Author's Note: Liz set the challenge: a missing scene(s) or addendum to "This Fortnight's Episode" which happens to be Rolling Thunder, the pilot. Here's mine.
It was Cheri who first suggested (in her story "The Verdict") that a few strings might have needed pulling to get Mark back in Hardcastle's courtroom on the eve of the judge's retirement.
Snapshots: Rolling Thunder
by L.M. Lewis
Part 1
He sat there for a while, not even certain of how long, unaware of the passage of time. He finally felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Skid?" It was Tony, one of the pit crew. "You okay?"
"Ah, yeah." Mark swiped a sleeve across his face. "Yeah."
He put his hand down on the track and boosted himself up. Tony stepped back.
"I'm sorry," he said. "We all are." Tony's chin jerked to the left. Mark saw the others, the guys gathered by the pit, huddled some, shoulders down and hands in overall pockets. "Flip was a great guy."
Was. Mark felt the word sink in. He nodded in acknowledgment.
"Look, I gotta . . ." He frowned. He wasn't exactly sure what he had to do. He made a vague gesture toward the car he'd been driving.
"Yeah, sure." Tony nodded. "His kid—"
"Barb."
"Yeah, Barb." Tony shook his head. "It's gonna be hard. It was just her and him, ya know."
"I know."
"You and him went way back, huh?"
Mark wasn't sure he wanted to have this conversation. He didn't really want to talk to anybody right now, but Barb, yeah, he should find her, make sure she was okay.
He shook his head. Tony looked up at him questioningly.
"Ah, nothing. I was just thinking of something." He shrugged, as if to erase the first gesture. "Yeah, way back. He pulled my ass out of the fire a few times." Mark managed a half-smile.
He'd been ready to do it again.
He squashed that wayward thought. This wasn't about him. Flip had died without ever seeing his own dream realized. Barb had lost her father. That was the important stuff.
He looked around wearily. The guys over by the pit were talking among themselves, already drifting back to their work. The stock car was still parked on the track.
"I gotta go," he said abruptly.
"Sure, man." Tony nodded. "Let us know . . . when you find out about the arrangements, I mean."
Mark nodded, already walking away.
00000
They kept coming back to him as he drove—quick, flitting, unworthy thoughts. Had Flip told his partners who he wanted to drive the prototype? And even if he had, would they go along with the idea of having an ex-con on their team? He didn't know much about Cody Industries. Flip hadn't said much. And now when those thoughts surfaced they made him cringe—that he could even be worrying about stuff like that when he'd just lost a friend.
How close were you, anyway? He pulled over, parking down the block from Flip's place. He'd had to look the address up. There was no question they'd been close once, almost like family. He'd lived in the man's garage for almost a year.
But that had been over ten years ago. Things change. He'd changed. The whole time he'd been up in Quentin there hadn't been a single visit. Some letters, yeah. Those had been from Barbara—he knew Flip wasn't much on letters, but still . . .
A long way to drive, he'd rationalized, and maybe better for them not to have seen him in Quentin. It would have made it so much more real, so much harder to forget once it was over.
He hadn't gotten out of the car yet. There were others vehicles parked further along--too many for the driveway. One was a squad car. He frowned. Its occupant exited the front door, heading down the walkway. Paperwork, some detail for the accident report. They shouldn't be hassling her with stuff like that.
Even after the cop car pulled away, there was still a crowd of vehicles down there. Company. Barb wasn't alone. She undoubtedly had lots of friends. Flip was a heck of a guy; everybody loved him.
He sighed and put his car back into gear. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. The ex-con showing up, making everyone nervous—that'd be just what she'd need. He pulled out and edged past the house slowly. He'd never been inside, never seen the place before. Flip had still been living in an apartment the last time they'd gotten together. It'd been nearly three years. Now he was a big-time auto-designer.
Was. Mark grimaced.
And what the hell had he been thinking, dropping in on her like this?
He drove west, thinking about nothing and everything. The first time he'd met Flip. Gone to see him, really, down in Daytona with no more introduction than a stack of articles he'd torn out of hot rod magazines. Just a kid, and not expecting much, but Flip must've known how much he needed a break back then. Just a place to crash and three squares would have been enough, but a chance to work around the cars, get his license—
You owe him . . . you'll always owe him.
