Chapter 20 - This Is It.

All our Toronto visitors - Gus, JR, Mel, and Lindz, as well as Anthony and his mom - were packed up and put on planes back to Toronto before dinnertime. 

Gus was heartbroken that his time with his dad was being cut short but Brian refused to relent. I didn’t blame him; the thought of Langley anywhere near Gus froze the blood in my veins. Brian also had Cynthia hire a security team to install a brand new, state-of-the-art security system at the girls’ house and agreed to pay triple to ensure it would be in place within twenty-four hours. I think, if he could have found someone he trusted in time, he would have hired a full time bodyguard for Gus as well, even over the objections of the boy’s mothers. Instead, Brian sat Gus down before they left and told him that the man who’d given him that medal at the soccer game was a ‘very bad man’ who had hurt Brian in the past and that, if Gus EVER saw him again, he should immediately call the police. And, to make sure that was a possibility, Brian bought his son a cell phone from a kiosk at the airport before the family took off. 

Brian was not playing games.

We drove straight from the airport to the police station. Brian almost ran from the car into the building and didn’t hesitate for even a second when the officer at the front desk yelled at him to stop. He didn’t come to a halt until he had crashed through the door to Horvath’s office and slammed the incriminating medal down on the detective’s desk.

“Langley’s gone too fucking far! He’s threatening my son now. If you don’t stop him, I sure as fuck will!” Brian roared at the startled older man, his face turning a violent crimson with rage, before he took off, pacing around the small office like a caged tiger. 

“Gus? Is he okay?” Carl asked, looking frightened for the first time since this whole thing had started. 

“He’s fine. I sent him and his moms home and, hopefully, Langley can’t get to them there. At least not right away,” Brian conceded. “But I swear, if ANYTHING happens to Gus, or any of the rest of them, I will personally tear Langley apart with my bare hands. He’s gone too fucking far this time, Carl. You have to stop him. NOW! I’m not going to wait around for some trial a year from now and hope he gets convicted. Not while that psychopath is out there stalking me and threatening my son . . .”

I knew Brian probably could have kept on raving and pacing around Horvath’s office for a good while longer, but luckily the police detective got up and physically stopped Brian by standing directly in his path. “You need to calm down and tell me what happened, Kinney, or I won’t be able to help.” Carl pointed towards one of the guest chairs. “Sit. Explain.”

For about a half a second Brian looked like he was going to argue the point, but Carl just stood there, one arm pointing at the chair, unrelentingly calm, and eventually my partner did the logical thing and followed directions.

“Now, tell me what brought all of this on,” Carl directed, gently pushing me towards the second chair as he passed on his way back to his desk. “If Langley really did go after Gus, I will happily walk an arrest warrant up to the DA’s office myself.” Then the cop’s face softened a little and he added, “Gus might be your son, but I think of him and JR like my own grandkids. I will do anything in my power to make sure nobody hurts those kids.”

Brian pointed at the soccer medal still sitting on Horvath’s desk. “That’s what happened!” he yelled. Then he launched into a full explanation about what had happened at the soccer game earlier in the day. 

Brian was so irate that, at a certain point, his explanation became barely comprehensible, what with the interjected cursing and the rage-induced sputtering. I didn’t try to break in, even though I might have been able to explain a little more clearly; I was just glad that Brian was reacting with anger this time instead of withdrawing into himself. Back at the soccer field I’d feared for a moment or two that he was going to regress into Buddy again, but somehow the threat to Gus had helped to keep Brian focused. He’d fought off the panic and, instead of regressing into a helpless abuse victim, turning all the fear and fury in on himself, he’d let it all burn outward. Personally, I thought this was a definite improvement, so I wasn’t about to try and quell the savagery as long as it was directed where it belonged - towards Langley.

