All Things Change But Truth

by The Gull's-Way Collective

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

8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

McCormick was supposed to be napping. At least, that had been his excuse a few hours earlier when he had simply needed an escape from the weirdness that was slowly wearing on his last nerve.

Yesterday, things had remained a little awkward after their visit to Kelly's Curve. Hardcastle had been unusually quiet, and he himself hadn't really had much to say, either. The longest stretch of conversation had been in the grocery store, centered around the judge's typical grousing that canned cranberries just weren't the same as fresh.

So when they returned home, they had put away the groceries, then Mark had escaped to do some maintenance on the 'Vette before they plowed their way through a stilted dinner and an almost silent viewing of Donovan's Reef. Somehow, facing up to more evidence that he might actually care about McCormick seemed to have pushed Hardcastle even further away. So the judge had called it a night right after the movie, leaving Mark alone with his guard duty, though he had offered to take a turn standing watch.

Breakfast this morning hadn't been much better, though McCormick was willing to admit that part of that might've had to do more with his exhaustion than anything else. Hardcastle seemed to be making some effort to keep things on an even keel, but, damn; it shouldn't have to be so hard. He hated the uncertainty that seemed to radiate from every moment they spent together.

So, as soon as the morning dishes had been washed and put away, McCormick had rattled off a list of yard work that needed to be done, and Hardcastle hadn't objected. Then, later in the afternoon, he had run out of things to do and had stopped in to the kitchen for a cold drink. Hardcastle had offered to fix a quick bite to eat, but he had begged off, saying he needed to rest up before standing the overnight watch.

But when he had returned to the gatehouse, the first thing he had done after taking his shower was drag the judge's gift from under his bed to wrap it. He stared at the thing long and hard, thinking maybe he should just run down to the department store and settle for a shirt and tie instead. God only knew what the current version of Hardcastle was gonna think.

He tried to find some reassurance in the idea that it would be appreciated when Hardcastle finally got his memory back, but that thought was followed immediately by a gloomy caveat: If he gets his memory back. And then another: And if I'm still around to see it.

That's not fair, he scolded himself. He hasn't kicked you out yet.

He's still feeling guilty. How long do you think he'll keep you here out of pity? And how long would you want him to?

He thought about that for a moment. He decided a stronger man might be offended at the idea, maybe refuse to stay under those circumstances. But if that was strength, he knew it was a strength he didn't have. He would stay as long as Hardcastle would have him, because that was the only way to get his judge back.

And then he smiled. "Your judge," he said aloud, chuckling ruefully. "Better not ever let him hear you say that."

He pulled the foil paper around the frame.

00000

McCormick was stretched out on the sofa, textbook in hand. It really wasn't his idea of a perfect Christmas Eve, but he still wasn't ready to head back to the main house and deal with a Hardcastle who didn't know how to deal with him.

And, though there was a part of him that felt more tired than he could ever remember, he hadn't been able to nap. He had dozed fitfully for about thirty minutes after wrapping the gift, but had given up after that, grabbed a book, and headed downstairs.

Originally, he had thought a text entitled Evidentiary Procedures was going to be pretty dry reading, but it wasn't turning out too bad. And, about forty pages in, he had bolted straight up on the couch, surprised to find himself reading about a very familiar name.

Back in 1958, a relatively junior jurist had refused to allow testimony from a declared expert witness based on his interpretation of some obscure law on the books since 1911. The defense had objected, and the objections were duly noted, but there was no testimony, and the defendant lost. Appeals were filed, but Hardcastle's ruling was upheld all the way to the state Supreme Court.

"Livin' with a friggin' judicial celebrity," McCormick complained out loud. But only a blind man would've been able to miss the pride on his face as he flopped back down to continue reading.

He hadn't even noticed the slowly fading light until the knock on his door startled him away from the text. He had just swung his legs down to the floor when the second knock came. He shook his head in wonder as he called out, "Come in!"

"I was beginning to think you were ignoring me," the judge complained as he came lumbering through the door.

"Ah, no. Sorry." There really was no need in explaining that he hadn't realized Hardcastle would need to be invited in.

But even with a fairly substantial case of amnesia, Hardcastle was pretty sharp.

"Don't tell me: I don't knock, either."

McCormick grinned slightly. "It is your house," he allowed.

Hardcastle surveyed the gatehouse. "Really?" He wandered through the living area slowly, eyes scanning over everything, taking it all in.

"It's a little messy right now," McCormick began self-consciously, but Hardcastle waved him into silence.

"I'm guessing that a week ago I didn't care."

"Well, no; you cared."

"But I let it be," Hardcastle deducted.

McCormick just shrugged as he watched the older man pause at the mantle.

Hardcastle picked up a small, framed photo. Not exactly a candid, but not really posed. Just a snapshot of two . . . friends. Outside somewhere, a park maybe, though neither of them appeared dressed for the park. And what was that sign the kid was holding? He looked more closely.

"I ran for mayor?" he exclaimed.

Mark laughed. "Yeah. But you lost. Sorry."

Hardcastle studied the mantle a moment longer, examining a few of the personal items sitting there. He looked bemused as he returned the picture to its rightful place.

"Politics," he said, almost disdainfully. "What was I doing getting mixed up in that?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, Judge, but getting mixed up in things is what you do."

Hardcastle turned back to face the slightly impish expression. "I suppose that's how I got you?"

"Same kinda thing," McCormick agreed with a small smile, surprised to find that he was feeling much more comfortable than several hours earlier. Home field advantage.

He watched the judge still trying to reconcile his realities, then spoke again.

"What're you doing over here, anyway, Judge? Did you need something?"

"Oh, yeah," Hardcastle replied. "Dinner. I was gonna tell you not to sleep through the night." He looked at the book in the young man's hands. "Though it doesn't really look like you were doing much napping."

McCormick gave a shrug. "A little. But there's a lot of material in the syllabus; just getting a bit of a start." He tapped the book as he set it aside. "You're in here, ya know."

