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"Chapter 44"

Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed.

G. K. Chesterton

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"Whatever you do, Brian, you must keep this from Lindsey."

Brian, much more shaken than he wanted to admit, could only summon up a small smirk. "You do realize she'll have my balls for breakfast if she ever finds out."

Ron Peterson tried on a smile, which was tentative but determined. "Well, I'm not planning to tell her. Are you?"

Huge eyes - uncharacteristically solemn - dominated a small face as Gus shifted slightly from his place plastered against his father's side to look up and try to manufacture a smile to cover a tremor of uncertainty - a residual remnant of fear - and Brian felt something squeeze tight in his chest, and he could not muster up his customary bravado in order to reassure the older man, or to promise there would be no mention of the incident to Lindsey. Though he wanted to project his customary glib confidence, he could not quite achieve his goal as he was a bit preoccupied at the moment, fielding multiple assaults from different angles.

It was a bit surprising, he thought, that Peterson was managing to sound so calm, all things considered, although the older man was still deathly pale and trembling, but then, thought Brian, Peterson could afford to be calm. He didn't have an armload of infuriated blond-cum-recent-twinkdom-graduate, who was currently struggling to free himself from the constraint of that rock-hard arm in order to launch a punch hard enough to knock his lover flat on his shapely ass. There was absolutely no doubt that Justin was angry enough to do so, and was only refraining because he retained just enough presence of mind to remember that said lover had recently been severely injured and might not be sufficiently recovered to take the licks he so richly deserved.

That, however, was doing nothing to curb the vicious, sharp tongue which Justin was wielding so skillfully and so relentlessly.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he was demanding, his voice a curious blend of icy condemnation and hot, blind rage. "Some maniac cuts loose with a fucking gun and your first instinct is to throw me down and cover me with your own body? How fucking stupid are you?"

But Brian remained unperturbed. "My first instinct," he replied, with no hint of remorse or regret, "was to make myself as small a target as possible, and - incidentally - to protect my son and my partner and an innocent child. And if you're waiting for me to apologize for that, then you're gonna have a hell of a wait."

Later - when the rage and fear subsided to a reasonable level - Justin would recall that Brian had used the term "my partner" to refer to him, and he would smile to recognize that even Brian could let things slip in the heat of the moment and say more than he might otherwise admit. It would be the only pleasant detail of a terrifying memory.

Later - but for now he remained thoroughly pissed off.

Around them, there was a strange layer of silence, almost an invisible sound barrier, although voices rang out beyond it, as Chris McClaren shouted directions to his staffers, and Lance Mathis placed himself in a protective stance, with Cynthia and Katy tucked carefully between his body and the small crowd surrounding Brian.

"I ought to punch your face in," Justin continued, almost snarling, rising up on his toes and leaning in so Brian had no choice but to meet his eyes directly and note the brilliance of the anger blazing in blue depths.

"I ought to . . ."

"Please, Justin. Don't."

It was a soft voice, barely audible above the confused din of a crowd still mostly caught up in the grip of blind panic, but it was more effective than a sonic boom. Justin went silent as Katy stared up at him, huge gray eyes awash with tears. "Please don't yell at him. He was only . . . he was just . . . He saves us, Justin. He always saves us."

Brian reached out and wrapped a gentle arm around the teen-ager's waist and pulled her close so he could murmur into her ear. "You all right, K-K-K-Katy?"

"You always save us." Her answer was no more than a whisper, but sure and absolute, nonetheless.

He stroked gentle fingers across a small bruise on her forehead, a bruise he himself had inflicted when he'd shoved her down beside Gus, in an effort to protect them both. The delicacy of the touch was an apology, but Katy knew what he'd done and why he'd done it, and let him know, in no uncertain terms, that no apology was needed. Body language, after all, spoke volumes, much louder than words, and the love in her eyes was steady, unyielding - and almost overwhelming.

Brian had to swallow hard around the lump in his throat and look away.

Justin, however, was still muttering, but only under his breath, so Brian leaned forward and touched his lips to his young lover's forehead. "Didn't you hear Katy? I always save you."

"Yeah . . . motherfucker!"

Cynthia, who had already - in the instinctive mindset of protective mothers the world over - gone over Katy's torso and limbs to make sure no damage had been done, was now regarding her boss with a mixture of gratitude and concern. "You sure you're okay?" she asked finally. "You're not just running on adrenaline, are you . . . and bleeding out somewhere under your clothes."

"I'm fine, and since when are you curious about what's under my clothes."

She confined her response to an exaggerated eye-roll.

Chris McClaren - who had done his own inspection of Brian's body followed by swift but thorough examinations of both Gus and Justin (much to the latter's displeasure) - had finished giving instructions to the security team surrounding the target group, and turned back to regard Brian with a steely gaze.

"See?" he snapped, his tone and his demeanor giving no quarter. "Next time, maybe you'll trust my judgment."

Brian turned a bit, and shifted just enough to be able to lift his son into his arms where Gus quickly buried his face against his father's shoulder. "So what are we supposed to do? Live the rest of our lives behind concrete walls? Hide away from life because there might be somebody out there who doesn't like who we are or what we do? Is that what I'm supposed to teach my kid?"

"You could teach him to be careful," snapped the FBI agent. "To listen to people who know how to protect you, and when it's foolish to take chances."

Brian tilted his head and stared at McClaren with a crooked smirk. "You mean teach him to hide. So - basically - the answer to my question is 'Yes'. If we want to be safe, we give up being free."

"No, Brian. You know better. It's just . . . these are not ordinary times. It's different right now."

"Yeah. Like it won't be different tomorrow. Like the uptight, upright, holier-than-thou masses are just going to wake up one day and have this great epiphany - see the error of their ways and realize that fags and dykes don't really deserve their hatred and condemnation, that we're all just children of the same God, Who loves us all equally. Right?"

McClaren knelt by the fence where the virtually shredded advertising banner was clinging by a few threads to the rough framework, and opened a pocket knife, with which he dug into the soft, weathered wood. "Do you really think this is the appropriate time or place for a debate about the philosophy of homophobes?"

Brian shrugged. "Do you really think the person who shot at us is still hanging around here waiting to be pinched by the Feds? These aren't the kind of people who stand up to be counted. He's long gone."

McClaren didn't argue. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, donning exam gloves to extract the bullet from the layered surface of the fence frame.

"You always carry a pocket knife?" asked Justin, momentarily distracted from his tirade.

The FBI agent bit back a wise-ass retort. "It's good to be prepared for anything in this job."

To everyone's surprise, Justin snickered, before leaning forward to whisper in Brian's ear, deliberately speaking just loud enough to be overhead by the target of the jibe. "You fucked a Boy Scout. Aren't you proud?"

"One bullet," McClaren announced as he got to his feet, ignoring Justin's slightly juvenile taunting and studying the metallic object in his hand. "A twenty-two. Not exactly the weapon of choice for professional hit men."

"Meaning?" That was Brian, of course, as focused as a guided missile on the subject at hand, no matter what the circumstances.

"Meaning this was probably just a pot shot. Somebody messing with your head."

"Ah, I get it. Out to teach the big queer a lesson, hmm?"

McClaren frowned and turned speculative eyes toward the face of the man who had inspired such hatred in his would-be assassin. "You always knew this was personal, Brian. It shouldn't surprise you that it still is."

"It doesn't." Brian's tone was sharp and steely.

The FBI agent looked deep into hazel eyes, searching for a clue to whatever it was that was really bothering Brian. "But?" he asked finally.

Brian allowed himself just a flicker of a sigh. "But it does surprise me that it seems to have followed us here. Much as they might enjoy watching me get my just desserts, these aren't the kind of people who get caught up in the passion of the moment and risk everything for a bit of personal satisfaction. Coming after me like this - it's a risk, and they don't do things without a reason."

McClaren nodded. "Agreed. So maybe they know you better than you think. Maybe they've figured out some of the fundamental truths about the legendary Brian Kinney."

"Yeah? Such as?"

But the agent had said all he meant to say, for the time being. So he just smiled and leaned forward to whisper a non-committal response. "Why don't you tell me?"

Brian glared. He did not like ambiguous comments; he especially did not like them when they hinted at something he was supposed to know, but didn't choose to acknowledge. "Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

McClaren's smile became a smirk, accompanied by a quick wink, which only served to annoy Brian further.

