Chapter 7
He was on the sofa without quite remembering how he'd gotten there. Mark blinked again, taking in the direction of light through the den window. It was morning. Monday. He sat up abruptly. The shotgun was still propped against the chair, where he'd started out the night.
"Dammit."
He had a vague recollection of being handed a pillow and blanket and told to vacate the chair sometime during the night. That he had done so without protest, and without any conscious thought, was a pretty good indication of what shape he was in. He checked his watch—a little after nine.
Monday—the appointment with Neely. He winced, turning halfway over and trying to sit up; his arm still ached. He glanced back up at the tree, lights now unplugged, but bearing an adequate number of ornaments. They hadn't bothered with the Christmas music, but they'd managed to be civil.
Mark would settle for civil right now.
He heard some sounds from the direction of the kitchen and pulled himself to his feet. He found his shoes, ran his fingers through his hair, and put the shotgun away. The sounds were more distinct now—dishes being taken out. There was the smell of bacon and toast.
That's . . . nice.
He frowned. Okay, he thought. There's a certain logic to this. The appointment with Neely had to be looming pretty large in Hardcastle's mind. Getting his keeper in the best possible frame of mind would be part of the strategy.
Does he think I'd try to screw things up for him if I was angry?
He doesn't know you; he doesn't know what to think.
And, anyway, wouldn't you be willing to do it, for his own good?
Mark stared down into the murky depths of that thought for a moment, then took one of those silent vows that he knew would be easier to make than to keep. He squared his shoulders as he entered the kitchen. There were two plates on the table and Hardcastle draining the bacon.
"You shouldn't've let me fall asleep like that," Mark said, standing just inside the doorway and rubbing his neck.
"Why not?" Hardcastle glanced back at him. "I was laying awake in bed and you were asleep in the chair. What's the sense of that?"
McCormick frowned at this. "How come? I mean . . . how come you were awake?"
Hardcastle shrugged and made a vague gesture with this free hand. "Dunno, just was. Made breakfast," he said, with an expression that seemed to change the subject. "Took me a while to find everything."
"Smells good," Mark conceded, stepping over to the table—eggs, scrambled, bacon and toast. McCormick supposed Hardcastle might not have gotten much practice doing this, back when there were two women in the house.
"Looks good, too," he said, adding a little more congratulatory tone to his words.
The judge studied his own cooking with a slightly concerned eye. "Bacon's a little burnt."
"That's crisp," McCormick picked up a piece and put it on his plate. "That's how I like it." He took a second piece, as if to prove the point, then he looked resolutely down as he dished up for both of them from the pan of eggs. "Listen, Judge, what would you say if Sarah were to come back, after the holidays, you know, just to help you find things for a while?"
"I don't—"
"Need a keeper. I know." Mark shook his head once sharply. "She's not a keeper; she's a housekeeper. You had one of those for years and years. What would be wrong with having one again?"
Hardcastle fidgeted a little. "I dunno." Then he got a stubborn look to his face. "I guess I must've thought I could do without one."
"Yeah," Mark said quietly, "but you had me." He smiled sadly. "We shared the chores . . . if you define the word 'share' very loosely," he added, after a moment's thought. "I did get you to hire another housekeeper once, but . . ." his face got a little vague, "it didn't work out."
There was no response. Mark looked up from his food to find the judge giving him a rather penetrating stare.
"I suppose you already asked her?" Hardcastle finally grumbled. "What did she say?"
"Oh . . . well," McCormick smiled again, "she told me to go home, take a nap, and then make us a couple of ham sandwiches. But she didn't say 'no', and I think if you asked her . . ."
"What about her sister?"
Mark shrugged. "You've got a lot of room here, Judge. Heck, there's a whole second house." He gestured back over his shoulder, not sure how much more blunt he could be.
But the judge merely settled back into his seat, with that same unwavering, penetrating look. Finally came a non-specific 'hrmph'.
McCormick pushed his eggs around a bit, and took a few more bites. He wasn't all that hungry, but he didn't want to be misconstrued. After a while he made a show of checking his watch again, and then got to his feet, gathering up his plate and the empty pans.
"I'll take care of these, then I guess we better get ready to go—the appointment with Dr. Neely is at eleven."
Hardcastle muttered something under his breath. Mark froze where he stood and then turned slowly back to the older man.
"And it's your appointment, not mine. If you don't want to keep it, just say the word. If you are going, I'd rather you still let me drive you."
"I don't see why I can't start driving again."
"Because," Mark frowned, turning away again and putting the dishes on the counter next to the sink, "you still don't know what the hell it was that made you crash the truck in the first place, that's why."
"You think this Neely guy is going to figure it out?"
"No," McCormick looked out the window, "I don't."
There was a moment's silence and then the judge spoke again, abruptly, "I think maybe I need to see a psychiatrist."
Mark froze again, not wanting to turn around until he'd settled the look on his face. He wasn't sure what the judge would make of it; surely there was disapproval written there. "I think . . ." he began, then he hesitated.
"What?" Hardcastle asked testily.
"I think if you have a hammer, all problems are nails." McCormick sighed. "At least that's been my experience."
"You've had some experience?" the judge asked. "Being a nail, I mean?"
Mark's laugh was short and a little painful. "Yeah, Judge," he finally risked a glance over his shoulder. "You could say that. Anyway, for what it's worth, I don't think a psychiatrist is gonna figure this out, either."
"Well, maybe not," Hardcastle agreed, "but I still think maybe I should see one."
00000
They'd arrived at Dr. Neely's office with time to spare, despite Mark's apparent effort to drive at a moderate and sedate speed. Hardcastle thought he was making up for it with the pacing, now that they were in the waiting room itself.
The judge grabbed a copy of Sports Illustrated off the end table and handed it to him. "Siddown, you're making me nervous." He pointed at a chair. The kid sat, but forward on the edge of the seat, managing to look even more twitchy sitting there than he had while he was on his feet.
