Beautiful Noise

by You're Those Guys

Mark and Milt are up to their ears in a complicated investigation of stolen merchandise and weapons.

6. Chapter 6

Chapter 19

Harper walked onto the patio, thumbed the officer back in the house and saw Mark sitting in a chair eating his sandwich. He put a smile on his face and went over and literally knocked on the back of McCormick's head. The playful gesture could only belong to Frank Harper.

Mark let his head flop forward. He instantly could tell the difference between Milt and Frank. "Hi, Frank," he said, without seeing him. "Hardcase sent you out, huh? What, thinks you can talk some sense into me? Or better yet, get me my hearing back?"

Frank came around and plopped himself in the patio chair across from him. He overly-exaggerated pulling out the paper and pen.

"Oh, great, another author," McCormick lamented.

"HELL NO MILT DIDN'T SEND ME. IT'S COOLER OUT HERE."

"Nice try, Frank, but at least you write more legibly than he does. Did you guys notice that we had an audience?"

Frank looked around and saw the next door neighbors, the Drinkwaters, standing in their back yard watching Gulls Way through binoculars.

"I think we give them a lot of entertainment," McCormick mumbled as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Harper went back to writing. "YOU DO KNOW THAT IT'S NOT SAFE OUT HERE, RIGHT? YOU JUST HAD A SNIPER SHOOT AT YOU. AS FOR EVERYTHING ELSE, YOU BOTH HAVE TO WORK THROUGH THIS." He took the pad and slapped Mark's leg to get him to read.

"I know, Frank, and I know he knows that too. It's just frustrating. Usually we can, we do it all the time for cases. I do my thing, he does his," he tried to explain. "We always figure some way to make things work, but this time, I don't know. This is different because this is something we haven't had to deal with before. Neither one of us knows what to do."

"YOU'RE WRONG MARK, YOU'RE BOTH SMART GUYS. I TOLD HIM THE SAME THING I'M TELLING YOU, GIVE IT TIME."

"With people shooting at us? I don't think we've got the time."

"WANT TO GO OUT AND GRAB A BEER? I'LL EVEN PLAY YOU A FEW GAMES OF CRIBBAGE, AND THERE'S AN EAST COAST BASEBALL GAME ON TONIGHT." Frank remembered Hardcastle telling him that was the one thing that Mark seemed to like to do. He didn't need sound to enjoy a game. There was his offer, maybe the kid needed to get out, too? He'd be safe enough with a police lieutenant and couple of police officers who might like to watch a ball game on the television at a different location?

"I'd like to, but after what just happened here tonight, I better stay put, there's no telling when whoever is going to try something like this again. I may not be much help, but I should be here with him. Besides, isn't it easier to keep an eye on us here than if we're going off someplace? But thanks for asking. Besides, I wipe the floor with you when I play you in cribbage," he joked.

"AND I'M THE ONE THAT TAUGHT YOU THAT GAME." Frank laughed as he wrote the note. "YOU'D THINK I COULD PLAY IT BETTER AFTER ALL THE YEARS I'VE PLAYED IT WHEN I'M ON A STAKEOUT."

"Just keep practicing," Mark suggested.

Harper put the writing pad back in his pocket. He gave him a wave and a thumbs up.

"See ya, Frank."

OOOOO

Around midnight, Milt heard the back door open and Mark's footfalls echo through the kitchen. He mused about a conversation he had with Nancy years ago about how she knew who was walking where just by the sound of their footsteps. Tommy's was lighter and quicker, Milt's was slower and a little more plodding. Milt had never paid attention to things like that until Mark came to live at the estate. He was never quiet. Doors slammed open, his voice yelling "Judge!" when he came in, and he had a very swift, clear footstep.

He wasn't the only one who yelled though. They both seemed to enjoy taking their voices to a new decibel level when the opportunity presented itself. Maybe that's what Milt was missing the most right now, the regular honest-to-goodness verbal conversations they had. It wasn't the same just writing things down. Milt blew a frustrated breath. There he was being selfish again. He needed to stop that. It wasn't about him, it was about McCormick. If they just had the time to deal with one problem before another crept up...

This time, the footstep that Milt heard wasn't swift and clear. Instead, it was slow and dragging. Then he heard it stop at the doorway to the den. He turned around and saw Mark looking at something on the floor. It was the sign language book. Mark picked it up and poked his finger through a bullet hole in the upper corner and waved it at the judge.

"Think someone's trying to tell us something?"

Milt nodded his head and said, "Yep."

"Milt, I've been thinking," Mark came over and set the book on the end table and sat in one of the leather chairs.

"SHOOT KIDDO," Milt jotted down

"Well, just hear me out on this one, and let me finish what I have to say." He looked to see the Judge give him a nod of understanding. "I think maybe I should leave. I'm sure the cops will put me up in a house or hotel or something until they catch this guy. We both know they're after me anyway. They know I was in the warehouse, obviously they know where I am and…" he suddenly stopped talking.

"WHAT?"

"And I don't want anything to happen to you because of me."

Milt stood up and took a deep breath and took a seat over on the couch. Mark waited for him to write something and nothing ever came.

"Did you hear what I said?" Mark asked him. "I think I should leave."

Milt finally grabbed the paper and pen, "NO, YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE, WE'RE IN THIS THING TOGETHER. I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU AND YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT ME AND THE BEST WAY TO GET OVER IT IS TO FIGURE IT OUT TOGETHER. YOU'RE STAYING PUT, DO YOU HEAR ME?"

"Um, actually no I don't," Mark amusedly answered.

"DON'T BE A WISEGUY."

The topic got dropped in a hurry.

OOOOO

For the first time in a long time, Milt Hardcastle slept late.

Not just late late, but 9:00 in the morning late. Drinking all that caffeine and not nodding off until about 3:00 in the morning plus all the excitement of the shooting – yeah, no wonder he slept a little later.

He pulled himself out of bed and trudged down the hallway. He looked in on Mark – he wasn't in the guest room. Milt almost yelled out for him, but stopped himself. Yelling just wouldn't have done any good except maybe cause the police to run in with weapons at the ready.

The smell of fresh coffee reached him and he made his way to the kitchen. It looked like Mark had gotten up earlier and made breakfast. There was some bacon wrapped up in cling wrap on the counter. Milt glanced in the refrigerator – the whole package of bacon was missing along with half of the eggs. Mark must have made some breakfast for the police guarding them as well. There were fresh coffee grounds in the trash can and a fresh pot was percolating. He must have offered them coffee as well and then made more for the judge. A quick glance out the window showed that a police car was parked on the other side of the street with a good view of the house. One police officer was standing just outside the door drinking a cup of coffee. Another was stationed outside the gatehouse. That must have been where Mark went. That made sense. The gatehouse was "his" house as far as Mark was concerned. His stuff, his space, his comfort zone. Heck, it was his shower too. He needed a little time alone.

