Chapter 28

She had known it would turn out to be a mistake when she did it, but she'd managed to convince herself that it would be all right. That it would prove it was all just a figment of her imagination.

Only . . . it wasn't.

The pencil mark she'd made on the soffit of the vaulted porch roof had been intended to demonstrate that the stain which was bleeding through the cracked and faded mint green paint was not really expanding; that she was only imagining it was bigger this week than last, and bigger then than the week before. Only now, with the mark a good two inches inside the leading edge of the dark, moldy smudge, there was no way she could refuse to see the truth of it.

She should never have made the fucking mark in the first place.

Claire Kinney-DeFatta sighed. So here it was - proof positive she could no longer just ignore; the fucking roof was leaking; new evidence that the fucking townhouse was falling apart - a new item to add to a growing list of symptoms which included the buckled vinyl in the kitchen, the broken faucet in the laundry room, the warped flooring in the main hallway, the cracked window by the front door, a cranky water heater that made a hot bath a crap shoot, at best, and crumbling grout around all the plumbing fixtures in bath and kitchen.

Falling apart. Just like her fucking life.

It just wasn't fair. But that shouldn't have surprised her at all. Nothing - not one single thing in her personal history - had ever been fair.

Nor from day one, although she had convinced herself, over the years, that it had been at least a little better, until roughly day l100 of her life - the day he had been born. The fact that she had absolutely no memory of those pre-Brian years did not in any way change her belief that she had been the apple of her parents' eyes, adored and indulged, until he'd shown up to ruin everything.

She glanced at the Timex she wore on her wrist, and then stepped forward to look down the street, in the hope (vain, she was almost certain) that she'd see the service truck from Bert's Garage coming toward her. But the street was empty, just as she'd expected, and it was time to face the facts. No way was she getting to work on time. Even if she left now and raced to the bus stop down at the end of the street, she would still be at least a half-hour late, much to the amusement of her fellow cashiers at the Dollar Emporium and the satisfaction of her sadistic, condescending supervisor, who lived to make an example of any employee who gave him the slightest excuse for a queen-out. Of course, Donald Prentiss, shift supervisor at the Morrison St. branch of the discount chain, was not gay - or so he claimed - so it was probably not entirely accurate to term his characteristic emotional hissy-fit a 'queen-out', but she thought that, in this instance, the shoe most definitely did fit.

Besides, she wasn't so sure about the 'not gay' thing. After all, she knew 'gay' perfectly well; given the flaming, shameless lifestyle of her notorious brother, there weren't many people who could claim to know it better. So even though Prentiss paraded himself around with a bleached blonde he introduced as his fiancé, and bragged about his history as a notorious womanizer, she wasn't so sure. In the final analysis, she knew about closets too, even though her brother had never spent much time in one - not nearly as much as he should have, anyway.

Shameless, indeed, and constantly flaunting himself in front of his betters.

It just wasn't fair.

She turned once more to glare at her dilapidated old Ford Escort, sitting more lopsided than usual due to its flat rear tire, and felt an almost overwhelming urge to pick up a brick and smash a window or two. But that would only mean another repair bill that she couldn't afford to pay, so she forced herself to turn and walk away, digging her cell phone out of her smock pocket to cancel the service call from Bert's.

She would just have to ride the city bus to and from work, and John would have to change the tire when he got home from school. He would not be happy about it, but what the fuck else was new? When was John ever happy with anything these days? She knew, of course, that it was almost a right of passage for sixteen-year-old boys to make asses of themselves and despise everything in which their parents believed, but she was almost at wits' end in trying to figure out how to handle him, and his father - tucked away in his idyllic little brownstone in Greenwich - was certainly not going to offer any help, considering that he could barely be bothered to send an occasional check to cover the pitiful pittance of the court-decreed child support he was supposed to pay every month. Not that John would have listened to him any better than he listened to his mother, or his grandmother, on those increasingly rare occasions when the older woman was sober enough to deliver a summary of her religious platitudes. The kid seemed to hate everything and everyone lately, and the letter she'd received just last week concerning his behavior in school and his dismal grade levels was more than adequate proof of that.

And now he'd gone and done it again, apparently determined to confirm his growing reputation as a troublemaker. And a borderline delinquent.

Gay-bashing. That's what the assistant principal had called it, and when she'd spoken to him on the phone, his tone of voice had suggested that he was just as unhappy with the terminology as she was. Since when, she'd asked, was voicing an honest opinion about perverts and degenerates a punishable offense? Hedley Cooper had not - quite - snickered in response to her mini-tirade, but he had been quick to assure her that he would agree with her contention, except that John had not exactly confined his actions to 'voicing an opinion'. Instead, he and two of his jock-friends had cornered another student - "one of those ultra-sensitive, artistic types", according to Cooper - roughed him up, cleaned out his pockets, and locked him in a broom closet.

"No permanent damage done, thank God!" the assistant principle had said, "but the boy's mother is a bit over-protective and, well, very liberal in her socio-political views."

"Uh, huh," Claire had responded. "Soooo - because this spineless, bleeding-heart parent doesn't have the gumption to teach her lily-livered son how to man up and walk the straight and narrow path, my son has to be held accountable for objecting to his perversions?"

Cooper had gone silent for a moment after that outburst, and when he had finally deigned to answer, she'd heard something in his voice that made her wonder if she might have been wrong about him - if she might have taken her protest a little bit too far.

At any rate, the bottom line was that John was now on probation, and any additional infraction - anything at all - would get him expelled for the remainder of the school term.

Meanwhile, there were other problems - of a completely different nature - with Peter, her youngest, who was turning out to be John's polar opposite. While John tended to hang out with a rough crowd, with boys who had a reputation for bullying and intimidating and throwing their weight around, Peter, it seemed, was turning out to be the kid that everybody wanted to pick on. He'd been beaten up twice since Christmas, and pushed down the stairs so violently on one occasion that he'd wound up with a cracked rib.

And each time such events had occurred, bystanders had been stricken with the kind of selective blindness that plagues so many urban school settings; to wit, no one had seen anything. Compounding the problem, Peter had been stubbornly mute when questioned - refusing to identify his attackers or even to admit that there'd been an attack at all, and Claire was pretty sure she knew why.

It was practically John's creed: a guy didn't rat out other guys. Not even when a guy was getting the shit kicked out of him on a regular basis. And Peter, despite the fact that he was nothing like John, would never do anything to displease or disappoint his big brother.

John, on the other hand, seemed to have no interest in returning the favor, and Claire had not yet determined why. In truth, she had not yet even asked, and she was careful not to examine her reasoning too closely, for, if she did, she would almost certainly have to face an uncomfortable truth - that there were some things a person simply did not want to know.

Claire increased her pace as she approached the corner of Milburn and Lounsberry Streets, spotting a couple of busses half-a-block away. If she was lucky - as she had not been yet today - one of them would be the express out to the Morrison district.

Her luck, however, was running true to form - all bad. She stood and watched as both of the diesel behemoths belched out clouds of dark, oily smoke and pulled out heading north, when she needed to go west.

She sat down on the bench at the corner, taking no notice of the heavy beads of rainwater that still clung to its surface and wincing as she felt the wetness soak through the seat of her pants.

Wonderful. Now she'd not only have to try to ignore the smug smiles of her co-workers as she arrived late, and the pissy attitude of her supervisor, she'd also have to endure stupid jokes from infantile stockboys about senile old women who wet themselves and should wear Depends or rubber pants.

Could this day get any worse?

Then she sighed. Of course, it could - and probably would.

The thought recalled a memory of Peter as he'd looked when she'd walked into his room the previous afternoon and found him there, bloodied and bruised and trying not to cry.

He had turned to look up at her, and she had been stricken speechless, as another image - an old, almost-forgotten image - had superimposed itself over his face, and - for a single instant - it was not Peter she was staring at in horror; it was her brother. It was Brian.

She had quickly put the thought away, shoving the spark of recognition back into the gloom of her sub-conscious mind, where it belonged. It did not matter, after all, that Peter looked nothing like her or his father or his brother. It did not matter that he was much more . . . no; she would not use that word - that word that should never be applied to boys, that should never have been used at all to . . .

She looked up the street, almost praying for the bus to materialize so she could make her escape - from the chill of the morning air, from the wetness of the bench, and from the cruel visions of sharp, clear, relentless memory.

