Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Nineteen (In which Mark gets angry and Olivia gets caught in the cross-fire, and we learn about the letter "C.")

Hardcastle rose from the chair to face McCormick. "That was quick, huh?"

"Yeah – sorry to interrupt," Mark answered with cold sarcasm. He grabbed the wheels of the chair and eased himself forward. The orderly who had brought Mark back to the room reached tentatively for the handles of the chair. "Mr. McCormick? Do you need me – "

Mark turned in the chair. "I'm fine!" he snapped. "If I need help I'll use the call button."

The orderly quickly took his leave, apparently unwilling to enter the fray. After he had left, McCormick looked back at the judge.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"She had questions. I was trying to answer them," Hardcastle responded calmly.

"You don't have any right to do that!" Mark wheeled the chair up closer to Hardcastle. "That's not your business. She's my kid, and if she has questions she can ask me!"

Olivia was standing now as well. "But I couldn't get anyone to give me any answers," she complained.

Mark glanced at her. "Maybe that's because there's some things you don't need to know!"

Olivia recoiled as if she'd been slapped. For a moment she stared at the man who had yelled the cruel words so carelessly. Then the tears began to fall. Wiping a hand across her eyes, Olivia strode rapidly from the room, brushing past the wheelchair without looking at her father.

Hardcastle sighed, rubbing his temple. "Nice going, McCormick."

"Get out of here, Judge. Leave me alone."

Milt looked at the man in the wheelchair. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Mark ignored the question. "Just go." When Milt still hesitated, McCormick raised his voice. "Go!"

"Fine." Hardcastle moved to the doorway, but stopped just before exiting and turned back. "But we're gonna hash this out, once you calm down." Then he left, closing the door behind him.

ooOoo

Martina had been walking down the hall toward Mark's room when she saw her daughter burst into the hallway, her face blotchy and distressed.

"Olivia?"

Olivia ran to Martina, letting her mother gather her into her arms. "Olivia? What happened?!" The girl didn't respond, only sniffling loudly. "Is Mark all right?" Martina asked fearfully.

"He's fine." Hardcastle had stepped up to join them. "He and I had a disagreement. The kid got caught in the crossfire."

Olivia pulled back from her mother, wiping her eyes again. "I want to go home. Can we go home?"

Martina looked at the girl in wonder. "What, already? I haven't even seen Mark yet."

"I don't want to stay." Olivia hugged herself, rubbing her arms. "I want to go home."

Martina turned to Milt. "What in the world happened?"

Hardcastle glanced back at the entrance to Mark's room, then made a waving gesture, moving the trio further down the hallway.

"I was explaining some things to Olivia, and McCormick overheard." Milt shot a guilty look at Olivia, but she was too focused on leaving the hospital to notice the use of the surname.

"Explaining what?"

Milt gave a vague shrug. "Basically the same things you and I talked about downstairs, with a little background."

"Mom." Olivia tugged at her mother's arm.

"Just a minute." Martina placed her arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Milt, what are you going to do? Do you have a place to stay?"

"Yeah, I got a hotel room, but I think I might stick around here for now." Hardcastle jerked his head back toward McCormick's room. "I want to know what's going on with him, and when he might get out of here."

Martina lifted her arm from Olivia's shoulders so she could delve into her purse. "Well, here, take his things to him." She handed Mark's watch to Hardcastle, but then suddenly looked troubled. "Oh, no. When my purse fell. . . I don't see his medallion."

"Um. . . He has it already."

Both the judge and Martina regarded Olivia quietly. She glanced aside, not wanting to meet either pair of eyes. "I gave it to him," she admitted.

Martina stared. "You took it out of my purse," she said angrily.

"It fell out of your purse. I just didn't put it back in."

Hardcastle coughed back a laugh. "I was hoping it would be a little diluted before it got to her. That's three generations of light fingers, now."

Martina looked at the judge in confusion; Olivia's expression was more one of curiosity. Milt instantly regretted the flippant comment. "Never mind," he said quickly. "I've got the kid mad enough at me already. I don't need to add to it."

Martina nodded doubtfully. She put an arm around her daughter's shoulders again, guiding her to the elevators.

Milt waved goodbye. Before stepping into the elevator, Olivia gave a shy wave back.

ooOoo

After the elevator doors closed, Hardcastle turned to head back to McCormick's room. He walked the short distance slowly, frowning thoughtfully at the floor. Upon reaching the room, he stared at the closed door for a few moments. When he knocked, it was light and tentative.

"Yeah."

The judge pushed the door open. "It's me."

"I know." Mark was still in the wheelchair, but he had situated it next to the bed. He looked hopefully at Hardcastle now. "Can you help me with this?" he indicated the IV bag, still hanging from the pole on the wheelchair.

