Chapter 9
Maybe it was only by comparison with the morning's events, but Christmas dinner had seemed a little flat. Well, isn't that how it always is? McCormick gave that one some thought as he took his time with the last of the kitchen clean up. The meal had been almost solemn. Mark thought for a while they had drifted back to merely civil. One step forward, two steps back.
It was . . . exhausting. And if that's what it was for him, he had to wonder how the guy in the other room was holding up. Mark shook his head. It wouldn't do to ask. He wasn't sure if the judge was getting any sleep at all. He'd been awake every night on his own at the time they'd designated for the changing of the watch.
He dried the last glass and put it on the shelf. Then he folded the towel and draped it over the rack. Nothing left to do but fill a plate with cookies—more peace offerings—and go back into the den. Then what?
He checked his watch. The game would be starting in a little while. Yeah, the judge wouldn't know any of the players, but it would give them something to talk about. And he wasn't going to let the man bet against Alabama, no matter what, not even with a fourteen point spread. It wouldn't be fair. Hell, it wouldn't be safe.
00000
Hardcastle stared dubiously at the remote control for the TV. Of the several thousand points at which this new life was at variance with his old, not being able to make the damn TV work properly was surely near the bottom of the list in importance. But it was aggravating nonetheless.
He put it down and stepped over by his desk, having heard footsteps in the hall. It had just been a flash of a thought, the one that went: Good, Mark will take care of it, but he found that aggravating, too.
He came bearing cookies and coffee on a tray, and something close to a smile on his face, though he looked taken aback when he came through the doorway. Hardcastle was pretty sure he hadn't managed to get the scowl off his own face before the kid had seen it.
"Almost time for the game," Mark said cautiously.
Hardcastle found this hesitance frustrating, too. Somehow that registered as wrong to him, that Mark should be tiptoeing around him, measuring out every comment. But he didn't think getting angry about that would help things much.
Mark had put the tray down and picked up the remote. He cast one last sideward look in the judge's direction and asked, "There wasn't something else you wanted to watch, was there?"
Hardcastle shook his head and bit his tongue. It was him, too, weighing words now, as though they'd built some sort of fragile bridge and neither of them was sure just what sort of load it would bear.
"Game's fine. Alabama and . . .?"
"Washington. I'm giving the Huskies twenty." That last bit had seemed to slip out unbidden, and now Mark was standing there, looking painfully self-conscious. "And I am doing that entirely on a theoretical level," he added, very archly.
That did it. Hardcastle sat down with a thump and laughed out loud. From the kid he got a wry smile and a shake of the head.
"Well, I gotta leave you enough to pay that tuition bill." And, with that, he took his own seat and pushed the plate of cookies in the judge's direction.
00000
Twenty points wouldn't have been enough. A combination of tedium and turkey made McCormick's eyes drift shut somewhere in the third quarter. He awoke to a tap on the shoulder and the judge saying, "Gonna get a crick in your neck. Why don't you go lie down?"
And, in his temporary disorientation, it seemed like an ordinary moment, until the whole thing came back to him with an almost palpable thud. That's what it's like for him; he's living in that moment when you first wake up, and you're not quite sure what planet you're on.
"Ah . . ." he was looking up at the judge's face. "Yeah, I was going to take a nap."
He blinked a couple times at the TV. They'd cut away to a commercial; the insurance ads were at least as interesting as the game by this point. He stumbled to his feet, and said, over his shoulder, "I'll be back in a couple hours; I'll make us some turkey sandwiches, okay?" It was only then, when he was turning to mount the steps, that he saw the photo and the words in the silver frame, sitting prominently on the mantle.
He ducked his chin and took the steps hastily, and it wasn't until he was well outside the door that he said it, still under his breath. "Hi-Yo Silver, away." And, despite his fatigue, he walked along the driveway to the gatehouse feeling a little lighter than he had that morning.
00000
Dusk had become dark when he woke again, feeling semi-normal and nearly caught-up. The clock read six forty-five. He frowned. He must have turned the alarm off at five-thirty in his sleep. Turkey sandwiches, his conscience prodded, and he climbed out of bed and headed down the stairs.
He had the front door to the main house half open before he remembered to knock, but Hardcastle didn't respond to his tentative, "Hello?" Not in the den. He heard some puttering noises from the kitchen and headed that way. Well, he probably got tired of waiting.
He found the judge putting the last touches on a fairly nice spread of leftovers and looking very pleased with himself. This contrasted nicely with the greeting he growled.
"If I'd waited for you to get started, we might've starved."
McCormick grinned, did not point out that after today's dinner they were both pretty safe in that regard, and managed to hang his head and look contrite. "Sorry, overslept."
"Well, you must've needed it, I suppose." The judge grumbled mildly, and something in the tone gave Mark a moment's pause.
That's how he used to sound, when you first came here, if he was worried about you. He was fighting down the grin again. How the hell could he explain to the man that he preferred this to saccharin politeness? He sat down at the kitchen table and started to reach toward the plate of turkey sandwiches. Now if we could just get back on a last-name basis—
"Mark?"
McCormick winced; he hoped it wasn't visible. "Ah, yeah?"
The judge was looking at his a little more pensively. He hadn't put any food on his own plate yet. "I was thinking, ah—"
"What are we going to do next?" Mark spoke around the first mouthful.
"Well . . . yeah." Hardcastle reached for the leftover mashed potatoes, still frowning.
Mark chewed thoughtfully for a moment longer, then he put the sandwich down and leaned one elbow on the table. "Okay, I thought maybe I'd take a run at them tomorrow morning. I'll be, say, a . . ." he looked upward at the ceiling for a little inspiration, "oh, how 'bout a paralegal with the Securities and Exchange Commission. I think maybe we're missing some notarized signatures from their registration statements, pursuant to section eight of The Investment Companies Act of 1940, subsection b-1."
Hardcastle was looking at him in appalled astonishment. It took him a moment to respond, and then it was barely contained doubt. "You think you can just waltz in there and ask them to start showing you papers?"
"Well, that's what the SEC does, right? I mean, if they've been at this for a while now, they've probably lost count of how many forms they've been asked to fill out. You know, there are thirty-two sections just in Schedule A alone of the Securities Act of 1933 . . . I've been reading up."
"And what if they ask you for an ID? And, anyway, you can't go around impersonating government officials, even a paralegal."
"Judge, it'll be Friday, the day after Christmas. Who the hell do you think is going to be there? We're talking about the secretary with the least seniority, maybe even a temp. I'll put on a nice suit, and I've got this really great briefcase. And, as for the impersonating, you'd be amazed what I can not say and still sound like I've said."
