Chapter 12

McCormick struggled to push himself into a seated position. Sprawled on the floor of a quickly moving van, hands cuffed behind him, and now distracted by the memory of seeing Hardcastle in the alley way, it wasn't an easy undertaking, but he managed. The three guys with guns weren't offering any objection, so he scooted himself back against the wall of the van.

That accomplished, he took a minute to look around. Two of the armed guys—the graying one, and a blond-haired kid—had claimed the two jump seats. The third one—dark hair, the one who had put the cuffs on him—was sitting on the floor in front of the side door. All three were staring at him with a kind of intensity that would've been unnerving, even without the guns pointed his direction. He didn't stare back.

Of course, even had there been a lot of distractions in the back of the van, it would've been hard to miss the other form, huddled in the corner across from where Mark leaned, and that's where he turned his attention.

The other man was older, tall and lean, with thin gray hair splayed out in every direction. His hands appeared to be bound behind him, too. A closer look revealed tired, drawn features, and the remnants of recent bruises. The man's eyes were open, though not particularly focused.

He's scared, McCormick thought. Probably ought to be. He took a chance.

"Dr. Henry?" No answer. He leaned forward a little, keeping a wary eye on the guns. "Thomas Henry?"

Slowly, the older man turned his head to look his direction. "Do I know you?" he asked, in a voice stronger than McCormick would've expected.

"No. My name's Mark McCormick. I'm a friend of . . . " he hesitated. He had been going to say 'Rebecca', hoping that would maybe buy him some acceptance, but he didn't know what these guys knew. He settled for the name he knew they knew. "Milton Hardcastle," he finally finished.

Henry looked at him quizzically. "Hardcastle? Why's everyone keep asking me about him? Haven't seen him since we were in school."

McCormick leaned back against the wall. "And when was that?"

"Oh, that's been a while."

Mark sighed; he'd have to be more direct. "Dr. Henry, do you know what year this is?"

At that, Henry darted a glance back at the guys with guns. "They asked me that, too," he said in a low voice. "I think they're crazy," he added.

"Maybe," McCormick agreed wearily, "but the year?"

Henry seemed exasperated. "'66," he said, as if that should be obvious, "1966. Happy now?"

"Not particularly." He closed his eyes and thought.

After a moment, he spoke again, but he didn't open his eyes. "Dr. Henry, do you know what's going on?"

"They—they want something. But I don't know what it is."

McCormick wondered if the gun-toting guys were smart enough to recognize the truth in that answer. But then he thought about the bruises. They were healing. They quit beating him when they figured out it wasn't doing any good. Well, there was something to be said for that, he supposed, though it was most likely they simply had ulterior motives for keeping him in one piece, not any true compassion.

He tried not to sigh. Or scream. This was supposed to be the guy with the answers, and if he couldn't provide them, what was going to happen to Hardcastle?

Which brought him right back to the one thought he really didn't want to deal with right now. What the hell was he doing in the alley? There had been a time—almost two weeks ago now . . . a lifetime, really—when seeing the judge at that moment would've given him a renewed confidence, even with three armed guys, handcuffs, and a speeding van. But now, all he could do was wonder which Hardcastle would report to the cops first: the kidnapping, or the burglary.

Behind the relative comfort of his closed eyelids, McCormick thought it would be really easy to just sit quietly and let things unravel for a while. But that would be easier if he could erase the face of Milton Hardcastle, staring back at him. Not the Hardcastle he'd come to know and . . . love. No, that Hardcastle would've been hard to leave, but he'd faced that possibility before. But the Hardcastle that stared at him now was different. Those features were cold, filled with distrust, uncertainty. The idea of leaving that Hardcastle was unthinkable. He would not leave the man in that condition, without at least some answers, even if he ended up back behind bars . . . indefinitely.

With a deep breath, McCormick forced his eyes open and looked across at his captors. "So, fellas, what's up?"

The two younger men seemed surprised by the cheerfulness, but the older man smiled slightly. "You're very calm, Mr. McCormick."

From his position, McCormick approximated a shrug. "Well, this isn't exactly my first kidnapping." Though, in truth, he was a little worried about these guys. It was possible that they all simply shared an affinity for olive combat pants and black tee shirts, just as it was possible they used the same barber to get the similar crew cuts, but the overall effect bothered him just the same.

"But I still wouldn't mind knowing what you wanted," he added.

A moment passed without an answer.

"Or maybe who you are?" McCormick added.

After another moment, the other man spoke. "We are men not much different than you, Mr. McCormick, with many common interests."

McCormick doubted that, but this probably wasn't the time to argue the point. "That may be," he said agreeably, "but that's not much help in conversation. Do you have a name?"

The older man gave a single laugh. "You may call me Dane."

"Dane? That's it?"

He gestured to the others. "My men call me Commander, if you prefer."

McCormick smiled thinly. "All right, then, Dane, what is it you want with me?" He thought he could wait to find out what, exactly, the man commanded.

"Please don't be coy, McCormick," Dane told him. "Grieves believes you have the information that Dr. Henry is currently unable to provide."

"I'm not a scientist," McCormick answered, shaking his head. "I don't know anything."

Dane gave another small laugh. "I didn't expect that you'd start rattling off chemical formulas or enlightening me on the inner workings of the mind, Mr. McCormick. I do, however, think it's possible that you have that information in your possession." His features hardened. "Where are Henry's notes?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," McCormick answered, though he thought it highly unlikely playing dumb would work for long.

In the space of about two seconds, Dane had risen from his seat, closed the small distance across the van, and slammed the butt of his weapon into McCormick's gut. Then he squatted down, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled his prisoner's face close to his own, jamming the barrel of the weapon forcefully into McCormick's neck.

"The minute that you convince me you are useless, McCormick, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

McCormick didn't move; didn't even allow himself to swallow. "Yeah," he answered with a forced calmness, "I got it."

"Then would you like to try that question again?" Dane asked, not releasing him. "Where are Henry's notes?"

