| Subject: Fortress, Part 1 |
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lauraloo
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Date Posted: 13:21:02 07/31/02 Wed
Title: Fortress
Author: lauraloo
Rating: pg-13 (slight language)
Notes: This takes place shortly after Enemy Below
And if I built this fortress around your heart,
encircled you in trenches and barbed wire,
then let me build a bridge,
for I cannot fill the chasm,
and let me set the battlements on fire.
Sting, Fortress around Your Heart
Prologue
***********************************************************************
As the sun peeks over the eastern horizon, the unmarked blue sedan pulls up in front of the tiny seaside cottage. First one man emerges, then another. They are shrouded in long, black coats, buttoned to their necks. Wide brimmed hats cover their heads. They cast menacing shadows as they walk up the brick pathway, each step of their polished oxfords in slow-motion, pounding, reverberating, drowning out the cheerful chirping of the birds in the nearby liquid amber tree. Darkness seeps from their gigantic frames; washing over the landscape, creating a terrible contrast to the row of twinkling Christmas lights strung along the roofline, left on from the previous evening. And these men hold death in their hands, cradling it as a wounded animal.
A faceless woman appears, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Immediately she understands. She grips the doorframe for support as she absorbs the horror of their words…Ma’am…regret to inform…shot down…missing in action…The heart, the soul of this woman rips in half.
And a small boy in Superman pajamas crouches in the shadows, inching around the corner, pressing his cheek against the molding of the doorway that leads to the kitchen. He holds a toy airplane in his hand. He cries as he sees her, hears her…
The woman’s scream evolved into her own as she bolted upright in her bed. The red digits on her clock read 0300. Sarah Mackenzie sought her breath, panting, feeling the dampness of her hair, of her pillow. The nightmare was back. But this time she had seen it. She’d seen the face of the woman. And it wasn’t the woman she’d always imagined. It had been her own face. The woman had been her.
************************************************************************
1230 Local
Coronado Bay Bridge
Coronado, CA
Sarah Mackenzie maneuvered the base sedan along the towering blue bridge that connects Coronado Island with mainland San Diego. The way the bridge swept around in a fluid curve gave her a clear view of the glittering, yacht-filled harbor and the majestic skyscrapers that formed the downtown skyline. She’d shut off the air conditioner, opting instead for rolled-down windows, drinking in the fresh, ocean breeze. She loved this town. More so, she loved San Diego in July; its temperate climate providing a welcome reprieve from the stifling Virginia humidity.
She knew exactly where she was going. But she wasn’t sure why. Part of it was curiosity. And part of it was the peculiar feeling, the tiny whisper of a voice inside her head that told her to go.
Told her that she needed to go.
It was strange that she should choose this place. Or maybe it had been fate. Maybe it had chosen her. It had become a strange and powerful force, sensing the confusion, the heartache, the uneasiness the past two months had brought into her world. It knew of the nightmares. And it knew of the man.
***
Six Days Earlier
Saturday 1200 Local
Mackenzie Residence
Purse strap between her teeth, key ring looped over her thumb, she kicked the door closed behind her as she hurried to the kitchen. She quickly relieved herself of the two overflowing grocery bags, bolting to the ringing phone.
“Hello,” she said, gasping for breath.
“Mac, hi…are you all right? Sounds like you just ran a marathon.”
“No, just unloading my groceries.”
Harm snorted. “Figures, the way you eat and all.”
Mac rolled her eyes. “Cute, Rabb. Hey, what’s all that racket in the background?”
“Ah, that would be Opus Number 3, Symphony for Wooden Spoons and Frying Pans, by A.J. Roberts.”
Mac giggled at the mental picture. “What’s A.J. doing at your place? Is Harriet over?”
Seeking a morsel of quiet, Harm moved into the bedroom, keeping one eye on the budding musician. “That’s why I called. Bud’s appointment for his new prosthetic is today, you know with the specialist in D.C. Their sitter suddenly came down with food poisoning or something, and, well, our Godson’s here for the afternoon.”
Mac bit her lip, shaking her head at the mention of Bud’s name. It had been two months and it was still so surreal, so difficult for her to fathom. Too difficult, she feared. And she’d known about this appointment for a week. She’d known how important it was, but she’d forgotten.
