Like it was Yesterday
By Mapu
Rating: G
Disclaimer: The series, characters and rights belong to the creators, Stephen J Cannell Productions; this story is just a fanfic to entertain the writer (me) and perhaps a few of the many fans of the show.
Notes: I'd like to thank both Cheri deFonteny and Susan Zodin, both amazing editors who tell it like it is in the nicest of ways. I appreciate your help immensely.
Mark turned his head and tried his best to stifle another yawn; it was the third time in as many minutes a yawn had come over him. He glanced over to Hardcastle in the passenger seat, hoping the older man hadn't noticed it.
"That's what's wrong with the younger generation, no stamina," Hardcastle muttered in mock disgust.
"Huh, Hardcase, I have plenty of stamina. You just ask…" Mark began, humour in his voice.
"McCormick, you got another think coming if you think I'm gonna sit here and listen to you tell exaggerated stories of your past conquests."
Mark grinned; baiting Hardcase was his second favourite pastime. "Judge, all I've got left are my memories. Since we've been on this case I haven't had the chance to go on any new conquests."
"McCormick, we've only been working this stakeout for five days, we've barely even gotten started!"
"That's five days without a social life, Judge. All work and no play makes Mark a sleepy boy." The young man punctuated his statement with another jaw-breaking yawn.
"It's like I said, kid, no stamina."
Mark rolled his eyes and let the topic drop. It was too hot and he was too tired to really get into it with Hardcastle. Even in the late afternoon and with the Coyote parked in the shade, it was stifling hot in the car. The powerful Californian summer sun baked the ground outside, causing waves of heat to rise from the street in watery sheets. McCormick was thankful for the occasional cooling breeze that wafted though the window; without that the heat would have knocked him out hours ago.
Actually, Mark thought, it was lack of sleep, not stamina that had been a real problem for him in the last few weeks. His rest had been continually disrupted and broken by disturbing dreams, and in the last few days the problem had become much worse. Each night Mark had awoken in the early hours, his sheets soaked with sweat, his body shaking and a nameless terror causing his heart to pound. He never remembered the dreams, only momentary flashes of dream scenes; a spray of blood across a bright yellow surface, rain falling on the sidewalk and the Judge's relaxed face.
The images didn't seem to make any sense, but the feelings accompanying them were sensations of fear and danger. Strangely, it wasn't the blood that had the strongest feelings of fear associated with it, it was the image of Hardcastle's face. Mark wasn't sure how he knew it, but he was certain that in his dream, at that moment, the Judge was dead.
"Hey, wake up kiddo, we got some activity here."
With a start Mark opened his eyes; he hadn't realized that his musings had drifted him into a light doze. "What?"
The judge pointed toward two cars that were just pulling into a driveway at the end of the block, the same drive they had spent their day watching. A black limo pulled in first, followed only a few meters behind by a yellow Cadillac. Mark admired the second car, a Coupe Deville. It wasn't what he would choose in a race car, and not a shadow on the Coyote, but still a very nice ride. A thin man in his early thirties, wearing an expensive light blue suit, got out of the caddie and joined the other two men from the limo. The big guy holding the limo's door open screamed "bodyguard" to McCormick, so he concentrated his attention on the older of the men… there was something familiar about him.
"Do we know who they are?" Mark asked the judge.
The judge nodded his head toward the men, "The colourful one is Johnny "Rattlesnake" Simmons; drug dealer, killer and all around nice guy. The old man is Dominic Dorello, a crime lord on the lower eastside; he's into gun running, drugs and a number of other criminal activities. You've probably seen him on TV playing victim to police harassment. The question is, what are they doing visiting our guy? Mike Cooke is small fry compared to them."
Mark was stunned. "Judge the question isn't what are they doing here, it's what are we still doing hanging around? We should get out of here."
"Are you crazy, McCormick? This is just getting interesting"
"Interesting? Judge, these guys are dangerous. We're out of our league here."
"It looks like we might get a bigger catch than I thought," the older man nearly chortled, ignoring Mark completely.
"Hey, wait a minute, Hardcase; you're not planning to take on these guys alone. Are you?"
"Of course not, McCormick… that's why I brought you along."
The maniacal gleam that the ex-con knew so well, glinted in the judge's eyes, and he knew the old donkey was planning something dangerous. Oh no, not again!
"Me? Look, Hardcastle, I hate to break it to you, but guys like this don't care if a retired judge and a two-time loser get in their way. I doubt they would even break step while they killed us."
Mark glanced over at the judge to see if his words would have an impact, hoping that the other man would come to his senses for a change. Hardcastle stared at him with a strange expression on his face.
"You don't really think that do you kid?"
"Hell yeah!"
"Not that, hotshot, I mean the part about being a two-time loser."
The question took Mark by surprise. He hadn't given much thought to how he felt about his past, at least not in the last year or so.
Mark shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "Well, no… I don't know, I guess… I mean I am, you know?" Mark frowned, when he realized what the judge had done and shot the older man a glare.
"Hey, don't change the subject, Hardcase. You know as well as I do, this one just got out of our league. You promised Frank you'd be more careful, we should leave it to the guys with the badges."
"I've got a badge, McCormick," the judge reminded him, and fished the medal out of his pocket to prove it.
McCormick rolled his eyes. "You've been into the peanuts again, haven't you, Judge. I told you years ago those things cause retardation," Mark accused.
As usual, the Hardcastle ignored him. "Come on, I want to get a closer look at what's going on."
Before Mark could protest, the judge had levered himself out of the Coyote.
With no other choice left to him, Mark followed. The judge was already a good way down the street before Mark caught up. Ahead, Cooke met the three other men at the door and led them inside. Mark reached out and put his hand on the judge's shoulder, pulling him back. "Hey slow down, Judge, we can't just go charging up to them and ask them what they're up to. It's not polite to interrupt killers like that."
