Ictus

by L.M.Lewis

A jolt to the system and a period of adjustment.

Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: AU alert. This is set in the late third season, in about the same space occupied by the episode "In the Eye of the Beholder". In the canon timeline Mark would have begun attending law school and be nearing the end of his parole, neither event apparently meriting any discussion between him and the judge.

Ictus

by L.M. Lewis

Some nights at Gull's Way weren't all that dark, and very few were stormy, but this one was both. It had been Hardcastle's intention to watch the Lakers take on the Celtics. Normally he'd even have had some money on it, just a token bet to keep things interesting, but his usual betting partner had been claiming strained resources lately.

The judge thought maybe it was part of McCormick's ongoing efforts to negotiate himself a higher salary. Hardcastle hadn't come right out and said he'd cover the cost of rebuilding of the Coyote, that much he figured was understood. He wasn't sure exactly what other expenses the kid was incurring. It certainly wasn't room and board—McCormick had a free roof over his head and all the Banana Surprise and Pinky Fizz a guy could want.

He had half a suspicion there was a girl involved. McCormick was out a couple nights a week, pretty regular, and almost always dressed as though he intended to make an impression.

"A girl with expensive tastes," he muttered to himself, looking over his shoulder into the hallway.

McCormick was supposed to be fetching the popcorn. He must've gotten sidetracked. It'd been at least fifteen minutes since he'd departed. It was obvious that he'd had no real interest in the game.

"'Course not, no money riding on it," he sighed.

"Huh?" Mark popped around the edge of the doorway just then, looking up from a book, no snacks in sight. "Hey, you ever look at some of these books you've got? This one's pretty old." He closed it slightly, holding up the tooled-leather cover, dark with age.

"Popcorn?" Hardcastle replied pointedly.

Mark paused in mid-step then came down on the landing and looked suddenly rueful. "Sorry . . . forgot." He put down what he'd brought on the edge of the desk and turned to depart again. "Won't take long."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud—they're in the fourth period. Never mind," Hardcastle grumbled. "You're losin' it, kiddo, you know that? You'd forget your head if it weren't screwed on. I think it's women. Like the old-time coaches used to say—no women before a game."

"Before you watch a game?" Mark shook his head, gathered up the book, and sank into a chair. "Sheesh, that's pretty harsh. Anyway," he thumbed open a page, "I said I'm sorry and I wasn't watching the game." He snuck a look at the screen. "Who's winning?"

"It's the Lakers by two."

"You sure about the popcorn? Might still have time." Mark smiled evilly.

"Nah," Hardcastle sniffed. He brushed the offer away with one hand and went back to concentrating on the television. The Celts scored the tying two points just as the clock ran down.

"Look at this," Mark murmured. "All these myths and fables. Makes you wonder, huh?"

"Make's me wonder what you've been smokin'."

"Hey," Mark didn't even look up, turning another page, "these paintings are amazing. I dunno—I wouldn't have that much imagination. 'Leprechauns—look, it says they're the guardians of the ancient hoards of gold left by Danish marauders."

Hardcastle didn't take his eyes off the screen as the game headed into overtime. "It's a bunch of hooey—no such things as little green men."

"They aren't green," Mark said indignantly. "Look at the picture." He held the book up, spread wide and facing out. Hardcastle wasn't looking.

Mark sighed and turned it toward himself, pouring over the text one more time.

"They look like old men," he half-quoted solemnly, "and you believe in Danes, don't ya?"

"That's different. Everybody believes in Danes because there are Danes."

"You ever seen a Danish marauder?"

Hardcastle cast him an impatient glance. There was a sudden roar from the crowd in attendance at the game. He'd missed the three-pointer that had put the Lakers back in the lead.

Mark just shook his head and got to his feet. "I'm gonna borrow this, okay?" He held the book up one more time, now closed.

Hardcastle didn't respond and Mark finally tucked the volume under his arm. The rain had stopped, by the sound of things. Hardcastle paid the younger man no further heed as he headed up the steps, opened the front door, and exited.

The weather reprieve must have been temporary because only a moment later the room was illuminated by a brilliant flash of lightning with a simultaneous rumble of thunder that shook the house. Hardcastle came to his feet almost involuntarily; his first thought that one of the nearer trees had fallen, maybe even onto the roof.

The lightning recurred. The judge was over at the front window when the next pulsation lit up the yard uncannily for enough seconds to be useful. The first thing he saw was an unexpected shape at the edge of the drive, halfway to the gatehouse. Then the view was plunged back into pitch blackness, made more impenetrable by the violence of the preceding light.

Hardcastle stood stock-still with only the afterimage burned on his mind's eye. Then he turned, bolting up the two steps and fumbling briefly with the lock. He was out the door, straining to see anything but what he had.

"McCormick?"

No answer. He took the steps down in quick strides, mindless of his slippered feet and the puddles. He could see it now by just the light from the den window.

"McCormick?"

He'd closed the space between him and what was obviously Mark's prostrate form. No movement, face down but turned to the side. No answer. He reached out and touched the side of the younger man's neck. A pulse, thank God, though it seemed erratic, but otherwise there was deathly stillness. No chest movements even, and the pulse, still erratic, seemed to be slowing.

"My God—"

All the rules about not moving the injured went by the board. Hardcastle turned him onto his back and confirmed his horrible suspicion. No movement whatsoever. He bent over, his mind strangely detached and functioning on some sort of autopilot that left fear sitting off to the side. It was easier than he'd thought—easier than inflating a child's toy balloon. He checked the pulse between cycles. It seemed to be steadying.

With an eerily calm presence of mind he realized he'd have to summon help at some point, but at the moment this seemed to be the help that was needed most desperately. Before he could make up his mind further, there was a sudden feeling of resistance. He realized in the nick of time what it meant, and was able to roll him—this time onto his side, something he vaguely recollected was "the rescue position". The heaving wasn't very productive, but it was followed by a deep gasping breath.

"That's it, that's it," the judge said, adding a couple of thumps on the back and swiping his hand across his own face.

His relief was short-lived, though. Mark's breath departed as a moan and what had looked at first like the return of consciousness quickly escalated into rigidity, and then into sudden, mindless jerking spasms accompanied by a horrible guttural groan. The sound was unearthly, inhuman, but lasted only as long as an exhaled breath. After that there was only a series of quick grunting sounds.

The whole thing lasted perhaps a minute, though it felt much longer. It subsided into smaller, slower jerks and ragged breathing. McCormick's lips were flecked with blood—brown in the dim light—but he was definitely breathing.

An ambulance. Hardcastle felt the younger man's pulse one last time—fast but regular.

"Okay, you just stay here," he said, feeling foolish as he said it.

He was on his feet, loping toward the front door, casting a quick look over his shoulder just before he took the stairs. No change from back there. He ducked inside and then lunged down the steps into the den. His fingers were clumsy in his haste, but he punched the three numbers and even managed not to shout at the professionally calm dispatcher.

00000

He told the paramedics what he'd seen. He told the triage nurse, and the regular nurse, and eventually he told some young whippersnapper of a doctor—younger even than McCormick—what had happened. Every time he answered their questions he held out a few of his own. No one seemed to be very forthcoming until he finally lost his temper and demanded to see somebody in charge.

