Chapter 10

Hardcastle stared at the silent phone for a long moment, piecing it all together. "Not yet," he repeated hoarsely. "God."

He rubbed a hand across his face, replaying the words from the day. Even the judge would've been impressed. This is where he kept the files. That man would've sold his soul for you.

He looked back at Harper with a new horror in his eyes. "McCormick still doesn't know I'm alive."

Harper looked skeptical. "What? No. That's not possible. Milt, Tilton's been jerking you around all day, and Mark obviously hasn't been far away. There's no way he kept it from him."

"Frank, the kid's a prisoner. Tilton doesn't have to tell him anything. And the bastard is just sadistic enough to really enjoy watching McCormick squirm."

The detective considered, then inclined his head slightly. "Okay; I'll grant you that." And for a moment, his features were consumed with compassion. "The poor kid."

"The clock's ticking, Frank. We have to find him before…" Hardcastle hesitated, then continued, "before he does something stupid."

Harper nodded in silent understanding. Mark McCormick was capable of many things, but both men knew that controlling his mouth—or temper—was rarely one of them. To expect him to do so while dealing with the crushing grief of Hardcastle's death would be out of the question, and Tilton's punishment could be swift and final. But if it was unlikely that the young man would be able to prevent provoking his captor's wrath, it was even less likely that he would care.

Hardcastle replayed one final moment, speaking the words softly. "'He practically asked me to do it this morning.'" He sought out his friend's eyes again. "Frank…"

And for once, Harper believed baseless reassurance was exactly what the judge needed to hear.

"We'll find him."

00000

McCormick let his forehead rest against the wooden support, eyes closed, willing himself to make a decision. Part of him—a very large part—thought that the easiest thing in the world would be to sit right here and sleep so that he would be well rested when Tilton came back to kill him. In fact, maybe he'd get really lucky and he would still be sleeping when the bullet was finally pumped into his brain. Quick, easy, and he wouldn't have even an instant to be afraid. Yeah, something like that would be okay by him.

But there was another part—tiny and well hidden—that insisted he still had more to do. That annoying little part of his brain seemed fixated on the idea that Samuel Tilton still deserved to be brought to justice, and that if he allowed himself to die here, there would be no one left to see that it was done. And when he tried making the very logical argument that there were entire departments full of law enforcement officials who could take care of that after he was gone, his brain reminded him that they hadn't managed to get it done yet. Still, he thought he had convinced himself that it really wasn't his problem.

And as the two sides of his brain argued, McCormick sat, like some kind of uninvolved observer, fully prepared to go with whichever side won. So far, he thought Large Part had the upper hand.

But that's when Tiny decided to bring in the big guns. Is this what Hardcastle would want? For you to give up and die because of him? Is this how you repay all that he's done for you?

Mark opened his eyes and raised his head slowly. That was definitely something to think about. He figured the judge had understood for a long time now that he was willing to die for him. That was the easy part. But it had never occurred to him that Hardcastle might expect him to be willing to live for him. He thought for another few seconds, then reached beneath his pant leg and into his sock for the bobby pin.

00000

Lock picking could be tedious work under the best of circumstances. But in near total darkness, a rusty bobby pin the only tool, and the lock in question binding the very hands that were trying to pick it, it became almost an exercise in futility. But after many long minutes, McCormick finally heard the telltale click, and felt his left wrist released. He debated briefly just leaving the other; mobility was really the only necessity. But then he realized he was honestly completely fed up with the damned things, so he took the time to force his left hand to do the delicate work. It was minutes more before he felt the other bracelet release, but then he grabbed it off his wrist and threw the things across the floor in disgust.

He rose quickly—if slightly unsteadily—to his feet and crossed to the door. He had almost pushed it open when he realized that rushing into the night with no plan other than some strange conglomeration of justice and revenge was not likely to do much toward his newfound determination to continue breathing. He turned and leaned his back against the door, looking again around the darkened shed.

He supposed the first decision that must be made was whether he intended to simply escape and send the authorities back to arrest Tilton, or if he wanted to confront the man himself.

Confront, his brain scolded. You mean kill.

He thought hard about that a moment. "I don't want to kill him," he finally muttered to himself.

Liar.

"Okay. Of course I want to kill him, but I wouldn't." Would I?

You've done it before.

