All Things Change But Truth

by The Gull's-Way Collective

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

13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Harper had snagged them a ride with an L.A. county squad car, whose driver had enjoyed almost beating the ambulance to the hospital. They went in through the lobby, Frank parking Milt at the registration desk.

"You know they've got to get him settled. They aren't gonna let you back there for a bit, so you just sit here and do the paperwork. That's all you can do right now."

On one level the judge understood this; on an entirely different one, he couldn't get the staccato burst of the fire fighter's words out of his head. He's not breathing. It didn't matter that that problem had been temporarily corrected by the paramedics—a tube, and a bag, and a tank of oxygen—there'd still been no signs that Mark was doing anything on his own when they'd lifted the stretcher into the rig.

Hardcastle gave the answers to the registrar's questions, with his eyes still on the doorway to the treatment area. It's bad if they come out too soon. A quick resolution was not to be hoped for in this case. He turned back to the registration clerk; he'd missed a question.

"Occupation?" The clerk repeated patiently.

"He's a student."

He's Tonto, dammit.

Hardcastle shook his head. The clerk leaned back from her keyboard and waited for the page to print. She was obviously done with him.

"You can have a seat over there," she pointed to the rows of well-used vinyl-covered chairs. "Someone will be out to talk to you in a bit."

The instructions had an automated quality to them that Hardcastle recognized as being all-purpose, having nothing to do with what was going on beyond those doors. He rose slowly, and found Harper was at his side again.

"Okay, Milt?" Frank's tone was solicitous.

Hardcastle frowned, knowing what he was supposed to say in return—the formula—but not feeling much like pretending. Instead, he merely said, "Let's sit down."

They were still sitting there, twenty minutes later. No word had come from within.

"I can go and ask," Frank offered.

"Let it be; let 'em do their job," Hardcastle answered, strangely reluctant, and then, a little sharper, "What's he doing here?" His frown was directed at the man who'd just entered from the street.

"I called him, right after we got here," Frank said, with no apology in his voice.

"Do I look like I want to talk to a shrink right now?" The judge lowered his voice to something approaching menace. "Do you think I'm gonna need one to get through this?"

"I thought Mark was the one who didn't trust them," Frank said flatly. "You know he called Westerfield Sunday night. They talked on Sunday afternoon, too. He seems to be the guy who's the most up to speed on this whole thing, aside from Henry himself. I thought he might be some help. He told me he was trying to reach you, earlier today. Had a message for you."

"From him?"

"From Mark."

As gut punches went, it had been fairly effective. Hardcastle closed his eyes briefly, to absorb the pain, glad he was already sitting down. By the time he opened them again, Westerfield was already in front of him pulling up a chair for himself.

He didn't bother to ask if Hardcastle was okay; the answer was obviously no.

"Any word yet?" Westerfield asked quietly.

A tight shake of the head from the judge. Frank eased out of his chair and moved off a little ways.

"You talked to him Sunday?" Hardcastle asked harshly. "You knew what he was going to do?"

"No, I didn't," Westerfield answered with the swift conviction of truth. "Though, honestly, there wouldn't have been much I could have done, short of calling the police." He frowned at the judge. "And you didn't do that, did you?"

Hardcastle paused on that for a moment, then shook his head again.

"He seemed a very determined young man," Westerfield said dryly. "And he also seemed to understand that his actions were not without risk."

The judge was staring down fixedly. He gave this an almost imperceptible nod.

"And yet, given what we knew, and what we didn't know, I would call his actions rational. At least he seemed so to me Sunday night."

"Frank said there was a message." Hardcastle let the question out with a breath.

"Yes, a little cryptic," the doctor admitted, "but, then, it was meant for you, not me. He said, 'Just tell him 'I wouldn't.''"

"I wouldn't what?" Hardcastle frowned.

Westerfield looked a little disappointed. "He said it was the answer to a question. He said you might not get it, but he seemed to think you would."

The judge's frown had deepened as he spooled back through the events of the past few days. Sunday evening seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was only with some effort that he was able to bring his mind to bear on it.

"Oh . . ." The single word was spoken softly and without further elucidation, and then he swiped his nose and muttered, "Thank you."

Westerfield looked at him, with kindly concern. "Listen, let me go find out what's happening. What I do is pretty far removed from all this," he gestured to the doorway and what lay beyond, "but I speak the lingo."

Hardcastle caught the undercurrent of professional concern. He suspected that Westerfield was already measuring out the words that would soften the blow on his return. Still, the waiting had grown nearly unbearable. He gave the man a nod of dismissal, and managed to croak out another 'Thanks.'

Westerfield walked over to the registrar, spoke briefly with her, and was passed inside. Frank had slipped back into his seat, but didn't ask again if Hardcastle was all right.

Minutes more passed before Westerfield emerged, and flashed a quick, sober, but unmistakable smile. Hardcastle was on his feet before an invitation could be extended.

"They were just about to send for you. Looks like he's starting to breathe on his own a little. Not quite up to full speed."

"Just tell me he's gonna be all right."

"He's doing better," Westerfield said judiciously. "He's still a ways from 'all right'."

"I'll settle for that, to start," Hardcastle muttered. "And I like to see for myself."

00000

He knew his first sight of the kid oughtn't have been a shock. He'd been through this before—tubes, wires, monitors—the whole god-awful nine yards. This time he let the words wash right over him as Westerfield gave him the rundown.

"The ventilator, just till he starts breathing well enough on his own again. The carbon monoxide levels they measured were enough to account for everything so far—no reason to believe he ran afoul of that damned drug." Those were Westerfield's words and the judge approved heartily of the opinion.

"And he'll wake up?"

"Probably," the psychiatrist was hedging his bet. "There's always the risk of some damage."

As much as Hardcastle hadn't wanted to hear this, he preferred it to being lied to.

"They got to him pretty quick; he'll be okay." This had been his silent mantra up till now. And were that wishing made it so.

