Chapter 37


And oh! I shall find how, day by day,
All thoughts and things look older;
How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay,
And the heart of friendship colder.

 Winthrop Mackworthn Praed


"Teddie, you've got to do something. We can't let him get away with this."

Kinnetik's CFO felt his heart seize up in a moment of pure panic, as he recognized the voice on his cell phone. "Mel," he said softly, struggling for a calm demeanor, "I don't think this is the time or the place for us to . . ."

"Time or place? What the fuck does that mean? That fucking prick of a boss of yours just had me thrown out of your offices, and that blonde cunt just ordered me - actually ordered me - to clear out of my hotel room. Who the fuck does she think . . ."

"Mel," he said firmly, rapidly losing his patience but still hoping to placate her, "she's Brian's designated rep in all this, and . . . I'm sorry, but she does have the right to tell you to vacate the suite, since Kinnetik is footing the bill."

The silence that followed his response was crisp with a coldness he could actually feel closing in around him. "I see," she said finally. "So you're going to abandon me, and keep your mouth shut like a scared little faggot. Is that it?"

"Oh, for God's sake! They . . . they tapped my phone line. They heard everything - the entire conversation with Mr. Wylie, and what if Brian's right? What if we put Gus at risk by speaking out of turn?"

"Oh, puh-leeze!" she snapped. "Tell me you're not buying into this bullshit. We're supposed to believe that the whole homophobic world is focused now on bringing down the mighty Brian Kinney? Face it, Ted. He's always been just a tiny, insignificant little tadpole in a backwater pond, no matter that he portrays himself as a bloody great white shark. Nobody really gives a rat's ass about what he does. He's just playing this for all its worth, so he can stay front and center in the public eye and come out looking like a fucking hero. This whole thing has been one big ego-boost."

Ted sat back in his office chair, and tried - really tried - not to remember the images that had been front-page news on every tabloid and flyer published by loyal supporters of the so-called fundamentalist Christians. But, in the end, he couldn't. He had not let himself think about them overmuch, but he would never be able to forget them completely, no matter how much he might want to.

"You don't mean that, Melanie," he said finally. "I know you hate him, but not even you could believe that he deserved what they did to him."

"Right," she retorted. "And now, he's got a permanent, perpetual get-out-of-jail-free card, with no expiration date. From now on, anything he does, no matter now outrageous or shameless or bullshit-classic-Kinney, is going to be automatically forgiven, because somebody happened to kick the shit out of him for once in his life."

Ted looked out through his window, noting the strange, yellowish quality of the afternoon sunlight, and wondered if a storm might be on its way, as he remembered a discussion he'd once had with Brian, when both of them had been slightly inebriated. "I don't think it happened just once in his life, Mel. He's queer, and he's been that way - pretty much without apology - his whole life. It's unlikely he came through it without suffering a few beatings along the way."

"Yeah, well, he sure as fuck didn't learn anything from them, did he?"

Ted felt something shift within his mind - something fundamental. "Are you listening to yourself, Mel? Do you hear what you're saying?"

"What I'm saying," she replied coldly, "is that now he's managed to accomplish what he's been trying to do from the very beginning. He's going to take Gus away from me, and, because Lindsey is like fucking putty in his hands, she's going to let him get away with it. Probably going to convince herself that, sooner or later, he's going to wake up and realize that she's all he ever really wanted, and they'll settle down to a life of domestic bliss." Her voice, by this point, was distorted with angry sarcasm.

Ted couldn't help it, although he knew it was a huge mistake. He laughed.

"Thanks so much for your sup . . ."

"Wait, Mel," he sputtered, managing to get himself under control. "I don't mean to be harsh or unsupportive, but if you really think Brian Kinney is ever, ever, going to be domesticated - by anybody - much less a woman, you've gone fucking nuts. That's never going to happen."

"I know that, Asshole. The fag-who-would-be-king is never going to settle down and deny himself the opportunity to screw the world, but Lindsey doesn't accept that. She's always had this pretty little romantic notion that she could change him. She could make him straight."

Ted pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "You don't really believe that, Mel. I know Lindsey is fond of Brian. I'll even concede that she might once - in the years of her innocence - have entertained some fantasy about him becoming her Prince Charming. But she is a Lesbian. Surely you don't really doubt that."

"Yeah? Lesbians don't fuck guys, Teddie. Guys like Sam Auerbach and Brian Kinney."

"Yeah, but . . ." Ted fell silent abruptly as he was struck by the meaning of what she'd said. "Wait a minute. You don't mean that she and Brian . . . " His eyes grew huge. "No - fucking - way."

"Yes, way."

"And you know this how?"

She huffed an impatient sigh. "We weren't exactly a couple of breeders, Teddie, entertaining visions of virginity in our prospective mates. We shared our life stories not long after we met, including our sexual experimentation through the years and how we discovered who and what we were. I always knew what I was, but she had to figure it out and took a few detours along the way."

"So Brian . . ."

"Yeah. Brian. How fucking lucky am I? With all the raunchy, eager-to-experiment and willing-to-fuck-anything gay boys in the world, she just had to stumble on the biggest prick of all time."

Ted sat for a moment, his mind full of images of Brian as he must have looked back then, and how teen-aged girls would have been all over him, exactly the way that teen-aged boys - and others - were still all over him today. Sometimes, it was really hard to believe in any kind of natural justice, since the individual who lived behind the mask was nowhere near as exquisite and irresistible as the one the world saw when they looked at him.

The accountant, suddenly realizing where his thoughts were leading him, sat forward abruptly and threaded his fingers together, clinching them so tightly, that his knuckles were white and bloodless.

What was happening to him? Brian had pulled him back from the abyss, almost single-handedly, so why was he having such thoughts now? How had the man earned his enmity? What had changed so much? What was different about Brian, or was the reverse actually true? Was it Brian who was different, or was it Ted?

"Ted?" Melanie's voice had hardened with impatience. "Hell-oo-oo! Where the hell did you . . ."

"I'm here, I'm here," he hastened to reassure her. "Look, I'm sure this will all just blow over, once things settle down a bit. The news about our big windfall should come through just any time now, and that . . . once he finds out how rich he is, and that you had a part in helping me arrange everything, I'm sure all will be forgiven. And when Lindsey realizes her partner is a financial whiz . . . well, I'm sure she'll regret being so hasty in her decision. Don't you think?"

Melanie was silent for a moment, and the accountant was pretty sure he had managed to convince her she was worrying needlessly, when, in point of fact, he had only served to reinforce her firmly-held conviction that Ted looked at the world from a unique perspective. For most of the members of their social circle/extended family, money talked, on occasion; for Ted, it shouted, constantly.

"Look," she said finally, "maybe you're right. I hope you're right. But if you're not, you have to be prepared to help me through this, Teddie. I'm not going to let Brian Kinney take what belongs to me - not Gus, not Lindsey, not anything. Understand?"

He sighed. "I understand, but I honestly think you're worrying for nothing. Brian isn't going to do anything. Not really. He's spent his whole life bluffing his way through, getting people to back down because they're afraid to confront him. He knows that won't work with you, so just relax. This will all be over soon."

Melanie was not convinced, but allowed herself to be cajoled into accepting an invitation to spend a few days in the new house that Ted and Blake had just purchased, a vintage brownstone located just a few blocks down the street from the one she and Lindsey had shared for so many years. So far during this visit, she had deliberately avoided the entire area, not wanting to be reminded of everything she and her partner had lost. All because of Brian Kinney.

And yes, before any stickler for detail could point it out to her, she did know there had never been any proof that the bombing of Babylon had been directly connected to Brian. Not then anyway. But she was pretty sure that, if she put her mind to it, she could coax the existing facts and theories into a logical progression which might, eventually, be traced right back to his doorstep, and to his profligate lifestyle and his refusal to exercise even the most basic discretion in his conduct. It could not, she was sure, be a coincidence that it was his nightclub where the original atrocity had occurred, and now it was the man himself who had provided motivation for another attack by homophobic gay-bashers who were constantly in the market for new targets. Kinney could have served as the prototype - the poster boy for their campaign.

And thus, it was Brian - and only Brian - who should shoulder the blame for any danger that might accrue to Gus; Brian alone who would be to blame for any harm to which the child might come. She would make sure Lindsey knew that when the time was right. When . . .

For a flicker of time - there and gone too fast to register - she felt her blood run cold. She couldn't really be considering that. Could she?

She paused and shook her head, unwilling to pursue the thought to its natural conclusion.

It was all nonsense anyway. Gus would be fine. Justin would be fine. And above all, always and forever, Brian Fucking Kinney would be fine - invincible, indefatigable, untouchable.