While Hardcastle held the IV bag, Mark eased himself out of the chair and into the bed. The judge rehung the IV bag on the wheeled pole next to the bed, and then watched as McCormick tried to settle into a comfortable position.

Mark sighed, leaning back. "I can't wait until they take this thing out. It's like a damn leash."

"You haven't even had it in that long – and for most of that, you've been asleep."

McCormick glared at Hardcastle, but the dirty look was short-lived. It was replaced with a noticeable wince.

"You okay?"

Mark grimaced wearily. "I feel lousy," he said. Then, "Especially after how I acted."

Hardcastle nodded, silent. McCormick looked over in surprise. "You don't have anything to say about that?" he asked.

Milt made a face similar to Mark's earlier grimace. "You gonna bite my head off again if I do?"

"I'm too tired for that." Mark closed his eyes briefly. "I might be able to work out a strongly-worded statement."

Hardcastle snorted, and Mark managed a wan grin.

"I'm sorry I yelled before, Judge."

"That was nothing," Hardcastle scoffed. "We've had bigger yelling matches over the shopping list." The older man sat in the bedside chair, which was rapidly becoming a familiar seat. "I'll admit that this time it was mostly my fault," he said next.

The surprised look increased tenfold. "Wait. Did I hear that right? Superior Court Judge Milton C. Hardcastle is admitting he was wrong?"

"I've been wrong about a lot of things where you're concerned, hotshot – like letting you get away with talking to me like that."

McCormick recognized Hardcastle's remark was mostly made out of habit, and not necessarily to incite a new argument. He knew he was expected to return a wisecrack, but his fatigue prevented him from thinking up a rejoinder. What he said was, "You did catch me off guard, I guess. Or maybe I'm just too keyed up about everything." He sighed gloomily. "The look on Olivia's face when I yelled at her – I hate that I did that."

"She'll live. She was just being a little over-dramatic." The judge tried to downplay Oliva's reaction. "I'm sure it's not the first time she's gotten yelled at by a parent." Hardcastle saw Mark smile slightly at the reference. "Anyway, you're not perfect. You don't want her putting you up on a pedestal."

Mark's smile had disappeared. "I don't think there's much chance of that, after she knows the truth about my past – and I will tell her. I know she needs to hear some of that stuff," he admitted, "but I should be the one to decide how much she knows, and when."

"You know I wouldn't tell her any specific details," Hardcastle grumped. "You're right – it's not my business. But somebody had to tell her something, to keep her from going overboard. She's already making some not-great decisions."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark looked at the judge inquisitively.

Milt gestured at Mark's neck. "The medal. She lifted it from her mother's purse to bring it to you. Pulled a pretty clever stunt to get her hands on it, too."

McCormick's hand went up to touch the medallion. "But she didn't keep it – she brought it back to me. What's wrong with that?"

Hardcastle glared at his friend. "Want me to make a list? How about taking something that didn't belong to her? Lying to her mother and saying she was going the bathroom, but sneaking up here instead? Plus, Martina had already told her she didn't want her coming in here alone to see you."

Mark shook his head stubbornly, still not willing to agree that any serious misdeeds had occurred. Hardcastle huffed. "Listen, just because you feel guilty for yelling at her doesn't mean you should ignore that she did something wrong. I know you're new to this fatherhood thing, but you've gotta see she made some bad choices here."

"She's a kid, Judge. Kids do stupid things. It doesn't mean she's gonna grow up to be some big time jewelry thief."

"Yeah, and I bet your mom didn't expect your 'misbehaviors' to end up becoming felonies."

McCormick's face paled. He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a short, stunned exhale.

Hardcastle lifted a hand to rub his forehead. His eyes were closed as he said, "I'm sorry, kiddo. I don't know where that came from."

When there was no answer, Milt lowered his hand, opening his eyes to look at McCormick. The younger man was staring straight ahead, shaking his head slowly.

"McCor—"

"I can't believe you said that," Mark interrupted. "How could you say that?" He still wouldn't face Hardcastle.

Milt took a deep breath. He took off his Yankees cap, rubbed a hand over his thin hair, and clenched the cap in his hands. He was profoundly aware of how tense he was, how alert, and wondered how long he'd felt like this. When was the last time you got some decent sleep? Since Martina's arrival, just three short days ago, McCormick's life had been turned upside-down – and Hardcastle had been tasked with picking up the pieces. Milt was a little out of practice with this level of protection when it came to McCormick – this wasn't your everyday, run-of-the-mill 'parental' concern that he'd settled into the last few years. This was a lot deeper than that. And they still didn't have any definite diagnosis from anyone, probably wouldn't until someone came to talk to McCormick about his ultrasound results. Hardcastle was on tenterhooks waiting for that reveal. He could only imagine how it was for Mark.

"I don't know," Milt repeated now, "except that I'm tired and saying things without thinking. The only sleep I got last night was in a waiting room chair. And this whole situation–" he waved a hand around the room "–has got us both pretty uptight."

