Chapter 8

Hardcastle followed Harper's voice into the kitchen and then joined him at the back window. He opened his mouth to ask what had the detective so agitated, but his eyes had followed Harper's gaze to the yard and he suddenly found that no sound was possible. In truth, just breathing had unexpectedly become a challenge, and he took a moment to focus. In. Out. In. Okay, I got it now.

No conscious thought had directed him toward the door, though his brain did engage just in time to keep him from barreling over the man blocking his exit. "I need to get out there, Frank."

"No. You don't."

The firm conviction of the words surprised the judge and he took a half step backward. "What?" He shook his head quickly, wondering briefly if his head wound was suddenly causing some kind of delirium. "I need to get out there," he repeated, and started around the detective, only to find the other man in his path again. "Frank…" the word had a decidedly threatening tone, but Harper stood his ground.

"What do you think you're going to find out there, Milt?" the lieutenant demanded. He hated to be so blunt; he knew precisely what Hardcastle thought he would find. But this had gone on long enough. Things were out of control, and someone had to restore some order.

"I think…" Hardcastle let the words trail off, unable to complete the thought. He could no longer see the yard outside the window, but the image of the freshly mounded dirt was as clear as if it were right in front of him. He shook his head again. Harper had picked a hell of a time to get stubborn. He let his eyes meet the detective's. "I can't leave him out there." He paused, then added, "I need to get out there. Let me pass."

For just a moment, Harper worried that Hardcastle might physically remove him from the doorway. Then he worried that his resolve wasn't strong enough to withstand the torment raging in his friend's eyes. But in the end, neither man moved as years of friendship gave them the strength to get through the moment.

Finally, Harper spoke again. "I'm not giving up, Milt," he began, "and I don't want you to, either. But we need some help now. It's time for us to quit doing this on our own."

"But McCormick…" Hardcastle raised his hand wearily to gesture toward the yard, then let it fall limply back to his side.

"We don't know that," Harper insisted with a slight shake of his head, though he thought his sudden desire to rein in this independent investigation might have less to do with protocol and more with the idea that a man should never have to dig his best friend out of homemade grave.

"But, Milt," Harper continued, "whatever we find out there—and I'm sorry—but whatever is out there is a crime scene. If—God forbid—it is Mark, don't you want to preserve the evidence that will convict Tilton? We need to do this right."

Hardcastle held his friend's gaze for a long moment, then finally yielded. "I suppose evidence might be helpful, just in case."

The detective's eyebrow rose in sudden puzzlement. That was not the kind of agreement he'd been after. "Just in case what?" he demanded. And as Hardcastle turned away, the muttered reply was the last thing Harper wanted to hear.

"Just in case he gets away from me."

00000

"Where are we going anyway?" McCormick asked. He didn't really expect an answer, but he had discovered that the silences with Tilton were almost as unnerving as the conversations.

Tilton barely spared a glance at his passenger, but he smiled warmly. "Home."

McCormick felt a brief moment of unexpected hope. The cops will be watching his house. Followed immediately by, Though it might be easier if they weren't. Let's get this over with.

Almost as if reading his mind, Tilton assured him, "We won't be disturbed," and then lapsed back into silence.

00000

Harper had wanted to leave the house, to call in the reinforcements from some other location, to get Hardcastle far away from this place. But the judge had been adamant about staying, and, ultimately, the detective had considered it a success that he still kept the older man out of the back yard.

On the other hand, it wasn't all that encouraging that the jurist had spent the seemingly interminable wait sitting silently in the small room that had almost certainly been McCormick's prison. Harper had first reminded him not to touch anything, then had tried unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation, but Hardcastle just sat, hands clasped in his lap, staring at the bed, which is exactly how Harper found him when it was time for the lab techs to process the room.

"He deserved better than this, Frank," Hardcastle said softly.

Unable to come up with a suitable response, Harper simply ushered Hardcastle out of the room.

00000

McCormick had been concerned with the familiarity of the scenery for a few minutes now. Surely not, he thought. Not even Tilton is that crazy. But after another few miles, it seemed impossible that they were headed anywhere other than Malibu.

