McCormick was supposed to be napping. At least, that had been his excuse a few hours earlier when he had simply needed an escape from the weirdness that was slowly wearing on his last nerve.

Yesterday, things had remained a little awkward after their visit to Kelly’s Curve. Hardcastle had been unusually quiet, and he himself hadn’t really had much to say, either. The longest stretch of conversation had been in the grocery store, centered around the judge’s typical grousing that canned cranberries just weren’t the same as fresh.

So when they returned home, they had put away the groceries, then Mark had escaped to do some maintenance on the ‘Vette before they plowed their way through a stilted dinner and an almost silent viewing of Donovan’s Reef. Somehow, facing up to more evidence that he might actually care about McCormick seemed to have pushed Hardcastle even further away. So the judge had called it a night right after the movie, leaving Mark alone with his guard duty, though he had offered to take a turn standing watch.

Breakfast this morning hadn’t been much better, though McCormick was willing to admit that part of that might’ve had to do more with his exhaustion than anything else. Hardcastle seemed to be making some effort to keep things on an even keel, but, damn; it shouldn’t have to be so hard. He hated the uncertainty that seemed to radiate from every moment they spent together.

So, as soon as the morning dishes had been washed and put away, McCormick had rattled off a list of yard work that needed to be done, and Hardcastle hadn’t objected. Then, later in the afternoon, he had run out of things to do and had stopped in to the kitchen for a cold drink. Hardcastle had offered to fix a quick bite to eat, but he had begged off, saying he needed to rest up before standing the overnight watch.

But when he had returned to the gatehouse, the first thing he had done after taking his shower was drag the judge’s gift from under his bed to wrap it. He stared at the thing long and hard, thinking maybe he should just run down to the department store and settle for a shirt and tie instead. God only knew what the current version of Hardcastle was gonna think.

He tried to find some reassurance in the idea that it would be appreciated when Hardcastle finally got his memory back, but that thought was followed immediately by a gloomy caveat: If he gets his memory back. And then another: And if I’m still around to see it.

That’s not fair, he scolded himself. He hasn’t kicked you out yet.

He’s still feeling guilty. How long do you think he’ll keep you here out of pity? And how long would you want him to?

He thought about that for a moment. He decided a stronger man might be offended at the idea, maybe refuse to stay under those circumstances. But if that was strength, he knew it was a strength he didn’t have. He would stay as long as Hardcastle would have him, because that was the only way to get his judge back.

And then he smiled. “Your judge,” he said aloud, chuckling ruefully. “Better not ever let him hear you say that.”

He pulled the foil paper around the frame.

McCormick was stretched out on the sofa, textbook in hand. It really wasn’t his idea of a perfect Christmas Eve, but he still wasn’t ready to head back to the main house and deal with a Hardcastle who didn’t know how to deal with him.

And, though there was a part of him that felt more tired than he could ever remember, he hadn’t been able to nap. He had dozed fitfully for about thirty minutes after wrapping the gift, but had given up after that, grabbed a book, and headed downstairs.

Originally, he had thought a text entitled Evidentiary Procedures was going to be pretty dry reading, but it wasn’t turning out too bad. And, about forty pages in, he had bolted straight up on the couch, surprised to find himself reading about a very familiar name.

Back in 1958, a relatively junior jurist had refused to allow testimony from a declared expert witness based on his interpretation of some obscure law on the books since 1911. The defense had objected, and the objections were duly noted, but there was no testimony, and the defendant lost. Appeals were filed, but Hardcastle’s ruling was upheld all the way to the state Supreme Court.

“Livin’ with a friggin’ judicial celebrity,” McCormick complained out loud. But only a blind man would’ve been able to miss the pride on his face as he flopped back down to continue reading.

He hadn’t even noticed the slowly fading light until the knock on his door startled him away from the text. He had just swung his legs down to the floor when the second knock came. He shook his head in wonder as he called out, “Come in!”

“I was beginning to think you were ignoring me,” the judge complained as he came lumbering through the door.

“Ah, no. Sorry.” There really was no need in explaining that he hadn’t realized Hardcastle would need to be invited in.

But even with a fairly substantial case of amnesia, Hardcastle was pretty sharp.

“Don’t tell me: I don’t knock, either.”

McCormick grinned slightly. “It is your house,” he allowed.

Hardcastle surveyed the gatehouse. “Really?” He wandered through the living area slowly, eyes scanning over everything, taking it all in.

“It’s a little messy right now,” McCormick began self-consciously, but Hardcastle waved him into silence.

“I’m guessing that a week ago I didn’t care.”

“Well, no; you cared.”

“But I let it be,” Hardcastle deducted.

McCormick just shrugged as he watched the older man pause at the mantle.

Hardcastle picked up a small, framed photo. Not exactly a candid, but not really posed. Just a snapshot of two . . . friends. Outside somewhere, a park maybe, though neither of them appeared dressed for the park. And what was that sign the kid was holding? He looked more closely.

“I ran for mayor?” he exclaimed.

Mark laughed. “Yeah. But you lost. Sorry.”

Hardcastle studied the mantle a moment longer, examining a few of the personal items sitting there. He looked bemused as he returned the picture to its rightful place.

“Politics,” he said, almost disdainfully. “What was I doing getting mixed up in that?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Judge, but getting mixed up in things is what you do.”

Hardcastle turned back to face the slightly impish expression. “I suppose that’s how I got you?”

“Same kinda thing,” McCormick agreed with a small smile, surprised to find that he was feeling much more comfortable than several hours earlier. Home field advantage.

He watched the judge still trying to reconcile his realities, then spoke again.

“What’re you doing over here, anyway, Judge? Did you need something?”

“Oh, yeah,” Hardcastle replied. “Dinner. I was gonna tell you not to sleep through the night.” He looked at the book in the young man’s hands. “Though it doesn’t really look like you were doing much napping.”

McCormick gave a shrug. “A little. But there’s a lot of material in the syllabus; just getting a bit of a start.” He tapped the book as he set it aside. “You’re in here, ya know.”

Hardcastle looked at it quizzically. “Really?”

“Yep. Right there on page forty-three, California v. Lamley. You’re famous.”

“Lamley, huh? That was a pretty good decision, I thought.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Wanna hear about it while you fix dinner?”

Grinning, McCormick rose from the sofa. “It’s a date.”

They hadn’t taken too many steps away from the gatehouse when Hardcastle said, “Ya know, we better bring your book. Hafta make sure they got it all right, ya know.”

McCormick just laughed and kept walking. “You know where it’s at. I’m gonna start dinner.”

The judge ducked back inside, got what he needed, and followed the kid to the main house.

Dinnertime was almost comfortable. McCormick had started by declaring they were going to have a “faux feast” for Christmas Eve: relaxed and casual, but vaguely traditional and festive.

While Hardcastle had given him the details of Alexander Lamley and his cousin who was attempting to pass for an expert in the mental health field, McCormick set up a small folding table in the den, covered it with a bright red tablecloth, then chose a nice setting of china. Not the very best-they would save that for tomorrow-but not the indestructible everyday dishes, either. They were only doing leftover ham sandwiches again, but he was determined to make it a nice holiday. He returned to the kitchen to check on his side dishes. The salad was tossed and the potatoes au gratin were approaching golden brown. He gathered the ham, cheddar, sourdough, and butter and placed several sandwiches on the griddle.

Several minutes later he had the sandwiches sliced into neat triangles and stacked on a serving tray, and he carried them to the table to join the already waiting potatoes and salad.

“Sit down, Judge,” he said, putting the sandwiches in place. “I’ll be right back with the iced tea.” He returned a moment later with the pitcher and glasses arranged on a service tray. Hardcastle had lowered the lights down a notch or two from full glare, and turned on the tree. And, for the finishing touch, It’s a Wonderful Life was just beginning, playing quietly in the background. The young man smiled.

“Looks nice, Judge.”

“That’s what I was gonna say,” Hardcastle replied, returning the smile.

And then they were sitting, reaching for food, and getting plates filled. When the immediate bustle had subsided, Hardcastle looked across the table. “So,” he began, “a Christmas to remember, huh?”

Mark hesitated for a split-second, then offered a lopsided grin. “We’ve had our share.”

“Yeah. Frank told me I was in jail for one of ‘em.”

With a grimace, McCormick answered, “Well, not the whole holiday. And besides, didn’t he tell you anything good?”

“Mm-mm,” the judge hummed around his bite of potato, then swallowed. “As a matter of fact, he has.” He returned to his meal without offering anything further.

They ate in silence for several minutes, and then the judge said, “So why don’t you tell me your version of our holidays?”

Mark raised an eyebrow in surprise, but answered without hesitation. “Last year was normal enough. We actually had a small dinner party Christmas Eve, then just hung out here Christmas day.” He laughed suddenly. “In my stocking that year you gave me a parchment scroll lettered in perfect calligraphy. It was a word for word rendering of section 472.”

Hardcastle looked up from his plate. “In the habit of forging official seals, are you?”

McCormick laughed again. “No, not really. But we’d been working a case just a couple of weeks earlier and I needed some information. I never really meant for you to find out. But, of course, you did, and you pestered me about it for a while.” He took a moment to wonder why he wasn’t more concerned about admitting this detail, then quickly decided he didn’t care why it was; he was just glad that it was.

His face grew more serious. “The year before that was the bad one.”

“Worse than this?” Hardcastle wondered aloud.

He didn’t have to think about the answer. “You were an innocent man in jail, Judge. It doesn’t get a whole lot worse than that.” He could see the jurist contemplating all the possible meanings of his words, but he didn’t give him time to reply.

“But the first year . . . now that was a Christmas to remember.”

“Big happenings, huh?”

McCormick shook his head. “Nah. It was just . . .” he paused to refill the tea glasses while he tried to figure out how to explain. “I hadn’t been here all that long. Things were already getting a little worse for Sarah’s sister, so she was away for almost the whole month. It was just you and me.” He took another break to shovel a forkful of salad into his mouth.

Get a grip, McCormick, he thought furiously. This is the easy part of the story, no laws being broken, or anything. But he couldn’t quite ignore the cautiousness that had drifted back into the forefront of his mind.

“Anyway,” he finally continued, “it had only been a few months, but things were going okay. We were getting along pretty well.” He let his eyes meet Hardcastle’s.

“Honestly, Judge, I think it’s still a toss-up as to which one of us was more surprised by that fact, but it was true. We had already been through a bunch of cases. You’d saved my life once; I had broken you out of a banana republic jail; we’d committed a felony together. You know, lots of bonding moments.” He grinned a little at Hardcastle’s disbelieving stare. “I told you; you get into things.

“But the holiday . . . well, let’s just say that I didn’t have very high hopes. I’d spent the last two Christmases behind bars.” He gestured briefly toward the television. “And I already told you my childhood wasn’t exactly Bedford Falls.

“But one day you said we should go get a tree, so we did. We argued a little over which one and then where we should put it-sound familiar?-but we had fun. I had fun. We tried to make cookies one day, but they just didn’t seem quite right, so Sarah sent us a care package from Frisco, and we sat right down and ate about two dozen cookies the afternoon it arrived. We went shopping for Christmas dinner fixin’s.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It was all just pretty normal.”

McCormick suddenly returned his attention to putting more dressing on his salad. He was beginning to get the definite idea that he was saying too much, but Hardcastle hadn’t interrupted. Really, the older man hadn’t done anything other than eat slowly and listen attentively to every word, which was a little unnerving in its own right. He thought maybe he liked it better when the judge was interrupting all the time. Can’t tell him that, though.

He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, almost hoping Hardcastle would say something-anything, really-then he returned to his tale.

“Normal for you, I mean,” he clarified as he began speaking again. “For me, it was anything but. Then, on Christmas Eve, you decided we needed some new decorations, or something. I told you I didn’t think Hallmark made first Christmas ornaments to fit our situation. Hell, they don’t even make a card, and that’s saying something.” He chuckled slightly.

“Can you imagine? ‘Holidays are even sweeter on parole. Season’s Greetings to the man who sent me up.’” He was relieved to see Hardcastle grinning at the thought. And he was not going to offer any more details about the decorations they’d ended up buying that night.

His smile took on the wistful quality of happy reminiscence as he spoke more earnestly. “The point, Judge, is that it was just really nice to feel like maybe I belonged somewhere. I sure as hell wasn’t expecting it, but it was probably the best gift you could’ve given me.” He paused, then added very quietly, “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

And with those final words, McCormick picked up his sandwich and resumed his meal.

Hardcastle watched the younger man thoughtfully for several long moments. He had asked the kid to talk about their past for a couple of different reasons. First, of course, he was curious. At this point, he still desperately wanted to understand what had happened to him in the last fifteen years that led him to the here and now. But he had decided he would settle for truly understanding the last three, since the idea of sharing his home-sharing his life-with a man that he had sentenced to prison was still-what had that shrink said?-disconcerting as hell. Yeah, that about pegged it.

But secondly, he’d been doing a lot of thinking about things Frank and Sarah had said to him. Both had told him that Mark would basically take whatever crap he dished out, and if he was honest with himself, he would admit that the kid certainly seemed to be demonstrating that propensity this past week. He might not understand this relationship, but he wasn’t prepared to destroy it out of sheer stubbornness. He was doing his best to make peace, even if it was peace with a virtual stranger.

But it was also true that in the past week McCormick had started to feel just a bit less like a stranger. Not a friend, maybe, but not exactly a stranger anymore, either. In fact, once or twice, he thought he even saw an inkling of whatever it was that had led to friendship in the first place. Not that he had managed to hold on to that insight for very long, but he was trying.

And the insight he was gaining right now let him know that while Mark was also beginning to settle in to the current situation, the kid was a long way from comfortable. All he’d done was talk about a few holiday memories, and it had come out sounding like some kind of confession he was afraid would get him sent back to San Quentin. Honestly, he had never intended to cause that.

Hardcastle offered a small smile of his own. “Maybe I didn’t expect a thank you,” he suggested. “Or maybe I knew all along.” He was as surprised as McCormick at the next words out of his mouth.

“Or maybe I didn’t do it for you, but for me.”

He watched the kid look up quickly, then immediately lower his eyes again, blinking them rapidly, and paying far too much attention to separating carrot shavings from lettuce.

Hardcastle knew immediately he had to step back. Whatever he might’ve felt before, he was in no position to offer much reassurance right now. His instinct was that Mark would understand.

“You said you broke me out of a banana republic jail? Frank said the murder was here.”

“What?” McCormick seemed to be relieved at the change in topic, but not quite on track yet.

“When I was in jail for murder. I thought that was here?”

“Oh, yeah.” McCormick smiled slightly. “That’s true. Down there, it was drugs.”

“Drugs?” Hardcastle was amazed. “I’ve been in jail twice?”

“Ah, well . . . there was also the, um, assault charge, and once you were trying to bail me out and things got a little mixed up for just a while. Oh, and the time we were arrested for auto theft when we tried to repossess the wrong car. But I think that might be all of them.”

Hardcastle was staring mutely. He thought he was really going to have to get more details about this stuff later, but right now he was just glad to see some humor returned to the young man’s eyes.

“That’s all, huh?” he finally muttered. “If the point of bringing you here was some kind of rehabilitation, sounds like it might’ve taken a while to catch on. Maybe you were more of an influence on me than the other way around.”

McCormick just grinned as he ate the last bite of his sandwich. “I think it might’ve been a mutual thing.”

And somehow, in that moment, Hardcastle thought the kid was probably absolutely right.

“Poor George Bailey,” McCormick said, as he sat sprawled across the armchair, munching on a cookie.

The remnants of dinner had been carried out to the kitchen; Mark had announced he would do the actual clean up during guard duty. A plate of cookies had been carried back in to the den and placed on the end table between the two chairs where they sat watching the movie.

“Yeah,” the judge agreed. “Made such a difference to so many people and never had a clue.”

“Well, yeah,” Mark replied slowly, “there’s that. But what I really meant was, made such a difference to so many people, did all the right things for all his life, and still got to the point where things might be better off without him. It’s a damn shame.”

Hardcastle glanced over at him sternly. “Have you actually seen the movie, Mark? I think maybe you’ve missed the point. No one would’ve been better off without him; that’s what Clarence helps him see.”

But McCormick shook his head. “Nope. Clarence tricked him. I mean, I know he says he wishes he hadn’t been born, but what he meant was he wanted to be dead. And, yeah, it would’ve been bad for a lot of folks if George had never existed, but that’s not the same thing as being bad if he dies now. Not that I think he shoulda killed himself,” he went on quickly as Hardcastle turned a more direct glare his direction. “I’m just saying it’s sad that he lived his whole life on the up and up and still ended up thinkin’ dead was better than alive. Just kinda sucks, is all I’m sayin’. I feel bad for the guy.”

Hardcastle shook his head. “That’s an interesting perspective,” he said slowly, and settled back into his chair.

Many minutes later, the judge spoke again. “It does kinda make you think, though, doesn’t it?”

McCormick peered quizzically over his cup of eggnog. “Think about what?” he asked thickly.

“Life,” Hardcastle said simply. “How you’ve lived, and if you’ve really made a difference.” He spoke nonchalantly, but wondered if the kid would understand how deeply this question suddenly plagued him.

McCormick sat up a little straighter. “I don’t think you have to worry about that, Judge.”

Hardcastle felt a smile forming at the young man’s response. Nothing dramatic, just a simple, direct statement, delivered with the kind of quiet assurance that only comes from an unshakable faith. A brief moment of total honesty, without concern of repercussion.

See? I bet it was stuff like that. That’s how he got to you.

Aloud, what he said was, “Even if I can’t remember a lot of it?”

“I remember enough for both of us,” McCormick answered seriously, “so trust me on this.” Then he slouched back into his chair. “Besides,” he continued in a lightly dismissive tone, “I told you I was gonna get your memory back, so just watch the movie, will ya?”

Unexpectedly reassured, Hardcastle grabbed a cookie and sat back to watch Clarence earn his wings.

From his spot reclined across the chair, McCormick tried to discreetly observe the judge. Moments of self-doubt, however brief, were a rare thing for Milton Hardcastle, and Mark wasn’t particularly fond of them. That was especially true now, when any attempt at pointing out some of the good that had been done would only be met with a blank stare. He couldn’t even hold out his crown jewel of an argument-himself-because there was little guarantee that the guy in the other chair would consider that much of a success story.

