Chapter 11:


"Call 911," shouted Lance, as he raced forward with his 9mm Beretta still clasped in his hand, obviously intent on the only thing that mattered now - getting to Brian and changing the focus of the awful scenario laid out before them. It was no longer about seeking and finding; it was now about saving. "And Horvath. Get them here now."

Drew Boyd was already dialing, looking around as he did so, and watching as the group of thugs ran for the exit, stumbling over each other in their desperation, perfectly content to leave their fallen comrade behind. He noted too that there was another door on the far side of the decrepit old building, and he thought he'd noticed a flurry of motion there as he and his companions had raced into the room, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't waste time worrying about it; there were more important things to do. He had to help Brian; that had to be the primary focus, but he also had to . . . he wasn't even sure how to phrase it. He had to protect Emmett, to rescue him from the hellhole into which he'd fallen, but he wasn't certain that such a rescue was possible, for Emmett was moving through his own version of perdition, so bound up in the perception of horror, he seemed unaware of anything else. He had recoiled away from the staccato sound of the gunshots as Lance fired, and since that time, his face had been white and vacant and terrified - the classic expression of an individual in the first stages of shock - and he had avoided looking at the body crumpled on the dirty concrete beside the metal posts where Brian was chained.

Lance was the first to reach Brian and forced himself to pause and take a deep breath before attempting to release Brian's bonds. Every primal instinct within him was screaming that he must hurry, that any hesitation might be fatal, but another voice - more reasoned, less panicked - told him that his employer's life was literally in his hands, and haste might be more lethal than delay. He dared not risk doing more harm than good.

"Emmett," he shouted as he stepped close to wrap his arms around Brian and shift him into a less awkward position, easing the weight off strained arms and shoulders. "Get over here. I need help to get him down without hurting him."

Until that moment, Emmett had remained frozen, almost petrified, but he came to himself quickly, in the necessity of the moment. Then he leapt forward, trying to figure out how best to aid his friend, and, in the extremity of his desperation, he stepped over the body of the dead thug without a second glance.

"See if you can take some of his weight while I loosen these chains," Lance instructed. "We can't let him fall."

Emmett did not hesitate, stepping close and easing his arms under Brian's to hold him close, noticing the slickness of blood and its coppery stench, and managing to avoid the band of charred flesh that stretched across the left side of Brian's chest, from just below the nipple to the lower edge of the rib cage. He was careful to keep his touch as light and gentle as possible, and noticed Lance was doing the same. Nevertheless, there was no avoiding a certain amount of jostling, and they had barely begun the process of freeing him when Brian groaned, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to rise from the bottom of his belly.

Emmett at first did not understand why the sound, ugly and painful as it was, generated a tiny burst of joy within him. Then he realized; it was the first clear indication that Brian was alive. Until that moment, he had not been sure.

When the chains were loosened, he shifted Brian as easily as if he'd been a baby, and laid him across his own lap, cradling him and wrapping him close. When Lance shucked his own jacket and draped it over Brian's shoulders, Emmett tucked it around him, noticing that Brian was beginning to shiver. Then he looked up at Drew, who was tucking his phone back into his pocket. Without a moment of hesitation, the quarterback slipped out of his suede Hugo Boss and spread it over Brian's lower limbs, completing a small cocoon of warmth around the bruised and battered body.

Brian made no sound, but Emmett thought he felt a tiny movement, not quite a tremor, as if the chilled body were shifting closer, seeking any nuance of comfort it could find.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It was an ocean, but not like any ocean he'd ever known before. It had currents and undercurrents, surges and tides, ripples and eddies. But there was no real sensation of vastness, no bouyancy, no wetness, just . . . pain, in every conceivable variety, in every possible lurid color, endless and bottomless, ranging from a deep crimson purple throb to fiery, jagged blades of molten gold.

He'd never imagined such pain, and knew he could not tolerate it for long. Knew that if he just let go, just let himself sink into the darkness reaching up from below with greedy fingers, the pain would end.

Only . . . he couldn't. Not yet.

There was one thing he had to do - one task yet to complete, a task that mattered more than the agony piercing every inch of his body and flowing like liquid glass through his veins. He wasn't even completely certain what the words meant, but he could still hear them just the same, repeating like a broken record, in a voice as intensely freezing cold as the currents through which he was drifting were boiling hot.

". . . when we're done with you, we're gonna take care of your pretty little boytoy. You didn't really think we'd forget about him, did you?"

The pain was coming in waves, each stronger and more fierce than the last, but above it, or below it, or beyond it, there was something else - something seeking to offer solace, even though there was no real solace to be found. Still, there was a glimmer of soft radiance in all the lurid layers of color around him, a beacon amid the technicolor fury of the storm.

A voice murmuring nonsense words - meaningless but rhythmic and compelling.

"Brian, don't you dare die on me, Brian. Are you listening to me? Brian, you better not die on me."

The litany went on and on, and then repeated itself, never pausing, never faltering.

A ray of pure light breaking through bands of lurid color.

