Chapter 11
The single gunshot had created a momentarily frozen tableau. Then the purposeful descent of the blade turned into a downward drift, as Tilton himself staggered backward a step and then crumpled to the floor.
Hardcastle saw none of that. His eyes were on the man's intended victim. McCormick hadn't been fighting back as the knife descended. Now he was sprawled across the sofa, pale and unmoving, the front of his denim shirt soaked in blood. Breathe, dammit.
He stepped forward, almost hesitant. The Ventura County officers pushed past him, eager to reestablish control. His own shot had been the only one fired. Frank, who'd wielded his detective's shield in the front yard when they'd pulled up, screeching, between the black and whites and the door, now stood behind him a step, with one hand on his shoulder.
Then he saw the kid take a deep, shuddering breath and his eyelids twitch and blink open, staring up with no apparent focus. And the judge let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Mark?"
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Someone's been shot. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the familiar ringing in his ears, that much he was certain of. That and sticky dampness of his shirt and, yet . . . he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Movement, an unfamiliar ceiling, and someone calling his name. Not me this time.
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He'd said nothing, the unfocused eyes still roving randomly, but he'd reached up ineffectually with one hand when they tried to get at his shirt to see where the blood was coming from.
The judge tried to say something reassuring, found his voice hoarse with fear, cleared his throat and started again. Before he could speak the kid's eyes came to rest on him, more lucid now, but with a look of absolute bafflement.
"Hardcase?" The voice was almost as raspy as his own.
"Yeah, kiddo," Hardcastle smiled, "I told you I was too stubborn for just one bullet."
The bafflement remained, but the look was piercing now. McCormick formed the words slowly, "Don't. Joke."
"Never," the judge said, reaching for the hand that was still moving purposelessly around the unfastened shirt buttons. "Never."
"Not his," Frank had stopped searching, "must be Tilton's."
At the mention of that name McCormick's eyes began to rove frantically. Hardcastle grasped the hand more firmly and refocused him. "He's over there; the police have him. He's shot."
"Dead?"
Hardcastle looked over his shoulder at the heap on the floor. The police were only mildly cautious, but the chest still rose and fell in ragged gasps. "Not quite yet," he replied.
McCormick was pushing himself back against the sofa, trying to sit up. Hardcastle recognized the need for a semblance of control and that being upright was part of it. Against his better judgment, and without releasing his grasp, he assisted him.
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Frank stepped back and was looking around with a policeman's eye for detail. The arrival of the paramedics added another layer of chaos as efforts were made to stabilize the man on the floor. More Ventura County officers had arrived--sirens, lights, an ambulance pulling up.
Through it all, the man on the sofa sat quietly, watching. He still had Hardcastle's hand. The older man leaned forward and asked him something that got only a shake of the head in reply.
One of the Ventura guys was gesturing to him from the kitchen. Frank stepped past the paramedics, busily bent over Tilton's now-still form. The man by the table had a pencil in one hand, and had used the tip of it to flip over one photo of a set that had been scattered on the table and floor.
Frank bent down to study it carefully. Then he looked over his shoulder through the doorway into the other room.
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Sitting up had done nothing to improve McCormick's pallor. The only color left in his face was from the bruises, new and old, but his eyes were sharply focused now. Hardcastle kept himself between the man and what was happening on the floor. More for distraction than anything else, he asked him if he wanted to lie down again. A quick shake of the head. Then McCormick was looking back at him.
"There was something in the shed," he said quietly, "in the wood chipper. It fell out." All of this was spoken so matter-of-factly that Hardcastle found himself having to lean in to catch the words in the surrounding hubbub. "I saved it."
He was reaching into his shirt pocket with his free hand, still not letting go with the other. After a few moments of searching, he fished it out, not looking at it before he handed it over.
Bone, something small with bits of desiccated ligament clinging to one end, the whole thing yellowed with age. He couldn't say for certain if it was human, that would be for the experts, but it fit entirely too well with the rumor that Tilton had floated back to him.
Evidence, he thought, looking around for one of the officers, intending to get the thing properly bagged and labeled, but Tilton was being moved onto the stretcher and he saw no one free. It didn't matter, he supposed, and he held onto the small remains. Closure.
McCormick's eyes were on the departing stretcher and its occupant. "He's still alive?" he asked with a tone that might have been detachment.
Hardcastle spared a glance at the salvage operation. "I got him pretty good."
McCormick looked wary. "Not sure one bullet was enough."
"Don't joke," he reminded the younger man.
"I'm not," Mark replied flatly.
The judge grunted and shifted himself onto the sofa, now that the gurney was gone. "You need to be checked out, too," he said gently.
"I'm okay," McCormick replied, without any of his usual stubbornness. He was watching the gloved officer handle his makeshift weapon. "The blood's not mine," he said calmly. The officer was slipping the thing carefully into a bag. "It's a blade from the wood chipper," he added with eerie calmness.
"'Those who live by the sword'--"
"Don't joke," McCormick interrupted firmly.
"That's not a joke, it's from the Bible," he feigned a little indignation, having spotted a spark and wanting to fan it desperately. But there was no bite from the kid, who sat there hunched, gradually letting loose his grip on the judge's hand.
"Milt?" Frank summoned him from the kitchen. "Take a look at this, will ya?"
Hardcastle looked up, annoyed. He slipped the bone into his own shirt pocket and gave the kid a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Just stay here a sec; I'll be right back." There was no response except a slight shrug from McCormick.
He joined Frank by the kitchen table sparing one worried glance over his shoulder.
"Looks like Tilton was going through the old family albums," Frank smiled tightly as he pointed out the photos, now all arranged on the table face up.
Hardcastle looked at them with a grim expression, as if they brought back a rush of unpleasant associations. "He had him under surveillance the whole time."
