Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Feedback: Comments welcome at JudyH777@earthlink.net

Author's Notes: This is my first Hardcastle and McCormick story, so bear that in mind...This idea came to me from a suggestion in the gullsway forum about writing a story from a different point of view than the usual fare. I decided to take this a quantum leap further by doing a "missing scene" from everyone's point of view. If you are familiar with "If You Could See What I See", hopefully you will recognize the characters and the place where this scene fits.

Much thanks to Owl for her quick beta read and her encouragement.

Kaleidoscope: a:something resembling a kaleidoscope: as a a variegated changing pattern or scene the lake a kaleidoscope of changing colors

b a succession of changing phases or actions -Merriam Webster Online Dictionary

He was lost.

He had no idea how he knew this, but lost seemed the best option available to his scrambled brain.

Because, if he wasn't lost...then he was dead.

He was lost...and cold. A wet, seeping shroud of ice permeated his bones, warning him that, should he try to move, frozen bones would shatter and the frigid ground would claim him for its own. Moving required energy, effort...and even if he could move, there was nowhere to go. He had been waiting in this cold, dark place for a long time...too long. And somewhere along the way to here, wherever here was, he had forgotten just what he was waiting for...

He's not talking anymore. His hands encircle the steering wheel in a white knuckle grip, his eyes hooded and cold.

I can feel his anger, his frustration. I know he wants to lash out at someone, but he doesn't show that emotion to me. I just know.

I can feel his fear.

I know he needs my help right now. He doesn't want to need me; I don't have to "see things" to see that. He's still fighting not to believe what I say, but he's desperate. Guilt-ridden.

Scared.

At least he believes me enough to fetch me in the middle of the night, arguing steadfastly that I am wrong, even as he asks for my help.

My visions are gone now. I can't bring myself to tell him that again. He's running on faith and adrenaline right now, and he's the one with the vision, the dogged determination, the unshakable belief.

I hope, for his sake, for all of us...I hope this time I'm wrong.

I should have gone with him. Instead, I stand here in the road, calling after him long after the dust has settled and his truck has vanished from sight. Things couldn't get much worse than the possibilities playing out in my head, and his head, too. Too many years as a cop, for both of us; the fatalist in both of us trying to ignore the worse-case scenario that just wouldn't go away..

I don't want him to be alone when he finds what he's looking for...and I know he will. He won't give up until he does. I know he needs a friend with him right now.

But I have prisoners glaring at me from the back of a black and white, and officers milling around waiting for orders on what to do next. The sound of the truck's engine fades in the distance as I turn wearily back to my job. But I know, as soon as I can hand my duties over, I'll be following him, as long as it takes and as far as it goes.

I'm looking for a rock.

A boulder on the side of the road, she says. Has she looked around? We are in the foothills, for God's sake. Damned big boulders everywhere.

We've been driving all night, up one canyon road and down another. The scenery all looks the same now, and still there's nothing. I glance over at the passenger seat, hoping for divine guidance...something...anything at all. But she's quiet now and I don't know if that's good or bad.

She tried to help...before...and I wouldn't listen. Then, when I do go to her for help, she tells me it's too late.

I know it's not too late. But I'm not a fool. I know how much time has passed. I know the odds. The thing is, I'm a sucker for long shots.

So I keep driving, hanging all my hopes and fears on a pale vision, and a rock on the side of the road.

Light flickered across his eyelids, a cold light that did nothing to thaw his frozen bones. The air was heavy, moist, tasting of dirt and decomposition and decay. Maybe he was dead, lying under the ground instead of on top. Maybe there was no reason to wait anymore.

But maybe he would, just for a little longer...

She says this is the place. It looks just like every other spot we've passed on these godforsaken roads. But I stop the truck beside the boulder she points out anyway.

I look at her; she nods, her face a pale mask of uncertainty. My hands are shaking; it takes me two tries to get the damned door open...must be more tired than I thought.

I step out and look around. Nothing to see except spindly trees and tangled brush growing right up to the side of the road. I hear her door close as she climbs out; she stays several steps behind me and says nothing.

I turn to her, see the tears in her eyes as she pulls her shawl tightly over her shoulders, and my anger breaks loose. "Where?" I ask, probably more harshly than necessary, but God, I'm tired.

Her eyes track slowly around, then settle on a spot just over my left shoulder. I take a deep breath, walk to the edge of the steep, overgrown embankment, and look down.

I see the truck, pulled over less than a mile from where it vanished in a cloud of burned rubber and gravel a few minutes before. I slide my sedan in behind and sit behind the wheel, a sickening sense of dread settling on my chest like a stone. Finally I move, out of the car toward the lone figure standing on the edge of the pavement, looking down.

Her smile is sad as she looks at me. "I was wrong," she says softly and I feel my heart plummet.

"Oh, no." I hear the words slip past my lips before I can stop them. I follow her gaze down to a familiar figure, kneeling in the overgrowth on the ground far below.

"Lieutenant Harper?" I hear her call to me, feel her hand on my arm. Have we met? I don't know how she knows me, and right now I don't care. I just know I have lost one friend today, and maybe another one by default.

"He's not dead," she whispers, and I turn to her in disbelief. "But he needs an ambulance."

As if he heard her words, although that was clearly impossible from this distance, my stubborn and determined friend glances up, nods, and then turns back again to the still figure lying on the ground before him. He doesn't say a word; he doesn't have to, as if he knows I'll take care of it from here.

And I will.

He was surprised at how clear his thoughts were, considering his situation. He knew he was in trouble. His limbs were heavy, each shallow breath a concerted effort. And he was still so cold, and so incredibly tired. Tired of waiting, tired of the pain, tired of wondering every time he closed his eyes if it would be the last.

Next time the donkey will listen to me.

Where did that come from? He wasn't angry, not at anyone who mattered now. He felt himself drifting, slipping away. No more next times, this was it. This was how it was all gonna end...Come on already...I'm tired of waiting...

He opens his eyes; and I can see the herculean effort that simple act requires. My vision is blurred, too, from lack of sleep, I'm sure. But I can also see a hint of what looks like irritation, maybe, in his expression, and I lean closer to hear his whispered words:

"What took you so long?"