- Text Size +

 

Chapter 45

Ring the bells that still can ring;
Forget your perfect offering.
There is a crack, a crack in everything;
That's how the light gets in.

 Anthem
n -- Leonard Cohen

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

Officially, she didn't have an office. Streetwalkers, call girls, prostitutes, waitresses - even assistant chefs at prestigious private clubs - usually didn't, although, in the last instance, she did have a tiny cubbyhole in The Club's basement where she could prepare meal plans and research recipes and food sources, but definitely could not do anything that might reveal her true identity. In addition, even if she'd had an office in her official capacity as a detective with the Pittsburgh PD, it would have been too risky for her to be seen in the vicinity of police headquarters, barring the occasional 'bust' for suspicion of soliciting in her streetwalker/alter ego - or whatever trumped up charge her colleagues might come up with when they needed to contact her directly.

So Sharon Briggs had to make do and adapt to circumstances.

Loitering anywhere near the official seats of power would have been risky; being seen in the posh neighborhood where her very private townhouse was located, or where her parents lived, while still in character, would be just as dangerous. On the other hand, hanging around Liberty Avenue and its less than sophisticated environs was just another day in the life of inhabitants of the city's underbelly - an environment where she fit in perfectly.

It was more than convenient, especially since there was a private, virtually invisible entrance to the one building that provided exactly what she needed - a place where she could discard her public persona at the door - like a coat tossed onto a handy peg - and take refuge in a place where she could review the information from the case to her heart's content, without worrying about what anyone might see or think.

Lucky that Brian Kinney had an almost obsessive desire for privacy - sometimes.

She smiled when she thought about it: sometimes - when he had no interest in throwing his arrogance and defiance into the faces of whoever he might choose to offend, at any given moment. At any rate, the secluded, private entrance to the Kinnetik office building was easily accessible, but only so long as one knew exactly where it was and exactly how to use it.

She keyed in the appropriate pass codes in order to disengage the digital lock on the exterior door and temporarily suspend the intruder alarm, but only after taking a good look around to be sure no one was watching and then checking the status on the security scanner to confirm that the alleyway around her was as deserted as it appeared. Never let it be said that Brian Kinney would tolerate anything less than state-of-the-art technology in his determination to protect his royal realm, of which Kinnetik was the core. Thus she was careful to make certain that none of the protocols had been breeched before she turned and waved a dismissing hand at the figure waiting in a dark vehicle at the end of the alley.

She moved inside quickly, just as her partner drove away into the night, intent on pursuing a few leads on his own - or something. Actually, she was not sure that what he was actually pursuing was not a gorgeous, arrogant, incredibly complex representative of the medical profession, but - if he was - it could not be argued that he had no right to a little down time of his own.

Nobody had worked harder to explore all the nooks and crannies of this investigation than Jared Hilliard, and everybody deserved a little break once in a while.

Including her, she thought ruefully. Only - unlike her current partner - she had not recently come across anyone with whom she wanted to share her intimate moments. Not for a very long time. But she didn't waste any time lamenting the solitude of her life, because she had more important things to do. Still, she couldn't resist a tiny smile as her mind wandered back to the semi-halcyon days of her youth, when she had believed in fairy tales, when she had been perfectly willing to see Brian Kinney as the hero of her own version of Sleeping Beauty, when she hadn't yet come to terms with who she really was - or who he really was. Days of innocence - "or stupidity," said an immediately recognizable sardonic voice rising from her not quite sub-consciousness. The smile became an impatient sigh, as she reminded herself that she needed to maintain her focus and remember that a few things needed to be checked out, andthis was a perfect time doe it. She had worked the early shift today, and concluded her duties at The Club with time to spare, and Rachel Charles - her landlady and housemate - would still be working for several more hours, leaving Sharon, AKA Shirley, enough free time to find a few answers to some puzzling questions.

When she stepped into the soft shadows of the private entry of the building, she tried to convince herself that she wasn't really feeling an actual, physical sensation of tension draining from her body; then she smiled. She could deny it all she liked, but denial changed nothing. The soft lighting, the pleasant warmth, the faint but distinctive fragrance of citrus blended with subtle spices - a natural aroma that attested to the exquisite taste of a man who would not tolerate any variety of artificial air freshener although he could, on occasion, be convinced to sample the delights of praline-scented candles - all of the details of the office provided a sense of welcome, of belonging, of comfort. A rare effect in a commercial establishment.

On the other hand, maybe it was only that it all spoke to her familiarity with its owner. This was Brian Kinney's domain - a place where she would always feel welcome, unless she ever screwed it up and found herself on his shit list, in which case all the pleasant scents, comfortable warmth, or easy lighting in the world would not compensate for the kind of cold fury the man could generate, almost on demand. Thus, that shit list would forever remain a place where she definitely did not wish to be.

Here, secure within the environment Brian provided, she could always relax, always abandon the public persona and simply be herself and bask in the moment. Such an effect was, of course, not a primary motivation for her desire to solve this case and protect the victim of such savagery, but as an added bonus, it was nothing to sneeze at.

She made her way into the primary security office and hung her leather jacket on a convenient peg by the door. As she'd expected, the office was minimally staffed; it was, after all, virtually the middle of the night, on a week-end. Thus, only one of Lance Mathis' staff members - a brawny young college student named Kyle Owens - was seated at the CCTV monitoring station, dividing his time between keen oversight of the security system's all-inclusive views of the premises and jotting down notes from an array of textbooks scattered across his desk. In addition, another man - uniformed and less brawny, but more intimidating somehow - was just making his exit through the doorway leading to the main section of the building. Sam Delaney was ready to make his rounds, his route and schedule completely random and thus impossible to anticipate or predict as motion sensors located at strategic points throughout the structure tracked his progress.

Briggs smiled. Lance Mathis had trained his people extremely well.

"Kyle," she said softly, by way of greeting.

"Ma'am," he replied politely, running one hand through thick ash blonde hair and flashing a smile that probably gained him a lot of attention from a lot of buxom young coeds, "you're getting to be a regular around here."

He did not actually know her name - better that way for all concerned - but he knew enough to maintain a respectful demeanor and to put two and two together and not come up with seven.

She smiled. "Best working conditions in the whole city," she explained, before heading toward the small coffee bar behind the desk. "Not to mention, the best coffee."

His smile broadened into a grin. "Hey. We work for Brian Kinney. Can you imagine anybody having the nerve to serve him anything less than the best?"

"Good point," she admitted. "Has any new data come through?"

"Two new files," he answered. "Big ones, by the look of them."

She paused, vaguely alarmed. "Kyle, you didn't look at them, did you?"

He put on a pout, and she almost laughed, because it made him look much more like a ten-year-old accused of stealing from the cookie jar than a young man on the brink of maturity and already on a short list for acceptance into an FBI training program. "No, Ma'am. Mr. Mathis made it clear that those files are strictly need-to-know, and I don't qualify. Besides, I don't have the encryption key and don't really want it, if you know what I mean."

She turned to study his face - a quite lovely face, she thought, with high cheekbones and an adorable cleft chin, if such things even remotely interested her. They didn't, but she was certainly self-aware enough to note that it was rather a shame sometimes. Still, one couldn't manufacture interest where none existed, but she was curious at the note of sadness she'd heard in his voice. "What do you mean?"

He did not quite shudder, but she thought it was a near thing. "I can't . . . I don't understand how anyone could do the kind of things those bastards did to him. And I'm not sure I want to, if you get my drift."

