Clearing the Air
They had nothing to say to each other.
That realization was enough to worry Frank… a lot. After all, Hardcastle and McCormick always had something to say to each other, usually loudly and with much passion.
So, the icy silence radiating simultaneously from the den of Gull's Way and from her guest house did not bode well for the lieutenant's next few hours. With a bone-deep sigh, Frank simply sat at the kitchen table, reflecting on the train of events that currently found him sharing a relatively small space with a very large amount of anger. Mainly, he tried to reason exactly how things had gotten out-of-hand so quickly, and without his notice.
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Late Friday afternoon, Frank knocked on Milton Hardcastle's front door, preparing to wrap up the paperwork on a case the judge and McCormick had recently completed. After a long week, he planned to knock off early and visit Gull's Way for some well-deserved downtime. He had suggested an evening of barbeque and TV, knowing that all three men had been working late nights for several weeks. All in all, he was looking forward to a perfectly normal evening. Of course, he knew that, for Hardcastle and McCormick, 'perfectly normal' could range anywhere from helping clean the pool filter to spending more than a little time in the hospital waiting room. Personally, Frank hoped for a day that fit nicely between those two unpleasant extremes.
"Frank!" Hardcastle boomed as the door swung open. "Good to see you! Come on in, I'm just finishing up with the file." Hardcastle stepped back and motioned the other man into the house and down the hall to his den.
Frank could only shake his head and grin at Hardcastle – wearing a ratty bathrobe over white socks and ancient tennis shoes, the retiree hardly looked like the steely-jawed, intractable lawman that he was. Frank often wondered how Hardcastle could swing so quickly from the affable, grinning man now offering Frank a cigar to the domineering, immovable wall that faced down armed killers on what seemed to be daily basis. Hardcastle seemed to be a never-ending paradox: on the one hand, he had earned the nickname 'Hardcase' by showing little mercy in the courtroom. On the other, he regularly displayed a deeply generous heart and was known to be a marshmallow to his closest friends. Frank often wondered how these two separate personas could survive in one body without self-destructing.
In fact, there was only one other person Frank had ever met who bewildered the veteran detective more than Hardcastle. That person Frank fully expected to see any moment, knowing that the young man's curiosity would bring him to the house when he saw the lieutenant's car. He accepted the file that Hardcastle slid across the desk and hid a smile as he heard the side door opening.
Right on time, he thought to himself. Shortly, Mark McCormick's curly head made an appearance.
"Evenin,' Mark," Frank drawled before the younger man had taken a seat. "Nice to see you."
Mark grinned as he slide bonelessly into the chair beside Frank and plopped his feet up on the desk. "Hiya, Frank. Whatcha doin' out our way? Got a case for us?" The grin only widened as Hardcastle swiped at his feet in an effort to remove them from his desk. Cocking an eyebrow at Hardcastle's own feet on the opposite side, McCormick just slid further into his seat.
"For your information, hotshot," the judge grumbled. "I happen to be the one that called Frank. We're wrapping up Mick Fuller's paperwork."
Frank happened to be looking at Mark when the judge spoke, and so caught the momentary darkening of Mark's hazel eyes. Gone in an instant, the look was covered by the patented sass. "Aw, Judge," he mock-whined. "You didn't even bother to tell me we were gonna have company? Why not?"
"Because," the judge reasoned. "I invited Frank – we didn't. Figured you'd know when he got here."
Frank shook his head as he heard the familiar banter. While he would never admit it, he got quite a kick out of spending time with the two men. Never before had he met two more interesting companions. While he was not entirely surprised that the men enjoyed each other's company, he was amazed at the depth of caring hidden beneath the pointed barbs. He was glad that they had found each other, for each seemed to fill a need the other didn't quite recognize. Of course, the trick – as Frank ruefully acknowledged – was in reminding them that each needed the other.
As Frank mused over the peculiar living arrangements at Gull's Way, his thoughts wandered to the man sitting beside him filching papers from Hardcastle's file. Mark McCormick was, in Frank's opinion, a contradiction on legs. The first glimpse he had gotten of the convicted felon was a mug shot. The face in that picture chilled Frank, for it was full of rage and a cocky sort of hatred. When Milt had first shown him the file, excited about finally having a "Tonto," Frank was more than shocked. He was scared. His old friend seemed poised to take on a project that could only end in tragedy.
Instead, no one had been more surprised than Frank himself when, shortly after their meeting, Hardcastle trusted McCormick to return to Gull's Way on his own. For reasons Frank still couldn't quite fathom, the younger man had done exactly that. The man Frank had come to know in the months following had a quick wit, an unexpected air of vulnerability and, most surprising of all, an unending kindness and concern for those around him. Just where that streak of goodness had come from was a question Frank often pondered. Where the police lieutenant expected darkness within the younger man, he found light. Mostly, Frank just couldn't figure out how this kid – a smart-mouthed punk from the street who had been in San Quentin of all places – ended up being such a good friend… not just to Hardcastle, but to Frank himself.
