McCormick, McCormick, McCormick & Hardcastle

by L.M.Lewis

Oh, no, he inherited the victim gene.

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: PG

Author's Notes: Okay, what I really wanted to do was find an excuse to use this title. Yes, very shallow motivation, I know, but it's been slithering around in my head like some old disco song ever since the last time I watched "Hardcastle, Hardcastle, Hardcastle, and McCormick".

The OC here, Matt, appeared previously in 'Cake and Ice Cream' and 'This Far and No Further', and had a non-speaking role in 'Shift'.

Thank you , Cheri, for all the kind beta-work and for teaching me the secret of the dash.
And to Lynn, who reminded me that some guys really have to be home by six p.m. sharp.

McCormick, McCormick, McCormick, and Hardcastle

By L. M. Lewis

The McCormick nuclear family had a lot of redundancy built into the backup systems, probably a result of Mark's personal experience with worst-case scenarios. With one very eager maternal grandmother, an honorary grandfather who took the title seriously, and two neighborhood girls competing for babysitting opportunities, there were rarely any scheduling crises that couldn't be handled.

But that Saturday the stars were in conjunction—the peak of the income tax season, combined with a short-deadline court filing, ran up against the sudden demise of Nana Kasternak's car, and the judge's delayed flight back from a symposium on family law.

And both the babysitters had the flu.

00000

Mark's office, in the Nancy Hardcastle Center for Community Law, was the no-frills variety, not what would be expected for the director. No windows—the Center was sandwiched into a storefront building in mid-block—but that was an advantage, leaving more wall space for shelves and file cabinets. His desk was straight-up utilitarian, too, and the Rolodex was black plastic, with the emphasis on content.

The man sitting at the desk was dressed for practicality as well, shirtsleeves rolled up and no tie—after all, it was Saturday. It was only paperwork of the exacting variety that he had to tend to, no clients to see. He had the place to himself.

Well, not exactly.

On the floor behind him, in a corner between shelves and cabinets, Matthew McCormick, age four, had set up his own base of operations. He'd lined up an impressive number of Matchbox cars, mostly running toward the low slung, sporty varieties, and sorted according to a system of his own. A few of them sounded dangerously overpowered; Matt had mastered the art of recreating a multitude of engine noises. He was sitting, not lying, on an old and beloved sheepskin rug, provided for napping purposes, but so far not put to that use.

Matt had been back and forth to the front waiting area three times. He'd visited the bathroom twice, once because he needed to, and once more because the first trip had been such a success. He'd had a bag of goldfish crackers, a juice box, and half a Pop Tart—from the secret stash his father kept in the bottom drawer of one of the file cabinets.

Now he was fighting a losing battle with his eyelids, but was still desperately unwilling to lie down, not wanting to miss anything interesting.

"Come on, kiddo," his father pushed his chair back a little from the desk and turned sideways. "We'll both be in trouble if I bring you home with no nap and strung out on Pop Tarts. Up." He patted his leg and then held out a hand.

Matt blinked twice and yawned, then managed to get to his feet and do a slow climb into his father's lap. Mark nestled him into his left shoulder, leaving his right hand free for further paperwork, though the sheepskin had been looking mighty attractive even to him this past twenty minutes or so.

As he'd suspected, it was only a matter of a few minutes before the kid's squirming stopped and his breathing evened out. Five minutes after that, it was readily apparent that Matt was down for the count—a gangly sprawl who had shot up a couple inches in the last few months, and wouldn't, at this rate, fit comfortably in a lap for too much longer. Mark knew he could be safely put down now, but he wasn't in any big hurry.

He forged ahead, figuring he had another hour of work and might, if he kept at it diligently, be done before the kid woke up. But it was only fifteen minutes later, when his left arm was already pleasantly numb, that he heard the knock on the door out front.

Mark frowned, looked down at the top of Matt's tousled head, and decided to ignore the interruption. The Center's hours were clearly posted. Whoever it was would probably notice eventually and give up.

The knocking started up again, a little louder. Mark grimaced. After seven years he knew a lot of people in the neighborhood, and many of them knew the venerable Volvo that he drove, and had parked out back in the lot. Whoever it was seemed to know he was here, and wasn't giving up easily. Mark felt his son shift restlessly. He knew that Matt with half a nap would be worse than Matt with no nap at all.

Carefully, and reluctantly, he gathered him up into his arms and worked his way forward, out of the chair, then stooped to nestle him onto the sheepskin. The kid heaved a sigh and curled up on his side, barely breaking the cadence of deep breathing he'd settled into.

Another, more insistent knock. Mark got to his feet with a sigh of his own, shaking his slightly numb left arm. All hopes for the speedy completion of his work were quickly vanishing. He stepped around the desk and toward the door, pulling it nearly closed behind him, then down the hallway past the other offices, and the consultation room, and into the front waiting area.

The young man at the front door looked worried, but not familiar. And apparently not literate. Mark shook his head, mostly to himself; the man was standing not two feet from the posting that clearly said 'closed Saturdays' and showed the number for appointments, not that he and Hardcastle hadn't taken a fair number of walk-ins over the years, some of them at very peculiar hours.

The guy at the door had seen him and stopped knocking. He was waiting somewhat impatiently, running the fingers of his right hand through his hair; in his left he had a small satchel. Mark supposed, doubtfully, that it might be a delivery, but the first words he heard as he unlatched the door and opened it, were exactly what he'd hoped they wouldn't be.

"I need your help." The guy was more than worried; there was an edge of frantic pleading to it.

Mark tried to look firmly sympathetic, still squarely in the doorway, still hoping to offer only an appointment. "We're—"

"Closed, yeah," the man nodded, "But this can't wait until Monday, man. It can't."

Mark sighed again. No one ever thought it could wait until Monday, and sometimes they were right.

"They'll take my kid." There was no questioning the guy's sincerity; he was sweating the truth out at this point.

McCormick stepped back a little from the doorway; the guy correctly saw it as an invitation, and edged forward past him. Mark remembered what the judge had said to him, in passing, a couple weeks ago, that a man in his line of work couldn't afford to believe everybody, but he thought he knew the ring of truth when he heard it.

"Why do you think you're gonna lose your kid?" he asked quietly.

The matter-of-factness of his tone seemed to have a calming effect on his potential client. The man swiped at his brow and chewed his lip for a moment, then said, "Can we sit down?"

The guy did look on the verge of collapse. Mark ushered him toward the consultation room, casting one quick glance down the hall at the still half-closed door of his office, and then at his watch. He had twenty minutes, at the most. He pointed the man to the chair on one side of the table, then he grabbed a yellow notepad off the shelf next to the door and took his own seat.

The man sat gratefully, then said, abruptly, "My name is Kenny Desalle. I live around here. I heard about this place a few times."

Mark nodded, taking a pen out of his pocket. He and the judge had pulled off enough close ones over the years to have something of a local reputation. If they weren't exactly seen as walking on water, at least they didn't too often get their knees wet.

McCormick tore off a page of scribbled notes, Hardcastle's scrawl, from the top of the pad and laid it aside. Desalle had flinched at the sudden movement.

He's a little twitchy. Mark frowned.