About halfway through Brian’s tirade Horvath used his pen, looped through the ribbon on the suspect medal, to pick the object up and deposit it in a plastic evidence bag he’d pulled out of his desk drawer. Otherwise, though, he sat and listened quietly through Brian’s whole spiel. When the incensed father’s rage finally sputtered to an end, the detective nodded and sat back in his chair. 

“You’re right; this time Langley might have gone too far. And, if we can pull his prints off that medal he gave to Gus, we probably have enough to get a restraining order against him,” Carl said, nodding towards the evidence bag waiting atop his desk blotter. “It’s one thing to send a few unwanted gifts to an adult - that’s a bit sketchy but harder to prove it’s an overt threat - but no judge is going to just sit on a defendant personally approaching the seven year old son of a witness. That potentially ramps this stalking thing up to a level of concern where we might be able to get the court to listen to your concerns. I’ll send this medal over to forensics right away and tell them to put a rush on it. If we can pull a print, I’ll get the paperwork up to the legal eagles right away.”

“Finally!” Brian replied, only then slumping back in his chair with relief. 

Horvath gave a non-committal huff. “In the meantime, I’ll talk to Bridges and bring him up to speed. I’m thinking that if Langley is this intent on coming after you, he might also be trying to influence the other witnesses we gave him the names of. If we can point out a pattern of interference, it’ll add more weight to your claims for a restraining order.” Brian and I shared a worried glance, both of us unhappy at the thought that the evil coach was torturing his other victims, not that there was much we could do about it. “Who knows, maybe I can even talk him into having the FBI shell out the money to get you a protection detail, at least until we get you in front of a Grand Jury and secure your testimony.”

“Yeah, and when will that be?” Brian asked testily. When Horvath hesitated to respond, clearly weighing his answer a little too carefully, Brian exploded again. “Let me guess . . . NEVER?” Brian was up on his feet and pacing again before Carl had a chance to admit anything. “You still haven’t found where these guys are doing their filming? Or any evidence to tie Langley to the production of these videos?” Horvath shaking his head in the negative confirmed Brian’s conclusions. “Shit! He’s going to get off isn’t he? Fuck . . .”

“He’s not going to ‘get off’, Brian,” Horvath assured. “We have him on the possession charges; he’ll definitely do some time for the child porn we found at his house and on his computer. We’re also still canvassing the families of other boys that he coached to see if we can compile enough grounds to pursue child abuse charges, but that’s trickier because those kinds of charges are more difficult to prove, absent physical evidence, and a lot of the abuse claims are past the statute of limitations at this point. The DA hasn’t made a decision on any of those charges yet.” Brian looked away, grinding his teeth in frustration but not commenting because, truthfully, we hadn’t expected Langley would be facing consequences for any of that. “But,” Carl continued, his tone apologetic and annoyed at the same time, “you’re right that we still haven’t found the production facilities or anything that would tie him to the Buddy videos. We have our computer guys going through all Langley’s emails and phone logs but so far we haven’t found the link. We know it’s out there, but this guy has done a pretty good job of covering his trail so far. We’re not giving up though. Bridges’ FBI guys tell me they’re going to try some new encryption detection application they have . . .”

“FUCK THAT, CARL!” Brian erupted, his voice raised to the point that the window in the office door rattled. “You’re not going to get Langley with some fancy-assed new computer program! He’s too fucking smart for that.” Brian growled and kicked over the chair he’d previously been sitting on for emphasis. “Langley has been doing this shit for more than twenty years, Carl. The fact that he wasn’t even on anyone’s radar until I saw some random flier from a damned soccer camp and ended up walking into traffic, tells me that he obviously knows what he’s doing. Not to mention that, if he still has connections in law enforcement - like he used to brag about to Buddy - he probably has somebody telling him how to work it so he won’t get caught.” 

Brian’s pacing stopped when he reached the corner of Carl’s small office. I watched him run his fingers through his hair, almost as if he planned to tear it out by the roots. Instead, though, he let go, reached out with both hands placing his palms against the flat surface, and used that meager leverage to support his weight while he began to slowly pound his forehead against the dingy plaster.