Mark lay back limply against his pillows. "Maybe we both need some sleep," he said dully.

Hardcastle rose, stretching his stiff back. He placed his cap back on his head, running his fingers over the brim nervously.

Why the hell am I nervous?

Because what you said hurt the kid. You went too far.

"Well, I'm gonna go, then. I'm paying for a hotel room basically to let my bags sit in it; I might as well go get some sleep in a bed." He turned from the hospital bed, walking toward the door.

"Judge?"

Hardcastle paused in the doorway, looking back. Mark had lifted his head and was warily studying the older man.

"Where are you staying? What hotel? I mean, if someone here needs to get a hold of you." McCormick's words were uncertain. It wasn't completely apparent who he thought might want to reach the judge.

With a relieved sigh, Milt came back into the room. He reached into the drawer of the bedside table for the pad of paper he'd seen earlier while searching for Mark's missing possessions. Grabbing a nearby pen, he wrote down the hotel name and room number. Tearing off the piece of paper, he folded it once and then placed it under the phone on the table.

"I'll make sure the desk knows, too," he said reassuringly. Mark nodded wordlessly, and then let his head fall back onto his pillows. Hardcastle again moved to the door, and had his hand on the doorknob before he remembered the watch in his pocket. This time when he turned back from the doorway, it was to see that McCormick's eyes were closed.

Coming back to the bedside, Milt laid Mark's watch on the table next to the phone. He studied the sleeping man for a moment, shook his head wearily, and then retook his seat in the chair beside the bed.

It was past eleven when Martina returned to the hospital. Olivia had remained at home, under the watchful eye of a woman who said that her granddaughter, who had experienced too much stress and excitement, definitely needed some rest. Martina had agreed with her mother. None of them had slept well the night before, and Olivia had been up at the crack of dawn, dressed and ready to go to the hospital before seven. Martina had refused to leave until Olivia had eaten something, and the girl had been very literal in that regard, insisting that a piece of toast was "something." Martina herself had taken an extremely long time – in Olivia's opinion – to eat her cereal and an English muffin, delaying their departure until at least seven-thirty. At that point Olivia had moved past impatience and into the realm of bouncing off the walls. It was not surprising that the girl had crashed and burned at the hospital – Martina thought that even if Mark's outburst hadn't triggered the emotional breakdown, something else would have.

The door to Mark's room was not closed completely, yet Martina could hear little noise or activity coming from inside. She knocked on the door twice, then pushed it open enough to let herself in.

Both men were asleep. Mark was laying on his left side, curled slightly with his left arm almost hanging off the bed, his right arm cradling the pillows under his head. Milt was leaning back in the bedside chair, his feet outstretched and resting on the foot of the bed. The two were snoring in tandem.

Martina pulled up short, not sure what to do next. As she was standing near the open doorway, a dietary aide walked past with a meal cart. The lunch trays rattled as the cart rolled by. The noise was enough to disturb Hardcastle, who startled slightly. His feet slipped off the bed, and that was all it took to wake him completely.

Milt straightened in the chair, blinking a few times in Martina's direction. He cleared his throat. "Martina?"

"You're still here," she admonished softly.

Hardcastle looked at McCormick, who was still sleeping. "Yeah, we haven't heard anything yet. There was a nurse in here checking on him maybe an hour ago – he practically slept through it. His temperature's almost normal. He's supposed to try and eat some lunch – he didn't even touch his breakfast." Hardcastle rose and stretched. "'Course, he fell asleep about five minutes after they brought it."

Martina nodded. "It's the same way with Olivia. The infections just wipe her out. Even if she would be well enough to be home, she'd still be down for the count for a day or two. There were times we had to wake her up to make sure she ate and took her pills."

"She come back with you?"

Martina looked at Mark for a quiet moment. "No. She stayed at home with my mother. I think it's better. She's just a little high-strung right now."

Hardcastle huffed a short laugh. "Yeah, she's not the only one." He stretched again, then moved toward the door. "I need to stretch my legs. Maybe I can find out where McCormick's doctor is. I think his name is Lorenzo."

After Milt left the room, Martina crossed over to the bed. For a moment she just looked at Mark, gazing at the pale face and the stubbled chin. Then she reached out to brush her hand lightly over the curls on his forehead. Her hand was still resting on his face when his eyes opened.

"Hi." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Hey." Mark changed position in the bed, bringing his left arm off the edge. "Damn. Pins and needles." He reached over to rub it with his right hand, and looked around the room distractedly. "What time is it?"

"About eleven-thirty."

"Did Hardcastle finally go to the hotel?"

"No, he was here. He just went to see if he could find your doctor." Martina sat down. "How are you feeling?"

"Not that bad, but I can't stay awake. I don't know why I'm so tired," Mark sighed.

