Title: The Circle Game
Author: Sooz
Email: sooz9009@aol.com
Disclaimers: Not mine, non-profit.
Rating: PG-13 for adult language, situations
Summary:  A terrible crime and shadows from the past
haunt Harm and Mac as they try to build a future
together.

Author's Note: This story deals in part with the
subject of child abuse.  There are no graphic
descriptions, but I have tried to make it honest and
true to my research and experience.  This is a very
sensitive topic for many people, and if you think it
may upset or offend you in any way, please read no
further.


The Circle Game

1422 EDT
JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, Virginia
Late August, 2002

The only sound in the room was the dry scratching of a
pen on paper.  Lieutenant Jackson sat in the chair in
front of the desk and discreetly allowed his eyes to
move over the shelves and bland walls of the office. 
His gaze caught on the model Tomcat at one end of the
credenza, the battered flight helmet beside it. 
Hammer?  He glanced back at the gold wings and the two
DFCs on his CO's uniform.

"Okay," Commander Harmon Rabb said as he tossed the
form onto the stack in his outbox.  "That does it,
Lieutenant.  Dismissed."

Jackson stood immediately and came to attention.  "Aye
aye, sir," he said, and executed a perfect about-face.
 He released his breath in a silent whistle once he
cleared the door.  He felt like he had just finished
the obstacle course at the Academy.  Progress reports
with Commander Rabb were no joke.

"How'd it go, sir?" Lieutenant j.g. Muller was waiting
tensely.

"And I thought law school and the bar exam were
tough."  Muller looked spooked, and Jackson rolled his
eyes.  "Hey, man, just kidding.  But you'd better know
your stuff, because trust me, he does.  You ready?"

The adam's apple in Muller's throat bobbed up and
down.  "I -- I think so.  I mean, I'm just doing
research, I don't get to handle any cases yet" --

"Relax, he's fair.  Now you'd better get in there." 
Jackson jerked his head at the closed door.  Muller
squared himself away and knocked.

"Enter."  Harm hung up the phone and looked up as
Muller came to attention.  "At ease, Lieutenant.  Are
you and your partner in crime ready for inspection?"

"Yes, sir.  Lieutenant Singer and I are set up in the
small conference room downstairs."

"Well, let's get it over with." Muller scurried to
keep up as Harm walked swiftly to the elevator.

"So, Lieutenant, how do you like it at headquarters so
far?  You finding your way around all right?" Harm
inquired as they rode down to the basement.

"Uh, just fine, thank you sir."

"You just graduated from Georgetown, right?  How's Con
Law these days?"

"Still tough, sir.  You went to Georgetown, sir?"

"Yeah, coming up to my tenth reunion pretty soon." 
Harm led the way off the elevator with Muller trotting
in his wake.  Now he realized why Commander Rabb's
name seemed so familiar.  Oh Jeez, there couldn't be
two Harmon Rabbs who left their byline in the
Georgetown Law Review.  Great.  Now he had to contend
with that, too.  Well, Rabb seemed like a pretty
decent guy, at least.

When the door to the basement meeting room swung open,
Lieutenant Lauren Singer leaped to her feet.  Her
diminutive figure was nearly obscured by stacks of
file boxes and documents piled on the big table from
edge to edge. 

With Muller hovering discreetly in the background,
Harm stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and
silently surveyed the scene.  Finally he lifted his
eyebrows and said, "Well, lieutenant, you've been
busy."  He gestured to the three chairs not filled
with boxes.  "As you were, both of you.  Let's get to
it."

Singer waited until Harm was seated before handing him
a single folder.  "Sir, everything is complete for
Navy vs. Worldwide Dynamics.  I have prepared a
detailed index highlighting the crucial sections."

Harm groaned to himself.  He hated civil cases.  The
tedious proceedings could drag on for years, and the
JAG Corps had hundreds of lawyers who specialized in
the minutiae involved.  Just his luck that the Navy
was bogged down in civil litigation these days, and
the admiral had ordered his section to help with the
overload.  He in turn had assigned Singer to do the
groundwork, with Muller to help her.

Harm fired questions for an hour as they worked their
way item by item through the basis of the lawsuit. 
From time to time one of the junior officers would dig
through the files to locate a specific document. 
Finally Harm leaned back and stretched.

"Okay.  The contractual obligations seem solid, and
the document trail for the change orders is clear. 
What do you have on the company itself?"

Singer quickly summarized Worldwide's financial status
and corporate profile.  As she finished, Harm saw
Muller look at her with an alert expression. 
"Something you want to add, Lieutenant?" he asked. 
From the corner of his eye, he saw Singer glower.  

"Well, I don't know if it's relevant, sir," Muller
began hesitantly.  

"I don't either, Lieutenant.  Try me."

Muller cleared his throat.  "I did some digging, sir,
and it seems that Worldwide has previously done
business under several different corporate names,
going back years.  In each instance, they have
defaulted on a contract or gone bankrupt.  And each
time, the same basic group of corporate officers has
reorganized, refinanced, and obtained new defense
contracts."

"You're kidding.  And the Office of Procurement
overlooked it."  Harm shook his head in disgust.

"You bury something under enough different holding
companies and wash it through enough different state
registrations, sir, and it's easy to miss."

Harm cocked his head.  "So how did you find the paper
trail, Lieutenant?"

"I did an internship at the SEC during law school,
sir.  Worked in the fraud claims division.  I noticed
that most companies that get into trouble have a
pattern of similar infractions."

Harm swiveled in his seat.  "And you were going to
omit this from your report, Lieutenant Singer?"

"No, sir," she bristled.  "I had some doubt that it
would be admissible, but you'll find the summary in
Appendix G."

"It's not a criminal case, Lieutenant.  I think our
colleagues in the civil division will have fun
deciding whether they can add this to their lawsuit. 
Regardless, they can use it to help sway the jury,
even if it gets thrown out.  As you know, it will be
heard in civilian court, and a lawsuit is a very
different animal from a military court martial."  

He could tell Singer was simmering with resentment at
his professorial tone, so he eased off.  "Look,
Lauren.  You've done an excellent job here, both of
you.  Just don't forget to keep an eye on the big
picture while you're organizing the details."

"Yes sir.  Thank you sir."  She bit it off. 
Internally, Harm sighed.  When she got mad, Lauren
Singer's jaw began to jut forward until she looked
like a female version of the Nutcracker.  Clearly she
resented sharing the credit with Muller.  Tough.  

Harm paused.  "Just one more question."

"Sir?"  

He gestured at the table.  "This looks like the
Library of Congress.  If it weren't so well organized,
I'd think you were trying to confuse the defendants by
overwhelming them. Is there any documentation you 
include?"

"No, sir!" Singer replied.  "I am confident we didn't
miss a thing, sir."  Harm wondered if this girl would
ever learn to lighten up.

"Relax, Lieutenant.  I know you didn't miss anything. 
But it's also important to develop a sense of what's
essential and what doesn't really matter, or you'll
burn out one of these days."  He gave her a quick
smile.  "Hate to see that happen.  I heard how you
spotted that dummy submarine."

She flushed and gave him one of her tight smiles in
return.  At the back of his mind, Harm wondered why he
had never found Singer attractive.  She was pretty,
but there was something about her eyes . . . .  Then,
"Thank you, sir," she said sweetly before she looked
down and assumed a pious tone.  "Any word on how
Lieutenant Roberts is doing, sir?  What happened was
just terrible."

Harm's gaze turned frosty.  "He's recovering.  It will
be awhile before he can return to duty."

"I certainly hope he won't have to leave the Navy,
don't you, sir?"

Abruptly Harm stood up and the two junior officers
were instantly on their feet.  "Okay, people.  Leave
the report in my inbox and I'll sign it.  Then you can
arrange to have all this stuff transferred to
Commander Connor's section.  Dismissed."  He was out
the door while the duet of "Aye aye sir" still hung in
the air.  As he punched the button for the elevator he
could hear Singer snapping orders at the hapless
Muller.  She always loved having a subordinate to kick
around, he thought.

Where the hell was the damn elevator?  Abruptly he
wheeled and took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

"What was  all about, ?" Singer hissed as the door
swung shut.

"Ma'am?"

"Don't you ever undercut me with a superior again, got
it?"

"Ma'am, I didn't" -- 

"Just because you graduated from Georgetown, don't
think you can push your way ahead of me with that Old
Boy Network crap."  She planted her hands on the table
and leaned forward until her nose was barely a foot
from Muller's.  He took an involuntary step backward. 


Her voice was low and venemous.  "Listen, you little
weasel.  I know why you're here, with your fancy
degree and your quickie commission.  You'll get your
student loans paid off and get some Navy time on your
resume, and in a few years you'll move on to a fancy
corporate firm with a big paycheck.  Well, you're not
doing it at my expense, got it?"

"Ma'am, that was never my intention" --

"That's all, Lieutenant.  Get all this stuff together
and have the summaries on my desk by 1700. 
Dismissed."

Muller found himself staring at the door for a full
minute after it swished shut behind her.  His guts had
been so efficiently unzipped that he was mildly
surprised there was no blood on the floor.

 * * *

Sarah Mackenzie looked up at the light knock.  Harm
was leaning in the doorway, trying to look pathetic.  

"Tough day?" she inquired, making an effort not to
laugh.

He rolled his eyes and dropped into her extra chair
without being invited, stretching out his long legs. 
"Project reviews.  Finishing up with the ever-charming
Lieutenant Singer."

Mac regarded him with tolerant sympathy.  She and Harm
each supervised a dozen junior attorneys in their
respective sections, in addition to their own case
loads.  

"She always makes you cranky," Mac pointed out.  "What
was it this time?"

Harm rubbed his forehead.  "No matter how you phrase
it, she doesn't listen."  He shook his head in
disgust.  "Forget it.  I keep making the mistake of
thinking she's teachable."

"No, you keep acting like a good C.O.  It's her
problem that she still resents everything and
everybody."

"Well, she sure as hell still resents Bud.  She's got
her eye on his office and his job." 

Mac gave a quick frown.  "What do you mean?"

"Ah, I just hate the tone she uses when she asks about
him."

"What tone is that?"

"Insinuating."  Irritably he waved it aside and leaned
back with a sigh.  Simply walking into Mac's office
always made him feel better.  "It's just that with Bud
on medical leave, we'll probably have to start giving
some of the bigger cases to her.  The thing that gets
me is, she's bright.  She's incredibly thorough, she
works hard.  There's no real reason why she shouldn't
get a chance, except that -- hell, I don't know how to
put my finger on it."

"Every case is all about ," Mac said thoughtfully. 
"Her ambition, her ideas.  As you said, she doesn't
listen.  She tends to get the facts but misses the
point."

Harm's warm gaze held a hint of a private smile. 
"What?" Mac asked.

"You," he said softly.  "As usual, you hit the nail on
the head."

Mac looked at him in surprise.  "Well, you're the one
who has to write her fit rep," she pointed out. 
"Anyway, how  Bud?  You went by last night, didn't
you?"

Harm shrugged.  "Yeah.  He's doing okay, all things
considered.  They've got him walking every day, and
he's just about recovered physically.  They'll be
sending him home in a week or two."

"That's great.  It'll really make things easier for
Harriet.  Between work and A.J. and running to the
rehab hospital, she's about worn out.  I'm going over
to their place tomorrow night to baby sit so she can
do some errands."  Mac looked at her partner
carefully.  "So what aren't you saying?" she asked.

Harm glanced up.  Damn, she could read him like a
book.  "He's depressed," he said finally.  "Didn't
want to hear about work, didn't want to play chess,
didn't really want to talk.  We spent the whole time
watching the ballgame on TV.  I got the feeling he
would rather I didn't come."  

"You remind him," she said after a moment, hoping she
wasn't going too far.  

"You mean because I stepped on a mine and walked
away?" he said, his voice sharp.  "Mac, do you think I
don't wake up every day and realize how lucky I am?"

"I know you do.  I also know you feel guilty about
it," she said gently.  

"I don't feel guilty," he argued, not looking at her. 
"I just wish I could do something."

"You are.  Bud will get through this, Harm, because
he's a good man and he has Harriet, and he has good
friends who are there for him."

"Like you were there for me?"  Their eyes met and
held.  

"Hey, buddy, can I get a rain check for our game?  I'm
on the red eye to Rosey Roads and I need to pack." 
Sturgis's deep baritone came from the doorway. 
"Excuse me for interrupting, Colonel."

Harm opened his eyes wide.  "You finally realized you
can't beat me, is that it?"

Sturgis wadded up a Post-it and tossed it accurately
into Mac's waste basket.  "He shoots, he scores. 
Colonel, my fit rep summaries will be on your e-mail. 
I'll finish them on the plane."

"They aren't due for two weeks, you know,"  Mac kidded
him.

"Some of us like to get things in ahead of deadline,"
Sturgis said.  "Besides, I'm going to take a few days
in Jamaica on the way back."

"You always were an overachiever," Harm snorted. 
"This couldn't have anything to do with a certain
Congresswoman who is currently campaigning in Detroit,
would it?"

"That, my friend, is on a need-to-know basis," Sturgis
said.

"Hey, I need to know."

"Not in this lifetime.  Colonel, see you in two
weeks."

Mac smiled as Sturgis sketched a wave.  "Well, I guess
I'd better get this finished," she sighed and looked
at her computer screen.

"Okay, but what are you doing tonight?"

"Well, Ben Affleck stood me up, so I guess I'm doing
my laundry."

"How would you like to have dinner with someone else
who got stood-up?"

"Dinner twice in less than a week?  People will talk."
 She kept her tone light.

"So?  You game?"

"Does this mean I have to shoot hoops?"

"No, it means I come by your place around 1800 and we
figure out what to eat."

Mac laughed. "Well, I don't know.  Does this mean I'm
your fallback date? The girl next door?"

Her teasing tone might have fooled anyone else.  As
Harm stood to leave, he said, "Mac.  If you were the
girl next door, I would never have left California."  

* * *

1830 EDT
Mac's apartment, Georgetown

And I thought it was hot on the Guadalcanal, Mac
reflected as she stepped out of the shower and reached
for a towel.  She half expected to see steam rising
from her damp skin as she blotted herself dry.  Her
apartment was on the top floor of a big brick
Victorian and it never really cooled off, despite the
best efforts of two wheezing window air conditioners.

Face it, Washington in August was an oven.  

But last August, she reminded herself, you were so raw
and hurt you couldn't sleep, you could barely eat or
do your job.  You were furious with yourself, and you
sure as hell weren't speaking to your best friend.  

At least we got past that, she told herself.  Since
last fall, Harm had been so cautious with her, almost
as if he were trying to make amends -- if that was a
word one could ever associate with him, she thought
with an internal smile.  

During those desperate weeks last spring, something
had rekindled between them -- something that made her
think of the current flowing through a high voltage
line, so powerful it nearly hummed.  And somehow,
since their return, Harm had begun stopping at her
place two or three evenings a week on his way home. 
Usually he changed into civvies here, rather than
driving across the District and back.  It had become
part of their regular routine -- so far, and no
farther.

So where  we, Mac wondered.  She didn't know. 
Whatever was happening between them now was moving far
beyond any safe familiar territory she had ever known.

Mac stared out the window, not seeing the sunlight
shimmering through the glass.  Harmon Rabb was the
only man she had ever known with walls thicker than
her own.  All she really knew for certain was that his
presence was the one truly necessary thing in her
life.  

Was it possible to be terrified of letting someone
love you, she wondered?  I don't think I could stand
being hurt again.

Maybe that goes for Harm, too, she thought.

With an abrupt movement, she grabbed a fresh towel and
briskly dried her hair, then combed it back.  Naked,
she went into the bedroom and began to dress, slipping
into a soft tee shirt and a pair of shorts.  

The man is stubborn, obsessive, utterly bullheaded,
and an incorrigible flirt, she reminded herself.  I'm
damned if I'll be one of the parade of bimbos who
forget their own names if he smiles at them.  She
tossed her head and wandered barefoot into the living
room, picking up the stack of mail she had tossed onto
the table.

Bill, bill, bill.  Catalog, advertising, bill.  She
picked up the new copy of TIME and flipped to the
People section.  Harm was late as usual.  A faint
smile came and went on her face.  A postcard fluttered
out of a flyer from the supermarket, and she was about
to toss it when she looked at it and stopped.  

A long moment later she was still staring at the card,
frowning, when the knock came on the door.  "Mac! 
It's me," Harm's voice echoed in the hall.

"It's open," she called.  Quickly she tossed the card
and the rest of the mail onto the table and dropped
the magazine on top.  She turned as Harm came in,
still in uniform, looking hot.

"Hey, you're not getting dressed this time?" he
inquired with a cheerful leer.  "Damn.  And do you
always leave your door open like that?"

"I knew it would be you," she smiled.

"Oh yeah? Promise you'll lock it from now on?"  He
scolded as he went to stand directly in front of the
air conditioner.

"Okay, okay.  What do you want to drink?" she asked
over her shoulder as she gathered up the mail and
carried it with her to the kitchen.

"Mind if I change first?" he held up a tightly rolled
shirt.

"Sure.  There are clean towels in the cupboard if you
want a shower," she called.  He held up his hand in
acknowledgment without looking around.  

In the kitchen, Mac opened the pantry cupboard,
surveyed the uninspiring contents, and pulled out a
jar of spaghetti sauce.  She regarded it with distaste
and opened the refrigerator, where she found only a
wilted head of lettuce, some leathery mushrooms, and a
slightly moldy block of cheddar.  

As she swung the door of the refrigerator closed, she
selected a bottle of sugar-free tonic water and
twisted the cap off with a sharp snap, relishing the
cold fizz of bubbles.  Mac leaned against the counter
and sipped the soda, her eyes distant.

At that very moment, Harmon Rabb was in her shower. 
She sighed a little, not knowing she did so.

* * *

Harm closed his eyes beneath the lukewarm spray and
let it cascade over his face, taking all the tension
of the day with it.  After a while he grabbed the bar
of Irish Spring that Mac kept for him and lathered up,
then rinsed in cool water.

As he toweled off, he looked around.  He had never
known a woman whose bathroom wasn't draped with
pantyhose and damp towels.  Especially Annie's, god
almighty, now there was a sloppy mess.  Jordan's had
been filled with frilly girly stuff, from draped
shower curtains to embroidered towels.  Renee's had
been a welter of bottles, perfume, tubes of makeup,
jars of cold cream, brushes and hair clips scattered
across the counter and piled three deep on the
shelves.  

But Mac's bathroom was -- serene, he thought.  Cool
black and white tile and old fashioned porcelain.  A
window overlooked the tree tops outside.  The mirror
sparkled, and there was a refreshing absence of
cosmetics and clutter.  Even her soap smelled light
and fresh.

In the bedroom, he quickly pulled on clean boxers, a
pair of khaki shorts and a polo shirt and stacked his
white uniform, shoes and cover in a neat pile on the
chair.  He glanced around with a slight smile.  This
cool, airy room had been the setting of some of his
hottest fantasies, literally for years.  Would anyone
believe that Mac invited him into her bedroom and all
he did was change clothes?  Did he?

How can I feel like this about a woman and not be
sleeping with her?  He asked himself for the
thousandth time, and came up with the same answer. 
Because Mac was the closest friend he would ever have.
 He couldn't bring himself to do anything that might
jeopardize that -- and Mac still had her defenses up. 


Impatiently he kicked his feet into a pair of
topsiders and pulled open the door.

* * *

"Mac, it's a little late in the year for spring
cleaning," Harm remarked, running his eyes up her
taut, tanned legs.  He had wandered into the kitchen
to discover her standing on the kitchen counter,
rooting purposefully around on the top shelf of the
cupboard.

It ought to be illegal for a girl to have legs that
long, especially with an ass like that, he thought. 
Casually he leaned against the doorway and crossed his
arms.

"I  I had a package of macaroni up here," she
muttered, shoving boxes around. 

