PART II
by the Gull's-Way Collective
For Author's Notes please see part one.
McCormick scanned the small room slowly, not really moving his head. It appeared to be an unused spare bedroom. A twin bed covered with a plain brown spread was pushed against one wall, an equally non-descript nightstand sitting next to it. The bed didn’t give the impression of being freshly made, rather it simply seemed idle, and Mark was certain the two drawer dresser on the opposite wall was empty. The armchair in which he sat-and its mate sitting not far from him-seemed out of place, and he decided they’d been brought in for just this occasion. The one small window was covered completely with heavy beige drapes, blocking any trace of the outside world.
All in all, not very cozy, but he was glad they had decided not to drag him back out to the shed. It was warmer here in the house, and this chair was much more comfortable than the straight-back he’d been tied to earlier. Besides, he thought the cushy side padding was probably the only thing keeping him from falling over at the moment.
When he had first been left alone here after the rather memorable photo shoot, McCormick had rejoiced at being left untied, thinking he might have the opportunity to escape. But that had been before he tried to get up off the floor. The speed with which his muscles had collapsed beneath him made clear that photography wasn’t really his jailer’s natural calling.
After a few moments of breathing through the pain, he had tried again to stand, but had finally settled for making it to his hands and knees, then dragging himself the short distance across the floor and up into this chair. Then he had sat, ragged breaths coming far too quickly, trying to assess the damage.
There was blood on the floor where he’d been lying, and his face hurt like hell, so a bloody nose and busted lip seemed almost a certainty. He traced his fingers gingerly across his face and felt the damp stickiness that confirmed his suspicions. He winced as he brushed across the various gashes and lumps. He also couldn’t see so well out of the left eye, but the lid was too swollen to easily determine if it had actually been cut open.
His arms and legs seemed intact, the benefit, he supposed, of being tied safely out of the way during the beating. Tilton’s goon had shown a definite preference for blows to the torso, and he thought it would be something of a miracle if there wasn’t a cracked rib or two.
He had been in the middle of this physical inventory when Tilton and his henchman had reentered the room. Despite the futility of the effort, McCormick had tried to rise quickly to his feet, hoping to somehow take advantage of the open door. The beefy goon had actually snickered when McCormick plopped helplessly back down into the chair, so when he had approached with the portable phone, the prisoner had snaked out his foot to trip the guy, then kicked him in the shin when he stumbled. The childish maneuver had accomplished nothing-except earning another whack to the side of the head-but McCormick had felt better afterward. And Tilton had laughed. McCormick thought that might be handy somewhere down the line.
After the phone call, Tilton and his goon had left him alone again, and now-probably close to an hour after he had grated out his few words to Hardcastle-McCormick thought he might be ready to try walking again. He pushed himself out of the chair, waited a few seconds, then took a tentative step away from its support. Okay, still standing. Perfect.
He walked slowly across the room and-for no reason other than the fear of being stupidly held captive in an unlocked room-tried the doorknob. Not surprisingly, it was locked, but at least he knew for sure.
He continued a slow tour around the room, taking everything in, though there wasn’t much to see. As he walked, he thought back to the phone call. He was pretty sure Hardcastle was still on the same page with him about the documents; that would be critical. He thought briefly that he might be risking a lot for only “pretty sure”, but the judge hadn’t let him down yet. It seemed unlikely he would start now.
Just as important, Hardcastle still sounded okay. Not too tense, so Frank must be keeping him under control. Of course, he hasn’t seen the pictures yet, he thought. But at least the donkey hadn’t ordered him to back off his plan. That was good, if maybe just a tiny bit worrisome. It couldn’t possibly be a good thing for the hostage to be more in control of a situation than the guys who were supposed to rescue him.
McCormick had reached the window, and discovered that the closed shutters on the outside blocked the view much more effectively than the drapes on the inside, when he heard the door open. He turned slowly to see Tilton glide into the room, followed by his favorite muscle man. It was fascinating to him-in a rather detached sort of way-to watch the goon scan the room alertly, as if the unarmed, beaten prisoner could somehow put together some sort of assault against the prison keepers. Then, at an almost invisible movement of Tilton’s hand, the guy set about moving one of the armchairs so that the two were perfectly placed for a quiet little tête-à-tête. Wonderful.
McCormick looked coolly across the room. “Something I can do for you, Mr. Tilton?”
“I thought it was time for a private conversation,” Tilton replied, with the barest glance at his companion. Without comment-but with a menacing glare at McCormick-the other man left the room.
As Tilton moved smoothly to take one of the cushioned seats, Mark looked closely at the lines of his suit. The clothes hung well, but he was certain the .38 was safely in place in a shoulder holster. He saw the man motion to the other seat, and heard his silky voice say, “Join me.”
The young man briefly contemplated resisting just on principle, but that wasn’t going to get him very far. Besides, with all the aches and pains in his body, he probably wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet indefinitely, anyway. Might as well sit while it wouldn’t appear to be a necessity. He forced a normal gait as he crossed the room to claim the remaining chair. He sat for just a moment, observing Tilton, then said, “So what’s on your mind?” He thought he managed just the right tone of conversational interest.
“Hardcastle,” Tilton replied simply. “He should be receiving the photos soon.”
“Then I hope I look better than I feel,” McCormick replied lightly, never letting on that he would’ve done just about anything to keep Hardcastle from seeing him like this.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Tilton told him seriously. “My associate is very fond of his work.”
“So I noticed.”
“Good. I’m glad you recognize his proficiencies. You should also be aware that he’s waiting just outside the door. His current directive is very simple: you are not to leave this room. If you do, I’ll kill him.”
McCormick produced the faintest of smiles. “That’s quite the incentive plan you’ve got there, Mr. Tilton.” He paused, then added, “But I’m not looking for a repeat performance. Besides, I thought you and I were on our way to working out a deal; I’d rather take my chances with you.”
Tilton returned the smile. “My associate will be saddened to hear that. I think he’s hoping you’ll give him another opportunity to hone his skills. He’s not really all that fond of you, you know,” he added, almost conspiratorially.
“And here I thought we were getting along so well,” McCormick replied sardonically.
With a small chuckle, Tilton steered the conversation back on track. “Before we discuss the negotiable envelope you mentioned earlier, Mr. McCormick, I’d like to talk about Judge Hardcastle.”
“Biggest donkey in the world,” Mark answered. “Next topic?”
“It’s not quite that simple.”
The young man sighed. “Nothin’s that simple with Hardcastle. What about him?”
“I am still intrigued by the nature of your relationship. What do you suppose his reaction will be to the photographs?”
McCormick studied his captor for a long moment. The complete truth was out of the question, of course, but was a lie necessary? Probably not. “I guess he’ll be kinda upset.”
“Because he cares about you?” Tilton clarified.
Mark pretended to consider the question carefully, then answered slowly, “Nah, not exactly. I mean, a little bit, I guess, but mostly it’ll be because he wasn’t able to stop you. He thinks the good guys always win.”
“And does he consider you one of the good guys?”
Careful now. “Most of the time, I guess.” McCormick paused, then asked, “But what’s all this to you? I have the papers that will let you win. Let’s work this out, Mr. Tilton.”
“And what would you get out of our deal?” Tilton asked, his tone suddenly cold.
“You mean other than the rather sizeable benefit of living through this adventure?” He saw Tilton’s quick nod and continued, “Maybe a little traveling money. I’d like to set up residence somewhere out from underneath the Hardcastle thumb.”
