Chapter 5
The night was long and utterly quiet. About an hour after Milt had seen him in the trauma area, Mark was moved to a private room. The nurse came out to collect the judge from the waiting room and direct him to the appropriate area.
"I explained to Dr. Guthrie that you'd want to visit Mr. McCormick beyond regular hours. And I assured him that you wouldn't be any trouble or disturb him in any way," She smiled as she waited for him to confirm her statements.
He gave her just a hint of a smile. "Of course, I understand, thank you," he managed to say.
"I put some magazines in there for you to read as well. It might be a long night."
"As long as a good morning follows, I'll be just fine," Milt answered.
They stopped at the Room 3089. "Here he is. I'm just down the hall at the desk. If you need anything, just let me know. There's also a buzzer at his side." She pushed the door open for him to enter.
There never was an easy way to enter a hospital room. Milt remembered back when Nancy had given birth to Tommy, and he went to see her. He'd been in the waiting room for more than a day, paced and worried from one end to the other along with the other soon-to-be-fathers. One by one, the nurse came in and announced to a father that his child had arrived and then direct him to where he needed to go. Milt waited his turn. Finally, a nurse came in, said his name and took him back to Nancy's hospital room. He felt dumb and clumsy as he entered and saw her sitting up, holding the newborn baby, the image was straight out of '50's sitcom. He couldn't even remember if he told he loved her or what exactly he had said or did. His legs felt like anchors, his arms felt like they stretched to the floor. His heart pounded, forget about his mind and thoughts and his tongue was flopping around inside his mouth, unable to even form a single word. He did remember seeing his son lying there in Nancy's arms, healthy, hearty, and sleeping. He thanked all the powers-that-were for the safe and healthy arrival of their son.
And that was the good side to a hospital.
This was the other.
The light was subdued, soft and subtle, yet bright enough for Hardcastle to see each and every burn, cut or abrasion on Mark's face. They'd gotten him cleaned up real well by now and the room smelled like typical antiseptic. The cuts and bruising didn't seem quite as bad as they had at the warehouse. And he was alive. Now it was time for the healing to begin. He stood along side of the bed and watched him sleep. His breathing was still funny. The smoke he had inhaled was not exiting nearly as quickly as it had entered. He'd get a few breaths in normally, but just as quickly, his chest would shudder and Milt would see just how difficult it was for him to get the air he wanted.
While he stood there, another nurse came in to check the IV drip and she also injected some pain medication into the solution as well.
"What's that for?" the judge asked her.
"Something to make him a little more comfortable. It's a pain med that Dr. Guthrie ordered."
Milt nodded his understanding as she charted her work and left the two of them. He finally took a seat in the nearby chair but not before picking up the stack of magazines the other nurse had left for him. There was no table nearby to put them on, so for now, he set them underneath the chair. He'd probably browse or read them later, once this initial trepidation wore off.
One thing was for sure, the pain meds for McCormick weren't doing a thing for his labored breathing. His body continued to tremble as he sometimes struggled for necessary air, his lungs choked with the smoke from the explosion, causing him to wheeze and strain for every breath. The judge wished he could do something to help him, but he also realized the doctors and the nurses had everything under control. This was now something that McCormick's own body had to recover from. It didn't stop Milt from wishing it was him in the bed rather than McCormick. He never intended to put Mark in harm's way over all this.
"Kiddo, I keep promising you that I won't put you in this sort of danger any more, and I keep breaking my word. You didn't sign on for any of this." Unconsciously he let his hand slide in on McCormick's forearm, and as he continued to talk in a low voice, he rubbed it up and down, careful to avoid the IV and the bandages.
"I think I got us mixed up in a real bad one this time, McCormick. I'm not so sure who all the players are or even the whole story on this one. Frank's gonna help us out, hopefully sort it out and get to the bottom of it, wherever that may be. Right now, I think we're all in the dark. But I promise you that I'll find out why this happened. We'll get whoever's behind all this. You just need to concentrate on getting better." He softly tapped on his arm and then went back to the rhythmic motion of rubbing it, before deciding to take his limp hand, wrapping his own around it, giving it a caring squeeze of reassurance before letting it come to rest inside of his.
