A Twist of Fate

by L.M.Lewis

Not always the right choices, sometimes the least wrong.

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

Rated: K+

Author's note: If you don't like the idea of McCormick having a future—or a past, this may not be a story you'll want to read. It's very much 'Dark Mark' again (thanks, Barb).

There are references to scenes from the episode 'The Career Breaker', and to ff stories Curriculum Vitae, Sins of Omission, and All Things Change But Truth, and Cheri's The Verdict. And Joyce is on long-term loan from Owl, of course.

Many thanks to Owl, and Cheri, for equal parts encouragement and proofreading.

A Twist of Fate

By L. M. Lewis

'Nobody kids about Dickens"
M. McCormick, esq.

It was a small world, Frank decided, though he'd had half a notion he might run into Mark down at the courthouse today if his timing was right.

"Small world," he said cheerfully, to the man who was sitting on the bench outside courtroom 213.

McCormick looked up at him; he'd been jotting something on a legal pad, balanced on his knee. His smile was reserved; there was no quick greeting. He managed a silent nod. Obviously he wasn't in a very good mood.

"Hammersmith?" Frank glanced over his shoulder into the now-deserted courtroom. It was lunchtime, and the place was emptying out.

"The same," Mark muttered. "Hardcase warned me. He said 'cop a plea.' But, man, we had more than reasonable doubt." The younger man pulled his tie looser with an angry tug.

"Got grounds for an appeal?" Frank asked with casual professional interest.

"Maybe," Mark looked down at the pad. "Gotta run it by Hardcastle when he gets back."

Frank's eyebrows conveyed the question.

"Yeah, the damn trout-fishing contest." Mark shook his head. "I've got strict instructions, though." He smiled wryly. "If the sheriff throws him in jail I'm supposed to produce a writ of habeas corpus, not do my town drunk impersonation."

Frank grinned; he'd heard that story. "Times change," he said.

"Yeah, well, when I show him this," he lifted the legal pad a few inches and let it drop back into his lap, "he'll get to say 'I told you so.' That'll make him happy."

Frank watched him make a face that was refreshingly unexpected from a recently-minted member of the bar.

"You had lunch?" He'd waited a moment, having calculated the timing to make it seem like an unstudied question.

Mark looked up at him quizzically. "No, not yet."

"Come on," Frank tried to keep his smile casual. "I'll buy."

"Business or social?" McCormick said, with way too much perspicacity.

Harper grinned. "Do I look like a guy with a social life?"

"Yeah," Mark muttered, "tell me about it."

00000

McCormick didn't think of Frank as crafty, and certainly not underhanded, but there'd been a certain edge to the man's demeanor in the courthouse hallway that made Mark think he was up to something. If so, then he was playing it very close to the vest. They followed the streaming crowd that was making its way out of the building, but bypassed the two nearest places—always crowded, always noisy, always full of lawyer-types.

Instead, they strolled to a spot that was more out of the way, which meant, most likely, that Frank had something to talk about. The trip there was punctuated by nothing more than casual remarks, mostly related to the Dodgers, and none of that too optimistic. Mark was half-tempted to ask him, flat out, what he was up to. But Lord knows I've done this to him enough times; it's only fair to let him think he's gonna spring something on me.

They settled into a booth at side-street diner—this one was more of a cop hangout.They ordered cheeseburgers and coffee. Frank made idle conversation for two minutes and twenty-five seconds longer, by Mark's check on the clock, before he segued into a question.

"You doing any pro bono work?"

Mark shrugged. "Yeah, some. I'd kinda like to make the place break even, at least, but Hardcastle keeps signing up whatever walks in the door, as long as they look legit, and especially if they look interesting."

Frank nodded once at this, as though it was pretty much what he'd expected to hear. He said nothing else for a moment.

"Why?" Mark finally interrupted his silence. "You got a worthy cause for us?"

"Worthy?" Frank smiled a little thinly. "Dunno about that. Interesting, though, maybe."

Mark sat back a little. He was glad to have at least this much out in the open. "Okay, so tell me about it."

"Well, right off the top, the kid is a pain in the butt. Got him down in Men's Central. He was arrested two nights ago."

"What's the beef?"

"Ah . . . we got him on a ten-eight-fifty-one."

Mark blinked just once, and kept his face absolutely neutral, but he couldn't help the little edge of irritation that crept into his voice when he said, "So, of course, being that, you thought of me right away."

Frank had the decency to look abashed. "Well, no, it took me two days to think of you. And that's how long we've been trying to figure out who this kid is, and what the hell he thinks he's doing."

Mark frowned, "Whaddaya mean?" His curiosity had been piqued. It was probably true that Frank wouldn't be hauling him out to a diner for a chat if this was just a garden-variety car thief.

"See, it's pretty evident to mostly everybody involved, except maybe the guy from the D.A.'s office, that we're dealing with a juvenile here, seventeen tops, I'd go for sixteen, more likely, but the perp insists he's nineteen."

"Ought to be easy enough to check."

"Yeah, if we had some kinda valid identification. His prints drew a blank; that's another reason why I'm voting juvenile, and the name's a fake. He's calling himself Jack Dawkins."

Mark blinked again.

Frank nodded to himself. "Kinda common, but nothing shows up to match it. He won't give us anything else; says he's undomiciled, no next-of-kin. Like I said, a pain in the butt."

"It's an alias," Mark said quietly, almost against his will.

"Well, that much we already figured out."

"Doesn't tell you much, except that maybe he paid attention in high school English."

Frank looked up at him sharply.

Mark let out a deep breath and shook his head. "Jack Dawkins, that's the Artful Dodger's name, his real name, in Oliver Twist."

Frank was staring at him as if he'd just grown a third eye. "You're kidding," he finally said slowly.

Mark shrugged. "Nobody kids about Dickens."

"I thought you went to vocational high."

There was a moment of quiet fluster, quickly diverted into a joke. "Frank, the Stephen King novels were always the first thing off the library cart. By the time it got up to my tier, I was grateful for anything with a cover."

Frank was giving him another hard stare, but apparently didn't want to pursue that line of questioning right then. Instead, the stare became a frown, and he said, "But, see, that just supports what I was thinking. This kid, he's too young to be flying solo on this—"

"Frank," McCormick interrupted impatiently, "we both know sixteen isn't too young for a joyriding beef."

"Not joyriding, not by a long shot. I told you the kid's prints didn't match anything in the files, but they did show up on a couple of unsolveds we found the same night. They were parked out of the way, like they were waiting to be picked up, all hotwired, very neat work, very professional. Three cars in one night," Frank concluded. "Whaddaya think? Maybe the kid's got a Fagin out there somewhere? Or is he just precocious as hell?"

Mark blinked one more time, not sure which way to go on this one, but finally deciding on the offensive.

"So I thought you wanted me to represent this kid, or are you looking for somebody to play 'good cop'?"

"Yeah, well, the way it's going down now, the D.A. wants to make an example of him. He won't make bail without giving identification. They'll be glad to try him as an adult, and he'll take the fall all by himself. You wanna see a sixteen-year-old do hard time for auto theft? They're gonna arrange it." Frank looked disgusted. "And the guy who's been brokering, he'll walk away and find himself some more hot talent next week."

McCormick had kept his face absolutely neutral, maybe a little too neutral. Frank was staring again.

"You okay?" he finally asked.

"Indigestion," Mark said flatly.

"I know what you mean," Harper replied.

"Okay," McCormick finally exhaled, knowing it was a bad idea but walking straight into it anyway, what the hell choice do you have? "Dawkins. Central lock-up. I'll go talk to him." He pushed his plate away. He'd lost his appetite. "But I'm telling you right now, Frank, if he says yes, then that makes me his lawyer, not your go-between. If he wants to swing a deal with you guys, I'll try to work things out, but that'll have to be his decision."

Frank was nodding, as if everything was falling into place just as he'd hoped. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

"Ah, yes, the voice of personal experience," McCormick said dryly. "We'll see. Some things a person just has to learn for themselves."

They'd parted on the sidewalk with McCormick making no particular promises to keep the lieutenant posted. He walked back to where he'd parked the Coyote feeling, once again, the sense of inevitability that had descended over him while he'd been in the diner.

Small world.

Nonsense. Don't see patterns where there are none.

He'd had no intention of driving immediately to Bauchet Street, and, if he'd been asked, he could have given very good reasons for that, besides his general loathing for the place, and an unfortunate tendency to put off any errand that involved going there. No, he figured the water that the kid was in wasn't getting any hotter; it was already at a full boil. Now it was just a matter of him realizing it.

The lack of fingerprints in the record was interesting. This was his first time on the inside. Mark closed his eyes for a brief moment, after he slid into the seat of his car. Two days—two nights, that might be plenty.

He opened his eyes slowly, started the Coyote, and put it into gear. Then, only a little to his surprise, he headed in the direction of Central lock-up.

00000

He'd been coming here for years—coming and staying a couple of times at the beginning, then visits made in Hardcastle's company, many more times after that, and now mostly on his own, the past few months. He knew the staff considered lawyers a regrettable nuisance, interfering with well-ordered operation of the facility.

He was duly patient with his request. He'd managed to get an interview room, the result of long association with the judge. He hadn't even had to ask; it was just a given, and he sat down to wait while Dawkins was produced. For about the fifth time since he'd said yes to Frank, he wondered if he shouldn't have made a phone call to Hardcastle first. Yeah, how? He's up to his waders in a trout stream somewhere.

No, this was the first vacation he'd persuaded the man to take in nearly a year, and the first one since the law center had opened. And your name's on the letterhead; you're supposed to be running the place—that's what he keeps saying. Mark nodded to himself once, decisively, with only a niggling feeling that all that responsibility might not survive his first big mistake.

Nonsense, it's just another case.

He heard someone at the door, and looked up in time to catch the first expression of his client—puzzlement more than fear, though a serious undercurrent of worry was there as well. The man was escorted in wearing handcuffs and was deposited, not unkindly, in the seat across from him at the table.

'Man', of course, was using the term loosely to cover anything from high school age on up. This one's mug shot would probably fit right in with the junior year photos in the yearbook. He had enough height on him, but not nearly enough weight, and if he really wanted to pull it off, he'd have to learn not to slump down in a chair like an attitudinal teenager. But Mark understood the theory well enough, that being nineteen was a damn useful thing sometimes, for buying a bus ticket out of town, or talking your way onto a pit crew, or even for getting a spot in a flop-house when the weather turned unexpectedly cold. Mostly it was useful for staying out of the system.

In jail, it was another matter entirely. Mark could see why Frank had been aggravated with the D.A. for buying the kid's story.

McCormick frowned for a moment. Dawkins brushed his hair back; it was an awkward gesture with his hands still cuffed.

"You're from the public defender's office?" he asked, with a pretty good effort at nonchalance.

"Nope," Mark shook his head and slid his card across the table. "Somebody asked me to stop by and talk to you, someone who was concerned." There, it was a calculated gambit, all perfectly true, but subject to interpretation, and what the kid did next would tell Mark a lot.

What he did was pick up the card, again a little awkwardly, and give it a good hard look. He did not ask who Mark had been sent by, and the card gave nothing away. Then he put it down, still saying nothing.

"So," Mark said slowly, not pushing, "you need a lawyer?"

The kid was considering him, still cautious. He finally said, with a still closed face, "I might."

There now, a quick word to Frank, give the kid access to a phone and make arrangements to monitor it, that's all it would take. Mark had little doubt that if he could, Dawkins would be in contact with his Fagin before the day was over. And as soon as he does that, he'll know you weren't sent by him.

Whoever he is.

"All right," McCormick exhaled, "I'll give you some time to think about it then." He edged his chair back, as if he were about to stand.

He saw the kid fidget once and glance sharply over his shoulder at the door behind him, then forward again, frowning. He doesn't want to go back out there again, at least not any sooner than he has to.

"I couldn't afford you," Dawkins said quietly.

"You don't have to worry about that," Mark replied smoothly. "You have a benefactor." He kept his smile knowing and benign, letting the kid think what he would, never mind that his benefactor right now was a retired superior court justice who was knee-deep in a trout stream in northern California and who was absolutely, totally, out of the loop on this one.

The comment seemed to have its desired effect. Dawkins' face had become more animated, losing most of the sullenness. Hope . . . that's what it is. McCormick kept the grimace off his own face and redirected his self-disgust in the direction of the unknown person who had left this kid grasping at straws.

There was hope, certainly, but also a shadow of wariness and Dawkins clearly wasn't ready to open up yet. Not till he makes a call.And then what? He'd over-extended himself in the false impressions department. The kid would probably back off and shut down once he knew things were not as they appeared.

And you'll be off the hook on this one. Was that what you were aiming for?

He said, "Okay, you've got my card," as he stood up.

Dawkins looked down at it again and nodded, adding nothing more. Mark stepped over to the door and gave a quick double rap on it. It was still a matter of some marvel—after, what, nearly eight years now?—that he was sitting on the other side of the table, that he was not the one going back to the inner recesses of Men's Central.

Somehow, in this instance, the thought gave him very little consolation.

00000

He didn't head straight back to the Law Center; it was an almost instinctive thing with him and Bauchet Street, that he needed to be outside, to clear his head a little, after he spent any time in there. This time he drove up to Griffith Observatory, parked in the lot, and sat for a while, on one of the benches, contemplating the city spread out below.

He supposed, if he left right now, he might be up by Canary Creek not long after nightfall. Hardcastle would be glad to see him, as long as he didn't catch the winning fish. Mark smiled to himself. He was inordinately lucky at fishing; he supposed life had to even out somewhere.