Shit!


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Justin was restless - filled with a vague, nameless anxiety he could neither control nor explain.

Had anyone asked him to define it, he would have dismissed any concerns with a laugh and a shrug, and an admission that he was just going through the symptoms of not enough time to catch up for all the long months he had spent away from his lover. They had not yet even come to grips with what had almost happened during their separation; that would require many months, maybe even years, to accomplish, and their lovemaking had, after all, been restricted since their reunion - restricted by the presence of too many people, too many witnesses, too many interested parties. And although they had managed to fuck their way through most of the night and indulge mutual blow jobs at odd moments during the day, it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough to make up for all the time they had wasted.

How stupid had they been?

He took another look into the cottage's front room, where the physical therapist was putting Brian through another work-out session, ignoring his repeated complaints about the pillow under his head and concentrating this time on knees and thighs. Justin frowned when he noticed that there were beads of sweat on his lover's forehead, and a grimace of pain distorting that perfect, extremely kissable mouth. Knowing one of the primary tenets of the Brian Kinney Operating Manual required a stoic acceptance of pain and a determined effort to refuse to acknowledge it, he deliberately turned away, allowing Brian some semblance of privacy and dignity.

He allowed himself a quick, rueful smile, even as he realized Brian would not be pleased if he spotted it. Still it was unavoidable. Even after all this time, after everything they had endured together, Brian was still perfectly capable of rebuilding the walls that had been his first line of defense throughout his life. They didn't function very well, of course; not with Justin, who was intimately acquainted with every unguarded point of entry, but sometimes, just the illusion was a comfort, and he saw no reason to point out the futility of the effort.

Whatever worked.

Still, it meant he needed to find a bit of diversion, to be able to leave Brian to endure the torturous treatment that was part of the process for rebuilding that perfect body.

All of which he knew perfectly well, and none of which served to put his mind at ease. Justin was pensive. He had learned a long time ago to read Brian; to detect the subtleties anyone else would never have seen at all, much less attempted to decipher.

Something was definitely bothering his lover, and - since Brian was never one to sweat the small stuff - it had to be something pretty big.

Justin didn't want to admit that he was scared, but . . .

He was scared. How much more, after all, could they survive? Would there come a point in time where it was all just too much, just not worth the effort?

He rambled into the kitchen, his eyes dark and unfocused as he remembered shared moments - old and new: first times, best times, even a few "only" times. His first Pride and Brian coming after him when he'd chosen to leave Babylon, and leading him into the street to dance the night away; the first drawing he'd done of the man who would come to be the focus of his life, and how he must have known it even then because it showed up in the drawing; the celebration after Stockwell's defeat when he had seen eternity in the dark eyes smiling down on him; Brian sick and almost broken and enduring through the strength of his will and the love that sustained him, even when he could not speak of it. They had endured so much, survived so much, and squandered so much time they should have shared.

He knew another moment of acrid anger as he thought about all the people who had interfered, who had done everything possible to push roadblocks up to separate them and to convince them that other things were more important than their lives together. Sometimes, he still wondered if he would ever be able to forgive them completely - Lindsey and Michael and Mel and, yes, even Debbie and his own mother.

But he stumbled slightly then as he experienced another of those nasty little epiphanies which seemed to come upon him so suddenly of late.

Dozens of voices had been raised in the attempt to convince him to go, to fly, to seek his reward and his fame in the rarefied atmosphere of the art mecca of the world, but only he had chosen to listen.

It was time now to stop listening to other voices, and hear what was in his heart, and in Brian's. They had already lost too much; surely nothing more would be required of them.

Would it? Or was it possible there could be something else out there, lying in wait to ambush them, something they could neither foresee nor, when all was said and done, endure?

He sighed.

Over my fucking dead body. And his too, I'm thinking.

Still, there was something in Brian's eyes - something he was trying to hide, to bury, something from which he wanted to protect his young lover. Justin knew that, and knew something else as well. He could not allow Brian to shoulder this burden, to keep it to himself in the hope that Justin would be spared whatever pain it might cause. There had already been too much of that between them.

If they were going to find a way to walk together, to live together, to truly and finally be together, then there could be no room for deception - for secrets.

Trina was in the kitchen, up to her ears in mocha frosting and praline sauce, assembling a dessert she'd just finished concocting. "Ahhh, just what I need," she greeted him with a beaming smile, broad enough to reveal the glint of the gold cap on a lower incisor. "A guinea pig."

Justin grinned. "We should take you back to Pittsburgh and introduce you to our friend, Emmett. You two could spend a lifetime out-Childing Julia."

"Is he looking for a wife?" she asked, gathering a spoonful of her confection to offer as a sample.

Justin burst out laughing. "Not hardly."

"Oh," she half-grunted. "He's like you then."

Justin felt as if an Arctic chill had just touched him. "If you mean that he likes to get butt-fucked, then, yeah. He's like me."

"Justin, I . . ."

"Don't bother," he retorted, squaring his shoulders and preparing to march away in typical Justin-Taylor high dudgeon, which was - almost - as high and extreme as a similar gesture would be from Emmett Honeycutt. "I get it. Although I can't imagine what you're doing here, working for the likes of us."

"Hold it!" she snapped, setting her spoon aside and wiping large, long-fingered hands on her apron. "Jesus! You're a touchy little shit, aren't you? So what are the unwritten rules here? Am I not supposed to mention anything, ask anything, or comment on the fact that you and Casanova in there are obviously gay? Or when you mention your friend, and make it plain that he bats for the same team, am I not supposed to understand what you're saying, or respond to it? Look, young Mr. Taylor, as I confessed to your sugar daddy in there, I don't really understand your choices or your lifestyle, and yes, I have to admit that it seems a terrible waste to me. You're both so bloody beautiful, and all I can think of is all the sweet young women who would sell their souls for a chance to - how should I put it? - save you from yourselves."

She leaned forward then and gripped his chin firmly. "But as for how it makes me feel about you - as people - I couldn't care less. You're a sweet child, and I've been around long enough to recognize what I see in his eyes when he looks at you. You should consider yourself blessed, Honey - the both of you. Do you know how many people live their whole lives and never once find what you two have together? So I'm thinking you might want to take that chip off your shoulder. I know you boys must live through hell sometimes, just to be able to be who you are - that there are people who would gladly lock you up in prison and deny you the right to love each other - or to breathe, for that matter - people who might even resort to burning a cross in front of your house - something that I do know about, having lived in the South my whole life, and having a very long memory. You know, if you look at things from a different point of view, it might occur to you that you are just about as white as it's possible for a human being to be - blonde and blue-eyed and ivory-skinned. To be whiter, you'd have to be an albino. So white, in fact, that, if I were inclined to dwell too much in the realm of remembered horrors, I might expect to find you decked out in a KKK hood and cape and organizing a lynch mob. And yet, miracle of miracles, here we sit, having a civilized conversation. I'm black, Justin, but I'm not blind. And I'm straight, but the same logic applies. Yes, there are homophobic assholes out there who hate everything you are. But not all straight people are like that. Me, for one, and if you put your little pea brain to the task, I bet you can come up with a list of others who aren't either. So maybe you need to rethink your definition of prejudice. Looks to me like - between the two of us - you're the one who's behaving like a bigoted little prick."

Justin blinked hard, and then flushed scarlet to the roots of his hair. "I'm . . . "

"Yeah, well, you should be," she retorted. "But sorry doesn't change the fact that you behaved like a little shit, does it?"

In spite of himself, he laughed. "Are you sure you're not related to Brian Kinney? That you didn't maybe have a love child that you dropped off in the Pittsburgh area about thirty-five years ago?"

"You calling me old, Sprout?" The tone was gruff, but there was a quick twinkle in near-black eyes.

"Not at all," he answered. "Just well seasoned."

Then it was her turn to laugh. "The soul of diplomacy, aren't you? More than your boyfriend, for sure, who never bothered to learn when to bite his tongue."

"Yes, Ma'am."

But she wasn't quite done - yet - and fixed him with a steady gaze while she considered how to proceed. "It's hard sometimes," she said softly, "to believe that the good people in the world outnumber the bad - especially when you've confronted the kind of horror your young man had to endure. That kind of thing makes it easy to convince yourself that you're hopelessly outnumbered - that most people don't give a shit about right or wrong or figuring out the difference. But that would be a big mistake, Justin. Mostly, when people don't stand up for someone else, it's about a lack of understanding, or a failure to empathize. And before you can point it out, I know there are plenty of so-called Christians - ultra religious types - who condemn you and your relationship with Brian, but there are plenty of others who are able to look past the fact of your sexual identity and find the person inside, and those people are not going to give a shit whether or not you get 'butt-fucked', to use your charming terminology. All they're going to care about is whether you speak the truth, stand up for what you believe, and live up to the image of the man you profess to be. Gay or straight; black or white; male or female; Christian, Jew, Hindu, Rastaffarian, or atheist - it doesn't matter. The decent, loving, generous people of the world know the truth. We are all brothers, under the skin, dear Justin."

