Chapter 6
Frank Harper rushed across the beach. He knew he had hit the guy who'd done the shooting at Hardcastle, but he also knew he hadn't completely stopped him. And he sure as hell knew he hadn't stopped Tilton from getting away with McCormick still in tow. He let the useless rifle fall to the ground, and dropped down next to the still figure. "Please," he whispered frantically as he reached out to gently roll Hardcastle to his back, "don't let me lose them both."
Willing himself to professional detachment, he reached instinctively to feel for a pulse, then allowed his personal relief when he found one. "Thank God," he breathed loudly. Then he reached into his jacket for the Maglite he had pocketed before staking out the beach. He thumbed the switch and the powerful beam split the night.
Harper immediately grimaced when he saw the bloody wound on the judge's left temple. Reaching back into his pocket, he located a handkerchief, pressed it against the gash, then focused on a simple lesson learned long ago: Don't forget to check for other injuries. He ran the light slowly over Hardcastle's body, alert for more blood or any other signs of additional wounds. Finding nothing, he turned his attention back to the head wound. He didn't want to remove the pressure, but he did want to find out exactly what he was dealing with. Standing the flashlight upright into the sand so that it gave off a small umbrella of light, Harper rifled through the judge's jacket and found another handkerchief. He lifted his own away from Hardcastle's head and was concerned to see the blood still flowing freely. He dabbed gently to clear some of the blood so that he could better see the wound, then grabbed the flashlight again and looked more closely. He relaxed just a bit when he realized that the open gash was not even two inches long, and not deep enough to be described as much more than a graze. He wiped again at the flowing blood, getting the area as clean as possible, then folded the clean cloth and pressed it against Hardcastle's head.
Satisfied that immediate needs were taken care of, Harper rearranged his position in the sand, making a more comfortable seat for himself as he sat at his friend's side. He glanced at his watch to start the mental countdown. Hardcastle's injury did not seem life threatening, and he knew the judge would prefer not to have paramedics called. He was prepared to try and honor those wishes, but he would wait fifteen minutes, and no more. The detective still had some hope for McCormick's safe return, and there was no way he was gonna tell that kid anything but good news about Hardcastle's health. He looked quickly at his watch again, then shook his head. Fifteen minutes was going to seem like a very long time.
00000
McCormick sat in grim silence in the backseat of the car. He wasn't so much focused on the steady hum of the tires rolling over pavement as he was studiously ignoring Tilton's blow-by-blow replay of the evening. The man was positively gloating, and his goon was more than happy to encourage him with well placed congratulatory remarks.
If Mark had been relieved before to have the black hood slipped over his head, he had been outright overjoyed this time. Nothing would give him away quicker than the hatred and despair he didn't know how to control. He thought it very likely that the damned handcuffs were the only thing stopping him from reaching out and murdering Tilton with his bare hands. Somewhere, on the deepest of levels, he knew that the judge wouldn't approve of that train of thought, but nothing seemed capable of moving past the single image that was burned in the forefront of his mind: the dark outline of Milton Hardcastle lying, unmoving, in the sand of Seagull Beach.
00000
Hardcastle awoke, feeling the pressure on his head. Or maybe it was in his head, kind of hard to be sure. But he only had one thought as he struggled to sit up.
"McCormick?"
Harper lightly pressed on the judge's shoulder, keeping him flat on the ground. "Hang on, Milt," he said firmly, "don't be trying to rush things here."
Hardcastle focused his eyes on the face hovering above him. "Frank. Where's the kid?" When he saw the lieutenant shake his head sadly, he closed his eyes, bracing himself. After a moment, he looked back up at Harper. "Tell me."
The detective was matter-of-fact. "Not a lot to tell, Milt. They got away. I wounded the guy who hit you, but they were too close to the shore. Tilton dragged Mark back into the boat and they shoved off outta here." He paused before adding, "I'm sorry."
The judge shook his head. "Not your fault, Frank. I shouldn't have underestimated him." He pressed his palms down onto the sand. "Help me get up."
"Milt- -"
"I said, help me," Hardcastle interrupted. "I don't intend to lounge here on the beach while that lunatic…while he has McCormick."