Maybe he lives nearby, McCormick continued his silent argument. He did know the shoreline really well, even in the dark. But he couldn't make himself believe it, even as desperately as he tried. This lunatic is determined to make what's left of my life hell. He closed his eyes briefly as they pulled into the drive at Gull's Way. "Ah, Mr. Tilton?"

"I told you we were going home, Mark," Tilton replied, his silky smooth voice sending a chill to Mark's soul. "You don't think the judge will mind, do you?" Without waiting for a response, he reached into his overcoat pocket and retrieved a set of keys. Dangling them in the air, he said, "I'm sorry, but we did have to remove these from your pocket yesterday. I assume one of them fits this gate?"

McCormick stared for several seconds before giving a single nod. "The smaller, roundish one." His mind was already calculating the contortions that would be required for a handcuffed man to get an idling car into gear and then accelerate into the gate, crushing Tilton in the process. But, true to form, the man was not careless. He shut off the engine and removed the keys before exiting the car to unlock the gate.

McCormick just sighed as he watched through the front windshield. Better this way, anyway. At least someone will find me.

00000

Hardcastle stood in the kitchen, trying to answer questions, but his attention was drawn to the activity taking place outside the window. "They're taking their time," he said, jerking his head in that direction.

The Ventura County deputy glanced behind him; the forensics team seemed to have barely made a dent in their project, as they dug carefully through the dirt. "Never know what they might find," he answered, almost apologetically. "They have to be thorough."

Hardcastle tried to redirect his thoughts. "This place doesn't belong to Tilton?"

"Not your Tilton," the deputy, Flores, replied. "Property deed shows it belongs to someone named Lawrence Tilton. Relative, I assume."

"Son," Hardcastle replied shortly, "deceased."

Flores jotted that down into his notebook. "And you believe that the senior Tilton is responsible for kidnapping Mr.….ah…McConnell?" He flipped through his notebook, trying to verify the information.

"McCormick," the judge corrected angrily, "Mark McCormick. And it's not a matter of what I believe, that's what happened. The only thing I'm waiting on you guys to tell me is whether kidnapping has turned into murder."

And then Frank was there, turning him gently but firmly toward the other room. "Deputy Flores, would you excuse us for a moment, please?"

When they reached the living room, Harper spoke. "Milt, will you please let these people do their job without giving them a lot of grief? We've got Ventura County and Ojai P.D. here, and I've called one of my detectives up here to be the official liaison for LA once I'm gone." Seeing Hardcastle's expression of concern, he immediately continued, "Don't worry; it's Lee Barkus. You know him."

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded, "I do. Okay."

"Anyway, they know what they're doing; it just takes some time."

"I know that," the judge snapped.

"I know you know," Harper replied patiently. "But I also know why you need to be reminded right now. We're a little bit out of our jurisdiction here, Milt; let the professionals do their job."

Hardcastle took a breath and nodded again. "I just need to know for sure."

00000

"Judge Hardcastle?"

The jurist looked up to find Deputy Flores stepping out onto the front porch—the best place he had found for staying out of the way. "Have they finished with the…out back?"

The deputy shook his head. "Sorry; not yet. Soon, though. But I wanted to ask if you know anything about the stuff in the house."

"What stuff? We didn't really search the place." Waiting for the professionals, but he kept the thought to himself.

"There's some kind of surveillance set-up," Flores explained. "A listening station; receivable only. We found it in the back of a closet. Nothing going on, though, if it's tied into anything. I just wondered if you had any ideas."

"Oh, I have some ideas," Hardcastle answered, as he followed the deputy back inside.

They found one of the technicians carefully dusting the compact electronic contraption. "Still no activity, sir," he said with a quick glance at Flores. "Though everything seems to be working properly."

"I don't think you're going to hear any activity," Hardcastle said. "My guess is that used to be patched into my house, though I don't know why he would cart the thing all the way up here."