He could not - quite - reach it. But he had to reach it. There was no other choice. The price of failure was simply too high to contemplate.

Emmett. The name came to him suddenly. That was the name of his ray of light. Strange. Something inside him insisted that it should have been Michael, although he really couldn't attach faces or memories to either name.

But it wouldn't really matter. The only thing that did matter was the message - if he could just summon up the strength - and the will - to speak it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The ambulance arrived in a garish, brilliant rotation of scarlet lights reflecting on drifts of dirty snow, and the paramedics rushed forward, pushing a gurney ahead of them, focused only on taking whatever steps were necessary to save the life of their patient. Emmett greeted their arrival with a sense of relief, eager to let them take over. His efforts at revival had proven useless, and he was feeling more and more helpless, and less and less confidant.

Brian was deathly white, and his breathing had grown progressively more shallow as they'd waited for the arrival of the emergency team. After doing all that he could think of to protect his employer, Lance had gone to meet Horvath and the police and to aid in the search of the area and efforts to learn the identity of the attackers, who had managed to make their escape prior to the arrival of the police.

Meanwhile, Drew hovered nearby, after dragging the fire barrel closer to try to provide a little warmth for Emmett and the figure draped across in his lap.

The body of the man Lance had shot lay ignored, checked by Lance only briefly to determine that the thug was, indeed, dead, although the three holes in his head was a pretty fair indicator.

Emmett shifted his position to give the ambulance attendants better access to Brian's torso, but he was surprised. when they attempted to move Brian to the stretcher they had placed nearby, to find it was not such a simple task as they'd expected. Brian's fist was clinched tight around Emmett's lapel, so tight it could not be dislodged. Emmett and Drew both attempted to pry it loose, but with no luck. Then, to the astonishment of the entire group, the fist clinched tighter and, against all odds, Brian stirred and opened his eyes to stare directly into Emmett's face.

"Brian?" Emmett whispered, suddenly unable to breathe as he was impaled by hazel eyes, as sharp and keen as a blade. "Jesus, you're awake. What is it you . . ."

Brian's lips moved, but he hadn't enough breath to create sound.

Emmett gestured to the ambulance personnel, to keep them from lifting their patient away from him; then he leaned close, putting his ear against Brian's lips.

At first, there was only the faint susurration of broken breath. Then he heard it - gasping, barely audible, but definite.

"Justin's . . . next. Don't . . . call him."

The last word barely spoken, riding on a long, slow sigh into oblivion, a languid drift down into a layer of ocean where there was, at long last, no more pain.

The second time the emergency team attempted to move him to the gurney, he was as limp and unresisting as a rag doll.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I'm riding with him," Emmett declared to Drew, as the paramedics prepared the patient for transport, "but you have to give Detective Horvath a message for me. It's really important."

"Okay." By this time, Drew would have agreed to anything in order to ease the incipient panic he easily read in Emmett's demeanor. "What do I tell him?"

Emmett drew a deep breath. "He said Justin is in danger. You have to tell Horvath to make sure he stays away. If he comes back here . . ."

Drew sighed. "That's why he regained consciousness, isn't it? To make sure Justin would be protected."

Emmett nodded, tears welling in his eyes. "And I'll be damned if I'm going to take a chance on him surviving this horror, only to wake up and find out the person he loves more than life itself was taken from him."

Drew stared down at Brian's face and watched as the paramedics wrapped him in insulated blankets. He managed not to cringe away from the sight of the mangled body, but only barely. "You really think," he whispered, "that he's going to survive this?"

'He's Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake," Emmett snapped, barely able to contemplate the possibility of a world where such a man could be reduced to a broken memory. "He'll survive. You'll see."

Drew did not argue, choosing instead to wrap his arms around Emmett and offer the only comfort he had to give - the warmth of a lover's touch.

"Sir," said one of the paramedics urgently as he adjusted the last strap on the stretcher, "we have to go. We need to get him to a trauma center, right now."

Emmett hastened to follow. "How bad is it?" he asked, as he climbed into the back of the ambulance.

One of the paramedics began to hook the patient up to the medical equipment in the vehicle while another spoke into a radio handset. No one volunteered an answer to Emmett's question, but he didn't really need one.

He had never seen so much blood, he thought. And he would never have imagined that a human body could take so much punishment and . . . He tucked himself safely into a corner as the ambulance began to move, siren already screaming.

Brian was so still, so limp, so . . .

But he wouldn't think about that. He would put on his best Scarlet O'Hara persona, and trust that tomorrow would be a better day. A tomorrow, confirmed by a quick glance out the ambulance's rear window, which was already upon them.

