Part 1

Awareness

Chapter One

Present Day

Mac Taylor opened his eyes slowly and looked around the room. It was a Spartan, cinder block room with institutional looking walls, gray on gray. It was nothing like his bedroom, which was all dark wood, warm and inviting. He pulled on his arms and legs experimentally, knowing he was shackled even before he started the process. Testing the heavy bonds slowly, he took stock of his surroundings.

He was on little more than a concrete block that had been covered with a thin mattress mattress. His arms and legs were stretched out to all four corners, arms secured above his head, legs secured somewhere by the ankles, either to some sort of a footboard or maybe even to eyebolts sunk into the ground. The chains had little play in them and the shackles were thick bands of an unyielding metal, clamped tight around his limbs. And he realized with a start that he was completely naked, not so much as a sheet covered him.

His chest burned where he'd been hit with the shrapnel in the Beirut bombing in '83, and his arms and legs ached from their cramped position. For some reason, he had a dull ache that ran mid-back through his body and to his sternum, as if he'd been punched and badly bruised. Due to the way he was stretched out, his back had been forced into a slight arch, which strained the muscles of his abdomen on both front and back. That wasn't helping the ache one bit.

What the hell was going on here? Was this related to a case? Had he been taken hostage in some criminals' desperate bid to get his own way? What was the situation and how could he free himself? The cuffs seemed to be solid metal, thick, binding him but not cutting of circulation. There was no sign of breakage or openings he could take advantage of. He could barely twitch his arms, the bindings were that tight, Mac's skin bruised and sweat or blood slick under them. The leg shackles were the same, tight, unbreakable.

Mac willed himself to calm down, and took stock of the rest of his surroundings. Mattress thin, uncomfortably lumpy and uneven. Probably a camping mattress. Concrete underneath. It wasn't the most uncomfortable sleeping accommodation he'd been in, but it definitely ranked in the top five.

The room was dim, but Mac had the sense that it was still daytime, some internal sense—maybe his own internal clock—making him vaguely aware of the passage of time. As he considered the situation, he realized that he couldn't have been here very long.

What was the last thing he remembered?

He closed his eyes, calming his heartbeat further, deepening his breathing, going within as only a trained Marine could. He'd used this technique when he'd been healing as a young Lieutenant a lifetime ago. Regulating his breathing, forcing his heartbeat to slow, shoving the panic away. He had to be clear headed or he'd never figure this out.

Mac started sifting through memories. He'd gone for a drink after work. Danny and Flack had been there as well. They'd discussed a game and Mac had called it an early night. He was just relaxed enough to consider the thought of sleeping a full night, which was still a rarity. He hadn't slept will since Claire was alive, but something about the night, the beer, the good food, had taken the edge off his anxiousness.

He'd opted to walk the twenty-three blocks home rather than taking a cab. Mac had been feeling himself getting a little softer, a little slower, his reactions not as sharp as usual. With the hours they'd all been putting in and the takeout food, he was getting too soft for his own good. Even his daily swimming routine, starting at oh six hundred, had suffered from his schedule. He rarely jogged any more. The least he could do was walk.

Focus… Focus, Mac!

He had to focus. He didn't know why his thoughts were all over the place. He usually had much better concentration than this.

Mac had started out at a brisk walk, dodging tourists like a pro. After all his years in New York, it was much more his home than even Chicago had been. He hadn't known what to expect when moving here after leaving the Corps, but he and New York had a mutual love affair, and even seeing the worst in its people hadn't dampened that.

A couple of blocks had passed before he'd realized he'd been almost race walking, cutting around people on automatic pilot. Mac had chuckled and slowed down, ducking into a store for a bottled water. It had been then that everything had changed. As he'd been paying, hands had gone around his neck, squeezing harshly. He'd flipped the assailant over the counter, using body weight as momentum but then something had happened….

He was forgetting something significant. What had happened??

Mac strained for all the details…

"Just the water," he told the clerk, a young teenager who was studying something that looked like Chemistry, the thick book balanced on the counter beside her. He handed over two dollars and took his change, noting that her eyes had widened. Just as he reached for his weapon, strong hands curved around his throat, crushing his windpipe. She screamed and scrambled out of the way, hands held out in a defenseless motion.

