Chapter 13
Five days after the explosion, the doctors let Mark out of the hospital after running another series of tests and scans on his head, more specifically his hearing. The swelling still existed. There was nothing new there. His world remained achingly quiet. The burns were still a bit red and itchy, but they were healing. Bruised ribs were taped up temporarily, and pulled muscles had had a chance to work their way back to normal – a bit. The cracked rib gave him a few problems, but nothing that would keep him from doing every day, ordinary activities, not that what he and Hardcastle did was ordinary. Still, he felt better than he had when he woke up in the hospital. At least that pounding headache had finally faded.
Because of all the tests he had to endure throughout the day, it was now about 5:30pm when he had signed the last paper, the release, which he sarcastically joked to Hardcastle that he had signed his hearing away. It most likely was sitting on the trauma room floor ready to be swept into the garbage.
Milt had brought the Coyote in an effort to cheer him up. As they walked out into the late afternoon sun and haze, Mark spotted the car and his sour mood went from bad to worse. What was the Judge thinking, torturing him even more by bringing his car, a car he could no longer drive? Hardcastle was busy fishing the keys out of his pocket and he held them out for the kid to grab.
"Why'd you bring my car? It can't be legal for me to drive," he said sadly. "What's the use?"
Milt continued to dangle the keys.
"Judge, seriously, you should know this. Do I need to remind you that I can't hear? It's not fun to torment me."
Hardcastle reached for his hand and set the keys in his palm and then he pulled out his trusted tablet of paper. "HEARING DOESN'T MATTER, YOU CAN DRIVE, THERE'S NO LAW AGAINST IT."
"Are you sure?" The skepticism in his voice was evident.
Hardcastle rolled his eyes and scrawled. "JUDGE REMEMBER? I KNOW THE LAW."
"Well, if you say its okay, I suppose I can do it."
"YOU CAN DO IT. I'LL LISTEN FOR YOU. BESDIES, YOU DON'T LIKE MY DRIVING."
"That's the truth!"
Hardcastle gave him a pat on the back and they both got into the car. Mark put the keys in the ignition and fired up the engine. Before he put the car into gear, he saw Hardcastle furiously writing down a note. He waited to read what he had to say.
"I WON'T WRITE WHILE YOU'RE DRIVING."
"That's good, Judge, 'cause I won't be reading either."
From there it was back to Gulls Way. Mark wasn't driving at his usual speed. He was almost driving… slow? How could he explain it? He couldn't hear the other cars, and it felt very strange. Everything seemed perfect as the car hummed along the highway before getting onto the PCH. He could feel the thrum of the tires as it passed over asphalt. He could feel the vibrations of the car through the steering wheel. It 'felt' normal. As Mark merged the Coyote onto the familiar road, he felt the car lurch a little and he glanced over to see Hardcastle's face. "Did you feel that?"
The judge nodded. Mark kept focusing on the road, but he'd sneak a peek in Hardcastle's direction. He could tell that the judge was hearing something. Finally the judge motioned for him to pull over to the side. "What? What is it?"
The Judge was quickly writing. "AFTER THE LURCH, STARTED MAKING A NOSE."
"A nose?"
Hardcastle kept his composure. "NOISE."
"What kind of noise? Is it still making it?"
"KNOCKING OR PINGING."
"Those are two completely different nouns, Judge, at least they are when it comes to cars. Which is it?"
"MORE OF A PING."
"My side or your side?"
The judge listened carefully trying to determine where the noise came from.
"MINE"
"That could be a couple of different things. Are you sure it's a ping and not a knock?"
"COULD BE A TAP."
"Or it could be all in your head! I can't believe you don't know this stuff." Mark's temper flared as his frustration showed. "Let's just get her home and park it. There's not much I can do for her now."
"I'LL HELP." Milt quickly wrote down and held up for Mark to see. "OR WE'LL GET MECHANIC."