Westerfield pulled him back a little, out of the way, and sat him in a chair. Frank had been summoned out by a telephone call. And when the doctor asked him, "Do you want to talk about it?" Hardcastle found, to his surprise, that the answer was 'yes'.

00000

He sat silently beside the bed, not removing his gaze from the still form. He'd hated that breathing contraption they'd had the kid hooked to; somehow, machinery always made everything seem worse, as if there was nothing natural left working. Thank God that was gone; the kid was breathing on his own again. But, even with only the oxygen mask still in place, there hadn't been many other signs of improvement.

Not too much longer, he thought disgustedly. They had said 'probably only a couple of hours' like it was nothing. Like it wouldn't be two of the longest hours of his lifetime. Like he wasn't going to spend each minute of those hours reliving the last two weeks, and wishing—time after countless time—that he could take it all back.

He leaned back in his chair, still watching McCormick as he lay there, unmoving. It wasn't fair that the young man was the one paying the price this time. Mark hadn't even known he'd been working with Henry. But there he lay, bearing the consequences now, on top of everything he'd put up with over the past two weeks. Hardcastle shook his head grimly. When will you learn?

He'd spent a lot of the last twenty-four hours thinking about Samuel Tilton and the horrific weekend Mark had spent in that madman's hands. That had happened because of his stubborn belief that he could protect McCormick by keeping him in the dark. This wasn't any different, though he really should've learned his lesson by now.

True, the reasoning had been different. He had understood Tilton's lunacy, and simply wanted to keep McCormick as far from it as possible. This time, it had mostly been a matter of logistics: the kid was in the last few weeks of a semester, and he would've dropped everything to ride shotgun if he'd known what was going on.

And it was dangerous, Hardcastle admitted to himself. Untested mind-altering drugs, along with threats from a devious weasel who had seemed too weak to be the real threat. Yeah, it had added up to trouble, and Hardcastle had decided to leave McCormick out of it. Maybe the reasoning hadn't been so different after all. But the end result had sure as hell been the same: McCormick had ended up in the middle of a disaster, on his own, with no idea what the hell was going on.

You really shoulda learned.

He closed his eyes briefly, wishing he could block out the guilt. In many, many ways, this time had been worse. When he had been with Tilton, McCormick had indeed felt alone, believing that Hardcastle had been killed. But the kid had gone into this situation believing he was alone because…because you told him he was. It was almost impossible to believe that Mark had even stayed, with the way he'd been treated recently; much less that he'd been willing to risk everything for the man who had shut him out of his life.

No it's not, he contradicted himself. When has he ever done anything to make you think he would leave, no matter what? When has he ever done anything except try to help?

This waiting might've been easier if the answer hadn't been 'never'.

00000

Hardcastle looked at his watch for what seemed the millionth time. He understood this sort of thing wasn't exact, but they'd said two hours, and he wasn't prepared for it to be longer. At this point, it had been just over half that, and he needed to move. He'd spent the last hour sitting next to McCormick, talking off and on, occasionally touching the kid's hand, just to let him know he wasn't alone.

Now he rose, stretched slowly, then moved over to the window. He looked out the window into the darkness of the night. The cloud cover blocked out most of the starlight, and the smallest sliver of a moon was peeking through. Everything had a shadowy and uncertain haze, and making all of outside the perfect mirror of his feelings.

He heaved a breath and jammed his hands down into his pockets, and his fingers brushed against cool metal. He'd been carrying the medallion around since late last night, and he had grasped it more than once since then, holding it for the briefest of seconds, and using it to focus his thoughts and steady his emotions. He fished it out of his pocket, then held it up, watching it dangle in the air. Such a simple message. I'll be back.

Hardcastle turned decisively and crossed back to the bed.

"I'm still here, kiddo," he said, leaning closer, "you're not alone." He watched the young face closely, but there was no sign of improvement. "I found your medal," he continued, "just like you knew I would. And I got the message…eventually. Bet you weren't quite so sure about that, huh? But you did it anyway." He paused. "I guess you did a lot without being really sure, didn't ya? Yeah. Well, I'm sorry about that. And, I'm sorry you went off without your good luck charm; maybe it coulda helped." The judge didn't really believe that, but he had seen McCormick rely on the medallion for a kind of inner strength many times. He was sure at least once in the last day the kid had reached for it and wished for its reassuring presence.

He looked again at the still figure, and wished those blue eyes would open, even though he wasn't sure what he'd see when they did. But one thing he could be sure of was that not too much time would pass after he awakened before the slender fingers would reach up to his neck, looking for a simple reassurance that some things always stayed the same.

Without further thought, Hardcastle leaned down and slipped his hands behind McCormick's neck, clasping the chain together, then gently arranged the medal in place. He didn't straighten up immediately, but leaned even closer, and whispered into his friend's ear.

"I got the message, kiddo, and I'm here, waiting. Now you need to come back. You promised, and I'm here."

00000

Hardcastle had reclaimed his seat, and had spoken to McCormick in soft tones for another few minutes, and now was back to waiting quietly. He jerked his head around as the door was pushed open, allowing a slash of bright light into the dim room.

"How's he doing?" Harper asked as he entered.

The shrug said everything, but Hardcastle spoke anyway. "The same so far. Still just waiting."

Harper nodded. "And how're you?"

The judge just shook his head. "I'm fine, Frank."

"I doubt it," Harper replied, but he didn't say anything further.

When the silence had lasted several long seconds, Hardcastle looked back at the detective. "What's up?"

"Just thought I'd give you an update on the mop-up."

Hardcastle arched an eyebrow as he rose from his chair. "Okay." He jerked a thumb back toward the door, moving their conversation further from the bed, but he stopped just at the doorway, not wanting to be too far away.

"Things are coming along pretty well," Harper began before he could be asked. "A van matching your description was pulled over on 118. Got four guys, some notebooks of Henry's and enough illegal weapons to make the D.A.'s office sit up and take notice even without having to explain all the rest of this to them. Got a hazmat team out there right now, looking for samples in what's left of the building, but it's pretty much a ruin, and from what Henry said, doesn't seem much likely that any of that would have survived the blaze."