He conceded the truth in that argument. And, if he was honest with himself, he would admit that he might have been far less upset by Weed Randall's death had Hardcastle not survived. Maybe. It might be easier this time. But still…

He shook his head roughly. This hesitation was foolish. Upon a moment's reflection, leaving here without Tilton was out of the question. The man had connections and capabilities he couldn't begin to guess at. There was no way he could risk allowing him to escape. And if life or death choices had to be made later, he would cross that bridge then.

That decision made, McCormick turned his attention back to the shed. There must be something in here that would help him turn the tables on Tilton. As he looked around, he decided he must've been sitting and arguing with himself for a while, as it was much darker than it had when Tilton originally deposited him here, and it seemed to be moonlight that drifted in through the walls rather than the fading sun. He wanted to turn on the light; that would've made life a lot easier. But since it might also make life much shorter, he decided he could deal with the dark.

He crossed back to the work table, not knowing exactly what he was hoping to find, but figuring this was as good a place as any to start. He squinted down at the tabletop, and let his hands wander the surface. An old rag, undoubtedly wet and covered in some sort of grime in a long ago time, now it was shriveled and almost brittle; he tossed it aside. A ruler, worthless. A couple of those little black containers that spring time flowers come in from the nursery; a homey image, but still useless. A pencil. He paused thoughtfully, felt the unbroken lead tip, and set it aside carefully. Next came a baseball cap, youth size. He held it closer to his face and saw a knock-off of the Angels' logo. Little league, he thought. Wasn't the kid in the picture wearing this? Mark shrugged. Interesting, maybe, but of little practical value. His hands continued to move across the counter top. Matches! He fumbled quickly with the flap and counted the matches remaining inside. Only three, but if things didn't work out and Tilton kept him relegated to darkness, they might come in handy—assuming they would still work after however long. He resisted the impulse to light one now, closed the cover, and slipped them quickly into his pocket. He ran his hands to the far back corners of the table, then—satisfied he had missed nothing—turned back to survey the rest of the shed.

His eyes lingered on the Vespa against the wall for a moment. An intriguing idea, but, no. When and if he needed transportation, he'd use Tilton's car. Then his eyes came to rest on the dark shape resting beside the dilapidated generator, and he took the few steps across the floor.

Squatting down for a better look, he saw that it was a small toolbox. He smiled, and opened the lid. Rummaging through the items, he felt a twinge of disappointment—not quite as helpful as he had hoped. A few assorted wrenches, a couple of screwdrivers, a small garden spade, and a hammer. In the bottom tray there was only a small supply of various types of hardware, and what appeared to be an instruction manual for the wood chipper he'd seen earlier. He chose the common screwdriver and slipped it into his shirt pocket, then grabbed the hammer and the manual and rose to his feet.

He walked slowly around the small area, but nothing else seemed worthwhile. Really, the only other things in here were some fishing poles and the wood chipper, so unless he planned on making Tilton the punch line of an amazing 'I hooked a big one' tale, or turning the man into next season's mulch, there wasn't much to be gained.

McCormick smiled grimly as he thought that those ideas might actually have some merit. But, tempting as it seemed, he was pretty sure that was just the last couple of days talking.

Having completed his search, he crossed back to the worktable. Placing the tools on the top, he looked at them forlornly. He was sure some serious damage could be done—somehow—with a hammer and a screwdriver, but he wouldn't have minded having something more menacing. After all, Tilton did still have a gun.

McCormick leaned his elbows on the tabletop and rested his chin on his palms. He thought this would probably seem much simpler if only he wasn't so damned tired. "And if I wasn't alone," he whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting just one minute to just…feel. "God, Judge, I am so sorry."

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They were both unexpectedly dozing when the second phone call came, but Hardcastle grabbed the receiver up before the second ring, and Harper had the trace initiated as soon as the line was connected.

The judge forced the fear from his voice. "Hardcastle."

"Is Harper still there?"

He scowled and handed the phone across the desk. "It's Thompson."

The lieutenant shut down the trace and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah, Harper."

"Got a possible location for you, Lieutenant," Thompson replied, sparing no time for pleasantries. "Cabin up at the edge of the Padres, place called Matilija."

"Tilton's?" Harper asked, motioning for something to write with.

"Kinda weird, really," Thompson said. "It was, but it looks like he gifted it to his son on the kid's eighteenth birthday. Then, a few years after that, it was signed over into a corporate holding. It still belongs to the company."