This got a smile, small and a little worried, from the older man. "And what do I do?"
"If you promise to be good, I'll let you come along in the car, but there's a chance that somebody there already knows you by sight, so you'd better not go in with me. Hell, for all we know, you may've pulled the same scam a couple weeks ago." McCormick shook his head. "The only difference is, you probably didn't have to look up as much stuff as I did."
The look persisted, still doubtful, still worried.
"Aw, come on. They're not going to shoot me in broad daylight in their office, even if I can't produce an ID."
"And, knowing you," Hardcastle frowned, "if they did, you'd probably think it was a positive development."
McCormick had frozen at the first three words, entirely overtaken by the irony. It took him a moment to shake himself free from that, though he thought probably the judge hadn't noticed.
Well," he smiled, "it would be a step in the right direction. But don't worry;" he added hastily, "it'll just be a minor reconnaissance mission. If anything looks hinky, I'll back out and call for reinforcements. Okay?"
And, after a moment's hesitance, the judge nodded.
00000
He took first watch again that night, feeling surprisingly well rested. The judge had seemed a little reluctant to turn in, but finally gave up around eleven o'clock.
"If I'm not down by four, wake me." He climbed the stairs with a heavy tread, leaving McCormick weighing the risks of disobedience against the benefits of letting him get a decent night's rest.
Mark fetched the shotgun and settled back in the chair, with yet another book from the Hardcastle library—Hazen's Law of Securities Regulation, entirely grateful that the judge had let him sleep in this evening, but still pretty certain he'd need coffee, a lot of coffee, before he got through the section on corporate recapitalization.
He'd only waded through a couple of chapters, and was almost entirely certain he hadn't dozed off, when a sudden, muffled shout jolted him out of the chair. Book tumbling down, he snatched for the gun, and bolted for the stairs. The sound had definitely come from up there, and his first panicky thought was that somehow he'd become so immersed that he hadn't heard the back door open.
No, not possible. I was awake. Someone got in upstairs? He took the steps two at a time. No shots, no more shouts. He hadn't had time to think about it before he was upstairs, uninvited, at the doorway to the judge's bedroom. The door was open and the only light was coming from the hallway.
It was silent except for harsh, fast breathing, almost as loud as his own. The light that cut across the room showed no intruder, only the judge sitting up in bed with a look of horror on his face.
McCormick cautiously pushed the door open the rest of the way. Whatever it was the man was looking at, it wasn't in this room. He's not awake. Mark set the shotgun against the wall by the door. The eyes weren't tracking on him.
"Judge?" he said gently. "I'm going to turn on the light." He reached for the switch. He thought maybe there'd been a blink at his first words, and now the man's shoulders slumped down a little, and he was blinking in earnest.
"Sorry," Mark stood there, frozen halfway between the light switch and the side of the bed.
"What the . . .?" Hardcastle was looking around dazedly. He had one hand on his chest. His face was wet with sweat.
McCormick had a sudden flash of insight. "Oh, my God. That," he said, half under his breath. Of course he must've seen the damn scar. What the hell were you thinking? He needed to know about that.
"Judge?" Not getting any sign, Mark pulled up a chair and sat himself down next to the bed. "You're awake?" he asked gently; then, a little more firmly, "You're awake now—okay? It's all right."
He fought the urge to reach out and take the hand that was still resting right over the place where the judge had been shot. Neither Hardcastle would be comfortable with that gesture but, honestly, if he doesn't snap out of it—
But now the judge had let go of his chest and was running his fingers back through his hair, and looking at Mark with confused recognition. "I was . . ."
"Shot." Mark finished for him, feeling a sudden need to get it out. "It was almost two years ago."
"No, I was in a courtroom. And the guy, it was . . . I remember him, crazy guy, ah . . ."
"Weed Randall," McCormick said flatly.
"Yeah," the judge nodded, "I remember him. But that was . . . in 1969. And he was convicted."
"No, it was the second time," McCormick's voice was still very flat.
"Two years ago? But you said I retired—"
"They un-retired you. You were familiar with the case and, ah, we'd dug up some new evidence. Another murder."
"I'd dug up more evidence, and they let me preside over the case?"
McCormick shook his head. "I did the digging; you did the presiding." He felt his shoulders sinking down. "It was a birthday present."
He was staring fixedly at the bottom of the bedpost when he heard the judge say, with some intensity, "Heck of a birthday present."
He looked up in surprise. "That's what I said."
"So, anyway," Hardcastle exhaled heavily, "he got convicted."
McCormick was looking down again. "Wasn't necessary."
"Ah . . . the police shot him."
"No," Mark didn't look up, "I did."
00000
The kid hadn't looked at him since he'd said it, and there was something in the tone of his voice that was so flat, so dead, that Hardcastle was immediately aware that he was walking over haunted ground. But we must've had this conversation before. What the hell did I say to him then?
"And you'd never shot anyone before." The words came out before he'd even had a chance to think about them.
Just a shake of the younger man's head, but his eyes had come up, just enough to lock onto the judge's.
"It wasn't revenge," Hardcastle said with a certainty that surprised himself.
The kid looked surprised, too. "How do you know?"
"Oh," Hardcastle shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant about it, "lots of reasons . . . for one thing, you're not back in prison." Then he frowned. "But, where'd you get the gun?"
"It was yours," Mark replied quietly. "You gave it to the surgeon to give to me. I still had it with me when I found Randall."
He was watching the kid closely now. There was a tremor in his shoulders.
"What the hell was I thinking?" Hardcastle said with some disbelief.
"Dunno," Mark smiled sadly, "might have been because you were dying." The words stopped for a moment. Then he started up again, with a different tone. "Ah . . . I better get back downstairs. You ought to try and get back to sleep." He was on his feet, pushing the chair back to its place by the wall.
"Not likely," the judge said, half to himself. Again it was before he could even think about it.
Mark had swung around and was staring at him intently. "You've got to," he said, with some intensity. Then he swallowed once. "I'm sorry. It must be hard, all these weird dreams." He shook his head. "But I think it's helping. I really do."
Hardcastle looked past the kid, avoiding his eyes. "They're . . . exhausting," he admitted reluctantly. "Worse than not sleeping."
Mark nodded. "I figured that . . . This one, will you have it again?"
"Probably," the judge muttered. "Again and again."
"Look," Mark stepped forward. "I can't make 'em go away, but I can promise you, they come out okay in the end . . . mostly." He frowned down at the floor for a moment, then looked up again. "I'm in that one. Oh, I was so damn close, not even ten feet from him."