Harper leaned back against the wall, looking a little weary. "Gularis is going to get the thanks of a grateful community; there's not much we can make stick to him this time, with all the help he gave us."

This last bit of information got a shrug from Hardcastle. Then he waited, but it seemed Harper didn't have much else to say.

"What about Grieves?" he finally asked dangerously.

Harper winced just a little. "He's giving us an awful lot of information, Milt," he began slowly, "making sure we're gonna be able to secure convictions against the really crazy people. They are the ones who hurt Mark."

"Grieves is the one who turned him over to them," Hardcastle retorted angrily. "He's the one who went to them in the first place, dammit."

"Keep in mind how it was that Grieves was able to turn him over," Frank reminded the judge quietly. "Finding the kid's bag of tricks in that office might be kinda hard to explain."

"So we're gonna let that scumbag blackmail his way out of this?"

And Harper just stood silently, waiting for Hardcastle to finish his ranting

00000

McCormick was sleeping, but he felt wakefulness pulling at him. He struggled against it; he was so tired. And besides, what was there worth waking up to right now? He needed more strength before he could face Hardcastle and whatever he was planning. He thought a moment. No, Hardcastle wasn't the first problem. First, he had to get away from…

He drifted closer to consciousness. Dimly, he registered the idea that he was lying in a bed rather than chained to a bench in a burning building. Okay, then, first problem solved. That only leaves Hardcastle.

As if on cue, he thought that he heard the judge's voice. He could barely make out what was being said, but he could hear enough. He felt the emptiness settle over him as he listened to the harshly whispered words.

"No, you're missing the point, Frank. When crimes are committed, there should be repercussions; a price should be paid. And I'm not just talking about some slap on the wrist, just because you or anyone else downtown thinks it's all for the greater good.

"He needs to go away, and it needs to be for a really long time. The man had other options, but he tried to take the easy way out. Things could've been a lot worse than they were, and you shouldn't be cuttin' him a break just because things are working out okay in the end. It wasn't just irresponsible, Frank. It was criminal."

And then, suddenly, Mark felt his emptiness filling with anger. Even after everything, all the man could see was an ex-con. The injustice of it was almost enough to break his heart, so he held on to the anger.

It was only as he pushed himself up in the bed that McCormick realized that probably hadn't been the best idea. His newly opened eyes blurred with tears, even in the dim light. The mask that he hadn't realized was on his face was almost claustrophobic; he felt its tug as he struggled to an upright position. He reached up and jerked it off, throwing is aside in disgust, as he took in a panicky deep breath. The immediate coughing attack that followed caused him to think that might not have been the best idea, either.

He fell back partway, propping himself on one elbow and leaning over the edge of the bed, coughing and gasping. He could feel his heart beating faster. The alarm going off on the monitor next to his bed might as well have been a siren. Driven by the need to get away, he tried to swing his legs out of the bed, but he was tangled in the sheets and wires, and besides, someone was holding him back, trying to push him back into bed. He struggled against them.

"Don't! Let me go!" Those were the words that screamed in his mind, and tried to claw from his throat, but what he heard was only more gasps, still punctuated by hacking coughs.

Now, someone was pounding on his back, still refusing to let him out of the bed. He tried to push them away, but they weren't budging. Finally, their words penetrated his panic.

"Lay still! Dammit, McCormick, just calm down and breathe!"

Hardcastle. Instinctively, he obeyed the order. He quit struggling and put all his effort into controlling his breathing. After a few seconds, the coughs subsided, though it still seemed to take a concentrated effort to draw in a normal breath.

And then there were other hands, pushing him back against his pillow. And other voices, asking questions that he couldn't begin to understand right now. And a bright light, causing his eyes to squeeze together tightly. He tried to speak.

"Har—" The sound was barely a hoarse croak, so he took a shaky breath and tried again.

"Har—"

"I'm here," a voice interrupted, and he felt the firm grip on his shoulder.

McCormick shook his head roughly. "Harper," he grated out. "Frank Harper."

Another voice spoke then. "Mark? It's Frank; I'm here. Milt's here, too."

McCormick forced his eyes open and sought the detective's face. "Make him leave, Frank, please."

"The doctor?" Harper asked, confused.

"No." He thought twice. "Yes." And then he added, "And Hardcastle."

Harper stood silently for a moment, then looked around the room. "Is he stable?"

"Yeah," the doctor glanced at the monitor, and again at the patient, now breathing quieter, "looks that way, but—"

"Then could you clear the room? We need a minute."

"Look—"

"Please," Harper interrupted, "just a few minutes."

The hospital staff looked to the doctor, who hesitated a moment, then finally nodded his confirmation. "We still need to do some more assessments," he said to Harper. "We'll be back soon."

Harper nodded, then turned back to the bed as the medical personnel filed out.

"Mark? Are you okay?"

McCormick's eyes had drifted closed, but he opened them again. "Is he gone?"

"Mark—"

"Hell, no, I'm not gone," Hardcastle interrupted, pushing his way back into McCormick's line of sight. "What the hell is wrong with you, McCormick?"

"What's wrong with me?" McCormick sputtered. "What the hell is wrong with you? The only damn thing you care about is putting me in jail!"

Hardcastle and Harper spoke in unison. "What?"

But McCormick just shook his head. "I'm not going to jail, Judge. Go away." And he closed his eyes, blocking out the confused faces staring back at him.

00000

"What the hell was that all about?" Hardcastle whispered harshly as he dragged Harper back closer to the door.

"I dunno," the lieutenant admitted.

"I think we need to let those doctors back in here," the judge continued worriedly, "he might've breathed in some of that crap after all."

"Maybe," Harper said slowly, then he slapped his hand against his forehead. "Milt, Mark can't be forgetting too much, or he wouldn't know me."

The realization sank in for Hardcastle. "Then…?"

Harper looked at his friend with compassion. "I think the problem isn't that he's forgotten, but that he remembers…too much."