But he vowed silently to himself that even if the judge never got his memory back, he’d make sure the man never doubted that he’d made a difference. Even if he had to go downstairs and bring out every file one by one and give him every detail of what had happened with each and every person. Even his own, if he had to. He’d spell it out for the guy, if that’s what it took.

But he took a moment to wonder, If I am who I am because of who he was, what happens to me if he never comes back?

He breathed a noiseless sigh and took another sip of eggnog. Where was Clarence when you needed him?

Hardcastle sat silently, watching the last tidbit of news on the evening report. He was wondering what he should say once it was over. He had decided that they were getting better at being together in very specific situations: dinner, movie, doctor’s office, whatever. But they still seemed to be struggling with actually getting to those situations.

Yeah, he decided, that’s it exactly. We aren’t doing too well with the transitions. I wonder if that’s what it was like the first time, too? He decided this wasn’t the time to ask. The commercials had started and McCormick was beginning to gather up the snack dishes before he finally spoke.

“So, you wanna open the presents now?” He didn’t think that was entirely what he had intended to say, but that’s what came out. He thought the kid might drop the cookie plate.

“No! Uh, I mean, it’s not really Christmas yet. We should wait until morning.”

He watched the young man deliberately pull himself together.

“Besides,” McCormick went on more calmly, even almost grinning, “you know Santa can’t come until all little judges are asleep in their beds.”

“And what about you?” Hardcastle demanded, following along into the kitchen.

McCormick just shrugged, but his grin was more confident now. “Santa always makes exceptions for ex-cons turned law students who have to stand guard over forgetful ex-judges.”

“He does, huh?”

“Every time.”

“Okay, then.” Hardcastle turned back toward the hall. “Then I’m gonna head on up. Wake me in a few hours and I’ll take a shift. Oh, and hey? Try not to shoot the guy as he comes down the chimney, okay?”

He could still hear the kid laughing as he climbed the stairs.

McCormick was engrossed in his textbook again, shotgun at his side. The judge was probably right that they could safely do away with the nightly guard duty at this point, but he wasn’t ready to risk Hardcastle’s life on a ‘probably’. He had cleaned up the kitchen, and put away the table and chairs they had used in the den. Then he had watched television until he thought if he saw one more variation of how life always turns out for the best, he might barf.

But his eyes were starting to blur, and he had passed the point where he was storing any type of information, so it was time to set the book aside. He swung his legs off the arm of the chair and pushed himself out of his seat. Stretching, he let his eyes roam the room, listened for anything out of the ordinary, then paced to the door to repeat the process in the entryway. Everything seemed secure. He pulled a hand across his eyes and stepped back down into the den.

Rather than moving back to the chair-where he was pretty sure he’d fall asleep almost instantly-he wandered across the room to check the water in the tree. He bent down to peek into the stand, but the water level was fine. But his eyes lingered a moment on the two gifts beneath the tree. They were almost taunting him, reminding him that he was gonna have to bite the bullet tomorrow morning.

But he was okay tonight, don’tcha think? he asked himself.

Not normal, though.

Well . . . no. But okay.

He straightened slowly, trying to figure out exactly how to bridge the distance between okay and normal, when something on the tree caught his eye. His eyes blurred slightly again-though he didn’t think it was the exhaustion this time-as he brushed his fingers across the tiny gavel hanging right next to the tiny red racecar.

Hardcastle lay in the dark, listening to the sounds from downstairs. It had been eerily quiet when he had awoken just over an hour ago, but more recently there had been signs of life. He had thought about going downstairs himself-they really should share the night shift, and he should’ve known McCormick wouldn’t actually wake him-but he knew the kid would just ask him why he was awake, and he didn’t want to try and explain about the dreams.

The one from the cliff was most recognizable, though tonight it had played out in its entirety. No more was he searching frantically for the unknown; he was searching frantically for Mark. He could recognize the fear he was feeling, the anger. He wondered how much of that might be a real memory, and how much he might just be trying to desperately accept the things he was being led to believe.

The other dreams, though, had far less context. A baseball game. A racetrack. Even something he would’ve sworn was Clarence, Arkansas. Sometimes he could see Mark, sometimes he couldn’t, but he was sure the kid was always there.

How the hell does that happen? I don’t even know him.

After another few minutes, he heard the front door open and close. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat listening. What was going on down there? He thought for a moment maybe McCormick had heard something outside, but no. Somehow, no matter what he might’ve heard, Hardcastle was pretty sure Mark would make his stand inside the house.

Between the enemy and you, he thought, and very little had seemed so certain in the past week. But still . . .

If you don’t know him, how can you trust him?

Frank trusts him, another part of his mind spoke up. And Sarah. They both left you here with him. And besides, I thought you were going to make peace?

I am making peace, he insisted to himself. But I can’t recreate what I don’t even understand, much less remember. And I won’t have my emotions hijacked like that.

He’s down there at four-thirty in the morning, holding a shotgun, prepared to stand in the way of anything coming after you.

Well, yeah, he conceded, there is that. He added to his growing list. Probably that kinda crap let him get to you in the first place.

When he heard the key in the front lock, he decided to go down and see what the young man was up to. He pulled on his robe and was downstairs in the den in time to see McCormick place a gift under the tree.

Mark stood up quickly at the sound from the doorway. “Judge. Whatcha doin’?”

Hardcastle shrugged as he stepped down into the room. “That’s what I was gonna ask you. I thought you were gonna wake me?”

McCormick grinned sheepishly. “There didn’t seem much point in both of us staying up half the night. And I figured an old guy like you could use the sleep.”

“Hmph.” Hardcastle crossed the room and slid into one of the armchairs. “You’ve been reading some more, huh?” he asked, gesturing to the book on the end table.

McCormick nodded as he dropped into his own chair. “Might have some questions for you in another couple of chapters.” He hesitated a second, then added, “If that’s okay?”

The judge pulled a hand across his mouth. The kid was still on the edge of nervousness. That might be easier to tolerate if it weren’t so clearly wrong, though he wondered what made him think he could accurately read the young man. You still don’t know him.

Yeah, but there’s that shotgun. And it’s four-thirty in the morning.

“Sure it’s okay,” he answered. “A’s don’t come cheap, remember? Let’s make sure we’re gettin’ ‘em.”

McCormick grinned slightly. “Deal.”

They sat for a few minutes in silence, and Hardcastle thought the kid seemed mostly okay with that.

He gave more thought to his next suggestion this time around, but he still thought it might’ve come out a bit more anxious than he intended.

“Ya know, technically, it’s Christmas now. You wanna open your present yet?”

“You just want to know what you got me,” Mark teased lightly.

“Maybe,” the judge admitted with a small smile.

But McCormick shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s wait until morning. The real morning, I mean.” He cast a concerned look over Hardcastle. “Besides, I wanted you to get a decent night’s sleep. Why don’t you go on back to bed? I’ve got this under control.”

Hardcastle examined the young man closely, recognizing a change of subject when he heard one. Still nervous about something. “Well I’m awake now,” he said, “not much point in going back to bed. Maybe there’s something on TV? Seems like an awful lot of channels on that satellite contraption.”

Mark grinned, though it seemed a little forced. “Well, yeah, but trust me; you can have 150 channels and still have nothing to watch.”

“Maybe we could open Sarah’s gift?” Hardcastle suggested, and he wondered if it had ever been this difficult for the two of them to be alone in a room together.

Only when he’s keeping something from you. He almost physically jolted at the thought that burst into his mind.

What the hell does that mean? He didn’t know, but he recognized the truth of the idea in his soul.

But the young man was smiling in earnest now, and rising to bring Sarah’s box out from under the tree. And with the same kind of intuitive reasoning, he knew immediately that McCormick would never withhold anything of true importance. Frank and Sarah couldn’t both be that wrong. Hell, he hoped he couldn’t have been that wrong.

“You wanna open it?” McCormick asked, holding out the red and green package.

Hardcastle pulled himself out of his musings. “No, you go ahead.”

Mark plopped back down into his chair. “Okay, I’ll open it, but I’ll do it like you do.” And he began to meticulously lift each strip of tape, taking care not to rip the paper in the process.

Hardcastle couldn’t help but laugh at the over-dramatized impersonation. “Just open the thing,” he growled.

McCormick pulled the paper away and they stared silently for several seconds at the gray box. Then their eyes met, and they both began to laugh.

In the den at Gull’s Way, it almost felt like home. At least, that’s what Hardcastle thought, though he had mostly come to grips with the idea that he didn’t really know what home had been like lately.

Still, there were Christmas songs playing softly from the radio, a tree blinking in the corner, and laughter in the air. Surely that was pretty close to home.

“Okay, then,” he said as he pulled pegs from the game board, “it’s best three outta five.”

In the hour or so since they had opened Sarah’s gift, he had realized McCormick was quite the Battleship shark, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun being beaten at anything.

Hah! he thought, you can’t remember. That’s the understatement of the year.

“I thought you weren’t any good at this,” he grumbled as he began placing his ships again.

McCormick grinned and cocked an eyebrow. “Did I say that?”

“Well . . . what about ‘I always wanted one of these when I was a kid’? You did say that, didn’t you?”

Mark nodded. “Yep. Never got one, though.” He carefully placed a submarine. “But I was president of the Battleship club at Quentin.”

“There’s no such thing,” Hardcastle accused with a laugh.

“Well, no,” McCormick admitted. “But I woulda joined if there was one. Anything to pass the time.”

“Yeah. The notes in your file said you joined a lot of groups.”

The tone had been strictly conversational, but the comment still earned him a sharp look as the kid finally stopped messing with the boats. The judge gave a half-hearted shrug.

“What? I was reading through it again today while you were doing the yard work.”

“If you’re bored, I could loan you a book,” McCormick offered dryly, “or bring you up to speed on the latest in hedge trimming techniques.”

“I’m making do,” Hardcastle answered lightly. Then, more seriously, “I’m just trying to understand.”

McCormick tried not to sigh. “Understand what, Judge?” He made a quick gesture indicating the two of them. “This? ‘Cuz I don’t think you’re gonna find the answer in there.”

“Why not?”

“I told you; because that’s not me anymore. I’m not sure it ever really was…at least not completely.”

“But something has to be there,” Hardcastle insisted, his tone growing more urgent. “Isn’t that how I knew the first time?”

McCormick sat back in his chair, looking at the judge with an honest expression of confusion. “Hell, I don’t know about that, Judge. I used to spend a lot of time myself wondering why you picked me. But the closest I ever got to an answer was that you thought it was the best thing for both of us.”

He paused, then added, “For what it’s worth, I think you were right about that.” Then he went back to setting up his board.

Hardcastle watched the other man for a moment, then asked, “You know what I really don’t get?”

“I thought we were going three out of five,” McCormick complained, but Hardcastle ignored the comment.

“What I really don’t get is you. It’s hard enough to see my side of this: taking in a convicted felon, a guy I sent up, no less. I would’ve thought the tension would be impossible, that you would hate me so much it wouldn’t have been worth my trouble to put up with. And that’s just my side of it.”

McCormick was looking directly at Hardcastle now, clearly interested in the idea in spite of himself.

“But you,” the jurist continued, “you’re the one that would’ve been doing the hating. I mean, your transcript says you proclaimed your innocence pretty vocally.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” McCormick asked in a low tone.

Hardcastle shook his head once. “What I mean is, how do you move past the blame? I think that’s the part I really don’t get. How could I possibly expect it, and how could you actually do it? Doesn’t seem possible.”

McCormick stiffened. “So, what? You’re saying you think I’m runnin’ some kind of scam, or something?”

Hardcastle shook his head again, more forcefully this time. “No. And don’t be gettin’ mad again. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m trying to understand who you are.” He was almost pleading for understanding now.

“God, you’re living in my house, hanging out with my friends, staying up all night protecting me. I just don’t know how that happens, unless-” he broke off suddenly, considering.

When he didn’t go on, McCormick prompted him. “Unless what, Judge?” and his voice carried a weariness that hadn’t been there fifteen minutes earlier.

“Unless you didn’t really have anything to blame me for. You seem like a reasonably bright guy, Mark, like someone who accepts responsibility for himself.” Hardcastle gazed directly across the desk as the idea clicked fully into place. “Were you guilty?”

“I was convicted,” McCormick answered woodenly, not averting his gaze.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You saw the transcript. You’re the great legal mind. You figure it out.”

“I can’t figure out my own part in this,” the judge countered gruffly, “much less yours. I’m asking you to help me understand.”

McCormick dialed back the attitude. “Look, Judge, it was a long time ago. Can’t we just-”

“No, McCormick, I can’t ‘just’ anything!” Hardcastle cried suddenly, slapping his palm down on the desktop. “I don’t know why you can’t see that. My life is a hole, but somehow, you’re a huge part of it, and I don’t understand why. It doesn’t fit with anything I do know. The me I feel like would never have gone for it; it doesn’t make sense to me. Help me understand. Answer my question. Were you guilty?”

“Yes.”

McCormick had breathed out the word so quietly, in such contrast to Hardcastle’s tortured tirade, that it stopped the judge cold. He stared across at the young face, studying the expression. McCormick seemed surprised by his own response, and there was an uncertain defiance in his eyes, as if he was preparing a defense against something, but wasn’t yet sure what it would be.

He’s never admitted that before, Hardcastle thought with a sudden certainty. Never confessed to the me he knows, but to help the me he doesn’t. . . He would never be able to explain the feeling that gripped his heart with that realization. He was so caught up in it, that he almost didn’t notice McCormick was speaking again.

“At least from a strictly legal perspective.”

Hardcastle felt a small smile forming, and he thought maybe he was about to hear the more typical version of McCormick’s story. “It was a court of law. Is there another perspective?”

McCormick seemed surprised. “Of course there’s another perspective. There’s always another perspective. In this case, right and wrong. That should always matter, even in a court of law. Hell, especially in a court of law.”

“So you were guilty, but it wasn’t right that you were convicted? Do I have that straight?”

McCormick rolled his eyes. “Do I really have to spell this out? Jeez. Okay, but don’t think you’re gonna distract me. You’ll still never find my carrier.”

He winked as he went back to arranging the plastic boats, and Hardcastle filed away the idea that the kid was more comfortable when the Serious Stuff was carefully buried beneath the laughter.

“The Porsche I was convicted of stealing,” McCormick began, “really did belong to me. I bought it, lock, stock, and barrel. But the ditzy girl I was living with at the time could get cheaper insurance, so I had the car registered in her name. Not the brightest move, I’ll grant you, but not exactly criminal.”

“Unless you look too closely at the fraud statutes,” Hardcastle interjected blandly.

The kid flashed him a grin of concession before continuing with his story.

“But it was my car, Judge; anyone would’ve said so. Hell, I even paid for the cheap insurance.

“But when Melinda and I split, she called the cops and reported it stolen; the pink slip had her name on it, and here we are.

“And, yeah; I blamed you for a long time. Maybe I even hated you. I sure wanted to hate you. I wanted it to be somebody else’s fault. You were handy. But you know when I think I had to start changing my mind?”

“Ah . . . no.”

McCormick chuckled. “Oh, well, you probably didn’t know that a couple of weeks ago, either, so don’t worry.

“Anyway, the night you brought me home, when you came to my cell carrying Cody’s file, ready to put him at the top of the to-do list; I couldn’t believe it. I think I knew then I might’ve been at least a little bit wrong about you, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it yet.”

Hardcastle shook his head slowly. “I sort of had the impression you didn’t really like my deal.” He felt as if McCormick’s explanation might be raising more questions than it was answering.

“Well, yeah, but let me see if I can paint a picture for you, Judge. A few hours earlier, I’d been standing in your chambers, yelling in your face, dumping peanuts all over your desk . . . really, I had a pretty all around bad attitude. But you ignored all that, and believed my rantings enough to pull Cody’s file and find out more for yourself. I’ll tell you the truth, Hardcase; that surprised the hell out of me. It’s not what I would’ve ever expected from the guy I’d had in my head for a couple of years.”

McCormick shrugged. “Not that it was all smooth sailing from there, but how do you keep hating the guy who can see past the attitude, past the convictions, past the file?”

Hardcastle didn’t miss the subtle accusation in the words. “So it was just a simple matter of forgive and forget?”

“I didn’t say it was simple,” McCormick contradicted. He leaned back again and gazed intently at the judge. “But here’s what I know now: From the letter of the law, I was guilty. But it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.” He took a breath. “But it also wasn’t your fault.”

After thinking for a moment, Hardcastle said, “So what you’re saying is that we both learned to see past the file.”

A smile spread slowly across McCormick’s face, and Hardcastle watched a tension that he hadn’t even fully recognized slip from the young man. “Yeah, Judge, I think that’s it. And that’s why your answers aren’t gonna be there, because the answers came later. But you figured it out once, Hardcase, and you will again.” His eyes were twinkling as he moved closer to the desk again, pulling his game board toward him.

“In the meantime . . . H8.”

Laughing, and feeling that he had at least a few more pieces of the puzzle, Hardcastle said, “Miss.”

McCormick pulled the shirt over his head, grateful that he had taken Hardcastle’s advice to get a few hours sleep. Battleship had lasted until almost seven; it had taken all five games to finally beat the judge. He thought maybe their conversation last night had distracted him more than he’d realized.

He ran a hand through hair still damp from the shower, and tried to decide if he’d done more harm or good with his late night confession, such as it was. He thought maybe this current Hardcastle might appreciate the candor, assuming he actually believed anything he’d said. And assuming he didn’t decide that what really should’ve happened was a fraud conviction with a sentence about twice as long as what he actually got.

But he also thought that when things were back to normal, his Hardcastle-a label that never failed to amuse him-might never let him live it down. Still, he knew he would gladly put up with anything the judge threw at him, if only ‘normal’ would really come back to stay.

But as he headed out the door and started back toward the main house, he at least felt a little better about the looming gift exchange. Even if things had been a bit strained, the last few days had still seemed to dispel much of Hardcastle’s anger toward him, and it no longer seemed likely that his present would be met with anger or eviction. Not that it would receive the same appreciation it might’ve in other circumstances, but there was at least some relief in the idea that even this judge would probably recognize its sincerity. He could definitely live with that.

He stepped up onto the front porch and paused, making a quick calculation and still hating it, even though he was becoming more accustomed to these minor adjustments. But he figured he had managed it once before, he could do it again, so he knocked twice, waited a couple of seconds, and opened the door.

“Hey, Hardcase,” he called as he stepped into the entryway.

“In the kitchen, Mark.”

