Believe—Part II/Epilogue
He'd suspected for a moment in the shower that he really had died and gone to heaven, but another look at himself in the mirror, as he shaved, was enough to convince him otherwise. He had a sudden new understanding of why he'd gotten those deeply suspicious looks from the funeral director. Never mind, no permanent damage.
He hadn't been surprised to see Frank's car in the drive when he re-emerged from the gatehouse. The black and white parked further down the drive was less anticipated, and led him to a brief, almost reflexive, review of his conscience. There couldn't possibly be anything left that they wanted to arrest him for, but old instincts died hard.
No, it was obvious that the beat car was there to run interference for them, to keep the press off the property. McCormick smiled as he turned toward the main house. The smile stayed in place all the way to the door, but faded a little as he let himself in. There were voices coming from the den—low, the words not quite audible. Frank's sounded concerned, and the judge's responses were brief, and astonishingly quiet.
Mark closed the door behind him firmly, and was rewarded with a sudden, almost guilty silence. He frowned, erased that, then stepped into the doorway of the den and said, "Ready to go?"
Hardcastle was sitting behind the desk. The top had been cleared off, every newspaper, every bit of the file, all out of sight. The man himself appeared a little tense; he'd cast a quick glance in Frank's direction and then back at McCormick.
"You don't have to go if you're not up to it."
Mark couldn't help it; his frown was back, along with an edginess he hadn't felt earlier. "I said I was okay. I'll go. Besides, we're out of Pop Tarts." He tried a quick self-deprecating smile and added, "And I kinda wanna get it over with. The whole thing is embarrassing as hell—"
"Embarrassing?" Hardcastle interrupted him with a tone of utter surprise. "That's what you're worried about?" Even Frank looked baffled.
Mark shrugged. "Yeah, all those people showing up and then—"
"Mark," this time it was Harper, and the interruption was one of complete exasperation, "they're your friends . . . they thought you were dead." He paused and flicked a quick glance back at the judge, as though he thought he might have stepped into dangerous territory.
Mark kept his face neutral. This has something to do with what they were talking about.
"Anyway," Frank sighed, "you don't have anything to be embarrassed about. It was our screw-up."
Hardcastle said nothing, just looked a little grimmer.
Mark stepped over to a chair and dropped into it wearily. "No, it wasn't you guys' fault. Sheesh. What are the odds? A hit man that looks just like me; who was supposed to pass for me, and he gets quick-fried to the point where nobody—"
He heard a sharp intake of breath from Frank and looked up at him, then just as quickly at the judge, in time to catch a look of pale fear, quickly suppressed.
"Sorry," he said, and then he took a deep breath and shook his head. "But it wasn't me."
It was only the briefest of moments before Hardcastle had it all under control. He pushed back from the desk and started to stand.
"He's right," he said flatly. "It wasn't him. He's okay . . . we're okay." He was on his feet. He jerked his chin sharply toward the door. "Let's go have lunch."
Mark resisted a sudden impulse to say 'Now you're cookin'. Frank's look of disapproval was entirely discouraging of humor. The judge was moving past them, out the door. Harper hung back a little, and reached for Mark's sleeve before he could follow Hardcastle.
"Here," he said, holding something in his other, outstretched palm.
Mark looked down quickly, then reached for the medal. The chain was different, a little heavier, with a clasp. He looked up at Frank with a quick and grateful smile. "That was fast."
Frank shrugged. "I washed it off."
Mark's smile turned into a grimace of sympathy. "Pretty bad, huh?"
"Well," Harper looked reflective for a moment, "still sort of human. That always makes it worse." He paused again and then said, "I don't think he's slept since Friday. Maybe you could convince him to just stand down—"
"You guys comin' or what?" came the gruff shout from beyond the front door. Mark grimaced again and shook his head at the lieutenant.
"Not likely," he said with chagrin. "You know him."
"Not like he was the past few days," Frank answered sharply, but without raising his voice. "I didn't know him. He wasn't really here." Harper shook his head and then frowned. "And I don't think he's back yet."
