Beautiful Noise

by You're Those Guys

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

8. Chapter 8

Chapter 27

About two hours later, McCormick had cleaned up the bedroom and was busy cleaning up the mess the Caprice made in the kitchen. The small room had heated up in the late day sun, so he went and slid the screen door that led out to the patio open to let the cooler evening air come in. The subtle calmness of the view caused him to stop his cleaning and stand there looking out. Police officers were at a respectable distance away but within gunshot distance. They saw him and gave him a wave. They must have thought he and the judge were absolutely nuts, but then again, most of the police they worked with already knew they were nuts. Trashing a gatehouse and yelling at each other probably didn't even send off any alarms to any of the police.

It had felt good though. Normal. Maybe normal in a way Mark didn't think he'd ever feel again.

He placed his hand on the screen… there was a vibration. He looked at the corner of the door and saw a big fly knocking against it. Knocking repeatedly, as if he could open the door and get out…

He didn't hear Hardcastle come back in to check on his progress as Milt entered. The judge saw him standing still in the kitchen, just staring, his back to him.

Clearing his throat wouldn't work, neither would knocking or calling out his name. Worst of all he knew if he tapped him on the shoulder, he'd not only jump, he'd most likely be annoyed that Milt came out to check on him.

But then, out of the blue, McCormick started to talk. "It's okay, Judge, I know you're there." Mark said, turning his head around momentarily to see him and prove his hunch. He went back to staring at the screen door and provided an explanation. "When you come in the front, opening the door up like that, the wind, well, it causes like a back draft of sorts in here. I could feel it on my face. The breeze feels good."

The judge was impressed with his newly mentioned abilities.

McCormick continued to speak, "You know they say your other senses are heightened. Well, either it's really true or you just learn to pay more attention. I bet you're wondering why I'm standing here staring at the door?" The judge came up beside him and nodded. Mark gave him a tired smile, and he placed his fingers on the screen. "Listen," he said, turning to eye up the judge.

Milt concentrated and couldn't hear a thing, except for maybe the soft breeze if that's what he was talking about, but that was more of a feel, not a sound. He gave McCormick a shrug, to say that he didn't know. Mark then took the judge's hand and placed it on the screen and waited.

"There's a fly in the corner, here, on the screen, trying to get out. He's one of those really big, old flies, probably ready to die. The funny thing is I know he's making that humming, buzzing sound and I know he's bumped into that screen at least a dozen times since I spotted him. Judge, I can hear it, you know, but I just can't hear it. But we're both after the same thing, we want out of the predicaments we're in." He walked over to the door and slid it open a crack and shooed the fly out. "At least he got his wish."

They were both silent. Milt finally heard it too.

Milt took out the pad of paper and scribbled down a quick note.

"FEEL BETTER?"

"Yeah, a little bit. Sorry about trashing the gatehouse."

Milt wrote again.

"DON'T BE. I GET THAT YOU NEEDED TO DO THAT AND YOU NEEDED ME TO YELL AT YOU. THINGS WILL GET BACK TO NORMAL SOON."

This time, Mark's laugh was much lighter. "Wish you could guarantee that."

"SO DO I," was the answer.

Then he wrote something else.

"TRASH THE GATEHOUSE AGAIN, AND I'LL KICK YOUR KEESTER INTO NEXT WEEK. GOT IT?"

Mark looked up at the judge's almost smiling face. He really wasn't mad that Mark had trashed the place. He really did understand even though he might not like it. "Got it, Judge."

"GOOD. SUPPER'S READY. LET'S GO."

OOOOO

They walked past the garage and Mark paused to take a quick look at the Coyote and he let out a sigh. There she still sat since he'd come home from the hospital. What he'd give for Flip to still be around. He'd let him take a crack at finding whatever the problem was. There was no one else he'd trust to work on the Coyote.

Milt had gotten a few steps ahead before he realized that Mark was standing and staring at the car. The Coyote. Of course! Why hadn't Milt thought of that before? Their food had waited this long. It could wait indefinitely. They could always order up a pizza later on if need be. He took the few steps back toward Mark and put his arm on his back for a quick tap and motioned for him to follow him.

"I thought we were going to eat?"

Hardcastle pointed to the car.

"What? There's something wrong with the engine. You said you heard something. I shouldn't drive it 'til I can fix it, and I don't know when that's gonna be. If you want to go somewhere, we'll take the truck."

Milt walked over to the bench and found a piece of scrap paper to write on. "NOT DRIVE, PIX."

"Pix? Hardcastle you really need to work on printing."

"FIX, FIX, FIX."

McCormick let out a heavy sigh, "I can't fix it, I can't hear what's wrong with it, and I'm not letting some snot-nosed mechanic touch her."

"I'LL NEAR IT AND YOU PIX IT."

Mark mustered up a laugh, while holding out his right hand and motioning toward the latest transposed mess. "Near and Pix? I'm beginning to wonder if you invented the Jumble in the daily paper? Good thing I can usually figure out what it is you're trying to say."

"HEAR AND FIX, OKAY?" Hardcastle dropped the pad and picked up a wrench and waited for Mark's hand to open so he could set the tool in it.

Mark waited, in no rush to commit to something he wasn't completely sold on. He stared at the car he loved and even took a step toward it and put his left hand on the hood. "I don't know if I can do this, Milt," he quietly admitted. He stood there shaking his head no. "I can't hear it. No, this is a bad idea. I love this car too much to wreck it.

This was the moment that Milt didn't know he should have been looking for. Maybe, just maybe, Mark was really ready to talk about everything. Right now, he had to be the supportive, non-judgmental friend, the one who would help him out no matter what. No matter what Milt had written down on the notes or tried to tell Mark, it was the actions that he needed to see. Milt wrote some more. "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WRECK IT. YOU HAVE TO TRY."