But after a while he gave up on the idea; the judge would never believe it was just on a whim—would grill him right alongside the catch of the day—and he wasn't quite ready for that interrogation. He sighed and walked back to the car again, finally heading toward the office.

00000

By five-thirty he had things pretty much under control there, enough so that Joyce was giving him odd looks. He had clearly entered the 'puttering around' stage. He finally flat-out told her he was expecting a phone call, that she needn't stay, and that he most certainly would not forget to turn on the answering machine before he left.

She departed reluctantly, and only after much insistence. Mark got the impression she had previous orders from Hardcastle that involved him not being allowed to move into the office while the judge was away.

"Its okay, Joyce," he said with a quick grin. "I'm not going to tell. Anyway, I promise, no later than, um, seven, okay?"

This got him a smile and a pat on the arm. Then Joyce finally donned her coat and picked up the stack of letters to be mailed. "Seven," she frowned. "Promise?"

He crossed his heart and waved her out.

After that he retired to his desk, and considered the phone as though it were something he oughtn't turn his back on. After a half-hour he thought about calling Frank, just to give him his general impression. He pushed that one down. Then he considered calling Hardcastle, but he was probably sitting back in some bar, lying like a fisherman to his fellow contestants about the one that got away.

And then—just when he'd begun to think that he was only suffering from an overactive imagination about the whole thing—the phone rang. He lunged for it, then paused for a moment, hand on the receiver, giving it a chance to complete a full ring.

He picked it up with a dull sense of dread, but kept his greeting calm.

"Why the hell are you still at the office?" Hardcastle returned. There was noise in the background—a bar or a restaurant. "I tried to reach you at home. Shoulda figured I couldn't count on Joyce to shove you out the door."

"Yeah, well," Mark tried for light and mildly irritated, "I took the afternoon off, figured I owed the firm its eight hours."

"Well, it's Friday night," Hardcastle huffed, "haven't you got anything else to do?" There was a pause, and then, a little more serious, "Afternoon off, huh? It went that bad with Hammersmith?"

That'd do, Mark figured, at least for now. He said 'yes' without any excuses. "Go ahead; say 'I told you so'. Let's get it out of the way. Then you can help me figure out if I've got something for the appeals court."

"Well, you're not working on that now, are you? For God's sake, wait'll you've got a copy of the transcript, at least. That's only common sense."

"No. I wasn't," Mark sighed. "Just thinking about it."

"Well," Hardcastle huffed, "in that case, why don't you hop in the Coyote and head on up here? They're biting like you wouldn't believe. Got me a brook trout that's maybe close to eight pounds today."

"So you called to gloat, huh?" Mark sat back a little further, working on a smile, even though it couldn't be seen. "Is that gonna win the contest?"

"Well, it would if they were just pulling out brooks, but it's not gonna beat somebody's rainbow, or a decent-size brown trout." Hardcastle let out a sigh of patent envy. Then he returned to his argument, "You oughta come up here. It's a straight shot past Palmdale. You could be sinking a lure by sun-up."

"Oh, yeah," McCormick tried for gentle sarcasm, "drive all night just so I can stand in ice-cold water at the crack of dawn. You sure know how to tempt a guy, Hardcase."

"Well, the water keeps the beer cold." the judge argued practically.

"And beer for breakfast," Mark was forcing another smile, hoping it would carry through to his voice, "another fine fishing tradition. Nah, I'll see you Sunday, when you get back," he added, feeling pretty proud of himself; on the whole, he thought he'd come across as lightly unconcerned.

"You okay?" Hardcastle asked pointedly.

Dammit. It was a total mystery to McCormick how the man did that. Some sort of weird radar.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Fine. I haven't burned down the gatehouse, or committed any felonies." Where had that come from? He bit down on his tongue and counted three seconds before adding a simple and sincere, "Really. I'm fine. Maybe the thing with Hammersmith got to me a little. That's all."

He heard Hardcastle 'harrumph' and figured the worst was past. "Well . . . go home then. Stop worrying about it. We'll fix it when I get back."

Mark rushed his good-bye and, a moment later, was left staring again at the phone again. A few things are beyond fixing. Too late, too long ago. You just seal the record, or drop the file behind the desk, and hope never to have to deal with it again.

He sat back again, not even pretending to be otherwise occupied, just alternating his eyes between the phone and the clock, and noting, with the precision of an experienced witness, that it was seven fifty-two when it rang again.

This time he barely twitched, but the certainty was so great that he let it go a full five rings before his nerves snapped and he reached for the receiver.

His neutral 'Hello' was met by a brief and silent assessment, and then the voice on the other end, uncannily still familiar in its inflections, said, "Small world, eh, Mark?"

00000

He hadn't had to ask the caller's name, not that Harry Harrison was likely to have been on the man's birth certificate. Mark wondered for a brief moment if he'd realized it was a fake back then. Had he even thought about it? Probably not.

But the voice he would recognize anywhere, warm, smooth, and when he talked to you, you felt like every word was true. If the man told you you could fly, then you'd clearly grown wings, even if no one else had ever noticed them.

"Harry," he replied, leaving the tone ambiguous.

There was a pause at the other end, hard to tell if it was worry or relief, and then, "Wasn't sure you'd remember me, Mark. Been a while."

"Been twenty years," McCormick said flatly.

"Now, whose fault is that?" The man seemed to be gauging his words. "You didn't even leave a note."

"I was in a hurry."

"No doubt," Harry said calmly. "I could have fixed things. You should have come to me." There was no hint of nervousness; a little more of this and Mark thought he'd be questioning his own memory.

"Too late," Mark replied quietly, "too long ago."

There was an audible sigh from the other end and then, "Perhaps, though I'd like to believe it's never too late for old friends. And here you are, a lawyer. Doesn't surprise me a bit. I always knew you were destined for great things."

Yeah, five to ten in Leesburg. Mark held that thought up, examined it closely, tried to retain his sense of perspective in the face of a slew of emotions, only one of which was anger.

"So Jack's yours, huh?" Mark used the moniker knowingly. He could almost hear Harry smile in return.

"He's a good kid, eh? Smart. Thinks on his feet. Reminds me of somebody I used to know."

"Destined for great things," Mark added, dryly.

"Maybe," Harry replied, "if he doesn't lose his head." There was a moment of considered silence before the man continued. "He told me about your kind offer."

"Pro bono work," Mark said carefully.

"No doubt," was Harry's equally laconic reply. Another pause. "Of course I did a little research."

"Of course." Mark frowned. How quickly had the kid gotten access to a phone? How much 'research' had Harry done?

"This Law Center of yours, very nice. Doesn't appear very profitable though," he tsk'ed. It was the sad condolences of a man who firmly believed in the entrepreneurial spirit.

"Not intended to be," Mark said, resisting the urge to defend himself.

"No, of course not. Looks like you've moved beyond such petty concerns."

Mark let that one lay. The condescension was designed to be ambiguous so he chose to ignore it.

"The name of the place," Harry continued on, almost musing, "there used to be a judge, same name, quite a reputation, the law and order type."

"Same family," Mark replied with quiet nonchalance. He didn't see any point in denying it; if Harry brought it up, it could only mean that it had been part of his 'research'.

"So, you know him, eh?"

Not that much research. "Yeah." More nonchalance.

"But does he know you?" The question came with a sharp barb on the upward inflection.

Mark actually thought about that one for a second before he replied, "Everything that's important."

"That you've done some time?"

McCormick almost laughed. "Oh, yeah, he knows that."

There was a brief silence. Mark could almost hear the wheels turning. Finally Harry cleared his throat lightly. "Well," he said, "I think Jack might be taking you up on your offer."

Mark tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. "Because you told him to?"

"Well, I gave you a good reference."

McCormick grimaced.

"And I think we should talk again."

"A meeting?" McCormick asked; he really didn't feel too much eagerness. Though if Harry insisted on handing himself over, he wouldn't throw himself between him and Frank's handcuffs. Maybe there'd be a twinge of remorse, not much more, he hoped.

But Harry's reply, though still superficially friendly, had an element of native caution to it. "No, I think best to do this by phone. I'm not too readily available. Jack understands."

"So far," Mark said. He thought he could almost hear the brief flash of uncertainty, then Harry was speaking with soft, smooth confidence again.

"He's a good boy."

"Probably." Mark couldn't help it; he was almost starting to enjoy this. The trouble was, he thought Harry was a pretty good judge of character.

Then the man cut back into his thought with a stiffer, more curt, "I'll be in touch," just before he rang off, and before Mark could say another word.

He hung the phone up slowly and sat for a moment, just staring at it, staring past it, really, at something altogether different.

He waited another hour, no more incoming calls. He finally got to his feet, and took one last look around. It was the same as before, he reassured himself. Nothing had changed; he hadn't changed. He slipped on his coat, turned on the answering machine, and locked the door behind him.

00000

The next call came Saturday morning. Mark hadn't gotten to sleep until sometime after three A.M. He scrabbled for the receiver and muttered, "I don't care if it's ten pounds and has three eyes, dammit."

"Mark?" It was Frank's slightly puzzled voice.

"Oh," McCormick squinted at the clock—nine forty-seven. "Sorry, what's up?"

"What'd you say to him?"

Mark sat up, shook his head a little to clear it and said, "Attorney-client privilege, Lieutenant; didn't we cover that yesterday?' He kept his tone light, but made sure it sounded like he meant it.

"I didn't ask you what he said to you," Frank replied, a little petulantly. "Anyway, I just wanted to you to know, when Detective Ambrochi went to interview him this morning, he said he wanted his attorney present. He showed him your card. Congratulations."

Mark was sitting up. He shook his head again. "They want to question him on a Saturday?"

"Yeah. Ambrochi's a hard charger, what can I say? You gonna go down there? He said he's willing to wait."

"No," Mark said abruptly. "Tell him to back off. I haven't even had a chance to go over the case with my client. I'm just going to advise him to stand mute." Dammit, they couldn't wait till Monday?

"Mark."

"He'll be wasting his time; I'm serious."

"Okay," Frank exhaled sharply, "I'll let him know. This isn't gonna make you too popular."

"Nobody likes lawyers, Frank." Mark kept his rising irritation under control.

"Okay, okay." There wasn't much placation in it. Harper sounded irritated himself. There was a pause, and then, a little hesitantly, "You talk to Milt about this yet?"

"No, I didn't." Something snapped. "He's not here." Don't apologize, dammit. "I don't work for him, either, Frank." Don't explain. He subsided. He took a deep breath. "Anyway, he'd understand." You hope.

"I'm sure he will," Frank drawled.

Mark bit his tongue and said nothing else.

"I'll tell Ambrochi," the lieutenant continued after a moment, and then, "I think you better have a little talk with your client. The heat's going to start coming down on him pretty fast."

"I'll bet." It was McCormick's turn at laconic.

The good-byes were stiff, and then Mark was left running his fingers through his hair and wondering just what the hell he was going to say to Hardcastle when he got back. This nagging thought was taking turns with the one where he wondered what Harry would say the next time he called. Amazingly, he still had enough space left to wonder what he himself was going to say to Jack Dawkins when he got back to Bauchet Street.

00000

This time it was a narrow space in the visitor's room, separated by a glass partition and connected by telephone receivers. Word gets around pretty quick, Mark thought, but he'd been a persona non grata enough times before that he couldn't say it really bothered him.

Jack looked more resigned than surprised; there was no smile of greeting, just a quick upward glance of the eyes before the kid sat down and picked up his phone.

Mark didn't waste any time. "How old are you?" he asked impatiently.

"Nineteen," Jack replied without missing a beat.

"Sure," Mark sighed. Then he shook his head. "You're looking at a year, minimum, you know. Probably more. They've got two other vehicles they may try to tag you with. You've pissed off a lot of people with this 'Jack Dawkins' thing."

The kid shrugged. "I can handle it."

"You haven't been to prison yet," Mark shot back sharply. "Clarkville'll make this place look like a picnic."

Dawkins scowled. The effect wasn't too impressive; he still looked like an underfed puppy. "I thought you were my lawyer, not my social worker. Aren't you supposed to keep me out of prison?"

"It'd help if you'd tell me the truth."

"I'm nineteen. My name's Jack Dawkins," the kid replied stubbornly.

"Two years, probably. They might ask for three. And the judge will give it to them."

The face across from him stayed unreadable, except for maybe a shadow of fear around the eyes. He's had three days, now. He's at least starting to do the math. Then even that hint of an expression was suppressed

"I said I can handle it," he repeated with more belligerence.

"You keep telling yourself that," Mark said quietly, "maybe it'll help." Then he shook his head and reached into the briefcase alongside him for a notepad and a pen. He switched the phone to his left ear. "Look, there's a cop, Lieutenant Harper, he's someone I know." Mark hesitated a moment, still watching the kid's face.

"Yeah," Dawkins spoke flatly, "I met him."

"He could help you."

The kid's expression had changed again. There was puzzlement now, and a hint of suspicion. "If I give him what he wants."

"Yeah, that'd be the deal."

Dawkins look at him with outright disbelief. "Hell, I'm not going to do that." Then he squinted for a moment and finally said, "Who the hell do you work for?"

"You," Mark replied. "You're the one who needs a lawyer." He waited for a moment to see if Dawkins would have anything to say to this, then he finally added, "Everybody else out there had an agenda, kid. Mine is you."

"What about . . ." the pause was only a fraction of a second, but long enough for the kid to catch himself, "the guy who's paying you?"

