Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Two (In which Mark interrogates his unexpected visitor, and puts his foot in his mouth.)

Milt had settled the woman in one of the den's armchairs, asked if she needed any refreshment, and then had sat himself down as well, a bit awkwardly. It wasn't that he was new to meeting the myriad of women in McCormick's life, but two things bothered him about this one: Mark's extreme reaction upon her arrival, and the fact that Hardcastle had never heard the kid utter one word about her. And what made the latter point even more confusing was that it obvious this Martina Rivera was someone important to McCormick. Or had once been someone important.

Hardcastle realized he'd been unintentionally assessing the woman, only becoming aware of it when she shifted nervously in her chair, delicately clearing her throat.

"I'm sure Mark'll be right over," he offered, his voice a little more coarse than he had planned.

She nodded quietly, looking around the room a bit. He saw her eyes rest on the mantle, where Nancy's picture sat, along with the statue of Lady Justice. That's good. Then her eyes caught sight of the gun rack on the wall near the doors. Not such a great reaction there.

The judge anxiously cleared his own throat, and looked over toward the front door, as if willing the kid to enter.

He was unprepared for the woman's sudden question.

"How is Mark?"

"He's good. Enjoying the break from school." At Martina's somewhat blank look, he continued. "Law school – you knew he was in law school, didn't you?"

It was obvious she hadn't known. Her eyes widened perceptibly, and she straightened in her chair, more alert.

"I. . . wasn't really sure of his arrangement here. I was in a hurry to get here; I didn't have much time to sort it all out."

Milt felt that disconcerted tinge again. In a hurry? From where? Why?

"But he's all right?" she asked, and he was a little surprised to hear concern in her voice. "He's. . . feeling okay?"

He found himself assessing her once more, trying to find her angle. "What do you mean? He's fine – careless and klutzy, but fine."

And the kid had been fine.

Well, there had been a few things. Hardcastle frowned slightly as he remembered how worn out Mark had been during the last few weeks of the semester, how he'd often looked pale and peaked. At the time, Milt had dismissed it as stress over his upcoming final exams – he knew McCormick had been studying non-stop. And being shut up in the classrooms and libraries hadn't done much for the kid's usual healthy tan.

But even after his finals were over, McCormick had still been out of sorts. He hadn't been the same challenging opponent on the basketball court, and often seemed distracted or withdrawn. Hardcastle had made a guess for that behavior, as well: he knew Mark felt the additional burden of not disappointing his mentor, and until his final grades arrived, that pressure wouldn't be relieved. It had been a common theme at each semester's end.

Milt knew no matter what the exam results were, there was no way he could be disappointed in the kid. Long before Mark had surprised him with the confession that he'd been secretly attending law school, he'd been proud of the young man. Proud of his loyalty, his resourcefulness, his ability to appraise and act accordingly in most any situation. Proud of the way McCormick had been turning his life around. The fact that he had enrolled in law school was just the icing on the proverbial cake.

Hardcastle was interrupted from his reverie by the noise of the front door opening. McCormick appeared at the doorway to the den, looking slightly less bedraggled. He had on a fresh shirt, had removed the bandana, and had done his best to get the grime off of his hands. But as he stepped down into the den and approached Martina, Milt could see the expression on the kid's face was one of confused apprehension.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," McCormick apologized, looking more at Hardcastle than Martina.

"It's fine," the woman responded, rising to meet Mark. "Are you sure you're all right, though? You fell pretty hard." She reached out again, and McCormick backed away slightly. Hardcastle was momentarily stunned - this was definitely not the kid's usual interaction with attractive women.

"I'm okay," McCormick assured her, then cracked a brief grin as he gestured at the judge. "I get banged up worse than that playing hoops against him one-on-one."

Martina looked at Hardcastle with displeasure. "Is that true? Why would you do that?"

Mark shook his head and held up a placating hand. "Marty, settle down. What are you so worked up about? I mean, you haven't seen me in ten years. I don't think you can really start criticizing me or my friends."

"I'm not – I'm just worried about you –"

McCormick gave a single spiteful laugh. "Right. You were so worried about me I haven't seen hide nor hair of you in a damn decade. Why now? Why are you here, Marty?"

Hardcastle could feel the tension rising and suddenly realized he was in danger of getting hit in the crossfire. He rose, and both Mark and Martina turned from each other to look at him. He tried to think of an excuse to leave.

