As per usual, all standard disclaimers apply. Nothing of the original concept belongs to me. For all those of you who wanted "something longer", here it is. Enjoy!!
This story is dedicated to my mother, for her unending love and support.
All things are simple
"You do what you must do, and pay for it. So in the end, all things are simple."
Ellis Peters
Prologue
The weakness was terrifying. Mark lay in the dark, surrounded by the beeps and clicks of hospital monitors and despaired of ever feeling normal again. He'd been awake for a few minutes, and the only thing he was sure of, was that he didn't have the energy to even turn his head. Or rather, he'd tried to turn his head and found himself almost unable to move. He'd tried to lift his hand off the bed, but could only lift it a scant inch before it fell back onto the sheet. The lack of mobility worried him. Actually, it terrified him. He'd had his share of injuries before, including a less than pleasant evening spent bleeding slowly to death in a cold ravine, but nothing could have prepared him for this.
Then the panic hit him – what if he was going to be like this for the rest of his life? What if he was never able to manage on his own again? How would he ever finish law school? And worst of all, how could he ever face Hardcastle again, knowing that his current situation was a direct result of his own actions? He could hear how the beeping of the heart monitor increased as the panic overwhelmed him. Taking slow, deep breaths, he forced himself to calmness, hearing the beeping tones slowing in conjunction with his actions.
He'd gone into this with his eyes open, but he'd thought at the time that he'd made the right decision. No, he was still sure it had been the right decision, but he wasn't sure he could ever get Hardcastle to understand that. In fact, he was pretty sure that the judge was royally annoyed at him, because he was alone in the hospital room. That had never happened before. In two short weeks, he'd managed to nearly get himself killed and upset the judge so badly that he couldn't stand to be in the same room with him. He was sure he deserved some sort of award for that.
Two weeks earlier
Frank Harper sighed as he looked around the crime scene. Murder scenes were always unpleasant, and this was the third one in seventeen days. The first two victims had been young men. They'd been discovered lying in the middle of empty warehouses, down in an area near the harbour. The streets were always deserted at night, so there were no witnesses to question, and the killer was very thorough and left no clues behind. The victims were arranged on their backs, with their arms folded over their chests, almost as though they'd been laid out for a viewing in a funeral parlour. There were no real signs of a struggle, although it seemed that the first victim might have tried to fight back slightly. Each man had also been wrapped in a burial shroud, but left with their eyes wide open. Those blank stares were giving Frank nightmares. The bodies were surrounded by pools of blood, as identical cuts on each wrist had caused the victims to slowly bleed to death. This victim was no different. What Frank couldn't understand was why the men hadn't fought back, or at least tried to move. Bleeding to death from wounds like these wouldn't have been a quick death, and the men should have had plenty of time to look for help. Perhaps the coroner would be able to provide an answer to some of the questions that plagued him.
Signalling to the Medical Examiner that he could remove the body, Frank headed back towards his car. He would look up this victim as soon as he returned to the office, and try to find a connection to the two first victims. He knew he wouldn't have any trouble finding out who the third victim was, as he had already seen the piece of paper pinned to the victim's chest. The killer was making sure that the police knew who was dead; each piece of paper contained the victim's name, and one solitary phrase – One less sinner.
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Arriving back in his office, Frank dropped into his chair and pulled the two files on his desk closer. Sam Crandall and Peter Johnson. Both had served time in prison, for a number of minor offences, and both had apparently moved on to create better lives for themselves after being paroled. However, as far as Frank could see, neither of them had any connection to each other. They'd never shared a cell; they'd never even shared a prison. They had no friends in common, and worked in completely different parts of town.
Checking the overflowing in tray on his desk yielded the third file, for today's victim, one Joseph Edmunds. Sometimes the speed of the administration clerks was a thing to be admired, or even desired. But not today. This one fit the same profile as the first two victims, but there was still no connection between the three victims. Not knowing what else to do, Frank started checking all the details in each file. All three had been sentenced by different judges, and all three had served their sentences in different prisons. All three men had then found honest jobs and lived decent, law-abiding lives. None of their neighbours had any complaints about them, their employers were pleased to have them on the payroll and they weren't in debt to the bank or to any loan sharks. All in all, Frank could find no motive behind the murders. The only thing they seemed to have in common was that all three men had changed their lives after serving their time in prison. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but the idea was too nebulous to get a grip on. Hopefully, whatever it was would come into focus before anyone else died.
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The medical examiner's frown deepened as he studied the results in front of him. The lack of any movement on the part of the victims had bothered him, and so he had ordered detailed blood tests. The results were startling, as they showed that each victim had been injected with a curare derivative, mixed with another, as yet unknown, substance, before their wrists had been cut. Curare wasn't easy to get hold of, and too much of it would kill the victim before he bled to death. The killer was obviously someone with limited medical knowledge, or access to a specialist's knowledge. The second substance seemed to be highly toxic, but the medical examiner had never seen anything like it before. So far, his only clue was that the substance appeared to be organic in nature, rather than synthetic. He had no idea what effects it would have on the human body, but combined with the curare, he was sure of one thing; its effects wouldn't be good. Picking up the telephone, he asked the operator to get hold of Lieutenant Harper for him.
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Mark McCormick sighed happily as he tipped his head back into the sunlight. He was supposed to be cleaning the pool, but the pleasant warmth was too good to pass up. He'd finished the last of the semester's exams just three days ago, and the novelty of having time to appreciate the beautiful day was dragging his attention away from mundane chores. Taking a break to lie in the sun was the best way to relax and recoup his energy after the hard work of studying. He wanted the judge to be pleased with his results, especially given the fact that the judge was paying the fees. Oh, who was he trying to kid? He wanted the judge to be proud of him. His own father wasn't much to look up to, but the judge certainly was, and the last thing Mark wanted to do was disappoint him.
Just as he was about to doze off, he heard a familiar voice yelling inside the house. "McCormick! Where are you? How come I can never find you when I'm looking for you!" Mark shot up off the recliner at the poolside and tried, unsuccessfully, to look as though he hadn't been doing nothing. Hardcastle came rushing out of the house as though the hounds of hell were chasing him, stopping dead when he saw Mark standing by the pool. The relief on his face was quickly hidden under a layer of typical Hardcastle bluster. "Why are you just standing there, McCormick, couldn't you hear me calling you?"
"I think the whole neighbourhood heard you, Hardcase, but I can fetch you a loudhailer if you want to be sure that everyone on the beach heard you clearly too." Mark's answer was designed to set Hardcastle at ease, but the usual smart comment didn't make the older man relax. Something about the look of concern hidden in Hardcastle's eyes told Mark that something was seriously wrong. He searched his memories of the last few days for anything he could have done to upset Hardcastle, but nothing came to mind. Maybe it was just another one of the judge's cases. After the last month of studying, Mark found he was actually looking forward to chasing down some common criminals.
"Get inside, kiddo, we need to talk." Hardcastle's eyes were moving, sweeping the grounds behind Mark, as though he was looking for something. The sudden change of tone, along with the excessive interest in the landscaping, made the bright sunlight suddenly seem threatening instead of pleasant, rather like a searchlight on the walls of San Quentin in the middle of a midnight escape.
