All Things Change But Truth

by The Gull's-Way Collective

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Falling off the couch and smacking his head on the coffee table was not the way McCormick wanted to start the day. Adding another insult was the heavy medical book that followed, landing on his shoulder as he lay on the floor. Groaning and searching the gatehouse wall for the clock, he realized that the sun wasn't even quite peeking over the horizon yet. The only real light in the room was from the lamp still burning from the night before.

"6:06," he mumbled sleepily.

Picking himself up off the floor, he stumbled towards the bathroom. Peering at his head in the mirror, he caught a look at his face. He looked terrible. He knew he was burning the candle at both ends, but didn't think he should look that bad. While he was trying to decide what stage of bloodshot his eyes were, the last few days came back to him. Then the whole breaking and entering scene from the night before flashed through his head, and he thought he was going to be sick.

Without using the bathroom for any of its intended purposes, he wandered back into the main room and slumped back down on the couch. The events of the week again played out in his head. With each passing thought, he felt more and more despair.

What the hell am I going to do? No coherent thoughts were forthcoming. I'm in over my head here. Rolling his head across the back of the chair, he tried to work the kinks out.He started thinking about the day and the rest of the week ahead. Should I even try to go to the library today? I can't leave him alone.

He felt paralyzed and his body unwilling to move, questions and memories swirling through his brain. He couldn't sleep when he had gotten back from the main house the night before. He was hoping and even praying that Hardcastle would set his file to rest and try to stay in the present. He has to stay in the present or go back fifteen years. What the hell is he going to do? Attempts at reading the medical text he had taken from Hardcastle's library Tuesday, trying to find out more about all the possibilities of the judge's head injury and present condition, had proven futile. Thinking about the possibilities of what exactly Hardcastle was doing on Monday night was just frustrating. He had prayed silently for answers. He didn't remember when he finally passed out.

After a while, he realized that the light in the room was bright from the sunshine coming through the windows. He shook himself out of his reverie and knew he had to get going. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 6:25. A part of him waited for the thump of the basketball outside but part of him was relieved because he wasn't quite sure how to start a conversation this morning.

With determination, he pulled himself up and headed for the shower. He did remember his little speech last night and again promised himself that he was going to do everything in his power to find a way through this. For both of them.

Figuring that the judge had put him in charge of the meals, he headed over to the main house to make breakfast. As he neared the kitchen door, he saw the light on. His steps faltered a bit and he momentarily thought about heading back to the gatehouse, but continued on. Not thinking too clearly yet, and out of years of habit, he pushed open the door and entered the kitchen.

Looking startled, Hardcastle turned from the counter and barked, "Don't you even knock?"

Mark opened his mouth, but no words came out. The sinking feeling came back, replacing any positive thoughts he'd had earlier. The only sound for a few seconds was the radio, broadcasting the morning news.

Turning back to the coffee maker, Hardcastle said, "Well it's good to see that you're an early riser, at least."

McCormick ducked his head a bit and toyed with the idea of letting the judge believe that, but decided that enough lies had already been told.

"Well um, not exactly. Usually you're the one slamming a basketball on my bedroom wall to wake me up."

Pondering that, the judge turned to the younger man and said, "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Sure." Mark always thought the judge's coffee could make great driveway sealer, but he knew he needed something strong to jumpstart his morning. "What are you doing making breakfast? I thought I was in charge of the meals?"

"Well I didn't know what time you'd be up, and I was hungry."

Mark, feeling a bit more confident because the judge hadn't thrown him out of the house after his entrance, said, "Well, okay then, I'll get to work. 'Eggs ala McCormick' coming up."

"Eggs ala McCormick?"

"Yup, trust me, Judge, you'll like them." He almost choked on the words as soon as he'd said them. Trust was definitely an issue here.

Hardcastle was looking at Mark with an unreadable expression on his face. He said, "Okay, I've got to make a phone call. Let me know when they're ready." He shuffled off towards the den. His gait was slow and a bit stiff, the aftereffects of the accident still noticeable.

Mark opened his mouth to ask about the phone call but quickly closed it. Normally he would have just bluntly asked. Normal. Just what the heck is normal around here?

When breakfast was almost ready, he yelled into the den and received a grunt in reply.

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Eggs 'ala McCormick' were met with an approving nod after the first few bites.

"Not bad, Mark."

That first name thing again. He was going to either have to get used to it or figure out a way to change that.

"Thanks." The odd unfamiliarity was back. Surprisingly though, McCormick didn't feel the stifling tension of the day before.

"So, what's your school schedule like?" the judge asked.

"Um, well usually I have Property Law on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays are Civil Procedure. But I have two final exams tomorrow then I'm done till January."

Hardcastle looked up from his breakfast and said "Usually?"

"Well, it's just study group today, so I figured I'd stay home today and see—" Mark started.

"I told you yesterday, I don't need looking after," the judge interrupted furiously.

"I am not looking after you!" Mark spouted back automatically. Thinking tohimself, Oh yes I am; somebody has to.

Both men had stopped eating and were looking intently at each other. A few moments of pained silence passed, neither knowing what to say. A jaunty Christmas song seemed to scream out of the radio, even though the volume wasn't set very high.