"How old is your kid?" he asked gently.

"Three . . . three and a half," Desalle swallowed. "My girlfriend she . . . ah, you know, couldn't handle things. She cut out."

Modern times, McCormick sighed to himself, equal opportunity child abandonment. "And why do you think they're going to take him away from you?"

Desalle swallowed again. "The DCFS came around last week; I guess someone called them. They said a whole bunch of stuff. You know, my mom used to help out, but she got sick and she's been in the hospital, and . . . and I can't find anybody who can, you know, take care of him while I work—"

"Okay," Mark frowned, "Children and Family Services can actually help you with—"

"—so I robbed a bank."

McCormick glanced up sharply from the pad where he'd been poised to write. He was vaguely aware of some noise he ought to be paying attention to, beyond the buzzing in his head and the nagging internal voice that said, When the hell are you going to start listening to Hardcase? But all that came out was a drawn-out, and hopefully not too judgmental—

"Ah . . . ?"

"I needed the money," the man across the table said defiantly, though he now looked almost as white as McCormick himself felt. "I was gonna take K.J. and haul ass out of here. Maybe go up to Oregon. I dunno."

"When?" Mark put the pen down. The buzzing had subsided a little.

"Ah . . ." Kenny gave him a blank stare, "As soon as I had the money—"

"No," McCormick frowned in exasperation, "I mean, when did you rob the bank?" This one's not too bright.

"Ahhh." Kenny managed a worried half-smile. "Today. The First Commercial over on Western. Noon, closing time." He patted the satchel.

Mark put one elbow on the table and carefully rested his forehead in the palm of his hand, past hoping he wasn't looking too judgmental.

A sudden movement and a 'What the hell?' from across the table brought his head back up, and made him suddenly aware again of the noise he'd barely registered earlier. It was a small but repetitive rumbling, a pretty good rendition of a mid-sixties Corvette.

He glanced up sharply; Desalle had half risen in from his seat, had his hand in his jacket pocket, and had withdrawn an ugly snub-nosed .38 in a jerky, anxious movement, pointing it toward the open doorway.

"Dammit." The word was out of McCormick's mouth before he had a chance to consider the consequences. It was followed by an ill-considered reach across the table. "Put that away. It's just my kid, for Crissake."

The gun had swung in his direction. McCormick pulled back a little, dropping his tone, but still insistent. "Put it away."

And, small miracle, Desalle slipped it back into his pocket just as Matt appeared around the doorframe, a serious look on his face and a car tightly clutched in his hand. Mark managed a smile that was meant to be reassuring. Matt returned a vaguely disappointed look. It was obvious that he'd been left out of something. He yawned once and edged around the table toward his father's side.

"How old?" Kenny asked.

"Four," Mark replied quietly. "His name's Matt." The outline of Desalle's hand around the gun was still visible in his pocket, as he started to ease back down into his seat. Mark wanted his son anywhere but between him and this man, but Matt was moving in insistently.

Desalle frowned, still a little rigid, but appearing more in control of himself. He offered a muttered, "Sorry," as he settled back into his seat, but Mark noticed his hand hadn't left his pocket.

Mark looked down; Matt was nudging his knee. "I'm thirsty."

Mark glanced back up at the other man, then down again. "You can go get another juice box out of the fridge, okay?"

This got him a smile. Matt turned and looked over at the guest as well, his smile going a little shy, though still friendly. "I got a 'Vette," he announced, reaching up a little to put it, wheels down, on the table. "See?"

Kenny nodded once, though he looked a little glassy-eyed. Then Matt was gone in a flash, with Corvette, more engine sounds drifting back to them from down the hallway.

"Listen," McCormick leaned forward, trying to keep his voice to a harsh whisper, "you don't pull a gun on your lawyer." There could be no doubting the sincerity in this statement. Kenny managed to look abashed. Mark plunged ahead. "And you don't ever pull a gun on your lawyer's kid."

Kenny nodded again. McCormick thought he had just ratcheted things back down from potential hostage situation to initial consultation, except that the damn gun was still in the guy's pocket.

Mark made a quick calculation, then held out his hand. "Give."

Desalle's frown was back, but he seemed to be responding to the insistent tone, firm, but just short of a demand. He was pulling it out of his pocket when the phone rang.

He twitched a little, and they both sat stock-still at the second ring. Then Mark turned toward the extension on the shelf behind him.

"Don't," Kenny said sharply. "Let it ring."

"But I always—"

The third ring was followed by a click of the answering machine at the desk outside. Kenny smiled thinly. "See? No problem."

Mark heard Kathy's voice, tinny and distant and so wonderfully matter-of-fact. "I'm done early, Hon, guess you must be, too. Hope Matt wasn't too much help." He would have sworn he could hear her smiling. Then a trailing-off sigh, as she realized he wasn't going to pick up in mid message, and a quick, "Bye." And, as an afterthought, "Don't forget the burgers."

He put his hand to his shirt pocket, touching the scrap of paper he'd written the list on only this morning—a talisman of normality in a situation that was teetering on the edge of disaster. Burgers, buns, a quart of potato salad—the kind that Hardcastle liked, with mustard and chopped hardboiled eggs, all for a early-evening cookout at Gull's Way, assuming the judge's plane eventually made it in . . . and no other unforeseen circumstances arose.

"Look," he said quietly, "I might be able to help you, but I can't with you pointing a gun at me, and," he paused a moment, weighing the risk of too much truth at this stage, "I can't promise you there's an easy way out on this." He thought Desalle's expression was hardening a little—couldn't help that; it wasn't going to be any easier to hear later on.

"But, right now you only have two choices—walk out of here, or give me that gun and we start talking." There, keep it simple, one step at a time. At this point Mark wasn't sure which option he was rooting for, but he hoped he'd get one of them.

Desalle was getting to his feet again. He'd made no further moves with the gun. He picked up the satchel with his free hand and stood there for a moment, looking down at McCormick. "I'll . . . I'll have to think about it, I guess." He'd turned toward the door.

Mark watched him go and exhaled a silent sigh of relief. Still, he couldn't help adding, "Don't think about it too long." Kenny cast him a quick glance over his shoulder and stepped out into the hallway. There he froze, the look on his face transformed suddenly from regret to deep fear.

"Shit." Desalle's hand had stiffened but stayed in his pocket, he backed a step into the room. "Shit, cops." He shook his head.

Mark was on his feet, half gestured forward by the other man. He stepped past him, still aware of the unspoken threat of the .38. Through the half-closed, vertical blinds in the front window, he saw a beat cop on the sidewalk, looking down at the late model Chevy parked nearly out front.

"Yours?" Mark looked back at Kenny sharply.

"Not exactly," Desalle replied.

"Did you steal it before or after the robbery?"

"Kinda during."

"Did you put a nickel in the meter?"

"Didn't have any change. Just bills," Kenny sighed windily.

Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose. The cop was deeply interested in the car, but now he was looking around as well. He might have already called it in. If not, it would only be a few moments more. Kenny must've figured it out as well. Mark felt the prod of the .38 in his back.

"You got a car?" Desalle asked.

