Burning Bridges

February 23, 2003

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters or the premise. They belong to DPB, et al.

Author Notes: Any and all feedback is welcome at dcamp@wheelerlegal.com.

Somewhere in the sky over Arizona . . .

Harm had been grumbling continuously about the Admiral’s sermon to them for the eight hours and twenty-three minutes since they’d left him. Mac was on the verge of telling him to shut up when he asked her, "Why aren’t you upset about this?"

"Because, quite frankly, I don’t think he was talking to me. I just happened to be standing next to you and got caught in the storm," she told him without looking up from her magazine.

Mac missed Harm’s look of outrageous indignation. "Why would he blame me for every budget shortfall?"

Admiral Chegwidden was working on the annual budget, and his normally gruff personality had become downright mean, as it did every year at this time. They’d endured a fourteen-minute lecture after receiving this, their newest assignment, concerning past indiscretions and the Admiral’s expectation that neither of them would ever bring a case in over budget for the rest of their military careers. Then they’d been dispatched, via civilian airline, to Yuma to investigate an Admiral’s son charged with disobeying an order. Unfortunately, the best they could do with the time they had to work with was a flight to Phoenix.

"I don’t know, Harm," Mac said absently. "Maybe it’s because you seem to have a knack for doing things the hard way and blowing things up or crashing them in the process." Her mouth twitched up in amusement.

"I’m not even gonna justify that with a response," Harm huffed. He was quiet for a moment, then began again. "So now we have to suffer in coach for eleven hours because there were no transports available and then drive four hours in the middle of the night to Yuma."

"Cheer up, Harm. He could have made us drive all the way out here."

"Oh, that helps," Harm noted sarcastically.

Mac sighed. "I have an idea. I’ll drive. You sleep. Somebody gets cranky when they don’t get enough sleep."

Accepting her suggestion with very little argument, Harm stretched out as much as he could on the back seat of the rental car. Mac drove into the night, zipping along at a good speed, putting the miles behind her as quickly as she could.

A song came on the radio which Mac liked very much. "Harm?" she asked into the darkness. When she got no response, she chanced turning the volume up and sang along quietly to Moon Dance.

The miles seemed to melt away as Mac flipped through the channels. She sang background for The Belmonts on "Come On, Little Angel", trotted out her best country twang for "Goodbye, Earl", sat on the dock of the bay with Otis Redding, crooned along with "Alone Again (Naturally)", and bopped to "That’s the Way (uh huh uh huh) I Like It". She used the steering wheel as a drum to back up The Cars on "Just What I Needed", she sang both parts in "I’ve Got You, Babe", and was practicing her bass on "Bird Dog" when her cell phone rang. Mac quickly turned the radio volume down and snatched her phone up before it could wake Harm. "Colonel Mackenzie," she said quietly.

"Ma’am, it’s Bud."

"Bud! What are you doing up? It’s 0138 back there."

"I couldn’t sleep," Bud said. "And then I figured out why. I meant to call you earlier, but I had a meeting with the Admiral about the Barry case, and then a deposition in the Webber court martial, and then I just forgot. I apologize, ma’am."

"What are you apologizing for, Lieutenant?"

"Sorry, ma’am. Your Uncle Matt called earlier today."

"He did? Is something wrong?" Mac asked, concerned.

"No, no. He wanted you to know that he’s sold the house in Yuma."

"Did he say why?" Mac asked, surprised at the news.

"No, ma’am, he didn’t. But the reason he was calling was that the new owner was cleaning the house out and found a box of personal things in the basement. Your uncle said it was a box of things your mother asked him to store twenty-five years ago. He’d forgotten it was there. He has no idea what’s in the box, but he thought you might like to have it. Isn’t it a happy coincidence that you’re heading there? It’s almost like fate."

Mac was thinking furiously. A box of personal items her mother had left twenty-five years ago. What could be in it? she wondered. Twenty-five years ago, Mac would have been eight, which was when her father had transferred temporarily to Korea. Her mother must have left the box with Uncle Matt at the time of their move.

"Colonel?" Bud asked. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I’m here," she said absently.

"I thought since you were out there already, I’d let you know. The new owner was going to dispose of the box if someone didn’t come for it right away. Do you need directions?"

"No. I know the way."

"Let me give you the guy’s number."