That guy was a grizzled, gray-haired fellow not many years shy of Hardcastle himself. "You the one making all that noise?"

The judge was willing to admit it. "I just wanna know how my friend's doing. They brought him in almost forty-five minutes ago—McCormick."

The older doc nodded. "Seizure, following a suspected lightning strike?"

The judge swallowed once and then nodded. It seemed worse, hearing it spelled out like that.

"You're a friend, not family?"

Hardcastle grit his teeth, preparing to do battle with the distinction, if it meant he wasn't privileged to get any information.

"Now, don't get up on your high horse," the doc said kindly. "I was just hoping somebody knew a little more about our patient. Any previous history of seizures? Epilepsy?"

"No, none."

"You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Hardcastle replied with some exasperation. "He was a professional driver. He never could have gotten certified with any history like that. Is he awake yet?"

"No, he's not, otherwise I wouldn't be asking you these questions, now would I?" the doctor said, calmly sensible.

"He's still in a coma?"

"Not exactly. He's in-between. It's what we call being post-ictal. The ictal part is when a person's actually having a seizure. In his case, if he's never had one before, it's probably the result of whatever happened tonight—most likely it was a lightning strike."

"He'll wake up? He's gonna be all right?"

"He's already waking up some—in fact we had to sedate him."

At Hardcastle's look of questioning alarm the doc sidetracked a bit, "It was in order to get the CT scan. Once we have that I'll have a better idea about the 'being all right' part. We need to make sure he didn't have any bleeding up there, and no injury from the fall."

Hardcastle considered this for a moment. He was tempted to ask how long it would be for those results, when he suddenly realized bad news could wait. He'd be content with seeing McCormick for himself.

"When can I—?"

"See him? Soon as he's back from CT." The doctor glanced down at this watch. "Shouldn't be much longer. Someone will come get you." He nodded once sharply and departed back into his lair.

The judge was left sitting, feeling dissatisfied despite being grateful. He supposed needing sedation was a good sign—certainly better than not breathing. He looked down at his own watch. He also supposed he ought to call somebody. Once they found out, there'd be a passel of people mad at him for not calling promptly—Mattie Groves being at the head of the list—but he didn't feel much like discussing the uncertainty that was gnawing at the edges of his patience right now.

No, better to have Mark explain it to everybody when he was back on his feet in a couple of days. Struck by lightning. Hah. It was like the hole-in-one of bad luck.

He frowned. He hadn't asked how long they'd have to keep him here. The kid hated hospitals, as he'd found out back in January. He'd always had the notion that McCormick was a laid-back, easy-going kind of guy, but watching him go stir-crazy hadn't been a pretty sight. Maybe the sedation wasn't such a bad idea.

This meditation was interrupted by someone else from inside, another guy—this one younger—in scrubs. "You're with Mr. McCormick?"

Hardcastle nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. The whole thing back in January—starting with the hours of wondering if McCormick were already dead--was a little too close to the surface.

"The doc says you can come in and see him now."

He nodded again and got to his feet stiffly. The man waited by the door and held it open for him as he stepped inside. Hardcastle stood, momentarily hesitant in the well-lit bustle.

"This way," his guide said, leading him back along a corridor, past closed curtains and snatches of conversations.

The guy in scrubs reached for the edge of one curtain, turning as he did so. "He's still kinda out of it."

One more nod from Hardcastle, who just wanted to see for himself, no matter what right now. He resisted the urge to push the other man out of the way. The curtain parted and he snaked past, taking in all the unfamiliarly familiar stuff that cluttered such places and then fixing on the object of all that machinery, lying still on the gurney.

His color was better and they'd cleaned up the blood. There wasn't any sign of where it had come from. He bit his tongue, some part of Hardcastle's brain said helpfully. He supposed that must have been true. Already the whole episode seemed unreal, or maybe surreal.

"McCormick?" he asked tentatively.

To Hardcastle's immense relief, there was some mumbling and a little facial movement.

"Hey, kiddo," he said with a little more urgency, "you think you could maybe wake up here?"

Mark's lids came unglued. It was slow progress that consisted mostly of an unfocused gaze and no commentary.

"You're in the hospital," Hardcastle offered helpfully.

"Uh . . ."

"That's it. Rise and shine."

He was a long way from shining and rising probably wasn't such a hot idea yet, but Mark blinked a couple times and his gaze wandered absently over his surroundings, as if he were actually processing some of what he'd just been told.

Hardcastle pulled up a chair and settled himself into it. This looked like it was going to take some time, but he was the soul of patience now, just having gotten this far.

McCormick's eyes had come to rest on him again. One long, tired drift shut and then they popped open again.

"Whuh?"

He'd probably meant 'What?', or maybe even 'What happened?'—a reasonable question.

"Lightning. We think. You don't remember, huh?"

Mark said nothing one way or the other, but his expression was now distinctly a frown. At least he was with it enough to be confused.

"You were walking across the drive—heading home. You remember any of that?"

Nothing.

"There was a big flash of lightning. Bam . . . I found you laying there, conked out."

He didn't go into the details of just what that had entailed. He thought this was enough for a first pass. McCormick's eyes were drifting shut again.

"It's okay. You sleep. Everything'll be okay."

He reached out and absently patted the younger man's arm then sat back and sighed. It looked like the kid was already out of it again. He took another deep breath and got to his feet, moving the scant few steps back to the curtain and sticking his head out. He didn't want to make a nuisance of himself and risk having the visiting regulations invoked, but he wanted to know more—

"Hey, Doc—" He'd caught sight of the older guy whose name he still didn't know. He was coming out of another room a few curtains down. "The CT?"

The man looked up from the chart he'd been scanning. He seemed to take a moment to recall and then, just as the judge had felt fear slipping back in to have another clutch at him—

"Normal . . . we'll be admitting him for twenty-four hours monitoring—that part's just a precaution, an electrocution and all, the heart—"

Hardcastle nodded his understanding as the man's explanation strayed and stopped. He had obviously moved on to other things, other problems. This had to be a good sign. The judge ducked back into the cubicle, turning back to the now-sleeping McCormick.

"One day," he said quietly. "You can handle that." And in his relief he pushed all other nagging, unformed concerns to the side.

00000

Eventually they'd taken him up to a room. There were still monitors, but except for those it was quiet and less crowded. Through all of it Mark had mostly slept, only occasionally rousing himself enough to follow some simple commands. The observation unit staff had settled him in and set everything up.

Hardcastle, who'd hung around feeling underfoot and been sent off to the waiting area at a couple of junctures, now stood at the bedside, still feeling pretty useless.

"Go home, get some sleep," Marie the night nurse suggested. "That's what he's gonna do." She glanced down at the chart and then up again. "All night, I'm betting."

"They really knocked him out down there in the ER, huh?" Hardcastle asked, willing to believe that that was mostly what this was.

The nurse nodded. "Nobody likes a fuzzy cat scan, besides, the same drugs they use to make sure they hold still also prevent further seizures." She smiled. "It's a two-fer."

