Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them. This is a work of fiction, as are all the characters within.
Rated: K+
Author's Note: Set three years after 'All Things Change but Truth', the guys get to return a favor for Doc Westerfield (the man who was not Mark's psychiatrist, in a series of snippets called 'Sessions').
There are references to an evidence-destroying event in 'The End of Civilization as We Know It', and a story called 'Maybe Madness', in which Mark went undercover in a psychiatric ward. There's also a brief mention of one of the corpses from 'Hellbound'.
Thank you, Owl, for beta support in the midst of many other commitments.
Fugue
By L. M. Lewis
Chapter 1
It was Friday afternoon at the Law Clinic, and McCormick had taken to chewing on his pen for inspiration. Paperwork had never been his forte. He was on the edge of sending up a silent plea for some sort of distraction—anything that might rate as an excuse to put this chore down for a bit—when Hardcastle came barreling down the hall and stuck his head into the office.
"Get your coat."
Mark looked up, abruptly focused.
"Huh?" Prayers didn't always get answered with such efficiency.
"That was Frank; there's been a shooting."
The pen had been dropped on the desk and Mark was on his feet reflexively, reaching for the jacket that he'd hung on the back of his chair when he'd started to break a sweat over the wording of one particularly troublesome passage. He'd already pulled a sleeve on, and was checking for the car keys in his pocket, when his mind backtracked one thought.
"Who?" He stood there, scrabbling for the other sleeve behind him.
"Westerfield," the judge said impatiently. "They took him to St. Mary's."
Mark froze, as though he himself had come under the bead of a gun. Then a half-dozen questions were suddenly jockeying for position in his mind. He settled for the most important.
"He's okay?"
"No, dammit," the impatience was approaching a full boil, "he's been shot. Now come on."
Mark was in motion again with Hardcastle ushering him along, out the doorway and down the hall to the back. McCormick looked over his shoulder. "But he's alive?"
"Yeah," the judge nodded absently. "Frank said he's in the ER."
"Who?" It was Mark's turn to be impatient. "And why?" That part might be the easiest. He supposed there was always a little risk to psychiatry. "One of his patients?"
"Dunno. 'Shot'—that's all Frank said. He just got word himself."
Mark nodded, swallowed his fear, and turned to deal with the back door. Then outside, then in the Coyote and driving, pure reflex while his conscious mind turned over a hundred possibilities, none good.
"He'll be okay." It was almost a mantra, definitely not based on any rational thinking. He was aware of a certain undertone, might have been panic, might have something to do with the last time he'd rushed to St. Mary's after receiving a call from Frank. Then he took a slow breath and said it again, "He'll be okay," as if he might call back his earlier prayer and substitute a new one.
00000
The ER waiting room only reinforced his earlier feelings of dread. They'd even arrived before Frank, and without an official liaison Mark realized they had very little justification to request entry or information. He let Hardcastle go point on the mission.
"Dr. Phillip Westerfield, he was brought in a little while ago."
The clerk didn't have to check her list. She looked up through the glass partition and asked, "Family?"
Hardcastle shook his head tightly. "No, friends and, ah," he hitched one thumb in Mark's direction, "he's his lawyer."
McCormick supposed that was at least technically true. The services had been offered, though not required so far. If he ever was taken up on the deal, it would be a quid pro quo arrangement, though he didn't think telling the lady behind the desk that Westerfield was his shrink was going to get him anywhere under the present circumstances.
Not your shrink. He's a friend.
He fidgeted. There would have been a time, and not so far distant, when he'd have said those two terms were mutually exclusive. Now, on some level that he didn't like to look at straight-on, he knew that they were not. It wasn't that he saw the man very often—it had been maybe a half-dozen times in three years—but that he felt he owed him more than he would ever be able to repay in the form of routine legal services.
"Is he okay?" he blurted out, and the nervous tenor to it probably did more to convince the clerk than all of the judge's professional demeanor.
She looked sympathetic, but not forthcoming. "He's here, but we can't give out information. Really."
