Chapter 5

McCormick contemplated the bed as he listened to the sounds of movement from outside the locked door. One of his two captors had left in the car. An excellent time for a jailbreak, Mark thought, except for the part where I fall over if I try to move too fast. The bed was looking more and more inviting, though part of him was convinced that once he lay down on it he would never find the will power to stand up again.

He couldn't tell what time it was; no outside light penetrated the shutters on the only window. He heard the return of the car, an outer door opening, and some muffled conversation from the front of the house. A moment later he heard the door of his own room being unlocked.

He tried not to tense up. It was becoming harder to stay focused, keep the story straight, figure out what to say. Some water would be nice. The door opened. Tilton's goon glanced at him briefly from the doorway and then stepped back, Tilton moving past him smoothly. The goon followed along behind, went to the nightstand, and slid it over between the two armchairs. He exited without a word.

"You're not looking too well, Mr. McCormick." Tilton had a half-smile as he surveyed him. "You really ought to have taken advantage of your accommodations." He gestured toward the bed.

"I'm good here," McCormick replied laconically.

"Well, at least we must have you eat something," Tilton added, continuing his dreadful parody of the ever-thoughtful host. The goon had lumbered back into the room, looking put-upon and carrying an ancient enameled tray on which there was a plate, sandwiches and, more importantly, a water glass. He set his burden down on the nightstand and then gave his boss one quick sideward look before turning to the door. The goon's not happy, McCormick thought.

Tilton took his accustomed seat as his associate departed. His smile became more expansive and Mark noted his eyes were darker, and his breathing a little fast. Well, maybe he's less crazy when he's doing drugs. Tilton leaned forward and McCormick had to steel himself not to shy away.

"Things are moving along nicely," Tilton spoke conspiratorially. "I'm going to need you to make one last phone call." Then he sat back. "But you really must eat." Tilton picked up the glass of water and held it out.

McCormick tried not to appear too eager as he reached for it. He noticed his hand was shaking and he knew Tilton was seeing it as well. Dammit, just drink the water. This is not a damn pissing contest. He found himself pushing down an entirely inappropriate smile at this metaphor. He took a drink and then lifted his eyes again. He could see that Tilton had turned thoughtful.

"Something amuses you, Mr. McCormick?"

"Nothing. Everything." McCormick took another long swallow. Then he took an uncalculated risk. "I was just trying to figure out which one of you is crazier." He held his breath for a moment. This could go so badly wrong, but he felt like he had Tilton just slightly off-balance and the urge to keep pushing was overwhelming.

The silence strung out for a moment. No immediate blow to the head, that was good. He went on, "I know why I hate the old donkey; I did two years hard time on account of him. But you . . . street shoot-outs, all of this," he gestured to the room and himself, "you're way out of my league."

"Why, Mr. McCormick," Tilton was smiling again, but this smile had the knife edge of pure evil, "I do believe that is some sort of back-handed compliment." Tilton sat back further in his chair and crossed his leg, as though he was settling in for a long visit. "Mark--may I call you Mark?"

"You can call me anything you like as long as I get my twenty thousand," McCormick replied.

Tilton sighed. "It's all about the money for you young people today, isn't it?" The remark sounded casual but there was something deeper in Tilton's dark eyes. McCormick wanted to look away but could not.

"Loyalty is nothing for you." There was an undercurrent of barely-contained anger in Tilton's voice now. The mood had changed with the sudden swiftness of a summer storm. "Someone offers you . . . everything, and you throw it back in their face." Tilton was still sitting back, but his face was flushed and his breathing more shallow, as though he was only just controlling the urge to strike out.

But control it he did, and Mark got the increasing impression that the remarks were not entirely directed at him. He feels betrayed. Well, not by Hardcastle, surely. But I'll bet the old donkey knows who.

Tilton had regained some of his composure. The smile was back, entirely artificial but a welcome change from what lay beneath. He reached forward and took the now-empty glass from McCormick's hand and nudged the plate closer to him on the tray.

"Eat. Then we'll make that call."

00000

Frank listened quietly, and with growing horror, to the tale Hardcastle told.

"And the body was never found," the judge finished, his face drawn and his voice cracking with fatigue.

"How come this isn't part of Tilton's record?" Harper finally interjected.

