Note: Not my characters. Jeez, I can't even remember what my disclaimer was. Yadda, yadda, just for fun, not for profit. All that. Cheers, Owl!

No Bull

by LMLewis

In the dim recesses of his mind, he was pretty sure there'd been a bull.

"No, no bull," Hardcastle insisted, for the umpteenth time. He sighed, shifting his backside on the unforgiving surface of the hospital chair. The new position was no more comfortable. "Though," he admitted, "it was pretty gory."

McCormick frowned, or at least it looked that way, though it was mostly distorted by the swelling and the bruises.

"But-"

"Nope." Hardcastle shook his head once, vigorously, to emphasize his certainty. Somebody had to be certain about the chain of events. Frank would be there any minute, notebook in hand. "A bull in Malibu, I mean-"

"But there was sand."

"Of course, whaddaya expect, it's a damn beach."

"And-"

"No bull. Not even an angry cow. It's Hemingway, like I told ya. The Sun Also Rises. You said you needed to finish the chapter for class on Thursday and you went down to the beach to read. Hemingway . . . on the brain." He tapped a crooked index finger to his own temple. "You've been talking about this Jake Barnes guy all week."

Mark stared at him and swallowed once, hard. He gingerly lifted the sheet and peered down, studying things for a moment and then sighing with relief.

"Just your head," Hardcastle said, in a way that was supposed to be reassuring, except that he added, "this time."

"Okay, no bull. " Mark didn't look reassured. "So, um . . . lightning?"

"Clear blue sky."

Mark frowned again. "Goons, hit men?"

"News flash, kiddo. Hit men don't actually hit people."

"Right, not a hit man." The frown deepened, his brows furrowed then reversed suddenly into a wide-eyed stare that might have signaled a flash of memory.

"Not . . . her."

Hardcastle said nothing. The silence was enough. Or maybe it was his sudden interest in the acoustical ceiling tiles. That could have been his tell.

Mark shuddered. "But it's been, what-?"

Hardcastle wrinkled his nose slightly. "Seven years . . . I think."

"Why now?"

"Dunno, kid. I think she said something to the arresting officer about being stressed out the past couple of months. I dunno. Some of 'em just snap."

"Stressed? Don't tell me about stressed. Plutonium, psychiatric facilities, Sonny Daye. My whole life has been-" Mark cut himself off abruptly as a nameless nurse stuck her head in through the door, shot them a disapproving expression, and just as quickly departed.

Mark lay there, looking chagrined. He finally sighed. "But why a bull? I distinctly remember a bull. A big one, with horns. It was like being back in Arizona or something."

"Well," Hardcastle dropped his voice to a near mutter, "mighta been what I said on the patio this morning."

"But we were alone."

Hardcastle cast a shifty, side ward glance and then whispered, "I think she lurks. A lot of'em do."

Mark shuddered again. "I don't know if I can handle it. She's . . . "

"Persistent?"Hardcastle suggested.

Mark nodded anxiously.

"Maybe she's forgotten her password. Maybe she'll have trouble with the uploads. You never know."

"I doubt it. Motor memory. How many times did she come after us?"

Hardcastle screwed up his face. "Two-hundred. Ballpark. Rounding down."

"Not counting screenplay formats."

"Can't post them here. Thank God."

"We're doomed," Mark said, his voice hushed with dread. "Multiverses. Alternative timelines. Story cycles. Novellas."

"But no bulls," Hardcastle said. And somehow it was not reassuring.