Chapter 11
Sunday morning came, cool and rainy. Mark had retired to bed early. It hadn't been a deep or restful sleep, but it was sleep nonetheless. He'd thought he might feel more settled after a good night's rest—more decisive—but he had either been wrong, or last night hadn't qualified.
He spent a couple of minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, then got up and got dressed, slowly. A quick glance out the front door showed no signs of life from the main house, except for the light on in the den. The rain had let up.
He made coffee in his own coffeemaker, and poured two cups. Then he headed out the door and down the drive. A different black and white, a different occupant. This one he knew by name.
"Hey, Gary," the window had already been rolled down at his approach. He held out a cup. "You don't mind it black, do you?"
"Nah, black's fine," he said appreciatively.
"Anything?" Mark looked up and down the front of the estate.
"Not a damn thing. I've been here a couple hours. Nothing during the night, either, they said."
Mark nodded and took a sip of his coffee. "Probably all a false alarm. Probably don't need to have you guys hanging around out here." He smiled reassuringly.
This got a sharp laugh from the guy in the cop car. "Hah, yeah, the lieutenant pulled me over after roll, told me you might say something like that."
"Just don't want to waste the taxpayers' money, that's all." Mark drew himself up, a little self-righteously.
"'S okay," Gary smiled, handing the empty cup back. "That's what we're here for."
"Well," Mark looked over his shoulder, "don't mention it to Hardca—castle, if he comes out."
The officer frowned. "He was already here. Brought me a donut and a glass of milk. Said the same thing. I told him to talk to Lieutenant Harper." He shook his head wonderingly. "You guys must be pretty used to having people take shots at you."
Mark gave this a moment's thought and a brief nod. Then he turned and trudged back up to the house, cups in hand. The front door was unlocked—Fine security we have here, McCormick thought—and he let himself in without knocking. He heard the tail end of a telephone conversation as he headed toward the kitchen.
A moment after he got there, Hardcastle appeared, dressed, no shotgun.
"Westerfield called?" Mark asked.
"Nope, Frank." The judge looked a little peeved.
"He got a warrant yet?" said Mark, feeling pretty peeved himself.
"Nope," Hardcastle flashed him a look. "Anyway, it's Sunday."
"Well," Mark sighed, "I hope you told him I was a good boy. Spent the whole night at home, in bed." He couldn't help but bite down a little harder on the word home. He reached for the judge's coffeemaker and started fiddling with it. "Where'd you get the donuts?" he asked, casually.
Hardcastle frowned. "How'd you—oh." He frowned a little harder. "I went out this morning."
"You drove?"
"Yeah," he grumbled. "Why the hell not? Been almost two weeks. Besides, it's Sunday morning." He sat down at the table. "They're in the fridge if you want some."
"What kind?"
"Powdered sugar."
Mark gave him an odd look. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why that kind? You don't even like them," he prodded. "You think they're messy. You like the jelly-filled ones."
"Yeah, I got a couple of those, too." Hardcastle shrugged. "And some chocolate ones for Gary; that's what he said he wanted."
"And the powdered sugar ones, why?"
"I dunno," Hardcastle muttered, "I just got 'em."
Mark sat back in his chair. "They're my favorite."
00000
Hardcastle retired to the den again. Mark took the donuts out, got himself a plate, and ate three with an air of quiet satisfaction. It was only the phone that startled him from his reverie. Hardcastle must have picked it up before the second ring. McCormick put his dish in the sink, along with the coffee cups from this morning. He filled up two new ones from the carafe, and headed into the den.
He could tell from the judge's tone that it wasn't Westerfield this time, either. Rebecca Henry most likely, though if it was, it didn't seem like she and the judge were getting along too well.
Hardcastle looked up as Mark appeared in the doorway.
"Here," he said into the receiver, "I'll let you talk to him." He handed the phone over.
Mark took the receiver, and picked up the base, pulling it closer to his side of the desk, putting a little space between him and the judge.
"Mark," the voice on the other end began abruptly, "it's Rebecca. Is there anything?" Mark heard the same pleading tone that he had used with Westerfield the day before. "I'm sorry. I knew you'd call me if there was, but I was hoping."
"No," Mark replied quietly, "I haven't been back to Symnetech." He looked up at the judge. Then back down at the desk in front of him. "I'll let you know if I do," he added, with a certain edge to his voice. "In the meantime, Dr. Westerfield is looking at the disks, and he's got some theories about the notebooks. And Harper came up with some evidence that your father was abducted from the judge's truck that Monday night."
He heard a brief intake of breath and then a quietly denying, "Oh, no."
"That's really not bad news," he reassured her gently. "If they passed up on an opportunity to kill him, then they must've wanted him alive. That's good.
"Listen," he changed the subject, hoping for at least some distraction, before she turned to contemplating her father's fate over the past thirteen days, "did you know a technician named Bill Hardwick? Did your father ever mention him?"
There were a few moments of silence from Rebecca's end, and then, "Bill, yes, he was a friend of Dad's, they'd worked together for years. He had a heart attack; it was only a few months ago."
Mark could almost hear the woman's lip getting gnawed on. He phrased the next part carefully, still mindful of his misstep the day before.
"Did your dad talk about the death much? Was there anything about it that worried him?"
"Oh," Rebecca exhaled, "yes, you know how it is . . . someone your age dies, it's 'there but for the grace of God' and all. It makes you think about your own mortality."
"Nothing more than that?"
Rebecca hesitated. "Not that he told me."
