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

Feedback is welcome and appreciated at: gullswaycollective@yahoo.com

Authors’ Notes:  

For my part, the only thing to say is, “Thanks.” Thanks to Judy for giving us this framework to explore, and for the opportunity to try something new; it was loads of fun. And thanks to L.M. Lewis for being an amazing writing partner. She is witty, insightful, and-perhaps most important-patient. I’d be honored to do it again. --- Cheri  

As for me, this was a whole bunch of fun. Thank you for the opening pitch, Judy, it was a doozy. And thank you Cheri-oh, the midnight emails, the attention to detail: the weather in Ojai in March, the inner workings of a wood chipper, and for finding Frank’s car. Never was there a better co-author and beta. Do another?-anytime my dear. ---L.M. Lewis

Well, without Cheri and L.M., this story would have been dead in the water. It was great fun to watch them work and I learned a lot about teamwork, writing faster than the speed of light, research and, of course, punctuation! I also made two new friends and I’m grateful for that. It’s been fun. Speaking of another, I have this idea… Judy

The day was warm and sunny for that time of year in California. The beginning of March could be notoriously cool and rainy. A car came though the gate and the sun glinted off the windshield.

The judge, bent over and humming an old jazz tune, lifted his head when he heard the car pull up behind him. He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it over his shoulder, mindful of getting any dirt or grease on his mint condition Corvette. Seeing who it was caused him to turn back to the engine of the car and begin working again.

“Hey, Frank,” he muttered as he reached for a wrench.

“Hi, Milt,” the other man replied with an amused lilt to his voice, “don’t tell me you still won’t let Mark work on this thing?”

“Nope,” the judge said. “He may know his way around that souped up tomato of his, but this needs the attention of someone who really knows what they’re doing.”  

Just as he finished speaking a figure came puffing around the garage pushing a silent lawn mower.  

“Look, Hardcastle! I realize that I have to work from sunup until sundown here on the plantation, but I’m not going to cut forty acres of grass by hand!” McCormick was sweaty, flushed, and more than a little aggravated. “The mower quit again over on the south lawn!”

“I told you to have it fixed from the last time, McCormick!” the judge fumed over at him.

“I did!” exclaimed Mark. “I even drove halfway to Mexico for the parts once the guy at the shop stopped laughing at me and told me where I could find them. Nobody around here even carries them anymore. I’m telling you, Hardcase, we need a new mower!”

“No, we do not need a new lawnmower- - you’re supposed to be the engine expert here, maybe you could just hot-wire it and get it started.”

Irritation flared in the younger man’s eyes and he started to fire back but was interrupted by Frank Harper’s shouting.

“Gentlemen, please!”

The two combatants were momentarily averted from starting WW III right there in the yard. They stopped and stared at the detective, who had his hands in the air.

“You know, I drive all the way out here enjoying the quiet and the view, relaxing just a bit until I pull in this drive and start to tense up all over again,” the detective said patiently, for he was all too familiar with the temperaments of the two who lived there. “Look, everybody’s been working hard. Why don’t we all just go sit for awhile and have something to drink?”

“Hummph,” snorted the judge, still glaring at Mark. “McCormick, as you seem to be done for the day, why don’t you get some? C’mon Frank.” He turned and started for the house.

Harper looked to the sky, shaking his head. He had seen Hardcastle and McCormick’s initial mistrust and awkwardness grow into a true and remarkable friendship during the last couple years. But he didn’t understand how they lived together without killing each other.  

Mark walked into the study a short while later carrying a small tray with three beers. Balanced also on the tray were a bag of chips and a couple of packages of cookies. He set it on the coffee table, grabbed one of the beers and some of the cookies. Smiling, he plopped himself down on the couch.

Frank took a long sip and sighed. “Now, isn’t this nice.”

“Sure is,” said Mark, earning him a grunt from the judge.

“What brings you out here today anyway, Frank?” McCormick asked, cocking an eyebrow. “It’s not poker night, or are you just checking to see if the Lone Ranger here has anybody locked up in the pool house again?”

“Don’t tell me, hot shot over there got a speeding ticket I should know about and don’t yet?” the judge retorted.

Over on the couch, Mark rolled his eyes.

“Well it was nice while it lasted...” mumbled Frank.

The detective put his beer on the table looked at Hardcastle and said, “Samuel Tilton.” At the name the judge pursed his lips. Frank continued, “With his retrial starting Monday and you needing to testify again, the D.A. wants to see you tomorrow morning.”

“Who’s Samuel Tilton?” Mark asked, looking at Frank as he reached for more cookies and popped one in his mouth. “And why didn’t you tell me about the trial?” He glanced at Hardcastle, confusion written all over his face.

“He’s a Wall Street wizard- -” Frank started.

“Wall Street Wizard-HAH!” exclaimed Hardcastle.

“-who was arrested for murder four years ago,” continued the detective. “AND, who’s case got thrown out when he wasn’t properly handled by a rookie cop when he was arrested.” Frank reached for the bag of chips. “We suspect his involvement in two other murders but got nothing to go on.” Glancing over at the judge, “You didn’t tell him?” indicating McCormick with a nod.

“A snake, that’s what he is!” spouted Hardcastle. Shaking his head at Frank’s question, “I didn’t get around to it,” he said evasively. “Can’t believe that with all we had on him, that case was thrown out!” He gave McCormick a nauseated look and said, “Beer and cookies?”

“Why’s he going back to court?” asked Mark to Frank through another mouthful of what he was eating. “And why didn’t you tell me about the trial?” he repeated, ignoring the look he was getting.

“His former driver said something smart to the cops while he was being questioned about something else. Seems Tilton had threatened the cop who arrested him and the cop lied on the stand. Now that that’s all finally straightened out, he’s back in court. And he’s not real happy about it either,” Frank finished with a pointed look at the judge. He paused before continuing, “Then there’s the missing evidence in the form of the statements you and Doug Riley gave, so the D.A. wants you to go over everything again before the trial,” he added quickly, averting his eyes from Hardcastle.

“Missing evidence?” Hardcastle frowned. “Who had it?”

“Yeah,” Frank said disgustedly, “the statements, some of the crime scene photos, and the financial information. Some of it was in our hands and some of it at the D.A.’s. Nobody knows what happened or how long any of it’s been gone. I do know I’m going to get to the bottom of that!”

The judge leveled his gaze at the detective and said, “Evidence just doesn’t disappear, Frank.”

“I know, Milt, an inside job, but we haven’t figured it out yet.”

Reaching for more cookies on the table, McCormick feigned shock and lifted both his eyebrows until they disappeared under his unruly hair. “What? Crooked cops? Here in LA?” He went on, “Who’s Riley? And WHY didn’t you tell me about the trial?” impatiently again to the judge

“Enough already, McCormick! Don’t talk with your mouth full!” said the judge with a glare. “I didn’t tell you about the trial ‘cause it’s not a big deal.”

“No big deal, huh? Hmmm, murder? Missing evidence, threats, crooked cops? Sure sounds like it’s a big deal to me, Judge,” replied Mark. He was angry and even a little hurt that the judge had kept this from him. He didn’t understand why. Hardcastle had, over the last year or so, dragged him into all sorts of situations with his own personal ‘need to know’ policy, but if this was no big deal, what was going on?

