Title: The Sanctity of My Home by: Jadeblueafterglow17
Notes: 1. I appreciate reviews, they actually make me want to write faster as I have six incomplete stories I need to finish. Since I don't just take stuff directly from the episode and weave it into a story, and my stuff is original, I don't use a Beta. I have helped other people write and have been a Beta for their stories and a couple of them have flat out stolen my work. I had to literally demand credit for my work, so that won't happen again. I also write as it literally flows out of my mind. If I stop to correct something I may lose an entire sentence.
2. 90% of my stories are written between 2-4 a.m. when my insomnia kicks in, so if it makes any sense at all I'm ecstatic. After I have worked 8 hours and taken care of my kids, including one with Autism, I'm surprised I can come up with something more than gibberish. So, I'm sorry if you have found errors, I don't think there were enough to cause confusion or take away from the story. No, I don't join groups. I like doing challenges, but I simply do not have the time for such luxuries.
3 All of my stories are written in notepad and it takes time between chapters because I just had a second cervical spinal fusion, which makes it painful to type. Notepad doesn't have the greatest source to fix errors but I am "old school." I teach Science, not English and if all you can find wrong is grammar then, PM me privately and I will fix it.
4.I appreciate critical, useful reviews, and those who are fans of my most popular stories "Kaltbluetig", "Into the Darkness," "Final Mission", and "By Herside" messaging me privately and requesting the next installments on those works, I am doing my best to remove these three separate H&M stories from my head so I can get back to those stories. Thank you for your faithfulness and patience.
, I watched Hardcastle and McCormick when I was a child, watched it daily all summer until it ended in January on "GET TV. I have the DVD's. My autistic son quotes it every day as if it were scripture. I appreciate your advice, but I think I know how or what a character would feel, especially when it's Mark. I feel really connected to his character. God bless the man who put Daniel Hugh-Kelly in that role, for it would not have been the same without his glorious smile and personality. Judge, Milt, Hooker, Stone Haybearing jackass, Donkey, or Hardcase, has called or referred to McCormick as "Mark", when he has been worried about him, or he wanted his full attention to tell him something serious. "Kiddo, and McCormick," did not fit the scene in Chapter 1. Believe me I know these characters. Before I write any fanfiction, I research as much as I can, and read a variety of fiction so I don't do something similar to what is already out there. So Mark J. McCormick, Born February 2, 1954 will be an Aquarius, Pisces rising in my story, and he will, (if he lives) :) show every bit of the range of the emotions that we did not always get to show on TV, but we all knew had to exist because these characters were perfectly acted by two amazingly talented thespians. If you don't like it feel free not to read it.
New readers. Thank you, your reviews bring me joy, when you take the time not only to read but to write a few words to let me know what you think and give me some good suggestions I really appreciate it. Without further ado, here's chapter 2.
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Chapter 2: Officer Down 6 Hours Earlier
Angel cut a few strands of Mark McCormick's curly hair from his head with the knife and stole his wallet from his dresser as she carefully made her way down the stairs unknowingly leaving personal footprint stains on the carpeted floor of the dark stairs as she took one last look at her dying victim and headed out the door.
"Too bad cutie...you and me could have had a lot of fun together, but money is money."
It had only been a matter of minutes but seemed like hours had passed since Angel had slinked from the confines of his Trans Am and made her way through the gates of the Malibu estate. As he saw her lithe form coming back towards the car in the darkness lit only by the glow of the moonlight he pondered if she was able to accomplish her task. The blast of the Dixieland style music continued to drone on loudly from the large house, as he kept watch for the door to open at any time. He could still hear the sounds of jazz music blaring from the main house.
He saw a wide grin plastered on her face as she removed gloves and climbed into the seat beside him. Slowly she slithered into the seat on top of his lap. She fixed her body atop his lap and smiled deviously. Her blood stained lips kissed his as she drew him in passionately with her tongue into his mouth.
After a several moments passed, he was able to break away breathless. He licked his lips finding the taste of blood curious on his lips.
"I take it you had fun my sweet Angel?"
Angel Gillam tossed her black hair over her shoulder and smiled feraly as she thought of the torture she had just taken part in. She found herself pleasantly aroused by the fact that she had brought this man to brink of death and watched as his last breath was stolen from his body.
