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: Hi everyone! In keeping with the Starsky and Hutch tradition of posting Christmas stories, here's my modest attempt. Note: This story is shamelessly cribbed from both Frank Capra's "It's a Wonderful Life" and from a Starsky and Hutch story called "It's a Wonderful Hutch" by Cathy Bixler. The premise can, I guess, lend itself to many fandoms. Merry Christmas, all. -S.

Feedback: Comments welcome at sarahenany@yahoo.com


IT'S A WONDERFUL MARK

by Sarah Enany




"Angelica, put away your surfboard. I have a job for you."

"C'mon, gimme a break. I just went to Earth last week. And to Iowa, at that."

"Well, you're going again. Christmas is a busy time for guardian angels."

"But I'm surfing the cumulo-nimbus!"

"That can wait. Come over here and take a look."

"Oh, okay. Where's this job anyway?"

"L.A."

"California! Gnarly! I'm taking my board."

"You may surf after you've finished your job. Now look down here."

"Cool estate. Neat car, too."

"Now look inside. What do you see?"

"There's two guys carrying in this great Christmas tree. Oh, wow! Look at that guy. He is gorgeous. Look at those dimples. And those curls."

"Angelica!"

"Okay, okay. Who's the other guy carrying the tree in with him? He's kinda sexy too, even if he's a bit old. His dad?"

"No, it's. well, I'll explain later. Just watch for now."

"They're talking, but I can't hear a thing. Why's the hunk running off like that?"

"Drat, I forgot to turn up the sound!"

"Some Chief Angel you are!"

"That's enough of that. Listen, I'll explain."

"Do I have to save the stud-muffin from killing himself?"

"No, he won't do that, but he is starting on a very dangerous train of thought that could ruin his life if left unchecked. Now just listen."

* * * *

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la."

McCormick reached out and snapped the car radio off savagely. In his present mood, it seemed to be mocking him. He gunned the engine of the Coyote, hugging the curves of the road, heading for his favorite lookout point. He needed to clear his head. He had just had a fight with Hardcastle, and was feeling miserable as he hardly ever had before.

He couldn't even remember what the fight had been about. They had been disagreeing about something to do with the tree - where it went or how it was decorated, it hardly mattered which - in any case, it was all a blur till Hardcastle had stunned him by saying:

"You're just an ex-con I took in, and if you're not careful I'll just send you back to the slammer where you belong!"

That sentence stood out in sharp relief, repeating itself over and over again in his brain. Hardcastle often said stuff like that - stupid, hurtful things - and usually McCormick was mature enough to ignore him. But this time it was Christmas.

The holiday season was hard for him at the best of times anyway, remembering the little celebrations he and his mother had used to have, the years after her death, of missing her. It was harder still looking out for Hardcastle, keeping the Judge from brooding, making sure he didn't get too depressed, knowing he, too, was remembering his lost family. And this year McCormick was still feeling fragile from the shooting of Weed Randall. From knowing his future was uncertain. From a million little things, and it didn't really help to know that every time the Judge looked at him, he was wishing that it was not McCormick he was celebrating Christmas with, but someone else, who had died long ago, and who could never be replaced. It wasn't that he wanted to supplant the Judge's son or family in his affections; but was it too much to ask for the Judge to just let him try and create a cheerful atmosphere, without making him feel like some kind of outsider?

He had turned away from the Judge quickly so the older man wouldn't see the hurt in his eyes. Headed for the door. He'd thought he heard the Judge's voice calling him, but that might just have been wishful thinking. Right now, he needed to get away from the house. To think.

McCormick drove on, staring unseeing at the road. Maybe he was just being oversensitive. But those words had cut him to the quick. Brought home to him the fact that whatever he had was dependent on the charity of others. Of the Judge, specifically. That he had no security; not just financial, but emotional. That he was alone. Was it too much to ask, just to be secure in one person's affection? Not to feel lost all the time?

Still. he didn't deserve it, he supposed. He never had. How else could you explain the systematic betrayal of him by everyone he had ever loved?

He pulled into his favorite lookout point. Climbing out of the car, he noted idly that a gale had come up. He walked to the guardrail, and stared at the waves crashing on the rocks. The explosions of foam, flying up twenty feet or more, made him think of living, savage man-eating creatures. There were no swimmers, no surfers. No-one could survive in that maelstrom. He went on staring at the waves with a kind of detached interest.

He wasn't the kind of person to jump, he knew. He valued life far too much for that. But on the other hand, he desperately wished he had some real reason not to jump - some value to his existence. Try as he might he couldn't think of any.

He had no wife, no kids. He didn't fool himself for a second into thinking that Candy or Sherry - his latest flames - would shed more than a few tears for him. His father? Sonny didn't care, that much he knew. And Hardcastle? He'd thought - before today - that he cared about him. Now he knew he was wrong. Why should Hardcastle care about me, anyway? Why should anyone? There's no reason for anyone to care. I was never any good to anyone.

My life has been a shambles. It's true, he thought. They'd been right when they'd said that anyone who'd started out as wrong as he had couldn't possibly make anything of himself. He wished he'd had a better past - a more meaningful existence. But most of all, he wished that he could have made a difference to anyone in his short life.

I was never any good to anyone. He thought of the Judge, and how many people's lives he'd improved. How many people's lives he'd turned around. If only my life had a meaning like the Judge's had, he thought. If I died right now, what would the difference be? Nothing. If I'd been aborted - if I'd never been born - what would've happened? Nothing. I'm the definition of a worthless person. The world would be a better place, he decided, without him in it. What have I ever done except create trouble?

Suddenly, his attention was caught by a figure in the waves - a human figure, a mere flash of red and black at this distance, barely visible in the foaming water. Shock pulsed through him as he stared, trying to make it out. Oh my God. he'll drown for sure!

But his impulse to rush to the Coyote and get a length of rope for a rescue was stilled, for some strange reason he couldn't explain even to himself. It wasn't your ordinary - how strange! he thought. The figure didn't seem to be struggling. As he watched, it came closer.

It was a woman. Olive-skinned, crowned with a waist-long night-black mane, she had the muscular figure of the professional athlete, poured into a ridiculous, teeny-weeny scarlet polka-dot bikini. Not much over thirty, with an impossibly radiant and serene face. McCormick watched, dumbstruck, as she walked calmly towards him through the fatal, pounding surf.

No, not through the water, he corrected himself. She seemed to be walking. on it.