Once inside the house, McCormick realised that they had company. He'd forgotten that Frank was coming to visit this afternoon. Smiling a greeting to the older man, Mark flopped down into his favourite chair. Frank's greeting was subdued, concern radiating so strongly from him that you could almost see it. Mark suddenly sat up a little straighter in his chair. Hardcastle had settled back behind his desk, and gestured for Frank to get on with it.
"Mark, I don't know if you've seen anything in the papers about the recent warehouse murders?" At Mark's quick nod, Frank went on, "We haven't told the papers everything we know. The killer's been laying the bodies out in an identical fashion, and then leaving notes with the victim's name and one more phrase 'one less sinner'. All three of the victims were young men, and they'd been paralysed with some substance that the ME can't identify yet. After he paralysed them, our killer slit their wrists and left them to bleed to death. According to the ME, death would have been a long time coming."
Mark looked rather queasy at the graphic description of the manner of death. Picking up on the key point Frank had been making didn't take long. "Are you trying to say we have a serial killer running around, Frank?" Mark's question sounded startled. "And even if we do, why are you telling me?"
If anything, Frank looked even more uncomfortable now. "Mark, all the victims are ex-cons. I hadn't given it any thought until I was talking to Milt just now, and he tells me that he recognises all their names. He spoke to all of them before they were paroled, to try and convince them that they could turn their lives around when they left prison.'
"So what, Frank? Hardcase here tells lots of ex-cons that sort of thing. Why are these guys any different?"
"The difference here, Mark, is that these guys listened. They haven't committed any crimes since they were paroled, and all of them have turned their lives around; just like you."
Mark burst out laughing as he realised where Frank was going with this line of reasoning. "Oh no, you aren't going to tell me that you think I'm next on some nutter's hit list, just because I listened to this old donkey, are you?" At Frank's nod, Mark simply laughed even harder. "Trust me, I'm no great success story, Frank. I'm not the sort of person this guy is going to go after."
"Look, kiddo," Hardcastle broke in for the first time, "all were saying is that this guy is out there. I want you to be careful, that's all. There aren't that many ex-cons around who took my advice, you know. Frank and I have just been over the list of convicts I spoke to in prison before their parole came up, and there are less than 10 people who fit the profile. Three of those guys are already dead!" Hardcastle knew he was being blunt, but he didn't know how else to make Mark understand the situation.
"Look, Hardcase, I'm not going to worry about something that's never going to happen. And neither are you." Mark stated firmly, turning to Frank for support. "Are you staying for dinner, Frank?"
"I wish I could, Mark, but Claudia has plans for this evening, so I'll have to go soon." Glancing quickly at Hardcastle's face, Frank stood up and moved towards the door. He didn't want to be around when Hurricane Milt made landfall. "Actually, I'd better get going now, or I'll be late."
Hardcastle followed Frank out to the drive to see him off, shooting a stern glare at Mark as he left. "We're not done, McCormick, don't go anywhere."
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Nothing more had been said over dinner, or while watching the latest John Wayne movie repeat. Mark was getting twitchy, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but the judge was acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Chinese water torture would have been more bearable than Hardcastle pretending that everything was normal. Finally admitting to himself that he couldn't handle the silence anymore, Mark stood up. "I'm going to bed, Judge. See you in the morning." Hardcastle was on his feet immediately. "Mark, I think you should spend the night here. Maybe even move into one of the spare rooms for a while." The use of his name brought home to Mark how seriously the judge was taking this whole affair.
For his part, Hardcastle couldn't bear the thought that Mark might meet the same fate as the three previous victims. He knew that Mark couldn't see it, but the young man was the perfect target. He had not only turned his life around, but was heading into a new career of helping other people, using the legal system he had previously despised. That, along with his extra-curricular crime-fighting activities with the judge, should put Mark right at the top of the killer's list. But maybe the kid was too close to the situation to be objective.
"Oh come on, Hardcase, nothing's going to happen to me walking from here to there. It's just across the lawn." Mark knew his tone was short, but he was a grown man after all, and perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He stalked out of the room and marched across the lawn to the gatehouse, never realising that the judge stood at the window watching, until he was safely inside the gatehouse with the door closed behind him.
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The next morning, Mark was woken by the sound of the judge playing basketball outside the window. Before going to bed the night before, he had sat down and thought about what both Frank and the judge had said. He knew that Hardcastle was only being protective because he cared, but Mark didn't want to be smothered in concern. Besides which, nothing was going to happen. He was sure of that. They'd both had threats made against them before and nothing serious had ever happened. This time would be no different. He knew he wasn't important or successful enough to make it on to anyone's hit list. Except possibly the judge's, and that would be for not being successful enough in doing all the yard work around the estate! Deciding to begin as he meant to go on, Mark slipped on his trainers and went downstairs to take the judge on in a friendly basketball match.
The judge had obviously also decided to let sleeping dogs lie, and didn't mention Frank's visit at all during the game or over breakfast. After clearing away the dishes, Mark headed out the door to get started on the garden chores. The service Hardcastle hired during the university terms didn't do what McCormick considered to be a good job. Considering the little he'd known about gardening when he'd come to the estate, he found it amusing that he was now in a position to criticise someone else's gardening skills. He was stopped just short of the doorway by Hardcastle's voice behind him.
"Hey, kiddo, I've been meaning to clear out the files in the basement. I was putting it off until you had enough time to help me. I figure if we make a start on them today, we could probably get them done in a couple of weeks." Hardcastle's suggestion, although completely apropos of nothing, wasn't all that odd. Mark had been trying to get the judge to clear the files out for at least two years.
"But, Judge, the hedges around the back need trimming. That service of yours never seems to get the edges straight." Mark's complaint was a matter of form. After all, it would never do to give in too easily. Hardcastle might get used to it and start expecting instant capitulation in the future. Mark considered it his duty to keep the older man on his toes.
"I've already called the service about that. They've promised to do a better job for the next couple of weeks. Now, are you coming?" And with that, Hardcastle led the way downstairs.
Mark set off slowly after the judge, realising belatedly that he'd just been outsmarted. He would be within sight of the older man for as long as it took to clean out the files. And people thought he was the resident conman at Gulls' Way. If they only knew. Shaking his head in amusement, Mark headed off after the judge, already disliking the dusty, uneventful days to come.
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The spider's legs fascinated him. So long and quick, multi-jointed, soft to the touch. He let the creature run across his hands, the long, slender legs whipping quickly across his skin. He heard the gasps from those surrounding him and watched how the people nearest to him did their best to slip further away. He knew that most of the people watching him play with this particular spider were repulsed. The creature was large, almost four inches across, and a beautiful chocolate brown colour. And the two long white fangs were a striking contrast to the dark, bulbous body. In his eyes, it was one of the most beautiful of God's creations. He could see from the faces of those near him, that they didn't share his appreciation. They didn't understand. But then again, he'd always known he was special. Only he understood. Once he'd seen these beautiful creatures, his destiny had been made clear.
For years, he'd felt that he was being called to cleanse society, to make all the evildoers repent their sins. He would make the world a better place. But he'd never been able to carry out his mission before. There'd been obstacles in his path. He'd needed time; time to plan, time to secure all the necessary equipment, time to find a suitable final resting place for his chosen sinners. It had taken years, but he'd come to see the preparation time as a test of his commitment to the mission. And now, the cleansing had begun. And it would be glorious.