The last line was clearly an insult to McCormick. "No, no one touches this engine but me. I'd rather have her on blocks." He put the car into gear, refusing to read any more notes. It was only a short drive now, back to the estate. After turning up the familiar drive, he coasted the Coyote up the path and backed her in neat as a pin into the garage. He shut off the engine, pulled the keys out and handed them back over to Milt.
Neither one of them had spotted the late model Ford that had been following them from a distance all the way from the hospital. It now sat right outside the gate.
OOOOO
Kerns cautiously opened the door to his condo and saw Toby, looking like a bum, standing outside the door with a stupid grin on his face.
"I got that information you wanted. How's about letting me in your fancy house?"
Kerns was annoyed. It was the price he paid for having started out the same way. He though, unlike the piece of garbage Toby, always wanted more. Being a stupid two-bit hustler was only getting him longer prison terms. He wanted the power and the money. The downside to the 'glory' was having to still deal with the likes of the 'Toby's' in the world. "Get in here." He pulled the street-loser inside and quickly closed the door.
"My, my, aren't we all high and mighty. Whattsa matter, Timmy? Things getting a little explosive for ya?" Toby cracked.
"That's not funny. Did you do what I asked?"
"Yeah, o' course I did. I just waltzed right into that hospital and found out who both of 'em were. Even know where they live, 'cause I followed 'em. It's some big, old fancy estate called Gulls Way out in Malibu."
Kerns raised his head and got angry with Toby, lunging at him and putting his forearm into his chest and pushing him against the wall. "I just wanted the names, Toby."
"Relax, they didn't see me," Toby pushed him off. "Do you want to know who they are or not? I don't need this rough shit."
Kerns backed away. "Who are they?" he said calmly.
"The guy inside the warehouse with you is an ex-con. Name's Mark McCormick. Did a few years at Quentin for GTA. And your explosion really rocked him. He's deaf right now. I found that out from a pretty little candy striper." There was that sleazy grin again.
"McCormick? I don't know him, never heard of him. You said he was with another guy?"
"Yeah, you'll enjoy this one. He lives with a judge. Some old retired dude named Milton C. Hardcastle."
"Hardcastle?" Kerns mood completely changed. "Are you positive about this, Toby?"
"Hey, I told you, she was a pretty little candy striper. When I got through with her, she told me anything I wanted to know. You know that guy huh? That judge?"
"Maybe," now Kerns was distracted and not in the mood to talk. He walked over to the desk and pulled out an envelope and slapped it in Toby's hands. "There's your money. Now get out of here."
Toby peered inside and smiled again. "Anytime, Timmy. Always a pleasure doing business with ya."
As soon as he was alone, Kerns thought it through. Maybe things weren't as bad as he thought. Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. That tough old piece of gristle was still haunting him. Hell, he was still haunting anyone that had sneaked out of his courtroom. Last he heard, Hardcastle was waging a 'war' against those who walked out of his courtroom on a technicality. Word on the street was that he was good at it, too. His help, the ex-con, now it all made sense. Kerns himself had walked out on a technicality. That's why they were there. That also meant that the Feds hadn't taken the bait. Maybe their tracks were still covered? That should make his partners happy.
However, it didn't change the fact that the ex-con had to die. Hardcastle too!
He reached into his pocket for a small address book and looked under the K's for the name Ray Katz. He had a job for him.
Chapter 14
Note writing or any type of communication between the two of them had cooled off for the evening. Milt insisted that the kid stay in the house rather than the gatehouse, and McCormick was too tired to argue with him. Deafening silence was deafening silence no matter the location.
Hardcastle ordered up some pizza and found Mark idly hanging out in the den. He walked in and went to turn on the TV.
Mark turned away from it, choosing not to be reminded of things he couldn't do. The TV required ears to hear the talking. He stood up and went over to the nearby bookshelf and plucked off a book World War II Ships. Rather than going back to the chair, he eased himself onto the couch, as far away from the TV as possible, although he could still see it out of the corner of his eye.