The judge flashed him an annoyed look, "Relax McCormick, I'm not intending on storming the place, I just want to get a little closer. What's wrong with you today? You act like we've never done anything like this before."
Mark didn't answer since he wasn't sure himself. He had a really bad feeling about this, but it was not something he could explain to the judge.
The pair made it close enough to the house to see through the windows without being noticed by the occupants. Inside McCormick could see a comfortable room with stylish furnishings and obvious wealth. Who said crime didn't pay? The bodyguard was the only man to remain standing; the other three men sat facing each other. Mark couldn't hear what was being said but there appeared to be a disagreement between the men. Cooke looked decidedly nervous and kept glancing, almost compulsively, toward the Cadillac driver, even though he addressed himself to the older man. The ex-con mused that if he had someone named "Rattlesnake" sitting in his lounge, he'd keep an eye on him too.
The older criminal, Dorello, shook his head and said something to his bodyguard. The bodyguard shook his head sadly in response, mirroring his boss's action. Cooke got to his feet, his face pale, obviously pleading with the other men. With a second shake of his head Dorello nodded toward Simmons.
Things happened very quickly, and with a sudden violence. In a single movement Simmons stood and pulled out a handgun, complete with silencer and pointed it at Cooke. A puff of discharge flashed from the end of the weapon and Cooke was flung backward over his expensive coffee table to lay sprawled on the floor.
Mark didn't know what it was that made Dorello's bodyguard look out the window at that moment, but there was no doubt that the man had seen them. Grabbing the judge's arm Mark pulled him away. The look on the Hardcastle's face mirrored his own shock. Mark had known these guys were dangerous, but he had not expected to witness a murder. Behind them he heard the glass of the window break, and a few feet away a patch of turf exploded up in a spray as a bullet ripped through the soil. Mark shoved the judge slightly ahead as they ran, forcing the older man to keep up a fast pace.
Within moments, the pair had put a good distance between themselves and the house. The surreal hail of noiseless bullets stopped. Mark pulled ahead of the heavily breathing jurist, intending to get the Coyote started before Hardcastle got there.
McCormick heard a squeal of tires as he dodged around a fire hydrant, he was almost to the car, but spared a glance behind him to check on the judge.
"No!" Mark shouted.
The yellow Cadillac swerved from the road, up onto the sidewalk, aiming for Hardcastle. Mark reversed course, running back. By the time he reached the older man the Cadillac was almost on them. There was no time to think and only a second to act. The ex-con grabbed the judge's shoulder and, spinning him around, shoved him clear of the oncoming car. He tried to leap clear himself but knew he wasn't going to make it.
The car hit him hard.
The young man cried out at the pain that flared through his legs, side and chest. Luckily the impact had been a glancing blow or the speed of the car would have killed him outright. McCormick could feel his body flying through the air as it was batted away by the car. He landed badly, his head striking the edge of the sidewalk. The pain was blinding, but only for an instant, then he felt nothing.
Cold rain fell on his face; it offered only a small but welcome distraction from the pain in his body. It couldn't have been raining for long, he decided since the road surface beneath his body was hot. He revelled in the warmth, trying to take as much comfort from it as he could.
"Come on kiddo, open your eyes, and give me a sign here." A rough voice called to him. Opening his eyes he could see a shadowed face hovered over him, talking at him. The owner of the voice, he guessed. The rain turned out to be the drifting mist from a nearby fire hydrant that had been damaged in an accident.
"What happened?" he tried to ask, but the words came out as little more than a broken groan.
"Take it easy, kid, you'll be all right. Just stay with me,"
Yeah, but who are you? He wondered. A more frightening realization hit; forget the old guy… who am I? What's my name? He thought about it until his head began to swim with pain but couldn't find the answer. The old man with him put a comforting hand to the side of his face. The touch helped sooth the panic that had begun to build. He may not know who he was but he could see that he was in good hands. It was good to know someone cared.
In the distance but rapidly getting closer he could hear the sound of sirens. A heavy darkness hedged in around the edges of his vision, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a second then reopened them, bringing the face above him into clearer focus for a moment. The old man looked down at him in concern, "Mark? Mark, the ambulance is nearly here. Just hang on a bit longer. You hear me?"
Oh, so my name's Mark, he thought as the darkness closed in again.
The darkness wasn't total, Mark could hear occasional sounds and feel the pain from his body when he was moved… and every now and then a fuzzy image made it through but none of the sounds or sights made sense. Eventually the bubble of activity around him eased and the pain faded. Mark took the time to rest. At least the annoying questions like "What is your name?" and "Do you know what year it is?" that the blurry faces had continuously asked him had finally stopped. He had wanted nothing more than to answer the questions, but he just couldn't remember. The effort of staying conscious proved too much, and his mind faded into darkness.
Time had passed, he wasn't sure how much but it felt like a long time. Soft voices near his bed drew his attention.
"I understand your concern, but I'm afraid Mr. McCormick is suffering substantial memory loss as a result of the head injury he sustained. He was unable to recall his name for the trauma staff."
Mark slitted his eyes open a fraction, at the foot of his bed the old man from the accident scene stood talking to a doctor. At least he now knew his whole name was Mark McCormick. He didn't really remember anything about being Mark McCormick, but it was nice to have an identity.
The room had changed; he had hazy memories of a large, open, cold and sterile room full of people, machinery and movement. The room he was in now was much warmer. It was a small, windowless but brightly lit room with only a few pieces of furniture distributed among the medical equipment. His bed was wider and more comfortable than the examination bed and on the wall behind the heart monitor hung a framed painting of a field of yellow and orange flowers. A private hospital room, Mark realised.
"Will he recover his memory?" the old man asked.
