Chapter 6
The stillness in the house seemed odd as Sarah made her way down the stairs. It had seldom been that way when she lived there. She remembered the judge had always been an early riser, up and out the door for early morning exercise, then off to work. Nancy Hardcastle had also been up and busy, not far behind him, waking Tommy for school, tending to her gardens, and the myriad of obligations to the many organizations she belonged to. There had never seemed to be enough hours in the day for either of them.
Even after his family members had passed on, the judge had continued his early morning regime, and, later, he bustled about getting McCormick ready for the day—usually loudly. She fit right in, being a morning person herself. Memories made the house come alive for her this morning and, as she stepped to the foyer, she smiled at the thoughts. The silence was marred by some noises coming from the den.
Peering through the door, she saw McCormick pushing a chair back where it belonged near the sofa. He paused, picking up a book when he realized he wasn't alone.
"Oh, morning, Sarah" he grinned sheepishly.
"Good morning, yourself. Have you been here all night?"
"Well, yeah. After we finished our snack, I had gone back to the gatehouse, but then decided you were probably right last night and I decided to pull another all-nighter."
"I was right about what? And how is your arm?" she asked as she came down the steps.
"Right about keeping watch over the house." He couldn't bring himself to say the judge. "It was a long, quiet, boring night."
He yawned and his grin became a bit wider as he put the book back on the shelf. "I did get a head start on some reading for next semester though." Not that there's going to be a next semester, he thought to himself. He was talking fast and moving, as if to beat a quick exit. He flexed his arm with the barest grimace "See? Nothing to worry about. I can lift fertilizer bags with the best of them."
"Well, I'm glad you made good use of your time then. And I'm also glad that this 'all nighter' kept you indoors." Sarah put a hand on his good arm to slow him down. "I'll get some coffee going and breakfast while you freshen up. Then after breakfast, you can take a nap."
Looking her right in the eye, Mark said, "No thanks, I'm not hungry, and after yesterday, I'm sure the judge won't appreciate me being in the house—let alone finding out I was here all night."
"Mark," she started.
"No, Sarah, stop. Don't even say anything. At least I know how he really feels about me now and we don't have to tip toe around each other anymore." He was on the landing, his eyes darting towards the stairs. "I'm sorry to have gotten you stuck in this mess, too. Another bad idea, I guess." He looked at her sadly. "I'll be here to take you to the airport, but until then, I'm laying low in the gatehouse."
He didn't bother to add some of his other thoughts. In addition to reading, he had spent part of the night figuring on what stuff to start packing. He felt his time at Gull's Way had reached the end. He wasn't going to leave until this was all over, but he figured he had better be prepared for the inevitable. A quick, false smile, and with a quick glance again at the stairs, he was out of the door.
Sarah stood alone in the room. She spied something that Mark had left on the table. She picked it up and smiled. She smiled briefly as she paged through it, setting it down when she was done. Looking around the room, she stopped at the half-decorated tree in the corner. With the lights off, it seemed cold and lifeless, much like the atmosphere on the estate this morning. Sighing, she headed up the stairs toward the kitchen.
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It was after eight when the judge finally appeared in the kitchen. Sarah had spent the time leisurely reading the paper and enjoying the view with some coffee. Around seven-thirty, though, she began to worry about the judge sleeping so late.
"Good morning, Sarah," he said as he moved over to the coffee maker.
"Good morning, Your Honor," she answered, studying him. He didn't really appear rested, and his brow was furrowed together just a bit. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah, I did. Well, I slept, anyway." The last words were muttered, barely audible.
Sarah immediately noticed that Hardcastle was avoiding direct eye contact. She got up from the table and went to the stove. Being in the middle of the kitchen would mean bumping into each other and she was hoping that would break the ice a bit. She had never felt discomfort like this with the man before.
"What would you like for breakfast?" she asked, taking out a frying pan. "Bacon and eggs? Or maybe some pancakes and sausage?"
"Sarah, don't trouble yourself. I'll just have coffee this morning. I'm not really that hungry." He took his cup over to the window and he looked out the ocean view. It didn't take much to notice his gaze wandered over and stayed at the gatehouse.