And if Brian was annoyed, Justin was teetering on the verge of a complete meltdown.

Thus, he was quick to decide that he didn't much care for the general drift of the conversation, or for the vague insinuation which seemed to suggest that the FBI agent might know something about Brian - something no one else had figured out, something Justin didn't know.

Yes, it was definitely time to change the subject.

"Can we just go home now?" he asked, not caring that his plaint sounded a lot like a whine.

Brian turned his face to nestle against the soft skin beneath Gus's ear. "How about it, Bud? Had enough fucking dolphins for one day?"

"Yup." Gus's reply was succinct, with no nuance of uncertainty, but he was very careful to maintain his grip on his father's neck, to make sure that nothing and no one was going to pull him away from his primary source of strength and comfort.

It was very significant that not even Ron Peterson - ultimate wasp though he was - dared to venture an admonition about Brian's language.

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It was spring - almost midnight - and the view from the seventh-floor terrace of the upscale apartment building was spectacular. Indeed, the view was the most impressive thing about the flat and the primary reason that Matthew Keller had purchased it in the first place. Mt. Washington was - according to the real estate people and the city's movers and shakers - the premier place to live in the entire Pittsburgh urban area - until next year, of course - but the physician had never had much interest in living up to other people's expectations or being a resident of a fashionable ultra-chic community. He had, in fact, been singularly unimpressed with the apartment building and completely prepared to send his ultra-smart, stick-thin, sleek blonde realtor back to the drawing board, to continue her search for the perfect place for him, until he'd walked into the empty apartment just as the sun had disappeared beyond the western horizon and found a fairy tale vista stretched out before him.

The view had done what all the exuberant sales pitches and glowing words and lectures about appreciating property values had failed to do. He was sold, without a single thought about the practical aspects or the potential comforts - all because of the singular beauty of the landscape that spread out into the night, like polished gemstones on a velvet blanket or - more accurately perhaps - like a reflection of the panorama of the heavens which could not, of course, actually be seen through the thin veil of industrial gasses that inevitably hovered above the city. Thus, he'd thought, in some deeply buried crevice in his mind, he could gaze into a glittering sweep of starscape without ever actually having to raise his eyes.

He had moved in three days later, and never bothered to do much in the way of personal decorating, leaving it all to a professional designer who came with a high price tag, spotless credentials, and an exquisite sense of taste, but surprisingly little experience with incorporating personal touches into her projects; thus, "spare" would have been the term which most people would use to describe the apartment's style, although the stark quality was relieved somewhat by a couple of abstract works by Edward Avedisian, classified as color-field stripes by art experts - bold, striking exercises in form and brilliance that were somehow perfectly appropriate for an interior most notable for the contrast of black and white, for clean lines and an emphasis on creature comforts without any conscious notion about fashion - lots of leather, chrome, polished wood, and glass, and state-of-the-art appliances and technology. The paintings seemed appropriate, although it would have been difficult to define why, for the individual who somehow imprinted the flat with a singular personality without ever making much of an effort to do so.

The doctor was sitting hunched at the end of his exquisitely soft leather sofa, his phone cradled against his shoulder, as he rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger, his eyes unfocused as he stared unseeing into the middle of the modular coffee table, which was still littered with crumpled napkins bearing the logo of Fox's Pizza Den, along with a few crusts that were all that remained of a bacon/double cheeseburger deluxe and a half-empty Styrofoam container of chicken fry salad. Four empty bottles bearing Samuel Adams Boston Lager labels were scattered amid the clutter.

He listened carefully to the voice on the phone, his posture rigid and his mouth clinched tight, and took a deep breath before offering a response to what he'd heard. "Brian," he said finally, his voice almost strident and veined with impatience, "why haven't you talked to Turnage about this?"

Another pause, and then he surged to his feet, the sharp awkwardness of the motion making it obvious he did not like what he was hearing. "And what the fuck do you think I can do about it, from here? Brian, you have to talk to him, and I don't fucking mean tomorrow. I mean right n . . ."

He rolled his eyes and stared out into the night, actually biting his lip to suppress an urge to shout into the phone. "Listen to me, Shithead," he snapped finally, patience completely exhausted after listening to Brian's rant. "I don't give a rat's ass what you decide to tell your boy-toy about it, or how much you try to convince yourself that it's nothing to worry about. You can't know that, and neither can I. Not until you actually open up and tell Turnage the truth. Granted, he's the biggest asshole I've ever known - present company excluded - but that doesn't change the fact that he's as good at his job as I am - almost. So don't waste your time - or mine - explaining why you don't want to call him; just make the damn call. And then call me back, or - better yet - tell him to call me. And if you don't, then I'm going to . . ."

He fell silent as he registered the dial tone buzzing in his ear. "God damn it!" he snarled and hurled the phone across the room, taking some small, venal satisfaction in the fact that he managed to break a tall, claret-colored vase with the projectile. He'd never liked that vase anyway.

Jared Hilliard turned away from his contemplation of the view to raise an eyebrow toward his host.

"That motherfucker hung up on me." The explanation was not really necessary, as Hilliard had already figured out what had made the physician so angry - and so eloquent.

"You planning to tell me what that was all about," he asked, after taking a deep draught of his beer, "or are you going to hide behind doctor/patient privilege?"

Keller sighed. "You know I can't talk about it," he replied, his voice reflecting deep exhaustion as he moved forward to stand at the edge of the balcony and breathe in the lovely ambiance of the view. "Even if the thing I most want to do right now is go on network TV and tell the world what a complete ass he is."

Hilliard smiled. "Yeah. Too bad you love him so much."

The doctor went very still, and - for a single moment - Hilliard thought he might actually try to deny the truth of the observation. But he didn't. "Yeah. Too bad. Only . . ."

"Only what? You're not going to try to convince me that you don't, are you? Because I'm going to be insulted if you think I'm stupid enough to fall for that."

"No," Keller admitted. "I'm not going to do that. Only it's not quite what you think it is. I do love him - just like he loves me. Almost as much as we hate each other - sometimes. I think we always will. But it's not something that's a part of our lives, because we both know we're no good for each other. We figured that out a long time ago. Trying to build some kind of life together would be a disaster. Sometimes, loving somebody just isn't enough."

Hilliard grinned. "I think you're too much alike, each of you with a t-rex sized ego, and a libido to match."

Keller looked as if he wanted to object - maybe even argue - but, in the end, he didn't even try. "Is that a complaint?" he asked with a laugh, pressing a quick kiss to his companion's temple before turning away to fetch more beer.

Jared Hilliard elected to confine his response to a quiet chuckle as he turned back to his appreciation of the landscape with its multi-colored gemstone facets and tried not to notice how much the environment felt like a place he was meant to be, deliberately resisting any nuance of the word 'home'. He didn't believe in 'meant to be', and he was willing to bet good money Keller didn't either.

But there was no denying that there was some kind of tactical sensation in the atmosphere of the place which seemed to stroke at his skin with silken fingers, eliciting a deep sense of comfort. A small voice - buried deep in his consciousness - was urging him to take to his heels and run as far and as fast as he could, but it was having trouble being heard above the purr of contentment rumbling in his mind.

Off to the East, he spotted a jumbo jet banking north to make its final approach to the airport and watched as it carved its path across the face of a bank of wispy clouds, illuminated by a wash of moonlight. He was suddenly reminded of a scrawny kid he'd known in high school, an awkward, brooding misfit with bad skin and thick, spiky hair, who kept to himself and never said much and spent most of his time sitting alone scribbling in a tattered notebook or fooling around with a battered old acoustic guitar; a kid who'd once admitted - while under the influence of a shared joint - that he wanted to grow up to be Alan Ginsberg. Instead, he had never had much of a chance to grow up at all, having died in Afghaniston, still young and callow with dreams unrealized. But during all that scribbling, he had produced a few scraps of verse, and Jared Hilliard had wondered, once or twice, whether or not that shy introvert might, with world enough and time, mature to become a new version of Bob Dylan. And now - strangely - he was surprised to recall a few stray lines, something about man's impudence in daring to allow his cold, technical fingerprints to smudge the splendor of the mighty works of God.

Strange, he thought, that the young man himself was long gone, having died far too young to leave anything of himself behind. Yet, somehow, his words lingered here, on this terrace where Hilliard stood - he who had been nothing more than a passing acquaintance - gazing out into the night and remembering what the world had forgotten.

