A/N: I'm kinda meh about this chapter—it is really a means to an end and I wanted to get something out there—the muse dictated that I work a chapter or two ahead before I went back to this one, so, sorry for any delay. And with that…

Gone

Chapter 8: Searching

August 2004

Saturday

1312 Local

Harm's Apartment

North of Union Station

Harm sat on his living room floor surrounded by piles of Mac's things, searching for something to lead him to her. He'd been at it for the last three hours, ever since he'd taken the boxes from her storage unit and loaded them into his SUV. There were eleven of them and thus far he'd made it through about a third of them.

A couple of the boxes had contained books, books he remembered from her apartment. He thumbed through each one of them from the paleontology texts and law books to even a few rather tawdry romance novels. Pretty naughty, marine. He smiled to himself; he never would have thought she was interested in that particular genre. His smile turned to tears when he flipped open her law books and saw her flowing script in the margins, a bittersweet reminder that Sarah MacKenzie had once handled the objects around him.

One box held a few knickknacks that he remembered from her apartment as well, and yet another held items from her office.

That one was a hard one.

How many times had he been in her office and how many times had he teased her with that dinosaur model she had on her desk? How many times had she tried not to laugh but always gave in? He ran his hand over Trevor T-Rex almost reverently, inanely wishing that the dinosaur would tell him where Mac was. Trevor…he tried to remember how she'd come up with that name. Oh, right. He was the one who'd actually named that stupid dinosaur. She'd rolled her eyes at him then, but the name had stuck.

Harm set the dinosaur model down and reached in the box again. This time he pulled out her nameplate and felt a stab in the gut as he traced the letters on it.

Lt. Colonel Sarah J MacKenzie

God, she had a beautiful name.

Harm dropped the nameplate in his lap and pinched the bridge of his nose; he'd never get through all of this if he couldn't keep it together. He took several deep breaths then set the nameplate aside to reach in for more.

He remembered each and every item that was packed in that box. He remembered where she kept them, how she'd arranged them. He had the urge to knock everything off the shelf in his, no, her office and put her things up instead. Of course, he wouldn't do that. He certainly wouldn't want to explain how he'd taken things from her storage unit; he hadn't even told Harriet he'd found the key.

Once Harm had finished with that box, he hefted another one off the stack and tore it open. There were a few books on top, one being another one of those romance novels, much to his amusement. He set those books aside, realizing as he removed the last book that this box was full of her photo albums. He wondered…was he in there? His hand shook a little as he reached down for the first album…

No. If he started on those photobooks now, he wouldn't get to anything else and he'd probably end up sitting on the couch with them, drinking with the express purpose of getting drunk.

He forced himself to push that box aside and dove into the next one. The first thing he saw was a flash of navy-blue fabric. He opened the box completely and noted how sequins on the dress caught the light and sparkled. He recognized it; it was the dress she'd worn to the Sudanese Embassy the night yet another one of Webb's operations had gone awry. God, she looked beautiful in it and it took everything he had in him to seem indifferent to her appearance when she'd returned to JAG that night. Inside all he could think about was kissing that beautiful neck of hers, working his way down to those beautiful breasts; the sight of the perfect amount of cleavage she'd shown made all the blood in him rush to his groin. He very nearly embarrassed himself as they danced that night, the short jacket of his mess dress uniform woefully inadequate to hide anything, and he'd been so close to asking her to spend the night with him.

He should have asked her to spend the night. Because then she'd still be here, and he wouldn't be sitting here alone, desperately searching for some clue to her whereabouts.

She had other gowns in there. He recognized the one from the Surface Warfare Ball, the one where Brumby showed up to 'surprise' her. She'd been surprised, alright. The looks she'd given him that night…he should have done something then. But he was with Rene…and she…she had that damn ring.

Hours later, Harm was ready to look at the photo albums. Thus far he hadn't found any clues to her whereabouts, and there was a growing fear inside that he never would. Please, please, dear god, let there be some clue...

The first album he found had only a few pictures with her as a child. She was adorable, with long chestnut locks, those big eyes looking out at him, yet she looked so sad. Obviously, he knew at least a few of the reasons for that. There was only one where she looked happy; she must have been about nine or so and was standing next to an older woman that he presumed was her Iranian grandmother.

There was a huge gap in time then; nothing from her adolescence, which was certainly not surprising, and then the next photos were from her marine boot camp followed by several from her college days and her various duty stations.

The next album contained pictures from law school and from her time in Bosnia, and then came the ones from JAG.

So many of them were of him—alone, with her, with others…she had a lot of the same pictures that he had and as he studied each one, he felt the familiar sting of tears. It took him a long time to get through that one, and then, suddenly, there was just one left.

This was the last item from her storage unit. The last chance for a clue. He'd already gone through the furniture she'd stored; there'd been nothing there. He had her uncle's table here and he already knew the one drawer in it was empty.