McCormick shook his head ruefully as he headed toward the voice. Too bad Santa didn’t bring a reprieve from this whole name thing. He briefly recalled that in a moment of total frustration last night, Hardcastle had resorted to the last name, but that wasn’t a situation he was exactly keen to recreate. With a mental shrug, he walked into the kitchen. If that was the worst of his problems, he could handle it.

“Merry Christmas,” he greeted with a smile.

Hardcastle turned from the refrigerator. “You too, Mark. Did you get some rest?”

McCormick nodded. “I think you were right about that. I’m just about too old for this all night business.” Then he grinned. “But I still gotta keep up with you.”

“Coffee?” the judge offered, as he poured a cup for himself.

“Nah. It’s Christmas; I’m having eggnog. And a cookie.”

Hardcastle grinned. “Decisions should always be so simple.”

“Yep. Did you want me to fix some breakfast?”

“I had some toast while you were napping. But go ahead, if you’re hungry.”

McCormick shook his head. “It’ll be time for lunch before you know it. I’ll save my appetite for that.” He moved to pour a glass of eggnog, and, just as he said, grabbed a cookie.

The judge grinned. “That seems a little rich for so early in the morning.”

“Early?” McCormick raised an eyebrow. “It’s after ten. Usually by this time you’ve done your free throws, we’ve had breakfast, read some files, and been involved in at least one high-speed chase. I don’t pay much attention to time anymore; I just eat what I want, when I want.” He thought the snappy comebacks were sounding a little forced these days, but he bit off half his cookie, and smiled around the crumbs, trying to keep up the illusion.

“You know, one of these days you’re really going to have to give me some of the details about what goes on around here. It sure seems like we keep busy.”

“It’s never boring,” McCormick agreed. He snatched up a few more cookies and headed out of the room. “C’mon; I wanna see what’s on TV. There’s only one bowl game today, but maybe I’ll still get to see a little bit of a parade.”

Hardcastle grabbed a couple of cookies of his own to go with his coffee and followed the kid into the den. “Which bowl?” he asked as he came down the steps.

“Sun Bowl,” McCormick replied, already flipping channels. “Tide and the Huskies, but not until later this afternoon.” He punched the power button. “Damn. I missed ‘em already.” He turned to find Hardcastle staring at him quizzically, and he gave a little shrug, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Silly, I know, but I like the parades.”

“Well, sorry you missed ‘em. Settle for a present instead?”

McCormick grinned, and forced down the apprehension. It’s going to be fine.

“Absolutely. Presents it is. Want me to get them?”

“Go ahead,” Hardcastle answered, slipping into his favorite chair.

McCormick set his glass and cookies on the end table and moved to the tree. He collected the two packages carefully, then returned and handed one to Hardcastle before dropping into his own chair with the other. They sat silently for a moment, and he began to wonder if they had already lost what little bit of easiness they had found over Battleship. But then the judge spoke.

“You go first; neither one of us know what’s in that one.”

McCormick smiled, and began to rip the paper.

Hardcastle watched silently as McCormick began to open his package. He thought he had made some progress with the whole idea of making peace, but the kid still seemed to be working awfully hard at appearing comfortable.

Forcing him into that confession last night probably didn’t help, he admitted to himself. But he couldn’t deny that the conversation had gone a long way toward relieving some of his own lingering doubts. True, McCormick had managed to make clear that he still believed the conviction was something of a sham, but he also seemed to understand his own responsibility in the situation. And, he doesn’t blame you anymore. Yeah, that part had certainly seemed sincere.

He found himself smiling as the kid ripped through the last strip of paper with gusto, then paused to lift the box and shake it a time or two, listening carefully.

“I did that, too,” he admitted, “but I couldn’t figure it out.”

With a small smile, McCormick placed the box back on his lap, then lifted the lid and set it aside.

Hardcastle found himself leaning forward as the young man removed the tissue paper, somehow suddenly believing that his choice of gifts might tell him a lot about his actual state of mind concerning Mark McCormick.

“Wow.” That was all that was said, but Hardcastle thought it wasn’t a bad first response.

McCormick slowly lifted the briefcase from the box, and looked it over appreciatively. He took in the deep cognac color of the leather, ran his fingers over the brass fittings, and lingered at the simple yet elegant monogram plate.

Hardcastle was still watching silently, gauging a reaction, as Mark undid the clasps, lifted the flap, and looked inside the deep case. Finally he said, “I hope it’s what you wanted.”

McCormick glanced over quickly. “It’s great, Judge.” He smiled, and went back to looking at the different pockets. After a moment, he looked back at the older man. “It’s just what a real lawyer would have. Thanks.”

Hardcastle recognized the quiet pride in McCormick’s response, and he thought he must’ve chosen well. And maybe not just the gift, he thought, though he was quick to remind himself that he still didn’t really know the young man.

But . . . Maybe I’m starting to like what I’ve seen.

And then McCormick set the briefcase aside. “Okay, it’s your turn.”

The judge thought that didn’t sound quite as lighthearted as the kid had probably intended, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he held the gift up to his chest.

“I don’t think it’s a tie,” he quipped. That forced a slight grin from the other man.

“No,” McCormick agreed. “I haven’t met a Milton Hardcastle yet that would’ve appreciated a gift of neck-wear.”

“Well I’m glad to know some things haven’t changed.” He located the seam in the wrapping paper and began to carefully lift the tape. When he had gotten the paper removed with barely a rip, he lifted the item in his lap and turned it over to see the front.

And for just a second, he felt his heart stop.

Then he realized that the simple silver frame in his hands was shaking, so he lowered it carefully back to his lap, but didn’t release his hold. The unmistakable masked figure on horseback seemed to be looking right at him, and across the black and white photograph was a signature, as clear and sharp as the picture itself. But it was the scripted words beneath the photo that caught his attention and wouldn’t let go.

“The Creed,” he whispered hoarsely, almost to himself. And, without really meaning to, he found himself reading aloud:

"I believe that to have a friend,
a man must be one.”

That was as far as he got before he had to stop and draw in a shaky breath. After blinking to clear his eyes, he chanced a look over at McCormick, and saw that those blue eyes were glowing, and that every bit of hesitation was gone, replaced with an emotion so honest and deep that he wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. He tore his eyes away and resumed reading.

“That all men are created equal
and that everyone has within himself
the power to make this a better world.  

That God put the firewood there
but that every man
must gather and light it himself.

In being prepared
physically, mentally, and morally
to fight when necessary
for that which is right.  

That a man should make the most
of what equipment he has.

That 'This government,
of the people, by the people
and for the people'
shall live always.

That men should live by
the rule of what is best
for the greatest number.  

That sooner or later. . .
somewhere. . .somehow. . .
we must settle with the world
and make payment for what we have taken.

That all things change but truth,
and that truth alone, lives on forever.

In my Creator, my country, my fellow man."

The words were hanging in the air as Hardcastle continued to stare down at the picture in his hands. He traced his fingertip along the words slowly, then cleared his throat. He spoke without looking up.

“This is-” He broke off as his voice cracked. He started again. “I mean, it’s-” He cleared his throat one last time, and finally raised up to meet McCormick’s eyes.

“Thank you, kiddo.”

And with the simple words, McCormick felt his own breath return, and he sank back into his chair just a little bit. Thank God.

“It’s really great,” Hardcastle continued, his raspy voice gaining strength.

Mark smiled. “I’m glad you like it, Judge.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve never really known anyone who believed that stuff as much as you. You really are like the modern day Lone Ranger.” He could feel himself blushing, but he didn’t care. This man needed to understand.

Several beats passed before Hardcastle asked in a low voice, “And you’re my Tonto?”

This time, there was no hesitation.

“Always.”

McCormick chopped the potatoes mindlessly, tossing the pieces into the colander waiting in the sink. When he had slipped out of the den earlier to begin the lunch preparation, he had been a little bit worried that Hardcastle would offer to come help. But now that enough time had elapsed for him to slather the turkey with butter and seasonings and pop it into the oven, and peel the potatoes, he understood that the judge was probably as relieved as he was for the chance to be alone.

Who knew precisely what Hardcastle was thinking, but he thought the gift exchange had gone remarkably well. The briefcase the judge had given him was great, especially because it implied such faith in his success. He wondered if this judge could understand that, and he hated that the man wouldn’t know how much that faith meant to him.

On the other hand, after seeing Hardcastle’s reaction to his own gift, McCormick thought maybe the guy had a little bit of an idea, after all. In that one moment, it had almost seemed like his Hardcastle was back, like there was no gulf between them at all, like they were sharing all of the truths that had never needed to be spoken. It had torn at his heart, both because he had doubted that moment would ever come again, and because he feared it couldn’t last.

But as he turned on the water to rinse the potatoes, Mark held on to that moment in his heart. And for the first time since this whole nightmare began, he honestly believed that everything would be all right.

Hardcastle sat behind his desk, deep in thought. Two hours or more had passed since McCormick had said, ‘Even small turkeys take a while to bake,’ and then excused himself to go prepare lunch. And the judge had been grateful for the time alone.

He had been glued to his seat for a long time, reading and re-reading the Creed, marveling that anyone-especially a con he had sent up-could understand him so completely. But there seemed little doubt that McCormick did, in fact, understand. This clearly was no scam; he had rarely seen such open sincerity as the young man had displayed this morning.

After a while he had crossed over to his desk, carrying the frame with him. He had laid it down carefully, then reached into the middle drawer for McCormick’s file. He had read through it so many times this past week, he practically had it memorized, but he kept searching, looking for answers that had remained stubbornly elusive.

Of course, the kid maintained that the answers weren’t there to be found, and now, as he looked between the tattered manila folder and the gracefully matted words, he found himself wondering if McCormick wasn’t right.

“All things change but truth,” he muttered to himself. But when had he become so jaded that he believed the complete truth could be found in a police record? He wasn’t sure, but if he could believe everything that had happened in the past ten days, it seemed that he was destined to redeem himself.

He looked over at the amazing gift, given from the man who still seemed more stranger than friend. Then he glanced back at the file. In truth, he didn’t know that guy, either, so why be so quick to accept that one, instead of the living, breathing one clanging around in the kitchen making the Christmas dinner?

He opened the file, staring at the mug shot stapled inside, and let his mind wander back over the things he had been told recently, from Frank, Sarah, the kid himself. They all seemed to support McCormick’s claim: The answers came later.

“To have a friend,” he said quietly to himself.

Hardcastle closed the file purposefully, opened the bottom desk drawer and jammed it far in the back, behind everything else, then pushed the drawer closed again. He smiled as he cast one last look at the framed picture lying on his desk, then he rose and started toward the door.

“Hey, Mark, when do we eat?”

Maybe it was only by comparison with the morning’s events, but Christmas dinner had seemed a little flat. Well, isn’t that how it always is? McCormick gave that one some thought as he took his time with the last of the kitchen clean up. The meal had been almost solemn. Mark thought for a while they had drifted back to merely civil. One step forward, two steps back.

It was . . . exhausting. And if that’s what it was for him, he had to wonder how the guy in the other room was holding up. Mark shook his head. It wouldn’t do to ask. He wasn’t sure if the judge was getting any sleep at all. He’d been awake every night on his own at the time they’d designated for the changing of the watch.

He dried the last glass and put it on the shelf. Then he folded the towel and draped it over the rack. Nothing left to do but fill a plate with cookies-more peace offerings-and go back into the den. Then what?

He checked his watch. The game would be starting in a little while. Yeah, the judge wouldn’t know any of the players, but it would give them something to talk about. And he wasn’t going to let the man bet against Alabama, no matter what, not even with a fourteen point spread. It wouldn’t be fair. Hell, it wouldn’t be safe.

Hardcastle stared dubiously at the remote control for the TV. Of the several thousand points at which this new life was at variance with his old, not being able to make the damn TV work properly was surely near the bottom of the list in importance. But it was aggravating nonetheless.

He put it down and stepped over by his desk, having heard footsteps in the hall. It had just been a flash of a thought, the one that went: Good, Mark will take care of it, but he found that aggravating, too.

He came bearing cookies and coffee on a tray, and something close to a smile on his face, though he looked taken aback when he came through the doorway. Hardcastle was pretty sure he hadn’t managed to get the scowl off his own face before the kid had seen it.

“Almost time for the game,” Mark said cautiously.

Hardcastle found this hesitance frustrating, too. Somehow that registered as wrong to him, that Mark should be tiptoeing around him, measuring out every comment. But he didn’t think getting angry about that would help things much.

Mark had put the tray down and picked up the remote. He cast one last sideward look in the judge’s direction and asked, “There wasn’t something else you wanted to watch, was there?”

Hardcastle shook his head and bit his tongue. It was him, too, weighing words now, as though they’d built some sort of fragile bridge and neither of them was sure just what sort of load it would bear.

“Game’s fine. Alabama and . . .?”

“Washington. I’m giving the Huskies twenty.” That last bit had seemed to slip out unbidden, and now Mark was standing there, looking painfully self-conscious. “And I am doing that entirely on a theoretical level,” he added, very archly.

That did it. Hardcastle sat down with a thump and laughed out loud. From the kid he got a wry smile and a shake of the head.

“Well, I gotta leave you enough to pay that tuition bill.” And, with that, he took his own seat and pushed the plate of cookies in the judge’s direction.

Twenty points wouldn’t have been enough. A combination of tedium and turkey made McCormick’s eyes drift shut somewhere in the third quarter. He awoke to a tap on the shoulder and the judge saying, “Gonna get a crick in your neck. Why don’t you go lie down?”

And, in his temporary disorientation, it seemed like an ordinary moment, until the whole thing came back to him with an almost palpable thud. That’s what it’s like for him; he’s living in that moment when you first wake up, and you’re not quite sure what planet you’re on.

“Ah . . .” he was looking up at the judge’s face. “Yeah, I was going to take a nap.”

He blinked a couple times at the TV. They’d cut away to a commercial; the insurance ads were at least as interesting as the game by this point. He stumbled to his feet, and said, over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a couple hours; I’ll make us some turkey sandwiches, okay?” It was only then, when he was turning to mount the steps, that he saw the photo and the words in the silver frame, sitting prominently on the mantle.

He ducked his chin and took the steps hastily, and it wasn’t until he was well outside the door that he said it, still under his breath. “Hi-Yo Silver, away.” And, despite his fatigue, he walked along the driveway to the gatehouse feeling a little lighter than he had that morning.

Dusk had become dark when he woke again, feeling semi-normal and nearly caught-up. The clock read six forty-five. He frowned. He must have turned the alarm off at five-thirty in his sleep. Turkey sandwiches, his conscience prodded, and he climbed out of bed and headed down the stairs.

He had the front door to the main house half open before he remembered to knock, but Hardcastle didn’t respond to his tentative, “Hello?” Not in the den. He heard some puttering noises from the kitchen and headed that way. Well, he probably got tired of waiting.

He found the judge putting the last touches on a fairly nice spread of leftovers and looking very pleased with himself. This contrasted nicely with the greeting he growled.

“If I’d waited for you to get started, we might’ve starved.”

McCormick grinned, did not point out that after today’s dinner they were both pretty safe in that regard, and managed to hang his head and look contrite. “Sorry, overslept.”

“Well, you must’ve needed it, I suppose.” The judge grumbled mildly, and something in the tone gave Mark a moment’s pause.

That’s how he used to sound, when you first came here, if he was worried about you. He was fighting down the grin again. How the hell could he explain to the man that he preferred this to saccharin politeness? He sat down at the kitchen table and started to reach toward the plate of turkey sandwiches. Now if we could just get back on a last-name basis-

“Mark?”

McCormick winced; he hoped it wasn’t visible. “Ah, yeah?”

The judge was looking at his a little more pensively. He hadn’t put any food on his own plate yet. “I was thinking, ah-”

“What are we going to do next?” Mark spoke around the first mouthful.

“Well . . . yeah.” Hardcastle reached for the leftover mashed potatoes, still frowning.

Mark chewed thoughtfully for a moment longer, then he put the sandwich down and leaned one elbow on the table. “Okay, I thought maybe I’d take a run at them tomorrow morning. I’ll be, say, a . . .” he looked upward at the ceiling for a little inspiration, “oh, how ‘bout a paralegal with the Securities and Exchange Commission. I think maybe we’re missing some notarized signatures from their registration statements, pursuant to section eight of The Investment Companies Act of 1940, subsection b-1.”

Hardcastle was looking at him in appalled astonishment. It took him a moment to respond, and then it was barely contained doubt. “You think you can just waltz in there and ask them to start showing you papers?”

“Well, that’s what the SEC does, right? I mean, if they’ve been at this for a while now, they’ve probably lost count of how many forms they’ve been asked to fill out. You know, there are thirty-two sections just in Schedule A alone of the Securities Act of 1933 . . . I’ve been reading up.”

“And what if they ask you for an ID? And, anyway, you can’t go around impersonating government officials, even a paralegal.”

“Judge, it’ll be Friday, the day after Christmas. Who the hell do you think is going to be there? We’re talking about the secretary with the least seniority, maybe even a temp. I’ll put on a nice suit, and I’ve got this really great briefcase. And, as for the impersonating, you’d be amazed what I can not say and still sound like I’ve said.”

This got a smile, small and a little worried, from the older man. “And what do I do?”

“If you promise to be good, I’ll let you come along in the car, but there’s a chance that somebody there already knows you by sight, so you’d better not go in with me. Hell, for all we know, you may’ve pulled the same scam a couple weeks ago.” McCormick shook his head. “The only difference is, you probably didn’t have to look up as much stuff as I did.”

The look persisted, still doubtful, still worried.

“Aw, come on. They’re not going to shoot me in broad daylight in their office, even if I can’t produce an ID.”

“And, knowing you,” Hardcastle frowned, “if they did, you’d probably think it was a positive development.”

McCormick had frozen at the first three words, entirely overtaken by the irony. It took him a moment to shake himself free from that, though he thought probably the judge hadn’t noticed.

"Well,” he smiled, “it would be a step in the right direction. But don’t worry;” he added hastily, “it’ll just be a minor reconnaissance mission. If anything looks hinky, I’ll back out and call for reinforcements. Okay?”

And, after a moment’s hesitance, the judge nodded.

He took first watch again that night, feeling surprisingly well rested. The judge had seemed a little reluctant to turn in, but finally gave up around eleven o’clock.

“If I’m not down by four, wake me.” He climbed the stairs with a heavy tread, leaving McCormick weighing the risks of disobedience against the benefits of letting him get a decent night’s rest.