"I'm sorry, Judge Hardcastle, but I don't know, I've asked for a neurologist to consult on Mr. McCormick's case. She may be able to tell you more," the doctor said.
Hardcastle… Judge Hardcastle? Mark knew he recognised that name. Suddenly a memory of the old man dressed in black robes, glaring down at him from behind a high bench, banging his gavel as he sent McCormick to prison flashed through his mind. A rapid progression of memories followed the first one, some clearer than others. He remembered Judge Hardcastle reading out his sentence in a harsh firm voice, his first night in prison, moments of fear and danger that all somehow centred around the judge and more than a few times when the judge, wearing casual clothes had been yelling at him. Mark wasn't sure what that meant but he was sure that, despite his help since he'd been hurt, Judge Hardcastle was not his friend.
The wash of memories made him sick and Mark couldn't hide the groan that broke through. In an instant the Judge was by his side, laying a hand against his forehead and calling his name. McCormick had to fight back the impulse to twitch away from the touch. Whatever reason Hardcastle had for pretending this affection toward him, it would be in Mark's interest to go along with it. At least until he could figure out what was really going on.
The judge moved his hand from Mark's forehead into a fatherly clasp of his unhurt shoulder, "Kid, I'm here, don't worry; I got ya."
The touch made Mark's skin crawl. This was the same man who had sent him away, and Mark could remember he had spent many nights comforting himself to sleep by imagining the narrow-minded old goat coming to a variety of untimely but well deserved ends.
Mark tried to slow his heart rate, cursing the telltale heart monitor giving away his nervous state. It was hard to relax since the closer the judge stood to him the more apprehensive Mark became and the faster his heartbeat. It took him several minutes to get the rate down enough that he could convincingly pretend not to be worried by Hardcastle's proximity.
At last Mark was able to give the judge and hovering doctor a shaky smile. It seemed to relax the old man who patted his shoulder.
"Can I get you something? Some water?" he asked.
Mark nodded. He could use some water but more than that it would give him a moment's break from the judge's unremitting stare.
He wants something … expects something from me. I can feel it, McCormick thought. But what would a Superior Court judge at the pinnacle of his career want with a convict serving a two to five year stretch for GTA? Mark could think of only a few possibilities and none of them were legal. In Mark's admittedly patchy memory the judge had seemed like a hard-nose letter of the law type, at least outwardly, but that didn't mean he wasn't corrupt. He was probably one of those "the law is for other people" type judges.
The thing that bugged Mark the most about the strange situation he had awoken to was the fact that the judge seemed to be genuinely concerned about him. It was also strange that the judge had not bothered to post a guard or handcuff him to the bed. Whatever power the judge thought he had over Mark it was obviously enough that the old guy wasn't worried about him getting away. Mark smiled, that's a mistake, old man, he thought.
"Are you feeling more comfortable?" the doctor asked, seeming to notice the smile.
Mark nodded. "Yeah, I feel much better." Actually, he was in a considerable amount of pain. His whole left side felt like a single uninterrupted bruise and even the most minor shift in position was an agony, but he couldn't tell the doctor that or he'd never get free.
"When can I get out of here?" he asked the doctor.
The doctor gave a short laugh. "The painkillers you're on should allow you to rest comfortably but I think you'll need to stay with us a few days yet. We still have to be sure you don't have any further injuries, and of course, we have yet to assess how severe your memory loss is."
During the doctor's comments Hardcastle came back with a glass and jug of water. He poured a half glass for Mark and held it out to him. The young man took the water, nodding his thanks, and sipped at it. The coolness of the liquid against his dry throat was near bliss but when the water landed in his stomach it made his insides churn. Both the doctor and the judge watched him like hawks so Mark hid the reaction as best as he could and restrained himself to take only minimal sips from the cup after that.
The doctor finished writing notes onto the chart and hung it up over the rail at the end of the bed. "Your new doctor will be checking back on you shortly. Meanwhile, if you need any assistance, there is a call button by the head of your bed. I suggest you get plenty of rest. Your body has a great deal of healing to do." He smiled at McCormick and left.
Mark was alone with the judge. He waited, wondering what the judge would do now that he didn't have to pretend for a witness.
The judge pulled the narrow plastic chair from the wall over close to the bed and sat down. For a long moment he gazed at Mark. Mark watched him calmly.
At last the judge leaned forward resting his hands on the side of the bed. "Can you remember anything, Mark? Do you know who I am?"
Despite his intention to hide what he knew, Mark nodded. The pain drugs were making him foggy and slow, he realised. The judge's face flooded with relief, not the reaction Mark had been expecting but it gave him time to get his mind into gear and repair the damage his inadvertent admission had done. "Yeah, you were at the accident when I got hurt," Mark clarified.
The relief on the other man's face faded back into a concerned expression. "You don't remember anything else about me… from before?"
Mark waited a few moments, pretending to think, "No, do I know you?"
"Yeah, kiddo, we know each other pretty well. I'm …"
"Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt, but it's better for his recovery if he remembers places and names on his own. Providing a patient with amnesia too much information can cause unpredictable side-effects and even slow his memory return," a tall thin woman said from where she stood just inside Mark's room.
"Who are you?" the judge growled out, sounding and looking more like the Judge Hardcastle Mark remembered.
The woman smiled. She looked pretty good when she smiled, Mark thought. It seemed to make her look a little less like a librarian in a white coat and more like a real woman.
"Dr Carter, the hospital's resident neurologist. I've been asked to consult on your case," the doctor said addressing her comments directly to Mark. The consideration warmed Mark; it was the first truly normal interaction he'd had since he'd woken up.
"I'm Mark McCormick," Mark introduced himself.
The doctor's eyebrows rose, "You remember your name?" she asked him.
Mark shrugged and gave his head a small shake. He nodded toward Hardcastle on the chair beside him. "Nah, he told me."