00000
After the first week of cleaning out and reorganising files, Mark was almost ready to join the ranks of the serial killer fraternity himself. Only, his victims would all be file folders, and his weapon of choice would be matches. He even figured he could claim it was a justifiable homicide, as he was defending his sanity, not to mention his eyesight.
There had been no further killings, and Mark was convinced that there would be no more. Hardcastle waited for the daily newspaper in a nervous lather, expecting the worst, but the news had all been of the usual sort. It was apparently a slow week for the criminal element in California as well. The latest newspaper was no different. Hardcastle dropped the newspaper on the desk in the den and settled himself comfortably in his chair. Relaxing, he picked up the paper and prepared to enjoy a quiet hour of reading. Perhaps he could ease up on his personal surveillance of Mark over the next few days. Startled out of his thoughts by the shrill sound of the telephone, the judge automatically answered the call. "Milt, it's Frank. There's been another one."
Hardcastle felt a cold shiver travel down his spine at the words. "But, there's nothing in the news, Frank?" Frank's answer was slightly defensive, with an apologetic undertone. "I know. It wasn't my choice, Milt. The powers that be have decided to keep this one quiet. They think a lack of publicity will get our killer to slip up and make a mistake that will bring him out into the open." Hardcastle snorted in disgust, "Right. And it never occurred to them that maybe, all it'll do is tick this guy off. Make him more determined to put on an even better show next time around." Hardcastle knew he sounded angry. And he was. But under the anger was a feeling he didn't want to recognise, but couldn't ignore. Fear. He just couldn't shake the feeling that, somehow, Mark was in terrible danger. And that playing with the killer in the press was only going to make things worse.
As he was finishing up on the telephone with Frank, Hardcastle heard the back door slam open. Mark's frantic voice could be heard yelling "Hardcase! Judge, where are you?" The racing footsteps came closer until Mark ran into the room. He looked petrified, his face pale enough to win a competition against Casper the friendly ghost. Only, whatever Mark had just seen obviously wasn't friendly. The young man was frantically waving what looked like a small piece of paper. He slid to a halt in front of the desk, relief making his knees fold under him. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he gasped, "Judge, you're okay. Oh, thank God!" Hardcastle's concern turned to complete puzzlement. "Frank, hang on a second, would you?"
Resting the telephone on the desk blotter, Hardcastle turned his full attention to the breathless man in front of him. Mark had managed to regain enough composure to shove the paper under Hardcastle's nose, all the while keeping his gaze fastened on Hardcastle's face, as if to reassure himself that the judge was really there. On closer examination, Hardcastle realised that the paper was actually a photograph of himself, sitting by the pool. Looking more closely, he saw that the date on the newspaper in the photograph was a few days earlier. Looking up at Mark, he asked, "So, what? You took a picture of me. What's the big deal?"
"I didn't take that, Judge. Someone else did, and then left it in the gatehouse. With a whole bunch of other pictures, too." Mark's panic was fading in the face of Hardcastle's calm demeanour. But his peace of mind was rudely shattered when the judge picked up the telephone again, "Frank, I think you'd better get out here. Fast!"
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By the time Frank arrived, Hardcastle had managed to calm Mark down. The younger man was fixated on the horrible idea that someone had been close enough to both of them to take photographs, and yet he'd been oblivious. And then that same person had gone into the gatehouse and arranged the photographs on the table for Mark to find. Mark led the way back to the gatehouse, so that the other two men could see the display for themselves. All the photographs were similar in theme, just everyday shots of Mark and Hardcastle around the estate or out running errands. Set in the middle of the table was a sheet of plain white paper, bearing only two words, 'NO POLICE'. Only the one photograph had a date on it, and Frank looked unhappy when Hardcastle pointed this out. "Milt, that's the date of the last murder." "That doesn't prove anything, Frank. If anything, it proves a negative. The killer couldn't have been here and at the warehouse." At Frank's slow nod, Hardcastle saw the tense set of Mark's shoulders relax. The sudden release made the younger man typically flippant, "So, this is just from another one of the 'friends' you made in your career on the bench, Judge?" A quick grin took the sting out of the words.
While Frank was making a call to the precinct to arrange for extra protection at the estate, Hardcastle decided to get some questions of his own answered. "Why were you so shook up by the photographs, kiddo?" Mark ducked his head, embarrassed, "I know I said that the whole serial killer thing didn't bother me, Hardcase. But, when I saw those pictures, the first thing that came to mind was that he'd branched out, and decided to pick on retired judges as well. Especially ones who tend to meddle in other people's lives." Hardcastle's gaze softened at the open concern reflected in Mark's eyes. "Well, I wouldn't worry about it, kiddo. Serial killers aren't usually that easy to derail. I still think you're more likely to be a target than I am." Mark was about to argue the point, when Frank hung up the telephone. "I've arranged for extra drive-by patrols for the next few days. Who knows, we may actually catch this guy in the act."
Settling onto Mark's couch, Frank then brought the two men up-to-date on the fourth murder. As all of the details matched the first three crimes, there wasn't much to tell. Only one fact really mattered to Hardcastle, which was that he had known this ex-con as well. He was sure that meant that Mark had to be on the killer's list as well.
Half an hour later, Mark watched Frank drive away with the photographs. He was going to have them fingerprinted, but Mark was convinced that the police laboratory wouldn't find anything. He had a feeling that whoever had put the photographs there was too smart to be caught so easily. Heading inside, he got cleaned up and headed over to the main house for dinner, bracing himself for another evening of trying to appreciate the endless merits of yet another John Wayne movie.
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Early the next morning, Hardcastle decided to take the truck into town to get one of the tyres replaced. The tyre had worn too thin to be safe, a consequence of using the truck to chase criminals down. Even Mark admitted that this sort of job was easier done in a proper workshop. Perversely, the fact that the killer had struck just two days earlier made Hardcastle happier about leaving Mark alone at the estate. The time between killings hadn't changed, so the younger man was probably safe for at least another couple of days. Then he'd have to think of some other job that needed two people, so that he could keep Mark under surveillance for a few days. It was a dreadful thing to hope for, but Hardcastle sincerely hoped that the next victim was someone else from the list, other than Mark. At least, that way, Mark would be safe. Trading lives was a bit like making a bargain with God; always a bad idea, and yet he found himself praying that just this once, God wouldn't take it the wrong way.
The road was quiet and the drive pleasant. Hardcastle let himself enjoy the tranquillity and forgot about serial killers and old files for half an hour. Braking for the first sharp bend in the road, he realised that something was seriously wrong. The truck wasn't slowing down, but was going faster. Shoving down a surge of panic, Hardcastle did his best to control the careening vehicle. Thinking quickly, he slammed the truck into the lowest gear he could and hoped for the best. At least, in the lower gear, he had more chance of controlling the vehicle. The thought crossed his mind that it was amazing what you could learn from race car driver, even when you weren't really listening.
Changing down had slowed the vehicle enough that the judge hoped the emergency brake would stop the truck. Hand on the brake lever, he waited for a slight uphill stretch that he knew was around the next bend. As the increasing gradient sapped some of the speed, he pulled up the emergency brake and prayed that it would be enough. The truck shuddered to a halt just before the crown of the hill. Hardcastle sighed in relief. The other side of the hill was the longest downhill section of the drive into town. Standing next to the vehicle, he waited for his heart to stop racing. It was a good thing he was alone, because if he'd gone for twenty with the kid now, he'd have lost for sure.
