping sound behind his back that worried him, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Joey.

"Lindy, demand to talk to Jimmy!" Mark gasped, certain that he was running out of time. "Keep calling his name, no matter what."

"Shut up! SHUT UP!" Joey yelled, and pulled something from the shelf. Mark's eyes widened but there was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go; no escape. He had less than a second to prepare himself as Joey activated the cattle prod and shoved it against his chest.

Agony blasted along every nerve ending, stealing away his ability to speak, to breathe, even to see. The last thing he heard was Lindy screaming, "Jimmy! Stop! Jimmy!" Jerking uncontrollably as the electric current coursed through his body, Mark lost all awareness and was already wrapped in darkness before he hit the floor.

Frank pulled up and parked behind the abandoned Cutlass. The three men got out and Teddy confirmed that it was the one he'd seen Mark and Lindy forced into nearly an hour before. Patrol cars sat at either end of the block, their red and blue lights whirling, fracturing the darkness. Patrols were checking every derelict house on the street, looking for the missing people, or at least for witnesses to where they'd been taken. But, so far, they were coming up empty.

Milt looked helplessly up and down the pot-holed road of what had once been a desirable neighborhood. But that had been sixty or seventy years ago. Where the hell was McCormick? With every passing second, his dread and sense of urgency were escalating.

Then, muffled and very far away, he thought he heard a scream.

Everyone stopped. A dozen pairs of eyes raked the night. But there was no way to tell where the scream had come from.

Remembering the photographs, unable to shut them out of his mind, Milt thought he might be sick. Was that what was happening to McCormick even as they stood around, close enough to hear but unable to do anything to stop it? He felt a tentative grip on his arm and looked up into Teddy's wide eyes. "Mark's tough, Judge. He's gonna be okay. He has to be okay."

Milt looked away and bit back the words that there was no way to know that. Killing every last shred of hope they had wouldn't help him or Teddy – and it sure as hell wouldn't help McCormick.

Mark gradually became aware that his head was lying on something softer than concrete. Smelled better, too. It was totally dark, though, and he had trouble getting his bearings. Where was he? What had happened? A hand lightly caressed his head. Lindy? The memories crashed back, bringing with them the awareness of pain he'd been holding at bay, but the pain still felt distant, not quite real. Mostly, he felt cold. So cold. He tried to sit up but collapsed with a groan before he'd hardly lifted his head.

"Shh, easy," Lindy whispered. "It's okay. He's gone. At least for a while."

"You should run," Mark gasped. God, it was so hard to breathe. So hard to think.

"I can't. He shackled us both to the floor," she replied, fear quivering in her voice.

"Why … why'd he leave?" Mark asked, content now to just lie there, his head in her lap. There was no point in struggling. Even on his best day, he couldn't rip open iron shackles. And this was a long way from his best day.

"I did what you said; kept calling for Jimmy," she said. "He, he hit me, more than once. But I didn't stop. And then … well, something really weird happened. It was like all the stuffing came out of Joey, leaving this very shy, trembling person in his place who kept saying he was sorry, so sorry." She hesitated, then asked uncertainly, "Was that Jimmy?"

"Yeah, I think so," Mark murmured. "I think he's all three of them. Multi… multiple personalities." So hard to talk. So very hard to stay awake.

"Oh, God, he really is crazy, isn't he?" she replied with a shudder that Mark felt with every bone in his body.

"Sick," he mumbled. "Not crazy. Sick. Terrible things must've happened to Jimmy …."

"He cut you," she said then. "After he shackled you. He has all kinds of knives on the wall over there. He laughed, said it was for Hardcastle. I don't know how bad the cut is, but you've been bleeding a lot from your side. I can feel the blood on the floor beside us. I… I don't know what to do to help you."

