Chapter 5
McCormick awoke to a piercing pain just over his right eye that seemed to be spreading clear across the rest of his brain, along with a sense of something being not quite right. Cautiously he opened his eyes to see ... nothing. It was pitch black, wherever he was. Trying to take stock without moving his head unnecessarily, he peered around from the corners of his eyes, but there was still total darkness, and he wondered in alarm if he had been struck blind. He was lying flat on his back against some hard, unyielding surface, covered by a blanket whose warmth was in stark contrast to the intensely cold temperature, and his head lay on some soft, indefinable object – a pillow? The only sounds to be heard were the steady rat-a-tat of raindrops against metal, the muted gurgling of nearby rushing water, and a soft labored wheezing somewhere to his right.
McCormick's heart caught at the sound of that hitched breathing, and automatically he jerked up in panicked fear, the sudden movement sending hot burning daggers through his brain. As he cried out and slumped back down against that hard surface, the gentle wheezing changed to a startled gasp, and he felt a warm, almost hot hand firm against his right shoulder, holding him down. Then he heard Hardcastle say softly, "Shh. Just lie still for a minute, okay? You got creamed pretty good there."
Even with the throbbing in his head, McCormick was aware of an overwhelming relief at the sound of Hardcastle's voice, weak but steady, and incredibly comforting. Sighing, he allowed himself to sink back, content to obey orders, if only long enough to calm the shrapnel that rattled chaotically throughout his battered skull. When he finally thought he could speak without throwing up, he asked in a whisper, "What hit me?"
There was a slight chuckle. "It looks like you got clobbered by that radar detector you're so crazy about. The cord was damn near wrapped around you. See, serves ya right for using that thing when you thought I wasn't lookin'."
McCormick tried to process that information, but it made no sense to his scrambled brain.
"What happened?" he asked, resolutely ignoring the pins and needles in his head that vied for attention every time he opened his mouth.
"We were in the wrong place at the wrong time, kiddo. Don't you remember?"
"No." There was a short pause, then McCormick continued in a slightly scared voice. "Did we get to San Francisco?"
There was a long silence. "Sure we did, kid," answered Hardcastle at last, his voice strangely noncommittal. "And we made it through the funeral, and Stella was real glad to see us. Then we got caught in a traffic jam on Highway 101 on the way home, and we tried to find a short cut, and drove right into a little earthquake along the way. We made it through that okay, but then we got caught in what you might call an unexpected aftereffect."
It struck McCormick that Hardcastle's terse description condensed to an amazing degree what must have been an extremely unusual day, but he made no comment as the judge continued calmly, "So now we're upside down right at the edge of some river, along with most of a bridge from some Godforsaken road, I think somewhere in Monterey County, and if it keeps raining the way it has been, there's a chance we'll be finding out where that river goes long before the sun comes up."
McCormick thought about that for a few minutes. Upside down? Then they both must be lying on the lining of the roof itself.
"How long have I been out?"
Hardcastle answered slowly, "It's been awhile. I was getting a little worried that maybe that head of yours wasn't quite as hard as I thought." McCormick heard the judge clear his throat, the action sounding a little more strained than usual, then he continued, "You were caught in your seat belt, hanging down like a side of beef, and I had to cut it with my pocketknife, 'cause I couldn't get to the latch. Sorry 'bout that, kiddo, but I'll make it good with Jack." There was genuine remorse in Hardcastle's voice, as though he really did regret having to cut that vintage – and probably extremely expensive – seatbelt. "At least I managed to get you down and laid out without your head getting bounced around a second time. With you up there and me down here, that was about as good as I could do. I didn't try the doors, but they must be jammed pretty tight; they look a little crumpled to me. I don't know where the rain came from," he added gloomily. "Last time I looked, there was hardly a cloud in the sky, but then, that was about three hours ago, when the car was still right side up."
Very, very carefully, McCormick turned his head to the right and tried to peer at Hardcastle, but there wasn't enough light to show more than an indeterminate outline, and even that might have been an illusion.
"Are you okay?"
There was another long silence.
"Sure," Hardcastle answered with a false cheerfulness that seemed to grate on McCormick's ears. McCormick maintained a stony silence, until the judge finally sighed and said, "Okay, maybe I'm not doing all that hot. Still, if it hadn't been for that speed detector thing comin' loose, I expect we both woulda come out of this okay. As for that other stuff," Hardcastle added ruefully, "I guess there's nothing like a good, old-fashioned earthquake to take your mind off your troubles."