"It's my appointment, remember?" Hardcastle said gruffly. "What the hell are you so jumpy about?"
Mark shrugged; then he smiled a little lopsidedly. "So what's your strategy? You gonna try to fog him again? You've had a whole week to get up to speed on current events."
Hardcastle frowned for a second, but couldn't muster up the anger he'd felt in that hospital room when he'd been caught out the first time.
He gave a quick grunt and said, "Well, if that'd been my plan I woulda taken a cab here." Yet, somehow, he thought if he did try to plaster things over with Neely, the kid wouldn't be so quick to jump on it this time. "No, I figure I'll just be honest with him."
Before he could say anything else, the door to the office opened and a nurse holding a manila file announced his name. He got to his feet and darted a quick look at the younger man, who had enough worry on his face for the both of them.
"You comin'?" he asked. McCormick looked startled. "You think he'll believe me?" the judge said with a somewhat chagrined smile. "He's gonna want to talk to you, I figure." He fielded the kid's puzzled expression. "You're the keeper."
"The hell I am," Mark said with surprising vehemence, but he stood up and followed the judge into the inner room.
They'd barely settled themselves there, blood pressure and pulse taken and recorded, when Neely himself entered with a smile and a nod.
"Mr. Hardcastle," he pulled a small stool up next to the work counter and opened the folder, "how are you? Been a week already?"
The judge smiled thinly. He supposed for the neurologist it had been a quick and uneventful interval. He gave a nod. "Since the accident, yes. I've only been home five days."
Neely nodded once as well. "And how have things been going?" His glance up from the file included Mark. "Any change? Any improvement?"
"I know who the vice president is," Hardcastle said grimly. "Other than that, no, I don't think so."
Neely frowned and jotted a few words. "Any new problems? Headaches? Weakness? Any episodes of dizziness?"
"No, none of that. I lost my temper a couple of times." The judge glanced sideways at Mark who was studying the floor just in front of his feet with intensity.
Neely cocked his head at Mark. "Is that unusual?"
"Hell, no," Mark said with some feeling; then he softened it with a smile. "Standard operating procedure."
"Really?" Hardcastle's eyebrows had risen a bit.
"Yeah, well, maybe not quite like that, but you can be pretty prickly sometimes." Mark shrugged.
"Sarah said you took a lot of guff from me," Hardcastle said quietly.
Neely leaned forward on his stool. "Who's Sarah?"
"Ex-housekeeper," Mark filled in. "Came for a visit this weekend. She's only been gone a couple years; she knows the routine, and they know each other. I think she'll be able to help him fill in the gaps."
"No trouble retaining new information?" Neely asked.
"None," Mark assured him. "By this time next week he'll know the free-throw percentages for everybody in the Laker's starting lineup."
The judge gave the kid a hard stare.
"Ask him about driving," McCormick said to Hardcastle, ignoring the look.
"Driving?" Neely repeated, thoughtfully. "Well, that's hard to say, seeing as we're not sure of the etiology of your problem. But I would say if you have no further symptoms for, say, another week or so, I would okay you for short daytime trips, at least. I wouldn't advise driving if you are overly tired. No problem with anything else? Eating, sleeping?"
The judge cocked his head at his younger companion. "You wanna answer this one, too?"
Mark shook his head tightly and slouched back against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
Hardcastle turned back to Neely. "Appetite's okay."
"And the sleeping?" the doctor prodded.
"It's . . . pretty much okay." He shifted his eyes off Neely and onto a spot several hundred yards beyond the wall. "Do you . . . is there any idea of what might have happened? What caused this?" His eyes snapped back into focus on the doctor's face, which was an honest study in puzzlement.
"No, not really," Neely said. I can tell you a few things it most certainly isn't, but that's good news, because most of the things in my department that cause amnesia are not really reversible."
"So, you think my problem's not something that falls under your department?" Hardcastle continued insistently.
Neely shook his head no. "Don't think so," he said. "Not likely, anyway."
"You said . . ." Hardcastle hesitated again, this time the look he cast at Mark was even more pointed, "something about seeing a psychiatrist."
"Yes." Neely looked rather surprised. "Dr. Westerfield, I mentioned your case to him; he was most interested. He said he's got some space on his schedule; there are a lot of patients away during the holidays. He wouldn't mind seeing you on short notice. He'd probably be able to fit you in tomorrow."
"You're not the average three-penny nail," Mark muttered under his breath. Hardcastle caught it and grimaced back at the kid.
Neely gave them both a puzzled glance and continued, "My receptionist can call over there and set up the appointment." Then he was rising; clearly the interview was at an end.
"That's all?" Mark asked. "What about—"
"He wants to know if I still need a keeper," Hardcastle interrupted sharply.
"Judge—"
"Gentlemen," Neely overrode them both with a quick hand motion. "All I can say is that the situation seems to be . . . stable, at least for now. And you, Mr. Hardcastle, appear to be relatively functional." The patient greeted this assessment with a grim smile. Neely forged on without a pause. "I can't predict what will happen next. You don't appear to be suffering from any known neurologic syndrome. Therefore I can only advise based on your current condition.
"It wouldn't hurt to have someone around; a competent housekeeper would do, a friend would be a sensible idea. I can't insist on it, though." He nodded at the two men. "If there's any change, or anything new arises, I would be glad to reevaluate you." Then he offered a handshake to the judge, gathered up his file, and was gone.
Hardcastle looked back at the kid leaning up against the wall with his head hanging down.
"I can be out by tomorrow," Mark murmured. "Be easier if I had a couple days."
"The hell with that," the judge said firmly. "You've gotta drive me over to see this shrink guy tomorrow."
The younger man's head came up, fractionally. His eyes narrowed just a little. Some of the previous day's wariness was back, but it was losing a battle to some other, less cautious expression. Might be hope, Hardcastle thought.
