Like a Sad Song

A musical JAG novel in three movements - Movement I: The New Road

Authors: Siamese Cat and Daenar
              (siamese.cat@sympatico.ca - daenarchurill@yahoo.de)

Disclaimer: JAG is property of Belisarius Productions, CBS and Paramount Pictures. No copyright infringement intended.

Rating: 12+
Classification: Angst, Romance (H/Other, M/Webb, to become H/M in movement II)

Spoilers: Starts out in the middle of Shifting Sands: Picks up when Sturgis asks Harm: "What did you do?" After Harm's conversation with deputy director Kershaw.

Summary: Harm takes on a new road after the Navy's door slams shut in his face. There is no CIA in this, but something completely different.

Notes from SC: An AU that popped into my head, and I didn't know what to do with it, so I gave a shout to Dae, my musically inclined friend, and this is the result. Dae took my basic idea and turned it into this huge, wonderful project.

As usual, I'm the major angst provider of this outfit, so blame your tears on me. I'm responsible for a few laughs too. There is no logical split of chapters: we did this the way it felt best, occasionally sharing in one chapter, or writing two in a row. If you can't figure out who wrote what, then good! Means we've managed to mesh our styles pretty well.

But, I cannot take credit for Harm's "original" writings: those are all Daenar, and I must say, I admire her inspiration greatly.

Notes from Dae: We are well aware that this would never ever happen on the show. And we're well aware, too, that we're moving into a whole new JAG universe. But once the idea had come up it wouldn't be chased...

We have to ask Harm/Mac shippers for their forgiveness because we'll probably be straining their patience quite a bit. But rest assured: we're still shippers down to the very last crumb of our bone marrow!

One more thing: we're trying our hands at creating a whole new genre here. Call it a 'multi-song-fic' if you feel so inclined...

Thank you so much for inviting me along, Cat! I was thrilled by your idea, and combining writing about our heroes and writing about music is a special thing altogether. It's incredible fun working with you, hon, and thanks for being a terrific friend to share virtual bowls of popcorn with on the MSN messenger!

*************Chapter one**************
JUNE 2003
HARM'S APPARTMENT
NORTH OF UNION STATION
WASHINGTON, D. C.

"What did you do? Sturgis asked, narrowing his eyes, eyebrows raised in question.

"Sorry, brother, classified," Harm replied, looking at the floor. He reached for his guitar again and absently picked a bluesy tune as he flopped back to the couch.

"Are you gonna go?"

"No choice."

Harm could tell Sturgis wasn't fooled. His friend leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

"You pumped them for info on Mac, didn't you?" he asked, a bit disbelievingly.

"Sturg, that's classified," Harm warned, looking at him though his lashes.

"And now it's payback time," Sturgis concluded. "You sold your soul to the Company..."

Harm snorted, rolling his eyes. "I did not!" He strummed a few more chords and looked up to his friend. "At least not yet."

Sturgis' gaze turned serious. "Don't do it, buddy. You know how they operate. That's not you."

"I know that. But I have to listen to what they have to say. I owe the DDCI as much," Harm replied, sullen. Images of his career in the Navy kept flashing through his mind, interwoven with memories of Mac. So much of the last eight years, gone in an instant. When Mac had come by earlier, she'd tried to apologise about the Admiral. He'd shot her down, telling her he knew it could happen. He couldn't figure out why he'd agreed to go see Clay with her. Maybe in some perverse way, he'd wanted to see for himself if the kiss had been real, or just a reaction to the incredible events in the Chaco Boreal. Now, there were no more doubts.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his bleak reverie.

"Harm? You all right, man?"

"I'm fine," he replied laconically.

"No, you're not. What happened between you and Mac down there?"

"I thought I said 'classified', already," Harm snapped, slightly annoyed at his friend's insistence.

Sturgis' eyes narrowed. "I didn't ask about *what* you did. I asked what happened *between* the two of you. She looked like her world had ended when you left today."

Harm chuckled mirthlessly. "No, it didn't. Trust me on that. Her world doesn't involve me, Sturgis. That was just residual guilt."

"I ask again," Sturgis said patiently. "What happened between you two?"

Harm sighed and leaned his head back over the sofa. He knew Sturgis wasn't going to let this go until he got an honest answer out of him. He inhaled sharply and spoke up.

"She used the words 'us', 'never' and 'impossible' in the same sentence." Harm knew he couldn't keep the look of hurt from his eyes, so he kept staring at the ceiling.

Sturgis leaned back in his chair, pondering his friend's words. He pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. Never had he seen two people so in love hurt each other so much. Soft guitar filled the room again, melancholic and sad. Sturgis looked back to his friend and was surprised to see moisture in his eyes. He looked so lost, so vulnerable... so unlike the Harmon Rabb he was used to... But yet, so much had happened in the last six months, it was hardly surprising. He had to do something. And suddenly, he knew exactly what.

Sturgis drew himself to his feet and picked up Harm's now-empty beer bottle from the floor and set it on the kitchen island.

"If you want one, feel free," Harm told him quietly, motioning to the fridge with a hand.

"I have a better idea. Get off your six and put some shoes on. We're going out."

Harm tossed his head in dismissal. "Sturgis, I'm not in the mood..."

"Don't give me that. You've been playing the blues in here all day. You need to go out. Clear your head. Besides, you deserve a send-off."

"Sturgis. No," Harm said firmly.

Undeterred, the dark skinned commander put his hands on his hips and quirked his eyebrows. "Do you really want to do this the hard way? Cause I can still remember a few good sermons on self-pity, my friend. Let's see..."

Harm held up a hand and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "All right, all right, already! Jeez, you really know how to kick a guy when he's down, you know? Let me grab a shower and shave." He pushed himself off the couch and headed towards his bedroom.

"Where are we going, anyway?" he called over his shoulder.

"Tritone Connections, and you're bringing your guitar," Sturgis replied, his tone brooking no argument.

Harm stopped dead in his tracks. The Tritone Connections Blues and Jazz club on a Friday night. Open mike night... Sturgis Turner had waaaaay too much memory for his taste.

"No. No way," Harm said firmly. "I haven't sung in public in ages, and... Hell, Sturgis, I'm in a really bad place right now."

Sturgis walked over to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know." He locked his ebony eyes on his long-time friend, his features filled with compassion and understanding. "That's why I'm doing this. Remember at the Academy? That's how you worked through things then. Maybe it'll help now. At least it's worth a shot, isn't it? And I'm not forcing you to get up on stage. Just... leave the door open, all right?"

Harm blew an explosive breath and let his head fall forward. "You're a good friend, buddy."

"I'll make a few phone calls while you're in there."

Harm closed his eyes briefly, let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling and bit his lip to keep from smiling too broadly.

"You're gonna do this whether I want you to or not, right?" he asked, hands set firmly on the small of his back.

Sturgis nodded. "I'm not the only one sorry to see you go, Harm. I hear Coates was, um, how shall I say... "

"Incisive?" Harm supplied, knowing the fiery-tempered petty officer.

"Well put," Sturgis agreed, pointing an approving finger at his friend, "to the admiral. Told him she'd voice her support for you in question form only."

"Ouch," Harm replied, smiling this time.

"Go get cleaned up. Time's a wastin'."

 

0122 ZULU
TRITONE CONNECTIONS BLUES AND JAZZ CLUB
GEORGETOWN, DC.

 

An hour and a half later, Harm pulled his Corvette in the club's parking lot. He killed the engine and looked at his friend.

"You really want me to do this?" he asked, eyeing Sturgis suspiciously.

"Yes. Besides, Tiner, Coates, Harriet and Bud are waiting for us."

Harm arched an eyebrow. After his friend's admission at having trouble dealing with Bud, he was surprised he'd invited him. "Bud?"

"Hey," Sturgis replied defensively, rising his hands, "this is for you, not me."

"Still." Harm heaved a deep sigh. "Ok, let's do this."

Both men stepped out of the car, and Harm carefully withdrew his guitar case from the trunk. As soon as they entered the old red brick structure, they were instantly transported to the Louisiana Bayou: old naïve paintings and faded pictures of famous jazz musicians decorated the brown brick walls, and the low ceiling gave the large room a cozy feel. On the small stage, a young man was blaring away on his trumpet, engrossed in a none-too flattering rendition of "The thrill is gone".

Harm shook his head and smiled: unafraid and unashamed youth... The kid quickly vanished from the stage and returned to his table, where his buddies waited, rolling with laughter. Poor kid, he thought.

"Sir!"

The shout came from Jen Coates, seated at a table in the far corner. Harm waved back, a wan smile on his lips. They made their way through the thick crowd as a tall redhead nodded to the drummer on stage. Soon, she launched into a soft clarinet tune: The Look of Love...

"Thanks for coming Coates," Harm greeted. "But no more 'sir'. It's Harm. Please," he asked, sadness evident in his eyes. "That goes for all of you," he added, as he acknowledged the four people at the table.

Tiner stood to shake his hand, a troubled look on his face. "S... Harm, I never got the chance to thank you for your cover. It means a lot to me."

Harm gave him a crooked smile. "Just don't follow my example too much, Tiner. Look where it got me."

"Hey, guys, this is supposed to be a celebration!" Harriet broke in, trying to dispel the dark mood. "What'll you have, Harm? My treat. "

He hesitated only a fraction of a second. "Double Bourbon, straight up."

When the drinks were delivered, Sturgis stood up. "Now, I know you said no more rank, but allow me, one last time." Sturgis took his glass off the table and raised it.

"To Commander Harmon Rabb. One of the finest officers I've ever served with, despite his utter and complete pigheadedness and insufferable fighter jock attitude. You have the courage of your convictions, and I for one salute you for it. Commander, your pursuit of truth and justice inspired many of us, and it made a difference in a great many lives. You may have left the Navy, but it matters very little to me, and I'm proud to call you my friend. To Commander Rabb!"

"Here, here!" the others cheered. Once the glasses had been brought together in a toast and customary sips taken, Harm lowered his eyes and spoke quietly.

"Thank you for this, guys, I really do appreciate it. I just wish things could be a little different... But let's not dwell on that. I'm really glad to count you all amongst my friends. I'm just..." Harm sighed wearily and ran a hand over his hair. "I'm just a little overwhelmed right now."

"Have you given much thought about the future?" Bud asked gently.

Harm shrugged. "Not much. I guess I'll make the rounds of the DC firms. Some of them might want an experienced trial lawyer... I just don't know yet."

A couple of hours, a few drinks and a lot of war stories later, Harm's mood had improved marginally. He leaned back in his chair and listened to the amicable chatter. He was going to miss this: the friendly gatherings after a tough case, the camaraderie, the sincere wishes of luck on an un-winnable case... He knew neither of those existed in the civilian law world, driven by profit and billable hours. Intellectually, he knew there were good firms out there, specializing in family law or child advocacy, but he didn't see himself there. He would fight for every single child as if it were his own, and to the proverbial death, but he just didn't think he had enough emotional capital to afford that, nor the ability to detach himself enough and keep the emotional distance needed to survive in that kind of practice.

"I didn't know you played, Harm," Bud queried, eyeing the guitar case on the floor.

Harm smiled. "My dad taught me, and I took some classes way back when."

"Yeah, this is an old Academy haunt for us. And he sings too," Sturgis explained, waving his glass at their surroundings. "He hasn't been on that stage in close to fifteen years, though."

"Why not?" Harriet asked.

Harm only rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Harm. One song." Sturgis pushed.

"No."

"What? Lost your nerves of steel?" Sturgis taunted, emboldened by the few drinks he'd had.

Harm snorted. "I have not! I... I just... I don't feel like it!" he retorted, gesturing widely, obviously ill at ease. He was a bit disconcerted by Jen and Harriet's wide, expectant eyes. Damn Sturgis Turner!

"Nah. You just don't have the guts anymore," Sturgis replied, a smug grin on his face.

The rest of the people around the table hooted and laughed, watching Harm huff indignantly.

"I'll show you guts, Turner!" he growled, half angry, half amused. He pushed off his chair, grabbed his guitar, and headed towards the stage. All his friends applauded him warmly.

"Go Harm!" Jen encouraged. He just rolled his eyes again.

He withdrew his guitar from the case and tuned it as best he could in the noisy room, wracking his brain for something to play. The depressing effects of the alcohol he'd consumed were slowly eroding his good spirits, his dark mood returning in full force. His thoughts drifted once more to the brown-eyed Marine who had occupied most of his thoughts of late. And then it came to him. He knew the perfect song. He climbed up the three steps and briefly chatted with the drummer on stage. The man nodded and he stepped up to the mike, hooking the girdle to his guitar.

As he looked over the crowd, he felt a long forgotten thrill. Sturgis was right; it had been way too long since he'd been up here.

He nodded to the drummer and watched as the man counted out the cue. He closed his eyes and let his fingers glide over the strings. After only a few bars, the crowd cheered. So... they knew the song... The place soon grew quiet, as the regulars recognised the quality of his playing.

Harm drew in a deep breath and began to sing.

I thought that you'd be loving me
I thought you were the one who'd stay forever
But now forever's come and gone
And I'm still here alone

'Cause you were only playing
You were only playing with my heart
I was never waiting
I was never waiting for the tears to start

Harm once more closed his eyes; his mind filled with yet a million more images of Sarah Mackenzie, her hard, final words resounding though his head. He poured every bit of his emotions into the song, as if he truly was speaking to her, accusing her, blaming her.

