All Things Change But Truth- The Gull's-Way Collective
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, for entertainment purposes only. These are not our characters, and we make no profit from them.
Authors' Notes:
All I can say is, "Wow, what a ride!" This journey started many months ago, and an incredible journey it has been. We've been down a lot of roads, and taken a few corners more quickly than we probably should have, but, heck, we got where we were going. And, I'm giving a big tip of my hat to the Borg-kid in the back seat. Who would've ever known that a few crayons and a scribble sheet could create such a map? Seriously, though, working with LML and Judy has been tons of fun, and I'm eternally grateful to be part of this group.—Cheri
Can three people co-author a novel? Sure they can, as long as two of them are patient, kind, understanding souls who are willing to put up with someone as annoying as me. Cheri and Judy, it's been a blast (and thank you for not pulling over and whacking me when I got too out of control). Over three hundred pages and no one ever sent an e-mail typed all in caps. It's amazing.
Another quick acknowledgement to Fran Striker, the author of The Lone Ranger Creed as well as the man responsible for authoring the Lone Ranger radio scripts (156 of them a year) and novels, and many Green Hornet scripts. He pounded out 60,000 words a week in the Age of the Manual Typewriter. And a tip of the hat to Lynn, who put us onto the Creed way back in May, also to Susan, who faithfully read the chapters and made many suggestions.—L.M. Lewis
Being the least productive of this trio, "Kudos" to my comrades for a job well done! Cheri and LML should get most of the credit and they definitely deserve it, editing and double-checking everything! (Not to mention all those brainstorming sessions-you guys were amazing to try and keep up with!) After the first 150 pages, emails were fun as we all had to make sure we were on the same page LOL! I can't imagine what will happen if we give the kid finger paint instead of crayons during the next ride! If I ever win the lottery, I SWEAR I will rent Gulls Way for a weekend for one heck of a party (that way we can also clear up-ahem-a few misconceptions)!—Judy
Chapter 1
The phone rings and everything changes.
3:45 a.m. McCormick hit the alarm clock, and almost knocked the lamp off the nightstand before his foggy brain connected the sound with the telephone and he scrabbled for the receiver.
"Who's it?" he muttered sleepily.
"Hello? Mark?" It was Frank's voice and Frank did not call at this hour for anything less than a serious emergency. McCormick felt for the switch on the lamp and was sitting up before he even heard the next words. "There's been an accident."
He instinctively glanced out the window in the direction of the main house, though he knew it wasn't the judge; he was home safe. Oh, God, no, not Claudia. "Not—"
"Milt. They say he ran a red light over on Glendale Avenue, hit a truck."
"But, he's—"
"At St. Mary's. He's gonna be okay, Mark. They said he's awake; he's talking."
"What the hell was he doing on Glendale? I left him in the den." McCormick was still two facts back, and trying hard to process that while he reached for the pants and shirt he'd dropped alongside the bed not that many hours earlier that night. "What did he say? Did you talk to him?"
"Not yet, I just got here myself. The guy doing the accident report recognized him and called me. He hadn't woken up yet and they didn't have any ID. Now they've just moved him up to a room. They say I'll be able to see him pretty soon."
"Okay, I'll be there in a bit. Jeez, what the hell was he doing?" McCormick juggled the phone from hand to hand as he pulled on the shirt. "It's a case. You know that Frank; he's gone and started something and he didn't tell me."
"Now, Mark—"
"Well what the hell else could it be with him out driving around in the middle of the night?"
There was an audible sigh from Harper's end of the line as no other likely suggestions were forthcoming. Finally Frank said, "Don't rush. We don't need another accident. Take your time. I'll wait for you in the ER lobby."
00000
For Mark, St. Mary's held nothing but bad associations, though he was eternally grateful that they had saved Hardcastle's life when he'd been shot in the chest a year and a half ago. Now he stood by the steps of the ER entrance and took a few deep breaths of the cool December air.
It can't be as bad as last time. He's awake. He's talking. Mark was already talking himself through the whole thing. Do not get angry with him. That can wait until tomorrow.
But angry he was, for the judge to be out in the middle of the night, riding solo on God knows what, not quite a month after they'd had The Talk, and he'd promised, more or less, not to do this very thing. And angry with himself, too, for not paying more attention to the signs: the file on the patio table that he'd chosen to ignore the other morning, the slightly distracted air about the man the last couple of days. Something must've come up, something that couldn't wait until his exams were over in a couple of days.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took the steps two at a time. So, he didn't want to distract you . . . and now this. But if he was okay, if he was awake, and talking, then McCormick swore to himself he wouldn't even say 'I told you so.'
He saw Frank leaning against the wall, over by the elevators at the other side of the lobby. The room was as empty as it ever got, with only a handful of people who were either sick or had nowhere else to be. Frank gave him a small wave and slouched over to the elevator buttons.
"Sixth floor," he said, as Mark joined him. "Not SICU this time."
