Chapter 2
Harper tried to stall, but cursing about the hazards of LA traffic—the first thing that came to mind—only bought him a couple of minutes, and Hardcastle was almost shouting when he asked for the third time, "Frank, where is Tom?" Not knowing what else to do, the detective maneuvered the car out of traffic, pulled to a stop on the side of the road, and turned to face his friend.
Watching from the backseat, McCormick had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out some kind of comforting lie—out of town on a business trip, living cross country, anything—but Frank was bracing himself to deliver the truth.
Harper let a couple of beats pass as he gathered his thoughts. He'd lost track of the number of times he'd delivered this sort of news to unsuspecting families, but it never got easier, and this seemed particularly unfair somehow, that his friend should have to suffer through this moment twice in his lifetime. But, there was never a good way to say it, so that's what he finally said. "Milt, there's never a good way to say this. Tommy joined the Marines— "
That was as far as he got before Hardcastle interrupted. "No," he said thickly, a sudden, fearful knowledge in his tone, "don't. Frank, please, don't."
"I'm sorry," Harper continued softly. "It was 1972, in Viet Nam . . . " he trailed off, waiting to see if the judge wanted to hear more right now.
McCormick could see the horror settle into Hardcastle's eyes, slowly drowning out a light that he was only just now realizing he'd never seen before. And with an immediate clarity, he realized that he was watching the beginning of a deep and abiding grief that he'd never fully recognized for what it was.
After a moment, Hardcastle muttered through clenched teeth, "Tell me."
Harper let out an inaudible sigh; he had almost hoped Hardcastle wouldn't ask. "He enlisted in the spring of '72; he was deployed by July. He was really excited, Milt; said it was his turn to help some people."
Hardcastle nodded. "He was always saying he'd get his chance," he said dully.
"He was a hero, Milt," Harper continued quietly. "He was about four months into his tour when his patrol was led into an ambush. Some kids had been locked in a shack in a deserted village; when the patrol tried to release them, they were attacked. They were trapped, pinned down; they couldn't all make it out. Three men stayed behind to draw the fire and cover the evacuation of the kids." He paused before adding, "He died to save others, Milt, to save kids. I know that really doesn't make it better, but you should know that."
Still sitting quietly, McCormick tried desperately to tune out the conversation, feeling a sudden rush of guilt at his presence. As often as he had wondered about Thomas Hardcastle—both his life and his death—he would've given almost anything not to be hearing these details now.
"How can I not remember this?" Hardcastle asked mournfully. "And, God, what it must've done to Nancy. How can someone forget something like that, Frank? Am I…am I crazy? Is that why everything's gone for me?"
The desperation in Hardcastle's voice was finally too much for McCormick to bear. As much as he understood that he was seen as an intruder right now, he couldn't stay silent. He leaned forward to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, and spoke comfortingly. "You're not crazy, Milt, and I am so sorry."
But Hardcastle jerked away roughly, and hissed, in a voice colder than McCormick had ever heard, "Don't pretend to know what I'm feeling. Don't pretend to know me," and then turned to stare out the passenger window.
Mark withdrew his hand quickly, pressing himself hard against the backseat, wishing he could go farther. He heard Harper start to intervene, "Milt, he—" but he shook his head roughly at the lieutenant. Now was not the time to be worried about his feelings, though he felt as if someone had just driven a cold spike through his heart. God, how was he going to do this?
He became vaguely aware that Hardcastle was asking to go home, and that Harper was starting the car. He thought Frank might've been trying to catch his eye in the mirror, might've even turned around for a second to say something, but none of it really registered. He was only aware of the cold, dull emptiness he could feel working its way through his heart.
00000
Harper pulled the car to a stop in the drive at Gull's Way. There was no immediate movement from the front seat, but McCormick couldn't get out quickly enough. "I'll get the door," he offered, then slipped out of the car and practically vaulted up the steps.
Hardcastle watched, trying to make sense of it all, but starting with the simplest ideas. "He has keys to my house?"
"I told you he lives here, Milt," Harper replied patiently.
The jurist nodded slowly, trying to accept the things—so many things—that he had no reason to believe. Now he watched McCormick on the porch in front of an open door, undecided. It seemed the kid's first instinct was to return to the car, but he stopped after a single step. But he didn't seem eager to step into the house alone, either, so he finally just stood, frozen in uncertainty.
Hardcastle turned back to Frank. "You're coming in?" He couldn't quite make it sound as casual as he had intended.
