Chapter 11 - Night Terrors.

I spent the next week mulling over Daphne’s intervention idea. The longer Brian went without snapping out of his funk, the more reasonable the idea sounded. By Thursday afternoon, I was about to pull my hair out and decided that, while a full-out intervention probably wouldn’t work, it might be a good idea to call in a relief pitcher.

“I’ll get it,” I announced when the buzzer to the street door zapped through the silence of the loft. 

Not that Brian would bother to get up off the couch where he was on his third viewing of Streetcar Named Desire. I probably shouldn’t complain; at least he was out of bed and dressed for a change. He was still doing his zombie impression though and hadn’t been back to work since the big reveal at Carl Horvath’s more than two weeks before. Something had to change, and soon, or I was going to lose it too.

“Hey, it’s me. Buzz me up, Boy Wonder,” Michael Novotny’s nasally voice blared out through the tiny speaker. 

I, of course, had already known he was on his way, but I pretended to be surprised as I hit the door release button. My play acting was unnecessary though since Brian didn’t even look up from the television. I sighed and pulled the door open, hovering in the entryway until I saw Michael’s head clearing the gate of the lift, gratefully accepting his reassuring grin. 

“The cavalry's here,” Michael whispered, giving my arm a squeeze as he passed and handing off the case of cheap beer he’d brought for me to put in the fridge. Then, his voice raised over the television, he greeted the target of this intervention. “Hey, Brian. What’s up?”

It took Brian almost a full minute before he focused on his oldest friend’s face. “Mikey? What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, of course,” Michael answered and plopped himself down on the couch without being invited. “Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of you for more than two weeks, and you’re not returning calls or texts, so I was deputized to come make sure you weren’t dead.”

“The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Brian drawled in his best Mark Twain imitation.

“Yeah, well, how do you expect anyone to know that if you never leave this fucking loft?” Michael groused. “Seriously, Brian, what the fuck is up with you? Everyone’s getting a little freaked out by your disappearing act. Nobody’s seen you on Liberty Avenue for weeks and Ted says you haven’t even come into the office in days. What gives with all that? That’s not the Brian Kinney I know.”

I watched surreptitiously from the kitchen, trying to be unobtrusive, while Brian struggled back to full awareness of what was around him. It was an encouraging sight. I hadn’t seen Brian actually take any interest in something outside his own mind in days. I was curious if he’d answer Michael honestly or go with more deflection. Thankfully, it seemed like this direct attack had penetrated his blankness and caught him off guard. He answered truthfully only because he hadn’t had time to think up some way to avoid the question.

“I’ve been . . . Dealing with some heavy shit, Mikey,” Brian replied.

“Yeah. I know,” Michael admitted. “Carl called me down to the station a couple days ago to give my statement about Coach Langley.” Brian looked directly at Michael for the first time, a tinge of panic flashing in his eyes. “He didn’t tell me much, just that they were building a case against the guy for being a serial child abuser, and they wanted me to corroborate your story about the high school shower scene. I was happy to give them all I knew about that pervert.”

“Mikey, there’s more that you don’t know . . .” Brian faltered without completing his thought.

Michael reached out, laying one hand on his friend’s shoulder in a gesture of silent support. “I get that. I know there’s probably more. But it doesn't matter, Brian. It really doesn’t. All that matters is that I say ‘I’m sorry’.” Brian looked like he was about to interrupt but Michael refused to let him. “No. I need to say it. I’m so fucking sorry, Brian. I knew there was something serious going on back then and I should have spoken up sooner. That Langley guy totally creeped me out; the way he was always touching you and making these snide little comments, it was just downright sleazy. I could tell that you were freaked out by the guy - even though you tried to blow it off and pretend like it was all your idea - but I still knew something wasn’t kosher. I should have said something. I was too worried about looking uncool and I didn’t understand how serious it was. I know that’s no excuse, though. All I can do is say that I’m sorry and be here for you now.”

Brian took his time coming up with a response. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, almost as if trying to clear away the things he was seeing in his mind. When he finally did look up at Michael again, the sadness breaking through from behind his barriers was almost enough to floor me. 

“You couldn't have known. We were just kids. There wasn’t anything you could have done,” Brian offered what absolution he could.