"But you say it's not a dream," Hardcastle said practically. "It really happened. You can't change that."
"No, I know that." Mark lifted his chin and was giving him a steady look. "But I was there. I'll be there, every time." He nodded once, as if he'd made up his mind about something and there was no turning back. "And you made it through."
Somehow, for just a moment, the judge saw that there just might be a connection between those two facts.
00000
Four a.m. came and passed, and five, as well. McCormick had made it to the chapter on false SEC filings and was on his seventh cup of coffee. He hadn't heard any more sounds from upstairs, even though he'd left the door open. At seven, though, there were footsteps on the stairs, and a grumbling from the hallway.
"You didn't wake me up. I overslept."
"Well," Mark said, smiling as the older man stood in the doorway, looking tousled, but not nearly so haggard, "you must have needed it."
He tore a blank page from the notebook he'd been using, and, folding it once, stuck it between the pages. He set the book aside, then stood up and stretched, then moved over to the couch. "Okay, don't let me sleep through breakfast. I want to hit that place by eleven o'clock."
Hardcastle stepped down into the room, glancing at the book. He frowned. "There's a lot of beds upstairs."
"What, the snoring starting to get to you?" McCormick grinned.
"No, I just think if you're gonna have to think on your feet this morning, you'd be better off getting some real sleep in a real bed."
"Okay," the grin softened a little. "Upstairs. Wake me up by nine."
He'd turned toward the hallway and had a foot on the first step when the phone rang. He half jumped and then darted his eyes toward the desk. The judge seemed just as startled. By the second ring McCormick was within reach. One more quick glance at the older man and he had the receiver in his hand.
"Hello?" he said.
There was a halting and female "Ah . . ." from the other end.
Mark waited another half-beat before he said, "May I help you?" encouragingly.
There was another "Ah," followed by a hesitant, "I'm not sure. I'm looking for someone." Then, in little jerking breaths as if the speaker had been crying, "I'm sorry to call . . . at such a crazy time. Oh . . . I'm sorry . . . this whole thing is so crazy."
"Slow down," Mark said firmly, all the time thinking that if this was just someone who'd had one too many eggnogs and misdialed, he was going to pitch the phone in the pool and go hang himself from the balcony of the gatehouse. And yet . . . there was something about the woman's tone.
"Who are you looking for?" he asked gently.
As if he'd opened a floodgate, the rest came out in a rush. "My father, Thomas Henry. He's been missing for over a week, now."
McCormick dropped into the desk chair, clutching the phone tightly.
"Henry?" he repeated, almost breathlessly. He saw the judge's eyebrows go up as he moved in closer.
"Yes, but, ah," there was another moment's hesitation, and then, "who am I speaking to? Do you know my father? I found this phone number inside the cover of one of his notebooks. I couldn't sleep. I was going through his things."
"Wait," McCormick put one hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at the judge. "'Thomas Henry', ring any bells? I don't remember him from the files."
Hardcastle knitted his brows. "Ah, yeah . . . I knew a guy by that name. UC, undergraduate. Played forward. I think. A couple years younger than me."
"There's someone here who knew your dad, maybe. Did he ever mention someone named Milton Hardcastle?"
Puzzled silence, followed by a small, "No."
"Did your father go to UC—I mean, back in the forties?" Mark hit the speaker button and recradled the phone.
"Yes. Oh," there was a near sob, "do you have any idea where he might be?"
Mark put one elbow on the desk and rubbed his temple. He asked the next part slowly, as if a great deal depended on the answer. "When did he go missing?"
"I'm . . ." there was another sound; this was definitely a sob, "I'm not exactly sure. I talked to him last, a week ago Monday. He seemed a bit distracted. Maybe worried about something, but he didn't say what."
"And then?"
"I don't know. I tried to call him Wednesday and Thursday. Thursday afternoon I went over to his place—he just moved a couple of weeks ago, he lives alone; he wasn't home. I have a key. I let myself in. Everything looked very ordinary, but there was quite a bit of mail in the box. Maybe two or three days' worth.
"Did you make a police report?"
"I tried to, that day. They told me to call them back if he didn't show up by Sunday. He didn't. I've been staying here at his place since then. But now it's been four days since I made the report, and no one knows anything."
Mark was watching Hardcastle, who was frowning deeply but not showing any signs of recognition.
"Okay," McCormick cut back in, "we need to talk, but not over the phone."
There was another moment of silence from the other end. Mark understood that. The woman was frightened. He was actually relieved to find he was dealing with someone who had a grip on the possibilities.
"Look," he said. "You don't have to give me any more information right now. I want you to call Lieutenant Frank Harper," he gave her Frank's office number. "He's with the LAPD. Tell him you made a missing persons report four days ago on a man named Henry. Tell him you talked to Mark McCormick. We can meet here, in Malibu, or we can meet at his office, but we've got to meet this morning. Does that sound okay?"
"Yes." There was an exhalation of relief. "He'll listen to me?"
"Oh, yeah." Mark shook his head slowly. "He would have listened to you last Thursday. Okay, you've got the number? This morning, okay? He'll be there by eight."
"I understand." Both her fear and relief were palpable. "I'll call. Half an hour."
There was a gentle click and the line went dead. McCormick remained frozen there, staring at the phone for a full moment before he gradually realized he was sitting in the judge's chair, behind the judge's desk. He lifted his eyes as he eased out of the seat.
Hardcastle was still absorbed in thought, and hadn't seemed to notice until Mark started to move. Then he frowned at the younger man, who froze again, half upright.
"Henry's an awfully common name," Hardcastle observed. "And there are hundreds of missing persons reports. Can't blame him for not making that connection. We didn't even know it was a last name." Then his frown deepened a little more. "And would you stop looking at me like I'm going to bite your head off just because you sat in my chair?"
McCormick exhaled with relief and almost sank back down again before the judge barked, "Though I really wish you wouldn't." Then he reached forward to dial Frank's home number.
00000
Mark never got to bed. He did manage a shower and yet another cup of coffee. He picked up Hazen and put it down again at least five times, without reading a single paragraph, before he finally heard Frank's car in the drive.
He put the book back on the table. The judge was already looking over his shoulder out the window.
"They're here," Hardcastle said, with an edge to his voice that was unfamiliar.
He's nervous.
McCormick was on his feet and halfway to the door before the bell rang. He'd caught a glimpse of Frank, and the woman he was escorting, through the front window over the judge's shoulder. She'd looked a little older than he'd have guessed from her voice, though that might have been a consequence of a week of no answers and not much sleep; he was feeling about ten years older, himself.