He realized then that there really wasn't a good answer to that question, so he stuck with the truth. "I'm not sure. I was hoping to find them in the Symnetech offices."

"Did you really think we wouldn't have looked there?"

"I was hoping you didn't know what you were looking for," McCormick said, still relying on the truth.

Dane drew back just a bit and examined him closely. "It's lucky for you that I don't believe you," he finally said, and released McCormick with a shove against the wall of the van.

McCormick watched as Dane crossed back to reclaim his seat, and then jerked his head once, pointing the two younger men back toward the newest prisoner. Somehow, he thought 'lucky' might not be the word he would've chosen.

00000

Half an hour later, McCormick was beginning to seriously wish he knew where the last notebooks were.

Immediately after Dane had given his guys the go-ahead, the young men had pulled on black leather gloves and moved his direction. Pulled roughly to his feet, McCormick had stood with the barrel of a small automatic rifle resting against his temple while the handcuffs binding him were released just long enough to move his hands in front of him. Then, he was shoved back toward the front wall dividing the passenger cab from the cargo area.

Seeming to understand what was coming, Henry had struggled to intervene, but Dane gave him a single whack against the head with the butt of his own weapon that kept the doctor on the floor.

McCormick was held against the wall while his hands were pulled above his head, then the chain of the handcuffs was secured to a cargo tie near the roof. Only when he was immobilized did the men lay their weapons aside. Then they had resorted to gloved fists and the occasional booted heel to do their talking.

The thing that had always amazed McCormick was the way someone could be so proficient at dispensing a beating without one single ounce of emotional investment. He had seen it time and again in prison; someone would deliver a message for someone else—beat a guy to within an inch of his life for nothing more than a carton of cigarettes or an extra couple slices of pie. Strictly business. And that's the way it was with these guys: deliberate, methodical, efficient, and dispassionate. He took a moment to wonder how it was that he had managed to avoid most of that on the inside, only to have such difficulty staying out of trouble on the outside, but then he pushed the thought aside and came back to the moment.

And in the moment, Dane was calling off his boys, at least for the time being.

"Robbins, Canton." And that was all the man had to say for the others to move immediately away from McCormick and seat themselves in the now empty jumpseats.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, McCormick was still fascinated with that level of discipline. But in another corner of his mind he had the fleeting thought that he might've liked it better had Dane not been so free with names. The idea that the man wasn't concerned about revealing their identities didn't seem to bode well for a happy ending.

Dane stood in front of him, looking him up and down, almost as if he was assessing the handiwork. McCormick forced his chin not to sag against his chest, forced his eyes to stay focused on Dane's. Or, mostly focused. One of the eyes was blurred with blood; both of them felt like they might be swollen shut before much longer.

His shoulders felt like they were straining to stay in their sockets, and he knew his wrists were probably raw, because he hadn't been able to force himself not to struggle as the blows fell upon him, even though he knew it was futile. Once, early on, he had managed to land a pretty solid kick of his own, right into the blond kid's mid-section, though he wished it had been a little lower. That was the only time the men had shown any emotion as they went about their task, and after a couple of minutes of personal retribution, McCormick had been a little bit sorry he'd done it. But not entirely.

"Something on your mind, McCormick?" Dane asked patiently.

"Nothing more than you'd expect," McCormick answered, trying to sound nonchalant, though he thought maybe the way his words slurred across lips that weren't quite in their natural place anymore might've hampered the effect.

Dane just cocked an eyebrow.

"You know," McCormick continued, "the usual. Who you really are and what the hell you want."

"You know what I want." Dane paused. "Ready to give me a different answer?"

Mark pulled a gruesome smile, and tasted the blood in his mouth. "I really hate to tell you this, Dane, but I don't have those notebooks."

"Notebooks?"

Shit. More out of it than I thought. "That's what you said you were looking for, right?"

"Actually," Dane replied, "I said notes."

"Ah. Well, you can understand I've been a little distracted."

"So what notebooks were you thinking about, McCormick?"

But Mark shook his head. "I can't help you." Then he swallowed hard as he watched Dane reach into his jacket and pull out a leather sap. The man gave it a single slap against his open palm, and the dull thud was an ominous indication of what was to come.

Slowly, Dane took another step. "Somehow, Mr. McCormick, I still don't believe you."

00000

Harper paused outside his office door, trying to calculate the odds that Hardcastle had done as instructed and gone home. What he came up with was the proverbial 'slim to none', so he took a calming breath before opening the door.

"Well?" Hardcastle demanded before the lieutenant was even fully inside the office.

"What're you still doing here, Milt?" Harper asked wearily, forestalling the inevitable. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and looked across at the other man. "You should be home. What if someone tries to call?"

But Hardcastle shook his head. "No one's going to call, Frank, and you know it. There isn't going to be any kind of ransom demand; that's not the reason he was snatched. Not this time."

Harper winced a little at the bitterness of the last few words. In the past two weeks he had developed a new understanding of how all of life's events—good and bad—came together to create the person of today. But still, he couldn't help but think that there might be some good to be gained if a guy could block just a few stray memories every now and then. Not that Milton Hardcastle would be the type to willingly hide from things, but guilt had a way of hitting the man hard.

To his friend, all Harper said was, "Try to stay focused on today, Milt. Mark doesn't blame you for the last two weeks any more than he blamed you for . . . anything else."

"Oh, he's blamed me for a lot of things, Frank," Hardcastle contradicted. "The kid's only problem is that he never quite sorted out what really was my fault."

Harper quirked a tiny grin, and gave misdirection a shot. "Well, he's gonna blame us both if you wear yourself down anymore than you already are. Go home for a while and I'll call you as soon as there's any news."

Hardcastle pulled a hand across his face. "Nice try, Frank. But why don't you just tell me what's going on with Grieves?"

The grin moved quickly to a grimace. "We just cut him loose," the lieutenant admitted.

Hardcastle stared for close to a full minute, and Harper knew he was figuring the angles. What he finally said was, "You know he's involved in this, Frank."

