Restitution

by Jaz22

What do you do when words aren't enough?

Author's note: This story follows the episode You Would Cry Too if it Happened to You. The characters aren't mine and no money is being made. Thanks go to Susan Z. for the beta help, and to L.M. Lewis for her patient assistance and illuminating suggestions. Any remaining errors or implausibilities are mine, and mine alone. The characters do not belong to me, and no profit is being made.

Restitution

by Jaz

Restitution: 1: an act of restoring or a condition of being restored:

as A: a restoration of something to its rightful owner

B: a making good of or giving an equivalent for some injury

00000

Sometimes sorry just doesn't cut it.

Doesn't matter how many times you say it, think it, or feel it. It's not enough. There are some offenses so great that the simple word itself is inadequate, even if the feeling behind it comes from the deepest part of your being. And you know, no matter what you do, that you can never truly make it right. It doesn't matter whether the offense was intentionally caused or not; the old saying 'accidents happen' just doesn't apply.

Mistakes, now there was another story. That was something he was good at. Damn good at. In fact, he'd had a lifetime of being good at making mistakes. He was right up there on the high achiever list when it came to that—honors with distinction, top of the class, summa cum laude.

You'd think he'd have learned.

Mark lay on the bed in the gatehouse, Hardcastle's gatehouse, staring at the ceiling in the dim light cast off by the bedside lamp. The clock on the nightstand read well past midnight, but sleep was far off, as it had been for the past several nights. Nearly a week, really, since they'd managed to retrieve the disk from Jack Fish that had all of Hardcastle's files so nicely arranged. He'd spent the better part of two days printing out each and every one of those files on that borrowed Epson printer, stuffing them into their new manila folders and writing out the owner's name in careful, bold print. Then he'd spent the next day working with Hardcastle himself, getting them sorted and filed in a system that was entirely the judge's own. By the end of the day, he found he actually understood the system, something that scared him more than a little.

And there'd been very little retribution from the man to whom he now figured he owed his indentured servitude henceforth, possibly for the rest of his natural life. Maybe that was the part that had Mark the most confused. Where he came from, mistakes had consequences. Some of them were fair; some of them were most definitely not. He grimaced as a certain night of 'consequences' came to him, compliments of his not-so-sober uncle.

While there was no comparison between his uncle and his current guardian, the idea that maybe this time he would get off lightly was still hard to grasp. Sure, Hardcastle had been pretty ticked when they first discovered the house had been cleaned out from top to bottom. The involuntary twitching of the judge's eye had started in the den and hadn't let up for the next twenty-four hours. But when Mark had saved what remained of the judge's files at the last second by pulling the plug to the bank's computer even as Fish moved to hit the delete key—well, the judge's grin was almost enough to pull him up out of the pit of despair he'd been residing in. He could nearly hear the unspoken words, 'Good job, kiddo,' and it had done wonders for his sagging morale.

Still, though, there was the sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because there was no denying he'd screwed up big time.

He reached up and turned off the light before rolling over and punching the pillow to give it a bit more form. He'd done a lot of thinking over this past week, much of it at this time of night, and he finally figured out he'd been in trouble from the moment Mickey called him during Hardcastle's brief trip to Hawaii. That was really his first mistake, and that alone would have been enough to get the judge on his case. It wasn't like he didn't know better. There was no way he and Mickey should have been hanging out at all. The judge had made that clear enough after his incident with hiding Teddy Hollins out in the gatehouse—two parolees getting together was not worth the risk, no matter how good the friendship was. And Mickey didn't even come close to being in the same friendship category as Teddy. He was just a guy from the old days, someone who Mark had known way back when.

Hardcastle was always telling him that his loyalty to his friends, even the questionable ones, would be what got him in trouble; he'd been telling him that since the run-in with Martin Cody following Flip Johnson's murder. Mark had put his entire future on the line to avenge his closest friend, simply because Flip's daughter Barbara had asked. He'd wondered if she'd even known how much she was asking of him, how much he would be risking. Didn't matter, since he'd gone ahead and stolen the Coyote with little forethought other than learning the layout of Cody's warehouse.

Hardcastle was probably right about this; he usually was. But given that Mark hadn't had any family in a long time, at least not until Hardcastle came along, his friends came first. A guy didn't turn his back on his friends where he came from. Not from Jersey. And not from After.

Besides, it was just supposed to be poker, for Pete's sake, nothing that should have been a big deal. Mark was willing to admit now, after the fact, that he'd already been figuring he could use some company, any company, while Hardcastle was gone. After all, there was only so much dancing you could do in your bathrobe before you went a little nuts, and though he'd been looking forward to a break in their routine, he hadn't been expecting to miss the old guy quite so much.

Not that he'd ever tell him that. Not then. Not now. Especially not now, with the balance of their friendship hanging by a thread and Mark living with the uncertainty of whether his time at Gull's Way had reached an end. It would have surprised him a year ago - hell, maybe even a few months ago - that he'd be lying here in the middle of the night trying to think of some way to make sure that didn't happen. But that's exactly what he was doing.

Because Mark McCormick wanted desperately to stay.

00000

It was a bleary-eyed ex-con that stumbled into the kitchen of the main house right around seven a.m. the next day. Not even thinking about knocking (a habit that had gone by the wayside a few short weeks after his arrival), he made his way over to the refrigerator, idly noticing that the groove marks on the floor didn't quite match up with its current location. He gave it a half-hearted shove with one shoulder to try and readjust its position before grabbing the handle to open the door.

Why they'd bothered to take the refrigerator was beyond him. Talk about free enterprise. Mickey and Eddy had only been paid to take the judge's files, but they'd grabbed everything that wasn't nailed down in a matter of hours. Mark was reminded of the Dr. Seuss book about the Grinch. On the walls they'd left nothing but hooks and some wire, all right. They'd taken the 'antique legal diplomas'? Could those two be any dumber?

And what did it say about him that he considered them friends?

The contents of the recently replaced refrigerator were startlingly minimal, and he knew he'd end up having to make it to the grocery store before the day's end; before lunch, more than likely. He considered doing a donut run now, but gave up the idea when he saw there were still half a dozen eggs and some cheese. No peppers, but there was an onion, and he could still whip up a couple of pseudo-omelets. Throw in a couple of pieces of toast from the bread he hoped wasn't growing little green spots and it would at least get them through the morning.

He pulled out the eggs and cheese and then reached to flip the switch on the coffee maker he'd gotten ready the night before. No sign of Hardcastle yet, but he could hear the water running and knew the older man must have hopped in the shower. The judge showered faster than anyone Mark had ever known, probably because not even dirt would cling to the oh-so-judicial one, so he knew it wouldn't be long before he'd have company and set to work getting breakfast ready.

They hadn't started off the morning with a game of guerilla basketball since before the judge left on his fateful trip to Hawaii. Not that they played every morning, but it was probably three out of five, and for them to go this long without a game was bordering on unheard of. He supposed it might be some form of unspoken punishment, though he was pretty sure Hardcastle enjoyed the games as much as he did.

Still, if punishment was what Hardcastle had in mind, Mark wished he'd lay it out on the table already. This not knowing was making him crazy, and if he weren't already afraid of bringing up a touchy subject and possibly putting thoughts in the judge's head, he would just ask him outright. It might be better to get it over with than live with this sense of impending doom.

Mark was loading the omelets onto plates to carry to the table as Hardcastle entered. Dressed in his grey sweat pants and a t-shirt that clung to his stocky frame, along with the ever-present Yankees hat, he headed straight for the coffee maker, tossing out a mumbled "morning," as he passed McCormick. He poured himself a cup and went to settle himself at the table.

Mark was certain the tension he felt was obvious to the other man, but he still worked at sounding normal. "Did you want to eat outside instead?" Mark asked.

"Nah, here's fine. Did you bring in the paper?"

"Yeah, it's over by the toaster. Hang on, I'll get it." He set the plates onto the table and grabbed the paper, slinging a towel over his shoulder. Picking up some silverware along the way, he went and sat next to the judge.

They ate in silence for a few moments, concentrating on the food while the judge pulled the paper apart and took the sports section for himself. Peering at McCormick over the top, he gazed at him suspiciously.

"Not gonna wrestle me for the sports section this morning?"

"No, I can wait," the young man said, wincing slightly at his own overly solicitous tone. Definitely not normal.

Though Hardcastle's gaze narrowed fractionally, he made no comment and returned to his paper, stopping only for a bite of his eggs. He stopped mid-chew, folding the paper down again.

"No peppers?"

"Ah, no. We were out. I'll have to run to the store later, so if you need anything, you can add it to the list I started."

"Hmmph." The judge once again hid himself behind the paper.

Mark shoveled his own breakfast into his mouth, barely tasting it, which was probably a good thing. He thought about taking the front section of the paper and decided against it. Last thing he needed right now was more bad news.

He looked over at the man hidden behind the paper. "Did you have anything lined up for us today?"

Hardcastle sighed before folding up the paper altogether and placing it next to his plate. "Not for us, no. I've got some calls I need to make this morning, and then I need to run into town for a bit. You can stay here and get started on the cleaning. D-Day's visit is coming up fast."

"Judge, you've got three weeks before your sister-in-law comes to visit. You want to start cleaning now?"

"Huh, probably won't be enough time even if we had gotten started on it a month ago. This woman has never even met a dust bunny before. They all run and hide when they hear she's coming."

"Well, then ours will probably do the same. I'll just make sure I shout a warning loud and clear in every room. It'll make it much easier that way." Mark stood up and grabbed his plate, placing it in the sink. He picked up the carafe and brought it to the table, holding it up in invitation to Hardcastle, who nodded.

"Besides, I still don't get why you call her D-Day," Mark said as he refilled both their cups.

"That's because you haven't met her yet. Once you do, you'll understand. Just wait."

"She can't be all that bad. I mean, face it, D-Day's not exactly a nice nickname. I'm sure your wife didn't appreciate you calling her sister that." Mark thought about biting off his tongue at the casual reference to the judge's family and waited for the ensuing explosion.

Surprisingly, it never came. Instead, the judge merely chuckled and rubbed his recently shaven chin. "No. Nancy actually thought it was kind of funny. Course, she never would let me call Didi that to her face." He looked wistful for a moment, remembering his wife.

"She was a fine woman, McCormick. A damn fine woman."

"I'm sure she was, Judge," Mark agreed quietly. He put the carafe back into the coffee maker, took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, reaching for the sugar and adding another spoonful. Sensing that this conversation could be headed downhill, he smoothly changed topics as he resumed his seat.

"So what's up with the phone calls and the trip to town? You got something new for us to work on?"

Mark watched as the judge's face hardened and the wistful light left his eyes. Feeling his own throat tighten convulsively, he swallowed.

"I mean, if it's okay that I ask." That question in and of itself was a reminder that things in their relationship were not on the solid footing they had been a short time ago. Prior to the judge's trip, McCormick never backed away from nosing into the other man's business, and he'd always felt that his interest was welcomed. Suddenly he wasn't so sure.

Hardcastle sighed, slowly shaking his head. "No, nothing new. Just tying up a few loose ends is all." He picked up the sports section and once again hid himself behind it.

McCormick saw the retreat for what it was, and it did nothing to boost his spirits. He sat for another few minutes, finishing his coffee in silence. Finally he stood and moved to the sink, grabbing the judge's empty plate on the way. He rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher before wiping his hands on the towel still on his shoulder.

"Okay. Guess I'll head upstairs and get started on warning the dust bunnies."

00000

Hardcastle stood and stretched, then folded up the paper and left it on the table. He'd have to get back to it later - it wasn't doing much to hold his attention today anyway. He walked over to the counter and poured himself some more coffee before heading through the dining room into the den. From his own angle, he wasn't crazy about McCormick's hesitance. It was pretty obvious the younger man was still tied up in knots over what had happened last week. There was a part of the judge, a large part, if he were being honest, that thought the guilt McCormick was feeling was well earned. However, there was another part of him that was ready to move past this. But truth be told, they couldn't. Not yet anyway. That was one of the reasons for the calls.

Deciding there was nothing at this point that would help the situation if he shared it with McCormick, he had limited his answer to the question at hand. He could hear the kid moving around upstairs now, making enough noise for a herd of dust bunnies, and the judge grimaced, feeling slightly guilty. True, D-Day was going to be here in a few short weeks, and also true, he definitely wanted the place to be as clean as possible. But maybe he'd just wanted McCormick out from underfoot for a while too.

There wasn't really much hope for getting the house up to Didi's standards anyway, not with Sarah gone. McCormick did at least make an attempt at keeping up with the jobs that had previously been handled by Hardcastle's long-time housekeeper, but neatness was not on the list of McCormick's natural abilities. Besides, two guys living alone meant they sometimes just tended to batch it, which was actually not such a bad thing. It was really more in response to Nancy's unending training that Hardcastle found himself even caring what the house looked like.

Fortunately, the judge had discovered that his young friend did at least have some talent in the kitchen. Sure, sometimes he could get a little carried away on the creativity scale, and it was hard to top that tofu/sea kelp debacle, but he usually made a decent breakfast and he certainly knew his way around a grill. Hardcastle sighed as he thought of yet one more reason why he didn't want to see this unorthodox arrangement they had come to an end.

He crossed behind his desk and set his coffee near the phone, sitting down and pulling out the keys to the drawer he kept locked. Reaching inside, he pulled out McCormick's file and opened it, staring again at the letter that had arrived two days ago from the State of California Parole Board. The bottom fold covered the majority of the letter, though the date and McCormick's case number were visible at the top, as well as the first line: 'Pursuant to the request for transfer of the parole of Mark McCormick, current residence 101 Pacific Coast Highway...'

He stopped reading at this point, knowing the rest by heart anyway, and pushed it over to the side where it was out of the way. Digging a little deeper, he pulled out several similar correspondences and a few of his own hand written notes. The request for a transfer had come from an unsurprising source - McCormick's original parole officer, John Dalem. The judge had discovered early on that the PO had liked to keep tabs on how his parolees were faring, even after they were no longer his official responsibility, hence the recurring letters from the Parole Board. Though that had impressed Hardcastle initially, he now found it somewhat annoying, and, truth be told, worrisome. Dalem had taken to checking in periodically after hearing about some of their more dangerous escapades over the last several months, ostensibly to check on the younger man's well being. Hardcastle had written it off, merely thinking the PO needed to relax a little bit. Now, however, he could see he'd underestimated the situation. Dalem apparently believed that this parole arrangement might not be in McCormick's best interest, and he'd taken it upon himself to request the parole board put an end to it and place McCormick back into his own care.

The timing of the request was lousy. Even if Dalem hadn't yet heard about the party of the century McCormick had inadvertently thrown last week, Hardcastle didn't have much hope of keeping it quiet. Seemed everywhere they went for the past ten days, someone recognized McCormick and felt it necessary to give him kudos for throwing such a bash. From the wino to the pizza delivery girl wearing one of the judge's own t-shirts, there'd been no shortage of comments. The judge had even heard there'd been a helicopter involved. There wasn't much doubt that there were at least a few people in attendance that could place the kid's parole in jeopardy simply by their presence. McCormick had come clean with him immediately upon his discovery of the empty house, and while he hadn't been in the best frame of mind at that particular juncture and his temper might have gotten slightly ahead of him, he had recognized the kid's sincere terror at finding his small gathering of friends escalating out of control.

There was obviously a large amount of guilt running through the ex-con's head. Hardcastle knew this. He knew McCormick had been living on the edge for the last few days, wondering if, or more likely when the judge would let him have it. He could even see the smallest bit of real fear in the younger man's eyes that was so reminiscent of their early days together; days when McCormick wasn't at all sure that his latest mistake wouldn't end up with him back behind bars.

He recognized this fear, and considered that all it would take was a few words to reassure Mark that he had nothing to worry about from that standing. The days when he might have acted on his threats to send the kid back to prison had long since passed. But he'd held off from reassurance; at first, out of some perverse desire for revenge for the trouble McCormick had caused in the near loss of everything the judge owned, most importantly his files, and out of a sense that McCormick needed to learn a lesson about whom he placed his trust in.

Now he held off because he was no longer certain that keeping McCormick here at Gull's Way was a promise he could make.

Hardcastle sighed, rubbing a hand wearily on the back of his neck, knowing he needed to get these phone calls taken care of, but a quick glance at the clock showed him that Dalem wasn't likely to be in his office just yet. He put all but the most recent letter back into the file and locked it back in the bottom drawer, intending to leave the other inside the top drawer where he could pull it out later for the number, when he heard a loud crash coming from somewhere overhead, followed by the muffled sound of cursing.

"McCormick?"

Getting no response, the judge left the den and headed for the stairs. "McCormick!" he bellowed more loudly.

"Yeah - in here," came the mumbled reply.

Hardcastle followed the voice into the guest bathroom at the top of the stairs, where he found his yard man/pool boy/bathroom cleaner picking himself up from the floor, holding the back of his head. Seeing that the younger man was apparently okay, he asked gruffly, "What happened?"

Mark stood slowly, feeling just slightly unsteady and not wanting to get reamed out for his recent clumsiness. "I was on the counter trying to clean on top of the medicine cabinet and I missed the step back down onto the toilet. It was dumb, Judge. No big deal."

"Hmm. You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just whacked the back of my head is all," the younger man answered, still holding the offended area.

"Let me see it," the judge muttered. He reached for McCormick's shoulder and spun him around gently, noticing as he pulled the younger man's hand away from his head that it was sporting a fair amount of blood.

McCormick jerked his head away as the judge probed the area where a lump was forming. "Owww! Jeez, Hardcase, leave it alone, would ya?"

"Hold still McCormick, before you bleed all over my bathroom."

"I'm bleeding?"

"Yes, you're bleeding. You must have caught your head on the corner of the cabinet. Sit down before you pass out, and let me get something on it."

Mark gratefully complied with the judge's request before he made more of a fool of himself and toppled over again.

Hardcastle grabbed a washcloth from under the bathroom sink and held it snugly against the cut, doing his best to keep the long curly hair out of the way. He applied pressure for a minute before removing it for another look.

"Looks like you're gonna need a couple of stitches," he commented.

"No, I won't," McCormick argued. "I'll be fine. Just patch it up and I'll get back to work."

"How exactly would you like me to patch it? Nothing's gonna stick back here unless I shave your head."

Mark's gaze narrowed. "Don't even joke about that - I know you've been dying for me to get a haircut since the day I came here."

"Hah. Says you. I've been dying for you to get a haircut since the day you first set foot in my courtroom."

"Well, you can forget about it. Ain't gonna happen. Women happen to be rather fond of my long, curly locks, and I happen to be rather fond of women." He reached up to take the washcloth from Hardcastle and held it in place on his own.

"Whatever," Hardcastle grumbled. "You're still gonna need stitches, like it or not. You want to head to the ER, or you want me to call Charlie and see if he can squeeze you in?" He turned on the water and began washing his hands.

Mark hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of being treated by the family doctor rather than a nameless stranger. "Charlie," he finally decided, giving in less than graciously.

"Okay. Stay put while I go give him a call."

00000

By the time they got back from the visit to Dr. Friedman's office it was close to lunchtime. Mark knew he'd made the right choice since he'd come home with all his hair intact, a feat accomplished with great care by Charlie himself, who took the extra time necessary to avoid using the razor. He'd treated Mark to four stitches and a prescription for painkillers to be used as needed, which they picked up on the way home before stopping to grab some lunch, since no shopping had been done. Hardcastle was already making plans for McCormick to sleep in one of the guest rooms to make the regular awakenings for concussion checks easier on both of them.

Fortunately, Charlie hadn't seemed overly concerned and had therefore refrained from giving Mark any limitations. The aspirin he'd already taken seemed to be easing the headache and he decided to hold off on the painkillers until he really needed them.

He carried in the sack from Burger Man, while Hardcastle grabbed the drinks. Forgoing the kitchen, Mark headed straight out onto the patio and set things down on the table there.

Hardcastle handed him his soda and took the seat next to him, waiting to be handed his cheeseburger and fries. He was pleased to see McCormick digging in with his normal appetite and crossed nausea off the list of potential side effects, at least for the moment.

"Well, looks like you'll be getting off easy this afternoon, kiddo."

"Nah. I told you, Judge; I'm fine. I'll finish up the bathroom and just work my way through the upstairs. Might keep away from the hedge trimming though - sharp implements and all."

"You're supposed to be resting - that's what Charlie said."

"What Charlie actually said was that I should rest if I felt like I needed to. I don't need to. I'm fine." McCormick felt himself grinning at their role reversal. He couldn't remember the last time he'd argued with the judge to be allowed to do his chores, instead of arguing to get out of them.

Hardcastle saw the grin and felt himself smiling in return, knowing where it came from. "All right. But you take it easy if you do need to, okay?"

"I'm sure you'll be around to grumble continuously if I don't."

"Nope. You're on your own. I still have to head into town. Never did get to make those calls, but maybe I can just stop by while I'm down there."

McCormick looked down at his food to avoid the judge's gaze. He wasn't about to ask again what it was all about, but it went against his natural sense of curiosity to be left out of the loop. Stifling the desire to ask, he substituted. "You taking the truck or the 'Vette?"

Hardcastle paused. "Don't know. Why?" he asked, unable to keep the tinge of suspicion from his tone.

Mark smirked, grateful for a taste of normality. "No reason, really. Just thought I might get around to changing the oil in the truck, that's all." He wasn't about to tell Hardcastle he still planned to get the grocery shopping done, and needed the truck to bring everything home, fearing comments about operating heavy machinery 'in his condition'. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

Apparently mind reading was in Hardcastle's bag of tricks, for his gaze narrowed further. "Not sure I want a concussed mechanic working on my car."