"If the shrink says you need a keeper," Mark suddenly broke out in a shameless grin, "it's not my damn fault. I'll just say I told you so."
00000
McCormick couldn't help it; the drive back up the PCH was not sedate. The third time he caught himself verging on making it exhilarating, he lightened up on the accelerator, and cast a sideward glance at the judge. No complaints yet. The man looked practically serene compared to earlier that morning.
One part of his mind was still counseling caution. He just asked you to stick around and give him a ride to the shrink's office. He had the address on a card in his pocket, the appointment was Tuesday at ten-thirty. And yet—
"For Pete's sake, it's not the Indy 500," Hardcastle groused mildly. "I'd like to get home in one piece."
"Sorry," Mark replied. "Bad habit." They were practically home.
Home.
He pulled into the drive at a downright sensible speed, spotting a familiar sedan parked by the fountain as he pulled up.
"Frank?" the judge asked, looking at Mark with slightly raised eyebrows.
"Looks like it. I told him I'd call when we got back."
Hardcastle shrugged as they both climbed out. Frank was standing over by the bushes, near the place where the shooter had fired from on Friday night. He waved as he started walking back to them.
"How'd it go?"
"It went," the judge replied, with a certain satisfaction in his smile.
Mark felt the lieutenant's attention turn toward him. He saw the question that wasn't being asked and he wondered, briefly, just how bad he'd looked yesterday, that Frank thought he'd better head over today to do some damage control. He flashed a small smile, not the full-bore goofy grin that he felt bubbling to the surface inside, but something more sensible, intended to allay concern, without encouraging false hope.
"We're okay, Frank. He's still not supposed to drive, and Neely still doesn't have a clue. You got anything else?"
"Maybe," Frank said, "maybe so. Wanna go inside?"
00000
They'd retired to the den. Hardcastle took his usual spot behind the desk. Frank sat himself down opposite, and the kid, without any hesitation, slid a chair up beside Harper's.
"Did a little legwork this morning," Frank said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his notebook. "Thought I'd get a jump on things while you guys were keeping your appointment." He flashed a look at Milt who didn't appear to be bristling at the choice of pronouns. "Anyway, came up with a little background on this company, Symnetech. Turns out they've only been around about a year, under that name at least. The guy who founded it, his name's Clement Grieves, was originally the director of something called the Holgremsen Institute."
This information was met by two blank stares. Frank shrugged and forged ahead.
"Yeah, I never heard of it either. Holgremsen was a doc, very smart guy, Nobel Prize type. Started the Institute in the way back, right after the war. Did research. Died a couple of years ago.
"In comes Grieves, had worked for Holgremsen, took over the Institute. They got lucky, some of their research turned into a very exciting new drug. Got an article in the Wall Street Journal. It's an antidepressant. Big money in antidepressants these days. Not fully approved by the FDA yet," Frank went on, "but all the signs are good. That was a year and a half ago." Frank flipped a page in his notebook and spared another glance to his listeners. He had their full attention.
"So, Grieves reincorporates the Institute as a private corporation, that's Symnetech."
"Is that legal?" Mark turned toward the judge. "The Institute was a not-for-profit entity and now—"
Frank shrugged again. "There weren't any major assets, just the drug patent. The original seed money that Holgremsen used was gone, and they didn't have any big grants. And, anyway, Symnetech belongs to the Holgremsen estate."
Hardcastle frowned, "And that belongs to . . .?"
"Half a dozen respectable charitable organizations get a share out of any proceeds. No living relatives."
Both the other men were frowning.
Mark spoke first, directing it to the judge. "An IPO?"
"Maybe, makes sense." Hardcastle rubbed his forehead. "You got anything on Symnetech having plans to go public?"
"Come on, Milt. I only had a couple of hours to come up with this." Frank flipped his notebook closed. "Anyway, give me a nice murder, a kidnapping. These corporate things," he shook his head, "you need an accountant, not a cop."
"There's something missing." Mark had leaned his head back on his chair and was studying the ceiling. "If they just do a stock offering, Grieves can't profit that much. It's those respectable charities that are going to get the payday."
"He's got something on the backburner," the judge nodded.
"Something that'll run the price of the stock up, after the initial offering," Mark lifted his head and looked at the judge. "More research? A new drug, another patent?"
Hardcastle nodded. "And that tide'll float everybody's boats. As long as the charities are getting bigger checks, and all the investors are profiting, whose gonna look too closely at the CEO's chunk of stock. Heck, he's probably making it look all self-sacrificing, that he took a couple thousand nearly-worthless shares of a feel-good company instead of a salary."
"Yeah," Frank interjected, "but what has that got to do with . . . all this?" he waved his hand vaguely at Hardcastle. He watched the cold, wet blanket of reality settle back on the sparks of criminal speculation.
After a moment or two of grim silence, Mark said confidently, "Dunno, but I guess we'll find out. Anyway, it's a good start."
"Yeah, Frank," Hardcastle added. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Frank smiled, "Haul out a plate of those Christmas cookies. You two haven't eaten them all have you?"
"Not yet. We made a dent, though." Mark smiled as he got to his feet. "Coming right up."
McCormick was barely out of the room before Frank inched his chair in toward the desk and leaned forward. "Things are going a little better?"
The judge nodded again. "Guess so." His eyes passed over the recently vacated chair and then back to Frank. "He's pretty sharp."
"That he is," Frank smiled. "You taught him all he knows." There was a moment's hesitation. "Well, not everything. I think he picked up some of it in San Quentin."
The look he got from the judge at this was merely annoyed, not angry. "Yeah, well, he doesn't scare off too easy." Hardcastle's face had assumed a thoughtful look. "I like that."
"You'll like him," Frank spoke with assurance. "Just give him half a chance."
