All the usual disclaimers apply. The guys don't belong to me, and I'm only borrowing them and the show.
This story follows after 'The birthday present' and 'Surprise on Seagull Beach'.
Do unto others
Hardcastle took one final look at the beach below him and sighed. He supposed Nancy would actually have been happy to see the teenagers on the beach, enjoying the sun and the ocean waves. Still, he would miss being able to go down to the beach in private and reminisce about the times they had spent there together. He had spent many pleasant hours with his wife on the beach, with the high point being the day he had proposed to her. In some ways, the beach had been the foundation of their marriage. Then again, perhaps some of the teenagers laughing in the sun today could build their own futures on the same foundation.
Noting that McCormick was busy filling in all the holes made by the Nazis in search of the gold, he turned away and walked slowly back to the main house. Absently, he rubbed the middle of his chest. The ache had been constant since his discharge from the hospital a few weeks back, although it had been getting better. He'd made a point of not mentioning the pain in front of Mark, as he was sure that the younger man blamed himself for Weed Randall's actions. How Mark thought he could have prevented the other man from shooting him in open court, he didn't know, but sometimes there was just no reasoning with the younger man. Not to mention, Mark would have had him back at the hospital if he'd had any idea that Milt wasn't feeling his best yet. And the constant attention and concern for Hardcastle's health was sometimes a little wearing on the nerves.
Hardcastle had tried talking about the whole incident with Mark, but the younger man was silent as the proverbial grave on the whole subject. That alone was an indication that something more than the obvious was bothering Mark, but experience had taught the judge that nothing would get Mark to talk until he was ready. Granted, being ready to talk had never taken this long before, but there was a first time for everything. This situation wasn't quite what either of them had planned on when starting their unorthodox partnership.
Hardcastle walked slowly into the den and settled into his favourite chair. Letting himself relax started to sooth the ache in his chest, as he'd hoped it would. He was tired of taking pain killers. They only made him sleepy and took the edge off his thinking. The chime of the doorbell was an unwelcome interruption, and for a moment he considered ignoring it entirely. The thought that it might be one of his neighbours, come to find out whether there was anything wrong after the day's excitement, was the only thing that got him moving stiffly to his feet.
Opening the door, he found himself face to face with a furtive-looking teenager, dressed only in shorts. Hardcastle thought he should be able to put a name to the face in front of him, but nothing came to mind. Holding the door open with one hand, he gestured vaguely in the air with the other, "Can I help you?" His interest was piqued by the way the teenager took a quick look around, as though expecting someone to appear behind him. "Look, Judge Hardcastle, can I come in for a minute?" The air of mystery was too good to pass up, and the judge stepped aside in silent invitation, letting the young man slide past him into the hallway. Leading the way to the den, Hardcastle settled himself in his chair, indicating with a wave of his hand that his visitor should make himself comfortable.
Sitting down gingerly on the very edge of the chair, the teenager seemed unsure about how to begin. Taking mercy on him, Hardcastle decided to start things off, "So, you know who I am. And you are …" "I'm Razz. From earlier, on the beach? And maybe, Mark mentioned me from before?" The hopeful tone indicated that Razz really didn't want to explain to the judge how he and Mark had met. The group of surfers had been using Hardcastle's private beach for much longer than the judge knew, and Mark had seen them weeks earlier. At Hardcastle's nod of recognition, some of the tension seemed to leach out of the surfer's frame. "I don't want to pry, Judge Hardcastle, but how much has Mark told you about what happened today?"
"Well, he told me about the Nazis, the gold and the fact that the two of you got caught. And then he told the Nazis where to find me." The facts weren't in dispute, and Razz nodded his head. "I thought so! But, sir, that wasn't everything that happened." Hardcastle's expression started to darken, in spite of the kid's excessive politeness. "It's nothing bad, honest. I just thought you should know what he did for me. He said it wasn't important, and the police didn't need to know, so I haven't told anyone. I just thought someone ought to know." Hardcastle's interest was evident by now, and he nodded for the young surfer to go on. "They didn't believe him when he said he didn't know anything about the gold, so they hit him. They really seemed to enjoy hurting him. When he still wouldn't talk, they got out this stick-type thing and showed it to us. It had these two little round bumps on the end, and it made this crackling noise. I don't know what you call it …" Hardcastle quietly interrupted, "A cattle prod."
