Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv
Chapter Fourteen (In which medicine is procured, meals are prepared, memories are recalled, and someone goes missing.)
It was a quiet ride to the pharmacy, one that the two men frequented because of its location in a supermarket that boasted an appreciative variety of junk food. While Mark waited for his prescriptions to be filled, Milt wandered the aisles. He studied the selections of chips, donuts, Pop Tarts and soft drinks with a critical eye. Hardcastle knew his diet was not ideal for a man pushing seventy, what with the Pinky Fizz and pecan pie and cookies, which was why he tried to balance it with fresh fish, lean meat (preferably grilled), fruit, and green vegetables. And when it was the judge's turn to cook, McCormick was obliged to eat whatever healthy food was put in front of him, and typically did so without complaint, unless the meat of choice was liver.
But Mark's personal eating habits were definitely one of the "kid" traits that Hardcastle saw in him. Pizza was a McCormick staple – the greasier, the better. He considered himself a fast food aficionado. He made elaborate sandwiches that rivaled Dagwood Bumstead's. His late night bowls of ice cream were large enough that when Milt checked the freezer, he often found containers with barely a scoop of the frozen treat left in them. And when the two men watched late-night movies with a bowl of shared popcorn between them, Mark could consume three-quarters of the snack before the first commercial break.
If McCormick had PKD, that was going to have to change. Charlie had mentioned it, and Milt seemed to remember Martina also making some comment about a healthy diet being important in controlling the disease. Hardcastle shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling. He wasn't sure why he was bothered by the idea of McCormick eating like an adult. The fact was, Mark wasn't a kid, and in some aspects it almost seemed he had matured ten years in the roughly five he'd been at Gulls' Way. Still, there were juvenile behaviors that persisted – Mark's wise cracks and goofy jokes being chief among them. And McCormick's hot-headedness, his inability to keep angry emotions in check, reminded Hardcastle of a teenager, rather than of a man closing in on his mid-thirties.
What does that say about me? I'm just as bad as him, in that sense.
Hardcastle huffed out a sigh. He wasn't one for psychological mumbo-jumbo, but he thought he might have an inkling about what was troubling him. Although he'd never admit it to the man himself, he was fond of McCormick's youthful demeanor. Hardcastle had known his friend hadn't had an ideal childhood, even before hearing last night's story of McCormick's early teenage years. Mark had been forced to grow up fast in tough circumstances, and hadn't been allowed much of a chance to just be a kid. Milt had understood that, and in his own way he had cultivated Mark's second childhood. Oh, sure, he complained about the young man being immature and irresponsible and forgetful and naïve, but the gruffness often had amused undertones. For he actually liked McCormick's oddball humor, his crazy taste in music, his voracious appetite, and his grandstanding on the basketball court. The kid was fun and active and energetic, and just being in his presence made Milt feel ten years younger.
McCormick without junk food was not natural. And if that was taken away, in addition to any physical activity that could be deemed dangerous, what part of the "kid" would remain?
"Are we out of anything? Might as well pick it up while we're here."
Hardcastle started slightly at McCormick's voice. "You got what you needed?"
"All set." Mark was shoving the receipt in his jeans pocket. He held up a small paper bag. "The pharmacist wants me to take a dose of each as soon as we get home. I'm supposed to take the one pill at a meal, so I guess lunchtime." He pulled the slips of drug facts out of the bag and read them with a grumpy expression. "The possible side effects of these things sound like a lot of fun. Drowsiness and insomnia. Diarrhea and constipation. Does that make any sense to you?"
Milt shook his head with a sympathetic grin. "Well, you've been on antibiotics before, and pain pills. I would guess it's not much different. Just gotta follow the directions and do what Charlie says, and this Dr. Wesson. Probably good you've got that appointment tomorrow – you can talk to them if you're worried about the side effects."
McCormick didn't answer, but his expression cleared somewhat. "You gonna get something?" he asked again instead. "I know we could use some more ice cream."
