PART IV
Hardcastle stared at the silent phone for a long moment, piecing it all together. “Not yet,” he repeated hoarsely. “God.”
He rubbed a hand across his face, replaying the words from the day. Even the judge would’ve been impressed. This is where he kept the files. That man would’ve sold his soul for you.
He looked back at Harper with a new horror in his eyes. “McCormick still doesn’t know I’m alive.”
Harper looked skeptical. “What? No. That’s not possible. Milt, Tilton’s been jerking you around all day, and Mark obviously hasn’t been far away. There’s no way he kept it from him.”
“Frank, the kid’s a prisoner. Tilton doesn’t have to tell him anything. And the bastard is just sadistic enough to really enjoy watching McCormick squirm.”
The detective considered, then inclined his head slightly. “Okay; I’ll grant you that.” And for a moment, his features were consumed with compassion. “The poor kid.”
“The clock’s ticking, Frank. We have to find him before…” Hardcastle hesitated, then continued, “before he does something stupid.”
Harper nodded in silent understanding. Mark McCormick was capable of many things, but both men knew that controlling his mouth-or temper-was rarely one of them. To expect him to do so while dealing with the crushing grief of Hardcastle’s death would be out of the question, and Tilton’s punishment could be swift and final. But if it was unlikely that the young man would be able to prevent provoking his captor’s wrath, it was even less likely that he would care.
Hardcastle replayed one final moment, speaking the words softly. “‘He practically asked me to do it this morning.’” He sought out his friend’s eyes again. “Frank…”
And for once, Harper believed baseless reassurance was exactly what the judge needed to hear.
“We’ll find him.”
McCormick let his forehead rest against the wooden support, eyes closed, willing himself to make a decision. Part of him-a very large part-thought that the easiest thing in the world would be to sit right here and sleep so that he would be well rested when Tilton came back to kill him. In fact, maybe he’d get really lucky and he would still be sleeping when the bullet was finally pumped into his brain. Quick, easy, and he wouldn’t have even an instant to be afraid. Yeah, something like that would be okay by him.
But there was another part-tiny and well hidden-that insisted he still had more to do. That annoying little part of his brain seemed fixated on the idea that Samuel Tilton still deserved to be brought to justice, and that if he allowed himself to die here, there would be no one left to see that it was done. And when he tried making the very logical argument that there were entire departments full of law enforcement officials who could take care of that after he was gone, his brain reminded him that they hadn’t managed to get it done yet. Still, he thought he had convinced himself that it really wasn’t his problem.
And as the two sides of his brain argued, McCormick sat, like some kind of uninvolved observer, fully prepared to go with whichever side won. So far, he thought Large Part had the upper hand.
But that’s when Tiny decided to bring in the big guns. Is this what Hardcastle would want? For you to give up and die because of him? Is this how you repay all that he’s done for you?
Mark opened his eyes and raised his head slowly. That was definitely something to think about. He figured the judge had understood for a long time now that he was willing to die for him. That was the easy part. But it had never occurred to him that Hardcastle might expect him to be willing to live for him. He thought for another few seconds, then reached beneath his pant leg and into his sock for the bobby pin.
Lock picking could be tedious work under the best of circumstances. But in near total darkness, a rusty bobby pin the only tool, and the lock in question binding the very hands that were trying to pick it, it became almost an exercise in futility. But after many long minutes, McCormick finally heard the telltale click, and felt his left wrist released. He debated briefly just leaving the other; mobility was really the only necessity. But then he realized he was honestly completely fed up with the damned things, so he took the time to force his left hand to do the delicate work. It was minutes more before he felt the other bracelet release, but then he grabbed it off his wrist and threw the things across the floor in disgust.
He rose quickly-if slightly unsteadily-to his feet and crossed to the door. He had almost pushed it open when he realized that rushing into the night with no plan other than some strange conglomeration of justice and revenge was not likely to do much toward his newfound determination to continue breathing. He turned and leaned his back against the door, looking again around the darkened shed.
He supposed the first decision that must be made was whether he intended to simply escape and send the authorities back to arrest Tilton, or if he wanted to confront the man himself.
Confront, his brain scolded. You mean kill.
He thought hard about that a moment. “I don’t want to kill him,” he finally muttered to himself.
Liar.
“Okay. Of course I want to kill him, but I wouldn’t.” Would I?
You’ve done it before.
He conceded the truth in that argument. And, if he was honest with himself, he would admit that he might have been far less upset by Weed Randall’s death had Hardcastle not survived. Maybe. It might be easier this time. But still…
He shook his head roughly. This hesitation was foolish. Upon a moment’s reflection, leaving here without Tilton was out of the question. The man had connections and capabilities he couldn’t begin to guess at. There was no way he could risk allowing him to escape. And if life or death choices had to be made later, he would cross that bridge then.
That decision made, McCormick turned his attention back to the shed. There must be something in here that would help him turn the tables on Tilton. As he looked around, he decided he must’ve been sitting and arguing with himself for a while, as it was much darker than it had when Tilton originally deposited him here, and it seemed to be moonlight that drifted in through the walls rather than the fading sun. He wanted to turn on the light; that would’ve made life a lot easier. But since it might also make life much shorter, he decided he could deal with the dark.
He crossed back to the work table, not knowing exactly what he was hoping to find, but figuring this was as good a place as any to start. He squinted down at the tabletop, and let his hands wander the surface. An old rag, undoubtedly wet and covered in some sort of grime in a long ago time, now it was shriveled and almost brittle; he tossed it aside. A ruler, worthless. A couple of those little black containers that spring time flowers come in from the nursery; a homey image, but still useless. A pencil. He paused thoughtfully, felt the unbroken lead tip, and set it aside carefully. Next came a baseball cap, youth size. He held it closer to his face and saw a knock-off of the Angels’ logo. Little league, he thought. Wasn’t the kid in the picture wearing this? Mark shrugged. Interesting, maybe, but of little practical value. His hands continued to move across the counter top. Matches! He fumbled quickly with the flap and counted the matches remaining inside. Only three, but if things didn’t work out and Tilton kept him relegated to darkness, they might come in handy-assuming they would still work after however long. He resisted the impulse to light one now, closed the cover, and slipped them quickly into his pocket. He ran his hands to the far back corners of the table, then-satisfied he had missed nothing-turned back to survey the rest of the shed.
His eyes lingered on the Vespa against the wall for a moment. An intriguing idea, but, no. When and if he needed transportation, he’d use Tilton’s car. Then his eyes came to rest on the dark shape resting beside the dilapidated generator, and he took the few steps across the floor.