The neurologist frowned at the judge, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. McCormick hid his smile. It felt good to score a point on the judge, even if it was only a small one.
"Well there's nothing that can be done about that now. But you are not to mention any other facts from Mr. McCormick's life until he has a chance to recover his memories on his own. Is that understood?"
It was amusing to watch a woman, obviously half the judge's age, inflict the judge with the same unbending, unsympathetic glare that the judge had cast down on McCormick when he'd faced him in court.
The doctor turned back to him, "If you don't mind, Mr. McCormick, there are a number of tests I'd like to run. Would it be all right if your friend waited outside until we are finished?"
"No, I don't mind at all… anything to get my memory back."
The judge obviously didn't want to go, but at the doctor's politely worded suggestion that he leave and her calm stare until he followed the suggestion, the old man had no choice.
Mark was glad to see him gone, for the first time since he'd woken he began to relax.
"Alone at last," he quipped and grinned at Dr. Carter. She returned the compliment with a mildly amused smile before getting down to business.
Most of the tests proved to be painless but although he liked her, Mark didn't trust her to keep his secret, so he lied each time the doctor probed into the severity of his memory loss. The specialist made dozens of notes into a folder. Even though the tests weren't difficult they were tiring, and by the time they were done Mark was exhausted.
The doctor closed her folder and gave him a deeply sympathetic look. She patted his hand, "Thank you, Mr. McCormick, I know this must seem very frightening and confusing to you but you are handling the stress very well. Hopefully your memories will come back to you within the next few days. They could come back all at once or in pieces, there is no way to tell."
Mark nodded, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. He really didn't feel too well. Hearing a sound he reopened his eyes and looked up to see the doctor was preparing to leave.
"Oh, I'm sorry, doc. I guess I'm a little beat," Mark offered as an explanation.
The neurologist smiled, "Don't worry about it, you need your rest. I'll be back to check on you later."
"Can I ask you a favour?"
The doctor answered with a slight nod and a raised eyebrow.
"That old guy, Hardcastle, I know he knows me but I don't know him. Can you keep him out of here? I'd rather be alone."
"Get some rest, Mr. McCormick, I'll see to it you're not disturbed."
Turning out the main light and giving Mark one last backward glance, the doctor left the room. McCormick lowered himself into the bed, giving every indication that he intended to sleep.
As soon as the door shut, Mark painfully pushed himself up into a sitting position. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but that would almost certainly mean forfeiting his freedom. He had no idea when someone would come back through that door but he knew he had to be away before they did. McCormick also knew he wasn't going to get many more chances. Hardcastle foolishly hadn't had Mark handcuffed to the bed, but the young man knew that once the judge realized that he had even a part of his memory back he'd be restrained.
Discovering he was a criminal had been a shock… and a disappointment, and Mark wasn't entirely sure that he wanted the rest of his memories back. What if he was worse than a car thief? What if he was a rapist, or a killer?
A memory stirred. Almost in a panic, Mark suppressed the thoughts but the little that he did recall left him feeling sick. Even lacking the details of the memory, Mark had the cold certain knowledge that he had taken a life.
I am a killer, he thought.
Perhaps that was what the judge wanted from him? Maybe the old goat wanted Mark to get rid of his wife for him or something. McCormick decided that whatever it was, he didn't want any part of it, and until he knew what exactly it was that he'd gotten himself caught up in he was going to get free and lay low.
The first barrier to escape was the fact that he had a number of medical devices attached to his body that would need to be removed. The IV line was the most restrictive to movement and was the first to go. Surprisingly, it was not nearly as painful as he had anticipated. Once Mark had freed the securing tape, the needle slipped out of his arm smoothly, leaving only a thin trickle of blood behind, the flow easily stopped by a few moments' pressure.
Removing the heart monitor proved to be the most painful and difficult. McCormick studied the blinking and softly chirping machine beside him, before he could detach the leads he needed to kill the alarm. Triggering the alarm would bring doctors, nurses and questions he couldn't answer. The end result would be him back in the bed, this time with restraints. Because of his blurred vision Mark was having difficulty even making out the cryptic little symbols in the low light. In the end he gave up trying to find the off button and felt the back of the machine until he found the power lead and tugged the socket free of the power point. The heart monitor fell silent, its displays dark.
Working as quickly as he could, Mark began removing the little sensor tabs from his chest. Pulling the contacts free hurt, since the adhesive sides were extremely reluctant to release their sticky grip on his chest hairs. Free at last, and still rubbing at the now sore and hairless spots, Mark swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.
His body collapsed from under him. Somewhere, deep inside, he felt something weaken… then give away and tear. His abdomen burned with sudden pain.
Mark grabbed desperately for the edge of the bed, barely keeping himself from the floor. Mark lay folded across the mattress unable to move. It took him almost a full minute to get his weak and shaking legs able to support his weight again, and it took all his strength to push himself back into a standing position. His head spun from the effort and pain lanced through his stomach in hot waves.
In a sudden violent heave, Mark vomited.
With no warning, he had no time to find a more acceptable place. The dark mess pooled over the bed coverings as Mark coughed up the last of it, gagging on the thick metallic taste. When it was over Mark looked at the mess in disgust, relived that he couldn't see it well in the limited light. He couldn't spend the time it would take to clean it up but he didn't want to leave it like that either, so he did the only thing he could think of. Bundling the sheets together in a ball McCormick stripped them off the bed and dumped them in a pile on the floor. Oddly, after his head stopped spinning and the shaking wore off, he actually felt a little better.
He took a drink of the water Hardcastle had left behind to get rid of the vile taste and surveyed his surroundings. Of his clothes there was no sign, but he did find a clear plastic bag containing what he assumed were his things. The driver's licence in the wallet confirmed it.
