Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, for entertainment purposes only. These are not our characters, and we make no profit from them.

Authors’ Notes:

All I can say is, “Wow, what a ride!” This journey started many months ago, and an incredible journey it has been. We’ve been down a lot of roads, and taken a few corners more quickly than we probably should have, but, heck, we got where we were going. And, I’m giving a big tip of my hat to the Borg-kid in the back seat. Who would’ve ever known that a few crayons and a scribble sheet could create such a map? Seriously, though, working with LML and Judy has been tons of fun, and I’m eternally grateful to be part of this group.-Cheri

Can three people co-author a novel? Sure they can, as long as two of them are patient, kind, understanding souls who are willing to put up with someone as annoying as me. Cheri and Judy, it’s been a blast (and thank you for not pulling over and whacking me when I got too out of control). Over three hundred pages and no one ever sent an e-mail typed all in caps. It’s amazing.

Another quick acknowledgement to Fran Striker, the author of The Lone Ranger Creed as well as the man responsible for authoring the Lone Ranger radio scripts (156 of them a year) and novels, and many Green Hornet scripts. He pounded out 60,000 words a week in the Age of the Manual Typewriter. And a tip of the hat to Lynn, who put us onto the Creed way back in May, also to Susan, who faithfully read the chapters and made many suggestions.-L.M. Lewis

Being the least productive of this trio, “Kudos” to my comrades for a job well done! Cheri and LML should get most of the credit and they definitely deserve it, editing and double-checking everything! (Not to mention all those brainstorming sessions-you guys were amazing to try and keep up with!) After the first 150 pages, emails were fun as we all had to make sure we were on the same page LOL!! I can’t imagine what will happen if we give the kid finger paint instead of crayons during the next ride! If I ever win the lottery, I SWEAR I will rent Gulls Way for a weekend for one heck of a party (that way we can also clear up-ahem-a few misconceptions)!-Judy

The phone rings and everything changes.

3:45 a.m. McCormick hit the alarm clock, and almost knocked the lamp off the nightstand before his foggy brain connected the sound with the telephone and he scrabbled for the receiver.

“Who’s it?” he muttered sleepily.

“Hello? Mark?” It was Frank’s voice and Frank did not call at this hour for anything less than a serious emergency. McCormick felt for the switch on the lamp and was sitting up before he even heard the next words. “There’s been an accident.”

He instinctively glanced out the window in the direction of the main house, though he knew it wasn’t the judge; he was home safe. Oh, God, no, not Claudia. “Not-”

“Milt. They say he ran a red light over on Glendale Avenue, hit a truck.”

“But, he’s-”

“At St. Mary’s. He’s gonna be okay, Mark. They said he’s awake; he’s talking.”

“What the hell was he doing on Glendale? I left him in the den.” McCormick was still two facts back, and trying hard to process that while he reached for the pants and shirt he’d dropped alongside the bed not that many hours earlier that night. “What did he say? Did you talk to him?”

“Not yet, I just got here myself. The guy doing the accident report recognized him and called me. He hadn’t woken up yet and they didn’t have any ID. Now they’ve just moved him up to a room. They say I’ll be able to see him pretty soon.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a bit. Jeez, what the hell was he doing?” McCormick juggled the phone from hand to hand as he pulled on the shirt. “It’s a case. You know that Frank; he’s gone and started something and he didn’t tell me.”

“Now, Mark-”

“Well what the hell else could it be with him out driving around in the middle of the night?”

There was an audible sigh from Harper’s end of the line as no other likely suggestions were forthcoming. Finally Frank said, “Don’t rush. We don’t need another accident. Take your time. I’ll wait for you in the ER lobby.”

For Mark, St. Mary’s held nothing but bad associations, though he was eternally grateful that they had saved Hardcastle’s life when he’d been shot in the chest a year and a half ago. Now he stood by the steps of the ER entrance and took a few deep breaths of the cool December air.

It can’t be as bad as last time. He’s awake. He’s talking. Mark was already talking himself through the whole thing. Do not get angry with him. That can wait until tomorrow.

But angry he was, for the judge to be out in the middle of the night, riding solo on God knows what, not quite a month after they’d had The Talk, and he’d promised, more or less, not to do this very thing. And angry with himself, too, for not paying more attention to the signs: the file on the patio table that he’d chosen to ignore the other morning, the slightly distracted air about the man the last couple of days. Something must’ve come up, something that couldn’t wait until his exams were over in a couple of days.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and took the steps two at a time. So, he didn’t want to distract you . . . and now this. But if he was okay, if he was awake, and talking, then McCormick swore to himself he wouldn’t even say ‘I told you so.’

He saw Frank leaning against the wall, over by the elevators at the other side of the lobby. The room was as empty as it ever got, with only a handful of people who were either sick or had nowhere else to be. Frank gave him a small wave and slouched over to the elevator buttons.

“Sixth floor,” he said, as Mark joined him. “Not SICU this time.”

Mark stepped onto the elevator behind him and turned to hit the button. “You been up there yet?”

Frank shook his head.

“But he’s okay?”

Frank nodded, but there was something a little hedgy about it, and Mark raised an eyebrow worriedly. “The thing is, the doc in the ER was saying he was out for quite a while, and the officer who did the report, well . . .”

“Well, what?” Mark asked impatiently.

“There weren’t any skid marks, none. And the guy in the truck said he came right at him; didn’t try to stop.”

McCormick frowned. The elevator doors dinged, and opened onto the dimly-lit sixth floor. They both stepped off.

Frank stood there, shoulders a little hunched, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “And the x-ray-the CAT scan-was negative.”

“That’s good; isn’t it?” Mark said questioningly.

Frank looked doubtful. “The doc was saying it might have been a stroke; that it might not be the kind that shows up on a scan. And that’s what caused the accident, and why he was out for so long, not from hitting his head."

“But he’s awake now?” McCormick asked quietly. “He’s moving everything?”

Frank nodded again. “That’s what they said.”

“Then he’s okay,” Mark said decisively. “He’s all right.”

Frank flashed his badge at the nurse behind the desk. “Hardcastle, 612-A?” She pointed them down the hall. McCormick fell in behind the other man, grateful for once not to have to explain himself. 612 was halfway down on the right. There was a little light coming from the doorway. Mark held back, took a breath again, and let Frank go first.

The man on the bed looked almost as pale as the bandage on his forehead and his eyes were closed. The nurse standing near the head of the bed, adjusting his IV, turned at their entrance and looked sternly at them. “Visiting hours are-”

“Police,” Frank smiled. Mark thought he must not be fond of having to explain himself, either.

The nurse’s eyebrows went up. “Well, you can’t expect to question him now.”

But then her patient opened his eyes, blinked a couple times and said, “Frank?” with a look of mild confusion on his face. “What the hell happened?”

“Accident. You hit a truck.” Frank kept it simple. “You’re in St. Mary’s.”

Hardcastle’s gaze drifted around the room, taking in his surroundings, passing over McCormick without comment. “A truck, huh?” he looked like he was on the verge of falling back asleep. “Must’ve been a big one.”

Mark had stepped a little further into the room, relief written on his face, and opened his mouth to speak, when the judge’s eyes flickered open again, looking briefly at him, and then back at Frank again.

And then he asked, “Where’s Nancy?”

The judge hadn’t stayed awake long enough for an answer, not even long enough to catch the looks of dismay that his two visitors had exchanged. The nurse noticed, though, and asked quietly, “His wife?”

Frank nodded, and then after a moment’s pause, “She’s deceased. Thirteen years now.”

“Don’t worry,” the nurse finished smoothing out the sheet. “It’s like that sometimes, especially late at night. They seem lucid, but they’re really a bit confused.”

“Not him,” McCormick protested.

“Well, you should let him get a little sleep,” she checked the IV against her watch one last time. “He’ll probably be all right in the morning.”

“Frank, he’s not all right,” McCormick’s voice had risen just slightly in register and volume; the nurse pursed her lips.

“I think we need to step outside for a minute, Mark,” Harper had him by the elbow and was steering him toward the door, while the younger man was still looking over his shoulder at the patient. “Now,” he added a little more forcefully. McCormick finally gave way, and let himself be pushed out into the hallway. Once there, though, he turned on Frank.

“He’s confused. Something’s wrong.”

“Yes, he has a head injury and, God forbid, maybe even a little stroke. I dunno.” Frank kept one hand firmly on McCormick’s arm. “But there’s not a damn thing you can do about it right now except get yourself thrown out of this hospital. So settle down.”

“But-”

“No. She’s right about one thing. Nobody is at their best at four-thirty in the morning when they haven’t gotten much rest. Now we’re both going to go home, and let the nice nurse take care of him for a while. Then we’ll come back in a few hours, see how he’s doing, and talk to his doctor.”

Mark stood there, no longer needing to be physically retrained, but still looking entirely unhappy, staring back at the doorway of room 612. “Okay,” he finally said, resignedly, “but Frank . . . what are you going to do the next time he asks for Nancy?”

He’d driven home in the early morning darkness; it wouldn’t be dawn yet for another two hours. The estate was dark as well, without even the porch light left on. He fished out the key to the front door and fiddled it into the lock, entirely by feel and memory. Three years, maybe a thousand times. He stepped into the familiar hallway and flicked on the light.

Then the light in the den. He stood at the top of the two steps leading down into that room. Everything looked normal, exactly as it had eight hours earlier, when he’d said goodnight to the judge and headed over to the gatehouse. Hardcastle had been sitting at his desk, going through some papers. What papers? Such an ordinary thing. He hadn’t even bothered to look. The desk was bare now.

Now he stepped down into the room and, without any self-consciousness, slid into the chair behind it. He began to go through the middle left-hand side drawer, a slow, methodical search that revealed nothing but recent bills and papers. It might have been any of these. But if it had been, it wasn’t what he was looking for. He closed the drawer and sat back. This is nonsense. You’ll show up there this morning; he’ll be grousing about the food and saying he wants to check out. He was half-asleep.

Something is wrong.

He took two paperclips from the top left hand drawer and gently probed the lock on the bottom right. It was less than a minute before he heard the snick and it released. There were a dozen files in there. He ignored the one with his name on it. The others he examined briefly. None appeared to be very active. Then he found one thin manila folder, not alphabetically filed since it had no heading. It contained two sheets of paper from a legal pad, some quickly jotted notations, and a map of Greater LA, nothing else.

He took a closer look at the other sheet: some numbers, hastily scribbled, with no particular apparent meaning, the name ‘Henry’, just that, no last name. Down near the bottom was Glendale, and then ‘S 1712’. It was all written in Hardcastle’s none-too-legible scrawl, with the look of notes jotted down quickly while on the phone.

Glendale. A meeting no doubt, and that’s where he’d been tonight. For now he put the papers back, hoping fervently that the judge would be able to explain it all to him in the morning. He closed the file and put it back where he’d found it, closing the drawer and even, hoping that this final touch would be necessary, unpicking the lock.

He was back at the hospital by seven o’clock, nowhere close to visiting hours but at least past dawn. He used the ER lobby elevator again and, as he’d hoped, having seen him earlier in the presence of Authority, no one tried to stop him when he got off on the sixth floor. When he got to the hallway outside 612 he heard voices-the same nurse from earlier, he thought, and Hardcastle’s familiar grumble. He smiled in relief again. Complaining about the food.  

He peered around the edge of the doorway. The nurse looked up from the bedside and managed a small smile as she blurted out, “Oh, look Mr. Hardcastle, it’s your son.”

Mark started to correct her but hadn’t even gotten the first word out when the judge’s eyes had tracked over to him. The brief , happy, expectant look fell away, replaced a moment later by disappointed indifference. McCormick felt his breath catch in his throat.

“I think you have the wrong room,” the judge said politely.

The nurse looked briefly puzzled, then a little embarrassed as she hastily finished tucking the blood pressure cuff into the wire bin above the bed. “’Scuse me. I’ll be back in a bit.” She patted his arm.

McCormick had already taken a step backward into the hallway, out of sight of the judge. The nurse pushed past him, taking him by the arm as she passed and propelling him a little further down the hall.

“I am sorry,” she said softly, and she did seem so. “I shouldn’t have assumed; but the way you were last night . . . and he was talking about his son this morning, asking about him-”

“His son’s dead, too,” McCormick replied dully. Now the nurse was frowning. “I’m just . . . a friend.” He leaned back against the wall; there was a squeezing pain in the middle of his chest. “He doesn’t talk about his son.”

The nurse nodded, “How long?”

McCormick put his hand to his forehead, “Um . . . about fourteen years-it was before his wife died. I’ve only known him, ah, three and a half, no . . . six.”

The nurse didn’t question this last discrepancy but merely nodded again and said, “I’ll tell Dr. Winston. He’s the neurosurgeon. He usually makes rounds early.” She stood there, hesitating, then finally asked, “Do you want to go back in there?”

McCormick jerked his head back up, “No . . . God, no. I’ll just upset him.” He shook his head slowly. “Ah . . .” he looked back up the hall, “maybe there’s somewhere I can wait, until the doctor gets here?”

She walked him to the sixth floor waiting area, near the nurses’ station, and pointed him to a seat. “Wait,” he said abruptly, as she started to turn away. She paused, looking back down at him. McCormick hesitated, then spoke in a low, worried voice, “He’s okay? I mean . . . otherwise? He’s making sense, acting normal?”

She nodded once, and gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Absolutely. He was grousing about hospital food right before you got there. I didn’t know there was anything wrong. Honestly.”

He sat back in the chair and let out a sigh. “Good. That’s good.”

Her smile had turned sympathetic, “Do you want me to tell him anything?”

McCormick looked up at her quizzically then, after a moment’s thought. “Yeah, tell him Frank’s coming. Frank’ll be here soon.”

“Frank?”

“Yeah,” McCormick smiled back, “the police officer, he was here last night, too.” Then he added, with a certain levelness, “He’s an old friend.”

It was almost 8:30 when the elevator doors opened and Frank stepped out. He saw McCormick, sitting slumped in a chair in the far corner of the waiting area, elbow propped on his knee and his chin on the heel of his hand.

“Shoulda figured you’d beat me to it,” Frank chided. “What happened, the nurse kick you out already?”

Mark jerked up from his deep stare. The look in his eyes was anxious concern. Frank immediately regretted his glibness. He started again on a more serious tone, “What’s up?”

“He was expecting Tommy,” McCormick said, simply.

“Oh.” Frank spent a moment envisioning that moment. Then he added grimly, “Not good. What time was that?”

McCormick checked his watch and said wearily, “’Bout an hour ago. I’ve been waiting for the doctor to show up.”

Frank looked warily down the hall, then back at McCormick.

“Why don’t you go down and see him,” the younger man said quietly. Then, when Frank didn’t show any signs of immediate motion, he added, “Haven’t figured out what to tell him about Nancy, yet, huh?”

Frank gave him a quick glance of confirmation. He’d spent most of the hours since leaving here trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t have to deal with the issue. He should have known better than to doubt Mark’s gut instincts.

But he couldn’t leave Milt alone, either. That would be rank desertion, and if the man was still expecting his wife and son to show up, God, someone had to go in and deal with that. He moved slowly down the hall toward 612, aware that Mark had gotten up and was following behind.

Frank straightened his shoulders and assumed a reassuringly bland smile as he stepped through the doorway. Milt was sitting up in bed, looking down at a barely touched breakfast tray with a look of disgust. At Harper’s arrival he looked up and smiled. The smile drifted into puzzlement a second later.

“Frank,” he said quizzically, “what the hell happened to your hair?”

Frank was momentarily taken aback. Yes, it was an easier question than he’d been expecting but still . . . He reached up for a second and touched his very bald dome, trying to project back thirteen years or so, and suddenly realized that this was exactly the opening he’d needed-maybe the only way to quickly make a point.

“Milt,” he said calmly, “Do you know the date?” Frank could hear Mark step in behind him and take a breath. Hardcastle looked past him, then back at Frank, trying to smile but having it fall a little flat.

“Sure,” he answered, but didn’t elaborate. Frank kept his eyes fixed on the man in the bed. He let his eyebrows rise a little in question.

Hardcastle’s eyes cut away for a second, glanced out the window and then back again. “He’s with you, huh?”

Frank looked over his shoulder at Mark, who suddenly let out the breath he’d been holding and seemed awfully pale. “Frank?” McCormick murmured, “Now what?”

“Mark, sit down.” Harper pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. “Milt, we gotta talk.” He pulled up a chair of his own closer to the bed. Hardcastle looked wary. Frank asked him one more time, firmly, “The date?”

Hardcastle made a little dismissive gesture with one hand. Frank leaned forward, looking at him hard, refusing to be dismissed. Mark said, “Frank-”

“Be quiet, Mark.” Harper said. “Milt?”

“It’s winter,” Hardcastle said with sullen hesitance, and then, “1971,” spoken halfway between a statement and a question. “Where’s Nancy?” This last part bordered on plaintive. “What the hell’s going on, Frank?”

“Frank, please-”

Harper shot another look over his shoulder at Mark, silencing him. Then he turned back to Hardcastle, softening his voice a little. “You sure about that, Milt? 1971?”

The man in the bed no longer looked sure of anything. He said, “You said there was an accident. A truck. Is Nancy all right?”

“Nancy wasn’t in the accident.”

Hardcastle gave an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

“It’s Tuesday, Milt, December 16th.”

“Okay,” Hardcastle huffed. “Yeah. December.”

“It’s 1986.” Frank paused. Milt was staring at him in blank disbelief. “‘86, ” Harper repeated, with careful emphasis. Still the blank stare.