"Can you tell him we're here?" Hardcastle interjected practically. "Is he conscious?"
The clerk frowned. Answering the first question was obviously tantamount to answering the second. She finally compromised.
"I'll tell his doctor. It might be a while. They're very busy back there."
The judge nodded his understanding. "Just tell him Mark McCormick is here. We don't want to disturb him, just want to know what happened and . . . what we can do."
00000
Frank found them in the waiting area. Mark was sitting, though with the usual low-grade fidget that Harper was only too familiar with. Milt had already decamped to the phone in the corner, and was working his way through a pile of change. He broke off from whoever he was currently annoying and ended the call, almost as soon as he caught sight of the lieutenant.
But it was Mark who responded first. He was now on his feet.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been waiting for—" He halted for a moment, frowning.
"Ten minutes," Milt finished for him, in a politer tone.
Mark looked down at his watch suspiciously, and then up, with a sheepish frown. "Well, it seemed longer." He pointed toward the door to the inner sanctum. "Nobody's saying anything. What the hell's going on?"
First questions first. "I ran by the crime scene. You know one look earlier is worth more than a whole bunch of reports later on. And he can't be too bad; he's the one who asked them to call me. That's what Mawson said; he's the detective who's handling it. Probably in there now." Frank stepped over to the desk and flashed his badge.
"Wait a sec," Hardcastle grabbed for a sleeve and snagged him. "Wanna tell us what happened? All you said was 'shot'."
"Yeah," Harper shrugged. "Shot. 9mm, pretty close range, out on the street in front of a place called the Pacific Mission, south of here a couple miles. You heard of it?"
Hardcastle frowned and nodded. "Place for skid row guys. Rough neighborhood there."
"Well, the guy in charge today—he's some kinda lay brother—he said Westerfield stopped by to see one of their 'clients'. Talked to him for a couple of minutes, then they both left together. Next thing he hears is a 'pop-pop', and a second later the client comes running back in, knocking people over, and barrels through to the back kitchen and out into the alley."
"And Westerfield?" Mark asked anxiously.
"The shoulder. One shot. Patrol gets the call pretty quick, but all they find is him down, no shooter and no decent witnesses."
"But he's okay?"
There was no time for an answer before the door opened and a woman in scrubs stepped through. She looked a bit put-out at the small crowd confronting her.
"More cops? All of you?"
No one did anything to correct her misimpression and they were ushered in with a deeply resigned sigh. Once past the door, they could understand her concerns. In the hectic back area there were already three uniformed officers and one man in the sort of frumpy suit that Frank himself favored. The more-than-obvious detective turned toward them with a questioning look.
Harper made perfunctory introductions. Mawson raised one eyebrow at Hardcastle's name, smiled and offered a quick nod.
"Heard of you; didn't think I'd get to meet you." His tone still had a half-question to it.
"Friends of the victim," Frank explained. "How's the doc doing?"
"They're still checking him out, but the official word is 'stable'. You have any luck?" he asked.
"Not much," Frank said flatly. "Everybody agrees there was a shooter. That's about it. Oh, and there was another local, a guy named Louie, who might've interfered with the aim. He's a regular at the mission, though, and they say when he's not drunk, he's still crazy. He didn't hang around to be questioned."
He was aware that Mark had taken to fidgeting again. The younger man interjected, "What did Westerfield say?"
Mawson was already shaking his head. "He says if he'd seen it coming he woulda ducked. He doesn't even know the name of the guy he was there to see."
Milt and Mark had equally puzzled looks. Frank jumped in.
"That's why he was there, on account of the man he was visiting didn't know his own name. The staff said the guy showed up there 'bout a week ago—no name, nothing. The people in charge over at the mission, they were calling him 'John', short for John Doe. They brought him in here Tuesday and the docs checked him over, admitted him for the standard three-day."
Hardcastle frowned. "Then he was Westerfield's patient?"