Mark stepped onto the elevator behind him and turned to hit the button. "You been up there yet?"
Frank shook his head.
"But he's okay?"
Frank nodded, but there was something a little hedgy about it, and Mark raised an eyebrow worriedly. "The thing is, the doc in the ER was saying he was out for quite a while, and the officer who did the report, well . . ."
"Well, what?" Mark asked impatiently.
"There weren't any skid marks, none. And the guy in the truck said he came right at him; didn't try to stop."
McCormick frowned. The elevator doors dinged, and opened onto the dimly-lit sixth floor. They both stepped off.
Frank stood there, shoulders a little hunched, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "And the x-ray—the CAT scan—was negative."
"That's good; isn't it?" Mark said questioningly.
Frank looked doubtful. "The doc was saying it might have been a stroke; that it might not be the kind that shows up on a scan. And that's what caused the accident, and why he was out for so long, not from hitting his head.
"But he's awake now?" McCormick asked quietly. "He's moving everything?"
Frank nodded again. "That's what they said."
"Then he's okay," Mark said decisively. "He's all right."
Frank flashed his badge at the nurse behind the desk. "Hardcastle, 612-A?" She pointed them down the hall. McCormick fell in behind the other man, grateful for once not to have to explain himself. 612 was halfway down on the right. There was a little light coming from the doorway. Mark held back, took a breath again, and let Frank go first.
The man on the bed looked almost as pale as the bandage on his forehead and his eyes were closed. The nurse standing near the head of the bed, adjusting his IV, turned at their entrance and looked sternly at them. "Visiting hours are—"
"Police," Frank smiled. Mark thought he must not be fond of having to explain himself, either.
The nurse's eyebrows went up. "Well, you can't expect to question him now."
But then her patient opened his eyes, blinked a couple times and said, "Frank?" with a look of mild confusion on his face. "What the hell happened?"
"Accident. You hit a truck." Frank kept it simple. "You're in St. Mary's."
Hardcastle's gaze drifted around the room, taking in his surroundings, passing over McCormick without comment. "A truck, huh?" he looked like he was on the verge of falling back asleep. "Must've been a big one."
Mark had stepped a little further into the room, relief written on his face, and opened his mouth to speak, when the judge's eyes flickered open again, looking briefly at him, and then back at Frank again.
And then he asked, "Where's Nancy?"
00000
The judge hadn't stayed awake long enough for an answer, not even long enough to catch the looks of dismay that his two visitors had exchanged. The nurse noticed, though, and asked quietly, "His wife?"
Frank nodded, and then after a moment's pause, "She's deceased. Thirteen years now."
"Don't worry," the nurse finished smoothing out the sheet. "It's like that sometimes, especially late at night. They seem lucid, but they're really a bit confused."
"Not him," McCormick protested.
"Well, you should let him get a little sleep," she checked the IV against her watch one last time. "He'll probably be all right in the morning."
"Frank, he's not all right," McCormick's voice had risen just slightly in register and volume; the nurse pursed her lips.
"I think we need to step outside for a minute, Mark," Harper had him by the elbow and was steering him toward the door, while the younger man was still looking over his shoulder at the patient. "Now," he added a little more forcefully. McCormick finally gave way, and let himself be pushed out into the hallway. Once there, though, he turned on Frank.
"He's confused. Something's wrong."
"Yes, he has a head injury and, God forbid, maybe even a little stroke. I dunno." Frank kept one hand firmly on McCormick's arm. "But there's not a damn thing you can do about it right now except get yourself thrown out of this hospital. So settle down."
"But—"
"No. She's right about one thing. Nobody is at their best at four-thirty in the morning when they haven't gotten much rest. Now we're both going to go home, and let the nice nurse take care of him for a while. Then we'll come back in a few hours, see how he's doing, and talk to his doctor."
Mark stood there, no longer needing to be physically retrained, but still looking entirely unhappy, staring back at the doorway of room 612. "Okay," he finally said, resignedly, "but Frank . . . what are you going to do the next time he asks for Nancy?"
00000
He'd driven home in the early morning darkness; it wouldn't be dawn yet for another two hours. The estate was dark as well, without even the porch light left on. He fished out the key to the front door and fiddled it into the lock, entirely by feel and memory. Three years, maybe a thousand times. He stepped into the familiar hallway and flicked on the light.
Then the light in the den. He stood at the top of the two steps leading down into that room. Everything looked normal, exactly as it had eight hours earlier, when he'd said goodnight to the judge and headed over to the gatehouse. Hardcastle had been sitting at his desk, going through some papers. What papers? Such an ordinary thing. He hadn't even bothered to look. The desk was bare now.
Now he stepped down into the room and, without any self-consciousness, slid into the chair behind it. He began to go through the middle left-hand side drawer, a slow, methodical search that revealed nothing but recent bills and papers. It might have been any of these. But if it had been, it wasn't what he was looking for. He closed the drawer and sat back. This is nonsense. You'll show up there this morning; he'll be grousing about the food and saying he wants to check out. He was half-asleep.