The lookout point was twenty feet up from the water, twenty feet of sharp, jagged rock. But the woman, barefoot, climbed the distance like a flight of stairs. Like it was no effort. Like she was. floating up. Grasping the guardrail, she held on, looking at McCormick. "You're wrong, you know,' she said as soon as she was level with him.

McCormick ignored her words as if she hadn't spoken. He tore his eyes away from her magnificent body to look at her face. It was vaguely familiar. He'd seen those features somewhere before. Something, surely, to do with surfing... He knew there was no way she should have survived in the water. That scared him, yet when he looked into her other-worldly, fathomless dark eyes, there was an serenity there that damped his alarm. Perfect love casteth out fear, he heard in his head like a long-forgotten melody. "Who. what are you?" he asked.

The woman giggled incongruously as she shook out her long ebony hair, the glossy curls exploding around her head, seeming to shine with an inner glow, catching the light in a sunburst, like a halo. Her hair was already dry, McCormick noted. She lay down on the railing, lounging on it at an impossible angle. No-one could balance themselves that way. No-one human, anyway.

"My name is Angelica," she said, and her voice was silvery. "You must have guessed, haven't you? I'm not from around here."

"I..I can see that, McCormick gulped, mouth dry. "Are you." He trailed off, not knowing what to say.

She hopped lightly off the railing, going round McCormick to lean on his Coyote. Stunned, he turned a full 180 to stare at her. "You can say it. Don't worry." Seeing him tongue-tied, she said gently, "Yes, I really am an angel. I'm your guardian angel, Mark McCormick."

McCormick's eyes took in the skimpy bikini, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "An angel?"

She laughed out loud. "Oh, you men! You're so conservative. They warned me about that, upstairs. Would you rather I appeared to you like this?" Her form blurred, and her radiant face was now crowned by the white headpiece of a nun's habit, her figure covered by the black folds. "Or like this?" A five-year-old cherub now stood before him, with the tiny wings of Cupid. "Or perhaps like so?" The gorgeous brunette appeared again, but this time dressed in the flowing white robes traditionally seen in paintings. "I could do this, but it seems so overdone," she said. The robes faded away to reveal the bikini, but this time a wonderful pair of white wings sprouted from her shoulder blades.

Seeing McCormick's mouth hanging open, she waved a hand. "I could never get into your car with these, anyway," she murmured as the wings dissolved to turn her into a human-looking woman again. Reaching out, she plucked a pair of shorts and a halter top out of thin air, and continued talking as she pulled them on over the swimsuit. "I like to take the form I had last time I was here," she said conversationally. "I was such a keen surfer, but one day I went out when the waves were high, and..."

Recognition dawned. "Angelica Shaheen!" McCormick blurted through his shock. "I read about you. You were the best girl surfer California ever knew!"

The angel positively preened, then caught herself. "Whoops, deadly sin of pride. But I was good, wasn't I?"

"The best," McCormick said reflexively. "But you took so many risks."

"Yeah, well, I bought it, didn't I?" Angelica said matter-of-factly. "Not that that's altogether a bad thing," she added as an afterthought. "You think California's a surfer's paradise, you should see.."

McCormick had gone very quiet. "I saw your pictures," he said with something like awe, the reality of it sinking in. "You really are her, aren't you?"

"I just said so. You believe me, don't you?"

With obvious reluctance, but with conviction, McCormick said, "Yes."

Angelica sighed with relief. "Oh, thank Heavens. It's so much easier to deal with people who do believe there is another dimension, isn't it?" she asked rhetorically. "Now if it was your friend Judge Hardcastle, he'd be insisting I was some kind of circus performer even if I took him all the way up to Heaven."

McCormick felt a chill. "Have you. have you come to."

The angel laughed. "Oh, good heavens, no! That's not my job at all. But." She paused, looking thoughtful. "What would you say if I told you I was here to take your friend?"

"Take me instead," McCormick blurted without thinking.

"You think so little of your own life?"

"Why are you asking me this?" McCormick said, suddenly wary at her probing of the wound. "You can read my thoughts, can't you?"

"No," Angelica said. "I know a little bit of your frame of mind, of course, but only what they told me Upstairs. I can't read your thoughts. You have to tell me, Mark," she said kindly.

"Yeah?" said McCormick tiredly, unable to stop himself now he'd found a sympathetic ear. "Okay, then. I do think so little of my miserable, worthless life. What did I ever do for anyone? Nothing. What difference did I make to anyone? No difference. What'd I ever accomplish? Look at the great titles I collected all through my life! Orphan, juvenile delinquent, car thief, inmate, ex-con," his voice trembled, "killer. All I ever caused anyone was grief. I wish I'd never existed. The world would just be a better place!"

Angelica smiled inwardly in secret triumph. But outwardly, she frowned. "Careful what you wish for. You might get it," she waved a cautionary finger.

McCormick turned away from her to lean on the railing again, staring out at the foaming water. "Nothing I'd like better."

Angelica floated outside the railing, standing in the air, forcing him to look at her. "Are you sure?" she said gravely. "Your past will be erased. Every action you have ever taken will be undone. Mark McCormick will cease to exist."

"Fine by me," McCormick said savagely.

The angel's eyes flicked upward. "Hear that?" she said. She waited for a moment. "It's done," she said.

McCormick snorted. "Why haven't I disappeared?" he said.

"Oh, you don't disappear. Just your identity and your past," she clarified.

"Yeah, whatever," McCormick said, feeling immensely weary. "Now if you'll excuse me, Angelica."

He turned round to find the Coyote had disappeared.

He froze for a few moments in amazement. Finally finding his voice, he stammered, "What the."

"I've been trying to tell you."

"What have you done with my car!" he shouted.

"I haven't done anything!" Angelica cried. "It's because."

"You didn't take my car?" McCormick was a man of one idea.

"No! I."

"Somebody stole my car!" He ran out into the road, trying to flag down nonexistent taxis. "Hey! Hey! Help! My car's been stolen!" The traffic whooshed by, as he became more and more frantic. "HELP! SOMEBODY STOLE MY CAR!"

"Mark! Calm down!" Angelica called, but it was too late. Like a man possessed, McCormick rushed to an abandoned old sedan that had obviously been parked on the lookout point for some time. Pulling a length of wire from some mysterious location on the underside of the automobile, he had the door open in seconds. "Mark!" Angelica yelled. "I'm an angel! I can't go around."

Oblivious, he had already hot-wired the car, and was gunning the engine. "You coming?" he asked tightly.

" 'Thou shalt not steal!' " wailed Angelica.