Ah, Mark felt his face go a little stiff, now that's an interesting question. What about Hardcase?

"He understands how this works," McCormick finally replied with a calm assurance that he hoped was based on firm conviction rather than wishful thinking.

Dawkins said nothing for a moment, merely studying him. He finally smiled knowingly, still silent.

"What?" Mark asked impatiently.

"I get it," Dawkins was still smiling. It was very controlled; for a moment he seemed even older than his stated age. "It's a test."

Mark just stared.

"Well," Dawkins' smile never wavered, "you tell him I passed." Mark thought he'd wear that smile even as the ship sank from beneath his feet—right up till the moment where the cold and unforgiving waves closed over his head and he found out just how damn hard it was to breath underwater.

00000

He left Bauchet Street without much more than he'd come with, except for a growing conviction that the D.A. had a slam-dunk and there would be no deals to be made short of Dawkins making himself more valuable as a witness than as a defendant. Even then—and even if he provided a birth certificate and a page of testimonials from his former Sunday school teachers as to his good character—Mark would be surprised if the kid walked away from this without a stint in a juvie facility.

Better than Clarkville. Mark shuddered. Better than Quentin. No, he assured himself. Worse come to worst, it wouldn't be that. They'd know from the prints he was a first-time offender. They couldn't be that vindictive about the alias.

Mark stopped in his tracks, and then glanced over his shoulder at the towering structure behind him, an altogether appropriate concrete and steel representation of The System. They can send him wherever they want.

Somehow, he didn't think a trip up to Griffith Park was going to help much today. He contemplated going back to the estate; a walk on the beach wouldn't help much either, but it might distract him. Maybe he'd trim some hedges, there was a kind of Zen quality to that—like bonsai, only done on a very large scale.

He finally rejected all these options, based on the possibility that Jack was still being handed rope, in the form of phone access, and that if Harry heard about this morning's conversation, he would probably have something to say. He headed back to the office, the only number he was sure Harry had, although by this time, it was quite possible that the man knew it all.

The lot in the rear was Saturday empty. He let himself in the back door. At least he wouldn't have to explain himself to Joyce. He checked the answering machine and then turned it off. He rattled around in the back, making a pot of coffee. He took his cup into his office. All of this ritual occupied perhaps ten minutes.

He sat down and tried to work up some genuine outraged concern about Hammersmith's decision, but yesterday morning seemed like an awfully long time ago and, besides, Hardcastle had already told him he'd take a look at it. He stared at the phone for a while, and then pulled down his well-thumbed copy of 'The California Evidence Code' and stared at it for a while longer. He'd almost resigned himself to another day of uncertainty, when the damn phone finally rang.

This time he kept his greeting brisk and unworried, suitable for all potential callers. This one was Hardcastle.

"Saturday afternoon at the office," the man said with disgust. "You're hopeless."

"Don't tell me you never got behind on your paperwork. And, besides, how do you expect to win that contest if you spend all your time on the phone?"

"It's raining," the judge replied glumly. "Looks like it might be settling in for a while."

"Hah, see, I would have come all the way up there to sit and look at the rain with you." Right now he was thinking maybe that wouldn't have been such a bad plan, but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it.

He would have sworn there'd been nothing in his inflection to give it away, but the next words out of Hardcastle were, "Maybe I'll head home today."

"Why?" Mark said, and immediately regretted his startled tone. "I mean, hell, you're gonna give up?"

"They say somebody pulled in a rainbow that's over twenty pounds yesterday."

"Rumors," Mark said firmly. "You know how they are. Somebody catches a minnow and pretty soon it's Moby Dick."

"Yeah, well," Hardcastle went on, resignedly, "there's always next year . . . and I've been thinking about that thing with Hammersmith—"

"I thought we were supposed to wait for the transcript."

"Well, I can think, can't I?" the judge replied gruffly.

Mark smiled. "I thought I heard you say once, that you do your best thinking on the river."

"Yeah, and I don't do it sitting in a diner watching it rain," Hardcastle grumbled. "I'm bored."

"Okay," Mark sighed, "suit yourself. It's okay with me if you throw in the towel."

He thought that might be enough in character that it would pass inspection. He certainly couldn't put up much more protest without being called on it. And, besides, what difference did it make? Tonight or Sunday evening. A twenty-four hour reprieve would just be prolonging the inevitable to no useful purpose.

It took him a full second to realize that Hardcastle wasn't saying anything, and then came a still-gruff, "You okay?"

He almost spilled it then and there, except that he thought it would be better dealt with face-to-face, or maybe it was outright cowardice, he wasn't sure at this point.

"Everything's fine," he said, with a tone that sounded false even to him. "Really," he added, unconvincingly.

Hardcastle's frown was almost audible. "Okay," he said, and then, "I'm leaving in a bit. Brook trout for dinner, all right?"

"Sure," Mark answered, and, despite his general misgivings, he realized there was some relief in his answer.

He said good-bye, and then settled back in his chair, picturing a half dozen of the ways tonight's conversation might begin, but only two in which in might end. He supposed a lot depended on what the judge already knew. For the first time in quite a while, he thought about the drawer in the judge's desk at home, the one he knew contained the file labeled 'McCormick, Mark'. He knew most of the stuff from New Jersey had been sealed. But, he knows people. It's possible.

He doesn't know this.

The phone stayed quiet for another hour. Mark finally sighed in something that was a mixture of relief and disappointment. He got up, put the untouched book away, reset the answering machine, and gathered up his things. He paused at the back door, gave the damn phone one last half-minute, and then stepped outside.

And there he was, leaning against the Coyote, hands in his jacket pockets, smiling. He was twenty years older, and gray at the temples, but Mark would have known him anywhere.

"Yours?" Harry said, with a smile and a jerk of the chin down at the car. "Nice. You always did have good taste in vehicles." The smile had gone to a grin and Mark felt a sudden wrench of memory, like an echo. He'd been so damn charming. He managed to keep all of the conflicting emotion off his face, and most of it out of his voice.

And he said, quite simply, "Hello, Harry,"

A nod, a casual shift of the man's weight. He kept his right hand in his pocket and did nothing so crude as to suggest they might be anything but dear old friends, but Mark was certain that if things should get unfriendly, Harry would be prepared. But for now all he did was nod his hello back, and went right on smiling.

"This is all very . . . interesting, Mark." The smile went a little shark like, but with a hint of puzzlement. You a lawyer, working for an ex-judge—"

"I don't work for him," Mark interrupted, almost reflexively.

Harry paused for a moment, cast a quick glance at the building, cocked his head, and said, "Okay. With an ex-judge, if you prefer . . . and you're friends with a police lieutenant." The puzzlement was rapidly winning out on Harry's face. "Well, you've got to admit, it's peculiar . . . You certainly confused the hell out of Jack this morning," he added, pointedly.

"No," Mark said dryly, "I'd say Jack was already confused."

"Well, now, there; you see?" Harry was frowning. "I think we need to make sure we're on the same page here, for Jack's sake."

"For his sake, huh?" Mark echoed dubiously.

"Well," Harry smiled, and somehow that looked more dangerous than his frown, "I only want what'll be best for us all."

Mark said nothing and for a moment they both just stared each other down. McCormick broke contact first and Harry went on, keeping his voice low and reassuring.

"Jack'll thank me. You'll see. I have a little deal for him, out of the goodness of my heart. He sits tight; he takes what they hand him. That's all he has to do."

"And?"

"It'll be two years, right?"

"Maybe . . . depends."

Harry smiled again. "It won't be more than that. He's got a good lawyer, right?"

"Cut the bullshit, Harry," Mark replied sharply. "What are you offering?"

"A hundred thousand, cash, when he comes out."

"And he should trust you on this?"

"No, you. You'll be the escrow."

"And you'll both trust me?"

"Oh, Mark," Harry was grinning, more dangerous still, "you've caught a bad case of honest; that much is clear."

"Then why the hell should I go along with this?" McCormick fired back hotly. "And what'll keep me from persuading Jack to tell them everything, once you hand me the cash?"

"Well, now you're just being stubborn, Mark. You'll take the money—don't worry, there'll be a handling fee, too—and you'll keep your mouth shut. You know it's best for Jack, and best for you, too. If you try to take me down, I'll take you with me."

The gloves were off, but even under that, Harry kept his nails very carefully manicured. He'd managed to make a threat sound almost like a business deal. "Even if Jack talks, he'll still do time. Am I right?"

"Maybe," Mark admitted, "but in a juvenile facility. Right now they're processing him as an adult."

He saw Harry flinch just briefly at this, but the older man regained his composure almost immediately. "He knew the risks, just like you did."

"I did my stint in Wagner, not Leesburg."

"Just shows you the authorities in Jersey are a little more perceptive. They're really buying that he's eighteen?"

"Nineteen. That's what he's telling them."

"Now why the hell is he doing that?" Harry shook his head. "That's not necessary."

"It is if he doesn't want to give them his real name, and he doesn't want them to try too hard to figure out what it is." Mark exhaled heavily. "How old is the kid, anyway?"

Harry smiled thinly. "Now, come on, Mark, you know I don't ask for birth certificates. How old were you?"

"Not quite sixteen—when I started."

This got a low whistle of disbelief from the older man. "Well, I didn't know that; I would have guessed sixteen and a half, maybe a bit more. You carried yourself pretty well."

"Streetwise," Mark said flatly. "Would it have made a difference if you had known?"

"Yeah," Harry grinned, "I probably would have offered you less per car."

Mark grimaced. "And I probably would have taken it."

"Probably," Harry cocked his head. "And you were in Wagner for what, six months?"

"Eight."

"You should have looked me up when you got out. We were a great team."

"Wagner was . . ." Mark stopped; he was having trouble thinking of the right words. He couldn't honestly compare it to San Quentin, or even Clarkville, after all, it had been a juvenile facility. But that's what you were, a kid . . . at least when you went in.

"Have you ever been in prison, Harry?" he asked abruptly, pinning the older man in his gaze.

This got him a rather surprised look, then a sly smile. "Not yet," Harry replied.

Mark's stare hardened. "You know," he began slowly, but with utter sincerity, "Quentin will kill him."

"They aren't going to send him there, a first-time offender, a car thief. That's nonsense," Harry blustered.

"You don't know that for sure. And you don't know how many people he's pissed off with this 'Jack Dawkins' thing. Seriously." Mark hadn't shifted his eyes.

"Anyway," Harry broke off with an almost-stammer, "the kid's a survivor. He really does remind me of you."

"Maybe it won't kill him outright," McCormick continued, as though Harry had said nothing at all, "but it'll kill his soul; he won't be the same when he comes out."

Harry drew himself up, his stance stiffening. "He knew the risk going into this. You both knew it . . . You know the offer. You tell him. I think he'll surprise you. A hundred thousand can buy a lot of loyalty.

"It's not enough to pay for someone's soul."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Harry's smile was back, this time hard, "yours went for fifty dollars a car, didn't it? You tell him about the deal, or I will. Either way, I'll make sure he knows."

Mark simply stood there, not able to think of a single thing to say. He finally said, "It was twenty-five a car."

"Well," Harry shrugged, "those were 1969 dollars." He finally gave a sharp nod and said, "Don't try to follow me; it won't help either one of you." And then his tone changed, abruptly and unexpectedly. The warmth was back like flipping a switch. "It was good to see you again, Mark. I never forgot you, honestly."

McCormick still stood there, almost in shock. He watched the other man turn and depart down the narrow alleyway, before he could even consider what to do next. One quick turn at the end of the alley, and he was gone.

The air went out of him in a long sigh, but he stood staring at the empty alleyway for another long minute. It occurred to him that he'd forgotten what it was like, to not have any choices, to live from reflex to reflex and suffer the consequences. He was out of practice.

But it's different now; you've got back up.

And that thought brought him back to the present with a quick, almost unpleasant sensation down his spine. He'll be here in a few hours. He climbed into the car slowly, casting one more worried glance over his shoulder, and then headed for home.

00000

It was the tail end of dusk, and the lights were on in the main house as he pulled up the drive. This ought to have been a good sign, but the judge couldn't shake the niggling feeling that something had been wrong the last couple of times he'd talked to McCormick.

Hammersmith, he supposed. The kid had been inordinately lucky in his first few months of practice—lucky, hell, he's good at it—but he was bound to hit a wall like Hammersmith sooner or later. The man would feel bound and determined to put someone like McCormick in his place, no matter what the cost to the kid's client.

Hardcastle frowned. The first one's always the hardest . . . or they may all be hard for him. He takes it too damn personally. He shook his head. Is there any other way to take it?

He climbed out, half surprised to not be seeing the front door opening. He reached into the back of the truck for his gear and the cooler, hefted his bag and trudged up to the door. Still no signs of life. He let himself in, dropped everything but the cooler on the hallway floor, and finally heard some rustling movements from within the den.

Must've fallen asleep. But McCormick was getting up from a chair, not the sofa, and looked more pensive than sleepy.

"Sorry," the younger man's smile was thin, "didn't hear you. Anything else to carry in?"

"Nah," Hardcastle held out the cooler, "just take this."

Mark took it, wordlessly. Not so much as an off-handed complaint about fish cleaning duties, which the judge had been fully prepared to rebut, on account of having cleaned and filleted the damn things himself. Instead, the younger man merely carried them off to the kitchen.

Hardcastle blinked, frowned again, and then followed him.

He found him at the sink, sorting out enough for dinner, picking from the least frozen ones toward the top. He was doing it methodically, and still without comment. There was nothing, to the untrained eye, that would have seemed anything but routine, but to the judge, there was something blatantly wrong about the whole picture.

