Where's Yosemite Sam?

by Arianna18

Rather than go to a safehouse, Mark and Milt head out on an ill-fated camping trip to Yosemite National Park.

WHERE'S YOSEMITE SAM WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

by Arianna

With thanks to Deb for her beta assistance,

And to Cheri for loading it on the Season Four website.

Teaser:

Stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, garbed in a jersey, jeans, socks and sneakers against the slightly chill breeze off the Pacific, Mark scowled unhappily as he struggled to understand and remember the myriad details in the weighty tome that dealt with tort law … or, the way he thought about it, 'every last friggin' detail about how Americans have the right to sue other Americans over just about anything, no matter how ridiculous it is.'

Grimacing, he looked out over the undulating ocean to the endless blue horizon and wondered, not for the first time, if he was only kidding himself. Not that he was stupid; he knew he wasn't. But he wasn't any genius, either. And he liked to work with his hands or on puzzles, liked to put pieces together in patterns that made sense, not play word games to win some litigious squabble that all too often seemed to him to be about greed or lack of personal responsibility – and frankly, that just felt like a colossal waste of time and energy for everyone concerned.

Sighing, he again tried to focus on the tiny print and wrap his head around the details of yet another case in a book that had to weigh at least ten pounds. What he found truly incredible wasn't even that people could come to care about all this precedent or whatever, but that anyone could actually remember it all.

Hardcase remembered it all.

Hardcase had a mind like a steel trap.

And Hardcase wouldn't be too impressed if he didn't get a grip on this stuff and soon.

The words blurred as, biting his lip, Mark thought again about how much he owed the Judge, and how he'd never be able to even begin to pay everything back – and not just money, either. For all his prickly nature and his reluctance to give compliments, Milt had seen something in him, something worth investing in, that Mark himself hadn't felt, hadn't believed in. But because Milt believed in him, trusted him, he'd come to believe and trust in himself – had even come to think that he could, maybe, make Hardcastle proud of him. When he was honest with himself, he had to admit that being a lawyer wasn't exactly his big dream. He'd first begun this long, expensive and very difficult road of work and study that led toward the bar as a kind of payback, a thank you, a proof of sorts that Milt had been right to believe in him. And now … well, now about all he felt he was doing was costing Milt one heck of a lot of money, without a whole hell of a lot to show for it.

Was he wasting his time and the Judge's investment?

The drone of the lawnmower over on the back forty, pushed by the guy from the lawn service, and the clean scent of newly cut grass captured his attention. The nearby snick of shears wielded by another of the guys from the service told Mark that the extensive rose garden just past the garage was being pruned and tidied up for winter. Smiling bemusedly, he couldn't quite convince himself that he actually missed doing the menial and endless chores around the estate, but life had been a whole lot simpler then. With a sigh, he once again applied his attention to the heavy book but his efforts at memorization were soon interrupted by the sound of familiar voices.

"I'm telling you, Frank, it's the best thing I could do!" Hardcastle insisted as he shouldered through the door from the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand and a ham and Swiss sandwich in the other. "An' think how much I'll save the city." He grinned like a cherub at his friend. "Imagine: a weekend camping in Yosemite!" Opening his arms in an expansive gesture, his expression joyously focused on the sublime, he went on, "Ah, the clear, clean air with a snap of fall; the beautiful colors against the stark cliffs – heaven! And best of all, nobody would think of looking for me there."

Frank looked less than convinced as he held his sandwich-laden hand up to nudge the door closed with his elbow and then took a sip from the coffee cup in his other hand. The two men moved across the patio and settled at the table. "You'd be safer in a safe house," Frank insisted in a weary tone that suggested the debate had been going on for some time. "That's why they're called safe houses."

Mark quirked a brow and leaned around the edge of his chair to give his two friends a narrow-eyed look. "And just why would it be necessary for the Judge to be in a safe house this weekend? Hmmm?"

Startled, Milt Hardcastle adopted an expression of exaggerated innocence. "Oh, there you are," he said. "I thought you were at school today. You know, studying in the library."

"Uh huh," Mark grunted as he stood and walked along the side of the pool to join them. He carefully set the heavy textbook on the table as he sat down. "Don't change the subject. What's going on?" he demanded, looking from Milt to Frank and back again. "C'mon. Spill it."

Hardcastle heaved a chagrined sigh and, sticking his tongue in his cheek, nodded grudgingly. "Okay, well, we weren't going to bother you with this; you got enough on your plate right now." Gesturing at the textbook, he went on, "Torts are probably the hardest part of law school 'cause they're mostly about memorization, pure an' simple."

Mark made a 'gimme' gesture with his fingers, signalling him to get on with it.

Frank stopped chewing and swallowed. "Delarico's trial is coming up next week, and he's been bragging that the case will be thrown out."

"Armande Delarico? The big-time cocaine runner with ties to the Columbian mob? The one who swore he'd kill Milt before he'd go to prison? The one who has never made it to trial in the past thirty years because all the prosecution's witnesses are either murdered or disappear – which only means we haven't found their bodies yet. That Delarico?" Mark countered, his voice rising in agitation. "And you weren't going to tell me?" he roared at Hardcastle. "Why? When did I stop being a part of things around here?"

"Now, now, don't take it like that," Milt soothed, waving his hands in a calming gesture though his expression was more sheepish than placating. "Everything's fine. Nothin' to worry about. I just need to keep a low profile until the trial next week. No reason to distract you from your studies."

"Oh, give me a break," Mark snapped, throwing himself back against the chair and crossing his arms. "There's all kinds of reasons to worry, and you know it." He couldn't remember when he'd last been so furious with the Judge and he had to work hard to contain his anger. Damn this whole law school shit – it just got in the way. There was no way Hardcastle should have kept this from him. Except to maybe protect his 'investment'. Nausea roiled and Mark curled his lip in disgust even as he clamped his jaw tight against bursting out with more anger that would only put the Judge's back up. If that happened, Hardcase would cut him out of the action out of pure stubborn cussedness.

"Mark's right," Frank asserted, blithely ignoring Hardcastle's scowl and Mark's steaming fury. "An' not just about the danger to you. Think about it. If Delarico or his friends come looking for you and they find Mark, well…."

Mark blinked and shuddered, not having considered the possible ramifications from his own point of view, but he jumped on the chance to underscore his point. "You see! This is why you should keep me informed about what's going on around here!"

"Humph," Milt grunted, his brow furrowing in thought. Grudgingly, he nodded. "Okay, yeah, you might be right," he muttered with a glare at Frank, but then he grinned. "No problem. McCormick can come with me." Turning to Mark, he added, "You can even bring your books and study up there. So you won't be wasting your time."

"Wasting my time?" Mark echoed in disbelief, and rolled his eyes; as if his classes meant a damn if the Judge was in danger. "What? Your answer is that we both head out of Dodge? You want to drag me off on another trip to the great outdoors? As if that's the way to be safe? The last several trips to the high country haven't worked out so good or don't you remember?" Mark objected. "A safe house sounds pretty darned good to me. You know, warm, dry, comfortable and SAFE! And I could study!" he added with feigned enthusiasm as he hefted the tome and then thought better of trying to wave the damned thing; it would probably dislocate his shoulder.

"I can take care of myself; I don't need a babysitter an' I'm sure not going to waste my tax dollars on paying cops to stand sentry over me!" Milt retorted, his own voice rising in frustrated anger.

"So, what are you saying? I'm the babysitter now? I thought I was your friend!" Mark challenged. "But you're right," he went on, dripping sarcasm. "I'm not much use against either bears or bullets."

"Bah, you're not my babysitter or my bodyguard an', besides, you're exaggerating," Hardcastle drawled, waving him off. "Yosemite is a beautiful national park. What could happen to us there? An' it's the last place Delarico would ever think of looking for us, so that makes it perfect." He clapped his hands and jumped to his feet, evidently done with the discussion, the decision made. "Let's get crackin'! We need to be on the road in an hour if we're gonna get our camp set up before dark. An' bring that book – I can quiz you on the facts." With a wicked grin that sent chills up Mark's spine, Milt started back toward the house.

Mark shook his head and thought a locomotive would be easier to stop than Hardcastle when he was on a roll. But heading to the mountains was just plain stubborn when it made a whole lot more sense to stay in town and be protected like any sensible star witness for the prosecution. And he wished Hardcase hadn't ignored his comment about being friends. They were, weren't they? They had been, back before Mark became beholden to the Judge for paying his university costs. But now the whole situation had changed and Mark wasn't sure what he was to Hardcastle. He just didn't feel like he was pulling his weight anymore.

However, both of them knowing when they were beaten, Mark and Frank gave each other one last long-suffering look before climbing to their feet to follow him.

"Okay, well, fine," Frank grumbled with a disconsolate shrug. "I'll hold the fort and send the park rangers after you if anything happens that you need to know about."

"Good, you do that – but don't tell anyone where we are unless you have to," Milt agreed as he paused to wave Frank ahead of him, back into the house. "But, hey, why don't you come up an' join us for the weekend? We could meet you in the village for lunch tomorrow at the Lodge."

Frank brightened. "You know, that's a good idea. I could keep an eye on you and get in a little fishing at the same time."

Grinning, Milt pulled open the back door. "Now you're cookin'. C'mon, McCormick," he called over his shoulder as he turned to enter the house behind Frank, "get a move on! Daylight's a'wasting!"

Mark hesitated but, with a resigned grimace, he picked up the heavy textbook to take with him on the unexpected camping expedition. If worst came to worst, they could always use the pages to light a fire and it could make a great club – hell, he could just read it out loud to any possible bad guys, whether survivalists or corrupt local law enforcers, and bore them to death. Still, however much he feigned reluctant acquiescence, he couldn't stop the slow grin that lit his face as he loped to the gatehouse to pack. He would never admit it to Hardcastle, but he'd missed the action and going on a field trip trumped studying boring stuff any day.

Not even the horrible thought of Milt quizzing him and finding out just how much he didn't know could diminish his anticipated pleasure at the thought of the weekend ahead.

They had no sooner vacated the patio when the laborer from the rose garden ambled past the pool and stopped by the table. Young but strongly built, he was unshaven, had long blond hair tied back with a leather thong, and various blue and red tattoos decorated his left arm. After a quick look around to ensure he was alone, he dropped to one knee and reached under the table to extract an electronic bug. Straightening, he slipped it into the shirt pocket of his pale blue uniform and, with a smug expression, he sauntered toward one of the company vans. Moments later, he was driving up the winding laneway and onto Pacific Coast Highway, heading toward the city.

oOo

Act I

The drive over the hills and up the long, fertile inland valley was quiet as Mark tried to study, but his worry about Hardcastle and the state of their friendship got in the way. Instead of memorizing boring details, he found himself staring at the same page long enough that Milt began casting worried glances his way. Finally, after more than an hour, Milt asked, "You okay, kid?"

What could he say? That 'no, he wasn't okay' because he was afraid he was wasting the Judge's money? That he was too stupid or dense or whatever for the facts to penetrate? That he found the subject bored him to tears? Or that he was worried that being beholden for the tuition and other school expenses, like the outrageous cost of books, had torn the fragile fabric of their friendship, maybe beyond repair?

No, he couldn't say any of that or, if he could, he didn't know how. So, instead, he sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Just got a bit of a headache," he lied with a sigh.

"Probably from trying to read all that tiny print in a moving vehicle," Hardcastle replied, sounding genuinely concerned but then, with a sly twinkle, he added, "Or maybe you need glasses."

"I don't need glasses!" Mark protested.

"Well, you're not getting any younger an' eventually we all need reading glasses," Milt countered, his tone placating, but a grin twitched at the corner of his mouth.

"I am not old," Mark retorted with a huff, but he, too, fought a grin as he slammed the book closed, crossed his arms, and turned his face away to stare out the side window. Even so slight an exchange was fun, like old times. But for the life of him, he couldn't think of any way to make it last. The sad truth of the matter was that he was getting older and he still didn't have much of anything to show for all the years he'd spent taking up space on earth.

"Then what's wrong?" Milt demanded when the silence lengthened, no longer joking. "You were staring at the same page for over an hour."

"Nothing's wrong," Mark replied, his tone low, with no energy. He shrugged, discouraged but unable to bring himself to admit the truth. "Maybe it's what you said. Just too hard to read in the truck." He didn't see the worry cloud Milt's eyes or the dejected twist of his lips as he sorrowfully shook his head.

Mark wasn't the only one who didn't know how to bridge the chasm growing between them.

oOo

The sun was sinking below the high ridge of stone to the west when they parked in front of the small General Store on the main drag of the village of Mariposa, one of the gateway towns on the Highway 41 approach to the national park. Splitting up to cover different aisles, they quickly grabbed more than sufficient supplies for the weekend camping trip in the mountains: steaks and the trimmings, hotdogs, hamburger meat and buns, eggs, bacon, bread, sandwich meats, cheese slices, tomatoes, apples, bananas, peanut butter, bottled water, coffee, soft drinks, ice, beer, cans of chili, soup and crackers. Other non-perishable necessities were always packed with the tent: cooking equipment, fishing gear, and sleeping bags, all ready for whenever the Judge decided it was time to go play in the great outdoors.

Mark was dawdling over the display of maps and guidebooks by the dusty, fly-specked front windows while Hardcastle paid for and helped bag the supplies. Between coughs that sounded like he was bringing up his lungs, the old codger behind the counter rambled on about the weather – which was predicted to go sour.

"Figures," Mark groused and was glad that they kept tarps and rainproof ponchos with their camping gear. He grabbed a couple of park maps and a book that detailed the back country and the camping sites even though he knew they wouldn't need them. He couldn't help himself; ever since their flight three hundred miles up from nowhere, he'd had a nervous habit of buying maps that would always let him know where he was in relation to the nearest version of civilization. Turning to the counter, he winced when the grizzled geezer coughed right in Hardcastle's face.

Great. Sounded like it was going to rain all weekend and now Hardcase would probably come down with the local version of the flu. Mark shook his head and held his breath as he stood as far away as possible from the hacking bundle of germs and tossed enough bills onto the counter to cover the cost of the maps and guide book. He grabbed a few of the grocery bags, and left without worrying about the change with the thin hope that he might avoid catching whatever was evidently going around. Once outside, he took a deep breath of cool, pine-scented mountain air before putting the bags in the back and climbing into the truck.

"You're gonna get pneumonia, you know," he said as he riffled through the guidebook.

"What're you talkin' about?" Milt grumbled while he cranked on the engine and pulled out onto the highway that ran through the center of town.

"Old Yosemite Sam in there – sounded like he was carryin' the plague and couldn't wait to hand it off to you," Mark replied with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

"The plague?" Milt snapped and shook his head. "You're delusional, you know that?"

"Says right here," Mark retorted, waving the book. "Rodents, you know, mice, carry pneumonic plague."

Hardcase gave a disdainful sniff and rolled his eyes, but refrained from making any further comment. Mark gave him a smug smile but then, at the anxious thought that he could be right about Hardcastle catching something from the old guy, he frowned with foreboding.