"I'm not stealing, just borrowing it for a while," he said. "Now, I don't wanna leave you here on your own, but if you're not coming."

Angelica cast her eyes heavenward. "Don't blame me!" she said, as she hopped into the stolen car. To Mark, she said as they drove off, "If you'd just let me explain."

* * * * *

McCormick stalked into the police station as though he owned it. "I wanna report a stolen car," he said to the officer on duty, whose nametag read "Bradley".

Officer Bradley's appreciative gaze roamed over what he no doubt saw as McCormick's pretty brunette girlfriend. "Yes, sir!" he said with alacrity. Producing forms, he took a description and details of the car from Mark. "And do you have the registration with you, sir?" he asked, his face buried in the forms.

"Yeah, sure," said McCormick, reaching into his back pocket. "Here it." Angelica rolled her eyes as a panic-stricken expression crossed his face. "What the." He searched his pockets, becoming more and more frantic as he rummaged through them all and found nothing. "My wallet! It's been stolen too! Damn! I don't believe this!"

The angel placed a gentle hand on McCormick's arm. "Mark, if you'll just let me explain."

McCormick ignored her. Turning to Officer Bradley, he said, "I wanna speak to Lt. Giles or Lt. Harper. Are they in?"

Something in the policeman's face changed. "Lt. Bill Giles? Lt. Frank Harper?"

"Yeah. They in? What time does either of them come on duty?"

Bradley's expression wavered between suspicion and sympathy. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" McCormick was getting tired of being surrounded by fools and idiots who answered his every question with one of their own.

The officer's face became grave. "I'm sorry, sir. Lts. Giles and Harper were murdered six months ago."

"What?" McCormick said, stunned. "How. I just." Surely he'd just been talking to Giles! This didn't make sense! "Murdered? Six months.?"

"I'm afraid so, sir," Officer Bradley continued. "Didn't stand a chance. Gunned down in broad daylight by that damn Weed Randall."

"W.Weed Randall?" McCormick stammered, beyond bafflement. "But how."

The policeman looked serious. "The guy was a killer on the run from a murder rap. He'd just killed another officer, Sandy Knight."

"What?"

"Yeah," Bradley went on, unaware of McCormick's confusion. "He stopped to pick up supplies at a convenience store. When he pulled a machine gun on the owner, he raised the alarm. He shot him and 8 other people who were in the store at the time. Five of 'em were kids. We finally got him, but not till he'd killed another four cops. It was a bloodbath. They were the first to show up on the scene." He sighed heavily. "Harper was the first to die. Giles was the last."

"But. but I don't understand."

Mistaking McCormick's bafflement for grief, he repeated, "I'm sorry, sir."

The Coyote forgotten, McCormick allowed Angelica to lead him out of the room into the corridor. He sat down heavily on a wooden bench. "Now will you listen to me?" she scolded.

"I . I don't understand! How could."

"Don't you see, Mark? You got your wish. You never existed, so you weren't there to stop Randall. So he killed Sandy, and escaped. All those people died because you weren't there."

McCormick set his jaw stubbornly. "What do you mean, I never existed?"

"Your wish. You got your wish." Seeing McCormick's incredulity, Angelica took his left hand. "Mark. Remember that tiny scar on your wrist you've had since first grade? The one you got playing on the jungle gym?"

"Yeah, what about."

"Look at it."

More to shut her up than anything else, McCormick pulled up his shirtsleeve, then stopped short when he saw - "It's gone!"

"It's gone because you never existed. You have nothing other than what you are now. All you ever did in life - any effect you had on the world - has been undone."

McCormick gave it a moment to really sink in. "You're serious ." McCormick stopped, lost in thought. He looked piercingly at her. "Is it really true? What you said? I'm deleted?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"But all those people he said were killed. I mean, when I. when I shot Randall."

"You thought you were committing a mortal sin, I know. I'm here to show you how wrong you were. You think you're a killer, but in reality you saved so many innocent people by your actions. Mothers, fathers, kids."

McCormick's heart lightened as though a great weight had been lifted off it, but he hesitated, hardly daring to hope for forgiveness, hardly daring to believe. "But I didn't mean to! I had no choice."

"If you could have chosen not to kill, you would have done. That's what matters. As it was, you made a choice and it was the right one."

Their attention was distracted by a shuffling of feet and the street door opening. "C'mon! Move!" an arresting officer shouted at a group of gaudily dressed prisoners - prostitutes, by the looks of them. There was a group of 'she-males' - tired-looking men dressed in cheap, flashy women's clothes, their features all but hidden by make-up - and a woman in leather and heels, her face in her hands. "Stay where you are!" The officer left the prisoners standing in a tight knot outside the squadroom door while he spoke with another policeman. McCormick's eyes rested unseeing on the bright colors for a second, then stopped in shock as he recognized the faces.

"Jase! Jason Finch! Andy Connor! Tom." He jumped up and ran to them.

The men looked at him blankly. "Who the fuck are you?" one of them, in a red dress, make-up barely hiding a bruised face, asked.

McCormick gave a humorless smile of incredulity. "Don't you remember me, Andy? McCormick, Mark McCormick! You were co-president of the book drive with me! You opened a bookstore when you got out! You said reading had opened your eyes to a better world, remember? What happened to you?"

Andy laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Who's this mo'fucker? What better world? There's nothing better in this miserable life! Get lost!"

"But. Tom! Jase! You were working in the park, right? Why did you leave?" They remained silent, looking at him blankly. "Say something!" He grasped the two other men, each by a shoulder. "Don't you remember me from Bible class? From the drama club? Remember when we did that reading from King Lear? "I am bound to a wheel of fire"? You cried, Tom! And Jase, you said for the first time you understood."

"Pal, if you don't get your hands off me I'm gonna break your arm," Jason said, roughly.

McCormick took a step back, releasing the men. "I can understand you not remembering me," he said. "But what happened to you?" They looked away.

"Don't mind them," said the fourth man, the shortest of the group, emerging from behind them. "It's just been a really bad week." His dark-circled, deep-set eyes might have been perky once, but now were merely unhappy, with the gentleness and compassion of a kind but weak soul completely broken by suffering. He wore a garish blonde wig and pink and white make-up, and looked at McCormick through false eyelashes with a kind of quiet, dignified grief. It took McCormick a moment to recognize the familiar face.

"Teddy! Teddy Hollins! What happened to you?"