He came to the coast, the highway winding north and south from there. The right-hand turn was made without any conscious choice. It wasn't the way back to his apartment, but he didn't much feel like going there right now. He drove north along the twisting coastal highway, past Santa Monica and into the more open spaces. He'd come up here sometimes in the past few months, when he was feeling the chafe of his parole restrictions and needed a reminder of why he had to conform to Dalem's rules. This time he drove further than usual, barely aware of his surroundings and only minimally aware of the driving itself.
But part of him knew this wasn't working its usual spell on him, and that eventually he'd have to turn back. To continue on this road indefinitely would take him back to the doorstep of San Quentin, and that was someplace he never wanted to return to again. He braked, reluctantly, and pulled into the driveway of some rich guy's landed estate. Not as far as the gates, lord knew he didn't need the cops called down on him now; he'd probably punch somebody's lights out.
Flip's not here to bail you out.
That stray thought landed in the middle of his temporary distraction. He put the car in reverse and hauled out, grimacing to himself. There weren't any bailable offenses for him anymore. Dalem had made that perfectly clear six months ago. He didn't know why all this was so forward in his mind. It wasn't as if he'd relied on anyone this past few years.
Maybe that was the problem. Flip came waltzing back in and . . . it was like old times.
He shook his head. He knew better. A guy should never get used to that. The people you could trust were few and far between, and even those could be gone without warning . . . taken. He thought about that for a while—the unforgiving way of the world, to let a guy get that close to the prize and then snatch his life away. He suddenly realized he didn't know anything about how Flip had died. An accident? The irony stuck in his throat. He wanted to pound the steering wheel.
But there was no use in that, either. He was back in town, pulled up at a stop light with a cop car rolling up alongside him. He became aware that he was grimacing and the glance the cop had given him was becoming a stare. He forced his expression into something blander and pulled away sedately when the light turned green. He didn't relax until he'd made the final two turns onto his own street and then almost at once he stiffened up again. The car parked out on the curb by his apartment building wasn't familiar, but the person in the driver's seat was. It was Barb Johnson and she had caught sight of him now, too.
He parked across from her. She flashed a wan smile. Her eyes were red and swollen. She'd obviously been crying and, just as obviously, was past that now.
"Mark?" she asked hesitantly.
He was out of the car, crossing to her. "I'm so sorry."
That did it; the dam of emotion she'd carefully pent up broke free again. Mark had a fleeting thought that it was better this way, better to get it all out. There was another thought that he barely let surface before he submerged it again—this was the first time he'd seen her since he'd gotten out of Quentin. Under any other circumstances it would have been awkward as hell, but now it stood overshadowed by tragedy.
"Come inside," he said. He already had her door open and was helping her out. It was crying, not sobbing, and she was pliable, following his directions as though they were a lifeline.
He got her up to the door and inside. Despite the grim distraction, he was briefly aware that the place was a dump, but Barbara had seen him in worse straits and the circumstances made it insignificant. He pulled a chair out from the small table and coaxed her down, seating himself kitty-corner from her. She took a long breath, wiped her eyes and looked away from him, embarrassedly.
"Sorry. I wasn't going to do that any more. I've been doing it all morning. I never cry. All that time I spent around guys growing up, I suppose."
She said it all so matter-of-factly that he wasn't sure what to say back. It seemed as though she were trying to find her way back to solid ground.
"I was at the track," he said. "One of the guys heard it on the radio."
"They called me around three this morning." Still that same calm tone, like the eye of a storm. "It took them a while to identify him. His wallet . . ." There was a slight crack in her voice and a pause. Then she hurried on quickly as though the ice underfoot was perilously thin. "He'd forgotten it. You know how he was, always forgetting things."
Mark nodded.
"His head in the clouds." She smiled fondly. "A dreamer."