Something is wrong.
He took two paperclips from the top left hand drawer and gently probed the lock on the bottom right. It was less than a minute before he heard the snick and it released. There were a dozen files in there. He ignored the one with his name on it. The others he examined briefly. None appeared to be very active. Then he found one thin manila folder, not alphabetically filed since it had no heading. It contained two sheets of paper from a legal pad, some quickly jotted notations, and a map of Greater LA, nothing else.
He took a closer look at the other sheet: some numbers, hastily scribbled, with no particular apparent meaning, the name 'Henry', just that, no last name. Down near the bottom was Glendale, and then 'S 1712'. It was all written in Hardcastle's none-too-legible scrawl, with the look of notes jotted down quickly while on the phone.
Glendale. A meeting no doubt, and that's where he'd been tonight. For now he put the papers back, hoping fervently that the judge would be able to explain it all to him in the morning. He closed the file and put it back where he'd found it, closing the drawer and even, hoping that this final touch would be necessary, unpicking the lock.
00000
He was back at the hospital by seven o'clock, nowhere close to visiting hours but at least past dawn. He used the ER lobby elevator again and, as he'd hoped, having seen him earlier in the presence of Authority, no one tried to stop him when he got off on the sixth floor. When he got to the hallway outside 612 he heard voices—the same nurse from earlier, he thought, and Hardcastle's familiar grumble. He smiled in relief again. Complaining about the food.
He peered around the edge of the doorway. The nurse looked up from the bedside and managed a small smile as she blurted out, "Oh, look Mr. Hardcastle, it's your son."
Mark started to correct her but hadn't even gotten the first word out when the judge's eyes had tracked over to him. The brief , happy, expectant look fell away, replaced a moment later by disappointed indifference. McCormick felt his breath catch in his throat.
"I think you have the wrong room," the judge said politely.
The nurse looked briefly puzzled, then a little embarrassed as she hastily finished tucking the blood pressure cuff into the wire bin above the bed. "'Scuse me. I'll be back in a bit." She patted his arm.
McCormick had already taken a step backward into the hallway, out of sight of the judge. The nurse pushed past him, taking him by the arm as she passed and propelling him a little further down the hall.
"I am sorry," she said softly, and she did seem so. "I shouldn't have assumed; but the way you were last night . . . and he was talking about his son this morning, asking about him—"
"His son's dead, too," McCormick replied dully. Now the nurse was frowning. "I'm just . . . a friend." He leaned back against the wall; there was a squeezing pain in the middle of his chest. "He doesn't talk about his son."
The nurse nodded, "How long?"
McCormick put his hand to his forehead, "Um . . . about fourteen years—it was before his wife died. I've only known him, ah, three and a half, no . . . six."
The nurse didn't question this last discrepancy but merely nodded again and said, "I'll tell Dr. Winston. He's the neurosurgeon. He usually makes rounds early." She stood there, hesitating, then finally asked, "Do you want to go back in there?"
McCormick jerked his head back up, "No . . . God, no. I'll just upset him." He shook his head slowly. "Ah . . ." he looked back up the hall, "maybe there's somewhere I can wait, until the doctor gets here?"
She walked him to the sixth floor waiting area, near the nurses' station, and pointed him to a seat. "Wait," he said abruptly, as she started to turn away. She paused, looking back down at him. McCormick hesitated, then spoke in a low, worried voice, "He's okay? I mean . . . otherwise? He's making sense, acting normal?"
She nodded once, and gave him a small, encouraging smile. "Absolutely. He was grousing about hospital food right before you got there. I didn't know there was anything wrong. Honestly."
He sat back in the chair and let out a sigh. "Good. That's good."
Her smile had turned sympathetic, "Do you want me to tell him anything?"
McCormick looked up at her quizzically then, after a moment's thought. "Yeah, tell him Frank's coming. Frank'll be here soon."
"Frank?"
"Yeah," McCormick smiled back, "the police officer, he was here last night, too." Then he added, with a certain levelness, "He's an old friend."
00000
It was almost 8:30 when the elevator doors opened and Frank stepped out. He saw McCormick, sitting slumped in a chair in the far corner of the waiting area, elbow propped on his knee and his chin on the heel of his hand.
"Shoulda figured you'd beat me to it," Frank chided. "What happened, the nurse kick you out already?"
Mark jerked up from his deep stare. The look in his eyes was anxious concern. Frank immediately regretted his glibness. He started again on a more serious tone, "What's up?"
"He was expecting Tommy," McCormick said, simply.
"Oh." Frank spent a moment envisioning that moment. Then he added grimly, "Not good. What time was that?"
McCormick checked his watch and said wearily, "'Bout an hour ago. I've been waiting for the doctor to show up."
Frank looked warily down the hall, then back at McCormick.