Squatting down for a better look, he saw that it was a small toolbox. He smiled, and opened the lid. Rummaging through the items, he felt a twinge of disappointment-not quite as helpful as he had hoped. A few assorted wrenches, a couple of screwdrivers, a small garden spade, and a hammer. In the bottom tray there was only a small supply of various types of hardware, and what appeared to be an instruction manual for the wood chipper he’d seen earlier. He chose the common screwdriver and slipped it into his shirt pocket, then grabbed the hammer and the manual and rose to his feet.
He walked slowly around the small area, but nothing else seemed worthwhile. Really, the only other things in here were some fishing poles and the wood chipper, so unless he planned on making Tilton the punch line of an amazing ‘I hooked a big one’ tale, or turning the man into next season’s mulch, there wasn’t much to be gained.
McCormick smiled grimly as he thought that those ideas might actually have some merit. But, tempting as it seemed, he was pretty sure that was just the last couple of days talking.
Having completed his search, he crossed back to the worktable. Placing the tools on the top, he looked at them forlornly. He was sure some serious damage could be done-somehow-with a hammer and a screwdriver, but he wouldn’t have minded having something more menacing. After all, Tilton did still have a gun.
McCormick leaned his elbows on the tabletop and rested his chin on his palms. He thought this would probably seem much simpler if only he wasn’t so damned tired. “And if I wasn’t alone,” he whispered. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting just one minute to just…feel. “God, Judge, I am so sorry.”
They were both unexpectedly dozing when the second phone call came, but Hardcastle grabbed the receiver up before the second ring, and Harper had the trace initiated as soon as the line was connected.
The judge forced the fear from his voice. “Hardcastle.”
“Is Harper still there?”
He scowled and handed the phone across the desk. “It’s Thompson.”
The lieutenant shut down the trace and grabbed the receiver. “Yeah, Harper.”
“Got a possible location for you, Lieutenant,” Thompson replied, sparing no time for pleasantries. “Cabin up at the edge of the Padres, place called Matilija.”
“Tilton’s?” Harper asked, motioning for something to write with.
“Kinda weird, really,” Thompson said. “It was, but it looks like he gifted it to his son on the kid’s eighteenth birthday. Then, a few years after that, it was signed over into a corporate holding. It still belongs to the company.”
“Yeah, that sounds promising,” Harper agreed. “Give me the details.” He scribbled down the directions the D.A. rattled off. “Okay. Barkus is still up in Ventura, so I’ll have him bring in the local side, and I’m headed up there now. You keep your guys working in case this doesn’t pan out. I’ll be on the radio,” he added, briefly grateful that he’d thought to have one of his officers bring his car back from Canoga Park, “and later, Ventura dispatch should be able to track me.” He waited for Thompson’s grumble of understanding, then hung up the phone. He started to lift the receiver again to dial another number when Hardcastle’s hand came down heavily to keep it on the cradle.
“You can’t call Ventura, Frank.”
So many unexpected things had happened since Friday night, Harper wasn’t even surprised anymore. “Any particular reason why not?” he asked in an even tone, as if there could be a logical reason for not sending every available officer to descend upon the likely location of the men they’d been hunting for the last two days.
“Yeah,” Hardcastle answered emphatically, “because they think McCormick’s involved in this mess.” He saw Harper begin to object, and hurried on. “Hell, Frank, probably half the guys here think he’s involved, and they know the kid. You send strangers after him, and Tilton’s gonna end up the least of his worries. I can’t let that happen. I’ll go after him.” The judge grabbed Harper’s note, rose from his chair, and was halfway to the door before the lieutenant completely made his decision.
“Milt.”
Hardcastle slowed his step and turned a question to the other man. “You comin’?”
Harper didn’t move. “We call Ventura when we get to the cabin. We are not going in alone.”
It took a couple of seconds, but Hardcastle recognized the immovable force. He gave a single nod of assent, and turned purposefully back to the door. “Let’s go get him.”
Mark McCormick thought it was possible he was crazy. Really. Thought maybe he had stood right here in the dark and gone ‘round the bend. He had only intended to take a moment, just a brief respite from the strain of the last two days, but he had allowed his mind to wander past the weekend and over the last few years.
When the memories first crowded into his mind, he had been overwhelmed with grief, unable to fathom how he was supposed to go on without the man who had become like a father to him. Then, he had taken comfort from the memories, and he found himself smiling as the images played across his mind. But it had become easy to stay in the happier past rather than face the here and now, and he was unsure how long he had stayed there, lost in things that could never be again.
He rubbed his hands harshly across his eyes, thinking he might’ve been standing there a minute or a day; it really was all the same to him. And really, only a crazy person zones out like that, right?
“Wrong,” he answered himself aloud, then laughed slightly. But only a crazy person has a conversation with himself. He shrugged off the idea. “Oh, well.” He might be determined to stay alive, but he figured sanity was still a fifty-fifty proposition. And in that moment-when overpowering Samuel Tilton was furthest from his mind-he had an idea. He turned quickly to study the shed, wondering again if he could risk the light. Not yet, he decided, but soon.
Moving with determination now, he snatched up the screwdriver, went to retrieve the toolbox, grabbed a couple of the burlap sacks from the corner, and dropped the entire collection down beside the wood chipper. Then he folded his legs and plopped to the floor. He ran his hands slowly around the edge of the out chute of the chipper, locating the simple screws that held it in place. He chose a screwdriver, then guided the tip into place and began removing the hardware. Once he had the chute set aside, he felt for the screws that would hold the covering on the shaft of the machine and set about removing them, as well. Finally, he completed that task, grabbed the casing, and jostled it until he was able to lift it away from the body of the chipper. With that out of the way, he turned his attention to the sack at his side.
McCormick took his screwdriver and drove the tip through the burlap, pulling it downward the length of the sack, then repeated the motion until he had separated three strips of the material. He put them on the floor at his side, then turned back to the chipper. Starting at the bottom, he dragged his hand very slowly along the distance of the shaft until he reached the cutting area. Good. A straight blade and not a disc. He carefully traced his hand through the area and across the blade, which was naturally attached much more securely than the outer casing had been. Even so, only a few more screws, some nuts and bolts, and one last protective guard stood between him and his goal. He decided he would remove the shield before risking the light, but only a fool would sit in the dark and try to remove a solid steel, eight-inch, dual-head blade from a machine he’d never seen before.