Took most of his strength to reach up and cover the hand she had rested against his cheek. "Z … okay," he managed to breathe. "Nothing you can do." He wanted to say more. Wanted to say he was sorry that either of them had ended up in this mess. But it was so hard to think; harder to speak. His eyes drifted closed against the darkness, only to find a deeper, colder darkness within.

He didn't hear Lindy start to cry.

ACT FOUR:

Milt struggled to contain the desperation that clawed at his heart and gut. He couldn't bear the idea that Mark and that poor girl were being tortured to death somewhere nearby, and yet there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening. For all he knew, Mark could already be … but he slammed the door shut on that thought, utterly refusing to think it.

Every house for two blocks on either side of the abandoned car had been searched. Nothing. No residents, at least not legal ones. The squatters they found claimed they hadn't seen or heard anything. Most were so strung out that Milt had no trouble believing them. The police had just started on the next block over when one officer shouted, drawing everyone's attention. Milt, Frank and Teddy pelted out of the house they'd been searching to see the patrolman holding Jimmy's arm – he was already cuffed.

In mere heartbeats, Milt was there, in front of him. In the glare of the cops' flashlights, he could see a lot of fresh blood spattered on Jimmy's shirt, and his heart clenched. "What have you done to McCormick? Where is he?" he demanded, struggling not to shout. Belatedly, he remembered the girl. "And Lindy – what about her?"

Sobbing in terror, Jimmy was incapable of coherent answers. "In … in the dungeon," he blurted. "They're both in the dungeon. I couldn't … I don't know what's happening. Joey … Joey got them. I think … Mark – he might be dead."

"Where are they?" Hardcastle growled, forcing himself to be calm, to not shake the man in frustration. Scaring Jimmy more than he already was wouldn't help; wouldn't get the information they needed.

"In the dungeon!" Jimmy shouted – and then, in the blink of an eye, the tears stopped and a sneer curled his lips. "You'll never find them," he taunted. "They'll pay for hurting Jimmy. For betraying him." He laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "I left a special present for you, Hardcastle."

Milt drew back a step and looked the man up and down. "Joey, I presume," he muttered and shook his head. Turning to Frank, he explained, "From what I remember from the court case and my files, Jimmy is the original personality and is harmless, almost childlike. But Joey here is a full-blown psychopath and a killer. I don't think we'll get anything out of him."

Frank eyed Jimmy Joe and reluctantly nodded in agreement. He, too, felt more inclined to tear the man apart, to force him to tell them where Mark was. Maybe there was still time to get to him. Maybe he wasn't already … swallowing his fear and his fury, Frank turned to one of the uniforms, directing with cold deliberation, "Take him in and book him. And then get a court order for a psychiatrist to evaluate him."

Milt raked a hand over his head, his gaze scanning all the buildings he could see. "They can't be far away," he said. "We just have to keep looking."

"From the amount of blood on his shirt, we might not have much time," Frank muttered, his mouth setting into a grim line.

Words clogging his throat, Milt could only tightly nod in agreement.

"He came from that direction," a uniformed sergeant offered, pointing across the street and between two buildings. "I've redirected the search to funnel out from there."

Mark felt as if he was floating in an ocean of darkness, or maybe in empty space. He was cold, so very cold. In the distance, he could hear someone calling him. A woman. She sounded so scared. Hard as it was, as much as it hurt, he had to go back, find her, help her. He dragged in a deep breath, heard someone whimper in pain. Wondered who. Her voice seemed louder, closer … and he could feel her hand on his head, the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

"C'mon, Mark, don't you leave me here. Don't you leave me alone! Hold on. Do you hear me? Hold on."

He wanted to tell her that he was doing his best, but it was hard. He felt himself slipping away. The cold was sapping all his strength. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"I wonder why he said we'd never find them," Hardcastle mused as they finished searching yet another house. The whole neighborhood had once been desirable, even glamorous property but was now a slum, occupied by drifters and drug addicts, the lost and the homeless, the hopeless, the destitute, and the desperate.