Mac reacted just as his training indicated, flipping the assailant over the counter where he crashed in a heap and lay still. In one motion, Mac pulled out his badge and gun. "NYPD, Freeze! Call 911," he ordered the wide-eyed girl. He started to turn, not liking the idea that he was keeping his back to the room when he heard three shots and molten fire ripped into his back.

He opened his mouth to yell, to rage, to something, but he no longer had the capacity to draw air. He felt so damned cold and wet, blood coursing over the floor under him. He'd blinked, looking up at his assailant before darkness veiled his vision and he knew no more.

That wasn't how it had happened. That couldn't be how it had happened! If so, there was no way Mac would be here now. Alive. He was definitely alive! He pulled in greedy gulps of air, aware that his heart was racing, strangely comforted by that fact. Breathing meant he was alive and that meant what he remembered had to be a nightmare.

Mac hadn't slept well since losing Claire. First, it had been the nightmare of 9/11, the crazy working hours. Then, it had been the pain of loss. When he had finally allowed himself to calm down and face what had happened to him personally, he'd taken Claire's death hard. Harder than he'd expected. They'd had a good marriage, even though they had some struggles. Like most things, it hadn't been perfect, even though their bond had been rock solid.

They'd had infertility problems, he'd worried that she was working herself into an early grave. He chuckled, the sound rusty and ironic in the cinder-block room. He would be forever defined by 9/11 and what he'd remembered had happened. He still wondered if it was a dream or nightmare all these years later.

Chapter Two

Evening of September 11, 2001

Mac curled up on his office couch and closed his eyes, holding her favorite sweater, breathing in her scent. "Claire, honey, I don't know where you are or even if you are any more. After today, I'm afraid to even hope. They dragged me back here to the office, forced me to shower. They want me to stay here for a couple of hours before I go back and look for you. And I will. I'm going to look for you until I hear that you're safe or at a hospital somewhere."

He pulled another shuddery breath in. "Claire, you have to be okay. I can't make it without you. But I'm so worried. Your floors were wiped out and there haven't been any messages. It's a nightmare at the towers, sweetheart. I hope…" He choked off what he was going to say.

"You'd tell me to have hope. Some day, this is just going to be a nightmare that we look back on as a bad dream. Together. Claire, you have to have made it out. Right now, Stella is faxing your picture to all the hospitals, even the ones in Jersey. You might have walked over with some of your co-workers, though you know it's safe at home. Or here. You could always come here. You know that."

She did. That was why he felt so damn lost, his dread rising by the moment. He pulled out his cell phone, dialing his voice mail. Nothing. No messages. Could he get his home answering machine messages remotely? Exhaustion had dulled his senses, but when he concentrated, he remembered the pass codes and dialed their home number with hands that felt clumsy.

"Hi, this is the Taylors. We don't know who you are if you don't leave a message, so do it!" Claire's voice was so perky and so damn cute. Mac mechanically entered the pass codes.

"Seventeen new messages. Playing number seventeen," the mechanical voice informed him.

Claire's parents had called four times, a couple of his Marine buddies, Claire's brother over in South Africa, a couple of guys Mac performed with sometimes.

"Playing number two."

"Mac! Oh God, Mac! I can't get you on your cell!" Claire's frantic voice came through. "The fire is getting worse. I can't get down so I'm going up. You guys will have choppers on the roof, right? Please, Mac. I don't want to die. I'm too young, we have too much life ahead of us. And the baby…. God, Mac, I'm so scared!" She sobbed for a minute or two, until voices rose in panic and she gasped.

"Mac, I have to go! I have so much I need to say to you and so little time. Mac, I love you so much. You've been my hero and my world. If I don't get out, please tell me parents and Brad and Mike that I love them. Oh Mac, you're the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so much. Goodbye, honey. Goodbye, sweetheart. Thank you for loving me. Every day has been so special. Carry me in your heart and I'll always stay with you. I love you, baby. 'Til...the day I die. And beyond…" She sniffled once and then disconnected the call.

Mac tried to hang on, to listen to the next message but he couldn't hear it over his wracking sobs. She knew! She knew that they weren't going to be able to get copters on the roof. She knew the smoke was too dense, she was a realist, she knew.

And he knew. She was gone. Nobody had made it off the roof. "Claire," Mac moaned, a primal sound of agony and loss. He held the sweater even tighter and rocked back and forth, wishing he could hold her one last time.