“So maybe you’re really not one of the good guys,” Tilton commented, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.
McCormick narrowed his eyes and allowed a bitter edge to creep into his voice. “All right, let’s stop all this tap dancing around, and I’ll just lay it out for you. I spent two of the longest years of my life in San Quentin courtesy of Milton Hardcastle. It was an absolutely bogus rap, but he just sat there on his bench with his high and mighty attitude and sent me away. And when I got out, he was like some kind of crazy stalker: always on my ass, everywhere I went and everything I did.” He forced a sneer onto his face as he picked up speed. “Then, in what has to be the worst piece of luck in the history of the world, I got busted again and landed back in his court. He had this ridiculous idea that he could rehabilitate some poor, misguided felon by taking him in and forcing him into slavery out at his estate. That’s where I come in. I figured cleaning gutters and cutting grass was better than being back inside, so I signed up.” McCormick shook his head slightly. “Today isn’t the first time I’ve regretted that choice,” he added intently.
“Gutters and grass, did you say, Mr. McCormick? I thought the judge recruited you to join his private vigilante committee.”
McCormick shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s the word I would use,” he answered, knowing he couldn’t really defend Hardcastle’s work, but unwilling to let the label stand, “but, I do help him with his cases when he needs it, yeah; it was all part of the deal.”
“And what was to be your role in my case?”
With another shake of his head, McCormick allowed his honest frustration to show. “I didn’t have one. Yesterday when that cop showed up at the house was the first I’d ever heard of you, and even then, Hardcastle didn’t want to give up the details. He just kept being all secretive about everything. I swear, sometimes he forgets I’m the guy standing next to him when all the shooting starts, and it would be nice if I had some friggin’ idea when I should duck.”
Tilton offered a sympathetic smile. “He does seem to play by his own rules most of the time.”
And in those few words, McCormick heard something new: an air of familiarity that he hadn’t noticed before and that he didn’t like one little bit. What the hell is really going on here? To his captor he said, “Yeah, you know Hardcastle: ‘my way or the highway’. Only in my case, the highway leads right back to Quentin, so I don’t have a lot of options.
“But when I saw the way he was acting when he was talking about you, and when he was gathering up those papers of his, I suddenly thought some new options might be presenting themselves. That’s why I snagged the papers, so I’d be in a better position to take advantage of whatever came along.” He gestured around the room, then added ruefully, “All this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Tilton’s smile spread. “I like your attitude, Mr. McCormick.”
“You’d be the only one,” McCormick muttered.
“Yes, now back to Judge Hardcastle. What will he think if we should make this deal?”
What does this guy want to hear? “He’ll be pissed,” McCormick answered quickly. Then, more quietly, he added, “And I guess he’ll be surprised.”
“Because he considers you one of the good guys,” Tilton observed in his silky voice, and McCormick was certain there was a hint of satisfaction in the tone. “Mr. McCormick, I believe that we can do business. Would you consider fifteen thousand a fair amount of traveling money?”
“I was actually thinking twenty five,” McCormick countered calmly.
Tilton smiled. “You do understand that I could kill you?”
“I do. And I assume you understand that if Hardcastle stumbles across those files after I’m dead he’ll come after you again, and you will have lost whatever leverage you may have.”
Tilton inclined his head. “A fair point. We could compromise at twenty.”
McCormick felt himself relax slightly. “Deal.”
“Good. Now if you’ll tell me where the papers are, my associate and I will retrieve them.”
McCormick hesitated. “Actually, Mr. Tilton, it would be best if you let me retrieve them.”
“As much as I like your style, Mr. McCormick,” Tilton said with a laugh, “we need to keep this reasonable. I am not prepared to release you until I have those documents.”
“No, of course not,” McCormick said quickly. “I certainly didn’t mean I should go alone. I just meant it would be easier if I went with you. They’re in kind of an unusual place.”
Tilton examined his prisoner carefully. “Maybe I should have my associate drive you,” he said, his voice suddenly losing all traces of congeniality.
Mark swallowed tightly, wondering if there were warning signs for when Tilton’s anger switch was gonna flip. He wanted to push buttons, but it would be nice to know where the lines were. But still, it wouldn’t do to back down from such a subtle threat. “Not for nothin’, Mr. Tilton,” he said, maintaining his composure, “but your associates aren’t exactly battin’ a thousand today. They didn’t manage to get your documents, they were shooting at Hardcastle against your orders, and they sure as hell got it wrong about me and the judge.”
He thought quickly, then continued, “Now look, I put the papers on the beach, so what do you want me to tell you for directions? It’s under the sand? Check by some rocks? Do you really trust your associate to manage that by himself? Besides, it’s a private beach. If you go in through Hardcastle’s property-which I don’t recommend-you’re gonna need my help with the security. And if you do the logical thing and go up the shore, you’re still gonna need someone who belongs there, and that’s still me. Face it; it’s better for everyone if you take me along.”
Tilton sat quietly for a long moment, appearing to consider his options. Finally, he rose from his chair. “Very well,” he said, as he turned for the door. “We will make arrangements to do this your way. But, Mr. McCormick…please don’t forget that it is of very little consequence to me whether you live or die.”
And as McCormick watched Tilton glide out of the room, he wished he could believe those final words. But, somehow, he thought that Tilton had a very definite preference concerning his fate, and he was suddenly convinced the man was hoping for a reason to kill him.
“There,” Hardcastle said, as he replaced the last shovelful of sand, “that should do it.”
Harper looked at his friend doubtfully. “You sure this isn’t an awful long shot?”
“Nah,” the judge answered absently as he rearranged the sand to his liking, “not really. Lots of things about McCormick might be, but not this. He’s runnin’ some kind of play, and he needs this stuff available.”
The detective continued to watch silently. The cop in him wanted to caution Hardcastle not to get his hopes up, to prepare him for the idea that this situation might not end well, especially with everything currently riding on secret messages coming from a man with a gun to his head.
But the friend in him couldn’t do it. He understood how difficult this was for Hardcastle-thought, in fact, he might be one of the few people the judge would allow to understand. He knew his friend was still scared, but in the hour or so since the call from McCormick, Harper had watched some of the empty horror leave the judge’s eyes to be replaced with a much more typical determination. The opportunity to speak to the young man had done wonders for Hardcastle, and now the judge had dedicated himself to doing whatever McCormick needed.
Harper didn’t have the heart to take that away, so he stuck to safer ground. “So how can you be sure this is the place?”
Hardcastle gestured to the rocks around him. “Because this is where- -” he broke off suddenly, caught up in a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted to share. He glanced again at the large rocks on the shore-picturing the sincere face of a friend-then smiled gently as he returned his attention to Harper. “Because this is where the stones skip the best.” He nodded confidently. “This is the place.” He made one last swipe at the sand at his feet, then seemed satisfied. “C’mon,” he said, motioning Harper to follow him back up off the beach, “we gotta find our hiding spots.”
As it turned out, finding hiding spots had proven more difficult than they had imagined, and, after twenty minutes, they’d decided there were far too many variables. Who would be coming after the papers, and when? Would they come from the estate side, or try to approach from the beach? Would there be an opportunity to take down whoever showed up, or should they just plan on following them back to Tilton, and-presumably-McCormick? And most importantly, just what the hell was McCormick planning? Hardcastle was grumbling forcefully as they made their way up the path back to the house.
“Damn fool, kid. Gives me just enough information to get started, but no idea what’s actually running through that bunch of rocks he likes to call brains. Don’t know what he thinks I’m supposed to do. He needs to break out that secret decoder ring of his and tell me where the hell he is, instead of sending me out to the beach like some kinda errand boy.”
