Chapter 46

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.

-- Emily Dickinson


It was only the shank of the evening, although - come to think of it - that was a thoroughly stupid cliché; what did it even mean anyway?

Lindsey glanced at the ornate ormolu clock on the carved mantle that attempted - without much success - to make the artificial fireplace look less artificial. The faux flames were like the chorus of a tired song, repeating a fixed pattern endlessly, like a metronome abandoned to repeat itself forever. The ticking of the clock - another anachronism as the clock was as digital as everything else in the room - was just an annoying accompaniment to the rhythmic flickers.

Nine o'clock.

She frowned. Nine o'clock - literally barely sunset for all those gorgeous young fags just now heading out for Babylon or the glamorous lezzies currently settling down at the bar at Bangles. She allowed herself a tiny, rueful smile as she realized that she was guilty of vast over-simplification of the subject, for it was unarguably true that not every homosexual in the city could lay claim to physical beauty. On the other hand, it was equally true that most of those who were not so blessed rarely ventured into the rarefied atmosphere of the elite places where their more outgoing - and comely - counterparts went to be seen and to score.

She glanced at the clock again, and wondered when it had happened. When had she ceased to be a member of the young and beautiful set - the crowd that existed in a state of perpetual motion, always moving from one party to the next, or one adventure to the next. Or even one beautiful moment to the next. When had she left that all behind and become a . . .

"Oh, my God! I'm a hausfrau - a person who lives in someone else's shadow, on the fringe of someone else's life!"

She eased down into the lush softness of the chintz-upholstered armchair, lying back and propping her feet on the matching ottoman, snuggling into her teal blue, raw silk robe and luxuriating in its plush velour lining, seeking a surfeit of physical comfort to ease the fundamental malaise of mind and body. With one glance, however, she realized that she'd chosen badly, for, in this position, she could not ignore her own reflection in the faux-antique cheval mirror tucked in the corner near the fireplace, and it showed her exactly what she did not want to see.

She stared at her image, noting the pallor of her skin and the limpness of her hair, along with the weary lines of her body.

When had this happened? When had the vibrant, enthusiastic, exuberant, youthful Lindsey Peterson become this . . . this washed-out shell of the woman she'd been, this pale, fading memory?

And she tried - she really tried - not to hear the little voice deep in her mind, the one that dated the transformation to the day when she'd given up her place in the world as Lindsey Peterson and become Lindsey Peterson-Marcus.

But that wasn't fair. Melanie had never tried to force her into the shadows, or to take her identity from her. Except . . .

Except that, in a way, she had, because from that day forward, life had ceased to be an exercise in spontaneity and appreciating the joy of the moment, and become a sequence of days spent anticipating what Melanie would say, and how she would react to every new detail of their lives. It had no longer been acceptable to do things simply because they felt good or made her happy; in order to be worth doing, such endeavors had to be something that would fall into the range of acceptability for Melanie and make them both happy, and . . . God! It shouldn't hurt so much to admit that there weren't very many things that brought joy to Melanie. In fact . . .

She sat up abruptly. No, she would not explore that thought any further. She would not contemplate the ugliness of the idea that Melanie was only happy when she had reason to find fault.

But, in the final analysis, there was no denying she was growing more and more tired of feeling old and worn out, even though she had already realized that it was all in her head. It wasn't really late, and the day had not been a huge disappointment so she should not be wallowing in a defeatist funk. She had accomplished quite a lot, actually, and believed  tomorrow would be even better. So what the hell was this?

She smiled as she remembered her conversation with Gus, and his excited recitation of all the things he had done during his visit with his daddy and Justin and Gramps, and his anticipation of all the things yet to come. Then her father had confirmed that the trip had turned out to be a great adventure for the two of them, and a lovely opportunity to build a family bond where none had existed before.

She had wondered briefly why she sensed a bit of melancholy in his tone as he expressed his gratitude for this opportunity, but then he had proceeded to share a few droll comments about his interaction with Brian, and she had been happy to realize he had managed somehow to cast off all the preconceptions he had carried for so many years and begun to see the man behind the outrageous, provocative Kinney façade. Of course, Brian had probably not made much of an effort to make it easy to distinguish substance from illusion, but . . . she smiled in the understanding that making things easier for those who had never made much effort to determine the reality of the man was not something Brian had ever done.

Take him or leave him. It was a hell of an attitude, and she knew it - had always know it. But it was also quintessentially Brian Kinney, and it always would be, and now, maybe - just maybe - her father had come to understand that it was not necessarily such a bad philosophy to live by. It was just unique - like Brian himself.

Thus, the idea that these two men, who had impacted her life more than any others ever would or could, had discovered some kind of common ground they could occupy without conflict was very comforting, even if a little voice deep inside her insisted it was slightly pathetic for her to feel that way. Still, her father and the father of her only biological child were currently inhabiting the same house, doting on the same little boy, and - temporarily at least - not trying to kill each other.

Maybe it wasn't much, but, given the events of the last few days, she would take comfort where she could find it.

And begin - just maybe - to accept truths she could not change, and stop expecting comfort where none would ever exist.