She had been trying unsuccessfully to join the pep squad at Oliver High School for over a year, but she had finally made it, when Brenda and Glenda Shepherd - twin members of the Oliver In-crowd - had moved away after their father had been transferred to a new job in Philadelphia. Even then, she knew, she would probably not have been accepted in the group if Marilyn McConnell had not been forced to give up her place in the club because of academic probation.

But ultimately, it didn't matter (or so she assured herself) why she had been made a member. It only mattered that she had finally been accepted into the organization, and - since this was her senior year - given a last chance to infiltrate the social layers of the club.

The previous eighteen months had been hard for Claire - hard for the whole family, in fact. They had been uprooted from their previous home when her father had lost his job at the shipyard in Brooklyn, and they had been forced to migrate to Pittsburgh so he could apply for work at one of the big steel mills. Luckily, his uncle was a shift manager there, who managed to pull a few strings to get him hired on, but it had been a big comedown from the position he'd held before. Though he'd never made it into a management position, he'd worked for the shipwrights for almost twenty years before an internal financial scandal had caused the operation to shut down. So there had been no fancy title or private office, but he'd earned fairly decent money in his union-protected job, and he'd long since realized that there was no point in dwelling on his lack of advancement within the company hierarchy. Though he'd spent most of his life cursing his bad luck and insisting that he'd been cut out for better things, the truth was that he'd been lucky to have a steady job, a secure place in the community, and certain personal perks that compensated for all the advantages he didn't have.

The move to Pittsburgh had changed everything, intensifying his feelings of resentment and bitterness and, although he managed, eventually, to find new compensations - new personal perks - he'd never even made an effort to forgive those he held responsible for his bad luck: his wife - who had spent years blaming him for her own coldness and disappointments and submerging herself in the empty rituals of her church - and his son, the child who should never have been born, who had been the reason he could never free himself from the chains that bound him to his miserable existence.

Thus, no member of the family had been happy about the move to Pittsburgh.

But Brian had, in his characteristic pragmatic fashion, found ways to deal with what could not be changed. Claire had never been so fortunate. Brian had always been the lucky one - the beautiful one - the bright one, the one for whom doors seemed to open, as if by magic.

It really wasn't fair, especially since, by that time, Claire had begun to realize what Brian was, although she'd been too ashamed to tell anyone of her suspicions. Except Brian, of course, who had not bothered to deny her accusations, and his lack of concern had contributed to the growing rift between them. She couldn't quite figure out why she should be so ashamed that her baby brother was a fag, when he seemed to be completely without guilt or remorse. That, she'd believed, was just wrong, recognizing that she would be horribly embarrassed once the truth came to light, while he - the one who should be ashamed to be found out - would probably just shrug it off, as he did with most things.

And yet . . . at that time in her life, she had not yet come to hate him or resent him, because the unavoidable truth was that he was the only reason her life wasn't dreadfully, traumatically, horribly worse than it already was. It wasn't something they ever talked about; it wasn't even something she ever admitted to herself. But she knew it nonetheless; the only reason she and her mother weren't subjected to the violent physical abuse her father dished out regularly, whenever he drank too much or went into one of his periodic rages because of his resentment of his life, was that it was Brian who provided the outlet the old man needed; Brian who was the target.

Jack Kinney had never realized what his only son was growing up to be, but it hadn't really mattered anyway. Brian was the child he'd never wanted, the child he blamed for destroying any hope he might have had of ever getting away from his miserable life, and that was all that mattered.

And Joan, their mother . . . that was the part Claire tried never to think about. For a while, when Brian had been very young, Joan had tried to step in, to protect Brian and persuade Jack to leave the boy alone, but that had only lasted as long as it took Jack to figure out that he had enough cruelty and hatred within him to spread around. Thus, when he'd begun to target his daughter and his wife, Joan had reconsidered her options and made her choice. Brian was supposed to grow up to be a man, wasn't he? And men should be strong and resourceful and able to endure such abuse, so it hadn't taken long for her to figure out how to console herself and rationalize what Jack did to his son. She was a good Christian woman, and it was her duty to defend and protect her helpless daughter, and if her son had to learn to stand up and take a little physical hardship in the process, it would undoubtedly serve to make him a better man, in the end.

Jesus, after all, had been scourged and beaten, hadn't he?

It was convoluted logic, of course, but it worked perfectly well for someone desperate to find a way to bear an unbearable truth.

Joan was proof positive of the accuracy of the old adage: there are none so blind as those who will not see.

But Claire, despite never being told, had always known the truth. She had seen the bruises and the blood and the broken bones and the black eyes. She knew what Brian endured, and she knew it was done to him - at least in part - so it would not be done to her or her mother.

Thus, on that autumn day when she'd finally managed to overcome the obstacles of being the "new kid" in school and not being one of the so-called 'beautiful people', when she'd managed to convince herself it was only a matter of time before popular girls like Lisa Van Horn - of the Twin Rivers Lincoln-Mercury Van Horns - and Allison Carlisle, principal's daughter, and Pam Sullivan, Beta club president, began to accept her, and that her senior year might not be a total loss after all, she still cared, at least a little bit, what happened to her baby brother, even if he was turning out to be a big queer.

That afternoon, it had only taken a few minutes for her to figure out that pep squad practice was nothing more than an excuse to get out of class early and spend a little time drinking Coca Cola, sneaking an occasional cigarette behind the bleachers, giggling with friends, and watching the boys practicing on the football field, which would be the biggest attraction of all, once the coach finished up the lecture he was giving in the locker room, releasing the team to come charging out through the end zone.

Meanwhile, the girls took advantage of the opportunity to arrange themselves to best advantage to be noticed when the boys arrived, and to gossip and giggle and chatter about the next Ghostbusters movie or the new Prince album or the real reason why Dianna Knox would not be back to school this year, or how the new girls' gym teacher, with her butch haircut and her plaid shirts, was probably a dyke who'd spend all her time hanging out in the shower trying to spy on all the pussy she could lay her eyes on.

Claire had taken special care in dressing for this occasion, having raided Brian's closet when he wasn't looking, and helped herself to one of his Polo shirts - this one a dark navy with scarlet trim - that she'd tucked into the Guess jeans her mother had bought for her birthday. Thus, she felt as if she really fit in perfectly when she took her seat in the stands, directly behind the trio of girls who were the elite members of the senior class, and watched while the cheerleaders on the field finished running through one of their standard routines.

Still, she thought, one could never be too careful, so she was taking a quick peek in her compact, checking to make sure the lipstick wasn't smeared and the shag haircut was shaggy in all the right places, when she heard Lisa Van Horn - the blondest, richest, and prettiest of the group - take a quick, deep breath, that was almost a gasp.

"Oh, my God!" the girl cried, one hand knotted at her throat. "Who is that?"

"Who is what?" replied Allison Carlisle, she of the Miss Clairol super-bright auburn hair.

"That!" Lisa retorted. "Jesus! Are you blind?"

"What the . . . " That was Pam Sullivan, putting in her two cents.

"There, you twits. Right there. Look. Third on the left - front row."

A beat of silence, followed by Pam's exaggerated exhalation. "Oh, for God's sake, Lisa. That's just the junior soccer team. Why would you . . ."

Lisa turned and fixed her companion with a cold glare, and the other girl went abruptly silent. Lisa was not one to accept fools - or dissention - gladly.

"Unless you have lost your fucking mind," said the blonde, "if you'll just open your eyes and actually look where I'm pointing, you'll see what I'm talking about. Now turn around  and look!"

By this time, Pam and Allison were not the only ones looking, since everybody in the stands - both those who were members of the "in" club and those who only aspired to be - pretty much took their cues from the golden trio. Thus, Claire joined the crowd in looking across the field, trying to see what had so inspired the blonde trend-setter.

But there was nothing there, except . . .

"Oh, shit!" said Pam. "How could we miss that?"

No. Claire was almost afraid to breathe. They couldn't possibly mean . . .

But they did. They must. What else was down there to rivet their attention? Over on the left side of the field, in a patch of chilly sunshine, the members of the junior varsity soccer team were stretching and loosening up, and right in front - where else - was a tall, beautifully-built individual, decked out in the soccer team's black and scarlet uniform, colors which, naturally, were among those which flattered him most, accenting long, well-muscled legs, perfect golden skin, broad shoulders and narrow waist, and - at that exact moment, with his legs spread wide as he bent forward - his perfect, beautiful butt displayed to wonderful advantage.

"Who is that?" asked Allison, her tone hushed, almost breathless.

"I don't know," answered Lisa, "but I sure as hell intend to find out."