Harper flashed a quick grin. "If this is your idea of lounging on the beach, it's no wonder Mark never wants to let you plan the vacations."
The judge was not amused. "Harper…"
The detective knew better than to argue with that particular tone. He placed the handkerchief into the judge's hand, "This is for your head," rose to his feet, and then helped Hardcastle do the same. "Okay?" he asked, keeping his hands on the judge's shoulders to balance against the slight swaying.
Hardcastle nodded slowly as he put the cloth back up to cover his wound. "Yeah, I think so." But he didn't object to Harper's helping hand, and they stood quietly for a moment while he steadied himself.
But as he stood in the dark, it didn't take Hardcastle long to realize that his mental state was probably more unbalanced than his physical one. There was an anger burning in him deeper than he could ever remember, and his guilt was almost as overwhelming. No matter how he tried to twist it around in his brain, he came back again and again to the fact that McCormick was only in this position because of him, though the kid would undoubtedly remind him that there was nothing unusual about that.
But this time, McCormick wasn't ready. He thought he'd been protecting the kid, keeping him in the dark about Tilton. He could see now how wrong that idea had been. If he had been more honest, at least Mark would've been just a little bit prepared when this disaster struck. Instead, the young man was operating in the dark. No matter what information Frank had given him the night before, it wasn't enough. The kid was working blind, with no idea of how really crazy Tilton could be underneath his oh-so-charming exterior. McCormick could be running his mouth like always, never knowing how many different ways Tilton knew how to hurt someone…
"Milt? Milt!"
Harper's voice seemed a long ways away, and Hardcastle could feel the hands tightening on his shoulders, as if he needed help to stay standing.
"Milt," Harper was still talking, "can you hear me?" The way Hardcastle had lurched suddenly, and the way the little bit of color in his face had drained away—a terrible sight here in the darkness—had worried the detective. But now, staring into the blank eyes and hearing the low moan that escaped his friend's lips was chilling. He spoke more urgently. "Can you hear me?" he repeated.
"Of course I can hear you," Hardcastle finally snapped. At least, the judge had intended to snap. The words were really more of a mumble than anything else, almost unintelligible, but Harper was relieved.
"Okay." The detective glanced around quickly. "How about if you sit down for a bit? I'll go call the paramedics." Harper tried to steer the older man back toward the rocks—at least he could lean against them—but Hardcastle wasn't budging. Amazing how someone so seemingly on the verge of collapse could be so stubbornly planted in place.
"No paramedics," Hardcastle was saying, "no time. Have to find the kid."
Harper sighed silently. "We'll find him, Milt, but you gotta take care of yourself, too."
"No paramedics," the judge repeated, his voice gaining strength. "Just help me back up to the house. Look," he pulled the cloth away from his head, "it's not even bleeding any more." But he managed a small grin as he felt the blood begin to trickle down the side of his face. Putting the cloth back in place, he amended, "Well, it's not bleeding much. I'll bandage it up and we'll be good to go."
Harper found it within himself to return the grin. "Mark's right," he answered, "you are a donkey." But he repositioned himself to Hardcastle's side, made sure he had a good grip on his friend, then began the tedious process of moving up the path toward the house.
00000
He felt himself begin to fall, and realized that he had fallen asleep against the now opening car door. The sudden movement was startling, painful, and—bound as he was—unstoppable. Then McCormick felt hands grab his shoulders to steady him again, and heard Tilton's voice say, "I've got you, Mark," in an almost comforting tone. It made his skin crawl, and he hoped the cool temperature and his still damp clothes would be blamed for the small shiver that ran over him.
"Thanks." He forced out the single word as he let himself be helped out of the car, then was steered along in the proper direction. The air was cold and clear, and the night surprisingly quiet, so he assumed they were back at the house where they had started. "You could've dropped me off anywhere in town," McCormick commented flatly as he was led through whatever outer rooms the house possessed. Then he heard a door close and felt the guiding hand release him, and knew he was back in the small, drab room. He fought down another shiver as he felt the hands again, this time releasing him from his shackles. He knew the hood would be coming off next, and he steeled himself. Get a grip, McCormick. It wasn't time yet. He winced in the sudden light, but that wasn't enough to block Tilton's grin.
