Author's Note: This story was a long time in coming, from its first tentative beginnings in early April 2007, through the editing/encouragement process in June, to its ultimate, if undeserved, fate as an item for the Star for Brian Auction in November. My most humble and heartfelt thanks go to L. M. Lewis and Owlcroft, whose encouragement, enthusiasm, invaluable editing, and surefire suggestions ensured that this story would finally reach a finished state; a special thanks goes to L. M. for going way beyond the second mile to prep it and make it available to the auction participants. I also want to thank the wonderful, trusting readers who purchased the rights to it, sight unseen; I do so hope that you feel you received your money's worth. Most of all, I would like to thank the committed, awe-inspiring movers and shakers of the Star for Brian campaign, who gave nearly everything they had to make sure that the late Brian Keith received the recognition he so truly deserved. Amy, Cheri, L.M., and Lynn, this one is most gratefully dedicated to you.

SINKING SAND

By Quarterdeck

Chapter 1

The man was cold, sitting there on the front steps of his house, his arms wrapped tightly across his stomach, his face as bleak as the ominous mass of dark clouds overhead that had already swallowed the sun well before its time. A single tiny droplet of water fell directly onto his head, unerringly targeting the unprotected surface of his much-despised bald spot, before sliding lazily into the surrounding white hair. That droplet was followed by another, and another, and yet another, until he was enveloped in a light sprinkling rain that turned the landscape before him into a dull dismal gray, matching both his mood and his complexion. His lightweight pullover began to cling to his body, and the chill dampness set his teeth to chattering.

Yet he remained where he was, staring past the fountain and down the driveway, where the faint glow of headlights on the Pacific Coast Highway could be seen. These were soon echoed by the security lights along the drive that flickered on one by one in the dusk, reflecting wetly against the rain-slicked concrete, highlighting the meandering waves of drizzle that drifted softly in the fitful breeze. Still the man sat on as the dusk turned to darkness, the drizzle turning into a steady downpour, the raindrops puddling in the depressions of the stones that surrounded him. Despite the rain, he had no real desire to go into the house, as the phone call which would have been his only reason for doing so had already come, much earlier than the ones last night and the night before.

He became vaguely aware of a rivulet of rainwater that had made its determined way down his forehead, balancing delicately along the bridge of his nose before coming to a dramatically dripping conclusion at its very tip end, and he knew that he was courting a disaster he could ill afford in remaining outside in this kind of weather. But still he sat, smiling slightly as he played back in his head that conversation of an hour ago...

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"Oh, wow, Judge, you shoulda been here. Did you watch it? Yeah, okay, so Elliot had the pole, and yeah, he led a lot of the race and won the thing. But Bodine had a real chance to do it again, you know? He won it last year on gas mileage, but this year he just couldn't pull it off. You know, I woulda done the same thing, 'cause coming in second just don't count for nothing at the Daytona 500. And boy, did those boys ever go fast! I've never seen anything like it! Gosh, how I wish I could do Daytona. Just one time before I hang up the ol' helmet for good." The wistfulness of those last two sentences could not hide the excitement that was so apparent in the speaker's voice, even as yelled from a Daytona Beach payphone over the noise of enthusiastic cheering mixed in with a lusty chorus of rebel yells – Awesome Bill from Dawsonville had clearly been a popular winner. "Look, Hardcastle, me and E.J. are getting together with some of our old buddies tonight, and we're gonna get away from all the rednecks and celebrate how the Yankee almost won again; that's why I'm calling so early. How ya doin'?"

Hardcastle narrowed his eyes at the last question, so carelessly tacked onto all that effusive commentary, and he wondered worriedly just how much his friend had managed to glean from their previous conversations. He strove to keep his voice normal. "I'm fine, McCormick. Everything's fine here."

There was a brief silence, at least from McCormick; the celebration around him was still going great guns. Hardcastle waited patiently, only to hear the kid say, in a slightly lower, puzzled voice, "You sure about that?"

Hardcastle felt a wave of panic wash over him; apparently the difference between his and McCormick's ideas of how he normally sounded were miles apart. It occurred to him that a touch of verisimilitude might be in order, so he said in a slightly tentative tone, "Well, maybe everything's not all that fine … I, uh, I kinda whopped off more than I'd planned of that new hybrid tea."

"The new hybrid? Judge, you paid almost fifty bucks for that rose. Just how much did you whop off?"

"Well … let's just say that we have a really good chance of finding out just what the root stock on that thing looked like."

"Ju-udge …" McCormick's pained wince from across the miles was as plain as if he'd been standing right there in the den. "Look, just stay away from the roses until I get back, okay? And yeah, I know, it was you that showed me how to prune 'em to begin with, but it looks like you might've lost your golden touch, if you get my drift. Uh, wait a minute..." There was a garbled mutter in the background, followed by a whispered conversation that was unintelligible on Hardcastle's end, probably due to McCormick's hand being placed firmly across the payphone receiver.

As he waited as instructed, Hardcastle congratulated himself on his very successful diversion. The best part was that he'd actually managed to tell the truth without giving away any of the circumstances – it was while he'd been trimming the roses Friday morning that the throbbing ache and sharp twinges he'd been experiencing for weeks had decided to turn into a sudden, intense, stabbing pain. The loppers had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Suddenly McCormick's voice blared in his ear once more. "Look, I gotta run. Traffic's thinned out, and we'll never get a table if we don't get out of here. I'll call you tomorrow night."