"Just let me get something to write with." Without taking her eyes from the road, Mac groped in her bag for a pen and a scrap of paper. She jotted down the name and number Bud gave her and thanked him for calling. After she hung up, she no longer felt like singing. In fact, she turned the radio off completely and mused in the dark silence about what that box might contain.

When they finally arrived at their destination, Harm awoke groggily and stretched gingerly after getting out of the car. "What time is it?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"0257," Mac told him as she opened the trunk. She was strangely keyed up considering she’d been awake all night – well, most of it anyway. It was still pitch black out as they were led to the BOQ and shown to their respective rooms. From Harm’s sleepy looks, Mac could tell he’d have no problem falling back into sleep. She knew she, on the other hand, wouldn’t sleep at all. Driving long distances always left her wired, and with the added agitation about "the box", she knew even trying to sleep would be pointless.

When they met later that morning for breakfast, as planned, Harm noticed the circles under Mac’s eyes. "Did you get *any* sleep last night?"

Mac didn’t look at him, busying herself with buttering her toast. "Didn’t seem to be much point in it," she said, shrugging. After unpacking, she had tried to look at the new case file, but had been far too distracted. She’d lain on the bed for a time, counting ceiling tiles. When that failed to soothe her, she’d jumped out of bed and done some calisthenics. Jumping jacks and sit-ups usually made her feel better, but not this time. Finally, when 0500 arrived, she went for a brisk jog around the base. After she’d showered, she called the man who had bought her uncle’s house and then come to meet Harm.

"Well now I feel bad," Harm said, sounding as though he actually meant it. "I should have driven some last night. Why didn’t you wake me?"

"One of us might as well be rested," she said off-handedly.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sensing something more than mere tiredness.

"I’m fine. But I do have a favor to ask of you. Could you handle the interview alone this morning?" They were scheduled to meet with their new client first thing.

"I could," Harm said, watching her closely. "But I’d like to know why you won’t be there."

"I have something I need to do." Now her coffee required her full attention.

"Mac, you drove all night so we could make this meeting. Now you’re backing out? What’s more important?"

"Nothing. It’s just something I have to do."

"Does this have anything to do with the phone call you got last night?"

Mac looked up at him, then quickly looked away. "Did the phone wake you?"

"No," Harm said. "I’d been awake for a while."

Damn! Mac thought, and she could feel color rising in her cheeks. He’d heard her singing. There was a reason she did that only when she was alone or thought no one else could hear. She couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it. Now she really couldn’t look at him, and she decided to just ignore him.

"You’re not going to answer my question?" he pressed.

She gathered the last shreds of her dignity and looked up at him. "Look, I have something personal I need to do, okay? Could you just handle the damn interview without me, please?"

"Okay," he agreed, aware she wouldn’t be pushed any further into revealing her reasons. "I’ll do it. But you’re gonna owe me one."

Mac had made the long drive out to her uncle’s (former) home and back in under two hours. She’d been back on the base for another hour. Still she sat, just staring at the box, unable for some reason to open it. It was an innocent enough looking box which, in its former life, had held copy paper. It was taped at all seams, and it said only "Mackenzie". It hadn’t felt full when Mac had lifted it, and its contents had shifted freely inside. She knew she was being foolish. If she wasn’t going to open it, she should have left it to be disposed of. Since she’d gone to all the trouble of getting it, she might as well open it.

Logical, right? The problem was, Mac wasn’t very logical about her past. There were monsters from her childhood which might be hiding in that box. She’d run hard and far away from those monsters, and she didn’t want to let them out again. She eyed the box warily, wondering if they could somehow get out even if she *didn’t* actually open the box. She had herself so worked up, she actually jumped when someone knocked on the door.

Glad to move away from the box, Mac got up and opened the door.

"You’re back," Harm said.

"Hi," she said, feeling guilty about shirking her duties. "How did the meeting go?’

Harm squeezed by Mac and walked into her room. "I don’t think there’s any doubt he did it. He could claim he misunderstood his orders, but I don’t think that would fly very high or very far. Our best bet is to concentrate on extenuation and mitigation. He’s a good kid. We’ve got a lot to work with. How did your errand go?"

Mac’s eyes darted involuntarily to the box on the desk. "Fine," she said vaguely.

Harm followed her gaze to the box. He looked back at her and noticed the wary way she was eying the box. "What’s in the box?" he asked.

She looked at him, warring with herself over how much to tell him. She looked down at her feet and said, "I don’t know."

