Chapter 5
Hardcastle had just peeked into the den on his way to the front porch for the morning paper. Some bodyguard, he thought, seeing McCormick sprawled across one of the armchairs, which had been turned to face the door.
But he hadn't even reached the doorknob when he heard the shouted, "Hold it!", and felt McCormick behind him in the hallway. By the time he whirled around, the kid had already lowered the shotgun and was looking annoyed.
"What the hell are ya doin', Judge? Sneakin' around like that could get you shot."
"I wasn't sneaking; I just wanted my paper. You're the one that fell asleep on guard duty." Hardcastle had fired the response back hotly, giving little credence to the inner voice that was pointing out that the kid was pretty damn alert, and it seemed unlikely anyone would've gotten past him.
You mean, unlikely anyone would've gotten to you, the voice insisted, as Hardcastle watched the young man shake his head and turn silently to place the shotgun in its proper place. He muttered an attempt at peace-making before things got too heated.
"But I didn't mean to scare you."
"'S all right," McCormick muttered back. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifty. "I've got things to do today, anyway, and you already let me sleep in. I'll start the coffee before I jump in the shower." He headed toward the kitchen without waiting for a reply.
"What kinda things?" Hardcastle questioned, padding along behind.
Mark shrugged. "Chores, errands. The kind of stuff that always keeps Tonto busy."
The judge watched silently as McCormick measured coffee into the filter and filled the pot with water. But by the time the young man flipped the switch on the machine, it was clear he didn't intend to offer further information.
"Do I usually let you by with those kind of half-assed answers?"
McCormick chuckled as he turned to face Hardcastle. "Well, no," he admitted. He held up his hand to stop the argument. "But you do usually know when not to push."
"And I suppose you're tellin' me this is one of those times?" Hardcastle growled.
"You got it, Kemosabe." He turned to put the coffee can back in the cupboard.
"It would probably be dangerous for you, too," Hardcastle said quietly, after a few seconds.
McCormick twisted to look behind him. "What?"
"Working without backup, I mean," the judge continued. "If it's dangerous for me, then—" He broke off as he saw the smile creeping across McCormick's face.
"Don't worry, Judge; that's not what this is about. I'm not working without you. But thanks."
Without really knowing why, Hardcastle decided immediately that an outright falsehood would probably not be McCormick's style. "Okay then, good. In that case, I think I'll take a shower myself while the coffee brews, then I'll read the paper."
"It's a plan," McCormick answered, the smile still lingering. "And I'll start the breakfast in just a bit." He tossed a mock salute toward the judge, and disappeared out the back door.
00000
"There's nothin' like sausage gravy and biscuits," Hardcastle mumbled around his food as he ate the last bite on his plate.
McCormick grinned. "You always say that. The first time Sarah brought it in for breakfast, I though she'd lost her mind. It's not the kind of thing you eat back in Jersey, but it grows on you. I never have gotten the hang of Sarah's biscuit recipe, though, but these from the can aren't bad."
"Not bad at all," the judge agreed, "and it is kind of a southern thing, I guess." He glanced up at the kid. "Thanks."
McCormick shook his head slightly. "Can I let you in on a little secret, Judge?" He waited for the nod, then went on. "You hardly ever thank me for stuff, and you sure as hell don't thank me for cookin' breakfast."
"Well, why not?" Hardcastle demanded. "It's the polite thing to do, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but . . . " Mark hesitated. "I don't know. It's just not you. I mean, no offense, but you're not exactly a 'polite' kinda guy, certainly not with me. Can't you just be yourself?"
"No offense to you, either, but 'myself' doesn't know you from Adam. And besides, last night you said I was being a pain in the— "
"Okay, okay," McCormick interrupted, "forget I said anything. I'm not trying to start an argument here." He took a breath. "I'm glad you enjoyed your breakfast. Why don't you finally read your paper while I do the dishes?"
"I could help," the judge offered, "or is that being too 'polite'?"
With a slight laugh, McCormick picked up the plates and moved them over to the sink. "Normally we would trade off," he explained, "I cook, you clean, then we'd swap. But for right now," he added quickly, before Hardcastle could rise from his seat, "I'll take care of the kitchen duty. When you go see Neely on Monday, I'd like to be able to honestly report that you've had a very easy-going week."
"Then we'll leave out the part about being shot at," Hardcastle said blandly, as he picked up his paper.
"Good idea," Mark grinned, and began scraping the dishes.
After a few minutes, Hardcastle looked up. "You could put those in the machine, you know."
McCormick just shrugged without turning around. "There aren't that many; it won't take long."
They lapsed back into a silence that was only broken with rustling paper and sloshing water until Hardcastle said, surprised, "Someone parachuted into Shea stadium during the World Series?"
McCormick did turn then, a look of concern on his face. "Yeah, some guy, said he was a big Mets fan." He paused. "Are you doing okay with the news? I hadn't really thought about—"
"How I wouldn't have the slightest idea what was going on?" Hardcastle interrupted. "Yeah. It's been interesting. You know, it said Andrei Sakharov just got released from exile. He was making waves over in Russia that even I remember, but they hadn't exiled him. I guess he turned into a real troublemaker.
"But anyway, what about this guy and Shea stadium?"
McCormick grinned. Forget world politics; let's talk baseball. "What about him? He jumped in, delayed the game a bit, things went on. Some say he cost Boston the series, turned the tide. He was arrested for it."
"As well he shoulda been," Hardcastle blustered. "Interrupting the World Series. What an ass."
"At the time, you said he had gumption."
"And it says here all they're doing is fining him and giving him community service," the judge slapped at the paper, and went on as if Mark hadn't spoken. "They oughta throw away the key."
"Well, you said that, too," McCormick admitted ruefully as he turned back to the sink, leaving Hardcastle to grumble over the state of the world.
He was still grumbling when Mark dried and put away the last fork, rinsed the sink, and slipped his watch back onto his wrist.
"I've gotta go out for a while, Judge." He glanced at his watch again. "In just a few minutes. I won't be gone long, only a couple of hours or so."
Hardcastle looked up quizzically. "You're going alone?"
McCormick nodded. "I told you, I'm not working. It's errands."
"You're gonna trust me here alone?"
McCormick glanced away, a slightly guilty expression on his face. He busied himself with rearranging the hand towel.
Hardcastle sighed. "Frank's on his way, huh? Jeez, I don't need a round the clock babysitter, ya know."
"He had to bring a team out anyway," McCormick reminded him, "after last night."
"Convenient timing."
McCormick crossed back to the table and plopped down into his chair. He looked across the table intently. "I'm not gonna apologize for this, Judge," he said firmly. "I mean, I am sorry you don't like it, and I'm sorrier than hell that it's necessary, but it is necessary. I told you last night: somebody is trying to kill you. I don't intend to let that happen. Be mad about it if you want, but there's nothing you can do to change it."