She looked down then, noting the bold, abstract patterns on the cover of the art magazine she'd been thumbing through earlier, eagerly anticipating the review column which included a couple of paragraphs concerning Justin's latest showing. But it wasn't the magazine and its somewhat garish colors that caught her eye. Instead, it was the ring on her finger, a simple triple braid, comprised of three different colors of gold, woven into a complex knot and accented by a ribbon of diamond baguettes.

It was not a terribly expensive ring; not nearly as impressive as one she might have had should she have opted for a traditional marriage and a socially prominent young groom. But it was very tasteful in that she had designed it herself, with a bit of help from a friend who had remained nameless, in order to preserve peace in the Marcus-Peterson household. She smiled again, in the certainty that one could fault Brian Kinney for many things, but his taste - in art or fashion or any combination of the two - was impeccable.

She loved the design of her wedding ring, which was, of course, a twin of the one that Melanie wore. But she was now forced to entertain the possibility that it was time to put it away and concede that it might no longer be appropriate to wear it. To preserve the symbol after the connection was gone seemed like a kind of blasphemy.

Blasphemy indeed, when she remembered how special their connection had been, and how long they had struggled to forge it and then protect it.

And now . . .

Right! Now the strands which had bound them so tightly were fraying, one thin thread at a time, and soon - soon there would be only broken links and broken memories, unless something happened to repair the rift.

She studied the shape of her ring, and then glanced up into the mirror, to come face to face with a reality she really did not want to confront.

What did she want? That was the true question, wasn't it? And it didn't appear to matter much if what she wanted was possible to obtain; it was the wanting itself that mattered.

Did she want Melanie or did she not? Did she want to turn back the clock and reclaim yesterday? And even if she did, would she be able to overlook everything that had happened between them and find a way to consign it to the past and keep it there and forget the bitter taste of betrayal she'd experienced when confronted by a truth she could no longer deny?

She had always known that Melanie resented Brian with every fiber of her being and would continue to do so, no matter what sacrifices he might have made in order provide a means for the two women to build a life together. The undeniable fact was that - from Melanie's perspective - he could never do enough to justify her trust or forgiveness.

Not, of course, that Lindsey herself was as pure or innocent as the driven snow - God! What was up with all the clichés tonight? Still - cliché or not - she would never make such a claim. Even as she'd denied it - loudly and repeatedly through the years - she had known that her complex, almost indefinable feelings for Brian Kinney had always been a bone of contention between her and her wife. Furthermore, she knew they always would be, unless she voluntarily and irrevocably rejected them and brutally shut down her fondness for a man who would never return her affection. Not, at least, in the way she had always wanted.

Damn! She was a Lesbian; always had been. But she also knew the truth. For Brian, she might have found a way . . . but there was no point in going there because, no matter what she might have been willing to do, the bottom line was that he would never have allowed it, just as surely as she would never be able to explain it, even to herself. And Lindsey knew that, beyond all doubt. The problem, as she also knew, was that Melanie had figured it out as well, and never managed to let it go - had, in fact, made it her own personal raison d'etre, and used it as fuel for the feud that permeated their lives and their marriage.

And Lindsey - she drew a deep uneven breath - had allowed it. Then she closed her eyes as she felt a harsh blast of truth almost overwhelm her. More than allowed it; she had, in fact, encouraged it, and she needed to understand why. The truth was not as simple as it might have appeared. She could not excuse it as an exercise in her longing for Brian to acknowledge deep feelings for her, for the truth was that Brian did love her; she knew that. He loved her as the friend of his childhood, and as the mother of his son; maybe even as a sister-in-arms. But he was a promiscuous, arrogant, self-centered rogue, whose only real sexual interest lay in fucking every fuckable man in the Western Hemisphere - and a few beyond that - and she had always known it, making him . . . safe? Of course, that had all shifted into a whole, new, undiscovered universe with the arrival of Justin in his life, but nothing would change the effect he had on lots of the women who orbited his magnetic center like planets around a super star. Desirable, drool-worthy and completely unattainable, and thus an innocent participant in the little games she had played with Melanie?

Brian Kinney - innocent! She smiled. Imagine that!

And then, unwanted, unbidden, she remembered the photograph of him as he'd been rushed into the emergency room on the night of the attack, and the memory brought on a small epiphany; in his own unique way, Brian had always been innocent. For all his brashness and narcissism, he had never harbored even the tiniest trace of the kind of vicious malice that had been directed toward him by the cretins who had almost killed him.

Which led, inevitably, to a truth Lindsey did not want to acknowledge - did not even want to know - but knew just the same. As an outspoken champion of gay and lesbian rights and a vigorous defender of civil liberties, Melanie would never defend such horrific actions and would be as intense as anyone in demanding that the homophobes responsible be convicted and suffer dire consequences for their actions. But Lindsey knew that somewhere - deep in the darkest part of her heart - Melanie had not been able to suppress some tiny little blurb of satisfaction that it had been Brian who was the target of the attack. In venting her less than compassionate feelings at the hospital, in a classic moment of indiscretion, she had come close to revealing that ugly truth; somehow, the fact that it had not been Michael or Justin or Emmett or Ben or Ted had been an unacknowledged but entirely genuine source of comfort for her.

