Chapter 16
Nearly a week had gone by since they came home from the hospital. Nothing much had changed. Frank had stopped by a couple of times. Once was to return Kerns' file without finding anything new or out of the ordinary, other times, he just stopped to see how they were. Milt wasn't surprised that Mark seemed more relaxed around Frank. It had to be the fact that Frank wasn't tense or upset when he was there. Basically, he acted like he was going with the flow, and that was the complete opposite of how Milt and Mark were dealing with their situation. Having someone come in and just accept things the way they were and make whatever allowances were necessary without preamble or complaint – that was one of the best things Frank could do for Mark.
Nothing bothered Hardcastle so much in a long time as seeing his friend rendered hearing impaired. They'd both made some headway into this new situation they faced, but their communication was off and they hadn't been able to come up with anything that would help sync things back to what they had been. The kid was managing to read his lips for a few words, here and there, but they were relying on the notepad-and-pen solution which was not easy on either one of them, and that didn't even include the writer's cramp Milt had going.
Milt tossed the whole situation around in his head. How could they communicate more effectively? Back that thought up, Hardcastle, how could he convince the kid that they needed to communicate more effectively? The convincing was the first half of the battle, devising the plan was probably the easier of the two. They already used some rudimentary hand signs when they worked on cases and needed to keep silent if they were in a precarious spot. Maybe learning some 'real' signs would help make the time transition better? Heck, McCormick's hearing loss was probably only temporary, but they could use the time to learn something that would help them on cases down the road.
It was only 6am, but Milt had been already been up an hour. This was his schedule, up early, play basketball, get on with the day's work. He'd given up the basketball for the past week, at first for obvious reasons. Now, he just didn't want to remind the kid or himself of things he couldn't do right at the present moment since his ribs were still pretty sore. He knew McCormick would most likely sleep through him bouncing the ball outside, but honestly, shooting baskets alone just didn't have the same allure.
He wandered around the still dark house. It was quiet, but not the same quiet that McCormick was dealing with. He heard the grandfather clock ticking as he went into the den and heard the refrigerator in the kitchen start to hum as he went to make coffee. The running water from the faucet, followed by the sad call of a lone seagull all reminded him what McCormick was missing.
Okay, he was feeling guilty.
He scratched his head and wondered.
He tried watching television, but the news bored him. He muted the sound on the TV and began to look through his bookshelves for something to distract him… there, on the bottom shelf, behind a few old Readers' Digest Condensed books, was a book he'd completely forgotten about. Half an hour later, he sat behind his desk, reading furiously through the rather large tome. Several cups of coffee later, he found himself completely involved in the book and as he read, he took his fingers, held them up in front of his face and practiced making signs.
The book, an abridged version of ASL (American Sign Language), had sat in his book collection for years. He finally remembered that Nancy and some of the other moms had decided to take a class in ASL when that little boy, what was his name? Alex? Yep that was it, Alex, moved into the neighborhood. The mothers thought they could each learn some of the more useful signs, teach them to their own children and eventually help Alex get along in a mostly hearing world or, at the very least, the children would be able to communicate. He stopped reading for a moment to recall how excited Tommy had been when he had learned to spell out his name in sign. He couldn't have been more than five or six at the time, and he'd taught Milt how to do it. He flipped through the pages to find the listing of the alphabet in sign. Milt's fingers suddenly spelled out 'Tommy.' How about that? He sort of remembered how to sign it. Probably because Tommy had repeated the motion all night long, through the teeth brushing, through the bath and into the bedtime story. No, this wasn't hard to learn and it wouldn't take long. Besides, if kids could do it, so could Hardcastle and McCormick. He needed more coffee.
OOOOO
It was nearly ten when McCormick finally woke up. He reminded himself that he should leave the drapes open to allow light in since not hearing any noises was preventing him from waking up on the early side. His sleeping in had to be driving the judge crazy. There was nothing like a late riser to agitate the early bird. Of course, the pain pills bore part of the blame. Those things did knock him out a bit. How much longer was it going to be before his ribs quit hurting? He was tired of feeling like he was swimming in quicksand after taking some of the meds.
