Author's Note: This is a play-by-play of sorts of several consecutive scenes from the episode "The Homecoming: Part 1." There are a few lines of dialogue directly from the episode, but most of this is descriptive, ending with a extension of the scene with Mark and Christy by the reservoir.

-ck

Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, not for profit.

THE HOMECOMING: ESCAPE AND RESCUE

by InitialLuv

He'd been running almost solely on adrenaline, since he'd tripped the alarm opening the safe, and had to make the split-second decision to stash the land bids. There'd been a bit of a lull at the sheriff's department, when he'd been processed (something that was so familiar it had become almost commonplace) and then given his obligatory phone call. But when he'd begun to plan his escape, the adrenaline had started to surge again. It had been grueling, waiting under the cot for his chance to make a move, and when Bellows had stepped up to the edge of the cot, Mark had grabbed at his leg with a quickness borne of relief and excitement. He'd actually hit the man harder than he'd meant to, but there was no time to feel remorse, as there were important things that needed to be done. Broadmore, Carter, and Paxton had abducted Hardcastle. Christy, who had been hiding nearby in her rental car, had overheard that that they were planning on killing him. Specifically by sending him "swimming" in the town's reservoir.

If Christy seemed surprised with his familiarity and ease in escaping a jail – and procuring a weapon – she didn't show it. She regarded quietly as he secured Bellows in the cell, and other than urging him to hurry, she was just as quiet as she followed his terse directions: taking the phones off the hook, and finding the correct ammo for the shotgun he grabbed. It helped that she obviously knew her way with weapons. Mark absently remembered how she'd said she'd defended herself from the intruders at the farm, and deduced she must have learned how to handle a gun from her father. Maybe they'd gone hunting together.

He handed Christy her purse and tossed Bellows' keys onto a desk. The two exited the building and headed for the Coyote, having to briefly duck down against the outside wall as a squad car and a police four-by-four cruised by. McCormick caught sight of the driver of the squad car, and saw it was Hardcastle. It was the briefest of glimpses, but there was no mistaking the Yankees ball cap.

Mark kept a close eye on the direction of the police vehicles, starting his car and pulling away from the curb purely by muscle memory. He stayed far enough back so that his recognizable car wouldn't be seen, but that created another complication: once they were on the open road, McCormick was relatively lost. He was glad to have Christy as his partner in this escape and rescue, as he desperately needed a guide. He also needed a steady hand. Because not only was the adrenaline making his body tensely alert and his heart beat double-time, full-blown fear was settling in. He could taste the acrid tang of terror coming up from his gut, and he had to clench the steering wheel that much tighter to keep his hands from shaking. He raced through the unfamiliar landscape, following the same general route the squad car and the police truck had taken, until he realized he needed another strategy. He slowed the Coyote and looked around impatiently.

"Is there another way to the reservoir?"

Christy was able to direct him to a road that led to a hill overlooking the reservoir. It was a decent vantage point for his quick and dirty rescue attempt, allowing him to attack from above. He and Christy moved to the edge of the hill and saw they were almost too late.

The police truck and the squad car were parked on the road below the hill. Broadmore and Carter were standing outside the squad car, which was parked perilously close to the edge of the cliff right above the reservoir. The police truck was behind the squad car, in prime position to push the car out over the cliff.

When McCormick saw Carter pistol-whip the judge, anger flooded into him, fighting the fear, and he pump-cocked the shotgun. He shouted out a warning, his voice hard and threatening.

"Move that car one more inch, and you're dead!"

He didn't really make a conscious choice after that. It was all reflex: crouching down to fire on the vehicles, attempting to disable the police truck, and hoping to not injure anyone. The emergency lights on the top of the four-by-four exploded into flying shards of colored plastic.

Then, suddenly, almost too late became completely too late. Broadmore and Carter scuttled back to the truck, and Carter immediately put the vehicle into gear, driving forward enough to push the squad car ahead. Mark and Christy ran back to the Coyote – as McCormick had been unable to shoot out the truck's tires, he knew Carter and Broadmore would soon be pursuing them. But while Christy climbed into the car, Mark found himself suddenly paralyzed. Even from farther back on the hill he was able to see the squad car, pushed out into nothingness, plummet to the water below with a terrific splash. At the exact moment the car hit the water, the breath seemed to leave Mark's body; he felt his hands grow numb and he nearly dropped the shotgun. His eyes were glued to the car sinking into the water, the bubbles rising to the surface around it. Nothing else seemed to matter.

"Get out of there, kiddo! Go!"

The words exploded in his head as if Hardcastle had shouted in his ear. He knew it was just a trick of his over-worked brain, but he also knew that the imagined voice was right. After pushing the squad car into the drink, Carter had turned the police truck around to aim it back up the dirt road, his intention clear: now that Hardcastle was taken care of, it was time to tie up the loose ends named Mark and Christy.

McCormick's paralysis broke. He leapt into his car, looked grimly at Christy, then peeled away.