Melanie would never admit it; Lindsey would never mention it.

But it was true nonetheless.

And how, she asked herself, could she live with that? Though Melanie would never exhibit the kind of malice that the attackers had displayed, there was within her, nevertheless, an ugly, step-child relation - a dark, hidden specter that incorporated a willingness to gloat over the fact that Brian had been vulnerable, had been a victim. Lindsey didn't want to know that; didn't want to admit it. But she couldn't run away from it, no matter how she tried. She could not un-know it, and didn't think she'd ever be able to forget it. Or forgive it. But the question remained.

Forcing herself to deal with elemental truths which both she and Melanie had managed to ignore for all the years they'd spent together, she went over it in her mind. As hard as they'd tried to believe otherwise, they had never been truly independent and self-sufficient; it had always been Brian's money and his willingness to contribute in order to make sure his son was raised in comfort, which had allowed them to rise above poverty-level existence. His money, his support. Even the mortgage which had allowed them to purchase their first home had come about due to his influence on the lender, and all this at a time when her own parents had refused to provide any kind of support for her or her child, due to their objections to her sexual orientation; Melanie's had been just as bad, or maybe even worse. And though they had both worked, neither had ever been hugely successful in their professions, earning enough to profess independence, but never really earning enough to achieve it. Thus, they had continued to live well - actually very well - by taking what Brian gave, and using it as needed, never actually conceding that it hadn't only supported Gus; it had supported them all. And if - in some unguarded moment - any member of the fucked-up, extended family that encompassed Kinneys and Novotnys and Petersons and Honeycutts and a dozen other sub-clans, might have pointed out the glaring but unmentionable truth, the only answer had always been a quickly mumbled observation that "He didn't need the money, did he? He'd only waste it on booze and blond boy-ass, wouldn't he?"

As if that were reason enough. That thought had risen in her mind, almost every time it had happened. But she had never stepped up and spoken in his defense, which made her better than Melanie - how exactly?

And in return for his generosity and his willingness to ignore that strange attitude, Melanie had stood back and watched what had happened to Brian, although only in a philosophical sense; morally outraged, yes - but only in a non-specific fashion, without any nuance of personal attachment. She had been horrified at what had been done, but not so much at whom it had been done to, and that was . . . Lindsey wasn't even sure how to phrase it, but even if she could figure out how to say it without it turning her stomach to acid, would she ever be able to . . .

Could she live with it?

She had not even begun to formulate an answer when there was a knock at the door.


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

There was a breathless moment, dragging on towards forever, until Katy began to stir - pale and disoriented, at first, but definitely alive and breathing. And only then, when it was clear that she was actually beginning to revive, did everyone around her begin to breathe as well.

It took a while for the group to make their way back into the house, mostly because Katy - still only semi-conscious - had wrapped her arms around Brian's neck, clinging like a limpet and refusing to be dislodged by anyone. Thus, in order to maneuver himself into a position to move at all, Brian had to first convince Gus to release his death-grip on his father's arm and accept Justin's offer to carry him while Brian struggled to lift Katy and brace her head against his shoulder. The lingering effects of his injuries served to make the process more complicated than it should have been, but Lance Mathis stepped up and helped to support and settle her as Cynthia stood by, wanting nothing more than to pull her daughter to her and push everyone else away, but knowing that she would not be able to support Katy's weight. Thus she simply stood with her hands covering her mouth, trying very hard not to cry.

As Brian rose to his feet, he paused to gaze into his assistant's eyes, to allow her to read the warmth and determination in his expression. "She'll be okay, Tink," he said gently. "I promise."

Cynthia took a deep breath, realizing in that moment that she might very well know many kinds of love in her life but certain she would never find truer devotion than that provided by the bond between her and her best friend/confidante/boss/companion - and whatever other term might apply to Brian. She knew he could not really guarantee the truth of his reassurance, but she also knew that, if strength of will could affect reality, fate itself would not dare to step up and oppose him.

Her smile was weak and barely there, but she hoped he understood all the gratitude it was meant to convey.

"Eugene!" shouted McClaren, moving off to clear the path ahead of them and signal Trina to prepare a place under the sheltered portion of the deck for the little girl. The rain had slackened somewhat, but was still falling in sporadic gusts. "Go next door, and find the Halloran kid. He's a medical resident. Get him over here - now!"

"How do you know that?" asked Justin, cuddling Gus against his chest and making sure to stay close enough to Brian to allow the boy to reach out and touch his father, should he feel the need to do so.

The FBI agent managed - just barely - not to roll his eyes. "My primary job is to protect Brian Kinney. No matter what else might enter into it, nothing is more important than that, so do you really think I'd let a group move into a neighboring cottage without finding out who they are, what they're doing here, and everything else about them?"

"Should call you 'Big Brother'," Justin muttered, but he could not deny he was grateful for the research the fed had done and the obvious level of his devotion to doing his job. Of course, he was not above wishing that the man was more troll than fox, but he knew he was being unreasonable.