"Yeah, that sounds promising," Harper agreed. "Give me the details." He scribbled down the directions the D.A. rattled off. "Okay. Barkus is still up in Ventura, so I'll have him bring in the local side, and I'm headed up there now. You keep your guys working in case this doesn't pan out. I'll be on the radio," he added, briefly grateful that he'd thought to have one of his officers bring his car back from Canoga Park, "and later, Ventura dispatch should be able to track me." He waited for Thompson's grumble of understanding, then hung up the phone. He started to lift the receiver again to dial another number when Hardcastle's hand came down heavily to keep it on the cradle.

"You can't call Ventura, Frank."

So many unexpected things had happened since Friday night, Harper wasn't even surprised anymore. "Any particular reason why not?" he asked in an even tone, as if there could be a logical reason for not sending every available officer to descend upon the likely location of the men they'd been hunting for the last two days.

"Yeah," Hardcastle answered emphatically, "because they think McCormick's involved in this mess." He saw Harper begin to object, and hurried on. "Hell, Frank, probably half the guys here think he's involved, and they know the kid. You send strangers after him, and Tilton's gonna end up the least of his worries. I can't let that happen. I'll go after him." The judge grabbed Harper's note, rose from his chair, and was halfway to the door before the lieutenant completely made his decision.

"Milt."

Hardcastle slowed his step and turned a question to the other man. "You comin'?"

Harper didn't move. "We call Ventura when we get to the cabin. We are not going in alone."

It took a couple of seconds, but Hardcastle recognized the immovable force. He gave a single nod of assent, and turned purposefully back to the door. "Let's go get him."

00000

Mark McCormick thought it was possible he was crazy. Really. Thought maybe he had stood right here in the dark and gone 'round the bend. He had only intended to take a moment, just a brief respite from the strain of the last two days, but he had allowed his mind to wander past the weekend and over the last few years.

When the memories first crowded into his mind, he had been overwhelmed with grief, unable to fathom how he was supposed to go on without the man who had become like a father to him. Then, he had taken comfort from the memories, and he found himself smiling as the images played across his mind. But it had become easy to stay in the happier past rather than face the here and now, and he was unsure how long he had stayed there, lost in things that could never be again.

He rubbed his hands harshly across his eyes, thinking he might've been standing there a minute or a day; it really was all the same to him. And really, only a crazy person zones out like that, right?

"Wrong," he answered himself aloud, then laughed slightly. But only a crazy person has a conversation with himself. He shrugged off the idea. "Oh, well." He might be determined to stay alive, but he figured sanity was still a fifty-fifty proposition. And in that moment—when overpowering Samuel Tilton was furthest from his mind—he had an idea. He turned quickly to study the shed, wondering again if he could risk the light. Not yet, he decided, but soon.

Moving with determination now, he snatched up the screwdriver, went to retrieve the toolbox, grabbed a couple of the burlap sacks from the corner, and dropped the entire collection down beside the wood chipper. Then he folded his legs and plopped to the floor. He ran his hands slowly around the edge of the out chute of the chipper, locating the simple screws that held it in place. He chose a screwdriver, then guided the tip into place and began removing the hardware. Once he had the chute set aside, he felt for the screws that would hold the covering on the shaft of the machine and set about removing them, as well. Finally, he completed that task, grabbed the casing, and jostled it until he was able to lift it away from the body of the chipper. With that out of the way, he turned his attention to the sack at his side.

McCormick took his screwdriver and drove the tip through the burlap, pulling it downward the length of the sack, then repeated the motion until he had separated three strips of the material. He put them on the floor at his side, then turned back to the chipper. Starting at the bottom, he dragged his hand very slowly along the distance of the shaft until he reached the cutting area. Good. A straight blade and not a disc. He carefully traced his hand through the area and across the blade, which was naturally attached much more securely than the outer casing had been. Even so, only a few more screws, some nuts and bolts, and one last protective guard stood between him and his goal. He decided he would remove the shield before risking the light, but only a fool would sit in the dark and try to remove a solid steel, eight-inch, dual-head blade from a machine he'd never seen before.

