Chapter 23
What a difference a day made.
At least there hadn't been any more attempts on their lives or any more unsuspecting packages left anywhere – for the last few hours, anyway. The part about being deaf, well, that still remained.
Mark crouched by the flower bed as he pulled those pesky weeds up one by one. His ribs wouldn't let him pick up the hedge clippers yet, but they didn't seem to mind if he weeded the garden, so he weeded and he practiced his signing while he was doing it. All the words and phrases he'd learned the night before came back to him easily. He'd pick a weed and sign. It seemed simple and easy enough, definitely nothing to overexert him or his ribs.
Hardcastle probably didn't want him doing anything that bothered his ribs, but he also was a good enough friend to see that he needed space. Last night's outburst seemed to reinforce that idea. Mark needed to do something besides sitting around inside under the protective watch of the police. Sure, the judge would probably yell at him for overexerting himself, thinking that sitting on the ground and pulling weeds was too strenuous, and it would probably take the better part of the day and most of tomorrow morning to convince the donkey to continue to let him do some more putzing out on the flower beds. At least he wasn't mucking about with the downed tree. It was just laying there across the yard. Whatever it was that the tree service employee had said had set off the judge big time, but no one would tell him what. Sure, it was probably an insult to Mark, but it wasn't like he couldn't handle insults.
Maybe it didn't really matter. He put it out of his mind and started weeding. He signed 'time to garden' and smiled.
For the first time in, what, over two weeks -- he was alone. Sort of. Mrs. Drinkwater was out in her garden and had waved at Mark when she saw him. The Drinkwaters were a nice couple, always kept an eye on the estate when he and the judge were out of town, kept an eye on them when they were in town and watched their every move – Mark figured out a long time ago that their antics at the estate had to be more entertaining than cable television. Now they were watching the Milt and Mark Show with special guest stars, the LAPD! Goodness knows what Mrs. Drinkwater was thinking when she spied the uniforms walking around the estate every day. At least the police officer wasn't hovering over his shoulder. He was a respectable distance away keeping watch. There was something very strange being alone in the quiet. All this time, he knew Hardcastle had been a yell away. Now, alone, he could really hear the quiet in a way he hadn't before. He really was alone.
He didn't like it.
He tried to pull out one particular weed, and he realized that bugger had a deep root. He tried to grab hold of it a different way – bad idea. His ribs screamed at him. So not a good idea. Okay, that was not going to work. He carefully reached over and picked up the trowel and began to dig the weed out. Blast it all, he'd just weeded the garden a few weeks earlier. Didn't the weeds understand they weren't welcome there? That was very rude.
He tried to hook his trowel under one of the roots and slowly pull it out, but it was slow going. The ground didn't want to give it up. Small bit by small bit, the one root began to pull free of the dirt. He kept the pressure fairly steady despite the ache beginning in his ribs… the root burst free, the momentum causing him to lose his grip on the trowel, and it soared behind him. He turned to pick it up and …
OOOOO
Hardcastle couldn't help it. He knew he was being a smothering old hen and he had to be careful not to let the kid see him peeking out through the windows. That's why in-between studying the files and making notes, he was sneaking from room to room to check on him so as not to give McCormick any suspicion.
He spotted him weeding and signing. That was unique, but not an altogether odd combination. Heck, he was a judge and McCormick was an ex-con, and people thought their working together was odd. Odd was the norm for them, sort of. He breathed a sigh of relief that the kid was coping for now by keeping busy – weeding the garden and practicing some sign language. That was all he was doing, Milt. Weeding and signing. What possible harm could come from that? Dandelions and crab grass posed no threat to National Security. Creeping Ben didn't carry bombs and guns and clover was about as harmless as a baby. It gave Mark something to do, and he had to be climbing the walls from boredom or slamming bedroom doors in frustration as it was.
Milt couldn't blame him. Maybe he'd get McCormick to check out the files later as well. Maybe he'd see something new that both Milt and Frank had overlooked. It'd keep him busy and in the house and in Milt's sights --
'Let him be, he's a grown man and he's got to get through some of this on his own. Nothing's going to happen. There's police protection right outside.' At least, that's what Milt kept telling himself. Another gunman would have problems getting close enough to shoot. They were at home with a police guard.