Shaking himself back to the present, Frank pushed his thoughts to the side, knowing that he would reexamine them again soon.
Then, with a small amount of alarm, he realized that the gentle bantering had given way to sharper words sometime during his rambling thoughts. McCormick had risen from his seat, a tell-tale flush staining his cheeks.
"You old donkey!" he exploded. "I can't believe you're griping about that!" He threw his hands up and stalked to the window.
Frank glanced quickly between the two men, trying to figure out just when the line had been crossed. Seeing the judge's glowering face, he mentally rolled his eyes. The kids are at it again, he thought to himself. Just how in the hell did I end up being the parent here?
Rising from his chair, Frank made calming motions towards Hardcastle, correctly guessing that the older man would be more likely to lose his temper and say something he would regret.
"Now, Milt," he began. "I think I missed something here, but let's just take a deep breath before…"
Hardcastle abruptly interrupted Frank's speech, not yet willing to be placated. Standing up and sending his chair on a wild ride, he roared, "Forget it, Frank! There's no use talking. He's never gonna learn!"
With that, McCormick wheeled away from the window and glared at Hardcastle. "I'm never gonna learn! Is that what you think? Don't you even get it? Of all the stupid…" Frustrated, McCormick bit off the last of his reply and raked his hand through his hair. "Look, I gotta go. I'm heading back to the gate house."
He glared at Hardcastle for a moment. The judge gazed back, clenching his jaw. Frank's eyes ping-ponged between the two and he was surprised to see something lurking beneath the anger radiating from both men. He couldn't quite name the fleeting emotion – if he was pressed, he would have named it fear. Of what, he did not know, but he intended to find out.
Before he could intervene however, McCormick let out a loud sigh. With an apologetic glance in Frank's general direction, he strode quickly from the room.
As the door slammed shut, Hardcastle slumped back in his chair. Frank steeled himself for an angry tirade, but instead, the other man just sat still, stonily refusing to meet Frank's gaze. After a moment, the lieutenant threw his hands in the air and decided to retire to the kitchen for a drink. He sat quietly at the table for several long moments, hoping that one or the other would make the first move. However, he was unaccustomed to this house being filled with silence, so after just moments he stood up and began to pace.
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They had nothing to say to each other.
As he paced, Frank had a feeling that there was more to this flaring of tempers than usual. He was accustomed to angry words and seemingly hurtful jabs flying between the ex-judge and the ex-con, but was unused to the eerie silence. Usually, the stubborn pair ranted for awhile, and then suddenly forgot their disagreement as quickly as it flared. Today, however, was different. McCormick's emotions were too close to the surface, and the judge was too unwilling to listen to anyone else.
Frank suspected that the Mick Fuller case had much to do with today's charged atmosphere. While the case itself was mundane, it had ended the previous evening in a hail of gunfire. While that ending, in and of itself, was not necessarily unusual in Frank's world – especially when Hardcastle and McCormick were around – the night had nearly ended in tragedy.
Mick Fuller was a two-bit drug runner who had been released some months earlier due to a misreading of the Miranda rights. Hardcastle had studied his every move for several weeks, intent on recapturing him. When Fuller had finally branched out into recruiting dealers, the judge and McCormick worked with Frank to set up a raid of Fuller's warehouse. The plan had been flawless, right up until one of Fuller's men had seen the police cars convening around the building A fight quickly began, with bullets flying. Towards the end, when only a few of the dealers remained in the fight, several of them suddenly burst from the warehouse door, intent on escape. The men outside were caught somewhat unaware, with Hardcastle just leaving the safety of one car to meet Frank behind his own. When the warehouse door flew open, Hardcastle paused for a split second, shock clearly written on his face. He immediately began to move toward cover, but Frank had been certain it was too late for the judge to make it.
Before he could make a move toward his friend, a blur whipped by, and suddenly Hardcastle was sprawled on the ground behind Frank's car with an armful of ex-con covering his body. McCormick quickly scrambled to his feet, but not before Frank noticed the long gash on his arm steadily dripping blood to the ground below. Hardcastle grimaced when he saw McCormick's injury, but said nothing.
The dealers were quickly captured, and the night ended on a quiet note. It was only later, when the judge and ex-con arrived at the station to give their statements that Frank noticed a certain tension between them. Swamped with the wrap-up on the case, he did not mention it, focusing instead on his work. He knew that there would time enough later to deal with whatever emotional fallout the case may have created.
Now, pacing the kitchen floor unsure what to do, Frank wished he could reverse his earlier decision to do nothing. Clearly, something was bothering the normally solid partnership, and he was anxious to remedy the problem.
Finally, he decided that the silence had lasted too long. He steeled himself for a showdown and headed toward the judge's den, intent on salvaging the rest of the evening.
Foregoing a knock, Frank entered the den and leaned on the judge's desk. After a moment of silence, the judge finally looked up at the other man with a sheepish grin.