It wasn't long before the judge drifted off in the chair beside him.
OOOOO
It was a deserted racetrack.
Mark stood alone in the center of the track and looked up at the stands. The bleachers were empty, completely devoid of any human activity. The infield was silent. He was all alone. A cold wind whipped around him, swirling up dried up leaves, chilling him to the core.
Mark turned around and saw a racecar with his name on it. He reached in, picked up the helmet on the driver's seat and then climbed in through the narrow window. He put the helmet on his head and cranked the engine. He raced along the empty track, alone, then suddenly there were the other cars lining up at the pole ahead of him. He took his position near the start of the lineup and waited for them to wave the green flag to start the race. When the flag dropped, he found himself left behind in the dust, yet he persevered to catch up with them.
Somehow, Mark knew that this was a dream. He wasn't racing right then. At least, he wasn't involved in a NASCAR race. Why was he there?
All the while, the cold wind blew through the window of his car that left him chilled.
OOOOO
The same soft lighting woke Hardcastle up with a tiny startle. He checked his watch, and noted that he had dozed off for about an hour. He sat up a little straighter and pinched at his eyes and nose in an effort to wake himself up.
McCormick hadn't moved. His breathing was the same; still labored, still uneven. Every once and awhile, the kid coughed, apparently in an effort to clear his lungs. Then he'd settle back down, never waking up. Hardcastle reached under the chair and plucked off the first magazine from the top of the pile. It was the latest issue of Field and Stream. "See there, kiddo? This is what we should be spending our time doing, dropping the line and landing a salmon or a trout." He sat back and got slightly lost in an article about inland lakes.
It wasn't too long until McCormick began to make some moaning noises that caused Hardcastle set the magazine on his lap and gave his attention to his friend. "You trying to wake up, McCormick?" he leaned over to him and quietly asked.
Another groan ensued, followed by a slight movement of his head.
"You just take it easy. You've been through a lot. Don't move around too much. The doctor doesn't want you to injure anything else." Hardcastle said with concern.
Hardcastle watched as McCormick took in as deep a breath as he could muster and as he was exhaling he said the word, "Cold." At least that's what it sounded like to Milt. McCormick coughed a little, and the sound of his lungs filled the room with the crackling, congested and painful reverberation of the smoke still deep within him. The sound panicked him, but he realized that coughing might just be the one thing the kid really needed to do to clear his lungs up.
"What's that, kiddo? You're cold?" The judge asked him direct because he couldn't be sure if he'd heard him correctly. He noticed that he was covered with a blanket, but that his arms had been left uncovered. He reached over once again and touched his skin on his arms. That could be it. His skin did feel cold.
McCormick wasn't wasting time. Before the judge could remedy the situation, he repeated, "Cold," only this time it was a little louder and much clearer.
"All right, hang on, I got ya covered on this one. We don't need a nurse for this, do we, kiddo?" The judge quickly sprung to his feet and pulled the blanket down first, so that he could manipulate it to cover up McCormick's arms. It was a little tricky on the side with the IV, but he got it working up and around it, so that the kid was essentially covered up. "How's that feel now? Better?"
Mark made no further comments, but his head drifted off to the opposite side of where Milt stood and he noticed his breathing seemed a little easier.
Chapter 6
The long night gave way to the 'good morning' that Milt had mentioned to the nurse. Through the night, the nurses had been monitoring McCormick and all reports indicated that the patient was breathing easier and could possibly regain consciousness that day. Milt Hardcastle couldn't have been any happier with the news.
True to his word, Frank Harper stopped in on his way to the cop shop with a clean set of clothes for Milt. "Jeans, socks, shirt – oh, by the way, your next door neighbor came over to find out if everything was all right."
"Elliott Drinkwater?" Milt asked as he pulled his shirt over his head.
"Yeah. It seems he's figured out that if I go by the house and you two aren't there, then that means one of you must be in trouble of some kind."
"What'd you tell him?" Milt sat down and put his shoes back on, noticing that they were a bit smoky as well.
"I managed to get away without telling him much of anything. Have you had breakfast yet?"
Milt shook his head. "I'm not hungry. I don't think I could stomach any food right now anyway."
