Author: JadeblueAfterglow17

Title: Sanctity of My Home

Disclaimers: I don't own it, not making any money...but neither are they! Please put it on Netflix!
I'm so sad Get TV stopped airing Hardcastle & McCormick. I love it and my teenage kids are addicted to it! So I had to write about it. This is just a short vignette I've had rolling around in my head. I have a longer story I can't finish until I push this out. It's my first H&M. The character Sandy Tyson is based on the episode "There Goes The Neighborhood" where "Mark asked who are we going after next..."

Warning: Potential Character Death

Chapter 1: Georgia Street Motors (revised)
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The ceiling of the dark dank cell had lewd pictures of naked women, certainly not something he would normally tolerate, but he being a cop, a former cop, he had to bide his time and try not to cause too much trouble before he could manage to get himself out of Starkville. His bunkmate, a young junkie, who'd been forced to trade his meth habit for smokes, had politely given up that bottom bunk in deference to his age. In return he promised the kid smokes every time he got his hands on them. It was a deal the young junkie could hardly refuse.

If he was forced to go to San Quentin, he knew that his chances of survival were far less. He wouldn't be bargaining for his bed, but for his life.

The mattress felt damp, and the springs protruded into his back as he lay contemplating the events to come. No matter how sweet the revenge would be, he would be hard pressed to erase the memories of this cell and his torturous time in it from his memory.

Stale.

Moldy.

Musty.
The air inside this hell where he'd sent hundreds of prisoners was putrid with the scent of sweaty men and urine. It was worse than hell. He was face to face with murders, child molesters, thieves and the scourge of the Earth.

He didn't belong here. He brought people to justice. He was the executioner of justice when this system failed. And now because of one son of a bitch whose moral compass had been tainted by one of those bastard criminals, he was stuck here, quite possibly for the rest of his life if he was convicted by a jury. A jury of his peers. It was his people, (compatriots and peers) whom his line of work made it safe for them to sleep in their beds at night. In a matter of days all that had been taken away from him.

In a matter of weeks he would be facing that trial. They had always called him the "diplomat" of the group. If he was going down for this. He would take down his jailers with him.

The buzzer of the jail door triggered a elderly man walked out of his dark abnormally humid cell, and came face to face with another inmate who was waiting for him in the same place they had been meeting for the last ten days. As a guard slipped between the two men he was handed a slip of paper with the layout of a house on it. He didn't bother to unfold it. He trusted the old man knew exactly what he was doing.

"Did you get the message to Schaefer?"

"Yeah...believe it or not, he hates him more than we do ...said he would do it for free, but I told him, there was no use risking him being involved.

"Are you sure that there's no way they can trace it back to us?"

"I don't give a damn if they can. Tyson wanted to get back at that bastard judge, and you know how much he values that punk kid. Apparently enough to turn on his friends; enough to put us in here like common criminals."

"Schaefer said he would get him out there himself. Seems the kid left a bad taste in his mouth, smart mouth and all."

"Soon as it s done, we can wait awhile and ask for a retrial, and get out of this dump...no witness no evidence."

"What about the judge?"

'It's a shame about him...he'll be so consumed with grief he'll take his own life."

The two men smiled. As the buzzer sounded they knew their 15 minutes of freedom was up. Their whole life was riding on a fellow prisoner paroled today. He didn't even want a lot of money; just wanted a ticket to Mexico, and the means to be comfortable for the rest of his life.

It was a good idea. None of them would have to get their hands dirty, and everything would go just as planned.

Sandy Tyson stood outside the prison walls waiting as his ride finally pulled up, in a gold Trans Am. He opened the door, flipped off the guards at the prison gate and the driver sped off as dust and rocks kicked up in their wake. He stared over at his girlfriend. They'd had 6 conjugal visits since he'd been thrown in prison 2 years ago. At the first stop light her hands made her way in his lap and he tussled his hands through her long red hair passionately kissing her. When a horn honked irritatingly behind them, she gunned the motor, and sped down the open highway back to her apartment. Glancing over into the backseat, he saw a sealed suitcase. A combination he would receive in a mere 24 hours along with a final payment. Tyson laid his head back on the head rest. This would be well worth it.

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It had been an unusually cool day for late September. The sea breeze brought a long with it a true hint that fall was just around the corner, and for once they were due for some cool weather. It would be a blessing if it stopped the maniac growth of the grass and foliage of Gull's Way estate. Keeping up with its maintenance, chasing down bad guys, and keeping his third career a secret from the judge had made him feel a lot older than his young 32 years.