"Ummm . . ." Claire took a deep breath, and leaned forward, attempting to affect a slightly bored demeanor, but not succeeding very well. "Don't waste your time. He's just a freshman."

Pam Sullivan sniffed loudly. "I don't give a shit if he's twelve. Holy shit, what a body!"

Claire forced herself to breathe again, wondering if - just maybe - this might prove to be her lucky day after all. "If you like," she said slowly, "I could introduce you. If you're really interested, I mean."

Three heads turned simultaneously, and three pairs of eyes gave her a swift, efficient, condescending once-over.

"You?" said Allison Carlisle, not exactly sneering - but close enough. "You know him?"

Claire was careful to toss her head in just the right way, exactly the way she'd seen her peers - or the people she hoped to adopt as her peers - do it before. "Know him? Of course, I know him. He's my brother."

Three pairs of eyes scanned her again, slightly colder than before, and one of them - she was never sure which - began to laugh.

"That," said Lisa with a venal grin, "is related to you? You can't really expect us to believe that . . . that beautiful creature is . . ." She was actually giggling now, her cheeks flushed bright red with the attempt to suppress whoops of laughter, "is your brother?"

It was Pam who spoke up then, to put the final dollop of icing on the cake. "He must be so . . ." She didn't even bother to try to finish the sentence, as everyone in the stands was now laughing too, delighted to be included in a chance to enjoy the mortification of a an intrusive outsider who would never fit in with the 'Beautiful people', no matter how hard or how long she tried.

Claire made a wild grab for her things, her face hot and glowing scarlet with embarrassment, and took off at a dead run, not caring in the least that she was dropping her belongings behind her as she raced away. She made her exit as fast as her legs would carry her, leaving behind the final shreds of her hopes for acceptance and belonging in a school society completely indifferent to her existence. And down on the field, where the soccer team continued to warm up and the sun was striking bright auburn glints in a mass of thick, dark hair and gilding a beautiful, perfect body, Brian went on with his stretching, never realizing he had just lost the last vestige of his sister's loyalty.

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

Thank God! The fucking bus was finally coming up the street, and Claire stood up and stepped forward, her face grim and set and determined.

No point in crying over old memories. Or new ones either. It had been silly of her to think that Peter looked anything like Brian. Even if there was some tiny, superficial physical similarity, there was also one major, elementary difference; Peter had looked embarrassed and scared, and Brian . . . Brian had never been scared of anything in his life. Defiant and cocksure - yes. Resentful and furious - yes. But never scared. And never embarrassed, even though he should have been. And above all, never, never, never sorry, never once showing an ounce of remorse over the fact that he was always the one who managed to be the center of attention in every situation; the one who unfailingly drew the eyes of family and friends and acquaintances and perfect strangers on the street; the one who always managed to land on his feet no matter how far he fell - or was thrown; the one to whom everything came easily - school, friends, scholarships, athletic ability, wit, charm, education, acclaim, admiration, desire . . . money.

It just wasn't fair.

The bus was crowded today, and she quickly made her way toward the back to take a seat, still not quite able to put Brian out of her thoughts - especially given her current circumstances, since it was, in a way, his fault that she was running so late this morning. If she hadn't had to take time out of her busy schedule - the appointment had almost made her miss the regular episode of Big Brother - to be interviewed by that FBI woman, she wouldn't have had to stay up so late to finish her nightly chores and thus, wouldn't have overslept this morning.

Yet, she couldn't very well have refused to speak to the woman. No matter what an embarrassment Brian had turned out to be, he was still blood, and of course she had to cooperate with the authorities in their attempts to apprehend the individuals responsible for his injuries. In addition, she had hoped it might give her an opportunity to learn more about the circumstances of the crime and the damage done to her brother, but that hadn't exactly worked out as she'd wished.

Alexandra Corey, with her elegant Armani suit and her Jimmy Choo shoes and her expensive leather briefcase had not exactly lived up - or down - to Claire's expectations of how a civil servant should look or act. For one thing, she'd been very uncooperative in answering the questions Claire put to her while simultaneously insisting that Claire should reply to hers fully and comprehensibly.

Thus, in an attempt to take charge of the confrontation, Claire had confined her initial responses to mono-syllables - simple yes and no replies to not-so-simple questions - and Agent Corey had taken notes in a leather-bound journal, in a cryptic, indecipherable shorthand, her own contributions to the conversation limited to nods or non-committal hums. But as the minutes had passed, Claire had begun to grow impatient with the agent's silences, had grown increasingly determined to elicit some kind of genuine response. But nothing had worked. Even when she'd begun to elaborate on some of her answers, Corey had remained entirely unmoved and uninvolved.

Until, after a half hour of extremely minimalist give and take, the agent had crossed her legs and settled herself comfortably into her chair, regarding Brian's sister with a speculative glance before offering up a single, apparently idle question.

"Was your brother always so beautiful?"

It had been softly spoken, without a nuance of hidden meaning or malice, but it had struck Claire like a dagger through the heart, and she had suddenly felt the cold weight of years of misery and bitterness and jealousy settle upon her, a monstrous weight that succeeded in destroying all of her defensive walls and releasing a floodtide of pent-up rage and resentment, of disappointments and disillusionment and disgrace.

Of never being good enough. Of never being loved enough, for - even in that, even in that one final certainty she had trusted to provide the only solace she would ever know - even then, she had been wrong. In the end, despite every effort she had made, despite the fact that beautiful, perfect Brian had betrayed everything their father ever believed in - the father who should have loved her, who should have been proud of her, who should have been grateful for the love and affection she gave him - despite all that, at the very end, he had betrayed her, lying on his deathbed, gasping for his last breath, and, with it, whispering the last word he would ever speak.

Brian.

As life had drained from his body, it had been Brian who occupied his thoughts, Brian from whom he hungered for respect and forgiveness; Brian, who had been loved, almost as much as he'd been hated.

Claire had stared at the FBI agent, at the smirk on her face and the knowing gleam in her eyes, and been suddenly swept away in an overpowering urge to speak out, to scour away the dark stains of her miserable life in a blinding flash of truth.

She had ranted for almost an hour, her words tumbling and falling over each other, mixed with occasional sobs and desperate sighs, only realizing, as she came to the end of her diatribe, that her voice had risen to a shrill scream and that her youngest son had emerged from his room at some point to stand on the stairs and listen to everything she'd said, his eyes huge and dark with desperation. At that point, she'd realized that she couldn't even remember most of what she'd said, and she'd fallen silent, her breathing harsh and uneven, as she'd felt a stir of panic in wondering if she'd gone too far - said too much. Then she'd turned to stare at the FBI agent, and study the shadows moving in the woman's dark eyes. Alexandra Corey had spent many years learning to conceal her emotions and mask her feelings, but, on this occasion, she hadn't been totally successful in suppressing her responses to Claire's rant.

The woman had looked stunned, scandalized, subdued, obviously shocked at everything she had heard, and Claire was filled with a sense of satisfaction, in the belief that the truth had been revealed, that the FBI agent had been forced to reassess her opinions about the man she had previously characterized as a victim.

A victim!

Claire stared out through the dirty window of the bus, her eyes narrow and filled with malice.

A victim!

Brian Kinney had been many things to many people in his life, but the one thing he had never been was a victim - no matter what had been done to him. She had seen the photographs in the tabloids; she'd even kept one, locked away in a bureau drawer - a keepsake she could take out, when life was too hard and too bitter to bear, a reminder that justice - harsh, brutal, relentless - would always be served, sooner or later.

Exactly as it should be. Exactly as she'd explained it to Agent Corey.

Even though she was here, on this miserable, dirty old bus in route to her bleak, thankless job, apparently destined to live in a ramschackle old townhouse she could not afford to repair, with two boys who hardly ever saw their father and seemed to have no real connection with family members, while her brother - the pervert - was off somewhere, no doubt flaunting his glamorous lifestyle and enjoying all his considerable wealth while his incredibly elegant, beautifully decorated home lay empty and untouchable and off-limits to the people who should have mattered to him. His face, she was pretty sure, would never again be as perfect as it had been during all those years when people had fallen all over themselves to rave about his beauty, but it wouldn't matter in the end, since he had enough money to buy the kind of fawning behavior he obviously craved. She sighed then, momentarily caught up in a memory of that face, of a time before she had learned to hate and resent him, when even she had been charmed and taken in by his wiles, but the memory was fleeting, quickly dismissed and replaced by other memories - sharper, colder, more painful. She had suffered at his hands, more than anyone would ever know, but at least, she had the satisfaction of knowing she had never earned the kind of vicious hatred that would motivate unknown individuals - powerful, vengeful individuals - to try to destroy her or find joy in mutilating her face and body. No one would ever have just cause to condemn her for perversion and debauchery.