Mark gave this a second's thought. The guy behind him had a bad case of the twitches. Up till now he managed not to piss him off; this was probably not the right time to start lying about the obvious.

"Yeah. Out back." He reached into his pocket for the keys. "It's the Volvo. Take it."

Kenny looked down at the keys for a moment, then glanced quickly around the edge of the door out front again. The cop had moved back to his squad car, parked right behind the Chevy.

"Sorry," he said it as if he meant it, "I'll need you to drive."

What the guy needed, Mark was all too aware, was for him not to report the car as stolen fifteen seconds after he left. But these arrangements, he hoped, did not need to include Matt.

"Okay," he said quickly. "let's go. We can talk about your case while I drive."

He'd already turned up the hallway toward the back door. This would involve passing the coffee room, all the way at the back, but, with luck, Matt would have taken a detour to the bathroom. He might be scared when he found himself alone, but he'd be safe. The cop would be knocking on the door any minute.

No luck at all. Matt came into the hallway just as they arrived at the back. He held up the juice box and the still-wrapped straw.

"I'm not supposed to do it. Mom says." He'd invoked the solid logic of Not Making a Mess; under any other circumstances it would have been welcome. Now Mark, having come to a quick halt with Kenny right up behind him, felt the muzzle of the gun prod him in the flank again, and realized that things were moving rapidly in the least desirable direction.

"Him, too," Desalle said tersely.

"No. Why?" Mark protested quietly. Matt was still holding up the straw to him; he took it and unwrapped it with a quick snap, reaching down for the box.

Kenny had glanced over his shoulder one more time at the figure again visible on the sidewalk. "Now. We gotta go." The prodding had gotten more insistent.

Mark handed the box down. "Don't squeeze it."

Matt shook his head and whispered, "We're gonna go for a ride?"

His father nodded, trying for cheerful. "Looks like it."

"What about my cars?" Matt asked, looking concerned as he was ushered toward the back door.

"You've got the 'Vette?" A quick nod in return. "Well," Mark watched the door closing behind Kenny with a snick. He sighed, "you really only need the one."

They were outside, with Kenny looking around nervously. Mark pointed to the Volvo, sitting nearly alone in the small, shared lot.

"That one." He had his keys out to open it. Kenny stayed close behind him as he helped Matt, momentarily divested of his juice box, into the back seat, fastening the belt.

"Come on," Kenny hissed.

Mark handed the juice back. "Not supposed to in the car," Matt invoked solemnly.

He gave his son's knee a pat and said, "Flagrant necessity. Just don't squeeze it." He smiled what he hoped was a natural smile and, leaving him to think on this, he climbed into the driver's seat, with Kenny scrambling around to the passenger's side, satchel tossed in first.

"Where to now?" he asked Desalle wearily.

00000

Hardcastle paid the cabbie, but insisted on hefting his own bag up the steps to the door. He'd been cooped up most of the day and it was good to stretch a little, not to mention seeing the old homestead still in one piece. He turned the key in the lock, hearing the phone almost as soon as he pushed the door open. He dropped the suitcase in the hall and hustled a little, getting to it on the third ring.

"Hello?"

It was Frank, not Mark, who returned the greeting, and he launched himself directly into the matter at hand, without any polite inquiries. "You been down at the office today, Milt?"

"Naw, just got back from out of town," Hardcastle sat down on the edge of his desk. "Gone three days. Mark said he'd probably be down there, though. He had some catching up to do."

The brief pause that followed wasn't really worrying yet, but, then, Frank could be darn phlegmatic.

"What's up?" Hardcastle asked a little cautiously.

"Do you know if he's there now? No one's answering the phone."

"Kathy'd know." Hardcastle checked his watch—two-thirty. "He might be done by now. They're coming over here later. What did you need to reach him about?"

"Ah," the hesitance was becoming more pronounced, "something kinda strange came up. They ran it by me when somebody noticed the tie-in with the address."

"What the hell are you talking about, Frank?" Hardcastle tried to control his rising irritation.

"A beat cop, on Pico, he made a lucky catch, found a car just reported stolen. He was writing parking tickets, and he'd just heard about it."

"About what?" The judge gritted his teeth. It wasn't like Frank to dawdle, or tell a story ass-backwards. The guy didn't have too many red flags for being anxious, but this was one of them.

"A bank robbery, about noon, over on Western, 'bout three miles from your office. One guy. The perp walked in, got what he wanted, ran out. In an alley about a block away he took a car at gunpoint from a woman. No shots fired, then he took off. That's the car they found on Pico."

"Where, exactly?" Hardcastle's voice had gone tense.

"Right in front of the Law Center. No one around. That was about twenty minutes ago. The detective who showed up recognized the name and called me right away. I called the office. Nobody's picking up. I, ah, called his house, too. Got his answering machine."

"He said Kathy had to work today, too." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to run all the possibilities. "The Volvo, anybody spot that? He'd a probably parked it round back."

"I told 'em to take a look. They haven't gotten back to me yet. I know this could all be some kinda coincidence but—"

"Damned if he doesn't attract crazy like a sheepdog attracts cockleburs," Hardcastle cut him off with a mutter. "You gonna put out an APB on his car?"

"Yeah," Frank exhaled. "I figured better safe than sorry. If he just went to run some errands and he gets the full treatment you'll cover for me, huh?"

Hardcastle caught the worry underlying the weak attempt at humor. It mirrored his own. God willing that's all we have to deal with. "Yeah, Frank, he'll probably figure it was my doing anyway."

He heard a car in the drive and leaned over to look out the window, a momentary hope dashed. It was Kathy, not Mark. She was stepping out of the car, smiling, looking unconcerned.

"Look, Frank, Kath's here. I better talk to her. If she knows anything else, I'll call you right back. If I don't call you back in a couple minutes, we'll meet you down there in twenty. Okay? You tell those guys to back off a bit, don't go pounding on the door just yet."

He heard Kathy's light and familiar knock, and gave Frank a hurried good-bye.

"Welcome back. He's not here yet, huh?" she asked casually as he opened the door.

"Matt's not with you?" The judge asked, trying to keep his voice flat. Hardcastle had thought he'd schooled his face into a neutral expression, but Kathy was apparently reading something off.

"No," her brow was furrowed, "he's with Mark. What's wrong?"

"Ah, when did you two last talk?"

This wasn't going well; Kathy's frown had deepened to very worried mode before he could even give her anything to worry about. "This morning. I called the office right before I left for here. He wasn't answering. Milt?"

The unasked question hung there for a moment. Hardcastle deferred it briefly. He said, "Just a sec," and ducked back into the den to take something that he didn't usually carry anymore out of the safe. Kathy had followed him in and, seeing the gun and holster, went two shades paler.

"Milt?"

"We'll talk on the way," he had her elbow and was navigating her out to the car. "Lemme drive."

00000

Once they were a few blocks away from the Center, Kenny seemed to settle down. He still glanced over his shoulder now and then, and visibly slouched down when they'd gone past an LAPD car parked near an intersection.

"Where we going?" The question had come from the backseat.

Mark had been wondering that, too. There hadn't been any specific directions since they'd turned south after pulling out of the alley. He was beginning to have the idea that Kenny wasn't too clear on that himself.

