Chapter 29



"Does that itch?" One hand gestured toward the fake facial hair - mustache and trim goatee - and the voluminous wig that accompanied it.

"Like a son of a bitch," came the curt answer, emphasized by a quick smoothing of an equally fake heavy eyebrow, to make sure everything was still exactly where it should be. "You sure you're ready for this?"

A snicker of a laugh. "It's not exactly brain surgery, now is it?"

"All right." There wasn't even a trace of a smile on the handsome, ordinarily clean-shaven face, but it was there in the voice nevertheless. "I assume you don't need any instruction on how to behave like an asshole."

"It goes with the territory."

"OK then. Break a leg."

The reply was only a whisper, although there was no doubt that it was intended to be heard. "Smart-ass!"

A pause, and a murmured assurance. "Get it right, and I'll owe you a drink."

"Just one?"

Another pause, preceding a barely audible invitation. "Woody's? Tonight?"

"OK. But lose the stubble"

A brief flicker of a grin, impossible to squelch. "I promise I'll be gentle."

A soft chuckle - and a quick thumbs up. "Showtime ."

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

"Excuse me," called a rich, pleasant, baritone voice from the corridor, just as the elevator doors began to close. "Could you hold the elevator please?"

Monty Peabody had to clamp down hard on an impulse to roll his eyes, but did, nevertheless, press the button to stop the doors from closing. Even though he was in a tearing hurry, it would be extremely rude to ignore the request, and rudeness by an employee at Allegheny General Hospital was always a risky business. Unless one was a doctor, of course, in which case rudeness - to the nth degree - was simply business as usual. Literally.

"Thanks, Friend."

Monty looked up and was instantly mesmerized by the bluest eyes he'd ever seen - especially in the face of a black man. A black man who could best be described as . . . the only word that came to mind was 'exquisite'. Nothing else even came close to being adequate to describe the composition of perfect face and perfect form, filling out crisp navy blue scrubs. The lab tech couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the new arrival, although he wasn't ordinarily a fan of facial hair or ponytails on men, but, in this case, he was willing to make an exception.

"You're wel . . ."

"Hold that God-damned elevator!" This voice was just as rich and just as baritone, but nowhere near as pleasant.

Peabody would have liked to ignore it; he knew that voice and knew that obeying the command would not bode well - for anybody. But he also knew that ignoring it would be tantamount to courting disaster, so he dutifully kept his finger on the button to prevent the doors from closing, while offering an apologetic little smile to the man who had just entered and stood now at his side, awaiting the arrival of the most obnoxious member of the pantheon of physician/deities who demanded - and got - abject, fawning, limitless, sycophantic obedience from the hospital staff.

Matthew Keller, eyes glued to his PDA, strode through the doors and issued orders, never bothering to look up to see who was there to receive them. "ICU," he said curtly. "Now."

"Dr. Keller," said Peabody, gritting his teeth but being extra careful to project an attitude of deference, "this elevator is going down. ICU is up."

The surgeon continued to gaze at the miniature screen in his hand. "I said, 'ICU - now'."

"But . . ."

Intense green eyes, flecked with ice crystals, looked up then and examined Peabody in much the same way an entomologist might study a cockroach. "I assume," he said coldly, without so much as a glance toward the elevator's other occupant, "that you've been working here long enough to know what that means."

The 'that' to which the good doctor was referring, was the regular flashing of a blue light in an electronic panel near the ceiling, its rhythmic blinking synchronous to the soft but insistent beeping of the audio-alarm system, which was, in turn, underscored by the steady repetition of the announcement coming through the PA speakers.

"Code blue - ICU, Code blue - ICU, Code blue . . .

"Yes, sir, but . . ."

"Am I to understand," Keller continued, "that you're planning to ignore a Code Blue alert, so that you're not late for your . . ." He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist . . ."lunch break?"

"Of course not, Dr. Keller, but . . ."

"But what?"

"There are other elevators." Peabody's tone had grown slightly sullen, almost petulant, as he avoided raising his eyes to meet Keller's gaze. Instead, he focused on a part of the physican's anatomy which was considerably lower than his face, and that was a mistake too, as there was no way to avoid noticing that the jeans the surgeon was wearing - in violation of the hospital preference for scrubs for on-call physicians - were somewhat form-fitting and did absolutely nothing to conceal the size of the bulge at the man's crotch.

"Indeed there are," the physician responded, "but I'm not in any of them, am I? Now, either you stop leering at my package and hit the over-ride to send this car to the ICU level, or you get out and walk, and I'll do it myself, in which case you can be sure my next stop - after handling the patient's medical crisis - will be in HR. Would you like to guess why I'd be going there?"

Monty managed to assume an air of outrage. "I wasn't . . ."

"Of course, you weren't. Now do I have to repeat myself or . . ."

"No, Doctor." Peabody hit the appropriate button, and carefully avoided looking into the face of the stunning stranger who had witnessed his humiliation, and wondered - not for the first time - why the most beautiful men were always the biggest assholes. Rumor had it that this latter-day version of Dr. Mengele was bosom buddies with the king of the Liberty Avenue perverts, Brian Kinney.

Very appropriate, thought Peabody, even as he struggled to avoid visualizing the two of them together - bare and buff and exqui . . . He shook himself and deliberately focused on a saccharine-sweet public service/organ donor poster on the elevator wall, momentarily grateful that there were few things more effective in eliminating erotic thoughts than the image of a bloody liver packed in an ice chest and ready for transport.

For his part, Jared Hilliard was careful to maintain a stoic demeanor, refusing to exchange so much as a glance with the surgeon, who had played his role perfectly. The Code Blue had not been a part of their plan; it was just a fortuitous circumstance, but the physician had incorporated it perfectly into their scheme to enhance his portrayal of an arrogant, pompous, overbearing ass.

But the act was not quite done yet. Keller glanced at the floor indicator, and realized there was just enough time to implement the little scenario which they'd originally planned to enact, to snare Peabody's attention and co-operation.

"Holloway," he snapped, turning to regard Hilliard with a sneer, "didn't I send you downstairs to check on the blood gas analysis for Mr. Ramsey?"

"Yes, Dr. Keller," Hilliard answered, biting his lip to contain the urge to grin. "I was just on my way when . . ."

Keller lifted one hand to forestall the explanation. "Yes, I'm sure you were. But now, instead of following my instructions, you're wasting time riding around in the elevator. Why didn't you take the stairs?"

"I thought the elevator would be faster, Sir."

"Yes, well, that was your first mistake, wasn't it?"

Hilliard looked genuinely puzzled. "What was?"

"Thinking. From now on, just do as you're told."

Hilliard nodded, and kept his gaze glued to the floor, knowing that if he looked up and surprised a glint of amusement in those green eyes, he might not be able to resist an urge to take a swing at the smart-ass bastard.

At this point, the elevator arrived at its destination, and Keller went charging out into the corridor. However, though obviously in full emergency mode, he paused for a single moment and turned back to eye the young man who was currently wearing a temporary employee badge which identified him as Jack Holloway. "Well?" said the physician, obviously on the verge of losing the last of his miniscule supply of patience.

Hilliard opted for a slightly confused expression, and the lift of one quizzical eyebrow.

"Stairs," snapped Keller, spinning and racing toward the ICU, yelling back over his shoulder. "It'll be faster."

Hilliard/Holloway opened his mouth to dispute the claim, but, in the end, he didn't. Especially since the errand on which Keller had supposedly dispatched him was entirely fictitious, and this was just another ploy to foster commiseration between two individuals who might consider themselves co-victims of the notorious Dr. Keller.

"Asshole!" Hilliard muttered as the physician raced into the ICU, immediately dismissing any thought of the two men who were watching him go.

"Amen to that!"

Hilliard smiled. "Yeah. Now I better get downstairs, or he'll have my balls - and not in a positive, life-affirming way."