However, he recovered quickly when he read the park rules. With an evil grin, he reported, "There's no fishing allowed in Yosemite – it's a national park and all species are protected."

"I knew that," Milt replied scathingly.

"Yeah, sure you did. That's why you didn't tell Frank he wouldn't be able to fish when he gets here tomorrow."

When Hardcastle just shrugged and looked away, Mark knew he'd caught his friend out on a legal technicality and his grin grew insufferably wide.

oOo

Fifteen minutes later, they were talking to the ranger at the park gate, paying their fees and getting detailed – and very confusing – verbal directions to a site at a campground that went by the name of Porcupine Creek. From the directions, it sounded like it was on the far side of the park, way up in the hills. Mark hastily scribbled the name of the campground onto the flyleaf of his torts textbook and frowned at the thought of sharp porcupine quills littering the ground, lying in wait to stab the unwary tourist. If they had trouble finding the place, he could always consult one of the maps he'd just bought. Glancing at the shadows lengthening across the roadway, he figured any hope they had of finding the campsite before dark was toast. So far, the weekend was shaping up to be one of their typical disasters.

As they pulled away, the 'ranger' smirked and turned from the window. The man who had so recently been grooming plants in the rose garden looked down at the body of the real park ranger sprawled in the corner behind him in the little gatehouse. He punched a number into the telephone, listened to the distant ringing and, when it was answered, said, "They're on their way to the site we agreed on … yeah, it's remote, just like you wanted. The talent from San Francisco headed up there an hour ago…. Uh huh, he said he'd destroy all the phones in the target area to ensure there was no way they could call for help. Won't be any other campers nearby to interfere."

He listened another moment, nodded wordlessly and hung up the phone. After wiping down every surface, he donned a pair of driving gloves, then plucked a set of keys from the peg by the backdoor and closed up the gatehouse. Sliding into the ranger's cruiser, he headed out the gate toward town where he'd ditch the official National Park Service vehicle and transfer back to his own wheels for his return trip to Los Angeles.

oOo

The two-lane paved road curved through the valley. Above them Bridal Veil Falls tumbled down one steep escarpment and across from it the looming mass of El Capitan skimmed the gathering bank of clouds. Though it was late in the year, the traffic through Yosemite Village was still stop and go. The last of the day's light was waning fast as they turned onto the long, winding tree-shrouded road toward Porcupine Creek. Mark opened one of the maps and peered at it in the deepening dusk to try to get his bearings. Frowning, he noticed that several roads were marked as closed from November through May and he could clearly see that the campground they'd been directed to was on one of those roads. Oh, well, the park was busy, probably packed to overflowing. Besides, it was only the beginning of November so the roads were probably still open – he determinedly didn't think about the old geezer's dire forecast of a stormy weekend.

Full darkness fell while the road climbed up and around steep curves, one tight switchback after another, frequently branching so that Mark had to rifle in the glove box for a flashlight and squint at his new map to guide them. There was absolutely no light because the moon and stars were blocked by the cloud bank that had thickened and dropped low over the valley in what seemed like only a few minutes. The pavement turned to gravel, and side roads branched off at every other bend; once there were three choices all disappearing into the great black gloom that surrounded them. His heart sank when they arrived at the Yosemite Creek campground and he realized they must've taken a wrong branch somewhere farther back.

"We're gonna have to turn around," he told Hardcastle, expecting more than the weary and impatient sigh that greeted his admission of having led them astray.

"Yeah, well, we're not going any farther tonight. I've had enough of those hairpin curves for one day," Milt growled. His scowl lightened as he peered out at the empty campsites they were passing. "At least we have plenty of choice for the night. Not exactly crowded up here. Must be getting ready to close for the winter." He saw a sign for a public phone on the wall of a self-registration shack next to the public washrooms, and stopped. "McCormick, go call the Park Rangers and let 'em know we're a little off the track but we're okay and we'll get to our assigned space in the morning."

Mark nodded and hopped out of the GMC, but when he got to the phone box, he could see the line connecting the handset to the phone box was cleanly severed. Shivering in the chill night air, muttering about destructive creeps who destroyed public property, he turned back to the truck. As he climbed back inside, he explained the problem. Milt's mouth twisted unhappily but generally he seemed philosophical about it all, or maybe he was just too used to miscreants or too tired to care. A little further along, Milt pulled in at a site numbered '22' and parked close to the picnic table made of weathered wood planks. Not far away on the edge of the campsite, a creek burbled and chuckled as the clear mountain water rushed over stones toward a waterfall high above the village.

Milt left the headlights on to illuminate the area while they set up camp. After he climbed out of the truck, determined to be cheerful, Mark grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Hey, now, it doesn't get better than this, huh? A creek to fish in practically on our doorstep and nobody around for miles to bother us!"

"No fishin' in the park, remember?" Milt chided him as he pulled up the collar of his jacket. But, looking around, he nodded, a speculative expression growing on his face as he rubbed his arms for warmth. "Might not be a bad idea to just stay here. If we're not where we're supposed to be, nobody is ever going to find us."

Mark's brows climbed high but he refrained from pointing out that nobody was supposed to know where they were in the first place. He was more concerned that if they did run into any kind of trouble, they were miles from where they were supposed to be in a campground that looked like it was closed for the winter. The wind was picking up, thrashing through the tops of the trees surrounding them, a storm was brewing, they hadn't even unpacked the tent yet, and it was freakin' freezing! Casting a worried glance at the ebony sky, he wondered what the odds were of it snowing during the night. Wrapping himself in silence as he went around to the back of the truck and began unloading their gear, he told himself that as bad as it was, it was still better than ploughing through that textbook on torts.

Milt joined him and in just slightly more than two shakes of a lamb's tail, they had the tent up on the other side of the picnic table, under the branches of the stand of oak and sycamore trees that provided privacy between campsites. Soon after that, the air mattresses were filled and the sleeping bags unrolled. Milt set up the camp stove next to the site's picnic table and soon had coffee brewing and steaks frying in a pan with onions and mushrooms. Mindful of the bears that he'd heard haunted the park, Mark ensured the rest of their food remained secured in a metal footlocker in the back of the GMC and then he went to check out the facilities next to the dead phone. Clean, basic and cold, but at least out of the wind and rain – for which, he suspected, he'd be very grateful before the weekend was over.

By the time he got back, the steaks were ready. He sliced a couple tomatoes while Milt dished up, and they huddled around the picnic table, swiftly slicing and chewing. Neither of them complained about the worsening cold or the freshening wind, but they made short work of dinner and the cleanup. Milt turned off the headlights and locked up the truck while Mark moved their cooler, with their water, juice, some perishable foods and the first aid kit, into the tent. Fully clothed, they climbed into their sleeping bags and manfully tried to ignore the tendency of their teeth to chatter.

Mark held a flashlight under his chin and tried to sound scary as he asked if Milt had any favorite ghost stories to tell.

Milt snorted, then growled, "Go to sleep, McCormick."

"But it's probably not even eight o'clock," Mark whined playfully. "I'm not tired yet. Maybe we could play some cards?" he added hopefully.

Hardcastle barked a laugh and twisted around in his sleeping bag. "You're gonna keep me up all night if I don't tell you a bedtime story, aren't ya?" he complained, but he was clearly fighting a full-blown grin.

Mark grinned back and cast him a hopeful look. "C'mon," he encouraged. "Just one."

"Hrrumph," Milt grumbled. "Well, maybe I can think of one. Turn out that damned light and be quiet and listen."

Mark snapped off the flashlight and stared into the utter darkness. "Is it a scary story?" he asked, feigning fear.

"I said be quiet," Milt chastened him. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he began, "It's a story, scary or not, an' it's a true story, too, that my father told me on my first fishing trip. We were up in the hills, by the river, 'bout ten miles from town. He told me that back in the days of the first settlers the Indians put a curse on the man who traded with them for their furs 'cause they figured out he wasn't bein' fair. So, they cursed his houses – one with fire, one with death and one with crazy women."

"How many houses did this guy have?" Mark asked.

"Well, I guess he had three," Milt sniped, "'cause that's how many were cursed. Are you listenin' or not, huh?"

"Sorry, sorry. I'm listening."

"Okay, then. Well, as the years went on, the houses all changed hands several times, sometimes being boarding houses or nursing homes or private residences. The first house, though, changed hands the most 'cause little fires were always starting in it, which scared off the inhabitants. And in one house, the women were all, well, let's just say they weren't exactly right in their heads." Mark snorted. "And in the last house, people died in strange ways, like one time, the old woman was found in bed, dead for no apparent reason, and her husband seemed to be missing, but they found him dead up in the attic. Only he would've needed a ladder to get up there but there was no ladder in the house."

There was a long silence that was broken only by the keening of the wind and the straining canvas of their tent walls. "Is that it?" Mark finally asked.

"Whaddya mean, 'is that it?' Wasn't it scary enough?"

"Well..," Mark temporized. "I was thinking about something more in keeping with being in a deserted campground in the middle of a stormy night."

"You'd rather hear about bears stuffin' themselves before they settle down to hibernate, so they raid camps and when they can't get at the food, they make do with the campers? You were hoping for a story like that, maybe?" Milt taunted.

Grimacing, Mark shook his head. "No," he protested weakly. "A simple ghost story would do." He waited but Milt seemed to be fresh out of stories. "Do you really think the bears might eat us?" he asked.

"Go to sleep, McCormick," Milt directed in his best no-nonsense voice.

Mark thought maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe things would look better in the morning.

If a bear didn't get them during the night.

oOo

"Aaaachoo!"

Mark jerked awake at the explosive sound and then sighed. "I knew it," he said to himself, too low for Hardcastle to hear. Forget about Smokey and his buddies; Hardcase with a cold was grouchier than ten bears and a polecat all rolled into one.

He was just settled again when a sharp crack of thunder directly overhead jolted him back into tense wakefulness. Lightning flickered, visible through the canvas of the tent, a brief burst of illumination followed by another crack and then a long, low rumble that went on and on. The wind picked up and was howling furiously through the trees, sending branches thrashing and cracking around and above them. The walls of their tent were straining against the relentless and seemingly endless gale force gusts. Gritting his teeth, frowning ferociously, Mark wondered how much the canvas, or even the pegs, could take before the entire structure either collapsed or blew away.

Then the rain came, slashing hard against the top and west side of the tent, a rapid timpani counterpoint to the deeper growls of thunder and the mad shrieking of the wind.

Snuggling down into his sleeping bag, hoping that the tent wouldn't spring any leaks, Mark told himself the storm would blow off by morning. Otherwise, this whole weekend was going to end up a bust – which would pretty much be par for the course when it came to them having any fun on a camping trip. Determinedly closing his eyes, he cast up a quick prayer that they'd still be alive at dawn and then tried to relax enough to sleep. But the banshee howl of the wind sounded like a thousand lost souls. Branches cracked, like cannon shots, and some nearby thuds were heavy enough to make the earth tremble, as if whole trees were being torn from the earth and then slammed down upon it. Shivering, he gritted his teeth against the urge to share his fears with Hardcastle. Doing his best to hide how terrified he was, Mark thought a safe house would have been, well, a whole lot safer.

Not to mention quieter.

As if the uproar caused by nature wasn't enough, behind him, Hardcastle started a deep, harsh and hacking cough.

"You okay?" Mark asked, grateful to have a good reason to break his self-imposed silence, even knowing what a stupid question it was before the words had scarcely left his lips. Anyone coughing their lungs up like that most definitely could not be 'okay'.

"Just a little cold," Milt snuffled, then loudly cleared his throat. "'m fine. Go back t' sleep."

"Are you kidding? Sounds like a typhoon out there!" Mark whispered plaintively, and wondered why he was trying to be quiet. Who was he going to bother if he shouted? But a snore surprised him; somehow, despite the turbulent weather, Milt seemed to have dropped back into a sound sleep. Bemused, Mark rolled his eyes and stared out at the darkness that surrounded him, feeling blind and helpless and wishing he couldn't hear a rising roar, a sound he couldn't place but was sure did not bode well. Part rumble, part rush, like a massive displacement of air, it grew louder and louder.

"What is that?" he wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer but hoping Hardcastle would wake up and pull some explanation out of his hat that would make sense and not be too frightening.

Milt coughed and sniffed, grumbled at being awakened and then said hoarsely, "Huh, what?"

"That gurgling roar. What is it?" Mark asked, wishing he didn't sound quite so much like a scared kid.

"Water. The creek. Flash flood, maybe," Milt muttered and Mark could hear him turning over on his side, apparently unperturbed by the possible danger.

"Flood!" Mark cried in dismay, lurching up onto his elbow. "Are we going to get washed away? Shouldn't we be doing something? Like maybe get in the truck and get out of here?"

"Too late," Milt rasped, sounding hazy. Not quite there. "Roads'll be washed out by now."

Despite being unable to see Hardcastle or anything else in the complete darkness, Mark gaped in his direction for a few speechless seconds. How could the Judge be so unconcerned about the danger they could be in? He snapped his mouth closed and forced himself to think past his fear, to make some sense of everything that was going on around him. Finally, he grasped the one thing he might be able to do something about. "You're sick," he said, and began extricating himself from his sleeping bag, shivering in the chill.

"Yep, 'fraid so," Milt agreed so readily that it was alarming – the Lone Ranger never admitted to being sick or injured. The rasp of his voice was so low Mark could barely hear him under the howl of the storm.

Fumbling around, Mark found the cooler they'd hauled inside the tent, from which he drew two bottles of water. On his knees, trying not to fall over Hardcastle, he said, "Here's some water. You need to keep from getting dehydrated. You remember where we put the first aid kit? Some Tylenol or aspirin might help."

"Ah, geez, McCormick," Milt whined, ineffectually waving his hand to drive Mark away. "Would ya just leave me alone. A little sleep an' I'll be just fine."

But he didn't sound fine and when his waving hand connected with Mark's face, Mark jerked back but not before he felt the heat radiating from Hardcastle. "You're burning up," Mark told him, ignoring the instruction to back off. Instead, he rummaged to find the flashlight. When he turned it on, Hardcastle winced and groaned with discomfort. His face was flushed and his gaze didn't seem to connect.

"You're bein' an idiot," Milt groused, squinting and shading his eyes against the light, as if it hurt.

"You're sick," Mark countered, looking up from the first aid kit he'd located near the cooler and back over his shoulder. "You're running a high fever, sneezing and coughing. Could just be a cold, but I don't like the fever. And I don't think you're completely with it, if you know what I mean."

Frowning with concern, another bottle of water in one hand and two caplets in the other, Mark crawled back over his bag to peer down at Hardcastle, who was beyond disgruntled by the attention and was still holding up a hand to block the light from his eyes. Setting the bottle aside, Mark reached down to touch his forehead and Milt irritably pushed his hand away.

"Must've caught it from that old guy at the store outside the park," Mark stated in an 'I told you so' tone. Chewing his lip, he wondered what he could or should do while stuck in a raging storm in the middle of nowhere. God, he hated camping trips. The only good news this time was that it was only the weather that was trying to kill them.

Or at least, if the bad guys were looking for them, nobody would know they'd come to Yosemite.

