Sunday morning came, cool and rainy. Mark had retired to bed early. It hadn’t been a deep or restful sleep, but it was sleep nonetheless. He’d thought he might feel more settled after a good night’s rest-more decisive-but he had either been wrong, or last night hadn’t qualified.

He spent a couple of minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, then got up and got dressed, slowly. A quick glance out the front door showed no signs of life from the main house, except for the light on in the den. The rain had let up.

He made coffee in his own coffeemaker, and poured two cups. Then he headed out the door and down the drive. A different black and white, a different occupant. This one he knew by name.

“Hey, Gary,” the window had already been rolled down at his approach. He held out a cup. “You don’t mind it black, do you?”

“Nah, black’s fine,” he said appreciatively.

“Anything?” Mark looked up and down the front of the estate.

“Not a damn thing. I’ve been here a couple hours. Nothing during the night, either, they said.”

Mark nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “Probably all a false alarm. Probably don’t need to have you guys hanging around out here.” He smiled reassuringly.

This got a sharp laugh from the guy in the cop car. “Hah, yeah, the lieutenant pulled me over after roll, told me you might say something like that.”

“Just don’t want to waste the taxpayers’ money, that’s all.” Mark drew himself up, a little self-righteously.

“‘S okay,” Gary smiled, handing the empty cup back. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“Well,” Mark looked over his shoulder, “don’t mention it to Hardca-castle, if he comes out.”

The officer frowned. “He was already here. Brought me a donut and a glass of milk. Said the same thing. I told him to talk to Lieutenant Harper.” He shook his head wonderingly. “You guys must be pretty used to having people take shots at you.”

Mark gave this a moment’s thought and a brief nod. Then he turned and trudged back up to the house, cups in hand. The front door was unlocked-Fine security we have here, McCormick thought-and he let himself in without knocking. He heard the tail end of a telephone conversation as he headed toward the kitchen.

A moment after he got there, Hardcastle appeared, dressed, no shotgun.

“Westerfield called?” Mark asked.

“Nope, Frank.” The judge looked a little peeved.

“He got a warrant yet?” said Mark, feeling pretty peeved himself.

“Nope,” Hardcastle flashed him a look. “Anyway, it’s Sunday.”

“Well,” Mark sighed, “I hope you told him I was a good boy. Spent the whole night at home, in bed.” He couldn’t help but bite down a little harder on the word home. He reached for the judge’s coffeemaker and started fiddling with it. “Where’d you get the donuts?” he asked, casually.

Hardcastle frowned. “How’d you-oh.” He frowned a little harder. “I went out this morning.”

“You drove?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Why the hell not? Been almost two weeks. Besides, it’s Sunday morning.” He sat down at the table. “They’re in the fridge if you want some.”

“What kind?”

“Powdered sugar.”

Mark gave him an odd look. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why that kind? You don’t even like them,” he prodded. “You think they’re messy. You like the jelly-filled ones.”

“Yeah, I got a couple of those, too.” Hardcastle shrugged. “And some chocolate ones for Gary; that’s what he said he wanted.”

“And the powdered sugar ones, why?”

“I dunno,” Hardcastle muttered, “I just got ‘em.”

Mark sat back in his chair. “They’re my favorite.”

Hardcastle retired to the den again. Mark took the donuts out, got himself a plate, and ate three with an air of quiet satisfaction. It was only the phone that startled him from his reverie. Hardcastle must have picked it up before the second ring. McCormick put his dish in the sink, along with the coffee cups from this morning. He filled up two new ones from the carafe, and headed into the den.

He could tell from the judge’s tone that it wasn’t Westerfield this time, either. Rebecca Henry most likely, though if it was, it didn’t seem like she and the judge were getting along too well.

Hardcastle looked up as Mark appeared in the doorway.

“Here,” he said into the receiver, “I’ll let you talk to him.” He handed the phone over.

Mark took the receiver, and picked up the base, pulling it closer to his side of the desk, putting a little space between him and the judge.

“Mark,” the voice on the other end began abruptly, “it’s Rebecca. Is there anything?” Mark heard the same pleading tone that he had used with Westerfield the day before. “I’m sorry. I knew you’d call me if there was, but I was hoping.”

“No,” Mark replied quietly, “I haven’t been back to Symnetech.” He looked up at the judge. Then back down at the desk in front of him. “I’ll let you know if I do,” he added, with a certain edge to his voice. “In the meantime, Dr. Westerfield is looking at the disks, and he’s got some theories about the notebooks. And Harper came up with some evidence that your father was abducted from the judge’s truck that Monday night.”

He heard a brief intake of breath and then a quietly denying, “Oh, no.”

“That’s really not bad news,” he reassured her gently. “If they passed up on an opportunity to kill him, then they must’ve wanted him alive. That’s good.

“Listen,” he changed the subject, hoping for at least some distraction, before she turned to contemplating her father’s fate over the past thirteen days, “did you know a technician named Bill Hardwick? Did your father ever mention him?”

There were a few moments of silence from Rebecca’s end, and then, “Bill, yes, he was a friend of Dad’s, they’d worked together for years. He had a heart attack; it was only a few months ago.”

Mark could almost hear the woman’s lip getting gnawed on. He phrased the next part carefully, still mindful of his misstep the day before.

“Did your dad talk about the death much? Was there anything about it that worried him?”

“Oh,” Rebecca exhaled, “yes, you know how it is . . . someone your age dies, it’s ‘there but for the grace of God’ and all. It makes you think about your own mortality.”

“Nothing more than that?”

Rebecca hesitated. “Not that he told me.”

“Okay,” Mark hoped not too much of the doubt crept into his voice. He hated coincidence, and for him, any bad thing that had happened within a several-mile perimeter of Symnetech had become an unconscionable coincidence.

They said their good-byes, and he repeated his promise to keep her informed. He tolerated Hardcastle’s scowl when he answered ‘yes’ to several pressured requests that, of course, the judge could not make out from where he sat. They were mostly along the line of ‘being careful’. None of them were ‘will you please do a second-story job for me tonight?’, but that was Hardcastle’s obvious first assumption.

Mark hung up and eased back a little further from the desk. “She’s worried,” he said simply. “Can’t blame her.”

Hardcastle nodded his agreement.

“How did you sleep?” Mark asked. It might have sounded like casual conversation, except for the abruptness. Then he added, “Any more weird dreams?”

“Did Westerfield ask?”

“No, he’s too busy trying to analyze me,” Mark allowed himself a small smile. “That and figuring out Henry’s notes.” He studied the corner of the judge’s desk. “The dreams?” he asked again. Some questions were easier to answer if a person wasn’t being stared at.

Three powdered-sugar donuts had done a lot for his patience, but he’d begun to think he wasn’t going to get any more out of the old donkey by the time Hardcastle finally responded, with an unfamiliar hesitance.

“They’re . . . getting weirder.”

“Weirder than a guy pulling a gun out of a book and shooting you in the chest?”

Hardcastle shrugged once. There was a long, expectant pause before Mark nodded a little more encouragement. “Yeah, well, how the hell you gonna figure ‘em out if you don’t ask me?”

“I already got this one figured out,” the judge retorted stubbornly. “It’s not real. It didn’t happen.”

“Okay,” Mark prodded, with equal stubbornness, “So, it’s not real. So tell me.”

Now it was the judge who was looking off somewhere other than at Mark. He shook his head. “It’s not real. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mark sat there for a moment, pondering. Hardcastle looked genuinely troubled, if still hopelessly stubborn. McCormick got the impression that, whatever it was, it had been a nightmare. Then suddenly, his focus got a little sharper.

“You shot me,” he slapped his hand to his forehead in sudden enlightenment, “six times.” He flashed a grin that faded almost the moment it appeared. The look on Hardcastle’s face most closely resembled the one Rebecca Henry had given him right after he’d asked her father’s blood type.

“Ju-udge, it was a scam. We were trying to catch some vigilante . . . um . . .” he backpedaled furiously, thinking this might not be the time to cast aspersions on the judiciary, “ex-cops.” Too late he remembered that Hardcastle could probably recall the faces of the men he’d been standing next to.

“Emmett Parnell,” he said in hushed disbelief, “Frank Cardigan? No. They were good cops. They were judges.”

“They were murderous vigilantes,” Mark said, with a new harshness. “And you went after them . . .” He frowned and corrected himself. “We went after them.” Then he lightened his expression a little. “But Judge, your shooting me, it was a scam. Those were blanks.” He touched the side of his jaw in brief recollection, “Though I gotta say, you’re a hell’uva method actor. The punch was pretty real.”

Hardcastle had turned inward. The next words were muttered, almost to himself. “Felt real, though. Damn, I was so . . .”

Scared? Mark kept the thought to himself. Out loud he only said, “See, you gotta tell me what’s up there. Some of it’s real, and some of it’s not-quite-real.” He tried to coax the judge back into the conversation.

After a moment he was rewarded with a couple of blinks and a sharp look imposed on the blank expression. “A scam, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mark replied, very calmly. “And that one was pretty much all yours, I should add.” He smiled. “I don’t usually come up with scams where a gun that’s gonna be fired at me might or might not contain blanks.”

This produced a frown from the judge.

“Yeah,” Mark added. “I’m not surprised you were . . . worried.”

“And you weren’t?” Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

“Nah,” Mark smiled again. “You’re pretty good at scams.” He let the smile slip a little. The next question was quietly insistent. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

There was no immediate answer from the judge, which Mark logged as a probable ‘no’.

“Okay, you gotta go crash for a while. You really are going to go crazy if you don’t get some sleep. I’m here, one of L.A.’s finest is out front . . . and it was all a scam, fake blood and everything. We had hamburgers later on that night, and we busted those guys a couple of days later. Now, go take a nap.”

Hardcastle’s look was still dubious but he rose slowly to his feet, as Mark made little shooing motions.

“Wake me in a couple of hours,” the judge said firmly.

“Yeah, sure,” Mark said blithely, and with complete insincerity. “And . . . and thanks for the donuts.”

At noon, the judge was still asleep, and Mark was itching to put a call through to Westerfield. He took out the leftover pizza and made up a plate for Gary. The sun had finally poked through the clouds, as if in meteorological confirmation of McCormick’s own mood.

He fought off a brief urge to whistle as he strolled down the drive to where the black and white . . . wasn’t.

He stared for a moment, stepping out beyond the gate and looking up and down the PCH. The car hadn’t been merely moved. It was definitely gone.

He supposed there might have been an emergency; something had come up that was taxing the daytime resources of the LAPD to the limit. But somehow he doubted that that was the case on a Sunday afternoon. He stood there, contemplating Hardcastle’s morning phone call with Frank.

He wandered back up to the house, thinking he might want to talk to Frank himself, but not wanting to tie up the phone, for even a few minutes, if Westerfield was about to call. He stood in fidgeting indecision for a few moments, and then finally dialed the lieutenant’s number.

“Don’t they ever give you a day off, Frank?” he asked, when Harper picked up on the second ring.

“Your tax dollars at work,” Harper grumbled mildly, “or at least Milt’s.” Then there was a second’s pause before Frank asked, “And what are you so cheerful about?”

“Don’t worry,” Mark assured him, “it’s not the squad car being gone.” Though he had to admit to himself that was a nice bonus.

“Then what?” Frank asked impatiently.

“I think it was the donuts,” Mark said, half to himself. “Yeah, that must have been it. Frank,” he turned his attention back to the conversation. “I think his memory’s sneaking up on him. I think he’s starting to know things he doesn’t even know he knows.”

“You got a little sleep last night, didn’t you?” Frank asked worriedly.

“Yeah, I did. You got anything else on the case?”

“Hardwick reportedly died at home. Suspected heart attack. He did have a heart condition. No evidence of foul play, though I don’t know how hard anybody looked. The M.E. passed on an autopsy. His personal doc signed off on the death certificate. The doc is on staff at two hospitals, has no disciplinary issues with the State, and no visible connections with Symnetech. How paranoid do you want me to be about this?”

“Dunno, I’ll have to get back to you on that. How ‘bout tracking down Henry’s intern?”

“Botts? The first name is Edward. I didn’t even need a subpoena, just called up the chairman of the chemistry department and asked him. No luck after that, though. His roommate says he took off right before Christmas, hitched a ride down to Baja, won’t be back till next week.”

“A big nothing,” Mark sighed, though the overall effect was not as grim as the day before.

“Not much if you’re still hoping for a search warrant,” Frank said with just a hint of suspicion.

“Yeah, Frank. I’m still waiting,” McCormick said, “and I think I’m being very patient. Here we’ve been talking for, what, five minutes, and I hadn’t even brought it up.”

“How come Milt made me call off the squad car?” Frank asked flatly.

“I dunno; I was going to ask you that.” Mark allowed just the slightest hint of asperity to creep back in his tone. Then he eased back down. “Sorry. You’ve really dug up a lot for us, Frank. I appreciate it.”

“But you still want some space, huh?” Harper’s tone was concerned. “Just think about consequences once in a while, will ya?”

“Always, Frank. Every single time.”

Mark hung up, feeling slightly less cheerful, but still fairly positive. He wondered just how much emotional mileage one could get out of three powdered-sugar donuts. He wondered what Westerfield would say about that. He wondered when the hell Westerfield was going to call. He checked the water under the Christmas tree. He read the Lone Ranger Creed, all the way through, twice.

He tried, and failed, to get through another chapter of The Law of Security Regulations. He thought about the blood-brain barrier, and a world where you could take a pill and be able to remember every line of every John Wayne movie ever made. He shuddered.

And then the phone rang.

He lunged halfway across the desk and grabbed it before the second ring.

It was Westerfield, sounding tired, and a couple notches more worried than the day before.

“Mark, glad I caught you,” he said, as if McCormick might have been anywhere but sitting by the phone, waiting for the call.

“You’ve got some more off the disks?” Mark cradled the phone and leaned over the edge of the desk, reaching for a pen and a pad of paper, just in case.

“How’s Hardcastle?”

Mark caught the tone; this seemed like more than a routine inquiry. “Okay,” he said hesitantly. “A little better, I think. He drove the car this morning.”

“Well, that’s okay. That’s something a little different; it’s called procedural memory, like playing a musical instrument. It’s stored differently.”

“Yeah, well, he went and came home, and he didn’t crash,” Mark said a little impatiently. “What do you have?”

“Well,” Westerfield seemed to be hesitating, or maybe just choosing his words carefully. It wasn’t even like the tentative discussion they’d had yesterday. “Mark, the data, I can see why Henry was worried.”

“It didn’t work, even with the fix-up they did?”

“Oh, it worked all right.” Westerfield exhaled. “He created an inhalation form, a powder. It did a damn effective job of getting to the hippocampus, concentrated like hell in the right spots. Long half-life, too. Even permanent in high enough doses.”

“So, they got it working,” Mark said pointedly. “What was left to worry about?” He had his own reservations about this brave new world that Symnetech was planning, but-

“The problem was,” Westerfield took a breath and gathered speed, “in even moderate concentrations it clogs up the long-term memory system. Not sure how, Henry doesn’t give us any clues in the last two notebooks that I have here; we’ve still got some of those missing, but the data from the second trial speaks for itself. It’s got a lousy therapeutic window and some intolerable side effects.”

“English, Doc, speak English.”

“What I’m saying is a little of this stuff makes you forget, a little more makes you forget to breathe.”

Mark found himself holding his own breath, as his gaze traveled involuntarily toward the stairs. “This is the stuff they used on Hardcastle?”

“I’m fairly sure of that, yes.”

“Is it reversible? . . . Dammit, does it get worse?”

“Probably not worse,” Westerfield had slowed down again, surveying uncertain ground. “It might be reversible; hard to say. Most of the rats died before any recovery could occur. There weren’t any studies on humans, thank God.”

“Hardwick,” Mark said grimly. “He needs to be exhumed.”

“I don’t know if that will help. They might be able to detect the glycoprotein in the brain tissue, or maybe not, after two months.” Westerfield let that stand for a moment; then he added, with quiet certainty, “It’s the notebooks we need, the ones that followed Hardwick’s death, the ones that accompanied the second trials. Henry would have the best idea of what was going on and why.”

Mark sat for a moment, not speaking. Then he cleared his throat, quietly. “I . . . have an idea where they might be. Could take a while to get at them.”

“Sooner would be better,” it was Westerfield’s turn to be impatient. “Long term effects, things that may impact on the half-life. That’ll be in the notebooks. Henry was a pretty meticulous guy for a frigging mad scientist.”

Mark swallowed once, hard. “We’ll get them. I’ll . . . call you back.” He had a sudden and, he was sure of it, irrational need to check on the judge. “I think it’s reversible,” he said stubbornly, trying to recapture the optimism he’d been nursing along all morning.

“Tell that to the rats,” Westerfield said grimly.

He couldn’t help it; as soon as he hung up the phone he took the steps, two at time and not as quietly as he ought to have. The door to the judge’s room was ajar but he had to ease it open a little more.

This is nonsense; he’s fine. He stood there for a moment, feeling utterly foolish, watching a man sleep. It’s been almost two weeks; what could happen now? He swallowed again. How long is that in rat days?

Hardcastle must’ve been dozing more lightly than it appeared. Mark would’ve sworn he’d made no noise, but now his eyes were open. He blinked twice and looked over at the clock on the nightstand. Then he looked back at McCormick, irritated.

“You let me sleep too long. It’s past four.”

“You must’ve needed it,” Mark replied quietly, not wanting to fight, not yet, not before he had to.

You told him you wouldn’t leave without telling him.

He’ll call the cops.

“Did you sleep?” he could hear the tremor in his own voice.

“What the hell’s the matter?” Hardcastle replied, with all his usual finesse.

“Nothing.” Mark shrugged. Lies, lies. “Just thought you might be getting hungry; you missed lunch.”

The judge was studying him through narrowed eyes as he sat up. “Westerfield called?” It was only perfunctorily a question.

McCormick nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Anything new? Anything that’ll help us get a warrant?”

A shake of the head. “Not yet,” Mark murmured. He had thought briefly, while Westerfield had been talking, that some of what he was saying might constitute probable cause, but he knew that was wishful thinking. He couldn’t even call Frank to talk it over; a new effort to push the concept now would put the lieutenant on high alert.

“So, what did he say?” the judge sat on the edge of the bed, and clasped his hands loosely in his lap.