“I’m just going in to testify, for crying out loud! Probably won’t even take a day to do it.”

“Which is another thing I wanted to talk to you about, Milt,” said Frank, knowing full well where this discussion was going to end up.

“Talk to me about what?”

“Well, word’s out that Tilton isn’t planning on going to jail. With that missing evidence and the threats the first time around, we’re putting protection on you and Riley till it’s over.” The detective mentally braced himself.  

“That’s ridiculous!” exploded Hardcastle “I don’t need protection!”

“Unfortunately, the D.A. and I don’t agree with you and they’re probably already parked out front,” he replied, keeping his tone neutral.

Mark was sitting up now. “Hardcase, just what did you have to do with all this? I mean you were a judge-judge then, right? Not a cop. And who exactly was murdered?”

“It’s a long story, kid.”

“Yeah, well I got the time-it’s not like I can cut the grass anytime soon or anything,” Mark said with a slight smirk.

Hardcastle just closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that Mark wasn’t going to move till he got some information and maybe not even then. In the past years, the kid got pretty good at reading between the lines. He was going to tell him about the trial, but not until a day or two before so the kid wouldn’t worry. He had an irritatingly persistent way of hovering when something was going on.

“Here’s the short version so you can get back to work doing something around here. Seems like Tilton was involved in some deals that weren’t exactly ‘up to snuff’ on Wall Street or anywhere else for that matter. Nobody could ever really prove anything until a sharp IRS agent picked up on a few things. He gave me a call and I met with him and Riley, who was the prosecutor’s investigator at the time. He handed over some of the evidence, but before he could get me the rest, he was found floating off a pier in LA harbor. The poor guy never really knew what he was getting into. Left behind a wife and four kids.”

“Yeah, but Tilton was sloppy,” interjected Frank, “he left two fingerprints, and that evidence we still got.”

“At least that’s something,” growled the judge. “Any ideas who the inside man might be?”  

“Nope,” said Frank, shaking his head, “I put Millward and Stern on it; I can trust them.”

“Well, Frank, I’ll find the copies of the records I made and I’ll bring them along in the morning.”

“COPIES?” exclaimed Frank. “You have copies?”

“Sure, they’re in a box in the garage.” Hardcastle didn’t understand Frank’s incredulous look. He had all kinds of copies in old case files.

“Milt, the D.A. is gonna kiss you when he finds out!”

“I wanna see that!” laughed McCormick, getting a dirty look from the judge. The D.A., Dean Thompson, was not one of Hardcastle’s favorite people.

“The D.A. may not be able to use them in court by Monday, but at least he’ll know where to go and get something more concrete. That settles it. The squad stays. If Tilton even had a notion that you have those records, he’d be all over you and this place like cats on fish,” said Frank.

“I don’t need protection!” bellowed the judge. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself!”

“Hardcase, that’s what you said the last time, right before we had to replace most of the windows and plaster in here, not to mention having you bunk in the gatehouse till the work was done. And what about me?” Mark said. “Every time you don’t need protection, I’m the one who winds up dodging the bullets!” He was still trying to understand why the judge hadn’t even mentioned the upcoming trial, and now he was more concerned because of what Frank was implying with the need for police protection.

“McCormick!”

Frank held his arm up and decided to end the discussion. “HOLD IT! Until the evidence is in and your testimony is done, the squad stays! No argument! That’s it! Final, finis! We want to get this guy don’t we?”

“But...” started Hardcastle

“No buts! I’m heading home now. I’ll call Thompson when I get there and I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” Frank had gotten up and was heading for the door. As he was walking, he looked over his shoulder, adding, “And don’t bother to try and get rid of the squad out front. I told those boys what I would be having them do for their next assignment if they left here.” With that, he was gone.

The room was silent with unspoken tension.

“Look, McCormick, I was going to tell you about the trial but not until Sunday,” the judge finally said, looking directly at him. “I just didn’t want this turning into a circus like it is.” Walking out of the den, he grumbled, “I’ll be in the garage.”

And then Mark was alone, an uneasy feeling surrounding him. Sitting thoughtfully for a few minutes, he reached for the phone.

A little over an hour later, in the garage, the judge was poking about in various boxes, looking for the copies. Mark walked in the side door, pulling a light jacket a little closer around him. He paused for a moment then headed toward the judge. Here we go, he thought. With a lighthearted tone he said, “Man I hate this time of year; it sure is getting cold out there.” When there was no response he went on, “I made our boys in blue some coffee; sure am glad I’m not the one sitting in a car all night.” Nosing around, he started peering and digging into the boxes. “How do you ever manage to find anything in this disaster?”

“What do you mean, disaster? I know where everything is out here! And leave that stuff alone!”

“Oh, so that’s why you’ve been out here for over an hour.”

“McCormick, if I would have needed your help, I would have asked for it. Don’t you have something better to do?” Hardcastle knew by the look on Mark’s face that he had something on his mind or something to say, and he figured it was both.  

“Not anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just got off the phone and cancelled my plans for this weekend.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“Well I can’t very well be relaxing with a beautiful girl and babysitting you at the same time. As much as it might be fun to have you come along, I thought about it for three seconds and decided it wouldn’t.”

Hardcastle’s glare could have pinned McCormick to the wall but Mark didn’t back down. The kid almost never did. That was one of the things about him that endeared him to the judge, and frequently infuriated him.

“Look, kiddo, I don’t need you or anybody else sitting around watching me and holding my hand. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a grown up and…”

“Blah, blah, blah, Judge,” Mark interrupted, “quit being such a donkey. If Frank and the D.A. are concerned enough to keep cops on your hide, then there’s more to this guy, Tilton, than you’re telling me. Although for the life of me, I don’t know why. I keep thinking about that IRS agent and his family.” Mark was trying not to let his worry for the judge come too close to the surface, knowing how the older man would react.

“I know they’re the ones that deserve justice,” there was a hint of sadness in the judge’s voice, but that changed quickly when he turned back to the boxes, shouting at McCormick, “Well, you just call your girlfriend again and go ahead with your plans!”

“No can do, Kemo Sabe,” Mark said with a frown, “she was a little upset and said something about changing her phone number before she hung up on me. Besides, there are three days till the trial starts; you’ll just be sitting around here brooding and you’ll probably need somebody to yell at,” he finished off with a smirk.

Rolling his eyes, the judge groused, “You’re not going to let go of this are you?”

“Nope.”

Hardcastle sighed. His safety was in danger. Also, he knew that if Mark was with him and there was an attempt on his life, the kid was in danger too. Mark would try to protect him at all costs. Aside from having backbone, Mark was loyal to a fault. The kid had proved that over and over again. And if McCormick even had an inkling about the man he intended to get a conviction on, there would be something akin to the national guard on the front lawn, not just a couple of cops. That’s why he hadn’t yet told him about the trial. McCormick wasn’t even around when the thing with Tilton started, but Tilton wouldn’t care. The judge would never say it, but he was scared. Not afraid of Tilton, but afraid of what Tilton could do. Looking at Mark, the judge could see mixed emotions on the young man’s face. But the blue eyes were crystal clear and determined underneath that mop of curly hair. It had been a long time since he cared about anybody, and that’s what probably scared him the most.