Beside him, Teddy had fallen uncharacteristically silent and was staring at a house further along the block. He had a lost, bewildered look on his face, as if he should know where he was but didn't. "I think I might know," he said softly. "I've heard about it – the dungeon. When I was a kid."

"What? You know where he stashed them?" Milt demanded, whirling on the kid.

Teddy lifted trembling hands and shuffled a step back. "I don't know for sure. It was a long time ago," he replied, clearly uncertain and afraid of failing them. "But … Jimmy grew up around here. Or at least until he was around five or so. He used to tell stories about the house – like it was a house of horrors. To scare me, I thought. You know, in juvie, on stormy nights or when we couldn't sleep," he went on, talking faster and faster. "He told me the house had a hidden room in the basement. He called it 'the dungeon'. There were chains and all these knives and …. That's where … well, where his father …."

"I get the picture," Milt cut in, laying a soothing hand on Teddy's arm, causing Ted to raise wide, fear-filled eyes to meet his gaze. "Slow down, Teddy. Getting all worked up won't help. Just take a breath and close your eyes. See if you remember anything he told you about the place."

Teddy gave a jerky nod and obediently closed his eyes. Gradually, Milt felt the tremors ease, and the younger man's breathing slowed and deepened. One moment. Another. Teddy opened his eyes and looked down the block. "That one, I think," he said, sounding less than confident as he pointed at a boarded-up building halfway down the block. "He said the place was white, as if it was pure or clean, but that the truth was in the red tiles on the roof, the bright red door; red, like the fires of hell."

Milt frowned as he studied the house. The exterior was more gray with age and filth. The paint on the door was half-obscured by the boards nailed across it, and had faded over time to a grungy rust. But the roof tiles? Those that were left, were red. "You could be right. Good work," Milt praised, praying Teddy was right. With a rising sense of hope, he slapped Teddy on the back. "Let's go check it out. Do you remember how to find the hidden room?"

"Yeah, that I remember," Teddy assured him as they jogged down the block, Frank right behind them. "Who would forget? When I was a kid, I thought it was so neat to have a hidden room – and really scary, too, I guess. Jimmy said there was a lever hidden on a high shelf, just beside the basement wall, near the foot of the stairs."

The front entrance and windows were solidly boarded shut, but Teddy led them around to the back, the beams of their flashlights creating dancing shafts of light as they hurried along the side. They found the back door hanging open, giving Milt hope that Teddy's guess was on the money. Inside, Teddy hesitated, and then led the way to the dark doorway in a corner. "This is where he said the basement was; just off the kitchen," he shouted back over his shoulder as he clattered down the steps.

Milt and Frank were right behind him. By then, they could hear a woman's muffled shouting for help.

The flashlight beams cut through the darkness. Teddy looked around and spotted an overhead shelf at the foot of the stairs. "Jimmy said it was too high for him to reach. Too high for a kid to open," he muttered, as he felt around in the corner by the wall. Milt heard a distinct 'click' and a portion of the wall grated sideways, opening an entrance into a darker cavern.

The dungeon of Jimmy's childhood.

And of Joey's deadly rituals.

"McCormick!" Milt called as he shouldered his way inside, using the light in his hand to illuminate the woman sitting on the floor, the man sprawled on his back beside her … and the bright pool of blood. Appalled by Mark's pallor and the livid bruise on one side of his face, sorely afraid they were too late, Milt clenched his jaw, steeling himself as he dropped to a knee beside his friend. Reaching out, he cupped Mark's cheek and shuddered to find the skin so cold. "McCormick?" he called again, but there was no response, not even a twitch. Taking a steadying breath, he checked the pulse point in Mark's throat. "He's still alive," he exclaimed with gusty relief as he pressed his hands down on the still seeping wound.

Behind him, Frank yelled for an ambulance and lights. Then he hurried into the ugly chamber, the beam of his flashlight dancing around the room, glinting off the knives arrayed on the wall. He hunkered down beside Lindy. "You alright, ma'am?" Frank asked.