"Then how about some coffee? I think we could both use some."
Milt was about to refuse when the nurse came in to take Mark's vitals and switch out the IV. Coffee did sound good, and he needed the caffeine. "Yeah, let's go." Then, he told the nurse, "I'm just going to the cafeteria if you need me for anything," and walked out with Frank.
"They think he'll wake up sometime today," Milt said to Frank as they rode down in the elevator.
"That's great news, Milt. These kids bounce back a lot faster from this stuff than old guys like you and me do."
"Well, he's had his share and then some of these bounce backs. I gotta stop doing this to him."
Frank eyed him up. "I've told you before, Milt, you don't do this to him. All the nut jobs out there do this. You guys help get the nut jobs off the streets. Besides McCormick knows the risks and whether you believe it or not, he does it because he wants to and because he knows if he didn't help you, you'd do it yourself and wind up in a hospital bed yourself."
"Aw, he does it because I gave him no real choice. Don't try to con me, Frank."
"No, don't con yourself. Maybe that was the deal at first, but it's not anymore. Isn't he done with parole? The fact is Milt, he could pack up and leave anytime and get a regular paying job that doesn't get him chased or shot at. He's doing this because he wants to. That kid in there cares about you, and the work you guys do together, not about anything else. You know what he told me after he got shot? When you were feeling all guilty about the whole thing?" Milt shook his head. "He said that if him winding up in a hospital for a few days kept you out of the morgue, then it was worth it to him."
Milt didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything. He followed Frank into the cafeteria. It was empty except for the hospital crew getting everything ready for the breakfast rush. They got their coffee, found a table and sat quietly for a few moments before the judge asked, "Did you find out anything?"
Frank sighed heavily. "I'm getting stonewalled. I finally contacted an old buddy of mine in the FBI. There's no absolute proof of anything, there's nothing official --"
"Frank, I've had a long night. Spill it."
"The Feds we've been working with are on the up-and-up, apparently. My contact said that there's a chance that it's some sort of a militant group working on their own inside the federal government smuggling guns out of the country. There have been other incidents over the last few years where arms have been confiscated in federal raids and disappearing out of evidence warehouses later. Whoever it is, they've got whatever authority they need to move around without anyone asking questions."
"And then they use Kerns to ship the items out?"
"Possibly. He might only be one of the methods they use to ship the guns but Kerns may be a partner. It definitely looks like he's part of their cover."
Milt swirled his coffee in the cup. "Any idea why the warehouse seemed like a setup?"
"It'd be speculation on my part, but given what I've heard, I think the Feds have someone inside Kerns' ranks. That wouldn't sit well with the militants or Kerns, so I think he gave specific information to this guy to see if he'd go to his superiors with it and prove he was the insider."
That made sense, Milt thought to himself. "So that's why the Feds didn't want to show up. That would have undermined their agent's cover. This way, it looks like we were in there going after one of the cases that walked out of my courtroom."
"And not working for the Feds," Frank added. "That's why they came to me in the first place asking about Kerns' local crimes. They knew I'd consider you and Mark for the job. They must have known that Kerns was one of your technicalities too. Anyway, the idea was that you two find something that I can use to get a warrant with, and that leads to me finding evidence that leads to federal charges."
"And the warehouse blew up."
"Sorry, Milt."
"It's not your fault," the judge told him.
"But we've got that one box with the hollow point bullets. That should be enough for me to get a warrant looking into Kerns' bank accounts and home and other businesses. Maybe we can get something from them."
"What about that one guy you arrested?" Milt asked as he yawned.
"He's not talking, and we don't know if Kerns and the other individual in the warehouse survived. Milt, on the outside chance that they did…"
"Yeah, I know. They know what Mark looks like. They could come after him." Milt took a sip of his now-cooling coffee.
"Looks like you could use some rest yourself Milt," Frank suggested.
"Me? I've gotten in a couple of catnaps. I wish his lungs would clear up, it scares me half to death every time he starts coughing or wheezing and can't seem to catch his breath. But I'm fine. Coffee's what I need right now."
Frank nodded his head. He knew the drill far too well. "Okay, look, you guys take care. I'll be in touch."
