Chapter 4

McCormick scanned the small room slowly, not really moving his head. It appeared to be an unused spare bedroom. A twin bed covered with a plain brown spread was pushed against one wall, an equally non-descript nightstand sitting next to it. The bed didn't give the impression of being freshly made, rather it simply seemed idle, and Mark was certain the two drawer dresser on the opposite wall was empty. The armchair in which he sat—and its mate sitting not far from him—seemed out of place, and he decided they'd been brought in for just this occasion. The one small window was covered completely with heavy beige drapes, blocking any trace of the outside world.

All in all, not very cozy, but he was glad they had decided not to drag him back out to the shed. It was warmer here in the house, and this chair was much more comfortable than the straight-back he'd been tied to earlier. Besides, he thought the cushy side padding was probably the only thing keeping him from falling over at the moment.

When he had first been left alone here after the rather memorable photo shoot, McCormick had rejoiced at being left untied, thinking he might have the opportunity to escape. But that had been before he tried to get up off the floor. The speed with which his muscles had collapsed beneath him made clear that photography wasn't really his jailer's natural calling.

After a few moments of breathing through the pain, he had tried again to stand, but had finally settled for making it to his hands and knees, then dragging himself the short distance across the floor and up into this chair. Then he had sat, ragged breaths coming far too quickly, trying to assess the damage.

There was blood on the floor where he'd been lying, and his face hurt like hell, so a bloody nose and busted lip seemed almost a certainty. He traced his fingers gingerly across his face and felt the damp stickiness that confirmed his suspicions. He winced as he brushed across the various gashes and lumps. He also couldn't see so well out of the left eye, but the lid was too swollen to easily determine if it had actually been cut open.

His arms and legs seemed intact, the benefit, he supposed, of being tied safely out of the way during the beating. Tilton's goon had shown a definite preference for blows to the torso, and he thought it would be something of a miracle if there wasn't a cracked rib or two.

He had been in the middle of this physical inventory when Tilton and his henchman had reentered the room. Despite the futility of the effort, McCormick had tried to rise quickly to his feet, hoping to somehow take advantage of the open door. The beefy goon had actually snickered when McCormick plopped helplessly back down into the chair, so when he had approached with the portable phone, the prisoner had snaked out his foot to trip the guy, then kicked him in the shin when he stumbled. The childish maneuver had accomplished nothing—except earning another whack to the side of the head—but McCormick had felt better afterward. And Tilton had laughed. McCormick thought that might be handy somewhere down the line.

After the phone call, Tilton and his goon had left him alone again, and now—probably close to an hour after he had grated out his few words to Hardcastle—McCormick thought he might be ready to try walking again. He pushed himself out of the chair, waited a few seconds, then took a tentative step away from its support. Okay, still standing. Perfect.

He walked slowly across the room and—for no reason other than the fear of being stupidly held captive in an unlocked room—tried the doorknob. Not surprisingly, it was locked, but at least he knew for sure.

He continued a slow tour around the room, taking everything in, though there wasn't much to see. As he walked, he thought back to the phone call. He was pretty sure Hardcastle was still on the same page with him about the documents; that would be critical. He thought briefly that he might be risking a lot for only "pretty sure", but the judge hadn't let him down yet. It seemed unlikely he would start now.

Just as important, Hardcastle still sounded okay. Not too tense, so Frank must be keeping him under control. Of course, he hasn't seen the pictures yet, he thought. But at least the donkey hadn't ordered him to back off his plan. That was good, if maybe just a tiny bit worrisome. It couldn't possibly be a good thing for the hostage to be more in control of a situation than the guys who were supposed to rescue him.

McCormick had reached the window, and discovered that the closed shutters on the outside blocked the view much more effectively than the drapes on the inside, when he heard the door open. He turned slowly to see Tilton glide into the room, followed by his favorite muscle man. It was fascinating to him—in a rather detached sort of way—to watch the goon scan the room alertly, as if the unarmed, beaten prisoner could somehow put together some sort of assault against the prison keepers. Then, at an almost invisible movement of Tilton's hand, the guy set about moving one of the armchairs so that the two were perfectly placed for a quiet little tête-à-tête. Wonderful.

McCormick looked coolly across the room. "Something I can do for you, Mr. Tilton?"