Mark lightly pounded his fist on the hood, the debate was raging inside his own head. Something was preventing him from trying. "I'm scared."

Scared?

"OF WHAT? THIS IS YOUR CAR."

"Not of the car. I'm scared of being like this," he pointed to his ears, "Of being deaf for the rest of my life."

Milt had been right when he told Frank that when the sniper attacked, Mark suddenly realized what it was he wasn't hearing. Their lives could drastically change if this was how their lives were going to be from now on. Still, Mark McCormick, the eternal optimist – Milt wasn't going to let him despair. Even if this was all part of the process of dealing with losing a sense, Milt was going to be there for him.

"SO YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE UP ON EVERYTHING?"

"No, of course not," he was getting angry at Milt, "Can you let me get used to this?"

"NO."

McCormick threw his hands up in defeat. "No, you can't, or no, you won't?

Milt held up the same sign, "NO."

"I don't get you, Hardcastle, you follow me around endlessly and treat me like I'm a two year old and I push you away and now when I ask you to give me a break, you say no?"

"NOT LETTING YOU QUIT."

"Judge, I need to hear the engine in order to fix it, otherwise I might make things worse." He turned away from the car. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't."

The judge walked over right in front of him and grabbed for his right hand and set the wrench in it. "You can!" Milt said, while he pointed to his own ear and repeated, so that Mark could read his lips.

Mark clutched the wrench for a long moment, turned back slowly, took a deep breath and opened the hood. He stared at his very familiar engine… he knew his engine. He began by touching every possible place he could wriggle his fingers and hands into. That was always the first step, he reminded himself. Before you even start it up, Skid, take a tour of it, he remembered Flip's words and said them out loud. "Take a tour of it." Milt watched him with pride. Before he 'toured' it, he pushed up his sleeves. He knew he was about to get his hands dirty. Everything was just where he knew it would be. Nothing abnormal from the tour. He knew it was time. He knew what it felt like when it ran. He motioned toward the judge and resigned to himself to not give up, "Crank her up," he said.

The judge reached into the driver's side and cranked her up, as ordered. Mark placed his hand on the side of the car and concentrated. He could feel the roaring vibration. He could almost feel when there was something different. He shut his eyes and concentrated on his hands.

Nothing. He stood back and watched the motor from the front.

"PINGING. MY SIDE" Milt wrote down.

McCormick nodded and moved over toward the passenger side of the car and placed his hands on the side and waited. Same thing, he closed his eyes and waited and concentrated on what he could feel. There. Something was off. "Press down on the gas for a few seconds and hold it," he shouted to the judge.

Milt pressed his foot down as Mark felt, then he peered inside, then back to feeling… there, it was a brief sensation of something interrupting the vibrations. He motioned for the judge to stop accelerating. He looked… and immediately saw the problem! It wasn't serious, it wouldn't harm the car, but for HIS car to be making that noise was unacceptable. He hadn't had a chance to finish everything he had been working on before they went to the warehouse and this must have been the little problem that was beginning to surface.

"Kill the engine," he shouted again. Was he speaking loud enough or too loud? It was odd – he had no sense of his voice's volume. Sure, the judge had told him not to yell when he was in the hospital, but to not know how loud you're talking? "Am I yelling at ya?"

Milt took a moment to jot down a note. "HELL NO, I CAN'T HEAR ANYTHING BUT THE ENGINE. THIS THING'S ALWAYS BEEN A MONSTER." He laughed as he saw the kid reading it.

As soon as the engine shut down and all the moving parts stopped moving, Mark began to get to work on tightening the fittings.

OOOOO

Milt moved toward the front of the car so he could get a good look at what Mark was doing. He watched his movements… yep, there it was. There was that bit of McCormick-style confidence that had been gone since the explosion. The kid was the maestro of his own kind of particular symphony. And this little experiment was becoming a masterpiece. Every movement McCormick made was fluid and assured. No tension. No hesitation. Trashing the gatehouse HAD been the right thing to do to vent all that frustration. That was merely preparing to write the composition. This was the concerto.

Mark knew cars, but more importantly, he knew this car. Flip Johnson had designed a masterpiece. There was something ironic about how fate had weaved their lives together and how the Coyote was the hinge that they spun around. Had Flip not designed this car, then Martin Cody wouldn't have killed him for it. If Barbara Johnson had not asked Mark to get the car back after her dad's murder, then Mark wouldn't have been caught, arrested and brought before Hardcastle. The last three years would have been vastly different for both men. Although the Coyote represented choices and fate and a lucky break for Milt, it was something altogether different for Mark. The car was the physical embodiment of a dream he didn't think the young man had given up on -- racing. Flip believed in Mark. He had probably been the first person to really care about the kid. He helped foster the natural ability Mark had for racing and honed it into a powerful skill, and this car had been the tool that was going to help take both Flip and Mark to the Winner's Circle.

Milt didn't have to imagine any of it. He'd seen Mark race. The kid was more than good. Racing was in his blood. Placing a car in his hands was like watching a maestro conduct a world symphony orchestra. Every movement was precise, every maneuver was calculated and sure. But it went far beyond that. It wasn't just racing. It was the ability to completely control a half-ton blend of power and metal and to do it so expertly that it gave the driver and car union its elegance. If Mark went back to racing, he'd be one of the best on the track. Milt had no doubts about it.

Yet racing would have to be part of their future. Right then, he watched his friend expertly make the necessary adjustments needed to get rid of the pinging. Adjustments, it wasn't just the car that needed to go through them. If only everything wasn't happening at the same time, if Mark could just learn to deal with one problem at a time before the next hit him -- but their luck didn't run that way. Milt himself was going to have to adjust for the time being as well. He had to learn to deal with Mark's frustration and anger better and stop being a mother-hen. He had to let Mark wander out of his sight, AFTER they dealt with the bad guys. For now, no matter what Mark said, he was staying firmly within the judge's eyesight. No way was he willing to risk another car trying to run him down. The kid would just have to deal with having a pseudo-shadow until it was over with.