"Do you know me, sir?" Gathering up the remnants of his tattered dignity, his old friend looked up at him with a stranger's eyes. It broke McCormick's heart to see the vacant, tragic look in the eyes of the man he had once protected like a little brother. But more than the pity was the confusion. How could he not recognize him? Well, he knew that, but what had happened to reduce him to this state?

"We were cellmates, remember? You were always the one with the big dreams! Then when that bum Quinlan wanted you to pay him not to send you back to jail."

There was a restless murmur in the group. Before his eyes, Teddy's face closed up. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah, Quinlan's our parole officer."

"A fine man."

"What?" McCormick's tone was incredulous. He appealed to Teddy. "Teddy, you know what a bum he is."

Teddy's eyes were wretched, pleading. "Look, sir, I don't know who you are, but you can't change anything. Just please let us be."

McCormick wanted to hug him. Instead, he took a step back, shaking his head. "You can't be serious, guys," he said. The woman began to sob and Teddy put an arm round her, patting her shoulder comfortingly. McCormick recognized her face.

"Barbara!"

She looked up at him guardedly. Her face, too, was bruised under the make-up. "Who are you?"

"Mark McCormick! Flip's best friend! Don't you remember me?"

Her face closed up even more. "You knew my father?"

"Knew him?! Barbara, I got the Coyote back from Cody when he wanted to take it from Flip, and you gave it to me, remem."

But he trailed off as she shouted in his face. "Shut up! I don't ever want to hear about that damn car again, you hear? Now I don't know what your little game is, Mister, but I want you to stop it, right now! If you know Cody, you know damn well he has the Coyote, that he killed my dad for it, and he's hounded me out of every job I've had ever since, just so I'd shut up! I don't know why he didn't just kill me. Would've been easier on me." She burst into tears.

"Barbara."

But the officer was back. "Move along, now, move along. No talking to the prisoners, Sir. Move along." McCormick stared at his one-time friends until they were out of sight.

He whirled, furiously, at the touch of Angelica's hand on his shoulder. "What!"

"Now do you see?"

"See what?"

"What the world is like without you in it."

He sagged suddenly, deflated. "So that's why the Coyote."

"Isn't yours anymore, because you never got it from Flip's daughter. In fact, she never got it in the first place. Cody won."

"But Hardcastle wouldn't have let her."

"How was he to know? You were the link between them, remember?"

"So Barbara had to become a ." He shuddered at the fate of the woman he'd sworn to treat as his own sister for the sake of his murdered friend. "But the others. Teddy!"

Angelica smiled sadly. "You underestimate your influence, Mark," she said, beginning to lead him out of the police station. "Where I live now, we know that everything happens for a purpose. You must have wondered, sometimes, at the injustice of life? That you had to spend two years in prison for a crime you - spiritually - didn't commit?"

If she expected a response from McCormick, she was to be disappointed. All he could do was nod numbly. Taking a most un-angel-like deep breath, she continued. "You were put there for a purpose, Mark. Not only to teach you to respect other people's property - which was part of it, by the way. But the main reason was that you were a refining influence on dozens of people's lives. You saved their souls - literally. They were influenced by the example you set with your intrinsic goodness - by the way you refused to deliberately hurt anyone, even when the chips were down. Then, through your activities in prison, Andy, Jason, Tom, and so many men like them, they were uplifted by the literature and art that you introduced them to. They learned, through you, that their lives had parallels in history, that there was a better side to the world. That gave them the strength to lead more valuable lives after they got out. But without you." she paused. "Well, you've just seen it."

"But Teddy! He was always so full of life."

"Who saved him from being raped in prison, Mark?" asked the angel. "Who protected him? Who believed in him, thought he could make something of himself? You think these things don't matter - they're very important. Without your protection, Teddy was raped repeatedly, humiliated, made to do all kinds of things, till he lost all his self-respect. Without your friendship, he never had anyone to care, or help him build up his self-esteem. Then, when he got out, he was victimized by Quinlan, and there was no-one to stand up for him. Teddy's a good person. He decided to sell his own body rather than hurt others, and convinced others to make the same choice."

"I."

"We're real fond of him upstairs, you know. Barbara's pimp was beating her up, and he just threw himself in the way, though the guy outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Did the same thing when Quinlan's thugs tried to beat up Andy. That's where he got all those bruises."

"But Hardcastle knew about Quinlan! He would never let this happen!"

"How did he get to know about Quinlan?" She paused until she saw him realize it. "Besides, you were the one who convinced Hardcastle that there was something going down. Even if he'd been told about it by someone else, without you there to stand up for Teddy, asking Hardcastle to believe him, Hardcastle would have seen Teddy as just another ex-con with a shady story, out to cover his own back."

"So," said McCormick, afraid to believe it, "you're saying that without me."

"I'm not saying it. I'm showing you. This is what became of those people when you weren't there."

McCormick let it sink in. He was the one who had changed all those people's lives. Him, Mark McCormick. He said the first thing that came into his head. "I always thought Hardcastle was the one who made a difference."

Angelica looked at him oddly. "Not anymore, poor thing."

Something in the angel's tone chilled McCormick's soul. He rounded on her. "What? What do you mean?"

"Well, he."

"He what?" McCormick was gripped with a terrible fear. He grabbed the angel by the shoulders, all but shaking her. "What happens to Hardcastle when I'm not there, Angelica? Huh?"

"I'm not sure," she said evasively. "I know it's different from before, though." The next moment she found herself practically flying through the air, without the aid of wings, as she was dragged outside by McCormick.

"Come on. I gotta know what's happened to Hardcastle. - Oh, no! What happened to the car?"

"It's been towed, I think."

"Dammit!" He propelled her towards the nearest car, a '79 Ford. "Come on!"

"Mark! 'Thou shalt not.' "

"Steal, yeah, yeah. I'll return it, I promise."

They peeled out of the police parking lot.

* * * * *

The road to Gulls Way seemed different in a way he couldn't quite place. It was still the same - same trees, same houses, same everything. Then what.? There was a lot of traffic. That was it. "What's going on, Angelica?" he asked her more than once, but she remained silent. Oh well, he'd find out soon enough. He knew it couldn't be too bad anyway. One thing he was certain of: his never having been born would not make too much of a dent in Hardcastle's life. He wasn't sure whether that depressed him or cheered him. At least he wouldn't feel responsible for ruining more lives with his stupid wish, the way he had done with Teddy and Barbara and the rest of them. The thought gave him some comfort, even as it saddened him. His life meant nothing to the Judge, he was sure of that.

He rounded the final bend leading to the house and screeched to a halt. "What the."

