Inheritance Tax by IntialLuv

Chapter Seven (In which Mark loses control, and Martina and Milt join forces.)

McCormick felt a fearful stab in his gut at Hardcastle's exclamation. It was one thing if Martina professed concern – he remembered that feeling, and even after so many years, he could still understand it. But when Hardcase was worried for his well-being. . . Well, that was unusual. Sure, the judge worried about him being late for his classes, worried about him forgetting to stop at the meat market to pick up steaks for dinner. He worried about him using the wrong fertilizer on the roses, worried about him not paying the gatehouse phone bill. But Hardcastle didn't show obvious worry about his health – unless, of course, it involved an injury that necessitated an unexpected hospital stay. And since he'd been in law school, those had been few and far between. There weren't a lot of bad guys to chase in the lecture halls and libraries.

If Hardcastle ever did mention McCormick's health, it was typically to grouse or lecture. "Make sure you dry your hair before you go out – I don't want to hear you whining tomorrow that you've got a cold!" was a common grumble if McCormick had recently taken a shower or had been swimming in the pool. The judge was also fond of criticizing what kind of (junk) food McCormick ate, and how much. "Don't expect me to feel sorry for you when you're up all night with a stomach ache!" was another familiar phrase.

Yet now here was Hardcastle looking at him with intense alarm, acting like if he touched him he might break. And all of Mark's earlier resolve, all of his adamant declarations of being "fine," began to unravel. He could believe there was nothing wrong with him if the only person telling him otherwise was a woman who hadn't seen him in ten years. But when his best friend, who knew him almost as well as he knew himself, was obviously shaken by this health scare. . . If he didn't have Hardcastle declaring that he was fit as a fiddle, then –

The stab of pain became a deep throbbing ache. McCormick involuntarily gasped and pressed his hands against his stomach. His vision blurred. He heard a sharp high-pitched voice that could only be Martina, and the answering deep voice of Hardcastle's. He couldn't make out the words.

Mark gradually became aware that he was sitting in the judge's desk chair. The voices started to clear, becoming more words than noise, but the sentences ran together in an incoherent jumble.

"—is what I meant when I—"

"—don't think he passed out, not really—"

"Mark? Mark, can you—"

"Give him a min—"

Mark lifted his hands to place them protectively over his ears. "Stop! Please. My head is killing me."

Silence reigned. McCormick slowly lowered his hands and looked at the two people flanking him, peering down with identical anxious stares. It was almost funny, how their expressions matched. Yeah. Pretty damn funny.

The laughing startled him. It didn't sound like him, but he could feel it bubbling up inside and bursting out. He tried to pull it back in, but all he was able to do was inhale a gasp of air before the laughing took over again.

Distantly, McCormick realized that he was teetering on the brink. When was the last time he'd come this close to losing it? Prison? When he'd gotten the news that Flip was dead?

When he'd shot and killed Weed Randall.

The laughter stopped almost as abruptly as it had started. He suddenly noticed how rotten he felt.

"Kiddo?"

The single word was spoken with a vastness of undertones.

"I'm all right, Judge," he tried his best to sound assuring. "I could use a glass of water, though."

Hardcastle left so quickly it was as if he had predicted the request before Mark had even spoken the words.

Once the judge had departed, Martina reached out to swivel the desk chair, slowly turning Mark in her direction. Bending down slightly, she reached out to gingerly grasp his shoulders, mindful of the bruises. Without speaking, she bent forward so that her forehead was touching Mark's. After a moment, he leaned into her support, raising his arms to encircle her neck.

They were still in the quiet embrace when the judge returned with the water. He halted in the doorway, embarrassed to have interrupted the intimate moment. He faked a cough as he entered, alerting them of his presence.

Martina pulled away first. Her face was flushed and tears were falling freely. She looked around blearily, located her purse, and pulled out a small packet of tissues. Milt looked away, never quite comfortable around emotional women. Hell, there had even been times, early on in his marriage, when he had avoided Nancy if she had been in a similar state.

While Martina's face had been flushed, McCormick's was pale. He cleared his throat thickly and reached for the water, muttering a hoarse thanks. After a few tentative sips, he drained the glass in one long swallow.

"Better?" Milt asked.

McCormick nodded, but without much confidence. "I'm just tired. Maybe too much sun, got dehydrated or some–"

"You're kidding, right?" Hardcastle interrupted.

Mark looked challengingly at the judge. Milt shook his head impatiently.

"I'm done playing games, McCormick. I don't know what the hell's going on with you, but enough's enough. I'm calling Charlie."

McCormick barked out a laugh, looked momentarily worried that it might turn into hysterics again, and then was able to return to his glare.

"Go ahead. Like he's gonna be able to fit me right in. It's not like he waits around for us to call, you know. We're not his only patients."

"Then he'll refer somebody. Or I'll take you to the ER. But you're gonna see a doctor. Or a shrink. Or both."

McCormick's adverse reaction to the mention of a psychiatrist was immediately apparent on his face. Hardcastle saw the initial disbelief, which was quickly followed by anger. Then both emotions were overcome by a look that Milt could only describe as fear. For a moment he felt guilty, bringing that despised word into the conversation and scaring the kid. But the moment was fleeting, and the guilt was replaced by determination.

He needs to be scared. Something's going on, and scaring him might be the only way to get it out of him.

Meanwhile, Martina had composed herself, although her eyes were still red. She came to stand by the judge now, and they both waited for Mark's response.

Whereas Mark had had the earlier impression of a courtroom, he now imagined Martina and Hardcastle as "mom" and "dad," joining forces to compel his cooperation. He might be able to smooth talk his way out of a doctor or hospital visit with one of them, but there was no way he'd be able to use his conman skills against a united front.

McCormick weighed his options, considering what would happen if he just plain refused to see a doctor. The possible outcomes that came to his mind were not attractive.

"Okay," he agreed quietly. "Call Charlie."

And in the farthest corner of his mind, he planned ahead for escape.