Chapter 10
Trudging up the walk to the gatehouse, McCormick tripped on the step and almost vaulted through the door. Damn, I need some sleep, he thought, but knew there were a couple of things he had to take a look at before he passed out.
The couch was practically screaming at him to lie on it as he made his way up to the loft. The litany of a mental list that never changed and was permanently cemented to his brain made him keep going, even though he was past exhausted. Funny how some things stayed in memory, forever, no matter what. The clothes. Hanging in the back of the closet, like always. Nothing ever went into the pockets, and dry clean wrapping still on them. The shoes, the gloves, the hat, and last but not least, the little leather case that he had, on a few occasions, thought of getting rid of, but never did.
The door was still open, and everything was in its place like always, when he backed up and flopped onto the bed. Reaching over, he adjusted the alarm clock and his hand dropped back to his side. It's the only way.
Those were the last thoughts he had before he crashed.
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The irritating buzzing finally reached through the darkness and McCormick's hand swatted at the clock till he hit the right button. His sleep had been dreamless and not nearly long enough. Lying on the bed, he was trying to figure out how to get his eyelids to stay up, wishing he had another three or four days to mull it over. He also was thinking that using a toothbrush could be a good thing.
Pondering the thought of actually getting up, he realized that there was light in the room. I never even turned the lights off. Another actuality hit him as he heard the faint sounds of the television. I know I never turned it on last night. Eyes open now, he slowly rose and looked over the railing.
The judge was sitting in front of the TV, shotgun at his side, watching something almost inaudible. Sensing movement from upstairs, he turned his head and looked in the younger man's direction.
"Finally found the right button?" The question had a definite caustic tone.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying desperately to think of something to say, McCormick turned and started down.
"Um, yeah," was all he could think of. He was not awake enough to deal with his houseguest. What the hell is he doing here? This is not good.
McCormick missed the last step, and not so gracefully landed on his rear end. Not awake and flustered were bad signs.
Sitting up and staring bleakly over at the judge, the only thing that came out of his mouth were the words, "What are you doing here?"
Still sitting, but watching the kid, he asked, "You okay?"
Rolling his head to get a kink out of his neck, McCormick answered, "Yeah, but the pad under this carpet could be a little thicker." Getting up, he rubbed his backside and shuffled over to the couch where he sat down a bit too quickly. "Ow." And he rubbed the afflicted area again.
"You sure you're okay?"
"I said I was, didn't I?" Although he had reached a low level of grouchy awareness, he had a long way to go.
"What are you doing here? And what time is it?" Mark glanced at the TV; an old John Wayne movie was on. That figures; even at Christmastime, in Hardcastleville, there would be a John Wayne movie.
"I'm on guard duty. That's what I'm doing here. You set the alarm; you should know what time it is. What are you doing?"
The voice in McCormick's head that usually helped him out at times like these was yelling, Stall him—you've got to wake up. You're in trouble here, buddy! Then the little voice added the fatal comment, Do you think he knows what you're doing?
Disconcerted, but desperately pretending not to be, he answered, "Huh?"
"Wake up, McCormick!" the judge yelled.
The loudness and tone of Hardcastle's voice was enough to raise Mark's level of consciousness, but the use of his last name, for the first time in what seemed like years, definitely did it.
"What did you say?" He wanted to make sure.
"Did your butt thump affect your ears? I said, WAKE UP, McCormick!"
His mouth almost upturned for an instant. Now he's cookin!
The upturn took a downturn when he remembered why he had set the alarm and what he was planning on doing. Hardcastle sitting in his living room was definitely going to be a problem. While the use of his last name seeded new hope that the judge was coming back, it was also certain that the jurist almost always said his name in that tone when he was ticked off or worried about something.
"Um, I was going to check to see if everything was okay around here." Not an outright lie; he had beenplanning a quick look around.
"Well, I already did that a couple hours ago, and that's when I noticed your lights were on." Hardcastle sat forward in the chair. His eyes seemed to bore a hole right through the younger man. "And while I was on my way over here, I observed one red race car missing from its usual parking space. When I haven't been sleeping well the last few nights, I've looked out my window. I've seen it in the same spot every night. Always. It wasn't tonight. Thought it might have been stolen, so I took a little walk." The look became more intense. "Found it." He paused a second for emphasis. "You mind telling me why it's parked where it is and the direction it's facing?"
Shit.
Mark leaned back in his chair, contemplating the wood grain in the coffee table. "Well you never know when you might have to make a quick exit or something. Bad guys show up and then they try and get away…" Glancing up, he saw Hardcastle wasn't buying any of it.
"That the story you're gonna stick with?"
"Well, yes, I guess until I can come up with a better one." Rolling his head over to the back of the chair, he began staring at the ceiling.
"Damn, I knew it!" the judge exploded as he rose off the chair. "I thought you didn't lie to me." Any trust he had placed in the kid recently was teetering on a very thin line.
"I don't! Not about the important stuff anyway."
"And you don't think what you were going to do tonight is 'important'?"
Mark didn't like the inflection on that last word. But before he could say anything, the judge took off again.
"You were gonna sneak out of here tonight and go break into Symnetech." It wasn't a question.
Blowing the breath he was holding, McCormick replied. "Yes."
"You wouldn't wait until we see what Westerfield and Frank come up with."
Opening his mouth to reply, Mark was immediately cut off again.
"If they do come up with something, a search warrant is the way to go, and you know it."
Search warrant would be a good idea, but where the hell would you get one this time of the year on a weekend? And it probably would be too late, anyway.
"I thought you were rehabilitated! Of all the stupid, harebrained, idiotic ideas. Do you have any idea of what could happen to you if you get caught? You're going to law school, for Chrissakes!" The judge was up and pacing.
If it weren't for the seriousness of the situation, Mark might have been amused with this little lecture—pure Milton C. Hardcastle, in the flesh. But the reality was that he knew he was in deep right now.