Still working by touch, he removed the fasteners on the blade guard. As he tugged the shield loose, he heard something fall to the floor, but he didn’t give the sound much thought. Now that the cutting blade was completely exposed, his only thought was how quickly he could turn it into a manageable weapon. He rose and crossed to the middle of the floor, reached up and pulled the string to turn on the light, then returned to the chipper without further thought. He understood that the same wall cracks that had allowed the moonlight to filter in would also allow this light out, but the decision was made. Tilton would either notice or he wouldn’t, and the possibility of discovery wasn’t going to stop him at this point. Mark McCormick was tired of being a pawn; it was time to regain some control.
His growing determination was pulled up short for just a moment, however, when he kneeled down beside the wood chipper. He had reached down to move the blade guard out of the way when he noticed a piece of twig on the floor, probably the thing that had fallen out when he pulled the shield off the shaft to begin with. He picked it up and started to toss it aside, but its unusual texture caused him to take a closer look. McCormick felt his gut clench suddenly, and he swallowed hard as he stared at the whitish, slender stick in his hand and decided it was actually a human bone.
He was still staring after several long seconds, his mind refusing to accept what his gut already knew to be true. This bone-part of a finger, maybe, his mind whispered-had fallen out of the wood chipper, where it had been jammed for who knew how long. That was certainly unusual. There’s an explanation. But any possible explanation for stray body parts stuck inside power garden tools could only lead back to Tilton, and McCormick felt a shiver run down his spine.
Finally, without really knowing why, McCormick slipped the thing into the pocket of his denim shirt, then tried to push it out of his mind. But he returned to the task of removing the blade with an added motivation: whatever might happen tonight, he did not intend to end up the next thing to be shoved through this machine.
McCormick was standing at the worktable again, his knife at his side. He had wrapped one end in layers of burlap strips, giving himself several inches of area to safely grasp the weapon. He’d seen a lot of things turned into piercing attack weapons, and the key always seemed to be the idea that a good grip leads to a good thrust. He would’ve preferred finding a way to actually put a point onto the thing, but, still, the blade was almost one hundred percent cutting area; slashing and slicing would have to do. Of course, there was no denying that bullets would always have an inherent advantage over blades, but he was as prepared as he could be. He had also taken the time to retrieve the handcuffs from their spot on the floor, realizing that he would need some way to restrain his prisoner, if everything went as planned. As he’d stuffed them into his pocket, he made a fervent wish that the things weren’t going to end up locked around his own wrists again.
Now he was finishing up a note addressed to Frank Harper. He thought maybe if he didn’t survive, his written accusations could serve as something similar to a deathbed statement. Somebody really should know that he’d witnessed Tilton commit two separate murders; that just wasn’t the kind of information Tonto could keep to himself. Finally satisfied that he had included enough details to be useful, he signed his name, placed the screwdriver on top to keep it in place, then turned and crossed to the door, blade in hand. He paused just long enough to draw in a fortifying breath, then pushed open the door and slipped into the night.
There was nothing to be gained by moving slowly across a clearing when a madman with a gun might be waiting for the opportunity to start shooting, so he sprinted across to the cabin. He leaned lightly against the door, listening intently, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he might hear. He thought it would be excellent if Tilton had simply gone to sleep after locking up his prisoner for the night, but he didn’t really expect to be that lucky. He debated between the idea of taking a look inside the window-where he himself might be seen-or simply using the element of surprise and busting in without warning, but quickly decided he’d rather have some idea what he was busting in to. He moved to the edge of the window, then peered cautiously inside, but the front room was empty. Tilton had taken the time to build a small fire, but there was no sign of the man himself. McCormick watched for a few seconds to see if he would appear from one of the other rooms, but the cabin remained silent and still. Deciding maybe he was going to get lucky after all, he pushed open the front door-wincing slightly at the unavoidable creak-and followed it inside.
McCormick stood, just inside the doorway, crouched defensively, chipper blade firmly grasped in his hand, ready to take on whatever came, but still there was nothing. He took a couple of steps to his left and craned his neck to see as far as possible into the kitchen, but there seemed to be no movement in there, either.
To the right of the fireplace, the bedroom door was standing slightly ajar, so McCormick started in that direction, taking the time to close the front door as he passed. He listened briefly outside the bedroom door, but there was no sound, so he slipped inside. It only took a few seconds to realize the room was empty, including the small bathroom and closet. “Where the hell is he?” McCormick muttered as he pulled the bedroom door closed behind him.
He crossed the front area back toward the kitchen and stepped purposefully into the room. Empty. “Dammit!” McCormick paused his search at the kitchen table and took time to examine the items spread out on the tabletop. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see the remnants of fine, white powder sprinkled on one corner of the table, though the idea of tracking a coked up Tilton through the nighttime woods conjured up some fairly nightmarish images. He was surprised, however, by the photographs that were spread across the table, and by the gun lying beside them.
McCormick pulled the gun within easy reach, then picked up one of the photos. It showed two men sitting in a diner having a serious conversation, if the expressions on their faces could be believed. He stared for a moment, then touched his fingertips gently to the face of Milton Hardcastle that looked out from the picture. The judge was younger, but clearly just as irascible; his mouth was drawn into a familiar determined frown, and his eyes gazed intently at the other man. McCormick smiled slightly, but the picture confused him. Across the table from Hardcastle sat a much younger Tilton, and Mark couldn’t understand what would possess the judge to ever share a meal with that madman.
He shuffled through the other pictures, all of the same two men, though they showed at least three different meetings. These were obviously surveillance photos, but who knew why they were being watched. But then he looked more closely and McCormick’s brain did the math. Either the judge was too old or Tilton was too young in these photos; it didn’t add up. Then he remembered the other picture, the one on the mantle. Tilton’s son. These pictures were obviously more recent than the one from the living room, and the pieces were beginning to click into place. Hardcastle was meeting repeatedly with Tilton’s son, and someone had been watching them. Since Tilton himself was the one in possession of the photos, he had probably ordered the surveillance originally, and McCormick could only imagine how displeased he had been with the results. He remembered Tilton in the car earlier today, coldly whispering the word ‘betrayal’, and he finally understood. Somehow, Hardcastle must’ve tried to use the younger Tilton against his father, and if Tilton felt betrayed, the judge must’ve been at least partially successful.
McCormick sank into the chair, considering. Neither he nor the judge would’ve admitted it, but Hardcastle really had become like a surrogate father to him. He understood now that somehow using that relationship against Hardcastle had been Tilton’s intention all along, and he felt a renewed wave of guilt, wondering if he had made a mistake in his handling of this whole situation. But before he could travel too far down that path of self-recrimination, he remembered more of Tilton’s words: I don’t think he really believed I’d do it. “My God,” McCormick whispered to himself. “He killed his own son.”