Hardcastle stared for several long seconds, then finally asked, "And do I usually let you get away with that much attitude?"
McCormick grinned slightly as he pulled himself up from the chair. "You've learned to live with it."
00000
McCormick stepped out onto the porch as soon as the sedan pulled to a stop.
"How's things?" Harper called as he climbed out of his car.
"Okay," McCormick answered with a shrug. "I don't think they're gonna find much," he said, jerking his thumb toward a second car pulling up the drive. "I took a quick look around out there this morning, and there's not much to see. The casing's there, though."
Harper just shook his head. "I'll assume you didn't touch anything in the crime scene?"
"Of course not. Anyway, Hardcastle's down in the basement putting his files back in some kind of order. We didn't find anything useful there. And I've called a guy to come replace the kitchen window. I don't know if he'll be here before I get back or not."
"What's his mood like today?"
Another shrug. "He's a little pissed that we won't leave him home without a 'babysitter', but he'll get over it."
"Did you tell him where you're going?"
"Ah, no. I thought I'd let that be a surprise."
"He doesn't really like surprises all that much, you know."
One last shrug, accompanied by a small grin. "Then I guess I'll just hope he remembers you told him to be nice."
Harper just laughed as he watched the kid climb into the Coyote, then gave quick directions to his lab team before going into the house.
00000
McCormick fidgeted as he stood at the airport gate, thinking about just how much Milton Hardcastle didn't like surprises. And you just told him to quit being so nice, he thought regretfully. Might shoulda waited a bit on that.
But still. Surely this would be a good surprise. And even Milton Hardcastle must like good surprises.
He hadn't really managed to find much comfort in his inner musings before he heard the PA announce the arrival of the plane. Too late to worry about it now, he thought, as he stood slightly straighter. After another few minutes, the passengers began disembarking, and he watched carefully for a familiar figure.
Finally, he spotted her: a slender, gray-haired figure, walking alone, and carrying a single floral satchel. He hadn't anticipated the way his heart would suddenly feel lighter at her arrival, and he rushed past the ticket counter to sweep her into his arms and spin her around joyfully.
"Young man! Put me down this instant."
McCormick complied immediately, but he couldn't erase the huge grin from his face. "Sarah. I am so glad to see you."
"So it would seem," the older woman replied in her most serious tone, but her grin was almost a match for Mark's.
"Here, let me take that," McCormick continued, reaching for her bag.
She handed him the bag, then reached up to lay her hand gently on his cheek.
"Are you all right, Mark?" she asked, abandoning all pretense at anger. "You sounded so worried when you called."
"I'm much better now," Mark answered honestly. "Come on; I'll fill you in as we drive."
Sarah managed to hold her questions until Mark had pulled down the passenger side door on the Coyote and then climbed in behind the steering wheel. Then she spoke softly.
"You said there was an accident? But that he's all right?"
McCormick nodded as he pulled from the parking lot. "Yeah. He was banged up a little, but not much." He glanced in the rearview mirror to change lanes. "But that's not really the problem, Sarah."
And Sarah Wickes, who had learned several years earlier the secret to overcoming Mark McCormick's hesitations, turned her head and let her blue eyes pin him with a gaze that finally forced him to glance back at her.
"Tell me what happened," she said simply, and her tone allowed no further delay.
"He's lost his memory," McCormick blurted, as he tried to determine the best way to convey all that had transpired.
"He what?"
"Not all of his memory," the young man continued quickly, "just the last fifteen years, or so." He took a breath. "When he woke up in the hospital after the accident, he thought it was 1971. He was asking for Nancy. And Tommy." He thought that should probably get the point across.
Sarah didn't turn her gaze away, but she contemplated the information for long, long seconds before she finally spoke. "He doesn't remember you."
It wasn't a question, and McCormick had known the woman would grasp the idea immediately. "No, he doesn't." He flipped on the blinker and accelerated onto the highway.
"What do the doctors say?"
"They don't know what's wrong," Mark answered with a small shrug. "He's got an appointment on Monday with the neurologist he saw in the hospital, but they've already said all the tests were normal enough. It's been almost a week, and nothing has really changed. I think they're probably just gonna try and pawn him off on a shrink."
"But you don't think that's what he needs?"
"Of course not!" He took another deep breath. "Sarah, I'm not even sure he needs the neurologist. I don't think this is some kind of injury from the accident, and I don't think it's something that just happened to him. I think someone did this to him on purpose." He didn't look over at the older woman, but simply drove, waiting for the protests to begin.
It took a couple of miles before Sarah replied. "Have you told anyone else?"
McCormick felt the gratitude wash over him, and he knew in that instant that he would gladly put up with any amount of anger from Hardcastle just to have this woman here now.
"I've talked to Frank Harper; he's mostly on board with the idea. He became a lot more convinced last night after someone took a shot at us out at the estate." He heard the small gasp from the passenger seat and grimaced slightly. "Sorry. I forgot I hadn't gotten to that part yet."
But when he glanced over, McCormick saw that Sarah was just shaking her head slowly, with a long-suffering look of understanding on her face.
"Some things never change," she sighed.
"No," Mark agreed with a slight grin, "I guess they don't. Anyway, Frank's helping me keep an eye on the judge, and next week, after the doctor's appointment, we'll try and do a little investigating. That hasn't really changed, either."
"So what can I do?"
"Honestly, Sarah, I just thought it might be nice for him to see another familiar face. It's been a little weird for him, having a stranger living in his home. And he was asking about you the other day. And," he admitted, "I thought it might be nice for me to see a friendly face for a day or two."
"He's being incorrigible, is he?" Sarah asked knowingly.
"It's been hard on him," McCormick answered sadly.
"Hard on you both," Sarah corrected.
The young man kept his eyes glued to the road, and there was a pause before the whispered response that he breathed out like a confession. "Yeah."
Sarah patted his knee. "It's okay, Mark. Things are going to be okay." And then she turned the conversation to happier topics, and they caught up on the other things in their lives.
By the time they were cruising into Malibu, Mark had not only recounted the entire last week's events, but he'd told her all about his latest semester in school and the latest girl he'd been dating, and he'd heard all about the latest news of Sarah's sister, and a gaggle full of great-nieces and nephews. He felt better than he had in days. But then his tone became serious again.
"There's one other thing I need to tell you, Sarah."
"You're taking that Tammy girl to the holiday ball instead of me?" she joked.
McCormick grinned. "Never. But listen, the judge doesn't know you're coming. I wanted it to be a surprise."
"You mean, you didn't want him getting mad at you again for interfering in his life," she interpreted.
"Well, okay. There was that, too."
"You're both incorrigible," the woman accused with a small grin.
And McCormick just laughed as he drove under the Gull's Way arch. "Welcome home, Sarah; welcome home."