Then he glanced at McClaren who was standing now at the edge of the deck, his eyes surveying the area all around them, but somehow never losing his focus on the figure at the center of the tableau. Justin wondered if Brian could feel the FBI agent's gaze, but one quick glance at the man in question provided an immediate answer, making him feel foolish in the bargain. On the day Brian Kinney did not notice the attention of someone who looked like Chris McClaren, it would surely be the undeniable sign of the Apocalypse.

Still, just as Justin began to narrow his eyes, to express his displeasure, Brian shifted to favor his young partner with a smile that spoke volumes - volumes to which no one else would ever have access. It was enough to make him forget why he'd even considered getting cross in the first place.

Justin sighed, and then noticed Gus staring at him with huge, tear-filled eyes, so frightened that his breathing was uneven, almost gasping.

"It's okay, Gus-Gus," he whispered. "Katy's going to be fine."

"And Daddy?" The voice was tiny, barely audible.

Justin stumbled, almost blind-sided by a bright, painful epiphany.

Despite the fact that no one had ever explained it to him - in the belief that they were sheltering him from the ugly truth - Gus had figured out that what had happened to Brian had been no random accident. Evil men had tried to destroy his daddy, and his worry about what might happen to Katy was just a random concern in comparison to his fear for his father.

Pausing just long enough to direct a quick look toward Brian - a look he hoped conveyed reassurance and a request for patience - Justin stopped and sank to his knees, standing Gus up in front of him so he could look directly into the child's eyes - eyes that were a carbon copy of the ones that lit up Justin's life every single day.

"Gus," he said softly, "I want you to look around, and notice all the people that are here. The FBI agents, like McClaren, and the security team, like Lance Mathis. And people like me and your Gramps and Cynthia and Trina. Do you know why we're here?"

Gus simply shrugged. Then he lifted his head and mumbled a tentative answer. "Vacation?"

Justin grinned. "Well, maybe for you and me and a few others. But for the rest, most all of them are here for just one reason. To protect your daddy. To make sure he's safe, and he has the chance to get well and be strong, and to keep anything bad from happening to him again. Understand?"

The little boy nodded, but the shadows in his eyes did not dissipate.

"What is it?" Justin asked. "What's bother . . ."

"Why do they hate him, Jus? What they did to him . . . they had to hate him to do that. Didn't they?"

Justin looked up and saw that Brian had arrived at the deck and was seated now on a lounge chair, allowing a slender, dark-haired young man in cut-off jeans to examine Katy, who was still clinging to Brian as if he were her only lifeline. Still, frequent glances toward where Gus and Justin were crouched revealed that Brian was keenly aware of the conversation taking place there - and intensely concerned.

For Justin's part, he was wishing the two of them could switch places, because he wasn't sure how he should answer Gus' question. Or even if he should answer it at all. Wasn't this something best left to the boy's Daddy?

But Gus hadn't asked his daddy. He had asked Justin, and he was now standing very still, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for a response.

Justin took a deep breath. "Yes, Gus. They had to hate him a lot, and I know that's really scary for you. I wish I could explain it to you, so you could understand why they would feel that way, but the truth is that there isn't really a good explanation. Your daddy is different from a lot of other people - different enough that some of those other people feel threatened by him. And . . ."

"You mean, because he's gay," Gus interrupted.

Justin smiled. "Do you even know what that means?"

Gus simply tilted his head and regarded Justin with a little twitch that was not quite an eye-roll, an expression that was so immediately recognizable as Brian Kinney that Justin felt something flutter in his chest. "It means he loves you like he never loved Mommie."

Justin's smile grew wider. A bit of an over-simplification, he thought, but accurate enough.

"But I still don't understand why people would hate him for that," the little boy continued.

"I know you don't," Justin answered. "But that kind of hate isn't logical, Gus. It doesn't make sense to people who don't think that way, so - in a sense - it's good that you don't understand it. I hope you never do. But just know the people who are capable of doing things like this are not the big, bad, bold, brave defenders of the faith they pretend to be; they're cowards, every one of them, and the thing about cowards is that they lose their powers, once people see them for what they really are.

"Yes, they hurt your daddy once, and I know that scares you. But look at him, Gus. Look at your daddy now. What do you see?"

The child twisted slightly, to gaze at his father, who just so happened to be looking straight back at him, beautiful lips soft and smiling.

"What do you see?" Justin repeated.

"I see Daddy, the man who loves me more than anything, and makes me feel better than anybody."

Justin nodded. "Yes. Because he does love you that much, and because he's the strongest man I've ever known. They surprised him once, Gus, but that only worked one time. He'll be ready for them if they ever try to surprise him again."

"You promise?"

Across the yard, Brian watched, and felt a surge of some shadowed emotion deep inside him, understanding, without knowing the details, that something important was happening between the young man who had changed his world and the child he had never expected to love so completely. Something important that somehow revolved around him, but had to play out without his direct intervention. At the same time, he wondered if anyone except him had noticed the exquisite loveliness of the moment and its two participants.