"Start the engine again," Mark told him.

Hardcastle did as he was told and fired up the Coyote. The ping was still there. Milt quickly went for the paper.

Mark was quick to cut him off, "Never mind, I know it's still there. It's okay. Shut it off, there's just one more thing." The judge turned the key off and waited for Mark to finish. Mark peered around the hood as he finished up with a final tweak of a screwdriver. "Okay, try it again."

Milt walked back to the driver side door, reached in and turned the key. He watched as Mark placed his hand on the side of the car and felt the engine's vibrations. Milt listened for him, and he didn't hear the pinging.

"Give her some gas," Mark said as he watched the engine.

Milt pressed his foot on the gas pedal and kept listening. No pinging.

"What do you hear?" Mark called out to him.

Milt just gave him a thumbs-up sign. For the first time in a long while, Mark had a genuine smile on his face.

Milt shut down the engine and Mark closed the hood. Mark shook his head at Milt and signed something at him. Hardcastle needed to find out what that meant. It wasn't the first time the kid had used it. It looked like a wave.

"CAN WE EAT NOW?" Milt wrote on the pad.

"Yeah, I am a little hungry." He walked over to the bench and laid down the tools he'd been using on the car and picked up a rag to wipe the grease off his hands. As he picked up the cloth, he uncovered the headphones and walkman. His eyes narrowed and focused on them, and Hardcastle saw exactly what he was staring at. He picked up the headphones and ran his fingers over them. "Guess maybe I'll have to bequeath these to you," he handed them over to Milt. "For now, anyway," he seemed to add as an afterthought. "If my hearing doesn't come back, they're no good to me."

Hardcastle's shifted his weight from one foot to the other and he held up his hand as to not accept them.

"Come on, it's for your Dixieland. That way you won't be able to bug anyone else with that stuff."

Hardcastle was quickly scrawling down a note. "JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS."

"Nah, just realizing the options. And facing facts is more like it."

"CAR!!" Milt was quick to remind him.

"Yeah, I know, I fixed my car. I know I can drive, but I'm not so sure I could race without being able to hear. I doubt if the racing commission would let me."

"YOU COT A IOT OF IALENIS."

Mark frowned as he tried to read the latest. "Okay, even I can't unscramble that one."

"GOT LOT TALENTS. RACING'S JUST ONE." Milt rewrote. Then he added, "YOU KNOW CARS. YOU CAN FIX THEM."

"Maybe so, but it sure seems like my options are quickly diminishing." Then, with more exuberance in his voice than Milt had head since the explosion, Mark said, "Anyway, let's go eat, believe it or not, I'm hungry."

Chapter 28

There was that phone of his ringing again. He already knew he was a dead man as far as they were concerned so what was the need for them to keep hassling him? He finally picked up the phone after the seventh ring.

"Yeah, what?"

"There, there, Mr. Kerns. Is that anyway to answer your phone?"

"What do you want?"

"We want what we always want, Mr. Kerns. We want perfection. And for you, that means we have decided to give you one more opportunity for completion of the task which we've already discussed ad nauseaum. We have arranged a final payment from you."

"A final payment? And how am I supposed to do that. Some of the inventory blew up at the warehouse, and the Feds are looking into my other holdings or did you forget that? I can't touch any of my money or that'll alert them to where I am. What am I supposed to pay you with?"

"The mutual thorns in our sides have proven to be… luckier than anticipated. Your commandeering Mr. Katz without authorization and the subsequent attempt at rendering these thorns ineffective have failed. Your payment is to deal with the situation personally. You've got twenty-four hours to make payment, Mr. Kerns. See to it that you do."

The phone went dead and Kerns angrily slammed it back in the holder. They wanted payment in blood. These guys were nuts, whoever they were. They already said they were going to kill him, like hell he was going to try to scrounge up money that he owed them. Where would he get that kind of dough now even if they hadn't just given him an assignment in lieu of payment? One of his sources had told him that everyone on the streets knew to stay away from Kerns. No one was going to give him a loan of 600,000. And even then, that wouldn't be enough to satisfy the 'voice' on the phone. That was just a ballpark figure on the inventory that had gone up in flames during the explosion.

He shouldn't have used so much of the inventory just to find out who the federal agent was that had infiltrated his organization.

Kerns peeked out from the window and squinted from the brightness of the sun. Why in the hell had Hardcastle decided to come after him? He didn't get it. There were no outstanding warrants on him. He didn't understand any of it. There had to be a reason. Think, damnit, think Tim. Hardcastle had to have a reason, and it couldn't just be the fact that he'd walked out of his courtroom on a technicality, right? No, there had to be a valid reason. That's just the kind of guy Hardcastle was, right?

He let the dark curtain fall back. Even Hardcastle didn't know what was below the surface on this thing. Yeah, Kerns thought, there was no way he knew. Hell, Kerns had been involved for the better part of four years now and he didn't have a clue as to the entire story. Then another thought popped into his head. Maybe, just maybe, the Feds were playing a game too. Maybe their cover got blown and someone suggested Hardcastle to them. Now that would be a perfect cover. Deflect the noise away from them and pin it on to a vigilante-type ex-Judge who fought for everything true-blue American. It was so perfect that Kerns couldn't even really believe it could all be true.

Anyway, it didn't really matter. Like the voice said, he was a dead man if he didn't come through with this, and he wasn't about to waste the rest of his life clamoring for money he'd never get. His face lost all emotion. If it was all going to end, he was going to take care of one last thing.

Hardcastle and McCormick.

OOOOO

The ringing telephone interrupted Milt's almost peaceful breakfast. He reached behind him and grabbed the handset. "Hello?"