Harm eyed the dubious-looking items on the counter. 
"While I appreciate your vote of confidence, Mac, I
don't think even  can make something edible out of
this stuff."

She stopped and craned around to look at him, puffing
a stray lock of hair out of her eyes.  "Now you tell
me," she said.  "Why are you just standing there? 
Make yourself useful, help me down."

"Ah, but the view is much better from over here," he
grinned as he picked up the magazine from the stack of
mail on the counter.  "Jeez, Mac, how many credit card
offers do you get a day, anyway?"

"I'm holding out for one where they offer to pay ,"
she said.  "Can you scoot that ladder over?"  She
waved her foot at the step stool.

"C'mon," he said, holding out his hands.  "Jump."

"Jump?"  She looked doubtful.

"Yeah, c'mon.  I'll catch you."  Mac hesitated, and he
grinned.  "Ah, what, you'd rather fight 'em?  Come on,
Sundance.  The fall will probably kill ya."  He put
his hands around her slim waist.  

"Oh-h-h shit!" She leaned forward to rest her hands on
his shoulders and laughed as he lightly lifted her,
letting her slide down his body until they stood
barely an inch apart.  Her dark eyes were dancing, and
she smelled like flowers after a spring rain --  

"If I lose -- kill 'em," she whispered.  Abruptly she
hooked her leg behind his knee and dropped her
shoulder.

With a startled "hey," Harm nearly went down,
laughing, but managed to catch her around the waist. 
Together they stumbled against the counter, wrestling
playfully.  Mac wriggled like a fish and he figured
he'd better go for broke before she decided to hurt
him.  He managed to subdue her by wrapping his long
arms around her and bending her backwards over the
table.

"Give up, teacher lady?" he inquired, panting.  Funny,
she gave up awfully easily. . . .

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and he
leaned down . . . .

"I wish just  you'd be on time!" she giggled and
slipped from his grasp.  Harm grabbed for her wrist
and sent a cascade of envelopes sliding across the
tile floor.

"We've gotta stop watching the classics channel," he
said as he bent to help her gather up the scattered
papers.  

"Yeah, but we're the pros from Dover," she gave him a
mischievous look.

"Goddamn Army."  He handed her a pile of envelopes. 
"Here, Hawkeye."  

She realized he was staring at something.  The
postcard.  Oh, God.

"Harm" -- she began.  

He held up his hand.  After a moment he carefully put
the postcard on the table and turned toward the
window.  His face gave nothing away.

"It isn't what you think," she said.

"You don't owe me any explanations, Mac."

She curled her toes against the floor.  "I think I
do," she said steadily.  "He called last spring, to
apologize for the way he walked out.  Said he'd like
to see me."  No reaction.  "I said no."

He stared at her, his face a careful mask.  

"He still sends these cards every now and then.  I
tear them up."

After a painful pause, he said, "This is probably
going to sound just as patronizing as Brumby, refusing
to take 'no' for an answer.  But Sarah -- I just don't
want to see you hurt again."

"It would only hurt if I loved him," she said calmly. 


He watched her steadily, then lifted his eyebrows and
relaxed.  "So -- where do you want to eat?"  

An unspoken vote of confidence, much appreciated. 
"How about down by the harbor?"

"Okay.  Or there's a jazz concert on the Mall.  Want
to go?"  Mac's face lit with one of those incredible
smiles.  How does she do it, Harm wondered -- how did
she make him fall in love with her a little bit more
every time? 

"I'd love it," Mac said, "But what about dinner?"

"Relax, Marine, they'll have hotdogs and stuff there."

"Will that be okay for you?"  

"More than okay."

* * *
"There's never any place to park down there," Mac
observed as they climbed into Harm's Corvette.

"Got it covered." Harm looked smug.  He shifted into
reverse and slid an arm across the back of her seat as
he twisted around to watch where he was going.  

Mac hoped he wouldn't notice her cheeks redden as he
leaned toward her.  As Harm accelerated away from the
curb with a growl from the transmission, she leaned
her head back against the leather seat and tilted her
head up to the evening sky.  She felt a calm happiness
settle over her. "Going out on a Tuesday night.  Feels
positively decadent."

"Decadent, huh?  I like the sound of that," Harm
grinned as he ran through the gears.  They rode past
Foggy Bottom and joined the flow of traffic that swept
past the Kennedy Center and the Watergate.  A couple
of blocks from the Lincoln Memorial, he surprised her
by taking a left and pulling into a private garage. 
He flashed a permit, the gate lifted, and they drove
through and parked.  

"How did you do that?"  She looked at him, impressed.

He shrugged, pleased with himself, and opened her
door.  "Guy in my building works for State," he told
her.  "He's in the Hamptons 'til Labor Day and loaned
me his card." He reached behind the seats and pulled
out a folded blanket, which he tucked beneath his arm.
 "Of course, during business hours you have to show
picture I.D."

"Nice to know the right people," she said.  Together
they walked east along Constitution Avenue, wandering
through the throngs of tourists surrounding the street
vendors.  The sun was just beginning to set, and
golden light bathed the Washington Monument over the
tops of the trees. 

"Speaking of the right people," Harm said, and waved. 
"Hey, Jerry!"

"Harm!  That you, mon?"  A tall Jamaican with
Rastafarian dreadlocks greeted them exuberantly from
behind an enormous grill throwing clouds of aromatic
smoke.  

"Jerry, this is Mac.  Jerry sells the best jerked goat
sandwich in the city."   

"And how would you know?"  Jerry laughed exuberantly
as he shook Mac's hand.  "Old Harm here never eats
any.  No meat, you know?" 

"I know," she said, "But I do.  May I have some,
please?"  She looked hopefully at Harm, who shook his
head and reached for his wallet.

"The usual for me, Jerry."  Fascinated, Mac watched
the big Jamaican fill a roll with spicy rice and beans
and slide grilled vegetables from a skewer on top.  He
did the same for her, adding succulent barbecued meat.

"Is that really goat?" she asked him.

"No, no, not goat.  Goat's tough.  This is kid," Jerry
assured her.  "Nice and tender, go on, you like it." 
Mac hesitated.

"Don't pay any attention to him, Mac," Harm grinned. 
"Jerry shops at Safeway."  She took a cautious bite,
and smiled.  "Whatever it is, it's wonderful.  Just
don't tell me it's really a baby goat," she said to
Jerry.

"For you, gorgeous, it's whatever you want it to be,"
Jerry laughed.  "You come back, we give you whatever
your little heart desires."  

Harm laughed and paid him.  "See you later, Jerry."

"You too, mon."

They bought two tall cups of lemonade, wandered past
the Vietnam War memorial, and sat on a bench facing
the reflecting pool to eat their dripping sandwiches. 
"Wow, this really is terrific," Mac said with her
mouth full.  "How do you know Jerry?"

"He's usually somewhere around the fountain in front
of Union Station.  I met him a couple of years ago
because he was the only street vendor who made decent
vegetarian food.  I helped him out with his license,
and he promised me he'd stop using stray cats in his
barbecue" --

"He did not," Mac stopped chewing. 

Harm shrugged.  "You never know what's under all that
spicy sauce, Mac."

"That's true of the mystery meat casserole on the
Seahawk, too, you know."

"Just another good reason to become a vegetarian."  He
crumpled up their greasy paper wrappers and cups and
tossed them into a trash can, then handed her a clean
white handkerchief.  "Come on, the music's starting."

"Can I have an ice cream cone?"

"Yes, you may."  Her happy laugh made him smile, and
casually he reached out and took her hand.  The warmth
flashed through her body, startling her.  He had never
touched her in pubic before.     

A sudden wave of happiness filled her.  Together they
wandered down the Mall, savoring the evening air as it
cooled off and watching the sunset glow pink on the
Jefferson Memorial, reflected in the Tidal Basin.  

On the lawn in front of the Washington Monument,
clusters of people were milling around and settling
onto blankets and lawn chairs as musicians gathered on
a raised platform stage.  A soccer ball thumped into
Harm's leg, followed by a three-year-old careening out
of control.  Harm leaned down, steadied the little
boy, and handed him the ball.  "Here you go, partner. 
Watch where you're going."  The child stared for a
moment, fascinated, before yelling "Ma!" and
scampering off.  

Mac laughed as she helped Harm shake out their
blanket.  "He liked you," she kidded him.  

"Hey, kids and dogs, what can I say?"  He looked
around.  "There's the ice cream guy."

"Two scoops, please."  Mac lowered herself with
unconscious grace and leaned back on her hands.  Harm
looked down at her and swallowed.

"Um, sure.  Okay.  Vanilla, right?"

"Please."

* * *

Harm managed to pull his eyes away and not stumble
over any blankets or coolers as he headed for the ice
cream cart.  Grinning, he gave himself a mental shake.
 Damn, he felt happy.  

By the time he found his way back, the sky was
darkening to indigo and lights had come on above the
stage, burning red and green and violet.  Mac smiled
up at him as she accepted her cone, and he dropped
down beside her.  

"Here's some napkins," he handed them to her and saw
it spark in her eyes as their fingers brushed. 
Quickly Mac looked down and wrapped the sheaf around
her sugar cone to catch the drips.  He leaned back on
one elbow and watched, admiring the erect line of her
back and the long lovely line of her throat, unable to
tear his eyes away from what she was doing to that ice
cream cone.  

All around them couples and families were chatting and
laughing, enjoying the music and watching the stars
wink on, one by one.  A soft warm breeze brushed their
skin.  Suddenly Mac gave a delighted little laugh and
reached up as a firefly traced its meaningless
hieroglyphics above their heads.

"My favorite things about summer," she said.

"Fireflies?"

"Fireflies.  Ice cream.  Sitting outside."  She turned
to him, and her eyes were luminous in the starlight. 
"When I was little, my mom would take me to the park
on evenings like this.  I would feed the ducks, and
she'd push me in the swings."  She had a happy,
far-away look on her face.  "Watching these kids
running around reminds me how great it was.  Remember?
 That wonderful feeling when you felt like you could
fly?"

"One of my first memories is Dad lifting me up to go
ceiling flying."  He smiled and asked, "Did you and
your mom go to the park a lot?"

A shadow brushed her eyes.  Mentally he kicked
himself, but Mac went on, "No, but when I was six or
seven, I had this friend, Billy, who had a tree house.
 They lived on the base in Arizona, too, and there
weren't many trees, but there was one right by the
fence between our back yards.  I used to climb out my
window at night and sneak up there and catch
fireflies, watch the stars.  It was so quiet and
peaceful.  Lots of times I slept up there."

Harm had a pretty good idea why the tree house must
have seemed like a haven.  But Mac's cheerful tone did
not invite sympathy.  He kidded her, "You climbed out
the window when you were six?"

"I was a tomboy, you know that.  Besides, remember
those old barracks they converted for base housing? 
They all had those old-time fire ropes in the upper
stories, instead of fire escapes.  It was a cinch. 
And I used it to climb back up in the morning before
anybody woke up."

"Didn't your mom worry?"

Mac shrugged lightly.  "She knew where I was.  She
never said anything."

Harm raised an eyebrow, unseen in the darkness.  "What
did you do in the winter, when it got cold?"

"I had a sleeping bag up there.  It never really got
that cold, anyway.  But then Billy's dad got
reassigned, and the new people didn't have kids.  They
pulled down the tree house, and then we were stationed
in Texas."  He saw the flash of her smile in the
darkness.  "Ever since, I've wished I had a house with
a screened-in porch upstairs, so I could sleep in the
tree tops again.  It was so great, just the wind in
the leaves and the stars.  And the fireflies."  She
caught another and held it for a moment in her cupped
hands before setting it free.

Tenderness squeezed his heart.  He said, "Yeah, I felt
the same way about my grandfather's sail boat.  I used
to sleep on the deck and watch the stars, and promise
myself I'd have a boat myself some day."  He grinned. 
"No luck so far."

Mac smiled back at him.  "The stars are better from
the deck of a carrier, anyway."

"I'm still surprised you learned to like it out
there," he said.  "Especially after everything that
happened."  He didn't need to say 'with Bud,' or
anything else to bring back those terrible weeks last
spring.

"Maybe  of everything that happened," she said
quietly.  "It reminds you to appreciate the good
things that much more."  She gave him an impish grin. 
"Besides, I wouldn't have missed the chance to see the
stars and appreciate the quiet of the Afghan desert at
night.  You sure know how to show a girl a good time."
 

As Harm chuckled, a toddler staggered by, clinging to
his mother's hand and holding a balloon.  The father
followed with a tiny little girl asleep on his
shoulder.  Harm turned to find Mac watching him. 
"What?" he asked.  

She gestured. "I don't know.  Just glad that all this
is still here, I guess.  Reminds me of what we do it
for."  She held out her cone.  "Want some?"

He leaned in and licked at it, his eyes on hers,
smelling the faintest trace of perfume and feeling the
warmth of her body.  He heard her take a quick little
breath.  The cone tilted, and Harm caught her hand to
steady it as melting cream drizzled over her fingers. 
He quickly licked it off, and for one endless moment
their eyes caught and held. 

The pulse was hammering in his throat.  Helpless to do
anything else, he reached out laid his hand against
her cheek.  Her eyes were filled with wonder and
longing and --

Harm's pocket gave a quiet chirp.  He sat up straight
with an impatient jerk and pulled out his cell phone
in annoyance.  "Rabb."

At the first words he frowned and began to listen
intently.  A moment later he pulled out his PDA and
punched in something, then said, "Right.  Thirty
minutes," and clicked off the phone.  Mac watched him
with quiet resignation as he jumped up and held out
his hand.  

"Mac, I'm really sorry.  That was NCIS.  They've got a
homicide in Alexandria, and my name is on the duty
roster for tonight.  It's a high ranking officer, and
he's asking for a lawyer."

She stood, gathering up the blanket.  "I'll go with
you."  Hurriedly they picked their way through the
crowd and headed toward the lights and bustle of
Constitution Avenue.  The music receded behind them,
and Harm took her hand as they walked rapidly across
the grass.  

"You don't need to come, I can drop you off."

"Harm, it's the opposite direction.  Unless you don't
want me to go, I'll be glad to ride along."

"Okay, Colonel."  He flashed her a quick smile as they
ran to make the pedestrian crossing light.

* * * 
2043 EDT
JAG Headquarters

Lauren Singer switched on her desk lamp and scowled. 
Where the hell was that deposition?  She couldn't send
the Worldwide discovery tomorrow morning without it,
and the document she needed for the final report
seemed to have sprouted wings and flown away.  

"Shit," she muttered to herself.  She had meant to get
this report into Commander Rabb's hands for signature
before he left tonight.  God knows when she would be
able to catch him to sign off on it tomorrow, and the
documents couldn't go without it.  Then Connor's aide
would call up and bitch about it, and she'd take the
heat.  

She sighed.  Why did she always end up being the
conscientious one?  Everybody else had gone home long
ago.  Briefly the sterile silence of her apartment
near Dupont Circle mocked her, then she dismissed it
with an irritable flip of her head.

Harm.  She hesitated, and unconsciously touched her
hair.  He had actually complimented her this
afternoon.  Too bad Muller horned in. Fit reps were
coming up, maybe Rabb was giving her a signal that she
would be moving up in the promotion list.  She was due
for lieutenant commander this winter.

An arch little smile came and went on her face.  Maybe
he was finally beginning to notice someone besides
Colonel Mackenzie.  It occurred to her that he lived
only ten minutes down Massachusetts Avenue from her
apartment, she could drop the report by his place
tonight.  He'd invite her in, maybe offer her a drink
. . . .

Lauren did not realize 20 minutes had passed when she
suddenly snapped out of her reverie and found herself
staring at the missing deposition, peeking out from
beneath her briefcase.  With a gleam in her eye, she
pulled up her report on screen and resumed typing.

* * *

2100 EDT
Alexandria, Virginia

The headlights of the red Corvette swept across the
mailbox as they turned in.  Police cars filled the
street, lights flashing, and an ambulance stood with
its engine idling in front of the three-car garage.  A
cluster of neighbors stood across the street, watching
and whispering, their faces looming in the dark like
pale balloons.

Harm and Mac hurried up the walk toward the white
brick colonial house.  Topiaries in stone pots stood
on either side of the heavy paneled front door with
its polished brass kick plate.  At the door, a
gigantic young cop in a Virginia State Trooper uniform
blocked their way, checked their ID, and waved them
through.  The huge front hall seemed filled to
overflowing with the bustle of police, lab people, and
photographers coming and going.

"Commander," someone called, and Mac saw an arm waving
at them from the dining room.  She nudged Harm.

"Terry Jacobs," she said, pointing him out.  Harm
shouldered through the crowd, and she followed closely
behind him.

"Commander.  Colonel," Jacobs greeted them
laconically.

"Terry," Harm said, shaking the detective's hand. 
Jacobs was wearing a sport coat that looked too warm
for the hot night.  "Thanks for the call.  What's the
story?"

"It's in the basement," Jacobs said, hooking a thumb
over his shoulder.  Mac followed Harm down the
carpeted stairs to a lower level, where Jacobs led
them past a small bathroom to a den dominated by a big
screen television.  Mac could see no sign of any
disturbance, but she felt increasingly uneasy.  

"In here," Jacobs pushed open a door to reveal a
laundry room and pantry.  Mac smelled Clorox and
fabric softener.  Beyond it, through another doorway,
Mac glimpsed what appeared to be a workshop.  Tools
hung on pegboard around the walls, and a large
workbench stood beneath a hanging florescent light. 
Everything is so neat, she thought to herself,
noticing the rows of canned goods in the pantry.  Each
label was turned the same direction, and with a start,
she realized the cans and packages were arranged
alphabetically -- Bush's Baked Beans at the top,
Creamettes below.  Zwieback near the bottom.  Jesus.

Harm had stopped in the doorway of the workshop,
blocking her view.  She moved up beside him and saw.  

She must have made a sound, because he turned swiftly
and moved her back, shielding her line of sight.  His
warm hands gripped her shoulders.

"She's just a baby," Mac whispered, looking up at him
in horror.  Her lips felt stiff with shock.  Harm's
face was shuttered and cold, but she thought she
glimpsed something like regret come and go as he
watched her.

"It's okay, Mac.  We've got it.  It's okay." His hands
tightened on her arms, and she forced herself to get
control.  

"I'm all right," she said.  She felt dizzy.

"Okay.  Would you go upstairs, look around?  See what
you can find out.  Go on now, honey."  He said it very
quietly, his mouth at her ear, and she felt some sort
of control slip into place.  She nodded, turned, and
walked back out into the family room on legs that
didn't seem to belong to her.

She stopped and took several deep breaths.  Okay.  Put
the memory of what you just saw into the little box in
your mind and shut the door.  You can do this.

After a moment, she blinked.  Everything seemed
unnaturally sharp and clear, but to her relief, she
was focusing on what was in front of her, not the
scene that shouted in her mind's eye.  

Okay.  What was here?

Immaculate.  All the furnishings were spotless, not a
smudge or trace of dust anywhere.  Beige carpet, white
upholstery, polished furniture.  A huge glass
breakfront, filled with a doll collection that looked
valuable.  Mac went closer, her eyes moving over the
still porcelain faces and stiff curled wigs.  The
sightless stare of the dolls was unnerving.  "What did
you see?" she whispered to them.

Upstairs.  Noise, lights, too many big men moving
heavily around.  On silent feet, Mac moved down the
upstairs hallway, peering into bedrooms.  A master
suite, with a king size bed and some nice antiques.  A
second bedroom, converted to an office lined with
bookshelves.  A third bedroom, obviously a guest room.
 Mac paused.  Where did the child sleep?  

She tiptoed into the fourth bedroom, at the end of the
hall.  It was elegantly decorated with painted
furniture, a deep rug, framed Beatrix Potter prints. 
No toys, no dolls here.  Hesitantly she opened a
drawer in the dresser.  Tiny clothes, carefully
folded.  In the closet, little dresses and shoes, each
in a plastic bag.  A stuffed bear was tucked high on a
shelf.  

