Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.
Many thanks to Owl for her indomitable beta-work. In the words of Harry Cohn, I don't get ulcers, I give 'em.
Author's Note: The second season episode "Whatever Happened to Guts?" is really two intersecting tales. In the first, Hardcastle is persuaded by his old colleague, Hank Dremmond, to take over his job "adjudicating" on a TV show called You Be the Judge. Hardcastle's initial reluctance, his unexpected success, and Mark's mixed reaction to the whole situation, make for a very interesting turnabout to "Hotshoes". But since this episode was written by Matheson and Szollosi, there's also a Hitchcockian second theme: "Kay", a sweet young thing who had issues with her father, is targeting older men. She's already killed a newscaster from the station where You Be the Judge is produced and now she's set her sights on Hardcastle. A psychiatrist named Stephanie Gary shows up at the estate and asks the judge to meet with Kay. He goes with Dr. Gary, not realizing she is Kay's alter-ego. The psychotic psychiatrist takes him to the same isolated spot where she did in the newscaster. She sprays something in his eyes and then attempts to run him over. The police and Mark arrive in the nick of time and (after Gary is cornered and taken into custody) Hardcastle crawls out of the battered vehicle in which he'd been hiding.
Blind Ambition
by L.M. Lewis
He lunged for the car door and tumbled out onto the ground. Whatever she'd sprayed in his eyes, it hadn't done much more than sting a little. He swiped at them with his hand, then his sleeve. Not pepper spray—nothing that bad.
He got them open again just in time to realize she'd backed the car up and was barreling toward him. One part of his brain was busy tagging that as the same M.O. that had been used to kill Noland Ashley, though there wasn't much satisfaction in that since he knew how effective it had been.
He dodged her three times amid the massive concrete pillars that supported the roadway overhead, but on the last pass he realized something else was wrong. Her sedan seemed to shimmer as it came at him—the edges undulating and everything seen as a series of images with an almost stop-action quality. Or it might have been that time had slowed. He wondered if he'd hit his head, falling out of the car.
Or something in that damn spray. He stumbled out of the way again, just barely making it this time. He heard a siren and there was a blurry flash of familiar red. It had turned into a chase. He thought he heard the throaty undertones of the Coyote in the painful cacophony.
It was getting harder to keep things sorted out. He felt helpless—underfoot and in the way—with everything blurring into a kaleidoscope of color and motion. There was more red over to his right. For one fleeting moment he'd thought it was Mark, breaking off the chase to pick him up. No, it was something bigger—a pickup.
00000
Mark heard the cop cruiser crash spectacularly somewhere behind him, but didn't turned to check on the damage. His full attention was on the pursuit. Dr. Gary seemed to be the sole occupant of her vehicle. He paralleled her with only a series of concrete towers between them. With a move calculated in a split-second of judgment he accelerated and cut her off, forcing her into a pile of debris.
Her sedan went airborne briefly and then crashed headfirst into a pickup, knocking it sideways a few feet. Her car's hood was crumpled, its radiator spewing steam. Mark scrambled out of his car, yanked open her passenger door, and grabbed her by both arms.
He resisted the urge to shake her. He doubted that it would do any good. The self-possessed professional who had appeared on Hardcastle's doorstep earlier that day was gone. In her place was a smiling, childlike woman.
She's killed two people. He hoped to God it wasn't three.
"Where is he?" Mark demanded, trying to cut through the fog of insanity.
It was no use. She simpered at him and said, "Playing hide-and-seek."
He probably would have shaken her then—maybe worse—but he never had a chance to find out. From the corner of his eye he caught a movement at the back end of the pickup she'd plowed into. The tailgate was open and he got a glimpse of familiar blue: a jogging suit and Yankees' cap.
Of all the places to take cover, Hardcastle had managed to hole up at the point of impact. Mark abandoned his prisoner to the arriving cops and turned to the truck, grateful to see the judge alive but worried about the damages.
00000
It had seemed safer than trying to keep some concrete between him and all those moving vehicles, especially since he couldn't even figure out what the hell was coming at him. But no sooner had he crawled into the pickup than he was knocked into the left-hand wall of the shell and then to the floor by a sudden side impact.
In a moment of bewilderment, he thought maybe she'd eluded her pursuers and come after him again. He tried to orient himself, not even sure if the vehicle was still upright. It was, and all he heard now was a sibilant hissing and—yes, he was sure of it—the Coyote, its engine cutting off suddenly.
He crawled toward what he hoped was the back of the truck bed and fumbled with the tailgate, finally getting it open. He heard McCormick and that young woman, though her voice was different again: still eerily childlike but without the earlier petulant anger.