“No,” Hardcastle stated flatly. “It’s not.”

Frank reached up again and touched the top of his own head. Hardcastle followed the movement. He turned away again for a moment, looking out the window. Then he turned back abruptly, with a stubborn, questioning look in his eye. “Where’s Nancy?”

This time a voice from the doorway intervened. “Mr. Hardcastle?” A tall man with salt and pepper hair, in a doctor’s coat, stepped in. The name ‘Winston’ was embroidered over the pocket. Frank step out of the way, moving back to join Mark.

“Neurosurgeon,” McCormick whispered to him.

Winston’s examination was brief and Hardcastle performed the physical maneuvers unexceptionally. After some simple mathematical questions, Winston asked, abruptly, “Who is the President of the United States, Mr. Hardcastle?”

A second’s hesitation later the judge replied, “Nix . . .” paused again, and then, decisively, “Richard Nixon.”

The neurosurgeon glanced over his shoulder at the other two men, then nodded to himself, and said, “With regards to the injuries you sustained from the accident, you have, at worst, a concussion. I would advise repeating the CAT scan, with IV contrast this time, just to be certain, but I do not believe that your current symptoms can be explained by blunt trauma.”

Frank had seen Milt’s brow furrow at the words ‘current symptoms’ but he seemed to be tracking on the rest of what was being said.

“I’ve asked one of my colleagues, Dr. Neely, to step around and have a look at you. He’s a neurologist. He may have some other suggestions to make. I’ll, of course, be available if there are any further developments.” And with that, Dr. Winston smiled and made his departure.

Frank felt Mark’s hand on his shoulder and heard him say, in a low voice, “We’ve been traded down to triple A-a neurosurgeon for a neurologist . . . and a psychiatrist to be named at a later date.” There was no levity in the remark. Frank recognized it for what it was-a man who was trying desperately to keep a grip on the impossible.

Frank looked back over at Hardcastle, who was still frowning and now said, slowly and with an air of puzzlement, “1986?”

“Frank, that guy is right,” Mark went on, almost without a pause. “I’ve been knocked silly enough times to know. You lose a couple of minutes, maybe an hour. Hell, I even lost a month and a half one time, but it doesn’t last this long and it’s not fifteen years.”

The judge had picked up on this last part and now was staring at the two of them with a look of barely contained anxiety. “Fifteen years? Frank?” And then he took a longer look at McCormick, his eyes narrowing down a bit. “And who’s he?”

Mark wiped his hand over his face and shook his head. “God, Frank, you better introduce us.”

All in all, Frank thought it went better than he would have expected. Mark had held it together when Milt listened politely to the name and showed not a glimmer of recognition. The judge had extended a polite handshake. Mark had provided his own job description, “I’m a law student. I help out with things.” That was suitably vague, Frank thought, but Milt didn’t ask for details. “I live in the gatehouse.”

Hardcastle’s eyebrows had gone up at this last bit of information. He’d turned his gaze back to Frank and asked, “How long?”

But Mark answered instead. “Almost three and a half years.”

Hardcastle frowned. “You’re my law clerk?”

Mark looked at Frank who let out a sigh and said, “Milt, you’re retired. You’ve been retired for three and a half years. You don’t have a clerk.”

Hardcastle took this in without comment. Altogether too little comment, Frank thought. Too much to think about at once, he needs . . . time.

And then, after another long moment of silence, Milt said quietly, “Nancy’s dead.”

It had the sound of cold, implacable reasoning, not memory. Mark was staring fixedly out the window, as if he’d known it was coming, and had wanted to be looking anywhere but at the judge. Frank was left pinned in Hardcastle’s unwavering gaze. There was nothing to do but say, “Yes.”

“How long?”

“Thirteen years.”

The judge nodded. “I . . . knew. She wasn’t here,” he added simply.

The atmosphere in the room had become stiflingly heavy, with three men who had rarely been a loss for words, all frozen in silence. Again it was Hardcastle who broke the impasse. He gestured Mark toward the door. “Why don’t you . . . get me a glass of water,” he said it kindly enough, ignoring the pitcher and glass on the nightstand.  

Mark tried to smile back. “How long, Judge?”

“Couple minutes . . . maybe five.”

With Mark gone a few steps down the hallway, Hardcastle turned back to Frank and asked urgently, “How long have I needed looking after?”

Again Frank had been caught by surprise. He said, “Looking after?” with enough incredulity that even Hardcastle’s worry seemed to diminish. “God, no, is that what you think?” Frank’s smile was honest. “Though, I gotta say, there’ve been a couple of times where I thought you both needed a keeper.”

“Then what the hell does he do?” Hardcastle looked even more confused.

Frank puzzled over that one for a moment. “Well, some of the yard work, but not so much of that anymore, since he started law school.” He looked at Hardcastle, frowning as he searched for the words. “Milt, I don’t know how to put this but, you kinda took up criminal justice as a hobby.” Hardcastle was giving him another blank look. Frank decided it was a bad time to use the Lone Ranger analogy. He settled for simply, “You went after some of the bad guys.”

“And him?”

“Mark watched your back.”

There was a knock on the doorframe. Frank looked up, expecting to see Mark himself. Instead it was another doctor, this one younger, with no name on his coat and a vaguely apologetic air about him. “Mr. Hardcastle?” He got a nod from the judge. “I’m Peter Silvestre, Dr. Neely’s resident. May I ask you some questions?” Another nod and the young man came in.

This one looked like he was settling in for the long haul, Frank decided, and he gave Milt a final pat on the shoulder and said, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

He slipped out into the hallway and wandered back down to the waiting area, thinking hard. He found Mark back in the same chair, his head resting back against the wall and his eyes closed. He opened them and looked at Frank wearily as he approached.

“So, what’d he say when you told him he’s got an ex-con living in his gate house?”

“I didn’t get to that part, yet.” Frank admitted sheepishly as he pulled up another chair and sat down.

“Oh, leave the hard stuff to me, huh?”

Frank shrugged. “I told him about Nancy, didn’t I?”

“No, he figured that out by himself.” Then a pause, Mark was looking down at his feet. “Did he ask about Tom?”

Frank frowned, “No . . . I think he had enough on his plate.”

“‘Six impossible things before breakfast,’” Mark muttered, and then, “We are definitely down the rabbit hole on this one.” He looked up. “What if he stays this way; what if we don’t get him back?”

“Mark, we haven’t lost him. He’s pretty together.”

“No, you haven’t lost him. You’ve known him, what? How many years, Frank?”

“Maybe thirty, almost. I was a rookie cop and he was a rookie judge.” Frank smiled.

“Okay, you and he have a past. He and I have nothing.” Mark dropped his voice a notch and he leaned forward. “He doesn’t even remember putting me in prison.”

“Either he’ll remember,” Frank replied quietly, “or you’ll start all over again.”

Mark shook his head. “You can’t step in the same stream twice.”

The two men sat there in silence for a while.

The elevator doors opened and a small group of doctors emerged, one older and portly, the other three much younger, the youngest a mere medical student, with a short white coat and an eager, earnest smile. The senior member of the group paused at the nurses’ station and studied the board for a moment before ushering his flock down the hallway. Mark had heard one of them address him as ‘Dr. Neely’ and immediately he sat up and cast a glance to the side.

They didn’t move very far down the hall before they apparently encountered their colleague. Then they drifted back a bit, well within earshot of the waiting area. Frank made a move to clear out but Mark had his hand out one the other man’s arm, silently holding him in place.

“But-”

Mark shook his head once and said, “No, I have a right, if anybody does.”

Frank thought about that a moment and then silently conceded. Milt had some relatives, it was true, but Harper hadn’t thought to call any of them last night, when he’d first gotten the news.

They heard a younger voice, serious and straightforward, “This is a sixty-eight year old man, previously in good health, who presents with . . .” now there was a moment’s hesitation, as the presenter slipped out of the formula, “Well, he doesn’t really have a ‘chief complaint’. But it is evident that he is suffering from profound retrograde amnesia, covering a period of greater than ten years. The onset was sometime during the night. It was preceded by blunt trauma to the fronto-parietal area, an MVA. There was a prolonged period of unconsciousness reported by the emergency room staff - upwards of forty-five minutes, but within an hour of arrival they reported a normal Glasgow Coma Scale, and orientation in two spheres. He couldn’t tell them the date at all. The initial non-infused CAT scan was negative. CBC, BMP, PT, PTT all normal. Alcohol and tox screens negative.”

“And your exam? Stick to the pertinents, Silvestre.”

“Awake and alert. He initially stated it was 1986, but on further questioning admitted he believed it to be sometime in late 1971. Otherwise, he has no focal neuro deficits, good preservation of language function and visual-spatial skills. Also social skills, mostly-he got pretty snippy when I asked him to do serial sevens.”

“‘Snippy’?”

“He threw me out.” Silvestre sighed audibly.

“Prevarication? An attempt to cover a deficit? “

“No, more like a guy who’s ‘tired of answering stupid questions’; at least that’s what he said.”

Frank looked over at Mark who was smiling and shaking his head.

The older man in the hallway continued his questioning. “Very well, then, what’s your differential diagnosis, Silvestre?”

“Post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, because of the MVA, of course, but the presentation is pretty atypical. Then there’s stroke, something in the distribution of the posterior cerebral circulation, or Transient Global Amnesia.”

“And you’re voting for-?”

“TGA. If it resolves in the next twenty-four hours.”

“And if not?”

“Then I’d get another CT . . . and a psych consult.”

Frank caught Mark’s frown.

“Shall we go say ‘hello’ to Mr. Hardcastle?” Dr. Neely said cheerfully.

“I want to see you get him to do serial sevens,” Silvestre replied, sounding equally cheerful, having gotten through his presentation unscathed. The voices were moving off.

Frank patted Mark on the knee. “Twenty-four hours, see?” he smiled.

“‘If’,” replied Mark. “What about, ‘And if not?’”

Frank had no reply. They sat in silence again.

It was Neely who sought them out, a few minutes later. He’d sent his entourage on ahead, telling them he’d catch up with them on the next floor. Then he introduced himself to Harper and said, “Mr. Hardcastle told me you might be waiting out here.” He looked questioningly at McCormick.  

“I’m someone he doesn’t remember,” Mark said. “What’s TGA?”

The doctor smiled. “So you heard Silvestre’s little case presentation, eh?”

McCormick nodded. “So what is it, some kind of stroke?”

“No, not that. No one’s sure exactly what causes it, but it’s a best-case scenario for your friend in there because, unlike a stroke, it never lasts longer than one day, and it usually doesn’t come back. At any rate, and for a number of reasons, I don’t think your friend is having a stroke. . . It will be interesting to see if he has any anterograde symptoms,” Now Neely was almost talking to himself, only McCormick’s worried look brought him back to the discussion at hand. “What I mean to say, is whether or not he’ll retain what he’s learning as he goes along. Usually with TGA, patients don’t during the acute attack. My impression is that Mr. Hardcastle is pretty quick on the up-take and is trying to meet us more than halfway.”

“You mean he’s going to start faking it once he’s got two facts to rub together?” McCormick asked.

Neely smiled at this characterization, “Yes, that is what I saw happening, even the short time I was in there. Which doesn’t mean he actually believes everything we’re telling him. It’s just that-”

“He wants to get the hell out of this hospital and go see for himself,” Mark sighed.

Neely nodded, “I’d say that’s just about it. But if it is TGA, we should see a very good recovery by tomorrow morning.”

“And if it isn’t?” McCormick prodded. “And it’s not a stroke?”

“Then what’s left is something called a fugue state,” Neely frowned. “That means ‘flight’ and it’s a psychiatric form of amnesia, which usually is the result of the patient being unable to deal with some psychologically devastating event or situation.”

“No way.” McCormick shook his head emphatically. “I’ve never seen anything that man couldn’t deal with . . . Frank?”

Frank said nothing.

Neely looked at both men for a moment and then tented his fingers. “Well, time will tell us more. I would suggest you not give him too much ammunition. I’d like to be able to tell if he’s really better tomorrow.”

Frank nodded. McCormick looked glum. Neely rose and left.

Mark barely waited for the elevator doors to close before he turned to Harper again with a contentious _expression. “Frank? You can’t really think this is some sort of psychiatric problem, that he’s choosing to not remember?”

“Well, no,” Frank replied, but it wasn’t the sort of wholehearted, no reserve kind of ‘no’ that McCormick would have expected.

“Okay, then, why the hell now?” McCormick said through nearly gritted teeth. “Sure he was happier then, but . . .” he hesitated. He stared down at his own hands and then up at Frank again, frowning. “I couldn’t let him run around being the Lone Ranger by himself. God, Frank you have no idea the trouble he’d get into.”

Frank smiled a little. “Oh, I have an idea. I’m not saying you were wrong, Mark. I’m just saying it probably wasn’t easy. Change never is. You know that.” He patted the younger man’s shoulder. “Anyway, no, I don’t think he’d ever willingly give up the last few years.”

“But if not willingly, and if it’s not a stroke, or this TGA thing, then maybe somebody took it from him.”

“How?” Frank asked, and then, “That’s not possible.”

“I dunno, Frank, but if it’s not the ‘best-case scenario’, then at least I think I have a place to start looking.”

“Not with him as back-up.”

“Of course not.”

“And not by yourself,” Frank added sharply.

“Who do you think I am, the Lone Ranger?” Mark smiled.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘No, Frank, I promise I won’t.’” Harper shook his head. “If you drop back fifteen years, I’ll have a hot-rodding teenager on my hands.”

McCormick laughed thinly, but there was a keen edge of worry and fatigue to it. Frank gave him an appraising look. “Okay, you’re going home.”

“Frank-”

“I mean it. I’ll stay here and keep him company. I leave you in there alone with him for half an hour and he’ll pump everything out of you. That Dr. Neely won’t know if he’s coming or going tomorrow morning.”

“But it’ll all be all right by tomorrow anyway, right Frank?” Mark said, looking down the hallway.

“Yeah,” Frank said quietly, “maybe sooner. I’ll call you if there’s any change.”

Mark nodded, and then asked, “Should I say good-bye?”

“No,” Frank said firmly, “when you come back tomorrow, you can say hello, instead.”

No calls were made that afternoon, but Frank himself showed up that evening. He saw the light on through the den window and went directly to the main house. Mark answered the door, looking no better than he had that morning.

“No change?” he asked and, when Frank shook his head, he added, “Well, we’ve still got a few hours. Are you going back?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was asleep when I left.”

McCormick checked his watch. “This early?”

“He seemed tired, or maybe he was just tired of trying to interrogate me.” Frank smiled. “Though that’s kinda like breathing for him. Anyway,” he followed Mark into the den, “I thought maybe the rest would do him some good.” He shrugged, “Can’t hurt.”

He watched Mark plop back into the chair he’d apparently been occupying for a while, law textbooks open around it, a notebook on the padded armrest, a coffee cup perched on the table alongside. He seriously doubted that any real studying had occurred this evening, but it was nice to see the kid was at least going through the motions.

“Exams this week?”

“Ah, Friday, last two-Criminal and Property . . . I think I’ve got Criminal nailed.”

“Yeah,” Frank dropped into the chair opposite, “nothing beats personal experience,” he quipped lightly. Mark made a face, but didn’t seem to have the energy to retort. Frank felt a little guilty. “You want me to pick you up tomorrow?”

McCormick thought about it for a moment and the replied, “Yeah, that’d be good. What time?”

So damn ordinary, Frank thought. It’s not just Milt; the kid’s whole life just got yanked out from under him, and here we are, making an appointment like there really is a tomorrow.

“Nine o’clock?” he asked. Another face. “Okay, eight-thirty. No earlier. You ought to get some sleep, too.”

McCormick nodded, looking around blearily. “You know,” he started hesitantly, “Monday night I was sitting here, studying. He was over there,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the desk, “looking at some damn papers. I don’t know what they were. We hardly talked. I think I asked him one question.”

“You were preoccupied.”

“We might as well’ve been strangers.”

Eight-thirty, he stood on the porch, trying his best not to think, ‘And if not?’ Naming calls. Frank pulled up, not even a minute late.

Mark opened the door and climbed in, leaning back and closing his eyes. “No phone calls, huh?”

“No.”

“None here, either. He would’ve called, wouldn’t he,” Mark said grimly, a statement, not a question.

“Maybe he’s not awake yet.”

“He shoots hoops at 6:30 every morning,” he faltered, “at least he has since I’ve known him.”

The sixth floor was mostly quiet, and Frank had become a familiar face to the desk clerk, who waved him through without comment. McCormick was drifting behind a little as they headed down the hallway. The older man stopped, forcing him to catch up.

“Come on,” Frank said, “in.” He coaxed him to the doorway but went into the dimly lit room first.

On first glance it might have looked like Hardcastle was still asleep, lying on his side facing the doorway. There weren’t any lights on in the room and the shade was pulled. But despite all that, the man’s eyes were open and, as soon as they’d entered, he said, “Hello, Frank . . . Mark.”

The greeting had been so matter-of-fact that it might have been wholly unremarkable, except for the slight hesitation and the entirely unexpected use of McCormick’s given name. Mark gritted his teeth into a smile and replied, “Hello, Judge,” just to keep up his end of the charade, but he felt that same squeezing pain in the center of his chest that had been there the morning before.

“How are you?” Frank asked, with more than the usual casual interest.

“Oh, fine,” Hardcastle replied. “I think I should be able to go home today.”

“Maybe,” Frank replied, very evenly. “We’ll see what the doctor says.”