"Gulls' Way, 101 Pacific Coast Highway," Mark read out the address.
Neither the address nor any of the other items in the bag triggered a memory for him. Mark put on the watch and looked thoughtfully at the keys he had found. It seemed the answers he needed were at Gulls' Way.
Mark moved as quietly as he could to the door the open back of the hospital gown he wore annoyed him and getting rid of it would be a problem, but it was not one he could solve at the moment. He opened the door a crack and peered out. He could see nothing but a brightly lit corridor. Opening the door all the way, McCormick poked his head out and checked properly. At the end of the hall he could see the uniformed back of a cop disappearing around the corner. Mark ducked back behind the door and closed his eyes, hoping that the cop hadn't noticed anything. He waited only a few moments and looked back out. The cop was gone. Only a few patients, nurses and hospital staff remained in the hall, each interested only in their own affairs.
Opening the door all the way, McCormick left and slipped down the hall. Trying his best to walk without staggering or holding his hand against the pain in his side, Mark blended into the normal hospital traffic.
It was that easy. He was free.
The elevator pinged as it reached the ground level and the huge doors groaned open. McCormick let the young family out of the elevator ahead of him. Not that he thought they would notice anything unusual about him; both parents were focused on their child and the thick white cast that covered most of the little girl's right arm. McCormick self-consciously tugged down on the cream ribbed shirt that he wore. It was several sizes too small, and the tugging didn't help. The trousers, an old fashioned dark brown, were loose at his waist but didn't quite reach his ankles. He felt stupid but at least it wasn't the hospital gown. The old man from whom he'd stolen the clothes from hadn't even woken as the young man had entered his room and gone through his drawer. Mark tried not to let the theft bother him; he was a criminal after all. It did bother him though.
The darkness outside surprised him. Mark hadn't realised it was night. He looked at his watch: 4:28am. It would be morning soon. McCormick walked to the nearest taxi waiting in the rank and got in, easing his body into the back seat. "101 Pacific Coast Highway," he told the driver, a little breathless from his efforts.
The driver grunted in reply and drove the car up the exit ramp and out of the hospital zone.
The quiet streets they drove through seemed vaguely familiar, but McCormick couldn't put a name to any of them.
Dawn began to break over the peaks of the hills, shafts of light banded across the road casting long pallid shadows from the trees and boulders. The taxi slowed and pulled off the highway into a driveway. McCormick looked up as the car drove under an imposing gate and arch declaring the name, "Gulls' Way", in decorative lettering. He lived here? Mark took out his wallet and checked the address again, there was no mistake; this was his listed address.
The drive was bordered by elaborate gardens leading toward the group of well maintained buildings, Mark was struck by a powerful sense of familiarity… he really did live here. This place felt like home.
The driver pulled up in front of the main house and McCormick got out. Standing upright caused him pain. He was forced to wait as a wash of nausea passed through him, leaving him feeling weak, cold and shaky. He rested against the taxi for a moment to recover his strength.
"Hey, buddy, you don't look too good, you all right?" the driver asked.
McCormick nodded. "Yeah, fine." He took out the wallet and paid the driver, then waited til the taxi drove away before turning back to the building.
In the soft, early morning light the house looked inviting, the near-by sounds of the ocean gave the estate a peaceful feeling. Mark fished the keys out of his pocket. The third one he tried opened the front door and let him inside.
The interior was finely decorated, and very masculine. Mark wandered around the downstairs rooms, picking up and examining various items. The house and all it contents could have belonged to a stranger. Nothing triggered a memory.
Mark found a comfortable office and sat at the large wooden desk. Opening the top drawer, McCormick made two disturbing discoveries. The first was a framed photo of Judge Hardcastle in his younger years, a woman and a teenaged boy beside him. The judge's family Mark guessed, but why would he have a picture of Hardcastle's family? The second thing was a large calibre handgun in a leather shoulder holster.
Mark took the gun out and examined it. He remembered a weapon similar to this one; it was the same type as the gun he'd used to kill a man. Mark could remember the fear and the reassuring weight of the weapon in his hand. He could remember the decision to kill. A flash of flame and a curl of acrid smoke from the barrel, the sudden jolt of recoil and heat from the blow-back gasses passing across the back of his hand. The sensations of the moment were crystal clear in his mind as was the certainty that he had taken a life, but maddeningly, he couldn't remember who or why he'd done it.
Another flash of memory caught him. He saw Judge Hardcastle in his black robes glaring down from the bench, smacking his gavel against the block, angry shouts and then a shot. Mark saw the judge slumping down after the shot… did he do that? Somehow Mark knew that the man he had killed and the shooting of the judge were connected but he couldn't see how. Had the judge been trying Mark for the man's murder? Had he shot the judge in the middle of his own trial? That seemed to fit his memories but it didn't make sense of the judge's considerate treatment of him in the hospital or his apparent freedom. If he'd shot Hardcastle, he would expect to find himself on death row right now.
A ringing phone made him jump. He was still deciding what to do about it when he heard a heavy thudding footsteps coming quickly down the stairs. Moving fast the young man took cover behind the doorframe. Hardcastle barrelled pass without seeing him and answered the phone.
Hardcastle!
This is Hardcastle's house, Mark realised.
"Frank, what's wrong? Is the kid all right?" Hardcastle asked the caller.
"That's it, I've had enough! Time for some answers," Mark muttered, his frustrations turning to anger. He checked the weapon in his hand; it was fully loaded. Moving quietly McCormick stepped out of his hiding place. Hardcastle stood with his back to the young man, his head bowed, one hand rubbing through his thick grey hair.
"What do you mean he's gone?" roared the judge.
Guessing the call was about him, Mark listened to the one-sided conversation.
"Either way, Frank, that blood on his sheets sounds bad. We've got to find him. What the hell happened to your man on the kid's door?"
