Chapter 3
After a while, McCormick could no longer tell whether his hands were numb from the tightness of the rope or the penetrating cold of the place where he had been left. His efforts to free himself had achieved nothing. He now realized that unless his captors returned, he was going nowhere.
The more he thought about Tilton's actions the more baffled he became. Even the judge's secretive behavior was starting to strike Mark as more than the usual level of weirdness for Hardcastle. And then there was the matter of the envelopes.
But more than anything else, what aggravated McCormick was being relegated to the status of pawn. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the thought and felt an irresistible urge to refuse to play by the rules. It was possible that he would have a few seconds to talk to the judge by phone, under the watchful eye of Tilton's goons. Unless, of course, Tilton decided to use the time-honored alternative method of proving possession of a pawn. McCormick flexed his nearly-numb fingers experimentally, hoping he'd still have all of them at the end of the day.
No, he thought, it'll be a phone call. A finger they would have taken right away. And then he started figuring all the angles
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Frank drove, glancing from time to time at his passenger. The judge looked gray, haggard, and not inclined to accept reassurances that everything was being done to track down the men who had snatched McCormick.
"Look," Frank said, as he turned onto the PCH, "no matter what, handing over the evidence isn't going to be enough for Tilton."
"I know that," Hardcastle replied grimly. "But he's going to insist on having the evidence, too; otherwise he would have just let his goons kill me this morning."
"What makes you think he'll let Mark go if you give him what he wants?" Frank asked sensibly, ignoring the issue that what Tilton most likely wanted was Hardcastle himself.
"Well, we'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. But there's one thing I've got to know right now." The judge's eyes narrowed; his face was set. "I have to know if you're going to back me up on this one, Frank; let me do what I need to do."
"You mean, will I ignore department policy and every bit of common sense I have?"
"Yeah. Both of those, if necessary."
"Milt- -"
"It's a yes or no question, Frank."
Harper gripped the steering wheel tighter and nodded his head once, sharply. "Yes, I'll back you. I hope to God you know what that means, Milt."
"It means you're a good friend, Frank." The judge allowed himself a brief smile. "And I really need one right now."
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McCormick was already on the third version of his plan and he thought maybe this one was about as good as he could make it, which meant it would either work, or get him killed. At least he had to balance that against his increasing certainty that Tilton was a few bricks short of a full load, probably wanted the judge dead, and had no particular reason to let Mark live, either.
He'd circled this line of reasoning a couple of times when he heard the door open and the sounds of men entering the room. He froze, not that he was capable of much movement anyway. Then he felt something moving close to his head. After this morning's experiences, he had to consciously avoid flinching. A second later the cloth bag had been yanked off of him and he was blinking at the relative brightness.
An empty utility shed. It contained him, the chair he sat on, and little else, except for the two guys in ski masks who confronted him, and a small, scarred table that one of them was setting down in front of his chair.
Neither of them said anything until the one who wasn't moving furniture pulled a compact tape recorder from his coat pocket and set it down on the table. McCormick looked up at him questioningly.
"You're gonna say something. So he knows we got you," said the goon with the tape recorder.
"Yeah, he probably didn't notice when you guys grabbed me." That earned him a quick whack to the side of the head. "Look," he started speaking again, almost before the ringing in his ear subsided, "you got the wrong guy. I clean out Hardcase's gutters--"
"And you drink beer with him. And the boss says you're gonna make a tape. You do this, we get the envelope, and you get to go back to cleaning gutters. Got it?"
McCormick was so busy thinking about beer and envelopes that he almost forgot to reply until he noticed the goon raising his hand again. "Yeah, yeah," he responded hastily, "push it over here. I got a few things to say to that donkey."
The mouth hole of the ski-mask was filled with goon teeth as the guy pushed the record button.
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Hardcastle had barely unlocked the front door and ushered Frank in before they heard the phone ringing. Frank followed his dash into the den, then watched as he grabbed for the bottom drawer of the desk and not the phone. The tape recorder was out and in place before there were two more rings. The judge hit the speaker button on the sixth ring and said, "Hello?"
"Not in any hurry, huh?" the unfamiliar voice at the other end grumbled. "Maybe he's right. Listen up." Then there was a click, and a tinnier, more distant, but very familiar voice.
'You know, Hardcase, I'm flat out tired of you putting my life on the line. Hell, you've even pulled a gun on me yourself. Right now I'm thinking I have a fifty-fifty chance that you'll be able to put something together to get me out of this. You called me an idiot. I tell you, maybe you're just as much an idiot as I am, and I'm working for you? A motorhead, that's all I'll ever be to you; I think it'd have been better if I'd stayed under a car. Think real hard about what you've said the past few days. Even when I get on a winning streak, you tell me I can't possibly have all the answers. It's like the game is rigged. So maybe it's time I started making my own deals. From here on in, I'm a one man band--' There followed a sound, like a hand on the microphone, followed by a less distinct word, which might have been 'wait', then a click, and nothing.