"Milt, it's Frank. How are you?"

"We're fine. Eating breakfast." He mouthed the words "IT'S FRANK" to McCormick who shrugged and went back to eating.

"I heard from my guys that you two had a bit of an explosive situation yesterday."

Milt chuckled. "Yeah. Hurricane Mark went through the gatehouse and trashed it, including his entire record collection, I don't think he's realized that yet, and I hate to think how much that's gonna cost us to replace. I think it did him good though. He was almost yelling at me."

"I can imagine. The kid was too wound up as it was. Look, I'm calling this early to let you know something. Those guys that tried to run Mark down? We were right. They didn't work for Kerns. We got an I.D on the one survivor. His name's Peter Ossman. He's a former infantry sergeant in Nam, got a battlefield commission to lieutenant, made it all the way to major before retiring from the military. Guess who he's employed by?"

"Don't tell me. U.S. Exporters."

"Good guess. Look, if Katz is right, then Kerns is running out of time. He may try something desperate or his partners will have him killed."

Milt sighed. How desperate were these guys to try to kill them ON the estate? Why not wait until they were driving somewhere or…

Because they HADN'T been driving anywhere. They'd been staying close to home for the most part.

Milt hadn't wanted to expose Mark for a while so he could deal with his deafness…

The sniper, the one they thought had been good at one time but lost his touch and was hired by Kerns, had failed to kill them which, in turn, confirmed the fact that these particular bad guys were well funded, well organized and well connected – basically, they were the major leagues. Police were everywhere, getting another sniper on short notice may have been difficult, so they had to make a direct attack? They just hadn't counted on Mark being as resourceful as he was when dodging bullets or the judge being accurate with a shotgun…

"Milt?"

"Yeah, Frank, just putting it all together. What about Anderson and Katz? "

"The district attorney has agreed to put them in witness protection in exchange for their testimony. The problem is that their word isn't all that good as far as convicting Kerns. We need something big to corroborate their stories and give us a paper trail to what Kerns was up to for us to get a warrant. Oh, there is one other thing – Katz mentioned that you two really opened up a powder keg and know more than you think you know and could lead the Feds right to them. I don't know how. I do NOT want either one of you leaving the estate. Stay put. These guys could try again, and at least you can be protected there."

Milt didn't like that advice, but he knew it was what he had to do. "Yeah. Okay. Let me know when you find something."

"Will do," and the phone call ended.

This was BIG. The judge knew that even though they'd taken on some really big bad guys in their time, this was something rather unique. They were just supposed to have been on the sidelines and hardly involved, and now they were in the cross hairs.

He looked over at his young friend who was pouring himself another bowl of cereal. Whatever else trashing the gatehouse had done, it had let Mark exorcise some frustration and fear. That much was certain. He had woken up that morning with a smile and maybe more of a 'can-do' attitude. Milt knew that it wasn't healthy to keep all that pent-up anger inside. He should have known it when they first came home. But had he done anything to help Mark out? Nope, he just kept on being a bit of an over-protective mother-hen, someone who didn't want to get Mark angry or upset – boy, that didn't work out at all, did it? He should have known better! Those two could yell loud enough to raise the roof, and sometimes, that was the best thing for them to do. Mark had been right. Milt had been spewing the too-polite nonsense for too long. No wonder Mark had needed to bash the living daylights out of something. His usual way to vent wasn't allowing him to despite the attempts on his life and the general bad luck they'd had lately.

Milt really could kick himself.

However, that morning, things seemed a little bit more 'normal' than they had been.

"How many more times do you think they'll try to kill us?" McCormick asked as he shoveled the breakfast cereal down his throat. The kid really could put away a lot of food really fast. Wait a minute, was that his second or third bowl of cereal?

Milt turned back to his breakfast, and then slid the pad over so he could write.

"HOW MANY PAD CUYS IN THE VORLD?"

"Probably as many as there are people who can spell correctly. I hope you meant BAD, GUYS and WORLD."

Hardcastle was more interested in reading the morning paper than trying to become a spelling All-Star.

"Is there anything new about the warehouse?"

"CHECKING. PROBABLY NEWS IS TOO OLD NOW."

"What else does Frank think?"

Sneak. He knew that Milt and Frank were talking about the case. "TOLD YA, THINKS WE'RE ONLY TOUCHING THE SURFACE, THE BAD GUYS ARE WORSE THAN WE THOUGHT, MAY BE UNTOUCHABLE."

McCormick had finished his Wheaties and he sat back in the chair. He closed his eyes.

Now it was Hardcastle's turn to glance over and see why his always talkative friend was suddenly clamming up.

"SOMETHING WRONG?" Milt tapped his arm and Mark read the note.

"No."

"WHAT? YOUR HEAD HURT? RIBS?"

"No, I feel fine. Well, as fine as can be expected. Ribs are still a bit sore if I move the wrong way, but I'll live. Judge, why don't we do some more digging at the warehouse? Maybe we can figure something else out. We can do it, we've done it before."

Hardcastle started violently shaking his head no and he got up from the table to bring his dishes over to the sink.

"Why not?" For now he remained in his seat. "Don't act like you're not hearing me. How many times do you want me to remind you that I'm the one who's deaf, remember?"

Milt walked over and grabbed the pen. "YOU KNOW WHY NOT."

McCormick agreed, "I want you to tell me. Say it to my face."

"YOU CAN'T HEAR IT, IF I DO THAT."

McCormick was tired of the game, "Then write it down, and write it so I can read it."

Milt ripped off what he had written and started on fresh sheet. "FRANK WANTS US TO STAY HERE, WANTS US AS OUT OF IT AS POSSIBLE, CAN'T PUT YOU IN JEOPARDY."

"Are you kidding me? Jeopardy is my middle name since I hooked up with you. Try that excuse again."

"YOUR HEARING, THAT'S WHY OKAY?"