00000
The press was out in front of Salvadore's, too, but Mark never saw them. The proprietor was a friend of Hardcastle's and his head waiter knew a few things about discouraging trespassers.
Frank parked in the back and they went in through the kitchen. Things sounded raucously underway inside, nothing funereal about it. Sal was providing the champagne. Still, there was no way to sneak into such a gathering, and the moment of their entrance was marked by a general halt in the conversation, followed by some cheers, shouts, then a rapid rise in the noise levels that included whistles and claps.
Nobody mobbed him, though, for which he was grateful, but there were greetings, touches, slaps on the back. The sudden transition from solitary confinement to this, was almost dizzying. Someone was getting him a seat, someone else was fetching him a glass of wine, which he was pretty certain was a bad idea at this point.
He had a notion that his smile was getting a little rigid. He saw Frank a ways off, back by the door to the kitchen. Hardcastle was not in sight. Oddly, it was Teddy Hollins who came to his rescue. Six months in a cell with a guy can give you a lot of insight, Mark supposed. He thought the man's usually goofy grin had an edge of concern to it and within a few minutes he had managed to produce some sort of subtle crowd control. Barbara showed up with a plate of food and took the seat next to him.
"Thanks," he smiled. It looked good, maybe not as good as that first Pop Tart, but he was still eight meals behind. He took a few bites and craned his head again. He dropped his voice, "Where's the judge?"
"Sal took him in the back, his office."
"He's okay?" Mark looked over that way.
Barbara nodded. "Just tired, he said. Hasn't slept much. You don't look so good yourself," she added.
"I'm okay," he muttered. "Banged up, that's all, Really." He shoveled another mouthful in.
"Well, he said to stay as long as you like." Barbara looked at him askance, and then added, "Which I think should be about five minutes after you finish that plateful of food. Everyone will understand."
Mark looked around him for a moment, then he leaned in a little bit toward her and said, "Yeah, I got some sleep, but . . ." He was frowning again, looking over his shoulder. "You sure he's okay?"
Barbara stared at him for a moment in what looked like disbelief. "You guys are so strange." She gave her head a slow shake. "I don't get it. He spends three days looking like he's seen hell itself. Not sleeping. Moving around on autopilot. He attends your funeral, dammit." She brushed the side of her hand across her eyes. "He believed it. We all did . . . but he made the most beautiful speech." She smiled slightly. "Really, you have no idea.
"And then we walk out of that church and there's dad's car . . . and there you are." She was looking up at him steadily now, still with an echo of wondering doubt about the whole thing. "And . . . and then he's shouting at you, and you said . . . what the hell did you say?"
"Um," Mark blinked a moment, in confusion. "I think I said I was sorry I was late."
"There," she put her fingers to her temples in quiet frustration. "See? That's what I mean. He thought you were dead. Three days he thought that. You knew he thought that, and yet you both act like . . . like everything is business as usual. Most people would be crying, shouting for joy. Why the hell didn't you at least hug the man?"
Mark frowned. He put the fork down. He looked around for a moment again then dropped his voice a notch lower. "Barbara," he said with weary intensity, "did I ever tell you about the trip we took back to Arkansas, to Hardcastle's hometown?"
"Yeah," she frowned, "It sounded crazy; the mayor tried to kill him."
Mark nodded. "It was—crazy, I mean. And I thought he was dead, for a little while. Overnight." He felt himself blush slightly. "I went a little crazy, too. Then he showed up the next morning, while I was telling somebody what a great donkey he was." Mark smiled. "I dunno, maybe I went a lot crazy, and . . . anyway, he shows up and takes me completely off-guard and . . ."
"You hugged him?" Barbara finished, with a look of mild puzzlement. "And so . . . ?"
"And so," Mark gave her a look of long-practiced exasperation, "he was uncomfortable as hell. Totally pissed. You could tell. It was like hugging a porcupine . . . a big, irritated porcupine." He frowned in a moment of additional thought. "And that was out in the middle of nowhere, not in front of damn near everybody we know, all staring at him. Man," he exhaled sharply, "I'd like to think I have more sense than to do it then."