He rose quickly, more certain now than ever that Tilton had never intended to allow him to live through this weekend, and as he stood, a flash of movement through the kitchen window caught his attention. He moved to the sink to peer out into the night, but there was no one there. But there was a small circle of light out in the yard, coming from a hurricane lamp sitting on the ground under a large tree. And from one of the branches hung a single swing seat, which was now moving more forcefully than the gentle breeze could be responsible for.
McCormick had made it back to the table and snatched up the gun before he heard the creak of the front door and saw Tilton move into the kitchen entry. Mark was pretty sure the glaze in the other man’s eyes and the strangely placid expression on his face was more than drug induced. He swallowed hard and pointed the gun in Tilton’s direction.
The older man didn’t even acknowledge the weapon. “I thought maybe you’d join me at your swing.” He paused, then added calmly, “I see you found the pictures. I was wondering if you would care to explain?”
McCormick stared at him. “Explain? What are you talking about?”
“Larry,” Tilton replied disapprovingly. “Lawrence. This is no time to lie to me.”
McCormick was still staring, though he decided immediately that his own sanity was no longer in question. Standing before him was the true picture of mental instability. He decided to ignore it. He waved with the gun and spoke evenly. “Just turn around, Tilton.” He pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket, but Tilton wasn’t moving. “I said, turn around.”
But Tilton simply smiled. “You don’t really think I’d leave a loaded weapon lying around, do you, Larry? You’ve always been far too inquisitive for that; you could hurt yourself.”
McCormick didn’t move, unsure whether to believe the words, and cursing himself for not having taken the time to check. Certainly, Tilton was insane. And apparently, he was stoned. But those conditions weren’t new, and it occurred to Mark that Tilton had made it through the past two days without being careless; there was no reason to believe that pattern had changed now. He didn’t lower the gun. “Inquisitive people know how to look for things, Tilton. You don’t really think I wouldn’t find the ammunition?” McCormick allowed a smug tone into his voice as he mimicked Tilton’s words, and he saw the uncertainty slip into the other man’s eyes.
“What did Hardcastle offer you?” Tilton asked suddenly, and the words were unexpectedly difficult for the ex-con. But Tilton was continuing. “What could he possibly give you that you couldn’t get from me? How could you choose him?”
He’s not talking to you, McCormick’s brain whispered anxiously, so keep your cool. But he couldn’t keep quiet. “Freedom from the past,” he answered harshly, “a future. Nothing you could ever understand, and everything that you could never be.”
And in the one instant of silence that followed, as Tilton tried to make sense of McCormick’s words, they could hear the faint but unmistakable sound of sirens in the distance.
“Who the hell was that?” Hardcastle shouted as first one and then another black and white blazed past them, sirens blaring. On this lonely stretch of road, in these circumstances, it was unlikely the patrol cars were headed anywhere other than Tilton’s cabin. He glared over at Harper. “Did you call someone?” he accused.
The detective didn’t bother to point out that there had been no opportunity for any covert phone calls; Hardcastle was too worried to understand how irrational he was being. “Of course not,” Harper answered calmly, then flipped on his own siren and pushed the accelerator to the floor.
McCormick saw Tilton begin his lunge across the room and he pulled the trigger without thought. There was no blast, and he had only an instant to see the laughter in Tilton’s eyes before the man was upon him. He fell back into the table, but managed to bring the gun smashing against Tilton’s head, buying himself just a bit of time.
As Tilton staggered, McCormick shoved him backward and rolled out from underneath, tossing the gun aside and grasping his knife firmly. He moved quickly into the kitchen entryway; he did not intend to allow an escape. “It doesn’t have to end like this,” he shouted, as Tilton began gathering himself for another attack. “You don’t have to die here!”
But there was no sign of reason in Tilton’s eyes as he swung one of the aluminum chairs in front of him and charged across the room. He let the protruding legs serve as both a shield to keep McCormick out of blade’s reach and a weapon as he slammed them into the younger man’s torso. McCormick fought back a screech of pain as he felt the injuries from his previous beating come alive with renewed pain, and he stumbled back into the living room, clutching at his side.
“You should not have betrayed me!” Tilton screamed as he raised the chair to swing it at Mark’s head.
McCormick ducked-just barely in time-and tried to come up behind Tilton, bringing his blade toward his attacker’s arm. He didn’t score the direct hit he was hoping for, but did manage a small slice just above the elbow. He ducked again as Tilton swung back around, and he found himself wondering why he had spent so much time dismantling a wood chipper when, apparently, a kitchen chair was a perfectly functional weapon.
The ex-con rose and backed away, still keeping himself between Tilton and the door, but trying to put some distance between them. He could hear the sirens getting closer now, and he thought maybe he could just stay out of reach long enough to let the cops get here and do their thing.
But Tilton wasn’t prepared to make this easy. “Traitor!” he shrieked, and rammed the chair toward McCormick.
“I’m not Larry!” McCormick shouted, as he sidestepped the attack, then reached out and grabbed one of the chair legs, using Tilton’s own momentum to propel him against the cabin wall. He figured Mark McCormick was high on this madman’s To Kill list, but it seemed Larry Tilton held the top spot, and he wouldn’t mind giving the guy back some perspective. He twisted and pulled on the metal leg, trying to wrench the chair from Tilton’s grasp. He finally gave a short tug on the leg, pulling Tilton closer for just a moment, then brought his knife across the other’s forearm, causing the chair to be completely released. But McCormick was unprepared to have his own momentum trick used against him, and Tilton immediately followed after the freed chair, leaning into it, and driving the younger man backward until he sprawled over the end of the sofa.
As Tilton angrily threw the chair aside, McCormick struggled to rise from the sofa, but he already knew the effort was futile. The sirens were coming to a stop now, and he could see the flashing lights outside the front window, but it was too late. With all his might, he reached upward and sliced his blade across Tilton’s stomach, then twisted it into the gash to drive it further into the man’s gut. He heard the other man’s roar of pain as he felt himself dragged upward, then his head exploded as Tilton’s fist slammed into his jaw.
He had been dropped fully back on to the sofa, and McCormick watched through blurry eyes as Tilton reached down and quickly pulled the knife from his own body. Fighting for consciousness, he swung his fists limply as he saw the blade turned downward, but the feeble blows were useless against Tilton’s rage. He watched Tilton raise the knife, preparing for a final, killing blow, and he could hear the officers outside rushing toward the cabin. He forced his eyes to look in Tilton’s direction, though he could barely see. “Hardcastle wins,” he whispered as the knife began its descent.