As if to prove the adage, they heard Neely and his entourage in the hallway. “Good morning, Mr. Hardcastle,” the doctor lead his troops into the room. Frank and Mark moved over to the window side to make space. “And how are you doing this morning?”

“Much better,” the judge smiled. “Much better.”

“And the date today is?”

“December 17th, Wednesday.”

“The year?”

“1986.”

“And the president is?”

Hardcastle frowned, “This is getting a little annoying, Doc.”

“Humor me.”

“Reagan,” he answered calmly.

Neely looked at Silvestre with a small satisfied smile, “TGA.” To the judge he said, “Excellent.”

McCormick rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, head down, his elbow cradled in his other hand. “Doc . . . ask him who the vice-president is.”

Hardcastle shot him a hostile glance. The room had suddenly gotten a lot quieter.

Neely’s eyebrows had gone up a notch.

The judge was looking toward the window again. Under his breath they heard a softly muttered, “Dammit.” And then, a little louder, with barely controlled anger, “Frank, get him out of here.”

In the hallway, Frank turned to Mark and said, low and intense, “Do you think that was such a good idea?”

“I dunno,” McCormick slumped back against the wall and shook his head. Then he looked at Frank with bewildered concern. “Were you gonna let him lie his way out of there? God, he isn’t any better than he was yesterday. And he doesn’t have what they think he has. I don’t think he has any of the things they think he might have.” He looked back down the hallway toward the doorway of room 612. Neely and his crew were still inside.

“Frank,” he went on, “maybe somebody did do this to him. He doesn’t know what he was doing that night.” McCormick fidgeted, “He doesn’t even know he needs someone to watch his back.”

“Well,” Frank said blandly, “I’m not sure getting him royally pissed off at you was a good first step at rebuilding a relationship.”

McCormick grinned worriedly, “Aw, hell, Frank, who says you can’t step in the same stream twice?”

Dr. Neely and the others emerged from the room. McCormick straightened up as they approached. Neely gave him an appraising look and said, “Well, that was interesting.”

McCormick shrugged. “Not that TGA thing, huh?”

“I’m afraid not, unless it is a unique variant, a reportable case.” Neely looked as though the chance of that was disappointingly slim. “On the other hand, yesterday’s repeat CAT scan was unchanged, still normal. And there has been no other detectable deterioration.”

“So, now what, Doc?”

“Mr. Hardcastle is adamant about returning home.” Neely looked thoughtful. “His home is the same one he resided in fifteen years ago?” Mark nodded. “Does he have family? Anyone to look after him? At least for the first week or so; after that we may see.”

Frank looked at Mark. Mark looked at his feet. After a moment, he lifted his head. “Doc, I dunno if he’ll let me, especially after-”

“I already showed him the commitment papers.”

Mark blanched. “You wouldn’t-”

“‘Inability to care for self,’ it’s a valid criterion for commitment. As your little demonstration showed, that is still a very disoriented man in there, but he understands the alternative. He is willing to have someone stay with him.”

“He’s lying to you again,” Mark said bluntly.

“I know. It doesn’t matter, as long as he can’t get away with it around you.”

“Frank?”

“Your call.”

Mark turned back to the doctor. “You think he might get better at home?”

“Possibly. I doubt he’ll get worse. I’d like to see him after a few days. And I’d like him to make an appointment with a colleague of mine, Dr. Westerfield.”

“Psychiatrist?” Mark asked doubtfully.

Neely nodded.

“Okay.” Mark let out a sigh. “If he says he’s willing.”

An hour later the three of them stood side-by-side on the front steps of St. Mary’s, Frank in the middle, Hardcastle looking disgruntled, but relieved to be out.

Frank said, “Just wait here; I’ll bring the car around.” Then he stepped away. Mark just stood, hands in pockets waiting for-

“Let’s get this straight,” there was nothing even the slightest bit disoriented about Hardcastle’s voice or demeanor. “I don’t need anyone to look after me.”

Mark kept his mouth shut. He nodded.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “Just so you understand.”

There was a long silence. Frank pulled up. Hardcastle gave the car a hard look, then opened the door for himself and slid down inside. Mark got in the back silently. Frank pulled away.

The judge fidgeted a little, as though he’d had a thought that wouldn’t let go. As they pulled out into traffic, heading toward the PCH, he turned to Frank and asked, “Where the hell’s Tom?”

Harper tried to stall, but cursing about the hazards of LA traffic-the first thing that came to mind-only bought him a couple of minutes, and Hardcastle was almost shouting when he asked for the third time, “Frank, where is Tom?” Not knowing what else to do, the detective maneuvered the car out of traffic, pulled to a stop on the side of the road, and turned to face his friend.

Watching from the backseat, McCormick had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out some kind of comforting lie-out of town on a business trip, living cross country, anything-but Frank was bracing himself to deliver the truth.

Harper let a couple of beats pass as he gathered his thoughts. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d delivered this sort of news to unsuspecting families, but it never got easier, and this seemed particularly unfair somehow, that his friend should have to suffer through this moment twice in his lifetime. But, there was never a good way to say it, so that’s what he finally said. “Milt, there’s never a good way to say this. Tommy joined the Marines- ”

That was as far as he got before Hardcastle interrupted. “No,” he said thickly, a sudden, fearful knowledge in his tone, “don’t. Frank, please, don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Harper continued softly. “It was 1972, in Viet Nam . . . ” he trailed off, waiting to see if the judge wanted to hear more right now.

McCormick could see the horror settle into Hardcastle’s eyes, slowly drowning out a light that he was only just now realizing he’d never seen before. And with an immediate clarity, he realized that he was watching the beginning of a deep and abiding grief that he’d never fully recognized for what it was.

After a moment, Hardcastle muttered through clenched teeth, “Tell me.”

Harper let out an inaudible sigh; he had almost hoped Hardcastle wouldn’t ask. “He enlisted in the spring of ’72; he was deployed by July. He was really excited, Milt; said it was his turn to help some people.”

Hardcastle nodded. “He was always saying he’d get his chance,” he said dully.

“He was a hero, Milt,” Harper continued quietly. “He was about four months into his tour when his patrol was led into an ambush. Some kids had been locked in a shack in a deserted village; when the patrol tried to release them, they were attacked. They were trapped, pinned down; they couldn’t all make it out. Three men stayed behind to draw the fire and cover the evacuation of the kids.” He paused before adding, “He died to save others, Milt, to save kids. I know that really doesn’t make it better, but you should know that.”

Still sitting quietly, McCormick tried desperately to tune out the conversation, feeling a sudden rush of guilt at his presence. As often as he had wondered about Thomas Hardcastle-both his life and his death-he would’ve given almost anything not to be hearing these details now.

“How can I not remember this?” Hardcastle asked mournfully. “And, God, what it must’ve done to Nancy. How can someone forget something like that, Frank? Am I…am I crazy? Is that why everything’s gone for me?”

The desperation in Hardcastle’s voice was finally too much for McCormick to bear. As much as he understood that he was seen as an intruder right now, he couldn’t stay silent. He leaned forward to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and spoke comfortingly. “You’re not crazy, Milt, and I am so sorry.”

But Hardcastle jerked away roughly, and hissed, in a voice colder than McCormick had ever heard, “Don’t pretend to know what I’m feeling. Don’t pretend to know me,” and then turned to stare out the passenger window.

Mark withdrew his hand quickly, pressing himself hard against the backseat, wishing he could go farther. He heard Harper start to intervene, “Milt, he-” but he shook his head roughly at the lieutenant. Now was not the time to be worried about his feelings, though he felt as if someone had just driven a cold spike through his heart. God, how was he going to do this?

He became vaguely aware that Hardcastle was asking to go home, and that Harper was starting the car. He thought Frank might’ve been trying to catch his eye in the mirror, might’ve even turned around for a second to say something, but none of it really registered. He was only aware of the cold, dull emptiness he could feel working its way through his heart.

Harper pulled the car to a stop in the drive at Gull’s Way. There was no immediate movement from the front seat, but McCormick couldn’t get out quickly enough. “I’ll get the door,” he offered, then slipped out of the car and practically vaulted up the steps.

Hardcastle watched, trying to make sense of it all, but starting with the simplest ideas. “He has keys to my house?”

“I told you he lives here, Milt,” Harper replied patiently.

The jurist nodded slowly, trying to accept the things-so many things-that he had no reason to believe. Now he watched McCormick on the porch in front of an open door, undecided. It seemed the kid’s first instinct was to return to the car, but he stopped after a single step. But he didn’t seem eager to step into the house alone, either, so he finally just stood, frozen in uncertainty.

Hardcastle turned back to Frank. “You’re coming in?” He couldn’t quite make it sound as casual as he had intended.

“Of course,” Harper answered, and climbed out of the car.

Hardcastle led the way silently inside, not noticing the lost look on McCormick’s face, or the encouraging smile Harper offered as the kid gave an almost imperceptible shrug and stood aside to let the other men pass.

McCormick was watching Hardcastle closely as they completed their tour of the house. It was a strange procession; eerily silent after Hardcastle’s initial comment of, “I wanna look around,” and Harper’s insistence that they would all go.

The two men had followed the judge from room to room as he surveyed everything, watching him occasionally drag a hand slowly across a piece of furniture, or stop to examine an item from a shelf. But Hardcastle had not asked any questions, or offered any information, and the others had followed his lead and remained silent as well. They had examined the entire downstairs floor, then upstairs, then trudged slowly back down the stairs to finish up back in the den, right where they had started.

Now McCormick watched as the judge crossed the room and slowly rounded the desk, then sank into the chair. He found himself holding his breath, hoping that the tour had helped. He knew Hardcastle understood things were different; he’d seen it in the judge’s eyes the minute they’d stepped into the den the first time. To McCormick, the den was as it always had been, but who knew how many changes might come over a room in fifteen years? Who knew how many changes might have come over the entire house? If it could help Hardcastle believe that time had really passed, maybe it could help him remember.

It doesn’t work that way. The unwelcome thought jarred him from his hopeful reverie. Probably not, he admitted to himself. But he was still going to hope.

Hardcastle’s eyes had been roaming about the room almost incessantly, but now they came to a rest on Harper, as the detective dropped into one of the armchairs. McCormick saw the hesitation on the older man’s face. He cleared his throat. “Judge? Did you want me to . . . get you a glass of water?”

Hardcastle managed a weak smile, started to nod, then stopped himself. Finally he shook his head. “Nah, never mind about that.” The voice was dull, almost resigned. He turned his attention back to Frank and gestured across the room. “Where’s the Picasso?”

Harper glanced around behind him, but his expression held no particular recollection. He shrugged.

“Um…” McCormick spoke up hesitantly. “You mean that clown guy, Judge?”

Hardcastle looked sharply in his direction, then laughed slightly, though the sound held no real humor. “Yeah,” he said, still without much inflection, “that clown guy. All dressed in white.”

He’s trying to appease me, McCormick thought with sudden certainty. Or, more likely, Frank.  He nodded slowly. “You had that moved to the gatehouse.” He hoped this version of Milton Hardcastle didn’t want the thing hanging back in the den.

The judge accepted the information, then nodded once. “I never did really like that thing.”

“So I’ve heard,” McCormick commented, hoping his relief didn’t show. Then he lapsed back into silence, wondering when Hardcastle would get back to asking about the important things. He was still standing there wondering several minutes later when Harper’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Mark, why don’t you come in and stay a while?” He indicated a vacant chair.

McCormick crossed slowly to the chair and sat down a bit stiffly. He hadn’t really given any conscious thought to his decision to stay on the landing-as close to neutral territory as he could get-but now that he’d been asked in, it certainly didn’t escape his attention that it wasn’t Hardcastle who did the inviting. This is going to be harder than I thought.

The three men sat, fidgeting and staring around the room, anything to avoid making conversation. When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, McCormick finally said, “Judge, are you hungry? I can fix some lunch. Frank?”

They both seemed to give the question far more consideration than it warranted, but Hardcastle finally replied, “I could eat.”

McCormick looked at the detective, and was horrified to see him shaking his head. “I think I should go, Mark.”

Harper approached the younger man, extending a hand in farewell. “You guys are never gonna talk while I’m here,” he whispered, as he leaned close. He raised his voice and glanced over at the judge. “Milt, you should take it easy. Get some rest.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” McCormick answered hesitantly. “But I make a pretty mean soup and sandwich combo.”

Harper grinned slightly, offering what little reassurance he could muster. “Maybe next time.” He turned back to Hardcastle. “Milt, why don’t you see me out? Mark, I’ll call you guys later.”

McCormick gave a half-hearted wave, and waited until the others were out of the room to roll his eyes. If nothing else, he figured they’d get awfully good at finding ways to get rid of him. He would be more bothered by that, except that there were few people in the world he trusted more than Frank Harper. And since the guy at the top of that list currently had no idea that he’d ever existed before yesterday, there really wasn’t much point in begrudging the men a few private moments together. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen.

Harper hesitated before sliding behind the wheel. Hardcastle had followed him all the way to the car, but hadn’t said a word. Now the judge was standing, hands jammed into his pockets, staring at his feet. Frank reached out, gently grasping his friend’s arms. “Milt. I know-” he hesitated a second, then continued, “at least, I can imagine, how hard this has been for you. If there was anything I could do . . . ”

Hardcastle tried to force a smile. “You could stay.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Milt,” Harper answered softly. “I am so sorry about everything you’re dealing with right now, but whatever’s going on with this whole memory thing, we’ll get to the bottom of it.” He took a half-second to hope that he sounded more confident than he felt, then continued, “You won’t be alone.” He couldn’t ignore the brief snort of disbelief.

Tightening his grip on Hardcastle’s arms, he gazed intently into the judge’s eyes and spoke sincerely. “I know you don’t know this right now, but being here with Mark is exactly what you would want. No one could be more dedicated to helping you-whatever you need-and, up until a couple of days ago, you knew that. Milt, that kid would die for you, so give him a chance. You don’t know him right now, and you don’t want to trust him; that’s okay. But trust me. I’m telling you, he’s okay. Don’t shut him out. He’ll take anything you dish out, Milt, but don’t put him through anything you’re gonna regret when you’re better.”

This time, the judge got the smile right. “You’re telling me to be nice.”

The detective grinned and gave the arms one final squeeze. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Think you can do that for me?”

“Okay,” Hardcastle conceded, “I’ll do my best.” He watched Harper climb into the car and close the door, then leaned down on the open window. “Frank? Thank you for being honest with me about . . . everything.”

“Always,” Harper said simply.

Hardcastle watched silently as the car disappeared down the drive.

Hardcastle looked dubiously at the sandwich in front of him. “Isn’t there any cheddar cheese? I usually prefer cheddar on-” he broke off as a bowl was set before him. “Except when I have tomato soup,” he finished, staring at the red liquid, disbelieving.

McCormick placed two glasses of iced tea on the table, then turned to get his own food. “I know that, Judge,” he said as he seated himself across from Hardcastle.

They busied themselves with the food for a few minutes, though neither really had much of an appetite.

“Frank told me I should be nice,” Hardcastle suddenly said into the silence.

McCormick couldn’t resist. “And did he also tell you that would be a switch?” But the small grin faded quickly as Hardcastle just stared back at him in confusion. “Sorry,” he muttered, and the quiet descended again.

After another few moments, Hardcastle spoke again. “Mark?”

McCormick grimaced slightly; this first name bit was wearing on his nerves fast. “Yeah, Judge?”

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know you.” He hesitated. “Although I guess ‘don’t remember you’ is probably more accurate. How come you live here?”

McCormick struggled not to let the spoon fall from his hand, but he surprised himself with how easily the answer came. “A few years ago, right about the time you were retiring from the bench, a good friend of mine was murdered. You helped me catch the guys who did it. That was our first case together, but it wasn’t our last.” He took another swallow of soup, silently cursing himself. That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say? You’re gonna start this relationship with a lie?

It’s not a lie, he argued with himself. It’s an abbreviated truth.

“So we work together?” the judge asked, still trying to understand. “But why live here?”

“I work for you,” McCormick clarified, “and crime-fighting isn’t exactly a nine to five job. Room and board was included in the deal.” Abbreviated truth, my ass, his mind scoffed.

“Frank said about three years?”

“About that,” Mark confirmed. “A little longer.”

“But you’re in law school?”

McCormick pushed his soup aside. Eating and truth abbreviating was too hard to handle at once. “Yep.” He grinned a little. “Following in some big footsteps.”

Hardcastle seemed to ponder that for a moment, then said, “You work for me. But we’re . . . friends?”

The answer came without hesitation. “The best.”

The judge studied the young man for several long seconds. He never did seem convinced, but he finally nodded silently and returned his attention to his meal.

And, feeling that he had managed to survive the first round, McCormick did the same.

Lunch had been awkward, but sitting in the den afterward had quickly proven unbearable, and it hadn’t taken long for Hardcastle to put an end to the misery. “I’d really like to be alone,” he said with a pointed look across the room.

McCormick wanted to object, though he wasn’t sure which of them he was actually trying to spare the solitude. But the judge’s _expression forbade any dissension, so he gave in as gracefully as possible. “Okay, I’ll go.” He grabbed his textbooks from the end table and started up the steps. He reached the door then turned back to face Hardcastle. “But, Judge?” He waited for the inquiring eyebrow, then offered a tiny smile. “I won’t stay gone.” Without further comment, he disappeared out the door.

McCormick tried to focus his eyes, and his attention. His brain was swimming: types of ownership, relationships between landlords and tenants, easements, trusts. Until a couple of days ago, the information had seemed cumbersome, and maybe a little puzzling from time to time, but not insurmountable. But now . . .