"Which way?" Mark added his own calm inquiry.

"I guess . . ." Kenny was biting his lip now. "I guess we better go get K.J. now. He's stayin' with a neighbor."

"What did you tell her?" Mark asked curiously.

"Um, that I had to pick something up."

Mark nodded. He let the silence drag out for a second, then he suggested, gently, "Maybe it's not such a good idea, going to get him right now."

Kenny shook his head fiercely. "No, man, that's the whole point. I got the money; him and me, we're getting out of here."

"Then why the he—heck did you come to me?" Mark asked impatiently. "Why didn't you just run?"

"I dunno," Desalle was looking straight ahead, hand and gun now resting in his lap. "I started thinking maybe it was a bad idea but, you're right, it's too late to turn back."

"I didn't say that," McCormick protested. He was beginning to resent the deep streak of blunt honesty he'd somehow acquired; it was an unaffordable luxury sometimes. "But if you try to run off with a kid, man, they will never stop looking for you."

"He's my kid," Desalle growled. "Mine."

"But he's a kid, and you're a bank robber, and then there's the car and . . ." Mark glanced over his shoulder, then went on, a little quieter, "what you've got in your hand. They're gonna figure that shows a lack of impulse control," he reasoned calmly. "I can drive you to the bus terminal, or, heck, a cab stand. You can afford a cab. You give me your address; I'll make sure K.J. is okay. I know a lot of people in social services." He heard the calm wearing pretty thin; he sounded pressured. Kenny was picking up on it, too.

"No." It was just the one word, but it was uttered in sharp defiance by a man who sounded like he'd made up his mind.

Mark sighed, knowing when to back down. "Okay, which way?" he asked again.

00000

Kathy had taken it all in with the barest minimum of interruptions and every outward sign of control. This was no surprise to the judge, who had already witnessed her once under fire and knew that, for an accountant, she was made of pretty stern stuff. But he also knew that it wasn't for lack of worry.

She was out of the car almost before he'd parked it, a half block down from the office behind Frank's own sedan. Captain Harper had kept the police presence subtle—the marked car had pulled back out of the sightlines of the Center and the two unmarked cars containing reinforcements were both parked unobtrusively a short ways up the block.

Frank met them on the sidewalk, two doors up from the Center.

"No one in or out. I tried calling again, no answer." He dropped his eyes, avoiding Kathy's. "No Volvo, either."

"Matt's with him," Hardcastle said abruptly.

Frank's eyes came back up. "Damn." He looked over his shoulder, then sharply back at the judge.

"I'm gonna go in," Hardcastle said quietly. "Just me."

"Dammit, Milt—"

"Low key, that's the only way to do this. If the guy's in there, I'll get him to talk to you."

"Or you won't come back out," Harper pointed out, flatly.

"Or that," Hardcastle gave them both a dry smile. "Either way, you'll know whether he's in there." He'd said nothing about the other two. Kathy was still holding it together.

She started to open her mouth. The judge put one hand on her arm and shook his head, firmly. "No, you stay here with Frank. Maybe nobody's in there, maybe it's just this guy." He didn't say anything about the other possibilities.

He didn't give either one of them a chance to argue anymore, immediately heading up the street. Frank gave a wave back to the others, telling them to hold their positions.

The blinds were half closed, there was light from within, barely noticeable against the afternoon sun. Hardcastle listened for a moment, heard nothing, and slipped his key into the lock, only to find it was already open. He grimaced, and pulled the door open slowly, stepping inside.

Silence. Very unnatural. Not a condition he associated with Matt or his father. Hardcastle steeled himself and stepped forward. There was light coming from the consultation room, and the coffee room far in the back. He walked slowly, slipping his gun from its holster but holding it down at his side, unobtrusively.

He drew even with the first room, edged just into the doorway, and scanned it quickly. A blank note pad and a page of his own notes, torn off and laid aside, two chairs pushed back from the table—nothing else out of place. He moved back into the hallway, stepping carefully. It was . . . dead quiet. He moved past his own office, turning the knob and opening it with a minimum of touching. Everything was just as he'd left it, four days ago.

Two more work rooms, the same. Mark's office, the last on the right, the door half open. He eased it open a little more, taking a breath. Mark's desk, files open, pen lying there where it had been left, a half-consumed cup of coffee. He stepped forward and touched the side with just one finger. Cold. From there he could see behind the desk, the corner, a rumpled and familiar sheepskin, three rows of toy cars, neatly arranged.

No bodies. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and put his hand down on the desk to steady himself. No struggle, either. He resisted the urge to touch the cars, the files, to feel the proximity of recent inhabitation.

He moved more swiftly to the coffee room. Nothing there, either, except that the door to the refrigerator was slightly ajar. He nudged it shut with the barrel of the gun. The back door was shut, but not locked. He didn't go through it, being certain that Frank had men watching the back.

No news is good news, he told himself. Though, under the circumstances, no news was also scary as hell.

00000

Kenny managed to stay focused for a few blocks, giving direction, but saying little else. McCormick kept half his attention on the road, half on the man with the gun, and the other half, something more nearly subliminal that he'd only acquired in the last four years, on the backseat passenger.

The neighborhood was not too different from the one where the Law Center resided, which was an area sorely in need of just such a facility. The guy with the gun was increasingly tense and pensive.

And Matt was unnaturally quiet and well-behaved. McCormick reached up, slowly and carefully, and adjusted the rear-view mirror so that he could do a visual inspection. Not back asleep. The kid was holding the juice box firmly in one hand, the 'Vette was still in his other, and the look on his face was almost as pensive as Kenny's.

He knows something's up.

Mark cleared his throat and said, "Okay back there?"

He got a wave of the Corvette and a fairly cheerful, "Okay," and, for the thousandth time, he concluded that the kid had gotten his sense of timing, and ability to keep him mouth shut when it counted, from his mother's side of the family. "I gotta go potty." On the other hand . . .

He glanced sideward at Desalle and shrugged. He didn't get much reaction, just a frown and an abortive wave with the gun hand in the direction of the next alley. "It's up here. My place. My neighbor's across the street and a couple doors down."

Mark turned in, easing the car between some trashcans and a slightly angled privacy fence. The problem was, he'd concluded, that he'd never had to deal with this sort of thing at the same time as juice boxes, and their inevitable consequence—the potty stop. Let's face it, Skid, you're out of practice dealing with crazy people.

McCormick supposed that with enough time and patience he could figure this guy out, but having Matt in the car turned it into a pass-fail exam. He couldn't afford even one mistake.

"Which one?" he asked, sounding calmer than he felt.

"The brick three-flat." Desalle pointed up ahead a little. "We got the garden apartment."

Mark pulled in as close as he could to the wire fence behind that building. Kenny stayed in place while he got out, still moving slow and careful, and leaned back in through the rear door to unfasten Matt.

"It's all gone and I didn't squish the box," he announced as he slid down from the seat and jumped out, fully expecting to be caught. And then, more insistently, "Potty."

Desalle was out now, too, and had gotten around to the driver's side, gun back in pocket, his hand still on it. He gestured with his chin toward a narrow walkway of broken cement, half overgrown with weedy grass, that led to the back of the building and a half-flight downward.