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. "God, Frank, what'd I do?"

00000

McCormick didn't bother straining to hear what the others were saying. He didn't need to hear more reasons for his incarceration. God knows, Hardcastle would probably give him the lecture word for word anyway, right before he slapped the cuffs on him. He sighed, and reached up toward his neck. Only when he grasped the medallion in his hand did he remember that it shouldn't be there.

I left this for him, so he would know…

He opened his eyes again and wiggled himself to a nearly upright position just as Hardcastle turned to make a determined march toward the bed, and Harper hung back to watch. He felt the tiniest glimmer of hope, but he didn't release his hold on the medallion. He waited for the judge to go first.

"Listen, McCormick—"

But that was as much as he needed to hear. "Judge?" He dropped the medal and reached his hands to grasp Hardcastle's arm. "It's you, right? You're back?" He could feel the grin starting, but he held his breath for just a moment.

"Yeah, kid," Hardcastle said gently, placing his own hand over McCormick's, "it's me. I'm here."

And then he couldn't stop the grin, or the laughter that led to tears, but he didn't care. McCormick tightened his grip on the judge and pulled himself completely upright, leaning forward to put his arms around the broad shoulders. "Judge! Thank God! I didn't know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't. It's okay. I'm the one who should be apologizing to you."

McCormick pulled back away from Hardcastle, the grin slipping as he looked into the saddened eyes of his friend. "None of this was your fault, Judge."

"Ya think so, huh?" Hardcastle growled, hitching his hip onto the bed.

"Yeah," McCormick answered as he leaned back a little, "I do think." Then his eyes flashed. "Well, except maybe for the part about you working alone to begin with."

"Not sure you're on real solid ground there with that argument, kiddo."

McCormick chuckled, and didn't bother pointing out that Hardcastle hadn't given him a whole lot of options on that front this time around. But then he remembered the earlier conversation in the hall, and he felt the pang of returning fear.

"Judge, if, um…if everything's okay, who're you wanting to put away for a really long time instead of just a slap on the wrist?"

"What?"

"I heard you," McCormick explained slowly, "talking to Frank a couple minutes ago."

Understanding dawned in Hardcastle's eyes. "And you thought—? Is that why—? Jeez, kiddo, I wouldn't…"

"No," McCormick said flatly, "you wouldn't. But he might've." He didn't put much effort into hiding the bitterness.

Hardcastle gave him a worried look, and answered in a tone that didn't quite seem to achieve the lightness he might've intended. "Oh, I don't know, McCormick, you do have a way with people."

Mark didn't allow himself to be sidetracked. "Well, then…?"

"Grieves, hotshot; we were talking about Grieves. Trust me, if I ever decide you've crossed too far over the line, you won't have to eavesdrop on whispered conversations. You'll hear me loud and clear."

"Yeah." McCormick breathed out a heavy breath. "I'm pretty sure I know what that sounds like."

He saw the flash of pain that crossed through the judge's eyes, and wished for a moment that he hadn't been quite so…well, truthful. This probably wasn't the time to try and sort out what he was feeling about the recently departed version of Milton Hardcastle.

"Sorry, Judge," he muttered, forcing a small smile. "I'm just pretty tired." He didn't have to work too hard at letting his eyes droop closed again. But he made one last, honest effort at pushing aside the nagging dullness that was inside.

"I really am glad you're back."

00000

Hardcastle was making his way through the hallways, winding his way back toward the exit, and wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do next. McCormick's relief and excitement over finding everything back to normal—or as normal as things got—had been short-lived.

Harper had tried assuring him that the kid's mood was probably a perfectly normal by-product of being held captive, beaten intently, and then left to die in a burning building. He had discreetly not mentioned that it was also probably a perfectly normal by-product of spending two weeks lambasted relentlessly by the man that was supposed to be his best friend.

It had been easy enough to let the kid have some space at first. The doctor and nurses had come back after only a few minutes, and commenced with their poking and prodding and chart noting. But after they had gone, he had seated himself in the bedside chair and tried to make conversation, only to have McCormick shut him down. Even Harper didn't have much better luck. The young man had pleaded exhaustion and the need for rest, but his body betrayed him, and Hardcastle knew the kid was too wired to sleep.

A couple of attempts at hesitant apologies had been brushed off, and McCormick had done everything short of resort to his earlier approach of simply telling him to get out. Then, when the doctor had returned the last time with the announcement that they were going to admit him for observation, McCormick had actually seemed relieved. It was then that Hardcastle knew they were really in trouble. When a stay in a hospital was preferable to a trip home, things had gotten bad.

He had managed to send Harper home while waiting for McCormick to be settled into a regular room. Yet another officer had just tracked them down, with yet another apology of 'just one more question', and when they were finished with that, Hardcastle was ready to wait alone. The detective had objected at first, arguing that they should both go, but had finally yielded to a couple of very simple points of logic: this was an excellent opportunity to hitch a ride back to his car, and Hardcastle was planning on sticking around for the duration.

And that really had been his plan. But by the fifth time the kid had said, 'You should go home, Judge', he had finally recognized the quiet desperation in the tone, and understood that this was more than McCormick's normal concern. The young man really did seem to want to be left alone, and Hardcastle had forced himself to agree.

But now, as he approached the lobby, he was still arguing with himself. He shouldn't be leaving the kid, not now, not after everything. He hesitated as he stepped up to the pay phone to call the cab, trying to believe that if he left, everything would be okay when he returned.

One hand on the phone, Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes with the other and looked around the lobby. He knew that the muted colors surrounding him were supposed to be calming, but he always thought the only thing they accomplished was 'depressing'. Everywhere in the building, you could almost hear the walls whispering their mocking words, "We did everything possible."

He shook his head, and lifted the receiver. That wasn't the outcome this time; there was still time to make this right. But he thought that would be easier if he had some idea—any idea at all—just what the hell he was supposed to do next.