He almost faltered then, almost lost his place on the page, so to speak, as he realized that he'd just quoted Brian Kinney as if he'd expected Peabody to recognize the source.

Which, of course, he didn't. There might be a few individuals with whom Kinney would have less in common than with this smarmy little troll, but Hilliard couldn't really imagine who they might be.

"Pardon?" The lab tech simply looked confused.

"Never mind." Hilliard put on his most beguiling smile. "I'd better get going."

"If you don't mind a little advice," said Peabody quickly, "I can save you a trip. Assuming you're on your way to Dr. Castille's lab, you'll just be wasting your time. Our lab director is the only person who hates Keller more than the rank and file, and nothing you can do is going to make a spot of difference in how fast he produces the data that Keller wants. In fact, if you piss him off, it's going to take twice as long as it should."

Hilliard paused, looking perplexed. "So what should I . . ."

Peabody glanced at the name tag the young man was wearing, managing to get an eyeful of a lovely well-muscled chest at the same time. "Do yourself a favor, Mr. Holloway. Learn to choose your battles. This is one you can't win. Might as well go find yourself some lunch."

"But what if Keller calls down there to . . ."

"He won't. They don't speak to each other. So just count your blessings and grab a bite while you've got the chance. Keller's not famous for giving his assistants the time to take care of their personal needs."

Hilliard grinned. "OK. You convinced me. But hey, I'm new here. Any suggestions about a good place to eat?"

"Well, if you're looking for haute cuisine, you're out of luck."

"Nah. Just some good, cheap home-style cooking."

Peabody hesitated. Under the circumstances, this was certainly not the best of times to cultivate a new acquaintance, since he really needed to concentrate on the task at hand. He was growing ever more nervous about the deadline he'd been given by his clandestine friends - a deadline which had already been extended once. And his luncheon date, while nowhere near being a sure thing, was undoubtedly his best chance to score the information he desperately needed. Keeping that in mind, he should probably just concentrate on what he needed to do and wish this lovely creature a pleasant meal and a nice day.

Only . . . for a split second, an image of his life partner rose in his mind. They shared so many things, he and Eli - hopes for the future, plans for their children, principles, vision, a conservative philosophy/morality, a fundamental awareness of the way things ought to be; monogamy. Only . . . he looked up once more and was immediately transfixed by the perfection of those incredible blue eyes.

Surely, it wouldn't hurt just to spend a little time basking in idyllic fantasy - just looking. After all, he almost never indulged himself in such a harmless pastime, mostly because . . . He took a deep breath, not really wanting to complete the thought. Not really wanting to admit that the main reason he seldom looked was because no one ever looked back.

On the other hand, it might - just might - serve an additional purpose. It might give him a little edge in finding a way to complete his mission, while there was still time. Since he had pretty much exhausted every other possibility.

The hospital, despite his best efforts, had proved to be a dead end. Impossible as it seemed, the medical records he needed to access, in order to find a way to fulfill the promises he'd made, had just vanished, into thin air.

It boggled the mind. How could medical records just disappear? And not just the hard copies - the physical files, but the computer information too, and all peripheral data - lab results, x-rays, c-t scans - everything. All gone, deleted as if it had never existed in the first place. How could such a thing happen?

And the answer was both obvious and a bit frightening. There were only a few entities - corporate, government, or otherwise - capable of wielding sufficient power to make such a thing happen, and those were entities a man like Monty would not ordinarily choose to defy.

Only there was all that lovely money, much of which he'd already spent. And there was also the idea that he was providing a vital service for powerful people - people who would value his contribution to their efforts, who would owe him their respect and their regard in the future if he managed to come through for them now.

He had never done such a thing before, of course, and promised himself he never would again; it would only happen one time. He comforted himself with the certainty that he would never have stooped to such an action at all if it weren't for the identity of the victim.

Brian Kinney. God, if anybody had ever deserved a quadruple dose of negative karma, it was . . .

Another image formed in his mind: Kinney before . . . Jesus! It was just wrong for anybody to look like that, especially when the darkness that lived inside the man was so well concealed by the beauty on the outside. So, he occasionally pondered the images - Kinney before, and then, Kinney after.

Surely divine retribution in its purest form.

And now, if he didn't figure out a way to stack the deck in his own favor, the Kinneys of the world would triumph again.

It was just completely unacceptable.

So maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to accept a little help from an unexpected direction. Young Holloway might provide a perfect distraction for the individuals who needed to be persuaded to share what they knew - what he was sure they must know. An egocentric prick like Brian Kinney would never ride off into the sunset without making arrangements to retain the loyalty and focus of his little group of sycophants.

"So," he said, finally coming to a conclusion, "how did you happen to wind up assisting Allegheny General's version of the Grinch?"

Hilliard was very careful to conceal a slightly smug smile as he realized that his ruse had worked perfectly.

"That's a long story," he said instead.

"No problem," Monty replied, taking his new friend by the arm and heading down the stairs. "We've got plenty of time. And if you come with me, I'll show you a perfect place to have lunch while you tell me all about it. You might even make some new friends while you're at it."

Hilliard nodded, and gave himself a mental tug to make sure his disguise was fully in place. Like all good undercover operatives, he knew that people usually only see what they expect to see, and rarely look beneath the surface unless some small unexplainable detail triggers an unexpected response. His only concern had to be to make sure that no such detail was left to chance. He thought he would be fine, as long as Peabody's choice of venue was anything other than the Liberty Diner, since there was almost no disguise sufficient to fool the eye of the hyper-aware, uber-suspicious Debbie Novotny. But he was pretty sure he was safe, since the hospital was a dozen blocks away from the flagship/luncheonette of Liberty Avenue. On the other hand, if he was wrong, he'd have to improvise - in a hurry - but he wasn't really concerned. Of necessity, improvisation was the first order of business in all undercover operations, and he would adapt, as needed.

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

It was amazing that it still appeared so fresh, so current, so enticing.

It looked as if it might have been done yesterday; the only thing about it that was even slightly dated was the fact that it did not - quite - reach the pinnacle of upfront, in-your-face, avant garde sexuality that typified virtually all advertising in the 21st century. Other than that, it was perfect: the strong, elegant, golden body; the beautiful, classic profile that served to emphasize the knowing smile; the vivid colors of sunlight and ocean and primal, elemental, stunning male - brilliant turquoise sea, bronze skin, sunlight striking auburn glints in dark hair, and the perfect curves of the sculpted ass framed in a bright coral Speedo - the only detail that might have been done differently in 2006 than in 1991. Today, any professional photographer worth his salt would have posed that perfect model on his sleek surfboard, with his body arranged to display the huge, beautiful bulge at his crotch to maximum advantage while that exquisite face was laughing into the camera.

Brian Kinney. Alpha, alpha, alpha male.

Had he pursued the opportunity offered to him at that time, his face - and body - would have become instantly recognizable, all over the world. As it was, the campaign, though limited in scope, had netted him a comfortable little nest egg, not to mention reaping a small bonanza for Marty Ryder, who had come up with the original concept. In turn, that one contact with the advertising industry had opened the door for everything that had come afterwards, giving Brian his access to the agency that would launch his career.

Cynthia sat back in her chair, and studied the face in the picture and wondered. She had retrieved the full-size ad from the files in order to show it to one of the individuals who were due in her office shortly, but she had forgotten the intense reactions generated by the images at first sight. She had forgotten how beautiful he'd been, how he somehow managed to dominate everything around him even then, with nothing more than a smile and a quirked eyebrow.

What had she done?

There weren't enough words in the English language to explain what she owed to Brian, or what she would have done for him. So why had she done the one thing - perhaps the only thing - that he might never manage to forgive her for?

When the answer occurred to her, she had to smile at the simplicity of the notion: someone had to step up and be Brian Kinney - for Brian Kinney.

Somebody had to be the person who always knew the right thing to do, and always had the balls to do it, no matter how much it cost him. Only that wasn't quite true either. Brian didn't always really know; he had doubts, just like everybody else. Only he never let anyone else see them or know of their existence, and he never allowed himself to be paralyzed by the fear of being wrong.

