Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me. This is for entertainment purposes only. No money is being made from it.

Author's Notes: First, here is Mr.Koenig's summary: Surprise on Seagull Beach (airdate: Mar. 4, 1985) Hardcastle's ire is raised when a group of teens led by a kid known as Razz begin to hang-out on his beach. Although the city tries to declare the beach public, the judge (having proposed to his late wife on the beach and thereby unwilling to compromise) convinces the courts to issue a restraining order. The beach situation takes an interesting turn after someone digs large holes in the area. Hardcastle is further perplexed upon discovering strange caliber German bullets on the beach. In the meantime, Nazis led by a man named Guenther Rieseman kidnap Mark and Razz. [Sarah's observation: Mr. Konig fails to mention that they also torture McCormick with a cattle prod to get him to admit the whereabouts of the gold.] Following the clues, Hardcastle is led to a beach vendor named Sandy and finally James Maxwell, a border patrolmen during World War II. Thanks to the two men, the judge discovers that many people suspect that Nazis buried gold on the beach during the war. Suspicious of Maxwell, Hardcastle checks in with Lieutenant Bill Giles. Looking into the records, Giles discovers that Maxwell had been fined several times for trespassing on local beaches. Meanwhile, Mark, convinced that Hardcastle will be able to get him out of his bind, convinces the Nazis to take him to the judge if they want the gold. [Sarah's translation: Looking like something the cat dragged in after being tortured, McCormick has a brainwave. "Hardcastle," he says. "Hardcastle's got the gold. I just work for him. Take me to Hardcastle."] Coincidentally, Maxwell pulls a gun on Hardcastle to get help finding the gold. Thanks to their ingenuity, Hardcastle and McCormick, with some help from the police, mange to turn the tables and stop their captors. In the process, the gold sinks into the ocean. Afterwards, Hardcastle, putting his personal desires aside, decides to make the beach public. [Sarah's observation: and we see Mark helping the kids fill in the holes like he was in perfect health! This is nuts!] Special Guest Star: Ed Bernard as Lieutenant Bill Giles Guest Cast: William Windom as James Maxwell, John Dehner (Young Maverick) as Guenther Rieseman, Stanley Kamel as Zimmerman, Ken Stovitz as Razz, Michael Cornelison, Erik Holland, George Skaff, Eddie Quillan Writer: Patrick Hasburgh Director: Michael O'Herlihy

Feedback welcome at sarahenany@yahoo.com.


SURPRISE ON SEAGULL BEACH EPILOGE

by Sarah Enany

It was late. The kids had long since gone home. McCormick, tired but content from a day of shoveling sand in the sun, was dozing on the sofa in front of the TV with Hardcastle. The kids had not left until late, and he had let himself enjoy the day, working as hard as he could on filling in the holes dug in the beach to drive the horrors of the day out of his mind. Now, he was sure he had succeeded. For a moment the fear and pain crept into his mind - his arms painfully tied to the chair, the ex-Nazi torturer, the helplessness, the blind panic, and then the bolts of electricity searing him - No. He refused to let himself think of it. Closing the experience away into a dark corner of his mind, he willed himself to relax.

"Was kinda fun having those kids there today, wasn't it?" he said, more to distract himself than anything.

"Well." Hardcastle mumbled non-committally, which, to a practiced interpreter of Hardcastle-speak, meant, "Yeah, but since it was your idea I'll be damned if I'll admit it."

"Bet your wife'd have been pleased to see them there, huh?"

McCormick held his breath, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing, but Hardcastle actually smiled. "She'd've loved it," he said. "Always was a sucker for a buncha kids. She loved the noise, and the crowds. Made her happy. Was almost like having her there, today." He paused, looking at the ceiling. "You were right, McCormick," he said finally. "Havin' `em on the beach's a better way to preserve her memory than leavin' it empty."

"See? McCormick is always right," McCormick said cheerfully. "Now if you'd just listen to me more often, instead of joining the debate team."

"Listen to you? As I recall, you were the one who came running to me screamin' for help today."

Hardcastle, waiting for a response so that their typical banter could continue, felt slightly surprised when McCormick gave no answer, but as the minutes wore on, he shrugged and went back to his meal. Probably just tired, he thought.