I immediately jumped up and rushed to stop him before he did any real damage to either the wall or his head. “Stop, Brian. Please.” I pulled him back, away from the wall, wrapping my arms around his chest so he couldn’t hurt himself any more.

“What was the point of any of this if he’s still going to get away with it?” Brian asked, his voice crackling with emotion.

“I’m not giving up,” Horvath stated, moving closer and laying his hand on Brian’s shoulder in a show of grandfatherly comfort. “I’m not and neither is Bridges. We know the evidence is out there. We just have to find it. We still have some leads to follow, so just give us a little more time, huh?”

Brian took a deep breath and, peeling my hands away, he turned around to face Carl again. “What about the lake house? The one I told you about. The one from my dreams. Have you looked there?”

Carl made a muffled rumble of complaint deep in his chest. “Yeah, we looked. But we didn’t find much,” Carl admitted. When both Brian and I continued to stare at him, mutely pleading for more information, he continued, “Langley inherited a house down in Amish country near Mt. Wilson. The FBI executed a search warrant on the place at the same time we raided his properties here and in Philadelphia. The feds said there wasn’t anything out there, though, just an empty vacation home, or so it appeared.”

Brian rubbed at his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture I knew meant he was fighting off a headache. “Amish country . . . That’s not far from Philadelphia. It could be the place Coach took Buddy when they’d go out to the country . . .” He sighed and looked earnestly over at Horvath. “Have you got a picture of this place? I need to see it. Maybe I’ll recognize it or something . . .”

Horvath strode over to the big, steel filing cabinet in the corner behind his desk and rummaged around in a drawer for a minute, emerging with a manila file folder. “Knock yourself out, Kinney.”

Opening the folder, the detective pulled out a stack of photos showing a fairly nondescript, clapboard-sided house set amid a grove of tall deciduous trees. The exterior walls were painted a faded Wedgewood blue and the trim was white. It looked like it was built in the forties or fifties, maybe one of those kit-homes that were so common back then. It was a tiny place, too; it couldn’t be more than five or six hundred square feet, not counting the glassed-in porch on the far side. Considering how wealthy Langley was, I had been expecting to see something much grander. This place looked like somewhere your grandmother would live, not like the vacation home of the scion of one of Pennsylvania's most elite families. It made me wonder why Langley had kept such a dump. 

“Look familiar?” Carl asked.

Brian shook his head slowly. “Not really.” He sighed. “Maybe? I don’t know . . . You said it’s by a lake, though?”

“Yeah. There’s a lake down the road a ways,” Horvath confirmed. “But I really don’t think this is the place where the filming was done. For one thing, there’s no basement and you said in your statement that the room you were taken to was downstairs? Well, this place doesn’t have any stairs at all.”

Brian’s fingers trailed over the outlines of the house in the photo, his eyes crinkled in thought. “I think . . . Buddy maybe remembers this place, but . . . Fuck! Everything from back then is so confused . . .” Pushing the photos away, Brian straightened up and, more calmly than I would have expected, demanded, “take me there.”

“You want to go to Mt. Wilson?” Carl looked at his watch. “It’s at least a four hour drive, Kinney, and it’s almost six already . . .”

“I don’t care. I need to see it in person. Maybe something will trigger a memory . . .” Brian insisted. When Horvath still seemed reluctant, Brian rushed to more fully explain himself. “This can’t wait, Carl. I know Langley and I know how he thinks. He’s going to go after Gus to get to me. I know it and if I don’t do something right away . . . I don’t even want to THINK about what that monster would do to my son if he got his hands on him.” Brian grabbed hold of Horvath’s arm and squeezed. “Please, Carl. We have to do something. I can’t bear to think of what might happen if he ever got to Gus. I can’t let him do to any other boy what he did to Buddy. We have to stop him. We just HAVE to!”