"Why don't you go down and see him," the younger man said quietly. Then, when Frank didn't show any signs of immediate motion, he added, "Haven't figured out what to tell him about Nancy, yet, huh?"
Frank gave him a quick glance of confirmation. He'd spent most of the hours since leaving here trying to convince himself that he wouldn't have to deal with the issue. He should have known better than to doubt Mark's gut instincts.
But he couldn't leave Milt alone, either. That would be rank desertion, and if the man was still expecting his wife and son to show up, God, someone had to go in and deal with that. He moved slowly down the hall toward 612, aware that Mark had gotten up and was following behind.
Frank straightened his shoulders and assumed a reassuringly bland smile as he stepped through the doorway. Milt was sitting up in bed, looking down at a barely touched breakfast tray with a look of disgust. At Harper's arrival he looked up and smiled. The smile drifted into puzzlement a second later.
"Frank," he said quizzically, "what the hell happened to your hair?"
Frank was momentarily taken aback. Yes, it was an easier question than he'd been expecting but still . . . He reached up for a second and touched his very bald dome, trying to project back thirteen years or so, and suddenly realized that this was exactly the opening he'd needed—maybe the only way to quickly make a point.
"Milt," he said calmly, "Do you know the date?" Frank could hear Mark step in behind him and take a breath. Hardcastle looked past him, then back at Frank, trying to smile but having it fall a little flat.
"Sure," he answered, but didn't elaborate. Frank kept his eyes fixed on the man in the bed. He let his eyebrows rise a little in question.
Hardcastle's eyes cut away for a second, glanced out the window and then back again. "He's with you, huh?"
Frank looked over his shoulder at Mark, who suddenly let out the breath he'd been holding and seemed awfully pale. "Frank?" McCormick murmured, "Now what?"
"Mark, sit down." Harper pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. "Milt, we gotta talk." He pulled up a chair of his own closer to the bed. Hardcastle looked wary. Frank asked him one more time, firmly, "The date?"
Hardcastle made a little dismissive gesture with one hand. Frank leaned forward, looking at him hard, refusing to be dismissed. Mark said, "Frank—"
"Be quiet, Mark." Harper said. "Milt?"
"It's winter," Hardcastle said with sullen hesitance, and then, "1971," spoken halfway between a statement and a question. "Where's Nancy?" This last part bordered on plaintive. "What the hell's going on, Frank?"
"Frank, please—"
Harper shot another look over his shoulder at Mark, silencing him. Then he turned back to Hardcastle, softening his voice a little. "You sure about that, Milt? 1971?"
The man in the bed no longer looked sure of anything. He said, "You said there was an accident. A truck. Is Nancy all right?"
"Nancy wasn't in the accident."
Hardcastle gave an audible sigh of relief. "Thank God."
"It's Tuesday, Milt, December 16th."
"Okay," Hardcastle huffed. "Yeah. December."
"It's 1986." Frank paused. Milt was staring at him in blank disbelief. "'86, " Harper repeated, with careful emphasis. Still the blank stare.
"No," Hardcastle stated flatly. "It's not."
Frank reached up again and touched the top of his own head. Hardcastle followed the movement. He turned away again for a moment, looking out the window. Then he turned back abruptly, with a stubborn, questioning look in his eye. "Where's Nancy?"
This time a voice from the doorway intervened. "Mr. Hardcastle?" A tall man with salt and pepper hair, in a doctor's coat, stepped in. The name 'Winston' was embroidered over the pocket. Frank step out of the way, moving back to join Mark.
"Neurosurgeon," McCormick whispered to him.
Winston's examination was brief and Hardcastle performed the physical maneuvers unexceptionally. After some simple mathematical questions, Winston asked, abruptly, "Who is the President of the United States, Mr. Hardcastle?"
A second's hesitation later the judge replied, "Nix . . ." paused again, and then, decisively, "Richard Nixon."
The neurosurgeon glanced over his shoulder at the other two men, then nodded to himself, and said, "With regards to the injuries you sustained from the accident, you have, at worst, a concussion. I would advise repeating the CAT scan, with IV contrast this time, just to be certain, but I do not believe that your current symptoms can be explained by blunt trauma."
Frank had seen Milt's brow furrow at the words 'current symptoms' but he seemed to be tracking on the rest of what was being said.
"I've asked one of my colleagues, Dr. Neely, to step around and have a look at you. He's a neurologist. He may have some other suggestions to make. I'll, of course, be available if there are any further developments." And with that, Dr. Winston smiled and made his departure.
Frank felt Mark's hand on his shoulder and heard him say, in a low voice, "We've been traded down to triple A—a neurosurgeon for a neurologist . . . and a psychiatrist to be named at a later date." There was no levity in the remark. Frank recognized it for what it was—a man who was trying desperately to keep a grip on the impossible.
Frank looked back over at Hardcastle, who was still frowning and now said, slowly and with an air of puzzlement, "1986?"