"Uh, I'm gonna go see if I can salvage my engine, get your tools outta there," he directed at McCormick. His voice was brusque, but as the kid watched him leave Milt angled his eyes back at Martina and nodded, as if to say, I'll give you your privacy, kiddo.

Mark waited until the front door closed, and then he looked back at Martina.

"Maybe we should sit down, and you can tell me what the hell's going on."

They sat in neighboring chairs, and Mark pulled his a little to the left so they could face one another. He leaned forward with his arms resting on his knees and his hands clasped together. He regarded Martina with expectation.

She returned his gaze, then sighed and shook her head lightly. "You look – I don't know. The same. But something's different. Something – not. . . I don't know," she repeated.

"Well, you look great," Mark said softly.

She blushed slightly, lowering her eyes. Looking for a way to change the subject, she asked, "Your friend, he – "

"Judge Hardcastle."

"Okay, Judge Hardcastle. He said you're in law school?"

Mark smiled widely. "Just finished my second year about a week and a half ago. Bet that was a surprise, huh?"

"That's it," Martina said, almost to herself. She looked directly at Mark again. "You're happy. I don't think I've ever seen you happy."

McCormick sat up straight, and his face became pensive. "That can't be right."

Martina didn't respond. She absentmindedly fiddled with the strap of her cross-body purse. The silence was so complete that they both could hear the clock on the mantle ticking.

Mark inhaled, then let the breath out slowly. "I never thought about it that way," he admitted. "You were with me during some. . . bad things. But that's how I got through them – you made things a lot more tolerable. Just by being there." He swallowed, looked at a point somewhere past Martina's shoulder. "So, I guess I understand what happened when I called. I mean, I understood why you were done. Too much drama. It's okay."

"That's one of the reasons why I came here. I have to talk to you about that." Martina paused, not sure how to continue, then just plowed ahead. "I didn't know you called."

Mark didn't answer right away. There was a flaw there, he could feel it. He just had to find it.

Martina spoke when he didn't. "I was waiting, hoping you'd call. I thought maybe your roommate hadn't given you the message, maybe you were busy getting ready for a race, I don't know. I was going to call again, I needed to talk to you, but then I thought maybe you had gotten my message and you just didn't want to call me back. I know you were uncomfortable with how we left things – "

He cut her off, bothered by where her ramblings were headed.

"I called."

"I know that now."

"But you didn't know before?" Mark tried to replay the conversation in his head. He'd called long distance to New York on his roommate's dime, ended up speaking to Martina's mother, and the words she had spoken had traveled all the way to Florida to pierce his heart.

The flaw in the argument suddenly became apparent.

"She told me you were done with me. That you and I had different lives, different goals, something like that. That you had 'outgrown' me." McCormick realized he was clenching the armrests of the chair tightly, and that he was developing a tension headache. He tried to relax, but the memories felt so fresh, so raw.

"And it's not like I could've called her on it, y'know? I mean, what, a few months when we were kids? A day or so maybe eight years later?" He laughed, but there was little humor in it. "That's our M.O., huh? Trying to play 'catch up' after too many years.

"But if you didn't know I called – I know you say you do now – that means she didn't tell you. And she didn't tell you because she wanted me the hell away from you."

"Mark – "

"When did she tell you? When did she finally tell you she screwed us over?"

Martina shook her head, her lips pursed tightly together. It wasn't a dismissal of Mark's comment; it was her resistance to telling him the answer.

McCormick stood and started to pace restlessly. "God, I knew she hated me, but to lie like that, to give me that crap and then not even tell you I called – " He momentarily stopped pacing to look at the silent woman. "Unless it wasn't crap. Unless that's what you were going to tell me if I did call, and she just beat you to it."

"No, Mark. . ."

But he was on a roll, angrily pacing again. "No, she didn't tell you I called, because she thought you'd be weak, that you might change your mind if you actually talked to me. But if you thought I hadn't called, that I didn't care that you were trying to get in touch with me, then you'd truly realize what a loser I was and you'd be glad I was out of your life."

"Stop it!" Martina was standing now as well, and she reached out to take one of Mark's arms, to stop him from pacing. He jerked it back with a unconscious gasp of pain.

Martina watched Mark rub his arm where she had grasped it, on the bicep under his shirt sleeve. She gently moved his hand, then tentatively pushed the sleeve up. McCormick pulled away, quickly pushing the sleeve back down.

But Martina had seen the fresh bruises circling his upper arm. It was obvious by the fearful concern in her hazel eyes.

"That's where he grabbed you, to help you up?"