"Oh, okay. Well, anyway, they used it on him, sir. It was horrible. I could hear them laughing about it, and …" Suddenly, the teenager's face paled, and he swallowed hard. By now, Hardcastle was leaning forward in his chair. "It's okay, kid, you don't have to say any more." "But I do, sir. He didn't say anything to make them stop. I could even hear how he was trying to keep quiet. I know it was because he didn't want to scare me. He just let them do it. Then they said that I was next. That was when he told them to come and find you. He saved me and I couldn't just let it go like he wants me to. Someone needs to know what he did for me. I know he said it wasn't important, but it is to me." Razz was almost in tears now, desperate to get his point across to someone who knew Mark.
"It's okay, kid" Hardcastle knew he was repeating himself, but at the moment, he didn't know what else to do. He was too appalled to think straight. How could Mark not have told him any of this? Then the guilt reared its ugly head; he'd accused the kid of selling him out, and it wasn't true. Putting that thought aside to deal with later, Hardcastle focused on dealing with the young surfer instead. "You've done what you needed to do, okay. You've told me. I can take it from here. I know what he did, and I'll make sure that the police know as well." Uppermost in Hardcastle's mind was the need to make sure that Frank charged the Nazis with assault because of what they had done to Mark. But that meant that he would have to get the kid to admit to what had happened, or the assault charges wouldn't stick in court.
"But, Mark said they didn't need to know. If you tell them, he'll know I was here!" Razz bounced off his chair and stood in front of the judge. "I promised him I wouldn't tell." "Don't worry about it, son. I'll make sure he tells me about it himself. I won't let him know that you and I had this little chat." Razz looked so relieved, Hardcastle almost laughed out loud. Anyone who knew Mark, knew that his bark was much worse than his bite. Razz obviously didn't know Mark nearly as well as he thought he did.
Down on the beach, Mark sighed and pushed his curly hair out of his eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last few minutes. Perhaps it was time to get it trimmed a little. That should make the judge happy, as he was always complaining that Mark looked like he'd just been pulled through a bush backwards. Wiping his sweaty hand on his shorts, he winced as the raw patches of skin around his wrists caught on the rough material. He had to give the Nazis their due; they definitely knew how to tie good knots. No matter how much he'd struggled, there'd been no way to get the ropes untied.
In spite of the heat on the beach, Mark felt cold as he thought of the cattle prod, and how little his suffering had meant to the man wielding it. There had been a time when he'd thought that money was one of the most important things in the world, and one of the few things worth having. It was amazing how different things seemed after a couple of years with Hardcastle. Material possessions were incidental to the judge. Mark smiled at the thought that judge would be the same person even if he were dirt poor. In the uncertainty of the modern world, Hardcastle's character was a comforting anachronism.
Flapping his shirt to cool himself off a little, Mark felt the sweat stinging on the electrical burns on his chest. He would have loved to take his shirt off and let the sun bake the chill from his bones, but then Hardcastle would be sure to see the marks. He didn't want to deal with questions from the other man at the moment; it was still too soon after the shooting. Mark knew he was probably being over-protective, but Hardcastle was the closest thing he had to family. Nearly losing the judge had scared him badly, and he was determined to keep anything from upsetting the older man until Charlie Friedman said that Hardcastle was okay.
Looking around, Mark decided the rest of the clean-up could wait until morning. What he needed now was a shower and then something quick and easy for dinner. He'd take a quick detour through the main house before he cleaned up to see what the judge wanted to eat.
Climbing up the cliff to the estate proper took most of Mark's remaining energy. He dragged himself across the lawn, noting its perfectly-mown state with a sudden flash of pride, and slipped quietly into the house. If the judge was taking a nap, he'd leave just as quietly and come back later. Popping his head around the door to the den, he saw that Hardcastle was wide awake, but seemingly deep in thought. "Hi, Judge. Just thought I'd stop in on my way to the shower, to see what you'd like for dinner tonight. I'll get started as soon as I get all this sand off me."
Hardcastle blinked, as though suddenly aware that he was being watched. "Oh, hi Mark. Take your time in the shower. I've put that lasagne Claudia made in the oven. You know, the one she made you when I was in the hospital; the one you never ate." Mark had the grace to look away at the mention of his behaviour while the judge was in the hospital. Hardcastle had already yelled at him for neglecting himself and spending all his time sitting in the visitor's chair next to the judge's bed. "Enough already, Hardcase, you've already read me the riot act on that. Besides, I did eat the other food she had Frank drop off, but without you in the house, it was difficult to get through the amount of food she made. Everyone thinks I'm the only one who likes a good meal, Judge, but you and I know the truth. You can eat more than I do, if the mood takes you."