"He made sure the rumors got back to me, but that's what it was, all rumors. Larry was, what?—twenty-one. Guys that age up and leave home. It happens. Only this kid had come to me, trying to get out from under his father's dealings. And I told him he was doing the right thing. Patted him on the back. Told him we'd set something up with the D.A."

"Milt, he was an adult. He knew what his father was, and he knew the risk he was taking."

"Yeah, but McCormick didn't."

The two men sat for a while in silence. The judge's eyes were drawn toward the sea. Frank couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't come across as a pointless platitude. The rumors that Tilton had made sure were passed along to Hardcastle were gruesome enough to justify Milt's worst fears.

"You know," Frank began, hesitantly, "it sounds like Mark's doing his best to convince Tilton you're nothing to him."

"Won't matter," the judge said quietly, "unless I can make Tilton believe the kid means nothing to me." They watched the last bit of sun slip past the clouds and into the sea.

00000

"Stick to the script," Tilton advised, "nothing more, nothing less." He passed the paper over to McCormick, who looked down at it for a moment.

"What's my motivation?" Mark cocked an eyebrow up at him, then held a palm up against Tilton's sudden frown. "Seriously, do you still want me to make nice to the guy, or what?"

Tilton gritted his teeth, "Whatever it takes to get him there."

"Then don't give me this crap to read," McCormick crumpled the sheet in one hand and tossed it back at the other man. "I've been talking to Hardcase for two years; I know what to say and what not to say."

"Very well," Tilton replied, "just as long as you understand, if he doesn't show, I'll kill you." He dialed the phone and handed it over.

Mark listened. One ring, two, then a familiar voice on the other end saying a gruff, "Yeah?"

"Hi, Judge," McCormick could hear the sound of crickets in the background, night noises. He's out by the pool. Somehow the familiarity of the image was comforting. He spoke slowly, weighing every word. "He wants a meet. An exchange."

"Are you all right?" More gruffness, a lot of tension. He's seen the damn photos.

"Yeah, I will be when this is over." No permanent damage, yet. "He wants you, alone, with the papers, on the beach at eleven tonight. I said you'd probably tell him to go pound sand." Say no, for God's sake. Tilton gestured for the phone. Mark said, "Wait," and then into the receiver, "Good-bye," but Tilton had his hand on the phone and had taken it away before he could hear if the judge had replied.

"Well, Judge," Tilton continued smoothly, "I hope you haven't already gifted that file to the D.A." There was a brief pause. Mark couldn't make out the words from the other end. "Good then. Eleven it is. I'll be looking forward to it." Tilton thumbed the receiver off and looked at McCormick speculatively. "Well, Mark, what do you think? Is he sincere?"

McCormick shook his head wearily. "I think you've made a big mistake. He must know by now that he doesn't have the file, unless he's just plain forgotten to look in the envelope. And, even if he did, he'd never exchange it for me. My guess is he'll have some heavy-duty police back-up waiting for you on that beach."

"Even if he knows I have a gun to your head?"

"Yeah, not much new there." McCormick said, aiming for a tone of bitter resignation. "Just means he'll have to make another trip down to Bauchet Street on Monday. Can't let the hedges get too raggedy."

"Hmm," Tilton eyed him narrowly. "I think we'll just have to take our chances."

00000

Hardcastle had paced out to the back edge of the yard and was staring down onto the fast-darkening beach below. Frank was a few feet behind him.

"Well?" Harper asked exasperatedly.

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder, then back at the beach. "He wants a meet, down there, eleven tonight."

"But Milt, he thinks you know you don't have the file."

"He doesn't want the damn file, Frank. The file's a McGuffin, a red herring," Hardcastle explained impatiently. "The problem is, if I'm willing to exchange myself for McCormick, then he'll know he's worth killing." Hardcastle shook his head.

"Then don't go down there, Milt, if you can't do any good by it. Let me call the Coast Guard, and get my guys in place."

"There's no way they can pull Mark out of this alive." Hardcastle shook his head. "No, I gotta go. There's still a chance. It all depends how good McCormick's little song and dance has been. If Tilton believes him, maybe that'll be enough for now. I dunno," Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead, "I wish to hell I did."

00000

"Time to go, Mark." It was Tilton, jostling his shoulder. He probably hadn't intended to be painful this time, but the jolt that shot through his left ribs had McCormick instantly awake, groaning. Tilton looked down at him with amused sympathy. "Sorry about that."

