Hidden Scars by InitialLuv

Epilogue

MILT - 1985

We're about a half hour out of Palm Springs before I realize McCormick has shanghaied my radio.

Not only that, but he's cheerily singing along to some nonsense about starting a fire without a spark.

McCormick is casually slouched in the pickup's passenger seat, gazing out the window at the raindrops dripping down the glass. He seems to be off in his own contented world, unaware that I'm even in the truck. I almost don't want to disturb him, but we have an agreement. When we're in the Coyote I have to listen to that noise he claims is music, but in my truck, I get to pick the station.

Taking advantage of the kid's distracted state, I stealthily reach forward to turn the dial on the radio.

There's a brief silence while I attempt to find another station. Not expecting the sudden lack of music, McCormick continues singing the next line of the song I just turned off.

"There's a joke here somewhere and it's on me – "

He trails off and glares at me with a combination of indignation and embarrassment. "Hey! I was listening to that!"

"My truck. My radio."

"You can't just shut off Springsteen mid-song. That's sacrilege."

I should have known it was Springsteen. You would think he was the only musician who ever came out of New Jersey, the way the kid idolizes him. Yet Sinatra, who was born in the same town McCormick himself lived in for a time – Sinatra he could do without.

Although I could see that having something more to do with Sonny Daye than it does with Frank Sinatra.

I'm having a hard time finding a radio station that I like. We're still too far from home to pick up my pre-set stations, at least not without a lot of static. As I study the radio in frustration, the truck swerves a little on the damp road.

"Judge!" Overreacting to the brief lurch, the kid makes an exaggerated gesture of grabbing onto the dashboard. "Let me play with the radio," he requests next. "Or better yet, let me drive." McCormick waves a hand out at the steady rain.

"It's just a drizzle. I know how to drive, McCormick! At least we're not getting wet, like we would in your hot rod."

McCormick doesn't respond to the criticism of his car. He's used to my sardonic comments. Actually – although I'd never tell the kid this – I sort of admire the Coyote. It's sharp-looking, surprisingly sturdy, and damn powerful. The few times I've been behind the wheel of that street monster, I've had a hard time controlling it at higher speeds, and felt a little humbled. But the effortless way McCormick handles that car, when we're chasing down the bad guys. . . It's pretty obvious there was a reason he'd been a professional race car driver.

The former race car driver is still jawing at me. "Well, if you're not gonna let me drive, at least keep your eyes on the road and try to not kill us. What do you want to listen to?" McCormick starts scanning radio stations, listening to each for a few seconds before moving to the next one. "I should say, what do you want to force me to listen to? Big band, Tommy Dorsey-type stuff? Or World War II era popular music?"

"Tommy Dorsey was popular during World War II, hotshot."

McCormick shrugs. He is manipulating the radio with a speed and ease that he does most anything related to a vehicle. A burst of a familiar song comes through the speakers and I holler for him to stop.

"Now that's music!" I say happily. It's a woman singing a sort of lullaby – I think it's Peggy Lee. Yeah, that's right. I recall when this song was first popular, in what, the late '40s? How did I get so old? I can also remember how, years later, my wife used to sing this to our young son. I hum along a little to the refrain, which consists of some Italian-sounding nonsense words preceding the lyric "my bambino go to sleep."

I glance at McCormick, expecting a smart-mouthed response about the kind of music I appreciate. He is sitting stiffly upright, the relaxed pose gone, and is staring fixedly in front of him. I turn my attention back to the road, not wanting to give him another reason to yell at me. But it's not long before I look at the kid again, and I see he is now methodically rubbing his left eyebrow.

"What's wrong with your eye?"

He doesn't answer. If anything, the rubbing becomes more agitated.

"Hey! Kiddo!"

McCormick's hand drops to his lap, and when I can see his face more clearly I'm surprised to see a strained expression. The kid looks at me out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't turn to face me.