Milt glanced at the dirty dishes in the sink. He might as well mess up a few more dishes and make himself a little breakfast. Not so surprising, he was actually hungry.

OOOOO

Mark had intended to get back to the main house before the judge woke up. He just wanted to get back into his house for few minutes, get in his own shower, check on a few things that he had left undone without interruption; that was all. He found once he got started, he lost track of the time. He had a mantle clock that chimed on the quarter hours, but he soon realized that didn't hear it. He had grown so accustomed to it chiming, that he didn't give it a second thought. He forgot about the clock unless it started running down and he needed to wind it again. He could always tell when it was time because the chime would start sounding rather sad. He didn't realize he hadn't noted the passing of time until he looked at his watch and saw that he'd been at the gatehouse for over an hour and a half. That meant that Hardcastle was most likely awake and roaming around the house.

Between the judge and the police, Mark felt like his every move was being watched. Technically, it was but it was the idea that they had to have guards at the estate and have every move watched that bothered him the most. He was temporarily deaf, not incapacitated. He shouldn't have to have guards, right?

Just because he couldn't hear those gunshots the night before….

The reality of the situation just made him angrier.

He had to hold it together just a little longer. He could do that. Just maybe six more weeks of the utter and impenetrable silence and it could all just go away and things would be back to normal. If his hearing didn't come back on its own, there was always the surgery. Two chances to get it back. He could do this.

He just had to deal with it better.

He was about to go back to the main house when some paperwork caught his eye…

Paperwork…

Paperwork… what was it about paperwork… there was something tugging at his memory…what was it?

He walked over to the desk to straighten up the scattered bits and realized it was the listing of night courses at the college. He'd completely forgotten about it. How could he go to night school? How could he go to law school? He couldn't hear the teachers. What if he did manage to get through school, how would going to court work? Could he be a trial attorney without being able to hear the witnesses, the judge, the opposing counsel? And if he had someone performing sign language in the court room…

Enough, he was still getting ahead of himself. One day at a time. That's how he was supposed to deal with everything. If everything was temporary, then he could go on as he had planned. If it was permanent, then he'd find a way around it. He'd just have to wait a little while, see how things turned out.

Chapter 20

Katz had failed?

Kerns couldn't fathom that possibility. He'd always been a good hit man before. How could have failed on such easy targets?

His telephone rang, and he picked it up immediately.

"Hello?"

"Mister Kerns, I believe you have something to tell me?"

Damn! It was one of his partners. "I dispatched Ray Katz to deal with our problems. Unfortunately, the police shot him. One of my contacts on the street just found out and phoned me."

"This is a most unfortunate turn of events. I'm sure you realize exactly how unfortunate for you."

"The situation is being dealt with. I can promise you that."

"We believe that a more direct approach is now necessary. You will not utilize any more of our resources to deal with this problem. You will deal with it yourself. Is that clear?"

There was no need for the voice to threaten him. Kerns knew exactly how bad things could get and how quick they could get there. "I understand. I'll use my own resources."

"See that you do," and the line went dead.

Hardcastle had put him in the position he now found himself, and that ex-con… Kerns wanted revenge. Not only that, he wanted Hardcastle to know exactly why his pet project was going to die. He should have left well enough alone and kept his nose out of other people's business.

Kerns decided to leave the Judge a message. Easy enough to deliver… he'd just leave it where Hardcastle wouldn't fail to find it.

OOOOO

11:30 a.m., and Milt finally came out of the house carrying Kerns' file. He was beginning to feel a bit cramped in his own home. Maybe they needed a change of scene? Isn't that what Frank had tried to do the night before? Maybe he had the right idea. He waved at the policeman standing there, and saw the other guard sitting in the shade of the picnic table's umbrella. Mark had spent some time working on the old lawnmower's engine outside the gatehouse, but now was keeping busy by reading through the ASL book and learning different signs when Milt walked over to him and handed him a note that read. "LEI'S CEI QUI QF HERE & CEI SQME LUMGH"

Mark closed up the book and handed it to Hardcastle. "I think you need to learn this quicker than I do. Look at what you just wrote and try to read it out loud."

Milt easily read whatever it was that he was trying to say. Mark strained to understand what his lips were saying.

"Okay, wait, that's not fair either. Here, let me read it out loud to, 'cause this is what I read, Lei's cet qui qf here & cei sqme lumgh. I don't know, French maybe? Portuguese? Try it again, only this time in English please." He shoved the paper back against the Judge's chest.

"LET'S GET SOME LUNCH. GO OUT, GET OUT OF HOUSE." This time he wrote much more clearly and concise.

McCormick perked up. "Really? Out of the house? Are you sure?"

Milt nodded. "YEAH I'M SURE. WE'LL TAKE THE POLICEMEN WITH US, THEN WE'LL STOP AND SEE FRANK TOO. NEED TO TALK ABOUT BAD GUYS." He took his two fingers and 'tossed it up.'

"What are we waiting for? Let's go."

Yeah. He needed to get out for a little while. This was a good idea.

OOOOO

Barney's Beanery was packed to the rafters. Someone had one of the rooms rented for a very special reception and the party was loud, lovingly boisterous and overflowing with people laughing and celebrating the many accomplishments of someone very exceptional. The tribute was bound to last all day and night.

The noise didn't bother McCormick in the slightest. He almost wished he was in the midst of the party. They, however, opted for one of the dining areas. With the place so loud, he could feel and sense the vibrations and feel the loud music and animated crowd sounds and for him it brought him back into the hearing world, if only for a short time and in a minute way.

For Hardcastle, it was the beginning of a dull headache. He'd put up with it though. It was nice to see a smile on the kid's face for a change. One police officer sat nearby, the other sat across the room for maximum view of the place. Hardcastle had told them to order whatever they wanted, he'd pay and there would be no argument. The judge ordered their lunch and busily chatted with Mark with the latter speaking a little on the loud side, and the Judge writing notes as fast as he could keep up with him.

A middle-aged couple stopped by their table and the gentleman began to speak to Hardcastle.