At least, she had the moral high ground, and she had managed to force Alexandra Corey to see that, even if she had been reluctant to accept it. In the end, Claire had seen it there in the woman's eyes - the horror of truth dawning, of recognizing what Brian had done to the people around him and how he had earned his just desserts.

Ultimately, she was content with her performance, never once stopping to consider that the FBI agent's horror might not have been directed at Brian at all, but at a completely different target. Thus, when she had moved to shake the woman's hand at the end of their interview and Corey had turned away, apparently never noticing the hand that was extended to her, Claire had simply chalked it up to weariness after a long day and an emotional session. It had not occurred to her that the woman might have been repulsed by the idea of touching someone so consumed with malice.

Still, Claire was not completely satisfied with how the confrontation had gone; she had not learned very much about Brian's condition or his prognosis or his current location - all things she and her mother had a right to know. They had managed to find out that he had left the hospital; Allegheny General had provided that information, at least. And a subsequent phone call to Kinnetik and a conversation with that blonde bitch/glorified typist who called herself Brian's assistant had confirmed it, but had ultimately only served to intensify their sense of frustration when Cynthia Whitney had refused to divulge anything about where he'd gone or why he'd gone there. She had been icily polite, but adamant.

Nasty little bitch. Claire and Joan had both speculated on whether or not Brian might have secured her loyalty by virtue of exercising his notorious seductive powers to lure her into his bed, but both had dismissed the idea quickly, realizing that Brian just didn't swing that way. Although there had been that ridiculous blonde when he was in college - the one who, according to rumor, had borne a child, claiming that Brian was the sperm donor. Which was, of course, also ridiculous. The idea of Brian Kinney as a father was ludicrous.

Still, there was much they did not know, and there was too much at stake in all this to simply walk away. What if it turned out that her brother's injuries were more severe than anyone had admitted? What if he was never able to resume a normal life? What if he needed someone to look out for his best interests?

Perhaps it was time to mount a little investigation of her own in an effort to sniff out the weak links in the chains with which Brian had always surrounded himself. She was certain there were plenty of shady characters who were a part of his life who would not hesitate to take advantage of his current circumstances to make sure they could profit from his misfortune - which, of course, could not be allowed. If anybody deserved to benefit from his situation, it should be the people to whom he owed such a huge debt - the people he had hurt so badly throughout his life.

His innocent family.

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

Dr. Rick Turnage was trying to decide whether or not it would be completely beneath the dignity of an acclaimed surgeon to lose his temper and throw a chair through a plate glass window.

In the end, he concluded that it would be - but only just - and even then, if he could have been certain that the shattered glass would disintegrate in such a way as to make hamburger out of a certain arrogant, unapologetic FBI asshole, he thought he probably would have proceeded, no matter how far beneath his dignity it might be.

How the hell was he supposed to do his best work when that bastard, McClaren, had made it impossible for him to function under optimum conditions?

"This is unacceptable!" he snapped, standing nose-to-nose with the agent. "You had no right . . ."

"On the contrary, Doctor, I had every right."

Turnage wasn't sure which infuriated him more - the flat refutation of his statement, or the agent's cool serenity in the face of his outrage.

"You . . . you . . ." Turnage paused to take a deep breath. Then he tried again. "You actually vetted my staff? You took it upon yourself to investigate my people, and to decide who . . ."

Chris McClaren held up one hand to end the incipient tirade, his expression giving away nothing except his determination. "Calm down, Doctor," he said smoothly. "If you'll pay attention, I'll explain it to you."

"But . . ."

This time, the agent raised only a single finger. "Your job, Dr. Turnage, is to restore your patient's physical well being. And his appearance. And that's a worthy endeavor. However, my job is to keep him alive. And I think you're smart enough to figure out which takes precedence. Now, I know you're not happy with having to operate without the services of your chief nurse/anesthetist, and, believe it or not, I sympathize with your difficulty, but . . ."

Turnage's mutinous expression suggested that he didn't believe a single word of the agent's assurances.

McClaren, however, continued without missing a beat. "However, you must also understand that this situation is unique in that Kinney's need for your services makes it impossible for us to protect him using ordinary measures. We can't simply make him disappear into Wit-Sec, as we would under normal circumstances. For one thing, you're too high-profile. For another, so is he. But at the same time, his life is on the line. So is mine, and it's not beyond the realm of plausibility that yours might be as well."

The doctor started slightly. "What? What do you . . ."

"Relax," McClaren said quickly. "As part of protecting him, I also have to protect you." His smile was slightly smug. "Look, Doc. This investigation is still in its infancy, but everything we've learned so far suggests this wasn't just an example of random violence - a result of Kinney happening to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. All indicators are that it was well planned and deliberate, and the people behind it are powerful, determined individuals. Which means we have to scramble to make sure we stay one step ahead of them.

"And while I understand your objections to our methods, I can't allow a question of convenience, for lack of a better term, to impact my decision. The simple truth is that your anesthetist has strong family and personal attachments to a group of individuals in Pittsburgh who might - or might not - have some interest in this case. And while I agree it's unlikely that there's any real connection at all, it's a risk I dare not allow. Thus, it's just easier to err on the side of caution and make sure that Nurse Connor is never tempted to betray his professional obligations and violate confidentiality regulations. Comprende?"

But Turnage was still not convinced, having grown more and more annoyed as the agent explained himself. "Group of individuals?" he quoted with a sneer. "You mean gang members. This is all because Darrell was in a gang when he was a kid. Christ, that was thirty years ago. What does he have to do to . . ."

McClaren's eyes were suddenly icy. "You may be right, Doctor. His ties to the Brighton Place Crips may be long forgotten. But his youngest nephew is still a member in good standing, and the unavoidable truth is that some of the thugs who served as hired muscle in the attack on Kinney were gang members. So this is the bottom line; you may be willing to risk your patient's health on your certainty that Connor's integrity is thicker than blood - so to speak - but I'm not. Especially when the fix was relatively simple. A couple of phone calls, a little finagling, and . . ."

"Simple? You think this is simple? You arrange for some pencil pusher at the nursing home where his eighty-year-old mother is confined to come up with some kind of bogus discrepancy in her financial arrangements, so he has to go flying out of here in a panic, and . . ."

McClaren shrugged. "Don't sweat it, Doc. Everything will all be worked out in a few days, and the old lady will never know anything about it. At which time, a few other factors will come into play to make sure that Connor has to stay there for a few weeks, to take care of family business, so that, by the time, he's free to return, Kinney will be tucked up safe and sound in his cozy little cottage, with no further need to spend time here. Everybody wins."

"Very neat," retorted Turnage. "Except for the fact that I now have to perform an intricate, tremendously complex surgical procedure without one of my most trusted assistants. And there is absolutely no guarantee that there won't be many such procedures to be done in the future, before this patient is done with treatment here. So what happens if . . ."

McClaren's finger was up again. "One day at a time, Dr. Turnage. Let's try to concentrate on . . ."

"Oh . . . fuck off!"

McClaren grinned as he watched the tall, beautifully-built physician flounce off down the hall, observing that it was really a shame that the guy was straight. The task of taming such a shrew could have proved intensely challenging, not to mention extremely orgasmic.

Turnage was just blowing off steam - performing the primadonna-physician's version of a queen out - because, for once, his word was not law. Not even within the boundaries of his own clinic, where he was usually accorded the respect ordinarily reserved for heads of state - or demi-gods. But the FBI had already done its homework and determined that Vera Holtz, Turnage's alternative to Darrell Connor, was every bit as skilled and capable as Connor, with none of the questionable family associations, and Turnage was going to have to accept their judgment, whether he liked it or not. Which he obviously didn't.

The FBI agent walked down the hall and stepped out onto a small terrace to get a breath of fresh air - and a cigarette. Kinney, it was obvious, was a terrible influence. McClaren had been trying to quit - had convinced himself that he was on the verge of quitting - until Kinney had favored him with that trademark sardonic grin, which saw too much and knew too much and never accepted a single ounce of bullshit as truth.

Shit!