Lindy was weeping quietly. She sniffed and nodded. "I was so sc-scared," she sobbed. "I thought he was going to die." Looking around, Frank spotted a patrolman and tilted his head toward her, the signal to help her outside. Only then did they spot the shackles chaining both Mark and the girl to the floor.

"Get some heavy duty bolt cutters," Frank ordered, "and get these cuffs off them." The officer ran to do his bidding.

Milt was pressing down hard on Mark's blood-soaked jacket and shirt, as if he could keep Mark anchored to life if he could only stop the blood that was draining his life away. "Hang on, kiddo," he whispered hoarsely, scared to death by all the blood pooling on the filthy floor beside them. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. The uniform returned with the bolt cutters and blankets, draping one over Lindy's shoulders and the other over McCormick still form. He then freed Lindy and snapped the cuff holding Mark captive. She was able to stand and be led away, but Mark remained unresponsive, his cooling skin waxy white, his lips bloodless.

Milt was nearly frantic by the time he heard the siren, followed shortly by the clatter of the EMTs down the wooden steps. Unceremoniously, they moved him away from Mark's side to give them room to work. After that, everything became a blur. An intravenous was started after three tries. An oxygen mask was placed over Mark's pallid face. The deep, ugly gash was exposed and then covered by a sterile pressure bandage. He was lifted onto a gurney and, with the help of two patrolmen, the EMTs manoeuvred the mobile stretcher up the narrow staircase and into the night.

Frank stood beside Milt, both of them pale in the glare of the temporary spots hastily rigged by the uniforms to light the scene. Lindy was already on her way downtown, to give her statement. In the garish light, the men could all too clearly see old blood stains on the floor and walls, rusty brown and flaking with age. Horrors had happened here. Horrors they couldn't begin – and really didn't want – to imagine.

When Milt shook himself and came back to the world around him, he spotted Teddy standing hunched and alone in the corner across from the doorway, arms tightly crossed. Tears glazed his eyes as he stared down at the spreading puddle of blood where Mark had been lying. Milt felt a pang in his chest at the torment, the guilt, he could read on Teddy's face. "Hey, now," he said quietly as he approached warily, like he'd close in on a skittish, terrified animal. "This wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

Teddy's gaze lifted to meet his, blue eyes awash with uncontained, overwhelming emotion. "I brought him to Mark. I … Mark wouldn't've even known him if I hadn't …" His voice caught and he covered his face with his hands. "I didn't know," he rasped. "I didn't know Jimmy was dangerous." Shuddering, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Judge. I'm just so sorry."

Milt drew the young man into his arms, holding him while the tears spilled over onto his cheeks. "Shh, now, stop this, Teddy. You'd do anything for Mark, I know that. He knows that. What happened here wasn't your fault. If you need to blame someone, blame the bastard who built this hellhole years ago."

"If … if he dies, I'll never –"

"Don't, Teddy. Don't you even think it. You said it yourself, remember? McCormick's tough. He's a fighter," Milt scolded, and wondered who he was trying so hard to convince, Teddy or himself. "C'mon, kid, let's get out of here. Frank'll take us to the hospital. We'll see how he's doing. What do you say? Huh?"

Teddy nodded and pulled away. His hands swiped over his face, wiping the tears away. "Yeah, okay," he said, subdued. "Let's go."

"Now you're cookin'," Milt said in muted approval as he guided Teddy out of the torture chamber, wishing he, too, wasn't so damned scared that Mark might not make it.

The next more than an hour dragged by as Milt paced the waiting room floor, while Frank popped in and out as his duties allowed. Every time someone came out of the inner treatment areas, he looked up hopefully, only to be disappointed. Marshalling his patience, Milt told himself that no news was good news. If Mark had died, they would have been told.