Can we ever know, he wondered, how the simplest things we do or say might leave an indelible mark on someone else's life - for better or for worse?

Keller was back suddenly, and it was as if he'd been transformed during his brief absence, into a man on a mission, and there was absolutely nothing altruistic in his demeanor. He had apparently changed his mind about the beer, deciding that he was hungry for something much more primal, as he grasped Hilliard and jerked him into his arms and proceeded to try to devour him.

Hilliard did not object, pausing only long enough to wonder how he'd been lucky enough to be in this place, at this time, with this man. Then he pulled back, to stare into those exquisite green eyes, and demand a clarification. "Is this . . . are you using this as a way to blow off some steam . . . and compensate for the man you really want?"

Keller's shout of laughter left little room for doubt. "This is not how I express anger, Bud. And don't expect me to believe that you sell yourself short. You know what a temptation you are."

It was Hilliard's turn to laugh. "Yeah. I do, but it's tough to discount his reputation. According to common gossip, once you've had Kinney, he pretty much ruins you for everyone else."

The doctor sighed, and wondered, for a moment, if he could get away with just changing the subject without having to address the issue directly. But he quickly realized it wouldn't be fair to do so, although a bit of diversion couldn't really hurt. "You don't really believe that bullshit." He leaned in to nuzzle into the softness beneath his companion's ear as he adjusted his stance to bring their bodies in perfect alignment, matching bulge for bulge, and wondered if Hilliard would just let it go and not demand an explicit answer to the question he had not - quite - asked. "It must be obvious," he whispered, "that I'm only thinking about one thing - and one man - right now, and it sure as hell isn't Brian Kinney."

For a single moment, Hilliard wanted to balk - to insist on a more in-depth discussion - but then he found himself incapable of producing a coherent response, even though the stubborn little voice in the back of his mind recognized that Keller's response had not really been a response at all. Nevertheless, instead of voicing further objections, he chose to turn his head to reclaim the lips that were buried in the soft hollow of his throat. Since the time of his first encounter with the doctor, he had tried to convince himself that Keller's taste and scent were not really all that singular - that it was just a facet of his own fascination. But, when they were actually mouth to mouth - skin to skin - there was really no way of denying it; the man was virtually irresistible, and could easily become an addiction.

It was at that moment, just as the kisses were growing deeper, hungrier, more desperate, and sexual arousal was fast approaching a point of no return, that his cell phone rang.

"Fuck!" he muttered.

"Amen!" Keller tried to laugh, but couldn't quite bring it off.

Hilliard glanced at the name on the screen and sighed. "I better take this," he explained. "It's Briggs. Might be important."

The physician nodded, took one more quick, hard kiss, and moved off into the apartment, apparently to fetch more beer and regain a bit of self control, while Hilliard answered the call.

He was still talking - although mostly in mono-syllables - when Keller returned, beer in hand, shirtless and barefoot, to sprawl across a thickly cushioned chaise and regard his companion with a shamelessly lustful gaze.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone call was still going on, and Hilliard could not quite suppress a sigh when he turned back toward the view, his forehead creased as he pondered the information he was hearing from his fellow undercover operative. Briggs had a lot to say, as she'd just completed her review of the preliminary findings of the confidential financial records of The Club, the ultra-secret ledgers provided by Henry Flagg. The elderly man had not been happy with his visitors, undoubtedly classifying them as sleazy conspirators and infiltrators following the conference in his office; his old-school attitude had made certain that he would never be comfortable with betraying his employers of many years, and no amount of rationalizing was going to change that. Even in the face of strong evidence to prove that they had, in fact, betrayed him, he simply could not reconcile it in his mind in order to feel justified in what he was compelled to do. He had, nevertheless, finally agreed - with notable reluctance - to cooperate with the investigation and provide access to the secret set of books, which might eventually offer proof of many things which he had long suspected or sensed, but never actually known - or wanted to know.

And it had all happened as the result of the mention of one name, buried deep in the cold case file of the police report concerning the death of his son.

A relatively simple name - Bradford J. Hobbs - which was, as it turned out, a name which most members of The Club would not even recognize, unlike - for example - Christopher Hobbs or Randolph Hobbs, Jr., or even - on a much smaller scale - Justin Taylor, all easily identifiable as potential members of the next generation of Club patrons, direct descendants of the Powers-That-Be. This particular young man had been, at most, a minor satellite of The Club's core of strength. Even the name had been an affectation, adopted in a vain hope of reinforcing a tenuous connection to a member of The Club's inner circle, a man who had never seen fit to respond in kind. The relationship - legitimate enough in a strictly official way - had never been formally acknowledged by the member. It had, nevertheless, been very genuine to the young man - real enough and vital enough to convince him to adopt the political and social bias of The Club's ultra-conservative philosophy and play a part in the ad hoc trial and verdict - in absentia, of course - of Henry Flagg's only son, a trial in which the defendant never stood a chance, as deviant sexuality, AKA Perversion - capitalization intended - was considered to be the cardinal sin, the ultimate capital offense in this particular court of opinion. It made no difference that homosexuality was always treated as a non-issue, never publicly addressed. But the membership knew the unspoken truth of it and occasionally experienced tiny lapses in carefully-constructed facade, characterized by quick smug smiles, when events occurred which enabled them to flex the metaphorical muscles of their beliefs and congratulate themselves on small but significant victories. And even - once in a great while - victories not quite so small, although never big enough to suit them.

Henry Flagg had never chosen to examine The Club's specific philosophy too closely - never wanted to see it for what it was - and was only now being forced to confront an ugly truth. As a black man who had lived through a large chunk of the twentieth century, who remembered the headlines and the horrible photographs of frightened children surrounded by savage mobs in Little Rock, and the outrageous histrionics of white supremacists in Alabama and the vicious uproar surrounding Rosa Parks' incredible act of courage - he knew about bigotry, intimately; had been a victim of prejudice and discrimination many times in his life. But he had never once allowed himself to consider the fundamental truths about bigotry: that it was inherently wrong, in whatever guise it might take - racial, cultural, religious, gender-based, sexual. He had been raised in a fundamentalist Christian home and taught, by religious parents - pillars of their church - that homophobia was an exception to the rule, was in no way as vile or cruel or indefensible as other varieties of intolerance. He had never seen it because he could not bear to see, could not bear to recognize an elemental force of the nature of the society in which he lived and the people to whom he had dedicated the labor of his life. Until Jared Hilliard and Sharon Briggs had forced him to see it and given him no choice but to realize what it meant.

It had been Briggs who had stumbled across the name in the cold-case file, and even then, she had not immediately realized its significance; it was just another name in an increasingly large and complex puzzle. Then she'd had a minor epiphany, when the investigative team who'd gone through all the old information had discovered that the name - Bradford J. Hobbs - was apparently an alias; that there was, in fact, no one by that name living in the Pittsburgh urban area. An expanded search had confirmed that the person named in the file was not a resident of the state of Pennsylvania either, and it was then that she had connected the dots,  remembering the name which had figured in Brian's recovered memories, and realized that the discovery of the name was a stroke of luck resulting from a suggestion by Jared Hilliard to delve into the history of key employees of The Club.

Her new partner, she conceded, had immaculate instincts.

Henry Flagg had simply stared at the two of them when they'd forced him to acknowledge the meaning of the information in the cold case file. Only extremely perceptive individuals could have sensed that, as he was forced to accept the truths they were showing him, he was simultaneously watching his world crumble around him. Luckily, both of the undercover agents were empathic enough to recognize the trauma and the tragedy of the moment, but it was Hilliard who was able to summon up the will to cut through the anguish and remnants of denial to address the bottom line.

"You're not really going to claim that you never noticed the kind of people you've spent your life working for, are you?" he'd asked.

Flagg had simply stared at his hands, clasped tight on his desk. "I was . . . it was never directed at me."

But Hilliard had not been in the mood to allow that kind of deliberate evasion. "Yeah. I'm sure that's what all the bystanders in Germany told themselves when their neighbors were carted off to Auschwitz."

Flagg had flinched away from the harshness of the observation, a darkness swelling in his eyes - a glimpse of something confronting its own death.

He had been compliant after that, though mostly silent, even agreeing to continue to play his role at The Club until the investigation could be completed, though Hilliard had his doubts; he wasn't certain he himself could have pulled off that kind of subterfuge under these circumstances, although he'd had intense training in undercover operations. But Flagg had discovered one thing which might see him through; he had discovered a powerful motive - a raison d'etre - to enable him to function as he must.