It was you, who put the clouds around me
It was you, who made the tears fall down
It was you, who broke my heart in pieces
It was you, it was you who made my blue eyes blue

I never should've trusted you...

I thought that I'd be all you need
In your eyes I thought I saw my heaven
And now my heaven's gone away
And I'm out in the cold

'Cause you had me believing
You had me believing in a lie
Guess I couldn't see it
Guess I couldn't see it 'til I saw "Good-bye"

It was you who put the clouds around me
It was you who made the tears fall down
It was you who broke my heart in pieces
It was you, it was you, who made my blue eyes blue

I never should've trusted...

Back at the table, Sturgis kept a wary eye on the man on stage. He had to admit, Harm hadn't lost the performing touch. If anything, he'd matured and his rendition of Eric Clapton's Blue Eyes Blue had completely conquered the crowd. They were completely silent, hanging on his every word. His voice rang pure and true, his tone perfect, with just a hint of huskiness. But Sturgis was the only one who knew the strength of the emotions behind his performance. Harm always worked best on emotion, even the negative ones. Still, he had to wonder if his plan wasn't about to backfire... He listened raptly as Harm worked through the guitar solo, his eyes closed, his features set in a mask on concentration.

'Cause you were only playing
You were only playing with my heart
I was never waiting
I was never waiting for the tears to start

It was you who put the clouds around me
It was you...

It was you, who put those clouds around me
It was you, who made the tears fall down
Only you. Only you who broke my heart in pieces
It was you, it was you, who made my blue eyes blue

I never should've trusted...

Oh, oh, I never have should have trusted you...

Harm let the last few strings vibrate and fade out naturally. The silence didn't last long. The entire room burst into applause and whistles, intermixed with calls for an encore. Surprised, he opened his eyes and gave a hard shake of his head to clear his thoughts. He smiled and bowed to the crowd, his eyes locked on Sturgis. He outright laughed when Jen and Harriet jumped to their feet, loudly requesting an encore.

Harm waved them off and climbed down the stage steps. He carefully placed his guitar in its case and made his way back to the table where his friends waited anxiously.

As he neared the table Sturgis stood up, grinning.

Harm gave him a cocky smile and accepted his hand. "So there!" he said triumphantly to his friend.

Sturgis nodded respectfully. "I stand corrected. You didn't mellow with age. You actually matured well. I don't remember your voice being so rich..."

Harm scoffed as he sat. "Thanks, I feel like a bottle of wine."

"Well, Harm, I for one think you were absolutely wonderful!" Harriet gushed.

"Me too," Jen added.

Harm lowered his head and blushed. "Come on, guys. It's just a stupid song... You heard me sing at Christmas before..." he muttered, clearly uncomfortable.

Laughter bubbled around the table as the waitress delivered another round. Harm accepted the glass of Bourbon with a nod and a smile. He reached for his wallet, but the waitress told her it was from an admirer. She pointed towards the back of the room.

His sea-coloured eyes met a pair of deep lavender-violet one, set in a soft, chiselled face. The woman's opalescent skin contrasted sharply with her raven-black hair, falling in thick cascades over her shoulders. She was like a figure out of a romance novel: tall and slender, mysterious. She cocked her head as she caught his eyes on her.

Harm nodded his thanks. The woman smiled back and nodded, rising from her chair.

"Harm? Do you know her?" Sturgis asked, eyeing the mysterious woman. She was chatting with her table companion, her eyes still on Harm.

Harm turned back towards the table, not entirely paying attention. He dragged his eyes from the woman, gazing at his hands instead.

"What?" he asked distractedly as he stared into his drink. In an instant, the brown liquor in the glass morphed into a pair of liquid eyes, boring straight into his soul, wrenching out his heart. He could almost feel Mac's words, their irrevocability and their brutal honesty... He could still see the hard edge in those eyes he loved so much. It all suddenly weighed on his chest, cutting off his air supply. He stood abruptly and slammed the glass on the table, his gaze deeply troubled.

"I need some air," he tossed over his shoulder, as he quickly headed for the door.

"What did I say?" Sturgis asked Coates.

She shook her head slowly. "Nothing, sir. I guess the comm... Harm's just having a hard time of it..."

Sturgis was about to reply when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to find the woman who'd offered Harm a drink. She smiled and extended a hand.

"Bonsoir. I was hoping to talk to your friend, who has a wonderful voice, by the way. I'm Jeanne," she said, her voice soft and warm, with only a hint of a French accent.

Sturgis stood and took her hand. "Commander Sturgis Turner. Harm should be back in a couple minutes." He motioned to Harm's now empty chair. "Have a seat, Miss..."

"Leblanc. I'm sorry to be so bold, but as your friend ever thought about singing professionally?"

Sturgis chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Heavens no. He's a lawyer. Don't tell me you're a producer..."

The newcomer pulled a white business card from her purse. "I am. And I think your friend has a tremendous amount of talent. It's surprising he hasn't been put on contract before!"

Sturgis smiled broadly and shook his head. "For a man so bold in front of a judge and jury, he's surprisingly shy about his singing. He used to do it a lot more when we were at the Academy. Pretty much like those..." he mused, motioning to the band of young men and women a few tables over.

"Ah, la jeunesse," Jeanne replied, smiling. "The antics of youth... But where has..."

"Harm," Sturgis supplied helpfully.

"...Harm disappeared to?"

Sturgis shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. "He um, went out for some air. He's just cooling off a bit."

"I'll go and see if I can find him," Jen put in, sharing a knowing look with Sturgis.

*********

And find him she did. After a brief, fruitless look around the front of the club, Jen decided, on a hunch, to go up the alley leading to the back. She quickly spotted his tall frame, leaning against an old, rusty fire escape. She paused a few yards away and studied him, her lips tightly pressed together. The picture in front of her was undoubtedly wrong.

The light drizzle had stopped, but she could still see the droplets of water on Harm's hair shine in the streetlight. He looked every bit the blues musician he'd portrayed on stage a few minutes before, but the rest of the image he offered was completely foreign to the young woman.

The slump in his shoulder was in itself unusual, but it was the utter defeat of his posture that worried her the most. He was the one who was always the optimist, the one who never gave up.

She was far from stupid. She knew to whom the song had been directed. She'd picked up on the tension between him and the colonel from the moment they had walked back into headquarters. They'd done their best to appear as their usual selves, but they weren't fooling anyone. At least not her.

A flash of movement from the object of her thoughts interrupted her musings. She was surprised to see his hand rising to his mouth, followed by a brief orange glow. A second later, he blew out a long breath in a cloud of blue smoke. The distinctive tang of cigar smoke tickled her nostrils soon after.

Jen took the few steps that separated them. "Those aren't good for you, sir," she said, as she took the cigar out of his hand.

His eyes met hers, eyebrows raised, as she took a long drag on the cigar. But the look lasted only a moment. He turned back and once more looked into nothing.

"I thought I said no more 'sir', Jen," he replied, somewhere between gruff and grim.

"I know. I'm sorry. Any other way to address you seems... I don't know; disrespectful somehow."

"I'm not in the military anymore. The only respect and courtesy you owe me are as my friend. And my friends call me Harm. Besides, it's said lack of military protocol that allows you to be doing what you're trying to do, Petty Officer," he stated, his voice dull, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Point taken. Friends... I can live with that," Jen conceded. So, he knew why she was there. But that didn't mean he'd let her help. Harmon Rabb was notoriously independent, except when it came to the colonel. Usually.

"I didn't know you smoked, Harm," she tried, as she took another drag and threw the still- smouldering cigar into a puddle.

Harm chucked mirthlessly. "I don't. Used to, at least. Not anymore; I quit about, oh, four, five years ago. I could say the same about you. That was a Cuban, by the way."

"I used to. When I was young and stupid. And sorry but it's still bad for you."

"You're still young, Jen, and you're definitely not stupid. You shouldn't be walking alone out here at this hour, though. It's not safe."

Jen smiled. "I can take care of myself. Besides, I've been in places much worse than this, and with worse company."

Harm turned, finally meeting her eyes. "Did Turner send you to get me?"

Jen shook her head slowly. "No. I came on my own. I was worried about you." She chewed a bit on her bottom lip before pushing on. "I, um, that song... It was about Colonel Mackenzie, wasn't it?"

Harm drew himself to his full height and glared at her. "What did Sturgis tell you?" he demanded, anger flaring in his eyes.

"Nnnnnothing, sir," Jen replied automatically, involuntarily jumping to attention.

Harm opened his mouth to say more but suddenly snapped it shut and let his head fall forward. He threw a hand in the air and sighed. "Relax, Jen. I'm sorry for snapping at you. Besides, I should have known better than to think Sturgis would share something said in confidence."

Jen relaxed and gave Harm an easy smile. "It's all right. But I'm right, aren't I?"

Harm looked at her through his lashes and crossed his arms. "Did anyone ever tell you you're entirely too perceptive for your own good?" he asked, a note of amusement creeping into his voice.

"Nosy is more what I get..." Jen bit off the 'sir' that came naturally to her lips. Her heart went out to him; he'd helped her as much as he could, gave her hope and believed in her in what she thought was one of the worst times in her life. The least she could do was to try and return the favour, so she dared push a little further. "But I'm still right."

Harm drew in a sharp breath and held it briefly, before letting it out in a huff. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry you two couldn't work things out."

"So am I, Jen. So am I," Harm replied quietly, with just a hint of bitterness. His eyes once again took on a distant air, and he seemed to deflate in front of her eyes.

Jen tentatively put a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise, he didn't pull away. Some part of her was a bit disappointed to discover her hero was only human. But most of her found that comforting: it meant that even heroes could have weak moments, and still inspire others. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could still be like him.

"Thanks for being here, Jennifer. It means a lot to me."

Jen smiled. "It's the least I can do for someone I admire and trust, s... Harm."

"Old habits die hard, huh?" he kidded, catching her almost-slip.

Jen blushed. "Yes, sir... Argh!" Jen slapped her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut in annoyance. Old habits indeed.

Harm finally cracked a smile and laughed. "Come on. Let's go back in before they think we're up to no good."

"I doubt they will. Commander Turner is talking with a producer about you."

Harm's eyes went wide. "A what?"

"Producer. That woman with black hair and lavender eyes that offered you a drink..."

Harm was suddenly almost running towards the club entrance. "Let's go, before Turner signs me over to her. And you owe me a cigar, Coates."

********

"... And of course, the Star Search phenomena took some of the work out of it," the stranger was saying to Sturgis.

"I disagree," Harm stated from behind her. "I think it focuses the attention more on the contestant's look and stage performance, rather than true talent."

The woman turned towards him and smiled. "One with such a beautiful voice should know." She extended a hand. "Jeanne Leblanc."

"Harmon Rabb. Thanks for the drink." He took the offered hand and shook it politely.

Jeanne smiled. "My pleasure."

"You friend tells me you're between jobs?" she queried.

Harm glowered at Sturgis. "In a manner of speaking. I have potential offers on the table," he replied carefully, never taking his eyes off his friend.

Jeanne dug into her purse and handed him the same white card she had given to Sturgis. "Then I'll add my own. I happen to agree with you. People with real talent don't need a TV show to promote their careers. Only real talent matters, and you have it. I'm holding some auditions next week. I'd like for you to come."

Harm opened his mouth to decline, but the woman spoke first. "Don't dismiss it out of hand. You really do have a wonderfully rich voice, and you play fantastically," she added, pointing to his guitar.

"Listen, Miss Leblanc," he said, his tone cold, "I'm not a singer, I do this for my own pleasure, and I only went up there because I was pushed," he added, his eyes sending daggers towards Sturgis. "So, no thanks." With a flick of his wrist, he threw the white card back on the table.

Without another word, he grabbed his guitar and headed for the door. He reached the warm night air as a flash of lightening illuminated the sky.

"Harm! Hold up!" Sturgis called, a few feet behind him.

He halted abruptly, only a few feet from his car. Ire flooded his veins as fast as the building storm.

"Not a word from you, Turner," Harm growled. You've pushed enough as it is."

"I'm sorry," Sturgis said quietly.

Harm sighed as his mounting anger deflated. He took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the scent of wet grass and asphalt. "I told you I wasn't in a good mood when you came to my place, Sturgis."

"I know. I'm sorry I pushed you. But you have to admit, it felt good for a while."

Harm slowly turned to his friend. "For a while, yeah. But I need some time alone, buddy."

Sturgis nodded. "I'll call you in a couple of days. You okay to drive?"

Harm nodded. "I'm okay," he replied, as a fat raindrop landed on the hood of his car, soon followed by another, and another.

Sturgis acquiesced and left him. Harm turned away and carefully stored his guitar on the backseat before heading home. He drove mechanically, not really paying attention to the road, despite the flashing lighting and the now driving rain.

Mac.

He had to stop thinking about her. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had his heart broken. So why was he having such a hard time concentrating on anything else?

Maybe it's because she just didn't break your heart. Maybe it's because she cost you nearly everything you had, a small voice whispered inside, as he locked his car, the downpour soaking him to the skin in a matter of seconds.

He wearily climbed the steps up to his floor and unlocked his door. He stood in his open doorway, rainwater running off his clothes onto the doormat. His eyes traveled over his empty loft, picking out every reminder of Mac. After a few minutes of contemplation, he finally shut the door and took off his sodden jacket and shoes.