"What?" he growls, his voice rough and annoyed. I'm a little disturbed by the kid's abrupt shift from cheerful singing to surly contention. The mood swing reminds me of the roller coaster of emotions he'd had last month, with what happened to Kate. He'd been over the moon when his old flame got in touch, and after losing her in that sham of a wrestling match, he'd come crashing down into anger and despair, actually scaring me a bit.

I'm out of practice with the kid's ups and downs. When McCormick had first moved in at Gulls' Way, he'd been touchy and defensive, yet often cracking wise to try and hide his wariness of his new living situation. But he's been at the estate over two years now, truly settled in. He's been able to keep his emotions on a much more even keel. So I have no idea what just set him off. I'm a little worried, wondering if something had reminded him of Kate's death. But then there's also the most recent events to consider.

"Your eye – are you okay?" I ask. "I know that guy Orlando knocked you around in the projection booth – "

"He did not 'knock me around!' I got the jump on him – he didn't shoot you, did he?" McCormick bites the words off curtly.

"I kinda got the impression that was because you got bailed out," I say dryly, "by Ferris and his gunsel."

"Well, sure, they might've shot him," McCormick says distastefully, "but that's only because I found him in the first place, and kept him busy until the 'cavalry' got there."

"Kept him busy by letting him use you as a punching bag, huh? In a tux, yet."

"How the hell would you know?" The kid has his arms crossed tightly, and his face looks pained. At least he's not rubbing his head anymore.

"I do know. I saw the report you gave the cops, sport."

McCormick's shoulders droop. He mutters something about "no privacy" and then starts to rub his left eyebrow again, hard. Damn it.

I make a decision I hope I won't regret, and leave the I-10 at the next exit. Looking around for a place to park, I finally pull in to a truck stop and turn the pickup off.

McCormick looks around in confusion at the combination gas station/restaurant. "What's this? You hungry?"

I turn in my seat to look directly at him. "I pulled over because I want to talk to you. I can't do it decently if I'm driving. And I know if I wait until we get home, you'll avoid me or take off in the Coyote."

McCormick lays his head back on the seat rest and looks up at the ceiling of the cab. "Judge, this is ridiculous. What is there to talk about? Fine, Orlando laid me out. But I'm okay, everything worked out. Tonto and Lone Ranger got bad guys."

"If everything's okay, what are you all worked up about? You were fine until I made you change the radio –"

"Hardcase, c'mon, I'm not that immature I would throw a fit over something like –"

"Willya stop interrupting me!" I command, loudly. I don't really mean to yell, but I swear, in the past two years I have not been able to finish a thought without the kid talking over my words.

McCormick falls silent, but his glare speaks volumes. I stare back, and we both watch the other to see who will blink first. The kid loses. His left eye twitches slightly, and he turns away as if he's self-conscious of the tic.

"I want to know what's going on with you. Like I said, you were fine ten minutes ago. Now you look like you're ready to throw up, or take off outta here, or both." When McCormick stubbornly refuses to face me, I get a little perturbed. "You gonna say anything?" I bristle.

McCormick throws me a dirty look. "Oh, am I allowed? I wouldn't want to interrupt the righteous and honorable Milton C. Hardcastle." It's a decidedly McCormick smart remark, but it is lacking his typical easy wit. His voice is tired and bland. It's unsettling.

I make another decision, almost as purposeful as pulling over to start this anemic conversation.

"Mark, talk to me," I say. I hope my uncommon use of his first name doesn't backfire.

McCormick closes his eyes briefly, seems to steel himself, and then looks at me with open honesty. "I'm sorry, Judge. I don't know what to tell you. I'm not really sure what's wrong."

"Maybe start with your eye."

The kid's hand rises to his left eyebrow almost involuntarily, and it's like he has to consciously pull it down into his lap again. Now that I'm able to view him directly without having to worry about driving, I look closer at the spot that he's been rubbing, which is now slightly red and inflamed. And I can see a thin white line standing out in the flushed skin, a scar I don't think I've noticed before. Between his eyebrow and the shadow from the long curls, the scar is pretty well hidden.

"Hardcase, can we just go? I'm beat, and I just want to go home." There's an unusual note of fear in the plaintive request.