Mark let out an impatient sigh. "He didn't 'grab' me. No, it's an old bruise. Basketball, I told you."

"It looks like the shape of a handprint."

McCormick fixed a stony expression on his face and didn't respond.

"Don't do that to me!" Martina suddenly exploded, and threatening tears made her voice tremble. "Don't lie to me, don't shut me out!"

"Me?" Mark returned incredulously. "I wasn't the one doing the 'shutting out!' You needed to talk to me so bad when you called down to Florida, and then all of a sudden ten years have gone by and now you show up? And I'm just supposed to be understanding, and tell you everything? Okay, you know about law school. Do you know about prison?"

Martina looked at Mark steadily, watching him as he tried to slow his breathing and rein in his temper. When she spoke it was quiet and calm.

"I know you got arrested . . . I tried to reach you a second time. When I called, your roommate told me."

McCormick snorted. "Yeah, he probably couldn't wait to spread the good news." Not wanting to take advantage of Flip's hospitality, Mark had moved into a small apartment with Gary Skipper, another driver. They had soon realized they had little in common, other than the same profession and similar nicknames.

Mark sighed dejectedly. "But I'm not talking about a few days in a lock-up, or even short time in a county jail." He had both on his résumé. "I'm talking about prison." When Martina's gaze turned wary, he elaborated. "Why do you think I'm here, huh? With the judge? Well, I mean, not anymore, my parole's been up for over two years. . .

Martina backed up to the chair she had recently vacated, and slowly sunk into it. She stared at the floor in front of her. She realized she had started nervously fiddling with her purse again, and roughly lifted it over her head to set it aside.

"Marty."

She held up a hand. "I. . . didn't know if he had his information right. And even if he did. . . I thought if I could just see you, then I'd know if, if you were still you."

"Marty, you're not making any sense. Who are you talking about?"

She responded flatly, as if he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. "The private investigator. The one we used to find you."

Now it was Mark's turn to return to his seat. "You what?"

"Well, you've moved around," she answered practically. "And after Florida I didn't know where to look. It's not like you had relatives you kept in touch with." She looked up distractedly. "I think your cousin got married. I remember seeing an announcement in the paper."

"Yeah?" Mark asked, mild interest mixing with doubt. "Probably a lot of Annie McCormicks in New York."

"There was a picture. I know I only met her that once, at the visitation, but I think it was her."

"We're getting off the subject here, Marty." Mark rubbed his head, trying to beat back the tension headache that was building into a migraine. "You used a private eye to find me?"

She was unapologetic. "His name was Fields. It worked. It wasn't that hard. He knew you."

"Fields?" McCormick repeated, feeling lost.

"Well, he actually knew you through a 'colleague' of his, a man named Baily from Los Angeles?" Mark gave a brief nod, his face tense. Martina continued. "Once we gave him your name, and told him that you used to race and that you had a record. . . He said he remembered you from when this Baily helped you locate someone back home. Fields was Mr. Baily's East Coast - what did he call it? Contact."

"You keep saying 'we.' Who's 'we?'"

Martina took in a breath, then said rather quickly, "My mother and me."

McCormick started to laugh. Martina frowned, crossing her arms in annoyance. Mark saw her discomfort and tried to regain a somber expression, but it didn't hold long before he was snickering again.

"What's so funny?" Martina demanded. "You should know she feels awful about what she did, what she told you when you called. She told me she was almost glad when you – "

Martina broke off, realizing what she had nearly said. But McCormick had figured it out, and the laughter died out.

"She was glad to hear I got arrested. Because that meant she was right about me. She got me away from you just in time. It didn't matter how she did it – me screwing up justified her lying to both of us."

"Yes," Martina replied softly. "But even though she thought she was doing the right thing at the time, Mark, she honestly feels terrible now. She was the one who thought about finding you through the private investigator, she paid for it – "

"Why?"

"Why?" Martina echoed, stalling for time.

"Yeah. Why? Why would she care so much about finding me, about trying to 'fix' things?" Mark shook his head in scorn. "What, is she on her death bed?"

He instantly regretted the smart remark. Martina visibly blanched, and the utter sadness on her face made his stomach twist with painful guilt.

"Oh, God, Marty – I'm sorry, I didn't mean. . . It's not – she's not. . ."

"No. My mother's not the one who's sick."

The implications of her reply hit him like a punch in the gut. Mark didn't think his stomach could take much more of this.

He stared at Martina, but found he couldn't speak.