"I do," she answered gently, "but you're going into a profession that specializes in ugliness, Kyle, and you're not going to like a lot of things that you see. Have you thought of that? If I recall correctly, you want to study profiling - right? That's not exactly a walk in the park, you know."

This time his smile was slightly scapegrace. "I know. I'm a complete contradiction in terms, and it does bother me a little bit. In one way, I'd prefer never having to confront the kind of gruesome horror that compels monsters like this to do the things they do, but . . . if everyone feels that way and behaves that way, well . . . then who's going to stop them?"

She nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. Sometimes, all she really wanted to do was run to her home and bury her head under silken covers and never venture out into the ugliness again. Sometimes . . . but not tonight.

"Have you ever made an effort to talk to Chris McClaren?" she asked.

He turned back to his monitors, watching as Sam Delaney made his way across the front lobby to test the primary entrance. "Not really," he replied, careful to keep his voice non-committal. "He's always been too busy."

Briggs grinned. "When they get back, you talk to him. I'm pretty sure he'll be glad to take a moment, for you."

Exquisite eyes - parti-colored but leaning toward deep charcoal gray - turned to study her, obviously curious. But she just winked and went about her business, confident that McClaren and his very discriminating eye would be charmed by young Owens and his diffidence - among other things. Carrying her perfectly prepared coffee - one sugar and one dash of hazelnut creamer (she could only imagine Brian's shudder of distaste) - she entered the tiny office that had been set aside for this specific investigation and secured against busybody intervention by anyone not authorized to enter.

She took a moment to catch her breath and enjoy her coffee as she settled at one of the two beautifully-equipped work stations in the small office. It was rare for her to sit and take a moment to relax, and she was suddenly extremely aware of a bone-deep weariness she seldom allowed herself to acknowledge.

Suppressing an urge to sigh, she quickly clicked the remote for the Bose system, calling up Regina Belle's lovely version of Dream in Color, as she logged in on the secure server and opened the new files forwarded from the FBI team. One glance confirmed that young Owens had been absolutely correct in his observation; both were enormous, which indicated that she and her partner had guessed correctly about Henry Flagg. He might very well provide all the evidence they needed to bring this investigation to a satisfactory close, and to bring down the mighty fortress that The Club perceived itself to be.

The first file was a massive spreadsheet tracing funds in and out of the various accounts overseen by Flagg, interesting primarily because of the vast sums involved and the speed at which it was shifted and disbursed. It was immediately obvious that this was no simple social organization, but tracing all the financial transfers, from a stunning plethora of sources to an equally complex array of destinations, was not something that she was equipped to do. That she would leave to the accountants and the computer gurus.

The second file was, perhaps, less factual or vital to the purpose of the investigation, but far more colorful and historically interesting, including various accounts of the history of the organization and the individuals who had been integral to its development and continued existence. There were even scraps of diary entries by the original founder and his descendants, and a quick perusal convinced Sharon that she would need to find the time, before the end of this investigation, to read through the manuscript, always providing she could decipher the faded and semi-flamboyant handwriting. The original documents had been scanned with meticulous attention to detail, but faded ink was still faded ink, and only CGI enhancement would make it more legible - an idea she might very well explore at a later date.

For now, she had to confine her study to more easily accessible, more immediate events and facts - things that might provide clues concerning the case and hints about new directions to take in the conduct of the investigation. Things like sponsorship of specific events and causes, as in strenuous, albeit discreet, opposition to Proposition 14, massive support of a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage, and a truly staggering financial commitment to the senatorial campaign of ultra-right wing city councilman Laurence Beddoes, who would, within a few years, become nationally known as a bosom buddy and political confidant of a certain female gun-toting, deerhunting, malaprop-prone, lip-sticked pit bull, who would also happen to be a transient semi-governor of a great state of the far North.

Briggs shuddered to imagine what might have happened had that campaign succeeded as she recalled the councilman's campaign pledges regarding Liberty Avenue. Luckily, the voters of Pennsylvania had recognized the threat and refused to be affected by attempts to promote homophobia, under the guise of "Christian family values". She sighed as she conceded that it remained to be seen whether or not the population of the whole country would prove to be that smart.

She sipped her coffee, pausing to grab a couple of Advil from a bottle in the desk drawer, to beat back the beginning of the headache just flaring behind her eyes, and forced herself to concentrate on the information at hand. This was no time for philosophical speculation, even though what she was reading was almost impossible to swallow without some sort of constructed response. The assumptions and fundamental creed of this group was anathema to her - counter to everything she believed - but she could not deny that they were extremely clever in their attempts to disguise their bigotry as adherence to religious dogma and genuine concern for the welfare of the public. Opposition to adoption by gay couples was voiced as philanthropic solicitude for the welfare of the children in question. The drive to prohibit gay marriage was predicated on the assumption that the fundamental family unit would be destroyed before a flood of depravity - that homosexuals would, if given a chance, take over the world and pervert it for their own uses.

Further reading revealed that Club members were equally opposed to financial aid for the poor, government oversight of financial institutions, universal healthcare, liberal immigration laws, and foreign aid - unless, of course, it was distributed in order to assure an endless supply of fossil fuels.

As she read on, she began to wonder if there were any right-wing causes that The Club had not supported during its long life. It had been particularly active in efforts to prolong segregation, to support virulent anti-Communist witchhunts of the 50's, and to defeat the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment. In addition, it had funded demonstrations opposing Pro-Choice and gay rights and gun control and supporting capitol punishment.

She sighed. "A long and glorious history," she muttered, "if your name happens to be Joe McCarthy."

"You do know," said a disembodied voice from the shadowed hallway, "that talking to yourself is the first sign of dementia."

She smiled. "Are you spying on me, Emmett?"

The tall, slender nelly-bottom swept into the office with a characteristic swish. "Don't be silly, mon ami. Maybe - if you were wearing one of those fabulous, trademark Sharon Briggs fashions to-die-for, I might stoop to snoop, but drab little kitchen-maid scrubs? Not remotely my style, Darling."

Sharon let her eyes sweep down his body, noting tight, beige leather pants and a tangerine-colored silk shirt, and her smile became a broad grin. "Point taken," she admitted. "Now what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be getting ready for the early rush at Babylon?"

"It's a little too early yet," said Drew Boyd, stepping in behind the man who had increasingly become the focal point of his life. "And with Cynthia temporarily out of the picture, we make it a point to stop by here every evening. Just to touch base, and . . ."

"And?" she prodded, when it became obvious he was not planning to complete the thought.

"And," said Emmett gently, "to remind anyone who might be interested - or tempted - that Brian Kinney doesn't stand alone. That there are others willing to step forward."

The undercover policewoman nodded, and turned back to her computer screen, wondering whether or not she should voice the question that was crying out to be asked.

"What about Ted?" There was, she figured, no point in beating around the bush.

Emmett did not meet her eyes. "His access has been restricted."

She nodded, easily identifying the despair that lay beneath his clipped response. "And how are you dealing with that?"

