The Circle Game

Author: Sooz

Rating: PG-13

Email: sooz9009@aol.com

Author’s Notes: I always thought Mac had more issues to deal with than Harm, and I always thought Lieutenant Singer was a powder keg waiting to blow. So this is sort of a chick flick, but it is a shipper flick too. Takes place in the summer before Season 8.

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 *didn’t* 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 *that* all about, *Lieutenant*?" 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 *her*," 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 *is* 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 *are* 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 *know* 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 *I* 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 *me*," 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 *once* 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 Mac -- 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 *because* 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, Mac." 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. *I'm* 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 *you* 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 *what* 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 *now.*"

"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 *never* 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 *sorry* 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 *him.* Furious. That's when I took off."

"Where did you go?"

"I drove out here, actually. Well, not *here,* 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, you look great. 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 in 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