He'd driven harder and faster on the racetrack, and since he'd hooked up with Hardcastle, he'd definitely driven just as recklessly, generally in pursuit of random bad guys. But he didn't know if he'd ever before driven with such need. This race also had twin goals: he had to evade Carter and Broadmore in their police truck, and get back to the reservoir. And he needed to get back there now. He didn't know how long the squad car had been underwater, but he knew it had been too long.

On the country roads and in the rural terrain, the police four-by-four was the better vehicle, but McCormick was the better driver – and the Coyote was faster. Mark was once again functioning on adrenaline and reflex. It was how he'd succeeded on the racing circuit, and it was the best way he knew to achieve his current goals. And it worked, at least on one level: he was able to soar his race car over a small hill that the police truck couldn't navigate. Once he landed the Coyote in the grassy field below, he sped over to the road and fish-tailed the car in the direction that Christy indicated. Attempting to achieve goal number two.

He was barely aware of parking the Coyote, or any words he might've shouted at Christy. He hurtled out of the car and ran for the water, ripping off his jacket and pulling off his shoes. He dove in with no idea of where to search, or what he might find. The water was still murky with the sand and dirt that had been kicked up from the bottom when the squad car had plunged into the reservoir. The grit got into his eyes and mouth and ears. He surfaced long enough to gasp a breath, then went under again. And again. And again.

"Mark! Mark, don't!"

He was oblivious to her calls as he dove back into the chilly water. Trying to stay under as long as he could, trying to go deep enough to find . . . whatever there was to find. But he could barely see the outline of the squad car, and he couldn't hold his breath long enough to reach it. He broke the water's surface again, inhaled deeply, and hollered to the sky.

"HARDCASTLE!"

Then Christy was wading into the water, grabbing him, attempting to talk sense into him. Trying to drag him out so he wouldn't meet the same fate as the judge. And even as he refused to listen, even as he pulled away to again scream the judge's name, he knew . . . there was nothing more he could do.

Hardcastle was gone.

The adrenaline that had kept him going since before dawn finally ran out. Exhaustion set in, accompanied by hopeless despair. He allowed himself to be drawn toward the shore, but he couldn't seem to look away from the water. He was gasping and coughing, almost retching.

"Mark. Mark! We have to go." Christy grasped his shoulders, shaking him slightly. He slowly turned to face her.

"What? Go?" His voice was toneless with fatigue and grief. He felt . . . empty.

"They'll be coming back. They'll be looking for us." She looked around fearfully, as if expecting the sheriff and the mayor to jump out from the shadows.

"I. . . I can't leave." Mark turned back to the water. He was still breathing hard and sopping wet, the water from his hair dripping into his eyes and running down his face in tracks. Possibly mixing with tears. "I can't –" His legs suddenly lost all feeling, and he collapsed to the ground.

She sat down next to him and embraced him. He sat listlessly, not speaking. The only movement he made was an intermittent shudder.

Christy drew back to regard him seriously. "Mark, listen to me. The judge wouldn't want us to be caught. You know if Broadmore and Sheriff Carter find us, they'll kill us."

Mark was silent, but he managed a small nod. Quickly she moved away to grab his jacket, returning to drape it around his shoulders. He pulled it around himself, trembling with the cold and the shock, and watched dully as Christy retrieved his shoes. When she set about putting them on his feet he pushed her away weakly. "I c-can do that," he objected, even as he stuttered from the sudden chill that was permeating his body.

She ignored his protests, quickly slipping the footwear on and loosely tying the laces. Yeah, I probably wouldn't have been able to do that, Mark thought bleakly. He could barely feel his fingers.

As if she could read his mind, Christy took his frozen hands in her own, rubbing them vigorously, one at a time. Talking as she did it. He struggled to pay attention.

"If you can walk, we have to go. We have to find someplace to go, to hide." Christy's head lifted and she gazed thoughtfully toward the horizon, at something that wasn't there.

"I d-don't know where to g-go, Christy. I don't even r-really know where we are, what's around us." He inhaled shakily. "I don't know what to d-do."

Hardcastle would know what to do.

Would've known.

The chill was now sinking into his soul, into his very being. He dropped his head and fought to breathe.

Christy looked back, suddenly focused. She touched his face, made him look at her. "I think I have an idea. A place not too far. Hopefully it's far enough. . . Can you get up?"

He tried, and found he could. He could talk, and walk. And drive. He could always drive.

But he didn't think he could drive far enough or fast enough to escape this numbing sorrow.

And he didn't know if he'd ever feel warm again.

END

A/N: Okay, this has nothing to do with the story, but. . . Last week, I was watching a baseball game, Brewers at Cubs (Brewers won, by the way). Anyway, during commercial breaks, I saw several ads for McCormick Law Offices. I think it's a personal injury firm.

Every time the commercial came on, I smiled. I think most Hardcastle and McCormick fans would get a kick out of it, as well.

-ck