"Nah," Milt said nonchalantly. "They don't have the kind I like here. Let's head home and get some lunch. I've got a taste for that roast beef you picked up at the deli, on that sourdough bread. Maybe with some lettuce, tomatoes, and avocados. . ."
"Sounds like a salad, Judge." Mark followed the judge out of the store, his face glum.
Hardcastle hung back a step until McCormick caught up, and then clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Grown-ups eat salad, kiddo."
As they made their way to the Corvette, the judge kept his hand solidly on Mark's shoulder, under the guise of guiding him to the passenger side of the car. Both men knew there was more to it than that, but neither of them needed to say it. Milt's warm, comforting grasp spoke as much as words could have, if not more.
Once back at Gulls' Way, Hardcastle assumed the role of unwavering medication supervisor, not starting lunch preparations until he was satisfied McCormick had taken both pills. Ten minutes later they were sitting down to roast beef sandwiches on sourdough bread, although Mark had abstained from the avocados.
McCormick quickly excused himself after lunch, reiterating his earlier claim that he needed to catch up on his sleep after the broken rest of the night before. Hardcastle muttered an acknowledgement, watching as Mark left the kitchen, to eventually exit the main house in a quiet, subdued, very un-McCormick-like fashion. Milt tried to trust his friend's excuse, but doubt soon reared its head, and maybe a half hour after cleaning up the lunch dishes, the judge crossed the lawn to the gatehouse. He knocked perfunctorily before letting himself in, and was disappointed, but not surprised, to find the residence looking empty. After calling McCormick's name several times, in increasingly irritated tones, Hardcastle determined Mark was nowhere inside.
A quick search of McCormick's standard preferred locations on the estate – the pool patio, the lawn overlooking his favorite ocean view, and the garage – still showed no sign of the man. That left one last choice. After seeing the distant figure sitting on the sand watching the waves, Milt inwardly chided himself for not checking the beach first.
Hardcastle paused, wondering if tromping down to the beach to accompany Mark would be seen as unwelcome hovering. The events of the last two days had taken a lot of control away from McCormick, and maybe this "rebellion" of escaping to the beach, when he should have been resting, was something the younger man needed. Milt gave a low sigh that resembled a growl. He was not comfortable pussy-footing around, and soon began to mentally argue the merits of approaching McCormick versus leaving him be.
Should he be down there by himself after just starting that medication?
He's a grown man, and it's not like he's some invalid. He'll be fine.
Maybe I should keep an eye on him, make sure he's okay.
What are you going to do, pull up a lawn chair so you can sit and stare at him until he decides he's good and ready to come back up here?
"Well, are you?" Hardcastle mumbled aloud.
McCormick hadn't consciously decided to go down to the beach. He'd left the main house with only the thoughts of the gatehouse's comfortable bed and the thankful oblivion that sleep would provide. But his direction had changed so that he was descending the steps to the beach automatically, and he was out near the shore almost without remembering how he had gotten there.
It was a beautiful, cloudless June afternoon, and several locals were on the beach. There were two young boys playing Frisbee, a mother and toddler chasing the silver-frothed waves, and a small group of teenagers with surf boards. None of them were close enough to bother McCormick, as most of the beach's regular visitors respected the section directly below Gulls' Way, well aware the judge's personal claim of the area Nancy Hardcastle had christened Seagull Beach. And although McCormick was usually unperturbed when people did come to the portion of the beach that he frequented – he had actually campaigned fairly vocally for the judge to allow Seagull Beach to become public – he was glad this afternoon that he was basically alone.
