Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine and I make no profit from them.

Authors Notes: Yet another offering from STAR for Brian 'zine number two--it's the first of the season two epilogues. Recently I spotted what may be the Outlaw Trail trophy in the final episode 'Chip off the Old Milt'. It's an unconfirmed sighting. ;-)

Thanks, as always, to Owl and Cheri, and to all of you who supported STAR for BK.

Epilogophilia, Season Two: Outlaw Champion

Mark takes the judge to meet 'world champion driver' E. J. Corlette—spokesman for a major auto supply distributor—after Hardcastle expresses doubt at McCormick's insistence that he once ran head to head with Corlette in the Outlaw Trail series.

Corlette's in a slump, and in trouble, too. He's been racing up on Mulholland against amateurs and there's been a near-fatal accident. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to E.J., the man who guided him in his rise to the top, Bill Rogers, was using mob money. Rogers and another mobster plan to take the champ out, to cut their losses. The judge and Mark step in, and set up a trap that bags Rogers and his boss.

In the end, Corlette accepts responsibility for his illegal drag racing He tells McCormick that Mark's car was sabotaged by Rogers before a critical race. Mark ought to have won the championship that launched Corlette's career. E.J. hands over the trophy and Mark puts it proudly on the mantle in the den (after which it is nevermore seen again).

Epilogue--by. L. M. Lewis

The pizza arrived and E.J. accepted an invitation to stay. It turned into an impromptu party of sorts, though low-key, with Corlette drifting off into his own thoughts from time to time, and Mark stealing frequent glances at the trophy on the mantle.

Hardcastle departed early, leaving the two younger men to reminisce. He heard them move out to the patio a short while later, and from there came the sounds of talk and occasional laughter drifting up, well into the night.

00000

The judge didn't expect any early rising the next morning. He came downstairs bright and cheerful himself, feeling virtuous, wondering what time the get-together had finally broken up and how much beer had been consumed. He stepped into the den and looked to his right, intending to make a closer inspection of McCormick's long-delayed trophy.

It wasn't there.

He puzzled over that one for a moment, then concluded Mark must've taken it back to the gatehouse. He had a mantle of his own over there.

It was unexpected; Hardcastle figured Mark would have preferred the more public location for at least a little while, but he thought altogether that this was a pretty good sign. The kid was keeping it all in perspective. It was nice of Corlette to come clean about the race, and nicer still of him to hand over the prize, but, really, after six years it didn't make much difference.

Hardcastle scratched his head and shrugged. It'd be okay as long as McCormick didn't sink into a morass of might've beens. After a year at Gulls Way, he thought the guy was finally coming to grips with the idea that his life wasn't a total failure—that there were possibilities besides the things he'd hoped to do before.

He shelved that thought and headed toward the front door to get the newspaper. He was on the front steps when he heard it, the familiar thump of basketball on concrete, slow, irregular, then a slightly longer pause that probably meant a basket.

Hardcastle checked his watch again. He supposed it was possible that Corlette had left so late that McCormick hadn't even figured it was worthwhile to lie down. Newspaper forgotten, he strolled down the drive toward the hoop.

He thought that was a different sweatshirt than the kid had had on the evening before, and McCormick looked reasonably well-rested. He saw him sink a quick and effortless three-pointer, so his reflexes weren't still recovering from an excess of beer.

Hardcastle stood there for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, "'Morning." The younger man pulled a lay-up, and looked back over his shoulder, startled.

"Wondered where the heck you were." McCormick checked his own watch briefly, not that it was particularly reliable—more like a reflex.

"Thought you might be sleeping in." Hardcastle's gesture was vague. "Two late nights in a row with old E.J."

"Oh," Mark frowned lightly, "nah, you can only talk about the good old days for so long. Anyway, he had things to do and people to see today. Getting on with his life and all. The track sounds like a good idea," he added. Then he casually thumped the ball a couple of times. "Wanna go for twenty points?"

Hardcastle gave all that a half a second's thought—the part about E.J.had been mentioned nonchalantly and in passing. His life consisted of nothing more serious than probation. He still had a fancy house, a bundle of money, and a chance to redeem himself in the public eye once his race track plans were announced.

McCormick had the trophy. Corlette still had all the rest that had followed on after it.