Milt was still pondering this when McCormick rounded the doorway, tray in hand, smiling to himself. "I shoulda asked you if you wanted a sandwich first. It's going on one o'clock." He set the tray down and divvied up the cups and plates. "We've got a lot of ham. I suppose I should—" He broke off, looking up suddenly at the judge, as if he'd just realized he was talking out loud.
"Should what?" the judge asked mildly.
"Should, um . . ." The kid sat down, smile gone. Frank watched a cool, neutral almost-wary look replace it. "Ah, Sarah was right; the ham was for Christmas. I suppose I should pick up something else. You can't just eat ham sandwiches all week," he added, with a touch of defensiveness.
"Well," Hardcastle continued on, still in the same mild tone, "I suppose we could, but it wouldn't be very Christmasy."
"No," Mark hesitated. "It wouldn't." He hesitated again. "I could pick up a turkey. A small one."
"Not too small," Hardcastle smiled. "Turkey sandwiches."
The kid's smile was tentative, but back. "And Swiss, and mayo, and more rye."
"Yeah, that sounds about right."
Frank shook his head, and finished his second cookie. "Okay, you two, now you know all the angles. Stay out of trouble and keep me posted. I better head back to the office."
McCormick got up and saw him out. When they got to the door Frank took his arm and guided him out, closing it slightly behind him. Then he asked the same question he'd asked the judge. This time the answer was more hesitant.
"Yeah," Mark finally answered, "a little better. He's been on his best behavior all day. I thought it was because of Neely." Mark paused, then leveled a look at Frank. "What the hell did you say to him?"
"Nothing," Frank smiled. "I think he figured it out all by himself."
"No," Mark said, looking down a little. "I think Sarah gave him a kick in the pants. She's good at that. One look from her . . ." He shook his head. "He'd do it for her, too."
"Well, long may it last," Frank said with feeling.
Mark lifted his head, eyes a little narrowed, his smile thin. "Yeah, but the important thing to keep remembering is, it might not."
Frank gave him a pat on the arm, but was too good a friend to offer a flat-out denial.
00000
Mark watched Frank walk to his car before he turned back to the door. He reached into the box for the mail almost reflexively, starting the once-through sort, to divide them into two groups, even before he'd gotten the door open. It was the second letter—one addressed to him—that made him freeze in his tracks, the door ajar.
Damn. He looked over his shoulder. Frank was already halfway down the drive. Mark looked back down at what was in his hand, then shoved it hastily into the inner pocket of his jacket. He composed his face, and stepped back into the house. He had no idea what Frank might, or might not, have explained to the judge about their financial arrangements, but he was sure as hell not going to go inside and hand the man a tuition bill right now.
He stepped back into the den and put the judge's part of the mail down on the edge of the desk, certain that his face was a brittle mask over a seething cauldron of 'what-the-hell-do-I-do-now?'
It didn't matter. The judge had his Rolodex out and was thumbing through it for something. He didn't even look up as he muttered, "Can't find Fawley's number. Must've changed. Tried to dial the old one and I got a pet store."
"Fawley?"
"My accountant, business manager, handled all of the brokerage accounts. If anybody'd have the low-down on an IPO, it'll be him. I'll just ask him to scope it out for me a little, like I was thinking of investing. He's always telling us to broaden the portfolio."
"Try the 'P's, Pickering. He's the only one I ever heard you mention. Fawley must've retired."
This time Hardcastle looked up, abruptly. "Or he died." The look on his face was resigned. "Pickering? I remember him. Skinny kid right out of school. Junior member of the firm."
"He's filled out a little. And I've never heard you complain about him."
Hardcastle's reply was mostly a grunt, as he flipped further back through the cards. "Here," he looked up again, concern written in his expression. "He's gonna ask me stuff and I'm not gonna know what the hell he's talking about."
"Nah," Mark sat back down. "It's right before a holiday. It's almost the end of the year. You'll be lucky if he even answers the phone. Just tell him what you want. Tell him you don't want to bother him about anything else, knowing how busy he is and all. He'll love you for it."
The judge nodded a little doubtfully but began to dial. Mark reached over and pointed out the speaker button.
The secretary was crisp but friendly. She seemed to recognize the judge's name and asked if he needed his account file pulled while he waited.
"No . . . no, just a quick question. That's all," Hardcastle assured her.
When Pickering came on a moment later, he was more jovial than harassed and Mark had a suspicion that the office Christmas party had started a bit early. The business manager gave Hardcastle's inquiry a moment's thought before he replied.
"Symnetech? Yeah, I heard something about it. It's a January launch. Already delayed once, I believe. I can't tout it very much. Might draw a little interest from investors who are looking to balance their portfolios ethically, but I wouldn't say it's all that common to have a company that does well and does good."
"Why was it delayed?" Hardcastle asked, with only casual interest.
"Don't know. There can be lots of reasons. Might've just been a snafu with the paperwork. Hey, you'll be wanting a check drawn on the main account pretty soon? Do you want it made out to, um . . ." there was a brief sound of paper-thumbing, "McCormick directly, or to the bursar?"
Mark felt the cauldron come to a sudden and complete boil, and his forehead dropped into his hand. Can I not catch a break, here, just once? He barely registered the judge's words.
". . . what we did last time." Hardcastle's tone was calm and even, as if he knew exactly what he was talking about.
"Yeah," the accountant replied—the sound of a pen, notations being made. "It's easier that way. Just give me a total and I'll put it together for you. And, if you're interested in biochemicals, I'll let you know if I hear of any hot prospects. But not Symnetech."
There was an exchange of holiday greetings, and a promise to meet about tax papers after the beginning of the year. Then the dial tone, and Mark reached over to hit the speaker button again. He slumped back in his seat.
"Well, I guess I shoulda figured," the judge said flatly. It was hard to read what feeling might be behind the words.