Hardcastle looked at it quizzically. "Really?"

"Yep. Right there on page forty-three, California v. Lamley. You're famous."

"Lamley, huh? That was a pretty good decision, I thought." He paused for a moment, then added, "Wanna hear about it while you fix dinner?"

Grinning, McCormick rose from the sofa. "It's a date."

They hadn't taken too many steps away from the gatehouse when Hardcastle said, "Ya know, we better bring your book. Hafta make sure they got it all right, ya know."

McCormick just laughed and kept walking. "You know where it's at. I'm gonna start dinner."

The judge ducked back inside, got what he needed, and followed the kid to the main house.

00000

Dinnertime was almost comfortable. McCormick had started by declaring they were going to have a "faux feast" for Christmas Eve: relaxed and casual, but vaguely traditional and festive.

While Hardcastle had given him the details of Alexander Lamley and his cousin who was attempting to pass for an expert in the mental health field, McCormick set up a small folding table in the den, covered it with a bright red tablecloth, then chose a nice setting of china. Not the very best—they would save that for tomorrow—but not the indestructible everyday dishes, either. They were only doing leftover ham sandwiches again, but he was determined to make it a nice holiday. He returned to the kitchen to check on his side dishes. The salad was tossed and the potatoes au gratin were approaching golden brown. He gathered the ham, cheddar, sourdough, and butter and placed several sandwiches on the griddle.

Several minutes later he had the sandwiches sliced into neat triangles and stacked on a serving tray, and he carried them to the table to join the already waiting potatoes and salad.

"Sit down, Judge," he said, putting the sandwiches in place. "I'll be right back with the iced tea." He returned a moment later with the pitcher and glasses arranged on a service tray. Hardcastle had lowered the lights down a notch or two from full glare, and turned on the tree. And, for the finishing touch, It's a Wonderful Life was just beginning, playing quietly in the background. The young man smiled.

"Looks nice, Judge."

"That's what I was gonna say," Hardcastle replied, returning the smile.

And then they were sitting, reaching for food, and getting plates filled. When the immediate bustle had subsided, Hardcastle looked across the table. "So," he began, "a Christmas to remember, huh?"

Mark hesitated for a split-second, then offered a lopsided grin. "We've had our share."

"Yeah. Frank told me I was in jail for one of 'em."

With a grimace, McCormick answered, "Well, not the whole holiday. And besides, didn't he tell you anything good?"

"Mm-mm," the judge hummed around his bite of potato, then swallowed. "As a matter of fact, he has." He returned to his meal without offering anything further.

They ate in silence for several minutes, and then the judge said, "So why don't you tell me your version of our holidays?"

Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise, but answered without hesitation. "Last year was normal enough. We actually had a small dinner party Christmas Eve, then just hung out here Christmas day." He laughed suddenly. "In my stocking that year you gave me a parchment scroll lettered in perfect calligraphy. It was a word for word rendering of section 472."

Hardcastle looked up from his plate. "In the habit of forging official seals, are you?"

McCormick laughed again. "No, not really. But we'd been working a case just a couple of weeks earlier and I needed some information. I never really meant for you to find out. But, of course, you did, and you pestered me about it for a while." He took a moment to wonder why he wasn't more concerned about admitting this detail, then quickly decided he didn't care why it was; he was just glad that it was.

His face grew more serious. "The year before that was the bad one."

"Worse than this?" Hardcastle wondered aloud.

He didn't have to think about the answer. "You were an innocent man in jail, Judge. It doesn't get a whole lot worse than that." He could see the jurist contemplating all the possible meanings of his words, but he didn't give him time to reply.

"But the first year . . . now that was a Christmas to remember."

"Big happenings, huh?"

McCormick shook his head. "Nah. It was just . . ." he paused to refill the tea glasses while he tried to figure out how to explain. "I hadn't been here all that long. Things were already getting a little worse for Sarah's sister, so she was away for almost the whole month. It was just you and me." He took another break to shovel a forkful of salad into his mouth.

Get a grip, McCormick, he thought furiously. This is the easy part of the story, no laws being broken, or anything. But he couldn't quite ignore the cautiousness that had drifted back into the forefront of his mind.

"Anyway," he finally continued, "it had only been a few months, but things were going okay. We were getting along pretty well." He let his eyes meet Hardcastle's.

"Honestly, Judge, I think it's still a toss-up as to which one of us was more surprised by that fact, but it was true. We had already been through a bunch of cases. You'd saved my life once; I had broken you out of a banana republic jail; we'd committed a felony together. You know, lots of bonding moments." He grinned a little at Hardcastle's disbelieving stare. "I told you; you get into things.

"But the holiday . . . well, let's just say that I didn't have very high hopes. I'd spent the last two Christmases behind bars." He gestured briefly toward the television. "And I already told you my childhood wasn't exactly Bedford Falls.

"But one day you said we should go get a tree, so we did. We argued a little over which one and then where we should put it—sound familiar?—but we had fun. I had fun. We tried to make cookies one day, but they just didn't seem quite right, so Sarah sent us a care package from Frisco, and we sat right down and ate about two dozen cookies the afternoon it arrived. We went shopping for Christmas dinner fixin's." He shrugged. "I don't know. It was all just pretty normal."

McCormick suddenly returned his attention to putting more dressing on his salad. He was beginning to get the definite idea that he was saying too much, but Hardcastle hadn't interrupted. Really, the older man hadn't done anything other than eat slowly and listen attentively to every word, which was a little unnerving in its own right. He thought maybe he liked it better when the judge was interrupting all the time. Can't tell him that, though.

He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, almost hoping Hardcastle would say something—anything, really—then he returned to his tale.

"Normal for you, I mean," he clarified as he began speaking again. "For me, it was anything but. Then, on Christmas Eve, you decided we needed some new decorations, or something. I told you I didn't think Hallmark made first Christmas ornaments to fit our situation. Hell, they don't even make a card, and that's saying something." He chuckled slightly.