Condensed didn't even begin to describe it, McCormick thought grimly, as he tried to force his headache to retreat into the background. In the lengthy silence that followed, he was surprised to discover his memory returning; he could recall their arrival in San Miguel and even beyond that, although he still could remember nothing about the quake itself or what came afterwards.
Along with his memories came renewed worry for Hardcastle, whose dispassionate narrative hadn't deceived McCormick in the slightest. As he lay still, he tried to assess the judge's condition by listening alone, since it was much too dark for a visual evaluation. Hardcastle himself seemed less than willing to part with any specifics, and McCormick was reasonably sure than any effort at movement on his part would result in an extremely unsavory upchucking, definitely not something to be encouraged in a closely confined space such as the interior of a wrecked car.
Gradually his efforts in auditory diagnosis were rewarded, once he learned to discount the sounds of river and rain. He once more heard the catch in the judge's breathing, a hesitancy in its rhythm that might mean broken ribs, although Hardcastle had begun to develop an irregularity in his breathing long before their unplanned descent into this river. There were sounds of restlessness, and he could hear Hardcastle constantly swallowing in an effort to contain the pain, or the nausea, or perhaps both.
Sometimes there was a sharp, stifled gasp, as though the bouts of severe pain were coming more often now, and the hand that had rested against his shoulder had radiated an abnormal warmth even through his own jacket and shirt, indicating all too plainly that the fever was still present. Taken together, the evidence pointed to a very sick man, who undoubtedly needed medical attention soon, probably far sooner than it was likely to become available.
His bleak reflections were interrupted by Hardcastle, who asked in a deceptively casual tone, "I wonder exactly where we are right now?"
"A hundred and fifty miles from nowhere, where else would we be?" McCormick replied bitterly, vowing to himself that next time he put his foot down, it would stay down, despite Hardcastle's undeniable penchant for pulling the rug right out from under it.
"Nah, we can't be that far from civilization," Hardcastle replied optimistically. "This is central California."
McCormick glanced down past his feet and over toward where he thought the top of the driver's side door might be located. "What was it you said about the doors?" he asked, his voice sounding unexpectedly dull and listless even to his own ears, as though he didn't give a damn one way or another about the doors. He gritted his teeth in self-reproach; now just wasn't the time for one of his Patented McCormick Attitude Attacks, and Hardcastle certainly didn't need any more discouragement than he was undoubtedly already feeling, despite his determined stab at some sort of normalcy. A thought struck McCormick, and his spirits began insensibly to rise. "Wait a minute. Whaddaya mean, the doors look crumpled? If you can't see 'em, how can you tell?"
"'Cause I've got the flashlight right here. And believe me, kiddo, if there's a way out of here, those doors aren't it." There was a small sigh in the darkness, and when Hardcastle spoke, it was with the same somber tones of defeat that had colored McCormick's own voice a few moments earlier. "On the other hand, we aren't exactly in the safest place we could be. It's not like we're sittin' on solid ground."
The judge's words rang a small bell in McCormick's memory, but his head ached too badly for him to pursue the thought; it wasn't as though he really cared all that much about getting out of here right now, with both him and Hardcastle down and out of action for a while. And just what was 'right now', anyway? He fumbled for his watch, but it was missing from his wrist. "Judge, what time is it? My watch is gone."
It seemed the judge's wristwatch with its luminous dial was still intact, as he replied without hesitation, "If I'm reading this right, it's about two a.m." He fell silent for a moment. "You know, I really do wonder just where we are. How's your memory comin' along? It'd be right handy if you remembered noticing any road signs or anything before we took that detour."
"You know, now you mention it, I do remember that right when we got to where the tree fell, I saw a sign saying 'Parkfield, one mile'. I didn't pay much attention 'cause it wasn't like we were ever gonna get to that road." McCormick had turned back onto his right side, as the pain didn't seem quite as intense that way. As he stared in the general direction of the dashboard, or at least where he thought the dashboard should be, he suddenly had an idea. "Look, if you had that map, you think you could figure out where we are? Not that it makes any difference now, but you're right, it'd be nice to know just where we managed to get to before everything went haywire."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I just happen to have it right here." There was a note of not-quite-suppressed self-congratulation in Hardcastle's voice. "I kinda thought we might need it."
There was the sound of rustling paper, followed by a bright glow, faintly illuminating Hardcastle's features as he held the map up with one hand and steadied the flashlight with the other. "Here it is, a few miles off the road we were on. That sign you saw must have meant one mile to the road that goes by it. Parkfield, population ... thirty-four?" There was an amused snort. "Talk about your booming metropolis."