He had to wait fifteen minutes before he saw another car coming. Flagging it down, he managed to convince the driver to take him to the nearest house so that he could call the breakdown service to tow the truck into town. He decided that he would see what they said about the brakes before calling the kid to pick him up. Maybe the brakes could be fixed soon enough that he wouldn't need to worry McCormick at all.
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Petting his spider with gentle hands, he collected the glass specimen jar from the shelf. Harvesting enough venom from his pets took time, and it couldn't be stored for longer than a week. And mixing it with the curare cut that period down to five days. This batch would be his best yet. With the first batch, the chosen one had struggled too much, and the second batch had been too strong. The paralysis had made it hard to lay the body out properly. In the last two cleansings, he'd almost had the mixture perfect. The sinners had been biddable at first, then unable to move as he went about his mission of saving the world.
This batch had to be perfect, because this sinner was one of the worst. The juxtaposition appealed to him. He would use his best efforts to remove one of the worst from his list of chosen offerings. This cleansing would rid the world of a convicted sinner who planned to enforce the law in the future. Those who didn't obey the law themselves could never be permitted to enforce it. That way lay chaos and destruction. But he would stop the travesty before it started. He hoped that his chosen offering would appreciate the care he had taken to make this cleansing perfect. But then, the sinners so seldom appreciated the righteous amongst them.
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Mark savoured being alone on the estate. He knew the judge was worried about him, but the unceasing togetherness over the last week had begun to grate on his nerves. He'd taken an early morning walk on the beach, making promises to himself. He would be more understanding; he wouldn't let Hardcastle's unspoken but ever-present concern bother him; he wouldn't worry about being next on the list to die. He knew he had almost no chance of keeping any of the promises, except possibly the last one, and yet he felt compelled to make them. After all, Hardcastle was the closest thing he had to family, and you had to make accommodations for the quirks of family members. Out on the beach, he could even admit to himself that Hardcastle was the father he wished he'd had as a child.
As he crossed the lawn to the gatehouse, he heard the telephone ringing. Picking up the pace, he dashed through the door and snatched the receiver up. Hearing nothing but silence, he was about to hang up when he heard a menacing whisper, "No more police. Not if you want the old man to live." And then the line went dead. Mark looked at the telephone in bemused shock. He couldn't decide whether to take the call seriously or not. Then he thought of the pictures, and how he had given them to Frank the night before. If he called Frank, maybe it would be the cause of something happening to the judge. But if he didn't report the call and something bad did happen, then Frank would want to know why he hadn't reported another threat. Torn between the two options, Mark decided to create a third choice. He would wait until the judge got back with the truck, and then he would ask his advice on what to do. Nodding to himself, he set off to get the lawnmower out and attack the lawn.
Two hours later, just as Mark was starting to worry about Hardcastle, he heard the sound of the truck's engine coming down the drive. Seizing the opportunity to escape from the mowing, he headed round the front of the house to find out what had taken so long. Getting a tyre changed shouldn't have taken all morning. "Hey, Hardcase, are you getting slow in your dotage? I expected you back ages ago." The sarcasm should have garnered a more immediate response than it did, which set the warning bells ringing in Mark's head. Hardcastle shook his head fondly, "No, McCormick. For your information, I'm nowhere near my dotage. In fact, I plan to skip that phase entirely. But if you want to complain about how long I've been, talk to the mechanic about how fast he works."
"What mechanic? You were only getting a tyre changed." Mark managed to keep the worry out of his voice, but Hardcastle's answer almost had him wishing that he'd taken the truck that morning instead. "The brakes failed, and I had to have them fixed as well. The mechanic said the brake line had worn through." Mark's look of disbelief was so obvious that Hardcastle actually laughed at him. "You know, I do actually know a little bit about cars, kiddo. He showed me the line; it wasn't cut by something sharp. It's just a coincidence that it happened today."
Mark was unconvinced, but he knew he had no chance of making the judge listen to reason at the moment. Perhaps later, after a relaxing lunch by the pool, he could get the judge to consider that it might not have been an accident. As Hardcastle headed into the house, he trudged back to the lawnmower so that he could finish cutting the lawn before lunch.
After finishing up the lawn, and putting the mower away, Mark headed into the gatehouse to wash up before going over to the main house. As he was heading out the door, the telephone rang again. As his mind jumped back to the call he'd received that morning, Mark reluctantly answered the call. Almost expecting the silence on the other end didn't make it any easier to hear. Then the same whisper he'd heard earlier came again, "Now do you believe me?" "What do you want from me?" Mark's desperate question fell into the silence. After a long pause, the voice spoke again, "You'll see." Then the line went dead. Mark's hand shook as he placed the instrument in its cradle. Now what was he going to do? Obviously, the brake line had been tampered with, but clearly he couldn't talk to the judge about it. The caller wanted something from him, and if he did what they wanted, the judge would be safe. He didn't want to keep this secret from the judge, but if that's what the voice wanted in return for Hardcastle's continued safety, then he really had no choice in the matter.
After lunch, Hardcastle broached what he now considered to be a taboo subject, "Frank asked me to come and have a look at the last crime scene. He thought maybe it might ring a bell, or give him some sort of clue as to where he should look for the killer. I know you don't want to be involved, so I'll just go down and meet him at the warehouse …" Hardcastle's voice trailed off at the look of barely suppressed panic in Mark's eyes. The emotion was efficiently squashed as Mark spoke up, "No way, Hardcase. I've told you before, there's no working on a case alone. I'm going with you."
Arriving in the deserted warehouse district, they easily spotted Frank's car outside one of the buildings. The other man was looking up at the empty warehouse in front of him, but turned as he heard the men approaching. Mark tipped his head to Frank in a combination of greeting and silent query, but received only a sigh in return. "No, Mark. I've got nothing on the photographs." Mark shrugged, "I thought that would be the answer, Frank. Thanks for trying, though."
The silence was oppressive, an impression heightened by the dull industrial-style architecture. Frank led the way into the warehouse where the last body had been found. The inside of the building was dark, with stray beams of sunlight filtering in through broken ceiling panels. The floor was old, stained concrete and the walls dingy from years of dust and neglect. Mark refused to think about what had caused the stains on the section of floor that they were heading towards, but the rusty colour made it obvious that a large amount of blood had been spilled recently.
Hardcastle looked around him, and then started to walk in ever-expanding circles from the spot where the body had been. Noting the scuffmarks on the floor, he pointed them out to Frank. "I suppose you've already seen these." At Frank's nod, he continued his walk, murmuring to himself, "Obviously not a completely willing victim. Had to almost drag them to the spot. Wonder if that means anything?" Startled out of his own reverie, Hardcastle heard Mark's voice at his side, "Well, that spot is in the exact centre of the warehouse floor. I always knew it was a bad idea to want to be the centre of attention."
"Hey, Frank, did you hear that?" Harper shook his head as he walked towards the two men. "Mark says that spot is in the exact centre of the building. Do your experts have any theories on that?" Frank shook his head, "You know, I don't think they've even noticed that yet. I'll let them know, and get them to check the previous scenes for the same thing."
