This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators.

Author's Notes: One of the epilogue entries from the final STAR for Brian Keith 'zine.

Epilogophilia: Hotshoes

McCormick gets a call from an old racing buddy. The friend is temporarily out of action and asks Mark to sub for him, driving the last part of a racing series for a big sponsor—Denco Auto Parts. Mark is delighted. Hardcastle tags along, leaning on things and observing that there are some shifty characters in the Denco management group. Mark is aggravated when the judge raises suspicions that that there's something not quite right about the operation, and he's even more upset when Hardcastle insists on getting to the bottom of it.

Of course Denny Collins, the CEO, and his crew are running a shady side business—a large scale auto theft ring. Free parts help the bottom line and fund the racing. Mark's big shot at the big time goes up in smoke when the Denco people suspect he and Hardcastle are getting close to the truth and rig his ride. He survives the crash and escapes the wreck just in time to rescue Hardcastle from the rest of the bad guys.

But after all that racing his foot's still a little heavy—on the way home he gets a speeding ticket.

Epilogue—by Cheride

He tossed the car keys onto the table with his usual nonchalance, hearing their clank in conjunction with the door slamming behind him. He had repeated the same movements hundreds of times in the two months since he had come here. It was routine. It was comfortable. It was home.

It was with that thought in mind that he dropped the duffle bag he was carrying to the floor and crossed slowly to the dining table, pulling a slightly rumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He slouched into a chair, spread the paper onto the table and examined it closely. Excessive speed. He shook his head dolefully. He didn't really have an extra seventy-eight dollars to be donating to the city of Santa Monica, but apparently that's what he was going to do.

But though he had taken the paper in his hands and stared down at the offending fine, he wasn't really thinking about the money. Mostly he was trying to figure out what had ever prompted him to make the run down the PCH to begin with, especially with Hardcastle sitting right there in the seat next to him. In a long line of questionable and risky decisions, that one was pretty close to the top of the list, at least in recent history. He tried to think it through.

As with most of their time together recently, the trip from Riverside had been companionable. And while that was still something of a mystery to McCormick, like so many other things lately, it was beginning to feel routine. But even so, it occurred to him that it wouldn't be wise to forget that the man was a judge. Retired judge, he reminded himself, though that was immediately followed by the one thought that was never far from his mind, no matter how comfortable things were becoming. The retired judge that sent you to prison.

But they'd been driving along, talking and laughing and not really feeling at all like a retired judge and an ex-convict, and he must've temporarily lost sight of the fact that the guy could send him back at the drop of a hat. Or maybe it was just that he'd believed Hardcastle when the judge had very calmly uttered the words that had stunned him into silence. You're important to me. Where had that come from anyway? It was one thing for the old donkey to watch after him, to be concerned when they were working and want to make sure he didn't end up dead at the hands of one of his wacko cases. It was quite another—at least in Mark's estimation—for the man to involve himself in a situation for no reason other than to make sure that the resident sidekick didn't get himself into a jam. So maybe he hadn't exactly forgotten that the guy could send him back to prison; maybe he had been wondering if he would. At some point, he was probably going to need an answer to that question.

He jumped guiltily at the unexpected rap on the door, then chuckled ruefully at himself. Even Hardcase Hardcastle couldn't know what he was thinking. And even if he did, there was surely no way that could be against any kind of law. Still, he jumped to his feet before the second knock; no sense giving the guy a reason to be cranky. But it wasn't the judge standing at his door.

"Sarah." He smiled at the woman and tried to discreetly crumple the ticket into his hand and out of her sight. "I figured it'd be the judge. Not that he usually knocks," he added as an afterthought.

"Well, it is his house," she reminded the young man.

"True enough," he conceded, backing away from the entry. "Did you want to come into his house?"

She looked as if she might chide him for even that mild sarcasm, then seemed to decide against it and smiled at him as she stepped inside.

"Did you need something, Sarah?" Mark asked, following her back into the living area. "Is there something you need me to do for you?"

The housekeeper shook her head. "Did you think I wouldn't be interested in hearing about your weekend?" she asked, seating herself on the sofa. "Or that I wouldn't want to see for myself that you hadn't done any damage to yourself out in those foolish cars?"

The ex-con looked at her in sudden surprise and wondered what to say. "Ah . . . well . . ." He thought it might be rude to admit that it actually hadn't occurred to him she'd be at all interested—or concerned. "I figured the judge could fill you in." He wasn't sure if honor could truly be satisfied with a lie, but he decided it would have to do.

"His perspective on things tends to be different from yours," Sarah said blandly.

At that, McCormick laughed easily and perched himself on the opposite end of the sofa. "That's for sure," he told her with some feeling. He nonchalantly folded his hands around the ticket. "So, what did he say?"