"You do that. Just remember to come home on Wednesday, okay?"

Even Hardcastle could hear the plaintive note in that last question, but he must have been a little more successful in the normality department this time, judging by the laugh that accompanied McCormick's reply. "Yeah, Judge, sure, like I'd forget the lower forty that still needs to be mowed. I'll see ya Wednesday. 'Bye. Hey!" shouted McCormick's voice suddenly from the receiver, as Hardcastle moved to hang up the phone. "You still there? I forgot to tell you, I gotcha a souvenir. A cap."

"You did, huh?" answered Hardcastle, even the weariness and pain so evident in his faded blue eyes unable to erase the smile on his face. "What kind of cap?"

"An Earnhardt cap, of course," McCormick replied, the grin apparent in his voice even over a less than optimal telephone connection. "It's black, and it's got Dale's signature embroidered on it, and the Monte Carlo, and the number '3' and everything." Even with the background noise that seemed to rise a decibel with every passing second, his chuckle came through loud and clear. "I sure understand why you like the guy, Judge. You're perfect for each other. You run roughshod over anything that gets in your way, but when it's all over, even the people who hate you kinda like you too, even if they won't admit it. You two really are a couple of old Ironheads." And with that comment, he yelled a final "'Bye!" followed by a definitive click and a buzzing dial tone.

Hardcastle sat there for a moment, holding the receiver in his hand, the smile lingering on his lips before a sudden twinge – well, something a little more than a twinge – turned his smile into a grimace. He swallowed hard, holding tight to the arm of his chair, then hung up the phone and slowly left his desk to head up the steps to the hallway and the front door. Ever since Mark McCormick's departure on Thursday night, the walls of the house – even those of his beloved den – had begun to close in on him, and with this new facet of his existence, this constant companion that had moved uninvited into his life, the idea of anything at all closing him in had begun to seem both much too frightening – and much too real.

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And so now here he was, lonely and forlorn, sitting in the rain like the idiot he was, the pain in his gut dulled slightly to its normal slow throb, when he could have been with McCormick in Florida, listening in amused silence as the kid and his old friends relived the adventures of their youth, far away from the dark and morbid thoughts that had plagued him lately. That, in fact, had been the plan when he had bought the Daytona 500 tickets last autumn, as a surprise Christmas gift for McCormick.

Hardcastle had been excited himself then at the prospect of the two of them gallivanting off to see in person the high banks of Daytona Speedway, using the passes that a well-connected friend of his had promised to procure for him prior to Speedweeks, gaining entrance to that vast and mysterious garage area to which only the most fortunate were ever allowed access. That sort of thing was meat and drink to McCormick, and Hardcastle had looked forward to watching his friend reveling in all the excitement and pageantry of the Great American Race.

But as the autumn had worn on into the early part of winter, Hardcastle had found himself wearing a little more than usual. And in his weariness he had uncharacteristically begun to debate the wisdom of that plan, wondering just how McCormick could enjoy something that might have been his own life by now, while walking beside the man who was partly responsible for making it all so impossible.

The debate was finally settled on Christmas morning, when he had presented both tickets to McCormick and told him to invite a friend, any friend – male or female – and when the time came, he, Hardcastle, would foot the bill for their plane tickets to Florida, as well as their accommodations and the rental car fare. McCormick had been ecstatic when he had spilled the contents of the ribbon-tied envelope into his hand, his face shining from his cross-legged position beside the cheerfully twinkling tree, and upon hearing the judge's unusually generous offer, his eyes had widened almost to the size of saucers.

But then, to Hardcastle's dismay, he had cast a searching look at his mentor and said slowly, "I think you oughta go with me, Judge." McCormick lowered his voice coaxingly. "Just think, Hardcase, February in Florida. Mild temps, sandy beaches, pretty girls, lots of cold beer and shrimp and crabs and oysters, and all those roaring engines." He grinned. "C'mon, Kemosabe, we'll have a blast."

"Aw, McCormick," Hardcastle had replied gruffly, a little unnerved that McCormick had gone and proposed the very same plan that he had already determinedly jettisoned. "You've been tied to me hand and foot for over three years now. Don't ya think Tonto deserves a little time off to hang out with the other Indian braves, without the Masked Man bein' underfoot all the time?"

That question had earned him a strange stare, as McCormick's grin faded to a concerned frown, the tickets in his hand momentarily forgotten. "You wouldn't be underfoot, Judge, you're way past the 'leaner' stage by now. You'd have fun, honest you would." He uncrossed his legs and sat back on his heels, a mulish look about his mouth. "Look, Judge, you said I could invite anyone. Well, I'm inviting you."

There was no doubt as to the sincerity of the invitation, and Hardcastle had been sorely tempted, but he had made up his mind, at no small sacrifice, and that, in essence, was that. Glancing up, his eyes had met McCormick's. "Kiddo, I appreciate that. I really do. But don't you see, that's kinda part of my present to you – a chance to get together with guys your own age, who've been the same places you've been, and done the same things you've done."

McCormick had just stared at Hardcastle in confusion. Hardcastle had sighed and rubbed one temple tiredly, knowing what he wanted to say and but not too sure just how to say it. Finally, in typical Hardcastle fashion, he had just forged on ahead and hoped for the best. "It's sort of a chance for you to be just plain Mark McCormick, see? Not McCormick the Ex-con, or McCormick the Yard Guy, or McCormick the Fast Gun, or even McCormick the Law Student. Look on it as an opportunity for you to remember who you were before some nitwit named Melinda Marshall kicked you in the gut, and some stupid jury of your peers tossed you in the slammer, and some hardass named Milton C. Hardcastle turned the key and tossed it away."