Now, opening the door, he studied her more closely—a little above average height, and angular, with a few wisps of gray in among the auburn. She had fine lines of weariness around her eyes, but, still, she looked like someone who wasn't going to give up without a fight.
"Mr. McCormick? I'm Rebecca Henry," she reached past Frank, not waiting to be introduced. She was much less tentative face to face than she'd been on the phone. "The lieutenant told me what happened to Judge Hardcastle. It seems . . . oddly coincidental."
McCormick looked toward Frank, as he ushered them both into the hallway.
"Oh, wait'll you hear her side of it," Frank said grimly.
"I'm gonna get to say 'I told you so'?" Mark cocked an eyebrow at him.
"I just want you to know; I never doubted you for a minute," Frank said, with a tight smile.
McCormick led them both into the den and pointed Ms. Henry toward a chair. The judge was on his feet. He was obviously studying the new visitor, and, just as obviously, to Mark, at any rate, drawing a blank.
Frank took over the introductions, then he pulled another chair out for himself and sat down. "Ms. Henry's father is a research pharmacologist. He's a former employee of the Holgremsen Institute." He nodded once in the woman's direction.
Rebecca Henry took over the story smoothly. "My dad worked for Dr. Holgremsen for years, practically from the start of the Institute. A lot of basic research." She was leaning forward in her seat. "Oh, I loved that place. They were a little old fashioned—wood floors, deal-top tables—but they did first-rate work. This new place . . ." she shook her head doubtfully. "It's different there."
"Tell 'em what they were studying," Frank prodded gently.
"Mostly memory." Ms. Henry looked from Frank to the other two men. "That was Holgremsen's big area of interest. His own father had suffered from Pick's disease, that's a rare form of dementia. Before he died he couldn't even recognize his own son." She shook her head. "Diseases that attack memory were Holgremsen's life's work; my father's, too." She lifted her eyes and looked at the judge. "Do you know him well?"
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"It's possible, but I don't think so," the judge finally replied. "I knew him in college, but we weren't even on the varsity team the same year. He was more of an acquaintance."
"He's like that, too," Rebecca smiled. "He remembers people he hadn't seen in years. He would have remembered you. He's always pointing out people in the newspaper." The smile had gone rather pensive. "The lieutenant told me you help people, sort of a trouble-shooter."
Hardcastle shot a look at Frank, who shrugged and smiled back. The look flashed over to McCormick, who seconded Frank with a nod.
The judge frowned. "Guess you could call it that."
Ms. Henry seemed to have caught the interplay. Her smile was gone. "How bad is it?"
There was another long, silent moment. Mark finally stepped in. "Fifteen years . . . gone. It happened between ten p.m. and about three a.m., last Monday night."
Rebecca sat, hands in lap, biting her lower lip for a moment. Then she lifted her head. "I think he was in some sort of trouble. I think he came to you for help."
"That much we kinda figured out," Mark interjected again. The judge was looking increasingly uncomfortable. "The question is—what kind of trouble?"
He thought if she bit any harder, she was going to start bleeding. Then she looked up at him again.
"Mr. McCormick, my father wanted to get out of Symnetech. He started talking like that a couple of months ago. He said they were pressuring him to . . . finish something." She frowned. "My father didn't do the kind of research that got 'finished'. I'd never heard him talk like that before. He told me two weeks ago, just the week before he disappeared, that he was going to go to Dr. Grieves. He was going to resign. Then something else happened. He changed his mind."
"Did he say what he was working on?" Mark asked insistently. "Did he give any kind of idea?"
"Well," she rubbed her temple wearily, "about six months ago, he was really excited about something. He kept talking about a breakthrough in the treatment of senile dementia. Something that would help the brain compensate for the damage that occurs."
"A drug?" Mark asked.
"That's the only thing it could have been," Rebecca nodded. "I've got some of his notebooks but, my dad, when he makes notes, it's a real scrawl. I'm not even sure if they're the right ones. The rest of his stuff is over at Symnetech's new building."
"That's the place in Glendale," Harper interjected.
Mark was giving him a rather fixed look. Things got both quiet and tense for a moment. "You know, Frank—"
Harper was already frowning. "Don't tell me. You think maybe I don't want to be around for this next bit."
"Well," Hardcastle drawled, "At least he's not promising you he's not gonna get shot again." He spared a glace toward the increasingly alarmed-looking woman across the desk from him. "Don't worry, Miss Henry; we're just at the reconnaissance stage here, but I think your father's disappearance justifies some pretty aggressive measures."
Rebecca Henry nodded in hopeful agreement.
"Mark," he turned his head toward the younger man, "why don't you take our guest out and show her the view from the backyard; she looks like she could use a little air."
"Want us to get you a glass of water on the way back in?" McCormick asked cryptically and, getting only a mild scowl, added, "How long?"
"Just a few minutes."
"Okay," Mark sighed. "The view it is." He gestured politely to the door and Ms. Henry rose at the invitation, with a mildly puzzled expression.
00000
Frank turned to watch them go, and, out of the corner of his eye, caught something glinting on the mantle that he'd never noticed before. He leaned forward and took a closer look.
"Nice," he said, over his shoulder. "Very appropriate."
"A Christmas present," the judge said laconically.
"He knows how to pick 'em." Frank nodded. "So, how was your Christmas?"
Hardcastle rubbed his forehead for a moment in silence, before he segued. "Weed Randall."
Frank's eyebrows went up. He had both hands in his pockets. "You remember him?"
"Not all of it, just the part in the courtroom. Mark says it happened two years ago." Hardcastle looked frustrated as hell. "I'm stuck there . . . and I know Mark shot Randall; he told me that." Hardcastle shook his head slowly. "He wouldn't say anything else."
"No big surprise—he never talks about it." Frank leaned back against the mantle. "I took his statement; it was like pulling teeth." He frowned thoughtfully. "You've got a copy of it around here somewhere; you told me he gave it to you. It's not in his file?"
The judge shook his head.
"Well, it was about as righteous as they come. Randall had a gun on Sandy Knight. He forced Mark's hand, no question."
"Sandy? Bill Knight's son? He's only—"
"Thirteen? Nope. He was a cop. Sort of." Frank was still frowning. "The whole thing was pretty messy, righteous or not. I'm surprised the parole board didn't drop the hammer on Mark just because he was carrying a piece. Though it was a damn good thing he was."