Still working by touch, he removed the fasteners on the blade guard. As he tugged the shield loose, he heard something fall to the floor, but he didn't give the sound much thought. Now that the cutting blade was completely exposed, his only thought was how quickly he could turn it into a manageable weapon. He rose and crossed to the middle of the floor, reached up and pulled the string to turn on the light, then returned to the chipper without further thought. He understood that the same wall cracks that had allowed the moonlight to filter in would also allow this light out, but the decision was made. Tilton would either notice or he wouldn't, and the possibility of discovery wasn't going to stop him at this point. Mark McCormick was tired of being a pawn; it was time to regain some control.

His growing determination was pulled up short for just a moment, however, when he kneeled down beside the wood chipper. He had reached down to move the blade guard out of the way when he noticed a piece of twig on the floor, probably the thing that had fallen out when he pulled the shield off the shaft to begin with. He picked it up and started to toss it aside, but its unusual texture caused him to take a closer look. McCormick felt his gut clench suddenly, and he swallowed hard as he stared at the whitish, slender stick in his hand and decided it was actually a human bone.

He was still staring after several long seconds, his mind refusing to accept what his gut already knew to be true. This bone—part of a finger, maybe, his mind whispered—had fallen out of the wood chipper, where it had been jammed for who knew how long. That was certainly unusual. There's an explanation. But any possible explanation for stray body parts stuck inside power garden tools could only lead back to Tilton, and McCormick felt a shiver run down his spine.

Finally, without really knowing why, McCormick slipped the thing into the pocket of his denim shirt, then tried to push it out of his mind. But he returned to the task of removing the blade with an added motivation: whatever might happen tonight, he did not intend to end up the next thing to be shoved through this machine.

00000

McCormick was standing at the worktable again, his knife at his side. He had wrapped one end in layers of burlap strips, giving himself several inches of area to safely grasp the weapon. He'd seen a lot of things turned into piercing attack weapons, and the key always seemed to be the idea that a good grip leads to a good thrust. He would've preferred finding a way to actually put a point onto the thing, but, still, the blade was almost one hundred percent cutting area; slashing and slicing would have to do. Of course, there was no denying that bullets would always have an inherent advantage over blades, but he was as prepared as he could be. He had also taken the time to retrieve the handcuffs from their spot on the floor, realizing that he would need some way to restrain his prisoner, if everything went as planned. As he'd stuffed them into his pocket, he made a fervent wish that the things weren't going to end up locked around his own wrists again.

Now he was finishing up a note addressed to Frank Harper. He thought maybe if he didn't survive, his written accusations could serve as something similar to a deathbed statement. Somebody really should know that he'd witnessed Tilton commit two separate murders; that just wasn't the kind of information Tonto could keep to himself. Finally satisfied that he had included enough details to be useful, he signed his name, placed the screwdriver on top to keep it in place, then turned and crossed to the door, blade in hand. He paused just long enough to draw in a fortifying breath, then pushed open the door and slipped into the night.

There was nothing to be gained by moving slowly across a clearing when a madman with a gun might be waiting for the opportunity to start shooting, so he sprinted across to the cabin. He leaned lightly against the door, listening intently, though he wasn't sure exactly what he might hear. He thought it would be excellent if Tilton had simply gone to sleep after locking up his prisoner for the night, but he didn't really expect to be that lucky. He debated between the idea of taking a look inside the window—where he himself might be seen—or simply using the element of surprise and busting in without warning, but quickly decided he'd rather have some idea what he was busting in to. He moved to the edge of the window, then peered cautiously inside, but the front room was empty. Tilton had taken the time to build a small fire, but there was no sign of the man himself. McCormick watched for a few seconds to see if he would appear from one of the other rooms, but the cabin remained silent and still. Deciding maybe he was going to get lucky after all, he pushed open the front door—wincing slightly at the unavoidable creak—and followed it inside.

McCormick stood, just inside the doorway, crouched defensively, chipper blade firmly grasped in his hand, ready to take on whatever came, but still there was nothing. He took a couple of steps to his left and craned his neck to see as far as possible into the kitchen, but there seemed to be no movement in there, either.

To the right of the fireplace, the bedroom door was standing slightly ajar, so McCormick started in that direction, taking the time to close the front door as he passed. He listened briefly outside the bedroom door, but there was no sound, so he slipped inside. It only took a few seconds to realize the room was empty, including the small bathroom and closet. "Where the hell is he?" McCormick muttered as he pulled the bedroom door closed behind him.