Mark took off his shoes and socks and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. He walked forward and let the waves lap over his bare feet. He tipped his head back to let the sun warm his face, narrowing his eyes against the brightness. The sun soon became more irritating than enjoyable, as any warmth it was providing was superseded by a well-known pain behind his eyes. The spontaneous trip to the beach had meant he hadn't thought to grab a pair of sunglasses. The ones from the glove compartment in the Corvette had been broken and tossed, but he knew there were similar pairs in both the Coyote and the pickup, as well as scattered in the gatehouse. McCormick had found it was easier to wear the dark glasses than to deal with the sun-headaches that came with California living. Even on smog-alert days, when the sun's glare was reduced, he still found himself scrounging for a pair of sunglasses – although that was partially because of smog-induced watering eyes.
Moving away from the water, Mark lowered himself to sit in the warm sand. He pulled his knees up and rested his arms across them, then dropped his chin onto his crossed arms. He stared out at the ocean pensively. It wasn't long before the sound of the waves and the heat of the sun lulled him into a half-doze.
"Hey, Mister!"
McCormick turned groggily at the voice, coming from a short distance away. It was one of the young boys that had been playing Frisbee. When the boy gestured, Mark saw the Frisbee had landed on the beach a few feet from him.
"A little help?"
Mark reached over to retrieve the toy. He only needed to rise part-way to throw it back to its owner, such as was the height difference between them. The boy caught the Frisbee neatly, shouted a thanks, and then ran off back to where his friend was waiting. McCormick stood up completely, and suddenly the horizon tilted. He pitched forward, and by some grace was able to not fall flat on his face. Bending deeply at the waist, he stood with his hands resting on his knees and his head hanging down until the worst of the dizzy spell had passed. When he felt he was no longer in danger of throwing up, he raised his head slowly to look around and see if anyone had noticed his strange behavior. Once again he was grateful that he was relatively alone, as no one had been near enough to witness the attack.
McCormick sighed, dropping back down in the sand gracelessly. So this is what it's going to be. Either I feel like crap without the pills, or I feel like crap with them. Great. And the dizziness was just one reaction. Both drugs had come with a laundry list of possible side effects, in sections labeled "common," "less common," and "rare."
Mark looked at his watch, wondering where Martina was now, and when he might hear from her. With her plane leaving bright and early, he guessed she could have already made it home. He calculated that she'd had at least six hours of traveling time. Of course, he needed to consider the added time incurred by layovers or connecting flights . . . And even if she was home, he was sure her first thought on return wouldn't be to call him. No, he could sit out here a while longer. At least until Hardcase came down to fetch him. McCormick could almost hear the gruff voice: "You get lost on the way to your bedroom, kid?"
Kid. When Mark had first moved in at the estate – hell, when he'd first met Hardcastle – the age-oriented sobriquets had quickly gotten under his skin. "Pal" and "Sport" hadn't made him bristle as much as "Junior" or even "Sonny," which was a term Sarah Wicks had been fond of. The irony of that nickname hadn't been realized until he'd tracked down his father on his thirtieth birthday.
McCormick's life had revolved around negative labels, the obvious first one being bastard. Before he was eighteen he had added orphan, juvenile delinquent, and high school dropout to the list. For a brief time in Florida he'd seemed to shake the derogatory nicknames, possibly by adding a few positive ones of his own, such as G.E.D. recipient, victor, and of course, Skid. But the respite had been brief, and it wasn't long before criminal, inmate, convict, and felon became how he was next known.
Then it was ex-convict – a step up – for a while. Until Hardcastle swooped into his life like only the Batman could, and decidedly put his new Robin in his place, reminding him daily of his youth and inexperience by constantly calling him a kid.
When had the nickname changed from one of seniority, to one of affection? When had they both come to the conclusion that the business partnership had now become a friendship? McCormick thought it may have been around the time when he'd started to prefer "Kid" and "Kiddo" to "Mark." At least where Hardcastle was concerned. The judge called him by his Christian name so rarely that when he did, McCormick was usually rattled, wondering what he had done wrong. It was that same disconcerting feeling he'd gotten as a kid, when a particularly egregious misbehavior would cause his mother to sternly call out, "Mark Daniel!" – always accenting the middle name.