"Excuse me, I hope I'm not disturbing you. I couldn't help but notice that the young man can't hear," he spoke slowly. "My name is Cliff Dorger. I'm deaf as well. I saw you writing notes to him, and it reminded me of what we went through when I lost my hearing fifteen years ago. Is this something that just happened recently?"

Mark sat by curiously, wondering what was going on. Milt began to write another note. Cliff put his hand out and stopped him. "I can read lips, as long as you speak directly to me."

Milt nodded. "Yeah, it's been a couple of weeks. He was in an explosion, had a concussion. The doctors say it's temporary."

Cliff understood right away. "Conductive deafness huh? Me too. I was in Vietnam, grenade exploded, set off a landmine not far from me, knocked me out and I woke up deaf. Same diagnosis. When I noticed how the two of you were communicating, it brought back a lot of memories."

Mark had enough of being left out of the conversation. "Judge, what's up?"

Milt wrote down the introduction and told Mark that Cliff was also deaf.

"How?" Mark sat up and wanted to know more.

Milt jotted down, "SAME DIAGNOSIS."

Mark asked, "How long until you get it back?"

Cliff read Mark's lips easily and answered Milt. "Tell him my deafness was permanent."

Hardcastle paused and couldn't bring himself to write it down.

"Please, tell him. I know sometimes people with this particular diagnosis can have their hearing return on its own or they have an operation to repair it. All the doctors told me the surgery would be a success, and that I had nothing to worry about. I'd hear again. I had the surgery, and it didn't help. It's better if he knows now that there might not be a quick fix. If it is permanent, there's a lot he can do, learn to read lips, sign language, live a normal life, there are many career choices. Either way he'll be fine, but he should know not to get his hopes up."

"I don't know if I can tell him that," Milt said. "It hasn't been that long. We just don't know yet."

"I had my hopes up for three long months, and in some strange way, I still do to this day, sir. I only wish now that someone might have told me after a week instead of leading me on with false hopes. Again, I'm sorry to interrupt, and I didn't mean to intrude." He pulled out his card and handed it to Milt. Cliff Dorger was a tax attorney. "If either of you would like to talk more, please give me a call. Given my situation, my law firm lets me handle cases for deaf clients. We talk a lot since we have that in common. I've seen and heard it all, so to speak." With that, he and the lady he was with walked away.

McCormick waited impatiently. "What did he say Judge?

"HE'S A TAX ATTORNEY. HIS FIRM LETS HIM HANDLE A LOT OF DEAF CLIENTS. HE SAW ME WRITING NOTES AND HE WAS CURIOUS. WONDERED WHAT HAPPENED."

A deaf attorney? But a tax attorney, not a trial lawyer. McCormick watched the judge suspiciously. "That isn't at all what he said, Judge. Why won't you tell me? You said he had the same diagnosis, but he's permanently deaf isn't he?"

Hardcastle knew that McCormick was sharp, but he didn't think he'd figure it out this quick. He didn't respond.

"That's it, isn't it? You don't want to tell me that his is permanent."

'HIS HEARING LOSS HAPPENED 15 YEARS AGO IN 'NAM. MEDICINE HAS CHANGED."

"So I am right." Mark pushed his plate of half-eaten food away. "Let's go home, I'm not hungry any more."

Milt reluctantly paid the bill, motioned for the police officers to follow them and they headed outside to the truck.

"Judge, what else did he say to you? And please be honest."

Milt put the paper on the hood of the truck and began to write. "DOCTORS TOLD HIM HE'D HEAR AGAIN, DIDN'T TELL HIM THERE WAS A CHANCE HE WOULDN'T. HE SAID IT WAS BETTER FOR YOU TO KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT HAVE TO FACE UP FRONT IN CASE IT'S NOT TERMPORARY. YOU STILL HAVE A LOT OF LIFE LEFT TO LIVE AND ALL THAT SORT OF THING. LOOK AT HIM, HE READS LIPS, KNOWS HOW TO SIGN AND HE'S AN ATTORNEY."

Mark silently read the note and crumpled it in his hand. He got into the truck without speaking. As he sat down, he mumbled loud enough for the Judge to hear. "Big deal. He's still deaf."

Hardcastle was all for changing the subject. 'WE'LL TAKE A SPIN OVER TO SEE FRANK." He started up the truck just as he noticed a new cassette sitting part-way in his cassette player. He had locked the doors, and there was no sign of someone jacking the locks... he reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a pencil. He used the eraser end to push the cassette into the player.

"Can we just go home, I'm not in the mood to see…"

McCormick voice was suddenly drowned out by the sound now booming throughout the cab.

"Judge Hardcastle, hello. I hope you enjoyed lunch. I think your police escort did as well. You really must learn to guard your truck better. However, allow me to welcome you to your nightmare. I'm sure you're enjoying the sounds you're hearing. Too bad your pal isn't so fortunate. Poor Mr. McCormick, deaf as a doornail. It's your own fault too, sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Shame on you. You should have stayed retired, and he should have stayed in prison. The sniper incident was just the beginning. Before it's over, you'll both be dead. And don't bother checking, I didn't leave any fingerprints."

Hardcastle didn't recognize the voice at all, but whoever it was, was in way too close of proximity to the two of them. They'd actually followed them right up to the restaurant, saw the police detail and had gone unnoticed. Worse than that, they'd gotten into his truck to put in the piece of garbage tape. The Judge was stunned.

"Judge, what? What is it?" McCormick knew something was going on. Hardcastle would either be driving or writing right now and instead he was fervently staring down his windshield. Mark glanced at the radio and saw that a cassette was playing and his hand went to eject it. The judge quickly reached over and blocked him.

"DON'T," The judge screamed at him. He pushed his hands away. Mark got the message right away.

"Is there something in there?"

The judge nodded affirmatively and jotted down. "EVIDENCE, DON'T TOUCH."

"What's it saying?"

"IT'S A TREAT."

"A treat?"

"THREAT, THREAT."

McCormick looked around the area. "That means they're watching us. They know exactly what we're up to."

"I KNOW. WE'RE GOING TO SEE FRANK."

Chapter 21

Mark watched as Frank, the judge and the police officers listened to the cassette, moved around the room, talked to each other. It was easy to tell Milt was angry. His face only turned that shade of red when he was grumpy and blustering and majorly ticked off about something. Frank was on the phone talking to someone, was giving orders to others – basically, he had gone into policeman mode. Whatever was on that cassette had them worried. Neither one looked at him, so for the moment, his involvement, focus or contribution in whatever danger was coming at them wasn't the topic of conversation. That was a good change.