After mowing the back 40, cleaning the pool, and changing the oil and fuel injector in both his Coyote and the judge's Corvette, he was exhausted. Mark barely had enough strength to eat half a meatloaf sandwich before begging the Jazzmasters for peace.

Apparently there would be none tonight, as he stumbled off to his tiny house to grab some shut-eye before his 8.a.m. class. He let the warm spray of water run over tense muscles showering quickly. The locks of his curly hair lay like tendrils of chocolate on his neck as warm streams raced in torrents down the sinews of his back. As much as he enjoyed the respite, he knew that his books were calling to him. Mark wrapped a towel around his waist, quickly drying off and toweling off his hair. As he made his way upstairs, he grabbed a pencil from the drawer and tried desperately to write down a few notes at his desk which overlooked the stair case. The barely flickering flames from the fireplace he had started earlier was hypnotic and the words on his paper became a jumble as he tried to concentrate on the fundamentals of civil treaties. The hearth of the fire and the exhaustion allowed him to ignore the music as his eyes began to grow heavy.

He found himself stuck on the same page as concentration escaped him.

"If the saints ever come marching in this place it'll be to confiscate those damnable instruments and ship them off to hell where they belong." Mark mumbled to himself.
By 12 a.m. the Jazzmasters had driven him completely insane.

Giving up on concentrating at his table he tossed the damp towel on the back of his chair, and gathered his beige colored briefs and blue pajama bottoms sliding them over slim hips before falling back on to his bed.

As he lay in his bed a pleasant breeze played across his bare chest, he tried desperately to join his dream of skinny dipping with Vonna Westerlake. The curly haired lightly stubbled man settled a pair of headphone in his ears as the hideous band was wistfully drowned out by his 80's rock music...and it began to lull him to a peaceful sleep. His book on Treaties slowly eased from his hands as it fell heavily onto the floor.

His thin lips parted as his face grew slack, the music of Tears for Fears" dragging him into a deeper sleep. A soft snore escaped his exhausted lips as his face took on the child like features with his long sandy brown eyelashes, high cheek bones and the still damp brown curls lay over his eyebrows. A sheen of moon light from a waning gibbous moon glimmered through the window pane above his bed.

Welcome to your life

There's no turning back

Even while we sleep

We will find you acting on your best behavior

Turn your back on Mother Nature

Everybody wants to rule the world

There's a room where the light won't find you

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down

When they do I'll be right behind you

So glad we've almost made it

So sad they had to fade it

Everybody wants to rule the world

His features softened and he never heard the window on the left side of his bed slide full open, or saw the glint of the blade as it was removed from its sheath with a gloved hand. A sharp punch into his chest jolted his eyes open, as he felt the pain deepen, and suddenly his breath was stolen. Before he could focus his eyes the action was repeated on the other side of his body, with a deep painful twisting motion as he tried to raise his head and hands to defend himself but the struggle to breathe overwhelmed him.

In the moonlight streaming from the window above his bed he could see a figure straddle him and the glint of a long blade covered in blood dripping his precious life onto his bare body. A gurgling sound reached his terrified ears just as the knife came down again in his thigh. The copper metallic taste of blood gurgled from his throat...he couldn't scream...he couldn t catch his breath. A set of cold blue eyes were suddenly in his face, he tried to blink away from the terror...

"It's just a dream...it s just a dream." he begged himself, but the twisted smile kissed his lips and came away stained with his blood. Then his attacker continued the assault stabbing his arms, his chest, cutting through the muscles on his arms. The struggle to breathe became too great and even as she continually slapped his face to keep him awake the lack of oxygen pulled him under. One last stab just below his navel sent blood pouring from his mouth. She grabbed his hair. Tears stole in soft pools from his eyes, a terror he'd never faced was playing out like a nightmare from hell. How he had allowed this person to have this kind of power over him?
She pulled the knife to his face as a sudden calmness came to him.

Would death come quickly or slow. He could see it in her eyes. The fear he tried to hide made her actions more relentless.

She whispered into his ear. "Do you want to die?"

He half expected something insane to come from her lips. The glint of blue in her eyes almost grey in their madness.

But before he could answer he felt the knife puncture his throat in a thin line just below his Adam s apple.

"Do you?"