McCormick wondered if he was at a point now where he could leave the insulting monikers by the wayside. Crime fighter and law student held a lot of weight. With Sonny's reappearance, however inconsistent, he could now again call himself a son. And after Martina's visit yesterday, the most recent name to add to his repertoire was maybe the most unexpected: Father.
Is this what he should be doing, as a father? Hiding down on the beach, feeling sorry for himself, lost in rambling nonsensical thoughts? He should be back up at the gatehouse, resting like he'd told Hardcastle he would be. Taking care of himself. Taking the pills, following Charlie's instructions, going to the ultrasound tomorrow with an open mind. If they told him he had PKD, it wouldn't be the end of the world. He'd need to change some things, keep himself healthy, sure . . . but Olivia had to make those changes, too. They could do it together.
How? They lived on opposite coasts. Was he just supposed to pick up and move to New York? He had a life here, law school.
Hardcastle.
"You're gonna get sunburned."
McCormick looked down at the sand and shook his head with a wry grin. "Took you long enough."
"What's that supposed to mean?" There was a defensive edge to the words.
"Nothing, Judge." Mark began to stand, then remembered the earlier dizzy spell. He quickly adapted his pose to kneeling.
"You okay?" Hardcastle started forward, placing a steady hand on Mark's arm.
"Yeah. . . I just gotta get my shoes." McCormick shuffled forward, grabbing his sneakers. When he straightened up he did it very slowly and methodically, and was gratified to experience only the briefest shift in his equilibrium. Hardcastle watched him with a jaded expression, then finally seeming satisfied, turned to lead the way back up the path. "I just thought you'd want to be back up at the house, in case Martina calls," he said.
"Okay." Mark plodded up behind the judge, breathing too heavily to say more.
"Although if you go get some sleep, like you're supposed to, I can just take a message and then you can call her back."
"Sure."
Hardcastle paused, looking back at his friend. "What's wrong with you? I can usually never get a word in edgewise with the way you blather on."
McCormick tried for an irritated eye roll, and immediately regretted it as sharp pain shot through his head. "I'm tired, Hardcase. And hot. Just . . . move, okay?"
Once the two men were back on the estate lawn, they made for their individual residences. Mark was on his way to the gatehouse when Hardcastle's call made him turn.
"Hey! I'll wake you for supper."
McCormick nodded, waving a hand. "Supper," he repeated. "See you then, Judge."
"All right. Get some rest, Mark."
McCormick froze, his insides suddenly seized with a guilt-borne panic. Why did he call me Mark? What did I do?
Or maybe the question was: What does he think I'm going to do?
Mark wasn't able to make his feet move again until he heard the door of the main house slam shut. After he was in the gatehouse, it was a slow, painful climb up the stairs – the headache was now being accompanied by the annoyingly familiar ache in his lower back.
Once he'd reached the loft, Mark went to his desk. Digging into the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out two items. The pharmacy receipt was tossed aside, while the recently-purchased bottle of aspirin was quickly opened. He shook three pills into his hand, but too tired to take another trip down the stairs for some water, he dry-swallowed the medicine with a shudder.
McCormick knew the best way to make sure the pills actually helped would be to take the nap both he and the judge had referenced. Instead of going directly to his bed, though, he sat at the desk. Pulling a Yellow Pages directory out of a drawer, Mark opened it to the 'A' section and grabbed the phone.
Milt was putting the turkey roast in the oven and wondering if a phone call or a direct visit would be the best way to wake McCormick, when the man in question came in through the back door. There were damp spots on Mark's shirt and his hair was still wet – he'd obviously just had a shower.
"You get some sleep? I was just gonna wake you up."
"Yeah, but I still feel tired. Must be the pills." McCormick leaned against the counter wearily. "The shower helped wake me up some."
"Well, I hope you're awake enough to peel some potatoes without cutting a thumb off."
ooOoo
McCormick had one potato fully peeled, and was about to start on the second, when the judge reached to take the peeler out of his hand. "Give me that."