00000
Mark helped Sarah from the Coyote, grabbed her bag, and escorted her up the steps and into the house.
"Judge?" he called from the entryway. "Are you up here?"
"In the den, Mark," came the answering shout.
Sarah looked at him quizzically. "Mark?"
McCormick grimaced. "That's Frank's fault. I told you it's been kinda weird around here."
"Are you talkin' to yourself out there?" Hardcastle called.
"Ah, no, sorry." McCormick dropped the bag by the door and flashed a grin at the older woman. "Here we go." He stepped into the doorway. Hardcastle and Harper were seated in the armchairs, the television on, but the volume very low. "There's someone who wants to see you, Judge."
Both men turned to face the voice. Hardcastle looked curious, but Mark would've sworn Harper was preparing for defensive maneuvers. McCormick took a single step to the side and held his hand out to escort their guest inside. And he held his breath.
For a split second, there was an expression of shocked delight in Hardcastle's eyes as he looked at his long-time friend and previous housekeeper. But then his eyes hardened and he turned back to McCormick. There was no mistaking the anger and accusation in those eyes, and McCormick felt his heart sink. But Hardcastle quickly brought himself under control and turned back to the woman.
"Sarah," he greeted with a very real smile as he rose from his chair, "it's good to see you."
She stepped into the room and met him halfway. "You too, Your Honor." She smiled as he folded her into a quick embrace, then released her. "How are you?"
"I'm good, Sarah, I'm good." He glared behind her at the ex-con standing immobile in the door. "No matter what you might've heard." But then he pushed the anger aside again, and the smile returned. "Come on in." He led her further into the den. "You remember Frank Harper."
"Of course," Sarah smiled. "How have you been, Lieutenant?"
Harper was standing now, too. "I'm fine, Sarah," he said genially. "How are you?"
They spent a few minutes exchanging more social pleasantries, and Sarah explained that she was visiting overnight. McCormick wisely stayed out of the mix, though Sarah had pointedly used the phrase 'Judge Hardcastle and Mark' more than once.
Finally, the woman said that she'd like to excuse herself to go freshen up a bit.
"I'll take your bag to your room, Sarah," McCormick offered, turning to leave.
"Good idea," Hardcastle agreed. "Then I'd like to talk to you a minute," he added darkly.
McCormick swallowed hard, nodded his understanding, and slipped out the door. He heard both Sarah and Frank coming immediately to his defense, but he doubted it would do much good.
In Sarah's bedroom, he placed the bag on the dresser, then turned to go back, determined to face whatever Hardcastle had to dish out, but then Sarah was in the doorway. She smiled at him gently.
"He is a little angry," she warned.
"I know," McCormick sighed, resigned. He brightened. "But you know what? It's gonna be a good weekend. I'm really glad you're here." He kissed her cheek quickly as he passed by, then grinned. "Besides, he's the only one with memory problems around here; I haven't forgotten how to handle him."
By the time McCormick returned to the den, Hardcastle was clearly trying to get rid of Harper—at least temporarily—and the lieutenant was just as clearly trying to stick around and run interference. He smiled in spite of his tension.
"Here's the way I see it," Mark began, as he stepped down into the room. "Frank has been here a lot this past week, and he might actually need to get home. Claudia's probably beginning to forget what he looks like. If he needs to go, I'll show him out, then I'll come right back and you can yell at me to your heart's content, Judge.
"On the other hand," he continued before either man could interrupt, "I'm grilling steaks this afternoon for a nice, leisurely lunch, and he's welcome to stay for that, if he'd like. He's probably earned at least that much. And you, Hardcase, are welcome to yell at me in his presence. God knows, it wouldn't be the first time, and I doubt seriously it'll be the last." He folded his arms across his chest and glared the challenge across the room. "So what's it gonna be, gentlemen?"
For his part, Hardcastle just glared back silently, but Harper laughed out loud.
"What if I want the steak, but not the yelling?" the lieutenant inquired with a grin, seeming to understand instinctively that McCormick had this situation under control.
McCormick grinned back at him. "Then you get to go fire up the grill. Just put it on a low flame; it'll heat slowly and be ready in a while. Plenty of time for me to get yelled at in private."
"Okay, then," Harper replied, moving toward the door, "that's what I'll do." He paused as he passed by the younger man. "You're sure?" he whispered.
Grinning his thanks, McCormick answered, just as quietly, "Yeah, I'm sure."
And then Harper was gone, leaving the others alone in a thick silence.
"Since when do ex-cons get to be such good friends with cops?" Hardcastle finally demanded.
"Since donkey ex-judges bring them into their home and force them into hob-knobbing with people on the right side of the law," McCormick shot back. "Whattsa matter? Jealous?"
Hardcastle snorted. "Don't try to distract me." He jerked his thumb toward one of the chairs. "Sit down." Then he turned to sit behind his desk.
McCormick obeyed the instruction silently, simply waiting.
After several long seconds, the judge finally spoke again. "You had no right, inviting her here." He spoke calmly, but the resentment would've been hard to miss.
"Actually," McCormick contradicted, "I had every right. She's not just your friend, you know, and this is my home, too."
"Only because I say so," Hardcastle snapped.
"Well . . . yeah." McCormick refused to give into the fear trying to rear its head. "But you've been saying so a long time, and that does give me some rights. Besides, Judge, you were asking about her. I thought you'd be glad to see her."
"I am glad to see her," Hardcastle admitted after another minute. "But that doesn't mean I think you should've invited her. I already told you I don't need someone lookin' after me. And besides, maybe . . . " he trailed off, considering, then finally finished, "maybe I don't want her seeing me like this."
McCormick wasn't sure which comment to address first, so he started with the easiest. "She's not here to look after you, Judge," he assured the older man. "Jeez, she's gotta go home tomorrow afternoon; how much lookin' after do you think she could be doing? And as for the other thing—" He broke off, not sure yet exactly what he intended to say.
When the silence had stretched longer than seemed reasonable, Mark quit looking for the perfect words, and simply said what was in his heart.
"You need to listen to me, Judge. You don't have anything to be ashamed of here. Whatever is going on, it certainly isn't your fault, and no one thinks any less of you because of it. Sarah is here because she cares about you, not because she expects something from you. You have got to understand that we all just want to help. That doesn't make you weak; it doesn't make you less in any way. Hell, if you want to know the truth, I think it makes you pretty damn lucky. There are a lot of people who only want what's best for you, Hardcastle. Maybe you could think about that for a minute, instead of— " He stopped himself again, suddenly believing that he was close to going too far.
But Hardcastle seemed to get the idea. "Instead of feeling sorry for myself?" he asked, just a touch of challenge in his tone.
"I didn't say that," McCormick said defensively.
"You were thinking it," the judge accused.
The young man didn't offer an outright denial. "Not on purpose."
And then, unexpectedly, Hardcastle grinned. "So it was an accident?"