“I still could have said something,” Michael refused to be excused. “But that doesn’t fix anything. All I can do now is be here for you and help you get through this shit. And this time I’m not going to let your false bravado distract me. You don’t need to pretend to be stronger than you are, Brian. You don’t have to go through all this alone. You’ve got friends who care about you and we are still going to be there no matter what fucking shit you’re going through. You don’t have to hide behind your secret identity all the time; it’s okay to be Clark Kent and not Superman once in a while.”

That comment earned Michael a rare Kinney smile. “You’re so full of shit sometimes, Mikey.”

“I know. That’s why you love me,” Michael replied with his usual goofy grin. “And you’re not going to get rid of me, no matter how long you try to hide out, so you better just resolve yourself to hang out with me for the rest of the afternoon.” Michael aimed a smile my way, convinced he’d won the battle. “Now, are you going to break out your stash already or what?”

Brian actually laughed - something he hadn’t done in weeks - and the sound made my heart flutter with relief. 

“Here you go,” I butted in, bringing Brian’s stash box out from the bedroom before either of them had a chance to get up. “If you two are good for now, I’m gonna get going. I’ve got a thing I need to do . . .”

“Thanks, Sunshine,” Brian took the small wooden box out of my hands and offered me what I took as a conciliatory smile. “I think we’ve got this.”

I let my fingers trail along his shoulders as I passed behind the sofa on my way to the door. For the first time in two weeks I didn’t have a weighty ball of dread filling my gut at the prospect of leaving Brian alone. I gathered up my messenger bag and other stuff while the two amigos argued over what kind of junk food they were going to order. 

“Pizza or chinese?” Michael posited. “I just had pizza for dinner last night but it was veggie pizza with Ben, so that doesn’t really count, right? And nothing counters the munchies better than pizza, am I right?”

“I’m not going to eat a bunch of crap with you, Mikey,” Brian complained, sounding more like his old self than ever, which made me smile so big it felt like my face would crack open. 

“Go for it, Michael,” I chimed in as I headed out the door. “If Brian gets any skinnier, I'll misplace him the next time he turns sideways.” 

Michael laughed and commented that Brian would thank him for ordering the pizza in advance when the munchies from the pot they’re going to smoke eventually hit. As I turned to pull the loft door closed, I saw Brian concentrating on rolling a joint, a slight smile on his beautiful raspberry red lips, while Michael was already on the phone with their favorite pizza place. I sent up silent thanks to Daphne for the intervention idea. I was so happy to see Brian smiling and engaging with life for a change. Maybe we’d make it through this shit after all?

Unfortunately, my sense of relief at Brian’s renewed connection to reality was short-lived. 

I’d just left the gallery when I got a text from Michael saying he was leaving the loft. The text came complete with a stoned selfie showing the both of them grinning at the camera through a haze of smoke. The smile on Brian’s face warmed my heart. I tentatively started to think that maybe we’d made it through this rough patch.

That hopeful feeling lasted precisely twelve minutes.

I was just turning the corner off Liberty onto Fuller, less than a block away from the loft, when my phone rang again. I groaned when the caller ID announced that the person trying to contact me was none other than Detective Horvath. Seriously? Now? He couldn’t let us be happy for just one evening? 

“Taylor,” the gruff police detective returned my greeting when I reluctantly answered the call. “You and Kinney going to be around tonight? I’ve got news . . .”

“That sounds ominous,” I complain. 

“For once, it’s good news,” Carl responded with a forced chuckle.

“Okay. But I’m holding you to that,” I warn him. “I’m just about home now. Brian should still be there, although I can’t promise he’s sober.”

“I can be there in a half hour,” Carl replied and then ended the call.

My steps the rest of the way were a lot heavier than they’d been on the first part of my walk home. I hated the idea of dashing Brian’s momentarily good mood with more talk about Langley and I didn’t believe Horvath’s promise that he was bringing good news. Any discussion of Langley and the past would hurt Brian, merely by bringing up all those painful memories. But there wasn’t anything I could do about that, and I really did want to see that creep put behind bars, so I supposed we’d have to suffer through more discussion about the matter. At least until the legal case was fully resolved, one way or the other.

As I pulled open the loft door, I found Brian sitting at the kitchen island, scarfing down the last piece of Meat Lover’s pizza. He had a goofy, pot-induced grin on his face. He looked relatively relaxed for the first time in weeks. 

I hated that I was about to ruin that good mood.

“Hey, Sunshine.”