Guilt, thought Hilliard, was an incredibly powerful motivator; he hoped it would be enough. And he hoped - for a reason he could not quite fathom - the old man might someday find it in his heart to forgive himself. He told himself that it shouldn't matter - that he shouldn't care.

But he did.

Briggs finally finished her summation of all she'd learned and much that she'd pieced together, fully expecting her partner to offer up some speculation of his own. But he didn't, and she began to wonder why.

"Hey, Bud," she said softly, sensing that his continuing silence might be cause for concern, "everything okay with you?"

He didn't even try to provide an answer, but he was touched that she was perceptive enough to suspect that something might be wrong. It was strange, he thought, that the two of them had managed to get quite close, in a remarkably short period of time, especially given the extreme diversity of their backgrounds. "Anything else?" he prompted, ignoring the question.

"Not much," she replied, deciding to sidestep the question he had not answered. "We do have one new item to investigate, something which came up in a routine check of Buddy Charles's family, which might involve somebody living in the vicinity of the safe house. Probably nothing, but better to be safe now than sorry later, so McClaren's DC team is checking it out. I know Brian Kinney well enough to be sure that I don't want to have to face him if something goes wrong because we failed to touch every base."

"Makes sense," he agreed. "I may not know him as well as you do, but it didn't take long to figure out that I'd rather not be on his shit list. So what else?"

She sighed. "That's about it, except that I think it's safe to say we've barely scratched the surface. This . . . it's going to get ugly - really ugly - before it's done. So get some rest." Then she chuckled softly. "Or some ass. Whichever makes it all better."

"You sure got a dirty mouth for such an uptown girl," he retorted.

"Yeah," she replied wearily. "That's me all right. And tonight, I think I'm actually okay with that. I think I'll go home - to my parents' place - and let my daddy tell me I should stop wasting my time in this dirty business and get back to jet-setting around the Riviera and doing volunteer work to raise money for children in Bangladesh, and taking my shar pei puppy to be groomed."

Her society background had quickly become a source of comic relief in helping them cope with the ugly things they were forced to confront in the course of their daily lives.

"Sounds like fun," he replied, "but you know you'd be bored stiff in a month."

"Maybe," she conceded, "but sometimes . . . Don't you get tired of it? Don't you just crave a good night's sleep, when you can forget everything you've seen and learned while you tried to do your job?"

He didn't disagree. "Yeah. Sometimes."

"So," she continued, "I think this is a good time to just . . . take a little break. Have a drink. Listen to music. Dream a little dream. Dance a little dance. Make a little love."

He laughed softly. "If you start singing, this conversation is over."

She was silent for a moment, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice when she chose to speak. "Tell Matt I said he should help you forget your troubles and get happy."

"What makes you think . . ."

She laughed aloud then, almost cackling and obviously uninterested in maintaining a lady-like demeanor. "Because you're not stupid enough to have let him walk away. Enjoy yourself, Jared. He has a reputation for being very . . . flexible."

He tried to come up with a suitable response, but, by the time he'd thought of a sufficiently cutting remark, she had hung up, still laughing.

Keller had tried not to eavesdrop - much - through the course of the conversation, sipping occasionally at a fresh bottle of Samuel Adams' best and waiting for his companion to finish up and indicate a willingness to return to their previous activity, but, as the minutes passed and he witnessed the changes of expression on Hilliard's face, he had begun to wonder if there was any chance of them being able to pick up where they'd left off before the phone call.

His doubts grew stronger when Hilliard disconnected and glanced toward his own unopened bottle of lager with a sigh. "How about something a little stronger?"

Keller heard something unsettling in the simple question as green met blue at exactly the right time for him to notice a hard glint in Hilliard's eyes, a gleam blended of fury and bitterness and something else he couldn't quite identify. He rose quickly and went back inside, emerging just moments later with glassware and a bottle of Glenlivet. "Single malt," he announced, unsmiling. "Good for what ails you."

Hilliard offered no response, simply accepting the highball glass with its three fingers of exquisitely smooth whisky and taking a hefty draught before turning back to his contemplation of the landscape.

"What's up?" asked Keller, leaning forward on the balcony railing and enjoying the sensation of his shoulder snugged up against his companion's bicep. "Any luck tracking the elusive Mr. Hobbs?"

"Not yet. But it's just a matter of time now. Hobbs, Sr., is going to be picked up sometime tomorrow. He'll be the first one brought in, since the DNA evidence that 'Young Nicholas' collected confirmed that he was there at the crime scene. The others will follow over the next couple of days. As for Mr. Hobbs, I doubt he'll hold out well against a skilled interrogator. Although he'll be lawyering up before you can say 'Miranda'. But that won't change the fact that the evidence will give us access to his private records. We'll find the connection soon enough."

"And the others?"

Hilliard took another sip of whiskey. "Not much in the way of forensic evidence to back up Brian's version of what happened, but Taylor and Hobbs should be fairly easy to break. Neither one has ever had to deal with being the object of a police investigation; they won't deal well with the pressure, especially since they have no way of knowing just how much evidence might have turned up. The tough one, though - that'll be Stockwell. He knows procedure, knows how to play the game. The key to success is going to be breaking down the other two, and hoping they take him down with them."

"And the other guy? Brian did say there were four, didn't he?"

"Yeah. The fourth one was the guy who was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and stay in the shadows. All we've got on him is Brian's impression of thick silver hair. Still, the same strategy should apply. By concentrating on the weakest links, we should eventually get the names of all of them, with a little luck."

Keller sipped at his whiskey and leaned his head against the strong shoulder beside him. "In that case, why don't you sound happier? Did you expect more?"

Hilliard leaned forward, bracing his arms against the balcony railing. "No, not really. We don't have a lot of facts yet, but there's plenty to suggest that the private records are going to be a gold mine of information. There are already major indications of tie-ins to so-called businesses that are really just fronts for subversive groups . . . probably enough clandestine operations to keep the FBI busy for years. This isn't something that just happened in the last few years; it goes back a long way. The Club's been a big time mover and shaker - behind the scenes - for years. There are even hints there might have been some connection with the thugs who bombed Babylon - enough to suggest that it wasn't nearly as random and disorganized as it first appeared."

Keller closed his eyes and felt a massive weight settle in his chest. "You mean . . ."

It was Hilliard's turn to wish he could change the subject, but he knew better. One did not evade that blade-sharp mind of Matthew Keller with impunity. "I mean it's possible this is not the first time Brian's been a target."

"Shit!"

"Yeah. I know."

"No," Keller replied, his tone hard, almost brittle. "You don't. Not about this."

"What do you . . ."

"You've only just begun to know Brian," the doctor said softly, "so you won't understand what this could do to him. He's spent his whole life - his whole fucking life - blaming himself for every God-damned thing that ever went wrong around him. Everything. And now . . . people died in that explosion, Jared. And others were severely injured. Jesus! Michael Novotny almost died from his wounds. And now - now Brian's going to have to learn that it was all aimed at him? How the fuck do you think he's going to feel? How much guilt can one man carry on his shoulders, before he just gives up? He's come close before, you know."

Hilliard was once more staring off into the darkness. "Did he? He doesn't strike me as the type."

"You should have seen him when Justin was attacked. God! He was . . . I'm still not sure how he survived that. And he still blames himself, every fucking day. I don't know what this will do to him."

Hilliard's expression was pensive, filled with soft affection. "There you go - loving him again."

Keller forced a smile. "Jealous?"

Hilliard's smile was very gentle. "Part of me thinks I should be, but - somehow - I'm not. He's one of a kind, isn't he?"

Keller nodded. "He is that, and I'd have a hard time explaining how we feel about each other. But that's not what's got your knickers in a twist, is it?"

"Not exactly." The indirect lighting of the terrace made Hilliard's eyes seem suddenly, incredibly blue - even bluer than usual, which Keller would have judged damned near impossible if he wasn't seeing it himself. " It's just . . . You know, no matter how foolish it is, we all cling to the hope that . . . there's really going to be a fairy tale ending - someday. That it's all going to turn out right - that good will triumph and evil will be defeated, and all those people who condemn us and denounce us as degenerates and perverts are just cold-hearted monsters and radical right-wing cretins who deserve nothing but our contempt. But when you take a good look at the way of the world, you start to wonder. . . how is that ever going to happen, Matt?"