Once his guitar was safely back in its stand, he flopped down onto the couch, staring at the clock. It was late, but not that late. He ran a hand through his damp hair and pushed himself to his feet. He quickly changed into his old, worn-out jeans and faded Raptors t-shirt, rubbing his hair dry with a thick towel.

In the kitchen, he retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of Wild Turkey Rare Breed he kept for special occasions. If he was going to get thoroughly and completely drunk, he was going to do it in style, and in private.

He poured himself a large glass of the dark liquid, and once again, the liquor's deep, dark oak colour swirled and morphed into a pair of brown eyes.

Harm closed his, and took a long swallow, a familiar warmth flowing though him. The glass landed with a resounding thud onto the coffee table, the sound echoing harshly against the walls.

He reached for the remote and turned on the stereo to mask the emptiness. Soft piano filled the air, and he relaxed, leaning back on the couch and let himself drown into the soft R&B pumping through the speakers.

From time to time, he would refill his glass, his senses slowly dulled by alcohol. Sturgis had been right, in a sense; music always had soothed his soul like nothing else could. That's why he loved playing so much. That way, he could give in to the creative side he hid so well, and let his unspoken emotions flow over the strings of his guitar, unnoticed by others. He was the only one who truly knew what every single note meant, the feeling it carried. So, he lay there, on his couch, drinking good Bourbon, his mind numbed by the plaintive tunes.

I keep on falling
In love
With you

The melodious female voice pierced his muddled consciousness with stunning clarity.

Sometimes I love you
Sometimes you make me blue

Sometimes I feel good
At times I feel used

Loving you darling
Makes me so confused

I keep on falling
In and out of love
With you

Like a siren's song, the voice drew his mind back where he didn't want it to go; back to her. The voice he heard wasn't Alicia Keys', but his own, saying the very words he was hearing to Mac.

I never loved someone
The way that I
Love you

Oh, oh I...
Never felt this way
How can you give me so much pleasure
And cause me so much pain

Just when I think
I've taken more than would a fool
I start falling
Back in love with you

I keep on falling
In and out of love with you

I never loved someone
The way that I love you

The sharp knock on his door startled him enough to make him spill half of his glass of Bourbon onto his jeans.

"Shit!" he swore, slamming the glass on the coffee table. He wiped his pant leg as best he could as he stumbled to the door. It was when he knocked into the bookcase by the door that he realised just how inebriated he was.

He yanked the door open, leaning on the jamb for balance. "What?" he growled, his voice thick.

"Bonsoir, Mr. Rabb. May I come in?"

Harm blinked several times, his brow furrowed in confusion. Despite his drunken state, he was sure he'd given the French producer the brush-off, not his address. While he stood there wondering, the woman pushed past him and into his apartment.

"How the hell did you find me?" Harm asked, finally finding his voice. The woman simply stared at him, as she sat on his couch. She took his glass off the table and took a careful sip, eyes still on him, studying him.

He moved towards her, stumbling over his discarded shoes.

"I think you should sit down, Mr. Rabb. You seem to have had a bit too much to drink. But I must admit, you have good taste in Bourbon."

Too drunk and too puzzled to be annoyed, he flopped into the armchair facing the couch. "Thanks. How did you find me?" he repeated, forcing himself to focus.

"How many Harmon Rabb Jr's. are there in the DC phone book?"

Harm chuckled. "One. And no Seniors either. Only place is at the Wall," he replied. Man, he really was wasted! Not only had he let her in, he was babbling about his father to a complete stranger. He rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to sober up.

"Listen Miss..."

"Leblanc."

"Miss Leblanc, like you said, I'm drunk so now's not the time for an intelligent conversation." He pointed to the door. "Good night."

To his relief, the woman rose off the couch and headed... to the kitchen. He was really beginning to get riled up. He shot off the couch and whirled on his heel, ready to evict her but lost his balance. He sat heavily onto the armrest of the sofa he'd just rose from. He tossed his head, and gave and aggravated grunt, annoyed as much at himself as at her. He was seriously contemplating forcefully removing her from the loft, but his earlier stumble, combined by a light but persistent spinning of the room made him doubt in his abilities to complete the task, so he just sat there, hovering between anger, annoyance, puzzlement and curiosity.

"Seul le temps laisse cuver le vin, Monsieur Rabb," Jeanne Leblanc said, as she filled the coffee pot with water.

"What?"

"Only time will sober you, Mr. Rabb, but a good cup of coffee will undoubtedly help."

"Didn't I tell you to leave already?" Harm snapped, his patience evaporated. She was in HIS home, invading HIS privacy!

"You did, but I'm a persistent woman when I want to be."

"I'll say! What do you want from me? I said I'm not interested in your offer, Miss Leblanc. I asked you to leave."

"I heard you the first time. I don't want to."

He blinked several times, completely blown away by her complete lack of remorse at her invasion. He opened his mouth to speak, but no intelligent words formed in his head, so he closed it. He settled on watching her, as the coffee dripped into the pot. She wasn't very tall, about five foot four. He suspected she was about five to ten years older than him, from the laugh lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth. She had a proud bearing, and she was apparently stubborn as an ox, and as fearless as a tiger. Her purplish-gray, almond shaped eyes contrasted sharply with her pale, smooth skin, but they shone brightly with intelligence. Her raven-black hair, without a hint of gray, reached to the small of her back, somehow enhancing the light swell of her hips. She was slender but strongly built, with square shoulders and her cleavage was generous, but not overly so. Had he been so inclined, he would have found her attractive.

Realising he was staring, he forced his attention back to her face.

She handed him a cup of fresh coffee as she walked back to the living room. He accepted it wordlessly. He somehow suspected the quicker he sobered up, the better.

"You might not be interested, but like you, I'm good at what I do. I don't waste my time pursuing a star wannabe. I have an eye for real talent, and you have it."

"And what makes you such an expert?" Harm asked, dripping with sarcasm.

Unfazed, Jeanne smiled. "Twenty years of finding talent in the most unusual places. I won't give you a list of clients, because I doubt you follow the industry closely, and most are pop artists. But my first love is jazz. I haven't heard a true jazz voice in a long time, and yours is. It has depth and your tone is true and even. Let me ask you this, though. How long ago did you hurt your larynx?"

Harm blinked a few times, reflexively rubbing his throat, where Hodge had injured him. How could she know? "I um... about four or five years ago... Simple fracture with no displacement."

"Still, your singing voice has a bit of unnatural huskiness to it. It adds to the richness, though. You have no formal musical training, but you have a great ear, and a sense of rhythm. You play a lot of improvisation. You only play guitar, no piano, but you can read sheet music. Am I correct?"

Harm could only stare in amazement. "Ah... yeah. Pretty much. And you know all this just by watching me play one song?"

"Yes. You used some unusual harmonies in there, but you knew when and how to do it. That takes skill, and it's not easily learned. You play with a lot of feeling, and my guess is it's how you express yourself a lot. That's why you're so reluctant. You're afraid people will pick up on that, and know what you feel. But let me reassure you; most people aren't that deep. All they care about is hearing a nice voice singing beautiful words. The message doesn't matter so much."

Harm's mind was reeling. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or having most of his psyche explained in five minutes flat, but the woman either had instinct, or a very good informant.

"Am I that transparent?"

"No. I just know how to read you. I know this might be a left turn from your military career, and from your law career, but as I said, you have true talent. You need to learn some stuff on stage performance, but you have a lot of potential. Why not give it a try? What do you have to lose?"

Harm blew out a long breath and sipped his coffee. The thought of private practice appealed very little to him, and he had no idea what to expect from the CIA. But then again, what did he have to lose?

"When?" he asked, not believing he had really said it.

"Tuesday, 10 am, at the LESyncope Studios, on K." She pulled out another white business card and scribbled something on the back before handing it to him. "Here. I'll be waiting for you. Drink at least a litre of water before going to bed. You'll feel better in the morning if you do. Good night."

Harm suddenly found himself alone, contemplating her words. He had a feeling he'd been completely outmaneuvered. His somewhat alcohol-dimmed senses accounted for a part of it, but certainly not all of it. A career in the music industry, at almost 40? No way. Who was she trying to kid? And yet...

"Just what did I just agree to?" he asked his empty loft. He drained the last of his coffee and took his cup, the glass and bottle of Bourbon into the kitchen. After draining three tall glasses of water and swallowing some acetaminophen, he climbed up the steps of his bedroom and without even undressing, fell into bed, and into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

SATURDAY,
1523 ZULU - 1023 EST
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

 

"So, how many people did you kill in Paraguay?" Kershaw asked smoothly, as he walked to the window behind his desk.

"I couldn't say, sir," Harm replied, a bit taken aback.

"From what I hear, it was quite a few. In fact, you and Colonel Mackenzie seem to have left with something of a reputation, not unlike that of the Lone Ranger and Tonto, only taller?"

"I don't kill indiscriminately, Mr. Kershaw," he shot back, slightly offended.

"Oh, good. Cause that's what I've come to expect from most citizens," Kershaw fired back sarcastically.

"Sir, when I came to you and told you I'd left the Navy, you directed me to Edward Hardy. I assumed that meant it was ok to go after Colonel Mackenzie."

"Yes. I didn't say it was ok to steal farmer's planes, I didn't tell you to give up your passport, and force us to sneak you out of there," the CIA man said forcefully.

"Sir, if you feel I operated outside the boundaries-"

"No, Rabb, I feel you operated with no *sense* of the boundaries." Kershaw cut in brusquely.

"I'll admit, there might have been a little improvisation," Harm conceded.

Kershaw gave an annoyed snort. "Robin Williams can admit improvisation. You were playing cowboy."

He sat behind his desk, leaning back in his chair. "However, what's done is done. Now let's see what I plan to do about it." He leaned forward, looking intently at Harm, studying him.

"Come work for us," he offered after a brief pause

"What?"

"You need some training; I want you to get some self-discipline, but I think that in time, you'd make an outstanding CIA officer," Kershaw explained enthusiastically.

"What? Suddenly you trust me?" Harm asked, clearly surprised by the offer. He'd expected an earful for the mess in the Chaco Boreal. Not a job offer.

"I know what I need to know." Kershaw replied calmly.

Harm returned his intense stare with raised eyebrows. "Sir, you know me as unpredictable, and uncontrollable. What makes you think I can pull this off? I mean, don't you put your agents through some sort of... character testing?" he asked, a bit puzzled.

"Already done that. Catherine?" he called. "Say hello to your sponsor."

The door behind him opened, and Catherine Gale walked in to stand behind Kershaw, a satisfied smile on her lips.

Harm shook his head in disbelief. Catherine's words, outside the hospital in Pimmit Hills, came back, unbidden.

"She's gone undercover before, but... There's something about this one. I don't know..."

"I do."

One simple sentence. Two little words. I do. She'd known Mac had been in trouble, and she'd known what he'd do about it. He'd been set up. For a moment, he hovered between anger and dismay. He chose neither. He'd been goaded into resigning his commission, and he wasn't about to roll over to the Agency again. He chewed on his bottom lip for a second, composing himself.

He rose and moved towards the door.

"Look, your world is too fluid for me; the role-playing, the secrecy... I'm used to working in a morally consistent environment."

"Harm, you gave that up to chase Colonel Mackenzie around the Chaco Boreal," Catherine pointed out.

"I didn't go to Paraguay to shoot people. I went on a mission. I did what needed to be done to achieve my objective," he corrected.

"And that is a perfect description of an agent's field duties," Kershaw summarised triumphantly.

"Sir, I appreciate your confidence in me. I'm gonna stick to what I know. I'll make the rounds of the law firms, maybe knock on the public defender's door."

"Is there anything I can say to convince you?" Kershaw tried, recognising the firm set of his shoulders.

"No, sir." He turned his eyes to Catherine. "Miss Gale," he said politely, before turning on his heel and making his way back to his car.

As he sat behind the wheel of his Corvette, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He leaned back into the seat, running a hand over his face and hair. He couldn't help but feel completely lost. Despite his words, civilian law held little appeal for him, and corporate law even less. Besides, his resume barely covered a page: US Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland; Flight school, three tours on carriers as an active pilot; Georgetown Law, Naval Justice School, and bar certification for most of the East and West Coast, plus specializations in maritime and international law. Not exactly prestigious.

Granted, he had a lot of trial experience. He just didn't want to put it to use freeing drug dealers and murderers.

He blew a long breath. He knew he was being unduly harsh on himself. He was an excellent attorney, and he'd won his share of high profile cases, and participated in the first military tribunal in half a century. He had plenty of contacts on the Hill, and he could probably find himself a job there without too much effort. But suddenly, public service felt wrong for him. He didn't exactly know when or why he'd changed, but he certainly had. He felt distinctly out of place outside the Navy.

He turned the key in the ignition and headed for home, still lost in thought. He again found himself in his apartment with no clear memory of the drive. He tossed his jacket and tie over a chair and, as had been his habit for the last few days, grabbed his guitar, running his fingers over the taut strings.

Soulful blues soon filled the room, resonating deep into his soul. A rueful smile crept on his lips. That producer had been right. Nothing soothed him like music. His eyes fell on the white card on the coffee table.

He turned the idea in his head for a few more minutes before putting the guitar aside and taking hold of the small rectangle. He flipped it over his knuckles, over and over again.

No, he thought. He wasn't a singer, or a performer.

Maybe. He could hold his own in front of a crowd. He was good in the courtroom. He had theatrical skills. He played the guitar decently. Ok, he played very well.

No. No way.

Well, why not?

Good question.

Only one way to find out for sure.

