Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.
Rated: K
Author's Note: In the two-part episode, 'The Homecoming', which came near the end of season one, Hardcastle returns to his hometown to receive an award. In the midst of all the nostalgia, the death of a childhood friend occurs. It becomes increasingly apparent that it was no accident. Something ugly is happening in Clarence, Arkansas.
Mark and the judge investigate, and the good old boys he grew up with try to murder Hardcastle as well. For one long night Mark believes they've succeeded.
But it takes more than a car plummeting into a deep reservoir to finish off the Lone Ranger. Hardcastle shows up at Mark's hideout the next morning. They escape their pursuers and put together the evidence that the town's leaders committed murder in order to profit from a new interstate.
The fanfic story 'The Homecoming—Part III' dealt with the trip home, and the events which followed, from Hardcastle's POV. Cann requested equal time for Mark, with a helping of Claudia Harper and Mattie Groves on the side, if possible. So here it is:
(And thanks for the beta, Owl.)
The Homecoming, Part III-B
By L. M. Lewis
By the time they'd reached New Mexico things had gotten a little surreal. Thirteen hours of driving, more or less non-stop from Clarence, it was no wonder the judge had finally insisted on taking a turn, and was hinting at how they ought to consider stopping for the night. The truth was, Mark had lost track of the time, but he knew that pulling over now would hash things irrevocably.
He was reluctant to relinquish the wheel, but he thought he'd better cooperate. The next bit was a midnight drive through the desert—even Hardcastle would be inclined to have some lead in his foot. He thought he'd curl up in the passenger seat and catch a nap between Albuquerque and dawn.
But he didn't. Every dip into dozing turned abruptly into a plunge—the cold waters of the reservoir that had almost claimed Hardcastle's life. He awoke with a start each time—he hoped it wasn't apparent. It had been two days now. They'd handled the details of giving their statements the day before. This morning things had seemed more normal. They'd even joked about the joys of small-town living, though the judge had seemed less than taken by Mark's humorous asides.
And somewhere in the middle of that, while Hardcastle had been off giving one last bit of information to one last state official, McCormick had suddenly remembered something. He'd ducked off, searching for a phone—out of earshot of the judge, of course—and called Frank.
"Something came up," he said, thinking he sounded pretty together. "We might be late."
Maybe not so together—Frank's 'What?' sounded more like, 'Oh, no, what now?'
He'd kept it fairly succinct and pretty vague; Hardcastle might return at any moment. He'd concluded with, "But if we get on the road before noon we can still make it back in time."
"You're still gonna go through with it? Drive practically cross-country and then throw a shindig?"
He couldn't explain that part, not without explaining all the rest of it—how the judge's welcome home celebration had turned into a manhunt, with some of his most trusted childhood friends turning on him like a pack of wolves. All of it for profit, sheer mercenary greed, and that after the man had spent so much time touting the small town virtues of Clarence. His town, his people.
Best not to have to explain anything to anybody. But for it to pass unnoticed, they'd have to be home on time, and no last-minute cancellations of anything. To cancel things now would mean questions.
So he'd driven. He'd used every trick in the book, up to and including his perpetually faulty watch, figuring if he could just get them past Needles, the notion of being back in California would douse the logic of stopping at a motel.
It would be better, though, if he could just close his eyes and get some sleep, without having to dive again into that damn reservoir.
00000
He finally gave up near Kingman. The nearly full moon was low on the horizon in front of them, and behind, the sky was beginning to lighten. Hardcastle was minding the limit in a completely irrational way considering the road conditions and the non-existent traffic.
"I like to think that the double-nickel thing is more of a suggestion in some situations," McCormick sighed.
"You would," the judge replied dryly.
"Well," Mark stifled a yawn, "I can take over again. It's all downhill from here." He hoped the smile didn't look over-eager. This was the critical juncture—another seventy-five miles and they'd be fail-safe for Los Angeles.
The judge had taken his eyes off the road for a dangerously long interval, studying him. "You get any sleep?"
Mark nodded. Nodding was always slightly less untruthful than lying out loud.