He abruptly started for the door. “Well, I found what I need and I’m going back in the house. Look, kiddo, Tilton is slimy but we’ve come up against his kind of slime before. He’s gonna get what’s coming to him as we’re gonna give it to him.” Walking out the door he said, “If you’re gonna come along in the morning, you’d better get some sleep. We’ve got an early appointment with the D.A.,” as he walked to the house.

Mark mumbled to himself, “Well that went better than I thought it would.”  

Right after he cancelled his date, he had called Frank Harper to get more of the details on Samuel Tilton. So the judge was wrong; he did have more than an inkling of what was going on. Harper was reluctant to give many details, but relented when Mark kept pressing. Frank told Mark that the other two murders Tilton was suspect in were both people who had been close to exposing him. He also told him details about Tilton’s various other shady dealings that gave more insight into the man Hardcastle was up against. Harper was adamant in requiring that security stay with the judge so nothing happened to him, and Mark had agreed.

After a moment’s hesitation, Frank had continued, “The agent’s son, just a teenager, he was up in Milt’s face right after the funeral. Accused him of getting his father killed. Milt just stood there and took it.” Mark nodded to himself. He could understand that kind of anger-misplaced as it was-the feeling that the world was brutally unfair, the need to hit out at the nearest person. He knew the judge would’ve understood that as well, and that, one way or another, that kid would have justice yet.  

McCormick hadn’t liked what he was hearing and knew he’d be at the judge’s side till it was over, whether he liked it or not. Knowing what he now knew, the judge’s actions were pretty predictable. He’s trying to protect me when he’s the one that needs protection, he really is a donkey. He was also aware that the last thing Judge Milton C. Hardcastle wanted was to be seen as vulnerable. But underneath all that bravado, he knew the judge was uneasy.  

Mark shrugged and sighed, “It’s gonna be a long weekend.”

McCormick came through the kitchen door the next morning again pulling at his jacket as the judge was putting some breakfast together.  

“Brrr, it’s still cold out.”

“Eat up and let’s get going,” groused the judge.

“What? No usual cheery ‘Good Morning, McCormick’?” he asked, as he picked up a cup of coffee. Looking over the table he saw the usual morning paper and a large envelope. He assumed it was the file that Hardcastle had found the day before. Looking toward the chair, he noticed the Judge’s handgun hanging next to his jacket. Well looks like he’s ready, Mark thought to himself.

“Look, kid, I just want to get this whole thing over with.”

The phone rang before Mark could say anything and Hardcastle picked it up.

“Yeah!” he shouted into the phone.

“What no ‘good morning’?” said the detective on the other end.

“Not you, too, this morning, Frank,” said Hardcastle, looking annoyed.

“Milt, the D.A. is expecting you at nine,” said Frank, turning a deaf ear to the judge. “The men out front are probably already done changing shifts and the new guys will follow you and McCormick down there. I’ll be waiting out front.”

“Frank, I don’t think that Tilton is going to try anything.”

“Look, Milt, like I said yesterday, we want this guy, and if it means listening to you gripe for the next few days, that’s what I’m going to do. We’re going to keep you and Riley safe.”

“Any news on the missing evidence?”  

Mark perked up when he heard this question and moved around pretending to need something, trying to overhear more of that part of the conversation. Hardcastle noticed his move and, irritated, turned away with the phone.

“No, and I got good people I can trust on this, but nothing’s breaking.” Harper sounded frustrated.

“Well if you want…” the judge started.

“Milt! The only thing I want right now is you down at the D.A.’s office!” Frank’s voice came thundering out of the phone. The last thing he wanted right now was Hardcastle barreling into that investigation.

McCormick had no trouble hearing that, and grinned broadly behind the judge’s back.  

“Okay, Okay! We’re going already,” Hardcastle yelled into the phone and hung up.

He turned to McCormick, but before he could say anything, Mark was halfway out the door with a piece of toast hanging out of his mouth. Under his arm was the large envelope that had been sitting on the table.

Back in his office, Frank called the D.A. and let him know that both his key witnesses were on their way and that he would be out front to meet them.

The judge walked out the door a few minutes later, his mood matching the red of the racecar parked near the door. Mark was sitting inside, waiting.

“Come on, Judge, don’t want to be late,” McCormick said breezily.

Hardcastle got in, grumbling about the fact that he was more than capable of driving himself anywhere he wanted to go. He held up another envelope, exactly like the one Mark had grabbed. “If you want to be helpful, at least make sure you grab the right stuff!”

Mark looked at the two envelopes, baffled. “If you’ve got the copies, what’s in here?” He opened it and pulled out a bunch of receipts. “Huh?”

“Those are from the car parts I bought yesterday, idiot! Do you think I’d just leave those files out in the open?”  

“Oh, um….”  

“Just shut up and drive, McCormick!” the Judge snapped as he got in the car.

Mark started the car and pulled away from the house. Neither of them had stopped to speak with the new officers who had come on duty. The squad was right behind them as they left the drive and turned onto the highway.

Over the hum of the engine, the silence in the car could have been cut with a knife. Mark pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was tired, but would never tell the Judge that he had stayed awake all night watching for anything out of the ordinary through his darkened windows.

“Look, Hardcase, it’s only for a couple of days,” McCormick said, as he tried to placate the judge. “You’ll testify, Tilton will get what he deserves, and justice will prevail for everybody.”

Hardcastle looked at him out of the corner of his eye; something was up.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, somebody’s got to be able to get this guy. From what Frank said…” McCormick suddenly stopped, realizing what he was saying.

“What do you mean, ‘from what Frank said’?” The Judge turned his full attention to McCormick.

“Uh oh…” mumbled McCormick. He paused, thinking if he were five hundred miles away from Hardcastle right now, he might live through this conversation, but decided to just get it over with. “Look, I called him last night. You obviously weren’t going to tell me anything and I wanted to know what we were up against.”

“Oh, really.” There was an ominous tone to Hardcastle’s voice.

“Now wait a minute!” said Mark “I called Frank. So what? You’re gonna get mad at me and sentence me to more yard work? Don’t think you can do that, Hardcase; there’s not much more I can do and still sleep three hours a night so I can get up and do it all over again.”

McCormick looked over at Hardcastle and saw him staring straight ahead, his lips drawn tight.

“You could have told me what an absolute slime ball Tilton really is,” he decided to continue, figuring he was driving the car and probably was safe from the judge doing him any physical harm. “No wonder Frank is so worried about his two star witnesses.” The silence continued. “Jeez, Judge, I know how important it is to you to get this guy, but your not telling me anything isn’t going to help do that. That IRS agent and his kid deserve justice-and yeah, Frank told me about the funeral, too.” He flipped his eyes back to Hardcastle.

“Watch the road, McCormick.”

Never one to keep what was on his mind to himself, Mark kept on. “I thought what we did was a team effort.” He rolled his eyes and continued, “Great, now I’m starting to sound like some whacked out basketball coach.” Glancing at Hardcastle he asked, “Why all the secrecy?”

Hardcastle was still grim but sighed. “I just didn’t want you to get too involved in this one, kiddo. Tilton’s bad news.”

“I’m touched; I didn’t know you cared,” Mark said with a grin.  

“Yeah, well, even mediocre help is hard to come by and I don’t want to have to start over.” Hardcastle relaxed a little and was looking out the side window.