Emmett dropped into a chair at the adjacent desk and regarded her with a tiny frown. "I don't know," he admitted. "I would never have believed I'd have reason to doubt him. But sometimes, I don't think I know who he is any more. I mean, for years and years - and even more years, Brian was our . . ." He sighed, and clasped his hands in front of him, pausing for a moment to inspect the status of his manicure - and consider his choice of words. "He was our scapegoat," he said finally, very flatly. "He was our whipping boy, for everything that ever went wrong. If life sucked, we could always find something to blame Brian for. If our feelings were hurt, or if Michael was upset because he didn't think Brian was paying enough attention to him, or if we wanted to do something but Brian was the only one of us who could afford it. In short, whatever ugly, bothersome circumstance happened in our lives, we could always take comfort from blaming Brian. And don't misunderstand me - sometimes he deserved it, because, well, you know as well as I do, Sharon, that he can be the world's biggest asshole, when he wants to be. But it really didn't matter if he deserved it or not, because we blamed him anyway. For everything, even if he might not have anything to do with the original problem, but it . . . it was always a comfort. And Brian . . . he never even seemed to notice. Although now I think I know better. I think he always noticed, and just chose to take whatever we dished out. Because he could. Because he was strong enough, tough enough to deal with it, and let us take comfort from it." His smile was slightly tenuous. "How sick is that - really? But now, it's not the same any more. Because there's no way to deny that Brian has earned the right to be treated better. And Ted . . . it's almost as if he can't stand to realize that we should have known better - that we had no right to do what we did, and use Brian to take out our frustrations on. It's as if he can't stand the idea that we were wrong, that Brian was better than that."

She turned once more to stare at her computer, but her mind was still caught up in mulling over what he'd said. "You think that his belief in himself depended on being able to feel superior to Brian?"

Emmett huffed a sigh. "Yeah. In a way. Morally superior, anyway. Maybe even intellectually, in a strange, limited way. And now . . ."

"Now," said Drew Boyd, not bothering to hide a nuance of anger, "he's having to deal with the fact that his so-called superiority was all in his mind."

"Drew," said Emmett gently, "Ted's just . . . confused. He's a good man. He really is, but . . ."

"Yeah," replied the football player without a single nuance of sympathy. "A good man. The very same good man who once called you . . . what was it? A piece of trash from Hazelhurst, Mississippi - was that it? At a time when you were trying to help him shake off a drug addiction."

"Yeah," Emmett admitted. "But he didn't mean it."

Drew moved closer and laid a gentle hand on Emmett's shoulder. "After the fact, maybe he remembered that he didn't mean it. But at the time he said it, he did, and I think you'll realize that, if you think about it a bit. He was using something against you - something intimate and personal - that he'd picked up from knowing you so well, and that's just dirty pool, in my book. You don't say something like that to someone unless it's coming from your heart, at the time. And his attitude toward Brian was genuine too. Because it's always easy to offer regrets, after the fact. I'm not about to try to defend the Brian of the past; I didn't know him then, did I? But I know him now, and what I see when I look at him is a man who refuses to pretend to be anything other than what he is. I have no doubt that he can be arrogant and annoying as shit, but anyone who is that honest, that frank about who he is, deserves a lot more than playing target for people who need an outlet for their frustration."

"But Drew," Emmett replied softly, "I did it too."

"And are you proud of it?"

"No, but . . ."

"And would you do it again?"

"God, no!"

"Okay then. One final question. Given the chance, would Ted do it again?"

Emmett's silence spoke volumes.

"I rest my case," Drew said softly, as he dropped a kiss on the top of Emmett's head.

Sharon Briggs was regarding them both with fond smiles. "I thought football players were supposed to be dumb jocks," she laughed.

Emmett just smiled, but Boyd responded with a quick snicker. "I'm going to let that pass, since I've yet to figure just which one of your personalities is the real thing - socialite or psycho. But, assuming you're engaged in reviewing information for the case, could you use some help?"

"If it's safe to assume that Babylon will survive your absence for a couple of hours, I could use some extra eyes and, maybe, a different perspective. There's an awful lot of data here." Grateful for the assistance, she transferred several sub-files to the computer on the desk where Emmett was seated before returning to her swift but thorough review of the data already showing on her monitor.

As it happened, it was only a matter of minutes before Emmett spotted something interesting - something that might prove valuable, hiding, so to speak, in plain sight.

"Did you take a look at some of the older membership lists?" he asked, nodding toward a spreadsheet displaying a column of names and addresses, dated 1996.

She rose and moved to stand behind him, leaning forward to read the notation that he'd highlighted.

R. J. Peterson III, 229 Claridge Rd, Mt. Lebanon, Pa.

"Well, I'll be damned," she said with a grin. "I wouldn't have thought he was the type."

"Maybe he wasn't," Emmett answered. "His name isn't on the current roster, is it?"

"No. I'd have noticed."

"In that case, it might be safe to assume there were some philosophical differences that resulted in a parting of the ways."

Briggs once more looked at the name and address that had caught his attention. "Same address, I think. But it would be, wouldn't it? Family home, old money, and all." She paused, mentally exploring the possibilities. "I know he's had some problems coming to terms with the gay issue, but I find it hard to believe that he could have anything in common with these cretins. I don't think Lindsey could have come from that kind of environment, do you?"

Emmett took a deep breath. "I don't know, Honey. Have you met her mother? She's pretty . . . toxic."

Briggs laughed. "Then maybe the membership was her idea."

Emmett nodded. "Wouldn't surprise me. That woman makes my dick shrivel up and go looking for a place to hide."

Drew Boyd grinned, slipping an arm around Emmett's shoulders, obviously determined to keep "that woman" as far away from his companion as possible, as he added, "The old man might have just been one of those husbands who goes along with whatever the little wifey wants. But - given how he's been behaving during this whole debacle - I think he might have mellowed. Or something might have happened that provided a wake-up call."

She sank back into her chair. "Is Lindsey still at the hotel?"

"For now," Emmett answered. "Pending something more permanent."

"Such as?"

Emmett grinned. "What do you think?"

She didn't have to think very long to come up with an elementary truth. "I think that Brian Kinney has already instructed you to look for a better place for her and his son."

Emmett nodded. "Pending her approval, of course."

"Had any luck?"

He sighed. "Not yet. Househunting is time-consuming, and I've been a little busy. Lindsey has looked around a bit, on her own, but Brian isn't comfortable with leaving her to find the right place." He grinned abruptly. "He might have grown up a lot, but he's still a primo control freak, and no way is he going to sit back and let someone else scope out the perfect place for Lindsey and Gus. Still, I do need to find something, ASAP, considering he is definitely not famous for his patience. He also mentioned it to Cynthia, but she's had her hands full running Kinnetik, especially since Teddie is - well, you know."

Briggs thought for a moment; then she scribbled something down on a notepad and passed it to him.

"What's this?"

"Realtor," she answered. "He oversees the townhouse complex where I live - when I manage to dispense with all the alter-egos and find my way home. It's quiet, elegant, very exclusive, beautifully designed - a gated community with a lovely section of separate houses, where the security is state of the art. There's a big park with lots of playgrounds for the neighborhood kids and a community center with pool and tennis courts and gym, and some of the best private schools in the state are nearby." Then it was her turn to grin. "It might be a bit on the conventional side, for our avant garde Mr. Kinney, but I'll bet Lindsey would love it, and so would Gus."

Emmett grinned. "I think you just said the magic word. If Gus loves it, his daddy will just have to grin and bear it."

"I wonder," said Briggs, softly sitting back in her chair, her eyes unfocused and lost in the shadows around them. "Do you suppose he'd talk to us? Ron Peterson, I mean. Do you think he'd be able to sever all those good-old-boy connections and fill in some blanks for us?"

"Depends on how you approach him," said Emmett. Then he smiled. "Or who asks him."

Abruptly, Briggs stood up and grabbed her handbag from the desk, already moving toward the door.

"Where are you . . ."

"Never too late for a visit with an old friend," she called back over her shoulder as she disappeared into the hallway.

"She's very focused, isn't she?" remarked Boyd, settling into the chair she'd vacated.