"How 'bout some breakfast?" the judge suggested.
It seemed likely that this was intended as much for getting unkinked as for eating. Fatigue had mostly taken the place of hunger for McCormick, but he figured a couple cups of coffee—aside from the inevitable necessity of a pit stop—would be a good idea.
He nodded again, just in time for Hardcastle to ease over onto the next exit ramp. He didn't spend much time searching for a place, much to McCormick's relief. Once they were inside the roadside diner, and seated, the hard study was back.
"You sure you're up to another stint behind the wheel? the judge asked.
"Sure I'm sure," Mark shrugged. "No sense checking into a motel now. The sun's almost up. Won't be able to sleep even if we do. And we're only about five hours from home."
"Six," Hardcastle said firmly.
"Not if I'm driving," Mark replied, with a little more of his old insouciance.
It must've passed muster. The judge went back to studying his menu, instead of him, and the ham and eggs and toast were ordered and eaten, with two refills on the coffee.
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But even with Mark's fairly casual disregard for posted limits—even more casual during the stretch across the Mojave while the judge slept—it was after noon by the time they'd squeezed through Los Angeles proper and made it to their stretch of the coast. McCormick was starting to twitch, though he hoped it was all internal. The next part depended entirely on maintaining a calm, slightly bored demeanor.
He sauntered toward the main house. "Think I'll make some lunch—you hungry?" He let himself in, and went back to the kitchen, not waiting for an answer. He rustled what was left of a loaf of rye bread out of the freezer, dug around in the cold-cut compartment until he found something that wasn't green, and produced two sandwiches.
He summoned Hardcastle into the kitchen in his most desultory and matter-of-fact tone. The meal was hardly inspired, and the judge seemed to be going through the motions. Mark tried to look like he was focused on his sandwich, and he hoped he didn't flinch when Hardcastle mentioned a message from Frank.
They got through that bit, and it didn't take much more nodding and encouragement to get the judge headed upstairs. Mark was particularly proud of the fact that he'd gotten through the whole conversation—terse though it was—without once saying what he'd be doing that afternoon. It was a small point, but he intended to present it as part of the defense later on.
He got up, and started to clear the table, only for as long as it took to hear the familiar tread make it to the top of the stairs. Then he lunged for the phone, and the emergency number list in the odds and ends drawer. He didn't think culinary emergencies were the reason Frank's home phone was down there, but that's what he had on his hands right now.
Claudia Harper answered on the second ring.
"Corned beef and cabbage," he said, calmly he hoped, "how does it work?"
It must be the fact that she was married to a cop. Nothing ever fazed Claudia. She apparently didn't even need to consult a recipe book.
"You've never made it before?"
He hadn't. Mostly his cooking skills ran to putting things on a grill, or under a broiler. There were a couple of items that involved frying pans, none whatsoever that involved three and a half hours of cooking time. When she mentioned that, he looked up at the clock nervously, and then finished jotting down the rest of the instructions.
"Oh, jeez, I gotta run. I'll see you at seven."
After the hasty good-bye came an inventory of the refrigerator. He supposed carrots that could be bent in half didn't count, and he was pretty sure the potatoes should have eyes, not legs. Best to start from scratch, he decided, and he needed the brisket anyway. He grabbed his jacket again and headed out the back door, hoping Hardcastle had finally hit the hay.
00000
It was sunset. The corned beef had done the proper amount of simmering and the vegetables had been duly chopped and added. There was a cozy, slightly steamy warmth to the kitchen and Mark thought he might have dozed off once or twice, standing on his feet near the stove.
It must have been one of those moments when he heard the judge say, "What's that?"
It startled him wide awake. He looked at Hardcastle, tried to cover his nervousness, and said, "Corned beef and cabbage."
He looked at the pot, and then up at the clock again. He was talking, and Hardcastle was answering—very ordinary banter. Still, for McCormick, like every other conversation they'd had, it was overshadowed by the events of the past few days—that, and now a sense of foreboding. He was waiting for the doorbell to ring.