"Hey, Frank," he said. "Didn't know you were still here."
"Well, were else would you expect me to be?" Frank asked. "Don't you know I have to fix the problems around here before I can leave? Claudia doesn't let me in the door before I've sworn that you and Mark haven't killed each other on my watch."
The judge's grin faded at this, and he wearily waved Frank to the chair. "Nah," he sighed. "I'm not gonna be the one that kills him."
Frank scrunched his eyes as he pondered this peculiar statement. What does he mean? He couldn't think…? With a sign, Frank began talking earnestly.
"Milt, you can't think that you're responsible for Mark getting hurt last night. Is that what this is about? Milt, that wasn't your fau-…"
"Hell, Frank. I know it wasn't my fault. It was his! How could he be so stupid! He coulda been killed!" With that last angry word, Hardcastle leaped to his feet and strode to the window, too agitated to remain seated.
Frank rubbed his face and waited for the other to finish his thought. In a softer voice, he heard Hardcastle continue, "He coulda been killed. Crazy kid… why did he do it?"
"To save you, you old donkey," said a voice, equally quiet, rom the doorway.
Frank looked over to see McCormick poised on the threshold, seemingly unsure of his welcome. Rising quickly, Frank grasped the younger man's arm and gently steered him toward the chair.
"Okay, you two," he said firmly. "This is it. No one's leaving until you work this out." He crossed his arms and leaned back, daring either to say anything to the contrary.
McCormick smiled then, and Frank saw his shoulders relax slightly. "What's the matter Frank?" he asked. "Afraid Claudia won't let you in the house?"
Hardcastle let out a brief bark of laughter and turned back to his chair. With a sigh, he sat down and finally looked at the younger man. McCormick gazed back, but neither broke the silence.
After a moment, Frank ventured a question, "What's going on? What are you fighting about?"
Hardcastle refused to meet his gaze, so McCormick decided to share. "Well, Frank. It seems that Hardcastle is mad at me."
Even though Frank heard the judge offer a small grunt of protest, he ignored him and motioned for McCormick to continue.
"Well… that's it," McCormick shrugged. "I'm not sure why he's mad, just that he is."
Frank glanced at Hardcastle, indicating that it was time for the other man to pick up the story. With a grimace, Hardcastle replied, "I'm not mad. Just… well, okay maybe I am mad. The kid jumped out there, right in front of all those bullets. He coulda gotten shot, Frank!" The plaintive note in Hardcastle's voice startled Frank and he glanced at McCormick. The younger man was staring at the judge with his head cocked to the side. Frank got the impression that McCormick knew why the judge was mad, but wouldn't say it for him. Frank could tell, though, that the younger man's anger was spent.
Finally, Hardcastle gave in to the silence, and explained his feelings. "Kid," he said, moving his gaze to McCormick's. "You shouldn't have done it. I was moving out of the way – you could have gotten hurt, trying to save me." Again, he rose, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. "McCormick," he began again. "I don't want you to take that kind of risk for me. Not ever. I couldn't stand to …" Refusing to continue, he sank against the window and let his gaze roam the room.
Patting Frank on the shoulder, McCormick rose and walked to the window. He stopped in front of Hardcastle and held out his arm, with the bandage peaking out from the sleeve.
"Judge," he said with a smile. "It's just a scratch. I'm fine. I ducked – we both ducked, and now we're both okay. It's over."
He slowly lowered his arm, and stood for a moment. When the judge again locked eyes with him, the smile faded. "But, judge. Understand this. I did what I had to. You could have been killed, and might have if I hadn't hauled you out of the way. I won't ever not do that, so don't even ask. I'm in this for the long haul, and you can't stop me from doing what I gotta do."
The judge finally smiled at that, thought Frank noted that it was tinged with sadness. "I know that, kiddo. I just wish that you didn't feel that way. I don't want you getting hurt because of me."
"Well, judge. I don't want you getting hurt because of me, okay? I made a choice to protect you – that's the choice I'll always make. And so will you. We're both gonna have to live with that, aren't we?"
With the challenge made, McCormick simply waited for the judge to respond. After a moment staring into the other's eyes, Hardcastle's smile evolved into a grin.
"Yep, kiddo," he said with satisfaction. "I guess we both will." He flung an arm over McCormick's shoulder and moved to the door. As they reached the hallway, Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder. "Frank, whatsa matter? We've got to get cooking, the barbeque won't grill itself."
With that, the pair headed toward the kitchen, already sparring over which one would fire up the grill. Frank stood for a moment in the den, marveling over the emotion so recently shared in this room, and how it was so easily smoothed over with the familiar relationship between the other men.
With his own smile growing ever wider, he headed toward the kitchen, eager to see who had won the grill argument. Either way, he knew that the evening's earlier silence had finally ended. Once again, Gull's Way was as she should be, filled with the warm laughter of family and friends.