Martina smiled. "Do you think it could have anything to do with the fact that you're sick?" she teased gently. McCormick made a face, but didn't argue the point. Changing the subject, he looked at Martina curiously. "Uh, are you alone?"

She nodded. "I took Olivia home. She needed to settle down. This has all been a little nerve-wracking for her."

Mark leaned back with a regretful frown. "Yeah, I'm sure what I said didn't help."

"We talked about that on the ride home. I reminded her how irritable she gets when she's sick – she's not fun to be around." Martina was still smiling. "Not to mention you're still a rookie in the father department."

"Rookie?"

"I just wanted her to understand that you're not going to be this perfect ideal she's imagined. You're human."

"And not perfect – you got that right. Hardcastle told me the same thing." Mark shook his head with a wry grin. He pushed back the bed covers, slowly moving himself until he was sitting on the left edge of the bed. "I gotta empty the tank." He grabbed the IV pole with a disgusted look. "Another reason why I hate these things."

"'Empty the tank.' Why am I not surprised you used a car reference?" Martina smirked as Mark walked to the bathroom, accompanied by his "leash."

When McCormick returned from the bathroom he found his lunch had been delivered, and was sitting on the tray table. Martina was arranging the items on the lunch tray with a look of concentration. Mark dragged the IV pole back to the bed, and saw that Martina had straightened the covers, and had raised the head of the bed into a sitting position. He looked at her suspiciously as he sat down on the bed. "What's all this? You think if you make everything look more appealing I'll actually eat the crap they pass off as food?"

"If you want to get out of here you'd better eat something." Hardcastle had entered the room. He watched McCormick's expression now as Martina lifted the lid from the plate, divulging the food: skinless chicken breast, steamed cauliflower, sliced cantaloupe, and cottage cheese.

"Look at this," Mark said. "An all 'C' meal. Where's the carrot cake?"

"Or the creamed corn," Milt added.

"Corned beef?"

"Collard greens."

Mark was grinning now, as the joking about food had temporarily replaced the thought of actually eating. "Clam chowder."

"Chitlins." Hardcastle's grin matched McCormick's.

"Cheesesteak!"

Martina broke in, attempting to thwart the distraction so that Mark would eat. "Milk doesn't start with 'C,'" she stated, pushing the plastic mug toward Mark with a pointed expression.

Mark obligingly took a drink from the mug. He hadn't quite swallowed when Hardcastle murmured, "Calcium."

McCormick almost choked on the milk.

ooOoo

Mark had been reluctantly sampling his meal for several minutes when there was a knock on the door. A middle-aged man with dark hair entered the room, carrying a medical chart. "I had a feeling I'd find you awake at lunchtime," he said. Coming to the side of the bed, he held out his hand to Mark. "Mr. McCormick? I'm Dr. Lorenzo."

McCormick shook the doctor's hand, looking briefly at the name on the lab coat: "M. Lorenzo." Martin? Mario? Marshall? Mark remembered Charlie's story of the nurse, Tabby Katt, and had to bite back a nervous grin.

The doctor introduced himself to Martina and Hardcastle, and then turned back to Mark. "I spoke with your admitting doctor about your case when I came on shift this morning. That was Dr. Tierney, although he said he wasn't sure if you would remember him. He said you were somewhat disoriented when you were admitted last evening."

McCormick shrugged awkwardly. "Uh, I remember the emergency room doctor. And I'm sure he remembers me – I was a little uncooperative."

Lorenzo smiled. "Patients that need the emergency department are rarely at their best. I wouldn't worry about it." He looked down the chart. "I see your fever is down. How is your pain right now?"

Mark shrugged again. "Not too bad. But when the stone moves all bets are off."

Lorenzo nodded. "And this morning's ultrasound shows it has moved, from the position it was in when you had your x-ray. I believe it is small enough to pass on its own – as long as we continue with the fluids." The doctor motioned at the IV. "Ideally, I'd like it to pass while you're still here."

The doctor looked again at the other two occupants of the room. "There was something else I would like to discuss with you about your ultrasound results," he said. "Can I speak freely, or would you rather your visitors give us some privacy?"

McCormick saw Hardcastle frown at the suggestion of leaving. "No, it's fine." Mark answered, dismissing the idea of a private conversation. He tried to sound casual and self-assured, but he could feel his heart practically hammering in his chest. "What about the ultrasound results?" he asked, hoping his voice wasn't shaking too much. The few bites of lunch he'd managed to take threatened to make an unwelcome reappearance.

Martina stepped closer to Mark, resting her hand on his. He clenched her hand gratefully, but kept his eyes on the doctor.

Lorenzo looked back down at the chart, and then raised his head to regard Mark seriously.

"Mr. McCormick, have you ever heard of polycystic kidney disease?"

There was a moment of silence. And then Mark began to laugh.