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

Tempus Fugit

By L.M. Lewis

Mark was never in any hurry to get home on Tuesday nights. That evening was the weekly get-together of Hardcastle's infamous Jazzmasters and Courthouse Racketeers, and for three years he'd made every effort to have an alternative place to be during those sessions. Even the gatehouse was often not far enough.

Evening classes had picked up most of the slack, but now he was a full-time student with normal daytime class hours. If he didn't have a date for Tuesday evening he generally grabbed a burger somewhere, and then headed to the library for some peace and quiet.

Sometimes even that wasn't enough, especially if the quartet was tackling some particularly thorny musical problem—The Goldberg variations on "When the Saints Go Marching In"—but usually by the time he was heading up the drive he'd pass the judge's partners in crime leaving for home. He'd smile; he'd wave. He never bothered bidding them goodnight because they were all most likely stone deaf after an evening of hammering away at the Dixieland classics.

This particular Tuesday, though, he encountered no temporarily hard-of-hearing jurists in the driveway, nor were there any off-key and off-tempo passages drifting out over the estate. Mark frowned as he pulled in between the fountain and the front walk. He checked his watch and then glanced up at the light coming from the window of the blessedly silent den. It was possible, he supposed, that practice had been cancelled—called on account of illness or emergency.

He felt a slight twinge of guilt. He hadn't checked home, merely assumed that everything was as usual. He supposed Hardcastle might have said something that morning about a change in plans; he might not have been listening.

He climbed out of the Coyote, reached in and hauled out his books, and headed up to the door. Even though the hour was late, he knew he had a more or less standing invitation. He'd gotten in the habit right from the start, when coming in after hours, of at least sticking his head in and saying goodnight if the light was still on. Hardcase had seemed to expect it.

This time he didn't even knock. He did holler 'Hey, Judge?' as he opened the unlocked door. No immediate answer. Mark shook his head as he latched the door behind him. For a guy who'd made a lot of other people unhappy, Hardcastle was practically unreformable on the subject of household security.

He hollered again—still nothing, and no one in the den. The TV was off. None of the usual post Jazzmaster detritus was in evidence, so that looked to have been a wash. Mark squinted, trying to remember what Hardcastle might have said over breakfast—which had been hurried and early.

He was going into town—that was it. And something about not being here for dinner, with Hardcastle sounding unusually apologetic about that. Mark vaguely remembered having nodded in acknowledgment. There hadn't been, to the best of his recollection, any reference to the rest of the evening.

He dropped his books on the seat of the nearest chair and stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, just listening. No tell-tale sounds from the kitchen, no footsteps on the floorboards upstairs. He frowned, heading out into the hall again and from there to the back of the house, where he descended the stairs.

The door to the file room was closed. There was no light under it. Mark opened it anyway, finding the switch in the dark with a practiced hand. He wasn't sure why he'd bothered to turn it on. The room was empty. Well, not precisely empty. It was cluttered with the usual stuff, and some that could in no way be considered usual. He cast a sidewards and dyspeptic glance at a stack of photos that hadn't found their proper homes in the file cabinet drawers yet. No rest for the wicked.

He flicked the light off, plunging the untidiness back into darkness. He ascended the stairs with a deepening frown of puzzlement on his face. He retraced his route to the front of the house, and then climbed to the second floor with a certain amount of trepidation. He didn't think the judge could have slept through his two hollers, unless hewas sick.

But the door to the master bedroom was standing open. The bed was empty, and neatly made—as was Hardcastle's habit. Mark wasn't sure if seeing this was more a worry or relief.

Down the stairs, back to the kitchen, moving a little faster now. No notes on the table. No dishes in the sink. Out the back door and into the garage. The 'Vette and the truck both there. McCormick felt what was now clearly worry tightening the back of his neck. He hadn't seen any lights on at the gatehouse as he'd come in. There were seven acres of very dark estate out there.

