Author's Note: I've been working on this for a while, and as per usual, I got impatient and wanted to post. Not done, but will be concluded in Part Three.
The time period of this story is the fall of 1987.
*Some of the conversations in this story refer to (past) events that happen in my first Hardcastle and McCormick fanfic, Hidden Scars.
-ck
Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.
EARTH-SHATTERING CONFESSIONS
By InitialLuv
Part I
After checking that the fishing gear was properly secured, Mark McCormick hopped down from the bed of the pickup. He glanced in the direction of the main house, his expression guarded, and then turned to his friend.
"I don't know why you have to leave so early, Judge. Charlie's not even coming until the afternoon."
Milton C. Hardcastle shook his head, looking up at the heavens. "God help me," he muttered. More clearly, he said, "How many times do I have to go over this? I wanted that decent cabin by the river, and the only way they'd guarantee it is if I got there on Thursday."
McCormick glowered. "Fine. I get it. I mean why do you have to leave so early. It's only seven." He sent another quick look at the house.
Hardcastle leaned against the cab of the truck. "You have class at ten today – you'll be leaving around nine? You can't handle two hours alone with him?"
"He'll still be here when I get home, too. He's not leaving for Vegas until late. He said he'd rather drive at night and avoid any heavy traffic. That's a heck of a lot more than two hours." McCormick frowned at the ground.
Milt sighed, shaking his head again, only this time more gently.
"Listen, kiddo." He waited until McCormick looked up. "You have to look at this as an opportunity." Mark's face showed a mixture of doubt and disbelief, but the older man persevered. "You said yourself you chickened out the last time he was here, that he admitted to something but you didn't push him on it."
"What was I supposed to say?" McCormick said. "'I never meant to walk out on you and your mother.' Kind of an empty admission, Judge."
"Well, maybe that's all he was capable of. But I think it was an olive branch. Okay, maybe the bar thing didn't work out, but that wasn't exactly his fault. It's not like he was responsible for the dead bodies stashed there."
"Hmmph." McCormick's sulky huff sounded very similar to the one the judge often made. Hardcastle smiled as he recognized the similarity.
"What are you smiling at?" Mark demanded.
"Nothing." Milt cleared his throat slightly and squelched the smile. Then suddenly remembering the time, he checked his watch. "Damn. It's already ten after. I wanted to avoid rush hour." Opening up the door of the pickup, he hoisted himself inside. "You're coming up tomorrow after your last class?"
"Yeah, I'll probably get there around seven or seven-thirty." Mark slammed the door for the judge, then propped his hands onto the open window. "Oh – hey, can I check your files on the Langier case? I was thinking about using it for moot court."
"Are you nuts? Langier? After all we had to do to get that lowlife. . . And you know that case was airtight! How could you think of even doing a moot appeal of that verdict?
Mark shrugged, grinning. "I don't know. Maybe because his first time in court, he got away dirty. His first time in your court, specifically."
The retired jurist growled something unintelligible about tainted evidence. McCormick hmmped.
"Yeah, yeah, yuk it up." But Milt's glare was somewhat weak, and was soon replaced with a serious look. "You don't have to ask to go through the files, McCormick. A good share of them are because of you, you know."
"Okay. Thanks." Mark's grin widened. He slapped a hand against the door, backing away from the window as Hardcastle started up the pickup and put it into gear. Then, just before the judge pulled away down the drive, he called out to the younger man.
"Go talk to your dad!"
And McCormick's grin disappeared.
ooOoo
Late Tuesday afternoon Mark had returned home from an after-class study group, tired and stressed. He'd been hoping to hole up in the gatehouse with his books and a cold beer or two, only to have his plans crushed when he spied a seldom-seen but still familiar dark red Cadillac parked near the fountain. Not red, "Autumn Maple Firemist," McCormick had unconsciously corrected himself. Whether the car was a dedicated rental or actually in his father's name, Mark had grudgingly admitted to himself that the older man had style. The luxury convertible certainly was eye-catching.
McCormick had briefly considered turning the Coyote back down the drive and heading . . . anywhere, to avoid what he was sure would be an uncomfortable and awkward reunion. But when he realized that any escape, no matter how halfhearted, would cast him in the same vein as his elusive father, he'd banished the idea of flight and had eventually plodded wearily into the main house. Sonny and Hardcastle had been in the den, visiting almost companionably, and the lounge singer had looked up with a genuine smile when his son had entered the room.