Dammit, she shouldn’t have forgotten.
Harm continued. “Look, Mac, could ya help me out here? Harriet was in such a rush she didn’t have time to pack A.J. a lunch and she didn’t leave me his car seat. All I have here is a carton of shrimp lo mein, protein powder, and some kiwi fruit.”
“Uh, sure Harm. Of course. Just let me put away a few things and I’ll bring over a pizza for all of us. And, uh, some ear plugs.”
“Thanks, Marine. See ya.”
Mac let out a long sigh, moving into the kitchen. She paused in front of the brown paper bags, rubbing the aching at her temples. The piercing headache was back in full force. It had been almost a daily plague to her body; the anxiety that accompanied it, a daily plague to her soul. What the hell was happening to her? It had been two months. Two months and she still felt the itch of the desert sand in her hair, smelled the acrid smell of death, of jet fuel. And the fear; she still tasted the fear. Her senses had been haunted by these, her phantom souvenirs.
It was like she was watching the world go by from somewhere high above her body. She’d watched as this clone of herself navigated through the daily tasks of her work, her life. She did not like this person. She had no idea who she was. Who she had become.
She hated the way this woman had walked into Bud’s hospital room that first time at Bethesda. The shell of her body had filled the room, taking its rightful place along with the others. She’d done her duty as his superior officer, as his friend. Dammit, he was her dear, dear friend. She cared about him. She was his mentor. She’d been maid of honor at his wedding. She was Godmother to his son. Why? Why then was she unable to reach out to him the way she should’ve? Why had her eyes remained dry, her heart closed and cold behind the warm smile it had taken all of her strength to give? Why had she screamed a silent scream within herself to just touch him, to just grab his hand with her own? Why had she distanced herself?
She knew why.
She couldn’t deny it. It was useless. She was powerless against the horrible amalgamation of guilt, of rage, of fear that flowed through her veins. Because every time she looked at Bud’s face, at his body – bruised and broken, she saw another man. She saw Harmon Rabb Jr.
1400 Local
Rabb Residence
Harmon Rabb Jr. stood in his kitchen, washing plates and glasses. Pizza had been eaten, games had been played, and now, he fixed his eyes on Sarah Mackenzie, playing with little A.J. on the floor. Even when she wasn’t trying, even in simple denim shorts and a red knit top, she managed to look incredible. He loved the way the sunlight that crept through the window brought out the auburn highlights in her hair. And her body. Her body was so graceful; long and lean, like that of a ballerina.
She stood, untucking her legs out from under her, swooping A.J. up into her arms. “Harm, I know Harriet always tries to get him to take a nap around this time. Can I put him down on your bed?”
Harm nodded, “Sure, good idea. And thanks, Mac. You’ve really bailed me out here.”
She returned the nod, walking towards the bedroom.
Harm smiled at this moving picture of her, jiggling A.J. at her hip, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes. The gesture was so natural, so…maternal. Although it was downright mean, he silently thanked whatever sickness god had bestowed that bout of food poisoning on A.J.’s babysitter. It had gotten Mac here. Finally.
Ever since their trip to Afghanistan, ever since Bud’s accident, Mac had become different somehow. Withdrawn. Something was clearly wrong and he felt totally powerless around her. Sure, she still managed to smile the same bright smile, to still carry herself through her daily duties, but there was an overwhelming sense of darkness about her. Her eyes were tired, weary, laced with despair. Maybe others hadn’t noticed, but he’d noticed. And the thing was, she’d been through painful, harsh circumstances countless times before. In fact, he’d always admired her strength and her resolve; her ability to rise above adversity with grace and fortitude.
But this time it was different. And it scared him. For this woman who was in his home, in his bedroom, looked as if she might break into a million pieces if she were to stumble. This woman appeared to him as a stranger, someone he just didn’t understand. But, God, he still loved her.
Harm shook his head at the cruel irony of it all. He and Mac had traversed the same desert. They had been on the same fantail when the same Petty Officer had alerted them to the helo with an unconscious Bud in its cabin. They had shared in the same comfort of each other’s arms. The same embrace. But this tragedy that had jolted him out of the ludicrous standstill, out of the waltz of longing and frustration he’d danced with her for too long, had only driven her further and further away.