For his part, Justin felt his heart break just a little, as he watched this beautiful little boy - this carbon copy of the man who was the center of his own existence - trying so hard to be brave and to cover up the fear raging inside him. There was really no simple answer to the question the boy had asked, but he would give one anyway.

"Yeah. I promise."

For an impossibly long, time-suspended moment, Gus just stared at him, probing, looking deep, wanting to believe but not quite sure that he could. Then he grinned. "Okay." And he was gone, running across the sand, up the steps, and into his father's arms, as Katy, fully revived now, shifted to make room for him.

Justin remained where he was for a moment, remembering an evening when Brian had tried to deny that he was a caring, loving father - tried to conceal himself behind the brutal, painful memories of his own father, and floundered in the attempt. A night when Justin had assured him that he was not Jack Kinney, that he loved Gus and should not doubt himself.

"I didn't think I would . . ."

That had been Brian's response - not denying exactly, but not entirely believing either.

Justin watched the interplay between father and son, and had never been more motivated to show his lover how wrong he'd been. It was almost impossible for him to resist a towering urge to run grab a canvas and his paints, and capture the image before him before it could slip away into the stream of time and become lost - an image that should offer the kind of proof that even the eternally skeptical Brian Kinney could not refute.

Kevin Halloran, bare-chested, bare-footed, tanned and long-legged and crowned by a thatch of sun-streaked hair, did not look much like the kind of professional one would encounter in the local ER, but, in this case, looks were completely deceiving, although not sufficiently irrelevant to escape the ever-discerning eye of Brian Kinney. For once, however, his interest was confined to a single sweeping glance, accompanied by a brief moment of regret for the phenomenon of ships-passing-in-the-night. The fact that his disappointment didn't even rate a sigh was indicative of the degree of his concern for the little girl on whom the young physician was focused, and, perhaps, his awareness of the keen scrutiny of a pair of intensely blue eyes.

Cynthia, however, hadn't even registered the young doctor's physical beauty, and could not quite release her misgivings. "Are you really a doctor?" she asked, in a tone that even Brian found slightly intimidating.

Halloran did not waste the time or effort to offer her a reassuring smile. "I may not look the part," he admitted, while shining a light into Katy's eyes to gauge the reaction of her pupils, "but I really am. Chief resident, actually, at St. Michael's. You can check if you like."

Instead of bothering with a response, Brian simply looked toward Chris McClaren who nodded to indicate his confirmation.

"So how is she?" asked Brian, completely ignoring the comely shape of the young resident's perfect bottom. Well - almost.

"As far as I can see," Halloran answered, "she's okay. The bruise on her temple shows that she hit her head pretty hard. Hard enough to knock her out for sure. But without further tests, I can't be 100% sure that there's no residual damage. You need to take her to the nearest ER - get an x-ray, at least. Or a CT scan."

Brian looked again at McClaren, who nodded and turned to issue instructions to a subordinate.

"Katy," Brian said softly, as he shifted to kneel beside her and look directly into her eyes, "do you remember what happened?"

Her smile was shaky, and it was obvious she was still frightened and in some pain, as Cynthia moved closer to embrace her. Still, even in such a moment, the little girl found sanctuary in the dark eyes focused so completely on her; she reached out and touched Brian's face.

"When everything went . . . crazy, I was heading for the house - like you told us. But then I saw the puppy running away. I think the explosion scared him. And I knew how Gus would feel if he lost the dog, so I went after him, but . . . everything got all fuzzy. There was so much noise, at first, and then, when it got all quiet, the fog came in, and I couldn't tell where anything was. That was when the storm came closer, and . . . I couldn't find the dog - or anything else. I couldn't see, except . . ." She looked up then, staring at Brian, and he saw the shadows in her eyes shift and thicken. "There was . . . someone. Everything happened so fast, and it was all mixed up. The lightening was so bright, and the wind started to push me and try to jerk my umbrella out of my hand when the rain started. And then - I don't remember the rest, except that I turned . . . and there was Gus, and the puppy running toward him. I just wanted to reach him, to get him under my umbrella. But when I went to grab him, I tried to shift to the side, and I stumbled and . . . and then - I don't know. I just . . . fell and hit my head, I guess. But . . ."

Brian leaned forward and touched his lips to her forehead. "That's enough, Katy. You did great, but now you need to rest and . . ."

"But there was someone, Brian. Honest to God, there was. I couldn't see anything except a big shadow, but I know . . . I know someone was nearby - watching. Just watching."

Brian and Cynthia exchanged quick glances, speaking not at all but saying much.

"Mathis!" Brian shouted. "You take Katy and Cynthia to the hospital, and take a security team with you."

"Yes, Sir."

Brian rose and spared one moment to fix his chief of security with a stern gaze. "And if anything happens to either one of them . . ."

"Save your breath, Boss. It will be over my dead body."

"It better be."

Brian was reassured by the determination he read in his employee's eyes. Then he turned to seek out McClaren.

"McFed!"

