"Ms. Moore, Michael. I understand that you both are concerned about Brian, but the man's an adult. If he wants to disappear, he has that right. You have to admit, his life has been pretty...well... colorful, and he has a tendency to do things his own way. I don't know what you expect me to do at this point. There's no evidence that any crime has been committed, of any foul play."

Carl Horvath, standing with Michael in front of the desk in Cynthia Moore's office, was a bit at a loss. Brian Kinney had always been a bit of a loose cannon. He knew that from personal experience. He'd helped him out of a couple of pretty serious scrapes over the last couple of years.

"Detective Horvath, he's just gone!" Cynthia began again, her exasperation evident in her voice. "Brian is the owner and CEO of a very successful business in this city. One that he invested everything in to get off the ground. He has a son, a very strong relationship with this crazy family of his. He is involved deeply in his community, whether he admits it or not. He nearly went bankrupt taking down the last police chief, for god sake! This is not an irresponsible man! Colorful, yes. Capricious at times, yes. But he is not irresponsible! Not where his family and his business are concerned."

Michael had been silent through most of the conversation with Carl, simply answering questions and offering what input he could when needed. ‘Brian is missing.' The thought played on an endless loop in his head like some other-worldly mantra. But it wasn't calming, it was paralyzing. He was so fucking confused! He walked toward the window looking out over the parking lot, expecting to see the ‘Vette parked in its regular spot. The ‘Vette... wait...

Turning around to again face the others in the room, Michael's eyes begged the detective, "Carl, can we track Brian's car?"

"What?"

"Can we track Brian's car? Could they put out one of those bulletin things and look for his car?  If we find it maybe we can find him." Michael had absolutely no experience with actual police work, but it sounded good.

"Michael, I have to have a reason to track his car. Honestly, I could file a missing person report and do it that way, but you do know that if we take that route, the press will have a field day. Police reports are public record, and, well...frankly a missing Brian Kinney is news."From experience Carl knew exactly what the press would do with that kind of story, given Brian's identity. A prominent gay businessman, the Babylon bombing, the bashing, the Stockwell connection, Brian's personal life...Christ. It would be a circus.

"Well, we have to do something!" Fuck, he didn't want to cry right now. Overwhelmed with his own inability to do something -anything - he turned back to the window and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His fingers instinctively wrapped around a small square of paper still in his pocket from early that morning. He pulled out the sticky note.

"Shit," he said under his breath. Michael held his hand out to the detective. "Carl, I totally forgot. I found this on Brian's counter this morning. I can't read it and it isn't Brian's handwriting. I don't know why I took it, but it might be something."

Smoothing the crumpled note, Carl looked over the crisply written words and placed the paper securely in his pocket.

"It's late. I suggest that you two go home," Carl sighed. "Now, I don't want to put this into the police files at this point. Like I said, the press would have it on the front page by morning. But I know a guy...an investigator...who might be able to keep it quiet. I'll let you know tomorrow."

As Carl settled himself in his car, he looked toward the empty space where Brian's own car should have been parked, wondering if he was making a mistake not turning this in as a missing person. There really wasn't enough evidence to assume a crime had taken place, but it didn't feel kosher, either. But, if Brian was in trouble, a couple of hours could make a lot of difference. "Damn," he swore aloud. What a mess.

*******

The absurdity of his situation hadn't entirely escaped him. Coming home and he didn't even know where home was. Literally and figuratively. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of homelessness that had absolutely nothing to do with brick or mortar. It had everything to do with blood and bone and hazel and auburn. And gut-wrenching fear...

He sat silently in Cynthia's small, elegantly appointed kitchen, vacantly staring at the spoon resting next to his left hand, a pinkie finger reaching out occasionally to tilt it slightly this way or that. Wanting desperately to scream or throw the damned spoon across the room in frustration - or just cry again - he said instead, "The tea is good."

"Kava. I discovered it on a trip to... somewhere... a few years ago. Supposed to be calming."

 He huffed out a small laugh. "Yeah, well, I guess we need that."

"Justin," she began. "We'll find him." The anguish she felt pouring out of every fiber of the young man threatened to break what was left of her own shattered resolve. She swallowed back her fear and cleared her throat and repeated, "We'll find him." It sounded a little more hollow the second time.

Cynthia had already told Justin as much as she knew. Brian's disappearance, the loft, her conversation with Carl Horvath in her office earlier this evening. There really wasn't anything else they could do, at least until morning. Nothing but worry.

Justin rose from the table, picked up his cup and placed it in the sink. "Thanks for the plane ticket, Cynthia, and for letting me stay here tonight. I don't think I could handle the family...Michael..."

"Christ, Justin, you don't have to explain it to me." They both laughed emptily and fell silent again.

"I'm going to stay at the loft tomorrow. We need to get the utilities back on."

"I figured you would want to be there. I'll call the utility companies first thing in the morning. Kinnetic will cover the expense."

"I just need to be there. You know, in case..."

Justin brought his hands to cover his face, a soul wrenching cry escaped him and his shoulders shook. Cynthia walked over and wrapped her arms around the young man, her own tears mixing with his. There just wasn't anything else to say. Not tonight.

*******

Carl Horvath stood at the kitchen sink in the house he shared with Debbie Novotny, drinking his third cup of coffee. He certainly needed it this morning. Had he foolishly thought today would feel any better than yesterday? Right now he'd take getting the skin slowly carved off his tired ass by the chief every day for a month to what he was facing this morning. He liked Brian. He really did. But the boy sure had a way of getting things riled up, that's for certain.  And Deb... Damn, she's was a total guilt-riddled mess. One of ‘her boys' was missing and she hadn't noticed it. Well, suffice it to say home life wouldn't be the same for a while.  

As he drained his cup, Carl felt his phone vibrate. Looking at the ID as he answered, he had an unfamiliar moment of panic.

"Horvath."

"Yeah, Horvath, it's Krawczynski. Found Kinney's car. In impound."

Shit.

"How long?"

"Almost a week. Towed in from over by the Liberty Bridge near the tunnels."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah...keys were in it."

SHIT!

"You get anything on the note?"

"It's Irish. No surprise there. My guy says it was a rough translation, but it means something like ‘May there be peace with you, brother. You protected. We will protect.' Strange as hell, Horvath."

"This whole damn thing is strange. Thanks, Kaz. Fast work. Let me know what else you come up with."

"Yeah, well, Horvath. You'll owe me...Again."  

*******

The man zipped his jeans and picked up the keys lying on the chipped hotel table. Slipping on his shoes, he spared a glance back at the rumpled bed and the red hair splayed out over the cheap pillow before he closed the door and walked back toward the old apartment. The morning sun played havoc with his hangover and he shielded his eyes against it as he reached for the door of the old building. He leaned up against the aged red brick and rested his throbbing head. Rolling his shoulders slightly, he slipped away into black.

Mac blinked his eyes against the bright light of the day and looked around him, confused. Alarm crept into him as he fingered the keys hanging from his right hand.

No.

He wasn't outside. He was inside. It was night.

Christ's name!

Hand trembling, Mac opened the door and ascended the stairs, grateful for the familiar musty smell and the shadowed darkness of the narrow stairwell. It distracted him slightly from the strange stink of his own body - the rank odors of a two dollar whore - and the not knowing. Not knowing why he was stinking. Not knowing why he was outside. Not knowing ... anything anymore. And the fear began to build. There was always the fear.

At least it was familiar.