Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twelve (In which Mark takes a nap, Milt takes a phone call, and nomenclature is revealed from a photo detail.)

Hardcastle covered McCormick with the throw, placing the pillow near the curly head. He straightened up, then regarded the sleeping man somberly as he rubbed his chin in thought.

McCormick's blunt and vivid narrative had shaken him. The younger man had told him he'd briefly stayed with his aunt and uncle after his mother's passing, and had sporadically mentioned his uncle's fondness of speaking with his fists. But other than an occasional disparaging remark about Douglas McCormick, that was as far into that part of his life Mark had previously been willing to share. Milt had respected that, and had recognized it as well. There were stories in his past that McCormick didn't know, and didn't need to know. Memories that he kept stored away in the farthest, smallest corner of his mind, buried and hidden in a locked closest to which he had lost the key. It wasn't that he thought Mark wouldn't understand – on the contrary, he thought McCormick was probably one of the few people who would understand those crushing, debilitating memories of grief and loss, and why Hardcastle refused to acknowledge them. But where Hardcastle's memories stayed safely behind their locked door, Mark's had come exploding to the forefront. Milt still wasn't exactly sure why McCormick had been summarily assaulted by the painful recollections, and he was disturbed to realize he needed to know. The kid's behavior today had been nothing short of scary, starting with the slapstick fall from the pickup, followed with the panic attack and near-collapse in the den, and ending with the uncontrolled outburst in the garage. Just one of those events would have given the judge pause, but for all of them to take place, in roughly four hours' time, indicated that something was adversely affecting the young man. Even the possibility that McCormick was sick – Possibility? Have you looked at the kid? – didn't explain the utter stress and despondency that seemed to now be consuming him.

Milt moved toward his desk, moving slowly and quietly even though he knew it was unlikely he'd awaken his friend accidentally. McCormick usually slept like a rock, even without the assistance of alcohol, although he hadn't when he'd first moved in at the estate. Still being guarded and edgy in his new living arrangement, as well as unbelieving of the good fortune of a little house and big bed of his own, Mark had slept little, and what sleep he did get was restless and uneasy. It was one of the reasons he'd often risen late, in those early weeks. But it hadn't taken long before the exertions of the yardwork, in combination with the mental and physical demands that came with hunting down criminals, had Mark climbing into bed exhausted and sleeping dreamlessly until a basketball could be heard slamming into the backboard outside his window. Eventually the sleep came not because of exhaustion, but because he felt safe, content, and home. And that meant he now slept like a rock.

As Hardcastle passed the chair McCormick had been sitting in earlier, he saw the envelope of pictures that Mark had set down on the chairside table. Retrieving the envelope, Hardcastle dropped down heavily in his desk chair.

He was used to being worried about McCormick; he had come to accept it as habit. Yet these past two years, when the ex-con ex-race car driver had become a full-time law student, the worrying had lost some of its intensity. There were still things to be concerned about, and one of the central concerns he'd had, unexpectedly, was that McCormick was too fixated on his studies. Mark had been obsessed that first year, even more than when he'd been secretly attending part time and hadn't wanted to divulge his enrollment to the judge, because he'd been convinced he'd fail. McCormick had become acutely aware of how unlike he was from the majority of the student body, in age, background, and prior education, and he'd decided that he needed to prove himself. That meant studying practically round-the-clock, whether it was in study groups, with a professor during office hours, or with Milt himself. Mark would wander into the den or the kitchen or out on the patio, accompanied by a textbook or a notebook filled with lecture notes. At first the rookie law student would be hesitant, making small talk until Hardcastle finally got frustrated and forced him to ask whatever question he had. It hadn't taken long before McCormick had become confident and knowledgeable in their discussions, using his natural easy chatter to skillfully state his opinions and conclusions. Hardcastle had known the kid was sharp, but he had to admit that the constant reviewing and debating had transformed the clever, resourceful young man into a law school standout. That had been obvious – even to a pessimistic McCormick – when he finished out his first year with a 3.8 GPA. And Milt had found his worrying dialing back even more.

