Chapter 9

Even with Barkus running a lights-and-sirens escort, the drive to Gull's Way took nearly thirty minutes. Frank had insisted on taking the wheel of the truck. With no police radio, they made the drive in anxious silence, though Frank knew if there'd been good news, Barkus would have pulled over and passed the message back.

The gates of Gull's Way stood open, and a black and white was parked near the entrance. The officer waved them through. Further up the drive were another black and white, a police van, and an unmarked sedan. There was an officer on the front steps, waiting for them

"Anything?" Frank hollered as he climbed out.

A negative shake of the head from the officer. "Already hauled off. We've got a body, though, in the other house, over there." The officer was pointing back towards the gatehouse.

Oh my God, no, he wouldn't have had time to—Frank looked back at Hardcastle, standing frozen next to the truck. And then the officer was talking again, "A guy named Riley, someone from the D.A.'s office. Do you know him?"

The whole thing had been as fast as a gunshot and nearly as lethal. Frank closed the space between him and the judge in a couple of swift steps. "You're going to come inside and sit down, now." He took his elbow firmly and guided him toward the house, casting a glare at the confused looking officer as he passed.

They walked past the door of the den; inside were another officer and a detective, Bill Haversham. Frank gave him a nod and motioned him to join them. He kept Hardcastle pointed toward the kitchen and, once there, got him sitting down in a chair at the table.

"Frank, I'm okay," he grumbled, but Harper thought it had taken him a damn long time to say it.

"Yeah, I know," Frank said quietly, "just one too many gut-punches." He went to the sink and got a glass of water. "Here," he put it in the judge's hand.

Haversham was leaning against the counter, taking it all in, waiting patiently to give his report. Frank finally turned toward him and gave a nod.

"It's Doug Riley," the homicide detective began tersely. "One shot to the chest, close range." Haversham shook his head. "I knew Doug, thorough guy, professional."

The judge looked up from where he sat, locking eyes with Frank.

Haversham continued, "Any idea what he was doing out here? Had you talked to him since yesterday, Judge?"

"This morning, on the phone," Hardcastle began slowly, "early, maybe seven."

"What about? Did you make some kind of appointment?"

Hardcastle leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, looking like a man who was about to say something that was distasteful and wouldn't be received well. "Look, Detective, I had a theory. I thought Riley might be the leak to Sam Tilton. I think he was dirty." There, all out in the open.

Haversham stared at him in disbelief, "Riley?"

"Yeah, Riley," Hardcastle spat the name. "I fed him a line about another possible case against Tilton, then we sat back and waited for a sign. Sure enough, Tilton called me--how long did it take, Frank?"

"'Bout twenty minutes," Frank replied, laconically, "maybe a little less."

"Coincidence?" the detective looked unconvinced.

"Yeah, sure, and then Riley drives over here and decides to visit my gatehouse." Hardcastle replied,

"If you invited him--" Haversham began.

"But I didn't. I was up north of Simi checking out a shallow grave. He came here because Tilton invited him," Hardcastle said impatiently. Then he straightened up, visibly trying to get a grip on himself. "Look, Detective, a lot has happened. Harper here can fill you in. We do know Tilton was here, probably moments before the first black and white arrived. We know he's got another man with him, Mark McCormick, my . . . assistant." He watched the detective's eyebrows rise. "Kidnapped, hostage, yesterday," Hardcastle's voice had become very emphatic. "We don't know what Tilton's driving, but they can't have gotten all that far," this last part had a rising tinge of desperation in it.

A noise at the front door, voices, one of them angry--it was Thompson, the D.A., demanding to see the judge.

He was in the kitchen doorway a moment later. "What kind of game are you playing here, Hardcastle?" he shouted as he strode in. Frank stepped between the two men, putting a hand on Milt's shoulder to keep him seated.

Harper turned to the D.A., "Listen, Thompson, we need to sit down and talk, all of us."

Thompson still stood, hands clenched. "Riley," he breathed the name. "What the hell happened to him?"