"You're sure?" she asked, "It's really no trouble at all. In fact, I kind of miss taking care of you and Mark. Even though I live so nearby my family now, it's not like having them in the house with me. It does get kind of lonely, especially in the mornings. Oh, Judge," she stammered, "I'm sorry, I didn't think—"
The judge couldn't ignore the slight emphasis of 'you and Mark' but he knew Sarah had forgotten that for him, his family had only been gone a few days, a simple mistake. It didn't make the pain any easier.
"You know, I remember how you always had coffee ready for me and Nancy. You were always up the earliest." He continued looking out the window. "No, go right ahead and fix yourself whatever you want, but I'm really not hungry."
"Well, in that case, I guess I'm not doing any cooking this morning, as I've already had toast." Sarah put the pan back. This diversionary tactic didn't work. "But I insist on putting together a good old Sunday dinner for you." As Hardcastle turned around she said again, "I insist. It's really no trouble; you already have everything. Sunday dinners were always my favorite to make when I was here. That was one meal Mark was never late for." Figuring then that if she kept talking about him, the judge was bound to say something.
Studying the cup in his hands for a few moments he said, "Sarah, I'm sorry you had to see and hear all of that yesterday. You're a good friend and you don't need to be in the middle of all this."
"Humph. You're the second person that said that to me today." With that she got his attention. "Don't look so surprised. Yes, Mark was here all night again, 'pulling another all nighter', as he put it. He was on his way out when I came down this morning. He apologized, too."
"He was here in the house all night?… He apologized?"
"Yes, even after all that happened yesterday, he didn't want you unguarded. And of course he did. He always does when he thinks he was wrong." Sarah shook her head. "Not that he was wrong," she added quietly. Then she continued, a little louder, "Honestly, I don't know what to do with either of you."
The judge turned his attention out the window again. There was a heavy silence in the room, not tense, just somber. The bright sunshine was a definite contrast to the silhouette of the dejected man standing there.
The old woman silently went to the table and sat down. She toyed with her own coffee, trying to think of what to say next.
"You know, for one of the first times in my life, I really don't know what to say or do to help the two of you." she started. "When Mark called, he didn't really tell me anything about what had happened. It was only when he picked me up that I found out."
"Another one of his surprises; he seems to be good at those," the judge huffed out quietly.
"Yes, and he has pulled off some really wonderful ones over the years, too. The first time I got flowers from him on my birthday after I left, I started to cry; he's never forgotten since either." Sarah smiled. "And he's sent little cards or postcards from time to time out of the blue. Sometimes I think he misses me as much as I miss the both of you."
Hardcastle hung his head a bit. He knew he had gone over the edge the day before, but Sarah's little recitation was just making him feel more guilty. He wasn't one to apologize easily, but his conscience wasn't letting go.
He rubbed his eyes and, blinking, sent his gaze back out toward the water. When he had told Sarah he slept, he wasn't going to admit that the dreams he'd had kept him tossing and turning till exhaustion finally won out. He saw many faces during the night. Some he recognized, and others he had no clue about. Some of the faces were reassuring, Nancy, Tommy, Frank, even Sarah. He wondered in his dreams about some of the faces. Were they people he knew now? Did he know them from years ago?
McCormick kept popping up in them too, over and over again, sometimes mixed in with Nancy and Tommy, sometimes all by himself. With all the talk yesterday of some of their escapades, he was left trying to decide what he thought were really dreams, and what might have been memories. But even in his dreams, he chastised himself. How could any of them have been recent memories? He didn't even know what happened the week before. He was truly beginning to question his sanity.
"Look, Sarah, I know you mean well and are just trying to help, but I think my little explosion yesterday shut off the entrance to the mineshaft." He turned and sat down at the table. "God, it's just that I miss them so much."
Sitting directly across from him now, she could see the misery etched into his face. Instinctively, she reached over and clasped his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze. Long gone was the propriety of employer/employee, now there was just the friendship that the man so desperately needed.
Hardcastle shot over a thin smile, grateful for the comfort. But the sadness remained.