"Come on, kiddo, potty's this way." Mark had already tossed the juice box into the battered garbage can by the back fence. He reached down for Matt's hand and walked ahead of Kenny. For once, Matt didn't skip ahead, and he was rarely one to be dampened by strange surroundings.

Kenny ducked to one side of them at the bottom of the steps and worked the key in the lock without looking down for more than an instant. The door swung open inward. Mark weighed it all for the umpteenth time, took a breath, and stepped inside.

"Bathroom?" he asked quietly.

Kenny had flipped the switch on, which hardly did much for the living space, a barely converted basement—concrete floors and too much clutter.

"Sorry," he muttered, "kinda messy. Bathroom's over there." He pointed to an alcove in the corner.

Mark felt his eyebrows go up a little. It still felt pretty much like a kidnapping but . . . it isn't till he says it is, or you do.

"S'okay," he gave Desalle a half-smile. "I've seen worse. Hell, I've lived in worse."

Matt, on the other hand, hadn't. He was wide-eyed curious at a level of personal disorganization that was entirely new to him. He let his father coax him toward the toilet, but his interest was elsewhere.

"He's got toys," he whispered, as he did what he needed to do.

"He's got a son, a little younger than you," Mark explained. "Wash your hands." He nudged a stool out from under the sink and looked down into the rusted porcelain bowl. "Good thing your mom's not here." For a moment he hesitated, hoping he hadn't raised an issue that he was going to regret.

Then Matt exhaled a sincere, "Yeah," as he climbed up onto the stool. "Where is he?"

"Who?" his father asked absently, "Oh, his son?" Mark looked over his shoulder at Desalle, pacing tightly not ten feet away. He dropped his voice, "At the sitter's."

"Oh," Matt's voice dropped a little in disappointment. The he looked up again, ever hopeful. "Can I play with his stuff?"

"I don't think we're gonna be here very long," Mark replied, still watching Kenny. The man was winding himself up—running the fingers of his left hand through his hair over and over, muttering a few pithy words that Mark hoped Matt wasn't picking up on. His right hand was still in his pocket.

Desalle turned and spoke abruptly, "You're gonna have to go with me." The chin jerk again, this time toward the door at the front.

Mark nodded and took Matt's hand again, walking to the door. He had his other hand on the knob before Kenny said a harsh, "Wait." The front window was up at eye level, but just a few inches above the ground on the outside. Desalle was staring out through a tear in the vinyl shade, very intently studying something.

And this is where I would jump him. Mark looked down at Matt and let out a hint of a sigh. When the boy looked up at him, he managed a reassuring smile. If you get yourself killed right now, what will he remember of you? Holding your hand? Maybe that you kept the Pop Tarts in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet?

"Dammit." Desalle pulled back abruptly from the window. Mark stepped back and caught a glimpse through the rip—a squad car pulled up on the other side of the street and a few doors down. The officers were out and one was standing on the front stoop of the ramshackle house there.

A heavy-set woman—dark hair and a floral print dress that was too tight across her shoulders—held a small boy on one hip, and was gesturing with her other hand. Desalle tensed up and reached past Mark for the door.

"When did you drop him off there?" Mark asked, the words out before he could even consider them.

Desalle's hand froze on the doorknob. His head dropped down a bit. "Um . . . last night."

Mark half-turned to him and, with a supreme effort, said absolutely nothing.

The look was enough. Kenny shuffled in apparent embarrassment. "I had a lot to think about. I started walking. I dunno. I wasn't gonna cut out on him," he finished; there was smoldering defiance in his eyes.

Mark glanced down at his watch. "It's been what? About eighteen hours? They're gonna have a lot of questions for you."

Kenny looked aghast. His hand dropped down to his side. He moved back over in line with the window, blinking twice as his son was transferred to the arms of one of the officers. A second car had pulled up. "DCFS," he muttered.

The boy had been transferred again, this time to a stern-looking woman in a practical suit. Another brief conference and the two officers were turning to cross the street. Mark could feel Kenny almost shaking, his hand starting to come up out of his pocket. He was poised on the edge of doing something irrevocably stupid. Well, if up till now it's been otherwise.

"You can't get him back that way," Mark said quietly, and the look he got from Desalle confirmed what Mark had suspected. Kenny nodded once, reluctantly, and moved back from the door and the window, muttering again.

Mark felt a small tug on his hand. He glanced down. Matt had a round-eyed look of concern, his whisper sibilant with secrecy, "He's got a gun."

Of all the things he had ever not wanted to hear his son say, this was probably near the top of the list. Mark leaned over slowly, not intending to add to Desalle's tension if he could avoid it.

He kept his own voice low and calm, but he didn't feel quite up to groundless reassurances. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'm gonna ask him to keep it in his pocket, okay?" This last bit had been spoken with just enough emphasis to carry to the other man, who looked up once at them and nodded.

"Come on," Desalle added brusquely, as though he'd just made his mind up about something. "We gotta go." He was shepherding them with a left hand gesture, the other one back out of sight.

Mark gripped Matt's hand a little more firmly and led him toward the back door. The window over the sink looked out between some scrubby bushes, across the lot toward the alley where the Volvo was parked. Even before they got to the door, they saw a police cruiser pull up behind it, the officers cautiously calling it in, not yet exiting their vehicle.

A second marked vehicle was pulling in from the opposite end of the alley. There was a knock on the front door. Kenny's jaw was set in a visible knot and the gun was back out in plain view. Mark gently nudged Matt to the far side of him, for what protection that was worth.

Okay, McCormick sighed internally, now it's a hostage situation.

00000

The two of them stood together, near the front door of the office, the judge with his arm around Kathy's shoulders, watching the technicians going over the stolen vehicle. They hadn't moved on to the interior of the building yet, but Hardcastle had already convinced himself there was no blood. He hated the part of this where there was nothing he could do, and even more so the part where he could offer Kathy no honest reassurance except what she already knew, that her husband was awfully experienced in dealing with being kidnapped.

But Matt. That changes everything.

So he kept his mouth shut and offered only his arm to lean against.

"We got something," Frank stood up from where he'd been hunched over the side of his sedan. "The Volvo."

Kathy stiffened up alongside him. Hardcastle shot Frank a quick and worried look. Then felt his shoulders slump a little in relief. There had been no other, more dire information following that initial announcement. Frank was talking hurriedly into the radio.

"Not too far," he looked up again, gesturing them both to his car. "An alley a few miles from here. A residential neighborhood. There's something else going on over there, too. Got a unit responding to a child abandonment call. Not Matt," Frank hastily added. "It's a kid from the neighborhood."

Hardcastle frowned his puzzlement and ushered Kathy into the car. "What the hell's the connection?"

"Dunno," Frank threw it into gear and took off with everything short of lights and sirens, "you believe in coincidences?"

"Not around McCormick," the judge said flatly, giving Kathy a quick, apologetic look.

00000

Gun out and face rigid with tension, Kenny was ignoring the shouted demands that followed the knock on the front door.