Every now and then, he could make out a word or two by trying to read their lips. They were saying something about being followed, about being a target and having guards wasn't working. Obviously, someone had broken into the cab of the truck with no one noticing and left the cassette for Hardcase. Whatever was on the cassette, and no one had told Mark what it was yet, was upsetting. If their luck stayed true to form, it was the bad guy telling Milt exactly what he was going to do and who was going to die first.

Oh, joy.

Mark felt completely useless. Was anyone going to tell him exactly what was on that cassette at some point that afternoon?

He went and stood at the window of Frank's office and out at the rather busy police office. First it was over to the door, where Candace, the receptionist, was busy pounding away on a typewriter. He stared at her, willing himself to hear the sound. He knew it was there, every tap of the keys, every carriage return, even the tiny sound of the bell. He scanned away from her and saw two uniformed officers by the coffee maker. They were laughing about something and slapping each other on the back. Next he watched a guy in handcuffs get roughly hauled in through the swinging doors. He could recall the exact sound the slamming the doors made, he must have heard them dozens of times. The handcuffed guy was screaming and shouting something fierce, probably including obscenities since Candace stopped typing and shook her head at such vile language. The detective was all but ignoring the tirade as he forcibly set him in a chair.

After that, on the other side of the room, a man and woman were bickering among themselves as a overwrought detective was losing patience in trying to get some simple information from them.

And then there were the other desks, all full of activity, phones ringing, people talking, teletypes printing off reports from across the country, people moving freely about, bumping into each other and off of desks. Everything was normal and alive with sound. He remembered all of it, and it felt like he was hearing. He knew all those sounds. They were embedded clearly into his memory and how many times had he dismissed them for 'noise?' What he'd give for it now to have it all back. It was all achingly silent to him.

McCormick swallowed hard and began to feel like the room was suddenly closing in on him. He could feel his heart begin to race and sweat started to form on his hairline. Was he having some crazy sort of panic attack? Part of him wanted to run, part of him wanted to bash his head against the wall in an effort to open up the sense he had lost, not that it would do any good. It would only give him another concussion and another headache. He grabbed his head with his hands and rubbed at his face and then he tightly squeezed his eyes close, wanting to block it all out.

Frank noticed him first. "Milt, something's wrong over there." He pointed toward McCormick.

"What?" Milt turned to see McCormick with his back to him, clawing at his head. "Damn," he murmured. He cleared his throat, got up from the chair and walked over to him. As he got behind him, he hesitated before reaching out to him and turned to look back toward Frank to say something. "Maybe I shouldn't have brought him out, I don't know if he's ready for all this yet. Maybe it's too much?"

"Milt, he needed to get out of the house. He needs to learn that he's still alive and living in this world, and maybe he needs to deal with this thing head-on instead of you not letting him. Besides, I think he needs to be in on the case. Someone's trying to kill you guys. He's not going to just sit by and let that happen."

"Yeah, but look at him, Frank. It's killing him."

"So's being a prisoner. Milt, didn't you already learn that you couldn't lock him away forever?" He gave him a smile and waited a second for Milt to understand the deeper meaning. "If anyone can adapt, it's McCormick. He doesn't want to be protected, and he doesn't want to be a burden. He just wants to be himself. Right now, he needs to figure out how to do that given this latest situation. He's gotta learn, and you've got to let him have that chance." Frank paused, "Get him to sit over here. Let's get him up to speed."

Milt nodded and put his hand out to Mark's back. The kid was slightly startled but turned his head to see Milt gesturing for him to come back to the desk. Frank was busy writing down a note.

"QUIT DAYDREAMING ABOUT A DATE WITH CANDACE OUT THERE, WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE CASE. NEED YOUR INPUT."

Mark chuckled as he saw it, took a deep breath and went to sit down at the desk. For the time being, the utter helplessness had passed.

First, Mark got a transcript of the cassette to read, then a few notes from both Milt and Frank catching him up on some of the similar points they were looking for in the files like corresponding names. Then he saw Milt and Frank open up two file folders in particular – both had the name Kerns on the tab. No, scratch that – Milt's folder had the name KERNS. Frank's had the name KARNS. Wouldn't a defense attorney love to get a hold of that? Then there was a folder for a guy named Anthony Anderson. Who was he?

Something got their interest. There were some identical names in their files. Maybe they found something?

Frank called in an officer and spoke to him, he nodded his head and headed out of his office. While Frank talked to the other, Hardcastle pulled out his notepad again and started scribbling.

"GUY NAMED ANTHONY ANDERSON GOT BUSTED TRYING TO BUY DRAGS."

"Drags?" Mark asked, "He got busted for propositioning a hooker?"

"DRUGS, DRUGS, HOW'S THAT SMART ALECK?"

"Sorry. So go on."

"FRANK RAN HIS PRINTS. HE'S WORKED FOR KARNS BEFORE USING NAME TOBY ANDERSON. FRANK'S GOING TO INTERROGAT HIM."

Mark ignored the missing E in interrogate for now, but he didn't let the Kerns slip by without a remark. "It's Kerns, Judge. Okay, go interrogate him. What about Kerns?"

"SINCE KARNS DIDN'T DIE IN FIRE, ANDERSON MAY KNOW WHERE HE IS."

Mark read the note more than once. "Kerns is big time. You think you're gonna get Anderson to roll on him?"

Milt and Frank had been so engrossed in looking at the proof that made Anthony Anderson into Toby Anderson, they hadn't considered the obvious.

This time, Frank took the pen and pad and scribbled out a note. "MAYBE WE CAN MAKE HIM AN OFFER HE CAN'T REFUSE."

That almost made Mark laugh. "Okay, smart guy, what about the shooter from last night? Think you can link Anderson to him? Or him to Kerns?"

"WE WON'T KNOW UNTIL WE INTERROGATE HIM."

Mark leaned back in his chair. "He's small potatoes. He won't roll unless you offer him something big, and he won't give up any information unless you're willing to deal."

Frank nodded his head. "I KNOW."

"Think it was Kerns who left the cassette in the truck?"

Frank obviously had. "LAB FOUND SOME PRINTS ON THE CASSETTE. THEY'RE RUNNING THEM NOW, NOT EXPECTING TO FIND KERNS' PRINTS. HE'D HAVE WORN GLOVES."

"Yeah, why should he make it easy?" Mark muttered.

"Milt, I think both you and Mark need to head back home," Frank said. "I've got officers out there now. At least we can keep an eye on you two."

