Chapter 1: Prologue

Author's Note: Here we go again! Is everybody excited? I am. I've had a brief, but much needed rest. I've got a brand-new neighbor as of today. She hugged me less than 30 seconds after meeting me. Life is good! But enough about me! Shall we get on with the story?

Disclaimer: Guess what? They still aren't mine… I still don't own them. Well, except for Laura. She says to tell you all, hello and to ask you to please take note of the date listed immediately below unless you should be slightly confused. We're backtracking a tiny bit, for just a few minutes. The next chapter will return us to sunny San Diego in the early autumn of the year 2007 where the newlyweds await our return… At least I think it will. I'm pretty sure. Let's find out.

Monday, January 9, 2006

San Diego Fertility Center

Sarah Mackenzie can't wait to leave. She forces herself to stand still on feet itching to run. For most of the last six months, she has contemplated her decision to be here. She's wanted to be here.

No, that's not true. She needs to be here.

A year and ½ ago he said they would do this together. He said that was the important thing - not just that it happened, but that it happened with her. Then, eight months ago, he'd said something else. Something terrible; and she left him behind; running half blind for San Diego's sunny shores. She sought comfort and peace in the salty ocean air, and although the view beyond her back porch was breathtaking, the balm she sought was nonexistent. Pain, anger, and guilt rise like a relentless tide, eroding still more of what's left of her hollow and lonely heart.

She has discussed this at length, on more than one occasion, with Dr. Rebecca Thayer. No matter how slim the odds, she has to try.

An hour ago, when she walked through the clinic door, she thought she wanted to be here. Now she can't wait to leave. No one's done anything wrong; but without discernible reason, every cell in her body yearns to leave this place behind. She smiles politely and forces herself to listen as the nurse hands over paperwork and drones on cheerfully about access to their donor files. She tries hard to focus and nod in all the appropriate places each time the nurse in pink scrubs pauses to make sure she comprehends something important.

Why can't she hand over everything at once? The pamphlets, more talking. The packet of information about the clinic. Still more talking. The services offered, by the clinic… Good God will the woman ever shut up… the services Mac is interested in, access information…

Mac checks her trusty internal chronometer and tells a small fib. "I've really been through this already with the doctor. It's not that hard to understand… And there is somewhere I'm supposed to be in just a few minutes. Can't I just call if I have any questions?"

The nurse in pink smiles with understanding and offers the usual platitudes. At long last Mac sighs with relief and waves goodbye with a promise to call. She forces herself to walk calmly, as opposed to sprinting, for the clinic door.

Sliding in behind the Vette's wheel, she silently berates herself. Just get on a damn plane and go to London! She shakes her head. No, I can't do that. I have too much to do and too little time to do it. Besides, Harm told her he didn't care what it took. The only thing that mattered was that it happened with her. Then Mattie died. Okay, so he acted like an ass! So what! He'd been grieving. He was willing to subject himself to God knows what so she could have a child, then his had died and she couldn't even tolerate a few harsh words from him. Some friend she was. She has no right to go to London expecting him to make good on that deal now. Anyway, she has plans with Laura this coming weekend. It's been a busy week at work and she hasn't seen the girl since Christmas. No, she can't miss her weekend with Laura. She puts the key in the ignition. As the motor turns over she sends up a silent request.

I hope you're doing alright Flyboy. Please be alright.

Every night for the following week, before going to bed, she carefully reads over all the information she obtained at the clinic. The information doesn't change from one night to the next and she has it memorized by the third night, but still, she continues to go through it each night; unable to leave it behind, yet unable to make a definitive choice about a donor, or even if she wants to proceed. She does, and she doesn't. Her own ambiguity strikes her as odd; something beyond odd actually. This is one of those things in life where certainty should be a necessary prerequisite before moving one direction or the other.

It seems, no sooner than she drifts into sleep the bizarre dream she's been having returns each night. With each succession, something new is revealed. The first night, she's alone in a dark void. She sees nothing. She feels nothing, smells nothing. The vast nothingness is painfully familiar. It's her life, she tells herself morosely.

The one and only bright spot in her life these days is Laura. So, at first, when she hears the sound of a small child's running feet echoing back to her from all conceivable directions she naturally assumes it's Laura at play. She searches for the girl in earnest and finds only more of the same nothingness. She is snatched from the dream when her internal alarm rudely reminds her that its time she was awake.

The next night is the same with one minor exception. When she wakes, she realizes that the footsteps she heard, for what seems to be all night, are too even; too regular to be Laura's.

On the third night, she finds she has use of her voice. "Who are you? Where are you? Hold still. I'll come and find you if you'll just be still."