"I'm not concussed."

"No, you just left a portion of what little brain you have on my bathroom counter."

"Well, fortunately, it requires very little brain to change the oil in a GMC. Any motor-head can do it, so you can quit worrying."

"I'm not worrying - just don't want you messin' up my truck because your head's not screwed on right."

Mark sighed in exasperation. "Look, you need to let this one go, okay? I'm fine. I don't know how to tell you that any clearer. As far as the injuries I've had since the time I've come here to fill the role of faithful sidekick in the never-ending pursuit of justice, this one doesn't even qualify as a bug on the windshield of the Batmobile."

"Fine," Hardcastle grumbled. "Just don't run crying to me when you manage to put yourself into a coma."

McCormick smiled at the image. "I promise, Judge. No running to you when I'm in a coma."

00000

Mark put the cleaning on hold in favor of heading in and getting the shopping done first. Hardcastle had left nearly an hour ago, and Mark had gotten immediately to the oil change, if only to stay on the right side of truth. After a quick clean up and change of clothes, he headed to the main house to grab the list he'd been working on. He detoured into the den on his way out the front door, planning to grab some cash from the envelope the judge kept in the top desk drawer to cover the household expenses. He was counting out several twenties when the letter on the side of the desk caught his eye. His hands stilled as he recognized the familiar heading of the State of California Parole Board.

Mouth suddenly bone dry, McCormick read the first line of the still folded letter before sinking slowly into the chair behind the desk.

'Request for transfer of the parole...' The words captured him, and he felt a chill slide down his spine before settling in the region of where his heart used to be. He sat staring for several seconds while his world shifted around him. He could hear the buzz of a desperate fly as it battered its way against the screen behind him, seeking release. The noise seemed to supersede everything in the room as the buzzing grew louder. His focus felt off. Realizing nearly too late the buzz wasn't coming from the fly, but from the rushing in his own ears, he put his head between his knees and waited for the feeling to pass.

After a minute or more, he slowly lifted his head, which was now throbbing in time to his heartbeat. His gaze was automatically drawn to the letter. At least now he knew. No more waiting for that other shoe. It had dropped, and it was everything he'd feared. He almost reached for the letter, wanting to read it from top to bottom, to see if somehow the answer to the question 'why' lay within. But something stopped him. It wasn't his letter to read. No matter if it concerned him, if his very future were tied up in its words. It belonged to the judge; it was meant for the judge's eyes.

And like everything else about the man he'd lived with for the last fourteen months, Mark respected that.

Besides, he figured he already knew the reason why. He'd screwed up. Again. He let out a bitter chuckle at the thought that at least that never changed.

Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the cash still in his hand, noticing that it was crushed from his grip. He relaxed his fist and pulled out eighty dollars, returning the rest to the envelope before placing it back in the drawer. He stood up, glanced once more at the letter, drawn to it like a moth to flame, before deliberately turning his back and walking up the steps in to the foyer.

He'd deal with it. Just like he'd dealt with every other blow life had ever handed him.

He just wished it didn't hurt so badly.

00000

Mark stood by the side of the pickup and idly watched the numbers on the gas pump as they rose higher. Shopping done, he'd realized he'd better gas up the truck before returning home, and now stood impatiently as the tank filled, thinking of the ice cream melting in one of the bags in the back. It wasn't that he didn't have better things to think about, but he was doing his best to ignore the rest of it. Although apparently it was still seeping through his subconscious mind - he turned to the bed of the truck and saw the several large empty boxes next to the bags of groceries. That had been an impulse grab. The boxes had been next to the dumpster in the supermarket parking lot.

Something told him he'd have some packing to do in the near future.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his head and then regretting it as his hand came into contact with the stitches. The headache had grown steadily in the last hour, and he was beginning to wish he'd taken Hardcase up on his offer to rest this afternoon. Maybe he'd lie down for a bit when he got home. 'Home'...

"Skid! Hey, Skid!"

Mark started at the unexpected sound of his nickname, squinting his eyes in the sun as he tried to determine who was calling him. The sight of Eddie coming out of the garage bay was not what he wanted to see, and his lips tightened imperceptibly.

"Eddie," he said tonelessly as the other man approached his car. "What are you doing here?"

"You mean, 'what am I doing out', right?" Eddie returned with a smile, not noticing the other man's lack of enthusiasm at running into him. "I cut a deal, man! They offered me probation in return for rolling over on the guy who wanted the files. I mean, I didn't even have much to offer them, since I never even saw him face to face, but they still let me walk if I agreed to testify that he hired us. Man, was that close. Mickey wasn't so lucky though, what with him still being on parole and all. He got a deal on the new charges, but they still pulled his ticket."

Mark was surprised to hear about Eddie's deal, which made little sense as the powers that be had already had Fish's name, compliments of the invoice he'd 'liberated' from the trucking company, which Hardcastle had in turn passed on to Frank. He knew the judge would be called on to testify, one of a growing number of court appearances for the two of them since their adventures began.

However, it seemed that bad luck in the system didn't apply to everyone, as was evidenced by the man standing in front of him. He shook his head absently and returned his attention to the gas pump that had just shut off, pulling out the nozzle and replacing the cap on the pickup. "Guess you got lucky," he conceded bitterly. "Congratulations." He made a move toward the open door of the truck, not interested in hanging around any longer than necessary. "But look, Eddie, I don't really have anything to say to you, okay? Not anymore."

Eddie finally clued in on the anger emanating from McCormick, and to his credit, he didn't shy away. "Yeah, look, Skid, about that..." he hesitated, "I really am sorry, ya know? It's was all Mickey's crazy idea..." he stalled out at the look McCormick threw at him.

"Okay," he huffed, "I'm not saying I was completely innocent or nothin'. I know I wasn't, all right? I mean, Fish paid us to take the files, and Mickey said we could make a lotta dough if we took the rest of the stuff and sold it ourselves. It was a dumb idea; I can see that now. We was just tryin' to get together enough to get back East. But Skid, ya gotta believe me, we never really thought you'd care..."

Mark was suddenly tired of it. Tired of feeling like he had to explain himself to the folks who knew him way back, the ones who couldn't believe he'd actually managed to be friends with the judge who'd sent him up, the ones who figured he'd never amount to much, who thought he'd always be willing to roll over and look the other way. Though he couldn't admit it out loud, especially now, this deal with Hardcastle was one of the best things to happen to him in a long time. Maybe ever. He couldn't explain why this crazy friendship of theirs worked, he just knew that it did. Mark McCormick wasn't the same guy he'd been a year ago. And no matter how things worked out regarding his current situation, he still had Hardcastle to thank for that.

"You thought wrong," he said flatly, letting Eddie read into that whatever he wanted to.

"Yeah, I figured," Eddie responded quietly. "That's why I need to talk to you, okay man?"

"Forget it, Eddie. You got nothing to say that I want to hear." He handed the attendant a twenty and slid into the open driver's seat, starting up the engine and pulling out in one smooth move, leaving the other man standing alone.

"No, Skid, wait! It's important!" Eddie watched as the man who'd once been his friend left the parking lot without looking back and headed off towards his new life.

00000

As Hardcastle stepped off the elevator on the floor for John Dalem's office, he was hit with the memory of the last time he'd been here, more than a year prior. Still sitting on the bench at the time, Dalem had called him in after McCormick hadn't shown up for his appointment. By the time the judge had gotten there, the ex-con had arrived, and Dalem had said he'd been wrong about the time. Though Hardcastle couldn't be sure, he figured McCormick had managed some sort of scam on his parole officer. Someday he'd have to ask him.

At the time, the judge had hoped that the missed appointment would be the key he needed to persuade the younger man to join him in his crusade against crime. As it turned out, it was the much more dire consequences facing McCormick after stealing the Coyote that had convinced him. The judge grimaced as he realized 'convinced' was the wrong word - he'd had Mark between a rock and a very hard place, and he knew it. 'His house or the Big House' was how'd he'd put it, and though he'd said it lightly, it had been God's honest truth. No wonder McCormick had felt he'd been blackmailed into what he had called a nightmare on his first ride back to the estate.

Now, though, Hardcastle was fairly certain McCormick had not only adjusted to his new life, but had come to see Gull's Way as his home, the place where he belonged. He was sure Mark no longer considered it a nightmare.

Pretty sure, anyway.

He pushed open the door to Dalem's outer office and saw the blonde receptionist sitting at her desk, looking bored. She perked up slightly when Hardcastle walked in, looking somewhat longingly behind him. He put on his charming, patently false smile and walked to her desk.

"Hiya. Judge Milt Hardcastle, here to see Mr. Dalem. I know I don't have an appointment - any chance he's got a few minutes to squeeze me in?"

She began shaking her head before the judge even finished speaking. "I'm sorry, Judge Hardcastle. Mr. Dalem isn't here."

Hardcastle couldn't keep the disappointment off his face. He'd really been hoping to get this situation dealt with today. "Oh," he sighed. "Well, maybe I could come back later?"

"I'm afraid not. Mr. Dalem left early for a long weekend. He won't be back until Monday." She pulled out his appointment book and a pencil. "I can put you in for one o'clock if you like?"

"Monday, huh? Okay, yeah, one o'clock it is. Thanks." He turned to leave.

"Um, Judge?" She laid her pencil down and looked up at him. "You're, um...friends with Mark, right?"

Hardcastle gazed at her suspiciously and nodded. "Something like that," he tenuously agreed.

She brightened considerably. "Would you please do me a favor? Would you just tell him that Melinda said hi?" She batted her eyes at him somewhat coyly.

"Uh...sure. Melinda. Got it." He didn't wait for anything further, but scooted out the door into the nearly empty hallway.

"Hmmph. Not likely," he muttered to himself. "Last thing McCormick needs is another blonde bimbo leaving her stuff all over my patio."

00000

The phone was ringing as Mark brought the last of the grocery bags into the kitchen. He hurriedly placed them on the counter and dashed to grab it off the wall before the answering machine picked up, thinking it might be the judge. The voice on the other end was a pleasant surprise.

"Skid! It's Teddy."

"Teddy! How you doin'?" Mark leaned against the wall, smiling. A friendly voice was just what the doctor ordered.

"Oh, I'm doing fantastic, man. Guess what—I got really good news."

Mark braced himself to hear Teddy's latest scheme, no doubt something as off the wall as his Pizza/Wash plan had been. "Okay, I'm ready. Lay it on me."

"You'll never believe it. I know you won't. I just got promoted! They're gonna make me a waiter! No more bussing tables for me my friend; now it's time for the real tips to start coming in."

"Teddy, you're kidding!" Mark could hear the surprise in his voice. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely, Skid, the real deal. One of the guys quit, and Jack said I could have a shot at it, since I been doing pretty well here. They're only gonna let me take lunch shifts until I get trained, but once I'm up to speed, I'll get put on some dinner shifts. I can just count the money now. Won't be long until I have enough to invest in my real dream, ya know?

Mark smiled as he used his shoulder to hold the phone in place and began pulling the groceries out of the bags, sorting the contents to put them away. "That's great, it really is. I'm proud of you, Teddy. You're doing really well there." He wondered absently how it was fate had placed him in the role of surrogate older brother to his former cellmate, but he didn't mind. Teddy was a good kid, even if he was a little scattered and spent way too much time living in a dream world. But Mark had wished often enough for a younger brother during his years growing up in New Jersey. It might be a little late in the game, but he'd take all the family he could get at this point.

That thought immediately brought Hardcastle to mind, which led him to thinking about where he was now, and he let his mind drift away for a bit as Teddy continued to regale him with stories of his recent success. He wasn't really sure he could call Hardcastle family, at least not yet. But he could see the possibility was there. The judge had told him once that he wasn't a substitute for the son the other man had lost, and Mark was okay with that. He could understand that. The judge never talked about his son, not since the day Joe Cadillac had mentioned Tommy right after McCormick had come to Gull's Way. Mark knew the jurist's grief ran too deep for him to face even still, after so many years, and he could respect that feeling. In some ways, after the loss of his mother, he even shared it. He knew Hardcastle wasn't looking for a replacement.

Mark, on the other hand, had been looking for a father figure for most of his life. He'd have been glad for a replacement, for any type of substitute, someone who could help guide him along life's pathway; someone to look to for advice; someone to be there when the chips were down. He'd made some poor choices in that regard over the years, allowing his need for that relationship to eclipse his better judgment about the character of the individuals themselves. Until Flip came along. He was really more of an older brother or a favorite uncle though, not quite in the right age bracket to fill the role of father.

Mark stopped with his hand on the cabinet door. He put the box of pasta down as the realization came to him. Maybe he wasn't ready to consider Hardcastle family yet.

Or maybe it had already happened when he wasn't looking.

He wasn't given any time to process that thought. Teddy's voice sounded louder in his ear, impatient.

"So, can you come?"

"Huh?" Mark asked, trying to recall anything he might have heard his friend say in the last minute or two.

"You been payin' attention here, Skid? I asked if you and the judge could come down here for dinner tonight. My shift ends at 5:30, and I want to treat you guys to a celebration dinner."

Mark struggled to wrap his mind around the telephone conversation. "Tonight? I don't know, Teddy..."

"Yeah. I know it's pretty short notice. I just thought maybe..." The disappointment was obvious in the other man's tone.

Mark winced, deciding he wasn't going to remain so caught up in his own problems that he let down a friend - a true friend. "Tell you what. I don't know about Hardcase, but I'll do my best to get down there, okay? I'll call the restaurant once he gets home and leave a message for you. Can you give me the number there?" he asked, reaching for a pad and pen.

Teddy rattled it off and Mark jotted it down before hanging up with a renewed promise to call him.

Mark looked around at the groceries and decided he really needed to finish putting them away. First though, some more aspirin. With the way his head was starting to pound, a nap was sounding pretty darn good.

00000

Milt gave a brief rap with his knuckles on the glass of the office door before entering the inner sanctum of Lieutenant Frank Harper without waiting for an invitation. The officer had the phone pressed to his ear as he sat amidst various piles of paperwork, and he gave Milt a longsuffering look as he waved distractedly to a chair. Used to having to wait until Frank was free, the jurist glanced around him, eyes stopping briefly on the pictures hanging on the wall as he tried not to listen in to the half of the conversation he was hearing.

It was only another minute or two before the call wound down and Frank was hanging up the phone.

"Hey, Milt. Where's your shadow?" Frank was so used to seeing the two men joined at the hip that it struck him as odd the few times one of them ventured out on their own.

"Home. Resting, I hope," Milt replied, without really believing that was true. "He took a knock on the head today, needed a few stitches."

Frank looked up in surprise. "Foul play?" he questioned, automatically assuming the worst.

"Feather duster." At the lieutenant's blank look, Milt explained. "He was cleaning the bathroom and slipped off the counter."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I swear, Frank, the kid's not a klutz, but he's got to be the most accident-prone guy I've ever seen."

"Is there a difference?" Frank asked dryly. "He's okay, though, right?"

"Yeah, he'll be fine. Dang hard-headed fool," Hardcastle muttered.

Harper laughed. "Anyway, thanks for coming down, Milt. I've got the typed copy of your statement here somewhere; just need you to read it through and sign it; you know the drill." He sorted through a number of manila folders, settling on one near the bottom and pulling it out without upsetting the stack.

"They get anything yet on the guy who was in the car with Fish?" Hardcastle asked, reaching out for the offered folder. Glancing down at the paper within, he listened with half an ear to Frank's reply while gazing through the several paragraphs of text.

"No, nothing. It's like he's disappeared. From the moment Fish lawyer-ed up, we knew he wasn't going to give up the guy's name, and no one else seems to be able to ID him. We thought maybe he was somehow connected with the bank, but no one there has turned up missing, and I can't believe that he'd go back there like nothing happened. You want to try going through the mug shots again and see if anything jogs your memory?"

Hardcastle looked up from the folder. "We tried that already," he said, shaking his head. "I told you, neither McCormick nor I got a good look at him. The kid was too busy falling all over himself and his car, trying to catch them before they got away."

"Yeah, I was just hoping...we might have to let this one go, Milt. If we don't get a lead soon, I don't think I can justify keeping any man hours on it, especially since we've already gotten the mastermind in custody." He eyed the other man to see how that news was going over.

The judge said nothing, just frowned, and went back to reading the statement. Not seeing anything out of order, he sat forward in his chair and grabbed a pen from the desk, using it to sign the bottom of the sheet.

Frank took it back from him and placed it in his outbox, which unfortunately was the shortest pile on the desk. "You know, from what you told me, sounds like Mark did a pretty good job picking himself up after this one," he stated. He'd been aware of the depth of Milt's anger toward his young friend's carelessness shortly after the actually robbery had taken place, but he was hoping that enough time had passed to cause the jurist's feelings to settle down a bit. He remembered the day he'd been out to the house for the technical team to sweep the crime scene. The place really had been emptied out. But the thing he remembered most was the quiet look of despair that Mark had worn whenever the judge wasn't facing his direction.

Hardcastle snorted, revealing nothing.

"You, ah, gonna be able to let him off the hook for this anytime soon?" Frank prodded.

Hardcastle was silent for a full minute, his gaze on the light coming from the window as he thought through an answer to the question.

"The kid screwed up, Frank. But I don't think he did it intentionally. Leastways, he didn't mean for it to get out of hand like that. I know that. It's pretty obvious from the way he's been tiptoeing around ever since, like he's just waiting for the hammer to fall. But..." he hesitated, "but to answer your question, yeah, I can let it go. I'm not gonna give him hard time over it. Seems like he's doing a pretty good job beating himself up. Doesn't need me adding to the fray."

Frank raised a hand to his face and hid a smile under the pretense of rubbing his chin. He never thought he'd live to see the day that Milton C. Hardcastle went soft. But there was no denying it had happened. The man he'd known for most of his career was never the most forgiving of individuals, and the nickname 'Hardcase' Hardcastle was well earned. Then, after watching his friend suffer the loss of his family, there'd been plenty of times Frank wasn't sure that Milt would survive. The vibrant, energetic jurist had become a shell of his former self, wrapped up in bitterness and grief, going through the motions and devoting himself to his career until there was nothing else left.

A little over a year ago, all that had changed. Along had come a fast-talking, fast-driving, smart-mouthed ex-con who could take anything Milt dished out and give back twice as much. Watching the two of them in the beginning of their partnership had been something worth paying for. The constant arguing was always entertaining, though Frank was never quite sure who came out the winner.

Somewhere along the way, something had changed. And that something was Milt himself. Mark McCormick had done what no one else had been able to do, done what Frank had no longer believed was possible.

Mark had made the retired judge care about something other than his sense of justice. He made the man care about more than locking up those who deserved to be.

He made the man care. Period.

For that, Mark would always have Frank's undying gratitude, for it had killed him to watch his friend close in on himself and shut out those around him. The light had returned to Milt's eyes. Frank could see it whenever Hardcastle and McCormick were in the same room. Underneath the competitiveness and the constant bickering was a true friendship that would stand the test of time. Though they might not admit it out loud, the two men had become each other's family, and Frank hoped nothing would change that.

Unfortunately, sometimes reality got in the way.

With that in mind, Frank brought up the other topic that had been weighing heavily on his mind.

"Did you get things straightened out with the Parole Board yet?" he asked hesitantly.

The shutters came down over Milt's eyes, his face tense with stress and worry. "I tried stopping by Dalem's office before I came here. He's gone for the weekend, so I can't do anything about it until Monday."

"Isn't there someone you can call? Some friend still on the bench that can deal with this for you?"

"I thought about that. But what I really need is to get Dalem to stop sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong. Otherwise, I'll just be delaying things until the next time he gets a bee in his bonnet about McCormick's situation."

"You might be right about that, Frank agreed. "I heard he wasn't too happy when you guys took down Quinlan. Guess the two of them were friendly. So, what does Mark think about the whole thing?"

"I, uh...I haven't exactly told him. Yet," the jurist added after a moment.

"Why the hell not, Milt? It's his parole. Maybe all Dalem needs is to hear it straight from Mark that he's happy where he is and doesn't want a change."

The sudden silence was thick and oppressive. Milt allowed his gaze to drift down towards the floor, unable to look his friend full in the face.

A frown appeared on Harper's forehead as he put two and two together and got five. "Milt? You do know that Mark is happy, right? That he wants to be exactly where he's at?"

Hardcastle sighed, the weight of the world in the small sound. "No, Frank," he said almost inaudibly. "I don't know that at all." He paused, as if he were gathering his thoughts before continuing. "He didn't ever have much of a choice in this little arrangement we made. I knew that then, and I know it now. Maybe he would be better off going back to a normal parole situation. He was placed in my judicial stay 'indefinitely'. He's done a lot this past year; he's done a hell of a lot. It's worked out better than I ever thought was possible. But...

"But maybe he's earned the right to be done. Maybe that's what he wants." Hardcastle leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

Frank looked at the man sitting dejectedly across from him, stunned. "You can't really believe that. Can you? Do you?"

Milt remained silent.

"Well, I'll tell you what I believe, how about that? I think McCormick's damn lucky he ended up in your court when he stole the Coyote. And I think if you ever pressed him about it, he'd tell you that himself." Frank's tone was assured, his volume increasing in intensity, and he leaned forward in his chair, driving his point home. "You've done more to help that kid turn his life around than anyone else would have, ever. He was a two-time loser with a third rap coming down, but you gave him a chance to do something worthwhile with his life. And he's doing it, Milt. He's not the same guy he was when I first met him a year ago. He's smart, he's confident, and he's proud of what he's doing, helping you in this crazy crime-fighting crusade you dreamed up. He'd do anything to keep from disappointing you, and you know want to know why? Because he knows, no matter what, he's got you in his corner."