00000

It had been McCormick's experience that near-death experiences could be divided into three parts. First came the oh-God-I'm-gonna-die episode, followed, hopefully, by the thank-God-I-didn't-die reaction, which might last anywhere from a few moments, to a few hours, depending on the circumstances.

But after that came the part where human nature took over. This was the bitching-and-moaning phase, usually starting about when the adrenalin wore off, and the sub-lethal consequences of almost dying made themselves apparent.

Like now. He'd spent Day One mostly dozing, pretty much grateful to have Hardcastle calling him by his last name again, and mostly willing to be left to catch up on his sleep. But this morning, Day Two, he felt strangely morose, more than could be explained by the rattle in his chest and the ache in his ribs every time he coughed.

He's avoiding me. He sat on the edge of his bed, pondering the awkwardness that had descended between the two of them only a short while after he'd woken up in the ER. And you didn't give him much reason not to.

He heard a tap on the door behind him, jumped slightly, startled, and then hugged his ribs against the sudden, jarring pain. He looked over his shoulder at the door, slowly opening,

"Mark?" It was Westerfield, not the judge. McCormick let his shoulders down slightly, feeling the tension that had built up, without much warning, just as suddenly easing off.

"Hi, Doc," he turned, this time a little more cautiously. "Making rounds?"

"I'm not on staff here." Westerfield smiled. "This is more in the way of a social call."

Mark allowed himself a short, painful grunt of disbelief, but tempered it with a grin. "You know, Doc, somehow I don't see you as the type who punches out."

Westerfield shrugged as he stepped into the room. "Well, that may be . . . so how are you? And you don't have to start with the psycho-social stuff if you don't want to," he added, with a wry smile.

"Better. Ribs hurt. Still coughing up black stuff; that's fairly disgusting." Mark shook his head, then looked up, abruptly. "Were you here before?"

"Yes," Westerfield nodded, "early on."

"Did you talk to him?"

Another nod.

"How was he?"

This got a frown. Westerfield said nothing for a moment, pulling up a chair and settling himself before he spoke. Then he let out a slow breath. "His memory seems intact, though you might be a better judge of that."

"I know," Mark said impatiently, "but how is he?"

Westerfield gaze him a considering look.

"Doc, don't go all 'patient confidentiality' on me. I've gotta go home with the guy today. I need to know where the hell I'm at here."

"Oh, it's not that," Westerfield frowned again. "He didn't impart any deep secrets to me. All I could give you would be my impression." There was a pause. "Lots of guilt, lots of anger."

"He's angry at me?"

"No," Westerfield looked surprised at the notion. "He's angry about what happened."

"Oh," Mark replied, looking not much relieved. "Yeah, so am I."

Westerfield tilted his head a little. "That's all, huh?"

"Yeah." Mark hunched forward a little, drawing his knees up. "At Grieves, and Gularis, and especially at those P.F.A. guys . . . and maybe a little at Henry, for being such a putz, setting him and the judge up."

"But not Hardcastle?"

"No."

Westerfield sat patiently. Mark glared for a moment, then dropped his gaze.

"Well . . ." the silence stretched out a moment longer. Mark looked up again and finally added, with a sigh of defeat. "Maybe, a little, at the other one."

"There's two of them, now?" Westerfield chided gently.

"You know what I mean." McCormick's exasperation was patent. "The one who reamed me out for trying to take his son's place. God, I never tried to do that."

"It just happened," Westerfield finished for him.

Mark twitched again, and looked at the older man with doubt and surprise.

"I was here early on, yesterday," Westerfield said gently. "That was a very worried man."

"Maybe," Mark conceded. "You said he felt guilty. That's all."

"Oh, yeah," Westerfield agreed, "plenty of that. But something else, too. Like a man who'd just gotten something very valuable back, and was about to have it snatched away again. He was very worried."

McCormick wrapped his arms around his bent knees and let his chin drop down.

"I asked him about the memory return, what had happened," Westerfield continued on slowly. "He said it happened in the alley, behind the Symnetech building, when he saw those terrorists drag you into their van."

Mark was still looking at a spot on the bed, about halfway between him and the doctor.

"He said it brought back a sudden, very vivid memory of another time, when very nearly the same thing happened."

Mark nodded, once. "That was almost two years ago." He felt a brief chill down his spine that he hoped hadn't been translated into a visible shiver; Westerfield appeared to be watching closely.

"Well, it all fits; he said that memory brought back a whole series of events that followed—"

Mark couldn't help it; the shiver defied the tight grip he was keeping on himself.

"—and from there came a flood of other incidents." Westerfield paused, then continued, in a more speculative tone. "I would say the essential thing was emotional content. All of those things that came back, in that first rush, were tuned to the same key." He cocked his head, a thin smile emerged. "Guilt."

"Wonderful," Mark muttered wearily, "saves a lot on the alphabetization when you can put it all in one file like that." The he looked up at Westerfield, with the same weary expression. "So, that's what it is between him and me, huh? He feels like he's screwed up my life enough times that he owes me?"

Westerfield's face was neutral. "What do you think?"

"Ah-hah," Mark lifted his chin and fixed the doctor with a sharp gaze. "I knew you'd get all shrinky on me, sooner or later."

"No," the older man laughed lightly, "really, I wondered, that's all."

"I think it feels that way, sometimes," Mark said, suddenly very sober. "And if that's all the emotion I can get out of him, I settle for it."

Westerfield's eyebrow had gone up at the change of tone. "Is that what you think?"

"Maybe," Mark said sullenly. "I dunno, but . . . that's not normal, is it? To . . . need someone like that. Their approval, I mean." He shook his head. "It's not; I know."

"I admit," Westerfield began again, slowly, "when I met you last week, I was puzzled." He smiled. "It was like seeing one half of the equation. Too many variables, couldn't solve for 'X'. X being why the hell you seemed pretty dedicated to someone who you must have held responsible for 'screwing up your life'."

"Please, don't ask me to explain it," Mark buried his forehead against his knees.

"Don't need you to. I was here yesterday. I saw the other half of the equation."

Mark looked up again. "He doesn't need me . . . and he sure as hell doesn't need my approval."