"Okay," Mark hoped not too much of the doubt crept into his voice. He hated coincidence, and for him, any bad thing that had happened within a several-mile perimeter of Symnetech had become an unconscionable coincidence.
They said their good-byes, and he repeated his promise to keep her informed. He tolerated Hardcastle's scowl when he answered 'yes' to several pressured requests that, of course, the judge could not make out from where he sat. They were mostly along the line of 'being careful'. None of them were 'will you please do a second-story job for me tonight?', but that was Hardcastle's obvious first assumption.
Mark hung up and eased back a little further from the desk. "She's worried," he said simply. "Can't blame her."
Hardcastle nodded his agreement.
"How did you sleep?" Mark asked. It might have sounded like casual conversation, except for the abruptness. Then he added, "Any more weird dreams?"
"Did Westerfield ask?"
"No, he's too busy trying to analyze me," Mark allowed himself a small smile. "That and figuring out Henry's notes." He studied the corner of the judge's desk. "The dreams?" he asked again. Some questions were easier to answer if a person wasn't being stared at.
Three powdered-sugar donuts had done a lot for his patience, but he'd begun to think he wasn't going to get any more out of the old donkey by the time Hardcastle finally responded, with an unfamiliar hesitance.
"They're . . . getting weirder."
"Weirder than a guy pulling a gun out of a book and shooting you in the chest?"
Hardcastle shrugged once. There was a long, expectant pause before Mark nodded a little more encouragement. "Yeah, well, how the hell you gonna figure 'em out if you don't ask me?"
"I already got this one figured out," the judge retorted stubbornly. "It's not real. It didn't happen."
"Okay," Mark prodded, with equal stubbornness, "So, it's not real. So tell me."
Now it was the judge who was looking off somewhere other than at Mark. He shook his head. "It's not real. I don't want to talk about it."
Mark sat there for a moment, pondering. Hardcastle looked genuinely troubled, if still hopelessly stubborn. McCormick got the impression that, whatever it was, it had been a nightmare. Then suddenly, his focus got a little sharper.
"You shot me," he slapped his hand to his forehead in sudden enlightenment, "six times." He flashed a grin that faded almost the moment it appeared. The look on Hardcastle's face most closely resembled the one Rebecca Henry had given him right after he'd asked her father's blood type.
"Ju-udge, it was a scam. We were trying to catch some vigilante . . . um . . ." he backpedaled furiously, thinking this might not be the time to cast aspersions on the judiciary, "ex-cops." Too late he remembered that Hardcastle could probably recall the faces of the men he'd been standing next to.
"Emmett Parnell," he said in hushed disbelief, "Frank Cardigan? No. They were good cops. They were judges."
"They were murderous vigilantes," Mark said, with a new harshness. "And you went after them . . ." He frowned and corrected himself. "We went after them." Then he lightened his expression a little. "But Judge, your shooting me, it was a scam. Those were blanks." He touched the side of his jaw in brief recollection, "Though I gotta say, you're a hell'uva method actor. The punch was pretty real."
Hardcastle had turned inward. The next words were muttered, almost to himself. "Felt real, though. Damn, I was so . . ."
Scared? Mark kept the thought to himself. Out loud he only said, "See, you gotta tell me what's up there. Some of it's real, and some of it's not-quite-real." He tried to coax the judge back into the conversation.
After a moment he was rewarded with a couple of blinks and a sharp look imposed on the blank expression. "A scam, huh?"
"Yeah," Mark replied, very calmly. "And that one was pretty much all yours, I should add." He smiled. "I don't usually come up with scams where a gun that's gonna be fired at me might or might not contain blanks."
This produced a frown from the judge.
"Yeah," Mark added. "I'm not surprised you were . . . worried."
"And you weren't?" Hardcastle asked doubtfully.
"Nah," Mark smiled again. "You're pretty good at scams." He let the smile slip a little. The next question was quietly insistent. "Did you get any sleep last night?"
There was no immediate answer from the judge, which Mark logged as a probable 'no'.
"Okay, you gotta go crash for a while. You really are going to go crazy if you don't get some sleep. I'm here, one of L.A.'s finest is out front . . . and it was all a scam, fake blood and everything. We had hamburgers later on that night, and we busted those guys a couple of days later. Now, go take a nap."
Hardcastle's look was still dubious but he rose slowly to his feet, as Mark made little shooing motions.
"Wake me in a couple of hours," the judge said firmly.
"Yeah, sure," Mark said blithely, and with complete insincerity. "And . . . and thanks for the donuts."
00000
At noon, the judge was still asleep, and Mark was itching to put a call through to Westerfield. He took out the leftover pizza and made up a plate for Gary. The sun had finally poked through the clouds, as if in meteorological confirmation of McCormick's own mood.
He fought off a brief urge to whistle as he strolled down the drive to where the black and white . . . wasn't.
He stared for a moment, stepping out beyond the gate and looking up and down the PCH. The car hadn't been merely moved. It was definitely gone.
He supposed there might have been an emergency; something had come up that was taxing the daytime resources of the LAPD to the limit. But somehow he doubted that that was the case on a Sunday afternoon. He stood there, contemplating Hardcastle's morning phone call with Frank.
He wandered back up to the house, thinking he might want to talk to Frank himself, but not wanting to tie up the phone, for even a few minutes, if Westerfield was about to call. He stood in fidgeting indecision for a few moments, and then finally dialed the lieutenant's number.
"Don't they ever give you a day off, Frank?" he asked, when Harper picked up on the second ring.