Hardcastle ignored his silent outburst. He knew he had to give him some space. They both had a lot of adjusting to do to this situation, and McCormick was going to have to figure out how to do that for himself, just like he had to as well. Still, he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid. He grabbed a paper plate and put a couple of slices of pizza on it and took it over to him. He left the paper and pen behind, instead just offering the plate of food.
McCormick looked up when he saw him holding the plate and took it from him. "Thanks," he added. Milt simply gave him a nod and went back to the chair to see what was on TV.
He settled in on a baseball game. The Dodgers were hosting Cincinnati at Dodger Stadium. McCormick settled in on the book for awhile, seemingly content. Hardcastle glanced over at him from time to time and saw his eyes focusing in on the game. At about the bottom of the 2nd inning, McCormick set the book on the table and got up to get another slice of pizza and then settled into one of the chairs, rather than the couch.
"That last pitch was a strike, and Dave Anderson can't play short worth crap."
Hardcastle set his plate down and jotted down a note. "WHAT ELSE IS MEW?"
"Mew? Again with the mew? Judge, there's a clear difference between the M and the N"
"NEW, NEW, NEW!"
"Your writing is as crummy as his fielding. At least Valenzuela is pitching, so the Dodgers have a chance."
"LASORDA MIGHT HAVE FOUND THE COMBINATION THIS YEAR."
"Yeah, maybe so. Ah, come on, a pop-up?"
And so the evening went along rather peacefully, they settled more into their new mode of communication, finished up their pizza and before the 7th inning stretch, the two of them had both drifted off for a nap, completely exhausted from the prior days and both happy to be at home amidst familiar surroundings.
It was the first crack of lightning followed by the immediate updraft of wind sheer and intense torrential rain that woke Milt up. Startled at first, he looked at the TV and saw that not only was El Toro pitching, the local weather man had broken in with an update that a severe thunderstorm was passing through Malibu. "No kidding," Milt said, as he got to his feet to go have a look out of the window. His eyes tracked over to Mark who still slept soundly in the chair, every line of worry or pain was gone from his face. He didn't even realize there was a storm going on.
Hardcastle walked through the house quickly, checking windows and making sure that everything inside was battened down.
The rain intensified and the thunder and lightening began in earnest. McCormick had woken up in the midst of the storm and was standing by the window watching the whole thing pass over. It was an oddity that he couldn't begin to describe especially after all the thunderstorms he'd lived through in his thirty-odd years. This one was new. He saw each jagged line of lightening and then, rather than hearing the thunder, he felt it rumble through his body. He watched as the wind and the rain ripped and tore across Gulls Way, yet not hearing the torrent left the powerful storm more like an everyday occurrence. It still looked powerful and intimidating but without the sound, the intensity of it was greatly diminished.
Hardcastle came up alongside of him.
"I felt the thunder on the bottom of my feet. Felt like it came right up through the floor," he explained and he pointed outside to a spot on the lawn where one of the trees had been uprooted by the wind. "Or maybe I felt that getting ripped out. Guess I'll be busy digging that sucker out and cutting it up huh?"
Hardcastle scowled and turned to get some paper off his desk. "NO YARD WORK TILL RIBS MEAL"
"What?"
He rewrote, "HEAL."
Mark nodded, "Did the Dodgers win?"
"EL TORO WAS PITCHING, REMEMBER?"
Chapter 15
He was dreaming again, and he was still at the race track. Mark checked the sign his pit crew chief held up. They'd only gone one hundred laps. He was doing fine in the race. He was currently in third place and was holding his own, heck, he'd even moved up from the seventh spot. The old adage "slow and steady wins the race" obviously never related to a NASCAR race – why was he racing at NASCAR? He still didn't know why. Was this another dream? Slow and steady wasn't going to hack it, not with the racers Mark was up against. He needed to push the pedal harder and start making his move. He needed to be aggressive, like he always had when he was racing.