McCormick felt relieved when Hardcastle didn't press the issue. He was just too tired to joke, tonight. The TV program droned on, and as Hardcastle munched on supper - he himself had no appetite - he let himself drift peacefully, letting his guard down at last. Funny how he felt washed clean by that day of fresh air and sand and sea. clean and far away from the oppressive atmosphere of that terrible room, the sweat of fear, of being tortured for information he did not possess. Confident that he had forgotten the experience, McCormick drifted into a light slumber.

"Where is it?" Cold, relentless.

"Hey, if I knew I'd be happy to tell you, believe me." His voice a croak, by this time.

McCormick tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry he only retched instead. He'd been hit with the cattle prod so many times he'd lost count. His body felt devastated, not only with the agonizing pain of the jolt of electricity itself but with the all-encompassing weakness it left behind, which, he knew, could feel in his bones, brought him time and time again to the point of death. In the extremity of his suffering he hadn't known which was worse, the feeling that his soul was leaving his body or the terror that it had not, that he was going to be hit again, and he didn't know what the man wanted, couldn't tell him if he wanted to, and he would just keep severing his soul from his body again - bringing the cattle prod closer again - getting ready to -

"NO! Please! Not again!! I told you I DON'T KNOW!" He jerked awake from his doze, twisted and fell headlong off the sofa.

"McCormick!"

Hardcastle, supper forgotten, was at McCormick's side in an instant, crouching beside him on the carpet. Steadying the gasping, panting man, hair plastered to his face with sweat, he looked into his eyes and was shocked at the naked agony reflected there. What the hell was going on? The kid had been threatened many times before. It wasn't like him to lose his nerve. "Something wrong?"

"I thought I was going to die," McCormick answered, his voice, despite the sweating and shaking, so calm it sent a chill through Hardcastle.

"Wha - " What the hell was the matter? The kid had had guns pointed at his head more times than you could count, and it had never affected him before! How different could it be, being threatened with torture? What was it that could possibly -

Unless.

Hardcastle froze with sudden panic. "Did Reiseman hurt you?" he demanded urgently.

McCormick laughed humorlessly and looked away.

Hardcastle's heart pounded in his chest. He grabbed McCormick's shoulder. "Did he hurt you, McCormick!"

McCormick murmured, "Hell of a question, Judge."

Forcing himself to reamin calm, Hardcastle asked slowly, patiently, "Tell me what went down in those hours he had you, McCormick."

McCormick looked steadily at him with those terrible, suffering eyes. "I told you already."

Hardcastle gritted his teeth. "Humor me."

"I told you," the kid said, infinite weariness in his tone, "the guy had a cattle prod."

Oh my God, electricity. Hardcastle's body turned cold. In his gruffest tone, praying for a negative answer, knowing it would not come, he asked: "He - did he - use it on ya?"

Surprisingly, McCormick laughed, a weak and silent laugh. "I thought you knew that."

Hardcastle's heart was threatening to jump out of his throat. He had never imagined McCormick had actually been hurt. He had thought the matter had stopped at threats, and the kid had been able to prevent any damage happening. A beating would have been bad enough, but electrocution. "Where'd he get you with it? Lemme see," he rasped.

"Aw, c'mon, Judge." McCormick shied away from showing the Judge the marks. He was already embarrassed enough about having given them the Judge's name, even though it had been his only chance.

"McCORMICK!"

"Okay, okay," he sighed, too weary to argue, and turned his left side to the Judge, pulling away the shoulder of his sleeveless T-shirt at the same time.

Hardcastle caught his breath. From collarbone to solar plexus ran a double line of raised, white burn marks, pairs of identical circular bumps, horribly precise in their placement. Around them the flesh showed ugly black and blue under the inflamed skin, where the electric current had caused the small blood vessels and tiny capillaries to burst.

There were at least twenty pairs.

Hardcastle stared, speechless.

Embarrassed at the older man's intent gaze, McCormick pulled his shirt back down. " `S no big deal," he said, though his voice trembled a little.

"Yeah, it's a big deal!" Hardcastle shouted suddenly, causing McCormick to flinch involuntarily. The little reaction broke Hardcastle's heart, and he patted McCormick's arm awkwardly. "Why?" he finally asked, stupidly.