“Hey . . .” I sighed and then just decided to go with the ‘yank the bandaid off’ approach, blurting out my bad news. “Carl just called. He’s on his way over. It sounds like there’s been a development in the case.”

Brian dropped the crust of pizza and sank lower on the stool. “Fuck . . .”

“Yeah. Sorry,” I didn’t know what else to say. 

I watched as Brian got up and shuffled back over to his spot on the couch. He didn’t even bother to turn the television on. He just sat there, dejectedly, staring at a spot on the carpet, not saying anything, and getting lost in his head again. So much for my intervention strategy.

Horvath showed up about fifteen minutes later. I buzzed him up and greeted him without much enthusiasm. He didn’t seem to care, though, as he strode jauntily over to greet Brian. 

“We got him!” The detective brayed with a smug smile. “We arrested Langley about two hours ago. He’s facing a butt load of state and federal charges. And that’s before we executed the search warrants for his house and the cabin he owns out in Lebanon County. Bridges has his Feds looking through all the guy’s computers; he tells me that, if there’s any evidence of Langley’s porn distribution or trafficking, they’ll find it. But even without that, we probably have enough to charge him for the child abuse.”

“You’re going to charge him for what he did to Brian? I thought you said there’d be problems with the statute of limitations?” I questioned.

“There’ve been other victims who’ve come forward,” Horvath explained, looking sideways at Brian to gauge his response. “Once we started asking around - talking to parents whose kids went to that camp or whose sons were on Langley’s soccer teams - we hit paydirt. There were at least three incidents in the past five years. Nothing as egregious as what you went through, Kinney, at least not from the victims we’ve talked to so far, but enough questionable behavior that it shows a clear pattern and practice. Unfortunately, the parents were all too worried about retraumatizing their kids to come forward and report it at the time. And that’s just the kids whose parents were actually involved and watching out for the warning signs; we think there are probably a lot more kids he victimized who don’t have concerned parents that were looking out for them. Either way, we expect to file additional charges against Langley based on the evidence we come up with after searching his place.”

Brian finally showed some animation, audibly scoffing at Horvath’s proclamation. “Like it’ll come to anything.”

“Why do you say that?” Carl asked. 

“I . . . I’ve started to remember a few things and . . . One thing I do recall clearly is that Coach was constantly bragging to everyone about all his contacts. Not only does the guy come from big money . . .”

“Shit! Langley Aeronautics?” I interrupted, just now recognizing the name. “He’s THAT Langley?” 

“Unfortunately.” Brian nodded with another sigh. “Which means he also has the kind of important friends only old money can buy.” Brian rubbed at his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in a familiar exhibition of stress before continuing. “Coach once threatened Buddy that, if he wasn’t good, or if he ever told anyone about the games they played, Buddy would be ‘punished’.” The way Brian said that word sent shivers down my spine, a feeling that only got more intense as he continued explaining. “When that threat no longer worked to keep him submissive, Coach said he’d give Buddy to some of his ‘friends’ who would take Buddy away and he’d never see his parents again. And when even that no longer worked - because by that point Buddy hated his parents almost as much as he hated the Coach - Buddy threatened to run away where Coach couldn’t find him. Of course, that only made Coach laugh. He told Buddy that one of his best friends was a cop and, if Buddy tried to run away, they’d just track him down and then punish him even worse once they found him.”

Something in the way that Brian only spoke about himself in the third person - like Buddy was some separate entity - creeped me out. It was like, the only way he could deal with the trauma that had occurred in his past was to physically disconnect from the experience. Although, I supposed even that was an improvement on him not talking about it at all. Still, something had to give eventually. I didn’t think he’d ever be able to move on as long as he couldn’t face the pain in a more meaningful way. Basically, it just made me more sad. And more angry at Langley.

"That's interesting," Carl replied, thoughtfully. "More likely than not, though, it was just an empty threat. The guy was dealing with an eight year old; he could have said anything and you'd have believed him."

“Five,” Brian interrupted.

“What?” Horvath asked.

“Buddy was only five when it . . . When it started,” Brian answered, again with the noticeable detachment.

Carl and I shared a worried glance but neither of us commented. 