"Well, maybe not your approval, at least not on any level accessible to modern psychotherapy," Westerfield admitted with a tight smile, "but your acceptance, yes . . . and your forgiveness, most definitely."

"I already told him it wasn't his fault."

"So, you told him there was nothing to forgive?" Westerfield asked.

"There isn't," Mark replied adamantly.

"Not even the 'other' Hardcastle? . . . you know, there aren't two of them."

"Oh yes there are," Mark continued on, just as adamant. "That guy didn't know me, and I sure as hell didn't know him either."

"That was Milton Hardcastle, same as the man who was sitting down there in that emergency room, asking me to please tell him you were going to be all right."

Mark shook his head stubbornly.

Westerfield sat forward a little. "People change. We do it for lots of reasons, but one of the most powerful of them is because someone else needs us to. People start out being a rough fit—"

"Very rough," McCormick interjected.

"And they gradually accommodate."

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I did a lot of that."

"But, you see, don't you? By your own admission, he's changed too."

"Because of me?" Mark asked, his face doubtful. "Why?"

Westerfield sighed noisily and sat back. "I usually take about five or six sessions to get to this point. Are you sure you don't need a psychiatrist? I have a regular three-thirty slot open on Thursdays."

Mark looked a little concerned, and hastily shook his head.

Westerfield got to his feet, smiling slightly. "Well, if you do change your mind—"

"You'll be the first to know. Seriously, Doc, you're the first one who ever talked to me for five minutes without Thorazine coming into the discussion."

This got another brief laugh from Westerfield, who turned toward the door and, briefly glancing over his shoulder, shook his head once and said, "It's been interesting."

And with a brief wave from the younger man, he departed.

Mark sat back, letting loose of his knees, slumping down on the pillow a ways, glancing at the clock and wondering if it wouldn't be better to be sitting in a chair when Hardcastle finally showed up, maybe even walking in the hallway. Maybe impatiently. But all these idle plans were shot down with another tap on the door. When did he start knocking?

"I'm here," Mark said, not wanting to say 'come in'.

Hardcastle peered around the edge, then came in, carrying a small duffle. "Clothes," he said, in explanation. "Your other stuff was wet and smelled like a weenie roast." He set the bag on a chair but didn't sit down himself.

He's fidgeting. Mark frowned. The awkwardness of yesterday had not been imagined.

"Give me a minute. I can be dressed. They already took out the IV."

"No rush. Frank's got his car down in the lot."

Mark flashed him a quick, inquiring glance as he got off the bed. From everything he'd gleaned yesterday, the judge was back to driving, so bringing Frank along constituted another evasive maneuver. He was only surprised that Harper had gone for it.

"He wanted to get your statement," Hardcastle added, fielding the sharp look that Mark was sure he'd shown. "You know, the holiday and all."

McCormick frowned and then said, "Oh . . . yeah, it's New Year's Eve."

"Yeah," Hardcastle shrugged slightly, then his eyes took on a look of hopeful inquiry. "You got a date?"

Mark snorted. "Judge, when would I have had time to get a date? I've been busy."

"Yeah." Hardcastle nodded at this. "Okay, I'll go roust out your nurse, get your papers. You sure you're okay getting dressed?"

"Uh-huh, since I was five," Mark made shooing motions.

Hardcastle departed and McCormick felt his shoulders relax again. Gonna be a long day.

00000

Frank watched the two of them come down the main steps, Mark a little behind the judge, no sign of conversation.

Gonna be a long drive home.

He wasn't quite sure how he'd been hornswoggled into refereeing, and, anyway, Frank didn't think that either man had much fight left in him. Even after a day and a half in the hospital, Mark looked haggard, and Milt's expression was haunted.

Harper pulled the car up to the curb to intercept them. Mark let himself in the back, and Milt climbed in the front. Both men settled themselves without comment and it was left to Frank to toss out an 'All set?' He got a quick nod from the back seat passenger and nothing at all except a grim set of the jaw from the judge.

The eerie silence lasted all the way onto the 405, at which time Frank made some passing comments on the lightness of the traffic, attributing it to the holiday, and spinning it out into a monologue. Hardcastle finally pitched in with a few traffic-related observations. Mark said nothing. Frank could see him in the rear-view mirror, staring unseeingly out the passenger-side window, appearing to be deep in thought.

Frank made it to highway 10 with a hopefully inaudible sigh of relief, halfway there. It was then that Mark seemed to come back to life, paying more attention to his surroundings. Still, it was unexpected when he leaned forward and tapped Frank on the shoulder.

"Next exit, okay?"

Milt looked sharply to the side, but said nothing. Frank frowned and started to say, "Why?" when Mark cut him off with a gesture.

Frank took the route he was pointed at—Cloverfield to Olympic. He started to feel a mildly queasy panic in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hardcastle's face tensely puzzled.

The next turn indication settled it; they were on Fourteenth Street. There was only one possible destination.

"Turn in, Frank," Mark said quietly. Milt said nothing. Frank turned.

Harper doubted that Mark had anyone he knew buried at Woodlawn, and he doubted that he'd ever accompanied the judge there. He didn't make the kid ask any further directions. A few more turns brought him to the spot where he'd parked only a week and a half earlier. Now that the car was stopped, Frank could take a proper look at the man in the front seat.

Hardcastle was rigid, and the only expression on his face was a total lack of expression.

"Where?" Mark asked. Hardcastle said nothing. Frank pointed.

Mark was out of the car, standing along side it, a few feet away from the front door on Milt's side. He was clearly waiting, and just as clearly not going to ask. Frank heard Milt let out a sigh, seemingly the first breath he'd taken in a few moments. Then the judge opened his door and got out, standing slowly, looking every one of his sixty-some years.

Mark stood there for a moment, not offering him a hand, then turned and walked toward the graves, seeming to assume that Hardcastle would follow.