"He wanted to know where the gold was," McCormick said flatly. Hardcastle winced. He knew that McCormick had not even known any gold existed. He forced himself to listen as McCormick went on, "Had me and Razz both strapped to chairs. Questioned us. I told him I didn't know. Guess you can see he didn't believe me. He, uh. wanted to persuade me to tell him."

Persuade him. Oh, shit. As though McCormick had not spoken, Hardcastle continued to stare. He knew this kind of thing happened, but it was different seeing the marks on McCormick, knowing the instrument of torture that had been used. "He did this to you."

McCormick shrugged again, more in control now. "First he just threatened us with the thing. Kept bringing it real close. Then - uh, I didn't answer, and he brought it closer, then in the end he." McCormick trailed off, swallowed, and looked away nervously, not meeting the Judge's eyes.

He tortured him. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh Mark . Hardcastle shuddered. He had once accidentally touched a live wire, and that instant when the current had passed through his body had been the longest of his life. His body resonated with the memory of that unbearable pain. The thought of McCormick tied up and helpless, receiving electric shocks repeatedly, deliberately, with such cruelty, without him being there to put a stop to it. With an effort, he controlled himself. " `S okay now, Mark," he mumbled.

McCormick took a shuddering breath. Hardcastle placed a hand on his back, feeling his body trembling. He patted McCormick awkwardly, trying to calm the kid down. But McCormick never looked at him. He looked a the floor, his finger tracing patterns on the carpet. "Felt hot, y'know?" he said haltingly, apparently needing to talk. "Like - like I was boiling. Like I was gonna burst."

For the first time Hardcastle realized McCormick's voice was hoarse. From screaming. The thought came unbidden, with a pang. His heart hurt.

McCormick spoke in a dull monotone, still looking at the floor. "Every time I thought - I thought I was gonna burst, uh - not just die, kinda explode. I could see myself splattering all over the room. And uh-" He trailed off. "You sure you wanna be listening to all this?"

"You lived it. Least I can do is hear it," Hardcastle heard himself saying, in his gruffest voice. He was choking up. Control yourself, man! he thought angrily. Despite what it cost him to hear it, Hardcastle forced himself to listen. He needs to let it all out.

"I felt I was leaving my body and coming back to it. Then it got to the point where I didn't wanna come back."

" `S okay, now, kiddo. `S over." Hardcastle rubbed McCormick's back, wishing he could comfort him, take the pain, the memories, away. Anger overwhelmed him for a moment. Boy, it's a good thing for you you're already dead, Reiseman.

Nervously, McCormick ran a hand through his sweaty hair. For the first time, Hardcastle noticed the marks on McCormick's wrists. "Lemme see," he said.

"It's okay." McCormick, feeling unaccountably embarrassed again, tried to hide his hands.

"C'mon, kiddo," Hardcastle said, his voice softened with compassion, in a coaxing tone that made McCormick's eyes widen. "Lemme see, I'm not gonna hurt ya."

McCormick smiled at that. "I know," he said, and relinquished his hands.

Hardcastle reached out and gently took both McCormick's hands in his, mindful not to touch the injured spots. Carefully, he turned the hands over to see the inside of the wrists. He bit back a gasp at the sight. The sensitive skin was ruined, savagely cut and abraded. Raw, swollen flesh showed where McCormick had strained at his bonds in his agony. He said the pain made him want to die. No wonder his hands look like hell. Hardcastle's heart went out to him so strongly it scared him. Shit, the poor kid. He kept McCormick's hands in his, irrationally wanting to protect him from the torment he had already suffered.

McCormick took a shaky breath. "When, uh. When he was done, he uh. Congratulated me. Said I'd have made a good Reich Officer."

The implications of that - that McCormick had withstood extraordinary torment without confessing - made Hardcastle's heart twist, and his blood boil. His grip tightened on McCormick's hands. "Why didn't you give them my name sooner?" he demanded furiously.

McCormick smiled, looking amused. "Thought you were the one who said I sold you out."

Hardcastle spluttered. "Shit, McCormick, I didn't know they were doing that to you! Four hours I was looking for you and all that time you were being." He trailed off, overwhelmed by a wave of fierce protectiveness so violent it swept all other emotion aside. "Good thing you had the sense to finally say something sensible," he finally managed to get out.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't let them do it to Razz as well," McCormick mumbled.