Milt raised his eyes to meet Harper's. "I don't know, Frank," he sighed. "He couldn't wait to get rid of me when I was heading off to Hawaii. He was like..."

"Like a kid who's excited because his parents are going away for the weekend?" Frank offered.

Milt's eyes narrowed immediately, and Frank held up placating hands, aware that he was encroaching on dangerous territory. "I'm not saying that's what this is. I know he's not a substitute." Even now, he didn't mention the name of Hardcastle's son. "I'm just saying it's kind of the same idea. A little break in the routine, a chance to cut loose - nothing more serious than that."

Hardcastle sat quietly for a moment, allowing the idea to sink in. "Maybe." It was the most he was willing to offer.

Frank knew that simple word had not come easily to the other man, and he recognized the time to back off. "Just talk to him, Milt. Tell him what's going on. Then the two of you can take it from there."

Milt nodded briefly, It was easier than voicing the affirmation out loud.

00000

The judge eased the Corvette back into the garage, taking note of the Coyote back in its usual spot, which meant either McCormick had skipped the oil change on the pickup or was already done. He closed the door and stepped around the vehicles, going into the house through the kitchen door. Stepping into the cool room, the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, he flipped on the switch by the door and went to grab himself a can of soda.

The refrigerator was recently stocked, and Hardcastle was pleased to see several bottles of Pinky Fizz among the offerings. Reaching for one, he frowned, realizing that McCormick had gone out and gotten the shopping done, instead of taking it easy as he'd suggested. He thought of bellowing for the other man, but something held him back, and he ambled towards the den to search him out instead. If he didn't find him here at the main house, he'd head down the drive towards the gatehouse.

The doors to the den were open, and he could hear McCormick before he saw him, the soft snoring giving him some small satisfaction. At least the kid wasn't a total idiot. He stood on the steps to the den, watching the younger man sleep, his legs curled up to fit and his face turned into the sofa. At thirty, he was hardly a kid anymore, but something still made him seem so damn young, and it was never more obvious than when he was asleep.

Hardcastle let his gaze sweep the room and wondered how long McCormick had been out. Looking briefly at his desk, his eyes fell on the letter by the phone as he felt his stomach drop. He'd meant to put that away, but had been distracted by McCormick's fall. He could only hope the younger man hadn't seen it. He hurried over to the desk and grabbed his keys out of the top drawer, opening the locked one and shoving it inside the file.

The noise of the drawer being hastily closed woke McCormick with a start, and he lifted his head up, taking a moment to get his bearings. Rolling over on the couch, he dropped his legs to the floor and sat up, reaching up to rub the kinks out of his neck.

"When I said to take a nap, I figured you'd be smart enough to use your own bed," Hardcastle groused, the comment coming out more gruffly than he'd intended.

Mark looked up, surprised to see the judge standing there. "Uh, this was closer." Not firing on all cylinders yet left his face blank.

The judge moved out from behind the desk. "It wouldn't have been if you'd gone to lay down right after lunch instead of driving all over creation." He subtly searched McCormick's face for any indications that the other man might have seen the letter left lying about, but found nothing. Sighing inwardly, he came around and sat in one of the armchairs closer to his friend.

Mark chuckled blearily. "I wasn't driving all over creation, Hardcase, I was grocery shopping. Last thing I need right now is you getting on my case because we're all out of Pinky Fizz."

The judge thought of the bottle he'd abandoned on the desk and grimaced. "Yeah, well..." His gaze toward the other man became more appraising. "How's the head?"

The ex-con moved it gently from side to side, as if testing for any inconsistencies. "Not bad, I guess. Little headache, but I took something before I fell asleep."

"How long ago was that?"

"Dunno. What time is it?" Mark looked up at him, too tired to check his own watch, a gift from the judge just a few weeks earlier.

A quick glance to the wall behind McCormick and Hardcastle answered, "four-fifteen."

"Then about an hour, hour and a half," Mark replied, doing the math.

"Well, that's something, I suppose," the older man responded grudgingly.

00000

Mark yawned and stretched, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "You get everything done you needed to?" he asked.

"Mmm," the judge replied vaguely. "Saw Frank; got my statement signed. Looks like things are pretty well over on that one." His gaze shifted away uneasily.

Mark noticed but refrained from commenting. He wondered again why the judge hadn't wanted him along, especially if he was just going to see Frank, but he held himself back from asking.

Hardcastle stood up suddenly and clapped his hands together. "Anything happen while I was out?"

Mark winced involuntarily, remembering the last time he'd been left alone at the estate. Trying to see if there was any hidden meaning or implied accusations in the judge's expression, he shook his head slowly. "No, nothing. Oh, well, actually, Teddy called." He rose to his feet in a slower imitation of the older man.

"He did, did he? He keepin' himself outta trouble?" Hardcastle asked as they made their way back to the kitchen.

Laughing easily at the thought of his friend, Mark replied, "Yeah, he is. Believe it or not, he was calling to tell me they promoted him at Jack's. Made him a waiter. He sounded pretty excited."

"A waiter, huh? Good for him. Glad to see he's doing his best to make this work." The judge pushed open the door to the kitchen and placed the soda he'd retrieved on the table, pulling out a chair to keep McCormick company while dinner was prepared.

"Yeah, me too. At least it beats him trying to find investors for his latest get-rich-quick scheme."

Hardcastle snickered, and then frowned as McCormick came and sat in the chair next to him. "You planning on cooking tonight, kiddo? Be a shame to waste all that good food you picked up."

Mark hesitated, still uncertain as to how the judge was going to react to anything outside the normal routine they'd fallen into. "Well, see...Teddy wasn't just calling to pass the news...he was also wanting to have dinner down there tonight, kind of a celebration. He wants you there, too, Judge," Mark hurried to assure him. "Both of us. He said it was on him." Mark looked up at the judge through hair that hung low in his eyes.

"On him, huh?" the judge asked skeptically. He shook his head. "Well, I think I'll bring along some spare cash just in case. Better safe than sorry."

Mark's head darted up in surprise. "You mean you'll come? You don't mind?"

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes at the disbelief in Mark's tone "Nah, I don't mind. Not like the two of you should be getting together without a chaperone. And besides, I don't think you should be driving yet anyway."

The ex-con took note of the not-so-subtle reminder of potential and already-past infractions, but decided not to let his guilt force the issue any further and held his tongue. He was just glad that Teddy, at least, would not be disappointed.

00000

Jack's was a mid-sized restaurant that, like many along the California coast, offered both seafood and typical family fare. There was a good crowd for a Thursday night, mostly young families, spattered with a few older couples and several singles enjoying some time at the bar. Teddy had been delighted to see both Mark and Judge Hardcastle come through the door and had reiterated his offer to cover the cost, assuring them that it was no problem due to a substantial server's discount. There was no missing the note of pride in his voice, and Mark smiled. Still, he selected from the lower price end of the menu so as not to tax his friend's newly found wealth. Hardcastle followed suit, and the three of them enjoyed a pleasant meal with Teddy dominating the conversation, sharing the improvements he'd planned for the pizza wash to include a video arcade and ice cream parlor, to keep the kiddies entertained during the spin dry cycle.

"So, whaddaya say, Judge? You interested yet in being my first investor? 'Cuz I gotta tell ya, they're gonna be lining up any minute. You don't want to miss out on this, ya know? Five years from now, you'll be sitting there slapping your head, saying, 'dang, I could've made a fortune on that," Teddy cajoled.

Mark stepped in before the judge could respond. "Hardcase already has a fortune, Teddy, you know that. Somehow I think you're going to have to find another cash cow."

"Oh, I get it - you just don't want to share yours, huh, Skid?" Teddy asked, winking at his friend.

Mark swallowed convulsively and dropped his eyes for a beat, feeling the remark hit a little too close to home, before he regained his composure. "Yeah, some cash cow," he replied humorlessly. "You probably make more in a week here at Jack's than I do in a month on the Milton C. Hardcastle slave labor scholarship." The smart-aleck comment sounded forced to his own ears, but he hoped it passed muster. "In fact, I might be coming to you soon to see if you can get me a job."

The judge harrumphed. "Not likely, kiddo. Seems like you never have enough time to get your chores done as it is; you think I'm gonna let you waste it working somewhere else?"

Mark's mood lifted slightly at the return of their typical banter, though he didn't allow the smile to show. "Yeah, well maybe if I wasn't so busy dodging bullets in between washing windows, it wouldn't be an issue. You could just order a full size decoy to ride around with you. Probably be a hell of a lot safer for me."

Hardcastle gave him a patronizing smile. "I'd get more work out of him too, no doubt. And whole lot less smart mouth."

Teddy's laughter cut in and Mark held back a retort, though he all but stuck his tongue out at Hardcastle.

Their server, a young perky redhead with an apparent fondness for blue eyed, curly haired men, approached the table with the dessert menus. Milt raised his eyebrows in Mark's direction, waiting for the young man to pick up on the waitress's obvious interest, but he was disappointed, as none of McCormick's intentional charm with women was present. Dessert itself was turned down in favor of coffee, and she turned away, discreetly pouting.

Teddy was not oblivious, however, and he laughed again. "Damn, Skid, what's wrong with you? You're off your game, man!"

Mark looked up, confused. "Huh?"

Teddy winked at Hardcastle. "Tiffany!" he replied, feeling as if he was stating the obvious. At Mark's continued blank stare, he elaborated. "The waitress? She's got it bad for you, my friend."

Mark turned his head to catch a glimpse of the retreating young lady. "What? No way. She does not."

Teddy reached for the saltshaker and started to fiddle with it. "Sure she does. But no big deal - she'll go after just about anything." He saw his friend start to take offense and held up his hand. "Now I'm not saying you ain't a catch. And she's a good kid. Just a little too friendly is all."

"Oh, yeah, he's quite a catch all right," the judge mumbled.

Mark gave him a longsuffering glare.

Teddy jumped back in. "You don't believe me? Look. She's already on her way back with the coffee. She's never that fast with her tables."

Mark grimaced. At another time, he might have fallen all over himself in an attempt to impress the attractive server; at the moment, though, his heart just wasn't in it. He glanced up with a brief 'thanks' as she placed his mug in front of him. She passed out the rest of the coffee and stood for a moment with her hand on her hip, openly staring while Teddy did his best not to snicker.

"Look, I don't mean to be forward," she began as Mark cringed inwardly, "but aren't you the guy that threw that amazing party last week?"

Mark's head dropped forward onto his folded arms, nearly taking out the coffee mug in the process. He thought surely by now he'd be done with his fifteen minutes of fame, but he wasn't catching any breaks these days.

When it became apparent that Mark had no intention of answering, Hardcastle took over. "Yes, that's right. Markie here decided to have a little fun while his employer was away, didnja, hotshot?" He reached over and poked McCormick in the shoulder, easing the sting of his words.

Mark shifted his head and cracked one eye warily. "Can I plead the fifth?" he mumbled.

Tiffany, seeing she'd made a tactical error, slowly eased away from the table, while Teddy laughed in pure delight.

"I tell ya, Skid, I was never so mad I got stuck at work as I was that day. I would've given anything to be there. Sounds like I missed way too much. You throwing another one anytime soon?"

"No!" Both Hardcastle and McCormick answered vehemently in unison.

"At least we agree on something," the judge conceded, not really willing to give McCormick too much of a hard time. He noticed someone approaching their table from the other side of the restaurant and his gaze narrowed in recognition.

Mark, registering the look on Hardcastle's face, raised his head and followed the jurist's gaze. His face hardened as Eddie Dyson came to a stop just two feet away, and Mark was on his feet in an instant, ready to let the other man have it.

"Damn it, Eddie. I already told you once today to take a hike. Now do, it will you? I've got nothing to say to you."

Hardcastle placed a restraining hand on Mark's arm and instantly the younger man stood down, though the tension remained in his shoulders.

Teddy jumped in. "Skid..." he waited until Mark had shifted his attention to him, "give him a chance, okay? He's got something important to tell you."

Mark cocked his head. "You knew about this, Ted? You set me up?" The pain of betrayal was clear in his tone.

"I set it up because I knew it was important. Hear him out, okay? You'll be glad you did; trust me." Teddy looked at him imploringly.

Trust wasn't something that came easily to Mark McCormick, but Teddy was at least on the list of possible recipients. He let out a breath and willed himself to relax. "You've got two minutes," he said grudgingly to Eddie.

Eddie glanced nervously at Hardcastle. "Uh, thanks, Skid. Maybe, maybe you and me could go outside for a minute?"

Mark pointedly sat back down as the judge's hand slid off his arm. "Forget it. Anything you've got to say to me, you can say to him." He pointed with his thumb in Hardcastle's direction.

Milt's lips turned upward, and he felt a measure of trust and pride in his young friend, reassured that Mark wasn't attempting to keep anything from him. He placed a hand over his mouth and coughed lightly.

Eddie seemed to think about it for a few seconds, then shrugged and pushed into the booth next to Teddy.

"A minute-fifty," Mark prodded, raising his eyebrow.

"Okay, okay. Look, I'm just gonna lay it out, all right? I think maybe somebody's gonna try and take out the judge, here."

"What do you mean?" Mark leaned forward with his arms on the table, giving the man his complete attention now.

"I don't have no details or nothin'," Eddie stated, fighting the urge to squirm under McCormick's relentless gaze, "I just overheard something, and they made it sound like the judge might be in trouble."

"Who? What did you overhear? And where?" Mark looked at him intently, determined to get as much information as he could. Threats to Hardcastle's safety had become almost commonplace in the last year, and he'd learned to live with it, even if he'd never been comfortable with the idea. But now, with the very real possibility looming that he'd be leaving Gull's Way in the near future, he wanted more than anything to ensure his friend would be protected, and that meant dealing with this threat before Mark's time was up. He owed the man that much, despite how things were going to end.

There was a nervousness hidden behind Eddie's brown eyes, and they darted briefly to Hardcastle, noting that the man wore a slightly bored expression that was in contrast to the discussion topic. Finding no help in that quarter, not that any was expected, he returned to Mark and sat back, unconsciously placing himself out of direct reach. "I don't know who. I mean, it was Fish, the guy who set us up to steal the files, but I don't know who he was talking to, 'cuz he was on the phone. I was still there in booking when they brought him in. My PD was supposed to be coming to meet me, but he got stuck in court or something, so I was just sitting there. I heard him make his phone call. He said something about the money - said if Hardcastle found out where the money went, it would be trouble for all of them, so he needed to fix things before that happened."

Mark ran a hand through his hair, processing. "Fix things..." he said under his breath. "Anything else?"

Eddie nodded. "Just that he said Hardcastle had been riding him for too long, and that he couldn't take it anymore. He wanted it stopped. Then he said 'for good'." Eddie seemed relieved, glad that McCormick had stopped looking at him as if he'd just crawled out from under a rock.

Mark glanced over at Hardcastle, not surprised by the lack of emotion on the older man's face. "What do you think, Judge?" he asked.

Hardcastle pinned Eddie down with a gaze of steel. "Why are you telling us this?" he asked suspiciously.

Eddie shrugged, somehow feeling that this man would accept nothing less than complete honesty. "It's like I told Skid this afternoon - I feel real bad about what we did, ya know? We was just doin' it for the money. Didn't want nobody to get hurt." His gaze darted briefly to Mark, leaving no question as to who it was he didn't want hurt.

Hardcastle nodded slightly, as if the words confirmed something to him. He nudged McCormick to move so that he could get up out of the booth. Standing suddenly, he tossed his napkin down on the table. "Well, I need to see a man about a horse." He made a move in the direction of the men's room.

Mark grabbed him by the elbow, gaping at him. "That's it? Eddie tells you someone wants to kill you and you're just going to head to the bathroom like nothing's different?"

Milt shrugged off the hand holding him. "Nothing is different, kiddo. There're lots of folks that want to kill me; adding one more to the list won't make a big deal. And when a man's gotta go, a man's gotta go. So if you don't mind?" he nodded towards the restroom, and seeing that Mark was offering no further protest, wandered off.

Mark stared after him, slowly shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

Eddie watched the judge's retreating back, before his gaze darted back to Mark's face. "Is he always like that?" he asked.

"Yep," Teddy chimed in as Mark grumbled "pretty much."

There was silence for a moment as McCormick mulled over the information and tried to figure out their next move. Eddie, having realized that his two minutes were up, stood slowly. He looked at his one time friend somewhat uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say. Taking a deep breath, he said simply, "Anyway, Skid, I'm sorry, you know? For the whole thing." He glanced over towards the men's room. "I hope the judge will be okay," he trailed off.

Mark's eyes snapped up towards Eddie's face at that comment. "He will be," he promised. "I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah, I'll bet you will," Eddie replied with a half smile. "See you around, huh?" He turned to leave.

Mark watched him for a minute, feeling torn. "Eddie?" he called after him, waiting for the other man to face him again. "Stay out of trouble, you hear?" He offered him a small smile, which was returned.

"Yeah. You too."

Mark's gaze followed Eddie out the door of the restaurant, taking note of the lengthening shadows outside. He sighed gently.

"So what are you gonna do?"

Teddy's question pulled him back to the current dilemma. "What I always do, Teddy. I'll watch his back. Only..." Mark hesitated.

"Only what?" Teddy prompted.

Mark sighed again. It was becoming a habit. He wasn't quite sure how much he really wanted to confide in Teddy about his parole situation. He settled for something approaching the truth. "Listen, Teddy, things might be a bit up in the air for me for the next little while. I, um, I might be looking for a new place soon."

"What?" Teddy leaned forward on the table, disbelief written on his features. "Are you nuts? You told me before that living with Hardcastle was one of the best things that happened to you lately. You're just gonna throw that away?"

Mark grimaced, thinking maybe that's exactly what he'd already done, albeit unintentionally. "Things change."

Teddy wasn't buying it. "No way, Skid. Not you and Hardcase. You guys are a team, remember? Rounding up the bad guys, fighting crime, spreading truth, justice and the Hardcastle way. The two of you belong together!" When Mark didn't immediately answer, Teddy took a moment to stare into the blue eyes across the table from him, and seeing the sadness there, he realized that maybe moving on wasn't his friend's first choice.

"Yeah, well." Mark's voice was slightly rough, like it used to get after too many cigarettes, and he cleared his throat, determining then and there not to mope about this in front of his former cellmate. "I may need a favor in the next couple of days, okay?"

"You know I'd do anything for you, my friend. Even give you a place to stay."

McCormick gave a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah, I know. We tried that already, though, and it didn't work out so hot, what with me ending up back in prison and all." He smiled to soften the sting of his words. "No, I just meant I might need you to store some of my stuff for a while, until I can find a new place, okay? Just a couple of boxes."

Teddy raised a fist and gave Mark's shoulder a tap. "You got it, bro. Just say the word, and I'll swing by and pick up whatever you need me to hang on to. And if you need any help tracking down this guy who might have it in for the judge, you let me know, okay?"

Mark appreciated the offer and said so, noticing as he did that Hardcastle was returning from the restrooms. He stood, pulling out his wallet, which Teddy protested.

"Just let me leave the tip, okay?" Mark insisted.

Teddy winked knowingly. "Oh, I get it. You want to write your phone number on one of the bills, right? I knew you couldn't resist. That's more like it."

Mark shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint, but not this time, Teddy. You'll have to handle her on your own. But thanks for dinner. And congratulations again."

Hardcastle added his own thanks, and after shaking hands, the two of them headed back to the pickup, leaving Teddy with a promise to touch base soon.

Mark climbed into the passenger side and sat heavily, refraining from leaning his head back against the headrest. Tired though he was, he knew any pressure on his stitches right now would only make things worse. He pulled his seatbelt around him and waited for the judge to get the pickup moving. The silence only lasted until they'd pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

"Aren't you going in the wrong direction?"

The judge looked over at him, mild concern on his face. "You hit your head harder than we thought, kiddo?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Last time I checked, this was the way home."

"Yeah, but..."

"But what?"

"But it's only about seven o'clock!"

Hardcastle was still not following. "So? We got other plans you failed to let me in on? Or were you just hoping for a night out on the town?"

McCormick let out a snort of exasperation. "No! I just meant that if I know Frank, he's still in the office."

"Okay," Hardcastle answered, drawing the word out until it became a question of its own.

Seeing that the judge was not being deliberately obtuse, Mark explained. "I figured we'd at least head over there and let him know what Eddie said. See if maybe he can start tracking anything down for us."

"Ah," Hardcastle stated, feeling enlightened. He swiped a thumb across his nose and lifted his chin slightly for a better view of the road ahead. "You think that just because somebody tells me they think I'm living on borrowed time, I should run to Frank and have him make it all better?"

Well, yeah.

"Don't you?" McCormick asked.

The jurist chuckled. "Look, kiddo, I appreciate your concern. But like I already told you, if I had a nickel for every time someone wanted me dead, I'd be a very rich man."

"You are a very rich man," Mark pointed out sullenly.

"True enough. But that's neither here nor there. Despite all those folks who want to do me in, I'm still here to enjoy my wealth. Which means there's no point in heading off to see Frank just to add another name to the list. Besides, seems more likely to me that Eddie was just trying to score some points with you since he felt bad about messing you up in the first place. I doubt he had a chance to overhear Fish saying anything at all. Jack Fish may not win any awards from MENSA, but I don't think he'd be stupid enough to arrange a hit under the noses of half the squad room."