"Nope," Mawson shook his head. "Somebody else's. Westerfield said he didn't hear about the case until after the guy was released."
"So how come—?"
"He says it's what he's interested in—amnesia. 'Cept he didn't call it that," Mawson frowned. "He said, ah . . ."
"A disassociative state," Mark finished flatly, and then added, "Yeah, he'd cross the street to see one of those."
Harper took in a slow breath. Milt looked like he was thinking hard, too. The older man finally shot McCormick a quick glance.
"You don't think somebody's got their hands on that damn formula?"
"God, I hope not," Mark said with heartfelt sincerity.
Harper silently seconded that. It had been three years since a brief exposure to a research project gone awry had temporarily stolen the judge's memory. All the data, all the materials involved, had been handed over to the proper authorities. Which didn't mean someone else might not be trying again.
Harper saw Mark's almost invisible shiver. Milt's expression had gone even grimmer.
"We need to talk to him," the judge said urgently.
Mawson, having apparently picked up on some of the byplay, was looking more concerned himself. He gestured toward an inner corridor. "They had him down here before he went to x-ray. Might be back by now."
00000
Now that they had lapsed into pensive silence, McCormick heard a conversation becoming increasingly audible from one of the curtained alcoves. It wasn't angry, not even exactly heated, but it was fairly intense, for all that.
"Just a day or so, Phil, that's what I'd suggest."
"And what are you going to do for me here, that I can't do in my own home?"
"Well, physical therapy, for one."
"You know damn well you aren't going to start me on anything that soon—you've got me strapped up in a shoulder immobilizer. And when it is time, I can come back and do it outpatient."
Mark was the first one to the curtain, but held back. The moment seemed inopportune, and the man inside was not expressing himself in the usual calm voice of reason that McCormick was accustomed to.
The other voice started up again, still patient, maybe a little concerned, "I'm just saying it's going to be kind of tough for a day or so. One-handed, and it's going to hurt like the devil, and there's a fair chance of infection—"
There was nowhere to knock. Mark finally chose the wall, three quick raps and a 'Hello?" Then he pulled the curtain back enough to be seen.
The discussion came to an abrupt halt. The guy who'd been doing the explaining shot him a questioning glance. Westerfield was sitting on the cart, right shoulder swathed in a dressing and the whole arm held to his chest by the pesky, and all-too-familiar device.
Mark made a face. "Well, it beats a cast," he said prosaically, "but not by much. You okay?"
He wasn't sure what he'd said to get a smile from the man, maybe he just hated being fussed over. The doc glanced over at his doc.
"See, let's keep it in perspective, Hal. I'll go home, I'll put my feet up, I'll take my pills, and if I get into trouble I know to come back."
McCormick wasn't too keen on somehow having become a witness for the defense. He frowned.
"You're gonna be surprised how many things take two hands, doc. Driving, for one."
"My car's already been towed. The other bullet went through the windshield." He cast a quick glance down at his own shoulder. "Maybe both of 'em. This was through and through."
"It chipped bone," the other doc added. "Fall on it now and it'll snap like a matchstick. And it's your right arm, Phil. Screw it up that close to the joint and you'll never play racquetball again." He still sounded firm, but no longer quite so earnest.
Mark felt Hardcastle edge in alongside him. He got a small friendly wave from the patient, and a lopsided grin that was McCormick's first clue. They've got him tanked up on pain meds. He sighed. Tomorrow would no doubt be a lot uglier.
"But, anyway, there are cabs—I'm not staying. Are you going to make me sign out AMA?"
The other doc paused a moment, then shook his head briefly. "Your call, Phil. I think it's a mistake, but if you come crawling back in here, I won't even say 'I told you so.'" And, that much apparently decided, he turned on his heel, squeezed past the company, and left.
McCormick looked back at the man on the cart and gave him a more objective assessment. He was slightly pale. His eyes weren't exactly glazed, but neither were they as sharp as usual. Now that he'd won the argument, he didn't seem to quite know what to do with it.