"And you know the difference between knowing and proving. Right now, the man barely qualifies as a witness, much less a suspect. Even if you were willing to place McCormick inside that building, it is a big building. Grieves is sticking to the 'I didn't see a thing' routine pretty tightly. We'll see what we can do with him after we get Mark back. Or after we find out what Gularis has to say."

The judge looked hopeful. "What did you find?"

Harper shook his head. "Nothing. I decided not to worry about finding a way to keep him, I just want to get him. We can bring him in for questioning, no strings attached. It won't give us much time, but right now we need all the information we can get." Then he shrugged. "Of course, we still have to locate him. He wasn't at his address, or his most common business ventures. We're still looking."

Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. "It's after two," he muttered. "Where could he be this time of the night?"

"He doesn't exactly keep banker's hours," the detective said, even though he knew Hardcastle wasn't considering the time as much as the length of time. It had been just over four hours since the kidnapping, and they both knew that was the kind of clock that could count down to disaster.

"So what did Grieves have to say about Wally?" Hardcastle asked after a moment.

Harper understood the tactic. Stay focused on the case. "Nothing he didn't already say to you," he replied. "Nothing more than an investor, though he did seem really keen on the idea that his investors should get a good return for their money."

"I'll bet," Hardcastle snorted. "Henry was dragging his feet, and Gularis was already leaning on Grieves." He paused. "So why doesn't Grieves just take this opportunity to get out from under? He doesn't have his chemist or his drug, but he's still got a payment to make. And Gularis doesn't really have much need for Henry; makes more sense for him to leave the guy working, get something back." He slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temple. "We're still missing something, Frank. Maybe Wally has a partner we don't know about?"

"Someone who decided to cut themselves a bigger piece of the pie? I don't know, Milt. That's a dangerous game with someone like Gularis."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure it wasn't the Rotary Club crowd that grabbed McCormick tonight; they looked like dangerous guys."

Harper leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and observed his friend. Snippy sarcasm could hide a lot, but it couldn't come close to hiding the fear gnawing at Hardcastle. He pressed his lips together to stop the instinctive 'He'll be fine' that threatened to spill out. They both knew the odds of that were pretty slim, and he wouldn't make things worse with a transparent lie. Though he could admit it was a lie he'd like to believe for himself, almost as much as for Hardcastle.

But even so, the judge had a point; they were missing something. There was another player, somewhere. Stay focused on the case.

He sat forward abruptly. "Okay," he began, grabbing a pen and pulling a notepad toward him. "Let's go over it again, from the beginning. Why did Henry contact you?"

Without hesitation, Hardcastle pushed himself forward in his own chair and turned his attention to answering questions. For his part, Harper scribbled notes quickly, and kept them both focused on the case.

00000

McCormick awoke, not even aware that he'd been unconscious. He braced himself for another blow, then tried to force his eyes open. That took more effort than last time around, and he reflected on that for a moment before realizing that his left eye was apparently too swollen to cooperate. A thin slit seemed to be the best he was going to get on that front, and the right eye seemed to be watering in the sudden bright light.

Light? What the hell?

And in that instant, he realized he was no longer chained up in a van, but rather lying down in a . . . Okay, that part might take a little longer.

After swiping a hand across his face to clear his eye, he studied the ceiling for a few seconds, then pushed himself into a nearly upright position, groaning a little at the effort. Then someone was bracing him, helping him scoot back against the nearest wall for support.

"You should probably take it easy," a voice said from beside him.

He turned his head slowly. "Dr. Henry. Do you know what's going on?"

The doctor looked him up and down. "I think they didn't like your answers," he said dryly.

McCormick let a chuckle escape before realizing it even hurt to breathe, then he settled for a small grin. "Yeah, that much I think I got."

He looked around the barren room. Two doors, one with a small viewing window, the other slightly more narrow than the first; one small, rectangular table; two utilitarian looking chairs; a deeply-stained work counter, running almost the length of the far wall with a small sink at one end; wooden floors, almost black with age, no carpet; and rows of fluorescent light strips that were responsible for the offending glare. "Do you know where we are?"

"Sure," Henry said immediately, "we're at my office. Well, this isn't my office," he clarified quickly, "but we're at the Institute."

Mark looked around again. "Really?" He wouldn't have expected this sort of room anywhere in Grieves' just-so world. He thought for a moment, then asked, "In Glendale?"

"Glendale?" Henry seemed surprised. "No, out in the Valley. It's the middle of nowhere; Dr. Holgremsen's family owned land out here." He looked around him at the four windowless walls. "This was one of the basement labs. I liked them; I never really needed a view."

"Ah, the basement." McCormick said with deep regret. Letting his head rest on the wall, he closed his eyes briefly again. "Nice."

"Do you know who they are?" he finally asked, not moving.

"They call themselves the People's Freedom Army," Henry said contemptuously. "That guy Dane seems to be in charge."

"People's Freedom Army?" Mark repeated, running the idea around in his head. "I've heard of quite a few wacko groups, but I don't think I'm familiar with them. What do they want?"

"I'd say they want my notebooks. Where did you put them?"

McCormick snapped his eyes open and stared at Henry.

"You do have them, don't you?" the doctor inquired calmly. "How else would you know that I keep my work in notebooks instead of, say, a legal pad, or a . . ." he trailed off for a second, then finished, "a floppy disk? Whatever that is."

And Henry's scornful confusion was so close to Hardcastle's, it was painful for a moment. And, McCormick decided almost instantly, it was certainly sincere. But even so . . .

"Have they told you why they want your work?"

Henry shook his head as he leaned back next to McCormick. "Not really. They seem to think I've found the key to memory loss, or something, and they also seem to think it would be really helpful to their cause. Whatever it is, exactly."

"They haven't said anything?" Somehow, McCormick thought he might feel better if there was at least a reason behind his world being ripped apart.

"Only that whoever can control the memories of the world can also control its future."

McCormick thought about that for a moment before speaking. "Look," he finally said, "whatever they think they're onto here, they're wrong. You really were working on a drug, and it really was supposed to help with memory— Alzheimer patients, things like that."