Well, not entirely dark. The rising full moon had crested the Los Angeles skyline an hour or more ago. It was past the stage of astonishing bigness, but had achieved a useful angle, casting vague lunar shadows through the greenery and onto the back drive and the pool area. The lights were off there, too. His eyes, slowly adjusting now that he was outside, could make out considerably more detail—enough to be certain there was no Hardcastle lurking about, that much was clear.

But one thing was also becoming increasingly apparent. It was a nice night for a walk.

He felt his stiffened shoulders go slack. He leaned back against the wall, grinning with the relief of sudden ninety-nine percent certainty, and that based on so much previous experience that he would have been willing to make book on it.

Of course there was still that nagging, one percent outside chance. Even a guy who'd just gone for a stroll could have gotten into some kind of trouble. He gathered himself up and stuffed his hands in his pockets. No need for a flashlight, he'd decided, but he wasn't going to feel relaxed enough to turn in until he confirmed his bet.

He headed around the house and then across the lawn, aiming for the path that led down to the beach. The moon was gaining altitude and the brilliance of it was ethereal. He felt no desire to break the spell with more shouting. He could hear the waves now, and feel the wind coming up from across the ocean, cool and slightly tangy with salt.

From the top of the path he could see the stretch known as Seagull Beach, and out from there the silver-flecked water, with whitecaps rolling in long, slow, eternal succession. Out beyond that, over to the east, were the lights of the city.

But what he studied was the beach itself—the shadows among the few rocks and the even darker ones, almost directly below at the foot of the cliff. It only took a moment before he spotted the man, his identity obvious in his stance, though he was still too far away for very much detail. He was standing, three-quarters faced away, looking out at the panoramic view of ocean and further shore.

McCormick nodded once sharply to himself. He supposed he could collect on his bet now, if there'd been anyone to collect from besides the side of him that tended to worry too much—and too often with good reason. He also supposed he could turn around, leave the man to his solitude, and head off to bed.

But it was still a nice night for a walk.

He headed down the path, and took the flight of steps below with a steady, unhurried tread—no need for rushing, the ocean wasn't going anywhere. Hardcastle still hadn't taken any notice of him, and he felt a bit awkward, as though he really might be intruding. Too late to worry about that now; he was down on the sand. There wasn't anywhere to go, besides over to the man's side, that wouldn't be more awkward still.

He was within a dozen feet when he cleared his throat. As Hardcastle turned, looking half-startled, Mark said, "Nice evening, huh?"

The judge glanced back over his shoulder at the height of the moon, then quickly down at his watch, before returning his gaze to the obviously unexpected intruder again.

"Yeah," he said, with a quietude that bordered on pensive chagrin. "Didn't realize how late it was getting."

Mark wondered just how long the man had been out there, staring at the view and apparently thinking deep thoughts.

"No Jazzmasters tonight, huh?" he added, just to fill in the sudden silence.

Hardcastle was giving him an odd look. Mark frowned. He thought he might've slipped up.

"I told'ja that this morning," the judge said. "Musta been before you had your coffee." He shook his head slightly. "Hank had some kinda family thing to go to, and Barney was getting some crowns done—dental work's hell on the embouchure."

Mark made an 'Oh' and looked out across the water for a moment, then back again. "Sorry," he muttered. "Kinda distracted these days."

"That's okay," the judge said, and he sounded as if he meant it.

"Well, I woulda come home earlier if I'd known it was safe," Mark added with a quick grin.

"Nah, you had studying to do. That's important. Besides, I had stuff to do today, too." There was something a little off in the way he'd said it, as though the day hadn't gone all that well, but Mark didn't have any chance to respond before the judge added, in a rueful almost-mutter, "Things change."

There must have been a visible flash of guilt in McCormick's expression. He saw the older man wave it away in hasty reassurance.

"Nah, your part's good. I don't want you hanging around here when there's cases to be analyzed. That's your main job now. You got that, right?"