"But it was okay for them to do it to you. Oh, I love your brilliant thinking, McCormick." He was touched beyond belief that McCormick had suffered so without mentioning his name, but had only mentioned Hardcastle's name to save the teenager.

As though reading his thoughts, McCormick said weakly: "They coulda started over. I had this feeling you wouldn't let them hurt me again. Guess I wasn't thinking straight."

Hardcastle looked away to hide his emotion. Taking refuge in bluster, he lectured: "I gotta take you to hospital! That much pain, your heart and blood pressure could be affected! Who knows what kinda internal injuries you got? I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

"Thought you knew."

"If I'd known, you can be damn sure I wouldn't have let you traipse around on that beach all day, tiring yourself out in the hot sun - "

"I didn't tire myself out, it felt good."

"Felt good!" the Judge snorted, getting a good tirade going. "And those hands of yours! How could you use them to shovel that heavy sand!"

"Gee, Judge, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't care, McCormick!" Hardcastle dropped McCormick's hands as if they had burnt him. He knew a laugh would be coming at this point, and sure enough it did. "You're in my custody, I just don't want you to die-" It was too painful to say. "C'mon, you're goin' to hospital."

"No way."

"McCormick."

"Judge, I've been shoveling sand on the beach all day, like you said! I'd have collapsed by now if there was anything really wrong with me!"

"You got a point. Still, better safe than sorry."

"Judge," McCormick looked at him with pleading eyes, "I can't stand being - touched again, and held down - Please. If there really was anything wrong with me, it would've shown by now!"

Hardcastle bit the inside of his lip. "I should get you checked out," he said, but he knew it was a losing battle. Seeing McCormick like this, weak and hurt, all but broken with suffering, knowing what had been done to him, he could refuse him nothing. Damned if he'd let him know that, though.

Hardcastle just looked at him, sympathy overpowering his better judgment. "Okay, but your wrists could get infected."

"I'll put some of that antibiotic cream on `em and wrap `em up, okay?"

"Oh yeah? How you gonna do it one-handed?"

McCormick smiled. "I'm not. You're gonna help me."

A grumbling Hardcastle, McCormick decided, was the best therapy in the world. Hardcastle had grumbled all the way to the medicine cabinet, where he'd retrieved the cream and the bandages; he'd grumbled when he'd sat on the sofa opposite McCormick ("I was never meant to play nursemaid"), and he'd grumbled when he'd taken McCormick's hands in his lap, looking away to hide the sympathy in his eyes. McCormick had seen it, though, and it had warmed him as nothing else ever could. Hardcastle had gone on to grumble all through spreading the cream over the savaged flesh with the gentlest, most caring touch, and when McCormick flinched involuntarily at the touch of the Judge's fingers on the raw places, he'd winced in empathy, whipped his hand away as if burned, and grumbled some more. ("Serves you right, McCormick. You shoulda given `em my name sooner, then maybe you wouldn't be looking like this now.")

The wrapping of the bandages had been accompanied by more grumbling to the effect that McCormick had had no business getting caught, that he had no business having him, Hardcastle, do this, and that he'd better not expect to be waited on hand and foot for the next few days either! "And don't you go complaining either. You oughta been more careful. When are you gonna learn?" Hardcastle finished, his hectoring tone in sharp contrast to his feather-light touch, handling the swollen, tender wrists with infinite gentleness, taking care to wrap the gauze loosely to spare McCormick further pain. This was followed by about ten questions as to whether the bandages were okay, not too tight, not uncomfortable, etc. Finally, when McCormick had refused a painkiller several times, Hardcastle decided it was time for McCormick to go to bed.

"I'm not sleepy."

"Tough. After what happened to you, you need your rest." Hardcastle slipped his arms under McCormick's and helped him to his feet, handling him gently, as if he might break. McCormick, taking full advantage, leaned into the support, though he didn't really need it; after the day's events, he needed to feel cared for. Once upright, Hardcastle rested a hand lightly on McCormick's back to steady him in case he fell, although he had seen him shoveling sand all day at the beach. McCormick smiled, comforted and touched by the gesture. "C'mon."