Harper chuckled as they approached the patio; it was good to see Hardcastle returning to normal. “So as a super secret agent, he’s not exactly Captain Midnight. You know kids; he’s probably trying for James Bond.”
“James Bond?” the judge groused with a grin, “He’s barely Maxwell Smart.” He waved toward the outdoor chairs. “Let’s wait out here for the next call. We can at least keep an eye on the beach, and we can talk. I’ll go grab us something cold to drink.”
“I’ll walk in with you,” Harper answered. “I should make another call to the station, see if there’s anything new. Tilton needs to think we’re still working this on the up and up.”
Hardcastle nodded, and led the way inside. “I’ll make some tea,” he said as they entered the kitchen. He had just started filling the pitcher when the front bell rang.
Already halfway down the hall, Harper called back, “Want me to get that?” but Hardcastle suddenly pushed past him and hurried to the door.
“Milt!” Harper admonished as he rushed to reach the entryway himself. “At least let me get situated here a minute.” Pulling his weapon from its holster, he positioned himself flat against the wall behind the door just before Hardcastle pulled it open.
“Yeah?” He had intended to control his bellow a bit more than that.
The unusual greeting visibly startled the young, gangly deliveryman standing on the porch. He looked uncertainly between the clipboard in his hand and the man standing in front of him.
“Uh…I- I’m looking…” he glanced down again quickly, then back up. “Hardcastle? I’m looking for Milton Hardcastle.”
“Well ya found him,” Hardcastle growled in reply. “Whatcha got?”
“Pa- -package,” the man told him, holding up a small padded envelope. “I just need you to, uh, sign for it,” he continued, slipping his clipboard smoothly in front of the judge’s outstretched hand. Hardcastle snatched the board, removed the attached pen, and scrawled his name quickly, then shoved it back at the younger man impatiently.
The courier gathered his clipboard and passed the envelope to Hardcastle, who grunted a quick, “Thanks,” then turned and ducked back into the house.
Harper grinned slightly at the exchange, and came out from behind the door, quickly holstering the gun. He stepped out onto the porch. “Was there some kind of delivery receipt?” he asked. The kid was mumbling something about crazy rich people, so Frank traded him a couple of dollars for the paper he handed over.
The lieutenant closed and locked the front door, and entered into the den just as Hardcastle was slitting the manila envelope with the letter opener. He heard the judge mutter crossly, “Maybe this’ll finally tell us what he wants,” and then he watched in growing concern as the color drained from his friend’s face and the judge collapsed heavily into the chair behind the desk.
“God, kid, I’m sorry.”
Hearing Hardcastle’s quiet groan of despair spurred Harper into action, and he moved quickly across the room. “What is it?” he asked urgently, reaching out to take the items from Hardcastle’s hand. At first, he thought he might have to literally pry them from the clenched fingers, but a gently spoken command got through and Hardcastle released his grip.
Harper glanced down at the two Polaroid photographs in his hand. The first one was a wide shot showing McCormick bound tightly to a chair in an empty room of some sort. His head was slumped down, chin resting on his chest, with his eyes barely open. His face was covered in blood, but not so much blood that the newly forming bruises weren’t visible. Harper was pretty sure the restraints were the only thing keeping the kid upright.
The second photo was just a close-up view; only Mark’s face filled the small square. The cuts and bruises were much more palpable when magnified, and Harper would swear he could read the pain in the young man’s eyes.
And in the white bar below the photo, written in perfectly formed letters, a message was printed: WE’RE NOWHERE CLOSE TO EVEN.
Frank Harper stared impatiently at the stoic face across the table. It had taken all of the detective’s control to get the other man out of the house without exploding. He had never seen Milton Hardcastle shut down so quickly and completely. When it became clear that the judge wasn’t going to talk-not even to put on a show-Harper had quietly said, “You look like you could use some fresh air, Milt.” And while he mostly just wanted to get Hardcastle outside so they could speak freely, the words had still been true; the judge remained almost as pale as when he’d first seen the photographs, and the lines on his face were drawn with worry.
At Harper’s urging, the older man had allowed himself to be steered out of the house, and that docile acceptance was almost more troublesome than anything else that had happened today.
Then they had sat quietly at the outdoor table for many long moments while Hardcastle learned to control the subtle trembling that had started with opening the envelope. Harper tolerated the continued silence even as he himself posed the most simple and reasonable of questions. But it didn’t take long for the lieutenant’s fear and concern to manifest itself as anger.
“Dammit, Milt, what’s going on?”
Hardcastle attempted a shrug. “The kid just looked really bad,” he said dully, not meeting Harper’s eyes.
“Of course he did. But I don’t think that’s all this is about. What was up with that note on the picture? What is going on with you and Tilton?”
“He knows I can put him away,” the judge answered, shaking his head. “You’re the one that said he wasn’t planning on going to jail.”
“Nice try,” Harper answered blandly, “but you wanna give it another shot?”
A judicial eyebrow raised in a pretty good imitation of confusion. “What do you mean?”
But Harper would not be drawn into pointless conversation. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what we’re up against.”
“You know Tilton,” Hardcastle answered non-committally.
“And I know you,” Harper snapped. “And I know sometimes Mark isn’t the only one around here with rocks in his head. What was with the picture? What did Tilton mean about being even? You might’ve been a pain in his ass before, but you didn’t manage to put him behind bars, so what’s he got to get even for? What is it really that has you so scared right now? What in the hell is going on?”
The judge almost managed a smile at Frank’s litany of questions, but he shook his head. “Whatever he’s talking about isn’t important. But I’m ready for him to stop the games and just tell me what he wants me to do. I gotta get McCormick out of there.”
Harper could hear the barely controlled desperation in the tone. Whatever Hardcastle wasn’t saying had shaken him badly. “This isn’t just about your testimony, is it?” the detective pressed, determined to avoid the brush-off. And while the judge debated on an answer, Harper remembered suddenly how strange it had seemed that McCormick had been completely unaware of the Tilton situation until yesterday, and some of the pieces clicked into place. “Tilton isn’t really planning on any sort of trade, is he, Milt?”
And while Hardcastle had spent the day trying to convince himself that this nightmare was only about testimony and missing evidence, the arrival of the photograph had robbed him of that comforting delusion. Drawing in a shaky breath, he finally met the eyes of his friend, and forced himself to face the truth. “No,” he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t think he’s gonna trade. I think he’s trying to settle a score. And I think killing Mark would make us even.”
McCormick contemplated the bed as he listened to the sounds of movement from outside the locked door. One of his two captors had left in the car. An excellent time for a jailbreak, Mark thought, except for the part where I fall over if I try to move too fast. The bed was looking more and more inviting, though part of him was convinced that once he lay down on it he would never find the will power to stand up again.
He couldn’t tell what time it was; no outside light penetrated the shutters on the only window. He heard the return of the car, an outer door opening, and some muffled conversation from the front of the house. A moment later he heard the door of his own room being unlocked.
He tried not to tense up. It was becoming harder to stay focused, keep the story straight, figure out what to say. Some water would be nice. The door opened. Tilton’s goon glanced at him briefly from the doorway and then stepped back, Tilton moving past him smoothly. The goon followed along behind, went to the nightstand, and slid it over between the two armchairs. He exited without a word.
“You’re not looking too well, Mr. McCormick.” Tilton had a half-smile as he surveyed him. “You really ought to have taken advantage of your accommodations.” He gestured toward the bed.