He continued to stare at the page, but all he saw was the lined face of Milton Hardcastle. And, unless he concentrated very hard, he heard the dreaded words, Don’t pretend to know me.

He shook his head, trying to get his mind back on property law. But every sentence about how real estate was impacted by rights of survivorship made him think of Nancy Hardcastle, and how the judge was grieving for her anew. And every word about preparing trusts to protect the real property interests of minors and adults who were perhaps incapacitated made him think of . . . He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Stop it,” he instructed harshly to the empty room. “He’s not incapacitated.” He turned another page in the textbook, though he wouldn’t risk any amount of money on the idea that he’d actually committed any of it to memory.

He continued that same pattern-staring at the printed words, trying uselessly to make them about studying instead of about Hardcastle, then turning to the next page-for at least two hours. He never succeeded in truly comprehending any of it, but he did get through several chapters before sheer mental exhaustion won out and he finally dozed off.

He awoke to . . . “Basketball?” He pulled a hand through his curly hair and let his mind wake up. Broad daylight, late afternoon, maybe very early evening. Basketball was possible, but not likely. You don’t know when he played back then, he reminded himself, but he ignored the thought. Anyway, now that he was awake, the pounding didn’t really sound like a game of hoops. After a quick stop in the bathroom, Mark pulled on his sneakers and went in search of the noise.

Hardcastle wasn’t outside on the court, so he continued across the property. Not by the pool, either. But the sounds grew louder as he approached the front of the house, and as he rounded the corner, Mark stopped short, staring in disbelief. He had been prepared for many things, but Milton Hardcastle on a ladder, wrestling a strand of Christmas lights, had not been high on the list of possibilities. “Ah . . . Judge?” He closed the remaining distance hesitantly. “What’re ya doing?”

Hardcastle looked down at the younger man with a glare so familiar it was almost painful. “Whattaya think-” but he broke off before he finished the growl, and McCormick had never wished so desperately to be yelled at.

“It’s Christmas,” Hardcastle said in a more subdued tone, trying to smile. “Nancy always likes to put up the lights.” He saw the slight frown on McCormick’s face, thought about what he’d said, and forced himself to make the correction. “Liked. Nancy always liked to put up the lights.”

McCormick resisted the impulse to tell the judge that he’d never even known a strand of Christmas lights existed at Gull’s Way. If Hardcastle wanted decorations, there would be decorations. “Well, okay. But come down from there and let me do that.”

Hardcastle waved a hand in his direction, dismissing the idea, and turned back to the eave, hammering in a couple of hooks for the next section of lights.

“Judge, I’m serious. This is the kind of stuff you keep me around for. Let me help you.”

“I’ve been putting up holiday lights since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, kid, so I certainly don’t need you buttin’ in now.”

Mark bit back a response. So close, he thought. So close to normal. Except for the cold sting of the words. Real this time.  He took a step back. “Is there anything I can do?”

Hardcastle glanced back behind him, his eyes showing that he clearly intended to dismiss the young man once and for all. But he stopped before he had uttered the first word, and thought for a moment. What he finally said was, “Why don’t you be in charge of the meals? It’ll be time for dinner when I finish here.”

McCormick considered his options, decided there really weren’t all that many, and nodded. “Whatever you say, Judge,” he said quietly, then left the man alone, stringing lights in honor of his dead wife.

They were on the patio, sharing another strained meal. Mark had grilled while Hardcastle finished the decorating, and the judge had been surprised when the steak and potato were cooked precisely to his satisfaction, and the beer on the table was in the bottle rather than a glass, just the way he preferred. McCormick had wanted to grab the other man and shake some sense into him, but he’d settled for muttering, “You learn a lot in three years,” which he thought had come out more aggravated than he’d intended. This home sweet home routine might save Hardcastle from commitment, but he was beginning to have serious doubts about himself.

“Can I ask you something, Mark?”

The hesitant question interrupted McCormick’s intense study of the slab of meat on his plate, and he decided he was going to have to tell Harper to have the judge back off this “nice” routine just a bit. “Of course.” Everybody on their best behavior.

“Sarah, my housekeeper. What happened to her? Her room looks like it’s been empty for a long time. Is she . . .?” Hardcastle trailed off, unwilling to actually ask the question.

“She’s fine,” McCormick answered quickly, flashing a genuine smile. “She retired a couple of years ago, moved up to San Francisco to be closer to her family.”

Hardcastle appeared relieved. “Thank God.” He looked across the table speculatively, then continued, “Did you know her?”

“Sarah? Sure. She was here for a while after I moved in. She’s a great lady.”

“Yeah.” Hardcastle took a long swallow from his bottle, observing the younger man.

For his part, McCormick was just relieved to have stumbled across one tiny piece of common ground, even if it was only a mutual affection for Sarah Wicks.

“What did you do before you came to work for me?”

Round two. “Drove race cars, mostly.”

The judge hitched up an eyebrow. “Really? That’s quite a career change.” He didn’t ask the question, but McCormick could hear the “why?” behind every word.

“Things change, Judge,” Mark answered with a small shrug. “You needed someone to ride shotgun and I needed someone to help me get the guys who killed my friend. We joined forces, and we’ve been together since.” Tell him the whole truth.

But he couldn’t do it. Somehow, McCormick was convinced that he was walking too close to the edge with Hardcastle as it was. To confess now to being an ex-con paroled into the judge’s custody would surely get him booted right off the estate. Or, at the very least, shut out of his life even more than he already was. No, he wanted Hardcastle to get to know him first, wanted to somehow prove himself before telling the whole truth.

The only problem with that was that never-not even in the earliest days-had he ever lied to Milton Hardcastle. And there was a part of him that wondered just what he hoped to prove by starting now.

Fifteen minutes later, McCormick was still just pushing his food around the plate, but Hardcastle seemed to have finally regained his appetite. Mark allowed himself a small smile; he was glad one of them was managing to adjust. He waited until the judge had almost finished his meal, then spoke up suddenly, keeping his tone conversational. “So what were you doing out and about Monday night, Judge?”

“I was-” Hardcastle stopped almost as quickly as he started.

For a fleeting moment, McCormick thought the judge was just being secretive, operating again on his rather unusual need-to-know basis, and relegating his forgotten sidekick to the ‘no need’ category. And, for that moment, he was too happy to even be angry. But then he saw the judge’s features twist in uncertainty when the words wouldn’t come.

Hardcastle spoke again, as if he could force the memory to reveal itself. “I was . . . ” He appeared to think very hard. “Dammit. I was out, and . . . and I was . . . I was . . .” He shoved himself roughly away from the table and jumped to his feet.

“I don’t know!” he shouted, glaring at McCormick. “Dammit, I just don’t know. The last thing I remember was Monday afternoon, granting a continuance on the Hefflin manslaughter case, then working in my chambers for a while reviewing pending motions. After that, it’s all a blank, but that’s clear as day.” He took a breath, trying to bring himself under control. “But you’re telling me that afternoon wasn’t day before yesterday, but fifteen years ago. You’re telling me that somewhere between the last clear memory I have and waking up in the hospital Monday night, my life has changed. That my family is dead, that I’ve retired from an actual job in the judicial system to go on some kind of wild justice crusade, and that somewhere along the way, you and I met and became such fast friends that I put you on the payroll and let you live in my gatehouse.” He was close to shouting again as he placed his palms on the tabletop and leaned across at McCormick. “Does that about sum it up?”

McCormick swallowed hard and forced himself not to look away. God knows, the anger was nothing unusual. And, he could even deal with the sort of cool indifference Hardcastle seemed to hold for him these days-as long as he kept believing it was temporary. But, the fear and confusion that haunted those steely blue eyes, that was the hard part. If he couldn’t fix this, if things never got better, that was the part that might ultimately do him in.

But not tonight.

McCormick rose slowly from his chair and leaned his own palms on the table, meeting the tortured gaze. “Yeah, Hardcase,” he said evenly, “I think that about sums it up. Sorta sucks, doesn’t it? But it’s what we’re dealing with, and we’ve dealt with worse. Honestly, Judge, I would do just about anything if I could give you back your family, but I can’t do that. But I am gonna get you back those fifteen years. There’s gotta be a way, and we’re gonna find it. That’s what we do, you and me; we find things. Fix things. Make things right. We’re gonna make this right, too. Count on it.”

Long seconds passed as Hardcastle continued to stare across the table, but finally the tension began to leave his body, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a pretty noble speech there, kid. Do you leave behind a silver bullet when you go?”

And then McCormick laughed. “Nah, that’s your bit. But Tonto is always along for the ride.”

     
McCormick snatched up the desk phone after the first ring. He was back to studying again, and though he was making more progress this time around, he was still grateful for the interruption. “Hello?”

“Mark? It’s Frank. How’s it going? I called the house, but Milt said you’d already turned in for the evening. It’s not even ten o’clock yet, so what’s wrong?”

McCormick smiled slightly at the phone. “I guess things are okay, Frank. But he threw me out right after the basketball game.”

“Threw you out?” Harper asked, alarmed. “What happened?”

“Well, maybe not exactly threw me out, but he did say he wanted to be alone. Second time today he’s done that, but I’m trying to give him his space. I don’t really know what else to do.”

“You guys are getting along okay, though?”

McCormick hesitated. “I’m not sure you’d call it getting along, but he is at least tolerating me.” Then he continued in a lighter tone, “I’m not sure he was too happy about losing twenty bucks to me tonight, though. He said he’d been watching basketball since I was . . . what was it? . . . oh, yeah; a gleam in my daddy’s eyes. Said I got lucky.”

Harper chuckled. “Do you think you have an unfair advantage here, Mark? He doesn’t know what a shark you are.”

“Well, not so much that,” the young man began with a slightly guilty laugh, “but he did ask me why the Cavs were playing an ABA team. But, hey, I brought him up to speed on the league, and I gave him all the lowdown on the teams. I told him they couldn’t beat the spread, but he wouldn’t listen. I warned him.”

Grinning, and feeling more relaxed, McCormick went on, “Okay, Frank, I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about basketball. What do you want to ask me?”

Harper didn’t change his tone. “Any change?”

“Not really,” McCormick admitted, trying to hide his disappointment. “I tried asking him about Monday, but he didn’t remember anything. He asked a few questions of his own, but nothing seemed to ring any bells.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Frank. It’s like he’s trying to make himself believe what’s happening, but he doesn’t. Not really.”

“What’d he say when you told him how you two met?”

Harper waited at least thirty seconds before deciding he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Mark?”

“I haven’t told him.”

The response was so softly spoken, Harper wasn’t sure he’d heard it correctly. “What?”

McCormick raised his voice, though he suddenly sounded very tired. “I said I haven’t told him, Frank.”

“Why the hell not?” Harper barked in exasperation.

“I couldn’t,” Mark answered, clutching the phone tightly to his head. “Frank, I don’t think he needs to know that right now. Jeez, he’s barely putting up with me as it is; he finds out I’m a convicted felon, and he’ll throw my ass out on the street.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” the lieutenant objected quietly.

“Easy for you to say,” McCormick countered, “he still likes you. If he knew he was the one who sent me up, he’d probably think I was out to kill him, or something.” He breathed deeply. “I just can’t tell him yet, Frank. You understand, right?”

“I understand, Mark,” Harper said slowly, “but you have to do it. How’s he gonna trust you if you start lying to him?”

“I haven’t lied,” the young man replied defensively, “I just…” he trailed off, considering the situation.

“You want me to tell him?” Harper asked into the silence.

“No!” McCormick lowered his voice. “Sorry. But, no. I’ll tell him, I really will, but I don’t think I can do it just yet. Give me some time, Frank, okay? Let him get to know me first. I mean the now me, not the me from his files. He- ” He broke off suddenly, as he was struck with a terrifying thought. “Oh, God, Frank, the files. What if he finds my file? What am I gonna do?”

“I’d suggest telling him the truth.”

“You don’t understand.” Mark’s voice was tinged with despair. “I’m barely holding this together, Frank. You saw the way he was with me. But we had an okay dinner, and then we watched some basketball. It wasn’t exactly normal, but it wasn’t bad. The judge is a good guy, and he knows people; he’ll warm up to me pretty soon. I think I just need a couple of days. Okay?” McCormick held his breath, waiting for a response.

“You don’t need my permission, Mark,” Harper said gently. He spoke earnestly to his frightened young friend. “You know, there aren’t too many people I would leave him with in these circumstances, but I know you’d never hurt him. What I’m more concerned about right now is whether you’d do something to hurt yourself. Mark, I know you’re worried about this, but I’m gonna ask you to trust me. Milt will understand, but you have got to give him the chance to accept you. You’re worried about him shutting you out, but what are you doing to him?”

The line was silent for a long moment while McCormick considered his options. “I hear you, Frank,” he finally said, “and I appreciate your concern. I’ll tell him soon-maybe tomorrow, if everything goes okay-but not tonight. It’s been kind of a long day, and I just can’t face it tonight.”

“Okay,” Frank answered sympathetically, “I understand. But not too long, Mark; it’ll only get harder.” He let a beat pass, then said, “I thought he sounded okay on the phone. Not great, but okay. But you wanna know what he said about you?”

“What?” McCormick cried. He made a face, even though Harper wasn’t there to appreciate it. “Hell, yeah, I wanna know!”

The detective chuckled slightly. “He said he was beginning to think he might be sorry to forget you.” He didn’t wait for the shocked silence to wear off before he hung up the phone.

McCormick trudged across the darkened lawn, telling himself he just wanted some ice cream. After Harper’s call, he’d really buckled down to the studying, but after several hours of deeds and property lines, he deserved a break.

Hah! Usually take your lock picks when you raid the kitchen?

He continued toward the main house, ignoring the voice in his head. Sometimes he really annoyed himself.

Now in the darkened room, lit only by the thin tunnel of light given off by the penlight he’d brought along, McCormick hesitated. Sitting behind the oak desk, burglar tools in hand, he was one click away from opening the bottom file drawer and ensuring that Hardcastle wouldn’t stumble across his secret. But, damn. Lying to him and stealing from him all in one day? That was quite the welcome home package.

It’s not stealing; it’s borrowing. And I haven’t lied.

Think ol’ hunt ‘em, hear ‘em and hang ‘em would see it that way?

I think he needs me, whether he knows it or not. This is for his own good. He leaned forward and put the pick in the lock.

Whose own good?

His, he thought furiously. He can’t go around jumping to conclusions because of my past. I’m a changed man, reformed, rehabilitated-

You’re stealing to cover up a lie.

Slowly, McCormick pulled back on the pick and sank back into the chair. “Okay,” he said under his breath. “Dammit.” He was slipping the pick back into its case when the overhead light illuminated the room.

“Looking for this?” Hardcastle asked from the doorway, holding up a tattered manila folder.

Staring, frozen in the seat, McCormick could think of nothing except the truth. “I didn’t want you to find it.”

“You’re an ex-con,” the judge continued, stepping down into the room. His slow, deliberate words weren’t really disguising his anger.

McCormick nodded wordlessly.

“I sentenced you?” He received another nod as he approached the desk. “And then you were paroled into my custody?”

“Yeah.” McCormick could barely force out the word.

“But your parole ended and you’re still here?” Hardcastle dropped the file on the desk and looked sternly across at the other man, who was back to simply nodding. He indicated the tool case in McCormick’s hand. “You know how to use those things?”

He swallowed hard, but McCormick stuck to the truth. “Yes.”

“You ever steal from me before?”

“No,” Mark answered, quietly but firmly. “And for what it’s worth, I wasn’t gonna tonight, either.”

“So it seemed,” the judge replied, causing McCormick to wonder just how long the man had been watching from the shadows. “What made you change your mind?”

McCormick finally dropped his gaze. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Hardcastle instructed in his most judicial tone.

With a shrug, and still not looking at the judge, McCormick answered, “I wanted you to get to know me before you found out about me. But I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to convince you I could be trusted if I started out with a lie.”

“And the me you know trusts you?”

Finally, Mark allowed his eyes to meet Hardcastle’s. “Absolutely.”

“And we’re friends?”

“Yes.”

The judge looked between McCormick and the file on his desk. “That seems…unlikely.” His tone wasn’t unkind, just candid.

“Unlikely? Damn straight it’s unlikely. You and me, Hardcase, we’re like the original odd couple. But it works. God only knows how, but it does.” McCormick sighed, and looked down at the case in his hands. Zipping it closed, he slipped it as discreetly as possible into his pocket as he rose from his chair. “But maybe it worked because I tried hard to overcome some of my natural tendencies.” He started across the floor, not entirely sure Hardcastle would allow him to leave, certainly not with criminal tools in his possession.

“Wait a minute.”

The words stopped him in the doorway. Here it comes. He turned to find the judge staring at him, his _expression a strange combination of confusion and bitterness, as if he would never be able to reconcile all the information he had learned today, even if he wanted to. But after a moment, it became clear that no further objection was forthcoming. McCormick offered a final comment.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning, Judge. But as unlikely as this situation seems, we really did make it work.” He paused briefly. “But you had to overcome some of your natural tendencies, too.” And he slipped out of the house and back into the darkness.

Falling off the couch and smacking his head on the coffee table was not the way McCormick wanted to start the day. Adding another insult was the heavy medical book that followed, landing on his shoulder as he lay on the floor. Groaning and searching the gatehouse wall for the clock, he realized that the sun wasn’t even quite peeking over the horizon yet. The only real light in the room was from the lamp still burning from the night before.