"He said you were pretty good."

For the second time, McCormick was startled into speechlessness. "Really?" was all he finally managed.

"You weren't?"

"No. I mean, no, that's not what I mean, I mean, well, yeah, I guess." He finally sputtered to a stop and took a breath. Meeting the woman's eyes, he said sincerely, "I'm a good driver, Sarah; I always have been. I could be again. I'm just a little surprised to hear him admit it. Besides, I didn't even win."

"I think he can recognize talent even if you don't win," the woman said a little haughtily. "And besides," she added, her tone softening, "he told me why you didn't win."

"Did he tell you I was a dope?" McCormick asked, bitterness creeping into his tone. "Too blind to see what was going on practically in front of my eyes?"

"No. He told me some people took advantage of you, then tried to kill you both." She looked at him directly. "And that you went charging after them to try and save him."

It took a few seconds, but a slow smile spread across the young man's face. "Well . . . I figure keepin' his butt out of a sling is part of my job, kinda like the hedges or the gutters."

"Well then," Sarah responded in apparent seriousness, "it's certainly fortunate that you seem better equipped for the, ah, butt-saving part than for the yard work."

McCormick found himself laughing again, and admitted it was true. "Hey, there has to be a learning curve somewhere; I can't become Tonto and Super Lawn Boy all at once."

Sarah's eyes twinkled with shared amusement. After a moment, she encouraged him further. "And are you all right, Mark? You haven't really given me much of your perspective on things."

He looked at the older woman quizzically. "Me? Sure, I'm fine." McCormick thought for a moment, then continued, "I might've been a little hard on him at first. I didn't want to believe anything could be wrong."

"You didn't want to believe he might be trying to save you."

McCormick gave his head a shake, wondering when he had become so easy to read. "You have to admit it's a little unexpected."

"The best things usually are." She didn't wait for a response before continuing on a completely different tack. "His Honor also told me he let you get a little more of that racing business out of your system on the way home." She pointed toward his clasped hands. "Is that what you've been trying to hide from me?"

"You're even worse than Hardcase," Mark complained. He folded the citation more neatly and put it back in his pocket, wondering where this conversation was going now. He plunged ahead. "But yes, ma'am, I suppose I was going a little fast."

Sarah nodded once, as if that explained everything. "He shouldn't let you get by with things like that," she told him, "and you shouldn't let him. It's dangerous for you both."

"I told you I'm a good driver, Sarah," McCormick objected automatically, though he realized even as he spoke the words that the topic had somehow moved from his driving. "It was only a few minutes," he assured her. "Then he sort of told me I oughta pull over." He remembered the judge's precise words clearly. Won't be long, sport, until this speeding violation is going to turn into evading a police officer. He doubted if Hardcastle had told the housekeeper those specifics, but she seemed to understand anyway.

"Still trying to save you," she said matter-of-factly. "And it's still dangerous. You should be more careful if you plan to be around to save him."

And finally, McCormick thought he understood this visit; her concern was more for Hardcastle than the latest ex-con that she'd never particularly believed should be here. Not that he could really blame her for that, and he found that he was still grateful for whatever small part of the worry was for him alone. "I'll be careful," he promised, "for both of us."

That seemed to finally satisfy the woman and she rose to her feet and headed for the door.

"Thanks, Sarah," he said as held open the door, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was thanking her for. But he had the idea she was trying to help.

She slowed as she stepped outside and glanced back at him. "The judge has gotten accustomed to having you here already, young man." Then she gave him a warm smile. "Maybe we both have." And with that, she was gone.

Smiling to himself, McCormick closed the door behind his departing visitor, then crossed back to the sofa. He remembered to kick off his shoes before propping his feet up on the coffee table, then he pulled the fairly crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and stared at it again. As he sat, mulling over the afternoon, his mind came back upon his earlier question.

Would he send me back? I mean, I'm important to him, right?

But lots of things were important to Hardcastle, and McCormick figured the law came in pretty close to the number one spot.

He couldn't take his eyes off the ticket in his hand, and he couldn't forget the moment of insanity it represented. Or the pretty subtle way the judge had stepped in to make sure that momentary lapse in judgment didn't turn into a year or so sitting behind bars. And as Sarah's final words rang in his ears, he thought maybe he found his answer.

He would send me back, he thought, if he ever had to. But he wouldn't like it, and he'd probably try like hell to find a way out of it first. So don't ever push him into a corner. He can only save you if you let him.

Sarah was right; he had to be more careful—for both their sakes. Apparently it was up to him to keep this unexpected partnership together.

He smiled as he finally set the citation aside. He thought maybe seventy-eight dollars was a pretty small price to pay for that kind of chance.