“Well, thanks for giving me the head’s up about Langley’s possible police contacts,” Horvath continued, not addressing the new fact that Brian had let slip. “I’ll keep an eye out for internal problems, but I’m pretty sure it was an empty threat. And, even if the guy did have some contact on the force twenty-five years ago, I doubt the guy would still be on the job today. That’s a long time in police years.” The detective got up from the armchair where he’d been sitting, looking like he was about to leave, but took that opportunity to drop his biggest bomb. “We’re definitely going to need that statement from you now, Kinney. Especially if we find the kind of evidence we think we’ll turn up in the search warrant on Langley’s properties. It might be enough to give us grounds to add charges related to your abuse to Langley’s prosecution. But none of that is going anywhere without your official statement.”

Instead of responding to this imperative, though, Brian deliberately stood up, turned towards the bedroom, and walked away without further comment. Detective Horvath looked at me as if I could do something to help. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I couldn’t make Brian talk if he didn’t want to. Yeah, I wanted Langley to suffer for what he’d done, but I was conflicted between that desire and the need to support Brian. I couldn’t do both while still protecting my partner from the renewed trauma that seemed to be inflicted on him every time the subject was brought up. 

“Thanks for coming over and telling us the news, Carl,” I said, getting up to show the police detective out without further ado.

“No . . . No, please . . . Please, Coach. I don’t want to play any more games tonight. Tommy is mean to me, Coach. Please, can I go home now. Please . . .” the words are whispered in an ethereal voice that wakes me up from a deep, deep sleep.

I don’t, at first, recognize the voice. I sit up in the bed and rub my eyes as I look around the bedroom. On a subconscious level I note that Brian isn’t in bed beside me. That surprises me more, in the moment, than the weird voice I thought I’d heard. 

Brian should have been in bed. He hadn’t stirred since Carl had left. He’d just gone straight to bed, crawled under the covers with his clothes on, and not responded at all to anything I’d said to him the rest of the evening. I’d spent the next six or seven hours pacing, stressing out about this new ramification, and wondering what I was going to do to help Brian. 

It seemed like we were back to Catatonic Zombie Brian and that wasn’t the direction I’d wanted to go. We couldn’t go on this way. Brian was drowning and I didn’t know what to do to stop it. I needed help. I just didn’t know if Brian was open to accepting any help I had to offer. I was almost certain he wouldn’t agree to calling in professional assistance either; he’d never been a big fan of the Psychology profession and I doubted this experience had changed that perception. But something had to give. Soon. Or we’d both be lost. 

Not coming up with an immediate solution, though, I’d finally gone to bed around two AM, exhausted enough to sleep despite my through-the-roof anxiety levels.

Only to be awakened at - I checked the clock on Brian’s bedside table - three-forty-five. I’d closed the drapes on the big loft windows last night before I came to bed, so it was pitch dark in the bedroom. I couldn’t see more than a few feet. So the corner over beside the closet, where the creepy whispering was coming from, was a black hole. Only about every tenth word was even comprehensible and in my barely awake state the uninterrupted, underlying susurrus was ominous and totally freaked me out. For about the first five minutes I just sat there, frozen in place, my mind conjuring images of ghosts and other spectral creatures.

It wasn’t until I heard another cry, this one significantly louder, that I realized my mystery whisperer was Brian. Even this didn’t sound like him though. The voice was higher pitched than usual and spoken with a slight lisp. It sounded like a child’s voice. 

It sounded like the personification of terror.

“No. No. No no no no . . . Please,” the whispering tapered off into unintelligible sobbing.

I switched on the bedside light, scrambled out of bed - almost tripping when my feet got tangled in the sheets - and rushed over to find my partner huddled in the corner of the room, curled up in the tiniest ball his big body could fit into, tears washing down his cheeks. 

“Fuck,” was all I could think to say at first. Then my brain came fully on-line again and I found real words. “Brian? Hey, big guy. It’s okay. It’s just a nightmare. It’s gonna be okay . . .”

Brian flinched away when I tried to reach out and touch his shoulder. His sobbing took on a more frantic pitch. He clearly wasn’t awake. 

I knelt down on the hard wood floor beside him and tried to slowly inch closer, attempting not to frighten him more. I wasn’t sure if this was just another nightmare or something worse. If it was a nightmare, it was a really bad one. It took me a good ten minutes before Brian allowed me close enough to hold him and even then I still didn’t think he was completely awake. He kept muttering in that little boy's whispering voice the whole time. 

“I just want to go home. Please, Coach . . . I want to go home . . . Please . . . I want to go home now . . .”