"Not a cab," Mark said in a no-nonsense way. "We can drive you."
There was an echo of the earlier grin. "Not that little tomato of yours?"
"Nope, only seats two." Mark looked over his shoulder. "Frank? You could take him, right?" He waited for the quick nod and then turned back to Westerfield. "But maybe not straight home."
"Home," the man said insistently. "I'm tired. Been a long day."
"We need to talk."
Westerfield jerked his chin in Harper and Mawson's direction, then winced at the movement. "Already told them everything I know." He looked glum as he added, "which, I'll admit, was not a whole helluva lot. The guy came out of nowhere and I stood there like a damn idiot. If Louie hadn't been there—"
"You know that guy?" Hardcastle interjected.
"Louie Preta?" Westerfield lifted an eyebrow. "Yeah, everybody knows Louie. We're old friends. He's what they call in the system 'a frequent flier'. He definitely paid me back today. Didn't know he had it in him anymore." He shook his head slowly in apparent wonderment. "He's a vet, you know, 'Nam. One of the guys who didn't come out of it so well. He didn't hang around though, huh? Doesn't surprise me."
He sat there, his eyes gone a little less focused, looking like he was contemplating the possible alternative outcomes if Louie hadn't tipped the scales. Then he heaved a deeper breath and looked up, frowning. "Guess I could use a ride home."
"Maybe not home," Mark slid it in, very gently, very reasonably, "not tonight. We do have to talk."
Westerfield blinked once, then seemed to be giving him a closer look, but no immediate resistance. He finally said, "Are you okay?"
"Me?" Mark slapped the heel of one hand to his forehead, all his gentle patience frayed to hell. "Doc, you're the one with a hole in your shoulder. Somebody took a couple shots at you."
The man on the cart blinked once more, as if he needed a moment to gather his thoughts, another clear indicator that they'd given him something with a little kick to it.
He finally started speaking again. Slowly, thoughtfully.
"It happens." Another faint smile, as if he expected some understanding from the man he was addressing. "I mean, not to me, but it happens in that neighborhood. And there I was, nice car, suit." He looked around for a moment, eyes lighting on a plastic bag with a drawstring, lying in the corner of the cubicle. "I liked that suit." He shook his head again. "It's a mess."
"Okay," Hardcastle stepped in, very straightforward, like a guy who'd had some experience directing traffic at accident scenes, "you and me'll head back to the estate. Frank'll drop us off. Got plenty of extra rooms and I can lend you a set of sweats. Mark'll go over to your place, pick up anything you need. Make sure everything is secure."
McCormick wasn't sure if that last word had caught Westerfield's ear, but the man was no longer protesting. He was merely sitting there, taking it in and wearing a more sober expression. Might be the drugs are wearing off a bit, too.
"They done with you here?" Hardcastle added, not waiting for him to come up with any more arguments.
"Yeah," Westerfield looked around blearily, not exactly galvanized, but starting to edge toward the side of the cart. "Papers. Need to finish those."
Mark had him by the good arm, compensating for the sag as his feet hit the floor, and keeping him steadily upright. Forward momentum was what the situation called for now, that and a small dose of reality. He let the man feel just how much leaning was required to walk a straight course at this point.
Westerfield bit his lip, and maybe his tongue as well, as he signed the discharge papers slowly with his left hand. Then he went along peaceably.
00000
He'd only been to Westerfield's house once before, three years earlier, and he'd been fairly distracted by other concerns at the time. Still, it didn't look like much had changed. There was the same understated, not-quite-stark décor, and nothing seemed out of place.
Mark wondered for a moment about how he'd known, almost for a fact, that Westerfield wasn't going to float any alternative arrangement when Hardcastle had put the offer forward. It was a whole constellation of earlier impressions, he supposed. The man had no photos on the mantle here, and none in the office as far as he could remember. He'd only been in there twice.
