The Measure of a Man

by L.M.Lewis

A deal's a deal.

Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: In the episode The Birthday Present, McCormick is forced to shoot a crazed killer, Weed Randall. Cheri wrote a very wonderful story titled "Being There" that dealt with the probable sequence of events that would have followed such an occurrence—a parole board hearing and the threat that they might either revoke his parole entirely, or at the least 'sever the relationship' he had with the judge, removing him completely from Hardcastle's custody.

And now our missing scenes spawn missing scenes. . .

(Thanks, Suzanne, for the lyrics--they're by Jack Murphy from the musical "Rudolf-The Last Kiss". This was originally a songfic from STAR for BK, zine five)

The Measure of a Man.

By L.M. Lewis

There comes a time when the measure of a man is taken. There comes a time when at last you stand alone.

Somewhere along the way Mark had realized he slept better in the chair these days, pulled up alongside Hardcastle's hospital bed, than he did at home. Not that he slept all that well, even there. They were cat naps, mostly, pauses along the familiar paths of worry, waking up to the same fears.

But at least there, in the hospital, he could see with his own eyes that his worst fear was receding—Hardcastle was by no means well, but at least he seemed to be almost out of the woods. That should have brought him a measure of peace, some overdue hope, but in its place there were new specters. The morning's meeting with his old parole officer, John Dalem, had raised them, and Mark's own hasty research had confirmed what the man had said. It was entirely possible that Hardcastle's unorthodox experiment in rehabilitation would come to a sudden, irreversible halt after the parole board convened on Thursday.

'Sever the relationship' was the term John Dalem had used. Sever seemed not to be an overly harsh word for it. The laws of the State of California said it was possible, and as far as McCormick could see, from long and varied experience, there was nothing in the laws of the universe that would make it unlikely to happen.

He'd been left holding the short ends of severed relationships many times before--usually with even less notice than forty-eight hours—no time at all to plead his case, or even say good-bye. At least this go-round he had both those things.

But he couldn't plead, not until Thursday, and he doubted that the people on the parole board would give much credence to anything he said. It was the damnedest thing to explain, even to people who knew the judge and him, and impossible to strangers. The whole thing sounded crazy. Maybe it was crazy.

He reached for the remote again, tethered by a cord to Hardcastle's bed. He nudged the volume control down, and seeing no response from the man, finally tapped the 'off' button. The judge's breathing stayed rhythmic and reasonably deep. The pain medicine was working for now.

He had no desire to leave. If he'd had to explain that, he'd probably have resorted to the pattern he'd noticed—Hardcastle would sleep through the early evening and into the night, then wake up when the last dose of drugs wore off, sometime after midnight. He wouldn't actually do anything about it, of course; Mark thought there must be a line he'd somehow missed in the Lone Ranger Creed—something about sucking it up and not annoying the night nurse—but it didn't matter why. If he wasn't there to push the call button, it wasn't going to get pushed.

Convenient. A handy excuse. It was available if anyone chose to question his motives. He leaned back, propped his feet on the bottom frame of the bed, and closed his eyes but didn't drift off. He was still thinking hard about the other gift that he'd been granted this time around. But he couldn't bring himself to say good-bye yet, either.

It would be a week tomorrow morning since Hardcastle had been shot. McCormick didn't flatter himself with the notion that he was indispensable, but he thought he at least qualified as useful, maybe even a habit, and he was damned if he'd be doing anything to upset the man at this early juncture in his recovery.

And naming calls.

He shuddered. A chill, or foreboding, or merely fatigue—he wasn't sure which. No good-byes until he was stripped of his last hope, and even that might come soon enough. No, he'd made up his mind. He would plead his case on Thursday. He would take his stand, hopeless though it might be, and no good-byes, not even any hint of the necessity, until the parole board had its say.

00000

Another fitful night in the chair, awakening stiff and ill-rested, to find that Hardcastle was already awake, and studying him with unnerving intensity.

"Musta dozed off," Mark muttered.

"Again," the judge said dryly. "Listen, kiddo, you look beat. You don't have to hang around and hold my hand. Look," he said, pointing to the breakfast tray, "I've got a project here. Why don't you head home and catch some shut-eye in a real bed. You can come back this evening."

McCormick blinked a couple of times. It didn't exactly feel like the bum's rush, but now that Hardcastle had said his piece he was back to that intense, studying gaze. Mark gathered himself, rubbed his eyes once, and got up.