Still, he'd argue half-heartedly with the kid afterwards. Things may be different, but he still had to put on a good show. He did not want him to be out in the open.
Milt heard an odd sound… maybe a car backfiring? Twice? Three times?
He'd just go check outside through all the windows facing the yard one more time...
"NO, MCCORMICK," he shouted to no avail.
OOOOO
There was a car barreling down on him! It was a 1979 Caprice Classic. Sky blue. It headed straight for him. The bullets shooting from the passenger side hit the police officer at the pool.
OOOOO
Milt grabbed his trusted shotgun and headed outside to hopefully prevent this new attack. He jumped over the body of the now dead officer and rushed toward McCormick. The kid didn't see or hear the car approaching and by the time he did, it would be too late. Milt picked up the gun and aimed. He hit the rear driver's side tire. That slowed up the car a bit, made the back end swerve a little, but not nearly enough. It still was on a collision course with McCormick who was turning to pick up a trowel. He aimed up the shotgun and fired again.
OOOOO
Mark saw the Caprice drive approaching down off the terrace and head straight for him when all of a sudden out of the corner of his eye he witnessed Hardcastle shooting out another tire! Another? Both rear tires were blasted! He stood there in shock watching the whole thing transpire before his eyes.
It finally sank into his head. This nut bag was trying to run him over. These lunatics were not quitting. Mark didn't wait another moment. He jumped up and did a roll over to the right as the car roared by him. The wind got knocked out of him immediately. The passenger aimed a gun out the window at him and Mark fell flat on the ground as the bullets flew near him, his ribs screaming in protest. He yelled in agony. He knew he couldn't stay there! The bullets hit the ground, shooting up dirt and grass and leaving gaping holes – they were hollow points!
The driver turned the car turned into a fast 180 spin, the tires clawing and spinning into the ground and headed back for him. Mark did a quick run and dove behind the fallen tree. The passenger reloaded and began shooting in his direction. The bullets shattered the bark and nearly blasted through the tree trunk where Mark was ducked down behind. The driver swerved the car around the tree trunk, and Mark jumped up fast and took off. He ran towards the gatehouse, holding an arm against his ribs, using trees to try to block the car from demolishing him, even dodging the old lawnmower sitting there. He saw something dark shoot past his head – it was the hubcap from the driver side front tire. The Judge must have shot out another. He was about to dive into the door of the gatehouse when he jumped off to the side into the shrubbery instead. The driver slammed on the brakes, but he couldn't stop the car going that fast and it crashed through the gatehouse, right beside the door.
Mark fell to the ground and lay there, breathing heavily while he tried to get on speaking terms with his ribs again. All of a sudden, Milt was standing there, hand on his shoulder, mouthing the word, "Okay?"
Mark nodded his head, signed something by his ear that Milt had no clue as to its meaning. Instead, he put one thumb up meaning A-OK and then just lay still.
Sniper one night, car that afternoon, sore ribs, deaf for God knows how long and some pesky weeds with really long roots and a friend who was a first class donkey who shot out tires with a shotgun, but a good one to have around -- his luck was just getting better and better, wasn't it?
Hardcastle went over to the Caprice and looked inside. Mark guessed that the guys inside were either dead or unconscious. He then saw Hardcastle looking toward the gate. Mark craned his neck and looked in that direction. Where were the police that were supposed to be guarding the gate?
Chapter 24
"Thanks for coming, Charlie," Milt told the doctor as he checked out Mark's ribs. "He absolutely refused to go back to the hospital."
"No problem. I can't say I blame him." Charlie Friedman re-taped Mark's ribs. It was easy to see that Mark was in a bit of a depression. He wasn't even trying to communicate with Charlie, and normally, he'd be talking his ears off. Now he was sullen and concentrating on taking a breath without feeling like his chest and stomach were getting sat upon. It looked like he was also trying to be invisible with all the police officers swarming around the house and grounds.
"Tell me something, Milt, have you and Mark ever considered charging admission to this little circus you have going here?"