“I’m good here,” McCormick replied laconically.
“Well, at least we must have you eat something,” Tilton added, continuing his dreadful parody of the ever-thoughtful host. The goon had lumbered back into the room, looking put-upon and carrying an ancient enameled tray on which there was a plate, sandwiches and, more importantly, a water glass. He set his burden down on the nightstand and then gave his boss one quick sideward look before turning to the door. The goon’s not happy, McCormick thought.
Tilton took his accustomed seat as his associate departed. His smile became more expansive and Mark noted his eyes were darker, and his breathing a little fast. Well, maybe he’s less crazy when he’s doing drugs. Tilton leaned forward and McCormick had to steel himself not to shy away.
“Things are moving along nicely,” Tilton spoke conspiratorially. “I’m going to need you to make one last phone call.” Then he sat back. “But you really must eat.” Tilton picked up the glass of water and held it out.
McCormick tried not to appear too eager as he reached for it. He noticed his hand was shaking and he knew Tilton was seeing it as well. Dammit, just drink the water. This is not a damn pissing contest. He found himself pushing down an entirely inappropriate smile at this metaphor. He took a drink and then lifted his eyes again. He could see that Tilton had turned thoughtful.
“Something amuses you, Mr. McCormick?”
“Nothing. Everything.” McCormick took another long swallow. Then he took an uncalculated risk. “I was just trying to figure out which one of you is crazier.” He held his breath for a moment. This could go so badly wrong, but he felt like he had Tilton just slightly off-balance and the urge to keep pushing was overwhelming.
The silence strung out for a moment. No immediate blow to the head, that was good. He went on, “I know why I hate the old donkey; I did two years hard time on account of him. But you . . . street shoot-outs, all of this,” he gestured to the room and himself, “you’re way out of my league.”
“Why, Mr. McCormick,” Tilton was smiling again, but this smile had the knife edge of pure evil, “I do believe that is some sort of back-handed compliment.” Tilton sat back further in his chair and crossed his leg, as though he was settling in for a long visit. “Mark--may I call you Mark?”
“You can call me anything you like as long as I get my twenty thousand,” McCormick replied.
Tilton sighed. “It’s all about the money for you young people today, isn’t it?” The remark sounded casual but there was something deeper in Tilton’s dark eyes. McCormick wanted to look away but could not.
“Loyalty is nothing for you.” There was an undercurrent of barely-contained anger in Tilton’s voice now. The mood had changed with the sudden swiftness of a summer storm. “Someone offers you . . . everything, and you throw it back in their face.” Tilton was still sitting back, but his face was flushed and his breathing more shallow, as though he was only just controlling the urge to strike out.
But control it he did, and Mark got the increasing impression that the remarks were not entirely directed at him. He feels betrayed. Well, not by Hardcastle, surely. But I’ll bet the old donkey knows who.
Tilton had regained some of his composure. The smile was back, entirely artificial but a welcome change from what lay beneath. He reached forward and took the now-empty glass from McCormick’s hand and nudged the plate closer to him on the tray.
“Eat. Then we’ll make that call.”
Frank listened quietly, and with growing horror, to the tale Hardcastle told.
“And the body was never found,” the judge finished, his face drawn and his voice cracking with fatigue.
“How come this isn’t part of Tilton’s record?” Harper finally interjected.
“He made sure the rumors got back to me, but that’s what it was, all rumors. Larry was, what?-twenty-one. Guys that age up and leave home. It happens. Only this kid had come to me, trying to get out from under his father’s dealings. And I told him he was doing the right thing. Patted him on the back. Told him we’d set something up with the D.A.”
“Milt, he was an adult. He knew what his father was, and he knew the risk he was taking.”
“Yeah, but McCormick didn’t.”
The two men sat for a while in silence. The judge’s eyes were drawn toward the sea. Frank couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t come across as a pointless platitude. The rumors that Tilton had made sure were passed along to Hardcastle were gruesome enough to justify Milt’s worst fears.
“You know,” Frank began, hesitantly, “it sounds like Mark’s doing his best to convince Tilton you’re nothing to him.”
“Won’t matter,” the judge said quietly, “unless I can make Tilton believe the kid means nothing to me.” They watched the last bit of sun slip past the clouds and into the sea.
“Stick to the script,” Tilton advised, “nothing more, nothing less.” He passed the paper over to McCormick, who looked down at it for a moment.
“What’s my motivation?” Mark cocked an eyebrow up at him, then held a palm up against Tilton’s sudden frown. “Seriously, do you still want me to make nice to the guy, or what?”
Tilton gritted his teeth, “Whatever it takes to get him there.”
“Then don’t give me this crap to read,” McCormick crumpled the sheet in one hand and tossed it back at the other man. “I’ve been talking to Hardcase for two years; I know what to say and what not to say.”
“Very well,” Tilton replied, “just as long as you understand, if he doesn’t show, I’ll kill you.” He dialed the phone and handed it over.
Mark listened. One ring, two, then a familiar voice on the other end saying a gruff, “Yeah?”
“Hi, Judge,” McCormick could hear the sound of crickets in the background, night noises. He’s out by the pool. Somehow the familiarity of the image was comforting. He spoke slowly, weighing every word. “He wants a meet. An exchange.”
“Are you all right?” More gruffness, a lot of tension. He’s seen the damn photos.
“Yeah, I will be when this is over.” No permanent damage, yet. “He wants you, alone, with the papers, on the beach at eleven tonight. I said you’d probably tell him to go pound sand.” Say no, for God’s sake. Tilton gestured for the phone. Mark said, “Wait,” and then into the receiver, “Good-bye,” but Tilton had his hand on the phone and had taken it away before he could hear if the judge had replied.
“Well, Judge,” Tilton continued smoothly, “I hope you haven’t already gifted that file to the D.A.” There was a brief pause. Mark couldn’t make out the words from the other end. “Good then. Eleven it is. I’ll be looking forward to it.” Tilton thumbed the receiver off and looked at McCormick speculatively. “Well, Mark, what do you think? Is he sincere?”
McCormick shook his head wearily. “I think you’ve made a big mistake. He must know by now that he doesn’t have the file, unless he’s just plain forgotten to look in the envelope. And, even if he did, he’d never exchange it for me. My guess is he’ll have some heavy-duty police back-up waiting for you on that beach.”
“Even if he knows I have a gun to your head?”
“Yeah, not much new there.” McCormick said, aiming for a tone of bitter resignation. “Just means he’ll have to make another trip down to Bauchet Street on Monday. Can’t let the hedges get too raggedy.”
“Hmm,” Tilton eyed him narrowly. “I think we’ll just have to take our chances.”
Hardcastle had paced out to the back edge of the yard and was staring down onto the fast-darkening beach below. Frank was a few feet behind him.
“Well?” Harper asked exasperatedly.
Hardcastle looked over his shoulder, then back at the beach. “He wants a meet, down there, eleven tonight.”
“But Milt, he thinks you know you don’t have the file.”
“He doesn’t want the damn file, Frank. The file’s a McGuffin, a red herring,” Hardcastle explained impatiently. “The problem is, if I’m willing to exchange myself for McCormick, then he’ll know he’s worth killing.” Hardcastle shook his head.
“Then don’t go down there, Milt, if you can’t do any good by it. Let me call the Coast Guard, and get my guys in place.”