"What the hell's the matter?" he finally blurted out. He saw Mark twitch as if startled, then duck his chin back down with no immediate reply. "You can't fall apart every time you lose one." Hardcastle muttered, as he pulled out a chair at the table. "It won't work. And, anyway, Hammersmith's an ass." He frowned, and shook his head once. "I mean, my esteemed colleague the Honorable James M. Hammersmith is occasionally mistaken in his rulings . . . and wait'll we get our hands on the transcript. If I can't find you at least one reversible error, I'll be—"

"Judge."

The tension in that one word cut him off in mid-sentence. He sat there, mouth still half open, waiting for the rest of whatever it was, but nothing followed for a moment.

Hardcastle rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "It's not Hammersmith, huh?" No answer to that, either. "Well," he finally exhaled, "you didn't burn down the gatehouse and you didn't commit a felony—"

Another twitch. The silence was getting a little thick. Mark seemed to have given up on the fish. He was leaning with both hands on the edge of the counter, looking out through the window in front of him, into the now-black night.

"You didn't . . . I've only been gone three days." Hardcastle exhaled again. "You didn't commit a felony," he said with firm conviction. The effect was spoiled a half-second later when he added, "Did you?"

"Not recently," Mark replied. His tone was absolutely flat. "Though I'm not so sure I'll be able to say that next week."

"What the hell are you talking about?" The judge was half out of his chair and about a second away from grabbing the other man by the shoulders and shaking him. The only think that froze him in his place, was the look on the younger man's face when he turned around.

He's terrified.

Hardcastle subsided back into his seat. That one action cost him most of what was left of his self-control. All of the rest of it went into two more words—"Sit down." He pointed at the chair across from him. There wasn't any left at all when he said, "Talk." That came out harsh, sharp enough to make the younger man go one shade more ashen as he sat.

"All right," the judge began again, "What the hell's going on?" He thought he had it back under control, though Mark still looked ready to bolt. "Talk to me."

00000

He sat; he'd felt the blood go out of his face while he'd been standing at the sink and sitting sounded like a pretty good idea, even though it meant being face to face with Hardcastle. No lying—he can read you.

Where to start?

"You remember that time, a couple years ago," he began slowly, "when you had me talk to those j.d.s—the detention group."

The judge nodded solemnly. They hadn't talked about it since, but Mark wouldn't have thought he'd have forgotten it. Yeah, you damn-near bared your soul. It was . . . intense.

"You remember you asked me, right after, if all those things had really happened to me?"

Another nod. Hardcastle's expression had gone grim. "And you said," the judge frowned in memory, "that they'd all happened to somebody."

"Yeah," Mark said, ruefully, "names were changed to protect the not-so-innocent." There wasn't any humor in the quip. He let out a heavy breath and looked straight across at the older man. "But Fagin, he was real."

"Fagin?"

"The guy who's your friend; the guy who asks you to move the car." Mark's voice had taken on a hard edge that belied the innocence of the words. "I met him back in Jersey. I moved cars for him."

"How many cars?" Hardcastle asked quietly.

"Well," Mark looked up at the ceiling for a moment, as though it was a math problem and he wished he had a pencil and paper. "You know there were a couple of times, when I was in Quentin . . . for stealing my own car," this he punctuated with a half-sad smile, "that I tried to think of it as some sort of weird karma, life evening out and all that."

"So, you got two years for stealing a couple of cars back in Jersey City?"

"No." Mark frowned. There was a thoughtful pause and then, "I got five and a half days per car. About." His eyes locked on Hardcastle's face, looking for the reaction. "The figure's not exact. I lost count."

Now it was the older man's turn to do the math; there was a brief moment of concentration, followed rapidly by disbelief. "A hundred and thirty?"

"Conservatively," Mark grimaced. "It was a little over three months, and some nights it was more than one."

"You never got caught?"

"Well," Mark shrugged, "yeah, the last one I did. That's where the eight months in Wagner came from."

"How old were you?"

"When I got out? Sixteen. I was fifteen when I started." Mark put his hand to his forehead. "That'd be forty-five in street years. Honestly. I knew which end was up."

He caught the judge's sharp glance. There was obvious anger underneath his expression and for a moment McCormick regretted his glibness. "Sorry," he murmured.

"Sorry?" Hardcastle's reply was heavy with disbelief.

Mark dropped his gaze back to the floor, waiting for what he'd pretty much figured was coming all along.

"Sorry?" The disbelief had transmuted to anger.

There was a long pause. McCormick looked up again at the unexpected silence. The judge was shaking his head.

"This Fagin guy, he takes a fifteen-year-old kid and puts him to work heisting cars? I'll bet he wasn't standing around when the hammer came down, was he?" The anger was till there, but the trajectory was a little off to the side.

"Ah, no." Mark shook his own head once, feeling a flush of something he thought might be premature relief. He added hesitantly, "I kinda lost track of him after I was arrested."

"You did maybe think of mentioning him to the authorities?" Hardcastle said with no particular surprise. "No, of course not."

"Well, Judge," Mark felt himself crawling back up onto the beach, after a moment or two where he thought he'd been going down for the third time, "if I'd told them about Harry, and they'd actually caught him, there would have been those other hundred and twenty-nine cars to talk about, ya know?"

"Harry?" Hardcastle said gruffly.

"Yeah, Harry Harrison. That's what Fagin called himself.

"What happened to him?" the judge asked, with a rising tone of concern in his voice.

"Well," Mark tried not to wince, "like I said, I lost track of him after I was arrested . . . And I knew when I was released, they'd try to put me back in the system." He realized his tone had gone very flat.

"All I wanted to do was get out of Jersey. I got a car." He caught a quick grimace from Hardcastle. "I bought a car. Used." He thought about that one for a moment and then added, "Of course it was with my ill-gotten gains. Harry'd paid me by the piece."

"How much?" Hardcastle asked curiously.

"Twenty-five each."

The disbelief was back on the judge's face.

"I was fifteen. Minimum wage was—what, a buck an hour back then? It took me less than two minutes to boost a car, and that was if it was locked," he added. "And those were 1969 dollars. It seemed like a pretty good deal."

"For Harry," Hardcastle said, pointedly. "He didn't do the eight months."

"True," Mark smiled ruefully. "And I'd learned my lesson. After that I didn't steal cars anymore."

The judge hadn't quite disposed of his disbelief.

"By any reasonable definition of the term," Mark added, righteously.

"And Harry?" Hardcastle nudged the subject again; he'd always had a pretty keen sense of evasion.

"Yeah," Mark sat back a little, his momentary relief dissipating; this ride wasn't over yet by a long shot. "I lost track of him, until—"

"He's back?" The judge looked suddenly even angrier.

"Yesterday," Mark admitted. "He called."

"What the hell about?"

"A case."

Hardcastle stared, obviously running down the list of their current clients and drawing a blank for likely connections. Mark didn't let him hang long.

"It's something new. Something I picked up while you were out of town."

"Figures."

"Dammit," Mark protested sharply, "Frank asked me to help out. I didn't know it had anything to do with Harry. I mean, hell, it's been over twenty years and we're a continent away. What are the odds?"

"Doesn't matter," the judge waved all this away, "it's just dumb luck. Now you've finally got a chance to nail the bastard. I'm gonna guess this guy hasn't changed his spots?" He waited a moment for confirmation from McCormick and, when there was none, Mark saw his face cloud over a little. "Don't tell me you're acting as this guy's defense attorney."

Mark shook his head hurriedly. "God, no. But . . ." He swallowed once.

"'But' what?" The clouds were gathering into a storm front.

"But there's a kid, Jack Dawkins." He saw Hardcastle mouth the name silently and then frowned, as though he was trying to place it. "It's an alias," Mark added, not trying to explain. "He's in Central for heisting a car, with two more they're tagging him for. No record. Won't give them any more information."

"How old is he?"

"Says he's nineteen." Mark shook his head. "Sixteen is more like it."

"He works for Harry?"

"Employee of the month," Mark replied bitterly.

"Has he talked to you?"

"Not much," Mark admitted. "But so far he thinks Harry sent me, so I'm okay. Of course, that means I'm supposed to be in the loop, so he doesn't have to explain anything to me."

"And this guy, Harry, he contacted you, too?"

Mark nodded. "Twice." He hesitated, then added, "The second time was this afternoon. He came by the office."

Hardcastle's eyebrows went up. "Bet that was a nostalgic reunion," he said dryly, and then, when Mark didn't launch a quick rejoinder, he frowned. "Hell, it wasn't, was it?"

"No," Mark assured him, fully aware that it was a little too late to be entirely convincing. "Dammit," he shook his head. "I don't know how I can explain it. Those were crazy times." He looked up at the older man again, searching for something. "You gotta understand; Harry was the only thing between me and something a whole lot worse even than him."

"You were a kid. You made some bad choices."

Mark felt his own embers of anger flare up. "No," he said defiantly, "I made the only choice I could."

"It landed you in juvie."

"It was a calculated risk and I took it. There were worse alternatives."

"And there were better," the judge insisted.

"No," Mark insisted, "there weren't. Not then. Not for me. I can't explain it," he added in frustration. "You weren't there."

Hardcastle studied him for a moment, and then seemed to make a decision to let that one lie. "And now?" he asked. "What does Harry want?"

McCormick rubbed his temple. This whole thing seemed to be going from bad to worse. He'd already said things he hadn't intended to say and Hardcase wasn't giving him any time to regroup.

"Okay," he tried to begin slowly again, "Harry wants Jack to sit tight, keep his mouth shut."

"Of course. But that means Jack takes the fall."

"Yeah," Mark nodded, "and as an adult, the way it's going now."

"So, that's why Frank came to you, huh?" Hardcastle said, with an air of sudden insight. "He figured the kid wasn't in it alone. He figured you might be a little more persuasive. That makes sense." He nodded to himself, then cast another quick glance at McCormick. "But Harry, he's gotta be running scared. You knowing him, you talking to his latest protégé."

"Scared? No," Mark shook his head. "He sees it more like a lucky coincidence." He watched the disbelief settle back on the judge's features. "He's offering Jack a deal—a hundred thousand cash for his silence."

"Damn he's cocky," Hardcastle finally exhaled. "We're taking him down." Then there was a quick frown. "Why the hell would he tell you that?"

"I'm supposed to be the go-between, the bank."

"Hot damn," Hardcastle smiled for the first time since he'd walked into the kitchen. "This just gets better and better."

Mark watched his own look of utter disbelief slowly reflected as growing confusion in the judge's expression.

"What?" the older man finally asked. "He's setting himself up."

"It's a hundred thousand dollars," Mark said simply. "It's a lot of money."

"It's two years in a medium security facility for the kid, at least." The judge stared at him. "It's bribery for him, a breach of ethics for you . . . you did pass the ethics section of the bar exam, didn't you?" The sarcasm cut. It wasn't Hardcastle's style, and was a clear indication of his rising frustration.

"It's not a bribe unless it changes a witness's testimony," Mark insisted, with more intent than he felt. "Jack already made it clear that he has no intention of involving Harry." Mark sighed. "Can't blame him. He may have another hundred and twenty-nine cars to account for, too." He shook his head. "If Jack intends to sit tight anyway, and Harry wants to give him a hundred thou, who the hell am I to stop it?"

"You're an officer of the damn court and a decent person, that's who," Hardcastle growled. "That's why Frank went to you in the first place, to try and straighten this kid out."

Mark blinked once; compliments from Hardcastle, even backhanded ones, tended to throw him off his stride. Then he shook his head abruptly.

"No, Frank wanted me to pry some information out of the guy; his name at least, and his connections, he hoped. He never made any guarantees that this would be a way out for Jack. You know Frank wouldn't be able to make that kind of offer."

"Okay, well, we've cut out the middle man here. We already know who's backing this kid." Hardcastle clapped his hands together cheerfully, in full deal-making mode. "We go to the D.A.; we make 'em an offer. We plead the kid back, in exchange for Harry."

"I already told you; Jack won't cooperate." Mark put both hands on the table leaning forward. "I tried talking to him about it today. He thought it was some kinda test. He said flat out 'no'."

"He doesn't know what he's headed into," Hardcastle was leaning forward now, too. "You could explain it to him." Then he leaned back suddenly, smiling again. "But even if you can't, it hardly matters. You know who Harry is. You know what he is."

"I know he's a guy who calls himself Harry Harrison," Mark sighed. "At least he did twenty years ago. I know he received stolen goods back then, too. We shot the statute of limitations on that, no doubt," he added glumly. "He showed up today, and then disappeared. I don't know how to find him."

Hardcastle slumped back against the chair, frowning. "But he'll find you," the judge insisted. "He'll have to, to swing this bribery scheme of his."

"It's not bribery unless—"

"It's bribery," the judge interrupted firmly. "And once we've tagged him, once we have some kinda line on him, there'll be half a dozen ways we can tie him to the kid. You wait and see."

Mark's gaze drifted off again. There'd be a plan. There was always a plan. Only this time he was having trouble giving voice to his misgivings. He didn't want it to sound like cowardice.

"There's something else," he said finally, "something Harry said."

Hardcastle appeared to have caught the change in tone. His frown had deepened and he said, darkly, "What else?"

"I guess he thought maybe I'd try to double-cross him." Mark swallowed hard. "He said if I took him down, he'd take me with him."

"What the hell does that mean?" Hardcastle said, still dark. "Like you said, there's a statute of limitations on all that stuff from Jersey. I'd say you're in the clear."