00000

They'd gone north again, back toward the mountains, but a different route than the trip down. Tilton seemed a little less wired. Thank God. They'd passed a black and white going southbound--lights, no sirens--within a couple miles of the estate. Mark had watched it approach with a brief twinge of hope, but it went by in a flash, not at all interested in the sedately traveling, north-bound sedan.

Tilton had roused himself from his reverie and cast a glance at his passenger. "Maybe they're headed for the estate, eh? Got out of there in the nick of time, I'd say."

Mark wasn't feeling up to answering. Tilton looked a little disappointed. The silence lasted a couple more miles; then he spoke again, in a lower, more confidential tone, "You know, this morning, when I walked up to you with that gun and you smiled at me, that was really quite remarkable."

McCormick still said nothing.

Tilton shook his head slowly. "I only knew one other person who has looked at me that way when . . . when he was that close to death." Tilton's tone was completely different now, all the unctuous menace gone out of it. What was left was cold and desperately hard. "And I don't think he really believed I'd do it."

This time the compulsion to look was overwhelming. Mark turned his head just fractionally. Tilton's eyes were on the road. In profile he looked rigid, set, immovable. He hissed out the next word, "Betrayal." For a moment he said nothing more, and then, quietly, "That is the worst sin of all."

00000

Frank had told the story in his usual clipped style, passing lightly over the part about the file under the Coyote; it was wholly irrelevant in the greater scheme of things. When he'd gotten to the midnight assignation on Seagull Beach, Thompson had exploded in angry impatience.

"When the hell were you planning on informing the proper authorities?" he shouted at Hardcastle.

"I was there, Thompson," Frank interjected calmly. "I made the call on this one. It was an undercover operation to try and recover a civilian hostage."

"I'm not so sure you're talking about a hostage," Thompson seethed. "Sounds to me like you have got an accessory after the fact. Maybe he's been using you all along, Hardcastle, even got you to deliver the file to Tilton."

"He didn't need to do that," the judge answered quietly. "I was ready to hand it over."

"Yeah but this way he can collect from Tilton himself, what was it, twenty thousand?"

"This is stupid, Thompson, and you know it." The judge was reaching for something in his jacket pocket. "McCormick was a hostage, handcuffed, with a gun to his head." He pulled the Polaroids out of his pocket, laying them facedown on the table, pushing them across to the D.A. "He was trying to scam Tilton, to keep him from killing me, most likely, anything to get an edge. It didn't work."

Thompson had picked up the pictures and turned them over in his hand. He was looking closely. He blinked once and put them back on the table. "All right," he said warily, "what about Riley?"

00000

Tilton had settled back into preoccupied silence. They were well out of town now, maybe further than they'd come from this morning, Mark thought, and not an area he was familiar with. He was thinking about things coming in threes, and then wondering if he should include the judge in that count, though Tilton himself hadn't actually pulled the trigger. No, the count held at two, he finally decided; one more to go.

Tilton broke into this thought with a sideward look at him. "Almost there; I thought I might need a backup spot. Plan ahead. I laid in some supplies." His smile was almost kind; Mark found himself edging up against the passenger door. "This is a place I've had for a long time. I think you'll like it."

The kindness seemed to be stretching a little thin in the silence that met Tilton's comments. The man gripped the wheel tighter as he gave McCormick a longer look. "What the hell is the matter with you? Say something."

Mark jerked his head up; he'd missed some signal, a change of mood again. Tilton was coiled tight. As much as he no longer cared if he died, the idea of being beaten to a bloody pulp was not appealing. "Um, just tired, I guess," he mustered a nearly-truthful answer. Then he realized with a dull, distant shock, that he was hungry. The idea seemed traitorously inappropriate, but he blurted it out anyway, "I could use something to eat."

Tilton seemed immensely pleased at these simple admissions. "Well, of course you are," he said, nodding his concern. "You've had a busy day. All that digging and no breakfast; you look like you could use a rest." Tilton reached out and patted the younger man on the knee. "Don't worry; we'll be there soon."