There was a part of him that didn't want to look at this last bit of her. If he didn't look at it, he could still maintain the hope that it would show him the way to her. Unfortunately, he was old enough to know that delaying the inevitable was useless. With a small sigh and a huge amount of trepidation, he opened it.

And found nothing.

Oh, there were pictures…some of him, some of Chloe…but absolutely nothing to show him where to look next.

A crushing grief came over him, followed by anger. Fury. Rage. He threw the album across the room, watching the pages fly out as it struck the wall by his front door. The book was essentially a three-ring binder, and the rings had popped open, spilling the contents over the floor. He stood up from the floor, cursing the sharp pain that lanced through his back. It had been stupid to sit there so long. Stupid to think that he'd find something in those boxes to lead him to Mac. Stupid to think he'd be able to find her. Stupid.

He stalked over to the broken album on the floor and gave it a kick. And then another and another. By the time he finished, the book was in pieces and he was out of breath. Not because of the exertion, but because the pain of it all was crushing the life out of him. And it wasn't enough to destroy the album that had destroyed his hopes.

His fist shot out and hit the wall, knocking a hole in it, but he ignored the pain in his hand and hit the wall again.

And then spent the night with a bottle of bourbon, desperate to dull the pain.

Sunday

1000 Local

Harm's Apartment

North of Union Station

Harm stumbled out of his bedroom, nearly tripping as he went down his stairs. His head pounded and he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but he felt like punishing himself. It was ridiculous that he'd gotten so drunk. Over a recovering alcoholic, no less. His hand hurt, and for a moment he wondered why.

Then he saw the holes in the wall, and he remembered. Cursing himself even more for his stupidity, he stepped over to the mess he'd made. He may as well go out today and get supplies to fix the wall. He had nothing better to do, no court cases immediately pending, no plans with anyone from JAG, and it was going to be one of those miserably hot August days in DC. Harm took a closer look at the holes and made mental notes of what he would need for the repairs. As he stepped forward, his toe struck something.

Damn. It was one of the remnants of that last photo album.

With a sigh, he bent forward to start picking up the mess, cursing the self-induced pain in his head. He reached for a piece of the album cover, and as he did so, a scrap of paper fluttered out. He snatched that up too, but as soon as he caught it in his hand, he felt it. Her. He uncrumpled what appeared to be newsprint, noting that it looked like a classified ad for an apartment. There was a listing number, street address and a phone number, but no city and he didn't recognize the area code.

Harm moved to the kitchen to find his phonebook. He flipped to the right page and searched the map for the area code in question. There.

Montana.

Montana…could she have been there all this time?

Yes. Harm knew with everything he had in him that she was somewhere in that state. His Mac GPS may have been faulty of late, but their connection…it was still there.

With shaking hands, he reached for his phone and dialed the number from the ad. The call went immediately to voicemail and he was disappointment, but then again, it was Sunday.

"You have reached National Parks Realty of Kalispell…"

Harm hung up the phone. Finally, somewhere to search.

Harm spent most of the rest of the day searching the internet for…what, he couldn't really say, but he knew he'd know it when he found it. He started looking at newspaper websites, but he could only read so many articles before he was required to get a subscription. He would have done that, but it was already clear to him that the online access wasn't that great or complete. He then went to the TV station websites, but the stories only went back a couple of weeks. He made plans to go to go to a library and search the archives for more articles, working backwards until the time of her disappearance. He was also going to call the realtor office from the ad as soon as it opened at 0830, 1030 his time, tomorrow.

Yes, finally, he had a plan.

That night Harm slept peacefully for the first time since he found himself in the brig, accused of a murder he didn't commit.

Monday

1031 Local

JAG Headquarters

Falls Church, VA

"National Parks Realty of Kalispell, Kelsey speaking."

Harm's mouth had suddenly gone dry. He sensed he was so close to finding her and it frightened him as much as it excited him. Truthfully, there was a part of him that feared he'd gone off the deep end and it was just wishful thinking that he was closing in on her. He swallowed, desperately trying to create some saliva so he could speak.

"Hello?"

"Uh, yeah…hi. My name is Harmon Rabb and I'm calling about a listing for an apartment?" He cursed himself for sounding like an awkward teen.

"What's the listing number?"

"Um, it—it's, uh, five, uh-five-five-three-two-uh, three." And to think he was a lawyer who made his living talking.

"Okay, give me a moment and I'll pull it up. Hmmm, that's an old listing and it's no longer available. I can see if there is anything else in that building—were you looking for something in Kalispell? It looks like this one is in Whitefish. Hmmm, wonder why the Whitefish office isn't listed…"

"Um…you said that was in Whitefish?" Where was that?

"Yes, and it looks like there is a two-bedroom available in that unit; your listing was for a one bedroom. Were you looking for a one bedroom?"