Mark leaned against the door of the cab and laid his arm across the back of the seat, watching the judge in disbelief. "So you don't think there's any valid concern here? Nothing worth at least mentioning to the lieutenant?"

"Sure, I'll mention it," the judge said agreeably. "Next time I see him, if it'll make you feel better. But I'm sure as heck not going to make a special trip downtown for it. Besides, if we hurry, we can still catch most of the game and have time for you to make the popcorn." He started to whistle, a clear indication to Mark that the matter was, at least in the judge's mind, settled.

Trouble was, Mark's mind had ideas of its own. He couldn't shake the niggling fear that Eddie's words had produced. While he could agree, in theory, with the possibility that Eddie might pass along this information out of a sense of guilt, he didn't think that meant it was unfounded. Making up a rumor like that would only serve to leave Mark even more upset with the other man once the truth was discovered. No, there had to be some basis in fact there. And Mark wasn't about to leave it alone.

Not only had this guy Fish done his best to end Hardcastle's little crime fighting escapade, he'd almost succeeded. Sure the meat of the files had been saved, but the judge had much more than just the bare bones in those manila folders. Pictures and newspaper clippings saved over the years; some of the things that had been destroyed in that shredder were irreplaceable.

Though the cost of his efforts against Judge Hardcastle was still being tallied, Jack Fish had cost Mark so much more: possibly his last chance to turn his life around.

Maybe Hardcastle didn't think it was a big deal. Maybe he didn't want to involve Frank, and maybe Mark would end up looking into this one alone. He didn't relish the idea of working without backup, but he would.

He owed the man that much.

00000

Louis T. Manduke, Lou to his co-workers and Louie to his family and close friends, not that there were many of those, pulled into the parking lot of the Seascape Motel and looked for Room 119. He found it around the back of the building, complete with the majestic view of downtown Los Angeles. They were five miles inland, and there wasn't a seascape in sight. Not that it mattered to him; he was hoping to get this taken care of and be on his way back to the bank in just a few minutes. He removed the key that had been left for him and grabbed the small duffle bag from the passenger seat. Leaving the car running, he walked to the motel room door and knocked before inserting the key into the lock. With no response, and since there was none expected, he opened the door, stepped in, and tossed the duffle bag onto the closest bed. The room smelled of cigarettes and cheap disinfectant, and was decorated in early seventies shades of brown and gold. He walked into the room only long enough to leave the key on the nightstand, and then backtracked, pulling the door shut behind him.

He climbed into his car and drove for about a mile before pulling into a gas station and heading for the payphone. He dialed from memory.

The phone was picked up on the first ring. "Jon? It's me. The first part is done. I dropped off the down payment." He listened for a moment. "Yeah, I know. But hopefully by tomorrow night this will all be over. Just sit tight, okay? I'll call you when it's finished." He hung up and returned to his car, confident that his younger brother would do as instructed and wait, hopefully without too much panic. They both had too much at stake to have it all screwed up now.

He pondered that as he navigated the traffic heading back toward the California Bank. This whole nightmare had started when he'd caught Fish doing some small time embezzling at the company they'd both worked for. The timing had been right and he'd persuaded Jack to get him the cash he needed for Jon, in exchange for not going to the authorities. Fish had reluctantly agreed, and by the time he'd been discovered and arrested, they were both in way over their heads. He'd persuaded Fish to keep quiet and take the fall. The man had done his time, and Lou had promised to make it worth his while.

Going after Hardcastle had been Fish's idea, his personal vendetta that had become an obsession for him. And though he'd tried to talk Jack out of it more than once, he'd had little success. But things had gotten way out of hand, and now Fish was behind bars again. And only the fact that Fish refused to give the cops Lou's name had kept him from sharing a cell with him.

But there was a price for that. Fish had called him when he'd been arrested, and he'd gotten the message across loud and clear. Hardcastle had to be taken care of, once and for all. If the crazy old judge managed to track the money, it would be more than Fish who'd pay the price for what they'd done all those years ago. It would be him, yes, but it would be Jon who suffered the most, and that was unacceptable. Not after everything they'd done to get him where he was.

He'd promised his mother he'd take care of Jon, and he intended to keep that promise, no matter what the cost.

As he pulled into the parking lot of the bank and stopped the car, he glanced around nervously. He was uncomfortable with coming back here after everything that had happened, but he figured disappearing would only make him look more suspicious. As far as everyone else was concerned, he was just another co-worker who was shocked at the turn Jack Fish had made. And if anyone bothered to check, his little visit to see Fish in jail two days ago was nothing more than a friend showing his support.

At least, that's what he hoped would be believed.

00000

Mark closed the front door to the gatehouse and leaned briefly against it, surveying the room and trying not to think how much he'd miss it when he'd moved on. Living in a place that was 'home' wasn't something he'd had a lot of experience with during his life, and this small house most definitely filled the bill. In fact, at no time during his adult life had he ever felt as comfortable anywhere as he did here at Gull's Way. Right from the earliest days, there was something about this unusual living arrangement that had reached out and grabbed him. He'd been used to living in apartments or the occasional rooming house, using furniture that was not his own. Coming to live here probably shouldn't have been any different. But it was.

Only a few short weeks after moving in, he'd begun to think of it as 'his'. His bed, his loft, his living room with the fireplace, his tiny kitchen, even his patio that overlooked the pool and the ocean beyond - it didn't matter that none of it actually belonged to him. He'd felt at home. He wondered about that now, wondered what the difference was between this and the many other places he'd called home, but never felt at home in. The only thing he could come up with was the man himself, the honorable Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. Maybe it wasn't the building, as much as it was the friendship that had been formed between the two men and tested by fire on many occasions. An unlikely pair, to be certain, but somehow they had made it work. If you'd told him at any time during the last several years prior to his coming to Gull's Way that the man who'd sent him up the river was destined to become one of the best friends he'd ever had, he'd have laughed, convinced you'd been smoking too much wacky tabacky.

Even now the thought brought a smile to his face, and he stepped away from the door and headed for the stereo, putting on a little Creedence. He kept the volume lower than normal in deference to the late hour. Contrary to Hardcastle's belief, he didn't always want to annoy the older man with his preference for loud music, and he knew Hardcase had already gone to bed. Mark had come over to wind down and gather a few things before heading back to sleep at the main house.

They'd gotten home in plenty of time for game three of the Series and had watched the Padres lose to Detroit. Mark had walked away twenty dollars richer, and Hardcastle had walked away disgusted that Mark could bet against San Diego, if only for the principle of the matter.

While he'd been dispatched to the kitchen to make the popcorn, he'd surreptitiously called Frank at the office, only to find he'd been mistaken and the easy-going detective had actually gone home for the day. Debating the merits of calling him at home and getting Claudia mad at him versus waiting until tomorrow, Mark's concern for the situation had won out, and he'd dialed, hearing Hardcastle bellowing loudly from the other room about blind umpires.

Unfortunately, Frank and Claudia had apparently been out for the evening, and not quite sure what to say to the answering machine, Mark had just stated he'd call back. Which he'd done throughout the remainder of the evening. Five times, though he hadn't left a message every call.

The game was long over, and they followed it with the John Wayne movie of the week, remarkably one that Mark had only seen twice. It was nearly midnight now, but he didn't expect he would do any better at sleeping than he had for the past little while, especially not with the nap he'd had this afternoon. He debated checking out the late movie, but he wasn't really in the mood. His eyes fell on the boxes he'd stashed earlier in the archway to the kitchen, and he suddenly decided he knew what he needed to do.

Walking over to the pile and grabbing a box, Mark McCormick methodically began to pack.

00000

Hardcastle tested his left knee as he walked out of the bedroom the following morning, stopping and gently flexing and bending. He'd given it a jolt coming down the stairs last week, and he'd definitely tweaked something. It hadn't been enough to cause him to give a call to Charlie, but it had made him rethink some of his regular activities, and the pain had kept him moving a bit more gingerly than usual when McCormick wasn't watching. This morning, though, it finally felt back to normal, and he smiled to himself.

The scent of already brewed coffee was in the air, and he made his way downstairs to the kitchen. He was glad he hadn't mentioned his troublesome knee to McCormick, feeling quite certain the other man would give him nothing but grief over stumbling on the stairs, and the cracks about getting old might be getting a little harder to take these days. Still, he'd be damned if he'd give in gracefully to age.

The smile faded slightly as he surveyed the empty kitchen, no signs of breakfast having been made. Just as quickly, his mood took an upturn at the thought of McCormick waiting for him on the basketball court. He was more than ready to beat the younger man's butt; it had been too many days since they'd played. There was nothing better than a little guerilla basketball to make you feel young again. He made a U-turn, grabbing the ball from the front hall closet as he made his way outside, already planning to take it easy on the kid due to his head. He'd woken McCormick twice last night with no more difficulty than it usually took to rouse him, and the judge felt confident there were no concussion issues to deal with.

His mind registered the familiar sound of an engine and he stopped short just outside the door in time to see the Coyote roaring off down the driveway. Well...damn. That wasn't part of the plan.

He returned to the kitchen with the ball still under his arm, resigned to cold cereal for breakfast and wondering just where in the hell McCormick was heading off to at this hour on a Friday morning.

00000

Mark was just passing Topanga Beach heading south on the Pacific Coast Highway, when he saw the flashing blue light in his rear view mirror. He sighed, debating the wisdom of trying to outrun the unmarked sedan, but as if Hardcastle were actually in the seat next to him, he could hear the older man's admonitions. Sighing at the influence the judge managed to hold over his life even in absentia, he pulled off the road onto the coast-side shoulder and turned off the car. Leaning over the gearshift, he reached automatically for the registration information he kept in his wallet. He'd decided after his failed attempts to reach Frank at home last night that he'd simply drive downtown first thing this morning and catch the other man as he arrived at the office. Getting stopped for speeding was only going to delay his plans, and besides, he didn't think he'd been going that fast.

The officer approached the open window of the vehicle just as Mark located the paperwork and started to sit up.

"Excuse me, but aren't you the guy who hosted that amazing party last week?"

Mark's head whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice, and he glared at the only cop he could truly call a friend, something he didn't think he'd ever get used to. "Funny, Frank," he said dryly, moving to get out of the car, leaving the papers on the passenger seat. "Really. You're a laugh a minute."

Harper chuckled to himself, stepping back to allow McCormick more room to extricate himself from the Coyote. "Yeah, I know. Claudia tells me I should hit the comedy circuit all the time." He continued to smile. "So, what's the big rush?"

Mark shoved his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. "I was on my way downtown to see you," he explained. "What are you doing up this way anyhow?"

The lieutenant shrugged. "You sounded a little desperate on the phone last night, what with the three messages you left. I figured I'd head out your way before I showed up at the office. When I saw you pass me, I turned around and followed. Had to throw on the lights just to catch up."

Mark looked slightly sheepish.

"I kind of thought Milt would be with you." Frank turned it into a question with a nod of his head indicating the empty passenger seat.

"Ah, no. Not this time. He's at home."

"What'd he do, throw you out for not finishing the lawn?" Harper teased.

Mark couldn't help it; he winced.

Frank noticed it, and backpedaled. "Mark, c'mon. He's all bark and no bite. You know he wouldn't do that."

Mark lifted his gaze and stared steadily into the other man's eyes, his look saying that, no, he didn't know any such thing. Shaking his head, he jumped in before any more baseless platitudes were offered. "I appreciate you coming all the way out, Frank, really. I was calling because I got some news yesterday from a friend of mine. Well, not really a friend. Not so much anymore. But I still think it's worth checking out." He went on to tell Harper about the conversation that had taken place at the restaurant and everything Eddie had told him. He also mentioned the judge's reluctance to place any faith in the other ex-con's warning.

"But you think maybe there's something more to it?" Frank asked.

"Damn straight." Mark gave him a longsuffering look. "Look, I've been with him, what, a little over a year? In that time, he's been the target of a police captain, an ex-CIA agent, a newspaper publisher, most the folks in his own hometown, and too many cons and ex-cons to count. Yeah, Frank, I think there's something more to it. The only people who don't have it in for Hardcase are you, me and those lucky few who haven't met him yet."

Harper allowed himself a smile at McCormick's flare for drama, but he nodded. "Okay, okay, I see your point. I'll look into it. I'll try to get some time today to head over to Men's Central and chat with our boy Fish, not that I expect to get anything out of him. I'll pull the file again; see if we can't finally figure out who the heck was in the car with him when you chased him back to the bank. And I'll see if we've gotten any word of out-of-state talent that's recently arrived, although I don't really think this Fish is much of a big mover and shaker. More than likely he's going to go with someone local to do the job."

Mark felt relief at Frank's agreement and the measures the lieutenant was willing to take. There was a small part of him that had wondered if he needed to believe this was a real threat to the judge only to reassure himself of Hardcastle's need for him. Not that it really made any difference what he thought; it was the judge's opinion that mattered. Still, having the officer take what he said at face value helped to boost his spirits marginally.

"How about patrols by the house?" McCormick wheedled, hoping he wasn't pushing his luck.

The lieutenant sighed patiently. "Yeah, Mark, I'll try and up the number of drive-bys for Gull's Way. Although, you know, you guys already seem to use up a fair amount of the tax-payers' money with that kind of stuff."

Mark laughed as he sat on the window ledge of the Coyote and swung his legs around to slide in. "Yeah, but with all the creeps Hardcase has brought in over the last year, you should consider that payment for services rendered."

Frank noted with surprise that McCormick didn't take any credit for the many criminals that had been taken off the streets since the two of them started their unorthodox arrangement. "Where are you off to now?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the Coyote's engine firing up.

"Downtown. I've got some digging of my own to do." Mark pushed in the clutch and put the car into first gear.

Lieutenant Harper placed a hand on the window, halting the vehicle from taking off. "Does Hardcastle know you're doing this?" he asked shrewdly.

Mark didn't answer, refusing to meet Frank's eyes.

The silence was all the answer required. "Well, for Pete's sake, be careful at least. Milt'll have my head if something happens to you and I could have stopped it."

Mark gave a small, cynical smile, wishing he could believe it was true. "Don't worry about it, Frank. Hey, if Hardcastle mentions the threat to you, try and act surprised. And let me know if you find anything, okay? I should be back at the estate later this morning."

"I'll hold you to that," Harper replied, giving the car a gentle slap and stepping away again, watching Mark drive off in a growing cloud of dust. Frank shook his head, wondering how Milt could ever doubt that this kid wanted to be part of the jurist's life. It was pretty damn obvious to everyone else how the ex-con felt about his benefactor. Frank was just glad to know someone else was covering Milt's back since the older man had such a penchant for finding trouble. And he was also grateful that the kid had managed to put the laughter back into Hardcastle's life.

00000

Mark pulled the Coyote into the parking lot on the corner of Vignes and Bauchet, stopping long enough to grab a ticket from the machine and wait for the bar to rise. He went to the far end of the lot where there was more room to park his treasured vehicle and less chance it would be knocked into by folks who didn't care as much about their own cars.

First stop was the Los Angeles County Central Jail, where Jack Fish should have been placed after his brief stop in the Inmate Reception Center until they forwarded him on to the next facility to await his trial. Mark briefly considered attempting to visit Fish himself, but he knew there was no way the convicted embezzler would give anything away to the one who'd helped put him back inside to face new charges. No, even though it was a long shot, his best bet here at Men's Central was with an old friend whom he hoped was working at the moment. He'd timed it just right, getting here shortly before the shift change, and he mentally crossed his fingers.

He went in the main entrance and walked through the metal detector, allowing the guard to run a smaller hand-held one over his arms and legs before waving him through. Heading over to the information desk, he asked the young woman there if Tom Barker was available. He waited while she rang through and was rewarded with a nod of the head and an assurance that he'd be out in just a few minutes.

Mark tried not to pace as he stood by the window waiting for the guard who'd befriended him during one of his several visits here, compliments of the State of California. Barker, a fellow car buff, had discovered McCormick's history in racing and sharing conversation had passed the time for both of them. Mark smiled as he saw the guard approach and held out his hand.

Tommy shook it warmly, clapping the other man on the back. "Skid! It's good to see you my friend. And still on the right side of the bars, too." He smiled, his teeth white against the darkness of his skin.

"Well, I'm trying Tommy. Sometimes it ain't easy though," McCormick winked. He moved closer to the window, steering Tommy away from the earshot of the people passing through on their way to the innards of the building.

"Yeah," Barker agreed, "I heard about your trouble a while back." He shook his head. "I didn't figure you'd do anything that would chance you ending up back in here, man. What were you thinkin'?"

Mark shrugged. "Honest? I'm not sure I was thinking. Not too clearly anyway. But Hardcase worked things out for me, and I'm doing okay now."

The guard laughed. "Yeah, I heard about that, too. Unbelievable. You and Hardcastle hanging out together? I never would have guessed that. He must drive you nuts."

Mark grinned. "He's a first-class donkey, no doubt about that. And yeah, sometimes he definitely drives me nuts. But...it's not all bad."

Tommy raised a brow in disbelief. "If you say so..."

"Listen, Tommy, I've got a favor to ask. There's a guy who should've been transferred in a few days ago; name is Jack Fish. Do you know him by any chance?"

"Fish, huh? Well, he's been assigned to my block, but I can't say as I know him. Not yet anyway. Why?"

McCormick looked out the window briefly before returning his gaze to the guard. "He's another one who's here because of Hardcase. For the second time, actually, though his first beef was federal. Anyway, rumor has it he's really got it in for the judge and might be planning something. I was hoping maybe you could tell me if he's had any visitors. Maybe someone who might be willing to facilitate things for him while he's stuck inside."

Barker gazed at him thoughtfully. "That's kind of a reach, don't you think? You think just because the dude don't like Hardcastle he's going to try and take him out from the inside? Seems a little unlikely." He reached a hand up to rub absently at the back of his neck. "Besides, if someone's got a visitor, I just escort the prisoner down to the phones - t's not up to me to keep track of who's coming to see them."

Mark dropped his eyes, unable to keep his disappointment from showing. It didn't help that Hardcastle made this stuff look so easy. A few questions, and bam - he'd have the name he was looking for. Of course, the fact that the judge knew just about everyone on both sides of the law in this part of California might have had something to do with it. He stifled a sigh and raised his gaze to meet the guard's again.

"Well, it was worth a shot. Thanks anyway, Tommy." He tapped the other man on the shoulder and turned to go.

"Skid, hold up. Just wait here a second."

Mark watched curiously with little hope as Barker moved over to the information desk and talked quietly with the same young woman Mark had spoken to. After a few minutes he smiled and waved Mark over.

"Mark, this is Cindy. Cindy, this is my friend, Mark McCormick," Turning to Mark, he said "Cindy's going to check the records for you. If the record of visitors has already been entered into the computer, she should be able to print something out for you, but it will take a few minutes. I've got to get back for the start of my shift, so you can just wait in the chairs over there, okay?"

McCormick smiled. "Thanks, Tommy. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

Barker waved off the thanks. "Not a big deal. Just stay out of trouble, you got it? I don't want to see you back here," he said as he moved off down the hallway.

"I hear you," Mark agreed, and wandering over to the indicated chairs, he sat down to wait.

00000

The sunlight was warm on his face as Mark opened the doors to the outside, the list firmly grasped in his hand. He'd never get over the feeling of relief that came with being free to exit any detention facility, no matter how short the stay had been. The judge would undoubtedly be unhappy over his sudden disappearing act this morning, and Mark was anxious to head back and make sure Hardcastle hadn't come to harm in his absence. He'd have to come up with some excuse for having been out. Fortunately he'd already picked up the oil filter he needed for the Corvette. That, and a stop at the garden center on his way home to pick up the bulbs and fall fertilizer the judge had been after him to get would hopefully throw Hardcase off the scent. Good thing the stuff was small enough to put in his car—if he'd taken off with the truck, he had no doubt Hardcastle would have already issued the APB.

Fish had only had four visits in the last five days, and three of them were from the same individual. Smart money would be that those visits were made by his lawyer, and since one of them occurred after the general public's visiting hours, Mark figured it to be a sure thing. The only other name on the list was a Louis Manduke, who had paid Fish a ten-minute visit the day before yesterday. The name jiggled at the corners of Mark's mind, but he had no real recollection of anything about him. A quick call to Frank from the payphone in the lobby had left the lieutenant with yet another direction to look in.

As he approached the Coyote, he stopped suddenly, a thought occurring to him. Turning abruptly, he headed back into Men's Central with a new purpose. Though visiting Tommy had been a shot in the dark, which even now may not have paid off, Mark knew the odds of this next visit garnering him any useful information were next to none. Still, he had a feeling that if anyone had their finger on the pulse of information pertaining to hired hit men, it would be Joe Cadillac, even if the former mobster was currently residing at the House of Many Doors on the State-funded early retirement plan, his case still tied up in the courts. And since Mr. Cadillac was one of the few guests of the state put there by Hardcastle and himself that owed them a favor, Mark had few qualms about coming to him with this request.

Mark thought back to that assignment - one of the first cases they'd worked on together. It was during that time that he had discovered there was a lot more to the judge he'd spent so many years hating. Sure, working together down in Vegas has been eye-opening, and finding out that it was at least possible to spend time in the jurist's company without wanting to kill him or vice-versa was a definite plus. But it was from Joe Cadillac that Mark had first learned that Hardcastle had once had and then lost a son.

Mark had also discovered then that human life came ahead of the law with Hardcase, as he'd watched the man prepare to throw away everything he'd stood for to 'retrieve' the papers necessary to trade for the life of Cadillac's son.