"I'm supposed to trust you. I really was beginning to think it was possible that I could. I've been reading the case reports. Do you know how many times you must have done something this stupid since you've been here?"
Not really slowing down, he went on, "And how many times have I been dragged into it, too?" Whirling to look at Mark he added bitterly, "How many do I not know about?" He waved his hand. "Don't even answer that right now!"
Really rolling now, he went on, "It's two o'clock in the morning on a Friday night on a holiday weekend. Cops are pulling double duty out looking for people having too much fun. Driving around in that billboard you call a car would be very inconspicuous, wouldn't it? The chances of you being seen are doubled in that thing . . . no, tripled. Did you even think about that?"
Well, no, Mark admitted to himself; he hadn't thought about it that much.
Running his fingers through his hair and sitting down hard, the judge shook his head. "You can't continue to break the law while you say you're trying to uphold it. This is why I can't believe that I ever got into any of this. I never believed in breaking the law. Never did it before." He looked hard at the younger man. "You know I was sitting in the den tonight looking at your gift. Thinking how true those words were. I was thinking how much they've meant to me over the years. I was thinking how much I must have meant to you, if you really thought it was a gift from the heart. And now this!
"What the hell are you thinking? Don't you have anything to say?"
Still giving the ceiling a critical view, McCormick sighed. Part of him wanted to blow up too. He wanted to rant and get a few things off his chest. He was tired. Physically tired and mentally exhausted. It had taken everything he had to sit still. But he did.
He lowered his head slowly and looked at the judge. "You done now?"
"For the moment, yes; in the long run, probably not, but go ahead."
Mark began, "Look, if you think I've done a B&E, or anything else illegal, on every single case we've ever taken on, fine. That's not true by a long shot, and under normal circumstances, you'd know that." Sitting forward now and building a little steam himself, he went on, "But these aren't normal circumstances, so I guess you don't have to believe me or anybody else that happens to walk through the door, calls you on the phone, writes you a letter, or does anything to get through that thick skull of yours.
"I have learned a lot about the law and how to do things since I've been here. I don't take law school lightly, either. I've worked pretty damn hard at it. I never wanted to let down the one person who used to believe in me, and that's you."
He flicked a glance in Hardcastle's direction, but didn't leave it there long enough to see the reaction, if there was any. "We've done most everything by the book. Okay, occasionally I have shaved the edges off a few corners. But it's always been for the right reason. And you want to know what? I've never been proud of it, either. But it was the only way I knew how."
He stood and walked over to the window and stared out at the darkness.
"We know that Henry probably has the answer to all of this. But we don't know where the hell he is. We don't even know if he's alive. Grieves is in this and is dirty all the way up to his fake hairline. The answers are in that building, Judge. We need those answers. I'm tired of waiting for them. The fact that the geeks over at Symnetech haven't put it all together yet is nothing short of lucky. And I'm not feeling so lucky these days."
Mark turned and looked at the judge. "Do you think that they will just leave Henry's stuff where it is? With what's at stake? I sure don't. The time to move is now, before they do. You don't have time to wait, either."
The only sound in the room was the shootout scene in the movie. Neither man dropped his gaze from the other. The seconds ticked by. Finally, Hardcastle broke eye contact. He rose from the chair and headed for the door. He paused when he reached it.
"You know, I'm not feeling so lucky these days either. But what you're planning on doing is not the way to deal with it. Everybody, including you, says you can be trusted. I'm asking you not to go anywhere tonight. Your heart may be in the right place, but your head sure as hell isn't. If you can't honor my request, then before you go out tonight, pack up your stuff and take it with you."
Mark didn't know how long he stood at the window after the judge left. The coolness of the windowpane felt good across his forehead. Staring out into the night, he felt like his head was ready to explode. Pro or con, plus or minus, right or wrong, any way he looked at it, everything added up to the same thing.
Hell of a time to give me the final exam, Hardcase.
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McCormick awoke with a start; he had dozed off in the chair. His head was pounding, and he wished it was too much tequila, instead of stress and exhaustion, that had caused the headache that was pulverizing his brain.
Starting with two, and adding two more, he swallowed some aspirin and hit the shower.
Deciding that discretion was not the better part of valor that morning, he headed over to start breakfast. He knew it was early but didn't care. As he crossed the drive, a slow moving, non-descript sedan caught his eye. For McCormick, it was just as flashy as the Coyote, standing out like a beacon. Slowing his steps, he saw the car stop; it seemed to be waiting. He hesitated for a second, then took off toward the gate. If they were friends sent by Frank, he'd be relieved; if they weren't, at least he'd have more ground to stand on.
The sedan suddenly bolted and sped down the road just as McCormick was nearing the gate—not enough time for a plate number. Damn! Well at least they weren't shooting at us this time. He spun around and ran to the house.
"Judge! Judge!" He was yelling as he charged into the front entryway.
"McCormick! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The judge was at the study door, shotgun raised. He was awake, but he looked like somebody who had also spent the night upright in a chair.
Out of breath and panting, Mark gasped out, "We've had company. I'm pretty sure they knew they weren't invited."
"What? Who? When? I didn't hear anything!" Hardcastle was shouting as he headed for the door, shotgun still in hand.
"Sedan, driving by. Didn't see them. Took off. Just now," were the cryptic answers. Mark was totally spent. He wondered if this was one of the first phases of a heart attack.
The judge was out the door—Mark two steps behind him, still breathing hard.
No sedan. Hardcastle turned and looked at him with a glint of suspicion in his eye.
"Upping the ante?" he asked dryly.
McCormick had gotten his breath partly back. "It was," he panted, "a gray sedan. Really."
The judge was still giving him that look. Maybe it was sheer fatigue, but, for a moment, Mark found himself doubting his own memory.
"I suppose it might have been an unmarked squad car," he said uncertainly. "Gray like that. Nothing fancy." He sighed. Then his eyes narrowed down a little. "The hell it was, the way it took off outta of here." He stood his ground for a moment, staring at the older man.