As the emergency vehicle went streaking through the dawn-kissed streets of the city, he managed to stay out of the way of the attendants as they worked over Brian with growing urgency, but he got close enough to reach out and enfold Brian's cold fingers in his own hand. It wasn't much, but it was all he could do. his only means of speaking to his old friend, to say, "I'm here, and I'm not going to leave you."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Carl Horvath stood in the middle of the old warehouse, staring down at the body crumpled at his feet, and was suddenly aware of every one of his years. How, he wondered, had he come to this point? When had he made the transformation from Carl Horvath, good, diligent, competent, run-of-the-mill detective, just a few years shy of retirement, to . . . he had to stifle a small, weary smile, despite the grimness of the moment . . . Carl Horvath, defender of Gayopolis? It seemed appropriate, somehow, to think in terms that would be perfectly clear to his not-quite-legitimate stepson.

How had it come to this, he wondered again. And how in God's name had Brian Kinney been transformed from primo badboy/pain in the collective ass of every hypocritical politician and every pulpit-pounding homophobe, to a helpless victim?

One of his not-quite-wife's favorite expressions came to mind. "Don't tell me the world's not going to shit," he muttered, not quite under his breath.

Apparently, he'd spoken more loudly than he'd intended, as Lance Mathis paused in the act of lighting a cigarette, and gave the cop a small, grim smile. "The world is going to shit," he confirmed.

Horvath nodded and took a deep breath. Time to put personal concerns aside, and deal with the business at hand, ugly and tragic as it might be.

"I assume you've got a license for the gun," he said, not quite making it a question.

"I do," replied the security chief, "but if I didn't, I still would have shot him." He paused, taking a deep drag of his Marlboro before continuing. "Though I'd have preferred to have had a chance to dispense a little justice of my own before granting him the peace of the grave."

Horvath glanced over toward the iron bars where the thug's victim had been chained and barely managed not to cringe away from the pools of blood lying black against the broken cement. "That bad, huh?"

Lance shuddered. "Count your blessings that you didn't see what they did to him. It's funny, you know. You always think you'll get used to it as time goes by, but you never do."

Drew Boyd arrived as his cousin was speaking and reached out to lay a comforting hand on Mathis' shoulder. "If you could get used to that, you wouldn't be human."

Mathis just nodded, before turning to allow his eyes to sweep his surroundings. "Crime scene techs on their way?"

Horvath nodded. "And the coroner," he added. Then he knelt by the body at his feet and studied the thug's face, noting the expression of surprised disbelief with some small measure of satisfaction. He wasn't supposed to allow himself any emotional involvement with his cases, but he thought Boyd's observation would extend to cover this situation. He would have had to be less than human not to feel some relief that this cretin had died before he could complete his unholy task.

The man was lying on his side with the piece of angle iron he had used as a weapon still clutched in his hand, his arm extended over his head. The sleeve of his jacket had ridden up, revealing the edge of a dark mark on his forearm. Moving carefully, more to avoid the wrath of the coroner for tampering with the body than out of any nuance of respect for the dead, Horvath pushed the sleeve higher and stared at the inked figure he'd exposed.

"Shit!" said Mathis, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with thumb and forefinger.

"What?" asked Drew. "What is that?"

Horvath gazed at the crude symbol - the swastika with three six's adorning its arms, accented by garish droplets of bright red. "Prison tattoo," he explained. "Aryan Brotherhood."

He then proceeded to search the dead man's clothing, removing the wallet he found in the rear pocket of dirty jeans.

The driver's license showed an address in northeastern Ohio, and provided the name of the bearer: Andrew O'Malley.

"Off hand," the detective said slowly, "I'd guess we've got ourselves a member of the Order of the Blood."

"Jesus!" whispered Drew. "You think Brian pissed off some white supremacy nut job?"

"No," Horvath said quietly. "This is just a thug-for-hire, with delusions of grandeur. No doubt Brian pissed off a lot of people through the years, but this . . . " He paused to glance once more toward the carnage on the floor around him. "This had to be personal. It wasn't enough that they kill him. They wanted to destroy him - break him - before he died."

Mathis nodded his agreement. Then, unexpectedly, he dredged up a tiny smile. "Proving," he drawled, "that they didn't know him very well."

"What do you mean?" asked Drew, who didn't know Brian nearly as well as Emmett did. Not even as well as Mathis did, because the security chief always made it his first priority to get to know his clients intimately.

Mathis sighed. "He'd die first."

"Still might," Horvath pointed out reluctantly.

Mathis nodded. "I know. But still unbroken."

Horvath smiled. "I can't even begin to tell you how many times I had to bite my tongue to keep from biting his head off, or literally sit on my hands to avoid taking a swing at him. God! He could be the most infuriating, demanding, cocksure, in-your-face bastard you can even imagine. But . . ."

"But?" Drew prompted.

"At the end of the day, you had to admit he had balls the size of melons, and more nerve than sense. He . . . re-educated me, I guess. Until I came face-to-face with him, I never realized that a queer could also be a real man." He smiled again. "Even if he was more concerned with how his ass looked in skin-tight leather than how to defend himself. He was almost fearless - something the rest of the world doesn't expect . . . from a fag."

He flushed as he caught Drew Boyd's eye. "Sorry, Drew. It was just heterosexual ignorance. Until Debbie came into my life, I didn't have a clue."