Shaking his head at the expected comeback, Mark said, “If I’ve learned anything over the past months it’s that to get garbage like Tilton, sometimes it IS a group effort. Never thought you’d hear me say that hey, Hardcase? Well I am and I mean it. The most important thing for you to do is testify and get it right so this one’s done. Let somebody else watch your back. It’s not going to hurt you to do that. It’s your word and Riley’s against this creep right now. You’ve got to be there to say it.”

The rest of the ride down to the D.A.’s office was subdued. Mark was keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings and keeping the squad car in the rear view mirror. Glancing at the judge occasionally, trying not to let him notice, he was amused to see Hardcastle doing the same.

Outside he was calm, but inside Hardcastle was still fuming. He was angry at the whole situation. Tilton was going to go to jail. He would see to that. But he didn’t like being a target of a person he considered to be just a two-bit hood.  

They finally pulled around the corner onto the street where the office was. Mark was none to happy to see that there was no parking anywhere. He slowed down, double-checked, and saw nothing.

“Look, Judge, there’s Frank. Who’s the guy next to him, Riley?” nodding at the guy standing there next to Harper. He was noticeably nervous.

“Yeah, that’s him; he doesn’t look too good.”

Two uniformed officers rounded out the group on the sidewalk.

“I’ll drop you off. You wait for me okay?”

Mumbling the judge said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Mark pulled the car over as close as he could. The judge climbed out and Mark said, “Hey, there’s a spot opening up over there, be right back.” He turned the car from the curb, executed the u-turn and slid into the open spot. Glancing down as he removed the keys, he saw one of the envelopes on the seat. Thinking quickly, he wondered if the judge had the right one. Not pausing to check the contents, he grabbed it, climbing out of the car heading across the wide street. He didn’t want Hardcastle out in the open without him any longer than he already had been.

Seeing McCormick coming, Hardcastle turned, motioning for the others to follow. They had just started to walk toward the front entrance when they heard the squeal of tires. Spinning around simultaneously, they saw the squad that had been following them barreling down on Mark.

“Look out, kid!” screamed the judge, his heart in his throat. Everything was happening with lightening speed. Mark froze for a moment, then, leapt to one side, falling against the Coyote.

The squad car screeched to a halt within inches of McCormick and both doors on the driver’s side flew open. A large man dressed in a police uniform, wearing a black mask jumped out of the car, grabbing Mark. He slugged him and roughly threw his body into the back seat. He seemed to ricochet back into the front seat and the tires smoked again sending the car forward. Nobody had any time to react. At the same time the rear window came down, showing the business end of a machine gun that started firing at anything and everything in the vicinity.

“GET DOWN! EVERYBODY!” Frank Harper threw himself at Hardcastle, knocking him down into cover behind his own car.

Car windows were exploding from the impact of bullets. They imbedded themselves in metal, tires and concrete. The bullets kept coming even as the car sped around the corner, finally stopping when it was out of sight.

The judge pushed himself off the ground just in time to see the taillights vanish. He was having trouble getting air as he realized just what had happened. “McCormick!...”

Harper made a move for his car, stopping when he saw the tires. It wasn’t going anywhere. He reached in and grabbed the radio and began issuing orders.

The other officers had run for their squad, weapons drawn but immediately recognized the same problem. Even the Coyote parked across the street was riddled with holes the tires still hissing air.

“I said, stop it!” Hardcastle’s bellow brought an eerie silence to the group. The well-meaning hands that had been trying to hustle him to some sort of safety were stilled. The jumble of placating words that had been meant to reassure were halted. They had been badly missing their mark, anyway.

He scanned their faces. All worried, to be sure, but it was a professional concern. Criminals shouldn’t be able to go on a shooting rampage and kidnap an innocent civilian right in front of the District Attorney’s office; it offended them. They were interested in protecting the ‘victim’, no matter who it might’ve been. None of them was concerned with Mark. He swiveled slowly, surveying the area, looking for the one who would understand. Then he felt the hand on his arm.

“Frank.” His eyes met the detective’s and he saw his own fear mirrored there.

“We’re doing what we can,” Harper said, knowing baseless reassurance was not what Hardcastle needed to hear.  

“I need a car.”

“I know,” Harper replied with a nod. “C’mon.” When Hardcastle looked at him quizzically, he continued, “You can’t very well go alone, not after this. I’m gonna be your shadow for a while.” He managed a grin. “Besides, it’s a police vehicle.”

Hardcastle couldn’t force a grin, but he didn’t argue, which Harper considered a success. The lieutenant began to steer the judge toward a side parking lot where their car would be waiting. They had almost cleared the gathered crowd when suddenly Dean Thompson was before them.

“Judge.”

“What is it?” Hardcastle snapped.

“I can hold on to the files for now, and we can get together later to discuss your testimony.” Thompson was reaching out to take the files, completely unprepared for the single word response.

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m sure you heard me, Counselor. I said, no.”

Even Harper was surprised. “It would be safer, Milt.”

The judge faced his friend. “I might need them.”

“Milt . . .” the sadness in the detective’s tone was unmistakable. “You can’t- - -”

“Don’t tell me I can’t, Frank. These are my personal records, and I’m under no legal obligation to surrender them.” He turned back to Thompson. “We’ll talk about your case when I get McCormick back.”

“I can subpoena them,” Thompson threatened.

“You can try,” Hardcastle countered. He stared at the D.A. for several long seconds before issuing one final statement. “But I promise you this: I am not an enemy you want to make.”  

Harper caught up with him a couple of minutes later, waiting impatiently by the only unattended double-parked vehicle in the lot.

“I assume this is the one?” the judge asked as the lieutenant came around the corner.

“Yeah.” Harper unlocked the passenger door. “You know, you really shouldn’t threaten a District Attorney,” he admonished as he rounded the car. He slid in behind the wheel, then looked over at Hardcastle, ignoring the anger on the jurist’s face. “I’m serious, Milt. I think I smoothed it over for now, but you cannot be going at him like that. Like him or not, he does represent the entire office, you know, and that’s an enemy you don’t want to make. Forget long term implications here; you might need their help in this situation.”

“Do you think you can drive and lecture me at the same time?”

The detective chuckled slightly as he started the engine, then pulled the car out of the lot, but he sobered quickly. “We’ve only had one sighting of the car, Milt. It was headed southbound on the 405, but by the time the northbound unit got turned around to follow, it was gone. That was around Century, or maybe El Segundo. We think they probably dropped off the freeway right around there, when they realized they’d been spotted.”

“You don’t think they’re headin’ for the airport?” Hardcastle asked, a new panic on his face.

“I don’t think so,” Harper reassured him quickly. “There’s no way this isn’t about Tilton, and there’s just no reason for him to take Mark out of town. Whether he wants to use him to make a trade or- - ” the lieutenant broke off abruptly.

“Or to make an example,” the judge grated out.

Harper didn’t try to argue the possibility. “Whatever his plan, it doesn’t make sense for him to leave town. But, of course, we’ve alerted airport security, just in case. If Tilton, Mark, or that car, show up out there, we’ll know about it. In the meantime, we’ve stepped up patrols in the area and I’ve sent some guys around to rattle Tilton’s cage a little. We’re gonna visit some of his favorite goons, too. We’ll find out what there is to know. So, do you want to stick with the car, or do you want to join in the cage rattling?”

“McCormick’s in the car,” Hardcastle said simply.  

Harper nodded, and steered the car toward the 405.