Sirens. Another car, this one must be the cops. Hardcastle almost smiled. Mark had gotten to her first and had made the bust. What had he said the night before? Chasing the bad guys down, dropping them through the slot—that's what's important. This woman might not be the standard-issue bad guy that McCormick had been referring to, but she was plenty dangerous.
And, almost as if his thoughts had summoned him, he heard Mark asking him if he was alright. He wasn't all that sure how to answer that, but he threw out a glib comment - something about being famous.
"'Famous'?" McCormick said incredulously, "Try pounded."
"Nothin' hurts," Hardcastle reassured him. He scooted forward a little on the tailgate and tried to plant both feet on the ground. Nothing did hurt, but there was an annoyingly detached feeling—almost like floating. He had a sudden urge to feel terra firma under his shoes.
No luck. McCormick was talking again. The judge thought he might have missed something. Whatever it was, Delaney was there now too and Mark was saying something in a more worried tone.
". . . his eyes."
He wondered how the heck anyone could tell. The wavy look of everything being underwater had given way to bright edges, no more useful than the earlier blurring. The judge wasn't sure why he didn't want to share this with anyone, except that he had a creeping notion that his sanity might be in question. Really, how else could a guy explain the past two weeks? Had he really agreed to sit in for Dremmond? And a show about people getting divorced, did that sound like anything real?
Mark was talking again, and it must have been at him, because the words sounded louder, if not more distinct. Hardcastle furrowed his brow and tried to focus on them.
". . . get you checked out . . ."
He wondered if he should tell him about the snakes in his hair. Probably not. McCormick hated snakes. It was strange. They were amazingly sharp—every scale. They almost glowed.
Medusa, he thought, but maybe he'd said it out loud because Mark said, "Huh?"
The kid sounded nervous, or at least the snakes turned darker and seemed a little more active. Their red eyes were disturbing, and the judge didn't usually mind snakes all that much.
00000
There weren't any obvious injuries, at least none that Mark could spot on a quick, preliminary inspection, but it was just as obvious that there was something not quite right about the judge. The passive near non sequitur that he'd given in reply to Mark's very simple question had been the first clue.
The second was his eyes. It was not so much the lack of focus, though that was plenty strange. No, what was really disturbing was the darkness—his pupils so dilated that they almost obscured the normal gray-blue of his irises.
Mark shot a glance over his shoulder, still keeping a hand on the judge's arm, trying to get Delaney's attention without shouting. The lieutenant must've seen his expression, or maybe it was just the extent of the damage around them. He strode over, leaving Dr. Gary to his officers.
"Everything okay here?"
"Ah, not so sure." Mark hesitated and then dropped his voice a notch. "Look at his eyes."
There seemed to be no question on the lieutenant's part. Delaney only paused a moment, frowning, before he whirled and headed back toward the squad car.
Mark heard the him issue an order to the man who was relaying information into the radio: "Have 'em send one more ambulance and tell 'em to hustle."
Then his own attention was drawn back to Hardcastle, who was now taking him in with an expression of deepening consternation.
"It's okay," Mark said firmly. "We're just going to get you checked out, that's all."
These assurances didn't appear to be having much effect on the man. He was still shooting concerned looks at McCormick, though it seemed as if he was trying to keep them surreptitious. He muttered something that Mark couldn't quite make out, and that had sounded worried, too.
"Huh?" Mark asked. No, he didn't want to know. He tried to keep his grip on Hardcastle's arm light as he strained to hear the sound of the ambulance. He wanted Delaney to shake that Gary woman for him—find out what the hell kind of Mickey she'd slipped the judge. And how had she gotten him to take it? And what had Nolan Ashley's autopsy shown; he'd definitely died of blunt trauma, hadn't he?
The guy he'd normally address such questions to was sitting in front of him, eyes like saucers, making a totally random reference to Greek mythology.
00000
Hardcastle was sure of it now. You're losing your grip.
Or maybe there really were flames. It seemed possible. Cars had crashed, hadn't they? But more than that, Hardcastle was troubled by the vivid memory of a metal box in a crematorium.
"It's okay," McCormick said. He might have been trying for reassuring, but he'd ended up in that box, hadn't he?
"Flames," Hardcastle pointed out. He kept it quiet and reasonable. Nobody needed to know he was losing it. But he balked. They weren't going to get him in that box.
McCormick was talking again, but not to him. ". . . he doesn't have to lie down, does he? I mean he's not bleeding or anything. Can't you just take him like this?"