"Of course," Harper answered, and climbed out of the car.
Hardcastle led the way silently inside, not noticing the lost look on McCormick's face, or the encouraging smile Harper offered as the kid gave an almost imperceptible shrug and stood aside to let the other men pass.
00000
McCormick was watching Hardcastle closely as they completed their tour of the house. It was a strange procession; eerily silent after Hardcastle's initial comment of, "I wanna look around," and Harper's insistence that they would all go.
The two men had followed the judge from room to room as he surveyed everything, watching him occasionally drag a hand slowly across a piece of furniture, or stop to examine an item from a shelf. But Hardcastle had not asked any questions, or offered any information, and the others had followed his lead and remained silent as well. They had examined the entire downstairs floor, then upstairs, then trudged slowly back down the stairs to finish up back in the den, right where they had started.
Now McCormick watched as the judge crossed the room and slowly rounded the desk, then sank into the chair. He found himself holding his breath, hoping that the tour had helped. He knew Hardcastle understood things were different; he'd seen it in the judge's eyes the minute they'd stepped into the den the first time. To McCormick, the den was as it always had been, but who knew how many changes might come over a room in fifteen years? Who knew how many changes might have come over the entire house? If it could help Hardcastle believe that time had really passed, maybe it could help him remember.
It doesn't work that way. The unwelcome thought jarred him from his hopeful reverie. Probably not, he admitted to himself. But he was still going to hope.
Hardcastle's eyes had been roaming about the room almost incessantly, but now they came to a rest on Harper, as the detective dropped into one of the armchairs. McCormick saw the hesitation on the older man's face. He cleared his throat. "Judge? Did you want me to . . . get you a glass of water?"
Hardcastle managed a weak smile, started to nod, then stopped himself. Finally he shook his head. "Nah, never mind about that." The voice was dull, almost resigned. He turned his attention back to Frank and gestured across the room. "Where's the Picasso?"
Harper glanced around behind him, but his expression held no particular recollection. He shrugged.
"Um . . . " McCormick spoke up hesitantly. "You mean that clown guy, Judge?"
Hardcastle looked sharply in his direction, then laughed slightly, though the sound held no real humor. "Yeah," he said, still without much inflection, "that clown guy. All dressed in white."
He's trying to appease me, McCormick thought with sudden certainty. Or, more likely, Frank. He nodded slowly. "You had that moved to the gatehouse." He hoped this version of Milton Hardcastle didn't want the thing hanging back in the den.
The judge accepted the information, then nodded once. "I never did really like that thing."
"So I've heard," McCormick commented, hoping his relief didn't show. Then he lapsed back into silence, wondering when Hardcastle would get back to asking about the important things. He was still standing there wondering several minutes later when Harper's voice broke into his thoughts.
"Mark, why don't you come in and stay a while?" He indicated a vacant chair.
McCormick crossed slowly to the chair and sat down a bit stiffly. He hadn't really given any conscious thought to his decision to stay on the landing—as close to neutral territory as he could get—but now that he'd been asked in, it certainly didn't escape his attention that it wasn't Hardcastle who did the inviting. This is going to be harder than I thought.
The three men sat, fidgeting and staring around the room, anything to avoid making conversation. When he couldn't stand the silence any longer, McCormick finally said, "Judge, are you hungry? I can fix some lunch. Frank?"
They both seemed to give the question far more consideration than it warranted, but Hardcastle finally replied, "I could eat."
McCormick looked at the detective, and was horrified to see him shaking his head. "I think I should go, Mark."
Harper approached the younger man, extending a hand in farewell. "You guys are never gonna talk while I'm here," he whispered, as he leaned close. He raised his voice and glanced over at the judge. "Milt, you should take it easy. Get some rest."
"Well, if you're sure," McCormick answered hesitantly. "But I make a pretty mean soup and sandwich combo."
Harper grinned slightly, offering what little reassurance he could muster. "Maybe next time." He turned back to Hardcastle. "Milt, why don't you see me out? Mark, I'll call you guys later."
McCormick gave a half-hearted wave, and waited until the others were out of the room to roll his eyes. If nothing else, he figured they'd get awfully good at finding ways to get rid of him. He would be more bothered by that, except that there were few people in the world he trusted more than Frank Harper. And since the guy at the top of that list currently had no idea that he'd ever existed before yesterday, there really wasn't much point in begrudging the men a few private moments together. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen.