"And the others? The ones who think differently?"

"Sub-human and inbred. Fuck 'em all."

Justin smiled - not the mega-watt, blinding smile that had earned him his nickname, but a gentler expression - almost wistful. "Maybe you should give that little speech to my partner," he observed.

But Trina laughed. "You're thinking he doesn't know? Trust me, my friend. That young'un reads people as easily as first graders read Dick and Jane. He knows."

Justin looked off toward the sea, where late afternoon sun was glinting on a rising tide, and could not quite resist hearing the words echoing in his mind. There are only two kinds of straight people: the ones who hate you to your face and the ones who hate you behind your back.

Thus had spoken Brian Kinney, admittedly, unapologetically, shamelessly heterophobic.

"Maybe you're right," he said softly, "but knowing isn't always believing, is it? And he's lived through a lot of shit, enough to make him doubt."

"Maybe," she conceded. "Sometimes, memory gets in the way of understanding. But deep down, he knows. Ask him, if you don't believe me." Then she smiled. "And don't let him get away with giving a bullshit answer - a natural talent that he has elevated to an art form, unless I'm mistaken. The truth isn't always easy to confront, but it's always necessary, if you're ever to get beyond it and go on to the next phase of your life."

Justin was abruptly reminded of Ben Bruckner, and his unfailingly gentle philosophy in the way he looked at life.

"You know," he laughed, "you really, really need to go back to the Pitts with us. You can't believe how perfectly you'd fit in with our crazy, extended family."

"Hmph. Let me guess. Another fag friend who could be my soulmate. You s'pose I was Liberace in a past life or something?"

He felt a residual surge of resentment as she deliberately tossed out the word 'fag', but then he spotted the gleam in her eyes and realized exactly what she was doing. She used the word in the same way that Brian used it, as an in-your-face defiance of the conventional behavior he was obviously expecting from her.

"Now," she said firmly, "I still need a test subject. You willing or not?"

He leaned forward and inhaled the rich, intoxicating fragrance of mocha. "Brian is never going to forgive you. He loves mocha, and . . ." He paused then, and she noticed a wicked twinkle rising from the depths of his eyes. "Say, I don't suppose you could spare a bowl of that? For tasting purposes."

"Hmph! Tasting purposes, my ass!" she muttered. But he noticed that she carefully spooned a generous serving of the dark cream into a plastic storage container.

It would probably not be a lovely evening; he had a bad feeling about what was yet to come.

But at least, he could be sure that it would end well - with sex and chocolate. Who could ask for anything more?

He would later remember having that thought and wonder if he could possibly have been any more foolish.

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The beach property was now known as Bailey's Landing, as indicated by a discreet placard affixed to the front gate - an appropriate enough name for a seaside retreat, but reflecting nothing of the little compound's history. Though now well equipped for seasonal, vacation rental, with its primary dwelling, a couple of outbuildings, and a narrow greenhouse attached to a small barn, the house had begun its life as the home of a commercial fisherman and his family, part of a small community of such dwellings - a half dozen or so of similar size and design strewn along a two-mile stretch of the shore - housing a hard-working, roughhewn group of the kind of men who were frequently referred to as 'salt of the earth' by neighbors and acquaintances. The men all depended on the sea for their livelihoods, and the women - having never once heard of terms like 'feminism' or 'women's lib' - spent their lives raising children, mastering the art of southern cooking, and pursuing the kinds of hobbies that were deemed suitable for such matrons - sewing, quilting, knitting, playing piano, reading romance novels, and gardening. The area was especially focused, for some reason, on the cultivation of flowering vines, an interest demonstrated quite well by the plethora of varieties of clematis and American wisteria and Carolina jasmine that formed an explosion of brilliant color and fragrance within the cottage's greenhouse.

Built in the early 30's, the house had been the residence of Lyle Bailey, and his wife, Mary Louise, and their one son and two daughters. In the manner of generational progressions, especially in the American South, it had been passed on after the death of the family patriarch to Lyle, Jr., who had taken a bride of his own shortly thereafter. Junior, who had spent his whole life insisting - vainly - that he should not be called that, proved to be an excellent fisherman and a good provider for his family. Thus he was considered a good, solid man, although slightly stolid and straight-laced, by most of the people of the community. However, in the matter of his wife, the opinions of the locals were a bit more reserved. Lillian Bailey, nee Aucoin, had hailed from the Mississippi Delta where Junior had met her on a vacation trip to Biloxi. Black-eyed and olive-skinned, and speaking with a lovely sing-song accent of Creole origin, Lillian was the definitive square peg, confronted by an plethora of round holes. On being brought back to the family compound, a brand new bride at age seventeen and separated from her extended family for the first time, she was confronted with an almost impossible task, and spent the next two decades trying to find a place for herself among the rigidly-structured society of a rural southern community, which was still deep in the grip of socially-sanctioned racism. While Junior was a highly respected resident of the little village, and no one ever quite dared to voice their suspicions aloud or in his face, the simple truth was that most of the population of the area believed that Lillian was 'impure', which was, of course, local jargon for a much uglier term: half-breed. Though the passage of time eventually led to a grudging acceptance of her place in the social hierarchy, Lillian was never completely comfortable with her counterparts, and spent most of her life with almost no close companions beyond her family.

Although possessed of a warm and generous nature, she had lived a mostly lonely life, and she had died young, succumbing to complications of pneumonia when she proved allergic to the antibiotics that could have saved her. She had borne only two children to Junior - both girls and both small replicas of their mother. Neither ever fit in particularly well in the community, being more the children of their mother than their father, and both harbored remembered resentments on Lillian's behalf. Thus, when Junior died, less than two years after burying his wife, the girls, adolescent at the time, chose to travel back to Mississippi to live with their mother's family, and neither ever returned to their childhood home. This proved to be the harbinger of a pattern of desertion by the younger generation of the area, and the little settlement gradually deteriorated, as interest in commercial fishing lagged to be replaced by ambitions in more upscale and profitable professions. It was not until much later that the American fascination with beachfront property developed to its full potential, and by then, most of the houses which had comprised the little community had fallen to ruin, beyond any hope of recovery.

The Bailey cottage had been the only exception, and it was not just a result of circumstance.


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The oil painting that hung above the fireplace in the front parlor had fascinated Justin from the moment he saw it. The artist, though not particularly inspired in either composition or execution, had managed to capture a certain element of whimsy in the faces of some of the subjects of the portrait - in the mischievous smiles of two little girls with curly dark hair, clad in identical white pinafores, and in the look of amusement on the delicate face of the young woman seated so primly and properly beside the upright, stalwart individual standing beside her - upright in the moral sense, although not so much in the vertical sense. Unless the artist's sense of perspective was virtually non-existent, the man appeared to be considerably shorter than the grandfather clock before which he was standing. That, added to a singular expression on the man's plump florid face that could only be described as smug and supercilious, created a rather unfortunate impression on anyone studying the portrait for clues to the personalities of its subjects. The woman was exquisitely pretty, very bright, and capable of deep, infectious bursts of laughter, and the girls were completely charming. The man was a pompous ass.

Or so said the portrait, but Justin was quick to concede it might be nothing more than a reflection of the artist's intense dislike of the male subject. It reminded him of a watercolor rendering he had done of Michael Novotny, during one of the many stages of their acquaintance when Michael was doing everything he could to drive Justin out of Brian's life. It had not been a flattering portrait.

Still looking for something to occupy his time while Brian was unavailable to him - in a physical sense - he paused in the doorway of the small, shadowy room, the painting once more catching his eye. It was only after a couple of minutes spent contemplating the colorful artwork that he realized he was not alone in the parlor.

The caretaker/groundskeeper/gardener/jack-of-all-trades who looked after the cottage and its grounds was an elderly man who managed, somehow, to fade into whatever background he happened to occupy, an individual who rarely spoke and never intruded on anything that might be happening in or around the house. Yet, he was always there when something required his attention - a repair or an adjustment to an appliance or a reworking of something in the landscaping - whatever.

Brian had even mentioned something about it, noting that it was almost uncanny how he seemed to know when he was needed, even when nobody bothered to give him a call, and since Brian rarely commented on anything not worth noticing, Justin had been mildly intrigued.