"Judge," McCormick took a deep breath and started, "somebody is supposed to be with you this week. Dr. Neely said…"

"Dr. Neely, my sweet aunt! I don't care what anybody says! Just because I can't remember, doesn't mean I need some kind of wet nurse!" Hardcastle attacked his plate with a vengeance, better to eat than talk.

Sitting back and dropping his hands in his lap, Mark desperately tried to maintain his composure. He stared at his plate, the thought of food again making him nauseous. Well, Mark thought, at least he didn't stomp off or flatten me. But the anger was unnerving, and knowing it was a natural reaction didn't help.

A ring of the doorbell ended their silence. They heard the sound of the door opening, and footsteps coming down the hall toward the kitchen. Frank entered the room with a cordial, "Good morning, thought I'd stop in before…" his voice dropped off with each word. McCormick's downcast face and Hardcastle's rigid posture were a dead giveaway that something was going on.

"Okay, guys, what's up?" he got straight to the point. He had hoped that by this morning things would be a little smoother for the two of them.

Grateful for the interruption, Hardcastle's eyes softened a bit at the sight of his friend. "We, um, were just having breakfast."

"No dice, Milt. Spill it." The detective in Frank kicked in, and he was determined to find out the problem.

"Well if you really have to know, Junior over here doesn't think I can take care of myself, even though apparently I've been doing it a lot longer than I thought."

Still sitting quietly, Mark thought, Junior is a step up. He looked helplessly at Frank.

Looking at McCormick, he asked, "Mark?"

"I just was following what Dr. Neely said about sticking around." He got up, taking his plate with his uneaten breakfast, and walked toward the sink. "Want some coffee?"

"Who made it?" asked Frank, sitting down.

"I did. Why?" responded the judge.

Inwardly, Frank grimaced. "Just asking. Yeah, I'll have one." He secretly told his stomach to hang on. The judge eyed him curiously.

Seeing the judge had simmered down a bit and setting a fresh cup down, Mark went back to the sink and changed the subject. "Frank, I never asked, where's the truck?"

"That's what I'd like to know, too!" fumed Hardcastle. Glancing at McCormick, he continued, "I already called about the truck; that's what I was doing on the phone. I can't believe that nobody can find a 1958, tan, GMC truck. It's ridiculous!" The judge was also upset at the fact that he didn't recognize any of the people he had talked to on the phone.

Mark and Frank's eyes met and Frank waved his hand at McCormick seeming to say, This one's yours.

Rinsing one of the plates he was washing and clearing a catch in his throat, Mark said, "Um, Judge, that's because you weren't driving a tan, 1958 GMC. You were driving a black, 1984 GMC truck. The old truck was retired a couple of years ago."

A vacant look came over the judge's face again. He shook his head, got up from the table and walked over to the window. Another piece of the puzzle gone.

After a brief silence, he sighed, "Well, I guess I may owe a couple of people at the station an apology then."

"Milt, don't worry about it," Frank said. "I know where it was towed and we can go over there when you're up to it. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm here."

Turning, the judge looked at him questioningly.

"Well, your insurance adjuster is looking at it today and I don't want the truck towed till you can look through it. I was hoping that we might find something that will give us a clue as to what you were doing alone down there Monday night. It was taken to the police impound lot after the accident and they're keeping an eye on it. But I need your signature on this to leave it there a few more days," Frank said as he placed a piece of paper on the table.

Mark heard a slight emphasis on the word 'alone' and thought, Yeah, I damn well want to know, too. He held his tongue.

"Mark, I figured I'd run Milt down there while you're in class and you could pick him up down at the office when you're done."

"I can go down there today and drive myself back here, ya know!" muttered the judge.

"Sorry, Milt, no can do. Besides the fact that the truck isn't drivable, I'm with Mark on this one; what Dr. Neely said goes. You aren't going anywhere until after your next appointment with him." He continued firmly but compassionately, "You know he still has the commitment papers."

With that the judge stopped dead in his tracks. "Frank, at least I thought that you—," he faltered. He shook his head and stormed out of the room.

Exhaling the breath he'd been holding, McCormick slowly made his way back to the table and sat down. "What are we going to do, Frank?"

"I already told you what we're going to do," he replied. "You're going to go to school and study."

"But—"

"No 'buts' about this, Mark, you need to get through your exams and we'll go from there. We take this one step at a time. When Milt comes out of this and finds out you were that close but quit because of what's happening right now, he'll kill you." Frank continued a little more gently, "Look, I'd tell you not to worry, but that won't help. We will work through this and find out what's going on."

Grateful for the compassion and confidence, Mark grinned at Frank. "He would kill me, too."

Smiling back, Frank rose from the table and headed for the den. "Well I hope he doesn't kill me right now."

"Frank, wait," said Mark, stopping Harper at the door. "There was a file in the judge's desk. I don't know if he's looked at it but it was there when I had gotten back from the hospital Monday night— well, I guess Tuesday morning. It's in the locked bottom right-hand drawer." Frank raised an eyebrow. Mark continued, "No, I don't have a key and, no, Hardcastle doesn't know I know about it— hell, he probably doesn't either." Frank's eyebrow came down.