00000
Harper hesitated before sliding behind the wheel. Hardcastle had followed him all the way to the car, but hadn't said a word. Now the judge was standing, hands jammed into his pockets, staring at his feet. Frank reached out, gently grasping his friend's arms. "Milt. I know—" he hesitated a second, then continued, "at least, I can imagine, how hard this has been for you. If there was anything I could do . . . "
Hardcastle tried to force a smile. "You could stay."
"You're gonna be fine, Milt," Harper answered softly. "I am so sorry about everything you're dealing with right now, but whatever's going on with this whole memory thing, we'll get to the bottom of it." He took a half-second to hope that he sounded more confident than he felt, then continued, "You won't be alone." He couldn't ignore the brief snort of disbelief.
Tightening his grip on Hardcastle's arms, he gazed intently into the judge's eyes and spoke sincerely. "I know you don't know this right now, but being here with Mark is exactly what you would want. No one could be more dedicated to helping you—whatever you need—and, up until a couple of days ago, you knew that. Milt, that kid would die for you, so give him a chance. You don't know him right now, and you don't want to trust him; that's okay. But trust me. I'm telling you, he's okay. Don't shut him out. He'll take anything you dish out, Milt, but don't put him through anything you're gonna regret when you're better."
This time, the judge got the smile right. "You're telling me to be nice."
The detective grinned and gave the arms one final squeeze. "That's exactly what I'm telling you. Think you can do that for me?"
"Okay," Hardcastle conceded, "I'll do my best." He watched Harper climb into the car and close the door, then leaned down on the open window. "Frank? Thank you for being honest with me about . . . everything."
"Always," Harper said simply.
Hardcastle watched silently as the car disappeared down the drive.
00000
Hardcastle looked dubiously at the sandwich in front of him. "Isn't there any cheddar cheese? I usually prefer cheddar on—" he broke off as a bowl was set before him. "Except when I have tomato soup," he finished, staring at the red liquid, disbelieving.
McCormick placed two glasses of iced tea on the table, then turned to get his own food. "I know that, Judge," he said as he seated himself across from Hardcastle.
They busied themselves with the food for a few minutes, though neither really had much of an appetite.
"Frank told me I should be nice," Hardcastle suddenly said into the silence.
McCormick couldn't resist. "And did he also tell you that would be a switch?" But the small grin faded quickly as Hardcastle just stared back at him in confusion. "Sorry," he muttered, and the quiet descended again.
After another few moments, Hardcastle spoke again. "Mark?"
McCormick grimaced slightly; this first name bit was wearing on his nerves fast. "Yeah, Judge?"
"I'm sorry, but I really don't know you." He hesitated. "Although I guess 'don't remember you' is probably more accurate. How come you live here?"
McCormick struggled not to let the spoon fall from his hand, but he surprised himself with how easily the answer came. "A few years ago, right about the time you were retiring from the bench, a good friend of mine was murdered. You helped me catch the guys who did it. That was our first case together, but it wasn't our last." He took another swallow of soup, silently cursing himself. That's it? That's all you're gonna say? You're gonna start this relationship with a lie?
It's not a lie, he argued with himself. It's an abbreviated truth.
"So we work together?" the judge asked, still trying to understand. "But why live here?"
"I work for you," McCormick clarified, "and crime-fighting isn't exactly a nine to five job. Room and board was included in the deal." Abbreviated truth, my ass, his mind scoffed.
"Frank said about three years?"
"About that," Mark confirmed. "A little longer."
"But you're in law school?"
McCormick pushed his soup aside. Eating and truth abbreviating was too hard to handle at once. "Yep." He grinned a little. "Following in some big footsteps."
Hardcastle seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, "You work for me. But we're . . . friends?"
The answer came without hesitation. "The best."
The judge studied the young man for several long seconds. He never did seem convinced, but he finally nodded silently and returned his attention to his meal.
And, feeling that he had managed to survive the first round, McCormick did the same.
00000
Lunch had been awkward, but sitting in the den afterward had quickly proven unbearable, and it hadn't taken long for Hardcastle to put an end to the misery. "I'd really like to be alone," he said with a pointed look across the room.
McCormick wanted to object, though he wasn't sure which of them he was actually trying to spare the solitude. But the judge's expression forbade any dissension, so he gave in as gracefully as possible. "Okay, I'll go." He grabbed his textbooks from the end table and started up the steps. He reached the door then turned back to face Hardcastle. "But, Judge?" He waited for the inquiring eyebrow, then offered a tiny smile. "I won't stay gone." Without further comment, he disappeared out the door.