OOOOO
Kerns sat down carefully, every muscle feeling like each had been pulled to the breaking point. That idiot hired gun, he'd started shooting at Kerns when he had that intruder in his sights. A sizeable portion of his inventory he was using as bait was gone and there was no way to know what the intruder had gotten away with, but now Kerns knew who the federal agent was. At least he himself had been standing near a door when that idiot had fired into a crate of gunpowder and got blasted clear. The two-timing agent hadn't made it out alive, too bad for a piece of scum like that. Who needed him anyway?
That was one problem solved.
Now for the intruder. Kerns had to find out if he survived, who he was and where he was.
OOOOO
Milt sipped at his coffee slowly. He hated to admit it, but that chair in the hospital room was uncomfortable and the ones in the cafeteria were at least well padded. It'd be okay if he enjoyed a 15-minute cup of coffee in a comfortable chair, right? As soon as the last drop was drank, he headed back up to Mark's room. As he got closer, a nurse was coming out of the room.
"Judge Hardcastle, I think your friend is beginning to come around. He's begun to make purposeful movements and sounds, although he is still unconscious and quite a bit groggy right now which could be due to the pain meds. I've paged the doctor. He said he'd be by during rounds this morning to check on him. I didn't want you to be alarmed when you saw him again."
"Thank you," he said to her as he entered back into the room and looked over to the bed. McCormick appeared distressed and troubled to Milt. The nurse hadn't gotten too far down the hall, so Milt called out to her. "Excuse me," he said. She stopped walking and turned back.
"Yes, Judge?" She came back toward him.
"He seems, I don't know, like he's in some kind of pain or something. Does he maybe need some medication soon?" They both entered the room to have a closer look.
"No, he had some about an hour ago, according to his chart." She had picked it up off the end of the bed and was reading it. Next she went over to re-check his vital signs.
"You do see that don't you?" He asked her, as he pointed to McCormick.
Mark's facial expressions, though still unconscious, were filled with pain. He was turning his head from side to side, squeezing his eyes and taking unusual sounding breaths.
"Yes, Judge, I do, but as I've said, it's purposeful movements. It may look and seem strange to you, but I assure you it's perfectly natural in those who have had concussions. He's simply reacting to reality. That's how we know he's coming out of the coma."
"Coma?" Milt asked. "No one said coma."
The nurse stopped and looked at the judge, surprise apparent on her face. "I'm sorry. I misspoke. He wasn't in an actual coma, at least, not in the classic sense. He was in a deeper state of unconsciousness than what you might associate with the word." She softly grabbed onto Hardcastle's arm and gave it a squeeze. "Honestly, Judge, this is all very good. We'd like for him to wake up as soon as possible, then we can assess and determine if there's been any other head injury that we need to be concerned about." She could see the worry and concern on Hardcastle's face. "If you'd prefer, we can give you a call when he does wake up," implying to him that he could wait somewhere else if he was uncomfortable.
He got the meaning right away. "Nah, I'll stay. I should be here. It's okay, I just don't like seeing him hurting like that, but if that's normal, then so be it. Besides, he'll expect me to be here when he wakes up. I'm sure he'll have a thousand questions, and there's no need for you folks to have to deal with him. He can be sort of ornery when he hasn't had his morning coffee, I can only imagine what he'll be like coming out of this." He paused and asked, "Is it okay to have the TV on now, do you think?"
"Sure," she gave him a smile, "Hearing noises might help rouse him a little faster. And you can talk to him too, that might spur him as well. When he does wake up, he'll probably be a little disoriented, so just talk him through the confusion and let us know."
The Judge returned the smile and as she exited, he went over and turned on the overhead TV. He adjusted the volume on the remote control as he took his chair. Usually, he'd have put the sound almost to mute, but since the objective was to help McCormick wake up, he put it up to a more normal level.
Hardcastle was busy changing the channels, all ten of them. There weren't too many choices and even less selection given that it was only about seven in the morning. Cartoons or reruns of Leave It To Beaver. He settled in on AM Los Angeles basically for any sort of news reports, specifically about the explosion at the warehouse. It was bound to be a top story, given the immense fire. And sometimes the reporters unknowingly had some sort of fact that had been overlooked by the police. Anything would be helpful. Milt gave his attention to the reporter as he began to report on the story.