He angrily tossed the card back on the table and gave a growling sigh. "I hate arguing with myself," he muttered out loud.

He bit his lip and shook his head at the sheer enormity, the sheer unimaginable-ness of what he was about to do.

He picked up the phone.

"Leblanc Productions, how may I help you?"

****************Chapter Two****************

TUESDAY, 1021 EST - 1521 ZULU
LESYNCOPE STUDIOS,
WASHINGTON, D.C.

 

B flat, dammit!!

Harm's mood was slowly nearing its freezing point. For what had to be the twentieth time, two youngsters at the other end of the corridor were trying to copy Robbie Williams and Nicole Kidman, but their rendering of Something Stupid was bound to win them a bus ticket back to wherever some overeager parent had indoctrinated them to feel talented.

The girl just didn't get it. Instead of tossing her long hair about in a way that would have made any model posing for Garnier proud, she should have been listening to what her partner was desperately trying to make her see: that F major required a B flat. Harm's ears were ringing with pain from the shrill dissonance she kept producing over and over again on the final 'I *love* you'. And, of course, not a single thought was spared for the reality that she was supposed to sing the accompanying part only. It seemed as if she were using her impressive volume to make up for what she lacked in intonation. Harm only hoped they would be called in soon. Then his acoustic torment would at least be reduced to the other half dozen low voices interweaving around him, belonging to the remaining candidates of this morning's audition. At least they knew how to stay in key.

What on Earth possessed me to earnestly consider doing this? he asked himself yet again as he let his eyes wander from one contestant to the next, trying to size them up and measure his chances. He was old enough to be the father of any of them. Apparently, Star Search didn't stop at studio doors. Appearances had to make up for lack of talent even where there were no cameras around. Solarium-bronzed faces and gym-shaped biceps, platinum-blond hair and skirts that were no more than girdles, BDU pants and combat boots combined with unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts... I guess this is more or less what a penguin feels like among paradise birds, Harm mused, stifling a grin at seeing his own outfit reflected on the window pane opposite to him that separated the corridor from a dark and empty studio room.

After having confirmed his appointment for today, Harm had felt quite relaxed for some time. Music had appeared just one way among many others for starting out afresh. A few phone calls to former university colleagues had brought up four job offers from private law firms that he had earnestly pondered in his mind. Family law, for instance, or small firms specializing in environmental or anti-discrimination cases that seemed lost from the start and didn't promise the 'big deal'. Firms that the kinds of people turned to who were in need of someone who stood up and fought for them. Strange as the idea of him in a civilian courtroom still appeared to him, Harm had actually begun to look forward to trying it out.

Yet, be it loan problems, a break-up between firm partners or in one case even a major conflict with local law enforcement - upon closer inspection, the opportunities had all proven null and void in the end. As today had approached, one door after the other had closed and Harm had become aware that singing seemed to be the last thing standing between him and a few sophisticated law firms to whom nothing but cash mattered.

All of a sudden, music had become an option to be considered if he didn't want to sell his soul to the Dalton Lownes of this world. However, defiance had driven him to present himself today in every way he knew the producers wouldn't like. Starting from his choice of clothes right to the song he had picked, Harm could be sure of giving the picture of someone who didn't give a damn about whether his audience liked him or not. He knew he was being ungrateful - and extremely careless about closing off his professional escape route. But he couldn't help it. He was enjoying the grim delight of getting back at an industry that had turned the tunes he loved into products of mass fabrication, presented by dressed-up monkeys.

The young people who were waiting together with him were eyeing him with unveiled arrogance, pity even. How could anyone so old and so un-cool even begin to think he'd stand a chance against them? Harm couldn't really blame them. He had chosen a stiff charcoal suit, a white button-down shirt and even a tie - conservatively striped in Bordeaux and gray. He was well aware that this attire would win him no points whatsoever, but his dislike of the business hadn't let him dress loosely. Just because people expected him to show up in jeans and a flattering muscle shirt.

With the song he intended to sing, it was just the same. It would have been so easy to walk in and give them a nice Billy Joel or Garth Brooks. Yet, Harm had chuckled contently when at home, he had come across a piece he hadn't played since his teenage days. Jeanne Leblanc sure was in for a surprise today.

The unlucky couple had been called in, but their moment of fame lasted only six minutes and 23 seconds. Harm had kept an eye on his watch for the whole duration. When the sniffling girl and the scowling boy were stomping out of the audition room, Harm was relieved to note that at least, the committee inside didn't seem to be easily fooled.

"Mr. Rabb?" A twenty-something-ish man with a wild hairstyle and John-Lennon glasses stuck his head out of the audition room and tried not to let his jaw drop when Harm stood up, made a show of buttoning his jacket, took his guitar and with the dignity due an ex-officer walked in his direction.

Harm entered the room and came to some sort of parade rest in front of the committee that consisted of two women and three men. Jeanne was sitting in the middle, apparently unfazed by his rebellion against showbiz customs. She even gave him a hint of a knowing smile, making him wonder just to what extent she was able to read him. The other jurors - Harm couldn't help seeing them as such - reacted far more conspicuously. The two middle-aged men to Jeanne's right exchanged a look of contempt, whereas John Lennon and a young woman that looked like Harriet styled by Renée were apparently having difficulties to refrain from snickering.

"Bonjour, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne greeted him warmly. "I'm delighted to see that you've made up your mind to give it a try. So, we won't bother you with long preliminary talks. Everyone has the important facts about who you are..."

I seriously doubt that, Harm felt inclined to interject, but bit his tongue.

"... so I'd suggest you let us hear what you prepared for today. Take the barstool, please," she motioned to Harm's right where a little stage with a microphone had been set up. Not that anyone would have needed a mike in this room. Harm suspected it was dedicated to recording the contestants' voices for later electronic analysis. He nodded stiffly and took a seat, strumming his guitar.

"So, what are we going to hear from you?" Jeanne inquired sweetly.

Instead of answering, so as not to spoil his show, Harm squared his shoulders and started to pluck the chords of his instrument in an almost insolently simple rhythm. Smiling just a little, he began in a perfect imitation of Johnny Cash:

There's a story in our town
Of the prettiest girl around.
Golden hair and eyes of blue,
How those eyes could flash at you. How those eyes could flash at you.
Boys hung 'round her by the score
But she loved the boy next door who worked at the candy store.
Dream on, dream on, teenage queen, prettiest girl we've ever seen.

Hearing the first lines, the expression of quiet relaxation for a moment left Jeanne's features, as Harm noted with malicious joy. He turned his show up a notch, a touch of easy arrogance creeping into his smile. Just for a fleeting moment, he marveled at how much fun he was having, singing such an idiot song and taking it seriously.

She was tops in all they said,
It never once went to her head.
She had everything it seems,
Not a care, this teenage queen. Not a care, this teenage queen.
Other boys could offer more
But she loved the boy next door who worked at the candy store.
Dream on, dream on, teenage queen, you should be a movie queen.

Jeanne's mouth was twitching violently. As Harm was showing off, underlining the lyrics with face gymnastics worth of a classic silent movie, the producer leant back in her chair, folded her arms in front of her chest and didn't seem annoyed in the least. Quite the contrary. Her fellow committee-members, however, only gaped at him.

He would marry her next spring,
Saved his money, bought a ring.
Then one day a movie scout
Came to town to take her out, came to town to take her out.
Hollywood could offer more
So she left the boy next door working at the candy store.
Dream on, dream on, teenage queen, see you on the movie screen.

Almost without noticing, Harm began to vary the accompaniment. Scales and flowery embellishments followed one another in ever shortening intervals, stressing the absurd simplicity of the song's harmonic structure. And it was just this game of turning country music into a baroque-like concerto, his superb smile never wavering, that finally made Jeanne's calm demeanor break. She cracked up and gave a hearty laugh, pressing her hands to her belly and doubling over in her chair. Harm enjoyed watching the startled looks of the jury when their chairwoman let go of all her decorum and wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

Very soon she was a star,
Pretty house and shiny car,
Swimming pool and a fence around...

"All right, all right, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne gasped, her shoulders still shaking, lifting a hand to signal him to stop singing. "À vous la victoire. You made your point. If you wanted to make us see that you're an alien element in today's music business, you pretty much made that clear."

"Thank you, I was hoping I would," Harm answered smugly, rising from his stool and walking in the direction of the door.

"However," she continued rather sharply, all the merriment suddenly gone from her voice, "I would have thought that an officer and gentleman like you would at least try to show respect for other people's professions."

Harm stopped short in his tracks, taken aback. Embarrassed, he turned back to face the committee and met with five stony faces. "Sorry, Your Honor," he mumbled before he could stop himself.

Jeanne's mouth twitched again. "Apology accepted, Mr. Rabb," she conceded with a benign smile. "Now that we've all enjoyed ourselves, let's try this again, shall we?" Ignoring the aghast stares of her committee colleagues, she expectantly looked at Harm who suddenly didn't find the courage to keep up his rebellion.

"Okay," he said in a small voice.

"I have to compliment you on your acting talent," Jeanne stated, "That was a show worth Jerry Lewis. Just the caliber of self-confidence we need in a singer who plans on doing live stage programs. So," her eyebrows went up, "I have to tell you that your intentions of ridiculing yourself might have backfired a little."

Mentally slapping himself, Harm sighed in defeat. "Clever move, huh?"

"One could say that. To make up for it, you might want to start with taking off your jacket and tie." Jeanne cocked her head in an 'I'm-waiting' attitude.

Mechanically, Harm put down his guitar and ridded himself of jacket and tie, opening the collar button of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

"That's more like it," Jeanne said appraisingly. "Now, let me explain your next task. Although you couldn't quite hide the fact that you're a talented singer, I still owe my team an explanation as to why I invited you today. What I want from you is this..." she sternly pointed her right index finger at him. "I want to hear the voice you used for Eric Clapton last Friday. I want some of your improvising, but not the baroque style you just gave us. Give me some of your instinct for blue notes, Mr. Rabb. And, most important of all, I want emotion. Sing your soul out of your body. As I already know that you can do it when you're covering other artists, give me a generic song of yours instead."

Shocked, Harm at once made a defensive gesture, but before he could object, Jeanne decidedly cut him off.

"I know, you've probably never written a song in your life. All the better. Here's the deal: get it done right here, and you've got yourself a contract. Let's stick with last Friday's topic; sing about losing love. One more show like Blue Eyes Blue and you're no longer in search of a job. As simple as it gets. Take it or chicken out." Her gaze was pure challenge.

Memories of Tritone Connections came to Harm's mind. Sturgis's dare, his anger at himself for accepting it, the feeling of being out on that stage, letting the music sweep him away, the liquor in his glass turning into a pair of soft brown eyes...

Damn. There she was again. And all of a sudden, he knew what he had to do.

"Give me two minutes," he said merely, returning to the barstool. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and prepared himself for the emotional impact as he let images of Mac enter those zones of his consciousness that he had so desperately tried to close off . With the memories came the pain... and with the pain, the words. Without really thinking about what he was doing, his fingers began to pluck a soft, swaying accompaniment, setting the perfect background for his voice:

This look -
Forever burning cruelly on my mind,
Not leaving doubts of what you leave behind.
Flaming,
Blaming,
Killing me for having been so blind.

This word -
Forever ringing cruelly in my ears
And bringing to my eyes remorseful tears.
Never
Ever
Will the time appease my pain, my fears.

You held the key to reach my heart,
But you never came to find me.
You knew the entrance to my soul,
Yet, you passed it, walking blindly,

Waiting that I would invite you,
Tell you what I never said,
Knowing somehow that it was in vain.

But you never asked for reasons,
Never saw the chance we had.
You never even let my heart explain.

This curse -
Forever tearing at my aching soul,
This knowledge that it's you who'd make me whole.
Shattered,
Scattered,
Lies whatever I once called my goal.

This love -
Forever lying rooted in my heart,
Although I know we'll always be apart,
Hopeless,
Scopeless.
To say those words will always be too hard.

You held the key to reach my heart,
But you never came to find me.
You knew the entrance to my soul,
Yet, you passed it, walking blindly,

Waiting that I would invite you,
Tell you what I never said,
Knowing somehow that it was in vain.

But you never asked for reasons,
Never saw the chance we had.
You never even let my heart explain.

Oh, no...
You never even let my heart explain.

Harm repeated the accompaniment to the second half of the chorus, squeezing his eyes shut and letting his chin drop on his chest. Sing your soul out of your body... For the love of God - he had. Now he had to cope with the flames in his heart.

He didn't dampen the vibrations of the chords when he had ended, needing the little time while the sound was dying to prepare for getting back to business. The notes faded into complete silence. Whether it was stunned silence or icy silence or awed silence, Harm had no idea. What did it matter anyway?

It was Jeanne who finally spoke up, "That one came straight from the heart, didn't it?" she asked simply. Her voice was calm and... compassionate? Harm looked up, confused, and despite himself nodded slightly.

Jeanne's eyes were clear but those of John Lennon and the woman beside him seemed just a little misty. The two middle-aged men looked at Harm with a new kind of esteem in their gazes.

"Thank you, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne said warmly. "Would you mind leaving us now so we can hear the rest of the candidates and talk matters through? I can already say as much; don't leave yet. We're definitely going to call you in again. But take a break and get yourself some coffee in the cafeteria. Tell them it's on me."

"Thank you," Harm murmured with a strained smile, glad to be offered the very time and space he felt he needed to get a grip. Taking his jacket, tie and guitar, he stiffly nodded to the group and left the room.