It makes no difference if she wakes during the night. Each time she closes her eyes, she finds herself back there; in that nowhere place. With each passing dream, her frustration mounts. She wonders if she's having one of those dreams, and if she is, just what the hell is she supposed to do about it? The dreams always provide some clue. There are no clues here. What is she supposed to derive from the echoing sound of a running child's feet? She can't even decide on a direction. No sooner than she is certain the child is somewhere in front of her, the sound shifts and she is forced to change her mind.

Finally, on the fourth night, nowhere becomes somewhere. She's in a hospital; the inner corridors suddenly materializing around her. This realization strikes the instant before her internal alarm sounds at 0430. Signing in frustration, she throws off the blankets and heads for the shower. Well, at least that's something.

She remembers the old fable about the tortoise and the hare. In the shower, she tells herself to relax and go with it. She knows it's no use trying to force it or fight it. Maybe slow and steady really does when the race. At least she hopes it does. She hopes that if this is one of those dreams; that whoever this child is, he or she is not in a time-sensitive situation where seconds count because she already knows that her muddled psyche won't become any clearer by applying pressure. She turns her back to the hot water hoping that the steam and the pressure will do something to minimize the tennis ball sized knot forming between her shoulder blades.

She has lunch at her desk and is quietly enjoying a roast beef sandwich with just a hint of horseradish sauce when she is surprised by the quiet knock on her office door. Petty Officer Jennifer Coates pokes her head in when granted entry and offers Mac a smile laced heavily with uncertainty.

Her curiosity piqued, Mac stifles a yawn and momentarily forgets her lack of satisfying sleep in recent nights while putting her sandwich down. "Yes, what is it, Coates?"

The younger woman speaks barely above a discreet whisper when she says, "Ma'am, Mr. Webb is here to see you."

For a moment she squints; certain she heard incorrectly. "Say that again please."

The Petty Officer nods her head almost imperceptibly. "Yes Ma'am, you heard right."

Mac starts to rise to her feet and then changes her mind. "Coates… wait… He's not on my schedule, is he? No, never mind, I know he's not. That's something I would've noticed straight away and not forgotten. Whatever Mr. Webb wants, tell him the answer is no." She returns to her seat and picks up her sandwich again.

"He says, he wants to see you. That's all he would say, Ma'am."

The Marine mulls this over momentarily. It's perplexing. She hasn't seen Clayton Webb since that day at Mandalay. It can't possibly be personal, not after all this time. She smiles at the junior officer. "My answer stands unless he's here for professional reasons. If he is, tell him to make an appointment. When he arrives for the said appointment, I will tell him no myself."

Coates gives her a curious frown, but says a dutiful "Aye aye Colonel." She closes the door and does not disturb Mac's lunch again.

At home that evening, with a pile of take-home work spread over her coffee table and sofa, she unintentionally drifts into a heavy sleep and rejoins the illusive child. The sense of urgency, the sense of frustration that has accompanied all the other dreams is still present, but this time she knows she's dreaming even while it's happening. She makes a conscious effort to relax and go with it; to just let it unfold around her. "Okay, you wanna play hide and seek; bring it, kid! I'll find you. Ready or not, here I come." She calls out in a lighthearted singsong voice.

For the first time, she hears laughter. The child's laughter. It's sweet and pure, but it's definitely not Laura. It's still impossible to be certain of gender, but it is something new. It is progress. She wanders from corridor to corridor and room to room in the same dream-world hospital and it's more vivid than ever before. Each time she feels she is getting close to her goal, a moment of disorientation occurs and in that brief moment, the child's location seems to shift and change. She stops at the unmanned nurses' station and strains to hear and to think rationally. The child doesn't seem to be in distress. She senses no panic, or fear and can find no reason for alarm. Still, the child is young. Two, maybe three, at most, but she doubts it. She doesn't know how she knows that either, but she does.

She hears the sound of running feet again and her own laughter fades into a groan. "Geez, kid! Don't you ever get tired?" Little feet run harder; faster and she wills herself to stay present as consciousness beckons and the sound of running toddler feet becomes the sound of an insistent knock at her front door.

She sits up suddenly; dazed, confused, and knocking file folders to the floor. More than a little grumpy at the interruption because she finally felt she might be getting somewhere with the dream, she calls out, "Yeah yeah! I'm coming. Don't knock the door off the hinges!" She tosses aside her throw blanket and plays a momentary and clumsy game of hopscotch over the tops of files on her way to the front door. She glances through the peephole and groans audibly.

Hand on her hip, she unlocks the door and opens it wide. "Still have a problem with the word no, I see. Clay, what the hell do you want?"