"This is Byron Simms, AMLA News reporting. Last night, a warehouse on the east side burned to the ground after a massive explosion."
The scene moved from the reporter to the burned remains behind him. The steel framework of the building was charred and in pieces, some of the ribs still standing but at a precarious angle. What was left didn't look like it had been a building at all.
"Officials believe that there may have been fuel used by the forklifts housed in the warehouse that contributed to the spread of the fire. Although the cause of the fire itself is still unknown, there is some speculation that a gas leak may be involved. The actual source of the explosion is still under investigation."
There was enough of a pause in the report for Milt to sarcastically chuckle. "It wasn't fuel or a gas leak, Byron," he interjected.
"The owners of the warehouse, U.S. Exporters, a United States Customs contractor, had recently leased the space to a local shipping company, T&K Shipping."
United States Customs? Milt sighed. This just kept getting better and better. Kerns really was in bed with some big bads. Of course, this made the entire disaster make more sense, sort of. US Customs contractors could be almost above the reach of the law. The contractors owned the warehouses, they leased them to Kerns, simple way to do business. They owned the real estate, Kerns supplied the labor and know-how. Maybe they just caught a break? The contractors could come and go… they had the authority… no one would ever ask questions…
"That's good news, kiddo," he sighed quickly glancing at McCormick. T&K Shipping. TK had to be the initials for Timothy Kerns. Depending on what was on the paperwork, Frank might have a good chance of finding out a great deal. Paperwork. Milt could almost groan at the irony. After all, Kerns walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom because his name was misspelled. Hopefully, they won't have that problem on any of the lease documents.
"As you can see, the warehouse itself has been completely obliterated. Moments ago, officials found the skeletal remains of an as-yet unidentified individual who was inside the warehouse at the time. Police sources also tell us that one injury was reported, but there has been no word by officials as to who the person is or where he is. The police are not commenting as to whether they believe foul play was involved. This is Byron Simms for AMLA News."
One injured, which means if Kerns or anyone involved with Kerns, was watching, they'd know that Mark was still alive. That made him even more of a target.
OOOOO
One injured. Kerns shut off the television and sat back more comfortably in his uncomfortable chair. He was still stiff and sore from the blast, right now, everything was uncomfortable and at least he wasn't in a hospital. The intruder was alive. Who the hell was that guy? It shouldn't be hard for his associates to find out who he was and where. Knowledge of his whereabouts would have to be known to some in law enforcement. Or perhaps the insurance companies? He had some contacts there, and the injured man must have needed medical attention…
It wouldn't take long. He picked up the phone and made a call. "Toby, this is Kerns. I need you to find someone for me… Nah, nothing like that at all… nope, just find someone… I promise, this time I'll have someone else do the dirty work… Whatta ya mean you've heard that before? Toby, come on….all right, how much do you want?... Deal… This is what I got. He's about six feet tall, curly brown hair, thin build, probably in a hospital on the east side somewhere. He's probably got some burns from an explosion… I'm serious, Toby, just find out his name, where he is and call me back… Yeah, yeah, okay, drop by for the envelope and give it to me then."
Chapter 7
McCormick appeared to settle down a bit as Milt was watching the news, but after about fifteen minutes went by he began to toss and turn a bit more than he had been before and he started clutching at his side where his ribs had been bruised and cracked.
"Easy going there, kiddo," Milt tried to pull his hand away and keep it at his side. He didn't want McCormick to injure himself any more. It wasn't long before he got his one hand settled down that McCormick took his other hand and lifted it up to his face and head, nearly pulling off one of the bandages that covered a burn. "Hey, come on now, McCormick, you don't want to be hurting yourself. That bandage is there for a reason. Try to relax." Again, he took his hand and tried to calm him down.
This wasn't going to be easy. McCormick, as always, had a mind of his own and he was doing a good job of driving the judge nuts with his so-called 'purposeful movements.'
As his head was lolling slowly back and forth, his face began to take on the appearance of waking up, his eyelids began fluttering, his lips began to part, and he started breathing a little more loudly, more quickly.