That was the true difference between him and everybody else - that he was always the one who could summon up the guts to roll the dice and live with the consequences. And that's what she would have to do now. Brian had always been prepared to sacrifice everything to protect the people he loved, to give up every hope he had ever had of realizing his dreams so that Justin and Gus - everyone he cared about - could live full, rich, unrestricted lives. He had always been willing to do whatever it took to save them.

But not this time. This time, someone had to step up to save Brian Kinney, whether he approved - or not.

She glanced at the French provincial grandfather clock behind her desk, and noted that her next appointment was already slightly overdue. It surprised her a bit that she had not yet received the call she'd been expecting ever since she'd sent Justin strolling out to meet his fate, but she couldn't put everything else on hold to wait for it. It would come soon enough, and there was no point in trying to predict the outcome of what had amounted to a shot in the dark.

A gambit truly worthy of the Master.

At that moment, Garrett Delaney knocked and opened her door, giving her renewed cause to be grateful for Brian's excellent taste in men. Looking at that caliber of eye candy was always a good way to put aside somber thoughts.

"Two of your lunch guests are here," he announced, before stepping aside to admit the women in his wake.

"Thank you, Garrett," she answered, rising to greet the new arrivals. "Is everything ready in the board room?"

His grin was infectious. "Not quite. Emmett is not happy with the first course. Apparently, somebody had the unmitigated gall to substitute almonds for the pecans he ordered in the strawberry/romaine salad."

Cynthia nodded. "Minor contretemps or major queen-out?"

The grin grew wider. "Actually, he's demonstrating the true meaning of grace under pressure."

"Anything else?" she asked, noting that the young man was fidgeting a bit, something completely out of character for him.

"Uh, yeah," he said with a little sigh. "Ted wanted me to tell you that he's - uh - he'll be out for a while. He's got a lunch date and then a meeting with some hedge fund people. Wasn't sure when he'd be back."

Cynthia considered the troubled look on Garrett's face, and figured - rightly - that the CFO had said a great deal more than the receptionist was reporting; lately, the accountant had made no secret of the fact that he didn't find it acceptable to be 'excluded' from Cynthia's little "cloak-and-dagger" session, but she had really had no other options. The person who had arranged this meeting had stipulated the terms, including who could be present and what was to be discussed.

"Thank you, Garrett," said Kinnetik's acting CEO. "Let me know when everything's ready, and when my other guest arrives, send her right in."

The receptionist nodded and closed the door.

"Ms. Whitney," said the older of the new arrivals, "I've heard a lot about you. I'm . . ."

"Alexandra Corey," Cynthia interrupted, not quite smiling. "Your reputation precedes you." The FBI profiler simply nodded, apparently unperturbed by the slight suggestion of antipathy she noted in Cynthia's tone. She was accustomed to being treated with suspicion and understood the reasons perfectly, conceding that, if the situation were reversed, she would probably react the same way. Profiling victims was sometimes a painful process.

None of this was openly expressed in the Cynthia's face, but something in her eyes suggested that she knew it anyway.

But there was no doubt about the warmth of her smile when she turned to greet the second of her guests.

"Long time, no see, Ice Queen."

Corey's expression became quizzical. "Figure skater?"

"Hockey." The answer was softly spoken, almost absent-minded. "Right winger."

The FBI agent nodded, slightly humbled and amused to be reminded so graphically that stereotyping was always a risky business. Sharon Briggs might look like a beauty queen, but was, in fact, something else entirely.

And, despite having offered the clarification, she appeared not to be paying attention at all; she was much too busy losing herself in the vision looking up at her from the desk. When she finally managed to tear her eyes away from the bright image, she found both Cynthia and Agent Corey staring at her, obviously understanding her fascination perfectly.

"Jesus!" she said with a tiny smile. "How is it that you never quite remember how gorgeous he is until it catches you by surprise all over again?"

Then she grinned. "Hello, Tink. How are you?"

Cynthia laughed. "Old enough to regret I ever let him saddle me with that nickname."

But Sharon's eyes were soft with reclaimed memories. "Why? Obviously, he's still Peter."

The two old friends stared at each other, blue eyes locked with brown, and Sharon managed not to flinch away from the regret she saw in Cynthia's expression. "He was," said Brian Kinney's ultimate defender. "Until this happened. Now . . . "

Sharon Briggs leaned forward and placed her hand on Cynthia's shoulder; one quick touch, a tiny squeeze, and it was over, but Cynthia was surprised to find herself comforted by the gesture. "He's still Brian Kinney." Obviously, the undercover cop felt no need to say more.

Cynthia tried to ignore the images rising in her mind of Brian as she'd seen him last - tried . . . and failed, but only for a moment.

"I take it," said Agent Corey, as she took a seat in one of the antique wing chairs that fronted Cynthia's desk, "that you two are old friends."

"More like old competitors," laughed Sharon. "From back in the day."

"Oh, please," retorted Cynthia with an eye-roll. "I was never really in the same league. Not like you and Lindsey."

But Sharon was shaking her head, her laughter fading into a gentle smile. "In the end, we were all just part of the pep squad, the satellites of Brian Kinney."

"Sounds like a fan club," observed Alexandra Corey.

Cynthia nodded. "In a way, that's exactly what it was. We were all in college together. But I was lucky enough . . ."

When she fell silent, Corey - who was exceptionally good at her job and exceptionally perceptive - did not do what most people would have done. She did not just ignore the lapse. "Lucky enough to what?" she asked, sympathetic but firm.

Cynthia circled her desk and settled into her chair before answering. "Lucky enough to never fall in love with him," she said finally. "And you have no idea how rare that was. He was . . ." Again she fell silent, her eyes dropping to the colorful image still displayed on her desk.

"Yes," replied Corey, with only a bit of twinkle in her eye. "I'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to see exactly what he was. And how fortunate that you never loved him."

Cynthia looked up, and Corey was momentarily stunned by the flash of anger in eyes gone slightly gray, like storm clouds gathering on a blue horizon. "That's not - exactly - what I said."

"Easy, my friend," replied the profiler. "I understand the distinction, so let me qualify my response. How fortunate - for both of you - that you never fell in love with him."

Cynthia confined her response to a quick nod.

Corey then turned to regard Sharon Briggs with speculative eyes. The FBI and the Pittsburgh PD were hoping to use this young woman's considerable skills in undercover work to forward this investigation, but no one, it seemed, had delved very deeply into her history with the victim - a history that might have generated some heavy baggage, in the form of an emotional entanglement that could compromise the woman's professionalism and objectivity. Time, perhaps, to dispense with some assumptions that might prove problematic if not addressed decisively.

"Is there anything you want to tell me," she asked finally, "before we get to a point where old bridges - never crossed or crossed too often - come back to confound us?"

Briggs' smile became enigmatic. "You haven't met him yet, have you?"

Corey shrugged. "No. I try to get all my pieces in place before confronting the knight, in all his glory."

"Nice analogy," Briggs retorted. "But it does leave you with a potential blind spot."

Corey blinked. No one had ever suggested such a potential problem. Not, at any rate, to her face. "Such as?"

"You can't possibly understand the impact of coming face-to-face with Brian Kinney, until you experience it for yourself."

Cynthia Whitney could not - quite - contain a tiny snicker.

"Which doesn't exactly answer my question," Corey replied, still completely impersonal. Almost.

"Relax, Agent Corey," Briggs said with a small, Cheshire-cat grin. "I'm a dyke. Always was and always will be. But if you think that's enough to make a woman Kinney-proof, let me just disabuse you of that notion. For most lesbians, the fact that he sports a remarkably generous package - equipment-wise - would be enough to render him completely uninteresting, not to mention the fact that he's an arrogant, narcissistic, self-serving bastard. But he's Brian Kinney, and that puts him in a league all by himself."