"Look, you've already told me time and again that I have no brains when it comes to chasing bad guys which we both know is not the case, so the way I see it, having no ears to hear ought to be a picnic. You and I started this and you and I need to finish it. Whatta ya say?"

"STILL HAVE NO BRANS."

"Yeah, maybe no brans, but I do have brains. Look, Judge, these guys have tried to kill me twice already. I don't like being a sitting duck. We've never done it before, there's no sense in doing it now. I say we take the fight to them."

Mark took a sip of coffee before saying, "Besides, Frank is on to something about Kerns' bosses."

"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?"

"I told you. Neither one of you can lie for shit. Talk to me, Hardcase. Recap what Frank told you."

Milt sat still and thought for a moment…. Enough. He took out the pen and pad and wrote down a long note as legibly as he could.

This is as far as we know. That snitch named Toby Anderson tracked down who you were and where you lived. He told Kerns then Kerns hired Ray Katz to kill both of us. Seems Kerns remembered me and knows what we do. Frank's I.D'd the one survivor of the two guys who tried to run you down, and it turns out they work for the people he thinks Kerns is partnered with, U.S. Exporters. They're the big fish, and they think you're going to lead the Feds to them.

Mark read the note. "How am I going to lead the Feds to them? I don't know who they are."

Anderson and Katz are giving up information on Kerns in exchange for witness protection. Frank is getting a warrant for Kerns' arrest but without knowing where he is and with only the word of a drug-dealing snitch and a sniper, he's not getting very far. He needs something more. If he had a paper trail, that would be something, but the guy's too slippery. He hasn't left one.

"Paper trail…" Mark said out loud. Something was teasing at his memory, what was it? Papers… papers… a sudden memory flashed in his mind. "Judge, what exactly was I doing in that warehouse?"

"TAKING PICTURES, BRINGING OUT ONE OF THE BOXES."

"Why was I taking pictures?"

"TO GET PICTURED EVIDENCE AGAINST KERNS."

Something else began tugging at Mark's memory, papers… papers… "Judge, where's the camera?"

Milt thought for a moment, "In my jacket pocket. It's in the closet. I completely forgot about the camera!"

Mark must have figured out what he was saying by reading lips. "Go get it. Let's take it to the photo lab at the police station. Maybe they can find something. I think I got a picture of something."

"Guess Frank will just have to get angry that we left the house," Milt muttered to himself.

Chapter 29

Kerns waited somewhat impatiently several blocks away from the estate. Pretending he was changing the spark plugs in his white Dodge truck hadn't garnered any unexpected attention from either passers-by or police. In fact, the very fact that the police weren't the least bit interested in what he was doing gave him a little hope that this would be an easy job.

He kept up the act of working under his hood until he saw the judge's GMC truck come out from the estate and drive down the PCH, two unmarked police cars following closely behind, one of the police cars that had been stationed on the PCH following in line as well.

Three police cars?

He slammed the hood down, got into his pickup and took off after them – remaining a respectable distance away.

There was oncoming traffic, he'd have to wait for his moment. The PCH was his best bet of completing his assignment.

OOOOO

The photo tech took a look at the poor, old, almost-coming-apart camera. She held it in her hands as if she were holding a fragile egg. Then, she looked up at the three men standing in her lab. "You're kidding, right?"

Milt shrugged his shoulders. "We forgot we had it."

"Forget 'forgetting' about it. This poor camera looks like it's been through an explosion."

"It has," Frank told her. "A few weeks ago. Look, do you think you can get anything off the film?"

The tech took a close look at it, "If I do, it'll be a miracle. This could take a few days."

"Any way to speed that up?" Frank asked. "We're hoping there's something on one of those pictures that can lead us to some smugglers."

The tech studied the camera carefully. "I'll try, but there's no guarantee I'll be able to save any of them. The film itself could be burned or singed or exposed." She looked up at the three men. "I'll do my best."

Milt wrote out a quick note to Mark. "TECH SAYS MAY TAKE A FEW DAYS. DON'T KNOW IF FILM IS OKAY."

Mark nodded his head and followed Milt and Frank out the door. Once outside, they picked up their police detail and started walking down the corridor. Suddenly, a vivid picture image of something Mark had forgot flashed through his mind.

The workbench.

Bills of lading.

Shipping tickets.

He stopped suddenly in the hallway, the police officers stopping automatically as well.

"Sir?" one of them called for the lieutenant.

Frank turned and saw Mark staring at the floor. "Milt…"

Both walked back and Milt tugged on Mark's arm.

"WHAT IS IT KIDDO?" he wrote.

"When I was in the warehouse, there was a workbench with a dismantled VCR on it. It was sitting on a lot of paperwork. I know there were bills of lading and shipping tickets there."

Frank wrote down a quick note. "DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT WAS WRITTEN ON THEM?"

"No, I just remember I saw them. I took pictures of them... "

"What?" Milt asked, forgetting to write down the question.

"Something else… something about paperwork," Mark said as he tried to remember. Something was teasing the back of his memory, something… "Paperwork for the greater good. That's what Kerns said in the warehouse."

Frank started putting a few clues together. "Greater good?" He grabbed his pad again. "WHAT EXACTLY DID KERNS SAY?"

Mark concentrated. "He had some paperwork for the greater good to finish up in his office. Then he went upstairs. Why?"

"THAT TERM. GREATER GOOD. BOTH ANDERSON AND KATZ USED IT. NEED TO DO SOME RESEARCH."

Milt had been listening… greater good. That wasn't listed in any of the files they'd been looking at. "Frank, you got warrants for Kerns' bank accounts, right?"

"Yeah. But there wasn't anything out of the ordinary there. The guy's a businessman. He moves lots of money, but nothing suspicious jumped out at our forensic accountant."

"U.S. Exporters works for a lot of charities, right?"