"Ummm." Emmett was thoughtful. "Yeah. She is. Only . . ."

"Only what?"

"She has a tendency to ignore details that don't quite fit into her view of the way things ought to be."

"Such as?"

Emmett smiled. "Well, I've only heard this second-hand, you understand. I wasn't around at the time. But I don't think she and Lindsey were ever exactly friends."

"No? Why not?"

The smile faltered, and then reformed, as a gigantic grin. "Let's just say that there was one major, Colossus-sized bone of contention between them."

"Which was . . ."

"Yep. You guessed it. In the gospel according to Michael Novotny, they fought a huge, take-no-prisoners, world-class war over something that neither one of them ever had a prayer of having. Namely, one arrogant, smug, self-serving bastard named Brian Kinney."

"Oh. You mean he . . . he never told them . . ."

The grin became a snort of laughter. "Oh, he told them, all right. That's never changed. Brian's never tried to hide who he is. Only they thought - they both thought - that he just hadn't met the right girl - the one who could change him, make him see the light and become the man he was meant to be, the man they both wanted him to be. And that was despite the fact that Lindsey, at least, already knew how she swung. It didn't make much sense, really, but he was like some kind of . . . challenge to them. Like the brass ring they were both determined to grab, even though he had no interest in being grabbed."

"And he just let them fight it out?"

Emmett, by this time, was laughing steadily. "Let them? Shit, I'd bet good money that he got off on it. I mean, think about it, Drew; who wouldn't? Two beautiful, intelligent, cultured women, fighting over the self-proclaimed stud of Liberty Avenue. I know his ego never really needed stroking, but he had to get a kick out of it, didn't he?"

"So . . . what? This is going to be a rematch?"

"Oh, I doubt that," Emmett replied. "He doesn't have the patience for that kind of nonsense any more. But it ought to be interesting, nevertheless."

Drew nodded, and spent a moment thinking over all he'd heard. "Soooo," he said finally, "do you think he ever . . . sampled the merchandise?"

Emmett grinned. "I don't think Brian Kinney ever - ever - turned his back on anything without finding out - at least once - what exactly he was going to be missing."

"So you think he managed to get it up for Lindsey?"

"Drew," Emmett replied with a droll smirk. "He was twenty years old. He could have gotten it up for a knothole in a hickory tree, for God's sake."

The football player chuckled. "Sooooo . . . Lindsey?"

Emmett nodded. "I think so. He's never said - exactly; nor has she. But, once in a while, one of them will make some remark that seems to suggest . . . something. He once referred to her as 'midsummer madness'. Not completely sure what that meant, but sometimes, there's something . . . Can't quite define it, can I - but it's there anyway. And he's still . . ."

"Still what?"

Emmett sighed. "In some ways - maybe in all ways - for Lindsey, he's still the one that got away."

Boyd fell silent again, his eyes dark and filled with speculation. "Tough on her partner," he observed.

"Yeah," Emmett agreed, "that was Melanie's initial reason for hating Brian, because he got there first - either figuratively or literally, and I'm not sure even Melanie knows which. And then there was the whole thing about Lindsey wanting him to be Gus's father, when Melanie had a different idea. Seems she has a bunch of first cousins, and she'd made up her mind that one of them should be the sperm donor, or - if that didn't work out - even an anonymous contribution from a sperm bank, but Lindsey . . . well, you can probably guess what she said to that. She was determined that she was going to have Brian Kinney's child, no matter what, and Melanie couldn't convince her otherwise. So . . . reason number two, on a list that ultimately proved to be infinite. Still, despite all that, Melanie had her chance. Don't make the mistake of thinking Brian deliberately caused the rift between Lindsey and Melanie - even if he didn't always make an effort to try to resolve it. But Mel chose to make Brian an issue, when Lindsey would have eventually resigned herself to letting him go."

"Really?"

Again, Emmett sighed. "Well, mostly. Maybe."

Unexpectedly, Boyd laughed. "He really is a loose cannon, isn't he?"

"Yeah." Emmett's voice revealed a strange, slightly abashed nuance of pride and approval, threaded through a foundation of rueful but steady resolve. "He really is."

Boyd leaned forward and studied the expression in lovely green eyes. "And you really like him, don't you?"

Emmett's smile was warm and natural. "Yeah, I do."

Then he paused, and his eyes went wide as he sat up straight, almost stiff. "Oh, my God!" he breathed. "My God! I do. I really, really do. And that's just . . . amazing."

And totally unexpected. He really liked Brian Kinney - not tolerated, not indulged, not envied, not lusted after (well, not only lusted after).

He liked Brian Kinney, and was only just now realizing it. Somewhere, between where they'd been just a few months ago and where they were now, Brian had stopped being a close acquaintance and become a friend. A very good friend. Or even . . . could it really be that, at some strange moment when Emmett had not been paying attention, Brian Kinney had become family?

What on earth was the world coming to?


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

The "loose cannon" in question was currently engaged in trying to find new and original insults to fling at his physical therapist who, Brian was convinced, had missed his true calling as a willing and eager assistant to the Marquis de Sade.

"Can you explain to me," he snarled, as Jackson concentrated on working the muscles of his lower back, "why I'm lying here grunting and sweating and - ouch, Goddamit! - enduring the tortures of the damned, on a Saturday evening when I should be out enjoying the spring warmth of the beach and the pleasure of ogling my lover's gorgeous ass?"

Jackson did not answer immediately, focusing instead on a particularly stubborn knot at the base of his patient's spine. "Two reasons," he said finally, after achieving his goal of eliciting another harsh grunt from Brian. "A - this is Saturday, which means it's not part of the regular schedule, which means that - just this once - you have to accommodate yourself to my schedule, rather than the other way around. I do have a life, you know - stuff that happens outside the orbit of the great and powerful Brian Kinney. And B - because your narcissistic ego manages to overcome your flagrant hedonistic tendencies sufficiently to insist that you submit to this so-called torture, in order to make sure that your body is as perfect in fact as it is in your mind."

With deceptive ease, the therapist shifted Brian and rolled him over on his side in order to concentrate on a tender area low on his hip. "Ouch!" Brian snapped, suddenly remembering something from the earliest days of his involuntary exile. "Hey, wasn't I originally supposed to have a female therapist? Why are you even here?"

"If you'd prefer a woman . . ."

The grin was immediate, and only slightly lecherous. "Never gonna happen. But at least a woman wouldn't throw me around like a sack of potatoes."

Jackson's smile was somewhat lopsided. "I'd have figured you'd like being 'thrown around'."

"Not my style, Mate," the patient retorted. "But seriously, didn't somebody tell me my therapist would be . . ."

"Yeah. Somebody did. Her name is Janet Lormand, and she was scheduled to do your therapy. But she had an accident - nailed by a hit-and-run driver on the I-40 - and wound up in intensive care. Still recovering, I hear, so she sure wasn't in any shape to deal with you and your attitude."

Brian glared. "This pillow stinks."

Jackson shifted slightly to concentrate on the tendons and muscles of the upper thigh. "Yeah, you said that already - a few hundred times. Tell you what. If you behave yourself and let me finish up here - without a major queen-out - I promise I'll buy you a brand new pillow of your very own - before your therapy is finished."

"I do not queen out. Ever."

Jackson opted to ignore the disclaimer, his silence more than adequate to express his disdain.

"Now that's something you don't see every day," said Cynthia from the doorway where she stood smiling while breathing deep to enjoy the heady aroma of the Brandy Alexander which Trina had prepared for her.