"Can you imagine? 'Holidays are even sweeter on parole. Season's Greetings to the man who sent me up.'" He was relieved to see Hardcastle grinning at the thought. And he was not going to offer any more details about the decorations they'd ended up buying that night.

His smile took on the wistful quality of happy reminiscence as he spoke more earnestly. "The point, Judge, is that it was just really nice to feel like maybe I belonged somewhere. I sure as hell wasn't expecting it, but it was probably the best gift you could've given me." He paused, then added very quietly, "I don't think I ever thanked you."

And with those final words, McCormick picked up his sandwich and resumed his meal.

00000

Hardcastle watched the younger man thoughtfully for several long moments. He had asked the kid to talk about their past for a couple of different reasons. First, of course, he was curious. At this point, he still desperately wanted to understand what had happened to him in the last fifteen years that led him to the here and now. But he had decided he would settle for truly understanding the last three, since the idea of sharing his home—sharing his life—with a man that he had sentenced to prison was still—what had that shrink said?—disconcerting as hell. Yeah, that about pegged it.

But secondly, he'd been doing a lot of thinking about things Frank and Sarah had said to him. Both had told him that Mark would basically take whatever crap he dished out, and if he was honest with himself, he would admit that the kid certainly seemed to be demonstrating that propensity this past week. He might not understand this relationship, but he wasn't prepared to destroy it out of sheer stubbornness. He was doing his best to make peace, even if it was peace with a virtual stranger.

But it was also true that in the past week McCormick had started to feel just a bit less like a stranger. Not a friend, maybe, but not exactly a stranger anymore, either. In fact, once or twice, he thought he even saw an inkling of whatever it was that had led to friendship in the first place. Not that he had managed to hold on to that insight for very long, but he was trying.

And the insight he was gaining right now let him know that while Mark was also beginning to settle in to the current situation, the kid was a long way from comfortable. All he'd done was talk about a few holiday memories, and it had come out sounding like some kind of confession he was afraid would get him sent back to San Quentin. Honestly, he had never intended to cause that.

Hardcastle offered a small smile of his own. "Maybe I didn't expect a thank you," he suggested. "Or maybe I knew all along." He was as surprised as McCormick at the next words out of his mouth.

"Or maybe I didn't do it for you, but for me."

He watched the kid look up quickly, then immediately lower his eyes again, blinking them rapidly, and paying far too much attention to separating carrot shavings from lettuce.

Hardcastle knew immediately he had to step back. Whatever he might've felt before, he was in no position to offer much reassurance right now. His instinct was that Mark would understand.

"You said you broke me out of a banana republic jail? Frank said the murder was here."

"What?" McCormick seemed to be relieved at the change in topic, but not quite on track yet.

"When I was in jail for murder. I thought that was here?"

"Oh, yeah." McCormick smiled slightly. "That's true. Down there, it was drugs."

"Drugs?" Hardcastle was amazed. "I've been in jail twice?"

"Ah, well . . . there was also the, um, assault charge, and once you were trying to bail me out and things got a little mixed up for just a while. Oh, and the time we were arrested for auto theft when we tried to repossess the wrong car. But I think that might be all of them."

Hardcastle was staring mutely. He thought he was really going to have to get more details about this stuff later, but right now he was just glad to see some humor returned to the young man's eyes.

"That's all, huh?" he finally muttered. "If the point of bringing you here was some kind of rehabilitation, sounds like it might've taken a while to catch on. Maybe you were more of an influence on me than the other way around."

McCormick just grinned as he ate the last bite of his sandwich. "I think it might've been a mutual thing."

And somehow, in that moment, Hardcastle thought the kid was probably absolutely right.

00000

"Poor George Bailey," McCormick said, as he sat sprawled across the armchair, munching on a cookie.

The remnants of dinner had been carried out to the kitchen; Mark had announced he would do the actual clean up during guard duty. A plate of cookies had been carried back in to the den and placed on the end table between the two chairs where they sat watching the movie.

"Yeah," the judge agreed. "Made such a difference to so many people and never had a clue."

"Well, yeah," Mark replied slowly, "there's that. But what I really meant was, made such a difference to so many people, did all the right things for all his life, and still got to the point where things might be better off without him. It's a damn shame."

Hardcastle glanced over at him sternly. "Have you actually seen the movie, Mark? I think maybe you've missed the point. No one would've been better off without him; that's what Clarence helps him see."

But McCormick shook his head. "Nope. Clarence tricked him. I mean, I know he says he wishes he hadn't been born, but what he meant was he wanted to be dead. And, yeah, it would've been bad for a lot of folks if George had never existed, but that's not the same thing as being bad if he dies now. Not that I think he shoulda killed himself," he went on quickly as Hardcastle turned a more direct glare his direction. "I'm just saying it's sad that he lived his whole life on the up and up and still ended up thinkin' dead was better than alive. Just kinda sucks, is all I'm sayin'. I feel bad for the guy."

Hardcastle shook his head. "That's an interesting perspective," he said slowly, and settled back into his chair.

Many minutes later, the judge spoke again. "It does kinda make you think, though, doesn't it?"

McCormick peered quizzically over his cup of eggnog. "Think about what?" he asked thickly.

"Life," Hardcastle said simply. "How you've lived, and if you've really made a difference." He spoke nonchalantly, but wondered if the kid would understand how deeply this question suddenly plagued him.

McCormick sat up a little straighter. "I don't think you have to worry about that, Judge."

Hardcastle felt a smile forming at the young man's response. Nothing dramatic, just a simple, direct statement, delivered with the kind of quiet assurance that only comes from an unshakable faith. A brief moment of total honesty, without concern of repercussion.

See? I bet it was stuff like that. That's how he got to you.

Aloud, what he said was, "Even if I can't remember a lot of it?"

"I remember enough for both of us," McCormick answered seriously, "so trust me on this." Then he slouched back into his chair. "Besides," he continued in a lightly dismissive tone, "I told you I was gonna get your memory back, so just watch the movie, will ya?"

