The phone rang only minutes before the knock sounded at the door. Hardcastle had barely had time to register Mike Delaney's words about the Corvette at a local market; he certainly hadn't wrapped his mind around whatever the detective had said about a hostage situation.

Looking out the window, the judge muttered, "A unit's here now; I'll talk to you later," and hung up the phone.

"Judge Hardcastle?" asked the uniformed officer standing on the porch as Hardcastle threw open the door.

"Yeah. This is about McCormick, right?"

The officer recoiled slightly at the growl. "Um, yes, sir. The officer in charge thought you might be able to help."

"Let's go." Hardcastle slammed the door and pushed past the officer to the waiting patrol car.

The seething jurist had barely had time to work up a good muttered tirade when the black and white pulled into the parking lot. "This is the place?" Hardcastle asked, amazed. Damn fool kid. Doesn't even know enough to leave the neighborhood before he starts sticking up the stores? He climbed out of the car and stomped toward the command post without waiting for his escort.

An older officer turned at the sound of the approach. "Judge Hardcastle? I'm Deputy Marsten. I'm sorry to have to drag you into this, but McCormick is asking to talk to you."

A response died on Hardcastle's lips. He would've expected to be the last person McCormick would want to talk to. "He wants to talk to me?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, holding out a phone. "We've got a direct line; just hit the dial button to call him."

"I'll talk some sense into him," Hardcastle snarled. "And if that doesn't work, I'll go in myself and beat some sense into him." He reached for the phone. "Let me have that."

But Marsten withdrew the phone quickly. "Uh, Judge," he began hesitantly, "I think you might've gotten the wrong idea. McCormick isn't the perp here; he's a hostage."

Hardcastle suddenly felt as if the world was a much smaller place as everything seemed to close in on him, making it hard to even breathe. After a moment, he forced himself to draw in a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts. "What?" He recognized that he didn't quite succeed, but he figured it was a place to start. He saw Marsten nod slowly.

"Yes, sir. He's doing the talking for some punk named Brandon. According to that witness over there, McCormick's the only thing keeping the balance."

Hardcastle's gaze followed the officer's pointing finger over to where Connie sat, speaking with a pair of uniformed officers. Without comment, he marched across the lot to join them.

"Ma'am?" He ignored the officers' pointed glares; courtesy was low on his priority list right now. "I need to talk to McCormick in there, but I'd like to ask you a couple of questions first."

Connie nodded. "Okay, if it will help."

"There's only one robber in there?"

Another nod. "A young man, maybe 22, 23, said his name was Brandon."

"No one else?" Hardcastle pressed.

"No. The store manager, um, Greg, and Mark. That's all."

"And why were you released?"

"Mark," Connie said simply. "He convinced Brandon to let us go."

"Us?" the judge clarified.

"My daughter and myself," she pointed to one of the folding tables that had been set up for the duration, indicating Lucy, who was happily munching on her grapes. "Mark said it would be better for Brandon, make it seem like he could be reasonable."

"I don't understand why this guy is listening to McCormick."

Connie shrugged. "I think maybe because he's been in prison. It's like something they have in common, and Brandon feels like he can trust Mark."

Hardcastle asked the question on his mind. "Is it possible they're working this together? That somehow things went wrong and McCormick's trying to push it off on this other kid?"

Connie's eyes widened in surprise and her lips drew together in an angry line. "No. It's not like that at all. You'd know if you'd been in there. Mark's trying to help this guy, but not because they're partners or something, but just because…" She hesitated a moment. "Well, I'm not exactly sure why. I think maybe because someone helped him. He wants Brandon to talk to some guy named Milt. He thinks he can help."

Hardcastle unconsciously took a step back and stared silently at the young woman. If asked, he would probably honestly say that her words could very well be the last thing in the world that he had expected to hear.

Instinctively, part of his brain wanted to dismiss the statement as the ramblings of a frightened woman taken in by McCormick's rather obvious charm. But just as intuitively, the more judicial part of his brain evaluated the witness, her demeanor, and her statements, and found the testimony to be truthful. He shook his head slowly and pulled himself back to the conversation.