A man who would do that; who would care more about doing what was right than about doing what was legal...well, that was a guy that Mark could see a little more eye to eye with. He smiled as he thought of how Hardcase had laid the guilt on him when it was all said and done, leading him to confess to his part in breaking into the police impound lot. Even now that amazed him. So early in their relationship, and Mark had cared more about disappointing that man than he did about the prospect of getting his ticket pulled.

But Hardcastle had obviously believed in him. McCormick had just been returning the favor.

Shoving the list into his back pocket, he entered the facility and repeated the security process, filling out a Request for Visit form before he was escorted to the visiting booths. The wait wasn't too long and it was only about twenty minutes later that Joe Cadillac took the seat on the other side of the glass.

If the man was surprised to see him, he didn't allow it to show. As Mark picked up the phone, he immediately dropped his gaze and fell into a role of subservience, the time honored tradition he had learned well on the inside. Guys like Joe Cadillac were out of his league, and he was okay with that. His years at camp had taught him that often the best way to get what he wanted was to show an attitude not of weakness, but of respect. Doing time, what he usually wanted was to not get the snot beat out of him. Now, all he was looking for a little information, but the idea was the same.

"Mr. Cadillac," he said in way of greeting, "thanks for being willing to see me."

Cadillac scoffed. "You've been inside, right, boy? You think maybe I got better things to do? I got laundry for work detail. Any excuse to get out of that hothouse is a good thing."

Mark allowed himself a smile at that. "Yeah, I suppose it is. Still, I appreciate it."

"Yeah, well, you helped Hardcastle save my boy, so I figure I owe you. Joe Cadillac doesn't forget something like that. And you can call me Joe, capice?"

McCormick gazed at the other man with a wry expression on his face and nodded.

"So," Joe continued, "I'm figuring this isn't just a social call, eh? You got something on your mind?"

Mark leaned forward and placed his elbow on the ledge in front of him, keeping his words low. "Yes, sir, I do. I was hoping maybe you could help us out with something the judge and I are working on. I'm looking for some information, and it seemed to me that you might be just the guy who would be able to tell me what I need to know."

Cadillac nodded. "What're you looking for? Though I'm not sure how I can help, me being stuck in here and all." His eyes gave lie to his words even as he spoke them, but Mark went along with the game.

"I know. But I figured a guy like you, he's still got plenty of connections, right?" The sound of scam entered his tone, and he adapted easily to the role. "Must be lots of ways someone like you can get information, no matter where you're at. If anybody can do it, even from the joint, it's you, right, Mr. Cadillac?"

Joe allowed himself a satisfied smile, not believing for a moment in what Mark was shoveling, but still glad to see the kid knew how to play his part. "Maybe so," he agreed, "maybe so." He raised his eyebrow in silent repeat of the question.

McCormick suddenly dropped the pretense. "Joe, I think somebody's got a hit out on Hardcase. I was hoping you might be able to dig something up for me; get me something that will help me be able to stop this guy before he gets anywhere."

Cadillac straightened in his chair and leaned forward, gazing intently at the younger man on the other side of the glass. "What makes you think he's a target?"

Mark told him the story of Jack Fish and how he was now behind bars for the second time thanks to Hardcastle's recent efforts. He explained how Fish had attempted to destroy all of the files in hopes of putting Hardcastle's justice crusade permanently out of business. Finally, he shared with him what had been overheard during Fish's phone call.

To his credit, Joe listened quietly without interrupting. He remained silent when McCormick finished, mulling over what had been said. Lifting his chin and narrowing his gaze, he asked, "What does Hardcastle think about it all?"

For a moment, Mark was tempted to lie, to tell the other man that he was only here on the judge's bidding, but something instinctively told him not to. He leaned back and sighed, coming clean. "I think he thinks I'm nuts," he admitted reluctantly.

Joe nodded sagely. "What do you think?"

"I think that this guy went to a lot of trouble to take Hardcastle down once already," he said honestly. "Twelve years after the judge sent him up for embezzling. That's a pretty long time to hold a grudge. Now he's going back inside for a really long time, and I figure he's desperate enough to do whatever it takes for revenge. Putting the judge out of commission didn't work, so now he wants to take him out for good. He hates Hardcase, really hates him. And trust me, that kind of hate can make you a little crazy after a while." Realizing he probably didn't need to lecture the head of a mob family on the effects of hate, he gazed at him warily.

Cadillac continued to eye him thoughtfully, and Mark waited, hoping this hadn't all been an exercise in futility.

Finally, the mobster spoke, though the words out of his mouth were not what McCormick expected.

"You're a good boy, Mark, you know that? And I think you're good for him. Nobody deserves to be alone. Hardcastle's lucky to have you around."

Mark couldn't help it, he laughed. "Yeah, without me, he'd be overrun with hedges and the lawn would never get mowed."

Cadillac's look indicated he didn't appreciate the young man's humor, and Mark was immediately contrite.

"Sorry, Mr. Cadillac. It's just, I'm not sure Hardcastle considers himself all that lucky, but I appreciate you saying so."

"Just because he doesn't say so doesn't mean it isn't true. Him and me, we're old school. We don't talk about stuff like that so easy."

Mark nodded in agreement. Old school was something he could at least relate to.

"Tell you what I'll do," Joe continued. "I'll do some digging and see if I can find anything out for you. It'll take me a little time from in here, though. You stop by and see my son tomorrow evening after Mass. He comes to see me every Saturday afternoon. If I hear anything, I'll pass it along through him. You know where his church is?"

McCormick nodded again. He'd driven by the simple white church once or twice in the past few months.

"Okay, then. You check with him. And then, you can take care of Hardcastle."

00000

Mark pulled out of the lot onto the main road. It was well after ten, and he knew there'd be hell to pay with Hardcastle when he got back. He waited impatiently for the light at the corner, anxious to be on his way, when he took note of his surroundings. On impulse, he took a quick left hand turn, heading up a few blocks. He got lucky, finding a parking spot, and after throwing some change in the meter, he dashed inside the Hall of Records.

Opening the door to a place that could easily give him nightmares, he waded through the stacks of boxes and file folders, wondering at the massive number of trees that had given their lives to fill this room. He made his way around the corner and thankfully found Rosie standing at her desk, rifling through a cardboard box of files that looked as though it was left over from the 1920's. The thought of having to hunt her down had sent chills up his spine.

She saw him approach and smiled warmly. "Hey, Mark. No Milton today?"

Mark tried not to give thought to the fact that he spent so much time in Hardcastle's shadow these days that folks felt it necessary to comment when the judge wasn't along for the ride. He smiled back. "Nah, I left him back at the estate, drinking his prune juice and reading the latest comics. You know how cranky he gets on car trips."

Rosie rolled her eyes at him. "I hope he's not still mad at me for throwing out the extra copies of his files. I told him, I just don't have room in this place! I have to get rid of stuff all the time. You know every little bit helps."

Mark wedged his hip onto the one clear spot on her desk and placed his hands in his lap, winking at her. "I don't think Hardcase could ever be mad at you Rosie; you must know that by now. He thinks you're pretty special."

Rosie giggled. "Well, he's right. And I'm glad he's not mad at me." She sat down, looking glad to be taking a load off. "So, what can I do for you today?"

"A little information, what else? I'm trying to track down a guy by the name of Louis Manduke. It's for something I'm working on for the judge. I know that name sounds familiar to me, but I can't place it."

Rosie pulled her chair forward and pulled several files off her computer. "Well, I don't know about Louis, but you've probably heard of Jonathan Manduke. He's the senator for our district, and he's up for re-election in a few weeks. Third term, I think."

Mark shook his head in self-disgust. "I knew I'd heard of it." He chewed it over for a moment. "Any chance these two are related? Can you find that out?"

She clucked her tongue at him. "'Can I find that out?', he asks. Did you forget who you're talking to? I have all of California at my fingertips. Just give me a sec..." She began typing furiously on her keyboard, muttering under her breath as a few minutes passed. "Yep, here we go. Louis and Jonathan Manduke, brothers born here in L.A., both parents deceased."

"Huh." Mark wasn't quite sure what to make of the information. "Can you give me an address on Louis?"

"Hang on..." she began typing again, only to stop seconds later. "Well, that's weird. No address comes up. Nothing about his work either. This reminds me of when you and Milt came to me a while ago and asked me about deleting an individual."

Mark was quick to jump in. "Whatever you do, don't show me how that works again, okay? It took Hardcastle forever to get all the utilities back up and running."

Rosie grimaced. "Yeah, he definitely wasn't happy with me then. Good thing he's the forgiving type."

Mark barked out a laugh. "If you say so." He reached out and began fiddling with her jar of pens. "So, you're saying it looks like somebody hacked into the computer to make him disappear?"

"Well, not completely disappear, but he's definitely going to be hard to find. I can spend some time on it if you want."

"Yeah. The guy who probably did the hacking has already been arrested, but it would be good if I could find a way to track Manduke. I'd appreciate it if you could see what you can find." He gave her his most charming smile.

"For you and Milt? Anytime. Shall I call him if I find anything?"

"Actually, if you could call me at the gatehouse, that would be best. And if you find something and you can't get me, try calling Lieutenant Frank Harper of the LAPD." He grabbed a pad and pen and jotted down the numbers. Leaning over, his kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Rosie, you're the best. I owe you lunch." He hurried back out the door, determined to get back to Gull's Way before the judge blew a gasket.

00000

Hardcastle glanced at the clock in the den when he heard the Coyote pulling into the drive. It was after eleven, and he'd been fuming for the better part of the last two hours. It wasn't unheard of for McCormick to head out on his own for a while, but the younger man usually gave him a heads up. Sometimes he wondered if the kid even realized he was still on parole. Of course, no other parolee had to actually live with his parole officer, so keeping track of day-to-day activities wasn't all that common. But it was still darn inconsiderate in his opinion, and he intended to give McCormick a piece of his mind.

Pushing out his chair, he stomped up the stairs from the den and out the front door, gathering steam. "McCormick!" he yelled as soon as he caught sight of the younger man. "Where the hell have you been all morning?" He noticed the ex-con shoot up in surprise from where he was bent over the car seat, nearly hitting his head on the open gull wing door.

Mark looked at him with a bewildered expression. "I was picking up the stuff you've been nagging me about all week. I got the fertilizer from the garden center, and the filter for the 'Vette. Lanphear's didn't have any in stock, so I had to head all the way into the city to find one." Which was true, even if it had happened two days ago while the judge had been out.

Hardcastle narrowed his gaze, trying to determine if he smelled a rat. He watched as the curly haired man pulled out three large bags of the fall fertilizer Milt liked to use and laid them at the edge of the driveway, followed by two bags of the bulbs. "Why didn't you take the truck?" he asked suspiciously.

"You weren't up yet, and I wanted to get an early start. Besides, I figured I could fit it all into my car." He grinned. "Guess I was right." He pulled out the oil filter and the bag of oil and reached up to pull the door shut, doing his best to appear as innocent as possible.

The judge ran a hand over his mouth, covering a frown. He was fairly certain the kid was up to something, but he didn't have enough evidence to call him out. Yet.

"Well, since you skipped out on breakfast, you can make lunch." He turned to head back into the house.

"Sounds good. We got any of that salami left?" Bringing the auto supplies with him, Mark followed Hardcastle into the kitchen.

"We do unless you ate it all. You went shopping, what, yesterday?"

"Yeah, but you know how those midnight raids on the refrigerator can go. Tonto needs lots of protein to keep his strength up."

"Which would be why you down half a gallon of ice cream in one sitting?" Hardcastle shook his head in disgust. "I swear I don't know where you put it all. Must have a hollow leg."

Mark snorted. "You're not the first person to suggest that. All I know is I get hungry. A lot." He opened up the refrigerator, surveying the contents. "No fear, there's plenty of lunch meat here," he reassured the judge. "It's still a little early—you mind if we hold off for a bit?"

"Kay," Hardcastle agreed. "You can go get started on that oil filter. Or the fertilizer. Your choice," he said benevolently.

"Oh, thank you, sir, you're too kind, sir," McCormick intoned. "Of course, if I do that, I'm going to get too dirty to make your lunch."

"Nice try, kiddo. Quit your whining and get to it."

00000

Mark did indeed spend the afternoon getting his chores done, all the while discreetly keeping Hardcastle in view.

If the judge noticed he'd grown more of a shadow than usual, he didn't comment on it. Lunch had been eaten, and Hardcastle had retired to a chair by the pool with a stack of files, intent on finding a new case for them to start on. He figured the sooner they got back into a routine, the sooner they could put the infamous party-to-end-all-parties episode behind them. Of course, nothing they did could really be considered routine; at least not to the outside observer. But it had become par for the course here at Gull's Way, and both men had adapted to it well.

What he hadn't intended was to take a mid-afternoon nap, but he felt his eyelids growing heavy in the warmth of the sun, and he laid the file face down across his chest, planning to rest for just a few minutes.

Mark watched from where he was planting bulbs by the stone fence that separated the yard from the cliff overlooking the ocean below. When he was certain the judge was down for the count, he stood hastily and took off the gardener's gloves, brushing his hands on his pants. Moving stealthily, he took a quick glance around the yard to make sure nothing was amiss. He was worried enough that he didn't want to leave Hardcase unattended for long.

He hurried into the house and down into the basement, pausing long enough to grab a couple of paperclips from the judge's desk. Though Hardcastle hadn't specifically told him to stay out of his files, he knew the judge would have his head if he found out he'd done it by picking the lock. As luck would have it, the files were unlocked anyway, and Mark hurried to find the one he was looking for.

Taking out the file on Jack Fish, he quickly perused the contents for any connection to the Manduke family. Nothing jumped out at him, and there was no information on known associates. The data was scarce; most of the file had only been compiled in the last week, since Fish had not managed to 'slip through the cracks' the last time he'd come before Hardcase. There were some notes from the original trial, and the transcript, but Mark didn't have time to read through it all. The only point of interest was that the forty-five thousand dollars Fish had managed to embezzle had never been recovered.

Feeling disappointed at the lack of any new information, Mark replaced the folder in the drawer and shut it. He took the stairs two at a time and went into the kitchen, looking out the window where the judge was still slumbering peacefully. Seeing nothing else amiss, he grabbed the phone and made a quick call to Frank, tapping his foot as he waited for the lieutenant to answer.

"Harper," came the perpetually weary voice on the other end.

"Hey, Frank, it's Mark. Just checking in to see if you've gotten anything." McCormick stretched the phone cord to its limit, trying to keep an eye out the window.

"What I've got is a whole lot of nothing," Frank offered. "I think we both knew Fish wasn't going to be coughing anything up."

Mark tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. "Couldn't you make him some sort of deal? Reduce his sentence in return for his cooperation?"

"His cooperation would only serve to increase his sentence because of the new charges we'd have to file if he is trying to do Hardcastle in. No way the DA's office would be willing to let go on an attempted murder rap, you know that."

Mark held the phone up to his ear with his shoulder and crossed his arms. "Yeah, you're right. It'd be pretty stupid for him to help us out. I guess I was...I don't know. Whatever." He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "But, tell me, how did he seem to you? Did you get any sort of an impression that we might be barking up the right tree?"

Frank paused, reviewing the visit in his mind. "To tell you the truth, he seemed a bit like the cat that swallowed the canary. He was a little too smug for someone who's looking to spend a big chunk of time behind bars. I can't say for sure, Mark, but I wouldn't be surprised if your friend was right on target with his prediction about Milt being a target."

"Damn." Mark rubbed a hand across his eyes.

"Look, I'm going to step up the patrols around the house, okay?" Frank cut back in before Mark could get too overwhelmed. "And I'll do my best to see if I can get a car outside the gate for the next couple of nights."

"Yeah, that would be good. Thanks, Frank. I owe you."

"And I'll think of a way to collect, don't you worry," the lieutenant teased, hoping to reassure the younger man.

Mark laughed lightly. "Then you'll have to add your name to the list. And I don't think the guy currently at the top is planning on a lot being left over." He hung up the phone after a quick good-bye and then headed back to his yard work/surveillance before Hardcastle could discover he'd been missing.

00000

The phone rang in the dimly lit apartment, and Lou Manduke roused himself from a near doze to hustle over to the table it was resting on. This call was really the only reason he'd hung around here tonight; no point in missing it. He picked it up on the third ring.

"Hello?" he said into the receiver.

"It's me."

No further elaboration was offered, and though the voice was not one he'd recognize, he knew immediately who it was. "You get the bag?" he asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Yeah," came the voice from the other end, graveled and with a trace of New York accent. "Where's the rest?"

Manduke snorted in contempt. "I told you, half up front, and the rest you'll get upon completion. The picture is in the envelope with the directions to the warehouse. Just make sure you're there tomorrow night. I'll have him there by seven-fifteen."

"He'll be alone?"

"No, there will probably be another guy with him—he doesn't usually go anywhere without him. Do what you want with the other one."

"Hey—this ain't no two for one deal," the voice responded with ire.

"Not my problem. I'm not the one who risks being ID'd if I leave a loose end. The payment stays the same, regardless." Manduke held his breath, waiting to see if his bluff would be believed.

There was silence from the other end of the phone line. After several beats, the voice returned, menacing. "This isn't a game you want to play, friend. I'll do what I need to do, but don't you be thinking about messing with me no more, or I can tell you now what my next job will be. And there won't be any payment required."

The line went dead in his hands. He hung it up, briefly toying with the idea of calling his brother, but decided against it. The less Jon knew, the better. Lou would take care of things for him.

Just like always.

00000

Mark finished up the last of the dishes, drying off the popcorn bowl and placing it back in the cabinet, before slipping out the kitchen door into the night air. He made his way across the yard, hearing the sounds of the surf splashing against the rocks below. As so often happened during this time of quiet, he found himself drawn to the edge of the yard, gazing out over the expanse of the Pacific. He could see the lights of Santa Monica in the distance to his left, but he kept his focus on the vastness of the ocean in front of him, trying to determine the point where the water met the sky.

Tonight had been good. Normal, almost, or as close to normal as you could get around here. Dinner had been nothing special, but the conversation had flowed, centered around simple things - the World Series, predictions for the upcoming UCLA game tomorrow, chores that needed to be done around the house. When he'd finished puttering around in the kitchen a bit, cleaning up the after-dinner mess and digesting, Hardcase had come in and surprised him with a request for basketball. They'd kept it toned down some in deference to the meal they'd just eaten and preferred to keep down, but it had been fun nonetheless, with Mark only taking the judge by two points. After that they'd wandered into the den for a movie, one they both actually agreed on featuring Clint Eastwood.

And all of this only left Mark feeling more confused. During times like this, it didn't really seem like the judge was all that mad at him; at least, not enough to transfer his parole without even letting him know. The feelings of uncertainty he'd felt before finding the letter resurfaced, and he began to wonder if there was anything he could do or say to keep his time here from coming to an end. Watching the motion of the distant waves soothed him, and he stood there for some time lost in his thoughts.

00000

Hardcastle made one last trip into the kitchen before he planned to retire for the night. A movement outside the window caught his eye, and for a brief second, he wondered if he should have given more credence to the warning given to him by McCormick's old pal. That thought disappeared as he realized it was just the kid standing out back by the wall. Not long after the ex-con had arrived here at the estate, Hardcastle had noticed his habit of staring at the ocean. Normally he didn't give it much thought, but tonight there was something in the way the younger man was holding himself that gave him pause. Maybe he was imagining it, but there seemed to be sadness in his bearing.

Not stopping to question his intentions, the judge opened the door and moved quietly across the yard. He hesitated as he approached, suddenly unsure of his welcome. He needn't have feared, however, as his approach had been heard and McCormick turned, offering him a hint of a smile.

"I thought you were going to bed," Mark said.

"I am. Soon," Hardcastle added, "but I saw you standing out here and just wondered what you were up to."

Mark half-heartedly waved his hand. "Ah, nothing much. Just thinking."

"'Bout what, kiddo?" Hardcastle asked the question, not entirely certain he'd get an answer, or sure he'd like the one that was offered.

Mark was silent for so long that the jurist figured his first guess was right, but still he waited.

"I don't think I could ever get tired of watching the ocean," Mark finally offered. "This place; this view is amazing. I'm not sure I ever told you that. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to live here?"

"Course I do," the judge replied gruffly. "I mean, I sure had a hard time back when I was first dating my wife, getting used to the idea of how much money her family had, but I always loved this place. Still do."

Mark nodded in the darkness. "Back when I lived in Jersey, the ocean never looked like it does here. But there was one summer...God, I must have been about ten. My mom was already sick by then, but she was doing better, and she had these friends who lived in Maine, right on the water. It was her birthday and to celebrate, they sent us some bus tickets. It seemed like it took all night to get up there, but I can remember my first view of the ocean that morning like it was yesterday."

The breeze coming up off the water had taken on the October chill, and Hardcastle felt it through the thin sleeves of his shirt. He made no effort to move, however; content to allow McCormick these rare ramblings.

"The sun was already up, and the water looked like it was made of diamonds. The surf wasn't high, but it was crashing against the rocks that lined the shore, and the spray came up in the air like a mist. There were these birds, funny looking things with long necks, that would suddenly drop in midflight, crashing into the water, only to come up with a fish between their beaks. It was nothing like the Jersey shore, with its boardwalks and litter and crowds. It was perfect." Mark was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory.

"I told myself if I was ever lucky enough to live in a place like that, I'd never leave." The words hung in the air until the breeze carried them away.

Milt glanced sideways at his young friend, unsure of what to say. "And now?" His voice was rough, gravelly.