Hardcastle twitched first. It was almost a look of chagrin. "Well, you haven't called me crazy," he admitted gruffly, "so I guess the least I can do is return the favor."
Mark was looking at the judge with an amused expression.
"What?" asked Hardcastle. He looked down at himself. His ancient bathrobe was not tied, and he was standing there in his shorts and tee shirt. Hastily he grabbed the belt on the robe and tied it. "I didn't have time to get dressed, you know."
McCormick smiled to himself as he went up the steps and headed for the kitchen. "I really need some coffee."
Hardcastle decided to follow.
The kitchen was bright with early morning sunshine. The judge sat down at the table while McCormick busied himself with the coffee maker. He turned to the judge and asked, "Extra scoops this morning?" holding out the can.
"Yeah, make it two."
Two? Oh, he'd had a rough night.
As fascinating as it was to watch coffee brew, Mark knew there was a conversation that needed to be had. He ambled over to the table.
Sitting down and facing the judge, he almost let out a snicker. Even though the judge had managed to straighten his robe, his hair was all over the place and he had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. McCormick would have laughed, but although he had taken a shower and cleaned up, he probably didn't look any better.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"I didn't go anywhere last night."
"I know."
"Aren't I going to get the old 'see, I knew you would see the light of day lecture'?"
"No."
"The 'at least for once in your life you've listened'?"
"No."
"Not even 'so you're finally getting the hang of right and wrong'?"
"Nope."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
Looking confused, concerned, and a bit relieved all at the same time, Mark sat back and said, "Okay, um, well then, I guess I'll get breakfast going."
"Just a minute."
Aha! I knew it. Here it comes.
"In some ways, I just may happen to think you're right."
"I'm right?" He was taken aback, "Wait a minute, I'm never right."
"Well, probably not usually, but in this case you are."
"Right about what?" He wanted to take credit where credit was due.
"The 'geeks', as you called them, over at Symnetech. They don't have all the pieces. Whatever those pieces are and what they're for is just another part of our problem. Something is missing. And they want it." The judge rose and went to the window. "Maybe they even need Henry himself, I don't know. But until we know exactly what, we'd be stupid to go looking."
McCormick thought, what the hell does he mean, 'to go looking'? Then it also dawned on him that the judge said 'our problem'.
"Well." Hardcastle slapped his hands on the table, "While you get breakfast, I'm going to get cleaned up. Hey, while you're at it, get the paper will ya? And check for yesterday's mail, I never picked that up."
He was out of the room even before Mark could say a word.
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Tucking the paper under his arm, McCormick opened the mailbox and pulled out the mail. He had taken a stroll down the driveway, and checked the road and the area around the main gate before returning to the house and pulling the mail from the box. Never hurt to be on the lookout for unexpected company. All was quiet.
Thumbing through the mail there were the usual bills, Nobody gets a Christmas vacation from them, junk mail and a few straggling Christmas cards. Noticeably different was one padded brown envelope addressed to the judge. There was no return address. Studying it and frowning, Mark put it on the top of the pile.
Hardcastle was already back in the kitchen when he came in. Coffee was steaming in cups on the table. The radio was on with the nine o'clock morning news.
"Hey, Judge, look at this." Mark handed over the envelope.
The judge took it and said, "No return address?" and started to open it.
"Wait!" Mark yelled.
"What?" Hardcastle yelled back.
Looking a little sheepish, McCormick faltered, "Well, maybe we should have Frank look it over. Could be a letter bomb or something."
"A letter bomb? Your imagination is definitely getting away with you." And with that, he started to open it. McCormick stepped back and closed his eyes. "Will you stop being ridiculous!"
He thought, At least I'll have fingers left over if it is.
"What the hell is this?" asked the judge.
Mark opened one eye, cautiously, then the other. Hardcastle was holding the object in his hand.
McCormick reached out and took it. "It's a computer disk."
"A computer what?"
"Disk. It's something that stores information from a computer." Mark was staring down at a label that read, 'Second trial data, dose-related side effects.' "This was Henry's." His eyes met Hardcastle's.
The phone rang. Hardcastle picked it up on the second ring.
"Hello?" he gave McCormick a sharp look. "Yes . . . special delivery? Well, I got something in the mail this morning, too." He looked up at Mark and mouthed the words 'Rebecca Henry'. "Uh-huh," he added, into the receiver, "Why don't you come on over here and we'll see what we've got."
He finished saying good-bye and hung up. Mark was leaning on the counter with a look of intensely impatient curiosity on his face.
"Well?"
Hardcastle was holding the floppy up between two fingers. "She says she got one of these disk things, too. Or her father did. It was in his mailbox this morning; she stopped by to check on things."
To see if he'd turned up. Mark frowned, wondering how he was going to face her this morning with nothing to show from last night. "Then this isn't Dr. Henry's," he said with disappointment.
"Might still be," Hardcastle looked up, still appearing a little bemused by the thing in his hand. He sighed, and laid it carefully on the counter. "Henry had some sort of an assistant, new one every term, sent over by the university. They'd have a computer at the university, right? Maybe it's from him. But why'd he send it here? There's no note in there?"
"The 'note' is probably on here." Mark pointed down to the disk. "We just gotta find a computer. Westerfield might have one, either that or Frank can use one down at the station." He didn't notice the judge's puzzled look. He went on, thinking out loud. "Too bad you got rid of yours."
"I had one?" Hardcastle sputtered in disbelief.
"Yeah, a couple years ago." Mark was still speaking distractedly. "It was pretty damn glitchy, though."
"What the hell was I doing with a computer?"
Mark caught the tone and finally looked up. Hardcastle was now staring at him in frank disbelief.
"Ah . . ." Mark realized, with a sudden jolt of panic, that the story of the stolen files, and the need to transfer them back to hard copy after they'd been recovered, was yet another thing he didn't want to go into. There's a lot of those.
He smiled thinly. The pause had become a little strained. The judge was glaring. Well, if you're gonna lie, you'd better hurry up about it.