"Your tax dollars at work," Harper grumbled mildly, "or at least Milt's." Then there was a second's pause before Frank asked, "And what are you so cheerful about?"
"Don't worry," Mark assured him, "it's not the squad car being gone." Though he had to admit to himself that was a nice bonus.
"Then what?" Frank asked impatiently.
"I think it was the donuts," Mark said, half to himself. "Yeah, that must have been it. Frank," he turned his attention back to the conversation. "I think his memory's sneaking up on him. I think he's starting to know things he doesn't even know he knows."
"You got a little sleep last night, didn't you?" Frank asked worriedly.
"Yeah, I did. You got anything else on the case?"
"Hardwick reportedly died at home. Suspected heart attack. He did have a heart condition. No evidence of foul play, though I don't know how hard anybody looked. The M.E. passed on an autopsy. His personal doc signed off on the death certificate. The doc is on staff at two hospitals, has no disciplinary issues with the State, and no visible connections with Symnetech. How paranoid do you want me to be about this?"
"Dunno, I'll have to get back to you on that. How 'bout tracking down Henry's intern?"
"Botts? The first name is Edward. I didn't even need a subpoena, just called up the chairman of the chemistry department and asked him. No luck after that, though. His roommate says he took off right before Christmas, hitched a ride down to Baja, won't be back till next week."
"A big nothing," Mark sighed, though the overall effect was not as grim as the day before.
"Not much if you're still hoping for a search warrant," Frank said with just a hint of suspicion.
"Yeah, Frank. I'm still waiting," McCormick said, "and I think I'm being very patient. Here we've been talking for, what, five minutes, and I hadn't even brought it up."
"How come Milt made me call off the squad car?" Frank asked flatly.
"I dunno; I was going to ask you that." Mark allowed just the slightest hint of asperity to creep back in his tone. Then he eased back down. "Sorry. You've really dug up a lot for us, Frank. I appreciate it."
"But you still want some space, huh?" Harper's tone was concerned. "Just think about consequences once in a while, will ya?"
"Always, Frank. Every single time."
00000
Mark hung up, feeling slightly less cheerful, but still fairly positive. He wondered just how much emotional mileage one could get out of three powdered-sugar donuts. He wondered what Westerfield would say about that. He wondered when the hell Westerfield was going to call. He checked the water under the Christmas tree. He read the Lone Ranger Creed, all the way through, twice.
He tried, and failed, to get through another chapter of The Law of Security Regulations. He thought about the blood-brain barrier, and a world where you could take a pill and be able to remember every line of every John Wayne movie ever made. He shuddered.
And then the phone rang.
He lunged halfway across the desk and grabbed it before the second ring.
It was Westerfield, sounding tired, and a couple notches more worried than the day before.
"Mark, glad I caught you," he said, as if McCormick might have been anywhere but sitting by the phone, waiting for the call.
"You've got some more off the disks?" Mark cradled the phone and leaned over the edge of the desk, reaching for a pen and a pad of paper, just in case.
"How's Hardcastle?"
Mark caught the tone; this seemed like more than a routine inquiry. "Okay," he said hesitantly. "A little better, I think. He drove the car this morning."
"Well, that's okay. That's something a little different; it's called procedural memory, like playing a musical instrument. It's stored differently."
"Yeah, well, he went and came home, and he didn't crash," Mark said a little impatiently. "What do you have?"
"Well," Westerfield seemed to be hesitating, or maybe just choosing his words carefully. It wasn't even like the tentative discussion they'd had yesterday. "Mark, the data, I can see why Henry was worried."
"It didn't work, even with the fix-up they did?"
"Oh, it worked all right." Westerfield exhaled. "He created an inhalation form, a powder. It did a damn effective job of getting to the hippocampus, concentrated like hell in the right spots. Long half-life, too. Even permanent in high enough doses."
"So, they got it working," Mark said pointedly. "What was left to worry about?" He had his own reservations about this brave new world that Symnetech was planning, but—
"The problem was," Westerfield took a breath and gathered speed, "in even moderate concentrations it clogs up the long-term memory system. Not sure how, Henry doesn't give us any clues in the last two notebooks that I have here; we've still got some of those missing, but the data from the second trial speaks for itself. It's got a lousy therapeutic window and some intolerable side effects."
"English, Doc, speak English."
"What I'm saying is a little of this stuff makes you forget, a little more makes you forget to breathe."
Mark found himself holding his own breath, as his gaze traveled involuntarily toward the stairs. "This is the stuff they used on Hardcastle?"
"I'm fairly sure of that, yes."
"Is it reversible? . . . Dammit, does it get worse?"
"Probably not worse," Westerfield had slowed down again, surveying uncertain ground. "It might be reversible; hard to say. Most of the rats died before any recovery could occur. There weren't any studies on humans, thank God."
"Hardwick," Mark said grimly. "He needs to be exhumed."
"I don't know if that will help. They might be able to detect the glycoprotein in the brain tissue, or maybe not, after two months." Westerfield let that stand for a moment; then he added, with quiet certainty, "It's the notebooks we need, the ones that followed Hardwick's death, the ones that accompanied the second trials. Henry would have the best idea of what was going on and why."
Mark sat for a moment, not speaking. Then he cleared his throat, quietly. "I . . . have an idea where they might be. Could take a while to get at them."
"Sooner would be better," it was Westerfield's turn to be impatient. "Long term effects, things that may impact on the half-life. That'll be in the notebooks. Henry was a pretty meticulous guy for a frigging mad scientist."