McCormick kept his eyes focused on the edge of the desk where the damned phone sat. He waited for something else, some pointed comment from Hardcastle. Nothing more came.
Mark finally sat up a little straighter and said, "You are under no obligation—"
"Oh, but I kinda think I am," the judge interrupted him. "We must have some sort of arrangement."
Mark resisted the urge to tell Hardcastle it had been his idea, and, God knew, he didn't want to go into the exact mechanism by which he had acquired his law school tuition from the judge; the man's sense of mental health was shaky enough as it was. So he settled for the vague and obscure.
"Strictly verbal. I don't even think there was a handshake involved. I won't hold you to it."
"Got the bill yet?" Hardcastle replied.
Mark sighed, and reached into his pocket to pull out the envelope. He handed it over reluctantly, watching the judge take the letter opener to it in an altogether familiar gesture. Then he saw the expression of mild astonishment on the man's face as he unfolded the sheet and studied it.
A low whistle and then, "Didn't cost that much when I went there."
Mark couldn't help it; a smile crept onto his face. He tried to squelch it as the judge looked up and pinned him with a look.
"What?" the older man asked, appearing mildly suspicious that he'd been left out of a joke.
Mark blinked once. "I'm sorry; I couldn't help it. That's exactly what you said last semester." He shook his head. "And then you called me 'a damn expensive hobby'."
"And what did you say?" Hardcastle asked curiously.
"I told you ''A's don't come cheap'," Mark replied levelly.
"Then there's textbooks," Hardcastle looked down, studying the bill again, "Things like that."
"You already paid for them. I wanted to get them before the semester break; get some of the reading out of the way over the holiday . . .sometimes things come up."
"Don't they though," Hardcastle replied dryly.
"No obligation," Mark repeated himself, looking directly at the older man.
The judge nodded once, then reached forward for the phone and began to dial Pickering again.
00000
By the time Hardcastle had finished his additional brief business with the accountant, Mark had slipped out of the room. It was as though he was embarrassed about the whole thing, though Sarah and Frank had both intimated that the kid earned his keep. The judge frowned again, looking at the bill he'd just made arrangements to pay. He didn't feel like he was being used.
He got up and strolled into the kitchen, where Mark was finishing the lunch arrangements with more bustle that it appeared to require. At least he had gotten to the point where he could recognize when the kid was nervous. He supposed that was a start. Of course it also meant that he was getting a lot of practice seeing it.
"Just about ready. Leftovers again," Mark apologized.
Hardcastle pulled out a chair and sat himself down. Mark put down a bowl of potato salad and took the other seat.
There was a moment of awkward silence and then McCormick took a breath and said, "Thank you. You didn't have to. I never expected you to do it the first time around."
The judge nodded and started filling his plate. He paused, spoon in hand, and gave the younger man a questioning glance.
"Did I seem like the sort of person who would go back on a deal?"
Mark blanched, then shook his head tightly. "God, no, just the opposite. When you made a deal, it stayed made."
Hardcastle nodded. The look got a little sharper. "And have I changed that much?"
The answer didn't come quite as fast this time. The kid was avoiding his gaze. "Judge," he began slowly, "I don't know how to explain this, without making you mad."
"Just explain it," Hardcastle said, with some exasperation.
"See, you're already angry. That's what I mean. You remind me so much of the guy who sent me up for two years, for auto theft." Mark shook his head. "I used to pretend that I wasn't scared of that guy. I had a smart mouth. I joked about it. Sometimes I got angry myself. I guess I'm out of practice. I haven't had to be afraid of you for a long time now."
"Then why the hell did you stay here, if I'm such a scary guy?"
"Huh?" Mark sat back in his chair and finally looked the older man right in the eye. "I thought you read my file." Utter disbelief was written on his face. "I was looking at third-strike felony auto theft, on top of breaking and entering, flight to avoid arrest, and damage to police property. All of that while on parole. Whaddaya think? Fifteen years? Probably too conservative. I'm surprised I took as much time to make up my mind as I did." He shook his head. "You had me between a rock and a very hard place, Judge."
"So, you're saying I blackmailed you?"
"Nah," the kid's smile was a little tight, "blackmail's illegal. This was 'judicial stay'."
Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a little. Mark wasn't evading him anymore, the gaze he returned was steady and a little defiant.
"Hmph," the judge grunted. "So happens I read your file, and I took a look at the Cody one, too. Most of those original charges would've looked pretty thin after you nailed him for a double homicide. A smart guy like you must've figured that out."
"Yeah," McCormick nodded the concession. "I did figure that. But I was still on parole."
"But even that ended a year ago. So, why did you stay?"
The gaze didn't waver. "Come on, Judge," he said; his smile was steady, too. "Do I seem like the kind of guy who would go back on a deal?"
Hardcastle though he should have seen it coming, it sounded so convincing when the kid said it. Doesn't mean it's true, but it sounds true. He shook his head once, as though to shag a little nagging doubt away, then he went back to filling up his plate.
They ate in silence but the tension seemed to have slackened some. Toward the end of the meal, the judge gave Mark another considered look.
"Whaddaya think, do we still need to mount a guard every night? Been three days now and no more action."
Mark pushed the last of his potato salad around on his plate, giving the question some thought. He finally shrugged. "Dunno, Judge, I'm kinda in the boat with Neely on this one. Don't know why it happened in the first place, so I can't be sure if it's gonna happen again. Maybe it occurred to them that it was a bad idea to raise suspicions by taking pot shots at ex-judges. Maybe they finally figured out that you aren't much threat to them if you haven't come at them in a week.
"But, still, I wouldn't want to be casual about it. It took them four days to get around to firing the first shot. A couple more days of being careful wouldn't hurt."
"Then you should go take a nap," Hardcastle looked down at his watch. "You can't stay up night and day. And we'll split the watch."