And it did. Hardcastle didn't seem annoyed. McCormick supposed that would soon change. The judge trudged off to answer the door, leaving Mark to ponder what the fallout of this evening's little escapade would be.
He didn't hear any bellows of indisposition from the front hallway, nothing at all, really. Then Claudia came breezing into the kitchen.
"How's it coming?" She shifted a full shopping bag onto the table and moved in to inspect the main course. "Smells great."
"Even I can boil something, I guess." Mark looked at the pot dubiously.
"Oh, give yourself more credit than that," she nudged him gently. "You had to make all those little cuts, and shove the garlic and cloves in."
Mark stared at her, then down into the pot, then back up at her with what he supposed was a very blank look.
"I didn't tell you about that?" Claudia frowned pensively. "I was sure I mentioned it." She cocked her head.
"I might'a forgot," Mark mumbled. "Too late, huh?"
"Don't worry, hon." She gave him a quick pat on the arm. "We'll get some Guinness into 'em and they won't even miss the cloves."
"I hear somebody mention this?" It was Lieutenant Giles in the doorway, bag under his arm and smile on his face.
"Put 'er right here." Claudia smiled back just as cheerfully as she moved to unpack her own offerings. Giles set the bag down and turned to give the corned beef an inspection, inhaling deeply.
"Go on back out there," Claudia shooed. "We'll let you know when it's ready."
Giles departed. Mark could hear the sounds of camaraderie now audible from the other rooms.
"We'll need glasses, and a tray." Claudia had finished sorting her Tupperware and Giles' bottles. She finally glanced back over her shoulder at him. "Just point me to 'em." Her momentary smiled drifted into a look of mild concern. "How long have you been up, Mark?"
McCormick felt a little unfocused. His smile was flat as he said, "I dunno, what day is it?"
The slight attempt at humor was lost on her. She tsk'd, shook her head, and pointed to a chair. "Siddown, kiddo. Time to put the second string in. Doesn't Milt ever give you a vacation?"
Mark thought his laugh might have come out a bit brittle. "Just had one," he finally managed to say.
"Well," Claudia said, reaching up in the cupboard for glasses and plates, "that couldn't have been much fun, hanging around with all his old friends from way back."
"Tell me about it," he said dryly.
"And, anyway, Frank said you were still out there yesterday morning." She had the glasses arranged on a tray and was cracking the first set of bottles and starting to pour. "I know you like to drive, but don't tell me you came barreling back here without taking a break."
"We stopped in Kingman." He paused, feeling fuzzier still. "I think it was Kingman."
"Here," Claudia said, handing the first glass to him. "I think you need this."
He thought that maybe wasn't such a good idea, but then Mattie arrived, all hurried greetings before she swooped down on the rest of the newly-filled glasses and carried them off. Left with the orphan, Mark put it out of its misery.
Claudia bustled in and out, setting things up. He finally put the empty glass down and trooped after her, carrying the decanted corned beef. From the dining room he heard someone—it sounded like Detective Hamilton—clearing his throat and announcing a toast. In the politely expectant hush that followed he could make out every word.
"'May you be in heaven a full half-hour before the devil knows you're dead.'"
It froze him where he stood, as though even now, even two days after the fact, it still might have the power of a curse on Hardcastle.
"Come on," Claudia hooked his elbow and dragged him lightly back toward the kitchen. "Couple more things and we'll be all set."
There was a little space in time. It almost seemed as if he'd gone on autopilot, between the beer and the fatigue. Claudia must have set the meal in motion. He was infinitely grateful to her for taking charge of things. She'd given some fairly simple and straightforward tasks—'serve this, pour that.' It kept him decently distracted as he handled the second round of drinks.
He'd almost forgotten he was in trouble. The one time he'd looked up and seen Hardcastle, at least the man hadn't been scowling. Good, he preferred not to get chewed out in front of the judge's friends.
Then Claudia was saying, "I think you've slung enough hash for now, hon. Why don't you grab a plate."