Mark swallowed once, hard. "We'll get them. I'll . . . call you back." He had a sudden and, he was sure of it, irrational need to check on the judge. "I think it's reversible," he said stubbornly, trying to recapture the optimism he'd been nursing along all morning.
"Tell that to the rats," Westerfield said grimly.
00000
He couldn't help it; as soon as he hung up the phone he took the steps, two at time and not as quietly as he ought to have. The door to the judge's room was ajar but he had to ease it open a little more.
This is nonsense; he's fine. He stood there for a moment, feeling utterly foolish, watching a man sleep. It's been almost two weeks; what could happen now? He swallowed again. How long is that in rat days?
Hardcastle must've been dozing more lightly than it appeared. Mark would've sworn he'd made no noise, but now his eyes were open. He blinked twice and looked over at the clock on the nightstand. Then he looked back at McCormick, irritated.
"You let me sleep too long. It's past four."
"You must've needed it," Mark replied quietly, not wanting to fight, not yet, not before he had to.
You told him you wouldn't leave without telling him.
He'll call the cops.
"Did you sleep?" he could hear the tremor in his own voice.
"What the hell's the matter?" Hardcastle replied, with all his usual finesse.
"Nothing." Mark shrugged. Lies, lies. "Just thought you might be getting hungry; you missed lunch."
The judge was studying him through narrowed eyes as he sat up. "Westerfield called?" It was only perfunctorily a question.
McCormick nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Anything new? Anything that'll help us get a warrant?"
A shake of the head. "Not yet," Mark murmured. He had thought briefly, while Westerfield had been talking, that some of what he was saying might constitute probable cause, but he knew that was wishful thinking. He couldn't even call Frank to talk it over; a new effort to push the concept now would put the lieutenant on high alert.
"So, what did he say?" the judge sat on the edge of the bed, and clasped his hands loosely in his lap.
"The stuff," Mark began hesitantly, "the stuff Henry was researching, it had some side effects." He'd managed to get that out fairly calmly, Mark thought. "He thinks that's what happened to you." Mark paused, knowing he was not sounding very forthright. He went ahead, still cautiously. "They must've given you some. That's what caused the memory loss."
Hardcastle nodded once. Then he cocked his head, looking up at Mark. "So, does it get better?"
"Well, yeah," Mark had been waiting for that one; he was only surprised at the judge's nonchalance. "It seems to be. A little."
"He doesn't know, huh?" Hardcastle looked back down at his hands.
"He hasn't finished all the analysis," Mark said insistently. He's still missing some notebooks, dammit.
If the judge was aware of the unspoken part of this, he showed no sign.
"I'm gonna make some burgers, that okay?" Mark turned and left without waiting for the response.
Once in the hallway, he exhaled in quiet relief over having gotten through the encounter with no more questions than had been asked. You can't tell, him, either. None of it, not yet.
00000
Mark punctuated the end of dinner with a few weary yawns and some blinking and staring. He was surprised at how little acting it took; all the buoyancy he'd felt that morning had drained out of him.
Hardcastle gave him a few looks, then finally asked the inevitable. "You sure you slept last night?"
"Yeah," McCormick sighed. "Except I'm about a week behind, I think."
The judge frowned. "I had Frank call off the guard."
Mark feigned a little eyebrow raising's worth of surprise. "Oh?" he asked quietly. "Well, it's been over a week." He paused, as though he was making a painful admission. "Maybe I was wrong about that sedan. Maybe it was just somebody looking for an address."
This got a gentle 'harrumph' from the judge. "So, you're saying we don't need to stand guard anymore?" There was a little edge of suspicious disbelief in Hardcastle's tone.
"Oh, no," Mark allowed himself a little stretch and a small yawn, "I wouldn't say that. Not for a while longer, at least." Mark left it at that, with Hardcastle surely wondering just what the point had been, and just as surely, eventually concluding that there had been no point at all . . . which was exactly the point.
Mark got up, cleared the dishes, ran the water in the sink, did all the things he'd done a thousand times before, with the same careless routine. He didn't know if the judge could tell that, yet, but he wasn't going to screw up now. And all the time he did it, he was thinking to himself, this'll be the last time.
To bury that thought, he kept up a light patter, also routine. He wasn't getting much back from the judge, who, himself, looked oddly distracted, but it staved off any more questions he might have had about Westerfield's report.
He put the last dish away and wiped his hands. Hardcastle was still sitting there, still looking pensive.
"TV?" Mark asked. "Too early to go to bed."
"I just got up," Hardcastle agreed in mild disgust.
"We're both so far behind, it'd take a week to catch up." Mark didn't have to feign the weariness in his voice. "Anyway, I'll let you take first watch tonight. Okay?"
This got a nod from the older man. He thought he'd finally lulled the judge into a sense of security. And, after all, he'd left the Coyote practically on the front doorstep.
They retired to the den. Mark took a seat and picked up the remote. Of all the thousand ways in which the new judge was in variance to the old, surely giving up control of the remote was the least important, but it bothered McCormick nonetheless. He held it out tentatively to the older man, and, as usual, got a polite shake of the head.
Mark flipped through the channels, crawling up through the higher numbers to the places where old movies usually lurked. He arrived at a familiar scene, not too far into Stagecoach. He put the remote down on the table between their two chairs, in easy reach of the other man. Then he settled back into his seat.
They sat together in silence for a couple of minutes. Mark slowly became aware that Hardcastle was watching him, instead of the movie.
"What?" he asked, a little testily.