00000

"Seventeen years," Thompson shouted. "You want me to believe that a man who'd done reliable, professional, work for the D.A.'s office for that long, would up and accept a bribe from someone like Tilton." The district attorney was fuming. "And yet this ex-con of yours, a guy who's only been out of the joint for, what is it?--two-three years?--he's above suspicion." Thompson was pacing now, shaking his head in angry disbelief.

"You know the one thing has nothing to do with the other," Hardcastle's voice was low, and very intense. "And just because I found the worm, and it was in your office all along, doesn't mean you have to try to even the score somehow."

Both men were poised on the edge of further words, when Officer Barkus appeared in the doorway. He looked around briefly, till he saw Harper standing on the opposite side of the room, preparing to physically restrain one or the other of the two combatants.

"Lieutenant? We've got a report from Ventura." He stepped hesitantly into the room. Thompson's voice had been audible well out into the rest of the house.

"What is it?" Frank asked, grateful for the distraction.

"Guy in the grave, Monte Gavone, small-time hood, mostly from back east. Prints all over the house, and the shed. One gunshot wound, back of the head, execution-style. No exit wound. Got a .38 casing at the scene."

Harper nodded. "Anything else?"

"Prints. On the shovel. Couple are Gavone's, the rest are this guy McCormick's. Same in the house, but there it's half and half."

"What about Samuel Tilton?" Harper asked.

"Just reporting the other two, so far."

Thompson harrumphed loudly. Harper looked at the judge.

Hardcastle shook his head. "So Tilton kept his goddamn hands in his pockets. You know him, Frank; he'd let the hired help do all the heavy lifting."

"Yeah," Frank replied slowly, "I know that, Milt, but--"

"Ventura County," Barkus interrupted, "they've issued a warrant for McCormick's arrest. They're calling him potentially armed and dangerous."

Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead. "Frank?"

"I'll get on it." Frank turned back to Barkus, "Look, I want you to get back up there, find Molina, work your way up the chain of command as far as you can. Try to explain things to them. If they won't listen to you, get them to call me. I'll either be here or . . . I'll let the dispatchers know where."

Barkus nodded, turned, and was gone. Frank looked back at the other two men, Thompson standing with his arms crossed, glaring down at Hardcastle as if to say 'I told you so', the judge glaring right back, defiantly.

"Enough," Harper heard himself interrupt an argument that hadn't even begun again. Thompson shot him a sharp look; the judge stared up in weary surprise. Frank barreled ahead stubbornly. "No disrespect, gentlemen, but you," he nodded at Thompson, "are a prosecutor, and you," he pointed down at Hardcastle, "are exhausted. I'm the only working cop in this room. Now listen. We find Tilton; we find Mark. Then we can all sit down and have a nice chat about exactly who did what and why.

"My guess is Tilton isn't going to run far, and he's not going to be able to check into a Motel Six if Mark looks like he did last night."

"Unless he's got him in the trunk," Hardcastle muttered.

"Milt, that's not his style. What Tilton does is talk. I used to think it's the stuff he put up his nose but now I'm not so sure. All I know is there's nothing he likes better than a captive audience." Frank looked briefly appalled at his choice of words, then went on quickly, "The place up in Ventura County was listed under his son's name, Lawrence Tilton."

Thompson's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know he had--"

"Long story," Frank interrupted impatiently, then he turned to Thompson face on, "What I need from you is some background work. It's Sunday; you can get at this stuff easier than I can—property tax rolls, LA and Ventura counties, I hope not San Bernardino, but maybe there, too. Anything listed under Lawrence's name, taxes probably being paid out of escrow, or by one of Sam Tilton's dummy front companies; you already know all of their names. We're looking for something rural, or maybe a warehouse. You have got some other investigators besides Riley?"

Thompson nodded.

"Good," Frank took a breath, "I'm going to have my people start running the numbers, try and figure out what vehicle he might be using. Get the warrants rolling on his known LA addresses, and make sure Ventura hasn't turned something up on their neighborhood canvas, not that there's much neighborhood up there, but maybe somebody saw or heard something. And now that we're not in double-secret mode," he added, half to himself, "I need a trace on the phone line here." Then he paused and looked at Hardcastle. "And you . . . " Frank glanced toward the door. "They must be finished in there by now; you are going to go in that den and lie down on that sofa and wait for the phone to ring."