Frank straightened up, took one last glance over his shoulder at the frame on the mantle. "Look, all those stories I was telling you, the stuff you two have pulled off . . . I dunno; I don't want to give you the impression that you were crazy. It was just that, if something needed doing, you two would get it done . . . and if something needed to be gotten, he'd get it."
"Like now?
"Yeah," Frank admitted, "I'd say he's pretty motivated."
"Well, don't worry," Hardcastle sighed. "I'll keep him on a short leash."
Frank had his hands in his pockets again. He was staring down at the floor just ahead of his feet. He cocked his head after a moment and looked the judge very directly in the eye. "Not too short of one, okay?"
00000
The view from the back of the estate, out over the Pacific, was a spectacular one, but neither of the two had any interest in scenery.
McCormick was lost enough in his own machinations that he'd fallen completely silent.
When Rebecca finally blurted out, "Do you think my father is still alive?" it took him so much by surprise that he didn't have time to compose an effective and consoling lie.
Instead, he merely answered, "I don't know, but I want to find out." Then, saying out loud what he'd been turning over in his head, he added, "I need to get my foot in the door at Symnetech. I'll head over there as soon as Frank leaves."
"I might be able to get you in. They know me."
"I thought about that," Mark looked out over the waves, not really seeing what he was staring at, "but if I go with you, and we get stonewalled, then the jig's up. If I go by myself, and they toss me out; then we've still got you in reserve. Though, frankly, as soon as you set foot in there and ask to get your father's things, they'll know we're on to them. This is assuming that they're part of the problem. We don't even know that."
Rebecca nodded.
"But you can keep the judge company while I'm over there."
She smiled a little at that. "He seems . . . a bit at ends."
"Aren't we all," McCormick said flatly. "It's been a rough week and a half." He turned halfway to face the woman. "I'll be damned if I'm going to let them get away with it."
"Me, neither," she exhaled.
He gave her a tight smile and a quick nod of approval. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "Think we've given them enough time?"
The puzzled look was back. "Enough time to do what?"
McCormick turned back; the smile had become the beginning of a grin. "Discuss my shortcomings, most likely."
They walked around to the front, to kill a little more time, and ran into Frank on the steps. He gave Mark a quick up and down, and then sighed as he said, "Just try and remember how hard it is to arrange bail during the holidays, okay?"
00000
He left Rebecca Henry sitting in the den with the judge, and went to put on a suit and a tie, aiming for something resembling a minion of the federal bureaucracy. Harried and unrested wouldn't even be a stretch. The briefcase, he realized, was too nice. He grabbed his old one from next to his desk.
He ducked back to the main house, knocked perfunctorily and entered. He heard muted voices from the den—Hardcastle asking a question he couldn't quite make out, and Ms. Henry's murmured answer. He's good at that, McCormick thought with a shock. He's always been good at that—Apparently for longer than fifteen years, anyway.
He was fairly certain that Rebecca Henry would be thoroughly debriefed by the time he got back. He cleared his throat as he entered the doorway to the den.
"'Bout ready to go," he said with a nod.
Hardcastle was giving him the once-over. "Yup, I'd say you'd pass as a law clerk."
"Paralegal," McCormick corrected with a grin. "Modern times."
"Just don't say anything that rates as an offense under the US Code, okay?"
"Title 18, section 912. I got it memorized, Judge."
The older man let out a sigh. "All right, just be careful."
"Always," the grin softened to a smile. "Well, mostly always."
This got a grunt, almost as if the judge was working from personal recollection here. Mark nodded once at Ms. Henry and ducked out.
00000
Hardcastle watched him go with an odd itch that he was beginning to recognize as a form of worry. And where had that 'Be careful' come from? Anyway, Frank says he can handle himself. And, if that little demonstration of verbal legerdemain at dinner the night before had been any indication, Frank was right.
He shook off a frown and turned back to Rebecca Henry. He'd already taken her over her father's personal life, and the details of his daily routine. So far, he hadn't uncovered anything useful.
"His co-workers?" the judge suggested. "Was he very close to any of them? Would any of them been working with him closely enough to know what was going on?"
"My father was a bit of a loner. He liked working that way, and, anyway, that's the kind of people the Institute attracted—iconoclasts, lone wolves. I haven't tried to contact any of them. I don't even know how to, except through the office at Symnetech."
"Just as well," Hardcastle pondered. "Any of them might be in on it, whatever 'it' is. Otherwise, I'd've hoped they would have already contacted the authorities, if they were aware of anything suspicious going on."
"Now the interns, they're another matter."
Hardcastle's eyebrows had gone up. "Interns?"
"He usually had one. They rotated through every few months. I've met a few of them, but I don't know who he had recently. They're graduate students from the university. They get their name at the bottom of the author's list on whatever paper my dad's working on, and he gets someone who can make sure his dry cleaning gets picked up, and his typing doesn't look as bad as his writing.
"They help him with his notes?"
"Sometimes," Ms. Henry said slowly. "But just the stuff that's ready to be published. My dad's kind of . . . secretive. It's not that he doesn't want to share," she hurriedly added. "It's just that he doesn't want his work looked at prematurely. He wants to be sure of his facts first."
Hardcastle nodded, trying to picture someone with that personality working in a hard-charging, profit-making organization.
"So," he glanced up at her again, "who would know who your father's current intern is? I mean, besides the nice folks at Symnetech," he added with a grim smile.
"The university, I suppose. They all come from there, from the chemistry department, mostly. But the rotation ends with the semester. And now everyone's gone for the holiday break."
"I know some people over there." Hardcastle frowned again suddenly. "At least I used to." He shook his head in aggravation. "None of them were in that department. Maybe I should put Frank on it. Might need a subpoena." He sat back in his seat, gradually becoming aware that Rebecca Henry was watching him. "What?" he asked.
"Oh," she twitched from her reverie. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be staring. I was just . . . wondering."
"What?" he tried not to sound impatient. He didn't think he could stand any sympathy right now.
"Is it possible that my father's alive, but just doesn't know who he is?"
"Well, I know who I am," he added an almost silent 'dammit' under his breath. "I haven't changed, even if everything else has." He sat for a moment, scowling. Then he realized the woman had drawn back a little. "Sorry," he muttered. "Maybe I'm not really myself."
He shook his head. "Dunno. If it happened to him, he'd still remember you, and working for the institute. He'd have things left—a life. He could find his way to you, once he knew it was 1986, couldn't he?"
"Oh," she said with some chagrin, "not much change there."