"According to what we know about them, yeah. Why?"

"Doesn't something like The Greater Good sound like a charity?"

Frank turned to Milt, sudden realization dawning on them both, and said, "We're looking in the wrong place for the connection. And if we've got those pictures of the bills of lading and the shipping tickets, that could be the break we need."

OOOOO

Kerns waited outside the police station. He'd have to get them on the way back. There was no other option. There was no guarantee that they'd leave the estate again, and the estate itself was too well guarded to try to make an attempt on them there.

OOOOO

Hardcastle and McCormick walked out of the police station followed by the contingency of officers. They all got into their vehicles and waited for the judge and McCormick to lead the procession back to Gulls Way.

"Judge, I don't know about you, but I'm thinking this whole thing is more like an iceberg, you know, where we are only seeing about 5 percent of the whole thing. What's below the surface?"

"NO WAY TO KNOW, BUT I AGREE." Milt jotted down. He pulled out his keys and handed them over to Mark. "HERE, YOU DRIVE, TAKE YOUR MIND OFF OF THINGS FOR AWHILE."

"I don't think a twenty minute drive is gonna be much help."

"IT'LL HELP ME, I DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING."

Mark managed to smile and took the keys from him. He pulled out to the end of the parking lot and waited for the two unmarked and one squad car to fall in line behind him. "Yep, nothing beats a parade huh?"

OOOOO

An hour.

Several looks at his watch confirmed it. They'd been in there for over an hour doing God knows what. When they finally came out and climbed into the judge's truck, Kerns saw a huge stroke of luck was smiling down on him – the judge gave McCormick the keys! His objective was crystal clear, and he didn't care that a caravan of cops followed behind the GMC truck. It was time to get Hardcastle and McCormick once and for all.

He knew they'd be heading back to the Judge's estate. That meant the PCH, and the potential to send him flying off the side of the Oceanside cliff in a fireball brought a sadistic smile to his sweaty face. He noticed how the curly-headed sidekick was driving. He seemed to be paying particular attention when he looked around to merge into the sparse traffic… hmmm, he seemed a bit unsure of himself, perhaps a little worried that his inability to hear affected his driving. That would be a plus, make things easier. McCormick was going to die too, and since Kerns was dead if he didn't finish off the two of them, what would two attempted murders mean to a dead man?

He just had to time his attack.

They drove along, right at the speed limit. Acting as nonchalantly as possible, Kerns started to make his move. First, he calmly passed one of the unmarked cars, then the next and by the time they hit the PCH, he moved ahead of the squad car and was right beside the GMC.

He was in position to take out the truck.

He waited until they reached a straight stretch of road, one that was coming up on a curve. He slammed down on the accelerator and … SMASH!

He slammed the side of his Dodge truck into the driver's side of the GMC truck.

McCormick gripped the wheel as the momentum jarred through the truck and he wrestled the steering wheel to stay on the road. "What the hell?" He looked out and saw the Dodge truck driving right alongside of them. "Where's our protection?" He shouted at Milt, who was busy, looking back at the cops who were racing to intercept them.

Everything was happening too quickly. In an instant, the man in the Dodge wielded a gun and started shooting through the passenger window at the GMC while continuing to ram and bash against the side, attempting to push them off the road.

One bullet tore a hole in the side of the truck bed. "He's using hollow points!" Mark told the judge. "If he hits the gas tank…" Another bullet caught the left rear tire and scraps flew through Mark's open driver's side window and completely shattered the windshield from the inside. Not only could Mark not hear anything, now his vision for driving was obscured by the busted up window.

"Dammit!" Mark peered out the side of the truck to stay on the road as he accelerated to get ahead of the white truck. He saw the police cars with lights flashing trying to get around them, but they weren't having much success. The two trucks were taking up too much room.

Milt was busy grabbing the shot gun from behind the seat. He took the butt of it and completely smashed out the window, freeing up McComick's vision.

The Dodge rammed them again, backed off. The driver fired more shots at them.

"Front tire's gone too!" Mark shouted as he wrestled the truck under control. "We're running on the rims," he muttered as he fought to maintain control of the speeding vehicle.

Milt took the shotgun and was about to point it out the window. His angle was all wrong and he was unable to get off a clean enough shot at the car, not without endangering Mark. He put his hand where Mark could see it, and made a spinning motion and pointed it at the other truck.

Mark realized what he wanted to do, "Yeah, yeah, I gotta get him over to the other side of us so you can get a good shot at him. Hang on. This could get nasty."

McCormick hit the brakes and spun around as the Dodge rocketed past him. He slammed the GMC into reverse and floorboarded the gas pedal. He sped backwards toward the back of the Dodge and slammed into the rear of it.

"Can you get the tires?" he shouted at the judge. "I'm moving up beside him!"

Mark drove the GMC closer to the Dodge, moving up beside it as Hardcastle took aim and shot out the passenger side rear tire. Rubber spewed over the road as the tire exploded.

They saw the Dodge lurch as the driver tried to get it back under control. Mark wasn't finished. He started a little pushing and shoving of his own, trying to push the truck into what was hopefully a controlled spin and stop him. Milt got a good look at the driver when he turned his head to see the GMC slamming into the rear of his truck. "Hey, that's Kerns," he shouted, not that McCormick could hear him.

Kerns steered his truck back to the left, putting some space between the two trucks. He let the GMC get up along side and then steered full throttle into the judge's truck.

"Hang on!" Mark yelled. They both braced themselves for the collision.

When Kerns moved back left, Milt got the shotgun ready again and took aim. Mark slammed the GMC into the side of the Kerns' truck, pushed it hard over the asphalt and Milt shot out the front tire. The Dodge went careening through the safety barrier, off the road, over the cliff and then barreled down the side of the hill. It turned over, rolling down the hill and crashed into boulders lining the area. There was no movement inside the truck as it burst into flames.