"Maybe I should start again. I'm Milton Hardcastle, and I'm just trying to understand as much as I can about what's going on inside."

The change in the woman's manner was striking. Smiling, she rose from her seat to take his extended hand. "I'm Connie Eatmon. I'm so glad you're here. Mark probably saved my life, you know, and my little girl, too. I'm glad you're here to help him."

"I'm not sure what he's said, or who you think I am…"

"You're his parole officer, right?" Hardcastle nodded once—that was as good a designation as any—and Connie continued, "He told Brandon you could help, that you could be trusted. Brandon is almost convinced, I think."

Hardcastle had heard enough. "Thank you for the information, Miss Eatmon. You've been very helpful." He turned to go, but waited when Connie called his name.

"I haven't had a chance to thank him," she said sincerely. "Please get him out."

"I will," Hardcastle promised, surprising himself with the intensity of his conviction, then he strode purposefully back toward Marsten at the command center.

"Okay," he growled at the officer, "give me the phone and let's get this thing going. We need to get McCormick out of there."

Marsten nodded and handed over the phone. "Just keep in mind, Judge, everything seems to be on a first name basis in there. That may not be important, but McCormick has only ever asked for Milt."

Hardcastle nodded, understanding immediately. Without knowing who they were dealing with in there, McCormick had no way to know if the Hardcastle name would help or hurt. He punched the button and waited for the answer.

"This is Mark."

"Hey, kiddo." Hardcastle forced a calmness he suddenly didn't feel.

"Ju-" The relief almost made McCormick careless; he made a quick correction. "Just what took you so long?"

"Think I have nothing better to do than go looking around for missing ex-cons?"

McCormick grinned; he felt better already, though the realization surprised him. "Yeah, sorry to drag you away from your pressing engagements."

"Are you okay in there?" Hardcastle hadn't really intended to reveal his true concern, but there was no time to worry about that now.

"Better now," McCormick admitted.

The small smile was evident in the judge's tone when he replied, "So what's the plan? What can I do for you?"

"Make a couple of calls; find out some options for Brandon once this is over. He did an eighteen month stretch, been out for about eight months, but hasn't been able to get a job. No family, he's about to lose his apartment. You get the picture. He's done his time, Milt; he needs a break."

"Taking hostages in a supermarket hold-up isn't really the best way to ask for favors," Hardcastle pointed out.

"He was scared, Milt; desperate. I know what it's like. I've been there myself."

"And yet, no one has ended up at gunpoint talking to a negotiator on your behalf."

McCormick wasn't prepared for the tickle of pride that swept over him. But it occurred to him that might've been just about the nicest thing the judge had ever said to him. He was grinning when he replied, "No, but I did sorta kidnap the Coyote."

"Hah!" Hardcastle scoffed. "Now's probably not the best time to remind me of your past automotive exploits."

The grin faded. "Uh…about that-"

"Later," Hardcastle interrupted gruffly. "Right now we just need to get you out of there.

"Do we have a last name on this Brandon fellow so I can find out what we're dealing with?"

"Not yet. But do you think you can help?"

"I can make calls," Hardcastle answered, "it's too soon to know if those calls will help."

"Fair enough. Hang on." McCormick pulled the phone away from his ear and looked back at Brandon. "Milt's gonna see what he can find out and what he can do. He needs a last name."

Brandon was immediately suspicious. "Why? Either he can help me or he can't; my name shouldn't matter. Just tell him to find me a job. Or a place to live. Or something."

McCormick held the younger man's gaze, not backing down from the defiant glare. "You're too bright to believe that," he said calmly. "Your history has some bearing on what options are available to you now." He paused, then added, "You can trust me, Brandon. And I trust him."

A long moment passed before Brandon relented. "Collier."

McCormick smiled his thanks and then relayed the information to the judge. For his part,

Hardcastle accepted the information and never let on that he'd overheard the conversation. But he offered assurance just before breaking the connection. "We'll make this work, kiddo."