“There’s no way they can pull Mark out of this alive.” Hardcastle shook his head. “No, I gotta go. There’s still a chance. It all depends how good McCormick’s little song and dance has been. If Tilton believes him, maybe that’ll be enough for now. I dunno,” Hardcastle put his hand to his forehead, “I wish to hell I did.”
“Time to go, Mark.” It was Tilton, jostling his shoulder. He probably hadn’t intended to be painful this time, but the jolt that shot through his left ribs had McCormick instantly awake, groaning. Tilton looked down at him with amused sympathy. “Sorry about that.”
The goon stepped up from behind Tilton with the familiar black hood and a pair of handcuffs.
“Is this necessary?” McCormick asked carefully, though he was actually relieved to see the hood; not bothering with a blindfold might have had serious implications at this point.
“Yes,” Tilton said without any apparent anger, “ours is a relationship built on necessity, not trust . . . like that between you and the judge.”
McCormick turned that statement around, pondering the double meaning as he was nudged none-too-gently forward in his seat so the handcuffs could be applied. He looked up again at Tilton. The man was smiling, the dark glitter gone from his eyes. What was left was old and weary. Maybe he hasn’t believed a word I’ve said about Hardcastle. And the hood was brought down over his head.
It was a cloudy, cool night with no moon. Hardcastle studied the western horizon, listening to a distant engine, looking for what would be the nearly invisible outline of a boat operating without running lights, coming straight in. Behind him, back in the first rise of dunes near the cliffs, was Frank, with a rifle from the Hardcastle armamentarium, and strict instructions not to use it unless . . .
The judge couldn’t bring himself to think about the ‘unless’. How convincing had the kid been? He was pretty good, but he didn’t know Tilton. Now whose fault is that?
And, even if McCormick had sold him the whole bill of goods, would Tilton be willing to settle for digging up the files and reveling in Hardcastle’s betrayal? Maybe, oh please, God, maybe. Let him drop his guard for a moment, get his attention away from the kid for a few seconds. Hardcastle felt for the gun in his shoulder holster again. That would be all he’d need.
The hood had come off as they were approaching shore. Mark wasn’t sure he would have recognized the place in the dark, from this strange perspective, but Tilton apparently had done his research. The goon was steering, using the tiller of the outboard. McCormick felt the muzzle of Tilton’s .38 against his right ribs as the man reached behind him and undid the cuff from one wrist.
He heard a click as Tilton refastened it to his own. So much for escaping by diving overboard. McCormick thought Tilton was seriously overestimating his current physical capabilities. The choppy trip in the boat had left him breathless and shivering. Serves you right if I pass out on you when we stand up.
He saw the outline of a small boat, dark on dark, but visible now as a moving shape against the water. The engine had been cut to idle and the boat kissed the bottom and moved sideways, rocking. There were three figures on board. One stood up and stepped out into the shallow water. He pulled the boat in and steadied it while the second man got up and gestured to the third. They brought him. Hardcastle let out a breath and eased away from the rock he’d been leaning on, allowing himself to be seen.
They got out of the boat, awkward as hell. Hardcastle realized, after a moment’s observation, that Tilton had shackled the kid to his left wrist. Left to left, Tilton stood behind McCormick, using him as a shield, with the gun held up visible above his right shoulder. It was hard to tell what shape Mark was in, but at least he was walking.
Hardcastle kept his hands out loose at his sides, the envelope in his left; it wouldn’t do to make any sudden moves in this bad light. “Tilton? You ready to deal?”
“Not tonight, Judge.” Tilton leaned over to McCormick’s ear and said something too low for Hardcastle to hear. The kid was pointing to the seaward side of the rock closest to the shoreline. The third man reached into the boat, took out a shovel. He walked carefully behind the other two and toward the place Mark had pointed out.
Tilton lifted his head to face him again. “What’s in the envelope, Hardcastle?”
“The file,” Hardcastle shouted, “What you wanted.”
Tilton laughed and said something else inaudible to McCormick. The kid seemed to hesitate before replying.
“Okay,” Tilton’s smile was visible, even in the poor light, “you toss it down over here and step back a ways.”
“What about him?” Hardcastle gestured toward McCormick with envelope.
“Judge, your associate and I have another deal worked out,” Tilton was grinning broadly now, “right, Mark?” Tilton nudged him and McCormick nodded slowly. “I think he’s chosen ‘accessory after the fact’ as his new career move.”
“With the handcuffs and the gun? Come on, Tilton, you’re not even trying to make him look willing.”
“No, Judge.” Tilton shook his head. “I’m used to betrayal. I expect it. I know I don’t have this man’s loyalty, only his greed.” The grin was gone. “How much, Mark?”
There was another nudge. McCormick lifted his head. “Ah, twenty-five thousand?”
Tilton cuffed him lightly with the gun butt. “That’s twenty. I’m not in a good mood, young man.”
McCormick managed a shrug, “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He’d caught the judge’s eye and seemed to be speaking to him now.
From the rock came a grunted shout. The third man was leaning on the shovel with one hand, pulling something out of the sand. He held it up for Tilton to see.
Tilton turned back to Hardcastle. “That’s your file, Judge. Your associate here stole it this morning and buried it. If I hadn’t gotten him first, he would have come to me anyway.”
Hardcastle grabbed at the clasp of his own envelope and yanked open the flap, scrabbling at the contents. He looked up in disgust and took a few steps toward Tilton.
“Uh-uh,” Tilton gestured him to a halt, the goon coming up quickly from his left. “Stay right there, Judge. I know you’d like to have a few words with Mark, but we have other plans right now.” Tilton was edging back, with McCormick still in front of him. “Just for the record, what’s in your envelope, Hardcastle?”
Hardcastle looked down at it again, his voice layered with anger, “Receipts, car receipts.” He narrowed his eyes at McCormick, “Why?”
McCormick dropped his eyes for a moment. Tilton gave a little yank upward on the cuffs. “Answer the man, Mark.”
“Because,” Mark’s voice was flat and sullen. The silence stretched out. Tilton appeared to be waiting for something more.
Hardcastle felt a gnawing horror in the pit of his stomach. Dammit, kid, you can lie better than that. Hell, call me an overbearing donkey; that isn’t even a lie. But the silence went on until Tilton finally jerked the kid’s arm up harder and turned him toward the boat. The third man was carrying the shovel and the plastic bag, shuffling along a few steps behind.
McCormick stepped awkwardly on the turn, tangling his foot between Tilton’s and starting to go down. Tilton automatically reached out with his free hand, the gun moving away from McCormick’s head.
Hardcastle saw it all, and was reaching for his gun before he even spared a glance to the third man, who had dropped the shovel and was clearing his own gun from its holster. McCormick was falling sideways; the judge had a clear shot as he raised the barrel towards Tilton.
A shot rang out.
McCormick hit the sand hard on his right side, dragging Tilton to his hands and knees beside him at arm’s length. The roaring in his ears was one with the echo of a gunshot. He ignored the wave of pain from his ribs, trying to see what was happening through his tunneled down vision. He lifted his head to see past Tilton, who was already scrambling to his feet. There was a shape on the sand where the judge had been standing. The goon was moving toward it with gun drawn and pointed down.
Tilton was shouting, pulling Mark up by his wrist. There wasn’t any pain anymore, just a dead, uncomprehending numbness as he kept his eyes fixed on the shape in the sand.
“Check him,” Tilton screamed at the goon.
Shouts from farther up on the beach. A rifle shot. The goon clutched at his right shoulder with his left hand and stumbled back toward Tilton.