The young tech waited for a nod from Flores, then turned his attention to Hardcastle. "Actually, sir, when I said it was working properly, I didn't just mean that it's in working order, I meant it's working. Right now."

"Well what's he listening to out here?" Harper demanded. "We're miles from anything."

The technician gestured to the phone receiver cradled into the contraption. "This is a separate phone line from the main number. It's dialed into something called an infinity transmitter," he explained. "It works through the phone line. Reception is practically limitless. Just dial up the number and you can hear what's going on in the room."

"You're kidding," Hardcastle said.

"No."

The judge shook his head. "Unbelievable." He dismissed the idea as unimportant. "Are there any recordings?

"It does have recording capability," the technician confirmed, "but the tape in it is blank, and we haven't found any others."

"Not too surprising," the judge responded, "but it would've been nice." He turned to head back for the porch, trying not to think about how the thing that would've been nice was to hear Mark's voice just one more time.

00000

"What is it we're doing here again?" McCormick asked from his seat on the gatehouse sofa. His voice carried just the edge of nervousness.

After some initial acerbic comments about Hardcastle helping others rise above their station in life, Tilton had been content to sit quietly at the dining table, watching as McCormick struggled to cope with the strange concurrence of surroundings that were intimately familiar and circumstances that were anything but.

He smiled slightly at the young man's hesitant question, seeming to take some pleasure in such a minor victory. "We're meeting someone."

McCormick couldn't hide his surprise. "You're bringing someone here?"

"And why wouldn't I?" Tilton asked reasonably. The tone turned taunting. "No one else is getting any use from the place."

McCormick swallowed, and bit back a response. New rules, he reminded himself. You might be useful, but he's tired of pretending he doesn't hate you.

And then they heard the muffled sound of a car coming up the drive, and Tilton rose from his chair. "Our visitor is here," he said, all charm again. "I'll show him in." He paused at the door. "You'll stay where you are, I trust."

Mark nodded in resignation. "You're the boss." He tried to ignore Tilton's satisfied chuckle as he watched the man disappear out the door.

00000

It only took a couple of minutes for Tilton to return to the gatehouse. McCormick could hear him as he approached the door, chatting amiably with the newcomer—whoever that might be. I just hope this goon isn't as dedicated to his work.

Tilton sailed back inside, followed far less enthusiastically by Doug Riley. McCormick stared wordlessly, and found his own surprise mirrored on the face in front of him.

"Tilton," Riley whispered frantically, "what's going on?"

"Doug, Doug, Doug," Tilton admonished, "please do not be rude. Mr. McCormick here was the one responsible for obtaining those incriminating documents for me, and he was present at Judge Hardcastle's unfortunate shooting. I believe that you can safely talk in front of him."

Riley continued to stare at McCormick, clearly not convinced that this was a good idea. "If you can trust him, why's he in cuffs?"

"Ah, so similar to some of Hardcastle's final words. You legal types do all think alike, don't you?" Tilton smiled with every appearance of truly enjoying himself, and continued quickly before Riley's confused expression could find words. "But I have secured Mr. McCormick because it is just possible he would forfeit his twenty thousand dollars in order to be free from me just as he forfeited Judge Hardcastle's generosity in order to be free of him." He had moved to stand directly next to Riley now, and slung his arm over the other man's shoulder companionably. "And it's also possible that he would try to repay my generous offer by showing up tomorrow at the courthouse and causing some sort of trouble."

Tilton's voice had taken on that calming, almost disgustingly melodic quality that McCormick had come to associate with some type of predator lying in wait for its next meal, and Riley looked like he was falling for it. His face was beginning to relax, and Mark could see the tension leave his shoulders.

McCormick was certain Riley never saw Tilton reach smoothly into his jacket for the .38, just as he was sure the man never heard his shout of warning or the shot that ended his life.

Before the body had hit the ground, McCormick found the weapon pointed in his direction, and he froze in place. He hadn't actually realized he was standing; that must've happened when he'd tried to warn Riley, though he hadn't exactly intended to do that, either. It just sort of happened. Doubtful Tilton would believe that.