Mark fetched the shotgun and settled back in the chair, with yet another book from the Hardcastle library-Hazen’s Law of Securities Regulation, entirely grateful that the judge had let him sleep in this evening, but still pretty certain he’d need coffee, a lot of coffee, before he got through the section on corporate recapitalization.

He’d only waded through a couple of chapters, and was almost entirely certain he hadn’t dozed off, when a sudden, muffled shout jolted him out of the chair. Book tumbling down, he snatched for the gun, and bolted for the stairs. The sound had definitely come from up there, and his first panicky thought was that somehow he’d become so immersed that he hadn’t heard the back door open.

No, not possible. I was awake. Someone got in upstairs? He took the steps two at a time. No shots, no more shouts. He hadn’t had time to think about it before he was upstairs, uninvited, at the doorway to the judge’s bedroom. The door was open and the only light was coming from the hallway.

It was silent except for harsh, fast breathing, almost as loud as his own. The light that cut across the room showed no intruder, only the judge sitting up in bed with a look of horror on his face.

McCormick cautiously pushed the door open the rest of the way. Whatever it was the man was looking at, it wasn’t in this room. He’s not awake. Mark set the shotgun against the wall by the door. The eyes weren’t tracking on him.

“Judge?” he said gently. “I’m going to turn on the light.” He reached for the switch. He thought maybe there’d been a blink at his first words, and now the man’s shoulders slumped down a little, and he was blinking in earnest.

“Sorry,” Mark stood there, frozen halfway between the light switch and the side of the bed.

“What the . . .?” Hardcastle was looking around dazedly. He had one hand on his chest. His face was wet with sweat.

McCormick had a sudden flash of insight. “Oh, my God. That,” he said, half under his breath. Of course he must’ve seen the damn scar. What the hell were you thinking? He needed to know about that.

“Judge?” Not getting any sign, Mark pulled up a chair and sat himself down next to the bed. “You’re awake?” he asked gently; then, a little more firmly, “You’re awake now-okay? It’s all right.”

He fought the urge to reach out and take the hand that was still resting right over the place where the judge had been shot. Neither Hardcastle would be comfortable with that gesture but, honestly, if he doesn’t snap out of it-

But now the judge had let go of his chest and was running his fingers back through his hair, and looking at Mark with confused recognition. “I was . . .”

“Shot.” Mark finished for him, feeling a sudden need to get it out. “It was almost two years ago.”

“No, I was in a courtroom. And the guy, it was . . . I remember him, crazy guy, ah . . .”

“Weed Randall,” McCormick said flatly.

“Yeah,” the judge nodded, “I remember him. But that was . . . in 1969. And he was convicted.”

“No, it was the second time,” McCormick’s voice was still very flat.

“Two years ago? But you said I retired-”

“They un-retired you. You were familiar with the case and, ah, we’d dug up some new evidence. Another murder.”

“I’d dug up more evidence, and they let me preside over the case?”

McCormick shook his head. “I did the digging; you did the presiding.” He felt his shoulders sinking down. “It was a birthday present.”

He was staring fixedly at the bottom of the bedpost when he heard the judge say, with some intensity, “Heck of a birthday present.”

He looked up in surprise. “That’s what I said.”

“So, anyway,” Hardcastle exhaled heavily, “he got convicted.”

McCormick was looking down again. “Wasn’t necessary.”

“Ah . . . the police shot him.”

“No,” Mark didn’t look up, “I did.”

The kid hadn’t looked at him since he’d said it, and there was something in the tone of his voice that was so flat, so dead, that Hardcastle was immediately aware that he was walking over haunted ground. But we must’ve had this conversation before. What the hell did I say to him then?

“And you’d never shot anyone before.” The words came out before he’d even had a chance to think about them.

Just a shake of the younger man’s head, but his eyes had come up, just enough to lock onto the judge’s.

“It wasn’t revenge,” Hardcastle said with a certainty that surprised himself.

The kid looked surprised, too. “How do you know?”

“Oh,” Hardcastle shrugged, but there was nothing nonchalant about it, “lots of reasons . . . for one thing, you’re not back in prison.” Then he frowned. “But, where’d you get the gun?”

“It was yours,” Mark replied quietly. “You gave it to the surgeon to give to me. I still had it with me when I found Randall.”

He was watching the kid closely now. There was a tremor in his shoulders.

“What the hell was I thinking?” Hardcastle said with some disbelief.

“Dunno,” Mark smiled sadly, “might have been because you were dying.” The words stopped for a moment. Then he started up again, with a different tone. “Ah . . . I better get back downstairs. You ought to try and get back to sleep.” He was on his feet, pushing the chair back to its place by the wall.

“Not likely,” the judge said, half to himself. Again it was before he could even think about it.

Mark had swung around and was staring at him intently. “You’ve got to,” he said, with some intensity. Then he swallowed once. “I’m sorry. It must be hard, all these weird dreams.” He shook his head. “But I think it’s helping. I really do.”

Hardcastle looked past the kid, avoiding his eyes. “They’re . . . exhausting,” he admitted reluctantly. “Worse than not sleeping.”

Mark nodded. “I figured that . . . This one, will you have it again?”

“Probably,” the judge muttered. “Again and again.”

“Look,” Mark stepped forward. “I can’t make ‘em go away, but I can promise you, they come out okay in the end . . . mostly.” He frowned down at the floor for a moment, then looked up again. “I’m in that one. Oh, I was so damn close, not even ten feet from him.”

“But you say it’s not a dream,” Hardcastle said practically. “It really happened. You can’t change that.”

“No, I know that.” Mark lifted his chin and was giving him a steady look. “But I was there. I’ll be there, every time.” He nodded once, as if he’d made up his mind about something and there was no turning back. “And you made it through.”

Somehow, for just a moment, the judge saw that there just might be a connection between those two facts.

Four a.m. came and passed, and five, as well. McCormick had made it to the chapter on false SEC filings and was on his seventh cup of coffee. He hadn’t heard any more sounds from upstairs, even though he’d left the door open. At seven, though, there were footsteps on the stairs, and a grumbling from the hallway.

“You didn’t wake me up. I overslept.”

“Well,” Mark said, smiling as the older man stood in the doorway, looking tousled, but not nearly so haggard, “you must have needed it.”

He tore a blank page from the notebook he’d been using, and, folding it once, stuck it between the pages. He set the book aside, then stood up and stretched, then moved over to the couch. “Okay, don’t let me sleep through breakfast. I want to hit that place by eleven o’clock.”

Hardcastle stepped down into the room, glancing at the book. He frowned. “There’s a lot of beds upstairs.”

“What, the snoring starting to get to you?” McCormick grinned.

“No, I just think if you’re gonna have to think on your feet this morning, you’d be better off getting some real sleep in a real bed.”

“Okay,” the grin softened a little. “Upstairs. Wake me up by nine.”

He’d turned toward the hallway and had a foot on the first step when the phone rang. He half jumped and then darted his eyes toward the desk. The judge seemed just as startled. By the second ring McCormick was within reach. One more quick glance at the older man and he had the receiver in his hand.

“Hello?” he said.

There was a halting and female “Ah . . .” from the other end.

Mark waited another half-beat before he said, “May I help you?” encouragingly.

There was another “Ah,” followed by a hesitant, “I’m not sure. I’m looking for someone.” Then, in little jerking breaths as if the speaker had been crying, “I’m sorry to call . . . at such a crazy time. Oh . . . I’m sorry . . . this whole thing is so crazy.”

“Slow down,” Mark said firmly, all the time thinking that if this was just someone who’d had one too many eggnogs and misdialed, he was going to pitch the phone in the pool and go hang himself from the balcony of the gatehouse. And yet . . . there was something about the woman’s tone.

“Who are you looking for?” he asked gently.

As if he’d opened a floodgate, the rest came out in a rush. “My father, Thomas Henry. He’s been missing for over a week, now.”

McCormick dropped into the desk chair, clutching the phone tightly.

“Henry?” he repeated, almost breathlessly. He saw the judge’s eyebrows go up as he moved in closer.

“Yes, but, ah,” there was another moment’s hesitation, and then, “who am I speaking to? Do you know my father? I found this phone number inside the cover of one of his notebooks. I couldn’t sleep. I was going through his things.”

“Wait,” McCormick put one hand over the mouthpiece and looked up at the judge. “‘Thomas Henry’, ring any bells? I don’t remember him from the files.”

Hardcastle knitted his brows. “Ah, yeah . . . I knew a guy by that name. UC, undergraduate. Played forward. I think. A couple years younger than me.”

“There’s someone here who knew your dad, maybe. Did he ever mention someone named Milton Hardcastle?”

Puzzled silence, followed by a small, “No.”

“Did your father go to UC-I mean, back in the forties?” Mark hit the speaker button and recradled the phone.

“Yes. Oh,” there was a near sob, “do you have any idea where he might be?”

Mark put one elbow on the desk and rubbed his temple. He asked the next part slowly, as if a great deal depended on the answer. “When did he go missing?”

“I’m . . .” there was another sound; this was definitely a sob, “I’m not exactly sure. I talked to him last, a week ago Monday. He seemed a bit distracted. Maybe worried about something, but he didn’t say what.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. I tried to call him Wednesday and Thursday. Thursday afternoon I went over to his place-he just moved a couple of weeks ago, he lives alone; he wasn’t home. I have a key. I let myself in. Everything looked very ordinary, but there was quite a bit of mail in the box. Maybe two or three days’ worth.

“Did you make a police report?”

“I tried to, that day. They told me to call them back if he didn’t show up by Sunday. He didn’t. I’ve been staying here at his place since then. But now it’s been four days since I made the report, and no one knows anything.”

Mark was watching Hardcastle, who was frowning deeply but not showing any signs of recognition.

“Okay,” McCormick cut back in, “we need to talk, but not over the phone.”

There was another moment of silence from the other end. Mark understood that. The woman was frightened. He was actually relieved to find he was dealing with someone who had a grip on the possibilities.

“Look,” he said. “You don’t have to give me any more information right now. I want you to call Lieutenant Frank Harper,” he gave her Frank’s office number. “He’s with the LAPD. Tell him you made a missing persons report four days ago on a man named Henry. Tell him you talked to Mark McCormick. We can meet here, in Malibu, or we can meet at his office, but we’ve got to meet this morning. Does that sound okay?”

“Yes.” There was an exhalation of relief. “He’ll listen to me?”

“Oh, yeah.” Mark shook his head slowly. “He would have listened to you last Thursday. Okay, you’ve got the number? This morning, okay? He’ll be there by eight.”

“I understand.” Both her fear and relief were palpable. “I’ll call. Half an hour.”

There was a gentle click and the line went dead. McCormick remained frozen there, staring at the phone for a full moment before he gradually realized he was sitting in the judge’s chair, behind the judge’s desk. He lifted his eyes as he eased out of the seat.

Hardcastle was still absorbed in thought, and hadn’t seemed to notice until Mark started to move. Then he frowned at the younger man, who froze again, half upright.

“Henry’s an awfully common name,” Hardcastle observed. “And there are hundreds of missing persons reports. Can’t blame him for not making that connection. We didn’t even know it was a last name.” Then his frown deepened a little more. “And would you stop looking at me like I’m going to bite your head off just because you sat in my chair?”

McCormick exhaled with relief and almost sank back down again before the judge barked, “Though I really wish you wouldn’t.” Then he reached forward to dial Frank’s home number.

Mark never got to bed. He did manage a shower and yet another cup of coffee. He picked up Hazen and put it down again at least five times, without reading a single paragraph, before he finally heard Frank’s car in the drive.

He put the book back on the table. The judge was already looking over his shoulder out the window.

“They’re here,” Hardcastle said, with an edge to his voice that was unfamiliar.

He’s nervous.

McCormick was on his feet and halfway to the door before the bell rang. He’d caught a glimpse of Frank, and the woman he was escorting, through the front window over the judge’s shoulder. She’d looked a little older than he’d have guessed from her voice, though that might have been a consequence of a week of no answers and not much sleep; he was feeling about ten years older, himself.

Now, opening the door, he studied her more closely-a little above average height, and angular, with a few wisps of gray in among the auburn. She had fine lines of weariness around her eyes, but, still, she looked like someone who wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

“Mr. McCormick? I’m Rebecca Henry,” she reached past Frank, not waiting to be introduced. She was much less tentative face to face than she’d been on the phone. “The lieutenant told me what happened to Judge Hardcastle. It seems . . . oddly coincidental.”

McCormick looked toward Frank, as he ushered them both into the hallway.

“Oh, wait’ll you hear her side of it,” Frank said grimly.

“I’m gonna get to say ‘I told you so’?” Mark cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I just want you to know; I never doubted you for a minute,” Frank said, with a tight smile.

McCormick led them both into the den and pointed Ms. Henry toward a chair. The judge was on his feet. He was obviously studying the new visitor, and, just as obviously, to Mark, at any rate, drawing a blank.

Frank took over the introductions, then he pulled another chair out for himself and sat down. “Ms. Henry’s father is a research pharmacologist. He’s a former employee of the Holgremsen Institute.” He nodded once in the woman’s direction.

Rebecca Henry took over the story smoothly. “My dad worked for Dr. Holgremsen for years, practically from the start of the Institute. A lot of basic research.” She was leaning forward in her seat. “Oh, I loved that place. They were a little old fashioned-wood floors, deal-top tables-but they did first-rate work. This new place . . .” she shook her head doubtfully. “It’s different there.”

“Tell ‘em what they were studying,” Frank prodded gently.

“Mostly memory.” Ms. Henry looked from Frank to the other two men. “That was Holgremsen’s big area of interest. His own father had suffered from Pick’s disease, that’s a rare form of dementia. Before he died he couldn’t even recognize his own son.” She shook her head. “Diseases that attack memory were Holgremsen’s life’s work; my father’s, too.” She lifted her eyes and looked at the judge. “Do you know him well?”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“It’s possible, but I don’t think so,” the judge finally replied. “I knew him in college, but we weren’t even on the varsity team the same year. He was more of an acquaintance.”

“He’s like that, too,” Rebecca smiled. “He remembers people he hadn’t seen in years. He would have remembered you. He’s always pointing out people in the newspaper.” The smile had gone rather pensive. “The lieutenant told me you help people, sort of a trouble-shooter.”

Hardcastle shot a look at Frank, who shrugged and smiled back. The look flashed over to McCormick, who seconded Frank with a nod.

The judge frowned. “Guess you could call it that.”

Ms. Henry seemed to have caught the interplay. Her smile was gone. “How bad is it?”

There was another long, silent moment. Mark finally stepped in. “Fifteen years . . . gone. It happened between ten pm and about three a.m., last Monday night.”

Rebecca sat, hands in lap, biting her lower lip for a moment. Then she lifted her head. “I think he was in some sort of trouble. I think he came to you for help.”

“That much we kinda figured out,” Mark interjected again. The judge was looking increasingly uncomfortable. “The question is-what kind of trouble?”

He thought if she bit any harder, she was going to start bleeding. Then she looked up at him again.

“Mr. McCormick, my father wanted to get out of Symnetech. He started talking like that a couple of months ago. He said they were pressuring him to . . . finish something.” She frowned. “My father didn’t do the kind of research that got ‘finished’. I’d never heard him talk like that before. He told me two weeks ago, just the week before he disappeared, that he was going to go to Dr. Grieves. He was going to resign. Then something else happened. He changed his mind.”

“Did he say what he was working on?” Mark asked insistently. “Did he give any kind of idea?”

“Well,” she rubbed her temple wearily, “about six months ago, he was really excited about something. He kept talking about a breakthrough in the treatment of senile dementia. Something that would help the brain compensate for the damage that occurs.”

“A drug?” Mark asked.

“That’s the only thing it could have been,” Rebecca nodded. “I’ve got some of his notebooks but, my dad, when he makes notes, it’s a real scrawl. I’m not even sure if they’re the right ones. The rest of his stuff is over at Symnetech’s new building.”

“That’s the place in Glendale,” Harper interjected.

Mark was giving him a rather fixed look. Things got both quiet and tense for a moment. “You know, Frank-”

Harper was already frowning. “Don’t tell me. You think maybe I don’t want to be around for this next bit.”

“Well,” Hardcastle drawled, “At least he’s not promising you he’s not gonna get shot again.” He spared a glace toward the increasingly alarmed-looking woman across the desk from him. “Don’t worry, Miss Henry; we’re just at the reconnaissance stage here, but I think your father’s disappearance justifies some pretty aggressive measures.”

Rebecca Henry nodded in hopeful agreement.

“Mark,” he turned his head toward the younger man, “why don’t you take our guest out and show her the view from the backyard; she looks like she could use a little air.”

“Want us to get you a glass of water on the way back in?” McCormick asked cryptically and, getting only a mild scowl, added, “How long?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Okay,” Mark sighed. “The view it is.” He gestured politely to the door and Ms. Henry rose at the invitation, with a mildly puzzled expression.

Frank turned to watch them go, and, out of the corner of his eye, caught something glinting on the mantle that he’d never noticed before. He leaned forward and took a closer look.

“Nice,” he said, over his shoulder. “Very appropriate.”

“A Christmas present,” the judge said laconically.

“He knows how to pick ‘em.” Frank nodded. “So, how was your Christmas?”

Hardcastle rubbed his forehead for a moment in silence, before he segued. “Weed Randall.”

Frank’s eyebrows went up. He had both hands in his pockets. “You remember him?”

“Not all of it, just the part in the courtroom. Mark says it happened two years ago.” Hardcastle looked frustrated as hell. “I’m stuck there . . . and I know Mark shot Randall; he told me that.” Hardcastle shook his head slowly. “He wouldn’t say anything else.”

“No big surprise-he never talks about it.” Frank leaned back against the mantle. “I took his statement; it was like pulling teeth.” He frowned thoughtfully. “You’ve got a copy of it around here somewhere; you told me he gave it to you. It’s not in his file?”

The judge shook his head.

“Well, it was about as righteous as they come. Randall had a gun on Sandy Knight. He forced Mark’s hand, no question.”

“Sandy? Bill Knight’s son? He’s only-”

“Thirteen? Nope. He was a cop. Sort of.” Frank was still frowning. “The whole thing was pretty messy, righteous or not. I’m surprised the parole board didn’t drop the hammer on Mark just because he was carrying a piece. Though it was a damn good thing he was.”

Frank straightened up, took one last glance over his shoulder at the frame on the mantle. “Look, all those stories I was telling you, the stuff you two have pulled off . . . I dunno; I don’t want to give you the impression that you were crazy. It was just that, if something needed doing, you two would get it done . . . and if something needed to be gotten, he’d get it.”