The bottom line, it seemed, was that nobody really knew him, except for the FBI team, of course, who had vetted him prior to allowing him access to the house or its occupants. Due to his reticence, he was something of a mystery, and Justin had never been able to resist an urge to poke and prod and investigate, in order to solve whatever mystery might come to his attention.

"Hi," said the young man brightly, moving into the room where the man was re-attaching a loose porcelain tile in the facing around the fireplace. "I'm Justin Taylor. I just arrived yesterday."

The man was tall and thin to the point of gauntness, but - despite the obvious age betrayed by a mop of snow-white hair and a face deeply-lined with wrinkles - still in excellent physical condition. He moved easily and rose to his feet quickly, reaching out to accept the hand that Justin was offering, even though something in his eyes - large and night-dark and deep-set in a mahogany-colored face - said that he would have preferred to be left in peace.

Although he shook Justin's hand firmly, he said nothing.

But Justin - a product of perfect WASP country club upbringing - was not even close to conceding defeat. With impeccable manners, he smiled and said, "And you are?"

The elderly man did not - quite - indulge in an eye-roll. "Redding," he replied finally, softly. "Simon Redding."

Justin grinned, his mind instantly calling up visions of a series of handsome faces and sophisticated voices offering a similarly phrased introduction. "Bond. James Bond."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Redding. So are you the reason this place is in such great shape? I mean, it's almost pristine. Sure doesn't look like a remnant from . . . what? The forties?"

"Thirties, actually. But it's only been empty since the seventies. And yes, I've kept it in order through the years. As a favor to the owners."

Justin moved forward until he was standing directly under the portrait, noting as he approached that the woman's tiny smile was even more intriguing - maybe even slightly sardonic - as he drew nearer. "These owners?" he asked.

He turned quickly when he saw that Redding was very deliberately avoiding looking up at the painting. "They were the last to live here," confirmed the handyman.

"Until they moved away?" Justin sensed that there was more - much more - to this story than the man was willing to disclose.

"Died," replied Redding. "Her first. Then him, a couple of years later."

"And they were . . . what? The last of their line?"

The man shook his head, lifting one hand to gesture toward the painting, but still not looking at it. "Those are their daughters, but they were way too young to stay here alone. Rest of the family had gone north many years earlier, and the girls decided to go back to their mama's people in Mississippi. So they left."

"And what? The estate paid for you to take care of the place?"

"Something like that."

Justin barely avoided an exasperated sigh, thinking that it would be easier to extract green cheese from a moon rock than information from the old caretaker.

So he decided on a change of tactic and lifted his eyes to resume his study of the portrait.

"She was really beautiful, wasn't she?" he asked after a while, as Redding returned to his tile repair task.

The old man said nothing, and Justin glanced down to watch as long-fingered hands worked to replace the hand-painted tile in perfect alignment with its neighbors. Only the first attempt to do so - immediately following Justin's casual observation - was not quite successful, as that hand was suddenly not completely steady. It took a second try to get it right, and Justin knew, somehow, through sheer instinct, that this was not a man who trembled easily or often.

"What was her name?" he asked casually, although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. He had read the brief history of the cottage that was part of the rental data package. But he was more interested in how the caretaker would respond - manner, tone, and comportment - than in the information he would convey.

The tile was now firmly and perfectly aligned, and the fingers holding it were perfectly still. "Lillian. Her name was Lillian."

"Lillian," Justin echoed thoughtfully. "So she wasn't from around here."

Simon Redding was suddenly upright - almost rigidly upright - and regarding this nosy new interloper with barely-contained disdain. "Meaning?"

But Justin was not the type to be intimidated; not even Brian Kinney had quite been able to pull that off, so an elderly southern repairman had little hope of succeeding where the mighty Kinney had failed. "You said she was from Mississippi," Justin pointed out with a shrug, carefully avoiding any nuance of annoyance.

Redding seemed to consider the response for a moment, examining it for hidden meaning, before deciding to accept it at face value. "So I did," he confirmed. Then he bent to retrieve the tools he'd been using and tuck them into a small metal box on a nearby table.

"You've really done an excellent job here," said Justin, allowing his eyes to sweep around the room, taking note of its perfect state of preservation. Even the hardwood floors were pristine, showing no signs of wear - an astonishing accomplishment in a seaside environment where sand was as insidious and persistent as humidity.

"Thank you." Clipped, polite enough, but not encouraging anything further.

"So, what's next on the agenda?"

The elderly man blinked slowly. "Agenda?"

Justin indulged the man with a fleeting version of his sunshine smile. "You didn't drive over here just to reglue a loose tile, did you?"

Redding suppressed a sigh. "I need to replace a fascia board on the deck, and tend the plants in the greenhouse," he said, not quite able to conceal a reluctance to provide any additional information.

Justin moved to the room's entry so that he could look down the hall to check on the progress of Brian's session, and saw that the patient - despite all his perpetual complaints about the pillow provided by his therapist - now appeared to be dozing comfortably with his face cradled against the offensive cushion, as Jackson administered a massage, undoubtedly intended to soothe the savage beast after his painful and strenuous workout.

"You mind some company?" asked the blond, turning back to watch as Redding latched his toolbox. "I haven't had a chance to check out the greenhouse yet."

The elderly man paused as he neared the doorway, and took a minute to study Justin's face. "You don't look like a man who'd have an interest in gardening."

Justin grinned. "Guilty as charged. I wouldn't know a rutabaga from a rhododendron. But I'm an artist, so I do know about color and textures and natural beauty. And Brian mentioned it. He called it 'a sanctuary, for when the world gets to be too much.' Sounds like a place I need to see."

Again, the old man blinked. "Brian Kinney said that?"

The grin became a chuckle. "You don't know him very well yet. Do you?"

Redding moved toward the front door. "Not my place to know him. He's the tenant. I'm the handyman."

"Yeah? According to whom?"

The caretaker shrugged. "That's the way it is, the way it's always been."

But, again, there was something . . . something buried in the tone of the man's voice that hinted of different memories, from other days.

Justin was suddenly even more determined to see the greenhouse.

And it did not disappoint.

He had, of course, visited greenhouses before. At one point during his childhood, having a greenhouse had become all the rage among the country club set in the Bethel Park community where he'd lived with his parents. As a status symbol, it had endured for about a decade before being supplanted by a new craze for Japanese water gardens. He didn't know which fad had come along next, as he'd been long gone and completely banished from his father's social circle by that time.

Nevertheless, he remembered the greenhouses he'd visited as extremely neat, rigidly controlled, and almost symmetrical in the arrangement of the plants housed within. The specimens had been splendid, of course, and perfect; no hint of natural excess or variation allowed. He particularly remembered a group of tree roses grown in huge, copper-colored containers within the glass enclosure built by the Huntleighs, who'd lived across the street from his house. Mrs. Huntleigh had been livid when the blooms on one branch of one of the trees had turned out to be a deep, black-tinged crimson rather than the scarlet and white picotee of the rest of the blossoms. She had resolved the problem by attacking the offending flora with a hatchet, and Justin had always thought - to himself, of course - that it was rather a shame since the contrast between the deep, jeweled hue and the surrounding brilliance was uniquely pleasing. When he thought about that event now, it rather surprised him to realize that he'd already possessed the eye of an artist, even way back then.

But the order and neatness of those remembered indoor gardens had not prepared him for what he found in this greenhouse.

There was no order, no neatness - not even any logic that he could discern. There was only flora at its most vivid, most boisterous, most naturally exuberant, and he recalled the look on Brian's face when he'd mentioned it. Once more, the Stud of Liberty Avenue had proved himself a master of understatement.

The small structure was bursting with color and scent and life. There was no other word that was sufficient to describe it.

Underfoot, paths of pebbles provided space to walk - but not much. Plants were everywhere, encroaching on everything, masses of ferns and begonias drooping from above, variegated foliage vining across paths, climbing walls and supports and hanging pendulously overhead. Most of the varieties he could not have named, although a few did register as familiar. The roses, of course, although they did not bear any resemblance to the elegant, perfectly cultured specimens common to Pittsburgh formal gardens as there was nothing even remotely formal about them in this setting. Here they sprawled and tumbled, erupted in columns and climbed lattices and poles and anything else they fancied. In addition, he was pretty sure he recognized jasmine, mostly because his mother had always loved the fragrance and tried - without much success - to grow it as a houseplant during the days of his youth. Clematis, of course; he had seen pictures, but never been close to the real thing, and incredibly huge hibiscus, in a fabulous array of rainbow colors, almost as spectacular as the ones he'd seen during his brief island visit in the South Pacific - mostly observed in the drives from and to the airport..