"Judge," Mark looked at him disbelievingly, "there's no statute of limitations in the court of public opinion. That's Nancy's name over the door down on Pico. You want it associated with a guy who set an age group record for felony thefts that probably still stands in New Jersey?" He shook his head wearily and dropped his gaze to the floor. "I've tried to keep a low profile all along; let 'em think the two convictions were just an aberration. This'll sure as hell blow that right out of the water."

"Hah, Nancy never gave two hoots about what anybody thought. Hell, she married me, didn't she?"

Mark lifted his eyes slowly. "And you don't care?" he asked quietly.

"I want this guy," Hardcastle answered fervently.

"The hundred and thirty cars," Mark asked, still hesitant, "you're okay with that?"

Hardcastle looked thoughtful for a moment.

"'Okay' might not be exactly the word I'd use," he said. "Maybe resigned . . . But you were fifteen, you did your time, and at least you stopped stealing them wholesale after that. I guess I'd have to call that a mostly successful rehabilitation."

"Ah," Mark let a small smile escape, "now that's what I call a vote of confidence."

"You were fifteen," Hardcastle repeated, in a more sober tone. "And this kid, Jack, he's not much older than that."

Mark nodded silently.

Hardcastle's expression had gone entirely grim.

"I want this guy."

00000

He'd watched Mark's face, through the whole unexpected confession. It had been almost more revealing than the words, and that was unusual for the kid, in and of itself. He'd seen terror give way to rueful chagrin, but it had been impressive how shallowly the fear still lay, just barely submerged beneath the surface, when his own anger had been briefly misunderstood.

Now he watched Mark nod and stand and get on with dealing with the fish, but he had a notion that things still weren't settled, that they weren't in agreement on this.

"Pan-fried?" Mark asked.

"Huh?"

"Or grilled?"

"Oh, the pan," Hardcastle answered absently. "What kind of car was it?"

Mark darted him a quick confused look.

"The one you bought, when you got out of juvie." It was an innocent enough question, but the judge had no doubt that Mark would see through it for what it was—a door back into a closed conversation.

Yes, the puzzlement was clearing, replaced by an edge of wariness. "It was a ten-year-old Impala."

"The '59?"

"That would have been a little gaudy" Mark appeared to smile almost against his will. "Nah, it was a '60. Cost me extra 'cause, you know, I was still sixteen. I had to make some 'arrangements'." He looked down, apparently lost in the thought for a moment. Then he glanced up. "No fins, but it had that jet logo on the side . . . V-8. Very nice. Red. Sheesh," he was grinning, "I had a strange idea of low profile back then." The grin was fading. "I pointed it south and never looked back."

Hardcastle frowned. "You had a driver's license?"

"Hah. No. The least of my worries."

"You never got pulled over, a kid driving a jazzed-up car like that?"

"Oh," Mark smiled knowingly, "I had that wired. Picked up hitchhikers; worked out a story—uncle, older brother, dad, whatever fit. 'On our way to Florida. Just passing through, officer. Thought I'd let the kid have a little driving lesson. Didn't know he needed a permit. Won't happen again.'" He shrugged. "It worked."

"Hitchhikers?" Hardcastle said dubiously.

"Yeah," Mark shrugged again, "just guys who wanted to be someplace else and didn't have any way of getting there. Most of 'em were glad to help me out in exchange for a ride." The pensive look was back again. "I was luckier than most. If I hadn't had that cash—the money I'd gotten from Harry—I would have been the guy standing on the side of the road, owing somebody a favor for a ride."

Hardcastle nodded once. It made a certain strange sense when McCormick told it that way, that bad choices might not be the worst ones.

"That'll be Jack, when he gets out, if he turns down Harry's offer," Mark added abruptly, "and the cost of living is a helluva lot higher these days."

Hardcastle sat there. Mark had turned back to what he was doing, as if the conversation was closed again.

"What if it's San Quentin?" the judge asked quietly. "Two years. You said they've got a couple more they can tag him with? Might even be longer. Will it still be worth it?"

"Tell me some other way that kid is going to make fifty thou a year," Mark shot back. "Besides," he added harshly, "I think I'm the only person in this room who even has a clue what it's going to cost him."

"And?" Hardcastle asked mildly.

Mark slammed the pan down on the stove. "And I'm still thinking about it."

00000

The fish got cooked, and dinner got eaten, though it was as strained a meal as McCormick could ever remember sitting through at that table. Neither one of them even bothered to make conversation, after a feeble attempt or two at discussing trout. The only thing that really needed to be talked about hung heavily over the evening, but wasn't mentioned again.

When a decent interval had elapsed, Mark rose.

"I'll take care of it."

He saw the judge startle for a fraction of a moment, before it was clear that what was being discussed was the dishes.

"Okay," Hardcastle signed, pushing back from the table, "I'll go unpack my gear." He was on his feet, and partway to the door, before he spoke again.

"You said something once; I thought it was pretty good—'bout how the devil doesn't just show up one day with a quill pen and a contract."

Mark frowned. He kept stacking the dishes. He didn't look up.

"You said it wasn't like that," Hardcastle spoke with quiet intensity. "You said most people sell their souls on the installment plan."

Mark couldn't help it. "Yeah," he nodded once, and then looked up slowly in the judge's direction, "I oughta know."

"Well," the judge fixed him with a penetrating stare, "at least this kid will be getting his payments in cash." Then he turned and walked out.

Mark let out the breath he'd been holding. Not always the right thing, but the least wrong.

Least wrong for whom?

00000

He'd unpacked with slow deliberation—clothes in the laundry, fishing tackle sorted, and straightened out, and stowed in the garage. There wasn't much sound from the kitchen, but the front door hadn't been opened, either. He supposed Mark might've slipped out the back, either to think it through on the beach, or just to avoid any further confrontation.

Hardcastle wandered back into the den. It was still early yet, but he was in no mood for television. Instead, he sat down at his desk. He briefly contemplated the bottom drawer on the right, the one that contained a file with McCormick's name on it. Mark had once told him, in moment of fairly deep anger, that the important stuff, who he was, wasn't in the file. Hardcastle supposed he'd known that himself, all along.

There was nothing in the file about this, for example—a kid trying to stay alive on the streets, a hundred and thirty cars. The judge leaned back in his seat and shook his head slowly. Would it have made a difference if you had known?

It was wrong, and he knew it was wrong.

But it was wrong to expect a kid that young to fend for himself.

He reached up and rubbed his temples. That wasn't the issue, this was—the here and now. And he would have sworn this Mark McCormick knew the difference between right and wrong.

He was sitting there, puzzling that one out, when he became aware of footsteps in the hallway, hesitant, a couple of pauses. It was a half-minute more before Mark appeared in the doorway, leaning lightly against the jamb, trying for something that appeared to be casualness.

"You busy?" he asked. It was casual bordering on ludicrous. Then he stepped into the room and over to a chair without waiting for an answer.

"I'll try," he said, almost as soon as he'd sat down. "I can't promise it'll work."

Hardcastle squashed the beginnings of a smile. This was obviously too important, too serious for that.

"I'll need a wire. Frank'll get us one if you ask, won't he?" Mark looked concerned, as though he thought the answer might be 'no'. "But I don't want it to be official, not yet. Just a loaner."

"Don't see why not," Hardcastle offered quick reassurance. "After all, he got us into this in the first place."

He thought he caught the hint of a smile from the younger man. It might have been the 'us'; whatever it was, it didn't hold. Not yet.

"And I'll need an interview room, over at Central." Mark frowned. "I'll need to talk to Jack alone." He lifted his face, looking intent, and a little nervous. "I'll try. I can't promise."

Hardcastle doubted he even realized he was repeating himself. "Okay, that's all I can ask."

"But I'm gonna tell him, about the hundred thou . . . I've got to."

The judge frowned.

"I'll make sure he understands what it is, what it means," Mark added anxiously. "But you understand, don't you? He's got to decide for himself."

"He's what, maybe sixteen?" Hardcastle began to protest.

"That's old enough," Mark said flatly.

"That's a lot of money to wave in front of a kid's face—"

"Doesn't matter. It's got to be his decision."

"And if he decides to take it?"

"Then I'll tell him he needs to get another lawyer. Harry'll probably find him one."

"And what about him? We won't get him. And he'll be out there looking for a new Jack Dawkins sometime next week."

There was a silent pause. Then Mark said, "I'll get him. This ends here." His reply had a cold finality that required no stronger language.

Hardcastle sat forward a little. "We'll get him. By the rules, by the book. Okay?"

"You think it'll be that easy?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "When is it ever? And does that matter?"

"No." Now there was a smile. Mark was getting to his feet. "Ask Frank tonight, will you? I don't know when Harry's gonna make contact again. I think he's a little edgy."

"I told ya," the judge was smiling now, too. "You made him nervous."

"Don't know about that," Mark tossed a quick grin over his shoulder as he mounted the steps, "but he made me plenty nervous, I can say that." Despite the words, the younger man looked less worried than before.

And then he was gone, the front door opening and closing. Hardcastle eased back into his seat, still smiling. Under all the 'ifs' and the 'maybes', he doubted this kid Dawkins stood a chance. McCormick had a Ph.D. in personal reform.

And he knows the difference between right and wrong, too.

He reached for the phone and began to dial Frank's home number.

00000

Harper was used to late-night summons from Gulls Way, and he'd been half expecting this one, once Milt got his feet out of the river. He was having some mixed feelings toward the younger half of the partnership, though. He hadn't expected Mark to turn his client over to the cops without reservation, but he'd been hoping for some compromise. What he'd said on the phone this morning had smacked of arbitrary obstruction. He was beginning to regret having involved McCormick.

Now Milt was asking for the loan of a wire, with the implication that not too many questions should be asked. Frank had it in his briefcase— friendship aside, his working relationship with the judge had been too productive to sacrifice over one bad morning.

But I'll be damned if I hand the thing over without some idea of what's going on.

He was met at the door before he even had a chance to knock, and was ushered into the den.

"You brought it?" Milt asked, with a matter-of-fact tone that implied there was no question about the answer being yes.

A weary sigh. "Yes," Frank replied glumly. "Mind telling me why I brought it?"

"Mark's pro bono case," there was just the slightest emphasis on the 'Mark' as if the judge was pointing out, indirectly, who this can of worms had come from originally. "It's gotten a little complicated."

"It was already a little complicated," Harper said dryly. "All I wanted Mark to do was get the kid to admit he's a kid, maybe give us his name."

"Come on, Frank. You wanted to know who his fence was, the higher-ups."

Harper shrugged. "Sure, it'd be nice. Might help keep the next kid from turning pro."

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded, "there's that. But you gave him this kid to work with, and this is the one he's trying to help right now."

There was a sound from the front door. They both looked up. Mark had stepped nearly silently into the doorway. A quick, reserved nod at Frank, and he took a place leaning on the side of the mantle.

"So, anyway," Hardcastle barely paused before taking up the thread of the conversation, "there is a higher-up, like you suspected."

"You got that already?" Frank darted a quick look at Mark. "That was fast work."

"We don't know much," the judge continued. "We've got a name, an alias, probably not one he's even using any more." The older man took a deep breath. "We know he's been doing this for a long time, twenty years at least. Started out on the East Coast."

Frank looked up again slowly. Mark's face was entirely blank, too blank to mean there was nothing going on inside.

"He uses kids," Hardcastle said. His tone was brittle with disgust. "He stays in the background. When the kid takes a fall, he walks away."

"And the kids never turn on him? Why the hell haven't any of them turned him in?"

"Lots of reasons," Mark said abruptly. "They're kids, first of all. And he's nice to them; he treats them like human beings."

"Except for the part where he lets them swing for him," Hardcastle interrupted dryly.

"And that's never his fault," Mark retorted. "You blame yourself for being careless, for getting caught. He's the kind of guy who can say 'Be careful;' like he means it . . . He says everything like he means it."

There was a moment of awkward silence and a long, considering look from Frank, before Hardcastle took up the story again. "So, this guy, the higher-up, maybe he's getting a little too settled, not so willing to disappear when things get hot."

Frank's eyes were drawn back to Mark. "You've talked to him already?"

Mark nodded.

"He came to McCormick," Milt said. He was keeping it a little vague, Frank thought. "He played it very safe. But we think maybe he'll contact him again."

"Okay, Frank nodded, "so maybe we can get something on tape, but if we're gonna use it, we better do this official."

"No," Mark shook his head. "He won't be that careless. He won't admit to anything current, that's for sure."

"Then why the wire?"

"Because I asked for it . . .You asked me to help you out and I—"

"Asked a whole bunch of questions."

"Yeah," Mark admitted, "but I said 'yes', right?"

Frank let out a long sigh. "Okay." he opened the case and took out the box. "You know how to use this kind? I think somebody lost the manual from this one." He sighed again. "And would you try not to get shot or stabbed or run over while you're wearing a piece of official LAPD surveillance equipment that's signed out to me? The paperwork is terrible."

This got him the briefest flash of a smile as the younger man stepped over to take the box. "I promise, Frank. I'll be careful. I know this guy."

Frank handed it over with a persistent sense of reluctance. There was way too much back story here that he wasn't being told, but he had enough of the drift to know it had to be personal between Mark and the guy he was going after. And personal, in Harper's opinion, was always a bad idea.

He got to his feet slowly. "So now you just want me to go wait until you get back to me, huh?"

"No," Hardcastle smiled, "there's one more thing. Somebody, maybe the D.A., is letting that kid make more than his one phone call. We want to put a lid on that."