McCormick's stare had gone from confused to astonished to a barely dawning anger, all in the space of a few seconds. "Is that what this is supposed to be, Judge?" McCormick had asked evenly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Some sort of compensation for 'time well spent'?"

"No!" Hardcastle had answered forcefully, his own eyes squinting in pained surprise. "It's just a Christmas present, dammit, and if you don't like it, I'll take the tickets back and buy you a tie and some socks."

McCormick's face had cleared as quickly as it had clouded, and he had laughed, clutching his precious tickets tightly in his fist. "Don't you touch these things, Hardcase. I wouldn't give 'em up for all the socks and ties in the world." His laughter faded to a pensive smile as he continued, "Not even a tie that says, 'Welcome to Atlantic City.'"

Hardcastle had flinched at this wistful reference to McCormick's wayward father, although the words contained not a hint of bitterness. Thankfully, there had at least been a Christmas card this year, along with a twenty-dollar bill and a note to 'have some Christmas cheer on me' – a gesture that would have been much less than adequate in a normal father, but showed definite signs of improvement in the elusive and less-than-reliable Sonny Daye.

Before the judge could say anything in reply, McCormick had continued, "Okay, if you don't want to go, you don't want to go. I can understand that. But let the reason you don't go be because you don't want to go, not because you think you don't belong anywhere near anything that has to do with my Life Before Prison. 'Cause let me tell you something, Judge, it's finally sinking in that if I'd had you around in my 'life before prison', there wouldn't have been a need for a 'life after prison'."

Embarrassed and touched by McCormick's words, Hardcastle didn't know what to say, and he wondered if McCormick had any idea just how close he had come to the truth about his motivations for staying home. Finally, he had leaned forward and said gruffly, "Tell you what, sport. You take those tickets – not for time served, or services rendered, or because of the guilty conscience I don't have, but because you're my friend, and I think you deserve 'em. And when you get to be a big-shot lawyer, with a beautiful wife and a big house and a fancy car that makes the Coyote look like a motor scooter, you can buy me some for the same reason. Sound like a deal?"

"Sounds like a deal, Judge," McCormick had answered with a smile, but as he turned to reach across to the far side of the tree for his gift to the judge, Hardcastle had barely caught his muttered, "I still wish you'd change your mind."

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And now Hardcastle wished he had gone with him, only as it turned out, it would never have worked anyway. There was no doubt now that Hardcastle's presence would only have caused problems, even if they were not exactly the problems he had envisioned in the beginning, and all Hardcastle really wanted was for McCormick to have a good, problem-free time.

At least McCormick had E.J. with him: E.J. Corlette, former competitor, deposed Trans-Am champ, and McCormick's choice of companion in lieu of Hardcastle; the judge knew that with E.J. and his connections, McCormick was now enjoying the best of all possible racing worlds. Besides, Hardcastle thought in morbid whimsy as he reflected on his latest McCormickless activities, if he was in Florida, how could he have fulfilled his new lot in life as California's Number One Eulogy Deliverer?

Before he could set off after that particular line of thought, he was startled by the stoop light blinking into sudden brightness behind him, prompted by the photocell sensor he and McCormick had installed just a few weeks before. Belatedly acknowledging the intensity of the rain and his own waterlogged condition, he reluctantly stood up, rising with the slow deliberation of a man much older than his sixty-something years.

Hardcastle stood for a minute, staring one last time down the drive, as though his melancholy gaze could somehow summon up the person he most wanted to see. Then he turned and entered the house, careful to close the glass-paned door against the encroaching dampness, but for some reason neglecting to lock it or set the alarm – wishful thinking indeed.

As he crossed to the double doors to his right, he could feel the pain in his lower abdomen, the newfound bane of his existence, swelling with each agonized step, so that by the time he had managed to descend down the short stairway leading into the den, he was forced to sit right down on the top step, his cheek resting against the cool wrought iron of the banister. Angry tears appeared at the corners of his eyes as he splayed his hand hard against his belly in a futile attempt to check the severe cramping that seemed to increase with every painfully drawn breath.

Never in his life had he experienced pain like this. Even when he'd been shot in the chest, the pain had soon been masked by his semi-conscious state. But now he was wide awake, and very much aware of each excruciating wave as it rose and fell, seemingly in time with his heartbeat. Soon he found himself doubled over, his head almost touching the step as he fought with this implacable enemy, and deep within him was an obscure desire for some means of oblivion, even to the point of death – anything to give him relief from this unrelenting torment.

He sat crouched over for a long time; for how long, he had no idea, as he never thought to check his watch, all his energy being concentrated on keeping the anguish at bay. He had finally managed to sit up, holding tightly to the stair rail and staring longingly at his desk chair, when the telephone began to ring. With a dreadful sense of déjà vu, he closed his eyes, waiting for the answering machine to click on. But before the machine could begin to spin out its message of greeting, another voice spoke over his own carefully recorded speech, a feminine voice that shook with emotion and age, speaking with an urgency that told its hearer that here were no tidings of joy, but news once again of the very worst sort, as had seemed his never-ending lot for the past two weeks.