Milt furrowed his forehead in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I mean your neighbors, the Drinkwaters. They were looking over here when I drove up. It looked like they were having a picnic in their back yard and were watching everything through binoculars."
Milt just shook his head. "I'm guessing they've got a lot of enjoyment watching us. According to the officer outside, it was Mrs. Drinkwater who called the police when she saw the car try to run Mark down. Good thing she was watching. How's he doing?"
"I don't think the ribs are broken, but I'll bet their sore as all get-out. Some might be bruised. This should let him move around a little easier. Call his doctor, let him know what happened and try to get him to get them x-rayed. He's not listening to me when I tell him to go. In fact, he's not listening at all."
Milt would have laughed at the absurdity of the statement if things had been a little more normal around the house. As it was, Mark was stubbornly digging in and refusing to go back to the hospital. Forcing the issue might not work.
"How long's he been like this?" Charlie asked Milt.
"You mean deaf? I told ya…"
"I mean depressed."
Milt sighed. "It's been coming on since we got shot at. Hell, maybe since he woke up from the explosion. Can you blame him? I don't know how to help him, we're doing the best we can here."
Charlie finished up and handed Mark his shirt back. For his part, Mark was performing tasks like an automaton. Each movement measured, each movement 'ordinary.' It was as if he had gone to autopilot.
Frank hurried into the room. "So?"
"He'll be okay," Milt answered. "What about your guys?"
"All four were shot with hollow points. One's dead, the other three are going to County. One's critical and might not even make the trip to the hospital. It looks like they were using the same type of rounds we found at the warehouse. Damn it, Milt, these guys shot cops! Katz said they'd do that." Frank sat down next to Mark who was beginning to take a little interest in the group of men around him. He might not be able to hear, but he could definitely interpret the emotions behind what was being said.
Frank looked down at the gatehouse and saw the paramedics removing the two men from the Caprice. The gatehouse was in shambles, it had to be. The smashed front end of the car was now sitting in Mark's living room through a gaping hole in the wall. At least the kid was okay. "I saw that tree trunk when I drove in," Charlie mentioned to them. "It looked like someone used a machine gun on it."
"McCormick jumped down behind it when they were trying to run him over," Hardcastle explained. "And it's not a machine gun. That's what happens when hollow points are used. He's lucky none of the bullets shot through the trunk."
"The driver's dead," Frank told him. The passenger is banged up pretty bad. We'll be able to get him on a variety of charges. He won't be seeing free sky ever again."
"Charlie, I gotta talk to Frank. Can you keep McCormick occupied?" Milt asked.
"I'll try, but knowing him, it won't be for long," Charlie dryly answered.
Frank and Milt left the den and Mark perked up as he saw them go and started to get to his feet. Charlie reached out and grabbed him. "Not so fast."
Mark pointed to his ears to remind him that whatever he said slipped off into the cosmos.
"Ah, sorry about that." He picked up the pen and pad he had used earlier to ask Mark questions about his ribs. "NOT SO FAST, I WANT TO CHECK A COUPLE OF OTHER THINGS."
Mark scowled and shook his head no and pointed to the door.
"WHAT'S A MATTER WITH YOUR MOUTH? I KNOW YOU CAN TALK."
"Maybe I don't want to," he said, and surprised Charlie by signing it as well as speaking it, his voice sounding a bit dejected and solemn.
Charlie laughed. "SIT DOWN HERE, THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A FEW MINUTES MORE, THEN YOU CAN GO JOIN YOUR FAN CLUB. THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT THE POLICE OFFICERS THAT WERE HURT AND THE TWO IN THAT CAR THAT TRIED TO RUN YOU DOWN."
"Your handwriting is better than the Judge's. And you're a doctor." Mark said in disbelief.
"I FLUNKED THE CLASS IN PRESCIPTION WRITING, BUT STILL MANAGED TO BECOME A DOCTOR. YOU'RE TEACHING YOURSELF TO SIGN?"
"It's something to do," he said, his voice still void of emotion, "What's left to check?"
"EYES, EARS, SKULL AND ANY PLACE ELSE YOU'RE COMPLAINING ABOUT."