“The stuff,” Mark began hesitantly, “the stuff Henry was researching, it had some side effects.” He’d managed to get that out fairly calmly, Mark thought. “He thinks that’s what happened to you.” Mark paused, knowing he was not sounding very forthright. He went ahead, still cautiously. “They must’ve given you some. That’s what caused the memory loss.”

Hardcastle nodded once. Then he cocked his head, looking up at Mark. “So, does it get better?”

“Well, yeah,” Mark had been waiting for that one; he was only surprised at the judge’s nonchalance. “It seems to be. A little.”

“He doesn’t know, huh?” Hardcastle looked back down at his hands.

“He hasn’t finished all the analysis,” Mark said insistently. He’s still missing some notebooks, dammit.

If the judge was aware of the unspoken part of this, he showed no sign.

“I’m gonna make some burgers, that okay?” Mark turned and left without waiting for the response.

Once in the hallway, he exhaled in quiet relief over having gotten through the encounter with no more questions than had been asked. You can’t tell, him, either. None of it, not yet.

Mark punctuated the end of dinner with a few weary yawns and some blinking and staring. He was surprised at how little acting it took; all the buoyancy he’d felt that morning had drained out of him.

Hardcastle gave him a few looks, then finally asked the inevitable. “You sure you slept last night?”

“Yeah,” McCormick sighed. “Except I’m about a week behind, I think.”

The judge frowned. “I had Frank call off the guard.”

Mark feigned a little eyebrow raising’s worth of surprise. “Oh?” he asked quietly. “Well, it’s been over a week.” He paused, as though he was making a painful admission. “Maybe I was wrong about that sedan. Maybe it was just somebody looking for an address.”

This got a gentle ‘harrumph’ from the judge. “So, you’re saying we don’t need to stand guard anymore?” There was a little edge of suspicious disbelief in Hardcastle’s tone.

“Oh, no,” Mark allowed himself a little stretch and a small yawn, “I wouldn’t say that. Not for a while longer, at least.” Mark left it at that, with Hardcastle surely wondering just what the point had been, and just as surely, eventually concluding that there had been no point at all . . . which was exactly the point.

Mark got up, cleared the dishes, ran the water in the sink, did all the things he’d done a thousand times before, with the same careless routine. He didn’t know if the judge could tell that, yet, but he wasn’t going to screw up now. And all the time he did it, he was thinking to himself, this’ll be the last time.

To bury that thought, he kept up a light patter, also routine. He wasn’t getting much back from the judge, who, himself, looked oddly distracted, but it staved off any more questions he might have had about Westerfield’s report.

He put the last dish away and wiped his hands. Hardcastle was still sitting there, still looking pensive.

“TV?” Mark asked. “Too early to go to bed.”

“I just got up,” Hardcastle agreed in mild disgust.

“We’re both so far behind, it’d take a week to catch up.” Mark didn’t have to feign the weariness in his voice. “Anyway, I’ll let you take first watch tonight. Okay?”

This got a nod from the older man. He thought he’d finally lulled the judge into a sense of security. And, after all, he’d left the Coyote practically on the front doorstep.

They retired to the den. Mark took a seat and picked up the remote. Of all the thousand ways in which the new judge was in variance to the old, surely giving up control of the remote was the least important, but it bothered McCormick nonetheless. He held it out tentatively to the older man, and, as usual, got a polite shake of the head.

Mark flipped through the channels, crawling up through the higher numbers to the places where old movies usually lurked. He arrived at a familiar scene, not too far into Stagecoach. He put the remote down on the table between their two chairs, in easy reach of the other man. Then he settled back into his seat.

They sat together in silence for a couple of minutes. Mark slowly became aware that Hardcastle was watching him, instead of the movie.

“What?” he asked, a little testily.

“Nothing,” the judge replied. Then, after a brief pause, and apparently out of a period of quiet reflection, he added, “You sure do watch a lot of John Wayne movies.”

Mark turned and looked at him in absolute astonishment. “You have got to be kidding.” It was apparent from the judge’s expression that he was not. “Okay,” Mark shook his head, peripherally aware that Wayne’s character was about to say, ‘Well, I guess you can't break out of prison and into society in the same week.’ And even more peripherally aware that he had a nagging fondness for that line.

“Okay,” he put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, wishing he could clear out that cobweb of thoughts, “I will admit that I am a graduate of the Hardcastle home-study course in John Waynisms. I will admit that I have seen Rio Bravo, what?-maybe eight times. But,” he looked up at the judge, “you are the one who watches a lot of John Wayne movies.”

Hardcastle frowned. “No I don’t . . . I mean, I like ‘em, but I watch lots of different movies.”

Mark stared at him for a moment, then gently pushed the remote in the older man’s direction. Hardcastle looked down at it and frowned.

“This one’s pretty good,” he muttered after a moment, not picking up the device. He turned back to the TV.

“See?” Mark said with quiet satisfaction.

They watched it through to the end, and, when it was over, Mark turned toward the clock with a pang of regret.

“I . . . ought to go lay down for a bit, so I can take over later.” He’d said it, and he’d made it sound pretty reasonable, for all the unwillingness he felt. You could do just that-go lay down; he’d probably let you sleep straight through. The thought of doing as he’d been told was more than seductive right now. Yeah, and in the morning you still won’t be any closer to the truth. And they’ll have one more day to find those notebooks and . . . do what? And you may never know if there’s a way to fix the judge’s memory . . . if he even wants it fixed.

“If . . .” Mark frowned. “If you could wake up tomorrow morning and all of this turned out to be some kind of weird nightmare, if you could change it all back to the way it was, I mean fifteen years ago, you would, wouldn’t you?”

Hardcastle looked up at him in surprise, no immediate agreement or denial. Then the man was rubbing his forehead with his hand.

“Well, lemme ask you, if you could wake up tomorrow and it had all been a nightmare, you’d never taken the Porsche, none of that, and none of what followed? Would you?”

Mark sat there, in silence. “I dunno,” he finally answered, shaking his head. And then, “I’d better go.” He stood up and looked around one more time at the room around him, and then at the man sitting in the chair. “I’ll see you . . . later.”

He took the clothes out of the back of the closet, lifted off the dry-cleaning plastic and laid them out-all black, loose enough to move in, to climb if he had to. He took the little case out of the drawer, and the black knapsack out from under the bed. It had collected some dust. He had hoped it would collect more but, somehow, he’d never gotten rid of it. He checked the contents, satisfied himself that nothing was missing.

He dressed slowly, and before he put on the black turtleneck, he removed the medal that hung around his neck and laid it carefully on the table next to the sofa. This went under the category of unusual precautions. He’d given it some thought and figured there was a chance he’d end the night in a lock-up, where it would be taken from him anyway, with the possibility of being lost.

But he’d done this thing before and never parted with it beforehand. So, he’d decided, it was more likely the other reason. You told him you wouldn’t cut out, not without letting him know first. So, this was by way of a sign, that he would be back, even if it was only so that Hardcastle could throw him out.

Only this Hardcastle wouldn’t even understand the message.

He checked the time again, and made the necessary phone call, summoning the taxi to an address a half mile down the road. Finally, he put on a tan windbreaker, to give a less criminal air to his whole ensemble, and to increase his visibility for the walk down the PCH. He’d ditch it after he left the cab.

He turned off the light and went out the back door, casting one last look into the shadowy interior of the gatehouse before he shut the door.

He gave the cabbie the address of a bar in Glendale, within walking distance of his ultimate destination. He couldn’t honestly explain the reason for all the subterfuge. Hardcastle would figure it all out about twenty seconds after he discovered the gatehouse was empty, and, even if he didn’t get caught in the process, the jig would be up as soon as he returned home with the goods.

The most important thing was to not get caught before he found what he was after.

He stepped from the cab and paid the cabbie, all in the most ordinary way possible, trying to do nothing to make himself memorable. The bar was nearly empty. He sat at a table, ordered a beer and did not drink it. He wanted the compromise between a little more emptiness on the streets, and the least elapse of time possible, to reduce the risk of the judge finding him missing.

The minutes passed slowly as he felt the tension in his spine. It was too soon, but he had to get up and move, do something. He spotted a phone in the back, near the bathrooms, and made his way back to it. He had to get rid of his change, anyway, he figured. Couldn’t carry it along in his pockets.

He dialed a number that had become familiar to him the past two days.

No answering machine, Westerfield picked up this time.

“Doc?”

“Oh, Mark. That was fast. You want to bring them over?”

“I don’t have them-yet.” McCormick fidgeted, flipping his remaining quarter over and over in his fingers. “Listen, there’s a thing, right, with a doctor and a patient, confidentiality?”

“I thought you didn’t need a psychiatrist.”

“No, maybe, oh, I don’t know,” Mark shook his head in frustration. “I don’t need a doctor; I need someone to talk to. I need someone to talk to him if something should happen.”

“’Happen’?” Westerfield’s voice had gotten a little sharper. “You’re not-”

“Suicidal? Hell, no . . . at least not in any traditional definition of the word. God, no,” Mark finished impatiently. “But, Doc, we’ve got one guy dead, one missing, and one who’s been poisoned . . . and they already took one shot at me. I think I’d be crazy if I didn’t think they might be out to get me.”

“You have a point, there,” Westerfield replied dryly. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

Mark exhaled. “It’s a message. Just in case. Really short. I dunno, he may not even know what the hell you’re talking about.” There was a pause. “Just tell him, ‘I wouldn’t’.”

“You wouldn’t what?”

“Just that. It’s the answer to a question. He’ll either get it, or he won’t . . . and if he doesn’t , then it doesn’t matter, ya know? But I only want you to call him if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow afternoon.” Mark was resting his forehead against the edge of the phone booth, feeling like his evening in the den was already years ago. “Listen, I gotta go and . . . thanks.”

He didn’t wait for Westerfield’s good-bye. He was feeling increasingly fatalistic and as though events were sweeping him forward. Now, or never. He left the bar.

Hardcastle had sat there for a good hour after the kid had left, pondering the question he been asked, along with a multitude of other things. He’d gone to the window twice, only to see that red race car sitting out there, in plain view, a reproach of sorts for his lack of faith the evening before, when he’d told Mark flat out he didn’t trust him.

I’ll let him sleep through; God knows I slept long enough today. He had, too, not troubled, for once, by the bizarre dreams that Mark claimed were actual memories. He knew that one today before you even told him. It did happen.

And what kind of an ex-con likes John Wayne and powdered sugar donuts, anyway?

He went to the window one more time. He studied the car, a sleek black outline in the darkness. Very reassuring.

He frowned. He pushed down the quivering tendril of doubt that was sprouting. He pushed it down with one finger, then stepped on it with his whole weight, only to find it pushing back, relentlessly seeking a way around his denials. He suddenly knew, in some deeply subliminal way, that McCormick was not over in the gatehouse, Coyote or no Coyote.

He didn’t have time to figure out why. Something in the way he’d said ‘later’? He headed for the door, barreling through it and across the drive in an unstoppable forward motion. He didn’t knock, and the door was unlocked. He continued on through and into the dark and quiet room.

He flicked on the light switch, in no way expecting to hear a protest at the sudden intrusion. And, to his deep and sudden sorrow, he was absolutely right.

Hardcastle stood for a moment, stock-still in the empty room. One glance upward had shown no one in the bed upstairs. Then his gaze fell toward something gleaming on the end table alongside the sofa-a medal on a chain, it had the soft luster of well-worn gold. He reached down and picked it up, studying it for a minute. It was the kid’s, obviously. He’d seen him wearing it a week ago Friday, the night he had bandaged his arm in the bathroom of the main house.

He slipped it into his pocket and climbed the stairs. A pair of jeans and a shirt left draped over a chair, two empty hangers still half-swathed in dry-cleaner’s plastic-not from a tux, he grimaced. A slow survey revealed nothing else incriminating.

Of course not, he took all the incriminating stuff with him.

He moved toward the desk where the phone was and started to reach for it. It wasn’t like he had to guess where the guy was going. He already had his hand on the receiver when he froze.

If you tell Harper, then that’s it. It’s all over. No doubt he could have a squad car there in much less time than it would take Hardcastle himself to get to the scene, but it would be the Glendale PD and Mark would be under arrest.

Well, he thought, it’s a good thing you’ve already tried driving.

Black bag over his shoulder, jacket ditched in a convenient dumpster a block up the alley, McCormick performed the ritual of the second-story job. Like riding a bicycle. Though falling off could get you five to ten.

He was in at the back of the lobby, and so far undetected, unless there was an alarm system more cleverly hidden than the one he’d evaded. It appeared the building had no live human security-surprising, but very convenient. He was beginning to have a glimmer of hope, as though it might be possible to get into the Symnetech offices, find the notebooks, and leave the premises, all swiftly and without detection.

He took the back utility stairs up to the second floor, jumped the fire door alarm, and entered.

He was starting to think, just maybe, he could make it back to the gatehouse before Hardcase found him out, and then, oh, he could take the notebooks directly to Westerfield; he wouldn’t ask too many questions, and might even be persuaded to forget they hadn’t come directly out of the box with the others.

It was . . . possible. He felt a lightness, a euphoria that was entirely unsuitable to his current occupation.

He worked his way forward to the office that Rebecca Henry had indicated on his drawing. Another lock gave way. He unshipped his flashlight and flicked it on, prepared to do a quick search before he tackled the more likely location of the company safe.

And halfway through his second drawer, the lights came on in the hallway.

And that’s what you get for being an optimist. Mark grimaced to himself, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. And who the hell comes to the office on a Sunday night?

There were footsteps, but no voices to accompany the lights. A single set of feet, he thought, moving purposefully down the hall in his direction. From bad to worse, the steps paused just outside the door. Mark had already turned off his flashlight, and he sat there, absolutely still, not even daring to lower himself out of sight behind the desk.

If there wasn’t a gun, he supposed he might overpower one person. Consider the consequences. When the time came to tally up the bill, did he really want the charges to include assault? He’d never done it that way-never.

He loosened his grip on the flashlight as the door swung open slowly.

Hardcastle had gotten over his initial queasiness driving the ‘Vette that morning. It hadn’t been his car, and he found the idea that he still had it, fifteen years later, strangely disturbing.

Just this, all the rest you put away, out of sight.

Everything has a meaning.

His thoughts snapped back, unexpectedly, to the medallion he had slipped into his pocket.

Why?

The cold resignation that he had experienced  when he entered the gatehouse had been replaced by a smoldering anger. He’s throwing it all away, and . . . for what?

And the answer, unbidden, came in Rebecca Henry’s voice-‘He was thinking of you.’

No gun. The silhouette had one hand on the knob and the other on the opposite doorframe. He would guess from the general outline, and his one previous meeting, that it was Grieves. The flick of the light-switch, a moment later, confirmed his guess. Mark tried not to blink in the sudden wash of fluorescence.

Grieves stood there, looking momentarily surprised, then stepped forward. He spared a second look to the flashlight, which he well might have mistaken for a gun on first glance.

“Mr. McCormick,” he frowned. “Looking for those missing forms?”

Mark kept his smile light and non-threatening. “Thought I’d save your staff the trouble.”

“Are you always this annoying?” Grieves said. There was a certain worried snap to his tone but, as consistently as the last time, and with even less justification, he made no move for the phone.

Mark felt his expression hardening. Assault no longer seemed such a regretful thing. He rose to his feet and stepped out from behind the desk. “Is it you, or Gularis running this show? Which of you poisoned Hardcastle? And where the hell is Dr. Henry?” He was way past the negotiation mode and Grieves seemed to sense it, stepping back a foot into the hallway.

McCormick closed the space between them, with every intention of pounding the crap out of a guy who was at least indirectly responsible for all the misery of the past two weeks. It was as simple as that. His focus on the big picture was shot to hell, muddied with the red haze of pure anger.

He even had one hand on the man’s collar when he heard the quiet ding of the elevator.

“You’ve interrupted another meeting, Mr. McCormick,” Grieves gave him a look that was still nervous, but now more menacing.

Three more figures had appeared at the end of the hallway nearest the receptionist’s desk; none of them was Gularis. All were anonymously dressed in clothing that looked vaguely paramilitary. One had slightly graying hair. He stepped forward and said, “Progress?” in a voice that implied that ‘no’ was not an acceptable answer.

“Yes,” Grieves smiled worriedly, nerves defeating menace by a score of twenty to one. “This is Mr. McCormick, an associate of the man to whom Henry went. He, unlike the other two, does not seem to have been exposed. I think there’s a good chance he has the information you need.”

Grieves had, very wisely Mark thought, been edging away from him while he talked. He was now out of reach, and, to make matters even more interesting, the other three had brought guns to the meeting.

Mark sighed, his perspective suddenly altered to include all the possibilities that were worse than being arrested. “Listen, Grieves, this stuff is crap.” He turned to include the rest of his audience. “It’s poison.”

“I know,” Grieves answered calmly, as one of the two younger men stepped forward to McCormick with a set of handcuffs.

He found the address that Frank had given them a week ago but parked a short distance up the street, pondering his next move. His thoughts were interrupted, almost immediately, when he saw a light go on in a second floor window. It was indirect, as though seen through an open door from another room. Then a second light, bright, nearer to the window, was lit.

Based on no particular certain knowledge, Hardcastle doubted that Mark was a careless burglar, and a few passing minutes brought no sound of sirens and no other signs of detection. Hardcastle frowned and got out of his car, walking toward the passageway two doors south of the building and making his way back to the alley behind.

There were two vehicles about a block away. The closer was a sedan, color indeterminate in the poor light, but the judge had a strong suspicion he was looking at a gray ’85 Grand Prix. Beyond that, another half-block up, right behind the Symnetech building, was the dark outline of a larger vehicle-a van or a truck.

Hardcastle stayed in the shadows for a moment, wishing he gotten his hands on a gun before he’d come, then wondering where that thought had come from. He barely had a chance to address the idea, when he saw a cluster of figures detach themselves from the darker doorway of the Symnetech building. As they spread out a little, behind the further vehicle, he could see it was four men, and one was unwilling.

He was, illogically, moving forward himself, and now one of the men had noticed his approach and was shouting to the others. Hardcastle wasn’t close enough to make out the words, but the unwilling guy, now obviously Mark, was getting dramatically less willing. It didn’t matter, he was already handcuffed and quickly overpowered and shoved into the back of the van, with two of the men right behind him. The third turned and raised a gun, but held his fire, seeming to realize the pursuer was still too far off to be a real threat.