"I think it was all over for him the minute he made contact with you, Milt. Nothing you said one way or the other made a bit of difference. Tilton just played him along for a while and then reeled him in."
The judge nodded slowly and let out a weary sigh. "McCormick found something out in the shed; in the wood chipper." He extracted the bone and held it up for Frank to see.
"Milt," Frank's expression balanced abhorrence and annoyance pretty evenly, "you're walking around with evidence in your shirt pocket?" He shook his head and signaled to the evidence tech to bring a bag.
"Well," Hardcastle began apologetically, "I don't think--"
Sounds of rising voices and a scuffle interrupted him from the other room. Both men turned in alarm as they heard one of the officers shout, "What the hell?" Hardcastle was back into the main room in a few swift steps.
McCormick was back up against the wall, between the sofa and the fireplace, in a blind sweating panic, while the officer, who'd originally been reaching for him with a set of handcuffs in the other hand, now jumped back to evade his wildly flailing fists.
The man already had his free hand on his holster when Hardcastle got himself between him and McCormick. Frank was there a second later, talking the officer down with his usual calm. Hardcastle turned back to McCormick, narrowly missing a left-handed swing.
He didn't try to contain it. It barely qualified as a punch. A couple more like that and the kid would probably collapse again. McCormick was pulling back for another when his knees started to sag. Hardcastle stepped forward to steady him, then wound up catching him as he gave way completely.
"Come on, let's get you sitting down," Hardcastle huffed. "Frank, help me out here, will ya?" He heard Frank break off the discussion and move to his side. "I think he's out on his feet."
"Milt--" Frank began, as the two of them maneuvered the kid back to the couch.
He was a little short of dead weight, stumbling along between them, and Hardcastle heard a muffled murmur of "Sorry . . . dunno what happened," spoken blurrily into his left shoulder.
"'S'okay," Hardcastle patted his back, "little flashback there, maybe? Happens."
He eased the kid down onto the sofa, then turned to Frank and spoke firmly, "I want it quashed; I want it quashed now. We are not sorting this out down at the station. If you have to, you find the idiot who issued the warrant and get him here."
"Well," a voice intervened from the front doorway, "I'm the idiot you're looking for. I requested it." Thompson cast a jaundiced eye over the three men at the sofa.
"I was trying to tell you," Frank spoke with low urgency, "that's what the officer was saying. The Ventura County warrant was rescinded. When he ran the ID on Mark, he got the warrant from LA County."
Hardcastle stared up at the man in utter disbelief. After a moment's pause he turned to Thompson and said, in disgust, "What the hell, why don't you just go ahead and arrest me. That's really what you want, isn't it?"
"Milt," Frank had his hand on his friend's arm, "I don't think--"
Hardcastle shook loose. His voice dropped to a low growl. "Give him the goddamn finger, Frank."
Frank produced the baggie and handed it over.
"That's what's left of the last guy Tilton brought up here for the weekend," Hardcastle spoke low and emphatically to the man who was studying the bag with grim interest. "It came out of a wood chipper out in the shed."
"Who?" Thompson asked.
"Larry Tilton. The son."
Thompson blanched.
"McCormick found it. It's from eight years ago. You're not going to try and pin that one on him, too?" he added dryly. "Now Tilton is still alive--harder to kill than a cockroach. Four murders, and McCormick and I are your main witnesses. You really want to arrest your two main witnesses?"
Frank had slid in alongside Thompson and gently retrieved the baggie. He had him by the elbow and was preparing to steer him out to the kitchen, show him a bit more evidence and give him a moment to reconsider. In the end it wasn't necessary. Thompson made one quick grimace and turned back to one of his aides, standing out on the porch looking anxious. He gave the necessary instructions.
The officers were standing down. Thompson made a strategic retreat, going back outside to talk to one of the Ventura lieutenants. Frank had taken a walk out to the shed to see the rest of the haul. The evidence guys moved into the main room, with cameras and baggies. And McCormick was asleep.
Hardcastle had been startled when he'd turned back from dealing with Thompson and found the younger man with his eyes closed and his breathing finally evened out. He smiled to himself. The kid was unfortunately well-adapted to yelling. He was half curled on his side with his knees drawn up, leaving enough room at the foot end for someone to sit.
The judge sat. Frank would probably be a few more minutes at least. He checked his watch. Two a.m., on, now this was the tricky part, Monday morning. He eased back against the sofa, just intending to rest his eyes for a minute.
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Frank returned from the shed looking rather more thoughtful. He found the two of them on the sofa, the judge with his head lolling back, both snoring. The evidence guys were working around them but both looked peeved at the intrusion.
"Hey, Milt," he walked over and gave the judge a little thwack on the shoulder with the back of his hand. There was only a mutter. He nudged a couple of times more firmly. "Barkus is here. Came down with the guys from Ventura HC." Hardcastle was awake and blinking at him. "I figured since he's only missed one night's sleep, I'd let him drive us home, okay?"
Then came the part where they got Mark on his feet. Frank wasn't sure he would quite call it 'awake' but, since the kid was both docile and self propelled, with no more than a hand from the judge on one shoulder for steering, he was grateful.
He got them both settled in the back seat and stuck his head in as he handed Mark's seat belt across. "Either of you guys want to stop off at the hospital?" Two shakes of two heads. "Of course not," he said blandly, closing the door and turning to get in the car.
"Is Tilton still alive?" It was Mark, the first words he'd heard out of him since they'd gotten him up to come out to the car.
Frank looked back over his shoulder at the kid. He wanted to talk to him about what he'd found in the shed, but this wasn't the time or place. He limited himself to a simple, "Haven't heard otherwise."
He climbed wearily into the front and said, "Home, Barkus."