"If you can fix the ears, that'd be great. Everything else is fine."
'WHO'S THE DOCTOR HERE?"
Charlie went about checking his pupils and his skull for any sign of bump or fracture. 'YOU SURE YOU DIDN'T HURT ANYTHING ELSE?"
"No, I think I've had my quota of injuries, but thanks for checking."
"SEE, I KNEW IF I HUNG AROUND YOU LONG ENOUGH, I'D GET SOME OF THAT WIT I LOVE SO WELL."
McCormick even gave him a smile. "Can I go now? I know they're talking about me." He made a couple of signs that Charlie couldn't make out. "It's been like this for a while now."
Charlie started to nod, then he grabbed his hand. "THINK ABOUT GETTING THOSE RIBS X-RAYED MARK, JUST TO MAKE SURE NOTHING NEW'S BUSTED."
Mark gave him a nod and went into the other room.
OOOOO
Meanwhile over in the kitchen, the conversation between Milt and Frank was intensifying.
"Katz told me that he and Kerns are dead men because they failed to get rid of you and Mark, and that these guys have no problems killing cops," Milt said. "I think these two weren't sent by Kerns. I think they were sent by their employers."
"So Kerns is still coming after us and now his bosses are too. Do we even know who his bosses are?"
"No names, but I have been digging into the owners of the warehouse though. U.S. Exporters is an independent government contractor, and all the paperwork's in order. They own warehouses and real estate all over the country and make a lot of money leasing them out to various companies. Their leasing that warehouse to Kerns was legit. They export for various government agencies and charities."
"All legal, huh?" Milt asked. "There's got to be something. I mean, we're both thinking that the contractors are Kerns' bosses, right?"
"Right, but without any way to link anything to anyone –"
"We're spinning our wheels," Milt said.
Frank saw Charlie finishing up with Mark. "Is Mark really okay?"
"He didn't hear a damn thing, Frank. That car was coming straight for him and he didn't hear it or even feel it. This is getting way out of control. I don't know what to do anymore. Whoever is behind all this isn't going to quit until the two of us are dead."
"I can put a man right beside him 24/7 after today's little waltz, but you and I both know he's not going to go for that. He'll think that that will get someone else killed," Frank answered. "The same goes for you."
"If I hadn't been out there with the shotgun as fast as I was, you'd be taking him away in the meat wagon. Who knows what they're going to try next and when too? Do you have any more ideas?"
"Well, I talked with Katz but he didn't give me much. But he did insinuate that the Feds from the wrong side of the tracks are involved in this. I haven't been able to find any connection yet to corroborate that."
"Dirty Feds and Customs officials? Along with a government contractor? Are you kidding me, Frank?"
"It could be. You know as well as I do that bad cops can unfortunately rise to the top. It sure wouldn't be the first time."
"Boy, we're in this up to our…." Milt took his hand and motioned to his own head and just at that moment Mark walked in.
"Ears," he said, not knowing what they were talking about, but assuming it was about his loss of hearing. "I know I'm the liability here." He made the same two signs he'd made to Charlie, but didn't bother to speak them.
"WHAT'D YOU SAY?" Hardcastle wrote down.
"Nothing, just quit talking about me."
Milt reached over for the paper. "WE WEREN'T DISCUSSING YOU, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT THE SUSPECTS."
Frank grabbed more paper and wrote out, "MIGHT BE DIRTY FEDS AND CORRUPT GOVERNMENT CONTRACTOR. MILT WAS SAYING HOW DEEP WE'RE IN THIS." He repeated the hand motion going up to his head.
They were both quick to include Mark into the latest information. "Who are they?" Mark asked.
"DON'T KNOW YET, STILL TRYING TO GET A HANDLE ON THE WHOLE THING. ONLY NAMES WE HAVE SO FAR ARE KERNS AND U.S. EXPORTERS," Frank wrote.
"If it's Feds, they won't stop 'til they kill us. They'll think we know more than we do."
Milt nodded. "WE'RE GONNA HAVE ROUND THE CLOCK PROTECTION, YOU OKAY WITH THAT?"
"No, but I understand why. What about the officers who were here earlier?"