"Don't cry Mac. I never wanted that." Claire didn't know how she had gotten back to where Mac was, but his sobs had drawn her in. She didn't remember much about dying, but she was pretty sure she didn't need those memories; it was bad enough she remembered the last few minutes of her life. Trying to call Mac and her parents to say goodbye. It would always stay with her. But she was getting a second chance, to offer solace to the husband she left behind.

"I know this is hard, but I don't want you to be miserable. You need to live for the both of us, Mac. Do the things that we always planned. I'll always be here with you."

Mac stood, walking to his desk, feeling so much older. He had to tell her parents and her brothers. How the hell could he do this? "Claire…" It was stupid to talk to her, as if she could hear him.

"Go ahead Mac, you can do this. I know it's hard. But it's not your fault. You need to let them know."

He dialed her parents and put the phone on speaker, both hands clenching the sweater to his face. Stella had closed the blinds so that he'd have some privacy and everyone had been warned to stay away.

They answered right away, Grace's voice making it clear that they knew, with her agonized 'hello'.

"It's Mac," he said quietly. He couldn't bear to call his mother-in-law any of the affectionate named they'd shared.

"Mac, let me get Bill. And Mike."

He waited, holding that little bit of Claire as her father and younger brother joined her mother, and Grace put her own phone on speaker.

"Are you all right, Mac? Were you there?" Bill Conrad, always a rock, sounded destroyed, yet a thread of concern ran through his voice. They'd adopted Mac, taken him into their family as if he'd always been there.

"I'm okay. That's not why I called. Claire…"

"Did you talk to her? She called us, Mac." Mike was openly sobbing. A single child, Mac considered Mike and Brad his brothers.

"No, Mikey. I just heard…she left a message. Oh God. I'm so sorry I didn't protect her, save her. I'm so damn sorry."

"You're positive she's gone?" Grace's voice held a little hope.

"Mom, she worked on the ninety-third floor. There wasn't a way out. The stairwells were blocked. They could only go up. I wish…I wish to hell we didn't have to have this conversation. But I don't see any way she could have survived it."

"Mac, she knew. I could hear it in her voice. A father knows…"

"Yeah…" There was so much more to say but Mac couldn't bear it. He tried so hard to remain strong for his in-laws, but within seconds they were all grieving together, pained sounds of loss.

Finally, Bill spoke. "You're alone up there, Mac. We'll drive up. Help..."

"Help what, Dad?" Mike burst in. "Help collect the teeth and bone fragments? She got pulverized!"

Grace let out a small sound and Bill swore softly. All Mac could do was listen as Claire's family—and his only relatives—shattered. No words were spoken for a few more minutes as Bill soothed his wife.

One last deep shuddering breath and his father in law spoke again. "We'll be up soon, Mac. You shouldn't be alone. And it'll help us to be close to where she lived."

"Bill, the city is virtually closed down and…"

"And our place is with you, son," Grace finished.

"Not mine," Mike's voice was angry. "Mac, you were a Marine and you're a cop. Why didn't your people stop it. You goddamn soldiers who can't even protect our own country and people!"

"Michael Conrad! That was uncalled for. Apologize!"

"Like hell I will, Dad. Mac was supposed to protect my sister and she's dead because of him. The great fucking Mac Taylor. You had to live in New York City. You couldn't move to Philly like Claire wanted to, or back to Chicago. You killed my sister and I hate you for it."

With a clatter the call disconnected and Mac redialed. Grace picked up immediately. "Mac, honey, we're sorry. We don't believe that. Bill is with Mike now. We're going to try to get up there tomorrow. Brad is flying in from South Africa to Montreal and he'll drive down and meet us there. Will you be okay until then?"

"He's right, you know," Mac replied quietly. "Be safe. You have a key to the place, so let yourself in."

"You're not going home, are you?"

"I don't think so. I can't face it, Mom."

She whispered a goodbye and hung up. Mac didn't know how long he stood there, stroking the sweater, but when he looked up, Stella was hovering at the door, her expression tense.

"Any news?" She stepped into his office and locked the door behind her, crossing to him and taking his hands in hers. Stella had been so worried about Mac, but she had no idea how to reach him. Though they'd been friends for a long time, they'd never gone through anything like this.