“Like now?

“Yeah,” Frank admitted, “I’d say he’s pretty motivated.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Hardcastle sighed. “I’ll keep him on a short leash.”

Frank had his hands in his pockets again. He was staring down at the floor just ahead of his feet. He cocked his head after a moment and looked the judge very directly in the eye. “Not too short of one, okay?”

McCormick was lost enough in his own machinations that he’d fallen completely silent.

When Rebecca finally blurted out, “Do you think my father is still alive?” it took him so much by surprise that he didn’t have time to compose an effective and consoling lie.

Instead, he merely answered, “I don’t know, but I want to find out.” Then, saying out loud what he’d been turning over in his head, he added, “I need to get my foot in the door at Symnetech. I’ll head over there as soon as Frank leaves.”

“I might be able to get you in. They know me.”

“I thought about that,” Mark looked out over the waves, not really seeing what he was staring at, “but if I go with you, and we get stonewalled, then the jig’s up. If I go by myself, and they toss me out; then we’ve still got you in reserve. Though, frankly, as soon as you set foot in there and ask to get your father’s things, they’ll know we’re on to them. This is assuming that they’re part of the problem. We don’t even know that.”

Rebecca nodded.

“But you can keep the judge company while I’m over there.”

She smiled a little at that. “He seems . . . a bit at ends.”

“Aren’t we all,” McCormick said flatly. “It’s been a rough week and a half.” He turned halfway to face the woman. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them get away with it.”

“Me, neither,” she exhaled.

He gave her a tight smile and a quick nod of approval. Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Think we’ve given them enough time?”

The puzzled look was back. “Enough time to do what?”

McCormick turned back; the smile had become the beginning of a grin. “Discuss my shortcomings, most likely.”

They walked around to the front, to kill a little more time, and ran into Frank on the steps. He gave Mark a quick up and down, and then sighed as he said, “Just try and remember how hard it is to arrange bail during the holidays, okay?”

He left Rebecca Henry sitting in the den with the judge, and went to put on a suit and a tie, aiming for something resembling a minion of the federal bureaucracy. Harried and unrested wouldn’t even be a stretch. The briefcase, he realized, was too nice. He grabbed his old one from next to his desk.

He ducked back to the main house, knocked perfunctorily and entered. He heard muted voices from the den-Hardcastle asking a question he couldn’t quite make out, and Ms. Henry’s murmured answer. He’s good at that, McCormick thought with a shock. He’s always been good at that-Apparently for longer than fifteen years, anyway.

He was fairly certain that Rebecca Henry would be thoroughly debriefed by the time he got back. He cleared his throat as he entered the doorway to the den.

“’Bout ready to go,” he said with a nod.

Hardcastle was giving him the once-over. “Yup, I’d say you’d pass as a law clerk.”

“Paralegal,” McCormick corrected with a grin. “Modern times.”

“Just don’t say anything that rates as an offense under the US Code, okay?”

“Title 18, section 912. I got it memorized, Judge.”

The older man let out a sigh. “All right, just be careful.”

“Always,” the grin softened to a smile. “Well, mostly always.”

This got a grunt, almost as if the judge was working from personal recollection here. Mark nodded once at Ms. Henry and ducked out.

Hardcastle watched him go with an odd itch that he was beginning to recognize as a form of worry. And where had that ‘Be careful’ come from? Anyway, Frank says he can handle himself.  And, if that little demonstration of verbal legerdemain at dinner the night before had been any indication, Frank was right.

He shook off a frown and turned back to Rebecca Henry. He’d already taken her over her father’s personal life, and the details of his daily routine. So far, he hadn’t uncovered anything useful.

“His co-workers?” the judge suggested. “Was he very close to any of them? Would any of them been working with him closely enough to know what was going on?”

“My father was a bit of a loner. He liked working that way, and, anyway, that’s the kind of people the Institute attracted-iconoclasts, lone wolves. I haven’t tried to contact any of them. I don’t even know how to, except through the office at Symnetech.”

“Just as well,” Hardcastle pondered. “Any of them might be in on it, whatever ‘it’ is. Otherwise, I’d’ve hoped they would have already contacted the authorities, if they were aware of anything suspicious going on.”

“Now the interns, they’re another matter.”

Hardcastle’s eyebrows had gone up. “Interns?”

“He usually had one. They rotated through every few months. I’ve met a few of them, but I don’t know who he had recently. They’re graduate students from the university. They get their name at the bottom of the author’s list on whatever paper my dad’s working on, and he gets someone who can make sure his dry cleaning gets picked up, and his typing doesn’t look as bad as his writing.

“They help him with his notes?”

“Sometimes,” Ms. Henry said slowly. “But just the stuff that’s ready to be published. My dad’s kind of . . . secretive. It’s not that he doesn’t want to share,” she hurriedly added. “It’s just that he doesn’t want his work looked at prematurely. He wants to be sure of his facts first.”

Hardcastle nodded, trying to picture someone with that personality working in a hard-charging, profit-making organization.

“So,” he glanced up at her again, “who would know who your father’s current intern is? I mean, besides the nice folks at Symnetech,” he added with a grim smile.

“The university, I suppose. They all come from there, from the chemistry department, mostly. But the rotation ends with the semester. And now everyone’s gone for the holiday break.”

“I know some people over there.” Hardcastle frowned again suddenly. “At least I used to.” He shook his head in aggravation. “None of them were in that department. Maybe I should put Frank on it. Might need a subpoena.” He sat back in his seat, gradually becoming aware that Rebecca Henry was watching him. “What?” he asked.

“Oh,” she twitched from her reverie. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be staring. I was just . . . wondering.”

“What?” he tried not to sound impatient. He didn’t think he could stand any sympathy right now.

“Is it possible that my father’s alive, but just doesn’t know who he is?”

“Well, I know who I am,” he added an almost silent ‘dammit’ under his breath. “I haven’t changed, even if everything else has.” He sat for a moment, scowling. Then he realized the woman had drawn back a little. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m not really myself.”

He shook his head. “Dunno. If it happened to him, he’d still remember you, and working for the institute. He’d have things left-a life. He could find his way to you, once he knew it was 1986, couldn’t he?”

“Oh,” she said with some chagrin, “not much change there.”

“Then it’s something more than that,” he said definitively. He looked up at her again suddenly, realizing he wasn’t being much of a comfort. “Sorry,” he said, this time a little more audibly.

“No, I understand. You’re right, he would have found me,” she let out a slow breath, “like you found your friend.”

“Well,” Hardcastle frowned, “it was kind of like he found me.” He glanced over his shoulder, out at the empty drive. The kid probably hadn’t even arrived at his destination yet. He turned back toward Ms. Henry, trying to keep the worry off his face.

“Oh,” she said. It was a soft syllable of sudden understanding. “You don’t remember him? Not at all?”

Hardcastle shook his head tightly.

“He said,” she paused, as if she was trying to get it exactly right. “He said he’d be damned if he’d let them get away with it.” She lifted her chin. “I think I believe him.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t give up too easy.” And the moment he’d said it, the judge had a deep conviction that it was true, even beyond the evidence of the past ten days.

They both sank into a pensive silence that went on for a moment more; finally Rebecca Henry sighed and said, “Roses, that’s what it was.”

“What?” the judge asked, half-distractedly.

“I was trying to remember something.” She blushed a little. “I’m sorry; what a thing to say.” He brushed it off with a quick gesture. She smiled, and then said, “It was a quote, something I read once, that God gave us memory so we can have roses in December.”

Hardcastle cocked his head. “Thorns,” he replied quietly, without even a moment’s hesitation. “Thorns year-round. They seem a hellu’va lot more durable.”

McCormick parked the Coyote around the corner from the Glendale address Frank had provided. The car didn’t go with his minion persona and he couldn’t risk being seen exiting it.

Symnetech occupied the second floor of a sleek new office building. Mark found himself paying particular attention to the security measures, five minutes of daytime inspection was worth any amount of nocturnal preparation. To his surprise, none of it appeared particularly advanced.

The elevator opened onto a nicely appointed lobby, uninhabited except for a receptionist who looked like she also hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. She looked up from the crossword puzzle she’d been studying.

“May I-?”

“McCormick, here to see Mr., ah,” he consulted the notebook he’d stowed in his pocket, “Grieves, about some of the filings, ah, section 26 of Schedule A.”

The young woman at the desk looked slightly flummoxed. She blinked her way back to the beginning of the recital and seized on the only bit she’d apparently recognized. “Ohh, Mr. Grieves. He said he was expecting someone. Second door on the right. I’ll buzz you in.”

It was McCormick’s turn to blink, but he only did so once. Then he followed where her finger directed, down a plushly carpeted hallway, not sure if he should be pleased or worried about the turn of events.

He took the knob, and leaned in as he heard the low buzz. The man behind the expansive rosewood desk looked up sharply. He was putting down the phone’s receiver, and the words, “You’re early,” had just escaped his lips before he apparently realized his mistake.

Clement Grieves had an aristocratic face, which was frowning now. He pushed back a little from his desk and somehow managed to look down his nose at Mark despite his sitting position.

“Mr., ah . . .?”

“McCormick,” Mark didn’t bother to extend a hand. He was almost instantly aware, as soon as he’d spoken his name, that Grieves knew he was not who he hadn’t said he was. “I’m here about the filing,” he added smoothly. “I have some questions about the schedule A papers.”

Grieves was studying him closely. Even more interestingly, he wasn’t putting in a call to the building’s security or to the police. Mark helped himself to a chair.

“Mr. . . . McCormick,” Grieves seemed to be fighting down a bad attack of nerves, “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

Mark wasn’t sure who Grieves was trying to pretend he thought he was but, what the hell, he’d clearly struck pay dirt in the guilty conscience department. He managed a tight smile.

“You’re the one who’s aiming for a January launch, right, Mr. Grieves?”

The would-be CEO licked his lips once, very nervously. “Ah, yes. And I thought all our papers were in order.”

“Oh, there’s always some little jot that needs fixing,” McCormick’s smile broadened. “In this case it's section 26-‘earnings and income, the nature and source thereof, and expenses for the latest fiscal year and for the two preceding fiscal years.’ I paraphrase, of course.”

“Of course,” Grieves said sourly. “And I’m almost certain we’ve already provided that information.” He flicked a glance in the direction of his watch. “If you could leave a note with Ms. Adams out there in the reception area, I’ll have someone get on it as soon as possible.”

McCormick was now aware that he was being given the bum’s rush. Evidently Mr. Grieves was expecting more company-but still he made no attempt to call security. Mark relaxed back into his chair a bit further and took a slow, leisurely look around him at the office.

“I like what you’ve done with the place. Looks very . . . prosperous.”

Grieves’ frown deepened. “If that’s all you needed from me . . .”

Mark finally took the hint. He didn’t actually want to see the man sweat. He rose slowly, and this time he did extend a hand. Grieves reached forward awkwardly. His hand was cold and clammy, not the grip of a criminal mastermind by a long shot.

“That will be all for now,” McCormick smiled congenially, “but you know how these things are; I’ll probably be back.”

Grieves looked not at all pleased by this statement, but eager enough to see McCormick move toward the door. Even that small bit of joy dissipated when it opened to reveal another man standing by Ms. Adam’s desk, waiting impatiently with a glowering expression.

Mark tipped a nod to the new visitor as he passed by. Grieves stood in the doorway of his office, wearing an expression that made his earlier nervousness look positively benign. Ms. Adams looked over at him, with the total cluelessness of a new hire, and announced the obvious-

“Your ten o’clock, Mr. Gularis, is here to see you.”

And McCormick beamed happily to himself as he stepped into the opening elevator.

He came in through the front door without even the pretense of a knock, dropped his briefcase just inside the hallway and steered directly for the den. The debriefing was apparently over. Hardcastle had made coffee, and the last of the Christmas cookies had been reduced to crumbs on a plate. The two of them had moved to more comfortable chairs, and an old college yearbook was open on the table between them.

Hardcastle’s eyebrows rose at McCormick’s grin.

“I’m back.”

“And-?”

“And no arrest warrants have been sworn out against me.”

“Well, there’s an accomplishment,” the judge huffed, though Mark thought he detected just a hint of relief in his eyes. “Anything else?”

“Yup,” McCormick snatched a chair and pulled it over, dropping into it and leaning forward. “A guy named Gularis. Don’t know the first name, though I’d guess it’s maybe Tony or Vito. His nose is a little crooked, that’s for sure. He’s down in your basement somewhere. Maybe under ‘money guys’.”

Hardcastle frowned. “His first name is Walter . . . yeah, Wally Gularis. He’s small fry though. Specialized in creative accountancy.”

“Okay,” Mark nodded. It never surprised him when the judge pulled some obscure crime-related fact out of his mental files, and that much apparently hadn’t changed. “But I think he’s moved up the food chain a bit since you last heard of him. He’s definitely got Grieves scared.”

“The mob trying to muscle in on Symnetech? Usually they go more for nightclubs than research institutes.”

“Hey,” Mark shrugged, “you heard what Frank said; there’s a lot of money in antidepressants. Anyway, I think maybe Grieves went to them, first. That’s a pretty upscale operation he’s got going over there.”

“Yes,” Ms. Henry leaned forward into the conversation, “Dad said the same thing. He wondered where all the money was coming from. There was never that much around back in the old days, when they were using mostly grants, and they hadn’t seen a penny’s profit yet from the recent drug research.”

“See,” McCormick nodded again, “something seriously hinky is going down over there, and, wait, it gets better. I’m pretty sure Grieves recognized my name-”

“You used your real name?” Hardcastle’s eyebrows had gone up a notch again.

“Well, yeah. I told you I wasn’t gonna do a 912 and, anyway, the cage-rattling value was pretty impressive.” McCormick sat back with a satisfied look on his face. “So, whaddaya think? We got probable cause yet?”

“For a search warrant on Symnetech?” Hardcastle frowned. “I do. Frank might, but no judge in his right mind would go for it.”

McCormick ignored what was probably unintentional self-deprecation. He sighed resignedly. “Okay, then I’m going to run Ms. Henry here back to her dad’s place and see if we can scrounge up some of his notes. That okay with you?” He turned his head toward the woman.

She nodded.

He turned back to the judge. “And maybe you can go downstairs and get yourself up to speed on Wally . . . though I still think he’s more of a Vito.”

“You’re gonna trust me to stay here by myself?” Hardcastle grimaced slightly.

“Guess I’ve got to,” McCormick tried to keep it light. He had been just a little concerned, though not for the reason the judge apparently thought. “We don’t have a vehicle that seats three anymore. Maybe you could take a shotgun down there with you, okay?”

Thomas Henry’s place was small and Spartan, and looked barely settled into, with only books and papers as clutter-the personal space of a man who lived mostly in his head.

“There’s a lot more here than he had in his old apartment,” his daughter said. “I think he used to keep more of his personal papers in his office at the old Institute.”

“That reminds me,” Mark slipped the notebook out of his jacket pocket and leafed through it to the sketch he’d made shortly after his morning’s visit with Grieves. “Maybe you could take a look at this.” She leaned over as he passed it to her. “You’ve been there, haven’t you?” he asked.

“The new building? Yes, once.” She shuddered. “Do I sound like a cranky old woman? I don’t know. Dad wasn’t happy there. I didn’t like it either.”

Mark smiled. “I know, kinda gave me the creeps, too. But what I really need is to pick your brain a little. I only had a few seconds to look around, the rest of the time I was in Grieves’ office.”

“Oh, that big desk of his,” she shook her head, “that alone must’ve cost over a thousand dollars.”

“Okay, here’s his office.” He pointed with the tip of his pen, “and there’s the lobby-”

“Yes.” She lifted her head and looked at him quizzically. “Why are we doing this, Mr. McCormick?”

“Call me Mark.”

“Okay, if you’ll call me Rebecca . . . and tell me why you need to know more about the layout of that building.”

Mark smiled. He thought Thomas Henry’s daughter was more than ready for desperate measures, but, on the other hand, she’d spent the morning in the clutches of Milton C. Hardcastle, and that tended to have a rectifying effect on some people.

“There might be something useful back in you father’s new office-something that might help us figure out what happened to him.” He tested the waters carefully.

“Oh,” she nodded eagerly, “I could go there; tell them I was picking some of his things up for him.”

McCormick winced. This one was too honest by half. “Well, if it’s something useful to us,” he pointed out, “it’s probably dangerous to them. They may have hidden it-locked it up.”

“So you’re going to break in there tonight?” she said abruptly, making Mark suddenly wonder just what she and the judge had been discussing, besides her father’s college basketball career.

“Um, it’s a possibility.” He frowned down at the sketch. “I might.”

“And I’d better not mention any of this to Judge Hardcastle?”

He nodded. She took the notebook from him and looked at it for a moment, then asked for his pen. She filled in a few more details, and jotted down a couple of notes.

“Mind you, I wasn’t ‘casing the joint’.” She gave him a small smile. “I was just bringing my dad a bagel and some coffee when I was there.” The smile had become wistful. “But I think this is about right.” She handed the sketch back to him. “Just promise you’ll be careful, will you?”

“I try to be,” Mark said, as he studied the drawing,

“Good,” Rebecca nodded once sharply. “The judge was really worried about you today.”

Mark looked up at her in blank surprise.

“Well, it was pretty obvious.” She shrugged. “Come on, let’s find those notebooks.”

It was mid-afternoon when they emerged from the Henry residence, McCormick bearing a cardboard box full of notebooks and loose papers. It had been hard to tell what might be relevant; Thomas Henry’s scrawl surpassed Rebecca’s description. McCormick had thumbed through a few pages and then shrugged. He doubted if he could have made anything out of it, even if it had been legible.

“I know somebody who might, though,” he’d said as they sat there on the floor sorting things as best they could, “a guy named Westerfield-a doctor. At least I’d like to show it to him.” He looked down at his watch with a concerned glance.

Rebecca seemed to catch that. “You could take me back to the estate; I could stay with the judge until you’re done.”

“Oh,” Mark smiled, “I don’t think that’s necessary.” He wasn’t going to admit that, now that she knew his plans for the night, he’d really prefer to keep some distance between her and Hardcastle. “But I think you’d be better off at your own place than here. I really stuck the stick in the wasp’s nest this morning. Not sure what might happen next.”

“I think I’d be safe enough here,” Rebecca said with a thoughtful frown. “I kind of thought maybe my dad had a reason for moving so suddenly, and the reason might have been Clement Grieves.”