Mechanically, he placed the instrument in its case and stuffed the tie into his pocket, ignoring the grins that some of the other candidates were exchanging. He was sure that judging from the expression on his face, they had to be thinking he was out of the game. Well, so be it. He couldn't care less about setting the picture straight.

Having gotten himself a caffé latte from the cafeteria, Harm finally settled down in a chair in the farthest-off corner of the waiting area, glad to be left alone. One by one the nervous voices in the corridor vanished as the candidates were first called in and after very little time all came out again, looking extremely frustrated. Apparently, besides him, only one young girl had been asked to wait for being called in again.

Resting his head against the wall behind him, eyes closed, Harm eventually found the necessary calm to rethink what had just happened to him in front of the audition jury. Never in his life had he written song lyrics, let alone composed the fitting piece. He hadn't written anything down, and yet, the words were still spinning in his mind.

You never even let my heart explain...

Why, Mac? he silently addressed her. Why didn't you come to find me? How could you not understand that what I did I did for you only? And why the hell do those damned words come to me when I'm singing, but not when I'd really need to just say them aloud?

And now people were expecting him to open up and sing in public what he hadn't even been able to tell the woman he loved, all alone? What was Mac supposed to feel when she heard it? Dammit, Rabb, he instantly scolded himself, Did she bother to think about what you were supposed to feel when she kissed Webb under your eyes? No, this was about him alone.

I could never let my inmost feelings become public property.

Yet, it did feel damned good to let it all out, didn't it?

Music's always been the most personal thing you did besides keeping your thoughts to yourself entirely. It's your diary, sort of. Do you really want to lose this essential piece of privacy?

But music has also enabled me to finally get a few essential things off my chest. It's the only way I could possibly clear my head and alleviate my heart somehow.

He knew he'd never have thrown all those things at Mac, but getting it out in the open, having a valve for his emotions and knowing that the people who listened didn't do it because he paid them for it, had been such a relief. Reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that he didn't feel too negative about using that valve again sometime, to ease the pain.

If it makes me feel better and if people really want to hear my emotional garbage put into music, then why the hell not try it out?'

"Mr. Rabb?" John Lennon had again stuck his head into the corridor. Harm got up and went to face Jeanne and her team again.

"Can I ask you something?" Jeanne leaned a little forward in her chair, looking at him expectantly.

"Sure," Harm said in a low voice, trying to pull himself together and once again cursing Sarah Mackenzie for holding him in such an emotional death-grip.

"When you sang about 'this word', which word did you mean?"

He held Jeanne's gaze. "Never," he replied hoarsely.

In her dark violet eyes shimmered understanding. "You're gonna shoot me, Mr. Rabb," she said, "But whoever it was who threw that word at you: thank her. She's opened the road to fame for an amazing artist. You see, there are so many who manage to write decent lyrics or decent melodies, but the gift of letting words flow and form their own music is a rare one. Add the emotions that you laid into your performance - I'm sure that to you, they must have seemed overwhelming. Your public, however, will see a man who desperately tries to keep them to himself but at the end has to surrender to their impact. Sing like that on stage - and you'll win people's hearts in the wink of an eye. You won mine, to begin with."

Her last remark, combined with the small smile she gave him, eased away part of the pressure in Harm's chest. "Wow," he said with an embarrassed half-smile of his own.

Jeanne turned to her teammates and exchanged a few quick nods with them. Eventually, the man sitting at her right addressed him with a totally new open and friendly attitude. "Mr. Rabb, thank you very much. That was impressive. I shouldn't have doubted Jeanne's judgment. Jerry Emerson," he presented himself. "Ms. Leblanc's business partner and what people would call a talent scout. As I don't hear any objections, I'd like to get down to business immediately. I'm not actually part of our legal department but I do have a law degree, so I usually draw out preliminary contract offers for our potential newcomers.

"So, here's what we'd offer in your case: we'll produce a first solo album, cover songs intermixed with your own compositions. Payment will be based on sales numbers, plus a lump-sum advance payment of, say, twenty thousand. Promo for the album will include minor live appearances. Should we feel people get to like you, we'll throw your hat in the ring for the big shows and maybe think about a second album. All details to be worked out by our company lawyers in the next two weeks and to be negotiated with you and your lawyer afterwards. What do you say?"

"I am a lawyer myself and I think a pretty capable one, too," Harm answered defensively. "Just to get this straight: I'm not agreeing on anything right now, but let me have a printout of the contract draft once it's ready and then tell me when and where," he added, wondering where the words had come from.

"Great," Emerson rubbed his hands with a grin. "Will do. But in order to give our legal department some basics to work on, we still need to talk about a few preliminaries. What kind of background do you have in mind for your personal sound?"

Harm frowned. "None. It's me and my guitar alone, or it's nothing."

"Be reasonable, Mr. Rabb," Jeanne interjected. "Even the greatest artists have some kind of accompaniment besides their own instrument. No one can really do without. So, as you seem to be a soul purist, how about limiting it to a classic combo? No electricity needed, just acoustic instruments and skilled musicians. Double bass, piano, drum-set. A trumpet maybe for occasional instrumental interludes. And your guitar."

Harm tried to imagine the sound of his voice surrounded by the ensemble Jeanne had proposed. He had to admit it was just this kind of half classic, half modern Soul Jazz he had always preferred to most other styles. He hugged his instrument and pursed his lips. "That could work," he finally conceded.

Jeanne's smile widened as did Jerry Emerson's. "Fine." Jeanne folded her hands on the table in front of her and leaned on her elbows.

"But...?" Harm cut in as he heard her take a deep breath. With raised eyebrows, he waited for the second shoe to drop. It did.

"You'll need a stage name," she finally prompted, watching his reaction closely.

"No way." Bits of his previous dislike of the business threatened to resurface. Never would he create an artificial personality to hide behind.

"Mr. Rabb," Emerson cautiously spoke up, "I'm sure you have every reason in the world to be proud of your name but... honestly, 'Harmon Rabb' just doesn't sell. And the 'Jr.' worked well for Sammy Davis only."

"What about Harry Connick Jr.?" he retorted stubbornly.

"Point taken," Emerson answered with a smile. "But accept it: 'Connick' has a far better sound than 'Rabb'."

Darn... he's right about that, Harm had to concede against his own will. "Okay," he sighed, defeated. "Any propositions?"

Jeanne shook her head. "Nope. That's for you to come up with. Remember: that name will be your new life. Everyone will identify your face with it, whether you like it or not. So you better be comfortable with your alias. Means: create it yourself."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?" Harm asked defiantly, throwing his hands up in the air and beginning to regret again that he'd let himself be talked into this whole affair in the first place. I should have trusted my gut feeling... and I should have killed Sturgis when I had the opportunity.

"Start with a last name," Emerson tried to help. "What last names occurred in your family, for example?"

"Uhm..." Harm tried to think hard, "Baker, Heath, Pendleton, Michaels... uh..." Seeing Emerson shake his head with a frown at each, he stopped, unnerved. "How about you help me a little in this if nothing works for you?"

"Try again, I'm sure there's more," Jeanne encouraged him.

Sighing again, Harm mentally wandered along the branches of his family tree as far as he could remember it. "Davis, Smith, Cassano, Rusitzky..."

"Wait," Emerson cut in sharply. "What was that, before this Rusa... Rusolski... or whatever?"

"Cassano?" Harm asked.

"That's it!" the producer called out happily. "What is it? Italian?"

"Yes, my great-granddad Rabb from Pennsylvania married an immigrant. Maria Sara Cassano."

"Bingo. We could promote you as the southern Italian type, you know, dark hair and blue eyes, where the Viking seamen left their traces in Sicily..."

"Oh, yeah," Harm agreed dryly. "That'd be me all over."

"Come on, Harmon," Jeanne scolded amicably. "Try to get your head into the game. Once you're in, you're gonna love it. Honni soit qui mal y pense. Shame on those who think badly about it."

"It's Harm," he replied. "And I guess you get used to everything, right? So, let's do this right: what about my first name?"

"First things first. Do you think you'd have liked your great-grandma?" Jeanne asked.

He shrugged. "No idea. But I'm very close with her daughter, my grandma Sarah. Why?"

"Okay, so the last name's settled. As I told you, feeling at ease with your alias is incredibly important. To the first name then. Is there a musician whose style you like very much?"

"Gee, how many names do you want me to have?" Harm asked with a lopsided grin. "Starting with the real classics, how about Louis, Benny, Nat, Charlie, Glenn, George, Ira..."

"Stop it!" Jeanne cut him off, laughing. "Boy, you do have a way of pushing people's buttons. Star antics before you even signed your contract, hmm? Pick one, as in O-N-E."

Harm allowed himself five seconds to contemplate. And suddenly the decision was easy. "Darius," he said.

"As in Darius Lyon?" Emerson asked. "Well, Harm, you sure know the good stuff. But I'm sorry, that's out of the question. 'Darius' is just too uncommon. Anyone who loves soul music will always expect a dignified black man with a slight Kenyan accent when they come across the name."

"You did ask for an idol," Harm said a little defensively.

"Yeah, we did," Jeanne confirmed. "Is he, for you?"

"There hasn't been a single week in my life without at least once taking a time-out with a Darius-Lyon album," Harm stated animatedly, aware that his voice had taken up a reverent tone. "And I never miss his concerts when he comes to D.C."

"Then how about 'Darren'?" Jeanne proposed. "Darren Cassano, in honor of great-grandma Maria Sara and of Darius Lyon. Sounds okay to me. Jerry?"

"Sure," Emerson agreed, nodding. "Works for me. Matt? Donna? Sam?" He expectantly looked at the other three who had been silent all along but now nodded consent. Then he turned to Harm.

Harm had long since given up on wondering what he was doing. This whole audition had developed an automatism that he was apparently unable to oppose himself to. What the hell. What was left of his life that was worth clinging to and limiting himself to a few predefined career options? Why not use this point of no return to really set off for a whole new horizon altogether? These people seemed to think he could do it. And he could rely on their judgment - after all, it was their money they were ready to invest into the idea. Might be worth the while to try and set a little standard as to how he wanted musicians to perform.

This conclusion drawn, Harmon Rabb, Jr., let go of everything that had defined his former professional life. If he was really trying his luck at a stage career at an age where other men felt their midlife crisis approaching, he was going to do it with all that was in him. Darren Cassano would be a real professional.

"Done," he simply said dryly, without even the hint of a smile.

"Do I hear a slight Californian drawl in your voice, Harm?" the man Emerson had addressed as 'Sam' spoke up.

"I thought you had all important facts about me."

Sam looked onto the papers on the table in front of him. "Oh, yeah, I'm sorry..." His eyes met Harm's again, an adventurous twinkle apparent in his gaze. "You do know that California is the real El Dorado for music, right? How about you moved to California? I'm sure your parents would love that."

Leave D.C. Leave his home of so many years. Leave his friends. All of a sudden, Harm's earlier determination had evaporated again as quickly as it had risen. Leaving JAG had felt like tearing something out of his heart. But at least the evening at Tritone Connections had shown him that he wasn't alone. His friends supported him. But they were right here in D.C. Jen, with her quick understanding and sisterly care; Sturgis, with his way of always knowing the right thing to do; Bud and Harriet, whose amiable, warm family was always open to him; little AJ, the closest thing to a child of his own he had; even Tiner who apparently hadn't given up taking him as a role model. In California, besides his parents, there was no one.

"I'm sure they would but I can't do that," he answered in a low voice.

"Why not?" Sam asked, apparently at a loss.

"Because," Harm snapped angrily. "I just can't. Period."

Jeanne suddenly got up and walked towards him. "Wait a minute, guys," she said in the direction of her astonished team, "We'll be right back." Then she wordlessly took Harm by the arm and guided him outside, using a second door he hadn't noticed before. When Jeanne closed the door and turned on the lights, Harm saw they were standing in yet another deserted studio. Sound insulation guaranteed absolute privacy. Somehow, he felt cornered. "Well?" he asked sharply, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"It's always hard to leave a life behind," Jeanne said calmly, but her gaze was fiery. "There will always be people you loathe parting with. But that's life, Harm. You, of all people, should have learned that by now. And let me be blunt: regardless of how dear others may be to you, your song made it pretty clear that the person you love most pretty much told you to get the hell out of her life. It's as obvious as anything that you can't cope with that. If I were your shrink, I'd chew your... backside until you finally got it into your thick skull that getting over her means getting away from her, too. We're offering you the best possible opportunity to get it done, and a lot more, too. So, before turning the offer down with such apparent lack of consideration, use that damned brain of yours."

Leave Mac...

The thought provoked an instant sting in his heart, but he forced himself to stay focused on the point. Staying in D.C., knowing she was close by and yet so far out of his life - would he be able to bear the situation in the long run? Wouldn't her presence alone block any attempts at really starting out new, just because some idiot hopes deep down in his soul couldn't be stilled?

You were ready to leave everything behind and engage in a new quest - as long as it would take place in your habitual surroundings. Now, just how consistent is that?

He swallowed, his grief making it difficult to face her, but eventually he did. However briefly this woman had gotten to know him, she had nailed the conflict perfectly. So if seen at light, there was but one choice, hard but logical.

He took a deep breath and definitely drew the line. "How about San Diego?"

Four words to close an era and open a new one.