With Carl driving the unmarked police cruiser, we made it to Mt. Wilson - a small, unincorporated township just outside of Hershey - in just over three hours. Since it was summer the sun was still out although, with the dense tree cover all along both sides of the highway, it seemed later than it was. The turn off for the Langley house was another mile or so past Mt. Wilson proper, and of course Carl missed the poorly marked dirt road the first time we drove past it, so we had to turn around and drive back more slowly, but eventually we located the county road marker and headed down the rutted lane. 

I was watching Brian closely as we approached the place, but it was difficult to tell what he was feeling other than the always present anxiety. 

The house we were aiming for was the fifth driveway to the east off the narrow dirt track. You couldn’t see the house from the road. If we hadn’t been looking closely as Carl rolled along at a snail's pace, we might have missed the address marker that was almost completely hidden by the huge purple rhododendron bushes lining that side of the road and continuing all the way down to a tiny creek that crossed under the roadway via a culvert. Carl pulled into the driveway, which followed along next to the stream for another quarter mile or so. Brian only spoke up once, ordering our driver to ‘wait’ when we passed a wider spot in the driveway that looked like it was meant to allow one car to pull aside to let another pass, but after Horvath paused the car there for a moment or two, Brian just waved him on without further comment. 

The house we’d seen in the photo finally appeared from around a bend just a few meters past the little turn out. It looked exactly as depicted in the photographs but maybe even smaller than I’d expected. Waiting for us just next to the house was another car with a familiar figure propped against the hood.

“I called ahead and asked Bridges to meet us here,” Carl explained as the FBI agent waved a greeting and the police detective parked his car next to the one already there. 

“Taylor. Kinney,” Terry welcomed us and gestured towards the house. “This bring back any memories for you?”

Brian walked up the porch steps without responding and looked around himself from that perch, scanning the vicinity and sniffing at the fresh country air. Terry followed, pulling down the garish yellow police tape that was stretched across the door before using a key to unlock the padlock barring all but authorized law enforcement personnel. Carl and I entered the house on the heels of the FBI agent with Brian bringing up the rear.    

The inside of the little cottage was about as one would expect. It was small, sparsely furnished, and looked like the decor hadn’t been updated since sometime in the late seventies. Definitely not the kind of place you’d expect to find someone like Langley. It was also a mess; clearly the FBI hadn’t cleaned up after themselves after they searched the place.

Horvath and Bridges were whispering to themselves over in the corner next to the rusted wood stove, which was presumably the only heat source. Their eyes, though, were closely following Brian as he wandered around, peeking through the doorway of the one small bedroom and also into the bathroom. It didn’t appear that Brian found anything of real interest though. 

“Anything look familiar?” Bridges asked, looking hopeful. 

“Yeah. Sorta.” Brian shrugged. “Buddy vaguely remembers this place. I’m pretty sure the Coach brought him here a few times. But it’s not where all the bad shit went down . . . I feel like I’m missing something.” 

Brian blew out a deep breath and wandered back outside while the rest of us shared disappointed glances. The two cops went back to whispering together so I decided to join Brian. As I stepped out on the porch I spied my man walking away from the house, heading back down the drive towards the main road, so I, of course, followed him. My steps crunching on the gravel of the driveway must have alerted Brian that he was being followed but he seemed too caught up in his thoughts to pay me any mind. He led us back to the turnout next to the stream and then stopped in his tracks, his head swiveling around while he silently surveyed the setting. 

“It’s got to be here,” he muttered, tramping back and forth in front of the rhody hedge.

“Brian?” I began to question just as the man seemed to find what he was looking for. 

“Fuck . . .” The word came out more like a moan than anything else as he pushed aside one branch of a scraggly rhody to reveal the entrance to an overgrown path leading off through the trees. He looked back at me and all I could see was anguish. “This is it,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s just like in my dreams . . .”