"Then it's something more than that," he said definitively. He looked up at her again suddenly, realizing he wasn't being much of a comfort. "Sorry," he said, this time a little more audibly.
"No, I understand. You're right, he would have found me," she let out a slow breath, "like you found your friend."
"Well," Hardcastle frowned, "it was kind of like he found me." He glanced over his shoulder, out at the empty drive. The kid probably hadn't even arrived at his destination yet. He turned back toward Ms. Henry, trying to keep the worry off his face.
"Oh," she said. It was a soft syllable of sudden understanding. "You don't remember him? Not at all?"
Hardcastle shook his head tightly.
"He said," she paused, as if she was trying to get it exactly right. "He said he'd be damned if he'd let them get away with it." She lifted her chin. "I think I believe him."
"Yeah, he doesn't give up too easy." And the moment he'd said it, the judge had a deep conviction that it was true, even beyond the evidence of the past ten days.
They both sank into a pensive silence that went on for a moment more; finally Rebecca Henry sighed and said, "Roses, that's what it was."
"What?" the judge asked, half-distractedly.
"I was trying to remember something." She blushed a little. "I'm sorry; what a thing to say." He brushed it off with a quick gesture. She smiled, and then said, "It was a quote, something I read once, that God gave us memory so we can have roses in December."
Hardcastle cocked his head. "Thorns," he replied quietly, without even a moment's hesitation. "Thorns year-round. They seem a hellu'va lot more durable."
00000
McCormick parked the Coyote around the corner from the Glendale address Frank had provided. The car didn't go with his minion persona and he couldn't risk being seen exiting it.
Symnetech occupied the second floor of a sleek new office building. Mark found himself paying particular attention to the security measures, five minutes of daytime inspection was worth any amount of nocturnal preparation. To his surprise, none of it appeared particularly advanced.
The elevator opened onto a nicely appointed lobby, uninhabited except for a receptionist who looked like she also hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. She looked up from the crossword puzzle she'd been studying.
"May I—?"
"McCormick, here to see Mr., ah," he consulted the notebook he'd stowed in his pocket, "Grieves, about some of the filings, ah, section 26 of Schedule A."
The young woman at the desk looked slightly flummoxed. She blinked her way back to the beginning of the recital and seized on the only bit she'd apparently recognized. "Ohh, Mr. Grieves. He said he was expecting someone. Second door on the right. I'll buzz you in."
It was McCormick's turn to blink, but he only did so once. Then he followed where her finger directed, down a plushly carpeted hallway, not sure if he should be pleased or worried about the turn of events.
He took the knob, and leaned in as he heard the low buzz. The man behind the expansive rosewood desk looked up sharply. He was putting down the phone's receiver, and the words, "You're early," had just escaped his lips before he apparently realized his mistake.
Clement Grieves had an aristocratic face, which was frowning now. He pushed back a little from his desk and somehow managed to look down his nose at Mark despite his sitting position.
"Mr., ah . . .?"
"McCormick," Mark didn't bother to extend a hand. He was almost instantly aware, as soon as he'd spoken his name, that Grieves knew he was not who he hadn't said he was. "I'm here about the filing," he added smoothly. "I have some questions about the schedule A papers."
Grieves was studying him closely. Even more interestingly, he wasn't putting in a call to the building's security or to the police. Mark helped himself to a chair.
"Mr. . . . McCormick," Grieves seemed to be fighting down a bad attack of nerves, "I wasn't expecting you so soon."
Mark wasn't sure who Grieves was trying to pretend he thought he was but, what the hell, he'd clearly struck pay dirt in the guilty conscience department. He managed a tight smile.
"You're the one who's aiming for a January launch, right, Mr. Grieves?"
The would-be CEO licked his lips once, very nervously. "Ah, yes. And I thought all our papers were in order."
"Oh, there's always some little jot that needs fixing," McCormick's smile broadened. "In this case it section 26—'earnings and income, the nature and source thereof, and expenses for the latest fiscal year and for the two preceding fiscal years.' I paraphrase, of course."
"Of course," Grieves said sourly. "And I'm almost certain we've already provided that information." He flicked a glance in the direction of his watch. "If you could leave a note with Ms. Adams out there in the reception area, I'll have someone get on it as soon as possible."
McCormick was now aware that he was being given the bum's rush. Evidently Mr. Grieves was expecting more company—but still he made no attempt to call security. Mark relaxed back into his chair a bit further and took a slow, leisurely look around him at the office.
"I like what you've done with the place. Looks very . . . prosperous."
Grieves' frown deepened. "If that's all you needed from me . . ."
Mark finally took the hint. He didn't actually want to see the man sweat. He rose slowly, and this time he did extend a hand. Grieves reached forward awkwardly. His hand was cold and clammy, not the grip of a criminal mastermind by a long shot.
"That will be all for now," McCormick smiled congenially, "but you know how these things are; I'll probably be back."
Grieves looked not at all pleased by this statement, but eager enough to see McCormick move toward the door. Even that small bit of joy dissipated when it opened to reveal another man standing by Ms. Adam's desk, waiting impatiently with a glowering expression.
Mark tipped a nod to the new visitor as he passed by. Grieves stood in the doorway of his office, wearing an expression that made his earlier nervousness look positively benign. Ms. Adams looked over at him, with the total cluelessness of a new hire, and announced the obvious—
"Your ten o'clock, Mr. Gularis, is here to see you."
And McCormick beamed happily to himself as he stepped into the opening elevator.
00000
He came in through the front door without even the pretense of a knock, dropped his briefcase just inside the hallway and steered directly for the den. The debriefing was apparently over. Hardcastle had made coffee, and the last of the Christmas cookies had been reduced to crumbs on a plate. The two of them had moved to more comfortable chairs, and an old college yearbook was open on the table between them.
Hardcastle's eyebrows rose at McCormick's grin.
"I'm back."
"And—?"
"And no arrest warrants have been sworn out against me."
"Well, there's an accomplishment," the judge huffed, though Mark thought he detected just a hint of relief in his eyes. "Anything else?"
"Yup," McCormick snatched a chair and pulled it over, dropping into it and leaning forward. "A guy named Gularis. Don't know the first name, though I'd guess it's maybe Tony or Vito. His nose is a little crooked, that's for sure. He's down in your basement somewhere. Maybe under 'money guys'."
Hardcastle frowned. "His first name is Walter . . . yeah, Wally Gularis. He's small fry though. Specialized in creative accountancy."
"Okay," Mark nodded. It never surprised him when the judge pulled some obscure crime-related fact out of his mental files, and that much apparently hadn't changed. "But I think he's moved up the food chain a bit since you last heard of him. He's definitely got Grieves scared."