00000
Another day, another waiting room, another copy of Sports Illustrated. They were the only two there. This time the kid was sitting, almost sullenly, slouched back in his chair, leafing through the magazine with no apparent interest. He hadn't had much to say this morning, but managed to radiate silent disapproval all the way over.
"Dr. Westerfield will see you now, Mr. Hardcastle." The receptionist pointed him toward the office door.
Mark put the magazine down and started to rise, too, but slumped back at a gesture from the judge.
"Stay here a bit," Hardcastle said, trying not to make it sound unkind. He caught the questioning look from the younger man, quickly papered over with resignation.
"Your funeral," Mark muttered and then, "good luck," he added quickly, not quite able to keep the worry out of his voice.
"I just want to talk to the guy. See what he says," Hardcastle said with calm confidence intended to be reassuring. "It won't take too long."
"Yeah, three days, tops," McCormick grumbled. "Just remember, they can't hold you any longer than that without a hearing."
"Yeah," the judge smiled, "I know that." He gave the younger man a quick pat on the shoulder and was startled by the look he got in return—surprise, followed quickly by a shadow of wariness.
Hardcastle sighed and strode toward the office door, trying not to let the kid's fears infect him.
Westerfield was sitting behind a desk which reminded the judge of his own. He was a guy just north of middle age, balding, with a round, cheerful face. He was working in his shirtsleeves, the doctor's coat hanging on the coat rack near the door. The judge put aside his expectations of a pointy beard and glowering eyebrows with a faint sigh of relief.
"Mr. Hardcastle?" the doctor rose and extended a hand, "I'm Westerfield. Dr. Neely has told me about your . . . predicament."
The judge grimaced. "Well, that's a new word for it. And he told you it wasn't in his department, too, I suppose." Hardcastle was trying not to sound irritated about that. He figured irritated would just be more grist for the mill with Dr. Westerfield.
He was gestured to a chair. This wasn't going to be one of those doctor's visits where you took off your shirt and said 'ahh', but at least he hadn't seen a couch yet.
The judge let out a deep sigh. "Listen, Doc, I woke up last week and I was missing fifteen years; it's as simple as that. They don't think it's because I hit my head," he pointed to the rapidly fading bruise and the scabbed over scrape at his hairline, "and Neely says it wasn't some kind of stroke; he sent me here. So, Doc, am I crazy?""
Westerfield looked taken aback. Maybe he'd been a little more direct than the man was used to. Hardcastle couldn't help it. He'd had a week to think about the question he was asking. But a second later there was a smile and Hardcastle began to think he might be able to get along with this guy.
"First of all, Mr. Hardcastle, we don't really use the term 'crazy'. What Dr. Neely was trying to suggest, is that there didn't seem to be any structural problem with your brain, and no way to explain the functional loss—though, Lord knows, we don't really understand how memory works."
"If you don't understand it, then how the hell can you tell what is or isn't causing it?" the judge asked, with rising frustration.
"Because, we may not know how it works, but we know the way it works. There's no physiologic division between, say, a memory from adulthood that is ten years old, and one that is from sixteen years past. They're both long-term memory." Westerfield spread his hands and smiled again, "Now, you feel like you woke up, and fifteen years had simply never occurred, it was, um, 1971?"
Hardcastle nodded.
"A particular day in 1971?"
He frowned, then shook his head. "Frank asked me what day it was. I . . . didn't know. I looked out the window, there were people, down in the parking lot, wearing jackets. I thought it must be winter. Then he told me it was December, um, sixteenth."
"And what was the last thing you remember before that?" Westerfield prodded gently.
"Ah," Hardcastle made a face. "The continuance I granted. The Hefflin case."
"And that was—?"
"December. 1971. A terrible case. The father set fire to—" He paused abruptly and shook his head once. "It was pretty awful. The defense wanted more time for another psychiatric evaluation. He was going with an insanity plea. Hell, that guy was as sane as you or—" he stopped again, looking chagrined. Then he shrugged. "Well, as sane as you, anyway."
"Sounds . . . memorable." Westerfield's smile was grim. "What day was that?"
Hardcastle froze. "Um, I don't know. I'd have to check my records. Not too long before Christmas, though. I remember I was hoping to get the jury seated before the holiday break."
"Do you remember what happened later that day?
"I came home." Hardcastle frowned.
"What did you have for dinner that night?"
"Ah," the frown deepened, "I dunno. Sarah . . . made something. I don't remember what it was."
"Of course not," Westerfield nodded. "Nobody remembers what they had for dinner fifteen years ago. The only reason you remember that moment was it probably carried a lot of heavy emotional content for you. It was a particularly horrible case, and an exceptionally aggravating ruling."
"And Frank had told me it was the middle of December, and I thought it was 1971 so . . . the Hefflin case." The judge's frown had been replaced by a look of acceptance.
"I think we ought to take a closer look at this interface between what you remember, and what you don't," Westerfield mused thoughtfully, "and see if it's immutable, or indefinite."
"All right," Hardcastle gave his a questioning look. "How?"
The 'how' part was basically Westerfield taking him through the late sixties and early seventies, mostly the things that everyone knew, but then dipping into the judge's own personal life at intervals. Back and forth, it reminded him of walking the grid at Gull's Way, Friday last, the same attention to detail that the kid had shown, looking for shreds of evidence.
"Doc," he stopped in mid-recollection, "there's something else I need to ask you about."
Westerfield looked up from his notes. "That's okay. I think we're just about done with this exercise." The doctor tapped his pen on his notebook. "Clearly there is no abrupt interface between what you remember and what you do not. This is exactly what I would expect; after all, none of us can remember ordinary events from fifteen years ago. We remember routines, and the very exceptional. You do seem to have an extraordinary memory for names, and details. I suppose that goes with your previous profession. But what you are actually dealing with is a sort of 'fade out' somewhere in late 1971. Does that year have any specific significance for you?"