My God, she thought.  Did a child actually live here?

She wandered back down the wide carpeted stairs. 
There seemed to be no family photos anywhere.  No
pictures of the little girl.  In a paneled den off the
huge kitchen, a fit-looking man with a Marine buzz cut
stood rigidly, talking with Detective Jacobs and two
other NCIS officers.  His summer uniform was smeared
with dark stains.  

At the front of the house, a neatly dressed woman sat
at the mahogany table of the formal dining room,
staring at nothing, while a policewoman sat beside
her.  Mac watched from the hallway as the woman
pleated a handkerchief over and over between her
fingers.

Suddenly, the walls closed in.  Mac pushed her way
through the crowd at the door and hurried down the
walk.  

* * *

"Mac."  He kept his voice very quiet, afraid of
startling her.

She continued staring into the darkness as she leaned
against the Corvette, her arms locked tightly across
her breasts.  The flashing lights of the emergency
vehicles and the lights from the house still streamed
across the lawn, but where they stood it was very
dark.  "Mac," he tried again.

She looked up.  "Are you done?" she asked.

"Yeah.  They're taking him into custody, and the
mother's being hospitalized overnight.  We'll charge
him in the morning."  Carefully he put his hand on her
arm.  She didn't seem to notice.  "Come on, let's get
out of here."

Without a word, Mac opened the door and slipped into
the car.  Harm joined her, and the engine roared into
life.  Slowly he jockeyed around a couple of police
cruisers and nosed the car past the barricade,
ignoring the watching people.  

They drove in silence as the headlights swung around
curving roads criss-crossed with speed barriers.  Huge
old trees hung over the pavement, casting bars of
dense shadow.  Harm knew it wasn't cheap to buy in
this part of Alexandria. 

At last they emerged onto the George Washington
Parkway, and he stepped on the gas.  The warm night
wind roared around their ears as the convertible
sliced through the darkness.  On their right, the
Potomac gleamed through the trees.  He glanced over at
Mac, and in the glow from the dash he could see she
still had her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Tentatively he put out a hand, and after a moment she
took it.  Her fingers were cold.  

"I'm sorry, Sarah."  He kept his voice very soft.  

"It's okay, Harm.  I'm a big girl.  It wasn't any fun
for you, either."  She took a breath.  "What's the
story?"

"He says it was an accident.  That's all he's saying. 
Apparently his wife went to the supermarket after he
got home, and when she got back she found them."  He
paused.

"He's what -- a full colonel?  God, the shit's going
to hit the fan."  Harm looked at her quickly.  Mac
rarely swore.  After a moment she asked, "What did the
mother say?"

"Not a word.  They said she's in shock."  Harm changed
gears as he came up behind a truck, then accelerated
past.  When he glanced over again, Mac was bending
over her lap with her hand clutching the door handle.

"Mac" --

"Stop.  Stop the car."  Her voice was low and urgent. 
As quickly as he could, he pulled over onto the
shoulder.  The tires grated on gravel.

She leaped out.  By the time he made it around to her
side she was doubled over.  Harm slipped an arm around
her waist and held her hair back as she retched.

At last it was over.  Mac straightened slowly, and he
gave her his handkerchief.  She crumpled it against
her mouth.  Carefully Harm put an arm around her
shoulders and felt her trembling like a leaf.  She
hesitated, then leaned against him, and his arms went
around her, holding her until at last she stopped
shaking.  

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were dry. 
"Thank you," she whispered.  "I'm sorry."

"No, Mac.   sorry.  They didn't tell me what it was
when they called."

"I know.  And it's okay, really.  I'll be all right." 
Shakily she turned and climbed into the car.

Harm walked around to the driver's side, got in, and
pulled back into the light stream of traffic headed
north.  They rode in silence for few minutes until Mac
asked, "Do you need to go to headquarters?"  They were
nearing the interchange.

"No, NCIS will file the report tonight.  I'll brief
the Admiral in the morning."  He took the exit for the
Key Bridge and they sped over the Potomac, heading for
the lights of Georgetown.

Harm turned north from M Street and found a parking
place.  In the sudden silence after the Corvette's
engine shut off, they could hear the ceaseless
singsong of the cicadas in the trees overhead.

Mac sat quietly, her hands in her lap.  Harm waited. 
Finally, he reached over and took her hand again, just
holding it.  

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"What the hell for?"  It came out sharper than he
intended.

"For acting like a sorority girl on her first date."

He gave a short laugh.  "Trust me, you didn't.  Mac"
-- he softened his tone.  "Mac.  It's okay to be
human.  Even if they don't tell you that in the Marine
Corps."

She sighed.  "We're probably going to be knee-deep in
it tomorrow.  Like I said, Harm, I'm a big girl."

"Yes, you are.  And now I need to come up and get my
stuff before I head home."

A glimmer of a smile.  "Okay.  I've heard better
lines, but okay."

He grinned and followed her along the bumpy old
sidewalk.  Together they climbed the stone steps to
her door, where the fanlight cast harsh shadows over
their faces.  He took her keys and unlocked the outer
door.  

"Mac."  He put his hand on her arm.  Her questioning
look answered him.  "Tonight was pretty great, before
all this.  Thank you."

Her sudden smile started a glad knocking in his chest.
 "Yeah, it was.  Just don't tell Jerry what happened
to his goat sandwich."

Harm grinned and held the door for her as they went
inside.

In the shadows across the street, Lauren Singer sank
down behind the steering wheel until only her eyes
gleamed above the dashboard.

* * * *

As soon as she was in the door, Mac dropped her keys
on the table and headed for the bathroom without a
word.  Harm gave her a minute, then retrieved his
uniform and placed it on the chair by the door. 

He went into the kitchen and fixed two tall glasses of
iced tea.  In the living room, there was still no sign
of Mac, so he switched on the lamp beside the sofa and
sat down to wait.

A few minutes later she emerged from the bedroom.  Her
hair was damp, and her face looked scrubbed and shiny.
 He held out a glass.  

"Thanks," she said.  Quietly she curled up at the
other end of the sofa and leaned her head back.  They
sat in silence, punctuated by the ice clinking in
their glasses.

"Want some more?" he asked, holding up his glass.

"No, thanks.  What I'd really like in there is about
three fingers of vodka."

He looked at her sharply, and she gave him a weary
smile.  "Don't worry.  I've found when I feel that
way, it's better to say so.  It's when I keep it
inside that I'm in trouble."

"Okay."  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on
his knees and staring wearily at his hands.  "Well, I
should be going," he said.  He set his glass down and
stood.

"Harm."  She lifted great dark eyes to regard him.  "I
don't identify with that little girl."

"Okay."  He waited.

She traced patterns in the condensation on the side of
her glass.  "My father never hit me, not after the
time he broke my collarbone when I was five.  Not
until after my mother left."  It seemed very important
to her to say it.

"Mac" --

She stood up.  "I'm going to bed."  She stood on
tiptoe and brushed a quick kiss on his jaw, light as
the touch of a feather.  "Thanks again, partner."

Without looking around, she went into the bedroom and
shut the door.

* * * *  

Mac sat bolt upright, sweating.  She stared into the
darkness until she was sure where she was, sure it had
only been a dream.  Her brain was buzzing like a smoke
alarm.

What time was it, anyway?  Her internal clock supplied
the answer, and she felt a little better.  She got out
of bed and went to the bathroom.  As she went back to
bed, she realized the light was still on in the living
room.   

Moving soundlessly on bare feet, she opened the
bedroom door.  Harm was sound asleep on her sofa.

His long legs were resting on the coffee table, and
his head was canted over at an awkward angle.  His
neck and back would be killing him when he woke up.

Tears stung her eyelids.  She knelt beside the sofa
and put her hand on his cheek, and a moment later, his
eyes opened and stared into hers.  "Mac?" he
whispered, confused.  "You okay?"

"I -- it was just a nightmare.  Are  okay?"  Her hand
stroked his forehead.

He grimaced and sat up.  "Other than feeling like a
pretzel, yeah.  Sorry, Mac, I didn't mean to fall
asleep.  What time is it?"

"After 0100.  I got up for a drink of water and saw
the light still on."

He scrubbed his hand over his face.  "Are you sure
you're okay?"

"I'll be all right."

His gaze sharpened, and he brushed a lock of hair from
her face.  She gave him a little smile.  "Okay, then,"
he said.  He stood up, stretched with a groan, and
headed for the door when her hand on his arm stopped
him.

"Why did you stay?"  Her voice was barely a whisper.

"I wanted to be sure you could sleep," he said. 
"Guess I blew that one, huh?"  She was standing very
close, and without thought he reached out and gathered
her against him.  "What was the nightmare?" he
murmured against her hair.

"I don't know -- I can't remember."  She looked up,
and her huge dark eyes were shadowed with ancient
sadness.  "Stay with me?" she whispered.  "Just for a
little while?"

Something loosened in his chest.  Without a word, Harm
followed her into the bedroom and waited as she
slipped between the sheets.  He sat down carefully
beside her on top of the covers, swung his legs up,
leaned back against the pillows, and lifted his arm. 
Mac scooted over and nestled her head in the hollow of
his shoulder.  One slender arm slid around his waist,
and he covered it with his.

Her body was strung tight as piano wire.  Gently he
stroked her back, over and over, a hypnotic rhythm. 
After a long time, he felt her relax against him, felt
her light breathing even out.

* * *

He awoke at first light.

For a moment he was confused.  Then he felt the warm,
soft breathing against him and knew where he was.  He
lifted his wrist, squinted at the time, and gave
himself five minutes to hold her, his lips against her
silken hair, smelling the sweetness that was Mac.  

Last night he had lain beside her, staring sightlessly
into the darkness and wishing that he could slide down
and wrap himself around her and give in to sleep.  But
he knew he had to go home, if only to reassure her
that he trusted her to stay alone.  

Next thing he knew, it was dawn.  He stood over her in
his rumpled clothes, just watching her.  Seemingly of
its own accord, his hand reached out and lightly
touched her hair once more before he tiptoed into the
living room.

He picked up his cover, shoes and folded uniform, and
let himself out.  He just had time to get home and
shower if he wanted to catch the Admiral before he
left for the office.

The growl of the Corvette's engine springing to life
woke Singer.  Stiffly she raised her head just enough
to see Harm accelerate past her in the grey dawn. 
Smiling grimly to herself, she keyed the ignition and
pulled out.

* * * *

Wednesday, 0900 EDT
JAG Headquarters, Falls Church, Virginia

"As you were."  Admiral Chegwidden stalked to the head
of the room and seated himself amid the general
scraping of chairs.  He glared down the long shining
expanse of the conference table and leaned forward.

"Last night, police responded to a 911 call from the
home of Marine Colonel Mitchell S. Davis.  They
discovered Colonel Davis's five-year-old daughter
bludgeoned to death in the basement of the house."  

Chegwidden paused to be sure he had every officer's
full attention before he went on.  "Colonel Davis
commands the 9th Marine training battalion at
Quantico.  NCIS called us, and Commander Rabb answered
the call.  Colonel Davis requested counsel at the
scene and the State of Virginia has agreed to military
jurisdiction, so congratulations, Commander.  You'll
defend."  

"Aye aye, sir," Harm said.  Mac flicked a glance
toward him, then returned her attention to the
admiral, who continued, "Colonel Mackenzie, you'll
prosecute."  

"Yes sir," she nodded in acknowledgment.  

"As you all are aware, this case will carry a very
high profile.  It is in everyone's best interest to
move it along quickly but by the numbers.  We'll
convene the Article 32 a week from today.  As you
know, we're short-handed right now with Commander
Turner away and Lieutenant Roberts on medical leave,
so I am assigning Lieutenant Singer to assist the
prosecution.  Commander Rabb, anyone in mind to sit
second chair for the defense?"

Something about Singer's smug expression goaded Harm
to say, "Lieutenant Muller, sir.  He's inexperienced
but an excellent researcher, sir."

"Fine, just get it done and get it done right.  Okay,
people, let's move on" --

As the meeting continued, Harm couldn't shake a vague
feeling of unease.  When the meeting ended and he
gathered up his papers, he turned to find Lieutenant
Singer's cold glare boring into his back.

* * * *

"Got a minute?"  Mac followed on his heels as he
entered his office.

"Sure."  

"What was all that about?"

"All  about?"  

"Your taking the defense."

"I seem to recall receiving a direct order in there
somewhere."

"And you saw the Admiral early this morning.  Did you
ask for it?"

Harm regarded her.  "Yes, I did."

Mac's eyes narrowed.  "God damn it."

"Excuse me?"

"How dare you try to protect me.  How dare you
undermine my career by telling the Admiral I can't
handle this one.  God damn it, Harm" --

"Will you power down?  I asked for the case because I
don't think he did it."

"And you assumed I couldn't be objective."

"No, I assumed you'd do exactly what you're doing."

"And what is that?"

"Try to prove you're the toughest kid on the block." 
Harm took a step toward her.  "Mac.  You're
prosecuting.  If I thought you couldn't handle the
case, I would have said so.  If it were the other way
around and you were handling the defense, I couldn't
have discussed it with you."

"We can't discuss it "

"No, we can't.  But I can follow my instincts."

They locked stares, each unwilling to give up.

"Okay," Mac said at last.  "I'll buy that.  But
damnit, Harm, I don't need to be protected" --

"No, you don't."  His mild countenance confused her.  

"Okay."  She straightened her jacket.  A sudden
suspicion narrowed her eyes.  "Did you suggest Singer
for second chair?"

"Please.  I do have some scruples.  After all, I spent
last night in your bed" --

Her glare could have cut glass, and a spark of humor
touched his eyes.  "Thanks, by the way.  I never quite
pictured our first night together like that, but it
was pretty nice, anyway."

She glared at him.  "If we ever have a first night,
flyboy, I guarantee it won't be 'nice.' "

"Why, Colonel.  Is that a promise?"

The glass in his door rattled as she slammed it.  

* * * *

Wednesday, 1400 EDT
JAG Headquarters

"Mrs. Davis.  Thank you for coming in."  Mac held out
her hand. 

Angela Davis took a tentative step forward and
accepted Mac's hand.  Her grip was cool and lifeless,
and she kept her eyes averted.

"Won't you sit down," Mac gestured.  The woman stared
blankly around at the empty JAG conference room before
lowering herself to perch on the edge of a chair. 
"This is Lieutenant Lauren Singer, Mrs. Davis," Mac
nodded to her left.  "We are prosecuting the case
against your husband.  I know you've talked with NCIS,
but we need to take your deposition today."

"I understand," Mrs. Davis said in a colorless voice. 
She sat stiffly with her knees pressed together and
her hands folded in her lap.  She appeared to be about
forty, slender and elegantly dressed.  Her hair was
pale blonde and swept back with a velvet band, and her
shoes and handbag were new and expensive.  She wore no
makeup.

Mac stared at her curiously.  This woman's only child
had died less than 24 hours before, but she was
flawlessly groomed, her nails freshly manicured.  Oh
well, Mac shrugged.  She had known drunks who stayed
sober by painting their nails.

"First, Mrs. Davis, please accept our condolences. 
I'm very sorry to have to put you through this today."

"It's all right, Colonel."  Her voice was so soft, Mac
had to lean forward.  Quickly she adjusted the volume
on the tape recorder.

"All right.  Now if we can just take you through what
you saw yesterday.  What time did your husband get
home?"

Painstakingly they went through it, but Mrs. Davis had
little new to tell them.  Her husband had arrived home
around 5:30 p.m. as usual.  She had run out of
breadcrumbs for the fish she was preparing for dinner,
so she had made a trip to the market.  Traffic was
heavy, and she had not returned until 6:30.  Her
husband and daughter were nowhere to be found.  She
had assumed they were outdoors until she went to the
basement for tomato sauce and found her husband
sitting on the floor of the workshop, holding their
daughter's lifeless body.

"What did your husband say, Mrs. Davis?" Mac asked
gently.

"He said, 'It was an accident.  She must have climbed
onto the workbench and fallen."

"Did you believe him?"

Pale blue eyes opened in surprise.  "Of course."

"Then what happened?"

"He called 911."

"Were you surprised when you saw what had happened?"

Angela Davis sat quietly.  "Yes.  She wasn't allowed
in the workshop."

Mac regarded her.  "Did you husband say why she was
there last night?"

"No."

"Was he with her the entire time?"

"I don't know."  She looked confused.

"What did you get at the store, Mrs. Davis?"

A shrug.  "Milk.  Ice cream for dessert.  The bread
crumbs, of course.  I have the receipt."  She rummaged
in her purse and held out the strip of paper.  "It has
the date and time."

Mac accepted it and clipped it to her notes.  "Thank
you."  She paused.  "Mrs. Davis, was your daughter
your only child?"

The woman's face tightened.  "Yes," she whispered. 
"We didn't think we'd ever have children.  I'm
forty-two, my husband is forty-seven."

"Did your husband usually play with her when he came
home?"

"He adored her."  Mac noticed the evasion, but didn't
react.

"Did he ever lose his temper with her?"

"No!"  For the first time, the pale eyes showed a
spark of animation.  "Never.  Mitch would never harm
her, never."  

"There's a market half a mile from your house, Mrs.
Davis.  Why didn't you go there?"

She lifted her thin brows.  "I don't care for it. 
It's dirty, and they don't carry the brands I prefer."

Mac made another note.  "All right.  I guess that will
do it for now.  Thank you, Mrs. Davis.  We may need to
talk with you again."

"Of course.  You see, Colonel Mackenzie" -- Angela
Davis leaned forward, her thin body tense.  "I know
that my husband would never hurt our daughter.  The
charges are absurd.  This could ruin his career."

Mac watched her steadily.  This was denial on a truly
massive scale.  Suddenly, Lieutenant Singer leaned
forward.  "Mrs. Davis.  What was your daughter's
name?" she asked in a low, cold voice.

There was a pause.  Angela Davis stared at her. 
"Elizabeth," she said at last.  

* * * *

"So what do you think?"  Mac shuffled her notes into a
folder and looked at Singer.  

"I think she's covering for him, ma'am.  Wives often
do."

Mac looked up.  "Are you familiar with abuse cases,
Lieutenant?"

"No, ma'am.  I read up on it this morning on the
Internet."  Singer directed her cold gaze at the notes
on her legal pad.  "She won't be much use as a
witness."

"We'll have to call her, though.  We need her
testimony."

"Unless the defense stipulates to the deposition."

Mac looked at her.  "Commander Rabb will  allow her to
get off the stand without a cross, Lieutenant.  But
we'll worry about that for the court martial.  For
now, we just have to get the evidence together.  We
need more to work with.  What about the child's
medical records?  If there was a pattern of abuse,
it'll show up.  Pull all the insurance claims for the
child, even if it's for a hang nail, and talk to her
pediatrician."

"Aye, ma'am.  And colonel?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"What about the neighbors, friends?  Other family? 
Maybe somebody noticed something, if there was a
pattern."

"Absolutely.  And the colonel's colleagues, too.  We
need to find out if he had a temper.  You won't have
time to do it all yourself, Lieutenant, draft a couple
of j.g.s to help you."  Mac looked up.  "Progress
report Friday morning, 0900."

"Aye, ma'am."  Singer came to attention.  As the door
closed behind Mac, she smirked.

* * * *

Friday, 1625 EDT
JAG Headquarters

"That bad?" Harm stuck his head in the door of Mac's
office to see her rubbing her eyes.  She sat back in
her chair and tried to smile.

"I just finished reading the autopsy report on
Elizabeth Davis."

His eyes flickered and he moved quietly into the
office and sat down.

"Dear God, Harm," she burst out.  "Who could do
something like that to a child?"

He sat silently, his face shuttered.

