Disclaimer: These characters still aren't mine and I still make no profit from them.

Author's notes: Set after 'The End of Civilization as We Know It', or, at least, what would have been the end, had it not been for a timely intervention by Mark with 1.1 pounds of boron and five gallons of gasoline.

A couple of lines herein are borrowed from Cheri's story Road to Recovery.

Thanks Owl and Cheri.

Sessions—5

Westerfield had been half-expecting the call. Anniversaries of traumatic events tended to raise issues all over again for many people, and now, sliding into the middle of December, it was nearly one year out from the unfortunate episode that had nearly claimed Judge Hardcastle's memory and Mark McCormick's life.

And he fully expected that any call, from either man, would come thinly veiled as an invitation to lunch. It was a functional sort of denial, and he would no more dismantle it than he would take apart a watch to see what made it tick.

What he was not expecting, first thing that Monday morning, was a note on his desk that read: Message on machine from Paul Hanley. Said referred by Mark McCormick. Left no number.

The receptionist couldn't elaborate. The message had been left that morning, while she was down the hall getting fresh water for the coffeemaker. Mr. Hanley hadn't sounded distraught. Young, maybe.

Phillip Westerfield frowned and flipped through his Rolodex, intending to call Mark and ask him to fill in the blanks, but before he even got to the 'M's the receptionist was buzzing him again.

"Must've been a bad weekend," she said dryly. "It's Mr. McCormick now."

Westerfield smiled thinly to himself, not having any intention of explaining to her just how bad some of Mr. McCormick's previous weekends had been. He picked up the transferred line.

"Good morning, Mark, everything okay?"

Only a trained professional would have caught the momentary hesitation that preceded the ritual, "Fine, and you?" but the man's voice was even and there didn't seem to be much tension in it.

Westerfield decided for direct. "Who's Paul Hanley?"

"Ah." There seemed to be a note of satisfaction in the single syllable. "He called. That's, ah, good, I think. I really think he needs to talk to somebody."

Westerfield noted with some interest that Mark's reticence to 'see a psychiatrist' apparently extended to referrals, too. He resisted a brief, fleeting urge to at least take the cover off the watch and have a look inside. Instead, he stuck to a casual inquiry, "He's a friend of yours?"

"Yes." Another vague moment of hesitation, and then, "I met him about two years ago."

Nothing more was offered, but Westerfield had a sense that there was a lot of story behind the few words.

"He didn't leave a number. Could you ask him to call back? My receptionist will make him an appointment."

"Ah . . . well," more silence, and then Mark started, a little slowly, "he might not want you to call him at home."

"Okay, an office number then."

He could almost hear McCormick frowning, and then, finally, "Listen, Doc, you free for lunch today? I'm gonna have to explain a bunch of stuff."

Westerfield looked down at his appointment book and then sighed gently into the receiver. "Eduardo's, twelve-fifteen?"

"Perfect."

00000

Mark was out on the street in front of the restaurant at precisely the appointed time. Westerfield was pleasantly surprised to see him looking well, with no slings, bandages, or other evidence of misadventure. But there was a slight air of skittishness about him, as though he wasn't bearing good tidings and wasn't too sure what his reception would be.

Westerfield allowed himself to be ushered in, and held off on any questions until they'd been shown to a table. Then it was Mark who spoke first.

"I suppose I should've talked to you first, before I gave Paul your name."

Westerfield waved that away. "I don't mind referrals."

"Well, Paul's kind of different." Mark smiled, but there was a nervous edge to it.

"He's a friend of yours," Westerfield said with an encouraging expression.

"Yeah," Mark admitted. "That oughta tell you something right there." He sat back a little and took a breath, as though he was going to launch into a story. "I met him when he was fourteen—"

The psychiatrist frowned. "I thought you said on the phone that you'd only known him for two years?"

"Uh-huh," Mark nodded briefly, "that's one of the things I wanted to explain. That was two years ago."

The frowned deepened a little. "You know, Mark, adolescent psychiatry is really a subspecialty of its own, I'm not—"

"Oh," Mark interrupted, "I don't think Paul really falls into one of those categories. I mean, yeah, he's sixteen, but, whoa, there's a whole lot more going on that that. Like, um, for example, how I met him . . ." Mark looked around briefly and then leaned forward, dropping his voice. "He was on the lam from a couple of Russian arms dealers, because he'd stolen the innards of a nuclear bomb. And Patterson, you remember me telling you about him? The guy with the nerve gas? He was after Paul, too."

Westerfield leaned back. It was one of those times when there really wasn't any adequate response, though to anyone besides Mark McCormick his answer probably would have been Thorazine.

"So," Mark was still pitching his voice low, "we made a flat-out run across the desert to Nevada with twenty pounds of plutonium and a detonator in the back of this really ancient Ford pickup."

"You were along for the ride?" Westerfield asked bemusedly.

"Hell, I was driving. Like I said, he was only fourteen." Mark shook his head as though he didn't quite believe it himself. "And, ah, I was sort of coerced," he said, a little primly. "But, it all turned out okay in the end."