And lilies. Everywhere. Strong and overpowering, attracting the beams of the fading afternoon sunlight, like a prima ballerina might draw the brilliance of a main spotlight - deep scarlet and burnt orange with sprays of black dots, blazing yellow and blush pink and creamy ivory, all trumpet-shaped and displayed at varying angles, some drooping as if to pour out their magic elixir on the smaller blooms below and others lifting their faces to the light, obviously basking in the radiance. There were even a few varying shades of blue and purple, with deeper colored cores. And, most striking of all, were the ones with star-shaped throats of deep, vivid rose, shading to rich magenta, peppered with black and contrasting perfectly against the sweet cream of the petals' base color.

"What are these?" Justin asked, his soft voice reflecting a sense of near awe over such perfect beauty. "They're exquisite."

"Indeed they are," replied the gardener. "They're called Stargazer lilies. They were the favorites of the lady of the manor. She planted all of these."

Justin's eyes widened. "Thirty years ago? You mean to tell me these have survived for all these years?"

Redding was careful to avoid Justin's gaze, but the younger man was almost certain the gardener's skin would have been blushing bright red if the dark pigment hadn't served to disguise it. "No. Not the originals, of course. These are the descendants of the ones she planted here."

Justin stepped forward and touched one of the blossoms - perfect and beautiful and fragrant - with a gentle finger, offered the older man a tender smile. "So they're like her children then."

The old man, who had set about snipping off remnants of lacy white wisteria blossoms,
hesitated, and Justin was pretty sure he was not imagining that the man was holding his breath.

"Yes," he said finally, very softly. "They're like her children."

Justin avoided turning to stare at the man, contenting himself with indirect observation through peripheral vision, but it was enough. Everything in Redding's posture and demeanor spoke volumes - entire libraries - about what motivated him, what drove him, what had kept him devoted to perpetuating this cottage, this compound, this garden, for almost thirty years.

Justin spun in a slow circle, trying to take everything in at once, noting a cozy corner which held a faded old chaise and a wicker table, situated beside a tiny copper fountain and partially obscured by the painfully bright cascades of a fiery bougainvillea vine.

"It's beautiful. I see what he meant - about the sanctuary, I mean."

The caretaker continued with his work, his breathing soft and even. "He didn't seem the type to notice," he said finally.

Justin grinned. "You're right. He's not. He knows zilch about horticulture or gardening, and cares even less. But . . ."

"But?" Justin felt a thrill of satisfaction as he noted the reluctant interest expressed in the single syllable.

"He knows about beauty. In fact, I doubt anybody - anywhere - knows it better."

The older man turned slowly and regarded the young blond with dark, speculative eyes, as Justin continued to turn to take in the full effect of his surroundings. "Maybe," said Redding finally, still relatively non-committal. "What are you . . . to him?" he continued, sounding as if he didn't really want to ask but couldn't quite resist the impulse.

Justin smiled, and his eyes went velvet soft. "The same thing she was . . . to you."

The old man stiffened, and Justin was sure he was about to deny it, maybe even to march out of the greenhouse in a huff, muttering about impertinent Yankees or mouthy little fags. And it was undoubtedly a temptation, as the caretaker's breathing had gone shallow and rough. But in the end, Justin was proved wrong.

"He . . . good to you?" he asked finally, very softly.

"More than good," Justin replied, deciding that all the extraneous details of what had kept them apart and miserable for so long were immaterial to the question. "He's my life."

The old man turned then and looked straight into Justin's eyes - just once and just for a second - but Justin was struck by an almost irresistible need to run for his brushes and a canvas, to capture that quick look that expressed so much, told so much - the very definition of a beautiful, tragic, endless love story.

But it would apparently have to be done from memory as Redding turned away quickly, and busied himself with moving deeper into the greenhouse to begin cutting away faded blooms from the bougainvillea.

Justin stepped closer, lifting a hand to touch a velvety blossom. "I've never seen anything quite like this before," he remarked.

"Hmph!" Redding continued with his pruning. "Not something that you're likely to find in Pittsburgh."

The young blonde nodded. "Guess you're right. Tropical vines wouldn't particularly like Pennsylvania winters."

The caretaker made a strange, breathy little sound before offering two clipped words. "What does?"

It was Justin's turn to blink. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he thought that, just maybe, the elderly man had actually favored him with a tiny little laugh. "Have you been there?"

"Once or twice," came the gruff response, but then the voice softened, and there it was again - that hint of barely concealed amusement. "When I couldn't figure out an excuse not to go."

Justin's smile was indulgent. "Who made you go?"

The old man shrugged. "Got kin there. An aunt, cousins - plenty of 'em."

"Yeah? Where?" asked Justin as he seated himself on the battered old chaise and listened to the almost musical murmur of the little copper fountain. "I know the city pretty well, so maybe . . ."

The caretaker paused for just a moment, and turned to fix Justin with a dark, unreadable look. "Reilly Flats," he said softly. Then he turned back to his task, assuming - and rightly so - that Justin would not have any casual comments to offer to that response.

Justin fell silent. He knew of Reilly Flats, of course. Everybody in the Pitts knew of Reilly Flats, but nobody, as far as he knew, went there voluntarily. Not any more. He looked up then, following the flight of a tern as it winged its way out toward the ocean, and he studied the striation of the jewel-tones of the water rolling up on the white sand beach, as the sharply angled rays of the sun, emanating from its spot low on the western horizon, limned the sails of a distant schooner with bands of vermilion and fiery topaz. He shifted then, and allowed his gaze to drift off to the south where a mist was rising against the base of the headland, and a strange trick of the light called up another image, as he experienced a sense of déjà vu - a vision of Brian, leather-jacketed and jean-clad, walking away into fog-thickened darkness with a similarly-clad stranger, an anonymous, but blazing hot trick of the moment. Even there, in that dirty alley obscured by the fumes of the city, the King of Liberty Avenue had been so beautiful and so filled with defiance. So unafraid. So Brian. Justin closed his eyes, remembering the fear he had experienced at that moment, in the aftermath of the discovery of the body of the young boy in the dumpster behind the Diner; remembering his certainty that Brian was not nearly as invulnerable as he pretended. He shook himself, pushing the memory away as he realized that time had proven him right. Despite the warmth of the greenhouse, he shivered in the certainty that Brian was not immune to the cruelties of random chance and focused malice. Justin had always suspected as much, and now he knew for sure. But had Brian learned that lesson, and, even if he had, would he be able to accept it?

Justin suddenly found it hard to breathe and was stricken with a fundamental need to embrace a different life - a safer life - such as the one the old caretaker had lived, here, in this place of vivid color and wonder, only without the crippling solitude. With Brian beside him - beauty within beauty, perfection framed by a perfect setting - they could build a future that would exclude all the ugliness, all the fears, all the vile hate-mongers bent on the destruction of those they could not coerce into conformity.

And yet he knew that everything in Brian's character would drive him to return to Pittsburgh when he was able, to refuse to be vanquished by the cretins who had tried to destroy him, to stand up and fight to reclaim his supremacy - his place in the sun.

Only - maybe - there were logical reasons to rethink that conclusion, to redefine those goals.

To seek out justifications to remain in a place where beauty and serenity and brilliant color provided a perfect setting for a different kind of living, a place where stargazer lilies could grow and flourish and survive for generations.

If only Brian could be convinced to re-examine his priorities, refocus his visions.

Justin sighed and closed his eyes - and let himself daydream.

Twenty minutes later, Brian found him there, dozing among the flowers - as fresh and beautiful as the blossoms glowing around him - and decided that the confrontation toward which this day had been building since its dawning could be put off just a little bit longer. He worked his way onto the battered old chaise, easing into position so he could take his young lover into his arms, without rousing Justin from his well-deserved sleep, and they settled in, their bodies fitting together perfectly.

And in the shadows, Simon Redding continued his tasks, taking great pains to remain quiet as he worked and watched.

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

It was raining again, spates of hard drops driven against the bay window behind the desk with almost rhythmic regularity as occasional harsh flashes of lightening seemed to draw the eye toward the lighthouse on its promontory - stark and white and generating its beacon of hope, braving the elements with disdain while the sea thundered and raged around it, beating relentlessly at its foundations. Yet still it stood, apparently unbothered, oblivious.