And no one but a concerned colleague in the ER, with him suggesting a hospital stay for what sounded like convenience more than anything else. Maybe Hardcastle knew more about the man's personal life. They had lunch together from time to time, and God knows Hardcase didn't have all that stuff to work through with a shrink. He and the doc really were just friends.
He pondered this only briefly, then took one more slow look around at the somewhat anonymous living room. He had his list, but he went directly to the office in the back. It had the same low-grade clutter as the last time, minus the box of papers and notebooks that had been their major focus three years ago. Westerfield had said he'd handed all of that over to the authorities, but, of course, even if he had there'd be no way for any other interested parties to be sure of that.
But a quick inspection of the room showed that if it had been recently searched, it had been done by consummate professionals. Every item lined up perfectly with a patch of dustlessness. Everything suggested that Westerfield preserved this room as his own domain—not even the cleaning help encroached on it.
Mark encroached, quickly and without much of a guilty conscience. He wasn't looking for anything except what shouldn't be there—he'd be damned if he'd let the man put himself in harm's way through professional curiosity.
The search was fairly ruthless, and completely non-productive. Nothing remained of Dr. Henry's disastrous adventure in memory-enhancement research.
Mark finally straightened up and let out a sigh. He was relieved; he might have understood the man's motivations for keeping something behind, but he still would have been disappointed. He supposed everyone was entitled to a foible or two; he just preferred not knowing Westerfield's.
He put that thought, and the room, behind him, and turned to his more official tasks.
00000
Hardcastle heard the car in the drive—the distinctive timbre of the Coyote that made visual confirmation unnecessary. He kept on with the dinner preparations, only pausing for a quick glance at his watch.
They hadn't had any time to discuss it, before parting ways outside St. Mary's, but he was willing to bet his bottom dollar that McCormick's thoughts had been running along the same tracks as his own. All things considered, though, he must've made a pretty efficient matter of the search, and most likely found nothing, either that or he'd made up for lost time on the drive back.
The judge frowned down into the pot of chili. He was sincerely hoping his first assumption was right. It was not that he suspected Westerfield of any intentional wrong-doing, but he'd been awfully understanding of Hardcastle's own lapse of judgment, the time he'd held onto a notebook full of dangerous information. Maybe it had been the man's guilty conscience.
The back door opened. McCormick stepped through and gave a hasty look around before he announced, "Nothing." He said the one word as if he expected to be understood flat out, and he was.
"Thank God for that," Hardcastle sighed. "Not that I was worried," he added quickly.
"Yeah, but you knew I'd look," Mark said with a minimum of chagrin. "And I knew you'd want me to. So neither one of us gets to say 'I told you so' this time." He set down the bag he was carrying, pulled up a chair and straddled it backwards. "Thing is, didn't look to me like anyone else had been looking. You think maybe we're completely off-base here? Maybe him getting shot at was just a weird piece of bad luck. Nice car, nice suit, all that?"
"Didn't sound much like a robbery to me. And they didn't take anything."
"Yeah, but that Louie guy got in the way."
Hardcastle shook his head. "You don't shoot a guy in the street in broad daylight and then stand around and rob him. That'd be just plain stupid."
"Okay, so they were trying to kill him, or maybe just scare him off. Or they were trying to shoot that other guy, John Doe. That's a possibility." Mark frowned pensively. "We gotta find him. Louie, too."
"Yeah, well, the cops are trying to locate 'em, but Phil says he thinks they'll both make themselves pretty scarce. Doe because that's what guys like him do when the stress gets cranked up—they skedaddle again—and Louie because he's paranoid, scared of the police. He's got some heavy-duty 'post traumatic' stuff going on, the doc says. We used to call it battle fatigue."
"It's gotta be eighteen years."
Hardcastle shrugged. "Like yesterday for some of these guys. Never goes away."
"Well," Mark still looked vaguely dubious, "maybe we'll have better luck. You already put a word in to the staff at the mission?"
"Yeah, I had Westerfield do that. If they see either one of 'em, day or night, they'll call it to here."
McCormick cast a glance toward the hallway. "How is he?"