Unless they'd been followed.

Mark shook his head to shake the unsettling idea out of his mind. That line of speculation was too depressing and scary to think about. Wind thumped the wall of the tent so fiercely that Mark jumped and looked at the rippling canvas ceiling and walls, worry about the violence of the storm written on his face. "If you listen, you can kinda hear water flooding nearby. Maybe we should get out of here. Head back to town."

"I told ya, the roads're probably already washed out," Milt grumbled as he popped the pills into his mouth and then rolled on his elbow to take a swig of water with his other hand.

"Maybe," Mark temporized. "But with the truck we should still be able to get through."

Lightning flashed, illuminating the tent for a flickering heartbeat, and thunder crashed so close the deafening crack was a physical blow to their eardrums. Then there was more cracking and snapping that seemed to go on and on, and Mark belatedly realized with no little terror that it wasn't just thunder. The banshee wind wailed. A smashing of branches, then a long groan of dying wood was swiftly followed by a metallic shriek and godawful bang. Mark ducked instinctively, covering Hardcastle with his own body as part of the roof of the tent and one wall suddenly sagged under the weight of whatever had been hit and fallen over them.

"Oh, man, this can't be good," Mark gusted, low, scarcely daring to breathe as he cautiously lifted his head and looked around, surprised to see the tent was still secure, if considerably less spacious.

"A tree branch, probably," Milt observed, his calm tone a bit strained. "We're okay for now. We'll get out in the morning."

"If we can," Mark muttered, easing away from Hardcastle and twisting around to crawl to the zipped-up entry.

"Ah, for Pete's sake, would you relax?" Milton griped with weary irritability, his voice thick and hoarse. "From the sound of it, the limb or the whole tree likely hit the table and the truck and we're probably perfectly safe. Probably safer in here than out there in the wind and rain." He coughed again and seemed to have trouble catching his breath. "Best thing to do … is to get some sleep. Morning's time enough … to see … what kind've damage was done … out there."

Mark rolled his eyes and continued toward the far end of the tent. He yanked down the zipper and a gust of icy air danced inside. He played the beam of the flashlight into the darkness beyond and saw a tangle of branches and leaves fluttering in the wind. Shuddering with cold, he quickly re-zipped the opening and plopped down on his butt. With a heavy sigh, too overwhelmed to still be terrified, he raked his hands through his hair and looked at Hardcastle. "I hope we brought the axe, 'cause we're gonna need it to get out of here in the morning." A bemused grin at the absurdity of their situation twitched at the corners of his mouth. "On the upside, we won't have to look for wood for the firepit."

Hardcastle snorted and then sneezed. "See, I told ya, there's nothin' you can do tonight. Now will ya just go to sleep?"

Mark hesitated in mingled fear and frustration, but there didn't seem to be a whole lot of choice. He crawled to his sleeping bag, awkwardly slithered back into it and huddled against the cold. But he was far too tense to even consider trying to sleep. Staring into the darkness, he listened with a sense of dread and helplessness as Milt's breathing grew increasingly congested.

Mark freely – even proudly – admitted he was the product of the city and, at the best of times he wasn't a big fan of the great outdoors. Oh, a day or two fishing with Hardcase was fun, more for the playful competition between them and the chance to tease Milt, or just to spend some fun time with him, building memories to store against the future when Milt wouldn't … Mark's mind stalled on the thought, unwilling to contemplate a future without Hardcase. Determinedly, he focused back on their situation. Camping, hiking, fishing were all fine, sort of, but this, this was a whole other thing altogether – a thing he simply summed up as 'a disaster'.

Helpless to do anything but listen and wonder what all the foreign and frightening sounds might mean, he tracked the storm as it continued to rage through the night. The wind was still howling, but sounded a bit removed, as if the bulk of the tree wedged over and around them was protecting them from the worst of the blast. Still, he could hear the thrashing branches and he wondered if the tree might slide or roll and crush them before morning. And what about the flash flood? Were they far enough away from the creek to be safe? And how the heck were they supposed to get out from under the tree? It sounded like the tree had hit and maybe crushed the GMC, so how were they supposed to get out of there? Nobody knew they where they were and Hardcase was sick, maybe really sick.

Mark wasn't a coward, but he was way out of his depth and he knew it; everything felt out of control and scarily dangerous. Heaving a sigh, struggling not to give way to hysteria or panic, he began to wonder if maybe studying torts beside the pool wasn't so bad after all. He told himself to be glad that at least nobody was hunting them and hoping to kill them and he tried hard to be grateful for such not-so-small mercies.

"Settle down, McCormick," Milt muttered. "Nobody's gonna die tonight."

Mark swallowed his retort and, instead, wondered how Hardcastle always seemed to know what he was thinking.

"It's gonna be okay, kiddo. Go t'sleep."

"Yeah, right." But, despite his certainty he'd not sleep a wink, somewhere between midnight and dawn, sleep ambushed him and dragged him down into restless dreams.

oOo

Act II

Casually dressed in a brown leather jacket, pullover sweater, jeans and hiking boots, Frank was looking forward to joining Milt and Mark for the rest of the weekend. Before leaving Los Angeles, though, Frank stopped off at his office more out of habit than because he expected any problems. But when he read the state-wide notice that a park ranger had been found murdered in the gatehouse at the southern entrance to Yosemite Park, dread shivered up his spine. He didn't believe in coincidences and though he had no idea how Delarico or his henchmen had learned about Hardcastle's plan to hide out in the park, he had no doubt that the ranger's death was directly related. Unconsciously scowling with barely contained worry, he hastily found the number for the Park Superintendent's Office and put through a call.

After introducing himself, Frank explained that a retired Superior Court Judge and another man had left for the park the day before, believing it would be a safe place for them to be in the days before the Judge was to testify at a murder trial after death threats had been made against his life. He described Hardcastle and McCormick, and the GMC, as well as providing the vehicle's license number, and indicated that they would most likely have entered the park through the southern entrance.

"I know it may be a lot to ask, but I wonder if your park rangers could keep an eye out for them, and warn them that a hitman may have found out they're there?" His frown deepened as he listened, unaware until then of the major storm system that had hit the park overnight. As if that wasn't enough, worse weather, in terms of frigid temperatures and snow, was anticipated later that day. They couldn't have picked a worse weekend for a spontaneous getaway to the park. "Yeah, sure, I understand the rangers are busy helping those stranded or injured by the storm," he replied. "I'm just asking that they all keep a lookout for the vehicle. Your people also need to know that a hired and highly dangerous killer may be loose in the park."

Frank's lips thinned as he listened to all the reasons that tracking down his friends would be harder than finding two needles in the proverbial haystack. But the Park Superintendent finally indicated that they'd do their best and would advise Frank if they found the men. "I appreciate that." Glancing at his watch, he added, "I'll be heading up there in the next half hour or so, and will check in with you when I arrive. If nothing else, I can help track them down."

After he ended the call, Frank contacted the District Attorney's office, to let them know that their star witness in the upcoming trial was unaccounted for and might be in considerable danger. He promised to keep them apprised as events unfolded, and then put his staff to work tracing Delarico's known associates. Frank wanted to know who might have been sent into the park to hunt down a witness and anyone unlucky enough to be with him.

oOo

Hardcastle's harsh coughing woke Mark the next morning.

"Geez, Hardcase, that sounds like it hurts," Mark empathized as he slogged his way out of his sleeping bag, which seemed determined to hold onto him until death did them part. Finally, he scrambled free and, shivering in the cold, he shifted closer to Milt, who was more feverish than he had been the night before. He found one of the water bottles he'd brought the Judge the evening before and uncapped it. When Milt took it, his hand was shaking badly, so Mark helped him sit up and he steadied the bottle while Milt drank.

"Thanks," Milt sighed as Mark eased him back down. "Bad cold."

"We need to get you to a doctor," Mark asserted, but he couldn't help the reflexive look over his shoulder at the tent closure or at the way the top and side of the tent were crushed by the massive weight of a fallen branch. "But first we have to get out of this tent," he observed wryly. "And that might not be easy."

Tense with worry, Mark scrambled across the tent floor to check out the obstruction in the dreary light of an overcast sky. He could hear the lazy plip-plop of water against the canvas, and wondered if it was still raining or if rain from the night was still dripping from the tree above and around them. The wind had faded away but the air was freezing. He shuddered with cold as he crouched by the opening and scrutinized the mass of branches blocking the way.

"Looks like the whole tree fell on us!" Mark exclaimed, aghast, but then he compared the situation to falling out of the sky when their pilot died and decided that, maybe, it really wasn't so bad. For one thing, they weren't 'three hundred miles up from nowhere,' and for another, they had supplies, shelter, and the Judge never left home now without Daisy; the fact that they were on solid ground already was also a plus. Add the fact that, so far as he knew, no crazy survivalists or corrupt local sheriffs were out to kill them, and they were way ahead of the game.

Nevertheless, he shook his head, still finding it hard to credit how bad their luck could be, as he hauled on his black leather jacket and zipped it up. Pulling his gloves from his pockets, he glanced back over his shoulder at Hardcastle who was blinking owlishly at him. "You stay there," he directed with a no-nonsense tone, "while I see if I can shimmy out under the branches. If I can, there's an axe in the truck that I can use to clear a better path."

"What's goin' on?" Milt demanded, hoarse and still half-asleep.

"Oh, just a small delay in moving to more spacious accommodations," Mark replied with a sardonic glance at the caved-in ceiling. Before leaving, he carried two more bottles of water, a bottle of orange juice, and the plastic container of aspirin to the Judge, laying them on the ground beside him. "The good news is you get to sleep in for awhile," he added, determined to find the positive in their predicament. "Drink lots of fluids and stay warm, okay? I'll be back as soon as I can."

Milt cleared his throat, grimacing at the soreness, and reluctantly nodded. "Don't get lost and don't go playing hero, y'hear?"

"Who me?" Mark quipped with fond indulgence and a crooked grin. Turning away, he crossed the tent and hunkered down in the opening to study the maze of branches. After a moment, he donned a pair of sunglasses that he pulled from his pocket, to protect his eyes. Then, pressing limbs aside, he shifted forward on his knees. Once outside the tent, he found it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. The branches were thin and malleable, off-shoots of the heavier branch that was pressing down on the top of the tent. After zipping up the opening, he inched his way forward on his knees. Sliding on the icy, muddy ground, with little more than a low whimper at the cold slush soaking through his jeans, he managed to ease clear within a minute or two.

When he twisted around to look at the fallen oak that had come down on them, he blew a soft, awed whistle. Pushing himself to his feet, ineffectually brushing at the wet, freezing mud that covered him from the knees down, he studied the huge tree and the surrounding area. He could see that the creek had overflowed its banks during the night and had surged to within six feet of their tent. In the process, it had exposed and loosened the roots of the ancient tree, and the gale-force wind had done the rest. The poor old oak hadn't had a chance; its thick trunk had landed just to the left of their tent, lodging against the picnic table and, from the look of it, the truck. Two, maybe three feet to the left and it would have crushed them during the night. The ragged, widespread branches hid the truck from his view.

Mark shuddered at how close they'd come to either being swept away by the flooding creek and drowned or crushed like bugs in their sleeping bags. Swallowing hard, he moved around the wreckage of the tree to inspect the damage to the truck.

"McCormick?" Milt called, his rough voice muffled by the canvas and the tree. "How're you doing?"

"I'm out from under," he shouted back, hoping the Judge could hear him. Sighing, he shook his head and his lips tightened with discouragement when he saw that their vehicle was crushed. The axe he needed was in the truck, where he couldn't get to it without an axe to cut away the limbs and branches in the way. He couldn't even get to any of the doors, to get in and try to drive out from under. From what he could see of the crushed hood, though, he figured the odds on the GMC even starting were probably about nil. He was going to have to find another way to get Milt off the mountain.

The freezing wind gusted, making him shiver. Hunching his shoulders and shoving his gloved hands into his pockets, he hurried back to where he'd started on the far side of the tent. "Judge?" he called as he hunkered down to peer through the branches. "Bad news. Can't get to the axe. Can't get inside the truck – it's kinda crushed by this really huge tree. I'm gonna have to go for help."

"Go? Go where?" Hardcastle demanded.

"Good question," Mark mused to himself. Looking around at the wilderness that surrounded him, Mark felt completely demoralized. The lowering, leaden clouds overhead promised more rain or maybe – God forbid – snow. While the wind wasn't as fierce as it had been overnight, it still cut through his clothing, chilling him to the bone. The narrow one lane bridge leading back to the main road between camps was the only place to cross the raging creek, but it was already a semi-submerged, sodden, muddy track. Frowning, he wondered why the heck the ranger had sent them so far into the mountains. Looked to him like they were the only people in this campground and he suspected that all the higher altitude campgrounds were also closed for the winter. But, then, he didn't know that for sure and, to be fair, they weren't where the ranger had told them to go. Maybe he'd find other campers in Porcupine Creek – and wheels, to get Milt to a hospital.

Even so, he couldn't understand why the ranger would send anyone up the mountain, especially when rotten weather was forecasted.

Shrugging helplessly, he figured it was probably something as simple as all the lower campsites were already filled by weekend tourists. Just their luck to have arrived so late they couldn't get anything better. Shivering and stamping his feet to keep warm, he knew they were in trouble. For one thing, they were in the wrong campground, and the ranger was the only person in the world aside from Frank, back in LA, who even knew they'd come to the park. So unless the ranger was back on duty and worried about them, no one would be looking for them, at least not until Frank arrived and wondered why they didn't meet him in the Lodge's dining room for lunch. Given the weather, Frank might decide not to make the journey, so they were back with only the ranger knowing they might be in trouble. But even if he did look for them, he wouldn't find them where they were supposed to be.

God, he hated camping. Really, really hated it.

Chewing on his lip, he thought about his options. The next campground was about five miles back along the road; maybe it would have a working phone. Mark sure hoped so; it had to be at least twenty miles back to the village; a long way to walk in the freezing cold with a man who was running a high fever. Too far. But Mark wasn't happy at the prospect of leaving Milt alone for the length of time it would take him to get to the village. Providing he could get there at all – what if the roads were flooded out, like Milt had suggested they'd be last night?

"Mark? You still there?" Milt called, sounding anxious.

Blowing a long breath, dejectedly noticing the fog it created in the cold, brittle air, he finally replied, "Yeah, I'm here, but I have to leave, at least for awhile. I'm going to head back along the road to the next campground. See if the phone is working there, to call for help. If it's not, well, I may have to go all the way back to the village, or maybe just the closest gate where there's a ranger station. I have no idea how long I'll be." Frowning, he sincerely hoped they didn't have to worry about bears; surely they'd all be hibernating or whatever they did by now. "Will you be okay?"

"It's too far to go back to Yosemite Village in this cold. Regardless of what you find, come back here. You hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you, but –"

"No 'buts'," Milt cut in, then was caught by a spell of raw coughs. Mark winced, feeling helpless and not a little afraid of just how sick the Judge might be. Finally, the hacking subsided. "Come back an' we'll figure out the next steps together," Milt managed, though his voice was thin and strained and he sounded breathless.