"Something like that," McCormick replied hesitantly, not quite able to relax just yet.
And just as suddenly, the grin faded from the older face. "The thing is," he said seriously, "this has all been very strange. You guys have told me a lot of stuff that just doesn't seem real to me. Hell, I don't want it to be real. You say you don't think I'm crazy, but to tell you the truth, I'm starting to wonder. And then you go and bring Sarah back here, after you already told me she retired. What am I supposed to think?"
"Judge, I told you; it's not because—"
He waved off McCormick's attempt at interruption. "No, listen. I don't care about that now. I want to ask you something." He looked intently into the young blue eyes. "We're supposed to be friends, right?"
"Uh, right."
"And I can trust you?"
"Of course."
"Because you don't lie to me."
"Because I would d— Right."
"Then tell me now, Mark. Are you keeping something from me? Am I crazy?"
And finally, though his heart was breaking, McCormick did feel some of the tension leave his body. He mustered up a small smile as he looked back at his best friend.
"Judge, you might be the biggest donkey on the face of this earth, but you are not crazy. Honestly, I would tell you if there was a problem here. I mean, more of a problem than someone trying put you into a state of totally permanent memory loss. To tell you the truth, I've never really been very good at keeping things from you, anyway. And I'm pretty sure you would've tossed my butt right back in the can if I'd ever really tried."
A grin slowly worked its way across Hardcastle's face. "That does sound like an idea I would've approved of," he concurred. Then he rose from his seat and motioned toward the door.
"C'mon. The yelling at is over, and someone promised to grill some steaks."
00000
The men had found Sarah on the patio with Frank, and the four of them had talked non-stop while the self-proclaimed King of the Grill had cooked potatoes, corn on the cob, and steaks to perfection. Sarah had slipped into the kitchen—over numerous and loud protests—long enough to throw together a tossed salad and mix up a gallon of iced tea.
Then the conversation had continued over the meal, with many of the topics centering on the past exploits of the local Lone Ranger and his faithful Tonto, and McCormick had been amused—and touched—to see both Frank and Sarah carefully avoiding some of his more questionable activities.
Finally, the table had been cleared and midday had turned to late afternoon, when Harper said, "I really should be heading home, Milt. But maybe we can talk a little business before I go."
But it was McCormick who answered first. "Business? Have you been holding out on us, Frank?"
The detective grinned at the mild accusation in the tone. "Not really. I just thought I'd enjoy the afternoon first."
"So what've you got?" Hardcastle asked impatiently.
"Not much, just an address to Symnetech. I knew we couldn't do anything with it until Monday, anyway." He flashed a quick, meaningful glance back at McCormick, who simply looked back innocently.
"At any rate," the detective went on, "it's over in Glendale." He stuck his hand down in his pocket to retrieve a slightly crumpled sheet of paper. "128 Prospect Drive," he read, watching Hardcastle closely. "Some kind of think-tank type of place, sucking up the best and the brightest from over at Caltech. Specializing in biotechnology, or something. Mean anything?"
The judge gave the information a long moment's consideration before shaking his head. "No, nothing. Sorry."
"What about you, Mark?" Harper asked, but the young man was already shaking his head, too.
"Nope. But I can check it out. Monday, I mean," he added quickly.
"Yeah, Monday," Harper repeated firmly.
"We'll check it out Monday," Hardcastle corrected, oblivious to the private conversation going on between the other two men.
"Exactly what I meant to say, Judge," McCormick agreed lightly, flashing a grin back at Harper.
The lieutenant shook his head slightly as he rose from the table. "Okay, that's pretty much what I figured. I'm gonna shove off outta here, then. Thanks for a great meal. You guys stay out of trouble." He turned to the woman sitting silently at the head of the table. "Sarah, it was good to see you again."
"You, too, Lieutenant," she smiled back. She let her eyes meet his. "And I'll make sure they behave."
Harper just laughed as a very brief flicker of guilty concern crossed McCormick's face, then he finished his good-byes and left.
The other three sat in a companionable silence for a while until Sarah said, "I saw you hung the lights, Your Honor. It'll be good to see this place lit up again."
Hardcastle looked back at her blankly, then between the two of them. "Don't I always hang the lights?"
"Not since I've been here," McCormick answered.
"Not in a very long time," Sarah said gently. "But I'm glad you did now. But when are you getting your tree?" she went on. "Christmas is next week, you know."
"Do I usually do that?" the judge responded.
"Always," she told him.
Hardcastle looked back at McCormick. "Still?"
Mark nodded slowly. "We had planned to do it Friday," he said softly, "after I finished my exams."
Hardcastle sat silently for a moment. He looked at Sarah to find some direction. She offered him an encouraging smile.
"You could've said something," he finally said.
"Like what?" McCormick asked with a small smile. "'I know you don't remember me at all, Judge, but let's go pick out a Christmas tree together.'? I'm sure that would've gone over real well. Besides, there's been a lot going on."
Sarah was nodding slightly now, so Hardcastle took that as a sign to proceed. "Well there's nothing going on now," he pointed out. He looked the question across the table.
"Judge, you don't have— "
"I know I don't have to," Hardcastle interrupted. "I want to. Sarah's right. Christmas is next week. We can't be so wrapped up in all this…whatever is going on…that we don't have some fun. Whatta ya say? Do they still have that lot down at the corner of Porto Marina?"
The sudden enthusiasm was infectious, and McCormick grinned. "We go there every year."
The judge clapped his hands together. "Good. They always have the best trees." He had pushed himself out of his chair and taken several steps toward the drive before he realized he was alone. He turned back to the table. "You comin'?"
Laughing, Mark jumped to his feet. "Sarah?"
The woman was smiling broadly, but she shook her head. "No. You two go ahead. I'll help when you get back."
McCormick leaned down to give her a hug as he moved toward the drive. "You've already helped," he whispered in her ear, then rushed to follow the judge.
00000
Just over an hour later, they pulled back into the drive at Gull's Way, their final selection tied a bit precariously to the back of the Coyote.
"Told you we'd make it," McCormick grinned over at his passenger.
"I never doubted it," Hardcastle answered with a wink, and for just a moment, things felt so normal, McCormick thought his heart might break.
"So you wanna drill some holes in the thing while I bring the stuff down from the attic?" he asked, but the hesitation that flashed across Hardcastle's face brought home with jarring certainty that things were not normal at all. "Or, we could, uh, do it the other way around, I guess. I mean, whatever you want, we—"
"What I want," Hardcastle interrupted wearily. "I think we've pretty well established that what I want is pretty low on the totem pole these days." He glanced toward the tree on the back of the car. "Starting with the idea that I'm putting up holiday decorations with—"
"A complete stranger?" McCormick interjected. "I know." He pulled himself out of the seat and perched on the window opening. "It was a dumb idea; sorry."