"Is there a problem, Mark?" Apparently, Tilton didn't consider the dead man lying in the spreading pool of blood a problem.

McCormick shook his head wordlessly.

"I think the cops were on to him," Tilton said by way of explanation. "Besides, he was supposed to take care of all the files and you ended up carrying his load. That kind of inefficiency cannot go unpunished."

What the hell kind of rule is that?

But McCormick nodded silently; figuring this wasn't the best time to point out that Riley would've had no way of knowing about Hardcastle's personal files.

After a moment, Tilton re-holstered his gun again, taking care to meticulously rearrange his clothes back in place. "We'll be leaving soon, Mark."

00000

"They've found a body."

Hardcastle and Harper whirled around on the porch at Flores' simple statement. The judge was already through the doorway and headed toward the back of the house before Harper managed to grab his arm. "Why don't you let me go first?"

Hardcastle opened his mouth to answer, realized he didn't know how to explain himself anyway, and let his eyes do the talking. Harper released his grip with a small nod. "Okay, let's go."

Hardcastle traversed the house quickly and Harper was almost trotting to keep up with him as he crossed the yard, but when he got close enough to see the shape of the black bag, the judge stopped short. How can I…?

Because you have to, his mind answered.

Because it's your fault.

Because he would, if it were you.

He closed the few remaining feet between them, and squatted down slowly. He felt Frank's reassuring presence as he reached for the zipper, and everything around him swirled into a muted background until there was only him and the bag. With a final prayer for strength, he pulled down on the zipper, and as he stared into the lifeless face, everything went gray.

He thought he was in that grayness for days, staring at an unfamiliar face, knowing a life was lost, but feeling only happiness and relief. But he could hear Harper's whoop of joy, feel his hand clapping him on the back, and color slowly returned.

Hardcastle rose and turned to face his friend, feeling the smile on his face. "It's not Mark," he said, needing to say it aloud.

Harper's head bobbed up and down as he steered the older man away from the scene. "It's not Mark," he repeated happily, and for just a moment, nothing else mattered.

00000

McCormick was walking dutifully toward the drive when Tilton's voice stopped him. "Not just yet, Mark. There is one other piece of business we need to take care of here." He gestured toward the main house. "After you."

Now what? He decided that was actually a fair question, if he could do it without the irritation. "Now what, Mr. Tilton?" Not bad.

Tilton shrugged slightly. "I would just like to make sure the judge didn't have anything else that belongs to me. Besides," he went on as they walked, "a guy like him, you never know what kind of things might be lying around for the taking. Information—such as that he had on me—can be very valuable. I have always believed in taking advantage of opportunity." He glanced over at the young man. "And what about you, Mark? Anything inside that you wish you could have taken long ago, if only for the chance? Such a financially motivated young man as yourself; some of his stuff must be worth a pretty penny."

McCormick just shook his head slightly and didn't answer. But Tilton grabbed his arm and jerked him forcefully to a stop just as they reached the porch. "Or is it possible," he said harshly, "that you didn't have to steal? Maybe all you had to do was ask."

Don't look away! McCormick's mind instructed frantically. He's fishing. He's messing with your mind. That's all. He succeeded in holding his gaze steady, but he couldn't force words from his throat. How can this guy know so damn much?

Tilton tried again. "Is it possible that you have realized that Hardcastle really did present you with an amazing opportunity? Have you begun to wish you'd been more grateful?"

And suddenly, McCormick could feel the futility of…everything. Just tell him the truth, his brain finally relented.

What truth? He argued with himself. That he was my best friend? That he probably saved my life with his crazy Lone Ranger and Tonto idea? That I can't imagine being here without him? Is that the truth you're talking about?

Yes.

McCormick stiffened almost imperceptibly as his resolve returned. He knew he wouldn't be telling Tilton anything about Hardcastle; it wouldn't be fair. Because I never told him.

Watching his prisoner closely, Tilton seemed to understand how close he had come to breaking through, but he also seemed to recognize when the moment passed. With a thoughtful smile, he held up a key on the ring. "Is this the one?"

