Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Two (In which Milt calls on an old friend for advice re: Mark.)

After paying the cabbie who had dropped him off at the hotel, Hardcastle shoved his wallet back into his pocket and watched the taxi drive away. The judge frowned thoughtfully. He wondered if it might be better to rent a car from the agency at the airport. He couldn't be depending on cabs to take him back and forth from the hotel to the hospital and to wherever else he might need to go, especially if expediency was necessary. Granted, the night before he'd been at the mercy of cab drivers to get him through an unfamiliar city, and by some miracle he'd been delivered to a hotel only a few miles from his ultimate destination. But no matter how close the hotel and the hospital were, if McCormick was going to be in New York for a while, it made more sense for Milt to have his "own" vehicle.

And how long will the kid need to be here? Hardcastle knew that his friend's stay might be a prolonged one, considering how it could be for both medical and personal reasons.

Milt trudged up the staircase to his room, foregoing the elevator as he needed to work out the kinks from sitting too much. After letting himself into the room, he eyed the bed distractedly. He'd been up since six a.m. the day before, with only snatches of sleep here and there, both times in chairs. Yet he didn't feel like lying down. His mind was too alert, preoccupied with terminologies and prognoses. Consultations and time frames. Present and future.

Hardcastle slowly moved to the bed, sinking down to sit on the edge of it. He stared at the phone on the nearby table. He checked his watch – now turned ahead to Eastern Standard Time – and determined that it was not quite ten a.m. in Los Angeles. Whether he called Frank or Charlie first didn't matter; he knew both would have been at their offices for a couple hours now, at least. What delayed Milt from dialing either man was the question of what he needed – a friend to talk to, or someone who could offer insight about McCormick's diagnosis?

Hardcastle felt the first call should be to Dr. Friedman. It wasn't that the judge particularly mistrusted the doctors currently attending to McCormick, but he wasn't completely sure he'd be able find out from them exactly what was happening, or going to happen, to the kid. And maybe that's because it's not really my business – he's a competent adult, and it's not like I'm related to him or something. But Milt was used to full disclosure when it came to McCormick winding up in the hospital. Of course, the last time Mark's health had been in dire straits – when he'd been shot by Wendell Price – the kid had still been under parole and technically in his custody. That had lent more allowance to Hardcastle needing to know McCormick's specific medical issues.

Milt wasn't sure what to do with the news Dr. Lorenzo had delivered. McCormick had seemed to be doing a little better – at least, his mood had been slightly improved – but that had been before Lorenzo had arrived with the test results. Then the kid's demeanor had again plummeted. In any normal circumstance, Hardcastle recognized that Mark falling into a sullen, agitated temper would be immediately followed by the kid's swift departure to the gatehouse, or an even swifter departure in the Coyote: Mark's need of "space" and time to deal with his emotions. It was the main reason why Hardcastle had honored McCormick's appeal to be left alone, and had requested that Martina do the same. But the judge hadn't felt right about the decision from the moment he'd made it, and he'd been encouraged to hear that Martina was going to try to get Olivia to talk some sense into the kid. Milt shook his head with a wry smile – however long McCormick ended up staying in New York, he hoped the young man didn't protest Hardcastle remaining as well. Even though his interaction with McCormick's daughter had been brief, Milt had instantly found himself liking the girl. It had been a little surprising, the curious feeling of connection. Hardcastle definitely wanted to get to know her better.

Milt had dialed the number to Charlie's office by heart, but had to re-dial, momentarily forgetting that it was long-distance. The ringing phone was automatically transferred to a desk and picked up by a nurse, who informed Hardcastle that Dr. Friedman was in a patient consult and unavailable.

"Just have him call me back," Hardcastle said wearily. "Tell him Milt Hardcastle called. I don't think he's got my number here, let me – "

He was interrupted before he could read off the digits. "Milt Hardcastle? Is that what you said?"

"Yeah," the judge answered the nurse, puzzled.

"Hold, please."

It was less than five minutes before Charlie came on the line. "Milt, hello."

"I thought you were in a meeting or something."

"I have some time." Charlie didn't explain further, instead moving on to the most probable reason for the judge's phone call. "How is everything? How's Mark?"

Milt rubbed his temple, again somewhat confused. "Didn't the hospital here tell you anything when they called?" The night before, Milt himself had neglected to ask Charlie for any details regarding Mark's illness – after hearing the what and where concerning McCormick, he'd quickly ended that phone call with his friend so that each man could get to his respective destination.

"The most I was told was that Mark was in the emergency room and would soon be admitted," Charlie replied, "and I believe the only reason I was even contacted was because Mark had his prescription bottles with my name on them. It's the hospital's policy to not share anything specific, at least not unless the patient is incapacitated, and alone. But I was told that Mark had arrived with a 'family member.'" There was a inquisitive tone at the end of the sentence. "And I was also informed that Mark was relatively coherent – maybe a little uncooperative." The judge snorted, prompting a laugh from the doctor. Charlie continued. "The ER doctor did ask if Mark had any allergies or any other immediate health concerns that they needed to be aware of. "

"Did you tell them anything?"

Friedman paused, but the moment of silence was negligible. "Only what I felt was necessary."