Teddy's natural ebullience had disappeared completely. He sat in the corner, his back to the wall, his hands clenched. Nothing Milt or Frank said seemed to have any effect in relieving his grief or anxiety.

Finally, seventy-eight minutes after McCormick had been wheeled into the treatment room, the doctor came out to tell them what was happening. He was tall and wiry, with thinning hair and a competent demeanor. Flecks of blood speckled his green scrub shirt. "I understand you're waiting for news about Mark McCormick," he began. "I'm Dr. Steven Warner. Come into the office and I'll bring you up to date."

Milt plodded along behind the physician, Teddy in his wake. "How is he?" Milt asked, before he sat down in the narrow, cluttered office that was barely wide enough for the paper-laden desk, one chair behind it and one in front. Arms crossed, Teddy slouched against the wall beside him.

"Alive," the doctor replied. "In addition to the nearly catastrophic blood loss, Mr. McCormick suffered a modest concussion from being hit by a hard, narrow object. He was also either beaten or took a bad fall, resulting in three cracked ribs but, fortunately, none perforated a lung. His left wrist is fractured and he has severe bruising all over his body. All in all, though, aside from the blood loss, Mr. McCormick's a lucky man. The other injuries are not particularly serious and should mend with no complications. I've stitched up the wound in his side, bound his chest (more for comfort than because it will help the ribs heal). The bone fracture has been corrected and his wrist is immobilized in a cast. We've given him four units of blood." He paused and frowned a little, then shook his head. "I don't want to alarm you, but I must advise you that that loss of that much blood can lead to organ failure. If that's going to happen, we'll know better in a few hours." He gave them a tired smile. "So far, I'm glad to tell you he looks like he's holding his own. We've moved him to intensive care for the next twenty-four hours. Any questions?"

Milt had been listening closely and, so far as he understood, the news seemed to be more good than bad. But it also sounded as if McCormick wasn't yet fully out of the woods. Cautious optimism seemed to be the doctor's message. "Can we see him?"

"Of course, for a few minutes," Dr. Warner replied. "But he'll probably be asleep. That's what he needs most right now, so try not to disturb him. If all goes well, you might be able to take him home tomorrow. He's going to hurt for a while, and he'll be on a course of antibiotics for the next ten days, but he should be fine providing he drinks plenty of fluids and eats lots of steak."

Hardcastle nodded gravely, even had to grin a little at how much Mark would enjoy hearing the order for 'lots of steak'. He was more than willing to give hope a chance. "Thanks, for all you've done to help him," Milt said as he stood and reached across the desk to shake the physician's hand. Then he turned to Teddy. "C'mon, kiddo, let's go see how he's doing."

Milt and Teddy approached the bed in the tiny glass cubicle as if they were walking on egg shells. Machines beeped and Mark seemed to be tied down by a maze of tubes and wires. But the deathly pallor was gone, replaced by more natural color in his cheeks, and he was breathing easily under the oxygen mask. So far as Milt was concerned, that was all that really mattered. He seemed to be asleep but, as they stopped on either side of the bed, Mark blinked and looked dazedly around until he saw Hardcastle. "Hey," he rasped, his voice little more than a breath of air. "What …?" he began, confused, and then his eyes cleared. "Lindy! Is she alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, kiddo, she's just fine," Milt assured him. "And you're gonna be fine, too."

"Jimmy … he's pretty messed up," Mark murmured. "You need to warn Teddy."

Smiling, the Judge gestured to the other side of the bed. "Teddy's right here. He's the one who found you. And just in time, too. Probably saved your life."

Mark stared at him, as if he couldn't quite take it all in. Slowly, his gaze tracked over to Teddy, who blurted, "I'm sorry, Skid. I didn't know how crazy he was. I thought he really had a brother, y'know? I never meant for this to happen."

"S'okay, Ted," Mark told him, his lids growing heavy. "S'okay," he whispered again, slurring a little as he drifted back to sleep.