Gulls Way Rest Home, the sign read. A security guard stood at the door. It seemed to be visiting day; the parking lot outside the gate was full of different cars. Inside, what he could see of the grounds was dominated by new white concrete structures.

McCormick stared and stared. And stared.

He turned to Angelica as he had been doing for the past hour. "What's going on?"

"Well," the angel said, "Hardcastle had made a living will, long ago, that said if he ever died or became incapable of managing his own affairs, that everything would go to charity hospitals. He has no heirs, you see."

McCormick's heart threatened to stop. "Hardcastle is- He couldn't say it. "He's, he's alive, right?"

"Yes," the angel said reluctantly.

"Where is he? I gotta see him."

For answer, she pointed through the gates of the big house.

"He's the boss?"

"Not exactly."

"Talk to me, Angelica!"

The angel made a face. "He's a patient. You see."

"What? He's an inmate in here? In a mental institution?"

"A rest home," she corrected. "You see."

But she had to sprint to catch up with McCormick as he leapt out of the car and pounded past the other cars to the gates, catching up with him as he asked the security guard, "Hardcastle! Where is he?"

"Who wants to know?" the security woman asked suspiciously, looking at this panting, frantic stranger.

"Mark McCormick. I'm." He searched for words to fit this new reality. "An old friend. He probably won't recognize me."

"That's for sure, sir," she said - strangely, McCormick thought.

A rustle behind him heralded Angelica's arrival. "Where is he?" she asked charmingly. "We really appreciate it."

The guard melted at once. "Third floor, Room 306. Oh, but he'll be out on the beach now." She smiled. "He'll be pleased to have visitors. He hasn't had any for six months, since his friends passed away."

McCormick took off at a run.

* * * * *

The beach, at least, was as he had remembered it, a calm and peaceful expanse of white sand, the waves rolling in to shore as majestically as ever. A few older people roamed aimlessly about on the sand. McCormick ignored them, casting his gaze to and fro, looking for a familiar white crew-cut. It was some time before his eyes lit upon it, and with good reason. Its owner - his back to him, gazing out at the ocean - was dressed in blue flannel pajamas, seated in a wheelchair.

McCormick froze, unable to believe his eyes. Hardcastle in a wheelchair? "Hardcastle!" he cried, running to him, rounding the chair to block Hardcastle's view of the ocean, kneeling down in the soft sand to look him in the face. "What happened to you?"

Startled, the blue eyes blinked, taking a moment to focus on McCormick's. The face was actually more peaceful than McCormick remembered it. But it was a peace that chilled him.

Hardcastle was gone. His soft face just stared at McCormick with a mindless, happy smile. And the eyes - those feisty, sparkling eyes, that could speak volumes in a look - were vacant. McCormick gazed deeply into them - something that would surely have earned him a "Whaddaya think you're doin', McCormick?" in a previous life - and found he could see nothing but emptiness. The Judge was looking through him.

"Oh my God," he said, unable to believe his eyes. Hardcastle of all people, a vegetable?

The wind whipped mockingly through his hair. "Judge." he whispered, his heart beating wildly, leaning closer to this placid creature, the shell of the man he had known and respected and loved. "Talk to me, please." The vacant eyes just smiled into his. Seeing this stranger hurt more than finding Hardcastle dead. McCormick felt a lump form in his throat. "Talk to me. C'mon, talk to me. It's Mark, your pet ex-con," he coaxed, forgetting the Judge couldn't recognize him in this new world. "C'mon, Milt, look at me, huh?"

He brought his face closer to his old friend, their faces almost touching. To McCormick, there was nothing in the world but Hardcastle right now. Their two heads close together formed a cocoon that shut out the world outside.

"Milt. C'mon, Milt," he whispered again, his tone intimate, his voice full of affection. "Snap out of it. Talk to me. You can do it. Come on."

Agonizing seconds passed before the childlike gaze focused to gaze trustingly at him. "T.Tommy?" Hardcastle said in a threadlike, lost voice, weak, yet full of gladness. "I'm glad you're here," he went on in that same tone. "I've been so lonely."

McCormick's heart twisted with pity. He froze in indecision, unable to destroy any little moment of happiness for the shell of his friend by saying he was not his son, yet somehow afraid to say he was, and most of all wishing this nightmare would end. Looking into the ruined and ravaged face of this person who meant more than anything in the world to him, he gave in to his instincts and leaned forward to envelop the judge in a gentle but heartfelt hug, rubbing his back and shoulders.

"Oh, Judge," he murmured, "I'm sorry," though he didn't know what he was apologizing for. His cheek brushed his friend's, and he inhaled the smell of the pajamas, the chemical odors of medication and the indefinable signs of too much sleep. He grimaced as he remembered the Judge's usual scent of fresh air and the outdoors and freshly washed cotton. His hand found the back of the older man's head, stroking the short hair. "I'm." He snatched his hand away as if burnt. He'd felt a ridge, a scar. Keeping his hands on the Judge's shoulders to maintain contact, he got up from the sand and gently circled the placidly smiling man. He looked at the back of his head, and gasped to find an ugly furrow. "What the."

"Excuse me, Mister?" came a female voice. Looking up, expecting Angelica, McCormick found himself face to face with a plump young orderly instead. The angel was nowhere to be seen. The kid, barely eighteen, looked at him, chewing a wad of bubblegum. "I hate to disturb you, but visiting hours are."

"What happened to him, Nurse?"

McCormick's face must have shown more of his feelings than he thought, since a look of sympathy spread over the young face. "You don't know, Mister?" she said. "I figured you knew all about it. It's good to see Grampa Milt get a visitor."

McCormick bristled. "He's got a name! Milton C. Hardcastle!"

The nurse chewed her gum nonchalantly. "Yeah, well," she said, "I like to call him Grampa Milt, figure it's the closest he'll get to having family. 'Sides, it's not like he knows what's going on, or cares."

McCormick could willingly have strangled the well-intentioned girl for this indignity. He settled for saying tightly, "I don't ever want to hear you call him that again, you hear? Ever." He couldn't believe he was standing here in front of Hardcastle, talking about him in the third person like he wasn't there. It was getting harder to keep the pain out of his voice. "Now what happened to him?"

The kid looked impressed. "Gee, you really care about him, Mister. If he'd had someone who loved him way back when, maybe he wouldn't be like this now. No-one's come to see him since his two cop friends died. I always get sorry for old guys like him. I think."

"Nurse, what happened?" There was no disguising the urgency in McCormick's voice.