"Nothing," the judge replied. Then, after a brief pause, and apparently out of a period of quiet reflection, he added, "You sure do watch a lot of John Wayne movies."
Mark turned and looked at him in absolute astonishment. "You have got to be kidding." It was apparent from the judge's expression that he was not. "Okay," Mark shook his head, peripherally aware that Wayne's character was about to say, 'Well, I guess you can't break out of prison and into society in the same week.' And even more peripherally aware that he had a nagging fondness for that line.
"Okay," he put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, wishing he could clear out that cobweb of thoughts, "I will admit that I am a graduate of the Hardcastle home-study course in John Waynisms. I will admit that I have seen Rio Bravo, what?—maybe eight times. But," he looked up at the judge, "you are the one who watches a lot of John Wayne movies."
Hardcastle frowned. "No I don't . . . I mean, I like 'em, but I watch lots of different movies."
Mark stared at him for a moment, then gently pushed the remote in the older man's direction. Hardcastle looked down at it and frowned.
"This one's pretty good," he muttered after a moment, not picking up the device. He turned back to the TV.
"See?" Mark said with quiet satisfaction.
They watched it through to the end, and, when it was over, Mark turned toward the clock with a pang of regret.
"I . . . ought to go lay down for a bit, so I can take over later." He'd said it, and he'd made it sound pretty reasonable, for all the unwillingness he felt. You could do just that—go lay down; he'd probably let you sleep straight through. The thought of doing as he'd been told was more than seductive right now. Yeah, and in the morning you still won't be any closer to the truth. And they'll have one more day to find those notebooks and . . . do what? And you may never know if there's a way to fix the judge's memory . . . if he even wants it fixed.
"If . . ." Mark frowned. "If you could wake up tomorrow morning and all of this turned out to be some kind of weird nightmare, if you could change it all back to the way it was, I mean fifteen years ago, you would, wouldn't you?"
Hardcastle looked up at him in surprise, no immediate agreement or denial. Then the man was rubbing his forehead with his hand.
"Well, lemme ask you, if you could wake up tomorrow and it had all been a nightmare, you'd never taken the Porsche, none of that, and none of what followed? Would you?"
Mark sat there, in silence. "I dunno," he finally answered, shaking his head. And then, "I'd better go." He stood up and looked around one more time at the room around him, and then at the man sitting in the chair. "I'll see you . . . later."
00000
He took the clothes out of the back of the closet, lifted off the dry-cleaning plastic and laid them out—all black, loose enough to move in, to climb if he had to. He took the little case out of the drawer, and the black knapsack out from under the bed. It had collected some dust. He had hoped it would collect more but, somehow, he'd never gotten rid of it. He checked the contents, satisfied himself that nothing was missing.
He dressed slowly, and before he put on the black turtleneck, he removed the medal that hung around his neck and laid it carefully on the table next to the sofa. This went under the category of unusual precautions. He'd given it some thought and figured there was a chance he'd end the night in a lock-up, where it would be taken from him anyway, with the possibility of being lost.
But he'd done this thing before and never parted with it beforehand. So, he'd decided, it was more likely the other reason. You told him you wouldn't cut out, not without letting him know first. So, this was by way of a sign, that he would be back, even if it was only so that Hardcastle could throw him out.
Only this Hardcastle wouldn't even understand the message.
He checked the time again, and made the necessary phone call, summoning the taxi to an address a half mile down the road. Finally, he put on a tan windbreaker, to give a less criminal air to his whole ensemble, and to increase his visibility for the walk down the PCH. He'd ditch it after he left the cab.
He turned off the light and went out the back door, casting one last look into the shadowy interior of the gatehouse before he shut the door.
00000
He gave the cabbie the address of a bar in Glendale, within walking distance of his ultimate destination. He couldn't honestly explain the reason for all the subterfuge. Hardcastle would figure it all out about twenty seconds after he discovered the gatehouse was empty, and, even if he didn't get caught in the process, the jig would be up as soon as he returned home with the goods.
The most important thing was to not get caught before he found what he was after.
He stepped from the cab and paid the cabbie, all in the most ordinary way possible, trying to do nothing to make himself memorable. The bar was nearly empty. He sat at a table, ordered a beer and did not drink it. He wanted the compromise between a little more emptiness on the streets, and the least elapse of time possible, to reduce the risk of the judge finding him missing.
The minutes passed slowly as he felt the tension in his spine. It was too soon, but he had to get up and move, do something. He spotted a phone in the back, near the bathrooms, and made his way back to it. He had to get rid of his change, anyway, he figured. Couldn't carry it along in his pockets.
He dialed a number that had become familiar to him the past two days.
No answering machine, Westerfield picked up this time.
"Doc?"
"Oh, Mark. That was fast. You want to bring them over?"
"I don't have them—yet." McCormick fidgeted, flipping his remaining quarter over and over in his fingers. "Listen, there's a thing, right, with a doctor and a patient, confidentiality?"
"I thought you didn't need a psychiatrist."
"No, maybe, oh, I don't know," Mark shook his head in frustration. "I don't need a doctor; I need someone to talk to. I need someone to talk to him if something should happen."
"'Happen'?" Westerfield's voice had gotten a little sharper. "You're not—"
"Suicidal? Hell, no . . . at least not in any traditional definition of the word. God, no," Mark finished impatiently. "But, Doc, we've got one guy dead, one missing, and one who's been poisoned . . . and they already took one shot at me. I think I'd be crazy if I didn't think they might be out to get me."
"You have a point, there," Westerfield replied dryly. "So, what did you want to tell me?"