“Harm,” Mac said from the bedroom doorway.
Even though the word had been said so softly, light as a windswept leaf, it had been enough to startle him back to reality. “Yeah,” he said, turning around to face her.
“A.J. hasn’t quite grasped the concept of naptime. He’s all wound up and thinks it’s still time to play.”
“What should we do?”
Mac kept one eye on the three-year-old, bouncing on the bed. “Maybe we could read him a story. Got anything in there?” She pointed to the bookshelf near the door.
Harm perused the shelf, wrinkling his nose. “Well, I’ve got a couple of Clancy novels and a History of the American Corvette photo book. Hey, how about these legal manuals on maritime law. If those don’t put him to sleep, nothing will.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Sleeping Beauty or Snow White.”
Harm shook his head. “Not in this house.” At least not yet, he dared to think to himself. But her mention of fairy tales had given him an idea. “Come to think of it, I might know of a little something that might do the trick.”
It had taken five minutes just to get A.J. to agree to lie down. Mac sat on the bed at his feet, Harm near his head, stroking his hair lightly as he began to tell a story.
“Once upon a time in a faraway place, lived a wealthy duke. His house was a huge castle, surrounded by a massive forest, with lakes and flower fields all around it.”
Mac listened intently to the tale and to the tone Harm used in telling it. It was far different from the persuasive courtroom voice that had won him countless cases. This voice was soft and fluid, each phrase delivered as though it were a song.
“The duke’s wife had died many years before, but he had a beautiful grown daughter, with brilliant green eyes and cheeks as pink as rose petals. Her name was Lady Madeleine. Every evening, she would sit by her window, brushing her long golden hair, gazing out at the land around her. But, although Lady Madeleine had everything she could have ever wanted, she was miserable. For her father had arranged for her to be married to Lord Phillip, the son of another duke who was also very wealthy, with a grand palace of his own. Lord Philip was spoiled and rude and arrogant, and Lady Madeleine couldn’t stand him one bit. But she knew it was her duty to follow her father’s wishes. And she accepted it.
That’s why, sometimes, as she sat at her window, bathed in the glow of candlelight, she would cry softly as she looked out at the countryside. But, she didn’t realize that every night, with a lantern in his grasp, someone was looking back at her.”
Harm noted that at least A.J. had finally stopped squirming. He was yawning and rubbing his eyes, but still fighting off sleep. He decided to continue.
“Sir Richard was a knight, a warrior that protected the duke’s fortress and its surrounding land. One day, as he led his horse to drink from a stream on the castle grounds, he met Lady Madeleine there. She wore a wide-brimmed bonnet, carrying a clutch of wildflowers in her hand. Of course, he knew her as the duke’s daughter, as the beautiful woman he’d watched from the armory building that stood directly in line with her window. But he dared not speak to her. And he was quite surprised when she’d addressed him, stroking the mane of his horse gently. Lady Madeleine had been kind and genuine, her heart as pure and lovely as her face.
As the weeks passed, Sir Richard and Lady Madeleine continued to meet by the same stream, hidden deep within the forest. It was not long before they fell deeply in love, longing for the brief moments they could spend together. They devised a signal to alert one another when it was safe to meet. Lady Madeleine would fasten a silk scarf to the latch at her window. And, as an answer, if a meeting could be arranged, Sir Richard would hang his hooded cloak from a wooden post outside of the armory.”
Mac couldn’t believe her ears. This perfectly told story was coming from Harm? Her partner, the ex-fighter-jock? Would wonders never cease? At least it seemed to be working, as A.J., thank goodness, was about two miles from dreamland. She lowered her head, focusing at nothing in particular, just listening to the words.
“Well, as you can imagine, one monumental problem stood between the two lovers. Lord Philip. After meeting and falling in love with Sir Richard, Lady Madeleine knew she could never marry Lord Philip, duty or no duty. Escape was the only way out of her situation. She would risk everything. She would lose everything; her title, her fortune, perhaps even her safety. But to her, those things meant nothing compared to the true love she had found. The plan had been devised, the details arranged. But the day before, as they met again at the stream, Sir Richard noted the gray clouds on the horizon. Rain was coming. Not wanting to risk the health or well being of Lady Madeleine having to make the journey in inclement weather, he postponed the trip for one day. Lady Madeleine protested, desiring to leave at dawn the following morning, as planned. But Sir Richard insisted they wait. Neither one noticed the lone figure lurking in the trees. He wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation, but there was no doubt about the love he’d witnessed. His blood boiled, his hand formed a menacing fist. For this woman had been promised to him. And he would have her. No matter what.