Frank wrote out, "ONE DEAD, ONE CRITICALLY WOUNDED, TWO SERIOUSLY WOUNDED."
"Putting officers here could get them killed," Mark pointed out. "Those guys were shooting hollow points from an automatic."
That got Frank's attention. "YOU KNEW THEY WERE HOLLOW POINTS?"
Mark nodded his head. "Did you see what damage they did to the ground and that tree trunk? I think your officers are going to need bullet proof vests while they're here."
His voice was so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion that even Frank was worried. That wasn't like McCormick. He didn't NOT get angry when he got shot at or run down. He wasn't cursing the bad guys or yelling at anyone who happened to be in earshot. He was unnervingly calm.
No wonder Milt was worried.
Chapter 25
Mark sat on the edge of the fountain and watched the tow truck haul off the '79 Caprice. That was one car that wasn't going to run again, not after tangling with the brick wall of the gatehouse and smashing the engine. If he'd seen the excitement happen in a movie, then the car would have blown up as soon as it hit the gate house. He was glad they weren't in a movie. Of course, the gatehouse wasn't exactly going to be the same again either after having been plowed into. It was the first time in weeks he had any inclination to smile even though he didn't. For some odd reason, nearly getting run over, but then not getting run over, and having Hardcase blast out the tires of the oncoming car as a perfectly direct hit from fifty yards away with that old shotgun of his that seemed right. Normal. It was what he was used to. Perfectly routine, strange as it was. His eyes scanned from the gatehouse back to the tail lights of Mac's Towing Service truck, to the police officers milling around the estate, to the police cars staking out the various entrances, to the Drinkwaters who were glancing at them from an upper story window, to the ripped up yard he would have to re-sod eventually and then on toward the house where, marching into view, was one Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. There definitely was no reason to smile now. He could tell by the judge's gait that he was coming toward him with purpose and, in normal times, that would mean screaming at the top of his lungs either from worry, fear, frustration or just because he could.
Times were not normal. There'd be no screaming involved.
Milt slowed up as he approached, and he pulled out the notebook and pen out of the back pocket of his jeans.
McCormick dropped his head down. He'd give anything for some screaming right now, even if he couldn't hear it. THAT would be normal too. Here, there was not only some major property damage, but also they were thrust in the middle of some sort of international melee and he knew Hardcastle would turn them to milquetoast when they found them, unless the bad guys turned them into road kill first.
Milt wrote as he walked and when he reached Mark, he tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he wanted him to read what he'd written. Forcing himself to raise his head he read the note to himself.
"YOU OKAY?"
"Yes, I'm fine, Judge. Ribs hurt a little, but I'll live," Mark said wearily, standing up and starting to go over to the gatehouse. Hardcastle was right on his tail, and he grabbed his arm and stopped him. "What? I just want to go and check it out." He pointed toward his residence.
Milt hurriedly wrote something down.
"GOING TO START SUPPER."
"I'm not hungry." He took another step toward the gatehouse, and Milt quickly caught up to him. "Now what?"
Hardcastle was already scribbling.
"YOU'RE ALWAYS HUNGRY, AND DON'T GO IN THERE."
"Why not? The scary guys in the car are all gone now. Remember, Frank took one away in a body bag and the other away in a police car. There's nothing in there that'll hurt me. We've got cops everywhere. I just want to see it."
"STRUCTURE MAYVE NOT SAVE."
"You mean the structure's not safe, right?"
Another note, this time he read it out loud. "COME OVER TO THE HOUSE."
"Why, Judge?"
Milt quickly wrote down, "I HAVE SOMETHING I WNAT YOU TO DO."
"'Wnat?'"
'WANT" Milt angrily rewrote and added, "WISEGUY"
"Can't it wait?"
Milt simply shook his head no and reached out and began to pull Mark toward the main house.
They walked into the den. Mark was the first one in and as he hit the bottom step he turned and asked. "Okay, now what? What's so important?"
The judge motioned for him to take a seat.
"This is ridiculous. I don't want to sit down." All it took was a serious, straightforward look and he went over and sat down and waited for whatever was coming next.