Unexpectedly reassured, Hardcastle grabbed a cookie and sat back to watch Clarence earn his wings.

00000

From his spot reclined across the chair, McCormick tried to discreetly observe the judge. Moments of self-doubt, however brief, were a rare thing for Milton Hardcastle, and Mark wasn't particularly fond of them. That was especially true now, when any attempt at pointing out some of the good that had been done would only be met with a blank stare. He couldn't even hold out his crown jewel of an argument—himself—because there was little guarantee that the guy in the other chair would consider that much of a success story.

But he vowed silently to himself that even if the judge never got his memory back, he'd make sure the man never doubted that he'd made a difference. Even if he had to go downstairs and bring out every file one by one and give him every detail of what had happened with each and every person. Even his own, if he had to. He'd spell it out for the guy, if that's what it took.

But he took a moment to wonder, If I am who I am because of who he was, what happens to me if he never comes back?

He breathed a noiseless sigh and took another sip of eggnog. Where was Clarence when you needed him?

00000

Hardcastle sat silently, watching the last tidbit of news on the evening report. He was wondering what he should say once it was over. He had decided that they were getting better at being together in very specific situations: dinner, movie, doctor's office, whatever. But they still seemed to be struggling with actually getting to those situations.

Yeah, he decided, that's it exactly. We aren't doing too well with the transitions. I wonder if that's what it was like the first time, too? He decided this wasn't the time to ask. The commercials had started and McCormick was beginning to gather up the snack dishes before he finally spoke.

"So, you wanna open the presents now?" He didn't think that was entirely what he had intended to say, but that's what came out. He thought the kid might drop the cookie plate.

"No! Uh, I mean, it's not really Christmas yet. We should wait until morning."

He watched the young man deliberately pull himself together.

"Besides," McCormick went on more calmly, even almost grinning, "you know Santa can't come until all little judges are asleep in their beds."

"And what about you?" Hardcastle demanded, following along into the kitchen.

McCormick just shrugged, but his grin was more confident now. "Santa always makes exceptions for ex-cons turned law students who have to stand guard over forgetful ex-judges."

"He does, huh?"

"Every time."

"Okay, then." Hardcastle turned back toward the hall. "Then I'm gonna head on up. Wake me in a few hours and I'll take a shift. Oh, and hey? Try not to shoot the guy as he comes down the chimney, okay?"

He could still hear the kid laughing as he climbed the stairs.

00000

McCormick was engrossed in his textbook again, shotgun at his side. The judge was probably right that they could safely do away with the nightly guard duty at this point, but he wasn't ready to risk Hardcastle's life on a 'probably'. He had cleaned up the kitchen, and put away the table and chairs they had used in the den. Then he had watched television until he thought if he saw one more variation of how life always turns out for the best, he might barf.

But his eyes were starting to blur, and he had passed the point where he was storing any type of information, so it was time to set the book aside. He swung his legs off the arm of the chair and pushed himself out of his seat. Stretching, he let his eyes roam the room, listened for anything out of the ordinary, then paced to the door to repeat the process in the entryway. Everything seemed secure. He pulled a hand across his eyes and stepped back down into the den.

Rather than moving back to the chair—where he was pretty sure he'd fall asleep almost instantly—he wandered across the room to check the water in the tree. He bent down to peek into the stand, but the water level was fine. But his eyes lingered a moment on the two gifts beneath the tree. They were almost taunting him, reminding him that he was gonna have to bite the bullet tomorrow morning.

But he was okay tonight, don'tcha think? he asked himself.

Not normal, though.

Well . . . no. But okay.

He straightened slowly, trying to figure out exactly how to bridge the distance between okay and normal, when something on the tree caught his eye. His eyes blurred slightly again—though he didn't think it was the exhaustion this time—as he brushed his fingers across the tiny gavel hanging right next to the tiny red racecar.

00000

Hardcastle lay in the dark, listening to the sounds from downstairs. It had been eerily quiet when he had awoken just over an hour ago, but more recently there had been signs of life. He had thought about going downstairs himself—they really should share the night shift, and he should've known McCormick wouldn't actually wake him—but he knew the kid would just ask him why he was awake, and he didn't want to try and explain about the dreams.

The one from the cliff was most recognizable, though tonight it had played out in its entirety. No more was he searching frantically for the unknown; he was searching frantically for Mark. He could recognize the fear he was feeling, the anger. He wondered how much of that might be a real memory, and how much he might just be trying to desperately accept the things he was being led to believe.

The other dreams, though, had far less context. A baseball game. A racetrack. Even something he would've sworn was Clarence, Arkansas. Sometimes he could see Mark, sometimes he couldn't, but he was sure the kid was always there.

How the hell does that happen? I don't even know him.

After another few minutes, he heard the front door open and close. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat listening. What was going on down there? He thought for a moment maybe McCormick had heard something outside, but no. Somehow, no matter what he might've heard, Hardcastle was pretty sure Mark would make his stand inside the house.

Between the enemy and you, he thought, and very little had seemed so certain in the past week. But still . . .

If you don't know him, how can you trust him?

Frank trusts him, another part of his mind spoke up. And Sarah. They both left you here with him. And besides, I thought you were going to make peace?

I am making peace, he insisted to himself. But I can't recreate what I don't even understand, much less remember. And I won't have my emotions hijacked like that.

He's down there at four-thirty in the morning, holding a shotgun, prepared to stand in the way of anything coming after you.

Well, yeah, he conceded, there is that. He added to his growing list. Probably that kinda crap let him get to you in the first place.

When he heard the key in the front lock, he decided to go down and see what the young man was up to. He pulled on his robe and was downstairs in the den in time to see McCormick place a gift under the tree.

Mark stood up quickly at the sound from the doorway. "Judge. Whatcha doin'?"

Hardcastle shrugged as he stepped down into the room. "That's what I was gonna ask you. I thought you were gonna wake me?"