“He’s dead?” Tilton screamed again as he snatched at the fallen bag.
The goon nodded, shouted something unintelligible, and staggered toward the boat. McCormick felt himself being dragged along by Tilton. Half falling in the shallow water, he was pulled up over the side and dumped in the bottom of the boat. They were pushing off and the goon, dripping blood and water, fell in beside him.
Tilton snatched at the cord and the engine caught as they slid quickly into deeper water. McCormick heard one last shot, just wild frustration now; it couldn’t have had any other purpose. Frank, he supposed. Frank was all the back-up the judge had brought along.
The goon picked himself up and sat on the bench, muttering, still clutching his shoulder. Tilton let loose of the tiller for a moment and unfastened the handcuff from his wrist, not bothering to put it back on McCormick’s other.
Well, here’s your opportunity. They were far enough out. If he made it into the water, the goon would probably get off a few good shots. The guy was pissed as hell right now anyway. It would be fast and easy. He’d wash up in a couple of days. Maybe in time for a double funeral, even. And he’d never have to explain to Frank how he’d made such a total hash of this.
He was too cold to even shake now, and the only thing keeping him conscious was the twack-twack of pain in his ribs as the boat cut through the breakers. He felt a nudge from Tilton’s foot. “Come on now, Mark, up you go.” Tilton had him under the arm and was pulling again. “Special bonus, eh? Out from under the Hardcastle thumb for good this time, I’d say.”
I can’t do this anymore.
Yes, you can.
“Yeah,” he muttered. He dragged himself to his knees and let Tilton pull him onto the seat in front of him. He’d caught a glimpse of one hot spark in the middle of the cold core of despair. He wasn’t going until he could take Tilton with him.
Frank Harper rushed across the beach. He knew he had hit the guy who’d done the shooting at Hardcastle, but he also knew he hadn’t completely stopped him. And he sure as hell knew he hadn’t stopped Tilton from getting away with McCormick still in tow. He let the useless rifle fall to the ground, and dropped down next to the still figure. “Please,” he whispered frantically as he reached out to gently roll Hardcastle to his back, “don’t let me lose them both.”
Willing himself to professional detachment, he reached instinctively to feel for a pulse, then allowed his personal relief when he found one. “Thank God,” he breathed loudly. Then he reached into his jacket for the Maglite he had pocketed before staking out the beach. He thumbed the switch and the powerful beam split the night.
Harper immediately grimaced when he saw the bloody wound on the judge’s left temple. Reaching back into his pocket, he located a handkerchief, pressed it against the gash, then focused on a simple lesson learned long ago: Don’t forget to check for other injuries. He ran the light slowly over Hardcastle’s body, alert for more blood or any other signs of additional wounds. Finding nothing, he turned his attention back to the head wound. He didn’t want to remove the pressure, but he did want to find out exactly what he was dealing with. Standing the flashlight upright into the sand so that it gave off a small umbrella of light, Harper rifled through the judge’s jacket and found another handkerchief. He lifted his own away from Hardcastle’s head and was concerned to see the blood still flowing freely. He dabbed gently to clear some of the blood so that he could better see the wound, then grabbed the flashlight again and looked more closely. He relaxed just a bit when he realized that the open gash was not even two inches long, and not deep enough to be described as much more than a graze. He wiped again at the flowing blood, getting the area as clean as possible, then folded the clean cloth and pressed it against Hardcastle’s head.
Satisfied that immediate needs were taken care of, Harper rearranged his position in the sand, making a more comfortable seat for himself as he sat at his friend’s side. He glanced at his watch to start the mental countdown. Hardcastle’s injury did not seem life threatening, and he knew the judge would prefer not to have paramedics called. He was prepared to try and honor those wishes, but he would wait fifteen minutes, and no more. The detective still had some hope for McCormick’s safe return, and there was no way he was gonna tell that kid anything but good news about Hardcastle’s health. He looked quickly at his watch again, then shook his head. Fifteen minutes was going to seem like a very long time.
McCormick sat in grim silence in the backseat of the car. He wasn’t so much focused on the steady hum of the tires rolling over pavement as he was studiously ignoring Tilton’s blow-by-blow replay of the evening. The man was positively gloating, and his goon was more than happy to encourage him with well placed congratulatory remarks.
If Mark had been relieved before to have the black hood slipped over his head, he had been outright overjoyed this time. Nothing would give him away quicker than the hatred and despair he didn’t know how to control. He thought it very likely that the damned handcuffs were the only thing stopping him from reaching out and murdering Tilton with his bare hands. Somewhere, on the deepest of levels, he knew that the judge wouldn’t approve of that train of thought, but nothing seemed capable of moving past the single image that was burned in the forefront of his mind: the dark outline of Milton Hardcastle lying, unmoving, in the sand of Seagull Beach.
Hardcastle awoke, feeling the pressure on his head. Or maybe it was in his head, kind of hard to be sure. But he only had one thought as he struggled to sit up.
“McCormick?”
Harper lightly pressed on the judge’s shoulder, keeping him flat on the ground. “Hang on, Milt,” he said firmly, “don’t be trying to rush things here.”
Hardcastle focused his eyes on the face hovering above him. “Frank. Where’s the kid?” When he saw the lieutenant shake his head sadly, he closed his eyes, bracing himself. After a moment, he looked back up at Harper. “Tell me.”
The detective was matter-of-fact. “Not a lot to tell, Milt. They got away. I wounded the guy who hit you, but they were too close to the shore. Tilton dragged Mark back into the boat and they shoved off outta here.” He paused before adding, “I’m sorry.”
The judge shook his head. “Not your fault, Frank. I shouldn’t have underestimated him.” He pressed his palms down onto the sand. “Help me get up.”
“Milt- -”
“I said, help me,” Hardcastle interrupted. “I don’t intend to lounge here on the beach while that lunatic…while he has McCormick.”
Harper flashed a quick grin. “If this is your idea of lounging on the beach, it’s no wonder Mark never wants to let you plan the vacations.”
The judge was not amused. “Harper…”
The detective knew better than to argue with that particular tone. He placed the handkerchief into the judge’s hand, “This is for your head,” rose to his feet, and then helped Hardcastle do the same. “Okay?” he asked, keeping his hands on the judge’s shoulders to balance against the slight swaying.
Hardcastle nodded slowly as he put the cloth back up to cover his wound. “Yeah, I think so.” But he didn’t object to Harper’s helping hand, and they stood quietly for a moment while he steadied himself.
But as he stood in the dark, it didn’t take Hardcastle long to realize that his mental state was probably more unbalanced than his physical one. There was an anger burning in him deeper than he could ever remember, and his guilt was almost as overwhelming. No matter how he tried to twist it around in his brain, he came back again and again to the fact that McCormick was only in this position because of him, though the kid would undoubtedly remind him that there was nothing unusual about that.
But this time, McCormick wasn’t ready. He thought he’d been protecting the kid, keeping him in the dark about Tilton. He could see now how wrong that idea had been. If he had been more honest, at least Mark would’ve been just a little bit prepared when this disaster struck. Instead, the young man was operating in the dark. No matter what information Frank had given him the night before, it wasn’t enough. The kid was working blind, with no idea of how really crazy Tilton could be underneath his oh-so-charming exterior. McCormick could be running his mouth like always, never knowing how many different ways Tilton knew how to hurt someone…
“Milt? Milt!”
Harper’s voice seemed a long ways away, and Hardcastle could feel the hands tightening on his shoulders, as if he needed help to stay standing.