"Asleep, I hope. Upstairs. I told him I'd wake him for dinner. Which is right about now." He gave the pot one last stir and turned off the heat. "Table's set and everything."
Mark nodded once and stood, hefting the bag again. "I'll see if he's up for it."
00000
The upstairs hallway light was on and cast enough through the open doorway of the guest room to make out the general outline of things. Even before he spoke he saw movement. Westerfield was half-upright and reaching for the lamp on the nightstand.
"You're awake, huh?" Mark stepped in. "Lemme get it."
The man squinted in the sudden puddle of light and propped himself up a little more.
"Picked up your pills," McCormick reached into his jacket pocket for the small white bag, "and here's your stuff." He set the bag down and put the keys on the nightstand. "You got some sleep? Dinner's ready." He was fully prepared to make small talk until the man had his bearings.
"Ah . . . yeah. Must've." The squint had given way to a couple of blinks and a weary smile. Westerfield looked down at the bag next to the bed. "Find everything?" There was something in his tone that suggested more than the words said.
McCormick dropped his own gaze, felt his face flush and briefly considered, and then rejected, the notion of lying. "I found what I was supposed to find—and nothing else." He took another breath. "But you knew I had to look, right? We had to know what you're up against here."
"You could've asked."
"Not really." Mark frowned. "Not in front of Mawson, maybe not even in front of Harper. Not without getting you in a whole lot more trouble if the answer was 'yes'. And time was kind of critical."
"So, you really thought maybe I'd hung onto some of Henry's research—you thought I'd do that?"
Mark shrugged. "Yeah, well, nobody's perfect. Might've been curiosity, or honest concern. And I wouldn't have blamed you—how could I? The judge and I did the same thing once."
"But I didn't . . . really. Though I won't deny that I gave it some thought," Westerfield added quietly. "I suppose I finally decided it was too damn dangerous. No safer in my hands than anyone else's. But if that's what this is all about, then why the hell would someone take a shot at me? They'd want what I don't have, or maybe to pick my brain a little, not kill me."
"You're probably right," Mark stood there with his hands in his pockets, giving it a little thought. Then he finally cocked his head, looking down at the other man intently. "But if you're so sure, then why'd you have them call Frank right away?"
"Ah." Westerfield frowned, "good question. Maybe it did pass through my mind, not that they were after me, but that the guy I was looking for was their target. He's still probably a straight-up disassociate fugue." The psychiatrist paused and looked bemused. "Hah, listen to me, that's a condition that's as rare as hen's teeth and I'm now pegging it as the garden-variety explanation."
He sighed; he looked around as if he was searching for a rational way to classify the day's events. He finally gave Mark a straight-on, intense stare. "Look, maybe John Doe isn't a fugue. Maybe he's a case of severe exposure to Dr. Henry's drug—or one similar to it. That's what you two are worried about, isn't it?"
"Exactly." Mark tried to control his exasperation. "And why the hell didn't you give Frank—or us—a heads-up before you went over there to tackle it yourself?"
"Well," Westerfield managed a one-shouldered shrug, "that's not what I was thinking before I got shot. I've been seeing fugue patients for years. It's a special interest of mine since . . . well, for a long time. Why do you think Neely sicced me on Hardcastle three years ago?"
"Yeah, okay, I suppose I should be glad you called when you did." McCormick frowned and then shook his head. "And dinner is ready." He offered him a hand up. "Chili. It's one of the judge's specialties. We have an extensive repertoire of one-handed meals available here at the Gulls Way Bed and Breakfast." Mark forced his expression into an unconcerned smile.
Everything else could wait until later.
00000
There wasn't much talk at dinner, and Hardcastle thought both Mark and the company were off their feed. Chili might have been a poor choice for a meal eaten so late in the evening—it was past nine already—but he knew from past experience that shoulder wounds weren't compatible with steak.
"You should try to get something down," he encouraged. "You've got pills to take."