"The mob trying to muscle in on Symnetech? Usually they go more for nightclubs than research institutes."
"Hey," Mark shrugged, "you heard what Frank said; there's a lot of money in antidepressants. Anyway, I think maybe Grieves went to them, first. That's a pretty upscale operation he's got going over there."
"Yes," Ms. Henry leaned forward into the conversation, "Dad said the same thing. He wondered where all the money was coming from. There was never that much around back in the old days, when they were using mostly grants, and they hadn't seen a penny's profit yet from the recent drug research."
"See," McCormick nodded again, "something seriously hinky is going down over there, and, wait, it gets better. I'm pretty sure Grieves recognized my name—"
"You used your real name?" Hardcastle's eyebrows had gone up a notch again.
"Well, yeah. I told you I wasn't gonna do a 912 and, anyway, the cage-rattling value was pretty impressive." McCormick sat back with a satisfied look on his face. "So, whaddaya think? We got probable cause yet?"
"For a search warrant on Symnetech?" Hardcastle frowned. "I do. Frank might, but no judge in his right mind would go for it."
McCormick ignored what was probably unintentional self-deprecation. He sighed resignedly. "Okay, then I'm going to run Ms. Henry here back to her dad's place and see if we can scrounge up some of his notes. That okay with you?" He turned his head toward the woman.
She nodded.
He turned back to the judge. "And maybe you can go downstairs and get yourself up to speed on Wally . . . though I still think he's more of a Vito."
"You're gonna trust me to stay here by myself?" Hardcastle grimaced slightly.
"Guess I've got to," McCormick tried to keep it light. He had been just a little concerned, though not for the reason the judge apparently thought. "We don't have a vehicle that seats three anymore. Maybe you could take a shotgun down there with you, okay?"
00000
Thomas Henry's place was small and Spartan, and looked barely settled into, with only books and papers as clutter—the personal space of a man who lived mostly in his head.
"There's a lot more here than he had in his old apartment," his daughter said. "I think he used to keep more of his personal papers in his office at the old Institute."
"That reminds me," Mark slipped the notebook out of his jacket pocket and leafed through it to the sketch he'd made shortly after his morning's visit with Grieves. "Maybe you could take a look at this." She leaned over as he passed it to her. "You've been there, haven't you?" he asked.
"The new building? Yes, once." She shuddered. "Do I sound like a cranky old woman? I don't know. Dad wasn't happy there. I didn't like it either."
Mark smiled. "I know, kinda gave me the creeps, too. But what I really need is to pick your brain a little. I only had a few seconds to look around, the rest of the time I was in Grieves' office."
"Oh, that big desk of his," she shook her head, "that alone must've cost over a thousand dollars."
"Okay, here's his office." He pointed with the tip of his pen, "and there's the lobby—"
"Yes." She lifted her head and looked at him quizzically. "Why are we doing this, Mr. McCormick?"
"Call me Mark."
"Okay, if you'll call me Rebecca . . . and tell me why you need to know more about the layout of that building."
Mark smiled. He thought Thomas Henry's daughter was more than ready for desperate measures, but, on the other hand, she'd spent the morning in the clutches of Milton C. Hardcastle, and that tended to have a rectifying effect on some people.
"There might be something useful back in you father's new office—something that might help us figure out what happened to him." He tested the waters carefully.
"Oh," she nodded eagerly, "I could go there; tell them I was picking some of his things up for him."
McCormick winced. This one was too honest by half. "Well, if it's something useful to us," he pointed out, "it's probably dangerous to them. They may have hidden it—locked it up."
"So you're going to break in there tonight?" she said abruptly, making Mark suddenly wonder just what she and the judge had been discussing, besides her father's college basketball career.
"Um, it's a possibility." He frowned down at the sketch. "I might."
"And I'd better not mention any of this to Judge Hardcastle?"
He nodded. She took the notebook from him and looked at it for a moment, then asked for his pen. She filled in a few more details, and jotted down a couple of notes.
"Mind you, I wasn't 'casing the joint'." She gave him a small smile. "I was just bringing my dad a bagel and some coffee when I was there." The smile had become wistful. "But I think this is about right." She handed the sketch back to him. "Just promise you'll be careful, will you?"
"I try to be," Mark said, as he studied the drawing,
"Good," Rebecca nodded once sharply. "The judge was really worried about you today."
Mark looked up at her in blank surprise.
"Well, it was pretty obvious." She shrugged. "Come on, let's find those notebooks."
00000
It was mid-afternoon when they emerged from the Henry residence, McCormick bearing a cardboard box full of notebooks and loose papers. It had been hard to tell what might be relevant; Thomas Henry's scrawl surpassed Rebecca's description. McCormick had thumbed through a few pages and then shrugged. He doubted if he could have made anything out of it, even if it had been legible.
"I know somebody who might, though," he'd said as they sat there on the floor sorting things as best they could, "a guy named Westerfield—a doctor. At least I'd like to show it to him." He looked down at his watch with a concerned glance.
Rebecca seemed to catch that. "You could take me back to the estate; I could stay with the judge until you're done."
"Oh," Mark smiled, "I don't think that's necessary." He wasn't going to admit that, now that she knew his plans for the night, he'd really prefer to keep some distance between her and Hardcastle. "But I think you'd be better off at your own place than here. I really stuck the stick in the wasp's nest this morning. Not sure what might happen next."
"I think I'd be safe enough here," Rebecca said with a thoughtful frown. "I kind of thought maybe my dad had a reason for moving so suddenly, and the reason might have been Clement Grieves."
00000
He dropped her off at her own apartment, better safe than sorry. Fortunately, it was back in the direction he wanted to go. He found a public phone and was surprised to have his call answered by Westerfield himself.
"I was just getting ready to close up shop for the week. Only had a couple of post-holiday depressives to deal with," his voice was warm, and a surprising comfort. "Don't suppose it's something that simple for you?"
"No, more in the line of research," Mark admitted. "I don't know if you'd be able to help. I have some things, notes, that might have something to do with what happened to the judge." He hesitated, then added hopefully, "If you're interested."
"Can you bring them over now?" was Westerfield's almost immediate reply.
00000
Ten minutes later he was carefully placing the box on Westerfield's desk, hoping that the pile wasn't too intimidating in its unrefined state.
"Good thing I have the weekend free," the doctor mused, then he gestured McCormick to a chair.
"Sorry. We didn't know what might be important."