Hardcastle looked up sharply. "'Prevent'? I thought it was a one-time deal. Ya know—just hit by lightning and all." He frowned. "Why would it happen again?"

"Oh, well," the nurse hesitated, as if she didn't want to open anymore cans of worms at this late hour. "Listen, you're probably right. They've just got him scheduled for a couple more tests in the morning, an EEG and another CT. Just a precaution. But you ought to go home and get some sleep. You can come back in the morning and talk to the doctor."

"What time is he usually around?" Hardcastle asked grumpily.

The nurse glanced down at the chart again. "Dr. Monroe? Um, he's an early bird. Not too early though. Eightish."

"'Eightish' it is, then." Hardcastle let out one sigh. "Long day . . . long weird day. Lightning," he shook his head wearily, "who'd've figured that . . .?"

He leaned over, hesitated, then laid one hand on McCormick's arm, an unaccustomedly gentle touch intended not to wake him. It was more to reassure himself, he supposed.

"G'night, kiddo. See ya in the morning."

There was no response to that, either, and if there had been, he might have been inclined to hang around longer and annoy the nurses even more. Instead he headed out, figuring he'd have enough time for a four-hour nap and still make it back by the appointed hour.

00000

The storm had blown off, leaving little sign of its passing. The taxi driver pulled around the fountain and dropped him off not ten steps from where the whole thing had happened. Hardcastle climbed out slowly, rummaged through his wallet for the correct bills, and watched the man drive away.

Then his eyes were drawn to the spot, though he couldn't be precisely sure where it had been. It wasn't as though there was a blazing scar on the pavement—not so much as a blemish. He did see one thing—laying forgotten a little ways over at the edge of the grass.

The book—closed. He walked over to it, and reached down. Its cover was damp but not sodden. It was old—Nancy's father had collected such things—old books from the Auld Sod. He didn't know if it was valuable or not, but McCormick had liked it.

After a moment's thought he decided he'd wipe it off and leave it in the gatehouse. He felt a little foolish doing this at two in the morning, but it was the first even semi-useful thing available for him to do for many hours now. He headed that way to act on his whim, stepping into the grass and realizing that he'd spent the whole night—ER and all—in his slippers. Dotage, no question.

He let himself into the smaller house, which had been left unlocked. Of course McCormick hadn't expected to be away for the night. Stepping in, he flipped the switch, shielding his eyes for a moment against the sudden brightness. They gradually accommodated and he looked around. It was a little neater than usual, further evidence that McCormick might be squiring some young thing. He was pretty sure it was off between him and that Pledger girl—the card shark.

He headed to the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and gave the book a thorough going over. It was a handsome thing, even the spine with its raised ridges and gold lettering. He could see why it'd grabbed McCormick's attention.

What was he doing in the library? Come to think of it, it hadn't been the first time. Hardcastle frowned. It was hardly a stoning offense, though he had to admit, the kid was sometimes a little furtive going in and out of there. He'd never issued him any kind of official invitation, he supposed, to make himself at home, not that McCormick was one to stand on such formalities for most things.

He finished the wiping and continued the pondering, looking around for somewhere to stash the book. There were already a couple of them on the end table next to the sofa. He picked those up and put this latest, largest addition on the bottom. The smaller one on top looked familiar. He frowned. Kimmons on Evidence. Had he lent that one to McCormick?

He thumbed it open. No, not his copy. A used one, though, resold through the UCLA bookstore. He frowned and put it down, then looked around the room with a suddenly more attentive eye. It was only a second or so before he headed up the steps.

Nothing obvious there; the little desk was unusually clean. A spare pair of tennies sat side-by-side on the floor next to the bed. His squint narrowed a little more. A corner of something protruded from under the bed. Black, nylon—he stooped and tugged at it. Heavy. One grunt and he had it out far enough—a duffle bag that, except for its weight, he would have suspected held the contraband that Mark found useful in evidence procurement. Curiosity mingled with concern and he unapologetically unzipped the bag.

Books.

He lifted the top one out—Emanuel on Civil Procedure. A newish edition but well-thumbed by some previous owner. Kimmons made some kind of weird but practical sense. This, however, left behind all likely suppositions—it was the stuff law students spent their late nights pondering.

He froze, then unstuck himself and put Emanuel back where he'd found it, not probing any deeper. He rezipped the bag and took some care to push it back under, precisely where he'd found it.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. It wasn't possible. No. He frowned. No, not impossible, merely unlikely. For one thing, how the hell would he be paying for it? The Coyote was the only thing he owned that was worth anything—though from Hardcastle's past and recent experiences with insurance brokers, he'd gathered that it was worth quite a bit.

Collateral. But if it was, then right now the collateral was lying in several pieces down in Benny's car shop. No wonder the kid'd been at ends about fixing it, and no wonder he's always strapped for cash these days.

Even used textbooks cost bucks—he knew that. He frowned again. Somehow he'd leaped over all the other likely roadblocks directly to the means part of 'ways and means', and that having been solved, all the rest really didn't look so unlikely. Mark liked to put out that he was a gear-head whose only motivation was speed, but the judge heard him stand up to a pack of press hounds in Washington one time, and come off sounding like he knew what he was talking about.

But . . . why? He'd heard McCormick talking, on and off over the past year, about adulthood—an elusive goal for a guy who'd spend his twenties on the track or in a cell. Somehow the judge had gotten the impression that fast bucks and fast times still held an irresistible allure for him. A long hard plod through civil procedure didn't fit that profile.

He couldn't help it, here was niggling evidence that McCormick's real motivation was something more high flown, maybe even . . . honorable. That was certainly nothing the younger man would ever admit to, hence the hidden books and furtive evenings out.

As to what it all meant, Hardcastle was more at a loss. The period of his original parole was due to expire less than a week from now. They hadn't talked about that. He'd caught hell from Mattie a couple weeks back when he'd admitted that to her. She'd even told him she could bring it up with McCormick, sound him a little but, no, Hardcastle had refused the offer.

He didn't want to admit he might not like to hear McCormick's opinion on that subject. But now this.

He got up, straightened the bed cover where he'd sat—not that it'd been all that perfect to begin with—and headed down the steps. Whatever else was true, he couldn't admit to this little intrusion into McCormick's territory. He might be legally entitled, at least for another five days or so, but he'd never be able to justify it from a moral point of view, not to McCormick and not even to himself.

He stepped outside again, into the freshening sea breeze, and turned to lock the door behind him. Then he headed toward his own home, leaving Mark's secret behind.

00000

He hadn't made much of his four hours of sleep time, but he was back at the hospital at eight sharp. It was well before visiting hours but the place was bustling. He spotted Marie as he stepped off the elevator. She was at the nurses' desk apparently signing out to one of the day staff.

She'd seen him, too and gave him a quick wave that segued into a summons.

"This is Cora," she said, when he'd gotten close enough. "She'll be taking over from me. Your friend got some sleep—looks maybe like more than you," she chided pointedly. "Anyway, he's awake. They're holding the meds right now on account of the EEG—that's scheduled for nine. Dr. Monroe said he'll come by sometime after that. Sorry."

