DON'T THINK
By Aeiu
"Flagrant necessity," thought Mark McCormick as he stared at the silent telephone. He had gone as far as legal means could take him in his search for the elusive man with many names, the professional criminal, the two-bit hood, the man who had abandoned a woman who loved him and a young son who needed him; the man who was his father.
On some level, the mystery of his father had always bothered him. He thought he had learned to live with all of the unanswered questions but the need to know had never truly gone away. It was like a festering partially healed wound, it had lay dormant until the right moment when it broke open and spread poison into his every thought.
The right moment was his thirtieth birthday. Despite the Hardcastle's insistence to the contrary, he was no longer a kid. When he had been a kid, he had fantasized about his future but he had never dreamed he would end up as a twice convicted car thief, an ex-con, and a racing has-been with no goal for the future other than surviving Hardcastle's latest case. He felt like a loser. He felt lost.
He remembered the first time he had felt so lost. He had just turned five and he realized his father wasn't coming home. That's when his life started going wrong; when his mother wouldn't stop crying, when he started hearing people whispering the word bastard, when money got tight, when his mother started taking funny looking pills, when he couldn't get her to wake up, and the day some people came and took him away. He never knew why it had happened and it was driving him crazy.
He hadn't really thought about it for years. Then one day, several weeks ago, the judge insisted on visiting one of his old friends who still sat on the bench. They waited in the courtroom while the judge's friend heard victim impact testimony from the family of a man who had been killed during a botched robbery attempt. The man's adult son proudly told the court how much his father had meant to him and how devastated he was by the man's untimely death.
For one strange moment, he wished it was him on the stand. He wished he had a lifetime of good memories with his father. He wished there had been a father who loved him, someone whose death devastated him, someone who would be devastated by his death.
McCormick wondered about Hardcastle. He suspected that if he died the judge would be angry and, maybe, a little sad but not devastated. After all, the judge had already told him that he wasn't a substitute for the real son that had been lost so many years ago.
"Hmm," McCormick mused, "he lost a son and I lost a dad." Sometimes it surprised him how alike they were.
He considered what it might feel like if Hardcastle was no longer around to plague him with his never-ending list of chores and bottomless stack of old criminal case files.
His eyes widened as his chest got tight and he found it difficult to draw in a breath. For a moment, it felt like his heart stopped.
"Too tough and too ornery to die," McCormick thought as he suppressed the image in his mind with a shudder.
He allowed his mind to turn back to the small collection of news stories and reports which sat in front of him. He had gathered every cent he could lay his hands on, called in a few favors, and hired a detective to find him the answers he needed.
The results shouldn't have been a surprise but they were; a surprise and a disappointment. He had always dreamed of a rich and successful father who regretted the loss of his son, who would find him and make right all the things that had gone wrong in his life.
But the tree wasn't far from the apple. The detective found a long list of aliases and convictions then nothing. His father had seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth.
Was he dead? Did he remarry? Have other children? Were there others like him; people who shared the same father? Had his father stayed with them? And most important of all, why. Why did you leave us behind? Why did you leave me behind?
So many unanswered questions and he didn't have any answers. He knew who might have the answers he was looking for or, at least, tell him where to find them. But he knew they wouldn't tell him what he needed to know, not legally.
"Flagrant necessity" thought McCormick. The cops might not think so. Hardcastle sure wouldn't think so. But he thought so. And if he was willing to risk twenty years in prison for breaking into a government building to find his father's file then that was good enough reason to do what he had to do.
"Wasn't it?" McCormick questioned.
"Of course, it is," he answered himself. "As long as I don't think about it."
With that final thought, McCormick gathered the papers in front of him and pushed them into the drawer. He knew what had to be done and he knew how to do it.
He heard the judge come in. He knew the judge was worried about him and the dark mood that he had been in for so many days. He knew the judge was there for him if he would just open up and talk to the man. But he couldn't because then he would have to stop and if he stopped, he would think about what he was doing and he might change his mind and he didn't want to change his mind.
"Don't think, just go," he thought to himself as he pushed his way past Hardcastle. He held on to the anger he felt towards his missing father because it was easier not to think when he was angry and it helped block out the hurt he had seen in the judge's eyes.
"Don't think," he reminded himself. "Just do it."
He slammed the door and shivered in the warm air as he walked to his car. He knew he was making a mistake but he didn't care. He revved the engine to his car and drove away. He crushed the desire to look back at the gate house as he drove away even though a part of him knew he might not see it again.
But he wasn't going to think about that. McCormick closed down his mind and concentrated on the plan. He prayed it would be worth it.
H&MC**H&MC
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," thought McCormick as he tried to ignore the sounds of the alarms and the screaming men. He didn't know where he had made the mistake; one moment he was holding a paper with his father's new name and identity in the silence of the empty office room and the next moment all hell had broken lose. Now speed was the only thing between freedom and a lifetime in jail.
"Don't think, just run." Everything wasan obstacle to be avoided or overcome. He needed to get outside to the familiarity of his car where he would be safe.
He fled through the maze-like halls and tried to remember where the entrance was. He found what he had come for but time was running out. The information wouldn't be any good if he was locked up and couldn't use it.
An image suddenly appeared in his mind, the view from inside of a cell as he looked through the barred door at a disappointed Hardcastle. He shook the vision out of his head.