A bustle at the doorway announced the arrival of the crime scene specialists, and Horvath rose to his feet with a sigh. "Now for the hard part," he said wearily.

"Reports?" asked Mathis. "Paperwork? Facing the press who are probably already on their way as we speak?"

"All of the above," answered the detective. "But first things first. Facing the press - and my bosses - will be child's play, compared to facing Debbie."

"Wait," said Drew quickly. "You can't. Not until you know the rest."

He then proceeded to relay Emmett's message - and Brian's request - and both Horvath and Mathis understood immediately that Kinney had managed, in the face of insurmountable odds, to confirm their opinions of him.

Balls the size of melons indeed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The group of Pittsburgh tourists found it difficult to agree on much of anything as they prepared for a day of sightseeing in the city, but there was absolutely no argument about where to have breakfast. One could not, after all, spend a day in New York without dropping in, at least once, at the Brooklyn Diner.

Thus it was that the group, minus only Jennifer who had caught an early flight to Boston to visit family, found itself wandering down W. 57th Street just after nine AM, debating the merits of Tony Bennett's Cinnamon-Raisin-Pecan French Toast (Calvin's choice) as opposed to the iconic delights of Smoked Salmon on a Bagel (Melanie's preference).

The morning was cold but dry, and they were looking forward to a busy, enjoyable day. Melanie and Lindsey seemed particularly glad to be present, and happy with the chance to catch up and renew connections. Living in Toronto had proven to be a blessing for them in many ways, but it had not come without certain costs.

They had missed their friends - some more than others - and one of them had missed one particular old friend so intensely she sometimes wondered if the move had been worth it. But she had never dared to voice that idea, knowing how much emotional turmoil it would generate.

Still, this would be a lovely day, and even if she could not speak face-to-face with the one she missed so much, she could pump their other friends for information and learn all there was to learn about how Brian was faring - without Justin.

Lindsey frowned a bit over that thought. She wondered if she would ever quite be able to cast off the tiny shards of guilt that lingered in her heart, knowing she had been the primary source of the impulse which had brought Justin to the city, to the center of the art world in search of his professional fulfillment, at the cost of his personal commitment to Brian.

It had been the right thing to do. She still believed that, in her certainty that Warhol would never have become Warhol had he been content to remain in Pittsburgh.

But . . .

Sometimes - usually late at night when she couldn't sleep - she still remembered the look on Brian's face as she and her partner had driven away from the house which had been their home for so long; as they'd taken his son away to a new life while he pretended it didn't matter and that losing Justin and losing Gus were just new examples of the general shittiness of daily life. His expression had revealed nothing, unless a person knew what to look for.

But Lindsey had always known how to see nuances of the things he kept so well hidden.

He would survive; Brian Kinney would always survive. But she wondered if she even wanted to know how much he hurt inside. She wondered if she would have the strength to endure it if she should ever find out.

Better, she realized, not to know.

"You're awfully quiet," said Melanie, falling back from the group in order to take her partner's arm. "Missing Gus?"

Lindsey smiled, and swallowed a tiny surge of annoyance. Lately, Mel had begun making not-so-subtle little comments, suggesting that Lindsey favored Gus - her son with Brian - over Jenny Rebecca, Melanie's daughter with Michael. The accusation was preposterous; Lindsey could not imagine how she could love their beautiful little girl any more than she did, but she recognized the motivation behind it. Just as she'd always understood Melanie's deep, abiding resentment of anything even remotely related to Brian. And she knew it would never end. Melanie would always know that Lindsey loved Brian - had always loved him, would always love him, and had loved him long before she even met Melanie; fundamental truths that Melanie would never be able to accept graciously.

"Missing both of our beautiful babies," she replied, ignoring the intended barb and putting on her brightest smile.

Melanie was right, of course; she was just missing the kids. That was the reason for the tiny hub of uneasiness she felt in her belly. What else, after all, could it be?

When they reached the diner, they were lucky to find a couple of adjacent booths where they proceeded to study the menus presented by a personable (and gay, according to Ted's supposedly impeccable gay-dar) young waiter, while they accepted lovely, steaming mugs of coffee and chatted about where they should go first.

Of them all, only Michael and Lindsey were somewhat subdued, neither showing much enthusiasm for the items on the menu. Ben finally ordered for Michael, opting for chocolate chip buttermilk pancakes, when Michael seemed unable to make up his mind. Still, Ben put it down to excitement over the prospects of the day, and didn't dwell on it. Especially since Michael simply nodded his agreement to the selection.

The waiter, whose name was Greg, took their orders efficiently, then spent a few minutes making recommendations about places they might like to see. Thus, by the time their food arrived, they had tentatively agreed on their first destination.

Debbie and Ted had agreed to split an order of the Tony Bennett specialty, and were rolling their eyes over the exquisite taste when Debbie's cell phone rang, in the distinctive opening bars of Can't Help Lovin' that Man of Mine, and Debbie laughed as she flipped it open. "Hello, Pittsburgh," she crowed. "Wish you were here. You'll never guess what we're . . ."