Sarah returned the look with a gentle smile. "And you've been through this all once before, and you don't remember." He nodded and she continued, "The pain doesn't ever really go away totally, but it will get better. You made it through before. The memories of your family will remain in your heart forever. And, believe it or not, you did make new memories. I have complete faith that they will return, too." Giving his arm a firmer touch, she said, "There's a photo album on the coffee table in the den. Take a look. Maybe it will help a little this morning. I know it helped me."
With that, she rose and began walking toward the door. "I'm going to freshen up a bit so I can start cooking. I think once Mark finds out about dinner, he'll come. Reluctantly, probably, but he'll come. That is, if you want him here."
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There were pictures of Frank and him, fishing, and some of the Courthouse Racketeers, hamming it up for the camera. There were a few of him and Sarah, out in the rose garden, early summer, smiling. He was smiling. Who'd taken that one?
And then there was Mark, sitting on the hood of that car, the Coyote, holding a basketball, and another on, on the same page—him and the kid, standing in front of the Corvette.
The 'Vette was Tom's.
He turned the page quickly. More pictures of Mark. Another car, this one low and sleek and covered with sponsor's labels, and the man in a racing suit, with a helmet tucked casually under one arm. And there he was again, in the next picture down, standing next to the younger man, and, if he'd had to guess, he would've had to say the expression on his own face was . . . pride.
Hardcastle closed the album and leaned back in his seat, swiveling slowly until he half faced the window. There had been no signs of life from the gatehouse. After what Sarah had told him about Mark standing guard duty again, he hoped the kid was taking a nap. Somehow, though, he doubted it.
He deserves a chance.
I can't help the way I feel. And when I pretend otherwise, he knows.
How the hell does he know?
The judge put his fingers to his temples and rubbed, closing his eyes, wishing he could will this whole nightmare away, and just hold on to the familiar—the smells from the kitchen and the sounds of Sarah puttering with the pots and pans.
No, won't work; you'll open your eyes and they still won't be here. Not only that, but nearly every sign of Tom's existence had been blotted out, or moved up into the dark recesses of the attic. Why did you do that?
He let out a sigh. What had that kid said to him yesterday? That he'd managed to wipe out the vestiges of his family all by himself? That seemed like the actions of a crazy man. And then to take in a felon, let him have the run of the place, that was crazy, too.
He stayed up all night, keeping an eye on things.
Sure, you're his meal ticket.
No, you couldn't have been that bad a judge of character, unless . . . you really did go crazy.
All the things Frank had said he'd done, all the stories that he and Sarah and Mark had been sharing over lunch yesterday—he stopped rubbing his temples and leaned forward, hunched over, elbows on his knees.
This is madness.
"Are you all right, Your Honor?" Sarah's gentle voice cut into this thought.
He sat up, opening his eyes, mastering his face. "Yes, Sarah," he said mildly. "I'm fine."
She looked as though she didn't believe him but said, "All right then, dinner will be ready in about ten minutes." She looked down at the album lying closed on the desk, then gave him a small smile, and the briefest of nods, before she turned and went back down the hallway toward the kitchen.
He looked toward the gatehouse again, then slowly got to his feet, feeling as though he had somehow aged thirty years, instead of merely fifteen. He trudged up the steps and down the hallway, and stood for a moment in the door to the dining room looking at the table—the usual three plates, but now it was him, Sarah, and—
He heard her voice in the kitchen, a one-sided conversation. She was using the phone, insisting, quietly but firmly, that dinner was ready and that she'd set places for three. The party on the other end was not being given much time to answer and Sarah did not appear to be accepting a simple 'no'. A moment later he heard her say good-bye and 'see you in a bit.'
Then she was standing in the opposite doorway, the one that led to the kitchen, holding a salad bowl and a basket of biscuits.
"Almost ready," she said. "I made that nice ham you had in the fridge. I hope you weren't saving it for Christmas."
The utterly blank look on his face was followed by a bemused, "I have no idea, Sarah; that was your department."
"I suppose I should have asked Mark, but you've still got three days to pick up something else." She said it so matter-of-factly, that Hardcastle almost felt as though everything had been set right again.