The goon stepped up from behind Tilton with the familiar black hood and a pair of handcuffs.

"Is this necessary?" McCormick asked carefully, though he was actually relieved to see the hood; not bothering with a blindfold might have had serious implications at this point.

"Yes," Tilton said without any apparent anger, "ours is a relationship built on necessity, not trust . . . like that between you and the judge."

McCormick turned that statement around, pondering the double meaning as he was nudged none-too-gently forward in his seat so the handcuffs could be applied. He looked up again at Tilton. The man was smiling, the dark glitter gone from his eyes. What was left was old and weary. Maybe he hasn't believed a word I've said about Hardcastle. And the hood was brought down over his head.

00000

It was a cloudy, cool night with no moon. Hardcastle studied the western horizon, listening to a distant engine, looking for what would be the nearly invisible outline of a boat operating without running lights, coming straight in. Behind him, back in the first rise of dunes near the cliffs, was Frank, with a rifle from the Hardcastle armamentarium, and strict instructions not to use it unless . . .

The judge couldn't bring himself to think about the 'unless'. How convincing had the kid been? He was pretty good, but he didn't know Tilton. Now whose fault is that?

And, even if McCormick had sold him the whole bill of goods, would Tilton be willing to settle for digging up the files and reveling in Hardcastle's betrayal? Maybe, oh please, God, maybe. Let him drop his guard for a moment, get his attention away from the kid for a few seconds. Hardcastle felt for the gun in his shoulder holster again. That would be all he'd need.

00000

The hood had come off as they were approaching shore. Mark wasn't sure he would have recognized the place in the dark, from this strange perspective, but Tilton apparently had done his research. The goon was steering, using the tiller of the outboard. McCormick felt the muzzle of Tilton's .38 against his right ribs as the man reached behind him and undid the cuff from one wrist.

He heard a click as Tilton refastened it to his own. So much for escaping by diving overboard. McCormick thought Tilton was seriously overestimating his current physical capabilities. The choppy trip in the boat had left him breathless and shivering. Serves you right if I pass out on you when we stand up.

00000

He saw the outline of a small boat, dark on dark, but visible now as a moving shape against the water. The engine had been cut to idle and the boat kissed the bottom and moved sideways, rocking. There were three figures on board. One stood up and stepped out into the shallow water. He pulled the boat in and steadied it while the second man got up and gestured to the third. They brought him. Hardcastle let out a breath and eased away from the rock he'd been leaning on, allowing himself to be seen.

They got out of the boat, awkward as hell. Hardcastle realized, after a moment's observation, that Tilton had shackled the kid to his left wrist. Left to left, Tilton stood behind McCormick, using him as a shield, with the gun held up visible above his right shoulder. It was hard to tell what shape Mark was in, but at least he was walking.

Hardcastle kept his hands out loose at his sides, the envelope in his left; it wouldn't do to make any sudden moves in this bad light. "Tilton? You ready to deal?"

"Not tonight, Judge." Tilton leaned over to McCormick's ear and said something too low for Hardcastle to hear. The kid was pointing to the seaward side of the rock closest to the shoreline. The third man reached into the boat, took out a shovel. He walked carefully behind the other two and toward the place Mark had pointed out.

Tilton lifted his head to face him again. "What's in the envelope, Hardcastle?"

"The file," Hardcastle shouted, "What you wanted."

Tilton laughed and said something else inaudible to McCormick. The kid seemed to hesitate before replying.

"Okay," Tilton's smile was visible, even in the poor light, "you toss it down over here and step back a ways."

"What about him?" Hardcastle gestured toward McCormick with envelope.

"Judge, your associate and I have another deal worked out," Tilton was grinning broadly now, "right, Mark?" Tilton nudged him and McCormick nodded slowly. "I think he's chosen 'accessory after the fact' as his new career move."

"With the handcuffs and the gun? Come on, Tilton, you're not even trying to make him look willing."

"No, Judge." Tilton shook his head. "I'm used to betrayal. I expect it. I know I don't have this man's loyalty, only his greed." The grin was gone. "How much, Mark?"

There was another nudge. McCormick lifted his head. "Ah, twenty-five thousand?"

Tilton cuffed him lightly with the gun butt. "That's twenty. I'm not in a good mood, young man."

McCormick managed a shrug, "Can't blame a guy for trying." He'd caught the judge's eye and seemed to be speaking to him now.