"Frank, that guy is right," Mark went on, almost without a pause. "I've been knocked silly enough times to know. You lose a couple of minutes, maybe an hour. Hell, I even lost a month and a half one time, but it doesn't last this long and it's not fifteen years."
The judge had picked up on this last part and now was staring at the two of them with a look of barely contained anxiety. "Fifteen years? Frank?" And then he took a longer look at McCormick, his eyes narrowing down a bit. "And who's he?"
Mark wiped his hand over his face and shook his head. "God, Frank, you better introduce us."
00000
All in all, Frank thought it went better than he would have expected. Mark had held it together when Milt listened politely to the name and showed not a glimmer of recognition. The judge had extended a polite handshake. Mark had provided his own job description, "I'm a law student. I help out with things." That was suitably vague, Frank thought, but Milt didn't ask for details. "I live in the gatehouse."
Hardcastle's eyebrows had gone up at this last bit of information. He'd turned his gaze back to Frank and asked, "How long?"
But Mark answered instead. "Almost three and a half years."
Hardcastle frowned. "You're my law clerk?"
Mark looked at Frank who let out a sigh and said, "Milt, you're retired. You've been retired for three and a half years. You don't have a clerk."
Hardcastle took this in without comment. Altogether too little comment, Frank thought. Too much to think about at once, he needs . . . time.
And then, after another long moment of silence, Milt said quietly, "Nancy's dead."
It had the sound of cold, implacable reasoning, not memory. Mark was staring fixedly out the window, as if he'd known it was coming, and had wanted to be looking anywhere but at the judge. Frank was left pinned in Hardcastle's unwavering gaze. There was nothing to do but say, "Yes."
"How long?"
"Thirteen years."
The judge nodded. "I . . . knew. She wasn't here," he added simply.
The atmosphere in the room had become stiflingly heavy, with three men who had rarely been a loss for words, all frozen in silence. Again it was Hardcastle who broke the impasse. He gestured Mark toward the door. "Why don't you . . . get me a glass of water," he said it kindly enough, ignoring the pitcher and glass on the nightstand.
Mark tried to smile back. "How long, Judge?"
"Couple minutes . . . maybe five."
With Mark gone a few steps down the hallway, Hardcastle turned back to Frank and asked urgently, "How long have I needed looking after?"
Again Frank had been caught by surprise. He said, "Looking after?" with enough incredulity that even Hardcastle's worry seemed to diminish. "God, no, is that what you think?" Frank's smile was honest. "Though, I gotta say, there've been a couple of times where I thought you both needed a keeper."
"Then what the hell does he do?" Hardcastle looked even more confused.
Frank puzzled over that one for a moment. "Well, some of the yard work, but not so much of that anymore, since he started law school." He looked at Hardcastle, frowning as he searched for the words. "Milt, I don't know how to put this but, you kinda took up criminal justice as a hobby." Hardcastle was giving him another blank look. Frank decided it was a bad time to use the Lone Ranger analogy. He settled for simply, "You went after some of the bad guys."
"And him?"
"Mark watched your back."
There was a knock on the doorframe. Frank looked up, expecting to see Mark himself. Instead it was another doctor, this one younger, with no name on his coat and a vaguely apologetic air about him. "Mr. Hardcastle?" He got a nod from the judge. "I'm Peter Silvestre, Dr. Neely's resident. May I ask you some questions?" Another nod and the young man came in.
This one looked like he was settling in for the long haul, Frank decided, and he gave Milt a final pat on the shoulder and said, "I'll be back in a bit."
He slipped out into the hallway and wandered back down to the waiting area, thinking hard. He found Mark back in the same chair, his head resting back against the wall and his eyes closed. He opened them and looked at Frank wearily as he approached.
"So, what'd he say when you told him he's got an ex-con living in his gate house?"
"I didn't get to that part, yet." Frank admitted sheepishly as he pulled up another chair and sat down.
"Oh, leave the hard stuff to me, huh?"
Frank shrugged. "I told him about Nancy, didn't I?"
"No, he figured that out by himself." Then a pause, Mark was looking down at his feet. "Did he ask about Tom?"
Frank frowned, "No . . . I think he had enough on his plate."
"'Six impossible things before breakfast,'" Mark muttered, and then, "We are definitely down the rabbit hole on this one." He looked up. "What if he stays this way; what if we don't get him back?"
"Mark, we haven't lost him. He's pretty together."
"No, you haven't lost him. You've know him, what? How many years, Frank?"
"Maybe thirty, almost. I was a rookie cop and he was a rookie judge." Frank smiled.
"Okay, you and he have a past. He and I have nothing." Mark dropped his voice a notch and he leaned forward. "He doesn't even remember putting me in prison."
"Either he'll remember," Frank replied quietly, "or you'll start all over again."
Mark shook his head. "You can't step in the same stream twice."
The two men sat there in silence for a while.