Then they both froze at the sound of the back door opening. Sarah put the food down quickly and wiped her hands on her apron, a quick, nervous gesture that the judge could not ever remember seeing her make before.
"I'll be right back with the potatoes and the ham," she ducked back into the kitchen, leaving Hardcastle standing alone, next to the table, feeling unsettled.
Voices again, this time both sides of the conversation, though kept low enough that only the feelings came through—Sarah still insistent, Mark anxious and unwilling. He listened for a moment, then took a few reluctant steps nearer to the kitchen door. He paused there again. He could not remember ever being this indecisive. Then he steeled himself to the task and stepped through the doorway.
Sarah had her hand on Mark's shoulder; his head was down, shaking a little from side-to-side. At his movement into the room, the kid glanced up. The emotion Hardcastle caught a glimpse of was very real—sadness, maybe some fear, but in a moment more it was gone, wiped clean, replaced with a mask that might have passed for indifference, if it had not been so studied.
"I'll carry the ham," Hardcastle spoke evenly, trying to imitate the matter-of-factness he'd heard from Sarah a few minutes earlier.
It worked. They were all in motion again, with Sarah taking the bowl of mashed potatoes and Mark picking up the green bean casserole. The momentum carried them all the way back to the dining room. Then they were taking their seats, the judge at the head of the table, Sarah on his left, and Mark slipping quietly into the chair on his right. It was patently evident that there was nothing voluntary about this, only that sitting down to dinner had become the path of least resistance.
Sarah did most of the serving. The judge carved the ham. Mark sat quietly, politely reserved. Once the food was dished up and sampled, there was a decent interval that consisted mostly of compliments to the cook. Sarah beamed gently.
After that the conversation stretched out a bit thin. Hardcastle thought maybe Sarah was having second thoughts about pressuring Mark into an appearance, but she soldiered on bravely.
"I was looking through that album in the den," she said; there was no forced cheerfulness, only kind interest. "Those pictures you took of the judge and me, by Nancy's roses, that was the first time I came back, after I went to stay with my sister." She smiled at the recollection. "And this place hadn't gone to rack and ruin in my absence."
"We managed," Mark replied, "but we missed you a lot." Then he caught himself, looking back down at his plate, as if he was preparing to be taken to task for using the 'we'.
Hardcastle said nothing for a moment. Then he cleared his throat, watching with dismay as the younger man controlled a flinch.
"Ah," the judge hesitated, "I was wondering why you left, Sarah."
She looked at him with mild surprise; perhaps this was one question he wasn't already supposed to know the answer to. She put down her fork, and cocked her head at him, with a small smile.
"Well, it was because of my sister; she was getting so frail. But, Your Honor, that wasn't something that happened all of a sudden." Her expression had gotten rather thoughtful, and now her face turned to take in the younger man, as well. "I don't think I really expected the rack and ruin. I wouldn't have been able to leave if I had. Oh, maybe I thought there'd be a little more dirty laundry in the hamper, and a dust bunny or two under the desk, but I would never have left you two alone if I didn't think you could take care of each other."
Hardcastle shifted his eyes from Sarah to Mark and caught the quietly frantic signals he was sending her. So far the young man was keeping the panic isolated to his eyes, the rest of his expression still a study in wary self-control. Sarah was smiling reassuringly.
"Well," Hardcastle tried to force a smile of his own; it felt almost broken. He retracted it, settling for something more neutral, "I guess you were right." He was addressing his ex-housekeeper, but his eyes never left Mark.
The wariness remained.
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The meal trudged onward, with Sarah acting as the interlocutor and Mark speaking only when spoken to. His answers were tense, quiet, and to the point.
At the end of another brief silence, toward the end of the meal, she said, "I know you'll think me foolish, young man, but I'm glad you don't race any more. When was the last time?"
The change of subject seemed to have taken both men by surprise. McCormick recovered first. He swallowed once and said, "About a year ago, a little less. It was a case. Before that it was the Arizona Modifieds."
"That's where those photos were taken, the ones in the album?"