Justin was sure there was a metaphor in there somewhere, something profound and inspiring. Only, if he were to express such a notion, he could only imagine the derisive sneer that would form on Brian's face. So he kept the thought to himself, but he did not discard it completely, for two reasons. First of all, he was not Brian; he had his own interests, his own opinions, his own strengths and weaknesses, and he knew perfectly well that Brian would be the last person on earth to want his lover to become his clone. Brian preferred diversity in all things. And secondly, although the man claimed to have little patience for what he called 'linguistic pretensions', despite a secret fondness for certain poets, he had a heightened awareness - almost a sixth sense - for the perfect word at the perfect time, along with a remarkable talent for precision. Brian did not speak in metaphors; he dealt more in unembellished facts. And yet, when he chose to do so, he could paint a portrait in words that could capture the imaginations of those to whom he chose to speak. It was what made him a prodigiously talented ad man.

But that was obviously not what he was doing at this moment, as he sat behind the desk and alternated his attention between the documents in the bulging file laid out before him and the images on the computer screen to his right.

Alexandra Corey had been true to her word. Everything the FBI and the task force had discovered was there in the files; every proven fact, backed up by forensic evidence and/or eyewitness testimony, was included in the huge stack of documents in the manila folder - arrest reports, CSI summaries, witness statements, photos of the crime scene, and the records of the individuals who had been apprehended and incarcerated, plus the information garnered during the investigation, including the recovery of Brian's watch and the interviews and subsequent arrests of the young thugs who had pawned it. The computer file provided the same data, but it also included much more detailed evidence and covered other areas of investigation, including speculation, suppositions, theories - clues that were still being checked out and persons of interest who had yet to be completely identified or vetted. The volume of information was massive, and Brian had been studying it for some time, sharing occasional bits of data with Justin, but mostly just reading and smoking and - occasionally - pausing to look out through the window, apparently lost in thought.

In an overstuffed easy chair in a corner, Chris McClaren sat quietly, sipping at a glass of Beam and reading an article in a battered copy of Rolling Stone - or pretending to, at least.

Brian had specifically asked Justin to be present to help him examine the data in the files, but, so far, they had not actually discussed much of the material. He had, however, allowed Justin to sift through the documents, and share certain observations. McClaren had provided clarification for a couple of points, when asked, but mostly, he'd remained silent. Waiting.

Justin had glanced toward the FBI agent several times, sensing something. He wasn't entirely sure what was happening here, but he was pretty sure it would prove to be something he wasn't going to like. The occasional flare of dark shadows in Brian's eyes had already alerted him to that, even without McClaren's semi-pensiveness.

Plus there was the fact that, although he'd been granted complete access to all the documents in the file, he had not been allowed to peruse the data contained in the USB flash drive Corey had left for Brian's use.

Brian paused to light a new cigarette from the butt of an old one. Another indication of his state of mind. Although never sparing in his use of tobacco, he was not ordinarily a chain smoker, but this night was apparently an exception. He leaned forward then, and closed the computer file.

"Hey!" said Justin. "I wanted to . . ."

"Justin," said Brian softly, his voice low-pitched and almost without inflection, "What do you know about a place called The Club?"

Justin sat back in his easy chair, slightly confused. "Why?"

"Do you know it?"

"Mostly by reputation," Justin replied with a little shrug. "I think it used to be the #1 Gentlemen's Club in Pittsburgh for the Ivy League set. Even my grandfather Taylor was a member there. He always raved about it, said the cooks there would have put the ones at the White House to shame."

Brian folded his lips into his mouth for a moment. "And your father?"

Another little shrug. "I think he's a member. It's one of those places where membership is passed on from father to son." Then he grinned, and Brian felt his heart flutter in his chest as he recognized the mischief glinting in deep blue eyes. "Although I'm pretty sure it won't get passed along to me. No perverts allowed, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah. I do know."

Justin's eyes narrowed abruptly, as he heard something in the softness of Brian's voice - something that might have been reluctance - dread. Maybe even fear.

"What about it?"

Brian did not look at him. Instead, he lifted a hand and made a quick gesture toward the FBI agent.

"The investigation is still incomplete, mind you," said McClaren, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his legs as he regarded Justin directly, refusing to look away, even though he was not looking forward to watching the impact of his words on Kinney's young lover. "But we have some pretty impressive intel suggesting that the attack on Brian was planned - and paid for - by certain members of that organization."

"Members such as?"

"We don't yet have all the names. Still working on it, but . . ."

"But you do have some of them?"

"Yes, we do."

"And who would they be?"

"Justin, I don't think . . ."

"Who?" There was no arguing with that tone. He might be very young and still look like a college kid, but there was no denying Justin Taylor was in complete command of that moment.

McClaren opened his mouth to respond, but he never got a chance to provide the answer, as Brian rose to his feet. "I'll take this one, McFed."

The FBI agent, realizing how difficult this was going to be, shook his head, completely understanding why he had been delegated to speak, to tell Justin what he was not going to want to hear. But he had failed to reckon with Brian's determination. "No need, Brian. I can . . ."

The smirk that Brian managed to summon up was almost - though not quite - classic Kinney. "No, you can't."

He then turned to face Justin directly, and McClaren had a moment of epiphany. He was pretty sure the number of people who had ever been allowed to see Brian Kinney almost speechless with anxiety was vanishingly small; he felt both honored and dismayed to be able to join that elite group.

"It's not his place to tell you, Justin," Brian said after a deep, hoarse breath. "Because he wasn't there; he didn't see it."

Another harsh, rasping breath. "I'm the one who saw it."

Justin stood up slowly, squaring his shoulders and facing his beautiful lover exactly as he would have confronted a firing squad preparing for his execution. "What did you see?"

"There were four men standing in the shadows, watching what happened. Giving orders."

Justin nodded. "Go on."

"I recognized two of them, although I didn't remember it at the time. When Agent Corey hypnotized me, the memories came back. One of them was Jim Stockwell, and the other was . . . "

He fell silent then, obviously trying to find the will and the courage to continue.

"My father."

It was not a guess.

"Yes." Brian's voice was barely a breath, not even a whisper.

The silence in the room was suddenly stifling, as heavy as the kind of lead-lined blankets used in x-ray suites, but surprisingly brittle as it shattered under the force of Justin's sharp, gasping inhalation. "And you've known this . . . how long?" he asked, his eyes seeing nothing except Brian's face, Brian's body, Brian damaged and broken and bleeding.

"A couple of days." Brian did not try to dodge the question or the issue.

"And what? You couldn't bring yourself to tell me, to shatter the dreams of Poor, Widdle Baby Justin?"

"You know better than that."

Darkness moved in brilliant blue eyes - darkness and a terrible, bottomless sense of betrayal. "I thought I did."

"Just . . ."

"This - all of this . . ." One hand swept up and down toward Brian's body and then all around them, "because of me? Because my father couldn't accept what I am, or believe that it was my choice. Because he had to blame you?"

"No! It wasn't just him, Justin." There was no trace of doubt in Brian's tone. "This would have happened anyway, with or without him. This wasn't about you."

But Justin was shaking his head. "You don't know that. And besides, I know something else that you don't know. Or maybe you do know, and you just decided that I was too delicate - too fragile to handle it. That famous Club? My father isn't the only son of Bethel Park society who has a membership. Remember Chris Hobbs? I'm pretty sure, if you check the roster, you'll find his family listed there too. So now we not only have the infamous Craig Taylor, who once resorted to ramming you with his car to punish you for turning his precious baby boy into a flaming faggot, but we have the lovely Hobbs family, who probably never heard of Brian Kinney, but sure as shit have good cause to remember Justin Taylor, since he managed to fuck up the future of their crown prince."

Brian turned to stare at McClaren, not bothering to try to conceal the resentment in his eyes.

"Is that true?"

McClaren sighed. "The father and the grandfather are both members, but we don't have anything substantial to connect them to your attack."

"Shit!"

"Yeah," said Justin, his voice only barely audible now, as his eyes grew suspiciously bright and glossy. "So you see, maybe it wasn't about you, Brian. This - what they did to you - maybe it was all because of me."

"No, it wasn't," Brian insisted, moving around the desk to pull Justin into his arms. "Have you forgotten about Stockwell? Have you forgotten what I did to him?"

Justin lifted his hands and braced them against Brian's face. "Have you forgotten why?" he demanded. "It was because of me, because I had to stick my nose in, and force you to go up against him. If I hadn't . . ."

"Justin," Brian said firmly, "have you ever - even once - known me to do anything, just because somebody else wanted me to? I do what I want. You know that. I always have. You know I wouldn't . . ."

Justin leaned forward, touching his lips to the softness under Brian's throat. "You would, for me."

He pulled back then to gaze directly into Brian's eyes, and spotted the quick shifting, the wavering determination. No one else would have noticed, but Justin . . . Justin was the only person in the world who knew Brian well enough to read the meaning behind those subtle nuances buried deep beneath layers of steely resolve. "No. Not even for you. You should know . . ."