"Of course you have to be our guest tonight, Mark," Tilton said amiably. "We haven't completed the financial end of our agreement and the banks are closed."
"I woulda trusted you with a check," McCormick responded, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. He tried not to think about the idea that the banks would still be closed tomorrow.
Tilton chuckled briefly. "Yes, I bet you- -" He broke off and examined his prisoner more closely. McCormick hadn't moved, not even to shake the circulation back into his hands after removing the cuffs. And his face, even with all its scrapes and bruises, was a frozen mask. "McCormick?" When the young man didn't answer, Tilton grabbed his arm and turned him roughly to put them directly face to face. "McCormick?" he asked again, anger creeping into his tone.
Mark shook his head, but after only a few seconds he could feel fingers digging into his arm, pressing deep into his muscle. He forced himself not to pull away. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that," he finally said through gritted teeth.
Tilton jerked his hand away like it was on fire, and stared. "He matters to you," he said slowly. And mingled with the anger and the surprise, Mark was certain he heard just a bit of envy.
McCormick stepped backward, putting space between them. "You know what matters to me?" he demanded, channeling his very real anger. "Staying out of prison. A relationship of necessity, that's what you said. But what happened to my necessities? It might not have occurred to you, but as the only resident ex-con at Gull's Way, a lot of suspicion points my way for a lot of things. Bad enough you're shouting up and down the shoreline about me being an accessory, but when you leave the man laying dead in the sand, who do you think they're going to come looking for?" He glared across the small distance. "Hardcastle was not the only person on that beach! I'm going to spend the rest of my life on the run because your hired hand doesn't have sense enough not to go killin' a judge."
"Things did happen a bit unexpectedly," Tilton admitted.
"Yeah, well, I thought you were supposed to be in control, Tilton." McCormick didn't even have time to register Tilton moving quickly to close the small distance between them, so the sudden backhand across his cheek caught him off guard. He raised his fist instinctively in defense, but Tilton intercepted it effortlessly, and Mark suddenly found himself spun around, arm twisted behind him, with a gun resting against his head. He forced himself not to force Tilton's hand. It's still not time.
"I think I preferred Mr. Tilton," the older man snarled, "and I hope we can agree that I am in control."
McCormick swallowed hard and nodded. There was a deeper anger in the silky voice now, and it gave Tilton a whole new level of creepiness. He willed his own tone to neutrality. "Sorry, Mr. Tilton." He felt his arm twist further up his back one last time—for good measure, he supposed—then he was stumbling forward as Tilton shoved him away. By the time he turned back to face his captor, Mark was watching the man smooth his jacket back over the newly re-holstered .38.
The two men stood silently for several seconds, observing each other. McCormick finally ventured a simple query. "Now what?"
Tilton hesitated another moment, watching his captive closely, then a small smile returned to his face. "Now I believe we should get some rest. It's late in a long day, and it looks like you are very close to collapse. You will find dry clothes in the closet, and then you should sleep. We will deal with tomorrow tomorrow."
Again the tone had that strange air of comfort that McCormick found so disturbing. He watched Tilton glide himself out of the room, and McCormick wished briefly he had the energy to make the man regret the confidence with which he turned his back on his prisoner.
Mark heard the lock click into place on the closed door, and he shook his head slowly. Collapse, he thought bitterly. The man doesn't know how right he is. He wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever, to pull inward on himself and never face the world again. And he wanted to scream, to cry out in anger and frustration and despair. Hardcastle was dead, and he needed desperately to grieve, but he was not afforded that luxury. He thought it was possible, if unlikely, that there was some kind of surveillance equipment in place in the room. And whether there was or wasn't, there was no way to know when Tilton or his muscleman might walk back into the room, and he certainly couldn't afford to be caught in the middle of the kind of break-down he could feel burning beneath his barely controlled surface.
After a moment's thought, he decided that his own clothes were practically dry and he didn't really have any interest in letting Tilton be the obliging host, so he ignored the closet and crossed the small room to lower himself slowly onto the bed. A million thoughts ran though his head, frenzied and chaotic. What did Tilton really mean to happen out on that beach? Why does he hate the judge so much? What did I do wrong? What does he want with me now? How did this get so screwed up? What really happened with Hardcastle and Tilton? What am I supposed to do without him?