"Okay, yeah, I've got to get some stuff sorted out back at the estate."

"Sleep."

"I just did," Mark said.

He caught the irritation in his own voice, which he probably would have attributed to lack of sleep under more rational conditions. He swallowed once, hard, and remembered everything else—the good-byes that weren't getting said, and Thursday was rapidly approaching.

"Yeah," he added, in a lower, more conciliatory tone, "I could probably use a little more." He frowned. "Okay. I'll grab a nap, get some chores done, and be back later. If you're good, I'll even sneak you in some real food."

The sudden, anticipatory gleam in the judge's eye was heartening. He really did seem to be improving, though it would still be a long way back, Mark thought, and longer still for both of them, if they each had to find their way alone.

He forced an encouraging smile, gave a quick duck of his head, and departed. He was all the way down to the parking lot and climbing into the Coyote, before that tiny wisp of positivity burned out. He slumped down into the seat and tipped his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, trying not to drift back to that moment, almost a week earlier, when he'd made the fateful decision to go after Sandy.

All that brave, resolute talk in the hospital waiting area, everything he knew Hardcastle would have expected him to say, spoken like the lines from a bad play, when all the time he'd been coiled up just as tightly as Sandy—waiting, just waiting, for an excuse to head off in pursuit of Weed Randall.

He opened his eyes. He reached forward and turned over the ignition. He put the car in gear and edged out of the spot slowly, all in studied contrast to his irreparable actions on that previous occasion. There was no going back, no fixing it, of that he was sure. All he could do now was go forward.

00000

He returned as he'd promised, with roast beef on a fresh deli roll. That was the only promise he'd kept. Sleep, as usual, had eluded him at home, not that he'd done much to encourage it.

He arrived in time to find Hardcastle and Harper in conference, with the judge insisting that there was something he needed to know for sure. What it was, Mark didn't want to ask. There were way too many possibilities that he didn't want to delve into just then.

Instead, he aimed for the distraction of a general admonition. He kept his tone lightly warning. Even that surprised him. He wondered where this proprietary attitude had come from, and whether anyone thought he was entitled to it. Hardcastle, for one, seemed to think not. He growled, though it was a pale imitation of his usual, and sounded mostly like a cover. Maybe he didn't want to talk about certain things, either.

The sandwich got eaten and the nurse came by with the evening pain shot, which Hardcastle accepted with reasonably good grace under Mark's stern gaze. After that Frank had coaxed him away from the bedside, and had probably intended to chivvy him all the way out of the hospital.

As it was, Harper pried half of the parole board story out of him. As for the not going home, he finally got to use the excuse of Hardcastle's middle of the night awakenings—which was really the truth, he reminded himself. There was a truer truth sitting right behind that, which he did not invoke. He knew he was still desperately short of sleep himself. If he had any hope of getting some rest, it would be here—the last night that he knew for certain he could stay.

He knew he'd need every resource he could muster for what faced him in the morning. He wasn't exactly sure when Hardcastle's proximity had become one of those resources, but somehow it had and it was—especially now.

00000

He woke again, for at least the third time. It was the grey hour just before dawn. The lab technician had arrived with her tubes and needles and tourniquet. He didn't know if Hardcastle would go back to sleep after that, but it was as good a time as any for a good-bye which wouldn't need to be accompanied by too many questions.

He stayed for the poke—probably just a minor inconvenience after all the other stuff that had happened to the man this past seven days. When that was done he smiled vaguely, trying to look like a guy who had nothing more on his schedule than decamping to a more comfortable spot to finish sleeping.

"You get some more rest, too," he said quietly.

The judge nodded and then, one eyebrow raised in an almost knowing way, said "See you later?"

Mark said nothing. He merely smiled—an expression which could not afterwards be construed as a falsehood. He wasn't going to have the last thing he said to Hardcastle be a lie.

00000

He'd pleaded his case with every ounce of sincerity he could muster, and still it hadn't felt like enough. The regrets settled in almost before he'd gotten to his feet, dismissed by the panel of three who would now decide his fate.

The end of the hearing had been strangely anticlimactic. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, maybe the slamming of a gavel and the immediate announcement that he would be remanded forthwith to the custody of the County of Los Angeles. But there were no gavels, no defendant's table, no lawyer at his side, for as much good as that had ever done him. Only Frank, sitting behind him and offering him smiling reassurance once it was all over.