"Okay?" the other voice was back. "So, you ready to deal?"
"No," Hardcastle barked back, ignoring Frank's surprise. "Tell your boss I won't do anything until I've talked to McCormick myself. No recordings, that won't cut it. You tell him that." Hardcastle hit the disconnect button without waiting for a reply.
Frank looked stunned. "What the hell--?"
Hardcastle shook his head once sharply, then pointed to his ear and made a lazy circling motion with the same finger that took in the whole room. Then he spoke, clearly and slowly, "I think maybe McCormick's jumped the tracks." He picked up the manila envelope from where he'd tossed it on the desk when he came in, looking at it oddly. Then he picked up the tape recorder as well, as he got up out of the chair. Frank said nothing, following him back out of the house to the car.
"Get in," Hardcastle said quietly.
They were in the vehicle. Frank watched Hardcastle open the envelope and reach inside, then watched his face go a shade paler than gray. "I am an idiot," he growled, pulling out a handful of what looked like receipts and then thrusting them angrily back inside.
Frank tried to control his rising exasperation. "Milt, what the hell just happened in there? What was Mark babbling about and--?"
Hardcastle shook his head and then asked, "Do you know if the Coyote is still there? They haven't moved it yet, have they?"
Frank looked at him, saw the intensity of his interest, and hit the radio to make the necessary inquiries. No, everything was still where it had been left, an ongoing crime scene investigation.
"Good, let's go."
Frank put the car in gear without even bothering to ask why. The judge was fiddling with the recorder, rewinding back the few seconds it had taken for Mark to say what he'd said. They were pulling back out onto the PCH when Frank heard the voice again, now even more distant as a recording of a recording.
"Listen." Hardcastle said, with one finger poised over the pause button.
'You know, Hardcase, I'm flat out tired of you putting my life on the line. Hell, you've even pulled a gun on me yourself.'
Pause. "He started out with something obvious. To make sure I knew what the hell he was doing. What does he think; I'm an idiot?" Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead, "Never mind; don't answer that one. This is about the time we set up those ex-cops. He pretended to pick a fight with me. So that's what he doing now," Hardcastle faltered, "was doing then . . . when he made this tape." He released the pause button.
'Right now I'm thinking I have a fifty-fifty chance that you'll be able to put something together to get me out of this. You called me an idiot. I tell you, maybe you're just as much an idiot as I am, and I'm working for you?'
Pause again. "There were two envelopes. He grabbed the wrong one this morning. He was trying to help. I called him an idiot. They were both in the car when I got out. He thinks I grabbed the wrong one, but he's not sure. He must have picked up the other one, when he was getting out of the car."
'A motorhead, that's all I'll ever be to you; I think it'd have been better if I'd stayed under a car.'
"Well, this is a longer shot. He had the second envelope in his hand; the car was coming at him. He must have thrown it. He thinks it's under the Coyote. Well, hell, that's really the only place it can be, if Tilton's goons didn't get it."
'Think real hard about what you've said the past few days. Even when I get on a winning streak, you tell me I can't possibly have all the answers. It's like the game is rigged.'
Hardcastle looked at Frank. "You recognize this one, right? That stupid rigged game show; they bugged the house so they could be sure McCormick'd win. So he's saying he thinks the house is bugged again. Must be something they said."
"Do you want me to get some tech guys over there?" Frank asked.
"No, let it ride; we can't let them know we're on to anything." He took his finger off the pause button one last time.
'So maybe it's time I started making my own deals.'
He punched the stop button fiercely. Frank looked to the side. Hardcastle was staring out at the highway. After a long moment of silence he spoke, his voice low and hard. "He's planning something. He wants me to step back. I'm guessing right now they've got him stashed with the middle-level help. He's looking for a way to shake up the chain of command, to try and take this thing to Tilton himself."
"How?"
Hardcastle rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Welcome to Planet McCormick. I don't know. Maybe he doesn't even know yet. He does this kind of thing on the fly sometimes. I'm guessing it has something to do with the envelopes. I've got to talk to him again. This is crazy dangerous."
"What, like the alternative isn't?" Frank added, practically. "And what the hell was that last line, the thing about the 'one man band'?"
There was a silence followed by a hesitant reply, "That's . . . a line from a movie."