The FBI agent was standing at the edge of the deck, conferring with a group of his subordinates, but he was quick to recognize the latent rage - barely controlled - in Brian's voice; thus he wasted no time in turning to respond.

"How the fuck could this have happened?" Brian demanded, his tone hard and cold and without patience.

"Brian, just calm down. You're jumping to conclusions, based on the ramblings of a hysterical child."

"Ummm, excuse me, Sir," said the young resident, with a look that was more film star than medical student, as he gathered up his equipment and closed his medical bag, "but she's not the least bit hysterical. In fact, considering what she went through, I'd say she was surprisingly calm. If I were you, I'd listen to her."

Brian took a half-heartbeat to favor the extremely attractive, scantily-clad young man with an appreciative smile - which was returned with sufficient warmth to inspire Justin to step forward and place himself directly between the two in order to disrupt the line-of-sight.

But McClaren was decidedly, intensely not pleased. "But she's not sure of what she saw, and - with the explosion and the storm - I just don't see how . . ."

"I don't give a flying fuck," Brian snarled, "what you see or don't see. I want this place searched. Every inch of it." Then he turned toward Justin and Gus, his eyes gone cold and dark and marble-hard. "And tomorrow, you two . . ." he nodded toward his lover and his son before turning to point toward Cynthia and Katy and Ron Peterson ". . . and all of you go home."

"Now wait a minute, Brian," Justin started. "You can't . . ."

"I just did." The response was sharp and unequivocal. "This has gone on long enough. It's stupid for all of you to be here, because . . . this is the front line of the battle, no matter how you look at it. And if you're here, then these idiots have to divide their attention and try to protect everybody, instead of only having to watch me. You're going. You're all going. On a private jet and in the company of a full security team."

"Brian!" Justin was shouting now, ignoring everyone around them as he handed Gus off to Trina Thomas and rushed forward to invade Brian's space. "What the fuck are you doing? Don't you ever learn. You can't order me . . . "

Justin was stricken silent as he saw the sweet smile that Brian deliberately directed toward him. "I can't?"

"God dammit, Brian! I'm not going to let you do this. I'm not . . . "

"Justin."

"No! You are not going to . . ."

"Justin." Quiet now. Not yelling. Not even angry any more. Just waiting for the rage to release its hold on Justin, as reason was restored.

And when the fury did drain away, it happened in the blink of an eye - gone as quickly as it had come. Gone with the welling of tears. "Brian." Whispered now, and heartbroken. "Please don't."

"Listen to me." And the love in Brian's eyes said there was no one else in the world except the two of them, regardless of the crowd standing in silence, watching. "Are you listening?"

"Yes. I'm listening."

"Haven't you learned anything at all from all this?" Brian asked gently. "You said I had to learn to trust you, to believe in you. But it works both ways, Sunshine. You have to believe too. You have to trust me enough to let me finish it. You have to trust me enough to go on with your life, to do the things you need to do to get ready for what comes next. And you have to give me the freedom to do the same. You have to trust me to come back to you."

Justin went completely still, barely daring to breathe, his eyes huge and filled with shadow, as he studied Brian's face. "I need you to say it," he said softly. "I will believe in you, but you have to say it."

Brian pulled his young lover close, and kissed the velvet softness at the nape of his neck. "I promise," he whispered. "I will come back to you."

Justin closed his eyes, fighting to still the wild beat of his heart, fighting to turn away from all his doubts and uncertainties - fighting to believe.

He clung to Brian like a lifeline, and, in the desperate heat of that moment, only Chris McClaren had an unobstructed view of Brian's face. As a result, he was the only one to spot the quick, bright, metallic gleam of fear flickering in beautiful hazel eyes, and the shadow of infinite sadness that swallowed it. He did not speak, but the look on his face said that he knew a lie when he heard one, even when he would have preferred not to know it.

"I promise, Justin. I do, but you have to go. You all have to go." There wasn't a single nuance of uncertainty in Brian's voice.

Justin trembled, shaking like an aspen in a rising wind, and found he had no strength left to protest or argue. He could only nod, and take comfort from the strength and steadiness of the arms that held him, and note in passing a strange surge of gratitude for the circumstances which prevented him from seeing the look on Brian's face.

"Now," said Brian very gently, soft lips nuzzling against the hollow below Justin's ear, "I want you to go with Katy and Cynthia. To make sure they're taken care of. Okay?"

"But you're not coming?"

"No. I've got something else to take care of."

"Something more important than Katy and Cynthia? Like what? "

Brian's voice shifted, hardened, and there was the ring of steel in it. "Like making sure something like this can't ever happen again. Now just do as I say, OK?"

"But I . . . I want to stay with you. I want . . ."

"Please." It was barely a whisper this time. "For me?"

Justin closed his eyes tightly, desperate to fight off the tears that threatened to overflow. He would do what Brian wanted him to do. Because it was what Brian wanted. That was reason enough. And he would ignore the tiny little red alert that was shrieking in his mind. Time enough to deal with that . . . whenever.


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

Lindsey considered just ignoring the knock, reasoning that she could always claim to have been relaxing in the over-sized bathtub or sitting on the balcony enjoying the spring evening if anyone ever questioned her on it.