Frank scratched his nose. "Shouldn't be a problem. I told them it was a bad idea in the first place."

"And an interview room at Central," Mark added, "eventually." He frowned. "Maybe you should just tell 'em it's for Hardcastle, not me."

"When?" Frank asked. "How long you think this is going to take?"

He saw Milt look at McCormick and the younger man giving the question some thought before he answered, "Dunno, maybe a day or two."

"If he can't reach Jack, he's bound to get twitchy pretty quick," the judge nodded. "Not much more than a day, you'll see."

Frank sighed again and picked up his case. "You know, I thought you two were settling down and getting out of the Lone Ranger trade. I shoulda known better."

"Hey," Milt protested, "all I did was go off on a fishing trip."

"And all I did was let you take me out to lunch," Mark added.

"Yeah," Frank said, "that's how it is with you guys. Things just happen."

00000

Mark saw the lieutenant to the door and then returned to the den. The judge hadn't moved, except that he was sitting forward, with his elbow on the desk and his chin in his hand. Mark picked the box up again, and opened it, glancing at the contents.

"Well," Hardcastle drawled, "I think that went pretty well."

McCormick shot him a quick look. "Yeah, he's glad you came home and leaned on me a little."

"Leaned?" the judge lifted his head and looked astonished. "I don't do that."

Mark's laugh was a little harsh. "Hell, Judge, sometimes you lean so hard I get a dent in my shoulder." Then he smiled. "But, anyway, I just said that's what he thinks happened."

Hardcastle considered this for a moment. Mark had closed the box and tucked it under his arm. He looked tired.

"So," the judge began again, slower this time, "if I didn't lean, what made you change your mind?"

The younger man frowned; he'd been drifting toward the steps, edging out of the room again. He looked reluctant to say anything further. Maybe he hadn't figured all of it out yet, himself.

But, after another moment, he half-turned back to the desk, and ducked his chin in the direction of the mantle. The judge knew, without further gesture, what he was referring to—a Christmas gift from three years back, a framed copy of the Lone Ranger's Creed.

"You know," Mark said quietly, "like it says," and it was obvious he was too far away to be reading; it was more a paraphrase from memory—"'That sooner or later you have to settle with the world and make payment for what you've taken.'" Then he dropped his gaze again and gave a half-shrug. "'Bout time, I'd say." And he slipped out of the room before Hardcastle could reply.

00000

Hardcastle ate breakfast by himself. It wasn't entirely unexpected that Mark would sleep in on a Sunday morning, and the judge had noticed the light visible through the second floor window of the gatehouse long after McCormick had departed the night before. But he suspected the kid wasn't still in bed.

As if to confirm his hunch, he heard the distant rumble of the garage door opening. He glanced down at his watch—nine-oh-five. He supposed it might be a donut run, but he doubted it.

He rose from the table and stuck his head out the back door. Mark hadn't gone into the garage yet; he was still standing there, as if he'd been expecting the interruption.

"Going somewhere?" Hardcastle asked mildly.

"Out," was the reply. The younger man was dressed casually. The jacket he had on was light, but even that was unnecessary for the fine weather.

"Where to?" The judge kept his tone casual.

Mark shrugged lightly. "Thought I'd start with the office." He implied they both knew what he was talking about.

"Okay," Hardcastle nodded. "Gimme a sec; I'll come with."

McCormick shook his head. "Not a chance. You'll spook him."

"You need back-up," Hardcastle insisted.

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Maybe you ought to be." The judge cocked a look at him. "Maybe you ought to think he's been at this twenty years—that's a lot of cars over the dam, a lot of money. He may be figuring it's all on the line now."

"He isn't violent."

"Wasn't, maybe. But maybe he's never had his back up against the wall like this."

Mark frowned, as though he was still having trouble putting Harry and dangerous in the same compartment. "Doesn't matter," he finally replied. "If he sees anybody around, he'll spook. He's always been very careful . . . and there's no risk. He still thinks I'm on board for his deal with Jack."

Hardcastle felt his own frown stiffening. The kid was probably right. "Just the office, huh? How long?"

Mark stared out in the direction of the ocean. "As long as it takes . . . I'll give him a couple hours at least. Don't know if he'll risk showing up there again, but I've got to give him a chance to make contact." His gaze snapped back to the judge. It contrasted sharply with the light, unconcerned smile on his face. "At least I'll get some paperwork done."

Hardcastle harrumphed. "Sunday, at the office? He'll never even think to look for you there."

"Oh," McCormick's smile was now patently false, "don't be surprised. I had a very good work ethic when I was with Harry."

"I'll bet," the judge muttered as the younger man tossed off a wave in his direction and stepped into the garage. He put his fists down into the pockets of his robe and, still frowning, watched him back out and pull away.

00000

His was the only car in the small lot behind the Law Center. Mark sat there for a moment after he'd parked. No one in sight, nothing unusual. He touched the microphone, carefully taped beneath his shirt, for the umpteenth time since he'd put it on this morning. All for nothing, most likely.

The chances of Harry risking another meeting were low, he knew. At least until he noticed that Jack wasn't getting through anymore—that would pique his curiosity.

Paperwork was the last thing on his mind as he settled in behind his desk to consider the mystery of the watched phone. He didn't think Harry would call, either. Not twice on the same line. Care, caution, those had been his watchwords. It surprised Mark to think that the man could have stood even one week as his employer. Why not? You took the risks, not him.

He gave it one restless, aggravating hour before he was up and pacing, and another half hour before he closed up the shop again. It wasn't even eleven o'clock. He strolled out to the Coyote, gave his surroundings one more long, hard look, and climbed in. He took the alleyway slowly, and turned right, then right again on Pico. He hadn't gone two blocks before he noticed, with some satisfaction, that he'd picked up a tail.

It was a non-descript sedan, fairly ancient without being eye-catching. No license on the front, but Mark was certain that the car would have an Arizona plate on the back, maybe New Mexico, and it would be a number that would pass a cursory check by the police, but yield no further links to Harry on closer exam.

Care and caution. That's what kept him out of prison all these years. Keep all the risks at arm's length.

He turned left on Vermont, and meandered slowly through the light Sunday traffic. He had a quiet place in mind for a conversation. He wanted Harry to feel secure. The winding road through Griffith Park made his tail more conspicuous and the driver was even bold enough to pull in right next to him at the far end of the observatory parking area.

He got out first, risked a wave to Harry, and started down the walkway toward his usual bench. He didn't look back to see if he was being followed. There was no point to that; Harry would either bite, or not; he wouldn't be persuaded.

He reached the spot, half-turned, and leaned on the chain-link fence for a moment, taking in the view, hazy but still spectacular. Now he could see that Harry was up and out of his car, obviously still cautious, but most likely confident that he couldn't be compromised merely by being here.

He approached slowly, looking as though his walk was undirected, taking up a place a few feet down along the fence, but still within quiet talking distance. He looked at the view, not Mark. And his first comment was casually undirected as well.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Mark lifted his face a little to the left, catching the sun, then back to the scene before them. "Out here," he exhaled, "yeah, it always is.'

"You come up here a lot?" Harry asked, curiously.

"Some. Lately. To think. It's closer to the office than the ocean is." Mark watched the city below him, stretching out to shimmering haze. "Sometimes you need to get up above it all to get some perspective."

There was a pause, as if Harry was changing subjects, and then, "I was expecting a call from Jack this morning.

"I haven't been to see him yet."

"You'll go later on?"

"Probably," Mark shrugged.

"You'll make my offer?"

"Yes, I said I would." Mark held his breath for a half second, and then, "What if he says 'no'?"

"Why the hell would he do that?" Harry said with frank disbelief.

"If you didn't have to worry about it," Mark smiled thinly, "then you wouldn't have to make the offer in the first place." He paused again, and then repeated, "So, what if he says no?"

"He won't," Harry gruffed. "He's a smart kid; he'll do the smart thing. He'll take the money. He'll sit tight."

Mark nodded once. "Probably." Another long silent moment, and then, "How'd you know I'd do the same thing for nothing?"

Harry turned his head, and gave him a considering look before he said, "I guess I'm just a good judge of character." He smiled. "You were different, Mark. I do remember that."

"Do you remember the night I heisted four of them? One night." Mark took in a brief, blank glance from the older man. "It was early November," he went on, "a Tuesday, I think, and the weather was rotten, cold rain, nobody was out."

A nod from Harry, but vague, as though he was trying to dredge up a long-forgotten memory.

"I got the second one before midnight, dropped it off."

"You were soaked," Harry said, suddenly smiling in recall.

"You said I'd catch my death; you scrounged me up a dry pair of sweats."

"And you said you were going out again."

"You found me a raincoat." Mark couldn't help it; he smiled, too. "I walked past the place where I'd taken the first one; the rain had let up a little. The cops were there, talking to a guy. I walked right by them."

"That was stupid," Harry scolded. "A stupid chance."

"I was barely sixteen. I was buzzed. Pure adrenalin."

"If I'da known—"

"What?" Mark's smile went thin. "You would've grounded me?"

"No." Harry looked chagrined.

McCormick shook his head. "I didn't think so." He exhaled, looking out over the city again. "And I brought the last one in right about when it was starting to get light."

"I remember," Harry said thoughtfully. "That one took a long time. I was starting to get worried."

"It was a Caddie. Nice. A '68," Mark said quietly. "I just wanted to drive it around a little."

Harry shook his head. "Now that was crazy, too."

Mark shrugged again. "I was wired. Driving calmed me down."

Harry was staring at him with irritation. "No wonder you only lasted four months."

"Three, it was a little over three. I was busted a week after that; I was in Wagner before Christmas." There was no smile anymore. "What did you do when you heard?"

"Ah," Harry made a face, half puzzlement, "I shut down the shop for a couple weeks. Moved over to Passaic for a while. Came back after a month or so, if I remember right."

"So, you weren't entirely sure about me, either?"

"Well," Harry acquiesced, "with you I was pretty sure."

Mark nodded. Another pause. "We had cornflakes," he added absently. This got him an odd look from the older man. "That morning, after I dropped off the Caddie," he added. "I remember. And I was so damn tired I crashed on your couch." He shook his head. "And when I woke up it was almost dark. And I went out again."

"You liked your work."

"You'd told me I was the best," Mark said, "so I had to be."

"You were," Harry smiled. Then he gazed off to the south, in the direction of both Pico, and Bauchet. "I'm glad it worked out for you," he added, after a moment more.

Mark stifled a harsh laugh. "I should be thanking you for that, I suppose."

This got an odd look as the older man's smile quirked toward something more self-deprecating. "No, I don't think that's necessary," the man replied.

Then Harry segued, "You'll be seeing Jack today?"

"I'll try," Mark answered flatly. "I can't promise."

Harry seemed to catch the change of tone and backed off. "All right, then. You'll need a way to reach me." He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. "Call it; let it ring four times, disconnect, then call back immediately and let it ring five times before you hang up again. I'll get back to you."

"Kinda cloak and dagger, isn't it, Harry? Don't trust me?"

Harry looked at him intently. "Maybe . . . once," he replied. Then he shrugged elaborately. "I don't think I trust anybody anymore."

Mark watched him turn and leave. He made no effort to follow; already convinced that it would accomplish nothing.

00000

He was home a little after two and Hardcastle met him impatiently at the door.

"No call? I was starting to worry," the older man said in greeting.

"Sorry. I was up at Griffith Park, then I drove around a little."

"No luck?" the judge said glumly.

"Oh, no, he met me. We talked." The younger man looked distractedly pensive.

"We got something?" Hardcastle asked, still impatient.

"Ah," Mark frowned, "maybe, I dunno. It wasn't what I thought I'd get."

"Can I hear it?"

There was a brief, startled glance from McCormick, followed by a short silence that might have been a mental review of the tape's contents. Then, almost sheepishly, he asked, "Can I say 'no'?"

Hardcastle said nothing.

"I mean," Mark flustered, "there's nothing on it that'll convict Harry. He was only talking about old news."

Hardcastle shot him a questioning look. "How much more can there be?"

"Nothing else," the younger man added hurriedly. "Honest. It's just . . ."

"All right," Hardcastle made a dismissing motion. The matter was temporarily closed. "What about Jack? Will it help, you think?"

"I dunno," Mark slunk past him. "Did Frank call? He's made the arrangements?"

"Yeah." The judge looked down at his watch again. "But I wouldn't press my luck, if I were you. You probably ought to get down there during visiting hours."

"And you talked to the D.A.?"

"Well, yeah," Hardcastle grumbled. "I had five hours, sitting here waiting for you not to call."

"And?" It was Mark's turn to be impatient.

"And they're interested. They're at least willing to talk about talking."

"That's not much."

"That's the most you're going to get on the phone on a Sunday afternoon without something more definitive from that kid. When you heading down to Central?"

"Can I eat something first?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "You are such a procrastinator when it comes to that place. How the hell you ever expect to get any work done with an attitude like that?"

Mark smiled. "It's a character flaw. Give me another ten years; I'll be over it."

The judge grimaced at him, then took him by the elbow. "Come on, I'll make you a sandwich before I shove you back out the door."

00000

Halfway through the late lunch, the judge offered to accompany Mark back to Bauchet Street. Whether it was for moral support, or to help lean on Dawkins, McCormick wasn't quite sure.

He just shook his head, then reached back to the pocket of his jacket, hanging behind him on the kitchen chair. "I've got another project for you." He pulled out the scraps of paper. "Here, it's a phone number. It's how I'm supposed to reach Harry."

Hardcastle reached for it eagerly.