"I know," she said after a moment. "I know we can't
talk about it."

"Not beyond discovery."  He leaned forward.  "Look,
Mac."  She looked tired, not that she would ever admit
it.  "Any plans for tonight?"

"A hot bath and an early night."

He could see her defenses go up and jettisoned several
snappy comebacks that occurred to him.  "Have you been
getting any sleep at all?" he asked gently. 

"Enough," she shrugged.  

He decided to let it go.  "The funeral for Elizabeth
Davis is tomorrow morning.  I thought I'd go.  Would
you like to come?"

She looked up quickly, to find him watching her.  She
started to refuse, then hesitated.  "Yes," she said,
surprising herself.

"Okay.  I'll pick you up at 0800.  We have to drive
out to Lewes.  Mrs. Davis's family lives there,
apparently."

"What time's the funeral?"

"Eleven."

"I'll be ready.  I assume we're going in uniform?"

"Yeah, I think we'd better make it official.  Okay,
see you tomorrow.  And Mac?"

She looked up, inquiring.

"Try to get some rest, okay?  Call me if you need to."

Without warning, she felt the pressure of tears. 
"I'll be fine, thanks," she said, looking down.

* * * *

Saturday morning, 0800 EDT
Mac's apartment, Georgetown

She was standing on the sidewalk when he pulled up.  

"Can I offer you a ride, ma'am?" he inquired, opening
the door.

With a lithe flash of legs, she slid into the low
bucket seat.  Harm looked her over, noting the
immaculate Marine dress uniform -- and the dark
shadows beneath her eyes.  He let in the clutch, and
the Corvette pulled into traffic with a growl from its
tail pipes.

"So why were you waiting on the street?  I would have
come up," he said.

"Hey, I can't help it.  I have a weakness for being
picked up by sailors in dress whites driving red
sports cars."

"Oh?  And how many sailors would that be?" he kidded
back.

"This is a distinctly non-regulation vehicle," Mac
said, removing her white cover and placing it
carefully behind the seat with Harm's.  

"Yeah, well, there was no way I was going to drive to
the coast on a great summer day in the SUV.  Besides,"
he shot her a cheeky grin, "you know what 'Marine'
stands for."  She laughed at the old joke and enjoyed
the ride as he negotiated the heavy traffic with
negligent ease.  As if by mutual consent, they kept
conversation to a minimum as the Corvette tore up the
interstate toward Annapolis and over the thrilling
sweep of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.  Mac stared out
her side, watching the water and sky blur past,
grateful not to be thinking, grateful for this brief
respite.

As they crossed the rolling farmland of the Delmarva
peninsula, Mac casually looked over at Harm.  He was
driving with his usual relaxed attitude, a calm,
confident control that belied his total focus.  His
strong hands were quiet on the wheel and stick, and
his eyes, hidden by the dark aviator shades, were
unreadable.  

"Tell me again why we're doing this," Mac called over
the rush of wind.  He glanced at her.

"Sometimes you pick up things faster when someone's
guard is down," he said, downshifting for a stop sign.
 "I'd like to see how my client and his wife act
together."  He accelerated away from the intersection.
 "And sometimes it just seems important to be there
for someone," he added quietly.

"I didn't realize you and Colonel Davis had become so
close," she said, surprised.

"Not him.  Elizabeth."

She chewed on it for a moment.  "Is this for you, or
for me?" she asked.

His eyebrow lifted.  "Maybe both."

Mac thought of several cutting retorts, but each time
she stopped.  "Are you sure the service isn't
private?" she asked, finally.

"Funeral home said no."  

They went on in silence.  At last the land leveled
out, with low grassy dunes as they approached the
ocean.  Sand hissed beneath the tires as they entered
the historic seaside town of Lewes and negotiated
streets lined with trees and beautifully tended
houses.

"How much do you suppose one of these places goes
for?" Mac asked, to break the quiet. 

"Seven-fifty and up, depending on the view," Harm
shrugged.  "Lot of New York and New Jersey people have
summer places here." 

"Look, there's the street."  Mac pointed after
consulting the directions Harm had pulled off Map
Blast.  They followed a winding road out of town.  It
turned between a pair of handsome wrought iron gates
at the entrance to a windswept, seaside cemetery.  

"There," Harm nodded toward the tent set up on a knoll
overlooking the ocean.  He pulled up and parked behind
a line of other cars, and together they walked over to
join a group of people standing behind a row of white
folding chairs.  Several floral wreaths fluttered in
the ceaseless breeze.

Mac was relieved to see at least a dozen other Marine
officers in dress uniforms, most with their wives. 
Her eyes widened when they got close enough to see the
rank on some of the men.  She felt conspicuous enough
already.  What am I doing here, she thought, tension
balling up in her throat.  

A couple of the officers nodded to them.  No one said
anything. 

Mac stood beside Harm and stared at the tiny grave
lined with a carpet of horrible artificial grass. 
Quickly she averted her eyes and looked around at the
rows of stone monuments, all  shapes and sizes, that
marched away in orderly rows from where they stood. 
She could smell the sea.

Harm watched her covertly from beneath the brim of his
cover.  Mac seemed perfectly composed, but she was
very pale.  He was going with his gut on this.  He
prayed he was doing the right thing.

Precisely at 11 o'clock, a hearse pulled up, followed
by two long black limousines.  Colonel Davis emerged
and turned to help his wife from the car.  An
Episcopal priest in a white cassock followed.  A
distinguished-looking older couple joined them from
the second limousine, and together they walked slowly
across the grass and seated themselves on the row of
chairs.

Everyone came to attention.  Four young Marines slid
the tiny white casket from the back of the hearse and
carried it slowly to the grave, moving in perfect
cadence. They must be from Colonel Davis's command,
Harm thought to himself.

As the priest stepped forward, Mac stopped listening. 
She heard nothing of the calm voice speaking, leading
the prayers.  Nothing of the hymn sung by a
professional vocalist, accompanied by a violin.  She
squeezed her fists until her nails scored her palms.

At last it was over.  One by one the mourners went up
to the parents and grandparents and murmured
condolences.  Mac was relieved that she and Harm
stayed back, not wanting to intrude, knowing their
presence would be an ugly reminder.

She noticed Harm's grim expression as he stared at the
family, and followed his gaze.  Colonel Davis was a
surprise; in spite of his perfect posture, the man
looked exhausted and shrunken, as if he had aged ten
years and lost 20 pounds in four days.  His tough,
hardened Marine countenance showed not a flicker of
expression, but his eyes were red rimmed.  She was
struck by the solicitous way he held his wife's elbow,
as if she were one of the porcelain dolls at their
home.  

Mrs. Davis looked, if anything, more poised and
collected than her husband, but she clearly leaned on
him.  

At last they turned to go, walking slowly back to the
waiting cars.  Angela picked her way across the grass,
not looking back.  Colonel Davis kept his arm around
her.

As they came abreast of Mac and Harm, Davis looked up.
 He hesitated, then nodded to Harm.  "Commander," he
said quietly.  "Thank you for coming."  

"My condolences, sir," Harm said.  "Ma'am."

Angela stopped and stared at him.  Her eyes swiveled
to Mac.   Her face was dead white and pinched as she
bit her lips, her mouth working.  Her husband's hand
tightened on her shoulder.  "Come on, Angela," he
cajoled.

Without warning, Angela stepped swiftly forward and
smacked her hand across Mac's face.  The slap cracked
in the silence.

Mac's head rocked back and she took an involuntary,
staggering step.  She froze, appalled, unable to look
away from the woman's furious gaze.

Instantly, Harm was in front of Mac.  His hand
steadied her.

Angela's eyes burned in her face like two pale coals. 
"How dare you come here?" she hissed.

"Angela.  That's enough," Colonel Davis snapped. 
"Colonel, Commander, my apologies."  Quickly he herded
his wife away and into the car.  The episode flashed
by so quickly, only a few people saw it.

Harm stood close, shielding her from the others, and
gave her his handkerchief.  She stared at it stupidly.
 "Mac," he said, his voice very low.  "I'm sorry. 
This is my fault."

"No.  It's okay, really.  Can we go?"  Her eyes begged
him.

"Come on."  Harm moved toward the car, his hand still
at her elbow in defiance of regulations, but Mac
stopped and turned.  He followed her gaze and realized
she was looking back at the gravesite.  

The little white coffin sat on the bright green
carpet, all alone.

* * * *

Harm drove quickly out of the cemetery and headed
north.  The coast road stretched out before them,
straight and empty between the dunes.

After a mile or two, he turned in at a rest area and
parked.  Mac sat motionless, holding his handkerchief
to her face.  

"Mac," he began.  His knuckles were white on the
steering wheel.

"It's all right, Harm.  It's not your fault.  That
poor woman -- she needed somewhere to go with her
grief."  She smoothed the silky linen between her
fingers, noticing with surprise a single spot of
blood.  Now she could taste it, coppery against her
tongue.  She must have cut her lip, she realized.  It
felt numb.

Harm turned and looked at her.  Very slowly he reached
over and laid his warm palm against her cheek. 
"There's no meanness in you, is there?" he whispered
with wonder.

She leaned into his touch, then looked out at the
windblown dunes.  After awhile she looked down and
gave a rueful little smile.  "I keep ruining your
handkerchiefs," she said, and folded it carefully into
her pocket.

Harm stared straight ahead.  "I should have known that
could happen," he said, looking grim.  "I should never
have let you in for it."  He turned to look at her.
"Mac, there is no way to tell you how sorry I am."

She shook her head slowly.  "Please stop blaming
yourself, Harm.  This case is getting to me for some
reason, I don't know why."  She regarded him.  "It's
gotten to you too, hasn't it?" she said.

"Yeah."  His face was bleak.

"Does it make you think of Annie Lewis?" she asked
carefully.

He shrugged.  "Not really.  Annie and Dar-lin were
abused and neglected.  This child wasn't.  At least
not in the obvious ways."

"Why do you do it?" she whispered.

"Do what?"

"Get obsessed with these kids?  It goes way beyond
getting angry about what happened to them.  It's
almost as if you feel responsible" -- she stopped.

"What?" he prodded.

"Is that why you hang around me?  Because you think I
was abused?  That I'm damaged in some way?  That you
need to feel  for me?"  The idea burst upon her, full
blown, and she was startled by the anger that swept
through her.

"Mac" --

She yanked open the car door and got out, cutting him
off.  She walked quickly away and stood staring out
over the dunes toward the distant ocean.  After a
minute she heard the driver's door open and shut, and
his footsteps behind her.  

"Are you going to listen, or have you already made up
your mind?" he inquired.

Her shoulders dropped, a tiny fraction.  "Shoot."

He crossed his arms.  For a long minute, she thought
he wasn't going to continue.  Then Harm said,
"Remember that time I went UA at the Academy?"

She was surprised by the question.  "The time Keeter
came and got you back, before anyone knew?"

"That's it.  Did I ever tell you why I went UA?"

"Something about thinking you didn't have what it took
to be an aviator."

"Yeah.  I forget what set it off, pressure from exams
and everything else, I guess.  But I remember thinking
how much it would help to talk to Dad about what I was
going through.  And the more I thought about it, the
more pissed off I got.  Until finally, I realized I
wasn't upset over all the demands and sacrifices and
pressure.  I was angry at   Furious.  That's when I
took off."

"Where did you go?"

"I drove out here, actually.  Well, not  but Cape
Henlopen.  Spent all afternoon walking on the beach,
freezing my ass off.  Luckily for me, Keeter
remembered I liked that spot and came looking. 
Borrowed Diane's car to do it."  Harm gave a fleeting,
reminiscent smile.  "Keeter didn't give me a lot of
sympathy and crap -- he just brought a six pack of
beer.  After the second one, I started talking.  Then
I started crying.  Oh yeah, I took a swing at him,
too."

She stood very still, listening.

"I felt so goddamn guilty.  But Keeter told me it was
okay to be pissed at my father for leaving me, leaving
my mother.  Even though he didn't do it on purpose, he
still went off to fly, knowing the risks.  I used to
think guys like Luke were crazy for getting married
and having kids while they were still flying."  His
lips tightened.  "I swore I'd never do it to a kid of
mine."

Like a door opening, she understood.  A lonely little
boy, who knew how it felt to be abandoned.  A grown
man, afraid to feel  that kind of pain again.  Who
felt a bond with others who did.  "And then?"

"And then we went back.  And I was okay with it.  I
realized I could still love my father even if he
wasn't perfect."

"Is that why you pushed me to visit my dad before he
died?"

He shrugged.  "Maybe.  Mostly because you're strong,
Mac.  You'd rather face the truth than run."  He
glanced at her.  "But nobody ever said you have to
face it alone."

"Well, I was an only child.  I'm used to doing
everything my own way."  She felt his compliment warm
her, like a tiny sun beneath her heart.

"Something else we have in common."  He held out his
hand.  "Come on, let's get some lunch.  Maybe go
swimming, what do you say?"

"In our dress uniforms?"

"I have civvies in the back.  We can pick up something
for you."  

"You mean play hooky?"  

"Absolutely."

* * * *

They by-passed Lewes and cruised a few miles down
Route 1 to Rehoboth Beach.  Harm motored slowly along
the main drag, past the ice cream stands and t-shirt
shops, and found a parking spot in a crowded lot
outside a big rambling place on the water.  A sign
said "Bill's Beach Club" in a scrawl of neon.

"Look, there's a boutique next door," Harm pointed. 
"I'm going to go change."  The sidewalks were crowded,
and in his dress whites, Harm turned heads as he
entered a door marked "Dressing Rooms."

Mac felt pretty conspicuous herself.  She entered the
shop, noticing a display of pricey beachwear in the
window, and quickly found a fitting room.

Twenty minutes later she joined Harm at a table on the
deck of the restaurant overlooking the beach.  The
bright umbrella cast a pool of shade over the table
and flapped in the stiff breeze off the water.  She
heard the boom of the surf and a far-off cry of gulls.

Harm was sprawled in a plastic chair, wearing only a
polo shirt, a baggy pair of bright blue swim trunks,
and his aviator shades.  Two tall glasses of Diet Coke
stood on the table.

He looked up as she approached and lifted his
eyebrows.  "Very nice, Colonel," he remarked, half
rising and running his eyes over her sleeveless cotton
knit t-shirt dress, which ended at mid-thigh.  Mac set
the shopping bag containing her neatly folded uniform
in one of the chairs and sat down.  

"Yeah, and it only cost me a week's pay," she said
with rueful look.  "I forgot what these places are
like in the summer."

"Well, it was worth it.  Cheers," he said, and clinked
her glass with his.

They sat quietly, watching the scene below.  The
famous boardwalk stretched away to their right,
thronged with crowds of families and kids lining up
for the Ferris wheel, the carousel, the video arcade. 
Savory smells of caramel corn and salt water taffy
wafted on the breeze.

Mac's lip still stung, and her face felt a little
swollen.  Her mind kept shying away from the scene
from the cemetery.  God, it was good to sit here with
Harm and know she didn't have to talk if she didn't
feel like it.  He was staring out at the ocean, his
eyes hidden by his sunglasses.

A blonde waitress who looked about 14 materialized
beside them and gave Harm the once-over.  "Bill's" was
emblazoned on her t-shirt.  "You guys ready?" she
inquired.  

Harm lifted his eyebrows.  "Mac?"

She looked at the menu and then at the waitress, at a
loss.  "I don't know" -- Slowly she shook her head. 
"Maybe some onion rings?"  

"Mac" --

"I'm just not hungry," she said quietly, looking down.

Harm turned to the waitress.  "Veggie sandwich,
please."

"Okay."  The girl bopped off.

They sat quietly until the food arrived.  Mac squirted
a puddle of ketchup onto her plate and dipped one of
the hot, greasy onion rings in it, then set it down. 
Harm looked at her.

"Can we talk about it?" he asked gently.  "Or are you
just going to give me the silent treatment for the
rest of the day?"

She turned to him, surprised and contrite.  "I'm
sorry.  I'm not angry with you, Harm.  I didn't mean
to take it out on you."  

"Well,  taking it out on me."  He pushed his sandwich
around on his plate and finally shoved it away.  

She put her hand on his arm.  "You're not a mind
reader, Harm.  You couldn't know she would do that. 
It's just" -- she stopped, and he waited, sitting very
still.  "It feels like there's ground glass inside me
somewhere," she finished, her voice so low he had to
strain to hear.

His hand tightened into a fist, but he remained
silent.  She felt the force of his attention.

"Why do women do it, anyway?" she said, almost to
herself.  "It's as if she won't exist if she doesn't
believe him.  No matter what the evidence.  No matter
what it did to her child."

He lifted his face to the sun.  When he looked at her
again, he let his breath out in a tense, silent
whistle.  "Yeah.  I know."  Mac heard more behind his
words, but his tone held no judgement of her.

"It's funny," she went on.  "You hear about stuff like
this every day on the news.  Terrible things.  But it
doesn't really get to you.  You deal with it up here,"
she pointed to her head, "but not here."  She laid her
hand over her heart.  "Then one day you see it, for
real, and it just takes over."

Harm nodded.  "Kind of like 9/11," he said.  "They say
the closer people were to the twin towers, the more
they were affected.  Hell, it's the same with the
Pentagon.  It wasn't on the news as much, people
didn't see it, so it doesn't seem as real.  Except to
those of us who were nearby, who lost friends."

Mac's lips tightened.  They sat quietly for a time,
toying with their food.  Finally, "Done?" Harm asked,
and reached for the wallet in his shorts.

"This one's on me," Mac said.  "Seems like the least I
can do for being so much fun today.  Would you mind
putting my stuff in the trunk of the car?"  She made
an effort to shrug off her mood and smiled at him.

"If there's room," Harm grumbled good naturedly.  He
grabbed her bag and was back before she signed the
credit card slip.

 A flight of weathered steps led from the restaurant
down to the beach.  They paused to rent a couple of
canvas beach chairs, then marched through the hot
golden sand toward the line of surf.  When they came
to the tide line, they turned and began walking up the
beach along the firm wet sand above the breakers.  

The beach stretched away ahead of them, broad as the
deck of an aircraft carrier, disappearing into the
distance in a milky haze of heat.  To their right the
Atlantic Ocean crashed against the sand and ran up in
sheets of creamy foam.  When they got past the worst
of the crowds, Mac pulled off her cover-up, spread out
two beach towels she had bought that proclaimed "The
Water's Fine at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware," and opened
a bottle of sunscreen.

She looked up to find Harm's eyes on her.  "What?" she
smiled, feeling absurdly self-conscious at the
appreciative gleam in his eyes.

"Whatever you paid for that bikini, it was worth it,"
he said.  She gave him a look and busied herself
applying lotion to her arms.  The skimpy black bathing
suit had been outrageously expensive, and suddenly she
was glad.  She felt Harm's eyes following every
movement as she stroked the oily sunscreen down her
legs.

"Here," he held out his hand for the bottle.  "Lean
forward."  He began smoothing it over her back and
shoulders.  Mac closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of
his big hands moving over her skin in broad, firm
strokes.  His fingertips nearly brushed the side of
her breast as he ran his hands over her ribs, and she
caught her breath.  

Wordlessly he handed the bottle back to her and turned
so she could do his back.  She grinned to herself. 
For an innocuous activity, this was incredibly
intimate.  Slowly she savored the feel of his powerful
shoulders beneath her hands, the smoothness of his
sun-warmed skin.  

The sun was so hot, burning brightly all around them,
glaring into their eyes.  She realized this was the
first time she had ever really touched him, and the
thought made her sway a little.  She swallowed and put
the cap back on the bottle with shaking fingers, then
looked up to find him watching her from behind his
dark glasses.

Wordlessly they sat back in the rickety wood and
canvas chairs.  Mac dug her bare feet into the sand.

"What is it about the ocean that makes everything seem
simpler?" she said after awhile.  "Whether it's here
or on the deck of a carrier, it shuts down all the
noise in my head."