"The file only has a couple of things in it, and I wrote them down for myself, too. A guy's name, 'Henry', the word Glendale, and the number S1712. There's some notes, but none of it makes any sense to me."

"There's nothing you two were working on?" Frank asked again, even though Mark had already denied it.

"No!" Mark said emphatically, toying with the placemat before him. "We've slowed way down since I started school. I should have known something was up. Dammit! I should have paid more attention to what he was doing Monday night."

Frank crossed through the room and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "This is not your fault."

McCormick looked up at his friend, pure misery written across his face. "What if we don't figure this out? What are we going to do?"

Gripping his shoulder a bit tighter, Frank forced himself to be positive. "For the third time, right now you are going to study." Mentally bracing himself, he went on, "I'm going to talk to Milt."

"Okay," Mark swallowed what was left of his concern. "I can meet you guys by, say two?"

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A few minutes later, Frank walked into the den. He stopped on the landing. Hardcastle was looking out the window. Without turning, the judge said softly, "Sorry, Frank, guess I'm having a little problem with all of this. Didn't mean to snap at you."

"No need to apologize. I'd be having a big problem with all of this." He went on cautiously, "But seriously, Milt, until we figure out what's going on with you, and as much as you hate the idea, one of us is going to be hanging around."

Still looking out the window, the judge exclaimed, "What the hell is that!"

Rushing to the window and peering over Hardcastle's shoulder, Frank started laughing, seeing the Coyote heading down the driveway.

"That's the kid's car."

"His car?" Hardcastle looked at the vanishing taillights in disbelief.

Still chuckling and moving towards the desk, Frank said, "We can talk about it later; it's a long story." He figured the jig was up and if Mark didn't tell the judge, he'd have to. He thought, That's what the kid gets for procrastinating.

"I'll bet it is." Hardcastle then said abruptly, "I found the kid's file."

Inwardly, Frank groaned. "Did you talk to Mark about it?"

"A little. Last night. He was in here trying to steal it out of my desk, but I already had it."

Whirling around, Frank looked at Milt. He had just listened to Mark's kitchen confession about actually breaking into the drawer for the other files, but no mention of this. He didn't need any more surprises.

"No," Hardcastle said slowly, "he didn't go through with it. I was watching and he stopped himself. He didn't know I was here. Guess there's something I should give him credit for."

Releasing the tension from his shoulders, Frank sat down on the edge of the desk.

"You should, Milt. He's a good kid, smart. Still makes dumb mistakes every once in a while, but he's come a long way since you first brought him here. He's also put his neck on the line for you more times than I can count— whether you've wanted him to or not."

"But who is he, Frank?" the judge asked. "I don't know anything about him."

"I guess I can make my story longer. Right now we've got some business."

"Business?" the judge asked guardedly.

"Yeah, Mark said you two weren't working on any new cases. We need to look through your desk and see if we come up with anything." Frank was treading lightly, not wanting to give up Mark's admitted little foray into the judge's personal papers. He also thought to himself, I should have started a list a long time ago for the ones McCormick owes me.

Looking thoughtful, Hardcastle moved over and sat behind the desk. "Well, other than McCormick's file, there were a couple of my old cases." With a twinge in his voice he said, "Ones I don't even remember. This one doesn't have a lot in it," he said, handing over a folder. "Must have been in a hurry; I can't even read some it. Just a name, couple of notes, and a number. I haven't asked McCormick about it yet. If we're some sort of civilian crime fighters, he may know something."

With a slight grin Frank said, "More like the Lone Ranger and Tonto."

Hardcastle gave him a sharp look but Frank was already poring over what little there was in the file. "Not much here. Well, we can try and run the number down at the station." He looked up to see Hardcastle rubbing his temple. "You okay?" he asked, concerned. "You think maybe you're up to running over to that impound with me, a little later, to take a look at your truck?"

"Hell, yes," the judge replied gruffly. "I'm all right, just a little tired. Didn't sleep too well last night. Too much to think about I guess." He paused, then added, "Mark doesn't look too good, either."

Pursing his lips together, Frank said, "Well he's got a lot on his plate, too. He's worried sick about you, and he's got finals for school right now. You both need a couple days to take it easy."

"Hrmph, I just don't get the whole idea of what he's doing here," answered the judge quietly.

"Not too many people do, Milt, not too many people do." Rising from his perch on the desk, Frank got up and looked at the judge. "Come on, I'll let you buy me another cup of your lousy coffee."

Hardcastle rose carefully and said, "Lousy coffee? I don't make lousy coffee…."

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Not bothered by the chilly December air, Mark drove with the tops out and windows down. He needed some air. Looking at the usually beautiful scenery had just depressed him. Holiday decorations seemed so out of place to him this morning, and they were everywhere. Thinking back on the last few Christmases he had shared with the judge brought back a lot of memories. The first year when celebrating together was so awkward. The second, when things were a little better and the two of them had started some of their own traditions. Last year, although neither would probably admit it, they really had a lot of fun. Exchanging presents, arguing about the tree, each having some of their friends over for a holiday dinner. And then, out of nowhere, came the melancholy thoughts of what this year might bring.