Then he clambered in behind the others. The door was pulled shut and the vehicle took off, far faster than Hardcastle could close the gap between. It screeched as it took the corner and then was gone.

He stood there, panting, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, closing his eyes for a moment. Anger-he shouldn’t have been working without a back-up, and then guilt-you should’ve backed him up.

There was an image, as clear as any of those that had plagued his dreams the past week-Mark being dragged into a car by two goons, in front of the DA’s office. It’d happened so fast, so unexpectedly and-the whole horrible weekend that followed, Mark in the hands of that madman, Tilton. Anger and guilt-you never told the kid how much Tilton scared you . . . and why.

He was down on his knees in the alley, without having any idea of how he’d gotten there. And the images were spreading out from that first one, each more graphic than the last.

“God,” it was hard to even take a deep breath. This wasn’t anything like the dreams; this was a hundred times worse, and it was relentless. His right hand went to his chest, as if to hold his pounding heart in place. It came up against the round-edged shape in his left pocket.

The medal. Why? He clawed into the pocket and pulled it out, clutching it so hard that his knuckles were white. He left it there for you to find.

Why? Everything has a reason.

It’s something he would never leave behind. He’d meant to come back for it.

Hardcastle had sunk back sitting, still gasping for air, trying to breathe between the continued assault of images. The relentless, inevitable truth of it all, for one moment, blotted out everything else around him.

Then that receded a little, leaving him shaking and dizzy, but back in the alley behind Symnetech. And all that was left of the van was a faint smell of burnt oil and exhaust.

A sound behind him anchored him again in the present. He lumbered to his feet, swaying for a moment, then turned and saw another man emerging into the alleyway from the building.

“Mr. Grieves,” he said, with an ice-cold edge to his voice, and this time he was close enough to intercept his target.

The man jumped in startlement, then stepped back with fear in his eyes. “I’m not carrying much money,” he said quickly, though that was clearly not what Hardcastle was interested in.

“Grieves,” the judge had him by the collar, was forcing him up at little, onto his toes. The man squeaked. Hardcastle shook him just a bit to focus him. “Who the hell were your friends, and what’d they do with McCormick?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” He came to a full stop and then, as an afterthought, added “-anything about it.”

The judge looked at him in disgust. “Wally Gularis? It was his goons?” Another little shake, Grieves’ teeth rattled.

“I don’t know.”

Even Hardcastle recognized they had come to an impasse. Clement Grieves had reached the saturation point as far as fear was concerned. Any more added at this point would merely run down off of him like sweat. The judge eased his grip, and stepped back a bit.

“You were up there by yourself, huh?”

Grieves should have refused to speak at this point, that he didn’t was itself an admission. He nodded sharply. “Yes.”

“That your car?” he ducked his chin to the left at the Grand Prix.

Another nod.

“Thought so,” Hardcastle said with an air of satisfied knowledge that he did not actually feel. Let this guy think the worst; let him feel the noose, though there was a good chance that no legal threat could outweigh the risk of crossing Gularis.

Hardcastle turned his mind to more practical matters. “I need your phone.” He pointed back toward the door.

Grieves was still apparently caught up in the shock of unvoiced accusations. He allowed Hardcastle to steer him back into the building and up the flight of stairs. Hardcastle noticed the minor alterations to the alarm systems on the way in and grimaced, but that was the least of his worries right now.

Grieves walked him through the hall and toward the lobby, pointing to a phone and then stepping back a little. He’d said nothing since they had come inside. He’s waiting for his lawyer. But Hardcastle had a creeping feeling that if Grieves kept this up, there wouldn’t be much he could be charged with. Not unless they found McCormick alive.

He suppressed a shudder and dialed Frank, rather than 911. Speed was of the essence, now, and explaining everything to a Glendale beat cop was not on his agenda.

“Frank,” he cut into the middle of the man’s greeting, “we got a problem. They grabbed Mark . . . no, not at the estate, over here in Glendale. The alley behind Symnetech. Three guys, probably a fourth doing the driving. A van, dark colored, Ford . . . No, I dunno what year, didn’t get the plates . . . yeah I know; I’m not McCormick. Yeah, it’s not much to go on . . . here, yeah, twenty minutes?”

He hung up, exhaling, and looked up at Grieves, who still wasn’t talking, and had merely taken on the persona of a concerned citizen.

“You understand, don’t you?” Hardcastle gathered himself up, trying to stay under control. “If they kill him, I’ll nail you as an accessory before the fact, maybe even conspiracy to commit murder. How many meetings have you had with Gularis? How much money do you owe him? I’m very good at connecting the dots.”

Grieves had regained some composure, too. More than Hardcastle would have thought him capable of. He gave the judge an arch and puzzled gaze.

“Walter Gularis is merely an interested investor. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Hardcastle had a sudden feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was missing something here, that the dots weren’t going to connect, at least not the way he wanted.

“They weren’t Gularis’ men,” Hardcastle frowned at him. “Then who the hell were you dealing with?”

Grieves twitched a little at that one, but again fell silent.

“I’ll figure it out,” Hardcastle assured him grimly. To himself he only hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

Frank pulled into the alley behind the Symnetech building five minutes ahead of schedule, not surprised to find the judge already standing there, just inside the backdoor, looking impatient.

“So, who grabbed him, do we know that at least?” Frank wasted no time on any preliminaries.

“Damned if I know,” Hardcastle shook his head in worried disgust. “Grieves is upstairs, and he seems awfully damned confident that we won’t connect it to him.”

“Even though it happened in his office?” Frank voiced his astonishment.

“Well,” the judge’s tone had gone a little vague, “I didn’t exactly see them come out of here. I couldn’t swear to that.”

“Milt?” Frank’s look of doubt narrowed down to disbelief. “Are you covering for the kid?” Then disbelief made a full circle back to astonishment. “Milt?” He grabbed him by both shoulders. “Dammit, you’re getting it back, aren’t you?”

The judge’s worried nod didn’t leave much room for celebration, and none at all for further questioning.

“Listen, Frank, where McCormick was when this happened is the least of our worries right now. Grieves will just deny it, and we don’t have much else to tie him to the kidnapping. Gularis is the key; I’ve got to get to him. Can you try and track him down for me? He probably won’t talk to me voluntarily, but if you can get him in on anything, hell, an unpaid traffic ticket-”

“Wally’s not the type to leave a loose end like that.”

“I know, anything,” Hardcastle looked desperate.

“I’ll try. Just finding him may be a challenge, and even if we do bring him in, he’ll be lawyered-up inside of half an hour. I’ll bet he keeps one on twenty-four hour a day stand-by.” Frank said. Then he frowned again. “Were you here with Mark?”

“No,” Hardcastle replied flatly, “after.”

This got a thoughtful nod from the lieutenant. “And that’s when you got better?”

“More or less,” Hardcastle said slowly.

“Well,” Frank let out a heavy breath. “It’s been kinda a rough two weeks for him.”

“I remember that part all right,” Hardcastle muttered. “Frank, I told him if he, ah . . . left, he shouldn’t come back.”

“You weren’t yourself, Milt.”

“I know,” the judge grimaced again. Then he added quietly, “Oh, God. What if he believed me?”

McCormick struggled to push himself into a seated position. Sprawled on the floor of a quickly moving van, hands cuffed behind him, and now distracted by the memory of seeing Hardcastle in the alley way, it wasn’t an easy undertaking, but he managed. The three guys with guns weren’t offering any objection, so he scooted himself back against the wall of the van.

That accomplished, he took a minute to look around. Two of the armed guys-the graying one, and a blond-haired kid-had claimed the two jump seats. The third one-dark hair, the one who had put the cuffs on him-was sitting on the floor in front of the side door. All three were staring at him with a kind of intensity that would’ve been unnerving, even without the guns pointed his direction. He didn’t stare back.

Of course, even had there been a lot of distractions in the back of the van, it would’ve been hard to miss the other form, huddled in the corner across from where Mark leaned, and that’s where he turned his attention.

The other man was older, tall and lean, with thin gray hair splayed out in every direction. His hands appeared to be bound behind him, too. A closer look revealed tired, drawn features, and the remnants of recent bruises. The man’s eyes were open, though not particularly focused.

He’s scared, McCormick thought. Probably ought to be. He took a chance.

“Dr. Henry?” No answer. He leaned forward a little, keeping a wary eye on the guns. “Thomas Henry?”

Slowly, the older man turned his head to look his direction. “Do I know you?” he asked, in a voice stronger than McCormick would’ve expected.

“No. My name’s Mark McCormick. I’m a friend of…” he hesitated. He had been going to say ‘Rebecca’, hoping that would maybe buy him some acceptance, but he didn’t know what these guys knew. He settled for the name he knew they knew. “Milton Hardcastle,” he finally finished.

Henry looked at him quizzically. “Hardcastle? Why’s everyone keep asking me about him? Haven’t seen him since we were in school.”

McCormick leaned back against the wall. “And when was that?”

“Oh, that’s been a while.”

Mark sighed; he’d have to be more direct. “Dr. Henry, do you know what year this is?”

At that, Henry darted a glance back at the guys with guns. “They asked me that, too,” he said in a low voice. “I think they’re crazy,” he added.

“Maybe,” McCormick agreed wearily, “but the year?”

Henry seemed exasperated. “‘66,” he said, as if that should be obvious, “1966. Happy now?”

“Not particularly.” He closed his eyes and thought.

After a moment, he spoke again, but he didn’t open his eyes. “Dr. Henry, do you know what’s going on?”

“They-they want something. But I don’t know what it is.”

McCormick wondered if the gun-toting guys were smart enough to recognize the truth in that answer. But then he thought about the bruises. They were healing. They quit beating him when they figured out it wasn’t doing any good. Well, there was something to be said for that, he supposed, though it was most likely they simply had ulterior motives for keeping him in one piece, not any true compassion.

He tried not to sigh. Or scream. This was supposed to be the guy with the answers, and if he couldn’t provide them, what was going to happen to Hardcastle?

Which brought him right back to the one thought he really didn’t want to deal with right now. What the hell was he doing in the alley? There had been a time-almost two weeks ago now . . . a lifetime, really-when seeing the judge at that moment would’ve given him a renewed confidence, even with three armed guys, handcuffs, and a speeding van. But now, all he could do was wonder which Hardcastle would report to the cops first: the kidnapping, or the burglary.

Behind the relative comfort of his closed eyelids, McCormick thought it would be really easy to just sit quietly and let things unravel for a while. But that would be easier if he could erase the face of Milton Hardcastle, staring back at him. Not the Hardcastle he’d come to know and…love. No, that Hardcastle would’ve been hard to leave, but he’d faced that possibility before. But the Hardcastle that stared at him now was different. Those features were cold, filled with distrust, uncertainty. The idea of leaving that Hardcastle was unthinkable. He would not leave the man in that condition, without at least some answers, even if he ended up back behind bars . . . indefinitely.

With a deep breath, McCormick forced his eyes open and looked across at his captors. “So, fellas, what’s up?”

The two younger men seemed surprised by the cheerfulness, but the older man smiled slightly. “You’re very calm, Mr. McCormick.”

From his position, McCormick approximated a shrug. “Well, this isn’t exactly my first kidnapping.” Though, in truth, he was a little worried about these guys. It was possible that they all simply shared an affinity for olive combat pants and black tee shirts, just as it was possible they used the same barber to get the similar crew cuts, but the overall effect bothered him just the same.

“But I still wouldn’t mind knowing what you wanted,” he added.

A moment passed without an answer.

“Or maybe who you are?” McCormick added.

After another moment, the other man spoke. “We are men not much different than you, Mr. McCormick, with many common interests.”

McCormick doubted that, but this probably wasn’t the time to argue the point. “That may be,” he said agreeably, “but that’s not much help in conversation. Do you have a name?”

The older man gave a single laugh. “You may call me Dane.”

“Dane? That’s it?”

He gestured to the others. “My men call me Commander, if you prefer.”

McCormick smiled thinly. “All right, then, Dane, what is it you want with me?” He thought he could wait to find out what, exactly, the man commanded.

“Please don’t be coy, McCormick,” Dane told him. “Grieves believes you have the information that Dr. Henry is currently unable to provide.”

“I’m not a scientist,” McCormick answered, shaking his head. “I don’t know anything.”

Dane gave another small laugh. “I didn’t expect that you’d start rattling off chemical formulas or enlightening me on the inner workings of the mind, Mr. McCormick. I do, however, think it’s possible that you have that information in your possession.” His features hardened. “Where are Henry’s notes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” McCormick answered, though he thought it highly unlikely playing dumb would work for long.

In the space of about two seconds, Dane had risen from his seat, closed the small distance across the van, and slammed the butt of his weapon into McCormick’s gut. Then he squatted down, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled his prisoner’s face close to his own, jamming the barrel of the weapon forcefully into McCormick’s neck.

“The minute that you convince me you are useless, McCormick, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

McCormick didn’t move; didn’t even allow himself to swallow. “Yeah,” he answered with a forced calmness, “I got it.”

“Then would you like to try that question again?” Dane asked, not releasing him. “Where are Henry’s notes?”

He realized then that there really wasn’t a good answer to that question, so he stuck with the truth. “I’m not sure. I was hoping to find them in the Symnetech offices.”

“Did you really think we wouldn’t have looked there?”

“I was hoping you didn’t know what you were looking for,” McCormick said, still relying on the truth.

Dane drew back just a bit and examined him closely. “It’s lucky for you that I don’t believe you,” he finally said, and released McCormick with a shove against the wall of the van.

McCormick watched as Dane crossed back to reclaim his seat, and then jerked his head once, pointing the two younger men back toward the newest prisoner. Somehow, he thought ‘lucky’ might not be the word he would’ve chosen.

Half an hour later, McCormick was beginning to seriously wish he knew where the last notebooks were.

Immediately after Dane had given his guys the go-ahead, the young men had pulled on black leather gloves and moved his direction. Pulled roughly to his feet, McCormick had stood with the barrel of a small automatic rifle resting against his temple while the handcuffs binding him were released just long enough to move his hands in front of him. Then, he was shoved back toward the front wall dividing the passenger cab from the cargo area.

Seeming to understand what was coming, Henry had struggled to intervene, but Dane gave him a single whack against the head with the butt of his own weapon that kept the doctor on the floor.

McCormick was held against the wall while his hands were pulled above his head, then the chain of the handcuffs was secured to a cargo tie near the roof. Only when he was immobilized did the men lay their weapons aside. Then they had resorted to gloved fists and the occasional booted heel to do their talking.

The thing that had always amazed McCormick was the way someone could be so proficient at dispensing a beating without one single ounce of emotional investment. He had seen it time and again in prison; someone would deliver a message for someone else-beat a guy to within an inch of his life for nothing more than a carton of cigarettes or an extra couple slices of pie. Strictly business. And that’s the way it was with these guys: deliberate, methodical, efficient, and dispassionate. He took a moment to wonder how it was that he had managed to avoid most of that on the inside, only to have such difficulty staying out of trouble on the outside, but then he pushed the thought aside and came back to the moment.

And in the moment, Dane was calling off his boys, at least for the time being.

“Robbins, Canton.” And that was all the man had to say for the others to move immediately away from McCormick and seat themselves in the now empty jumpseats.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, McCormick was still fascinated with that level of discipline. But in another corner of his mind he had the fleeting thought that he might’ve liked it better had Dane not been so free with names. The idea that the man wasn’t concerned about revealing their identities didn’t seem to bode well for a happy ending.

Dane stood in front of him, looking him up and down, almost as if he was assessing the handiwork. McCormick forced his chin not to sag against his chest, forced his eyes to stay focused on Dane’s. Or, mostly focused. One of the eyes was blurred with blood; both of them felt like they might be swollen shut before much longer.

His shoulders felt like they were straining to stay in their sockets, and he knew his wrists were probably raw, because he hadn’t been able to force himself not to struggle as the blows fell upon him, even though he knew it was futile. Once, early on, he had managed to land a pretty solid kick of his own, right into the blond kid’s mid-section, though he wished it had been a little lower. That was the only time the men had shown any emotion as they went about their task, and after a couple of minutes of personal retribution, McCormick had been a little bit sorry he’d done it. But not entirely.

“Something on your mind, McCormick?” Dane asked patiently.

“Nothing more than you’d expect,” McCormick answered, trying to sound nonchalant, though he thought maybe the way his words slurred across lips that weren’t quite in their natural place anymore might’ve hampered the effect.

Dane just cocked an eyebrow.

“You know,” McCormick continued, “the usual. Who you really are and what the hell you want.”

“You know what I want.” Dane paused. “Ready to give me a different answer?”

Mark pulled a gruesome smile, and tasted the blood in his mouth. “I really hate to tell you this, Dane, but I don’t have those notebooks.”

“Notebooks?”

Shit. More out of it than I thought. “That’s what you said you were looking for, right?”

“Actually,” Dane replied, “I said notes.”

“Ah. Well, you can understand I’ve been a little distracted.”

“So what notebooks were you thinking about, McCormick?”

But Mark shook his head. “I can’t help you.” Then he swallowed hard as he watched Dane reach into his jacket and pull out a leather strap. The man gave it a single slap against his open palm, and the dull thud was an ominous indication of what was to come.

Slowly, Dane took another step. “Somehow, Mr. McCormick, I still don’t believe you.”

Harper paused outside his office door, trying to calculate the odds that Hardcastle had done as instructed and gone home. What he came up with was the proverbial ‘slim to none’, so he took a calming breath before opening the door.

“Well?” Hardcastle demanded before the lieutenant was even fully inside the office.

“What’re you still doing here, Milt?” Harper asked wearily, forestalling the inevitable. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and looked across at the other man. “You should be home. What if someone tries to call?”

But Hardcastle shook his head. “No one’s going to call, Frank, and you know it. There isn’t going to be any kind of ransom demand; that’s not the reason he was snatched. Not this time.”

Harper winced a little at the bitterness of the last few words. In the past two weeks he had developed a new understanding of how all of life’s events-good and bad-came together to create the person of today. But still, he couldn’t help but think that there might be some good to be gained if a guy could block just a few stray memories every now and then. Not that Milton Hardcastle would be the type to willingly hide from things, but guilt had a way of hitting the man hard.