Hardcastle actually looked a little sheepish at that. "It's the result of a good, solid country upbringing, you know. A hearty appetite is a good thing. Gives you energy to do all your chores." A large grin met Mark's inelegant snort of disgust. "In that case, Hardcase, I don't think I've eaten nearly enough to do all the chores around here." At that, the judge just laughed and waved Mark towards the stairs. "Why don't you just take that shower here, kiddo. The lasagne should be heated soon, and I think you left some clothes in one of the spare rooms a couple of weeks ago." Mark twitched guiltily, and Hardcastle snickered at the action. "You think I didn't know you were sleeping here when I got out of the hospital? All those naps you had me taking in the afternoons left me wide awake some nights. You do know you snore, right?" Mark just shook his head and sighed, "Only when I'm really tired, Judge. And now, I think I'll go take that shower."
Twenty minutes later, Mark felt almost human again. The last of the beach sand had been washed down the shower drain, and the clothes he'd been wearing all day were in the laundry hamper. Digging through the stuff he'd left in the spare room, he finally found the softest shirt in the pile and pulled it on over his head. It still felt uncomfortable on the burns, but not enough that he'd let anything slip to the judge. Wandering down the stairs barefooted, he heard the judge taking the lasagne out the oven. Rushing into the kitchen, he grabbed a towel and took the dish from the judge's hands. "Why didn't you call me, Judge? You should be taking it easy, not carrying stuff around." Leading the way to the dining room, Mark placed the dish on the table before pulling out a chair for the older man to sit on. When Hardcastle looked like he was going to protest, Mark simply dished up a serving of lasagne and placed the plate in front of the judge. Biting back a comment, the judge tucked into the food.
Waiting until Mark was settled and eating his own dinner, Hardcastle took the plunge. "By the way, kiddo, Frank said to tell you he'll pop around tomorrow to get a complete statement from you about what happened today." Frank hadn't said anything, and the judge hadn't actually spoken to him since he'd left the estate earlier in the day. But what McCormick didn't know, might just be enough to get the kid talking. And Hardcastle's story had the advantage of being at least partly true. He'd heard what Mark had told Frank earlier, and what Razz had told Hardcastle later hadn't figured in Mark's version of events at all.
Mark stopped eating and gave the judge a long, considering look. "I don't know what you've been telling him, Judge, but I already gave him a complete statement. Before I went back down to the beach." Hardcastle shook his head, "He says that what they've been saying doesn't match the version you gave him. And if he can't figure out the discrepancies, they could get away with everything." Hardcastle was deliberately not looking directly at Mark, but he could sense the younger man was uneasy at the thought of the would-be Nazis walking away from a prison term. "I'm not pleased about it, but the worst damage they did was to the beach, so I guess if that's all they can charge them with, then they'll only get probationary sentences."
"But, how can you just sit there and say it's okay! After what they did …" Mark suddenly realised that he'd said more than he'd intended. Ducking his head, he tried to control his emotions, "but if you're okay with them walking, then who am I to complain? It's your beach, after all." "Now I'm interested, kiddo. What exactly did they do, that has you so worked up?" Hardcastle's tone was gentle and concerned, and Mark could feel his resistance weakening by the second. "Nothing I didn't deserve, Judge, so just let it go." Hoping to deflect the judge's interest, Mark tried a diversion, "Hey, you never did tell me how you proposed to your wife on the beach, Judge. Tell me, just how romantic are you really? Was it a big production, you know, soft music, flowers?"
But this time, Hardcastle wasn't going to let himself be distracted. "I'm starting to get the feeling that Frank's right. There's something you're not telling me here, Mark, and I think it's time you came clean. What, exactly, happened to you today? And by 'exactly', McCormick, I mean details. Specifics about who did what, when, and so on. No leaving out things you think I don't need to know."