"No, that's not what I meant." Hardcastle looked up at the somber blue eyes. "I just meant that I want to remember. I had a whole life, ya know?"
McCormick nodded. "You have a life, Judge. No matter what, it's still yours. I never meant to make you feel like what you want doesn't matter."
The judge nodded back, pulling himself onto his own window. He looked across the roof at the younger man. "I think what I want most right now is to be normal. To do what I would've done if this hadn't happened. I think maybe that would help." He paused again, looking around, than admitted slowly, "I'm just not sure I know exactly what that would be."
"I can help you with that, Judge, if you'll let me." Mark spoke sincerely, offering a small smile. "And, in this particular case, you drill holes and I carry boxes. That's normal."
Hardcastle looked at him thoughtfully. "It just seems strange to me, that the ex-con I sent to prison is the best person to help me know what 'normal' is."
McCormick shrugged, willing the smile to stay in place. "I never said it wasn't a little strange, Hardcase, but I can help."
Hardcastle considered for just a moment, then asked, "Even if I get a little cranky about things every once in a while?"
And McCormick managed to laugh as he climbed completely from the car. "Hell, Judge, that'll be the most normal thing in the world."
As he made his way up the steps to the house, McCormick forced his spirits not to plummet. He's still not sure about me, he thought, but he's trying. He doesn't like it, but he is trying. That was a start he thought he could live with.
He stepped inside and closed the front door behind him, intending to go immediately upstairs to the attic for the boxes of decorations. But the sounds—and the smells—coming from the direction of the kitchen distracted him, and he started down the hallway.
"Sarah," he scolded playfully as he took in the scene that greeted him, "I didn't ask you here to cook for us."
"I'm not cooking," Sarah clarified as Mark moved to the center island to look at what she was doing, "I'm baking. If there's going to be tree-trimming, there should be cookies."
"I like your logic," McCormick grinned. He looked down at the baking sheets. "And you made shapes."
"Just like you like," Sarah confirmed with a smile. "And the first batch will be done in just a couple of minutes." She pushed the nearest pan closer to him. "You want to put the sprinkles on those?"
"Green for the trees," he agreed happily, as he picked up the shaker.
"So how did it go?" Sarah asked as she continued cutting shapes into the remaining dough.
"It was good," McCormick answered, deciding quickly he wouldn't mention the moment of weirdness in the car just now.
"You know, we got as far as the driveway and then realized we were gonna have to use the Coyote because the truck is in impound. And the judge has this look on his face like he can't believe he's gonna trust his life in this thing." McCormick chuckled. "He was griping the whole way down there about how no grown man should be riding around in a full-size version of a Matchbox car." He shook his head as he took a moment to examine his handiwork with the cookies. He decided they needed more color, so he kept shaking as he continued talking.
"Anyway, then we get to the lot, and—" he broke off as the buzzer on the oven sounded. "I get the first one!"
Sarah had an indulgent smile on her face as she turned to pull the cookies from the oven. "Of course you do, but you know they need to cool a bit first. Go on with your story. And, really, I think those have enough sprinkles now."
"Okay." The young man surveyed the other sheets. "Then red for the candy canes," he said, and grabbed another shaker.
"So you got to the lot . . ." Sarah prompted.
"Oh, yeah. And, you know how usually I want to get these giant trees, and he's always saying, 'That one's too expensive, McCormick; that one won't even fit through the door, McCormick,' and stuff like that. But today, he goes all It's a Wonderful Life on me or something, and wants the biggest tree on the lot. I keep tellin' him, 'Judge, we gotta get this thing home on the Coyote; be reasonable,' but you know reason has never been his strong suit.
"And Harvey, the guy down at the lot, he's laughing his a—, uh, his head off, because he sees us do this routine every year, only now it's backwards. And the judge asks him, 'What, am I usually like some kind of Scrooge, or something?', all indignant like, and Harvey just keeps laughing and tells him, 'Yeah.'"
He glanced up at Sarah, who was grinning back at him. "Are they cool enough yet?"
"No. And that's enough red, too."
"If you say so." He set the shaker down reluctantly. "I like a lot of sprinkles, ya know."
Sarah just laughed. "So what did you get?" She handed him the sheet she had just finished cutting, and one last shaker. "Yellow for the stars, right?"
"Right." He started to work on the stars. "So we finally find a tree we can both agree on, and it's really a nice one. Noble fir. Good shape, no ugly spots. But still, it's like seven foot tall, and it's the compromise. It's only after Harvey wraps the thing up and drags it out to the Coyote to help us tie it on that Hardcase begins to see the problem.
"Now all I'm hearing is, 'Ya know, the PCH is kinda narrow. Maybe we shouldn't be trying to drag a tree this size home on this car. Might be kind of a hazard.'" McCormick looked up at Sarah, rueful resignation on his face. "Hadn't I been trying to tell him that for the past hour?" He glanced down at the stars. "I guess that's enough color on these. Can I have a cookie yet?"
"We'll both have one," Sarah answered. "You pour the milk." She checked on the batch still baking in the oven, then served the first group onto a plate and carried it to the table, where Mark had already placed the glasses of milk and paper plates.
"Oh, Santas," he grinned, as he reached out his hand. He bit into the cookie enthusiastically, then nodded in appreciation. "Your cookies are always the best, Sarah," he mumbled.
She blushed slightly, and laughed. "Honestly. I've never seen anyone make such a fuss over simple sugar cookies." She took a small bite of her own. "But I guess you finally made it home with the tree intact?"
He nodded. "But there was a lot of grumbling and fussing going on. I swear, once a donkey, always a donkey. That sure hasn't changed in the last fifteen years." He winked at her to prove he was speaking affectionately, though he figured the last time she thought otherwise was long, long ago.
"You shouldn't—" she began her typical remonstration, but a bellow from the front of the house interrupted her.
"Hey! You gonna help with this thing? I thought you were— Do I smell cookies?" The voice was getting closer. "Sarah's baking cookies?" Hardcastle popped into the doorway. "I get the first one." But then he looked sternly across the room as McCormick pushed the last tassel of Santa's hat into his mouth.
McCormick hesitated for a split-second, then grinned shamelessly and spoke the words that leaped into his mind. "Now, Judge, that wouldn't be normal at all."
"It wouldn't, huh?" Hardcastle grumbled.
"Nope. But I'll be glad to pour you a glass of milk, now that you're here."
"Mark was just telling me about your shopping trip," Sarah said to the judge.
"He was, was he? Did he get to the part yet where he threatened to put the tree inside the car and tie me to the trunk?"
"Ah, no," Sarah replied, struggling not to laugh, "I don't think he'd gotten to that part."
McCormick was chuckling as he returned with the glass to set in front of Hardcastle. "Hey," he said to the older man, "you're the one that was worried about the dangerous overhang, and you are much shorter than the tree." He looked back at the woman. "But we managed. I just had to drive a little slower than normal."