“Milt,” Harper was still talking, “can you hear me?” The way Hardcastle had lurched suddenly, and the way the little bit of color in his face had drained away-a terrible sight here in the darkness-had worried the detective. But now, staring into the blank eyes and hearing the low moan that escaped his friend’s lips was chilling. He spoke more urgently. “Can you hear me?” he repeated.
“Of course I can hear you,” Hardcastle finally snapped. At least, the judge had intended to snap. The words were really more of a mumble than anything else, almost unintelligible, but Harper was relieved.
“Okay.” The detective glanced around quickly. “How about if you sit down for a bit? I’ll go call the paramedics.” Harper tried to steer the older man back toward the rocks-at least he could lean against them-but Hardcastle wasn’t budging. Amazing how someone so seemingly on the verge of collapse could be so stubbornly planted in place.
“No paramedics,” Hardcastle was saying, “no time. Have to find the kid.”
Harper sighed silently. “We’ll find him, Milt, but you gotta take care of yourself, too.”
“No paramedics,” the judge repeated, his voice gaining strength. “Just help me back up to the house. Look,” he pulled the cloth away from his head, “it’s not even bleeding any more.” But he managed a small grin as he felt the blood begin to trickle down the side of his face. Putting the cloth back in place, he amended, “Well, it’s not bleeding much. I’ll bandage it up and we’ll be good to go.”
Harper found it within himself to return the grin. “Mark’s right,” he answered, “you are a donkey.” But he repositioned himself to Hardcastle’s side, made sure he had a good grip on his friend, then began the tedious process of moving up the path toward the house.
He felt himself begin to fall, and realized that he had fallen asleep against the now opening car door. The sudden movement was startling, painful, and-bound as he was-unstoppable. Then McCormick felt hands grab his shoulders to steady him again, and heard Tilton’s voice say, “I’ve got you, Mark,” in an almost comforting tone. It made his skin crawl, and he hoped the cool temperature and his still damp clothes would be blamed for the small shiver that ran over him.
“Thanks.” He forced out the single word as he let himself be helped out of the car, then was steered along in the proper direction. The air was cold and clear, and the night surprisingly quiet, so he assumed they were back at the house where they had started. “You could’ve dropped me off anywhere in town,” McCormick commented flatly as he was led through whatever outer rooms the house possessed. Then he heard a door close and felt the guiding hand release him, and knew he was back in the small, drab room. He fought down another shiver as he felt the hands again, this time releasing him from his shackles. He knew the hood would be coming off next, and he steeled himself. Get a grip, McCormick. It wasn’t time yet. He winced in the sudden light, but that wasn’t enough to block Tilton’s grin.
“Of course you have to be our guest tonight, Mark,” Tilton said amiably. “We haven’t completed the financial end of our agreement and the banks are closed.”
“I woulda trusted you with a check,” McCormick responded, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. He tried not to think about the idea that the banks would still be closed tomorrow.
Tilton chuckled briefly. “Yes, I bet you- -” He broke off and examined his prisoner more closely. McCormick hadn’t moved, not even to shake the circulation back into his hands after removing the cuffs. And his face, even with all its scrapes and bruises, was a frozen mask.
“McCormick?” When the young man didn’t answer, Tilton grabbed his arm and turned him roughly to put them directly face to face. “McCormick?” he asked again, anger creeping into his tone.
Mark shook his head, but after only a few seconds he could feel fingers digging into his arm, pressing deep into his muscle. He forced himself not to pull away. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” he finally said through gritted teeth.
Tilton jerked his hand away like it was on fire, and stared. “He matters to you,” he said slowly. And mingled with the anger and the surprise, Mark was certain he heard just a bit of envy.
McCormick stepped backward, putting space between them. “You know what matters to me?” he demanded, channeling his very real anger. “Staying out of prison. A relationship of necessity, that’s what you said. But what happened to my necessities? It might not have occurred to you, but as the only resident ex-con at Gull’s Way, a lot of suspicion points my way for a lot of things. Bad enough you’re shouting up and down the shoreline about me being an accessory, but when you leave the man laying dead in the sand, who do you think they’re going to come looking for?” He glared across the small distance. “Hardcastle was not the only person on that beach! I’m going to spend the rest of my life on the run because your hired hand doesn’t have sense enough not to go killin’ a judge.”
“Things did happen a bit unexpectedly,” Tilton admitted.
“Yeah, well, I thought you were supposed to be in control, Tilton.” McCormick didn’t even have time to register Tilton moving quickly to close the small distance between them, so the sudden backhand across his cheek caught him off guard. He raised his fist instinctively in defense, but Tilton intercepted it effortlessly, and Mark suddenly found himself spun around, arm twisted behind him, with a gun resting against his head. He forced himself not to force Tilton’s hand. It’s still not time.
“I think I preferred Mr. Tilton,” the older man snarled, “and I hope we can agree that I am in control.”
McCormick swallowed hard and nodded. There was a deeper anger in the silky voice now, and it gave Tilton a whole new level of creepiness. He willed his own tone to neutrality. “Sorry, Mr. Tilton.” He felt his arm twist further up his back one last time-for good measure, he supposed-then he was stumbling forward as Tilton shoved him away. By the time he turned back to face his captor, Mark was watching the man smooth his jacket back over the newly re-holstered .38.
The two men stood silently for several seconds, observing each other. McCormick finally ventured a simple query. “Now what?”
Tilton hesitated another moment, watching his captive closely, then a small smile returned to his face. “Now I believe we should get some rest. It’s late in a long day, and it looks like you are very close to collapse. You will find dry clothes in the closet, and then you should sleep. We will deal with tomorrow tomorrow.”
Again the tone had that strange air of comfort that McCormick found so disturbing. He watched Tilton glide himself out of the room, and McCormick wished briefly he had the energy to make the man regret the confidence with which he turned his back on his prisoner.
Mark heard the lock click into place on the closed door, and he shook his head slowly. Collapse, he thought bitterly. The man doesn’t know how right he is. He wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever, to pull inward on himself and never face the world again. And he wanted to scream, to cry out in anger and frustration and despair. Hardcastle was dead, and he needed desperately to grieve, but he was not afforded that luxury. He thought it was possible, if unlikely, that there was some kind of surveillance equipment in place in the room. And whether there was or wasn’t, there was no way to know when Tilton or his muscleman might walk back into the room, and he certainly couldn’t afford to be caught in the middle of the kind of break-down he could feel burning beneath his barely controlled surface.
After a moment’s thought, he decided that his own clothes were practically dry and he didn’t really have any interest in letting Tilton be the obliging host, so he ignored the closet and crossed the small room to lower himself slowly onto the bed. A million thoughts ran though his head, frenzied and chaotic. What did Tilton really mean to happen out on that beach? Why does he hate the judge so much? What did I do wrong? What does he want with me now? How did this get so screwed up? What really happened with Hardcastle and Tilton? What am I supposed to do without him?
Thoughts racing, he lay his arm across his eyes to block the harsh overhead light. A bedside lamp would’ve been preferable, though, of course, a lamp might be used as a weapon of some sort. But there was no way he was going to lie here in the dark with his tortured and murderous thoughts. But even the unyielding brightness was not enough to protect him from the one thought that could drown out all others: It’s my fault Hardcastle is dead.
Harper glanced up from the stack of papers in front of him. “I wish you’d lie down for just a while,” he said to Hardcastle. He fully realized that that was at least the tenth time he’s made a similar comment in the last two hours, but he still had the unreasonable idea it might eventually work. Not this time, though.