Mark's expression was unreadable in the darkness as he turned to face the other man. "I'm still here, aren't I?" he said enigmatically.

The two men remained standing side by side, gazing out at the blackened water in silence, until Mark shook himself out of his reverie. "It's late, Judge. Go to bed."

Hardcastle tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Look, I'm not leaving you standing out here like a duck in a shooting gallery, okay?" Mark continued. "So go to bed, already."

Milt sniffed and swiped a thumb across his nose. "You're planning on sleeping in the main house again tonight, aren't you," he stated knowingly.

Mark smiled but said nothing. He never could put anything past the old donkey.

"You know that's a waste of your time, right?" Hardcastle asked. "Nobody's coming after me, no matter what that idiot said."

"Well, we might just have to agree to disagree on that, Hardcase."

Milt found himself smiling at the response. "We seem to do that a lot," he observed, referring to the one standing disagreement in the foundation of their relationship.

Mark laughed. "Yeah. You'd think we'd be better at it by now."

"Oh, I don't know," the judge mused. "Seems to me we're doing okay." He clapped the young man on the shoulder, saying goodnight and heading for the house.

McCormick stood watching him for a moment, his spirits buoyed. The smile remained in place as he headed to the gatehouse, grabbing the book he'd been reading, before returning to the main residence to claim one of the spare bedrooms for the night.

00000

Hardcastle came out the kitchen door the following day and down the back steps, checking the garage first. McCormick had spent most of the afternoon in there, working on changing the oil and filter in the 'Vette. He'd then backed both cars out into the drive and spent a good deal of time washing them. To McCormick, washing a car was almost an art form. He could spend hours on the chore, often doing it without being asked, taking time to wipe everything down with a chamois, and squeegee off the windshields. He'd even on occasion taken a toothbrush to the wheel rims. Since the toothbrush hadn't been Milt's, but the car it was being used on was, the judge hadn't feel right about getting on his case.

To McCormick, the car washing often took priority over other less satisfying chores, such as laying down the winter fertilizer. As was often the case, this wasn't quite in line with what Milt had in mind, and he figured he'd waited long enough to see if his yard man would get around to doing what he'd asked him to do at least ten times in the last three days. The late afternoon sun was moving further toward the west, but there was still plenty of light left to at least get the front and side lawns done.

The cars were back in place and the soapsuds were drying on the asphalt with no sign of McCormick. Milt set off across the driveway to the front door of the gatehouse. He knocked, but receiving no answer, opened the door and poked his head inside. "McCormick!" he yelled, loud enough to be heard over the sound coming from the stereo.

Receiving no response, he stepped in all the way. There was no sign of the younger man, but he could hear the shower running over the now deafening noise McCormick liked to call music. He climbed the stairs to the loft, preparing to turn off the racket when he nearly tripped over several boxes left on the floor to the right side of the bedroom. Taking a quick glance, he was surprised to see they were filled with McCormick's record collection, a few photo frames and various other odds and ends. His brow wrinkled in consternation, until an idea formed out of the blue.

He's packing.

His mind settled on the idea with sudden clarity, and he felt a chill settle in around his heart, though he would be hard-pressed to put words to the reason why. He stood momentarily staring at the boxes, still trying to put the pieces together, when he realized the shower had stopped running. Feeling vaguely guilty at the possibility of being caught snooping, he hurriedly turned off the music and descended the steps into the living room.

"Hey! What're you doing?" The indignant sound of McCormick's voice carried clearly in the now silent home. He came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, using another one to rub dry his damp curls.

"It's so loud in here I can't even here myself think," Hardcastle snapped, his awkwardness making it come out sounding harsh even to his own ears.

Though McCormick wasn't interested in starting an argument, he bristled against the invasion of privacy and found that, once again, his mouth kicked into gear ahead of his brain. "Well, go do your thinking in your own house!"

"This is my own house, in case you've forgotten!" the judge lashed out, his irritability over the undone chores growing into something much stronger, fed by emotions he wasn't willing to admit to. "You're only here on the 'Hardcastle Get Out of Jail Free Card', so don't be claiming ownership just yet."

"Free? That'll be the day," Mark muttered. Stung by Hardcastle's words, he opened his mouth to give the judge a good piece of his mind. Something held him back, however, and he instead brushed past the older man up the stairs and into the loft. Flipping the switch on the stereo back to the on position, he at least lowered the volume before turning to climb into his boxers and throw on the khaki pants and oxford shirt he'd left on the bed. He took a minute to run a comb through his still wet hair before grabbing a pair of socks and returning to the main level of the house. "Was there something you wanted, Judge?" he asked, doing his best to keep his tone civil. He'd been on edge since he woke up this morning, constantly wondering if and when anything was going to go down. He was reluctant to meet with Father Atia, and as the time approached he became more and more tense. Having the judge get on his case now wasn't helping.

Hardcastle raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. "What I want is to know what you're in here taking a shower for when there's still work to be done. You got plenty of time to get started on the fertilizer, but instead you look like you're heading out to paint the town red."

McCormick pulled himself up off the couch where he'd been putting on his boots. Standing here emphasized the difference in the two men's heights, and it was hard not to look down on Hardcastle. It was nearly five-fifteen, and Father Atia would be done with the evening Mass in a little over an hour. Calculating in the drive time, Mark knew he'd have to get on the road soon. He took a deep breath to calm himself before answering. "Look, Judge, I'll get to it first thing tomorrow. I promise, okay? Really. But right now, I need to head out for a while."

"Out? Out where?" Hardcastle followed the ex-con as he moved toward the front door, stopping by the table and awaiting an answer.

Mark opened the door and turned briefly, ready to give an explanation if he saw any sign of openness on Hardcastle's face. The stormy expression there told him all he needed to know, and he sighed. "Church," he said cryptically, walking out and closing the door behind him.

00000

Rose Carlucci held the phone to her ear as she nibbled on the eraser end of her pencil. Working on a Saturday wasn't all that common for the young woman, but since this was a favor for Milton she'd come in willingly enough. It had taken her most of the afternoon, but she'd finally managed to track down an address on Louis Manduke. The clock on her desk was nearly obscured by the file folders, and she pushed them out of the way to see that it read five-thirty. The first number Mark had given her rang about eight times before she gave up and pushed the button to get back a dial tone. Dialing the second number, she waited briefly and then asked to speak to Lieutenant Frank Harper.

00000

The grill was turned off and the aroma of freshly cooked hamburgers still lingered on the patio. Milt felt a momentary pang of guilt over going ahead with dinner without waiting for McCormick, but he quickly pushed the emotion aside in favor of irritation over once again not being informed that the younger man had plans. Attending church was hardly a common occurrence for either of them, and it seemed unlikely that the parolee in his custody had suddenly developed a need for religion, unless it was due to recurring guilt. If penance needed to be paid, Milt had plenty of ways to take care of that without McCormick ever having to leave the estate.

His mind went to the boxes he'd discovered in the gatehouse, and he thought maybe the time had come for a little chat with his errant ex-con. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it didn't matter if McCormick wanted to move out on his own. 'Indefinitely' hadn't arrived yet, at least not in Milt's mind, and since he was the one calling the shots, that was all that mattered. Once Milt got things straightened out with Dalem, McCormick would have to stay, like it or not. And if Hardcastle didn't want to examine his reasons for that too closely, well, no one would have to know but him.

Fortunately, the phone in the kitchen rang, saving him from further introspection. He grabbed his plate and hurried inside before the answering machine picked up.

"Hello?" he huffed.

"Judge Hardcastle?" The man's voice on the other end sounded unfamiliar and hesitant.

"Yeah. Who's this?" the judge asked with a touch of impatience.

"Um, I don't really want to give you my name. But I've got some information I think you should know about." Lou put just enough vulnerability into his tone to make it believable. "I'm an...associate of Jack Fish, and I wanted to talk to you about your files."

Hardcastle felt his eye begin to twitch. "What about my files?" he snapped.

Manduke smiled, mentally congratulating himself even as things began to unfold. He had no doubt now that he had Hardcastle exactly where he wanted him. "I work at the bank," he said, "and I know what Jack was trying to do. You've got to understand, I had nothing to do with it. I tried to talk him out of it. But he was obsessed with you and those damn files, and trying to bring you down. He wanted me to help him destroy everything after he copied them onto the floppy disk."

Hardcastle felt his patience wearing thin. "Is there a point to this?" he ground out.

"The point, Judge Hardcastle, is that I didn't destroy the files. I've still got all your originals in a bunch of boxes over at the warehouse."

Milt felt the first inklings of hope. The computer copies of his files would have been better than nothing, but to have the originals... "What warehouse?"

"Troub Trucking Industries. I'm pretty sure that's where those guys took all your stuff after Jack paid them to rip you off."

"And my files are there now?"

"Yeah. I could, um, maybe meet you there, show you exactly where they are. But you've got to promise me you'll keep me out of it. I didn't do anything wrong, and I don't want any trouble. I just want to give this stuff back to you. I can meet you there at seven-fifteen, okay?" Lou waited, trusting he had set the hook firmly.

The judge hesitated as he weighed the prospect of regaining his original files against the possibility of letting someone walk who might not be completely innocent. Deciding for the greater good, he agreed.

As he hung up the phone and moved down the hallway to retrieve his .45 from the desk drawer, he wished McCormick had stuck around. He'd feel better knowing Tonto was along to watch his back. This time, however, it looked like the Lone Ranger was riding alone.

00000

Mark sat quietly in the back pew of the church while the last of the parishioners made their way out into the cool evening air. He settled in, intending to allow the young priest time to complete the necessary activities following the mass, but Father Atia came away from the doorway and walked straight towards him. Sitting forward, McCormick prepared to stand when Father Atia joined him in the pew.

"Mark," the priest said in way of greeting, clasping Mark's offered hand in both of his. "It's good to see you here."

"Father. I appreciate you meeting me. Your dad told you I'd be coming by, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did. I saw him this afternoon, and he asked me to pass along a message to you."

"I'm sorry to drag you into this. I'm sure you'd rather not be involved in something that's questionable."

"On the contrary," the dark haired man smiled, "saving lives is exactly why I chose the line of work I'm in. Whether it be the physical or the spiritual, I'm still content for God to use me as He sees fit."

"What can you tell me?" Mark asked, feeling the pressure of time slipping away.

"Dad said to tell you that you were right. Judge Hardcastle's life is in danger. He said that he received word on a professional from San Francisco who came in just to handle this situation." Father Atia chose his words carefully so as not to alarm anyone who might be near enough to listen.

"Did he give you any details?" Mark asked.

"Not very many. There's a man who is supposed to call the judge and arrange to meet him somewhere in the warehouse district early this evening. He didn't know anything more than that."

McCormick exhaled loudly. "Which means there's not much time for him to take care of business. Is there a phone I can use? I need to warn the judge not to leave the estate."

"Of course, this way." The priest stood and moved down the aisle toward the back of the sanctuary. He opened the door to a small office and pointed to a phone on the desk.

McCormick pushed past him and reached for the phone, dialing the estate. Getting no answer, he hung up and dialed Frank's direct line from memory.

Father Atia stood in the doorway, watching. "Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.

Mark looked up at him as the phone began to ring, his concern clearly displayed on his face. "Yeah, Father," he nodded. "You can pray."

00000

If you'd asked Mark if he believed in hunches, he'd probably have said no. His mother had tried to raise him in the Catholic faith, despite the condemning looks he'd often received from others due to his questionable parentage. And while he'd grown up without as much guidance as other young boys had, he'd often felt an inner voice, gently leading him in the direction he needed to go. Too often, he hadn't heeded that voice.

Right now, it was telling him that though the warehouse district was a big place, the man he sought would most likely be at the warehouse they'd seen several times in the last week and a half, the one where Eddie and Mickey had taken the contents of the house at Gull's Way. Though he couldn't provide any basis in fact for that assumption, he planned to listen this time, and he drove the Coyote well past the speed limit in his hurry to get there. If he attracted the attention of any local police officers along the way, so much the better.

He wasn't exactly sure what he'd do when he got there. But if Hardcastle was on his way to meet someone there, Mark would definitely be there to back him up, with Frank hopefully not far behind.

He rounded the corner, his headlights cutting through the darkness ahead, and found himself slowing in the evening traffic. Trying not to give in to his fear, he rapped his hand on the steering wheel and waited for the light ahead to change, hoping against hope he wouldn't be too late.

00000

Milt pulled into the parking lot and parked the pickup in one of the empty spaces near the doorway. Climbing the cement stairs to the loading dock, he tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked. Taking a moment to glance behind him, he saw nothing out of place in the parking lot lit only by streetlamps. The sun had gone down, but the darkness still had an edge of light to it, the stars above a dim representation of what they would become in a few hours time.

He pulled open the door and entered quietly. The lights were on in the hallway and he made his way straight ahead. "Hello?" he called out, not seeing any signs of life within these walls.

There was no answer. Unsure of where exactly to go, he headed around toward the storage area that had contained his furniture to await the arrival of the man who would hopefully return to him the last and most important of the items that had been taken from him nearly two weeks prior.

00000

Frank debated throwing the light up on the roof of the sedan and decided it was the best option for helping him through the traffic ahead. Mark had sounded a little panicked when he'd spoken to him ten minutes ago. It wasn't that Frank doubted him or the information he'd managed to track down, but he'd been a little sketchy on the details. Mark was a little too close to things to maintain a purely rational outlook on the situation, but when the lieutenant combined his information with the call he'd gotten just a few minutes earlier from Ms. Carlucci, he didn't like the way things were adding up. The address he'd gotten from Rosie on Manduke would have to wait. Right now, getting across town to the warehouse took priority.

00000

The pickup truck was the first thing Mark saw when he drove into the nearly empty parking lot. It was parked next to a silver Oldsmobile Cutlass which Mark was pretty sure he'd last seen on the day they chased Jack Fish and his silent partner back to the bank. He parked next to them and pulled himself up and out of the Coyote, taking the steps to the doorway two at a time.

Hardcastle heard the slamming of the door he'd come through just moments before along with footsteps in the hallway. Glad to see the man he was meeting was at least punctual, he turned back towards the door to the storage area and called out another greeting so the man would know where to find him. The returned greeting was the last one he'd expected.

"Judge?" came the disembodied voice from the hallway.

"McCormick? What the hell are you doing here?" He watched as the young man came into the room and headed straight for him.

"C'mon, we've got to get out of here. Let's go," Mark said, grabbing the jurist's arm and pulling him towards the door.

Milt dug in his heels and tried to pull away. "What? No! What are you talking about?"

"Judge, it's a set-up. I don't know what you're doing here, but it's not safe. Please, just come outside and get in the truck. I'll explain it all later," McCormick pleaded.

"I'm not going anywhere," Milt insisted stubbornly, "until I see the guy who called me about my files. He says he still has the originals, and I'm not leaving here if there's a chance of getting them back."

There was movement in the doorway behind them, and both turned to see a thin man with hair graying at the temples enter. He came toward them with no obvious threat. "Judge Hardcastle, yes? I'm the one who called you. Your files are here, just like I promised." Lou Manduke walked further into the room. Coming here had been a calculated gamble, but he couldn't risk trusting the hired man to complete the job properly. He needed to see for himself that things were taken care of.

Hardcastle shrugged his arm free of McCormick's grasp and glared at the younger man before turning his attention to the newcomer. "I'm Hardcastle," he said optimistically, clapping his hands together. "You said they're around here?"

"Dammit, Hardcase, for once in your life will you not be a donkey?" McCormick hissed. "I'm telling you, there are no files, and we need to get out of here now."

Milt whirled about to face Mark, his patience stretched well past the limit. "All right, look, I've had it," he began, heedless of their audience. "Enough with this crap about somebody having a death certificate with my name on it. You think I don't know what you've been doing these last couple of days, hovering over me, trying to make sure I don't buy the farm?" He took a breath, working to control the steel creeping into his voice. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, kid, but I've kept myself alive this long without any help from you; I think I can make it a little while longer."

McCormick disgustedly shook his head and opened his mouth to let the old coot know exactly what he thought of his cavalier attitude when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A glint of light; nothing more, but he knew with complete certainty that time had run out. He focused in and saw the long barrel of a rifle hidden behind some boxes, and it was trained in on the judge.

He'd done everything he could to keep the jurist safe, only to have it come down to this. No way was he going to allow them to win. The judge wasn't going to be just one more victim. Without conscious thought he shifted his body to come between that of Hardcastle and the gunman, at the same time shouting out a warning and attempting to push him out of harm's way. He felt something slam into his back, and he was falling, falling and taking the judge down with him, landing on the older man, his head slamming into the cold grey concrete floor.

00000

Hardcastle wasn't sure what was happening. He heard the sound of soft 'thhppt' underneath McCormick's warning even as he felt himself falling underneath the kid's weight. He landed on his backside and watched Mark's head as it smacked into the floor, and felt the body of his friend go limp and come to a rest still half on top of him.

There was a sound near the doorway, and suddenly things were thrown into chaos as Frank rounded the corner. "Police!" he shouted. "Freeze!"

Milt's first thought was for Mark, and he pulled himself out from underneath the young man, heedless of his own safety. Getting to his knees and grabbing Mark under the arms, he worked at dragging the younger man behind one of the crates nearby. Another 'thhppt', and there were wood splinters flying in the air surrounding his head.

Manduke suddenly found he had no option but to raise his hands in surrender. He looked around wildly for an exit, but there was nowhere for him to go.

The hit man swung the rifle around to the right and let off another burst of fire in the direction of the officer. He then slipped back through the stacks of boxes and disappeared into the night.

One of the officers with Frank came and grabbed hold of Manduke's arm, forcefully turning him around and shoving him against the wall, spread-eagled. He quickly and efficiently frisked the man before reaching for his cuffs.

Milt came around and knelt in front of McCormick, reaching forward with both hands to examine his face. There was a bruise already forming on the young man's forehead. He pried open one of Mark's eyes, not exactly sure what he was expecting to see. He felt a damp spot on his pants and looked down, noting with alarm that he was kneeling in a pool of blood.

"Frank!" he called out. There was a noticeable hitch in his voice. "We need an ambulance! He's been shot." He rolled Mark over onto his side, seeing the growing patch of blood on both the back and front of his shirt.

The kid was still breathing, and Milt was determined that wouldn't change. He pulled off his jacket, rolling it up and placing it against the wound to help stop the bleeding. He cursed himself for his own stupidity. McCormick had been right about the danger they were in all along.

He hoped to hell he'd get a chance to tell him that.

00000

Hardcastle grabbed onto the edge of the counter as the ambulance took a corner at a speed that would have made the kid proud. The EMS crew had done their best to encourage him to ride up front, but he'd have none of that. Damned if he were leaving McCormick alone now. His gaze drifted once again to the figure on the stretcher. Mark's eyes remained closed and his features were pale and drawn. Though he was no doctor, Milt had enough medical experience that he could recognize the signs of someone going into shock. They were only about five minutes out from St. Mary's, and the judge knew that McCormick's best chance of survival depended on getting him to the emergency team personnel as quickly as possible.

He saw Mark's hand hanging limply where it had slipped out from under the blankets, and he grasped it gently with his own. He shook his head as he gazed upon the younger man's still form. "Dammit, McCormick," he said, keeping his voice low and speaking mainly to himself, "what the hell were you thinking? Getting yourself shot like that. Damn fool thing to do."

Mark's eyes opened slightly as if in response to the words. "Judge?" The voice was weak, but the sound of it brought relief.

Hardcastle knew there was a long way to go before he could be certain McCormick would be okay, but there was comfort in seeing the blue eyes looking back at him. "I'm right here, kiddo," he told him, coughing slightly. "Just relax. You're gonna be fine."

"Ah, man." Mark moaned in agony. "Hurts. God..."

"I know," came the reassurance, "but they're going to take good care of you. We'll be at the hospital in just a minute or two."

"'Kay," Mark responded, grimacing as his eyes drifted shut.

The trust in that simply spoken word was overwhelming to Milt. He gripped the hand he held tighter, encouraging the younger man to hold onto him through the pain. Mark squeezed back with a surprising amount of strength, and Hardcastle took it as a good sign. Then they were backing into the ambulance bay and the doors were being opened. The stretcher bearing McCormick was wheeled into the ER. Milt attempted to follow but his progress was halted at the door to the Trauma Room by a woman in a blue vest with the hospital logo on the front.

"I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to wait out here," she said, gently taking the judge by the arm. She guided him over to a waiting area, pointing at him to sit in one of the many plastic chairs. "If you'll sit here for a few moments, I'll be right back to gather some information."

Hardcastle looked up at her, slightly lost now that McCormick was out of sight, and nodded.

"They're going to take good care of him, I promise," she added, squeezing his arm briefly before moving away.

The words should have brought comfort, but as the realization of where they were and why hit him anew, he found peace of mind was hard to hold onto.

00000

He'd been sitting in the same hard plastic chair for hours, it seemed. Forms had been filled out, insurance information had been given. An officer had been by to take his preliminary statement, though there wasn't a whole lot the judge could tell him. A nurse had come out to him at one point, bringing Mark's belongings in a bag for safekeeping. She'd had very little information to pass along—only that Mark was drifting in and out of consciousness and they were doing everything they could to get him stabilized, and a doctor would be out to speak with him as soon as he was able.

Hardcastle sifted through the bag idly, pulling out Mark's wallet and the ever-present St. Jude medallion. He slipped the wallet into his own pocket and held tightly to the medal, feeling it press into his palm and lifting a silent prayer upward.