"That was slow?" Hardcastle exclaimed, and Sarah's grin got a little bigger.
"And anyway," the jurist went on, "I thought you were gonna get the stuff from the attic." He fixed the younger man with a severe stare and asked, "Just how normal is it that I send you to do a chore and find you in the kitchen eating my food?"
McCormick just laughed as he grabbed another cookie before heading out the door. "More than I'll ever admit to," he called back over his shoulder.
As soon as he was gone, Sarah lost the battle to control her laughter. "He's a good boy, Your Honor," she said.
"I guess," the judge said hesitantly. "Sure seems like he's involved in a lot around here. Like he knows my whole life."
The woman gave a very small shrug. "He's been here a long time, and he's helped you with a lot of things. Like I said, he's a good boy."
"I guess he seems okay," Hardcastle agreed reluctantly. "For an ex-con."
Sarah gave him a mildly disapproving look. "You've never really thought of him like that, Your Honor; not even at first."
"Really?" Hardcastle didn't seem particularly convinced.
"Really," Sarah assured him. "He had to convince the rest of us, but he never had to work that hard with you." She pushed the plate of cookies toward him. "Until now."
Hardcastle didn't reply to her comments, but simply reached for a cookie. "Oh, Santas," he said, almost to himself, and chewed thoughtfully.
00000
Finally, they were all three in the den, examining the bare tree standing in the corner. McCormick had quickly located the appropriate boxes in the attic and carried them downstairs, but that had been the easy part.
Then had come carrying the tree inside, followed by almost half an hour of arguing over the best spot to stand it. Sarah had ultimately sided with McCormick, and the young man had flashed an I-told-you-so look over at the judge. But Hardcastle had actually looked just a little bit annoyed, so McCormick had quickly wiped the smirk from his face and offered to change his vote to match the other man's, but Hardcastle had declined.
After all of that had come the fairly mild cussing that accompanied getting the tree properly straightened in the stand. Hardcastle had been the one doing the cussing since he was the one on the floor loosening the bolts in the stand every time McCormick said 'A little more to the right', or 'Just a smidge to the left', and he had finally shouted, "Would you just make up your damned mind?"
And McCormick had instantly shouted back, "It's not my fault you're not listening; you're moving it too much!" But the judge had raised up from under the tree and delivered a glare across the room that made the young man decide this was not the time to tell his friend that the arguing was normal, too. Besides, Hardcase did seem a bit crankier than usual, so 'normal' wouldn't have exactly been truthful, anyway.
Then Sarah had stepped in. "Let me direct him, Mark." Everyone had calmed down, the tree got straightened, and the momentary crisis passed.
Now they were sitting, looking at the empty tree, and McCormick wondered which of them should break the silence and get the decorating going. Finally, he said, "I'll start checking the lights. Sarah, why don't you put on some holiday music?" He glanced over at Hardcastle to see if the plan met with approval, but the man wasn't objecting, so he crossed the room and started rummaging through the boxes.
As he plugged the light strands in one by one, and replaced any bulb that was unlit, McCormick observed the man sitting quietly in the armchair. Hardcastle was barely even making conversation with Sarah, but was mostly just staring at the tree, apparently lost in private thoughts.
But McCormick understood. The holidays were always hard on Hardcastle, with memories of his family coming to the forefront of his thoughts each December. He could only imagine what it was like this year, when every thought and feeling that was real for Hardcastle said that Nancy and Tommy should be with him in this very room right now. It would be like the first holiday without them, all over again. Only McCormick thought it was probably worse, since the judge didn't actually remember their deaths, or any of the grieving and coping that would've somehow prepared him for that first Christmas alone.
Normally—There's that word again, McCormick thought bitterly—he knew that he himself provided some comfort to Hardcastle during the difficult times. But he knew just as surely that was not the case this year. Actually, I'm making things worse, he realized with sudden clarity, and he felt his heart gripped with a renewed pain. He lowered his head back to his task, blinking his eyes quickly to clear the mist that had suddenly settled there. This is not about you, he reminded himself.
"You almost done with those lights, Mark?"
Surprised, McCormick looked up to find Hardcastle looking back at him with apparent interest on his face. He's still trying, he thought sadly.
"Last strand," he said casually, determined to hold up his end of the charade. He held up the now glowing string of lights, and forced a grin. "Looks like it's a go."
Rising from their seats, they took up positions on opposite sides of the tree and passed the first string of lights around. Sarah directed their efforts—ensuring no dark spots remained—while Bing Crosby sang quietly in the background. By the time Bing got through 'Mele Kalikimaka', Hardcastle seemed to be relaxing just a bit, Mark was humming along with the record, and they had finished with the lights and were ready to move on to the ornaments.
"You gonna help, Sarah?" McCormick asked, opening a large box filled with smaller boxes of decorations.
"No, you two go ahead," the woman replied with a small smile. "I'll just supervise."
Hardcastle nodded his head slowly as he looked down at the box of decorations. "Yeah, that's what Nancy always said, too. She always left it up to us." He glanced over at McCormick, and there was no disguising the fact that it was a different young man he hoped to see, though he did try to avert his gaze quickly.
For his part, McCormick simply pretended not to notice, and placed an ornament on the tree, disregarding the ache inside. It's not him; it's not the Hardcastle you know, he offered to himself in silent reassurance.
What if it's the only Hardcastle you're ever gonna get? He ignored the idea and hung another decoration.
Hardcastle, though, was now looking thoughtfully at Sarah, and a small smile was beginning to form on his face.
"Sarah," he began, "what Nancy usually did while she was supervising was set up her Nativity scene. You know the one, right? Why don't you set it up while we're doing the tree? That would be great."
Hardcastle was smiling in earnest now as he turned back to face McCormick. "That'll be normal."
But McCormick just stared back at him, a frozen expression of uncertainty on his face, and Sarah hadn't moved.
"What?" Hardcastle demanded. "You didn't bring it down? It's in a brown box, about this big," he gestured vaguely with his hands, "has a separate lid on it."
"Um, Judge," McCormick answered hesitantly, "it's not up there."
"Of course it's up there," Hardcastle responded, "where else would I keep Christmas decorations but the attic? Even you couldn't have made me change that."
McCormick tried not to dwell on the faintly accusatory tone in that last statement as he tried to decide how to explain about the Nativity scene. He took a breath.
"It's not upstairs, Judge, because you don't have it anymore. You donated it to Lucy Atwater." He searched his memory, trying to recall if Hardcastle had ever said just how long he'd actually known the woman.
"Lucy Atwater?" Hardcastle questioned. "Started that kid's home a few years back?"
"Yeah," Mark answered, relieved, "Safe Harbor. But it's been more than twenty years now. Anyway, you donated them there."