Stella could only watch as Mac angrily wrenched his hands back, smoothing them over the sweater, appearing to soothe himself with the stroking motions on the cashmere. "She's gone, Stell. She's gone. I failed her and she's gone."

"You couldn't do anything Mac." Stella knew deep down inside that Claire was dead, even without any evidence . If Claire had been in the office, the likelihood of her making it out was slim to impossible, and if she had made it out, Mac would have had news

"Are you sure?" she asked gently.

In response, Mac picked up the phone and dialed numbers, punching each one angrily. Stella listened, silent as each message played through and when Claire's frantic tone rang through the room, she knew there was no doubt.

Mindful of the protective way Mac was with the sweater, Stella stroked the back of his neck. "I'm so sorry…" She paused for a few minutes until the harsh sound of Mac's breathing overwhelmed her.

"Mac, even if you had tried, you know you wouldn't have made it. She wouldn't have wanted that."

Claire was in complete agony. Going through it had been bad enough, but her husband's realization of her death was heart wrenching in a different way, one that broke her a thousand times over.. She couldn't take any more. Claire crossed the room, resting her hand on Stella's, wishing she could touch her husband and their friend as well.

"Stella, you need to take care of him. He's going to need you. Make sure he knows I love him and that I don't want to see him for a long time. His place is here, his city needs him." Even though Claire knew that Mac and Stella couldn't hear her, speaking the words was easing her mind a little bit.

Mac took in a shuddering breath, Claire's perfume tickling his nose. For a second he could have almost sworn he had heard the whisper of her voice, as impossible as it was. He looked at Stella, who was standing at his shoulder. "I could have comforted her. I didn't even get to talk to her, to be there for her, Stella. She needed me so badly this morning, and…now. She's gone. She had to say goodbye on our answering machine." He choked out a sob. "I didn't get to say goodbye, to tell her how much I love her."

He sank into his desk chair, Stella standing close but not talking or touching him any more. She seemed to know that he needed to talk and that he needed a little bit of distance. "We got so busy we took each other for granted. Did I even kiss her this morning? Tell her I loved her? Did she know down in her soul what she means to me? When did we take time for one another last? It's all gone, Stella. Dust and ruin. I can't touch her again. And when she needed me the most, she had to say goodbye to the answering machine."

He wrapped that sweater in his hand, his free hand stroking a picture of Claire that sat on his desk. "She's so beautiful. I always thought she had settled for me. She could have had a lawyer, a doctor, a financial whiz kid. Instead, she chose me."

"She loves you, Mac," Stella said quietly and Mac winced at the present tense of her words. "She will always love you." Stella's hand scrubbed over her face and she smeared her tears and eye makeup. "We just need to find a way."

"I can't live without her," Mac said in a destroyed voice.

Claire was pacing now, trying to bleed off energy physics dictated she shouldn't have. Even though he couldn't hear or see her, she lectured him."Mac Taylor, stop speaking like that. You will live and you will thrive. I need you to…we need you to." She ran a hand over her stomach, choking back a sob.

Chapter Three

Present Day

Mac blinked rapidly, shaking his head. No, that wasn't how it had happened! Claire hadn't been there in spirit or in ghost form or whatever that was. Why was he remembering it all wrong? Did he have a head injury? Had he been drugged?

Mac hated being at this disadvantage. He was tied up in a way that he couldn't lunge or strike out at his captors. And that didn't explain why he was having these strange dreams. He wouldn't term them memories. They were impossibilities. He tried to follow the evidence but there was none to follow.

He closed his eyes, intending to conserve strength.

September 11, 2002

Mac hadn't expected to go down to Ground Zero; had, in fact, planned to stay far away, but at twenty-three hundred he found himself buying a rose from a street vendor and hopping in a cab. The fanfare and posturing was all over and it wasn't as if he'd be able to sleep anyway.

Stella had offered to go down with him, but he'd brushed her off, telling her he had no intention of going. And that had been the case until twenty minutes ago. He'd been in their apartment, fielding calls from Grace, Bill, Brad, and Michael, who were worried about him. They'd maintained close contact over the year, Mike even coming up to stay with him for a few weeks.