"I don't remember any of this," Henry interrupted flatly.

"That's because you were given the damn drug, Doc." McCormick could feel his frustration mounting again. "I know you think this is 1966, but you're missing about twenty years. Your more recent memories have been, um, erased."

"Erased?" Henry was somewhere between disbelief and fear.

"Erased," the younger man tried to keep his voice steady and quiet, "blocked, I don't know exactly what you'd call it; but something."

"How do you know?"

"Hardcastle is a friend of mine. You went to him for some kind of help, and it happened to him, too. And you're both lucky the stuff didn't just kill you outright."

Henry contemplated him thoughtfully. "Memory, huh? Well, I've always wondered . . . the mechanism of creating long term memories—the process varies in efficiency with a variety of factors." Henry's voice had dropped to something just above an excited mutter. "Is it possible that I was able to take that down to the molecular level?"

The gleam Mark saw in his eye was vaguely disturbing. Mad scientist.

"Hey," he interjected harshly, "don't be getting the wrong idea. This crap is poison. Weren't you listening to me? You could've died. As it is, you've lost twenty years of your life, and Hardcastle lost fifteen, and no one seems to know if there's a way to get it back."

That seemed to bring Henry into focus. "Then what does anyone want with me and my notes?"

"Well," McCormick spoke slowly, "I think your boss wants it because he still thinks it'll make him a lot of money. The fact that death is a likely side effect probably won't even slow him down. If he can't make the money legit, it looks like he's willing to go another route. As for these P.F.A. guys, I don't know. Maybe they think they can manipulate memories once people have taken the drug, or something. But trust me, that doesn't appear to be the case.

"Of course," he went on, "once someone's been exposed, they end up in a pretty vulnerable situation; they have to rely on the people around them more than they probably ever did." McCormick felt his breath catch. "They're almost forced to believe whoever happens to be around when they wake up."

"So it would just be a matter of positioning themselves into some pivotal positions with some influential people, and then they'd be able to begin creating whatever kind of crazy world they envision?"

But McCormick wasn't listening. He was suddenly consumed with images of Hardcastle, trying so hard over these last two weeks to believe a life that he didn't want to accept. Not that the man had been particularly cooperative, and certainly not pleasant, but—in his own stubborn way—he had been trying. McCormick felt the guilt flow over him as he realized it had been a while since he'd had a conscious thought about how difficult this whole thing had been for the judge. He drew in a deep, calming breath.

I'm coming back, Judge. And I'm still going to fix it. I promise.

He looked around at the claustrophobic little room and then at Henry with a new determination. "We need to get out of here."

But the doctor shook his head. "The door is locked."

McCormick scoffed. "We'll see."

00000

Harper looked up from his notes in surprise. "What did you say?"

Hardcastle looked across the desk. "I said, that's when Henry opened up the vial of his drug."

"He did this on purpose?"

"Well, he meant to take it himself; I don't think he meant for it to get to me." Hardcastle shrugged. "Someone was right on top of us, Frank, and Henry was more scared than he's probably ever been. He was determined that the stuff not fall into the wrong hands, and he was afraid he'd give them what they wanted. Now that I see what it can do, I'm not sure he did the wrong thing."

The detective shook his head. "Just seems a little drastic. Mark seems to think the stuff could be lethal."

"Henry said there'd already been one death at the lab, a technician, a guy named Hardwick," Hardcastle said grimly, "but Henry was willing to take the risk."

Harper might've argued the point, but the ringing phone interrupted the debate. "Yeah, Harper."

He listened for a moment, nodding his head, then said, "Good work; I'll be right there." He replaced the receiver, and looked back at Hardcastle.

"We got Gularis; they're getting him situated down in interrogation."

"Called his lawyer yet?"

"Yep," Harper answered, rising from his seat, "so we don't have much time. Of course, we could probably force the issue if we have to, but it could get ugly. I'll see what he has to say first." He stopped his walk to the door and turned to look behind him.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

"With you," Hardcastle replied firmly, passing the detective. "I wanna hear what he has to say, too." He paused at the now open door. "You comin'?"

When Harper didn't move, the judge reconsidered his stance. "I'll let you talk first," he promised. "But I need to be there."

The lieutenant stood for another second, then nodded. "Let's go talk to Wally."

00000

McCormick was staring forlornly at the locked door. "You know," he muttered, "a few hours ago, I had exactly the right thing for this." He thought for a second, then added, "I just hope my pack ended up in the van instead of in the building; the building could be bad."

He had already peered out the small window set in the door, and assured himself that no one was out in the hall, but now he looked again, searching for escape. He tapped on the glass, then glanced back at Henry.

"Seems pretty solid," McCormick commented.

Henry nodded. "I don't think it's quite bullet-proof, but it's made to stand up to a lot. You can't break it. And, anyway, it's a double deadbolt; breaking the glass won't help."

With a sigh, McCormick turned away from the exit and moved toward the other door. "And you say there's nothing in this closet?"

"I already checked, there's nothing to speak of," Henry agreed, following along. "Though it used to be full of stuff . . . before."

McCormick recognized the unwilling acceptance in the tone. He looked at the scientist and spoke sincerely. "We're gonna make this work, Doc; we'll have people help you recreate your work, if we have to. Trust me; it means as much to me as it does to you."

"Hardcastle is important to you?"

"More than he knows," Mark answered softly, then continued to the closet.

He stepped into the small space, but if the key to freedom was here, it wasn't readily apparently. Shelves lined each of the three walls, almost to the ceiling, but other than a few crumpled scraps of paper and one lone stapler pushed far into one corner, nothing was obvious.

McCormick ran his hands slowly across the shelves that were above his eyesight, but they were as empty as the lower ones. It was only as he was rounding one corner of the second level above his head that his fingers brushed across an irregular surface that got his attention. Desperate for anything that might help, he stepped onto a lower shelf and hoisted himself upward for a better view.

"What is it?" Henry asked, stepping into the small space.