He dropped her off at her own apartment, better safe than sorry. Fortunately, it was back in the direction he wanted to go. He found a public phone and was surprised to have his call answered by Westerfield himself.

“I was just getting ready to close up shop for the week. Only had a couple of post-holiday depressives to deal with,” his voice was warm, and a surprising comfort. “Don’t suppose it’s something that simple for you?”

“No, more in the line of research,” Mark admitted. “I don’t know if you’d be able to help. I have some things, notes, that might have something to do with what happened to the judge.” He hesitated, then added hopefully, “If you’re interested.”

“Can you bring them over now?” was Westerfield’s almost immediate reply.

Ten minutes later he was carefully placing the box on Westerfield’s desk, hoping that the pile wasn’t too intimidating in its unrefined state.

“Good thing I have the weekend free,” the doctor mused, then he gestured McCormick to a chair.

“Sorry. We didn’t know what might be important.”

“No,” Westerfield reached into the container and scooped up the topmost notebook, thumbing it open, “better to be thorough, might need all the context I can get. Oh, I see he writes like a doctor.”

“He is . . . a PhD, that is-biochemistry. He disappeared the same night Hardcastle had his ‘accident’.”

Westerfield looked up from the page. “Really? My, my, that is interesting. A mystery.”

“I was very careful,” McCormick assured him. “No one followed me here.”

Westerfield started to laugh but stopped abruptly, after a glance at McCormick’s entirely serious expression. “You think that-?”

“I dunno, Doc; we’re looking at a start-up company that may be using mob money, a discovery that might fix Alzheimer’s, but may not work as advertised, a missing scientist, and-did Hardcastle mention someone took a shot at us last week?”

Westerfield shook his head and looked down at the notebook he was holding, with a new element of interest. McCormick sat back and rubbed his face, blinking a couple of times.

“And how are you two holding up?” The doctor gave him a concerned look. “How’s he doing?”

“Oh, ah . . . better, I think.” Mark stared at the box. He thought maybe the previous night was catching up with him. He sighed. “I dunno about that, either, Doc. Last night,” McCormick shook his head wearily, “he had another dream. I think he’s having them every night, but this must’ve been a new one.”

“A dream that’s actually a memory?”

“Yeah, a doozy. He was shot about two years ago, in the chest, almost died.” Mark shook his head again. “Is that how it’s gonna be? He only remembers the bad stuff? And why these two things?”

“Well,” Westerfield put the notebook down and sat back a little. “I suspect he’s remembered some other things as well. As for what, and why, I imagine it’s the moments that had the most emotional impact for him. There’s something called Hebbian Learning Theory-”

“What about his son’s death; what about his wife?”

“I’m guessing he’s remembered those things as well. Maybe those first-we really don’t have a good idea of memory architecture, but clearly there’s some sort of pattern.”

“Last Saturday,” McCormick murmured, more to himself than to the doctor.

“What happened then?” Westerfield leaned forward, fingers tented.

“Oh, he was talking about his son, his family . . . and he got really angry.”

“At you?”

McCormick nodded. “Very angry . . . said some things.” The nod had turned into a quick shake of the head and, “I think we’re past that now. But . . . maybe it was because he was remembering.” It took him a moment to notice the silence from across the desk. He looked up only to see Westerfield looking right back at him. “What?” he asked, with a slightly defensive tone.

“I was just wondering,” Westerfield mused.

“What?” McCormick asked suspiciously.

“If you were angry.” The doctor was giving him a steady gaze. “Do you ever get angry?”

“Sure I do.” McCormick frowned, “I’m angry as hell right now at whoever did this to him.”

“No,” Westerfield smiled gently, “I mean at him.”

The silence that followed was palpable.

Finally Mark spoke; his voice was low and nearly flat, devoid of any recognizable emotion. “He put me in prison. I was very angry.”

“Were you guilty?”

“I . . . don’t know.” There was another long silent moment. Then he added, quietly, “Either I was guilty, or he was wrong.”

“It’s called cognitive dissonance,” Westerfield said, just as quietly. “I was wondering how you deal with it.”

“I know what it’s called,” Mark said sharply. “I took a couple of psychology courses,” the frown had deepened, “and, yeah, the way I deal with it is by not dealing with it. Anyway,” he added, “that’s not the problem right now.”

“Okay,” Westerfield held his hands up placatingly, “I was just . . . curious.”

“Well, now you know part of why I’m not too crazy about shrinks.” Mark managed a tight smile.

Westerfield nodded in apparent understanding. “Well . . . if it ever stops working, I’m here.” He took another look into the box. “But not this weekend.” He smiled. “I’ll be home getting some reading done.”

“Anything you come up with that looks interesting,” Mark was scribbling numbers down as he spoke, “this one you probably already have. It’s the judge’s. The other one is Frank Harper; he’s a lieutenant with the LAPD. They can usually reach him through that number, no matter what. Please,” he looked up as he passed the paper over, “anything.”

“I’ll do my best.”

It was well into the long winter twilight when McCormick pulled up the drive. He’d thought about it most of the way home and concluded amnesia had its advantages. After only ten days, Hardcastle couldn’t possibly know his routine of parking the Coyote near the garage most of the time, and preferably in it at night. This time he placed it well down the drive, facing out, all out of sight of the house itself.

With luck, the judge might still be in the basement, caught up in the career of Walter Gularis, though he thought the way things were going, more likely the judge and Frank would be sitting in the den, and the all-too-observant lieutenant would make some comment about the Coyote’s absence.

Reality lay somewhere in between. Frank wasn’t there; the judge was in the den. He had several files open in front of him with the contents sorted out. He looked up from his reading as McCormick slouched into the room and dropped wearily into a chair.

“I stopped by Westerfield’s to show him the papers,” McCormick answered the question that hadn’t been asked. “Big box full. May take him all weekend.” He was rubbing his temples. “He asked how you were . . . I told him ‘better’.”

“Better than you right now, at any rate,” the judge was looking him over. “Did you eat yet?”

McCormick had to think about that one for a moment. “No,” he finally said. “But what I really need is some coffee. And we gotta invite Sarah back; we’re out of cookies.” He pulled himself up a little straighter. “How’s the research going?”

“Oh, interesting enough. You’re right; Wally’s a pretty big fish now, though he’s still mostly in the loans and laundry department. But he knows how to collect a debt, and, if Grieves made promises he can’t keep, he’s right to be afraid of this guy.”

“So what does that have to do with Dr. Henry being missing, and whatever the hell happened to you?”

Hardcastle shrugged. “Still too many pieces missing.”

Mark thought that one over a minute; he didn’t think it would be wise to discuss how he intended to gather a few more of those pieces tonight.

“Ham or turkey?” The judge’s question broke into his thought and almost made him jump.

“Ah, ham I think. Won’t keep much longer.”

They ate in the kitchen, with McCormick almost dozing off a couple times over his food. The third time Hardcastle reached over and nudged him.

“I think you’d better hit the sack. I can take the watch tonight.”

McCormick looked at him blearily. This was exactly what he’d hoped to accomplish, but without the desperate veracity. And, somehow, the judge volunteering for it made him feel even lower than he’d thought it would.

“If you get tired, wake me up, okay?”

He knew that wouldn’t happen, not the way Hardcastle had been avoiding sleep lately. He felt the guilt drifting a little higher around him.

“Listen,” he finally said, and then he paused, not sure exactly what he wanted to say-an apology maybe, but he wasn’t sure for what.

Afterwards, always apologize afterwards. Works better that way. He got up slowly from the table and picked up his dishes to put them in the sink.

“Don’t bother with these. I’ll get them all tomorrow. Okay?”

Then he headed out the door to the gatehouse.

Trudging up the walk to the gatehouse, McCormick tripped on the step and almost vaulted through the door. Damn, I need some sleep, he thought, but knew there were a couple of things he had to take a look at before he passed out.

The couch was practically screaming at him to lie on it as he made his way up to the loft. The litany of a mental list that never changed and was permanently cemented to his brain made him keep going, even though he was past exhausted. Funny how some things stayed in memory, forever, no matter what. The clothes. Hanging in the back of the closet, like always. Nothing ever went into the pockets, and dry clean wrapping still on them. The shoes, the gloves, the hat, and last but not least, the little leather case that he had, on a few occasions, thought of getting rid of, but never did.

The door was still open, and everything was in its place like always, when he backed up and flopped onto the bed. Reaching over, he adjusted the alarm clock and his hand dropped back to his side. It’s the only way.

Those were the last thoughts he had before he crashed.

The irritating buzzing finally reached through the darkness and McCormick’s hand swatted at the clock till he hit the right button. His sleep had been dreamless and not nearly long enough. Lying on the bed, he was trying to figure out how to get his eyelids to stay up, wishing he had another three or four days to mull it over. He also was thinking that using a toothbrush could be a good thing.

Pondering the thought of actually getting up, he realized that there was light in the room. I never even turned the lights off. Another actuality hit him as he heard the faint sounds of the television. I know I never turned it on last night. Eyes open now, he slowly rose and looked over the railing.

The judge was sitting in front of the TV, shotgun at his side, watching something almost inaudible. Sensing movement from upstairs, he turned his head and looked in the younger man’s direction.

“Finally found the right button?” The question had a definite caustic tone.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes and trying desperately to think of something to say, McCormick turned and started down.

“Um, yeah,” was all he could think of. He was not awake enough to deal with his houseguest. What the hell is he doing here? This is not good.

McCormick missed the last step, and not so gracefully landed on his rear end. Not awake and flustered were bad signs.

Sitting up and staring bleakly over at the judge, the only thing that came out of his mouth were the words, “What are you doing here?”

Still sitting, but watching the kid, he asked, “You okay?”

Rolling his head to get a kink out of his neck, McCormick answered, “Yeah, but the pad under this carpet could be a little thicker.” Getting up, he rubbed his backside and shuffled over to the couch where he sat down a bit too quickly. “Ow.” And he rubbed the afflicted area again.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I said I was, didn’t I?” Although he had reached a low level of grouchy awareness, he had a long way to go.

“What are you doing here? And what time is it?” Mark glanced at the TV; an old John Wayne movie was on. That figures; even at Christmastime, in Hardcastleville, there would be a John Wayne movie.

“I’m on guard duty. That’s what I’m doing here. You set the alarm; you should know what time it is. What are you doing?”

The voice in McCormick’s head that usually helped him out at times like these was yelling, Stall him-you’ve got to wake up. You’re in trouble here, buddy! Then the little voice added the fatal comment, Do you think he knows what you’re doing?  

Disconcerted, but desperately pretending not to be, he answered, “Huh?”

“Wake up, McCormick!” the judge yelled.

The loudness and tone of Hardcastle’s voice was enough to raise Mark’s level of consciousness, but the use of his last name, for the first time in what seemed like years, definitely did it.

“What did you say?” He wanted to make sure.

“Did your butt thump affect your ears? I said, WAKE UP, McCormick!”

His mouth almost upturned for an instant. Now he’s cookin!

The upturn took a downturn when he remembered why he had set the alarm and what he was planning on doing. Hardcastle sitting in his living room was definitely going to be a problem. While the use of his last name seeded new hope that the judge was coming back, it was also certain that the jurist almost always said his name in that tone when he was ticked off or worried about something.

“Um, I was going to check to see if everything was okay around here.” Not an outright lie; he had been planning a quick look around.

“Well, I already did that a couple hours ago, and that’s when I noticed your lights were on.” Hardcastle sat forward in the chair. His eyes seemed to bore a hole right through the younger man. “And while I was on my way over here, I observed one red race car missing from its usual parking space. When I haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights, I’ve looked out my window. I’ve seen it in the same spot every night. Always. It wasn’t tonight. Thought it might have been stolen, so I took a little walk.” The look became more intense. “Found it.” He paused a second for emphasis. “You mind telling me why it’s parked where it is and the direction it’s facing?”

Shit.

Mark leaned back in his chair, contemplating the wood grain in the coffee table. “Well you never know when you might have to make a quick exit or something. Bad guys show up and then they try and get away…” Glancing up, he saw Hardcastle wasn’t buying any of it.

“That the story you’re gonna stick with?”

“Well, yes, I guess until I can come up with a better one.” Rolling his head over to the back of the chair, he began staring at the ceiling.

“Damn, I knew it!” the judge exploded as he rose off the chair. “I thought you didn’t lie to me.” Any trust he had placed in the kid recently was teetering on a very thin line.

“I don’t! Not about the important stuff anyway.”

“And you don’t think what you were going to do tonight is ‘important’?”

Mark didn’t like the inflection on that last word. But before he could say anything, the judge took off again.

“You were gonna sneak out of here tonight and go break into Symnetech.” It wasn’t a question.

Blowing the breath he was holding, McCormick replied. “Yes.”

“You wouldn’t wait until we see what Westerfield and Frank come up with.”

Opening his mouth to reply, Mark was immediately cut off again.

“If they do come up with something, a search warrant is the way to go, and you know it.”

Search warrant would be a good idea, but where the hell would you get one this time of the year on a weekend? And it probably would be too late, anyway.

“I thought you were rehabilitated! Of all the stupid, harebrained, idiotic ideas. Do you have any idea of what could happen to you if you get caught? You’re going to law school, for Chrissakes!” The judge was up and pacing.

If it weren’t for the seriousness of the situation, Mark might have been amused with this little lecture-pure Milton C. Hardcastle, in the flesh. But the reality was that he knew he was in deep right now.

“I’m supposed to trust you. I really was beginning to think it was possible that I could. I’ve been reading the case reports. Do you know how many times you must have done something this stupid since you’ve been here?”

Not really slowing down, he went on, “And how many times have I been dragged into it, too?” Whirling to look at Mark he added bitterly, “How many do I not know about?” He waved his hand. “Don’t even answer that right now!”

Really rolling now, he went on, “It’s two o’clock in the morning on a Friday night on a holiday weekend. Cops are pulling double duty out looking for people having too much fun. Driving around in that billboard you call a car would be very inconspicuous, wouldn’t it? The chances of you being seen are doubled in that thing . . . no, tripled. Did you even think about that?”

Well, no, Mark admitted to himself; he hadn’t thought about it that much.

Running his fingers through his hair and sitting down hard, the judge shook his head. “You can’t continue to break the law while you say you’re trying to uphold it. This is why I can’t believe that I ever got into any of this. I never believed in breaking the law. Never did it before.” He looked hard at the younger man. “You know I was sitting in the den tonight looking at your gift. Thinking how true those words were. I was thinking how much they’ve meant to me over the years. I was thinking how much I must have meant to you, if you really thought it was a gift from the heart. And now this!

“What the hell are you thinking? Don’t you have anything to say?”

Still giving the ceiling a critical view, McCormick sighed. Part of him wanted to blow up too. He wanted to rant and get a few things off his chest. He was tired. Physically tired and mentally exhausted. It had taken everything he had to sit still. But he did.

He lowered his head slowly and looked at the judge. “You done now?”

“For the moment, yes; in the long run, probably not, but go ahead.”

Mark began, “Look, if you think I’ve done a B&E, or anything else illegal, on every single case we’ve ever taken on, fine. That’s not true by a long shot, and under normal circumstances, you’d know that.” Sitting forward now and building a little steam himself, he went on, “But these aren’t normal circumstances, so I guess you don’t have to believe me or anybody else that happens to walk through the door, calls you on the phone, writes you a letter, or does anything to get through that thick skull of yours.

“I have learned a lot about the law and how to do things since I’ve been here. I don’t take law school lightly, either. I’ve worked pretty damn hard at it. I never wanted to let down the one person who used to believe in me, and that’s you.”

He flicked a glance in Hardcastle’s direction, but didn’t leave it there long enough to see the reaction, if there was any. “We’ve done most everything by the book. Okay, occasionally I have shaved the edges off a few corners. But it’s always been for the right reason. And you want to know what? I’ve never been proud of it, either. But it was the only way I knew how.”

He stood and walked over to the window and stared out at the darkness.

“We know that Henry probably has the answer to all of this. But we don’t know where the hell he is. We don’t even know if he’s alive. Grieves is in this and is dirty all the way up to his fake hairline. The answers are in that building, Judge. We need those answers. I’m tired of waiting for them. The fact that the geeks over at Symnetech haven’t put it all together yet is nothing short of lucky. And I’m not feeling so lucky these days.”

Mark turned and looked at the judge. “Do you think that they will just leave Henry’s stuff where it is? With what’s at stake? I sure don’t. The time to move is now, before they do. You don’t have time to wait, either.”

The only sound in the room was the shootout scene in the movie. Neither man dropped his gaze from the other. The seconds ticked by. Finally, Hardcastle broke eye contact. He rose from the chair and headed for the door. He paused when he reached it.

“You know, I’m not feeling so lucky these days either. But what you’re planning on doing is not the way to deal with it. Everybody, including you, says you can be trusted. I’m asking you not to go anywhere tonight. Your heart may be in the right place, but your head sure as hell isn’t. If you can’t honor my request, then before you go out tonight, pack up your stuff and take it with you.”

Mark didn’t know how long he stood at the window after the judge left. The coolness of the windowpane felt good across his forehead. Staring out into the night, he felt like his head was ready to explode. Pro or con, plus or minus, right or wrong, any way he looked at it, everything added up to the same thing.

Hell of a time to give me the final exam, Hardcase.

McCormick awoke with a start; he had dozed off in the chair. His head was pounding, and he wished it was too much tequila, instead of stress and exhaustion, that had caused the headache that was pulverizing his brain.

Starting with two, and adding two more, he swallowed some aspirin and hit the shower.

Deciding that discretion was not the better part of valor that morning, he headed over to start breakfast. He knew it was early but didn’t care. As he crossed the drive, a slow moving, non-descript sedan caught his eye. For McCormick, it was just as flashy as the Coyote, standing out like a beacon. Slowing his steps, he saw the car stop; it seemed to be waiting. He hesitated for a second, then took off toward the gate. If they were friends sent by Frank, he’d be relieved; if they weren’t, at least he’d have more ground to stand on.

The sedan suddenly bolted and sped down the road just as McCormick was nearing the gate-not enough time for a plate number. Damn! Well at least they weren’t shooting at us this time. He spun around and ran to the house.

“Judge! Judge!” He was yelling as he charged into the front entryway.

“McCormick! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The judge was at the study door, shotgun raised. He was awake, but he looked like somebody who had also spent the night upright in a chair.