The car's radio was on, and soon all of the ads for pre-Christmas sales and Christmas songs made him want to scream. Definitely not in the mood for all that happiness. Pushing a cassette into the player, the rock band, Kansas, started cranking loud and clear. McCormick started singing along until he realized the words out of his mouth were 'carry on my wayward son'. Punching it back out, he snapped off the radio. Frustrated and angry, his fist slammed down on the steering wheel. The rest of the trip to the campus was driven in somber silence.

Arriving on campus, he found his two usual parking spots filled. Glancing at the clock in the car, he saw it was even early.Figuring, Why not? Everything else is going so well, he began looking for an alternative. There weren't too many places he'd park the Coyote. Finally finding a suitable spot, Mark got out, grabbed his backpack with his books, and started walking to the library. He knew he needed a couple hours of review before his exam the next day.

Ignorant of his surroundings, Mark walked along, passing the usual array of shops and fast food places that litter college campuses everywhere. Checking the street at a crosswalk, he stopped suddenly when something in a store window happened to catch his eye. Looking more closely, it was something he'd never imagined finding on campus or anywhere else actually. Unbelievable. But was it real? He turned abruptly and entered the store, surprised it was open this early.

The guy behind the counter looked like he'd been left behind from a Grateful Dead tour a few summers ago and was snoring, sleeping peacefully. Mark walked right by him and headed over to the window. He had to pick his way around everything from used furniture and clothing to a row of old books and even a pool table. Setting his books down, he picked the picture off its hanger and gave it his full attention. He stared, almost in awe. The white stallion pawing his hooves into the air, the unmistakable figure with the white hat and black mask sitting tall in the saddle. In scripted letters near the bottom were the words. Remembering, he had seen them before in one of Hardcastle's favorite old comic books. Mark started reading them again unaware he was saying them softly out loud.

Looking the whole picture over again he decided it was the perfect gift for the judge. He hadn't bought anything for him yet. He was having a hard time this year coming up with an idea. Usually it was pretty easy to buy for Hardcastle, but this year Mark had wanted something special. He had wanted to show the judge how grateful he was for the chance at law school. Schooling Mark never could have afforded. The judge would always blow him off about the tuition and he knew he could never repay him, well, not with money anyway. McCormick turned over the price tag and swallowed, ninety-five dollars.

His shoulders slumped a bit. That was a lot of money, and he didn't even know if it was an authentic autograph. Still carrying the picture and zigzagging his way back to the front counter, he woke up 'Sleepy,' the clerk.

"Huh? Whadda ya want?" Stretching, yawning and scratching the back of his head, the man slowly came to life.

"This picture, is it authentic?" Mark asked holding it out toward the man.

"The Lone Ranger one?" said the clerk, squinting and trying to focus.

"No, this one of Superman," McCormick replied, irritated.

"Well that's not Superman, it's the Lone Ranger, and yeah, it's authentic." The guy was waking up more. "It was my dad's. He kicked off last year. Didn't know what to do with that so I had it checked out and found out it was a real autograph. I even got the picture around here somewhere showing that dude signing it for my dad. He was a real rah-rah guy for crap like that. You know, for God, for country. I think he wished he could have either been him or John Wayne or something."

"How much do you want for it?" McCormick asked, hoping the guy wasn't awake enough to read the price tag.

"What's the tag say?" Sleepy, now the wide-awake clerk, had perked up with the hopes of making a good sale.

"Ninety-five." He replied.

"Well then, that's what it costs."

"You're sure it's a real autograph?" Mark asked again.

"Told ya, I got a picture." The guy started rummaging around. "I'd even throw that in for free."

"Swell." He looked at it again, torn. The frame was in great shape and the glass was clear and clean. But it was the words still rambling around in his head that kept the picture in his hands. They were so dear and true to his best friend. A best friend he didn't know how to help or comfort right now.

"Here's the picture," said the clerk, handing over an old black and white photograph. In it were two semi-fuzzy figures. The same white hat, and black mask looking down at a relatively young man, who was looking up in awe. Moore was writing on the picture and it was hard for McCormick to see if it was the same one.

One last glance at the picture he was holding and he knew he would be making this guy happy. He realized it was a lot of money, probably more than it was really worth. The set of tires for the Coyote would have to wait a little longer. He had to have it.

"Okay, I'll take it," he said, "but I don't have the money on me right now. Can you hold it till tomorrow? I'll get it to you then."

Sleepy seemed disappointed and looked at McCormick closely, his hopes for immediate cash dashed. "Yeah, but only till tomorrow night; after that it goes back up in the window."

He placed it on the counter and gave the guy his name and number. He walked out of the store and the rest of the way to the library with a little lighter step.

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"The Lone Ranger," Hardcastle muttered quietly, as they drove cross-town toward Glendale. Frank kept his mouth shut on that subject. It seemed like everything he'd said since they'd gotten in the car had only annoyed his friend. "And a car thief for Tonto," he added, with no effort to hide his chagrin. "What the hell was I thinking, Frank?"

Frank kept his eyes on the road. Now that it had come to a direct question, he supposed he'd have to respond. "You were thinking about doing some good."

"For who? That kid?"

"Yeah, for him." Frank shrugged, "For you, too. And, hell, you two racked up a lot of busts the last few years. You brought in a lot of bad guys." Frank spared a glance from the road. The man sitting next to him still wore a look of disbelief. "You got Joe Cadillac to turn himself in, testify against some of his old buddies."

