Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, as always, Owl.

Author's Note: The second season episode "Never My Love" opens with Mark and Milt attending the funeral of a young woman, Cyndy Wenzek. In a flashback scene (set on a suspiciously LA-like hilltop lover's lane) we witness Mark getting dumped by this same woman twelve years earlier, possibly for a guy named Clayton Pasternak from her (or their?) anthropology class. The break-up seems a bit abrupt to this 1972-version of Mark, who's claiming that he and Cyndy have been an item for two years. Confused yet? I sure was. Mark (at 18) had been dating a college girl in LA since he was 16? Something has to give: the setting, the date, or the context.

Join me for a little trip in the WABAC Machine: just a couple of quick adjustments with the sonic screwdriver, a mixed metaphor or two, and things will be right as rain—

Lover's Leap

by L.M. Lewis

Flip had leaned on him to get his GED. He had some pretty effective carrots and sticks at hand—after all, it was his couch that Mark was crashing on, and his table that he was eating at. Also it was in Flip's pit where Mark was getting what he considered to be his real education.

But getting the GED hadn't been all that hard, and Mark knew it would look good on his papers, applying for his racing license. Of course he should have figured it wouldn't end there.

Not two weeks had passed since the brief but congratulatory letter had arrived declaring that Mark McCormick was now in possession of the equivalent of a Florida high school diploma—minus the idiotic cap and tassel. They were sitting at the kitchen table, Flip working over some sketches, one elbow propped on a well-worn copy of a materials handbook, a half-dozen other references easily to hand. Mark was no less deeply immersed in the latest copy of Motor Trend.

Barb, Flip's daughter, was parked unhappily at the end of the table, fidgeting her way through a page of algebra problems. At one point she glanced up, looking fairly cagey, and said off-handedly, "How come I have to do all of this, and Mark just had to take a test?"

Flip cast a quick sideward look, checking her progress, which hadn't been all that impressive, and then said, "He did what you're doing, mostly, just not all in one place—you're lucky you get to do it this way. It's easier."

Mark, who'd been thinking Barb had a point, smiled a little self-consciously, not sure if he'd just been complimented. The GED test hadn't been too heavy on the algebra, though he'd sat through nearly eight months of that at Wagner—back in Jersey—and had managed to retain a passing familiarity. Flip had prepped him for the science section and Barb had been his social studies coach, being something of a whiz with that stuff at least. No question, Flip's kid was not going to get away with acquiring just one silly hat and tassel.

She was making a face now—one that made her look even younger than her fourteen years. Mark smiled back with an air of bland maturity that was guaranteed to be infuriating yet unassailable. It might have been this that made him fail to notice Flip turning to reach for something in the 'in basket' that he kept on the shelf behind him.

"This came in the mail," he said, out-blanding Mark by an easy mile. "Almost forgot."

Nothing came in the mail for Mark—well, except for the recent communication from the Florida State Department of Education. He frowned and reached for what looked like a fairly thick envelope. He glanced at the sender's name—Daytona Beach Community College. He let his frown take in Flip.

Flip just shrugged. "You must be on a list somewhere." He gave no indication that he might have seen to that somehow.

Mark tore the envelope open and pulled out the contents. As if to confirm his darker suspicions, the cover letter began, "Congratulations on obtaining a Florida State High School Equivalency Diploma. In response to your recent request . . ."

It was a course catalog. Mark flipped through it suspiciously, glancing up at the guy who made sure he had three squares every day and a place to sleep that was in out of the rain.

"This college stuff costs money," he pointed out.

Flip gave that a considering nod. "Yeah, some, but it's pretty reasonable if you're in-district. And you already got your driver's license here, so that's covered."

Mark took a deep breath in and let it out again. Flip had very pointedly only mentioned ordinary licenses, not the kind that entitled a guy to top 150 on the straightaway. He had a feeling that was coming next.

"I could take it out in trade—" Flip doodled some figures in the corner of his sketch, as though the calculation hadn't occurred to him before, and then added brightly, "I pay your tuition, and you pay me back when you win a couple races."

"If I win," Mark pointed out.