Out of breath and panting, Mark gasped out, “We’ve had company. I’m pretty sure they knew they weren’t invited.”

“What? Who? When? I didn’t hear anything!” Hardcastle was shouting as he headed for the door, shotgun still in hand.

“Sedan, driving by. Didn’t see them. Took off. Just now,” were the cryptic answers. Mark was totally spent. He wondered if this was one of the first phases of a heart attack.

The judge was out the door-Mark two steps behind him, still breathing hard.

No sedan. Hardcastle turned and looked at him with a glint of suspicion in his eye.  

“Upping the ante?” he asked dryly.

McCormick had gotten his breath partly back. “It was,” he panted, “a gray sedan. Really.”

The judge was still giving him that look. Maybe it was sheer fatigue, but, for a moment, Mark found himself doubting his own memory.

“I suppose it might have been an unmarked squad car,” he said uncertainly. “Gray like that. Nothing fancy.” He sighed. Then his eyes narrowed down a little. “The hell it was, the way it took off outta of here.” He stood his ground for a moment, staring at the older man.

Hardcastle twitched first. It was almost a look of chagrin. “Well, you haven’t called me crazy,” he admitted gruffly, “so I guess the least I can do is return the favor.”

Mark was looking at the judge with an amused expression.

“What?” asked Hardcastle. He looked down at himself. His ancient bathrobe was not tied, and he was standing there in his shorts and tee shirt. Hastily he grabbed the belt on the robe and tied it. “I didn’t have time to get dressed, you know.”

McCormick smiled to himself as he went up the steps and headed for the kitchen. “I really need some coffee.”

Hardcastle decided to follow.

The kitchen was bright with early morning sunshine. The judge sat down at the table while McCormick busied himself with the coffee maker. He turned to the judge and asked, “Extra scoops this morning?” holding out the can.

“Yeah, make it two.”

Two? Oh, he’d had a rough night.

As fascinating as it was to watch coffee brew, Mark knew there was a conversation that needed to be had. He ambled over to the table.

Sitting down and facing the judge, he almost let out a snicker. Even though the judge had managed to straighten his robe, his hair was all over the place and he had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. McCormick would have laughed, but although he had taken a shower and cleaned up, he probably didn’t look any better.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“I didn’t go anywhere last night.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t I going to get the old ‘see, I knew you would see the light of day lecture’?”

“No.”

“The ‘at least for once in your life you’ve listened’?”

“No.”

“Not even ‘so you’re finally getting the hang of right and wrong’?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Looking confused, concerned, and a bit relieved all at the same time, Mark sat back and said, “Okay, um, well then, I guess I’ll get breakfast going.”

“Just a minute.”

Aha! I knew it. Here it comes.

“In some ways, I just may happen to think you’re right.”

“I’m right?” He was taken aback, “Wait a minute, I’m never right.”

“Well, probably not usually, but in this case you are.”

“Right about what?” He wanted to take credit where credit was due.

“The ‘geeks’, as you called them, over at Symnetech. They don’t have all the pieces. Whatever those pieces are and what they’re for is just another part of our problem. Something is missing. And they want it.” The judge rose and went to the window. “Maybe they even need Henry himself, I don’t know. But until we know exactly what, we’d be stupid to go looking.”

McCormick thought, what the hell does he mean, ‘to go looking’? Then it also dawned on him that the judge said ‘our problem’.

“Well.” Hardcastle slapped his hands on the table, “While you get breakfast, I’m going to get cleaned up. Hey, while you’re at it, get the paper will ya? And check for yesterday’s mail, I never picked that up.”

He was out of the room even before Mark could say a word.

Tucking the paper under his arm, McCormick opened the mailbox and pulled out the mail. He had taken a stroll down the driveway, and checked the road and the area around the main gate before returning to the house and pulling the mail from the box. Never hurt to be on the lookout for unexpected company. All was quiet.

Thumbing through the mail there were the usual bills, Nobody gets a Christmas vacation from them, junk mail and a few straggling Christmas cards. Noticeably different was one padded brown envelope addressed to the judge. There was no return address. Studying it and frowning, Mark put it on the top of the pile.

Hardcastle was already back in the kitchen when he came in. Coffee was steaming in cups on the table. The radio was on with the nine o’clock morning news.

“Hey, Judge, look at this.” Mark handed over the envelope.

The judge took it and said, “No return address?” and started to open it.

“Wait!” Mark yelled.

“What?” Hardcastle yelled back.

Looking a little sheepish, McCormick faltered, “Well, maybe we should have Frank look it over. Could be a letter bomb or something.”

“A letter bomb? Your imagination is definitely getting away with you.” And with that, he started to open it. McCormick stepped back and closed his eyes. “Will you stop being ridiculous!”

He thought, At least I’ll have fingers left over if it is.

“What the hell is this?” asked the judge.

Mark opened one eye, cautiously, then the other. Hardcastle was holding the object in his hand.

McCormick reached out and took it. “It’s a computer disk.”

“A computer what?”

“Disk. It’s something that stores information from a computer.” Mark was staring down at a label that read, ‘Second trial data, dose-related side effects.’ “This was Henry’s.” His eyes met Hardcastle’s.

The phone rang. Hardcastle picked it up on the second ring.

“Hello?” he gave McCormick a sharp look. “Yes . . . special delivery? Well, I got something in the mail this morning, too.” He looked up at Mark and mouthed the words ‘Rebecca Henry’. “Uh-huh,” he added, into the receiver, “Why don’t you come on over here and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

He finished saying good-bye and hung up. Mark was leaning on the counter with a look of intensely impatient curiosity on his face.

“Well?”

Hardcastle was holding the floppy up between two fingers. “She says she got one of these disk things, too. Or her father did. It was in his mailbox this morning; she stopped by to check on things.”

To see if he’d turned up. Mark frowned, wondering how he was going to face her this morning with nothing to show from last night. “Then this isn’t Dr. Henry’s,” he said with disappointment.

“Might still be,” Hardcastle looked up, still appearing a little bemused by the thing in his hand. He sighed, and laid it carefully on the counter. “Henry had some sort of an assistant, new one every term, sent over by the university. They’d have a computer at the university, right? Maybe it’s from him. But why’d he send it here? There’s no note in there?”

“The ‘note’ is probably on here.” Mark pointed down to the disk. “We just gotta find a computer. Westerfield might have one, either that or Frank can use one down at the station.” He didn’t notice the judge’s puzzled look. He went on, thinking out loud. “Too bad you got rid of yours.”

“I had one?” Hardcastle sputtered in disbelief.

“Yeah, a couple years ago.” Mark was still speaking distractedly. “It was pretty damn glitchy, though.”

“What the hell was I doing with a computer?”

Mark caught the tone and finally looked up. Hardcastle was now staring at him in frank disbelief.

“Ah . . .” Mark realized, with a sudden jolt of panic, that the story of the stolen files, and the need to transfer them back to hard copy after they’d been recovered, was yet another thing he didn’t want to go into. There’s a lot of those.

He smiled thinly. The pause had become a little strained. The judge was glaring. Well, if you’re gonna lie, you’d better hurry up about it.

“For your files,” he said, thinking it sounded pretty weak. He’d managed to keep it within the bounds of half-truth, though. Hardcastle was still glaring. Mark swallowed once and plunged ahead, “A guy had stolen them.”

“All of them?” Hardcastle looked doubtful. “There’s a lot of file cabinets down there. Where the hell was I?”

“You’d gone to Hawaii, a judge’s convention.”

“And you?”

McCormick winced. “Here, looking after things.”

The judge’s ‘harrumph’ said it all.

Ms. Henry showed up a little after nine, looking pale and unrested, but slightly hopeful. Mark greeted her at the door. Her eyebrows went up and she whispered a quick, “Did you-?” before he cut her off with a small shake of the head.

Hardcastle was behind him, standing in the doorway of the den.

She dug in her purse, seeming a little flustered, and pulled out a padded envelope, similar to the one that had arrived at Gull’s Way.

“No return address on this one, either,” Mark said as he took it from her and glanced down at it briefly before passing it to the judge.

“Same handwriting on the envelope. Same postmark, December 23rd.” Hardcastle pulled the disk out, “Same title. No note?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I think it must have been something my father was expecting, and probably the intern was in a hurry. He might have just wanted to finish up and get it in the mail before the holiday. Dad must’ve asked him to make a copy for you.”

Hardcastle nodded, casting a look at Mark that seemed to say, ‘See, we’re making progress.’

“Okay, I’ll call Westerfield.” Mark took the disk back. “See if I can run them over to him today. Maybe he’s made some headway on the other stuff.” He was avoiding Rebecca Henry’s eyes. But he did fix the judge with a look. But not enough progress. You spend the morning with her.

Then he ducked past them both and out the door.

Rebecca had watched him leave, with a troubled look on her face. The judge took her elbow gently and steered her into the den. He got her seated and then took his own place, wearily.

“You knew what he was planning?” he asked, without any preliminary niceties.

“I . . .” Rebecca looked startled. “Oh, he didn’t want me to mention it around you.” She cast a quick look toward the door.

Hardcastle sighed and shook his head. She’d manage to find something even more damning to say than a simple ‘yes’. The kid wasn’t too good at picking accessories-before-the-fact.

“Okay,” he sighed again, “you can tell him I gave you the third degree.” He slumped forward a little. “What if he’d been caught? He’s a two-time loser. If they’d found him in there; they would’ve thrown the book at him.” Another slow shake of the head. “God, what were you two thinking?”

“I was thinking of my father,” Rebecca Henry’s eyes had grown a little darker; she was leaning forward, too. “And he was thinking of you.” She was holding her ground, now. “If there’s something over there that will help find my father, and help you get your memory back-”

“I’m not saying we’re giving up. I’m just saying we try to do it legal . . . and Mark winding up in the hoosegow isn’t going to help your father or me.” Hardcastle frowned. “Did you ask him to do it?”

Ms. Henry sat back, a little primly. She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. But I sure as heck didn’t say ‘no’ when he offered.” She paused a moment. “And it seemed like he knew what he was doing.”

“I’ll bet,” Hardcastle said dryly. “Lots of practice.”

“You said he’s been arrested before?” she asked quietly.

“Arrested, convicted, and imprisoned,” the judge replied flatly.

Rebecca had a look of concentration on her face. She didn’t appear to be shocked or dismayed. She finally raised her eyes and said, “So that’s what he meant.”

“What?”

“Yesterday, when we were out looking at the beach. You were in here with Lieutenant Harper.” She bit her lip lightly. “He said you two were discussing his shortcomings.”

This got a short, explosive laugh from the judge. Ms. Henry looked startled.

“Damn,” Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “He doesn’t just know where the extension cords are, does he?”

And Rebecca Henry gave him a puzzled look.

Mark took the two disks and their envelopes back to the gatehouse, glad enough to get away from both Rebecca and the judge. He checked his watch-nine-thirty; it seemed too early to bother Westerfield on a Saturday at home, but it was different with Frank.

Mark ran the odds and dialed the office number first. He was rewarded with the sound of Harper’s perpetually world-weary greeting.

“Hi, Frank,” McCormick replied, trying to keep the anxious fatigue out of his own tone.

“I was about to call you,” the lieutenant replied.

“What’s up?” Mark sat forward a little; the eagerness was back in his voice. “You got something?”

“Well, yeah. What’s your blood type?”

“Huh?” Mark frowned; then he said, “A-positive.” It was the quick response of someone who had been informed of the fact on more than one occasion.

“Well, now that’s kinda interesting.”

“Frank?” Mark was not in the mood for laconic mystery.

“The lab guys just sent over a preliminary report on Milt’s truck. No evidence of sabotage, by the way-”

“Yeah, but what’s with the blood?” Mark interrupted impatiently.

“Got a couple of traces from the driver’s side of the windshield; they’re A- positive.”  

“That’s his,” Mark said with calm certainty. He’d been on the donor list for the judge two years ago.

“And then there’s some other traces, very small amounts, over on the passenger side, on the dash. Nothing major. They’re O-negative.”

“Rebecca’s here. Maybe she’ll know her dad’s type. She’s up at the main house.”

“And you’re not?” Frank asked, curiously.

“I’m . . . taking a break.” Mark reached up and rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Listen, Frank,” he changed gears deftly, “did you send anyone over here, an unmarked sedan, this morning?”

“No, nobody. Why? You had some more trouble?”

“It was,” Mark closed his eyes and rubbed his temple a little harder, sorting out the details, “a Grand Prix, two doors, gray. Probably an ’85. I didn’t get the plate.”

“No shots fired?” Frank said, with some concern.

“Not this time,” Mark said, “but I was still pretty sure he wasn’t one of your guys. He took off kinda fast.”

“And no numbers?” Harper sighed plaintively. “Not even a couple?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“And you didn’t call me right away on this? How long’s it been?”

“’Bout an hour,” Mark muttered. “Listen, something else came up, right after. We got a delivery, a little package.”

“And you opened it?” Frank asked, asperity tingeing the question.

Mark sighed again. “Listen, Frank, have you ever tried to keep him from doing whatever he damn well pleases?”

Silence from the other end.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Mark said wearily. “So, turns out it’s a computer disk. Rebecca got one out of her father’s mailbox, as well. We don’t have any way of looking at them here. I was going to call Westerfield next, see if he’s got a computer. If he doesn’t, I may need to bring them down to you.”

“It’s evidence,” Frank interjected. “Of course you need to bring it to me.”

“Evidence of what?” Mark shot back. “I thought nobody was even sure a crime was being committed. Nobody can get a damn search warrant, at any rate.” The temple rubbing didn’t seem to be helping any. Mark took a deep breath. “Anyway, it’s probably notes that Henry’s assistant was typing up for him. We don’t even know who the guy is. He’s not from Symnetech.

“And . . . and I need to get those disks to someone who might understand what’s on them. That’s more important than the damn case right now. Can’t either of you understand that?” It was only when he’d finished speaking that Mark realized how loud he had gotten.

There was a pause from Frank’s end, then a cautious, “You okay over there?”

“Yeah,” Mark muttered. “We’re fine. Just . . . tired, that’s all.”

“Well, I think with everything that’s been happening, I can justify putting a squad car over by you guys for a couple of nights. Maybe that way you can get some rest.”

“Ah,” Mark said abruptly, “no, Frank, we really don’t need that.”

“Why not?” Frank asked suspiciously.

“We’re fine. Really.” Mark tried to project an air of quiet reassurance, rather that sounding like a guy who might still be considering going over the wall, and wanted as few witnesses as possible. “If you want to do something, rustle up a subpoena for the University, the head of whichever department was giving out loaner grad students to the Institute. Henry had one; I’d like to know his name.”

“I’ll look into it,” Harper said, the suspicion not entirely gone from his voice.

“Thanks, Frank,” Mark tried not to sound relieved to be at the end of the conversation. “I’ll get back to you about the blood type.”

They said their good-byes and Mark hung up, leaning back against the sofa and staring at the ceiling. The call to Westerfield was next on the agenda, and he sure as hell wanted to be a little more composed for that one.

After a few moments he sat up and dialed again. He got Westerfield’s answering machine, but as he started to speak, the man himself broke in.

“Sorry, Mark. I leave it on when I’m working.” The psychiatrist sounded tired, too, but not impatient. “I hope you’re not expecting any miracles of elucidation yet.” Then there was a brief pause. “Or is this about something else?”

That last question sounded more than merely professional. Mark could see why Neely had recommended this guy. McCormick thought the part of him that kept it all under control was feeling a little beat down right now, and answering a simple ‘yes’ to Westerfield’s question was a real temptation.

Someone to talk to.

That used to be Hardcastle.

Used to be.

Mark pulled himself together. Composed. “Yeah, Doc, there’s something else. More information, I hope. We’ve got some computer disks we think might be helpful. You got a way of reading them?”

“Depends. I have a Commodore here-just using it as a glorified typewriter. We’ll have to see what kind of files are on the disk. Can you bring it over?”

“Yes, right away if you want.” Mark liked this guy more and more, though that same beat-down part of him was pretty sure it would be dangerous for him to spend too much time around the man, especially right now. “I can drop it off in about a half-hour.”

“Okay,” Westerfield sounded a little distracted, like he was already back at his reading. Mark said good-bye quickly, wanting him to get on with it.

He leaned back again, then he lifted his head suddenly, as he realized his eyes had been drifting shut. Dammit. He got up, stretched, picked up the two disks, and headed back to the house.

Hardcastle heard the two perfunctory taps on the front door just before it opened, and somehow he found it more irritating than no knock at all. He pushes the limits. A sharp, worried look from Ms. Henry made him aware that he was scowling. But he didn’t have time to rearrange his face before Mark was in the doorway to the room.

He must’ve caught the look of displeasure, too. He took a half step back and glanced aside at Rebecca, as if that might explain things. Hardcastle caught the little half-shrug she gave him.

The kid cleared his throat. “Talked to Frank; the sedan wasn’t one of his guys. Talked to Westerfield, no big insights yet, but he’s waiting for these.” Mark held up the disks. “I thought I’d run them over to him.” He hesitated, and then, “If that’s okay?”

Hardcastle nodded once. He’d managed to ditch the scowl. He didn’t know where it had come from anyway, but the effect had been fairly impressive. He thought maybe he’d caught a whiff of evasion in the quick way Mark had flitted over his conversation with Frank. Now you’re just getting paranoid.

“Okay, be careful,” Hardcastle added perfunctorily.

Mark was smiling now, though it looked like there was a little edge to it. “Aw, come on, Judge. I’m the one who thinks it’s dangerous to hang around psychiatrists.”

“No, the sedan, you idiot,” Hardcastle said gruffly. “You spot it again, you find a phone and call Frank, okay?” The judge frowned. “I’m surprised he didn’t want to send a black and white over here when you told him about that, just to raise the profile a little.”

Mark didn’t say anything to this. His gaze had dropped a little lower.

“He offered, huh?” There was no immediate response from the younger man. Hardcastle’s scowl was back. “Kinda hard to plan any midnight excursions when the cops are parked outside your doorstep, huh?”

Mark let out a long breath. “Look, Hardcase, I didn’t go anywhere last night, but I swear, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have, if I’m going to get in just as much trouble for thinking about it.”

There was a certain undeniable truth to that, Hardcastle had to admit, and he dismissed the kid with a fairly innocuous ‘harrumph’ and a shooing motion.

“Oh,” Mark looked over at Ms. Henry again as he turned to leave, “what’s your father’s blood-type?”