He crossed the front area back toward the kitchen and stepped purposefully into the room. Empty. "Dammit!" McCormick paused his search at the kitchen table and took time to examine the items spread out on the tabletop. He wasn't particularly surprised to see the remnants of fine, white powder sprinkled on one corner of the table, though the idea of tracking a coked up Tilton through the nighttime woods conjured up some fairly nightmarish images. He was surprised, however, by the photographs that were spread across the table, and by the gun lying beside them.

McCormick pulled the gun within easy reach, then picked up one of the photos. It showed two men sitting in a diner having a serious conversation, if the expressions on their faces could be believed. He stared for a moment, then touched his fingertips gently to the face of Milton Hardcastle that looked out from the picture. The judge was younger, but clearly just as irascible; his mouth was drawn into a familiar determined frown, and his eyes gazed intently at the other man. McCormick smiled slightly, but the picture confused him. Across the table from Hardcastle sat a much younger Tilton, and Mark couldn't understand what would possess the judge to ever share a meal with that madman.

He shuffled through the other pictures, all of the same two men, though they showed at least three different meetings. These were obviously surveillance photos, but who knew why they were being watched. But then he looked more closely and McCormick's brain did the math. Either the judge was too old or Tilton was too young in these photos; it didn't add up. Then he remembered the other picture, the one on the mantle. Tilton's son. These pictures were obviously more recent than the one from the living room, and the pieces were beginning to click into place. Hardcastle was meeting repeatedly with Tilton's son, and someone had been watching them. Since Tilton himself was the one in possession of the photos, he had probably ordered the surveillance originally, and McCormick could only imagine how displeased he had been with the results. He remembered Tilton in the car earlier today, coldly whispering the word 'betrayal', and he finally understood. Somehow, Hardcastle must've tried to use the younger Tilton against his father, and if Tilton felt betrayed, the judge must've been at least partially successful.

McCormick sank into the chair, considering. Neither he nor the judge would've admitted it, but Hardcastle really had become like a surrogate father to him. He understood now that somehow using that relationship against Hardcastle had been Tilton's intention all along, and he felt a renewed wave of guilt, wondering if he had made a mistake in his handling of this whole situation. But before he could travel too far down that path of self-recrimination, he remembered more of Tilton's words: I don't think he really believed I'd do it. "My God," McCormick whispered to himself. "He killed his own son."

He rose quickly, more certain now than ever that Tilton had never intended to allow him to live through this weekend, and as he stood, a flash of movement through the kitchen window caught his attention. He moved to the sink to peer out into the night, but there was no one there. But there was a small circle of light out in the yard, coming from a hurricane lamp sitting on the ground under a large tree. And from one of the branches hung a single swing seat, which was now moving more forcefully than the gentle breeze could be responsible for.

McCormick had made it back to the table and snatched up the gun before he heard the creak of the front door and saw Tilton move into the kitchen entry. Mark was pretty sure the glaze in the other man's eyes and the strangely placid expression on his face was more than drug induced. He swallowed hard and pointed the gun in Tilton's direction.

The older man didn't even acknowledge the weapon. "I thought maybe you'd join me at your swing." He paused, then added calmly, "I see you found the pictures. I was wondering if you would care to explain?"

McCormick stared at him. "Explain? What are you talking about?"

"Larry," Tilton replied disapprovingly. "Lawrence. This is no time to lie to me."

McCormick was still staring, though he decided immediately that his own sanity was no longer in question. Standing before him was the true picture of mental instability. He decided to ignore it. He waved with the gun and spoke evenly. "Just turn around, Tilton." He pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket, but Tilton wasn't moving. "I said, turn around."

But Tilton simply smiled. "You don't really think I'd leave a loaded weapon lying around, do you, Larry? You've always been far too inquisitive for that; you could hurt yourself."

McCormick didn't move, unsure whether to believe the words, and cursing himself for not having taken the time to check. Certainly, Tilton was insane. And apparently, he was stoned. But those conditions weren't new, and it occurred to Mark that Tilton had made it through the past two days without being careless; there was no reason to believe that pattern had changed now. He didn't lower the gun. "Inquisitive people know how to look for things, Tilton. You don't really think I wouldn't find the ammunition?" McCormick allowed a smug tone into his voice as he mimicked Tilton's words, and he saw the uncertainty slip into the other man's eyes.

"What did Hardcastle offer you?" Tilton asked suddenly, and the words were unexpectedly difficult for the ex-con. But Tilton was continuing. "What could he possibly give you that you couldn't get from me? How could you choose him?"