"For your files," he said, thinking it sounded pretty weak. He'd managed to keep it within the bounds of half-truth, though. Hardcastle was still glaring. Mark swallowed once and plunged ahead, "A guy had stolen them."
"All of them?" Hardcastle looked doubtful. "There's a lot of file cabinets down there. Where the hell was I?"
"You'd gone to Hawaii, a judge's convention."
"And you?"
McCormick winced. "Here, looking after things."
The judge's 'harrumph' said it all.
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Ms. Henry showed up a little after nine, looking pale and unrested, but slightly hopeful. Mark greeted her at the door. Her eyebrows went up and she whispered a quick, "Did you—?" before he cut her off with a small shake of the head.
Hardcastle was behind him, standing in the doorway of the den.
She dug in her purse, seeming a little flustered, and pulled out a padded envelope, similar to the one that had arrived at Gull's Way.
"No return address on this one, either," Mark said as he took it from her and glanced down at it briefly before passing it to the judge.
"Same handwriting on the envelope. Same postmark, December 23rd." Hardcastle pulled the disk out, "Same title. No note?"
Rebecca shook her head. "I think it must have been something my father was expecting, and probably the intern was in a hurry. He might have just wanted to finish up and get it in the mail before the holiday. Dad must've asked him to make a copy for you."
Hardcastle nodded, casting a look at Mark that seemed to say, 'See, we're making progress.'
"Okay, I'll call Westerfield." Mark took the disk back. "See if I can run them over to him today. Maybe he's made some headway on the other stuff." He was avoiding Rebecca Henry's eyes. But he did fix the judge with a look. But not enough progress. You spend the morning with her.
Then he ducked past them both and out the door.
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Rebecca had watched him leave, with a troubled look on her face. The judge took her elbow gently and steered her into the den. He got her seated and then took his own place, wearily.
"You knew what he was planning?" he asked, without any preliminary niceties.
"I . . ." Rebecca looked startled. "Oh, he didn't want me to mention it around you." She cast a quick look toward the door.
Hardcastle sighed and shook his head. She'd manage to find something even more damning to say than a simple 'yes'. The kid wasn't too good at picking accessories-before-the-fact.
"Okay," he sighed again, "you can tell him I gave you the third degree." He slumped forward a little. "What if he'd been caught? He's a two-time loser. If they'd found him in there; they would've thrown the book at him." Another slow shake of the head. "God, what were you two thinking?"
"I was thinking of my father," Rebecca Henry's eyes had grown a little darker; she was leaning forward, too. "And he was thinking of you." She was holding her ground, now. "If there's something over there that will help find my father, and help you get your memory back—"
"I'm not saying we're giving up. I'm just saying we try to do it legal . . . and Mark winding up in the hoosegow isn't going to help your father or me." Hardcastle frowned. "Did you ask him to do it?"
Ms. Henry sat back, a little primly. She shook her head. "No, I didn't. But I sure as heck didn't say 'no' when he offered." She paused a moment. "And it seemed like he knew what he was doing."
"I'll bet," Hardcastle said dryly. "Lots of practice."
"You said he's been arrested before?" she asked quietly.
"Arrested, convicted, and imprisoned," the judge replied flatly.
Rebecca had a look of concentration on her face. She didn't appear to be shocked or dismayed. She finally raised her eyes and said, "So that's what he meant."
"What?"
"Yesterday, when we were out looking at the beach. You were in here with Lieutenant Harper." She bit her lip lightly. "He said you two were discussing his shortcomings."
This got a short, explosive laugh from the judge. Ms. Henry looked startled.
"Damn," Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "He doesn't just know where the extension cords are, does he?"
And Rebecca Henry gave him a puzzled look.
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Mark took the two disks and their envelopes back to the gatehouse, glad enough to get away from both Rebecca and the judge. He checked his watch—nine-thirty; it seemed too early to bother Westerfield on a Saturday at home, but it was different with Frank.
Mark ran the odds and dialed the office number first. He was rewarded with the sound of Harper's perpetually world-weary greeting.
"Hi, Frank," McCormick replied, trying to keep the anxious fatigue out of his own tone.
"I was about to call you," the lieutenant replied.
"What's up?" Mark sat forward a little; the eagerness was back in his voice. "You got something?"
"Well, yeah. What's your blood type?"
"Huh?" Mark frowned; then he said, "A-positive." It was the quick response of someone who had been informed of the fact on more than one occasion.
"Well, now that's kinda interesting."
"Frank?" Mark was not in the mood for laconic mystery.
"The lab guys just sent over a preliminary report on Milt's truck. No evidence of sabotage, by the way—"
"Yeah, but what's with the blood?" Mark interrupted impatiently.
"Got a couple of traces from the driver's side of the windshield; they're A- positive."
"That's his," Mark said with calm certainty. He'd been on the donor list for the judge two years ago.
"And then there's some other traces, very small amounts, over on the passenger side, on the dash. Nothing major. They're O-negative."
"Rebecca's here. Maybe she'll know her dad's type. She's up at the main house."
"And you're not?" Frank asked, curiously.
"I'm . . . taking a break." Mark reached up and rubbed his temple with his free hand. "Listen, Frank," he changed gears deftly, "did you send anyone over here, an unmarked sedan, this morning?"
"No, nobody. Why? You had some more trouble?"
"It was," Mark closed his eyes and rubbed his temple a little harder, sorting out the details, "a Grand Prix, two doors, gray. Probably an '85. I didn't get the plate."
"No shots fired?" Frank said, with some concern.
"Not this time," Mark said, "but I was still pretty sure he wasn't one of your guys. He took off kinda fast."
"And no numbers?" Harper sighed plaintively. "Not even a couple?"
"Yeah, well, I didn't get much sleep last night."
"And you didn't call me right away on this? How long's it been?"
"'Bout an hour," Mark muttered. "Listen, something else came up, right after. We got a delivery, a little package."