The silence got very thick. Hardcastle finally cleared his throat and said, firmly. "No, not that year."
Westerfield's left eyebrow went up a little.
"My son died, the next year. Frank, he's an old friend of mine, he told me. I went to see the grave. And my wife, Nancy, she died the year after that."
"Ah," Westerfield eased forward a little in his chair. "I can see what Neely was getting at." He tapped his pen again. "But you say you went to see your son's grave?"
"Nancy's, too," Hardcastle rubbed his forehead. "They're in Woodlawn."
"Voluntarily?"
"Ah?"
"This, um, Frank, he didn't force you to go. You asked to see their graves?"
"Well, yeah," Hardcastle admitted. "I dunno, it just didn't seem real. I'm not sure what I was thinking."
"You just wanted to be sure." Westerfield shrugged, "Like a person checks a road map when they think they might be lost."
"Lost," Hardcastle exhaled, "that's for sure."
"But people who have memory loss for psychological reasons, when they're in a fugue state, they don't try to reorient themselves. The amnesia is a sort of protective device. They may even fight to hold on to it, in the face of overwhelming evidence. What year is it now?"
"1986," Hardcastle replied glumly.
"Is it? Do you really believe it is?"
"Hell, we drove by twenty gas stations on the way here, Doc. Have you seen the price of gas?"
"There." Westerfield laughed. "If you want to be a regular patient of mine, you're going to have to come up with a conspiracy theory to explain that."
"I've got somebody waiting out there in your lobby who might be better than me at that."
Westerfield gave him a puzzled look.
"His name's Mark; he's staying with me. Neely insisted I couldn't stay by myself." Hardcastle shrugged. "Probably was right. Hell, I didn't believe any of this at first . . . Anyway, he knows me. I mean, he knows what I put on a ham sandwich, he knows where I keep the extension cord for the Christmas tree. He says he's worked for me the past three years or so. He says we're friends."
"And you don't remember him at all?" Westerfield looked speculative. "That must be . . .disconcerting as hell."
"Wait, it gets better," Hardcastle grimaced. "He's an ex-con. I was a judge . . . I was the judge who sentenced him." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Does that make any sense at all?"
The doctor appeared to ponder this for a moment before responding, "No, not much for him. Some pretty major cognitive dissonance there, I'll bet. I'd like to meet him."
"He doesn't like 'shrinks' very much."
Westerfield laughed.
"But," the judge hesitated again, "there's something else that's bothering me."
The psychiatrist merely nodded an encouragement to continue.
"People who have this 'fugue' thing, do they have trouble sleeping?"
"What sort of trouble are we talking about?"
Hardcastle's eyes narrowed a little as he tried to construct a description that made sense. "It's dreams. Very vivid, some I understand. Some confuse the hell out of me."
"Like?"
"There's one, over and over. I'm outside; there's trees. I'm walking down a hill. There's lots of underbrush. I can't see very well, but I'm looking for someone, Tom, that's my son. I want to hurry, but I'm afraid of what I'm going to find when I get to the bottom; I'm afraid he's already dead. And then I wake up in a cold sweat." Hardcastle closed his eyes; he could see the way the sunlight had come through the trees. It was early morning. He jerked himself upright and opened his eyes with a start.
Westerfield was leaning forward, elbows on the desk. "No one knows why we dream, but elements of whatever is troubling us while we're awake seem to crop up frequently."
"But this is so real, like it happened," Hardcastle insisted. "And Tommy died nine thousand miles away. I wasn't there."
"Or, it's possible it's a real memory, and it confuses you because you're having to fill in some of the context. Have you asked anyone who knows you if such an event ever occurred?"
Hardcastle shook his head, looking unwilling. "Who should I ask?"
"Well, now you are acting like one of my fugue patients," Westerfield sighed. "How about this guy who knows where you keep the extension cords?"
00000
Mark had pretended to look at every page of the three-month-past issue of Sports Illustrated. He'd gone back to pacing, with frequent breaks to study the slowly creeping hands of the waiting room clock. The receptionist hadn't paid much attention to this. She was used to seeing barely-controlled anxiety, he figured, and had probably already diagnosed him from where she sat. Nearly forty-five minutes had inched by when her phone rang. She spent a short moment with the receiver to her ear, and then looked up at him.
"Mr. McCormick?" she inquired politely. "You can go in, now." She pointed him toward the door.
He straightened himself, loosening his shoulders. He tried to figure out all the potential angles of damage control he might expect to encounter, while erasing all hints of anger from his face. The he opened the door and edged through.
Hardcastle was just sitting there, not looking particularly worked over. The guy on the other side of the desk was smiling, gesturing him to a chair. If there was bad news in the offing, he was doing a good job keeping it under wraps.
"Mr. Hardcastle tells me you aren't too fond of 'shrinks'."
Mark shot the judge an exasperated look and a quick, "Thanks." Hardcastle shrugged.
Westerfield stifled a chuckle. "Don't worry, Mr. McCormick, it's a common opinion. Your friend also tells me you have a theory about his current condition."
"I thought that's why he was coming to you," Mark grumbled.
"Well, good news there. I would have to say his memory loss doesn't show the typical hallmarks of a psychiatric disorder."
Mark sat up straighter. "Really? I mean . . . yeah, I know."
"And your theory?"
"I just think it's awfully convenient for someone, that he can't remember what the hell he went out to do last Monday night," Mark shook his head. "I hate convenience. It seems . . ."
"Unnatural?" Westerfield prodded.
"Yup. I have no idea how it could have been done, though," he looked at the doctor. "And I guess nobody else knows, either."
"How much time are we talking about, here?"
"A couple of hours, tops." McCormick looked at the man next to him. "We were in the den at ten o'clock. I left. I got the call from Frank at three a.m., and you had gotten from Malibu, to Glendale, to St. Mary's."