******************Chapter Three****************************

JANUARY 4TH 2004
0812 PST - 1712 ZULU
HARM'S APARTMENT
CITY HEIGHTS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

 

Harm set the coffee mug on the table and leaned back on his couch again, his feet propped up on the armrest and his left arm serving as a cushion for his head. With his right hand, he grabbed the newspaper he had dropped beside him when he had needed his hand to reach for the mug. Now, the headline was again in front of his eyes and he still couldn't believe what he saw.

Darren Cassano: nominee for WMN awards

Jeanne had called him way too early this morning, just to tell him to pick up the New York Times, knowing he still subscribed to the Post. She had given him no hint as to why she had tipped him off to do it. His album had been out for six weeks now; the reviews had been printed weeks ago. He hadn't done any live appearances lately and he wasn't enough of a VIP that reporters found him interesting enough to do a story on him without a clear incentive. True, his premiere CD, titled simply Darren Cassano, was selling surprisingly well, given the fact that a) he was an absolute newbie to the business and b) his style was anything but mainstream. But that still wouldn't have explained a random article about him.

When Harm had started skimming the Times's feuilleton headlines and had arrived at the 'music' page, he had heard himself gasp. An award nomination for his very first album was the last thing he'd ever have expected. Not that WMN was very big business. World Music Network was a mid-sized private TV station, based in New York, that broadcast only in the Northeast. Harm would have bet that two thirds of Californian TV viewers had never heard of it. Still, the network was known among musicians, and artists who won one of its yearly awards had apparently gotten the attention of some people that really mattered in the business. Harm had needed his coffee badly before feeling fit to read the Times's judgment. He hated himself for paying that much attention to what people wrote or said about him, but he couldn't help it; he was proud of his work and about the way he was trying to make a difference in the scene. Every now and then he needed reassurance other than from his friends that he had made the right choice.

Just when he was about to start reading, his telephone rang - his private telephone that only his friends had the number to. The one he responded to using his real name. For a split second Harm was tempted to haul himself up on his feet, but then thought the better of it. Get used to the situation first before talking to your friends and dying from embarrassment right now. He let the machine get the call.

"Hi, this is Harm. Please leave a message and I'll call you back." - Beep.

["Harm? This is Jen. Congratulations on your nomination! We just wanted to call to tell you..."]

Rustling was heard at the other end of the line, then a multitude of happy voices:

["...that we're all very proud of you, sir!!"] Jen, Harriet and Bud yelled into the receiver, stressing the *sir* and apparently smiling broadly. The line went dead before Harm could even get up.

Chuckling, Harm shook his head and again lifted the Times to his eyes. Bless the D.C. bunch. Harm knew that he wouldn't be where he was without their constant support and demonstrations of friendship. Sturgis called him at least once a week, and he was keeping up a vivid email exchange with Harriet, Bud and Jen. Even Mac had sent him a Christmas card, wishing him luck for his album premiere. He had exchanged the gesture, thanking her, but their contact had been limited to that. Jen had - reluctantly, upon constant bugging - told him that Mac was very happily involved with Clay. And Harm found he hadn't yet reached the point where he could wish her every happiness in the world without lying. So he had let it be.

With a decided breath, Harm pushed the thought of her aside and concentrated on the paper in front of his eyes.

Darren Cassano: nominee for WMN awards - Fifth candidate completes list in newcomers category; Goto Hell nominated in grunge classification

by Nyala Lyon

Again, Harm let the newspaper sink for a moment. Lyon? She couldn't be related to Darius Lyon, or could she? How ironic that she would write about someone who'd chosen his alias in honor of Darius. Intrigued, he began to read.

LESyncope Productions have once again proven their secure eye and ear for artistic potential. Not even two months after presenting his brilliant debut album, Darren Cassano received a nomination for this year's WMN awards in the category of Best Newcomer. Last night, World Music Network's spokeswoman for the awards, Leslie Callaghan, announced the completion of the last two nominees' lists in a press conference in New York. The still vacant spot in the Grunge classification, according to Callaghan, goes to Goto Hell whose lead singer Lucifer already accepted WMN's invitation for the awards-giving ceremony on April 24th. "We would be thrilled if Mr. Cassano were to come, too," Callaghan declared, "But we haven't yet spoken to his agent." "Of course Darren will be there," said Jerry Emerson of LESyncope upon inquiry.

"Oh?" Harm said to himself, his eyebrows rising up to his hairline. "Nice of you to let me know."

Darren Cassano could very well turn out the first major discovery of the century in terms of modern Soul Jazz. His unique style, mainly based on the classic Soul of James Brown or Isaac Hayes, achieves the miracle of combining elements of Cool Jazz and Hard Bop with loans of Country and Funk, all merged with ease into a particular sound that still needs to be labeled.

"Wow. Couldn't have described it better myself," Harm mused. This lady did know her stuff. All the more probable that she was indeed a relation of Darius Lyon's.

The songs of Cassano's premiere album...

Again, the phone interrupted him. Frowning, Harm got up and took the call.

"Rabb."

[Salut, mon cher. Get ready, you have a ticket to New York in two hours.]

Harm sighed. "Hi, Jeanne... Slow down. I thought tonight was my day off."

[It would have been,] Jeanne agreed. [But WMN just called: they want you for a live interview. Tonight.]

He let out a low groan. "Is that really necessary? You know I hate testifying on air..."

[Suck it up, you're not in court anymore. You're a celebrity now.] Jeanne's voice was as merry as if she'd just told him he'd won the lottery.

"Yeah, I know." Harm wearily wiped his face with his hand and sat on the edge of his telephone sideboard. "It's just that I'm so damned camera-shy," he added, resigned.

Laughter rang in the receiver. [You may be a lot of things but you're definitely not camera-shy, hon,] she told him. [And you know it.]

Harm felt he was getting annoyed. Yet, he couldn't help grinning. His producer/agent knew him too well. "Okay, sorry, mom."

[Don't you dare,] she threatened. [Anyway, United 497, 11:34 a.m. And think about what you wear for the interview.]

He gave in. "I will. Who'll be asking the questions?"

[I don't know yet. WMN always works on last-minute schedules. My guess would be Rita Coleman.]

"God, no," he groaned. Rita Coleman was a carbon copy of Renée, and although his ex girlfriend had turned into quite a decent woman after some time, Harm wasn't sure he felt inclined to meet with yet another video princess. "Then I don't really know why I should dress up."

[Goes to keeping up appearances, Harm,] Jeanne scolded him. [You've already got the image of being a gentleman, and it sells well, especially with your female fans. Don't do any damage to the picture.]

"I couldn't," Harm replied, "I'm just being myself all the time."

[Great.] The smile was back in Jeanne's voice. [Then I know you'll look just fine tonight. Remember: big sister is watching you. And it might not be Rita after all,] she added, more to herself now. [Nyala did the piece in the New York Times. So maybe it's her you're gonna meet with.]

His curiosity immediately got the better of him. "Nyala Lyon? Is she somehow related to Darius Lyon?"

[His daughter.] Jeanne was obviously pleased with his reaction.

"I didn't know he had a family," Harm stated, wanting to know more.

Jeanne humored him. [His wife died about fifteen years ago, back in Kenya. But his daughters live in the States. Nyala is thirty-one and a music journalist and Amara is nineteen and is training for the Olympics.]

"Wow. What sports?"

[Marathon. Okay, enough questions,] she cut him off in her motherly tone before he could go on. [You have a plane to catch, e-ticket at the counter. Don't be late. See you!]

The line went dead before he could even react. "Bye," he said to the empty room, putting the receiver on the cradle and mentally starting to write his baggage check list. He'd already be grateful if he would be spared talking to Rita Coleman. But if he were to meet Darius Lyon's daughter...

A gentleman.

Harm decided on charcoal slacks and a light-blue button-down shirt.

 

2020 EST - 0120 ZULU
WORLD MUSIC NETWORK
43RD STREET
MANHATTAN, NY

 

The next twenty minutes were supposed to make her evening worthwhile. Nyala hadn't been too enthusiastic when Leslie had left her a message, informing her that she had once again been chosen to skip her evening off and do a last-minute interview on WMN Music News instead. Swallowing her anger, she had canceled her girls' night with Amara and had driven to the studio instead. You couldn't live on freelancing for the Times alone.

Crossing New York in full rush hour, wasting time at the make-up artist's and waiting for Leslie to fill her in on the particulars had worn out Nyala's patience. Once again she understood why she loved the newspaper: despite the hectic moments when printing was about to start, you could take your time to work out your stories. Nyala knew she wasn't made for the hyper-speed of television. And she just hated audiences. While her father had passed his musicality on to her, she felt she absolutely lacked his stage personality. Amara was just the contrary. She loved being filmed when she crossed the finish line - but make her sing and the milk in your fridge would go sour.

Just when Nyala had thought that her mood couldn't have gotten worse, Leslie had come into her dressing room and had told her that Mr. Cassano was waiting to be briefed next door.

"Darren Cassano? I assumed this was about those Goto Hell guys."

"No. Stop assuming, Ny. Journalism is about facts alone. Go meet him whenever you're ready." With that, Leslie had left her to digest the news.

She was ready, speaking in terms of clothes and make-up. But what Nyala needed was a little time to regroup and formulate a catalogue of entirely new questions. It took her a moment to believe that she was about to meet the artist whose album she couldn't stop listening to for the last five weeks. Usually, this would have been a 'must' for Rita. She always did the big issues, leaving her with stories like... well, Goto Hell for instance. Yet, for whatever reason, this time Nyala was about to get to know an artist with whom she could actually talk about music, not just fashion and groupies.

Darren Cassano's music seemed nothing out of the ordinary - at first hearing. She had listened to the songs casually one evening, not paying particular attention. But the last title had suddenly captured her like few pieces ever had. The emotions were so genuine, so real - and yet, his voice was so well guarded. Almost as if he were singing despite himself. You never even let my heart explain... Amara was the only one who knew that Nyala had been close to tears. She had instantly played the whole album again and found that Cassano's voice was drawing her in, that his simple, direct way of performing was richer than any well-directed playback possibly could have been. A true natural - and apparently extremely shy. No one ever saw him in society, and the few live appearances Nyala had dug up videos of were gripping, but distanced somehow. As if his music, public or not, were for him alone.

How were you supposed to interview someone like him? I'll bet he hates being on the screen just as much as I do, Nyala mused while she was giving her make-up one last once-over. Luckily the make-up artist hadn't done anything to further enhance her eyes today - they were dark and huge enough already. Her delicate caffè-latte complexion looked a little more flushed than it usually did. Oh, well. Smoothing the curly dark hair that had been pinned up loosely at the back of her head, Nyala decided she was ready to meet her guest. Ten minutes to airtime. Time to get to know who hid behind the fair façade.

Smoothing her dark-blue dress, Nyala walked to the door of the adjacent dressing room. One last decided intake of breath, and she knocked.

"Enter," came a voice from inside that was unmistakably Darren Cassano's.

"Mr. Cassano?" she tried with a smile. "Pleased to meet you. Nyala Lyon."

The tall dark-haired man sitting in front of the dressing table looked up - and the moment his eyes met hers, Nyala saw him flinch ever so slightly. But his expression changed back to open and friendly again in the fraction of a second, so she decided to just let it pass. He got up and came to meet her, taking her offered hand.

"Darren Cassano," he said with a smile that for a moment made her stomach flutter. "And the pleasure is all mine. I'm a major fan of your father's."

"He'll be pleased to hear that," she answered easily. "Must be the similarity of your first names."

"Actually - but please, keep this off the record - 'Darren' was chosen in honor to your father. 'Darius' would have been too obvious." His smile was disarming.

Nyala was surprised to see that he was being so forthcoming. Not too shy, after all, she noted. "So, what's your real name, Mr. Cassano?" she asked with upraised eyebrows.

He sobered a little. "I'm trying to keep my personal life on another page altogether, Ms. Lyon," he answered very politely but firmly. "No matter what my passport may say, to everyone out there I'm Darren Cassano. Could we leave it at that, please?"

She had read about him impersonating a perfect gentleman, and she had laughed about how the media were making up a label for him so he'd fit into one of their drawers. However, the way he had just asked her to respect his privacy suddenly made her see there was something to the picture. It had been very clear where he had drawn the line. He hadn't left her any openings. And still, he had addressed her in some sort of natural dignity, the tone of his voice firm but asking her to understand, his gaze determined but still just a little vulnerable.

"Of course," she instantly complied, unable to even consider objecting.

Switching back to professional issues, Nyala talked her guest through the proceedings, finding him attentive and very cooperative about supplying hints as to what he would answer to her questions. As airtime approached, she found he was tensing up a little, but at the same time he seemed to relax in talking with her. His sense of humor met her wavelength, and Nyala suspected they were sharing more laughs than would have been advised for their information-focused program. Keep up your guard out there, or this will turn into Conan O'Brian, she admonished herself.

"Okay, Mr. Cassano, show-time," she eventually told him, getting up. "Let's get this over with," she added under her breath, only to stop short immediately after, shocked at her own rudeness. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry," she apologized, embarrassed to no end. "That wasn't directed at you, sir. It's just that I'm a newspaper woman and hate the TV business, that's all."

Slowly, a grin began to spread over his features. "That makes two of us," he replied warmly. "I didn't even own a TV until about a year and a half ago. So, if you hate it, why do it?"

"A freelance music journalist has to take whatever jobs come up," she answered with a lopsided grin.