No apologies were necessary. Hardcastle was still smiling broadly and had been ever since she'd told him McCormick was awake.

"It's okay." He checked his watch. "I'll just go say hi to him before they ship him off to wherever."

00000

The room was dimly lit, with the blinds still down. The bed table was off to one side and the tray on it looked untouched, though the head of the bed had been cranked up to 45 degrees.

For a moment Hardcsatle thought Mark might have gone back to sleep. But, no, as soon as he'd stepped into the room he saw him lift his head slightly and turn it toward the door. There was a slight questioning mutter accompanying the movement but the next words from him were perfectly lucid.

"Hey, was that nurse kidding?"

Hardcastle smiled and pulled a chair in closer. "Did she give you her phone number? If she did, she ain't kidding."

Mark didn't shake his head at this, though no doubt he wished he could. He settled for a very bemused, "Nah, I mean about what happened . . . I got struck by lightning?"

"Looks that way," Hardcastle said a little more soberly. "You don't remember, huh?"

"Are you supposed to remember something like that?"

"I dunno, probably not." The judge pondered that one for a moment and then said, "How're ya feeling?"

There was a long pause, as though McCormick had to give that some thought, before he finally shrugged stiffly and said, "I'm not sure. It's weird, ya know. I'm kinda tired . . . and I fell, right?

"I think so—you were down on the ground. I didn't see it happen."

Mark nodded, very slightly. "My tongue's sore—it think I must've bit it. And my neck is stiff."

Everything he did seemed slow and circumscribed. But other than the gap of memory he seemed to be thinking clearly and the judge was immensely relieved that the younger man was simply making sense.

"When can I go home?" Mark asked abruptly.

"Ah . . . I think they said twenty-four hours." Hardcastle pointed at the monitor. "They want to make sure your ticker's okay."

"When is that—how long from now?"

"Well, you got here about ten, ten-thirty last night. But I don't think that means they're going to spring ya right at that minute tonight. Besides, they want to do a couple other tests—make sure your brain didn't get scrambled."

Mark looked suddenly more concerned. "It didn't, did it?"

This was ordinarily the sort of straight line that would be irresistible to either one of them but Mark seemed genuinely worried and the judge didn't even have to close his own eyes to encounter the permanent after-image of the too-still form in the driveway.

"No," he said firmly, "you seem pretty okay to me, but let 'em do the tests anyway, all right?"

Mark nodded wordlessly. Hardcastle half-suspected there were still some of those drugs on-board, despite what Marie had said.

"Listen," he said, looking down at his watch, "they're gonna take you for one of those tests in a couple of minutes. I'll be here when you get back and stay till the doc comes to tell you what's what, okay?"

McCormick seemed to be thinking about this for a little while, at least long enough for the nurse and tech to arrive with gurney, portable monitor, and chart, ready to do the transporting.

"You'll be here," Mark repeated, as though he wanted to make sure he'd heard it right the first time.

"Here." Hardcastle said, patting the back of the chair he'd just vacated and pushed aside to make room for the new arrivals.

Then they loaded him up and departed, leaving the judge alone in the now-silent room. It was only in retracing the conversation that he felt an increasing uneasiness. Maybe it was still the medication wearing off. The words had been there, but the spark was missing—though that particular metaphor seemed singularly inappropriate under the circumstances.

An hour went by before the gurney and its passenger returned. Mark was frowning, and maybe because of that seemed more with it. He transferred himself back to the bed, with only a little assistance on account of the monitor wires. Once there he fixed the judge with a look that implied he wasn't very happy. There was no time to figure that part out, though, before nurse, tech, and gurney had departed and were superseded by a middle-aged guy. He had the name "Monroe" embroidered on his white coat, and his plastic pocket included a small rubber hammer along with the usual collection of pens.

"Mr. McCormick? Good to see you awake."

"When can I go home?"

Hardcastle thought you couldn't fault the kid for directness. Monroe chuckled slightly.

He gave the cardiac monitor a quick nod. "I'm not the one who gets the final say on that. But from the neurology perspective you're set to go. All the usual precautions, of course: lots of rest, no driving—"

"What?" Mark's placid demeanor of an hour previous had now completely vanished. He was half-sitting in the bed and the monitor had sped up considerably.

"It's a routine precaution, as well as a legal requirement in such cases—"

"What 'cases'?" Mark asked impatiently.

"Why, cases of seizure. It's the law." Monroe looked hastily back and forth between Mark and the judge, as if trying to find a glimmer of reasonable understanding. "It's also the law that such cases must be reported."

"I had a seizure?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle grunted, "Last night—one—right after the lightning."

Mark's frown was now directed at him. "When were you gonna mention this?"

Monroe tapped his foot and looked impatient. "The seizure," he immediately had everyone's attention, "may well be a single occurrence and the preliminary results of the EEG look good, but given the precipitating event and its potential for long-term sequelae—"

"What the hell does that mean?" Hardcastle interjected.

"Probably nothing. I'm only saying time will tell," Monroe said reassuringly, "There is risk is for a recurrence. Normally I would say it's low, but the potential structural damage caused by the lightning is a wild card."

"I can't drive?"

"No, not for a while."

"How long a while?"

"Three months without a recurrence—that would be sufficient for a probationary license."

"Probation," Mark muttered. "Wonderful. I thought I was through with that."

He frowned again suddenly and shot a guilty look in Hardcastle's direction, as if he'd just realized what he'd let slip out.

The judge kept his expression neutral. "Three months, that's not all that long, really," he offered, knowing it was a misstep as soon as the words left his mouth.

The younger man had drawn both legs up, wrapping his arms around them. This and his silence signaled his withdrawal from the field. A continuing argument would have been messier but less worrisome.

Monroe seemed happy, though. He went through the motions of a quick exam and was satisfied with that, too.

"You'll need to make an appointment with my office after you're discharged—let's say in three weeks, okay?"

Mark barely granted that a sullen nod.

00000

Following that, the visits from the internist and the cardiologist were anticlimactic. Neither one of them suggested anything more than a quiet, routine life for a week or so and advised him to report any additional problems if they arose. The discharge was set for the following morning.

After all the company had left, the silence became a lot deeper and increasingly awkward.

"You shoulda told me," Mark finally muttered.

"It's not like I had a lot of time," Hardcastle countered. "Besides," he changed tacks quickly, spying another more defensible argument, "I think they did tell you—last night."

Mark's frown deepened, with creases of worry on his forehead. The judge thought maybe his new defense had been a miscalculation.

"Don't worry about that," he offered in belated reassurance. "They had you all doped up on something, just in case."

"Drugs, huh?" Mark sighed slowly. "I still feel kinda dopey,"

Hardcastle figured the offering up of that kind of straight line was prima facie evidence that what Mark was saying was true. He tiptoed around it, avoiding both unwanted sympathy and anything like one of his typical ripostes.

Instead he thought it might be best if they both got some rest. He made one last effort at giving McCormick a little perspective.

"Listen, three months—it's not that long. Heck, after that thing in January you couldn't drive for a month and a half—"

"A month."

"Huh?"

"It was only a month," Mark repeated stubbornly.

"Well, it was supposed to be six weeks," Hardcastle muttered, equally stubborn. "I remember 'em saying that."