"Don't think, just go." He could see the door in front of him. He knew his car was parked nearby. He knew the glass door which stood between him and a fate he couldn't contemplate was locked. He knew what he was going to do next was going to hurt.
He was right.
He scrambled up from the shattered glass as his eyes darted around the scene. No men with pulled guns but he could still hear the alarms and shouts from the building. The bright red of his car stood out like an oasis on the desert. He ignored his aching muscles and rushed to the car. He quickly slipped into the front seat and allowed his eyes to shut as he drew a weary breath.
"Safe."
"No! Not safe!" he realized as he heard the familiar sound of the police sirens.
He pulled himself up in the seat and thrust the keys in the ignition. As his car sprung to life, he saw the harsh reflection of the police cars as they turned the corner and started toward him. He wanted to scream. It wasn't fair to have come this far only to lose everything. He could feel the cold band of metal against his wrist and picture the knowing nods shared between the police officers. They had always known Hardcastle made a mistake bringing another ex-con into his home.
"Don't think, just drive." He felt the strong vibrations of the engine as his car raced from the scene. He said a brief prayer of thanks that it was still early in the morning and the streets were empty. He was sure he wouldn't be able to live with himself if someone was hurt because of what he had done.
He wasn't sure how many police cars were involved in the chase. His vision and other senses tunneled down to only what was in front of him; what he had to do to extend his freedom a few more miles or even a few more feet.
Again his mind was overwhelmed with other images. Images of his car going out of control, overturning on the street, cold metal and lifeless body still clutching a paper, Hardcastle left behind to wonder why.
"Don't think, just escape," he repeated to himself. It was the only thing important at moment.
He knew other police cars would be joining the chase. He knew he didn't have many options. He saw a possible way to escape. It was dangerous. It was foolish. It, probably, wouldn't work. But he was going to do it.
He did it and it worked.
He pulled his car into the hiding spot under the overpass. He held his breath as if the officers in their speeding car would hear him if he made a sound. He heard the wail of the sirens get fainter and fainter as they sped away. He became aware of the absolute quiet around him and realized that he had made it. He was safe.
He felt his stomach turn as the enormity of what he had done crashed around him. He pushed open the car door and staggered to his feet. His body shook as the adrenaline left and his leg trembled, suddenly too weak to hold his weight. He dropped downward and he fell to his knees. He reached out blindly for the ground and just prevented his head from slamming into the hard concrete.
He tried to keep the bile down but it forced its way up and spewed out until only dry heaves were left in him.
When he was spent, when his heart stopped pounding in his chest, and he was able to breathe; he crawled back to the car and pulled himself inside. He knew he had to wait until he was sure the police were no longer looking for him, until he knew he was safe, but waiting gave him time to think and he didn't want to think. He didn't want to think about what he had risked, what he could have lost, and what he could still lose.
He looked over at the paper which sat in the seat next to him, the only tangible proof about what he had done.
He wondered if it had really been worth it. The paper didn't have any of the answers he was looking for; it was just another name and another address. This time the search led to Atlantic City, New Jersey; once it had been home or, at least, where he had been born. He didn't even know if the man was still there.
He knew needed to go back to the scene of the first crime, the one his father committed against him and his mother. He didn't know how he was going to get there or what he was going to do once he saw the man. But he knew he needed to go. He needed a plan but he was too tired to think.
He allowed himself to collapse into the car seat. The guards were looking for him, the police were looking for him, the feds were looking for him, and Hardcastle would be looking for him. Someone might have recognized the car or him, there might be an APB called out on him, or they might be waiting for him at the Gull's Way. But they weren't here. At this place, at this moment, he was safe.
But they might find him, they might realize they made a mistake, they might have doubled back and at any minute appear in front of him ready to take him away. He tried to care but realized he was too tired.
"Don't think," he thought as he closed his eyes, "just rest."
H&MC**H&MC
He didn't know how long he had slept in the car. But he knew it was time to leave. He knew he had to return to Gull's Way but he didn't know what would be waiting for him when he returned. He wanted to see Hardcastle but he didn't know why or what he would say to him. There was a weight on his chest which got bigger with every breath he took.
He noticed there were no police cars waiting for him, as he pulled into the driveway. He was grateful for that. He saw the light on inside the gate house and could picture the judge sitting there waiting for his return. Hardcastle had been sure of him, even though he, himself, hadn't been. But the judge probably never expected him to break into a government building to find a name and address.
Should he tell the judge that he was searching for his father, and that he had broken the law to do it? Should he tell the truth, lie, or just stay silent? Was not telling the judge what he had done the same as lying to him? Would Hardcastle understand what he, himself, didn't understand?
He wanted to tell Hardcastle the truth but he was scared what Hardcastle would do. He wanted to find his father and ask him why but he didn't want to hear the answers. He wished this had never happened but he wasn't sure if he wouldn't do it all again if he had a second chance.
His mind was jumbled with thoughts as he walked into the gate house and looked into the eyes of one of the few men he ever respected.
What he saw wasn't what he had expected to see. It filled him with shame and a melancholy hope.
"Don't think," he told himself, "just talk."
And he did. He didn't tell the judge everything but he knew, in time, he would. He hoped the man he found at the end of his search would be even one tenth of the man who stood in front of him. For that man was his parole officer, his landlord, his boss, the bane of his existence, the albatross around his neck, his mentor, his friend, the man he wished had been his father, Judge Milton C. Hardcastle.
THE END