"Cadillac?" Hardcastle's disbelief seemed to deepen. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Well, you and Mark . . ." Frank suddenly felt a little less comfortable with his prime example. So this is why the kid was lying. He shoved his qualms over to the side. No more of that. "Got some evidence out of impound—papers Cadillac needed to ransom his son."

"Cadillac has a kid now?"

"He had one all along," Frank explained. "His son's a priest."

"No kidding," Hardcastle shook his head once then, abruptly, he frowned. "What do you mean 'got it out of impound'?"

Frank sighed, briefly regretting all his admonitions to Mark, but still determined to follow his own advice. "You and Mark broke into impound, when it looked like the ransom deadline was gonna beat the evidentiary ruling. You took the papers—"

"I . . . he . . ." the judge grasped for words.

"It was your idea," Frank said quietly. "Mark just provided the expertise."

Disbelief was hardening into absolute horror. "Then how come he's not— we're not—in prison?"

"You got off on a technicality," Frank replied, with just a twinge of satisfaction. "Then," he plunged ahead on the crest of the shock value, "there was a mobster on the East Coast, guy named Tommy Sales. You two took him down."

"How?" Hardcastle asked, almost hesitantly.

"You broke into a Federal judge's chambers, popped a safe, took some tapes."

"He cracks safes, too?"

"Well, not that time," Frank admitted. "That was his dad, but it was your idea. Sales had Mark. You got the tapes to trade for him. You told me all about it over a couple of beers one time, called it 'flagrant necessity'. Then you got the whole bunch busted when they showed up for the trade."

"'Flagrant necessity? A judge's chambers?" Hardcastle repeated the words, almost to himself. He shook his head, then slowly turned toward Frank. "We do this kind of thing a lot?"

"Not without a good reason," Frank offered reassurance. "But I just thought you should know; he's been damn useful to you."

"And the ends justify the means?" Hardcastle gave him a hard look. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Some ends," Frank said, carefully, "and some means."

"You start breaking the law," Hardcastle replied brittlely, "and pretty soon you've got anarchy."

"I once heard a guy say, 'The people's good is the highest law.'" Frank said, glancing aside at the older man for a moment. Then he added, "That was you—the first time I ever testified on a case in your courtroom."

There was a long, silent moment. "That wasn't me," the judge finally said quietly. "That was Cicero."

"Yeah, well," Frank smiled, "I was just a rookie cop. I thought it was Hardcastle."

He pulled in at the gate of the private towing and impound facility, honked his horn once, and flashed his badge at the attendant.

"I called Glendale Traffic Division this morning. They said it wasn't drivable, got towed here." Frank stuck his head out the window. "Black and gray GMC truck brought in Saturday Tuesday morning?" He held out a copy of the accident report. The attendant waved him vaguely toward the back.

As Frank pulled up in the aisle next to the truck, he realized that the judge was staring past him at the vehicle. From the back, the damage didn't appear too severe; it was the truck itself that seemed to have the man flummoxed.

"That's mine?" Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

"Yeah, you've had it, what, about three years now."

"Frank," the older man frowned, "don'tcha think it's kinda flashy? What was wrong with my old one?"

"You burned the engine out," Frank smiled.

"Nah . . . I always took good care of it. Oil changes every 2,500 miles and everything."

"No," Frank laughed, "I mean you burned the engine out, as in incinerated. Up in flames."

Hardcastle's frown deepened. "And I got this?" He walked over to the driver's side, winced a little at the spider crack on the window, and then looked inside. "It's got a lot of bells and whistles."

Frank bit down on another laugh. "Well, I think Mark convinced you it would improve the resale value if you got air-conditioning and a tape deck."

The judge turned back to him, face stern. "It figures; he'd know about that. Blue book values are kinda his stock and trade."

Frank froze, half out of the car. For about the third time in the last half-hour, he was glad that the kid was at least ten miles away, and not around to hear all of this. "It wasn't like that." He sighed wearily. "I know he made a big mistake last night, but . . . honest, Milt, I'm starting to wonder if he wasn't right about one thing."

Hardcastle straightened up and bristled. "Right about what?"

"About how you wouldn't trust him if you knew about his past, at least not yet. Even though you did trust him. God, I never knew two people who trusted each other more." Frank was out of the car, leaning the door closed, hands in his pockets. He studied his friend carefully, and then he shook his head again, looking down.

He gradually became aware of the silence, and lifted his head again. Hardcastle was staring at him. "But why?" the judge finally asked.

"I dunno," Frank said. "I won't lie to you; he screwed up a couple of times, back at the beginning—never the really important stuff, though—but you kept trusting him . . . and he was—he is—trustworthy."

The judge looked away for a moment, then back at Frank, his expression only slightly more conciliatory. "If you say so."

I did my best, Frank thought. It'll have to do for now.

The judge glanced back into the cab of the truck, seeming eager to move on to a new topic. He reached for the handle and opened the door. "There's something on the seat. A map." He reached for it then hesitated.

"Three days, half a dozen cops, and a handful of emergency workers. This no longer qualifies as a crime scene," Frank grimaced, looking over the judge's shoulder.