"I thought it was time for a private conversation," Tilton replied, with the barest glance at his companion. Without comment—but with a menacing glare at McCormick—the other man left the room.

As Tilton moved smoothly to take one of the cushioned seats, Mark looked closely at the lines of his suit. The clothes hung well, but he was certain the .38 was safely in place in a shoulder holster. He saw the man motion to the other seat, and heard his silky voice say, "Join me."

The young man briefly contemplated resisting just on principle, but that wasn't going to get him very far. Besides, with all the aches and pains in his body, he probably wouldn't be able to stay on his feet indefinitely, anyway. Might as well sit while it wouldn't appear to be a necessity. He forced a normal gait as he crossed the room to claim the remaining chair. He sat for just a moment, observing Tilton, then said, "So what's on your mind?" He thought he managed just the right tone of conversational interest.

"Hardcastle," Tilton replied simply. "He should be receiving the photos soon."

"Then I hope I look better than I feel," McCormick replied lightly, never letting on that he would've done just about anything to keep Hardcastle from seeing him like this.

"I wouldn't count on that," Tilton told him seriously. "My associate is very fond of his work."

"So I noticed."

"Good. I'm glad you recognize his proficiencies. You should also be aware that he's waiting just outside the door. His current directive is very simple: you are not to leave this room. If you do, I'll kill him."

McCormick produced the faintest of smiles. "That's quite the incentive plan you've got there, Mr. Tilton." He paused, then added, "But I'm not looking for a repeat performance. Besides, I thought you and I were on our way to working out a deal; I'd rather take my chances with you."

Tilton returned the smile. "My associate will be saddened to hear that. I think he's hoping you'll give him another opportunity to hone his skills. He's not really all that fond of you, you know," he added, almost conspiratorially.

"And here I thought we were getting along so well," McCormick replied sardonically.

With a small chuckle, Tilton steered the conversation back on track. "Before we discuss the negotiable envelope you mentioned earlier, Mr. McCormick, I'd like to talk about Judge Hardcastle."

"Biggest donkey in the world," Mark answered. "Next topic?"

"It's not quite that simple."

The young man sighed. "Nothin's that simple with Hardcastle. What about him?"

"I am still intrigued by the nature of your relationship. What do you suppose his reaction will be to the photographs?"

McCormick studied his captor for a long moment. The complete truth was out of the question, of course, but was a lie necessary? Probably not. "I guess he'll be kinda upset."

"Because he cares about you?" Tilton clarified.

Mark pretended to consider the question carefully, then answered slowly, "Nah, not exactly. I mean, a little bit, I guess, but mostly it'll be because he wasn't able to stop you. He thinks the good guys always win."

"And does he consider you one of the good guys?"

Careful now. "Most of the time, I guess." McCormick paused, then asked, "But what's all this to you? I have the papers that will let you win. Let's work this out, Mr. Tilton."

"And what would you get out of our deal?" Tilton asked, his tone suddenly cold.

"You mean other than the rather sizeable benefit of living through this adventure?" He saw Tilton's quick nod and continued, "Maybe a little traveling money. I'd like to set up residence somewhere out from underneath the Hardcastle thumb."

"So maybe you're really not one of the good guys," Tilton commented, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

McCormick narrowed his eyes and allowed a bitter edge to creep into his voice. "All right, let's stop all this tap dancing around, and I'll just lay it out for you. I spent two of the longest years of my life in San Quentin courtesy of Milton Hardcastle. It was an absolutely bogus rap, but he just sat there on his bench with his high and mighty attitude and sent me away. And when I got out, he was like some kind of crazy stalker: always on my ass, everywhere I went and everything I did." He forced a sneer onto his face as he picked up speed. "Then, in what has to be the worst piece of luck in the history of the world, I got busted again and landed back in his court. He had this ridiculous idea that he could rehabilitate some poor, misguided felon by taking him in and forcing him into slavery out at his estate. That's where I come in. I figured cleaning gutters and cutting grass was better than being back inside, so I signed up." McCormick shook his head slightly. "Today isn't the first time I've regretted that choice," he added intently.

"Gutters and grass, did you say, Mr. McCormick? I thought the judge recruited you to join his private vigilante committee."