She paused then, listening intently. "What? Carl, I can't hear . . . what did you . . ."

The group had been chattering among themselves, raving about the quality of the food with Melanie emitting exaggerated moans of pleasure as she bit into her bagel, and still arguing the merits of Radio City as opposed to the appeal of MOMA, except for Michael and Lindsey who had gone silent and wide-eyed with the ringing of the phone.

But the chatter ceased abruptly when they saw Debbie's face blanch pure white as she appeared to gasp for air.

When she closed her eyes and swayed, mouth gaping, it was Ben who grabbed the phone away from her. "What is it, Carl?" he asked.

He listened for a few seconds, before taking a deep shaky breath. "Is he . . ."

At that moment, Michael grabbed his husband's arm and jerked until Ben turned to face him. "It's Brian," said Michael, knowing he was right, even if he didn't know how he knew. "Isn't it?"

Ben could only nod.

"How bad?"

"Bad," Ben answered, putting his arm around Michael's shoulders, understanding how difficult this was going to be for the man who had been Brian's best friend since childhood. "We have to go home. Now."

The group scrambled then to make their departure, gathering their things quickly, as Ben concluded his conversation with the detective before quickly explaining what had happened, deliberately leaving out all the grisly details, most of which existed only in his imagination as Horvath had told him only what he needed to know.

"Wait!" said Daphne, eyes huge and welling with tears, as they left the restaurant. "We have to find Justin. He has to know."

Ben sighed. "He can't know," he said firmly.

"What . . . what do you mean?" Michael demanded, his face chalk white around eyes filled with shadow. "He has to know."

"He can't," Ben repeated, choosing his next words with great precision.  Horvath had told him about Brian's determination to protect Justin, and he knew he must tread carefully, but he was reluctant to offer more than a bare bones explanation. "He's on a plane on his way to Tahiti, remember? And there's no way he can just turn around in mid-air, so think about how he'd react to getting that call now.  He'd go into a meltdown, and the crew would have a riot on their hands. It's better to wait until he's landed. And . . ."

"And?" Michael again.

"And there's no time to lose," Ben replied, deliberately looking away so Michael would not note any shadow of deception in his eyes. The group had enough to deal with for the moment. The rest could wait until later.

Lindsey stumbled as she turned away from Ben, looking around for a taxi, or a subway entrance - anything to focus on, to beat back the terrible yawning blackness looming in her mind, threatening to consume her. In desperation, she leaned against a handy lamp post, trying to fight off the terrible nausea in the pit of her stomach, trying not to visualize what her mind insisted on showing her.

"Jesus, Linz!" snapped Melanie as she came up beside her. "Will you please take it easy? Where do you think you're going? There's nothing we can do. Our flight home doesn't leave until . . ."

Lindsey turned then to stare into the face of her partner, eyes wide with disbelief. "You think I'm going home?"

"Well, of course we're . . ."

But Lindsey was not listening, not really even interested. "You do whatever you like," she said quickly, ignoring the typical suspicious sneer forming on her partner's face, "but I'm going to Pittsburgh."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Matthew Keller did not suffer fools gladly, and he regarded the student nurse who stood in the doorway of his cubicle with undisguised contempt. "What do you mean when you say 'they need me'. Who the fuck needs me - and why?"

"The ambulance just rolled in," she explained, voice all atremble but determined to deliver the message as dispatched, despite the bite of panic rising in her throat.

Everyone knew that Keller could be a monster when he chose, but everybody also knew, when one got right down to it, he was the absolute best at what he did. There was no more gifted trauma specialist anywhere in Pittsburgh - maybe even anywhere in the world - and Nurse Beck had not minced words.

"Get Keller down here - now."

"Nurse Beck sent me to bring you down." She straightened under his glare. "You didn't answer your phone."

He gave her his patented sneer. "That's because I was sleeping," he said coldly. "I've been up all night."

"And you might be up all day," she snapped, surprising herself with her own degree of determination. "You've got a new patient."

Keller wanted to argue, to protest, to deny, but this slip of a girl had zeroed in on his one vulnerability. He had never in his life found a way to resist the drawing power of a "new patient". Especially since no one ever risked igniting his legendary fiery temper unless the patient in question was in dire need of his extraordinary skills.

He had spent his life resisting more conventional temptations. He had almost no personal life, confined his sexual experiences to occasional fucks as they came available, had stopped communicating with his dysfunctional family years before, and spent his spare time engaging in the only hobby he'd ever allowed himself - tennis - although these days he was hard-pressed to find suitable opponents. He almost never lost, and he was a terrible winner, so most people avoided him like the plague.

As a consequence, he spent much of his time alone, when he wasn't working. But he was almost always working. He grumbled about it incessantly, but rarely took time off.

He didn't admit it, but it was the love of the challenge that kept him at his post in the hospital, along with a deep-seated need to justify his own existence.

"What's your name?" he demanded abruptly, rising from the poor-excuse-for-a-cot he'd smuggled into his so-called office.