Hardcastle opened his mouth in protest but got out not a single word before Frank concluded, "Because that's all you can do right now, and staying on your feet until you drop isn't going to get Mark back one minute sooner."

"Let's move it, people," Frank addressed the D.A. and the judge as though he were in his own squad room, he himself already in motion. Then he added in gentle re-enforcement, "Milt. Sofa," hoping the man wouldn't notice the inconsistency. He didn't want to point out that the judge had fifteen years on him and, anyway, he thought he could go another twelve hours on coffee if need be. He figured that was all it would be, one way or another. The window on this one was closing fast.

00000

Mark stared dully out the passenger-side window at the cabin nestled in among the pines. It was cozy. He shuddered. Tilton was already half out of the car. He looked back in and inquired solicitously, "You all right?"

"Cold," McCormick replied.

Tilton leaned back over and touched his forehead. "No, I don't think so. Maybe a little fever. You might be coming down with something. See what comes of sleeping in wet clothes?"

McCormick frowned. He felt like he'd lost track of his place on the page. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to reply; he wasn't sure it mattered any more. Tilton was over on his side now, opening the door. "Up you go." His hand was under Mark's arm, lifting. He staggered to his feet, hating to lean on Tilton but having little choice. "There, now, what do you think?" The man gestured to the cabin with a smile.

"Nice," McCormick said quietly.

"See, I told you you'd like it." He led the younger man by the arm, steadying him when he half tripped over a root. "Watch your step," he admonished. "I used to come up here a lot. It's a good place to think about things." They were on the small covered porch and Tilton had the key out in his hand. The door swung open with the creak of seldom-used hinges, a faint waft of mustiness drifted out. Tilton ushered him in. "Wait here."

There was no hallway. He was inside a pine-floored room, fireplace on the left, rocker, small sofa, another chair, incidental furniture all in sixties-style rustic summer cabin. A door to the left let into a kitchen. He could see the small white enamel-topped table from where he stood. Another door at the back was closed--the bedroom, no doubt.

He shivered again and took two steps toward the fireplace, a scattering of ashes and a half-burned log resting inside, cold and untidy. He lifted his eyes to the mantle, a piece of rough slab stone, not entirely flat on the upper surface. A fishing bobber, an open book of matches, a photograph, faded color--Tilton, younger by at least fifteen years, but still the same sardonic smile, and a boy, maybe thirteen, the resemblance was unmistakable. The older man's hand rested firmly on the shoulder of the younger. Nostalgic.

Tilton cleared his throat. Mark jumped, reflexively; the man was not two feet behind him. McCormick turned guiltily, and saw him carrying a small nylon duffle and a brown paper sack.

"Come in the kitchen, Mark," Tilton said quietly. "I'll fix us something to eat." He set the duffle down and reached into his pocket, bringing out a set of keys. "You're going to behave?"

McCormick nodded.

"Turn around then, and let me get those things off of you." It was done in a moment, the cuffs and keys back in Tilton's pocket, Mark staring down at his own hands, not quite sure what to do with them. Then a second later came the aching rush of pins and needles and he felt Tilton's hand on his shoulder. "Just sit down here. I'll bring it when it's ready." The man straightened up, turned briefly toward the mantle, then carried the groceries into the kitchen. When Mark's vision cleared he saw the photo had been turned face down.

00000

With Thompson departed, and Milt reluctantly installed on the sofa, Frank had ducked back to the gatehouse to make the necessary phone calls. Despite his exhaustion, he felt normal for the first time in over twenty-four hours. It was so damn easy to get caught up in the Hardcastle sphere of influence and shove twenty-five years of police procedure right out the window. For a moment he felt a twinge of sympathy for Mark, on top of an already enormous heap of worry. And yet the kid stays . . . himself.