He lit up and didn't even bother to try to conceal his pleasure in the taste that filled his lungs, as a fitful breeze swirled around him, prompting him to gaze out into the small bay spread out below the promontory on which the clinic stood. A cold front had raced across the coastline during the early morning, and now the water was frosted with whitecaps as it raced toward a tumble of boulders that marked the edges of the narrow strip of sandy beach, pocked by tidal pools. The air was crisp, having shed most of its warmth in the wake of the north wind, and the light was hard-edged and sharp, glinting in the water like shards of broken glass, tinted by the ombre shading of the sea's jeweled layers, while a sleek sailboat tacked into the wind far out beyond the rocky peninsula that formed the southern arm of the bay.

Off to the north, near the edge of the property, a lone figure was silhouetted against the horizon - McClaren's back-up, who was walking the perimeter, eyes constantly in motion and body at the ready for anything unexpected that might turn up. Never let it be said that the FBI was not prepared for any eventuality.

It was bright, peaceful, breathtaking in its natural simplicity. It should have been beautiful - was beautiful. Except . . .

He dropped his cigarette into a sand-filled container and hurried inside, chiding himself for allowing a reaction to what was, obviously, a simple case of nerves.

Everything was fine. Kinney was fine.

He went striding into the room where the patient was currently being medicated prior to being wheeled into the sterile, pre-op area, and paused in the doorway to draw a deep breath. Given Kinney's sometimes uncanny ability to read body language, demeanors, and - might as well admit it - maybe even minds, it wouldn't do to approach him without double-checking to make sure one's mask of indifference was firmly in place.

Only, McClaren had failed to take into account the possibility that the reverse might not be true - that it would be Brian Kinney who was stripped of his customary façade. It was a mistake that would prove to be disturbing.

Brenda Herring, looking crisp and professional - and very pretty - in maroon scrubs, was just finishing the injection of a clear liquid into the patient's IV line, looking up as he approached and greeting him with a friendly smile. "He's doing fine, Agent McClaren. Everything as it should be. Only he's going to be drifting off very soon now, so I wouldn't put too much credence into anything he might say to you, at this point."

"How long will the procedure take?" he asked, stepping forward to look down into Brian's face and noting the distended pupils and the creamy pallor of the skin.

Her smile grew slightly sardonic. "That depends on God - and Rick Turnage. Best guess is three hours or so, but don't be alarmed if it runs longer. When the doctor gets into his groove - so to speak - he sometimes has to be reminded that Rome - and faces like this one - weren't built in a day."

When Brian spoke, both of them were slightly surprised that he sounded completely rational and aware of his surroundings. "So . . . it's your job to make sure he doesn't get carried away?"

She nodded, and touched his arm with gentle fingers. "Among other things. You're in good hands, Mr. Kinney. I promise."

He managed to take her hand, although he had to grope a bit to find it. "I'll hold you to that. If I die on the table, I'm going to come back to haunt you."

She grinned. "Hmmm, let me think about it. My very own charming, witty, gorgeous ghost? I think I could learn to live with that."

Brian closed his eyes. "Two out of three, anyway."

But the nurse wasn't going to allow him to drift away on a sea of doubts. She leaned close and gently braced his face with both palms. "None of that now, Mister. You're going to be just as beautiful as you always were, and I'm going to make sure that your doctor doesn't take it upon himself to try to improve on perfection."

Unexpectedly, Brian grinned. "When all of this is over and done with, you could come to work for me, you know."

She lapsed into an exaggerated semi-frown. "Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Whatever works," he answered.

She laughed and moved away. "I'll be back to get you in a few minutes. Just relax and think pleasant thoughts, so you'll have sweet dreams during the procedure."

McClaren had backed away and stood silent throughout the exchange, but he stepped close again as he spotted the shadows rising in hazel eyes at the mention of dreams. "Easier said than done, huh?" he said softly and watched as Brian looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

He sat then, pulling up a chair so that he was close enough to reach over and touch Brian's hand - should he feel the need to do so.

"You don't have to pretend otherwise with me, you know. After what you went through, it's only natural that . . ."

"Could we please talk about something else?" Brian interrupted, with ill-concealed impatience. "How about you tell me how you lost your virginity, or . . ."

"Or maybe," McClaren said quickly, "I can guess how you lost yours. Let's see now. Young, I bet. Thirteen, fourteen maybe. And no fumbling around with the teeny-boppers on the block for you, I'm thinking. So . . . an older man. Gorgeous and hip . . . and not believing his luck when this drop-dead beautiful kid falls at his feet and . . ."

Brian laughed. "Okay. You've made your point."

He shifted his head then, and adjusted his shoulders against his pillow.

"You all right?" McClaren knew better than to come on as touchy-feely and hyper-concerned, but a tiny little show of empathy might go unrebuked.

"Yeah." Cut and dried, without a single trace of emotional excess. "I'm fine."

McClaren simply nodded, and distracted himself by browsing through an old edition of GQ with Johnny Knoxville on the cover, looking very cosmopolitan in a suit that even Brian Kinney might have deigned to wear, and when he looked up again, he found that Brian seemed to be dozing, one hand curled against his chest with the other - the one closest to McClaren - lying loose and relaxed against the side of the bed.

He was never entirely certain what moved him to lean forward and clasp that smooth, perfectly manicured hand with his own. But he did it anyway, only to be astonished when it closed on his fingers, and he felt himself jerked forward, until he was virtually nose-to-nose with a very wide-awake, very focused Brian Kinney.

"I need you to listen to me." Brian's voice, for all that it was no more than a whisper, was riveting, and McClaren knew he could not refuse to hear what the man had to say, no matter how much he might wish to. "Are you listening?"

"Thought you were sleeping," the agent replied, tempted to pull back and tempted, at the same time, to lean forward and claim that perfect, luscious mouth which had somehow escaped all the damage done to the rest of that once-perfect face as Brian adjusted his hold, moving from the agent's hand to his collar, and pulling him a bit closer.

He was obviously not about to allow any distraction. "Are - you - listening?"

McClaren took a deep breath and allowed himself to get caught up in what was gleaming in Brian's eyes. This was no casual exchange - no exercise in caustic wit. This was serious. "Yes, Brian. I'm listening."

Brian nodded, but he didn't release his hold on the agent's shirt. "Despite all the bullshit assurances," he began, his expression daring the agent to dispute what he was saying, "you and I both know that if someone wants a man dead badly enough - wants it so much that he's willing to do anything, pay anything, take any risk necessary to make it happen, chances are the target is going to wind up dead. Guys like you who fool yourselves into thinking you've got all the bases covered never seem to remember one thing. People who are that desperate to take somebody's life aren't bound by any moral consideration to spare innocent bystanders who might get in the way. You, on the other hand, have to consider everybody. You can't just shoot somebody because you think they might be a threat to me, while they . . . Shit, they can do whatever they like and never lose a minute's sleep over who else might get hurt. If they're determined enough, they'll probably find a way. They can drop a fucking bomb on this place before you could even draw your gun, or on any other place I might be, and wouldn't give a rat's ass how many people they'd have to kill to get the one they really want. Can we, at least, agree on that?"

McClaren really looked like he wanted to argue, but in the end, he couldn't, because the man was right. Always accepting individuals like heads of state, who could usually be protected from anyone who might be after them - and even that was not always true - any man could be killed at any given moment. "You think you're that important to them?"

Brian took a deep breath. "I don't know, but it's possible. And that's why . . . that's why I need you to make me a promise."

"Can't we talk about this later, after your surgery, when . . ."

But Brian was shaking his head. "Can you be absolutely, 100% certain that nobody managed to get into this clinic and slip a little cyanide into the oxygen lines, or to infect a surgical instrument with a lethal dose of plague, or maybe they kidnapped the child of one of the surgical team and the only way to save its life is to kill me. All those things are possible, along with a thousand other things they could have done to make sure I never wake up again?"

"Come on. You're being a little paranoid, aren't you? There's no way . . ."

"You don't know that."

And McClaren saw the truth of it in the other man's flat, forbidding gaze. Kinney was right. No matter how careful they were, no matter how many precautions they took, there was always the off chance that they might miss something. The chance might be miniscule, but it existed, nevertheless.

The FBI agent studied Brian's face, deliberately taking note of the damage done - the mutilated eye socket, the broken cheekbones, the torn and distorted muscles, the fractured jawline; he saw it all, but somehow, he could still see the beauty that was there beneath the damage, waiting to be restored. "Brian," he said softly, "is there something . . . do you know something you haven't told us? Is there some reason they would want to be sure you never get a chance to tell the whole story? What do you . . ."