"Milt? Milt, are you there? Oh, Milt ..."

Slowly, slowly, Hardcastle began to rise, pulling himself up by the banister. Then, crossing to his desk, one hand holding to the back of a chair for support, he switched off the answering machine and reached for the receiver, saying with a gruff tightness into its mouthpiece, "Yeah, Stella, I'm right here ..."

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After hanging up the phone, Hardcastle sank heavily into his chair, ignoring the inevitably painful flare-up the movement caused, and stared out the rain-streaked window, his saturated shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. Yet another eulogy to deliver, the third one in less than two weeks, the earlier eulogies acting as bookends to still another funeral, where all he had been required to do was stand there at the graveside, trying not to fidget as he thought sadly of the old days when at least a guy had a hat to hold so as to keep his hands busy.

Swiveling around to face his desk, he opened a folder that lay across the blotter and studied the clippings contained there, flipping through them one by one; he supposed it must be a real sign of old age when a man began to keep his friends' obituaries for posterity. At least he could console himself with the knowledge that all those other guys had been well on their way to becoming decently decrepit before heading to the Happy Hunting Ground.

At that last thought, Hardcastle was irresistibly reminded of one of the recently departed as he lay in regal state, surrounded by the most ornate of floral tributes, with his favorite muzzleloader placed tenderly beneath his crossed hands. Even in his depression, Hardcastle could not restrain a grin at the reflection that if there had been some way to get that prized twelve-point rack stuffed into that coffin without breaking it into pieces, no doubt Harry would have gone to his final resting place with that, too.

But the levity vanished as quickly as it came, as Hardcastle considered the latest victim in his string of Close Friends Gone South. George Mangell ... hell, poor old George hadn't even seen his sixtieth birthday yet, and here he was downed by a heart attack. Never married, shy, awkward, but a really good guy when you got to know him, and Hardcastle had learned to know him very well indeed during their shared twenty years as superior court judge and public defender. An unlikely PD was George Mangell, but one of the best, fighting passionately for the uncertain futures of his indigent – and frequently guilty – clients. Sometimes Hardcastle wondered what might have happened if McCormick had been fortunate enough to draw George as his defense attorney, and he inevitably found that he preferred not to dwell on that worst case – or best case, depending on how you looked at it – scenario.

Hardcastle closed the folder and tried to make his tired brain work. He knew he should go ahead and drive to San Francisco; George's mother was well past eighty, and he felt he should at least try to provide some sort of moral support. The traffic shouldn't be too bad on such a wet Sunday night, but he just didn't feel like driving that far in the rain – actually, he didn't feel like driving, period – and besides, the kid might call. Why he thought that might happen, he had no idea; McCormick had practically promised him the next check-in would be Monday night at the earliest, but for some reason he felt it would happen. More wishful thinking, he thought to himself acidly, but the feeling persisted, keeping company with the ever-present pain that seemed determined to leave him no peace.

Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and stared unseeingly across the room, his mind turned uncharacteristically inward, as he thought about what he could, or should, have done differently. Although he had been feeling tired and out of sorts for several months, he had only felt really ill for the last few days – well, actually more like the last few weeks. Plaguing him as an intermittent, steadily worsening stomachache, the dull throb had progressed without warning to a sharper, more debilitating cramping as he had worked out in the yard this past Friday.

From that point on, the pain was always present, sometimes deepening without warning to an almost paralyzing agony, so that he could do nothing but wait helplessly, as he had done tonight, until the severity had gradually subsided once more to a barely tolerable dullness. And so it went, a constant rollercoaster of intense pain and dull throbbing, and along with the pain sometimes came a fever and an overwhelming weariness. At least tonight there had been none of the nausea that had rendered earlier attacks almost unbearable.

What had made the whole thing even worse was that excessive movement seemed to make the pain that much more severe, so that climbing the stairs to his room had become an ordeal to be avoided. For the last two nights, he had taken to sleeping on the sofa, his entire world now having shrunk to the den, the hall bathroom, and the kitchen, and as he rarely ventured far past even the confines of the den's paneled walls, his sojourn on the stoop this evening had been a marked departure from what had now become his new normality.

Still, he gave thanks every night that on Wednesday, while he was gone to the bank to arrange for funds to finance the Daytona excursion, McCormick had come in from school and washed the contents of both their laundry hampers, leaving the judge's freshly dried clothing and linen neatly folded in a basket on the kitchen table. That basket, so conveniently located for his current purposes, now served Hardcastle as both linen closet and dresser, although he had begun to worry about what he would do once the basket was completely empty and he was forced to fend for himself. It was bad enough that he had left his toothbrush and deodorant upstairs; fortunately, he kept an electric razor in the downstairs bathroom for emergencies, so that even though he might smell like a tramp, at least he didn't have to look like one – yet.

He continued to sit there, thinking, as the minutes ticked away on the old clock on the mantel, mostly because getting up and going to bed wasn't exactly an alternative to be looked upon with much anticipation. It was all his own damned fault, of course. There was no denying that Milton C. Hardcastle was stubborn and pigheaded, determined to handle life on his own terms, every inch the donkey that McCormick had christened him at the very beginning of their association. Therefore, it would have been no surprise to anyone who knew him that initially he had been reluctant to see his doctor when the pain began.