"Dunno," Mark answered, "probably nothing. Looks like a loose panel up here in the wall."

"Oh, probably," Henry said, the disappointment evident in his tone. "This place is pretty old, you know, and one summer we started having some moisture and mold problems; the plaster was coming off in places, a real mess. It was cheaper just to panel over everything than repair it properly, so that's what we did. Bill said—"

The sudden break in the commentary, punctuated by a sharp gasp, got McCormick's attention. He looked behind him to see Henry, leaned against the doorjamb, hands clutched to his head, and an expression of terror written across his face.

"Doc?" McCormick jumped down quickly and took Henry by the shoulders. "Doctor Henry, what's wrong?"

"This was Bill Hardwick's lab. Bill, he . . . complained about the repairs," Henry finally continued in a hushed tone, staring with eyes that weren't seeing McCormick. "said there were places where the paneling didn't really have anything much to grab onto. He showed me." He drew in a shaky breath. "Lots of hiding places."

The grip grew tighter. "Doctor Henry, are you saying that you hid your stuff here somewhere?" He jerked his head quickly back to the upper shelf, then looked back at Henry. "Are your notebooks up there?"

Henry shook his head. "No, not here in the lab; up in my office." He looked above McCormick's head, fear replacing the confusion in his eyes. "This was Bill's lab. He was in charge of the samples—"

"God." McCormick pulled the older man quickly out of the closet and closed the door behind them.

Henry was trembling, and McCormick led him further away from the closet, managing to get him seated in one of the chairs. "Are you okay?"

But Henry didn't answer; he just leaned forward, crossed his arms on the tabletop, then buried his forehead in his arms. When he finally spoke, the few words were muffled, but unmistakable.

"Oh, God. What have I done? Bill died. I told Grieves it was that damn stuff."

00000

Hardcastle was watching the interrogation through the viewing window, growing more frustrated with each passing minute. The attorney had shown up after less than an hour, but seemed to understand that cooperation should be the first approach. So Gularis was calmly still answering question after question, all the while managing not to answer any questions at all.

He looked at his watch again. It was well past noon now. They needed to get things moving. He stepped out into the hallway and gave a single perfunctory rap on the door before letting himself in. All three men in the room looked over at him sharply, but Gularis was the first to find his voice.

"Hardcase," he growled, "shoulda figured you were behind this."

"Hello, Walter," Hardcastle began with a deceptive mildness that at least Harper and Gularis must've recognized for its underlying danger. The level of tension in the small interrogation room had risen noticeably. Gularis shot a look at his attorney, and appeared on the verge of clamming up.

"Listen, Wally," the judge said quietly, pulling up a chair, "I got a little story to tell you."

00000

For a considerable time, McCormick wondered if the cure wasn't worse than the disease. After the first brief, coherent burst of fear, Henry had gone almost rigid, eyes locked tight on something other than the room around him. It looked to Mark a lot like Hardcastle's episode in the bedroom, remembering the horrors of Weed Randall's trial.

He couldn't seem to get through to the man, who was shivering and muttering. But, eventually, and it seemed more like hours than the minutes it actually was, his shaking finally subsided, replaced by gasping breaths and a look of deep fear.

"What year is it, Dr. Henry?" Mark asked quietly for perhaps the fourth time.

The older man's gaze came slowly to rest on him and he exhaled. "1986. Oh my God, is Rebecca all right?" he whispered.

Mark gave him a quick nod. "Just worried sick about you."

"I . . . I didn't know what else to do, who else to turn to."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"Grieves, he said he had papers, evidence that would show I'd falsified safety records for the lab, that I'd killed Hardwick and then covered up my own incompetence. It was a nightmare."

"And the notebooks?"

"I split them up; I'd already given some of the trial data to my intern. I called him up and asked him to make an extra copy. I needed Milt to look at that; it was all I had to prove my innocence against whatever Grieves had put together. The most important notes I hid here. Grieves hadn't been with the Institute as long as Bill and I had; he didn't know about the walls. I left them here, even after the move. Most of the samples, too." He shuddered. "Grieves was keeping a pretty close eye on me by then. I thought it might have looked suspicious to be pulling the drywall out of the closets."

"So, everything those guys want is right here in this building?" Mark asked, still quietly, but reaching up to rub his temples, "Oh, Doc," he finally said, "you picked a very bad time to get better."

00000

"You breathe it in, like a puff of smoke, and it turns your brain into snot," Hardcastle said, with a sincerity that required no stronger language. "When it happens, it's like somebody's driven a spike into your head. I think I must've passed out. Next thing I know, I don't know. Fifteen years worth, gone, like that."

Gularis frowned, still doubtful. "You look okay to me."

"Took me two weeks to get it back. Two weeks of wandering around not knowing which end was up. I was damn lucky there were people looking out for me." The judge darted a glance down at the floor for a moment. Then he was looking Gularis straight in the eye again.

"You got anybody who will look after you, Wally? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you're going to be on the short list of loose ends that these guys are going to want to tidy up as soon as they've got this stuff in their hands."

The man across the table had acquired a more thoughtful look, though still deeply suspicious. "I don't know nothing about this," he said, with just a little less bluster than before. "I was lookin' to balance my portfolio. That's all."

"I'm not saying you know who these guys are, but they know you. And Grieves is dealing with them to get the money to pay back his loans from you. All I'm asking is that you lean on Grieves; get him to come up with some names and places. Dammit, Wally, I know you can lean."

Gularis smiled slightly at the backhanded compliment. "Yeah, well, I have my moments."

00000

Eventually Henry had curled up on the floor, falling into a fitful and exhausted doze. Mark found, despite his own exhaustion, that he couldn't rest. He'd manage to extract a little more information about the drug from him, and finally realized it was just too damn unpredictable. Hardcastle might have undergone the same gruesome recovery, or he might still be in limbo.

And the Institute—he hadn't even realized the building was still owned by Symnetech. Neither had Rebecca, apparently. How long would it be before anyone thought to search it?