"I want to sit in on the interrogation," Hardcastle was determined to not be left out.

"What about Mark?"

Milt took the pen and pad and wrote out quickly, "OFFICER WILL GO BACK HOME WITH YOU."

"You want me to go home?" His face suddenly went from self-assured to perplexed.

"FRANK WANTS US BOTH BACK THERE UNDER GUARD FOR SAFE-KEEPING. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THIS GUY HAS TO SAY. MAYBE PICK UP SOMETHING WE'RE MISSING IN THE FILES. I'LL BE HOME AFTER HE QUESTIONS ANDERSON."

So he was being dismissed?

Just like that?

Well, it's not like he could hear this guy's answers.

Mark didn't even argue. He stood up and saw the officer that had left the room was waiting outside. "Guess I'm riding with him?" Wait… something… "I guess that since that body they found in the warehouse wasn't Kerns, no one knows who it was, right?"

Frank shook his head and said something to the judge who handed Mark another note. "JUST KNOW NOT KERNS. FEDS NOT TALKING ABOUT WHO THE DEAD GUY IS EITHER. ANDERSON MIGHT KNOW WHERE KERNS IS. HE MIGHT BE BEHIND THE SHOOTING LAST NIGHT."

"What about the shooter? I thought he was going to live."

He watched as Frank and Milt had another brief discussion, then Frank wrote down, "SHOOTER STILL UNCONSCIOUS BUT WILL LIVE. I'LL INTERVIEW HIM AS SOON AS I HEAR HE'S AWAKE. I'VE GOT DETECTIVES WAITING AT THE HOSPITAL."

So that meant there would be no questioning of said shooter for a while. "Fine. I'll go," Mark said as he walked out of the office and followed the officer downstairs.

OOOOO

The judge watched Mark's shoulders slump a bit as he walked off. "I hated doing that."

"He'll be safer at the estate, Milt. I've got officers watching the place, and we'll have officers will stay with you guys 'round the clock," Frank added.

Sure, Hardcastle knew that. He also knew that he just basically told Mark to go home since he wasn't any help there. That's not what the kid needed to hear right then.

"Okay, let's go talk to this Anderson."

OOOOO

Anthony "Toby" Anderson was no stranger to the system. He was not stranger to the joint. He'd been in and out of jail since he was a kid. There wasn't much a police lieutenant could threaten him with that he hadn't heard before. Even the two other detectives in the room weren't threatening, at least they weren't to Anderson.

Still, the old guy, Hardcastle, he was a different story. When he was in the holding cell, he learned that word on the street had him as a one man "legal" vigilante going after bad guys and doing it with the help and support of the police. He'd heard rumors along those lines for a while, but he hadn't paid much attention to them. The whole idea sounded insane. What was his game? Anderson watched him suspiciously.

His attorney, a public defender barely out of law school, sat by him quietly.

"Mister Anderson," Lieutenant Harper began, "you were arrested for trying to buy drugs. You've been arraigned and remanded until trial."

Okay, what was Harper's game? "Yeah. You know that."

"We ran your prints. You also go by the name Toby Anderson. You've got a rather long rap sheet."

"What is this all about?" his PD asked.

"Your client is in a unique position. He has information we want. If he works with us, let's just say certain charges may be dropped."

The lawyer whispered to Anderson who nodded his head. "Which specific charges?"

"Depends on what he gives us," Harper answered.

Anderson wriggled in his seat. "What do you want to know?"

"Where's Timothy Kerns?"

Anderson looked from Harper to Hardcastle and then back again. They wanted Kerns. If he gave him up, the drug charges could get dropped but he'd be dead. Still… "Okay, I'll tell you what I know about Kerns but I want full immunity and protection."

This raised a few eyebrows in the room. "Protection?" Harper asked. "Why?"

"Man, you don't know just how big this box of worms is you're looking for, do you?"

"Wait," the public defender placed his hand on Anderson's arm and whispered to him again. "Obviously, you've uncovered something big since the police lieutenant is conducting this interrogation, and that means my client gets a walk on all charges."

"And a new identity. These people would kill me if they knew I talked." Toby boldly added.

Frank stacked the papers in Anderson's file in a neat little pile. "Give me something good, and I'll talk to the D.A. Tell me what you know."

Anderson leaned back in his chair. "You want Kerns. He was at his house last time I saw him. I don't know where he is now. Don't care neither. Word is that he let some Fed get too close to him, he set a trap, trap got sprung. I didn't put all the pieces together until you threw me in that cell. The kid that works for the old guy here? He's the one who sprung the trap, and the big boys ain't happy with that. My guess is that Kerns was ordered to off the sidekick. Getting the judge would be gravy after that. He doesn't come through, he's the one wearing the cement shoes, get my drift?"

That summed things up pretty nicely.

And…

"What do you know about a man named Ray Katz?" Frank asked.

"Wait," the lawyer said again. "We have a deal? Immunity, new identity, relocation? We get that first, and then he talks more."

Frank sighed. As much as he wanted to nail this scumbag, there were bigger fish to fry. "I'll call the D.A. right now and see if she'll agree."

After Frank left, Milt sat there staring intently at Toby Anderson. There had to be some irony in the world that thought life was a cosmic joke. A green public defender was negotiating a walk for this guy, and a public defender didn't even try to negotiate McCormick's sentence. Not that he had anything to negotiate with, but still…

"What'd you tell Kerns?" the judge asked.

Anderson looked over at his lawyer who whispered something in his ear. Then, "He just wanted to know who was in the warehouse that night so he could ax him. He paid well for the information."

"You followed us," Milt stated.

"Easy enough. You guys didn't even look behind you when you left the hospital."

The judge leaned forward, linking the fingers of his hands together. "And Katz?"

"I only know him by reputation, you understand. Rumor is he used to be a pretty good hitman. International years ago. Local these days. Lost his touch though. The bosses keep him on out of loyalty. Ya know, long term service, retirement plan. Keep his trap shut. What's he got to do with anything?"

"Does he work for Kerns?"

Anderson laughed. "If he did, it'd cost Kerns plenty."

"Why's that?" Milt asked.

Anderson leaned back and almost glared at the judge and the detectives. "You guys just don't get it. These people are everywhere, and they got a long reach. But they're the bosses. Lots of us do jobs for the bosses and get paid pretty well for it. Some of those in the organization that are lower down the food chain try to get us to do jobs for them. When that happens, we charge more. They can't really do much to us or the bosses get mad that someone is trying to make the decisions. I charged Kerns plenty to use my services. Katz would have made him pay through the nose."