He's not talking to you, McCormick's brain whispered anxiously, so keep your cool. But he couldn't keep quiet. "Freedom from the past," he answered harshly, "a future. Nothing you could ever understand, and everything that you could never be."

And in the one instant of silence that followed, as Tilton tried to make sense of McCormick's words, they could hear the faint but unmistakable sound of sirens in the distance.

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"Who the hell was that?" Hardcastle shouted as first one and then another black and white blazed past them, sirens blaring. On this lonely stretch of road, in these circumstances, it was unlikely the patrol cars were headed anywhere other than Tilton's cabin. He glared over at Harper. "Did you call someone?" he accused.

The detective didn't bother to point out that there had been no opportunity for any covert phone calls; Hardcastle was too worried to understand how irrational he was being. "Of course not," Harper answered calmly, then flipped on his own siren and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

00000

McCormick saw Tilton begin his lunge across the room and he pulled the trigger without thought. There was no blast, and he had only an instant to see the laughter in Tilton's eyes before the man was upon him. He fell back into the table, but managed to bring the gun smashing against Tilton's head, buying himself just a bit of time.

As Tilton staggered, McCormick shoved him backward and rolled out from underneath, tossing the gun aside and grasping his knife firmly. He moved quickly into the kitchen entryway; he did not intend to allow an escape. "It doesn't have to end like this," he shouted, as Tilton began gathering himself for another attack. "You don't have to die here!"

But there was no sign of reason in Tilton's eyes as he swung one of the aluminum chairs in front of him and charged across the room. He let the protruding legs serve as both a shield to keep McCormick out of blade's reach and a weapon as he slammed them into the younger man's torso. McCormick fought back a screech of pain as he felt the injuries from his previous beating come alive with renewed pain, and he stumbled back into the living room, clutching at his side.

"You should not have betrayed me!" Tilton screamed as he raised the chair to swing it at Mark's head.

McCormick ducked—just barely in time—and tried to come up behind Tilton, bringing his blade toward his attacker's arm. He didn't score the direct hit he was hoping for, but did manage a small slice just above the elbow. He ducked again as Tilton swung back around, and he found himself wondering why he had spent so much time dismantling a wood chipper when, apparently, a kitchen chair was a perfectly functional weapon.

The ex-con rose and backed away, still keeping himself between Tilton and the door, but trying to put some distance between them. He could hear the sirens getting closer now, and he thought maybe he could just stay out of reach long enough to let the cops get here and do their thing.

But Tilton wasn't prepared to make this easy. "Traitor!" he shrieked, and rammed the chair toward McCormick.

"I'm not Larry!" McCormick shouted, as he sidestepped the attack, then reached out and grabbed one of the chair legs, using Tilton's own momentum to propel him against the cabin wall. He figured Mark McCormick was high on this madman's To Kill list, but it seemed Larry Tilton held the top spot, and he wouldn't mind giving the guy back some perspective. He twisted and pulled on the metal leg, trying to wrench the chair from Tilton's grasp. He finally gave a short tug on the leg, pulling Tilton closer for just a moment, then brought his knife across the other's forearm, causing the chair to be completely released. But McCormick was unprepared to have his own momentum trick used against him, and Tilton immediately followed after the freed chair, leaning into it, and driving the younger man backward until he sprawled over the end of the sofa.

As Tilton angrily threw the chair aside, McCormick struggled to rise from the sofa, but he already knew the effort was futile. The sirens were coming to a stop now, and he could see the flashing lights outside the front window, but it was too late. With all his might, he reached upward and sliced his blade across Tilton's stomach, then twisted it into the gash to drive it further into the man's gut. He heard the other man's roar of pain as he felt himself dragged upward, then his head exploded as Tilton's fist slammed into his jaw.

He had been dropped fully back on to the sofa, and McCormick watched through blurry eyes as Tilton reached down and quickly pulled the knife from his own body. Fighting for consciousness, he swung his fists limply as he saw the blade turned downward, but the feeble blows were useless against Tilton's rage. He watched Tilton raise the knife, preparing for a final, killing blow, and he could hear the officers outside rushing toward the cabin. He forced his eyes to look in Tilton's direction, though he could barely see. "Hardcastle wins," he whispered as the knife began its descent.

"MCCORMICK!"

The shout of his name and the deafening gunshot were the last things he heard as darkness claimed him.