Chapter 2

"Milt?"

Hardcastle raised his head quickly at the sound of his name, panic in his eyes; he hadn't intended to doze off. "Frank. What's wrong?"

Harper shook his head and patted Hardcastle's arm. "Nothing's wrong, Milt. There's no news. I brought you the clean clothes, remember?"

Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his mind at the same time. "Oh, yeah. Thanks." He looked at the small duffel bag Harper placed at his feet. Why had clean clothes seemed important? They certainly didn't now. Still, he vaguely recalled that after several hours of sitting, Harper had felt the need to do something useful, so he had gone to gather some items for his friend. Neither man was very good at simply waiting.

"I talked with the head nurse," Harper continued, "and she says you can use the staff lounge to take a quick shower and change."

Hardcastle was going to object, but there was no real reason to simply sit here in bloody clothes. He was glad Harper had taken the time to change his own clothes, too. God knew, he didn't need any additional reminders of McCormick's fate. He grabbed the bag and rose slowly. "Okay, Frank; point me in the right direction."

"Mr. Hardcastle?"

The judge turned away from the window where he'd been watching the increasing traffic in the early stages of morning rush hour. Strange that the world outside seemed to be carrying on so normally when his world was slowly grinding to a halt.

Harper had been sleeping fitfully in one of the barely stuffed chairs, but he woke immediately at the sound of the doctor's voice. The detective rose to stand next to Hardcastle, and the jurist was grateful for the support. It definitely had been a long night.

"I'm Milton Hardcastle," the judge said to the approaching doctor.

"I'm Dr. Jackson," the doctor said by way of introduction. "I was on Mr. McCormick's team."

Hardcastle wasn't interested in social pleasantries. "How is he?"

"He's out of surgery," Jackson answered slowly, "and I think we can cautiously call the operation a success. But he's certainly not out of the woods yet."

"What exactly does that mean?" Hardcastle asked timidly, afraid of the answer.

Jackson relied on his years of experience to deliver his information professionally, undeterred by the horror of his words, though he had not yet learned to truly not feel. "He's been badly hurt, sir. I don't know if you are familiar with the extent of his injuries, but there were five different gun shot wounds, though it appears that not all of them were intended to be fatal. There were close to a hundred knife wounds of varying degrees of depth and damage, including several to his right shoulder area, which severed some tendons and could prove problematic. And, there was more damage than you might imagine from what appears to have been a repeated or sustained beating, including fractured ribs that punctured his lung." As Hardcastle's expression suddenly became even more concerned, Jackson hurried on. "It was a relatively minor simple pneumo- - -" The doctor broke off, reorganized his thoughts, then continued more gently, "The point, Mr. Hardcastle, is that we repaired his lung. But we'll leave him on a ventilator for a day or so, just to be safe."

Jackson paused again, then continued in the same gentle tone, "But even so, it was honestly something of a miracle he survived the operation; we almost lost him a couple of times. But he seems to be a fighter, and that's probably the best thing in the world right now. We repaired the damage that can be repaired; now we need to let his body heal. If he regains consciousness within the next seventy-two to ninety-six hours, I think he'll survive."

Hardcastle grated out the question he had to know. "And how likely is it he'll wake up?"

The doctor considered thoughtfully. This was always the question that needed answering the most, and it was the most difficult to predict. More than that, there was never a way to know how the loved ones would handle the answer, though Jackson thought this man seemed the stoic type. Not that that was necessarily a good thing. He met Hardcastle's eyes. "It's not likely, sir. As I said, he was badly hurt. A fifty percent chance is probably generous. I'm really sorry."

Hardcastle saw the room spinning slowly and felt Harper's steadying hand on his arm. He was sure the blood had drained from his face because he felt a sudden chill, and he certainly didn't feel like even an ounce of oxygen was reaching his brain. God...he couldn't even imagine what the kid had gone through. Those bastards had intended him to die slowly and painfully, and it was impossible not to consider that they might still get their wish.

"I want to be with him." He hadn't made a conscious decision to speak, but when he heard the words coming from his mouth, he felt his balance begin to return. As long as there was something to do—even if it was just more waiting—he could stay focused. He didn't want to think about what he would do when it wasn't necessary to wait any longer.