"And that was only a month ago . . ."

Hardcastle knew that for part of the remainder the Coyote had been laid up as well. As bucking-up lectures went, this one was not going well.

". . . and the three months is only if everything goes okay," Mark droned on, sinking deeper into the worst-case possibilities. "What if it doesn't?"

It might have been a rhetorical question but Hardcastle chose to interpret it on a practical level. "You'll just go back to riding shotgun for a while, like you did in January."

"Indefinitely?" Mark asked, with a resigned, morose air.

The judge winced at his word choice. There might almost have been a set of quote marks around it—it was precisely the one he'd chosen to describe Mark's proposed length of service, nearly three years ago.

"For as long as you need to," he said with a sudden quiet certainty that seemed to catch McCormick's attention.

It was a different slant on things, the judge hoped. He knew that hardly solved matters, but at least it tabled them, for now.

00000

By the next morning McCormick's spirits seemed only minimally improved but his reaction-time was better and his speech less hesitant. Hardcastle had brought a small duffle—not the black nylon one—containing a set of clothes, and they'd gotten a final send-off from the day nurse, Cora.

"No alcohol, no dangerous machinery, no ladders, no driving . . ."

She'd rattled off the one among the others as though it were no more than an inconvenience. Hardcastle happened to be looking in the younger man's direction at that moment, otherwise the quick grimace would have gone unnoticed. Aside from that, though, there'd been no further comment, and getting rides home from the hospital was a quid pro quo of the Lone Ranger-and-Tonto deal.

This was an unusually quiet one, though. Hardcastle thought there ought to be a bit more relief and rejoicing—the whole near-death escape oughtn't be overshadowed by one activity restriction. He tried to remind himself that for McCormick being told not to drive was akin to being told not to breathe, but that analogy led him to a quick and unpleasant flash on another memory.

Still, the whole trip home had included only about five spontaneous comments, and all of those from Hardcastle's side of the truck. One thing he kept to himself—the wondering if he'd have to lay down the law once they got home. Monroe had been very specific about the need for close supervision the first week or so. There'd be no slinking off to the gatehouse to sit in morose solitude.

Hardcastle thought there might be an argument on that. Mark climbed out of the truck as soon as it came to a halt next to the fountain, but then he only took a few steps over to the edge of the drive. The younger man stood there, looking over his shoulder at the main house for a moment, then shooting a glance in Hardcastle's direction.

"Yeah, about there," the judge replied, knowing what he was being asked without having had to hear any words.

Mark looked down at the ground. Hardcastle could have already told him there was nothing to see. He must have satisfied himself on that account because a moment later his head straightened and he turned back.

The judge silently pointed toward the main house. Mark turned on his heel and headed that way. There was no overt hostility, more a continuation of the resignation from the day before.

It was nearly lunchtime and McCormick went directly back to the kitchen. It seemed more like something to do—fixing sandwiches—rather than the consequence of need. Neither one of them ate with much enthusiasm.

Afterward, Hardcastle escaped to the den. He hoped it wasn't too obvious an attempt to give the younger man a little space. A half-hour of not having to make conversation would do them both some good, he figured.

He was there, sorting through the day's mail, when he realized the half-hour had come and gone—and then some. He tipped his wrist and glanced at his watch. Forty-five minutes for a simple set of lunch dishes seemed excessive. He got to his feet and strode back to the kitchen. No one there, of course. The judge frowned. He was fairly sure McCormick hadn't gotten past him and out the front door.

He stepped over to the back window and spotted his quarry almost at once. The explanation was simple enough and simultaneously unnerving. The judge was out the back door and down the steps in quick-time.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His shout was stentorian.

Mark only paused in the sweep of the skimmer and looked up. He was apparently inured to bellowing. He leaned against the pole casually. "What's it look like I'm doing?" He gestured with a sweep of his other arm that took in the pool, its edge only inches from his feet.

Hardcastle put one hand to forehead, pressing firmly for a moment, trying for control. He was pretty sure this wasn't intentional, fool-hardy obstructionism. All that took about one second and then he spoke again with only slightly less volume than before. "Not without me around, for chrissake."

Mark glanced at the pool and then him again. "I'm not gonna—"

"You sure as hell are, if you have another one of those spells," the judge said with dire certainty. "Straight in there face first and not breathing again."

Mark was giving him a hard look. The judge didn't realize exactly what he'd said until the younger man repeated it with a questioning tone.

"'Again'?"

It was evident that he wasn't going to be permitted to gloss over the remark. And having already been caught at one sin of omission, Hardcastle was reluctant to compound the offense. He took a deep breath and edged into it.

"That night, when I got out there, you weren't exactly breathing."

"Not exactly?"

"Not at all."

Mark took a step back from the pool, his brow knitted. "You mean while I was having the seizure?"

"Nah . . . before." Hardcastle figured in for a penny, in for a pound, especially if this was what it took to get the kid to take it all seriously. "I looked it up yesterday—you know that medical encyclopedia of Nancy's in the library? It says that happens sometimes when people get hit by lightning—they stop breathing for a while."

"For how long?" Mark asked curiously.

"You? I dunno. Seemed like a long time. Long enough that I was wondering how the hell I was going to go call for an ambulance--a few minutes."

"Oh." The single syllable seemed to carry sudden understanding.

"Seemed longer," Hardcastle mused.

"I'll bet . . . thank you."

The judge shrugged. "You'da done the same for me."

Mark smiled pensively. "Yeah, but I think I would've given you a lot harder time about it afterward."

Pensive or not, it was the first smile he'd seen on the younger man's face since before all this had happened. It might merely be the function of embarrassment, but at least it proved that the damn bolt hadn't fried McCormick's sense of humor beyond recovery.

"Anyway," Mark went on, a little less pensive, "I think most people dither around a lot in a crisis."

"Not me, huh?"

"Nope," Mark shook his head, "dithering isn't one of your vices." He looked back down at the pool and then hefted the skimmer again. "Anyway, you're here, so it's okay, right? Siddown out of the way over there and be the lifeguard."

"You sure this isn't too strenuous? They were telling you to take it easy for a couple days." Hardcastle twitched at the role-reversal but Mark's smile only broadened slightly.

"Skimming?" The smile edged into a grin. "I hate to tell you this, but skimming is just about the easiest thing on the list here. It's sort of like working on your tan standing up."

"You think I'm not gonna remember all this?"

"No," Mark sighed, "I'm the one who's got the recall problems." The grin had faded and pensive retook the field.

Nothing followed on that, just the slow sweep of the skimmer across the glittering crystal of the water. Hardcastle wasn't sure if he should pursue that line of questioning but he thought it might be some sort of invitation.

"What's missing?"

Mark paused again and shot a look at him. "How the hell do you know something like that? I mean, except for the night itself—that's a pretty big hole. I can't even remember what we had for dinner."

"Pizza."

"There, see? I didn't even know if we'd had dinner. I'm not sure about the afternoon. I figured I was mowing."

"So you remember that?" the judge said encouragingly.

"Nah, but it's mowed," he pointed vaguely toward the lawn, "so I figure I mowed it."