"And you opened it?" Frank asked, asperity tingeing the question.
Mark sighed again. "Listen, Frank, have you ever tried to keep him from doing whatever he damn well pleases?"
Silence from the other end.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Mark said wearily. "So, turns out it's a computer disk. Rebecca got one out of her father's mailbox, as well. We don't have any way of looking at them here. I was going to call Westerfield next, see if he's got a computer. If he doesn't, I may need to bring them down to you."
"It's evidence," Frank interjected. "Of course you need to bring it to me."
"Evidence of what?" Mark shot back. "I thought nobody was even sure a crime was being committed. Nobody can get a damn search warrant, at any rate." The temple rubbing didn't seem to be helping any. Mark took a deep breath. "Anyway, it's probably notes that Henry's assistant was typing up for him. We don't even know who the guy is. He's not from Symnetech.
"And . . . and I need to get those disks to someone who might understand what's on them. That's more important than the damn case right now. Can't either of you understand that?" It was only when he'd finished speaking that Mark realized how loud he had gotten.
There was a pause from Frank's end, then a cautious, "You okay over there?"
"Yeah," Mark muttered. "We're fine. Just . . . tired, that's all."
"Well, I think with everything that's been happening, I can justify putting a squad car over by you guys for a couple of nights. Maybe that way you can get some rest."
"Ah," Mark said abruptly, "no, Frank, we really don't need that."
"Why not?" Frank asked suspiciously.
"We're fine. Really." Mark tried to project an air of quiet reassurance, rather that sounding like a guy who might still be considering going over the wall, and wanted as few witnesses as possible. "If you want to do something, rustle up a subpoena for the University, the head of whichever department was giving out loaner grad students to the Institute. Henry had one; I'd like to know his name."
"I'll look into it," Harper said, the suspicion not entirely gone from his voice.
"Thanks, Frank," Mark tried not to sound relieved to be at the end of the conversation. "I'll get back to you about the blood type."
They said their good-byes and Mark hung up, leaning back against the sofa and staring at the ceiling. The call to Westerfield was next on the agenda, and he sure as hell wanted to be a little more composed for that one.
After a few moments he sat up and dialed again. He got Westerfield's answering machine, but as he started to speak, the man himself broke in.
"Sorry, Mark. I leave it on when I'm working." The psychiatrist sounded tired, too, but not impatient. "I hope you're not expecting any miracles of elucidation yet." Then there was a brief pause. "Or is this about something else?"
That last question sounded more than merely professional. Mark could see why Neely had recommended this guy. McCormick thought the part of him that kept it all under control was feeling a little beat down right now, and answering a simple 'yes' to Westerfield's question was a real temptation.
Someone to talk to.
That used to be Hardcastle.
Used to be.
Mark pulled himself together. Composed. "Yeah, Doc, there's something else. More information, I hope. We've got some computer disks we think might be helpful. You got a way of reading them?"
"Depends. I have a Commodore here—just using it as a glorified typewriter. We'll have to see what kind of files are on the disk. Can you bring it over?"
"Yes, right away if you want." Mark liked this guy more and more, though that same beat-down part of him was pretty sure it would be dangerous for him to spend too much time around the man, especially right now. "I can drop it off in about a half-hour."
"Okay," Westerfield sounded a little distracted, like he was already back at his reading. Mark said good-bye quickly, wanting him to get on with it.
He leaned back again, then he lifted his head suddenly, as he realized his eyes had been drifting shut. Dammit. He got up, stretched, picked up the two disks, and headed back to the house.
00000
Hardcastle heard the two perfunctory taps on the front door just before it opened, and somehow he found it more irritating than no knock at all. He pushes the limits. A sharp, worried look from Ms. Henry made him aware that he was scowling. But he didn't have time to rearrange his face before Mark was in the doorway to the room.
He must've caught the look of displeasure, too. He took a half step back and glanced aside at Rebecca, as if that might explain things. Hardcastle caught the little half-shrug she gave him.
The kid cleared his throat. "Talked to Frank; the sedan wasn't one of his guys. Talked to Westerfield, no big insights yet, but he's waiting for these." Mark held up the disks. "I thought I'd run them over to him." He hesitated, and then, "If that's okay?"
Hardcastle nodded once. He'd managed to ditch the scowl. He didn't know where it had come from anyway, but the effect had been fairly impressive. He thought maybe he'd caught a whiff of evasion in the quick way Mark had flitted over his conversation with Frank. Now you're just getting paranoid.
"Okay, be careful," Hardcastle added perfunctorily.
Mark was smiling now, though it looked like there was a little edge to it. "Aw, come on, Judge. I'm the one who thinks it's dangerous to hang around psychiatrists."
"No, the sedan, you idiot," Hardcastle said gruffly. "You spot it again, you find a phone and call Frank, okay?" The judge frowned. "I'm surprised he didn't want to send a black and white over here when you told him about that, just to raise the profile a little."
Mark didn't say anything to this. His gaze had dropped a little lower.
"He offered, huh?" There was no immediate response from the younger man. Hardcastle's scowl was back. "Kinda hard to plan any midnight excursions when the cops are parked outside your doorstep, huh?"
Mark let out a long breath. "Look, Hardcase, I didn't go anywhere last night, but I swear, there's no reason why I shouldn't have, if I'm going to get in just as much trouble for thinking about it."
There was a certain undeniable truth to that, Hardcastle had to admit, and he dismissed the kid with a fairly innocuous 'harrumph' and a shooing motion.
"Oh," Mark looked over at Ms. Henry again as he turned to leave, "what's your father's blood-type?"
Rebecca froze where she sat and her face went two shades paler. Mark fumbled in the realization of what he'd said, how it might be taken, "The evidence techs . . ." He wasn't helping matters much.
He must be even tireder than he looks, Hardcastle grimaced.
"They found a very tiny amount of blood, the passenger side, his truck," Mark gestured at the judge with his thumb. "Specks," he added, better late than never.