He knew he was dead either way, he couldn't feel anything but the stinging pain and the immense cold that reeked of extreme shock.
Somewhere a voice he didn't know he had, just a whisper came out in a frothy foam of red. As his voice hitched.

"Not ...like...this."
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Milton C. Hardcastle awoke with a sore set of lips. Something about playing a trombone was ultimately satisfying, but after four straight hours, it was also inheritantly painful. As he smoothed the gray stubble across his beard he was surprised he wasn't awakened by the roar of the Coyote as the kid tore out for his daily class. A quick check at the clock indicated it was already 7:15. A quick shave and shower and he'd head down to see about making his own breakfast.

Comfortable in his blue jogging suit and matching pants he gently shaved his well-aged face. Surprised to find the older man staring at him in the mirror, he glanced down at his chin and was even more surprised to find a few drops of blood dotting his chin. He cleared the bright red drops with a few dabs of tissue.
Staring out the open front door he was greeted by the chirping of birds that made his beautiful gardens their permanent home, a whiff of the fresh sea water wafting in from the Pacific Ocean and the gentle trickling of the fountain as it danced from the mouths of sea lions to thirsty maidens in the center. He'd have to tell McCormick he did a good job repainting and repairing it, it looked just as beautiful as it had when he and Nancy enjoyed their first kiss there under the starlight.

The judge ambled down the brick stairs in his sneakers vying to snatch the likely already used newspaper from his front stoop, and froze where he stood.

The paper fell from his hands like a stone. He wiped his own eyes amazed to see the Coyote still parked in the yard.

Glancing down at his watch it was now 7:35...the kid was late. There would be no way he could make it to the UCLA campus before the class began. He was so proud of the kid. He had accidentally discovered his tuition bill in the mail and when he questioned the kid Mark had confessed that not only was he in school but he was pre-law. One check into the college found that the kid was being modest. He was at the top of his class, with only the time in January when he'd been shot by Dex Falcon forcing him to miss part of his term.

He usually played with his band well past midnight but in deference to his young charge needing his beauty sleep for school, the band ended their time shortly after midnight. The kid had complained about the noise, but eventually gave in at midnight and he assumed had drifted off to sleep after the band had stopped.

"MCCORMICK!" he bellowed in the direction of the gatehouse as he began his angry march toward the house. By the time he'd reached the gatehouse door he'd shouted the young man's name at least ten more times. He hated to barge in on him, you never knew what a bachelor like the kid was up to but this time he was messing with his education. He banged on the front door.

"MCCORMICK! UP and AT EM!" As he reached to open the door his finger touched a dried red substance all over the door. Suddenly his heart sunk. Seeing another print on the door frame he carefully removed his jacket using the sleeve to open the door.

As he entered the eerily quiet gate house the only sound he could hear was the thundering beat of his own heart and the gush of terrified blood racing past his own ears. He eyed the stairwell noticing no movement coming from above. Nearly tripping over Mark's red Nike sneakers he hesitantly began his climb up the staircase.

His voice took on a hint of fear as he called out to his companion one again. "McCormick? Are you up here? You Decent?" A timid voice asked. Almost on autopilot he approached the bed. Its cover pulled all the way up above the pillow. Earphone wires inching their way from the stereo down under the covers.

Disgusted over his worry, he snuck behind the kid and turned the earphones as loud as they could go and waited for McCormick to leap from the bed at the sound. Even he could hear the somewhat muted sound blaring through the headphone under the comforter. That sick feeling permeated his being again. He approached the bed glancing at the sides and noticed a bright red stain covering the sides of the sheet. It was the most recognized color he'd ever seen, a cop's nightmare, a scene he'd seen only a few short months prior when his best friend had been shot and left for dead by the side of the road.
His breath caught in his throat as he pulled down the covers and exposed a face so devoid of color it was almost blue. The curls in his hair were slick with moisture and blood bubbled and ran in thin rivulets from pale blue lips.

"Oh my God...Mark?" Hardcastle slowly pulled down the comforter revealing a white sheet that was stained so red and soaked with blood it clung to McCormick's bare chest. When he pried the sheet from his dear Tonto's neck his heart plummeted to his stomach. His face was frozen in a pain filled visage of terror. Quivering hands reached to find a pulse at his carotid. He could find none. Stilling his shaking hands he slowly tried again, and held his breath afraid to move. He waited...what seemed like an eternity before a few slow thumps were felt beneath his fingers.

Edited and updated 2/13