But it was just too damned hard. He could see Claire in Mike's eyes, the way his mouth hitched up in a smile. Brad had Claire's nose, her quick sarcastic wit. Sometimes Grace sounded just like her and Bill had Claire's sense of humor. Mac limited his contact to a couple of calls a month, though he'd spent that first hard Thanksgiving and Christmas with them. He intended to work through the holidays this year.

They all said that time heals the wounds, but Mac wasn't finding that. A year later he missed Claire more every day, sometimes the pain bringing him to his knees emotionally. Maybe some day the grief would be less acute, but he didn't feel that right now.

He'd been sitting in their apartment, sipping a glass of her favorite white wine, her favorite curry still spicing the apartment even though he'd eaten it hours ago, when he realized that he needed to go to the place that had taken her life and face it.

For someone who worked all over the city, Mac had done a remarkable job of avoiding the deep gash in the earth. The fires and constant dust had faded, leaving just emptiness behind. Every time he drove near it, he mentally closed his eyes, refusing to see the place where his wife had died.

A year had gone by and Mac had no answers, no stories of what might have happened, no remains to bury. The answering machine message had been saved and burned to DVD, but that was the only clue he had about her last moments on earth.

"Hey, Pal. We're here." Mac's head snapped up and he nodded at the cabbie, handing over some money. "Don't want it," the guy said softly, motioning to Mac's badge and the flower in his hand. "Thanks for protecting the city, Pal."

Mac gave the cabbie a faint smile and nodded, getting out and walking over to Trinity Church. Now that he was here, he was certain this was a very bad idea. He wasn't prepared to really look at his wife's grave.

Mac stared for long moments, tears seeping out despite his best efforts to keep them in check. He couldn't help the emotion rushing out. She'd meant the world to him. She'd meant everything.

Claire had known Macwould finally find his way here and she approached when his tears started flowing. She and their child had taken shifts, watching over him for much of the last year, especially the nights when despair seemed to crush him.

Even though Claire knew she shouldn't keep trying to communicate with him, on this sad anniversary, she had to reach out. "Oh, Mac," Claire whispered, stroking his hair and wishing she could actually be felt or heard. She had to settle for a gentle touch that she hoped he was aware of, somewhere deep in his subconscious. They'd always had a way about them, where communication wasn't necessary, where their bond hadn't needed words to strengthen it. It just was.

Mac turned to face her and Claire's heart leaped, she thought for a moment that he saw her, that he could communicate with her on this level. But his extraordinary green eyes just looked through her as he stared out into the city they'd both adopted as their home, the city that had thrummed in their very veins for so many years.

"I love you," she whispered as he walked away, his brokenness showing in the way his shoulders were rounded and he plodded forward, every step seeming to leech the spirit from her husband. She hated that he had become this heartbroken shell of a man, sleeping only in short snatches. She hated that he seemed to have lost his soul. He now existed only for work.

"Mac, you need to find some way to live. You need to search for that. I'll help you. I'll always be by your side, even if you can't see or touch me."

Present Day

Mac's eyes slammed open again and he shook his head. That wasn't what had happened. He'd been there alone! He couldn't have seen the events through Claire's eyes as well. Memories didn't go that way. Dreams and hallucinations did. Claire's visit was a figment of his imagination, a drug-induced hallucination. His rational mind began running through what cocktail they might have given him to force these hallucinations.

"Mac, it's real. Just let it happen. You'll be okay."

He could swear he heard the whisper of her voice, not deep in his memories, but here, right now.

"No," he growled, straining against the cuffs. He felt skin tear and the sharp tang of something on the air. Blood. He was bleeding! Pain…pain would keep him focused. It would have to do.

He licked his lips, mouth suddenly watering though he had no idea why. His body was tingling, over sensitized, pain and pleasure receptors colliding. He pulled in a breath and on it was that metallic tang that he suddenly hungered for.

What the hell was going on??

Knowing it wasn't the smart thing to do and giving head to his panic for the first time in a long time, Mac tugged and yanked at the restraints, growling out curses to his captors. He only lasted about ten minutes before he collapsed, exhausted, dispirited, and very worried about what his fate might be.

Even though he was aware that his hallucinations were probably someone's amusement, he began speaking. "What the hell is going on here, Claire? Why won't they tell me what is going on?" He knew torture and forced interrogation techniques meant that the victim was left off balance, but he was surprised to find that it had happened to him so easy easily. So much for all his training.