00000
McCormick tried to focus his eyes, and his attention. His brain was swimming: types of ownership, relationships between landlords and tenants, easements, trusts. Until a couple of days ago, the information had seemed cumbersome, and maybe a little puzzling from time to time, but not insurmountable. But now . . .
He continued to stare at the page, but all he saw was the lined face of Milton Hardcastle. And, unless he concentrated very hard, he heard the dreaded words, Don't pretend to know me.
He shook his head, trying to get his mind back on property law. But every sentence about how real estate was impacted by rights of survivorship made him think of Nancy Hardcastle, and how the judge was grieving for her anew. And every word about preparing trusts to protect the real property interests of minors and adults who were perhaps incapacitated made him think of . . . He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. "Stop it," he instructed harshly to the empty room. "He's not incapacitated." He turned another page in the textbook, though he wouldn't risk any amount of money on the idea that he'd actually committed any of it to memory.
He continued that same pattern—staring at the printed words, trying uselessly to make them about studying instead of about Hardcastle, then turning to the next page—for at least two hours. He never succeeded in truly comprehending any of it, but he did get through several chapters before sheer mental exhaustion won out and he finally dozed off.
He awoke to . . . "Basketball?" He pulled a hand through his curly hair and let his mind wake up. Broad daylight, late afternoon, maybe very early evening. Basketball was possible, but not likely. You don't know when he played back then, he reminded himself, but he ignored the thought. Anyway, now that he was awake, the pounding didn't really sound like a game of hoops. After a quick stop in the bathroom, Mark pulled on his sneakers and went in search of the noise.
Hardcastle wasn't outside on the court, so he continued across the property. Not by the pool, either. But the sounds grew louder as he approached the front of the house, and as he rounded the corner, Mark stopped short, staring in disbelief. He had been prepared for many things, but Milton Hardcastle on a ladder, wrestling a strand of Christmas lights, had not been high on the list of possibilities. "Ah . . . Judge?" He closed the remaining distance hesitantly. "What're ya doing?"
Hardcastle looked down at the younger man with a glare so familiar it was almost painful. "Whattaya think—" but he broke off before he finished the growl, and McCormick had never wished so desperately to be yelled at.
"It's Christmas," Hardcastle said in a more subdued tone, trying to smile. "Nancy always likes to put up the lights." He saw the slight frown on McCormick's face, thought about what he'd said, and forced himself to make the correction. "Liked. Nancy always liked to put up the lights."
McCormick resisted the impulse to tell the judge that he'd never even known a strand of Christmas lights existed at Gull's Way. If Hardcastle wanted decorations, there would be decorations. "Well, okay. But come down from there and let me do that."
Hardcastle waved a hand in his direction, dismissing the idea, and turned back to the eave, hammering in a couple of hooks for the next section of lights.
"Judge, I'm serious. This is the kind of stuff you keep me around for. Let me help you."
"I've been putting up holiday lights since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, kid, so I certainly don't need you buttin' in now."
Mark bit back a response. So close, he thought. So close to normal. Except for the cold sting of the words. Real this time. He took a step back. "Is there anything I can do?"
Hardcastle glanced back behind him, his eyes showing that he clearly intended to dismiss the young man once and for all. But he stopped before he had uttered the first word, and thought for a moment. What he finally said was, "Why don't you be in charge of the meals? It'll be time for dinner when I finish here."
McCormick considered his options, decided there really weren't all that many, and nodded. "Whatever you say, Judge," he said quietly, then left the man alone, stringing lights in honor of his dead wife.
00000
They were on the patio, sharing another strained meal. Mark had grilled while Hardcastle finished the decorating, and the judge had been surprised when the steak and potato were cooked precisely to his satisfaction, and the beer on the table was in the bottle rather than a glass, just the way he preferred. McCormick had wanted to grab the other man and shake some sense into him, but he'd settled for muttering, "You learn a lot in three years," which he thought had come out more aggravated than he'd intended. This home sweet home routine might save Hardcastle from commitment, but he was beginning to have serious doubts about himself.
"Can I ask you something, Mark?"
The hesitant question interrupted McCormick's intense study of the slab of meat on his plate, and he decided he was going to have to tell Harper to have the judge back off this "nice" routine just a bit. "Of course." Everybody on their best behavior.