00000

Mark walked slowly, trying to keep his breathing slow and calm—this would not be a good moment for another coughing jag. On the grass he couldn't hear whether or not there were footsteps behind him; he just had to assume the judge was backing him up. This wasn't something he'd ever had to give much thought to.

He steered toward the plot Frank had pointed out, the granite stone, and the smaller one next to it, which was only visible from a distance by the small flag that had been planted by it. His eyes were drawn to the double marker, Nancy's name inscribed on the one side, the other blank. He blinked once. This was not why he'd come.

He took another step toward the smaller stone. Now he could hear Hardcastle, his breathing almost as labored as his own.

"Why are you doing this?" The older man's voice was strained, very tired, but not angry, not yet.

Mark gave it a moment's thought.

"Because it's important. Because it's about time." He looked at the name—Thomas C. Hardcastle—glanced briefly at the dates, the emblem. All of a person's life, eighteen years, come down to this. But that wasn't why he'd come, either.

"All right," the judge said, very calm, the worry well-embedded in his tone, "can we go now?"

"No," Mark said, quietly insistent. So, why did you come? "We've got some unfinished business."

He turned his head slightly, so he could see Hardcastle out of the corner of his eye. The man's face was as unreadable as the blank half of the granite marker. Mark began to wonder about the impulse that had brought him here. But then the judge shook his head once. And spoke—

"Okay," he said in quiet concession, "I think I get it."

"Good," Mark exhaled, "then you can explain it to me."

This finally evoked an expression—the judge's eyebrows went up in surprise, and then, almost as quickly, down into a frown.

"Well," he said, "I was a horse's ass last Saturday. I'm sorry."

"Last Saturday doesn't count. You . . . weren't yourself." Mark lifted his head. "I thought I was angry about that—that's what I told Westerfield, but that was just an easy out." He had fixed the judge with a steady gaze. "You've been a horse's ass about this for three and a half years, hell, maybe for fifteen years. I dunno."

Hardcastle didn't flinch, but he didn't make eye contact, either. The silence was getting a little heavy.

"Listen," Mark sighed, and finally went on, "to pretend someone never existed, just so you won't have to remember that they died, that's an awfully heavy price to pay."

"It's not like that," Hardcastle replied sullenly.

"Hah, it isn't? Well, when we get home why don't you dig up an old photo, put it on the mantle next to Nancy's, okay?" Mark heard the sharpness in his own words and cringed inwardly, wondering where it had all come from and suddenly recognizing it for what it was—anger, pure and simple. He'd gotten no denial. He started up again, slower. "Okay, you can't. I understand." This got a quick flash from the judge. "Oh, yes I do," Mark snapped back at the unspoken retort. "Moms aren't supposed to die, either." He took a few slow, deep breaths. He was suddenly tired; he wanted to go home.

"I . . ." he paused, trying to get the discussion back on track. Discussion? He's said a dozen words. "I just want you to know. This thing, between you and Tom, I know it's none of my business, but you ought to settle it." Still no words from the judge. "And, I also want you to know it is not my fault."

"I never said that," Hardcastle's indignation was quick.

"No, but he did, and Westerfield says he is you, so maybe you still think that, somewhere up there." Mark pointed vaguely toward the judge's head. "I know who I am, and I know I'm not him." He was running out of breath, and steam, and the will to drive this thing forward at any cost. And he was all too aware that he was going to wind up sitting on Nancy's tombstone, if not on the ground, in another minute, if he kept at it.

A couple more breaths, he leaned his hand on the larger stone for support. "And," he added emphatically, "it's not a matter of choosing. You can be happy, and still miss someone. You can go on living, and not forget the people who've died—"

"And I can have two sons," Hardcastle replied very quietly. "Even if one of them is dead."

Mark blinked a couple times, vaguely aware that he was leaning even harder on the stone.

And, having said everything he'd wanted to say, and heard more than he'd hoped, he was glad enough when the judge asked, still quietly, "Can we go home now?'

00000

Frank leaned against the front bumper of his car, arms crossed, watching from afar. Maybe he'd underestimated; they both seemed willing to come up to scratch when the bell rang. Not that he was expecting any actual blows. So far it was Mark doing all the talking, and Harper was too far away to hear what he was saying. Milt was taking it on the chin.

Good, maybe this'll clear the air.

Then, suddenly, it was over. Mark sagged against the granite like a guy on the ropes. It was entirely possible, Frank thought, that the kid had also underestimated the older man. Or that Hardcastle hadn't realized how fragile Mark was right now. But then he saw Milt reaching out. Of course—he's not cruel, at least not intentionally so.

At least Mark was willing to accept the assistance. A minute more, with the kid leaning forward, obviously trying to catch his breath, and they were both up, heading slowly back, Milt still giving the younger man a supporting arm.

They arrived at the car, Milt opening the back door and McCormick climbing in, strangely subdued, but without the outward signs of tension that had been there when he'd come out of the hospital.

Milt climbed into the front seat. Frank scrambled around to his side and was in a moment later. Still silent. Neither of the other two seemed to have anything left to say. And you're sure-as-hell not jumping into this.

But, somehow, there was a calmer air about the situation. And as to whether it was the calm of resignation . . . well, I hope not.

00000

McCormick thought he might have dozed off for a few minutes; either that or he'd been so deeply in his own mind that he hadn't noticed the familiar approach to Gull's Way. At any rate, Frank was announcing their arrival before Mark had even become aware that they were in the drive.

The sun was slanting low enough to qualify as late afternoon. Mark climbed out of the car, waving off an offer of assistance and trying to look not in need of it. This meant taking the porch steps in short order, but brought him to a full stop in front of the locked front door, suddenly very aware of that his keys were back on the desk in the gatehouse, jettisoned on Sunday night.

He smiled a little grimly, and stood a little awkwardly, as the judge stepped by him and unlocked the door without a comment. Frank had only just gotten out of the car. He didn't move toward the house. Now he was waving a quick good-bye and getting back in.

"Happy New Year," he said, looking like a man who was glad to be out of the line of fire. Apparently all thought of taking a statement had fled.