To his friend, all Harper said was, “Try to stay focused on today, Milt. Mark doesn’t blame you for the last two weeks any more than he blamed you for…anything else.”

“Oh, he’s blamed me for a lot of things, Frank,” Hardcastle contradicted. “The kid’s only problem is that he never quite sorted out what really was my fault.”

Harper quirked a tiny grin, and gave misdirection a shot. “Well, he’s gonna blame us both if you wear yourself down anymore than you already are. Go home for a while and I’ll call you as soon as there’s any news.”

Hardcastle pulled a hand across his face. “Nice try, Frank. But why don’t you just tell me what’s going on with Grieves?”

The grin moved quickly to a grimace. “We just cut him loose,” the lieutenant admitted.

Hardcastle stared for close to a full minute, and Harper knew he was figuring the angles. What he finally said was, “You know he’s involved in this, Frank.”

“And you know the difference between knowing and proving. Right now, the man barely qualifies as a witness, much less a suspect. Even if you were willing to place McCormick inside that building, it is a big building. Grieves is sticking to the ‘I didn’t see a thing’ routine pretty tightly. We’ll see what we can do with him after we get Mark back. Or after we find out what Gularis has to say.”

The judge looked hopeful. “What did you find?”

Harper shook his head. “Nothing. I decided not to worry about finding a way to keep him, I just want to get him. We can bring him in for questioning, no strings attached. It won’t give us much time, but right now we need all the information we can get.” Then he shrugged. “Of course, we still have to locate him. He wasn’t at his address, or his most common business ventures. We’re still looking.”

Hardcastle glanced down at his watch. “It’s after two,” he muttered. “Where could he be this time of the night?”

“He doesn’t exactly keep banker’s hours,” the detective said, even though he knew Hardcastle wasn’t considering the time as much as the length of time. It had been just over four hours since the kidnapping, and they both knew that was the kind of clock that could count down to disaster.

“So what did Grieves have to say about Wally?” Hardcastle asked after a moment.

Harper understood the tactic. Stay focused on the case. “Nothing he didn’t already say to you,” he replied. “Nothing more than an investor, though he did seem really keen on the idea that his investors should get a good return for their money.”

“I’ll bet,” Hardcastle snorted. “Henry was dragging his feet, and Gularis was already leaning on Grieves.” He paused. “So why doesn’t Grieves just take this opportunity to get out from under? He doesn’t have his chemist or his drug, but he’s still got a payment to make. And Gularis doesn’t really have much need for Henry; makes more sense for him to leave the guy working, get something back.” He slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temple. “We’re still missing something, Frank. Maybe Wally has a partner we don’t know about?”

“Someone who decided to cut themselves a bigger piece of the pie? I don’t know, Milt. That’s a dangerous game with someone like Gularis.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the Rotary Club crowd that grabbed McCormick tonight; they looked like dangerous guys.”

Harper leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and observed his friend. Snippy sarcasm could hide a lot, but it couldn’t come close to hiding the fear gnawing at Hardcastle. He pressed his lips together to stop the instinctive ‘He’ll be fine’ that threatened to spill out. They both knew the odds of that were pretty slim, and he wouldn’t make things worse with a transparent lie. Though he could admit it was a lie he’d like to believe for himself, almost as much as for Hardcastle.

But even so, the judge had a point; they were missing something. There was another player, somewhere. Stay focused on the case.

He sat forward abruptly. “Okay,” he began, grabbing a pen and pulling a notepad toward him. “Let’s go over it again, from the beginning. Why did Henry contact you?”

Without hesitation, Hardcastle pushed himself forward in his own chair and turned his attention to answering questions. For his part, Harper scribbled notes quickly, and kept them both focused on the case.

McCormick awoke, not even aware that he’d been unconscious. He braced himself for another blow, then tried to force his eyes open. That took more effort than last time around, and he reflected on that for a moment before realizing that his left eye was apparently too swollen to cooperate. A thin slit seemed to be the best he was going to get on that front, and the right eye seemed to be watering in the sudden bright light.

Light? What the hell?

And in that instant, he realized he was no longer chained up in a van, but rather lying down in a . . . Okay, that part might take a little longer.

After swiping a hand across his face to clear his eye, he studied the ceiling for a few seconds, then pushed himself into a nearly upright position, groaning a little at the effort. Then someone was bracing him, helping him scoot back against the nearest wall for support.

“You should probably take it easy,” a voice said from beside him.

He turned his head slowly. “Dr. Henry. Do you know what’s going on?”

The doctor looked him up and down. “I think they didn’t like your answers,” he said dryly.

McCormick let a chuckle escape before realizing it even hurt to breathe, then he settled for a small grin. “Yeah, that much I think I got.”

He looked around the barren room. Two doors, one with a small viewing window, the other slightly more narrow than the first; one small, rectangular table; two utilitarian looking chairs; a deeply-stained work counter, running almost the length of the far wall with a small sink at one end; wooden floors, almost black with age, no carpet; and rows of fluorescent light strips that were responsible for the offending glare. “Do you know where we are?”

“Sure,” Henry said immediately, “we’re at my office. Well, this isn’t my office,” he clarified quickly, “but we’re at the Institute.”

Mark looked around again. “Really?” He wouldn’t have expected this sort of room anywhere in Grieves’ just-so world. He thought for a moment, then asked, “In Glendale?”

“Glendale?” Henry seemed surprised. “No, out in the Valley. It’s the middle of nowhere; Dr. Holgremsen’s family owned land out here.” He looked around him at the four windowless walls. “This was one of the basement labs. I liked them; I never really needed a view.”

“Ah, the basement.” McCormick said with deep regret. Letting his head rest on the wall, he closed his eyes briefly again. “Nice.”

“Do you know who they are?” he finally asked, not moving.

“They call themselves the People’s Freedom Army,” Henry said contemptuously. “That guy Dane seems to be in charge.”

“People’s Freedom Army?” Mark repeated, running the idea around in his head. “I’ve heard of quite a few wacko groups, but I don’t think I’m familiar with them. What do they want?”

“I’d say they want my notebooks. Where did you put them?”

McCormick snapped his eyes open and stared at Henry.

“You do have them, don’t you?” the doctor inquired calmly. “How else would you know that I keep my work in notebooks instead of, say, a legal pad, or a…” he trailed off for a second, then finished, “a floppy disk? Whatever that is.”

And Henry’s scornful confusion was so close to Hardcastle’s, it was painful for a moment. And, McCormick decided almost instantly, it was certainly sincere. But even so…

“Have they told you why they want your work?”

Henry shook his head as he leaned back next to McCormick. “Not really. They seem to think I’ve found the key to memory loss, or something, and they also seem to think it would be really helpful to their cause. Whatever it is, exactly.”

“They haven’t said anything?” Somehow, McCormick thought he might feel better if there was at least a reason behind his world being ripped apart.

“Only that whoever can control the memories of the world can also control its future.”

McCormick thought about that for a moment before speaking. “Look,” he finally said, “whatever they think they’re onto here, they’re wrong. You really were working on a drug, and it really was supposed to help with memory- Alzheimer patients, things like that.”

“I don’t remember any of this,” Henry interrupted flatly.

“That’s because you were given the damn drug, Doc.” McCormick could feel his frustration mounting again. “I know you think this is 1966, but you’re missing about twenty years. Your more recent memories have been, um, erased.”

“Erased?” Henry was somewhere between disbelief and fear.

“Erased,” the younger man tried to keep his voice steady and quiet, “blocked, I don’t know exactly what you’d call it; but something.”

“How do you know?”

“Hardcastle is a friend of mine. You went to him for some kind of help, and it happened to him, too. And you’re both lucky the stuff didn’t just kill you outright.”

Henry contemplated him thoughtfully. “Memory, huh? Well, I’ve always wondered . . . the mechanism of creating long term memories-the process varies in efficiency with a variety of factors.” Henry’s voice had dropped to something just above an excited mutter. “Is it possible that I was able to take that down to the molecular level?”

The gleam Mark saw in his eye was vaguely disturbing. Mad scientist.

“Hey,” he interjected harshly, “don’t be getting the wrong idea. This crap is poison. Weren’t you listening to me? You could’ve died. As it is, you’ve lost twenty years of your life, and Hardcastle lost fifteen, and no one seems to know if there’s a way to get it back.”

That seemed to bring Henry into focus. “Then what does anyone want with me and my notes?”

“Well,” McCormick spoke slowly, “I think your boss wants it because he still thinks it’ll make him a lot of money. The fact that death is a likely side effect probably won’t even slow him down. If he can’t make the money legit, it looks like he’s willing to go another route. As for these P.F.A. guys, I don’t know. Maybe they think they can manipulate memories once people have taken the drug, or something. But trust me, that doesn’t appear to be the case.

“Of course,” he went on, “once someone’s been exposed, they end up in a pretty vulnerable situation; they have to rely on the people around them more than they probably ever did.” McCormick felt his breath catch. “They’re almost forced to believe whoever happens to be around when they wake up.”

“So it would just be a matter of positioning themselves into some pivotal positions with some influential people, and then they’d be able to begin creating whatever kind of crazy world they envision?”

But McCormick wasn’t listening. He was suddenly consumed with images of Hardcastle, trying so hard over these last two weeks to believe a life that he didn’t want to accept. Not that the man had been particularly cooperative, and certainly not pleasant, but-in his own stubborn way-he had been trying. McCormick felt the guilt flow over him as he realized it had been a while since he’d had a conscious thought about how difficult this whole thing had been for the judge. He drew in a deep, calming breath.

I’m coming back, Judge. And I’m still going to fix it. I promise.

He looked around at the claustrophobic little room and then at Henry with a new determination. “We need to get out of here.”

But the doctor shook his head. “The door is locked.”

McCormick scoffed. “We’ll see.”

Harper looked up from his notes in surprise. “What did you say?”

Hardcastle looked across the desk. “I said, that’s when Henry opened up the vial of his drug.”

“He did this on purpose?”

“Well, he meant to take it himself; I don’t think he meant for it to get to me.” Hardcastle shrugged. “Someone was right on top of us, Frank, and Henry was more scared than he’s probably ever been. He was determined that the stuff not fall into the wrong hands, and he was afraid he’d give them what they wanted. Now that I see what it can do, I’m not sure he did the wrong thing.”

The detective shook his head. “Just seems a little drastic. Mark seems to think the stuff could be lethal.”

“Henry said there’d already been one death at the lab, a technician, a guy named Hardwick,” Hardcastle said grimly, “but Henry was willing to take the risk.”

Harper might’ve argued the point, but the ringing phone interrupted the debate. “Yeah, Harper.”

He listened for a moment, nodding his head, then said, “Good work; I’ll be right there.” He replaced the receiver, and looked back at Hardcastle.

“We got Gularis; they’re getting him situated down in interrogation.”

“Called his lawyer yet?”

“Yep,” Harper answered, rising from his seat, “so we don’t have much time. Of course, we could probably force the issue if we have to, but it could get ugly. I’ll see what he has to say first.” He stopped his walk to the door and turned to look behind him.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

“With you,” Hardcastle replied firmly, passing the detective. “I wanna hear what he has to say, too.” He paused at the now open door. “You comin’?”

When Harper didn’t move, the judge reconsidered his stance. “I’ll let you talk first,” he promised. “But I need to be there.”

The lieutenant stood for another second, then nodded. “Let’s go talk to Wally.”

McCormick was staring forlornly at the locked door. “You know,” he muttered, “a few hours ago, I had exactly the right thing for this.” He thought for a second, then added, “I just hope my pack ended up in the van instead of in the building; the building could be bad.”

He had already peered out the small window set in the door, and assured himself that no one was out in the hall, but now he looked again, searching for escape. He tapped on the glass, then glanced back at Henry.

“Seems pretty solid,” McCormick commented.

Henry nodded. “I don’t think it’s quite bullet-proof, but it’s made to stand up to a lot. You can’t break it. And, anyway, it’s a double deadbolt; breaking the glass won’t help.”

With a sigh, McCormick turned away from the exit and moved toward the other door. “And you say there’s nothing in this closet?”

“I already checked, there’s nothing to speak of,” Henry agreed, following along. “Though it used to be full of stuff . . . before.”

McCormick recognized the unwilling acceptance in the tone. He looked at the scientist and spoke sincerely. “We’re gonna make this work, Doc; we’ll have people help you recreate your work, if we have to. Trust me; it means as much to me as it does to you.”

“Hardcastle is important to you?”

“More than he knows,” Mark answered softly, then continued to the closet.

He stepped into the small space, but if the key to freedom was here, it wasn’t readily apparently. Shelves lined each of the three walls, almost to the ceiling, but other than a few crumpled scraps of paper and one lone stapler pushed far into one corner, nothing was obvious.

McCormick ran his hands slowly across the shelves that were above his eyesight, but they were as empty as the lower ones. It was only as he was rounding one corner of the second level above his head that his fingers brushed across an irregular surface that got his attention. Desperate for anything that might help, he stepped onto a lower shelf and hoisted himself upward for a better view.

“What is it?” Henry asked, stepping into the small space.

“Dunno,” Mark answered, “probably nothing. Looks like a loose panel up here in the wall.”

“Oh, probably,” Henry said, the disappointment evident in his tone. “This place is pretty old, you know, and one summer we started having some moisture and mold problems; the plaster was coming off in places, a real mess. It was cheaper just to panel over everything than repair it properly, so that’s what we did. Bill said-”

The sudden break in the commentary, punctuated by a sharp gasp, got McCormick’s attention. He looked behind him to see Henry, leaned against the doorjamb, hands clutched to his head, and an expression of terror written across his face.

“Doc?” McCormick jumped down quickly and took Henry by the shoulders. “Doctor Henry, what’s wrong?”

“This was Bill Hardwick’s lab. Bill, he . . . complained about the repairs,” Henry finally continued in a hushed tone, staring with eyes that weren’t seeing McCormick. “said there were places where the paneling didn’t really have anything much to grab onto. He showed me.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Lots of hiding places.”

The grip grew tighter. “Doctor Henry, are you saying that you hid your stuff here somewhere?” He jerked his head quickly back to the upper shelf, then looked back at Henry. “Are your notebooks up there?”

Henry shook his head. “No, not here in the lab; up in my office.” He looked above McCormick’s head, fear replacing the confusion in his eyes. “This was Bill’s lab. He was in charge of the samples-”

“God.” McCormick pulled the older man quickly out of the closet and closed the door behind them.

Henry was trembling, and McCormick led him further away from the closet, managing to get him seated in one of the chairs. “Are you okay?”

But Henry didn’t answer; he just leaned forward, crossed his arms on the tabletop, then buried his forehead in his arms. When he finally spoke, the few words were muffled, but unmistakable.

“Oh, God. What have I done? Bill died. I told Grieves it was that damn stuff.”

Hardcastle was watching the interrogation through the viewing window, growing more frustrated with each passing minute. The attorney had shown up after less than an hour, but seemed to understand that cooperation should be the first approach. So Gularis was calmly still answering question after question, all the while managing not to answer any questions at all.

He looked at his watch again. It was well past noon now. They needed to get things moving. He stepped out into the hallway and gave a single perfunctory rap on the door before letting himself in. All three men in the room looked over at him sharply, but Gularis was the first to find his voice.

“Hardcase,” he growled, “shoulda figured you were behind this.”

“Hello, Walter,” Hardcastle began with a deceptive mildness that at least Harper and Gularis must’ve recognized for its underlying danger. The level of tension in the small interrogation room had risen noticeably. Gularis shot a look at his attorney, and appeared on the verge of clamming up.

“Listen, Wally,” the judge said quietly, pulling up a chair, “I got a little story to tell you.”

For a considerable time, McCormick wondered if the cure wasn’t worse than the disease. After the first brief, coherent burst of fear, Henry had gone almost rigid, eyes locked tight on something other than the room around him. It looked to Mark a lot like Hardcastle’s episode in the bedroom, remembering the horrors of Weed Randall’s trial.

He couldn’t seem to get through to the man, who was shivering and muttering. But, eventually, and it seemed more like hours than the minutes it actually was, his shaking finally subsided, replaced by gasping breaths and a look of deep fear.

“What year is it, Dr. Henry?” Mark asked quietly for perhaps the fourth time.

The older man’s gaze came slowly to rest on him and he exhaled. “1986. Oh my God, is Rebecca all right?” he whispered.

Mark gave him a quick nod. “Just worried sick about you.”

“I . . . I didn’t know what else to do, who else to turn to.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Grieves, he said he had papers, evidence that would show I’d falsified safety records for the lab, that I’d killed Hardwick and then covered up my own incompetence. It was a nightmare.”

“And the notebooks?”

“I split them up; I’d already given some of the trial data to my intern. I called him up and asked him to make an extra copy. I needed Milt to look at that; it was all I had to prove my innocence against whatever Grieves had put together. The most important notes I hid here. Grieves hadn’t been with the Institute as long as Bill and I had; he didn’t know about the walls. I left them here, even after the move. Most of the samples, too.” He shuddered. “Grieves was keeping a pretty close eye on me by then. I thought it might have looked suspicious to be pulling the drywall out of the closets.”

“So, everything those guys want is right here in this building?” Mark asked, still quietly, but reaching up to rub his temples, “Oh, Doc,” he finally said, “you picked a very bad time to get better.”

“You breathe it in, like a puff of smoke, and it turns your brain into snot,” Hardcastle said, with a sincerity that required no stronger language. “When it happens, it’s like somebody’s driven a spike into your head. I think I must’ve passed out. Next thing I know, I don’t know. Fifteen years worth, gone, like that.”

Gularis frowned, still doubtful. “You look okay to me.”

“Took me two weeks to get it back. Two weeks of wandering around not knowing which end was up. I was damn lucky there were people looking out for me.” The judge darted a glance down at the floor for a moment. Then he was looking Gularis straight in the eye again.

“You got anybody who will look after you, Wally? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you’re going to be on the short list of loose ends that these guys are going to want to tidy up as soon as they’ve got this stuff in their hands.”

The man across the table had acquired a more thoughtful look, though still deeply suspicious. “I don’t know nothing about this,” he said, with just a little less bluster than before. “I was lookin’ to balance my portfolio. That’s all.”

