Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Four (In which Mark swims down the River "De"-nial, and flounders in the deep end.)

What did she say? Was he understanding her right? He was a. . . father?

Mark didn't move, didn't react. He barely breathed.

Martina lightly squeezed his hands, and she could feel they were trembling slightly. "Mark? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The tremble moved steadily up to his shoulders. Then McCormick gave himself a hard shake and pulled his hands away, rising so fast he almost lost his balance.

"No."

"Mark, I'm so sorry –"

"NO." He backed away, shaking his head violently. He couldn't do this. He couldn't be the fall guy for her delusions, her fantastic stories. First she's telling him he's got some sort of weird kidney disease, now she's telling him he's got a kid –

Martina stood up from the couch and began to approach him. McCormick continued to back away, running into the mantle and jarring his bruised arm. He didn't even register the pain.

"That's why I called you, Mark. After you went back to Florida, when I found out – "

"Stop it, Marty. Just stop."

"We need to talk about this!"

"There's nothing to talk about!" Mark felt a thickness in his throat as he yelled the words. "You're wrong! Everything – You're wrong about everything!" He was starting to feel light-headed. He clenched his hands so his nails bit into his palms, but the pain was remote and did little to clear his head. He suddenly felt exhausted and ready to drop.

Out of nowhere, a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

McCormick whirled around in reaction, one hand raised in a fist ready to fly.

Hardcastle realized that if the kid had been at one hundred percent, he probably would have delivered a devastating right cross to Milt's face. But Mark was barely on his feet, his face pale and his eyes wild. In the brief moment that it looked like McCormick would actually hit him, Milt could see it seemed Mark barely recognized him.

Milt was able to block the punch, easily catching Mark's approaching fist. Then he took McCormick's other arm, and firmly led him to the nearest chair. "Sit," he said, but it ended up being unnecessary. Mark dropped into the chair limply, all of his earlier anger and thoughts of escape disappearing. He stared up at the judge with a continued dazed expression.

"Did I hit you?"

Hardcastle waved him off impatiently. "You look like you couldn't hit a fly. What the hell was all the hollering about in here? What's going on?" Milt didn't ask if the younger man was all right, because it was pretty obvious he wasn't. Mark was shaking slightly, and beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead. At least he was sitting down.

Martina had come to kneel in front of McCormick. "Mark. Mark, look at me," she commanded, and Milt heard an authoritative pitch in her voice. He regarded her warily.

McCormick was shaking his head and muttering, refusing to make eye contact. Hardcastle started toward him, but Martina held up a hand. "I've got this," she said confidently.

Mark suddenly lurched forward, wrapping his arms around himself as he started gasping for breath. Martina leaned in, placing her hands on his arms.

"Mark. You're fine. You're going to be all right. You just need to breathe."

"I can't – " McCormick gasped. "Can't breathe."

"What's wrong with him?" Hardcastle's panic was beginning to mirror McCormick's.

Martina spoke to him without taking her eyes off of Mark. "It's a panic attack. He'll be fine. He just needs to get through it."

"Get 'through' it?" the judge repeated. "Does he look like he's getting through it?"

Mark was convulsively swallowing in between gulping breaths. His eyes were tightly closed. He started to murmur a kind of chant. Milt moved closer to hear the words, and was dismayed by what he heard McCormick saying.

". . .Gonna die - Gonna die - Gonna die. . ."

"Mark, you're fine, you're safe. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Martina spoke over Mark's words. "You're fine, you're all right. Calm down and breathe. Listen to my voice."

Martina continued with the affirming words, occasionally rubbing McCormick's arms. She was singularly minded, focused only on Mark.

It was gradual, but Milt could hear with relief that McCormick's breathing had begun to settle. There were still random wheezes, but it seemed he was able to finally draw in a normal breath. After another few minutes some color began to return to the kid's face. And when Mark opened his eyes and blinked several times, the judge could see his eyes were clear and alert.

The whole episode had lasted maybe ten minutes, but to the judge it had felt like an eternity. Outside of a hospital room, he didn't think he'd ever seen McCormick so utterly out of control before. And the fact that he'd had no idea how to help his friend had made Milt feel just as helpless.

Mark was adjusting himself in the chair, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his arms. He looked at Martina with an open, grateful expression.

"I don't know how you do that." His voice shook a little, but otherwise sounded relatively normal. He gave a short exhale. "Thanks."

Martina rocked back on her heels, still regarding Mark closely. "Are you all right?" she asked, and her tone made it seem like she knew better what to expect than he did.

Mark tried for a reassuring smile and was able to produce a small one. "Yeah, I think it's over now. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. . . " He trailed off as his face contorted in pain. "Uh, maybe not over. Oh, crap." And then he was on his feet, pushing past her to rush out of the den toward the bathroom. He wasn't able to close the door before he began retching. Hardcastle followed behind, closing the door to give the kid some privacy.

The judge slowly returned to the den, then glared at Martina in worried anger. "What the hell's going on!"

"He'll be okay. It's normal – "

"None of this is normal!" Hardcastle erupted. "From the minute you showed up, he's been acting nutty. Now I don't know what just happened, but somebody better tell me what's going on here, or I'll –"

"You'll what, Judge?"

McCormick stood in the doorway of the den with his arms crossed. He looked pale and weary, but otherwise in one piece.

Instead of answering the question, Milt looked anxiously at his friend. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. I'm a little shaky and I need to brush my teeth, but I'm all right." Mark grinned slightly. "It was just a panic attack, Hardcase."

Milt stared at him, incredulous. Mark elaborated, his voice hesitant. "I have had them before. This isn't even the first one you've seen."

"I doubt that." Hardcastle frowned. "I think I would have remembered you going through something like that, kiddo."

McCormick shook his head stubbornly. "You didn't know me. I mean, not really. It was when I got sent up for taking my Porsche. When you sentenced me."

Martina was watching the two men quietly, her eyes slightly round as she listened to the semi-private conversation.

Milt was rubbing his jaw in thought as he considered Mark's statement. "That story you told the kids in San Gabriel, about how you felt like you were gonna bolt, maybe get yourself shot?" McCormick gave a brief affirming nod. "I kind of remember that, how unsteady you looked after the jury came back. But you weren't like this."

"Yeah. Well." McCormick didn't explain any further, and his eyes shifted nervously. Then he asked, "You got a spare toothbrush somewhere?"

Hardcastle rolled his eyes. "Check the drawers in my bathroom upstairs. There's probably one from my last dentist visit."

McCormick left the doorway and headed up the staircase. The judge turned again to Martina. His face was hard and uncharitable.

"I want to know exactly what you did or said that got him that way. Now."

Author's Note: The reference to the "kids in San Gabriel" and McCormick's physical reaction at his sentencing is borrowed from The Verdict, an awesome fanfic by the talented wordsmith cheride. Read it, it's great.

-ck