"Yeah." McCormick smiled in the darkness as he watched Hardcastle fiddling with the map; even in this poor light, it was such a relief to see the man himself, rather than having to be content with a disembodied voice. "Wonder what they do for a living around here."
"Isn't Parkfield where they started doing all that earthquake research a couple of years ago?" asked Hardcastle, with a glance at McCormick's shadowed face. "I think I remember reading something about it in the papers."
"Really? Why Parkfield, d'ya suppose?"
"I dunno," Hardcastle answered absently, still studying the map. "Something about them having a big earthquake every twenty years or so, I think."
"Oh, great. No telling how many roads there are in this part of California, and we have to end up on the only one leading to the Earthquake Capitol of the World." McCormick was quiet for a minute. Then he asked hesitantly, "Uh, Judge?"
"What?"
"How strong do you think that earthquake was?"
"So you remember that, too, do ya?" The light disappeared as the judge snapped off the flashlight. "I hate to tell you this, kiddo, but I expect the people in this neck of the woods wouldn't even have considered that one a good tremor. The whole thing didn't last but about ten seconds or so, you know."
"Ten seconds!"
"Well, it wasn't the Big One, that's for sure. The experts are saying that these folks probably won't be seeing one like that for another seven or eight years."
"Sheesh, with predictions like that, no wonder the roadmap says, 'Population, thirty-four'!"
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"You're awfully quiet," McCormick said softly.
"Yeah, well, I thought it might be best to keep a low profile, seein' as I got us into this mess."
"Judge, last night when I was telling you all those things that could go wrong, earthquakes weren't exactly at the top of my list. Tell you what, since you've done your best to keep your end of the bargain, I'll let you off the hook for this one." McCormick fell silent, thinking, then he asked, with no sign of fear in his voice, only a friendly curiosity, "Whatcha think we ought to do? My head doesn't hurt so much now," he lied manfully. "I might be able to find us a way out of here."
"You just might, but y'know, kid, I don't think I've got it in me to climb outta here and walk away, even if we did get a door open – and you sure don't have any business wandering around with a concussion." The roof trembled just the slightest bit beneath them, as Hardcastle sought a more comfortable position. "McCormick, maybe we ought to wait awhile, okay? We don't know where we are, except that I'm pretty sure we're in a river, and I think it's a big one – at least, right now it is, with the rain and everything. We don't know how deep it is, or how fast the current is, or how much of it the car's keeping out. I think we landed on some rocks that are holdin' us up over the water right now, but I might be wrong; it could be that we'd knock out that back window and the river would pour right in before we could get outta here, or the current might sweep us away, car and all. It's dark as hell, so even if we did get out and make it to dry land – dry being relative here, you understand – we still wouldn't have any idea what direction to go in. It's not like it's flat as a pancake out there, and it sure seemed like we were falling a long way from the road."
Hardcastle paused, taking a quick, almost gasping, breath, giving McCormick the worrisome impression that the breathlessness was getting worse. The judge continued, "Look, in here, we have the coat, and the blanket, and the flashlight, and we're out of the rain, and it doesn't look like the car's going anywhere anytime soon. Let's just let it lay for now, okay? You need some rest, and I need some rest, so we'll save the flashlight for when we really need it, and get some sleep. Okay, kiddo?"
"Okay." McCormick's voice faded as he laid his head back against the pillow. There was an exhausted entreaty in Hardcastle's voice that was impossible to resist, despite the danger they were in. His own headache was worsening, too, so that he felt his brain was swelling right into his skull, and he closed his eyes, praying that sleep would give him a respite from the relentless pounding.
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Perhaps it was the comparative normality of their conversation up to that point that made what happened next so distressing, especially to McCormick, or perhaps because it was so incredibly out of character for him to behave in such a manner. Whatever the reason, years later, McCormick would watch a documentary about brain injuries, or find himself conversing one-on-one with someone who had once suffered a debilitating injury of that nature, and his mind would instantly go back to that relatively short interlude in that dreadfully interminable night, and always his first impulse was to head to a phone and apologize, even long after such apologies – or such phone calls, for that matter – were feasible.
McCormick was dreaming, strange dreams about things that hardly seemed to merit dreaming about, yet even in his dreams his head was pounding like a drum, with such an incredibly painful, pulsating sensation that if he'd been able to think rationally, he would have wondered if there was something more going on in there than simply a bruised brain. As it was, the way his head seemed to increase with each resounding drumbeat throb, the size of his brain mushrooming until he could bear the pressure no longer, all became just a part of the nightmare inside his skull.