McCormick shrugged. "I'm not sure that's the word I would use," he answered, knowing he couldn't really defend Hardcastle's work, but unwilling to let the label stand, "but, I do help him with his cases when he needs it, yeah; it was all part of the deal."

"And what was to be your role in my case?"

With another shake of his head, McCormick allowed his honest frustration to show. "I didn't have one. Yesterday when that cop showed up at the house was the first I'd ever heard of you, and even then, Hardcastle didn't want to give up the details. He just kept being all secretive about everything. I swear, sometimes he forgets I'm the guy standing next to him when all the shooting starts, and it would be nice if I had some friggin' idea when I should duck."

Tilton offered a sympathetic smile. "He does seem to play by his own rules most of the time."

And in those few words, McCormick heard something new: an air of familiarity that he hadn't noticed before and that he didn't like one little bit. What the hell is really going on here? To his captor he said, "Yeah, you know Hardcastle: 'my way or the highway'. Only in my case, the highway leads right back to Quentin, so I don't have a lot of options.

"But when I saw the way he was acting when he was talking about you, and when he was gathering up those papers of his, I suddenly thought some new options might be presenting themselves. That's why I snagged the papers, so I'd be in a better position to take advantage of whatever came along." He gestured around the room, then added ruefully, "All this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

Tilton's smile spread. "I like your attitude, Mr. McCormick."

"You'd be the only one," McCormick muttered.

"Yes, now back to Judge Hardcastle. What will he think if we should make this deal?"

What does this guy want to hear? "He'll be pissed," McCormick answered quickly. Then, more quietly, he added, "And I guess he'll be surprised."

"Because he considers you one of the good guys," Tilton observed in his silky voice, and McCormick was certain there was a hint of satisfaction in the tone. "Mr. McCormick, I believe that we can do business. Would you consider fifteen thousand a fair amount of traveling money?"

"I was actually thinking twenty five," McCormick countered calmly.

Tilton smiled. "You do understand that I could kill you?"

"I do. And I assume you understand that if Hardcastle stumbles across those files after I'm dead, he'll come after you again, and you will have lost whatever leverage you may have."

Tilton inclined his head. "A fair point. We could compromise at twenty."

McCormick felt himself relax slightly. "Deal."

"Good. Now if you'll tell me where the papers are, my associate and I will retrieve them."

McCormick hesitated. "Actually, Mr. Tilton, it would be best if you let me retrieve them."

"As much as I like your style, Mr. McCormick," Tilton said with a laugh, "we need to keep this reasonable. I am not prepared to release you until I have those documents."

"No, of course not," McCormick said quickly. "I certainly didn't mean I should go alone. I just meant it would be easier if I went with you. They're in kind of an unusual place."

Tilton examined his prisoner carefully. "Maybe I should have my associate drive you," he said, his voice suddenly losing all traces of congeniality.

Mark swallowed tightly, wondering if there were warning signs for when Tilton's anger switch was gonna flip. He wanted to push buttons, but it would be nice to know where the lines were. But still, it wouldn't do to back down from such a subtle threat. "Not for nothin', Mr. Tilton," he said, maintaining his composure, "but your associates aren't exactly battin' a thousand today. They didn't manage to get your documents, they were shooting at Hardcastle against your orders, and they sure as hell got it wrong about me and the judge."

He thought quickly, then continued, "Now look, I put the papers on the beach, so what do you want me to tell you for directions? It's under the sand? Check by some rocks? Do you really trust your associate to manage that by himself? Besides, it's a private beach. If you go in through Hardcastle's property—which I don't recommend—you're gonna need my help with the security. And if you do the logical thing and go up the shore, you're still gonna need someone who belongs there, and that's still me. Face it; it's better for everyone if you take me along."

Tilton sat quietly for a long moment, appearing to consider his options. Finally, he rose from his chair. "Very well," he said, as he turned for the door. "We will make arrangements to do this your way. But, Mr. McCormick…please don't forget that it is of very little consequence to me whether you live or die."

And as McCormick watched Tilton glide out of the room, he wished he could believe those final words. But, somehow, he thought that Tilton had a very definite preference concerning his fate, and he was suddenly convinced the man was hoping for a reason to kill him.

00000

"There," Hardcastle said, as he replaced the last shovelful of sand, "that should do it."

Harper looked at his friend doubtfully. "You sure this isn't an awful long shot?"