Rebecca Henry was breathing again. "He's a universal donor," she exhaled. "O- negative."
"Bingo," Mark said intently. "Then I think we know where he was that Monday night."
00000
McCormick had heaved a sigh of relief as he finally made it back out to the front porch, but he couldn't fully relax, even once he'd gotten behind the wheel of the Coyote. He was half of a mind to ask Frank to send the squad car over tonight—at least Harper had believed the story about the sighting of the sedan—but he still wanted to leave his options open. Hell, Hardcase might put the call in to the lieutenant, anyway, just to spite him. It had gotten that bad.
You could leave.
Mark shook his head, a combination of denial and exhaustion. He pulled into the drive of the address Westerfield had given him. He sat for a moment, eyes briefly closed. Composed. Then he hiked himself out of the Coyote, disks in hand, earnest smile plastered on his face.
00000
Hardcastle excused himself from the room and was in the kitchen almost before he heard the Coyote pull out. He got Frank on the first ring.
"You guys aren't exchanging information anymore?" was Frank's terse reply to the judge's greeting.
"I just got done talking to him," Hardcastle replied gruffly. "He told you what happened this morning?"
"Yeah, the '85 Grand Prix in front of your place—jeez, I like a witness who knows his makes and models," Frank added, appreciatively. "But I reamed him out about the delay. How do you guys expect me to do anything when you don't keep me in the loop?"
"Well," the judge swallowed once, guiltily, "that mighta been my fault." Hardcastle frowned. "I sorta blew him off on that one."
There was a moment's silence from the other end. Then Frank spoke, sounding a little puzzled, "Milt, I gotta tell you, when it comes to ID'ing cars, it's hard to beat Mark. What the hell made you think he'd screw up something like that?"
"Ah . . . thought he might be exaggerating a little, on account of . . ." the judge paused, wondering why this was all coming a little hard.
"He tried to make another move on Symnetech HQ last night, huh?" Frank finished for him, sounding not at all surprised. "You thought maybe he was trying to justify it?" The lieutenant merely sighed wearily. "Listen, you tell him as soon as we've got probable cause, I'll get us a warrant." There wasn't any shock or anger in Frank's voice. He didn't sound like he was talking about accommodating a would-be burglar.
"Frank—"
"And you tell him if he does stumble across anything interesting in the meantime, would he please wipe his fingerprints off it before he puts it in a plain envelope and slips it under my door?"
"Frank, this isn't funny."
"It never is. Scares the living daylights out of me every time I hear he's done it. I think that's why you usually don't tell me . . . Come to think of it, that's probably why he doesn't tell you."
Hardcastle spent a long, silent moment considering this. He finally said, "Listen, Frank, what did he say when you offered to send a car over here?"
"Oh," Frank chuckled, "he told you about that, huh?"
"Not entirely."
"Yeah, well that's how I figured he'd already made a run at it, because he got a little coy when I offered some surveillance. Whadya do, threaten to yank his allowance when you caught him trying to sneak out?"
"No," Hardcastle replied quietly, "I told him if he left, he shouldn't plan on coming back."
Dead silence from the other end. Then, after a moment, Frank said, just as quietly, "I think I should send that car over. It shouldn't come down to that."
"No," the judge said with grim seriousness, "he'll decide for himself. He's not on parole anymore."
00000
Westerfield opened the door shortly after the first ring, as if he'd been waiting. He ushered Mark into a well-appointed and quiet home—practical, but not stark; McCormick was vaguely reminded of Dr. Henry's apartment, writ large.
"In here." He took the disks from Mark and led him back to another room, this one a little more cluttered, a working office. The doctor's 'glorified typewriter' took up most of a side table, with an office chair pulled up to it, and a stack of manuals alongside.
Henry's notebooks were scattered and open on the main desk. There was a yellow pad, densely covered with jotting that looked to be Westerfield's own. Mark eyed it hopefully.
Westerfield caught the look. "More guesses than certainties. It's starting to shape up a bit, though." Then the doctor frowned. He was studying his guest more closely. "You look like shit," he concluded, making that, at least, sound like a certainty.
Mark smiled. "Now there's a medical phrase you don't hear very often."
"Well, it's Saturday." Westerfield's own smile was rueful. "I'm just a fellow human-being . . . and you do."
McCormick felt tired enough to believe it was true.
Westerfield pointed him to a chair and said, "Lemme have a crack at this." He fed one of the disks into the slot and sat down, flexing his fingers back like a pianist as the machine whirred and clicked. "Mind you, the damn thing's glitchy as hell. Half the time I don't know what's wrong with it."
Westerfield bent over the keyboard and tapped out a command. "I think someday these machines may be useful," he muttered, and then he looked over his shoulder. "We've got a few minutes while it loads; if you feel like you need a psychiatrist."
Mark's laugh was short and harsh. "God, Doc, that's blunt." He wiped his eyes. "If I did, it'd be you."
"Well," Westerfield was gazing at him steadily, "don't be so sure you don't." He paused, and then asked, "What happened since yesterday?"
This time there was no smile. "Things got a little tense again," Mark said with a vague gesture. "A difference of opinion on how to approach the investigation."
"And he said—?"
"'My way or the highway,'" McCormick answered bitterly.
"And you?"
"Well, it's his way for now," Mark exhaled, "but I think it might come to the other." He was staring at the pile of papers on the desk. "He's wrong, though," he muttered, saying nothing more for a minute. Westerfield didn't fill in the space with banalities, for which he was grateful. Then McCormick straightened up a little and lifted his chin, catching the man's gaze full on. "You know, Doc, it's only the people you let get close to you, who can really hurt you."
"You believe that?" Westerfield asked.
Mark nodded once, slowly. "Yeah, guess I always have . . . It's just that I'd forgotten."
00000
Hardcastle drifted back toward the den. Rebecca Henry was still sitting as he'd left her, her gaze pensive and unfocused. He cleared his throat in the doorway. She glanced up at him momentarily and gave him a brief, tight smile.