“I’m not saying you know who these guys are, but they know you. And Grieves is dealing with them to get the money to pay back his loans from you. All I’m asking is that you lean on Grieves; get him to come up with some names and places. Dammit, Wally, I know you can lean.”

Gularis smiled slightly at the backhanded compliment. “Yeah, well, I have my moments.”

Eventually Henry had curled up on the floor, falling into a fitful and exhausted doze. Mark found, despite his own exhaustion, that he couldn’t rest. He’d manage to extract a little more information about the drug from him, and finally realized it was just too damn unpredictable. Hardcastle might have undergone the same gruesome recovery, or he might still be in limbo.

And the Institute-he hadn’t even realized the building was still owned by Symnetech. Neither had Rebecca, apparently. How long would it be before anyone thought to search it?

He got up quietly from his spot on the floor, feeling every muscle in his body protesting hard usage. Henry mumbled something that sounded distressed, then pillowed his head on his arm again. So far their captors had left them alone. Mark wondered how long it would be before they returned, and how long after that before the changes in Henry became apparent.

He worked his way through the room methodically, carefully avoiding the closet. It went fast; very little had been left behind: a corroded Bunsen burner and a length of rotted rubber tubing, not even strong enough for a garrote; a few papers, all old and irrelevant; a telephone directory, but no phone; and an ancient dissection kit in the back of one of the drawers.

He studied the remains of the kit more closely. The blade of the scalpel had been broken off, and he supposed the tweezers would come in handy if he got a splinter. The scissors was missing. The only other thing was a metal probe, bent at one end, more than he expected it was intended to be. Someone had probably used it to pry something open.

He held it up, examining it. It was vaguely reminiscent of one of the implements that he’d left behind in his knapsack. And don’t you wish to hell you knew where that was. He glanced over at the locked door. Well, why not? It’s something to do.

“Won’t work here,” Wally pondered, looking around the interrogation room with a jaundiced eye. He and the judge had already turned their minds to the details, co-conspirators to the core. Hardcastle grunted his agreement.

“But we gotta find him fast,” the judge insisted. “We don’t have much time.”

“Oh, that’s not gonna be a problem,” Gularis smiled sharkily. “He owes me this month’s payment. We was gonna get together this evening, 5:30-”

The lawyer interjected anxiously, “What my client means is-”

He was harshly shushed by both parties.

“Where?” Hardcastle went on.

“My place, up on Agua Verde,” Wally said expansively. “I think maybe he was worried about me coming by his office anymore. Last time I ran into some kid. That was your bird dog, I’ll bet.”

“Mine . . . yeah,” Hardcastle replied, quietly tense.

“Yeah, I shoulda figured.” Walter nodded knowingly. “Looked like he enjoyed his work, just like you, Hardcase.”

To this, Harper heard no reply.

To Mark’s surprise, the lock was not as formidable as it appeared, either that or he’d just ridden out his string of bad karma to the bitter end and his luck was finally turning. To his advantage, he’d found a heavy-duty paperclip on the floor under the desk. He felt the lock slowly yielding to the persuasion of the two devices. On the other hand, he realized, as he heard the snick in the lock just a moment before he would have expected it, karma is a tricky thing.

He jerked his one hand back to his side, slipping the paperclip into his pocket as the door started to swing open. The other tool was wedged firmly in place, all he could do was snap it off in the lock, a dubious act of defiance; it was hardly likely to spike their guns.

Dane was on the other side of the now open doorway, giving him a hard look, his eyes drawn almost at once to the diddled lock. He shook his head like an impatient schoolmaster.

“Being destructive, are we?”

The blond kid was standing nearby, still apparently in a vindictive mood. At a nod from his commander, he gave Mark a quick and effective backhand. McCormick staggered back, caught his already bruised ribs on the edge of the worktable, and went down gracelessly.

Henry had woken at the noise, and was reaching for him. Mark gave him one silent look, intently hoping he’d be able to maintain his earlier bemused stoicism, but he was pretty sure Dane was no fool, and it would have taken someone both blind and stupid to miss the new depths of fear in Henry’s eyes.

In the last of the twilight, the glittering vista spread out below them, made sharp and near at hand by the cool December air. Behind them was Gularis’ home, which gave a new angle to the term ‘money man’. Frank was watching Milt out of the corner of his eye; he stood hunched and quiet, tensely impatient for the appointed hour. He’d grown nearly silent since they’d left the station, merely grunting acquiescence to the plans Frank had informed him of.

There was an observation point down the road; they’d have advance warning of Grieves’ approach and time to get themselves out of sight. The rest of the back-up was fairly light, and further up the road, undetectable. Frank had been reluctant to have much official presence in place to witness Gularis’ ‘leaning’-that would be just Milt and himself.

Gularis had already gone inside, having also dismissed his regular followers at Frank’s suggestion. Wally wasn’t a guy who really needed goons to produce the full effect.

There was a brief crackle from the walkie-talkie Frank was carrying. Both men’s heads jerked up and Frank took the message. “It’s time,” he said with a thin smile; Milt nodded once. He’d already turned on his heel and was walking up toward the house.

Gularis was just inside the front door, wearing a sharp but almost conservative suit, as befit a man who wanted a good return on his investment. He showed the other two into the room off the front sitting area and then gave them a last frown of caution.

“Just make sure you stay put in here until I’ve got what I want from him . . .no matter what happens.” He’d said this last bit with some emphasis.

Frank didn’t look too pleased, but he’d seen the barest minimum of reaction flicker across Hardcastle’s face and it wasn’t disapproval.

Gularis looked entirely self-satisfied and leaned back a little. “Aw, come one, Lieutenant. I’m not gonna rip his head off. It’s bad for business. I only do that after the third warning.” Then he smiled and departed.

The doorbell followed this by only a few minutes, and Frank let out a sigh, realizing they’d cut it closer than he’d thought. A few sounds of movement, and then a greeting from Gularis, cool and subdued, barely audible. Milt had edged closer to the door. Frank put out a hand to touch his arm, but said nothing.

The voices from the other room had become more audible-Grieves’ tight and a little high, Gularis’ tense and low, but very smooth. It was becoming evident that Grieves did not have the money-delays, prevarication, excuses, but no cash.

The change in the mobster’s tone came so swiftly it caught the observers by surprise, and clearly, even though he ought to have expected it, Grieves as well.

“You’ve gone behind my back. You’ve double-crossed me,” Gularis hissed. “The last guy who did that, I hamstrung him and fed him to my dogs.” There was something cold and hard in the tone that suggested it wasn’t hyperbole.

Grieves sounded like a true believer; he was close to babbling now, insisting that he’d only taken on ‘additional investors’ to share the risk, and guarantee that Gularis would get his payments.

“You’re running a damn pyramid scam, Grieves,” Gularis said with disgust. “You haven’t got a product. I ought to cut my losses right now.”

“There is a product; it’s worth more than you loaned me.” Grieves’ voice rose up a notch as though Gularis had pulled out a gun. Frank was glad he couldn’t actually testify to that. “They’re offering it in cash; I swear.” The sweat was almost audible.

“The whole nut?” Gularis asked in hard disbelief. Then he dropped to a hiss again, “You’re a goddamn liar, Grieves.”

“No . . . no, they are; I swear.” More reassurances, panted out in gasps that suggested Gularis had taken a hands-on approach. “They’re . . . a group, ah, the head guy’s name is Dane. They’ve got their own syndicate of investors.” Grieves seemed to be scrabbling to get this all back on a business footing.

Gularis wasn’t buying, but he dropped his tone a little, in encouragement. “I’m gonna need to talk to them. We need to coordinate our venture,” he added smoothly. Frank could almost hear him unclenching his fists from Grieves’ jacket.

If the other man spent any time at all considering the outcome of this potential synergism, it wasn’t apparent. He was clearly operating on the lesser of two evils theory now.

“They’re up at the old Institute building. I, ah, lent it to them.”

“You got another building?” Gularis asked in some puzzlement. “How come I didn’t know about it?”

“It’s in the prospectus,” Grieves said, still very nervous and now a little prim. Then he went on hurriedly. “It’s not much of an asset. It’s out in the sticks and it’s falling to rack and ruin.”

“These guys there now?” Gularis asked in what sounded like only mild curiosity.

“I don’t know, probably but, ah, they’ve been pursuing their own channels of research.”

This got a humph and, “Write it down for me, here.” A moment of near-silent scribbling and then, louder, “Lieutenant?”

Frank managed to squeeze through the door just ahead of Hardcastle, and grabbed the piece of paper that Gularis had just taken from Grieves. He glanced down at the address and said with a grimace, “Well, at least it’s not in Ventura County this time.”

Grieves looked shocked, and subsided down onto the couch. Frank was momentarily grateful that he hadn’t started babbling again. He thought Gularis had shown pretty good control in the face of that annoyance. Hardcastle was already halfway to the door.

“Come on, Milt. Lemme make a phone call,” Frank protested, grabbing his arm to hold him back. “We gotta coordinate this a little, can’t go running up there and pound on the door.” He got a look in return that said ‘why not?’ even as the judge stopped in place and gave a fidgeting nod.

“Hurry the hell up, Frank. It’s already been eighteen hours.”

Dane seemed to have taken the new circumstances in at a single sweep of the eyes. “So, the effects aren’t always permanent, eh, Doc?” he said, almost chattily.

Henry had frozen where he was, wisely not attempting any denial. McCormick made a move that got him another swift, but more perfunctory kick from the blond kid. He persevered.

“Okay, Dane, I do know where some of the stuff is,” Mark said quietly, preparing to dodge another kick, and very doubtful that anybody was going to believe him, but even more certain that if he let them take Henry out of here, it would be all over.

“Too late for that, Mr. McCormick.” Dane didn’t even spare him a sideward glance; he was totally focused on the other man. “You’ve only got one use to me now.” He swung a gun in Mark’s direction, not stepping in close enough to offer any possibility of resistance. “What’s it going to be, Doc? You tell me where the notebooks are, or he dies-”

“They’re going to kill me anyway,” Mark muttered. Another kick.

“-and after that we’ll start on you again,” Dane finished smoothly. “You do remember the last time?” he asked, looking at Henry almost curiously.

The older man nodded. “I would have talked,” he said this in an almost hushed voice, directed at Mark, “if I’d known anything. And I don’t want another death on my conscience.”

Mark looked up at Dane, at the gun, and at the blond kid with the efficient boot and the mildly vicious expression of a guy who doesn’t mind following orders. He’d gotten that vaguely fatalistic feeling that comes from seeing no possible good outcome. Dane was bringing the gun to bear.

“I think it’s gonna be me, or hundreds, maybe thousands,” Mark said to Henry, keeping his voice very flat.

Henry shook his head, sharply. He turned his head toward Dane and said, “Take me upstairs.”

Dane’s smile was impatient. He tossed a pair of handcuffs to the blond kid, who exercised the caution of a trained professional as he put them on Dr. Henry. The older man offered no resistance. Dane was still pointing the gun at McCormick.

“Stay here, keep an eye on him,” Dane said quietly.

The blond guy raised an eyebrow in unspoken question. Mark watched the interplay with deep interest, very aware that the man was requesting a death warrant. Dane gave a single shake of the head. It looked more like ‘not yet’ than a flat-out ‘no’. Then he turned and escorted his prisoner from the room.

Mark edged back, trying to put a little more space between him and the kid’s boot. He had his own gun out now, slipped casually from the back of his waistband. He was eyeing his prisoner with casual disdain. Mark had no doubt that Henry was cooperating. He only hoped it would be slow and spotty, maybe leaving out the part about the samples.

The minutes passed slowly. The blond guy was getting bored and trying not to show it. If Mark put his imagination to it, he could almost hear movement from the floor above-footsteps, maybe some furniture being shifted.

Definitely footsteps on the stairwell, and now in the hallway. Unfortunately, the blond kid was too well trained to turn and look. Dane was in the doorway now, holding Henry by one arm; the man was still handcuffed, and two shades paler, but not looking much more bruised.

Henry was given a firm push into the room and Dane said, glancing one more time at the lock on the door, “Cuff them both, there,” he pointed to the sturdy metal leg of the workbench, which was bolted in place against the wall and floor.

The blond guy tucked his gun away, well out of reach. Dane was overseeing the whole process with his own gun. The kid had his set of cuffs out and tightened one end onto McCormick’s already raw wrist until he got a grunt. The other was quickly passed around the bench support and fastened to his other wrist. Henry was just as swiftly cuffed alongside him.

Dane’s man was back on his feet and stepping back. He had his gun back in his hand and was smiling. He hadn’t even bothered with another kick.

“Now, there, Canton, at ease,” Dane frowned sharply. “They’re not worth the bullets,” he said calmly. “It would be a waste of good ammunition.” And without another word, he turned and left, followed a half-beat later by the blond man, looking disappointed.

Mark sat there a moment, stunned. It’s a waste of good handcuffs, too, he thought, but he was glad he hadn’t tried to point that out to anybody. Now the sounds above them were louder-things being moved about. Packing up? He turned to Henry, who looked shattered, utterly, by the realization of what he’d done.

“It’s not over yet, Doc.” Mark looked upward, dubiously. “I dunno, I can’t believe they’re just gonna-” the sounds had stopped. There were no footsteps on the stairs.

Mark began to scrabble in his pocket for the paperclip, feeling a sudden sense of urgency and only grateful that Canton hadn’t bothered to cuff his hands behind his back. “Dammit,” he smelled something he’d been subliminally anticipating. The contortions involved in clawing the clip out were chewing up seconds that suddenly seemed very precious.

“Smoke?” Henry had lifted his head. “Oh, my, God.”

It was a pale haze now, though still oddly silent, and probably much thicker on the floor above, if it was already drifting downward.

Mark had the paper clip out, and was laboriously adjusting it to the task at hand, speaking carefully and quickly to the man next to him. “Is there anything nearby? Other buildings, a phone?” He was gesturing Henry to turn a little, to get a bit more slack, some room to work.

“Nothing much, maybe a half mile, a little more.”

He hesitated a moment and the asked, “And which way is out?” Keep the man focused, no panic.

Henry took a shallow breath and frowned. “Left and up the stairs, then left again.”

“Okay, well, this place’ll burn like a bonfire, all that wood. That’ll attract attention quick enough.”

“Not before we-”

“Gimme a sec; I’m pretty good with these.” Mark worked for purchase with the fragile tool. The haze was visibly thicker for a moment before the lights flickered and went out. Henry gasped and then coughed raspily. Mark crouched lower, trying to keep his own breathing shallow.

“There, see?” There was a click, barely audible above a low hissing crackle from above. “Go,” he urged the older man with a nudge. “Left, stairs, left?” He bent to work on his own cuffs. Henry moved away reluctantly. “Go, now,” Mark urged again. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Henry finally moved away, slowly searching for the door in the more-than-blackness.

Frank had put it together with a minimum of fuss and eyes open to most contingencies. He’d even sent a car for Rebecca, figuring they might need someone who could describe the layout to the SWAT team. Their initial approach, though, was intended to be unannounced-no stupid mistakes.

And then they heard the sirens.

Hardcastle frowned. They were still a mile off and the sound was from behind them. Frank grabbed the radio and got patched through to dispatch, but by then they could see for themselves, off through the trees, still mostly smoke, but enough flames to illuminate the aged structure.

The engine company was gaining on them fast and Frank pulled to the side to let them pass.

“People from the house down the road called it in, just a couple minutes ago,” He said, putting his hand out on the judge’s arm, ready to strengthen his grip if need be.

The lines were already being run out, other equipment was arriving. Hardcastle jerked away and was out of the car before Frank had even opened his own door, but then he just froze in the flickering red light, and the strobes of the emergency equipment, as if he had no idea what to do next.

They must’ve both spotted the staggering figure at the same time. One of the firemen had seen him as well, and was offering assistance.

“Henry?” Hardcastle closed the space between them in a few swift steps. They were all being pushed back, out of harm’s way, by the firefighter.

“Milt?” The man was half crouched, tearing and coughing. “Dammit,” he pulled himself free from the fireman, half turning back toward the building. “He said he’d be right behind me.”

“Mark’s with you?” The judge had a look of anxious hope on his face. “He’s okay?” He was scanning the exit.

“Basement, this end,” Henry gasped out, pointing. “Right, down the stairs, and right.” He held up his still manacled left wrist. “We were cuffed to a bench.”

The fireman was relaying the information to the guys on the hose. Hardcastle took two steps back toward the exit before he was intercepted by Frank and the fire captain.

“Let ‘em go in,” Frank said firmly. Smoke was billowing out now. They watched the rescue team go in, masks and tanks in place.

“There are specimens down there,” Henry rasped. “Chemicals, bad stuff.” He didn’t elaborate; the fear on his face was enough for Hardcastle. “I’m sorry, Milt.” Henry looked over his shoulder one more time as he was led away to the paramedics.

Hardcastle didn’t acknowledge it, still staring fixedly at the entranceway. It seemed as though too many minutes had already passed, or that time had slowed to an imperceptible crawl. Even in the din around him, below it all, he could hear the sound of his own pulse, pounding too fast.

“Got one, ground floor staircase.” The captain’s radio had cracked to life, with a sibilant, hollow voice, and a moment later the first of the rescuers emerged.

He heard someone say, “Not breathing.” He saw the paramedics converge on the victim. He held back, partly by the weight of Frank’s grip on his arm, and partly by his own sudden reluctance. The crew was working quickly, as though there was still hope. He held onto that for a long moment, not wanting to grasp any worse reality, not even having the strength to think through all the stupid bargains he’d make with God if he would just have a chance to say, “I’m sorry.”

The hose crew was pulling back. The paramedics had Mark on the stretcher.  
He saw the tube, and the bag, being rhythmically squeezed by one of them.

“Breathing?” Hardcastle asked as they went by, heading for the rig.

“He’s got a pulse,” the paramedic offered, in consolation. “We’ll take care of the rest for a while.” Then they were passed and he hadn’t even had a chance to say anything. He can’t hear you now. Frank was pulling him by the arm.

“Come one; we’ll make better time in the marked car.”

And there was Rebecca Henry, suddenly beside him, almost sobbing in her gratitude, “Thank you, oh-”

“Me?” He broke his stride and half turned to her. “I didn’t do a damn thing but get in the way.”