Rebecca froze where she sat and her face went two shades paler. Mark fumbled in the realization of what he’d said, how it might be taken, “The evidence techs . . .” He wasn’t helping matters much.

He must be even tireder than he looks, Hardcastle grimaced.

“They found a very tiny amount of blood, the passenger side, his truck,” Mark gestured at the judge with his thumb. “Specks,” he added, better late than never.

Rebecca Henry was breathing again. “He’s a universal donor,” she exhaled. “O- negative.”

“Bingo,” Mark said intently. “Then I think we know where he was that Monday night.”

McCormick had heaved a sigh of relief as he finally made it back out to the front porch, but he couldn’t fully relax, even once he’d gotten behind the wheel of the Coyote. He was half of a mind to ask Frank to send the squad car over tonight-at least Harper had believed the story about the sighting of the sedan-but he still wanted to leave his options open. Hell, Hardcase might put the call in to the lieutenant, anyway, just to spite him. It had gotten that bad.

You could leave.

Mark shook his head, a combination of denial and exhaustion. He pulled into the drive of the address Westerfield had given him. He sat for a moment, eyes briefly closed. Composed. Then he hiked himself out of the Coyote, disks in hand, earnest smile plastered on his face.

Hardcastle excused himself from the room and was in the kitchen almost before he heard the Coyote pull out. He got Frank on the first ring.

“You guys aren’t exchanging information anymore?” was Frank’s terse reply to the judge’s greeting.

“I just got done talking to him,” Hardcastle replied gruffly. “He told you what happened this morning?”

“Yeah, the ’85 Grand Prix in front of your place-jeez, I like a witness who knows his makes and models,” Frank added, appreciatively. “But I reamed him out about the delay. How do you guys expect me to do anything when you don’t keep me in the loop?”

“Well,” the judge swallowed once, guiltily, “that mighta been my fault.” Hardcastle frowned. “I sorta blew him off on that one.”

There was a moment’s silence from the other end. Then Frank spoke, sounding a little puzzled, “Milt, I gotta tell you, when it comes to ID’ing cars, it’s hard to beat Mark. What the hell made you think he’d screw up something like that?”

“Ah . . . thought he might be exaggerating a little, on account of . . .” the judge paused, wondering why this was all coming a little hard.

“He tried to make another move on Symnetech HQ last night, huh?” Frank finished for him, sounding not at all surprised. “You thought maybe he was trying to justify it?” The lieutenant merely sighed wearily. “Listen, you tell him as soon as we’ve got probable cause, I’ll get us a warrant.” There wasn’t any shock or anger in Frank’s voice. He didn’t sound like he was talking about accommodating a would-be burglar.

“Frank-”

“And you tell him if he does stumble across anything interesting in the meantime, would he please wipe his fingerprints off it before he puts it in a plain envelope and slips it under my door?”

“Frank, this isn’t funny.”

“It never is. Scares the living daylights out of me every time I hear he’s done it. I think that’s why you usually don’t tell me . . . Come to think of it, that’s probably why he doesn’t tell you.”

Hardcastle spent a long, silent moment considering this. He finally said, “Listen, Frank, what did he say when you offered to send a car over here?”

“Oh,” Frank chuckled, “he told you about that, huh?”

“Not entirely.”

“Yeah, well that’s how I figured he’d already made a run at it, because he got a little coy when I offered some surveillance. Whadya do, threaten to yank his allowance when you caught him trying to sneak out?”

“No,” Hardcastle replied quietly, “I told him if he left, he shouldn’t plan on coming back.”

Dead silence from the other end. Then, after a moment, Frank said, just as quietly, “I think I should send that car over. It shouldn’t come down to that.”

“No,” the judge said with grim seriousness, “he’ll decide for himself. He’s not on parole anymore.”

Westerfield opened the door shortly after the first ring, as if he’d been waiting. He ushered Mark into a well-appointed and quiet home-practical, but not stark; McCormick was vaguely reminded of Dr. Henry’s apartment, writ large.

“In here.” He took the disks from Mark and led him back to another room, this one a little more cluttered, a working office. The doctor’s ‘glorified typewriter’ took up most of a side table, with an office chair pulled up to it, and a stack of manuals alongside.

Henry’s notebooks were scattered and open on the main desk. There was a yellow pad, densely covered with jotting that looked to be Westerfield’s own. Mark eyed it hopefully.

Westerfield caught the look. “More guesses than certainties. It’s starting to shape up a bit, though.” Then the doctor frowned. He was studying his guest more closely. “You look like shit,” he concluded, making that, at least, sound like a certainty.

Mark smiled. “Now there’s a medical phrase you don’t hear very often.”

“Well, it’s Saturday.” Westerfield’s own smile was rueful. “I’m just a fellow human-being . . . and you do.”

McCormick felt tired enough to believe it was true.

Westerfield pointed him to a chair and said, “Lemme have a crack at this.” He fed one of the disks into the slot and sat down, flexing his fingers back like a pianist as the machine whirred and clicked. “Mind you, the damn thing’s glitchy as hell. Half the time I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”

Westerfield bent over the keyboard and tapped out a command. “I think someday these machines may be useful,” he muttered, and then he looked over his shoulder. “We’ve got a few minutes while it loads; if you feel like you need a psychiatrist.”

Mark’s laugh was short and harsh. “God, Doc, that’s blunt.” He wiped his eyes. “If I did, it’d be you.”

“Well,” Westerfield was gazing at him steadily, “don’t be so sure you don’t.” He paused, and then asked, “What happened since yesterday?”

This time there was no smile. “Things got a little tense again,” Mark said with a vague gesture. “A difference of opinion on how to approach the investigation.”

“And he said-?”

“‘My way or the highway,’” McCormick answered bitterly.

“And you?”
     “Well, it’s his way for now,” Mark exhaled, “but I think it might come to the other.” He was staring at the pile of papers on the desk. “He’s wrong, though,” he muttered, saying nothing more for a minute. Westerfield didn’t fill in the space with banalities, for which he was grateful. Then McCormick straightened up a little and lifted his chin, catching the man’s gaze full on. “You know, Doc, it’s only the people you let get close to you, who can really hurt you.”

“You believe that?” Westerfield asked.

Mark nodded once, slowly. “Yeah, guess I always have . . . It’s just that I’d forgotten.”

Hardcastle drifted back toward the den. Rebecca Henry was still sitting as he’d left her, her gaze pensive and unfocused. He cleared his throat in the doorway. She glanced up at him momentarily and gave him a brief, tight smile.

“You settled things?” she asked quietly. “Or is he still in trouble?”

“Not yet,” he replied cryptically.

“I can leave, if you want,” Ms. Henry said, a little coolly.

The judge shrugged. “Might want to stay. They might find something on those ‘disks’. We might be asking Frank for a search warrant.”

“‘Might.’ ‘Might.’” she dropped her voice a tone lower, and gritted her teeth in apparent frustration. “You might get your warrant. My father might still be alive.” She looked at him angrily. “Don’t you even care? He came to you.”

Hardcastle blinked once, taken aback. “I do care. I always did.” He frowned. “I still do.” He hesitated again. “God, though it seems like everything I cared about is gone . . . All that’s left is the damn thorns.”

“There we go.”

Westerfield’s sudden words jarred McCormick from a near doze.

“Got something?” he edged forward in his seat. The computer screen was showing some text now, a list, white on black.

“Files,” Westerfield said with some satisfaction. “Lots of them. Looks like we’re in luck. This is WordStar. I have that one. Ahh, here.” He tapped a couple of keys. The screen changed. “Got a note here.” Westerfield leaned forward and read it out loud, “‘Dr. Henry, Here’s the data, transcribed, from the last two runs. I put the scatter plots in appendix A. Got a couple outliers there, might need to recheck the source data. Sent a second copy to that PCH address, as requested. I’ll be back after the first-have a nice holiday. E. Botts’.” Westerfield looked over his shoulder. “The second disk is a copy, then.”

“Yeah,” Mark replied,” that’s what we thought. So, what’s on them?” he added impatiently, gesturing Westerfield back to the screen.

The older man smiled. “Did you hear the part where I said, ‘lots of files’? This may take a while.”

Mark frowned. “Can’t you tell me anything so far?”

Westerfield gave him a sympathetic look, and rolled his chair back from the side desk, turning toward his main base of operations. “Okay, you promise not to hold me to any of this?”

Mark nodded, leaning forward again.

The doctor picked the yellow pad off the desk, scanning it quickly. Then he propped it on one knee as he turned back to the younger man.

“It’s some sort of glycoprotein, Henry is calling it a ‘mnemotroph’ and it may work to enhance long term potentiation in hippocampal substructures related to memory formation.”

Westerfield stopped short. McCormick was staring blankly.

“Did you understand any of what I just said?” he asked mildly.

“Um, yeah,” Mark replied, “the first part-‘It’s some sort of’,” he quoted dryly.

Westerfield laughed.

“Well, I’m a little short on sleep lately,” McCormick protested.

“Okay,” the older man leaned back a little and exhaled, starting again more slowly. “’Mnemotroph’ just means something that supports memory. The hippocampus is the part of the brain we think deals with making memories, and a glycoprotein, well . . . it’s a glycoprotein.” He sighed.

“So, you’re saying Henry had found a chemical that would improve people’s memory?” Mark issued a long low whistle. “He’d really found it? My God, how valuable would that be?” He shook his head slowly and muttered to himself, “Worth even more than an antidepressant, I’ll bet.”

Westerfield frowned for a moment. “Hell, yes. Thousands of applications. And the thing is,” he added thoughtfully, “once it was out there, no one could afford to be without it. It’d be like anabolic steroids for the brain.”

“Doc,” Mark looked over at the notebooks with a new respect, “I think this might be valuable enough to kill for.”

“Well,” Westerfield shrugged, “not exactly. That was just notebook numbers one through three. After that, things got a little sticky.” The doctor consulted his pad again. “This’d be about six months ago; Dr. Henry seemed to be working under some kind of time constraints here-”

“I’ll bet.”

Westerfield nodded. “Anyway, there were worms in the apple-the stuff doesn’t work unless you can get it to the right place; the hippocampus is a deep-brain structure, and there’s something called the ‘blood-brain barrier’, it’s a natural boundary between the blood stream and brain tissue, keeps some of the crud out, though not caffeine, thank God.”

“So, it didn’t work?” Mark looked puzzled

“Well, it did when he put holes in the rats’ skulls and threaded a little catheter in. Stuff had a short half-life, though, required a constant infusion. And it was a little hard on the rats-infections, bleeding, that sort of thing.”

Mark made a face. “Not a good alternative to just pulling an all-nighter right before the exam.” Then he went back to frowning. “So, what the hell is all the fuss about?”

“Ah, well, science marches forward,” Westerfield smiled grimly. “In phase two of his research- that’s notebooks four, five and six-Dr. Henry was looking for a carrier molecule, one that would allow the mnemotroph to get into the brain, better yet, one that would help it bind to the hippocampus.”

“Did he find it?”

“I think so. At least he thought so. There’s a certain amount of cautious rejoicing near the end of notebook six.” Westerfield paused. “Then something happened.”

“What?”

Westerfield exhaled. “One of the Institute’s lab technicians died suddenly. A guy named Bill Hardwick. Not clear exactly what happened. He was helping Henry with the rat studies.”

“He died in the lab?”

“No, I don’t think so. But he died suddenly; that was a couple of months ago. After that, there’s a break in the notes, a few weeks. Then Henry started up again, very brief, very pressured. He didn’t sound happy.”

“And that’s it? “Mark asked plaintively. “Did he have something, or didn’t he?”

“Maybe the disks will add something,” Westerfield looked up from his pad. “But I’ll need a little time.”

Mark nodded slowly. Then his chin sunk down.

The older man gave him a concerned look. “Want some coffee?”

“No, I’d . . . I’d better let you get on with it. I’ve got another stop to make.” Mark looked up, fixing the man with a steady look, as if to elicit a promise. “You’ll call me, as soon as you have anything more?”

Westerfield gave him a small smile. “Where can I reach you?”

Mark smiled back, equally thinly. “At the estate . . . for now at least.”

Mark drove down to the station without calling first, fairly certain that Frank would be there, but also deciding that he wouldn’t be too upset if he were only able to leave a message. Frank was there, and the look he gave Mark, as the younger man slouched in, convinced Mark that he really must look as bad as Westerfield had said.

“The blood type’s a match,” he announced without so much as a ‘hello’.

“Figures,” Frank responded, dropping his eyes back to the papers before him on his desk. “I had a little chat with the truck driver Milt ran into that night. Still seems like a straight-up guy to me. It was one of those big delivery vans, barely had a scratch on it, he says. Anyway, turns out he tried to take some evasive maneuvers, when he figured out Milt’s truck wasn’t going to stop. He wound up with the cab of his truck up on the sidewalk, between a light pole and a building. He couldn’t get out in that position, and he couldn’t back up without maybe doing more damage to Milt’s vehicle, so he sat it out until the police got there.”

Frank fiddled with a pen that was lying in front of him. Then he looked up again at Mark, half an apology in his expression.

“He says there were some ‘good Samaritans’ back by Milt’s truck; he didn’t get a real good look at them. They were crowded around the passenger side. Maybe three, four guys. He didn’t see them anymore after the cops finally got him out of his vehicle. Sorry,” he added ruefully, “none of that was in the original accident report.”

“It’s good news though . . . I think,” Mark added. Then, at the rise in Frank’s eyebrows, he explained, “They wouldn’t have bothered taking Henry, if he’d been dead. That’s what I’ll tell his daughter, at any rate.” Then he looked up at Frank again, “Oh, and there’s something else. A guy, a lab technician from Symnetech died a couple of months ago; his name was Hardwick, William. Don’t know why. He was helping Henry.”

Frank nodded and jotted a note on a pad in front of him. “I’ll look into that.” Then he put the pen down, sat back and fixed Mark with a steady look “Listen-” His tone had changed.

“I’m not really much in the mood to do that, Frank,” Mark cut him off.

Frank was still studying him; his eyes were unwavering. Mark finally dropped his own gaze. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s not your fault. Just tired, that’s all.”

Frank nodded again, then he cleared his throat. “I just thought I should warn you, this might not be a good time to cross him.”

“Hah,” Mark snorted out a brief, harsh laugh. “Think so?” He shook his head slowly. “Tell me, has there ever been a good time to cross him? “

This got a half-smile from the older man. “Well,” he said, “I’ve never noticed you going out of your way to avoid it before.”

There was no smile from McCormick. He felt himself poised on the edge of words that couldn’t be taken back. “Maybe you just haven’t been paying attention, Frank. On all the important stuff, everything that mattered, I changed.” He shook his head wearily. “The trick was giving in before he asked.”

Mark got up slowly from his seat. Frank was still sitting there, not much to be read in that impassive face. Another moment had passed before the older man finally spoke.

“Are you regretting it?”

McCormick stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and cocked his head at the lieutenant. “I hadn’t; he always made it worthwhile.” And it was evident, from something in the way he said it, that he wasn’t talking about having a place to stay, or his tuition paid. “But,” he hesitated again, then plunged ahead, “I’d like to think if he was ever wrong, I would have the sense to stand up for myself, to do what had to be done.”

“Maybe he’s right this time, too, Mark,” Harper replied earnestly.

“Get the damn search warrant, Frank,” Mark replied tersely as he turned and left, with no more farewell than there had been a greeting.

He’d driven further up the PCH than he usually did to merely think about something. Flight to avoid . . . an argument? He’d found himself sitting on the hood of the Coyote, staring off at the Pacific, long enough that a passing County cop car slowed, its occupant apparently giving him the once over and deciding that his vehicle qualified him a non-loiterer.

In the end, all he’d gotten was cold and more tired and, to his disgust, hungry.

The black and white was half pulled-in to the drive. Its occupant was a vaguely familiar guy, young, maybe mid-twenties. McCormick couldn’t remember his name but he thought he must’ve run into him, maybe at the station. It was obvious he was neither coming nor going.

McCormick swallowed his aggravation. Don’t shoot the messenger. He nudged the Coyote in, driver’s side to driver’s side, and leaned over a little.

“You eaten?”

A quick shake of the cop’s head; he was bored but trying not to look it.

“Well, I got a pizza,” Mark lifted the box from the seat next to him. “Onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni. Want some?” This got him a slightly more interested look. Mark passed the box over the gap between them, half opened so he could help himself. “How’d you get stuck with this?” he made a vague gesture toward the estate with his free hand.

“I lost the toss,” the officer said with chagrin.

“Yeah, it happens,” McCormick shrugged as he took the box back. “Better luck next time.”

He eased the Coyote up the drive, parking it in full view of the main house and climbing out slowly. Rebecca Henry’s car was gone. He sighed as he picked up the box and walked up to the porch.

He knocked and heard Hardcastle in the hallway almost at once. He waited until the door was opened.

“I was getting a little tired of turkey.” He brushed past the judge, bearing his burden to the kitchen. “It’s your favorite,” he said, over his shoulder, and then frowned. “Or maybe not. Maybe you’re still a cheese-and-sausage guy.”

“Onions, mushrooms, green pepper and pepperoni,” Hardcastle said quietly.

“Well, good,” McCormick said a little dryly, “some things never change.” He put the box on the table and opened it. Hardcastle looked down, then cocked his eyebrow up, puzzled.

“A couple pieces for the guy out front.” McCormick hooked his thumb back in that direction. “I figured he’s stuck here till shift change.” The he shook his head, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “You didn’t have to. I stayed put last night.” He sat down heavily.

Hardcastle went to the cupboard and got down the plates. He’d turned back to the table before and sat down across from the other man, passing him his plate. He finally spoke.

“I told Frank ‘no’. Must’ve been his idea.”

McCormick frowned for a moment, then he said, “You trusted me?”

“No,” the judge said flatly. “But I figured it was your decision.”

Mark opened and shut his mouth on that one. Hardcastle nudged the box toward him and he took a piece.

“Anyway,” the judge went on, slowly, “I was starting to think you’d already made up your mind.” He glanced up at the clock.

Mark shrugged, though there was nothing casual about it. “I had some stuff to think about.” He stared down at his plate. Then he lifted his chin abruptly. “I won’t just cut out. I’ll let you know.” His eyes turned toward the kitchen window, the falling twilight outside.

“I sorta figured that, too,” Hardcastle replied.

“Well, then, good,” McCormick answered; he could hear the fleeting bitterness in his own voice. “At least you’ve learned something about me.”

CONCLUSION

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