Mark exhaled. "It's a message. Just in case. Really short. I dunno, he may not even know what the hell you're talking about." There was a pause. "Just tell him, 'I wouldn't'."
"You wouldn't what?"
"Just that. It's the answer to a question. He'll either get it, or he won't . . . and if he doesn't , then it doesn't matter, ya know? But I only want you to call him if you don't hear from me by tomorrow afternoon." Mark was resting his forehead against the edge of the phone booth, feeling like his evening in the den was already years ago. "Listen, I gotta go and . . . thanks."
He didn't wait for Westerfield's good-bye. He was feeling increasingly fatalistic and as though events were sweeping him forward. Now, or never. He left the bar.
00000
Hardcastle had sat there for a good hour after the kid had left, pondering the question he been asked, along with a multitude of other things. He'd gone to the window twice, only to see that red race car sitting out there, in plain view, a reproach of sorts for his lack of faith the evening before, when he'd told Mark flat out he didn't trust him.
I'll let him sleep through; God knows I slept long enough today. He had, too, not troubled, for once, by the bizarre dreams that Mark claimed were actual memories. He knew that one today before you even told him. It did happen.
And what kind of an ex-con likes John Wayne and powdered sugar donuts, anyway?
He went to the window one more time. He studied the car, a sleek black outline in the darkness. Very reassuring.
He frowned. He pushed down the quivering tendril of doubt that was sprouting. He pushed it down with one finger, then stepped on it with his whole weight, only to find it pushing back, relentlessly seeking a way around his denials. He suddenly knew, in some deeply subliminal way, that McCormick was not over in the gatehouse, Coyote or no Coyote.
He didn't have time to figure out why. Something in the way he'd said 'later'? He headed for the door, barreling through it and across the drive in an unstoppable forward motion. He didn't knock, and the door was unlocked. He continued on through and into the dark and quiet room.
He flicked on the light switch, in no way expecting to hear a protest at the sudden intrusion. And, to his deep and sudden sorrow, he was absolutely right.
Hardcastle stood for a moment, stock-still in the empty room. One glance upward had shown no one in the bed upstairs. Then his gaze fell toward something gleaming on the end table alongside the sofa—a medal on a chain, it had the soft luster of well-worn gold. He reached down and picked it up, studying it for a minute. It was the kid's, obviously. He'd seen him wearing it a week ago Friday, the night he had bandaged his arm in the bathroom of the main house.
He slipped it into his pocket and climbed the stairs. A pair of jeans and a shirt left draped over a chair, two empty hangers still half-swathed in dry-cleaner's plastic—not from a tux, he grimaced. A slow survey revealed nothing else incriminating.
Of course not, he took all the incriminating stuff with him.
He moved toward the desk where the phone was and started to reach for it. It wasn't like he had to guess where the guy was going. He already had his hand on the receiver when he froze.
If you tell Harper, then that's it. It's all over. No doubt he could have a squad car there in much less time than it would take Hardcastle himself to get to the scene, but it would be the Glendale PD and Mark would be under arrest.
Well, he thought, it's a good thing you've already tried driving.
00000
Black bag over his shoulder, jacket ditched in a convenient dumpster a block up the alley, McCormick performed the ritual of the second-story job. Like riding a bicycle. Though falling off could get you five to ten.
He was in at the back of the lobby, and so far undetected, unless there was an alarm system more cleverly hidden than the one he'd evaded. It appeared the building had no live human security—surprising, but very convenient. He was beginning to have a glimmer of hope, as though it might be possible to get into the Symnetech offices, find the notebooks, and leave the premises, all swiftly and without detection.
He took the back utility stairs up to the second floor, jumped the fire door alarm, and entered.
He was starting to think, just maybe, he could make it back to the gatehouse before Hardcase found him out, and then, oh, he could take the notebooks directly to Westerfield; he wouldn't ask too many questions, and might even be persuaded to forget they hadn't come directly out of the box with the others.
It was . . . possible. He felt a lightness, a euphoria that was entirely unsuitable to his current occupation.
He worked his way forward to the office that Rebecca Henry had indicated on his drawing. Another lock gave way. He unshipped his flashlight and flicked it on, prepared to do a quick search before he tackled the more likely location of the company safe.
And halfway through his second drawer, the lights came on in the hallway.
And that's what you get for being an optimist. Mark grimaced to himself, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. And who the hell comes to the office on a Sunday night?
There were footsteps, but no voices to accompany the lights. A single set of feet, he thought, moving purposefully down the hall in his direction. From bad to worse, the steps paused just outside the door. Mark had already turned off his flashlight, and he sat there, absolutely still, not even daring to lower himself out of sight behind the desk.
If there wasn't a gun, he supposed he might overpower one person. Consider the consequences. When the time came to tally up the bill, did he really want the charges to include assault? He'd never done it that way—never.
He loosened his grip on the flashlight as the door swung open slowly.
00000
Hardcastle had gotten over his initial queasiness driving the 'Vette that morning. It hadn't been his car, and he found the idea that he still had it, fifteen years later, strangely disturbing.
Just this, all the rest you put away, out of sight.
Everything has a meaning.
His thoughts snapped back, unexpectedly, to the medallion he had slipped into his pocket.
Why?
The cold resignation that he had experienced when he entered the gatehouse had been replaced by a smoldering anger. He's throwing it all away, and . . . for what?
And the answer, unbidden, came in Rebecca Henry's voice—'He was thinking of you.'