"You too, Frank." Mark managed another smile before he turned and followed the judge into the house.

He headed almost immediately for the kitchen, but was only there a few minutes before Hardcastle joined him.

"Whaddaya think you're doing? The doctor said you're supposed to take it easy."

Mark looked up from the fridge, where he'd been leaning in, studying the contents with a jaundiced eye. "Cooking and eating is taking it easy," he argued reasonably. "This ham is shot. You should have dumped it. And the turkey's getting a little fuzzy, too." He shook his head as he carried the pan over to the garbage. "I get kidnapped and nobody does the grocery shopping."

"Well," Hardcastle grumbled, "I was prioritizing."

Mark stood there for a moment, watching the remains of Christmas dinner slide into the waste can. "I know," he quirked a smile. "So, you've got two choices—bacon and eggs, or macaroni and cheese."

Hardcastle frowned. "Which is easier?"

This got him a laugh from the younger man. "See? The fact that you even have to ask how easy mac and cheese is, is a testament to how sheltered your life has been. Okay," he considered for a moment, "I suppose I get a couple extra points for boiling the water for the macaroni. But I gotta wash two pans for the bacon and eggs."

"Let's call out for pizza." Hardcastle said, as though the specter of two unwashed pans had decided it. "Let 'em deliver it."

"Onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and pepperoni," Mark recited solemnly, and then, "New Year's Eve," he pointed out. "It'll take a while."

00000

The pizza finally came, though he had to roust the kid out from a nap on the sofa to eat it, after which it was well and truly New Year's Eve. They'd adjourned to the den, though nobody reached for the remote control right away.

McCormick wandered over to the couch and picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor next to it. He only came back to his chair after the judge was sitting down. Hardcastle finally picked up the device, looking at it with some chagrin.

McCormick was frowning, too. "No little areas of left-over empty space, I hope?" he asked cautiously.

"Hell, no," Hardcastle replied. "It's all back, even the stuff I would've rather parted with." He looked down at the device and shook his head. "You have no idea how baffling one of these things is, if you've never used it before." He pointed it at the TV and clicked.

McCormick settled back into his seat, and watched the screen flicker as they crawled up the channels into the John Wayne Zone. "Yeah, well," he said philosophically, "it was nice while it lasted. Can we at least watch the ball drop in Times Square?" He looked at the clock. "Fort Apache should be over by then."

"Think you'll hang in there all the way to nine o'clock? The way you're going, I'm thinking you're not gonna make it to Newfoundland."

"Speak for yourself; you gave up sleeping two weeks ago." It had come out a little sharp, and Hardcastle turned to look at the man who had uttered it.

McCormick was hunched down in the chair, looking abashed. "Sorry," he muttered.

"'S okay. I think you're still a couple up on me in the apologizing department," the judge replied quietly.

This was met with a moment of silence. John Wayne was riding off to invite Cochise to a parley. McCormick finally raised his eyes, looking deadly serious.

"Look, Judge, Westerfield said . . ." More silence.

Hardcastle finally cleared his throat. "He said what?"

"Ah," Mark twitched and looked away, back down at the carpet. "He said you felt guilty . . . again."

"Again?"

"That was my part, the 'again'."

"I thought you didn't like shrinks?" Hardcastle said. "How much did you talk to this guy?"

"Probably not as much as you did." Mark slumped down in the chair a little more. "Besides, he made a lot of sense." He frowned at this concession, then added, "For a shrink."

This got a grunt from Hardcastle.

"So, is that what it is?"

"What 'what' is?"

"That you think you screwed my life up and . . ." Mark waved his hand vaguely, as if the rest of the statement ought to be apparent.

Another grunt, this one a lot more emphatic. "Hah, in the first place, I didn't screw up your life. Though I'm willing to admit it might have been a group effort, but I wasn't even on the committee. But, anyway, you always had the deciding vote."

"Yeah," McCormick smiled wryly, "I figured that out."

"Well, I'm glad you finally have," the judge nodded once, approvingly. Then he fixed the younger man with a very determined gaze. "And, secondly, I never gave you anything you didn't earn."

Mark swallowed once, as if that part had come as a surprise, but he didn't look away again.

"And, what would you say if I didn't go back to law school?"

This had come from so far out in left field that the judge merely blinked once, wondering if he'd heard right. The look on the kid's face, still deadly serious, convinced him he had. It was his turn to swallow hard.

"I'd say I already paid the tuition." His smile was a little strained.

"You can get a refund, up to the first day of class, minus the matriculation fee. I checked last week."

"But . . . I thought you wanted to do it. I thought you liked it . . . the law, I mean."

"I do." The strain on McCormick's face was becoming increasingly apparent. "I think . . . damn, I'm not even sure what I think anymore."

Hardcastle jumped in hastily. "This is probably not a good time to de—"

"—All I know is, I'm not him," the way Mark had said it, the pronoun spoke for itself, "and I'm sure as hell not you."

"You're you," Hardcastle said flatly. "That's all I ever expected. That's good enough. And I think you'd make a very good lawyer." Then he felt his eyes narrow a little. "This isn't about not being around to be Tonto, is it?"

Mark hesitated.

"No." The answer had come too slow to be the absolute, unvarnished truth. "At least that's not all of it."

"Listen, kiddo," the judge had lowered his voice a notch or two, "in case you haven't noticed, I've got thirty-some years on you. I'm gonna have to hang up my spurs sooner or later."

"Later," Mark replied, "probably."

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, I promise . . . I really promise; I'll let you know if there's any bad guys that need going after."

"Really?" The disbelief in the younger man's voice was palpable.

"Really."

"Okay," McCormick replied slowly, slouching down a little more. "One more chance."

"And another semester?"

"Yeah." Mark had let his head fall back onto the chair, his eyes were closed again. "I do kinda like it," he muttered.

"I figured you would." The judge smiled. There was a pause, filled only by one gentle snore from the guy in the other chair. "Happy New Year," Hardcastle announced quietly, looking down at his watch. "In Greenland."