Half an hour later, Hardcastle sighed and admitted that there was nothing more he could do. Leaving Frank to return to the police station, the two men took the scenic route back to the estate. Driving past a row of small, slightly seedy looking shops near the warehouse district, Mark was surprised to see someone on the sidewalk waving at them. He didn't recognise the man, but as he was about to mention it to the judge, he saw Hardcastle waving back. "Want me to stop, Judge?" Hardcastle simply shook his head, and leaned back in the seat. After a couple of minutes of silence, Mark's curiosity got the better of him. "Who was that, Judge?"
Hardcastle sighed deeply, then told Mark the short tale. "His name's William Adderley. He used to be a prison guard, a good one, about ten years ago. Before your time. He was stabbed in a prison riot, and nearly died. After he recovered, he couldn't handle working there anymore, so he transferred to the courts in LA. Worked as a bailiff for a few years, one of the most pleasant, as I recall. But that didn't really work out for him either, and he took an early pension; something about a medical retirement. Last I heard, he was working for his son-in-law. Guy owns a pet shop, I think." Hardcastle seemed saddened by the turns the man's life had taken, and Mark wished he hadn't asked the question at all.
"Maybe he's happy there, Judge. Pets are supposed to make you happy. And he didn't look miserable when we passed him just now." Mark hoped that looking at things from another point of view would lift the older man's spirits. The judge smiled at that, "William always did like dogs and kittens; I think he even owned a parakeet once. Maybe you're right, kiddo, perhaps he's happy there."
00000
He'd decided on the warehouse for his next sinner. This one was the best so far. Enough of the roof was missing that the pure light of the moon would guide this one to redemption, or at least, to endless penance. Redemption wasn't an option for those he chose to cleanse. The warehouse was close to where the other cleansings had taken place, and near enough to where he lived that the effects of the venom mixture would be especially potent by the time he arrived with the sinner. The police hadn't realised that every chosen spot had a clear view of the sky, but seeing the heavens was vital. Symmetry was important, and seeing Heaven while entering Hell was the only way to show the sinners what they had forfeited by their own actions. They needed to understand. He understood and he knew what was needed. He'd collected all the necessary equipment, and now he only had to wait two more days. Then the moon would be full. And in it's glorious light, he would carry out one more step on the road to realising his destiny.
00000
It was clear to Hardcastle the next morning that there was something wrong with the kid. Mark's appetite, something of a legend to anyone who knew him, had been conspicuous by its absence at breakfast. And he'd yet to see the kid eat anything else. Yet every enquiry was met with polite denial, and protestations of having just had a snack, or promises to have something a bit later when it wasn't so hot. The younger man also seemed quieter, almost introspective. During term time, that wasn't unusual, but with no essays to write or classes to attend, it was odd. There was nothing specific Hardcastle could point a finger at, but he just knew that something was off-kilter.
Mark was aware that the judge was watching him more closely, but the continued telephone calls made him determined to say nothing to the older man. The telephone call the previous night hadn't been unexpected, but the dread he'd felt when he'd answered the call had been almost nauseating in its strength. The silence had been broken by only two phrases, "Be prepared. Your time will come." That left him with more questions than it answered. The implication of all the messages, so far, was that he could do something to ensure Hardcastle's safety, but not until some unspecified time in the future. And without knowing what to do, or when he'd have to do it, how could he be prepared? He'd spent hours sitting in the dark, thinking of all the things the caller could be talking about, and all the things those two short phrases could mean. And he'd still had no clear idea of what to do when he'd finally managed to fall asleep.
And then, just to reinforce the message, Mark had received another photograph in the morning mail. Luckily, the judge hadn't been in the room when he'd opened the envelope and he'd been able to fold the photograph up and slip it into his pocket before any awkward questions had been asked. Looking at the picture later, he'd felt as chilled as if he'd walked into the meat locker at the local butchery. The picture was of Hardcastle at the warehouse the previous afternoon. The photographer had been close enough that Mark could read the writing on the judge's baseball cap. And none of them had noticed anything unusual. Resolving to keep Hardcastle under his personal surveillance, Mark resigned himself to clearing out the attic for the next few days. He couldn't do the job alone, and he'd have a great view of the neighbourhood from the attic windows. Now all he had to do was convince the judge that he was eager to do something he'd managed to avoid for years.
Needless to say, his suggestion was met with a flabbergasted, "Not that I'm complaining or anything, McCormick, but why the sudden desire to clean out the attic?" Hardcastle sensed there was more to this than a desire to make finding things in the attic easier. Maybe humour would encourage the kid to open up and tell him what the problem was. "That's always the problem with you, Judge. Give you what you want, and you wonder why. Refuse, and have you demand it. I just figured we spent last week in the dust in the basement; this week, we can find out if the dust in the attic is any better." Mark's laughing expression took the sting out of the words. Hardcastle smiled at that, and thought that perhaps he'd been wrong before. Nothing seemed to be bothering the kid now.
00000
Mark had sat through the obligatory John Wayne movie repeat that evening, making all the expected comments and complaints. He could feel the tension coiling inside him, and dreaded going back to the gatehouse. He was positive that there would be another telephone call and he wasn't sure how much more he could take before he slipped up and said something to either Hardcastle or Frank. Finally, when Hardcastle starting making noises about how they should turn in so as to be ready for another day of cleaning out the attic, he had no choice but to make his way across the lawn. Five minutes after he stepped through the door, the call came. This time the message was even shorter, "Time to prepare," followed by the ominous click of the call being ended. Too tense to sleep, Mark waited until the lights in the main house went out, then slipped down to the beach for a walk. Two hours of silent contemplation later, he slipped back into the gatehouse and finally managed to fall asleep.
Hardcastle sighed as he looked down on the gatehouse. He'd known there was something wrong with the kid, but Mark had been avoiding all his attempts to find out what the problem was. He'd also sensed the reluctance to end the evening's bickering togetherness, which was why he'd settled himself in a quiet spot with a good view of the gatehouse. His patience had been rewarded, but not in a way that made anything clearer. Two-hour walks on the beach were McCormick's way of dealing with personal problems, but as far as Hardcastle knew, the kid had nothing to worry about at the moment. What could be so bad that it needed this much thought on the beach, after dark? If only the kid weren't so stubborn, Hardcastle could have simply confronted him the next morning. But that would only cause Mark to withdraw even more. At the moment, it seemed his only option was patient observation, one of his least favourite choices in any situation. Direct action was so much simpler, not to mention a much quicker path to a solution. But for the kid's sake, he would exercise restraint.
00000
The next day passed in a similar fashion, with both Mark and Hardcastle keeping up the pretence that everything was fine. The jokes were a little too hearty and the humour a little too forced, but anything else would have been an admission that things had somehow gone off track. And that was unthinkable. The only positive thing was that the attic looked like an entirely different place. Mark's nervous tension had translated into an almost frantic need to keep busy, which resulted in boxes being moved, re-packed and generally tidied away, while the floor had been swept and the windows washed. Hardcastle couldn't remember the attic ever looking quite that good.