EPILOGUE:

When Teddy came around the side of the house the next afternoon, he found Mark sitting at the table by the pool, his posture rigidly upright as he studied one of his law texts. Garbed in shorts, the bindings around his chest and the top of the dressing over the nasty wound in his side were clearly visible, as were a plethora of black and blue bruises from his head to his feet.

"Oh, man, Skid, that looks painful," Teddy exclaimed, aghast.

Mark looked up and gave him a crooked grin. "Wish I could say it looks worse than it is. It's not terrible, though, as long as nothing makes me laugh." He pushed a chair out with his foot. "Take a load off," he invited, then leaned forward slightly to say in a conspiratorial whisper, "The Judge is inside, baking cookies." Teddy barked a laugh at the image and Mark's grin widened. "Yeah, I know. It's hilarious … but kinda sweet."

"He was really worried about you, Skid," Teddy confided, the laughter fading, leaving him pale, a haunted expression in his wide eyes. "We all were. I'm really sorry –"

"Hey, no apologies. How could you know what would go down?" Mark shook his head. "How could anyone imagine … but, regardless, Hardcastle told me they wouldn't've found me, at least not in time, if not for you. Guess that makes you my hero, Teddy. Thanks, buddy; I owe you, big time."

"Nah, you don't owe me a thing," Teddy replied, but a tentative smile lit his face. "Hero?" he echoed shyly, shaking his head. "I don't think so. But thanks for saying so." He paused, as if savoring the moment. Visibly brightening, sounding more like his usual cheerful self, he added, "You sure look like you're feeling a lot better today."

Mark nodded. "Except for a bit of a headache and general aches and pains, I don't feel too bad. For a while there, I wasn't sure I'd get off so lucky." He heaved a sigh and sobered. "Have you gone to see Jimmy? How's he doing?"

"See him? After what he did to you? No way. I'm done with that guy," Teddy exclaimed. "He almost killed you."

"No, Jimmy didn't hurt me," Mark argued, but gently. "In fact, I think Jimmy took control from Joey before he could do more damage to me or hurt Lindy. What happened isn't Jimmy's fault. Even Joey only did what he did because he thought he was protecting Jimmy, or avenging a betrayal."

"I don't know, Skid," Teddy murmured, shaking his head. "He's pretty crazy. Guess I never knew him at all."

Mark's lips thinned, his expression sad. He knew what it was to be betrayed by a friend, to find out someone he'd trusted wasn't trustworthy. But … this situation wasn't exactly the same thing. He'd thought a lot about it that morning, and about the lecture he'd attended – was it just yesterday morning? He shook his head. So much had happened since. That lecture had been about ethics, principles of behavior, intent, and justice. "Ted, Jimmy can't help what happened. He's as much a victim in this as anyone. I can't – don't want to even try – to imagine what was done to him when he was just a little kid." Mark's throat tightened at the thought of that small, terrified child, and he had to stop, take a breath. "Anyway, I think you're the only real friend that Jimmy has ever had. I wouldn't want to be the cause of you writing him off."

Teddy gazed wide-eyed at Mark, and then he looked away, out over the ocean. "Bad things happen to a lot of kids," he said, sounding distant. "They don't all go around killing other people."

Mark felt his gut clench when he realized what Teddy was telling him. "Oh, God, Teddy," he whispered as he reached to lightly grip his friend's arm. "You're right. Some … well, I guess, some are just stronger, or maybe have someone in their lives they trust or … I don't know what makes the difference. No kid should ever have to endure anything like that. If it helps, if you ever need to talk –"

Teddy blinked and a blush stained his cheeks at having given away more than he'd intended. Drawing back, he blustered, "I'm not saying that I … or … it's just that …" His words faltered and he didn't seem to know where to look. "I guess," he finally said with firm deliberation, "that I'm just glad that I have friends like you and the Judge who I know I can always count on. Makes me feel … safe."