00000
No gun. The silhouette had one hand on the knob and the other on the opposite doorframe. He would guess from the general outline, and his one previous meeting, that it was Grieves. The flick of the light-switch, a moment later, confirmed his guess. Mark tried not to blink in the sudden wash of fluorescence.
Grieves stood there, looking momentarily surprised, then stepped forward. He spared a second look to the flashlight, which he well might have mistaken for a gun on first glance.
"Mr. McCormick," he frowned. "Looking for those missing forms?"
Mark kept his smile light and non-threatening. "Thought I'd save your staff the trouble."
"Are you always this annoying?" Grieves said. There was a certain worried snap to his tone but, as consistently as the last time, and with even less justification, he made no move for the phone.
Mark felt his expression hardening. Assault no longer seemed such a regretful thing. He rose to his feet and stepped out from behind the desk. "Is it you, or Gularis running this show? Which of you poisoned Hardcastle? And where the hell is Dr. Henry?" He was way past the negotiation mode and Grieves seemed to sense it, stepping back a foot into the hallway.
McCormick closed the space between them, with every intention of pounding the crap out of a guy who was at least indirectly responsible for all the misery of the past two weeks. It was as simple as that. His focus on the big picture was shot to hell, muddied with the red haze of pure anger.
He even had one hand on the man's collar when he heard the quiet ding of the elevator.
"You've interrupted another meeting, Mr. McCormick," Grieves gave him a look that was still nervous, but now more menacing.
Three more figures had appeared at the end of the hallway nearest the receptionist's desk; none of them was Gularis. All were anonymously dressed in clothing that looked vaguely paramilitary. One had slightly graying hair. He stepped forward and said, "Progress?" in a voice that implied that 'no' was not an acceptable answer.
"Yes," Grieves smiled worriedly, nerves defeating menace by a score of twenty to one. "This is Mr. McCormick, an associate of the man to whom Henry went. He, unlike the other two, does not seem to have been exposed. I think there's a good chance he has the information you need."
Grieves had, very wisely Mark thought, been edging away from him while he talked. He was now out of reach, and, to make matters even more interesting, the other three had brought guns to the meeting.
Mark sighed, his perspective suddenly altered to include all the possibilities that were worse than being arrested. "Listen, Grieves, this stuff is crap." He turned to include the rest of his audience. "It's poison."
"I know," Grieves answered calmly, as one of the two younger men stepped forward to McCormick with a set of handcuffs.
00000
He found the address that Frank had given them a week ago but parked a short distance up the street, pondering his next move. His thoughts were interrupted, almost immediately, when he saw a light go on in a second floor window. It was indirect, as though seen through an open door from another room. Then a second light, bright, nearer to the window, was lit.
Based on no particular certain knowledge, Hardcastle doubted that Mark was a careless burglar, and a few passing minutes brought no sound of sirens and no other signs of detection. Hardcastle frowned and got out of his car, walking toward the passageway two doors south of the building and making his way back to the alley behind.
There were two vehicles about a block away. The closer was a sedan, color indeterminate in the poor light, but the judge had a strong suspicion he was looking at a gray '85 Grand Prix. Beyond that, another half-block up, right behind the Symnetech building, was the dark outline of a larger vehicle—a van or a truck.
Hardcastle stayed in the shadows for a moment, wishing he gotten his hands on a gun before he'd come, then wondering where that thought had come from. He barely had a chance to address the idea, when he saw a cluster of figures detach themselves from the darker doorway of the Symnetech building. As they spread out a little, behind the further vehicle, he could see it was four men, and one was unwilling.
He was, illogically, moving forward himself, and now one of the men had noticed his approach and was shouting to the others. Hardcastle wasn't close enough to make out the words, but the unwilling guy, now obviously Mark, was getting dramatically less willing. It didn't matter, he was already handcuffed and quickly overpowered and shoved into the back of the van, with two of the men right behind him. The third turned and raised a gun, but held his fire, seeming to realize the pursuer was still too far off to be a real threat.
Then he clambered in behind the others. The door was pulled shut and the vehicle took off, far faster than Hardcastle could close the gap between. It screeched as it took the corner and then was gone.
He stood there, panting, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, closing his eyes for a moment. Anger—he shouldn't have been working without a back-up, and then guilt—you should've backed him up.
There was an image, as clear as any of those that had plagued his dreams the past week—Mark being dragged into a car by two goons, in front of the DA's office. It'd happened so fast, so unexpectedly and—the whole horrible weekend that followed, Mark in the hands of that madman, Tilton. Anger and guilt—you never told the kid how much Tilton scared you . . . and why.
He was down on his knees in the alley, without having any idea of how he'd gotten there. And the images were spreading out from that first one, each more graphic than the last.
"God," it was hard to even take a deep breath. This wasn't anything like the dreams; this was a hundred times worse, and it was relentless. His right hand went to his chest, as if to hold his pounding heart in place. It came up against the round-edged shape in his left pocket.
The medal. Why? He clawed into the pocket and pulled it out, clutching it so hard that his knuckles were white. He left it there for you to find.
Why? Everything has a reason.
It's something he would never leave behind. He'd meant to come back for it.
Hardcastle had sunk back sitting, still gasping for air, trying to breathe between the continued assault of images. The relentless, inevitable truth of it all, for one moment, blotted out everything else around him.
Then that receded a little, leaving him shaking and dizzy, but back in the alley behind Symnetech. And all that was left of the van was a faint smell of burnt oil and exhaust.
A sound behind him anchored him again in the present. He lumbered to his feet, swaying for a moment, then turned and saw another man emerging into the alleyway from the building.