"Oh yes baby. That was beautiful. I did just as you said. The knife is in his hands, it is covered in his prints, and he will be long dead before the sunrise. My strokes were precise. I stabbed his gut, twisting it in deeply, and slicing it forward up to his lung. I tore at his arms and cut open his veins so he would bleed slowly and painfully. I struck him right at his leg, I know I hit the right spot, because it gushed forward covering my shirt in his bright red hot blood."
"Did he see your face?"
"Yes, I made him look at me; I wanted him to see who was doing this to him."
"You shouldn't have done that, there might have been cameras. What if he lives?" She rubbed her hands gently down his sides unbuckling his shirt, caressing his chest hair. She leaned in closely, and whispered in his ear.
"So what if he does... I asked him if he wanted to die, as I sliced open his neck, and what he said surprised me."
"Why, did he beg for his life, I knew he was a punk...?
"No, actually...he said simply "not like this." He didn't want to die like this. So I left him, and I stabbed him in right in the sack and he barely made a sound. I shoved the knife in his hands and walked out the front door."
"Yikes!" Why the heck did you do that?"
"If he lives he will wish he was dead, if he dies, all the better. With his prints... on the knife, I don't really care." she coolly snatched his shirt open and began unbuckling his belt buckle when suddenly the music died. She continued planting small kisses on his neck, slowly grinding in his lap. He threw his head back and moaned softly.
"I think you guys got the wrong guy, this cutie pie didn't care if he lived or died, and he was more concerned with who would find his body. Poor chump."
Why not kill the judge? Frame the guy and it s all neat and clean?" she whispered, gently pushing her fingers downward until she saw his eyes roll into the back of his head.
"It's not that simple. Everybody involved thinks the guy you just did your slice and dicing with is a snitch...he was sent up for two years by that bastard Hardcastle, and now he lives here at his mansion. He forgot where he came from. There's a code you know?"
"We found out that jackass Hardcastle really cares about this guy, like a best friend, some even believe like a son. First we attack his heart, then his mind and then his body.
He tossed the buxom brunette from his lap and into the passenger seat.
"He pointed to the main house as the door opened and people started to head outside. "You should have made sure he was dead. What if someone saw you coming out the front door?"
"Nah, that old battleax judge was playing music so loud I could have murdered the whole block and no one could have been the wiser."
"Well, let's get out of here, we can collect the rest of our cash and get the hell out of California."
They exchanged another kiss on the lips, fired up the Trans-Am and slowly crept away from the mansion and homes of Pacific Coast Highway.
A glint of the morning sunshine began inching its way above the horizon as the two sped off into the desert hoping that their next stop to collect their funds would be the last they would hear of the fiasco. He could write Judge Milton C Hardcastle and his sidekick out of his life for good. He had done his part the rest was up to Schaefer.
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He counted the slow desperate heartbeats and prayed they would continue under his shaking hands.
He didn't have time for platitudes or reassurances...if he didn't get help his friend, his best friend was going to die...right here right now.
Hardcastle quickly stumbled across the bedroom, nearly tripping over a textbook. He launched himself at the telephone on the desk at Mark's table. His hands already slick with blood. He saw his bloody print land automatically on the digits 911. With a fear he didn't know he was capable of he screamed at the attendant for an ambulance:
"I need an ambulance, at 1 Pacific Coast Highway, Gulls Way,"
"What is the state of your emer...?
My friend has been stabbed...Oh God...he's bleeding everywhere, please get the paramedics here quick. And get someone to get LAPD Lieutenant Harper. The words "officer down" tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself.
"Sir I need you to stay on the phone..."
"I can't stay on the phone...I gotta try to help my friend...DAMN IT, JUST GET HERE!" the phone sprung from his hand as he grabbed blankets and towels and ran back to the bed.
With terrified fingers, he went back to the carotid and waited for the telltale signs of life. The blue lips stained red, the stillness, and sheets beneath him and above him, so covered in blood he was afraid that in just those few moments that he had slipped away.
"Hang on kiddo, I'm gonna get us some help...please hang on."
The Judge closed his eyes tightly, and he looked skyward. "Please God...Please don't take him...help me, please."
Milton C Hardcastle secretly prayed each night. He talked to his long gone wife and son, and prayed that they took care of each other until it was his time to join them. Every once and awhile he would pray to be a bit kinder to that aggravating kiddo who could do no less than drive him to fits of insanity. But it was rare, ashamedly rare when he called upon his God by name and begged for him to watch over him or his best friend Mark McCormick when he was sick or injured. He thought assuredly the kid had used up all of his nine lives when he was left gut shot and at the bottom of a ravine for more than six hours.