"I'm not following."

Hilliard drained the rest of his drink and poured himself a refill before answering, his face cold and hard, yet somehow reflecting a deep, visceral pain. "That old man - Flagg. I sat there and watched as he had to accept the truth about his son - a truth he's been denying for years and years - and I realized something. He was more devastated by the proof that his son was gay, than by the truth about the way he died. And I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn't. Because this isn't a bad man. He's not evil or cruel or malicious. He's just an ordinary man, who believes what he was taught to believe, by people he loved. People he trusted - the same people who learned about God and religion and right and wrong from their own parents and family and church. And I realized that they don't hate people like us - like Daniel Flagg or Brian Kinney - because they're disgusted by the idea of where we choose to stick our dicks or who we choose to fuck; they believe . . . they really believe that their God - their all-knowing, universal God - has judged us to be an abomination. If these people, who are supposed to be good, decent, charitable, Christian people, can really believe that - can completely discount the possibility that we're just as capable of love and loyalty and honor as they are - then  how are we ever going to find that happy ending? How do we get from here to there? In the face of that kind of ignorance, how do we get through to the other side?"

Keller turned and leaned forward, nestling his forehead against the soft skin under Hilliard's jaw. "How do you slay a dragon?" he asked, with a quick shrug. "One arrow, one blade, one cut at a time."

"Yeah? But dragons breathe fire, Darlin'. Remember?"

Keller's smile was pensive. "But not so much any more. As much as the ardent homophobes might deny it, they no longer have the unchallenged power to burn away those who stand up against them, simply by calling up their own version of 'shock and awe'. The definition of 'hate crime' has finally expanded, to include violence against people like us. I know that it doesn't really cure anything, and it doesn't guarantee victory in the end, but try to keep in mind how far we've come. In the days of our fathers and grandfathers, men like us only had two choices - to live in a closet or risk our lives every time we ventured out into the real world. But now - granted there are still huge risks. There are still Matthew Shepherds and Daniel Flaggs, and maybe there always will be, in some places. But far fewer now than ten years ago, and fewer still ten years from now I think. And it all happens because of people like you, who stand up and fight for what you believe. And people like Brian, who refuse to hide or apologize or pretend."

"Yeah," sighed Hilliard, "and look where that got him."

The doctor's smile was gentle, as was his touch as he lifted his hand to caress rich, dark skin along a perfect jaw-line. "You can't lose all hope just because some people are stupid, Jared, which is something that you can't cure. But most people are just ignorant. They can be educated. They can learn."

"Yeah? Well, they sure take their fucking time in the process."

The physician grinned. "Yeah. They do."

Hilliard turned to gaze deep into Keller's eyes, and the doctor was delighted to witness an almost instantaneous shift from pensive brooding to seductive speculation within those ice blue depths. "So," said the undercover agent slowly, "Briggs tells me you have quite a reputation."

Keller had to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat. "Does she now?"

"Yeah. She says you're famous for your flexibility."

The doctor's smile was slightly smug. "Perhaps I should . . . demonstrate." The smile had happened slowly, but the subsequent move didn't, and Hilliard hardly had time to draw breath before he had a double armful of bare, warm, smooth, velvety skin, and lungs filled with that delectable, singular scent - the one that he'd been doing his best to ignore.

He had intended to offer up an answer, but discovered immediately that he had much better things to do with his lips and his tongue - and what was left of his mind - than talk.

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

It had been a fantastic day - mostly - thought Brian as he settled himself more comfortably in the warm sand, bracing his back against an upright support of the old dock, and allowing Justin to shift and realign his body so he was completely cradled against Brian's chest.

It was such a simple thing: the freedom to sit here, bathed in the tawny gold of the last light of day, listening to the rhythmic cadence of the incoming breakers and closing his arms around the lithe body of his beloved, and watching while Gus and Katy concentrated on finishing the elaborate sand castle they'd spent the whole afternoon building - a vast palace with arches and towers and battlements and - of course - 'turts', carefully laid out in a shape vaguely reminiscent of Chateau Versailles. The structure would, inevitably, fall to the chaotic power of the incoming tide, always providing it survived the imminent attack of one energetic and very determined little dog, which was almost frothing at the mouth in its eagerness to dismantle what its master had built. But so far, vigilant attention from the small builders and constant oversight by a careful grandfather had prevented the mayhem the tiny animal was so eager to inflict.

Brian lit a cigarette and watched the smoke eddy for a moment before swirling away on the cusp of a freshet of air heavy with the scent and taste of salt, and smiled as Justin gave in to the exhaustion of a long day and turned to nestle his face into the soft velvet of the skin under his lover's jaw-line. For a moment, Brian had to fight off a ferocious impulse to leap to his feet and tear off down the beach - an instinctive rejection of the domestic image he was sure he must be presenting as he adjusted his posture to accommodate the weight of his young companion.

When, he wondered, had this happened? When had he become so comfortable with such a public display of affection - genuine affection, rather than simple sex? More than that - of an undeniable level of domesticity which seemed to define the new parameters of his life. Again, he had to struggle just to keep still, but then Justin sighed - a deep throaty humming that was almost a purr - and Brian relaxed again, almost conceding that it was worth it - almost - and he was suddenly amused by the idea that there was a huge difference between the flagrant public displays in which he'd once engaged - at Woody's and Babylon and in whatever alley or nook or bathhouse might be available - and this . . . whatever this was.

He looked down and threaded his fingers through silken strands of gold and realized exactly what this was; this was Justin, and it was like absolutely nothing else in his life.

A sudden cascade of laughter erupted from the children as they ran toward the shoreline to fetch water to fill the moat that Ron Peterson had fashioned around their castle. Their joyous shrieks were punctuated by shrill barks from Beau who was obviously torn between the desire to chase after them and a compulsion to wreak havoc on their creation. In the end, he was unable to resist joining in the fun and chose to dart around his companions and play tag with the spray of incoming breakers, while Cynthia and Lance Mathis, enjoying a quiet conversation and martinis on the deck, shouted their approval and applauded as the two children and the puppy performed a perfectly choreographed pas de trios at the edge of the surf.

Brian watched in silence and was filled with something he had known only a very few times in his life - a deep, unlimited swell of contentment, so pure and intense that it was almost frightening. Not because he didn't want it or couldn't accept it, but because everything inside him was screaming that it couldn't last, that he would, in the end, be destroyed by wanting what he had never been meant to have.

But for now, for this moment, he would simply float within his little cloud of euphoria and pretend it would never leave him.

Payback, of course, would be a bitch of the first order, but . . . that would come later. And he already knew what payback entailed; he had, after all, spent his entire life clutched tight within its grip.

A perfect day . . . almost.

He was careful not to move, so he would not disturb the warm body that was melded against him; careful not to frown so that the children - who watched him almost as obsessively as he watched them - would not be alarmed by something they might read in his eyes.

Almost perfect.

Off to his left, beyond the pier and near the first of the dunes that marched northward, Chris McClaren was standing, gazing out to sea, his eyes sweeping across the expanse of ocean, looking for . . . whatever it was that he spent his life looking for. Earlier, when Brian and Justin had walked out to the edge of the surf to share a private moment - and a joint - every member of the security detail charged with protecting Brian and his family had suddenly come up with some kind of urgent task requiring them to put distance between themselves and the two miscreants, and Brian had laughed and pointed out the merits of 'plausible deniability'. Every member, that was, save one. McClaren had simply walked up, regarded them with a lifted eyebrow, and continued his customary rounds.

At this hour, with the day almost done, the FBI agent had obviously decided he needed a little time to himself. He had, after all, been at the center of the most distressing event of this otherwise almost perfect day, and Brian wondered if anyone else had sensed how much the man behind the public persona had been bothered by what he'd been forced to do. Now, McClaren was mostly still, except for his eyes which regularly shifted to check on Brian's location and condition.

The consummate protector - who was now moving out toward the end of the small peninsula that divided this private stretch of beach from the next house up the way, where a group of young people - college-age by the look of them - was busy constructing a bonfire in front of their rental cottage. As night fell, there would undoubtedly be loud music, every variety of unhealthy food, kegs of beer, plentiful pot, and lithe, slender young bodies engaged in all the lovely interactions that individuals of that age ordinarily pursued, and Brian had smiled his approval, as well as no small amount of anticipation, when one of the federal staffers had briefed him on what was to be expected. The group had been thoroughly vetted, of course, by both the FBI and Brian's security people, so there was no real concern about their motives or actions, but McClaren was never one to assume anything. He would not interfere with what they were doing, but he would not turn his back either.