But the knock came a second time, sharper and heavier, and she was suddenly quite sure that whoever might be paying her a visit was not going to give up and slink away into the night.

Deciding she was being foolish by expecting every new occurrence to be bad news, she went to the door, pausing only to make sure she was decent.

Too pale, said her always mouthy self-critic, as she glanced into the mirror and paused to smooth wayward strands back from her forehead.

Too pale.

She should have known the words would linger around her, eager to haunt her even before she'd had a chance to forget them.

She was certainly too pale to compete with the stunning image of the woman standing at her door.

Sharon Briggs had always been beautiful - a darker, slightly less voluptuous version of Halle Berry, wearing a tiara of thick, spiky hair, glinting with rich auburn highlights. She had changed very little in the time since they'd first met at a sorority mixer; she was still stunning, even without the designer fashions that had been her standard uniform during their university years. Even in drab, almost shapeless work clothes, she was still a visual feast, and her smile was infectious, despite being slightly lopsided.

"Can I buy you a drink?" she asked, holding up a bottle of Iron Horse Sauvignon Blanc. "It's not quite Dom Perignon, but it'll do, in a pinch."

Lindsey smiled. "Now how on earth did you remember my weakness for sauvignon blanc?" she asked, stepping back and opening the door wider.

Sharon's smile became a smirk. "You'd be surprised what I remember about you."

Totally unsure of how to respond to such an ambiguous comment, Lindsey gestured for the undercover cop to have a seat, while she went to fetch a couple of goblets.

"Have you heard from Brian?" asked Briggs, settling on the sofa.

Lindsey sank into an arm chair positioned so the two of them were face to face and watched as the dark-skinned woman produced a corkscrew from her handbag and proceeded to open the wine.

"Yes," replied Lindsey. "Our son is there with him, having a ball, I think."

Briggs nodded, sitting back to give the wine a chance to breathe before pouring. "It must be hard for you," she observed softly.

Lindsey did not pretend to misunderstand. "Sometimes. Gus really loves his father. And Brian - well, I think the whole world would be astonished to find out that Brian Kinney could love a child the way he loves Gus. But my situation is . . ."

"Awkward?" suggested Briggs, when it was obvious that Lindsey could not quite find the right word.

"Yeah. Awkward."

Briggs leaned forward and studied the classic features of the blond. "You still love him, in a way. Don't you?"

To her own surprise, Lindsey laughed. "Exactly the same way that you do," she replied.

After a moment, Sharon joined in the laughter. "I think we should drink to that," she replied. "The women who loved too well, and completely unwisely."

"Tell me," said Lindsey, leaning forward and studying the lovely, delicate features of her visitor's face. "Did you really believe . . ."

"Of course, I did," Briggs interrupted, topaz glints of amusement and affection sparking in her eyes. "Just like you, and every other woman who ever fooled herself into thinking that she could be the one to win his heart and claim her place in his bed and save him from himself."

She leaned forward then to pour out generous servings of the wine. "The hell with breathing," she observed, passing one glass to Lindsey and hoisting her own. "To all the deluded women who convinced themselves that Brian Kinney needed saving."

Lindsey grinned. "Hear, hear! And to all of us who finally - with the assistance of the self-same Mr. Kinney - learned how to be true to ourselves!"

Briggs closed her eyes to savor the lovely, smooth flavor of the wine. Then she looked up and watched as Lindsey settled herself more comfortably in the arm chair. "But he didn't really have to teach you, did he? You already knew."

The blond smiled. "I did, except when it came to Brian. Until recently . . . well - let's not go there. Suffice to say that, for a very long time, I thought Brian Kinney was the only man who would ever get into my pants."

"And he did. Didn't he?"

Lindsey looked up and met Sharon's gaze without flinching, wondering why she was not outraged by the question. "Yeah. He did. Just once, but once was enough to raise a lot of questions for me. It was a while before I figured it out."

"Figured out what?"

Lindsey sighed. "It wasn't that he was a man, or that he had a big, beautiful cock - which he did, by the way. It was just that . . . he was Brian. I didn't fall in love with his sex; I just loved the person he was. It wasn't easy to learn to separate loving him, from the whole physical love-making lust."

Briggs leaned forward. "But he was good, wasn't he?"

Lindsey grinned. 'He's Brian - Fucking - Kinney, and lust should be his middle name. What do you think?"

"I think I'm pea-green with envy." Her smile, however, was brief. "And I think that I might be beginning to understand now, why Melanie always hated him."

"Yeah," Lindsey replied with a sigh. "So can I. But that's . . . that's not really how it was."

"Meaning what? Is that really the bottom line here? Was it Brian and the fucked-up feelings between the two of you that ruined your relationship with your wife?"

"Oh, you can be sure of one thing," said Lindsey. "Ignoring my feelings for the moment, there is absolutely nothing fucked-up or uncertain about how Brian feels about me. He's always known exactly how he feels, and he's never pretended otherwise. I won't say he doesn't love me; I believe he does, but not the way I wanted. Not what I let myself dream of. It's love in his own way and on his own terms, and he's never given a flying fuck whose bed I share."