Thoughts racing, he lay his arm across his eyes to block the harsh overhead light. A bedside lamp would've been preferable, though, of course, a lamp might be used as a weapon of some sort. But there was no way he was going to lie here in the dark with his tortured and murderous thoughts. But even the unyielding brightness was not enough to protect him from the one thought that could drown out all others: It's my fault Hardcastle is dead.
00000
Harper glanced up from the stack of papers in front of him. "I wish you'd lie down for just a while," he said to Hardcastle. He fully realized that that was at least the tenth time he'd made a similar comment in the last two hours, but he still had the unreasonable idea it might eventually work. Not this time, though.
Hardcastle didn't even bother to look up when he shook his head. "I'll rest when we find McCormick," he said firmly, though the exhaustion was apparent behind the words. He turned his attention to the next sheet of paper in his own stack, then made a notation on the legal pad next to him.
"Just how many people did it take to not convict this guy?" he muttered crossly.
Across the gatehouse dining table, Harper chuckled. "Can't say the LAPD isn't committed," he answered lightly as he turned his attention back to the pages.
The rather long trek from the beach had given the men time to come up with a couple of ideas. The first—though Hardcastle had objected strongly—was that the gatehouse would be the safest place for them to set up their new command post. Harper had believed that there might be some advantage to be gained from allowing Tilton to keep believing that Hardcastle was dead, so the jurist had been banned from the main house. The judge hadn't wanted to hide, and he hated the idea that McCormick wouldn't know the truth, but he finally took some comfort from the idea that maybe his "death" would remove Tilton's motivation for hurting the kid.
The second idea was centered on figuring out who Tilton had working the inside of his case, thinking they might work backward from there to find Tilton and McCormick. Both men detested the idea of a dirty cop, but they could both be practical, and they understood how the situation might work. They agreed that there was a certain logic in bribing someone you already knew, as opposed to approaching a complete stranger, and they had decided to review Tilton's case history carefully, hoping to identify any potential security risks.
And so, armed with at least the start of a plan, Harper had deposited Hardcastle carefully in the gatehouse and headed to the main house in search of supplies. He had returned a quarter hour later with a first aid kit, Tilton's file, and a bottle of aspirin. Hardcastle had been dozing on the sofa, and the detective debated simply letting the man sleep, but he had really wanted to get that head cleaned up and bandaged. Now, more than two hours after he had decided to awaken the other man, he sat looking at Hardcastle—bandaged, medicated, and determined.
There had been more than a few times in their long association when Harper had been grateful not to be the person on the wrong side of Milton Hardcastle, but he decided he'd never felt that as strongly as he did right now. As he silently took in the grim line of Hardcastle's mouth, the smoldering anger in the pale blue eyes, and the stubborn set of his jaw, Harper became aware of one thing: taking Mark McCormick had been Samuel Tilton's final mistake.
00000
McCormick bolted up in the bed as he heard his name called out boisterously and the bedroom door slam shut. "Hardcase?"
"Sorry," Tilton said with a small grin, "not this time. Did I wake you?"
Reality came back to him, and McCormick swung his legs over the side of the bed and sized up his captor quickly. Hasn't this guy ever heard of 'Just say no'? "Nah," he said automatically, "no problem." It's my first day without him. He pushed the thought away.
Tilton crossed the room to his favorite chair, and leaned casually on its back. "Got the judge on your mind, huh?" he asked knowingly.
"Habit," McCormick answered with a shrug, unsure why he was continuing with the charade. Leaving this house alive had stopped being a priority the minute that shot rang out on the beach, and yet… "I suppose I'll have a chance to learn new habits now," he continued.
"Indeed you will," Tilton agreed magnanimously. He indicated the vacant chair. "I thought we might share more conversation."
Breathing deeply, McCormick pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room to join Tilton. One step at a time, McCormick. He took his seat, and watched as Tilton folded himself into his own chair. Then he sat silently, waiting for Tilton to make the first move. He didn't particularly have anything to say, and who knew what a drugged up, crazy killer wanted to hear, anyway? Better to let the lunatic go first.