Mark nodded. He still couldn't help a twinge of worry—mostly that if Hardcastle got too bored, he was liable to find some trouble to get into, all by himself.

"Well," he said, sounding falsely cheerful, even to himself, "I still gotta eat. We could've at least had dinner."

The judge raised one eyebrow, just slightly. "You don't remember that part, either, huh? I'm gonna start writing it all down for ya, I think. I told you I wouldn't be here for that, either."

Mark did recall it, a moment too late to be useful.

"Tomorrow night, though, think you could make it home for that?" Hardcastle asked.

"Ah," Mark thought a moment, still feeling like he was missing something. He pulled himself together and finally said, "Yeah," with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than it required.

"Good," the judge said, adding a quick nod. Then there was a pause followed by a vague gesture and, "You oughta go get some sleep then."

Mark stood there, feeling dismissed but still not certain what was going on.

"What about you?" he asked lightly. "It's not past your bedtime, huh?"

"I'm retired," Hardcastle huffed, "I don't have to get up in the morning." He might have also been trying for casual, but it had come out awkward and sounding a little self-conscious.

A light dawned for McCormick. It was several magnitudes brighter than the moon. He cast a surreptitious glance down at his watch—for the date, not the time. One week being very much like another, these days, he had a tendency to lose track.

"Three years ago tomorrow," he murmured, then he looked up decisively. "I think you owe me a steak, at least."

The older man might have been standing by ready to repel boarders, if they had come offering sympathy. This slightly aggrieved approach was apparently unexpected.

"I owe you a steak?" he said with no little indignation. "I'm the one 'celebrating' three years sitting on the sidelines." There was a bitter snap to the idea that he had anything to celebrate.

Mark grimaced slightly but didn't back down. "Three years. Absolutely. I must've set some kind of record here, haven't I? A pizza and a Twinkie was good enough for one year of indentured servitude, but I think after three, I've earned at least a steak."

"Servitude?" Hardcastle sputtered. "It's not exactly like you're chained to the galley oar, McCormick. You're a law student—"

"And you're sitting on the sidelines about as much as Tommy Lasorda does," Mark said with studied complacency. "Maybe you're not throwing the ball so much any more, but you're still coaching."

McCormick wasn't sure if this was exactly what the older man wanted to hear, but it was the truth, and he figured that would have to do. Once it was out he cringed, waiting for the judge's response.

There was nothing for a few moments—nothing noticeable, at any rate. Hardcastle simply stood there, as if he were giving it some thought. Maybe he hadn't been expecting the truth.

"Yeah," the older man finally said, "time to bring some fresh talent up from the minors, I guess." He said that much with an air of confidence in the extended metaphor, but close on that came something very nearly a sigh. "I dunno how good I'll be at this managing thing, though. I've always been a hands on kind of guy."

"Tell me about it." Mark couldn't tamp down the grin. "Criminal justice for the do-it-yourselfer."

Then that grin diminished quickly to a concerned smile. "What the heck happened today, anyhow?"

A shrug from Hardcastle, and Mark thought for a moment that was all he was going to get. Then finally, "Went down to the courthouse—you know, supposed to have dinner with Jenkins and a couple of cronies. The old-timers, like me." He flashed a swift small smile that didn't look like it had a chance of holding on that otherwise sober face. "Sid was on vacation. There was a new bailiff there—never seen him before and he didn't know me from Adam's off ox. Wanted to see some ID, before he'd let me in the back . . . shoulda figured that was a sign." The smile was gone completely. What remained was a rueful expression.

"So we headed up to Lawry's—me and Jenkins and a couple of the other guys, got a table. Pretty busy, though, for a week night."

Mark thought this had the air of a stall but he kept his mouth shut. Urging the man to spit it out would just be offering him the distraction of a squabble. He was right, with only willing silence confronting Hardcastle, the delay amounted to no more than another sigh.