They drove in silence for a while, then the judge asked, “Who do you think was in the car?”

“I’m not sure,” the lieutenant replied sullenly. “We’ve got a unit on its way over to your place to check things out there. You know,” he continued quietly, “I hand-picked the guys for that detail myself; I think they’re on the level. But if they are . . .” he trailed off, not wanting to think about what might be waiting out in Malibu.

“Yeah.” Hardcastle knew only too well what Tilton was capable of.

They lapsed back into silence, broken a moment later by the squawk of the radio calling for Harper’s attention. He grabbed the microphone. “Yeah, Harper.”  

“Unit 349 has been located,” the tinny voice responded. “Unit 217 is holding, in La Fresa, intersection of Artesia and Crenshaw.”  

Harper whipped the car in the right direction and punched the accelerator. “Have they requested an ambulance or. . .” he glanced quickly over at the judge, “any other services?”  

“They have requested the coroner’s unit, Lieutenant,” the dispatcher replied, and Harper heard Hardcastle’s sharp intake of breath. “Officers on scene report one unidentified male body.”

“Unidentified?” Harper repeated.

“Yes, sir. They report it definitely is not the missing kidnap victim.”

Harper heard the judge let out the breath he’d been holding, and he felt a moment of relief, but it was short-lived. Thank God the body wasn’t Mark, but the young man was still missing, and he had been separated from the only possible link to his location that they’d had. He focused on procedure. “Dispatch a crime lab team to the location, as well as two other patrols. I want a sweep for witnesses; five mile radius. I’m on my way now; ETA fifteen minutes.”  

Pointing the car in the right direction, Harper cast a look at Hardcastle. “It’s a place to start,” he said softly. It was difficult to reassure someone who knew far too much.

“Yeah, sure,” the judge agreed, without conviction. He turned to stare out at the passing traffic. “Either that, or the end of the road.”

Lieutenant Harper was listening to a second report from the officer on site. It had only taken about forty-five seconds of the first one to make clear that there really wasn’t much to report, so why he was being subjected to this re-hashing was something of a mystery. Besides, his true attention was focused across the parking lot where Hardcastle-having already been admonished several times-was doing his best to stay out of the way but still hear everything that was going on. In other circumstances, the lieutenant might have been amused to watch the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle put in his place by young lab techs and street cops, but the helplessness showing on the face of his friend took away any possible humor. He dismissed the officer with a curt, “Carry on,” and crossed the lot to the judge.

“There’s blood on the back seat, Frank,” Hardcastle whispered almost frantically as the officer approached. Only twenty minutes earlier they had learned of the deaths of the officers who had been stationed at his home. Counting the guy in the trunk of the stolen car, that was three dead this morning alone. It was clear that the men who took McCormick would not hesitate to kill, and the news had only heightened the judge’s fear for his young friend.

Harper nodded. “I know, but not much. He was clobbered pretty bad when they grabbed him, Milt; we all saw it. There’s no reason to think it’s anything more than that. If they just wanted to kill him, they could’ve done it at the D.A.’s office, or, at the very least, we would’ve found him here with the car. It wouldn’t be much of an example if they didn’t leave him behind. It’s looking more like they intend to keep him around a while.” He knew that wasn’t the most encouraging idea, but it was better than the alternative.

The judge nodded slowly, knowing the detective was correct, but finding no comfort in the knowledge. He felt his hands clenching around the manila envelope he still carried, clinging to it like some kind of lifeline. Which, he supposed, it might actually be. “Maybe we should go see Tilton now,” he suggested in a low tone.

Harper took a moment to examine his friend closely. The tension radiated from every tightened muscle in his body, and the helpless expression that had been growing over the last hour and a half was backed by a fury deeper than he had ever seen in those blue eyes. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to let him talk to the prime suspect in McCormick’s kidnapping. “Maybe we should head back to Gull’s Way,” he finally replied.

“Why?” Hardcastle demanded. “So you can keep me safely under wraps? That lunatic has McCormick, and I intend to do something about it.”

Certainly, keeping Hardcastle contained was one upside of going back to the estate, but Harper had no intention of admitting it. Instead, he stuck with the more practical benefits. “Since we agree that Tilton is going to try and use Mark for leverage, it only makes sense that he’s gonna need to contact you, Milt. You should be home to take that call.”

“Why wait for him to call?” the jurist pressed. “Let’s just go on over there, and I’ll talk to him in person.”

Harper reached out to restrain him as Hardcastle began a determined stomp back toward the car. “Milt. It’s not like he’s gonna have Mark sitting in his den having tea. The man probably wouldn’t even talk to you. And, besides . . .”  

“Besides what?” Hardcastle snapped when the detective’s words trailed off.

“You’re not in good shape, Milt. You shouldn’t let him see you like this,” Harper said quietly. “You can’t give him that kind of power.”  

Hardcastle glared at the detective for several long seconds, but then his shoulders slumped as he seemed to lose some of his determination. “Okay,” he agreed, “I’ll go back home and wait for his call. And I’ll get myself together. But, Frank?” he paused, almost afraid to say the words, even to Harper. He breathed deeply. “What if he already has the power?”  

Mark McCormick concentrated on concentrating. Realistically, though, he didn’t expect to learn much in his present condition. Hands and feet bound, shoved onto the back floorboard of a speeding car, with a cloth sack over his head, his powers of observation were a bit hampered. Still, he could listen, and that had to be worth something. Right now, though, there wasn’t much to hear.

When he’d first come to in the back of the police cruiser, there had been a lot of frantic conversation, mainly centered around whether or not Hardcastle had been hurt in their attack. His heart had skipped a beat as he held his breath and waited to hear the story.

“The boss didn’t want him hurt,” one voice had loudly accused.

“And I’m tellin’ ya,” a second voice had responded just as loudly, “I just scared him, is all.”

And though his head had been fuzzy and his jaw ached like hell, McCormick had felt only relief at hearing the words.

The three men in the car had continued their conversation for several minutes before the one in the backseat had noticed their captive was awake. McCormick didn’t even have time to register the gun that came crashing down against the side of his head, sending him back into darkness.

When he had awakened the second time, he had been trussed into his current position. He wasn’t sure, but he thought they had changed cars. And, the infrequent but tense conversation in the car seemed to be only between two men. The third voice-the guy who had not hurt Hardcastle with his shooting-seemed to be the one missing, and McCormick wondered briefly just what the penalty would be for shooting at someone “the boss” didn’t want hurt.

From what he’d heard about Tilton-and who else could be behind this?-McCormick figured punishment had been meted out quickly and unfairly. He tried working up some sympathy for the missing goon, but he was having a hard time getting past the idea that the guy had been shooting at the judge.  

So, unable to generate any real concern for the guy’s probable early demise, he went back to his concentration. But the occasional “turn here” being muttered in the front seat really wasn’t all that helpful.

He listened hard.

There was traffic, but not a lot. Only a few cars had passed them in the half hour or so that he’d been awake, so he could rule out the major freeways. Really, he could rule out most of the major surface streets, too; there just weren’t all that many streets in LA without traffic this time of day. So maybe they already had him well out of town. Just how long had he been unconscious, anyway? And that’s when it occurred to him that-even with all his concentrating-he really had no damned idea exactly what was going on, and it wasn’t likely he was going to figure it out.