The harsh rainstorm never did come. In fact the clouds had brought only a fine mist that had passed well before noon. The scarf had been fastened and so had the hooded cloak. The two lovers had been able to meet that afternoon by the same stream and the plan was reset for the next morning, well before daybreak. That evening, the anxiety, the excitement, the joy of finally being able to marry her true love kept Lady Madeleine far from sleep. And the next morning, armed with only a small knapsack, she found her way by candlelight to the stream. Sir Richard was waiting there with love in his eyes. He lifted Lady Madeleine atop his horse, pausing to adjust the bridle. Feeling thirsty, she took a drink from the flask that was hooked to the saddle.”
Mac lifted her head, gazing first at A.J. and then at Harm. A.J. was fast asleep. He’d probably been that way for quite some time, but Harm was still telling the story, returning her gaze with intensity. It was like he was telling it to her, for her benefit alone. But the emotion in his face was too much to bear, the words too real. Nervously, she looked away, under the pretense of pulling a quilt over the sleeping child. And still, he continued.
“Seconds after she’d taken the drink, the most horrible of horrors took place. Lady Madeleine clutched her throat in agony, losing her grip, falling to the ground. Sir Richard let out a terrified cry, rushing to her side. There was nothing he could do. She died in his arms. In sobs, Sir Richard smelled the liquid within the flask. Poison. He didn’t know who, but he’d known when. The only time he’d been without the flask was the previous night, when he’d placed it with the rest of his packed belongings outside his quarters. And then, the cruel realization overcame him. Without hesitation, he did the unthinkable. Unable to live without this woman, he too took a drink from the flask, hauling the lifeless body of his love in his arms as he felt the darkness envelope him.
What Sir Richard realized was that he had put reason and unnecessary caution above love, and it had cost him the most precious thing in his life. All because of a rainstorm; one that had never even come in the first place. All because of the fear. For if the lovers had only left when they’d first planned, when she’d begged for them to leave, Lord Philip would have never had the chance to place the poison in the flask. The flask he’d intended for Sir Richard to drink. But a rainstorm, well, that they could have survived.
But the story doesn’t quite end there. You see, there is a mysterious legend surrounding this tale, one that still is told to this day. They say that the next evening, a chamber maid found a most peculiar thing at Lady Madeleine’s window. A hooded cloak was fastened there, with a silk scarf tied around the hood, at the neck. It’s rumored that the two lovers, although in death, had finally been united. And at the very same castle, which still stands today, some say that when a misty rain falls, one that just serves to freshen the air and gently sprinkle the emerald green grass, those who look up with true love in their eyes and in their hearts are able to see the cloak and the scarf, dancing in the window. It serves as a powerful reminder to them to savor each moment, to put love first.”
With an obligatory ‘The End,’ Harm concluded the tale. He made a mental note to thank his mother for telling him that story so many times as a child that he was sure he could recite it in his sleep. It had served its purpose; A.J. was sleeping peacefully. But it had also served another purpose. It had gotten to her. Finally he saw a reaction, a scrap of emotion from this woman whose hardened heart and stoic gaze had been all too prominent lately. She appeared deep in thought, as if the words had entered her mind as jumbled fragments, spinning, swirling in disarray. And she was just trying to make sense of it all. He brushed her hand lightly, “Look, Mac, I…”
At his touch, Mac jumped, instinctively pulling her hand back, brushing the hair from her eyes. “Harm, I should go. I, uh, I need to go.” She rose from the bed. “Anyway, Harriet will probably be here soon and I have some things to catch up on.”
Harm cursed inwardly as he followed Mac into the living room. She quickly gathered her belongings, offering another hurried goodbye. And then she was gone. The brief spark of communion, the connection that had been made between them had been broken in an instant. He leaned up against the cold surface of his door; seeking wisdom, praying for the words, the way, to draw this woman back to him.
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