And now there was this. A woman he'd never heard of shows up to shake the kid to his core, for reasons still unknown to Milt. In the short time Martina had been at the estate, McCormick's emotions had run the gamut from suspicion to contention to affection. Adding in the fact that he was apparently a father – something Hardcastle was still trying to wrap his head around – to a young girl who was ill, not to mention living across the country. . . Hardcastle had felt his concern rise exponentially as Martina's presence and revelations had prompted McCormick's mood swings and physical breakdown.

Milt pulled out the photographs, beginning to examine them anew. He took time to study the backgrounds, the clothing, the facial expressions, the body language. He flipped the photos over to see descriptions handwritten on the back: Coney Island 1988. Bronx Zoo 1986. Olivia's 9th B-day.

As Hardcastle turned over the school photo, he saw the handwriting on the back was different from the rest – instead of neat, precise printing, the writing on the flipside of the school photo was a young person's inexperienced cursive. Olivia Danielle Rivera, it read, 3rd Grade.

Milt replaced the photos in the envelope, suddenly feeling guilty, like he was intruding on Mark's privacy. He rose up out of his chair slightly so he could check on the kid. At some point McCormick had grabbed the pillow, although instead of resting his head on it, he had his arms wrapped around it, pressing it to his face. As it was just past seven in the evening it was still quite light out, and the den was fairly bright. Milt spun his chair around and closed several shutters, doing his best to darken the room. He thought it might have been a better choice to get McCormick into a spare room, where he could've drawn the drapes and made the environment more suited to a peaceful sleep. But after witnessing the sudden fatigue that had enveloped Mark, the judge had been convinced that it would have been a dangerous excursion to get the kid up the staircase.

Hardcastle found himself recalling certain phrases of the story McCormick had shared. "That was the first time he hit me." "If he was sober he hit harder." McCormick was right, the judge had seen the effects of abusive relationships, both as a cop and in his courtroom. He knew how the victim in the relationship often felt emotionally and literally trapped, fearful that any attempt to leave would risk retribution from the abuser. Or sometimes, if the relationship was severed, the victim would be just as afraid of rebuilding a life alone. McCormick had defended his aunt's initial inability to protect him from his uncle's rages, claiming she was suffering abuse by the man as well, and Hardcastle grudgingly realized McCormick was probably correct. But he couldn't shake the image of a young Mark hiding in a corner, with his uncle, not able to reach, still able to injure by hurling taunts and insults at a scared, defenseless kid.

Hardcastle was so consumed by the vision that the sudden ringing of the phone made him jump. He grabbed for the receiver before it could ring a second time, and unceremoniously growled, "Yeah, Hardcastle here."

". . .Hello?"

The judge remotely acknowledged the hesitant female voice, as he watched Mark closely to see if he'd heard the phone. The slumbering form on the couch didn't seem to have moved an inch.

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Judge Hardcastle? It's Martina."

Hardcastle scowled as he answered, "Milt, Martina. Just Milt."

"Okay. . . Milt. Is Mark there?"

Hardcastle sent another anxious look at the man in question. Still no change. He sighed and relaxed slightly.

"Yeah, he's here, but he's asleep. I'm not too sure I want to wake him up. Today's been . . . rough on him."

The response from the phone was immediate. "No, don't wake him up. I just wanted to tell him when I was leaving. Can you tell him for me?"

Milt reached for a pad of paper and a pen, writing down the information as Martina relayed it.

"I can call again when I'm back in New York."

"Yeah, he'd probably appreciate that, you keeping in touch," Hardcastle said, and was mildly surprised to hear the sharpness in his voice.

There was a moment of silence on Martina's end, most likely as she interpreted the tone of the judge's remark.

"Did he get to the doctor?"

"Yeah, we went over not long after you left. They ran some tests."

". . . And?"

"Well, he has to wait for the results. There wasn't a lot they could tell him." Now it was Hardcastle's turn to hesitate. "He did mention his blood pressure was higher than normal."

"How much higher?"

Milt shook his head, momentarily forgetting the gesture was lost during a phone conversation. "He didn't say. But that could be stress, being upset, you know."

"Do you believe that?"

Another sigh, this one born of doubt rather than relief. "I really don't know," he admitted.

"Milt. Please – take care of him."