He stands there, caught somewhere between a smile and a frown, looking just the way she remembers; except… He's a little worse for wear. The faint touch of gray at his temples is more pronounced than it used to be. His eyelids are red-rimmed. He's got a heavy 5:00 shadow. Not a good look for him. He's ten pounds thinner; which would look good… If he didn't have the dazed and disoriented look of a newly sober drunk who finds himself supremely unhappy with said sobriety.

He takes an involuntary ½ step back on her front porch in response to her less than warm greeting. "Always a pleasure to see you too, Sarah."

She skips the back-handed pleasantries. "What do you want?" She repeats.

"Invite me in and I'll tell you."

She starts to close the door and finds a highly polished wingtip in her way. "Sarah," He begins quietly. "I need your help."

The quiet admission causes her to study him for a long moment. So long in fact that he eventually raises an eyebrow curiously.

Hoping she won't regret it later, she steps back away from the door and bows slightly with sarcasm; granting him entry. She returns to the sofa slowly picking up file folders as she goes while he acquaints himself with her unfamiliar living room.

"This is a nice little house." He offers; looking around.

"Don't get too comfortable Clay. You aren't staying long." She says, stowing things in her briefcase on the coffee table.

The following silence pulls her undivided attention back to him and she finds him studying her; disappointment clearly visible in his eyes. "I hoped you wouldn't still be angry after all this time."

"I'm only irritated because you woke me up. I haven't slept much lately and I have my own problems to worry about. You said you needed help…"

He runs his fingers through his thick hair slowly. "Uh, yeah. I took a leave from the agency a while back. I've only just returned, and they've given me an assignment…"

He stops short when Mac starts shaking her head before he's even finished.

She waves her hands in front of her in a slightly defensive manner. "Whatever it is, I don't want to know. I will not get involved. Clay, I will not allow your kind of crazy back into my life… And quite frankly, I can't believe you would even have the nerve to come here… Wait, I take that back. Yes, you would have the nerve!"

"Look, Sarah, I'm not asking you out on a date. I know that's done, but I need someone I can trust."

She shakes her head again; harder this time. "Your trusting me is something I'm no longer interested in. Besides, I can't figure out why you would trust me. The last time you did both of us very nearly died Clay. Whatever you need; find someone else."

He lowers himself onto one of the cushions of her sofa and says quietly, "The thing is, there is no one else… No one I can call on." He looks her in the eye and she can tell; it's a hard thing for him to do.

Losing some of her bite, she sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. She reaches out to touch him but withdraws; thinking better of it. "Clay, I don't care what you say. Tell me there are terrorists roaming the streets of San Diego. No matter what, I'm not getting involved with you; not professionally… And not personally either for that matter… But, are you okay? You look…" She makes her voice as gentle as possible. "You look wrung out… Like my dad used to look on those few mornings when he woke up and accidentally found himself sober."

He winces despite her obvious attempt at being gentle. "That's the problem." He smiles wryly. "I'm sober." For the first time in… a long time."

She nods; not really surprised at her instincts. "How long?"

"Six days. It's rough."

She nods again. "Congratulations. I take it nobody at the agency knows this?" But it's not really meant to be much of a question. It's more of a statement.

He squints curiously and she supplies the rest. "If they did, you wouldn't be going out on assignment. And Clay… You shouldn't. It's hard enough to deal with reality when you're newly sober. Deciding whether to buy whole or skim milk is a difficult choice when you're newly sober. You go off to work right now, in your condition, and one of two things is going to happen. You'll either fall off the wagon or, you'll come back in a body bag. Maybe both. You have to tell someone. I won't work with you again, under any circumstances, but I will help you do that… If you'll let me."

He shakes his head and starts to get up. "I was supposed to have more downtime after the last assignment. That was the plan. The plan got changed." He switches gears; somewhat mystified. "You don't want anything to do with me personally or professionally, but you'll get on a plane and fly to Langley with me to tell my boss I'm sober?"

She nods and repeats, "If you'll let me."

He stares at her incredulously. "Why?"

"It's a debt that I owe. My uncle helped me. Let's just say, it's my turn."

He'd come here prepared for anger, even hostility. This, he hadn't expected in the least, and he has absolutely no idea what to do with it. He glances around awkwardly; looking anywhere but at her and he catches sight of a pamphlet lying on the edge of the coffee table. He picks it up and looks it over; surprised by the hand-drawn image of an infant on its cover and its title; Planning Ahead.

She gently removes it from his hand and returns it to the coffee table face down as he stares at her middle. She shakes her head. "No." she answers the question he doesn't ask. "Just wishing."

He nods and stands up suddenly; eager to leave. He shouldn't have come here. What the hell was he thinking anyway? He smiles genuinely, and with just a hint of mischief. "I'd offer to help… If I thought I had a snowball's chance in hell. Good luck Sarah."