“MCCORMICK!”
The shout of his name and the deafening gunshot were the last things he heard as darkness claimed him.
The single gunshot had created a momentarily frozen tableau. Then the purposeful descent of the blade turned into a downward drift, as Tilton himself staggered backward a step and then crumpled to the floor.
Hardcastle saw none of that. His eyes were on the man’s intended victim. McCormick hadn’t been fighting back as the knife descended. Now he was sprawled across the sofa, pale and unmoving, the front of his denim shirt soaked in blood. Breathe, dammit.
He stepped forward, almost hesitant. The Ventura County officers pushed past him, eager to reestablish control. His own shot had been the only one fired. Frank, who’d wielded his detective’s shield in the front yard when they’d pulled up, screeching, between the black and whites and the door, now stood behind him a step, with one hand on his shoulder.
Then he saw the kid take a deep, shuddering breath and his eyelids twitch and blink open, staring up with no apparent focus. And the judge let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Mark?”
Someone’s been shot. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the familiar ringing in his ears, that much he was certain of. That and sticky dampness of his shirt and, yet . . . he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Movement, an unfamiliar ceiling, and someone calling his name. Not me this time.
He’d said nothing, the unfocused eyes still roving randomly, but he’d reached up ineffectually with one hand when they tried to get at his shirt to see where the blood was coming from.
The judge tried to say something reassuring, found his voice hoarse with fear, cleared his throat and started again. Before he could speak the kid’s eyes came to rest on him, more lucid now, but with a look of absolute bafflement.
“Hardcase?” The voice was almost as raspy as his own.
“Yeah, kiddo,” Hardcastle smiled, “I told you I was too stubborn for just one bullet.”
The bafflement remained, but the look was piercing now. McCormick formed the words slowly,
“Don’t. Joke.”
“Never,” the judge said, reaching for the hand that was still moving purposelessly around the unfastened shirt buttons. “Never.”
“Not his,” Frank had stopped searching, “must be Tilton’s.”
At the mention of that name McCormick’s eyes began to rove frantically. Hardcastle grasped the hand more firmly and refocused him. “He’s over there; the police have him. He’s shot.”
“Dead?”
Hardcastle looked over his shoulder at the heap on the floor. The police were only mildly cautious, but the chest still rose and fell in ragged gasps. “Not quite yet,” he replied.
McCormick was pushing himself back against the sofa, trying to sit up. Hardcastle recognized the need for a semblance of control and that being upright was part of it. Against his better judgment, and without releasing his grasp, he assisted him.
Frank stepped back and was looking around with a policeman’s eye for detail. The arrival of the paramedics added another layer of chaos as efforts were made to stabilize the man on the floor. More Ventura County officers had arrived--sirens, lights, an ambulance pulling up.
Through it all, the man on the sofa sat quietly, watching. He still had Hardcastle’s hand. The older man leaned forward and asked him something that got only a shake of the head in reply.
One of the Ventura guys was gesturing to him from the kitchen. Frank stepped past the paramedics, busily bent over Tilton’s now-still form. The man by the table had a pencil in one hand, and had used the tip of it to flip over one photo of a set that had been scattered on the table and floor.
Frank bent down to study it carefully. Then he looked over his shoulder through the doorway into the other room.
Sitting up had done nothing to improve McCormick’s pallor. The only color left in his face was from the bruises, new and old, but his eyes were sharply focused now. Hardcastle kept himself between the man and what was happening on the floor. More for distraction than anything else, he asked him if he wanted to lie down again. A quick shake of the head. Then McCormick was looking back at him.
“There was something in the shed,” he said quietly, “in the wood chipper. It fell out.” All of this was spoken so matter-of-factly that Hardcastle found himself having to lean in to catch the words in the surrounding hubbub. “I saved it.”
He was reaching into his shirt pocket with his free hand, still not letting go with the other. After a few moments of searching, he fished it out, not looking at it before he handed it over.
Bone, something small with bits of desiccated ligament clinging to one end, the whole thing yellowed with age. He couldn’t say for certain if it was human, that would be for the experts, but it fit entirely too well with the rumor that Tilton had floated back to him.
Evidence, he thought, looking around for one of the officers, intending to get the thing properly bagged and labeled, but Tilton was being moved onto the stretcher and he saw no one free. It didn’t matter, he supposed, and he held onto the small remains. Closure.
McCormick’s eyes were on the departing stretcher and its occupant. “He’s still alive?” he asked with a tone that might have been detachment.
Hardcastle spared a glance at the salvage operation. “I got him pretty good.”
McCormick looked wary. “Not sure one bullet was enough.”
“Don’t joke,” he reminded the younger man.
“I’m not,” Mark replied flatly.
The judge grunted and shifted himself onto the sofa, now that the gurney was gone. “You need to be checked out, too,” he said gently.
“I’m okay,” McCormick replied, without any of his usual stubbornness. He was watching the gloved officer handle his makeshift weapon. “The blood’s not mine,” he said calmly. The officer was slipping the thing carefully into a bag. “It’s a blade from the wood chipper,” he added with eerie calmness.
“‘Those who live by the sword’--”
“Don’t joke,” McCormick interrupted firmly.
“That’s not a joke, it’s from the Bible,” he feigned a little indignation, having spotted a spark and wanting to fan it desperately. But there was no bite from the kid, who sat there hunched, gradually letting loose his grip on the judge’s hand.
“Milt?” Frank summoned him from the kitchen. “Take a look at this, will ya?”
Hardcastle looked up, annoyed. He slipped the bone into his own shirt pocket and gave the kid a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Just stay here a sec; I’ll be right back.” There was no response except a slight shrug from McCormick.
He joined Frank by the kitchen table sparing one worried glance over his shoulder.
“Looks like Tilton was going through the old family albums,” Frank smiled tightly as he pointed out the photos, now all arranged on the table face up.
Hardcastle looked at them with a grim expression, as if they brought back a rush of unpleasant associations. “He had him under surveillance the whole time.”
“I think it was all over for him the minute he made contact with you, Milt. Nothing you said one way or the other made a bit of difference. Tilton just played him along for a while and then reeled him in.”
The judge nodded slowly and let out a weary sigh. “McCormick found something out in the shed; in the wood chipper.” He extracted the bone and held it up for Frank to see.