Hardcastle had never been a stupid man, however, and it had only taken a few hours of Friday's torture before he knew he was dealing with something that even his iron willpower could not overcome. But it was the weekend, and Charlie Friedman had already gone out of town by the time he had called for an emergency appointment late that afternoon. After that, it had been easy to convince himself that Monday morning would be soon enough – but now here was George's funeral tomorrow, so he would just have to grit his teeth and reschedule for Tuesday. Anytime was fine with him, so long as it all got done before McCormick finally came home on Wednesday.

That was the only saving grace about all this: the fact that McCormick knew nothing about any of it. Nothing about the pain, and nothing about the funerals, and that was mostly thanks to the temporary increase in scholastic workload that came with preparing to miss five days of law school. Cutting that many classes at one time was a no-no of the first order, but McCormick, with his innate talent for making just about any situation work to his benefit, had struck deals with his professors to make up some of the lessons beforehand. He had managed to pull it off because his professors liked him; he was smart, and quick, and funny, and he wasn't impressed with pomp and circumstance as were so many of his fellow students. So the instructors in question had caved in to his pleading, giving him advance assignments and allowing him research projects for make-up points, then had sat back to watch as he scrambled to do the almost impossible within an inconceivably short span of time.

Of course, the down side to his machinations had been that, for the week or so prior to his departure for Florida, McCormick had been buried beneath the extra workload, his life nothing more than a blur. He had no spare time to catch the odd obituary in the local paper and no real opportunity to take notice of the fact that Hardcastle's health was declining at an alarming rate. The kid had eaten all his meals on the fly, ultimately spending all of his days at school, most of his evenings at the library, and almost no time at all at Gulls' Way.

During that period, all Hardcastle had seen of McCormick were brief glimpses early in the morning, when the kid would careen from the gatehouse to his car via the patio table, snatching up the slice of toast and glass of juice that always awaited him there. He would pause only long enough to call out a greeting to the solitary figure that waved back from the shadowy security of the kitchen doorway; then he would be in the Coyote and gone, roaring down the drive in a cloud of fumes. At the end of another long day, he would return home well into the small hours of the morning and go directly to the gatehouse and bed, never suspecting that Hardcastle might still be awake, alone in his darkened den, miserable and aching, but determined that his illness would not spoil McCormick's long awaited and much deserved reward.

Hardcastle knew that he was wrong in deceiving McCormick in this way – in his view, even a lie of omission was still a lie – and he could not deny that he had missed McCormick's presence during these last trying days, was missing him desperately right this minute. But that did not negate Hardcastle's relief that his friend was being spared the uncertainty and worry that faced him right now, to say nothing of his being spared the inevitable questioning that would ensue once McCormick finally had the opportunity to take belated stock of his afflicted mentor. And once that happened, there would be hell to pay – but Hardcastle would cross that bridge when he came to it.

His elbows braced against the top of his desk, Hardcastle rubbed his face with his hands and ruminated on all these things, perhaps as a means of evading a final decision about San Francisco. But it was getting late, and he was so tired, and sooner or later he was going to have to decide. Finally resolving that early in the morning was soon enough to be heading north, he called George's mother to let her know when he would be arriving, then reluctantly rolled his chair back, turned off his desk lamp, and made his way across the den to his new, less than luxurious bed.

Too exhausted to divest himself of his damp clothing, he lay down on the sofa, its cold leather only adding to his misery, and pulled over himself the wrinkled sheets that were draped haphazardly across the cushions. Bunching a pillow under his head, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about how cold he was, or how badly he hurt, or how much he wished McCormick was there to tell him what a donkey he was for being so sick and tired and depressed.

Gradually he slipped into an uneasy doze, full of elusive and unnerving dreams – visions of a sleek crimson object that was only too familiar, slamming into a concrete wall at outrageous speeds, separating on impact into flying red and black fragments that seemed to impale themselves painfully into his mind. The image would then dissolve into pulsating red and blue bursts of light, flashing with a monotonous regularity, as the whiteness of passing arc lights streamed alongside, extending into long yellow tongues of fire, all to the accompaniment of an eerie and frightening silence, rather than the wailing sirens that the scene seemed to require. Once, during a particularly terrifying passage, he could almost recognize a treasured face pierced by red-tinged daggers of glass, and even in his sleep, his heart suddenly clenched in fear for something that he could only vaguely identify.

As he tossed restlessly, it seemed as though a hand rested gently across his forehead, cool and soothing, so vivid in his imagination that it seemed almost a part of reality. As his subconscious noted this strange sensation, he realized without any real surprise the source of his anxious dreams: he was worrying about McCormick. McCormick, who was carousing in some Florida juke joint, not crashing his red Coyote head-on into the fourth turn wall of the Daytona Speedway; McCormick, who had been merely a spectator this afternoon behind reinforced steel fencing, rather than competing at speeds in excess of two hundred miles per hour, protected only by thin metal and a woefully inadequate flameproof suit. McCormick, who would be home in three days, no doubt predestined to anger at Hardcastle's deception and vehemently vocal on that score – but nevertheless home, safe and sound, where he belonged.

And with that comforting thought, Hardcastle's tormented imaginings began to diminish, even as the inexplicably warmer and heavier cotton sheet began to ease his feverish shivering, and he was lulled into a deep sleep, at last untroubled by the nightmares that had plagued him earlier.