“6:06,” he mumbled sleepily.

Picking himself up off the floor, he stumbled towards the bathroom. Peering at his head in the mirror, he caught a look at his face. He looked terrible. He knew he was burning the candle at both ends, but didn’t think he should look that bad. While he was trying to decide what stage of bloodshot his eyes were, the last few days came back to him. Then the whole breaking and entering scene from the night before flashed through his head, and he thought he was going to be sick.

Without using the bathroom for any of its intended purposes, he wandered back into the main room and slumped back down on the couch. The events of the week again played out in his head. With each passing thought, he felt more and more despair.

What the hell am I going to do?  No coherent thoughts were forthcoming. I’m in over my head here. Rolling his head across the back of the chair, he tried to work the kinks out. He started thinking about the day and the rest of the week ahead. Should I even try to go to the library today? I can’t leave him alone.

He felt paralyzed and his body unwilling to move, questions and memories swirling through his brain. He couldn’t sleep when he had gotten back from the main house the night before. He was hoping and even praying that Hardcastle would set his file to rest and try to stay in the present. He has to stay in the present or go back fifteen years. What the hell is he going to do? Attempts at reading the medical text he had taken from Hardcastle’s library Tuesday, trying to find out more about all the possibilities of the judge’s head injury and present condition, had proven futile.  Thinking about the possibilities of what exactly Hardcastle was doing on Monday night was just frustrating. He had prayed silently for answers. He didn’t remember when he finally passed out.

After a while, he realized that the light in the room was bright from the sunshine coming through the windows. He shook himself out of his reverie and knew he had to get going. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 6:25. A part of him waited for the thump of the basketball outside but part of him was relieved because he wasn’t quite sure how to start a conversation this morning.

With determination, he pulled himself up and headed for the shower. He did remember his little speech last night and again promised himself that he was going to do everything in his power to find a way through this. For both of them.

Figuring that the judge had put him in charge of the meals, he headed over to the main house to make breakfast. As he neared the kitchen door, he saw the light on. His steps faltered a bit and he momentarily thought about heading back to the gatehouse, but continued on. Not thinking too clearly yet, and out of years of habit, he pushed open the door and entered the kitchen.

Looking startled, Hardcastle turned from the counter and barked, “Don’t you even knock?”

Mark opened his mouth, but no words came out. The sinking feeling came back, replacing any positive thoughts he’d had earlier. The only sound for a few seconds was the radio, broadcasting the morning news.

Turning back to the coffee maker, Hardcastle said, “Well it’s good to see that you’re an early riser, at least.”

McCormick ducked his head a bit and toyed with the idea of letting the judge believe that, but decided that enough lies had already been told.

“Well um, not exactly. Usually you’re the one slamming a basketball on my bedroom wall to wake me up.”

Pondering that, the judge turned to the younger man and said, “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” Mark always thought the judge’s coffee could make great driveway sealer, but he knew he needed something strong to jumpstart his morning. “What are you doing making breakfast? I thought I was in charge of the meals?”

“Well I didn’t know what time you’d be up, and I was hungry.”

Mark, feeling a bit more confident because the judge hadn’t thrown him out of the house after his entrance, said, “Well, okay then, I’ll get to work. ‘Eggs ala McCormick’ coming up.”

“Eggs ala McCormick?”

“Yup, trust me, Judge, you’ll like them.” He almost choked on the words as soon as he’d said them. Trust was definitely an issue here.

Hardcastle was looking at Mark with an unreadable _expression on his face. He said, “Okay, I’ve got to make a phone call. Let me know when they’re ready.” He shuffled off towards the den. His gait was slow and a bit stiff, the aftereffects of the accident still noticeable.

Mark opened his mouth to ask about the phone call but quickly closed it. Normally he would have just bluntly asked. Normal. Just what the heck is normal around here?

When breakfast was almost ready, he yelled into the den and received a grunt in reply.

Eggs ‘ala McCormick’ were met with an approving nod after the first few bites.

“Not bad, Mark.”

That first name thing again. He was going to either have to get used to it or figure out a way to change that.

“Thanks.” The odd unfamiliarity was back. Surprisingly though, McCormick didn’t feel the stifling tension of the day before.

“So, what’s your school schedule like?” the judge asked.

“Um, well usually I have Property Law on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesdays and Thursdays are Civil Procedure. But I have two final exams tomorrow then I’m done till January.”

Hardcastle looked up from his breakfast and said “Usually?”

“Well, it’s just study group today, so I figured I’d stay home today and see-” Mark started.

“I told you yesterday, I don’t need looking after,” the judge interrupted furiously.

“I am not looking after you!” Mark spouted back automatically. Thinking to himself, Oh yes I am; somebody has to.

Both men had stopped eating and were looking intently at each other. A few moments of pained silence passed, neither knowing what to say. A jaunty Christmas song seemed to scream out of the radio, even though the volume wasn’t set very high.

“Judge,” McCormick took a deep breath and started, “somebody is supposed to be with you this week. Dr. Neely said…”

“Dr. Neely, my sweet aunt! I don’t care what anybody says! Just because I can’t remember, doesn’t mean I need some kind of wet nurse!” Hardcastle attacked his plate with a vengeance, better to eat than talk.

Sitting back and dropping his hands in his lap, Mark desperately tried to maintain his composure. He stared at his plate, the thought of food again making him nauseous. Well, Mark thought, at least he didn’t stomp off or flatten me. But the anger was unnerving, and knowing it was a natural reaction didn’t help.

A ring of the doorbell ended their silence. They heard the sound of the door opening, and footsteps coming down the hall toward the kitchen. Frank entered the room with a cordial, “Good morning, thought I’d stop in before…” his voice dropped off with each word. McCormick’s downcast face and Hardcastle’s rigid posture were a dead giveaway that something was going on.

“Okay, guys, what’s up?” he got straight to the point. He had hoped that by this morning things would be a little smoother for the two of them.

Grateful for the interruption, Hardcastle’s eyes softened a bit at the sight of his friend. “We, um, were just having breakfast.”

“No dice, Milt. Spill it.” The detective in Frank kicked in, and he was determined to find out the problem.

“Well if you really have to know, Junior over here doesn’t think I can take care of myself, even though apparently I’ve been doing it a lot longer than I thought.”

Still sitting quietly, Mark thought, Junior is a step up. He looked helplessly at Frank.

Looking at McCormick, he asked, “Mark?”

“I just was following what Dr. Neely said about sticking around.” He got up, taking his plate with his uneaten breakfast, and walked toward the sink. “Want some coffee?”

“Who made it?” asked Frank, sitting down.

“I did. Why?” responded the judge.

Inwardly, Frank grimaced. “Just asking. Yeah, I’ll have one.” He secretly told his stomach to hang on. The judge eyed him curiously.

Seeing the judge had simmered down a bit and setting a fresh cup down, Mark went back to the sink and changed the subject. “Frank, I never asked, where’s the truck?”

“That’s what I’d like to know, too!” fumed Hardcastle. Glancing at McCormick, he continued, “I already called about the truck; that’s what I was doing on the phone. I can’t believe that nobody can find a 1958, tan, GMC truck. It’s ridiculous!” The judge was also upset at the fact that he didn’t recognize any of the people he had talked to on the phone.

Mark and Frank’s eyes met and Frank waved his hand at McCormick seeming to say, This one’s yours.

Rinsing one of the plates he was washing and clearing a catch in his throat, Mark said, “Um, Judge, that’s because you weren’t driving a tan, 1958 GMC. You were driving a black, 1984 GMC truck. The old truck was retired a couple of years ago.”

A vacant look came over the judge’s face again. He shook his head, got up from the table and walked over to the window. Another piece of the puzzle gone.

After a brief silence, he sighed, “Well, I guess I may owe a couple of people at the station an apology then.”

“Milt, don’t worry about it,” Frank said. “I know where it was towed and we can go over there when you’re up to it. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I’m here.”

Turning, the judge looked at him questioningly.

“Well, your insurance adjuster is looking at it today and I don’t want the truck towed till you can look through it. I was hoping that we might find something that will give us a clue as to what you were doing alone down there Monday night. It was taken to the police impound lot after the accident and they’re keeping an eye on it. But I need your signature on this to leave it there a few more days,” Frank said as he placed a piece of paper on the table.

Mark heard a slight emphasis on the word ‘alone’ and thought, Yeah, I damn well want to know, too. He held his tongue.

“Mark, I figured I’d run Milt down there while you’re in class and you could pick him up down at the office when you’re done.”

“I can go down there today and drive myself back here, ya know!” muttered the judge.

“Sorry, Milt, no can do. Besides the fact that the truck isn’t drivable, I’m with Mark on this one; what Dr. Neely said goes. You aren’t going anywhere until after your next appointment with him.” He continued firmly but compassionately, “You know he still has the commitment papers.”

With that the judge stopped dead in his tracks. “Frank, at least I thought that you-,” he faltered. He shook his head and stormed out of the room.

Exhaling the breath he’d been holding, McCormick slowly made his way back to the table and sat down. “What are we going to do, Frank?”

“I already told you what we’re going to do,” he replied. “You’re going to go to school and study.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’ about this, Mark, you need to get through your exams and we’ll go from there. We take this one step at a time. When Milt comes out of this and finds out you were that close but quit because of what’s happening right now, he’ll kill you.” Frank continued a little more gently, “Look, I’d tell you not to worry, but that won’t help. We will work through this and find out what’s going on.”

Grateful for the compassion and confidence, Mark grinned at Frank. “He would kill me, too.”

Smiling back, Frank rose from the table and headed for the den. “Well I hope he doesn’t kill me right now.”

“Frank, wait,” said Mark, stopping Harper at the door. “There was a file in the judge’s desk. I don’t know if he’s looked at it but it was there when I had gotten back from the hospital Monday night- well, I guess Tuesday morning. It’s in the locked bottom right-hand drawer.” Frank raised an eyebrow. Mark continued, “No, I don’t have a key and, no, Hardcastle doesn’t know I know about it- hell, he probably doesn’t either.” Frank’s eyebrow came down.

“The file only has a couple of things in it, and I wrote them down for myself, too. A guy’s name, ‘Henry’, the word Glendale, and the number S1712. There’s some notes, but none of it makes any sense to me.”

“There’s nothing you two were working on?” Frank asked again, even though Mark had already denied it.

“No!” Mark said emphatically, toying with the placemat before him. “We’ve slowed way down since I started school. I should have known something was up. Dammit! I should have paid more attention to what he was doing Monday night.”

Frank crossed through the room and put his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “This is not your fault.”

McCormick looked up at his friend, pure misery written across his face. “What if we don’t figure this out? What are we going to do?”

Gripping his shoulder a bit tighter, Frank forced himself to be positive. “For the third time, right now you are going to study.” Mentally bracing himself, he went on, “I’m going to talk to Milt.”

“Okay,” Mark swallowed what was left of his concern. “I can meet you guys by, say two?”

A few minutes later, Frank walked into the den. He stopped on the landing. Hardcastle was looking out the window. Without turning, the judge said softly, “Sorry, Frank, guess I’m having a little problem with all of this. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“No need to apologize. I’d be having a big problem with all of this.” He went on cautiously, “But seriously, Milt, until we figure out what’s going on with you, and as much as you hate the idea, one of us is going to be hanging around.”

Still looking out the window, the judge exclaimed, “What the hell is that!”

Rushing to the window and peering over Hardcastle’s shoulder, Frank started laughing, seeing the Coyote heading down the driveway.

“That’s the kid’s car.”

“His car?” Hardcastle looked at the vanishing taillights in disbelief.

Still chuckling and moving towards the desk, Frank said, “We can talk about it later; it’s a long story.” He figured the jig was up and if Mark didn’t tell the judge, he’d have to. He thought, That’s what the kid gets for procrastinating.

“I’ll bet it is.” Hardcastle then said abruptly, “I found the kid’s file.”

Inwardly, Frank groaned. “Did you talk to Mark about it?”

“A little. Last night. He was in here trying to steal it out of my desk, but I already had it.”

Whirling around, Frank looked at Milt. He had just listened to Mark’s kitchen confession about actually breaking into the drawer for the other files, but no mention of this. He didn’t need any more surprises.

“No,” Hardcastle said slowly, “he didn’t go through with it. I was watching and he stopped himself. He didn’t know I was here. Guess there’s something I should give him credit for.”

Releasing the tension from his shoulders, Frank sat down on the edge of the desk.

“You should, Milt. He’s a good kid, smart. Still makes dumb mistakes every once in a while, but he’s come a long way since you first brought him here. He’s also put his neck on the line for you more times than I can count- whether you’ve wanted him to or not.”

“But who is he, Frank?” the judge asked. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“I guess I can make my story longer. Right now we’ve got some business.”

“Business?” the judge asked guardedly.

“Yeah, Mark said you two weren’t working on any new cases. We need to look through your desk and see if we come up with anything.” Frank was treading lightly, not wanting to give up Mark’s admitted little foray into the judge’s personal papers. He also thought to himself, I should have started a list a long time ago for the ones McCormick owes me.

Looking thoughtful, Hardcastle moved over and sat behind the desk. “Well, other than McCormick’s file, there were a couple of my old cases.” With a twinge in his voice he said, “Ones I don’t even remember. This one doesn’t have a lot in it,” he said, handing over a folder. “Must have been in a hurry; I can’t even read some it. Just a name, couple of notes, and a number. I haven’t asked McCormick about it yet. If we’re some sort of civilian crime fighters, he may know something.”

With a slight grin Frank said, “More like the Lone Ranger and Tonto.”

Hardcastle gave him a sharp look but Frank was already poring over what little there was in the file. “Not much here. Well, we can try and run the number down at the station.” He looked up to see Hardcastle rubbing his temple. “You okay?” he asked, concerned. “You think maybe you’re up to running over to that impound with me, a little later, to take a look at your truck?”

“Hell, yes,” the judge replied gruffly. “I’m all right, just a little tired. Didn’t sleep too well last night. Too much to think about I guess.” He paused, then added, “Mark doesn’t look too good, either.”

Pursing his lips together, Frank said, “Well he’s got a lot on his plate, too. He’s worried sick about you, and he’s got finals for school right now. You both need a couple days to take it easy.”

“Hrmph, I just don’t get the whole idea of what he’s doing here,” answered the judge quietly.

“Not too many people do, Milt, not too many people do.” Rising from his perch on the desk, Frank got up and looked at the judge. “Come on, I’ll let you buy me another cup of your lousy coffee.”

Hardcastle rose carefully and said, “Lousy coffee? I don’t make lousy coffee….”

Not bothered by the chilly December air, Mark drove with the tops out and windows down. He needed some air. Looking at the usually beautiful scenery had just depressed him. Holiday decorations seemed so out of place to him this morning, and they were everywhere. Thinking back on the last few Christmases he had shared with the judge brought back a lot of memories. The first year when celebrating together was so awkward. The second, when things were a little better and the two of them had started some of their own traditions. Last year, although neither would probably admit it, they really had a lot of fun. Exchanging presents, arguing about the tree, each having some of their friends over for a holiday dinner. And then, out of nowhere, came the melancholy thoughts of what this year might bring.

The car’s radio was on, and soon all of the ads for pre-Christmas sales and Christmas songs made him want to scream. Definitely not in the mood for all that happiness. Pushing a cassette into the player, the rock band, Kansas, started cranking loud and clear. McCormick started singing along until he realized the words out of his mouth were ‘carry on my wayward son’. Punching it back out, he snapped off the radio. Frustrated and angry, his fist slammed down on the steering wheel. The rest of the trip to the campus was driven in somber silence.

Arriving on campus, he found his two usual parking spots filled. Glancing at the clock in the car, he saw it was even early. Figuring, Why not? Everything else is going so well, he began looking for an alternative. There weren’t too many places he’d park the Coyote. Finally finding a suitable spot, Mark got out, grabbed his backpack with his books, and started walking to the library. He knew he needed a couple hours of review before his exam the next day.

Ignorant of his surroundings, Mark walked along, passing the usual array of shops and fast food places that litter college campuses everywhere. Checking the street at a crosswalk, he stopped suddenly when something in a store window happened to catch his eye. Looking more closely, it was something he’d never imagined finding on campus or anywhere else actually. Unbelievable. But was it real? He turned abruptly and entered the store, surprised it was open this early.

The guy behind the counter looked like he’d been left behind from a Grateful Dead tour a few summers ago and was snoring, sleeping peacefully. Mark walked right by him and headed over to the window. He had to pick his way around everything from used furniture and clothing to a row of old books and even a pool table. Setting his books down, he picked the picture off its hanger and gave it his full attention. He stared, almost in awe. The white stallion pawing his hooves into the air, the unmistakable figure with the white hat and black mask sitting tall in the saddle. In scripted letters near the bottom were the words. Remembering, he had seen them before in one of Hardcastle’s favorite old comic books. Mark started reading them again unaware he was saying them softly out loud.

Looking the whole picture over again he decided it was the perfect gift for the judge. He hadn’t bought anything for him yet. He was having a hard time this year coming up with an idea. Usually it was pretty easy to buy for Hardcastle, but this year Mark had wanted something special. He had wanted to show the judge how grateful he was for the chance at law school. Schooling Mark never could have afforded. The judge would always blow him off about the tuition and he knew he could never repay him, well, not with money anyway. McCormick turned over the price tag and swallowed, ninety-five dollars.

His shoulders slumped a bit. That was a lot of money, and he didn’t even know if it was an authentic autograph. Still carrying the picture and zigzagging his way back to the front counter, he woke up ‘Sleepy,’ the clerk.