"Calm down, Judge, just take it easy. I'll go talk to Frank tomorrow. Don't upset yourself about this; it's nothing important." Mark hoped the judge would let it go, but the older man had taken as much coddling as he could stomach. "Enough, McCormick. This stops now. I am quite capable of looking after myself, and I doubt very much that anything you could tell me will upset me so much that I'd have a relapse. They wouldn't have let me out of the hospital if they thought I couldn't manage to get through the day without a nursemaid. And they let me out a few weeks ago, in case you've forgotten. So spill the beans, I'm waiting!" Hardcastle settled himself in the chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and directed a stern glare at the younger man.
Mark sighed and gave in to the inevitable. "Okay, but if you start to feel bad, you let me know and I'll call Charlie for you." Hardcastle nodded, willing to agree to almost anything Mark suggested if it would get the younger man talking. "I'll admit, I didn't tell Frank everything today. But you were there, and I didn't want to upset you. And anyway, it's not like it wasn't my own fault, so I didn't really have a right to complain." At Hardcastle's glower, Mark's gaze dropped to the table and his uneaten dinner. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore; he wasn't really sure he'd been hungry before this conversation started.
"They really wanted to know where the gold was, Judge, and I didn't have a clue what they were going on about. I figured that they'd give up after a while and let us go, but I was wrong. They thought I was just being stubborn …" Hardcastle's snicker sounded loudly in the quiet room. "Okay, okay, laugh if you must. I'll have you know I learned from the best." Mark fixed the judge with a mock-stern look. "Anyway, they decided to try a little physical persuasion. And that obviously worked, as you already know, because I sent them here to you. But it's nothing serious, Judge, so don't go getting all bent out of shape about it."
Hardcastle was less than impressed by Mark's logic. Remembering something Mark had said earlier, he decided to get to the bottom of things once and for all. "So, it's okay to let them hurt you. In what world could you possibly think that you deserved that?" Mark's silence left the judge free to rant. "I know you're sometimes not the brightest bulb in the box, kiddo, but that kind of thinking is unacceptable. I don't ever want to hear that sort of thing from you again." He emphasised his point by thumping his finger firmly on the table in front of the younger man. "Are we clear?"
"No, we're not, Hardcase. Don't you get it? You could have died, and it's all my fault." Mark's agonised tone made it clear that he'd given this a lot of thought. Hardcastle had a feeling he knew where this was leading, but getting Mark to say it out loud was the only way to clear the air. "They wouldn't have killed me, kiddo. They only wanted the gold." Playing dumb wasn't the judge's strong suit, but Mark was upset enough not to notice the deliberate misunderstanding.
"Not today, Judge. Weed Randall. I'm the one who dug up the information that got him back into court. I'm the one who got everything on track for you to go back to the bench. And then he shot you, and you almost died. And I ended up killing him, Judge, and I didn't want to. But whether it was something I wanted or not, I did it, and … I was raised Catholic, Judge. Murder is a sin. Plain and simple. And every sin has a penance." By now, Mark was on the verge of tears.
Hardcastle waited until he was sure Mark was finished talking, then he spoke, keeping his voice calm and quiet. "You know, killing someone to save another person or yourself, is not the same as murder. Not in the eyes of the law. And while I may not know what's going on in God's mind, I can't believe that He'd punish you for doing something to save someone else. He may be disappointed in the way things turned out, but I don't think He'd be disappointed in you. Weed forced your hand." When Mark looked as though he was about to protest, Hardcastle waved him to silence. " I know he did, because Frank told me what happened. And being forced to kill is not the same as planning a murder."
Mark's stillness showed that he was at least listening to the judge. Hardcastle could only hope that the younger man was thinking hard about what he'd just said. "And, as for everything being your fault … well, I just plain don't agree with that. Are you sure you haven't been in the peanuts while I was in the hospital? You know, too many of those will make you crazy." Finally, Mark risked a quick glance at the judge, to find the other man watching him from across the table. Now sure that he was getting through, Hardcastle continued, "I know you feel bad about what happened in the courtroom that day, but Weed shot me, not you. You were only trying to do something good, for a friend;" Mark's glance at the judge was a little less haunted, "that it went wrong is not your fault. The only person responsible for what happened to me, is Weed Randall; he pulled the trigger, and he carries the responsibility for that, and for what he made you do."