As he came down the stairs, he glanced inside the den, didn't see the judge sitting in there, but he was now observing more since he wasn't able to rely on his hearing. He spotted a huge book propped open on the Judge's desk. Inside he went to see what it was.
American Sign Language. A book on sign language? Mark physically took a step back from the desk in order to control his reaction. He was shocked. Was there some other sort of meaning here? Did the judge know something about his hearing that he didn't, like maybe this was permanent? Had the doctors told Hardcastle something that Mark hadn't heard. This was like a full force punch in the gut that left you gasping for air.
McCormick composed himself, picked the heavy book off the desk and strode out of the den in search of the Judge.
He found him in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee.
McCormick let the book crash onto the kitchen table with a massive thud. "What the hell is this?" He shouted at the top of his lungs.
The judge didn't need him to speak because he'd been shocked by the imploding sound of the book. "Morning," he said eyeing up his friend, and holding up his coffee, "Want some?" he mouthed.
"No, I don't want coffee, I want to know why you are learning sign language?"
Hardcastle set the mug on the counter and found some paper to write on. "THOUGHT IT'D HELP US COMMUNICATE, USE IT ON CASES ALREADY." He used his fingers to indicated some fairly common hand gestures, like 'Shh' and the good old index-finger point to tell someone to move, followed by the international hand signal of gun.
"That's BS, Hardcase. What do you know about my hearing that I don't?"
That question threw the Judge for a loop. McCormick was thinking that the judge was lying to him? "YOU KNOW WHAT I KNOW."
"Then why the book? Is this permanent?" He reached up to touch one of his ears.
Hardcastle shook his head no. "DOCS THINK IT'S TEMPORARY. I WOULDN'T LIE TO YA."
McCormick was neither convinced or satisfied. He'd noticed a sticker in the front of the book, which indicated that it belonged to someone else. To him that meant Hardcastle was preparing for this to be a long-term situation and he borrowed the book. Mark went over to the book and pointed at the name and address on the label. It belonged to a nearby neighbor. "Why are you borrowing books then? If it's temporary, I don't need to learn this, you don't need to learn this, we're getting along fine. We don't have to do this."
It took Milt a minute to think of what to say to him. "THIS ISN'T FINE." He pointed back and forth between the two of them. It was more than tense. Then he added another new note, "WE DON'T HAVE TO, BUT WE SHOULD WANT TO."
That was not the answer McCormick was expecting. "I don't want to, that's why. I want my hearing back, I'm gonna get my hearing back. I don't want to waste my time learning something like sign language. I'm never gonna need it. If everyone's being honest with me, then I'll be fine in a couple of months."
"IN THE MEANTIME, WE NEED THIS. WOULD YOU JUST TRY IT?"
"No, give it back to," he looked at the label, "Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan." And he walked out of the room.
Hardcastle took one more sip from his coffee, grabbed the paper and pen, picked up the heavy book and followed him back to the den.
The kid had turned on the TV and just to be spiteful, he had cranked up the volume.
Milt shook his head from the entry way and continued inside. He went over to the TV and shut it off.
"Hey, I was watching that." McCormick said.
"I think you're a little old for cartoons kiddo," he muttered. "CARTOONS??" was all that Milt wrote out, followed by the question marks.
"It's all that's on Saturday morning." He added a terse, "Leave me alone."
Hardcastle shook his head no. He sat down across from him and wrote out a long note. McCormick sat by idly, looking more than a bit irritated. Finally finishing up his thought, he held up his right hand, got McCormick's undivided attention and began to sign something.
"That's cute, Judge. Should I shut the curtains, turn on a light and you can make shadow puppets on the wall for me too? I'm NOT INTERESTED!" He almost yelled.
Hardcastle was not amused. He didn't bother to write anything short and terse, he merely signed the same thing again and handed the note over to him and left the room.
The book belonged to Nancy. The Buchanan's gave it to her. They had a little boy named Alex who was deaf. When they moved into the neighborhood, all the kids would get together and play, but none of them could 'talk' to Alex. Some of the moms decided to learn ASL and teach the kids. What I just signed for you was 'Tommy.' He was about five or six at the time, just a little guy and to him it was like knowing another language, he ate it up and he made a lifelong friend in the process. That was the first thing she taught him, how to spell his name. He was so excited, he kept on signing it all night long. And he taught it to me. I was surprised I remembered it after all these years.