There were other voices, an argument. Shadows against the encroaching flames. He couldn't believe they were having a discussion at a time like this. He almost said as much but Mark had apparently won that round and turned back to him, speaking very earnestly, "Just a short ride. Please? For me."
He had a moment of sharp clarity. It was an ambulance, its back doors open and waiting. The red lights at the front end were bouncing flickering reflections off the concrete pillars, nothing more sinister. Mark looked frightened, though—might be flashbacks from that crematorium incident. He reached over with his free hand and patted him on the arm.
"It'll be okay, kiddo."
00000
Mark had felt the man's tension rising, his owlish stare fixed on the ambulance as it had backed in. When the paramedics approached, equipment boxes at the ready and the gurney off-loaded right behind them, Hardcastle started pulling away. Mark tried reassuring him but it was increasingly evident that the judge wasn't open to reason.
So far, though, he appeared to be keeping a grip on himself. He hadn't tried to bolt. He'd even leaned in at one point and confided another single word, muttered in a half-whisper. It hadn't make a whole lot of sense, making Mark even more certain that he needed to get him into that ambulance somehow.
"Look," he said, holding on to Hardcastle with one hand while warding off the paramedics with the other, "I don't think it's such a good thing trying to get him on the stretcher right now."
"Drugs?" the one paramedic cast a questioning glance at their unwilling patient.
"Ah, maybe," Mark said hesitantly, looking around for Delaney. The lieutenant was over by the crashed squad car and the other ambulance, getting his own men's more obvious injuries sorted out.
Mark sighed and turned back to the guys who were confronting him. Nobody here knew he was nobody, and Hardcastle didn't seem to be in a position to speak for himself.
"Drugged," he corrected. "Kidnapped, and she probably slipped him something. We don't know what but I think he's seeing stuff."
"Hallucinating?" The paramedic was reaching into his pocket for something. A penlight. He flicked it on. Mark knocked his hand down.
"Wait. I mean, that isn't going to tell you what he took, right?"
The paramedic looked disgruntled, but after a half-second's delay finally shrugged his answer and added, "What we need to do is get him to the hospital. Gurney, straps—we'll be there in five minutes, ten tops—"
Mark looked at his too-silent and obviously bewildered friend.
Straps.
He glanced back at the paramedics and said, "He doesn't have to lie down, does he? I mean he's not bleeding or anything. Can't you just take him like this?"
"There's rules—"
"Damn the rules," Mark snapped. "He's confused. Strap him down—especially after what's happened already—and he'll be upset." He grimaced and added sternly, "You won't like him upset."
He hoped he hadn't oversold it. Next it would be straps and more drugs. And he wasn't even sure he could get Hardcastle into the back of the rig sitting up and under his own power.
He turned to the judge, and tried to keep his voice low and even as he said, "Just a short ride. Please? For me."
It might have been wishful thinking but Hardcastle's pupils seemed marginally less dilated, and to Mark's utter surprise the older man leaned in and patted his arm.
"It'll be okay, kiddo."
Mark nodded mutely and then gestured for the paramedics to step back. They did. The gurney was quickly stowed and Mark climbed into the ambulance, never giving up his grip on Hardcastle's arm. A quick boost and the older man was in too, and a moment after that they were underway.
00000
The trip was a blur—there were too many colors and the siren wailed incessantly. McCormick, sitting next to him, still looked worried, but the judge didn't feel up to being reassuring anymore. It seemed as though things were narrowing down and it was damn hard to breathe. He felt a dark foreboding. They were on their way to hell in this noisy box—him and McCormick, and even the suspicious-looking guy sitting across from them. He couldn't quite place him but Hardcastle was increasingly certain he'd seen that face in one of the files.
". . . any pills?"
He jerked, suddenly aware that Mark had been speaking but not sure what he'd said. He turned slightly, reluctant to take his eyes off the man he couldn't quite place. McCormick was saying something else.
"Maybe she had you drink something?"
"Who?"
"Dr. Gary."
It was impossible to miss the rising anxiety in Mark's voice. He sounds kinda paranoid. The judge couldn't blame him—close call at the crematorium and all, and now this trip to—
He frowned and rasped, "Where the hell are we going?"
00000
Dammit. Mark knew it had been too easy so far. With God knows what rattling around in the man's system and way too much weird stuff having happened already today.
"The hospital," he said, trying not to sound unduly anxious—not even half as anxious as he really was. "Remember?" he coaxed. "You said you'd go."
He was getting one of those deeply dissatisfied Hardcastle frowns, the kind that usually preceded a full-blown chewing-out. Really, at this point Mark didn't think he'd mind that, as long as it kept the man occupied and distracted. He even thought it might be a good sign. Crabby was normal for the judge.