Mark nodded.
"You won that race. I remember the judge writing me that." She nodded once in Hardcastle's direction.
"Sarah—" Mark's voice was low and entreating.
"He was very proud of you, and all I couldn't help but think was, 'Oh, no, now he's going to want to race all the time.'" She shook her head. "I was so relieved when I found out that you'd passed up some other offers."
"What happened?" The judge interjected. "I wouldn't let you?"
"There were cases," Mark said hesitantly. "And school . . . I didn't have enough time." He let a flash of defiance escape across his face, as if he was daring the older man to doubt him. Then that was gone, too. It was back to simple wariness. "I've given it up," he said with finality. "It's out of my system now."
"You're better off," Sarah said very gently.
"Yeah," the younger man's voice was dead flat, "that's what I thought, too."
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What had seemed interminable eventually came to an end. Mark was on his feet almost the moment Sarah began to stand.
"I'll take care of the dishes," he said.
"No," she replied firmly, "I'll do them. You've been up all night and you'll be driving me to the airport later on." She made a little shooing motion. "Both of you go sit in the den. Let things settle." She smiled. "I'll be along in a few minutes. I'll make us some coffee to go with the cookies. Or would you rather have milk, Mark?"
"Coffee's fine," he said, looking as if nothing at all was fine. He stayed on his feet as she gathered up the dishes and stacked them.
"Go on now," she finally insisted. "I won't be long."
The judge was studying the tablecloth a little ways in front of his plate. He let out a sigh and lumbered to his feet. Mark followed him silently out of the room, casting one last look over his shoulder at Sarah. She gave him an encouraging smile. He did not feel encouraged.
In the den, he took the same seat he'd occupied for most of the night. The photo album was no longer on the coffee table. Now it was sitting on the judge's desk. Not good, that'll get him riled up again. He wished to hell he'd never taken it down last night. It might have sat there unnoticed on the shelf for a long time.
Hardcastle seemed to vacillate between moving back behind the desk, nicely out of the way, but obviously right next to the offending album, and taking a seat nearer to Mark himself. Tough choice, McCormick thought, watching him compromise by standing over by the fireplace mantle. Mark wondered how long Sarah would string out the dish-doing for, and how long it would be before one of them would crack under this uneasy silence.
"What time is her flight out?" Hardcastle finally asked.
"Five o'clock," Mark replied. "I thought we'd better leave by three-thirty. Lots of traffic this time of year." There, easy, you can do this. No problem at all.
"I was looking at your file again, last night."
Mark froze, felt his face draining white. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, in the way of talk, but this non sequitur was so unexpected that he almost thought he might not have heard correctly.
The judge ignored his silence and plowed ahead. "You're from New Jersey?"
Mark managed a nod.
"Not much in there about that. You have family there?"
"Not anymore," Mark replied bluntly.
This got a considered nod from the judge. McCormick fidgeted, waiting for the next question. None came, and he heard himself blurt out, "My mom's dead. My dad wasn't around. You've met him. He was nothing special." Mark gritted his teeth. "Look, Judge, I'll head back to the gatehouse and let you visit with Sarah. Just tell her I didn't feel good, or tell her . . . I dunno, tell her anything you want. You don't have to make small talk with me."
"I'm sorry."
McCormick froze again. Then his eyes narrowed down a bit. "'Sorry'?"
"Yeah," the judge nodded once, "sorry. I thought maybe it would help if I knew you a little better. Maybe I would understand why—"
"Why the hell you put up with me?" McCormick finished with an air of exasperation.
"No."
"I just don't know how," McCormick forged ahead over the judge's single word, "you could have forgotten every other damn thing about me and still remember how to push my buttons." He shook his head. "Okay, well, my dad cut out when I was five; my mom died when I was ten, and my uncle beat the crap out of me pretty steady on until I was old enough to get out and stay out. Is that enough detail for you?"
He'd kept his voice low and tight and sliver-sharp, daring the man standing in front of him to ask him anything else. But Hardcastle just stood there, nothing judgmental in his expression. McCormick found himself becoming angrier still.