"I don't know." Flat and non-equivocal, but McClaren was quick to note that the man had not denied knowing something; he had only suggested that, if he did know something, it was something he had not yet managed to recall or relate. "Sometimes I think . . . sometimes there's something I think I ought to know, but . . ." He shook his head then, obviously frustrated with his own inability to be precise. "I can't."

McClaren nodded. "OK. What promise?"

Brian did not - quite - smile, but there was a warm, lovely flash of approval in his eyes, and the FBI agent was pleased to have put it there.

"I've told you before, and I meant it. There are only two people who matter to me. My son . . . and . . ."

"Taylor."

Brian's hesitation was brief. "Right. Taylor. My son will be all right, I think. His mother will take care of him, and she'll make sure he stays far enough away from any association with me to keep him safe. With any luck at all, he won't . . . he won't even remember me. And there'll be plenty of money to set him up for life. But Justin . . ."

McClaren sighed. "He's going to remember it all, isn't he?"

Brian closed his eyes. "He's going to blame himself. No matter what I do, no matter what measures I take to prevent it, it's not going to work."

"Why?"

"Because he's a stubborn little twat. Because he never listens to what I say. Because he believes he knows me . . ."

McClaren leaned forward and touched his lips against Brian's forehead. "Because he does know you. Brian, I can't . . ."

"Justin has got to get on with his life," Brian said firmly, pulling back and looking up into eyes gone dark with shadow. "And you have to promise me that you'll see that he does."

"And how - exactly - am I supposed to do that?"

Brian took a deep breath. "I don't know. I don't care. You just have to make sure he doesn't waste his life mooning around over what might have been. He's got too much to live for, too much to give. Too many miles to go and too many people to love. You have to . . ."

"And what if you don't die?" McClaren said quickly. "What if we catch these bastards who did this - we are very good at that sort of thing, you know - and you come through all this with flying colors so that, in the end, you're the same beautiful, desirable glamorous, irresistible Brian Kinney you always were?"

Brian dredged up a smile, but there was no joy in his eyes. "I was all that before, and it wasn't . . . it was never enough. So why should it be enough now?"

McClaren hesitated, struggling to find words to offer comfort without resorting to empty platitudes. "So," he said finally, realizing there was nothing he could say that would change the elemental truths, "you're willing to give him up - to let him go completely - in order to what? Keep him safe?"

A quick inhalation - not quite a gasp. "To let him find his way, so he can be what he needs to be. As long as he's safe and happy, nothing else matters."

"You should tell him, you know." McClaren's voice was very soft, barely audible, but filled with conviction nonetheless. "He has a right to know how much you love him."

To the agent's astonishment, Brian huffed a small, sardonic laugh. "Now why would I do that? So that he feels obligated to stay with me? So I can use my feelings to bind him to me so tightly that he can never find a way to escape?"

His eyes were suddenly dark with a bleak certainty. "That's not love. That's possession."

Footsteps in the hallway announced the arrival of the staff members who would wheel the patient into the surgical suite, and McClaren rose to step aside and get out of the way. "We'll talk when . . ."

"Your word," said Brian, obviously struggling now against the effect of the drugs he'd been given, but still alert enough - determined enough - to regard the FBI agent with a steady gaze.

"Brian . . . "

"Your word." A demand - not a request.

And McClaren knew he had no choice. "You have it," he said finally. Then he smiled. "Are you going to come back to haunt me if I screw it up?"

Brian's response was just a sigh, a soft breath as he released his hold on consciousness. "Every fucking day."

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


The full-length mirror that hung in the corridor just outside the Club's main dining room was there for a reason. It would simply not do for any member of the serving staff to appear in the presence of the Club's patrons without making sure he or she was presentable, according to the establishment's impeccable standards. To appear within the elegant setting of the formal dining area in a rumpled uniform or a stained shirt or with unkempt hair would have been as unthinkable as setting a table with soiled linen or serving a perfectly prepared rare steak with a pedestrian bottle of sweet white wine. It was just not done.

Thus, when Rachel Charles was summoned into the presence of a group of the Club's charter members, she was careful to take a moment to check her appearance before proceeding. Salt-and-pepper hair coiled neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck (with her legally-required hairnet tucked safely into the pocket of the apron she'd removed and hung on a peg in the kitchen at the moment she'd received her summons); make-up freshened and discreet; well-cut black dress (no slacks allowed for those of the feminine persuasion) free of any food residue and adorned with only a simple silver/marcasite broach set with seed pearls; clean, dry hands with carefully manicured, unpolished nails; sturdy black shoes with moderate, stacked heels, and - perhaps most important of all - a demure, serene demeanor with appropriately downcast eyes.

She had worked for this establishment for almost three decades, so she knew exactly what was expected of her - and what wasn't - even though she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she'd ever been requested to appear within the inner sanctum. Thus, it was fairly easy to figure out that her experience during the next few moments could prove to be either very good - or very bad.

She squared her shoulders and prepared to step forward to learn which it was to be, but she was delayed briefly by the touch of a gentle hand on her shoulder, prompting her to turn to regard the young man who was standing at her side, favoring her with a lovely smile. "Not to worry, Miss Rachel," whispered Nicholas Avolar as he brushed a speck of dust from her sleeve. "They've been raving about your new entrée. The second stringers are so stuffed they can barely move, and Mr. Clayton has been practically orgasmic."

She was almost successful in suppressing the tiny smile that touched her lips, knowing it was never a good idea to encourage the younger staff members to indulge their tendency to disrespect the powers-that-be, knowing she should chide him for the term he'd used to describe the members of the Club who were considered to be the second tier of governing power in the organization. Nevertheless, Nicholas was an adorable young charmer who was very hard to resist, so she confined her response to a gentle frown and a headshake to remind him to guard his words carefully. He needed to keep in mind that a sharp tongue was not really an asset for anyone who aspired to become a permanent, valued employee of the Club.

"You hush now," she whispered, trying to administer an admonition but only managing to show concern for his well-being. "If your snide little remark falls on the wrong ear . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he replied with a grin. "As if they even realize I can speak in complete sentences."

"Shhh!" she answered. "Please, don't . . ."

So," he interrupted, as he arranged dessert dishes on a silver serving tray, "how'd you come up with your newest gastronomic delight? With black truffles going at - what? Fifty bucks an ounce? Must be really hard to find a way to perfect a recipe. How do you come up with the ingredients so you can practice?"

She offered a quick little scapegrace smile and a tiny shrug. "Here at the 'royal court', it's beef Wellington with winter truffle sauce. At my house, it's pot roast and mushrooms." She leaned forward then and adjusted his tie. "As you get older, you're going to learn that everything - all things - are a matter of degree."

"You better move along," said Nicholas with a cheeky grin, "and you do know they don't like it when the great unwashed call this place the 'royal court', don't you? Just as you know that they don't like to be kept waiting."

She didn't argue. Mostly because he was right.

On this night, the dinner crowd was small, and the atmosphere in the dining room was almost intimate, under soft indirect lighting and the flicker of the flames in the fireplace. There were only six individuals gathered around the main table, and they were awaiting the arrival of their desserts when Rachel made her entrance and came to stand beside the man at the head of the table - the man who was always seated at the head of the table whenever he was in residence for a meal.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Clayton?"

"I did indeed, Rachel," said the elderly individual, his smile emphasizing the network of wrinkles that riddled his face. "I wanted to tell you that you have absolutely surpassed yourself with this new creation of yours. It is just spectacular. A true culinary masterpiece."

She smiled and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, but only briefly. She had never actually been told that the upper echelon of the Club preferred downcast eyes from the hired help, but she knew it nonetheless. And she was glad to note that Nicholas seemed to be minding his manners as well, as he served dessert. "Thank you, Sir. I'm so pleased that you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed is hardly the word," said the younger man sitting to the right of the head of the table. "We're all speechless with delight."

"That's quite a compliment, Chief Stockwell," she answered. "Coming from a politician, I mean."

The former head of the Pittsburgh police department looked up sharply to study the look on the black woman's face, not entirely sure he liked her tone of voice. Unlike most of the other Club members, he had not been born to the rarefied atmosphere of the organization. Instead, he was a first generation member, drafted into membership because of his successful political career and the power he'd commanded as chief of police. Not to mention the money he'd made for his powerful backers, several of whom were seated at the table with him. Thus, still being a bit of a novice to the hierarchy, he was not quite as sanguine as the others in his assumptions about the loyalty of the hired help, so his suspicions were more easily aroused . Still, a quick but thorough survey of Rachel's expression, which fairly radiated humility, convinced him that he'd only imagined a cold reserve in her response, so he was comfortable enough to continue. "Perhaps you'd be good enough to share your recipe with my wife. She'd be the envy of the Ladies' Auxiliary."