"When," Flip replied, calmly emphatic. "It'll be small potatoes."

Mark glanced down again, this time at the page of the catalog that had the brass tacks on it. Flip was right. One win in even a medium-sized event would cover the works for a semester. Of course if he was winning races, signing up to attend classes would seem like small potatoes.

On the other hand, if he was a bust at racing—and there really weren't any guarantees; wanting had never gotten him much before this—he'd have to do something. He'd always thought that'd be working pit. Of course pit was a young man's game, except for the chiefs.

But college? He looked up doubtfully.

"Why not?" Flip said, and from his coaxing smile it was clear that getting paid back was very low on his list of priorities. "One course, maybe two. See how you like it."

00000

"Anthropology?" Flip cocked his head questioningly.

Mark looked up from the current issue of Car and Driver. "Yeah," he said. "I need three hours in social studies and it's a Tuesday-Thursday class that's out before noon."

"Anybody ever tell you that's a weird way to pick what to take?"

Mark shrugged and smiled. "It's just easier that way—I don't like explaining to anybody that I need to reschedule a Friday exam because I have to be up at Talladega or Charlotte."

Flip seemed to accept that and Mark didn't have to add the part about Cyndy really wanting to take "Anthro 102: Introduction to Cultures". It had sounded pretty useless to him, but after three terms of mostly Tuesday-Thursday courses, the pickings were getting a little thin. She'd seemed surprised when he'd told her he was signing up for it too.

Flip knew about Cyndy—sort of. She'd even put in an appearance a couple of times at the track, though she wasn't really into racing. That was just one more thing Mark really didn't want to have to explain.

But he'd talked her into going up to Bristol with him this weekend. He figured they could go up in the hills above the speedway after the race. Things had been so crazy lately; they just hadn't had much time together, that was all. There'd be a nice view, lots of stars.

00000

"Whaddaya mean?" Flip looked over his shoulder, wiping the socket wrench on a hunk of towel.

"I mean I'm quitting," Mark repeated quietly, "like I said—I tried it and it's not for me."

"But you've been doing okay. You passed everything—"

"Anthropology—come on, Flip, what am I gonna do with that?" Mark shook his head and parked himself on the bench, trying to look nonchalant. "And don't worry; I'll pay you back."

"Who's worried?" Flip groused. "Did I say anything about that? Anyway, I thought you wanted to take the damn anthropology class."

Mark ignored that, sticking to the original issue. "But I will," he said firmly, "pay you. I got a little side job. Some repo work."

Flip froze for a moment and then turned to face him, full-on. "Who for?"

Mark would have liked to have ignored that, too, but Flip looked as if he were losing his patience.

"Jenks," he mumbled.

"Dammit, Mark," Flip didn't exactly throw the wrench into the box—he would never treat a tool like that—but he did put it down with a fair amount of emphasis, evidence that he was intent on making a point, "why him? You already forgotten that lock-up he landed you in up in Charlton County?"

Mark hadn't, of course, nor had he forgotten it was Flip—not Jenks—who'd come and sprung him, but it was time to face facts.

"'Cause he'll pay me," he said with just a tinge of bitterness. "I can't go on just sponging off of you and I know you haven't been doing well enough to offset costs."

"It just takes a while to get everything to click," Flip assured him. "Anyway, the bottom line is my problem, not yours. And none of this was an issue last week—what the hell changed at Bristol?"

Mark went for the obvious. "That engine—"

"Engines blow all the time," Flip interrupted impatiently. "You know that."

"And guys drop out of college all the time, too," Mark said stiffly, "especially when they need to stop fooling around and start earning a living. I'm not a kid anymore."

"Repo work," Flip shook his head doubtfully, "for Jenks?"

Mark said nothing. He'd managed to get this far through the conversation without mentioning the fact that he had been dumped the night before the race, that he'd gone into the race angry, feeling none of his usual instinctual connection to the machine he was driving—the thousand indefinable ways he usually felt wired-in to what he was doing. It was possible, he supposed, that he wasn't responsible for the mechanical failure, but it had felt like a direct transference of his mood.