If she'd hoped to get a rise out of Brian, she was doomed to disappointment. "Nothing you haven't seen before," he replied. "Comes with the territory."

She grinned. "One of the perks, actually. Money, power, prestige . . . and an occasional glimpse of the legendary package. What more could a woman want?"

For a moment, he debated whether or not to be annoyed; then he smiled. "Since you're not streaking in here, panic-stricken, with a towel to cover up the family jewels, I'm assuming that Katy and Gus are otherwise occupied."

"Mr. Peterson is educating them about tidal pools, while Gus is tossing shells at sea gulls and Katy is paying attention with one ear, while simultaneously demonstrating how to dance with her custom-designed Mary Poppins umbrella," she answered, moving into the room and settling into a ridiculously comfortable, faded old armchair. "And they're having a ball. It's a shame he was born rich. He'd have made a hell of a teacher."

"He made a pretty fair investment banker," Brian retorted, before pausing to take a deep, pained breath and glaring his resentment at his unrepentant torturer.

Cynthia studied her boss's face, reading something in his expression - pre-glare - and was briefly astonished - and inordinately pleased - to realize she had finally achieved success in reaching a goal she had once expected to remain forever beyond her reach; she had finally learned to 'read' Brian Kinney - not exactly like a book, perhaps, but well enough to sense when he was keeping something to himself. And better - just maybe - than almost anyone else, up to and including the young man who had managed to become the center of Brian's existence.

Then she smiled. Yes - definitely better than Justin, a truth that was proven by the fact that said young man did not yet understand what he had achieved.

"He's changed," she said softly. "Hasn't he?"

Brian turned to study her face, knowing, somehow, that - even though it had been phrased in the form of a question - it wasn't actually a request for information. More a search for confirmation. "Yeah. He has."

"A pretty big change, if I'm any judge."

His smile this time was rueful. "Gigantic."

She debated pushing for more information, but decided against it. The look in his eyes was sufficient proof that he had said all he meant to say. Then he changed the subject - bluntly, as was his wont - and the moment was past.

"When you get back," he said firmly, "I want you to get in touch with the halfway house - the one over on McMillan Avenue. Justin will give you the number." He smiled then, and she was mildly amused to spot a nuance of embarrassment in his eyes. "Apparently, there's a resident there who will prove to be completely indispensable to our operation."

"Justin's new best friend?"

"Yeah. Although I think I'll reserve judgment until I see for myself, but . . ."

"What exactly am I supposed to do with the guy?" she asked, as a distant rumble of thunder vibrated against the bay window behind her.

"Put him to work. According to Justin, he makes the best coffee in the civilized world. Better than Emmett. Even better than Trina. If that's true . . ."

She laughed softly. "You want me to hire him - for his coffee."

Brian shrugged. "I've hired people for less."

Remembering a parade of pretty - but transient - faces, she could not disagree.

"Okay. You're the boss. And speaking of that . . ."

Jackson repositioned Brian again, back onto his stomach where he could bury his face in the squishy surface of the much-maligned pillow. "Yeah," he sighed. "I know. How much trouble is he giving you?"

She sipped at her drink, and had to resist an urge to roll her eyes to express her delight over the ambrosial taste. "He's not. Not overtly, anyway. Mostly, he's just . . . silent. It's like having a ghost on the premises. Normally, he doesn't actually speak to me at all. Everything is done via e-mail memo, and mostly through a third party."

"But he's doing his job?"

"What's left of it," she sighed. Then she took a deep breath. "You do realize that you're still paying him a small fortune for . . ."

"For basic computer data entry?" he interrupted. "Yeah. I know."

"And so does he," she pointed out. "He's got to be wondering, Brian. Look, I know he hasn't done anything to deserve a break, but . . ."

"Leave it, Tink," he said finally, suppressing a gasp as Jackson hit a particularly tender spot. "I still haven't decided - I don't know where to go from here. He fucked up this time; that's for sure. But other times . . . other times, he's come through for me, so I need time to weigh all my options."

"Okay," she said with a smile, somehow relieved that it wasn't easy for him to dismiss old loyalties and make decisions based entirely on recent events. Once more, she wondered if any of the so-called experts on the life and times of Brian Kinney really knew him as well as they thought they did.

She stood and stepped forward, just close enough to lay a quick, barely-there caress on his shoulder, which elicited a fleeting look of surprise on his face, followed by an even more fleeting expression of indulgence.

"They're lighting a bonfire next door, and playing Nickelback and Aerosmith at a volume guaranteed to lead to hearing loss," she said as she turned to go. "A perfect opportunity to witness the quintessential American orgy, providing the storm holds off long enough." Another thunderous rumbling emphasized her point. "You coming out soon?"

"Yeah," he grunted, as Jackson continued to work on knotted muscles. "Just as soon as the Grand Inquisitor is finished inflicting maximum torture for minimal benefit."

The therapist continued his work, unperturbed, but did look up and glance at Cynthia with a long-suffering grimace. "About ten minutes, Ms. Whitney," he assured her.

She nodded and moved toward the door, where she paused, sensing . . . something. Then Brian groaned and snarled a few well-chosen curse words, and whatever it was that had glimmered for a moment in her peripheral consciousness simply danced away from her grasp.

She shrugged and continued on her way, savoring her drink and wondering where Lance Mathis had gotten off to, to enjoy his own sample of liquid ambrosia.

Ah, yes. There he was, leaning against the railing of the deck, gazing off toward the East where the stars were disappearing before the encroachment of clouds moving in from the North. Tendrils of swirling mist were just rising above the deeper waters of the bay, and he appeared to be studying the growing cloud, perhaps trying to gauge whether or not it would move ashore. He was doing what he was expected to do: watching - always watching.

He turned to greet her as she called his name, and - back in the torture chamber - Brian listened for a moment to the murmur of voices, and managed to ignore another jolt of pain in his spinal column long enough to enjoy a tiny surge of satisfaction.

In life, as he knew better than most, things didn't always work out well. Shit! That was probably the understatement of the century. But - once in a while, if the gods were not feeling particularly vengeful, or if the laws of probability were sufficiently distracted - luck stole a moment to step in and nudge random chance in the right direction.

It wasn't a particularly emphatic affirmation of the joys of life, but, given what life had done to him lately, he would take whatever he could get.


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



I was cryin' when I met you.
Now I'm tryin' to forget you.
Your love is sweet misery.
I was cryin' just to get you.
Now I'm dyin' cause I let you
Do what you do to me.
*

The music was not quite painfully loud to those sprawled on the deck of the cottage or patrolling its perimeter, especially those accustomed to the deafening thumpa-thumpa of Babylon at maximum volume, but Chris McClaren was pretty sure that the revelers dancing now around the bonfire at the neighboring beach house were only insulated from the discomfort by blood alcohol levels which had long since bade a cheerful farewell to legal limits for intoxication. This was attested to by the constantly escalating state of undress of many of the participants in the revel, and the vocal renderings of three young men, all apparently convinced that they had been cheated of their rightful claim to musical glory by the bitter heartlessness of life and only needed a break in order to out-Tyler the consistently amazing on-key bellow of the Aerosmith front man, as the shriek of their disharmony succeeded only in drowning out the lead singer's voice.

Luckily, they were far enough away from the secure compound that their words and actions were nothing more than a noisy din to the two children who were still happily interacting with the adults on the deck, pigging out on the corn dogs and fries and milkshakes that Trina had provided for them, as opposed to the barbequed ribs, baked beans, slaw and German potato salad that the adults had scarfed down. Even Brian had overeaten - just a bit.