"Don't worry," he assured her, although the words sounded hollow. "Taking care of him is my job."

After ending the phone call, Hardcastle meandered over to an armchair in front of the television, grabbed the remote, and then began to absentmindedly flip through the channels. He'd had an inner, almost tangible pull keeping him in the den, even before Martina's entreaty to take care of McCormick. Milt didn't feel right about retiring to his bedroom – he didn't want Mark to wake up in the middle of night, alone, confused, and possibly hung-over. McCormick wasn't typically a lightweight drinker, but the sudden exhaustion that had hit the young man – after just a few beers – had further convinced Milt that the kid was ill. So the judge decided to settle in and see if he could at least find something worth watching – maybe a baseball game, and after that, a decent old movie. He figured if Mark was still snoring after one or two a.m., then he'd probably be out until morning.

It was around eleven, while Hardcastle was enjoying an episode of Maverick, when the initial sounds of distress came from the man on the sofa. At first Hardcastle didn't notice the soft whimpers and pleas, until McCormick moved slightly on the sofa and the pillow fell to the floor. Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Milt roused himself and looked in Mark's direction.

McCormick was shifting restlessly, an agitated expression creasing his face. His eyes were closed, and he was obviously dreaming. After another muttered word, which could have been "Please," the young man appeared to relax, and quieted. Hardcastle watched him for a moment more, then turned back to the television.

"NO! Don't! Please stop!"

The abrupt clarity of the shouts, after the earlier unintelligible mumbles, brought Hardcastle out of his chair and to McCormick's side. The man's eyes were still tightly closed, but now his head was shaking back and forth violently while he thrashed on the couch. Unable and unwilling to watch the torture of the nightmare, Milt reached out to take McCormick's shoulder, shaking him.

McCormick was moving before his eyes were fully open. With a pained gasp he bolted upright and scuttled back as far as possible from the judge, to sit with his back against the far arm of the couch and his knees pulled up in the tangle of the blanket. He held his hands out in a defensive manner, and the look in his eyes was pure fear.

Hardcastle unconsciously moved back, raising his hands in pacification. "Hey – calm down. It's okay, kiddo. Just a dream."

McCormick was breathing heavily, and he lowered his hands slowly, but still remained in the cowering position. "What – what's going on?" he asked shakily.

Hardcastle lowered his own hands, mirroring Mark's movements. "Just a nightmare, sport."

Mark ran trembling hands over his face, then looked at Hardcastle with a sudden intensity.

"You can't do that. You can't grab me like that."

"What was I supposed to do?" Hardcastle grumbled, miffed. "Let you stay in that nightmare? Have you go through that again?" There was no need to define his vague words.

"Then holler at me. Just don't touch me." McCormick let his head rest on the back of the couch, and he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

The quiet apology, something not often heard from Hardcastle, caused Mark to open his eyes. He looked at his friend, standing at the head of the couch with a solemn expression and a downcast gaze.

"I know, Judge. It was just a really bad dream." McCormick slowly stretched out from his protective pose, so that he was now sitting up with his feet resting on the floor. He bundled up the throw blanket and tossed it aside.

"What time is it?"

Hardcastle nodded at the clock on the mantle. "A little past eleven."

McCormick lowered his brows in thought. "When did I fall asleep? "

"Around six, I think."

"Five hours?" Mark said, disconcerted.

The judge shrugged. "I think you needed the rest."

"Well, I hope it was enough," McCormick muttered, "because I don't think I'm going back to sleep anytime soon." He rose to his feet, and swayed a little. Milt automatically reached to steady him, then deliberately pulled back. Mark bent slightly to grab the arm of the couch, and looked sideways at the judge.

"I didn't mean you can't ever touch me," McCormick amended softly. "Just don't wake me up like that." He straightened again, and slowly began to leave the den.

"Where are you goin'?"

Mark waved a hand backward without turning. "Bathroom. Three beers."

Hardcastle forced himself to return to the chair in front of the television, but he had lost interest in watching James Garner. He heard McCormick's slow steps as he returned to the den, but then there was a tense silence, and Hardcastle couldn't stop himself from turning in curiosity. He saw McCormick standing in front of the desk, frowning slightly. Then Mark reached for the envelope of pictures still sitting on the desk.