But still, he said nothing. Let Flip think he was just another wash-out. It would be simpler for both of them that way, since he was.

All he knew for certain was that he wasn't sitting through another week of "Introduction to Cultures" watching his former girlfriend cozying up to Clayton Pasternack.

There were limits.

Twelve Years Later

Hardcastle was sitting at the patio table, LA Times before him with all, once again, right with the world. His sister-in-law—a nice enough woman in her own way, but he couldn't put quite enough emphasis on how much of her own way that was—had finally been hooked up with the perfect condo. Never mind that he'd worked every favor he was owed to get the sublease for her and it was only a temporary fix.

He smiled benevolently at McCormick, who had stumbled out of the gatehouse, rising late even by his standards. Mark had been tapped to do the moving the day before, and had thereby earned a couple of points. Not that the judge intended to admit that out loud, but a little benevolence along with the coffee and donuts wouldn't hurt. He even let the younger man glom onto the sports section.

Hardcastle stuck to the metro news, nearly to the back page, though it seemed like far too fine a day for obituaries. Still—

"Hmmph, shows ya—" he observed, in a slightly more sober tone, but still just making conversation.

"Shows ya what?" Mark inquired around a mouthful of donut. He looked up from an analysis of the Raider's chances over San Diego.

"Young girl like that," Hardcastle mused, "everything going for her, working for a senator and all."

Mark now seemed unusually attentive, considering the competition was powdered sugar donuts and the Raiders, but he swallowed before he spoke again—and then it was to ask, in an odd tangent, "What senator?"

"That Crocker guy—"

"What girl—what happened?" Suddenly the questions seemed a lot more emphatic.

Hardcastle frowned down at the article—more than just an obituary, given the high profile of the woman's employer and the freakishness of the accident.

"Down in Baja—his senatorial aide. Looks like a cow wandered into the road. She hits it broadside. Bang." His frowned deepened. "Doesn't say what kind of car it was."

Not what kind of cow, either, though the judge didn't have a chance to make that observation before a hand shot out and snatched the paper from him—just a quick rustling and McCormick had the relevant article in front of him. He was studying it with an intensity that was obvious.

The moment when he hit upon the woman's name was equally apparent. It wasn't a matter of going pale—nothing like that. It was more like rigidity: an expression gone to stone, no expression at all.

Hardcastle felt stupid asking the obvious. "You knew her?" He winced at his own use of the now-necessary past tense.

There was no response for a moment, and then just the smallest of nods from McCormick, who was still staring at the page, though probably no longer at the words. "Old girlfriend," he muttered.

"Ah," the judge replied, which sounded totally inadequate. He was groping around in the dusty corners of his wellspring of sympathy, searching for the right response, when McCormick handed the newspaper back almost as abruptly as he'd taken it.

"Sorry," he said. "Just . . . I dunno. Unfinished, I guess."

Hardcastle sucked in his lower lip and nodded at that. "Yeah, happens."

"A cow," Mark said grimly. "And she hated it when I drove too fast. Reckless, she said." He shook his head. "There's some kind of irony here. She was not the one who was supposed to die in a flaming wreck." He tilted his head up slightly. "The funeral—"

Hardcastle looked down, then across the page to the official obituary listings. "Day after tomorrow." There didn't seem to be any question that McCormick would be brushing off his dark suit.

The younger man was rising, no further interest in Raiders or donuts, though he seemed perfectly composed, almost reflective.

"It's been a long time," he said quietly. "Just . . . unfinished, that's all." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans then squinted as though he'd just remembered something else. "Tonight . . ."

Poker—and McCormick had reluctantly agreed to sit in as a fifth. He'd spent nearly a year complaining that his last poker game with friends of Hardcastle's had landed him in Men's Central, but this didn't seem like more of that oft-voiced reluctance.

"You sure?" Hardcastle replied to the unasked request. "Might take your mind off things—"

"I'm sure."

"So instead you'll go driving."

"How did you—?"

"'Cause it's what you do," Hardcastle grumped. "Just don't head south, will ya—and watch out for cows."

McCormick smiled sadly and nodded. "Damn irony," he finally said, then turned and strolled away.