Mark hit the brakes and spun the GMC around so they were facing the correct direction and pulled the battered truck over to the side as the police units came racing up beside them. Hardcastle got out of the truck in a flash and went back to them and shouted. "Where the hell were you guys?"

Mark got out of the truck much slower and went to the side of the cliff to see the car still burning down at the bottom. Okay, third time these guys had tried to kill them. Three. One, two, three… sniper, car, truck.

He mentally calculated the odds of what the next attempt on their lives would entail.

Mark was almost surprised at the calmness which he found himself accepting this last attack with. Some nutcase just tried to run them off the road.

Said nutcase just got into a high-speed chase of bumper cars on the Pacific Coast Highway and tried to kill them.

For a moment, things seemed abnormally normal. THIS, he could deal with. THIS, he understood. THIS, he could do something about.

That was it, wasn't it? For the first time since the explosion, he found himself in a situation where he could actually help with the defense. He wasn't a bystander having to be protected. He was driving a one-ton weapon, backwards, and he wielded it against the bad guy who was trying to take them out.

It felt good to be able to get in a few kicks for the good guys for a change, and to do it while driving.

However, the good guys were having a bit of a difficult time dealing with Hurricane Milt who was probably ready to rip their livers out for not acting fast enough to stop the Dodge.

The cops quickly called in an ambulance, the fire department, as well as the coroner and they fell all over themselves apologizing to Hardcastle while at the same time trying to secure the scene. McCormick made his way over to the judge and tried to pull him away from the cops who he could tell were barely tolerating the judge's outburst. One cop in particular was about to make an issue of the judge's tirade when Mark held up his hand and grabbed Milt's arm to get his attention.

"Judge, come on, it's over. Let's let these guys do their work." He started pulling Milt away. "It's not their fault. It all happened too fast, and we pretty much outdistanced them when I hit the gas. Remember, that's why I had you get your engine souped up some so we could do just that on our cases."

"We could have been killed just now," Hardcastle said, before he realized that Mark couldn't hear a word he said. He patted himself and searched his pockets for something to write with, while McCormick pulled out a pad and pen for him.

"Here you go," he smiled.

"YOU OKAY?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mark laughed. "Doesn't it look like I'm okay?"

"NO, YOU'RE FOREHEAD IS BLEEDING."

McCormick reached up and felt the blood, already starting to dry. "Ah, it's nothing, must be from when he shattered the windshield. How about you?" He lifted up the Judge's left arm and saw he had a cut.

"SUPERFICIAL."

"Wonder who that was? We've got a lot of people mad at us these days. Gunrunners? FBI? Maybe the gang leader from South-Central?" McCormick cracked.

"IT WAS KERNS. I RECOGNIZED HIM."

"Kerns? Are you sure?"

"I SAW HIM CLEAR AS DAY, IT WAS HIM."

"He came after us himself?"

"HE'S A MARKED MAN ANYWAY, NOTHING TO LOSE."

One of the officers came up and said. "Judge, Lieutenant Harper is on the radio. We have orders to take you and Mr. McCormick to the hospital. Since you're under our protection right now, we have to have you both checked out for injuries. It's procedure."

The judge was annoyed.

"What now?" Mark asked when he saw the judge's frustration level rising.

"POLICE ORDERS, WE HAVE TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL."

"No," McCormick shook his head, "I'm not going."

"WE HAVE TO, WE'RE UNDER THEIR PROTECTION."

"Then get us out of their protection, I don't want to go to the hospital. I'm sick of hospitals. Besides, there's a ball game on tonight."

"IT'S JUST TO GET A BANDAGE, THAT'S ALL, WE'LL BE HOME BEFORE THE FIRST PITCH."

Mark looked over at the truck. "Better have them call a tow truck. That's some extensive body damage that's got to be fixed and you can't drive on the rims. Think Kerns had insurance?"

Chapter 30

At first, they both took a seat in the ER waiting room. Neither one had any life-threatening injuries so it was going to be a long wait while the hospital staff was taking care of the more critical cases. Finally, Milt couldn't take the waiting any longer. He was up and down repeatedly on the phone, calling Frank about better security and any more developments. All they knew so far was that Kerns' body had been taken to the coroner and what was left of the truck had been hauled down to forensics to see if they could salvage anything. It was too soon to know anything else. Milt left Mark with two guards at the doorway of the waiting area but within viewing distance of each other.

Dr. Guthrie came strolling by and saw Mark sitting quietly trying to read a magazine. He tried to enter, but the police stopped him. The motion got Mark's attention and he waved the doctor through.

"It's okay, guys. He's my doctor."

Guthrie pulled out some paper and wrote down, "YOU WAITING TO SEE ME?"

"Nope, we had another attack on our lives. Just cuts and scrapes, but the cops are insisting we get checked out."

"TELL YOU WHAT, I'LL FIND YOU A BANDAGE, COME ON BACK. I'll TAKE A LOOK AT YOUR EARS."

Mark nodded, set the magazine down and was on his feet following Guthrie to a treatment room. One of the policemen followed Mark while the other waited for Hardcastle to finish his phone conversation.

OOOOO

"YOU DON'T NEED STITCHES, IT'S NOT DEEP AT ALL, THIS MIGHT STING." Guthrie wrote as he took antiseptic gauze and cleaned out Mark's cut. McCormick flinched from the sudden sting as predicted. Guthrie followed it up with a bandage. "I THINK YOU'LL SURVIVE."

Hardcastle pushed the door open and asked. "Can I come in?"

"Anything new?" Mark asked him, waving him into the treatment room.

Milt shook his head no.

"He's got a cut on his arm, Doc. Can you fix him up, too?" Mark pointed from the examination table.

"Sure, come here, Judge. Let's see if you need stitches."

Hardcastle walked in and showed Guthrie his arm.