"No," he said as harshly as he could. 'No' what? "No more." He was tired, exhausted; he was losing control. For a moment he felt profoundly lost, and then he slipped into a once familiar place—dark and cold, but very familiar. He was vaguely aware that the judge was saying something to him—asking him something. "What?" he said flatly.
"You okay?" Hardcastle was standing a little closer to him, looking down, frowning—a stranger's concern. The question was so absurd that Mark almost let out a laugh.
"I'm tired," he finally replied. "I really should go get some sleep before I take Sarah to the airport." He heard his own voice; it was calm, reasonable, persuasive.
"Yeah, maybe you should." Hardcastle was nodding, still looking a little worried.
Mark stood slowly, looking around at the room. It was already the past. He understood that now. He'd just have to get through the next couple of days, figure some things out, make some arrangements. Then it would be done.
He nodded once at the judge, and then trudged up the steps and out the door.
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Hardcastle moved behind the desk and into his chair, watching the younger man walk slowly down the drive toward the other building. Then he turned his head back sharply, at a sound from the doorway.
"Sarah," he heard himself; he sounded flustered. "Ah, Mark said he was tired, needed a nap."
Her expression was frankly disapproving. She moved over to the desk, putting down the tray and looking out the window for a brief moment. Then her gaze came back to the judge.
"Your Honor," she hesitated, "I was hoping—"
"I tried," Hardcastle protested. "I asked him about . . . things. He got angry."
Sarah sat herself down primly in the chair opposite the desk. "Did you try saying you were sorry?"
"I did," the judge said, with an air of belligerence that made Sarah shake her head.
"Not in that tone, I hope," she looked at him archly.
"No, of course not. I was very polite."
"Oh, Judge," she sighed. "He's never even needed 'polite'." She shook her head again. "I never saw anyone who could take that much guff from you and still come back smiling." She cocked her head. "Not that you didn't take a fair amount from him, too, but I think the balance was always in his favor."
Hardcastle said nothing.
Sarah reached for a coffee cup and began to pour, still talking quietly. "Yesterday, what happened, that was very hurtful to him," she paused, handing him the cup. "He never tried to take Tom's place. Never. And he's right; you hid away everything that could remind you of your boy long before Mark showed up." Her eyes were locked on his.
"Why?" Hardcastle asked. It was almost a whisper. "Why the hell would I have done that, Sarah?"
Sarah sighed again. "I think . . . I think that maybe you thought you had driven Tom away, that he had joined the Marines because—" she interrupted herself, "It wasn't true. All fathers and sons fight. And all children have to make their own way in the world. He didn't do it out of anger or fear. He told me he wanted you to be proud of him, but even that wasn't why he did it." She paused for a moment, as if she was searching for the right words, and then, "He did it because he was Tom."
There was a long moment of silence.
"I can't believe he's gone," Hardcastle finally said, in a voice that implied that he believed it all too well.
"I know," Sarah said quietly, "but he's been gone a long time; Nancy, too. But neither one of them would have wanted you to stop being alive yourself."
"I don't get any say in it, Sarah?" he looked up at her, sadly pensive.
"No," she said decisively, "not anymore. You've got other responsibilities." She cast a look in the direction of the gatehouse.
Hardcastle found his glance following hers, and then, "He's a grown man, Sarah. What the hell does he need from me?"
"Someone who needed him, a place to belong," she answered without a moment's hesitation. "I don't think he's had very much of that in his life. You gave him both those things, and he has repaid you many times over."
He sat there for a moment, considering everything, saying nothing.
Sarah got up slowly from her chair, still looking down at him. "Finish your coffee, Judge. Let him get a little rest." She reached out to pat his hand, comfortingly. "I think you will both muddle through. You always have."
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Mark showed up at the front door promptly at three-thirty, not looking much better than he had at dinner, but appearing grateful that Sarah had come out onto the front porch to meet him. A moment later, Frank pulled up, apologizing for being late. He took one look at Mark and his eyebrows rose as he shot a silent question in Sarah's direction. From her there was a brief shake of the head. McCormick seemed to be ignoring the whole interplay.