"Melinda Cowell," she answered sharply, "and you'd better hurry. He's in bad shape."

"Aren't they all?" he muttered, but he was moving more quickly, snagging his lap coat from its peg by the door as he followed her into the hall. "What happened?"

"Sombody beat the bejesus out of him?" she answered. "They're saying it's a hate crime. Apparently, he's gay."

"Shit!" said the doctor. "The world sucks sometimes, Nurse Cowell."

"I'm not a nurse," she explained. "Just a student."

"Yeah? Well, get ready to get a look at the ugly face of reality, Student Cowell. Do we know who our victim is?"

The student glanced down at the chart in her hands, before she handed it to him. "The chart says 'Kinney. Brian Kinney'."

The young doctor managed, just barely, not to stumble or recoil from the sudden realization.

Brian Kinney. Holy shit!

He did pause then to take a look at the chart, to scan the information provided there. But it was woefully inadequate. Blunt trauma. Multiple wounds. Broken bones. Excessive blood loss. And that was just for starters.

Brian Kinney.

Matthew had to struggle not to allow himself to descend into broad sweeps of memory, of the days of his youth, when he had been a pre-med student and Brian Kinney had already been well on his way to becoming the legend of Liberty Avenue, even though he was only a lowly undergraduate. Of course, it had also been undeniably true that Kinney was already stunningly beautiful and filled with the incredible self-assurance which would quickly establish his place in the world.

Brian Kinney - his first love, and the man who had taught him what it was to be out and proud.

Shit!

According to the standards of medical ethics, he should recuse himself from the case, knowing he would be hardput to maintain any degree of professional detachment. However, Keller was no fool, and not given to false modesty. For the kind of treatment Kinney would need, if he were to have any hope of surviving his injuries, only the best trauma specialist would do.

And Matthew Keller was the best in his chosen field; no one would even try to dispute that fact.

He barreled into the elevator with the student nurse at his heels, knowing there was no other choice.

No one would know about his connection to Kinney; they had parted long years before, each knowing they would not survive staying together. They would destroy each other if they tried to maintain close contact - two super egos competing for dominance.

But now the time had come for Keller to do what he did best - to cheat death and restore life.

In a way, Brian Kinney had saved him, at a time in his life when he had been most vulnerable. Now, he would return the favor.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emmett had been pacing the floor for two hours, growing more and more distressed, when Drew Boyd joined him and convinced him to sit down and drink a cup of coffee. The coffee was nasty and bitter, but Emmett gulped it gratefully, eager to find something - anything - to distract him from the terrible dark thoughts pouring through his mind.

"They haven't told you anything?" asked Drew after he managed to settle Emmett into the corner of the waiting room.

Emmett shook his head. "They brought some forms for me to fill out. They wanted to know his next of kin, but I . . .  I couldn't . . ."

"Does he have family?"

Emmett drew a deep breath. "Not that he'd claim. I had to give them his mother's name, but . . . God! I hope she'll have sense enough to stay away. If he thought she was here, I can't even imagine how he'd react."

Drew draped his arm around his companion's shoulders. "It's okay, Honey. I doubt he's going to know anything, for a while."

If Emmett noticed Drew's hesitation before adding that last phrase, he chose to ignore it. "How about you?" he asked. "Did the police find anything?" Then he remembered the message he'd delivered. "Did you tell them? Is Justin . . ."

"Perfectly safe," Drew assured him. "Detective Horvath got in touch with his agent, and found out that Justin took off on a flight to the South Pacific early this morning. Nobody's going to be able to get to him for now, and, by the time he comes back to the country, hopefully this will all be over and done."

Emmett looked down then, his eyes brimming with tears.

"What is it, Honey?" asked Drew gently.

Emmett tried to put on a little smile, but failed miserably. "It's just . . . I know this is what Brian wanted. For Justin to be safe. I still can't believe he was able to . . . to hold on long enough to tell me. But when Justin does find out, when he learns what's happened, he's going to be so hurt, so devastated that he wasn't here - that Brian had to go through this alone. And if . . . God! . . . if Brian . . ."

"Hush, now!" Boyd whispered. "You know, everybody keeps talking about what a tough little shit he is. He's going to be . . .

"You don't know that," said Emmett sharply. "Nobody knows that."

"You're right," said a new voice.

Emmett and Drew jumped to their feet, and turned to face the new arrival.

"I'm Dr. Keller." The surgeon was young and well-built, with sandy blonde locks and brilliant green eyes. Emmett thought that, under other circumstances, he'd have labeled the man a hottie. But not now.

"Nobody can know what's going to happen to your friend. However, I can make some educated guesses."

Emmett was staring at the man's lab coat, which was smeared with dark stains.

"How is he?" he finally managed to ask.

"Not good," replied Keller. "But you already knew that, didn't you? We've managed to stabilize him - for the moment - but we've got a lot of work to do. He's got more broken bones than I care to list, including a skull fracture. Severe blood loss. A punctured lung. Some organ damage - liver and spleen, primarily - but we're not going to know the full extent until we go in and take a look."