Hardcastle leaned back into his chair as Frank came back into the room. Milt gave Frank a barely discernable nod of his head, meaning that he had got information out of Anderson. "The D.A. will deal provided your information checks out. Now I want to know everything about you, Kerns, Katz and the people you work for."

Anderson laughed. "Don't know the people we work for personally. It's all business, you understand. Jobs ordered through phone calls, always told they're for the greater good, crap like that. I wouldn't know 'em if they were standing right next to me. I'm kind of under their radar, as it were, unless they need some kind of scrounged information. Katz works for some of the higher-ups though. Kerns works for them too, but he's in some special group. He's got some say-so in how things are done."

Harper wrote down the information and then asked, "How do you contact them?"

"Easy. I don't. They call me."

"Who called you last?"

"Kerns. Wanted me to find out who was at the warehouse. I found this talkative candy striper at the hospital and got McCormick's name. I waited until he was discharged and followed them back to that big house. I went to Kerns, told him the name and the address and collected my money."

"It was a lot of money," Frank pointed out.

"Anything else?" Hardcastle asked.

"Yeah, he seemed surprised when I told him the name Hardcastle. Seems he recognized it. I don't think he was expecting that."

An officer knocked on the door and walked into the interrogation room. He leaned down and whispered something to Frank, then turned and left. Frank motioned for Milt to follow him out of the room, leaving Anderson, his lawyer and two detectives to finish the interrogation.

"What's up?" Milt asked.

"Katz is awake. I'm heading over to the hospital, you head home. I'll let you know what I find out. Look, take those files on my desk with you, see what you can piece together in the meantime. Maybe we'll find another link somewhere. And try to keep out of trouble, okay?"

Milt raised his eyebrows at that. "We always try to stay out of trouble."

Chapter 22

Kerns almost didn't pick up the phone. He had a pretty good idea it was one of his 'partners.' Still, not answering it could be fatal.

"Hello?"

"Mister Kerns, please tell me that you did not leave a taped cassette of your voice threatening a retired judge."

Kerns froze. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. "If we can scare –"

"Scare Milton C. Hardcastle? His reputation is known, Mister Kerns. He doesn't scare. You, however, are a very different subject."

Kerns cleared his throat. "What do you mean?"

"We are now forced to deal with Hardcastle and McCormick ourselves. You are too exposed. We are not happy with this turn of events."

"No, I'm not either," Kerns agreed. "Had Katz not botched the job…"

"Mister Katz was not your employee to send on a job or to pay for his expertise."

There was no room for argument from the sound of his voice. "No, but he was accustomed to this line of work."

"'Was' is the operative word, Mister Kerns. However, his failure to successfully deal with these two gentlemen has now created a situation in which the police are involved in a more in-depth manner. This is not a good development. Police involvement always raises questions better left unasked in our particular line of work."

That was true enough. "I understand. I'll find a way…"

"No, Mister Kerns, we find that we no longer require your services in this matter. Our association is at an end," and the man on the other end hung up the phone.

This only meant one thing. Kerns was now a marked man.

Hardcastle and McCormick were going to pay.

OOOOO

Milt drove back to the estate in silence. He didn't even turn on the radio. He looked in his rear view mirror and saw the police car following him. He had a feeling this was going to be a long haul.

Anderson hadn't told them much more than they'd already guessed at or pieced together with the few clues they had, but he had given them enough information to perhaps put a few more pieces together.

Maybe Kerns figured that Hardcastle had targeted him as their next case, and he was wanting to silence both him and McCormick. It wasn't just one of them being hunted and the other caught in the crossfire. Still, McCormick had to be his first priority since he had been in the warehouse.

He didn't like that scenario, not one little bit.

He finally pulled into his driveway and saw the police car sitting opposite it, the two police officers watching the house and enjoying a pizza. McCormick must have ordered them one, no doubt. He also saw the police officer that drove Mark home sitting by the pool, but he couldn't see his friend anywhere. He had to be nearby if the officer was.

Then, he thought he saw movement in the garage. Maybe McCormick was puttering around with his car? Milt didn't think so. Maybe he just didn't want to be stuck inside the house? It was dangerous to be outside…

He wasn't in the garage, but rather he was out by the uprooted tree. Milt had forgotten that he had called in some tree specialists to remove it before McCormick took it upon himself to try it himself. He looked closely and saw a plain clothes police officer practically right on top of McCormick, guarding him, and Mark seemed to be 'supervising' the tree removal. He was busy pointing and motioning to the two workers.

Hardcastle walked over to where they stood.

"There you are," Mark started as he saw Hardcastle approach, "These guys were just about to take up half the lawn with their truck. I told them they needed to do this the old fashioned way, digging the poor old girl out by hand. She's not in there that deep that they need to use chains and 4-wheel drive."

Milt looked to the tree removers. He had to agree with Mark. There wasn't any sense to rip up and damage a quarter section of the lawn when the tree was 90 percent out of the ground already. "He's right. Either you guys do this the right way or I'll hire someone else to do it."

"Digging that tree out is going to take us the rest of the afternoon," one of them moaned.

"Too bad. Do you want the job or not?" Milt fired back.

"You're both crazy," the same guy said. He took his sour attitude to a higher level. "Whattsa matter with him anyway? He deaf or something? He hasn't heard a word we're saying or maybe he just don't understand English."

One stupid comment was all it took for Milt Hardcastle to have enough and he completely erupted. He grabbed the guy who spoke by his t-shirt and held him in close proximity. "Get your stuff, get in your truck and get the hell off my property."

McCormick and the cop stood by, shocked at the Judge's outburst. The cop had at least heard the conversation and understood where the anger was coming from. McCormick, on the other hand, was trying to understand what had just happened without much success. He could only guess that he'd been insulted some way and that the Judge stepped in to 'defend' his honor, something McCormick thought he was quite capable of handling for himself. He glanced over at the cop who just shook his head in an 'I'm not saying nothing' sort of way.

The tree guy wasn't about to back down and he managed to work his hand up, release Hardcastle's grip and even throw a rather soft punch in the Judge's direction which Milt backed away from. It didn't do any damage. Milt simply rifled back his arm and stood prepared to get into the donnybrook with the idiot when finally the cop stepped in and pushed the tree guy away.

"Just get out of here, will ya? Don't make it any worse," the cop said, standing his ground.

The tree guy spat on the ground and got his things together and headed out.

McCormick was still in the dark as to what exactly happened.