"Of course," she replied, clamping down hard on an impulse to tell him to piss off and take his spoiled, trophy wife with him; it was at that point that she experienced a sudden mental epiphany and was astonished by the anger and resentment in her own thoughts. What in the world was wrong with her? She had never before allowed herself to resent the presumptions of the people who paid her salary, even though she had always realized that they frequently took advantage of those whose lives they controlled. Still, that was the nature of the game, wasn't it? The way it had always been played, and always would, so why should it bother her now?

She closed her eyes briefly, and recalled the image of a dark, handsome face favoring her with a smart-ass smile while she remembered a conversation they'd had in which she'd described her job and the conditions under which she worked. His response to her comments about how she was treated by her employers had, at first, shocked her; then, after a moment of reflection, it had made her smile - reluctantly. Now, she was hearing it again, sharp and clear and unequivocal. "You should tell them to piss off."

His name was Jed Harper, or so he'd claimed, and she had no idea why she doubted the truth of his claim, but doubt it, she did. She also had no idea why the thought of that young man with his outrageously, unbelievably blue eyes should be intruding on her thoughts at this moment, when she should be concentrating on showing appropriate humility and gratitude for her employers' willingness to take the time to express their appreciation for her accomplishment. It was, after all, only coincidental that this self-same individual had served as her guinea pig for testing the down-to-earth version of the entrée which was currently winning her such lovely acclaim.

This was a rare and singular occasion, and it might even mean a little something extra in her paycheck. She should be jubilant. So why did she feel like shit? And why was she suddenly unable to resist the temptation to phrase everything in language she had always resisted as tasteless and coarse and unsuitable?

Bad company. But the thought didn't really excuse her attitude. Instead, it made her want to smile.

"My congratulations too, Rachel," said the tall, slender individual seated on the other side of the table, looking for all the world like a college professor in his tweed jacket and argyle sweater vest. "Although in truth, I don't know which I appreciate more, the main course, or this wonderful dessert. I'm going to have to spend an extra hour in the pool to work all this off." So saying, Randolph Hobbs, father of Randolph Jr. and grandfather of Christopher, loaded a fork with a huge bite of Rachel's trademark dessert dish - a towering praline meringue - and assumed an expression of pure bliss as he devoured it.

She inclined her head. "Thank you, Sir. You're too kind."

She then bowed slightly and waited for a moment to be sure she had been dismissed before retreating toward the service entrance, not really breathing easily until she was back in the corridor.

Still, she did overhear a few words as the conversation at the main table resumed while she was making her escape.

"So," said the silver-haired individual at the head of the table, "am I right in assuming that everything is ready?"

It was Hobbs who replied. "It is. Assuming everyone here has completed their arrangements."

There was a general nodding of heads around the table.

"And there's no way this can be traced back to us. Correct?"

Hobbs laughed. "Trust me. When this thing explodes, there's going to be so much mass confusion, no one's going to even think to try."

"And you're sure that the contact within Kinney's firm is going to be able to deliver?"

This time it was Stockwell who laughed. "Not only is he going to be able to do what's required, he's going to be overjoyed at the prospect. He won't know, until it's much too late, that he's provided the means to bring the whole enterprise down around Kinney's ears."

"And Craig?" said Hobbs. "He's on board as well?"

Stockwell nodded. "And thrilled with the prospect of finally getting a bit of payback."

It was at this point that Rachel reached the doorway, where she came face-to-face with Nicholas Avolar, just in time to surprise a strange, enigmatic shadow in his eyes. But neither of them spoke, choosing instead to make their exit together.

Behind them, the distinguished individual at the head of the table folded his hands and turned to look out into the darkness beyond the French doors, gray eyes narrowed and unfocused as he considered whether or not to say more. Then he leaned to his right and spoke very softly, for Stockwell's hearing only. "And the other issue?"

"Still in the works. Nothing definitive yet, but it looks promising." The politician frowned, and looked as if he wanted to say more, but, in the end, he didn't, something in his expression suggesting that he knew it was much too late for any second thoughts he might be entertaining.

"You do realize," said the other, "that timing could be critical?"

"Of course I do." For a moment, there was an element of impatience, almost anger, in Stockwell's tone, before he managed to recall to whom he was speaking and swallow his irritation before it grew too strong to control. Instead, he gestured for the waiter to bring coffee, and then grumbled because the young man was nowhere in sight and took a full ten seconds to respond to the summons.

Young Nicholas reacted, of course, exactly as he'd been trained to do. With a smile and an apology - as required - and any private thoughts he might have had remained precisely that: private.

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

The room was exactly as he remembered it: stylish, welcoming, and elegantly simple. Exactly like its owner. Or not, since Brian was not, always, really welcoming. It depended entirely on his mood.

But the room still resonated with his presence, even if he was no longer physically present. Even if he hadn't been present for a long time.

Justin was pretty sure that Cynthia was responsible for maintaining that ambiance. The office was never used by anyone but Brian; that was a given. And yet, despite being sequestered and off-limits to almost everyone, it still gave the impression that its owner might walk in at any moment and find it exactly as he'd left it, with a pitcher of cold water available near the desk, with a bowl of fruit - perfectly arranged - at hand on a conference table, with sleek, modernistic lamps pouring pools of light at various spots around the room, and with a selection of the latest mock-up boards arranged atop a low shelf, colorful, vivid, inspired - or not - but always engaging the eye and inviting speculation and interpretation.

Like Brian.

Justin walked around the desk, and sank into the custom-built chair - something he'd only done a couple of times in the past - and tried to allow himself to sink into the personality that had created the ambiance of this world.

But he couldn't quite grasp it. Because he wasn't Brian, and there was no "quite" to it. He wasn't Brian, but the problem wouldn't stop there. The real question was, was Brian still Brian? And the second question, possibly just as important, but in a different way, was what would Brian - whoever he might turn out to be - need from Justin, in order to be able to rebuild his life?

He spent a moment staring at the photograph, the only extraneous object on the surface of Brian's desk; Brian half asleep with baby Gus braced against his chest. It had always been Justin's favorite picture, so beloved that he had completed a half-dozen different paintings as variations of the same image.

One of them was hanging on the wall beside the desk; until he had walked into the office this morning, he had not known that Brian was the buyer who had purchased it anonymously.

He looked over at the liquor cabinet and knew it would be fully stocked with plenty of liquid anesthesia to help get him through the day. But it was barely ten A.M., and he knew if he started stocking up on liquid courage at this juncture, it would only get worse as the day progressed. Instead, he went looking for coffee and found it in the employees' lounge area - and Cynthia with it.

He squared his shoulders, poured himself a generous cup, and followed her into her office, closing the door behind him.

He wasn't sure she could help him understand what he needed to do, but he was virtually certain that, if she couldn't, no one could.

If he'd been hoping she would take control of the conversation and simply tell him what he should do, he figured out PDQ that he was in for a big disappointment, as she seemed perfectly content to sip her coffee, bide her time, and wait for him to begin.

"You know why I'm here?" he asked finally, suddenly a bit uncomfortable under her scrutiny. He chose not to meet her eyes, concentrating instead on the flow of images on her computer screensaver - images of a beautiful little girl with flaxen hair and a lovely, natural smile.

Cynthia smiled. "Have you come looking for enlightenment, Grasshopper?"

He gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. "You've been spending entirely too much time with your boss."

But Cynthia was not about to allow him to sidetrack the conversation. "In point of fact," she replied, "I haven't. And neither have you. And I assume that's why you're sitting here at what is probably - for you - an ungodly hour and looking at me as if you think I hold the keys to the universe."

He lifted one eyebrow, obviously puzzled by her choice of words. "Ungodly?"

The smile became a grin. "Brian used to say that you were the only person in the world who was less of a morning person than him."

He looked, for a moment, as if he might dispute the assumption, but then he realized he had no grounds to do so and shrugged instead. "One of the advantages of being a freelance artist," he admitted. "Working at midnight or sleeping til noon. Whatever works."

She nodded. "But here you are." Now it was her turn to employ a quizzical eyebrow.

"Yeah. Here I am." He stood up and walked to the window to stare out at a view that could be described, at best, as uninspiring.