The elevator doors opened and a small group of doctors emerged, one older and portly, the other three much younger, the youngest a mere medical student, with a short white coat and an eager, earnest smile. The senior member of the group paused at the nurses' station and studied the board for a moment before ushering his flock down the hallway. Mark had heard one of them address him as 'Dr. Neely' and immediately he sat up and cast a glance to the side.
They didn't move very far down the hall before they apparently encountered their colleague. Then they drifted back a bit, well within earshot of the waiting area. Frank made a move to clear out but Mark had his hand out one the other man's arm, silently holding him in place.
"But—"
Mark shook his head once and said, "No, I have a right, if anybody does."
Frank thought about that a moment and then silently conceded. Milt had some relatives, it was true, but Harper hadn't thought to call any of them last night, when he'd first gotten the news.
They heard a younger voice, serious and straightforward, "This is a sixty-eight year old man, previously in good health, who presents with . . ." now there was a moment's hesitation, as the presenter slipped out of the formula, "Well, he doesn't really have a 'chief complaint'. But it is evident that he is suffering from profound retrograde amnesia, covering a period of greater than ten years. The onset was sometime during the night. It was preceded by blunt trauma to the fronto-parietal area, an MVA. There was a prolonged period of unconsciousness reported by the emergency room staff – upwards of forty-five minutes, but within an hour of arrival they reported a normal Glasgow Coma Scale, and orientation in two spheres. He couldn't tell them the date at all. The initial non-infused CAT scan was negative. CBC, BMP, PT, PTT all normal. Alcohol and tox screens negative."
"And your exam? Stick to the pertinents, Silvestre."
"Awake and alert. He initially stated it was 1986, but on further questioning admitted he believed it to be sometime in late 1971. Otherwise, he has no focal neuro deficits, good preservation of language function and visual-spatial skills. Also social skills, mostly—he got pretty snippy when I asked him to do serial sevens."
"'Snippy'?"
"He threw me out." Silvestre sighed audibly.
"Prevarication? An attempt to cover a deficit? "
"No, more like a guy who's 'tired of answering stupid questions'; at least that's what he said."
Frank looked over at Mark who was smiling and shaking his head.
The older man in the hallway continued his questioning. "Very well, then, what's your differential diagnosis, Silvestre?"
"Post–traumatic retrograde amnesia, because of the MVA, of course, but the presentation is pretty atypical. Then there's stroke, something in the distribution of the posterior cerebral circulation, or Transient Global Amnesia."
"And you're voting for—?"
"TGA. If it resolves in the next twenty-four hours."
"And if not?"
"Then I'd get another CT . . . and a psych consult."
Frank caught Mark's frown.
"Shall we go say 'hello' to Mr. Hardcastle?" Dr. Neely said cheerfully.
"I want to see you get him to do serial sevens," Silvestre replied, sounding equally cheerful, having gotten through his presentation unscathed. The voices were moving off.
Frank patted Mark on the knee. "Twenty-four hours, see?" he smiled.
"'If'," replied Mark. "What about, 'And if not?'"
Frank had no reply. They sat in silence again.
It was Neely who sought them out, a few minutes later. He'd sent his entourage on ahead, telling them he'd catch up with them on the next floor. Then he introduced himself to Harper and said, "Mr. Hardcastle told me you might be waiting out here." He looked questioningly at McCormick.
"I'm someone he doesn't remember," Mark said. "What's TGA?"
The doctor smiled. "So you heard Silvestre's little case presentation, eh?"
McCormick nodded. "So what is it, some kind of stroke?"
"No, not that. No one's sure exactly what causes it, but it's a best-case scenario for your friend in there because, unlike a stroke, it never lasts longer than one day, and it usually doesn't come back. At any rate, and for a number of reasons, I don't think your friend is having a stroke. . . It will be interesting to see if he has any anterograde symptoms," Now Neely was almost talking to himself, only McCormick's worried look brought him back to the discussion at hand. "What I mean to say, is whether or not he'll retain what he's learning as he goes along. Usually with TGA, patients don't during the acute attack. My impression is that Mr. Hardcastle is pretty quick on the up-take and is trying to meet us more than halfway."
"You mean he's going to start faking it once he's got two facts to rub together?" McCormick asked.
Neely smiled at this characterization, "Yes, that is what I saw happening, even the short time I was in there. Which doesn't mean he actually believes everything we're telling him. It's just that—"
"He wants to get the hell out of this hospital and go see for himself," Mark sighed.
Neely nodded, "I'd say that's just about it. But if it is TGA, we should see a very good recovery by tomorrow morning."
"And if it isn't?" McCormick prodded. "And it's not a stroke?"
"Then what's left is something called a fugue state," Neely frowned. "That means 'flight' and it's a psychiatric form of amnesia, which usually is the result of the patient being unable to deal with some psychologically devastating event or situation."
"No way." McCormick shook his head emphatically. "I've never seen anything that man couldn't deal with . . . Frank?"
Frank said nothing.
Neely looked at both men for a moment and then tented his fingers. "Well, time will tell us more. I would suggest you not give him too much ammunition. I'd like to be able to tell if he's really better tomorrow."