"Judge-"

"No arguments!"

"Judge," McCormick said quietly, which shut Hardcastle up at once. "Can I bunk in here on the couch tonight? I know it's silly, but-"

"No, you can't sleep on the couch."

"Okay," McCormick said, crushed.

"You're getting my bed. I'll take the couch. No arguments."

McCormick was amused at the way Hardcastle walked him to the door of his bedroom and asked him if he would be all right, steadying him carefully as though he were made of fine porcelain. It amused him, but it also healed him, to be cherished instead of tormented. "G'night, Judge," he smiled.

"Sure you don't want a pill? Your not hurtin' or anything?"

His scars were throbbing a bit, but nothing to write home about. You're showing me you care, telling me without words that I deserve to be treated like this, is better than any pill. "I'll be fine, Judge. G'night."

*****


"HARDCASTLE! HELP ME!"

Hardcastle bolted up off the couch, jarred from sleep to wakefulness in an instant, and, brandishing a shotgun he could not even remember grabbing, burst through the door of his bedroom, where McCormick was screaming. But when he burst in, he stopped in his tracks: no-one was there, only McCormick, twisting in the throes of a nightmare.

Tossing the shotgun aside, he ran to the bed, shaking McCormick gently. "Wake up, kiddo. I'm here. I'm here."

"PLEASE! I DON'T KNOW! HARDCASTLE!"

McCormick's face was wet with tears and this alone shook Hardcastle to the core as he jostled McCormick more violently. "McCORMICK! Snap out of it!"

All was suddenly still as McCormick sat up, waking. His brown eyes snapped open, unseeing for a moment. "Wha." he said blankly.

"It's over, kiddo. It was just a bad dream. You're here. You're safe." Facing him, the Judge kept his hands on McCormick's shoulders reassuringly.

Letting out a shaky breath, McCormick slowly relaxed. Then he drew his knees up to his chest, trying to curl up into a ball.

"C'mon, kiddo. It's over. C'mon." Hardcastle gently resisted McCormick's motions, forcing him to look at him. McCormick just stared with hollow eyes.

"It keeps comin' back, Judge," he said in a small voice.

" `S okay, kiddo," Hardcastle said comfortingly. "You been through a lot. Everybody knows it leaves scars. They had all these shrinks, back when they were fighting in `Nam, telling us all about that stuff. But you gotta fight it. You'll be over it in no time!" He scowled. That last sentence had rung a little too faslely hearty. But he was worried about McCormick!

"Okay," McCormick said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Hardcastle tightened his grip on McCormick's shoulders. "Hey, where d'you think you're goin'? You need your rest!"

"You think I'm gonna be able to sleep?"

"Your body needs sleep, McCormick!"

"And go back for another meeting with Reiseman and Company? Thanks, but no thanks."

The flash of McCormick's old spirit cheered Hardcastle, but he was damned if he'd let the nightmares beat the kid. "You gotta get some rest, McCormick," he said. "Isn't there anything I can get ya to help you sleep? I might have a coupla pills left, or.."

"No, thanks. No pills." McCormick looked at Hardcastle. He had seen the Judge's concern, and it had gone a long way towards healing the fear, the weakness, the mental scars. But sleep. no way. He couldn't possibly feel safe if he slept. Unless, maybe.

Maybe. Yeah. Sitting here in the warmth of Hardcastle's bed, the Judge's hands holding him securely about the shoulders, he felt the spirit of mischief stealing back into him. He felt like pushing his luck.

"There is one thing that could help me sleep," said McCormick slowly, "but it's impossible."

"What?"

"Nah, forget it," McCormick said in the way he knew was guaranteed to drive the Judge crazy.

"What it it, McCormick!"

"Never mind, Judge. You won't be able to do it like my mom, anyway."

"Do what?"

"Forget it."

"What is it, McCormick? Warm milk? Cookies? What?"

"What's the point of telling you," McCormick said in an infuriatingly reasonable tone, "if you can't do it?"

"Wanna bet?"

"Twenty?"

"Okay! Twenty bucks says I can do wahtever your mom did, only better! Now what is it?"

McCormick smiled. "You sure?"

"Course I'm sure!"

"She used to sing me lullabies and stroke my hair till I fell asleep."