You don't have to be deaf for it to work, Mark. You just have to want to care about people.
McCormick sat there and reread the note over and over again and then he reluctantly picked up the book and looked up one word. Back into the kitchen he went. Hardcastle was cleaning up the kitchen. Mark cleared his throat and got his attention. Then he took his right hand and made a circular motion over his heart and softly said. "Sorry."
Milt mustered up a smile and gave him an understanding nod.
Chapter 17
Despite the fact it was getting late, Frank Harper poured himself another cup of coffee. He was so caffeinated at the moment, he wasn't planning on sleeping for the next two days. He wasn't getting any further looking into the warehouse or files on Kerns, and he did have his own police work to do. He opened another file. Anthony Anderson was a two-bit punk who had been in and out of the system since he was a kid. He'd been arrested that morning making a buy from a drug dealer. He had a wad of cash on him, and he was looking to do some big business for himself. Oddly enough, Anderson wasn't into drug dealing. He was into small stuff – some shoplifting, some fencing, ratting out people for the right price – so the question of where he got the money was on the arresting officer's mind. He had to have ratted out someone pretty important to have that much cash on him.
He put Anthony Anderson's file to the side and opened Timothy Kerns' file again. All they needed was one little break, something else other than what they had. The bullets in the VCR hadn't been enough to get a warrant to search everything belonging to Kerns, but Frank was able to get a limited warrant. He hadn't actually expected that the police would find anything at Kerns' house. He'd have been too smart to leave incriminating evidence there, and since the warehouse belonged to a government contractor, getting a warrant to look in a few more of their warehouses wasn't going to happen since they weren't responsible for what Kerns was shipping in and out of them – he was just the leasee, after all. The only warrant Frank could get was for Kerns' bank accounts, and that proved to be a mish-mash of jumbled paperwork and red tape that was going to take a few days to get through. By then, it could all be too late.
Frank had a bad feeling, and he learned a long time ago to listen to those bad feelings.
Looking down at some of the information in Kerns' file, Frank noticed the name "Toby Anderson."
He looked back up at the other file on his desk: Anthony Anderson.
Same last name…coincidence?
OOOOO
Things had settled down a bit after that morning's 'misunderstanding.' Milt couldn't blame Mark for jumping to conclusions. The guy was frustrated enough as it was, and then to see a book on sign language sitting on the desk? Was it any wonder he got a bit antsy? What else could he think but that the judge knew something he didn't?
Mark must have also seen it as a sign that Milt didn't have any hope that his hearing would come back. If Mark himself was having doubts, then the last thing he needed was to think that Milt had them as well. Maybe he needed the judge to believe that everything was going to turn out all right? What was going on in Mark's head? Whatever it was, he wasn't sharing it.
Milt wasn't entirely forthcoming either. His first and foremost thoughts were regarding Mark's health -- that went without saying. He felt utterly responsible for the entire situation and he'd do everything in his power to stand by McCormick in any and every way possible. Whether that meant surgery or whatever else he might need down the line. Selfishly, there was another side to things. Permanent deafness most likely meant the end of the crime busting or at the very least a drastic change. He hoped it didn't mean the end of their friendship, too. Milt recalled how the older Alex Buchanan got, the more he withdrew from the hearing world and into the deaf world. He ended up going to a school for the hearing impaired and then onto a similar college. He had no idea where he was at today. Milt didn't want that to happen to him and Mark, the withdrawing part. He knew it wouldn't much matter what he wanted, rather what Mark would want. He couldn't help but let it bother him.
Not long after they worked through the misunderstanding, Milt looked into the den and saw Mark flipping through the ASL book. He wasn't looking at the page for the alphabet. Instead, he was looking at the signs for certain nouns and repeating the motions. One in particular had him somewhat amused.
Mark looked up and saw the judge standing there. "Hey, Judge, this one should come in useful. Should make Frank happy." He took his first two fingers and tapped them together against his thumb twice. "That means duck. That's one we need to know."