He didn't have to. Mattie already had one for him and was leading him to a chair. He took a brief, slightly guilty look around. Hardcastle was no longer in sight. He sat down with a sigh. Claudia brought him another glass. He balanced things awkwardly until Mattie produced one of the tray tables by some sort of judicial fiat. They crowded both their plates and glasses onto it.
"Nice party," she said. "You should try the corned beef. It's terrific."
"Not enough garlic," Mark said pensively.
"Have another beer; you won't even notice."
Mark grinned. He suspected an element of collusion. He didn't mind. They were the kindest of co-conspirators.
"If I drink this one and then fall asleep facedown in the tatties, you promise to wake me up when it's time to say good-bye to everybody?"
"Nah, we'll dye your hair green. You can be an elf for St. Patrick's Day.
"Not elves," Mark smiled. "Leprechauns. There's a difference. And green's not my color."
Mattie was giving a look that rivaled even one of Hardcastle's. "I wouldn't be so sure. Looks like you've got a tinge of it already. Your face," she added, in explanation. "It doesn't go so well with the blue eyes." She shook her head. "What the heck have you two been up to? You look wrung out and he's wound up tighter than a watch."
Mark had darted his eyes to the side. She leaned a little that way, caught his gaze again and said sternly, "And don't try to deny it; he's got a bruise up on his left temple. Did you two have some kind of accident?"
He looked around nervously, belatedly realizing she'd chosen this spot for seclusion. The party had mostly moved out onto the patio now. He frowned. He'd hoped to keep the whole Clarence incident more or less quiet. He doubted that Hardcastle would be making any announcements and it certainly wasn't his place to be spilling the beans.
"Not an accident," he said, grudgingly. "More like an intentional." It was hard to do grudging with Mattie. She had a way of expecting the truth, and beneath her lighthearted demeanor was some high tensile strength judicial fiber.
Right now it was bent toward him with a look of unusually serious intent. She only spared one quick glance over her shoulder before she leaned in further over the table and said, "What kind of 'intentional' are we talking about here?"
It was probably the second beer, he decided. That would be what he'd tell Hardcastle later on, if this came out. He would not say that he needed to tell someone. That he'd needed to talk to someone.
He talked. Mattie listened. By the time he finished he'd had to put the beer glass down. He'd developed a mild, but annoyingly evident shake, equal parts anger, and the memory of grief.
He brushed it off, putting his hands firmly on his knees and looking somewhere other than at her as he said, "We're okay." He glanced around the room, feigning normality. "It's nice to be home, though."
After a moment he became aware that she was looking at him with concern.
"'Fine'?" she said.
"Yeah," he shrugged. "Just tired, that's all. And . . ." His voice trailed off. She was still studying him with that particularly piercing gaze that made him want to throw himself on the mercy of the court.
He'd stopped talking again, which was probably a good thing, he thought, because it meant he'd stopped lying. She didn't let him off the hook, though, by filling up the silence with vague reassurances.
"Mattie," he finally said, "I was scared." This time she put a hand out, covering the one he had resting on his left knee. "And . . . and I can't tell him that."
She quirked a small smile at him, apparently having the good sense not to disagree. "Well," she said with a sharp nod, "that's what friends are for."
He nodded along, fairly mindlessly, and noticed, as she lifted her hand off his—giving it one final pat—that the shaking had stopped. He thought he owed her, big time, and would gladly fold a full house to her pair of deuces the next time the opportunity presented itself.
"Come on," she said, "we should go outside. It looks like a beautiful night."
He looked toward the kitchen dubiously. "Nah." No reason to explain the rest of his reluctance, he suddenly decided. Enough soul-baring for one day. "I'd better get a jump on the kitchen if I'm gonna get to bed before dawn."
She frowned her disapproval, but it was lightly done, and she seemed to understand that there were other motives for his retreat, without needing to have them explained.
"Okay," she smiled, "but if Milt ever throws you out, you can come clean my pool, kiddo." Her smile became a grin. They were back on familiar ground and he was grateful for that.
She carried her own plate into the kitchen. He sat there for a moment longer and finally hauled himself to his feet, picking up his own almost untouched plate and the nearly-empty second glass of beer. It seemed as though his fatigue had almost redoubled, despite the emotional relief that had come from unburdening himself to Mattie.