Milt wrote quickly, "DON'T WANT YOU GOING OVER THERE RIGHT NOW, UNDERSTAND?"
"No, no, I don't. The cops said they were done with it."
"I WANT YOU HERE IN THE HOUSE."
Oh, so that's what it was. The judge wanted him where he could see him since Mark couldn't HEAR him when he yelled that there was a car heading toward him or when he shot out the tires. "Judge, nothing is gonna happen. You know, there are better armed guards at the gate now to keep the wolves away from the door. We're both safe and sound."
"CAN YOU JUST FOR ONCE LISTEN TO ME."
"Cute, Hardcastle. Wish I could, but that's not possible right now."
Milt scowled up his face. "YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN."
Mark knew he wasn't going to win this argument. "Okay, fine. So, what, should I clean the pool?"
"STAY IN THE HOUSE."
Stay in the house, Mark sighed. He didn't want to stay in the house. Just because he couldn't hear the bad guys… "Okay, what do you want me to do? The laundry? I have to do something. I can't keep sitting around."
Milt walked over to the TV and turned it on.
"Judge, the TV? Come on, you know that just makes me feel useless. Some of those pictures without words don't make any sense."
Hardcastle spun around with a tape in his hand.
"What's that?"
He turned around and put it in the VCR and it started to play.
"Judge, really…" Mark leaned forward in the chair and put his elbows on his knees and then let his head fall into his open palms.
Milt slid in a note in between his elbows. "JUST WATCH THIS, KIDDO. IT'S A GOOD MOVIE."
"Unless it has subtitles, I'm really not interested," he murmured to the ground.
Milt was busy tapping his shoulder, attempting to get him to watch. McCormick finally relented, sat back in the chair. The movie that Hardcastle had found was indeed a silent movie, filled with subtitles.
"All right, fine, but…"
"NO BUTS! JUST WATCH. I'M MAKING SUPPER."
Mark sat in the incessant quiet for a few uncomfortable minutes and felt his anger growing. He understood Hardcastle being scared. He got it that the judge didn't know how to handle what was going on, so he was doing the only thing he could think of – keeping Mark in his sights. He hated being deaf, he hated being watched, sometimes being waited on hand and foot like he was some sort of damaged goods, and most of all he hated watching Hardcastle turn into some sort of anxious, nervous and overly protective worry-wort. He stood up and went to look out of the window over to the gatehouse. As much as he wanted to go over there for a look-see, he knew he sort-of promised the judge that he'd wait. He turned back around and saw the Judge's desk covered with various files. What was all this about? It wasn't just files on Kerns. It was files on other people who walked out of Hardcastle's courtroom. Wait, no, some of these weren't the judge's files. Some were copies of police files. Frank had given Hardcastle some more files? When had he done that?
Anderson, Katz, both known associates of Kerns, there were notes stuck to each folder, each note detailing something about each bad guy, each one in the judge's handwriting… "You're doing this on your own, Hardcastle?" he mumbled as he reached down and picked up the top file. It was more information about Kerns. "Damn you, Milt, you're giving up on me too."
Mark sat down in the judge's chair and starting reading every word in every file. He didn't get very far. The judge came in and spotted him, but before he could pull out his pad to write on. Mark looked up and saw him standing there. He stood up, still holding a file in his hand. "What the hell are you doing? You're doing this without me? I'm deaf, not stupid."
'I'M LOOKING AT THE FILES ON KERNS FOR FRANK. TRYING TO FIND MORE CONNECTIONS."
"All by yourself," Mark muttered. "I'm not useless, you know. My other senses are doing just fine. I can see it all over your face that you're lying to me, I can feel these files," he waved the one he had in his hand. "And I can smell a rat." He slammed the file back down on the desk and made his way out of the den. He stopped in the doorway, brushing past the judge and with his back to him he said, "I'm going over to the gatehouse. Just leave me alone, please. That's all I'm asking for. I'm not going to run away like a child, I just want to be alone."