McCormick pressed his lips together roughly to keep from cursing in frustration. All things considered, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the others to know he was awake just yet. But he managed to take some comfort from the fact that he was awake, as well as the fact that they were trying to keep him from learning his location. Behavior like that indicated they might actually plan on keeping him alive.

As he turned his attention to trying to loosen the ropes binding his hands, McCormick followed his thoughts through to their logical conclusion. He was nothing to these guys, so if they intended to let him live, it was because of Hardcastle. They must want something from the judge. What that something was, however, was where he was getting stumped. Logically, it would seem that they would want to stop the judge from testifying. But . . . if that was all they wanted, why not just kill him when they had the opportunity? Why stage the kidnapping only to-presumably-force Hardcastle into refusing to testify? No, McCormick thought that was far too complicated. Whatever Tilton wanted, it went beyond keeping Hardcastle off the witness stand. And I’m the leverage, McCormick thought bitterly. He focused all his effort onto the ropes. Mark knew from experience that the judge had a long list of things he considered “wrong”, ranging from improper to absolutely unthinkable. His fear was that the list might get a lot shorter while he was being held captive. He did not intend to be the cause of that.  

McCormick felt the car slow into another turn, but it did not resume speed after straightening. After another few moments, he felt the car pull to a stop. Dammit! I’m not ready. He hadn’t made nearly enough progress on his hands, which, of course, meant his feet were still bound tightly. He was in no condition to stage an escape. He felt air move through the car as the two front doors were opened, then felt sunlight as his own door was opened. Then hands reached in and grabbed him under the armpits, roughly dragging him from the car. He decided there was little to be gained by further silence.

“Hey, if you guys could untie me, this would be a lot easier on all of us.” His head banged against the door as the hands holding him suddenly released their grip.

“He’s awake!” a startled voice said.

“Pick ‘im up,” the second voice ordered. “You didn’t expect him to be out forever, did ya?”

McCormick felt himself grabbed again, and he was tugged completely out of the car. Then he felt the two guys on either side of him, grabbing his arms, and pulling him along, his feet dragging the ground. “Ow! Hey, seriously; at least untie my feet and let me walk.”

“Shut up.” The directive was followed with a quick slap to the back of the head. McCormick shut up, and simply let himself be dragged wherever they were taking him.

He heard a door open, and then he felt the sunlight disappear again as he was pulled into a building. “Don’t guess you’d want to tell me what this is all about?” he inquired, as he was shoved down into a chair. “And, for the record, I wouldn’t mind getting this hood off my head. It’s kinda hot in here.” He felt another hand connect with his head. “Guess not,” he muttered.

Then there were more ropes, and McCormick felt himself being bound to the chair. These guys were nothing if not thorough. He tried another conversation starter. “I think you might have the wrong guy, you know. I don’t know who you think I am, or what you think I can do for you, but, trust me, I’m nobody. Why don’t you just let me take off outta here, and we’ll forget all this ever happened?”

He didn’t really expect an answer, so he wasn’t surprised by the silence, but then he heard a door slam, and as he listened to the room, it was clear he had been left alone.

“Well, that’s just great,” he mumbled, and returned his attention to trying to free his hands.

After a while, McCormick could no longer tell whether his hands were numb from the tightness of the rope or the penetrating cold of the place where he had been left. His efforts to free himself had achieved nothing. He now realized that unless his captors returned, he was going nowhere.  

The more he thought about Tilton’s actions the more baffled he became. Even the judge’s secretive behavior was starting to strike Mark as more than the usual level of weirdness for Hardcastle. And then there was the matter of the envelopes.  

But more than anything else, what aggravated McCormick was being relegated to the status of pawn. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the thought and felt an irresistible urge to refuse to play by the rules. It was possible that he would have a few seconds to talk to the judge by phone, under the watchful eye of Tilton’s goons. Unless, of course, Tilton decided to use the time-honored alternative method of proving possession of a pawn. McCormick flexed his nearly-numb fingers experimentally, hoping he’d still have all of them at the end of the day.  

No, he thought, it’ll be a phone call. A finger they would have taken right away. And then he started figuring all the angles.

Frank drove, glancing from time to time at his passenger. The judge looked gray, haggard, and not inclined to accept reassurances that everything was being done to track down the men who had snatched McCormick.  

“Look,” Frank said, as he turned onto the PCH, “no matter what, handing over the evidence isn’t going to be enough for Tilton.”

“I know that,” Hardcastle replied grimly. “But he’s going to insist on having the evidence, too; otherwise he would have just let his goons kill me this morning.”

“What makes you think he’ll let Mark go if you give him what he wants?” Frank asked sensibly, ignoring the issue that what Tilton most likely wanted was Hardcastle himself.

“Well, we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. But there’s one thing I’ve got to know right now.” The judge’s eyes narrowed; his face was set. “I have to know if you’re going to back me up on this one, Frank; let me do what I need to do.”  

“You mean, will I ignore department policy and every bit of common sense I have?”  

“Yeah. Both of those, if necessary.”

“Milt- -”

“It’s a yes or no question, Frank.”

Harper gripped the steering wheel tighter and nodded his head once, sharply. “Yes, I’ll back you. I hope to God you know what that means, Milt.”

“It means you’re a good friend, Frank.” The judge allowed himself a brief smile. “And I really need one right now.”

McCormick was already on the third version of his plan and he thought maybe this one was about as good as he could make it, which meant it would either work, or get him killed. At least he had to balance that against his increasing certainty that Tilton was a few bricks short of a full load, probably wanted the judge dead, and had no particular reason to let Mark live, either.

He’d circled this line of reasoning a couple of times when he heard the door open and the sounds of men entering the room. He froze, not that he was capable of much movement anyway. Then he felt something moving close to his head. After this morning’s experiences, he had to consciously avoid flinching. A second later the cloth bag had been yanked off of him and he was blinking at the relative brightness.

An empty utility shed. It contained him, the chair he sat on, and little else, except for the two guys in ski masks who confronted him, and a small, scarred table that one of them was setting down in front of his chair.

Neither of them said anything until the one who wasn’t moving furniture pulled a compact tape recorder from his coat pocket and set it down on the table. McCormick looked up at him questioningly.

“You’re gonna say something. So he knows we got you,” said the goon with the tape recorder.

“Yeah, he probably didn’t notice when you guys grabbed me.” That earned him a quick whack to the side of the head. “Look,” he started speaking again, almost before the ringing in his ear subsided, “you got the wrong guy. I clean out Hardcase’s gutters--”

“And you drink beer with him. And the boss says you’re gonna make a tape. You do this, we get the envelope, and you get to go back to cleaning gutters. Got it?”

McCormick was so busy thinking about beer and envelopes that he almost forgot to reply until he noticed the goon raising his hand again. “Yeah, yeah,” he responded hastily, “push it over here. I got a few things to say to that donkey.”

The mouth hole of the ski-mask was filled with goon teeth as the guy pushed the record button.

Hardcastle had barely unlocked the front door and ushered Frank in before they heard the phone ringing. Frank followed his dash into the den, then watched as he grabbed for the bottom drawer of the desk and not the phone. The tape recorder was out and in place before there were two more rings. The judge hit the speaker button on the sixth ring and said, “Hello?”