"Barbara—"
"Please," she said sharply, then her voice went soft again, apologetic, "no platitudes. I've had enough of those this morning. And don't tell me what a great guy my dad was." She bit down, her jaw visibly clenched. "And I know you probably wonder where the hell I've been the last few months. I'll be honest." She paused again, frowning. "Your letters, you seemed kind of distant . . . different. I didn't know what to expect. Dad—" her voice caught again on the word. Then she shook herself lightly, frowned, and continued, "he said you hadn't changed a bit."
"I have," Mark said quietly.
She studied him silently for a moment. "Maybe," she finally said. "Maybe we all have."
"It happens. And it's okay about us not getting together since . . . since I've been back," he finished vaguely. "But this . . . this is just—"
"Not fair. I know. But you already know about life not being fair, huh?" She sighed and eased back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Maybe that's why I came over here. I called."
"I went out for a drive." He gestured vaguely.
"I figured." She let out a sigh and looked around absently at the dingy efficiency apartment. "I have to make arrangements." She frowned in the general direction of the linoleum. "That's what the police officer called it. I was wondering . . ." she frowned, "you've never done that. Your mom died when you were young."
"Pretty young," Mark admitted.
"Mine, too." Barb sighed. "It was always me and dad. Always." She reached up rubbing her temple with one hand. "I dunno. I'd been thinking of going away, going to law school." She glanced up, taking in the horrified look that Mark hadn't quite had time to suppress. "Okay, well, some of them are jerks. I know you think that, but I was hoping I could still help out my dad some, with him on the business end, now." The moment of present tense seemed to slip out unawares.
Mark nodded numbly. People change. He'd been stuck on the image of Barb in pigtails and a grease-stained pair of overalls with the cuffs rolled up, a kid underfoot when he hadn't been much older than a kid himself. He shook himself loose from that image and sank back into the reality of the moment.
"Arrangements," he grimaced. "It can't be all that hard—" He broke off suddenly and flushed. "I mean it's all hard—but that part you just tell them what you want and they take care of everything."
She nodded. "It all seems so strange. I keep thinking I'll see him again, that he's just run down to the shop to fiddle with something. It doesn't seem real."
"Yeah," Mark said, and then, suddenly not in the mood for denial, he added, "that's how it is with the bad stuff. I used to wake up in the morning and think I was somewhere else." He didn't have to mention where he'd actually been when he'd had those thoughts.
Barbara nodded again in silent understanding.
"Ya know, it's weird," he tilted his head slightly; the thought had just come to him, "the same thing happened after I got out. Maybe the good stuff doesn't seem real either," he added philosophically.
Barb's lips went thin, her face set in a grimmer expression. "Not real? Yeah. It seemed that way."
He gave her a questioning look but she added nothing more. She just shook her head and stared out the window pensively for a moment, then turned to him. "Could you come with me? They want me to come down and identify him . . . officially, I mean. There's some papers to sign."
"Now?" He eyed her with some concern. Denial didn't seem like such a bad thing after all.
"They wanted me to go with them this morning. The cops. I said I couldn't, not yet. I think I was in some kind of shock. But it's got to be done. All of it, the arrangements." She looked like she'd made up her mind.
"Okay," he said, trying not to look unwilling. This was a friend's duty and Flip had been more than a friend.
00000
The trip to the medical examiner's office wasn't what brought the reality of it home for Mark. That moment came the next day, when he opened the paper and read the two-paragraph article buried in the obituary section of the LA Times.
The afternoon before had been done pro forma, with him ushering Barbara through a hundred inconsequential decisions at the funeral home. He'd been mistaken for her brother by the clerk at the M.E.'s, and he felt like that, slipping into a role he'd occupied for some time, back when he'd camped at Flip's place in Daytona.
When they were finally done he'd insisted on taking her out to eat, partly because he knew if he didn't, she'd probably eat nothing, and partly to avoid the moment when she'd have to return to her now-empty home. In the end, she didn't do that at all. They returned to his place instead, and she'd cried herself to sleep on his shoulder.
In the morning she was gone, with a note on the table thanking him. He had that, and the obituary, to remind him that it all was very real.
The funeral, by Barbara's wishes, was to be the next day. He'd already called his boss to get the time free, meeting with a grumbled complaint and a reluctant authorization. It was hard to explain to anyone that someone he hadn't seen for over two years was that important to him. He thought for a moment that his boss was going to say "you're fired" and, for that same long moment, he didn't care.