Now that he'd laid out the groundwork for the investigation, and set the wheels in motion, he returned to the main house. The only thing he wasn't satisfied with was the Ventura end of it. It was hard to get very far up the chain of command on a Sunday afternoon, and the couple of guys he'd talked to had sounded unconvinced.

Still, if he heard an hour from now that Mark was cooling his heels in the Ventura County lock-up, he'd personally light a candle to St. Jude. As long as some over-eager deputy didn't shoot the kid on sight.

He let himself in the front door. Haversham and the other officers had left, gone to fill out paperwork down at the station. No one was too happy about the Riley accusations, but there'd been a sort of grudging acceptance by the time they'd departed. Frank peered into the den. It was quiet there and dim, with the afternoon sun over on the other side of the house. For a moment he thought he'd actually succeeded in getting Milt to sleep, but as his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he saw Hardcastle looking up at the ceiling.

"Still awake?"

A nod.

"No calls yet?"

"None." A pause. Then, "I really screwed this one up, didn't I, Frank." Not a question, but a statement.

Frank stepped down into the room and sank into a chair, rubbed his eyes for a moment and then said, "Yeah, well, sometimes the only right decision turns out to be stupid as hell."

Hardcastle lifted his head off the arm of the couch and looked at Harper.

The lieutenant shrugged, "It's something Mark said to me one time. He was talking about why he stole the Coyote. And he said, 'Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reason.' That's how he thinks, Milt. I don't know if you're ever gonna cure him of it. Hell, I'd say you caught it from him, except I think maybe you were the same way right from the start.

"Anyway, when this is all over," he paused, just a moment's hesitation, "and you've got him back, you know he's gonna thank you for what you did--throwing the book out the window, saying he was more important than justice."

"Yeah," Hardcastle put his head back down on the arm rest, frowning, "he's done that, thanked me for getting him out of trouble I got him into in the first place. What makes a person do that?"

"Milt, I dunno," Frank smiled, "maybe you haven't noticed, but you're the first person in a long time who cared if he screwed up or not. That means a hell'uv'a lot to him. He'd put his hand in the fire for you."

Hardcastle's frown deepened, "He already has."

00000

Soup, he made soup--clam chowder with saltines on the side. He brought the two bowls in on a tray and put it down on the coffee table. Then he pulled up one of the other chairs and sat down facing Mark. "There, now."

McCormick reached clumsily for the spoon, thinking for one horrified moment that Tilton might want to help him with that, too. Shaking again, not good, but he managed to get the bowl into his lap without sloshing too much. Now that the food was in front of him, he found the idea of eating very unappealing. Hardcase would say you were sick if he saw you like this.

"You are looking a bit peaked," Tilton commented. Mark dropped the spoon. "Careful," Tilton smiled, reaching down for it. Then he shook his head sadly. "Listen, Mark, enough." He leaned forward, took the bowl, put it back on the tray, and rested his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Enough."

McCormick dropped his head, elbows on his knees and hands limply clasped in front of him. He tried to shy out from under the hand. No, Tilton was having none of it. The grip became firmer. "I understand," Tilton's voice was the very parody of understanding; it cut to the bone of kindness, "You're really not very good at lying, are you?"

I used to be.

"This past hour I've gotten maybe fifteen words from you. This morning you almost came right out and asked me to kill you. What am I supposed to think, Mark? The only question I have is why are you bothering to continue with this charade?" Tilton gave him a light tap on the shoulder and sat back. Then his perplexed look cleared a little, "Oh, I see. You thought maybe I'd let my guard down, allowing you to exact some revenge?" Tilton smiled and shook his head a little. "No, I don't do that for anybody. Never."

The shaking was worse--fear, frustration, anger, a little, but mostly a deep and abiding sorrow, now that it seemed pointless to suppress it.

"My God," Tilton said softly; it was an expression halfway between wonderment and disgust. "I doubt the judge would even understand . . . this." He gestured with an open hand in McCormick's direction. "That man had no heart."

"How the hell would you know?" The younger man's voice was low, sullen and suddenly very dangerous. Tilton's hand came back to rest just above the holster of his .38.