“Not in any hurry, huh?” the unfamiliar voice at the other end grumbled. “Maybe he’s right. Listen up.” Then there was a click, and a tinnier, more distant, but very familiar voice.  

‘You know, Hardcase, I’m flat out tired of you putting my life on the line. Hell, you’ve even pulled a gun on me yourself. Right now I’m thinking I have a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll be able to put something together to get me out of this. You called me an idiot. I tell you, maybe you’re just as much an idiot as I am, and I’m working for you? A motorhead, that’s all I’ll ever be to you; I think it’d have been better if I’d stayed under a car. Think real hard about what you’ve said the past few days. Even when I get on a winning streak, you tell me I can’t possibly have all the answers. It’s like the game is rigged. So maybe it’s time I started making my own deals. From here on in, I'm a one man band--’ There followed a sound, like a hand on the microphone, followed by a less distinct word, which might have been ‘wait’, then a click, and nothing.

“Okay?” the other voice was back. “So, you ready to deal?”

“No,” Hardcastle barked back, ignoring Frank’s surprise. “Tell your boss I won’t do anything until I’ve talked to McCormick myself. No recordings, that won’t cut it. You tell him that.” Hardcastle hit the disconnect button without waiting for a reply.  

Frank looked stunned. “What the hell--?”

Hardcastle shook his head once sharply, then pointed to his ear and made a lazy circling motion with the same finger that took in the whole room. Then he spoke, clearly and slowly, “I think maybe McCormick’s jumped the tracks.” He picked up the manila envelope from where he’d tossed it on the desk when he came in, looking at it oddly. Then he picked up the tape recorder as well, as he got up out of the chair. Frank said nothing, following him back out of the house to the car.  

“Get in,” Hardcastle said quietly.

They were in the vehicle. Frank watched Hardcastle open the envelope and reach inside, then watched his face go a shade paler than gray. “I am an idiot,” he growled, pulling out a handful of what looked like receipts and then thrusting them angrily back inside.  

Frank tried to control his rising exasperation. “Milt, what the hell just happened in there? What was Mark babbling about and--?”

Hardcastle shook his head and then asked, “Do you know if the Coyote is still there? They haven’t moved it yet, have they?”  

Frank looked at him, saw the intensity of his interest, and hit the radio to make the necessary inquiries. No, everything was still where it had been left, an ongoing crime scene investigation.

“Good, let’s go.”

Frank put the car in gear without even bothering to ask why. The judge was fiddling with the recorder, rewinding back the few seconds it had taken for Mark to say what he’d said. They were pulling back out onto the PCH when Frank heard the voice again, now even more distant as a recording of a recording.

“Listen.” Hardcastle said, with one finger poised over the pause button.

‘You know, Hardcase, I’m flat out tired of you putting my life on the line. Hell, you’ve even pulled a gun on me yourself.’

Pause. “He started out with something obvious. To make sure I knew what the hell he was doing. What does he think; I’m an idiot?” Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead, “Never mind; don’t answer that one. This is about the time we set up those ex-cops. He pretended to pick a fight with me. So that’s what he doing now,” Hardcastle faltered, “was doing then . . . when he made this tape.” He released the pause button.

‘Right now I’m thinking I have a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll be able to put something together to get me out of this. You called me an idiot. I tell you, maybe you’re just as much an idiot as I am, and I’m working for you?’

Pause again. “There were two envelopes. He grabbed the wrong one this morning. He was trying to help. I called him an idiot. They were both in the car when I got out. He thinks I grabbed the wrong one, but he’s not sure. He must have picked up the other one, when he was getting out of the car.”

‘A motorhead, that’s all I’ll ever be to you; I think it’d have been better if I’d stayed under a car.’

“Well, this is a longer shot. He had the second envelope in his hand; the car was coming at him. He must have thrown it. He thinks it’s under the Coyote. Well, hell, that’s really the only place it can be, if Tilton’s goons didn’t get it.”

‘Think real hard about what you’ve said the past few days. Even when I get on a winning streak, you tell me I can’t possibly have all the answers. It’s like the game is rigged.’

Hardcastle looked at Frank. “You recognize this one, right? That stupid rigged game show; they bugged the house so they could be sure McCormick’d win. So he’s saying he thinks the house is bugged again. Must be something they said.”

“Do you want me to get some tech guys over there?” Frank asked.

“No, let it ride; we can’t let them know we’re on to anything.” He took his finger off the pause button one last time.

‘So maybe it’s time I started making my own deals.’

He punched the stop button fiercely. Frank looked to the side. Hardcastle was staring out at the highway. After a long moment of silence he spoke, his voice low and hard. “He’s planning something. He wants me to step back. I’m guessing right now they’ve got him stashed with the middle-level help. He’s looking for a way to shake up the chain of command, to try and take this thing to Tilton himself.”

“How?”

Hardcastle rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Welcome to Planet McCormick. I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t even know yet. He does this kind of thing on the fly sometimes. I’m guessing it has something to do with the envelopes. I’ve got to talk to him again. This is crazy dangerous.”

“What, like the alternative isn’t?” Frank added, practically. “And what the hell was that last line, the thing about the ‘one man band’?”

There was a silence followed by a hesitant reply, “That’s . . . a line from a movie.”

Frank said nothing. After another moment Hardcastle continued, speaking almost to himself. “John Wayne said it.” Hardcastle was staring down at the tape recorder as if he wished he could talk some sense into it, the entirely misdirected notion of a man on the edge of frustration. He turned to Frank, realizing he was still waiting for an explanation.

“It’s from They Were Expendable. We watched it last week.” Hardcastle shook his head, muttering, “He isn’t. He ought to know that by now.”

The two men rode on in silence.

They hadn’t bothered to put the hood back on him after the tape was done. Now McCormick sat alone again, studying the inside of his prison. They’d moved the table back over by the wall. He supposed he might inch his chair over there. It would be something to do. When he was done he’d be sitting tied up next to a table. That would be the extent of it.  

He sighed.

Had Hardcastle heard the tape yet? More importantly, had he understood it? Mark gave this about one moment’s thought and concluded ‘yes’. The old donkey didn’t miss much. McCormick smiled. Knowing Hardcase, he had asked for a live talk with his yardman and, if there was any justice whatsoever in the universe, he was going back to the Coyote right now to retrieve the real evidence envelope.  

There was only one thing that niggled in the back of Mark’s mind. The goon had cut him off before he could get out the last word. He hadn’t been able to say ‘good-bye’, and he wasn’t entirely sure he’d get another chance.

The street in front of the D.A.’s office was blocked off with police barriers and crime scene tape. Some of the TV crews had already come and gone. The D.A. himself was nowhere in sight.  

The Coyote sat forlornly at the edge of the action. Normally a low riding vehicle, its shot-out tires left it practically on the pavement. It was Frank who got down on the curb side, out of sight of the investigators, and felt around underneath it, while the judge leaned against the driver’s side, ready to intercept anyone who approached.

“Got it,” he heard Frank announce, in a muffled voice. Hardcastle joined him on the passenger side and slipped the envelope under his own arm. “Now what?” Frank asked.

“A copier. Not the one in the D.A.’s office. I’m sorry Frank; I have to have a fall back plan. But somebody in that office may be dirty. I can’t let them know I’ve got a copy, and I sure as hell can’t give the D.A. one.”