Hardcastle watched it all and joked out loud, "Boy, oh boy, McCormick, you're sure making a major production out of this. Why don't you wake up already?"
This time both of his arms and hands rose up to his head. There was no doubt he probably had a headache of major proportions thanks to the concussion and the after effects of the gigantic explosion. He let out a moan as he rubbed his head near his temples and along his cheek bones and then, ever so slowly he pushed open his eyelids open and blinked a few extra times trying to clear out the cobwebs. Hardcastle got a quick peek at his eyes and they appeared glassy and unfocused.
The judge watched him closely as he started his return to consciousness. "You trying to wake up there, McCormick? Come on kiddo, you can do it," Hardcastle said. "It's about damn time." The judge pressed the nurse's call button as he spoke.
The Judge's 'morning greeting' was answered by another murmuring groan, not entirely unlike the kind he usually got in the morning by McCormick.
Mark closed his eyes tightly and pushed his own head rather forcefully to the right side, then repeated the same motion to the left. The look on his face belied the pain he was in.
"Must have a helluva headache, huh, kiddo?" The judge remarked. "I sure can understand that after seeing that explosion."
All he got was another muttering groan.
The nurse's voice came over the speaker. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, McCormick's waking up, and I think he's hurting."
"I'll be right there," she answered.
Mark settled down, almost as if he were trying to drop off again. Hardcastle carefully shook Mark's arm. "The nurse is coming, so why don't 'cha try staying awake here, huh? They said you might feel a little disoriented, but you're gonna be okay. You're in the hospital kiddo, getting all the care you need."
McCormick's right hand went back up to his head and he opened his tired eyes up once and for all as he put the judge in his sights. He managed to pry one open more than the other and the Judge waited for him to open them both the same. It took a few more seconds, as the kid was combating through some noticeable sort of head pain.
Hardcastle stood up from the chair to have a better look at him. "Hey, there ya are! Welcome back kiddo. How do you feel?"
McCormick blinked while focusing on the judge's face and mumbled, "Aw, leave me alone, Hardcastle." He tried to roll on his side, but the pain from his ribs prevented him from getting to far. He let out a whimper of pain and proceeded to stay still for the immediate moment. "Let me sleep. My head's all messed up, ribs hurt, ahhh, ears hurt, something different, sound…" he sort of mumbled audibly. He closed his eyes in an effort to vent the pain away.
Nothing doing from the judge's perspective, the doctors wanted him awake and he was going to facilitate the process. Hardcastle latched onto his shoulder and had him turn back to his back, "You got one bad walloping, McCormick, that's for sure. You remember any of it?"
"What?" Mark asked, squinting his eyes to see the Judge while attempting to focus and clear his pounding head. "What'd you say?"
Keeping his voice lower than normal, the judge explained, "You were in an explosion. You might not remember. I guess it's better maybe that you don't. Probably got some sort of rip-roaring headache going huh?"
"Judge, no games. Everything hurts. My ears…" McCormick said, his voice raw and sore. Mark squeezed his eyes closed tight again and rolled his neck and shoulders, then he took both hands and rubbed the side of his head, near his ears. He opened his eyes back up and waited for Milt to speak.
Games? "I'm not playing any games. What are you talking about? You're in the hospital, we brought you in late yesterday. You shouldn't move around so much. You're only going to make yourself feel worse. Besides the concussion, you busted up some ribs, too. I imagine you'll be sore for awhile."
Mark lay there for a moment, looking at the judge as if he'd grown another head. He started to cough out more of the crud from his lungs, clutching at his rib cage to quell the pain.
"Mark? What is it?" The kid's face was indescribable. There was more than just pain being reflected there. It began to make Milt very nervous and very worried.
"Judge?" McCormick's face was awash in an all-out panic.
"What is it, kiddo?" The judge didn't like that look on Mark's face. He quickly pushed the call button again.
"Talk," Mark almost ordered him.
"Talk? What do you mean? What about?" What was going on?
Mark looked around the room, utter fear and apprehension showing in his eyes. McCormick glanced up at the TV, and picked his head up from the pillow, straining. The Judge had set the remote control on the bed right by McCormick's hand, and now Mark saw it nearby and he grabbed it. Looking down at it, he punched at the volume button until it became so loud that the Judge had to grab it away from him to turn the sound back down so as not to disturb anyone else. "McCormick, stop that! What's going on? What's the matter with you?" The Judge held onto the remote and watched him closely. "Whatta ya trying to do, wake the dead?"