Frank said nothing. After another moment Hardcastle continued, speaking almost to himself. "John Wayne said it." Hardcastle was staring down at the tape recorder as if he wished he could talk some sense into it, the entirely misdirected notion of a man on the edge of frustration. He turned to Frank, realizing he was still waiting for an explanation.
"It's from They Were Expendable. We watched it last week." Hardcastle shook his head, muttering, "He isn't. He ought to know that by now."
The two men rode on in silence.
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They hadn't bothered to put the hood back on him after the tape was done. Now McCormick sat alone again, studying the inside of his prison. They'd moved the table back over by the wall. He supposed he might inch his chair over there. It would be something to do. When he was done he'd be sitting tied up next to a table. That would be the extent of it.
He sighed.
Had Hardcastle heard the tape yet? More importantly, had he understood it? Mark gave this about one moment's thought and concluded 'yes'. The old donkey didn't miss much. McCormick smiled. Knowing Hardcase, he had asked for a live talk with his yardman and, if there was any justice whatsoever in the universe, he was going back to the Coyote right now to retrieve the real evidence envelope.
There was only one thing that niggled in the back of Mark's mind. The goon had cut him off before he could get out the last word. He hadn't been able to say 'good-bye', and he wasn't entirely sure he'd get another chance.
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The street in front of the D.A.'s office was blocked off with police barriers and crime scene tape. Some of the TV crews had already come and gone. The D.A. himself was nowhere in sight.
The Coyote sat forlornly at the edge of the action. Normally a low riding vehicle, its shot-out tires left it practically on the pavement. It was Frank who got down on the curb side, out of sight of the investigators, and felt around underneath it, while the judge leaned against the driver's side, ready to intercept anyone who approached.
"Got it," he heard Frank announce, in a muffled voice. Hardcastle joined him on the passenger side and slipped the envelope under his own arm. "Now what?" Frank asked.
"A copier. Not the one in the D.A.'s office. I'm sorry Frank; I have to have a fall back plan. But somebody in that office may be dirty. I can't let them know I've got a copy, and I sure as hell can't give the D.A. one."
"Okay. Not my office then, either." Frank walked them quickly back to his car, barely nodding to the technician who was taking measurements from the steps. "Damn, Milt, I hate this."
The judge put his free hand on Frank's shoulder. "I know, but just maybe we're going to have somebody on the inside of Tilton's set-up pretty soon."
"You think that?" Frank looked more closely at his friend's face. He still looked worried, but some of the color was back. "I dunno--"
"You've got to have a little faith." Hardcastle added, "If anybody can do it, he can."
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It had to be mid-afternoon, McCormick thought, based on little more than the number of times he had gone over the various contingencies that might arise. He hadn't heard any cars coming or going right away, from which he concluded that there was another building, with a phone, nearby.
Add to this the persistent, infernal cold, the sharpness of the air, and the fact that nobody had bothered to gag him at any point. We're up in the mountains, probably northeast of the city. A long way from wherever Tilton is. And nowhere anyone else would think to look for him, either.
I'm going to be neglected to death.
This was when he heard the distant crunch of tires on pebbled dirt, and the approach of a car with the earliest sounds of muffler trouble. Not the car he had arrived in, he was sure of that. And, while it was entirely possible that it was the man who'd come to fetch the finger, Mark felt some infinitesimally small surge of hope.
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It was a quick stop at the office supply store and three dollars worth of copying. Then Frank and Milt were back on the road to Gull's Way, with the judge checking his watch every couple of minutes. It was nearly two o'clock, a little more than two hours since the first phone call. Too many variables, too many contingencies. He needed to be there for that second phone call, if it was going to come at all.
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Hope, followed almost immediately by a single gunshot. Handgun, .38, most likely, he catalogued it automatically. Then there were footsteps coming toward the shed and he didn't have much more time for thought.
One man without a mask was followed, deferentially, by another, who'd rolled his up like an ordinary cap, revealing an unimpressive dull face. He'd been the furniture mover, McCormick was fairly certain. Now he was wearing a pair of leather gloves and carrying a Polaroid camera. The man in the lead was dressed sharply; that was an eight-hundred-dollar overcoat with a .38 caliber bulge in the right pocket.
It would have been better if I'd had a chance to say 'good-bye', he thought briefly, but the gun stayed in the man's pocket.
"Mr. McCormick." The man was looking him up and down, with hooded eyelids and a look of faint disdain on his face. It couldn't have been a very impressed assessment at this point. "One of my former employees seems to have made a grave mistake." The man shook his head slowly. "Now I would like you to explain the comments you made earlier today."
"Comments?" Mark began on a note of incredulity. "Oh, you mean sounding off to Hardcase? Yeah, well, you can take that and--"
The other goon had taken a step forward. The man with the gun in his pocket waved him back.