"You settled things?" she asked quietly. "Or is he still in trouble?"
"Not yet," he replied cryptically.
"I can leave, if you want," Ms. Henry said, a little coolly.
The judge shrugged. "Might want to stay. They might find something on those 'disks'. We might be asking Frank for a search warrant."
"'Might.' 'Might.'" she dropped her voice a tone lower, and gritted her teeth in apparent frustration. "You might get your warrant. My father might still be alive." She looked at him angrily. "Don't you even care? He came to you."
Hardcastle blinked once, taken aback. "I do care. I always did." He frowned. "I still do." He hesitated again. "God, though it seems like everything I cared about is gone . . . All that's left is the damn thorns."
00000
"There we go."
Westerfield's sudden words jarred McCormick from a near doze.
"Got something?" he edged forward in his seat. The computer screen was showing some text now, a list, white on black.
"Files," Westerfield said with some satisfaction. "Lots of them. Looks like we're in luck. This is WordStar. I have that one. Ahh, here." He tapped a couple of keys. The screen changed. "Got a note here." Westerfield leaned forward and read it out loud, "'Dr. Henry, Here's the data, transcribed, from the last two runs. I put the scatter plots in appendix A. Got a couple outliers there, might need to recheck the source data. Sent a second copy to that PCH address, as requested. I'll be back after the first—have a nice holiday. E. Botts'." Westerfield looked over his shoulder. "The second disk is a copy, then."
"Yeah," Mark replied," that's what we thought. So, what's on them?" he added impatiently, gesturing Westerfield back to the screen.
The older man smiled. "Did you hear the part where I said, 'lots of files'? This may take a while."
Mark frowned. "Can't you tell me anything so far?"
Westerfield gave him a sympathetic look, and rolled his chair back from the side desk, turning toward his main base of operations. "Okay, you promise not to hold me to any of this?"
Mark nodded, leaning forward again.
The doctor picked the yellow pad off the desk, scanning it quickly. Then he propped it on one knee as he turned back to the younger man.
"It's some sort of glycoprotein, Henry is calling it a 'mnemotroph' and it may work to enhance long term potentiation in hippocampal substructures related to memory formation."
Westerfield stopped short. McCormick was staring blankly.
"Did you understand any of what I just said?" he asked mildly.
"Um, yeah," Mark replied, "the first part—'It's some sort of'," he quoted dryly.
Westerfield laughed.
"Well, I'm a little short on sleep lately," McCormick protested.
"Okay," the older man leaned back a little and exhaled, starting again more slowly. "'Mnemotroph' just means something that supports memory. The hippocampus is the part of the brain we think deals with making memories, and a glycoprotein, well . . . it's a glycoprotein." He sighed.
"So, you're saying Henry had found a chemical that would improve people's memory?" Mark issued a long low whistle. "He'd really found it? My God, how valuable would that be?" He shook his head slowly and muttered to himself, "Worth even more than an antidepressant, I'll bet."
Westerfield frowned for a moment. "Hell, yes. Thousands of applications. And the thing is," he added thoughtfully, "once it was out there, no one could afford to be without it. It'd be like anabolic steroids for the brain."
"Doc," Mark looked over at the notebooks with a new respect, "I think this might be valuable enough to kill for."
"Well," Westerfield shrugged, "not exactly. That was just notebook numbers one through three. After that, things got a little sticky." The doctor consulted his pad again. "This'd be about six months ago; Dr. Henry seemed to be working under some kind of time constraints here—"
"I'll bet."
Westerfield nodded. "Anyway, there were worms in the apple—the stuff doesn't work unless you can get it to the right place; the hippocampus is a deep-brain structure, and there's something called the 'blood-brain barrier', it's a natural boundary between the blood stream and brain tissue, keeps some of the crud out, though not caffeine, thank God."
"So, it didn't work?" Mark looked puzzled
"Well, it did when he put holes in the rats' skulls and threaded a little catheter in. Stuff had a short half-life, though, required a constant infusion. And it was a little hard on the rats—infections, bleeding, that sort of thing."
Mark made a face. "Not a good alternative to just pulling an all-nighter right before the exam." Then he went back to frowning. "So, what the hell is all the fuss about?"
"Ah, well, science marches forward," Westerfield smiled grimly. "In phase two of his research— that's notebooks four, five and six—Dr. Henry was looking for a carrier molecule, one that would allow the mnemotroph to get into the brain, better yet, one that would help it bind to the hippocampus."
"Did he find it?"
"I think so. At least he thought so. There's a certain amount of cautious rejoicing near the end of notebook six." Westerfield paused. "Then something happened."
"What?"
Westerfield exhaled. "One of the Institute's lab technicians died suddenly. A guy named Bill Hardwick. Not clear exactly what happened. He was helping Henry with the rat studies."
"He died in the lab?"
"No, I don't think so. But he died suddenly; that was a couple of months ago. After that, there's a break in the notes, a few weeks. Then Henry started up again, very brief, very pressured. He didn't sound happy."
"And that's it? "Mark asked plaintively. "Did he have something, or didn't he?"
"Maybe the disks will add something," Westerfield looked up from his pad. "But I'll need a little time."
Mark nodded slowly. Then his chin sunk down.
The older man gave him a concerned look. "Want some coffee?"
"No, I'd . . . I'd better let you get on with it. I've got another stop to make." Mark looked up, fixing the man with a steady look, as if to elicit a promise. "You'll call me, as soon as you have anything more?"
Westerfield gave him a small smile. "Where can I reach you?"
Mark smiled back, equally thinly. "At the estate . . . for now at least."
00000
Mark drove down to the station without calling first, fairly certain that Frank would be there, but also deciding that he wouldn't be too upset if he were only able to leave a message. Frank was there, and the look he gave Mark, as the younger man slouched in, convinced Mark that he really must look as bad as Westerfield had said.
"The blood type's a match," he announced without so much as a 'hello'.