Later that evening, Mark screwed up his courage and made the trip back to the gatehouse. Over the last few years, he'd come to think of the place as his home, a sanctuary against the everyday madness of the world. But now, he was afraid to set foot inside the door. Forcing himself to a nonchalance he didn't really feel, he stepped over the threshold. When the telephone didn't immediately ring, he allowed himself to relax on the couch. Perhaps tonight would be different.
He put the last photograph of Hardcastle on the table and then started to make notes on a yellow legal pad. If anything ever came of the calls, he wanted to be able to remember the proper sequence of events. Writing everything down helped to keep his emotions under control, as he made a point of only committing the actual facts to paper. Once he had the chronology down, he turned to a new page. Here he made notes of the theories he'd considered about the caller, and things he would like to check into, if he could only find a way to speak to Frank without his stalker knowing about it. If no call came tonight, he'd find a way to get the information to Frank in the morning. At least that way, there would be two people who knew what was going on. Burdens shared were always lighter.
Putting the pen down, Mark had just decided that it would be safe to turn in for the night when the telephone rang. Expecting more of the same, he snatched the receiver up and snarled "What?" The silence on the other end was oppressive, and then the voice spoke, "Come alone. You have one hour." Mark glanced at the clock, noting that whatever was going to happen was obviously planned for midnight. The voice continued, giving him a street address on the run-down side of Los Angeles. If he broke the speed limit, he could get there in just under an hour. As the line went dead, Mark wrote the address on his notes, along with the words the caller had spoken.
Eager as he was to get some sort of answers to all his questions, Mark was still cautious when he slipped out the door of the gatehouse. The last thing he wanted was for the judge to see him go and decide to get in his way. He had no time to waste if he was going to get to his appointment on time. As he pushed the Coyote halfway down the driveway, so as not to wake the judge when he started the engine, he failed to notice the curtains moving in one of the upstairs windows.
Hardcastle sighed as he watched the younger man leave. He'd didn't want to invade Mark's privacy, but he figured he could always plead worry as an extenuating circumstance when he apologised later. Striding across to the gatehouse, he marched through the door and came to a sudden halt at the sight of the items on the table. The photograph caught his attention first, and he sat down suddenly when he realised where and when it had been taken. Putting it aside for the moment, he picked up the legal pad and began to read through the information recorded there. By the time he got to the end, he was horrified at the thought that he'd been oblivious to all of it. And then he was furious that the kid had tried to deal with it all alone. He could see that he needed to have a discussion with Mark about the term 'partners' and what a partnership entailed. Always assuming that the kid came back from wherever he'd just gone, still in one piece. That thought galvanised Hardcastle. Claudia wouldn't thank him for calling Frank at home, but McCormick's notes made it clear that calling the precinct was not an option.
Luckily, Frank answered the telephone himself, sounding groggy and out of sorts. "Frank, I think the kid's gone and done something daft." Hardcastle's agitation woke Frank up completely. After getting the rest of the details from the other man, Frank decided, "Okay, Milt, I'll meet you at that address in an hour and a half. I'm just going to take a run past Records first and find out who owns the property. I know what Mark's notes say, but I know someone who'll look it up quietly for me. No-one will ever know I've been looking." Hardcastle reluctantly agreed, and checked the clock. "Right, I'll meet you there at one o' clock." Hanging up the telephone, Hardcastle went back to the main house to collect his keys and then headed out in the truck.
00000
Mark pulled the Coyote over and parked it at the side of the deserted road. Checking his watch he saw that he had made it with five minutes to spare. Getting out of the car, he looked around for some sign of what to do next. Sensing a movement off to one side, he realised that the shadow at the side of the house nearest to the car was moving. A nondescript middle-aged man moved out from under the overhang of the roof and motioned for Mark to walk towards him. Mark grimaced at the thought of leaving his car where it was. He'd be lucky if it was still there when he came back to it. Taking a few more steps towards the man, he was suddenly struck by the strangest feeling of having seen the man before. And yet, he was sure that they'd never met. As he hesitated, the man took one step forward and Mark felt a sharp, burning sensation just above his watch. His gaze flashed down to see the other man tucking a syringe back into his pocket.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? What was in that?" Mark's fury was mixed with fear. The burning feeling was spreading quickly up his arm and leaving a sense of weakness behind it. He turned to make a run for the car, but was caught by two strong arms. "I told you to prepare. Your time has come." Five minutes later, Mark felt the grip relax, but he found himself feeling dreadfully lethargic. A gentle shove from the man behind him set him off on a stumbling walk down the road. At the next corner, he was herded into an old blue car, and he felt the other man fasten his safety belt. For some reason, that seemed hilarious to Mark, and he sat there giggling while the other man drove.
The trip was short and their final destination even more derelict than the area where Mark had left his car. He knew that he should be trying to escape and find a way to call the police, but the lassitude spreading through him made it hard to think. The one thought that did stick out, though, was that Hardcastle would be pleased to know that he was right: Mark was the target this time. This also seemed amusing, bringing on another round of uncontrollable giggling. The other man led him out of the car and into a darkened building. The light was faint and diffuse, but the full moon was clear to see through the missing ceiling sheets. A firm push sent Mark in the direction of a cleared space on the floor. Looking up he could see the moon directly above him. Moving was becoming difficult, and only sharp commands from his captor could force him to move.
Then the other man grabbed hold of him and forced him to lie down on the floor. There was already a long white sheet laid out on the floor, and the man positioned Mark in the centre of it. Mark tried to struggle, but all he could manage were a few twitches of his hands and feet, and he found himself unable to move. Terrified, he rolled his eyes towards the other man, only to find that he'd disappeared. Mark tried to yell for help, only to find that he'd lost control of his vocal chords as well.
A faint noise behind him caused his heart rate to jump, slowing slightly when he recognised his captor. But this time, the man was carrying a large knife, the moonlight glinting off the sharp blade. Eyes fixed on the moonlit blade, Mark barely heard the man's monologue begin. "You're all the same, you know. You're all sinners, and you must be made to repent. Look up, look at the heavens above. See how beautiful it is; the light, the purity. Everything you are not. And now, consider this: tonight the world will be cleansed of your evil." With those words, the man stepped forward and lifted Mark's left arm. With one sharp movement of the knife, he sliced open Mark's arm. The pain was sharp and sudden, but even that impetus wasn't enough to break Mark's paralysis. The man repeated the movement on Mark's right arm, and then dropped the knife on the floor. He folded Mark's arms across his chest, and stood back to admire his handiwork, making a few minor adjustments until Mark was laid out to his satisfaction. Mark hoped that the killer had forgotten the dropped knife and wondered if the police would find fingerprints on it.
Mark closed his eyes against the pain. Maybe, if he put all his effort into one movement, he'd be able to get away. But instead, he now found himself unable to open his eyes again. Whimpering in frustration, he put all his effort into lifting one eyelid, only to fail dismally. Then he heard the man come closer. Gentle fingers lifted his eyelids for him. Mark found himself looking past glove-encased fingers straight up at the night sky. So much for fingerprint evidence. "You need to see what can never be yours. You are a stain on the world, but your blood will cleanse the evil."