"Uh, yes?" Harm cringed. Kelsey of Kalispell surely thought she was talking to an idiot.

"In Kalispell or Whitefish?"

Harm closed his eyes. Which one, which one…It wasn't that he was actually looking for any apartment, but he tried to imagine which area Mac had picked.

"Whitefish," he said suddenly, knowing in an instant it was the right choice.

"Okay…tell you what. I'll transfer you to the Whitefish office. They can probably help you a little more, is that alright?"

"Uh, yeah. Actually, could you just give me the number? I'll give them a call later today."

"Sure thing. You ready?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's 406-555-2923."

"406-555-2923?"

"Yes, sir."

"Great, thanks."

Harm hung up then and leaned back in his chair.

Whitefish, Montana…

I'm coming, Mac.

One week later…

1752 Local

Pensacola Naval Air Station

Pensacola, FL

As it happened, Harm didn't get the chance to do more research into Whitefish, MT before he was sent down to Pensacola for an investigation. This particular one had a few more twists and turns than the norm, and it wasn't until the afternoon before he was scheduled to fly out that he had a moment to do another internet search. Harm knew things would be going faster and better if he put Bud on the case, but Harm wasn't ready to let Bud or Harriet or anyone at JAG in on this investigation just yet. He wanted something concrete first. He wanted to see her first.

He found the website for the Whitefish Pilot, the local newspaper. There wasn't much to the site and just when he was resigned to the fact that he'd have to find it on microfiche at one of the DC libraries, he came across an article…

And found gold. Struck oil.

And he knew it.

Employee Foils Robbery at Local Business

Whitefish, MT—An employee of a local favorite, the Monarch Mercantile, thwarted an armed robbery yesterday as she was closing up the business for the night.

Samantha O'Hara, who just celebrated her one-year anniversary as an employee at Monarch Mercantile, found herself in a frightening situation just as she was preparing to leave for the evening.

James McDougall, 22, broke into the store at approximately 6:45 pm Tuesday evening. He was armed, but that did not stop Ms. O'Hara from defending herself and her workplace. She disarmed him and he was taken into custody shortly thereafter. He was then taken to the local hospital due to minor injuries sustained in the struggle. Ms. O'Hara was unharmed and declined to be interviewed for this piece.

The shop's owner, Mary Scott, has expressed her gratitude to her employee. "She's one in a million," she was quoted as saying.

Harm's heart fluttered in his chest. He knew without a doubt that Samantha O'Hara was his Mac. Call it intuition, call it some psychic connection, but he just knew. He got the number to Monarch Mercantile from information and was just about to call from his office phone when Captain Adam Larson, one of the flight instructors, stepped into the room. He had been one of the point people for Harm during his investigation, and his assistance had been invaluable.

"Commander, you up for a little chow before you call it an evening?"

Harm wanted to make his phone call and adjourn to his quarters, but he wasn't going to turn down an offer from a superior officer.

"Sure, Captain. Just let me log out here." Harm did what he needed to do, then grabbed his cover and briefcase. The two men headed down the hall to the elevators when he suddenly had a thought…

Who knew what kind of caller ID this little Montana shop had? Harm didn't want there to be any sign that he was calling from a naval base, nor did he want to use his own cellphone. So…

"Captain, can I borrow your cellphone? I think mine's on the fritz and I just want to make one call before be head off."

The captain handed over his phone without question. "I'll just be a minute," Harm said as he pulled the hastily scribbled phone number from his pocket.

"No problem. I'll meet you down there—I need to have a word with one of the MP's anyway."

Harm nodded. The captain got on the elevator and as soon as the door closed, Harm checked his watch. 1802. Whitefish, Montana was two hours behind Florida, so he figured the shop would still be open. He dialed, sure that his heart was about to leap out of his throat. The phone rang once, twice, and then a third time before it was picked up.

"Monarch Mercantile, how may I help you?"

Harm started to shake. He started to cry, though he didn't realize it. The voice on the other end of the line spoke again, a polite 'hello', and Harm flipped the phone closed.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry, then discovered he was already. He wanted to call her back just to hear her voice again, but he needed to catch up with Captain Larson. He called for the elevator, then thought, what the hell. He flipped the phone open and hit redial. This time the call was picked up after the first ring.

"Monarch Mercantile, this is Sam." It took Harm everything he had not to say something, but he knew the first time he spoke to her had to be in person. He couldn't let her run again. He ended the call as the elevator arrived, took out his handkerchief to wipe his face, figuring he'd blame his appearance on allergies, then flipped open the phone again. He wouldn't dial her again, but he needed something to remind him that this was real. He called up the list of previously dialed numbers.

406-555-3826

406-555-3826

There it was, numbers one and two on the list. It was real. He ran his thumb over the digits.

"Hey, Mac," he said aloud, and then he did laugh. With joy.

End Chapter 8