"Mr. Grieves," he said, with an ice-cold edge to his voice, and this time he was close enough to intercept his target.
The man jumped in startlement, then stepped back with fear in his eyes. "I'm not carrying much money," he said quickly, though that was clearly not what Hardcastle was interested in.
"Grieves," the judge had him by the collar, was forcing him up at little, onto his toes. The man squeaked. Hardcastle shook him just a bit to focus him. "Who the hell were your friends, and what'd they do with McCormick?"
"I . . . I don't know." He came to a full stop and then, as an afterthought, added "—anything about it."
The judge looked at him in disgust. "Wally Gularis? It was his goons?" Another little shake, Grieves' teeth rattled.
"I don't know."
Even Hardcastle recognized they had come to an impasse. Clement Grieves had reached the saturation point as far as fear was concerned. Any more added at this point would merely run down off of him like sweat. The judge eased his grip, and stepped back a bit.
"You were up there by yourself, huh?"
Grieves should have refused to speak at this point, that he didn't was itself an admission. He nodded sharply. "Yes."
"That your car?" he ducked his chin to the left at the Grand Prix.
Another nod.
"Thought so," Hardcastle said with an air of satisfied knowledge that he did not actually feel. Let this guy think the worst; let him feel the noose, though there was a good chance that no legal threat could outweigh the risk of crossing Gularis.
Hardcastle turned his mind to more practical matters. "I need your phone." He pointed back toward the door.
Grieves was still apparently caught up in the shock of unvoiced accusations. He allowed Hardcastle to steer him back into the building and up the flight of stairs. Hardcastle noticed the minor alterations to the alarm systems on the way in and grimaced, but that was the least of his worries right now.
Grieves walked him through the hall and toward the lobby, pointing to a phone and then stepping back a little. He'd said nothing since they had come inside. He's waiting for his lawyer. But Hardcastle had a creeping feeling that if Grieves kept this up, there wouldn't be much he could be charged with. Not unless they found McCormick alive.
He suppressed a shudder and dialed Frank, rather than 911. Speed was of the essence, now, and explaining everything to a Glendale beat cop was not on his agenda.
"Frank," he cut into the middle of the man's greeting, "we got a problem. They grabbed Mark . . . no, not at the estate, over here in Glendale. The alley behind Symnetech. Three guys, probably a fourth doing the driving. A van, dark colored, Ford . . . No, I dunno what year, didn't get the plates . . . yeah I know; I'm not McCormick. Yeah, it's not much to go on . . . here, yeah, twenty minutes?"
He hung up, exhaling, and looked up at Grieves, who still wasn't talking, and had merely taken on the persona of a concerned citizen.
"You understand, don't you?" Hardcastle gathered himself up, trying to stay under control. "If they kill him, I'll nail you as an accessory before the fact, maybe even conspiracy to commit murder. How many meetings have you had with Gularis? How much money do you owe him? I'm very good at connecting the dots."
Grieves had regained some composure, too. More than Hardcastle would have thought him capable of. He gave the judge an arch and puzzled gaze.
"Walter Gularis is merely an interested investor. I have no idea what you are talking about."
Hardcastle had a sudden feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was missing something here, that the dots weren't going to connect, at least not the way he wanted.
"They weren't Gularis' men," Hardcastle frowned at him. "Then who the hell were you dealing with?"
Grieves twitched a little at that one, but again fell silent.
"I'll figure it out," Hardcastle assured him grimly. To himself he only hoped it wouldn't be too late.
00000
Frank pulled into the alley behind the Symnetech building five minutes ahead of schedule, not surprised to find the judge already standing there, just inside the backdoor, looking impatient.
"So, who grabbed him, do we know that at least?" Frank wasted no time on any preliminaries.
"Damned if I know," Hardcastle shook his head in worried disgust. "Grieves is upstairs, and he seems awfully damned confident that we won't connect it to him."
"Even though it happened in his office?" Frank voiced his astonishment.
"Well," the judge's tone had gone a little vague, "I didn't exactly see them come out of here. I couldn't swear to that."
"Milt?" Frank's look of doubt narrowed down to disbelief. "Are you covering for the kid?" Then disbelief made a full circle back to astonishment. "Milt?" He grabbed him by both shoulders. "Dammit, you're getting it back, aren't you?"
The judge's worried nod didn't leave much room for celebration, and none at all for further questioning.
"Listen, Frank, where McCormick was when this happened is the least of our worries right now. Grieves will just deny it, and we don't have much else to tie him to the kidnapping. Gularis is the key; I've got to get to him. Can you try and track him down for me? He probably won't talk to me voluntarily, but if you can get him in on anything, hell, an unpaid traffic ticket—"
"Wally's not the type to leave a loose end like that."
"I know, anything," Hardcastle looked desperate.
"I'll try. Just finding him may be a challenge, and even if we do bring him in, he'll be lawyered-up inside of half an hour. I'll bet he keeps one on twenty-four hour a day stand-by." Frank said. Then he frowned again. "Were you here with Mark?"
"No," Hardcastle replied flatly, "after."
This got a thoughtful nod from the lieutenant. "And that's when you got better?"
"More or less," Hardcastle said slowly.
"Well," Frank let out a heavy breath. "It's been kinda a rough two weeks for him."
"I remember that part all right," Hardcastle muttered. "Frank, I told him if he, ah . . . left, he shouldn't come back."
"You weren't yourself, Milt."
"I know," the judge grimaced again. Then he added quietly, "Oh, God. What if he believed me?"