Silence, on the other hand, was scary. It could mean that things were getting worse, or that pressure was building in some concealed reservoir. The timing was lousy. Mark glanced out the small rear window of the rig as they eased to a halt and began backing up slowly. They'd arrived.
"The hospital," he repeated cautiously.
00000
The siren cut out suddenly. For a moment the judge thought his hearing had gone completely, but now he could tell McCormick was speaking again. The words were muddled but he seemed uncharacteristically earnest. No, not so out of character—that was just how he'd sounded the night before.
Chasing the bad guys down . . . that's what's important.
Hardcastle smiled. The smile seemed out of place considering the circumstances. He was pretty sure they were outnumbered. Mark still looked plenty worried—something about a hospital.
His smile froze. McCormick was bleeding. Damn. The judge wasn't sure how he'd missed it before. Good God—his face, his arm. Hardcastle felt a numbing chill as though his own face had drained of blood.
"The bullets weren't supposed to be real," he said with a rising note of fear. "We switched Roy's gun."
00000
It wasn't the response Mark had expected. It took him a moment to catch up— jogging back over nine months of intervening memory to the scam they'd pulled on a bunch of murderous vigilantes.
It took another half second, no longer, for him to consider the mixed blessing of Hardcastle's confusion. All he had to do now was nod in agreement and he knew he could have them both inside that ER with no further resistance.
All you have to do is lie to him.
It was at least a lie by omission, and looking at the fear in the judge's eyes, Mark couldn't bring himself to do it.
"No," he said firmly, "they weren't real. The gun was switched; they were blanks. I'm fine."
The judge peered at him as though Mark was the one whose sanity was hanging by a thread. "But—"
"That was last winter, remember? And we caught all of them red-handed." Mark swallowed once, thinking that might not be the best metaphor, but Hardcastle still seemed to be mulling it over.
The paramedic was looking a little impatient. Mark shook his head slightly at the man and then turned back to the judge.
"You remember? Me in a towel, and the steam room—we skunked 'em."
He paused, and when the judge broke off staring and nodded, just slightly, Mark smiled in what was meant to be encouragement.
"Okay, so you're having a little trouble—maybe seeing some stuff that doesn't seem right. I think that crazy shrink slipped you something."
The judge frowned at this, but it seemed more like concentration than doubt.
"She got me in the eyes," he said hesitantly. "Some kinda spray."
Mark shot a look at the paramedic, who shrugged again and jerked one thumb toward the ER entrance just behind the rig.
"Okay," Mark said again, this time to both men. Then more specifically to Hardcastle he added, "Let's let the docs take a look at you and try and figure it out, huh? All this stuff you're seeing—it's not real, I promise."
And again the judge took him completely by surprise—no grumbling protests or further wide-eyed ravings. He was still frowning slightly though, as if he weren't quite sure about everything he'd just been told.
But all he muttered was, "Yeah, okay."
00000
Hardcastle had seen this kind of thing before—guys who wouldn't even admit they'd been injured. It came as no surprise that McCormick was doing it. The man hated hospitals. And there might be some kind of post-traumatic shock—or maybe real shock. There was enough blood for it. That crazy woman must have shot him after she crashed her car.
Get him into the ER and they'd sort things out. He just wished he could see a little more clearly. He let McCormick go first and winced when the light streamed in as the door of the rig opened—stabs of light, sharp as knives and splintering into a thousand pieces.
He squeezed his eyes shut. It barely helped, but he knew McCormick was somewhere in front of him and probably wouldn't go a step further without some definite nudging. He reached out blindly, intending to encourage him with a shove, and was startled by a firm handclasp that turned into a tug.
He heard somebody say something about how it might be better if he'd lay down on the stretcher, but of course Mark was being stubborn about it so there was none of that. Despite his own discomfort, Hardcastle had to shake his head and smile slightly. He felt a slight pressure change—the sound of mechanical doors opening and a waft of cooler air.
He risked opening his eyes again. He might as well have kept them shut. The painful light was gone but in its place were splotches of purple radiating out, encroaching on everything. The room swayed—an earthquake? It was loud enough. Too many voices all talking over each other and nobody listening to him as he tried to explain about the blood.
There was one voice—Mark's—not all that loud but very close to his right ear, saying insistently, "Could you maybe lie down before you fall down?"
It seemed like a good idea, though he'd always heard the best thing in an earthquake was to stand in a doorway.