"Now, Mark, remember what I said about that tone of voice," Tilton kept his own tone even, but the thin edge of fear was visible in his eyes. Guns are only effective when dying is a viable threat.

But Mark didn't look up, and the moment passed. Tilton looked down at the untouched food. "Well, I suppose if you're not hungry, you might as well get some rest." He reached back into his pocket for the handcuffs and tossed them onto the table in front of McCormick. The gun was out, pointed steadily. "Your choice," Tilton said simply.

The younger man picked up the cuffs, considered them for a moment and gave the gun a barely concerned glance. He fastened one cuff around his left wrist. Tilton smiled, "Hope is a funny thing. Almost impossible to extinguish, isn't it?" McCormick shrugged and started to reach behind himself for the free end.

"No, no, that's fine for now. I'll just need to show you to your accommodations." Tilton had the front door open, still pointing the gun. Dusk had come quickly when the sun passed behind the hills to the west. In the deepening shadows, not far from the cabin, was the outline of a shed. Tilton pointed that way and McCormick preceded him. The door opened outward, hitching a little from disuse. Inside Tilton found a string overhead and gave it a tug. Light from a single bulb illuminated the cobwebs and the detritus of failed and unused machinery.

Tilton seemed to have a spot all picked out. He gestured McCormick to the corner, up against a heavy work table whose upright supports were bolted to the floor.

"Mister Tilton," McCormick spoke as if the whole last twenty minutes had not transpired. "Any reason why my hands can't be in front of me this time? I mean, aside from pure sadism?" He kept his voice calm, without a hint of challenge, despite the words.

Tilton considered for a moment. "I suppose that is not unreasonable."

A moment later, Mark had dropped to the floor, cross-legged, and fastened the other cuff to his right wrist, with his hands on either side of the support. Tilton looked at the result closely, nodded, and then stood up. He grabbed a few burlap bags from a stack in the other corner and tossed them down in front of McCormick. "It gets a bit nippy up here at night. Good night, Mark." Then he tugged the light cord again and was gone.

As his eyes adjusted to what little twilight filtered in through the cracks in the wall boards, McCormick saw the outlines of things that he had seen more clearly a few moments ago: an ancient Vespa, leaning against the wall, a generator, partly dismantled, and, most curious among the more battered odds and ends, a heavy-duty wood chipper in what looked to be a decent state of repair.

00000

As dusk settled, neither of the two men bothered to get up and turn on a light. It was nearly dark when Frank finally rose, went into the kitchen, and put together some sandwiches. He needed something to do, he'd decided. It made a few more minutes pass. He had just begun to contemplate calling Thompson, when he heard the phone.

Hardcastle had it on the first ring. He hit the speaker button.

"Hello?" His voice was husky; every minute of the past thirty-four hours was audible in it.

"Did you have a nice trip to the mountains today, Judge?" The voice on the other end was smooth, very civilized, and full of polite inquiry.

"Tilton--"

"I'll talk, Hardcastle, you listen. I know I only have a little time."

Frank had already activated the tracing procedure, but at this he looked up, concerned.

"So tell me what you want, Tilton," Hardcastle replied calmly. "I'm ready to deal."

A harsh short laugh from the other end. "You only have one thing I want, Judge, and I've already got that. I just want you to know; he tried very hard. I do believe that man would have sold his soul for you."

Hardcastle had lost track of the second hand on the desk clock; he'd lost track of everything except trying to parse the meaning in Tilton's words. Past tense had taken on an ominous connotation.

As if he'd fathomed the unspoken thoughts, Tilton laughed again. "No, not yet, though he practically asked me to do it this morning. Has he been suicidal before?"

The judge said nothing. It was a monologue. He only hoped for a few moments more.

But Tilton must've been watching a clock, too. Hardcastle heard a soft exhalation. "Well, I just wanted to touch base with you, Judge. Let you know how things are going. But if you aren't interested in talking, well--"

"Wait!"

"Good-bye." A click, and silence.

Frank shook his head. "Not long enough."