"Well, it’s got your name on it," Harm said, watching her. "You blew off a client meeting for it. Why don’t you open it?"

Mac shrugged and looked at the box. "I’m afraid to," she admitted.

"What is it?" Harm asked, looking at the box with new interest. Anything that could scare Mac had to be interesting.

"It’s a box," she said and paused.

"I can see that!"

Her look told him to shut up for a minute. "It’s a box," she said again, "that my mother left with Uncle Matt twenty-five years ago."

"Oh. So what do you *think* is in there?" Harm asked, calculating how old Mac would have been then.

"I have no idea."

"And you’re afraid to find out?"

Mac cleared her throat and turned her back on the box. "Don’t we have some witnesses to interview or something?"

"Yes, actually, we do. The box will still be here when you get back though, Mac. There’s only one way to know what’s in there. Putting it off won’t help."

"Can we just go?"

"All right," Harm agreed. Damn stubborn Marine.

Hours later, Mac and Harm were back at her door. "We’ve got a couple more people to talk to tomorrow, then I think we can wrap this up."

"Okay," Mac agreed absently. She looked apprehensively at her door.

"You want to get something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Have you eaten at all today?" Harm pressed.

"Uh, sure." She’d had breakfast.

"Would you like me to stay and . . . help?" he offered.

She smiled at him, a smile that almost reached her eyes, but not quite. "Thanks. But I need to do this myself."

Mac sat staring at the box for a time before she took a deep breath, marshaling her courage, and cut the tape.

She first lifted out a photo album. She flipped slowly through the pages, seeing herself as an infant, a toddler, and finally a preschooler. There were pictures of her mother and father, too. Funny, Mac thought. If a stranger were to look at these pictures, he might think this a happy, loving little family. The camera hadn’t caught the bruises and emotional scars left by her father’s drunken rages. Despite that, Mac was glad to have these pictures. She hadn’t any pictures of herself as a child. Normal people had baby pictures, and this made her a little more normal.

She next lifted out a folder containing drawings she’d done. Her mother had labeled each with the date. By age seven, she’d progressed to drawing houses that actually looked like houses and people that looked sort of like people. So I wasn’t meant to be an artist, Mac thought wryly.

Under the folder was a tiny white christening dress. Mac recognized the dress from a photo of herself at one month old. The dress was yellowed, and Mac wondered if it was salvageable or if it was even worth trying to save. It had probably been purchased at the past equivalent of Wal Mart and wasn’t worth much. She set it aside, deciding to take it to the dry cleaners when she got back home and at least ask if it was worth cleaning.

The last thing in the box was a few papers tied together with a ribbon. Mac untied the ribbon slowly. On top was her second grade report card, followed by first grade, then kindergarten. She looked at these early transcripts of her scholastic aptitude. Her second grade teacher had been Mrs. Labrie. She remembered her as a rather severe, thin woman who seemed incredibly old to a seven-year old. She was probably in her fifties, Mac mused. She’d received all "S’s" on her report card, with the exception of one "O" in "Works Well Alone" and one "N" in "Participates in Group Activities". After the second quarter, Mrs. Labrie wrote, "Sarah is a very quiet little girl. She needs to join in more."

"Pppffft," Mac said. She’d remained a quiet student until her teen-aged years, only coming out of her shell with the inducement of alcohol. Wonder what Mrs. Labrie would have thought about that?

Mac set those aside and picked up her baptismal certificate. It was nice to know she’d been cleansed of sin at one point in her life. She wondered if it was possible to ever be that way again, but decided that was just wishful thinking.

The last two pieces of paper were copies of her birth certificate. Sarah Elizabeth Mackenzie, born March 3, 1968 (ed. note: I made this date up), 8 pounds, 2 ounces, 21 1/4 inches, mother Deanne O’Hara Mackenzie, father Joseph Mackenzie.

"Well, that’s it," Mac thought. Nothing all that bad. She felt a little silly about her fear of the box’s contents. She laughed a little at herself and began to pack up.

As she was about to put the documents into the box, Mac dropped them. She picked them up off the floor, and something on the second birth certificate caught her eye. She stared at it, wondering in the back of her mind if it was possible for blood to actually freeze in your veins. The typed words seemed to jump off the page at her. Nicole Marie Mackenzie. Born March 3, 1968. 4 pounds, 6 ounces. 18 1/4 inches long. Time of birth was seven minutes later than the time listed on Baby Sarah’s birth certificate.