"Aw," Mark grimaced, "you know it's just gonna be a guy with caller ID who knows a guy who knows a guy. Nothing closer than that."

"It's a start," the judge snatched it up. "What's the other?"

Mark looked down at the second piece of paper. "The plate on Harry's car. Arizona. It was a Buick Riv, blue, 'bout an '80, kinda down at the heels." He handed over the second piece of paper. "That'll be a dead-end, too."

"You think this guy's pretty slick, huh?" Hardcastle looked up from the slips with their jotted numbers.

"Well, you and Frank knock your socks off," Mark grudged. "But don't go anywhere near the place where that telephone is. It won't help and it might totally screw things up. I just want to know, just in case."

He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully while Hardcastle reached for the phone on the counter.

00000

He was there, at the desk, well before the end of visiting hours. He stated his name and his business, and mentioned Hardcastle's name for good luck. After no more than the usual processing, he was shown to an interview room without more than the usual delay.

All of this should have been some cause for relief, if it hadn't been for the nagging thought that somebody, somewhere, was expecting a quid pro quo.

He sat. He pulled his notebook and the small tape player out of his brief case and laid them on the table. He hadn't actually listened to the tape since it had been made. He didn't need to. It wasn't what he'd been hoping for, on the surface it was merely Harry at his congenial best, but at least it might be a foot in the door, a point of commonality, between him and Jack.

He looked up suddenly from that thought, as he heard the door open. Dawkins' face flashed brief disappointment as he took in his visitor. But this was submerged quickly into a deeper, anxious fatigue.

"Sit," Mark said. The kid sat, then slumped. "You didn't think it'd be him, did you?" McCormick asked, not trying to keep the tone of astonishment out of his voice. There was no response. Mark shook his head. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, he was worried when you didn't call."

The kid looked up sharply, with more interest in his expression. "Tell him, will ya? They won't let me use the phone. I don't know why."

"It's 'cause you've pissed them off pretty royally." McCormick shrugged. He didn't feel too guilty about that minor alteration to the truth.

"So, you saw him today?"

"Yeah." Mark said nothing more for a moment. He nudged the tape recorder forward a few inches. "Here."

Jack frowned, puzzled. "He sent a message?"

"Sort of," Mark nodded. "He talked about you some." He nudged the recorder again. For some reason, he wanted this, too, to be the kid's choice.

Dawkins reached for it awkwardly, his hands still cuffed, and pushed the play button. There was only a half-second of rustling; Mark had cued it up to the spot.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?"

There was a look of immense relief on Jack's face, and then the tape spooled on, through apparent inconsequentialities, and reminiscences. Not much, just a few minutes of a familiar voice, but, by the end, Jack's expression had sunk back past puzzlement, to outright confused.

Mark pulled the recorder back toward him and hit the stop button. Jack was frowning down at it, then up at McCormick.

"You worked for him, too?"

"Yeah, twenty years ago. He didn't tell you?"

"What's Wagner?"

"A juvie facility in Jersey," Mark said simply.

The frown deepened. There was a long pause, and then, "You really brought in four in one night?"

"That one time," McCormick admitted.

"Most I ever got was three," Jack said ruefully, "and that was the night I was busted."

"I don't think that time counts," Mark smiled sadly, "except when it comes to sentencing."

There, he'd caught it again, a flash of worry. Three days, three nights. It's starting to sink in, at least.

"Well," Jack managed a tense smile, "you did it."

"Eight months, in juvie. I didn't graduate to Quentin until I was twenty-six."

"You were there?" Confusion had given way to utter bafflement. "But—"

"It's a very long story and I don't think we have that much time."

Jack frowned again. "Yeah. What was he saying, at the beginning, the part about talking to me? About an offer?"

Mark took a deep breath. Somehow he was glad it was Jack who had raised the issue rather than himself.

"Look, it's like this," he began flatly, "Harry says he'll pay you a hundred thou, if you just sit tight and don't talk to the authorities."

"Plead guilty?" Jack asked quietly.

"Won't matter what you plead, kid," Mark said with quiet certainty. "But the only thing Harry is concerned about, is that you don't mention him in any of this."

There, it was said. He watched Jack's face, not sure what he was going to see next.

The kid was still staring at the tape player, still frowning. That lasted for a few long seconds. Then he looked up slowly, his eyes sharp, the frown etched with something else.

"He never offered you anything?" Jack asked abruptly.

It wasn't the first question Mark had been expecting. He answered, just as abruptly, "No." Then he suddenly realized which way this was going.

"If he had," Jack looked at him intently, as if judging his veracity even before he answered, "what would you have done?"

"I dunno," Mark said, without even trying to marshal a lie. Then he paused in a moment of thought and finally said, "I think I might've been insulted . . . and then I think I would have realized, it's all business with him." He sighed. "It took me a damn long time to figure that out."

Jack blinked a couple of times. "You told him? You told him I wasn't talking, I wouldn't have talked."

"He can't afford to believe you," Mark said quietly. "It's a business."

"He said I was the best," Jack said sadly.

"I was better, and it got me nowhere."

Jack looked as though he'd been cut adrift. Mark timed his next question. Care and caution.

"What's your name?"

"Jack Dawkins," the kid replied; it was monotone.

Mark sighed again. "Are you going to take the hundred thou, then? If you are, maybe Harry can find you another lawyer."

The kid looked at him again, the first sign of life in a few moments. "But—"

"It won't be me," McCormick asserted. "I don't work for Harry anymore, and I don't work for anyone who works for him."

Jack's expression was still flat. He nodded once at this. The he dropped his gaze to the tabletop again. "I'll . . . have to think about it."

"Think fast," Mark said. "You're making Harry nervous."

"He said I was the best," the kid murmured again, almost below his breath.

McCormick pulled the recorder back toward him and slipped it back into the brief case, but he made no motion to leave. Silent seconds passed.

"My name's Pete . . . Peter."

"Peter what?" Mark looked up, hopefully.

No answer.

"Okay," he tried a new tack, "how old are you?"

Pete shook his head slowly. "I'm gonna have to think about this," he said with weary stubbornness.

"Dammit," Mark knew he was pushing too hard, but it came out anyway, "just give me that and I can get you out of this place. Give me something to work with." Even before the kid had replied, he knew he was losing his tenuous grasp on the situation.

The boy's look was dull, not even enough hope to be desperate. "I told you. I gotta think."

As if in punctuation, there came a quick double rap and the door opening. The guard leaned in and announced, "Visiting hours are up."

"Just your age," Mark repeated, insistently, but the kid was already on his feet, as though he didn't think he had enough resistance to stay a moment longer. "All right . . . tomorrow? We'll talk again?" McCormick asked.

The kid nodded once and allowed himself to be led out.

The door closed behind him and Mark felt his breath go out of him. That close. A few seconds longer. He had no doubt that the kid could rebuild his defenses again. A delusion that strong might bend without breaking, and he wouldn't take him unaware again.

He stood up slowly and gathered the rest of his things.

00000

It was twilight when he pulled into the drive again. Frank's car was alongside the fountain and the lights were on in the den. He climbed the steps and let himself in, not sure what kind of a reception he was going to get from the other two. He harbored a faint hope that they'd struck out, too.

He stepped into the den and took the offensive. "How'd it go on the numbers?"

"'Bout as well as you predicted," Hardcastle replied dryly. "The plates belong to a car that was reportedly totaled in an accident six months ago. The owner was a school teacher from Flagstaff with no connections to anything more serious than 'driving too fast for conditions'."

"And the phone number," Frank flipped open his notebook, "is unlisted, but cross-checks to an office building on 7th Street. We haven't got a warrant for that yet."

"No warrant, Frank." Mark turned quickly to the judge. "That's my only string to Harry. You get that, don't you? Don't cut it."

"Well, you didn't give us all that much to work with," Frank continued, "not much chance of getting a warrant anyway."

"What about the kid?" Hardcastle interrupted.

Mark dropped down into the nearest chair. "This close," he held up his thumb and finger, with a half inch spread. "His name is Pete."

"That's it?" Frank asked in disgust. "Pete?"

"It's a start," Hardcastle reassured him.

"He didn't much like the idea of being bought," Mark said quietly.

Frank perked up, "Harry's buying?" Then a frown. "And you're acting as the agent?"

Mark rubbed his forehead with his hand. "The kid hasn't said yes, and if he does I'll hand this back to the public defender's office. Don't worry, Frank, Hardcase already gave me the ethics lecture." Mark lifted his head and looked at the judge very intently. "But I don't think he's gonna say yes."

"Would you have?" the judge asked quietly.

"No," Mark said, almost under his breath. "And Harry doesn't get it; he doesn't even realize it. It's not just about the money."

00000

Frank departed, looking still unsatisfied, though Mark assured him he'd be back at the lock-up by the start of Monday visiting hours. The lieutenant had made one brief stab at the tape, right before he left.

"Did Harry commit himself at all? Anything about buying the kid's silence?"

To Mark's surprise, he hadn't had time to answer before Hardcastle stepped in.

"There's nothing of interest on the tape," the judge had insisted gruffly. "This guy's not an idiot. Old news is all he's going to talk about."

Mark had shot him a brief, grateful look as he got up to see Frank off to the door. When he returned to the doorway of the den a moment later, Hardcastle was sitting at his desk, looking a little tense, somewhat displeased.

"Okay," he said gruffly, as if he'd just finished an argument with himself, "maybe Frank doesn't need to hear it but—"

"Nothing of interest, remember?"

"To Frank."

"To anybody," Mark replied with quiet insistence. "Like you said, old news." Then he segued quickly. "Dinner? You thaw out any more of those trout? I could grill 'em this time."

"All right. You win." Hardcastle was still frowning. "Trout."

00000

For once, Mark was early for a visit to Central Lock-up. He queued up with the rest of the visitors—a different mix than the Sunday crowd, more lawyers, mostly here for initial consultations and arrangements with guys who'd been picked up over the weekend. Mark was still hoping that his name was on the invisible list of People Who Should Be Accommodated, but, as the minutes ticked by, he thought maybe Frank had been more cranky then he'd appeared the evening before.

Mark sighed, settled back against the wall, and waited patiently for nearly a half-hour. The crowd never thinned, but the faces changed; other people were moving in and out. Forty minutes passed, and McCormick had had enough with patience. He moved up to the desk again, and gave his name and Dawkins'. This time he got a sharp look from the desk officer, who then glanced over at another man—a suit, not a uniform—who'd just arrived.

"You're here for Dawkins, Jack?" The officer asked, unnecessarily.

McCormick nodded, and followed the jerk of the other man's head, trailing him into a side room. This had the disturbing feeling of 'Not Routine' and Mark could only hope the kid hadn't done something stupid.

The guy in the suit introduced himself as Keilman. "You're Dawkins' attorney?"

It was all very businesslike. Not particularly hostile. Back to the ordinary harassing routine of The System. Mark felt a brief wave of relief.

"Yeah, McCormick, Mark. I was hoping to see my client this morning. We need to finish up a few things before, ah, Detective Ambrochi interviews him today." It never hurt to have an air of cooperation, no matter what your intentions.

The look on Keilman's face was briefly unreadable. "You're with Judge Hardcastle, aren't you?"

Mark nodded. That was usually another useful admission, though he tried not to be the one to bring it up first.

Keilman definitely looked unhappy now, and there was a silent second following the change in expression, as though the man had something he didn't want to say.

"Your client isn't available," he said flatly.

"What do you mean?" Mark leaned forward, all pretense of cooperation gone. "What the hell is going on? Dammit, he's in the infirmary—" Mark cut himself off with a shake of his head, tried to gather himself in. Stay cool. Don't lose it. That won't help. He dragged himself back from the anger and went on, in his most convincingly professional voice, "Doesn't matter. I need to see him anyway."

"Not the infirmary," Keilman said quietly.

Mark froze where he stood. "What happened?"

But the rest of it, Keilman's voice, "Found . . . the M.E. . . . no report yet . . . maybe strangled," came across as single sharp words against a background buzz.

"You better sit down." There was a chair behind him and Keilman pushing him down into it. "You're his lawyer?"

He didn't bother to answer the questioning tone.

"We have no next-of-kin listed."

That was a question, too, Mark supposed.

"Harry," he muttered, grim, breathless. "Harry Harrison."

"Do you know how to reach him?"

"Maybe."

They left him alone for a moment. He stayed where he was, eyes closed, head back against the cold wall behind the chair he was sitting on. He heard Frank's voice, along with Keilman's, out in the hallway. Frank sounded angry but he couldn't make out the words.

"I came as soon as I heard." It was Harper, nearer at hand, the anger pushed aside.

Mark opened his eyes, without moving otherwise. Frank was looking down at him.

"I called Milt. He's on his way."

Mark nodded, said nothing. Frank looked unhappy, concerned. Concerned about you, though, mostly. Mark felt his own anger rising again like bile.

"It was Harry," he said bitterly.

"Come on, Mark," Frank pulled a chair over and sat down, leaning forward, "that fast? That doesn't figure. Dawkins had no access to a phone. There was no way Harry coulda known what was going down at this end."

Mark took this in, slowly.

"Maybe."

"There was no way," Frank repeated, and it covered a whole lot of maybes, as though he was still trying to convince himself.

"Not Harry, then," Mark said, hard. The anger was still there, like a lump in the middle of his chest. "Not directly. Just . . ." he looked around him at the room, and everything beyond it, "a kid in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . maybe."

"It happens," Frank said tightly.

"Yeah," Mark replied, fixing his gaze on Harper, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. "Which part of that didn't we get? That things like this happen."