Mark was about to protest, but then he thought about it and nodded to himself. Milt was right. Maybe, once they looked at the maps and guidebooks he'd bought, they'd find a shorter route than following the road back to the village. And maybe the park rangers would come looking for them – or would even simply conduct a tour of the campgrounds to make sure everything was as it should be. Surely, they couldn't be the only people in the wrong place at the wrong time. There had to be poachers and illegal campers trying their luck in the park all the time. "Okay," he agreed. "I should be back in an hour or so."

He rubbed his arms to get warm as he set out toward the gravelled road leading back to the main, paved route through the mountains. He slogged across the bridge and didn't like the way it creaked and swayed under his weight. Would be just his luck to have the rickety structure collapse and toss him into the surging runoff from higher up the mountain. Beyond the bridge, the road was slick and muddy from the rain, but he loped along, hoping that keeping up a brisk pace would help him stay warm. The road climbed up through the forest; above him, wisps of clouds clung to the tops of the trees. By the time he finally reached the main road and turned to his left toward the closest campground, he felt the wind begin to pick up again. The slight rattle of the wind through the branches of the surrounding trees, the rasp of his breathing and the clump of his boots on the pavement were the only sounds in the leaden silence of the wilderness.

Mark was sure it was getting colder. Though he'd run most of the way, he couldn't seem to get warm and the damp felt like it was burrowing through his leather jacket and jeans into the marrow of his bones. Keeping up a relentless pace, Mark soon reached the entrance of the White Wolf campground, which wasn't far from where they'd taken a wrong jog in the darkness the evening before. The temperature had dropped quickly and the slush covering the road was beginning to freeze. When he got to the campground entrance, Mark found himself skidding and slipping on the ice, nearly falling, until he grabbed the sign that gave directions to the individual camp sites.

"Damn it," he cursed, aggrieved by the bitter cold and rotten circumstances.

Sniffing against the chill, he studied the campground map on the sign and then set off up the lane into the grounds. He hadn't gone far though when his progress was blocked by a raging creek that had overflowed its banks, like the one where they'd camped. Stymied, he looked up and down the rushing stretch of water. There had to be a way across. He had to get to a phone – who knew how sick Milt was? Mark was desperate to get him to a doctor.

Feeling nearly panicky with worry, recalling the map at the entrance, he hurried along the edge of the creek toward the location of the nearest phone. Mist swirled around him and the cold got colder. Fifteen minutes later, he looked across the flooding creek at the phone booth. Even from where he was standing, he could see the line had been cut, just like it had been in the campground behind him. Discouraged, worried, he turned to trudge back the way he'd come along the creek and then down the main road to the turnoff back to the Yosemite Creek campground.

As he picked up his pace, jogging now, anxious to get back to the Judge, a chill that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature shivered up Mark's spine. What were the odds of being sent to an abandoned campground on the night before a monster storm? And what were the odds of the phones being damaged at the same time and in the same way?

One hell of a bad coincidence after another.

Mark wasn't a big fan of coincidence.

In his experience, circumstances like this usually meant they were in deep trouble, but how bad could things be in a national park? It wasn't like they were three hundred miles up from nowhere. Still, they were stuck in the wilderness, a lot of miles from a hospital. Looking around and up at the lowering sky, spotting the first flakes riding the wind, he gazed down at the raging creek and thought again of the cut phone lines.

Was it possible that Delarico had had them followed? Or had somehow known they were coming here? Well, not here exactly, but to the park? No, no, it was impossible. Nobody could know the Judge had headed up here to avoid trouble. And, sure, Delarico was powerful, but even he couldn't arrange for a bout of pneumonia combined with potentially deadly weather. No, this was just their usual rotten luck when it came to camping and fishing.

"I HATE CAMPING!" he shouted at the clouds and trees in helpless frustration. There didn't seem to be a way of getting Milt off this damned mountain and to help anytime soon.

Just as he was about to turn off the main road onto the narrow gravelled lane to the campground, Mark was startled by the distant rumble of an engine. The low mechanical growl was coming toward him from the direction of the Porcupine Creek campground, where they were supposed to be. Hope surged in his chest and he smiled in relief. The rangers must be looking for them. Or, if not park officials, maybe it was other campers who'd been sent up there by the ranger, like they'd been the afternoon before. Either way, a vehicle meant they could get Milt to a doctor, either in the clinic down in the village or in a nearby town. Arms tightly crossed, bouncing from one foot to the other to keep warm, he waited impatiently to flag down the driver and ask for help. Within a couple minutes, a light blue Ford pickup appeared around the next curve. Okay, so not the rangers – just another camper. No problem. Wheels were wheels, and that's all he needed. Determinedly, he stepped into the road and waved the driver down.

"Hey, am I glad to see you!" he enthused when the pickup stopped beside him. "My friend is just down this road here, and he needs a doctor. A tree fell on our truck …." Aware that the man was staring at him as if he had two heads, Mark floundered. "Well, anyway, we could sure use some help."

"Uh huh," the other guy grunted as his gaze flicked over Mark's sodden, mud-caked appearance. The stranger looked to be in his mid-thirties, was dark haired with a heavy five-o'clock shadow and was garbed in jeans, hiking boots and a black leather jacket. "Hop in and show me where your friend is," he instructed.

"Great," Mark gusted with a wide smile as he climbed inside the blissfully warm cab. "Just head down this road about five miles, across a little bridge and we'll be able to see the campsite." He paused a moment to blow on his cold hands, but the stranger didn't say anything, just nodded. "Uh, my name's McCormick," he added. "Mark McCormick."

Again the man nodded. But he didn't offer his own name. Mark shrugged and figured the guy just wasn't all that sociable. There'd be time to get his name when they got back to Hardcastle.

Less than ten minutes later, they entered Yosemite Creek Campground and the driver slowed as they approached the old wooden bridge. The flooding hadn't eased and water still rushed pell-mell under the structure with some spill-over onto the road bed.

"Doesn't look good, does it?" Mark offered when the man stopped the truck rather than drive across the bridge. "We're camped just over there," he went on with a wave.

"Where?" the man asked, looking askance at the downed tree that hid both the truck and the tent from that angle.

"Behind the tree," Mark replied. "Well, under it, actually," he added as he slid out of the truck. "We should probably leave the truck here," he explained with a worried glance at the rickety bridge. The driver gave a mirthless chuckle and nodded. Moving out ahead, anxious to check on the Judge, Mark hurried across the bridge and was conscious of how unsteady it felt as the stranger followed in his wake.

"Just hold it a minute," the man called.

Mark turned back to face the man. "I'm just going to let my friend know I'm back, and see how he's doing."

"I said," the guy replied, as he drew a pistol from his shoulder holster, "stop."

Mark gaped at the gun as his stomach plummeted. "Who are you?" he asked, aghast at the turn of events. He'd thought he was waving down help, not some wacko thief or murderer. Swallowing hard, he fought back a sick feeling that meeting up with this guy hadn't been an accident.

Too many coincidences.

"Your worst nightmare," the man replied with a smug sneer. "I'm only after the old guy. You? Well, you're just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he went on and leveled his weapon at Mark.

His mouth dry with sudden terror, Mark held his hands up helplessly as if they could stop the bullet that was being aimed at him. Desperate to escape certain death, Mark took a step back and looked around – but there was nothing, no possible weapon, nowhere to hide. He was going to die in this godforsaken campground and there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop it from happening. As if that wasn't bad enough, guilt and grief filled him when he realized he'd led this killer straight to Hardcastle.

"Hold it!" Milt barked from somewhere to Mark's left, up by the concrete bunker that housed the showers and toilets, the useless phone and the small empty office. Weak with relief, Mark thought the gravelly voice was the sweetest sound he could ever imagine hearing. "Drop your weapon!"

The stranger swiftly shifted his stance to shoot at Hardcastle, the blast of his pistol so close behind the shot from Milt's gun that the sounds merged in one explosive report, like a crack of thunder, so loud that Mark flinched. Mortally wounded, the assassin staggered, trying to stay on his feet. His strength waning fast, his arm and aim unsteady, he fired his gun again, the bullet going wild. He tried to raise his pistol again even as he stumbled backward. Mark could see he was about to lurch into the raging creek and he leapt forward to grab the man's arm – but all he caught hold of was the leather sleeve of the jacket. The stranger brought his gun arm up and around, as if intending to grapple with him or shove him away, and the pistol when off a last time. Mark jerked away as the weapon dropped from lifeless fingers, and the stranger fell backward into the rushing water and disappeared.

Stunned by the rapid turn of events, Mark turned toward Milt. The Judge was slowly approaching, weaving a little, as if he was dizzy, and his face was flushed with fever. But beneath the unhealthy ruddy blotches, Mark could see Milt was as pale as parchment.

"I am soooo glad you didn't stay in the tent," Mark gasped, feeling suddenly euphoric and panting a little as the adrenaline continued to spurt through his system, tightening his chest and making his heart pound. "I really thought I was a goner."

Milt approached and patted his shoulder to lend support and reassurance. "I was checking out the facilities," he explained with a gesture at the public restrooms. "And refilling our water bottles." His eyes were reddened and he stood unsteadily, as if it took all his concentration to stay on his feet.

Stooping, Mark picked up the would-be assassin's weapon. Only as he straightened did he become aware of a searing burn along his side. Twisting, looking down, he saw a hole in his leather jacket. "Oh, damn," he grated and winced as the pain increased. "I think I've been shot."

"What?" Gingerly, gently drawing Mark's hands away, Milt opened Mark's jacket and then his shirt, to get a better look at what they were dealing with. The inside of his jacket, and his shirt and jeans were sodden with blood.

"How bad is it?" Mark asked.

"Looks like the bullet cut a shallow trench along your hip, but it's not deep. You'll be fine," Hardcastle told him.

"You sure it's not serious? It's starting to hurt like hell," Mark argued, but more out of habit than concern. The relief coursing through him made him feel weak; or maybe, he thought bemusedly, that was loss of blood. Either way, if Hardcase said he'd be fine, he'd be fine.

"Hold on a minute," Milt ordered as he led Mark to a picnic table and pushed him down on the seat. "Press down here," he directed, and placed Mark's hand over the wound. "I'll be right back." He hurried away, Mark assumed to get the first aid kit from their tent. Though it felt like an eternity of staring into the now thickly falling snow, Mark knew it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before Hardcastle was back, his hands full of clean towels and one of Mark's shirts.

"Couldn't find the kit, but these'll do. I'm gonna have to press down hard to stop the bleeding," Milt said with grim resolution. "It's gonna hurt."

Mark nodded once. "Already hurts," he grated and forced himself to again move his hands away from his body, to give Hardcastle room to work unimpeded. "Don't cough right on the wound, okay?" he urged, trying for a crooked grin.

Milt just snorted, then swiftly covered the still oozing wound with a clean towel and pushed down hard. Mark gritted his teeth and did his best to simply endure. After a few minutes, the Judge checked the gash and grunted in satisfaction. He pressed a clean towel upon it and told Mark to hold it steady. Then he looped the shirt around Mark's body, under his jacket, before tying it tight over the towel. "There, that should hold it, at least until we can get you to a hospital for a couple stitches." Hardcastle reached into his jacket and pulled out the aspirin container and a bottle of water. "I did find the aspirin. Here, you should take a couple for the pain. Sorry, kid, we don't have anything stronger."

"That's okay, thanks," Mark replied, popping two pills and washing them down as Milt sank down on the bench beside him, coughing raggedly. The brief spurt of activity along with the coughing jag seemed to have drained every last drop of Hardcastle's energy. Arms wrapped around his body, his head bowed, panting for breath, he sat hunched against the cold wind. "Oh, God," Mark breathed, forgetting his own wound as all his worry about Hardcastle rushed back, nearly overwhelming him. "Judge?" he asked, as he dropped to one knee in front of Milt, "are you okay?"

Milt looked at him, but his gaze was bleary, unfocused, as if he was on the verge of passing out. He frowned, clearly struggling to concentrate but was overcome by more deep, hacking coughs. A low, barely audible moan betrayed how much the painful coughing was wearing him down. When the spasm passed, Hardcastle blinked heavily as he patted Mark's shoulder reassuringly, while he fought to catch his breath. Finally, he was able to rasp, "It's just a bad cold, okay? Don't get all worked up about it."

"Just a cold, yeah," Mark echoed, his tone disparaging and he shook his head. "More like pneumonia." Pressing his lips together against further comment that wouldn't help, he looked at the pickup on the other side of the bridge, squinting a little as he peered through the thickening veil of falling snow. "C'mon," he urged, standing and looping a supporting arm around Hardcastle. "We've got to get you to the truck and out of here, before the weather gets any worse or that bridge washes out completely."

"What about the main road? Is it flooded?" Milt puffed as he leaned heavily on Mark, and struggled to put one foot ahead of the other. He sounded as if he expected bad news but hoped for a miracle.

"Not yet, at least not as far as I could see. But the entry into the nearest campground was blocked by an overflowing creek or river or something," Mark told him almost absently, while he concentrated on supporting Milt despite the searing pain in his side.

Hardcastle began coughing again and stumbled, but Mark held him up and kept him moving, half-dragging him forward. As they got closer, Mark studied the old bridge, and the water rushing over it. He was desperately afraid it wouldn't hold their combined weight, but they didn't have much choice. Gingerly, Mark stepped out onto the wooden planks, drawing Milt along with him. Icy water rushed over their boots, as high as their ankles, and splashed upward, wetting them to their knees. The bridge swayed and creaked, but Mark forged onward, determined to get Hardcastle to safety.

Finally, with a gust of relief, he stepped down onto the solid ground on the other side. Once he'd helped Milt up into the still warm cab, the Judge sank back against the leather with a grateful sigh, and his eyes closed in weary relief.

Though anxious to get away, Mark also knew they might need some supplies before they could get off the damned mountain. A glance in the bed of the truck showed some basic camping gear, including a couple sleeping bags, a nearly empty cooler holding only a few bottles of beer, and a propane stove. Hurrying back to their camp, Mark squirmed through the branches covering their tent. Between the killer's gear and what was in the cooler, he figured they could last at least a day and another night, if they had to … if they couldn't get off the mountain. He found and stuffed their first aid kit inside his jacket, and hauled their cooler out from under the tree. Filled with all their water, juice and perishable food supplies, it was heavy and, when he lifted it, he staggered a bit under its weight. The pull on the damaged skin and muscle along his side was exquisite agony but he sucked it up. With a litany of low curses about camping in particular, and the great outdoors in general, he slid and stumbled onward, splashing his way across the increasingly wobbly bridge.

It felt like a journey of a thousand steps, but at last he was able to heave the cooler up and over the side of the truck bed and pretty much dropped it onto the snow accumulating in the back. He grabbed the sleeping bags from the back of the truck, shook snow off them, and pushed them onto the floor in the middle of the cab. Returning to the cooler, he pulled out several bottles of water, which he also put in the front of the truck, between them, on the bench seat. Though he hated to leave the rest of their gear behind, he knew the one and only priority was to get Milt off the mountain before the weather got any worse.