"Ah, see, same diagnosis. Let me clean it up and give you a bandage too. You fellas sure like trouble."

"We don't like it. It just seems to follow us. Thanks for doing this, Doc," Milt offered up.

"My pleasure. Besides, I want to take a quick look at Mark's ears while he's here. You're all set, Judge."

"You want me to wait outside?" Milt motioned over to Mark to see what he wanted.

"No, you can stay. You might as well hear the same thing, so to speak."

Guthrie walked back over to Mark and dug some instruments out of his doctor's coat. Before he started he wrote down, "THIS WON'T HURT, JUST TAKING A LOOK."

Mark gave him a nod and watched as he went back and forth from ear to ear, comparing and checking.

After about five minutes of this, he dropped off the disposable ends of the ear instruments into the garbage and put the tools back into his pocket. "THE SWELLING IS WAY DOWN MARK, I THINK YOU MIGHT ALMOST BE READY FOR THE SURGERY. WE'LL HAVE TO RUN THE DECIBEL CHECK AND GET DOCTOR PEPPER'S OPINION, BUT ON FIRST GLANCE, I THINK YOU'LL BE AN EXCELLENT CANDIDATE FOR THIS."

Mark and Milt were both pleasantly stunned with the news.

Guthrie was busy writing again. "HAVE THERE BEEN ANY INKLINGS OF SOUND?"

Mark shook his head no, followed by, "Nothing."

The silence filled the room.

Guthrie wrote another note, "NOT TOO WORRY, I'M ABOUT 99 PERCENT SURE THAT THIS WILL WORK. YOU'VE GOT SOME DISLOCATED BONES IN THERE, IT'S AN EASY FIX. WHAT DO YOU THINK? ARE YOU READY FOR SURGERY?"

"When would it be?" Mark asked.

"IF DR. PEPPER IS IN AGREEMENT, I'D SAY IN A FEW DAYS."

Mark glanced over toward Hardcastle and let his mind start to wander. If he had the surgery now, he'd be out of commission, lying in a hospital bed instead of being at the judge's side in trying to track down whoever it was that was trying to kill them. Even though he couldn't hear, it didn't mean he couldn't be of some help to the judge until this thing was over, even just to watch his back. The big-time bumper-car game they played today proved that point. "What happens if I wait?" he suddenly asked.

Both Hardcastle and Guthrie stared at him.

"YOU WANT TO WAIT?" Guthrie wrote down.

"Well, maybe. Until we catch these guys. In case you haven't noticed, they're trying to kill us."

"DON'T MAKE THIS ABOUT THAT KIDDO," Hardcastle quickly jotted down and held up for him to see. 'YOU NEED YOUR HEARING BACK MARK."

"I'm not leaving you out to hang on this one by yourself, Hardcastle. How many attempts have there been now?" McCormick began.

Dr. Guthrie wrote another note. "YOU THINK ABOUT IT, WE HAVE TIME, AND IT WON'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE IF IT'S THIS WEEK OR IN FOUR WEEKS."

Mark didn't have to think. "Doc, someone is trying to kill us. Three times already, plus the explosion. The last thing either one of us needs is me flat on my back in a hospital bed unable to do much if there's a fourth attempt. I can deal with the quiet a little longer if I have to."

Hardcastle wrote out another note. "WE'LL THINK OF SOMETHING ELSE. DON'T PUT OFF THE SURGERY."

"Doc?" Mark asked.

The doctor had been scribbling a note. "NEXT WEEK, NEXT MONTH, IT'S ALL GOOD. THE SWELLING HAS GONE DOWN CONSIDERABLY, ENOUGH TO DO THE SURGERY. MORE TIME MEANS MORE SWELLING WILL GO DOWN EVEN MORE. THAT'S GOOD TOO."

"That settles it then, I'm waiting," Mark said to the doctor. Then, to Milt, "If it isn't going to make a difference, then I want to find these guys and put them away. I can't be laid up in bed and having people take pot shots at you."

The doctor must have sensed a bit of a row coming on, so he wrote out, "I HAVE ROUNDS TO MAKE. IF YOU NEED ANYTHING OR WANT TO SCHEDULE THE SURGERY, CALL ME. OTHERWISE, WHY NOT CONSIDER A TENTATIVE DATE OF A MONTH FROM NOW FOR SURGERY?"

"Okay," Mark said. "But if we nail the bad guys before then, I want my ears fixed."

The doctor laughed and nodded his head. He held out his hand to shake with both men and exited the treatment room.

Milt scribbled another note. "DON'T MAKE THIS ABOUT THE CASE OR ME, KID. I'LL HAVE POLICE PROBATION."

"Probation?"

"PROTECTION, PROTECTION."

"I can tell you're shouting. Why are you getting so worked up over this? It's my hearing, not yours. Why do you care so much?"

Milt turned his back to him and thought about what to write. He scribbled something down and spun around to show him.

'I DO, ISN'T THAT ENOUGH?"

"And you think I don't care if you live or die?" Mark asked him. "Look, Judge, today was the first time I could do something to stop someone from killing us. I…" he stopped for a moment as if to try to figure out what he was going to say. Finally, "I don't know if I'll ever hear again. I get that. I know I've been fighting it since I woke up in the hospital. The idea that this is my future isn't one I really want to think about, and I want that damn surgery because I want to hear again. But if going a little longer not hearing is going to keep you out of a body bag, then so be it. End of discussion. Besides you heard Guthrie. This isn't based on timing."

There are times in a person's life when the phrase, "Immovable object, meet irresistible force," is proven undeniably. Milt Hardcastle, the irresistible force, was standing front and center of Mark McCormick, immovable object. Neither was going to budge, but for once, Milt knew that he couldn't argue his point. As much as he wanted Mark to hear again, he wanted them both alive. Postponing the surgery was the only way to make sure that happened.