Author's note: Did I say three chapters. . .well, think of a number, multiply by five, divide by two and subtract the first number you thought of, and that's the number of chapters I'm going to overrun my estimate by. Hope you are still enjoying, sorry for the delays I'm in the middle of exam marking season. Let me know what you think -J

Chapter 5 : The Morning After

Hardcastle stared through the window, watching the first light of dawn wash the greys of the night with colour. He stifled a yawn, rubbing at his eyes to try to remove that scratchy feeling that always accompanied too little sleep, and made a half hearted attempt at wrapping his robe around him, securing the belt, but he only succeeded in half closing it, turning to look forlornly at the crumpled bedsheets. He sighed, no point in making another attempt at sleep. In the four hours that he'd tried he'd managed perhaps two, broken at best. The tossing and turning of trying more wearing than if he just admitted defeat and stayed awake. He would sleep when he'd found McCormick. Until then. . . .

He tried hard to ignore the 'if' that some part of his psyche had shouted over the when. It was a part of his psyche that he frequently ignored, the part that offered him anything less than success in his latest endeavour. The part that tried to remind him that things could go wrong when he was formulating his plans, the part that he didn't, under normal circumstances, listen to, but the fear and worry wouldn't quite let him ignore it this time, and it was the 'if' that resonated as he headed to the bathroom for a shower.

He'd spent most of the previous evening, once Frank had left, studying maps, California, Nevada, Arizona and Mexico, thousands of square miles of mainly desert and farmland, and endless roads, interstates, side roads, fire roads. . . and McCormick could be on any one of them, or skidded off of any one of them. Lying in a ditch somewhere. The Judge had processed a thousand different images, of a thousand possible wrecks. Every time the road he'd been following on the map had hit a sharp curve, or run close to a cliff, or a bridge, or a slope, so many different ways, so many different places. . . . . and each passing minute with no news made them seem less like possibilities and more like certainties, and now those minutes had turned to hours, more than twelve since he'd walked out in anger, walked out on harsh words and unmeant sentiments, and. . . dammit. . . if he was all right he should have heard something by now. . .something.

Once dressed and downstairs he checked his watch, still too early to ring for information without risking upsetting the people he was relying on for help, so he headed into the kitchen to make himself some strong coffee, and try to decide what to do.

A large part of him was itching to get in his truck and head in the direction of Arizona. If he assumed that McCormick'd take a similar route to the one he'd taken a week before, then he could drive it looking for any signs of an accident. At least it'd be doing something, and hanging round the estate wasn't accomplishing much.

Except for keeping him by the phone

Somehow the same gut instinct that told him there was something wrong, was telling him that if McCormick could, then this was where he'd come back to. This was where he would call, and the Judge knew that he should be there when that happened.

Once again he ignored the screaming 'if' that challenged the when.

H&MCH&MC

Mark savoured the sensation of the cooling cloth as he felt it wash away some of the pain from his aching head. Ice had already cooled his cheek to a blissful numbness and his shoulder was throbbing less, he realised it was because his right arm was resting across his chest, a soft dressing replacing the harsh metal of the handcuffs and just for a fleeting moment, as self awareness returned just slightly ahead of his ability to process his surroundings, he felt safe.

Safe because ice packs and cold cloths and dressings meant the first aid kit and a gruff Judge, who pretended not to be concerned, protested about having to help him clean himself up again, berated him for not dodging quick enough, or doing something stupid, and yet every gruff word, every protesting gesture, held a care and concern beyond anything McCormick had experienced before, beyond anything he felt he deserved.

Mark gave as good as he got, protested as much back about how his latest injury was nothing, about how the judge should quit fussing because he was a big boy and could take care of himself, and all the time there was his own unspoken communication, his own silent thanks. Unspoken because he couldn't say it, wouldn't know how. Too long alone, too long neglected had robbed him of the emotional vocabulary, but with the Judge it didn't seem to matter. Whatever they said, they both understood, and somehow it was better that way, without the mush.

As his eyes began to focus, he half expected to see the Judge scowling down at him, asking him what he'd done to himself this time. It made the reality check that much harder. The despair, that should have been left in the early morning hours before dawn where it belonged, came screaming back, as his eyes blinked the face above him into focus, and instead of Hardcastle he stared up into the eyes of Melissa Kantwell.

He must have reacted, there must have been some attempt at movement because he felt gentle pressure, holding him down, a soothing voice, telling him to "shush and be still," that "everything would be all right," but he honestly didn't have the awareness for any of it to have been conscious, as his mind dipped into a swirling, giddy, twisting ride, thoughts and emotions lost for a moment as he fell. The only thing he could process beyond the nausea, was that it was dark, and then he was back, touch, sight, sound, thoughts, like someone had switched him back on like a light.

"It's OK sugar," Melissa said; gently removing the cloth and soaking and squeezing it again, before laying it back across his forehead. "I'm gonna take care of all these nasty cuts and bruises for ya." She trailed her finger down the side or his face, stopping to gently touch the split in his lip, her eyes following the movement. She met his gaze again. "See how nice I can be when you do what I want." She smiled at him, her eyelashes fluttering just a little, in what under normal circumstances would be a very flirtatious look, but this was far from normal. "I can be real nice," she said softly.

Mark swallowed, trying not to dwell on what he'd done that she wanted, apart from just lie there, chained to the bed and. . . . He stopped himself, didn't let his mind go there, because he didn't know anything, and he didn't want to know. He forced himself to meet and hold her gaze, forced himself to assess his position. His left hand still handcuffed to the bed frame left him next to helpless. He was disoriented, weak, fairly certain that it had been 24 hours since he'd eaten or drunk anything, and he was at the mercy of a crazy woman that he knew was capable of cold-blooded murder. He licked dry lips. "What do you want?" he asked quietly, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded.

Melissa smiled, and sat back, her eyes drifting up wistfully. "What do I Want? Why I want a little house in Mexico, with a parlour and a big kitchen and a sewing room, a handsome husband to take care of me. Two chubby children and a dog running around in the yard, and enough money so that I don't have to worry none." She looked back down at him. "Just what every girl wants," she paused for a moment holding his gaze, "And you're going to help me to get it." Her expression became a little more serious. "I had all the money I needed, and you took it away from me. So you're going to help me get it back."

Mark stared for a moment, somehow ignoring the twisted logic that led her to believe that he had lost her money. Instead he concentrated on what she wanted him to do. He shook his head. He'd gotten so used to everyone knowing that he had a record, and assuming the worst of him because of it that there was only one logical conclusion from her statement. "If you think I'm going to help you rob people, rob banks. . ." He stopped. Melissa's expression was one of puzzlement.

"Now why would I want y'all to do that?" she asked. "You and your judge friend lost me my money. So now you're going to pay it back." She moved over to the dresser and picked up her gun. "He's going to give me back my fifty thousand dollars," she pointed the gun at his chest. "Or I'm going to shoot you."

TO BE CONTINUED. . .