Hardcastle paused, obviously listening to whatever "Frank" on the other end of the call had to say.
"All right, I'm on my way in… Yeah, me too, Frank."
Hardcastle sounded calmer as he hung up the phone. Mark realised that he stood in plain view of the judge, all the older man had to do was to turn around and he would be seen.
"Lose something, Judge?" Mark asked in a cool tone.
The judge spun to face him. For a second the judge said nothing; he just stared at McCormick in shock and, strangely enough, relief for a long moment. Hardcastle took a step toward him.
Mark lifted the gun, pointing it at the judge's mid-section. "Don't," he warned, and he meant it.
The judge stopped and held his hands away from his sides, the relief fading from his face to be replaced with concern, anger… and a little fear. Good, thought Mark, it's about time you feel it for a while judge.
"What do you think you're doing with that thing, kid?" Hardcastle asked his tone controlled and calm. Mark thought he sounded like a cop trying to talk a jumper down from a ledge. The thought of the judge acting like a cop brought a thousand tantalising but fragmented memories to the young man's mind but there was still nothing there that he could make any sense out of. Mark felt his anger flare; he was sick of not understanding what was happening around him. He needed to know who the hell this guy was, somehow everything in his missing life was connected to Judge Hardcastle. Realising he'd become distracted and allowed his aim to lower Mark jerked the gun back up to cover the older man properly.
"I need a smoke," Mark muttered. He had looked but hadn't found any with his things or in the judge's house. A cigarette would be nice, but more than that he needed to rest, the pain was getting worse; soon he wouldn't be able to stand it.
Mark waved the weapon at the Hardcastle. "Take a seat – slow and easy, Judge, we need to have a little talk."
The young man gestured the other man to one of the comfortable looking chairs, and after Hardcastle had taken a seat, Mark carefully lowered himself into the chair opposite. For a long moment his vision blurred. The only thing McCormick could think about was the pain. It took his breath from him. Throughout the spell he managed to keep the weapon pointed in the judge's general direction.
"For God's sake, kid, answer me!"
Mark finally realised the judge had been calling to him, and the older man looked about ready to ignore the weapon and get up out of his chair.
"Sit down, Judge," Mark instructed. His voice sounded shaky and weak.
Hardcastle sat down but he stayed perched at the edge of the seat, ready to spring from it at the first opportunity.
"Look, Kiddo, your hurtin. You need help. Let me get you some help, okay?"
Mark shook his head. "Help me, Judge? Where, back to prison? No thanks, I can do without your help… and don't call me that. I gotta name. Use it."
The jurist looked taken aback, "I've always called you Kiddo."
McCormick glared at him. "Are you completely insane? An armed killer, with nothing to lose, has you hostage and you argue with him! You're nuts!"
Hardcastle was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. "I hear eating too many nuts can cause mental retardation," the judge said, watching Mark carefully for his response.
Mark was surprised; where did that come from? He hadn't before seriously thought that the old man really was crazy… but maybe he was. He sounded like he was. "You must have eaten a whole bag… What the hell are you talking about?"
A fleeting look of sadness crossed Hardcastle's face. "You really don't remember."
The judge sat back in the chair, his big hands open at his side, obviously deciding to play his role as hostage properly. About time too, Mark thought. He really didn't want to kill anyone, not even Hardcastle, but he'd been getting unnerved by the older man's casual attitude.
"Look, kid…" Mark felt his hand tighten on the pistol grip. "… McCormick, you are a lot of things, some good and some bad but, trust me on this... you are not a killer."
Mark smiled coldly at the judge. "I don't remember much about my life, your honour, but I do remember killing… I remember it real well, like I remember that it was you that put me inside. So, can the lies and tell me what's going on."
"I'll tell you the truth, McCormick; the truth is that you've been a king sized pain in the neck since the day you came to live here, but I wouldn't have it any other way. If we don't get you to a doctor soon neither one of us is going to like how this turns out. You've got to let me help you."
"Hardcastle, are you trying to tell me we're friends? You're either senile or a crazy. Judge, this might surprise you, but I don't like you, not even a little bit."
"Watch your mouth, kid. I'm trying to tell you that you've been out of prison for years, and for most of that time you and I have been working together… and yeah, we're friends," Hardcastle sounded nearly embarrassed at the admission.
Mark laughed, he couldn't help himself, and despite the pain it caused he couldn't seem to stop. The judge just stared at him calmly, his expression completely serious, which that only made it seem funnier. Mark laughed until he gasped from the pain.
"I'm serious, McCormick. You're a smart kid; at least consider the possibility," the judge growled.
"Judge, I'm seriously considering the possibility that you are nuts," Mark replied. He was still amused by the thought of a friendship with Hardcastle, but the pain had effectively ended the laughter.
The judge scowled at him. "What is it with you and nuts? Look, I can prove we're friends. In my desk I have photos of us; take a look." The challenge in Hardcastle's tone was unmistakable.
Mark sobered, the humour fading away. He didn't trust Hardcastle but if there were photos they might help him remember, and, despite his fears about what knowledge his memories might bring, Mark wanted his life back.
He nodded. "Ok, get them… but, Judge, go slow… I'd hate to kill a friend."
Hardcastle got to his feet and went carefully to the desk and retrieved a book from the bottom drawer. Mark kept him covered and watched the old man's every move. Wisely, the jurist did nothing unexpected, but even so by the time he returned, the gun in Mark's hand was shaking from the tension. Hardcastle noticed and looked almost sympathetic.
"I put these in here a few months ago." It sounded almost like an apology to Mark.
"Put it on the table, Judge."
Hardcastle did as he was told, placing the album on the low coffee table between them, and resumed his seat.
Curious, Mark pulled the book closer and opened it. Inside he found page after page full of pictures of himself. In all of them he was smiling, and in more than half of them the judge stood at his side or had a hand on his shoulder.