Hardcastle looked back at him thoughtfully. "You're not sure it ever was."

Frank caught himself on the verge of another gently reassuring lie. He shut his mouth abruptly. Then, a second later, said, "If it makes you feel any better, Mark thinks it is."

Hardcastle 'harrumphed' as he reached in and grabbed the map—Greater Los Angeles—folded open to the southern part of Glendale. "Where did the accident happen?" he asked.

"On Glendale Avenue." Frank pulled the police report out of his pocket. "The intersection of Glendale and San Fernando, where Glendale merges. You blew through the light."

The judge grimaced again. "So I've heard."

"You know," Frank looked at him abstractedly. "That's about 1900 South Glendale Avenue. Maybe that '1721' is an address." He took the map from the older man and studied it for a moment, then looked up, puzzled. "Wanna go check it out?"

"Why not?" the judge shrugged. Glancing back briefly into the truck, he turned away.

"Wait a sec," Frank reached past him, past the steering wheel, and to the glove compartment, snapping it open. "Well, this has gotta be a first. Nobody stole your gun."

Hardcastle flashed a brief smile of recognition. Frank tucked the gun and holster under his own arm and turned back to his car.

"Frank?" the judge asked.

The lieutenant looked back at him, eyebrows briefly up. Then he said, "Ohh . . . aw, come on, Milt. Dr. Neely'd kill me if I let you have this back right now."

He didn't add that Neely would have to get in line behind Mark. That was probably better left unsaid.

00000

The accident scene provided no useful insights. Hardcastle stared at it with no glimmer of recognition. There was no obvious sign that anything had happened there. The short trip up Glendale Avenue brought them to an impressive set of wrought iron gates, with the '1721' almost lost among the decorative filigree-work. But they hardly needed to look at the name emblazoned on the escutcheons mounted at the top.

"Forest Lawn?" Frank said, bemusedly. "Ring any bells?"

"Well, I've been here before. Funerals." The judge suddenly frowned. "Nancy?"

"No," Frank shook his head hurriedly. "She and Tom are over in Woodlawn." He glanced away just as suddenly, as a look of infinite sadness returned to the older man's face. "Sorry, I—"

"Anyway," the judge exhaled, "it would have been locked up tight at that hour of the night. Why come here at one in the morning?"

Frank didn't want to go in the direction of midnight forays into cemeteries and mausoleums. There'd been a couple of those. Fortunately, the judge seemed not to be pursuing that line of questioning. He was just standing there, staring past the open gates, into the cemetery beyond.

Frank gave him room to think, standing back a bit. After a few moments, he heard the older man say, almost to himself, "Lots of others, probably." He was looking down, now, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Frank understood. "Well . . . yes. Fifteen years," he said flatly.

"Who?"

"Ahh, Tyler Peebles, that was a couple years back. And Charles Clarkson—"

"Old Charlie? I would've gone to his funeral."

"You did," Frank smiled. "And then you investigated his murder." He paused for a moment, and he added, "We almost lost Mark on that one."

The judge gave him a questioning glance.

"Yeah, he was helping you investigate a crooked lawyer and his client. They were the ones who killed Charlie and his secretary. You got too close to the truth; they shot Mark."

The judge pursed his lips, considering.

"You never really explained to me how you figured out where they'd dumped him."

"Well," Hardcastle looked a little peeved, "don't ask me now." He took one last look around and then headed back to Frank's car.

00000

Frank drove them to the station, by way of a hot dog place that had been one of their longstanding favorites. The familiarity only seemed to ease the tension a little. The pall that had settled over the judge in front of the cemetery still lingered.

Frank checked his watch as they entered the building. "Mark should be here any minute. He said he'd be done by two."

Hardcastle merely nodded once, no other comment. He started to turn the wrong way down the second floor corridor and was snagged gently by the lieutenant and steered to the right.

"New office," Frank said with a smile. "Down here. Bigger, but not much. Here." He stopped in front of the door, reaching for the knob.

"Bathroom's still in the same place, isn't it?" Hardcastle said.

"Yeah," Frank replied, a little hesitantly.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Frank, I can do that by myself," the judge groused.

"Okay," Frank frowned. "Meet me back here." He watched the older man stroll down the corridor, looking completely at home.

He fought down the last minute urge to say he, too, needed to use the facility. This not-lying thing was proving trickier than he could have imagined. Instead, he stepped into his office and carefully closed the door behind him, taking a seat at his desk and eyeing the growing backlog of paperwork with a weary eye.

He was not more than two layers down when he heard a sharp, quick tap on the door, followed, without a pause, by Mark's entry.

"Hey, Frank." The kid seemed remarkably more upbeat than he'd been that morning. Then he glanced around quickly. "Where's the judge?"

"Men's room," Frank gestured vaguely toward the hall.

"Oh . . . okay," Mark looked over his shoulder as he took a seat. "It's where it's always been, isn't it?"

"Since they built the place," Frank replied dryly.

"So, umm, how'd it go? Find anything?"

"A cemetery," Frank replied glumly. "Forest Lawn. That's what's at the address that was in his notes."

Mark wore a puzzled expression. "Anything else?'

"Nope, we struck out. And he hasn't remembered anything, either."