Gus was semi-hyper by the time the meal was done, and Brian floundered for a bit, looking for a way to calm him down, but a huge box of Legos which Trina dug out of a closet solved the problem. Thus, the child entertained himself with designing and assembling some kind of angular vehicle, while Katy patiently explained to Brian that her umbrella - bright red and sequin-crusted and ribbon-bedecked - was her own unique version of what Mary Poppins should have carried, instead of that dowdy old black thing.

To the delight of both Cynthia and Justin, Brian was appropriately vocal in expressing his appreciation of her creative skills. And Katy, of course, was beaming.

The conversation on the deck grew desultory and sporadic as the evening wore on, and everybody was content to watch the growing light show in the clouds out over the ocean. The mist was moving in now, obscuring the promontory and the lighthouse, as the steady flicker of lightening off to the northeast suggested that the weather was on the verge of shifting and that the neighboring bonfire might be short-lived.

It had been a long, busy day, and Gus finally settled himself into the narrow niche at his father's side, apparently content to claim his place within the circle of Brian's arm and allow Justin, seated astride Brian's lap, to share sinfully rich bites of Black Forest cake with both father and son. If anyone among the group found it odd that the little boy could be so completely relaxed and accepting of the relationship between Brian and Justin without any reservations, obviously seeing it as natural and right and in keeping with the way things ought to be, it went unmentioned if not unnoticed. What did not escape the notice of anyone present was that Brian seemed more relaxed, more content . . . Cynthia even allowed herself to think the word, happier . . . than anyone had seen him in a very long time.

Everyone present felt slightly comforted - lighter and easier - for watching his interactions with his son and his lover and experiencing the warmth of his smile, and Cynthia was reminded of a comment she'd once heard Ted Schmidt make - a comment that was half admiration and half-snark, but true enough either way.

"As Brian Kinney goes, so goes the world."

Trina had just emerged from the cottage with another round of her delicious brandy concoction and hot chocolate for the children when there was a strange, piercing whistle, and a loud but oddly muffled whumpf-ing sound, followed by a raucous eruption of shouts and screams from the direction of the bonfire next door, and everyone on the deck jumped up and looked around to see what had happened.

One glance was all it took to figure it out - the what, if not the why and how.

Situated against the dilapidated fence that marked the border between the two properties, a ramshackle storage building leaned against a rusted framework - a sad sagging structure, composed of a ragtag collection of metal and wood, that had been used as a repository for a clutter of items that the owners of the adjacent property had discarded over the years. Old machine parts, broken tools, scraps of fishing nets, rusted pails, torn canvas, rumpled panels of metal sheeting, a plethora of useless items - and old barrels, sealed up but gradually rusting away. Some empty - some not.

The young crowd had merely been exhibiting the exuberance of youth and freedom - drinking, carousing - make-out sessions resulting in the occasional fuck - and, in the spirit of the moment, opening up a few packs of fireworks, bought to celebrate the holiday week-end and tossed into the fire, without a single thought of consequences.

Even at that, the resultant whizzes and bangs and sparks and flares would have been a minor concern, resulting in nothing worse than an occasional patch of burned skin from a firecracker exploding at an inconvenient moment or a flashfire rising from a spark falling into a nest of over-sprayed hair or - at worst - a blaze erupting in a patch of sea grass. Except, of course - in an almost inevitable prime example of the principles of Murphy's Law - one of the items in question, a slightly over-sized bottle rocket, erupted from the bonfire like a guided missile and streaked directly across the yard before threading through a gap in the metal framework of the old shed where it impacted against a stack of broken lawn chairs and showered sparks into the rear corner, directly atop the group of barrels and their leaking chemical contents.

The resulting explosion was loud, startling, and sufficiently impressive to cause windows to rattle in both houses as the ground shook. Flames erupted into the night and leapt skyward as the young crowd began to scream and shout for help, most of them lacking the presence of mind to make any kind of attempt to assess or control the damage.

At the same time, the group gathered on the deck in the adjacent house, including Brian and his guests, all recognized the need for immediate action to prevent a true disaster, and raced forward, pausing only to gather up appropriate equipment to attempt to put out the fire, while some of the security patrol called in for emergency aid.

Brian hesitated just long enough to instruct Gus and Katy to get inside and stay there, before racing off toward the fire, his first priority to make sure that Justin and Cynthia, both of whom had taken off ahead of him, were not at risk. A determined effort allowed him to catch up to Justin and make him understand, with one sharp word, that protecting Cynthia was his primary responsibility; then he plunged into the effort to extinguish the fire and calm the young people who were on the verge of a full-fledged riot.

Most of the college students, both male and female, were frightened out of their wits and in dire need of intervention. But they were still young, strong, hot-blooded, and hormonally-driven, and they were panicked, but not stupid. Given a choice, several among them, especially those of the female persuasion, decided that - if they needed to be rescued - it might as well be by someone tall and strong and well-built and possessing movie-star good looks. Thus, Brian and Chris McClaren and Lance Mathis all came in for their share of damsel-in-distress style swooning, which - after resolution of the initial chaos - caused both Cynthia and Trina Thomas to roll their eyes in good-natured amusement, once the emergency was contained and it became obvious that there was no danger of further explosions.

When the rest of the crowd had been soothed and quieted, several of the more adventurous (and less fully clothed) young women were still clinging to their rescuers with exaggerated expressions of gratitude.

Most of the rescue squad reacted with grins and chuckles or - in the cases of the security pros - quiet but distinct smiles.

Justin, however, was definitely not amused, and made a deliberate show of stalking forward to rescue his lover from the clutches of a striking young blonde wearing only a bikini bottom and a fall of thick hair. He was even less amused when Chris McClaren didn't bother to hide his slightly venal grin when the girl proved stubborn and had to be pried loose from her conquering hero.

Brian just laughed.

Then - as if the gods had a perverse sense of humor - there was a tiny brunette with huge green eyes who apparently decided that Justin was more to her taste than the older, brawnier types who had rushed forward to intervene. With a shrill cry - and timely tears - she raced into his arms and promptly fell into a boneless faint. Or so it seemed.

Brian laughed harder.

Given the level of hysteria and the difficulty of reassuring the crowd, and the determination of so many of the buxom young women to express their deathless gratitude and their refusal to take "No" for an answer in response to their invitations to demonstrate the degree of their appreciation in very graphic ways, it was quite a while before anyone was able to escape and return to the cottage, where - it was to be hoped - Trina would supply more of her sublime brandy concoction.

It was proving to be a long, eventful night. And it was not over yet, as the first fitful raindrops began to fall and the mist moved in off the sea.

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


There had been too much noise, and too much running, and now there was no noise at all and it was impossible to see where everyone had gone.

Trina had been there, but she was gone now. So were Justin and Gramps and Miss Cynthia.

But most of all - so was Daddy.

He had been there just moments before - before the world had gone too bright, and then too dark; too loud and then too silent.

And Katy too. Katy had been nearby; he had seen her. But then she had turned and run, somewhere. But he didn't exactly know where. He was pretty sure she had not gone back into the house, where everything was warm and there was hot chocolate in the kitchen and video games and puzzles and toys to play with. Where there were the stairs where Justin had helped him slide down the banister - when Daddy wasn't looking, of course; there was the big bed where he slept between Daddy and Justin and wondered if things happened - if Daddy and Justin did things together when he wasn't there, like Mama and Mommie did in their big bed at home. He had sneaked in and watched a couple of times, creeping out of his bedroom in the dead of night when nobody knew that he was there. Knowing - somehow - that he was not supposed to be there, he had been careful to be very quiet, but, in the end, he didn't really see what all the big deal was.