McCormick nodded slowly, then stepped into the house as the door was pushed open. He paused in the entryway, almost overwhelmed by the sudden rush of memories. Why was he looking for Hardcastle to come walking down the stairs or out of the den, when he knew that would never happen again?

As Tilton closed the front door behind them, he glanced toward the interior double-doors, open and inviting as always. "I think this is a waste of time." Don't make me go in there. But Tilton was nudging him forward, so he crossed to the den, but he stopped just inside the doors as Tilton continued down the steps into the room.

Unreasonably, the sight of that man in the judge's personal space angered McCormick more than anything that had been done to him this weekend, and he clenched his teeth to keep from blurting words that would've blown his cover story with the first syllable. He took a breath, then plunged ahead. "This is where Hardcastle kept his files and stuff, so whatever you're looking for would be here."

"Sort of the inner sanctum, right, Mark?"

McCormick nodded silently as he found himself thinking that it would be okay if Tilton decided to end it all right here. At least I'd die at home.

00000

They were on the porch again, introducing Barkus to Flores, and going through a quick debriefing. Hardcastle's interest in staying at the house had ended twenty minutes earlier at the gravesite, but he deferred to the logic of waiting on another representative of the LAPD.

"So why did he send you up here?" Barkus asked.

Hardcastle was still grinning, and didn't even care that he'd already answered this question about half a dozen times before for the various represented agencies. "Because he could," he said simply. "Because it's his game. Because he wants me to know he's calling the shots."

"You think McCormick is still alive?"

The grin faded slightly. "Yeah, I do, but I don't know for how much longer." He glanced over at Harper. "We're gonna have to find him soon."

Harper nodded. "Barkus, we're gonna head back to the station. You stay up here and- -"

"Deputy Flores," an officer interrupted from the doorway, "we've got something on the receiver."

Within seconds they were crowded into the bedroom, eavesdropping on a private conversation.

"…told you; I don't think he had time to make copies."

McCormick's voice could be heard through the speaker. It was hollow, crackly, and distant, and quite possibly the best sound Hardcastle had ever heard. He heard his own breath catch, and focused enough to ask a simple question. "Is it recording?"

The tech nodded quickly. "Yeah; voice activated."

"Frank, we need to get someone- - " but Harper was already directing Barkus to the other room to call and dispatch a car to Gull's Way.

They quieted quickly to hear the remainder of Tilton's response. "…to check. I thought we just discussed the importance of efficiency." The subtle intimidation was clear even through the bad connection, and Hardcastle winced. "I'm gonna kill him," he muttered, and Harper shushed him into silence.

"Well feel free to look around, Mr. Tilton," McCormick was saying, "but I don't think you're gonna find anything."

There was no talking then, but sounds could be heard, and it seemed that Tilton was making at least a cursory search through the desk and bookshelves. "Is there a safe?" he asked after a moment.

"Sure, a locked one."

"You don't have access?"

McCormick snorted. "Gutters and grass, remember, Mr. Tilton? That's a long ways from being trusted with the combination to a safe."

Hardcastle could see the speculative rise of eyebrows in the room, but he couldn't concern himself with that right now.

"Tsk, tsk, Mark. You have been so helpful up to now, first with obtaining the files and then with my personnel problems. Even the judge would probably have been impressed with the way you've managed to make this situation work to your advantage. I'd hate to think I'd lost your cooperation now." A pause. "And I do hope you don't believe that my associate was the only one capable of persuasion."

"Just open the damn thing," Hardcastle hissed.

"Look, the old donkey probably kept a few thousand dollars in that thing. Trust me, if I could open it, I would."

The expressions of the officers turned from speculative to suspicious, and Hardcastle began to think he should take the time to be concerned. But then Tilton was speaking again. "All right, then, Mark, if you're sure, we really should be going now." Seconds later, there was the sound of a slamming door, then silence.

Hardcastle glanced at his watch; the entire conversation couldn't have taken longer than a minute. "They'll never get there in time."