"Sense, huh?" Barbara looked at him dubiously. "That's what you two call it?"
Mark shrugged. "I didn't say it made sense. You just gotta understand him. He jokes around; he acts gruff. Sometimes it means what it means, and sometimes it means something more." He picked the fork up and pushed the food around for a moment before he looked over his shoulder again. "You sure he's okay?"
"Honestly," Barbara kept her voice low and tight, "I don't think either one of you is."
Mark stared for a moment at the plate and then put the fork down again. "I think I'm done." He looked up at Barbara. "I think I'm gonna go see how he's doing."
She smiled gently. "I've got my car. I'll stick around here for a while; tell 'em all you've decided to call it a day. They'll understand."
He gave her a grateful nod and took a quick sip of the wine before he stood up and slipped out the door to the kitchen. Frank was standing there, talking to Sal. Before Mark even had a chance to open his mouth, Harper jerked his thumb in the direction of a closed door, off to the side. McCormick nodded again, a little nervously this time.
He gave a perfunctory knock, but didn't wait for a greeting before he reached for the knob. There was a desk inside, piled with papers; behind that were file cabinets, shelves, and, alongside it, over against one wall, a battered sofa—vinyl and chrome.
The judge occupied one end of it, slumped back a little, but wide awake. He cast a look up at his visitor and gave him one pensive nod. "Done already?" He looked down at his watch. "You shouldn't eat so fast."
Mark just stood there for a moment, gauging it all, feeling the old reflexes slip into place, resisting them for a moment.
"You don't look so good," he said carefully. That was God's honest truth; the man looked almost as gray as he'd appeared in that moment by the car.
Hardcastle raised one eyebrow but didn't protest outright. Instead he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward a little. "You aren't looking so hot, yourself, kiddo."
Mark shut the door behind him and took two more steps over to the sofa, dropping down onto the other end. "Well," he said, speaking without turning to the side, "I don't feel so hot, either."
That's one way in.
"I mean, it's not serious, or anything," he hastily amended. "I'm just tired. It's not like I'm gonna die or something," He sensed the judge tensing up. He turned his head slowly. Hardcastle was staring straight at him.
"What?" Mark asked in aggravated befuddlement. "What the hell is it? We settled that, didn't we? The guy in the box wasn't me. I didn't get shot and I didn't get incinerated." He heard his voice rising a little in impatience.
How the hell could Barbara talk about hugging this guy?
Hardcastle stared for a second longer, then dropped his gaze. "No," he said the first word so quietly that McCormick almost didn't catch it, then he continued on in a voice that was still low, but very intense, "but you might've died anyway. Might've died right where you were. Sounds like you almost did. If it hadn't rained, if they hadn't left that broken down cot in there, if you hadn't kept trying." He swallowed once, then he added, "Nobody was looking for you . . . I wasn't looking for you."
Mark looked taken aback. "Well," he said after a moment, "of course not. I sorta figured that out after a while . . . but you thought I was dead." He saw Hardcastle nod once, still studying the floor. "Like I thought you were dead in that reservoir in Arkansas. I stopped looking, too. No different."
He still wasn't getting any response. He sighed heavily. "Okay, nobody's perfect, and I don't expect you to get my hash out of the fire every time." He winced at the mental imagery that that invoked. Then he sighed again. "And I kinda remember the whole thing being my idea in the first place." He frowned briefly. "Right?'
"It was a group effort," Hardcastle replied, looking up slowly.
"Well," Mark smiled and shook his head, "you didn't hear me say 'no', did you? Must've sounded like a good plan at the time."
"One of our best," Hardcastle said dryly.
"Okay," McCormick forced a grin, "So just don't go getting all weird about it." He lumbered to his feet again, a little stiffly, then turned and looked down at the older man. "Come on," he offered him a hand up, "I wanna go home."
Hardcastle accepted that, but, surprisingly, didn't shake free as soon as he was standing.
Mark stood there, considering the other man. "Too bad you're such a damn porcupine," he finally said, a little ruefully.
"Huh?"
"Never mind," Mark smiled again, fondly. "Let's go home."