McCormick grinned sheepishly. "There didn't seem much point in both of us staying up half the night. And I figured an old guy like you could use the sleep."

"Hmph." Hardcastle crossed the room and slid into one of the armchairs. "You've been reading some more, huh?" he asked, gesturing to the book on the end table.

McCormick nodded as he dropped into his own chair. "Might have some questions for you in another couple of chapters." He hesitated a second, then added, "If that's okay?"

The judge pulled a hand across his mouth. The kid was still on the edge of nervousness. That might be easier to tolerate if it weren't so clearly wrong, though he wondered what made him think he could accurately read the young man. You still don't know him.

Yeah, but there's that shotgun. And it's four-thirty in the morning.

"Sure it's okay," he answered. "A's don't come cheap, remember? Let's make sure we're gettin' 'em."

McCormick grinned slightly. "Deal."

They sat for a few minutes in silence, and Hardcastle thought the kid seemed mostly okay with that.

He gave more thought to his next suggestion this time around, but he still thought it might've come out a bit more anxious than he intended.

"Ya know, technically, it's Christmas now. You wanna open your present yet?"

"You just want to know what you got me," Mark teased lightly.

"Maybe," the judge admitted with a small smile.

But McCormick shook his head. "Not yet. Let's wait until morning. The real morning, I mean." He cast a concerned look over Hardcastle. "Besides, I wanted you to get a decent night's sleep. Why don't you go on back to bed? I've got this under control."

Hardcastle examined the young man closely, recognizing a change of subject when he heard one. Still nervous about something. "Well I'm awake now," he said, "not much point in going back to bed. Maybe there's something on TV? Seems like an awful lot of channels on that satellite contraption."

Mark grinned, though it seemed a little forced. "Well, yeah, but trust me; you can have 150 channels and still have nothing to watch."

"Maybe we could open Sarah's gift?" Hardcastle suggested, and he wondered if it had ever been this difficult for the two of them to be alone in a room together.

Only when he's keeping something from you. He almost physically jolted at the thought that burst into his mind.

What the hell does that mean? He didn't know, but he recognized the truth of the idea in his soul.

But the young man was smiling in earnest now, and rising to bring Sarah's box out from under the tree. And with the same kind of intuitive reasoning, he knew immediately that McCormick would never withhold anything of true importance. Frank and Sarah couldn't both be that wrong. Hell, he hoped he couldn't have been that wrong.

"You wanna open it?" McCormick asked, holding out the red and green package.

Hardcastle pulled himself out of his musings. "No, you go ahead."

Mark plopped back down into his chair. "Okay, I'll open it, but I'll do it like you do." And he began to meticulously lift each strip of tape, taking care not to rip the paper in the process.

Hardcastle couldn't help but laugh at the over-dramatized impersonation. "Just open the thing," he growled.

McCormick pulled the paper away and they stared silently for several seconds at the gray box. Then their eyes met, and they both began to laugh.

00000

In the den at Gull's Way, it almost felt like home. At least, that's what Hardcastle thought, though he had mostly come to grips with the idea that he didn't really know what home had been like lately.

Still, there were Christmas songs playing softly from the radio, a tree blinking in the corner, and laughter in the air. Surely that was pretty close to home.

"Okay, then," he said as he pulled pegs from the game board, "it's best three outta five."

In the hour or so since they had opened Sarah's gift, he had realized McCormick was quite the Battleship shark, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun being beaten at anything.

Hah! he thought, you can't remember. That's the understatement of the year.

"I thought you weren't any good at this," he grumbled as he began placing his ships again.

McCormick grinned and cocked an eyebrow. "Did I say that?"

"Well . . . what about 'I always wanted one of these when I was a kid'? You did say that, didn't you?"

Mark nodded. "Yep. Never got one, though." He carefully placed a submarine. "But I was president of the Battleship club at Quentin."

"There's no such thing," Hardcastle accused with a laugh.

"Well, no," McCormick admitted. "But I woulda joined if there was one. Anything to pass the time."

"Yeah. The notes in your file said you joined a lot of groups."

The tone had been strictly conversational, but the comment still earned him a sharp look as the kid finally stopped messing with the boats. The judge gave a half-hearted shrug.

"What? I was reading through it again today while you were doing the yard work."

"If you're bored, I could loan you a book," McCormick offered dryly, "or bring you up to speed on the latest in hedge trimming techniques."

"I'm making do," Hardcastle answered lightly. Then, more seriously, "I'm just trying to understand."

McCormick tried not to sigh. "Understand what, Judge?" He made a quick gesture indicating the two of them. "This? 'Cuz I don't think you're gonna find the answer in there."

"Why not?"

"I told you; because that's not me anymore. I'm not sure it ever really was . . . at least not completely."

"But something has to be there," Hardcastle insisted, his tone growing more urgent. "Isn't that how I knew the first time?"

McCormick sat back in his chair, looking at the judge with an honest expression of confusion. "Hell, I don't know about that, Judge. I used to spend a lot of time myself wondering why you picked me. But the closest I ever got to an answer was that you thought it was the best thing for both of us."

He paused, then added, "For what it's worth, I think you were right about that." Then he went back to setting up his board.

Hardcastle watched the other man for a moment, then asked, "You know what I really don't get?"

"I thought we were going three out of five," McCormick complained, but Hardcastle ignored the comment.

"What I really don't get is you. It's hard enough to see my side of this: taking in a convicted felon, a guy I sent up, no less. I would've thought the tension would be impossible, that you would hate me so much it wouldn't have been worth my trouble to put up with. And that's just my side of it."

McCormick was looking directly at Hardcastle now, clearly interested in the idea in spite of himself.

"But you," the jurist continued, "you're the one that would've been doing the hating. I mean, your transcript says you proclaimed your innocence pretty vocally."

"Doesn't everybody?" McCormick asked in a low tone.