Westerfield rubbed his chin with his thumb. "A drug, something chemical, that would be the only way. And I'm not familiar with anything that works this way."
"Something that's still under development?" Mark asked. "Something a research lab might be working on?"
"Who knows," Westerfield shook his head. "It's possible."
Mark looked at the judge again. "Okay, I was wrong. We shoulda come here a week ago." Hardcastle smiled back at him thinly.
"The question is," Westerfield continued, "is the damage permanent, or reversible? Have synapses been destroyed, or is the access merely temporarily disconnected?"
Mark locked his gaze back on the doctor at the mention of the first possibility. "But it's been a week. If it was temporary, shouldn't he be recovering?"
"Depends," Westerfield replied. "There are all sorts of factors. Some connections may need to be reforged, or pathways around them found, or it may be a simple matter of reversible binding of a drug that's blocking certain receptors. It would help if we really knew how the memory system works."
"It would help if you guys would learn to think outside the box." Mark shot the doctor a quick look and then, in an aside to the judge, added, "Don't worry; I'm still glad we came. This is the first person who's even given it a little thought."
Westerfield was still smiling. Mark felt himself relax just a little.
"And it may be that there has been the return of some of the interval memories," Westerfield took in both men with a glance. "And the difference between none and even one is critical here."
Mark found himself nodding.
"Tell him what you told me, Mr. Hardcastle. Maybe he can clarify things for us."
There was something in the judge's expression that brought all the tension back to McCormick's spine. Mark wanted to say 'Stop, wait a minute,' but Westerfield had said it was important and the guy had been the most rational person to take a look at the situation so far.
But a moment later, as the judge described the scene, in fits and starts, he realized his gut instinct had been absolutely right. Then they were both staring at him.
Dammit, no more lying.
"It might have happened that way. I wasn't exactly there." Okay, that was a lie. He was pretty sure his face was giving it away. Westerfield was still staring; Mark hadn't worked up the nerve to snatch a glimpse of the judge's expression, but he knew the man hadn't moved.
"I . . . see," Westerfield murmured, and Mark knew if he'd figured it out, then the judge, who'd known him for a whole week now, couldn't be very far behind.
Spill it.
"It was about a year ago. You were looking into Charlie Clarkson's murder. It was a ravine; the slope led down from the road. I'm not sure exactly where it was. You could ask Frank. He knows. Or maybe it doesn't have anything to do with that . . ." He averted his eyes as the nervous words wound down. He couldn't bring himself to see what the other man was feeling right now. Surprise, doubt, utter disbelief.
"We may need some further sessions," Westerfield said quietly. "Maybe for you, too, Mr. McCormick."
"No, thanks." Mark stood, decisively. "I can go wait down by the car."
He heard Westerfield murmuring, "I think we've covered plenty of ground today." And then he felt Hardcastle's hand on his sleeve, a loose grip just above the wrist.
"Hold up, kiddo. I'm coming, too."
00000
The ride home in the car began in uncanny silence. Mark drove with extreme attention to detail. Every passing minute made it that much harder to start a conversation.
Conversation? What the hell are you going to say to the man? 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to become anything more than a hired gun. I didn't even know you'd had a son until a month after you hijacked my life.'
But it was Hardcastle who made the opening gambit just before they hit the PCH.
"I suppose we'd better stop and get that turkey."
McCormick nodded. "I hope they have some that aren't frozen." He heard the words coming out very flat, very ordinarily.
"Frank said you almost died."
Mark almost jerked his head to the side at that unexpected segue. He finally found his voice "What all has Frank been telling you?"
"This and that," the judge replied vaguely. "Maybe that's why I dreamt about it," he added, in a very practical tone.
"Then maybe it's not really a memory."
"He didn't describe it," Hardcastle protested. "He didn't say anything about a hill, or trees, or . . . anything."
"Okay," Mark backed off. "That's good then; you remember something."
"I want to call Frank. I want to see the place," he said, with sudden insistence.
McCormick chewed his lower lip for a moment and then said, "You're sure?" There was a definite nod from the older man. Then a pause, then Mark began again, a little more slowly. "You don't need to call Frank. I'm pretty sure I can find it. I know the road, anyway, and . . . I think I know about where it was."
He said nothing more until he found the turn-off and drove up into the hills. He'd never been back to the spot, but from Frank and Millie's descriptions, and his own hazy recollection, he thought he could find it. The judge himself had not talked about it much. He'd certainly never given an account of just how he'd managed to find the place the first time. That Mark had gotten from Millie as well. God help us the conversation doesn't get around to that as well.
He snuck a glance sideward at the older man as he navigated the final curve, and saw a big rock off to the right. Millie had mentioned that. He pulled over to the curb and let out a heavy breath. The judge was already climbing out of the car and Mark dragged himself out to catch up. Hardcastle was walking like a man in a trance. McCormick moved forward, ready to take his arm if he started to fall.
And then he almost stumbled himself. He was looking over the brink, down a steep slope into a thickly wooded place. Despite the midday, winter sunlight, he couldn't see much at the bottom. Dark and cold. He remembered it being cold. Hardcastle was stepping down.
"Wait," Mark held out one hand, snagging his arm. "It's kinda steep. There's nothing there."
Hardcastle was still looking down. "The light's a little different," he murmured
"It was early in the morning."
"It's just like what I saw. Everything else is the same."
"No," McCormick said, still holding on to the arm firmly. "I'm up here." He heard the somewhat strained quality to his laugh. "We're not going down there. There's no reason to."
He saw the judge look up at him, studying his face suddenly. It was as though he had come back from a long way off.
"Okay," Hardcastle finally said reassuringly. Mark let loose of his sleeve. "We better go get that turkey."
"Right," Mark encouraged, taking one more quick look down into the darkness before he led the other man back to the car.