"Well," the older man agreed, "last I heard, southern Nevada is still on the map."

"And Paul did handle the plutonium very responsibly," McCormick added quickly. "He explained the part about critical mass to me."

Westerfield thought there was a good chance his face was betraying some concerns at this point. Mark seemed compelled to explain further.

"He had to do it; his, um, guardian, Dr. Mlotkowski—he's a retired physicist—he was being blackmailed."

"Paul has no parents?"

"Mostly, no," Mark replied, frowning. "His mom's alive, but she's pretty far gone. Schizophrenia. His father . . ." that trailed off into a shrug.

Westerfield nodded, starting to see the outline of the thing, even if the details were still a bit sketchy.

"But this was all two years ago? And it ended, ah, happily?"

"Yeah, plutonium saved, Patterson, well, I wouldn't call him happy, but nobody got arrested. And Paul got Mlotkowski back in one piece, and vice versa."

"And that was two years ago?"

"Yeah, a little more. And everything seemed fine. I've talked to Paul a few times since then."

"And now?"

"Well, a week ago Saturday, something happened."

"Not another incident involving plutonium?" Westerfield asked cautiously.

Mark shook his head. "Oh, no, not plutonium . . . something sort of worse."

The psychiatrist felt his eyebrows rise and stay pretty much up there while Mark told him about Patterson's fingers, a mouse snuff film, and his and Paul's near-run thing in the Mojave.

And finally the story petered down to ". . . and he still seemed a little upset when I went to see him a couple days ago."

"Upset?" Westerfield repeated. Then he ducked his chin. After a few moments he raised it again, saying, "I was trying to remember what I did last Saturday. I think I had my oil changed."

"You don't do that yourself?" Mark asked. "It's really easy."

"What I meant, was . . ." Westerfield sat for a long, silent moment, trying to pick up the loose end of the conversation. He finally shook his head and said, "Never mind, I'm not sure it's something I could explain." He saw that Mark's expression had become rather puzzled.

The psychiatrist sighed and then made another attempt. "See, you say the Saturday before last we were eight inches away from the China syndrome, but you tell it like it's yesterday's news and what the heck is there for the kid to still be upset about." Westerfield gave the younger man a fairly intense look. "Just how fast is your reset button?"

There was a moment of silence. He began to think he wasn't going to get an answer. Then, finally, McCormick said, reluctantly, and with a half-shrug, "As fast as it needs to be."

The casual tone had conveyed more than the words. Westerfield sighed again. "That's what I figured. And you came through this one okay?"

Mark shrugged, gave a quick glance down at his hands, resting on the table and said, "Not a scratch."

"That's not what I meant," the older man replied patiently.

McCormick smiled. "Yeah," he said, the smile stayed firmly in place, "I know. The rest is okay, too. Well, after the first couple of nights.

"You know," he added, after another moment's silence, "it was kind of interesting. He didn't even yell at me."

His smile slipped into something more thoughtful and it was obvious that the subject had shifted slightly, and the 'he' in question was Hardcastle. Mark was studying his hands.

"I used to get a buzz out of doing stuff that was, ah, a little over the line . . . like breaking in somewhere and boosting a car."

The thoughtful look had gone to a nervous frown. He spared an upward glance at Westerfield, as if he was gauging the effect of what he'd said. Then he went on.

"Hardcastle put up with a lot of it. I mean, he'd fuss, but he could've done a lot more than that. I kinda wonder, sometimes, if he hadn't come along and, ah, redirected me, how long I would've lasted on the outside. Really. You know I only made it six months after I got out of San Quentin." There was a long sigh. "I had sworn up and down that I wouldn't get in that position again and yet . . ."

"Like a compulsion?" Westerfield asked quietly.

A nod, and then, "Yeah, maybe. Only, working with Hardcastle I had better reasons, that's all. And he covered for me a few times. He'd yell, but he'd back me up." The smile returned, more bemused. "And, then, six months ago, he said I ought to give him my picks, the set."

"That would have been mostly symbolic, I imagine."

"Yeah," Mark agreed. "I could've always gotten another set, and there've been lots of times when I've improvised," he added, practically. "But, anyway, I wouldn't, not then. I don't know why."

Westerfield gave this some thought. "Pride? A sense of independence?"

Mark cocked his head a little. "Hah, maybe. I thought I'd given both of those up a long time ago."

"I seriously doubt that."

"Yeah," McCormick grinned, "you're probably right . . . anyway, I wouldn't, and he didn't make too big a deal out of it. He even made sure they got back to me, a little while after that, when I'd, ah, misplaced them."

"Sounds like you'd reached an agreement."

"Yeah, without exactly agreeing on it," Mark nodded. "We do that sometimes. And then, two days ago, I tried to give them to him."

"'Tried'?"

"Yeah, and he wouldn't take them." McCormick gave him a puzzled look. "Now all of a sudden he says they're just tools and I'll figure out how to use them. Hell," he added with vehemence, "I already know how to use them. That's the part that worries me." There wasn't much humor in his expression.