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Eventually Hardcastle woke to a glow showing darkly orange through his closed eyelids, coming from the direction of his desk lamp. He could have sworn he had turned that lamp off, but he knew his mind wasn't exactly working on all cylinders, and even the part of his brain that was concerned with possible intruders could not compel the rest of his body to do anything about it. Reluctantly he opened his eyes, narrowing them against the lamp's dim glare. He could see the edge of the pillow still crumpled under his head, and a glance down the sofa revealed the sheet still in place, somehow augmented by a woven blanket that usually resided alongside the pillow on the top shelf of the hall closet. Puzzled, he turned his head to look across to his desk, where the lamp was turned to its lowest setting. And there in his chair, thumbing thoughtfully through the folder of obituary clippings, sat Mark McCormick.

At the sight of his friend actually sitting there in his den, truly safe and sound, only five feet away instead of twenty-five hundred miles, Hardcastle closed his eyes in abject thanksgiving, despite the fact that all his devious doings during their phone conversations had obviously been for naught. Still, he tried to inject a little irritation into his tone as he spoke, more for form's sake than for any other reason. "What're you doin' here?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly feeble, even to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You're supposed to be in some honkytonk in Florida right now."

McCormick glanced up at the sound of Hardcastle's voice, his face shadowed in the dim light cast by the lamp. "I've got news for you, Hardcase. I got home almost an hour ago, and I've been sitting here watching you toss and turn since I walked in that door. What were you thinking, anyway, leaving the front door unlocked like that? It's getting to where I can't leave you by yourself at all anymore." McCormick got up and came to Hardcastle's side, pulling over an ottoman in the process. "And now that you're awake, you want to tell me what the heck is going on here? You've got a fever going that could start a four-alarm fire."

So the hand on his forehead hadn't been his imagination after all. Vaguely reassured by that fact, Hardcastle said nothing for a moment as he watched McCormick settle himself onto the ottoman and wait patiently for his answer. Then the judge laid his head back against the pillow and grimaced, wondering where to begin, the ache in his abdomen a constant reminder of where he would undoubtedly finish. Finally, he announced in a fatalistic voice, "I don't feel so hot."

"I can see that," McCormick replied, frowning. "I could hear it in your voice this afternoon."

Well, Hardcastle thought, so much for my version of normal. He glanced over at his friend. "That's why you're here, huh?"

"Yeah, Judge, that's why I'm here." McCormick grinned faintly. "It was a nice try, though. A heck of a performance. You woulda fooled anyone else, but you musta been crazy to think you could fool me, even over the phone. I just know you too well." His expression sobered as he leaned forward, reaching out to touch Hardcastle's forehead, frowning at the heat he found there. "I'm serious. What's going on here?"

"Nothing's going on," rasped Hardcastle obstinately, ignoring McCormick's look of skepticism. "I've just been feeling a little, well, under the weather lately. No big deal, nothing for you to worry about." But even as he spoke, he found himself pulling the covers ever tighter, trying in vain to suppress a sudden chill, and he swallowed against the resurgence of pain that the movement initiated. His actions were not lost on McCormick.

"Is that so?" replied McCormick, eyebrows raised in patent disbelief. "So tell me, Hardcase, since when did you start sleeping on the sofa?"

Hardcastle stared at the ceiling with an assumed air of resigned patience and muttered irritably, "Since I took a fancy to sleeping on the sofa."

"And just when did that start?"

"Friday," Hardcastle stated shortly. McCormick made no reply, just stared at him determinedly. The inflexible silence lengthened, with neither side giving way, until Hardcastle could stand no more, saying in a goaded voice, "Look, all that happened was, Friday morning, I was trimming the rosebushes, just minding my own business, and all of a sudden it got worse, and it got downright bad when I tried to climb the stairs ... so I just stopped climbing 'em."

McCormick's stare changed from resolute to slightly alarmed. "What got bad when you tried to climb the stairs?"

"The pain."

McCormick's eyes widened, and he leaned forward, his voice losing a little of its calm reasonableness. "The pain? What pain, where?"

"In my gut," Hardcastle replied tersely. "It's not anything much," he added unconvincingly, "just ... a little pain, that's all."

Hardcastle would have preferred to end the conversation right then and there, but the worried aggravation on McCormick's face showed that the matter was far from closed in his mind, and reluctantly Hardcastle provided a little more general detail. "It's not like it's like that all the time, okay? Sometimes it just hurts worse than other times. It hits me down around here." He gestured in the general direction of his stomach. "It started out just being kinda, well, painful, sort of a steady ache, but lately, it's been hurting a little worse than it did before, and when it gets bad, it gets, well, bad."

"And all this started out of the blue on Friday morning?"

"Well ..." Hardcastle answered reluctantly. "Actually, I've been feeling a little, uh, not myself for a while now."

McCormick looked as though he didn't know whether to be furious or frightened, before the scales came down on the side of fury. "And you weren't gonna tell me anything about this, just send me off to the races and expect me to stay there like a good little boy?"

McCormick's anger was evident in the sparkle in his eyes and the brittleness of his voice, and Hardcastle bit back the caustic retort that came automatically to his lips. He had neither the strength to argue nor the inclination to make up fake excuses, and for some reason, he could not bear the thought of being at odds with McCormick now. So he replied in a conciliatory, yet surprisingly sincere voice, "Look, kiddo, I never meant not to tell you about it. But I wanted you to have a good time, see?" He studied McCormick's face with earnest intensity. "I was gonna talk to you after I'd been to the doctor, honest to God I was, but I didn't get really sick until the weekend. And then I couldn't get an appointment with Charlie, and besides, there were all those funerals I had to go to."