"Ah." Hardcastle let out the rest of the breath. Then he took another deep one in and said, "Yah know, you were helping me get the place spruced up for that ladies' magazine contest—that 'Best Home' thing. You remember that?"

"'Helping you', huh? I'll bet."

The wry smile was a good cover for yet another gaping hole. Then Hardcastle stumbled into one of his very own. He'd completely forgotten his recent discoveries over in the gatehouse, and the sudden realization of his oversight froze him in mid-retort. It was Tuesday afternoon.

"You have anywhere you need me to drive you tonight?"

The question was phrased in a very ordinary tone. There was no way he could admit he'd called over to the university—he still knew a few people in the law department—and made inquiries about McCormick's enrollment. He'd ended up with a guidance counselor on the phone, a guy who'd made the quite reasonable inference that this was an official request and had cheerfully provided Hardcastle with more than he'd requested.

All the information had been positive--despite the rocky patch in January with some excused absences due to the student's serious injuries—and, as a side benefit, he'd also learned that Mark's current class schedule was Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

He thought the man in front of him might not realize what day it was. No, from his expression it seemed that he did and was wrestling with a quandary. Hardcastle felt obligated to give him an out.

"You're taking a class or something, right?" he asked with only mild interest. "I mean, they're usually on Tuesdays—"

"I think I might be dropping it this term," Mark said abruptly. He continued sweeping with the skimmer for a moment before he added, "Shot, banged up, now struck by lightning—I think somebody's trying to tell me something."

Hardcastle quashed his alarm and settled his expression into something more neutrally encouraging. "You must be halfway through the semester, huh?"

Mark nodded.

"And you're still passing, right?" He knew that, in fact the reports had been far better than that. "Why give up now?"

Mark said nothing for a few moments. He was standing utterly still, having even forsaken the skimming, but the sense of internal struggle was apparent to someone who knew him well.

"I can help you get wherever you need to go," Hardcastle said mildly.

It wasn't intended as only the offer of a ride, and yet the words seem to solidify the younger man's resolve.

"Listen, I don't think so—not this time, Hardcase. I think I've bit off more than I could chew and I'd better just forget about it. I'll just call my professor up and ask for an incomplete."

It was the judge's turn to do some internal wrestling. He knew the law school didn't issue such designations for coursework and he figured Mark knew it, too. Quitting in mid-term meant dropping out of the class, and readmission would be harder than the first time around.

"No," he said, immediately realizing it had come out too sharply. "I mean—halfway through, right? Why throw all that away? Driving you isn't a problem."

Mark looked as if he were vacillating. Then he gave in again without the typical period of resistance, though it was only a decision not to decide.

"Okay—I'll see how I'm doing on Thursday. You probably won't have to drive. I think I can get someone in my class to swing by here on their way. A couple of them live north of here. Not today though." He shook his head lightly. "I wouldn't get anything out of it and with my luck I'd probably wind up flopping around on the floor. That'd be even better than the 'skiing accident' back in January."

The smile was back, an off-key version of the earlier honest one. He turned back to the skimmer and his chore, looking as though the whole discussion had worn him out. Hardcastle could only hope he'd call his professor directly, and not go through the counselor, otherwise the jig was up.

00000

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. McCormick had apparently made his phone call and gotten the approved absence from his professor without much difficulty—further evidence that his academic record was in better shape than he was.

And despite a not very strenuous day, by evening he looked as done-in as he said he was. He settled on the sofa, most likely to make the judge's job as watchdog easier, not because he intended to stay awake for the movie.

"You can hit the sack if you want," Hardcastle admonished. "That doc said you shouldn't let yourself get too tired out."

"I can fall asleep here just as easy as anywhere else," Mark muttered, looking as though he were already working on it.

The argument stopped there. Hardcastle fetched the pillow and blanket from the hall closet, foisted them both off on McCormick, and then turned the volume down lower than usual—lower still after Mark's breathing slowed down and became deeper, almost a snore. Then, maybe half-way through this unusually quiet rendition of The Undefeated, a sudden snort caught his attention. For a split-second it look as if McCormick was merely half-waking up. Then the snort stretched into a gasp, followed immediately by that same uncanny groan that had heralded the episode in the driveway.

"Dammit." Hardcastle was out of his chair, remote and popcorn scattered, and over by the sofa just in time to keep Mark from tumbling to the floor.

There was nothing to be done about the rest, though. The rigidity and then spasmodic jerks seemed to go on for an eternity. Despite this undeniable impression, Hardcastle had the presence of mind to glance up at the clock early on and by the time the movements subsided into erratic twitches, not more than a minute had passed.

A damn long minute, though. He arranged him back on his side, made sure his breathing was regular, and patted his shoulder absently. He sat himself down on the edge of the coffee table and took a deep breath of his own. Another look at the clock and some quick calculations—it would have been about a half-hour into class. Hardcastle shook his head at the younger man's prescience.

He hadn't made up his mind about what to do next before Mark's eyes were open—glazed and unfocused but looking somewhat in Hardcastle's direction.

"You're okay kiddo. Might hav'ta go back to the hospital, though."

Mark blinked a couple of times and tried to sit up.

"Uh-uh, not yet." Hardcastle put one palm on the younger man's chest and the other hand on his shoulder.

"No-o," Mark muttered. "No hospital." He seemed to mean what he was saying, by which Hardcastle figured he was coming out of it.

"Okay, not yet, but you've gotta calm down and stay put. I at least need to call your doctor."

"No . . . wait." Mark was frowning earnestly.

Hardcastle, already on his feet, turned and held his place for a moment then sat again. With this Mark became less agitated. In any regard, he didn't seem to be at any immediate risk, but the judge thought he wasn't hitting on all cylinders yet either.

"It was another one of those spells," he explained to him slowly and clearly. "A seizure. Just a short one."

The frown stayed about the same. It was hard to say what was getting through. But the deeper worries were still there and intact, it seemed.

"Won' let me drive," Mark mumbled thickly.

"That's not what's important."

Mark shot him a look of disgust the seemed a lot less unfocused and pretty much summed up how far apart they were on this issue.

"Listen," the judge said patiently, "I don't expect you to accept this straight out, but you've got to think about it, and I know you're gonna, because I know you, see?" He sat back a little, hands on his knees, elbows locked. "If there's any risk at all of this happening to you while you're behind the wheel of a car, you can't drive. You mean something to me and it's more than your being able to peel off after some bad guys.

"And I won't have to report this to your doctor because you will. You'll do it because when you're done feeling sorry for yourself, you'll realize that if this made you have an accident, you might be responsible for somebody else getting hurt."

He paused. Mark's eyes had shifted off to the side slightly and now tracked back. There was a single minimum-standard nod followed by a heavy sigh. "Jus' not now, please? 'm tired."

Hardcastle contributed a sigh of his own. He hoped he wasn't going to regret this but he had to admit another trip to the hospital was not what either one of them wanted right now. There'd been forty-eight hours between these two episodes; he figured they had much better than even odds of making it through the rest of the night uneventfully.

"Anything new hurt?" he asked, just to make sure.