“Milt,” Frank’s expression balanced abhorrence and annoyance pretty evenly, “you’re walking around with evidence in your shirt pocket?” He shook his head and signaled to the evidence tech to bring a bag.
“Well,” Hardcastle began apologetically, “I don’t think--”
Sounds of rising voices and a scuffle interrupted him from the other room. Both men turned in alarm as they heard one of the officers shout, “What the hell?” Hardcastle was back into the main room in a few swift steps.
McCormick was back up against the wall, between the sofa and the fireplace, in a blind sweating panic, while the officer, who’d originally been reaching for him with a set of handcuffs in the other hand, now jumped back to evade his wildly flailing fists.
The man already had his free hand on his holster when Hardcastle got himself between him and McCormick. Frank was there a second later, talking the officer down with his usual calm. Hardcastle turned back to McCormick, narrowly missing a left-handed swing.
He didn’t try to contain it. It barely qualified as a punch. A couple more like that and the kid would probably collapse again. McCormick was pulling back for another when his knees started to sag. Hardcastle stepped forward to steady him, then wound up catching him as he gave way completely.
“Come on, let’s get you sitting down,” Hardcastle huffed. “Frank, help me out here, will ya?” He heard Frank break off the discussion and move to his side. “I think he’s out on his feet.”
“Milt--” Frank began, as the two of them maneuvered the kid back to the couch.
He was a little short of dead weight, stumbling along between them, and Hardcastle heard a muffled murmur of “Sorry . . . dunno what happened,” spoken blurrily into his left shoulder.
“‘S’okay,” Hardcastle patted his back, “little flashback there, maybe? Happens.”
He eased the kid down onto the sofa, then turned to Frank and spoke firmly, “I want it quashed; I want it quashed now. We are not sorting this out down at the station. If you have to, you find the idiot who issued the warrant and get him here.”
“Well,” a voice intervened from the front doorway, “I’m the idiot you’re looking for. I requested it.” Thompson cast a jaundiced eye over the three men at the sofa.
“I was trying to tell you,” Frank spoke with low urgency, “that’s what the officer was saying. The Ventura County warrant was rescinded. When he ran the ID on Mark, he got the warrant from LA County.”
Hardcastle stared up at the man in utter disbelief. After a moment’s pause he turned to Thompson and said, in disgust, “What the hell, why don’t you just go ahead and arrest me. That’s really what you want, isn’t it?”
“Milt,” Frank had his hand on his friend’s arm, “I don’t think--”
Hardcastle shook loose. His voice dropped to a low growl. “Give him the goddamn finger, Frank.”
Frank produced the baggie and handed it over.
“That’s what’s left of the last guy Tilton brought up here for the weekend,” Hardcastle spoke low and emphatically to the man who was studying the bag with grim interest. “It came out of a wood chipper out in the shed.”
“Who?” Thompson asked.
“Larry Tilton. The son.”
Thompson blanched.
“McCormick found it. It’s from eight years ago. You’re not going to try and pin that one on him, too?” he added dryly. “Now Tilton is still alive--harder to kill than a cockroach. Four murders, and McCormick and I are your main witnesses. You really want to arrest your two main witnesses?”
Frank had slid in alongside Thompson and gently retrieved the baggie. He had him by the elbow and was preparing to steer him out to the kitchen, show him a bit more evidence and give him a moment to reconsider. In the end it wasn’t necessary. Thompson made one quick grimace and turned back to one of his aides, standing out on the porch looking anxious. He gave the necessary instructions.
The officers were standing down. Thompson made a strategic retreat, going back outside to talk to one of the Ventura lieutenants. Frank had taken a walk out to the shed to see the rest of the haul. The evidence guys moved into the main room, with cameras and baggies. And McCormick was asleep.
Hardcastle had been startled when he’d turned back from dealing with Thompson and found the younger man with his eyes closed and his breathing finally evened out. He smiled to himself. The kid was unfortunately well-adapted to yelling. He was half curled on his side with his knees drawn up, leaving enough room at the foot end for someone to sit.
The judge sat. Frank would probably be a few more minutes at least. He checked his watch. Two a.m., on, now this was the tricky part, Monday morning. He eased back against the sofa, just intending to rest his eyes for a minute.
Frank returned from the shed looking rather more thoughtful. He found the two of them on the sofa, the judge with his head lolling back, both snoring. The evidence guys were working around them but both looked peeved at the intrusion.
“Hey, Milt,” he walked over and gave the judge a little thwack on the shoulder with the back of his hand. There was only a mutter. He nudged a couple of times more firmly. “Barkus is here. Came down with the guys from Ventura HC.” Hardcastle was awake and blinking at him. “I figured since he’s only missed one night’s sleep, I’d let him drive us home, okay?”
Then came the part where they got Mark on his feet. Frank wasn’t sure he would quite call it ‘awake’ but, since the kid was both docile and self propelled, with no more than a hand from the judge on one shoulder for steering, he was grateful.
He got them both settled in the back seat and stuck his head in as he handed Mark’s seat belt across. “Either of you guys want to stop off at the hospital?” Two shakes of two heads. “Of course not,” he said blandly, closing the door and turning to get in the car.
“Is Tilton still alive?” It was Mark, the first words he’d heard out of him since they’d gotten him up to come out to the car.
Frank looked back over his shoulder at the kid. He wanted to talk to him about what he’d found in the shed, but this wasn’t the time or place. He limited himself to a simple, “Haven’t heard otherwise.”
He climbed wearily into the front and said, “Home, Barkus.”
The front had come in overnight, leaving an inch of rain whipped against the window by the northwest winds. Having slept most of Monday afternoon, Frank laid awake part of the night listening to it. He was still awake when the phone call came at 5:30 am.
Not unexpected, no, but news none the less.
Tuesday morning it was still overcast, though the rain had stopped. Hardcastle had said they’d be home. He hadn’t asked if there was a particular reason for the visit. If Mark had answered, he fully expected the question would have been asked then and there.
No one was in sight as he came up the drive, and the garage doors were closed. It made perfect sense on a day like this, but it gave the impression of the drawbridges being pulled up.
But, despite the look of abandonment about the place, Milt was at the door before Frank even had a chance to ring. Hardcastle took his coat, and ushered him into the den. Frank had half expected to see Mark already ensconced there, and yet not seeing him was not surprising either. He raised an eyebrow at Milt, who knew the question without being asked.
“He went for a walk on the beach,” Hardcastle grumbled. “Said he needed to get out.”
Frank made a face. “A little nippy for that, don’tcha think?”