"Yeah, I was just reading through your little obituary file." McCormick replied softly, his anger fading as he leaned back and surveyed his friend. "Judge, why didn't you tell me? I know I was out of pocket, but at least I coulda gone with you to the funerals – well, to a couple of 'em anyway. Heck, I would have gone in your place, if it meant you going to the doctor and getting a head start on this thing."

"McCormick, you were busy," Hardcastle answered in a peevish tone. "What you were doin' was a lot more important than being stuck with a bunch of old guys having one last get-together. I gotta admit, it was a little strange, having three 'one-last-get-togethers', one right after the other, but that's how it goes sometimes." He smiled crookedly. "Anyway, would you really have wanted to stand there and listen to me give those eulogies, much less delivered 'em yourself?"

McCormick looked startled. "You mean you had to eulogize all those guys?" He darted a thoughtful glance toward the folder on Hardcastle's desk, then his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Even Judge Browner? I thought you hated Browner."

"I didn't hate Browner," Hardcastle answered with injured dignity. "He was just, well, hard to get along with. And no, I didn't give his eulogy. They tapped Mattie Groves to do that. She did a pretty good job, too," he added thoughtfully, "considering what she had to work with, which wasn't all that much."

McCormick snorted in agreement. "Well, Great Orator of the Cemetery Set, I think it's about time you took care of yourself, otherwise Mattie'll be trying to find good things to say about you, too." He stood up and shook a stern finger in Hardcastle's face. "Tomorrow, I take you to see Charlie. Period. No argument. End of discussion."

"I can't see Charlie tomorrow," Hardcastle answered distractedly, belatedly recalling his earlier phone conversations. "I'd already planned to, I have an appointment, it's written on my calendar. But I can't. I have to go to San Francisco tomorrow."

"San Francisco?" asked McCormick in bewilderment, sinking back down onto the ottoman. "Why do you have to go to San Francisco?"

"To deliver another damned eulogy, that's why," Hardcastle suddenly bellowed, causing McCormick to rear back in startled surprise; even the judge looked a little nonplussed at his unexpected outburst. "It's for George," Hardcastle continued more quietly. "I gotta do it."

"George? You don't mean George Mangell?" McCormick replied in genuine distress. "Oh, Judge, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"I didn't know myself until his mother called me not long after you called this afternoon. She told me that George had specially asked for me, and I couldn't say no, now, could I?" He looked straightly at McCormick, knowing that he was going to take some flak for this, but resolved nevertheless to do this one last thing for an old friend. "Just this one funeral, okay, McCormick? Then I'll go to the doctor. I swear I will."

"You bet you'll be going to the doctor, because I'll be taking you there myself." Hardcastle made no reply, and McCormick sat back, perplexed at Hardcastle's unexpected acquiescence. "You're not arguing?"

"Nope, I'm not arguing." At the look of bewildered astonishment on McCormick's face, the judge began to laugh, only to have the laughter change to groaning as the dull pain quickly intensified to that severe throbbing that literally took his breath away. Involuntarily Hardcastle curled sideways into a fetal position, his hands buried deep in his abdomen as he tried ineffectively to suppress the swelling agony.

In an instant, a white-faced McCormick was on his knees by the sofa, trying to pry away Hardcastle's hands so he could determine where the pain was coming from. "Judge, look at me, tell me where it hurts. Judge, listen to me, show me where it hurts! "

Hardcastle had broken out into a sweat, and his jaw was set rigidly in his effort to keep from crying out, but he was able to grab McCormick's wrist and guide his hand toward his upper abdomen. "Here," he managed to whisper hoarsely through gritted teeth, "it hurts right here. Oh, dear God, how it hurts."

McCormick raised his anxious gaze to Hardcastle's contorted face, saying with frightened urgency, "Judge, this ain't some little no-account pain you got going on here. I'm calling an ambulance." Rising hastily, he tried to pull his hand away.

"No!" Hardcastle said explosively, holding onto McCormick's forearm with a grip like a vise, using his last bit of strength to pull him back down to the floor beside the sofa. "Wait, it'll calm down in a few minutes, I know it will," he gasped, panting desperately, silently cursing this unrelenting misery that made it so hard to think or act. But true to his word, the pain finally began to fade, and his breathing slowly evened out, the tension in his body once more gradually giving way to the familiar, slightly less incapacitating aching.

McCormick took a deep breath and gently freed his arm from Hardcastle's relaxed grasp. Then, taking the judge's wrist between the fingers of his right hand, he began counting silently, while Hardcastle watched wearily through half-closed eyes. Whatever the count was, McCormick was clearly unhappy with it, although he roused himself to smile weakly at the judge and say, "A hell of a way to go for twenty, Hardcase." He didn't release the judge's wrist, though, only held it firmly, with a convulsive tension that spoke volumes about how scared he really was. There was no doubt about the sincerity in his voice when he said, "Judge. Please. You need to go to the hospital. This is a lot more serious than you let on."

"Kid, I can't. I gotta go to San Francisco. I promised Stella."

McCormick let go of Hardcastle's wrist and sat back against the ottoman in exasperation, meeting the judge's beseeching gaze with pursed lips and furrowed brow. As Hardcastle waited patiently, he thought how odd it was that he was the one trying to wheedle concessions from McCormick, rather than the other way around. Then he thought about McCormick's unusually high rate of success, and found himself hoping that he had managed to learn something from the master during the past three years.