"How so?" Corey asked, fascinated in spite of herself. "Why would he . . ."

It was Cynthia who stepped in to attempt an explanation, knowing full well that she was doomed to failure from the first word. "How about the fact that he never lies - not, at least, about anything that matters? Or that he never pretends to be anything other than what he is? Or that he never buys into anybody's bullshit, or lets anyone else around him buy into it either? Never believes that an apology makes up for whatever the original mistake might have been, and never accepts anything less than the best effort a person has to give or demands more than a person is capable of, and always seems to know the difference, while the rest of us are standing around looking bewildered." Then she smiled. "And that barely scratches the surface. You could spend a lifetime trying to get to know the man beneath the image, Agent Corey, and I doubt you'd ever succeed."

The profiler was silent for a moment, considering what she'd heard. Then she looked up, a new resolve written in her eyes, and regarded Sharon Briggs with calm determination. "Did you love him?" she asked, going right to the heart of the matter.

"Of course, I did," came the response, equally cut and dried. "And so will you. Always providing you don't hate him. You're going to discover that Brian Kinney inspires many things, but neutrality isn't one of them."

A brief pause. "OK, then," said Corey slowly. "Rephrasing the question. Will your feelings for him make it impossible for you to function in this new role we're asking you to take on?"

"No."

"How can you be so certain?"

Briggs took a moment to choose the right words, to make her meaning clear. "Brian Kinney," she said finally, "is the person who helped me to see that the closet was a place where I didn't want to live, the person who refused to play the game I'd set up for myself and, by extension, for him. He was the beard I wanted to wear, who refused to be worn." Then she grinned. "He was the son-in-law my father was so eager to bag that he practically had St. Paul's Cathedral on speed dial for booking the wedding." She paused then, growing pensive and introspective. "Brian was the man who finally convinced me that I was doing everyone a disservice - myself most of all - by pretending to be something I wasn't."

Unexpectedly, Corey laughed. "So - instead - you made a career out of pretending to be something youaren't."

Briggs gave a little 'touche' shrug, as her smile grew wistful. "My father hated him, at first. Until he came to understand what a favor Brian had done him, by insisting that I give him the chance to know the woman his daughter really was."

Corey frowned and asked the question, obviously regretting the necessity. "Should I add your father to my growing list? Of persons of interest, I mean?"

She was grateful when Briggs laughed. "My father? The ultimate flower child? No, Agent Corey. My father is completely incapable of violence, and he did - finally - come to appreciate Brian, although it took a while. Today, they're very good friends, although he still, occasionally, gets a little misty-eyed over the idyll he'd constructed for himself. You know - the society wedding, the big house in the suburbs, grandchildren . . ."

"Fathers are like that," said a wry voice from the doorway.

Sharon Briggs smiled, without bothering to look around to identify the new arrival. "Hello, Peterson."

Lindsey laughed. "Hey, Briggs."

"Let me guess," observed Corey. "Sorority sisters?"

"Good old Alpha Phi," replied Lindsey with a pained smile. "Pretty much the only thing Briggs and I ever had in common."

"Except one," Briggs pointed out.

"Yes." Lindsey closed her eyes, reflecting that she had spent too much time of late, lost in memories. "Except one."

"How's bitch-Marcus?" The words were harsh, but there was no real animosity in Brigg's inquiry.

"Just as you remember," Lindsey answered, moving into the office and taking a seat beside Agent Corey. "Bitchy as ever."

"Sorry," Briggs said with a grin, obviously not sorry in the least.

She and Cynthia exchanged quick glances and even quicker notes of understanding; neither of them had ever managed to develop any kind of rapport with Lindsey's significant other, but it had never really mattered much. Brian was the nuclear glue that bound them all together; Melanie Marcus was just a rogue particle, insignificant in the grander scheme of things, although not, of course, to Lindsey.

"So," said Agent Corey, "are we ready to proceed?"

Cynthia sighed. "Yes and no. Lunch, courtesy of Auntie Em's catering, will undoubtedly be delightful, and all of us - including Emmett - are ready to answer your questions, Agent Corey. Although I have no idea what we can tell you that we haven't said to a dozen different people already. But . . . " She favored Briggs with an apologetic little smile. "Hilliard isn't here. I was informed, rather brusquely, by Kinnetik's chief of security that wherever he is, is need-to-know only, and apparently, I don't qualify." She looked slightly disgruntled. "I'd love to see them try that shit on Brian Kinney, who would eat them all for lunch in a New York minute, but I don't seem to be quite as intimidating, so no luck. He did, however, leave a thumb drive for you, Sharon, which should contain all the data you'll need."

Sharon nodded and they all rose to make their way to the conference room, with Cynthia bringing up the rear.

"Let Mathis know he can join us when he's ready," said Cynthia, as they passed the receptionist's desk.

"Agent Corey," said Lindsey, as they moved into the sanctuary of Brian's office, a place that almost seemed to breathe his scent, which was somehow both comforting and disconcerting. "I'm not quite sure what you're looking for, from us. Surely you've already got all the facts and . . ."

"Indeed, I do," replied the FBI agent. "I've got every imaginable kind of record concerning Brian Kinney's life - school records, medical records, tax records, business records, family history . . . you name it."

"So what can you possibly hope to learn from us?"

Corey smiled. "I know all I need to know about the facts of his life. Facts, but not truths. They're not necessarily the same, you know."

"But what . . ."

"I know the record. I've seen the files. But that's not what I need. What I need is to see the man. Not through my eyes, but through yours."

Lindsey went very still, eyes growing wide and dark, and, when she spoke, her voice was faint, barely audible. "I'm not sure . . ."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Corey said quickly, offering reassurance. "It's a piece of cake. You can do it."

But Lindsey was shaking her head, and she and Sharon Briggs were staring at each other, exchanging thoughts without actually exchanging a word.

"You don't understand, Alex," said Briggs finally, almost unwillingly. "It's not that we can't do what you're asking. It's that we're not sure we want to."

Cynthia Whitney was nodding her head, obviously in complete agreement with the other members of this volunteer brigade of Kinney supporters.

Alexandra Corey studied all three of them, suddenly at a loss for words, not sure now if she knew how to convince them to speak what was in their hearts, what she needed to learn from them in order to get to know this man, in the way that they knew him.

And wondering, on the breath of an impulse that came to her from some remote place previously unsuspected and unencountered, if she really wanted to know him at all.

She felt a tiny smile touch her lips, as she speculated on how her boss and her partner of many, many years would respond when she told him about this unprecedented reaction. But then, she didn't really have to wonder; she knew. He would be stunned and speechless with disbelief.

Alexandra Corey was relentless, indomitable, unflappable, and had never in her life been intimidated by anyone.

Until now.

Brian Kinney, who appeared to be a man who wore so many hats that no one could keep track of them all; who had, thus far, proved impossible to categorize or limit to a specific identity; who had intrigued her more than anyone she had never - yet - met.

And who, if she were to be totally honest with herself, possessed one other attribute that distinguished him from every other subject she'd ever studied.

She looked up then and saw a photograph on the rear wall of the reception area - a huge, colorful candid shot, obviously taken at a party celebrating the grand opening of the business - and the man at its heart: beautiful, urbane, glamorous, blazing-bright Brian Kinney, who just might turn out to be the most frightening man she'd ever need to know.

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

First of all, he didn't know why he didn't feel comfortable going up to the loft alone. Then he didn't know why he didn't want to take the elevator to the top floor. And finally, he wasn't sure what it was that almost drove him to turn away from that huge, dented sliding door and run screaming from the building, refusing to go in at all.

So here he stood, hesitating, staring at the scarred metal surface of the door as if it held a fucking Rosetta Stone that would unlock the secrets of the universe. Or the secrets of Brian Kinney, which would probably be at least as complex and convoluted and, ultimately, totally fucked up.