If the guys in front know what the guys in back know . . . "Kenny," Mark said firmly, "If you don't say something in the next couple of seconds, they're gonna come through that door. If you're gonna let 'em do that, you better put that gun down right now."

Mark tried to push back the feeling that he had become a script-prompter for an unprepared actor. But if he doesn't do this right, somebody could get killed. He cast another glance down at his son, who had stepped in close to his side, doing everything but attaching himself to his father's leg. He felt a cold sweat trapping his shirt against his shoulder blades.

"Kenny," he repeated, instantly.

The other man jerked a little, as if the sound had suddenly penetrated the fog. "Uh, yeah." Much to Mark's disappointment, he did not put the gun down. "Yeah," he said a little more firmly, and then, shouting, "You need to get away from that door, dammit. I've got a gun. I mean it."

"Oh, great," Mark muttered, half to himself. "Kenny, you need to let 'em know you've got some hostages."

"Yeah," Kenny nodded," I got some people in here," he shouted. "I got my lawyer," he added, after a second's thought. Mark winced but didn't correct him.

The pounding and shouts had subsided; it sounded as though the officers were backing off. He felt a small amount of the tension in his shoulders diminish. Matt was still sticking to him like a limpet.

"Okay," Mark reached down and ran his fingers through the boy's hair, an almost absentminded self-reassurance. "Listen," he tried to refocus the other man. "In about fifteen minutes they're going to have a SWAT team out there, and a hostage negotiator." And a very angry ex-judge, if his plane isn't still circling LAX . . . and Kathy, oh my God. "You have a phone?" If I could talk to her, just for a minute.

Kenny was giving him a look of discouragement. "Had one," he said sullenly. "Don't anymore."

Mark sighed. "S'okay, the hostage negotiator will bring one." He shook his head, and then he added, "We've got a little time; can we maybe sit down?"

Kenny pointed them toward a battered couch near the front of the apartment. Mark moved a pile of unfolded clothes and sat down near one end. Matt crawled up alongside him and then into his lap. Not such a good idea logistically, Mark supposed, but exactly what they both needed right now.

Desalle stayed on his feet, pacing a few steps before he turned on McCormick. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? Why'd I say that?"

Mark frowned. "'Cause it was true. And they needed to know what they're dealing with. And you need to understand what's gonna happen if you don't put that gun down."

"They'll negotiate?" Kenny allowed a little hope to creep back into his voice. "With me?"

Mark didn't like this line of reasoning very much. He vacillated between dangerously blunt, and encouraging the faint spark of hope that might keep the man from unraveling even more.

"Yeah," he finally conceded, "they'll negotiate. But what they're negotiating is your surrender. There's no way to get around that."

"They could send my son in. I could see him."

"Not a chance," Mark said flatly. "No, they won't."

"What do they think; I'd hurt my own kid?"

Mark looked down at the top of Matt's head resting on his shoulder—his face was turned away. He wondered how much of this he was getting.

"Listen," he said very calmly, keeping every nuance of fear out of his voice, "the first thing you gotta do is let my son go. Send him out. It's an act of good faith. It'll settle things down a little." He saw only stubborn resistance in the other man's expression. "They won't trust you with one kid if you've already holding another one hostage."

"They'll trade?" Kenny had frozen in mid pace. "Mine for yours?"

Mark closed his eyes for a long second. He knew that one unbelieved lie, one unfulfilled promise, could bring this whole thing crashing down on them.

"No," he finally said. "I doubt it. But, believe me, it'll help you." And me, oh God.

"No," Kenny said in a harsh, low voice, with sudden perception, "you just want him out of here so you can—" He shook his head, "No, he stays."

00000

Harper had rank on everybody else so far on the scene, but he was using it with some finesse. Rogers, the negotiator, had a reputation as one of the best, and the SWAT team was, so far, maintaining a low profile.

"And he said he had people in there," Officer Callard finished up his terse report.

"Hostages?" Did he say how many?" Frank held the bridge of his nose for a brief moment and then cast a quick sideward glance at Milt and Kathy, listening to every word with rapt attention.

"No, but he said one was his lawyer."

Frank heard Hardcastle let out a heavy breath.

"The neighbor says the guy's name is Desalle, Kenneth. He left his kid with her yesterday. Didn't come back. She finally called it in."

"You ran his name?" Hardcastle asked impatiently.

"Yeah, before all this happened. He's got some minor beefs. Short time stuff. No outstanding warrants."

"Anything violent?" the judge asked quietly.

"Nah, thefts. Some juvenile petitions. The kid's got the same name as him. Mom's been out of the picture for a while, according to the neighbor."

Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder for a moment. The DCFS worker was well back from the perimeter, still holding Kenny Jr.

"That's who he's here for," Hardcastle shook his head once. "That's who he's gonna ask for."

"Yeah," Lieutenant Rogers was frowning, "that's the way I figured it lays, too. But he won't be asking for anything until we establish some communications. No phone in there."

00000

The sudden noise of an amplified voice jerked both their faces toward the front. Kenny motioned him to stay put and took a few steps over to the window, peering through carefully.

". . . need to talk to you." The voice was calm and firm, but persuasive. Mark thought he recognized it, a guy named Rogers, very smooth, very reliable. "You'll need a phone."

"They've got one," Mark explained quietly. "They'll put it out front."

"I'm not going out there," Kenny protested, "they nuts?"

Mark glanced down again, and considered the odds that Kenny would let him get Matt on the other side of that door. None, no chance.

As if in answer to his unasked question, Kenny blurted, "You'll go get it. We'll stay here."

He's getting better at this, Mark thought, he's figured it out. He supposed that reduced some of the element of dangerous unpredictability. Then the harder reality of leaving Matt with this guy, for even the few moments it would take to retrieve the phone, rose like bile in his throat.

"No—" he began, already knowing Kenny had the hook and he had no other choice.

"Yeah," Desalle nodded, "you will."

Mark eased Matt down off his lap. "Stay here a bit, okay?" This got him a serious nod. "I'll be right back. Just a minute." A hug, brief but very firm, and he stood and moved toward the door without daring to look back. His son wasn't saying anything, very un-Matt-like, very unnerving.

Kenny was at his side, peering through the shade again. "Yeah, there's somebody out there." He eased back a little and Mark looked through. Hardcase. He was holding something, a phone. Further back, behind one of the cars but still in plain sight, was Frank. He didn't see Kathy.

"Okay, you go out there and get it," Desalle said nervously. "Bring it right back. Nothing funny."

Mark turned toward the other man. "What else do you think I'm going to do?" He dropped his voice a little. "What the hell else could I do?" Then he shook his head and added, "And will you put that damn gun away?"

Kenny looked down at his own hand as if he'd forgotten about it. He shrugged once, almost embarrassed, as he slipped it back into his pocket.

Mark gave him a stern frown and reached for the doorknob. He eased it open slowly and got both his hands in plain sight as soon as there was room to pass through. He didn't know who else was out there, but he was willing to bet at least one of them had a sniper scope.

He couldn't resist one quick glance back over his shoulder, through the half open door toward the sofa, where Matt sat looking very small. He flashed a smile he did not feel and said, "I'll be right back." Silence again. Not even a fidget of normal impatience.