"Jesus!" whispered Emmett.

"Is his next of kin here?" asked Keller, his eyes sweeping the waiting room.

Emmett sighed. "I guess that would be his mother, but I . . . I don't even know how to . . ."

"That's all right," said the doctor abruptly, suddenly awash with memories of Brian's comments about his mother. "In an emergency - like this - the hospital won't require permission to treat him. We're prepping him for surgery now, but we have to wait to get in a new blood supply. We've already infused him with all of our RH-negative stock, so . . ."

"Hey," said Drew. "I'm O negative."

The doctor offered up a gentle smile. "But you're gay, Mr. Boyd. The whole world knows that by now. And gays . . ."

Drew nodded, swallowing his anger. "Yeah, okay. I get it."

"Dr. Keller?" Emmett's voice was very soft, very small. "Is he going to . . ."

"Not," replied the trauma surgeon, "if I can help it." Then he smiled. "And if I can't help it, no one can."

Emmett closed his eyes, visualizing Brian as he'd seen him the previous night - Brian Kinney, perfect, radiant, beautiful. "God!" he whispered. "They wanted to mutilate him, to destroy him, to . . ."

"Yes," confirmed the doctor. "I'm sure you're right. There's nothing as certain to piss off homophobic pricks as a beautiful gay man, is there?"

"Did you know him?" asked Drew, noticing a faint spark of anger in the physician's tone.

Keller evaded the question. "Everybody in Pittsburgh has heard of Brian Kinney - the Study of Liberty Avenue."

Emmett nodded. "Sometimes he'd make me so mad I'd want to spit, and I've begun to think he did it deliberately. But he was al . . . always beautiful."

Drew could only nod, as the doctor tried to find words of reassurance, something he was not very good at, even at the best of times.

"Will he be . . . be beautiful again?" Emmett's question was barely audible.

Matthew Keller took a deep breath, and closed his eyes recalling the horrible damage done to his patient's once perfect body. "I don't know," he admitted finally, unable to offer up a lie.

But a tiny little voice inside him would not be silenced, the one that insisted there must be a way, and he was damned well going to find it.

But first things first. First he had to save a life; then he'd worry about finding the means to restore it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Nurse Beck made another check of the surgical instruments laid out before her, knowing it wouldn't do at all for Keller to call for something only to find it wasn't ready for him.

Then she turned to study the displays on the monitors, noting the patient's vital signs which were far from optimal. Under ordinary circumstances, the young man would not be here, awaiting the first stroke of the surgeon's blade, but the circumstances were far from ordinary. If they waited for the patient to be completely stabilized, it was likely they would never get the chance to save his life.

Brian Kinney would not awaken to face a new day unless Keller was able to repair some of the damage done to his body by the cretins who had attacked him.

Lastly, the nurse took a moment to study the patient's face, as Keller scrubbed up. The doctor had been right in what he'd said to Drew Boyd. Everybody in Pittsburgh had heard of Brian Kinney. His face was almost as well known as Iron Man football heroes, and, from a strictly impersonal perspective, much more beautiful.

Only it wasn't beautiful now. Gloria Beck closed her eyes, suddenly almost overwhelmed with sorrow. How could anybody have done this, she wondered. And why did it matter where this young man stuck his dick, to the beasts who had taken it upon themselves to destroy this living work of art? She just couldn't understand how the world had become such a dark and violent place.

Then she opened her eyes, and was almost overwhelmed for a second time, but this time it was with shock at the surreal quality of the scene laid out before her.

Matthew Keller was standing beside the patient, his gloved hands carefully lifted to avoid contamination. But he was not studying the patient's condition or trying to diagnose a problem or looking at the monitors. Instead, the most gifted young trauma surgeon in the northeastern United States - known to medical staffs throughout the region as the Notoriously Egotistical Bastard - was leaning forward, his lips just caressing the patient's temple, whispering words only barely audible. "I've got you, Baby," he was saying, "and I'm not going to let you go. You hear me, Brian? It's Matt, and I'm not going to let you go. Just rest now. You're safe - with me."

Then he straightened up, and realized Nurse Beck had heard and understood every word.

"You got a problem with that?" he demanded, suddenly all business again.

Gloria Beck smiled beneath her mask, and knew he had seen it and decided to ignore it.

"Not a one," she answered, her voice deliberately without emotion.

"Then don't just stand there," he snapped. "Hand me a fucking scalpel."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


It was almost four when Calvin Culpepper pulled his Audi into the parking lot of Allegheny Memorial Hospital, having shaved almost an hour off the customary five-and-a-half-hour drive. Though some of the occupants of the vehicle had made a valiant attempt to keep the conversation going and pass the time early in the ride, most had finally given up the effort. No one had spoken at all in the final two hours.