00000
To Mark's amazement, Hardcastle actually listened to him—or at least he let the staff ease him down onto a gurney and replace the top of his jogging gear with a hospital gown. His eyes seemed increasingly glassy, with little jerks of motion that suggested he still wasn't seeing things for what they were.
Mark turned to the nearest person who wasn't trying to attach monitor leads or otherwise deal with the reluctant patient. It was a guy in a white coat with plastic badge clipped to his pocket that read, 'Dr. Allen'.
He started to explain: kidnapping, some kind of spray in the hands of a psychotic shrink—then Hardcastle interjected peevishly, "And he's still standing there bleeding."
The doc shot a quick glance at one of the other staff members and said, sotto voce, "The quiet room, I think."
They adjourned from the hallway. The new venue was only marginally quieter, but at least a little more private. To Mark's relief even here no one had caught on to the fact that he had no official standing. He'd been allowed to accompany them and they'd even made room for him on the far side of the cart during the initial exam. It might have helped that his quick reach for Hardcastle's hand had prevented the man from swinging when the doc tried to use a penlight.
"Bright light bothers him," Mark said, trying to keep a firm grip on things.
"At least I'm not lying about being shot," the judge muttered and then, "What the hell's wrong with my eyes?"
The doc pursed his lips slightly. "What are you seeing?"
"Stuff," Hardcastle hesitated, "colors mostly. I'm not going crazy, am I?" And then he answered himself sternly, "No, I'm not."
Mark let out a breath he'd held. He thought the relief was a little premature but this sounded more like the judge.
The doctor held up a hand, three fingers extended. "How many?"
Hardcastle squinted. "Three." He closed his eyes again and shook his head. "God, they're huge . . . kind of pulsing."
"A hallucinogen," the doc suggested. "LSD most likely, but there are others. It's absorbed mucosally: on the tongue. An eye spray—that's weird, but conceivable."
Mark supposed his look of horror must have been apparent.
"It can be scary for the patient sometimes, but the good news," the doc added quickly, "is that if it is that—and I really can't think of anything else that works in a small enough dose—then it should subside over a few hours."
"How many is a few?" Mark asked, not feeling all that reassured.
Even less assuring was the doctor's rather casual shrug. "Sprayed in the eyes—that's a new one on me. I can call our toxicologist and run it by him."
"Acid, huh?" Hardcastle spat the word out with a tone of disgust that was obvious. "It figures." He'd kept his eyes closed but had apparently been listening to the whole exchange.
"We'll do a tox screen," the doc continued on, half to himself. "But if it's LSD nothing's going to show up on the preliminaries." Despite that conclusion, he looked happy with his tentative diagnosis. "In the meantime, just observation."
"And," Mark dropped his voice to a whisper, "if it gets worse?"
"We can suppress it."
"Ah . . . ?"
"A hit of Thorazine usually works."
Mark swallowed hard and hoped it wouldn't come to that. He had no chance to voice his opinion about fighting fire with fire before a young man stuck his head through the doorway and said, "Got two greens from a roll-over crash. Cops."
The doc nodded sharply and tossed a quick half-wave as he departed. "We'll monitor him and get that lab work done. You try to just chill."
Mark wasn't sure exactly who that last bit of cheery advice had been aimed at. Hardcastle hadn't responded to it, though almost as soon as the door closed behind the doc and the room actually started to live up to its billing, he broke the silence with a heavy sigh, his eyes still closed.
"You okay?" Mark asked tentatively.
"Dunno. It's like pinwheels and stuff. Better than the blood, though."
"There wasn't any blood. Really. That was last winter and it wasn't even real then."
"It looked real," the judge said flatly, but then he opened one eye cautiously, turning his head slowly toward the side of the cart where McCormick stood. He didn't immediately close it. The other soon joined it in a narrow squint.
Mark raised an eyebrow slightly. "No blood?"
"No, not right now," Hardcastle admitted. "No snakes, either."
"Snakes? Ugh. Remind me never to tussle with a crazy shrink."
Hardcastle nodded absently, his gaze wandering again, this time drawn to an otherwise blank part of the wall. He seemed to become more focused.
"What?" Mark asked, noticing the fixity.
Hardcastle stared for a moment longer and then shut his eyes again firmly and said, "It's not real."
"No," Mark agreed, glancing at the blank wall and then up at the monitor and the definite spike in the judge's heart rate. "Stick with the pinwheels for a while, will ya?"
The door opened and a woman in blue scrubs entered. Hardcastle kept his eyes shut while she drew a few tubes of blood and started the IV.
"Just a precaution," she said. "Try to keep this arm straight."