Hardcastle turned to Sarah, seeking confirmation, and she nodded back. He turned back to McCormick.
"Why would I do that?" he demanded. "Did you have something to do with that, too?" The tone was more than slightly accusatory now.
"No," McCormick answered immediately. "I mean . . . what do you mean by that? I knew you did it. I don't know why you did it. You certainly didn't discuss it with me first. I hadn't been here very long, only a few months. We were in the attic, and you saw them, and a few weeks later we helped Lucy with a problem, and then you gave her the figurines. I don't know what you think I would've had to do with it, or what else I can tell you about it, but that's what happened." The young man was working hard to hide the defensiveness and the hurt in his voice, but he wasn't certain he was succeeding.
"You hadn't put it out for years, Your Honor," Sarah interjected, "and you said you thought the kids would enjoy it."
"And they did," McCormick assured him. "Lucy says she's put it up every year since. It was a nice thing to do, Judge."
"The kids, huh?" Hardcastle said thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess Nancy would've liked that."
"I think so," Sarah agreed as she moved close to the judge. She placed a hand comfortingly on his arm for a moment, then smiled at him. "Now what do you say we decorate this tree?"
After a moment, Hardcastle nodded slowly, and he turned to the boxes. "Yeah, but you know we have to put up the special ornaments first." He lifted the flap on the nearest box.
And McCormick, still trying to decide exactly what Hardcastle had been insinuating moments earlier, but wanting only to help, answered without fully taking time to think.
"They're over here, Judge," he said, reaching into the box on his left. He turned back to Hardcastle, holding two small ornaments. "See? Your little gavel and my little racec—" He broke off, watching as the hopeful expression on Hardcastle's face was replaced by a cold and angry stare. He realized belatedly that the judge wouldn't even have remembered these particular ornaments, and he dropped his hands to his sides, wishing he could make the offending decorations disappear, himself along with them.
"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "I didn't—"
"Don't," Hardcastle interrupted coldly. "I don't want to hear it." He turned his attention back to the nearest box, pulling out the smaller boxes quickly—almost frantically—searching the contents. Sarah spoke quietly at his side.
"Judge Hardcastle, what is it you're looking for?"
"The special ornaments," he repeated, moving his search to the next box. When the woman didn't respond, he clarified.
"The rocking horse from Tom's first Christmas; the bride and groom with our wedding date on it; that hand-painted rose Nancy always loved; the plastic tree we got in that Christmas town the year we went to Colorado for vacation." He was almost through the last box now, his voice growing more urgent each minute. "The special ones," he said one last time.
Sarah glanced over at Mark, as if to seek confirmation that the ornaments Hardcastle sought were not in any of the boxes in the den, but the young man was simply standing, frozen, a horrified expression on his face, pure misery shining in his eyes. She returned her attention to Hardcastle.
"Judge, I haven't seen those in a long—"
"No." Hardcastle faced her and grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly. "Don't tell me that, Sarah. I wouldn't have gotten rid of them; I wouldn't. No matter what." He stared down into her concerned eyes, and repeated, "I wouldn't have gotten rid of them."
"No," Sarah answered reassuringly, "you wouldn't. They're in the attic, somewhere. Maybe Mark could bring them down."
McCormick forced himself to move. "Yeah, Judge, I can find—"
"No!" Hardcastle whirled to face McCormick, his shout freezing the young man in place again. "You," he went on, jabbing a finger in McCormick's direction, "do not need to be involved in this; this is about my family. I've tried to play along with you this week, even though no one seems to be able to explain to me how it is that some convict has managed to come into my home and take over nearly every aspect of my life, including, apparently, wiping out every trace of Nancy and Tommy as if they were never here."
"Your Honor!" Sarah tried to intervene, but Hardcastle wouldn't be stopped.
"No, Sarah; this needs to be said." He continued railing at the other man. "There might be a lot I don't know right now, but I do know this: you are not my family. You wander around here, eating cookies, stringing lights, and singing Christmas carols like you actually belong here, like this is your home. But hear me: no matter how good of friends we're supposed to be, you are not my son. I had a son, and I sure as hell don't need someone around here trying to be some kind of replacement. And even if I did, it certainly wouldn't be someone like you.
"Now, I am going to go upstairs to my attic, and find my family ornaments, and then I'm going to hang them on my Christmas tree, because that's what's really normal. After that, you are free to do what you want, but I think things are going to change around here for you. Is that clear?"
McCormick was taking a moment to respond, trying to ensure that he could maintain enough control to speak, but Hardcastle seemed displeased with the delay.
"I said, is that clear?"
"Yes," McCormick finally grated out, "it's clear." He drew in a shaky breath, and continued, his voice trembling. "But let me be clear about a couple of things, too.
"First, it's ex-convict. And I think this might be the first time in the entire time I've known you that you've truly used that word against me.
"And second, I'm not the one who wiped out your family; you took care of that all by yourself long before I ever got here. I know I'm not your son, and I never tried to be. All I ever tried to be was your friend. This is also the first time you've ever made me feel I wasn't good enough to be either."
The words hung in silence. The two men stared at each other, cold defiance on both faces. Sarah stood apart from them, watching them both, hands clasped together in worry, looking as if she wanted to say something, but had no idea what it should be. Finally, after several terrible seconds, Hardcastle turned and left the room without another word.
Sarah watched after him sadly for a second, then turned to McCormick, a deep concern painted across her face. She started toward him, arms outstretched. "Mark . . ."
But the young man stepped back, pulling away from her comfort. "The attic might be hard for him, Sarah. Will you go be with him?"
Sarah looked at him wonderingly, then spoke gently. "He didn't mean it, you know."
"I know," McCormick lied. "But he really shouldn't be alone up there, especially the way he is right now. Sarah, please. I can't go."
"You'll be okay?" she asked.
McCormick nodded. "I'm just gonna go back to the gatehouse for the night. I'll see you tomorrow morning. You look after him tonight, okay?"
"You won't even try coming back for dinner later?"
"Ah, no. I think it's best if I give him some space."
Sarah nodded her acceptance. "I'll take care of him." Then she watched McCormick walk slowly from the room, still clutching the two tree decorations that were apparently no longer special enough.
00000
Hours later, when he was sure everyone would be sleeping, McCormick rose from the sofa in the gatehouse and placed the miniature gavel on the mantel next to the racecar. He had thought about taking it along, to serve as a reminder of why he was taking a giant step backward, back to a life that carried more risk now that he was a law student, and now that he truly was working without backup for the first time in a long time.
But he didn't really need any reminder beyond the dull ache that had settled in his heart, and, besides, he had once heard a wise man say that pockets should always be empty during this type of expedition. Nothing to accidentally leave behind for the cops to find. So he took one last look at the ornaments, then slipped on a jacket to complete the black on black ensemble. Then he opened the double-doors and stepped out into the cool night air.