He sped around the turns, maintaining his position. He saw the sign from his pit crew chief that said he needed to pull in and change tires. As Mark made the last turn, he stopped into the pit and his crew made a rapid tire change and filled up his tank.
"You're doing great, kiddo!"
Mark looked over and saw the judge standing right behind the crew chief. "Judge?"
"Go on! Win this thing! We've got work to do!"
What work? Mark was in the middle of a race! It didn't make sense, the two things didn't belong together. Racing and crime fighting?
The pit crew finished their work and the crew chief waved Mark off. As he sped back into the race, he wondered, 'What was Hardcastle doing here?'
OOOOO
5:30a.m.
Milt sat up on the side of the bed. What little sleep he had hadn't been enough. He rubbed at his face, feeling the stubble of a beard starting. Funny thing was, he now heard everything, every little house noise, anything that wasn't normal and Mark heard nothing. It was stupidly ironic.
5:30 a.m. Nope, no guerilla basketball this morning, and he really could use a game right then, work out all the frustration and worry he felt. However, guerilla basketball was something played with an opponent, and he wouldn't have an opponent until Mark's ribs healed.
What a week.
He got up and walked out into the hallway, down the stairs and toward the guest room. He peeked in and saw Mark sound asleep. He waited till he saw his breathing push the blanket up and down. It was probably the first decent night's sleep the kid had gotten since the accident. Hospital beds just weren't comfortable, he could personally attest to that. He liked sleeping in his own bed when he came home from the hospital after being shot by Weed Randall.
McCormick had moved into the main house after the judge came home. He never bothered to ask, he just did it. Not that Milt would have argued because, he'd never admit it out loud, he was happy for the help that McCormick gave him. The doctor had said no exertions, so there was Mark doing all the work for him, never questioning, just doing, day in and day out, week after long week. Heck, he'd never seen the kid that scared or ambitious before. It wasn't until after all the hubbub died down that Frank had told him all that happened, but the one thing he hadn't really expected was how worried Mark had been. He was scared the judge was going to die. He wasn't worried about what would happen to him, if he'd get kicked off the property or given to another parole officer or end up on the streets because he couldn't find a job or even end up back in prison. He was only worried if Milt was going to live or die. That concern carried over for a few weeks after the judge had been released from the hospital. They put the bad guy hunting business on the back burner while Milt recuperated, and finally, things got back to normal. At least, as normal 'normal' was for them. The kid had really surprised him with that adventure, surprised him and made him proud. Milt briefly wondered if there had been anyone else in his life that he wanted to make proud. He'd been on his own for so long, answering only to himself…
His thoughts were interrupted when Mark mumbled something in his sleep. It sounded like 'why are you here?' His voice sounded confused. McCormick always looked younger when he was asleep. All of the sarcastic facial expressions were gone, all the guarded looks fell away. Milt always wondered what was it about the two of them that let them yell at each other, get on each other's last nerve, argue, fuss, fight but still be best friends? Maybe it was because they were alike in certain respects. Milt had sarcastic facial expressions and guarded looks to keep people from getting too close. Only McCormick knew how to look past them and see the real Milt Hardcastle, just like Milt could do with Mark.
The kid was a bundle of surprises though. This was the same kid who played rough on the basketball court, who could drive like a bat-out-of-hell and who would risk everything to save Hardcastle no matter what, and Milt's need, perhaps almost egotistical need to go after all the criminals who walked out of his court on a technicality had cost them so much already. How could he forget that the kid nearly died just a few months earlier? And still Milt persisted with his cases. What bothered the judge now was what Mark told him when they were talking with the doctor. Hang up the silver bullets because the Lone Ranger can't ride alone? Was he serious? He sure sounded like he was. Maybe McCormick was ready to quit, and Milt couldn't blame him. If he remained deaf, he'd have his hands full with all that he would have to overcome. They couldn't continue to chase after lunatics if Mark had to learn how to communicate in a silent world. No, the kid was right, they'd both have to hang it up.