"The truck—?"

"You need to figure out who's going to do the repair work—"

"But it's—"

"There's a lot of front-end damage. I don't think you should leave it sitting in that impound much longer."

"But, Frank—" Mark began again, with mounting frustration.

"An accident. It looks like an accident. Unless you think the guy from the trucking company is lying—"

"That's a place to start."

"—and I already looked into him. Long-term employee of a legit company. Left on time to make his scheduled run on his scheduled route. Nothing unusual."

"Ah, any signs of sabotage?"

"You can take a look at it yourself, once you've got it towed. It needs a lot of body work, and I'm guessing the front axle's a goner. Just figure out where you want it and I can get things moving."

Mark looked over his shoulder again. "Well, you better ask him about that."

"But you—"

"I cook, Frank," Mark said, resignedly, "and I stay out of the way."

"Well, yeah." Frank nodded. "I kinda get that."

Mark's eyebrows went up a little.

"I spent the morning with the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle." Frank gave him a chagrined look.

"Yeah, but you said you've known him almost thirty years, Frank."

"Yeah, about," Frank replied. "But at first we were acquaintances, colleagues. We didn't get to be friends 'till later on." Frank looked at the younger man thoughtfully, "And I'd say we've been a whole lot closer since . . . since he retired." Frank shook his head. "I dunno, I guess I didn't realize how much he'd changed. He was a very tough judge, Mark."

"Oh," McCormick laughed. "You mean I didn't just get him on an off day?"

Frank smiled and shook his head. "And, anyway, cops like tough judges. So, maybe that's what I used to like about him, back then. I dunno. I'd just forgotten what he was like."

Mark looked over his shoulder again. "The men's room?" he asked.

"Yeah, maybe five minutes before you showed up." Frank looked down at his watch, then up at Mark, a little more concerned.

"You think maybe you could go check on him, Frank?"

"Ah, yeah," Frank agreed reluctantly, but was already out of his seat. Mark followed along behind, and he looked like he thought this might be a dangerous mission to go point on.

Frank ducked his head in through the door, no one in the stalls—no one in the room at all. He ducked back out again, and his face gave the results away. "The first floor?" he suggested worriedly, but McCormick was already three steps ahead of him and heading for the stairwell.

He burst into the first-floor men's room with Frank on his heels. No one. They retreated back to the lobby.

"Where else?" Mark asked.

"You looking for the judge, Lieutenant?" the desk sergeant asked helpfully. "He walked by right before he came through." The sergeant pointed at McCormick. "Went out the front, hailed a cab."

"Frank," McCormick looked a little panicky. "He's got a twenty-minute head start."

"Listen," Harper put one hand out, taking Mark by the arm, "he probably just went back to the estate. It was a long morning."

"No, he would've waited for me."

Frank looked a little doubtful.

"It's someplace he doesn't think I'd take him, or that he doesn't want to go to with me."

"Woodlawn Cemetery?" Frank asked.

McCormick gave that a moment's thought. "Maybe, but that's not real to him, yet. Seeing it would make it real, I think he'll avoid that. No . . . the courthouse."

"I dunno," Frank mulled it. "We talked about Woodlawn."

"Okay, you take it; I'll take the courthouse." He was already heading for the front door.

00000

Mark took the courthouse steps two at a time, going against the tide of the afternoon departures. The deputy just inside the door was someone they knew. McCormick pulled up short.

"Seen Judge Hardcastle?" he asked, catching his breath.

The guard nodded, looking a little puzzled. Perez, McCormick though, That's his name, and he's too young to have been here fifteen years.

Perez pointed to the elevators and said, "Yeah, came through a little while ago. He usually says 'Hi.' What you guys in such a big hurry for today?"

"Long story," McCormick sighed, only somewhat relieved that he'd nailed Hardcastle's destination on the first guess, and feeling a little guilty that he had been half-wishing for Frank to be right.

He took a breath and walked to the elevator at a pace just a notch above procrastination. He stepped aside, as the arriving downward car emptied its full load out into the lobby. He entered the now-empty car and stood there for a moment, his finger poised over the third-floor button. He supposed he might go back and wait in the lobby. The judge would be perfectly safe wandering around his old haunts. Lots of people still knew him here.

He pushed the button. It wasn't about safety. It was that odd look that Perez had had. It would only be multiplied by dozens, once the judge got upstairs among his old colleagues, once he started talking. They'll think he's crazy; they'll feel sorry for him. He cringed. Not that your showing up is likely to make things much better.

The doors opened on a nearly empty hallway. He went down the hall to the right, almost to the end of the corridor—the judge's old courtroom, door closed and lights out. The week before the holiday, things are slowing down a little. He heard voices from around the corner coming toward him—Sid, the judge's old bailiff, and another that Mark didn't recognize. Sid was talking in a low, but animated voice. He looked up as they rounded the corner.

"Mark?" he said, sounding relieved as hell. "What's going on?"

"He's okay?" McCormick asked flat-out. "He's here?"

"Yeah," Sid nodded. "He's standing in front of Judge Stoddard's chambers, his old chambers, looking for his key."

"Where's Stoddard?" Mark asked nervously.

"Gone for the day. What's wrong with him, Mark? I've never seen him like this before."