"No," Westerfield reached into the container and scooped up the topmost notebook, thumbing it open, "better to be thorough, might need all the context I can get. Oh, I see he writes like a doctor."
"He is . . . a Ph.D., that is—biochemistry. He disappeared the same night Hardcastle had his 'accident'."
Westerfield looked up from the page. "Really? My, my, that is interesting. A mystery."
"I was very careful," McCormick assured him. "No one followed me here."
Westerfield started to laugh but stopped abruptly, after a glance at McCormick's entirely serious expression. "You think that—?"
"I dunno, Doc; we're looking at a start-up company that may be using mob money, a discovery that might fix Alzheimer's, but may not work as advertised, a missing scientist, and—did Hardcastle mention someone took a shot at us last week?"
Westerfield shook his head and looked down at the notebook he was holding, with a new element of interest. McCormick sat back and rubbed his face, blinking a couple of times.
"And how are you two holding up?" The doctor gave him a concerned look. "How's he doing?"
"Oh, ah . . . better, I think." Mark stared at the box. He thought maybe the previous night was catching up with him. He sighed. "I dunno about that, either, Doc. Last night," McCormick shook his head wearily, "he had another dream. I think he's having them every night, but this must've been a new one."
"A dream that's actually a memory?"
"Yeah, a doozy. He was shot about two years ago, in the chest, almost died." Mark shook his head again. "Is that how it's gonna be? He only remembers the bad stuff? And why these two things?"
"Well," Westerfield put the notebook down and sat back a little. "I suspect he's remembered some other things as well. As for what, and why, I imagine it's the moments that had the most emotional impact for him. There's something called Hebbian Learning Theory—"
"What about his son's death; what about his wife?"
"I'm guessing he's remembered those things as well. Maybe those first—we really don't have a good idea of memory architecture, but clearly there's some sort of pattern."
"Last Saturday," McCormick murmured, more to himself than to the doctor.
"What happened then?" Westerfield leaned forward, fingers tented.
"Oh, he was talking about his son, his family . . . and he got really angry."
"At you?"
McCormick nodded. "Very angry . . . said some things." The nod had turned into a quick shake of the head and, "I think we're past that now. But . . . maybe it was because he was remembering." It took him a moment to notice the silence from across the desk. He looked up only to see Westerfield looking right back at him. "What?" he asked, with a slightly defensive tone.
"I was just wondering," Westerfield mused.
"What?" McCormick asked suspiciously.
"If you were angry." The doctor was giving him a steady gaze. "Do you ever get angry?"
"Sure I do." McCormick frowned, "I'm angry as hell right now at whoever did this to him."
"No," Westerfield smiled gently, "I mean at him."
The silence that followed was palpable.
Finally Mark spoke; his voice was low and nearly flat, devoid of any recognizable emotion. "He put me in prison. I was very angry."
"Were you guilty?"
"I . . . don't know." There was another long silent moment. Then he added, quietly, "Either I was guilty, or he was wrong."
"It's called cognitive dissonance," Westerfield said, just as quietly. "I was wondering how you deal with it."
"I know what it's called," Mark said sharply. "I took a couple of psychology courses," the frown had deepened, "and, yeah, the way I deal with it is by not dealing with it. Anyway," he added, "that's not the problem right now."
"Okay," Westerfield held his hands up placatingly, "I was just . . . curious."
"Well, now you know part of why I'm not too crazy about shrinks." Mark managed a tight smile.
Westerfield nodded in apparent understanding. "Well . . . if it ever stops working, I'm here." He took another look into the box. "But not this weekend." He smiled. "I'll be home getting some reading done."
"Anything you come up with that looks interesting," Mark was scribbling numbers down as he spoke, "this one you probably already have. It's the judge's. The other one is Frank Harper; he's a lieutenant with the LAPD. They can usually reach him through that number, no matter what. Please," he looked up as he passed the paper over, "anything."
"I'll do my best."
00000
It was well into the long winter twilight when McCormick pulled up the drive. He'd thought about it most of the way home and concluded amnesia had its advantages. After only ten days, Hardcastle couldn't possibly know his routine of parking the Coyote near the garage most of the time, and preferably in it at night. This time he placed it well down the drive, facing out, all out of sight of the house itself.
With luck, the judge might still be in the basement, caught up in the career of Walter Gularis, though he thought the way things were going, more likely the judge and Frank would be sitting in the den, and the all-too-observant lieutenant would make some comment about the Coyote's absence.
Reality lay somewhere in between. Frank wasn't there; the judge was in the den. He had several files open in front of him with the contents sorted out. He looked up from his reading as McCormick slouched into the room and dropped wearily into a chair.
"I stopped by Westerfield's to show him the papers," McCormick answered the question that hadn't been asked. "Big box full. May take him all weekend." He was rubbing his temples. "He asked how you were . . . I told him 'better'."
"Better than you right now, at any rate," the judge was looking him over. "Did you eat yet?"
McCormick had to think about that one for a moment. "No," he finally said. "But what I really need is some coffee. And we gotta invite Sarah back; we're out of cookies." He pulled himself up a little straighter. "How's the research going?"
"Oh, interesting enough. You're right; Wally's a pretty big fish now, though he's still mostly in the loans and laundry department. But he knows how to collect a debt, and, if Grieves made promises he can't keep, he's right to be afraid of this guy."
"So what does that have to do with Dr. Henry being missing, and whatever the hell happened to you?"
Hardcastle shrugged. "Still too many pieces missing."
Mark thought that one over a minute; he didn't think it would be wise to discuss how he intended to gather a few more of those pieces tonight.
"Ham or turkey?" The judge's question broke into his thought and almost made him jump.
"Ah, ham I think. Won't keep much longer."
00000
They ate in the kitchen, with McCormick almost dozing off a couple times over his food. The third time Hardcastle reached over and nudged him.
"I think you'd better hit the sack. I can take the watch tonight."
McCormick looked at him blearily. This was exactly what he'd hoped to accomplish, but without the desperate veracity. And, somehow, the judge volunteering for it made him feel even lower than he'd thought it would.
"If you get tired, wake me up, okay?"
He knew that wouldn't happen, not the way Hardcastle had been avoiding sleep lately. He felt the guilt drifting a little higher around him.
"Listen," he finally said, and then he paused, not sure exactly what he wanted to say—an apology maybe, but he wasn't sure for what.
Afterwards, always apologize afterwards. Works better that way. He got up slowly from the table and picked up his dishes to put them in the sink.
"Don't bother with these. I'll get them all tomorrow. Okay?"
Then he headed out the door to the gatehouse.