Doing Lunch

Mac had spent a fair amount of the long drive north arguing with himself about what he was up to. The last time he'd gone off on his own in his search for his father, even he would admit, things had ended less than ideally. Although, he reasoned, even if he hadn't gone off to Paris alone, Murdoc's guys probably would have caught him at home.

He conveniently ignored (or at least talked over) the little voice in his head that told him if he hadn't been tired from the trip and distracted by his disappointment, not to mention worried about having hurt Jack's feelings, he probably wouldn't have just opened the door like some guy blissfully unaware of the dangers the world had to offer.

His inner dialogue, which he never seemed able to quite shut off, was very focused on justifying his actions today. Bozer wasn't home to account to (and Bozer worried more than Jack – although to be fair Bozer had been practicing that since they were kids) so when he'd gotten up before dawn to an empty house and seen a text from Jack that he was still too sore from Barcelona to go running with him so it would have to wait for another day, he'd made a snap decision.

Instead of just changing and going for a run on his own, in the hillier areas that he avoided when Jack tagged along because they just made him bitch about how old he was getting, he showered, dressed, gassed up his Jeep, and headed north to check out a lead that had popped up during a news item search the week before.

The further away from home he got, the more guilty he felt about not at least texting Jack back. And he realized that his lack of reply was going to get him a grumpy nosy phone call at some point, and he'd have to 'fess up. He didn't want to acknowledge that he maybe hadn't texted because it would warrant a phone call, because he sort of wanted Jack along, because as much as doing this alone sucked, part of him felt obligated, or if not obligated, confused. Mac was not used to feeling confused about much of anything.

Then again, maybe he was in the clear as far as his partner and newly appointed helicopter parent was concerned. The last few days, Jack had been preoccupied with what was going on with Riley. And he was still kind of banged up from their run in with the international art cartel in Spain. Between hovering over Ri and icing his injuries, Jack had been a little MIA in Mac's life this week. Maybe this was just perfect timing.

He swallowed hard as he pulled into the overgrown parking area for the cabin that was his father's last known address; the address that he'd first sent his letter to when Jack pestered him into it all those months ago. He probably wouldn't have come up here, but when he ran a search, on a hunch (he would never admit that to Jack in a million years – hunches were for guys like Jack, not analytical people like him damnit), he'd gotten a hit.

He'd seen the news report of a house fire out here, but the little blurb in the local weekly hadn't done justice to the total destruction of the place. Or the fact that no one had bothered to come out and clean up or even sift through the rubble for personal effects. There were odds and ends in the soot that told him once the fire was out and the investigation (which said possible arson, no viable suspects though) was over, no one had been back.

His first thought, other than that no matter how angry he still was with his dad for leaving when he was a kid he was still glad he hadn't been here when this happened – or at least if he had been he'd gotten out, was that it stunk. Smoke, and soot, and wood rot from the water used to douse the flames.

It was a particular smell that he'd always found unpleasant, even after putting out a fire in the pit at his house. In fact, as he sifted through the remains of his last real connection to his father's whereabouts, he was thinking he was going to want about ten showers when he got home, just to get the smell out of his nostrils.

When Jack made the inevitable phone call, Mac frowned. He should probably just answer it and tell him what was up. A short lecture on the phone would save him a longer more intense one in person. He swallowed hard. In a day already filled with disappointment and discomfort, he could do without one more thing to ruin his mood. At least if Jack lectured him later there could be beer involved. He sent the call to voicemail and kept looking around.

When he stepped on the board that made a distinct creek and a hollow think of empty space beneath, all those thoughts went right out the window. He was trained to notice the out of the ordinary, and in this case, all his senses were already on high alert.

He dropped down immediately, trying to pry up the board, feeling an almost frantic hope bubbling up in his chest. He couldn't figure out anything about those numbers in his watch. He'd even let Cryptography take a crack at it, and so far, nothing. If his dad left him the watch, he had to believe there were other clues along this trail to lead him where he needed to go.

The secret compartment, the old metal storage box, the insulated canister all added to his sense of hope. When all that his search yielded was some heat damaged 8 mm film he almost wanted to cry. He considered calling Riley. She was good with digitally enhancing images.

He squinted at the tape. It might be too wrecked for that. Damn it. But maybe she could … No, she had her own crap at the moment, and probably Jack was right on her elbow and he'd already decided he didn't feel like dealing with that.

Then he had an encouraging thought. Jill. She was a forensic tech and someone already well on her way to being a friend. She'd helped Bozer search the local pawnshops for Jack's stuff. It couldn't hurt to ask. Besides, something was bothering him. He had an odd sense of being watched. He looked around. Nothing. Barely even the wind stirring the trees.

This whole thing was making him paranoid. Then, he had the discouraging thought that even the paranoid have enemies.