McCormick looked up at the Judge sitting in the chair across from him; he could see no deceit in the older man's eye's only compassion.
"I don't understand it. How did I get to be here?" he asked, gesturing to the open book.
"That's kinda a long story, kid… hang on. How did you get here?"
"What?"
The judge suddenly seemed agitated. "The cops stationed at the gate. How did you get past them?"
"Judge, there were no cops at the gate."
"Damn. Look, kid, I know you don't remember me but I think we're in trouble here and you're gonna have to trust me. There's supposed to be police protection at the gate. If they're not there then the men who ran you down could be on their way…"
The older man kept talking but one of the photos in the album caught, Mark's attention. It showed a low-slung red sports car with the banner "Coyote X" emblazoned on the side. Its body shape resembled a McLaren racer but it was like no other car Mark had ever seen. In the photo he sat comfortably on the roof while Hardcastle leaned against the side looking pleased.
The judge slowly got to his feet. "Take it easy, McCormick, we need help. I'm going to call for some reinforcements."
Absorbed by the photo, Mark did nothing as the judge went to the desk phone.
The Coyote... his Coyote.
Mark had a clear memory of that day. That photo was taken the day after they had gotten back to Gulls' Way from a race. Mark had won the race but the money he'd earned had been lost. He'd almost lost the Coyote too. He'd been disappointed about the money but the judge had pointed out that no one could take the race win from him. The old guy had even seemed proud of him. Mark had realised the judge was right, as usual. The money would have been nice, but he really didn't need it and the race win by itself had been enough. Frank Harper had taken the photo at the celebratory party Hardcastle had given him.
Mark looked up at the judge in surprise, as his life came back to him.
He remembered it all. He remembered Flip offering him the Coyote to race, and he remembered Flip's death. Briefly Mark mourned for his lost friend anew. He remembered stealing the racecar and the arrest and the crazy deal with Hardcase. He remembered the cases, the late night killer basketball, long talks with the judge about things he had never told anyone else. Mark remembered it all; his coming to live at Gulls' Way and everything that had happened between he and Hardcastle since. The judge was right. They were friends; actually they were closer than friends. With relief, McCormick remembered the details behind the shotting of Weed Randall. He'd only killed when there had been no other choice. He wasn't a murderer.
Hardcastle put the phone back on the hook. "Line's dead," he said.
The cascade of memories had left Mark breathless and more than a little unsettled. He didn't trust his voice so he nodded his understanding.
"They'll be coming. We have to go, now. You're going to have to decide if you're going to use that thing on me or not, Kiddo," the judge said in a gentle voice, gesturing at the gun still held loosely in Mark's hand.
Mark had nearly forgotten he still held it. He turned the weapon and offered it hilt first to the judge. Hardcastle took it with a relieved sigh and shoved it into his pant's waist. "You had me worried there for a bit, kid."
"Me? You're more dangerous with a gun than me. Just do me a favour, Hardcase, don't shoot up the furniture with that thing."
Hardcastle gave Mark a momentary strange look then shook his head. "We have no time, kid, let's move," Hardcastle said, hauling the young man upright.
Standing caused a fresh wave of nausea, and Mark had to put his whole concentration into not throwing up again. The effort left him gasping for breath. McCormick could feel the shorter man's strength as the jurist supported him and let the other take the larger share of his weight. He was so tired, but at least he was getting the nausea under control and his gut didn't hurt so much anymore. He just felt cold and kind of numb.
They left the house through the back door and made their way around the side of the house. Mark concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and let the judge do the navigation.
Suddenly Hardcastle shoved him to the ground behind one of the hedges and pulled the gun free. Mark knew enough to stay still and quiet even without the judge's urgent signal. Close by, the unmistakable sounds of someone passing came. The person was obviously heading for the back door they had just left. When he was gone and the judge tried to pull Mark back to his feet.
Mark couldn't do it. He just didn't have the strength.
"Judge, I can't. I won't make it," Mark groaned, his strength gone.
"You're crazy if you think I'm just gonna leave you here… after all this? Now, get to your feet McCormick." Hardcastle kept his harsh demand to a whisper, but Mark had no doubt that he meant it. The stubborn donkey wasn't going anywhere without him.
"All right, don't go all military on me here."
Mark helped the judge as much as he could and together they managed to get him back to his feet and moving again. The distance to the garage wasn't far, but to Mark it seemed miles away. It surprised him when they made it.
Mark could hear shouts from inside the house. The bad guys finding out we're gone, Mark guessed. The judge let him rest against the Coyote's raised wheel arch while he patted down his pockets.
"Damn," the judge muttered.
Mark smiled. "Forget your keys, Hardcase?" he asked holding up the set of keys from his pocket that he'd found in the hospital.
The judge snatched them from his hand with a scowl and a grumbling mutter, then gently helped Mark slide into the passenger seat of the racecar. Moments later the Coyote's suspension shifted as the judge all but threw himself into the driver's seat. The judge started the car and gunned the engine, revving it so hard Mark winced. With a howl of rubber against concrete, the car shot out of the garage like it had been shot from a cannon and tore up the driveway. From the corner of his eye Mark saw two men, Dorello's bodyguard and the driver of the yellow Cadillac, Simmons, running toward them… guns raised. Mark heard the distinct twang of a bullet striking the body of the car before they got clear. Great, more damage to be fixed, he thought.
The judge drove hard and recklessly faster than his abilities. McCormick grimaced as they took a sharp turn in the road, the rear of the Coyote sliding much wider than it should.
"Jeez, Judge, will you watch the over-steer? You'll shred the tires before we even make the city limits," Mark complained bitterly. Those were brand new tires on the back and they had cost Mark a fortune, especially considering the pittance the judge paid him; it would be nice if they lasted a week.