“Okay. Not my office then, either.” Frank walked them quickly back to his car, barely nodding to the technician who was taking measurements from the steps. “Damn, Milt, I hate this.”

The judge put his free hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I know, but just maybe we’re going to have somebody on the inside of Tilton’s set-up pretty soon.”

“You think that?” Frank looked more closely at his friend’s face. He still looked worried, but some of the color was back. “I dunno--”

“You’ve got to have a little faith.” Hardcastle added, “If anybody can do it, he can.”

It had to be mid-afternoon, McCormick thought, based on little more that the number of times he had gone over the various contingencies that might arise. He hadn’t heard any cars coming or going right away, from which he concluded that there was another building, with a phone, nearby.  

Add to this the persistent, infernal cold, the sharpness of the air, and the fact that nobody had bothered to gag him at any point. We’re up in the mountains, probably northeast of the city. A long way from wherever Tilton is. And nowhere anyone else would think to look for him, either.

I’m going to be neglected to death.

This was when he heard the distant crunch of tires on pebbled dirt, and the approach of a car with the earliest sounds of muffler trouble. Not the car he had arrived in, he was sure of that. And, while it was entirely possible that it was the man who’d come to fetch the finger, Mark felt some infinitesimally small surge of hope.

It was a quick stop at the office supply store and three dollars worth of copying. Then Frank and Milt were back on the road to Gull’s Way, with the judge checking his watch every couple of minutes. It was nearly two o’clock, a little more than two hours since the first phone call. Too many variables, too many contingencies. He needed to be there for that second phone call, if it was going to come at all.

Hope, followed almost immediately by a single gunshot. Handgun, .38, most likely, he catalogued it automatically. Then there were footsteps coming toward the shed and he didn’t have much more time for thought.  

One man without a mask was followed, deferentially, by another, who’d rolled his up like an ordinary cap, revealing an unimpressive dull face. He’d been the furniture mover, McCormick was fairly certain. Now he was wearing a pair of leather gloves and carrying a Polaroid camera. The man in the lead was dressed sharply; that was an eight-hundred-dollar overcoat with a .38 caliber bulge in the right pocket.  

It would have been better if I’d had a chance to say ‘good-bye’, he thought briefly, but the gun stayed in the man’s pocket.

“Mr. McCormick.” The man was looking him up and down, with hooded eyelids and a look of faint disdain on his face. It couldn’t have been a very impressed assessment at this point. “One of my former employees seems to have made a grave mistake.” The man shook his head slowly. “Now I would like you to explain the comments you made earlier today.”

“Comments?” Mark began on a note of incredulity. “Oh, you mean sounding off to Hardcase? Yeah, well, you can take that and--”  

The other goon had taken a step forward. The man with the gun in his pocket waved him back.

“Well, anyway,” McCormick went on, in a calmer voice, keeping one wary eye on the goon, “what the hell do you expect me to say to that donkey? ‘Thank you for keeping me in the dark and letting me know jack about what’s going on?’ On a good day with him I just get called an idiot, kidnapped, and beaten up.”

“So you think maybe you can do better with me?”

McCormick gave the man a long slow look, then glanced over at the goon, then back at him, and said, “Hell, I know I can do worse; I’ve seen your retirement program in action. But I think I’ve got something you need.” McCormick paused.

The man in the overcoat raised his eyebrows speculatively. “What might you have, and what do you want?”

“I have a file, Hardcastle’s file, with the name ‘Tilton’ on it: copies of memos, financial records.”

“Copies?”

“Unique, I believe; he hasn’t had time to make copies of the copies,” McCormick added quickly. “A police lieutenant showed up at Hardcastle’s door yesterday, talked to him about the case, and some missing evidence.” The man nodded, McCormick went on, “Hardcastle got all excited. He keeps a lot of files, you know. He was rummaging around in them like a crazy man yesterday, put together an envelope full of stuff--nearly bit my head off when it looked like I picked it up this morning.”

“‘Looked like’?”

“He didn’t know I’d already pulled a switch, real early this morning. I put another envelope in its place, one he’d left lying around, so if he happened to look he’d just think he’d gotten confused and misplaced the first one.” McCormick allowed himself a smile of self-satisfaction.

“And the original envelope is--“?

“Safe,” McCormick grinned, “and accessible.”

“And negotiable?” The man added.

“That, too.”

“Hmm. You may be more useful to me than I had originally thought. But before we get to that end of the deal, I have another very important task for you.”

McCormick said nothing, but tried to look willing. Willing turned to nervous as the goon put the camera down on the table and stepped forward.

“Battered, but not unconscious,” the overcoat man instructed, like he was ordering a meal. “After this,” he nodded at McCormick, “we’ll make a phone call. And you will be very convincing.”

Hardcastle had forgotten how much he hated the ‘meanwhile, back at the ranch’ part of a kidnapping. It had taken him all of five minutes to take out another manila envelope and put the second copies in it. Now he sat at the desk, studying the phone, willing it to ring.  

Frank had returned from the kitchen with coffee and sandwiches. “Eat. You’re gonna wish you had later on.”  

Hardcastle did as he was told, not having any appetite but also not having the energy to argue about it. Then he went back to watching the phone.

He was in a house, on the floor, not quite sure how he’d gotten there. He thought he hadn’t passed out until the goon cut the ropes and stood him up, after the beating. So technically the guy hadn’t violated his boss’s orders. Good, ‘cause otherwise Tilton might run out of goons.

There was someone moving around, out of his line of sight, and instructions being given. He remembered the flash of light right before they’d untied him. Oh, great, pictures. He’d hoped to stave off the phone call for a little while, till he could get his head together and remember the script, but now he’d have to get it done before that photo made it to Hardcastle’s doorstep. There was no way the judge would think he was still in control here once he saw that. You are still in control here, aren’t you? Yes, some little part of his mind reassured him.  

He waited patiently until the goon left, then managed a groan of returning consciousness, executed subtly and with great verisimilitude.

The phone rang.

Hardcastle punched the speaker button and the record switch simultaneously, not waiting for a second ring. Frank froze where he’d been pacing, halfway between the desk and the doorway. The judge said, “Hello?”

“Hi, Hardcase,” it was McCormick, this time without the tinny overlay of a tape recorder, but with an edge of fatigue to his voice that hadn’t been there earlier. “Just listen a minute, will ya? I need to tell you something and I don’t want you to go off yelling at me. See, maybe I was a little out of line this morning and, well, you know being smart-mouthed is kind of like riding a bicycle or skipping stones; it comes back to you real quick, you don’t have to dig down very far to find it.”

After a scant moment the judge replied, “Yeah, I understand that.”

“Yeah, well, I hoped you would. Anyway,” he plunged ahead, “I hope I didn’t mess things up too much between us--dammit, will ya give me a sec?” And some muffled sounds. It took a moment for Hardcastle to realize the last words had not been addressed to him. “Listen, he says you’ll get another call later tonight. Wait- -” Then the line went dead.

Hardcastle sat there listening to the silence for a moment then got up. Frank followed him out into the hallway, and then back through the house to the patio. The judge stood there for a few moments, saying nothing, staring out toward the ocean.

“Well?” Frank finally interrupted, “Now what?”

Hardcastle jerked himself back from wherever his mind had been, fixed Frank with a look of decision, and announced, “I need a large ziplock bag and a shovel.”




PART II

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