Danny Boyle was standing behind him, trying not to goggle but not succeeding very well. Brian's loft was legendary. There was no other word for it. And while the individuals who had been privileged to visit it - once - were many, the ones who'd ever gotten more than a glance of anything except the bedroom ceiling were few indeed. They might have been lucky enough to gather a general impression - sleek, modern, elegance in its purest form, providing the perfect setting for the jewel at its center - but it was astonishing that the man who occupied the place and the center spot in so many lives remained mostly an enigma to the many who thought they knew him, as well as to the few, who knew better.

In the end, Justin thought, there were only two or three who had ever managed to find their way into the labyrinthine passages that might - with time and patience and luck - lead to the core of the man. And even then, that was assuming that Brian would allow it, which was problematic at best.

Once, not so long ago, he had believed he had achieved that goal, that he knew Brian, as no one else ever would or could. More than anything in life, he still wanted to believe that. But . . .

Boyle shifted slightly and cleared his throat, trying to observe the expressions on Justin's face without actually appearing to be watching - a no-win situation in either case. "Hey, Dude," he said finally. "We goin' in or what?"

With a funny little half-shrug - a gesture that would have been immediately familiar to Brian Kinney, but probably not to anyone else - Justin put aside his misgivings, squared his shoulders, and unlocked the door in one not-quite-fluid series of movements.

It was time to stop dithering; time to grow a pair, in Kinney-speak; time to . . . He shoved the door open and walked into yesterday, into all his yesterdays that had ever mattered - the ones he'd turned his back on when he'd left Brian behind to run away to New York, and an art world that - in retrospect - meant nothing, comparatively speaking.

Dear God in Heaven! What had he done?

It was almost too much to bear, and even Danny Boyle, who would never be mistaken for a particularly empathetic, perceptive individual, sensed enough to remain by the door and say nothing while his eyes swept the scene before him, taking it all in, memorizing something he knew he might never see again while Justin keyed in the code that would disarm the security system.

Boyle continued to watch, noting everything, including the look on the face of the blond at its center who had moved into the heart of the room and was gazing around, saying nothing, but - obviously - completely wrapped up in memory.

Brian Kinney, in all his radiance.

Arms spread wide, beautiful, bronzed body still showing the traces of a bottle of water poured over an upturned face, mouth wearing a seductive little smile.

"So . . . are you coming or going? Or coming, and then going? Or coming . . . and staying?"

Such a simple beginning to evolve into something so complex and multi-dimensional that it defied defining.

Because they defied defining.

Justin went very still, struck by the elegant simplicity of the thought and frozen into a dark silhouette against the bright luminosity of floor-to-ceiling glass.

Could it possibly be as simple as that?

Not buddies, not tricks, not boyfriends, not lovers, not partners, not husband-and-husband, not soul-mates - none of those things, and all of those things, at the same time.

Had he wasted years trying to force the freeform shape of what he shared with Brian into the stereotypical round hole of convention? And, if he had, could he now step outside the parameters of expectation imposed by society and family and culture and learn to do the only thing Brian had ever really asked of him; to accept what they were together for the unique, unconstricted, elementary force it was? And, even if he could learn to do that, was it already too late?

Was Brian already gone?

The silence was becoming uncomfortable, and Danny Boyle moved into the kitchen, running his hand across the sleekness of the granite countertop. "Hell of a place!" he observed, careful to keep his tone light. He didn't know any of the particulars about the Kinney/Taylor relationship, but one didn't live anywhere in the neighborhood without having gotten an occasional earful of the rumors, so he thought it best to avoid imposing on what was probably very private territory. "Want something to drink?"

"Uhh, no. Thanks," Justin replied absently. "But there's always beer in the fridge, probably Samuel Adams brown ale, so help yourself."

Boyle opened the stainless refrigerator and spotted the familiar six-pack of brown bottles on an upper shelf. "The man's got taste," he remarked, helping himself.

Justin smiled. "You have no idea," he whispered, his eyes moving from object to object around the apartment, noting what had changed and what had not: new plasma tv with a Blu-Ray player, new treadmill, new rug - ivory banded in almond - under the dining table, new free-form sculpture on a low display table in the living area, flanked by a new Barcelona chair. Other things were unchanged: sleek, glove-soft Italian furniture, the gleam of perfectly finished hardwood floors, the stairs to the bedroom and the plushness of the duvet that was just visible through the partially-open door; the stylized crystal ashtray that was the only item on the Mies Van Der Rohe coffee table; the Fender guitar case propped near the sofa, indicating that somebody had been fooling around, probably bare-footed and bare-chested, in a bout of reminiscence concerning old, almost forgotten dreams.

And then, of course, there were the things that were no longer where they had been: a large, smoky quartz, handblown vase that had probably finally succumbed, after surviving too many close calls, to one of Brian's cartwheel/juggling/handstand sessions; a deep green cashmere throw, which had figured in a thousand different configurations of sexual hi-jinx, now nowhere to be found; and, of course, the artworks: the one that hung now on the wall in the Kinnetik reception area, and others which were simply gone. Charcoal sketches, bright acrylics, oils, a couple of minimalist studies of two bodies entwined, expressing both lust and need, and various studies of Brian's face, caught in moments of reflection, of speculation, of tenderness, of loneliness, which Brian had never admitted, of course, but Justin had known anyway.

Justin allowed his eyes to drift around the loft - once. After that, he concentrated on finding what he'd been sent to fetch.

He went to the desk, noting as he approached that some things were truly immutable, changeless - such as Brian's work habits: clear, spare, direct, streamlined, without wasted effort or motion. Files there were, neatly placed and labeled, slides and sketches and CD-roms, also labeled, but no laptop. Brian's camera bag, complete with his state-of-the-art Canon EOS Rebel, but no laptop. He turned and once more looked around the room, knowing what had to come next, no matter how much he didn't want to know it.

No laptop.

All right then. Boyle was enjoying his beer when Justin stalked across the room and climbed the steps to the bedroom. He'd been slightly concerned that he might be forced to confront Brian's unmade bed or discarded clothing, but that, of course, was not the case. Mrs. Oliver, Brian's cleaning lady, was every bit as efficient and perfectionist as everyone else who worked for him, and would rather have left dog poop on the bathroom floor than leave the master's undies tossed in a corner.

Immaculate, as always. Bed made, pillows fluffed, duvet perfectly draped, wood surfaces gleaming and dust-free, closet neat and perfectly organized, including what appeared to be a brand new dark charcoal Armani suit, obviously meant to be paired with the French-cuffed black Gucci dress shirt hanging beside it, while a quick look inside a small, discreet, elegantly understated leather valet on a high shelf revealed a new pair of Tiffany cufflinks, a yin/yang design in black pearl and platinum, having absolutely nothing to do with Zen spirituality, if Justin knew his Brian Kinney - which he certainly did - but everything to do with the fact that the man had always been fond of the symmetry of the pattern. Justin sighed, spotting a very similar ensemble hanging further back in the closet and pondering the reason for the upgrade. A shift in the acceptable size of lapels, perhaps, or a variation in the cut of the slacks. If Brian Kinney ever stopped being a label queen . . . Justin very carefully backed away from completing that thought, and looked around once more.

No laptop.

Shit!

Now what? There was no place else, except . . .

He smiled. Of course. It had been weeks since Brian had been here, and while the Master himself would never have shoved his precious computer - almost as irreplaceable to him as his right arm or his dick - into a narrow little cupboard to get it out of sight, his cleaning lady, a neat freak of the first order, might very well have cleared a spot for it in the tiny storage closet tucked away in the alcove beyond the entertainment area.

Convinced that he'd guessed correctly at last, Justin traversed the width of the apartment, crossed the television viewing area, and pulled open the double louvered door that ordinarily concealed the storage space for DVD's like East of Eden and Giant, On the Waterfront, and One-Eyed Jacks. But then he froze, confronted not by shelves of movie disks or VCR tapes, but by a gaping darkness instead, a shallow, shadowed passageway into something else. Someplace else.