"Sarah, my housekeeper. What happened to her? Her room looks like it's been empty for a long time. Is she . . .?" Hardcastle trailed off, unwilling to actually ask the question.
"She's fine," McCormick answered quickly, flashing a genuine smile. "She retired a couple of years ago, moved up to San Francisco to be closer to her family."
Hardcastle appeared relieved. "Thank God." He looked across the table speculatively, then continued, "Did you know her?"
"Sarah? Sure. She was here for a while after I moved in. She's a great lady."
"Yeah." Hardcastle took a long swallow from his bottle, observing the younger man.
For his part, McCormick was just relieved to have stumbled across one tiny piece of common ground, even if it was only a mutual affection for Sarah Wicks.
"What did you do before you came to work for me?"
Round two. "Drove race cars, mostly."
The judge hitched up an eyebrow. "Really? That's quite a career change." He didn't ask the question, but McCormick could hear the "why?" behind every word.
"Things change, Judge," Mark answered with a small shrug. "You needed someone to ride shotgun and I needed someone to help me get the guys who killed my friend. We joined forces, and we've been together since." Tell him the whole truth.
But he couldn't do it. Somehow, McCormick was convinced that he was walking too close to the edge with Hardcastle as it was. To confess now to being an ex-con paroled into the judge's custody would surely get him booted right off the estate. Or, at the very least, shut out of his life even more than he already was. No, he wanted Hardcastle to get to know him first, wanted to somehow prove himself before telling the whole truth.
The only problem with that was that never—not even in the earliest days—had he ever lied to Milton Hardcastle. And there was a part of him that wondered just what he hoped to prove by starting now.
Fifteen minutes later, McCormick was still just pushing his food around the plate, but Hardcastle seemed to have finally regained his appetite. Mark allowed himself a small smile; he was glad one of them was managing to adjust. He waited until the judge had almost finished his meal, then spoke up suddenly, keeping his tone conversational. "So what were you doing out and about Monday night, Judge?"
"I was—" Hardcastle stopped almost as quickly as he started.
For a fleeting moment, McCormick thought the judge was just being secretive, operating again on his rather unusual need-to-know basis, and relegating his forgotten sidekick to the 'no need' category. And, for that moment, he was too happy to even be angry. But then he saw the judge's features twist in uncertainty when the words wouldn't come.
Hardcastle spoke again, as if he could force the memory to reveal itself. "I was . . . " He appeared to think very hard. "Dammit. I was out, and . . . and I was . . . I was . . ." He shoved himself roughly away from the table and jumped to his feet.
"I don't know!" he shouted, glaring at McCormick. "Dammit, I just don't know. The last thing I remember was Monday afternoon, granting a continuance on the Hefflin manslaughter case, then working in my chambers for a while reviewing pending motions. After that, it's all a blank, but that's clear as day." He took a breath, trying to bring himself under control. "But you're telling me that afternoon wasn't day before yesterday, but fifteen years ago. You're telling me that somewhere between the last clear memory I have and waking up in the hospital Monday night, my life has changed. That my family is dead, that I've retired from an actual job in the judicial system to go on some kind of wild justice crusade, and that somewhere along the way, you and I met and became such fast friends that I put you on the payroll and let you live in my gatehouse." He was close to shouting again as he placed his palms on the tabletop and leaned across at McCormick. "Does that about sum it up?"
McCormick swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away. God knows, the anger was nothing unusual. And, he could even deal with the sort of cool indifference Hardcastle seemed to hold for him these days—as long as he kept believing it was temporary. But, the fear and confusion that haunted those steely blue eyes, that was the hard part. If he couldn't fix this, if things never got better, that was the part that might ultimately do him in.
But not tonight.
McCormick rose slowly from his chair and leaned his own palms on the table, meeting the tortured gaze. "Yeah, Hardcase," he said evenly, "I think that about sums it up. Sorta sucks, doesn't it? But it's what we're dealing with, and we've dealt with worse. Honestly, Judge, I would do just about anything if I could give you back your family, but I can't do that. But I am gonna get you back those fifteen years. There's gotta be a way, and we're gonna find it. That's what we do, you and me; we find things. Fix things. Make things right. We're gonna make this right, too. Count on it."
Long seconds passed as Hardcastle continued to stare across the table, but finally the tension began to leave his body, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "That's a pretty noble speech there, kid. Do you leave behind a silver bullet when you go?"