They had been more crowded on the trip into New York, with Ted and Blake taking up the third seat, and their luggage piled on the roof rack. But on the return, the two had elected to join Lindsey and Melanie in the car they'd rented for the journey. Melanie had grumbled, but finally relented when she'd realized that Lindsey was going ahead with her determination to come to Pittsburgh, whether or not Melanie decided to accompany her.

Calvin, correctly gauging the mood of his passengers, did not bother to try to find a parking place for the Audi. Instead, he simply pulled up before the front entrance of the hospital, and allowed all his riders to disembark. He was just pulling away when he spotted the rental Toyota pull in behind him, allowing Lindsey, Ted, Melanie, and Daphne to exit, while Blake went to park the car.

Michael had been first out of the car, and was first through the doors, breaking into a sprint once he was inside. Ben and the rest of the group followed more circumspectly. Nobody bothered to stop at the desk to ask directions. They had all been here before, so they knew exactly where to go.

When Michael tore into the ER waiting room, Emmett leapt to his feet and sprang forward. He had not realized how alone he felt, even with Drew at his side, until he saw Michael burst into the room, even though Lance Mathis and Cynthia Whitney, Brian's assistant, had joined them earlier in the day.

Emmett reached for his old friend, and they were immediately in each other's arms, giving and receiving comfort and sharing tears.

"How is he?" Michael demanded, as the rest of the group arrived. "Have you heard . . ."

"Nothing," said Emmett. "He's been in surgery for hours. And nobody's told us anything. Oh, Michael, I'm so scared. He was so . . .  so broken and . . ."

"Thank God you were there," Michael interrupted. "Thank God you got there in time."

Emmett was shaking his head. "Not in time to save him before . . . I'm so sorry, Michael."

"What the hell happened?" demanded Debbie, speaking more to Drew and Lance and Cynthia than to Emmett who was obviously incapable of providing cogent answers.

But Ben knew that Michael, as well as some of the others, were not ready to face the blunt reality of what Brian had endured. "Not now," he said firmly, his eyes warning Debbie - always hungry for the details - to back off. "I'm sure we'll hear the whole gory story, all in good time."

Lindsey, who had entered the room without speaking to anyone, circled around the group and made her way to the nurse's station where she spoke to the woman on duty. "Excuse me," she said softly, "but can you please check on the condition of Brian Kinney?"

The young nurse looked up from the chart she was working on. "Are you family?"

Lindsey mustered up a smile. "I'm the mother of his child. Does that count?"

The young woman - her badge said "Barbara" - wavered for a moment; then she smiled. "I'll make a call."

"Thanks," said Lindsey, turning back to the crowd, knowing what she would see, and she was right. Melanie was staring at her, eyes gleaming with anger. The reaction, of course, to the 'I'm-the-mother-of-his-child' remark.

On the other hand, Michael and Emmett were looking at her as if she had just qualified for sainthood.

The nurse had just lifted the phone to make her call, when the doors to the surgery suite opened, and Matthew Keller strode into the waiting room.

Although Emmett and Drew were the only ones who were supposed to know who he was, that turned out not to be the case.

Lindsey's eyes were suddenly huge. "Matt?" she said softly. "You're taking care of him?"

"Hey, Lindsey," replied the physician, suddenly not sure where to look. He had not counted on this, on running into one of the few people who knew everything about his relationship with Brian. "And yes. I am taking care of him."

"Oh, thank God," she said, throwing her arms around him. "I know you won't let anything bad happen to him. Will you?"

He smiled, and whispered into her ear. "Not as long as I've got breath in my body."

"How is he?" asked Emmett, unable to bear another moment of uncertainty.

Keller released Lindsey and turned to face the group. "He's . . . holding his own. For now, that's pretty much all we can expect."

"How bad was it?" asked Ben.

Dr. Keller sighed. "He had quite a bit of internal damage, but I think we've managed to repair it all. The most dangerous thing was the pressure on the brain. He was bleeding into his skull, under the fracture. But we were able to relieve that. Had to remove his spleen and repair a tear in his lung and deal with some relatively minor liver damage. Then there were bones to set, lacerations to stitch up." He offered up a tired smile. "It was a long, complex surgery. And I don't want to give you any false assurance. He's still got a long way to go. But . . ."

"But?" That was Lindsey, staring into his eyes and employing her familiarity with him to gauge his honesty.

"But I think . . . I believe he's going to make it. We've put him into an induced coma, to give him a chance to heal. Now don't misunderstand me. It won't be fast, and it won't be easy, but he'll make it. I intend to make sure of that."

Then Michael and Emmett and Ted were throwing their arms around each other, too relieved to even voice their relief, and Debbie was laughing with Daphne and Ben,as Cynthia collapsed into her seat, covering her eyes with her hands and counting on the confusion of the moment to conceal the tears streaming through her fingers.

Only Lindsey was still standing there, still waiting, as Melanie stood by to observe, her face stony and emotionless as Lindsey stepped forward to speak softly into the doctor's ear.

"If you let him die," said the woman who had known the physician since his days as a callow undergraduate, "I will have your balls. Understand me?"

He offered up his first brilliant smile of the day. "I promise."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~