"So," Westerfield asked, "why now? Why did you want to give them to him?"

He watched the younger man give this a moment's thought and then a half shrug before he said, "Not sure. It seemed right. You know what I said, about not getting a buzz off of it anymore."

"That was the reason?" Westerfield put all his doubt into the tone.

Mark sat, looking momentarily doubtful himself. Then he said, "Well, that's what I told him, but, I dunno."

"When did the idea occur to you?"

"Ah, maybe a little that Saturday before, after it was all over, but I didn't, not then. Mostly it was on the way home from Paul's this Saturday."

"And why then?"

Mark frowned. "He'd just given me his."

"Paul had a set of lock picks?" Westerfield tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Yeah," Mark said musingly. "I mostly used his last Saturday. I don't know when he got them."

Westerfield smiled gently. "Sometime in the last two years, perhaps?"

Mark shot him a sharp glance. "I suppose . . . I sure as hell didn't encourage him. Anyway," he grimaced, "Paul lent them to me the week before; I'd left mine at home, and when I tried to return them, this Saturday, he asked me to hold on to them."

"For safekeeping?" Westerfield asked mildly.

Mark nodded his head in what appeared to be worried disbelief.

"It's a lot of responsibility," the older man said, still mildly, "having someone look up to you."

"I," McCormick said intensely, "am a lousy role model. When I told him other people might have some answers, some experience—that maybe he should listen to them—I sure as hell didn't mean me."

Westerfield shrugged. "We don't get a choice, sometimes. Responsibility just happens. And you said he has a guardian?"

Mark nodded.

"So, you're just one role model, one influence. Not the whole thing. That's how it is for most people."

"And from me he'll get a tendency to do whatever he damn well pleases and to hell with the consequences, and, if you ask me, he doesn't really need any reinforcement on that."

"But you showed him the consequences," Westerfield said. "And you said it disturbed him some—not that that surprises me any—and then he gave you the picks."

"Yeah," Mark nodded again.

"And then you tried to give them to the judge—just yours, or both sets?" he asked, speculatively.

"Both."

"Passing the buck?"

There was a pause and then he muttered, "Maybe, except he wouldn't take them. How come?"

Westerfield shrugged again. "Sounds like a vote of confidence, if you ask me. You're going to question that?"

Mark didn't answer.

"Look," the older man smiled, "you say you trust Hardcastle's judgment. You even made this gesture; you gave him this object that represents—what?—a habit you have that might not always be constructive."

Another nod.

"And then he tells you to keep them—he's telling you that he trusts you, right?"

"I suppose," Mark said slowly.

"Well, that's part of his judgment, too. So . . . do you trust it, or not?"

Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. His expression was still a little dubious. He finally said, "One time, a couple years ago, I said that to him, 'what if I don't always trust myself?'"

"What did he say to that?"

"Oh," Mark's forehead furrowed a bit, "something about if it came to that, I should talk to him . . . and that he had enough trust for the both of us."

"Yeah," Westerfield gave that a moment's thought, "sounds about right. Nobody can rely on their own judgment one hundred percent of the time."

"Nobody, huh?" McCormick said quietly. The words just hung there, with Westerfield smiling silently. Mark finally answered his own question, almost hesitantly.

"Last Saturday, after it was all over, we were still out there in the desert, and we had to get rid of something," he paused, looking a little furtive. "Um, it might've been considered evidence, but it wasn't really necessary to the case and if we'd handed it over it would have drawn a lot of attention to Paul."

Westerfield still said nothing, but continued a mild smile of encouragement.

McCormick smiled back, a little thin, a little worried. "So, anyway, we'd decided to burn this thing . . . a notebook."

There was the slightest emphasis on the 'we' that made the doctor think it had probably not been a 'we' sort of decision at all.

"And then," Mark continued slowly, "when we got right down to it, he asked me if we were doing the right thing." He shook his head. "That was weird. I'm not sure he's ever done that before." He paused for a moment and then, "Hell, I am sure—he's never said anything like that to me before. It was . . . disturbing."

Westerfield considered him for a moment and then eased back in his seat, both hands palms up on table. He asked, simply, "Was it the right thing to do?"

Mark nodded decisively, and then said, more hesitantly, "But for him not be sure—"

"What difference does it make?" Westerfield interjected. "He's got a pretty reliable moral compass, but, then, so do you—"

Mark began to shake his head.

"—but you do, most of the time. And if he wants to compare the readings every once in a while, really, should that be so surprising?"

McCormick was still sitting, silent, appearing bemused.

"And if someone is using you as a role model, that's even more reason to keep the compass handy," Westerfield added, with a firm smile.

The younger man squinted for a moment.

"Yeah," McCormick finally said, seeming to shake himself free from a thought, "what about Paul?"

"You mean me talking to him?" Westerfield shrugged. "Sure. I'd like to meet him."

"Just for lunch," Mark added, not completely free from the worried expression he'd had a moment earlier.

"Lunch," Westerfield said with a small sigh, "Of course."