She left, too, but while the door was open Mark heard a familiar voice from the hallway. Hardcastle probably heard it, too—Lieutenant Delaney must have arrived at nearly the same time as his men.
"We need to tell him about that stuff." Mark said. "The evidence guys need to find that bottle and bag it. You want to see him?"
Hardcastle shook his head no. Mark wasn't surprised. What was more surprising that the man wanted any company at all.
"You go tell him," the judge said gruffly—it was the dismissal that Mark had been half-expecting for a few moments now.
He was on the verge of saying "No problem" when Hardcastle added, "Just come back, will ya?"
Mark swallowed again and got his two words out, though they were pitched a little higher than he would have liked and he found himself tacking on, "It'll just take a sec."
Better to leave it at that. He caught Hardcastle's grimace of self-disgust, but it was also true that the man's eyes were still shut, suggesting a persistent preference for pinwheels. Mark squeezed his hand once and let it go.
He slipped out the door. He left it slightly ajar and looked around for the source of the voice, hoping he wouldn't have to go too far. To his relief, Delaney was by the desk at the end of the hall. The lieutenant had apparently been directing inquiries to the staff and must have been happy with the replies. He looked up, caught sight of Mark and tempered his pleased expression.
"Your guys okay?" Mark asked.
Delaney's smile was back, and he observed, "If you've got to roll a car, make it a Crown Vic. Just a couple bumps and bruises. The squad's a total, though. How's Milt?"
Mark cast a quick glance over his shoulder, judging the distance from the doorway and lowering his voice accordingly. "Better . . . I think. I don't know if you heard but—"
"The doc who who's looking after my men said something about it." Delaney nodded toward Allen, deep in conference with an older doctor on the far side of the work station.
"Yeah, well, she sprayed something in his face—his eyes. The doc thought maybe LSD." Mark grimaced. "You said she really is a shrink?" The hasty explanation he'd been given about the woman's fingerprints now seemed like a lifetime ago.
"The real deal," Delaney assured him. "Dr. Stephanie Gary, M.D.—licensed by the State of California. I had 'em take her to County for an eval."
There was no difficulty hearing Delaney's voice even above the chattering noise of the busy ER and the older doctor looked up sharply. He said something further to Allen and then they both headed toward the lieutenant.
"This is Dr. Ushap, our toxicologist," Allen said to Mark.
The older doctor turned straight to Delaney, peering slightly over his bifocals. "I heard you mention Dr. Gary—the psychiatrist?"
Delaney nodded.
Ushap cocked his head slightly at his younger colleague. "It's a clinical diagnosis, of course. Your tox screen won't help, but Gary involved—that's a helluva coincidence."
"What kind of coincidence?" Mark interjected impatiently.
"Her father," Ushap frowned. "Dr. Xavier Gary, he had quite a reputation in the late fifties. 'Better living through chemistry'—conducted hundreds of experiments using hallucinogens on psychiatric patients. Except it turned out a lot of them didn't know what they were being given. Eventually he lost his license."
"Dr. X," Allen said. "I remember hearing that story. He's dead, isn't he?"
Ushap nodded. "Not that long ago—a couple years maybe. Overdose and a car accident."
"Well," Mark shot Delaney a knowing glance, "you'll never prove that one."
The lieutenant shrugged. "I'll settle for the two murders—with a kidnapping and battery thrown in."
"I think you're going to have to settle for 'not guilty by reason of insanity'," Mark replied regretfully. "But make sure your evidence techs keep an eye out for that stuff she used—some kind of spray bottle, still in her car probably." His face, already slightly downcast, froze for a moment. Then his brow furrowed and he looked up again at Delaney.
"Don't worry." The lieutenant grinned. "I had 'em tow the Coyote to the station. You left the keys in the ignition—that's how come I knew Milt must be in bad shape." He shook his head and scrabbled in the pocket of his suit jacket, extracting a key ring and dangling it.
Mark snatched it and plunged it into his own pocket with a look of embarrassed relief and a muttered, "Thanks." Then, a little more hopefully, he said, "They used a flatbed, didn't they?"
"Yeah, yeah," Delaney waved his concern off with one hand, "couldn't have you bitching about the undercarriage."
The two docs had gone back to their own discussion and were drifting in the direction of Hardcastle's room. Mark glanced at them and furrowed his brow.
"I better get back in there."
"I need to ask him a few questions, too," Delaney said.