She pulled back a little, but he didn’t have time to regret his harshness before she said, “I know he did it for you more than for me. I hope-”she broke off, biting her damn lip again. “I hope we’ll both have a chance to thank him.”

Harper had snagged them a ride with an L.A. county squad car, whose driver had enjoyed almost beating the ambulance to the hospital. They went in through the lobby, Frank parking Milt at the registration desk.

“You know they’ve got to get him settled. They aren’t gonna let you back there for a bit, so you just sit here and do the paperwork. That’s all you can do right now.”

On one level the judge understood this; on an entirely different one, he couldn’t get the staccato burst of the fire fighter’s words out of his head. He’s not breathing. It didn’t matter that that problem had been temporarily corrected by the paramedics-a tube, and a bag, and a tank of oxygen-there’d still been no signs that Mark was doing anything on his own when they’d lifted the stretcher into the rig.

Hardcastle gave the answers to the registrar’s questions, with his eyes still on the doorway to the treatment area. It’s bad if they come out too soon. A quick resolution was not to be hoped for in this case. He turned back to the registration clerk; he’d missed a question.

“Occupation?” The clerk repeated patiently.

“He’s a student.”

He’s Tonto, dammit.

Hardcastle shook his head. The clerk leaned back from her keyboard and waited for the page to print. She was obviously done with him.

“You can have a seat over there,” she pointed to the rows of well-used vinyl-covered chairs. “Someone will be out to talk to you in a bit.”

The instructions had an automated quality to them that Hardcastle recognized as being all-purpose, having nothing to do with what was going on beyond those doors. He rose slowly, and found Harper was at his side again.

“Okay, Milt?” Frank’s tone was solicitous.

Hardcastle frowned, knowing what he was supposed to say in return-the formula-but not feeling much like pretending. Instead, he merely said, “Let’s sit down.”

They were still sitting there, twenty minutes later. No word had come from within.  

“I can go and ask,” Frank offered.

“Let it be; let ‘em do their job,” Hardcastle answered, strangely reluctant, and then, a little sharper, “What’s he doing here?” His frown was directed at the man who’d just entered from the street.

“I called him, right after we got here,” Frank said, with no apology in his voice.

“Do I look like I want to talk to a shrink right now?” The judge lowered his voice to something approaching menace. “Do you think I’m gonna need one to get through this?”

“I thought Mark was the one who didn’t trust them,” Frank said flatly. “You know he called Westerfield Sunday night. They talked on Sunday afternoon, too. He seems to be the guy who’s the most up to speed on this whole thing, aside from Henry himself. I thought he might be some help. He told me he was trying to reach you, earlier today. Had a message for you.”

“From him?”

“From Mark.”

As gut punches went, it had been fairly effective. Hardcastle closed his eyes briefly, to absorb the pain, glad he was already sitting down. By the time he opened them again, Westerfield was already in front of him pulling up a chair for himself.

He didn’t bother to ask if Hardcastle was okay; the answer was obviously no.

“Any word yet?” Westerfield asked quietly.

A tight shake of the head from the judge. Frank eased out of his chair and moved off a little ways.

“You talked to him Sunday?” Hardcastle asked harshly. “You knew what he was going to do?”

“No, I didn’t,” Westerfield answered with the swift conviction of truth. “Though, honestly, there wouldn’t have been much I could have done, short of calling the police.” He frowned at the judge. “And you didn’t do that, did you?”

Hardcastle paused on that for a moment, then shook his head again.

“He seemed a very determined young man,” Westerfield said dryly. “And he also seemed to understand that his actions were not without risk.”

The judge was staring down fixedly. He gave this an almost imperceptible nod.

“And yet, given what we knew, and what we didn’t know, I would call his actions rational. At least he seemed so to me Sunday night.”

“Frank said there was a message.” Hardcastle let the question out with a breath.

“Yes, a little cryptic,” the doctor admitted, “but, then, it was meant for you, not me. He said, ‘Just tell him ‘I wouldn’t.’’”

“I wouldn’t what?” Hardcastle frowned.

Westerfield looked a little disappointed. “He said it was the answer to a question. He said you might not get it, but he seemed to think you would.”

The judge’s frown had deepened as he spooled back through the events of the past few days. Sunday evening seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was only with some effort that he was able to bring his mind to bear on it.

“Oh . . .” The single word was spoken softly and without further elucidation, and then he swiped his nose and muttered, “Thank you.”

Westerfield looked at him, with kindly concern. “Listen, let me go find out what’s happening. What I do is pretty far removed from all this,” he gestured to the doorway and what lay beyond, “but I speak the lingo.”

Hardcastle caught the undercurrent of professional concern. He suspected that Westerfield was already measuring out the words that would soften the blow on his return. Still, the waiting had grown nearly unbearable. He gave the man a nod of dismissal, and managed to croak out another ‘Thanks.’

Westerfield walked over to the registrar, spoke briefly with her, and was passed inside. Frank had slipped back into his seat, but didn’t ask again if Hardcastle was all right.

Minutes more passed before Westerfield emerged, and flashed a quick, sober, but unmistakable smile. Hardcastle was on his feet before an invitation could be extended.

“They were just about to send for you. Looks like he’s starting to breathe on his own a little. Not quite up to full speed.”

“Just tell me he’s gonna be all right.”

“He’s doing better,” Westerfield said judiciously. “He’s still a ways from ‘all right’.”

“I’ll settle for that, to start,” Hardcastle muttered. “And I like to see for myself.”

He knew his first sight of the kid oughtn’t have been a shock. He’d been through this before-tubes, wires, monitors-the whole god-awful nine yards. This time he let the words wash right over him as Westerfield gave him the rundown.

“The ventilator, just till he starts breathing well enough on his own again. The carbon monoxide levels they measured were enough to account for everything so far-no reason to believe he ran afoul of that damned drug.” Those were Westerfield’s words and the judge approved heartily of the opinion.

“And he’ll wake up?”

“Probably,” the psychiatrist was hedging his bet. “There’s always the risk of some damage.”

As much as Hardcastle hadn’t wanted to hear this, he preferred it to being lied to.

“They got to him pretty quick; he’ll be okay.” This had been his silent mantra up till now. And were that wishing made it so.

Westerfield pulled him back a little, out of the way, and sat him in a chair. Frank had been summoned out by a telephone call. And when the doctor asked him, “Do you want to talk about it?” Hardcastle found, to his surprise, that the answer was ‘yes’.

He sat silently beside the bed, not removing his gaze from the still form. He’d hated that breathing contraption they’d had the kid hooked to; somehow, machinery always made everything seem worse, as if there was nothing natural left working. Thank God that was gone; the kid was breathing on his own again. But, even with only the oxygen mask still in place, there hadn’t been many other signs of improvement.

Not too much longer, he thought disgustedly. They had said ‘probably only a couple of hours’ like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t be two of the longest hours of his lifetime. Like he wasn’t going to spend each minute of those hours reliving the last two weeks, and wishing-time after countless time-that he could take it all back.

He leaned back in his chair, still watching McCormick as he lay there, unmoving. It wasn’t fair that the young man was the one paying the price this time. Mark hadn’t even known he’d been working with Henry. But there he lay, bearing the consequences now, on top of everything he’d put up with over the past two weeks. Hardcastle shook his head grimly. When will you learn?

He’d spent a lot of the last twenty-four hours thinking about Samuel Tilton and the horrific weekend Mark had spent in that madman’s hands. That had happened because of his stubborn belief that he could protect McCormick by keeping him in the dark. This wasn’t any different, though he really should’ve learned his lesson by now.

True, the reasoning had been different. He had understood Tilton’s lunacy, and simply wanted to keep McCormick as far from it as possible. This time, it had mostly been a matter of logistics: the kid was in the last few weeks of a semester, and he would’ve dropped everything to ride shotgun if he’d known what was going on.

And it was dangerous, Hardcastle admitted to himself. Untested mind-altering drugs, along with threats from a devious weasel who had seemed too weak to be the real threat. Yeah, it had added up to trouble, and Hardcastle had decided to leave McCormick out of it. Maybe the reasoning hadn’t been so different after all. But the end result had sure as hell been the same: McCormick had ended up in the middle of a disaster, on his own, with no idea what the hell was going on.

You really shoulda learned.

He closed his eyes briefly, wishing he could block out the guilt. In many, many ways, this time had been worse. When he had been with Tilton, McCormick had indeed felt alone, believing that Hardcastle had been killed. But the kid had gone into this situation believing he was alone because…because you told him he was.  It was almost impossible to believe that Mark had even stayed, with the way he’d been treated recently; much less that he’d been willing to risk everything for the man who had shut him out of his life.

No it’s not, he contradicted himself. When has he ever done anything to make you think he would leave, no matter what? When has he ever done anything except try to help?
     This waiting might’ve been easier if the answer hadn’t been ‘never’.

Hardcastle looked at his watch for what seemed the millionth time. He understood this sort of thing wasn’t exact, but they’d said two hours, and he wasn’t prepared for it to be longer. At this point, it had been just over half that, and he needed to move. He’d spent the last hour sitting next to McCormick, talking off and on, occasionally touching the kid’s hand, just to let him know he wasn’t alone.

Now he rose, stretched slowly, then moved over to the window. He looked out the window into the darkness of the night. The cloud cover blocked out most of the starlight, and the smallest sliver of a moon was peeking through. Everything had a shadowy and uncertain haze, and making all of outside the perfect mirror of his feelings.

He heaved a breath and jammed his hands down into his pockets, and his fingers brushed against cool metal. He’d been carrying the medallion around since late last night, and he had grasped it more than once since then, holding it for the briefest of seconds, and using it to focus his thoughts and steady his emotions. He fished it out of his pocket, then held it up, watching it dangle in the air. Such a simple message. I’ll be back.

Hardcastle turned decisively and crossed back to the bed.

“I’m still here, kiddo,” he said, leaning closer, “you’re not alone.” He watched the young face closely, but there was no sign of improvement. “I found your medal,” he continued, “just like you knew I would. And I got the message…eventually. Bet you weren’t quite so sure about that, huh? But you did it anyway.” He paused. “I guess you did a lot without being really sure, didn’t ya? Yeah. Well, I’m sorry about that. And, I’m sorry you went off without your good luck charm; maybe it coulda helped.” The judge didn’t really believe that, but he had seen McCormick rely on the medallion for a kind of inner strength many times. He was sure at least once in the last day the kid had reached for it and wished for its reassuring presence.

He looked again at the still figure, and wished those blue eyes would open, even though he wasn’t sure what he’d see when they did. But one thing he could be sure of was that not too much time would pass after he awakened before the slender fingers would reach up to his neck, looking for a simple reassurance that some things always stayed the same.

Without further thought, Hardcastle leaned down and slipped his hands behind McCormick’s neck, clasping the chain together, then gently arranged the medal in place. He didn’t straighten up immediately, but leaned even closer, and whispered into his friend’s ear.

“I got the message, kiddo, and I’m here, waiting. Now you need to come back. You promised, and I’m here.”

Hardcastle had reclaimed his seat, and had spoken to McCormick in soft tones for another few minutes, and now was back to waiting quietly. He jerked his head around as the door was pushed open, allowing a slash of bright light into the dim room.

“How’s he doing?” Harper asked as he entered.

The shrug said everything, but Hardcastle spoke anyway. “The same so far. Still just waiting.”

Harper nodded. “And how’re you?”

The judge just shook his head. “I’m fine, Frank.”

“I doubt it,” Harper replied, but he didn’t say anything further.

When the silence had lasted several long seconds, Hardcastle looked back at the detective. “What’s up?”

“Just thought I’d give you an update on the mop-up.”

Hardcastle arched an eyebrow as he rose from his chair. “Okay.” He jerked a thumb back toward the door, moving their conversation further from the bed, but he stopped just at the doorway, not wanting to be too far away.

“Things are coming along pretty well,” Harper began before he could be asked. “A van matching your description was pulled over on 118. Got four guys, some notebooks of Henry’s and enough illegal weapons to make the D.A.’s office sit up and take notice even without having to explain all the rest of this to them. Got a hazmat team out there right now, looking for samples in what’s left of the building, but it’s pretty much a ruin, and from what Henry said, doesn’t seem much likely that any of that would have survived the blaze.”

Harper leaned back against the wall, looking a little weary. “Gularis is going to get the thanks of a grateful community; there’s not much we can make stick to him this time, with all the help he gave us.”

This last bit of information got a shrug from Hardcastle. Then he waited, but it seemed Harper didn’t have much else to say.

“What about Grieves?” he finally asked dangerously.

Harper winced just a little. “He’s giving us an awful lot of information, Milt,” he began slowly, “making sure we’re gonna be able to secure convictions against the really crazy people. They are the ones who hurt Mark.”

“Grieves is the one who turned him over to them,” Hardcastle retorted angrily. “He’s the one who went to them in the first place, dammit.”

“Keep in mind how it was that Grieves was able to turn him over,” Frank reminded the judge quietly. “Finding the kid’s bag of tricks in that office might be kinda hard to explain.”

“So we’re gonna let that scumbag blackmail his way out of this?”

And Harper just stood silently, waiting for Hardcastle to finish his ranting.

McCormick was sleeping, but he felt wakefulness pulling at him. He struggled against it; he was so tired. And besides, what was there worth waking up to right now? He needed more strength before he could face Hardcastle and whatever he was planning. He thought a moment. No, Hardcastle wasn’t the first problem. First, he had to get away from…

He drifted closer to consciousness. Dimly, he registered the idea that he was lying in a bed rather than chained to a bench in a burning building. Okay, then, first problem solved. That only leaves Hardcastle.

As if on cue, he thought that he heard the judge’s voice. He could barely make out what was being said, but he could hear enough. He felt the emptiness settle over him as he listened to the harshly whispered words.

“No, you’re missing the point, Frank. When crimes are committed, there should be repercussions; a price should be paid. And I’m not just talking about some slap on the wrist, just because you or anyone else downtown thinks it’s all for the greater good.

“He needs to go away, and it needs to be for a really long time. The man had other options, but he tried to take the easy way out. Things could’ve been a lot worse than they were, and you shouldn’t be cuttin’ him a break just because things are working out okay in the end. It wasn’t just irresponsible, Frank. It was criminal.”

And then, suddenly, Mark felt his emptiness filling with anger. Even after everything, all the man could see was an ex-con. The injustice of it was almost enough to break his heart, so he held on to the anger.

It was only as he pushed himself up in the bed that McCormick realized that probably hadn’t been the best idea. His newly opened eyes blurred with tears, even in the dim light. The mask that he hadn’t realized was on his face was almost claustrophobic; he felt its tug as he struggled to an upright position. He reached up and jerked it off, throwing is aside in disgust, as he took in a panicky deep breath. The immediate coughing attack that followed caused him to think that might not have been the best idea, either.

He fell back partway, propping himself on one elbow and leaning over the edge of the bed, coughing and gasping. He could feel his heart beating faster. The alarm going off on the monitor next to his bed might as well have been a siren. Driven by the need to get away, he tried to swing his legs out of the bed, but he was tangled in the sheets and wires, and besides, someone was holding him back, trying to push him back into bed. He struggled against them.

“Don’t! Let me go!” Those were the words that screamed in his mind, and tried to claw from his throat, but what he heard was only more gasps, still punctuated by hacking coughs.

Now, someone was pounding on his back, still refusing to let him out of the bed. He tried to push them away, but they weren’t budging. Finally, their words penetrated his panic.

“Lay still! Dammit, McCormick, just calm down and breathe!”

Hardcastle. Instinctively, he obeyed the order. He quit struggling and put all his effort into controlling his breathing. After a few seconds, the coughs subsided, though it still seemed to take a concentrated effort to draw in a normal breath.

And then there were other hands, pushing him back against his pillow. And other voices, asking questions that he couldn’t begin to understand right now. And a bright light, causing his eyes to squeeze together tightly. He tried to speak.

“Har-” The sound was barely a hoarse croak, so he took a shaky breath and tried again.

“Har-”

“I’m here,” a voice interrupted, and he felt the firm grip on his shoulder.

McCormick shook his head roughly. “Harper,” he grated out. “Frank Harper.”

Another voice spoke then. “Mark? It’s Frank; I’m here. Milt’s here, too.”

McCormick forced his eyes open and sought the detective’s face. “Make him leave, Frank, please.”

“The doctor?” Harper asked, confused.

“No.” He thought twice. “Yes.” And then he added, “And Hardcastle.”

Harper stood silently for a moment, then looked around the room. “Is he stable?”

“Yeah,” the doctor glanced at the monitor, and again at the patient, now breathing quieter, “looks that way, but-”

“Then could you clear the room? We need a minute.”

“Look-”

“Please,” Harper interrupted, “just a few minutes.”

The hospital staff looked to the doctor, who hesitated a moment, then finally nodded his confirmation. “We still need to do some more assessments,” he said to Harper. “We’ll be back soon.”

Harper nodded, then turned back to the bed as the medical personnel filed out.

“Mark? Are you okay?”

McCormick’s eyes had drifted closed, but he opened them again. “Is he gone?”

“Mark-”

“Hell, no, I’m not gone,” Hardcastle interrupted, pushing his way back into McCormick’s line of sight. “What the hell is wrong with you, McCormick?”

“What’s wrong with me?” McCormick sputtered. “What the hell is wrong with you? The only damn thing you care about is putting me in jail!”

Hardcastle and Harper spoke in unison. “What?”

But McCormick just shook his head. “I’m not going to jail, Judge. Go away.” And he closed his eyes, blocking out the confused faces staring back at him.

“What the hell was that all about?” Hardcastle whispered harshly as he dragged Harper back closer to the door.

“I dunno,” the lieutenant admitted.

“I think we need to let those doctors back in here,” the judge continued worriedly, “he might’ve breathed in some of that crap after all.”

“Maybe,” Harper said slowly, then he slapped his hand against his forehead. “Milt, Mark can’t be forgetting too much, or he wouldn’t know me.”

The realization sank in for Hardcastle. “Then…?”

Harper looked at his friend with compassion. “I think the problem isn’t that he’s forgotten, but that he remembers…too much.”

Hardcastle pinched at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. “God, Frank, what’d I do?”