She became animated. "I'll tell ya, sir. You wouldn't think it to look at him now, but this guy used to be a judge! Pretty famous, too! Ya know this whole place used to be his house, an."

He cut the garrulous nurse off. "I know! WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM!!"

"One day he gets nominated for the Supreme Court, and goes to Washington. So he's there in D.C., staying at this really fancy hotel."

McCormick paled. "Go on."

"There's some muggers who think he's rich, and hold him up. He musta resisted them 'cause they shot him: once in the back and once in the head. Only, this is weird, the slug in the head didn't hit him hard enough to kill him, it musta hit something first 'cause they managed to dig it outa his brain later. 'Cept he was paralyzed, and he lost all his memory too, and his personality and everything. He's been a vegetable ever since. Woulda been better if he'd died, I guess."

"Oh no," McCormick whispered, realizing. He looked at the scar on the Judge's head. "Oh no."

"Funny thing is, he'd left his wallet back at the hotel. All he had on him was a watch." The girl unlocked the wheelchair, turned it around, and made to go. She struggled to get the chair onto the concrete path, and McCormick automatically moved to help her, resting a hand on Hardcastle's shoulder, finding any excuse to stay close to him for a few more moments. As he looked down at the Judge, he noticed, for the first time, the catheter bag hanging out of his pants leg.

"Nurse," he said, "Can't he stay a while?"

"I'm really sorry, Mister, but we have to give him his bath," she said, and McCormick watched, speechless, as she started to wheel the Judge away.

"Nurse! Hold it one second," he said. Sprinting after them, he knelt to gaze into Hardcastle's face one last time, looking in vain for any sign of recognition, trying to find in the empty eyes, the flaccid cheeks, a trace of the man he had known. But there was nothing, just that placid, innocent smile. He wanted to scream, but he forced himself to smile in return, patting the Judge's cheek affectionately. The nurse started to move the chair again, and he stood up helplessly. They started to go.

"C'mon, Grampa oops, sorry," the nurse said, at McCormick's withering glare. "We're gonna have our Christmas party tonight, and you'll get your own party hat! Won't that be fun?"

"Please don't talk to him like that. He's not a child."

"Same difference," the nurse said nonchalantly, and turned away.

"Wait." He ran around to the front of the chair again, and looked the ruin of Hardcastle full in the face, memorizing every detail. Unheeding, he let the pain wash through him. It was worth it to gaze upon the dear face. Gently, he bent to kiss the brow of the oblivious, smiling man. "I'll be back," he whispered. "That's a promise." But if the Judge had heard him, he gave no sign.

McCormick stood watching the nurse wheeling Hardcastle towards the building. But something the girl had said nagged at him. He addressed her retreating back. "What did you mean, it might have made a difference if he'd had someone to care for him when he was first hurt?"

She looked back at him, ruminating thoughtfully over her gum. "Oh, it was just something the doctors said," she said. "Like, if he'd had loved ones around to help with the rehab therapy, to kinda remind him of what he used to be, he mighta gotten more of his mind back. He didn't have nobody. But don't you fret, Mister," she said, noticing the agonized expression on McCormick's face. "This way, I figure it's better." She turned again, pushing the wheelchair towards the white building. "He hasn't had anyone round to visit him for six months. It's just as well he's out of it - like, I mean, everyone he knew's already dead," she went on callously.

McCormick tried to answer, but found no words.

The girl paused one last time before wheeling the mindless figure through the white-painted door. "This way, he'll never know he's all alone. And no-one's gonna be sad when he dies."

As the Judge and his nurse disappeared from view, McCormick felt the world shift as it had done only once before, when he'd got the news that his best friend Flip was dead. He took a step forward, then the weakness overcame him, and, choking, he fell to his knees on the concrete driveway. He stayed there, rocking helplessly, unable to rise.

"Are you okay?" Gentle hands lifted him up.

"I -" He wanted to say he was okay, but found himself unable to speak. Looking up, expecting nurses, he found Angelica looking at him sympathetically. He wanted to get angry, but hadn't the strength. Battling his pain, he let her lead him to the car.

"Now do you see what a difference you make?" she asked as soon as they were outside.

"Angelica," he said brokenly. "I don't care about that. Any of it. All I want is for Hardcastle to be the way he was. I'll do anything you ask. Just please do this. Please. It's not his fault. He can't go on like this, please."

"You were the one who saved him from -"

"It doesn't matter!" he yelled. "It doesn't matter, none of that stuff matters. Nothing matters, just make him like he used to be! I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I doubted or whatever it is, I don't even remember, you can't leave him like this, please!"

The angel looked skyward. "How can I convince him of his own worth when he's in such a state?" She turned back to him, to try once again. "Since you were never born, you weren't in Washington to save him. So-"

"Angelica, that's ancient history! What can I do to bring him back? Take his place? I'll do it. Just say the word. Tell me what to do and I will."

The angel smiled mischievously. "What if I told you things couldn't be changed back?"

"It can't be true. You've gotta change them back. I'm never giving up till you do, you understand me?"

"How about if I told you there was a way to bring him back if you-"

"I'll do it."

"What if I told you there was an alternative reality where he'd be okay, but you'd have to spend the rest of your life in prison?"

McCormick gulped. "And he'd be happy?"

"Yes."

He set his teeth. "I'll do it."

"You mean that, don't you?" Angelica's voice was wondering.

"Yes. I just wanna be sure he's okay."

She cast her eyes up to heaven. "Okay, so you were right. Do you know how annoying it is to deal with angels who are always right?" Turning to McCormick again, she said, "It's important for you to realize that without your affection for him, he wouldn't have been able to survive for long. He puts a cheerful face on it always, but he's really very lonely, and you brought love into his life, and."

But McCormick wasn't listening. "Please, Angelica, just change things to. to what you said." He didn't relish the idea of spending life in jail, that much was true. But the alternative was unthinkable.

He thought he saw her smile. He could hardly focus on what she said, but it was something about proving his willingness to sacrifice, something about a price he wouldn't have to pay.

"And you promise me he'll be okay?"

"An angel's promise. But it's gonna be harder to change things back. You may be out of it for a minute or two, and you'll probably wake up in a different place."

McCormick gulped. That could only be San Quentin. "Okay."

"Close your eyes," she said.

McCormick took a last look around him at the green trees, the blue sky, at the loveliness of the outside world he would never see again. But he found it bitter. The world had lost its beauty with the knowledge that Hardcastle was a vegetable. Better a thousand times to be in jail and know that he was well. With that, he screwed his eyes tightly shut, resigned to opening them to prison gray. Vertigo assailed him suddenly and he fell.