"Dammit, Mark, he coulda gotten himself out of here right at the start. At any time after that. All he had to do was—"

"But he thought it was about something other than the money," Mark said sharply. Then he was on his feet, shaking free of Frank's temporarily restraining hand.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Harper asked. "I told ya; Milt's on the way."

"Good, you explain it to him," Mark muttered. "I need some air."

He pushed past Frank, and headed for the door before the other man could intervene. Keilman, in the hallway, just stared. No one else paid him the slightest attention.

The crowd in the waiting room had thinned. It was, for all appearances, a routine Monday morning, business as usual.

00000

He drove. That was the one thing that had always been very uncomplicated. Like breathing. Maybe it was that way for him, too.

You'll never know.

Some part of him knew the driving wasn't random, and he wasn't altogether surprised to wind up in Griffith Park. Another part had evidently been watching for a public phone. He pulled over at the first he saw and fished enough change out of his pocket. He dialed, let it ring, hung up, dialed again. As expected, no answer either time.

The second time he hung up, he stood there for a moment, feeling a cold chill of inevitability run through him. There was another number he wanted to dial, but no one would be home there and, at any rate, it was too late. Twenty years too late, maybe.

He leaned back against the Coyote, closing his eyes again. A little while longer.

He'd lost track of time, but the phone, ringing, startled him out of his unhappy thoughts. He snatched at it but said nothing, at first, into the receiver.

"Mark?" The voice at the other end sounded only a little edgy.

"Yeah." McCormick kept his own voice nearly emotionless.

"Something up? You met with him?"

It sounded relatively sincere, but, then, from Harry, everything did.

"We need to meet."

"Good," Harry sounded satisfied. "The usual place? The one with the nice view?" He sounded pleased with himself. "Shall I bring cash?"

"Yes," Mark said flatly. Answering both questions in the way Harry would expect.

"Fifteen minutes, then. I'll see you there." And then Harry hung up.

He drove slowly to the observatory parking area. He sat watching a school group heading into the building. High schoolers. Kids. They were laughing, joking. Enjoy it while you can. It can get complicated real quick.

He pulled himself out of his seat and walked over to the fence on the west side, away from all the visitors. The voices had faded. Everyone was inside. He sat on the bench and closed his eyes again. The view was of no interest today.

He doubted it was even fifteen minutes before he heard footsteps. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked to the side. Harry, smiling. He sat down on the bench, a little over an arm's reach away. He had a small case with him; his other hand was in his pocket.

Business, as usual.

"How is he?" Harry asked cheerfully.

"Dead." Mark looked at him straight on. So damn much depended on what he saw next.

A blink, a look of fumbled confusion, as the one word sank in and became understood. And there it was, just a flash, a momentary glimpse of the truth—relief passed across the man's face, promptly replaced with an appropriate degree of concern.

"Dead? What the hell do you mean?" He asked it with measured intensity.

"Strangled, in the lock-up," Mark said dully. "That's all I know so far."

"You don't think I had—?"

"Apparently not," Mark replied. The anger wasn't so easy to submerge now. "You wouldn't have had enough time to make any arrangements."

"We had a deal," Harry drew himself back, clutching the case to his side. "You know I only wanted what was best for Jack."

"Pete . . . his name was Pete." He watched the color drain out of Harry's face. "He talked to me last night. He told me everything."

"The hell he did," Harry balked, but it was evident from the sweat that he believed it.

"Yeah, kids these days," Mark muttered, "no loyalty."

Harry's eyes narrowed as he talked. "It was kind of you to bring me the news."

"Kind?" Mark laughed harshly. "We still have some business, don't we?"

Harry said nothing. The sweat spoke for him.

"I figure $250,000," Mark added. "That's $100,000 plus twenty years interest." He was watching the face, not the hand in the pocket. He was certain that he could read that better.

"It's extortion," Harry flustered. "You wouldn't do it."

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe I have caught a bad case of honest." Mark switched tacks without missing a beat. "Maybe I'll just go tell Lieutenant Harper about it."

As if in perfect timing he saw the man's sedan cruise slowly into view, far off on the other side of the observatory plaza. Harry's back was to it all. It wouldn't take them long to spot the Coyote, though. He had only a minute or two left to get this done.

At the same time he saw Harry's hand twitch, and he thought, despite everything, he'd rather not have the charge be murder.

00000

"There," Hardcastle said, as if it needed pointing out.

Frank frowned, no one in or near the car. "Then he came up here just to—"

"To meet Harry, dammit," Milt was half out of the car even before Frank had it in park, his eyes glaring south.

Harper followed his gaze and quickly picked out the two figures on the bench at the far end of the plaza, alongside the observatory. One was all too familiar, and facing toward them, leaning forward a little toward the other.

"Hold on. I'll call for backup," Frank reached for the radio. "We'll get this guy."

"For what?"

"Person of interest," Frank said grimly. "We'll figure the rest out later on. Hell, we'll sic the IRS on him if he's walking around with the bribe money."

Milt was around the car now, on Frank's side, still staring intently at the men on the bench. "Come on, then," he said, low and intent, and Harper knew he wasn't going to be able to hold him back for much longer.

He reached the dispatcher, and was relaying a terse message, while Hardcastle edged away from the car. He was reaching out with his other hand to corral the man, when they both saw sudden movement over by the bench.

00000

A knife was not what he'd been expecting, though it made a lot more sense than trying to shoot someone in broad daylight in front of Griffith Observatory. One part of him cataloged that part with a small sense of relief, while another discovered ruefully that if you try to deflect a knife with the same maneuver you'd use for a gun—

"Dammit, Harry!"

He'd shouted it, but it was unnecessary. Hardcastle was already moving toward them at a run and Frank was closing fast behind him. But this momentarily distracted him from the backward slash and his attempt to push away was hindered by the armrest of the bench. The same arm caught most of it, and he saw Harry pulling up for a stab, not giving him any time to explain what an act of futility this was. Frank was in the lead now, and almost close enough to—

"Police, drop it!"

It was a near-run thing, McCormick thought, whether Harry's brain would catch up with his reflexes. Mark had already gotten a grip on his wrist, but felt it slipping—too much blood.

It didn't matter. Hardcastle was behind the bench now, staying out of Frank's line of fire but reinforcing the lieutenant's request with a grip and maneuver intended to make holding onto anything very painful. The knife clattered to the pavement. Harry slumped into himself with a ragged breath—more emotion by far than Mark had seen at the announcement of Pete's death.

McCormick watched the whole thing with a sort of odd detachment—Frank and Hardcastle getting the guy under control. They really were a couple of pretty good cops. And there were sirens now, still a ways off. He closed his eyes and tucked his arm up against his chest—it burned like bejeezus.

Hardcastle, talking to him.

"What?" He opened his eyes and squinted up.

"I said, 'You okay?' I thought maybe you passed out on me there for a minute."

Mark blinked once. "Sheesh, no. Just a couple of cuts . . . just hurts." He looked down slowly. There was an impressive amount of blood on his sleeve and hand. "Really," he added. "You can go ahead and yell at me if you want." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.

"Later," he heard Hardcastle say, a little distantly.

00000

The judge reached out, and stopped the slow topple to the side. "Frank?" he shouted.

"They're on their way," Harper said, as he handed Harry over to the uniformed officers.

The judge nodded, lowering Mark flat onto the bench and muttering. "That was stupid—a stupid chance."

A faint grimace traced across the younger man's face. Hardcastle noted it with a twinge of guilt, then said, a little louder, "Well, it was."

"I said you could yell," Mark murmured, "not grumble . . . Anyway," he sighed heavily, "I didn't have a lot of time to think it through. As soon as Harry found out about Pete, he'd have been out of here, out of L.A. Gone who knows where?" He took a breath. "Another town, another Jack."

"You coulda waited for me," Hardcastle protested.

"I thought it was too late for that," Mark smiled sadly. "Maybe not." He was closing his eyes again. "Anyway, we got him." He frowned. "Woulda been better if he'd had a gun. More charges. Attempted murder."

"It was crazy." Hardcastle kept his voice low—absolutely no yelling.

"Okay, maybe," Mark cradled his arm a little more and shivered. "But we got him."

00000

Frank figured he'd find them at home, only three days after Mark's release from the hospital. It was Milt who'd met him at the door, and ushered him into an otherwise unoccupied den.

Harper handed him the folder but didn't sit down. Milt accepted it with one raised eyebrow, then took a seat behind his desk before he opened it. Frank wandered over to the other window, looking out across the lawn.

He glanced back over his shoulder; Milt had settled in for a read. The silence didn't last long. He heard a grunt and then. "Sixteen and a half, plus or minus three months."

"That's what M.E. says the radiographic analysis showed," Frank shook his head. "I could have told 'em the same thing just by looking at the kid."

He saw him reading again. Another low rumble, some words uttered under his breath. He must've gotten to the part about the cause of death— the crush injury to the trachea.

"We've got a suspect," Frank offered. "Same M.O. as the murder he was being held on. Got some physical evidence." Frank looked down at his feet. "No connection to Harry."

This got him a sharp look from the older man.

"But don't worry. The D.A. is approving all the other charges against him, might even consider attempted murder."

"Feeling a little guilty themselves?" Hardcastle asked dryly.

"Let's just say the heat is coming down."

"Too late," Milt let out a heavy breath and closed the folder. "Want it back right now?" He tapped it lightly.

"No, that one's yours." Frank glanced out the window again, then asked, "Where's Mark?"

"Out in the garage, messing with the Coyote . . . I can show him this."

"You mean let me off the hook?"

"That's what you're thinking?" Hardcastle asked. "That he's holding you responsible?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, that'd be easy."

"Well," Frank shrugged, "he railed on me pretty good, back at Central. Can't say as I blamed him."

"Oh, that must've been before he had a chance to work it all out."

"So, now it's somehow his fault?"

"Yeah." Hardcastle looked exasperated.

Harper shook his head in disbelief. "But he was the only one who was even remotely right about how bad this might turn out."

"Yeah, which make him most responsible, since the rest of us were apparently clueless."

Frank winced.

"Oh, and here's the capper; you'll like this one. He's figuring none of this would have ever happened if he'd had the sense to turn Harry in twenty years ago . . . Apparently there is no statute of limitations on guilt in McCormick's book."

"Twenty years ago, huh?"

"Yup, and that makes him responsible not just for Pete, but for the seventy or so nameless kids in between."

"Um," Frank studied his friend's face for a moment before plunging ahead, "just how involved was he in all of this . . . I mean twenty years ago?"

"Dammit, Frank, he was fifteen. You were a shortstop; I played basketball. He was living on the street." Hardcastle sat back and took a deep breath, rubbing his temples.

"And I thought," he added quietly, "we had gotten past all that."

"Well," Frank said, after a few moments of silence, "maybe I should talk to him."

Milt sighed, and then said, "Go ahead," and waved him toward the door. "Good luck."

Frank nodded once as he ducked out into the hallway and headed for the back door.

00000

He found him sitting alongside the Coyote, cross-legged, with a sponge and a bucket, though it didn't look like much actual work was getting done. His right arm was still cradled in a sling, which he'd managed to get fairly wet.

"Hey," Frank said.

The younger man looked up, startled, then nodded and went back to what he hadn't been doing.

"How's the arm?"

"One day better than yesterday," Mark replied. It wasn't particularly hostile; more in the line of 'leave me the hell alone'.

"He was sixteen," Frank said flatly. "M.E.'s report. Gave it to Milt."

A grunt and then, "You came here to cheer me up, Frank?"

"No," Harper shook his head. "Just wanted you to know, based on that, and the name, Peter, we narrowed it down pretty quick. Got a missing person's report out of Arizona, Flagstaff, a kid named Peter Helsavari. Went missing about six months ago. Aunt reported it, but it sounded pretty perfunctory. No priors, but he was reportedly a whiz with cars. We sent some photos. I think it'll probably be a match."

Mark didn't look up.

"And there's some interest there in Harry. Seems they had a kid, picked up on a GTA beef last year, released on bond, found dead a week later. Stabbed."

"Oh, God." It was very quietly spoken and he said nothing more.

"Dammit, Mark."

This got a sharp upward glance. "And how many more do you think there were?"

"I dunno," Frank said, "but you were no older or wiser than any of the rest. So, how does that make you responsible? And, anyway, I am glad I dragged you into this. If you hadn't gotten him to tell you his first name, we never would have I.D.'d him."

"Well," Mark dropped the sponge into the bucket, "lot of good that does him."

"—and he'd still be just as dead as he is now. But we would never have gotten our hands on Harry, and never made any connection between him and Flagstaff." Frank stood there, hands in his pockets. "I just wish you'd have maybe let us pick him up the old-fashioned way."

"Don't worry," Mark looked down again, shaking his head, "I already got that lecture from Hardcase, too."

"And I am sorry," Harper added.

Mark lifted his head, his puzzlement apparent. "Why? I thought you said you were glad you dragged me into it."

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you more," Frank said simply.

There was a pause, the younger man looking up at him steadily.

"Frank," Mark finally said quietly, "you're a good cop. You did what you could."

"And it wasn't enough."

"But it was all you could do," McCormick insisted.

"I suppose," Frank exhaled. He let it sit for a beat. "And what about you, then?"

It had been underhanded, and, from the look on the younger man's face, absolutely unexpected. Mark flushed a little, opened his mouth, and then closed it without saying a word in denial.

"I rest my case, Counselor," Frank said, and then he leaned over and offered him a hand up.