"I don't understand what's so difficult about this, McCormick," I push, and his only response is a deep sigh.

For some reason I feel this is important. Maybe it's because Mark is so resistant, and that's not what I'm accustomed to anymore. I know he trusts me now, not like when he went off and swiped federal records to try and find his father, keeping me at arm's length until I called him on it. He's able to talk to me about most anything, except for the more graphic details of his time in San Quentin.

Well, that and his mother.

He's mentioned her enough that I know he had a special – and too-brief – relationship with his remaining parent. I know that she worked two jobs until she got sick, to try and do right by her son. But he doesn't provide anecdotes or clear explanations for the brief descriptions he occasionally offers.

McCormick is obsessed with and nervous about this scar that he doesn't want to discuss. I decide it must have something to do with either prison, or his childhood. And based on how old the scar looks, I figure that childhood is a better bet.

"How'd you get that scar?" I know even if he tries to lie to me, I can usually get a modicum of truth from the way he bends the facts.

"Why? Why is it so important?" A clap of thunder shakes the truck, and the kid jumps. He's wound pretty tight. I think if it wasn't raining, he probably would bail on me just to avoid answering my questions.

"It looks like it means something to you, the way you're trying to rub it off your head."

McCormick runs his hands through his hair, but it's more like he's grabbing the curls in distress.

"It's just – I don't – " Another sigh. "I don't really remember."

This wasn't what I had expected. I mull on that for a moment, then come up with a theory.

"It doesn't have to do with your uncle, does it?" I ask quietly.

A humorless grin tugs at McCormick's lips. "No, Judge. There's plenty of stuff I wish I could forget about my uncle, but no, this wasn't him." His face becomes serious again. I can tell he's thinking hard, by the way his jaw tenses and his eyes become unfocused.

"I just remember bits, images. Something to do with a piano? And a toy car – or maybe a plane. I don't know. I must have been pretty young. I think. . . I think Sonny was there." Mark gives his head a quick shake, then looks at me. "What's the earliest memory you have, Judge?"

I'm caught off guard by the request. "Well, I don't know, kiddo. I guess I've just got bits and pieces of when I was really young, too. Images, like you said. Going out to the field to tell my father to come in for supper. Climbing the tree in the front yard, and how ticked my mom got when I tore my pants. The time our old hound dog got in a fight with a coyote, and how my father had to put the dog down – "

"Thanks, Judge, that's enough." McCormick's face pales. And he says I have a soft spot.

"Okay, fine," I agree, "but I think you remember more than you realize, or you wouldn't be working that scar over."

The rainstorm seems to have passed. McCormick looks out the window, then down at his watch. "If we want to get home before dark, we'd better get going, Hardcastle." The tone in his voice is very matter-of-fact. In his opinion, the talk is over.

And I guess it is. If he can't remember, he can't remember. I just wish I knew what had prompted the memory of the scar to begin with, why he had started rubbing it. If he could figure that out, maybe the rest would come.

I start the pickup and find the junction to get back on the I-10. The radio is playing a jazz tune now, and I turn it up. If this station is still coming in once we get back to Los Angeles, I might have to put it in one of the pre-sets.

McCormick leans forward and turns the volume back down. He has an odd look on his face. "Hey, Judge. What was that song before?"

"What song?"

He flaps a hand at me. "You know. That song, when you made me stop scanning the stations. The woman – "

"Oh! That was Peggy Lee. You know who she is." When the kid gives me a sour look, I defend myself. "Hey, she's what, only in her mid-sixties!" I recognize I'm describing myself, and grin a little. "She's still performing, you know. She had some pretty big hits; acted, too. I remember she'd do these radio shows with Perry Como or Bing – "

"Perry Como?" McCormick says with a sudden interest.

"Oh, you don't know who Peggy Lee is, but you know Perry Como?" I tease. "Yeah, that song? He sang it too. I don't know who wrote it, but I think he sang it first." I pause, considering. "I think I like her version better."