Chapter 26
The walk to the gatehouse wasn't therapeutic in the slightest for either of them. Milt watched him go, unable to believe that all the kid wanted was to be alone. Someone had just tried to kill him! The gatehouse -- Milt reminded himself that he had to call the contractors to come out and repair the damage. The gaping hole in the wall, the sheetrock and glass all over the yard, at least it wasn't what was left of Mark all over the yard. He also needed to hire someone to bring in some dirt and sod to patch up the yard where the tires had torn into it as well.
They would have run Mark down, ran him over and not stopped.
Milt hadn't been that scared in a long time, even when the sniper was shooting at them in the den. Mark couldn't hear him yell, and that car was barreling down on him relentlessly. He didn't hear the gunfire. It wasn't until the car drove over the terrace that Mark noticed it at all. The kid was frustrated enough with everything, the not knowing if the deafness was permanent, the fact the bad guys were after him, two attacks in as many days, the fact that Milt was being way too over-protective, not letting him help out with the investigation as much as he wanted to…
They both stood at a precipitous place and something was about to blow.
Hardcastle went back to the kitchen. His appetite was gone, so he went to turn off what he had started to cook.
In a few minutes he heard the lawn mower start up. He shrugged thinking that the kid had decided to work off his anger. He'd just better not aggravate those sore ribs.
OOOOO
Meanwhile over at the gatehouse, the volcano known as Mark McCormick was about to blow. Everything stemmed from the fact that he felt like he was walking on eggshells all because he lost his hearing. The first thing Mark spotted was the gasoline-powered, noisier-than-snot, Lawn Boy lawnmower. He hated every inch of that nasty machine. It rode rough, it stank, the paint was peeling off of it, and there it sat, pretty as you please, right out in front of the house – HIS house -- just where he had left it before they went out to lunch and before he almost became a new hood ornament for a Caprice. That was his first target. No matter how much it was going to aggravate his ribs, this was going to be his first act of defiance. He walked up to it and bent over and pulled the cord to start it, clutched his side briefly as he stood up straight and began feeling the ground rumble under his feet and smelling the putrid mix of gas and oil. That was the extent of him knowing that the machine was indeed running. He couldn't hear the ragged timbre of the engine. He couldn't hear that tone that lay just underneath every engine as it ran. He sneered at it, left it to run out and continued into his house. He violently pushed the heavy door open, letting it slam against the wall, watching it fall off the hinges. Great. The car had bent the door frame as well as driving into his living room.
Everything was in shambles. The chair was in pieces, the sofa was knocked over and there was a hole gouged underneath it from the front bumper of the car. The small kitchen table – well, there used to be a small kitchen table in there. The car had destroyed his living room, and he was angry.
Dammit, he was more than angry!
He was absolutely sick of the utter quiet!
He couldn't stand the incredible silence that was around him. He could still feel some of the vibrations of the lawnmower engine, he wanted to 'feel' more noise. What else could he do in here?
Aha, first there was a portable radio that he turned on, and turned up full volume. Next up was the 19" TV over in the corner. He did the same thing to it. Then it was into the kitchen, he quickly turned on the faucet, letting the water run full. And then proceeded to turn on every appliance he had that made some sort of noise. The blender, the microwave, the coffee maker, the dishwasher. Everything on and running at top speed.
From there he headed into the bathroom, where the shower and the faucet went on full blast. He flicked the knob on his electric razor and plugged in the hair dryer and cranked it up high.
He felt the noise, the glorious, wonderful, vibrating noise. Anything was better than nothing.
Finally he headed upstairs, toward his stereo. He pushed the on button and felt the vibration on the floor. Then he turned the levels for bass and treble as high as they would go and finally put the volume up all the way. It was set on the radio right now. It didn't matter, he couldn't hear anything.
It was all so damned frustrating! He just wanted to hit something!
Without thinking, he grabbed the handle off a Hardcastle For Mayor sign and slammed it into the bookshelves. The wood splintered and his books fell to the floor in a clutter. He whirled around and smashed the nearby mirror, completely ignoring the screaming from his ribs. He shattered the closet door with a single thrust. He shattered the shelf with his records…
He saw his collection of records slide to the ground and he paused, breathing fiercely, grabbed the first one in his hands, The Rolling Stones, Out of Our Heads album from 1965. He slid it out of the sleeve and hurled it across the room, smashing it to pieces, almost growling in frustration as he did so. One by one, he was going to do the same to all of them.