* * * * *

Hardcastle pulled the pickup into the lookout point, relieved to see the kid's car. He'd headed out after him, feeling guilty and ashamed, hoping to make amends. But Hardcastle was astonished and a little scared to find McCormick sprawled in an undignified heap outside the Coyote's door. "McCormick! McCormick! You okay, kiddo?" His worry increased when he found him unconscious. Kneeling beside him he turned him over, patting his cheek gently. "Wake up, kid!" What on earth was wrong with him? It looked like he'd tripped and somehow knocked himself out.

Though McCormick seemed to be regaining consciousness, he didn't open his eyes. "Am I in jail yet?"

Hardcastle frowned guiltily. That had to be the effect of what he'd said earlier. What in the world had possessed him to say such unnecessary, hurtful things to McCormick? Why did he just assume Mark would go on taking it? Because the kid was alone in the world? Because he had nobody else, so he could hurt him as much as he liked, knowing he wouldn't walk away? He felt like a heel. "C'mon, snap out of it, kid! What's wrong? You need a doctor?"

The kid stirred, and opened his eyes, still unfocused. "Angelica?" he asked groggily.

Hardcastle, vastly reassured, rolled his eyes. "Can't ya quit thinkin' about girls for five minutes?" he complained.

McCormick's eyes snapped open. "JUDGE!" he yelled. Hardcastle found his face being rudely grabbed in both hands as McCormick stared at him like he'd grown a third eye, grinning like an idiot. "Judge! Judge! I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" McCormick grabbed Hardcastle and shook him like a crazy man, beginning to laugh hysterically. "Judge!"

"Whaddaya think you're doin', McCormick? You taken leave of your senses?" He instantly regretted his harsh words, especially as he'd promised himself to make it up to him for his hurtful remark earlier, but McCormick was oblivious.

"YES!" he shouted to the sky. "Thank you, God! All right! Bring on the prison van! Yeah!" And with that, Hardcastle found himself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug.

"Get offa me!" Hardcastle squirmed in embarrassment. "You outa your mind?"

But McCormick was already gone, dancing round and round, doing a wild war-dance, complete with loud whoops and inhuman howls. He ran back to the Judge suddenly. "Judge, how's the house?"

"The what?" Hardcastle was now seriously starting to fear for McCormick's sanity.

"The house," he said, and his voice was dead serious. "Is it still the same?"

"Yeah, last I checked, about fifteen minutes ago," the Judge said, hoping to pacify this madman. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"Oh, nothing," McCormick said, with that same beatific grin. "Nothing at all. All RIIIIIIGHT!" And Hardcastle found himself being hugged again. Before he could bellow, McCormick disengaged the embrace and stepped back, a look of puzzlement on his face. "I wonder why I'm not in jail, though."

"If you're trying to make me feel guilty, McCormick."

McCormick looked at him with what he could swear was genuine puzzlement. "No, why should I?"

"You're not in jail because you don't deserve to be in jail, McCormick. That's all there is to it."

"No, I mean." McCormick looked around him in perplexity. The lost look on his face made Hardcastle feel like seven kinds of a louse.

"Look, McCormick," he said gruffly, turning away and walking to the railing to look out at the ocean, "I uh, I said what I said because."

McCormick suddenly realized what Hardcastle was thinking. It was an effort to remember; he'd forgotten all about the incident. "You don't have to explain, Judge," he said. "You don't have to say anything. I'm not mad. I don't mind, honest."

Hardcastle, touched, grunted and wiped a hand across his nose. What had he ever done to deserve such a friend? He'd treat him better, he vowed, or die trying. "No, listen," he started again, staring doggedly out at the sea.

"Shh. Shut up. You don't have to say a word." McCormick walked over to stand next to the Judge, glorying in his living, healthy presence. They stood watching the sunset together. Time enough to wonder why he wasn't in jail later. Right now, he had his Christmas gift standing right next to him. "Don't worry about it. It's really okay."

But Hardcastle ploughed on, determined to get it said. "No, I. uh, see, Nancy always wanted to put that tree right where you wanted to put it, and I always wanted to put it by the stairs, so when you." He shrugged and trailed off.

So much pain, thought McCormick. There's been so much suffering. It's enough. He fought it the way he had been fighting the pain since he was five years old, facing it head-on with laughter. "See? Just goes to show that she and I share excellent taste," he bantered lightly. Slinging an arm round Hardcastle's shoulder, he gave him a friendly pat, encouraged when the older man didn't immediately shake it off. "Next time, listen to the expert."

"Expert?" Hardcastle retorted, falling gladly back into their familiar pattern. "I get this from someone who thinks Christmas decorations grow on trees." He hated to admit it, but he was glad of the kid's affectionate gesture. It showed that despite his boorish behavior, he hadn't completely alienated him - yet. He's too good. I don't deserve him, with all I do to him, he thought. Please, God, give me the strength to treat him better.

"Look who's talking, The Jolly Woodsman who still remembers when they used to go out into the woods like Real Men and cut their own Christmas tree back in 1803. What did you use to decorate your tree with? Lumps of coal? Hadn't invented electric light yet back then, had they?"

Hardcastle ignored the blatant chronological error. "It'd do you a world of good to cut your own tree," he snorted. "You city kids are soft. C'mon," he added in his gruffest voice, "we'll be late."

"Late for what?" McCormick, despite his relief and joy, was still trying to get a handle on things. Could it be that he wasn't meant to spend his life in jail after all? That he'd been spared?

Avoiding McCormick's gaze, the Judge stared fixedly out at the spectrum of red and gold spreading across the sky. "We got reservations at Chez Pierre for dinner," he said defiantly, as though expecting argument. Here it comes, he thought: He'll start giving me a hard time about how I want to make it up to him, or how last time he was there they served him raw hamburger, or any one of a hundred other ways to get my goat. "And I don't wanna hear any of your lip!"

"Chez Pierre?" McCormick found it vaguely strange, but was still too shell-shocked by the day's events to argue. Besides, his attention was distracted by the warmth spreading through him inside, making him feel like a new person. "Okay."

'Okay?' That was all? "You feeling all right, kid? You're not getting sick or anything, are you?"

"Me? No, never better," McCormick said, feeling the truth of his words.

"Yeah," mumbled Hardcastle, concerned. He looked out at the ocean. Something unusual in the sea caught his eye. "What the hell is that?"