The waiting room was not as empty at this time of night as he would have liked. His gaze rested briefly on the people around him, each lost in their own anxious thoughts. He was filled with a strange mixture of loneliness and wanting to be alone. Truly, though, the only person who kept his loneliness at bay was on the other side of those doors, and he realized that the wanting to be alone came more from habit than any real desire.

His mind wandered back over the events of the evening. By all rights it should have been McCormick sitting here in this hard plastic chair right now, with the judge being the one whose life was hanging in the balance. Of course, if he'd listened to the kid in the first place, maybe neither one of them would be here. Instead, they'd be back at the house, enjoying the nightly John Wayne feature with popcorn and beer, knowing the bad guys had been rounded up and the streets were safe once again.

Not that the streets were ever really safe. Hardcastle knew that; he understood that. Seemed like anytime a criminal was taken off to the Big House, two more were waiting to take his place. That's what this little retirement project was all about; the reason he'd convinced McCormick to saddle up with him and ride the plains for justice.

Though 'convinced' was not the word McCormick would have chosen. There was little doubt the ex-con felt he'd been left no choice, that he'd been blackmailed into their current arrangement. Milt had thought that after more than a year together, they'd worked through that, but the doubts occasionally lingered. He wanted more than anything to sit down and finally talk this thing over with the young man. They'd been tiptoeing around the topic for over a week now. Maybe heartfelt conversation wasn't what they were best at, but there were times it was necessary. Anytime you take two people and place them in close proximity, living and working together, there were bound to be misunderstandings. But these things could be worked out with a little effort.

After all, that's what friends did.

It didn't come as a surprise to the jurist that he considered McCormick a friend, despite what he'd told the man when he initially laid his offer on the table. But a friend he was. Maybe even his best friend, though it would probably be quite a while before he'd get around to admitting that out loud. Saying that might take a little more than Milt had in him. As far as wanting the kid to stay - well, when they did have that talk, Milt would make sure to point out how it was in Mark's best interests to stick around.

And if that didn't work, well, then maybe he'd tell him that it was in Milt's best interests too.

00000

It was after eleven before the doors to the Trauma Room opened again and the same nurse appeared, motioning to the judge. Milt was on his feet in an instant and hurrying over to her, hoping to be escorted into the room so he could see how McCormick was doing for himself.

"The doctor is just washing up, Mr. Hardcastle, and he'll be right out to talk to you about Mr. McCormick."

"He's okay?" he couldn't help asking.

"He's doing as well as could be expected," she said, backing out of the doorway to prevent further questions. "The doctor will be right with you."

The judge turned and walked a few steps across the room, deciding against sitting down again. He walked back a few steps, and then back again, before he realized he was pretty damn close to pacing. He heaved a sigh and forced himself to stay still and wait for the doctor.

A man not much older than Mark walked into the room wearing green scrubs. Milt tried not to pay any attention to the red stains on the shirt the man was wearing. He knew his own clothes didn't look much better.

"Mr. Hardcastle?" The doctor held out his recently scrubbed hand.

Hardcastle shook it from force of habit. "How's McCormick?" he asked without preamble.

"Your friend suffered a gunshot wound about two inches below the left shoulder. The bullet passed through his lung, which, combined with the bleeding into the chest cavity, caused his lung to collapse. We've gotten the bleeding under control, and he's stabilized and heading up to surgery now."

Milt was grateful. Stabilized was good; he knew that. It was certainly better than the alternative. He thanked the doctor and made his way slowly back to the waiting room, suddenly feeling the lateness of the hour. The knowledge that Mark shouldn't have been in this situation weighed heavy on his heart. The bullet had Hardcastle's name on it, not Mark's. Never in a million years had he ever expected the kid would be willing to sacrifice his own life just to save an old retired judge. McCormick had years of life ahead of him, whereas Milt was nearing the end of his run. Sure, he'd told McCormick way back at the beginning he was looking for a fast gun. And the young man had watched his back countless times since then, making certain that Hardcastle came to no harm. But the cost was never supposed to be Mark's own life. Because that cost was just too damn high.

And it wasn't a price Milt was willing to pay.

00000

Frank Harper came bearing gifts in the middle of the night. The first was a cup of coffee, secured from the room set aside for police and ambulance personnel at the hospital. The second was a change of clothes, grabbed for Milt from Gull's Way when he'd stopped by there on his way to the emergency room. Seeing his friend slumped forward in the waiting room chair, elbows propped on his knees, he thought maybe it wouldn't be enough. For the first time he could remember, Milt looked old.

He came and sat next to the judge, silently offering the cup of coffee. From the expression on Hardcastle's face, he was prepared to hear bad news, or perhaps just no news at all. He turned his head sideways, mimicking Milt's position. "How is he?" he asked quietly.

"Huh?" Milt said, suddenly aware he was no longer alone. He took the Styrofoam cup from Frank's hand.

"How's Mark?" Frank repeated patiently.

"Oh, he's, uh, well, good enough, I guess. He's out of surgery. They're moving him up to ICU now, but he was awake, and talking some." Hardcastle gave a small laugh. "Takes more than a bullet to shut McCormick up. The kid'll talk your ears off," he said gruffly. "But they're pretty sure he's gonna be okay.

The lieutenant heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm glad to hear it. From the look on your face just now, I wasn't sure there'd be good news."

Milt didn't answer.

Frank hadn't made detective based on his good looks. He knew the strain of the evening was no doubt taking its toll on the retired jurist. "It's late, Milt. How 'bout I drive you home?"

"Nah. They're gonna let me in to see him soon, so I'll stick around."

Frank nodded. He hadn't really expected Hardcastle to be willing to leave, but he thought he should at least make the offer. The two men sat in silence for several minutes as Milt forced himself to drink the coffee. The clothes remained untouched on the floor.

Harper sat back in the chair, pondering the situation. He decided he'd jump right in. "You know," he began, "I kind of thought hearing that Mark was going to be okay would be something that made you happy. Tell me if I'm wrong, but I'm not seeing a whole lot of rejoicing going on."

Hardcastle said nothing.

"You are glad he's going to be okay, aren't you?" Frank probed, already knowing the answer.

"Of course I'm glad," Hardcastle huffed at him.

The lieutenant almost smiled at the expected response. "Then what's eating you?" he asked solemnly.

Hardcastle shook his head. He was silent for so many minutes that Frank thought that was all the answer he was going to get. He was surprised when Hardcastle finally spoke.

"He took a bullet for me, Frank. I sure as hell never asked him to do that. Never expected him to do that."

Frank said nothing; he merely waited to see if there was more to come.

Milt's voice was raw, his emotions close to the breaking point. He hadn't given into these types of feelings in front of someone else in far too many years; he'd be damned if he'd lose it now. He clasped his hands together in his lap, rubbing one thumb over the other again and again.

"He's been beating himself up this past week, still feeling responsible because I lost my files. I knew that. And I could have let him off the hook. I knew he felt guilty, but I never..." Milt sighed. "I never thought he'd feel so guilty he'd have to do something like this."

Frank could literally feel his eyebrows climbing up his forehead as he stared at his friend in disbelief. "That's what you think? Seriously?"

Hardcastle kept his gaze to the floor. He nodded slowly. "Yeah," he breathed.

Frank shook his head. Unbelievable. "You're a donkey, you know that? How many times has Mark said that? Well, guess what? He's right. Of all the stupid, lame-brained ideas...Milt, I'm telling you right now, there's no way that kid did what he did out of guilt. It wasn't a payback, and it wasn't some misguided attempt at restitution, and if you can't recognize that, then you're not as good a judge as I thought." His voice had risen as he spoke, and he glanced around, aware of their surroundings and the attention they were gathering. "You have to know that," he spoke more softly.

Milt raised his head enough to glance sideways at the detective, his anger rising. "No, Frank, I don't know that. If it wasn't guilt, then..." he paused, feeling the anger dissipate, leaving him feeling deflated and confused. "Then what was it?"

Frank felt the corners of his mouth curve upward at his friend's obtuseness where the younger man was concerned. One of these days, he'd love to see the two of them lay it all on the line with each other instead of tap dancing around emotions that shouldn't have to be hidden. "How about just a desire to keep you alive?" he asked simply. "From what I can see, he's been worried sick ever since you two found out about the threat from Jack Fish."

The judge narrowed his gaze. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Mark came to me as soon as he heard about it from his friend. He's been nagging me ever since to find out whatever I could and to keep him in the loop. Who do you think requested the patrol car guarding Gull's Way?"

Milt looked surprised. "He had you put a guard on me?"

Harper rolled his eyes. "Of course he did. He wanted to make sure no one got a chance to take a shot at you, because as crazy as it sounds, I think he's gotten rather fond of having you around."

Hardcastle was silent for a few moments as he pondered this information. "Maybe," he finally conceded, "but being worried about me is a far cry from being willing to take the bullet that had my name on it."

Frank nodded sagely. "True enough," he agreed. "But let me ask you this: would you be willing to sacrifice your own life to save Mark's?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"Yeah, I do. So I guess my question is, why do you find it so hard to believe that Mark wouldn't do the same?"

00000

The silence went on long enough that Frank laid his head back against the hard plastic chair and closed his eyes. There was no chance of sleep, but the rest was much needed, and he allowed himself to drift.

"Why?"

The question came low and quiet, and for a moment Frank wondered if Milt was only talking to himself. Realizing he wasn't, he lifted his head and turned to face the jurist.

"Huh?"

Milt kept his voice low and intense. "I don't get it. I mean, I sent the kid to prison, Frank. So tell me, how did we go from that to where we are now? From him hating my guts to him being willing to die in my place? How is that even possible?"

Harper almost chuckled at the older man's bemusement, but he figured that would not be appreciated. He sobered slightly. "Not sure I have an answer for that one Milt. Hell, I'm not even sure there is an answer." He paused, a thought occurring to him. "But I will tell you this. I think you're the first person in a long time who was willing to give that kid a chance...and maybe the only one to believe he could do something with it."

00000

Hardcastle shifted uncomfortably in the chair next to McCormick's bed in the ICU. It was four-thirty in the morning, and the only light in the room came from the hallway. When the judge had refused to go home, despite having to sit in the hallway, the ICU staff had waived the standard fifteen minutes out of an hour visiting rule and allowed him to camp out in the young man's room. They'd even moved in a semi-comfortable chair for him, but having been sitting for so long was leaving a crick in his neck.

McCormick remained asleep. Milt was fairly certain he was sleeping, not unconscious. His color looked pretty good, though there were lines of tension across his brow. He'd been asleep when the judge first came in, and Hardcastle wasn't about to wake him up. Rest was what he needed. The jurist felt better just being in the same room, knowing he'd be right there if anything came up. He reached forward, snaking his hand through the rails and letting it come to rest on top of McCormick's right arm. He had no idea if Mark was even aware of his presence.

But he wasn't about to let go.

00000

There was sunlight coming through the venetian blinds on the windows, leaving alternating patterns of light and shadow across the bed. Mark opened his eyes, gazing about the room without shifting his head. He recognized the sterility of the environment, and the evening's events slowly came back to him. The fuzziness that penetrated his brain could be attributed to some quality pain medication, but even knowing that, he still felt as though someone had stuck a hot poker into his chest. Breathing shallowly, he shifted slightly, and the ensuing attack on his nerve endings left him gasping for breath, trying not to moan.

Hardcastle felt the movement beneath his hand and he jerked awake, his gaze immediately drawn to the room's only other occupant. Seeing the blue eyes looking back at him brought a smile to his weathered face, though he could tell immediately the kid was in pain. He sat forward in his chair, swiping a hand across his face to wipe away the remaining traces of sleep.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, his voice lower than normal with the morning air and lack of sleep. "How're you doin'?"

Mark worked on controlling his breathing before answering as he waited for the pain to subside. "Okay," he managed. "A little sore," he added, not wanting to lie.

"I'll bet. Just don't move around too much. You don't want to pull out your chest tube."

McCormick lifted the blanket slightly and looked down at the left side of his body, his face turning slightly green at the sight of the offending tube protruding from between his ribs. "Chest tube, huh? No wonder if feels like someone stuck a two-inch pipe into me." He swallowed and focused again on breathing without causing pain, licking his paper-dry lips. "So what's the damage?"

"Well, you're gonna be okay," Hardcastle decided to start off with the good news. He reached for a cup of almost melted ice chips, spooning up a few and holding them for McCormick to suck on. "A couple days in the hospital."

"And I'll be good as new?" Mark asked, doubt creeping into his tone.

"I 'spect it'll take a bit more than that. 'Good as new' being a relative term where you're concerned anyway."

Mark felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Hearing the judge's typical caustic remarks did more to set his mind at ease than anything else.

Hardcastle saw that he'd begun to put the kid's fears to rest, so he painted him the rest of the picture. "The bullet punched a hole in your lung before it exited. You lost a good amount of blood - most of it into your chest. That's what the tube is for, to drain it out. They said once the tube comes out in a few days, you should be ready to go home. Oh, and no major brain damage from whacking your head...not that they'd really be able to tell."

McCormick chuckled, then grimaced. "Ah...don't make me laugh. Hurts too much."

The jurist sobered. "You're probably about due for your next shot. I'll go chase down the nurse." He pulled his arm away and started to rise.

Mark saw the movement and reached clumsily to grab the arm before it was withdrawn. He latched onto it, comforted by the warmth. "Just...stay for a while, okay?" His eyes were already drifting closed again.

Hardcastle smiled to himself, watching the younger man fall back to sleep. He resettled himself in the chair, leaving his arm right where it was. "Yeah, kiddo," he whispered. "I'll stay."

00000

Mark spent most of the first day sleeping, compliments of the pain medication and a slight rise in body temperature that none of the hospital staff seemed overly concerned with. Hardcastle stayed by his side, leaving only for a quick lunch and a shower in the staff locker room that had been arranged by a sympathetic nurse. He'd been grateful then for the clothes Frank had left him the night before. By four in the afternoon, they'd moved the wounded ex-con out of ICU and into a semi-private room.

Around seven, Milt returned from grabbing a bite to eat in the cafeteria to find that Mark had dozed off again. The judge had just gotten himself settled into the chair next to the bed and was idly flipping through the channels with the volume turned low when there came a knock on the door. Frank's head peered around the curtain.

Hardcastle stood up, ready to move out into the corridor so as not to disturb the sleeping patient when he heard Mark's sleepy voice come from behind him.

"Hey, Frank."

Frank offered up a smile. "Hey, Mark. You're looking good." He moved fully into the room. "Brought you some magazines." He laid them on the tray stand at the foot of the bed.

"Thanks."

"You're a hard man to find. Stopped down in ICU, but they told me they'd gotten tired of you and sent you up here."

"Yeah, well, I requested the penthouse, but I guess someone else got there first."

"Now, that's a shame. Guess you'll just have to work harder to get out of here and back to Gull's Way."

"Don't be puttin' ideas into the kid's head, Frank. Next thing you know I'll have to listen to non-stop whining about wanting to go home," Milt chimed in.

Frank grinned, glad to see that the jurist appeared to be out of his funk, or at least had put it aside for the time being. He grabbed the chair from the empty cubicle next to Mark and moved it next to Milt's. "I'll need to get a statement from you at some point, Mark, but it can wait until you're feeling better."

"Good," Hardcastle answered for him, "because he's not doing it now."

"I know, Milt," Frank replied, forcibly stopping himself from rolling his eyes. "I thought we'd at least wait until he's off the morphine."

The judge harrumphed.

"Seriously, Mark. How are you feeling?" the lieutenant asked.

Mark seemed to think about that for a minute. "All things considered, I guess I'm okay. Could be doing a lot worse, anyway."

"Yeah, you could be dead," Hardcastle grumbled.

"You're just mad because I'm the one getting all the attention from these lovely nurses."

"No, I'm mad because you're the idiot who managed to get himself shot."

There was enough real anger in the judge's words that McCormick knew they weren't said entirely in jest. He stopped himself from sighing and turned his gaze to the window. The last thing he needed was Hardcastle getting on his case for not ducking fast enough. He supposed he should look at this as a stay of execution - even Hardcase Hardcastle wouldn't toss him out until he'd recovered, even if he wasn't up to his usual slave labor standards. Mark knew he'd eventually have to ask the judge if he'd be willing to reconsider transferring his parole, but he didn't feel well enough to have any lengthy discussions right now, so he was grateful when Frank stepped in.

"Look, I can only stay a minute. I just wanted to let you know we've got Manduke in custody, but he's clammed up. He's not saying anything about a connection to Jack Fish, and he's definitely not admitting to hiring a hit on the judge here. He insists he was only down at the warehouse to show Milt where his files ended up." The cop winked at Mark, giving him silent support.

Milt perked up at the mention of his files. "Did they find them?"

Harper shook his head. "Sorry, Milt. The techs have been all over every inch of that warehouse with a fine-tooth comb. There's no sign that your files were ever there. My money's on that story just being the lure to get you down there for the hit."

Something about Frank's words set Mark's mind to whirring, and he frowned, trying to think about exactly what it was. Hardcastle noticed.

"What?" he asked, waiting, recognizing McCormick's look of concentration.

"I'm just trying to remember..." He felt as if he was looking at a puzzle through distorted glasses, and he worked to piece it together.

Frank leaned forward in his chair. He knew Mark's thought processes were different then most folks, and he enjoyed the chance to watch them in action.

"Money..." McCormick turned toward the jurist, "Didn't Eddie say something about the money at the restaurant?"

Hardcastle screwed up his face, trying to recall. "I think so. Why? Whattaya got?"

Mark shifted his gaze to Frank. "Hardcastle's file said the money Fish embezzled the first time around never turned up. Fish obviously doesn't want the judge tracing it, so he gets Manduke to take out a contract on Hardcastle."

"Yeah," Frank nodded, hoping the kid would keep going. "So?"

"So there's got to be some reason Manduke would go along with that. Some reason why he doesn't want the money found either," Mark reasoned. He shifted slightly, causing the sheet covering him to drop a little lower around his waist. Pulling it back up, he continued thinking out loud. "Rosie said Manduke's got a brother. A senator. He's up for re-election. That's why the name sounded familiar to me."

Hardcastle scowled. "When did you talk to Rosie?"

"Um, Friday morning," Mark replied absently.

"Where're you going with this, Mark?" Frank asked.

"I'm not sure, exactly. But campaigns - they take a lot of money, right?"

"And you think maybe the good senator had some unofficial help from Jack Fish when he ran for office the first time around?" Milt concluded, jumping on the bandwagon.

"Maybe," Mark said, turning back and locking his eyes on his, noting the gleam in the older blue eyes. "That makes sense, doesn't it?" he asked, needing the confirmation.

"It's a definite possibility," Harper agreed.

"Worth looking into," the judge seconded.

Frank let out a low whistle. "Still, though...there might be hell to pay if I make an accusation like this and we're wrong."

"So don't go and accuse him outright. Just do a little digging. The senator already has to be getting pretty nervous knowing his brother's facing conspiracy to commit murder charges just before an election." Hardcastle clapped his hands together. "I think we're onto something here, Frank. If nothing else, you can toss it out to Manduke and see if it shakes anything loose."

"I'll head over to the office and do some digging tonight." Harper stood and gently clapped Mark on the leg. "Not bad, Mark. All doped up and you still manage to come up with the best working theory we've got."

"Glad to be of service, Frank," the young man replied. He blinked, his eyes remaining closed a half beat longer than normal. He forced them open again and returned his focus to the balding lieutenant. "Let me know if you get anything, huh?"

Milt took note of the drooping eyes and slowing speech of the man in the bed and stood as well. "Hang on, Frank; I'll walk out with you." He turned to face the bed. "I'm gonna head out so you can get some sleep, kiddo. You need me to bring anything for ya when I come in the morning?"

Mark pushed the button to lower the head of the bed, allowing his eyes to drift shut. "Two cheeseburgers. Some fries. A double chocolate shake." He made himself comfortable, allowing the medication to draw him away.

Hardcastle chuckled. "We'll see if I can't wrangle up some nice jello instead, okay sport?" he asked, moving towards the door.

It was only after they left that Mark realized he'd skated by the issue of talking to Rosie with little backlash. Shelving that thought for another time, he continued his slide into sleep.

00000

Hardcastle was back in his chair the next day before Mark even finished his breakfast, which sadly did not include a cheeseburger and fries. Though he'd missed the doctor's rounds, he was pleased to hear Mark report that the chest tube would possibly be out by day's end. He settled himself in with the newspaper brought from Gull's Way, offering up the sports section to the injured man in an uncharacteristic move. Mark raised his eyebrows, but took the paper without comment, determined to milk as much out of this injury as he could possibly get. Hardcastle being nice to him wasn't unheard of, but the times it happened were few enough and far between to want to savor it.

Just before ten there was a knock on the door, which was then pushed open without waiting for a response. Teddy appeared, dressed in black pants and a white shirt with a tie in the print of an American flag draped loosely around his neck.

"Hey, Skid," he called out, sweeping into the room, followed by a trailing of balloons. "How ya doin', pal?"

"Teddy!" Mark smiled at the sight of the young ex-con getting himself tangled in the yards of colorful ribbon dangling from the balloons. He waited a moment. "You need some help there?"

"No, I'm okay. Just need to get these dang things tied down somewhere. You should've seen me riding the bus with them. I thought the lady next to me was gonna take out her hairpins and start popping them one by one." He took them over towards the window and tied the ribbons around the window pane crank.

"Balloons, huh Teddy?" Hardcastle asked dryly. "Nice touch."