"Figures," Frank responded, dropping his eyes back to the papers before him on his desk. "I had a little chat with the truck driver Milt ran into that night. Still seems like a straight-up guy to me. It was one of those big delivery vans, barely had a scratch on it, he says. Anyway, turns out he tried to take some evasive maneuvers, when he figured out Milt's truck wasn't going to stop. He wound up with the cab of his truck up on the sidewalk, between a light pole and a building. He couldn't get out in that position, and he couldn't back up without maybe doing more damage to Milt's vehicle, so he sat it out until the police got there."
Frank fiddled with a pen that was lying in front of him. Then he looked up again at Mark, half an apology in his expression.
"He says there were some 'good Samaritans' back by Milt's truck; he didn't get a real good look at them. They were crowded around the passenger side. Maybe three, four guys. He didn't see them anymore after the cops finally got him out of his vehicle. Sorry," he added ruefully, "none of that was in the original accident report."
"It's good news though . . . I think," Mark added. Then, at the rise in Frank's eyebrows, he explained, "They wouldn't have bothered taking Henry, if he'd been dead. That's what I'll tell his daughter, at any rate." Then he looked up at Frank again, "Oh, and there's something else. A guy, a lab technician from Symnetech died a couple of months ago; his name was Hardwick, William. Don't know why. He was helping Henry."
Frank nodded and jotted a note on a pad in front of him. "I'll look into that." Then he put the pen down, sat back and fixed Mark with a steady look "Listen—" His tone had changed.
"I'm not really much in the mood to do that, Frank," Mark cut him off.
Frank was still studying him; his eyes were unwavering. Mark finally dropped his own gaze. "Sorry," he muttered. "It's not your fault. Just tired, that's all."
Frank nodded again, then he cleared his throat. "I just thought I should warn you, this might not be a good time to cross him."
"Hah," Mark snorted out a brief, harsh laugh. "Think so?" He shook his head slowly. "Tell me, has there ever been a good time to cross him? "
This got a half-smile from the older man. "Well," he said, "I've never noticed you going out of your way to avoid it before."
There was no smile from McCormick. He felt himself poised on the edge of words that couldn't be taken back. "Maybe you just haven't been paying attention, Frank. On all the important stuff, everything that mattered, I changed." He shook his head wearily. "The trick was giving in before he asked."
Mark got up slowly from his seat. Frank was still sitting there, not much to be read in that impassive face. Another moment had passed before the older man finally spoke.
"Are you regretting it?"
McCormick stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and cocked his head at the lieutenant. "I hadn't; he always made it worthwhile." And it was evident, from something in the way he said it, that he wasn't talking about having a place to stay, or his tuition paid. "But," he hesitated again, then plunged ahead, "I'd like to think if he was ever wrong, I would have the sense to stand up for myself, to do what had to be done."
"Maybe he's right this time, too, Mark," Harper replied earnestly.
"Get the damn search warrant, Frank," Mark replied tersely as he turned and left, with no more farewell than there had been a greeting.
00000
He'd driven further up the PCH than he usually did to merely think about something. Flight to avoid . . . an argument? He'd found himself sitting on the hood of the Coyote, staring off at the Pacific, long enough that a passing County cop car slowed, its occupant apparently giving him the once over and deciding that his vehicle qualified him a non-loiterer.
In the end, all he'd gotten was cold and more tired and, to his disgust, hungry.
00000
The black and white was half pulled-in to the drive. Its occupant was a vaguely familiar guy, young, maybe mid-twenties. McCormick couldn't remember his name but he thought he must've run into him, maybe at the station. It was obvious he was neither coming nor going.
McCormick swallowed his aggravation. Don't shoot the messenger. He nudged the Coyote in, driver's side to driver's side, and leaned over a little.
"You eaten?"
A quick shake of the cop's head; he was bored but trying not to look it.
"Well, I got a pizza," Mark lifted the box from the seat next to him. "Onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni. Want some?" This got him a slightly more interested look. Mark passed the box over the gap between them, half opened so he could help himself. "How'd you get stuck with this?" he made a vague gesture toward the estate with his free hand.
"I lost the toss," the officer said with chagrin.
"Yeah, it happens," McCormick shrugged as he took the box back. "Better luck next time."
He eased the Coyote up the drive, parking it in full view of the main house and climbing out slowly. Rebecca Henry's car was gone. He sighed as he picked up the box and walked up to the porch.
He knocked and heard Hardcastle in the hallway almost at once. He waited until the door was opened.
"I was getting a little tired of turkey." He brushed past the judge, bearing his burden to the kitchen. "It's your favorite," he said, over his shoulder, and then frowned. "Or maybe not. Maybe you're still a cheese-and-sausage guy."
"Onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni," Hardcastle said quietly.
"Well, good," McCormick said a little dryly, "some things never change." He put the box on the table and opened it. Hardcastle looked down, then cocked his eyebrow up, puzzled.
"A couple pieces for the guy out front." McCormick hooked his thumb back in that direction. "I figured he's stuck here till shift change." The he shook his head, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "You didn't have to. I stayed put last night." He sat down heavily.
Hardcastle went to the cupboard and got down the plates. He'd turned back to the table before and sat down across from the other man, passing him his plate. He finally spoke.
"I told Frank 'no'. Must've been his idea."
McCormick frowned for a moment, then he said, "You trusted me?"
"No," the judge said flatly. "But I figured it was your decision."
Mark opened and shut his mouth on that one. Hardcastle nudged the box toward him and he took a piece.
"Anyway," the judge went on, slowly, "I was starting to think you'd already made up your mind." He glanced up at the clock.
Mark shrugged, though there was nothing casual about it. "I had some stuff to think about." He stared down at his plate. Then he lifted his chin abruptly. "I won't just cut out. I'll let you know." His eyes turned toward the kitchen window, the falling twilight outside.
"I sorta figured that, too," Hardcastle replied.
"Well, then, good," McCormick answered; he could hear the fleeting bitterness in his own voice. "At least you've learned something about me."