With that, the man moved to wrap Mark in the shroud he was lying on. Then he pinned a slip of paper to Mark's chest. Mark knew what the police would find on the paper, and he regretted the fact that Frank would be the one to confirm the identity given on the paper. He hoped Frank would be able to keep Hardcastle away from the warehouse. He didn't want the judge to see him like this. At least he could be sure that Hardcastle was safe, and that he would stay that way. The photographs had been to get his willing co-operation, and never a real threat to the older man. All in all, a life for a life seemed like a fair trade to Mark.
Mark's chest and back were starting to feel cold and damp now, and he realised with horror that he must be lying in his own blood. And that he would bleed to death here.
00000
Arriving at the address given in Mark's notes, Hardcastle found the Coyote parked at the side of the road. There was no sign of Mark. The neighbourhood was a slightly rundown one, and the judge marvelled that Mark had been willing to leave the car there. Frank drove up as Hardcastle was checking for any sign of foul play near the car. The older man was hiding it well, but Frank could see the near-panic in his eyes.
"I've checked the property records for this address, Milt. The house belongs to one Michael Wilson. Never been in trouble with the law, aside from the odd parking fine. He also owns his own business, just a couple of blocks away from here. Something to do with exotic pets, apparently. Then he also rents space in a warehouse about two miles from here. It seems he imports animals from places like Brazil and needs somewhere to keep them while they clear Customs." Frank's terse recitation didn't quell Hardcastle's concern. "So, what do you think Mark was doing here, Frank?"
Frank shook his head and checked his notebook again. "The only other thing I could find out at this time of night is that he's married. About six years ago, to a woman named Patricia. She's also from around here, also never been in any sort of trouble."
Hardcastle turned slowly around in a full circle, taking in the whole neighbourhood and trying to figure out where McCormick could have gone. "Okay, I know this sounds a little out there, Frank, but let's assume that wherever the kid is, has some connection to this Michael person. They're obviously not here, and there's not much chance they'd be at his pet shop at this hour of the morning. So that leaves the warehouse. Have you got an address for it?" At Frank's nod, the judge moved towards his truck. "Well, let's get moving then. Time's a-wasting!" Frank simply shook his head and jogged back to his own car to lead the way to the warehouse.
Arriving at the address, Frank saw nothing unusual. The area was quiet and dark, with no sounds of life anywhere nearby. A stray cat suddenly shot past him, making him jump in fright. Hardcastle's truck pulled up behind his car, and soon the two men were walking around the warehouse in question, looking for a way in. All the doors were locked, and the sounds they made pulling on the doors echoed loudly in the night. Parked at the corner of the next street was an old blue car. And yet, there was no sign of the driver. Indicating the car with a tilt of his head, Milt waited for Frank to go over and check it out. A couple of minutes later, Frank was back at the judge's side, indicating with a shake of his head that the car truly was abandoned. A quiet scraping noise from the other side of the warehouse door had both men stepping back into the shadows.
Inside the warehouse, the killer paused in his observation of Mark's death. No-one should have been nearby. Perhaps it was just a homeless man looking for a place to sleep. The sounds faded and he looked back to his victim. Strangely enough, this cleansing had not been as satisfying as the others. Those men had begged for him to spare their lives, and they'd begged him to promise that their loved ones would be safe. For the first few minutes, it had been thrilling to realise how much power he had, but after that, it had actually been a relief when the drugs had taken their voices. This one hadn't even bothered to beg, and that disturbed him. Perhaps he would punish this victim by leaving him alone to die. He didn't deserve to be shepherded into the next life if he couldn't truly appreciate this one.
His decision made, the killer turned and collected his tools. He stripped off his gloves, collected the knife off the floor, and packed everything into a small bag. Hitching the strap over his shoulder, he made his way to the door set in the far corner of the empty space. Taking the key out of his pocket, he scrabbled at the lock slightly before unlocking the door. Sliding it open just enough to slide through the gap, he turned and locked the door behind him. Hefting the bag over his shoulder again, he turned to walk towards the blue car.
"Just a minute, there." Frank's voice sounded overly loud in the silence. "What are you doing here at this time of night?" Spinning around with a startled jerk, the man dropped the bag to the floor.
"I'm just checking up on some of our animals. We import them from overseas and they can get skittish if you leave them alone for more than a day." The idea made sense, but, "At quarter to two in the morning?" Frank's disbelief was evident. "Why don't you tell me what you were really doing here." "It's the truth. I have a right to be here. Ask my son-in-law if you want to. They're his animals." The tone was belligerent and the man shifted uneasily on his heels, as if restraining himself from running by an act of will.
"Okay, I will. Who are you, and where can I find your son-in-law?" Frank was feeling argumentative himself.
"I'm William Adderley, and my son-in-law is Michael Wilson." Before Frank could say another word, Hardcastle stepped into the light and spoke, "You're Patti's father?" At the other man's nod, Hardcastle smiled. "She was a great kid. I remember she used to show up at the courthouse in the afternoons after school to see you." The tension in William's shoulders eased slightly. "It's okay, Frank, I know him." Hardcastle's acceptance caused Frank to take a step back. "Sorry about that. You can't be too careful these days." William smiled and turned back towards his car. "True. I'll be off home then. Nice seeing you again, Judge Hardcastle."
Hardcastle nodded, looking after William with a puzzled smile. "That's it then, Frank. There's nothing here to find. I was so sure … I guess we should just head back to the estate. Maybe by the time we get there Mark will be back, wondering where we are!"
Walking away, Hardcastle's shoe scuffed against something on the floor. Looking down, he saw a bag lying on the floor. He was sure it hadn't been there earlier, and then he remembered William dropping it when Frank startled him. As he scooped it up to take home with him, the flap fell open, allowing the moonlight to glint off a bloody knife.
"Frank …" Hardcastle's hushed voice brought the detective around sharply. Hardcastle lifted the bag to show him the knife, and Frank immediately started towards the door of the warehouse. Breaking it open, he led the charge into the dim interior, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of another body laid out on the floor. Hardcastle brushed past him, sudden recognition spurring him on. "Frank, that's Mark!" he choked out, as he dashed towards the still form lying in an ever-growing pool of blood.
Mark heard the sound of people running towards him, and then Hardcastle's face came into view above him. Desperate hands shook his shoulders, while the judge ranted at him. "What did you think you were doing, McCormick? You should've told me what was going on. You didn't have to do this." Then Mark heard material rip, followed by painful pressure on his left arm. Then the same type of pressure took up residence on his right arm. Hardcastle was trying to stop the bleeding.
"Frank, he's still alive. Call an ambulance, fast. I can't stop the bleeding properly like this." Frank disappeared to make the necessary call. Hardcastle settled himself on the floor next to Mark, feeling the blood on the floor soak into his trousers. Ignoring the wet stickiness, he got a firm grip on Mark's arms and applied more pressure over the makeshift bandages. "Kiddo, why didn't you just talk to me? I thought we'd moved past this business of keeping secrets from each other. You know me better than that. Or, at least, I thought you did." Hardcastle sounded so alone that Mark ached for him. He wanted desperately to say something, anything, to explain his actions, but the only sound he could make was a muffled whimper. Hardcastle heard it, though, and leaned closer. "I don't know if you can hear me, Mark, but you need to hang on. Just a little longer, that's all. The ambulance is coming." There was no response. Hardcastle tightened his grip on Mark's arms, the blood slick between his fingers. "I can't lose you, kiddo. Not like this, for no reason. Do you even know how much you mean to me? Hang on, kiddo, please. I can't lose another son." The last words were whispered close to Mark's ear.
