Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and am not profiting from them.

Rating: PG-13

Author's note: Okay, so I'm rewatching the episodes of H&McC that I have on tape and notice McCormick has this certain item of jewelry that keeps reappearing (one of those nit-worthy observations that comes to someone who indulges in marathon VHS consumption of a single series; you see it in the mountain man shot used in the opening credits), and I started to wonder just what is the back-story here? The result is:

Break-Away

By L. M. Lewis

He grabbed it and ran, feeling his feet push off the pavement and his heart pounding, knowing that, even with the element of surprise, Winston's gorilla could not be more than ten steps behind him. McCormick knew the guy crushed people for a living and speed was going to be his only defense.

Too slow, too slow. It was like something out of a nightmare, the alley stretching on for a hundred yards at least, and then he was out, on the weedy, trash-strewn field, and not a bit of cover in sight. He thought maybe he'd gained a step or two, but couldn't afford even a glance over his shoulder. Anyway, if he got too much of a lead, his pursuer would probably just give up the chase and drop him with a bullet.

There, almost there. He could hear his own ragged breathing loud in his throat; the street was only fifty feet away. Then the toe of his shoe caught on something and he started to fall, the tape still clutched in his right hand. The 275-pound enforcer who'd been chasing him grabbed him as he went down, his hand catching at the inside of his collar, and yanked him back.

Where's the damn cavalry? The guy had him around the neck from behind with one arm, and McCormick's elbow didn't seem to be making much of a dent in him. The sound of his own breathing had been replaced by a rushing noise, and his vision was narrowing down. He vaguely felt the tape slip from his fingers. What a stupid way to die.

And then he felt the ground whack him flat on the face, and he was suddenly able to take a deep gasping breath again. The heavy weight that had momentarily pinned him was heaved of off him, and someone was pulling at his left arm, trying to get him to roll over.

"You okay, kiddo?"

McCormick turned his head slowly toward the left and opened his eyes.

"Where were you?" He asked the judge, who was kneeling next to him, still holding the empty beer bottle he'd used to take out Winston's goon.

"We were right over there," Hardcastle pointed to the back of the next building, "like we agreed. It's just that when you came flying outta there, it took a couple seconds to catch up with you." He was looking over at the goon again. "He was fast for his size; must've been a halfback."

Mark pushed himself up experimentally. The judge caught him by one shoulder and said, "Wait a sec, he tackled you pretty hard—"

"I'll be okay," Mark said, moving his head slowly from side-to-side, and then watching the police cautiously cuff his still-unconscious assailant. "How hard did you hit him?"

Hardcastle looked at the beer bottle and set it down. "Hard enough, I guess. Couldn't shoot him, you were too close together."

There were sirens, the ambulance had arrived--paramedics, studying their victim wearily, calling for some backup to help with the heavy lifting.

"You should get checked out, too."

"I said I'll be okay. Where's the tape?"

"Safe and sound." Hardcastle patted his shirt pocket and stood up slowly, then bent down to offer McCormick a hand. "Lemme find somebody to hand it off to, chain of evidence and all. You sure you don't want to get checked out?"

"No." McCormick replied firmly. "Let's finish this up and go home." He was on his feet now, his neck and shoulders felt like they'd been in a vise and his lower back wasn't too happy, either, but he wasn't going to let Hardcastle bully him into a visit to the ER. If there was one thing he'd learned in his years in racing it was that one little complaint of neck pain would earn you a trip to the hospital in c-collar on a backboard. He was not in the mood for that song and dance.

They were in the truck, half-way home, when he reached up absentmindedly, like he did a dozen times a day, discovered it was gone.

ooooo

He grabbed it and ran, taking the steps two at a time and slamming through the back door into the alleyway, hearing the pounding footsteps of the larger man behind him. Left or right, left or right? Right, towards the park. He ducked around trash cans and piles of spilled garbage, hearing a can topple over behind him and a cat hiss and snarl as it jumped away. Then the voice of his uncle, cursing.

"Dammit, when I get my hands on you—"

He's gonna beat the crap outta you. It was like a nightmare. And then he was around the corner at the end of the alley and cutting across Roosevelt and towards the park. Stupid, too slow. He pulled up in a doorway, trying to catch his breath. He opened his right hand slowly and looked at it, a glinting little pile of chain and a small medallion. He'd seen it in uncle's room and recognized it immediately. It was hers.