Shocked and a bit disoriented, the blond made a quick, gasping sound, as if something had knocked the breath out of him, and Danny Boyle jumped up and started forward, slightly alarmed by both Justin's pallor and the expression of dismay on his face.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

For a few moments, Justin made no attempt to answer, having no real idea what it was that had disturbed him so. There was nothing, after all, to be afraid of. Nothing to fear. It was just a room, but it was a room where no room was supposed to be. Where no room had been before and where not a single sliver of light penetrated, beyond the gleam of a swath of warm wood reflected at the base of the doorway. "Nothing," he said finally. "It's just . . . "

"Just?" Boyle was sounding even more perturbed now, stepping forward and reaching out and . . .

"No!" The blond's voice was sharp, almost gasping. "No." Softer now, falling into a murmur. "It's . . . nothing. It's just . . . stand back. Just stay there."

Then he took a slow, deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward into the darkness, pulling the door closed behind him, before reaching out and realizing that he was standing in some kind of vestibule, that his way was blocked by a second door, a heavy wooden barrier on which an electronic keypad had been mounted at eye level, a keypad which emitted a faint, bluish glow just bright enough to render the digits and symbols adorning the keypad visible.

He paused, and ran his hand down the velvety smoothness of the woodwork to his left, his fingertips caressing a faint depression on a sleek switchplate, resulting in a soft click, and a pale amber glow rose from beneath him - not really bright enough to reveal anything except a crisper image of the doors which formed the boundaries of the tiny vestibule in which he found himself.

"Justin?" Danny Boyle's voice was just a half-step away from full-fledged panic mode.

"It's all right," he said quickly. "It's just a storage compartment. I'd forgotten about it, but it's nothing to worry about."

"Bullshit! You never saw it before."

Justin smiled. "Okay. I never saw it before. But it's nothing to get alarmed over."

"How do you know?"

The smile grew wider, softer. "Because I recognize the fingerprints."

"Say what?" Boyle didn't even try to conceal the level of his annoyance.

Justin reached out and drew his fingers down the incredible silkiness of the hand-rubbed oak veneer, reflecting that he couldn't think of anybody else in the world who would go to such extreme measures to render the surface of a door so sensually pleasing. His smile stuttered and morphed into pure indulgence as he remembered how often he'd accused Brian of being the ultimate hedonist - and how right he'd been.

Shit!

He reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve the datacard which Cynthia had thrust at him when she'd sent him on his errand, and noted, for the first time, that there were actually two strings of symbols embossed on its surface - the sequence he'd already used to disarm the primary alarm system, and now, a second sequence, composed of prime numbers and simple glyphs, which would, he hoped, serve as the "Open, Sesame" for the new barrier looming before him now.

He took a moment to draw a deep breath, bracing himself - he wasn't sure why - before tapping in the appropriate sequence and calling out to his nervous companion. "Just relax and drink your beer, Danny. I'll be right out."

For a space of seconds, nothing happened; then there was a silken shimmer of sound and motion, as the door in front of him slid aside on a soft susurration of air and he was aware of gentle illumination swelling from the base of walls that appeared to be extending before him, stretching perhaps eight meters ahead and three on either side of him.

He moved forward slowly into a different place - a place that he recognized, even though he'd never seen it before. A place to which he was drawn, to which he was meant to return, to which he belonged.

A place built for him by Brian Kinney. He didn't know how he could be so sure of that, and he couldn't conceive of how such a thing was even remotely possible since it was logical to assume that Brian knew as much about carpentry or construction as he might know about brain surgery or quantum physics. But he was certain of it nevertheless.

He sank into a drift of softness, a combination sofa and bed and chaise and console, and felt it conform around him, as if custom designed for his comfort. His fingers fell naturally to a series of controls arranged along the edge of the seating unit, something he did not need to see in order to activate, and, with the first touch of his hand, the display began seamlessly, with no period of adjustment from one phase to the next. It began with a pale spear of light drawing the eye up toward the ceiling, before expanding into a deliberate, perfectly timed progression of a series of images, illuminated one at a time, each unique, each perfectly positioned to be studied and examined and explored in intimate detail, and it was so perfectly, subtly done that it took a few minutes for him to realize that it was his body and the platform on which he rested that were shifting to allow a new perspective of each item displayed. The works of art were stationary; the illumination and the eyes that followed it were not.

It was a retrospective of the art of Justin Taylor - twenty-eight different pieces, ranging through a full gamut of mediums, from vibrant graphic works to subtle sketches to intricate studies of exquisite detail - portraits, abstracts, still lifes; some he'd done many years before and others that were more recent, including six from his last show - the six he would have chosen to keep, if he'd indulged his own desires; the six he'd resigned himself to never seeing again, like most of the others he was seeing now, for the first time in a very long time. He'd never imagined that Brian had been buying his work over the years. The first displayed was the oldest of the lot, dating back to his earliest encounters with the tour de force that would alter his life. It was the first sketch he'd ever done of Brian Kinney - Brian sleeping and naked and beautiful. Perfectly Brian.

Other pieces were a complete surprise. A storyboard from his sojourn in the rarefied atmosphere of filmdom; a sketch of his sister, rendered in pastels, that he didn't even remember doing; a watercolor featuring a group of laughing faces - the extended family who'd adopted him when his own father had thrown him out. Throw-away stuff, or so he'd believed at the time. Obviously, someone had disagreed.

And then . . . oh, no. How could this possibly be here? How could Brian have dealt with this? Brought this darkness into his home? It was a heavy, brooding piece, although it had not been intended as such originally. A gloom-shrouded, slender figure, back-lit, done almost entirely in black and white and shades of gray, standing at the edge of a stage and looking out over a sea of dim faces, one hand dangling a violin as the other was lifted in greeting. The face, barely visible in shadow, was not smiling.

It had been intended as a paean, in praise of the passion of his new lover, the individual he'd allowed himself to trust to give him everything that Brian couldn't - wouldn't. But he had never titled the painting. Not then. Not until much later, when he'd glanced at it one day and seen the truth - a truth that had always been there, but that he had never been willing to see.

He'd called it Consolation, only realizing the truth of it when the word had popped into his mind on the occasion of revisiting the painting. It represented hope relinquished, settling for second-best - or worse.

Why on earth would Brian have wanted it? Why would he . . .

But the next item presented for his contemplation provided the immediate answer. Brian had wanted the murky, brooding portrait of Ethan for the contrast it provided, for the next work expressed everything that the dark, haunted likeness did not. It was the explosive surrealistic piece Justin had painted on the day Brian had given in to his relentless pursuit and taken him back, the day they'd reclaimed their ties to each other, the day of reunification.

It was light and joy and hope and promise; it was the thing that existed between them, that would never exist with anyone else, incorporating every feeling, every surge, every nuance of lust and belonging. It was the two of them together, the life-force that bound them, expressed through music and motion and the burst of energy and the voiceless tide of fulfillment.

He had titled it The Hallelujah Chorus.

It had been one of the first pieces he'd sold after going to New York, not because he'd wanted to let it go, but because it had simply been too painful for him to keep.

He was aware of music playing somewhere, pale and gentle and almost beneath the level of conscious hearing, lovely classical work, without a single violin in evidence anywhere, but stroking his consciousness, perfect for the setting, soothing and leading him through transitions from one moment to the next, exactly as it was meant to do.

The images were elemental and filled with light, crisp and perfect and beautiful, and Justin inhabited every one of them; Justin, complete; Justin, best and worst, most and least, beginning and ending and every nuance in between; Justin in all his radiance, reflected completely in the luminous eyes of the man who loved him best.

Until this very moment, he had never really understood how much.

The retrospective light show ran for twelve minutes, each new image touching him deeply, calling up a series of vital memories, each more precious than the last, and ending as softly, as perfectly, as it had begun, with the final image lingering within the intimate shadows around him, the most precious image of them all, and his eyes fell to the small, engraved plate affixed to the bottom of the painting - the title. Even now, after all this time, he was still not sure he'd done the right thing, but it still felt right, and it was far too late to rethink it now.

