I had so much fun writing my first story that I'm a little obsessed, now. Each chapter of this fic varies in length, as I posted them while in the process of writing (as opposed to writing the whole story at once - I'm not that patient or dedicated). I wanted to give this story the time it deserved, so it took me nearly a year to complete it. Sometime in the future, I may repost the whole story as one or two long chapters. Although I like the multi-chapter format when I read a fic - it's easier to find my place if I have to stop reading a story and come back to finish it later.
Thank you to everyone who gave my first Hardcastle and McCormick story (Hidden Scars) such positive reviews. I am thrilled to be able to share my ideas and vision. I also now have a "missing scene" story (Song and Dance) a few "tag" stories, some holiday stories, and several others.
Enjoy Inheritance Tax!
-ck
Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.
Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv
Chapter One
Martina Rivera sat silently at her daughter's bedside, gripping the girl's slender hands a little too tightly. She wasn't sure if the firm grasp was to stop her hands from shaking, or if she was trying to keep Olivia's trembling hands still. Maybe it was both.
As the doctor continued, Martina realized she had missed at least a full sentence of his diagnosis. She looked away from Olivia's confused and scared face, to the calm, collected face of her mother. Sandra Rivera listened intently to the doctor, nodding her head at times. Martina was extremely grateful for that. Her mother was stoic, practical, and unflappable. While Martina had been floundering in fear and grief, Sandra had started asking direct questions. Having worked in the medical field most of her career, Sandra knew the questions to ask. Martina was an elementary school teacher. There wasn't much in her career that she could draw off of to help her understand her daughter's illness.
"Ms. Rivera?"
It was a moment before Martina realized Dr. Shire was speaking to her. Most of the doctors and nurses that they had come to know in the past two months no longer referred to her as "Ms. Rivera" and her mother as "Mrs. Rivera" – it was just too confusing. They were now Martina and Sandra. Or Mom and Grandma, depending on how familiar the doctor or nurse had become. But Dr. Shire was the nephrologist who had recently been referred by Olivia's pediatrician, and he hadn't yet been clued in to the possible name confusion.
"Y-yes?" Martina stammered. "Doctor?"
"I was saying that changing Olivia's diet should also help." When Martina didn't answer, the doctor continued slowly. "There will still most likely be a need for medication, but when we see how she responds to appropriate lifestyle changes, we will be able to determine what to do next."
Olivia suddenly spoke up from her hospital bed. "I feel better, you know. When the antibiotics work, I always feel better. I don't understand." Her voice started to quiver, and she pulled her hands away from her mother so she could wrap her arms tightly around herself. "I don't know what these 'cyst' things are, or where they came from."
Dr. Shire studied the small family, wondering just how much farther he should get into his discussion. It was obvious that both the mother and daughter were overwhelmed, but the grandmother seemed to be grasping the situation, and both sides of the possibilities.
He stood up now, deciding it would be best to give the family time to digest the diagnosis before he got into the particulars. Another hour, give or take, wouldn't hurt the girl, now that they knew what was wrong and could stop chasing symptoms. Now they had a place to start, and while it might not have been the best diagnosis for the child, it was better than not knowing.
"I'll give you some time," he said, "There's more we need to talk about, but not right away."
Sandra looked up at the doctor, and then at Martina. Dr. Shire could see from the solemn expectation on her face that she had probably already made the connection.
And then the doctor left the room, and they were alone.
"Mom?" Olivia said. "Grandma? I don't understand. It's my kidneys, but it's not diabetes?"
Martina looked at her mother. "I think I missed some things myself, Mom. When he started talking about dialysis –"
"That's only if the other options don't work," Sandra responded. "Well, at least now. Even with medication and changing her diet and knowing what to watch out for. . ." The older woman suddenly looked lost, and it truly scared Martina. "It's progressive," Sandra said softly. "There's a lot that we can do to try to keep her healthy, but as she gets older, dialysis could be in her future."
Sandra didn't divulge that if dialysis was in the future, that the conceivable next step could be a search for a matching kidney donor. It was too early to talk about that, or to talk about how the cysts could also develop in Olivia's liver or pancreas. Not to mention the other possible complications. . . Martina and Olivia were upset enough without hearing the glass half-empty viewpoint.