He got up quietly from his spot on the floor, feeling every muscle in his body protesting hard usage. Henry mumbled something that sounded distressed, then pillowed his head on his arm again. So far their captors had left them alone. Mark wondered how long it would be before they returned, and how long after that before the changes in Henry became apparent.

He worked his way through the room methodically, carefully avoiding the closet. It went fast; very little had been left behind: a corroded Bunsen burner and a length of rotted rubber tubing, not even strong enough for a garrote; a few papers, all old and irrelevant; a telephone directory, but no phone; and an ancient dissection kit in the back of one of the drawers.

He studied the remains of the kit more closely. The blade of the scalpel had been broken off, and he supposed the tweezers would come in handy if he got a splinter. The scissors was missing. The only other thing was a metal probe, bent at one end, more than he expected it was intended to be. Someone had probably used it to pry something open.

He held it up, examining it. It was vaguely reminiscent of one of the implements that he'd left behind in his knapsack. And don't you wish to hell you knew where that was. He glanced over at the locked door. Well, why not? It's something to do.

00000

In the end, it was not clear what had tipped Gularis in their favor. Harper had watched him resist the Hardcastle Effect, at first, with the full force of a man who'd never trusted a judge he couldn't buy. Then almost imperceptibly, he was actually listening. From then on it was only a matter of time. In the end, even his lawyer couldn't issue enough frantic signals to keep Gularis from coming aboard.

"Won't work here," Wally pondered, looking around the interrogation room with a jaundiced eye. He and the judge had already turned their minds to the details, co-conspirators to the core. Hardcastle grunted his agreement.

"But we gotta find him fast," the judge insisted. "We don't have much time."

"Oh, that's not gonna be a problem," Gularis smiled sharkily. "He owes me this month's payment. We was gonna get together this evening, 5:30—"

The lawyer interjected anxiously, "What my client means is—"

He was harshly shushed by both parties.

"Where?" Hardcastle went on.

"My place, up on Agua Verde," Wally said expansively. "I think maybe he was worried about me coming by his office anymore. Last time I ran into some kid. That was your bird dog, I'll bet."

"Mine . . . yeah," Hardcastle replied, quietly tense.

"Yeah, I shoulda figured." Walter nodded knowingly. "Looked like he enjoyed his work, just like you, Hardcase."

To this, Harper heard no reply.

00000

To Mark's surprise, the lock was not as formidable as it appeared, either that or he'd just ridden out his string of bad karma to the bitter end and his luck was finally turning. To his advantage, he'd found a heavy-duty paperclip on the floor under the desk. He felt the lock slowly yielding to the persuasion of the two devices. On the other hand, he realized, as he heard the snick in the lock just a moment before he would have expected it, karma is a tricky thing.

He jerked his one hand back to his side, slipping the paperclip into his pocket as the door started to swing open. The other tool was wedged firmly in place, all he could do was snap it off in the lock, a dubious act of defiance; it was hardly likely to spike their guns.

Dane was on the other side of the now open doorway, giving him a hard look, his eyes drawn almost at once to the diddled lock. He shook his head like an impatient schoolmaster.

"Being destructive, are we?"

The blond kid was standing nearby, still apparently in a vindictive mood. At a nod from his commander, he gave Mark a quick and effective backhand. McCormick staggered back, caught his already bruised ribs on the edge of the worktable, and went down gracelessly.

Henry had woken at the noise, and was reaching for him. Mark gave him one silent look, intently hoping he'd be able to maintain his earlier bemused stoicism, but he was pretty sure Dane was no fool, and it would have taken someone both blind and stupid to miss the new depths of fear in Henry's eyes.

00000

In the last of the twilight, the glittering vista spread out below them, made sharp and near at hand by the cool December air. Behind them was Gularis' home, which gave a new angle to the term 'money man'. Frank was watching Milt out of the corner of his eye; he stood hunched and quiet, tensely impatient for the appointed hour. He'd grown nearly silent since they'd left the station, merely grunting acquiescence to the plans Frank had informed him of.

There was an observation point down the road; they'd have advance warning of Grieves' approach and time to get themselves out of sight. The rest of the back-up was fairly light, and further up the road, undetectable. Frank had been reluctant to have much official presence in place to witness Gularis' 'leaning'—that would be just Milt and himself.

Gularis had already gone inside, having also dismissed his regular followers at Frank's suggestion. Wally wasn't a guy who really needed goons to produce the full effect.

There was a brief crackle from the walkie-talkie Frank was carrying. Both men's heads jerked up and Frank took the message. "It's time," he said with a thin smile; Milt nodded once. He'd already turned on his heel and was walking up toward the house.

Gularis was just inside the front door, wearing a sharp but almost conservative suit, as befit a man who wanted a good return on his investment. He showed the other two into the room off the front sitting area and then gave them a last frown of caution.

"Just make sure you stay put in here until I've got what I want from him. . .no matter what happens." He'd said this last bit with some emphasis.

Frank didn't look too pleased, but he'd seen the barest minimum of reaction flicker across Hardcastle's face and it wasn't disapproval.

Gularis looked entirely self-satisfied and leaned back a little. "Aw, come one, Lieutenant. I'm not gonna rip his head off. It's bad for business. I only do that after the third warning." Then he smiled and departed.

The doorbell followed this by only a few minutes, and Frank let out a sigh, realizing they'd cut it closer than he'd thought. A few sounds of movement, and then a greeting from Gularis, cool and subdued, barely audible. Milt had edged closer to the door. Frank put out a hand to touch his arm, but said nothing.

The voices from the other room had become more audible—Grieves' tight and a little high, Gularis' tense and low, but very smooth. It was becoming evident that Grieves did not have the money—delays, prevarication, excuses, but no cash.

The change in the mobster's tone came so swiftly it caught the observers by surprise, and clearly, even though he ought to have expected it, Grieves as well.

"You've gone behind my back. You've double-crossed me," Gularis hissed. "The last guy who did that, I hamstrung him and fed him to my dogs." There was something cold and hard in the tone that suggested it wasn't hyperbole.