The judge realized he had nodded—that was all reflex, too—and McCormick was standing there expecting him to take the ball out. He did, and they traded baskets for a while, without any signs that the younger man was in a funk. They took it down to the wire, and McCormick pulled off one final three-pointer to cinch the game.

"Coffee," Hardcastle said when it was over, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. "You got some in there? None of that brown-water, almond-mocha, alkaline stuff, either."

"Yeah," Mark grinned in magnanimous victory, "I've already been up for an hour." He gestured the judge toward the gatehouse. "And it's boring old Colombian drip."

Hardcastle followed him around to the door, stepped inside, and plopped down on the sofa while Mark fetched the cups. The place was at its usual level of untidiness, nothing spectacular.

Hardcastle's gaze traced over the photo on the wall nearest the door—McCormick in front of a racecar. He'd never studied it all that closely, but it had clearly been taken in the flush of victory. The judge turned his eyes toward the mantle, expecting to see the trophy.

It wasn't there, either.

He frowned. Mark was back with the coffee and handed him a cup. He flashed a grin at the judge's look.

"No, it's the real deal. Trust me. It'll take the rust off a nail."

Hardcastle squelched the frown and took a swig.

"Yup," the judge agreed, "the real deal. You could kill plants with this stuff." He waited until Mark had sat down and taken a swallow from his own mug. Then he asked the question. "So, where'd you put it?"

"Put what?"

"The trophy." Hardcastle frowned again. "You didn't leave it out on the patio, did'ja? Those damn gulls'll—"

"Nah," Mark's grin had gone a little flatter, but it was still at least a smile. "I gave it back to E.J."

"Why?"

"Why not?" Mark asked. "Might not be his, but that doesn't mean it's mine. Lots of things could've happened in that last lap. Who knows? Anyway, it's too late now."

Hardcastle knew he was staring. This much Zen-like acceptance was a little hard to swallow.

"You mean that's it? 'Que sera, sera', and all that? I thought you said he had your life."

"Yeah," Mark said with just a twinge of belligerence, "maybe he does."

"And?"

"And . . . well, maybe better him than me."

"Whaddaya mean?"

Mark exhaled slowly, as though he was gathering his thoughts. Then he shook his head slowly as well. "I dunno. You remember how I said he wasn't all that much better than the rest of us—than me?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"Well, he wasn't any worse, either. No worse than me, at any rate."

The judge had an inkling that McCormick wasn't entirely discussing racing skills.

"If Bill Rogers had come to me, instead of E.J. If he'd thrown all that money in my direction, I sure as hell would've taken it."

"E.J. didn't necessarily know what was going on, though."

"Oh, yeah, that's what people tell themselves. 'Nothing's going on here. I'm just faster than everybody else. I've got the racing luck.' Sure. And last year, when I got that job driving for DenCo—you knew they were crooked practically from that start and I just didn't want to see what was right in front of me." Mark was shaking his head again. "I would have done whatever Rogers wanted, as long as it put me in a fast ride."

"You would've figured it out."

"Yeah, probably," McCormick agreed. "But it wouldn't have made a difference. I would have done it anyway. You didn't know me then. The ride was everything."

He looked away. His expression had gone rueful.

"Anyway," he let out a long heavy breath—it might have been regret, or possibly relief, "he told me about some of the stuff that happened, the stuff he feels responsible for. If those were my might've beens, he's welcome to 'em." Mark sat back a bit, looking reasonably well-content.

"You know what's the really funny thing, though?"

Hardcastle took another swig of coffee and shrugged at what was obviously a rhetorical question.

"See," Mark leaned forward, "that engine, the one Rogers sabotaged, I still owed on it, and the guy I owed, he was kinda hard-nosed about people paying up, so I took a little repossession job, one that wasn't maybe quite as legit as it should've been, and that's what got me those fourteen months in Clarkville." Mark was still smiling, as though he were sharing some sort of cosmic joke. "And then when I got out, well, that's when I met Melinda Marshall, and we all know what happened after that.

"Which means . . . I guess you could say that blowing that engine landed me here."

Hardcastle gave that a considering nod. "So," he finally asked, after he had taken one last long swallow from the mug, "who really won that race?"

Mark sat back again, crossed his legs, and looked up, as though the answer was out there somewhere. Then he brought his gaze back down again slowly.

"Dunno," he said flatly, but with a hint of a smile. "I'm not sure we've finished it yet."