"Your brain's finally snapped, McCormick." Hardcastle was halfway to the door in a single stride.

"I knew you couldn't do it. Just leave the twenty at the gatehouse, I'll pick it up in the morning."

Hardcastle turned, spluttering. "Just because I won't do some fool."

"Bet's a bet, Hardcastle."

"You seriously think I'm gonna."

"No, `course not. That's why I bet twenty. If I'd thought you'd do it, I'd'a' said ten."

"Don't push your luck, McCormick."

McCormick smiled smugly again. "Sure, whatever. I win, anyway. Close the door on your way out."

Hardcastle put his hand on the door handle, turned it, opened the door a crack, then stood facing it. Standing perfectly still, his back to McCormick, he asked through gritted teeth: "What kinda songs did she sing?"

McCormick smiled secretly, to himself. Keeping his voice perfectly neutral, he said: "Oh, the usual. `Rockabye Baby'."

"You think I'm gonna sing."

"No, of course not. `Hush Little Baby, Don't You Cry'."

"You're gonna pay for this, McCormick." Hardcastle strode over to the bed and stood beside it, arms folded across his chest.

McCormick laughed. "Give it up, Judge. Just pay me the twenty and go to bed. I knew you could never do it."

"Get in bed properly. The show's about to begin."

Amused, McCormick arranged himself back into bed and pulled the covers up like a little boy. "Show? You singin' me to sleep or starting a circus?"

"Real music, that's what you need," the Judge said, took a deep breath and boomed:

" `Rock-a-bye your baby with a Dixie melody. When you croon, croon a tune from the heart of Dixie.' "

McCormick burst into helpless laughter. "What on earth is that?"

"Real Dixieland music, that's what it is! Missisippi Mud, no less!.." the judge interpolated. He took another deep breath.

" `Just place my cradle, Mammy mine, Right on the Mason Dixon line.' "

"I don't believe it. I don't believe it!"

" `.And swing it from Virginia To Tennessee with all the love that's in ya.' "

McCormick shook his head weakly, still chuckling. "Can you believe this guy?" he said to the world at large.

"Rock-a-bye your rock-a-bye baby with a Dixie melody," Hardcastle finished triumphantly. "Hah! Told you I could do it!"

"I pity the baby that has to suffer your idea of music, Hardcastle," McCormick affected an aggrieved sigh. "You win, already! Now get outta here and let me sleep, huh?"

Hardcastle smiled proudly. "Admit it, that lullaby hit the spot."

"If you call causing a gastric ulcer hitting the spot."

"Made you wanna go right back to sleep, didn't it?"

"Under duress. You might sing again."

Refreshed and warmed by laughter, McCormick lay back, smiling, and closed his eyes as Hardcastle left, muttering about how everyone was a critic. "'Night, Hardcastle."

" `Night, McCormick," Hardcastle said for the second time that evening.

* * *


Hardcastle lay in bed, eyes wide open. He couldn't sleep and that was a fact. How could he, when the images of McCormick kept going through his mind? What the kid had been through was no ordinary predicament. Go to sleep and stop worrying. You sound like an old lady, he told himself. He'll be fine.

It wasn't working. What if Mark couldn't sleep? What if he was lying awake brooding, or his hands were hurting him, or his scars were burning, or Heaven forbid he had another nightmare and didn't want to wake him again, and was going through it alone -

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Hardcastle climbed out of bed. He would have to go and take a look.

He sighed with relief as he pushed open his bedroom door with only a tiny click. McCormick lay motionless, obviously sound asleep. Hardcastle watched the sleeping man for a moment, then made as if to go. But something stopped him from going, made him draw nearer. A shaft of moonlight streamed in from the window, illuminating the still form. McCormick's body was dwarfed by the huge expanse of empty bed around him. A stark white bandage showed on the outflung wrist on the pillow. Hardcastle could not help thinking he looked very young and vulnerable, almost childlike, covered with a white sheet in the large bed. Hush, little baby. The words came unbidden.