Oblivious to the cynicism, Hollins nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, well, I asked myself, 'what do you take to a guy who's laid up'? I mean, it's not like you can bring flowers, or a teddy bear, or nothin', right? I figured balloons was the safest bet. You know, a little more manly, or somethin'," he concluded.

McCormick smiled at the thought. "They're nice, Ted. I appreciate it. Really."

"Least I could do," Teddy shrugged, "since I'm kinda the reason you ended up here anyway." He refused to meet Mark's eyes, but stood there, lightly kicking the wheel of the hospital bed.

"How's that again?" Mark asked, confused. "What exactly did you have to do with me getting shot?"

Teddy glanced up, pain etched in his face. "Come on, Skid. I'm the one who set it up for Eddie to talk with you. If he hadn't, you wouldn't be here."

"Uh-uh, none of that. If Eddie hadn't talked to me, Hardcastle's the one who wouldn't be here, and it would be a much more permanent condition. And that's not acceptable." He reached out, tapping a fist on the young ex-con's arm. "You did me a favor, Teddy. I'm grateful." He leaned back again, noticing the jurist squirming in discomfort in the chair beside him. He knew without a doubt that the older man got nervous anytime anything approaching emotions was discussed, but he figured he'd earned a little slack for the moment. "Besides, I've kind of gotten used to having the ol' donkey around," he winked.

"Hey, that's great!" Hollins replied excitedly. "So does that mean you don't need me to come pick up those boxes after all?"

McCormick felt his heart plummeting. "Teddy, don't..." He risked a quick glance at the judge, whose face gave nothing away, but there was no chance that Hardcastle hadn't picked up on the meaning of Teddy's casual comment. The tension in the room grew exponentially, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Even Teddy picked up on the sudden coolness. His hands flailed about briefly before he jammed them in his pockets. "Sorry," he said nervously under his breath.

Mark smiled tightly at him. "S'okay."

"Hey, listen," Teddy stammered, "I can't really stick around. I was just droppin' in on my way to work, cuz I wanted to see how you're doin'. You look great. Really great." He started backing towards the door. "So I'm gonna get goin' okay, Skid? I'll check in with you later." He pointed a finger at the man in the bed. "You need anything? Anything at all?" he asked sincerely.

"Nah, I'm good," Mark replied, doing his best to make the words ring true.

Teddy nodded, his hand already pushing the door open. "Okay, then, I'll see you later, pal." He faced the man in the chair briefly. "Judge—always a pleasure to see you." Without waiting for a response, he turned and hightailed it through the doorway.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room that lingered. For the life of him, Mark couldn't think of anything to say that would bridge the gap. The elephant that they'd both done their best to ignore for over a week had come in and firmly taken up residence in the room. He knew they needed to talk about this. There were too many things between them at the moment, and the time had come to clear the air. But that didn't mean he had the words he needed. He thought an apology might be in order, but he'd done that already, many times since this whole nightmare had begun, and it hadn't left him feeling any better. He heard the nearly silent sigh come from the chair next to him.

"Judge..." The word hung in the air, abandoned.

Hardcastle grunted and edged forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together in front of him as he stared at the floor. "I saw the boxes," he offered.

Mark turned to him, a look of puzzlement wrinkling his brow.

"In the loft," the jurist continued, "the other day when I was up there; I saw 'em. You were packin', huh?"

McCormick remained silent, not sure if an answer was expected.

Hardcastle raised his head and looked the young man directly in the eye. "Why?"

Puzzlement gave way to outright confusion, and it must have been obvious on Mark's face, because Hardcastle continued, "I guess I know why. And you're right. I shoulda seen this from the beginning, shoulda known it was a possibility, you gettin' hurt like this. It wasn't what I intended, not by a long shot. I never wanted this to happen. I don't know - I guess the whole idea has been crazy from the get-go. I just thought, maybe, well, maybe we could do some good." He swiped a hand roughly across his mouth and sighed more audibly, sitting back heavily in the chair. "Well, I figure it's been a pretty good run, anyway. Don't blame ya for wantin' to move on. I won't hold you up, if that's what you're worried about. I can fix things over with the parole board. You've done a good job, kiddo, and I...well, I appreciate the help." He averted his gaze, unwilling or unable to say more.

Mark stared at him openly. He was surprised at the effort required to keep his mouth from hanging open. The words he'd just heard were not those of a man who wanted to kick him out of house and home, and he couldn't help his gut reaction. "What the hell are you talking about?" he said, a touch of anger making its way into his tone.

Now it was Hardcastle's turn to look puzzled. "What'd ya think I'm talking about," he grumbled. "You were packing, right?"

"Yeah, I was packing," Mark confirmed, his voice rising. "Because you're throwing me out, not because I wanted to be done with our deal. What, you think I'm just going to get up and walk out on you? You think at the first sign of trouble, Tonto's going to ditch the Lone Ranger and look for safer trails? You really have a lousy opinion of me, don't you?"

"What the hell do you mean, I'm throwin' you out? I'm not throwin' you out! Why the hell would I do that?" The judge glared at the wounded man, his own volume rising with anger.

"Because of that stupid party, that's why!" McCormick shot back. "Because I screwed up again! Because you nearly lost everything because of me." The realization of his mistake hit him anew, and he felt his anger dissipate. He deserved everything he was getting; he knew that. It was just the way life worked for him. "And because you did lose your files," he continued quietly, "and I know there's nothing more important to you than them." His eyes softened with sorrow as he looked over at the jurist. "I'm sorry, Judge. I swear to God, I am. I know I screwed up, and I know I let you down. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you, I'd do it." He caught the older man's gaze and held on tightly, wondering if there was any way to salvage Hardcastle's faith in him.

00000

Milt was pretty sure the confusion in Mark's face from moments ago was now mirrored on his own. He had thought he'd had things pretty well figured out, but it seemed his theories had some rather serious flaws. Apparently he wasn't alone in his misconceptions. Talking about the serious stuff had never really been his strong suit, but there were things that need to be dealt with now, before they had any hope of going any further. He took a deep breath, and jumped right in with one of the biggest misunderstandings the kid seemed to be dealing with.

"It wasn't your fault," he mumbled, unable to declare it loudly now that the moment had come.

McCormick looked as if he wasn't following along. "Huh?" he asked.

Hardcastle cleared his throat. "The, uh, the party. It wasn't your fault."

Mark barked out a laugh of disbelief at that and then winced, reaching for his side. He waited a moment for the pain to ease before continuing. "How do you figure?"

The jurist fell back on his experience with evidence. "Well, look at the facts, kiddo." He held up a hand and began counting off with his fingers. "Fish had it in for me, and he'd been planning this whole thing for a long time. So he hired a couple of idiots to do his dirty work for him, and those idiots cared more about the money they were getting than they did about burning a friend. They call you up, set up a time to get together, and voila—instant party." He dropped his hands. "They obviously knew the best way to get to the files was to have the place so bombarded with people that nobody would even notice. Your only real mistake in this whole thing was to agree to get together with them in the first place." He shrugged that off. "And if I know you, you were probably pretty panicked when you saw the size of the crowd that showed up." His face softened at the image that came to mind.

Mark smiled wryly. "You have no idea."

Hardcastle chuckled. "I'll bet. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that Fish would have found a way to get to those files somehow. You just happened to be the guy caught in the middle."

McCormick couldn't keep the surprise off his face. "You really believe that?" he asked hopefully.

"Yep. I promise you, sport, when I think you've screwed up, I won't let you forget about it."

Mark grinned at the obvious truth. "Yeah, I imagine you won't." It wasn't long before he sobered. "Then, why?" he asked.

"'Why', what?"

Mark hesitated. He had a sudden thought that maybe his innocence would be under closer scrutiny if he made this confession, but he needed to know. He plunged forward. "Why are you transferring my parole?" he asked, his voice as even as he could make it.

The jurist looked at him in shock. "What are you talking about?" he asked. The answer came to him even before he finished the question. "The letter," he said grimly. "You saw it, didnja?"

Mark nodded guiltily. "I didn't mean to," he offered. "I wasn't snooping, honest. Just getting some cash, and it was lying out there. I didn't even read it," he said, as if that would lessen the offense.

Hardcastle immediately saw the truth in that, for if the kid had read it through, he'd have known where it originated. "You thought it was me, huh?" he asked quietly.

McCormick looked back up at him at this question. "You mean it wasn't?" he asked.

Milt sighed. "Dalem," he spit out, allowing his distaste to be heard. "Not me. Dalem. Got some bee in his bonnet about this not being the best situation for you." He thought on that a moment. "Though I guess he might've been right about that." He did a once over at the man lying on the bed. "So, what - you figured I was ticked off enough at you for the party that I'd want to send you back? Is that about right?"

Mark gave half a shrug. "Something like that. Maybe not send me back," he allowed, "but I thought you might be re-thinking our arrangement. Seemed that way, anyhow."

Hardcastle stood up and moved around the foot of the bed. He'd known McCormick was feeling uncertain about his future after the chaos of the past case, but this was unexpected. He wished briefly that he'd taken Frank's advice and talked with the young man about his parole status when the letter had first arrived. He reached forward and latched onto the bed railing. "You didn't want to maybe just ask me about it?"

McCormick gave a negative shake of his head. "I wasn't sure how."

"Hmmm," the judge said in understanding. "Yeah, I guess I can see that. Anyway, it was Dalem, and I've been tryin' to get it taken care of, 'cept he's out of town for a few days. Got an appointment with him tomorrow, and I think I can get it straightened out. Although," he said, thinking aloud, "it probably wouldn't hurt if you told him you didn't want things to change either. I mean, assuming you do still want to stay..." he trailed off, a hesitance that was unusual for him lingering in his voice.

00000

It was all Mark could do to keep from shaking his head. Damned if the old donkey wasn't going to make him come out and say it. His mind ran quickly over the last year and a half - the basketball games, the arguing, the car chases, the laughter, and the friendship. A friendship the likes of which he hadn't known existed before he came to live at Gull's Way, and one that he was fairly certain wouldn't come again in his lifetime. They'd been able to move beyond their difficult past and find in each other what had been missing in their lives. To give that up by choice, to give up doing something good with his life, to give up living at Gull's Way with its ocean and rosebushes and endless lawns...well, it was more than he could consider. When it came right down to it, the answer was simple, pride or no pride...

"I want to stay."

He watched as a smile formed on the judge's weathered face, his heart lightened by the warmth in the pale blue eyes gazing back at him.

"Good," the older man stated simply, clapping a hand on the railing.

Mark felt as if a weight had been lifted off of his chest as his uncertainty melted away. There might be quite a bit still up in the air where his future was concerned, but of one thing he was certain: he wouldn't be facing it alone.

"There's just one thing," Hardcastle began, and McCormick wondered if he hadn't relaxed a bit too soon.

"What?" he asked cautiously.

"I, uh, I figure maybe I owe you an apology." Milt clung to the railing, perhaps a bit more tightly than necessary if the white skin across his knuckles was to be believed. "You know...for leaving you hangin' out there the past couple of days. Maybe for not believing you as much as I should have. You were right. 'Bout somebody trying to kill me, anyways."

Mark remained silent. Apologies from Hardcastle were few and far between, and he knew how difficult they were for the man. Though he didn't really think it was necessary, he believed the judge did, and he'd allow him a chance to get the air cleared once and for all if only things would get back to normal.

"See, it's not like this is the first time someone's said they were gonna kill me. There've been lots of them over the years. Lots of 'em who've tried even, but I'm not exactly an easy target. I'm also not gonna go off and hide somewhere just because it might be safer. I told you that before." He walked over to stare out the small window, the balloons bobbing gently at the wake his movement caused. "The thing is, though, that I never wanted to put anybody else in danger just because of me." He paused, letting the silence wash over them both.

"And I sure as hell never wanted you to get yourself killed in my place." He turned on his heel to stare angrily at the younger man. "What the hell were you thinking, McCormick? That was a damn stupid stunt you pulled, throwing yourself in front of a bullet for me. You think that's what I want? For you to sacrifice your own life to save mine? Because if you ever try something that dumb again..."

"You're welcome," Mark cut in, effectively taking the wind out of the jurist's sails. He watched as Hardcastle was rendered momentarily speechless. "Before you go into full lecture mode, though, there's something you should know - it was reaction, Judge, pure and simple. One of the reasons the Lone Ranger keeps Tonto around is to watch his back. Somebody was trying to kill you, but I'd be damned if I let them do it when I could have prevented it. I didn't ask to get shot, and it certainly wasn't what I wanted." He pulled himself more upright, keeping the judge pinned with his gaze. "But I'd do it again, Hardcastle. You need to know that. You need to understand that. And if maybe, just maybe, it makes you take the next threat a little more seriously, then so much the better. Because I'm not about to let either one of us go down without a fight. Got it?" The steel in his eyes was matched by his tone, and he waited for the older man's response, because this was a matter he refused to relent on.

Perhaps Hardcastle could see it in his eyes, because he allowed a long exhale. Neither man spoke with words for several moments, but the stubborn messages were still clearly communicated between them. Finally, the judge recognized the other man wouldn't be budged. "Dammit, McCormick," he said softly. "Do you think you could at least try and duck next time?"

At this, Mark's face broke into a wide grin. "Hate to break it to you, Judge, but I tried to duck this time too."

Though he tried to maintain the scowl, the impish face only feet away from him got to him and he found himself reluctantly smiling. "Then do you think maybe you can get a little better at it?" he grumbled.

"I'll work on it," Mark offered, lying back against the mattress. He watched the older man for a few minutes until weariness crept up and caught him unawares. "Can we maybe be done now? I know how you love these little heart to heart talks, but I'm beat," he said, yawning. Smiling contentedly, he pushed the button lowering the top of the bed, allowing his head to rest back against the pillows. The stitches there were starting to itch, but not enough to halt the sudden weariness that was overtaking him. The relief he felt after the emotional roller coaster of the past two weeks was overwhelming, and he figured maybe he was entitled to a little rest.

Hardcastle chuckled as he made his way back to stand by his chair. "You fallin' asleep on me again, sport?" he asked, laying a hand on McCormick's shoulder.

"Maybe," Mark allowed, opening one eye halfway. "Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay, you idiot," he said, giving him a very gentle shove. "Your body needs to rest. I'm gonna go grab a cup of coffee, but I'll be back soon." He headed toward the door. "But for now, there's just one more thing I want you to know..." he paused, holding the door open with one hand. "My files aren't the most important thing in my life. Not anymore, anyway." He left the room without saying anything more.

Mark caught the wink just before the older man headed out the door, and he felt his chest tighten. Never in a million years would he have expected that much transparent honesty out of the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle. He didn't have a whole lot of experience with this particular emotion, but damned if at this moment, he didn't feel like the luckiest guy in the world. With a smile still on his face, he drifted off to sleep.

00000

Hardcastle had been resettled in his chair for over an hour, doing his best to focus on the latest mystery Aunt May had sent him and not the sound of McCormick's gentle snores, when the orderly arrived with the tray bearing Mark's lunch. He lifted the lid, seeing the rather unappealing looking soup and toast, and decided against waking the kid up for it, when he heard a grumble from the bed.

"Get your own, I'm starving."

Milt replaced the lid. "Bad news then. You'll still be starving when you see what they brought you."

Mark cautiously rolled onto his good side. "I don't suppose there's any chance I could persuade you to head out for a pizza?"

"Sure, I could go for a pizza right about now," the judge replied amiably. "Seems a little unfair though - me eating pizza while you're stuck with chicken soup."

"Ha-ha," Mark said sarcastically. "You know what I meant. I'd kill for one right about now." He glanced longingly at the phone. "I wonder if they deliver."

"I don't know, but if that girl comes up here wearing another one of my shirts, it's not gonna go well for you." He gave McCormick an entirely artificial smile.

"Ah, yeah. Good point. Chicken soup it is." Mark reached for the bedside tray and positioned it closely enough so that he could maneuver the soup from the bowl to his mouth with as little energy expended as possible.

Hardcastle watched his careful movements and worked to push down the last lingering guilt that assailed him that McCormick was in this situation. If he'd listened to the kid in the first place, maybe they wouldn't be here. He harrumphed. Hindsight never helped, and it was time to move on. Watching the kid lift the spoon to his mouth, he commented, "Hurts, huh?"

Mark stopped the movement and glanced over at the jurist. "Some," he agreed tenuously.

"You want some help?"

That got a laugh. "The day I let you spoon feed me is the day I sign up for some serious therapy," he cracked. "Thanks, Judge, but I think I've got it."

Hardcastle grinned. "Suit yourself. Just don't blame me when you spill it all over yourself and end up with some sort of mysterious infection."

"Nah. Chicken soup is the cure-all, remember? I don't think you can get an infection from that."

"I still don't think it would feel all that good if it ends up in that chest tube."

"True enough. But hopefully they'll be coming soon to take it out, so I only need to get through this meal. I'll manage."

The judge nodded. "Be glad to get that out, I imagine."

"Oh, yeah."

The door swung open and Frank Harper shuffled his way into the room.

"Mark," he greeted, "you look better every time I see you. Hey, Milt."

"Hi, Frank," the jurist replied, rising from his chair. "You want to sit?"

"Nah. I'm only here for a minute. Official police business. Thought you guys would like to know how the mop-up is going." Something in his tone was slightly off, and Mark exchanged a look with Hardcastle.

"Something wrong, Frank?" the judge asked.

"Yeah, sort of. Manduke's dead."

The announcement came as a surprise to both men, though it was Milt who asked the question.

"How?"

"Somebody got to him inside Men's Central. Of course, nobody saw anything. If you want my guess, I'd say whoever he hired to make the hit on you had some connections inside, and wanted to make sure Manduke wasn't passing his name along to anyone."

Hardcastle nodded as he digested the information. He sat back down, looking tired. "And the rest?" he prompted.

"The senator turned himself in, and he's been singing like a bird. He couldn't handle the stress of the entire situation any longer - he's resigned his office and is now trying to put as much distance between himself and his brother's deeds as possible. Looks like he'll get a deal, despite the fact that this whole thing started because the embezzlement money went directly into his campaign fund. Fish is still in custody, with a slew of charges added to his original arrest, including conspiracy to commit murder."

Milt looked up at the seasoned detective. "What about the guy they hired to make the hit? Anybody manage to track him down?"

Harper shook his head. "Looks like he got away clean. Sorry, Milt," he added, knowing it would offend the jurist's sense of justice. "On the upside, there's no reason to believe he'll try again, since his only connection to the whole affair has already been silenced. There's too much risk of being identified to make him try to finish the job. You're not even a loose end to him."

"Yeah, but does he know that?" Mark piped up from the bed.

"Nobody knows for sure," Frank hedged. "But my best guess says yes."

Mark didn't like it, but he nodded, a frown on his face.

Hardcastle noticed and stepped over to the side of the bed. "You can't let it eat at you, kiddo," he said quietly. "Even if this guy is after me, which I don't believe he is, he's just one more on a list. I learned long ago to live with it; now you need to do the same. You gotta try not to let it rule your life, you know?"

McCormick sighed. "Yeah, Hardcase, I know. But promise me you'll at least be careful, okay? That you'll keep an eye out and not do anything stupid?"

The judge smiled. "Me? Since when have I ever done anything stupid?"

Mark laughed and then winced. "Don't get me started." He sobered. "Promise. Okay?"

Milt nodded seriously. "We'll both keep an eye out," he promised. "Deal?"

"Deal."

00000

From his place on the lounge chair, Mark watched the blue-uniformed man pull the leaf skimmer repeatedly along the surface of the pool. The monotony of the motion was lulling him into a sense of well-being, but he doubted he'd fall asleep. Though he'd never have thought it possible, he was tired of sleeping. Lying around doing nothing for the past two and half weeks was definitely getting on his nerves, and even hedge trimming was starting to look good.

They'd worked out the situation with Dalem, who'd agreed to back off. It had taken effort on both their parts to convince the man, with a word thrown in from Frank for good measure. But it had been dealt with before Mark even left the hospital. They'd made the trip back to Gull's Way in the judge's pickup, and though he'd been staying in the main house to make things easier, the first thing he'd thought upon seeing the estate was 'home'.

Now, he was itching to get back in the saddle again, though Hardcastle wanted to give it another week. He had a pretty good guess which one of them was going to win that argument, as he was pretty sure the King of Stubbornness wasn't going to be giving in on anything else in the near future. Even if the judge hadn't made that much of a concession to begin with, McCormick knew it had cost the older man, and he appreciated it more than he could say.

The man in question stepped out onto the patio, whistling as he made his way to the chair next to Mark's. He came and sat on the edge, clapping his hands together loudly. "So, I've been thinking..." he began.

Mark's gaze narrowed. Usually those words couldn't mean anything good. "About what?" he asked with some trepidation.

"Well, since D-Day's visit got put off for another week, we've got tomorrow night open. And you're looking better," he added.

Mark didn't make the connection. "Uh-huh," he prodded.

"So I wondered if maybe you'd be up for a little game of poker tomorrow night. Nothing fancy."

"Nothing fancy? Who's coming?" the young man asked, unable to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

"Oh, the usual," Hardcastle waved his hand casually. "Frank, Mattie, Charlie. I figured we'd keep it kind of smaller than the last bash you threw." He smiled with saccharine sweetness. "You know, just some cold cuts, chips, beer." He cleared his throat. "Sort of a 'welcome home' party. How's that sound?"

McCormick relaxed slightly, touched at the thought. Home had become something incredibly important to him over the years, yet it had always seemed like that elusive brass ring - close at hand, yet just out of reach. Now, though...

"Sounds just about perfect, Judge."