The print was small, and he doubted he would have been able to read the words if he hadn't already known what they said.

But, from his perspective, it still rolled perfectly off the tongue, as appropriate now as on the day of its christening: I Don't Want to Miss a Thing.

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

The vestibule of the popular luncheonette was dominated by a huge, colorful poster, and Ted Schmidt seemed uncomfortable under the gaze of the individuals depicted on it.

"Do you ever get the feeling that Big Brother is watching you?" he asked as he and his companions waited for a table to come available. The poster, despite its age, was still as bright and eye-catching as it had been when it had first been hung all those years ago - a poster that featured the smiling faces of a group of sweaty, young athletes enjoying a moment of sweet victory on a Penn State soccer field, at the conclusion of a regional play-off game in the halcyon days of 1991. In the center of the group, striker/stopper Brian Kinney and goaltender Johnny Burnside - the son of Brenda Jo Burnside, proprietor and namesake of the Dixie Belle Café - were laughing together, arms wrapped tight around taut, muscular torsos.

Brenda Jo was the southern belle equivalent of Debbie Novotny, but without the interpersonal hang-ups. Unlike Debbie's son, Johnny had never been entangled in any kind of love-hate-more love-more hate relationship with Brian; they had simply been good friends and athletic team-mates, and Brenda Jo had accepted young Brian for exactly what he was - a friend of her son's who happened to be gay. She had never understood why people felt compelled to make a big deal out of what she considered a simple fact of life.

The café was a prosperous, well-run business, popular with young professionals and blue collar workers alike. Thus, it was almost always busy, because it was bright and warm and friendly, and because the food was exceptionally good, featuring a variety of southern specialties, like chicken and dumplings, red beans and rice, corn maque choux, and hush puppies, and a wide selection of luscious baked goods, like Niemen Marcus cake and New Orleans bread pudding. Usually, the only way to be sure to get a table was to arrive early and be prepared to wait. Unless, of course, one's name was included on a very short list of preferred customers. Like Brian Kinney.

But Brian was not around these days, and precious few of his associates qualified for that very select list. But Michael - by association - was usually lucky enough to snag a table, because he was one of Brian's best friends, and because his comic book store was located just a half block down the street from the cafe, so that he usually arrived early.

But he still had to wait, like everybody else, so he had the time to turn to study Teddy's face, not quite sure what to make of the sour note he thought he'd heard in the man's tone.

"Who pissed in your Cheerios?" he asked finally, not reassured by the hard glitter he spotted in the accountant's eyes.

"Why?" Ted snapped. "Just because I don't buy into the whole St. Brian charade?"

"No," Michael retorted. "Maybe because you might want to think twice about everything he's done for you?"

Ted's eyes were hard and cold. "Brian only does what's good for Brian. If the rest of us benefit from it, we're just lucky to be in the right place at the right time."

"Really?" That was Ben, turning to examine Ted's face with a speculative gaze. "Soooo, it's all just coincidence that you're living the good life again, with all your troubles behind you, and . . ."

"Anything I have," Ted retorted, "I've earned - and more. And I'd have earned it with or without Mr. Kinney's help. All things considered, I'm pretty sure he ought to be thanking me."

A new arrival stepped up at that moment, and Ted looked around to find Monty Peabody looking at him with a smile of approval. "How quickly they forget, hmmm?" said the newcomer. "What has Brian Kinney ever really done for anyone except himself?"

"Amen," agreed Ted, greeting Monty with a warm smile, and allowing his eyes to drift - with a stir of avid appreciation - to the tall, well-muscled individual at the lab tech's side.

"Hey, Guys, this is Jack Holloway. He's new around here."

"And a welcome addition to the group," said Ted, eyes bright with interest. As he reached out to shake the newcomer's hand, he dismissed a faint mental impression that he'd met the man somewhere before.

For his part, Hilliard spotted the tell-tale nuance in the accountant's expression and refused to react to it, knowing it would pass quickly unless he reinforced it with flag-raising behavior.

And it did.

Michael, meanwhile, had turned to meet Ben's eyes. He was sometimes amazed - not to mention appalled - to remember how easily they had allowed themselves to buy into the whole range of Monty/Eli pseudo-intellectual, holier-than-thou pretensions, and both of them were sometimes painfully reminded of all the times they'd remained silent and allowed these so-called friends to pass judgment on a man who had done nothing to deserve their contempt, a man whose primary flaw, aside from an outrageous vanity that no one would even try to deny, was a complete unwillingness to tolerate hypocrisy; a man who had stepped up on countless occasions to save those who were too weak or too fragile or too frightened to defend themselves.

"Besides," said Ted, "surely we can find better things to talk about than the no longer reigning king of Liberty Avenue."

"That's an interesting attitude," said Ben, deliberately standing tall so he could look down into Ted's eyes, "toward a man who's still signing your paychecks."

"And we'll just see how long that lasts, won't we?" Ted observed cryptically.

Michael, on the other hand, had turned to confront Monty, and was making no effort to hide the fact that he was enjoying the view of the tall stranger at his side. "Hey, Monty," he said, flashing the newcomer a friendly smile. "Where's Eli?"'

"Job interview," Monty replied sharply.

"Oh, really," said Ben. "Going back into the retail rat-race, is he? Macy's? Saks? Ann Taylor?"

"Umm, no," Monty replied slowly. "Actually, he's got an appointment with the manager of the Tyler Lane Big Q."

"Oh," said Michael, with a frown. "My condolences."

"And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?" The lab tech's voice had taken on a decidedly testy edge.

Michael smiled. "Only that I've worked with Andrew before, and I don't envy anyone the experience."

"Yes, well, unfortunately, some of us don't rate the kind of support and perpetual forgiveness and approval that are accorded to . . ." He glanced up toward the portrait of Brian and couldn't quite conceal a quick satisfied smirk, "the Chosen Few of Pittsburgh's elite gay community."

Ted grinned. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Michael blinked, as he turned to meet Ben's gaze, and knew that they were having one of those intuitive moments in which two minds shared a single thought. "You know who you sound like, Teddie?" he asked, with a tiny, rueful smile.

"No. Who?"

"Me." The single syllable conveyed volumes of shame. "At the height of my Stepford fag pretentiousness. God, I don't know how he resisted an urge to deck me."

Ted flushed an ugly, splotchy red. "Don't be ridiculous, Michael. Just because someone kicked the shit out of him does not make him a hero."

"Y'er right," said a new voice, rough and twangy with an accent that fell heavily on Midwestern ears and dredged up thoughts of long, hot summers in the wooded hills of the Carolinas. "There was plenty of other things that took care a that a long time ago." Brenda Jo Burnside's eyes were very dark - as close to true black as human eyes could get - and almost feral in the degree of anger they expressed.

Ted flinched, and then took a deep breath, telling himself that he was only imagining the looks of concerned sympathy from his companions. Surely, they couldn't believe that he was actually afraid of this coarse, uneducated country bumpkin, even if there were rumors that the bumpkin in question kept a loaded shotgun stashed behind the cash register - a weapon, it was reported, that she was not loathe to use when the situation called for action. Further, rumor had it that she was a crack shot.

"Table for two, Michael?" said the bumpkin with a steely smile.

"Actually," Michael replied, giving her his best, brightest Pollyanna grin, "make that four."

The steely smile did not waver.

"Five," said Monty quickly.

"Four." Jared Hilliard deliberately removed himself from the equation, thus claiming a measure of approval from the woman of the moment, the one with the power to seat him where, when, and if she chose. "I hate a crowded booth," he explained in response to Monty's lifted brow.

Brenda Jo's twitch of a smile said that she knew full well what he really hated.

For a moment, both Ted and Monty were treated to a shrewd, semi-hostile inspection from night-dark eyes, and the expression on her face made it clear that the discreet sign posted in the front window was not just for show. In this establishment, the management truly did reserve the right to refuse service to anyone, for any reason - or no reason at all. It was all according to the will or whim of Brenda Jo.