Hardcastle didn’t even bother to look up when he shook his head. “I’ll rest when we find McCormick,” he said firmly, though the exhaustion was apparent behind the words. He turned his attention to the next sheet of paper in his own stack, then made a notation on the legal pad next to him.
“Just how many people did it take to not convict this guy?” he muttered crossly.
Across the gatehouse dining table, Harper chuckled. “Can’t say the LAPD isn’t committed,” he answered lightly as he turned his attention back to the pages.
The rather long trek from the beach had given the men time to come up with a couple of ideas. The first-though Hardcastle had objected strongly-was that the gatehouse would be the safest place for them to set up their new command post. Harper had believed that there might be some advantage to be gained from allowing Tilton to keep believing that Hardcastle was dead, so the jurist had been banned from the main house. The judge hadn’t wanted to hide, and he hated the idea that McCormick wouldn’t know the truth, but he finally took some comfort from the idea that maybe his “death” would remove Tilton’s motivation for hurting the kid.
The second idea was centered on figuring out who Tilton had working the inside of his case, thinking they might work backward from there to find Tilton and McCormick. Both men detested the idea of a dirty cop, but they could both be practical, and they understood how the situation might work. They agreed that there was a certain logic in bribing someone you already knew, as opposed to approaching a complete stranger, and they had decided to review Tilton’s case history carefully, hoping to identify any potential security risks.
And so, armed with at least the start of a plan, Harper had deposited Hardcastle carefully in the gatehouse and headed to the main house in search of supplies. He had returned a quarter hour later with a first aid kit, Tilton’s file, and a bottle of aspirin. Hardcastle had been dozing on the sofa, and the detective debated simply letting the man sleep, but he had really wanted to get that head cleaned up and bandaged. Now, more than two hours after he had decided to awaken the other man, he sat looking at Hardcastle-bandaged, medicated, and determined.
There had been more than a few times in their long association when Harper had been grateful not to be the person on the wrong side of Milton Hardcastle, but he decided he’d never felt that as strongly as he did right now. As he silently took in the grim line of Hardcastle’s mouth, the smoldering anger in the pale blue eyes, and the stubborn set of his jaw, Harper became aware of one thing: taking Mark McCormick had been Samuel Tilton’s final mistake.
McCormick bolted up in the bed as he heard his name called out boisterously and the bedroom door slam shut. “Hardcase?”
“Sorry,” Tilton said with a small grin, “not this time. Did I wake you?”
Reality came back to him, and McCormick swung his legs over the side of the bed and sized up his captor quickly. Hasn’t this guy ever heard of ‘Just say no’? “Nah,” he said automatically, “no problem.” It’s my first day without him. He pushed the thought away.
Tilton crossed the room to his favorite chair, and leaned casually on its back. “Got the judge on your mind, huh?” he asked knowingly.
“Habit,” McCormick answered with a shrug, unsure why he was continuing with the charade. Leaving this house alive had stopped being a priority the minute that shot rang out on the beach, and yet… “I suppose I’ll have a chance to learn new habits now,” he continued.
“Indeed you will,” Tilton agreed magnanimously. He indicated the vacant chair. “I thought we might share more conversation.”
Breathing deeply, McCormick pushed himself off the bed and crossed the room to join Tilton. One step at a time, McCormick. He took his seat, and watched as Tilton folded himself into his own chair. Then he sat silently, waiting for Tilton to make the first move. He didn’t particularly have anything to say, and who knew what a drugged up, crazy killer wanted to hear, anyway? Better to let the lunatic go first.
Tilton looked at his prisoner closely. “You look a little better,” he observed. “Maybe I should’ve let you sleep longer.”
McCormick shrugged again. “I was just a little bit…surprised earlier, I guess. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I’m fine.”
“So you begin to see the advantages of recent events?”
“Advantages?” The word ripped through McCormick’s heart. What good could possibly come of ‘recent events’? Just say yes, his mind instructed. “I suppose.” That’s the best I can do.
“At the very least,” Tilton went on, “your days of being the judicial handyman have come to an end.”
“True enough.” The ex-con was certain that not even Tilton’s drug of choice would prevent him from recognizing the hesitation in these answers, but he couldn’t seem to find any way to even pretend to be glad that Hardcastle was dead. Get a grip, he thought bitterly. Sometime during the night those words had become something of a mantra, and he clung to them now. He tried to focus his thoughts. “What’s the plan now, Mr. Tilton?”
“Ah, you are eager to move forward.”
“No offense, Mr. Tilton, but I’m eager not to be a prisoner anymore. I’ve spent almost the last five years of my life locked up in one way or another. I’m ready for a change.” That’s a little better.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Tilton answered smoothly. “But I’m afraid that will have to wait another couple of days.”
“What? I kept my end of the bargain, Mr. Tilton. And now that- - -” he faltered, then continued, “now that Hardcastle’s dead, it’s all over. I can’t do any more for you.” McCormick figured that might be a dangerous argument to make, but he was beyond caring.
Tilton didn’t move to the obvious threat, but offered a simple explanation. “I agree there is little else you can do for me, Mark, but there is still much you could do to me. You will need to be my guest until my trial is officially over. Really, though, with no evidence and no Hardcastle, I would expect the case to be dismissed fairly quickly.”
“What about that other guy? The investigator?”
“Riley?” Tilton did not appear concerned. “He is only one man, one witness. It won’t be enough. Your friend, the judge, was the key. No, I don’t foresee any problems. You should be free by Monday night.”
McCormick nodded slowly. The nonchalant way Tilton was still chalking up the benefits of Hardcastle’s death-and expecting him to do the same-was wearing on his last nerve already. How long can I take this? He needed a break before he could face any further ‘conversation’.
“Um, Mr. Tilton,” he began slowly, “not to be indelicate, but you know there’s no bathroom in here, and- - ”
“Oh, of course,” Tilton answered immediately, rising quickly to his feet. “I should have thought of that myself.” He moved across the room, opened the door, and motioned his goon inside.
Still right outside the door, McCormick thought.
“Please allow Mr. McCormick to use the facilities,” Tilton instructed.
Mark rose from his seat and turned to see the guy pulling the handcuffs from his pocket. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t object as he silently held his hands out in front of him, allowing the goon to secure the bracelets. Then he let the man steer him down the plain hallway to the bathroom two doors down. He was shoved inside and the door pulled closed loudly, but the muscle-bound guard never said a word. Guess he’s not in a very good mood. Shoulder probably hurts like hell. Good.
McCormick stood silently in the small room for a moment, staring numbly into the mirror. He wouldn’t have thought he could possibly look as bad as he felt, but he would’ve been wrong about that. Still think you’re in control, kiddo? He heard Hardcastle’s voice in his head and closed his eyes briefly. He could only imagine the judge’s reaction at seeing him like this, and he sent up a silent prayer of apology for his arrogance.
His mantra began running through his head again, but it was gradually edged out by the idea that there might actually be an end in sight. He didn’t believe for a minute that Tilton truly intended to release him, so the man must just want to screw with him for the next couple of days. But that was okay. Two could play at that game, even if one of them did have to keep reminding himself to get a grip. Tilton probably had some grand finale in mind; that’s always the way it was with the crazy ones. So that just left them needing to get through the next day and a half. Fine.
McCormick leaned closer to the mirror, judging his expressions, and wondering when Tilton might realize that he’d picked the day of his own death. “Monday,” he whispered to the empty room, and knew that he’d found another mantra.
PART III