He trudged into the kitchen. Only Claudia was there now. It occurred to him that Claudia didn't really attend parties. It was like Hardcastle and criminal justice. She just couldn't stand being a bystander.
"I'll do those," he said, pointing to the dishes she'd already rinsed and stacked by the sink.
She turned to him, giving him a look that was the very mirror of Mattie's concern. Then she said, "This is no trouble—why don't you go on out to the patio, have another beer."
He realized he'd probably given Mattie too much of a head start. She and Claudia had had some time alone. So much for his vow to keep a lid on what had happened in Clarence. He hoped Hardcastle had at least come clean with Frank. It would make the origins of eventual rumor slightly harder to trace.
He sighed. He heard the party cranking up out there—nothing raucous, but it sounded as if everyone was having a good time. He wasn't sure if that included the official host, but he thought he could wait a while to find that out.
"Nah," he said with what he hoped was a casual shrug, "too tired to party."
"Then you're too tired to clean up," Claudia said wisely. "Go." She took him by one arm, turned him and gave him a gentle shove. "Away with you. Put your feet up in the den or something."
He gave her one last look over his shoulder. He could see he was going to get no quarter on this issue. "Okay, I'll be in there." He smiled. "Call me if you need me. Thanks, Claudia."
He wended his way back through the dining room, picking up an oatmeal cookie with a vague notion that he ought to have something in him besides beer. He wandered into the empty den, half closing the doors behind him. There were glasses there, too. His mind lighted on that damned Irish toast again, and he shivered, an echo of how he'd felt, standing in that murky, cold water.
He shoved all that aside. He supposed he ought to pick the glasses and return them to the kitchen, but that idea was rejected, too. He sat down on the sofa, then lay down, too tired to even get up and scrounge a pillow. Tired, yes, but he thought he wouldn't sleep.
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He was wrong. Beer, maybe, or nervous exhaustion. He must've slept because the next thing he heard was voices in the hallway—Frank and Claudia—obviously saying goodbye to Hardcastle. The judge said something in return—it was hard to determine his mood from so few words.
Then the front door. Mark got to his feet stiffly. He stood, feeling a little disconnected, though he wasn't aware of having had any dreams. He went to the desk, and around it, looking out the window. As he might have expected, Frank's car was the last. Everyone else had departed. Now they were pulling away as well.
He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Hardcastle, having stepped in through the half-open door to the den. He was an expert on the man—moods, habitat, motivations—but he couldn't read him now.
"Nice party."
It was the last thing Mark had expected. He mumbled something in return, wishing Claudia or someone had given him a heads-up that things were winding down. Hardcastle was smiling now, acting like the whole thing had been penciled into his schedule for weeks and he'd been looking forward to moving on, from his attempted murder to an evening of playing host.
Mark worked up a smile, but still felt an edge of unease. He had to ask.
"You mean you're not mad about the sur—"
Hardcase cut him off sharply, but with no real malice. McCormick supposed that was part of it, that a certain illusion had to be maintained—that maybe the man had volunteered to have a party, and it had simply slipped his mind. Having people trying to kill you does stuff like that.
He swallowed hard and pushed the thought back down, mumbling, "Better get at the kitchen."
He was easing past the judge, fleeing really, when he felt the man snag him by the elbow. Clearly Hardcastle wasn't angry, though what he was, was utterly baffling. For the second time that evening, Mark felt himself being shoved gently in the direction of getting some rest. There were even words of reassurance.
Somebody'd blown the gaff. He stood there on the porch, wondering which one it had been. Maybe Claudia, working some sort of convoluted chain of command—her to Frank to Hardcastle—or maybe Mattie, invoking the double-secret handshake of the Fraternity of Judges, the same one he was sure Hardcase was using on his fellow jurists, everywhere he went.
He smiled. He heard himself almost babbling along with his sense of relief. He took a few steps out onto the drive, looking up at the sky and the moon, wondering about guardian angels. How lucky could a guy get, to have two of them?