"Seashore valium," Harm agreed.  "Finest kind."

"I wish we could talk about the case," she said.  "It
would help.  Help me, at least."

"I know.  But we'll get through it, Mac."

Harm bent and picked up a shell, then whipped it out
over the water with a side arm throw.  A flock of tiny
birds scuttled back and forth on the wet sand, always
just out of reach of the waves. 

They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the
steady crash and hiss of the surf.  The sun was hot
despite the cooling ocean breeze.  After awhile, Mac
groped for the sun lotion and began applying more
where the perspiration was beading on her breasts and
belly.  She looked up to find Harm's eyes following
the lazy circles of her fingers on her skin.

Instantly she looked away, feeling her cheeks turn
pink.  A young mother ran past, captured her screaming
child, and carried him back down the beach.   "I'll
bet you were hell on wheels at that age," she said to
cover her confusion.  

Harm chuckled.  "So they tell me.  First time we went
to the beach, I took off running and my dad barely
grabbed me before I hit the water.  I remember him
laughing about it."

"A juvenile delinquent as a baby, I knew it."

"Well, my mom kept a pretty tight rein on me while I
was growing up.  And I was so busy trying to be the
man of the house, I probably was more responsible than
I should have been."

"Didn't you ever get into trouble?"

"Oh, sure.  For beating up kids who made cracks about
the military.  For trying to fly off the roof of the
house.  For leading my scout troup on a ten-mile hike
to earn a merit badge, without telling anyone where we
were going."

"Well, did you get it?"

"Yep.  Got everybody back safe, too.  I won points for
leadership, but got demerits for not listening to
orders."

She laughed.  "Not much has changed, then.  What's the
worst punishment you ever got?"

"Mom washed out my mouth with Ivory Soap," he replied
without hesitation.

"Eew, yuck!  She actually did that?"

"Sure did.  I used a basic Anglo-Saxon word I'd heard
on the playground, I guess.  Next thing I know, I have
a mouthful of bubbles."  He laughed.  "God, I'll never
forget it.  Never swore around ladies again, either." 
He grinned and looked around.  "You know what this
reminds me of?" he asked.

"What?"

"Summer before I turned seventeen," he said, leaning
back with his eyes closed.  "I had a job teaching
sailing to kids at the La Jolla Yacht Club, and in the
afternoons I was a lifeguard on the beach.  God, it
was great."

Mac snorted.  "What's so funny?" he demanded.

"You.  Taking care of a bunch of little kids."  

Harm grinned.  He didn't mind being the joke if it
made her laugh.  "Hey, I'll have you know they loved
me.  And they behaved, or I threw 'em overboard."

"Oh, I'll bet that went over big at the yacht club."  

"Actually, the worst kid's mother was on the board of
directors, and she told me that her son just loved
sailing camp.  Gave me a big tip.  Jeez, that kid was
a little bastard.  Used to try to trip me while we
were coming about."

"What did you do to him?"  For a moment she had a
vision of Harm commanding a pack of little dark-haired
children in orange life jackets.  Mentally she shook
herself.

"Hung him over the gunwale by his heels.  Scared the
shit out of him."

Mac found herself laughing.  God, it felt good.  "And
then you spent the afternoon with their big sisters
hanging all over your lifeguard tower."

"More or less."

"Sounds like a great summer."  

"Oh, it was.  Hell, I'd spent the whole year busting
my tail keeping up my grades for the Academy.  That
summer I just wanted to fool around -- I knew that I'd
be headed to Annapolis for Plebe Summer as soon as I
graduated, and every summer after that you're doing
training cruises and internships."
 
"Working two jobs doesn't exactly sound like fooling
around."

He shrugged, "I needed to earn money for flight
lessons -- I got my instrument rating that summer. 
And I'd blown all my savings getting to Laos the
summer before."

"How did your mom feel about that?"  As soon as she
said it, she bit her tongue.  "I'm sorry, Harm.  It's
none of my business."

"No, it's okay," he said.  "Upset doesn't even begin
to cover it.  I was gone for almost three months, and
when I got back, she was so mad she wouldn't even
speak to me.  Thank God for Frank."

"I thought you couldn't stand him."

"I thought so, too.  But he backed me up.  He told me
later that Mom had to deal with her feelings about Dad
in her own way, and I had to do it in mine.  I think
that's when I began to respect him."  

He squinted at the water and paused.  "I used to feel
so responsible for trying to make her happy.  It
probably wasn't good for either one of us, you know? 
Then Frank came along and  made her happy, and I felt
like she was betraying my dad or something.  God, I
must have been a pain in the ass.  But it turned out
to be the best thing that could have happened.  It
saved Mom from being lonely, and it gave me the
freedom to leave."

He shook his head slowly.  "I didn't sneak off to Laos
to get back at my mother or anything like that, but I
knew it would hurt her.  Making up my mind to go was
the first really adult decision I ever made."

Mac was silent for so long he turned to look.  She was
staring out at the ocean, and he felt something twist
inside.  She said, "But she let you grow up and become
your own man, and she still kept loving you.  A lot of
people seem to see their kids as little extensions of
themselves.  Either they try to keep them dependent
forever, or they start resenting them for pulling
away."

"Which was it for you?" he probed cautiously. 

"I think my father was hateful and abusive because he
was afraid of being left.  The sad thing is, that's
what drove people away."

"What about your mom?"  Mac had never really talked
about her, not even after her father died.  He held
his breath, waiting to see if she would go on.

Mac sighed.  "I always told myself she would have
taken me with her, if she could have.  But when I saw
her again, I realized that wasn't true.  She got
married when she was sixteen, had a baby the next
year, and she was trapped.  She stayed to take care of
me, and for a long time she was afraid to leave.  I
think she just wanted to be free."

"That must have hurt."  It was more a question than a
statement.

Mac shrugged.  "Well, thanks to you, I finally had a
chance to ask her why she never called.  She had all
these reasons -- she was afraid of him, she couldn't
support me, I was old enough to take care of myself --
but I finally realized she just didn't want to."

Harm heard the pain in her voice, and for a moment, he
thought she might say more.  But she continued, "I
never could understand why she stayed as long as she
did.  She was intelligent, pretty, fiesty -- and she
let him hurt her and then covered up for him.  God, it
used to make me so angry."  

Harm wanted to take her in his arms and hold her. 
Instead, he said, "I know what you mean.  My mom was
the typical Navy wife who waited at home and never
complained.  But when we moved to Connecticut to live
with my grandparents, she started buying art for some
of her father's business connections.  Remember when
corporations started investing in art for their
headquarters?  She was successful, and I think she
surprised herself.  Anyway, that's how she met Frank."

"I swore I'd never be dependent on anyone," Mac said. 
"So instead, I spent the summer  was seventeen getting
drunk and stealing cars.  Great career choice."  God,
why am I telling him all this, she kicked herself.

But his voice, when it came, held no trace of censure.
 "You know what I think?  I think we choose what we
want to be.  Sooner or later, we have to say 'screw
what happened, it's up to me now.'  You did that, Mac.
 You did it when you got on with your career and your
life.  And you've done it with Chloe and with that
little girl in Indonesia."

"Lilianna."

"Yeah.  You're wonderful with them.  Hell, you flew
halfway around the world to find that little girl. 
You ever hear from her anymore?"

Mac smiled, keeping her eyes closed.  "I had a letter
just last week.  Her mother got a job in one of the
big hotels, so they're doing okay.  I mean, okay as in
a place to live and food to eat.  And Lilianna's back
in school." 

"I thought for awhile you might bring her home with
you."

"I thought about it, too.  But her mother takes care
of her and loves her.  She's quite a remarkable woman,
I met her when I was there.  God, Harm, their life is
so precarious.  I send them what I can, and maybe when
Lilianna is old enough for college, I can help."

"And Chloe.  You changed her life, Mac."

Mac looked at him.  A surge of tenderness made her
throat ache.  "Harm.  You don't have to buck me up and
tell me how great I am."

"No, I don't.  But sometimes I like to remind you."

Blindly she groped for his hand, and her own was
engulfed in his warm, strong grip.  "Want to take a
walk?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, grateful for the chance to get
control of her emotions.

He pulled her up by the hand and didn't let go as they
began to walk down the beach.  The water was warm
around their ankles, and occasionally a surge splashed
their knees as the tide advanced.  High overhead, the
sky was filled with high stripes of cloud like silver
fish scales, and the wind whipped the dark surface of
the sea.

She risked a glance at Harm.  He looked a little grim,
but to her relief, he didn't seem shocked.  What is
happening here, she wondered.  I haven't thought about
my parents in ages.  And I sure as hell haven't wanted
to talk about any of that stuff, not with anyone.  

To change the subject, she said, "So that summer you
worked at the yacht club.  When did you have time left
over for fooling around, if you were doing two jobs
plus flight training?"

"Well, Mom was always getting on my case for taking
the car, so I hung out a lot with a buddy who had a
1960 Chevy Belair convertible he'd souped up.  Man, we
used to cruise around in that thing all over the
place.  Sometimes we'd get a six pack and sleep at the
beach, then race home before they knew we'd been out
all night.  God, he loved that car.  Called it the
Power Bitch."

Harm was smiling at the memory.  Something squeezed
her heart, thinking of a strong-willed teenager with
haunted eyes and a golden smile, on that last,
wonderful summer of freedom.  "You weren't dating
anybody?" she heard herself say.

He shrugged, all male.  "Nah, nobody steady.  I knew I
wouldn't be back once I graduated.  Couldn't see
getting serious."  Some memory cast a fleeting shadow
across his face, then it was gone.

How many boys would have thought that far ahead at
seventeen, Mac wondered as they walked.  On the other
hand, how many men would have listened to all the junk
she had unloaded on him?  Not many -- hell, not any
that she had ever known.  Chris had been interested
only in her body.  Dalton wanted her as an adornment
for his arm and his law firm.  John -- well, John had
been kind at times in her life when kindness had
mattered more than anything.  Yet she had never really
told him much about herself.

And Mic -- as fundamentally decent as he was, he had
wanted an accessory, not a partner.  Instead of
listening, he got angry.  Harm had seen it first, she
thought ruefully.  He hadn't been a bit surprised when
Mic left so abruptly.  

Mic never really understood a damn thing about her,
she reflected.  She wasn't afraid of being alone --
she had been alone most of her life.  What terrified
her was the thought of being -- unwanted.  Left
behind.  In the end, he had known just how to hurt
her.

Maybe that's why I get upset when Harm goes off to
fly, she thought with a flash of surprise.  I've
always been so wrapped up in my own feelings, it never
occurred to me to think about what it meant to him.

She felt strangely at peace.  Covertly she glanced at
Harm's profile.  It came to her that there was nowhere
she would rather be than here, today, with him.  

They kept walking, staring at the waves, and the
silence felt easy between them.  Mac stared dreamily
at the patterns of light and shadow surging back and
forth in the wash of the waves, feeling Harm's big
solid presence beside her.  Suddenly she realized the
wind had picked up and was flinging stinging grit at
their legs.

"Hey," Harm said, scanning the horizon.  "We'd better
head back, Sundance."

Mac looked up and was surprised to see an ominous line
of clouds on the horizon.  Without a word they turned
and began jogging down the beach, their footprints
deep in the heavy sand.  

Harm sprinted ahead, and she dug in and chased him,
panting.  They reached their beach chairs just as the
first fat drops of rain splatted against the sand. 
Frantically they scooped up chairs, clothes, shoes,
and raced for the porch of the restaurant.  

The summer storm swept in from the sea in grey veils
of rain.  Driving water stung their skin and hammered
on the canvas awnings as they staggered, gasping, up
the steps and dumped their things onto one of the
tables.  Their eyes met and they grinned at each other
with sudden exhilaration.  Harm tossed her a towel,
and Mac could feel the warmth of his body as he pulled
his shirt over his head.  She blotted her hair and
wrapped the towel around her waist.

"Well, so much for our day at the beach," Harm said,
wiping a drip from the tip of his nose.  Suddenly his
head came up.  "Oh Jesus.  I left the top down on the
'vette."

Together they pivoted and ran.  The Corvette was
parked beneath a tree, but the rain was coming down in
sheets.  Quickly they unfolded the top, threw their
things into the back, jumped in and snapped the clips
in place.  Rain pounded on the fabric above their
heads and the windows clouded up with fog. 

Harm swiped his face with a soaking towel.  "You
okay?" he panted.

"Yeah, fine.  What now?"

"Now we break a bottle of champagne and sail this
thing home, I guess," Harm said, looking around the
sodden interior in disgust.  He shifted his weight and
the seat gave a loud squelch.  Mac knew how he felt
about his car.  Desperately she bit her lip until she
caught his eye, and they both burst out laughing.  

Mac leaned back in her seat and surrendered to it. 
Effervescent joy welled up inside her, fizzing and
bubbling to escape.  At last Harm rubbed his hand over
his face and got himself under control.  "Well, what
the hell," he muttered.  "What's a few grand, anyway."
 

It sent them off again.  "Stop," Mac begged, gasping
and holding her middle and trying not to giggle.  

"Okay, okay.  Let's wait for a few minutes.  This has
to ease up.  Then I guess we better head back, what do
you say?"

"Sounds like a plan."  She craned around, grabbed her
damp cotton dress from the back seat, and pulled it
on, raising herself off the leather seat to pull it
down over her wet skin and bikini.  Her nipples rose
up, clearly outlined beneath the thin fabric clinging
to her breasts, and she wrapped her arms around
herself with a shiver.  Harm leaned over and switched
on the defrosters, and the windshield began to clear. 


"There's a good seafood place in St. Michaels, about
30 miles south of the Bay Bridge," he said.  "Want to
try it?"

"Sure.  Sounds great."

Ten minutes later they eased out of the parking lot
and headed out Route 1.

* * * *

1830 EDT, St. Michaels, Maryland

The sun came out by the time they got there.

Harm pulled up outside an imposing white clapboard
building with dark green shutters located right on the
harbor.  At the sight of the valet parking lot filled
with BMWs, Range Rovers and Mercedes, Mac hesitated. 
"Do we need to be more dressed up?" she asked. 

"Nope, we can sit outside," Harm assured her.  "People
stop here in their boats."  He led her past the
building to a long dock, where rows of sailboats and
expensive-looking yachts were tied up.  They followed
the bobbing walkway out over the water to a big
floating platform, where Mac saw picnic tables covered
with red and white oilcloth and people in swim suits
and shorts.  

So they sat in the clean air that smelled of the sea
and watched the boats heading up the Miles River
toward the bay, and listened to the gulls wheeling and
crying overhead.  After awhile, a waitress dumped a
pile of bright red crabs onto the oilcloth, followed
by a bucket of steamed clams, ears of yellow corn,
containers of melted butter and piles of paper
napkins.

A long time later, Mac groaned, "That's it.  I can't
eat another 
bite."

"Wait, I want to mark that down for posterity."

"Go ahead, laugh it up.  I never worked so hard for a
meal in my life."  She held up the hammer and shell
cracker.

"That's saying something for a Marine," Harm teased. 
"I thought you guys trapped bugs and gophers on
bivouac."

"If I knew how to do that, we wouldn't have been so
hungry that night in Afghanistan."

"Okay, okay.  So, no cheesecake, I guess?"

"Oh my god, no," Mac groaned.  "Anyway, how is it you
can eat fish or these poor little crabs, but you won't
eat meat?"

"A fish has a brain the size of a pinhead.  Plus, it's
good for you.  Besides, I just can't get worked up
about something that doesn't have hair."

Mac laughed, a clear, happy sound.  Harm leaned back
and sipped his iced tea as she tossed bits of bread
and seafood over the railing.  A bunch of ducks on the
water quacked noisily and competed with each other for
the scraps.

The crystalline evening light highlighted Mac's lovely
profile and painted her skin with gold.  A warm, sweet
ache stole over him as he watched her.   Simply being
with her filled the empty places inside him.  Today he
had told her things he never discussed with anyone,
hadn't even thought about in years.  He could always
count on Mac to understand without trying to dissect
him.  In spite of everything, she was always so ready
with compassion for everyone but herself.

He wished he could wipe all her self-doubt away, like
a wave smoothing the sand.

He signed the check and stood, holding out his hand. 
Together they walked slowly back, as the setting sun
spangled the water and dazzled their eyes beneath the
deep blue dome of the evening sky.

Mac paused and leaned on the railing.  "I smell of
seafood," she smiled and lifted her face to the
evening breeze, her eyes closed.  "I used the wet
wipes and washed my hands, and I still smell of it."

Harm leaned beside her, shoulders touching, and took
her small, slender hand in his.  Slowly he turned it
palm up and caressed it with his thumb, and heard her
catch her breath.  Her eyes lifted to his, dark and
luminous, and he could feel the warmth of her body
glowing through her thin dress.

Slowly, with infinite tenderness, Harm cupped his hand
against her face and leaned down.  He whispered, "You
smell like sunshine -- and summer rain."  And then he
kissed her.

Her mouth was soft and sweet beneath his, and for one
long, breathless moment there was no thought for
anything -- except that she was kissing him back.

His arms went around her and pulled her against him. 
Her slender body was pliant as a reed and as strong,
and the warm sweet fullness of her breasts and hips
fitted against his like a key into a lock.

After a long, endless time, they drew back, just a
little.  Mac's eyelashes lay on her cheeks.  Then she
looked up, and a jolt flashed through his body. 
Kissing her again was like drawing his first breath. 
They stood leaning together, poised between past and
future.


* * * *

2130 EDT
Washington, D.C.

The Corvette threaded its way through the sparse
Saturday night traffic as they approached the spangled
lights of the District.  Casually, Harm reached across
and took Mac's hand.  A moment later, he raised it to
his lips and brushed a quick kiss across the knuckles,
not taking his eyes from the road.

She looked at him, her face serene in the glow of the
dash lights.  

The deep growl from the Corvette's tailpipes echoed
off the brick houses in Georgetown as Harm found a
tight parking space and eased the car into it.  They
climbed out, and Mac pulled the shopping bag with her
dress uniform from the trunk.  "At least these are
still dry," she observed, checking Harm's dress whites
and snapping the trunk lid down.

"Great, maybe I can take the car to the dry cleaners
instead."  

"Why don't you come up and have some coffee first,"
she smiled.  

He hesitated.  "Mac, I really should pull the seats
and carpeting out of this thing tonight, before it
turns into one solid sheet of rust."

"I know," she said.  He was acutely aware of her
beside him, as if every inch of his skin had become
exquisitely sensitive to each movement she made.

Harm read nothing but trust and happiness in her eyes.
 His heart was hammering, and God knew what she could
see in his face.  Then she nodded, just a little, and
held out her hand.  

Wordlessly he followed her into her building and up
the stairs.

The three double flights had never seemed so long.  At
the third landing, she turned and leaned down from the
step above to kiss him.  

"Winded, sailor?" she breathed against his cheek.  He
grinned and reached for her as she laughed and ran up
the last short flight of steps.  At the top, she
stopped so suddenly he nearly ran into her.

"Mac, what" -- he began.  Then he saw where she was
staring.

A figure was seated on the bench outside Mac's door. 
As they watched, the person struggled to rise and
resolved itself into a short, heavy woman who stood
and waited, smoothing her loose cotton blouse with
nervous hands.

What the hell is a bag lady doing in Mac's hallway,
Harm wondered, and then he noticed the woman was clean
and neatly dressed.  He started forward, but Mac put
her hand on his arm.

"Mama?" she said uncertainly.

* * * *

"Mom, this is Commander Harmon Rabb," Mac said.  The
three of them stood in an awkward group outside her
door.

"Harm," he said, holding out his hand.  

"Deanne O'Hara," the woman said, and returned his
handshake with a firm grip.  She looked at Mac, who
seemed frozen.  "Honey, I'm sorry -- I think I came at
a bad time.  I should have called first."