Grieves sounded like a true believer; he was close to babbling now, insisting that he'd only taken on 'additional investors' to share the risk, and guarantee that Gularis would get his payments.

"You're running a damn pyramid scam, Grieves," Gularis said with disgust. "You haven't got a product. I ought to cut my losses right now."

"There is a product; it's worth more than you loaned me." Grieves' voice rose up a notch as though Gularis had pulled out a gun. Frank was glad he couldn't actually testify to that. "They're offering it in cash; I swear." The sweat was almost audible.

"The whole nut?" Gularis asked in hard disbelief. Then he dropped to a hiss again, "You're a goddamn liar, Grieves."

"No . . . no, they are; I swear." More reassurances, panted out in gasps that suggested Gularis had taken a hands-on approach. "They're . . . a group, ah, the head guy's name is Dane. They've got their own syndicate of investors." Grieves seemed to be scrabbling to get this all back on a business footing.

Gularis wasn't buying, but he dropped his tone a little, in encouragement. "I'm gonna need to talk to them. We need to coordinate our venture," he added smoothly. Frank could almost hear him unclenching his fists from Grieves' jacket.

If the other man spent any time at all considering the outcome of this potential synergism, it wasn't apparent. He was clearly operating on the lesser of two evils theory now.

"They're up at the old Institute building. I, ah, lent it to them."

"You got another building?" Gularis asked in some puzzlement. "How come I didn't know about it?"

"It's in the prospectus," Grieves said, still very nervous and now a little prim. Then he went on hurriedly. "It's not much of an asset. It's out in the sticks and it's falling to rack and ruin."

"These guys there now?" Gularis asked in what sounded like only mild curiosity.

"I don't know, probably but, ah, they've been pursuing their own channels of research."

This got a humph and, "Write it down for me, here." A moment of near-silent scribbling and then, louder, "Lieutenant?"

Frank managed to squeeze through the door just ahead of Hardcastle, and grabbed the piece of paper that Gularis had just taken from Grieves. He glanced down at the address and said with a grimace, "Well, at least it's not in Ventura County this time."

Grieves looked shocked, and subsided down onto the couch. Frank was momentarily grateful that he hadn't started babbling again. He thought Gularis had shown pretty good control in the face of that annoyance. Hardcastle was already halfway to the door.

"Come on, Milt. Lemme make a phone call," Frank protested, grabbing his arm to hold him back. "We gotta coordinate this a little, can't go running up there and pound on the door." He got a look in return that said 'why not?'even asthe judge stopped in place and gave a fidgeting nod.

"Hurry the hell up, Frank. It's already been eighteen hours."

00000

Dane seemed to have taken the new circumstances in at a single sweep of the eyes. "So, the effects aren't always permanent, eh, Doc?" he said, almost chattily.

Henry had frozen where he was, wisely not attempting any denial. McCormick made a move that got him another swift, but more perfunctory kick from the blond kid. He persevered.

"Okay, Dane, I do know where some of the stuff is," Mark said quietly, preparing to dodge another kick, and very doubtful that anybody was going to believe him, but even more certain that if he let them take Henry out of here, it would be all over.

"Too late for that, Mr. McCormick." Dane didn't even spare him a sideward glance; he was totally focused on the other man. "You've only got one use to me now." He swung a gun in Mark's direction, not stepping in close enough to offer any possibility of resistance. "What's it going to be, Doc? You tell me where the notebooks are, or he dies—"

"They're going to kill me anyway," Mark muttered. Another kick.

"—and after that we'll start on you again," Dane finished smoothly. "You do remember the last time?" he asked, looking at Henry almost curiously.

The older man nodded. "I would have talked," he said this in an almost hushed voice, directed at Mark, "if I'd known anything. And I don't want another death on my conscience."

Mark looked up at Dane, at the gun, and at the blond kid with the efficient boot and the mildly vicious expression of a guy who doesn't mind following orders. He'd gotten that vaguely fatalistic feeling that comes from seeing no possible good outcome. Dane was bringing the gun to bear.

"I think it's gonna be me, or hundreds, maybe thousands," Mark said to Henry, keeping his voice very flat.

Henry shook his head, sharply. He turned his head toward Dane and said, "Take me upstairs."

Dane's smile was impatient. He tossed a pair of handcuffs to the blond kid, who exercised the caution of a trained professional as he put them on Dr. Henry. The older man offered no resistance. Dane was still pointing the gun at McCormick.

"Stay here, keep an eye on him," Dane said quietly.

The blond guy raised an eyebrow in unspoken question. Mark watched the interplay with deep interest, very aware that the man was requesting a death warrant. Dane gave a single shake of the head. It looked more like 'not yet' than a flat-out 'no'. Then he turned and escorted his prisoner from the room.

Mark edged back, trying to put a little more space between him and the kid's boot. He had his own gun out now, slipped casually from the back of his waistband. He was eyeing his prisoner with casual disdain. Mark had no doubt that Henry was cooperating. He only hoped it would be slow and spotty, maybe leaving out the part about the samples.

The minutes passed slowly. The blond guy was getting bored and trying not to show it. If Mark put his imagination to it, he could almost hear movement from the floor above—footsteps, maybe some furniture being shifted.

Definitely footsteps on the stairwell, and now in the hallway. Unfortunately, the blond kid was too well trained to turn and look. Dane was in the doorway now, holding Henry by one arm; the man was still handcuffed, and two shades paler, but not looking much more bruised.

Henry was given a firm push into the room and Dane said, glancing one more time at the lock on the door, "Cuff them both, there," he pointed to the sturdy metal leg of the workbench, which was bolted in place against the wall and floor.

The blond guy tucked his gun away, well out of reach. Dane was overseeing the whole process with his own gun. The kid had his set of cuffs out and tightened one end onto McCormick's already raw wrist until he got a grunt. The other was quickly passed around the bench support and fastened to his other wrist. Henry was just as swiftly cuffed alongside him.

Dane's man was back on his feet and stepping back. He had his gun back in his hand and was smiling. He hadn't even bothered with another kick.