Mac felt as though the room was spinning, and she sat down hurriedly on the bed. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. If she said it enough times, she could make this all go away.

When Harm returned from diner, he went immediately to Mac’s room. He knocked several times before he finally decided she wasn’t just ignoring and that she really wasn’t there.

He wondered where she might have gone. He had their rental car, so she was probably somewhere on base. He sighed and headed out to look for her.

He looked everywhere. The motor pool hadn’t checked a vehicle out to her, so she had to be within walking (or running) distance. He checked the administrative offices, the officers’ club, the mess hall. He drove around aimlessly, hoping to spot her by chance. After an hour and a half, he finally found her in a place he’d hardly expected – the base gym. She was alone there, running up and down the court dribbling a basketball, making layups at both ends. She looked exhausted, yet he couldn’t help but notice how graceful and smooth she was. He hadn’t known she’d played basketball, but it was obvious by her level of skill that she had a more than passing acquaintance with the game.

After a time, she noticed him there and stopped, holding the ball to her side, breathing heavily. He walked up to her and immediately saw the deep fatigue in her eyes. He saw something else there, too, but he couldn’t identify it.

"What?" she demanded.

"I’ve been looking for you everywhere."

"Well, now you found me," she said, wiping sweat from her upper lip with the neck of her t-shirt.

"You look tired," he noted.

"You wanna talk, or you wanna play?" she challenged.

He stared hard at her, but he saw nothing in her eyes now but the challenge. Before he could answer, she threw the ball at his chest, hard. He caught it in reflex, then raised his eyebrows at her. "All right," he said. "We’ll play."

He tossed the ball back to her, then unzipped his jacket and took it off. She bounced the ball angrily against the floor while she waited.

He turned around. "You know, whatever it is, it’s not the ball’s fault."

Mac did *not* want to talk right now. If she didn’t find a way to release the anger and confusion she was feeling, she thought she might explode. She threw the ball at him again, this time aiming for his head.

Again, Harm caught the ball reflexively. What was wrong with her? He stared at her again, his eyes asking that very question. She only stared back, her eyes steely in the yellow fluorescent light. Okay. She wanted it rough. He could play that way.

They played for forty minutes, and when they were through, they were both exhausted. After drinking from the water fountain, Harm slumped wearily to the floor against the wall. He wasn’t looking forward to counting his bruises tomorrow. Mac had seemed to be all elbows and knees while they’d played, seemingly propelled by some inner rage that blurred her sense of decency and fair play. More than once, she’d deliberately fouled him, and just as often, he’d fought to keep his own temper in check. He *was* bigger than she was, after all and he could have seriously damaged her if he’d so chosen. He wasn’t willing to do that, however much she provoked him. She’d overcome his height advantage with a grit and tenacity that must have made her a force to play against.

"I didn’t know you played," he said between gulps for air.

She slid down to sit beside him. "Starting varsity as a freshman," she said without a trace of pride. "But that was before I decided that partying was more fun that basketball practice." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

"Did you open the box?" he asked, guessing what was responsible for her mood.

Without opening her eyes, she said, "Yes."

"Wanna talk about it?"

She opened her eyes now and looked down at the basketball in her lap. "No. I can’t. Not yet. There’s too much I don’t understand. There’s only one person who can help me."

"Who’s that?"

She looked at him, her eyes held nothing now but pain and exhaustion. "My mother."

"I wasn’t aware you knew where your mother was."

"I don’t," she said, looking away. "When I saw her last, at my father’s funeral, we never got around to exchanging addresses."

Harm sat silently, sensing there was more to come. He was right.

"I called Clay this afternoon," she continued. "My mother *did* tell me she was receiving social security disability benefits. I thought maybe he could get me an address."

"Did he say he would?"

"He’s gonna call me tomorrow."

"And if he gets you an address?" Harm questioned.

"Then I’m gonna go to her and see her one last time, and she’d better have some answers for me."

Harm looked at her. "Mac, don’t burn that bridge," he advised. "You may want to re-cross it some day."

"I’m not gonna burn that bridge, Harm."

"Good," he said, glad she was being reasonable.

She went on as though he hadn’t spoken. "I’m gonna dynamite it into a million pieces."

Harm sighed. "Come on, Little Angel," he said, climbing to his feet.