McCormick didn’t bother straining to hear what the others were saying. He didn’t need to hear more reasons for his incarceration. God knows, Hardcastle would probably give him the lecture word for word anyway, right before he slapped the cuffs on him. He sighed, and reached up toward his neck. Only when he grasped the medallion in his hand did he remember that it shouldn’t be there.

I left this for him, so he would know…

He opened his eyes again and wiggled himself to a nearly upright position just as Hardcastle turned to make a determined march toward the bed, and Harper hung back to watch. He felt the tiniest glimmer of hope, but he didn’t release his hold on the medallion. He waited for the judge to go first.

“Listen, McCormick-”

But that was as much as he needed to hear. “Judge?” He dropped the medal and reached his hands to grasp Hardcastle’s arm. “It’s you, right? You’re back?” He could feel the grin starting, but he held his breath for just a moment.

“Yeah, kid,” Hardcastle said gently, placing his own hand over McCormick’s, “it’s me. I’m here.”

And then he couldn’t stop the grin, or the laughter that led to tears, but he didn’t care. McCormick tightened his grip on the judge and pulled himself completely upright, leaning forward to put his arms around the broad shoulders. “Judge! Thank God! I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Don’t. It’s okay. I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

McCormick pulled back away from Hardcastle, the grin slipping as he looked into the saddened eyes of his friend. “None of this was your fault, Judge.”

“Ya think so, huh?” Hardcastle growled, hitching his hip onto the bed.

“Yeah,” McCormick answered as he leaned back a little, “I do think.” Then his eyes flashed. “Well, except maybe for the part about you working alone to begin with.”

“Not sure you’re on real solid ground there with that argument, kiddo.”

McCormick chuckled, and didn’t bother pointing out that Hardcastle hadn’t given him a whole lot of options on that front this time around. But then he remembered the earlier conversation in the hall, and he felt the pang of returning fear.

“Judge, if, um…if everything’s okay, who’re you wanting to put away for a really long time instead of just a slap on the wrist?”

“What?”

“I heard you,” McCormick explained slowly, “talking to Frank a couple minutes ago.”

Understanding dawned in Hardcastle’s eyes. “And you thought-? Is that why-? Jeez, kiddo, I wouldn’t…”

“No,” McCormick said flatly, “you wouldn’t. But he might’ve.” He didn’t put much effort into hiding the bitterness.

Hardcastle gave him a worried look, and answered in a tone that didn’t quite seem to achieve the lightness he might’ve intended. “Oh, I don’t know, McCormick, you do have a way with people.”

Mark didn’t allow himself to be sidetracked. “Well, then…?”

“Grieves, hotshot; we were talking about Grieves. Trust me, if I ever decide you’ve crossed too far over the line, you won’t have to eavesdrop on whispered conversations. You’ll hear me loud and clear.”

“Yeah.” McCormick breathed out a heavy breath. “I’m pretty sure I know what that sounds like.”

He saw the flash of pain that crossed through the judge’s eyes, and wished for a moment that he hadn’t been quite so…well, truthful. This probably wasn’t the time to try and sort out what he was feeling about the recently departed version of Milton Hardcastle.

“Sorry, Judge,” he muttered, forcing a small smile. “I’m just pretty tired.” He didn’t have to work too hard at letting his eyes droop closed again. But he made one last, honest effort at pushing aside the nagging dullness that was inside.

“I really am glad you’re back.”

Hardcastle was making his way through the hallways, winding his way back toward the exit, and wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do next. McCormick’s relief and excitement over finding everything back to normal-or as normal as things got-had been short-lived.

Harper had tried assuring him that the kid’s mood was probably a perfectly normal by-product of being held captive, beaten intently, and then left to die in a burning building. He had discreetly not mentioned that it was also probably a perfectly normal by-product of spending two weeks lambasted relentlessly by the man that was supposed to be his best friend.

It had been easy enough to let the kid have some space at first. The doctor and nurses had come back after only a few minutes, and commenced with their poking and prodding and chart noting. But after they had gone, he had seated himself in the bedside chair and tried to make conversation, only to have McCormick shut him down. Even Harper didn’t have much better luck. The young man had pleaded exhaustion and the need for rest, but his body betrayed him, and Hardcastle knew the kid was too wired to sleep.

A couple of attempts at hesitant apologies had been brushed off, and McCormick had done everything short of resort to his earlier approach of simply telling him to get out. Then, when the doctor had returned the last time with the announcement that they were going to admit him for observation, McCormick had actually seemed relieved. It was then that Hardcastle knew they were really in trouble. When a stay in a hospital was preferable to a trip home, things had gotten bad.

He had managed to send Harper home while waiting for McCormick to be settled into a regular room. Yet another officer had just tracked them down, with yet another apology of ‘just one more question’, and when they were finished with that, Hardcastle was ready to wait alone. The detective had objected at first, arguing that they should both go, but had finally yielded to a couple of very simple points of logic: this was an excellent opportunity to hitch a ride back to his car, and Hardcastle was planning on sticking around for the duration.

And that really had been his plan. But by the fifth time the kid had said, ‘You should go home, Judge’, he had finally recognized the quiet desperation in the tone, and understood that this was more than McCormick’s normal concern. The young man really did seem to want to be left alone, and Hardcastle had forced himself to agree.

But now, as he approached the lobby, he was still arguing with himself. He shouldn’t be leaving the kid, not now, not after everything. He hesitated as he stepped up to the pay phone to call the cab, trying to believe that if he left, everything would be okay when he returned.

One hand on the phone, Hardcastle rubbed at his eyes with the other and looked around the lobby. He knew that the muted colors surrounding him were supposed to be calming, but he always thought the only thing they accomplished was ‘depressing’. Everywhere in the building, you could almost hear the walls whispering their mocking words, “We did everything possible.”

He shook his head, and lifted the receiver. That wasn’t the outcome this time; there was still time to make this right. But he thought that would be easier if he had some idea-any idea at all-just what the hell he was supposed to do next.

It had been McCormick’s experience that near-death experiences could be divided into three parts. First came the oh-God-I’m-gonna-die episode, followed, hopefully, by the thank-God-I-didn’t-die reaction, which might last anywhere from a few moments, to a few hours, depending on the circumstances.

But after that came the part where human nature took over. This was the bitching-and-moaning phase, usually starting about when the adrenalin wore off, and the sub-lethal consequences of almost dying made themselves apparent.

Like now. He’d spent Day One mostly dozing, pretty much grateful to have Hardcastle calling him by his last name again, and mostly willing to be left to catch up on his sleep. But this morning, Day Two, he felt strangely morose, more than could be explained by the rattle in his chest and the ache in his ribs every time he coughed.

He’s avoiding me. He sat on the edge of his bed, pondering the awkwardness that had descended between the two of them only a short while after he’d woken up in the ER. And you didn’t give him much reason not to.

He heard a tap on the door behind him, jumped slightly, startled, and then hugged his ribs against the sudden, jarring pain. He looked over his shoulder at the door, slowly opening,

“Mark?” It was Westerfield, not the judge. McCormick let his shoulders down slightly, feeling the tension that had built up, without much warning, just as suddenly easing off.

“Hi, Doc,” he turned, this time a little more cautiously. “Making rounds?”

“I’m not on staff here.” Westerfield smiled. “This is more in the way of a social call.”

Mark allowed himself a short, painful grunt of disbelief, but tempered it with a grin. “You know, Doc, somehow I don’t see you as the type who punches out.”

Westerfield shrugged as he stepped into the room. “Well, that may be . . . so how are you? And you don’t have to start with the psycho-social stuff if you don’t want to,” he added, with a wry smile.

“Better. Ribs hurt. Still coughing up black stuff; that’s fairly disgusting.” Mark shook his head, then looked up, abruptly. “Were you here before?”

“Yes,” Westerfield nodded, “early on.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Another nod.

“How was he?”

This got a frown. Westerfield said nothing for a moment, pulling up a chair and settling himself before he spoke. Then he let out a slow breath. “His memory seems intact, though you might be a better judge of that.”

“I know,” Mark said impatiently, “but how is he?”

Westerfield gaze him a considering look.  

“Doc, don’t go all ‘patient confidentiality’ on me. I’ve gotta go home with the guy today. I need to know where the hell I’m at here.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” Westerfield frowned again. “He didn’t impart any deep secrets to me. All I could give you would be my impression.” There was a pause. “Lots of guilt, lots of anger.”

“He’s angry at me?”

“No,” Westerfield looked surprised at the notion. “He’s angry about what happened.”

“Oh,” Mark replied, looking not much relieved. “Yeah, so am I.”

Westerfield tilted his head a little. “That’s all, huh?”

“Yeah.” Mark hunched forward a little, drawing his knees up. “At Grieves, and Gularis, and especially at those P.F.A. guys . . . and maybe a little at Henry, for being such a putz, setting him and the judge up.”

“But not Hardcastle?”

“No.”

Westerfield sat patiently. Mark glared for a moment, then dropped his gaze.

“Well . . .” the silence stretched out a moment longer. Mark looked up again and finally added, with a sigh of defeat. “Maybe, a little, at the other one.”

“There’s two of them, now?” Westerfield chided gently.

“You know what I mean.” McCormick’s exasperation was patent. “The one who reamed me out for trying to take his son’s place. God, I never tried to do that.”

“It just happened,” Westerfield finished for him.

Mark twitched again, and looked at the older man with doubt and surprise.

“I was here early on, yesterday,” Westerfield said gently. “That was a very worried man.”

“Maybe,” Mark conceded. “You said he felt guilty. That’s all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Westerfield agreed, “plenty of that. But something else, too. Like a man who’d just gotten something very valuable back, and was about to have it snatched away again. He was very worried.”

McCormick wrapped his arms around his bent knees and let his chin drop down.

“I asked him about the memory return, what had happened,” Westerfield continued on slowly. “He said it happened in the alley, behind the Symnetech building, when he saw those terrorists drag you into their van.”

Mark was still looking at a spot on the bed, about halfway between him and the doctor.

“He said it brought back a sudden, very vivid memory of another time, when very nearly the same thing happened.”

Mark nodded, once. “That was almost two years ago.” He felt a brief chill down his spine that he hoped hadn’t been translated into a visible shiver; Westerfield appeared to be watching closely.

“Well, it all fits; he said that memory brought back a whole series of events that followed-”

Mark couldn’t help it; the shiver defied the tight grip he was keeping on himself.

“-and from there came a flood of other incidents.” Westerfield paused, then continued, in a more speculative tone. “I would say the essential thing was emotional content. All of those things that came back, in that first rush, were tuned to the same key.” He cocked his head, a thin smile emerged. “Guilt.”

“Wonderful,” Mark muttered wearily, “saves a lot on the alphabetization when you can put it all in one file like that.” The he looked up at Westerfield, with the same weary expression. “So, that’s what it is between him and me, huh? He feels like he’s screwed up my life enough times that he owes me?”

Westerfield’s face was neutral. “What do you think?”

“Ah-hah,” Mark lifted his chin and fixed the doctor with a sharp gaze. “I knew you’d get all shrinky on me, sooner or later.”

“No,” the older man laughed lightly, “really, I wondered, that’s all.”

“I think it feels that way, sometimes,” Mark said, suddenly very sober. “And if that’s all the emotion I can get out of him, I settle for it.”

Westerfield’s eyebrow had gone up at the change of tone. “Is that what you think?”

“Maybe,” Mark said sullenly. “I dunno, but . . . that’s not normal, is it? To . . . need someone like that. Their approval, I mean.” He shook his head. “It’s not; I know.”

“I admit,” Westerfield began again, slowly, “when I met you last week, I was puzzled.” He smiled. “It was like seeing one half of the equation. Too many variables, couldn’t solve for ‘X’. X being why the hell you seemed pretty dedicated to someone who you must have held responsible for ‘screwing up your life’.”

“Please, don’t ask me to explain it,” Mark buried his forehead against his knees.

“Don’t need you to. I was here yesterday. I saw the other half of the equation.”

Mark looked up again. “He doesn’t need me . . . and he sure as hell doesn’t need my approval.”

“Well, maybe not your approval, at least not on any level accessible to modern psychotherapy,” Westerfield admitted with a tight smile, “but your acceptance, yes . . . and your forgiveness, most definitely.”

“I already told him it wasn’t his fault.”

“So, you told him there was nothing to forgive?” Westerfield asked.

“There isn’t,” Mark replied adamantly.

“Not even the ‘other’ Hardcastle? . . . you know, there aren’t two of them.”

“Oh yes there are,” Mark continued on, just as adamant. “That guy didn’t know me, and I sure as hell didn’t know him either.”

“That was Milton Hardcastle, same as the man who was sitting down there in that emergency room, asking me to please tell him you were going to be all right.”

Mark shook his head stubbornly.

Westerfield sat forward a little. “People change. We do it for lots of reasons, but one of the most powerful of them is because someone else needs us to. People start out being a rough fit-”

“Very rough,” McCormick interjected.

“And they gradually accommodate.”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, I did a lot of that.”

“But, you see, don’t you? By your own admission, he’s changed too.”

“Because of me?” Mark asked, his face doubtful. “Why?”

Westerfield sighed noisily and sat back. “I usually take about five or six sessions to get to this point. Are you sure you don’t need a psychiatrist? I have a regular three-thirty slot open on Thursdays.”

Mark looked a little concerned, and hastily shook his head.

Westerfield got to his feet, smiling slightly. “Well, if you do change your mind-”

“You’ll be the first to know. Seriously, Doc, you’re the first one who ever talked to me for five minutes without Thorazine coming into the discussion.”

This got another brief laugh from Westerfield, who turned toward the door and, briefly glancing over his shoulder, shook his head once and said, “It’s been interesting.”

And with a brief wave from the younger man, he departed.

Mark sat back, letting loose of his knees, slumping down on the pillow a ways, glancing at the clock and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to be sitting in a chair when Hardcastle finally showed up, maybe even walking in the hallway. Maybe impatiently. But all these idle plans were shot down with another tap on the door. When did he start knocking?

“I’m here,” Mark said, not wanting to say ‘come in’.

Hardcastle peered around the edge, then came in, carrying a small duffle. “Clothes,” he said, in explanation. “Your other stuff was wet and smelled like a weenie roast.” He set the bag on a chair but didn’t sit down himself.

He’s fidgeting. Mark frowned. The awkwardness of yesterday had not been imagined.  

“Give me a minute. I can be dressed. They already took out the IV.”

“No rush. Frank’s got his car down in the lot.”

Mark flashed him a quick, inquiring glance as he got off the bed. From everything he’d gleaned yesterday, the judge was back to driving, so bringing Frank along constituted another evasive maneuver. He was only surprised that Harper had gone for it.

“He wanted to get your statement,” Hardcastle added, fielding the sharp look that Mark was sure he’d shown. “You know, the holiday and all.”

McCormick frowned and then said, “Oh . . . yeah, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Yeah,” Hardcastle shrugged slightly, then his eyes took on a look of hopeful inquiry. “You got a date?”

Mark snorted. “Judge, when would I have had time to get a date? I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah.” Hardcastle nodded at this. “Okay, I’ll go roust out your nurse, get your papers. You sure you’re okay getting dressed?”

“Uh-huh, since I was five,” Mark made shooing motions.

Hardcastle departed and McCormick felt his shoulders relax again. Gonna be a long day.

Frank watched the two of them come down the main steps, Mark a little behind the judge, no sign of conversation.

Gonna be a long drive home.

He wasn’t quite sure how he’d been hornswoggled into refereeing, and, anyway, Frank didn’t think that either man had much fight left in him. Even after a day and a half in the hospital, Mark looked haggard, and Milt’s expression was haunted.

Harper pulled the car up to the curb to intercept them. Mark let himself in the back, and Milt climbed in the front. Both men settled themselves without comment and it was left to Frank to toss out an ‘All set?’ He got a quick nod from the back seat passenger and nothing at all except a grim set of the jaw from the judge.

The eerie silence lasted all the way onto the 405, at which time Frank made some passing comments on the lightness of the traffic, attributing it to the holiday, and spinning it out into a monologue. Hardcastle finally pitched in with a few traffic-related observations. Mark said nothing. Frank could see him in the rear-view mirror, staring unseeingly out the passenger-side window, appearing to be deep in thought.

Frank made it to highway 10 with a hopefully inaudible sigh of relief, halfway there. It was then that Mark seemed to come back to life, paying more attention to his surroundings. Still, it was unexpected when he leaned forward and tapped Frank on the shoulder.

“Next exit, okay?”

Milt looked sharply to the side, but said nothing. Frank frowned and started to say, “Why?” when Mark cut him off with a gesture.

Frank took the route he was pointed at-Cloverfield to Olympic. He started to feel a mildly queasy panic in his stomach. From the corner of his eye, he could see Hardcastle’s face tensely puzzled.

The next turn indication settled it; they were on Fourteenth Street. There was only one possible destination.

“Turn in, Frank,” Mark said quietly. Milt said nothing. Frank turned.

Harper doubted that Mark had anyone he knew buried at Woodlawn, and he doubted that he’d ever accompanied the judge there. He didn’t make the kid ask any further directions. A few more turns brought him to the spot where he’d parked only a week and a half earlier. Now that the car was stopped, Frank could take a proper look at the man in the front seat.

Hardcastle was rigid, and the only expression on his face was a total lack of expression.

“Where?” Mark asked. Hardcastle said nothing. Frank pointed.

Mark was out of the car, standing along side it, a few feet away from the front door on Milt’s side. He was clearly waiting, and just as clearly not going to ask. Frank heard Milt let out a sigh, seemingly the first breath he’d taken in a few moments. Then the judge opened his door and got out, standing slowly, looking every one of his sixty-some years.

Mark stood there for a moment, not offering him a hand, then turned and walked toward the graves, seeming to assume that Hardcastle would follow.

Mark walked slowly, trying to keep his breathing slow and calm-this would not be a good moment for another coughing jag. On the grass he couldn’t hear whether or not there were footsteps behind him; he just had to assume the judge was backing him up. This wasn’t something he’d ever had to give much thought to.

He steered toward the plot Frank had pointed out, the granite stone, and the smaller one next to it, which was only visible from a distance by the small flag that had been planted by it. His eyes were drawn to the double marker, Nancy’s name inscribed on the one side, the other blank. He blinked once. This was not why he’d come.

He took another step toward the smaller stone. Now he could hear Hardcastle, his breathing almost as labored as his own.