Milt laughed but he could see tension in Mark's movements. The kid was slowly becoming a powder keg ready to blow, and Milt honestly didn't know what to do or how to help him. He kept hoping for some sudden insight or inspiration.
OOOOO
Ray Katz wasn't the type to have a 'permanent' home address. He liked to move around a lot. For someone in his line of work, it was a good idea to make it as difficult as possible for the police to track him. That didn't mean he couldn't be contacted by the "right" people. It had taken Kerns a full day to track him down and offer him the job, and then it had taken Ray a day to get back to the west coast.
Kerns promised Ray that if he could manage to 'complete' the job, he'd elevate him within the organization, put him in a position to get better jobs than he'd been getting recently. He kept the buttering-up going by telling him what a great marksman he was, which Ray already knew, but a promotion and big, fat, quick payoff along with climbing the company ladder -- who the hell could pass that up?
The setup had already been made. Two guys living out on the PCH in some la-dee-da fancy estate. One of the guys, someone named McCormick, was deaf and the other one was some old guy. He told Kerns that was all he needed and wanted to know. It took a few minutes to screw together the professional sniper weapon, including the zoom sight, but now he was ready to go.
He gazed through the rifle sight. The view was of an empty den and an unoccupied couch. He saw movement as shadows passed by other windows, but no target for him to lock onto.
"Come on, boys. What else can an old guy and a deaf guy do in the evening but sit around?" He murmured as he focused on the room
He waited.
He saw the younger man enter the room and sit down, pick up the remote and turn on the television. "There we go. Welcome to the party, McCormick." There was still no sign of the older man. "Now let's see the geezer come a-rambling in. You fellas won't know what hit you once Ray Katz lets it fly."
He waited again.
Chapter 18
There was something rather eerie watching a television without the sound on. Mark didn't know the sound was muted though. It didn't really matter, Milt thought to himself as he walked into the den with a big bowl of popcorn. He'd seen Rooster Cogburn enough times to quote the dialogue. Still, to not hear Katherine Hepburn get the best of John Wayne… oh, well, Milt wouldn't turn the sound up. That wasn't what the kid needed to see – that the sound had been turned down and the judge turned it up so he could hear it.
The judge sat down on the couch and put the bowl of popcorn between them. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Mark grabbed a handful and threw the kernels into his mouth one at a time. It seemed like any other time they'd watched a movie together. He caught himself a few times just about ready to make a comment to the kid, only to internally remind himself that unless he had the kid's direct attention, it would be futile. He let out a few deep sighs on the side of regret about the whole situation. For a change, McCormick seemed content just to be relaxing at home. Sort of. After the blow up that morning, it was as though Mark hadn't really accepted their temporary situation but was trying to make the best of it. Maybe finding the book was some sort of catharsis, but whatever it was, he seemed a bit calmer than before. Every day, they'd gone through the motions of a 'normal' day. Wake up, eat breakfast, keep busy, eat lunch, keep busy, eat supper, watch TV, then back to bed. The only difference was the air of expectation surrounding them. Maybe they were both hoping for a sudden miracle which would really make things the way they used to be and until then, they were just going to have to go through the motions of what used to be normal for them or maybe this was the so-called calm before the storm.
OOOOO
The older man still wasn't in plain view. "Damnit, you old fart, you're only making this harder on yourself," Katz said. The gunman kept careful watch through the sight. He had a clear shot at the younger man, but his orders were simple – kill the older guy first when the younger guy couldn't hear the shot, giving him the best shot at pelting both of them without much fuss.
He waited.
OOOOO
They'd reached the scene where Rooster and Wolf had brought back some meat for supper and found out that Miss Goodnight had already got a stew started. Her idea? Put their meat in with hers and they'd have wilderness stew – talk about teamwork. At that moment, the phone rang. Milt walked over to the desk and picked up the handset.
OOOOO
"Come on, sit down, Pops," the gunman said aloud. The old guy would be right in his cross hairs if he would just sit at the desk instead of standing beside it. The younger guy wouldn't see the older one fall. Nothing could be more perfect. Katz felt his finger gently massage the trigger. "That's it, gramps. Come to old Ray Katz."