He pulled down the sheet to expose his bare chest. There were deep cuts oozing blood. The judge felt angry hot bile churning in his gut as he tried to keep pressure on the deepest wounds. His chest had three fatal looking wounds. Based on the blood pouring from Mark's mouth and the blue tinge to his lips and fingers he was definitely losing air through a sucking wound to at least one of his lungs. He pressed as hard as he could on the wound that seemed to slice his chest in two. He glanced briefly up at Mark's face and saw no change in expression, as more pink frothy blood coming from his lips. He stole the pillow from the head of the bed; Mark's head suddenly flat against the mattress lolled to the side. The Judge swiftly reached under the covers and pulled Marks legs out into the open and nearly collapsed at the sight. From the waist down and all over his right leg, he was covered in blood. He lifted his legs as high as he could build them with the pillows on the bed.
More blood.
A deeper darker red coating the entire bottom half of his body. His breath was stolen from his body. He felt anger well up in him, as he fought the rage that brought tears to his eyes, where they pooled but did not fault. It was the shimmer of his own eye, which helped him catch the glint of sunlight now shining on the metal in Mark's open hand spread palm up on the patchwork quilt that had brought him comfort so many nights in this house.
A knife.
Good Lord. It was more than 8 inches in length. One stab would go through his entire thin body. Meat, and bone, flesh and muscle. It was covered in blood all the way up to the handle.
How much of it had been plunged into the kid s body? He couldn't think about that now. He couldn't see the rise and fall of Mark's chest. He was terrified he wasn't breathing. The gurgling noise he had been making had long since stopped since his phone call. He was torn between, keeping his hands on his wrist to keep hold of his pulse, (a pulse that seemed to stumble like a drunk in the streets, uneven and callous) and looking for signs that the kid was getting any air. Mark hadn't moved an inch. His left hand was draped over the bed and rivulets of arterial blood ran down it.
It's too much.
It's too much. He's not coming back to you this time. "No!" he found himself shouting in the still quiet room. He pulled Marks's arms to his chest and pressed them against the towels already in place, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. He was finally able to look into his young friends face. Devoid of color, devoid of life.
WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!
Milt was nearly startled out of the bed, he hadn't even heard the sirens as the sound alerted him to help arriving. He wasn't expecting the banging at the door when it came so urgently.
"IT"S OPEN! COME ON UP!" He loosened his grasp for only long enough to turn and face the sound of someone barreling up the stairs.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"You called me! What happened to Mark? Never mind...ambulance is just a minute or two out. What can I do?"
Frank Harper looked from the blood covered body in the bed and back to the terrified face of one of his oldest friends.
"Help me Frank, he's dying."
It was minutes later when the paramedics found their way into the gatehouse led by a second officer and a Fire/EMT who found Frank Harper putting pressure on the wounds on Mark's neck as he steadily used an ambu breather over his nose and mouth.
In what seemed like hours had passed the paramedics had started an IV in his left foot. He had so many damaged tissues they didn't want to run the risk of the one line they could get blowing in transfer. A brace was place around Mark's neck, he was strapped to a backboard and in the oddest transport he'd ever seen a smaller female paramedic, sat atop Mark, holding on to the IV bag and Oxygen breather as they managed the stairs and made their way into the awaiting ambulance.
Milt Hardcastle rushed up to the portable gurney and begged for pause as a bag of O+ blood was being infused rapidly squeezed by hand by the female attendant.
"Sir we have to go, he's..."
"Please just one second." he leaned down and grabbed Mark's ice-cold hand, and leaned next to his friend's ear. I'm here kiddo. Please don't give up. Please hold on. You can have every drop of my blood, just hold on." He squeezed Marks hand again as he was pulled away, and loaded into the ambulance. He winced at the doors slamming and his young charge being taken from his sight.
Frank held fast to a quickly angering Milt Hardcastle as he tried to charge after the ambulance.
"No...they need room to work; we can follow in my car." Milt nodded numbly as he was pulled to the awaiting vehicle, silently relinquishing the keys to his estate to another awaiting detective.
"Would Mark make it to the hospital?" he though t to himself.
The ride was silent, except for the wail of the siren as they chased behind the ambulance in the bright morning sun.
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It's short but I'm already working to post chapter three this weekend.