Amazing. Everything that had happened, everything that was happening and the kid was worried about him.
Hardcastle vaguely remembered some of the things Nancy had told him about Tommy's friend, and how his family had to re-engineer certain items in their home when they moved in. He tried to think of the adjustments they'd have to make over the next couple of months – how he hoped the adjustments would only be temporary – and wondered where to start. He didn't want it to look like he was making changes permanently. The kid didn't need to think that, but some things would need to be considered. He had glanced through a few pamphlets at the hospital about devices for the 'hearing impaired.' Flashing lights for fire alarms, alarm clocks and doorbells. Milt thought that maybe the flashing fire alarms – for emergency purposes – would be accepted by Mark. Forget the alarm clock. That might be going too far. The doorbell could wait as well. But what about if it was permanent? They'd have to learn sign language and certainly retire the crimebusting. Milt really didn't want to consider that what they were looking at presently was actually a glimpse of their future.
He wandered into the kitchen and decided he needed coffee. Within minutes, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee began wafting through the kitchen. He'd wait to make breakfast after Mark woke up.
They'd get through this, one day at a time.
OOOOO
The first few days went by relatively smoothly, not much differently than the few days in the hospital had. However, Mark was becoming a bit frustrated. He had woke up about his usual time, wandered downstairs where Hardcastle was waiting to start breakfast and forced him to take his pain pills. The pills didn't squelch the pain from his busted up ribs, they just left him feeling numb to just about everything. He wasn't tired either, but the minute he'd sit down and get still, he'd fall to sleep. He hated it and he wanted to stop taking them. They tried to do little things to occupy time until lunch. The same routine was followed until supper time. They watched another baseball game and then both went to bed. It was a very uneventful day.
And it was quiet.
There were moments when Mark could almost forget that he couldn't hear anything because he'd get involved in doing a small task like walking down to the gatehouse or rearranging his tools in the garage, but then he'd see something, a bird or an incoming wave and realize he couldn't really hear them. He could imagine that he could, he could even 'almost' hear them in his head because he knew what they were supposed to sound like. Even though his world was quiet at the moment, the echoes of memories allowed him to remember the sounds so it wasn't as bad as it could have been, he guessed.
The nights were the worst. Hardcastle insisted that he stay in the main house due to the medication he was taking and because he was recuperating. He didn't need to climb stairs with healing ribs. But lying there in bed, in the darkness, night after long night, began to become unbearable. Closing his eyes didn't help, it just strengthened the agonizing, dreadful feeling of hopelessness. There was no sound, no squeaks in the floor, no bathroom flushes, no door closings, no crickets chirping, no alarms going off to wake him to each new day.
It was insufferable silence of epic proportions.
Maybe, he thought, if he'd been deaf since birth and had no knowledge of sounds…the unmistakable sound of Hardcastle incessant dribbling the basketball at 6am, the Pacific Ocean breaking over the rocks on Seagull Beach and the sound of bacon frying on a Sunday morning, it might not have been so bad. But he had heard all those things, and they were etched into his memory and now it just wasn't there. The world was somehow made duller and colorless.
His mind was being overworked by thoughts of what if or remember this. The past and the future. Yet here he was, now, in the present and he didn't know how to deal with it. Actually, that wasn't completely true. He was angry. He was helping the good guys stop a bad guy, and something bad happened. Sure, bad things happened to good people every day, and no good deed went unpunished, but every platitude and cliché didn't take away the fact he was angry about the whole thing, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
How was he going to deal with everything?