And then there was the doctor's ominous statement about having "more to talk about." Now that was something Sandra was fairly positive Martina didn't know; that Olivia's diagnosis had reaching implications.
Polycystic kidney disease was not a common childhood illness, which was one of the reasons it had been so difficult to get a correct diagnosis for Olivia. The young girl's pediatrician had been puzzled by Olivia's easily-bruised skin, abdominal and back pain, and recurrent urinary tract infections. The possible diagnoses had ranged from leukemia to juvenile diabetes to a term called a "sponge" kidney. When PKD had finally been confirmed with an ultrasound, Olivia's pediatrician had tried to explain that it was a "good" thing, that they finally knew what was happening and they knew what to do next.
But even though Sandra's medical background was as a maternity nurse, she was informed enough to recognize PKD for what it was. It wasn't just a mountain Olivia would now have to scale; it would also soon be a trial for Martina.
PKD was most commonly genetic, inherited. It was also typically adult-onset, with symptoms usually not becoming apparent until the afflicted individual was in their thirties or forties.
Sandra had concluded that Olivia had inherited this disease from Martina. Martina was thirty-five; the older woman wondered how soon her daughter would start to experience clear symptoms.
All Sandra knew for sure was that both her granddaughter's and her daughter's health had been threatened in one fell swoop.
Mark McCormick had not realized how much he'd missed this.
He was perched on the edge of the front of the judge's pickup, his hands dirty with grease. He was clad in torn jeans and a sleeveless tee-shirt. An old bandana was tied around his head, blocking the sweat from getting into his eyes. He looked about as far as possible from a second-year law student. And he loved it.
Okay, fine, he had a certain fondness for law school, too. He'd known it was something he'd wanted to do, and do well, but he hadn't known how much it would affect him. Attending the lectures, researching in the library, working in study groups, arguing moot court. . . It had stealthily brought out a studious, fixated side of his personality that had surprised him. He had begun drinking in the information, almost unable to quench his thirst, and sometimes even Hardcastle hadn't seemed to have enough knowledge to keep him satisfied. Mark couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd been so obsessive about something that was actually positive.
But now that his second year finals were complete – giving him a good two months before the next semester started – it was like time had begun to tick backwards. The responsible shirts and slacks (and sport jackets, for moot court) were relegated to the back of the closet. Tee-shirts and jeans again became his wardrobe. He was able to watch a full late-night John Wayne feature, which had been nearly impossible during the school term, when he'd retire to the gatehouse early to make sure he was well-rested for his morning classes or study groups. He was also taking back some of his chores at the estate – he'd never really approved of the lawn service the judge had hired, anyway. The supposed professional service left ruts when they mowed in the softer grassy areas, and they had pruned one of the judge's Peggy Lee hybrid tea roses almost to its death. McCormick had barely been able to salvage it. He had first splinted the damaged portion with bamboo skewers he got from the nursery, and then had wrapped the entire section with electrical tape. Hardcastle had been displeased, to say the least, when he saw McCormick wrapping the black tape around the broken stem, but it had worked. Not two weeks later, the hybrid was blooming, almost fully resurrected. Mark felt a certain pride in that, too. Maybe not as much pride as he felt after getting that 3.8 GPA at the end of his first year, but. . . It was a different kind of pride, one that was more brawn than brains.
Who would have ever guessed he'd have them both?
"Judge, can you hand me the three-quarter wrench?"
"The tool box is right next to you, sport."
McCormick glanced over and saw the red tool box was indeed sitting next to him, balanced precariously on the edge and in danger of falling into the engine. Mark was practically sitting in the engine himself, one leg folded under him while his other foot rested on the wheel well.
"You know, this is your truck – you can't even be bothered to assist?
Milton C. Hardcastle glowered at his young friend. Assist, ha. More like be set up as a standing joke, he thought to himself. He had decided long ago that McCormick considered himself world-renowned in the art of diagnosing and tuning up engines, and that any "assistance" he gave would eventually be derided. He'd hand the kid the wrong wrench size. Or he'd give the engine too much gas when directed to crank it up for inspection. And if he offered ideas on what was wrong and how to fix it, McCormick would look at him with a kind of affectionate pity, like "The poor guy, he thinks he's helping."