He knew that was stupid—the same sort of stupidity that had landed him in his current relationship with the State of California. He backed off, tendered his apologies, and volunteered to put in unpaid overtime until he'd caught-up on his backlog. He knew he'd be taken advantage of, but that was just one more price to pay for Flip's sake.
His boss bit. Why not? It was a great deal. After that Mark only wanted the conversation to be over. He hung up with weary relief after one last low-grade chewing out.
00000
The funeral was well attended. Mark was willing to stand back, out of the way, to let Barb's more recent friends step in and offer their support. To his surprise, Barb was having no part of it, sticking by his side for most of the ordeal. It was only for a moment at the graveside that he found himself alone, with only Vetromile for company, and Rabbit letting slip that he'd been the intended driver of Flip's creation.
That hit him hard, then again, a second later when he berated himself for even worrying about something like that with Flip dead. It settled one thing, though. Whatever Flip's intentions had been, he hadn't made them generally known. Not that it would have made much difference. He was in a grim mood when Flip's backer, Martin Cody, put in a carelessly late appearance. Still, Barb's sudden vehemence caught him off-balance.
He found himself back in the role of big brother, trying to shepherd her away. It was a relief, really, to not have anything at stake, to know his motivations with regard to Cody were absolutely without self-interest, though he'd like to think his instantaneous dislike for the man wouldn't have been influenced if he'd had a job offer at stake.
He pried Barbara away from the industrialist. The ceremony was over and there was nothing further to be done there at the cemetery. She was calm now. It was the calm of withdrawal but he saw no way to pull her back out without risking an avalanche of emotions that neither of them was ready to deal with. He drove her home and stayed just long enough to say goodbye.
He thought that might be it. They'd both get on with their lives—her with her unfillable hole and him trying to sort out the source of his grief. He went home and shed his funeral suit. He even thought about putting in a half-day at the shop. It might help take his mind off things, though it would just be awkward, now, explaining why he was there.
He hadn't gotten all that far in his ponderings when the phone rang.
"Mark?"
She'd been crying again, that much was evident. He felt a brief pang of regret for her icy withdrawal, but at least the crying seemed to be over for now.
"Are you okay?" He winced almost as soon as the words were out. Of course she wasn't okay. She'd just lost her father to a senseless accident.
But there was only a moment of silence from the other end of the line and then, "I need to talk to you."
00000
They met at the track in Saugus. He'd told her he had to pick up his gear there, which was true. He was also vaguely aware that he preferred neutral ground. This brother and sister thing could only offer so much insulation and he had a notion that if the two of them spent one more night on his sofa it wouldn't be sitting up. There'd always been a little background noise in their relationship—the occasional pop and sizzle—and this would be a lousy time to take advantage of it.
Now he was glad he'd done it this way. The crying seemed to be over for good, but she was prepossessing in her calm determination. He mentioned law school again, this time trying to sound approving, but that wasn't what she wanted to talk about.
She managed to sound completely rational, accusing a wealthy automotive industrialist of murder, and Mark found himself believing, as though she'd filled in the spaces on a general outline he'd already seen. Cody was a weasel, and Flip's death, while senseless, had been far too convenient.
But take back Flip's work? A prototype car parked in a high-security facility? He wavered for a moment. Dalem's parolee almost said no, but his sense of self-preservation faded back in a sudden flush of indignation. The Codys of the world got away with this stuff only because no one ever had the guts to stand in their path.
He realized he was already figuring out the angles even before he said yes.
00000
Speed was of the essence. It was obvious that, with Flip gone, Cody would move ahead quickly with his plans for the prototype. In a few days it might be shipped out for display, to raise further capital for the project. Luckily, Mark had what he needed—the kit he'd used for his more dubious repossession jobs. He'd left it with a friend back before his first conviction for auto theft—the one that had landed him in Strykerville.
He'd sworn off repos after that, a vow he'd held to faithfully but which hadn't kept him out of court. He wondered if that wasn't part of his fatalism now. If doing the right thing wasn't enough to ward off the wrath of the law, then what was the use of sticking to the straight and narrow?