Hardcastle nodded and looked out the window at the wind playing havoc with the tree branches. “Happened right after I told him you’d called, been gone almost forty-five minutes already. I was about to send out a search party.”
Frank looked concerned, “He’s okay, isn’t he?”
“Oh, pretty okay.” The judge sat down at his desk and fiddled with a pen lying there. “He wouldn’t go to the ER but I got Charlie to take a look at him yesterday. He’ll be okay. Needs some time, though,” he added with another worried glance out the window.
“That’s understandable,” Frank replied, filling the silence with as few words as possible, but Milt did not add anything else. Finally, Frank added, “He’s dead. I got the call about five-thirty today. Never woke up.”
“Good,” Hardcastle replied, hard but quiet, without looking up.
Harper waited for something else, but the judge had managed to pack enough cold relief into the one word. Now he sat back in the chair, eyes fixed on a point a little to the left of Frank. The silence stretched out; with anyone else Frank would have become uncomfortable, but the two of them had enough shared years to fill in the space between them. He merely waited.
And, finally, Hardcastle added, “He’s not saying much, Frank. He’s not talking about it at all. Just gets skittish and says, ‘I’m okay’.”
“Yeah,” Frank allowed himself a small smile, “well, that’s how you know he’s normal, right?”
The judge gave him an impatient look. “I think he needs to talk about this.”
“Okay,” Frank sighed, “you’re probably right.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper in a plastic bag. “I never logged this in. Found it in the shed.”
Hardcastle looked at him, puzzled, “You’re walking around with evidence in your pocket?”
“It’s addressed to me; Mark wrote it.”
Hardcastle froze for a moment, then held his hand out without a word.
“I dunno, Milt; maybe Mark doesn’t want to say what you don’t need to hear.”
“Dammit, Frank, I already know what happened; I need to know what happened to him.”
Harper nodded once and passed the bag across the desk. Hardcastle seemed to hesitate for just a second before picking it up and decisively removing the contents--a half-page size sheet of heavy paper, covered with Mark’s handwriting, legible but hurried. Some of the pencil was a little thick, as though he’d been bearing down on the tip and had worn it dull by the end. All of it was readable.
Frank,
I don’t have a lot of time here, but I figured you’d want a
statement. It’s Sunday night-I don’t know what time exactly,
sorry. It’s been dark for a while. I know he’s killed two guys
already and I’m not sure about the other one, but I didn’t see
him at all after the first morning and I don’t think there was a
gold watch involved. The one guy is buried in back of a small
house up around here, east maybe, one of those dirt roads north
of 18. I know, Frank, I should’ve paid more attention. It’s white
with brown trim and a shallow grave out back--how many of those
can there be? I hope he was dead--
The non-sequiter took Hardcastle momentarily by surprise, then the scene, with all its nuances, snapped into clearer focus. ‘He practically asked me to do it this morning.’ Mark dug the grave, but he didn’t know who he was digging it for. Hardcastle swallowed once; the words were getting a little blurrier.
--The other guy was Riley, back at the gatehouse. You probably
found him already. Riley was in on it with him all along. Tilton
said the police were onto Riley but--no disrespect--I’ll bet it
was Hardcase, right? Anyway, Tilton shot him. Riley didn’t see it
coming. Hell, I didn’t see it coming. And then we came
here, and I don’t know where this place is either but it belongs
to Tilton so I figure you’ll find it.
The words had gotten closer together, pressured, tight, like a man who knows he doesn’t have a lot of time left and still isn’t finished.
Frank, I found something in the wood chipper, a finger bone
maybe?-it’s in my pocket. Have your guys look at that machine.
I’m sorry I took it apart. Well, I guess I’m not, but I’m sorry
if I screwed up your evidence for you, moving things around, but
it fell out of the chipper and I didn’t want to just leave it
there. I don’t know who it’s from but Tilton has been acting
really weird since we got here and, oh Frank what the hell am I
saying, that guy has been certifiable weird from the beginning. I
don’t know what made me think I could work him, I am so sorry--
The judge found himself laying the paper down on the desk, flattening it with one hand, to keep the words from trembling into unreadability.
--but I am glad you were there on the beach last night. Thank
you for trying to get me out of this mess and thank you for being
there with him, for being his back-up, even if he wouldn’t let
you call in the cavalry, huh? Wanted to let me try my scam? I’m
not sure who was crazier, him or me--must be something in the
water out at the estate. But, anyway, thank you from both of us.
The signature was just ‘Mark’. Hardcastle picked the sheet up again and turned it over. It was the title page from an owner’s manual-‘The Bushmaster 1000 Wood Chipper and Mulcher, 10 HP, with eversharp blades’.
He looked up at Frank again, after a moment. “Do you want this back?”
Frank shook his head. “No case anymore, suspect’s dead. Thompson isn’t real happy but, hell, Thompson’s never happy. Just try not to get in his face for a couple of months, will ya, Milt?”
Hardcastle, uncharacteristically compliant, merely nodded as he folded the sheet in half once and put it into his own pocket.
Frank stretched a little in his seat, still looking like a man who was short on sleep, “That IRS agent’s son called me this morning, pretty upset about the start of the trial being delayed yesterday; Thompson hadn’t given him any of the details. I told him what happened, not everything, just enough so he got the big picture. Anyway, he said to tell you ‘thanks’.” Harper sighed, sometimes people talked about justice, when what they really wanted was vengeance. “I’d better be going. Got a stack of paperwork down at the office.” Then he hesitated before adding, “You okay, Milt?”
“Yeah,” Hardcastle grunted, “I’ll be okay.” And he got up to see Frank off to the door.
He watched the car pull away, barely out of sight down the drive before he turned to go back inside. The wind had died down a little, and the pavement had dried, but there was still a bite to the air. He grabbed his coat from the closet and, after a moment’s thought, reached for McCormick’s heavier one as well. Damn fool kid going out in a windbreaker; what was he thinking?
He headed out the back door and across the yard, stopping at the overlook and scanning the beach below. No one in sight, maybe he was still walking; he could’ve gotten quite a ways in the time he’d been gone. But he thought the most likely possibility was a spot not visible from this vantage point, and he headed down the beach path, spare coat slung over his shoulder.
He came out onto the beach above where he’d been the other night. Now that he was closer, the pounding surf was even more impressive, the storm surge was up past the place where he’d buried the file. The rocks were catching the spray, but it didn’t seem to matter to the man sitting there, perched atop the long, flat one closest to the water.