His friend, David - the one who lived across the street and had a battery-powered Jeep that Gus would have killed for - had gotten in a lot of trouble when he'd hidden under his parents bed one night, and crawled out to stare while his mom and dad played 'doctor'. Although that didn't make much sense to Gus, because he couldn't figure out why anybody would want to pretend to be a doctor or a patient.

But right now, he thought he'd be glad to watch Justin and Daddy play "Doctor" - or play whatever they liked. If they'd just come pick him up, and Daddy could then carry him up to the bedroom. Maybe he could take a bath in the big old-fashioned tub; maybe Daddy would even take one with him. Sometimes he did, and when he asked Daddy questions - like why there was a nest of dark hair around Daddy's tallywacker and whether or not his would get to be as big as Daddy's some day - Daddy never got all flustered and upset. He'd just laugh and answer whatever questions he was asked.

Of course, Daddy never called it a 'tallywacker' either. That was Mommie's word. Mama's, on the other hand, was a lot shorter, but he didn't think he was supposed to say 'dick', although he wasn't sure why.

Anyway, with Daddy, it was no big deal. Daddy was really good at not making 'big deals' about silly stuff.

Gus loved his parents - all of them. But sometimes Mommie got really sad, and Mama, well, sometimes she seemed to be awfully mad about things, even though she wouldn't say what exactly.

But right now - he'd be glad to see any of them.

He had meant to do what Daddy told him - meant to go where he was supposed to go and be safe. But everything had gotten all mixed up and he'd sort of forgotten for a while what it was he was supposed to do.

It had only been a few minutes, so he couldn't really be lost - could he?

He knew he had made a big mistake - knew he should have just gone in the house and waited for everybody to come back - but then he'd spotted the puppy racing off into the night. And he couldn't just let the poor little thing go off alone - could he? What if it got lost and never found its way home? What if some bad man decided to steal it?

The puppy belonged to him; Gramps had told him that - had made him understand that it was his job to look after the little thing.

So he couldn't just run away and hide, could he? He had to find the dog or Gramps would be really mad at him.

But now - how mad was Daddy going to be? Daddy hardly ever got mad at him, almost never yelled or got all red in the face. Not like Mama, who yelled a lot. But he was pretty sure that Daddy could get mad, pretty sure that he'd seen him mad a couple of times, although he had never once yelled at Gus. But he'd yelled at other people sometimes, so it was a sure thing that he could get mad, if something called for it.

But this wasn't really a big deal - was it? He hadn't been gone long, so he couldn't be that far away, so it couldn't be a big deal - could it?

At first, he had heard all the noise from the people at the house next door, and the shouts as everyone hurried to try to put out the fire. And he had tried then to make himself heard, calling for his daddy first; then Justin and Gramps, and even Katy. But his voice had been too small then, and afterwards, when all the shouting died away, he had felt a heaviness around him - something that made him believe he should not disturb the silence, that there might be something out there in the darkness that might find him, before he managed to make his way back to his daddy's arms.

But he wasn't really afraid - was he? What was there to be afraid of?

Only . . . it was really dark now, and he had slipped in the sand and fallen and couldn't quite figure out which way he had been going before he fell. And now it was raining, big drops that were cold when they soaked into his shirt. And the storm was coming too - big, rumbling rolls of thunder and bright, bright lightening - bright enough to light up the sky but too bright - almost blinding - and too quick to guide him home.

He didn't much like storms.

Distantly, there was the sound of the ocean, and somewhere there were still voices and a distant clatter, but there was a layer of mist now too, and the sound was all messed up, so he couldn't tell where the water was, and he couldn't see the gleam from the lighthouse any more.

And there was something else too. Something that sounded like the hard beat of wings, or raindrops maybe, pounding on something hard as stone, or quick footsteps . . . or something. And, on top of that, there was the whisper of the wind, or maybe it was just shifting sand. Or . . . somebody breathing?

He couldn't tell. And there was one more thing, just visible out of the corner of his eye - something that glinted in the darkness, spinning and dipping . . . and moving toward him.


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

"This is my private number, Sugar," drawled the blond co-ed, still trying to insinuate herself between Brian and Justin, even after the rescue party had attempted to beat a hasty retreat to the quiet refuge of the Bailey cottage. Bright green eyes, heavily fringed, swept down and then back up Brian's body, as if looking for a place to tuck the card she was clutching in fingers tipped in bright scarlet claws, then smiling when she couldn't locate a pocket and chose instead to try to slide it into the waistband of his shorts.

Justin, however, was prepared for her, and deftly moved to intercept her groping hands. "Down, Scarlet," he almost snarled. "What are you - the unknown Hilton sister? He's off the market. Understand?"

She arched one sculpted eyebrow as she favored him with a dismissive glance. "For you? Are you kidding me?"

Justin blinked, and gaped when Brian spoke up to answer. "No. He's not kidding you. And he's right."

"Shit!" The Scarlet O'Hara drawl was suddenly history, replaced by a decidedly Flatbush twang. "I should have known. But if you change your mind . . ."

"He won't," said Justin quickly, folding his arms and confronting her with a self-satisfied smirk.

Then her smile shifted to become slightly predatory as she turned to Justin and took a good, hard appreciative look. "On the other hand, maybe a little three-way action would heat up your love life."

It was Justin's turn to smile and lean forward to whisper in her ear. "The only way our love life could get any hotter would be if we could spontaneously combust. Now, say good-bye . . . Sugar, and go find yourself some other stud to ride your sweet little ass."

Brian was watching them both, his lips folded and his eyes glinting with reflected firelight, prompting Justin to wonder what he was thinking, but the wondering was short-lived.

"Bye now, Honey," said Brian as he stepped forward and nudged her toward the young crowd still milling around the yard as a flurry of fat, warm raindrops pattered around them. "Better hurry or you're going to get wet."

She stepped closer and raised her face to wink at him. "I look wonderful wet."

He laughed. "I bet you do. Now go find somebody who'll care."

She was still grumbling as she walked away and paused at the edge of the yard to look back, hoping perhaps that she was being watched with at least some small measure of longing. But no such luck. The two she'd left behind were far too focused on the business at hand as they tried to devour each other - and she was only too aware of a hot rush in her loins as she visualized exactly how that proposed threesome would have played out.

She turned away and hurried forward, intent on finding a companion to help her answer the need that was pulsing inside her.

Long before she moved out of sight, she was forgotten, as Brian and Justin lost themselves in each other, until the rain began to fall in earnest, and they pulled apart under the onslaught of the deluge and went racing for the house, laughing like happy children.

Until they leapt to the deck and came face to face with Chris McClaren, whose eyes were dark and shadowed and filled with something totally unexpected. One did not, after all, ever associate the FBI agent with uncertainty.

"What?" Brian snapped, all laughter forgotten, something cold and sharp moving deep in his belly. MacClaren did not scare easily; he rarely even scared at all, so . . .

"Just . . . be calm, Brian. It's not time to panic."

"Don't patronize me, McFed! What's wrong?"

McClaren took a deep breath. "Trina can't find the kids."

"What?"

"She thought they were playing in the den, but they're not. And no sign of them upstairs - yet. We're still looking, of course, but . . ."

Brian's eyes were suddenly filled with glints of ice. "Did you forget," he asked softly, "about your first priority? Didn't I make myself clear that . . ."