The younger man relinquished the tool with a bemused expression. "I still have all my fingers, Judge."
"Yeah, but if I wait for you to finish these in between yawning, we'll be eating raw potatoes with the turkey. Go. Sit." Hardcastle pointed at the table with the potato peeler.
Mark didn't need much persuasion. In between making the phone calls and then partaking in another marathon of lying on his back and studying the ceiling, he'd gotten very little sleep. He pulled out a chair and sat with a quiet grunt of pain, then leaned forward to cross his arms on the table, putting his head down. Turning his head slightly, Mark watched as Hardcastle finished peeling the potatoes and then began to slice them into a pot.
Then next thing McCormick was aware of was the plate of hot food that Hardcastle placed in front of him.
ooOoo
McCormick had a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth when the judge commented, as if just remembering, "Oh, Martina called."
Mark swallowed wrong and started coughing. He grabbed for his glass of milk, drinking deeply to settle his throat.
"You okay?"
McCormick flapped a hand at Hardcastle, still unable to talk. He coughed a few more times, then looked up with watering eyes. "I'm fine!" he snapped. When Milt drew back, obviously stung by the tone, Mark relented. "I'm sorry, Judge, you just kind of surprised me. What did she say?"
"Just wanted to let you know she finally got home. Had a delay in Chicago – some kind of problem with the jetway, she said." Hardcastle looked at the clock. "She called around three o'clock. I guess she got home sometime after five her time."
Mark nodded, pushing the remains of his food around on his plate. "And now it's after nine in New York. Maybe I should just call her back tomorrow. I'm sure she's beat from all the traveling."
"Yeah, she kinda said the same thing." Milt rose, taking his plate to the sink. "And you look beat, too. Might be best to just go back to bed. You've got that appointment in the morning."
Mark raised his eyebrows slightly. "My turn to do the dishes. You cooked. Again."
"Ah," Hardcastle waved off the offer. "I'll just put most of them in the dishwasher. Don't worry about it."
McCormick rose to scrape his plate, adding it to the pile of dishes on the counter. Without looking at the judge, he asked, "Uh, you know this morning with Charlie, and the appointment tomorrow. . . "
"Yeah?" Milt rested against the sink, his arms crossed.
Mark hesitated, trying to find the right words that wouldn't prompt another hurt look from his friend.
"Did you tell Marty anything? I mean, she asked, right?"
Hardcastle was quiet so long that Mark looked up anxiously, to see the older man watching him with a measured gaze.
"Yeah, she asked. And no, I didn't tell her anything. Because you will. Tomorrow, when you call her back."
McCormick's response was a short, silent nod.
Hardcastle was up and over to the gatehouse by seven the next morning, to make sure that McCormick was awake and in the process of getting ready to leave for the ultrasound appointment. The empty gatehouse prompted a stomach-churning sense of déjà vu, as Milt didn't think he'd find the kid on the beach this time. He searched the estate half-heartedly, occasionally calling for McCormick but not expecting an answer. The only thing that partially eased his distress was that all three vehicles were still accounted for; wherever Mark might be, he at least wasn't driving.
Returning to the gatehouse, Milt searched for any signs of where McCormick could have gone. He checked drawers and closets, the bathroom and the kitchenette. As the small house was in a comfortable state of clutter, there didn't seem to be anything obviously out of place, or anything obviously missing. The kid was good, he had to give him that much. The judge stood on the lower level with his hands on his waist. He was disgusted with himself, for not recognizing that McCormick had been planning to run.
But where was he running to?
Hardcastle sighed dejectedly, moving to the phone on the table near the sofa. There were two people that he needed to call – it was just a question of who he phoned first. Picking up the receiver, he punched in the numbers from memory, and waited impatiently for the connection.
"Yeah, this is Milt Hardcastle. I need to talk to Charlie Friedman."