"He's inside," he said to Frank, flatly. "You're ready?" he asked Sarah.
She nodded, smiling softly up at him. "I've said my good-byes."
He'd pulled the Coyote up in the drive. Now he opened the door for her and helped her down into the seat before closing it and going around to the driver's side. All the reserve that he'd shown to the judge earlier was still in place.
He must've noticed her frown as he got into his own seat.
"I'm okay, Sarah. Don't look that way." He keyed the ignition and eased the car down the drive without another word.
"No, you're not," she tsked. "Neither is he." Now she had his attention. He shot her a quick glance.
"Sarah," he started slowly, "I don't suppose you could come back, stay with him for a while, after the holidays? Maybe your sister could come too. The weather's much nicer here than up there in January."
"You're giving up, then, Mark?"
"Sarah, there's nothing to give up on. There's nothing there. Worse yet, worse than nothing. He hates me. He's angry."
"Of course he is. You are, too. Someone stole fifteen years of his mind. They stole your friend." Sarah threw her hands up in a gesture of exasperation. "You both have every right to be angry," she tossed him a sideward glance that showed a little anger of her own. "Just don't be angry with each other. No matter how much he seems to want to hurt you, he's only lashing out at the unknown."
"What do you want me to do?" Mark asked wearily.
"Drop me off at the airport. Go home. Get some rest. Have a nice ham sandwich when you get up—make his with mustard and Swiss on rye—and then find out who did this to him."
Mark's smile was a pale imitation of the genuine article. "I was trying to do that last night, Sarah."
"You know what I mean, young man—a nice legal investigation. Let Lieutenant Harper help."
"Okay," his smile was fond, "I'll do that. I promise." The smile faded again, as though that one gesture of optimism had cost him more than he had left to pay.
"I don't know if it will be all right, Mark," she said gently, "but I think it will get better."
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Harper knocked two quick raps on the front door as the Coyote was pulling away. He wasn't surprised to find Milt opening it, only a moment later, with a dangerous scowl on his face.
"You guys are getting pretty good at the handoff," he grumbled. "Hardly any wasted effort."
"Come on; it's only until tomorrow . . . if Neely says you're okay," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"Why wouldn't he?" Hardcastle grumbled.
"I dunno; I'm not a doctor." Frank shrugged, following the older man into the den. "Sarah made cookies?" He smiled. "Now that's my kind of houseguest." He reached for one before he took his seat. His eyebrows went up as he noticed the other addition to the room. "Nice tree." He frowned a little. "Doesn't look quite, um, finished." He took a bite of the cookie.
"Looks okay with the lights on," the judge muttered defensively.
"Lemme guess," Frank put the other half of the cookie in his mouth, pondering thoughtfully for a moment. "You only had time to put the lights up before you chewed the kid out and sent him to his room."
"You're the goddamn detective," Hardcastle said grimly. "And I didn't send him; he stalked out of here on his own last night."
"I'll bet." Frank let out a breath. "Well, no matter what, I can guarantee you it won't be the worst Christmas you two ever spent."
The judge's eyebrows rose a little in doubtful speculation.
"Let's see, ah, two years ago. I was out of town, at Claudia's folks. A guy named Cherney framed you for a murder. Nice frame too—Mark said they left the woman's body right here." He pointed down and toward the other side of the room. He paused for a moment and then said, "You know, I'll bet that's why he doesn't like to have the tree over there any more." He nodded to himself. "That white tape thing, it spooks everybody."
"I got framed for a woman's murder?" The judge was frowning impatiently.
"Yeah," Frank continued, "Christmas Eve, everybody out of town. Mark going crazy trying to figure out how to make bail, thinking you're gonna get yourself knifed in the county lock-up."
"I spent Christmas in the lock-up?"
"No, he hocked the Coyote. He got you out on Christmas. Then you two busted Cherney for the murder."
There didn't seem to be a whole lot to say to this. The judge was staring at the unlit tree in the gathering gloom.
After a few more minutes, Frank asked, straightforwardly, "How bad did you rip into him yesterday?" He fielded Hardcastle's quick, questioning glance and said, "Well, he doesn't look too good today."