"Now, there, Canton, at ease," Dane frowned sharply. "They're not worth the bullets," he said calmly. "It would be a waste of good ammunition." And without another word, he turned and left, followed a half-beat later by the blond man, looking disappointed.

Mark sat there a moment, stunned. It's a waste of good handcuffs, too, he thought, but he was glad he hadn't tried to point that out to anybody. Now the sounds above them were louder—things being moved about. Packing up? He turned to Henry, who looked shattered, utterly, by the realization of what he'd done.

"It's not over yet, Doc." Mark looked upward, dubiously. "I dunno, I can't believe they're just gonna—" the sounds had stopped. There were no footsteps on the stairs.

Mark began to scrabble in his pocket for the paperclip, feeling a sudden sense of urgency and only grateful that Canton hadn't bothered to cuff his hands behind his back. "Dammit," he smelled something he'd been subliminally anticipating. The contortions involved in clawing the clip out were chewing up seconds that suddenly seemed very precious.

"Smoke?" Henry had lifted his head. "Oh, my, God."

It was a pale haze now, though still oddly silent, and probably much thicker on the floor above, if it was already drifting downward.

Mark had the paper clip out, and was laboriously adjusting it to the task at hand, speaking carefully and quickly to the man next to him. "Is there anything nearby? Other buildings, a phone?" He was gesturing Henry to turn a little, to get a bit more slack, some room to work.

"Nothing much, maybe a half mile, a little more."

He hesitated a moment and the asked, "And which way is out?" Keep the man focused, no panic.

Henry took a shallow breath and frowned. "Left and up the stairs, then left again."

"Okay, well, this place'll burn like a bonfire, all that wood. That'll attract attention quick enough."

"Not before we—"

"Gimme a sec; I'm pretty good with these." Mark worked for purchase with the fragile tool. The haze was visibly thicker for a moment before the lights flickered and went out. Henry gasped and then coughed raspily. Mark crouched lower, trying to keep his own breathing shallow.

"There, see?" There was a click, barely audible above a low hissing crackle from above. "Go," he urged the older man with a nudge. "Left, stairs, left?" He bent to work on his own cuffs. Henry moved away reluctantly. "Go, now," Mark urged again. "I'll be right behind you."

Henry finally moved away, slowly searching for the door in the more-than-blackness.

00000

Frank had put it together with a minimum of fuss and eyes open to most contingencies. He'd even sent a car for Rebecca, figuring they might need someone who could describe the layout to the SWAT team. Their initial approach, though, was intended to be unannounced—no stupid mistakes.

And then they heard the sirens.

Hardcastle frowned. They were still a mile off and the sound was from behind them. Frank grabbed the radio and got patched through to dispatch, but by then they could see for themselves, off through the trees, still mostly smoke, but enough flames to illuminate the aged structure.

The engine company was gaining on them fast and Frank pulled to the side to let them pass.

"People from the house down the road called it in, just a couple minutes ago," He said, putting his hand out on the judge's arm, ready to strengthen his grip if need be.

The lines were already being run out, other equipment was arriving. Hardcastle jerked away and was out of the car before Frank had even opened his own door, but then he just froze in the flickering red light, and the strobes of the emergency equipment, as if he had no idea what to do next.

They must've both spotted the staggering figure at the same time. One of the firemen had seen him as well, and was offering assistance.

"Henry?" Hardcastle closed the space between them in a few swift steps. They were all being pushed back, out of harm's way, by the firefighter.

"Milt?" The man was half crouched, tearing and coughing. "Dammit," he pulled himself free from the fireman, half turning back toward the building. "He said he'd be right behind me."

"Mark's with you?" The judge had a look of anxious hope on his face. "He's okay?" He was scanning the exit.

"Basement, this end," Henry gasped out, pointing. "Right, down the stairs, and right." He held up his still manacled left wrist. "We were cuffed to a bench."

The fireman was relaying the information to the guys on the hose. Hardcastle took two steps back toward the exit before he was intercepted by Frank and the fire captain.

"Let 'em go in," Frank said firmly. Smoke was billowing out now. They watched the rescue team go in, masks and tanks in place.

"There are specimens down there," Henry rasped. "Chemicals, bad stuff." He didn't elaborate; the fear on his face was enough for Hardcastle. "I'm sorry, Milt." Henry looked over his shoulder one more time as he was led away to the paramedics.

Hardcastle didn't acknowledge it, still staring fixedly at the entranceway. It seemed as though too many minutes had already passed, or that time had slowed to an imperceptible crawl. Even in the din around him, below it all, he could hear the sound of his own pulse, pounding too fast.

"Got one, ground floor staircase." The captain's radio had cracked to life, with a sibilant, hollow voice, and a moment later the first of the rescuers emerged.

He heard someone say, "Not breathing." He saw the paramedics converge on the victim. He held back, partly by the weight of Frank's grip on his arm, and partly by his own sudden reluctance. The crew was working quickly, as though there was still hope. He held onto that for a long moment, not wanting to grasp any worse reality, not even having the strength to think through all the stupid bargains he'd make with God if he would just have a chance to say, "I'm sorry."

The hose crew was pulling back. The paramedics had Mark on the stretcher.He saw the tube, and the bag, being rhythmically squeezed by one of them.

"Breathing?" Hardcastle asked as they went by, heading for the rig.

"He's got a pulse," the paramedic offered, in consolation. "We'll take care of the rest for a while." Then they were passed and he hadn't even had a chance to say anything. He can't hear you now. Frank was pulling him by the arm.

"Come one; we'll make better time in the marked car."

And there was Rebecca Henry, suddenly beside him, almost sobbing in her gratitude, "Thank you, oh—"

"Me?" He broke his stride and half turned to her. "I didn't do a damn thing but get in the way."

She pulled back a little, but he didn't have time to regret his harshness before she said, "I know he did it for you more than for me. I hope—"she broke off, biting her damn lip again. "I hope we'll both have a chance to thank him."