"I see. Now, let me get this straight," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "This conversation is the result of both of us being forced into it. If we'd had a choice, we wouldn't be here. To be honest, I find that kind of sad. How about 'getting it over with', as you put it, and then getting together again on our own free will, to grab something to eat?"

Tempting as the offer was, and knowing she definitely wanted to learn more about his peculiar style, Nyala was still confused. "Didn't you want to keep your private life out of it?" she asked carefully.

"Working dinner," he offered sheepishly, his half-smile contagious.

"You're on," she agreed wholeheartedly. "Come on, the cameras are waiting."

 

2146 EST - 0246 ZULU
YAMAMOTO'S SUSHI
41ST STREET
MANHATTAN, NY

 

Slowly, Harm felt he was getting used to the sting he felt every time he met her glance. Those eyes weren't just *like* Mac's eyes - those *were* Mac's eyes, looking up at him from a totally different face. At first, he hadn't even been able to study her features more closely. His gaze had been drawn to hers like a magnet as soon as he stopped avoiding looking at her. He had tried to mask his pain, and judging from how the evening had proceeded he had succeeded quite well. Yet, only now was he beginning to take a closer look at Nyala Lyon. The pain her eyes inflicted was still there, but it had become bearable.

She was a beautiful woman. Slender, almost fragile, yet not too short, 5'6 maybe. Her arms seemed to have grown just a little too long, the impression stressed by her long, slender fingers. But her movements were graceful so the disproportion didn't draw attention. From the side, she was her father all over, Harm noted. Her profile matched the one that was displayed on one of Darius Lyon's CD covers. And her smile was the very same one Harm knew from many talk-shows that he had seen Darius on. But her eyes were different. Her mother, apparently a white woman, must have looked a bit like Mac, he assumed, chasing the thought as soon as it had made itself known.

He felt he liked her. Their conversation had been easy-going from the start and never once had awkward silence made them search for a new topic, just to say something. And in the course of the evening, Harm had become aware what he missed most in his new life: friends. Knowing that across the continent he had a handful of people who cared about him was one thing. Having dinner with someone, actually sharing moments instead of only talking about them, was something totally different. Sadly, Nyala would become an across-the-continent acquaintance, too, once he returned home tomorrow.

Hearing her clear her throat brought him back to reality. "Darren?" she asked, her voice just a little curious.

"Yeah, sorry," he said, flashing her a quick smile.

"Can I ask you something? Personal, I mean? I promise, this isn't the journalist talking right now. I have the highest respect for your privacy."

Her eagerness to set him at ease was endearing. He lifted his hands as if to calm her. "I know you do. Just be warned: I may choose not to answer. But fire at will."

Nyala rested her head on her hand and thoughtfully looked at him. "I know many people in showbiz who're reluctant to let others have a glimpse at their private life. But I've never met with anyone who's so... desperate to separate personal matters from his profession. I'll make an admission now about something that no one but my little sister knows: you had me crying with You Never Even Let My Heart Explain. This one is about real life, isn't it?"

This was just where he had wanted to avoid going at all costs. But looking at her and detecting nothing but warmhearted interest in her features, caring even, Harm somehow felt she was someone whom he could trust with the truth. Or at least bits of it. Being honest with himself - he longed for some genuine heart-to-heart talk, and not even Jeanne was someone with whom it'd feel right to go into the difficult issues. "Yeah," he only said in a low voice, not bothering to mask the pain in his eyes and waiting for her to take the conversation where she wanted to.

"Who are you, Darren Cassano?" she asked gently. "I feel like I could be friends with you - but whom would I really be friends with?"

He decided to give her the essentials and leave everything else for whenever it might come up along the way. I'd love being friends with you, Nyala, he thought, but decide for yourself if you'd get along with who I really am.

"Harmon Rabb, Jr.," he began, still speaking low and closely watching her reaction. "Former naval aviator with the rank of commander, and also former military lawyer with the Navy's Judge Advocate General corps. Resigned my commission last year - the reason doesn't really matter anymore - and decided to start out afresh when the road back into the service was closed. So, that's me." He tried a smile. "Shocked?"

Nyala's eyes had gone wide. "Well, a little, yeah," she conceded. "I had suspected that something had thrown you off the track and forced you to end your previous career, but I definitely didn't think about the military. Was she the reason you resigned? "

"Yes, but not the way you may think. I'd rather not go into that right now," he answered. "Please, Nyala."

"'Course," she murmured, "Sorry."

"Don't be." He tried to set her mind at ease. "It's okay. I'm only sorry we won't be able to continue this conversation anytime soon. It's nice having a friend around."

Her face lit up just a little. "Where do you live?"

"San Diego."

"Then you might see me sooner than you think. Starting next month, I'll be working for the LA Times for a change. It's only on a temporary basis, but I'll be in California for at least a year or so." Her smile grew just a little bold. "Count on me to show up on your doorstep, Harmon Rabb, Jr."

Somehow he felt his mood had lightened. "Call me Harm. And I'd be thrilled."

 

MARCH 21ST 2004
0643 PST - 1343 ZULU
HARM'S APARTMENT,
CITY HEIGHTS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

 

The persistent knocking on his door dragged Harm from a deep slumber, way earlier than he would have liked. He gave a cursory glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand and sighed wearily, rolling out of bed.

As much as he enjoyed performing on stage, it had a definite drawback. You never got home, let alone to bed, before the early hours of the morning. For him, that had actually been the hardest thing to adapt to. He was a morning person. He rarely slept past 0600, and now, most times, he didn't get to bed before 0200. Although he'd feared the emotional consequences of his performances, he'd been pleasantly surprised to find that with time, he got used to the emotional charge, and he could handle it fine. But still, sometimes, he found himself staring at his ceiling until the sun came up, like he had the previous night. Consequently, he had been asleep for a mere two hours when the pounding on his door had started, and hadn't stopped since.

"All right, all right! Keep your pants on!" he yelled irately, as he pulled on a robe. The knocking ceased.

"It's Nyala," came the muted reply.

His anger melted instantly, replaced by puzzlement. Nyala? They had become good friends over the past few months, sharing the odd dinner and chatter after an interview. He'd even gone as far as to invite her over a couple of times, cooking dinner once. But she'd always been very respectful of his privacy. She had never showed up unannounced, and never after a performance night.

He self-consciously ran a hand through his longish hair, cursing Jeanne for forcing him to let it grow longer than military regulation had allowed. At least then, he would have looked at least half presentable, even rolling out of bed.

He padded to the door, barefoot, unlocked the door quickly and yanked it open.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, seeing the concern in her eyes. He let her in, admiring her gazelle-like grace despite himself. But he didn't let himself dwell on her beauty today. The fury in her eyes was too intense.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Harm," she said, a hand on her hip, a rolled newspaper in the other, "but I have a feeling your phone will start ringing soon, and I thought you could use a heads-up." She handed him the paper.

He quickly unrolled it, as he flopped to his couch. He didn't need to look for the article. The Los Angeles Sun's Art section's front page screamed at him in bold print.

WMN Newcomer award winner a legal fraud?

Harm's eyes widened and he looked to Nyala.

"Read it," she replied to his silent question. She was clearly angry. Her lithe frame was taut with tension and her eyes were dark with anger.

Harm lowered his eyes back to the paper before him and began to read.

New Soul Jazz sensation and winner of the WMN's best Newcomer award Darren Cassano is, in all appearances, a fraud.

Cassano, at 40, is a late arrival to the music scene, but has taken it by storm. The quality of this music and his unique sound, as well as his heartfelt lyrics and performances have enchanted crowds, and earned him the coveted WMN newbie award. Private by nature, he speaks very little of himself. The only thing he has revealed so far is a previous law career, but alas, it seems the claim is as fraudulous as the rest of Cassano's persona.

In fact, a thorough search of all of the bar associations of the country revealed no record of such a name, nor did his birth date. Stage names are common in today's world, but why is Cassano displaying such a fierce need to hide who he truly is? One may only wonder why he came to the business so late, and if we can truly attribute his accomplishments to him, or is he just another Milli Vanilli?

Most artists will jump at the chance to reveal the path that took them to the burgeoning fame Mr. Cassano now enjoys, but not him. He's so far steadfastedly refused to answer any questions about his past, and such reluctance, in the light of the absence of facts, can only confirm deceit.

Only time will tell if Darren Cassano is indeed what he claims, or doesn't claim, to be.

Harm threw the paper on the table in disgust. "Bastards."

Nyala scoffed. "Not Bastards. Bastard. Terry Kilroy. LA Sun's metro section editor. A real piece of work," she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. She clearly despised Kilroy, and Harm had a feeling the animosity wasn't new. "I'm sorry about this, Harm," she said softly, rising off the loveseat across him.

"Not your fault. Thanks for the heads up, though. I gotta call Jeanne," he said glumly. "I know I should have expected some mud, but this..."

He put both elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He *should* have expected something like this. He knew he needed to react, but for some reason, he didn't want to. There was just too much baggage in his past, and he wanted it left where it belonged. In the past. He felt Nyala's slender hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to meet the brown eyes he now knew so well. But this time, the pain was back. Oftentimes, when he'd looked at her in the first few months, he would get a fleeting moment of déjà-vu, and see Mac's eyes instead of hers, but only for a moment, and less and less frequently as he'd gotten to know her. Diane and Mac had been as different as night and day, and Nyala was worlds apart from the two, but the heavens had seemingly played some sort of cosmic joke on him; all the important women in his life looked at him through the same huge, luminous brown eyes. And now, he couldn't help but see Mac again.

"I wish I had better news, but Kilroy is a snake, and an idiot to boot. Obviously he searched for the wrong name, but you have to set the record straight, Harm."

He didn't answer. A lot of time had passed since that horrible night in Paraguay. He'd mostly managed to rebuild his life, and despite having only a few acquaintances in California, he'd made a life for himself here. Why was it that every time he found a measure of peace, someone would jumble his life back up?

He gave a brief, humourless chuckle. Weren't those her words, as they watched the ambulance take Harriet and baby AJ off to the hospital, or was it when he'd told her he was going back to an active squadron? Either way, it didn't matter now.

"Harm?"

"What?" he asked through his hands, still refusing to meet Nyala's eyes.

"I... I know I promised I wouldn't pry, but... Why are you so reluctant to talk about your past?"

He sighed deeply, rose to his feet and walked to the large bay window that overlooked the city. He pulled back the deep burgundy curtains and let the early morning sunlight flood in. His eyes lost over the horizon, he replied quietly.

"It's because there's just too much pain buried there."

He heard her rise off the couch and walk to stand beside him, but he kept his stormy eyes on the sky.

"Painful memories are one thing, but I have a feeling you take a lot of pride in what you did before. You haven't spoken much about it, but I think you were a good officer."

Harm chuckled. "More of a loose cannon, actually. It's part of why I couldn't get back in."

"Harm, regardless of how baseless the accusations, you have to face them. As much as I respect you, at the moment your silence is condemning you."

"I'm a lawyer, Nyala. I know how circumstantial evidence works. A lot better than you may think. But what you don't realise is the damage revealing my true identity could do."

He walked back to the couch and sat on an armrest, finally facing her. "Have you ever tried to do a search on my birth name?"

Nyala rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Is that what you think of me? Of course I haven't! I just told you I respect your privacy!" she retorted, a bit wounded.

He raised his hands in surrender, instantly regretting his remark. He'd once more let himself think of her in terms of her profession, not as his friend. But trust had never come easily to him, especially when it touched his past. Despite the depth of his friendship to Mac, there were a great many things he'd kept hidden from her. Most times, he gave her the gist of it, but never the details.

"Hey! I know you do, but you're a journalist, and curiosity is inherent in the business," he atoned.

She gave him a shrewd look. "Curious, I may be. Not nosey."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. But do it. You'll be surprised how often my name comes up, and not always for good reasons."

"That may be, but if you don't take control of the situation-"

The shrill ringing of his private line interrupted her. He glanced at the call display and rolled his eyes.

"That'll be Jeanne, in a panic. Listen..." He hit the speaker button.

"Hi, Jeanne," he greeted.

[Tu as vu? C'est le bordel! Cet enfoiré de Kilroy! Il faut qu'on lui coupe l'herbe sous le pied avant qu'il ne foute encore plus le bordel! J'ai-] (Did you see? It's a complete mess! That ass Kilroy! We have to shut him up fast before it turns into a bigger mess. I've-)

"Jeanne?" Harm called patiently, a smile tugging at his lips.

[Quoi? Pourquoi t'es si calme? Tu savais déjà? Comment? Depuis quand tu te lève si tôt un lendemain de scène? C'est -] (What? Why are you so calm? You knew? How? Since when do you get up so early after stage? It's-)

"Jeanne," he tried again, stifling a laugh. Nyala laughed silently.

[Quoi!] she yelled. (What!)

"In English, please," Harm said seriously.

There was a pause on the line, and a muted curse.

[I did it again, didn't I?]

"Yeah. And despite my fractional knowledge of French, I got most of it, so no, I wasn't asleep, and yes, I've read it. Nyala-"

"Good morning, Jeanne," she cut in.

[Harmon!]

Harm had to smile at the indignation in Jeanne's voice. She had known he'd been seeing the journalist socially, but he'd told his mother-hen producer it wasn't anything serious. He wasn't ready for a new relationship, he'd said, and the look in his eyes had been enough to convince Jeanne.

"Jeanne, it's not what you think, so cool your jets. She got here about twenty minutes ago. So, what do we do?" he asked, as he slid into the armchair.