"It was bad enough." The judge frowned. "But Sarah's already given me the lecture. Twice."
"Yeah, but did you listen?"
Hardcastle nodded, saying nothing. A long moment later he added. "But it wasn't really about him."
"I know. I hope he knows, too."
00000
He'd seen Sarah safely onto the plane, waiting with her until it was time to board. She had chatted with him gently the whole time. He didn't want to tell her how hard it was becoming to talk about these things now, and, at any rate, the comfort of her voice was worth any amount of painful memory.
But now he was pulling up the drive at the estate and everything was slamming back up against him, like breakers after a storm. Higher walls. More sandbags. You'll get through this. He caught the glimmering of colored lights through the bushes. They'd turned on the Christmas lights.
He braked the car to a stop next to the fountain, just sitting for a minute. He couldn't stay like that for long, he knew. They had to already know he'd gotten back. He'd have to go up there, say hello and good-bye to Frank, and then goodnight to the judge. Simple. Five minutes, tops.
He pulled himself out of the car and walked reluctantly up the steps. As he'd expected, Frank was already opening the door.
"Saw her off?" he asked.
"On the plane, safe and sound," Mark replied quietly. "Thanks for coming by."
"No problem. He's in the den," Frank gestured with his chin.
"Did you eat?" Mark asked.
"Not yet, Claudia's keeping mine warm. Better shove off."
"Yeah," Mark looked wistfully over his shoulder at anywhere-but-in-there. He watched Frank slip out the door. He stepped out behind him, closing the door a little behind him. "I'll call you tomorrow, after the appointment."
Frank gave him a nod and a wave and then was climbing into his car.
Mark let out a breath. He supposed he ought to be grateful that Frank hadn't quizzed him about how things were going. He stepped inside again, listening for a moment. He took the last few steps to the den doorway, leaving his jacket on.
The judge was sitting quietly at his desk. The album had moved again, now it was open and lying a little to the judge's right. Hardcastle looked up at him.
"This one," he said mildly, "looks like it was taken in Washington."
Mark glanced down at the page. "Yeah, 'bout three years ago. You were named as a possible candidate for a vacancy on the Supreme Court."
"You're kidding."
"Dark horse candidate. Law and order," Mark shrugged.
Hardcastle stared down at the picture—the two of them, in full rig tuxes in a fancy reception hall. "So, I took you along?"
"No," Mark said very flatly. "You left me here. I took myself along. Good thing, too, because when I got there a guy named Arthur Huntley was trying to have a couple of his goons get you off the candidate's list permanently."
"Arthur Huntley?"
"Formerly Lonnie Vanatta."
This was met by a look of quick recognition. "Lonnie? We got him?"
Mark nodded.
"Well," Hardcastle nodded to himself. "That's good."
"And you took a pass on being a candidate for the Supreme Court, took yourself out of the running."
"Well, that had to be a long shot."
"Not after you showed up in D.C. and nailed Lonnie Vanatta between press interviews."
The judge mulled that one for a moment. "Then . . . why?"
McCormick shrugged. "Same reason I gave up racing, I guess."
"Come on," the judge said skeptically, "I was too busy to be a Supreme Court nominee?"
Mark nodded silently, studying his feet, hoping this line of questioning was pretty much over, because any other answers he gave would probably be met with even more disbelief. His eyes were drawn to the tree, now lit, though mostly bare in other respects. He was frowning down at a couple of packages lying underneath.
"Sarah left something," the judge said, answering the unasked question.
Mark stepped closer, looking at the other package alongside the one from Sarah. He could see the envelope more clearly, now—his own name written in the judge's scrawl.
"I found that one upstairs," Hardcastle said gruffly, "in my closet . . . I have no idea what it is."
Mark blinked a couple of times. "I know . . . I know that." He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket and took a deep breath. "Do you want a sandwich?"
"Ham? We got any Swiss in there?"
"Swiss and mustard and rye. Yeah."
"Then maybe you wanna finish decorating this tree after that?"
"Um," there was another swipe and a moment's hesitation. "Yeah, maybe."