Hardcastle shook his head once. "What I mean is, how do you move past the blame? I think that's the part I really don't get. How could I possibly expect it, and how could you actually do it? Doesn't seem possible."

McCormick stiffened. "So, what? You're saying you think I'm runnin' some kind of scam, or something?"

Hardcastle shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "No. And don't be gettin' mad again. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm trying to understand who you are." He was almost pleading for understanding now.

"God, you're living in my house, hanging out with my friends, staying up all night protecting me. I just don't know how that happens, unless—" he broke off suddenly, considering.

When he didn't go on, McCormick prompted him. "Unless what, Judge?" and his voice carried a weariness that hadn't been there fifteen minutes earlier.

"Unless you didn't really have anything to blame me for. You seem like a reasonably bright guy, Mark, like someone who accepts responsibility for himself." Hardcastle gazed directly across the desk as the idea clicked fully into place. "Were you guilty?"

"I was convicted," McCormick answered woodenly, not averting his gaze.

"That's not what I asked."

"You saw the transcript. You're the great legal mind. You figure it out."

"I can't figure out my own part in this," the judge countered gruffly, "much less yours. I'm asking you to help me understand."

McCormick dialed back the attitude. "Look, Judge, it was a long time ago. Can't we just—"

"No, McCormick, I can't 'just' anything!" Hardcastle cried suddenly, slapping his palm down on the desktop. "I don't know why you can't see that. My life is a hole, but somehow, you're a huge part of it, and I don't understand why. It doesn't fit with anything I do know. The me I feel like would never have gone for it; it doesn't make sense to me. Help me understand. Answer my question. Were you guilty?"

"Yes."

McCormick had breathed out the word so quietly, in such contrast to Hardcastle's tortured tirade, that it stopped the judge cold. He stared across at the young face, studying the expression. McCormick seemed surprised by his own response, and there was an uncertain defiance in his eyes, as if he was preparing a defense against something, but wasn't yet sure what it would be.

He's never admitted that before, Hardcastle thought with a sudden certainty. Never confessed to the me he knows, but to help the me he doesn't . . . He would never be able to explain the feeling that gripped his heart with that realization. He was so caught up in it, that he almost didn't notice McCormick was speaking again.

"At least from a strictly legal perspective."

Hardcastle felt a small smile forming, and he thought maybe he was about to hear the more typical version of McCormick's story. "It was a court of law. Is there another perspective?"

McCormick seemed surprised. "Of course there's another perspective. There's always another perspective. In this case, right and wrong. That should always matter, even in a court of law. Hell, especially in a court of law."

"So you were guilty, but it wasn't right that you were convicted? Do I have that straight?"

McCormick rolled his eyes. "Do I really have to spell this out? Jeez. Okay, but don't think you're gonna distract me. You'll still never find my carrier."

He winked as he went back to arranging the plastic boats, and Hardcastle filed away the idea that the kid was more comfortable when the Serious Stuff was carefully buried beneath the laughter.

"The Porsche I was convicted of stealing," McCormick began, "really did belong to me. I bought it, lock, stock, and barrel. But the ditzy girl I was living with at the time could get cheaper insurance, so I had the car registered in her name. Not the brightest move, I'll grant you, but not exactly criminal."

"Unless you look too closely at the fraud statutes," Hardcastle interjected blandly.

The kid flashed him a grin of concession before continuing with his story.

"But it was my car, Judge; anyone would've said so. Hell, I even paid for the cheap insurance.

"But when Melinda and I split, she called the cops and reported it stolen; the pink slip had her name on it, and here we are.

"And, yeah; I blamed you for a long time. Maybe I even hated you. I sure wanted to hate you. I wanted it to be somebody else's fault. You were handy. But you know when I think I had to start changing my mind?"

"Ah . . . no."

McCormick chuckled. "Oh, well, you probably didn't know that a couple of weeks ago, either, so don't worry.

"Anyway, the night you brought me home, when you came to my cell carrying Cody's file, ready to put him at the top of the to-do list; I couldn't believe it. I think I knew then I might've been at least a little bit wrong about you, even if I wasn't ready to admit it yet."

Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "I sort of had the impression you didn't really like my deal." He felt as if McCormick's explanation might be raising more questions than it was answering.

"Well, yeah, but let me see if I can paint a picture for you, Judge. A few hours earlier, I'd been standing in your chambers, yelling in your face, dumping peanuts all over your desk . . . really, I had a pretty all around bad attitude. But you ignored all that, and believed my rantings enough to pull Cody's file and find out more for yourself. I'll tell you the truth, Hardcase; that surprised the hell out of me. It's not what I would've ever expected from the guy I'd had in my head for a couple of years."

McCormick shrugged. "Not that it was all smooth sailing from there, but how do you keep hating the guy who can see past the attitude, past the convictions, past the file?"

Hardcastle didn't miss the subtle accusation in the words. "So it was just a simple matter of forgive and forget?"

"I didn't say it was simple," McCormick contradicted. He leaned back again and gazed intently at the judge. "But here's what I know now: From the letter of the law, I was guilty. But it wasn't fair, and it wasn't right." He took a breath. "But it also wasn't your fault."

After thinking for a moment, Hardcastle said, "So what you're saying is that we both learned to see past the file."

A smile spread slowly across McCormick's face, and Hardcastle watched a tension that he hadn't even fully recognized slip from the young man. "Yeah, Judge, I think that's it. And that's why your answers aren't gonna be there, because the answers came later. But you figured it out once, Hardcase, and you will again." His eyes were twinkling as he moved closer to the desk again, pulling his game board toward him.

"In the meantime . . . H8."

Laughing, and feeling that he had at least a few more pieces of the puzzle, Hardcastle said, "Miss."

00000

McCormick pulled the shirt over his head, grateful that he had taken Hardcastle's advice to get a few hours sleep. Battleship had lasted until almost seven; it had taken all five games to finally beat the judge. He thought maybe their conversation last night had distracted him more than he'd realized.