He thought he just might get a more honest response now rather than when McCormick had his wits back, but a slow head shake was all the answer he got.

"Let's see your tongue."

Mark thought about that one, but it looked like bafflement rather than subterfuge. He finally stuck it out—no new cuts, no bleeding.

"Okay. Lie back down, will ya?" Hardcastle encouraged.

Mark, not more than partway up, complied. The judge stood, making a palm-out gesture to indicate he wasn't up to anything sneaky, just pulling an ottoman over in front of his favorite chair. He had no intention of trying to move his charge or himself anywhere else.

00000

That's where dawn found them. The judge slept fitfully when he'd slept at all, and had finally taken the deep plunge sometime around four am. He awoke to sounds of someone moving around. It was Mark, up and stumbling toward the steps, the blanket slung around his shoulders.

"You okay?" the judge asked.

"Uh-huh," Mark replied. "Gotta see a man about a horse."

He sounded perfectly coherent, which made Hardcastle feel a little less guilty about backing the decision to sit tight the night before. He got to his feet, intending to go fetch the newspaper and start some coffee. Trudging up the two steps, he turned left and fumbled with the lock on the door. He opened it onto the bright early-morning sunlight, blinking a few times until his eyes started to adjust. He was stooping for the paper when he realized something else was out there. It was the result of his other Monday errand—a phone call to Benny and a check to expedite the request. He'd dropped that off on his way back to the hospital on Monday morning. It now came back to him with a thud.

It had all been done before the doc's moratorium on driving had been announced, and he hadn't realized how much efficiency that 100% cash on the barrelhead could produce from Mark's regular mechanic. He was still standing there pondering this a moment later when he heard a gasp from McCormick.

For one horrible second Hardcastle thought it was the start of another episode. He whirled and then caught himself. Mark was simply staring out the door. He couldn't have been more astonished if the thing had been sitting at the end of a rainbow instead of the drive.

The look was not one of unadulterated joy, though. There'd been a quick flash of bitterness, even more quickly doused by a stiff dose of regret. That's where his expression was staying right now, though he appeared to know what was what and managed a nod and a quiet "Thanks," in Hardcastle's direction.

"I thought it was taking kinda long. I had a talk with your mechanic."

"Yeah." Mark managed to find a small smile in appreciation of what it must've taken to motivate Benny. "Kind of an expensive lawn ornament, though. We could've just gotten a gnome or something.

"A leprechaun?"

Mark cocked an eyebrow at this.

"Never mind," Hardcastle said with a half-sigh at this further proof that there were still holes in the fabric. "Anyway, it's only three months."

Mark's expression had gone dubious at this. He hesitated for a moment and then said, "I had another one last night, huh? It wasn't just something I dreamt about."

"No, it happened."

The younger man nodded in glum acceptance. He looked over at the Coyote, gleamingly pristine with not a flaw in sight, unlike its still-scrambled owner.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I ought to sell it. I can pay you back for the repairs and have enough left over for . . . expenses," he finished off vaguely. "Anyway, once might be a fluke but twice—that's a habit. They'll never issue me another racing license, that's for sure, and you're right—I remember what you said last night, at least what I think you said—I could never get behind the wheel if I thought I might be putting someone else at risk."

"Why don't you let the doctors decide that," Hardcastle said impatiently. "It seems like you're kinda in a hurry to write yourself off. It's not like I think you need to go back to racing or anything. That might have been what you were, but it doesn't have to be what you are. But even if it isn't—and let's face it, things haven't been trending that way in a while—if they eventually say you can do ordinary driving safely, then you can; it's as simple as that."

Mark stared at him for a moment, as though he'd been given a lot to chew over. He finally nodded and turned to go back into the house, still without having given the Coyote the closer inspection the circumstances should have warranted—just one quick and still-regretful glance over his shoulder.

00000

Mark made breakfast—a clear attempt at a return to normality—and they ate it out on the patio. Afterwards he walked over to the gatehouse, having announced his intent to take a shower and scrounge up some clean clothes. Hardcastle wasn't issued an invitation.

"If you're not back in twenty, I'm comin' over," he announced gruffly.

"It's a shower, not a tub. I won't drown," Mark pointed out. "You can't be with me every second."

He departed by way of the back side of the house. Hardcastle checked his watch, having been utterly serious about the time limit. It only took less than fifteen, though, and Mark didn't report any difficulties, but he had a thoughtful expression on his face when he returned.

"Leprechauns," he said, in what sounded like a continuation of a question, "I was looking at a book about them on Sunday evening. I kinda remember that." He looked at Hardcastle as if for confirmation.

"Yup," the judge replied, looking pleased. "Something old—must've belonged to Nancy's dad."

"I borrowed it—took it over to the gatehouse."

"Well, you were going to."

"I had it with me when it happened?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded. "I didn't notice it right away, but it was lying out there when I got back."

"It doesn't look damaged. Maybe a couple of water spots."

"It'll be okay," the judge assured him. "He bought them to be read. I think he'd be tickled that there's somebody still interested in that stuff."

He vaguely wondered where this conversation was going, but if Mark needed to fill in the blanks of his missing night, that was okay. He looked the guy up and down; he seemed pretty together. His gaze passed over the younger man's shoes, then settled back there with sudden uneasiness—Mark had switched to the tennies from next to the bed.

Now Hardcastle had a feeling he was being questioned—all without being asked any questions out-right. Conversation was the key to all good interrogations and McCormick had been a quick study. He smiled and confessed.

"I brought it over there in case you wanted to look at it some more. I think I left it on the end table."

Mark nodded in what might have been either agreement or acknowledgment, then he looked down at his watch.

"I should go call that doc."

So much calm acceptance was a little unnerving. Hardcastle didn't get up automatically to follow him in, but Mark hadn't gone three steps before he looked back.

"You better come with. I'm not the one who saw what happened," he added. "He might want to know some details."

Hardcastle nodded and rose. They went by way of the kitchen, but in what might have been a nod to the seriousness of the issue, continued on all the way to the phone at the desk in the den. Hardcastle pulled out his wallet and took the doctor's card from where he'd tucked it. Then he settled into his usual place and offered both card and phone to McCormick, who had pulled up one of the wingback chairs.

Mark frowned but didn't hesitate. It was a matter of some moments before Monroe was located and after Mark had presented the problem and listened for a second or two, he told the man to wait.

"Toldja," he held one palm over the mouthpiece, "he wants to talk to you."

Hardcastle took the receiver and was quizzed on what he'd seen. He felt oddly embarrassed telling it to someone without having told Mark himself, but the younger man only leaned forward slightly and listened intently. When that part of the history was done, at Monroe's request he handed the phone back to McCormick.

The rest went quick enough. It must have been only a sentence or two from the doctor. Mark merely said he understood and then a quick good-bye. The phone was back in the cradle and Mark sat unspeaking for a moment.

"So, what'd he say?" the judge finally asked, unable to master his impatience.

Mark snapped out of his brown study. "Ah, he wants me to start on a medication. He'll call it over to the pharmacy. Just for a few weeks—'until the irritation has a chance to settle down'—that's what he called it. He says it won't make me goofy."