[You want to take this one, or shall I, child?] Jeanne asked, addressing Nyala.

"You go public, and tell them what they want to know. You don't have to reveal every detail, but enough to shut him up. You need a respectable journalist to do a piece on you, and show you under your best light, give enough info, but keep what you want private," Nyala explained. "I was about to tell him as much when you called."

[So, I've contacted some people to do-]

"Wait a minute! Don't I get a say in this?" Harm interjected.

[No, hon. I know the media and I know how to handle them-]

"And so do I. You supposedly know all about me, or so you've kept saying for a year, Jeanne. Let's test that knowledge. Remember a couple of years back, when a ZNN journalist was caught giving away a SEAL team's position?"

[Yes. Stuart Dunston was court-martialed by the Navy. It created lasting shockwaves in the media business. Of course I remember, why?]

"Who prosecuted?" Harm asked, a smirk on his face.

[Hmmm... Some hotshot Navy lawyer that found a loophole--] A pause ensued, and Harm could almost hear the wheels in her head turning. He let a slow smile spread over his lips.

[No. No way. That was you!?!]

"Yep. So don't try to teach me how to handle the press," Harm said triumphantly.

[I stand corrected. I'm guessing you want your friend Stuart to do the piece, since he feels he owes you for pointing out the error of his ways?] Jeanne supplied sarcastically.

"Not for that, but he owes me still. However, I sense a but in there," Harm said. For some odd reason, Jeanne had always managed to read his mind, and always was a step ahead of him. He did want Dunston to do the piece, and most of the reason resided in Stuart's understanding of keeping certain things of his past life in the dark.

[Yes. Dunston is a public affairs correspondent, a war correspondent-]

"Jeanne, I'm not just shy about my past because a lot of it is painful. I've done a lot of stuff that's still classified, and scratching at it too deeply could potentially hurt some people. Dunston understands that, and he'll stop when I tell him to, but he'll give those damned sharks what they want."

The last part of his sentence dripped with disdain. He'd never been a big fan of the media circus, despite understanding its uses and its necessity. Still, he felt like he was pimping to them, and he hated it. The very idea of playing nice to the media sent shivers down his spine. He rubbed his arms for warmth, suddenly cold.

[Okay. We'll do it your way. I'll call Dunston and set it up. We need to get this thing cleared up au plus vite, or it might just cost us the good news I had for you today,] Jeanne finished, her excitement barely concealed.

Harm's heartbeat suddenly quickened, reverberating through his chest. "What is it?"

[We got the dates.]

He closed his eyes and swallowed slowly, his throat suddenly dry. This was it...

"When?" he asked a bit breathlessly.

[Nyala, dear, I bet you'd love to scoop your friend Terry Kilroy, wouldn't you?] Jeanne asked sweetly.

"Jeanne, I will owe you for a lifetime!" Nyala replied enthusiastically.

[June 21st and 23rd at the Lincoln in New York!] Jeanne squealed. The Lincoln Center was THE Mecca for jazz singers. All the great voices had walked that stage, from Wynton Marsalis to Darius Lyon. This wasn't just any stage. It was a career-maker. Or breaker.

"Wow!" Nyala confirmed, clapping her hands. "Congratulations, Harm! Now you get to make your mark on that great stage! Harm?"

[Harm?] both women echoed.

He hadn't made a sound. He sat in his black leather armchair, completely still, mouth hanging slightly agape. He swallowed slowly and drew a shaking breath. This was just getting to be a bit much. He shook his head to clear it from the myriad of images floating into it, all of his favourite musicians, setting that very stage on fire. And now, he would be the one under the stage lights, the mike in his hand, and his guitar would make the perfect acoustics of the theatre vibrate with his passion.

Nyala put a hand on his shoulder, suddenly concerned by the alarming shade of white his complexion had taken.

"Harm, say something, please," she begged.

"The... Lincoln? Dear god... Me?" he stuttered, in complete disbelief.

[I think he's in shock, dear,] Jeanne said patiently.

"I think so," Nyala agreed, a note of mirth creeping into her voice.

Harm knew they were making fun of him. He just couldn't muster the energy to do anything about it. All he could concentrate on was the faint roaring in his ears and the slight spinning of the room.

"Um, Harm? Are you all right?"

[What's wrong, Nyala?]

"Huh?" Harm replied dumbly.

"Are you ok? You're awfully pale..."

Harm shook himself out of his stupor. He could only remember reacting like this once, when he'd received his acceptance into flight school: a great vertigo, brought on by the spiraling possibilities, the sheer vastness of the unknown that lay ahead, and the expectations he had to fill, whether his own, or other's. That day had been the true start of his dreams of following in his father's footsteps. That road had led to a lot of adrenaline, a lot of fear, a lot of pain and heartache, but also a lot of pride, and most importantly of all, a lot of lasting friendships.

He only hoped he could do it again.

"Yeah, I'm ok. I just..."

[You need a bit of time and a lot more sleep to wrap your head around this, hon. I know how much history that stage carries, and what it can do to a career. But I wouldn't have pushed for it if I had any doubts about you. I'll call you around dinner with details on the interview, all right, hon?]

He ran a weary hand through his hair and smiled. "All right. As usual, you got me pegged. You'll have to tell me how you do that."

[Trade secret, hon. And Nyala, please let him rest. Bye!]

"Jeanne!" The line had clicked off before Harm's indignant cry had even been uttered.

Nyala's musical laugh rang though the room as she rose off the sofa. "She's just messing with you. I have some contacts at ZBS. I might be able to get you on for an interview after the Dunston piece airs."

Harm chuckled. "Great. More cameras."

Nyala's gaze suddenly clouded and she let her head fall forward. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, dejectedly contrite.

Harm was instantly confused He hadn't been *that* disgusted with the offer... "No, no, Don't be. I don't mind them so much..." he trailed, quite puzzled by her sudden mood shift.

"It's not that. This whole mess is my fault."

Harm's brow furrowed. "Now how can that be? You didn't write the article, Ny. Unless you moonlight as a man, editing the LA Sun Times Metro section," Harm joked, hopefully brining a smile to her lips. He didn't understand where her guilt was coming from. She had nothing to do with the article. He knew that for a fact. So why was she feeling so guilty?

"It's not so simple, I'm afraid," she responded quietly, her eyes sad, but filled with an undercurrent of anger.

Harm slowly shook his head. "I don't understand."

Nyala exhaled sharply through her nose, lacing her slender fingers over her knees. "Kilroy did this to get back at me."

Now, he was completely confused. "What? Why?"

Nyala took a deep breath and rose from the couch, walking up to the window, just like he had a few minutes before, losing her gaze over the distance. "Jerry and I went to college together. He was a year older than I was, sort of took me under his wing. Of course, he knew who my father was, but he was actually decent about it, and we got along great. Until one day, he asked me out. " Nyala's arms suddenly went up around her chest, as if she was protecting herself. Her whole frame radiated tension, and in that instant Harm was by her side, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

"You don't have to tell me this, you know," he said, his voice filled with concern and compassion. He hated to see her so ill at ease. Nyala was like a bird; happy and joyous, carefree and confident. To see her so insecure and hurt tore at his heart.

"I do," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "I wasn't ready. So I refused his advances. But he wasn't one to give up easily. Eventually, I filed a complaint of sexual harassment with the dean's office. He was expelled."

"I understand how that would create tensions between you two."

"That's one way to put it," she replied sarcastically.

"But, I don't see how I fit into this."

"Nyala scoffed. "Easy. Remember when we went to dinner at The Plover, last week?"

Harm recalled their intimate dinner, the week before, in an Oceanside restaurant, only a few miles from his apartment. They'd walked out together, his hand resting on the small of her back. "Yeah," he replied, still not quite seeing what she was getting at, but sensing it, just like a shark, hovering just beneath the surface of murky waters.

"He was there. In a booth, at the back. I saw him. He saw us, and probably not just eating. He must have seen me flirting with you. He decided to get back at me."

It was his turn to sigh, and he rubbed a weary hand over his face. "Now, I'm the one who's sorry, Ny. If I hadn't ..."

She whirled on her heel and faced him, her eyes fiery, his hand flying from her shoulder. "Don't you dare be sorry. I didn't mind you doing what you did, and the end result is my fault. Not yours."

Harm bit his lip and lowered his eyes in a silent apology, but yet, not quite letting her take the blame. "Nyala, you didn't write the article, and you can't be held responsible for other people's actions. This guy wants to know who I am? Well, let me tell you he's going to get a hell of a lot more than what he's bargained for," he said, a hard but wickedly humorous gleam in his eyes.

To his immense relief, Nyala smiled, intrigued by his remark. "Oh? What are you going to do to him?"

"A lawsuit for defamation would be a good start, I think. I'm a lawyer, remember? Civil law isn't my strong suit, but I'm a hell of a litigator, and he's in for a sour surprise. But what I hate is that his tactics will have worked."

"Because he's managed to draw you out," Nyala summarised.

"Yeah."

"Funny. A timid lawyer..." she added, a teasing spark once more lighting her eyes.

Harm moved back to the couch, waggling a decided eyebrow at her. "I am not timid," he protested. "I'm just..." he paused, searching for the right word, "reserved," he finally settled on. "Besides, haven't you heard that discretion is the better part of valor?"

Nyala smiled sweetly, as she moved to the door. "Once or twice, but somehow, I feel the expression Silence is golden has always been lost on you."

"Out!" he retorted, in feigned annoyance.

"Bye!" she chimed back.

The door clicked shut with another cascade of laughter, and he found himself alone. If his naval career was any indication, he was in for one hell of a ride.

***********

NEXT DAY
0954 PST
ZNN STUDIOS
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

Harm settled into the plush leather armchair, Jeanne flanking him, a satisfied smile on her lips.

"What?" he asked.

She studied him from the corner of her eyes for a second more before giving him an approbatory nod. "You were right. Dunston is the right man for the job."

"But we haven't seen the finished product yet. Hell, we haven't done the interview yet," he argued.

"No, but I've been doing this long enough to know, hon. I've seen the material he's going to use, remember?"

He was about to reply when the door to the "green room" opened, and Stuart Dunston stepped in. Harm rose and offered him a hand.

"Stuart! Pleasure to see you again," he greeted, a cloying smile on his lips.

Dunston chuckled, returning the hearty handshake. "Yeah right, Rabb. Or should I say Cassano? Really surprises me that you're willing to play the media game now."

Harm gave a brief chuckle of his own. "In public, it's Cassano. And true, I don't like the game. But you know I understand the need for it, and how it works too."

"As long as I play it by the rules," Dunston said, a knowing smirk on his face.

"That's what you get for--"

"Boys, I hate to brake up this reunion, but we have to get this show on the road," Jeanne broke in.

Harm turned to her, a hint of a sheepish frown on his face. "Sorry, Jeanne. Stuart, meet Jeanne LeBlanc, my producer/agent/watchdog and sometimes personal psychic."

Stuart nodded, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on the back of her hand. "Miss LeBlanc, a pleasure." His eyes lingered a moment longer on her curvaceous figure, but a firm hand on his shoulder cut the interlude short.

"So, Stuart, you understand why I want to keep some stuff out of the public eye?" Harm asked warily. He didn't care about being dragged though the mud, or the damage it could do to his budding career, but he still cared a whole damned lot about the commitment he'd made to his country.

"Now I do. I'm guessing you don't want the fact you were almost framed for murder twice out there..."

Harm pointedly ignored Jeanne's wide eyes and stunned expression. She was supposed to know about this. "I don't care about that. There are a lot of people out there I prosecuted or defended that are in witness protection or that work in intelligence. They do not need the spotlight on them."

"Understood. Here's what I had in mind..."

 

TWO DAYS LATER
0724 PST
ZBS TELEVISION CITY STUDIOS
HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA

 

Stuart Dunston stood in front of JAG HQ in Falls Church, walking slowly in front on the main entrance.

"A few years ago, in the middle of a messy, high-profile court-martial, I met a man that made a great deal of an impression on me. Not only with his skills as a lawyer, but with the depth of his commitment to the oath he took to defend his country. Since that day, he's left the Navy and moved on to another promising career in the music industry, under the name of Darren Cassano. However, I thought I'd let you know the man as I got to know him: Commander Harmon Rabb Jr. US Navy, JAG corps.

On the screen, Harm's service photo popped up, followed by stock footage of various court proceedings.

Most of you will remember him for prosecuting me in a Navy court-martial two years ago. And after a time, I admitted I deserved to be. But Rabb wasn't always a Navy lawyer.

Images of trapping Tomcats, Harm in a flight suit, and black and white pictures of his father and grandfather filled the screen as the narration went on.

A Naval Academy graduate, he started out as a fighter pilot, flying F-14s off the USS Seahawk. He followed in his father's and grandfather's footsteps and became a 3rd generation Naval aviator. According to some of his squadron-mates and commanding officers, Rabb was one of the best, until a fateful night, in the early days of operation Desert Storm...

The scene changed again, this time to an approaching Tomcat, over a dark, pitching deck. All too fast, the lumbering bird dropped lower and lower, tilting slightly to the left, until it erupted in a fireball, as it came in contact with the deck.

Then-Lieutenant Rabb suffered a devastating ramp strike, killing his RIO, and leaving him severely injured. It was later revealed he suffered from undiagnosed night-blindness, caused by a disease he'd suffered from only a few weeks before. The young man recovered from his injuries and, instead of resigning his commis