Mark, who'd already taken a couple steps down the hall, turned back toward the detective. "Ah—" he knew what Hardcastle had said, and he understood why the man might not want visitors right now, but it was damn awkward being the bearer of the tidings, "maybe—"
"Not right now, huh?" Delaney finished for him. The lieutenant looked remarkably understanding about the whole thing and not even a bit surprised that McCormick was returning to the room. Mark hesitated for a moment, wanting to explain that it was all the judge's idea, but that hardly seemed necessary. Delaney was shooing him off with a kindly, "Go on—get back there and keep him from chewing those docs out."
He nodded once and scuttled down the hall. He slipped past the two doctors—who'd paused to look at something on a chart that was presumably Hardcastle's—and ducked into the room.
The judge was right where he'd left him. He'd opened his eyes, squinting again, as Mark came in.
"You okay?" Mark asked.
"'Course I am," Hardcastle groused. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Well, you sound better . . . grouchier, anyway," Mark said, trying to keep a smile off his face. "Delaney said his guys are mostly okay, too. They smashed up a squad car."
"I think I saw that—it really happened, huh?"
"Yup."
Mark sidled over to his former place next to the gurney but the judge seemed past needing his hand held. That was a relief. There was something disconcerting about Hardcastle needing anything—or anybody.
"There's another doc out there, Ush-something—Ushap. Anyway, sounds like Dr. Gary might've done in her old man, too. Not that maybe he didn't deserve it," Mark added thoughtfully. "You ought be careful about this father-figure thing."
"Hah—"
Whatever the judge intended to append to that all-purpose response, it was cut off by the door opening again and the entrance of the two doctors. The follow-up exam was brief, after which the toxicologist cut to the point.
"The recovery curve has been consistent with LSD, though I would expect residual effects for a few more hours or even longer."
"What kind of effects?" Mark interjected.
"Things still look kind of . . . colorful," Hardcastle said quietly.
"'Results may vary'," Ushap quipped, with the cheerful demeanor of a man whose scale of bad has been calibrated to include cyanide. "Impulse control, judgment issues—I wouldn't advise buying a car for the next day or so."
"Hmmph," his patient said, and then, "but I can go home?"
Ushap's quick glance took in Mark before settling on the judge again. "You'll have a responsible adult there?"
"No, just McCormick." Hardcastle hooked his thumb sharply left.
Ushap laughed lightly. "You'll need to take it easy for a couple of days and follow-up with your regular doctor in about a week." Then he turned to his colleague and said, "Might be a reportable case, if the tox results confirm it: absorption via ocular mucosa."
Allen gave that an eager nod as both men departed without further good-byes.
Mark shook his head. "You're 'reportable'—is that good or bad?"
"Depends on what they're reporting, I guess," Hardcastle sighed.
Mark shifted his gaze back to him. "You are okay, aren't you?" He held up three fingers and asked, "How many?"
"Three," the judge said warily. "No blood." And then, after a moment, "That wasn't real, huh?"
"Not today—no."
The door opened again. The woman in blue scrubs had returned. "We can DC that line of yours. Dr. Allen is writing up your discharge papers."
Hardcastle was the model patient as he held his arm out for her. It wasn't until after she'd left that he sighed again.
"Okay," Mark said, "all that sighing, you think that's one of the side effects?"
"Yeah, maybe . . . sort of—I mean, let's face it, I was snookered. Fine judge I was, letting somebody put one over on me like that."
"She fooled me, too." Mark looked willing to shoulder his share of the blame. "Hell, she fooled everybody."
"Yeah, but in my case it was buying that business about only me being able to sort out this patient of hers. That should've tipped me off right there."
"Why?"
"Well, I'd say if it stinks like fish bait it's probably got a hook in it, kiddo." He wrinkled his nose as if he could smell it even now. "Must be those studio lights."
The apparent non sequitur raised Mark's worry quotient a half-notch before Hardcastle added, "I think they make your brain soft. All those goofy people waving signs and naming their dogs 'Milton'—makes you think you're something special."
"You are."
Mark wasn't sure who was more surprise by the two words he'd uttered—him or the judge. In the moment of embarrassed silence that followed he had to resist the urge to explain it away—that would have only been more awkward. Besides, he was pretty sure he'd meant what he'd said.
It was a matter of good fortune that the nurse reappeared at that moment, papers in hand. Checking the blood pressure and detaching the monitor leads provided a distraction, and then there was the matter of finding Hardcastle's belongings—they'd been stuffed hastily into a bag and shoved under the cart.
Eventually, though, they got everything sorted out, with Mark doing most of the sorting. The judge was disconcertingly passive through the whole process. Mark could see his pupils were still slightly dilated, and not just his gaze but his whole demeanor was unfocused.
"You ready?" Mark finally asked, patting his own pocket and starting to reach into it for his keys. "Oh—" he stared down at them and muttered, "damn."