After a brief, fast look around to see if he'd forgotten anything vital, glad to get out of the sharpening wind, he climbed up behind the steering wheel. There were no keys, but he made short work of hotwiring the vehicle. Slamming it into reverse, he gunned the engine and spun the wheel, turning the truck back toward the wooded lane to the main road. The backend fishtailed a bit on the icy gravel beneath the snow before the heavy duty tires got a grip. Windshield wipers flapping and the heater blowing full blast, they were soon ploughing through rapidly deepening drifting snow. Behind them, the ruts left by the tires were filled in seconds, until there was no sign that they'd ever been there.

Several minutes later, Mark turned onto the smooth broad swath of snow, all that could be seen of the main road. With no little surprise, he spotted a tall, pretty young woman garbed in jeans and bomber jacket, riotous dark curls framing her face, about a two hundred feet away at the side of the road.

"Thank God!" she called and waved joyously as she jogged toward the truck.

"What?" Hardcastle mumbled, jerking awake when the truck jolted to a stop. Looking around, he narrowed his eyes. "Who's she and what's she doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" he demanded suspiciously, his hand slipping inside his jacket to grip his pistol.

"Probably another camper stranded up here and just glad to see someone else," Mark returned. Shaking his head at Milt's caution, he argued, "Hey, c'mon, you already dealt with the hired gun. Besides, does she look like an assassin?"

"Does anybody?" Milt snapped, but Mark ignored him and jumped down out of the truck to meet her.

"I was afraid I was the only person stranded on this mountain – why in hell the rangers sent us up here, I have NO idea," she continued, talking fast and sounding breathless. "I've been going from camp to camp but you're the first person I've found. You know the road is flooded out in both directions? And none of the phones I've found so far work."

"Where's your car?" Mark asked, with an appreciative smile for her long legs – she had to be as tall as he was – and silky curls, as he moved forward to meet her. "Were you camping alone out here?"

"Just over there," she said with a vague gesture at the park on the other side of the road. "Makes for a great retreat," she went on as she sidled in closer and batted her long eyelashes. "You know, a chance to regroup, enjoy the beauty of nature?" Ruefully, she glanced up at the snowflakes falling thick and fast from the overhead clouds. "Well, usually, it's great. Not so much this time."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I know what you mean." But once again he looked around, wondering why she was hoofing it. She had to have a car to know the road was flooded out in both directions. Besides, nobody would walk into this park, and they sure wouldn't walk up into these mountains. It didn't make any sense for her to be out in the worsening weather rather than inside a warm vehicle. "Did your car break down?"

He only saw her abrupt, rapid movement out of the corner of his eye, but instinctively he was already jerking away when the Judge shouted, "Look out!"

But he hadn't been fast enough. He grunted in sharp surprise when she jammed the muzzle of a gun into his injured side, which made the dull pain he'd grown almost used to erupt into sharp shards of agony.

"Hold it right there, cutie-pie," she drawled, looping an arm around his throat to hold him close as a shield between her and the truck. Instinctively, he grabbed her wrist to pull her arm from his throat because she was pressing hard enough to choke him, but she only dug the muzzle in harder. "Hardcastle!" she shouted toward the truck. "Come out where I can see you."

"Don't do it, Judge," he yelled, knowing she'd kill them both.

"You better hope he does," she murmured seductively. "I'd hate to have to shoot off an ear just to get his attention."

Mark gulped and strained against the pressure on his throat. His mouth was dry and fear quivered in his belly. The wound in his side burned like fire, but that was the least of his problems. Hardcastle was sliding out of the far side of the truck. Mark knew he had to move, had to do something, before the Judge was in the open and vulnerable but, unsure what to do or how to distract her, he froze in frustration and self-condemnation. How could he have been so stupid as to let her get so close, just because she was pretty and looked so innocent? But, watching Hardcase edge closer and start to poke his head up over the hood, Mark told himself he could worry about how stupid he'd been later, if he was still alive. He had to stop her – but how?

She brought her weapon up, leveling it at the Judge, and Mark knew he was out of time.

Feigning weakness, but still holding tight to her wrist, he unlocked his knees and dropped, taking her down with him. She yelped, then cursed, when the unexpected move pulled her off balance. Mark grabbed her gun arm as they went down, and held the weapon well away from his body. Using his greater weight and strength, he twisted her over and onto her back, pinning her beneath him. Fighting like a wildcat, she kneed him viciously and punched him hard in the side, right over his earlier wound. Blinding agony burst like fireworks shooting through his body. With a low shout of pain, he fell away. Free of his weight, she rolled up to her knees, her revolver coming into line for a kill shot.

Hardcastle fired, the sharp report loud in the silence of the falling snow. The bullet blasted through her jacket straight into her heart. She arced backward, her arms flying up and her revolver spilling from her fingers. In a breathless heartbeat, she was sprawled on the hard, cold earth, her eyes staring unblinkingly up into the swirling snow.

Before Mark could do more than ease onto his back, Milt was there, dropping to one knee beside him. "Easy, kiddo," he rasped hoarsely. "You okay?"

Looking up at him, Mark could see the worry written on Milt's face. "Yeah," he puffed, still trying to get his breath back as he fought the tidal waves of pain. "Just terminally stupid," he added with a small groan as he tried to push himself up. Hardcastle lent him a hand and soon had him standing on his own two feet, still bowed with residual pain.

Hardcastle dusted the snow off him, then cast a grim look at the dead woman. "Yeah, well," he muttered, then sighed and shrugged. "Guess we can't leave her here. Better put her in the back of the truck."

Mark grimaced at the idea of touching the body, but he nodded. Straightening his back, doing his best to ignore the cramping pain that still radiated from his groin and the torn flesh over his hip, he dropped to one knee to draw her limbs close to her body and then gathered her into his arms. Dragging in a deep breath, fighting a growing nausea, he heaved her up. Milt steadied him when he staggered a little. Wordlessly, he carried her to the truck and laid her down on the icy bed near the tailgate. He wished he had a blanket to cover her, but he didn't.

"You okay?" Milt asked again, his voice low and roughened by all the coughing.

"Yeah," Mark sighed but then anger surged. "How the hell'd they know to find us up here, huh?"

"I don't know, kid," Hardcastle replied. Pallid and out of breath, he gripped the edge of the truck bed and closed his eyes to fend off a bout of dizziness. "I'm not feeling too good," he whispered huskily, almost as if he wasn't quite aware of speaking aloud.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Judge," Mark blurted. "C'mon, let me help you back into the truck." As quickly as he could, he got Milt settled, and then hastened around the hood to climb in beside him. "You hungry?" he asked, but Hardcastle just shook his head.

Mark could feel the fever radiating off his friend, and he knew that it had to be very bad. Pulling the first aid kit from inside his jacket, he rummaged in it for the aspirin and then tipped three tablets out of the container. "Here," he said, "you need to take these to bring down your fever." When Hardcastle took them, Mark quickly twisted the cap off a bottle of water and handed it to him. The fact that Milt downed the pills without argument, and swallowed water as if he was dying of thirst, didn't reassure Mark in the slightest. He hastily shook out one of the sleeping bags and draped it over Hardcastle, to help him stay as warm as possible. Milt muttered in distant gratitude and fell into an instant, deep sleep.

Shivering from a chill that had nothing to do with the weather, Mark again hotwired the engine and peered through the snow swirling around them. The road had completely disappeared under growing drifts that looked like low rippling waves of snow for as far as he could see. About the best he could do was keep the truck in the middle of the clear space between the thick forests on either side of the road, and hope he didn't inadvertently drive straight into a ditch. Gripping the steering wheel as if it was a lifeline, leaning forward to try to see through the snow, he shifted into drive and edged forward through the storm.

"Hang on, Judge," he urged, low and scared. "Just hang on, okay?"

They hadn't gone a mile when he was forced to stop. Massive, broken pines were lying half in and half out of the water that was washing across the road in front of him. "Oh, this isn't good," he muttered, awed by the flooding river that had had the power to bring down the trees somewhere up on the mountain, and then had carried them here where the combined force of the raging waters and the weight of the majestic trees had taken out a bridge. Now, the trees were acting as a partial dam and water was backing up around them, spreading onto the road.

Belatedly realizing the danger, Mark slammed the gear shift into reverse and stood on the accelerator to move the truck back and far away from the water reaching out toward them. An inch or two of water could float the truck and, if that happened, there'd be no way for Mark to stop them being carried into the raging torrent.

The engine screamed and the back wheels spun in the deep snowy trough they'd carved in the pristine snow. The surging icy water rushed ever closer ….

oOo

ACT III

Frank drove slowly around the busy circle route through Yosemite Village, until he came to the National Park Headquarters on the right, close to the museum. Pedestrians darted into the street without regard to the nearly bumper-to-bumper vehicles and he shook his head, thinking LA traffic had nothing on this. Just ahead, he saw the beautiful Yosemite Lodge, a sprawling structure built of stone, massive logs, and glass, where he was supposed to meet Milt and Mark for lunch. Hope fluttered in his chest. Maybe they'd been found while he'd been driving hell-bent for leather to the park. Or maybe they were alright, and totally unaware of the flurry of activity generated by the death of the ranger and Frank's fears about their safety.

But, as he parked and headed into the single story building, dread weighed heavily upon him. He'd get an update from the Park Superintendent, find out if they'd been found and, if not, he'd look for them in the Lodge. Maybe he'd get lucky – he wished he could believe it would be that easy. Once inside, he followed signs until he'd found the Park Superintendent's Office, which was along a hallway just off the entrance, through a glass wall to an open bullpen. There, he stopped at the first occupied desk and showed his badge to the ranger. "I'm Frank Harper, Los Angeles PD. I'm expected."

"Yes, sir, this way," the uniformed woman replied, standing to show him into the inner office. As he followed her, he couldn't help thinking about how young she looked, like all the rookie cops back home. Ruefully, he supposed they seemed so young because he was getting older all the time, and had some of the aches to prove it.

She rapped on the open door and announced, "Sir, Lieutenant Harper has arrived."

A strong baritone voice from within directed, "Show him in."

The ranger nodded and stood aside for Frank to enter. Frank thanked her and, upon entering the office, he studied the Superintendent of the nation's oldest, and one of the busiest, parks. A tall, middle-aged and apparently very fit African-American dressed in a crisp park ranger uniform stood from behind the desk to greet him. Briskly, Frank crossed the floor covered with Amerindian carpets to shake the man's hand. "Good morning. I'm Frank Harper," he said, returning the firm grip that he hoped was representative of a no-nonsense, forthright man.

"Lew Ferguson. Please, have a seat," the Superintendent offered with a Midwestern accent, and gestured toward a circle of four leather-covered chairs around a round table. "Would you like some coffee?"

Frank nodded. "Please. Black." While Ferguson filled two mugs from the pot behind his desk, Frank settled at the table and studied the large office, admiring the wall of glass that looked out at the picturesque street and the Lodge, the burnished burled wood of the desk, and the artefacts tastefully displayed on a bookcase. Then he turned to the map of the park on the wall beside him. The park was huge and he had no idea where anyone would even begin looking for two men on a weekend that was busy despite the rain and cold weather. "Have you found Judge Hardcastle and Mark McCormick?" he asked, turning back to Ferguson as the man approached the table and set a steaming mug before him.

"I'm sorry, no," Ferguson informed him as he settled on the other side of the table. "We've done a quick survey of all the seasonal campsites and found no sign of their vehicle." He paused to take a cautious sip from an over-sized mug that was emblazoned with 'Dad' and images of bighorn sheep.

Frank frowned and bit back the urge to shout at the man that they had to be there, and to demand that more be done. This wasn't his turf and he suspected Ferguson knew what he was doing. "So, what happens now?" he asked, assuming there was more.

Setting his mug down, Ferguson gave him a wintery smile. "Now, we go further afield," he replied, with a gesture at the map. "The campgrounds on the mountain were closed last weekend but we think they may have been directed up there by whoever killed Sam Waterman, the ranger at the Mariposa gate, yesterday afternoon."

"Why haven't those sites already been checked?" Frank asked, doing his best not to sound critical.

"The weather," Ferguson replied, brisk and blunt. "Heavy rain has been falling since last night and the main road –Highway 120 – into both ends of the park are washed out. We can't get a chopper up because the ceiling is too low. It's snowing hard up there now – blizzard conditions – and the temperature is dropping fast." He hesitated a moment, then went on, "A body washed over Yosemite Falls, just above the village, about an hour ago. There's no identification but the man fits the general description you gave of Mark McCormick."

Frank's stomach flipped and he felt breathless, as if his chest was caught in a vice. "Body? An accident?"

"No; the man was shot before he drowned. We've faxed his fingerprints to the FBI – I'm sure you know national parks fall under their jurisdiction – but haven't heard anything back yet. They'll be sending an agent to investigate Waterman's murder, and this latest suspicious death will be added to his or her agenda."

Feeling bleak and tired, Frank heaved a breath and gave a tight nod. "I'm sorry about your ranger," he said with complete sincerity. If Milt and Mark had stayed home, the unlucky man would likely still be alive. Mark. God, what if …? But no, he wouldn't assume the worst.

Ferguson studied him. "Do you mind me asking, is your interest purely official? Coming all the way here from LA, well, you seem to be taking their disappearance personally."

Nodding, Frank met the man's steady gaze. "I've known and worked with both men for years. They're good friends."

"I see," the Superintendent replied, his expression softening. "We'll do all we can to find them." Standing, he plucked his Stetson and a jacket from a hook by the door. "Well, let's go take a look at the body; find out if it's one of your friends or not." Leading the way out of the office, he said over his shoulder, "They might have another problem."

"What problem?" Frank asked, not liking Ferguson's grim tone.

The older man turned to face him. "The reason we're pretty sure they made it into the park is that their truck was spotted in Mariposa late yesterday afternoon, in front of the General Store. About an hour after they left, the shopkeeper collapsed and he's in critical condition." Settling his hat on his head and pulling on his jacket, he went on, "I don't know if you're familiar with the diseases carried by rodents in these parts?" Frank shook his head, but he steeled himself for more bad news. "The mice have fleas, and the fleas have Yersinia Pestis. It can cause pneumonic plague in humans and that spreads from person to person. Your friends have been exposed and we have less than twenty-four hours to find them or it might be too late."

Frank gaped at him, stunned speechless by the horror of such an unexpected, deadly threat, one that Milt and Mark not only didn't know about but would have no way to defend against. Dammit, he thought with grim, desperate hope, next time, if I have to hogtie the man, he's going into a safe house – where he'll be safe! Looking away from Ferguson, Frank took a deep breath to regain his balance and composure. Where they'll be safe, he corrected himself, surprised at how much the thought that Mark might be dead affected him. Resolutely, he squared his shoulders and gave Ferguson a small nod, signalling his readiness to proceed. He refused to assume the body he was about to view was Mark – it couldn't be Mark.

What the hell would Milt do without the kid? And how would Milt ever forgive himself if … no, he couldn't, wouldn't go there. Mark was still up on that mountain with the Judge. Or he was until Frank saw proof to the contrary.