Brian wondered if he should consider himself extraordinarily lucky to have been assigned to the care of this particular agent - or just the opposite. He was pretty sure he knew what Justin would say.

He smiled as Justin roused slightly and took a deep breath before snuggling closer, completely content and secure within his lover's arms.

A perfect culmination of a perfect day - almost.

Only two things had happened to disrupt the easy harmony of the day - one relatively minor and one that could easily have escalated into all-out warfare, had Brian not stepped in to calm the troubled waters, by virtue of the kind of sheer determination that was generally reserved only for those few who had been unlucky enough to make him really, really angry. It was a side of himself that almost no one knew.

He shifted slightly to look out across the waters of the bay, remembering the phone call that had awakened him just as dawn was gilding the string of tiny islands that swept east and south out to sea, from the base of the headland.

"Why the fuck," Rick Turnage snarled, obviously seeing no need for any kind of formal greeting, "do I have to get a call from that prick, Keller, at the break of dawn, accusing me of neglecting my patient? Especially when he bitches me out for a problem that said patient has not even seen fit to mention. Care to explain yourself, Mr. Kinney?"

Brian, unruffled and unintimidated, confined his response to a single word. "No."

"No!" Turnage's tone was strident with outrage. "What do you mean n . . ."

"What I mean," Brian replied softly, as he eased out of the bed carefully to avoid waking either his son or his lover, "is that I'm not going to get into a shouting match with you and wake up the whole house. Just hang on a bit."

"Does it ever occur to you," Turnage continued, "that some of us have better things to do than wait on your convenience?"

Brian snickered as he walked downstairs and out onto the deck. "With what I'm paying you? I think demanding a few minutes of your time is reasonable."

Turnage hesitated, and Brian allowed himself a tiny triumphant smile as he took the time to grab his first nicotine fix of the day. "Now," he said finally, "what are you on about?"

"Was Keller right?" Turnage was not in the mood for conversation - polite or otherwise. "Are you having some kind of problem with . . ."

"I'm not sure." Equally uninterested in a prolonged discussion, Brian decided that he was not ready to explore this particular issue. "It may be nothing."

Turnage was slow to answer, and Brian was surprised to hear some measure of concern in the physician's voice when he spoke again. "Mr. Kinney, you can't just dismiss something like this. You have too much at stake, and all the bravado in the world won't change the fact that there still could be some major problems which haven't been discovered or addressed yet.

"Look." Turnage sounded suddenly, unutterably weary, and Brian realized that the man did care about his patients, quite a lot, in fact, even though he concealed it well beneath his façade of indifference and arrogance. "What they did to you . . . it would have killed a lot of people. Maybe even most people, and I doubt anyone will ever know exactly how you managed to survive it. But one thing is certain. You can't afford to ignore the possibility that there may be long-term effects which could come back to haunt you. Maybe even for years. So if there's anything - anything at all - that suggests potential problems now, it needs to be checked out. Right now. Understood?"

"Yeah, okay. But . . ."

"No buts, Brian."

Brian allowed himself one rather dramatic sigh before replying. "All right. When?"

Turnage took a moment before responding, and it was obvious, when he did answer, that he was not happy with what he was forced to say. "Shit! I have a major reconstruction scheduled in two hours - something I can't postpone. And it will probably take most of the day."

Brian was surprised. "You still work week-ends, Doc? A big international celebrity like you? I'm . . . amazed."

"Some patients don't bother consulting a calendar to decide when they might need help, Mr. Kinney."

Brian paused briefly, remembering the things he had learned about Turnage - both the details of his very public life and the others that existed beneath the surface of the face he showed to the world. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he would have bet good money that the patient, in this case, was not some socialite from Palm Springs looking for a brow-lift; more likely, it was a child from some third-world slum, in desperate need of help. So - for now - he would not make an issue of the timing, except to pass it off with a characteristic snarky comment.

"So now who's stalling?" he asked finally.

Turnage did not deign to offer an answer. "I'll probably be home by eight. Come to my house."

"Why, Doctor," Brian drawled, "is this a ploy to lure me to your lair, away from prying eyes and . . ."

"You really are an arrogant bastard." Turnage was obviously trying to suppress an urge to laugh - without much success. "And no, I have no interest in your shapely ass, except to make sure it reflects perfectly on my skills as a surgeon. But I don't want to put this off any longer than necessary. So . . . tonight. All right?"

"Okay,- but not at eight. It'll have to be later. I have guests to . . ."

"God damn it, Brian. This could be critical, and . . . "

"Ten," Brian interrupted, unperturbed. "Maybe."

"You do realize that I might have plans of my own, don't you?"

That triggered Brian's sardonic chuckle. "You're a superstar, Doc. She'll wait."

The physician wasted another thirty seconds, just muttering to himself before reluctantly agreeing to the revised schedule. "All right, but if you think you can come dragging in here at midnight, don't bother. And make sure you're sober. If you're drunk - or high - you're just wasting my time and yours."

Brian sighed. "You're really determined to ruin my day, aren't you?"

"Not my primary purpose," the doctor retorted, "but, as a bonus, it's not bad."

The line went dead before Brian had a chance to utter the epithet that sprang to mind.


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

Justin was still deeply asleep, snoring softly, when Cynthia arrived at Brian's side, bearing gifts in the form of a pitcher of Trina's legendary margaritas and cocktail glasses.

"Can I tempt you?" she asked, settling beside him.

He couldn't resist the inevitable response. "Sorry, Darlin', but you don't have the right equipment."

She grinned. "Good thing I'm not an insecure little maiden, or you'd have crushed my ego a long time ago."

He accepted a glass of icy mango-colored slush and raised it toward her. "Your lack of insecurity is one of the traits that make you invaluable to me."

She nodded before taking a sip of her own drink and turning to look out toward the end of the peninsula, where Chris McClaren was now standing, a dark silhouette against the first stars of evening. Her eyes were suddenly full of glints of shadow and light. "And him? What makes him invaluable to you?"

Brian swallowed a sigh, noting the hard edge in her voice. "He was just doing his job, Tink."

"Yeah, well, he didn't have to enjoy it so much."

His answer was a soft snort of laughter. "Come on, Cynthia. You're smarter than that. Look again."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that, if you really thought he took any pleasure out of what he had to do, then he's a much better actor than I gave him credit for, and maybe you're not quite as sharp as I thought."

"But . . ."

"Don't waste your breath, Cynthia," said Justin suddenly, not bothering to move or even open his eyes, but demonstrating an intense level of annoyance using nothing more than clipped words and an icy tone. "He's not going to listen to any blasphemous comments about his Saint Christopher."

Brian could not quite swallow a grin. "Not a saint, Sunshine - but not Satan either."

"Why can't you see . . ."

"Why can't you?" Brian's voice was suddenly harsh, veined with impatience. "Because he and I shared a bed? He's not the first, is he? And unless you've been wearing a fucking chastity belt since you took off to New York, I'm thinking you might not have much room to talk. He was doing his job. What fucking part of that do you not understand? And maybe it's not pretty, and it might not be fair, but it's what he's compelled to do."

Justin sat up sharply, and turned to glare into Brian's face. "But he had no right to . . ."

"He had every right - unless it's better to take a chance on being wrong in order to avoid hurting someone's feelings. Is that how you think he should have played it?"

"But he didn't know for sure," said Cynthia quietly, hoping to calm the troubled waters threatening to develop into tsunami-class chaos around her.

Brian closed his eyes. "No. He didn't know. How could he know? So . . . what should he have done?" He paused then, looking first at Cynthia's face before turning to stare directly into Justin's eyes. "You tell me, Blondie. What - exactly - should he have done?"

"He was wrong." Justin's voice was flat, unyielding - the perfect vehicle for expressing the stubborn streak that was an innate part of his nature.

"So you believe," Brian replied coldly. "But . . . what if he's not? Considering what's at stake, would you be willing to take that risk?"