So the kid could get his own damn tools out of his own tool box.
"Don't go knocking that box of tools into my engine!" Hardcastle ordered, as McCormick began sorting through the box for the correct size wrench. The younger man rolled his eyes, but moved the toolbox back from the edge so it was sitting more securely. After a few moments of silence, the judge moved a little closer to the engine and peered in curiously.
"So what's wrong with it?"
"I've only been checking it out for five minutes, Hardcase. Give me a break."
"What, are you losing your motor head touch? Too many books, huh?"
The words themselves sounded rough, but the sentiment wasn't. Milt was honestly impressed by how McCormick had taken to the law, in the process finding another part of himself that he hadn't known existed. The young man in the business-casual clothes with the backpack slung over his shoulder had looked very little like an ex-con or a former race car driver. The only visible reminder of his past was the Coyote, which was hard to miss on campus. And that was just another reason why Hardcastle felt that pride well up – the kid had started law school with two strikes against him right from the start: his past, and his age. But instead of trying to blend in and hide who he was, he'd driven the flashy hot rod to class. At the same time, he'd begun dressing like an adult, instead of in the goofy clothes his younger classmates were wearing. And he'd aced his Criminal Law class without hardly trying, even holding a pre-exam study session at the estate with a few fellow students. The way the kid had waxed poetic about the tamer parts of his checkered past, keeping the attention of the even-younger kids, had been amusing and a little disconcerting.
But that's what McCormick was, an enigma of sorts. Still a font of information when it came to breaking the law, but now more interested in defending it. Still young enough to tool around in the Coyote, but at the same time realizing that he wasn't twenty-five anymore, and he needed to start dressing like an adult.
The one thing that made Milt realize how much the kid was maturing was when he'd gotten his hair cut. In Hardcastle's opinion it was still too long, but it was probably the shortest he'd ever seen McCormick keep his hair. When McCormick had come home with the fresh haircut Hardcastle had just stared at him until the kid had flushed in embarrassment, mumbled something about wanting to look "more lawyerly" and then had hidden out in the gatehouse.
McCormick lifted one grease-smudged hand and adjusted the bandana headband, transferring grease to his face in the process. He sighed slightly, but it was more of a comfortable sigh than one of distress. He looked around at the wisps of clouds in the sky and smiled.
"Nice day out, huh, Judge?'
Hardcastle stared at him. "'Nice out?' No wonder you can't fix my truck, goofing around looking at clouds!" The judge snorted. "Nice out," he repeated with scorn.
"I've just been inside too much. This is nice – not being cooped up in a classroom or a library."
Hardcastle shook his head wryly. "Well, if you want to be outside more, there's plenty for you to do after you fix my truck. There's hedges to rescue from what the service did to them, there's gutters to clean, you can rake out and re-mulch the flower beds. . ."
"I know the drill, Hardcase." Yet McCormick spoke it lightly, without his patented sarcasm. "And I'll get to everything. I just had to decompress for a little while first. Find the old McCormick." He leaned back over the engine of the truck, humming softly. Hardcastle realized he was smiling in fondness at the kid, and quickly amended it to a frown, hoping that McCormick hadn't seen.
The sound of an unfamiliar engine pulling up the driveway caught the judge's attention, and he turned away from McCormick to see a taxi pulling up.
"Who's that?" Mark asked distractedly, still peering into the engine.
"I dunno. Expecting anyone? Maybe Sonny?"
McCormick looked up at Hardcastle's casual words, glaring. Seconds later, he amended it to a grin.
"What about you? Maybe it's Gerald."
They both ended up being wrong. A woman was climbing out of the taxi, looking around in wonder and unease. Considering that McCormick was presently stuck in a pickup engine, Milt decided he would greet the visitor. As he approached, the woman was speaking to the driver with a look of consternation on her face. He could just hear the words ". . . are you sure this is right?" before he was able to speak.
"Can I help you?"
The woman turned suddenly. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties, with thick dark brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her clothes were slightly wrinkled, giving the appearance that she'd been wearing them a while. She looked at Hardcastle with indecision, as if trying to figure out how to answer his question. Her response came out in a rush.
"Does Mark McCormick live here?"
Milt nodded, jerking a thumb back at his pickup. "Yup. The grease-monkey's over there."