"No!  I mean, no, it's okay," Mac said faintly.  "When
did you get here?"

"Got in on the bus this afternoon.  Been riding for
two days from Tennessee, I was working at a resort in
the Smokies for the summer.  Anyway, your neighbor
said you were just gone for the day, and she let me
wait."  Deanne looked apologetic.  "I'm sorry to barge
in on you like this, hon."

"It's okay, Mom -- I'm glad to see you," Mac said
awkwardly.  "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"Well, I know it's been awhile.  I've been moving
around a lot, you know how it is."

"Please, come in," Mac said, and turned to unlock the
door.

"Mac, I'd better get going," Harm said.

"Oh!  Won't you come in, just for a little while?" 
Her eyes begged him, and he knew he could never refuse
her -- not even to avoid a woman he was prepared to
despise.  Besides, he had to admit he was intensely
curious.  

He stood aside for Deanne and Mac and followed them
in.  Mac excused herself a little self consciously and
went to the kitchen.

"So, Commander, you and Sarah are dating?" Deanne's
head swiveled as she scanned the apartment.  She
lumbered slowly to the sofa and dropped heavily into
the cushions.

Harm gingerly lowered himself onto one of Mac's tiny
little wicker armchairs.  "No, not really," he
answered.  "We spent the afternoon at the beach.  And
it's Harm."

"Harm," she nodded.  "You're Navy, right?  You and
Sarah work together?"  Her bright blue eyes sparkled
with intelligence.

"Yes ma'am, I'm at JAG.  So, did you enjoy the
Smokies?  That's a beautiful area," he said.

"It was all right," she shrugged.  "Cool in the
summer, anyway.  It's all the same when you're stuck
in an office."

"What was your job?"

"Managed the office, did some bookkeeping.  Hell, I
wasn't leading hiking tours through the mountains, you
can bet on that!" she chortled, wheezing a bit.

Harm gave her a polite smile.  Mac came in, and he
jumped to his feet to take the tray of glasses.  Mac
sat nervously on the edge of a chair.  "So, Mom, did
you have a good trip?" she asked.

"Oh, baby, these poor old bones don't fit on Greyhound
buses so good anymore," Deanne complained.  Mac asked
something else, and her mother went on talking while
Harm watched and listened, fascinated.

There seemed to be no resemblance whatsoever between
mother and daughter.  Deanne was barely five-feet-two,
and as wide as she was tall.  Her thick, clean hair
was a deep chestnut, lightly flecked with grey, and
she wore it long down her back in a strangely girlish
style.  Like most red heads, her skin was fair, almost
milky, and spangled with golden freckles.  

But the biggest difference, the one that intrigued
him, was her manner.  For all her bluff good humor,
she seemed ill at ease.  Her plump fingers never
stopped plucking at her clothes or touching her hair,
and he didn't miss the way her restless blue eyes
moved around, as if tallying the furnishings of the
apartment.   Next to Mac's unconscious grace, her
mother seemed like a plow horse beside a thoroughbred.

Deanne's clothes were inexpensive and neat, but her
white athletic shoes were worn.  Harm noted the
swollen ankles, the wheezing breath, the shadows
around her eyes.  

The tension was back in Mac too.  She was watching her
mother warily.  

"Well," he said at a break in the conversation.  "I
really need to get going.  Deanne, it was a pleasure
meeting you."

"You too, Harm," she waved casually.

Mac walked him to the door.  "Thank you for today,"
she said quietly.

"Well, parts of it were great," he smiled.  "You going
to be okay?"

"Yes."  Quickly she stood on tiptoe and brushed a
quick kiss against his mouth.  He put his hand on her
cheek.

"Call me if you need to.  Goodnight, Sarah," he
whispered, and left.


* * * *

1000 EDT Monday
JAG headquarters

"So, how's it going?" he asked Mac as they followed
everyone out of morning staff call.  

"Huh?  Oh, fine," she glanced up at him.  "I mean,
given the basic weirdness of having my mother with me
for the first time in 18 years, it's great.  I'm
taking her to the doctor this afternoon, and then I
have to see about her survivor's benefits.  That's
really why she came, I think."

"I thought she and your dad were divorced."  He
followed Mac as her light, quick steps led the way
down the stairs and through the bullpen.

"I assumed they were, but apparently she never did
it," Mac said over her shoulder.  "Sounds familiar,
huh?"  They entered her office and she sat behind the
desk.  "She says she was afraid to file, afraid he'd
find her.  Anyway, she's entitled to benefits, and
that will help.  She's been drawing Social Security
disability and working a little, but she really can't
handle a job anymore.  I'm going to look into some
living arrangements for her later this week."

Harm leaned against the doorway.  "Wow.  You going to
be able to handle everything, with this big trial
coming up?"

She narrowed one eye.  "Trying to psych me out
already?"  

"I wouldn't do that, Mac."

She gave him a 'yeah, right' look, but then she leaned
forward, her eyes bright and almost pleading.  "Mom
and I spent all day yesterday talking.  It's a chance,
Harm.  A chance to get to know her a little after all
these years.  Maybe make friends, as adults."

He felt a surge of protective tenderness.  God, let
this work out for her, he thought, even as he kept his
doubts to himself.  Mac needed to do this, he was
sure.  He just hoped it wouldn't hurt her any more
than she had been hurt already.

"That's great, Mac," he said, and smiled.  "I'm glad
for you."

"Thanks," she said.  "I don't really know how I feel
about it.  I'm just sorry" --

"Why?"

"That it had to happen now," she finished in a low
rush.

He didn't pretend to misunderstand.  "Sarah, there'll
be all the time in the world for us," he told her, his
voice very soft.  "I'm not going anywhere.  You have
to know that, at least."

"I know."  Her eyes thanked him.

"Now, about the Davis case," he shifted gears.

"I have a progress report with Singer at 1400," Mac
said crisply.  "We'll deliver the discovery to you
tomorrow morning.  Since your client is waiving his
right to an Article 32 and going straight to court
martial, that will give you a week to prepare, okay?"

"That's fine.  I'll look forward to seeing what you
have."  He gave her a cocky grin.

She opened her mouth, then closed it and regarded him
suspiciously.  "It's true there is no witness," she
admitted, "but Harm, as a circumstantial case it's as
strong as they come.  The forensics prove it could not
have been an accident like he claims.  The only other
options are, he and his wife did it together, or he's
covering for her.  He's known to have an explosive
temper, and there's no trace of abusive behavior for
the mother.  Now which of these three scenarios do you
think is reasonable?  Which do you think the members
will believe?"

Harm was staring out the window, and his serious
expression held no trace of bravado.  "Just be sure,
Mac," Harm said.  "We can't risk prosecuting him
unless the case is solid."

"You mean  can't risk it, don't you?" she challenged
him.

"I mean just what I said," he held up his hands. 
"Okay, then.  I'll wait for what you have to say
tomorrow, counselor.  And Mac" -- he paused as he
turned to go.  "Take it easy, okay?"

She glared at him, and he beat a hasty retreat.

* * * *

"So, Lieutentant, what do you have?" Mac sat and
pulled the evidence docket toward her.  

Singer focused her thoughts and began.  "The forensics
clearly indicate that the child died around the time
the colonel arrived home," she began.  "Our expert
will testify there is no possibility the injuries
could have been caused by a fall or a jump from the
work bench, as the Colonel claims.  We also have six
witnesses who will testify to his episodes of
uncontrolled temper, including a shoving match in a
parking lot and a fight outside a ball game."

"Not conclusive, though.  What about the child's
medical records?"

"We found only one claim for an injury, a broken arm
two years ago.  The wife took the child into the
emergency room, and it was considered a routine
fracture.  I interviewed the doctor on call and he
remembered nothing suspicious about it.  And the
child's pediatrician says she never had anything but
the usual childhood illnesses.  Said Mrs. Davis was a
wonderful mother, very conscientious."

"What about the neighbors?"

"Nobody knew them very well -- you know how it is in
the military, ma'am.  People move all the time.  The
mother was not considered friendly, but apparently she
was devoted to her husband and his career."  Singer
sneered slightly.  "Her family has the money.  Her
father is dead, her mother remarried and has a place
out on the coast."  So that was the couple at the
funeral, Mac thought.

"School?"

"The child was supposed to start kindergarten this
fall, ma'am," Singer said, "and she didn't have any
little friends in the neighborhood.  Nobody seemed to
know this little girl at all.  Even if she could have
told someone she was frightened, there was no one to
listen."

Singer's voice had taken on a far-away quality, and
Mac looked at her sharply.  She felt a faint sense of
something wafting from Lauren like the smoke off dry
ice, something more virulent than her usual arrogance.
 Contempt?  What on earth for, Mac wondered briefly,
and dismissed the thought.  

She sat thinking and tapping her pen on the blotter. 
"What about this broken arm?  Where was the father
that day?"

Singer made a face, which she didn't quite manage to
conceal, and reached for a folder.  At that precise
moment, Mac's phone rang.  

"Yes?  Yes, Mom, what is it?  You what?  When?  Okay,
okay, slow down and tell me."  Mac covered the phone
and turned away, and Singer waited patiently, her
mouth curved in an unpleasant line.  After several
minutes, Mac ended the call, looking harassed.

"Lieutenant, I have to go, my mother is ill.  Where
were we?  Were we done?"

"Yes ma'am." Lauren casually closed the folder.  "We
covered everything important."

"Okay, good.  Get everything boxed up and deliver it
to Commander Rabb.  Dismissed."

"Aye, ma'am."  Singer stood at attention.  After Mac
rushed out, she turned to the piles of papers with a
private little smile.

* * * *

Tuesday, one week later
1620 EDT, JAG Headquarters

Mac looked up at the dull thumping sound to find Harm
knocking on her doorframe with the side of his hand.

"Hey," she said, a smile lighting up her face.

He smiled back.  "Hey yourself.  I just thought I'd
stop by, see how you're doing.  I haven't talked to
you in a week."

"I know -- I'm sorry, Harm.  It's been crazy.  We
spent the weekend looking at places for Mom to live,
and I think we may have found something that will
work."

"You're excited about it."

"Yeah, I guess I am.  I never thought I'd get another
chance at this."

"How's it going with the two of you?"  He asked
cautiously and crossed his arms, leaning casually in
the doorway.

Mac shrugged and gave him an uncertain glance.  "Okay,
I guess.  I mean, we're basically starting from
scratch, and I'm not sure how much we have in common
any more.  I wish her health was better.  But I'm glad
we're trying."  She had a wistful little smile.

"All ready for tomorrow?"  The Davis court martial
would convene in the morning.

"Yes, as far as I can tell."  She put her head on one
side.  "What is it, Harm?  Didn't your instincts pan
out?"

He clenched his fist and took a deep breath.  Okay,
here goes.  "Mac.  I need to ask you this."  He met
her eyes squarely.  "Are you sure you want to go
ahead?"

"Looking for a deal already, counselor?"  Despite her
light tone, her eyes became instantly wary.  Harm
might try to psych her, but not this way.  He was the
smartest attorney she knew, and when it came to
evidence and witnesses, she sometimes thought he could
see through walls and around corners.  Clearly he was
trying to warn her, within ethical bounds.

"Mac.  All I'm saying is, take one more look at
everything tonight.  If you want to talk in the
morning before court, I'll be in early."

"Now I know you're serious," she tried to joke, but he
wasn't laughing.


* * * * *

1900 EDT, Mac's apartment
Georgetown

"Hi, Mom," Mac called as she kicked the door shut
behind her and thumped a heavy document box onto her
desk.  Her briefcase followed it, and she turned as
her mother came in from the bedroom.

"Hi, hon.  Long day?"

"Yeah.  And it's going to get longer.  I have to prep
for a big trial tomorrow."

"Oh honey, you look tired.  Come on, have some supper.
 I have it all ready."  

Mac's stomach lurched with nerves at the thought of
one of her mother's heavy casseroles.  But she gave
her a bright smile as she pulled off her uniform
jacket.  "I could get used to this kind of service,
having my dinner prepared for me every night," she
smiled.  

"Least I can do, honey.  Come on, sit down."  Deanne
began dishing up a plate of heavy, steaming food.

Mac sipped her water and tried to eat.  "What did the
doctor say today?" she asked.  She had set up a charge
account with a cab company to help Deanne get to her
appointments.

Her mother shrugged her big shoulders.  "High blood
pressure, phlebitis, no news there.  The new medicine
is helping, though.  Gives me more energy, I think."

"You need to watch the salt, Mom," Mac reminded her
gently.  She felt frustration tie her stomach in knots
as her mother slathered her potatoes with extra
butter.

"I know, I know, hon.  Hard to teach an old dog new
tricks."  Mac recognized the defensiveness in her tone
and let it go.  "So, honey, what's your big trial all
about?" Deanne asked.

Mac had no intention of going into the story of an
abusive father.  "It's just that it's a high-ranking
officer, mom, and I don't want to make any mistakes. 
I brought some things home to review tonight."

"You work too hard, honey.  I wish you could find some
nice man and settle down."  

Mac looked at her in amazement.  "That's the last
thing I'd expect from you, Mom," she said.  

"Just because it didn't work out for me doesn't mean I
don't want you to be happy, honey."  

"So you're assuming I'm not happy?"  Apparently
professional success didn't stack up to the fairy
tale.  The total lack of logic filled Mac with
exasperation.  

"I saw how you looked at that handsome Navy
commander," Deanne said archly.  "And I saw how he
looked at you.  Face it, Sarah, you aren't getting any
younger, you know."

Mac was speechless.  Deanne heaved herself to her feet
and brought a pie plate in from the kitchen.  Mac held
up her hand.

"Just coffee, please."

Deanne fixed her with a bright eye.  "You drink too
much coffee, honey.  You'll be up all night."

"Well, then I'm up all night," Mac snapped, and was
immediately ashamed.  "I'm sorry, mom.  I'm just
nervous about this case, I think."

"I noticed.  Why don't you tell me about it?"

"I really can't talk about it, mom."

"Can't -- or won't?  I always could tell when you were
dodging, Sarah."  She waggled her finger playfully. 
"What, did some general get caught in the ladies'
latrine or something?"

"No, a colonel put his five-year-old daughter's hand
in a vise and beat her to death with a Stilson
wrench," she said.  She froze.

Deanne's round face was very white.  "I see," she said
finally.  

"Mom, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to snap at you or
bring back bad memories.  I'm just tired."

"It's all right.  I understand."  Unconsciously she
smoothed her hair.  "At least I knew you never had to
worry about that with your dad," she said.  "That one
time he hurt you scared him so bad, I knew he'd never
touch you again."

A slow heavy pulse began to beat in Mac's throat.  I
can't tell her, I must not hurt her, she repeated over
and over to herself.  

Deanne went on, "It got me through sometimes, knowing
you were all right," she said.  

"Is that how you justified it to yourself?" Mac
blurted.

"Justified what, Sarah?"  Deanne's hand came up,
shielding her face.

Mac heard her own voice as if from a distance.  "For a
long time after you left, he tried so hard.  But did
you really believe he wouldn't hit me too, one day?"

"Sarah honey -- you said he didn't hurt you" --

"There are other ways of beating someone up.  The
cruel words, constant criticism, calling me a slut if
I went on a date or came home a few minutes late. 
Finally I started sleeping around, because I was sick
of being blamed for nothing.  Then one day he finally
unloaded on me, gave me a black eye.  I walked out and
never went back."

At the look on her mother's face, she stopped.  "I'm
sorry, Mom.  But I can't keep pretending about it."

"Why do you think I stayed as long as I did?" Deanne
said angrily, her eyes filled with tears.  "He beat on
me so he wouldn't take it out on you.  I stayed to
protect you.  I stayed longer than I should have, just
for your sake."  Her voice was a ragged whisper.  

Mac sat still in her chair, appalled.  All these
years, she blamed me, she realized.  Good God, she
blamed a child.

Moving slowly, painfully, she knelt beside Deanne's
chair and put her arms around her mother.  "I know,
Mom.  I know you did the best you could."  She felt a
strange and rather horrible sense of pity.

After a few minutes, Deanne, wiped her eyes and got to
her feet.  "I'd better wash up the dishes," she said. 


"I'll do it, mom."

"Okay," Deanne answered listlessly.  "I'm going to
bed, Sarah."

"Good night, Mom," Mac said softly.  Her mother didn't
look up as she shuffled toward the bedroom.

* * * * 

Wednesday, 1140 EDT
Court Room 6, JAG Headquarters

"Your honor, the government rests."  Mac stood at
attention as Judge Sebring turned to the defense.  On
her right, Lauren Singer flashed her a smug look.

Their presentation had gone smoothly this morning. 
Last night Mac had reviewed everything, trying to find
a hole in her case, but nothing presented itself.  She
had been upset and had trouble concentrating, but she
was sure she had considered every angle.  Tired as she
was, she had no trouble focusing in court today.

Now she glanced over at Harm, seated beside Colonel
Davis.   They had scarcely exchanged a dozen words
this morning.  She must have imagined the concern in
his eyes, she thought.  He had been crisply
professional.

"Commander Rabb?  Unless you object, we'll hear the
defense after lunch at 1300."

"The defense agrees, your honor."  The gavel banged
down and they all snapped to attention as Captain
Sebring left the court.

Singer leaned over and whispered, "Colonel Davis is
toast, ma'am."  She had a triumphant gleam in her eye.

"That's a little premature, Lieutenant," Mac said
irritably.  "And don't let the members see you
gloating, it could backfire."

"Yes, ma'am."  Singer kept her eyes forward as Mac
left, but she couldn't quite erase a faint look of
scorn as she watched Commander Rabb follow her out.

* * * *

1300 EDT

"Your honor, the defense calls Lieutenant Jason
Wilbury," Harm announced.

Mac watched curiously as the spic and span young
Marine took the stand and was sworn.  She knew he was
Colonel Davis's aide.

"Lieutenant, where were you on July 22, 1999?" Harm
asked.

"I was on duty at headquarters, 9th Marine Training
Battalion, Quantico, sir."

"Was Colonel Davis there?"

"Yes sir.  We both came in at 0700 and we were there
all day.  We ate lunch in the office."

"Did Colonel Davis receive any news from his family
that day, Lieutenant?"

"Yes sir.  About 1400, the Colonel received a phone
call from the emergency room in Alexandria.  His
daughter was being treated for a broken arm."

Mac's head came up alertly, and she tensed.  Son of a
bitch, how had she missed it?

"Were you in the room at the time of this call,
Lieutenant?"

"Yes sir, I was."

"What did the Colonel say?"

"He was speaking to Mrs. Davis, sir."  

"Objection, hearsay!"  Lauren Singer was on her feet. 
Mac calmly put a hand on her arm, out of sight of the
members, and said, "Withdrawn."

Harm spared a single glance, his eyes raking past her
to Singer before he turned back to his witness.  "Just
tell us what you heard, Lieutenant."

"The Colonel asked what happened, and he asked if she
would be all right.  He asked if she wanted him to
come to the hospital.  When he hung up, he said his
daughter had fallen and had a broken arm, but she was
okay."

"Do you mean he asked if Mrs. Davis would be all
right, or did he ask about Elizabeth?"

"He said, 'Will you be okay,' sir."

"Did he seem upset?"

"He seemed distracted, sir.  He ended the meeting and
left."

"Thank you, Lieutenant.  That's all."  

"The government has no questions, your honor."

Harm turned to the bench.  "The defense calls Dr.
Warburton Terhune."

Mac was mystified.  She glanced quickly at Singer, who
shrugged.  Who the hell was this?

Terhune proved to be an elderly country doctor with a
practice in Dover, Delaware.  He answered Harm calmly
and precisely.

Yes, he had treated a young girl about a year ago. 
Yes, he identified a picture of Elizabeth Davis.  Yes,
her mother brought her into his office in Dover one
afternoon.  Yes, that was the woman he met, over there
behind the defense table.