I notice a change in the kid's breathing. It's quicker, almost labored. I look at him with alarm. "I'm not gonna have to pull over again, am I?"

"No – don't bother me. Don't talk to me."

"What the hell – "

"Hardcastle, shut up!" McCormick starts humming to himself, then begins murmuring the lyrics of the Perry Como/Peggy Lee song. I can barely make out his voice, but it seems he knows the song verbatim. Better than I remember it. Then he becomes quiet, and I have an urge to check on him again. When I turn slightly to glance his way, I can see he's got his face screwed up like he's trying to decipher a difficult riddle.

"I think I remember," he finally says. "Not everything, but a lot."

"What, you remember the song? Like, the words?"

"The song? Yeah, a guy singing. That's how I'm used to it. I remember Sonny sang it to me in the hospital."

I'm trying to catch up. "Hospital," I echo.

"I remember," he repeats in wonder. "I fell. I was climbing and I fell. Cut my head open. They took me to the hospital. I was scared out of my mind. I must have been three or four, if Sonny was still there."

I nod. "That makes sense. Both parts. You being pretty young and being terrified."

He shakes his head slowly. "No, I was more than terrified. I think I hit a nurse. My mom – she couldn't control me. I think I hit her, too." The kid lowers his head in shame. I'm amazed sometimes at how he can be such a smart mouth, so disrespectful, and yet have that inner compass for decency and ruefulness.

"I think she probably understood, kiddo."

He doesn't respond to my comment other than giving a small shrug. I figure that's all I'm gonna get, considering it's his mom we're talking about, and how he doesn't talk about her.

"But then I remember Sonny being there. And he sang to me, to calm me down. He sang that song. That was like 'my' song, you know? Like a lullaby. . . "

He's thrown me for a loop again. The coincidence that both he and my son were sung the same lullaby. . .

McCormick has again clammed up, and we travel for several miles with only the faint sound of the radio between us. It's probably another ten minutes before the kid starts to speak.

"Do you know why I wanted to find Sonny?" he asks slowly, as if he has to drag the words out.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I guess. You wanted to meet him, ask him why he left and all that." I shrug.

"But you know, it's weird," McCormick says. "After we met him, in his dressing room, and the way he acted? I don't get it, because I remember – well, I get the feeling – that he was okay as a father. That things were good. My mom – I can see her laughing with him, smiling. I don't remember them fighting, really. Maybe they just didn't do it around me, but. . . " Mark sighs heavily. It's a sigh of twenty-five fatherless years. "He said, in that note he left, that he was afraid of not being the type of father I'd need. But it's not like a five-year-old expects perfection. I think while he was around, he was enough. He was all I needed."

I'm not sure how to answer his observation, so I stay silent. And this time it's only about thirty seconds before the kid starts talking, softly. I have to strain to hear him.

"I guess maybe I should have told him that. I was just so pissed. About everything my mother had to go through after he left. At all the stuff I had to deal with. At how people treated us. I had so much anger built up in me."

McCormick's voice trembles slightly. "I kind of forgot. . . For the short time that he was my dad, I was a happy kid."

I grip the steering while a little tighter than necessary, and peer out the windshield, not trusting myself to look at Mark. I feel honored, in a way, that he's so open with me, but damned if these heart-to-hearts don't take it out of me. I think once we get back home I'm gonna need some serious guerrilla basketball to shake off this talk.

But first –

"Well, who knows – maybe you'll still get a chance to tell him."

McCormick laughs, and it's a welcome sound. "Yeah, sure, Hardcastle. But I'm not gonna hold my breath, okay?" He relaxes back against the seat, obviously calmer now that he's shed his burden.

I chance another quick look away from the road, and see that the kid has a peaceful smile on his face.

It appears his storm has passed, as well.

END

NOTES FOR THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER:

Episodes referenced: Ties My Father Sold Me, Strangle Hold, Conventional Warfare.

The song McCormick sings a lyric to is "Dancing in the Dark," (1984) by Bruce Springsteen (of course!).

Thanks for reading!

-ck