He ran a hand through hair still damp from the shower, and tried to decide if he'd done more harm or good with his late night confession, such as it was. He thought maybe this current Hardcastle might appreciate the candor, assuming he actually believed anything he'd said. And assuming he didn't decide that what really should've happened was a fraud conviction with a sentence about twice as long as what he actually got.

But he also thought that when things were back to normal, his Hardcastle—a label that never failed to amuse him—might never let him live it down. Still, he knew he would gladly put up with anything the judge threw at him, if only 'normal' would really come back to stay.

But as he headed out the door and started back toward the main house, he at least felt a little better about the looming gift exchange. Even if things had been a bit strained, the last few days had still seemed to dispel much of Hardcastle's anger toward him, and it no longer seemed likely that his present would be met with anger or eviction. Not that it would receive the same appreciation it might've in other circumstances, but there was at least some relief in the idea that even this judge would probably recognize its sincerity. He could definitely live with that.

He stepped up onto the front porch and paused, making a quick calculation and still hating it, even though he was becoming more accustomed to these minor adjustments. But he figured he had managed it once before, he could do it again, so he knocked twice, waited a couple of seconds, and opened the door.

"Hey, Hardcase," he called as he stepped into the entryway.

"In the kitchen, Mark."

McCormick shook his head ruefully as he headed toward the voice. Too bad Santa didn't bring a reprieve from this whole name thing. He briefly recalled that in a moment of total frustration last night, Hardcastle had resorted to the last name, but that wasn't a situation he was exactly keen to recreate. With a mental shrug, he walked into the kitchen. If that was the worst of his problems, he could handle it.

"Merry Christmas," he greeted with a smile.

Hardcastle turned from the refrigerator. "You too, Mark. Did you get some rest?"

McCormick nodded. "I think you were right about that. I'm just about too old for this all night business." Then he grinned. "But I still gotta keep up with you."

"Coffee?" the judge offered, as he poured a cup for himself.

"Nah. It's Christmas; I'm having eggnog. And a cookie."

Hardcastle grinned. "Decisions should always be so simple."

"Yep. Did you want me to fix some breakfast?"

"I had some toast while you were napping. But go ahead, if you're hungry."

McCormick shook his head. "It'll be time for lunch before you know it. I'll save my appetite for that." He moved to pour a glass of eggnog, and, just as he said, grabbed a cookie.

The judge grinned. "That seems a little rich for so early in the morning."

"Early?" McCormick raised an eyebrow. "It's after ten. Usually by this time you've done your free throws, we've had breakfast, read some files, and been involved in at least one high-speed chase. I don't pay much attention to time anymore; I just eat what I want, when I want." He thought the snappy comebacks were sounding a little forced these days, but he bit off half his cookie, and smiled around the crumbs, trying to keep up the illusion.

"You know, one of these days you're really going to have to give me some of the details about what goes on around here. It sure seems like we keep busy."

"It's never boring," McCormick agreed. He snatched up a few more cookies and headed out of the room. "C'mon; I wanna see what's on TV. There's only one bowl game today, but maybe I'll still get to see a little bit of a parade."

Hardcastle grabbed a couple of cookies of his own to go with his coffee and followed the kid into the den. "Which bowl?" he asked as he came down the steps.

"Sun Bowl," McCormick replied, already flipping channels. "Tide and the Huskies, but not until later this afternoon." He punched the power button. "Damn. I missed 'em already." He turned to find Hardcastle staring at him quizzically, and he gave a little shrug, feeling slightly embarrassed. "Silly, I know, but I like the parades."

"Well, sorry you missed 'em. Settle for a present instead?"

McCormick grinned, and forced down the apprehension. It's going to be fine.

"Absolutely. Presents it is. Want me to get them?"

"Go ahead," Hardcastle answered, slipping into his favorite chair.

McCormick set his glass and cookies on the end table and moved to the tree. He collected the two packages carefully, then returned and handed one to Hardcastle before dropping into his own chair with the other. They sat silently for a moment, and he began to wonder if they had already lost what little bit of easiness they had found over Battleship. But then the judge spoke.

"You go first; neither one of us know what's in that one."

McCormick smiled, and began to rip the paper.

00000

Hardcastle watched silently as McCormick began to open his package. He thought he had made some progress with the whole idea of making peace, but the kid still seemed to be working awfully hard at appearing comfortable.

Forcing him into that confession last night probably didn't help, he admitted to himself. But he couldn't deny that the conversation had gone a long way toward relieving some of his own lingering doubts. True, McCormick had managed to make clear that he still believed the conviction was something of a sham, but he also seemed to understand his own responsibility in the situation. And, he doesn't blame you anymore. Yeah, that part had certainly seemed sincere.

He found himself smiling as the kid ripped through the last strip of paper with gusto, then paused to lift the box and shake it a time or two, listening carefully.

"I did that, too," he admitted, "but I couldn't figure it out."

With a small smile, McCormick placed the box back on his lap, then lifted the lid and set it aside.

Hardcastle found himself leaning forward as the young man removed the tissue paper, somehow suddenly believing that his choice of gifts might tell him a lot about his actual state of mind concerning Mark McCormick.

"Wow." That was all that was said, but Hardcastle thought it wasn't a bad first response.

McCormick slowly lifted the briefcase from the box, and looked it over appreciatively. He took in the deep cognac color of the leather, ran his fingers over the brass fittings, and lingered at the simple yet elegant monogram plate.

Hardcastle was still watching silently, gauging a reaction, as Mark undid the clasps, lifted the flap, and looked inside the deep case. Finally he said, "I hope it's what you wanted."

McCormick glanced over quickly. "It's great, Judge." He smiled, and went back to looking at the different pockets. After a moment, he looked back at the older man. "It's just what a real lawyer would have. Thanks."

Hardcastle recognized the quiet pride in McCormick's response, and he thought he must've chosen well. And maybe not just the gift, he thought, though he was quick to remind himself that he still didn't really know the young man.

But . . . Maybe I'm starting to like what I've seen.

