Epilogue

He awoke in bed, for a change, and had the usual brief moment of disorientation. Guest room. It hadn't been an argument, more of a discussion, the night before, about how the doctor hadn't meant spending the night dozing in a chair in front of a TV as 'taking it easy'. This had been countered by enough drowsy protests that he'd wound up sent to the nearest available bed, rather than the gatehouse. And that had been, Mark squinted at his watch, fourteen hours ago.

Happy New Year.

He crawled out of bed, sat on the edge, and tried to cough up that last pesky lung. He heard Hardcase at the foot of the stairs shouting, "You okay?"

Shoulda gone in the bathroom and shut the door.

He managed an impatient "Yeah," between hacks.

"Sure you are." The judge's voice sounded a half a flight of stairs closer. "And breakfast is almost ready." He stuck his head in the doorway.

McCormick waved him away. "Down in a sec. I'm fine." And, as if to prove it, he started pulling on clothes from the tangled heap on the floor.

Hardcastle frowned and departed.

He followed him down a few minutes later, the smell of bacon and eggs drawing him into the kitchen. The toast was already on the plates, already buttered, and in the middle of the table was a plate of donuts, powdered sugar.

"Where'd you get those on New Year's morning?"

"Didn't," the judge said, as he fetched the eggs from the stove and put them next to the plate of bacon. "Got 'em yesterday morning. Day old. Sorry."

"Doesn't matter," Mark smiled. "They keep." He sat down.

"What you mean is, you like 'em even when they're stale."

McCormick had already picked one up and taken a bite. Around sugar and crumbs he said, "But they're not." He chewed and swallowed, a bit thoughtfully, then picked up a piece of toast. "Hey, how did you know when I was gonna wake up?" He frowned at the toast, holding it balanced casually out on his fingertips.

"I didn't; I was about to go up there and pound on your door," the judge explained; he was frowning, too, now. "I figured fourteen hours was enough for anybody. Hey, be careful, you're gonna drop that on the floor."

"Yeah, I know," Mark replied calmly, eyeing the toast. "See, I figure if I drop it, oh, maybe five times, and it lands butter-side-up all five, then I'll know this is all a dream and I'm really still back at the Institute."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you ever read Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge?"

"See," the judge said practically, "that's what comes from too much English lit. Makes you paranoid."

"It's American lit, and I was already that way."

"So what does it mean if it lands butter-side-down all five times?" Hardcastle asked. "Does that mean it's a nightmare?"

"No," Mark smiled, "that would mean it's my normal life . . . and I'd have to wipe up the floor."

"Then I wouldn't drop it, if I were you."

The smile became a grin, and Mark took a bite out of the toast.

"And if you hustle," Hardcastle advised him, "we can still catch the end of the Rose Bowl Parade."

00000

They ate. The judge cleared the plates and Mark scraped the pans but did not wash them. Then he followed Hardcastle into the den, casting a surreptitious glance at the mantle; no picture of Thomas C. Hardcastle had appeared overnight.

McCormick felt a strange small surge of relief—that much change would have constituted more than he could handle right now. He'd settle for one small step at a time. He smiled to himself and shook his head a little, then reached for the box still next to the tree.

Hardcastle had turned on the TV and was already sitting. He gave the younger man an odd glance as Mark set out the two halves of Sarah's Christmas gift.

"Hey, there's a lot of down time between floats," McCormick smiled. "Best three out of five?" He opened his own board and set to work arranging things. Hardcastle sighed and followed suit, not looking like he was giving a whole lot of thought to the placement of his fleet.

"You first," Mark glanced up when he finished.

Hardcastle flicked the sound up for the UCLA marching band and said, "I-9," absently.

"Hit," Mark frowned. "C-4 . . . I wonder where they get all those flowers," he added, as the cameras tracked onto the next float and the announcers gushed out the specs.

"Miss . . . Probably Mexico. I-8"

"Hit," McCormick's frowned deepened. "Mexico?"

"Yeah," the judge nodded, "God gave us Mexico so we'd have roses in December."

Mark looked up sharply, and saw nothing but a bland expression on the judge's face. Feeling a little like he'd missed something besides an aircraft carrier, he asked quietly, "You are okay, aren't you?"

"Yeah. You gonna play or aren't you?"

"Um, E-5."

"Miss." Hardcastle scratched his nose. "C-4."

"Wait a second," Mark protested, "aren't you gonna finish up the one you started?"

"Well," the judge shrugged, "I know where that one is. It's not like it's going anywhere. So, what about C-4?"

"Hit," Mark grumbled, and then, almost under his breath, "How do you do that? It's a game of chance. F-8"

"Miss," Hardcastle announced with apparent satisfaction. "Oh, when I'm winning, it's a game of chance; when you're winning, it's all skill and strategy."

"Damn straight," Mark agreed. "I think we should watch the parade."

"It's not exactly like this takes a lot of concentration. D-4."

"Hit," Mark's eyes narrowed. "How are you doing it?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "We played this last week. You don't use the outer rows much, and you call the squares that you're using for your own ships."

Mark looked down at his already decimated fleet and shook his head, "Okay, I think I'll concede this one."

"Hey, at least you beat me last time." The judge smiled and shrugged again.

"You . . . weren't yourself last time."

"Can't have everything."

This got a smile from the younger man. "Hey, maybe that crap of Henry's really does help with the short term memory. That was a week ago." Then his look got a little more pensive.

"Uh-huh," Hardcastle agreed, "I remember every word."

"Well," pensive turned to calmly resigned, "it's a good thing I wasn't lying."

"Though," the judge said gently, "as confessions go, it had a lot of bet-hedging attached."

"Yeah, but I think that's the best I can do."

"Better than I would have hoped for," the older man cocked a smile.

Mark had sat back, looking at the TV without really seeing it. The parade was winding down. As the credits started to roll, he leaned forward to get to his feet.

"Got some time before the game. I think I'll go hit the showers."

He was up, and halfway to the door when he heard the judge clear his throat.

"Ah . . . what you told Westerfield to tell me, that was true, too?"

There was only the slightest question on the end of that sentence, the smallest element of doubt.

If that's how it has to be, Mark thought, so be it.

I'll change if he can't.

"I said it; I meant it." Mark exhaled. "I wouldn't."

He heard the judge shift in his seat, as if he was turning to say something else. Mark had one foot on the steps leading out; he paused, but didn't turn back.

"Well," Hardcastle said quietly, that one word falling into the silence and hanging there a moment. Then he added, slowly and clearly, "I think I wouldn't, either."

Mark felt his breath catch. He still didn't turn, not really trusting his face.

Or maybe we'll meet in the middle.