OOOOO
"Hello?"
"Milt, it's Frank."
Mark looked over at the judge, and Hardcastle mouthed the words 'Frank.' "Hey, Frank. What's up?"
"Maybe something. How are you guys doing?"
"Pretty good. Watching a western. It's a change. We've been watching the baseball games since we came home. Mark doesn't need to hear the sound to know who's scoring."
"Baseball games, huh? Sounds good. Hey, do you have Kerns' file in front of you?"
Milt sat down at his desk, bent down, opened the lower drawer and pulled out the file that started the whole mess. "Yeah, got it right here. What do you need?"
"I want to double-check known accomplices and associates again and see if we have a little different information. Do you have an Anthony Anderson or a Toby Anderson listed in yours?"
OOOOO
The gunman had a perfect view of the older guy…. Just sit up straight, old man…
OOOOO
Milt sat up and began turning the pages. "Anthony Anderson, aka Toby Anderson. He's listed here as someone who's worked with Kerns. Got an idea about what he's gonna do next?"
"Maybe. We've got an Anthony Anderson in the jail, but his file doesn't list an alias of 'Toby.' In the meantime, I'm gonna try to go at this from a different angle myself."
Milt dropped a loose page on the floor, bent down to pick it up, "Hang on a second, Frank," The bullet crashed through the window and into the back of the chair where he'd been sitting – right where his head had been!
"Milt?" Frank had heard the shot and identified it as gunfire right away.
Hardcastle stayed close to the floor. He dropped the rest of the file and started crawling over to Mark. "We're being shot at! McCormick!" He carried the phone as far as he could as he scrambled away from the desk and kept yelling, not bothering to realize that yelling wasn't doing a thing. "Damn it!" The kid couldn't hear him! He couldn't hear the gunfire! He was just sitting there! "Frank, send backup!" he yelled just a few feet from the phone handset. "We're sitting ducks in here."
He dropped the phone although he could hear Frank's voice calling out for someone to get the patrol car back to Gulls Way. Milt crawled toward the couch just as another shot rang out, hitting the cushion right beside Mark. That got Mark's attention, but everything was happening so fast, that he didn't realize immediately what it was.
Just then, Milt reached up with his massive arms and aggressively latched onto Mark's arm's and yanked him to the floor. He pointed to the window where two bullet holes now were. He then pointed to the couch and the chair. Mark popped his head up to see, as Hardcastle again roughly pulled him back down. "STAY PUT!" He shouted at Mark. There was no paper or pen in sight. He had to count on the kid reading his lips. They were sitting ducks!
"Staple?" Mark said. "What's going on?"
Milt lifted up his hand and made a gun. "SOMEONE'S SHOOTING AT US." He used his index finger to point back and forth between the two of them.
"Who?"
"HOW THE HELL WOULD I KNOW WHO?"
McCormick saw the anger and frustration building in Hardcastle.
"The warehouse guys?"
"GOOD GUESS."
"I know it's a mess, but is it those guys?"
This was killing Milt. He couldn't try to keep them safe and manage to translate every word for McCormick along the way. Where was the notepad? He looked around – it was on the floor across the room. How did it get there? Something had to give. Right now, he knew he had to protect Mark and hope that the cops would come along and nail the sniper.
He gave McCormick an affirmative nod and a grimace, and they waited it out together, huddled on the floor.
OOOOO
The gunman cursed. He'd lost the element of surprise. He aimed again…
OOOOO
The bullet flew just over their heads and slammed into the wall. The pictures shook and fell off their nails, crashing to the ground.
Mark tried to see where the shots were coming from and saw the flash of the gun as the next round was fired. "Behind the seawall," he told Hardcastle.
"GET DOWN AND STAY DOWN." Milt said, repeating it so that Mark would understand.
Milt crawled over to the gun cabinet, "This is ridiculous, just sitting here," and opened it up and pulled out his shotgun. Who knew how long this idiot would keep firing at them. He sure wasn't going to wait until it was too late.
Mark saw him mutter something – "Judge, you're not going out there!" And he crawled over to confront him.