"What?"
"We need a ride to the station."
Hardcastle's sharp glance was a lot less passive. "I don't wan—"
"To get the Coyote," Mark interjected. "Delaney had it towed over there. Hey, he's probably still around. Maybe we can—"
"Take a cab," the judge said firmly.
Mark stared at him for a moment. The man looked adamant, or at least as adamant as someone could look when they were still not quite in focus. It was McCormick's turn to sigh.
"I dunno. It's not like you have to avoid people. Some crazy woman comes after you—it's Not. Your. Fault." he said with measured emphasis.
"Let's just say I've had enough of the spotlight." Hardcastle looked determined.
Mark finally caved. "All right. I suppose it's as safe there as anywhere. A cab." He shook his head. "Too bad he didn't put it in impound. All this secrecy—we could've grabbed some hamburger and scaled the fence."
The judge shuddered almost invisibly. At first Mark thought it merely distaste at the reminder of an investigatory indiscretion, but the man's pupils seemed slightly more dilated.
"You're okay?" he asked quietly.
There was no immediate response, except maybe to some purely internal cues. Then, just about when Mark was ready to summon help, Hardcastle shuddered again as if he were shaking himself free from something. He closed his eyes for a long second and then opened them.
"Yeah, I'm okay," he said.
It was a patent lie but his recovery time seemed to be improving. Nothing anyone had done for him here seemed to have contributed to that.
Mark issued a sigh of his own and said, "Let's go home."
00000
The images were less frequent, but no less disturbing. He had a fairly firm grasp of the notion that much of it wasn't real, but it was still hard tell where the border was between the real and the rest. Just now he'd had a glimpse of a pack of slavering dogs—too immediate and vivid to call mere memory.
And oozing out around that were shadows of doubt—not that he still thought he was going crazy. He was pretty sure that if he were, McCormick would let him know.
No, this was a deeper, more pervasive bugaboo: the question of his judgment.
Kenny Longren, Artie Farnell, J.J. Beale.
"You ready?"
There was no blood. Not today. Mark had said so. He nodded and ignored the younger man's frown. He let him take his elbow. McCormick had a real gift for getting in and out of places. He'd handle the dogs. Hell, he'd summon up a helicopter if necessary.
Hardcastle pasted on his best imitation of a smile and resisted the urge to close his eyes—though he thought maybe he had.
They were outside, and somehow it had become nightfall, with the sky in the west shot red. It was so damn beautiful he just wanted to stand and stare at it, but McCormick had the door of the taxi open and was tugging at him, a worried, impatient expression on his face.
Hardcastle said nothing about the sunset—assuming it actually was the sunset. He was pretty sure it was the damn sunset. But he'd also been sure that young woman had been making a sincere request, and that Mark had been bleeding . . . and that he'd been guilty four years ago.
He froze at that unbidden thought, but after a moment became almost certain that he hadn't been thinking out loud. His shoulders lost a little of their stiffness and he sneaked a sideward glance at the man in the seat next to him. McCormick was leaning forward—absolutely oblivious to the sunset and the blood—giving directions to the cabbie.
Home.
The judge smiled again, and this time it felt more real.
The red deepened into purple as they drove, and by the time they'd reached Gull's Way even the purple was darkening to black. Despite that, Hardcastle felt as though he could see more clearly than before. He unfastened the latch and climbed out of the car almost as soon as it had pulled to a stop between the fountain and the front steps.
He was vaguely aware of the voices behind him—McCormick settling up with the cabbie. The house was dark—not so much as a porch light. He didn't feel any urgent need to go inside. There was a hint of silver to everything, brightening by the moment as the rising moon crested the hills. He strolled around the side of the house, toward the pool and the eastern view.
There were more noises, distant and unimportant—the cab driving off. Then McCormick's insistent voice calling his name—an anxious, rising tone that made the judge pause just for a moment and say, "I'm over here."
"Where the hell—" McCormick rasped, much closer and breathing a little hard, then a rattling sound as though a flowerpot might have been knocked askew.
"Dammit, how can you see anything out here?"
"Look," Hardcastle gestured, taking in the view—the cloud-chased moon rising silently over the arc of the bay, "it's—"
"Beautiful. Yeah. Wanna go in?" Mark still sounded concerned. Hardcastle wasn't sure why. The moonlight had washed away every trace of the red.
"In a minute."
"You sure you're okay?"
Of course he was. It was a serenely silver world—not exactly black and white, but close enough.
"I'm fine," he said. "Really, fine." He wasn't sure why McCormick worried so much; didn't everything turn out okay in the end?