McCormick's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Sheer terror was on his face. He tried to prop himself up, groaning and wheezing with ever slight movement as his body was wracked with agonizing pain. His breathing was more labored than it had been.
The judge gently pushed Mark's shoulder back down to the bed. "Lay down, will ya? You're not supposed to moving around just yet." Now, he was getting really scared. What was going on with you? "Mark? What the hell is it? What's wrong? Tell me, will ya?" The judge's face softened, but inside he remained full of worry. Mark didn't just get scared for nothing.
McCormick saw Hardcastle's concern and it only intensified his own, "Judge, I… I uh, I can't hear you. Your mouth is moving but… I can't hear anything." He grabbed at his head again, right on top of his ears, pulling and tugging at them to no avail, before collapsing back onto the bed in pain and despair. "I can't hear!" he said in a scared whisper.
The judge stood by, in shock himself. There was no sense in saying anything to attempt to comfort him, it wouldn't do any good. He mumbled, "Oh, God."
McCormick had turned ever so slightly onto his other side, away from the glare of Hardcastle and where his ribs didn't hurt him so badly. He pressed his head into the pillow and covered up his other ear with his hand while he pressed his eyes closed. What had Hardcastle been saying to him? Was he telling him that he was deaf? He couldn't make any sense of anything and the pain his head was currently swimming in, just made it all the worse. His head hurt! His ears hurt! His ears didn't hear, not a sound. His ribs…maybe he'd just sleep and wake up and this would all be a dream. He sort of rocked himself in an effort to find some comfort from this nightmare. "It's got to be a nightmare," he whispered, the anguish growing in his voice with every syllable he spoke. "It's just a bad dream."
He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, beckoning him to roll over. Mark refused. When he decided to speak, his voice was filled with sorrow. "Judge, go away. Just… leave me alone for now, please," he said with an even and quiet tone in his voice. Milt left his hand there for an extra moment or two and gave the kid's shoulder a squeeze and then he removed his hand.
In the meantime, a nurse pushed open the squeaky door. McCormick didn't move as he hadn't heard her enter, but Milt immediately noticed her. "Is there a problem, Judge?" She noticed Mark was curling himself up as much as he could on the bed.
"Yeah, yeah, there is," he nodded, "Please get the doctor. He, uh, he said he can't hear anything, and he's in pain."
The nurse nodded her head. "I'll have him paged," she said as she left.
Chapter 8
While he waited for the doctor, Hardcastle decided he wasn't giving up that easily and he certainly wasn't going away. He pulled open the drawer of the side table and found a pad of paper and a pen. He took it out quickly and jotted down some words. Then he walked around to the other side of the bed.
He could tell by looking at Mark that he wasn't trying to sleep, not by the way he had his eyes pinched tightly closed. He was hurting bad. He looked every bit like a five-year-old who was afraid of monsters hiding in the dark and maybe that's just how he felt right now. He sure was entitled to that. This was one hell of a nasty monster he'd woken up with and that potentially faced the kid. The judge slowly took his right hand and eased it down in the midst of McCormick's curly hair, getting all the way down to his skull, as he cupped it in his hand and held it that way, gently grasping it, letting the kid know he wanted his attention. "Open up, kiddo," he said, still not realizing it was futile to talk at the moment. He gave the curly head another caring squeeze and left it there as he waited for McCormick to open his eyes and look at him.
McCormick didn't need ears or eyes to know that it was Hardcastle, and he knew the judge wasn't going to just 'go away.' He knew he had to deal with the situation at hand. He relaxed his facial features, took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see Hardcastle holding up the tablet that he was going to use to write on, so they could somehow communicate for the time being. Before that got started, he still needed to talk, to say something, to try to hear, maybe it was just his head. He could feel the bandages. "Judge, I can't hear. What happened? I can't remember anything." Fear and sadness filled his tired voice and tears started welling up in his eyes. "And don't go, please. I didn't know what I was saying, I didn't mean that, it's just…" he finally said. "I can't hear what I'm saying. Am I talking? There's no sound at all."