Cynthia sighed, resisting an urge to rub her temples to dispel a burgeoning headache. "Justin, what . . ."

"I don't know what to do," he said softly. So softly she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

"I'm sorry?" she replied, uncertain of how to respond to the aching emptiness in his voice. "Justin, what do you . . ."

"I want you to tell me what to do," he said finally, in a rush, as if afraid that if he didn't just spit it out, he'd never manage to say it at all.

She sat back in her chair and regarded him as if he'd just sprouted wings, or a second head. "Oh. Is that all?"

"You think I've lost my mind, don't you?" He moved back to his seat and sat, once more concentrating on the photo display on her computer screen.

"I think," she replied slowly, "that there are a lot of people much better qualified to advise you on this. Your mother, your best friends, your boyfriend, your . . ."

"The only boyfriend I have," he snapped, "just flew off into the sunset - metaphorically speaking - so that I don't even know where he is. As for the others . . ." He looked up then, and she almost flinched away from the raw determination she read in his eyes. "Maybe they know me better than you do, but, right now, I don't need someone who knows me. I need someone who knows Brian. And I've begun to think that almost none of us really know him as well as we think we do. Except - maybe - you."

She suddenly realized that this was a conversation she didn't really want to have. Only there was no way of avoiding it. But she could perhaps, delay the inevitable. For a few minutes, anyway. "Why do you say that?" she asked finally, genuinely curious about what was going through his mind.

"I think he talks to you," he said, after pausing to consider how to respond. "I think we - all of us for whom he's the center of our world - tend to think of him as this Mount Everest of a man, who never needs anyone to lean on, to trust. Who can take whatever we dish out, and stand alone to endure it. But nobody can really do that. Not all the time, anyway. Everybody needs somebody to listen, somebody to be there, to understand. Somebody who won't condemn or judge or make demands. I think - for Brian - that person is you. I think he trusts you enough to let you see him cry."

She very deliberately did not meet his gaze as she took a sip of her coffee, and when she spoke, she did not confirm his speculation. But neither did she deny it. "What do you want me to tell you, Justin?"

"I want the truth," he replied flatly. "The gospel, according to Brian Kinney - minus the bullshit and the trimmings."

"Regarding?"

He took a deep breath. "Me. I need to know what he needs from me."

"But surely you don't . . ."

"He says he can't spend the rest of his life waiting for me to decide that he's what I want. That he got tired of me walking away - of me choosing to leave him behind so I could go off on to explore my brave new worlds - Hollywood, New York, my dreams of monogamy, of artistic success." He sighed, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Ethan Gold. And I . . . I can't even believe how blind I was. How I never let myself consider how it all must have looked from his perspective."

Her eyes shifted to the view outside the window as she considered his words, and he was grateful that she wasn't just offering him kneejerk responses. "You do realize that he could have stopped you. If he'd really put his mind to it, he could have . . ."

"But he wouldn't," he said quickly. "And that's really the point, isn't it? Brian doesn't believe in chains, doesn't believe in holding on to something - or someone - who doesn't want to be held. Not even when that someone is too stupid to understand that being held is what they should want. What they need. Why - why does he do that, Cynthia? Why doesn't he do what everybody else does? Why doesn't he hold on to what he wants most?"

She sighed. "You just answered your own question. He doesn't believe in chains."

"But . . ."

"Justin, I don't know what to tell you. I don't even know what you're asking."

He leaned forward to brace his elbows against the top of her desk and clasped his hands against his face. "I've made so many mistakes," he said softly. "I bought into so much bullshit and allowed myself to believe that I needed so many things so I could consider myself a big, fat, fucking success. But I've finally realized that it's all just sound and fury, just background noise - without Brian. He's . . . he's my world, Cynthia. But I don't know if I'm still his world, and I won't use chains on a man who doesn't believe in chains. He says we're over, that he's done with me. He says he doesn't want me or need me any more. And I need to know if that's true."

Cynthia closed her eyes, and knew she'd been right before. This was a conversation she really, really didn't want to have.

"If he told you all this himself," she said slowly, "why are you asking me this? Why don't you believe him?"

He favored her with a lop-sided smile. "Because I'm a stubborn twat. Because I don't want to believe it?" Then he sighed, and the smile vanished. "Because I have this friend - this new friend who doesn't know Brian at all, but who seems, somehow, to have figured out a lot of shit I never even thought about before - who's made me look at things from a new perspective. Who suggests that maybe - just maybe - all of us who think we know Brian so well have never really looked under that façade he's built around himself to see the man he really is. I mean, it's practically gospel among our fucked-up extended family: Brian Kinney doesn't do sacrifice, does he? Doesn't feel guilt or obligation or remorse. Doesn't allow himself to need anyone."

He looked up then and met her gaze directly. "Doesn't believe in love."

Cynthia looked away, unable to endure the fear rising in his eyes, and spent a moment reflecting on how easily people could fuck up their lives. Even the great god, Kinney. She thought about all the times she'd caught glimpses of the Brian Kinney that almost no one was ever allowed to see - the man who loved his baby son so much he'd been willing to give him up rather than see him grow up in a broken home; the man who loved his best friend so much he'd been willing to endure the loss of a lifetime of that friendship in order to give Michael a chance to grab a romantic brass ring; the man who loved his friends so much he'd moved mountains on their behalf, and never let anyone know about what he'd done or why he'd don't it, and - above all - the man who'd loved Justin - still loved Justin and always would - who'd believed he could never give his young lover what he needed to make him truly happy, so he'd simply stood and watched as Justin walked away - over and over and over again.

Was it any wonder he'd finally reached a point where he could not endure it any longer?

She knew what she had to do. Protecting Brian was no longer just her job; secondary only to one other thing, it had become her purpose in life. She knew he still loved Justin; that had never been in doubt. But she also knew that Brian had come to a critical crossroads in his life; that he'd already endured too much, faced too many consequences.

He wanted to cut his losses, and it was her responsibility to help him do so.

Wasn't it? Wasn't an empty life, filled with empty days and vague longings, better than an existence filled with relentless pain? Wasn't it better to be lonely than to be hurt?

"Justin, I . . ." She paused, and made the mistake of looking directly into his eyes, to see what was staring back at her. She knew what she should do - where her loyalties should lie. It shouldn't matter that she was on the verge of demolishing the dreams of a young man she had always admired and liked. She had to protect Brian; nothing else mattered. She owed him too much and, in her own way, loved him too much. But what if . . . what if she took a chance? What if, for once in his life, Brian needed something he didn't know he needed? What if it was time to roll the dice, and hope for a bit of divine intervention?

What if he realized what she'd done and never forgave her? Did she love him enough to be able to endure that?

She took a deep breath and felt the answer rise in her mind. She did.

"Justin, I need you to do me a favor," she said quickly, not allowing herself time for doubts to resurge. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a key ring which she handed to him, along with a plastic card embossed with a series of numbers.

She was willing to take this risk, but she would not try to tilt the odds, one way or another; it was time to trust in fate. "Those are the keys to the loft, and the codes to disarm the alarm system. I need you to go over there and bring me Brian's back-up laptop. It should be on his desk in the office area. There are some files on it that I need in order to complete a presentation for Brown Athletics' new NFL sportswear line, and I don't have the time to go get it. Can you do that for me?"

Justin looked confused. "You want me to run an errand for you? To go to the loft to fetch . . ."

"You know as well as I do how paranoid he is about allowing strangers into the loft." She grinned then. "Unless, or course, he's planning to fuck them. And I really need those files."

Justin simply stared at her, obviously dumbfounded. "But . . ."

"Please," she said quickly. "If you'll just do this one thing for me, then . . ." She hesitated, biting her lip for a moment before deciding how to continue. "When you get back, I promise I'll answer any questions you have."

"But . . ."

"I promise."

He heard something in her voice then - something suggesting that this errand was much more than what it seemed. That it was something he needed to do, and, perhaps, there was something he needed to learn. Something he would find at the loft.

Still he hesitated. "You promise?" he asked finally, getting to his feet.

She met his gaze squarely and nodded her agreement.

"In that case," he said quickly, zipping up his jacket, "I'll be right back."

Her smile was diffident, hard to analyze. "Take your time. It's always best to stop and smell the roses."

When he was gone, she sat for a while, spellbound by the progression of images on her screensaver. Images of her world, of the only things that really mattered, except one.

She sighed, and put her head down, wondering. What - exactly - had she done?


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