Day by day, that's how he could start. Just take it one day at a time Skid, how many times had Flip told him that as he was teaching him how to race? He told him every day would get better, every day he'd learn something new. That's what he had to do now. He could get through the next two months. He could. Worst things had happened to him, and he had survived them. Hardcastle was putting up the files temporarily until they knew what they were dealing with, no way was Mark willing to let Milt go out alone. It was way too dangerous. Soon, they'd be saddling up Silver and Scout and riding off after the bad guys again.
The doctor had said two months, right? He did 14 months in Clarkesville and two years in San Quentin he didn't think he owed. What's two months in comparison?
OOOOO
It was nearing dinner time, and Harper decided to swing over to Gulls Way on his way home from the office. He rang the doorbell and was momentarily surprised that Milt answered the door until he internally chided himself for forgetting that the usual greeter, Mark, hadn't heard the bell.
"Hi, Milt. Thought I'd see how you guys are doing?" He managed to smile. Milt gave him a bit of a grumble, and Frank got the immediate impression that this situation was equally hard on Milt as it was on Mark. "You guys are okay, aren't you?"
"We're getting by, Frank. Come on in. Want a beer?"
"Sure, if you got a cold one?"
"Always do, follow me. McCormick's in the kitchen cooking. He'll be glad to see you, too. I know he's tired of looking at me."
"He's cooking, huh?"
"Yeah, he said he didn't need to hear to cook. He thinks I'm being overprotective or something to that effect. Seems like we're running out of ideas of things that don't involve hearing."
"Should you be avoiding it?"
"According to him, it's only temporary." They stood at the doorway and McCormick had his back to them, never noting they'd come in, "He doesn't want to get used to the 'not hearing.' I can't blame him for that. You're more than welcome to change his mind, if you'd like to try."
Milt headed to the refrigerator without so much as a look from Mark. Harper stayed by the doorway and flicked the lights on and off a few times. McCormick instantly turned to see Frank and gave him a wave. "Hi, Frank."
"See, that wasn't so hard, Milt, was it?" Harper waved back. There was another grumble from Milt who dug out two beers from the refrigerator, but who had clearly made note of the simple light switch trick.
"Wanna stay for dinner?" Mark asked.
"Nah, no," he began to say, then he shook his head and said, "Claudia"
Mark understood right away. "No need to explain Frank. If I went home to her cooking every night, I'd turn down my weak attempt, too."
Harper picked up some paper off the table. "SMELLS GOOD IN HERE."
"Just some spaghetti."
"You got anything new for us, Frank?" Milt asked.
Frank took a swallow of beer. "I wish I did. I have a lot of bits and pieces but nothing that's bridging anything together. I'm trying to get a list of known associates for Kerns though, but it's taking some considerable time. The guy knows everyone in town, well, all the ones involved in shady dealings."
"You got something, Frank?" Mark asked.
Harper quickly jotted down the same explanation. "NOPE, STILL TRYING TO GATHER EVERYTHING TOGETHER. RUNNING INTO BRICK WALLS."
"I was hoping to get a look at your file on him, Milt?" Frank asked.
"Sure, let me grab it." Hardcastle got up and went to the den.
"MILT'S GETTING HIS FILE ON KERNS, I'LL CROSS CHECK IT WITH WHAT I HAVE."
Mark nodded his understanding.
"Here you go, Frank."
"Listen, I'll look through it and get it back to you tomorrow, is that okay?"
"Sure, keep it as long as you'd like."
Frank jotted down another note as he polished off his beer. He stood up and took it over to Mark.
McCormick read it and laughed.
Harper flicked the light switch on and off again to let Mark know he was leaving.
"I'll show myself out, Milt. Talk to you later."
"Yeah, bye, Frank."
Milt stood up and went over to McCormick to ask about the note. 'HEY, WHAT WAS SO FUNNY?"
Mark handed it over to Milt to read.
"NOTHING'S CHANGED AROUND HERE, COLD BEER, BAD FOOD AND HARDCASTLE STILL GRUMBLING, BET YOU DON'T MISS THAT LAST ONE SO MUCH HUH?"