Maybe there was something inevitable about this. He'd only run into that guy a month back—what were the odds that a box of stuff he'd left sitting in someone's garage would have still been there waiting for him to pick it up nearly five years later? And he'd gone to get it, maybe for old time's sake, maybe just because it was a small, relatively harmless act of defiance.
Now he pulled the box out of his closet, examining its contents critically. The clothes were slightly moldy and the duffle was dusty, but the ropes and tools within were pristine and the gloves—he pulled them on—still fit like gloves. He stretched and flexed his fingers. He'd had this same feeling only the day before yesterday as he'd climbed into that car up in Saugus, wondering if he still had what it took.
There'd been those few laps, the morning air full of high octane promise as he locked into the groove and felt alive. Having tasted that freedom again, he wasn't sure if he could ever go back to trudging through his parole. Two-and-a-half more years. He'd never make it; he was sure of that now. Why not do this one good thing for the man who had tried to give it all back to him? Screw Dalem and that prying, overbearing ass of a judge. He flexed his hand again.
Screw 'em all.
00000
He found it, right where Barbara had said it would be, and with his first look at the thing in the flesh—red and sleek and low—he wanted it. This felt more like theft than anything he'd ever done before, not because it was legally Cody's property and he was stealing it for Barbara, but because it wasn't his and he coveted it.
He took it and ran. It was fox and hounds, and he felt a guilty pleasure in the tool with which he out-paced his pursuers. Only the hounds were human and one of them rolled his car. Suddenly the game had gone sour. He pulled up sharply, aware of a clenching grip around his heart.
Not dead. Not yet at least, thank God. Still just enough time to pull him out as the flames licked closer.
00000
He'd gotten away, but only just, and he'd been shaken to the core. He stuck to the back streets, the shadows. His breathing only slowed when he got out into the valley, away from the city lights and the feeling of imminent pursuit. He called her from a pay phone. She came, a trailer and hitch behind an old truck of her dad's.
Neither one of them was in a mood for rejoicing over their victory. Some of his worry must have rubbed off on her.
"Keep it out of sight," he said, after he'd coaxed it up on the rig and strapped it into place. "Don't tell me where you're taking it."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to know. It's better that way."
"What happened?"
He said nothing as he hastily unfolded the tarp and slung it over the car. She tugged at his sleeve anxiously. "Tell me," she said insistently.
"There was a lot of security, more than I expected."
"But you got away."
"Probably." He shrugged. "Probably nothing."
She frowned as she turned to tie down her side of the tarp. He worked on his. That finished, he dropped the duffle in the front seat of the truck.
"Get rid of this stuff as soon as you can. I don't ever want to see it again."
She nodded, then hesitated and said, "Come with me."
He shook his head.
"Why not?"
"I'm a felon."
She was staring at him, uncomprehending.
"If they haven't figured this out already, they'll sure as hell add it all up by Friday if I don't show for my parole meeting."
"I don't care."
"You ought to. What would your dad say if I landed you in prison, too? Go." He glanced down at his watch, already walking away from her. "I've got a bus to catch." He didn't turn around to see if she was following instructions, but was relieved to finally hear the truck door slam and the engine start up.
00000
It had been a long night and it was daylight before he stepped off the last bus, only a block from his apartment. Dressed in basic black, he felt painfully conspicuous despite the early hour and the empty streets. Still, almost home free.
He'd spent the last two hours of the night wondering what had possessed him for the preceding ten and offering up silent promises that he'd never, ever do it again if only this one time it turned out okay. He hadn't been able to sleep, not even on the longest of the three bus rides. Every time he closed his eyes it was to rewitness the explosion that had nearly cost the life of one of his pursuers.
What would you have done then? His hands would have been as bloody as Cody's. You're just damn lucky.
He darted a glance over his shoulder. No one following, thank God. He just had to go inside, shed his incriminating clothes, don his work overalls, and put all of this behind him. And it might be best if he didn't see Barbara for a while.
Then a guy in a suit stepped around the corner of his building, leveling a gun at him and announcing his arrest.