"He's not crazy," Mark said, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt. "He . . . had a head injury. A car accident. Monday night."

"They let him out of the hospital like that?" Sid said, disbelieving. "Damn insurance companies." The bailiff shook his head. Then he looked up at Mark. "You think maybe you can talk to him? I can't let him in there."

Mark saw the relief on the man's face and wondered when he'd become 'the guy who can deal with Hardcastle'. He smiled thinly, trying to look confident, and stepped past the other two men, who looked all too glad to let him pass.

McCormick waved them back. "Give me a minute." He rounded the corner by himself. It was a short hallway, with a side door on the right hand that led to the courtroom, and the door to the chambers straight ahead, only about twenty-five feet away.

Hardcastle stood with his back to him, looking down at the set of keys he held in his hand. Sorting through them one at a time and then, when he'd apparently reached the end, looking up at the door again with a puzzled frown.

This wasn't real yet, either, McCormick thought, standing frozen where he was. But it is now. The judge seemed unaware of him, caught in a moment of confusion. It took everything Mark had left in him, to take another step forward and clear his throat.

"I was only back here one other time," he shot a quick glance at Hardcastle and then shifted his gaze to the door, moving up till he was almost side-by-side with the older man. "That was three and a half years ago—the day before you retired. I remember you had a jar of peanuts on your desk, and I was so mad I dumped them out right in front of you."

"Mad at me?"

McCormick smiled sadly. "Mad at you. Mad at everybody. Mostly mad at Martin Cody—he's the guy who had my friend killed, the guy I stole the Coyote from. You wanted me to give the car back. I said I wouldn't."

"A matter of principle?"

"Damn straight."

"And then?"

"You sent me back to the lock-up. And then you got your hands on Cody's file. And after that you helped me nail him."

"I helped you?"

"Or maybe it was the other way around." Mark grinned. "It's hard to tell sometimes.

"Like you helped me get Charlie Clarkson's murderer?"

Mark's mouth dropped open for a moment. "You remember Charlie?"

"Sure I do." Hardcastle said matter-of-factly. "I've known him from way back, since I was a cop."

"Then—" Mark almost grabbed the older man by the shoulders.

"Frank told me about the murder, this morning."

McCormick's grin faded. "Oh, yeah . . . Frank." He found himself staring at the closed door again. "Anyway . . ." he started up again, after a moment, slowly, "then you retired. And we started going after the ones that had slipped through the cracks."

"Sounds crazy." Hardcastle shook his head. "It sounds dangerous. Frank says you almost got killed by the guys who got Charlie."

"That was almost a year ago," Mark said with flat practicality. "I was okay. You found me in time."

There was a long moment. The judge looked down at the keys in his hand, then over his shoulder at the side door that led to the courtroom. Then he shook his head. "Why?" he finally said, quietly, but with deep frustration in his voice. "I don't get it."

"You retired. Nobody made you quit. You wanted to do this." Mark said insistently. Then he took a deep breath. "It's Stoddard's chambers now. All the files, all the important stuff, is back at the estate."

The judge slipped his keys back into his pocket, saying nothing. The silence stretched out impossibly.

Mark let out a sigh. He almost reached out for the judge's arm. Almost, but he caught himself again. "Look," he said wearily, "it's been a long day. Can we go home now?"

Still saying nothing, the judge turned and preceded him down the short hallway, into the main corridor, and past the bailiffs, still standing by the door of the darkened courtroom.

00000

Frank took the steps of the courthouse two at a time and, just as he reached the door, encountered Mark, coming out.

"He wasn't at the—"

McCormick jerked his chin just a fraction toward his right shoulder and Frank saw Milt following behind him by a couple of steps, looking deep in thought and none too pleased.

"We're gonna head back to the estate," Mark said quietly.

Frank pulled him aside as the judge plodded by, barely giving him a nod. When he'd gone past, a little ways further, Frank leaned in toward Mark and asked, "He's okay?"

The kid looked at him bleakly. Whatever had been buoying him up this afternoon, when he'd first arrived at the station, was completely gone now.

"Yeah," he finally replied, his voice flat. "It was easier than the trip to the cemetery is going to be." His eyes were following Hardcastle. "Why did he give up being a judge, Frank?"

Harper frowned. "I dunno. He was good at it. But he was better at being the Lone Ranger." He gave the younger man an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "I never heard him say he regretted it."

Mark was still watching Hardcastle's slow trudge. "Till now," he said, and then headed down the steps to catch up.

00000

The drive home had been mostly silent. The judge had had his keys out, almost before they'd pulled up, and he'd gotten out and headed toward the steps as soon as the Coyote had rolled to a stop.

Mark watched him mount the stairs. He was still sitting on the sill of the car, not sure which direction he was going to take. Already on the front porch, the key in the lock, Hardcastle was looking over his shoulder at him.

"Did you have lunch?" he asked.

Mark had to give it a moment's thought. "No . . . I had coffee." He looked down at his watch. Almost five.

He heard the judge say something half to himself, and then saw him shake his head. "Well, you'd better come in here and rustle something up. You've got exams tomorrow, don'tcha?"

Mark nodded, and climbed out of the car and followed the judge in.