"We got to talking, ya know. Well, they got to talking. Some new policy from Sacramento that had everybody's shorts in a knot . . . and lots of office stuff."

Mark nodded. "Made you feel a little out of it, huh?"

Hardcastle shot him a look, as if he hadn't quite gotten to the point where he'd planned on admitting that. Then he returned the nod with some obvious reluctance.

"Elections are coming up, you know. That was the other thing. Stoddard, the guy who got appointed to my seat, he's running for a full term."

McCormick was pretty sure he hadn't voiced the 'Ahh' out loud. He might just as well have, though. Hardcastle gave him another sharp glance.

"Is he a shoo-in?" Mark asked with studied nonchalance.

Hardcastle hmmphed. "Nobody is anymore. Used to be the governor appointed 'em and the voters put the rubber stamp on it . . . as long as you didn't make a public ass of yourself."

The man wore a hint of a scowl, as though he was waiting for the donkey remark to come trotting out. Mark didn't oblige.

"Well," the judge finally plodded on, "can't say that was all that good a system—but now there's special interest groups all over the place, and if they don't like how you see things, they'll stir it all up, sic their public relations people on it, spend a mess of money to get a guy voted out."

"I think you got out just in the nick of time." Mark smiled. "You were bound to have offended somebody." He managed to get it out as intended—a fact, not a jibe.

Hardcastle pursed his lips and appeared to accept it, nodding slowly. "It's not that I minded being accountable and . . . yeah, Stoddard is a solid middle-of-the-road guy. He'll retain the seat."

"Then that's it."

The judge looked up suddenly. "Huh?"

"It was real before. But now it'll be really real. He won't be just a stand-in anymore, once he's elected."

"Three years isn't exactly a stand-in, kiddo."

There was a long moment of silence and the feeling of unfinished conversation.

Mark finally stifled a sigh and asked, "Do you regret it?"

"No," Hardcastle shot back, as though he'd been expecting the question, maybe asking himself the same one all evening.

"Good," Mark said, just as quickly, "because you've done as much from the sidelines as you ever did out there on the field."

Hardcastle looked at him. It was an uncanny, unfamiliar expression whose meaning took a while to register in Mark's mind.

It's doubt.

"You have," he insisted. "You've saved lives." He wasn't going to add that the first name on that list was his own, and that he meant it literally. He hoped the intensity in his voice at least conveyed that much.

It must have. The expression of self-doubt had softened. It looked persuadable, if not yet convinced.

"Maybe," Hardcastle muttered. "I dunno—I suppose, maybe a couple."

"One would have been enough for me," Mark said quietly. "But it was more than that."

The judge quirked a half-smile and then, with a lighter tone that seemed to indicate a change of topic, "You sure I owe you a steak dinner?"

"Absolutely."

"How 'bout prime rib?"

"Two nights in a row?"

"Didn't have much appetite today." Hardcastle shook his head. "All that politics and office talk puts a man off his feed."

"I promise, no office talk tomorrow. I haven't got one. And I'll even vote against Stoddard if it'll make you happy."

"Nah," Hardcastle said with a grin. "He's the right man for the job, and he's stuck with it now."

"Good," Mark said, hoping his relief wasn't too obvious. "I'd hate to have to move all those file cabinets back to your old chambers."

"They wouldn't fit." Hardcastle was back to a thoughtful half-frown. "Not that they couldn't use a good culling. Stuff goes out of date all the time. Out with the old, make room for the new."

"Ack—three years worth?" Mark groaned.

"Now you're cookin'." The judge lifted his chin and smiled the beatific smile of the newly virtuous. "We can start this weekend."

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Author's Postscript: Three years and 85 stories since my first posting to ffnet. Many thanks to all the kind readers and a very special thank you to the patient betas who've put up with it all: Cheri, straight through almost from day one, SusanZ, always there with back story details and encouragement, and of course Owl, the fastest blue (or mauve, or green) pencil in the West—ever there with sensible advice at very odd hours.