A clatter of running feet behind the judge marked Frank's return. "The ambulance should be here in ten minutes. Apparently, it's a quiet time of night, so we got lucky." Although, Frank admitted to himself, it didn't look so lucky from where Mark was lying. "Frank, William Adderley must be your serial killer. This is just like the other victims, isn't it?" Hardcastle's thoughts had followed the same path as Frank's. "True, Milt. Which is why I've got a patrol car on the way to his house now, and an APB out on his car. We'll have him before dawn. And this time, we'll have a witness as well."
"Only if Mark lives that long, Frank. How much blood can the human body lose before it's too much?" And on that less than comforting note, Mark finally lost his tenuous grip on consciousness.
Epilogue
And now, here he was. Flat on his back in the hospital. Alone. Surrounded by irritating machines and stuck full of needles. Mark blinked his eyes a few times, just because he could, and then sighed. How was he going to make things right with the judge when the other man obviously didn't want to spend time in the same room with him? And yet, he was sure he remembered the judge saying things to him before he passed out. Important things. But perhaps he'd imagined what he needed to hear. The sudden tightness behind his eyes heralded unwanted tears and he sniffed hard to curb them.
"I'm not holding the tissue so you can blow your nose, hotshot." Hardcastle's welcome voice broke into Mark's ruminations. "Judge, I thought …" Mark trailed off, uncomfortably aware of how emotional he sounded. Then he realised, "Hey, I can talk again!" The happiness threatened to bring the tears back again. "Shouldn't you be at home, getting some sleep? You're not looking so hot there, Judge." Mark figured that changing the topic might be enough to help him get his emotions under control again. "Look who's talking, kiddo. I'm not the one who left a couple of litres of red stuff on a cement floor. Which is actually a good thing, by the way."
Mark's bemused stare caused Hardcastle to laugh. "That stuff you were injected with?" At Mark's attempt at a nod, he continued, "It was a combination of curare and spider venom. An Australian funnel web spider, I think that's what the specialist said. You losing so much blood actually helped to flush the poison out of your system. So you woke up sooner than the doctors thought you would. They didn't think you'd wake up for at least another six hours." Hardcastle didn't see the point in telling Mark that one of the specialists had been convinced he wouldn't wake up at all.
Mark had to know, "So why can't I move, Judge? What's wrong with me?" The undertone of desperation was well hidden, but clear to those who knew Mark well. "It's the effect of combining the spider venom and the curare, kiddo. The doctors say it'll wear off in the next couple of days. Then you can come home, although they think you shouldn't do too much for a couple of weeks. You might rip the stitches." That was when Mark saw that both his forearms sported pristine white bandages, covering the wounds the killer had made.
Sensing where Mark's thoughts had wandered, Hardcastle decided to tell him the rest of the story. He was sure he'd probably have to repeat it all again the next day, but that was a small price to pay for Mark's life. "William Adderley is our serial killer." Mark's gasp of recognition distracted the judge. "I thought I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place him."
"Well, he slipped a gear somewhere upstairs," a finger tapped tellingly against a temple, "after the stabbing I told you about. It seems he's been planning to rid society of 'evil' ever since. You remember I told you his son-in-law had a pet shop?" Another slight nod. "Well, I didn't know it was exotic pets; you know the sort, snakes, spiders, scorpions. Lots of venomous things. And William figured he could use the venom from the animals the shop imported and make his own little concoction to keep his victims still."
"The curare?" Mark's question was hesitant. Hardcastle carried on, "His son-in-law, Michael, has a small supply of it, that he got from the local animal clinic. So William had everything he needed. Michael hardly ever used the stuff, so he didn't even know it was gone."
"He's not still out there, is he, Judge? I don't want this to happen to someone else." Mark's eyes indicated the hospital room and all it represented. "No, kiddo. Frank arrested him not long after he did this to you." Hardcastle flapped a hand at the room in general. "And he's already confessed. In fact, he's only too pleased to tell us everything we want to know. Not to mention, he told us all about the photographs. It seems he used that little piece of nastiness on all his victims. I'm just sorry for Patti, his daughter; she's a nice girl. She doesn't deserve this."
Mark's eyes were beginning to droop now, and Hardcastle got one final thought in. "Sleep now, Mark. I'll be here when you wake up."
00000
Coming awake in the broad daylight, Mark tested his limbs, pleased to find them less sluggish than they had been the previous night. The gentle snoring noise at the side of the bed caused him to glance that way. Turning his head also came easier this time, and he was treated to the sight of Hardcastle asleep in the plastic chair, chin sunk onto his chest, fast asleep. Mark didn't have the heart to wake him, and spent the next half hour watching the other man sleep, and thanking his Maker that they were both still alive.
Waking with a start, Hardcastle couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. A slight chuckle from the direction of the bed answered his question easily. Giving in to a huge yawn, he eyed McCormick speculatively. The younger man looked better and seemed to be moving more easily. And now that Hardcastle knew he'd recover fully, he could let the anger he felt come out. "Do you remember what we talked about last night?" Mark nodded, pleased at how easily he could command his head to move. "What the hell did you think you were doing, McCormick? You could've died out there!"
"Now, hold it just one second, Hardcase. I didn't plan to be victim number four, you know! I didn't even know he was the killer until we got to the warehouse." Taking a deep breath, Mark added one last point. "And even if I had known, I would still have gone."
"But why?" Hardcastle was struggling to see the logic behind Mark's actions. "What possessed you to willingly walk into a situation that could lead to your death?" Mark willed the older man to understand, "Because, some things, some people, Judge … they're just worth whatever it costs to keep them safe." Hardcastle was stunned. It seemed that he wasn't the only one who felt that he'd found a family in the last few years. "Mark, you can't do that sort of thing … not for me."
"Judge, stop it, please. I made a choice last night … " Hardcastle shook his head and held up two fingers. "Two nights ago?" Mark was incredulous. "Oh. Okay, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," Mark smiled at the judge, who shook his head fondly, "I decided that what I was risking was worth the reward. He meant it, Judge, what he said in the telephone calls. I couldn't let him hurt you. He'd already tampered with your brakes; he could have done something worse. In the end, it was a simple choice to make." Mark's sincerity defused some of the judge's anger.
"But it's okay to offer yourself up as a sacrificial lamb. What am I going to do with you?" Hardcastle's exasperation was clear and an indication that things were on their way back to normal. "I don't know, Judge, what do you think you should do?" Mark managed a quick grin.
"What I should do is put you over my knee and tan your hide for doing something so foolhardy, kiddo. But, I spent a lot of time thinking last night. I might have done something similar in your position. I can't say I approve of what you did, but I can almost understand it. I'm just not sure that anything, or anyone, is worth that sort of sacrifice." Mark's mind flashed back to the softly whispered words he'd heard in the warehouse. "Did you mean it, Judge? What you said in the warehouse, I mean?" The judge ducked his head and shifted uncomfortably on the chair, reassuring Mark that he'd heard right. He basked in the warmth he felt at knowing how the judge really felt about him. Letting the other man off the hook, he smiled gently, "Then I guess it was worth it, Judge."