The judge pointed to Mark, then pointed to the ground. He pointed to himself, then made the motion of two of his fingers walking. Then he made his hand look like a gun.
Mark grabbed the shotgun. "He's got a high-powered rifle! You'll be picked off before you get three feet out the door."
He saw Hardcastle tilt his head… what was he hearing? Then he saw the judge mouth the words "Good guys." Frank must have got the cops there and the judge heard the sirens. They stayed down until Milt motioned that they could stand up. From the den, Mark looked out toward the seawall and saw the police had shot the gunman. He hadn't heard any of the rounds being fired from either side.
While the judge moved to the window to get a better view, Mark looked around the room. The chair, the couch, the wall – the bad guy had shot into the house, and he hadn't heard a single noise. After he had scanned the contents, he slowly walked to each spot to touch and feel the damage that had been done. It wasn't till he went right up to the window where Milt was that Hardcastle realized what he was doing. Milt noticed he seemed transfixed on touching every single spot, memorizing it and trying to understand what had just happened. He was in his own world and the judge had no clue how or even if he should try to reach him.
McCormick didn't realize what he was doing. Somehow it seemed it was natural, second nature and he wasn't even thinking, he was just doing. As he went around the room, he could only remember that he and the judge got shot at a lot in their line of work. This time was no different than the others, but it was entirely more unusual than any other time before. Reality began to set in. What kind of a Tonto would he be if he didn't get his hearing back? How could he guard Hardcastle's back if he couldn't hear when someone was trying to kill them?
What use would he be to the judge then?
OOOOO
"Judge Hardcastle?" One of the policemen called out as he rushed into the house. "Sir?"
"We're here," Milt called out. The judge turned and saw that Mark was still looking at the bullet holes. He could only guess what was going through his friend's mind, but he was pretty sure he'd be close to right.
The officer came into the den in a hurry, gun at the ready. "You two all right?"
"Yeah, we're fine. What about the sniper?"
"He's wounded but alive. We've called the ambulance. Lieutenant Harper is still on your phone, sir. He radioed me to tell you he wanted you to ahem pick the damn thing up. Sir."
Milt almost smiled as he finally heard Frank's voice calling him over the handset. He rushed over and picked it up. "Frank?"
"Milt? What the hell is going on over there? Are you two all right? I heard the shots."
"Yeah, we're fine." Milt looked over at Mark. "Well, no more injuries to report anyway." McCormick had gone back to sit down in the chair, his gaze meandering around the room, studying everything, focusing on the bullet holes. The police officer stood in the doorway, gun pointed down as he stood guard on the two men. "The den is a bit of a mess, but there's no blood on the floor."
"Okay, this means I can get you official protection." Frank's voice didn't leave any room for argument; he would get them official protection. "Is there an officer in there with you now?"
Milt motioned the police officer over and handed him the phone while he went to check on Mark. He sat down across from him and pulled out the pad from the floor where it had fallen during the melee.
"YOU OKAY?"
Mark nodded his head. "I didn't hear any of it," he mumbled low, but Milt heard it nonetheless. "Not a sound, vibration, nothing."
Milt wrote another note and handed it to Mark. "FRANK'S SENDING POLICE TO WATCH US FULL TIME."
"So what? Judge, do you realize how fast that happened? What if they had killed you? There's no way I would have known."
"DIDN'T HAPPEN."
"Is that supposed to make either one of us feel better?"
"IDEAS?" The judge was willing to hear what McCormick thought. Maybe giving him some chance to input ideas would help. Milt was almost willing to go into protective custody or to a safe house, but there was something that felt 'wrong' about that idea. Yes, it would be safer for them, but he almost believed that it would hurt the kid to that more than staying at the estate would. Milt couldn't quite put his finger on it. Ordinarily, the idea wouldn't even enter his head. Normally, they stayed at the estate with the police as guards when they've been in similar circumstances before. Why do something different just because…
McCormick got up and walked slowly over to the desk chair and stuck his finger into the hole where the bullet had hit. He closed his eyes. He had a lot of ideas for Milt, but nothing he could or wanted to say out loud, not yet anyway.
OOOOO
Kerns waited by the phone. Still no phone call. Where was he? How long does it take to shoot a retired judge and an ex-con?