McCormick followed his gaze, then smiled as he made out what it was. "I don't think Hell has anything to do with it, Judge," he smiled.

A lone surfer, a mere speck at this distance, was bouncing and flying on the burnished golden surface of the water. As the mad waves pounded the rocks, the surfer insinuated the board into the curves of the giant, savage rollers, rushing forward in an insane rush of motion. Riding the crests, the figure came closer, flying up into the void off the wave's surface to execute breathtaking rolls and loops in mid-air. McCormick remembered the moves from long-ago videos, and divided his viewing between looking at the surfer and affectionately watching Hardcastle's face as he oohed and aahed and wondered at the crazy nut who would risk death by surfing in this weather. Once or twice, Mark was amused to catch his angelic acquaintance cheating, as he saw a wingtip - unnoticed by Hardcastle - unfurl to balance her and save her from a sudden wipeout. The sky turned a hundred shades of rose and scarlet, bestowing a silent blessing on the two friends as they settled back to watch the show.

Finally the surfer vanished from view, just as the last rays of the sun vanished from the heavens. The shades of pink slowly faded as the sky turned a cooler pearly grey. A slight chill made McCormick shiver. "C'mon, Judge, let's go," he said.

But Hardcastle was still staring at the ocean, mesmerized by the beautiful brunette who surfed like no human could possibly surf. "Why can't you get to know some girls like that, McCormick, 'stead of the featherbrains you always come up with?" he said.

"Hi, Mark," said a silvery voice. Hardcastle turned to see the gorgeous surfing champion staring at the kid with adoration in her eyes. What the.

McCormick grinned at the Judge in a very superior way. "Matter of fact, I do," he said. It was immensely gratifying to see the seasoned jurist's mouth hanging open.

"Hope you enjoyed the show, lover," the long-dead surfer winked at McCormick, her eyes dancing.

" 'Lover?' Since when do you rate someone like her?!" the Judge was spluttering.

"Oh, Mark's a very special person," the angel purred, sashaying closer to the ex-con and slipping her arms around his neck as Hardcastle watched in amazement. In a low voice, she told him, "I couldn't leave without telling you you don't have to go to jail, not now, not ever. It was just a test of your loyalty. You have such precious qualities, Mark - your courage, your resilience, your cheerful heart, your pure spirit, but your most precious quality is your willingness to sacrifice yourself for those you love. Never lose it."

McCormick nodded numbly as she continued speaking. "Most of all, never think you don't make a difference. If I'm your guardian angel, you're Milton's. Do you understand?"

He nodded again. Looking satisfied, the angel flicked a glance at the Judge, and stood up on tiptoe to kiss McCormick full on the lips. Hardcastle goggled. "Goodbye, Mark McCormick," she whispered. "Take good care of him, you're all he has." She walked away into the road, loudly calling, "G'bye, sexy! Catch you later!"

"G'bye, honey!" McCormick called, falling into the game, noting that Hardcastle's eyes were most satisfyingly popping out of his head.

It was not very dark yet, but the girl seemed to disappear almost immediately. "Hold on, Miss!" Hardcastle, ever the gentleman, looked in the direction she had disappeared. "McCormick, where's your manners? Shouldn't we offer her a ride?"

McCormick turned to look at his friend, smiling broadly. "Nah, Judge. She's got a ride, believe me."

"Maybe you'd'a' liked to invite her along to dinner?" Hardcastle asked tentatively, almost shyly.

"Nah," McCormick smiled. "I'll just have to put up with you, I guess." But. "Judge," he said hastily, before he could change his mind, "I was thinking. how'd you feel about having some people over for our Christmas dinner this year?"

"People, what kind of people?" Hardcastle asked before he could stop himself. Dammit, why can't I just tell him to invite whomever he likes?

"Well, Barbara, Flip's widow, you remember her," he said. He hesitated, then the words came out in a rush, "and Teddy Hollins, you remember him, and three other guys I know from inside." There, he'd said it. The Judge would probably refuse to have a mess of ex-cons over. Still, that was okay, he thought, gazing out at the luminous sky glowing with gentle light. He'd rather listen to Hardcase trashing his background for a month than have to see him hurting for even one second. His own new-found serenity surprised him.

Hardcastle looked at McCormick. Words trembled on his lips scathing, hurtful words, about having half the ex-cons in LA over, and locking up the silver before they arrived. Words he didn't even mean, but would say, from force of habit. He opened his mouth to say them and looked into McCormick's open, trusting face. So loyal, so giving, so vulnerable. How easy it would be to crush the hope in his face. How often had he given in to the temptation to hurt his feelings? "Sure, invite 'em all," he mumbled. "Be a pleasure to have 'em," he muttered more indistinctly still.

"You sure?" McCormick asked, surprised and pleased. "If you feel uncomfor."

"Shaddap," Hardcastle snapped. Searching for more eloquent words, and not finding any, he settled for, "You just invite whoever you want, hmm? God knows we're gonna need some help finishing that Christmas turkey, anyway. That thing stayed in the refrigerator for two weeks last year! Got so I was sick of turkey meatloaf, turkey salad, turkey."

"Okay, okay," McCormick held up a hand. "I've had enough of your denigrating my culinary skills. Next time you can figure out creative things to do with leftovers yourself!" He smiled inwardly, knowing what the Judge was trying to say. What had he ever done to deserve such a friend? He'd take care of him, he vowed, or die trying. "Now didn't you say something about dinner reservations?"

Leaving the truck where they could pick it up later, they slipped into the Coyote for the ride into town. As they drove off, McCormick remembered what the angel had said.

"If I'm your guardian angel, you're Milton's." It was as if he was being told something he had always known. He had always felt protective of his friend, who pretended to need no protection. Now, he knew it was a sacred trust.

McCormick looked at the Judge affectionately, only to catch Hardcastle sneaking a glance at him with much the same expression. Embarrassed, the Judge immediately looked straight ahead. "Whadda you starin' at, McCormick?" he snapped.

McCormick laughed out loud with gladness, looking up at the sky in thanks for having the Judge back alive and whole. A tiny point of light, no bigger than a star, glowed briefly in the heavens. Just before it disappeared, McCormick fancied he heard a plaintive silvery voice speaking in distinctly complaining tones.

"One kiss! One lousy kiss, for cryin' out loud! Does being an angel mean you don't get to have any fun? Oh, c'mon! Whaddaya mean, the Earth's corrupted me?"


~~The End~~


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