And then McCormick set the briefcase aside. "Okay, it's your turn."

The judge thought that didn't sound quite as lighthearted as the kid had probably intended, but he didn't question it. Instead, he held the gift up to his chest.

"I don't think it's a tie," he quipped. That forced a slight grin from the other man.

"No," McCormick agreed. "I haven't met a Milton Hardcastle yet that would've appreciated a gift of neck-wear."

"Well I'm glad to know some things haven't changed." He located the seam in the wrapping paper and began to carefully lift the tape. When he had gotten the paper removed with barely a rip, he lifted the item in his lap and turned it over to see the front.

And for just a second, he felt his heart stop.

Then he realized that the simple silver frame in his hands was shaking, so he lowered it carefully back to his lap, but didn't release his hold. The unmistakable masked figure on horseback seemed to be looking right at him, and across the black and white photograph was a signature, as clear and sharp as the picture itself. But it was the scripted words beneath the photo that caught his attention and wouldn't let go.

"The Creed," he whispered hoarsely, almost to himself. And, without really meaning to, he found himself reading aloud:

"I believe that to have a friend,
a man must be one."

That was as far as he got before he had to stop and draw in a shaky breath. After blinking to clear his eyes, he chanced a look over at McCormick, and saw that those blue eyes were glowing, and that every bit of hesitation was gone, replaced with an emotion so honest and deep that he wondered how he hadn't seen it before. He tore his eyes away and resumed reading.

"That all men are created equal
and that everyone has within himself
the power to make this a better world.

That God put the firewood there
but that every man
must gather and light it himself.

In being prepared
physically, mentally, and morally
to fight when necessary
for that which is right.

That a man should make the most
of what equipment he has.

That 'This government,
of the people, by the people
and for the people'
shall live always.

That men should live by
the rule of what is best
for the greatest number.

That sooner or later. . .
somewhere. . .somehow. . .
we must settle with the world
and make payment for what we have taken.

That all things change but truth,
and that truth alone, lives on forever.

In my Creator, my country, my fellow man."

00000

The words were hanging in the air as Hardcastle continued to stare down at the picture in his hands. He traced his fingertip along the words slowly, then cleared his throat. He spoke without looking up.

"This is—" He broke off as his voice cracked. He started again. "I mean, it's—" He cleared his throat one last time, and finally raised up to meet McCormick's eyes.

"Thank you, kiddo."

And with the simple words, McCormick felt his own breath return, and he sank back into his chair just a little bit. Thank God.

"It's really great," Hardcastle continued, his raspy voice gaining strength.

Mark smiled. "I'm glad you like it, Judge." He hesitated, then added, "I've never really known anyone who believed that stuff as much as you. You really are like the modern day Lone Ranger." He could feel himself blushing, but he didn't care. This man needed to understand.

Several beats passed before Hardcastle asked in a low voice, "And you're my Tonto?"

This time, there was no hesitation.

"Always."

00000

McCormick chopped the potatoes mindlessly, tossing the pieces into the colander waiting in the sink. When he had slipped out of the den earlier to begin the lunch preparation, he had been a little bit worried that Hardcastle would offer to come help. But now that enough time had elapsed for him to slather the turkey with butter and seasonings and pop it into the oven, and peel the potatoes, he understood that the judge was probably as relieved as he was for the chance to be alone.

Who knew precisely what Hardcastle was thinking, but he thought the gift exchange had gone remarkably well. The briefcase the judge had given him was great, especially because it implied such faith in his success. He wondered if this judge could understand that, and he hated that the man wouldn't know how much that faith meant to him.

On the other hand, after seeing Hardcastle's reaction to his own gift, McCormick thought maybe the guy had a little bit of an idea, after all. In that one moment, it had almost seemed like his Hardcastle was back, like there was no gulf between them at all, like they were sharing all of the truths that had never needed to be spoken. It had torn at his heart, both because he had doubted that moment would ever come again, and because he feared it couldn't last.

But as he turned on the water to rinse the potatoes, Mark held on to that moment in his heart. And for the first time since this whole nightmare began, he honestly believed that everything would be all right.

00000

Hardcastle sat behind his desk, deep in thought. Two hours or more had passed since McCormick had said, 'Even small turkeys take a while to bake,' and then excused himself to go prepare lunch. And the judge had been grateful for the time alone.

He had been glued to his seat for a long time, reading and re-reading the Creed, marveling that anyone—especially a con he had sent up—could understand him so completely. But there seemed little doubt that McCormick did, in fact, understand. This clearly was no scam; he had rarely seen such open sincerity as the young man had displayed this morning.

After a while he had crossed over to his desk, carrying the frame with him. He had laid it down carefully, then reached into the middle drawer for McCormick's file. He had read through it so many times this past week, he practically had it memorized, but he kept searching, looking for answers that had remained stubbornly elusive.

Of course, the kid maintained that the answers weren't there to be found, and now, as he looked between the tattered manila folder and the gracefully matted words, he found himself wondering if McCormick wasn't right.

"All things change but truth," he muttered to himself. But when had he become so jaded that he believed the complete truth could be found in a police record? He wasn't sure, but if he could believe everything that had happened in the past ten days, it seemed that he was destined to redeem himself.

He looked over at the amazing gift, given from the man who still seemed more stranger than friend. Then he glanced back at the file. In truth, he didn't know that guy, either, so why be so quick to accept that one, instead of the living, breathing one clanging around in the kitchen making the Christmas dinner?

He opened the file, staring at the mug shot stapled inside, and let his mind wander back over the things he had been told recently, from Frank, Sarah, the kid himself. They all seemed to support McCormick's claim: The answers came later.

"To have a friend," he said quietly to himself.

Hardcastle closed the file purposefully, opened the bottom desk drawer and jammed it far in the back, behind everything else, then pushed the drawer closed again. He smiled as he cast one last look at the framed picture lying on his desk, then he rose and started toward the door.

"Hey, Mark, when do we eat?"