And then McCormick laughed. "Nah, that's your bit. But Tonto is always along for the ride."
00000
McCormick snatched up the desk phone after the first ring. He was back to studying again, and though he was making more progress this time around, he was still grateful for the interruption. "Hello?"
"Mark? It's Frank. How's it going? I called the house, but Milt said you'd already turned in for the evening. It's not even ten o'clock yet, so what's wrong?"
McCormick smiled slightly at the phone. "I guess things are okay, Frank. But he threw me out right after the basketball game."
"Threw you out?" Harper asked, alarmed. "What happened?"
"Well, maybe not exactly threw me out, but he did say he wanted to be alone. Second time today he's done that, but I'm trying to give him his space. I don't really know what else to do."
"You guys are getting along okay, though?"
McCormick hesitated. "I'm not sure you'd call it getting along, but he is at least tolerating me." Then he continued in a lighter tone, "I'm not sure he was too happy about losing twenty bucks to me tonight, though. He said he'd been watching basketball since I was . . . what was it? . . . oh, yeah; a gleam in my daddy's eyes. Said I got lucky."
Harper chuckled. "Do you think you have an unfair advantage here, Mark? He doesn't know what a shark you are."
"Well, not so much that," the young man began with a slightly guilty laugh, "but he did ask me why the Cavs were playing an ABA team. But, hey, I brought him up to speed on the league, and I gave him all the lowdown on the teams. I told him they couldn't beat the spread, but he wouldn't listen. I warned him."
Grinning, and feeling more relaxed, McCormick went on, "Okay, Frank, I'm sure you didn't call to talk about basketball. What do you want to ask me?"
Harper didn't change his tone. "Any change?"
"Not really," McCormick admitted, trying to hide his disappointment. "I tried asking him about Monday, but he didn't remember anything. He asked a few questions of his own, but nothing seemed to ring any bells." He sighed. "I don't know, Frank. It's like he's trying to make himself believe what's happening, but he doesn't. Not really."
"What'd he say when you told him how you two met?"
Harper waited at least thirty seconds before deciding he wasn't going to get an answer. "Mark?"
"I haven't told him."
The response was so softly spoken, Harper wasn't sure he'd heard it correctly. "What?"
McCormick raised his voice, though he suddenly sounded very tired. "I said I haven't told him, Frank."
"Why the hell not?" Harper barked in exasperation.
"I couldn't," Mark answered, clutching the phone tightly to his head. "Frank, I don't think he needs to know that right now. Jeez, he's barely putting up with me as it is; he finds out I'm a convicted felon, and he'll throw my ass out on the street."
"He wouldn't do that," the lieutenant objected quietly.
"Easy for you to say," McCormick countered, "he still likes you. If he knew he was the one who sent me up, he'd probably think I was out to kill him, or something." He breathed deeply. "I just can't tell him yet, Frank. You understand, right?"
"I understand, Mark," Harper said slowly, "but you have to do it. How's he gonna trust you if you start lying to him?"
"I haven't lied," the young man replied defensively, "I just . . ." he trailed off, considering the situation.
"You want me to tell him?" Harper asked into the silence.
"No!" McCormick lowered his voice. "Sorry. But, no. I'll tell him, I really will, but I don't think I can do it just yet. Give me some time, Frank, okay? Let him get to know me first. I mean the now me, not the me from his files. He— " He broke off suddenly, as he was struck with a terrifying thought. "Oh, God, Frank, the files. What if he finds my file? What am I gonna do?"
"I'd suggest telling him the truth."
"You don't understand." Mark's voice was tinged with despair. "I'm barely holding this together, Frank. You saw the way he was with me. But we had an okay dinner, and then we watched some footballbasketball. It wasn't exactly normal, but it wasn't bad. The judge is a good guy, and he knows people; he'll warm up to me pretty soon. I think I just need a couple of days. Okay?" McCormick held his breath, waiting for a response.
"You don't need my permission, Mark," Harper said gently. He spoke earnestly to his frightened young friend. "You know, there aren't too many people I would leave him with in these circumstances, but I know you'd never hurt him. What I'm more concerned about right now is whether you'd do something to hurt yourself. Mark, I know you're worried about this, but I'm gonna ask you to trust me. Milt will understand, but you have got to give him the chance to accept you. You're worried about him shutting you out, but what are you doing to him?"