Milt had heard the, to put it mildly, commotion and went to investigate. The police officers were about to go into the gatehouse, but he shooed them away. He had a feeling he knew what was going on, and they didn't need more witnesses to how out of control their lives were at the moment. He shut off the power mower then headed inside to all of the offending noise. He stood in the doorway and ran his hands over his face before continuing. How was he going to handle all of this?
The area was in shambles. Broken bits of furniture, paperwork scattered all over the floor, personal mementos lying on the floor after being shaken off their shelves, Milt picked up a few things, placed the paperwork on the sofa, noting as he did so that it was a lot of junk mail like ads for mail-in rebates or Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes or notices from the local college. Why was the kid hanging on to this stuff?
Appliance by noisy appliance, he went through the lower level, shutting down and turning off everything that was running. As he came out of the bathroom, he heard the dull sound of plastic being broken in between the words of the songs blasting out of the speakers.
He headed up the stairs, still not knowing how he was going to approach him or what kind of argument they'd have over all this. He couldn't blame the kid though. He just kept trying to put himself into McCormick's shoes. What if he was the one who was deaf, and things had happened to him like they had to Mark? The kid had kept it all most inside all that time – he had to explode eventually. However, arguing with him or hollering at him was the last thing he wanted to do.
Hardcastle got to the top of the loft, and that's when he saw McCormick systematically shattering his record collection into smithereens. "I'm sorry I did all of this to ya, kiddo," he mumbled as he turned down the volume on the stereo and then switched it off.
McCormick had another record in his hands and was about to turn around and fling it at the opposite wall. As he turned, he caught sight of Milt and simply let the record fall out of his hands onto the floor, where it managed to not break. Milt thought he was done, but he was wrong. Mark's expression changed again. His face hardened in a way Milt had never seen and he got violently angry and he stepped on it to break it.
This was a violence he'd never thought Mark was capable of. Barely controlled feelings of anger and frustration wrapped up in utter rage that had been percolating inside him all that time --
Milt wrote down, "FEEL BETTER?"
McCormick closed his eyes, clenched his fist and looked skyward. "Stop it! Just… stop it, Judge. Does any of this look like I feel better?"
Milt held out his hands as if to say, okay, I'll back off. And he started back down the stairs.
Mark called out to him. "Stop ME, Hardcastle. Yell at me, PLEASE, I can't stand this nice, polite, quiet nonsense any more. Quit coddling me and accepting this behavior. Don't you get it?" He scoffed at him.
"YOU WANT ME TO YELL AT YOU?" Milt wrote down the words that he didn't really understand.
"Yes, I WANT you to yell, I want you to treat me like you've always treated me. Look at what I just did in here. Any other normal day, you would have my head for this. I need you to do it now, more than ever." He closed his eyes and took his left hand over his mouth. "I need what I had, so yes, please, YELL AT ME."
"BUT YOU CAN'T HEAR ME IF I YELL."
Mark's laugh wasn't his usual one. It was one that was full of rage. It almost scared Milt. "I just told you that I still have my other senses. I can SEE you, Judge. I can FEEL your anger. Jeez! I'm not dead! So yell at me! And yell at me like you mean it. I am still right here, me, McCormick. I. Just. Can't. Hear."
Sudden realization dawned on Milt. The kid wanted 'normal!' That's what it was. In an un-normal situation, he needed to know that Milt didn't think he was anything other than he always had been. He needed that more than he needed notes. The judge wanted to kick himself! He'd been so stupid!
OK, if the kid wanted to be yelled at… the judge started off slow, his own frustration quickly building into a profanity laced tirade that made his face turn red, made his eyes bulge out and even though Mark didn't hear a word of it, he clearly got the message to start cleaning up the mess he'd made and somehow that he'd have his pay deducted for any sort of structural damage he caused to the gatehouse, less what the car had already done.
Not that Milt would do that, but hey, if that's what the kid needed from him, that's what he'd give him. Yelling at him was… normal.
The Judge left him to his chores.
And for the first time in weeks, the Judge actually did muster a smile.