From the rock came a grunted shout. The third man was leaning on the shovel with one hand, pulling something out of the sand. He held it up for Tilton to see.

Tilton turned back to Hardcastle. "That's your file, Judge. Your associate here stole it this morning and buried it. If I hadn't gotten him first, he would have come to me anyway."

Hardcastle grabbed at the clasp of his own envelope and yanked open the flap, scrabbling at the contents. He looked up in disgust and took a few steps toward Tilton.

"Uh-uh," Tilton gestured him to a halt, the goon coming up quickly from his left. "Stay right there, Judge. I know you'd like to have a few words with Mark, but we have other plans right now." Tilton was edging back, with McCormick still in front of him. "Just for the record, what's in your envelope, Hardcastle?"

Hardcastle looked down at it again, his voice layered with anger, "Receipts, car receipts." He narrowed his eyes at McCormick, "Why?"

McCormick dropped his eyes for a moment. Tilton gave a little yank upward on the cuffs. "Answer the man, Mark."

"Because," Mark's voice was flat and sullen. The silence stretched out. Tilton appeared to be waiting for something more.

Hardcastle felt a gnawing horror in the pit of his stomach. Dammit, kid, you can lie better than that. Hell, call me an overbearing donkey; that isn't even a lie. But the silence went on until Tilton finally jerked the kid's arm up harder and turned him toward the boat. The third man was carrying the shovel and the plastic bag, shuffling along a few steps behind.

McCormick stepped awkwardly on the turn, tangling his foot between Tilton's and starting to go down. Tilton automatically reached out with his free hand, the gun moving away from McCormick's head.

Hardcastle saw it all, and was reaching for his gun before he even spared a glance to the third man, who had dropped the shovel and was clearing his own gun from its holster. McCormick was falling sideways; the judge had a clear shot as he raised the barrel towards Tilton.

A shot rang out.

00000

McCormick hit the sand hard on his right side, dragging Tilton to his hands and knees beside him at arm's length. The roaring in his ears was one with the echo of a gunshot. He ignored the wave of pain from his ribs, trying to see what was happening through his tunneled down vision. He lifted his head to see past Tilton, who was already scrambling to his feet. There was a shape on the sand where the judge had been standing. The goon was moving toward it with gun drawn and pointed down.

Tilton was shouting, pulling Mark up by his wrist. There wasn't any pain anymore, just a dead, uncomprehending numbness as he kept his eyes fixed on the shape in the sand.

"Check him," Tilton screamed at the goon.

Shouts from farther up on the beach. A rifle shot. The goon clutched at his right shoulder with his left hand and stumbled back toward Tilton.

"He's dead?" Tilton screamed again as he snatched at the fallen bag.

The goon nodded, shouted something unintelligible, and staggered toward the boat. McCormick felt himself being dragged along by Tilton. Half falling in the shallow water, he was pulled up over the side and dumped in the bottom of the boat. They were pushing off and the goon, dripping blood and water, fell in beside him.

Tilton snatched at the cord and the engine caught as they slid quickly into deeper water. McCormick heard one last shot, just wild frustration now; it couldn't have had any other purpose. Frank, he supposed. Frank was all the back-up the judge had brought along.

The goon picked himself up and sat on the bench, muttering, still clutching his shoulder. Tilton let loose of the tiller for a moment and unfastened the handcuff from his wrist, not bothering to put it back on McCormick's other.

Well, here's your opportunity. They were far enough out. If he made it into the water, the goon would probably get off a few good shots. The guy was pissed as hell right now anyway. It would be fast and easy. He'd wash up in a couple of days. Maybe in time for a double funeral, even. And he'd never have to explain to Frank how he'd made such a total hash of this.

He was too cold to even shake now, and the only thing keeping him conscious was the twack-twack of pain in his ribs as the boat cut through the breakers. He felt a nudge from Tilton's foot. "Come on now, Mark, up you go." Tilton had him under the arm and was pulling again. "Special bonus, eh? Out from under the Hardcastle thumb for good this time, I'd say."

I can't do this anymore.

Yes, you can.

"Yeah," he muttered. He dragged himself to his knees and let Tilton pull him onto the seat in front of him. He'd caught a glimpse of one hot spark in the middle of the cold core of despair. He wasn't going until he could take Tilton with him.