Milt disregarded the minor hesitation. He wasn't concerned that Charlie had breached professionalism, and he was fairly sure McCormick wouldn't take offense. He also wasn't worried that McCormick would be upset with him if he briefed Charlie on the kid's current medical status.

Are you sure about that?

Hardcastle brushed aside his inner trepidation, and forged ahead. "Okay – specifics. He's got a kidney infection and a kidney stone. The infection hit him really hard not long after he got here. He had a pretty high fever and I guess he was kind of out of it when he got admitted. There was someone else with him – I wouldn't exactly call her a 'family member,' though." Milt paused before adding, "I guess she's more of a relative of a relative. Anyway, she was gone when I got there."

"Has his fever broken?"

"Yeah, he was doing better by about four this morning. Still a low fever, but the doctors don't seem as worried as they were. He's been getting antibiotics and some pain meds, and he says he's really only in a lot of pain when the stone moves."

There was a soft noise from Charlie's end of the phone, a "Hmm." "What?" Hardcastle asked.

"I believe the kidney stone caused the infection. Most likely the stone was what was causing Mark's back pain, and was the reason for the blood in his urine. I just wish Mark would have stayed for the ultrasound appointment. If we had found the stone earlier, the infection might have been prevented – at the very least, it wouldn't have been as serious."

"Well, they did an ultrasound this morning, to check on the stone, and the doctor came to tell McCormick the results about an hour ago." Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "He told the kid he's got PKD."

There was another pause, and then Charlie said, "I'm sorry, Milt."

"Yeah." Milt sighed again. "Mark's having a hard time with it. He's supposed to be seeing a nephrologist out here, but he's practically refusing to talk to anyone – including me. He said he wanted some space, but I'm not sure that's the best thing for him right now. What do you think, Charlie?"

Hardcastle was surprised, and a little perturbed, to hear a light chuckle from the doctor. "What's so funny?" the judge grumbled.

"Milt," Charlie started, his voice now serious, "if there's anyone who knows what's best for Mark, it's you."

"I don't know about this time, Charlie. I need someone to help me fix this."

"'Fix it'?" Friedman repeated.

"I just need somebody to tell him he's going to be all right!" Hardcastle lowered his voice as he continued. "Can't you at least give me something to tell him? Or maybe you could call the hospital and talk to him. I don't think he trusts the doctors here."

"I'd be happy to speak to him as a friend, Milt. . . But I can't be his doctor from three thousand miles away." When Milt's only response to that was a tense huff, Charlie continued. "Why doesn't he trust the doctors there? Has he said anything specific?"

"Not exactly," Hardcastle admitted. "I know he had a tough time in the emergency room yesterday, but that was mostly because he was in a bad way. And he was probably harder on the doctors than they were on him. But I know we'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable if we were home, instead of in a strange hospital with doctors neither of us know."

"Do you trust the doctors there?" Charlie asked.

Again there was little response from Hardcastle. "Milt?" Charlie prodded.

"It's not just the doctors. It's this whole damn thing." The judge cleared his throat, attempting to ward off the shaking he'd heard in his voice. "But I get what you're saying. If I want him to listen to the doctors, he's gotta see I trust them." Another rough half-cough. "I'm sorry for bugging you, Charlie. I know these guys are good out here. I guess I just needed to hear a familiar voice."

Charlie's reply was succinct, and heartfelt. "Anytime, Milt."

The judge and the doctor said their good-byes, and as Hardcastle cradled the receiver, he decided he was too tired to call Frank Harper. It wasn't so much the physical exhaustion as it was the mental – the phone conversation with Friedman had been more difficult than he had expected. Milt had hoped to be reassured, even falsely. . . What he hadn't counted on was a blunt verification of what he already knew – the predicament McCormick was in had no easy solution.

Hardcastle lay back on the bed, not bothering to remove his shoes. He took off his hat and crossed an arm over his eyes. He had drifted into a light doze when the ringing of the phone startled him awake.

"Huh?" he muttered into the receiver. "Whozit?"

"Judge? It's me."

Milt sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What? McCormick?"

"Yeah." There was an obvious teasing tone in the younger man's voice. "Did I wake you up? Sorry."

Milt did his best to sound wide awake. "Nah, I was just resting. You all right?"

"Yeah. I feel a little more human, I guess. I got a talking-to."

"You did? Who did that?"

Mark snorted a laugh. "Like you don't know. That kid's almost as good as you at the 'Get McCormick to Realize He's Being a Jerk' speech."

Hardcastle felt an overwhelming relief, not only at the fact that Olivia's talk had seemed to work, but also at hearing his friend laughing and joking. Maybe he's actually gonna be okay.

McCormick was speaking again. "So, anyway, I uh, talked to Lorenzo. I told him I wanted to meet Dr. Shire."

"That's great, kiddo."

"Yeah. . . So, can you come back? I know you wanted to get some sleep, but I'd kinda like you here when I talk to Dr. Shire. I mean, well . . . You know." McCormick trailed off self-consciously.

"Of course I can come back," the judge blustered. "I just need to call a cab. I can be there in twenty minutes."

He made it in fifteen.