The cop asked Milt if he was okay. Hardcastle stared at the ground and offered up his apology. "Yeah, I'm sorry you had to see that." The cop took a step back as McCormick stepped in.

"Judge, what in the hell just happened?" Mark asked.

The Judge shook his head, turned his back to him and headed for the house. McCormick followed behind with the cop right on his tail doing his duty. Mark stopped, spun around and tersely said to the cop. "Leave us alone."

The cop obeyed without question.

Hardcastle was headed into the house. He knew Mark was right on his tail, but he didn't want to have this discussion.

Mark shouted after him. "I know you know I'm back here. Remember, I'm the one who's deaf, Judge, not you."

Hardcastle ignored him and went inside the house. Mark followed and slammed the door. "Judge, would you talk to me and tell me what happened? What'd that guy say that set you off?"

The Judge found another notepad laying around, these days they were scattered around all over the house. "NEVERMIND" he wrote.

"Like hell. What did he say?"

"DOESN'T MATTER, IT'S OVER."

"You mean the tree situation or us?"

"US? WHAT'S THAT MEAN?"

"You know damn well what it means." He watched the judge look away. "Judge, I'm sorry this happened. As much I want it to, I can't change it. You can't change it." He stood there for a moment and waited for the judge to write something or even look at him, but neither happened. Before Mark gave up on the situation he added, "I don't know what it means for us either. Maybe that's what scares me more than being permanently deaf." He walked away to his temporary bedroom to get away.

OOOOO

McCormick slammed the door behind him for good measure. He might not have heard it, but he knew the Judge did and better than that, he knew the Judge hated slamming doors. It brought him a brief moment of satisfaction.

He blew out a breath. Great, here he was now, locked himself into an even smaller room, confining himself even more. He made a fist, but there was nothing around for him to hit. There was nothing around him but the unending, unmerciful silence. It surrounded him day and night. It didn't matter how big or how small things were, how bright or how dull, there was that NOTHING that was always there now.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. How long he just sat there, he didn't know. He lost track of time. After a while, he lay down on his back, staring at the ceiling, then around the room. The room was neither masculine nor feminine in its design. It simply was a room, a guest room in Hardcastle's house. Nothing to differentiate it as anything other than a guest room, nothing special to give it a theme or ambiance. That's what his life felt like to him, bland and lackluster, like he was nothing more important than a boring guest room. Was this all it was about, he was just a guest of life? If he was, he was beginning to not like the accommodations. The ASL book was on the nightstand, where he'd left it the night before. He picked it up in his hand and quickly motioned out the alphabet that he'd self-taught himself.

"Big deal, McCormick, a kindergartner can do that." He said quietly. The plain room did not answer him back.

If this was some sort of sign from above, he paused, thinking of the word he just thought. SIGN. Cute, McCormick, real cute. Anyway, if it was a sign, he hated it. No, he flat out rejected it. He didn't want to be deaf, he didn't ask for this. For the first time in a very long time, Mark McCormick had plans and being deaf wasn't part of it. He had hopes and dreams and things were better than good, up until now. And then this had to happen? No. It wasn't fair at all.

Somewhere back in his head he could hear his mother's voice, "Life's not fair, Mark, but it is your life."

Boy, his mother was a certifiable genius. In the ten short years he knew her, how many times had she said that to him? He laughed, only every time he'd start complaining about something, that's how many times she'd said it to him. No life wasn't fair, his life especially wasn't fair, especially after she died. Maybe that's why she'd told him that so many times, so he wouldn't forget the cruelest thing of all. If he could go on after her death, he could overcome anything right?

He ran through the alphabet again. It wasn't hard to learn or memorize.

He flipped over on the bed and reached for the ASL book and opened it up. He needed to know more than letters. He needed to learn words, sentences, in order to carry on conversations, in order to move on with his life if his deafness was permanent – and like the doctor said, there was a chance that it could be permanent. Fair or not, this was his life now and he had to face it.

He pushed the pages around from one to the other, repeating the same movements with his fingers over and over.

Can you help me?

Talk to me.

Help me.

I'm deaf.

Where is the bathroom?

Let's eat.

What's the score?

I need to find a policeman.

Judge

Basketball

Lawyer

Race Car Driver

The words and sentences he learned or that he thought he needed to learn were as endless as the book seemed to be. This was just the tip of the iceberg, and he began to devour it.

OOOOO

Frank tried to get his thoughts together about this entire mess as he walked down the hospital corridor. He mentally went through the notes. First, a warehouse owned by a Customs contractor, leased to Kerns who shipped munitions to other countries, Customs officials didn't stop the cargo or inspect it, a snitch tells Kerns about Mark and Milt, then Katz is hired to kill them but misses. Kerns recognized Hardcastle's name… Could they really be looking at a battle on two fronts? What if Kerns really did think that Hardcastle was after him because he walked out of his court on a technicality, and then his bosses were after them because they think that Mark and Milt saw something they shouldn't have?

Maybe their little excursion worked just the way Milt thought it did?

Harper walked into the hospital room and saw Katz lying in a nearby bed, handcuffed to the railing. He flashed his badge. "I'm Lieutenant Frank Harper, LAPD, I have to ask you a few questions, Katz."

"Go to hell," Katz spat at him and turned his head away.

"Doctors say you're going to be fine, so you either do this now or believe me, I'll have you hauled off to the San Quentin infirmary where you won't have all this quality, first rate medical care." Frank hoped he sounded convincing. Even Katz had to know that prisoners were entitled to medical care. "What's it gonna be?"

"You cops got all the angles. What exactly do you want?"

"That's better," Frank gave him a fake smile. "Tell me about Timothy Kerns."

Katz laughed, "Other than he's a dead man?"

"He's dead?"

"If he's not, he's gonna be. They don't like it when you fail to complete your mission."

"Who are you talking about, Katz?"

Katz kept up his smug attitude. "Come on, Harper, how 'bout you telling me what you think you know about Kerns first. Then I sit back and laugh."

"I'm not playing games with you, Katz. I can make sure you never see the light of day again."

Katz' mood turned sour. "Big deal! You don't get it, do you? I'm dead, too. I failed in my objective. That's not good in my line of work. They'll think I've lost my touch, and that's the one thing I don't want them to think. They don't like dead weight or employees who can't earn their keep. Maybe if I keep my mouth shut though and do my time, they'll let me go, that's the best I can hope for. Right now, me and Kerns are both marked men."

