Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Ten (In which the garage gets cleaned and supper gets eaten.)

Hardcastle rose as McCormick came striding back into the waiting area.

"You done already?"

McCormick gave the judge a sour expression. "How long do you think it takes to pee in a cup? Let's get out of here."

The two men were soon seated in the 'Vette, and Hardcastle turned the car back toward home. McCormick opened the glove compartment and began to rummage around, finally pulling out a pair of sunglasses. He put on the dark glasses, then settled back in his seat in an attempt to look relaxed. Hardcastle gave him a sideward glance. In direct contrast to the casual posture, he could feel tension coming off the younger man in waves.

"You gonna tell me what happened in there?"

Mark waved a hand in response. "Just routine tests. You know. I don't really know anything yet."

"When are you supposed to see Charlie?"

"He's supposed to call me tomorrow when the results are in." McCormick lifted a hand and slowly massaged his forehead. Hardcastle chanced another look at him, and while his attention was diverted, he narrowly missed rear-ending the vehicle in front of them. They both braced reflexively in their seats as Hardcastle slammed on the brakes.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Hardcase! Stop looking at me!" McCormick yelled in exasperation. He winced, and his hand rose to immediately rub his forehead again.

Both men were silent for the next few miles, but the passenger's tension had now settled on the driver. He let out an exhausted sigh, and the passenger turned to look at him.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. Just 'keeping my eyes on the road.' Now stop bothering me."

McCormick fell quiet, but continued to gaze at his friend from behind darkened lenses. It wasn't long before Milt flashed an impatient frown in his direction.

"Stop looking at me!"

"Judge. . . "

"I thought you wanted me to pay attention to the road. What the hell do you want, McCormick?" Milt asked, his voice tired.

"It's not my fault, you know."

Hardcastle was silent. His focus was on getting them home, preferably in one piece, and after that, well. . .

"Judge, did you hear me?"

"I'm not deaf, McCormick!"

"I just mean, if – if I'm sick. . . It's not my fault. I can't make it go away. I mean, I'm sorry – "

Hardcastle looked away from the road again. Anyway, they were almost home, he knew the route like the back of his hand. This kid, though, he might never figure him out.

"Sorry? What are you saying 'sorry' for? This kidney thing – you're not to blame for that!"

Mark took in an uneven breath, flinging his arms out in frustration. "That's what I'm saying! So why are you mad at me?"

Milt shook his head, tight-lipped.

"Judge, please, talk to me!"

They were at the head of the driveway, and Hardcastle brought the car to a momentary stop as he pressed the remote to open the gate. He turned to face McCormick.

"That goes both ways, kiddo. I know you're not being honest with me. I heard what you were telling Charlie on the phone, the things you've been dealing with the last coupla weeks. And I gotta wonder why you didn't tell me any of it. I also gotta wonder if you would've even admitted how you were feeling if Martina hadn't shown up and stirred up the whole hornet's nest."

Mark realized he'd been apologizing for the wrong thing. Hardcastle pulled the Corvette into the garage and turned off the engine, but neither man made an effort to exit the car. Milt cleared his throat, as if in preparation to talk, but Mark was the first to speak.

"My blood pressure was high."

Hardcastle nodded, but didn't answer. He didn't think he had the energy to respond.

McCormick had taken off the sunglasses, and was absentmindedly fiddling with them. "Marty said that was one of the symptoms," he said. "Along with the bruises, and – Oh, damn, along with everything." He ran a hand over his face, and then abruptly flung the sunglasses out onto the garage floor with as much force as was possible. When that did nothing to lessen the sudden overwhelming fury, Mark quickly climbed out of the car to slam the door and head over to the garage shelves.

Before Hardcastle was able to get out of the driver's seat, McCormick was throwing the items off the shelves with both hands, sending oil cans and grilling tools and newspapers and cans of bug spray to the floor. A camping lantern bit the dust. A terracotta flower pot exploded. Finding some satisfaction in the sight of the shattered clay, McCormick found another pot and slammed it down, reducing it to rubble and dust.

Then Hardcastle was there, grabbing his flailing arms and trying to shake him at the same time. "McCormick! Knock it off!"

Mark tried to pull away, intent on his singular mission of destruction. Milt had to apply more pressure on the kid's arms than he wanted -Think of the bruises he'll have now- to get him to respond.

"Owwww – Judge!"

Hardcastle didn't remove his grip. He locked his eyes on McCormick's, and was momentarily shocked by the hopeless fear he saw there. Milt had viewed the fit as more of a tangible primal scream of anger and frustration. He hadn't thought that the same fear that had seized his heart would be mirrored back in his friend's eyes.

Mark's rage had deflated, taking a backseat to the despair. He went limp, and when the judge released his arms he sagged back against the nearby workbench, raising his hands to cover his face.

"I can't do this, Judge," he quavered, his voice muffled. "I don't think I can do this."

"Listen, I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself." Hardcastle tried to sound practical, although it was a stretch. "You said yourself the test results won't be in 'til tomorrow . . . It might not be this cyst thing. "

McCormick dropped his hands and stared at Hardcastle with such incredulity that the judge almost laughed.

"Hardcase, that has to be the dumbest thing you've ever said." McCormick's voice cracked with a shaky chuckle. "And you think I'm in denial."

Milt squinted at his young friend. "Denial? What kind of nonsense are you trying to say?" he grumbled defensively.

Mark just shook his head. "Never mind, Judge." He looked away, his gaze now taking in the chaos of the garage floor and the remaining disorder on the shelves. He sighed, then swept his hand at the mess.

"Oh, God, Judge, I'm sorry. Look at this."

"Ah, don't worry about it. I'll tackle it later. Let's just get out of here." Hardcastle turned to leave the garage, but McCormick hung back.