OOOOO
It was close to 10:00 p.m. by the time most of the excitement was over with and Frank finally went into the house. Milt and Mark were sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Probably neither one wanted to sleep. The police officer was standing guard at the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand as well. That was good. The caffeine would keep him awake.
"Hey, Frank," Milt greeted him. "Coffee?"
"No, thanks. I wouldn't get any sleep if I drank anymore this late." Then, to the officer, "I need to talk to the Judge and McCormick alone, Officer. Would you mind?"
The officer put down his coffee mug and said, "I'll be right outside, sir," as he went out the door.
"Well?" Milt asked.
"We've I.D'd the gunman as a hit man named Ray Katz. He's probably going to live, but he's not talking yet. I've got a couple of detectives sitting at the hospital waiting for him to arrive."
Frank noticed that Milt wrote down an abbreviated version of the tale and handed the paper to Mark. The young man seemed a little more down than he was the last time Frank saw him.
"Think he works for Kerns?" the judge asked.
"I wouldn't doubt it, but right now it's the 64,000 dollar question."
Again, more scribbling.
"And he knows where Mark is," Milt concluded. "He's coming after him."
"And probably you, too." Harper reminded him.
Milt's penmanship was still bad, but his writing speed had picked up. He was writing the notes quickly.
Mark sighed loudly, at least, to Frank it was loud and he turned away from the two of them. Mark probably didn't realize that it was. Frank knocked on the table and got Mark's attention. "You okay?"
Mark nodded his head. "Yeah. Just hasn't been a good night. And they interrupted Rooster Cogburn. I think Hardcase considers that a federal offense. Everyone knows you don't mess with a Judge who likes John Wayne."
Harper politely chuckled. At least his sense of humor was still working.
"I'm gonna make a sandwich. Either of you want one?" Both men shook their heads and Mark headed toward the refrigerator.
"How is he really, Milt?"
"Not good. I think it really hit him, that he can't hear. I mean, he knew he couldn't but I think this made him really see what it was he wasn't hearing, you know?" Hardcastle glanced at Mark. "Someone's after us, and Mark can't hear when they're coming or when they're shooting at us. He could have been killed tonight just because he couldn't hear the gun or the window getting smashed or the pictures falling off the walls. He's thinking that I could have been killed, and he wouldn't have known it. Seeing him just sit there like that with the bullets flying -- it scared the hell out of me, Frank, even more than the damn explosion."
What could Frank say to that? "Okay, I've got police stationed here. I'm looking more into Kerns' dealings and tomorrow, you and I will need to compare notes about more of his accomplices and associates. Maybe we can track his movements through them. We're running Anthony Anderson's prints to prove if he and Toby Anderson are the same. We'll look into Katz's background, see what the link is…"
Milt looked over at Mark who was not hearing a single word they said. "Later," Milt said.
Frank nodded his head. "He'll be okay, eventually. Keep thinking that."
"Frank, you have no idea what this is doing to him. First going deaf, then having to learn to deal with it whether it's temporary or not, and top it off with God knows who or what out to finish him off. If he was having to deal with one thing at a time… but it's all happening at once. He can't deal with one problem while the other one is crashing in on him. I think we need to pull out of this. I need to get him out of here so he doesn't have to worry about someone trying to shoot him, maybe get him some help. If I don't, he could get killed."
They were so involved in their conversation that they hadn't realized that Mark had turned around and was focused on trying to read Hardcastle's lips. "You're talking about me?"
Hardcastle's head snapped to attention. "No," he shook his head. "The case."
McCormick didn't agree and he shook his head in disgust. "Maybe so, but I know I'm in your discussion too. It's all over your faces. I'd love to play you two in poker right now. You can't lie worth shit. I know I'm a huge liability here, but say it to my face, will ya?" Neither Frank nor Milt replied. McCormick sneered at the two of them, he'd had enough, "I'm going out back by the pool."
"See what I mean?" Milt said to Frank. "We're going to drive each other nuts unless we figure something out here."
"I'll go talk to him. You don't make any rash decisions just yet." Harper stood up and grabbed the paper and headed out back.