"Oh, the antibiotic is just a precaution. Hal being nervous." Westerfield picked the spoon up, and put it down, looking a bit frayed. "And the pain pills are optional."
"They won't be tomorrow." Mark said it quietly, but with an air of experience that spoke for itself.
"He's got a point there, Doc," the judge nodded. "It's always a little worse the next day. Then it gets better."
"Uh-huh," the other man muttered, as he took another spoonful and then, around that, "but it's very good chili."
Then the conversation seemed to peter out again, after few more nods and murmurs from the others. It occurred to Hardcastle that he might be exerting a dampening effect on things, that Mark and Westerfield had connected some time ago on a wavelength that he really wasn't privy to.
He'd always just stood back from that because it seemed to help McCormick to have someone to use as a sounding board. It might even have been the roots of the thing. He knew the doc had been there for Mark three years ago, at a time when he himself had definitely not been.
And now if Westerfield was in some sort of trouble, it might make more sense for him to ask McCormick for help. He was his lawyer, at least in a potential sense, and he might easily be perceived as the more flexible confessor, as well.
But he got the sense that Mark hadn't made any progress, either.
"Tomorrow," the judge said abruptly. Both the other men looked up, both looked startled. Hardcastle took a breath, tried out a small smile, tried to set everything down a notch or two. "We'll figure out what's up with your car."
That worked. Westerfield managed a nod.
"And then, maybe, if you're up to it, you and McCormick can swing by the mission, touch base there, see if anyone's seen John Doe or Louie. Assuming Frank hasn't come up with anything."
"Okay," the doc nodded again, "that's a plan. I'll let them know at St. Mary's, too. Louie shows up there a lot, usually toward the end of the month . . . I need to make sure he's all right. If nothing else, I should thank him."
He was frowning down thoughtfully at his food again. After a moment of this, he lifted his head. "And then Mark can run me home after that." This was stated with a tone of matter-of-fact optimism.
Hardcastle tried to look placating. "Now, Doc—it really does get worse before it gets better."
Westerfield shrugged casually, though still only using one shoulder. "It's not all that bad right now. And it's no reflection on the chili," he added with a smile, "but I really ought to—"
"At least give us a chance to figure out who that guy was shooting at," Mark interrupted, leaning forward slightly.
"The more I think about it, the more convinced I am it was just random bad luck. You can't hog it all, Mark." Westerfield was keeping his expression light and unconcerned.
"Maybe it was just random, but if it was, then the guy who shot you may think you got a closer look at him than you did, and it wouldn't be hard for him to figure out who his random victim was and maybe come back to take you out as a witness."
It had come out a little pressured, but very earnest. Hardcastle sat back and let the younger man marshal his arguments, glad, for once, not to be at the receiving end of them.
"And if it wasn't random," Mark continued on, "then we still need to figure out if he was gunning for you, or John Doe, and why. We've got to find this guy, Doe—"
"Might be tough."
Mark nodded in ready agreement. "But at the least he may have gotten a better look at the shooter, or he might be who the shooter was aiming for—he may still be a target. How hard are the cops going to look?"
"I already said it was a plan. I'm in," Westerfield said mildly. "And I do appreciate all the help," he gave the surroundings a brief sweep of his eyes and then gave a quick nod to the two men. "I'll admit the whole thing's been a bit disconcerting. I probably was a little more off my game than I realized earlier this evening." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "But I'm better now, and once I've had a good night's sleep I'll be—"
"A sitting duck," Mark waved the rest of Westerfield's argument away with one hand. "A one-armed sitting duck. The easiest kind."
He glowered. Hardcastle thought he had that down pretty good and the doc looked like a man who wasn't used to being glowered at.
"The weekend," Hardcastle suggested quietly. Once again he had both men's attention. "That's all. Just the two days. That's not unreasonable, is it?" He slipped into the 'good cop' role without a moment of hesitation. Mark held onto his glower enthusiastically.
The judge could see Westerfield wavering on the brink, undoubtedly feeling outflanked and outnumbered, maybe even a little convinced.