“Huh? Whadda ya want?” Stretching, yawning and scratching the back of his head, the man slowly came to life.

“This picture, is it authentic?” Mark asked holding it out toward the man.

“The Lone Ranger one?” said the clerk, squinting and trying to focus.

“No, this one of Superman,” McCormick replied, irritated.

“Well that’s not Superman, it’s the Lone Ranger, and yeah, it’s authentic.” The guy was waking up more. “It was my dad’s. He kicked off last year. Didn’t know what to do with that so I had it checked out and found out it was a real autograph. I even got the picture around here somewhere showing that dude signing it for my dad. He was a real rah-rah guy for crap like that. You know, for God, for country. I think he wished he could have either been him or John Wayne or something.”

“How much do you want for it?” McCormick asked, hoping the guy wasn’t awake enough to read the price tag.

“What’s the tag say?” Sleepy, now the wide-awake clerk, had perked up with the hopes of making a good sale.

“Ninety-five.” He replied.

“Well then, that’s what it costs.”

“You’re sure it’s a real autograph?” Mark asked again.

“Told ya, I got a picture.” The guy started rummaging around. “I’d even throw that in for free.”

“Swell.” He looked at it again, torn. The frame was in great shape and the glass was clear and clean. But it was the words still rambling around in his head that kept the picture in his hands. They were so dear and true to his best friend. A best friend he didn’t know how to help or comfort right now.

“Here’s the picture,” said the clerk, handing over an old black and white photograph. In it were two semi-fuzzy figures. The same white hat, and black mask looking down at a relatively young man, who was looking up in awe. Moore was writing on the picture and it was hard for McCormick to see if it was the same one.

One last glance at the picture he was holding and he knew he would be making this guy happy. He realized it was a lot of money, probably more than it was really worth. The set of tires for the Coyote would have to wait a little longer. He had to have it.

“Okay, I’ll take it,” he said, “but I don’t have the money on me right now. Can you hold it till tomorrow? I’ll get it to you then.”

Sleepy seemed disappointed and looked at McCormick closely, his hopes for immediate cash dashed. “Yeah, but only till tomorrow night; after that it goes back up in the window.”

He placed it on the counter and gave the guy his name and number. He walked out of the store and the rest of the way to the library with a little lighter step.

“The Lone Ranger,” Hardcastle muttered quietly, as they drove cross-town toward Glendale. Frank kept his mouth shut on that subject. It seemed like everything he’d said since they’d gotten in the car had only annoyed his friend. “And a car thief for Tonto,” he added, with no effort to hide his chagrin. “What the hell was I thinking, Frank?”

Frank kept his eyes on the road. Now that it had come to a direct question, he supposed he’d have to respond. “You were thinking about doing some good.”

“For who? That kid?”

“Yeah, for him.” Frank shrugged, “For you, too. And, hell, you two racked up a lot of busts the last few years. You brought in a lot of bad guys.” Frank spared a glance from the road. The man sitting next to him still wore a look of disbelief. “You got Joe Cadillac to turn himself in, testify against some of his old buddies.”

“Cadillac?” Hardcastle’s disbelief seemed to deepen. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Well, you and Mark . . .” Frank suddenly felt a little less comfortable with his prime example. So this is why the kid was lying. He shoved his qualms over to the side. No more of that. “Got some evidence out of impound-papers Cadillac needed to ransom his son.”

“Cadillac has a kid now?”

“He had one all along,” Frank explained. “His son’s a priest.”

“No kidding,” Hardcastle shook his head once then, abruptly, he frowned. “What do you mean ‘got it out of impound’?”

Frank sighed, briefly regretting all his admonitions to Mark, but still determined to follow his own advice. “You and Mark broke into impound, when it looked like the ransom deadline was gonna beat the evidentiary ruling. You took the papers-”

“I . . . he . . .” the judge grasped for words.

“It was your idea,” Frank said quietly. “Mark just provided the expertise.”

Disbelief was hardening into absolute horror. “Then how come he’s not- we’re not-in prison?”

“You got off on a technicality,” Frank replied, with just a twinge of satisfaction. “Then,” he plunged ahead on the crest of the shock value, “there was a mobster on the East Coast, guy named Tommy Sales. You two took him down.”

“How?” Hardcastle asked, almost hesitantly.

“You broke into a Federal judge’s chambers, popped a safe, took some tapes.”

“He cracks safes, too?”

“Well, not that time,” Frank admitted. “That was his dad, but it was your idea. Sales had Mark. You got the tapes to trade for him. You told me all about it over a couple of beers one time, called it ‘flagrant necessity’. Then you got the whole bunch busted when they showed up for the trade.”

“’Flagrant necessity? A judge’s chambers?” Hardcastle repeated the words, almost to himself. He shook his head, then slowly turned toward Frank. “We do this kind of thing a lot?”

“Not without a good reason,” Frank offered reassurance. “But I just thought you should know; he’s been damn useful to you.”

“And the ends justify the means?” Hardcastle gave him a hard look. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Some ends,” Frank said, carefully, “and some means.”

“You start breaking the law,” Hardcastle replied brittlely, “and pretty soon you’ve got anarchy.”

“I once heard a guy say, ‘The people's good is the highest law.’” Frank said, glancing aside at the older man for a moment. Then he added, “That was you-the first time I ever testified on a case in your courtroom.”

There was a long, silent moment. “That wasn’t me,” the judge finally said quietly. “That was Cicero.”

“Yeah, well,” Frank smiled, “I was just a rookie cop. I thought it was Hardcastle.”

He pulled in at the gate of the private towing and impound facility, honked his horn once, and flashed his badge at the attendant.

“I called Glendale Traffic Division this morning. They said it wasn’t drivable, got towed here.” Frank stuck his head out the window. “Black and gray GMC truck brought in Tuesday morning?” He held out a copy of the accident report. The attendant waved him vaguely toward the back.

As Frank pulled up in the aisle next to the truck, he realized that the judge was staring past him at the vehicle. From the back, the damage didn’t appear too severe; it was the truck itself that seemed to have the man flummoxed.

“That’s mine?” Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

“Yeah, you’ve had it, what, about three years now.”

“Frank,” the older man frowned, “don’tcha think it’s kinda flashy? What was wrong with my old one?”

“You burned the engine out,” Frank smiled.

“Nah . . . I always took good care of it. Oil changes every 2,500 miles and everything.”

“No,” Frank laughed, “I mean you burned the engine out, as in incinerated. Up in flames.”

Hardcastle’s frown deepened. “And I got this?” He walked over to the driver’s side, winced a little at the spider crack on the window, and then looked inside. “It’s got a lot of bells and whistles.”

Frank bit down on another laugh. “Well, I think Mark convinced you it would improve the resale value if you got air-conditioning and a tape deck.”

The judge turned back to him, face stern. “It figures; he’d know about that. Blue book values are kinda his stock and trade.”

Frank froze, half out of the car. For about the third time in the last half-hour, he was glad that the kid was at least ten miles away, and not around to hear all of this. “It wasn’t like that.” He sighed wearily. “I know he made a big mistake last night, but . . . honest, Milt, I’m starting to wonder if he wasn’t right about one thing.”

Hardcastle straightened up and bristled. “Right about what?”

“About how you wouldn’t trust him if you knew about his past, at least not yet. Even though you did trust him. God, I never knew two people who trusted each other more.” Frank was out of the car, leaning the door closed, hands in his pockets. He studied his friend carefully, and then he shook his head again, looking down.

He gradually became aware of the silence, and lifted his head again. Hardcastle was staring at him. “But why?” the judge finally asked.

“I dunno,” Frank said. “I won’t lie to you; he screwed up a couple of times, back at the beginning-never the really important stuff, though-but you kept trusting him . . . and he was-he is-trustworthy.”

The judge looked away for a moment, then back at Frank, his expression only slightly more conciliatory. “If you say so.”

I did my best, Frank thought. It’ll have to do for now.

The judge glanced back into the cab of the truck, seeming eager to move on to a new topic. He reached for the handle and opened the door. “There’s something on the seat. A map.” He reached for it then hesitated.

“Three days, half a dozen cops, and a handful of emergency workers. This no longer qualifies as a crime scene,” Frank grimaced, looking over the judge’s shoulder.

Hardcastle looked back at him thoughtfully. “You’re not sure it ever was.”

Frank caught himself on the verge of another gently reassuring lie. He shut his mouth abruptly. Then, a second later, said, “If it makes you feel any better, Mark thinks it is.”

Hardcastle ‘harrumphed’ as he reached in and grabbed the map-Greater Los Angeles-folded open to the southern part of Glendale. “Where did the accident happen?” he asked.

“On Glendale Avenue.” Frank pulled the police report out of his pocket. “The intersection of Glendale and San Fernando, where Glendale merges. You blew through the light.”

The judge grimaced again. “So I’ve heard.”

“You know,” Frank looked at him abstractedly. “That’s about 1900 South Glendale Avenue. Maybe that ‘1721’ is an address.” He took the map from the older man and studied it for a moment, then looked up, puzzled. “Wanna go check it out?”

“Why not?” the judge shrugged. Glancing back briefly into the truck, he turned away.

“Wait a sec,” Frank reached past him, past the steering wheel, and to the glove compartment, snapping it open. “Well, this has gotta be a first. Nobody stole your gun.”

Hardcastle flashed a brief smile of recognition. Frank tucked the gun and holster under his own arm and turned back to his car.

“Frank?” the judge asked.

The lieutenant looked back at him, eyebrows briefly up. Then he said, “Ohh . . . aw, come on, Milt. Dr. Neely’d kill me if I let you have this back right now.”

He didn’t add that Neely would have to get in line behind Mark. That was probably better left unsaid.

The accident scene provided no useful insights. Hardcastle stared at it with no glimmer of recognition. There was no obvious sign that anything had happened there. The short trip up Glendale Avenue brought them to an impressive set of wrought iron gates, with the ‘1721’ almost lost among the decorative filigree-work. But they hardly needed to look at the name emblazoned on the escutcheons mounted at the top.

“Forest Lawn?” Frank said, bemusedly. “Ring any bells?”

“Well, I’ve been here before. Funerals.” The judge suddenly frowned. “Nancy?”

“No,” Frank shook his head hurriedly. “She and Tom are over in Woodlawn.” He glanced away just as suddenly, as a look of infinite sadness returned to the older man’s face. “Sorry, I-”

“Anyway,” the judge exhaled, “it would have been locked up tight at that hour of the night. Why come here at one in the morning?”

Frank didn’t want to go in the direction of midnight forays into cemeteries and mausoleums. There’d been a couple of those. Fortunately, the judge seemed not to be pursuing that line of questioning. He was just standing there, staring past the open gates, into the cemetery beyond.

Frank gave him room to think, standing back a bit. After a few moments, he heard the older man say, almost to himself, “Lots of others, probably.” He was looking down, now, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Frank understood. “Well . . . yes. Fifteen years,” he said flatly.

“Who?”

“Ahh, Tyler Peebles, that was a couple years back. And Charles Clarkson-”

“Old Charlie? I would’ve gone to his funeral.”

“You did,” Frank smiled. “And then you investigated his murder.” He paused for a moment, and he added, “We almost lost Mark on that one.”

The judge gave him a questioning glance.

“Yeah, he was helping you investigate a crooked lawyer and his client. They were the ones who killed Charlie and his secretary. You got too close to the truth; they shot Mark.”

The judge pursed his lips, considering.

“You never really explained to me how you figured out where they’d dumped him.”

“Well,” Hardcastle looked a little peeved, “don’t ask me now.” He took one last look around and then headed back to Frank’s car.

Frank drove them to the station, by way of a hot dog place that had been one of their longstanding favorites. The familiarity only seemed to ease the tension a little. The pall that had settled over the judge in front of the cemetery still lingered.

Frank checked his watch as they entered the building. “Mark should be here any minute. He said he’d be done by two.”

Hardcastle merely nodded once, no other comment. He started to turn the wrong way down the second floor corridor and was snagged gently by the lieutenant and steered to the right.

“New office,” Frank said with a smile. “Down here. Bigger, but not much. Here.” He stopped in front of the door, reaching for the knob.

“Bathroom’s still in the same place, isn’t it?” Hardcastle said.

“Yeah,” Frank replied, a little hesitantly.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Frank, I can do that by myself,” the judge groused.

“Okay,” Frank frowned. “Meet me back here.” He watched the older man stroll down the corridor, looking completely at home.

He fought down the last minute urge to say he, too, needed to use the facility. This not-lying thing was proving trickier than he could have imagined. Instead, he stepped into his office and carefully closed the door behind him, taking a seat at his desk and eyeing the growing backlog of paperwork with a weary eye.

He was not more than two layers down when he heard a sharp, quick tap on the door, followed, without a pause, by Mark’s entry.

“Hey, Frank.” The kid seemed remarkably more upbeat than he’d been that morning. Then he glanced around quickly. “Where’s the judge?”

“Men’s room,” Frank gestured vaguely toward the hall.

“Oh . . . okay,” Mark looked over his shoulder as he took a seat. “It’s where it’s always been, isn’t it?”

“Since they built the place,” Frank replied dryly.

“So, umm, how’d it go? Find anything?”

“A cemetery,” Frank replied glumly. “Forest Lawn. That’s what’s at the address that was in his notes.”

Mark wore a puzzled expression. “Anything else?’

“Nope, we struck out. And he hasn’t remembered anything, either.”

“The truck-?”

“You need to figure out who’s going to do the repair work-”

“But it’s-”

“There’s a lot of front-end damage. I don’t think you should leave it sitting in that impound much longer.”

“But, Frank-” Mark began again, with mounting frustration.

“An accident. It looks like an accident. Unless you think the guy from the trucking company is lying-”

“That’s a place to start.”

“-and I already looked into him. Long-term employee of a legit company. Left on time to make his scheduled run on his scheduled route. Nothing unusual.”

“Ah, any signs of sabotage?”

“You can take a look at it yourself, once you’ve got it towed. It needs a lot of body work, and I’m guessing the front axle’s a goner. Just figure out where you want it and I can get things moving.”

Mark looked over his shoulder again. “Well, you better ask him about that.”

“But you-”

“I cook, Frank,” Mark said, resignedly, “and I stay out of the way.”

“Well, yeah.” Frank nodded. “I kinda get that.”

Mark’s eyebrows went up a little.

“I spent the morning with the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle.” Frank gave him a chagrined look.

“Yeah, but you said you’ve known him almost thirty years, Frank.”

“Yeah, about,” Frank replied. “But at first we were acquaintances, colleagues. We didn’t get to be friends ‘till later on.” Frank looked at the younger man thoughtfully, “And I’d say we’ve been a whole lot closer since . . . since he retired.” Frank shook his head. “I dunno, I guess I didn’t realize how much he’d changed. He was a very tough judge, Mark.”

“Oh,” McCormick laughed. “You mean I didn’t just get him on an off day?”

Frank smiled and shook his head. “And, anyway, cops like tough judges. So, maybe that’s what I used to like about him, back then. I dunno. I’d just forgotten what he was like.”

Mark looked over his shoulder again. “The men’s room?” he asked.

“Yeah, maybe five minutes before you showed up.” Frank looked down at his watch, then up at Mark, a little more concerned.

“You think maybe you could go check on him, Frank?”

“Ah, yeah,” Frank agreed reluctantly, but was already out of his seat. Mark followed along behind, and he looked like he thought this might be a dangerous mission to go point on.

Frank ducked his head in through the door, no one in the stalls-no one in the room at all. He ducked back out again, and his face gave the results away. “The first floor?” he suggested worriedly, but McCormick was already three steps ahead of him and heading for the stairwell.

He burst into the first-floor men’s room with Frank on his heels. No one. They retreated back to the lobby.

“Where else?” Mark asked.

“You looking for the judge, Lieutenant?” the desk sergeant asked helpfully. “He walked by right before he came through.” The sergeant pointed at McCormick. “Went out the front, hailed a cab.”

“Frank,” McCormick looked a little panicky. “He’s got a twenty-minute head start.”

“Listen,” Harper put one hand out, taking Mark by the arm, “he probably just went back to the estate. It was a long morning.”

“No, he would’ve waited for me.”

Frank looked a little doubtful.

“It’s someplace he doesn’t think I’d take him, or that he doesn’t want to go to with me.”

“Woodlawn Cemetery?” Frank asked.

McCormick gave that a moment’s thought. “Maybe, but that’s not real to him, yet. Seeing it would make it real, I think he’ll avoid that. No . . . the courthouse.”

“I dunno,” Frank mulled it. “We talked about Woodlawn.”

“Okay, you take it; I’ll take the courthouse.” He was already heading for the front door.

Mark took the courthouse steps two at a time, going against the tide of the afternoon departures. The deputy just inside the door was someone they knew. McCormick pulled up short.

“Seen Judge Hardcastle?” he asked, catching his breath.

The guard nodded, looking a little puzzled. Perez, McCormick though, That’s his name, and he’s too young to have been here fifteen years.

Perez pointed to the elevators and said, “Yeah, came through a little while ago. He usually says ‘Hi.’ What you guys in such a big hurry for today?”

“Long story,” McCormick sighed, only somewhat relieved that he’d nailed Hardcastle’s destination on the first guess, and feeling a little guilty that he had been half-wishing for Frank to be right.

He took a breath and walked to the elevator at a pace just a notch above procrastination. He stepped aside, as the arriving downward car emptied its full load out into the lobby. He entered the now-empty car and stood there for a moment, his finger poised over the third-floor button. He supposed he might go back and wait in the lobby. The judge would be perfectly safe wandering around his old haunts. Lots of people still knew him here.