For a moment, the image of his son came to his mind. He hadn't kissed him goodbye when he left for the war - they'd not been on speaking terms. Sure, there'd been letters, but the next time he'd seen him, it had been in a body bag. For a moment the old pain overwhelmed him. He breathed, riding it out. Did you know how much I loved you, Tommy? Did ya? I never told ya too much, but I hoped you'd understand. Nancy said you knew, even if she did say I should let my feelings out more. Wish you were here, Nance.

His eyes dropped to McCormick, lying completely unmoving, with the stillness of exhaustion. A strand of sweat-drenched hair stuck to his brow. His face, relaxed in sharp contrast to his strained and suffering waking expression, looked very young and innocent. Hardcastle went cold at the thought of how easily he could have died, and remained still like this forever. Stop thinkin' like that! He's fine! But Hardcastle could not deny that what had happened to McCormick had shaken him, and that watching him sleep now was not so much for McCormick's benefit as for his own healing. Damn fool kid. His insides twisted with affection. Ah, shit, McCormick, do you know what you mean to me? D'you know I can't stand to see ya scared or hurt? That I'm prouder of you than anything?

And then the fear hit: that McCormick might die, might die as a result of the risks he, Hardcastle, put him through, without ever knowing how much he meant to him. It was a fear he had felt many times before, but always dismissed; it was impossible to work with a partner if you couldn't trust him to keep himself safe, hold up his end. But today, knowing McCormick had been so cruelly treated, so badly hurt, seeing him lying there so helpless and vulnerable, made the old familiar fear return in force.

A wave of tenderness swept over him. Never think I don't care, McCormick. You're closer to me than my son ever was. I'm so proud of you, you're the thing that means the most to me in this world. I never tell you, but I hope you know it. "Hush, little baby, don't you cry." he whispered, feeling foolish, but unable to help himself.

He's asleep, he can't hear you, you've won your stupid bet, that's enough. "Mama's gonna sing you a lullaby." Shuddup, you dumb jackass!

His voice was a mere breath, inaudible to anyone but himself. He noticed the new pain lines on the young-suddenly-old face, the hollows under the eyes. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word."

Judge Milton C. Hardcastle singing lullabies? What's come over you? Quit it right now! "Mama's gonna buy you a mocking-bird." You gone senile? You're as much of a donkey as he says you are! Softly, kicking himself mentally, he reached out and brushed the sweat- drenched hair off the sleeping face.

Hardcastle caught his breath, embarrassment forgotten. There was one more scar McCormick had not shown him; hidden by the curly hair, it sat there, an ugly reminder, on his temple, the two horribly familiar bumps where the electric rod had touched, seared. Pity overwhelmed him. He imagined the electric current, jolting the head, burning the eyes, the brain, making McCormick cry out. He's such a good person. He doesn't deserve this. Shit, shit, shit. I should have been there to protect him. His blood boiled with rage that anyone should have dared to hurt McCormick in such a delicate, sensitive spot. He looked closely, but there did not seem to be any more injuries in the head and face area. Helplessly, he petted McCormick's hair, as though he could make the pain disappear, cause the whole mess never to have happened. It wasn't enough. He wanted to do something more, anything more.

Irrationally, he remembered his wife, kissing their infant son's hurts better. Hell of a thing to remember, now. The image persisted. What should I do, Nance? Hell, he knew what his wife would tell him to do. He could almost hear her saying it. `Let your feelings show, Milt, before it's too late.'

"If that mocking-bird don't sing." He's asleep, he'll never know, what's the harm?

"Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring." Gently, he bent down and, delicately, his lips brushed the cruel scar on McCormick's temple in a soft kiss. He stood for another moment just gazing at the person who had come to mean so much to him, even - he marvelled at that - more than his own son. "G'night, kiddo, sweet dreams," he breathed, finally, and tiptoed out. The door clicked shut behind him.

* * * *


McCormick snuggled deeper down into bed, feeling secure, protected and loved. Pretending to be asleep had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Those moments when Hardcastle had sung to him, stroked his hair, and comforted him had made him feel like a kid in his mother's arms again. He actually kissed me goodnight like a five-year-old. I must remember to get tortured by ex-Nazis more often was his last sleepy thought before he drifted off into a peaceful slumber filled with images of Hardcastle, in a cloche hat and a flowery housedress, rocking a cradle full of teenagers and singing lullabies to the Dixieland accompaniment of the Courthouse Racketeers.


***The End***



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