Ten minutes later, they were in the basement of the Dental and Medical Building, in a small, refrigerated morgue, and Ferguson was uncovering the face of the dead man. Frank gritted his teeth and schooled his expression to give nothing away but, when he saw the face, saw that it wasn't Mark, his composure cracked. He wiped a shaky hand over his face and said a silent prayer of gratitude. "It's not Mark McCormick," he said for the record.

Ferguson covered the face and turned to a file cabinet. He pulled a box from one the drawers and said, "His personal effects. Not much here. But he was carrying a walkie-talkie. When we tried raising someone on the other end, a woman replied, 'Chase,' but didn't respond when we identified ourselves."

"Huh," Frank grunted and rubbed his chin as thought about it. Then, he realized who the dead man had likely been. "We'll need confirmation from his prints, but I think that's Chase McCready."

Ferguson's raised brow invited more information.

"It's long been suspected that he was a hitman for hire, but he was never charged," Frank elaborated.

"If that's so, then it looks like Judge Hardcastle literally dodged the bullet. Now they just have to survive the weather and the plague."

But Frank shook his head. "McCready worked with an accomplice; his partner, Mindy McCready."

"Chase and Mindy?" Ferguson echoed. "They sound more like a cheerleader and a quarterback."

"Yeah, well, if suspicions are correct, she did more than cheer him on," Frank replied dryly. "More like Bonny and Clyde. It's rumored that she's the more dangerous of the two. Which might be why he's lying here and we don't know where she is." Shoving his hands into his pockets, Frank struggled to contain his concern for his friends. "We need to get up on that mountain," he said with poorly hidden frustration, and immediately felt like an idiot for stating the obvious.

"Not possible, not until the weather lifts," Ferguson told him. "Do they have wilderness survival skills?"

Frank thought about the last time they'd disappeared into the high country and couldn't help the small grin that tugged at his mouth. "Oh, yeah," he assured the Superintendent. "They've been known to survive worse than this. For months." The brief spark of humor faded. "What do you think the odds are that they were infected by that shopkeeper?" he asked, but wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

Ferguson shrugged. "Hard to say but … well, the sooner we can get to them, the better."

oOo

The deadly wash of water was rushing past the front tires. Familiar with flash floods in southern California, Mark knew only too well that only a few inches could carry away a car or truck. Fighting his frustration when the wheels spun in the icy ruts, he took care not to flood the engine as he rocked the big Ford, back and forth, to loosen the grip of the deep snow and gain some traction. "C'mon," he growled in low desperation. Milt had awakened from his fevered sleep and was watching silently, his expression grim but resolute. The engine whined and the wheels spun, again and again, as he flipped the gearshift back and forth, in and out of reverse. More water spread under the truck, seeping into the ruts under the front of the truck.

Finally, the vehicle jerked and slid free.

Mark wrestled with the steering wheel as he backed up as quickly as he dared, doing his best to stay in the barely visible tracks they'd made only moments before. The last thing he needed was to drop them in a ditch. Twisted in his seat, looking back over his shoulder, he ignored the sharp flare of protest from the tear in his side. Between the heavy clouds and the thickly falling snow that left wet tracks on the back window, visibility was nearly zero. He drove with extreme caution despite his growing sense of urgency that if they didn't soon find a way off this damned mountain, they never would. Finally, after about half a mile, he spotted what he thought was an entry onto a side road that would give them enough room to turn around safely. He was only able to breathe easily again once he had the truck turned and back solidly in the centre of the snow drifting across the road.

"So, we're heading to the east gate," Hardcastle observed, his tone mild, as if they weren't in the midst of blizzard on a road that might lead to nowhere.

"Yeah, that's the new plan," Mark agreed, trying for nonchalance but not quite making it. His full attention was on the road, barely visible through the swirling wall of white. "If the road isn't flooded out, and if we don't get stuck in the snow, and if there aren't any other killers out to get us, we might make the east gate in a couple hours." He paused and cut a quick look to his friend. "We could be in big trouble this time, Hardcase."

A frown furrowing his brow, the Judge blearily studied Mark. "You're not usually a 'glass half-empty' kind of guy," he husked, hoarse from coughing.

Mark shot him another fast sideways look while he debated pretending he hadn't heard, or that the comment didn't warrant an answer. But then, with a helpless shrug, he admitted, "I'm worried about you, Judge. You keep sayin' it's just a cold, and you pretend you're indestructible, but you're sick, maybe really sick. Maybe sick enough to need a hospital and we're stuck out here in a blizzard on a mountain, with no obvious way off and maybe with another killer coming after us."

Hardcastle rolled his eyes and waved off the concern. "It's just a cold, McCormick," he insisted, but nearly doubled over when another racketing cough gripped him. Panting to catch his breath, he again reached toward Mark, this time weakly gripping his arm, half in reassurance and half for support. "Yeah, okay, you're right," he admitted hoarsely. "I feel like hell. But I'm a long way from bein' dead an' we're gonna be alright, y'hear?"

"Oh, yeah, I hear you," Mark agreed with bleak humor. "But …."

But what? But 'I'm scared'? But 'I don't want to lose you'? He exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the air. His throat was tight but worry wouldn't do Hardcase a damned bit of good. Bereft of words, he just nodded, as if he believed that everything was going to be just fine. Hell, might as well believe it – was better than assuming they were going to die on this blasted mountain road. Worried about how the cold was seeping into the cab, he turned the heat up as far as it would go.

Milt gave him a wan smile and an approving clap on the arm before he once again closed his eyes and sank into a restless sleep. No doubt he'd meant to be reassuring but his innate courage and determination to remain positive in the face of extreme adversity twisted in Mark's heart and clogged his throat. What would he ever do without this crazy, wonderful, stubborn old man?

The wind picked up, swirling snow around the truck and making it even more difficult to see where he was going. Mile after harrowing mile, the truck ploughed through a pristine expanse of drifting snow, past one empty campground after another. Foreboding gradually sank into despair as Mark accepted that there was no one else up on this mountain. The man who had directed them at the ranger's station was no ranger. They'd been sent to their deaths and no one knew they were up here. They were alone and there would be no help coming. Minutes dragged into an hour, and then into another but they didn't seem to be making any progress. Trees lined the endless road to nowhere. Mark kept a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and drove into a world of white, cold silence marred only by the eerie moan of the wind.

The blizzard continued to get worse, the snow falling ever faster and heavier, the blowing drifts across the road growing higher than the front bumper. Abruptly, Mark noticed he couldn't see anything in front of the truck. Thick, heavy snow swirled into a tunnel of white; wind buffeted the truck like a giant fist. They were in what he'd heard of but never before experienced: whiteout. He knew it was crazy to keep going when he couldn't see more than five feet ahead. With the kind of luck they were having, he'd probably drive into a ditch or, worse, over the edge of a ravine. Despite his fears about Hardcastle's health and urgent need for a hospital, Mark reluctantly slowed and stopped the truck.

"Huh, what? What's goin' on?" Milt asked, not quite awake but aware they'd stopped.

Mark looked at him, at the hot flush of fever on his cheeks, the heavy, watery weariness in his eyes, and knew he'd give anything, anything at all, to get the Judge somewhere warm and safe, but there wasn't anything he could do. Unless … maybe if Hardcase could drive, then he could get out front and lead. Another violent series of deep coughs interrupted his musings and dropped him abruptly back into the real world. Hardcastle could barely breathe and had trouble staying awake. If he had a ragged coughing jag while driving, he could lose control of the truck.

"McCormick? I asked you why we stopped?" Milt demanded, sounding breathless and impatient.

"Well, two reasons," Mark replied, doing his best to sound confident. "Reason number one: I can't see the road and would prefer not to drive over a cliff; reason number two: it's lunch time and you need to eat and drink something."

Milt's glowering look of confusion would have been funny if it wasn't so scary. "Eat? Not hungry. Need to … where … where are we?"

"Oh, God," Mark murmured, but said aloud, as steadily as he could, "We're in Yosemite Park, Judge. You remember, we came up here to avoid getting killed back in Malibu."

Milt studied him intently, then gave a vague nod. "Sleepy," he muttered, curling back into the warmth of the sleeping bag covering him. "Don't feel so good."

"I know, Judge," Mark replied quietly as he reached out to tenderly tuck the sleeping bag around Milt's shoulders. "I know."

The wind howled and a heavy gust battered the truck. Mark stared out at the swirling cloud of snow and wished they were anywhere but there. They needed help, but nobody knew where they were. Hell, he wasn't even sure anymore exactly where they were. Where were the intrepid park rangers? Why hadn't anyone come looking for them? Well, anyone besides two cold-blooded killers. "Where's Yosemite Sam when you really need him?" Mark muttered despondently. "The Lone Ranger and Tonto are in heap deep trouble."

He told himself to get a grip. There were still a few things he could do, including making sure Hardcastle kept drinking fluids. With that fever, the man needed all the water and juice Mark could force into him. And maybe he could get him to eat, even a little meat or cheese would be better than nothing. Resolved, he turned up his collar and shoved his door open, pushing against the banshee wind. Outside, the cold and violence of the blizzard took his breath away, and froze him to the bone in seconds.

"I really hate camping," he complained wrathfully as he ducked his head away from the wind, and held onto the side of the truck to pull himself back to where he'd left the cooler. While he dug the cooler out of the snow that covered it, he studiously avoided looking at the white mound that had such a short time ago been a vibrant, beautiful, deadly woman. Using a plastic grocery bag that held sliced meats and cheeses, he loaded up on bottles of water and juice. When he couldn't carry more, he went back to the cab and dropped his loot inside between them on the bench seat. And then he went back for more. If this storm got any worse, he did not want to have to face the elements the next time they needed water. After two trips, he was satisfied that he'd moved enough liquids and easily eaten foods into the warm cab of the truck. Finally, he opened a large bottle of apple juice and dumped it; the bottle would do as a urinal, and that would save them both from having to leave the warm cab to answer nature's call.

By the time he climbed back inside, he couldn't feel his hands or his feet, and the rest of him was shaking so bad his teeth were chattering. He stuck his hands in his armpits until he'd stopped shivering. Then, reluctantly because he knew how quickly the cold would leach the warmth from the cab, he turned off the engine. He needed to make sure they didn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning, and he had to conserve fuel. The engine was their only source of heat and once the gas was gone, there'd be no way for him to protect Milt from the killer cold.

"C'mon, Hardcase," he cajoled, holding out a small bottle of orange juice. "You need to drink this stuff. It's good for you."

Milt grumbled, not quite awake and not wanting to be bothered, but Mark persevered and managed to get him to drink nearly half the bottle. Then he got Milt to take a couple more aspirin with another half bottle of water. "Good, that's good, Judge," he said as he capped the bottle and then made sure Hardcastle was well covered by the sleeping bag.

Leaning back against his seat, Mark forced himself to eat some sliced turkey, Swiss cheese and a small bag of potato chips. Then he took two aspirin, and drank a bottle of water. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't ignore the cough tickling the back of his throat or the burn in his eyes, the usual precursor for him to full blown chills and fever; couldn't pretend he didn't know what it meant. Shaking out the second sleeping bag, he huddled under it and prayed for the storm to end.

oOo

Frank had checked the restaurant in the Lodge, but Milt and Mark weren't there waiting for him. They were definitely in trouble somewhere in the park. Frank had never felt so impotent in his life. Two of the people he valued most in this world were in deadly danger from three independent threats. A hired killer was unaccounted for, and could either still be hunting them or had maybe found them – but Frank didn't want to dwell on what that might mean. Milt and Mark had been exposed to a disease that could become deadly within thirty-six hours, but they didn't know it and there was no way to get to them, to get them to help. And, last but not least, the blasted weather could kill them if nothing else did. He looked up at the storm-shrouded mountains and tried to imagine his friends surviving prolonged blizzard conditions with only what they'd brought with them for an easy camping trip; hard enough by itself, but if one or both of them was also sick….

How had everything gone so wrong, so quickly?

"Dammit," he cursed and turned away from the rain-splattered window to watch the bustle of activity in the Park's headquarters. As an excess of water had cascaded down the mountains, growing in volume and accumulating mud and debris along the way, the overflowing streams and flash floods had put a lot of campers in danger in several of the campgrounds. Rangers, both on normal duty and on overtime or callback, hurried in and out, intent on their individual tasks and assignments. Through an open door along the nearby hallway, he could hear dispatch clearing calls, sending rangers out to specific locations, alerting local hospitals to the need for ambulances to deal with victims of car accidents and several near drownings. One man had been pinned under a fallen tree. Other campers were still trapped in an RV that had been crushed by a massive limb, blown down during the violent storm the night before.

Nor had Milt and Mark been the only people exposed to the infected shopkeeper. All the rangers who could be spared were engaged with visiting each and every campsite to alert people to the danger if anyone felt ill, or to take the sick people they found to the hospital for immediate treatment. The village clinic was overflowing and victims were now being shuttled to nearby hospitals in Fresno, past Mariposa, and west into Merced. Highway 120 had been closed because of the violent weather and landslides, leaving only Highways 140 and 41 in and out of the park, west toward San Francisco, or south, the way he'd driven in, through Mariposa.

Nor were the rangers the only park personnel who were working flat out. As fast as they could given the stormy weather, crews were opening one closed road after another, removing downed trees, bulldozing muck from roadways that had been submerged by flash floods, and clearing landslides. It was all hard, back-breaking and very time-consuming. But as hard and fast as the men were working, if either Milt or Mark were infected with the plague, the roads high into the mountains wouldn't be cleared to allow help to get to them until long after it would do them any good. God help them if they were both sick. The only way to get to them would be by helicopter, but the choppers wouldn't be able to get off the ground until the early winter storm cleared – not until morning, at least.

The more Frank thought about the whole mess, the more anxious and frustrated he became, and the harder it was to remain calm, to keep his emotions contained. His throat was parched by worry, and fear filled his chest. He hated being so useless. There had to be something he could do. Determined to get off the fringes and into the action, he returned to the Park Superintendent's office. As soon as the man finished his latest phone call, Frank rapped on the open door and walked inside.

"I'm sorry, there's no word of your friends," Ferguson said, sounding a bit more brusque and harried than he had that morning.

Frank waved away the comment. "I'm not here to harass you. I know everyone is doing the best they can," he said, flat with despair. "There must be something I can do to help – your team seems to be stretched beyond their limits."

Lew Ferguson sighed and sat back in his chair. Unconsciously kneading the back of his neck to alleviate muscles tightened by tension and fatigue, gazing into the distance, he thought about it. But, ultimately, he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I know the waiting must be hard, and God knows, we could probably use the help. But you're a civilian. Even if I wanted to use you to work with a ranger to check the campsites, I can't allow you to be exposed to those who might have the plague."

"Civilian?" Frank protested. "Not quite. I'm willing to take the risk. Let me sign a waiver."

Ferguson studied him, and then nodded. "Okay, thanks. See the Dispatcher. She'll have the appropriate form, and assign you to ride with one of the rangers who have been called in."

"Good, thanks," Frank agreed, quickly turning away, eager to be busy, to be doing something that would distract him from his own worries.