Finally, McCormick spoke, his eyes regretful but his voice determined. "Judge, you can't go anywhere in this condition. What if something happens while we're there? What if the pain gets worse until you can't stand it anymore, huh? What am I supposed to do if we're a hundred and fifty miles from nowhere, and you pass out on me?" McCormick shook his head in firm denial. "Judge, I can't take that kind of chance, and I'm not gonna let you do it either. No way, no how. If you won't let me call an ambulance, then we'll get you up and into the truck, and we'll go to the emergency room – right now."

The answer was short and to the point. "No."

"Hardcastle ..."

"I said 'no', and I mean 'no'. I'm going to George's funeral, even if I do end up flat on my back because of it." Hardcastle sighed gloomily. "It's not like I'm not already flat on my back anyway."

"Well," McCormick asked reasonably, "since you put it that way, why don't you let me go ahead and call that ambulance, and we'll get you to the hospital, and you can just skip the part where you have to get up and dressed, and ride six hours to a funeral, and all the rest of it?"

"No."

McCormick stood up and put his hands on his hips, glowering down at his friend. "Look, you donkey, it's not like George will know whether you're there or not. And Mrs. Mangell will understand, you know she will."

"Yeah, but I gave her my word," Hardcastle said stubbornly, matching glare for glare, "and I'm gonna have to be a lot sicker than I am now for me to break my word."

"Judge, let me tell you something. I was kneeling right there beside you just now, and I'm here to tell you, you get any sicker than that, and, well, I just don't think you can get any sicker than that."

Hardcastle knew better, remembering vividly the times when the pain had been accompanied by such a wretched nausea that he'd been more than happy to see his appetite depart, just so he wouldn't have anything left in his stomach to throw up. But he wasn't about to say anything to McCormick about that. He tried another tack. "Look, McCormick," he said. "It really doesn't get that bad all that often. I'll be okay tomorrow, honest. See, I'm fine now. Watch me."

As Hardcastle struggled to sit upright on the sofa, McCormick stood there and, as instructed, watched impassively for a few seconds, before offering a hand and hoisting the judge up to a sitting position. Hardcastle tentatively swung his feet to the floor, stoically repressing the inevitable wince that came with the resurgent throbbing. Then he stood up under his own power and faced McCormick, praying that the dizziness that suddenly assaulted him wasn't apparent in his stance. He could tell nothing from McCormick's deadpan expression, although the fact that his friend still stood fairly close by might be considered a pretty good indicator of his lack of success in that particular area.

Not that any of it made any difference. What happened next was still his decision to make, not McCormick's, and he wasn't going to change his mind. And if McCormick didn't like it, well ... that was just the way it had to be, and he supposed there was no time like the present to make that fact be known.

"McCormick," he began evenly, his eyes steady on McCormick's face, "the bottom line is, I'm going to San Francisco tomorrow, with or without you. If you don't go, I won't blame you a bit. I was gonna have to go by myself anyway, and I can probably catch the train first thing in the morning and still get there in plenty of time. There'll be lots of people on the train, kiddo, so it's not like I'll be all by myself if something happens. Will that make you happy?"

"No, it won't," McCormick replied shortly in his turn. "If you're so determined to go to San Francisco tomorrow, I'll take you there myself." He turned away sharply and strode towards the door, pausing on the first step to turn and say with measured coldness, "But, Hardcastle, you'd better know what you're doing. Because I'll be damned if I'll be the one who's gonna pick up the pieces if you don't." Then he was up the stairs and out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

Deprived of his unhappy audience, the determination that had carried Hardcastle to his feet deserted him, and he would have fallen if he hadn't first caught hold of the wingchair. In both his head and his heart, he knew that McCormick was right. But what McCormick didn't know was that he'd seen symptoms like these before, perhaps not identical to them, but close enough, and if they meant what he thought they did, it wouldn't matter much in the long run whether or not he went to San Francisco tomorrow. In fact, he seriously doubted there would even be a long run; whatever he did, the ending would still be the same, in more ways than one.

Lost in his morbid reflections, Hardcastle had made it as far as the base of the steps leading up to the door, when suddenly the door opened to reveal McCormick, Hardcastle's toothbrush in his hand and a pair of pajamas draped over his arm. He caught sight of the judge standing there, clinging to the banister as if it were his very last hope, and said impatiently, "Well, c'mon, Kemosabe, it's getting late."

"Late for what?" asked Hardcastle cautiously, remaining right where he was until he knew for sure what McCormick was up to.

"Ju-udge," said McCormick, rolling his eyes, "if you're heading north tomorrow, you're gonna need a good night's rest, and you're not gonna get any trying to sleep on that sofa. You're sleeping in Sarah's old room tonight, I've already turned down the sheets, but first you're gonna have a warm shower and some fresh pajamas. And this time," he added ominously, "I'm not losing the argument."

The program as described sounded like sheer heaven to Hardcastle, although he'd never in a million years admit it to McCormick. Instead, he said nothing at all, just carefully ascended the two steps to McCormick's side, holding tightly to the banister – just to be on the safe side, he assured himself.

As for McCormick, he stood in the doorway, watching the judge's progress, his face tight with protective concern. He stood aside to let the judge pass through the double doors into the hallway, muttering to himself as he followed him out the door, "Besides, I always have dibs on the sofa."