Also part of the nightmare was the irrational anger that began to course through his body, escaping from his dream world into his reality, bringing him to his knees and across the couple of feet that separated him from Hardcastle. Grabbing the flashlight that lay between them, he shone it at the judge's face, and it was a measure of Hardcastle's own exhaustion that he never showed the slightest reaction. The judge's eyes were closed, his head pillowed uncomfortably on his own folded sport coat. His face even in sleep was only too expressive of his own pain, and his breathing was so faint that the rise and fall of his chest could hardly be detected.
Under other circumstances, logic might have dictated that the shallow breathing was only the result of broken ribs. But there was no room for logic in McCormick's delirium-fogged brain at that moment, only an unshakeable conviction that Hardcastle was dying, right here and right now, and that just seemed to enrage him, with a fury that he could not remember ever having experienced before. By damn, went the refrain resounding in his imagination, if the old bastard's gonna buy the farm, we're gonna get this sorted out first, once and for all.
He lay the flashlight on Hardcastle's chest, beam aimed toward the judge's face, and then he leaned hard against the judge's shoulders, deliberately shoving them against the unforgiving surface of the roof until his hands turned white from the pressure, no doubt provoking a reciprocal bruising of the skin and muscles that lay concealed beneath Hardcastle's shirt. As Hardcastle began to moan softly, rolling his head in subconscious reaction to this new pain, McCormick began speaking, softly, dangerously, directly into the judge's face, his voice penetrating through Hardcastle's oblivion, so that the judge's eyes flew open in a surprise turned to shock, as he saw McCormick's feral expression and heard that chillingly level voice. McCormick's words were few, but their impact on both speaker and listener was immediate, although in retrospect, they hardly seemed very intimidating.
"Let me tell you something, Hardcastle. You did get me into this mess, and if you go and die on me now, I'll never forgive you." Somewhere deep inside, the small part of McCormick that wasn't being flattened between a hammer and an anvil wondered helplessly where this was coming from, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. After all, this was just a dream, right? "I'm tired, do you hear me? Tired! I'm sick and tired of having to have things your way, always your way, and you don't give a damn about me or what I want or what I need. I'm fed up, Hardcastle, do you hear me? Fed up! I'm not taking it anymore. No more, Hardcastle! No more!"
Then he pulled his hands into fists, and with a nerve-wracking methodity, he began pounding the roof on either side of Hardcastle's head, over and over again. He began to speak again, his voice pitched so low that he could not hear himself over the throbbing in his head, and he had no idea what he was actually saying – truly the stuff of nightmares.
And then the fists stopped their pounding, McCormick's hands coming to rest limply against his thighs, and there was silence, a thick silence that was almost smothering. He sat back on his haunches, staring blankly at the judge's white, stunned face, before flinging himself back onto his blanket. Wrapping himself up tightly in its warm folds, he turned on his side, away from Hardcastle, and buried his head into the pillow in a subliminal attempt to bury the pain as well.
Awareness had come with the force of his body hitting the roof, and he woke to confusion and a sense that he had done something bad ... he'd hurt Hardcastle, and there was something all wrong with the words he'd said to him ... but he couldn't get a handle on it ... it was just out of reach of his groping memory ... he had to stop, the effort hurt too much, it just hurt too much ... and then the pain did become too much, and he was gone, back into his dream world once more.
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The flashlight still lay on Hardcastle's chest, shining on his face, and he had no strength to turn it off – and no desire to either, the light providing an illusion of safety against any further assault by a man who he would never previously have thought to be capable of such a thing. His shoulders ached, his heart seemed caught in his throat, and he would have thrown up if there'd been anything left in his stomach to throw up. And then there was the pain, still rolling in relentless waves across both his stomach and his ribs, an unpleasant souvenir of the rough treatment he had received.
Hardcastle had been quite honestly terrified, seeing the violence building behind the stormy face illuminated by the flashlight – yet there was something that had seemed off kilter. The first words out of the kid's mouth had made sense ... almost ... but there had been something almost empty about the kid's expression, as though he wasn't actually aware of what he was saying, as though he wasn't even there. And suddenly Hardcastle knew that McCormick wasn't there, that whatever was going through his head had nothing to do with the here and now, that he was trapped in the middle of some concussion-induced nightmare, with no control whatsoever of his actions.
And then McCormick had begun pounding the roof with his fists, and as Hardcastle wondered almost resignedly when the fists would leave the roof to start in on his face, he had tried to listen to McCormick's almost incoherent mumblings. The kid's words had come faster and faster, slurring together so as to be almost unintelligible – and there was definitely something not ... quite ... right ... there ...