"Listen, McCormick – "

Mark cut him off with a jerk of his hand. He came to sit in the armchair near the judge, and pulled out the photographs. "You find anything interesting?" he asked tiredly, as he shifted through the pictures.

"Actually, I did. Look at the back of the school picture."

McCormick found the photograph and turned it over. For a moment he stared at the handwriting, his face unreadable. When he finally looked up at Hardcastle, it was with a beaming smile.

"She named her after me," he said in wonder. "I didn't even realize she knew my middle name. I don't remember telling her." His face flushed slightly as he thought about the things he and Martina had discussed.

"Well, I guess if she was gonna use your name, it's better that it was Daniel and not something like Howie or Ernest."

McCormick's smile faded. "Yeah, I don't think my mother would have been that mean."

Hardcastle rubbed his hand under his nose, bothered by how the kid had jumped from joyful pride to muted grief in the space of ten seconds. He tried to find a way to change the subject.

"Did you hear the phone before, when you were sleeping?"

"Uh, no. I was sleeping, Hardcase. Who called?"

"Martina. She wanted to tell you when she was flying out tomorrow."

The next emotion on the mood swing parade was anger. "And you didn't wake me up?"

"No, I didn't," Hardcastle countered brusquely. "You needed the sleep. And Martina said the same thing, she told me not to wake you. I wrote down her flight info. She's leaving at 7:20, so she's gotta be at the airport pretty early. I don't think you're gonna be able to talk to her before she leaves." Hardcastle softened his voice. "She did say she'd call once she got back home to New York."

"Yeah, we'll see how that goes," McCormick grumbled. "At least I have her number. But if her mother answers, this time I'm hanging up." He looked at Hardcastle with a wary expression. "After dinner, I kind of cut the story short. I didn't get to tell you everything."

Hardcastle cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about that, kid. Listen." The judge leaned forward in his chair, looking intently at his friend. "What you told me before, I appreciate you sharing it with me. I know that was hard for you, and it was hard on you. And if it's too much to finish it, I respect that. You don't have to tell me everything. I don't tell you everything, you know that."

"Yeah, but you're not having panic attacks and throwing up, or flipping out and destroying the garage."

Hardcastle gave a conceding nod. "Okay, that's true, but I kinda understand where you're coming from now. If you were keeping those things inside and they all came out when you saw Martina, well, that's a lot to process."

McCormick snorted. "You don't know the half of it. That's the whole point. You don't know why Marty set it all off. And it's not just that I need to tell you – I think I need to talk it out for me. I have to get this settled. I mean, I can't show up in New York to meet my kid like this. I gotta get some control back."

"I don't think we should be talking about New York yet. Let's get past tomorrow and seeing Charlie first, before you make any decisions."

"Decision's already made," McCormick responded stubbornly. "It's just the timing I haven't figured out yet. But it's gonna be sooner rather than later. I'm not letting her grow up any more without a father. I can't do that, Judge. I can't let history repeat on this."

Milt shook his head in exasperation. "Kid, it's nowhere near the same thing! There's a difference between someone purposefully abandoning a kid and someone not even knowing their kid existed. You can't compare yourself to Sonny here."

McCormick didn't respond, instead just looking at the judge with a stony glare. Hardcastle returned the stare, but it soon became clear they were at an impasse.

"Fine." Hardcastle waved a hand in concession. "But you're not going alone. Not if you're sick."

McCormick's mouth turned up in a brief grin. "Well, yeah. I mean, Olivia's gotta meet her Grandpa Milt, right?" The grin was quickly replaced with a grim expression. "And I could use a buffer, when it comes to Marty's mom. Or just someone to reel me in." He leaned back in his chair, his hands still holding the envelope of photos. "You know, if Sandra hadn't wrecked things for us, I might have been in Olivia's life from the start."

"How did she. . . What happened?" Milt asked, interest overcoming his earlier reassurances that McCormick didn't need to finish the difficult recollections.

Mark laid the photos down on the table between their chairs, settled himself until he was as comfortable as was possible, and began to talk.