"Suit yourself," she said finally, gesturing toward a corner booth and nodding for Hilliard to take a seat at the counter, close enough to the booth in question to include himself in the conversation should he choose to do so - and to overhear anything that might be said there.

The proprietor took a moment to study the newcomer's face, with eyes that saw a great deal more than most people would have credited. Then she smiled and leaned forward, thrusting a menu into his hands and catching his eye just enough to give him a quick, discreet wink.

Hilliard managed - barely - not to grin. So much for fooling all the people, all the time, he thought. But a glance toward the booth where Kinney's friends and acquaintances were being seated confirmed that the necessary façade was still intact, and there was no question that Brenda Jo would help preserve his cover, should the need arise.

Nevertheless, when she walked away to seat another group of new arrivals, Hilliard flinched slightly when he heard Ted mutter a quick, nasty comment to his companions, a sarcastic slur about having to put up with "hillbilly trash". A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that both Novotny and Bruckner appeared shocked by the ugly nature of the remark, but Peabody seemed unperturbed. Even bigotry, it seemed, was acceptable, under certain circumstances.

The group spent a few minutes catching up on local gossip: Chanda Leer's new gig at the Cabaret du Monde; the recently scheduled revival of West Side Story that was coming to the civic center; the next fundraiser for Angels over Pittsburgh; Ben's new class featuring the works of Oscar Wilde, and Hunter's role in the upcoming production of The Glass Menagerie; a change in the management team at Woody's. But eventually, inevitably, the discussion turned to the individual most central to the entire group. Brian Kinney.

"So," said Monty, digging into a steaming helping of shepherd's pie with gusto, "have you guys heard anything from Pittsburgh's gay Casanova? About how he's going to handle the loss of his status?"

Michael sipped at his iced tea. "You almost sound like you're looking forward to watching him cope with the damage," he said quietly.

"No," said Monty sharply. "Why would you think that?"

"Because there are a lot of people who seemed to feel that Brian deserved what happened to him," said Ben, his eyes meeting those of his husband, and reading the sadness reflected there.

"Not deserved," said Ted. "Nobody could have deserved that. But he didn't exactly go out of his way to win friends and influence people before it happened, now did he?"

"Is that how you really see things, Ted?" asked Ben. "Because I think there are plenty of people who'd argue that he did exactly that. Despite his rather in-your-face style, Brian has a lot of friends. Even a lot of very influential friends. That might come as a surprise to some, but there are plenty of people who appreciate the man's honesty and his total lack of pretension. Not to mention the fact that he's shown himself to be willing to step up and fight for the things he believes in and the people he cares about."

Michael was looking directly at his old friend at that moment and recognized the resentment that flared in Ted's eyes even before the man had a chance to respond.

"Let's go," said Michael quickly, dropping his fork into his barely touched plate of beef stew.

"But," Ted sputtered, "you said you were starving, and you haven't eaten a thing."

"Lost my appetite." The explanation was terse and sharp and not at all in keeping with Michael's usual diffident nature.

"Oh. I see," Ted said with a frown. "So is this how it's going to be from now on? Nobody's going to be allowed to criticize St. Brian, without incurring the wrath of his ardent defenders? He runs afoul of a group of homophobic assholes, and suddenly he's everybody's hero?"

Much to Ben's surprise, Michael did not leap to his feet. Instead, he calmly folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate, and slid out of the booth where he took a moment to collect his thoughts before looking down to meet the eyes of the man who had been a close friend for many years - a man who suddenly seemed to be wearing the face of a stranger.

"You just don't get it, do you, Teddie?" he said softly. "This isn't about whether or not Brian is a hero. Or whether you agree or disagree with his lifestyle or his beliefs or his choices. This is about the fact that we almost lost him. He could have died, because there are people out there, right here in our world, who hated him enough to want to kill him. Not because he's a cruel, vicious, vindictive monster, or because he's gone out of his way to destroy lives. Not even because he's a huge fucking success who gets his kicks by rubbing people's noses in it. But just because he's different. He doesn't love the way the great moral majority thinks he should." He paused then, and Ben was frightened by the terrible depth of pain he read in his husband's eyes. "And maybe, from the way you're talking, he doesn't love the way you think he should either. Maybe he hasn't been sufficiently grateful for all the wonders you've performed on his behalf. But you know what?" The sadness gave way before an upsurge or rage, barely contained. "You seem to have managed to forget a few miracles he pulled off for you, and for the rest of us."

He backed up then, and there was no mistaking the swell of contempt in his eyes. "Good for you, Teddie. Makes life so much simpler, doesn't it?"

"Wait, Michael," Ted said quickly, scrambling to his feet. But it was too late. Michael was gone, and Ben was regarding Ted with the same degree of revulsion he would have accorded a cockroach.

"I didn't mean . . ." Ted started to explain.

But Ben was not buying it. "Yes. You did. And you're certainly entitled to your opinion, Ted. But there is a bottom line in this that you might want to consider. The relationship between Brian and Michael has endured a lot of trauma in the last few years. Between the two of them, they almost managed to destroy it. But, in the end, they didn't. In the end, it proved to be stronger than either one of them expected." He leaned forward then, and fixed Ted with a stern gaze that carried more than a hint of warning. "It's going to take a lot more than a queen-out demonstration of spite and petty jealousy to change it, and if you insist on going on with this, it's not going to be Michael's feelings for Brian that are going to change."

Then he smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression. "It's your choice."

He turned away then, leaving Ted open-mouthed and at a loss for words, and moved to the register to pay the tab, only to find that Brenda Jo had already managed to retrieve their virtually untouched lunches and transfer them into take-out boxes. He also found that she was refusing to take his money.

When he tried to argue, he discovered that it was futile to dispute the final decision of a stubborn southern belle. Her smile was broad and filled with warmth. "Call it a reward," she explained, "for a job well done." Then she leaned forward, managing to catch Jared Hilliard's eye in the process, as she whispered in Ben's ear. "But it does make me wish I'd taken advantage of the opportunity to spit in the fucker's water glass."

Ben nodded and whispered back, "Next time, you'll know."

Jared Hilliard was suddenly fascinated by texture of his BLT club sandwich, which allowed him to concentrate completely and resist an almost overwhelming urge to laugh.

In the corner booth, Ted and Monty exchanged uneasy glances, and the silence between them was awkward as Ben disappeared through the front door and Brenda Jo turned to regard them with a look of disdain she didn't even try to conceal.

Ted finally took a deep breath. "St. Brian strikes again," he observed, but he was careful to keep his voice down.

Monty nodded and took a big gulp of his Pepsi. "Well, at least this makes it a bit easier on me," he said. "When Michael and Ben ask me about Kinney's medical treatment, it's tough to have to keep my mouth shut. Professionally speaking, of course. I really do hate it when they try to pump me for details about what's going on with him, and I can't give them the answers they want." He carefully avoided meeting Ted's eyes, concentrating instead on loading his fork with a generous dollop of meat and potatoes. "Of course, I'm sure you don't need any details from me, being his financial guru and his professional associate."

Ted made a snorting noise deep in his throat. "Brian can't be bothered to confide in a poor schmuck like me these days. He's got dear Cynthia for that. The only reason I know anything about it all is because I get to take care of piddling little details. Like filing his fucking insurance claims. And the only thing I have to say about that is that I hope this fucking Dr. Turnage with his fancy, la-di-da private clinic is all he's cracked up to be, because his charges are outrageous."

Monty Peabody managed - barely - not to mutter a prayer of gratitude.

And Jared Hilliard could not quite swallow the bitter taste of dismay that rose in his throat as he realized that Peabody had scored exactly the information he'd been seeking. The only positive aspect of the whole thing was that he hadn't scored it under the cover of darkness.

Things were about to get very complicated.

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