The sincere expression had caught Mark off-guard, as had the entire spontaneous visit. "Just passing through between shows in San Diego and Vegas, thought I'd drop by for a day or two," had been Sonny's explanation for his unexpected presence. It seemed innocuous enough, although McCormick couldn't shake a nagging suspicion, whether or not it was warranted. And even though he'd been in class for a good part of the time that Sonny had been visiting, Mark felt like the last day and a half with his father had been some of the most uncomfortable hours of his life.
Excluding his time in prison.
Maybe.
McCormick meandered around the lawn for several minutes, occasionally bending to make a show of checking a bush or a flower bed, as if making mental notes for upcoming autumnal landscaping. But as this was his fifth autumn in residence at Gulls' Way, he'd mastered most of the seasonal yardwork, which left him with little excuse for investigating the growth of the hedges or the amount of fallen leaves. Plus, much had already been started by the new service the judge had hired, in order to give the resident law student more time to study.
When he felt properly guilty about his procrastinating, Mark moved slowly to the rear of the house, and trudged up the steps to the back door. He peeked in the window before opening the door, hoping to find the kitchen empty – and found himself looking into the eyes of Sonny Daye, who was looking out the window at him. Mark jerked back in surprise, and had to grab the doorknob to keep his balance on the steps. The door opened under his grasp, and as he had no other choice, he stepped up into the kitchen.
Sonny backed up as his son entered the room. "Milt took off?" he asked.
Mark nodded, looking around the kitchen. "You cleaned up. You didn't have to do that."
"You guys cooked. Least I could do."
"Yeah, we also woke you up at the crack of dawn." McCormick ran his hand over a counter, pushed a few crumbs into his other hand, and then carried them to the trash can. "Sorry about that. But fishing's a big deal around here."
"What, California? Like a coast thing?"
McCormick smiled. "More like a Hardcastle thing."
ooOoo
Mark had thought he'd be able to shake off his father when he headed to the file cabinets in the basement-cum-laundry room, but the older man had followed. "The famous files," he said, as he trailed behind his son. Then, somewhat warily, "How thick is mine?"
Mark was about to answer, but as he opened the basement door and simultaneously flicked on the light, the hanging bulb snapped and sizzled into darkness. "Not again," he moaned.
"What?"
"Oh, the damn light fixture needs to be replaced. The bulb shorts out constantly. At least this time it's daylight and I can see what I'm doing." McCormick moved to a cluttered shelf near the windows, and after some scrounging he located a carton of bulbs. Sonny watched curiously.
"So you're just going to replace the bulb? Why not replace the light? The bulb's just gonna short out again, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Mark pulled a bulb from the package. "But I have a history of shocking myself when I work with electrical stuff. Trust me, keeping plenty of replacement bulbs down here is easier." The younger ex-con handed the fresh bulb to Sonny. "Here, hold this."
Sonny peered up at the light fixture. "What are you going to do, get a ladder?"
Mark shook his head with a smile. "I don't need a ladder."
The older man looked up at the hanging light again, and then squinted at his son. "I get it. You're tall." McCormick grinned back. "But you're also delusional if you think you can reach that light."
"I'm taller than you, but I'm not that tall." Mark admitted. "But I still don't need a ladder." He moved to one of the file cabinets, and placed a foot on the handle of the lowest cabinet drawer. Then using the consecutive handles as steps, he nimbly climbed to the top of the cabinet, moving quickly so that his weight wouldn't tip the cabinet forward. "Be careful!" Sonny hissed.
Mark waved him off. "I've done this plenty of times. Told you, the bulb goes out a lot." He stood up slowly, straddling the two file cabinets, and leaned out to reach the light fixture. After a few quick twists he had the dead bulb out, and placed it on the top of a cabinet. "Give me the new bulb."
The older man reached up to hand his son the new bulb; in the process his other hand brushed the burnt-out bulb on the top of the file cabinet, and it rolled off to shatter onto the floor. Both ex-cons looked down at the mess, cursing in unison.
Sonny sent a guilty smile at his son. "Sorry. I'll clean it up. There a broom down here?"
"Yeah. Behind the door." Mark pointed. Sonny went to retrieve the broom and dustpan, closing the door so he could better reach the items. Mark leaned out again, one foot on each cabinet, new bulb in hand.
The first hint of tremor seemed more his imagination, a possible wave of disorientation from not having firm ground beneath him. And then the quaking hit in earnest, knocking the washer and dryer together, rattling the windows, and causing the file cabinets to sway under his feet. McCormick attempted to pull his body back and crouch down, but he moved to the right as the cabinets moved to the left, and he felt himself tipping forward. Dropping the bulb, he swung his arms in a vain attempt to regain his balance.
The second bulb fell and exploded near the first. Mark fell a second later. His head hit the floor, hard, and everything went dark.
-TO BE CONTINUED-