Frank nodded. McCormick looked glum. Neely rose and left.
Mark barely waited for the elevator doors to close before he turned to Harper again with a contentious expression. "Frank? You can't really think this is some sort of psychiatric problem, that he's choosing to not remember?"
"Well, no," Frank replied, but it wasn't the sort of wholehearted, no reserve kind of 'no' that McCormick would have expected.
"Okay, then, why the hell now?" McCormick said through nearly gritted teeth. "Sure he was happier then, but . . ." he hesitated. He stared down at his own hands and then up at Frank again, frowning. "I couldn't let him run around being the Lone Ranger by himself. God, Frank you have no idea the trouble he'd get into."
Frank smiled a little. "Oh, I have an idea. I'm not saying you were wrong, Mark. I'm just saying it probably wasn't easy. Change never is. You know that." He patted the younger man's shoulder. "Anyway, no, I don't think he'd ever willingly give up the last few years."
"But if not willingly, and if it's not a stroke, or this TGA thing, then maybe somebody took it from him."
"How?" Frank asked, and then, "That's not possible."
"I dunno, Frank, but if it's not the 'best-case scenario', then at least I think I have a place to start looking."
"Not with him as back-up."
"Of course not."
"And not by yourself," Frank added sharply.
"Who do you think I am, the Lone Ranger?" Mark smiled.
"You're supposed to say, 'No, Frank, I promise I won't.'" Harper shook his head. "If you drop back fifteen years, I'll have a hot-rodding teenager on my hands."
McCormick laughed thinly, but there was a keen edge of worry and fatigue to it. Frank gave him an appraising look. "Okay, you're going home."
"Frank—"
"I mean it. I'll stay here and keep him company. I leave you in there alone with him for half an hour and he'll pump everything out of you. That Dr. Neely won't know if he's coming or going tomorrow morning."
"But it'll all be all right by tomorrow anyway, right Frank?" Mark said, looking down the hallway.
"Yeah," Frank said quietly, "maybe sooner. I'll call you if there's any change."
Mark nodded, and then asked, "Should I say good-bye?"
"No," Frank said firmly, "when you come back tomorrow, you can say hello, instead."
00000
No calls were made that afternoon, but Frank himself showed up that evening. He saw the light on through the den window and went directly to the main house. Mark answered the door, looking no better than he had that morning.
"No change?" he asked and, when Frank shook his head, he added, "Well, we've still got a few hours. Are you going back?"
"No, I don't think so. He was asleep when I left."
McCormick checked his watch. "This early?"
"He seemed tired, or maybe he was just tired of trying to interrogate me." Frank smiled. "Though that's kinda like breathing for him. Anyway," he followed Mark into the den, "I thought maybe the rest would do him some good." He shrugged, "Can't hurt."
He watched Mark plop back into the chair he'd apparently been occupying for a while, law textbooks open around it, a notebook on the padded armrest, a coffee cup perched on the table alongside. He seriously doubted that any real studying had occurred this evening, but it was nice to see the kid was at least going through the motions.
"Exams this week?"
"Ah, Friday, last two—Criminal and Property . . . I think I've got Criminal nailed."
"Yeah," Frank dropped into the chair opposite, "nothing beats personal experience," he quipped lightly. Mark made a face, but didn't seem to have the energy to retort. Frank felt a little guilty. "You want me to pick you up tomorrow?"
McCormick thought about it for a moment and the replied, "Yeah, that'd be good. What time?"
So damn ordinary, Frank thought. It's not just Milt; the kid's whole life just got yanked out from under him, and here we are, making an appointment like there really is a tomorrow.
"Nine o'clock?" he asked. Another face. "Okay, eight-thirty. No earlier. You ought to get some sleep, too."
McCormick nodded, looking around blearily. "You know," he started hesitantly, "Monday night I was sitting here, studying. He was over there," he gestured vaguely in the direction of the desk, "looking at some damn papers. I don't know what they were. We hardly talked. I think I asked him one question."
"You were preoccupied."
"We might as well've been strangers."
00000
Eight-thirty, he stood on the porch, trying his best not to think, 'And if not?' Naming calls. Frank pulled up, not even a minute late.
Mark opened the door and climbed in, leaning back and closing his eyes. "No phone calls, huh?"
"No."
"None here, either. He would've called, wouldn't he," Mark said grimly, a statement, not a question.
"Maybe he's not awake yet."
"He shoots hoops at 6:30 every morning," he faltered, "at least he has since I've known him."
00000
The sixth floor was mostly quiet, and Frank had become a familiar face to the desk clerk, who waved him through without comment. McCormick was drifting behind a little as they headed down the hallway. The older man stopped, forcing him to catch up.
"Come on," Frank said, "in." He coaxed him to the doorway but went into the dimly lit room first.