"Nah," the judge answered absently as he rearranged the sand to his liking, "not really. Lots of things about McCormick might be, but not this. He's runnin' some kind of play, and he needs this stuff available."

The detective continued to watch silently. The cop in him wanted to caution Hardcastle not to get his hopes up, to prepare him for the idea that this situation might not end well, especially with everything currently riding on secret messages coming from a man with a gun to his head.

But the friend in him couldn't do it. He understood how difficult this was for Hardcastle—thought, in fact, he might be one of the few people the judge would allow to understand. He knew his friend was still scared, but in the hour or so since the call from McCormick, Harper had watched some of the empty horror leave the judge's eyes to be replaced with a much more typical determination. The opportunity to speak to the young man had done wonders for Hardcastle, and now the judge had dedicated himself to doing whatever McCormick needed.

Harper didn't have the heart to take that away, so he stuck to safer ground. "So how can you be sure this is the place?"

Hardcastle gestured to the rocks around him. "Because this is where- -" he broke off suddenly, caught up in a memory he wasn't sure he wanted to share. He glanced again at the large rocks on the shore—picturing the sincere face of a friend—then smiled gently as he returned his attention to Harper. "Because this is where the stones skip the best." He nodded confidently. "This is the place." He made one last swipe at the sand at his feet, then seemed satisfied. "C'mon," he said, motioning Harper to follow him back up off the beach, "we gotta find our hiding spots."

00000

As it turned out, finding hiding spots had proven more difficult than they had imagined, and, after twenty minutes, they'd decided there were far too many variables. Who would be coming after the papers, and when? Would they come from the estate side, or try to approach from the beach? Would there be an opportunity to take down whoever showed up, or should they just plan on following them back to Tilton, and—presumably—McCormick? And most importantly, just what the hell was McCormick planning? Hardcastle was grumbling forcefully as they made their way up the path back to the house.

"Damn fool, kid. Gives me just enough information to get started, but no idea what's actually running through that bunch of rocks he likes to call brains. Don't know what he thinks I'm supposed to do. He needs to break out that secret decoder ring of his and tell me where the hell he is, instead of sending me out to the beach like some kinda errand boy."

Harper chuckled as they approached the patio; it was good to see Hardcastle returning to normal. "So as a super secret agent, he's not exactly Captain Midnight. You know kids; he's probably trying for James Bond."

"James Bond?" the judge groused with a grin, "He's barely Maxwell Smart." He waved toward the outdoor chairs. "Let's wait out here for the next call. We can at least keep an eye on the beach, and we can talk. I'll go grab us something cold to drink."

"I'll walk in with you," Harper answered. "I should make another call to the station, see if there's anything new. Tilton needs to think we're still working this on the up and up."

Hardcastle nodded, and led the way inside. "I'll make some tea," he said as they entered the kitchen. He had just started filling the pitcher when the front bell rang.

Already halfway down the hall, Harper called back, "Want me to get that?" but Hardcastle suddenly pushed past him and hurried to the door.

"Milt!" Harper admonished as he rushed to reach the entryway himself. "At least let me get situated here a minute." Pulling his weapon from its holster, he positioned himself flat against the wall behind the door just before Hardcastle pulled it open.

"Yeah?" He had intended to control his bellow a bit more than that.

The unusual greeting visibly startled the young, gangly deliveryman standing on the porch. He looked uncertainly between the clipboard in his hand and the man standing in front of him. "Uh…I- I'm looking…" he glanced down again quickly, then back up. "Hardcastle? I'm looking for Milton Hardcastle."

"Well ya found him," Hardcastle growled in reply. "Whatcha got?"

"Pa- -package," the man told him, holding up a small padded envelope. "I just need you to, uh, sign for it," he continued, slipping his clipboard smoothly in front of the judge's outstretched hand. Hardcastle snatched the board, removed the attached pen, and scrawled his name quickly, then shoved it back at the younger man impatiently.

The courier gathered his clipboard and passed the envelope to Hardcastle, who grunted a quick, "Thanks," then turned and ducked back into the house.

Harper grinned slightly at the exchange, and came out from behind the door, quickly holstering the gun. He stepped out onto the porch. "Was there some kind of delivery receipt?" he asked. The kid was mumbling something about crazy rich people, so Frank traded him a couple of dollars for the paper he handed over.