The line was silent for a long moment while McCormick considered his options. "I hear you, Frank," he finally said, "and I appreciate your concern. I'll tell him soon—maybe tomorrow, if everything goes okay—but not tonight. It's been kind of a long day, and I just can't face it tonight."
"Okay," Frank answered sympathetically, "I understand. But not too long, Mark; it'll only get harder." He let a beat pass, then said, "I thought he sounded okay on the phone. Not great, but okay. But you wanna know what he said about you?"
"What?" McCormick cried. He made a face, even though Harper wasn't there to appreciate it. "Hell, yeah, I wanna know!"
The detective chuckled slightly. "He said he was beginning to think he might be sorry to forget you." He didn't wait for the shocked silence to wear off before he hung up the phone.
00000
McCormick trudged across the darkened lawn, telling himself he just wanted some ice cream. After Harper's call, he'd really buckled down to the studying, but after several hours of deeds and property lines, he deserved a break.
Hah! Usually take your lock picks when you raid the kitchen?
He continued toward the main house, ignoring the voice in his head. Sometimes he really annoyed himself.
00000
Now in the darkened room, lit only by the thin tunnel of light given off by the penlight he'd brought along, McCormick hesitated. Sitting behind the oak desk, burglar tools in hand, he was one click away from opening the bottom file drawer and ensuring that Hardcastle wouldn't stumble across his secret. But, damn. Lying to him and stealing from him all in one day? That was quite the welcome home package.
It's not stealing; it's borrowing. And I haven't lied.
Think ol' hunt 'em, hear 'em and hang 'em would see it that way?
I think he needs me, whether he knows it or not. This is for his own good. He leaned forward and put the pick in the lock.
Whose own good?
His, he thought furiously. He can't go around jumping to conclusions because of my past. I'm a changed man, reformed, rehabilitated—
You're stealing to cover up a lie.
Slowly, McCormick pulled back on the pick and sank back into the chair. "Okay," he said under his breath. "Dammit." He was slipping the pick back into its case when the overhead light illuminated the room.
"Looking for this?" Hardcastle asked from the doorway, holding up a tattered manila folder.
Staring, frozen in the seat, McCormick could think of nothing except the truth. "I didn't want you to find it."
"You're an ex-con," the judge continued, stepping down into the room. His slow, deliberate words weren't really disguising his anger.
McCormick nodded wordlessly.
"I sentenced you?" He received another nod as he approached the desk. "And then you were paroled into my custody?"
"Yeah." McCormick could barely force out the word.
"But your parole ended and you're still here?" Hardcastle dropped the file on the desk and looked sternly across at the other man, who was back to simply nodding. He indicated the tool case in McCormick's hand. "You know how to use those things?"
He swallowed hard, but McCormick stuck to the truth. "Yes."
"You ever steal from me before?"
"No," Mark answered, quietly but firmly. "And for what it's worth, I wasn't gonna tonight, either."
"So it seemed," the judge replied, causing McCormick to wonder just how long the man had been watching from the shadows. "What made you change your mind?"
McCormick finally dropped his gaze. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Hardcastle instructed in his most judicial tone.
With a shrug, and still not looking at the judge, McCormick answered, "I wanted you to get to know me before you found out about me. But I couldn't figure out how I was supposed to convince you I could be trusted if I started out with a lie."
"And the me you know trusts you?"
Finally, Mark allowed his eyes to meet Hardcastle's. "Absolutely."
"And we're friends?"
"Yes."
The judge looked between McCormick and the file on his desk. "That seems . . . unlikely." His tone wasn't unkind, just candid.
"Unlikely? Damn straight it's unlikely. You and me, Hardcase, we're like the original odd couple. But it works. God only knows how, but it does." McCormick sighed, and looked down at the case in his hands. Zipping it closed, he slipped it as discreetly as possible into his pocket as he rose from his chair. "But maybe it worked because I tried hard to overcome some of my natural tendencies." He started across the floor, not entirely sure Hardcastle would allow him to leave, certainly not with criminal tools in his possession.
"Wait a minute."
The words stopped him in the doorway. Here it comes. He turned to find the judge staring at him, his expression a strange combination of confusion and bitterness, as if he would never be able to reconcile all the information he had learned today, even if he wanted to. But after a moment, it became clear that no further objection was forthcoming. McCormick offered a final comment.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything from the beginning, Judge. But as unlikely as this situation seems, we really did make it work." He paused briefly. "But you had to overcome some of your natural tendencies, too." And he slipped out of the house and back into the darkness.