"Shaddup, McCormick, I'm driving," Hardcastle growled.
"Oh, is that what you're doing?"
Mark heard the judge mutter a reply but could only make out a word here and there.
"Oh man, Hardcase, will you please take it easy, you totally missed the apex that time, you're gonna put us into the railings here."
"In case you forgot, McCormick, there are scumbags behind us trying to kill us."
"Getting shot dead or getting dead in a crash… its still dead," Mark grumbled.
"Kid, you're not helping. Stop distracting me," Hardcastle yelled as he wrenched the car through another corner.
A wave of exhaustion washed over him and Mark realised that the judge was right; he needed to let the man drive. Besides, he was really too tired to care anymore. He shivered. It was getting really cold in the Coyote. He settled down into his seat. Hardcastle would work it out, he always did. He just needed to take a little rest. Hardcastle would take care of it.
"Hey, kid, you hang in there!"
Hardcastle nagging at him again, Mark sulked. The old donkey was always waking him up at the crack of dawn.
"It's too early, Hardcase, let me sleep," McCormick mumbled.
Before he let the sleep take him Mark heard the judge calling out his name again.
Either he was back in the same room, or the hospital only had one painting. On the wall beside his bed was the same pictured field of yellow and orange flowers. It was a peaceful scene, but the effect was spoilt by the loud rumbling snore coming from the man slouched in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair next to his bed. Hardcastle was sound asleep. Mark was touched by the fact that the judge had obviously been sitting by his side for hours.
The monitors and I.V. that he had escaped from hours ago were back in place, but this time Mark found his hands were restrained to the bed by cloth ties. He tugged at them but couldn't budge them; they allowed him only a few inches of movement. He didn't really want to disturb the judge but he couldn't stand the restraints.
"Hey, Judge! Hardcase wake up."
Hardcastle grunted then sat up. "McCormick, you're awake."
"Brilliant, Judge. Now can you tell me why I can't move my arms?"
"Sorry, kid, but the hospital doesn't want to chance you wandering off until you get your memory back. They are not too happy with you," the judge told him. The older man stood and removed the restraints from Mark's wrists. It felt great to have his hands freed.
McCormick nodded. "Thanks, Judge. So… did the Lone Ranger catch the bad guys? Simmons and Dorello's big ape-friend come along quietly or did you have to go all John Wayne on 'em?"
"You remember! That's great, kid. When?"
Mark grinned at his friend. "The photos, Judge; they brought the whole slave labour deal back to me. So, did you get the bad guys or what?"
"Of course we did. It seems they killed Cooke because he was skimming the profits from the top."
Mark sighed. "There's just no honour among thieves and killers anymore," he said sadly.
Hardcastle ignored him. "They weren't too happy you and I witnessed it and got away so they lured away your door guard, then knocked him out cold, and created a false emergency to get rid of the car at the estate. They'd planned to get you here and then come for me, but you messed up their plans by leaving the hospital. You already know most of the rest, they chased us but slid off the road trying to catch us, and Frank arrested em, Dorello too."
"You mean they're worse drivers than you? I didn't think that was possible. Hey, how's the Coyote, any rubber left on the tires?"
"Will you forget the car, McCormick? It's fine."
"I'll settle for it being in one piece."
"Speaking of being in one piece, how are you feeling?"
Mark thought about it; he actually felt pretty good. "Just peachy, Judge. A little worn down but I'm good."
"Yeah, well you had us worried there for a while, kid. The doctors had you in surgery for hours fixing you up. There was a lot of internal bleeding, you tore loose your internal stiches. The doctors think you probably did it to yourself by stressing your injuries in that damn-fool escape. What were you thinking? You nearly killed yourself with that stunt! You were in worse shape by the time I got you back here than you were the first time I brought you in," the judge told him, his momentary anger fading away.
"I thought you said the bad guys would have killed me if I'd stayed here? It was a smart move to get out when I did."
"You do something that dumb again and I'll kill you!" Hardcastle growled.
The younger man smiled at the false threat, but a small worry niggled at the back of Mark's mind. "I am fine, right, Hardcase?"
The judge smiled, and briefly patted his shoulder. "Yeah, Kid, you're as good as new… or you will be in a few days."
That was a relief. Another thought struck him, but McCormick wasn't sure how to broach the subject with the judge.
"Umm, Judge?"
Hardcastle looked at him, questioningly.
Mark sighed; this wasn't easy. "Judge, about that whole pulling a gun on you thing… I'm sorry, okay?"
"Okay, Kid… and trust me you will be sorry later on as well," Hardcastle said, an evil grin on his face.
"Judddggge…" Mark said in his most whining voice.
Hardcastle laughed. "Relax, kid. I'll wait til you're healthy first."
Mark smiled. "Thanks, Hardcase, you're all heart."
After a moment Mark felt the smile slip from his face. This was important. "Judge… I really am sorry," Mark said in perfect seriousness.
The judge nodded no trace of humour in his face. "I know, and it really is okay."
Mark smiled and relaxed.
The door opened, letting Dr. Carter into the room. "Well it seems that our prodigal patient has returned. How are you feeling this morning, Mr. McCormick?" she asked.
Mark blushed. "Fine, much better," he mumbled.
The evil grin was firmly back on the judge's face as he stood up and stretched. "Well, this might be a good time for me to find some coffee, it's been a long night," he announced.
"That's what's wrong with the older generation, no stamina," Mark muttered.
The judge just smiled wider, "Just thought I'd give you a chance to explain your vanishing act to the doctor, kid."
The judge left and Mark glanced up into the annoyed face of his doctor and groaned, he could sense a lecture coming. This was not going to be fun, but at least he had his memory back and, now that he'd been forced to really look at it… his life wasn't so bad. It could have been worse.
Finita.