"It's not long. Two days," Mark broke down and added a little coaxing of his own. "Let's just see how much we turn up by then and which direction it's pointing. Then Monday morning you can make a more informed decision."
"Sunday night," their guest said, just slightly sulky.
"Deal," Mark grinned.
00000
By the time Mark finished the dishes, and adjourned to the den, the judge was sitting alone. McCormick's raised eyebrow of inquiry got a single finger pointing upward in reply. He stepped into the room and pulled the doors shut quietly behind him.
He dropped into a chair. "I wasn't too hard on him, was I?"
Hardcastle eased back in his own seat, behind his desk. He looked like he was giving it some thought. He finally shook his head.
"Nah. It all sounded pretty reasonable to me. He's a reasonable guy, the doc. So he listened." Then he furrowed his brow, just for a moment. "Doesn't mean he has to like it, though. And I don't think it'll be as easy on Sunday night, if you don't have more answers by then."
Mark nodded, then cocked his head at something he'd thought of while he'd been doing the dishes.
"What you were saying, over dinner—about him and me going to have a look tomorrow for Louie and Doe . . . You aren't coming along?"
"Nah, three would definitely be a crowd on this expedition. Both these guys sound like they'll spook pretty easy. And besides, I think even if Westerfield tries to give you the slip, you ought to be able to outrun him."
McCormick made a face. "So where are you going to be?"
"Got a few things to do," Hardcastle said cryptically.
"Dr. Henry?"
"Nah, already called him this evening, while you were doing the black bag job on Westerfield's place."
"Hey, I had the key," Mark drew back indignantly but kept his voice low. "There's gotta be some kind of implied consent there."
Hardcastle harrumphed, equally quietly, but took the argument no further.
"Henry's fine." He scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Not a whisper at his end. No mysterious characters hanging around, nothing out of place at home. They moved to Arizona, you know, him and his daughter."
Mark knew. He'd gotten a Christmas card from the grateful Rebecca Henry the past three years running. He was equally aware that there had been no comparable greetings for the judge.
"He handed everything over to the authorities as well," Hardcastle added. Then, after a pause, he went on a little slower, "You know he says he's never really gotten it all back, his memories, I mean."
"He got a lot stiffer dose than you—"
"Oh," the judge waved the reassurance away, "I'm okay." Then he stopped and frowned very briefly before adding, "I suppose . . . as much as you can ever be sure you haven't changed. I mean, if I had, would I remember it was different?"
"I would." Mark smiled. "And you haven't."
Hardcastle gave him a considering look. "Well, I'll have to trust you on that one. But, anyway, Henry's fine. No one's bothered him."
"So, you've already warned him, what else are you going to check into?" He waited a moment for the response and, when it wasn't all that forthcoming he added, abruptly, "Not that damn 'People's Freedom Army,' no way. Besides," he frowned worriedly, "they're all still in prison, right?"
"Already checked into that, too," the judge nodded. "No loose ends there that anybody knows about. I'll leave that bit to Frank's guys. They've got a whole task force for keeping track of the fringe wackos."
"Then what?" Mark said, sounding a little aggravated. "It's something I won't approve of, huh?"
Hardcastle shook his head. "Nah, nothing dangerous, or illegal . . . not that you always disapprove of the illegal stuff," he added in a mutter. "First off, I'll make sure Phil's car been processed—they're going to need those slugs to make a case once we find this guy—"
"Okay, that's a couple of phone calls and twenty minutes," Mark said suspiciously.
"Look, kiddo, you have to have a little more faith. I'm just going to talk to a few people, see what else I can turn up. I can't tell you exactly who or what because I haven't done it yet. Heck, I'll even call Westerfield's insurance guy for him. See? Practical stuff like that."
Mark looked at him, still a little suspicious, but finally let out a sigh of resignation.
"Okay. I just don't want to come home and find you've gone haring off, not even a note on the kitchen table."
"I promise," Hardcastle grinned, "I'll leave a note."