There was a fairly profound moment of silence and then Mark said, "That was a straight line, you know."

The judge was jogged from own reverie. "Oh . . . sorry." He pasted on a pretty good imitation of a smile. "The next one, I promise."

"Hmm." Mark didn't sound convinced. "Anyway, goofy or not, you're gonna be stuck with driving me to pick it up this afternoon."

"I can go get it and you can just—" He halted in mid-sentence.

"See?" Mark pointed out. "It's more complicated than you think, though I'm not sure what difference it makes if I stay here by myself. There's nothing you can do about it once it starts, right?"

"No, not really," Hardcastle admitted. "What about Thursday night?"

Mark hesitated and then said tightly, "Don't worry; I'll have a ride for that. I hope this damn medicine works fast."

"You better make sure your ride knows what might happen."

Mark nodded, but he looked like his mind had already moved past Thursday night. He confirmed that a moment later when he said, "Then there's Friday."

The observation hung there for a moment, as though he expected Hardcastle to have something to contribute at this point. He said nothing.

Mark finally sighed and plunged ahead.

"I don't know why I have to put in an appearance. I mean, it's supposed to be over, and once it's over shouldn't that mean they can't make me haul my ass down there whenever they see fit? But, no, Dalem says I have to show up on Friday and get officially thrown out of the system. Does that make any sense?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "It's the system. So you need a ride to your last parole meeting, huh?"

Mark nodded nervously. "I might be able to ask someone from my class to help me out with that, too, it's just that—"

"Why?"

"Well," Mark thought about that for a second and then said, "because part of my not being under parole anymore is that you aren't responsible for me."

"You think the only reason I'm 'responsible' for you is 'cause you're a parolee and I'm an officer of the court? Is that what all this still looks like to you?" Hardcastle shook his head and then pinched the bridge of his nose.

Mark sat on the edge of the chair looking increasingly miserable. "No," he frowned, "I know it's not that. I haven't always been real sure what you thought it was . . . but, anyway, part of being a successful graduate of the State of California prison and parole system is being able to look after yourself, isn't it?"

Hardcastle shook his head again just slightly. "People look after each other. Families do, friends do—hell, human beings do. Did you think the day your parole was up I was gonna toss you out on your keister?"

"No," Mark said hurriedly, "but I also didn't want you thinking I was just hanging around to sponge off you. I figured I'd better start thinking about how I could take care of myself."

"We're you thinking of getting back into racing?" Hardcastle asked blandly.

The flush was noticeable—the harbinger of a lie. "Maybe, well . . . no. I hadn't quite made up my mind yet. Anyway, racing is out now."

"There's lots of things you could do," the judge said complacently, staying broadly neutral about just what those things might be.

"No water filters," Mark said, nudging the conversation away from a serious answer.

Hardcastle wouldn't be nudged. "I figured we couldn't go on with this Lone Ranger thing forever—I've been shot, you've been shot."

"Twice . . . both of us." Mark observed dryly. "Do flesh wounds count? And now isn't even safe to go out in the rain."

"Looks that way, huh?" The judge muttered. "Anyway, I kinda thought you'd be retooling, maybe even something in the law and order trade. You're not bad at this stuff, you know?"

"I'm not a cop, Hardcase."

"I know . . . but that's not the only way things get done—going out and arresting people. I don't know, just think about it. You've got time."

"I've got till Thursday night," Mark said, with an abruptly change of tone. "I'm enrolled in law school. You figured that out, didn't you?"

The judge's face was becoming noticeably flushed now, too. "Well," he prevaricated, "I mighta thought maybe you were thinking about it."

"How long have you known?"

There was a moment of silence before Hardcastle, too, confessed. "Since Monday."

"When you put that book in the gatehouse? I was careless, leaving stuff out."

The judge shrugged. "How were you supposed to know you'd get zapped between here and there and never make it home?"

"With my personal law of averages," Mark shook his head, "I shoulda been factoring that in."

"Okay, we go get your damn pills today. Thursday I'll drive you down to the quad and you'll try and get through a whole session of civil procedure without falling out of your seat. Friday we'll go get your walking papers from Dalem. How's that for the first three days of the rest of your life?"

"Sounds ambitious when you put it that way."

"And if you can get through three more months without another episode, we'll see if we can get you your solo pool-skimming license back. How's that sound?" Hardcastle smiled expansively.

Mark sighed and finally quirked a smile of his own. "That'll definitely increase my net worth."

00000

Three Months Later.

The last week had been nerve-wracking, and not because the end of term was near. For Mark, still not reconciled to sitting on the right hand side for every car trip, drawing close to the other elusive deadline was like tempting fate. He'd been off the medication for nearly two months and there hadn't been an inkling of anything wrong, but he figured it wasn't over until it was over and he had a recurring nightmare of suffering a relapse just as he was taking the coveted report from Doctor Monroe's hand.

On account of having this to focus his worries on, the actual process of studying seemed comparatively easier. This had also been helped by the fact that he no longer had to work at his law school assignments surreptitiously and even had the judge as a ready resource.

By the time the last day of the three month period had finally arrived, his nerves were worn to a frazzle. Hardcastle had been heard to remark, to anyone who would listen, that if all of that couldn't bring on a seizure, he'd willingly ride shotgun with McCormick in the next running of the Arizona Modifieds. Mark said he'd settle for his probationary license.

It was a bit of a letdown, then, when he emerged from Monroe's office with the promise that the paperwork would be submitted, but not so much as a gold star on a piece of paper to show for his progress.

"It'll just be a week or two more," Hardcastle assured him. "And look, not a cloud in the sky."

Mark forced a smile, and then turned to a matter of more import.

"You know my professor?"

Hardcastle nodded absently as he maneuvered the truck out of the clinic's lot.

"He's offered me a part-time position in his office. You know he's a partner."

Of course Hardcastle knew—it was a prestigious firm and guys like that had their pick of the bright young students.

"He wants me to start right away. That's why I was hoping I'd get the license today."

"What, I'm not a good enough driver for you now that you've gone uptown?" Hardcastle jibed.

"It'll be a pain—lots of little errands, picking stuff up, getting signatures."

"Get used to it, kid. That's a lot of what clerks and young lawyers do," the judge said knowingly. "Little cogs in the machinery of the law." He smiled broadly. "I was a young lawyer once. Heck of a lot of fun."

Mark looked worried. "You'll just drive won't you? I mean, no offense but it's my job and I'm the one who's supposed to be getting the experience."

"'Course I will," Hardcastle said bluffly, after just enough of a hint of hesitation to crank up Mark's concern even more.

"Maybe you could just stay in the car. Bring a book or something." He cringed at his own words and even more so at the not quite contained disappointment on the older man's face.

"Sorry," he finally said, his kinder angels winning out over extensive personal experience. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just that all those other times . . ." He paused and bit his lip and then resignedly added, "I guess I'm just a little paranoid about you being paranoid."

Hardcastle seemed to give that some thought and then said decisively, "You're paranoid; I'm observant."

"Yeah," Mark said anxiously, then after a doleful moment he brightened considerably.

"This time it'll be different, though. What could go wrong? This is Malcolm, Hughes and DeWitt."