Then, as if to counterbalance that, there was Dalem, telling him he'd be getting a call once things were decided. And even though the next step would be almost as hard as the hearing itself, all he wanted to do was get back to the hospital, to finally say his good-byes if he must, but mostly to spend whatever time he had left with the person he wanted least to burden with his troubles.

Harper made no comment about the fact that Mark hadn't driven to the hearing. It seemed a bit overwrought, now, but being immediately remanded into custody had felt like a real enough possibility that morning, enough so that he didn't want to have the additional worry of having left the Coyote parked somewhere. He'd taken a cab. Now Frank said nothing, merely escorting him to his own sedan, and driving him directly to the hospital.

"I can wait," he said, when he'd pulled up there and Mark was stepping out.

"You still have a job and all that," Mark said, hands in pockets, chin down. "I don't think I need my hand held for this next part."

"I was just thinking if you had a ride home, you might be more likely to actually go there and get some rest."

"Don't worry, Frank," he looked around wearily at the now-familiar hospital lot. There was the white Corvette. It occupied very nearly the same spot it had been in a week ago. He smiled ruefully. "I'll call a cab."

Harper shook his head and pulled away.

00000

They'd talked. Hardcastle hadn't tried for false reassurance and for that, Mark was strangely grateful. Eventually the conversation had faltered and he'd taken the opportunity to go home. This might be his last time there, as well, and there were practical considerations—things he couldn't leave undone if he couldn't return there either

When he'd returned it was in comfortable clothes, denim. It was a silent acknowledgement that you didn't go to the lock-up—or hit the road looking for a cheap motel—in your better-grade suit and tie.

They talked some more, and this time it was about what had happened, rather than what was to come. He should have figured if he left the guy alone with a telephone and half a clue, he'd get to the bottom of it in an hour or so.

He thought he ought to feel better, having gotten even that part of it out on the table, but instead he just felt wrung out, and guilty for having put more of a burden on the judge. Disappointments, he knew it, both he and Sandy, no matter how much Hardcastle tried to reassure him.

He waited for the inevitable and then, almost sooner than he'd have expected, the judge dozed off. He got up and went out, half intending to go home again. He'd already done enough harm here for one night. It had been a long time—a year and a half, since he had felt this out of place no matter where he was. He wandered along the quiet hallway, then down to the first floor. He was aiming for the back exit, but took a wrong turn.

The hospital chapel, deserted. He smiled sadly, half lost in memory and divided equally between relief and fear. He lit a candle. He sat.

He wouldn't grace his thoughts with the name of prayer. It was nothing so intentionally organized as that. But time passed and something gradually coalesced. There was no way to undo the past, and the future was so fraught with uncertainty that he could barely see beyond the next few hours.

"But if . . ." he heard himself whisper it out loud, almost before it was a formed thought. "If they don't revoke me. If they let me stay with him. Just that. That's all." He shook his head sharply, once.

"Is that too much?" It sounded like a demand. He didn't think he was in the position to make demands, not with a man's blood still fresh on his hands. Still he couldn't leave it like that. He rocked back in the seat, arms wrapped around himself. "But I can't do that again. I'll never do that again."

Tonto, the Lone Ranger—it had all sounded like a lark and he'd completely overlooked the matter of the silver bullets.

"I can't be a cop," he whispered harshly.

What was the point, then, of asking for a reprieve, if he couldn't even do the job Hardcastle needed him to do? He stared at the rows of candles. The one he'd lit amid all the rest—hope flickered there, thoughts that didn't even dare express themselves aloud.

He didn't stay a cop. He studied the law.

He leaned back, eyes closed. This was a prayer, but of the lowest denomination. A bargain, a deal. The kind of prayer that guys pray when there is no other alternative.

"Let me stay and I will do it . . ." he frowned. He didn't think this was the time for hedging a bet but he couldn't help the twinge of self-doubt. "At least I'll try."

There, deal made, markers handed over, and all that remained was to see if the Other Guy would welsh. He had a feeling that wasn't going to happen and for the first time in a nearly a week he felt the oppressive grip around his heart loosen, just slightly.

Don't kid yourself. This is the parole board we're dealing with here.

There was that, of course, and the tendency of Higher Authority not to rule in his favor on more occasions than he cared to remember.

"But I meant it." He stood up. He shook his head wearily and cast a vague smile at the Omniscient. "Just try me and see."

Then he gathered up his burden and headed back to where he most wanted to be.