Mark climbed the few steps to street-level slowly, allowing the SWAT guys time to assess him as 'not a risk'. The judge was about twenty feet away, just past the sidewalk. This was not standard operating procedure, and McCormick hoped sincerely that Kenny didn't know that.

Hardcastle's expression was unreadable—that's because you haven't seen him this worried in a while.

He was close enough now to speak quietly and still be heard. "Matt's okay," he said, answering two unasked questions at once, and watching the visible flash of relief, cross the judge's face, tempered by a confirmation of the man's worst fears.

"And you?" Hardcastle asked, a little huskily.

"Fine . . . fine," he was there now, an arm's reach away. Hardcastle was holding the phone, a heavy-duty police radio model. "Okay, so," Mark went on hurriedly, "he's got a .38; can't promise you there's nothing else, but that's what he's holding." he ignored the judge's deepening scowl. "He robbed a bank."

"I know that."

"He's scared, Judge. He's in over his head. That's his son down there."

"I know that, too."

"Okay, just tell Rogers not to push. Give me a little time."

"Time to do what?"

Mark grimaced at the increasing edge to Hardcastle's tone. "Time to get Kenny over the sticker shock. This is gonna cost him."

"As long as it doesn't cost us."

"And," Mark plunged ahead, "he's gonna need a lawyer." He hesitated. "Probably not me."

Hardcastle was giving him a look of utter disbelief. "McCormick," he growled, "that guy'll be lucky if I don't wring his neck." He darted a quick look at the apartment, then muttered, "Okay, I'll think about it."

Mark nodded and took the phone, a momentary connection between them. A moment later it was snapped, and he knew he'd have to turn and start walking.

"Where's Kathy?" he asked.

"Down there," the judge tilted his head just slightly, in the direction of Frank's car, parked with the one from the DCFS further up the block. "She's holding up."

He nodded once, casting a quick glance down the street, not able to make much out.

"Listen," he said, harsh and hurried, "tell her I won't let anything happen to Matt. I won't." He said it with a firm conviction that spat in the face of reality and dared anyone to take what was his, and trusting that Hardcastle would know exactly when and what she needed to hear.

"Don't worry, she knows." The judge said quietly. "And yourself, too. Okay?"

Mark nodded quickly, and turned back to the apartment, his head down, preparing a confident smile for his son.

"Here," he said, slipping back through the door, Kenny closing it quickly behind him and throwing the latch. Matt was sitting on the sofa, his knees drawn up, clutching the 'Vette in one hand. "You okay, kiddo?" Mark sat down next to him and felt him nestle up under his arm.

"I wanna go home."

"In a while. I promise." Mark pulled him in a little closer. "Hey, we're going to grandpa's for a cookout, remember?"

"You're 'sposed to get burgers," Matt said, momentarily distracted.

"Don't worry, lots of time for that."

Kenny had sat himself down across from them, the phone in his lap. He was frowning. "You took a while."

"I was talking to your lawyer," Mark replied flatly.

"But you're—"

"No, I'm your hostage. You can't have it both ways, Kenny. The guy out there who handed me the phone, he's your lawyer. And this is his grandson, so don't tick the man off, okay?" He got no response from Desalle, who appeared momentarily stunned. "Okay," Mark exhaled, "I can't run the numbers unless I know some more about what you did. Let's start with the bank."

00000

Hardcastle stood there, watching Mark walk away; fully aware that Frank was staring daggers at his back for staying out from under cover for longer than was absolutely necessary. Didn't matter. He was rapidly tallying up all the things he hadn't had a chance to say and weighing in the stone-cold fear that Mark was going to try and pull Kenny Desalle's hash out of the fire. At what cost? He wouldn't risk Matt; that was a certainty. More worrisome than anything else was the dead calm McCormick displayed.

Too close to the edge, too many times. He's lost his fear of heights. And this guy, Desalle, crazy enough to kidnap a man and call him his lawyer. You're gonna try and reason with that?

Into this dismal thought intruded Frank's voice, slightly lower than a holler, "Wanna get back behind the perimeter, Milt?"

He stared at the closed and silent apartment one last time before turning on his heel and walking back to Frank and Rogers.

"Well?"

Hardcastle looked at the other two. "Him and Matt; the only two. Desalle has a .38." He turned his gaze onto Rogers. "McCormick says give him a little time. He thinks he can soften this guy up for you."

Rogers shrugged. "We got time. What gives? Does he know this guy? A client?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Not before this morning. Not that I can recall. He picks up strays. Or they pick up him." He looked down the street to the other cars. "I gotta go talk to Kathy."

00000

Mark had found an envelope and the stub of a pencil. "The car, the owner was sitting in it? You showed the gun when you took it?"

This got a nod from Desalle.

McCormick sighed regretfully. "That adds a year, minimum. Next time, you ought to consider an unoccupied vehicle. Not that there's gonna be a next time, right?"

Kenny shook his head.

"Okay, with the robbery," he looked up abruptly. "You've still got all the money, right?"

A quick nod.

"Good . . . so, robbery, the carjacking, and, um, two counts of hostage-taking." He was tallying the list of numbers. "Ah, we're looking at a possible thirty years, here."

There was a gasp from the man in the chair. He paused, allowing him to feel the full impact. He watched Kenny's free hand tightening into a fist. He gauged the moment to the second.

"On the other hand . . ." the pencil tip skittered across the envelope, a new column of figures. "Get the robbery reduced by restitution. Drop this to two counts of false imprisonment . . . not much we can do about the carjacking unless the D.A. is willing to take it down to straight auto theft with a plea." He tallied his figures and looked up. "Maybe five years. Four at the bottom. I think you'll do a lot worse than that with a trial, bench or jury."

It was amazing how good you could make four years in prisons sound, if you first told a man he might spend half his remaining life behind bars. Mark watched the grim set of Desalle's face soften to a dull hope.

"K.J. would only be seven, not thirty-three," Mark continued on, with carefully calculated brutality.

"Four years," Kenny exhaled, the harsher reality rolling back in on him.

"At least you'll have something waiting for you when you get out. Some people don't even have that." Mark shrugged. "It's doable."

"How the hell would you know?"

"Because," Mark spared one quick glance down at his son, still curled under his arm and now studying the 'Vette with deep intensity, "I did it. Only two years, but it seems a lot longer when there isn't anything waiting for you at the other end."

"But you're a—"

"That was fourteen years ago, and I was older than you when I went in. And you'll have a much better lawyer than I had . . . probably a more lenient judge, too." Mark hoped his smile came across as encouraging. "Anyway, there isn't any alternative." He watched Kenny stiffen up. "No, there isn't," he reiterated, "not if you want to see your son again. If you use that gun . . . if someone gets hurt, that guy out there isn't going to put it down. And the cop, the older one, Frank Harper—"

"Uncle Frank," Matt chimed in, craning his neck to look past his father and confirming Mark's worst suspicions that more was being listened to than he would have liked.

"Uncle Frank," McCormick repeated with a nod. "An old friend. Anyway, use the gun and you still won't get what you want. And you'll wind up with the whole thirty years and then some."

Mark wasn't sure what tipped him off—a look in the eyes maybe—that yet another use for the gun was an option now being considered.