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


The quarter horses were beautiful - both of them; one bay gelding, one chestnut mare. Neither could boast of thoroughbred bloodlines, but they were lovely, nonetheless, and well trained. When Simon Redding opened the rear gates of the horse trailer, they waited quietly for him to lead them out of the narrow enclosure and release them in the small, fenced area behind the cottage greenhouse. They remained quiet and patient, even when the two children waiting outside the fence erupted in squeals and shrill bursts of exuberant laughter, punctuated by leaps and cartwheels and spins and gleeful romps up and down the boards of the fence that rattled the whole structure.

Ron Peterson, who had arranged for Redding to bring the horses to the cottage as a surprise for Gus and Katy, was delighted with both the level of the horses' training and the children's boisterous reaction.

At the corner of the greenhouse, just outside the fence, Brian and Justin stood together, arms entwined and golden skin dappled by shadows from the bougainvillea vines trailing from the roof, sporting the first rosy blooms of the season. Brian's smile was brilliant, and Trina Thomas, from her vantage point at the kitchen window, paused to appreciate the view, noting in particular the lovely contrast of gleaming golden hair and dark auburn locks that took on shades of deep red in the brilliance of direct sunlight. Her eyes were soft as she watched Brian's arms circle Justin's waist to pull the younger man closer against his chest, and she wondered, for a moment, if the two of them had any idea how beautiful they were together. Then she laughed. This was Brian Kinney. Of course he knew.

She was, however, less sure about Justin.

From his place near the back corner of the paddock, Chris McClaren was also watching, a pensive brooding look on his face, as he listened - or pretended to - while Peterson and Redding discussed the pedigree and lineage of local horses. He was not contributing to the conversation, and Trina, with her characteristic sensitivity, noticed that he seemed distracted - almost uneasy - and she felt the weight of empathic understanding settle around her. The FBI agent, no matter how well he managed to conceal it, was living with a pain he could not completely hide.

Meanwhile, Gus and Katy had abandoned their attacks on the fence in order to commence a two-pronged assault on Brian.

"Daddy," Gus shrieked as he came racing toward his father, with Katy on his heels, "can I ride with you? I don't want Simon to just lead me around in the yard. I want to ride . . . with you."

"Me too," Katy added, slightly breathless with excitement.

"Guys," said Justin softly - reasonably, he thought, "I don't think it would be good for Brian's injuries. He's not really well yet, and . . ."

"Don't worry about it, Sonny Boy," Brian interrupted, favoring Justin with a look that could have curdled milk. "Of course, you can ride with me. And Katy too - but one at a time, OK?"

"Brian, you can't . . ."

"Or - if she doesn't want to wait - K-K-K-Katy can ride with Justin."

"Uhhhh, Brian?" Justin was striving for a calm demeanor, but the look in his eyes suggested that he was edging toward blind panic. "You know, I don't . . . I can't . . ."

"Can't what?"

Justin leaned in and whispered something directly into Brian's ear, which prompted Brian to pull back and stare at him with disbelief. "You're kidding."

Justin's cheeks reddened with an angry flush. "I am not. And where did
you ever learn to ride a horse anyway? You're just as much a city boy as me."

Brian grinned. "Well, for one thing, I've fucked a couple of polo players in my time."

Justin huffed a sigh. "Of course you have."

"And for another, Lindsey's family had horses when she was growing up, so . . ."

Still smiling, Brian picked Gus up and set him on the top rail of the fence, then did the same for Katy, before opening the gate and moving into the paddock area.

"If Sunshine's not up to a ride," called McClaren, his smile saying all kinds of things that he would never actually voice, "I'll be glad to fill in for him and take Katy with me."

"Of course you will," muttered Justin. Then he added a sotto voce comment that Brian could not - quite - hear, but he was pretty sure it was something along the lines of, "Over my dead body."

Simon Redding moved back into the paddock to check the tack on the larger of the two horses - the bay gelding. He paused to turn as Brian approached and study the younger man's garb, which consisted of a frayed, faded Aerosmith t-shirt, cut-off jeans, and bare feet. The elderly man fumbled slightly as he adjusted the horse's bit, stunned by the thought that it was just not fair for a man to be able to appear in such shabby garments, and still look as if he had just stepped out of the pages of a glamorous magazine. With a quick sigh, he lifted one gnarled hand and ran it through thick salt-and-pepper grizzled hair before offering up what he considered a pertinent observation.

"Mr. Kinney, no offense, but . . . you're not ready to mount up. You need jeans and boots, and . . ."

By virtue of a Herculean effort, Brian resisted an urge to resort to innuendo in a response about his readiness to 'mount up'. Instead, he played it straight. "Relax, Simon. I'm not planning on taking off on a trail ride. Just a couple of circuits in the paddock - to make sure I haven't forgotten how to handle the reins. It's been a while, and I want to be sure before I heft my son into the saddle with me. If we decide to go galloping down the beach, I'll get changed. Okay?"

Redding obviously still had his doubts, but chose to remain silent, confining his response to a steady gaze that could not quite mask his misgivings, and Brian, always more perceptive than even his closest friends realized, read something in those dark eyes with their surprising glints of amber - something he had not expected to see.

"I'll be careful. I promise."

"Hmmph! Just see that you are. If you get hurt, it's on me, you know."

Brian hesitated for a fraction of a second, fully aware of the handyman's attempt to divert him from a more elemental truth. Redding had not been prepared to care about Brian Kinney - one way or another; had certainly not expected to develop a fondness for him or feel any emotional connection to him, especially having been warned in advance about the man's singular proclivities. He was not naïve enough to assume that he had never run into a gay man in his long lifetime, but he'd always felt fortunate that any he might have encountered had been discreet enough to keep their sexual preferences to themselves. Brian Kinney, apparently, had not even a nodding acquaintance with discretion, and Redding had expected to dislike him intensely, or - at best - to tolerate him in silence. He had certainly never anticipated that he might actually like someone who was the antithesis of everything he had ever been taught to respect or admire.

But he did. And he wasn't particularly happy about it.

To make matters worse, it didn't require a degree in rocket science for the younger man to recognize the connection, which accounted for the tiny smile that he was flashing at Redding. For his part, the caretaker counted himself lucky that the smile was the only response he got, which allowed him to cloak himself in his customary gruff exterior, but did not change the fact that - for one tiny moment, as their eyes met - each recognized a kindred spirit in the other.

Old, visceral pain always recognized itself in passing, even when buried in the most unlikely of companions.

Without a word, Redding grabbed the lead to steady the gelding for Brian to swing up into the saddle, just as Chris McClaren's cell phone rang.

Two things were immediately obvious - that this was definitely not Kinney's first rodeo, as evidenced by his easy posture astride the horse, and that the person calling McClaren had not phoned to deliver good news. The FBI agent's reaction would, in fact, have been comical, if it had not been so frightening when his face went bone white as he dropped the phone, simultaneously jerking his gun from his holster while leaping over the fence to race toward Brian.

At the same moment, faster than the eye could follow, but also - somehow - in a strange kind of suspended animation, the gelding shifted suddenly and reared up, its eyes wide and filled with a blind panic as it tossed its head and pawed the air, trying to dislodge the weight on its back.

For a single moment, there was a heavy silence, except for the horse's frantic breaths. McClaren was the first to break it.

"Shit!" His gun was steady in one hand as the other flailed to grab the panicked horse's reins. "Get back!"

No one moved at first, and it took a moment for any of them to realize to whom his command was directed, as Brian struggled to calm the horse down enough to allow him to maintain his seat in the saddle.

"What the fuck?" yelled Justin, scrambling over the fence and hurrying forward, as both Gus and Katy started to cry, prompting Ron Peterson to run to them and gather both in his arms in an attempt to console them.

By this time, McClaren had managed to wrap his hand around the gelding's lead, and Brian had succeeded in his efforts to settle the horse down, although it was obvious that he'd been extremely rattled by the experience, judging by the pallor of his face, which would probably have alarmed the FBI agent if he'd looked up enough to notice. But he didn't. He was much too focused on the man at whom he was leveling his gun.

Simon Redding just stood there, eyes wide and uncertain.

"I told you to get back," McClaren snapped. "Right now."

"I . . . I don't know what . . ."

"It's not complicated," retorted the FBI agent. "Get - away - from - him."

Justin, eyes huge and filled with shadow, was obviously torn between a desire to jump up and drag Brian off the horse and a need to berate the FBI agent for . . . well, he wasn't entirely sure what McClaren should be berated for, but he was sure he could figure it out PDQ.