Tilton looked at his prisoner closely. "You look a little better," he observed. "Maybe I should've let you sleep longer."
McCormick shrugged again. "I was just a little bit…surprised earlier, I guess. I wasn't trying to be difficult. I'm fine."
"So you begin to see the advantages of recent events?"
"Advantages?" The word ripped through McCormick's heart. What good could possibly come of 'recent events'? Just say yes, his mind instructed. "I suppose." That's the best I can do.
"At the very least," Tilton went on, "your days of being the judicial handyman have come to an end."
"True enough." The ex-con was certain that not even Tilton's drug of choice would prevent him from recognizing the hesitation in these answers, but he couldn't seem to find any way to even pretend to be glad that Hardcastle was dead. Get a grip, he thought bitterly. Sometime during the night those words had become something of a mantra, and he clung to them now. He tried to focus his thoughts. "What's the plan now, Mr. Tilton?"
"Ah, you are eager to move forward."
"No offense, Mr. Tilton, but I'm eager not to be a prisoner anymore. I've spent almost the last five years of my life locked up in one way or another. I'm ready for a change." That's a little better.
"I appreciate the sentiment," Tilton answered smoothly. "But I'm afraid that will have to wait another couple of days."
"What? I kept my end of the bargain, Mr. Tilton. And now that- - -" he faltered, then continued, "now that Hardcastle's dead, it's all over. I can't do any more for you." McCormick figured that might be a dangerous argument to make, but he was beyond caring.
Tilton didn't move to the obvious threat, but offered a simple explanation. "I agree there is little else you can do for me, Mark, but there is still much you could do to me. You will need to be my guest until my trial is officially over. Really, though, with no evidence and no Hardcastle, I would expect the case to be dismissed fairly quickly."
"What about that other guy? The investigator?"
"Riley?" Tilton did not appear concerned. "He is only one man, one witness. It won't be enough. Your friend, the judge, was the key. No, I don't foresee any problems. You should be free by Monday night."
McCormick nodded slowly. The nonchalant way Tilton was still chalking up the benefits of Hardcastle's death—and expecting him to do the same—was wearing on his last nerve already. How long can I take this? He needed a break before he could face any further 'conversation'.
"Um, Mr. Tilton," he began slowly, "not to be indelicate, but you know there's no bathroom in here, and- - "
"Oh, of course," Tilton answered immediately, rising quickly to his feet. "I should have thought of that myself." He moved across the room, opened the door, and motioned his goon inside.
Still right outside the door, McCormick thought.
"Please allow Mr. McCormick to use the facilities," Tilton instructed.
Mark rose from his seat and turned to see the guy pulling the handcuffs from his pocket. He rolled his eyes, but didn't object as he silently held his hands out in front of him, allowing the goon to secure the bracelets. Then he let the man steer him down the plain hallway to the bathroom two doors down. He was shoved inside and the door pulled closed loudly, but the muscle-bound guard never said a word. Guess he's not in a very good mood. Shoulder probably hurts like hell. Good.
McCormick stood silently in the small room for a moment, staring numbly into the mirror. He wouldn't have thought he could possibly look as bad as he felt, but he would've been wrong about that. Still think you're in control, kiddo? He heard Hardcastle's voice in his head and closed his eyes briefly. He could only imagine the judge's reaction at seeing him like this, and he sent up a silent prayer of apology for his arrogance.
His mantra began running through his head again, but it was gradually edged out by the idea that there might actually be an end in sight. He didn't believe for a minute that Tilton truly intended to release him, so the man must just want to screw with him for the next couple of days. But that was okay. Two could play at that game, even if one of them did have to keep reminding himself to get a grip. Tilton probably had some grand finale in mind; that's always the way it was with the crazy ones. So that just left them needing to get through the next day and a half. Fine.
McCormick leaned closer to the mirror, judging his expressions, and wondering when Tilton might realize that he'd picked the day of his own death. "Monday," he whispered to the empty room, and knew that he'd found another mantra.