"... I'm so damned tired of walking, walking, walking, all the time walking, and it's dull all the time, no matter what I do, the damn thing won't sharpen, and it blows black stuff, black, black, all the time black, and nothing I do can stop it happening; the damn thing can't be fixed, not by me, not by you, oh, no, can't be that simple, you couldn't go with a damn Briggs and Stratton, any damn fool can fix that ..."
Now, in the aftermath, Hardcastle finally managed to calm his breathing as he tried to make sense of McCormick's angrily delivered diatribe. What was it he had said? Something about always walking? Blowing black stuff? And what was it that was dull all the time, that couldn't be sharpened? And who the hell were Briggs and Stratton, and why would he want to go anywhere with them? A light bulb came on in his head at those names – the kid had said 'a Briggs and Stratton'. He hadn't been talking about guys, but a company; Briggs and Stratton made small engines, like you'd find on outboard motors and chain saws and ...
Hardcastle's eyes widened in astonished comprehension, and his involuntary, hastily stifled laughter had a hysterical ring to it. The whole thing was ridiculous; whoever would have thought the kid would have had nightmares over something so stupid? Who would ever have thought it possible that McCormick would almost beat the crap out of him over a lawnmower?
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McCormick woke again to that numbing pain above his right eye and a profound sense that he had screwed up big time, if only he could remember how. He sat up, banging his head against the seat suspended above him, and choked off the cry that came to his lips. He felt around the roof for the flashlight; he knew they'd agreed not to use the light unless it was absolutely necessary, but somehow he felt that right now it was absolutely necessary. He had to find the judge, he had to apologize ... for ... for ... something, he just couldn't remember what, and it couldn't wait, it had to be now.
But he couldn't find the flashlight, it wasn't where it was supposed to be, right between him and the judge, and then he was pawing desperately for it across the headliner, afflicted with a horrible sense of urgency, yet with a odd feeling that it was too late, too late ... And then he looked over to where he knew the judge had last been, where ... where ... something had happened ... he knew he had to get over there, but just as he tossed aside his blanket, he was stopped cold by the glare of the flashlight, shining directly into his face, so that he could see nothing but the spots that suddenly danced before his eyes.
"Looking for this, sport?"
The flashlight was slowly being lowered, so that the beam hit just below McCormick's chin, and now he could see Hardcastle sitting up, leaning tiredly against the side of the car, holding the flashlight steady in one hand. He knew there was something terribly wrong here, Hardcastle had no business sitting up that way, and he asked in a low, shaking voice, "Are you all right?"
Hardcastle answered quietly, "Yeah, kid, I'm fine." He seemed to be studying McCormick intently, but his expressionless face in the dim light gave McCormick no clue to what he was actually seeing: a white, pathetically frightened face, framed by sweat-dampened tendrils of hair, with huge, pain-filled eyes whose pupils were nevertheless reassuringly equal and reactive to the strong light.
Nodding to himself as if satisfied about something, Hardcastle slid a little closer, wincing as he did so, and placed a light hand across McCormick's forearm. "Don't feel so good, do you, kiddo? Don't you think it might be better if you lay back down?"
"Yeah," McCormick answered quietly, confused and uncertain and hurting, but reassured by the matter-of-factness of Hardcastle's behavior. Yielding to the gentle pressure of the hand on his arm, he lay down, his head resting once more against the pillow as his eyes followed the judge's every movement. "Judge, I'm sorry."
Hardcastle laid aside the flashlight and set about spreading the rumpled blanket across McCormick's shivering body. "Sorry about what?"
"About what I said. I didn't mean it." The scared hesitancy in McCormick's voice spoke volumes about his true ignorance concerning his recent actions.
"No big deal. You were dreaming." There was an inexplicable note of laughter mixed with the pain in Hardcastle's voice. "By the way, tell me, kiddo, just what did you say?"
McCormick thought about that, and answered uncertainly, "I don't know. But whatever it was, it was bad. Real bad. Judge, I'm so sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. You were just having a bad dream, McCormick. That's all it was, just a bad dream," Hardcastle answered with an irrepressible, if rather strained, grin. Despite his headache and his confusion, McCormick smiled back faintly, enormously relieved, although he didn't quite understand what the judge found so funny about the whole thing.
Relaxing against his pillow, McCormick turned over and closed his eyes, only to have them shoot open again in bewilderment as the judge gave his shoulder one final pat and remarked in an amused voice, "I know it was only the concussion talking, but I gotta admit, McCormick, you sure know how to get your point across. When we get home, we'll go get you your damned Briggs and Stratton."