So Katz didn't know that he was only kept on the payroll because of long term service, not because he was any good. Could Frank use that? Maybe Katz had an over-inflated opinion of his abilities? He had to see how this was going to play out. "So who is this so-called group? If you tell me, maybe I can offer you up some protection. We can get to the bottom of it, maybe we'll call in some federal help if it's as big as you claim they are."

Katz laughed again. "Feds? You do have a screw loose, don't you? This ain't Mayberry we're talking about, Deputy Fife. That curly headed dude and that old Judge walked in one nasty powder keg and your so-called Feds are wrapping the wire around it and getting ready to light the fuse now. I found out about that Judge when you guys hauled me here, that he goes after people. Well, brother, he better brace himself for taking on this thing. They will find a way to kill them, pull out all the stops and they won't blink when they do it. No one will ever know why. That's how powerful they are. Hell, I don't even understand the whole thing myself."

"Why do you think they'd kill them?"

"You think they're gonna take a chance on anybody being able to link them to any of this?" Katz voice went up a few decibels.

Harper was frustrated by his histrionics. "Let's get back to basics. Who hired you?"

"You already know that answer. Kerns. And don't ask me for specifics about who Kerns works for because I don't know. I never met them face to face. I just get my orders by phone. Kerns doesn't divulge his suppliers. Everyone has their function and you either do it or you get yourself eliminated. Like I said, you don't even have a clue what's involved. That's all I'm saying."

Something was gnawing at Frank's memory, some little something that he couldn't quite put his finger on… wait a minute, something Anderson had said… "Tell me how they contact you. How does it work?"

Katz took a deep breath and blew it out. "Let's say you have someone who's a bit of a problem you want dealt with. You tell someone who tells someone who tells someone who calls me. I'm given the name or address and how they want it to go down. I go, do the job, and there's a nice wad of money left for me in a specified location. You have worked hits before, right?"

Frank really didn't like this guy. "When you're called, what do they say?"

"They say they have a job for me. They'll either give me a name and address or description and location. Then they tell me if they want them shot in a house, car, garage, whatever. Doesn't matter who it is. It's always for the greater good, they say."

"Do they always say it's for the greater good?" Frank asked.

"Yeah. Look, I've already told you enough to get a bullet between the eyes. They find me, I'm dead, and you're an accomplice to a murder. I want protection."

Something was very fishy, Frank thought. Neither Anderson nor Katz had given him specifics, but what they had told him was enough to scare them. It was more than their bosses ever wanted known.

"I've already talked to the district attorney," Frank told him. "There are two detectives guarding you now, and the U.S. Marshals will be here later today to take you into custody. You will not be put into witness protection until the information is checked out, but we are going to keep you under wraps. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Katz waved a dismissing hand toward Harper. Before Frank left, Katz said, "They kill cops, too. Being a lieutenant won't give you any protection."

Cop killers, and they had the bullets in the warehouse. A Customs contractor? This wasn't making any sense. Yet.

Good thing the D.A. was willing to play ball to catch the bigger fish, but it galled Frank to think that Katz and Anderson could get a walk. Sure, the D.A. had said, we'll give them witness protection, but they'll have to do some time for other crimes. We'll put them in solitary, keep them alive until they serve their time and then put them in the program. Frank hadn't told the suspects that. He would let the lawyers iron all that out.

What galled him even more was the fact that two scumbags like Anderson and Katz could end up on Easy Street while Milt and Mark could end up in body bags.

OOOOO

Mark skipped dinner that evening, choosing instead to stay in the guestroom, reading, motioning and learning as much as he could.

He ran across signs for emotions, people, acts, objects, animals. He smiled, that was a good one, animals. He flipped to the chapter and started to learn animals. Where was the motion for donkey…

The long, lonely night quickly passed. He hoped in the morning, he'd remember half of what he had practiced. There was one more he wanted to learn for the night. He opened up to the "F's" and scanned the section to find it. There it was. Joining your two index fingers together. That would be the first one he'd tell Milt in the morning, right after he'd motion 'sorry' once again. His tired eyes gave out and he fell to sleep.

Outside the room, Milt had been battling with himself from the late afternoon until now. It was 1:00am. The kid hadn't even bothered to eat dinner. Their relationship was treading water to put it mildly. Hardcastle had enough of leaving him alone. Even though he felt ridiculous to continue to check up on him like he was a baby, he wanted to make sure he was okay.

He stood at the doorway and slowly opened the knob.

There Mark was, sleeping with the book of ASL right beside him. As he took a step closer, he saw the book was open to page of words that started with an 'F. He glanced over to McCormick's hands where he still had his two index fingers joined together. He carefully slid the book off the bed to see what that meant.

Friend, that's what it meant. That's what he needed to continue to be for the kid. Milt repeated the motion himself. This stuff was easy to learn.

Carefully he picked the book off the bed and scanned for another word. He found it, practiced it twice and closed the book to set it on the nightstand.

Back over to the doorway he went to leave, but not before he signed what he had just learned. "Good night friend." And he shut off the light and exited.

OOOOO

Ten laps to go.

Mark had moved up in position. He was now second. There was a chance he could win the race, take home the trophy and the money. He'd be standing in the Winner's Circle…

"McCormick!" the judge's voice sounded over the earpiece in his helmet. "Hurry up and win this thing. We've got work to do!"

Hurry up? He was already going over 130 miles per hour! He couldn't afford to make another pit stop for gas – it'd cost him! He'd lose! NOW was the time to be steady, to make good choices and get ahead of the pack. NOW was the time when the race really was a nail biting experience. He was so close to getting what he wanted….

He just had to be steady.

He had to concentrate on the goal.

All he had to do was win this race and then he could go work on a case with the judge. Hardcastle was urging him on to finish so they could…

Why was he racing? There was a case to solve, a bad guy to put away. Wasn't that more important? His head felt like it was going to explode, finish the race or finish the case? He heard it in his head set and then he saw it as he lapped around again on the sign board in his pit. What? Race or Case, did it really say that?

But he just had ten more laps to go…

He needed to finish this last race…

Mark woke up. He looked around the room… right, he was in the guest room at the main house. He saw the ASL book lying on the nightstand… he didn't remember putting it there, but he must have.

The dream he'd been having was starting to evaporate. He knew he'd had other dreams like it before. He was racing in a NASCAR race, the judge was with the pit crew and was always telling him to hurry and win the race because they had work to do.

For a brief moment, he wondered if the dreams meant anything. He glanced at the clock. 3:13 in the morning. He punched the pillow a bit, softening it up and then fell back asleep, forgetting all about the racing dreams.