The judge nodded as he gave Mark's curly head one more concerned grasp before pulling it back to write. Hardcastle said while he wrote, "I'm not going anywhere," before he again realized that McCormick couldn't hear it. This was going to be very frustrating.
"NOT LEAVING," he scribbled on the paper. "ACCIDENT. YOU'RE IN HOSPITAL."
Mark attempted to compose himself as he read the words. "What? When? NO! My car? Was I in a crash?" He shouted, his fear turning into anger and rage. "Is this permanent? You can hear me right?"
"YEAH, I HEAR YOU. CALM DOWN," He read the words and repeated what he was reading, "DOCTOR'S COMING, NO NEED TO MARRY.
"What?" Mark didn't understand his writing. "Marry what? Judge?" McCormick was beyond confused.
Milt pulled back the tablet and looked at what he'd written. He crossed out the original 'worry' and carefully wrote it out again, this time a little more legibly.
"WORRY," Mark answered, "Yes, I'm worried. I told you, I can't hear. What happened to me?"
Hardcastle scribbled again and held it up for him.
McCormick read it out loud again. "I SAID DON'T WORRY." He rolled painfully onto his back. "Not worrying is going to be difficult, since I've been used to hearing my whole life. What are the doctors saying? Can you hear me talking? Is my voice working?"
The judge nodded 'yes' again and went back to writing.
"NO NEED TO YELL. YOU HAVE A CONCUSION, PROBABLY JUST TEMPORARY." Mark read the words and replied, "You spelled concussion wrong, it has two S's in it."
Hardcastle let his arms fall to his sides. Leave it to McCormick to be a spelling critic in a time of crisis.
"What happened? I don't remember." McCormick asked. He couldn't consciously keep his hands away from his ears, but all the pulling and prodding at them wasn't helping.
Milt tore off the paper and wrote down. "EXPLOSION IN THE WAREHOUSE. YOU WERE THROWN CLEAR."
Mark shut his eyes, searching for the memory. "What were we doing in a warehouse?"
Milt scribbled. "DOING WHAT WE ALWAYS DO. CHASING BAD GUYS."
"Last thing I remember was going to the garage to work on the Coyote," Mark shrugged and he went back to pulling and tugging at his ears. "Ears hurt worse than my head," he muttered. "Can you say something again?" Mark focused on Hardcastle whose lips were moving as he spoke something, but Mark couldn't make out any of it. Silence was all around him and closing in on him too fast for his liking. "Damn," he shouted. "Aw, damn it, I can see your lips moving, but there's no sound." He rolled back to his side and closed his eyes. "Nothing," he said bitterly.
The doctor entered the room via a squeaky hospital door, followed by another doctor and the nurse. McCormick didn't move a muscle.
The nurse made the introductions, "Judge, you know Dr. Guthrie, and this is Dr. Bishop. I told them that you said that Mark isn't able to hear."
"He's in pain and pretty upset right now," the Judge said. "Scared, too."
"We understand," Guthrie said. "Let us examine him and see what we can determine. We might have to run a few tests. Right now there's no need to jump to any conclusions."
"I've tried to tell him that, but, well, waking up with a concussion is bad enough, this…" the Judge said. He lifted up the pad of paper to explain what he'd been doing. "I'm writing things down. Let me introduce you."
He wrote down their names on the paper and reached down and gently touched McCormick's neck and shoulder.
"Now what?" Mark said, opening his eyes. He read the paper. "DR. GUTHRIE AND DR. BISHOP MANT TO DETERMINE YOU, VUN SOME IESIS. I'LL BE OUTSIDE WAITING.' "Judge that doesn't make any sense, can you slow down and write better?" He rolled over to see the two doctors and the nurse and gave them an unenthused wave of his hand.
Hardcastle tried not to show his frustration as he rewrote the words, WANT, EXAMINE, RUN and TESTS. He added, "BE NICE." He handed the tablet to Dr. Guthrie.
"Yeah, and practice your penmanship while you're out there," McCormick called out after him.
Doctors Guthrie and Bishop chuckled when they heard the cutting remark.