Mac winced, recognizing the title of one of the songs she’d sung in her impromptu concert. "Are you ever going to let me live that down?" she asked.

"Um . . ." He paused, as though actually considering. "Nope," he said with a grin. "I think I’ll remember that for the rest of my life." He extended a hand to her to assist her up.

Mac made a small noise of disgust and got to her feet under her own power. Harm laughed at her show of pride, which earned him a solid slap on the arm.

"Ow! Take it easy on me, would you? I feel like a punching bag!"

"What’s the matter?" she teased. "You getting old?"

"Yes, and it’s past my bedtime."

"Well, if you can manage to stay awake a little longer, I’d like to look at your interview notes."

Harm though about teasing her about her sudden interest in their case, then thought better of it. "Mac, you really need to get some sleep."

"I will. But I want to look at your notes first. I need a shower. Why don’t I meet you in your quarters in twenty minutes?" Mac walked away, leaving him no chance to argue.

Twenty minutes later, Mac knocked on Harm’s door, and he opened it to admit her. She passed by him closely enough so that he could smell the scent of the soap she’d used. For some reason, that smell did something to his senses, and he forgot for a moment why she was there.

"Your notes?" Mac prompted.

"Oh. Yeah. They’re over here." He went to his desk and began rummaging through the papers there. While he searched, Mac sat down on his bed. She yawned once, a yawn so huge it brought tears to her eyes.

"I think our client deserves a break. He’s a real nice kid, clean service record. I think we argue he made a mistake, but he’s taking responsibility for it. Let me know what you think after you read this stuff."

He turned around to find Mac sound asleep on his pillow. He smiled at her, put the papers back on his desk, and covered her with an extra blanket.

Harm waited as late as he could before waking Mac. He shook her gently by the shoulder, prepared to jump back if need be. He’d never woken a sleeping Marine, and he wasn’t sure it was such a safe thing to do.

Despite his concerns, Mac only opened her eyes. "Harm," she said sleepily. "How did you get in my room?"

"I’m not," he said, smiling. "You’re in mine."

Mac sat up and looked around. He was right. "How did I get here?"

"You fell asleep here last night. I didn’t want to wake you, so . . ."

"I’m sorry. I kicked you out of your own bed. Did you sleep in my room?" She stretched and yawned.

"I was going to. But your key must be in your pocket. I didn’t think rummaging around in your pockets while you were sleeping would have been very good for my health. It was all I could do to work up the nerve to take off your shoes."

Mac reached into her pocket and pulled out her room key. "So where did you sleep?"

"I threw a blanket on the floor."

"I’m sorry," she said again.

"Don’t worry about it. Not the first time I’ve slept on the floor. We may have a bigger problem, though."

At her questioning look, he said, "General Lacey sent his yeoman over to tell me he wanted to see us at 0900. If the petty officer tells him he saw you sleeping in my bed, we may have some explaining to do."

Mac’s eyes widened in alarm. After a moment, she said, "Well, it was completely innocent. We’ll just tell him the truth if he asks."

He did, but not before telling them that charges against their client were being dropped in favor of non-judicial punishment. They explained to the General how Mac had ended up in Harm’s bed. General Lacey hadn’t gotten two stars without learning to recognize the truth when he heard it, and he let them off with a stern warning about maintaining proper decorum. They both breathed a huge sigh of relief after leaving the General’s office.

"I’ll see about getting us a flight home. Maybe we can catch a transport going back," Harm said as they approached Mac’s door. Mac saw the note taped to her door before Harm did. She took the note and opened it. It read:

"0910 - Clayton Webb

13211 West Sycamore

Yuma"

"After all this time and all that’s happened, she’s come back here," Mac whispered.

"Your mother?" Harm asked.

"Yeah," she said, not taking her eyes from the note. "She’s here in Yuma."

"What are you going to do?"

"I’m going to see her. I’ll have to call the Admiral and ask him for some time. It makes sense to do it while I’m out here already." So I can’t back out.

"Look, the Admiral doesn’t know we’re finished here. I’ll just wait around for you, and we can go back together."

"No!" Mac said quickly. She realized how harsh that sounded, and she softened it with a smile. "I appreciate that. But I don’t know how long I’ll be. You go on back. I’ll see you soon." She didn’t know what she’d learn from speaking with her mother, but whatever it was, she sensed she’d need time to deal with it before talking to anyone. Even Harm.