"But, Judge, I still killed him. I held your gun on him, and I'm the one who pulled the trigger. How can I not be responsible for that? I deserve to suffer because of what I did." Mark's desire to believe the judge was clear, but his own finely developed sense of guilt was holding him back. Hardcastle shook his head and asked, "Was shooting him your first choice, Mark?" Mark vehemently shook his head. "God, no, Judge. I begged him not to make me do it, but he just wouldn't back down. And then, I could just see he was going to shoot Sandy. I couldn't let him do that; no matter how I feel about Sandy. So I shot him. And now, I keep seeing him in my dreams, Judge. Nearly every night, he's there; he never says anything, he just stands there looking at me. And I don't know how to make him go away."
Hardcastle rubbed absently on his chest as he sighed. "And this is why you think you deserve what happened to you today? Personally, if you're intent on suffering for what you did, don't you think the memories of Weed are enough? You'll live with that for the rest of your life, and it'll make life more valuable to you. You'll always think more than once before you act, and you'll always see the other guy's point of view when you make a decision. That's a penance of sorts. Life is more complicated for you now, but I think you're more than equal to dealing with it."
Hardcastle's simple faith in his ability to cope with whatever life threw at him was enough to jolt Mark out of his darker thoughts. "So you don't think I deserved what happened to me today, Judge." Mark's statement was actually more of a question, and Hardcastle shook his head gently. "Of course, kiddo, it would help if I knew exactly what we were talking about here." One hand made a gentle sweeping motion, inviting Mark to keep talking. "Well, they tried the usual backhanding technique first. I really wish the bad guys would skip that one; it never works and I just end up with a sore face." Mark managed a small smile at Hardcastle's snicker on this observation. "When that didn't work, they got a little more creative, with a cattle prod. You don't really want specifics on that, do you, Judge?" Mark's tone was plaintive, a plea to just let the whole thing go.
"You can skip the number of times they used it on you, kiddo. But that was why you told them where to find me?" The leading question got a quick shake of the head from Mark. Hardcastle had thought that Mark couldn't lie to him, and he was pleased to see his instincts were still right on target. "Not really, Hardcase. You remember that surfer kid, Razz?" Hardcastle nodded. "Well, when I didn't tell them what they wanted to know, they threatened to do the same thing to him. And he didn't deserve that, so I had to tell them where to find you."
"So, you neglected your own personal safety to look after his?" The question was so pointed that Mark finally looked the judge in the eye. Hardcastle steeled himself to say the next words. He had never been comfortable with emotional confidences, but in the face of Mark's pain, he figured a little personal embarrassment was a small price to pay. "I'm proud of you, Mark. You did something special today. You did what you could to help someone else, just like you did for Sandy when Weed wanted to shoot him. If that's your penance, then it's only going to make you an even better person than you are now." Mark shook his head sharply, but Hardcastle wasn't going to be deterred. "And now, I think it's time you called Charlie Friedman for me."
Mark was on his feet at once, torn between heading for the telephone and wanting to know what was wrong. "Not for me, kiddo, for you. However many burns you're hiding under that shirt, I think they need to be seen to." Mark's hand strayed unconsciously to where the worst of the burns were, touching gently on the shirt. "Not to mention, you could use something for those rope burns on your wrists. Charlie won't mind making a house call. And then, you're not doing one more bit of work on that beach until Charlie says you can."
"But, Judge, there's nothing wrong with me. Honest." Mark sounded truly horrified at the thought of being unable to do anything physical. Just because he complained about all the work around the estate didn't mean that he really didn't enjoy a lot of it. "Ah, see, McCormick, it's different when you're the one being coddled, isn't it?" Hardcastle's question brought home to Mark how much he'd been hovering since the judge had been shot, and he sheepishly ducked his head, then laughed. "Okay, Judge, you win. If I stop hovering, and see Charlie tonight, will you let me back on the beach tomorrow?"
"With two conditions, kiddo. One, you call Frank tomorrow and tell him the truth about what happened. Those guys need to pay for what they did to you. And two, you have to sleep here tonight, kiddo, where I can keep an eye on you. Sometimes the best way to banish a nightmare is the company of those who care for you." Hardcastle's words had a ring of truth gained from experience, and Mark gave in with a good grace. "Okay, Judge. But from tomorrow, it's back to normal, right?" Basking in the warmth of Hardcastle's broad smile, Mark went to call Charlie Friedman. As he waited for the doctor to answer his telephone, Mark reflected on a paradoxical truth; sometimes, bad things happened just to show you how lucky you really were.