He walked out onto the patio and stood for a moment, looking up at the clear December sky, marveling at the specks of light. He wasn't expecting the voice that came from the darkness.
"Can't sleep either?"
McCormick whirled around to see Sarah sitting quietly in one of the deck chairs.
"You scared me, Sarah. What are you doing out here?"
"More to the point, young man, what are you doing out here?"
Somehow, even in the near total darkness, McCormick was sure the woman could see that he was dressed in basic black. Worse, he was sure she understood why.
"Like you said," he answered, "I couldn't sleep. Did the judge find his ornaments?" He knew evasiveness wouldn't get him far with this woman, but it had to be worth a try. The long silence that followed made him think maybe he'd been wrong about that.
"He did," she finally said from the darkness. "He has a lot of stuff up there; it was emotional for him.
"But don't try to change the subject; we were talking about you and your sleep. And, it's the reason you couldn't sleep that worries me. What are you planning?"
"I'm not— "
"Mark McCormick, are you really going to lie to me?"
The softly spoken accusation froze the words in his throat. He glanced away quickly. "No, ma'am," he whispered.
He felt, more than saw, her rise from her chair to move closer. "You used to look up at the stars a lot," Sarah said thoughtfully, "back when you first came here. I always wondered what you were thinking."
"I was thinking that they were beautiful," McCormick answered honestly. "And I was thinking I should never have taken them for granted. And how I would do anything to never lose them again, even stay here and put up with the lunatic judge who sent me to prison."
"And tonight?" she prompted.
He hesitated, not wanting to answer, but knowing it was pointless to resist. Several beats passed before the words finally came. "Tonight, I was thinking that there are things worth giving them up for."
"He would disagree with that, you know."
McCormick snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, Sarah, he disagrees with me about everything." He shook his head. "But I don't care. No matter how he feels about me, I can't change how I feel about him. Someone did this to him, Sarah, and if there's a chance something in that building will help me figure out who, or why, or how, nothing is going to keep me away."
"And what if you get caught?" Sarah demanded harshly. "Or hurt? What will he do if something happens to you?"
"Before or after the party?" he asked sardonically.
"Don't take that tone with me, young man."
"Sorry. But, seriously, Sarah, he doesn't care what happens to me. He'll manage, whether I'm here or not. He would obviously prefer that I not be underfoot so much; he'd be glad to see me gone. And, anyway, he wouldn't be surprised, that's for sure. The man thinks I've got one foot back in Quentin, already. He figures that's where I belong."
"That's not fair, Mark," Sarah scolded.
"No, it's not," McCormick replied fervently, and there was no disguising the pain in his voice. "None of this is fair! But it's happening just the same, and even you can't deny it. You saw how he was tonight. It's not bad enough I'm not Tommy; I'm a felon on top of that. I don't know where the guy is who believed that a single mistake shouldn't define an entire life, but apparently that guy didn't exist in 1971. He can't get past my record, Sarah. I never would've thought that was possible, but here it is. I'm not leaving him like this. I can't."
"And who's going to help him if you do end up back in jail?"
"I'm not gonna get caught," McCormick replied stubbornly. "I've had a lot of practice at this sort of thing."
But Sarah could be just as stubborn. "Some of that practice is what landed you here, if I remember correctly."
Mark almost smiled at that, but his determination didn't falter. "I already told you: some things are worth the risk. I need to know what's in that building, Sarah. Experience tells me that we're not gonna get a lot of answers just by asking, and that's if we knew what questions to ask, which we don't. I have to get him back, Sarah. Can't you understand that?"
"I'm not letting you do this, Mark; can you understand that? I'll tell Judge Hardcastle if I have to."
"And he'll call the cops," McCormick replied bitterly. "But you do what you need to do." He turned to stalk off the patio to the drive, but he heard the woman following him.
"Don't you walk away from me, young man," she called out angrily, and reached out to grab his arm with more force than he would've ever thought possible.
"Sarah—a-a-g-g-h!" He wrenched his arm away from her and cradled it to his body.
"What's wrong?" she cried, alarm immediately replacing her anger. "Mark?"
He shook his head roughly. "It's nothing," he said, but he couldn't quite hide the breathlessness of his answer, as the pain burned along his arm.
"Nonsense," Sarah said firmly. "Come into the light where I can see what's going on." She steered him back toward the gatehouse doors. Once inside, she found the light switch, and pulled him further into the living area.
McCormick had allowed his left hand to fall away from his right arm, trying to diminish the appearance of clutching it in pain, but the arm was still folded against his body, and he hadn't quite erased the grimace from his face.
"What happened to your arm?"
He shook his head again, but Sarah was already moving closer to him. "Let me see. Take this jacket off."
"Sarah, it's nothing, it's . . ." Her silent glare stopped his objections, and he allowed her to help support his arm while he removed the lightweight jacket that was so handy for after-hours work.
Under the jacket he wore only a short-sleeve tee shirt, making it impossible to hide the bandage that showed just the barest tinge of red.
"What happened?"
"I told you someone was shooting at us," McCormick said as lightly as possible.
"I assumed they missed," Sarah replied blandly. She was already busy examining the bandage, making sure it was applied to her satisfaction. "Men," she was muttering, "you'd think one of you might've mentioned it." She gently straightened the arm, reassuring herself that it was still in working condition and not gushing blood. "And you were carrying all those boxes from the attic. Honestly."
McCormick finally found a laugh. "Sarah, it's not gonna need to be amputated, or anything. I'm fine."
But Sarah didn't seem to see the humor in the situation. She released his arm, took a step back, and glared at him defiantly. "And you were planning on pulling your second-story job in this condition?"
McCormick laughed again, not sure whether the woman was more flabbergasted by the idea of him actually pulling the job, or being wounded while he did it.
"And if someone is already willing to go this far, don't you think you should be more concerned about being here at home in case they come back for the judge? Surely keeping him alive is more important than getting his memory back."
"Of course," Mark replied defensively, "but I can't be his bodyguard every minute of forever. If I could get his memory back, we'd have a better idea how to protect him. At least we'd know what we have to protect him from."
He was reaching for his jacket when Sarah spoke again, softly. "Mark, please. Whatever this case is, I couldn't stand it if it caused me to lose you both."
He turned back to her, anguish on his face. "Sarah, don't. I need to—"
"Monday," she interrupted. "Let it wait until Monday. Do this Lieutenant Harper's way." She looked up into his blue eyes. "Please."
McCormick stared at her silently, torn. Finally, he dropped his jacket back onto the nearest chair, and forced a smile he didn't quite feel.
"Can we at least go back to the house and have some more of those cookies and milk?"
The smile was a little more real when he saw the relief wash over Sarah's face just before she crossed back to him and threw her arms around his neck. She moved away quickly.
"Okay," she agreed in her no-nonsense tone. "But only if you do the dishes."