"Lemme see your arm," McCormick said abruptly.

Kenny frowned his puzzlement and, in the moment's confusion, held it out.

"No, pull the sleeve up."

Still frowning, he did so. Mark gave the tattoo a moment's glance and nodded. "Good, he'll have something he'll remember . . . maybe; he's kinda young, even for that."

"Dammit." Desalle jerked the sleeve down, but didn't stuff the gun back in his pocket.

Mark closed his eyes for a quick moment, feeling the anger, gauging it, weighing everything, tallying it up like he had the numbers on the back of the envelope. He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. "I know about that, too. If you leave him for good, he'll always wonder what the hell else was so important that you couldn't be bothered to stick around."

Desalle was stiff with anger, "But maybe he'd be better off without me."

"Is that what you were thinking? Is that what all this was about?" Mark shook his head in disgust.

"I dunno," Kenny replied sullenly, "maybe."

"Well," Mark did nothing to soften his tone, "that's cowardice."

He was vaguely aware that he'd left the path of calculated response, that he'd let his real feelings break through the surface, and that the consequences might be more than he was willing to pay. McCormick tensed in his seat and the tension must have transmitted itself to Matt, who wiggled onto his lap again and threw his arms around his neck.

The hug was fierce and was returned in kind. He wanted to whisper what a thousand generations had—remember me, but, instead, he turned his head and kissed the cheek next to his own, then gently put him back down on the sofa alongside him.

He looked at the man across from him again, sitting there with an expression of near-despair written on his face. "What's important," Mark said with a heavy sigh, "is that at the end of the day, you're still there for him."

"At the end of four years," Kenny said dully.

"Yeah," Mark shrugged, hoping Hardcastle could deliver even on that promise, "but there."

Kenny was squinting at him, teetering on the brink of a decision. Mark coaxed gently. "Just pick up the phone."

00000

A half-hour of silence had done nothing for Hardcastle's nerves. Kathy, on the other hand, had acquired an air of stoicism that had to be somewhere north of panic. She'd listened to the words he'd relayed from Mark, had taken it in with the calm acceptance of a woman who'd never had any reason to doubt that her husband was telling the truth. Now she seemed to take the quiet delay as still more evidence that Mark had things under control in there.

"A little more time," she said, more than half to herself. She'd insisted in moving up closer to the perimeter. Rogers was near enough to hear, and the glance he cast her was doubtful. She smiled back at him gently. "He can be very persuasive."

Hardcastle watched this exchange with a grim smile of his own. A half-hour ago he'd almost wished she'd fallen into a rage. Hysterics, even, would have been better than this unnatural calm. It would have been something to deal with, rather than standing here waiting, listening to his own anxious thoughts.

As it was, the buzz of the phone caught them all by surprise, even Kathy.

Rogers recovered quickly and picked it up, his greeting calm and professional. What came next did not follow the usual script—no wild demands to slowly chip down to something manageably realistic, no confidence to be gradually acquired and then traded upon. The guy on the other end simply introduced himself as 'Kenny' and asked if he'd be able to see his son once, before they took him to the lock-up.

Rogers turned to Harper, but it was Hardcastle who interjected. "Probably do 'em both some good."

Harper gave his nod, too. Roger relayed the 'yes'. The man at the other end of the phone let out an audible sigh, "Okay, I'm coming out." In the background they could hear a very high, piping voice insist that he did too really have to go potty again.

00000

Mark waved him out. "We'll be there in a minute." He took his son by the hand and led him back to the small alcove room, feeling almost light-headed with relief. Still there at the end of the day. "Come on, kiddo, let's get this done; Mommy's waiting."

They hadn't quite gotten the hand washing finished before the two of them were in the doorway, the judge standing a little behind Kathy. Matt squealed his general approval and jumped off the stool, getting swept up in his mother's embrace, and half-smothering her heartfelt, "Oh, God."

Mark stood there, just as preternaturally calm as before. Not stepping into the family embrace. "S'okay out there?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle said quietly. "They're bringing Kenny Jr. down for a quick visit."

"You made sure they read him his rights off the card?" Mark cocked a half-smile.

"That's not my job. I'm the defense attorney." Hardcastle shrugged. "But Harper will make damn sure, I'll bet ya."

"That he will," Mark murmured. He closed his eyes and braced himself against the sink for a moment, feeling the sway.

"Come one," he felt the judge's hand under his elbow. He opened his eyes. Hardcastle already had Kathy gently by her arm as well. "Let's get out of here."

Matt pushed away from his mother for a brief moment when they passed the sofa. "The 'Vette'," he intoned, pointing downward. Hardcastle leaned down and scooped it up, giving it a quick look before he passed it over to its owner.

They were almost to the front door when Mark looked back over his shoulder. "The Volvo."

The judge nudged him on through the doorway. "We'll get that one later. You aren't driving right now."

00000

Hardcastle watched Mark closely; he watched all three of them. Who is being normal for whom? He'd gotten them into the back of a squad car, Matt in the middle, looking pleased to be there.

"Statements later," he said flatly to Frank. "I'll need to come down to the station eventually anyway, after you book Desalle. I can bring Mark." He frowned thoughtfully. "I told Kenny not to talk to you 'till I get there."

00000

It was pizza, not burgers, but eaten outside on the patio, after only another hour and a half's delay. They'd had to go back to the Law Center, to retrieve the rest of Matt's toys and the more important of Mark's papers—

"Judge Gleason probably wouldn't accept kidnapping as reasonable grounds for a continuance," he'd said, wearily. "Good thing I've got tomorrow to finish them up." Then he'd frowned for a moment and added, "I'm not answering the door, though."

Kathy was able to laugh. Things seemed a little less tense now, in the late twilight, with Mark's chair pulled close to hers and Matt sprawled bonelessly across both their laps. His head had dropped onto his mother's arm; his hand was curled around something small and automotive.

Mark smiled apologetically. "He never finished his nap this afternoon. Sorry." He leaned forward and started gathering up limp limbs. "He might sleep straight through." He was on his feet, with Matt draped in his arms, clutched tightly to his chest. He headed for the gatehouse door, Hardcastle on his feet to open it for him. "Just give me a sec," he tossed back over his shoulder, softly.

They gave him a few minutes. The door was still half ajar and they'd heard no protests of unsleepiness from within. Hardcastle had finally shrugged at Kathy and gotten to his feet again, stepping inside and letting his eyes get accustomed to the near-darkness within.

They hadn't even gone as far as the bed; that would've meant a climb up the flight of stairs. Instead, the aged sheepskin rug had been unfolded on the floor at the foot of the sofa, not really room enough for two, but the two were there, with Matt's head pillowed on his father's encircling arm.

The statements can wait till tomorrow. He thought he might have a word with Gleason, too. There had to be such a thing as extenuating circumstances, even for an old curmudgeon like him.

"I think they're both going to sleep straight through." It was Kathy. He turned and saw her smiling; leaning in the patio doorway, looking a little tired herself.

"Well," Hardcastle smiled back, "it's been a long day."

"But as long as we're all still here at the end of it."

"Amen to that," the judge said softly.