"Well, anyway," McCormick went on, in a calmer voice, keeping one wary eye on the goon, "what the hell do you expect me to say to that donkey? 'Thank you for keeping me in the dark and letting me know jack about what's going on?' On a good day with him I just get called an idiot, kidnapped, and beaten up."
"So you think maybe you can do better with me?"
McCormick gave the man a long slow look, then glanced over at the goon, then back at him, and said, "Hell, I know I can do worse; I've seen your retirement program in action. But I think I've got something you need." McCormick paused.
The man in the overcoat raised his eyebrows speculatively. "What might you have, and what do you want?"
"I have a file, Hardcastle's file, with the name 'Tilton' on it: copies of memos, financial records."
"Copies?"
"Unique, I believe; he hasn't had time to make copies of the copies," McCormick added quickly. "A police lieutenant showed up at Hardcastle's door yesterday, talked to him about the case, and some missing evidence." The man nodded, McCormick went on, "Hardcastle got all excited. He keeps a lot of files, you know. He was rummaging around in them like a crazy man yesterday, put together an envelope full of stuff--nearly bit my head off when it looked like I picked it up this morning."
"'Looked like'?"
"He didn't know I'd already pulled a switch, real early this morning. I put another envelope in its place, one he'd left lying around, so if he happened to look he'd just think he'd gotten confused and misplaced the first one." McCormick allowed himself a smile of self-satisfaction.
"And the original envelope is--"?
"Safe," McCormick grinned, "and accessible."
"And negotiable?" The man added.
"That, too."
"Hmm. You may be more useful to me than I had originally thought. But before we get to that end of the deal, I have another very important task for you."
McCormick said nothing, but tried to look willing. Willing turned to nervous as the goon put the camera down on the table and stepped forward.
"Battered, but not unconscious," the overcoat man instructed, like he was ordering a meal. "After this," he nodded at McCormick, "we'll make a phone call. And you will be very convincing."
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Hardcastle had forgotten how much he hated the 'meanwhile, back at the ranch' part of a kidnapping. It had taken him all of five minutes to take out another manila envelope and put the second copies in it. Now he sat at the desk, studying the phone, willing it to ring.
Frank had returned from the kitchen with coffee and sandwiches. "Eat. You're gonna wish you had later on."
Hardcastle did as he was told, not having any appetite but also not having the energy to argue about it. Then he went back to watching the phone.
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He was in a house, on the floor, not quite sure how he'd gotten there. He thought he hadn't passed out until the goon cut the ropes and stood him up, after the beating. So technically the guy hadn't violated his boss's orders. Good, 'cause otherwise Tilton might run out of goons.
There was someone moving around, out of his line of sight, and instructions being given. He remembered the flash of light right before they'd untied him. Oh, great, pictures. He'd hoped to stave off the phone call for a little while, till he could get his head together and remember the script, but now he'd have to get it done before that photo made it to Hardcastle's doorstep. There was no way the judge would think he was still in control here once he saw that. You are still in control here, aren't you? Yes, some little part of his mind reassured him.
He waited patiently until the goon left, then managed a groan of returning consciousness, executed subtly and with great verisimilitude.
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The phone rang.
Hardcastle punched the speaker button and the record switch simultaneously, not waiting for a second ring. Frank froze where he'd been pacing, halfway between the desk and the doorway. The judge said, "Hello?"
"Hi, Hardcase," it was McCormick, this time without the tinny overlay of a tape recorder, but with an edge of fatigue to his voice that hadn't been there earlier. "Just listen a minute, will ya? I need to tell you something and I don't want you to go off yelling at me. See, maybe I was a little out of line this morning and, well, you know being smart-mouthed is kind of like riding a bicycle or skipping stones; it comes back to you real quick, you don't have to dig down very far to find it."
After a scant moment the judge replied, "Yeah, I understand that."
"Yeah, well, I hoped you would. Anyway," he plunged ahead, "I hope I didn't mess things up too much between us--dammit, will ya give me a sec?" And some muffled sounds. It took a moment for Hardcastle to realize the last words had not been addressed to him. "Listen, he says you'll get another call later tonight. Wait- -" Then the line went dead.
Hardcastle sat there listening to the silence for a moment then got up. Frank followed him out into the hallway, and then back through the house to the patio. The judge stood there for a few moments, saying nothing, staring out toward the ocean.
"Well?" Frank finally interrupted, "Now what?"
Hardcastle jerked himself back from wherever his mind had been, fixed Frank with a look of decision, and announced, "I need a large ziplock bag and a shovel."