He pushed the button. It wasn’t about safety. It was that odd look that Perez had had. It would only be multiplied by dozens, once the judge got upstairs among his old colleagues, once he started talking. They’ll think he’s crazy; they’ll feel sorry for him. He cringed. Not that your showing up is likely to make things much better.

The doors opened on a nearly empty hallway. He went down the hall to the right, almost to the end of the corridor-the judge’s old courtroom, door closed and lights out. The week before the holiday, things are slowing down a little. He heard voices from around the corner coming toward him-Sid, the judge’s old bailiff, and another that Mark didn’t recognize. Sid was talking in a low, but animated voice. He looked up as they rounded the corner.

“Mark?” he said, sounding relieved as hell. “What’s going on?”

“He’s okay?” McCormick asked flat-out. “He’s here?”

“Yeah,” Sid nodded. “He’s standing in front of Judge Stoddard’s chambers, his old chambers, looking for his key.”

“Where’s Stoddard?” Mark asked nervously.

“Gone for the day. What’s wrong with him, Mark? I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“He’s not crazy,” Mark said, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt. “He . . . had a head injury. A car accident. Monday night.”

“They let him out of the hospital like that?” Sid said, disbelieving. “Damn insurance companies.” The bailiff shook his head. Then he looked up at Mark. “You think maybe you can talk to him? I can’t let him in there.”

Mark saw the relief on the man’s face and wondered when he’d become ‘the guy who can deal with Hardcastle’. He smiled thinly, trying to look confident, and stepped past the other two men, who looked all too glad to let him pass.

McCormick waved them back. “Give me a minute.” He rounded the corner by himself. It was a short hallway, with a side door on the right hand that led to the courtroom, and the door to the chambers straight ahead, only about twenty-five feet away.  

Hardcastle stood with his back to him, looking down at the set of keys he held in his hand. Sorting through them one at a time and then, when he’d apparently reached the end, looking up at the door again with a puzzled frown.

This wasn’t real yet, either, McCormick thought, standing frozen where he was. But it is now. The judge seemed unaware of him, caught in a moment of confusion. It took everything Mark had left in him, to take another step forward and clear his throat.

“I was only back here one other time,” he shot a quick glance at Hardcastle and then shifted his gaze to the door, moving up till he was almost side-by-side with the older man. “That was three and a half years ago-the day before you retired. I remember you had a jar of peanuts on your desk, and I was so mad I dumped them out right in front of you.”

“Mad at me?”

McCormick smiled sadly. “Mad at you. Mad at everybody. Mostly mad at Martin Cody-he’s the guy who had my friend killed, the guy I stole the Coyote from. You wanted me to give the car back. I said I wouldn’t.”

“A matter of principle?”

“Damn straight.”

“And then?”

“You sent me back to the lock-up. And then you got your hands on Cody’s file. And after that you helped me nail him.”

“I helped you?”

“Or maybe it was the other way around.” Mark grinned. “It’s hard to tell sometimes.

“Like you helped me get Charlie Clarkson’s murderer?”

Mark’s mouth dropped open for a moment. “You remember Charlie?”

“Sure I do.” Hardcastle said matter-of-factly. “I’ve known him from way back, since I was a cop.”

“Then-” Mark almost grabbed the older man by the shoulders.

“Frank told me about the murder, this morning.”

McCormick’s grin faded. “Oh, yeah . . . Frank.” He found himself staring at the closed door again. “Anyway . . .” he started up again, after a moment, slowly, “then you retired. And we started going after the ones that had slipped through the cracks.”

“Sounds crazy.” Hardcastle shook his head. “It sounds dangerous. Frank says you almost got killed by the guys who got Charlie.”

“That was almost a year ago,” Mark said with flat practicality. “I was okay. You found me in time.”

There was a long moment. The judge looked down at the keys in his hand, then over his shoulder at the side door that led to the courtroom. Then he shook his head. “Why?” he finally said, quietly, but with deep frustration in his voice. “I don’t get it.”

“You retired. Nobody made you quit. You wanted to do this.” Mark said insistently. Then he took a deep breath. “It’s Stoddard’s chambers now. All the files, all the important stuff, is back at the estate.”

The judge slipped his keys back into his pocket, saying nothing. The silence stretched out impossibly.

Mark let out a sigh. He almost reached out for the judge’s arm. Almost, but he caught himself again. “Look,” he said wearily, “it’s been a long day. Can we go home now?”

Still saying nothing, the judge turned and preceded him down the short hallway, into the main corridor, and past the bailiffs, still standing by the door of the darkened courtroom.

Frank took the steps of the courthouse two at a time and, just as he reached the door, encountered Mark, coming out.

“He wasn’t at the-”

McCormick jerked his chin just a fraction toward his right shoulder and Frank saw Milt following behind him by a couple of steps, looking deep in thought and none too pleased.

“We’re gonna head back to the estate,” Mark said quietly.

Frank pulled him aside as the judge plodded by, barely giving him a nod. When he’d gone past, a little ways further, Frank leaned in toward Mark and asked, “He’s okay?”

The kid looked at him bleakly. Whatever had been buoying him up this afternoon, when he’d first arrived at the station, was completely gone now.

“Yeah,” he finally replied, his voice flat. “It was easier than the trip to the cemetery is going to be.” His eyes were following Hardcastle. “Why did he give up being a judge, Frank?”

Harper frowned. “I dunno. He was good at it. But he was better at being the Lone Ranger.” He gave the younger man an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “I never heard him say he regretted it.”

Mark was still watching Hardcastle’s slow trudge. “Till now,” he said, and then headed down the steps to catch up.

The drive home had been mostly silent. The judge had had his keys out, almost before they’d pulled up, and he’d gotten out and headed toward the steps as soon as the Coyote had rolled to a stop.

Mark watched him mount the stairs. He was still sitting on the sill of the car, not sure which direction he was going to take. Already on the front porch, the key in the lock, Hardcastle was looking over his shoulder at him.

“Did you have lunch?” he asked.

Mark had to give it a moment’s thought. “No . . . I had coffee.” He looked down at his watch. Almost five.

He heard the judge say something half to himself, and then saw him shake his head. “Well, you’d better come in here and rustle something up. You’ve got exams tomorrow, don’tcha?”

Mark nodded, and climbed out of the car and followed the judge in.

Friday morning, Frank found Mark standing on the front porch a couple of minutes before nine.

“Sorry, traffic-you won’t be late, will you?”

“No, plenty of time. Property Law doesn’t start till ten, and Criminal is right after that. If I push it, I can be home by two.”

“But you’re not going to do that,” Frank said firmly. “You’re going to take your time and do it right. Right?”

“Frank, I kinda do these things on the reflex. It usually works out better that way. If I think too much, I screw it up.”

“A final exam is not a racecar, Mark.”

“No, you can’t hit the wall at two-hundred miles an hour in a multiple-choice test.” McCormick had managed a small grin. “Hell, you can’t even do that in an essay exam.”

Frank found himself smiling, too. Then he glanced over the younger man’s shoulder toward the house. “Things going better?”

“Um, yeah, maybe a little . . . I think. He didn’t throw me out last night.”

“Well,” Frank smiled, “there’s a start.”

“Yeah, he saw what I was studying and he started talking about Miranda v. Arizona, and Escobedo v. Illinois. God, Frank, he said it almost word for word the same last week. It was like he was back.” The look on Mark’s face was painfully hopeful, though it couldn’t quite overcome the shadow of doubt in his eyes. “Anyway, he’s around back by the pool. He knows you’re coming.”

“You took the heat on that one, huh?”

McCormick shrugged as he headed down toward the car. “I can take it. You just keep him out of trouble today.” Then he was in the car and pulling away.

Frank turned and walked around the side of the house. He found Milt sitting at the table, sorting through a stack of papers. The judge glanced up at him as he approached.

“He’s gone?”

“Yeah. Did you wish him luck?” Frank smiled.

“Luck, hell. I quizzed him. He knows his stuff,” the judge admitted gruffly. Then he hesitated a moment before he plowed ahead, “I’m . . . I’m sorry I ran out on you yesterday.”

“Lemme guess.” Frank put his hand to his forehead and half hid a smile. “Mark put you up to this. Am I right?”

“Hell, no,” Hardcastle protested, then a pause and, “Well, maybe.” He looked out toward the ocean, grimacing. “It’s just . . . he said you were really worried yesterday. That I scared you, taking off like that.”

“Me, huh?” Frank shook his head. “Yeah, I was . . . Mark was, too.”

“How’d he find me so fast?” the judge was staring steadily out at the waves.

“Oh, I’d say he knows you pretty damn well.”

The judge looked sharply back at the lieutenant. Then he nodded once. “I . . . I was looking at his file again, last night. The later stuff-my notes. The stuff for the parole board.”

Harper waited patiently as the admission came out, in fits and starts.

“Maybe I was a little hasty, yesterday. Some of what I said.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, then said, “I dunno; it just still really seems weird. I mean, I sentenced the guy to prison . . . And neither one of you seems to be able to explain it very well.”

“Yeah,” Harper smiled more broadly and shrugged, palms up. “What can I say? One of life’s little mysteries.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Do you think you can trust us on this one?”

Hardcastle was looking down at the papers. “I guess I’ll have to.” He’d started speaking again, slowly, without looking up. “But, Frank, you can know something without feeling it.” The man was practically gritting his teeth in frustration. “Do you understand? It’s like I died fifteen years ago. None of this happened to me.”

“Maybe . . .” Frank leaned forward in his chair, “maybe you should take Dr. Neely’s advice.” He hesitated a moment, Hardcastle was looking at him now, fixing him with a wary glare.

“Which advice?”

“About . . . seeing the other specialist,” Frank got the last part out in a rush.

“A psychiatrist?” Hardcastle’s tone was cool. “You think I’m crazy, huh?”

“No. Not that.” Frank sat back again. “I just think it might help you cope, you know, with all of this.”

“Well,” the judge went on, almost without a pause, “I’m not. I’m not crazy. I don’t feel crazy.” His right hand was a fist, resting on the papers. “Though I gotta say, I think I mighta been a little crazy before.”

“No,” Harper said emphatically. “You weren’t.”

There was no answer to this. The two men sat across the table from each other silently for a few moments. Finally Frank said, “Did you want to go anywhere this morning? I can drive you.” He frowned for a moment. “When is your appointment with Neely? He said he wanted to see you in a couple of days. You’ve made one, haven’t you?”

Hardcastle nodded. “Mark did. For Monday.” His gaze drifted a little. “I thought maybe . . .” he stopped, clearing his throat. “You said Woodlawn? They’re both there?”

Harper froze in the judge’s questioning gaze. Then he said, simply, “Yes. Both of them.”

“I think . . .” the judge frowned. “I think I’d like to . . .”

“We could drive over there,” Frank replied quietly.

“Yeah,” the judge, “maybe later on.”

Mark’s first stop that morning was at the bank, making a one-hundred dollar withdrawal from his already slim funds. What had seemed like an excellent idea twenty-four hours ago, had now taken on a freight load of second guessing. No doubt the gift would have been the perfect thing for the old Hardcastle, but this new one? Or is this the old one and that was the new one? He frowned as he stepped up to the teller’s window and passed over the slip.

You stayed up too late last night.

He watched the teller count out five twenties. Being quizzed by Hardcastle on nonfreehold estates at midnight had been . . . interesting. Okay, the part when we got to ‘tenancy at sufferance’ had been a little awkward.

He folded the money into his wallet and checked his watch, wondering just how fast he could plow through the two finals, stop off and buy the gift, and get himself home.

And then what? Then there would be three weeks of sitting across the table from a man who only knew him as a case file-a guy who’d forgotten every one of the thousand adjustments that have to be made when two people spend a whole lot of time in close proximity. Tenancy at sufferance.

Frank turned in off 14th street and through the gates. The man sitting next to him had been quiet the whole way down the PCH and through Santa Monica. This cemetery was a far cry from the one yesterday-a gentle, civic antique rather than a funerary extravaganza.

He navigated the inner road and stopped near the Hardcastle plot. The judge got out, standing there, looking a little puzzled, waiting for guidance. Frank came around the front of the car and pointed it out to him, a pale gray granite marker of moderate size, between a palm and some neatly trimmed bushes.

He walked to it, Frank only a step behind, and, when he was only a few feet away, he stopped and studied the inscription-Nancy’s name and dates. Off to the right side was a smaller stone, only slightly raised, bearing a bronze Marine Corps emblem and Thomas’s name, his dates. Planted next to the stone was a small American flag, looking nearly new.

“Veteran’s Day. Mark said that was the last time you were here,” Frank said quietly.

The judge frowned and stooped to straighten the flag very slightly. “It’s been a month?”

“They’re not here,” Frank insisted, still quietly.

“Then where?” Hardcastle replied, just as quiet, almost plaintive.

Frank put one hand on the older man’s shoulder. “In memory. In your heart. For fifteen years.”

He watched as the man return to the larger stone, and brushed his fingers over Nancy’s name, then looked at the blank space on the left half of the stone, giving it a long, silent stare.

Then he turned away and began to walk back to the car.

Mark closed the blue book and put his pen back in his pocket. He’d kept his answers to the point and dispassionate. It didn’t pay to get personal on exams in Criminal Law. He surveyed the rest of the lecture hall, all the heads, mostly ten years younger than his own, bowed over their work, pens scribbling, pens poised. He only wished he wasn’t going to be the first one getting up. Maybe Frank had a point.

What the hell difference does it make, anyway? I give it one more week, tops. He’ll get the okay from Neely to stay by himself, and you’ll be asking Leroy for a job doing repos.

He got up, and delivered his booklet to the front desk, with a thin smile and a nod to the proctor. “Happy holidays,” he said grimly.

They pulled up the drive at the estate, after another long and nearly silent trip on the PCH from Santa Monica. The Coyote was parked out in front of the main house.

“He beat us home,” Frank observed casually, sneaking a quick glance at his watch.

The man in question could be seen, now that they’d rounded the fountain. He was standing out among the rose bushes, staring down at the ground, looking deeply absorbed in thought. At the sound of the car doors, he looked up, then waved them in his direction.

“Where’d you go?” Mark asked as they approached.

“Woodlawn,” Hardcastle replied flatly.

Mark’s eyes flicked over to Frank then back again. “Oh.” There didn’t seem to be much else to say for a moment after that.

Then the judge broke the silence. “How’d the exams go?”

McCormick was looking back at the ground. “They went,” he said absentmindedly. And then, after another moment of silence, he looked up at the judge. “Sorry . . . I forgot.” He exhaled. “You always ask me that. And that’s what I always say.” There was a brief flash of a smile. “It doesn’t mean anything. A thing about not jinxing it, I guess.” He glanced back down again, the smile gone. “Have you been out here recently, Judge?”

“You mean since Monday?” Hardcastle asked dryly.

“Yeah,” Mark shook his head, “I mean since Monday.”

“No. What are you looking at?”

“I dunno, footprints, I think.” He pointed down at something that, with imagination, Frank might have called a print.

The lieutenant stooped, then crouched. Hardcastle leaned over. Mark looked further afield, stepping back carefully from what might be a continuation of the track.

Frank was frowning. “Okay, maybe. It’s kinda faint. When does the yard service come?”

Mark looked up. “Tuesday mornings, but they don’t do anything with these this time of the year. Somebody was walking around here, maybe last night.”

“You didn’t hear anything?” Harper asked.

Mark scratched the back of his head. “He was lecturing me on Escobedo v. Illinois.” He gestured in Hardcastle’s direction. “He’s loud.” Then he walked back along the projected path, towards the thicker bushes, still looking down.

Frank heard a ‘harrumph’ from the judge’s direction, followed by, “Has he always been this paranoid?”

“I heard that,” Mark said, without lifting his eyes from the ground. “See, here’s another one.” He pointed to a spot closer to the bushes. “Paranoid, hah.”

“Maybe,” Frank conceded, leaving up in the air, exactly who he was conceding to, “but it hasn’t rained in over a week. There’s not much there and they might be old; they might be the yard guy’s.”

“Frank?” Mark made a face. “If I turn out to be right, am I gonna at least get to say ‘I told you so’?”

“I dunno, Mark,” Harper shook his head, “two footprints in a rose garden isn’t exactly the grassy knoll.”

“Well,” the younger man said, with a stubborn gleam in his eye that Harper was all too familiar with, “it’s a start.”

“He probably smokes, too,” Hardcastle said decisively. He’d wandered a little further toward the edge of the property and now he was holding up the remains of a match. “Or maybe he struck it for light, to check an address. I don’t see any cigarette butts.” He was widening his search among the bushes.

“See, Frank?” McCormick pointed at the judge. “Even he can tell there‘s something wrong, and he isn’t playing with a full deck.”

“I heard that,” the judge grumbled.

Frank smiled. “Okay, you two. Someone was here. At some time. Doing something.”

“The truck, Frank?” Mark’s look didn’t quite have it over a puppy dog, but he was damn close. “Please?”

“I’ll get it hauled back here. You can look it over. You know where everything’s supposed to be as well as anybody.”

“And the interior?”

“I’ll get one of the techs to give it a once over. We’ll dust it, but I’m not gonna have them run anything unless we get something else first.” Frank sighed heavily. “And I won’t be your personal liaison to the LAPD, if I don’t get in there and get dug out of some of my backlog pretty soon.” He started to head back toward his car, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. “And you two can do this Hardy Boys thing all you want right here, but you’re not going to take it anywhere else without telling me first. Okay, Mark?”