"What did you treat Elizabeth Davis for, doctor?" Harm
asked.

"She had a nasty scald on her left arm.  I bandaged
it, gave her some antibiotics, and that was it."

"Did you have any other impressions of the visit?"

Terhune cocked his head.  "The mother was very
anxious, very solicitious.  But the surprising thing"
-- he paused.  "The child didn't cry," he continued. 
"Not once.  She sat there, good as gold."

Harm fiddled with the pen he was holding.  "Do you
remember the name the mother gave, doctor?"

"No, I do not.  She said she was visiting relatives on
the coast, and the child spilled soup on herself at
lunch."

"Does anything else stand out in your mind, doctor?"

"Yes, only because it was so unusual.  My nurse
mentioned it after they left."  He looked at the
members, and Mac groaned inwardly.  This guy was too
good to be real.  "The mother -- she paid in cash."

"No further questions, your honor," Harm said.  

"No questions," Mac said faintly.

When the defense called another doctor, Mac could hear
the wheels coming off her case.  Furious, she darted a
look at Singer, who opened her blue eyes wide with
innocence.

Dr. Payson Lee was a young Asian-American woman.  She
gave her credentials, which were impressive, and
stated that she was spending a six-month residency at
a city hospital in Baltimore.  She too identified
Angela and Elizabeth Davis.

"Dr. Michaels, did you treat Elizabeth Davis
recently?"

"Yes, about three months ago."  Her voice was very
soft.  "But the name they gave was Elizabeth Lewis."

"Please describe the circumstances."

"Her mother brought her into the emergency room.  She
said she had accidentally slammed the car door on the
child's hand.  It was badly bruised and cut.  We
sutured the lacerations, gave them some antibiotics,
and they left."

"Did anything about the visit stand out?"

"Yes."  No flicker of emotion showed in Dr. Lee's
heart-shaped face, but her eyes turned toward Angela
Davis.  "The child never cried.  Not once.  Most
children are screaming, holding onto their mothers,
but she sat there like a little soldier.  And later"
--  She hesitated.  "The duty nurse mentioned it,
because it was so unusual.  The mother paid in cash."

Several of the members shifted in their seats.  Judge
Sebring looked at Mac.  "Colonel?"

"No questions, your honor," Mac said.  How was she
going to save this?  Did she even want to?

Harm stood straight and tall, facing the bench.  Oh
God, Harm, this must be killing you, she thought.  

Harm held up a sheaf of documents.  "Your honor, we
enter into evidence the duty roster from 9th Marine
Training Battalion Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia,
for the dates on which these hospital visits occurred.
 We ask the defense to stipulate that they confirm
Colonel Davis was on duty on the days in question."

"So stipulated," Mac said softly, ignoring Singer's
glare.  

A murmur went through the court like wind rustling
over dry leaves.

"Your honor," Mac was on her feet.  "The prosecution
requests a sidebar."

Sebring beckoned silently.  Mac and Harm stood at the
side of the bench, avoiding each other's eyes, and Mac
spoke in a low voice.  "Your honor, the prosecution
requests a continuance to develop further charges." 
Harm was silent.

Sebring snapped, "Oh no, Colonel.  You're not going to
sidestep this one.  Are you prepared to dismiss?"

"On the charge of second degree murder, yes sir.  We
reserve the right to bring charges of perjury later,
pending referral of the matter to civilian
authorities."

"Commander?"

"Agreed, your honor."  Harm was very terse.

"Okay.  Dismissed."  Sebring waved them away and
addressed the members.

"Officers and members," he began.  "The charges of
murder in the second degree against Colonel Mitchell
Davis have been dismissed."  A murmur went through the
room.  "This matter will be referred to civilian
authorities, and Colonel Davis, the court reserves the
right to charge you with perjury and obstruction of
justice.  The panel is dismissed."  With a bang of his
gavel, Sebring brought the court martial to an abrupt
conclusion.

Colonel Davis turned to his wife.  She had risen, with
a vague, bewildered expression.  She put a trembling
hand to her throat, and said, "Mitchell?"  Davis stood
with his arm around her shoulders, his face ravaged. 
Mac couldn't watch as a civilian detective came
forward, and Angela Davis turned to her husband in
confusion.  

Harm stood at attention, staring straight ahead, and
he didn't react when Colonel and Mrs. Davis were led
from the court.   Without a flicker of emotion, he
snapped his briefcase shut and walked out the door.

"How did this happen, Colonel?  How could you just
give up like that?"  Singer hissed beside her.  Mac
swiveled to look at her, then slowly gathered her
things.

* * * *

Mac walked straight out of headquarters and drove away
from the parking lot.  For a long time she simply
cruised through the Virginia countryside, not paying
any attention to where she was going.  Finally, she
found herself pulling into the park on Theodore
Roosevelt Island.  She walked along the river until
the approaching dusk forced her to go home.

When she opened her door, there were no lights in the
apartment.  Everything was utterly silent and still. 
She knew what had happened even before she looked
around.

Deanne's things were gone, and her decrepit suitcase
was gone.  There was no note.

* * * *

2230 EDT

"Rabb."  He answered the phone on the first ring.

"Harm?"  Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to
hear.

"Mac, where are you?  I've been calling for hours."

"I know.  I was here.  I just -- you know."

"Yeah, I know.  Are you okay?"

The silence on the line frightened him, but he could
tell she hadn't hung up.  Then, finally, "She's gone."

Who?  What?  Then he knew.  "Your mom?"

"Yeah.  All her stuff is gone.  She left again, Harm."
 It would be less scary if she were crying, he
thought.

"I'm on my way.  Mac?  You'll wait right there, okay? 
I'll be there in no time."

"Okay."  There was a click, and he was left staring at
the phone before he grabbed his keys and ran.

* * * * 

2300 EDT, Mac's apartment

He paused outside her door, paralyzed by a sudden
flashback.  Mac on the sofa, hung over, refusing to go
the Admiral's party.  God, please, he thought.  He
knocked, then tried the handle.  The door swung open.

The living room was dark, and the apartment was
silent.  A faint light shone beneath the bedroom door.
 Cautiously he moved forward until he could push it
open with his fingertips.

At first, he thought she had fled.  The bedroom
appeared to be empty, and one small lamp shone on the
dresser.  Only when he took a step into the room did
he see the long shape beneath the comforter on the
bed.

"Mac," he said.  No reaction.  "Mac," he tried again,
and touched where her shoulder must be.  "Sweetheart,
it's me."

After a long pause, she rolled over, and he gently
pulled the comforter away from her face.  She huddled
into a ball, and her eyes remained closed.  She
scarcely seemed to be breathing.  Carefully he sat
down on the edge of the mattress.  

"Mac, come on now, look at me," he said.  Slowly her
eyes opened.  They were dull and lifeless, but he knew
she had not been drinking.  Harm gently stroked her
bangs from her forehead with the flat of his hand, and
finally she looked at him.

"Can you tell me about it?" he said softly.  

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. 
"I drove her away," she whispered.

"How?"

"I hurt her and she left."

"Tell me, Mac."  He put his hand on her.  "Can you sit
up?"

Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself up against the
headboard and regarded him.  Harm took her hand. 
"It's okay, Mac.  Just tell me, okay?"

She looked away.  "It's not okay, Harm.  I got angry
at her last night, because she kept saying she knew
Dad would never hurt me after she left.  Finally I
told her the truth.  And then she said" -- her voice
faltered, and he waited patiently.  "She said he beat
her because he was afraid to hit me.  She blamed me
for it, Harm."

"Mac, you were a child."

"I know," she whispered.  "That's when I knew she
didn't love me -- maybe she never did."  She put her
hands up to her face.  "But she came to me for help,
and I drove her away."  Only then did her voice
falter.  After a minute her shoulders began to shake.

Harm gathered her to him and rocked her, simply
holding her while she cried.  He closed his eyes,
willing himself not to show how angry he was, knowing
she would think it was directed at her.  It came to
him that he had never seen Mac cry like this, not
ever.  She was sobbing as if her heart would break.

Finally her shoulders stopped shaking, and she opened
her fingers, which had been clutching fistfuls of his
shirt.  She leaned against him, exhausted.  Harm
stroked his palm between her shoulder blades, over and
over, until he felt her relax a little.  "Sorry," she
mumbled against his neck.

"Hey, you have nothing to be sorry about," he said
quietly.  "But my back is killing me," he smiled
ruefully and sat up straighter.

"Oops, sorry," she said, and rubbed the heel of her
hand over her cheek.  She pulled her knees up and
hugged them, and took a long, shaking breath.

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his
knees.  "Mac, have you asked yourself what you did
that was so terrible?"

She looked at him incredulously.  "I just told you" --

"Did you say anything that wasn't true?"

"No -- but I lost my temper."

"Oh.  So, after everything that happened, you got mad
for a minute and told her the truth.  Sounds pretty
understandable to me."  At her doubtful look, he went
on.  "Did you  to hurt her?"

"No.  But Harm, she's sick and she's vulnerable.  If I
hadn't pushed so hard, maybe she wouldn't have run
again."

"So, let's see.  You took her in, made her welcome,
helped her get medical attention, find a place to
live, straighten out her finances.  You introduced her
to your friends.  Which of these things would a good
daughter  do?"

Mac looked down.  "I still feel guilty."

He took both her hands.  "Mac.  You have been feeling
guilty about her for most of your life.  If you were
in her place, would you blame  child?"

"No."  Her eyes flashed.  

"Okay, then."  He watched her.  After a moment, she
gave a tiny shake of her head.

"Damnit, Harm.  Is this how it feels when you
cross-examine someone?"

He caressed her cheek.  "No.  You're doing fine with
that all by yourself."  Her hand came up and grasped
his wrist.  "Mac, your mom left because she couldn't
bear the truth.  Just because she couldn't love you,
it doesn't mean you aren't worthy of being loved." 
His voice was very soft.

Her eyes filled with tears again, and he brushed them
away.  "Okay, enough.  Stay there," he said, and stood
up.  He went to the bathroom and came back with a wet
wash cloth.  "Here," he said, and gently wiped her
cheek.  She took it from him and buried her hot face
in it.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

"Okay.  Now, I'm going to fix us some iced tea or
lemonade or something.  Whatcha got?"

"There's a pitcher in the fridge," she said, and sat
up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.  She
listened to his footsteps moving toward the kitchen. 
Her eyes burned and her throat ached, but she felt a
little better.  

All at once she couldn't stand to sit there alone. 
She slipped off the bed and hurried through the
darkened living room.

Harm had turned on the light above the stove, and he
was standing at the sink, running water over her ice
cube trays.  He looked up as she came in.  Her bare
feet were nearly silent on the cool floor.  She caught
his quick glance and realized she was wearing only a
snug t-shirt and high-cut panties.  

"You really should get an ice maker, Mac," he said as
he twisted the plastic tray and spilled cubes into the
sink.  "That old refrigerator of yours is an antique. 
You ever defrost that thing?"

"As seldom as possible," she said, and stood behind
him.  Tentatively she reached out and laid her palm
flat against his broad back.  She felt him go still. 
Slowly she stepped closer, slid her arms around his
waist, and leaned against him.

"I screwed up the case, too," she muttered.  "I went
over everything last night, I knew you were trying to
warn me.  The Admiral's going to have my hide."

"You had a lot on your mind.  It isn't the end of the
world, Mac.  We'll get through it."

Harm covered her hands with one of his.  Then he
turned and put his arms around her.  They stood
quietly for a few minutes, and Mac lost herself in the
quiet beating of his heart beneath her cheek.

"Here, Sundance," he said at last, and broke away as
he reached for a glass on the counter.  "Try this."

She took the glass from his hand and set it down. 
Slowly, deliberately, she stepped closer and ran her
hands up his chest.  His eyes were a brilliant green
in the dim light as she slipped her hands behind his
neck and pulled him down to her.

His mouth was soft and gentle and she pressed urgently
against him, feeling the fire spread between her legs,
feeling him stiffen as she swayed forward.  Feverishly
she tugged at his shirt and slipped her hands beneath,
sliding them over his bare skin.  She pushed one leg
between his thighs, feeling his breathing speed up,
relishing the feel of his powerful hands as he moved
them over her body --

"Mac," his whisper was ragged as he moved back, his
hands on her shoulders.  "Mac.  Not now.  Not like
this."

A frigid wave of embarrassment engulfed her, and she
stumbled back a step.  Quickly she crossed her arms
over her breasts.  "Oh.  Um -- I guess I should say
excuse me," she muttered.  Her blood thumped in her
throat, and she felt sick with humiliation.  Then a
red veil of fury blurred her vision.  "What's the
trouble this time, Harm?  Because I messed up the case
today, you worried it'll rub off on you?"

"Mac, take it easy" --

"Ah.  I see," she snarled.  "The great Harmon Rabb
strikes again.  Get close, but not too close.  What's
the matter -- is all this getting too real for you?"

"Mac" -- he caught her by the shoulders again.  "Don't
do this.  Don't push, and then run.  Not this time."

"Looks to me like you're the one who's running. 
Again."

"Goddamnit, listen to me."  He lowered his voice. 
"When we make love, I don't want it to happen just
because you're upset."

"You don't -- let me get this straight.  You think I'm
begging you for a ?"

"Mac" --

Without warning, she swung and slapped him across the
face as hard as she could.  His head rocked and he
staggered back a step as the blow cracked like a bull
whip.

Mac froze, appalled at herself.  She would never
forget the wounded look she glimpsed before his cool
mask of control slipped into place.  

"I'd better go," he said.  

She was still standing in the kitchen, shivering, when
she heard the lock click on the front door.

* * * *

Thursday, 0800 EDT
JAG headquarters

Mac's heels clicked crisply across the floor of the
bullpen as she headed for her office.  Furtively she
glanced at Harm's door, rehearsing her apology for the
thousandth time, but his office was empty.  Funny, his
car was already on the lot . . .

Maybe he couldn't sleep last night, either, she
thought.  Please, just let me have a chance to tell
him I'm sorry.  

She had scarcely set her briefcase on her desk and
booted up her computer when Tiner stuck his head in
the door.  "Admiral wants to see you, Colonel," he
said.  She looked up with an inward groan.  Unless she
was seriously mistaken, she was about to be called on
the carpet for botching the Davis prosecution.

"Thank you, Tiner."  Mac squared her shoulders and
followed the yeoman to the Admiral's office.  At her
knock, the stern voice said, 'Enter', and she did,
closing the door behind her before coming to
attention.
 
"Have a seat, Colonel."  Chegwidden glared at her over
the top of his reading glasses.  He waited, silent and
grim, and Mac noticed she could hear the clock ticking
on the mantle.  

Chegwidden pulled off his glasses and tossed them on
the blotter, then leaned forward.  "General Llewellyn
of 9th Battalion has filed a formal complaint about
yesterday," he announced without preamble.  "He feels,
and I'm not sure I don't agree, that there was
sufficient evidence before trial to bring Colonel
Davis's culpability into question.  The General wants
to know why we didn't keep this one out of court until
we could charge the right party.  Now we've got a
media circus, a botched criminal investigation, a
civilian prosecutor crapping all over us for
complicating his case, and a fine officer who has
blown his career with perjury and obstruction of
justice."

Mac swallowed.  This was what they call a worst case
scenario, she thought.

The admiral held up his hand.  "Don't answer now,
Colonel.  You deserve time to get your thoughts in
order.  The General has been decent enough to agree
for me to conduct an internal review before he decides
whether to bring charges."

Against me, she thought dully.  Now I know how Bud
felt.  Everything I ever worked for is down the tubes
-- with that fiasco over the Safety Report evidence,
this will finish me in the military, maybe even with
the Bar Association.  She felt it all at a distance as
her overloaded emotions went numb.

"I'm convening the review at 1100 this morning," he
said.  "You, Singer, Rabb, and Muldoon" -- 

"Muller, sir."

"Muller.  In the main conference room.  Bring
everything you need to explain how you prepared your
case, Colonel.  And Mac" -- his stern black eyes
softened, just a bit.  "The jury is still out.  Make
your case, and I'll go to bat for you."

"Aye, sir."  She stared rigidly over his head, afraid
she might cry.

"Dismissed."

* * * *

1055 EDT

Mac squared her shoulders and pushed open the
conference room door.  The room was eerily quiet.

Harm and Muller were already seated on one side of the
polished mahogany table.  At her entrance, Muller was
instantly on his feet.  Harm continued to study the
blank legal pad in front of him.

"As you were, Lieutenant," she said faintly.  Her
heels echoed on the wood floor as she walked the
length of the room and took her place across from
Harm.  She had not seen him all morning, and noted the
deep shadows beneath his eyes with concern.  His face
was calm and closed, and he kept his eyes trained on
the opposite wall.

 She pulled out the chair, sat down, and placed one
slim folder on the table.  She studied her hands in
her lap.  Her knuckles were white.

The silence was like a solid presence in the room. 
Mac tried to rehearse what she was going to say, as
she had for the past two and a half hours, but her
mind kept returning to the same, monotonous thought,
over and over again, like a tongue to an aching tooth.
 She had allowed her past to blind her to the truth
that was right in front of her.  

It all seemed strangely irrelevant.  Her career was
probably going to be over in the next ten minutes, and
all she could focus on were Harm's hands across the
table.  A gold pen kept turning and turning in his
long, sensitive fingers.  

A minute later, Lieutenant Singer entered and walked
quickly to her place beside Mac.  No one said
anything.

Precisely at eleven hundred, the double doors swung
open with a bang.  The admiral strode into the room
and went straight to his seat at the head of the
conference table.  "As you were," he snapped.  The
group resumed their seats.  

"Okay," Chegwidden glared around the table, "we all
know why we're here.  Colonel, you're up."

Mac curled her toes inside her shoes, but outwardly
she remained calm and poised.  She placed her hands on
the table and clasped them to hide their trembling. 
"The case against Colonel Davis, as presented in the
court transcript, was circumstantial but compelling. 
Given the colonel's insistence on a story that was
clearly false, we had no choice but to prosecute." 
Mac leaned forward.  "When I inquired about the
child's only other documented injury, I requested the
colonel's duty report for that day.  If I had known he
was not present when the child was injured previously,
I would have investigated Mrs. Davis more closely." 
She tightened her hands.  "I do not remember the duty
report, sir.  I missed it."

Chegwidden looked grim.  "Was it included in the
discovery, Colonel?"

Singer piped up, "Yes, sir.  It's cataloged."

The admiral turned to Harm.  "Commander?  Anything to
add?"

Harm's impassive face was cold and closed.  He took a
sheet of paper from a folder beside him and handed it
to the admiral, who glanced at it and handed it on to
Mac.  She read it and looked up, stricken.

"I don't remember ever seeing this, sir."

Harm cleared his throat.  "Actually, the Colonel never
saw that actual document, sir.  It's a copy I obtained
from command at Quantico."  He turned his eyes back to
the pen in his hand as he continued.

"When the investigation began, I agreed with Colonel
Mackenzie that the case against Colonel Davis was
strong.  Especially because he wanted to plead
guilty."  Harm looked at the admiral.  "I think
Colonel Davis believes himself to  guilty, for failing
to take adequate steps to protect his daughter or to
obtain psychiatric help for his wife."

Singer shifted in her seat.

Harm said, "When I reviewed the evidence, naturally I
looked for the report on the Colonel's whereabouts on
the day his daughter's arm was broken.  We couldn't
find it.  I assumed it was misfiled and requested
another copy from battalion headquarters.  Based on
that report, I asked Lieutenant Muller to start
looking for hospitals where the child might have been
treated for other injuries, perhaps under an assumed
name."  

"Outstanding job, Lieutenant," the admiral peered over
his reading glasses.  "You covered a lot of ground in
a short time."

"Thank you, sir."  Muller's adam's apple bobbed.

Mac tried to swallow, but her throat had gone dry.