"One thing before you go," the Superintendent called. When Frank again faced him, the man motioned to his phone. "That last call? It was an update on the condition of old Jimmy Carstairs, the shopkeeper from Mariposa." He paused, then shook his head. Frank could feel the bad news coming. "I'm sorry to tell you, and maybe his condition was complicated by his age and the fact that he was a pretty heavy drinker, but he died a half hour ago."

Frank's gaze dropped away as he pondered the sad news. Milt wasn't all that old, and both men were healthy and strong. Wordlessly, he nodded, accepting the information but unwilling to believe the stranger's death was a harbinger of worse news to come. Blowing out a long breath, he met Ferguson's dark gaze. "Thanks for letting me know."

Ferguson gave a brisk nod of sober acknowledgement, and Frank wheeled away, thinking the sooner the Dispatcher could distract him with meaningful work, the better. But even as he strode down the hall, he knew that no matter how many others he might help in the next twenty-four hours, nothing would assuage the deep ache he felt that there was nothing – absolutely nothing – he could do to help his best friends, or sooth the sick fear inside that even then, at that very moment, they might be at death's door.

If they weren't already dead.

oOo

Snow drifted around and over the pickup, gradually burying the truck. Frost edged up all the windows in beautiful, fragile, deadly designs. The dreariness of the day deepened swiftly into dusk, and still the wind howled and the snow fell, inch after relentless inch.

Inside the cab, Mark shivered but wasn't sure if the storm had leeched all the warmth away, or if he was suffering the chills of incipient pneumonia. He'd been coughing harshly so often, so deeply, that his chest ached along with every muscle in his body. He felt thoroughly miserable. Beside him, Milt was asleep, or at least, he hoped it was sleep. The Judge was breathing heavily, as if it was hard to get enough air. Squinting, Mark peered through the dim light and could just make out Hardcastle's face. The deathly pallor and the relentless, hectic flush of fever on his friend's cheeks scared him.

Shoving off the sleeping bag that covered him, he shifted forward. With shaking hands and trembling fingers, he felt under the steering column to find the wires he needed to twist back together to jumpstart the engine. His breath billowed into a cloud in the icy air. The effort was taking too much time, too much effort. He found it hard to stay focused, hard to stave off another coughing jag that would only pull him away from his task. Finally, finally, the engine caught and sputtered, and then rumbled with reassuring steadiness, and Mark blinked back tears of desperate relief. He wasn't much good, and there sure wasn't much he could do to help the Judge now, but he could do this – he could keep the man warm for as long as the gas lasted.

Mindful of the risk of carbon monoxide poisoning, he cracked open the window beside him, and winced at the sting of bitter cold and the biting snow crystals that hit his face. Coughing raggedly, shivering miserably, he hauled the sleeping bag back over his shoulders and hunched down into it. He'd just close his eyes for a few minutes, just a few minutes. Then he'd turn off the engine to ration the fuel for as long as he could.

oOo

ACT IV

"McCormick! Wake up!"

Mark didn't want to wake up. But the coughing, the voice – the sound of urgency – roused him from his fevered dreams. "Wh-what?" he mumbled, hoping there'd be no answer.

"C'mon, Mark," Milt rasped, panting for breath. "Wake up."

"'M awake," he groaned. A fit of coughing roused him further and, by the time it was over, he was back in reality and fear clutched at his heart. "Judge?" he demanded, fumbling with the sleeping bag over him. The engine had stopped and he couldn't hear anything except Hardcastle's gasping respirations. "Oh, no," Mark gasped. "No." One thing. He'd only had to take care of one thing: ration the gas to keep them from freezing, and he'd screwed even that up. They were going to die in this cold, dark hell and it was his fault.

Between coughs, Hardcastle dragged in as much air as he could. "I'm havin' trouble breathin', kid." For the first time, Mark heard fear in Milt's voice, and it broke his heart.

"Ah, Judge," Mark breathed, scared and so damned sorry that he couldn't do anything to make things better. Sending up a desperate prayer, sick with despair, he reached through the darkness. His fingers found Hardcastle slumped against the icy window. Slipping sideways, Mark eased an arm around his friend, and drew him more upright to brace Milt against his chest and help him breathe more easily. "Just take it easy, okay?" he urged.

"Where are we? What's going on?" Hardcastle demanded, confused and not happy about it. "Why're we sittin' in the dark?"

"We're stuck on a mountain, in a blizzard, and I think we're both sick," Mark summarized as succinctly as he could. The details were just too depressing to elaborate but, ashamed he hadn't been of more use, hadn't gotten the Judge somewhere safe, he couldn't stop himself from going on. "I couldn't see where we were going, and … well, we're stuck, okay? We're out of gas and it's the middle of the night." He tightened his arms around Hardcastle, and his voice dropped. "I'm sorry, Judge. I … I didn't know what else to do. There wasn't any way to … the road was gone. The blizzard …."

"Shhh, it's okay," Milt rasped, and weakly patted his arm. "Not your fault, kiddo. Guess that sidewinder got us after all, huh?"

"Sidewinder?" Mark echoed, and couldn't help the weak laughter. "Ah, Judge, yeah, guess he found us." Reaching across the cab, he snagged his own sleeping bag and drew it closer, awkwardly arranging it over the two of them. "But I think it's the Chatty Kathy old geezer in the general store that done 'done us in', Kemosabe."

Milt snorted, and Mark felt the weak nod against his shoulder. "We're not dead yet, you know," Milt argued, but the thin weakness of his voice made Mark ache with sorrow.

"I'm sorry, I should have been able to get you out of here," Mark whispered, and bent his head until his cheek rested against Hardcastle's head. The fever was burning hot in both of them and he wondered if that alone could keep them warm enough to get through the night. Could even maybe melt all the snow around the truck, cause an avalanche, that would carry them down to the valley, where someone could find them and –

"Mark? Mark, stay with me," Milt ordered.

"Huh, what – oh, yeah, I'm here. Just kinda tired." Mark blinked against the hot burn in his eyes, the internal fire making his skin feel tight. He sighed and then frowned, struck by the sudden thought that this might be the last time they talked. They could freeze to death before morning. All the things he wanted to say flooded his mind, all the regrets and wishes that he'd been better, more deserving of the Judge's investment … all the thanks, but his throat tightened and he couldn't seem to get a word out. The struggle made him cough and, when he caught his breath, he was only able to wheeze, "Thanks, Judge."

"For what? For landing you in this mess?" Hardcastle growled.

Mark smiled into the darkness. Hardcase never quit; he was always ready to fight. "Nah," he replied. "Just, well, for the money for school. And –"

"You won that money, fair an' square," Milt insisted.

"No, you threw the game," Mark whispered, trying to stay focused but beginning to drift again. "Wish I was worth it. Wish it wasn't so hard."

Milt didn't say anything for long minutes; it seemed to take all his energy to breathe. Mark felt tears sting his eyes. So many regrets but one of them wasn't meeting this man, even if it had landed him in hell for a couple years. Redemption didn't always come easy, but it was worth it in the end.

"Stop it," Milt murmured, sounding far off. "You earned every penny," he puffed, "and more." His voice seemed to be drifting farther and farther away. "You're my best friend … best friend I ever had," he added. Mark felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with the fever spread through his chest. They were still friends. The money hadn't ruined everything. "I'm just sorry I got you into this mess, that's all."

"S'okay," Mark replied, feeling a great sadness that it was over, but desperately glad that he was there and that neither he nor Milt were alone. Briefly tightening his grip before he slipped back into fevered dreams, he went on, "'M where I belong. S'alright. You can go back to sleep for awhile. I got your back, Hardcase. Always will. Batman and Robin. Tonto and the Lone Ranger. Tha's us."

"Yeah, kiddo, that's us, alright," Hardcastle agreed and he again weakly patted Mark's arm.

Mark tried to stay awake, but he felt Hardcastle relax in his arms. He listened to the Judge breathe, rough and uneasy, and then realized he couldn't hear the wind anymore. It seemed as though they were cocooned in silence, and maybe also in ice. Vaguely, he wondered if they'd be lost until spring, entombed in steel and snow, but his mind was drifting and his thoughts slipped into the darkness.

oOo

The rain stopped around three in the morning, and then the wind dropped about a half hour later. Grateful for the distraction, glad to be able to help in some way, Frank had worked with the rangers through the evening and night. Altogether, twenty-six campers in various stages of respiratory distress were taken to the nearest hospitals. He'd heard that three of the cases were severe enough to be airlifted out, two to San Francisco and one seven-year-old child to Sacramento. He was conscious of time passing and that the window of opportunity to get to his friends before it was too late was inexorably closing.

The clouds over the mountains began to break up around seven AM, just before the thin light of dawn seeped into the eastern sky. In anticipation of being able to go up with the chopper, he immediately headed to the helipad on the roof of the Park's Headquarters. In the building, on the way to the elevator, he ran into Lew Ferguson, who looked as haggard as Frank felt.

"We should be able to begin a helicopter search in the next half hour or so," Lew said.

Frank nodded and once again glanced at his watch. "I'm pretty sure it's been more than thirty-six hours since they would have been in that store."

Ferguson nodded. "We think they were there around four-thirty Friday afternoon, according to the witness who saw their GMC."

Looking away, Frank took a shuddering breath. "You said … you said we had to get to them within thirty-six hours."

The Superintendent clapped a reassuring hand to his shoulder. "If we can get the antibiotics into people within that time, all but the most infirm or vulnerable generally fully recover. After that window, the risks of mortality increase. But it's not a guaranteed death sentence, not yet. We'll do our best to find them before it's too late to help them."

Frank's throat tightened, exhaustion and fear having eroded his emotional control. He could only nod and rasp a hoarse, "Thanks," in gratitude for the reassurance and the hope Ferguson was offering him.

oOo

Forty minutes later, Frank was sitting behind the pilot in what felt like a Plexiglas ball. The roar of noise pulsing around them from the motor and the rapid, racketing thump-thump of the rotors made it impossible to talk while he and the others silently scrutinized the forest below. Though the storm had ended, and sunlight was now seeping through the breaking clouds, it was still brutally cold. As they climbed higher along the side of the mountain, he could see that the snow was increasingly deeper and weighing more heavily upon the trees. With nail-biting slow and methodical routine, the pilot began quartering one campground after another, but the snow below was an unbroken expanse, even along the narrow, winding road that connected the recreational areas.

Precious minutes ticked past, until they'd been up for a half hour. Frank could feel his anxiety rising. Where the hell were they? He saw downed trees, little more than massive mounds of snow at campsites and along creek beds. He saw washed out bridges and flooded roads. His chest felt tight, and he had to force himself to breathe deeply, to hold onto his increasingly ragged demeanor of calm forbearance.

Nearly an hour crawled past, and still nothing. His palms were damp, and his gut was all twisted up. He had to find them. He couldn't leave them out there in that frozen wasteland. They were in trouble, and time was fast running out for them. Every minute took them closer to the point of no return.

Finally, Frank spotted a sharp glint of light off a drifted mound in a vast plain of unbroken snow on what was probably the main road between the ranks of trees. He tapped the pilot's shoulder, and poked the arm of the ranger in front, to get their attention. When the ranger turned, he pointed downward, and the pilot, seeing the gesture, toggled the joystick to fly back around and hover over whatever Frank had seen.

Again, there was a glint of light, sunlight glancing off a patch of glass and chrome. Nothing else was visible of whatever was buried beneath the massive drift. The helicopter hovered for a second before descending, the wind off the powerful blades kicking up clouds of snow. In seconds, they were on the ground and Frank was scrambling out of the chopper and, bent low, running under the rotating blades.

He and the ranger swiftly brushed snow off and away from the truck to gain entry – and Frank's heart dropped. It wasn't Milt's GMC. He paused only long enough to steel himself. The missing female hired gun, Mindy McCready, was probably inside. Swallowing hard, he redoubled his efforts to clear the snow away from the driver's door, while the ranger worked on the other side. Through glass frosted by cold, he could only see a large, shapeless mound of piled sleeping bags in the middle of the bench seat. The near side of the mound was lightly encrusted with snow that had drifted in through the window which was open about an inch. Frank wrestled the door open. The frozen metal screeched in protest, the horrific sound – almost blasphemous in the suffocating silence of the forest – doubling in intensity as the ranger fought his own door open.

There was no motion from inside. No reaction to the hellacious noise. The mound remained silent and utterly still. Heart in his throat, Frank pulled back the sleeping bag – and could have wept when he found Mark holding Milt in his arms. Swiftly, he and the ranger each felt for a carotid pulse and Frank wanted to shout with joy when he found Mark's. Glancing at the ranger, hoping against hope, he felt a surge of abject relief when the man nodded. Both of them were still alive.

But they were far from well.

Milt and Mark were barely breathing, and they sounded painfully congested. They were ghost white, as if all the blood had sunk deep inside, to keep their organs warm and functioning, but their skin was hot to the touch.

"How could they have survived?" Frank rasped, feeling a kind of awe that anyone could have lived through the blizzard and brutal cold for so long.

"The snow covering the truck created a kind of cocoon, like an igloo; that kept in whatever heat they had. Sitting like that helped them share and conserve their body heat. Having that window open, even a little, allowed air to filter in to them through the snow." The ranger paused. "And they were lucky, very lucky." He waved at the pilot, who raced toward them with canvas stretchers.

Carefully, they eased Milt out of Mark's arms and onto the stretcher, covered him with a blanket and then with one of the sleeping bags. The ranger and the pilot hastily transferred him to the relative warmth in the back of the helicopter, while Frank began easing Mark out of the truck. The ranger returned to help Frank get Mark into the chopper, gently lowering his stretcher onto the floor beside Hardcastle. There, the ranger fixed masks over their ashen faces and turned on portable oxygen tanks.

In minutes, they were back in the air, flying directly to the hospital in Fresno. The ranger was on the radio, alerting the hospital of their imminent arrival and the condition of the two men.

Frank sat and stared at his friends, willing them to hold on, to not give up now, not when they were so close to medical care and shelter. His brows furrowed in worry. Were they in time? Had either or both men suffered any irreparable damage from the cold, or from the infection that all too clearly was raging within them? Frank had thought finding them would be enough, but he knew now that the struggle for their survival had only just begun.

oOo

In twenty minutes, they were circling over the city, swiftly zooming toward the helipad on the top of the hospital. As soon as they landed, medical and nursing personnel rushed forward with gurneys. In seconds, each sick man received a cursory examination and intravenous lines were started. They were transferred onto the metal stretchers and hastily wheeled inside to an elevator that dropped directly to the Isolation Ward on the second floor.

Doctors called out demands for lab tests and x-rays and all the staff wore isolation garb to protect them from the suspected pathogens. As questions about his friends were asked, Frank provided the answers: their names, ages, how long since they'd been exposed to the plague, how long they'd been trapped on the mountain, a quick summary of their general health and a rapid explanation for the various scars that were revealed as garments were stripped or cut away. Everything was happening with incredible speed in what felt like chaos, but Frank knew that each action had a purpose and was directed toward ensuring both his friends survived.