On first glance it might have looked like Hardcastle was still asleep, lying on his side facing the doorway. There weren't any lights on in the room and the shade was pulled. But despite all that, the man's eyes were open and, as soon as they'd entered, he said, "Hello, Frank . . . Mark."
The greeting had been so matter-of-fact that it might have been wholly unremarkable, except for the slight hesitation and the entirely unexpected use of McCormick's given name. Mark gritted his teeth into a smile and replied, "Hello, Judge," just to keep up his end of the charade, but he felt that same squeezing pain in the center of his chest that had been there the morning before.
"How are you?" Frank asked, with more than the usual casual interest.
"Oh, fine," Hardcastle replied. "I think I should be able to go home today."
"Maybe," Frank replied, very evenly. "We'll see what the doctor says."
As if to prove the adage, they heard Neely and his entourage in the hallway. "Good morning, Mr. Hardcastle," the doctor lead his troops into the room. Frank and Mark moved over to the window side to make space. "And how are you doing this morning?"
"Much better," the judge smiled. "Much better."
"And the date today is?"
"December 17th, Wednesday."
"The year?"
"1986."
"And the president is?"
Hardcastle frowned, "This is getting a little annoying, Doc."
"Humor me."
"Reagan," he answered calmly.
Neely looked at Silvestre with a small satisfied smile, "TGA." To the judge he said, "Excellent."
McCormick rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, head down, his elbow cradled in his other hand. "Doc . . . ask him who the vice-president is."
Hardcastle shot him a hostile glance. The room had suddenly gotten a lot quieter.
Neely's eyebrows had gone up a notch.
The judge was looking toward the window again. Under his breath they heard a softly muttered, "Dammit." And then, a little louder, with barely controlled anger, "Frank, get him out of here."
In the hallway, Frank turned to Mark and said, low and intense, "Do you think that was such a good idea?"
"I dunno," McCormick slumped back against the wall and shook his head. Then he looked at Frank with bewildered concern. "Were you gonna let him lie his way out of there? God, he isn't any better than he was yesterday. And he doesn't have what they think he has. I don't think he has any of the things they think he might have." He looked back down the hallway toward the doorway of room 612. Neely and his crew were still inside.
"Frank," he went on, "maybe somebody did do this to him. He doesn't know what he was doing that night." McCormick fidgeted, "He doesn't even know he needs someone to watch his back."
"Well," Frank said blandly, "I'm not sure getting him royally pissed off at you was a good first step at rebuilding a relationship."
McCormick grinned worriedly, "Aw, hell, Frank, who says you can't step in the same stream twice?"
Dr. Neely and the others emerged from the room. McCormick straightened up as they approached. Neely gave him an appraising look and said, "Well, that was interesting."
McCormick shrugged. "Not that TGA thing, huh?"
"I'm afraid not, unless it is a unique variant, a reportable case." Neely looked as though the chance of that was disappointingly slim. "On the other hand, yesterday's repeat CAT scan was unchanged, still normal. And there has been no other detectable deterioration."
"So, now what, Doc?"
"Mr. Hardcastle is adamant about returning home." Neely looked thoughtful. "His home is the same one he resided in fifteen years ago?" Mark nodded. "Does he have family? Anyone to look after him? At least for the first week or so; after that we may see."
Frank looked at Mark. Mark looked at his feet. After a moment, he lifted his head. "Doc, I dunno if he'll let me, especially after—"
"I already showed him the commitment papers."
Mark blanched. "You wouldn't—"
"'Inability to care for self,' it's a valid criterion for commitment. As your little demonstration showed, that is still a very disoriented man in there, but he understands the alternative. He is willing to have someone stay with him."
"He's lying to you again," Mark said bluntly.
"I know. It doesn't matter, as long as he can't get away with it around you."
"Frank?"
"Your call."
Mark turned back to the doctor. "You think he might get better at home?"
"Possibly. I doubt he'll get worse. I'd like to see him after a few days. And I'd like him to make an appointment with a colleague of mine, Dr. Westerfield."
"Psychiatrist?" Mark asked doubtfully.
Neely nodded.
"Okay." Mark let out a sigh. "If he says he's willing."
00000
An hour later the three of them stood side-by-side on the front steps of St. Mary's, Frank in the middle, Hardcastle looking disgruntled, but relieved to be out.
Frank said, "Just wait here; I'll bring the car around." Then he stepped away. Mark just stood, hands in pockets waiting for—
"Let's get this straight," there was nothing even the slightest bit disoriented about Hardcastle's voice or demeanor. "I don't need anyone to look after me."
Mark kept his mouth shut. He nodded.
The judge's eyes narrowed. "Just so you understand."
There was a long silence. Frank pulled up. Hardcastle gave the car a hard look, then opened the door for himself and slid down inside. Mark got in the back silently. Frank pulled away.
The judge fidgeted a little, as though he'd had a thought that wouldn't let go. As they pulled out into traffic, heading toward the PCH, he turned to Frank and asked, "Where the hell's Tom?"