"I do." It was just a whisper, a breath of sound almost beneath the level of hearing. "I do know."

Then he pushed away, hard enough to send Brian reeling back to catch himself on the desk, as Justin tore out of the room at a dead run.

"Jesus!" Brian snarled, pushing forward to right himself in order to go after the young man who had managed - at some strange moment when he had obviously not been paying sufficient attention to keep his guard up - to become the most important thing in his life.

"You stay here." McClaren was already on his feet heading for the door.

"The fuck I will." Brian looked ready to kill should anyone try to interfere with his mission to retrieve his young lover.

"Brian! Stop, and think. Do you realize what just happened?"

"Of course, I do. Now get out of my . . ."

"He just became a blonder, younger version of Brian Kinney, and in this, you can't help him."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

McClaren paused. "Jesus Christ! What do you plan to do, see if you can out-guilt each other? Because you've spent your whole fucking life blaming yourself for everything bad that ever happened to anyone around you. That's what you were trained to do, Brian -what you were taught at your dear mother's knee. And the people around you - your so-called friends - reinforced it, because it was goddamned convenient for them; because it made their lives so much easier, to the point where 'Blaming Brian' became a competitive sport for them. And now it's turning into a fucking epidemic, something that's infecting Justin too. He's buying into the whole guilt-trip shit as well. Is that what you want for him? You want him to live with feeling responsible for what happened to you, just like you've always felt responsible for what happened to him? Is that really what you want for him? You know how bad it hurts - better than anybody. Do you want him to go through that?"

Brian staggered, overwhelmed with the notion. "No," he whispered. "God, no. Please. He can't . . . "

The FBI agent reached out and quickly, roughly pulled Brian against him, and looked straight into hazel eyes now dark with dread. "He won't. I promise, but you aren't the person who can prevent it. He won't believe it from you, because he knows how you feel. He's always known. So it can't come from you. You've got to let me go after him, or . . ."

"Or what?"

McClaren sighed, and hoped that the hurt he felt rising inside him would not be reflected in his voice. "Or you both lose."

Brian wanted to argue, wanted to jerk free and rush out to find Justin - to hold him and protect him and make everything right. Only . . . could it be that McClaren was right, that he was not the right person for the job? Or, perhaps, that his need to protect Justin was more about making himself feel good than helping Justin exercise the right to be his own man and function from his own strength? On the other hand, how could he trust it to anyone else? How could he be sure he was making the right choice?

"Why?" he whispered finally. "Why would you do this?"

The FBI agent stepped back then, blue eyes bright with anger. "Don't you know?" he replied. "Didn't anybody ever care enough about you to step up and do the right thing, just because it was the thing that would be best for you?"

Brian was unprepared for the deep, sharp, visceral fireball of pain that erupted within him, and it took a moment before he was able to do what he'd always done, suppress the sensation and discard the memory. "Not that I know of," he said finally.

Motherfuckers!

For a split second, the FBI agent said nothing for fear he would not be able to resist uttering his one-word denunciation of the people who had laid claim to being the 'friends' of Brian Kinney.

He leaned forward quickly and touched his lips to Brian's forehead. "Shit! How the fuck did you survive your . . ." He paused then, and drew a deep cleansing breath. "Never mind that. Okay, now you listen to me, Brian. I know this is all new to you, something you've never experienced before. But you need to trust me here and believe what I tell you. I want you to sit down and think about how much you've been damaged by your feelings of guilt, and then ask yourself if dealing with all that shit ever accomplished anything besides crippling you with a pain you couldn't leave behind you. Then consider what you really want - for yourself and for him. Not gut reactions or knee-jerk responses. Really think about it, Brian. Meanwhile, I'll do what needs doing, not because it's what I need, but because it's what you need, and what he needs."

"No, I can't just . . ."

"Shut-the-fuck-up, and sit-the-fuck-down!"

And Brian Kinney, for once in his life, elected to do as he was told, and the world - against all odds - continued to turn on its axis, completely ignoring the ominous sign of the apocalypse.

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It was still raining, but not so hard now, and the sound of the storm had softened until it was lost under the constant rumble of the surf breaking against the headland. Lightening still flickered off to the north, but bands of stars were flaring to life out over the sea as the cloud banks moved inland.

When he'd run out of the house, he had not bothered to notice which way he was going, or what lay in his path, but - sub-consciously - he must have deliberately avoided those places which would have been painful reminders of the man from whom he'd made his escape, for his mad dash took him away from the deck, where they'd first encountered each other after all the long, empty months of separation. Away from the greenhouse, where he'd wakened in the cradle of those strong, muscled arms just hours ago. Away from the dunes where the imprint of their bodies might still remain in the powdered-sugar sand, from their multiple bouts of lovemaking under a star-splintered sky on the previous evening. And away from the water where Brian had lain in the froth of the surf, naked and perfect and sporting a massive, throbbing erection on which Justin had impaled himself and proceeded to ride like a rodeo champion.

There was only one direction left to go - to the South, following a broken trail toward the lighthouse. But it was too far, and he was shaking too badly to cover much distance, so he faltered as he drew near the old lean-to/tool shed and made his way inside. It was narrow and damp and stank of mold and packed almost to the rafters with a jumble of garden implements and supplies and the detritus of years. But it was dark and quiet and - most important of all - private. Closed off, like a refuge from everything that he did not want to confront at this moment, which was pretty much everything - and everyone.

Atop a haphazard stack of bags of potting soil, he dropped to his knees, knowing he could go no further and no longer avoid what he had been holding off since that ugly, incredibly horrible moment of epiphany when he had realized what Brian was trying to tell him. Or rather, in point of fact, trying not to tell him.

The sobs took him then, deep and racking, pouring through him with the power and the destructive force of lava gushing through the subterranean channels of a volcano. He had known pain before - that was a given. Physical pain, although those memories were muted, probably deliberately. And the other kind of pain - the kind that no amount of time or distance could ever completely obscure. He had known what it was to believe himself lost, to give up hope, to concede defeat, to assume that he had thrown away the most precious thing that life had ever offered him.

He had endured having to face the fact that Brian was gone, that he had forfeited any right to claim the man who had so easily claimed his own heart. He remembered that pain; sometimes he even took it out, like a scuffed and worn souvenir, to remind him of what it felt like to lose everything. But he had not let himself think of it much lately; it had been too raw, too unbearable.

But he knew now that whatever he had endured before, it had never approached the absolute agony he was feeling in this moment of raw, powerful epiphany.

How could he live with it? To know - not just suspect or suppose or speculate, but to know - that he had been the direct cause of the horror inflicted on the man who he now recognized as the primary purpose for his existence. What if Brian had died, and there was no way to dispute the fact that it had been a near thing. The elemental truth was undeniable: he had survived only because he was stubborn enough and determined enough to live long enough to protect . . . Oh, God! To protect the person who was to blame for his ordeal in the first place.

The tears had become a deluge now, pouring from his eyes and painting his face, wetting his hair and the collar of his shirt. He welcomed the dark silence around him, knowing there was no way he would ever have been able to pass this heart-rending fit of weeping off as a simple allergy attack, as he'd done so often in the past. Although, in point of fact, he was certain Brian had always known the truth, but simply elected to maintain his silence and allow Justin his little pretense. Because it made things simpler - for Justin. Because it provided a trace of comfort - for Justin. And, most of all, because he was willing to do anything - anything - for Justin.

Oh, God! Because he'd spent his life - ever since that fateful night on that street corner - trying to find ways to protect Justin, even going so far as to try keeping him at arm's length, to prevent him from getting too close so that he risked being hurt or damaged by the Brian Kinney who only existed in the mind of Brian Kinney: the asshole who was responsible for inflicting pain and injury on all the people around him; the man who would not take the chance of allowing himself to be loved.

He curled more tightly into a fetal ball, atop his makeshift pallet and covered his head with his arms, trying to shut out the sounds of the night. Though the cottage and its grounds might appear to be isolated and scarcely populated, the truth was there were plenty of people within the quarter mile radius of the beach house - occupants, staff, security guards, FBI agents. Lots of people. Too many people for him to be able to relax and assume that he was safe from being found.

Sooner or later, someone would stumble across his location, by design or by chance, and then it would only be a matter of moments before he'd have to decide how to deal with Brian. The only thing he had to figure out was which Brian he would have to face. He'd been known as the Stud of Liberty Avenue for most of his adult life, but there was another name that he should have borne, a name that would have been much more accurate. Chameleon, or, perhaps, the man of a thousand faces. He was so accustomed, by this time, to wearing a mask, to concealing the real Brian Kinney behind whichever façade he might decide to use at any given moment, it was almost impossible to predict which he might choose to inhabit at this juncture.