Antibiotics were given intravenously; limbs were checked for signs of frostbite. Frank dared a small smile and felt hope growing, warming him, when nothing beyond the obvious symptoms of the entrenched infection and the gash in McCormick's side were found. The antibiotics would do battle with the disease, and the reddened wound was deftly cleaned and stitched by one of the doctors.

To Frank's surprise, a technician also took a sample of his blood. "A precaution," one of the doctors said, rising from working over Milt. "You've been exposed – and from what I've heard – repeatedly. We need to make sure you don't come down with Y Pestis."

It must have been half an hour later, though it had only felt like seconds, when Milt and Mark were transferred into a semi-private room along the same corridor where other campers who had succumbed to the disease were sequestered for treatment. Frank was told to await the outcome of his blood work in the visitors' lounge, but he adamantly refused to be separated from his friends. Though the nurses were reluctant, a doctor finally gave approval for him to go into isolation, provided appropriate procedure was followed. He found himself garbed in gown and cap, gloves and mask, and was told in no uncertain terms that he was to remain clad in the gear so long as he was in the room. Depending on the outcome of his blood test, he might or might not find himself admitted before the day was over.

The last twenty-four hours of nearly non-stop action and anxiety hit Frank full force as soon as the adrenaline that had been keeping him going seeped out of his system. Suddenly exhausted, he sank into a chair beside Milt's bed. "I'm too old for this," he muttered. Leaning forward, he lightly gripped Milt's wrist. "Next time, you're going into a safe house, no discussion. That's just the way it's gonna be."

Wishing the two men would wake up and start bickering with one another, Frank settled back in his chair for however long a vigil it turned out to be.

oOo

Mark coughed himself awake. After he got past how much his chest hurt, and how hard it was to catch his breath, he became aware that things had changed. They weren't in the truck anymore. Not stuck on a damned mountain buried in snow in the cold and dark. Somehow, the truck's cab had turned into a hospital bed in a room that was blessedly warm. He stared at the ceiling for a long minute while his brain worked its way through the sense of dislocation and the disorientation of not remembering how he'd gotten there.

And then he remembered the Judge.

"Milt!" he gasped through the oxygen mask that covered his face, his gaze immediately raking the room.

"It's okay, Mark; he's right here," Frank said, his voice low and soothing, as if he thought Mark was fragile; so soothing that Mark's worry escalated accordingly, especially when he saw that the familiar voice came from an alien creature in mask, cap, gown and gloves.

"Frank? How long have we been here?"

"We brought you in by helicopter yesterday morning."

"Yesterday? How bad is he?" Mark demanded, shifting onto his side to see Hardcastle for himself. Not that there was all that much to see. Milt was also sporting an oxygen mask and his complexion was as gray as it had been in the truck. Despite the head of the bed being raised, the Judge's respirations sounded clogged, thick and painful. But then, finding himself panting for breath after even so little exertion, Mark realized that he didn't sound a whole lot better. Wet and heavy, as if they were both breathing through water.

"Bad enough; you, too, for that matter," Frank replied, sounding almost laconic. "But you're both here and breathing and I'm grateful for small mercies. You should be, too. If your luck holds, the antibiotics will knock the plague out of your systems and you'll both be good as new."

"Plague?" Mark exclaimed, gaping in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me. We really caught the plague? From that old storekeeper, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he sagged back onto his pillows and stared at the ceiling. "Plague. Who'd believe it? That's it. I am never, ever, going camping again. Never. Not even if hell freezes over."

Frank chuckled. "Famous last words. But think of the great story you'll have to tell to all the young co-eds."

Mark frowned at the older man, wondering why he sounded so calm when Mark felt like everything was an unmitigated disaster; well, except for the fact that they were still alive. It took him a minute to realize that Frank wasn't calm, he was exhausted. "You came after us. Found us," he said, his voice hoarse from coughing and the dryness caused by the oxygen. "We could still be up there … thanks doesn't seem like nearly enough."

Frank waved off the gratitude. "Nothin' you wouldn't do for me." He blinked heavily, as if he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. "Seriously, Mark, it was pretty close. But the doctor thinks you'll both be okay. You're on monster doses of antibiotics, and the fever broke for both of you over two hours ago."

Mark rubbed his eyes, and then his forehead. He had one hell of a headache. "I thought we were going to freeze to death," he said softly, hardly able to believe they were finally safe and okay.

"The ranger said the snow saved you," Frank told him. "The whole truck was nearly buried in a massive drift; guess it held heat inside. By the way, whose truck was it? The rangers told me the license plate belongs to a vehicle stolen in San Francisco on Friday."

"Don't know their names. Killers, a man and a woman, who came after us." Mark didn't really want to think about it.

"Yeah, I guessed that. The guy's body washed down over a waterfall. But where is she?"

"You didn't find her?" Mark demanded, and his face scrunched up in distaste. When Frank didn't bother to answer what was evidently a dumb question and just stared at him with an expression of curious interest, Mark sighed. "Her body is in the back of the truck. Probably frozen solid. She tried to kill us, and she lost." Thinking about it was making him queasy, so he distracted himself with his concern for Milt. "You sure the Judge is going to be okay?"

"Pretty sure," Frank replied as he pushed himself to his feet. "You should go back to sleep; best thing for you. I gotta go tell someone to retrieve her body." Wearily, his shoulders bowed with exhaustion, he turned and left the room.

Mark watched him leave, all the while marvelling at what a good friend Frank was, and how lucky he and Milt were that Frank never gave up on them. Closing his eyes, he thought about how much he admired Frank, and the work he did. Thought how much more useful he'd feel – and how much better he'd probably be at the job – if he gave up on law school and became a cop. But it was only a fleeting thought. So far as he knew, ex-cons couldn't become cops; there was probably a rule against it.

Besides, he owed it to the Judge to be the best lawyer he could be, to justify Milt's investment in him.

Finally, the reality that they were safe took hold and he felt himself relax. A brief smile flickered across his lips as he settled back and listened to Milt breathe. Gradually, his own respirations mirrored Hardcastle's and sleep stole over him.

oOo

Epilogue:

Mark was sprawled on the lounger by the pool, once again locked in a struggle with his textbook on torts. The breeze off the ocean was light and carried a hint of salt. A lawnmower droned the distance. They'd gotten home from the hospital the night before, after a week of antibiotics and intensive care in the isolation ward. Frank had returned home ahead of them, but had driven back up to Fresno to bring them home. Delarico's trial had been postponed for the week, but Milt would be testifying in the next day or so. Mark had heard that Frank's team had traced phone calls and bank transactions tying the mobster to the McCready killers, and two counts of attempted murder as well as a charge of conspiracy to commit murder had been added to the docket. The crook was going away for a long time – hell, he was going away forever, and Mark couldn't wait to wave good-bye.

Milt was inside, on the phone with his insurance company, explaining that he needed a new GMC because the last one had gotten crushed by a tree. Mark had wanted to listen in, delighted that, for once, it wasn't his car that was the wreck, but the Judge had sternly pointed at the lounge chair after they'd finished breakfast, and told him to stay on it. Stay on it and study.

Mark didn't pretend to be good at following orders, but he'd thought it would be in his own best interest to follow that one. Things had been a bit tense between them in the hospital, but he didn't know why. Once he'd awakened and started getting better, Milt had seemed preoccupied – and, of course, the Judge had been his usual irritable self when forced to remain in bed and recover; except when the nurses were around. Mark smirked to himself and shook his head at the effusive southern charm that the Judge had showered on them, much to their delight. Mark hadn't had a chance once the Judge geared up, or so the Judge had told him. According to him, women preferred more mature men. Mark had contented himself with a laugh but the Judge hadn't appeared amused.

"Got something to smile about?" Milt asked in a mild tone, breaking into his reverie and Mark realized that once again he'd lost the thread of the study material and was staring sightlessly at the placid ocean.

Shaking his head, he looked up and saw that the Judge was carrying two mugs of coffee to the table by the pool. Accepting the unspoken invitation to take a break, Mark gladly put aside the textbook and joined Milt, choosing the chair across from him. "How'd it go with the insurance company?" he asked, barely able to restrain a grin.

"Fine," Milt drawled. "Pay those guys enough and nothin's ever a problem."

Mark snorted, and lifted his mug. "Yeah, right. Just wait until they cancel the policy."

As Mark was swallowing, Milt said with heavy solemnity, "I think we better have a talk."

Mark's enthusiasm for the unexpected reprieve from studying rapidly waning, he barely managed not to choke, and echoed, "Talk?"

"Yeah," Milt confirmed, leaning back in his chair, getting comfortable. "You said a few things up on that mountain that I want to clear up."

"Oh, come on, Hardcase!" Mark protested. "I don't even remember whatever I might have said. It was the fever talking, that's all."

"Why're you getting so defensive?" Milt challenged with a frown.

"Are you kidding? Whenever you want to talk, I always end up having to defend myself," Mark retorted, crossing his arms and then belatedly uncrossing them when he realized that he was only reinforcing the appearance of a man with something to hide. Would help if he could remember what he said. When Milt didn't rise to the bait, Mark grimaced and asked grudgingly, "Okay, I'll bite; what did I say?"

"Oh, nothing much, just that you were finding law school tough," Milt told him, while closely scrutinizing his face.

Mark looked away. Busted. With a sigh, he shrugged. "I've been doing okay," he replied. "Until we got to torts." His gaze fixed on his mug on the table, he went on. "I can't seem to … to get them into my thick skull. Can't even seem to concentrate on them for any length of time before my mind drifts off to something else. I'm sorry, Judge, but maybe you're wasting your money on me."

Milt's mouth twisted, and he shook his head. "Look here, nobody like torts or enjoys them – well, nobody normal, anyhow. They're the worst part, because it's all pretty much straight memory work. But, maybe I can help you. A long time ago, I grouped them under major themes, so that it was easier to remember related casework and precedents. You know, for exams. But mostly, if and when any of that stuff comes up now, well, that's what paralegals and research are for."

Feeling a flare of hope at the thought that there might be some way of organizing and making sense of the mountains of detail, Mark leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "I think that would help a lot, Judge. Thanks." He hesitated. "But … well, are you really sure you want to keep paying the tab? It's a lot of money and I hate to admit it, but there aren't any guarantees here. I might not have what it takes."

Milt's concerned frown melted into a soft smile. "You know what, kiddo? It's harder to get into law school than it is to get out of it and past the bar. You're plenty smart enough. But now you're touching on the other thing you said up on that mountain. You said you wished you were worth it."

Silence fell between them, as if Milt expected him to respond somehow, but what could he say? Mark chewed on is lip and looked away, out at the endless ocean. Finally, he said quietly, "I guess I said that because I'm not sure I am – worth it, that is. And, and, well – I don't want the money to change things, to be a wall or something between us. And I don't want school to get in the way, not when you need me to back you up on some harebrained scheme or other. That's what I'm here for, Judge. To back you up and to, well, to make sure you don't get yourself into trouble that you can't handle."

Milt snorted and shook his head. Leaning forward so that his face was in Mark's space, he said, "I take it back, that stuff about you being plenty smart enough. You're an idiot, McCormick." His voice rose as he carried on. "Or you are if you really think all that. How in hell could the money come between us, huh? Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

Mark remembered what the Judge had said, up on the mountain. Milt had said Mark was his best friend, the best friend he'd ever had. Warmed by the memory, and knowing how much Hardcase hated what he called the mushy stuff, Mark shook his head. He started to respond, but the Judge wasn't finished.

Milt held up a hand and continued, "Not worth it? Then who is? Huh? Who has worked harder or done more to get where you are now from where you were? Who has put his life on the line more times than I can count, just 'cause I asked you to?"

"You don't owe me anything," Mark protested. "Just the opposite."

"I'm not talking about anybody owing anybody anything. I'm talking about wanting to do this; about believing in you and what you can do when you put your mind to it." Milt had gotten so worked up that he coughed harshly, a lingering holdover from the infection and their harrowing time on the mountain.

"Hey, Judge, take it easy," Mark urged. "Don't have a heart attack!"

"I'm not having a heart attack!" Milt groused, and gasped for breath. "I'm fine. Don't change the subject."

Mark leaned back and raised his hands for peace.

With a huff of impatience, Milt waved away his irritation. He took a breath and let it out slowly. "I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I don't want you to give up on yourself or on law school, at least not yet – and certainly not over something as dumb as torts. Give it until the end of this year, okay? If it's not what you want, well, then, that's different. An' we can figure out what you'd rather do. I'll back you, whatever you decide." Leaning forward, his sharp gaze locked with Mark's, he reached across the table to jab a finger into Mark's chest as he added with firm deliberation, "Because you're worth it."

Mark had to take a breath to settle the emotion, the gratitude and affection, the joy of those simple words. "Thanks, Judge," he said softly but with heartfelt meaning. Still, there were other issues and Hardcastle needed to know that he couldn't be leaving Mark out of what was going on. "But what about school getting in the way of you going after the old cases in your files?" Mark asked. "Or any other case that comes up, for that matter. You weren't even going to tell me about Delarico's threats and the trial."

Chagrin filled Milt's face, and he nodded. "Okay, I can understand why that's a problem, especially after how things turned out." He looked into the distance, unconsciously pursing his lips and chewing on his cheek as he thought about it. "Okay," he finally said, "how about this. I promise to keep you in the loop. An' if things look like they're going to heat up, well, we'll talk about what that means. Maybe I'll need your help or maybe I'll just need to call the cops. It's not like we're never gonna work on cases together. It's just that I know how much work law school is – I've been there, remember? So I want to give you a fair shot at it."

Nodding slowly, knowing that there were a thousand loopholes in what Milt was offering, not least of which was the Judge's own assessment of when he did or didn't need help, but it was a lot better than nothing. "You promise," Mark pushed with a narrow look. "No stupid stunts or dumb heroics. No going all Lone Ranger and damning the torpedoes. You tell me what you're working on."

"Agreed," Milt replied and held out his hand.

Mark reached out and shook his friend's hand, and he felt some of the tension that had been building for weeks ease from his shoulders. Later, he'd replay all that Milt had said, and allow himself to really feel the relieved happiness that was beginning to warm him, all the way through.

"Okay, then," Milt said with a bright smile as he clapped his hands. Pushing himself up from the table, he said, "C'mon. We gotta ton of work ahead of us to go over all the different kinds of torts, the different sorts of cases and case law, and the crazier precedents. We'll be lucky if we get done by Christmas!" He was already striding into the house, the words floating back over his shoulder.

Mark didn't know whether to grin or groan as he got up to follow Milt into the house. "Slave driver," he called.

"I heard that! An' you're not a slave," Milt retorted, poking his head back out the door. "Slaves can be sold; I doubt I'd get much for you."

Mark couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. Milt grinned at him, his eyes twinkling, as he gestured for Mark to follow him, a hasty wave before he disappeared into the shadows.

"I'm coming, Hardcase," Mark replied with a wide smile. He tucked his torts textbook under his arm and sauntered toward the house. "I'm right behind you, Judge – just like always."

Freeze and fade to black.