"A kid 'bout twelve, skinny, dark hair, curly. You see him come by this way?" It was his uncle, snarling at the news-stand guy, who didn't want any trouble and must've seen him go by. He was off and running again with his hand clutched tight.

"There you are, you little—"

Almost there. He ducked around another corner. He though maybe he was gaining some but was too afraid to look back. The chain was a single piece, with no clasp. Thinking fast, he grabbed the medallion in his other hand and yanked hard, the link connecting it to the chain gave way. He slipped the medal into his mouth, between his teeth and his cheek, tasting a momentary sharp tang, and then dropped the chain into the next open sewer grate, not waiting to watch it sink soundlessly into the muck below.

The shouting behind him was further back, he dared to turn his head a look over his shoulder, and then he ran into someone tall and hard, and was yanked up by the collar.

"What's your hurry?" The cop was heavy-set and only needed one hand to deal with a kid. His uncle caught up a moment later, panting.

"Give the little bastard to me."

"He yours?" The cop looked down at what he'd caught, and then up at the beefy red-faced man who'd been chasing him.

"Yeah, my sister's brat. I take him in and he steals from me." His uncle was reaching out. "Show me what you took, boy. I saw you grab something." He was trying to pry the kid's hand open.

"I didn't take nothing of yours" He muttered, head down, mouth set, eyes glowering up at the older man defiantly. He held his hands out empty in front of him and then turned out his pockets. His uncle cuffed him hard on the cheek. He tasted salt in his mouth but swallowed it back, knowing if he spat out red, the gig was up.

"None of that, now." The cop said. "You can't be beating up your kid in the street, can you? You take him home now, and if I hear about any more disturbance, I'll take you both down to the station.

The beating that followed after his uncle got him home was not memorable either in duration or intensity, but only for the fact that Mark kept his mouth shut through the whole thing.

ooooo

"Well I think you should stay over here tonight. I'm gonna have to wake you up every couple of hours anyway to make sure the inside of your head is okay." The judge had filled the ice bag and was rattling around in the cabinet for some aspirin.

"It's not a head injury. The guy tried to choke me out. I don't think you have to wake somebody up for that." McCormick leaned against the counter. "I'm going back to the gatehouse. And you'd better not call me every couple of hours. I'm unplugging the phone."

Back at the gatehouse he found himself twitching with achy exhaustion but unable to sleep. The logical thing would be to wait until morning, tell Hardcastle what had happened, and go back over there and have a look around, but there was not much logical about the way his mind was working tonight. After a few hours he was up out of bed and looking in the garage for a spare flashlight.

The judge was up the moment he'd heard the garage door open. He hadn't really been asleep. There was nothing subtle about the Coyote; you could hear it even idling a half a block away. What the hell was the kid up to at one in the morning? Hardcastle was out the door in sweats and sneakers before McCormick had cleared the front gate and turned south on the PCH.

Following him in the Corvette was not much of a challenge. The kid wasn't driving hell-bent-for-leather, and after the first couple of turns it was obvious he was taking the same route they used this afternoon to get to Winston's building. Hanging back a little, the judge saw McCormick pull up behind the building, near the place where he'd been clobbered by that goon.

The kid opened the door of the Coyote and climbed out stiffly. He had a flashlight in one hand. Okay, he's looking for something, or he's off his rocker, one or the other. The judge parked not far behind the other car and sauntered over. McCormick looked up, frowning.

"You followed me?"

Determined not to say 'what the hell are you doing, McCormick?' the judge merely nodded.

"Why?"

"'Cause in case you hadn't noticed, some guy almost killed you this afternoon and now you're acting kinda weird."

"I'm not acting 'weird', I lost something. Don't worry," he added, "my pupils are equal and I can count backwards from one-hundred by sevens."

"Must've been something important."

"Yeah, something I've had a long time--a medal on a chain." McCormick replied quietly. "It was my mom's."

The judge stood there for a moment while Mark played his flashlight over the trodden weeds.

"Well, I think I got another flashlight in my glove compartment."

Hardcastle found it twenty minutes later, about ten feet from where Mark had gone down. The judge bent over and picked it up, turning it over in his palm, gold, not too big. Mark saw him reach down and came over to him.

"That's it." He reached out for it. "St. Jude," he said, "patron saint of hopeless cases." He grinned, obviously relieved.

"What about the chain?" Hardcastle asked. "It's gotta be around here somewhere."

"The chain really isn't important." Mark shook his head very gingerly. "Let's go home."