Justin grew quiet then, his mind focusing on a new thought, a different kind of epiphany - quieter, less radical, but perhaps ultimately more meaningful, more important to any future he and Brian might be able to build together.

He loved all of Brian's masks; he loved all the games the man played; he even loved the endless manipulations Brian used to try to control the people who were an intimate part of his life. But he needed something different.

He needed Brain - unmasked. Flawed and imperfect and vulnerable. He needed to see and speak to the real Brian, and it was scary as hell to admit that he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever actually confronted the naked face behind all those masks. It was even scarier to contemplate the possibility that he might not be able to cope with whatever he found at the core of the man he loved so desperately, for what if he didn't love what he discovered there?

Realization flared in his consciousness like a starburst in the night sky. Was that what Brian was afraid of? Was that why he held on to his masks so intensely, because he believed that what lay behind them was something too ugly, too worthless for anyone to be able to love? Was that why he'd fought so hard to avoid letting anyone touch his heart - because he believed no one would want to touch it once they saw it for what it really was?

Jesus! Is that what he really believes, and if it is, how do I . . .

So deep in his introspection was he that he didn't register the tiny rustle of the opening of the door or the arrival of another warm body in the old structure until he felt a weight ease down beside him on his makeshift seating.

Oh, God! Brian . . . but which Brian? And how would he, how could he . . .

"Relax, Blondie. It's just me. You don't have to face the Great and Powerful Oz . . . yet."

Justin sat up quickly, trying desperately to wipe away the traces of his tears without actually appearing to do so. But then he realized it was almost pitch black inside the lean-to, and McClaren wasn't really looking at him anyway. Instead the FBI agent had settled with his back against a rack that held gardening tools and was busy lighting a cigarette, his big hand shielding the flame of the lighter from the wind gusting through all the cracks in the walls.

When he offered the pack to Justin, the younger man hesitated for a moment, not quite sure if he was ready to accept a peace offering, even of such a minor nature, from the man who had witnessed his meltdown. But in the end, he simply pulled a Marlboro from the pack and leaned forward to touch the tip to the still flickering blaze. In the golden reflection, the tracks of his tears were painfully obvious, but McClaren chose not to comment or even appear to notice.

They smoked in silence for a while, enjoying the taste of the tobacco. "You know," said the agent finally, "it won't be long before you're either going to have to take a flight overseas or seek out a whole new black market to enjoy this forbidden pleasure."

Justin blinked. "What?"

"Cigarettes. Their days are numbered in the good old USA. They're no longer PC, and, of course, they are so deadly to the human body they probably should have been banned decades ago." Then he grinned. "They're still available only because of the power of the wheelers and dealers in the tobacco industry. Which only makes the taste that much more addictive, doesn't it? But they won't survive forever. Sooner or later, they'll be outlawed. And then you'll have a whole new industry; new drug cartels will make a fortune because there are always going to be individuals who refuse to give up their addictions, and refuse to be told how they can or can't abuse their bodies." Then he sat forward and took a moment to blow out a couple of perfect smoke rings. "This . . ." he lifted the cigarette and spent a moment contemplating its glowing tip, "is like Brian Kinney. Deadly, dangerous, with all kinds of hidden toxins. A smart man would probably just walk away. Cure the addiction."

Justin turned abruptly, the golden reflection in his eyes now obscured by something dark and intense. "And what? Leave him to you?"

A bland stare. "Why not? Isn't that what you're out here doing? Skulking in your little makeshift artist's garret, obsessing on your guilt over being the reason your father and his minions tried to destroy him? Aren't you trying to figure out how to run away, so you don't have to endure the horrible, unbearable weight of your guilt?"

Justin wanted to strike out - to watch as his fist impacted the man's face. But he couldn't, because - God damn - because the man was right. "I don't know how to live with it," he admitted in a whisper. "I don't know how . . ."

"Welcome," said the cold, implacable voice, "to the world of Brian Kinney."

Justin's eyes widened, and he felt something shifting inside him, some kind of awareness dawning, awareness that he knew he did not want.

"Don't even pretend to be shocked," McClaren continued. "Because you've always known it. You've probably even examined it from time to time." He took another drag of his cigarette, before turning to look directly into Justin's eyes, and the younger man almost flinched away from the icy glare. "You've even used it, to give you the ability to manipulate him, when nothing else would have worked."

"No. I wouldn't do that. I love Brian, and I . . ."

The FBI agent shrugged. "Yeah. I know you do. But what? You think loving somebody means you never use whatever weapon happens to be at hand to get them to do what you want them to do? Come on, Kid. You're not that naïve. But this time, what's happening here, between you two, is too important to resort to any games and Machiavellian manipulations. This time, you need to see the whole truth. Then, you have to decide if you love him enough to endure it - to be what he needs you to be - or you let him go. It's a simple choice, really. But one you can't make if you aren't willing to see it clearly."

Anger flared again, white-hot and vicious. "And leave him to you. That's what you want, isn't it?"

McClaren grinned. "I know you're not foolish enough to think anybody can just give Brian Kinney away. Where he goes, who he chooses, what he does with his life - that's all up to him. But if you're asking me what I'd want . . . yeah. I'd take him. And I'd be better for him than you are." Justin jerked and started to rise, obviously ready to turn this confrontation into something physical, but the FBI agent simply reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder - a calming hand. "Except for one thing. He doesn't love me."

Justin settled back into his crouch, and was amazed by the sweet flow of relief that surged through him.

"But you need to see the whole truth, Justin. What you're feeling now - this huge weight of guilt - Brian has lived with, to some degree, all his life. Now we won't even go into the whole mess of his shitty childhood. Because that's not really the issue here. The issue is you. He has always - always - known it was his fault that you got bashed. And notice that I used the word 'known' instead of 'believed'. I'm pretty sure you've told him, probably countless times, that he wasn't to blame. And he would have nodded and probably pulled you into his arms and kissed you senseless before fucking you through the mattress, so the whole issue would just be forgotten. So you'd drop it and not bring it up again, until the next time, when the process would start all over again. But the point is that it doesn't matter how many times you told him, or even if anybody else ever told him - which I doubt, by the way - it didn't change anything, because he still knows it today, just as surely as he knew it all those years ago. Brian is always going to know that you almost died and your life was changed forever, because he let himself be convinced to break his own rules. Because he fucked up. And Justin, you have to understand this: you are never going to change that."

"But it wasn't his fault. It was Chris Hobbs, and all the homophobic crap that went on at St. James, and . . ."

"You're preaching to the choir," replied McClaren. "And it doesn't make a bit of difference, as far as Brian is concerned. He knows what he knows, and you have to learn to deal with that. Or else."

"Or else what?"

McClaren lit another cigarette, silently cursing Brian Kinney for the renewal of a nasty habit he had thought he'd almost managed to put behind him. "Knowing how you feel now, and comparing it to what he's gone through, do you suppose he'd even consider allowing you to continue to go through this? Do you think he wants you to face dealing with this kind of guilt for the rest of your life?"

Justin took a deep, shaky breath. "So what will he do then?"

The FBI agent grinned. "You're not that dumb."

Justin took another cigarette from the Marlboro pack and waited until McClaren offered a light. "He almost died," said the younger man in a tiny, frightened voice.

"Yes. He did."

"If he had . . ."

"But he didn't. Best not to make the problem any worse than it is."

"Because of me."

"No!" It was a shout that literally shook the rafters of the old outbuilding, and caused Justin to recoil, his eyes gone huge and dark with alarm. "Not because of you. Because of your father and Jim Stockwell, and the people like them. People who set themselves up as judge and jury to determine who should live and who should die, and who should be punished for the fundamental human need to love and be loved. And if you let them destroy what you and Brian share, then you let them win, Justin. Is that what you want to do? Because make no mistake about it; if you walk away from him because you can't bear the guilt of feeling responsible for what they did to him, then those slimy motherfuckers have done exactly what they set out to do. They'll have succeeded in destroying Brian Kinney. They'll have won."

Justin took a deep shaky breath. "I've walked away from him before, and he's managed to survive."

McClaren smiled, but Justin was astonished to realize he was pretty sure it was the saddest expression he'd ever seen. "Did he? Did he really?"

The FBI agent got to his feet, leaned forward and cupped Justin's face briefly with a gentle hand, and made his exit from the old building, leaving only silence behind him and the periodic gleam of the lighthouse's beacon, as its radiance found its way through the cracks in the wall, piercing the darkness of the night and attempting to provide guidance for the lost and the hopeless.

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