The younger man nodded, with a practiced look of innocence.

“Milt?”

“Well, what the hell would-?” the judge launched into an aggravated mutter that was cut short by Mark’s hand on his elbow and a quick shake of the younger man’s head.

For a split second the image was so familiar that Frank didn’t know whether to rejoice or be wary. In the end he settled for another sigh and another admonition, “Well, at least be careful.”

And he left the two men standing side-by-side in the dormant rose garden.

An afternoon’s search of the premises provided no other solid evidence of a prowler, but Hardcastle had been impressed. McCormick had been diligent, organized, and persistent as hell. It was only when the early winter twilight began to hinder the search that he was willing to give up and come inside. From there he went straight to the kitchen. It was hard to shake the impression that the kid needed to stay busy.

The judge let him be. He’d been thinking his own thoughts, walking the grid out among the landscaping. And mostly what it kept coming back around to was how wrong that empty space on the gravestone looked-how strange it was to be dead and gone, in all but name only.

He heard the sounds from the kitchen and felt the itching resentment returning. Nancy ought to be coming in from the garden; Sarah calling them both into the dining room, and Tom . . . but Tom was away.

He jumped when he heard the shout from down the hall. “Chow’s on.” He got up heavily, tried to compose his face. It’s not the damn kid’s fault. He reached into his back pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his nose. Damned if any stranger is going to see me like this. Then he tucked it away and headed into the dining room.

McCormick watched him take his place at the table, moving in a slow, almost formal way that was the strangest thing of all about the man since he’d returned from the hospital. It was as though he’d had fifteen years added to his life, not taken away. He could put it on the list of things that he wanted to ask Dr. Neely about Monday.

Careful, that. Just what are you trying to accomplish there? Hoping the doc will say he can’t be left alone for a while longer? If he wants you gone, you’ll go. And you’d damn well better not make him choose between you and a sanitarium.

McCormick felt the flush of guilt steal over him, and suddenly remembered he’d left the ketchup in the kitchen. No meatloaf without ketchup. He was up and away and catching his breath leaning against the sink, he hoped before the judge could notice there was something wrong.

And that’s where he was standing when the shot rang out.

Hardcastle was in the kitchen a moment later, shotgun in hand, moving fast with a look of angry confusion on his face.

“What the hell-?”

“Get down dammit,” the kid was sitting on the floor, amid shards of glass, in front of the sink. “The light’s still on.”

The judge dropped to the floor, poking the muzzle of the gun up against the switch and hooking it down with the site. He edged across the floor.

“How many?”

“One shooter, so far. A rifle, maybe a .223. If this isn’t a goddamn grassy knoll, I don’t know what is.” Even in the near darkness, Hardcastle could make out the kid’s grin.

“I’m gonna go out the side door,” Hardcastle said quietly, “do a little reconnoiter.”

“The hell you are. He’s got a rifle. You’ve got a shotgun.”

“I’ve got the element of surprise,” the judge reasoned insistently.

“No, I think he does. We don’t even know how many ‘he’s’ there are out there,” McCormick reasoned right back at him. “You call the cops.” Mark paused for a moment; they both listened. Nothing. He heard the kid exhale a sigh. “Anyway, I think he’s gone. Call Frank. And turn the light back on, but stay away from the window.”

Hardcastle made his way back across the room, staying low, and reached up to flick the switch on. He turned for a moment, puzzled as to why the kid was still sitting there, not heading toward the relative safety of the hallway.

Hardcastle thought it was probably the cock-eyed grin that had misled him.

“It hurts too damn much to be serious, Judge; trust me,” McCormick lifted his left hand briefly, from where he’d been clutching his right arm, to look at what was underneath. “Yeah, just a scrape. Really. Will ya go ahead and call Frank?”

Forty minutes later, Harper was on the front doorstep. The judge answered before the first knock, looked around warily, and pulled him inside.

“What the hell is this about a shooting, Milt? Why didn’t you call it in?”

“I think the kid wanted to say ‘I told you so,’ to you personally.” Hardcastle closed and latched the door behind the lieutenant. “Dammit, Frank, I’ve never seen anybody so happy to get shot before in my life.”

“How bad is it?” Frank said with growing alarm.

“Well, not exactly a scratch,” the judge put his hand to his forehead, “more like a gouge, you’d say. But he’s right; there was nothing to do but clean it up and put a bandage on it.” Hardcastle led him toward the den. “And none of the neighbors called it in, either, huh?”

“Can’t hardly blame ‘em for that,” McCormick looked up at them from the chair alongside the desk. The grin hadn’t quite left him, though there was a shade of grimace to it as he shifted around to face them. “It’s kind of a thing they’ve had to get used to around here. Anyway, Frank,” the grin was infectiously open now, “how ‘bout the truck? Think we got some probable cause now? Maybe the Glendale PD ought to take a look at it.”

“People have taken a shot at him before,” Frank cocked a thumb at Hardcastle.

“Me? Why?”

“Because you don’t have the sense God gave a mule,” McCormick rubbed his temple with his left hand and then jabbed the air in the judge’s general direction, “and you’re always getting in the way of people who shoot people who get in their way. That’s why.”

“But they were shooting at you,” Hardcastle replied.

“But I’m just a first-year law student. I don’t think they’re coming after me because I’m breaking the curve,” Mark put his head back on the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. “I got in the way of one of your bullets this time.” He paused for a moment, then lifted his head and looked at Frank. “So, we gonna investigate or not?”

“We?” Frank asked mildly.

“Yeah, you, me, and the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle-the guy who never gets anybody mad at him.” The grin had taken a testy edge to it. “Dammit, Frank. I want to know why . . . and I want to know how.” The grin was gone. What was left was a look of pure need. “They took fifteen years, and now I think they’re coming back for the rest.”

“Yeah,” Frank nodded. “You told me so, huh?” There was no humor in the comment.

The kid nodded back.

“I’ll call in a team.” Frank reached for the phone.

“The guy’s gone, Frank,” Hardcastle nudged his way back into the conversation. “All you’re gonna find out there tonight are some more footprints, a casing, and maybe another match, and all of those will be easier to find in the morning. Let’s keep the mars lights off the property and let the neighbors get some rest tonight.”

“So where do you want to start?”

“The file,” Mark was insistent. “I know it’s not much but it must mean something. Why did you go to Glendale? And who’s Henry?”

Frank watched Hardcastle, who’d reached across the desk for the folder without questioning how Mark knew what it contained. He opened it again, laying it out on the desk before them.

He looked down at what little was written there, then back up at the other two. “If I guess right, do you think I’ll be able to tell the difference?” he asked, with more than a twinge of worry in his voice.

“I dunno, Judge,” all the angry edge on the younger man was gone now, replaced by concern, “but I really think you gotta try.”

Hardcastle gave him a long look, then he stared down at the scribbled notes. “Well, I’ve known some guys named Henry.”

“Good,” McCormick nodded his encouragement. “You should make a list of them. It might be somebody from way back, who got in touch with you because they were in some kind of trouble. Maybe someone you knew well enough to just put down a first name.”

Frank hoped the doubt he was experiencing wasn’t readily apparent on his face. The kid sounded like he was grasping at straws and Milt’s face was a study in hopeless bewilderment.

But then, very suddenly, it wasn’t.

“It’s not an ‘S’,” the judge announced, quietly, but with a great deal of certainty.

“What?” came from both of the other men almost simultaneously.

“It’s a five.” He turned the folder around to face them and pout his finger on the spot. “It’s 5 1721. It’s a phone number.”

It was Mark’s turn to look befuddled. “But-”

“Glendale 5-1721,” Hardcastle was smiling. “It’s an exchange.”

McCormick winced. “We don’t have those anymore, Judge.”

But now Frank was smiling, too. “Hubbard five, thirty-one hundred.”

“That’s right,” the judge grinned, “you started out doing beat in the Hollenbeck district.”

“Ten years,” Frank said, “I know all those numbers.”

McCormick was looked back and forth between the two men. “Exchanges?”

“Yeah,” Frank nodded, “it could be. I still do it sometimes. They’re a lot easier than remembering seven numbers.” He turned to McCormick. “Come on, Mark, you’re not that young. Don’t you remember your home phone exchange from when you were a kid?”

A moment of awkward silence followed. Oddly, it was Hardcastle who caught the drift first. “Well, we didn’t have one either, growing up,” he spouted out without any apparent embarrassment. “Didn’t even get a radio until after the REA, and I was almost out of high school by then.”

“Juniper,” McCormick said quietly. “That was the exchange down at the drugstore. I haven’t thought about that for a long time.” He looked at Hardcastle quizzically, “You still remember them that way?”

“I dunno,” the judge shrugged. “I did fifteen years ago.”

“Then you still do.” McCormick nodded once, decisively. He reached for the phone as he glanced down at the notation one more time. He searched for a moment for the ‘g’ and the ’l’ then punched the rest of the numbers in without hesitation. When he finished he hit the intercom button and recradled the receiver. The three men listened to the rings.

Four . . . five. McCormick frowned, and started to reach for the phone again just as an answering machine picked up. “This is Symnetech, Inc., research division. Please leave your name, number and a brief message after the tone, and we will get back to you as soon as we can.” He hit the disconnect before the beep even finished.

Frank’s eyebrows went up. He looked over at Hardcastle, not really expecting to see any glimmers of recognition. McCormick hadn’t even bothered. He was staring down at the phone, deep in concentration.

“I’ll have to cross-reference it through the files. It’s not ringing any bells for me right off. But there’s a ton of stuff down there that I’ve never even looked at. Maybe you could run it through your databases, Frank. I don’t think anyone’s going to be answering the phone there this weekend but if I can get an address . . .”

Just what he was planning to do with that information was left to the imagination of the two older men, who were both now staring at him, Frank with mild nervousness, and Hardcastle with growing aggravation.

McCormick was caught for a moment in the judge’s glare. Then he glared right back and said, “Come on, Hardcase. All that top-secret, hush-hush stuff with the files ended about two years ago. You’ve practically force-fed me the damn things. After all that, I’m sure as hell not going back to that ‘need-to-know’ status. This is too important.”

Frank was chuckling, “He’s right Milt, between the two of you, you’re like a walking encyclopedia of West Coast criminality.”

“The files are locked,” the judge pointed out stubbornly.

McCormick leaned to the side a little and reached into his own pocket. He tossed his key ring down on the desk. “March, last year. You had me make copies.” There was an edge of belligerence that covered over any pain that might have been underneath.

“Then why-”

“Not the desk, though. That’s yours,” McCormick conceded. “But that file’s old news. That guy doesn’t exist anymore.”

Frank had been watching the judge’s face. Now his eyes snapped back to the younger man, and he saw in an instant that Mark hadn’t meant it as hyperbole. To completely reinvent yourself, to do it for someone else’s approval, and then to lose that.

Frank opened his mouth, not quite sure of what he was going to say, but wanting to defuse the situation before it became irreversible. The judge spoke before he could.

“You know, that file’s not all bad.”

McCormick’s eyebrows went up a little at this unexpected admission. “No,” he replied, appearing a little less tense. “I didn’t know. I’ve never read it.”

Frank sat back, feeling the crisis pass. He rubbed his hand over his face. “Okay, so . . . you two,” he put a very slight emphasis on the word, “will see if you can come up with any background information here. I’ll check it out, at least try to get us some names and an address.” He got to his feet slowly.

“And the truck, Frank,” Mark added a reminder.

“Oh, yeah, and on the weekend before a holiday. Glendale PD is gonna thank me, for sure-not enough staff and too much mayhem. Don’t count on anything from them real soon.”

Mark rose, too, and saw him to the door.

Hardcastle sat at his desk, willing to let the kid be the proxy host, and not sure exactly why. The whole thing about the files, hell, he’d taken a look at them that first day back and hadn’t recognized much at all. Now to find out this was yet another piece of McCormick’s turf. He’d just snapped. And then to see the effect his words had had.

He was still sitting there, a few moments later, still staring down at the keys that lay on the desk, when McCormick returned.

“Sorry,” the younger man said, as he reached forward and scooped them up, weighing them for a moment in his hand before shoving them back in his pocket.

“Sorry for what?” Hardcastle grumbled mildly.

“For whatever it is that I keep doing to piss you off.” Mark flashed a brief, small smile. “Sort of a general, all-purpose ‘sorry’. . . But don’t expect another one too soon; you’ve been a real pain in the-”

“Yeah,” Hardcastle heaved a sigh and got up out of the chair. “Maybe we should start on those files.”

Mark’s grin was irrepressible. “Now you’re cookin’.”

Hardcastle’s brief startlement did not pass unnoticed by Mark, but it seemed the judge had taken some vow of good behavior, so he merely followed the younger man down the stairs and even allowed him to fish his keys out again and open the locks.

For his part, McCormick tried not to be too obvious in his familiarity. Though it pretty quickly became apparent that someone needed to know how things were organized, and it wasn’t the judge.

Mark brushed absentmindedly at a cobweb that had collected between the top of one cabinet and the wall, then muttered his comment on the obvious, “We haven’t been down here that much lately.”

“You’ve been busy with school.”

McCormick shot him a glance as he pulled open the first drawer. “Yeah,” he admitted, chagrined at how close to the truth the judge had come with the comment.

“What was I doing, then?” the older man asked curiously.

“Dunno,” but he couldn’t help it; the rest came out before he could stop himself, “You weren’t supposed to be doing this without me. You’re right when you said it was dangerous.”

“I was a cop before I was a judge, you know.”

“Even cops have back up.”

“And you were mine?”

“Yeah,” McCormick said simply, as though there wasn’t anything else that needed to be said about that.

He lifted out a stack of files and set them on the worktable behind them. Then opened another drawer, selecting, pulling, stacking. By the time he was done, there were at least thirty of them.

“Mobsters with business ties, businessmen who are embezzlers, investment scams-can you think of anything else?” He pulled up two chairs and sat himself down in one of them, taking a file off the top of the nearest stack.

Hardcastle shook his head. He sat down in the other chair, still staring at the piles. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the cabinets. “How many are there, altogether?”

“Lots,” McCormick replied absently, as he skimmed the contents of the first file. After a moment he glanced up at the older man, frowning. “You didn’t have any of these . . . before?”

Hardcastle took a long slow look at the cabinets, and finally pointed toward the one on the end. “That was in my chambers. I keep my current cases in the top drawer, my lunch in the bottom. And the telephone directory.”

Mark glanced aside to where he was pointing. “The bottom drawer is Reno mobsters; the top one is, um, drug dealers-A through M.” He reached for a second file.

“Oh,” Hardcastle nodded, looking a little self-conscious. Then there was a pause before he added, “It seems kinda . . . obsessive.”

McCormick was deep into the second file. Turning a page, he looked up again. “Yeah,” he conceded. “A little. . . .maybe.” He looked around at the file cabinets, as though he was also seeing them for the first time. “It was your life,” he added quietly. “Mine, too.”

Hardcastle tried to settled down and tackle his share of the files, though the dates were jarring and the information almost completely unfamiliar. Every once in a while something grabbed his attention him, and one time he heard himself say, “So that’s what happened to-”  before he caught himself. The kid had already looked up.

“What?”

“Oh, a guy,” the judge said, “from a couple of years . . . from eighteen years back,” he corrected himself.

McCormick leaned over and looked at the file, then frowned. “We got him already. He’s still awaiting trial, though. That’s probably why you haven’t re-filed it yet.”

He saw the kid sit back and rub the bridge of his nose wearily. Hardcastle looked down at his own watch, then up again. The unfinished stack had dwindled to a handful and neither one of them had made any exciting discoveries.

“It’s past two,” Hardcastle pointed out. “Maybe we should knock it off for the night. It’s been a long day.”

McCormick sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yeah,” he exhaled. “It has. He looked aside at the stacks they’d gone through. “I’ll re-file these tomorrow.”

“Nah,” the judge shook his head. “I’ll do it. It’ll keep me busy.”

McCormick looked a little doubtful.

“Hell,” the judge shrugged. “It’s my system; I ought to be able to figure it out.”

Mark’s laugh was abrupt, and short. He tamped it down but was still smiling when he choked out, “That’ll be more than I could ever do. It’s . . . unique,” he added, with one last look around the room as he stood up.

The two men plodded up the stairs, but, to the judge’s surprise, McCormick headed for the kitchen, not the front door.

“Just a snack,” the younger man shrugged, when he realized he was being stared at. “File reading makes me hungry and, anyway, I never got any meatloaf. You go on to bed.”

“You’ll lock up on your way out?” The judge asked, but before he could turn to go, he caught something in McCormick’s expression that made him look harder. He finally said, “You’re gonna hang out down here all night, huh. You think that guy might come back?”

“He might. But we don’t both have to stay up. You should get some sleep.” The kid frowned. “Neely said something about rest, I think.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” Hardcastle protested.

“Hah,” McCormick snorted. “You don’t need a keeper. You do need a bodyguard. Somebody’s trying to kill you, Judge.” The kid was fixing him with a hard, determined stare. Finally he added, “Just till it’s light out. I’ll take a nap tomorrow. I’m not gonna be able to sleep anyway.”

After a long moment, Hardcastle asked, “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?”

“No worse than usual,” Mark replied without hesitation.

The judge frowned. “So, how crazy is that?”

McCormick laughed again. This time it was lighter, and his answer had the ring of conviction to it when he said, “Just crazy enough.”

PART TWO

Built by Text2Html