Brian, however, though still somewhat shaken, was rational enough to expect an explanation. "Chris," he said calmly, "what's this about?"

McClaren's voice was perfectly level when he replied, but Justin was still certain that the man was concealing a bottomless well of rage. "It seems that our handyman cum jack-of-all-trades has not been entirely candid about his background. Isn't that right, Simon?"

The elderly caretaker cleared his throat prior to responding. "I don't know what you mean."

"Really? So if I asked you about your ties to the city of Pittsburgh, you'd be happy to explain?"

Something dark - and very old - moved in the man's eyes as he studied the FBI agent's face. "I'd answer whatever you asked, but I suspect you already know the whole story, don't you?"

McClaren's smile was cold. He had, by this time, lowered his gun, but he did not put it away, holding it loosely instead, but still at the ready. "I do. Your candor would have been more impressive, if you'd provided the information in the first place. And please don't insult my intelligence by claiming that you didn't realize it was important. The questions were put to you when you were interviewed, prior to granting you clearance to work here."

Redding shrugged. "What was I supposed to say, Agent McClaren? That I have family in Pittsburgh? So what? That I knew who Brian Kinney was before he ever came here? I expect half the country knows who Brian Kinney is. He's not exactly a shrinking violet, now is he?"

"Granted," said the FBI agent. "But half the country isn't related to the delinquents that tried to burn down his home, or to people who work for the movers and shakers who tried to have him killed."

"What?" Redding's eyes were huge now, and filled with dread. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Rachel Charles is your first cousin, isn't she?"

"She is."

"And you've always been very close to her son, Buddy, haven't you?"

Redding sighed. "Not close, exactly. But I . . . did what I could. The boy always needed . . ." He paused then, and rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. "What's he done now?"

McClaren turned to look up at Brian, who was still leaning forward in the saddle, his breathing slightly rough. "You okay, Bud?"

"Yeah." Brian was almost whispering. "But . . . look, Chris, how do you know he . . ."

"I don't," came the abrupt answer, "but I can't afford to take the chance."

"What chance? What do you . . ."

"Suppose it had been Gus on that horse when it decided it didn't want to be ridden? Or suppose you hadn't been lucky enough to hold on?"

"But it was just an accident. Just . . ."

"Could have been, but that wouldn't be much of a comfort if I was standing over your dead body right now, would it? Or over your son's - or Justin's. So just shut the fuck up, Brian, and let me do my job."

"Agent McClaren," said Simon Redding, "I didn't ask for this job. I've been working here - taking care of this place - for many years, so why . . ."

"Because I don't like coincidences, Mr. Redding. Because the connection between you and the Charles family was just a little too obscure to feel natural. Because your young cousin knew enough to shoot his mouth off about where Brian is, and I'm wondering how he knew that - unless he got it from you."

"I didn't tell him."

McClaren stared at the man for a moment, obviously considering how to proceed. Then he took a deep breath. "Pack up your horses and your gear and get out of here. And you should count yourself lucky that I'm willing to let it go at that. If you come within a mile of this place again, while Mr. Kinney is still here, you're going to find out just how far I could take this, if I decided to pursue it. And - if you're very smart, Mr. Redding - you will avoid contacting your Pittsburgh cousins for the foreseeable future, because - and trust me when I say this - I will know about it."

Redding's eyes were huge now. "But you can't do that. This place is . . . I'm responsible for everything here. I have to . . ."

"I'll contact the leasing agents immediately, to make other arrangements. So don't make me repeat myself."

But the caretaker was obviously prepared to argue. "But you can't. I have to . . ."

Unexpectedly, it was Brian who intervened, sliding down from the saddle and stepping forward. "Simon," he said softly, his words inaudible to anyone beyond the group of three, "it will be all right." He looked at McClaren, and the tone of his voice indicated that he was giving an order - not asking for a favor. "Nothing will be said that will prevent you from being able to come back here, once we're gone."

"But . . ."

Brian smiled and leaned forward. "She'll still be here, when you come back."

Simon Redding almost gasped, hearing something in those few words he had never expected to hear from anyone. How could it be that this young stranger - this individual who would be called a pervert and an abomination by most of the people in his own life - had managed to see and understand something no one else had ever guessed?

"Go on now," said McClaren firmly, "and we'll leave it at that. Unless I find out that you've been lying to us - or that you were more involved than you claim."

Redding took a deep breath before looking up to meet Brian's eyes. Then he simply nodded and turned away to reload the horses into their trailer, leaving Brian to deal with panic-stricken children, and McClaren to face off against a furious young blond.

Still, no one said anything more until the caretaker had completed his tasks, loaded his truck, and driven away, while Brian, along with Cynthia and Trina, had concentrated on soothing Gus and Katy and distracting them with a box of beach toys pulled from the storage shed.

But Justin, although smart enough to keep quiet until Redding was gone, was not about to drop a subject near and dear to his heart.

"What the fuck was that all about?" he demanded, as soon as the handyman made good his departure. "You had no right to treat him like that. He's been nothing but helpful and supportive, and . . ."

But Chris McClaren had already had a hell of a morning, and he was not remotely inclined to allow Brian Kinney's young partner to use him for target practice.

"Mr. Taylor," he said sharply, "just in case you've forgotten, Mr. Kinney's safety is my responsibility. Mine - not yours, not the caretakers, or the staff's, or even his own security team's. Mine. And I invite you to consider something. Just suppose the phone call that alerted me to Redding's connection to some rather dubious individuals in Pittsburgh had come a half-hour later. And just suppose that, during that time, he'd convinced Brian to allow him to take Gus out on one of those horses - the ones he'd guaranteed to be safe for the children - and it turned out that he wasn't at all the soft-hearted old caretaker that he seemed? What would it have done to Brian, if all the rage and hatred that was directed at him, that caused his injuries, were to be redirected at his son?

"Now - do I really think Simon Redding is capable of that kind of evil? From what I've seen, I'd say no. But what if I'm wrong? What if you're wrong? You look at that child, Mr. Taylor - the one who is so much like his father, it's almost unbelievable - and you tell me how I would ever be able to live with myself if I simply assumed that the information I was given was just coincidental, that there was nothing to worry about - and my carelessness cost the life of that child. You tell me that - okay?"

It was extremely rare for Justin Taylor to be stricken speechless, but, for the moment, he couldn't think of a single thing to say.

McClaren turned to walk away, still shaken by the close call and uncertain about what had caused it; he thought it would be a good time to walk the perimeter. But he paused long enough to look over at Brian, to make sure that the children were recovering from their fright, and that the man himself was as unharmed as he seemed.

"You really all right?" he asked.

Brian's smile was, perhaps, a little less glib than usual. "Yeah. I really am."

"No more horses. Okay?"

"Okay."

McClaren simply nodded and turned away again.

"Chris?"

The FBI agent paused again, hearing something unusual, something unexpected, in Brian's voice. "Yeah?"

"Thanks."

It was just one word, quick and sharp and almost without inflection. And yet it spoke volumes. "Just doing my job."

He made good his escape then, almost running as he headed down the beach. Behind him, Brian turned to look at Justin, noting the anger still simmering in the depths of beautiful blue eyes, and sighed. It would be pointless, he knew, to try to explain why he'd felt compelled to express his gratitude; Justin was not yet ready to listen to rational explanations, and the stony set of his jaw seemed to indicate that he might never be.

Perhaps it was time for a new focus, and building castles in the sand was a logical choice.

At least Gus and Katy would be quickly diverted, but Justin? Brian sighed again. Not so much.


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The sea was gilded briefly by the final flares of sunlight, and the stars rushed in behind the fading day, as bold and brilliant as a Van Gogh canvas.

Yes, thought Brian. An almost perfect day, if he could just manage to ignore the anger still simmering in his young lover's eyes, and if he could just forget, for a while, that he still had another angry individual to confront before the day was finally over.

But surely, he could relax his guard and enjoy the remainder of the evening.

A shout of laughter sounded from up the beach as the bonfire flared to life and the hard guitar beats of the Kings of Leon's Sex on Fire rose in the gathering darkness.

Yes, he could be reasonably sure that the rest of the evening would be all right.

Cynthia favored him with a fond smile, and Justin decided - against all odds - to settle back against Brian's chest and let the argument rest. For a while.

And if something in the back of his mind suggested that it was always dangerous to assume too much, he decided to ignore it and enjoy the moment.

 

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