The ocean sounds covered his approach and Mark was staring fixedly out to sea. The judge made it all the way to the dry side of the rock without an acknowledgement from the other man. There he hesitated, not wanting to startle him. In the end he settled for a grumbling shout, “What the hell are you doing out here, McCormick?” which had the benefit of being unmistakably familiar.
The kid looked over his shoulder and then scrambled to his feet and walked back to the shore side of the rock, peering down at him from his higher elevation. “Well, I’m looking at the waves. What are you doing here?” he answered mildly, in a tone that just carried over the surf and the wind.
Hardcastle frowned. “Looking for you, whadda ya think? You go out in this kinda weather all banged up and just wearing that jacket, and now you’ve gone and gotten soaked, on top of it all.”
McCormick ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at them, astonished, before attempting to wipe them off on his equally sodden jeans. “Just a little damp,” he muttered defensively.
Hardcastle, seizing the moral advantage, handed up the coat and watched McCormick fumble his way into it. The he waited a moment until the kid guiltily offered him a hand up. From this new perspective, the rock looked almost like the prow of a ship, breaking through the storm tossed waves. He could see why the kid had been mesmerized.
“Don’t blame me if you get soaked, too,” McCormick warned, stepping back over to the seaward side.
“You shouldn’t stand so close to the edge,” Hardcastle grumbled from just behind him. “A wave hits the wrong way and you’ll be knocked in there.”
“That’s why I was sitting down before.” Mark looked over his shoulder for a minute, smiling. “Anyway, it’s . . . exhilarating.”
“No, it’s not,” Hardcastle grumbled again. “It’s wet and cold and dangerous. And I’m not going in there to fish you out, so stand back a little bit.”
McCormick took one grudging step back just as a rogue wave slapped up onto the rock and dropped a packet of water where his feet had been. They both took one more step back. “Okay, well, it’s a little wet,” he admitted, still smiling.
Hardcastle was trying to adjust his mind to the unexpected. Well, why shouldn’t the kid be happy? He was alive; he’d survived. No permanent damage. And yet he would have sworn this was not the mood in which he’d left the house this morning.
The judge frowned. It occurred to him that it was much harder to ask somebody “Why are you okay?” than “What’s wrong?” He watched the other man’s face from the side, turned into the wind, ignoring the cold. It was hard to tell where the bruises left off and the shadows began. The set smile did not include his eyes.
Hardcastle made a quick calculation and then leaned in closer, so he could speak in a more nearly normal tone. “Frank just left.” The face did not change; Mark did not turn to face him, but he saw him stiffen up a little.
“What did he have to say?” McCormick asked tensely, the smile gone.
“Tilton,” Hardcastle bit the name out, “dead this morning.”
McCormick had blinked once and was looking down at the rock in front of him. After a moment he turned his head, looked at the judge, and asked matter-of-factly, “So who killed him, you or me?”
Hardcastle looked a little surprised at this, but took only a second to reply. “Hah, you didn’t even slow him down, kiddo. He never regained consciousness after I shot him.”
“Okay,” McCormick thought for a moment, and nodded at this reasoning, “then thank you.”
Hardcastle heard these words with no particular surprise. He’d been expecting them for a while now, the way Mark had clung to his hand in the cabin, like he was some sort of avenging angel back from the grave. He hadn’t said anything then, whatever it took to get the kid out of that place in one piece. But he was damned if he was going to take any credit for it now.
“No,” he said emphatically, “none of that. You’re not going to thank me because I got you out of something you never would have been in, in the first place, if it hadn’t been for--”
“For what?” McCormick interrupted him. “Because you spent years trying to get Tilton off the street? Judge, that guy was crazy evil. He made Weed Randall look like the poster child for good mental hygiene. I know you don’t just go after the easy--”
“No,” Hardcastle put one hand out, stopping the kid in mid-sentence. Mark had drawn back a little, looking puzzled. The judge went on, “Yeah, we deal with some bad stuff, and I guess that’s okay, as long as you know what we’re getting into. But this time you didn’t and that’s my fault.”
“Tilton was before my time.”
“All these guys were before your time, McCormick.” Hardcastle fumbled for the next words, not making eye contact with the younger man. “I think maybe this time I wanted to put some space between you and . . . and that guy. Like I thought maybe somehow I could keep you out of it,” he darted one glance up and then was back to studying the rocky ground between them.
“But . . . why?”
Hardcastle frowned. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about the reason; he must’ve done that a hundred times since Saturday morning; each time the answer had become more glaringly apparent, so that now it seemed as though his motives must be entirely transparent to everyone else as well. But McCormick was asking ‘why?’, and surely he deserved an answer.
“Because,” he began simply. “Because I think I must’ve known he’d try to take from me what he thought I’d taken from him.”
In the silence that followed, Hardcastle looked up cautiously. McCormick was looking back at him, a bemused expression on his face. Was it that damn hard to believe?
McCormick dragged his mouth shut, glanced down at his own feet again, and said, “Thank you.” Just that, no smart ass remark to lighten the load. Then, “And I am sorry.”
“What the hell for?” Hardcastle said in exasperation.
The kid looked briefly surprised, as though he were being asked to explain something obvious. Then he raised his shoulders fractionally and said, “Because I nearly got you killed. That was my goofy plan in action down here Saturday night.”
Hardcastle put the palm of his hand to his own forehead, “Yeah, and the alternative was still me walking up to Tilton with the file under my arm, so just which part of the ‘goofy’ are you feeling responsible for?”
McCormick’s response was immediate, “The part where you drew on two armed guys because you thought maybe you could save me.”
“Well,” the judge drawled, “there’s nothin’ you can do about that, kiddo. Live with it.”
McCormick grimaced; the judge caught the look. Then the younger man smiled again, a little more grimly. “See, Hardcase,” he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder at the still-pounding surf, “if I got knocked in that ocean you really would go in there to try and fish me out. Only we’d both drown.” He spoke calmly, as if with certain knowledge. “But I’d probably last about five minutes longer than you, and feel guilty as hell.”
It was Hardcastle’s turn to shrug. “Just as long as you kept treading water.”
“I would.” McCormick looked back at the ocean for a moment. “I did.”
They stood there a moment longer, until finally the judge clapped his hands together and said, “You cold enough yet? Maybe you wanna go inside and have lunch. I’ll make some soup.”
The laugh was totally unexpected and abrupt. Hardcastle waited patiently until McCormick stopped, then he quirked an eyebrow at the kid.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” McCormick clutched the left side of his ribs. “I think I can handle the saltines, just please, not clam chowder.”
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