Stunned; not at all sure what to say, she silently watches him leave just as unexpectedly as he arrived. She doesn't know it, but she won't see him again for more than a year, and when she does she'll wish she hadn't.

Distracted, more by his sudden appearance than by his abrupt departure and lacking the focus necessary to return to her work, she reminds herself that she can't help someone who isn't ready to be helped. Clay's problems are not her problems, and she shouldn't attempt to make them so.

Locking the front door again, she pushes thoughts of him aside and decides on a long bath with a few drops of lavender oil, hoping to help soothe her nerves. Shortly after getting in, she falls asleep in the tub wondering if she should give the donor list another perusal or just surrender to the inevitable likelihood of remaining childless.

In sleep, she returns once more to the hospital. Although it looks nothing like the hospital where her doctor's office is located, she somehow finds herself in Dr. Thayer's office having yet another conversation. She's tired of discussing the odds. She's tired of discussing the possible side effects of fertility drugs and treatments. Feeling resigned, she allows the conversation to lapse and that's when she hears him again. Him? She questions herself. Yes, him. She's certain of it; although she has no idea why. Those are his tiny little feet tromping through the corridor outside the office. She looks at Dr. Thayer and smiles; mildly aggrieved. "That kid! I can't seem to catch him."

The doctor smiles. "Maybe your timing is off, Mac."

The comment puzzles her for more than just one reason. In the first place, she's never been Mac where the doctor is concerned; always Sarah. The woman seems to be more comfortable with her given name than her preferred nickname. She can hear the kid just outside the door. She's certain of it. She finally knows exactly where he is. Standing up quickly, she shakes her head and tells the woman behind the desk, "My timing is rarely ever off." She quick steps across the office and jerks the door open in time to catch her first fleeting glimpse of the child.

Little Osh Gosh overalls, Marine green sneakers, and a matching baseball cap slip through and disappear behind, a slowly closing door at the end of the corridor. She hurries after him. When she reaches the door, she barely glances at a sign posted there. 'Authorized Personnel Only' She tries the door handle and breathes a silent thank you when it turns easily in her hand.

Just inside the door, a child's toy is on the floor. As the door closes behind her, she kneels and picks it up curiously. It's a scaled-down model of an intimately familiar bright yellow biplane. Puzzled by this new piece of information she stays still and listens for any sound at all. She hears nothing. She caresses the toy flying contraption for a long moment as if it were a precious gift. When she can tear her eyes away from the small plane, albeit reluctantly, she looks around the large room and finds herself surrounded by medical equipment, freezers, and what she supposes are cryogenic storage chambers that might hold countless embryonic hopes and dreams in stasis.

Oh man, this is no place for a little kid. She thinks ironically. With a new awareness that floods her with warmth she calls out, "Alright my boy, enough is enough. You show yourself right now. No more hide and seek. Game over!"

Inexplicably, she suddenly finds herself on the outside of door and peering in through the small glass window pane once more. This time it's locked. She slaps the door with the palm of her hand repeatedly and realizes that she no longer has the toy plane in the other hand. Where did it go? Did she drop it? She doesn't remember dropping it? Glancing over her shoulder, she yells down the corridor for someone to come and unlock the door. She yells so loud that her throat hurts. No one comes.

When she turns, in heightened frustration and unmistakable maternal fear, to peer through the window pane again, shock gives way to recognition and panic gives way to acceptance in rapid succession as she sees his little face for the first time. He smiles back at her. It's a rarely seen but familiar smile. She sees it from time to time reflected back to her from the mirror. His eyes are equally familiar; a sweetly recognizable shade of blue that instantly soothes her and brings that rarely seen smile to her own lips. "Listen, you!" She makes her voice gentle but firm. "Play time's over. I'm tired of chasing you. You come out here right now."

He giggles and shakes his head theatrically. "No!" he says adamantly. "I stay in. You stay out. Not time yet." He disappears from view behind a long work table inside the room; walking quickly with that boneless agility that toddlers always seem to have.

Mac pounds on the door to no avail. She can't hear him running about anymore; his small sneakers aren't slapping against the floor anymore. The last recognizable thing she hears is the sound of her son happily making airplane noises.

Her hot bath has gone tepid and is rapidly approaching cool by the time she wakes. With his small voice still echoing in her ears, she climbs out of the tub, dons a cotton nightgown that resembles a pinstriped baseball jersey with a double zero on the back, and returns to her living room. Once there, she gathers up all the paperwork and information from the fertility clinic and dumps the lot of it unceremoniously into the kitchen trash can.

Pre-cognitive vision or hopeless longing; she's not sure which. Either way, she decides to wait a little longer. Maybe someday she'll even tell Harm about it.