Blowing a long breath to distance the emotion, respecting Teddy's right to say or not say whatever he wanted or needed about his past, Mark nodded. "Good, that's good." He shrugged. Then, to refocus the conversation onto safer ground, he said, "I think I'll go to see Jimmy in a day or two. Milt says they'll soon be sending him back to the institute."

"You really don't blame him?" Teddy asked, sounding like he could scarcely believe it.

"I really don't," Mark assured him. "I think Jimmy does the best he can. His intentions were and are good. He somehow knew or sensed that 'Joey' was about to make an appearance, maybe because his meds had worn off, and he tried to protect Lindy. He just wanted so badly to get away – wanted to escape from Joey, not really realizing that he can't outrun his own personal monster. Poor guy."

Teddy heaved a sigh. "I guess you're right, Skid." With a small grin, he allowed, "You usually are." Coming to his feet, he said, "Guess maybe I'll go by the lockdown. See how he's doing; if he needs anything. He's probably feeling pretty bad about everything. Lonely. You know."

"You're a good guy, Teddy," Mark said. "Jimmy is lucky to have a friend like you. So am I."

Once again Teddy blushed, and seemed confused about what to say or do. But he looked like he might burst from pride. "Works both ways, Skid," he said with a decisive nod as he turned to leave. "Works both ways."

As Teddy disappeared around the corner of the house, Milt came out the back door, wearing an apron and carrying a plate of still warm cookies. "Teddy leave already?" he asked, looking around in surprise.

"Yeah, just now," Mark replied. Nodding toward the open windows, he asked, "You heard?"

Milt nodded as he set the plate down, took a cookie and settled onto a chair across the table. "Yeah, I did. Don't like to think too hard about what his life used to be like; he must be stronger than I ever gave him credit for, to have turned out more or less okay." He shook his head. "Parents who do that … well, I guess they're very sick people. Otherwise, they wouldn't hurt kids, theirs or anyone else's." He munched on the cookie, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow. "I can't help thinking about Cavalieri. Doesn't seem fair, to have a life so bad you have to split yourself into pieces just to survive, and then end up in a locked ward because there's nowhere else safe for you to be." He sighed and shook his head. "I hope they can help him."

Mark's gaze narrowed as he looked out over the ocean, seeming lost in thought. But then he gave himself a small shake and picked up a cookie. After blowing on it to cool it a little and not burn his tongue, he bit into it. "Mmm, these are good," he said, around the crumbles.

"Geez, don't talk with your mouth full!" Milt chided, but couldn't help the grin that lit his face. "I'm glad you're okay, kiddo."

"Yeah, me, too," Mark replied with a grin of his own. He thought about the ethics class, and about how he'd thought of asking Milt about how he'd felt when he'd sentenced Mark to two years in prison. But when it came right down to it, he decided he didn't have to – he already knew the answer; had known it for a long time. The Judge had done what the law dictated. But Hardcase hadn't forgotten him; hadn't considered him a lost cause. To the contrary, he'd followed up after Mark had gotten out of prison and then had taken Mark into his home. Way back when, Mark had been annoyed by his intrusive interest but now he saw it for what it was – the hand of friendship being extended to him, to help him out and make sure he was okay after losing two years of his life.

For the first time, Mark didn't feel any residual bitterness. There was no need. He knew Milt really hadn't had a choice. And he knew that, because of it all, he had the best friend – and family – that he never would have had otherwise. Not just Milt, but Teddy and Frank and Millie, and so very many more people he never would have ever known. So far as he was concerned, all things considered, those two years had turned out to be the deal of a lifetime.

Smiling, he reached for another cookie and asked, "Got any milk?"

Milt snorted in amusement but, with a nod, got up and lumbered back to the kitchen. "Sure thing," he called, over his shoulder. Then he grinned and winked. "Just don't get used to the maid service, kiddo. After today, you can get up to get your own milk, y'hear?"

Mark just grinned and bit into another cookie.

The End