"Look," the FBI agent said quickly, grabbing Brian's arm as he tried to pull away to rush into the house. "We've barely begun to search, and you know how kids are. They're probably just hiding in a closet and laughing their asses off while the stupid grown-ups go berserk trying to find them."

But Cynthia arrived just as he finished speaking, and the expression on her face indicated that she was unconvinced. "That might be true for most kids," she said coldly. "Maybe even for Gus, since laughing at other people's stupidity is probably part of his genetic code."

Brian didn't even flinch - or bother to disagree.

"But not Katy," she continued. "She wouldn't. She's seen panic before. She knows it all too well, and she wouldn't be a part of causing it."

"But . . ."

"She wouldn't," Cynthia repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And with all due respect, Agent McClaren, you might know everything about criminals and terrorists and profiling, but when it comes to these kids, you don't know shit, so . . ."

"All right," he responded, holding up his hands to signify his concession to her superior knowledge. "But where would they have gone - and why?"

Brian turned to look out into the storm which was just breaking in earnest. "Where's the dog?" he asked suddenly.

"What?" McClaren seemed confused.

"The dog," Brian repeated. "If the dog ran off . . ."

"Shit! I never thought about that."

"Trina? Flashlights!" Brian demanded, as thunder rumbled overhead.

"Look, Brian," the FBI agent said sharply, "we'll find them. I promise you, but you need to . . ."

"Get the fuck out of my way, Chris."

For one tense, silent moment, both Cynthia and Justin found it difficult to draw breath, wondering if McClaren was going to dare to challenge the ultimatum. And for another moment, it almost seemed that he would. Then he simply nodded, and stepped out of the way as all the adults on the deck grabbed flashlights from the box Trina had placed on the table and tore off around the house.

It was the first time any of them had cause to regret that the compound was so large and set so far back from the main road, as that meant that there was a lot of ground to cover in a search. In addition, there were outbuildings, small hillocks and dunelets, a couple of narrow ditches, scattered patches of native shrubbery and sea grass, and several natural outcroppings along the side of the property that abutted the promontory where the lighthouse had been built. Lots of places to hide, although there was no reason to assume that the children would be hiding.

Unless they were frightened.

Brian did not - could not - allow himself to think that, or to speculate about worst-case scenarios or the ferocity of the storm breaking around them. He simply confined his actions to focusing on the area around him and visualizing the moment when he would find his son and scoop him up into his arms. There would be no anger, no recriminations, no punishment. There would only be the restoration of breath and hope.

The rain was cold against his bare skin, but he barely noticed. Off to his left, Justin moved on a parallel course, flashlight sweeping before him, and some remote little portion of Brian's mind noted that the blond was drenched to the skin and shivering slightly. But there was no time for such fundamental concerns.

Gus was missing. His son was missing, and he knew - logically - that it was nothing more than a case of the kid chasing off after his dog. But the insidious little voice deep inside him would not be silenced - the one which insisted on pointing out that anyone who really wanted to hurt him - to destroy him - might understand that nothing would devastate him more than his son suffering in his stead.

But he could not think about that. Could not let himself be distracted by the fear lurking within him, waiting to overwhelm him with despair and bottomless grief.

Gus would be fine; Katy would be fine.

They had to be. He assured himself - for the fourth time - that they could not have escaped from the compound. The gate had been manned constantly, and someone would have seen them if they tried to get out.

Unless the guard was distracted.

He was really beginning to despise that ugly little voice.

Above and around him, thunder rumbled louder, and the murmur of the rain had become a roar, louder even than the staccato beating of his heart.

Off to his right, there was a muffled shout, and he twisted quickly to see Lance Mathis go to his knees, scrabbling for something in the sand.

Brian was there first, with Justin and Cynthia at his heels, to see Mathis holding up a bright pink flip-flop, adorned with rhinestoned daisies.

"That's Katy's," said Cynthia, shouting to be heard over the downpour.

"Keep looking," called McClaren, veering right, toward the front fence line.

Once more, the searchers spread out, encouraged to believe that they were headed in the right direction, even though a harsh wind was rising now, and the storm growing steadily stronger.

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

He wasn't sure he would ever manage to tell anyone how scared he'd been, when the shadow had moved toward him. It had been much bigger than him, and shaped funny, and he had almost turned to run away. But then, he'd remembered that he didn't know which way to run, so he'd simply stayed still and begun to cry.

But he thought he was safe now, snuggled up against the sand with thick foliage at his back offering some small shelter from the wind and the rain, resting against the warmth of the back of his rescuer. Snuggled up and getting warm. And hoping. He had thought everything would be fine when he'd realized the person who'd found him. He had been so happy, so relieved, but then the storm had gotten worse, and they had run and found this place and fallen against the sandy stones, and he had tried to ask if everything was all right, and if Daddy was coming soon, but there had been no answer.

He couldn't figure out what he might have done wrong, so he'd waited a little while, and tried again. Still nothing.

"Are you mad at me?" he'd asked, finally.

The silence had gone unbroken, and he had felt tears well in his eyes again, desperately trying now to hold on to hope, and not knowing what else to do but sit and wait.

Daddy would come soon, wouldn't he? Everything would be all right, when Daddy came.

He knew it.

But the thunder was louder now, and the wind was beginning to howl, and he didn't know if they could hold on where they were for much longer.

What if the storm took them, like Dorothy and Toto in
TheWizard of Oz? What if Daddy didn't come? What if . . .

The lightening flashed, painfully bright, and the boom of the thunder hurt his ears, and then he felt something move, and he bent his head to look out to find out what it was that had grabbed at him.

He was trying not to cry, but it was getting harder. He had thought it would be enough not to be alone, but he'd been wrong.

"Katy?" he whispered finally, desperately. "What is that?"


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

Brian was holding on to his rational, reasonable mindset, but only just. They were almost to the edge of the property, and, except for the errant shoe, they had found nothing. With every flash of lightening, he'd lifted his eyes from the ground to gaze around him, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of something - something that would send a signal, that would point him toward wherever he needed to be.

But everything, in the actinic brilliance, was almost without color, like a black-and-white photo negative with details lost in the stark dazzle. There had been nothing, and there was still nothing, except . . .

He went very still, and looked over toward Justin. "Did you see something?" he shouted.

Justin just looked confused. "Like what?"

"I'm not sure, just . . ."

Lightening flashed again, and Brian spun quickly, allowing his eyes to wander, seeking whatever it was that had tugged at him moments before. White sand, black stones, silver rain, dark, light, dark . . . and one quick glimpse - of brilliant red.

He didn't speak; he just took off running, and dropped to his knees before a tiny little niche at the edge of a small dune, a pocket surrounded by touch sea grass, and almost completely covered by one slightly bedraggled but still easily recognizable bright red umbrella.

Gus was crying when Brian lifted the edge of the rain barrier and found beautiful dark eyes staring up at him. Drawing breath for what felt like the first time in hours, he pulled his son from his tiny, relatively cozy little nest, tucking the slender body against his chest, and holding almost too tightly, as if he'd never let go again. Then he spotted Beau, the puppy, happy and wriggling with excitement.

Then he looked at Katy. Beautiful, lovely K-K-K-Katy - so still and limp, her face half-buried in loose sand, and a dark stain, black in the glare of lightening, at her temple. Brian's heart was suddenly thundering as he leaned forward and laid his hand against the ivory silk of her throat, almost gasping with relief as he felt the flutter of her pulse.

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


*Cryin' - Steven Tyler, Joe Perry, Taylor Rhodes

 

 

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

You must login (register) to review.