The lieutenant closed and locked the front door, and entered into the den just as Hardcastle was slitting the manila envelope with the letter opener. He heard the judge mutter crossly, "Maybe this'll finally tell us what he wants," and then he watched in growing concern as the color drained from his friend's face and the judge collapsed heavily into the chair behind the desk.

"God, kid, I'm sorry."

Hearing Hardcastle's quiet groan of despair spurred Harper into action, and he moved quickly across the room. "What is it?" he asked urgently, reaching out to take the items from Hardcastle's hand. At first, he thought he might have to literally pry them from the clenched fingers, but a gently spoken command got through and Hardcastle released his grip.

Harper glanced down at the two Polaroid photographs in his hand. The first one was a wide shot showing McCormick bound tightly to a chair in an empty room of some sort. His head was slumped down, chin resting on his chest, with his eyes barely open. His face was covered in blood, but not so much blood that the newly forming bruises weren't visible. Harper was pretty sure the restraints were the only thing keeping the kid upright.

The second photo was just a close-up view; only Mark's face filled the small square. The cuts and bruises were much more palpable when magnified, and Harper would swear he could read the pain in the young man's eyes.

And in the white bar below the photo, written in perfectly formed letters, a message was printed: WE'RE NOWHERE CLOSE TO EVEN.

00000

Frank Harper stared impatiently at the stoic face across the table. It had taken all of the detective's control to get the other man out of the house without exploding. He had never seen Milton Hardcastle shut down so quickly and completely. When it became clear that the judge wasn't going to talk—not even to put on a show—Harper had quietly said, "You look like you could use some fresh air, Milt." And while he mostly just wanted to get Hardcastle outside so they could speak freely, the words had still been true; the judge remained almost as pale as when he'd first seen the photographs, and the lines on his face were drawn with worry.

At Harper's urging, the older man had allowed himself to be steered out of the house, and that docile acceptance was almost more troublesome than anything else that had happened today.

Then they had sat quietly at the outdoor table for many long moments while Hardcastle learned to control the subtle trembling that had started with opening the envelope. Harper tolerated the continued silence even as he himself posed the most simple and reasonable of questions. But it didn't take long for the lieutenant's fear and concern to manifest itself as anger.

"Dammit, Milt, what's going on?"

Hardcastle attempted a shrug. "The kid just looked really bad," he said dully, not meeting Harper's eyes.

"Of course he did. But I don't think that's all this is about. What was up with that note on the picture? What is going on with you and Tilton?"

"He knows I can put him away," the judge answered, shaking his head. "You're the one that said he wasn't planning on going to jail."

"Nice try," Harper answered blandly, "but you wanna give it another shot?"

A judicial eyebrow raised in a pretty good imitation of confusion. "What do you mean?"

But Harper would not be drawn into pointless conversation. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what we're up against."

"You know Tilton," Hardcastle answered non-committally.

"And I know you," Harper snapped. "And I know sometimes Mark isn't the only one around here with rocks in his head. What was with the picture? What did Tilton mean about being even? You might've been a pain in his ass before, but you didn't manage to put him behind bars, so what's he got to get even for? What is it really that has you so scared right now? What in the hell is going on?"

The judge almost managed a smile at Frank's litany of questions, but he shook his head. "Whatever he's talking about isn't important. But I'm ready for him to stop the games and just tell me what he wants me to do. I gotta get McCormick out of there."

Harper could hear the barely controlled desperation in the tone. Whatever Hardcastle wasn't saying had shaken him badly. "This isn't just about your testimony, is it?" the detective pressed, determined to avoid the brush-off. And while the judge debated on an answer, Harper remembered suddenly how strange it had seemed that McCormick had been completely unaware of the Tilton situation until yesterday, and some of the pieces clicked into place. "Tilton isn't really planning on any sort of trade, is he, Milt?"

And while Hardcastle had spent the day trying to convince himself that this nightmare was only about testimony and missing evidence, the arrival of the photograph had robbed him of that comforting delusion. Drawing in a shaky breath, he finally met the eyes of his friend, and forced himself to face the truth. "No," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, "I don't think he's gonna trade. I think he's trying to settle a score. And I think killing Mark would make us even."