"Well," Chegwidden said heavily, "I guess that does
it."  He looked at Mac coolly, and she told herself
she was imagining the regret she glimpsed in his
expression.  "Colonel, report to me in my office at
1400.  Dismissed."

"Excuse me, sir," Harm said quickly.

"Yes, commander?"

"There's something further, sir."

Chegwidden skewered him with a glare, but Harm didn't
flinch.  Mac's heart sank.  He's going to try to
defend me, she thought.  Oh god, Harm, don't do it.

"All right, Commander, make it quick."

Harm glared back at the admiral.  "I find it difficult
to believe that Colonel Mackenzie would ignore or miss
the significance of the duty report, sir.  Especially
when she refused to delay or offer a deal.  So
yesterday we reviewed the evidence provided by the
prosecution again.  Lieutenant?"  He turned to Muller,
who excused himself and went to the foot of the table,
where he opened one of the heavy document boxes
stacked there.

Muller lifted out a thick sheaf of greenbar computer
printouts in a flexible cover and thumped it down. 
Harm gestured at it.  "This is a bound copy of the
complete results of the toxicology and other
laboratory results from the autopsy on Elizabeth
Davis," he said.  "As we all know, this information is
routinely provided by NCIS in these kinds of cases. 
Colonel, did you ever refer to this information?"  He
looked at the pen in his hand, not at her.

Mac looked at the admiral.  "No, sir.  There was no
reason to review those results in detail."  

Muller carefully opened the heavy document, which was
marked with a Post-it somewhere in the middle, and
folded the big pages back.  A single sheet of white
paper lay in the center.  

Muller handed the sheet to Harm, who passed it to the
admiral.  "It's the original numbered copy of the duty
roster, sir.  We checked with battalion headquarters,
and they confirmed they issued it to Lieutenant
Singer."

The admiral looked at Singer curiously.  "Lieutenant? 
Any explanation as to how this document ended up
here?"

Singer's jaw was jutting forward.  "None, sir," she
said coolly.  

Harm said in a quiet voice, "It's surprising that any
document in this case would have been misfiled to
begin with -- Lieutenant Singer is exceptionally
meticulous.  And I find it hard to imagine how it
could have ended up by accident in a place where no
one would ever think to look.  Did you refer to this
printout, Lieutenant?"

"I may have, sir."

"You'll notice, it doesn't lie flat.  Even if you were
using it, this isn't the sort of document you'd have
lying open while you worked.  It's quite heavy, too --
it's not likely a piece of paper could blow in there
by accident.   it an accident, Lieutenant?"  Harm's
voice was dangerously quiet.  "Was it an accident that
the missing evidence found its way between oversize
pages where it wouldn't be noticed?"

"Sir!  Admiral, if the commander is implying" --

"No, Lieutenant, but I think we all get the drift. 
Colonel?"  Chegwidden turned to Mac.  "Any of this
ring a bell?"

Mac was staring at Singer, disbelief plain on her
face.  "I remember now," she said quietly.  "You told
me the doctors found nothing suspicious about the
child's broken arm.  I asked about the duty roster,
and then" -- she looked at the admiral.  "My phone
rang.  My mother was ill, and I had to leave.  I asked
-- I asked Lieutenant Singer if we had covered
everything, and she said yes.  I forgot to follow up,
sir."

The Admiral stared hard at her, then snorted.  "Yes,
Colonel, you did."  He swung his attention to Singer,
who had gone very white.  "Lieutenant?  Would you care
to explain why you failed to bring this report to
Colonel Mackenzie's attention when she specifically
asked you to do so?"

Singer stood up slowly, with great dignity, and rested
her fingertips on the polished table.  "I did my duty,
sir.  And I resent any implication otherwise."

"I'm afraid that is not acceptable, Lieutenant.  We
will continue this discussion in my office at 1400. 
Colonel, your appointment is cancelled until further
notice.  That's all, people.  Dismissed."  He rose,
and the other officers came to attention.

"No sir, that is  all," Singer seethed with rage.

"Stand down, Lieutenant."  The admiral's voice was
cool.  "You'll have your opportunity at 1400."

"My opportunity.  That's rich."  Singer's voice was
low and quavering, and Mac could see her trembling
with fury.  "I work harder than any of you, and you
don't care.  You don't give a damn about that little
girl.  You're just glad your precious Mac is off the
hook again.  That man deserves to burn in hell for
what he did.  So what if he didn't swing the wrench
that killed her?  He let it happen!  He covered it up,
so his rich wife wouldn't go to prison!  And none of
you care -- you don't care" -- Singer was gasping,
tears brimming in her red-rimmed eyes.  

"That's enough, Lieutenant," Chegwidden barked.  

"Enough!    As if it could  be enough!"

"Lieutenant," Mac said and reached for Singer's arm. 
"You need to calm down."

"You!  Get your hand off me, you . . . you tramp. 
It's so easy for you, isn't it?  They all go
slobbering after you, they all want you.  Everybody
helps you, and it doesn't matter if you make a
mistake.  Why is that, Colonel?  Have you slept with 
of them?  Are you that good in bed?"

Harm was on his feet, his eyes flashing.  "Lieutenant"
-- he turned to the admiral and lowered his voice. 
"Sir, permission to call the Marine guard."  

"Oh, by all means, do that, Commander," Lauren spat. 
"You can tell them and the admiral all about the times
you spend the night at Colonel Mackenzie's."

For an endless moment, no one moved, and Singer rushed
on, triumphantly, "Yes, tell us, Commander.  Tell us
how  hid that report last night, just to cover up for
her."

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and a
voice said hesitantly, "Uh, sir?  That couldn't have
happened, sir.  I found the document, and the evidence
was with me the whole time, sir."  Muller looked
scared, but determined.

"Don't make us test for fingerprints, Lieutenant,"
Harm said coldly.

Hectic splotches of red suffused Singer's swollen
face, and her eyes were glassy, staring at something
no one else could see.  She leaned over the table and
snarled at Harm, "Well, why should I leave the report
where it would make your job easier, you goddamned
hypocrite?  Look at you!  You got that murderer off
and everybody thinks you're so brilliant, but do you
see the blood on your hands?  All you see is ."  She
flung her hand out toward Mac. 

"You chase after her, you'd do anything for her, you
think she's so wonderful you never even notice she
doesn't want   She uses you, just like she's used all
the others, and when she's done she'll kick you in the
teeth, too.  You're disgusting, and pathetic, and" --
Singer's voice was a choked whisper, and she was
gulping and weeping.  All three of the men stood
frozen, helpless at the sight, and Mac heard
Chegwidden mutter "For Chrissake" to no one in
particular.

Carefully she put her arm around Singer's heaving
shoulders and spoke very gently.  "Lauren, it's all
right.  You need to sit down now.  You'll make
yourself sick.  It's going to be all right, you're
going to be okay."  To everyone's surprise, Singer
sank into a chair, her head bowed, her hands twisting
and clenching together as she shook with dry, silent
sobs.  Mac sat beside her, patting her back.   She
caught the Admiral's eye and said quietly, "Perhaps
you'll excuse us, sir?"

Harm made an involuntary movement, and Mac turned to
him.  "We'll be all right, Harm," she said, looking
him in the eye.  His face was white and strained. 
Something passed between them, and some of the tension
left him.

Chegwidden seemed to come to, and jerked his head. 
"Commander, Lieutenant, with me."  The three men left
quickly.

* * * *

An hour later

AJ and Harm stood at the window, looking down into the
parking lot as Mac and a female Marine guard escorted
Singer to a waiting sedan.  The admiral snorted. 
"Bethesda agreed to do a psych eval based on my
referral.  Should give me all I need to square things
with General Llewellyn."

Harm was silent, watching Mac as she closed the car
door on Singer and walked to her Corvette.  The
government car pulled slowly out of the parking lot.

"A remarkable woman," AJ mused.  

"Yes, sir."

"Amazing how she was able to defuse that situation. 
Did I understand that the Colonel's mother has
resurfaced?" he asked.

"Briefly, sir.  She left again."

AJ glared.  "Mac's had quite a bit to deal with
lately." 

"Yes sir."

"Anything else I need to know, Mr. Rabb?"

"No, sir."

The admiral's black eyes watched Harm intently for a
moment, and then he shrugged and turned to his desk.  

"The Colonel will be at Bethesda, supervising the
arrangements for Lieutenant Singer.  Have the report
of this incident on my desk before you leave.  And
Commander" --

"Sir?"

"You look like hell.  Take tomorrow off, that's an
order."

Harm kept his eyes fixed on the antique brass
barometer over the Admiral's left shoulder.  "Aye,
sir.  Thank you sir."

"Dismissed."

* * * * *

1720 EDT, JAG Headquarters

"Admiral?  May I have a moment, sir?"  Mac knocked
lightly at the open door.

Chegwidden was reading something on his desk and
looked up.  "Have a seat, Mac.  How did it go?"

Her thigh muscles fluttered with fatigue as she
crossed the room, and she forced herself to bear down.
 "The doctors won't say until they've completed their
work-up, sir, but they seem to think the lieutenant
may have experienced some sort of trauma as a child. 
This case may have triggered her breakdown."  Mac's
eyes were filled with compassion and something more --
an infinite sadness, AJ thought to himself.  

He swiveled his chair sideways and stared intently at
the bookcase while he listened to Mac describe the
detailed arrangements for Singer's care.  Finally he
shook his head.   "What a goddamn shame.  Well, let's
delay any decision about her future until they release
her for duty.  But I don't think we can overlook the
deliberate concealment of evidence, Mac."

"I agree, sir.  Any word on the Davis case?"

Chegwidden shrugged.  "Out of our hands now.  Hard to
imagine how Colonel Davis could fail to appreciate how
severe his wife's problems were, but clearly he's
devoted to her.  He must have sent her to the market
that night just so she'd have an alibi.  The shrinks
at NCIS think there's some sort of abuse in her past
as well, these things tend to repeat themselves.  A
damn tragedy.  Anyway, NCIS is dealing with the
Virginia D.A., and Rabb wrote up the official report."

"Regarding my responsibility in the matter, sir" --

"Yes?"  Chegwidden inquired with a bland look.

"I wondered if you had come to any decision on that,
sir," she finished lamely.

The admiral sighed.  "For failing to identify the
missing evidence, a non-punitive letter of warning
will be placed in your file, to be removed without
prejudice if your next fit rep warrants it."

She hesitated.  "That's more than generous.  Thank
you, sir.  But Admiral, regarding the allegations
about Commander Rabb" --

"What allegations would those be, Colonel?"

"It was all my fault, sir," she babbled.  "I mean --
nothing inappropriate happened."

AJ leaned back and regarded her silently for several
moments.  His black eyes were inscrutable.  At last he
made a wry face and looked away.  "Colonel, what you
do in your personal life is your business, unless it
affects this office.  That said, you look exhausted. 
Don't show your face in here until Monday morning."

She stood rigidly at attention.  "Yes sir," she
replied faintly.  "And sir" -- 

""

"Do you know where he is, sir?"

"I sent Commander Rabb home early, Colonel.  Told him
to take the day off tomorrow, too."

"Aye, sir.  Thank you, sir."


* * * *

She drove home in a fog of fatigue that rapidly
escalated into a massive, brutal headache.  It was all
she could do to navigate the traffic until she could
park behind her building and unlock her door.  Her
hands shook as she unbuttoned her jacket and turned
the covers down on her bed, and she had to squint her
eyes against the glare as she twisted the blinds
closed.  The migrane felt like a hatchet buried behind
her eye and filled her mouth with the taste of molten
bronze. 

She crawled into bed fully clothed and pulled the
covers over her shivering body.  With trembling hands,
she pried the cap off a bottle of Extra Strength
Tylenol and managed to swallow two gelcaps before
curling into a fetal position.

* * * *

0500 EDT, Friday 
Mac's apartment

She opened her eyes to the sweet silence of dawn and
lay quietly, luxuriating in the feel of the smooth
clean sheets against her skin and watching her bedroom
ceiling slowly warm to pink with the approaching
sunrise.  Her body felt light and hollow as a
salt-scoured shell, floating on a drowsy sense of
peace.

Her mother was gone.  The thought filled her mind,
whole and complete, and for once without pain.  I
couldn't fix the things that made her unhappy, Mac
thought, and with that clarity came the realization
that she was free -- free of the burden of the past,
if not from the memories.  

Thanks to one person.  The one friend who never left
her, who never took advantage of her, who always told
her the truth -- whether she wanted to hear it or not.
 Dear God, he and poor Muller must have started
searching for that missing document as soon as the
trial ended.  In return, she had lashed out and hurt
him as much as she possibly could.

Mac flung back the covers and leaped for the shower.  

* * * *

Forty minutes later she was driving past Union
Station.  Mac wasn't ordinarily an erratic driver, but
her mind wasn't on the job and it occurred to her it
was lucky there was only light traffic at this hour.  

When she pulled up outside Harm's apartment, the alley
was filled with deep shadows.  She was so intent on
rehearsing what to say and wondering if he would be up
yet, she almost missed seeing that his parking space
was empty.

She sat with both hands gripping the wheel, staring. 
He couldn't be gone, not now.  He must be at the gym,
or running in the park, or . . . . Oh, Harm. 

* * * *

0800 EDT
Blacksburg, Virginia

It was a beautiful morning for a drive.  The rolling
green hills of the Virginia countryside spread out
like a carpet of jewels as she sped along a winding
two-lane highway dappled with early morning shade, and
she saw none of it.  

On the far side of the quaint little village of
Blacksburg, she found the turn-off and tore down a
narrow gravel road, leaving a white plume of dust
hanging in the air behind her.  At last she saw the
airfield on her right and made the sharp turn into the
entrance.  A vintage red Corvette was already parked
on the lot.  There was some small relief in knowing
she had guessed right.

Mac pulled in beside Harm's car and climbed out.  The
blacktop pavement was already getting sticky in the
sun.  Slowly she walked around the low white building
with the sign that said "Office" and stood in the
dusty grass behind a chain link fence at the edge of
the taxi area.  There was no sign of a yellow
Stearman.

Two Cessnas and a Piper Cherokee were parked on the
apron near the fuel pumps, but there was no activity
in the long hanger that stretched away to the left. 
No one seemed to be around at all.  Heat shimmered on
the aluminum siding.  A wind sock hung empty and
still.

A scarred wooden picnic table sat in a patch of shade
beside the main building, and Mac sat down to wait. 
After awhile an old black mutt with a grey muzzle
wandered up, wagging her tail and looking for a
handout.  Mac scratched the old dog's ears until it
lay down beside her with a thump and a sigh.

Slowly the sunlight crept across the grass to warm her
shoulders, and she lifted her face to it gratefully as
she waited, as patiently as she could, letting the
jumble of the past few days revolve in her mind.  She
felt a strange kinship with Angela and Lauren, both of
whom had turned their anguish on innocent people.  All
her life, Mac had directed her pain inward, against
herself -- until she had hurt the best friend she
would ever have.  She cringed at the memory.

She didn't know what she would say to Harm. She only
knew she had to try, or the cycle of pain would never
stop.  

It was nearly an hour before she heard it -- the faint
growl of an engine in the distance.  She shaded her
eyes against the glare and stared until her eyes
watered.  Finally she saw it, coming from the distant
western mountains, a faint speck against the deep
azure of the sky.  

Despite her inner turmoil, her heart lifted.  It
looked so free and peaceful, soaring there in the
endless blue.  No wonder it made him happier than
anything else, she thought.  

He wasn't in any hurry to land.  She watched as the
little yellow biplane looped and rolled lazily against
the sky, circling the field and soaring back.  At last
he made the downwind turn and lined up with the
runway.  The plane touched down lightly without a
bounce and rolled up to the apron, its propeller
roaring.

The engine shut down.  In the sudden silence, she
watched Harm lever himself up and out of the cockpit
and climb down.  She let herself through the gate and
walked slowly across the tarmac toward him.  He went
very still when he saw her.

Harm waited in the shadow of the wing and watched her
stop a few feet away.  It was very quiet.  Mac heard a
bird singing somewhere.  

Heartbeats of time.  "I spent the whole drive out here
planning what I was going to say," she said finally. 
"Now I can't remember a single word."  

Harm's expression was guarded, but he kept pulling the
strap of his goggles between his fingers.  Please
don't let him do a Fortress Rabb, she thought
desperately.  Please.

"I" -- her voice caught, and she tried again.  "None
of those things I said are true, Harm.  You were
right, about the case, about Mom -- about everything. 
About me, most of all."  She swallowed.  "An apology
doesn't begin to cover it, but I am so sorry." 

His beautiful, melancholy eyes were clear as the
summer sky.  She saw sadness there, and something else
that came and went in a flash.  But still he was
silent.  

Her throat began to ache.  I will not cry, she told
herself fiercely.  I will not.  "Thank you for finding
that report," she added, knowing how lame it sounded. 


"Muller found it, actually."  He squinted against the
glare.  "I just knew Singer."

"Well, you saved my career.  Thank you hardly seems
adequate."

Silence again.  Mac felt her pride begin to stiffen. 
Damnit, Harm, say something, anything.  He kept
looking at her, but he didn't speak and her heart
sank.  Finally, she gathered the tattered rags of her
dignity around her and said, "Well, look, I'd better
get going."  

"Mac."  She turned back.  Carefully he set the goggles
down on the edge of the wing and took a step toward
her.  "You've had a hell of a few days.  I'm sorry you
had to deal with all that."

"I'm not.  And you did the right thing.  I don't think
I could stand to have someone like Colonel Davis,
trying to shield me from the consequences."

"No, you don't run, do you?"  His gaze was frank. 
"You'll never know how hard it was, Mac."

"Maybe I do."

Harm looked away.  After awhile he said, "The great
thing about flying is that it clears your head.  You
can't concentrate on anything else.  But you know what
I was thinking about, the whole time I was up there?" 

She waited. 

When he continued, his voice was barely a whisper. 
"Singer was right.  Partly.  That's why it drew
blood."

"Which part?"

"You  all I want."

A single tear slid down her cheek.  "She was right
about my kicking you in the teeth, too."  Mac took a
deep breath.  "The trouble with loving somebody is,
you know exactly how to hurt them the most."

"Sarah."  His face softened.  "Come here."  He held
out his hand, and she went to him like an arrow into
the gold. 

Mac leaned into his big hard body, feeling his arms
wrap tightly around her, crushing her against him. 
His heart was pounding beneath her cheek and then he
was kissing her softly on the temple, the cheekbone,
on the line of her jaw, down to the hollow of her
throat where the pulse leapt to meet his.

"Don't cry, baby," he murmured into her hair.  His
mouth found hers and they came together, breast to
hip, in one long line of molten fire.  His hand came
up to cradle her head and she dimly realized he was
drawing strength from her just as she drew it from
him.

At last they leaned together, panting.  "Tell me again
why you never did that before," she whispered.  

"Maybe I was scared."

"Of me?"

"Of you, of us, of the future -- hell, I don't know,
Mac.  And  when I finally figured out what I wanted,
you were somewhere else."  

Joy bloomed within her at the tenderness in his eyes,
his touch.  "Well, I'm here now.  And I'm not going
anywhere unless it's with you."

Harm's face lighted with happiness, and she felt
laughter bubble up.  Gently she touched his face with
her fingertips.  "Wait.  I want to mark this moment
down for posterity."  

"Yeah?"  The cocky flyboy was back, thank God.  

"Yeah.  I admitted you were right, and you admitted
you were scared.  Two firsts."

He laughed, and she laughed with him, her heart
soaring free and light.  "Sounds like we're even," he
said, and held her tighter.  "Tell me that first part
again."

"What first part?"

"About loving me."

She put her hands on either side of his face.  "I love
you," she whispered.  "And I trust you, with my whole
heart."

"I love you too, Sarah."  A long, slow kiss this time,
calm and sure and filled with promise.  "Now let's go
home."

FINIS