The woman straightened and looked in the direction Milt had indicated. Her face seemed to blanch a little. Then she was bending down and talking to the driver. When she rose again, the expression on her face was resolute. She began to walk purposefully toward the man working on the pickup. Hardcastle actually had to jog a little to keep up with her.
"Hey, McCormick!"
Mark looked up at his name. He could see the taxi leaving the driveway, and a young woman walking ahead of Hardcastle. He tensed slightly. It was obvious this woman had been dropped off, and by the way she was approaching him. . .
A sudden painful recognition seized Mark, and he felt the wrench slip from his hand. It couldn't be, it had been ten years, it couldn't be her.
But as the woman got closer he realized he couldn't deny her identity. And then she stopped in front of the pickup, shading her eyes to block out the sun, and he lost all composure.
McCormick tried to climb out of the engine, forgetting he was sitting on one leg. When his leg, which had fallen asleep, refused to cooperate, Mark had to grab on to the edge of the truck to keep from falling over backward. Unfortunately, his scrabbling hands bumped the open toolbox, spilling its contents into the engine. McCormick pulled himself up fully in a futile attempt to catch the tool box, and inadvertently hit his head on the raised hood of the pickup. The jarring of the hood caused it to fall, and to avoid getting his hands caught in the slamming hood, Mark threw himself back and ended up in the fall he had tried to avoid. He tried to brace his landing with his hands, and felt pain shoot up both arms and into his shoulders. Even with his hands taking the brunt of the fall, he was unable to prevent a definite jolt to his tailbone.
Both the judge and the woman helplessly watched the comedy of errors, which took place in no more than five seconds.
"What the hell are you doing, McCormick?" Hardcastle asked in exasperation.
McCormick sat on the ground in a daze, wincing at the multiple injuries. He was uncertain of what had just happened. He fought to collect himself, looking up in disbelief at the woman he hadn't seen or heard from in at least ten years.
"Marty?"
The young woman immediately bent down near Mark. "Mark, I'm so sorry, I should have called, and not just shown up like this. Are you all right? Are you hurt?" She reached out hesitantly.
Mark didn't move, didn't take the proffered hand. "Marty," he repeated, still staring. "It is you."
Hardcastle saw he was going to have to advance this reunion. Moving forward, he reached down to take the kid's arm and hoist him up. McCormick let out a slight gasp of discomfort and began to rub the shoulder of the arm Hardcastle had grabbed. Surprised by the exclamation of pain, Milt appraised McCormick carefully. He was fairy sure he hadn't been unusually rough, and so was uncertain of his friend's possible injuries.
"Are you gonna live, kiddo?"
If the scowl McCormick directed his way was any indication, the bumps – and likely eventual bruises – were more of an annoyance than anything else. The scowl was brief, as the kid turned back to the woman looking anxiously between the two of them. McCormick's face softened, and he attempted a proper introduction.
"Uh, Judge, this is Martina Riv—" He stopped, a question in his eyes. "Is it still Rivera?" he asked.
The woman smiled, but averted her eyes a little. "Yes, it is."
"Okay!" Mark returned the smile, and was soon back in introduction mode. "Judge – Martina Rivera. Marty, this is Judge Milton C. Hardcastle."
Hands were shook, pleasantries exchanged. Then the three of them stood in the driveway, waiting for someone to make the next move.
Milt sighed, volunteering again. He looked pointedly at McCormick. "Are you just gonna let her stand out here all day?"
"Oh!" Mark suddenly seemed to realize where they were. "We should go inside and sit down," he agreed, gesturing with a hand. A rather greasy hand.
"Well, maybe I should wash up a little first. Um - uh. . . "
Hardcastle watched McCormick fidget for a few moments. Then he grinned and waved him off. "Go. Get the worst of the grease off - I'll hold down the fort. We'll be in the den."
McCormick returned the grin, turning toward the gatehouse. After a few steps he paused, glancing back at Hardcastle. The grin had been replaced with a wary expression.
"I'll just be a few minutes," he said in a warning tone, and then began to jog to his residence.
Notes for the previous chapter:
If anyone who reads this has PKD or knows someone who does, and needs to correct my writing, please do! Any mistakes I have made are unintentional.
-ck