And what was he doing, talking to a hallucination? He had to refocus here, to go within himself and re-center. It was the only way to regain some control.

October 23, 2003, twenty years after the Beirut bombings

Iwo Jima Memorial

Arlington, VA

The right thing to do had been to take the day off work. Mac was known as a workaholic, but everyone had seemed to understand, once they realized what the date meant to him, that he had almost died in the Marine barracks bombing twenty years ago. Many of his friends hadn't been as lucky as he was. Many of them were buried at Arlington and other veteran and civilian cemeteries.

Mac had thrown an overnight bag in his car and made the drive to DC. Some of his men had rented a block of rooms at the Key Bridge Marriott and he'd been invited to stay with them. He'd be back in New York tomorrow, but for today, this was the right thing to do.

He checked in and met Tim Green, Vince O'Malley, Frank Junello, Warren Tucker. Mac hadn't seen these guys for many years, not since they'd all broken off when they'd retired from the Corps, most right after Desert Storm. Frank was in private security in LA now, Tim ran a commercial fishing company in Florida. Warren was a state senator from Michigan, and Vince…he was "between jobs". The bombing had taken the most emotional toll on Vince and Mac knew he hadn't held a steady job for a few years.

It was nice seeing the guys, but it just served to remind Mac who wasn't there. Two hundred and twenty Marines had died that day and an additional twenty-one men from other services had perished as well. All four of the men Mac was visiting with had served on sentry duty. Some others hadn't come back. Stan…Harry…Zane.

They'd made a solemn procession to Arlington, joining others who had the same idea, who were visiting their buddies' graves on this day. Only a few of the men were buried here at Arlington, but it was symbolic, a meeting place, just like Lejeune and the Iwo Jima Memorial would be later in the day. Those places symbolized the Marine spirit. Mac made his way over to the Lebanese cedar and memorial stone, breathing in deeply, remembering the sounds and sights of that day.

Claire walked slowly toward her husband who stood stroking the memorial. She hadn't know him then, having met him after he'd retired from active duty service in the early nineties. But she knew that scar on his chest, knew how every October he'd become withdrawn, even more than usual. He'd been barely out of Annapolis at the time, a boy all of a sudden become a man on one horrific day.

She leaned in, touching his arm. "Oh, Mac. I almost lost you then. Such irony, huh?" Claire's arms wound around him and she rested her head on his shoulder. The fact that she'd been lost in a terrorist action wasn't lost on her.

She wished he could feel her, muttering when he didn't react to the way her hands rested on the back of his neck, the way her mouth brushed over his cheek.

Later that night when he stood with his friends at the base of the Iwo Jima memorial, arms linked, silent tears steaming down his face, Claire felt angry. She just wanted to go to him and was prevented from the simple luxury of him feeling her touch. Sure, she could feel the warmth of his skin under the palm of her hand, but he couldn't gain any comfort from her touch.

"Dammit, why does this feel like hell?" she asked, closing her eyes against her own pain.

Present Day

Mac forced his eyes open, breathing in deeply. The air had sharpened now and he was slightly disoriented. How long had he been in this state? Doubt started to creep into his mind. Was this some sort of lack of sleep state? Had it all caught up with him? His doctor had prescribed sleep aids but Mac hated using them. They always left him feeling exhausted the next day and he needed to be sharp and on his game.

But it was possible that the seven and a half years of bad sleep, of fractured dreams, and complete mental exhaustion, had worn his psyche down. It wasn't likely but he had to examine all possibilities. It was more reasonable than seeing memories from Claire's eyes and point of view.

His stomach growled and Mac shifted. He wasn't aware of how much time had passed, time was a foreign concept to him here. Maybe it was best. He catalogued his body again. Sore, cramped, wrists still slick. But his body was shaking slightly and he felt almost…revitalized. There was latent energy in his body, thrumming through him. Mac shifted restlessly, running his tongue over his mouth, muscles bunching and relaxing.

"Let it happen, Mac." The soft voice reached his ears and he whipped his head around, looking for it.

"Don't fight it, Mac," she said again. He knew that voice. It was Claire!

"Claire? How? What's happening?" he asked, panic starting to rise despite his Marine training.

"Stay calm, Mac. You have to stay calm, or this will be much harder on you."

"What will be?" he asked, rattling the chains now, panic rising. That was the last thing he knew before darkness descended.