"What are you talking about? I did this – this is my mess. I'm not just going to leave it for you to fix." Mark was retrieving a broom and dustpan from their hooks on the wall. When the judge didn't move from his spot, instead regarding Mark suspiciously, the younger man grinned at him. "I will let you grab a garbage can, though. I think a lot of this stuff is toast."

The two men worked together to reshelve the things that could be salvaged, and pitch the ones that were "toast." McCormick swept up the broken pieces to deposit them in the garbage can, and when he rose with the full dustpan, a wince of pain crossed his face. He shot a quick glance at Hardcastle to see if the older man had noticed, but the judge seemed to be engrossed in his job of reorganizing the shelves.

The garage was returned to relative order in less than fifteen minutes. Mark returned the broom to its home, hung up the dust pan next to it, and then reached to massage the small of his back, grimacing. He heard the judge's soft steps behind him, and then his voice, just as soft.

"I think this is good, kiddo. Let's go see about dinner – you haven't eaten since breakfast."

Mark dutifully followed the judge into the house though the kitchen door. He wasn't hungry, and at the moment he had no interest in food, but he knew if he made that confession Hardcastle would get anxious, or angry, or both. Inwardly, Mark knew the judge was probably plenty anxious already, especially after his outburst in the garage, but he didn't want to tip the scales to outright concern. The soft voice in the garage had been unnerving, like Hardcastle had been walking on eggshells, not wanting to do anything that might set McCormick off again. Just another clue that this day had quickly become unnatural, from the second he'd recognized Martina as she'd walked up the drive.

Milt had gotten a pot of leftover stew out of the refrigerator, and as he went about heating it up on the stove, Mark set the table. He got two bottles of beer out of the fridge, and grabbed the fresh loaf of sourdough bread that he'd picked up at the bakery earlier in the morning. Was that this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago. Mark sat at the table and lowered his head into his hands, rubbing his temples wearily.

McCormick hadn't realized the judge had left the kitchen until he returned, to place a bottle of aspirin in front of the younger man. Hardcastle didn't speak; after putting down the pills he simply returned to the stove to stir the stew as it heated.

"Thanks."

Hardcastle gave a non-committal grunt. After a moment he said, almost off-handedly, "You know, that bottle feels pretty light. Seems like there's less pills in it."

McCormick had gotten up to fill a glass with water, and he'd just tossed back three aspirin when the judge had spoken. He washed the pills down with a long drink, using the time to formulate an answer. He was surprised when the truth came out.

"I ran out of aspirin in the gatehouse."

Hardcastle lifted the pot of stew from the stove, turning to the table. He began ladling stew into bowls, and spoke again without looking at his young friend.

"Did it ever occur to you to buy some more, instead of pilfering mine?"

Mark shrugged, not answering. How could he, when his answer was that going out to buy a replacement bottle of painkiller was tantamount to admitting something was wrong? Of course, he hadn't had any idea what was wrong – why he'd been getting the recurring headaches and backaches, why he'd been feeling so worn out. He'd also noticed the unexplained bruises, and had been choosing his clothing so as to hide them from Hardcastle, forgoing cut-off shorts for sweatpants or jeans when doing the recent yardwork. He'd justified it as a temporary action – obviously whatever was going on wasn't serious and would soon pass. He'd quickly be back to fighting form, so there was no reason to get Hardcase all worked up over nothing.

That was before he'd heard of polycystic kidney disease.

The two men ate quietly. After stirring his stew idly for a few minutes, McCormick was surprised to find his appetite making an appearance. He was able to finish most of his bowl of stew, as well as a few pieces of bread. The aspirin had helped to dull the aches in his head and back, and he'd started to feel a little more like himself. Mark was working on draining his bottle of beer when the judge suddenly spoke.

"I think we need to talk about what happened in the garage."

McCormick rose with his bowl, taking it to the sink to rinse it out. "I just got a little overwhelmed," he responded, without facing the judge. "I'm okay now. I'm – "

"If you say you're 'fine' again –" Hardcastle slammed a fist on the table, jostling his bowl and the bottles of beer. "Don't tell me you're fine, don't tell me it's 'nothing.' You've been acting like a nut since this woman showed up, and that's not like you."

Mark turned around, leaning against the counter. He still didn't look at Hardcastle, instead studying the floor.

Milt waited a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was more subdued. "I've told you before that I thought you were made of some pretty strong stuff. You had to be, to work out in this arrangement we made. It wouldn't have done either of us much good if you weren't able to hang tough when things got dicey. I know there isn't much that shakes you. So this is. . . I don't know. I don't even remember you being this bad when you got shot." The kid had been depressed then, frustrated and troubled by his long recovery. There had also been plenty of anger, directed at the men responsible. And some fear. The judge knew he'd had nightmares – he didn't fault the kid at all in that regard. Hardcastle had personally experienced those nightmares himself, after almost being killed in his own courtroom. And that's when it occurred to him. The last, and maybe only other time he'd seen McCormick this rattled, this unnaturally debilitated by desperation. . .

After a short pause, Milt verbalized his thoughts.

"But this 'behavior' does kinda remind me of how you were after Weed Randall."

Mark looked up then, his expression dark. "Behavior," he repeated.

Hardcastle shrugged. "Just calling it like I see it, kid," he said quietly.

McCormick walked back to the table, but didn't sit at first, instead placing a hand on the back of his chair, running it back and forth on the polished wood. "I don't know where to start. It's not just about what I found out today . . . there's a reason why seeing Marty threw me off my game, even before she dumped all that stuff in my lap." He lifted his head, looking Hardcastle in the eye. " It's kind of a long story."

Milt gestured at the chair. "So sit down and tell me. I'm not going anywhere."