Epilogophilia – Surprise on Seagull Beach
The beach directly below Gulls Way is being used by surfers, who are trying to get it declared public property. An irritated Judge Hardcastle obtains a restraining order against them only to find someone else searching the beach at night. Former Nazis, led by a man named Guenther Rieseman, kidnap Mark and a surfer named Razz. When Hardcastle investigates, he finds out that a large cache of Nazi gold was buried on the beach during the Second World War. After McCormick is tortured with a cattle prod to reveal the location of the gold, he blurts out Hardcastle's name to keep Razz from the same torture. Hardcastle and the police stop the Nazis, but Rieseman escapes temporarily in a boat. After an exciting boat chase, he goes overboard and drowns from the weight of the gold. In the end, the judge declares the beach open to the surfers.
Epilogue – by Owlcroft
McCormick winced as he passed Hardcastle the salt.
"Whatsa matter?" asked the judge, sprinkling his fried potatoes lavishly. "You pull a muscle out there this afternoon? You shoulda let those kids do most of the work."
"I did." Mark sat back slowly and carefully. He picked at his pork chop a little more.
Hardcastle stopped chewing and frowned at him. "You not hungry?"
"Please, Judge. Not the lecture about how we don't waste food." McCormick put his napkin down next to his plate and sighed. "I'll have it for lunch tomorrow, okay? I'm feeling kind of beat, so I think I'll just turn in early."
"It's seven o'clock!" The judge set his knife and fork on the edge of his plate and stared at Mark interrogatively. McCormick seemed a little pale, with tiny lines of pain evident on his face. "You feeling all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. It's just been a rough day." McCormick smiled grimly. "After all, it's not every day I get kidnapped by Nazis." He stood up and collected his plate and glass from the table. "I'll be fine by tomorrow."
"So I'll see ya under the hoop at six-thirty, huh?" The judge was still watching him. He'd felt his McCormick radar twinge and knew something was up.
Mark made a face and shook his head. "Maybe day after tomorrow." He bent cautiously to put his plate in the dishwasher, then straightened and turned toward the back door. "'Night, Judge."
Hardcastle answered, "G'night," watching him out the door thoughtfully, then sat staring into space for a moment. Give him five minutes to get to the gatehouse and start to relax. Takes me a minute and a half to walk over there. He checked his watch and reached for his knife and fork to finish his dinner.
Six and a half minutes later, the judge tapped lightly on the front door of the gatehouse. "McCormick?" he called softly. Receiving no answer, as he'd hoped, he opened the door and stuck his head in. "Hey, McCormick," he said quietly. Still getting no response, he pushed the door open and walked in. There was no sign of Mark, so he was either in the kitchenette or the bathroom. Hardcastle checked under the door of the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a light on in there.
"Hey, McCormick!" he yelled.
The response was a smothered yelp and a sound of something being dropped on the tile floor behind the door.
"I thought of something after you left. Come on out." Hardcastle noticed McCormick's t-shirt on the floor behind the couch.
"Um, I'm gonna be a while in here, Judge. Can't it wait?"
"I don't think so." The judge had picked up the shirt and was inspecting it closely. There were several places on it that looked almost like scorch marks. "I'll just wait'll you're done."
"Ah, I'll come over to the main house. You don't have to wait for me."
"All right, McCormick. Let's stop fooling around." Hardcastle sniffed at one of the darker areas and caught a faint smell of char. "Get on out here and tell me what's going on."
There was a silence from behind the bathroom door.
"I gotta key to that door, ya know. Do I hafta use it?"
He heard the door lock click, and McCormick slowly, reluctantly, pushed it open.
"What the hell?" Judge Hardcastle stepped closer and gasped. "Oh . . . my God."
Mark shrugged, then winced. "It looks worse than it is."
His torso was covered with pairs of round red spots, obviously burn marks. Most of them glistened with the ointment he'd been applying.
"You said . . . you said they had a cattle prod." Hardcastle passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "I thought you meant . . . that you meant they threatened you with it. You didn't tell me they . . ." his expression was appalled, "that they used it on you."
McCormick shook his head. "Things were a little hectic there for a while, and then it just didn't seem . . . I dunno. Important enough, I guess."
"Important enough?"
"Well, you know what I mean. We were a little busy with the bad guys, and then the boat chase, and the beach and all. It's already better than this afternoon."
The judge gestured toward the coat rack. "Come on. Just put a jacket around your shoulders. We'll get you to the emergency room --"
"What? No! I'm not going to any emergency room! I told you, it's okay." Mark held out his hands pleadingly. "Judge, listen. It's not a big deal --"
"Dammit! It's big deal to me! Now, get out to the truck. You have to be in a lotta pain and if those burns get infected, you're in major trouble. Now, move!" Hardcastle turned and motioned for McCormick to follow.
McCormick stayed put. "They won't get infected. I've got a giant, economy-sized tube of antibiotic ointment and I just took two left-over pain pills." He smiled a bit. "Standard equipment when you work for the Lone Ranger."
The judge froze in place, biting his lip. Shoulders drooping, he looked back at McCormick in silence.
"Wait a minute," said Mark wonderingly. "Are you feeling guilty? Are you seriously blaming yourself for what happened?"
There was no reaction from Hardcastle.
"I don't believe this." McCormick shook his head vigorously. "You're blaming yourself for Nazis burying gold on a beach before you even knew there was a beach. Are you kidding me? Judge, there is no way you're responsible for any of this! Come on, Hardcase, get a grip here."
Hardcastle sighed deeply. "Well, maybe you're right about that part," he said slowly. "But I guess I'm feeling like . . . I shoulda figured out what you were trying to tell me. I feel guilty as hell about letting you run around after the bad guys and shovel sand and everything in that condition."
"Well, you didn't know, did you?" said Mark sensibly. "If I'd wanted to, I could've made it a little plainer at some point, but it stopped seeming like something that was important about the time I brought Reiseman here. Everything that happened after that made it just something to deal with later." He picked up the discarded t-shirt from the floor. "Honestly, Judge. I'll be okay without doctors telling me take it easy and stay away from the Third Reich. And it's not your fault."
"So you say." The judge closed his eyes, then said dully, "You wouldn't've been hurt if you hadn't been on the beach, and you were only there because you work for me."
McCormick looked at him with an affectionate half-smile. "You know damn well if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be. Now, why don't you yell at me a little and we'll both feel better."
"Dammit, McCormick! Ya shoulda told me what'd happened! What are ya, some kind of masochist!" The judge shrugged. "Best I could do, spur of the moment."
"Good enough for me," grinned Mark.
Hardcastle sat down on the arm of the couch and rubbed a hand across his forehead. "Tell ya what. You put some more of that giant, economy-sized ointment on, but we check in with Charley Friedman tomorrow. Okay?"
McCormick nodded and turned back to the bathroom.
"So, you think you'd be comfortable lying here, on the couch? We could watch the game and I could bring over some ice cream."
"Yeah, and hey! How guilty were you feeling, anyway?" Mark looked at him slyly. "I mean, suppose I asked for a raise in my allowance?"
"Not a chance," growled Hardcastle. "Ice cream's as far as I'll go."