“Why are you doing this?” The older man’s voice was strained, very tired, but not angry, not yet.

Mark gave it a moment’s thought.

“Because it’s important. Because it’s about time.” He looked at the name-Thomas C. Hardcastle-glanced briefly at the dates, the emblem. All of a person’s life, eighteen years, come down to this. But that wasn’t why he’d come, either.

“All right,” the judge said, very calm, the worry well-embedded in his tone, “can we go now?”

“No,” Mark said, quietly insistent. So, why did you come? “We’ve got some unfinished business.”

He turned his head slightly, so he could see Hardcastle out of the corner of his eye. The man’s face was as unreadable as the blank half of the granite marker. Mark began to wonder about the impulse that had brought him here. But then the judge shook his head once. And spoke-

“Okay,” he said in quiet concession, “I think I get it.”

“Good,” Mark exhaled, “then you can explain it to me.”

This finally evoked an expression-the judge’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and then, almost as quickly, down into a frown.

“Well,” he said, “I was a horse’s ass last Saturday. I’m sorry.”

“Last Saturday doesn’t count. You . . . weren’t yourself.” Mark lifted his head. “I thought I was angry about that-that’s what I told Westerfield, but that was just an easy out.” He had fixed the judge with a steady gaze. “You’ve been a horse’s ass about this for three and a half years, hell, maybe for fifteen years. I dunno.”

Hardcastle didn’t flinch, but he didn’t make eye contact, either. The silence was getting a little heavy.

“Listen,” Mark sighed, and finally went on, “to pretend someone never existed, just so you won’t have to remember that they died, that’s an awfully heavy price to pay.”

“It’s not like that,” Hardcastle replied sullenly.

“Hah, it isn’t? Well, when we get home why don’t you dig up an old photo, put it on the mantle next to Nancy’s, okay?” Mark heard the sharpness in his own words and cringed inwardly, wondering where it had all come from and suddenly recognizing it for what it was-anger, pure and simple. He’d gotten no denial. He started up again, slower. “Okay, you can’t. I understand.” This got a quick flash from the judge. “Oh, yes I do,” Mark snapped back at the unspoken retort. “Moms aren’t supposed to die, either.” He took a few slow, deep breaths. He was suddenly tired; he wanted to go home.

“I . . .” he paused, trying to get the discussion back on track. Discussion? He’s said a dozen words. “I just want you to know. This thing, between you and Tom, I know it’s none of my business, but you ought to settle it.” Still no words from the judge. “And, I also want you to know it is not my fault.”

“I never said that,” Hardcastle’s indignation was quick.

“No, but he did, and Westerfield says he is you, so maybe you still think that, somewhere up there.” Mark pointed vaguely toward the judge’s head. “I know who I am, and I know I’m not him.” He was running out of breath, and steam, and the will to drive this thing forward at any cost. And he was all too aware that he was going to wind up sitting on Nancy’s tombstone, if not on the ground, in another minute, if he kept at it.

A couple more breaths, he leaned his hand on the larger stone for support. “And,” he added emphatically, “it’s not a matter of choosing. You can be happy, and still miss someone. You can go on living, and not forget the people who’ve died-”

“And I can have two sons,” Hardcastle replied very quietly. “Even if one of them is dead.”

Mark blinked a couple times, vaguely aware that he was leaning even harder on the stone.

And, having said everything he’d wanted to say, and heard more than he’d hoped, he was glad enough when the judge asked, still quietly, “Can we go home now?’

Frank leaned against the front bumper of his car, arms crossed, watching from afar. Maybe he’d underestimated; they both seemed willing to come up to scratch when the bell rang. Not that he was expecting any actual blows. So far it was Mark doing all the talking, and Harper was too far away to hear what he was saying. Milt was taking it on the chin.

Good, maybe this’ll clear the air.

Then, suddenly, it was over. Mark sagged against the granite like a guy on the ropes. It was entirely possible, Frank thought, that the kid had also underestimated the older man. Or that Hardcastle hadn’t realized how fragile Mark was right now. But then he saw Milt reaching out. Of course-he’s not cruel, at least not intentionally so.

At least Mark was willing to accept the assistance. A minute more, with the kid leaning forward, obviously trying to catch his breath, and they were both up, heading slowly back, Milt still giving the younger man a supporting arm.

They arrived at the car, Milt opening the back door and McCormick climbing in, strangely subdued, but without the outward signs of tension that had been there when he’d come out of the hospital.

Milt climbed into the front seat. Frank scrambled around to his side and was in a moment later. Still silent. Neither of the other two seemed to have anything left to say. And you’re sure-as-hell not jumping into this.

But, somehow, there was a calmer air about the situation. And as to whether it was the calm of resignation . . . well, I hope not.

McCormick thought he might have dozed off for a few minutes; either that or he’d been so deeply in his own mind that he hadn’t noticed the familiar approach to Gull’s Way. At any rate, Frank was announcing their arrival before Mark had even become aware that they were in the drive.

The sun was slanting low enough to qualify as late afternoon. Mark climbed out of the car, waving off an offer of assistance and trying to look not in need of it. This meant taking the porch steps in short order, but brought him to a full stop in front of the locked front door, suddenly very aware of that his keys were back on the desk in the gatehouse, jettisoned on Sunday night.

He smiled a little grimly, and stood a little awkwardly, as the judge stepped by him and unlocked the door without a comment. Frank had only just gotten out of the car. He didn’t move toward the house. Now he was waving a quick good-bye and getting back in.

“Happy New Year,” he said, looking like a man who was glad to be out of the line of fire. Apparently all thought of taking a statement had fled.

“You too, Frank.” Mark managed another smile before he turned and followed the judge into the house.

He headed almost immediately for the kitchen, but was only there a few minutes before Hardcastle joined him.

“Whaddaya think you’re doing? The doctor said you’re supposed to take it easy.”

Mark looked up from the fridge, where he’d been leaning in, studying the contents with a jaundiced eye. “Cooking and eating is taking it easy,” he argued reasonably. “This ham is shot. You should have dumped it. And the turkey’s getting a little fuzzy, too.” He shook his head as he carried the pan over to the garbage. “I get kidnapped and nobody does the grocery shopping.”

“Well,” Hardcastle grumbled, “I was prioritizing.”

Mark stood there for a moment, watching the remains of Christmas dinner slide into the waste can. “I know,” he quirked a smile. “So, you’ve got two choices-bacon and eggs, or macaroni and cheese.”

Hardcastle frowned. “Which is easier?”

This got him a laugh from the younger man. “See? The fact that you even have to ask how easy mac and cheese is, is a testament to how sheltered your life has been. Okay,” he considered for a moment, “I suppose I get a couple extra points for boiling the water for the macaroni. But I gotta wash two pans for the bacon and eggs.”
     “Let’s call out for pizza.” Hardcastle said, as though the specter of two unwashed pans had decided it. “Let ‘em deliver it.”
     “Onions, mushrooms, green peppers, and pepperoni,” Mark recited solemnly, and then, “New Year’s Eve,” he pointed out. “It’ll take a while.”

The pizza finally came, though he had to roust the kid out from a nap on the sofa to eat it, after which it was well and truly New Year’s Eve. They’d adjourned to the den, though nobody reached for the remote control right away.

McCormick wandered over to the couch and picked up the blanket that had fallen to the floor next to it. He only came back to his chair after the judge was sitting down. Hardcastle finally picked up the device, looking at it with some chagrin.

McCormick was frowning, too. “No little areas of left-over empty space, I hope?” he asked cautiously.

“Hell, no,” Hardcastle replied. “It’s all back, even the stuff I would’ve rather parted with.” He looked down at the device and shook his head. “You have no idea how baffling one of these things is, if you’ve never used it before.” He pointed it at the TV and clicked.

McCormick settled back into his seat, and watched the screen flicker as they crawled up the channels into the John Wayne Zone. “Yeah, well,” he said philosophically, “it was nice while it lasted. Can we at least watch the ball drop in Times Square?” He looked at the clock. “Fort Apache should be over by then.”

“Think you’ll hang in there all the way to nine o’clock? The way you’re going, I’m thinking you’re not gonna make it to Newfoundland.”

“Speak for yourself; you gave up sleeping two weeks ago.” It had come out a little sharp, and Hardcastle turned to look at the man who had uttered it.

McCormick was hunched down in the chair, looking abashed. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“’S okay. I think you’re still a couple up on me in the apologizing department,” the judge replied quietly.

This was met with a moment of silence. John Wayne was riding off to invite Cochise to a parley. McCormick finally raised his eyes, looking deadly serious.

“Look, Judge, Westerfield said . . .” More silence.

Hardcastle finally cleared his throat. “He said what?”

“Ah,” Mark twitched and looked away, back down at the carpet. “He said you felt guilty . . . again.”

“Again?”

“That was my part, the ‘again’.”

“I thought you didn’t like shrinks?” Hardcastle said. “How much did you talk to this guy?”

“Probably not as much as you did.” Mark slumped down in the chair a little more. “Besides, he made a lot of sense.” He frowned at this concession, then added, “For a shrink.”

This got a grunt from Hardcastle.

“So, is that what it is?”

“What ‘what’ is?”

“That you think you screwed my life up and . . .” Mark waved his hand vaguely, as if the rest of the statement ought to be apparent.

Another grunt, this one a lot more emphatic. “Hah, in the first place, I didn’t screw up your life. Though I’m willing to admit it might have been a group effort, but I wasn’t even on the committee. But, anyway, you always had the deciding vote.”

“Yeah,” McCormick smiled wryly, “I figured that out.”

“Well, I’m glad you finally have,” the judge nodded once, approvingly. Then he fixed the younger man with a very determined gaze. “And, secondly, I never gave you anything you didn’t earn.”

Mark swallowed once, as if that part had come as a surprise, but he didn’t look away again.

“And, what would you say if I didn’t go back to law school?”

This had come from so far out in left field that the judge merely blinked once, wondering if he’d heard right. The look on the kid’s face, still deadly serious, convinced him he had. It was his turn to swallow hard.

“I’d say I already paid the tuition.” His smile was a little strained.

“You can get a refund, up to the first day of class, minus the matriculation fee. I checked last week.”

“But . . . I thought you wanted to do it. I thought you liked it . . . the law, I mean.”

“I do.” The strain on McCormick’s face was becoming increasingly apparent. “I think . . . damn, I’m not even sure what I think anymore.”

Hardcastle jumped in hastily. “This is probably not a good time to de-”

“-All I know is, I’m not him,” the way Mark had said it, the pronoun spoke for itself, “and I’m sure as hell not you.”

“You’re you,” Hardcastle said flatly. “That’s all I ever expected. That’s good enough. And I think you’d make a very good lawyer.” Then he felt his eyes narrow a little. “This isn’t about not being around to be Tonto, is it?”

Mark hesitated.

“No.” The answer had come too slow to be the absolute, unvarnished truth. “At least that’s not all of it.”

“Listen, kiddo,” the judge had lowered his voice a notch or two, “in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got thirty-some years on you. I’m gonna have to hang up my spurs sooner or later.”

“Later,” Mark replied, “probably.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime, I promise . . . I really promise; I’ll let you know if there’s any bad guys that need going after.”

“Really?” The disbelief in the younger man’s voice was palpable.

“Really.”

“Okay,” McCormick replied slowly, slouching down a little more. “One more chance.”

“And another semester?”

“Yeah.” Mark had let his head fall back onto the chair, his eyes were closed again. “I do kinda like it,” he muttered.

“I figured you would.” The judge smiled. There was a pause, filled only by one gentle snore from the guy in the other chair. “Happy New Year,” Hardcastle announced quietly, looking down at his watch. “In Greenland.”

He awoke in bed, for a change, and had the usual brief moment of disorientation. Guest room. It hadn’t been an argument, more of a discussion, the night before, about how the doctor hadn’t meant spending the night dozing in a chair in front of a TV as ‘taking it easy’. This had been countered by enough drowsy protests that he’d wound up sent to the nearest available bed, rather than the gatehouse. And that had been, Mark squinted at his watch, fourteen hours ago.

Happy New Year.

He crawled out of bed, sat on the edge, and tried to cough up that last pesky lung. He heard Hardcase at the foot of the stairs shouting, “You okay?”

Shoulda gone in the bathroom and shut the door.

He managed an impatient “Yeah,” between hacks.

“Sure you are.” The judge’s voice sounded a half a flight of stairs closer. “And breakfast is almost ready.” He stuck his head in the doorway.

McCormick waved him away. “Down in a sec. I’m fine.” And, as if to prove it, he started pulling on clothes from the tangled heap on the floor.

Hardcastle frowned and departed.

He followed him down a few minutes later, the smell of bacon and eggs drawing him into the kitchen. The toast was already on the plates, already buttered, and in the middle of the table was a plate of donuts, powdered sugar.

“Where’d you get those on New Year’s morning?”  

“Didn’t,” the judge said, as he fetched the eggs from the stove and put them next to the plate of bacon. “Got ‘em yesterday morning. Day old. Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mark smiled. “They keep.” He sat down.

“What you mean is, you like ‘em even when they’re stale.”

McCormick had already picked one up and taken a bite. Around sugar and crumbs he said, “But they’re not.” He chewed and swallowed, a bit thoughtfully, then picked up a piece of toast. “Hey, how did you know when I was gonna wake up?” He frowned at the toast, holding it balanced casually out on his fingertips.

“I didn’t; I was about to go up there and pound on your door,” the judge explained; he was frowning, too, now. “I figured fourteen hours was enough for anybody. Hey, be careful, you’re gonna drop that on the floor.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mark replied calmly, eyeing the toast. “See, I figure if I drop it, oh, maybe five times, and it lands butter-side-up all five, then I’ll know this is all a dream and I’m really still back at the Institute.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you ever read Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge?”

“See,” the judge said practically, “that’s what comes from too much English lit. Makes you paranoid.”

“It’s American lit, and I was already that way.”

“So what does it mean if it lands butter-side-down all five times?” Hardcastle asked. “Does that mean it’s a nightmare?”

“No,” Mark smiled, “that would mean it’s my normal life . . . and I’d have to wipe up the floor.”

“Then I wouldn’t drop it, if I were you.”

The smile became a grin, and Mark took a bite out of the toast.

“And if you hustle,” Hardcastle advised him, “we can still catch the end of the Rose Bowl Parade.”

They ate. The judge cleared the plates and Mark scraped the pans but did not wash them. Then he followed Hardcastle into the den, casting a surreptitious glance at the mantle; no picture of Thomas C. Hardcastle had appeared overnight.

McCormick felt a strange small surge of relief-that much change would have constituted more than he could handle right now. He’d settle for one small step at a time. He smiled to himself and shook his head a little, then reached for the box still next to the tree.

Hardcastle had turned on the TV and was already sitting. He gave the younger man an odd glance as Mark set out the two halves of Sarah’s Christmas gift.

“Hey, there’s a lot of down time between floats,” McCormick smiled. “Best three out of five?” He opened his own board and set to work arranging things. Hardcastle sighed and followed suit, not looking like he was giving a whole lot of thought to the placement of his fleet.

“You first,” Mark glanced up when he finished.

Hardcastle flicked the sound up for the UCLA marching band and said, “I-9,” absently.

“Hit,” Mark frowned. “C-4 . . . I wonder where they get all those flowers,” he added, as the cameras tracked onto the next float and the announcers gushed out the specs.

“Miss . . . Probably Mexico. I-8”

“Hit,” McCormick’s frowned deepened. “Mexico?”

“Yeah,” the judge nodded, “God gave us Mexico so we’d have roses in December.”

Mark looked up sharply, and saw nothing but a bland expression on the judge’s face. Feeling a little like he’d missed something besides an aircraft carrier, he asked quietly, “You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. You gonna play or aren’t you?”

“Um, E-5.”

“Miss.” Hardcastle scratched his nose. “C-4.”

“Wait a second,” Mark protested, “aren’t you gonna finish up the one you started?”

“Well,” the judge shrugged, “I know where that one is. It’s not like it’s going anywhere. So, what about C-4?”

“Hit,” Mark grumbled, and then, almost under his breath, “How do you do that? It’s a game of chance. F-8”

“Miss,” Hardcastle announced with apparent satisfaction. “Oh, when I’m winning, it’s a game of chance; when you’re winning, it’s all skill and strategy.”

“Damn straight,” Mark agreed. “I think we should watch the parade.”

“It’s not exactly like this takes a lot of concentration. D-4.”

“Hit,” Mark’s eyes narrowed. “How are you doing it?”

Hardcastle shrugged. “We played this last week. You don’t use the outer rows much, and you call the squares that you’re using for your own ships.”

Mark looked down at his already decimated fleet and shook his head, “Okay, I think I’ll concede this one.”

“Hey, at least you beat me last time.” The judge smiled and shrugged again.

“You . . . weren’t yourself last time.”

“Can’t have everything.”

This got a smile from the younger man. “Hey, maybe that crap of Henry’s really does help with the short term memory. That was a week ago.” Then his look got a little more pensive.

“Uh-huh,” Hardcastle agreed, “I remember every word.”

“Well,” pensive turned to calmly resigned, “it’s a good thing I wasn’t lying.”

“Though,” the judge said gently, “as confessions go, it had a lot of bet-hedging attached.”

“Yeah, but I think that’s the best I can do.”

“Better than I would have hoped for,” the older man cocked a smile.

Mark had sat back, looking at the TV without really seeing it. The parade was winding down. As the credits started to roll, he leaned forward to get to his feet.

“Got some time before the game. I think I’ll go hit the showers.”

He was up, and halfway to the door when he heard the judge clear his throat.

“Ah . . . what you told Westerfield to tell me, that was true, too?”

There was only the slightest question on the end of that sentence, the smallest element of doubt.

If that’s how it has to be, Mark thought, so be it.

I’ll change if he can’t.

“I said it; I meant it.” Mark exhaled. “I wouldn’t.”

He heard the judge shift in his seat, as if he was turning to say something else. Mark had one foot on the steps leading out; he paused, but didn’t turn back.

“Well,” Hardcastle said quietly, that one word falling into the silence and hanging there a moment. Then he added, slowly and clearly, “I think I wouldn’t, either.”

Mark felt his breath catch. He still didn’t turn, not really trusting his face.

Or maybe we’ll meet in the middle.

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