"Kind of tough on the ego, huh?"

"Yeah, it is." Lindsey took another sip of wine before trying to formulate a coherent explanation for her response. "I've been sitting here for hours - maybe even for days - trying to figure it all out for myself, and I'm still not sure I know much." She smiled, but it was rueful. "Do you ever wish they'd invent a safe cigarette? Seems to me there's nothing quite like smoking to help clear the mind? Stupid, huh?"

Briggs grinned, and wondered if she should pull out one of the carefully-rolled joints that she kept stashed in a hidden compartment in her purse. But the moment passed, and she dismissed it as temporary insanity. This was still Lindsey Peterson, of the Social Register Petersons, and she was still a member of the Pittsburgh PD, albeit something of a renegade - a la Brian Kinney. She smiled at that notion.

Lindsey was quiet for a moment, but when she spoke again, it was obvious she was still examining the same thoughts, idling in the same place. "There is really only one thing I'm entirely sure of; whatever happened to screw up my marriage, it wasn't Brian who caused it. That's not to say he wasn't a part of it, because he was. But not because he tried to break it up; not because he did anything to interfere. In fact, he probably tried harder than anybody to do what was needed to help us find our way through. He sure as hell never asked me to love him; he never even did much to make me feel that way. And he can be such a total shit sometimes, that even I wonder why I put up with it. But . . . this is going to sound insane, but, in his own weird, oddball way, he's the most unselfish person I've ever known. He does what he does, what his own unique sense of right and wrong says he should do, because it's what he believes in, and it's really strange that he's right more often than he's wrong. I won't even try to tell you there weren't times when he was a major bone of contention, but it was never because he was trying to break us up. In fact, I think he was trying to keep us together. Not because he gave a shit about protecting our 'great love affair', but because he believed that us being together and loving each other was what was best for Gus. So I guess, it really wasn't about being unselfish, so much as it was about protecting his son. Not a completely noble cause, maybe, but better than most.

"At any rate, what I'm trying to say is it wasn't what Brian did that cost me my relationship with Melanie. It was . . . it was what we did. Melanie and me. Because it was always within my power to change it. Brian wouldn't have done anything to stop me, since he didn't wedge himself between us in the first place. He proved that when he gave up his parental rights to Gus, which wasn't easy for him. But he did it - for Gus." She sighed and went very still for a moment, before looking up and meeting Sharon Briggs eyes with great determination. "It was me. I kept him close enough to use as my shield. My excuse. My justification for everything that went wrong. I . . . God, I can't believe I'm actually going to admit this, but I used him to camouflage things that I didn't really want to know. Things about my marriage. Things about me."

Lindsey was startled when Briggs responded with a bright burst of laughter. "Congratulations, Linz. I'd have bet good money you would never take a good look at that dirty little secret."

Lindsey sat up straight and regarded her old acquaintance with a small degree of disbelief. "Now how on earth could you have known about my 'dirty little secret'? We were never that close, you and I."

"Close? No, we weren't. And there were some pretty good reasons for that. Sorority princesses we both might have been, but still rising from different worlds. You were born to old money and classic bloodlines, Peterson. I was an upstart - a black girl whose parents lucked into wealth. Oh, nobody ever quite dared to say that to my face, but it was what you all believed."

"No, I . . ."

"Oh, don't get all defensive. I know that idea offends your liberal sensibilities - that you would never have put it that way. But there was still some tiny little measure of class distinction, even in that era of bleeding hearts. And I came into the whole thing with an advantage. Learning to accept homophobia against my sexual identity was easier for me than for you. Because I learned from my parents, who faced a similar gauntlet when they dared to succeed in the privileged world of white wealth. Not that I didn't do my own share of resisting, for a while. But I learned faster how to deal with pre-existing prejudices, because of family history, for lack of a better term."

Lindsey smiled, and leaned forward to pour herself another serving of wine. "But that wasn't our only problem, was it?"

Briggs laughed again. "You do realize that he would be crowing like a rooster at dawn, to hear that each of us resented the other because of our attachment to Brian Kinney."

Lindsey nodded. "So down to the bare facts. Did you and he ever . . ."

"No," Briggs answered, "but - as you have probably already guessed - it wasn't me who put the brakes on. Something that he knew, probably before I did. All he had to do was pop the buttons on his 501's, and I'd have been on my knees - one way or another, and however he wanted. Thus, my curiosity. If I'd actually sampled the goods, I'd hardly have asked, and especially not you."

Lindsey sipped and smiled. "So, we basically wasted years of our lives being jealous of each other for absolutely no reason, since he obviously couldn't have cared less."

Briggs lifted her glass. "We should form a support group. Call it FIBC."

"FIBC?"

"Feathers-in-Brian's-cap."

Lindsey laughed. "In that case, it should probably be VFIBC."

Briggs raised one eyebrow.

"Virgin-Feathers-in-Brian's-Cap."

"Virgin?"

The blond grinned. "One instance of midsummer madness does not a change-of-heart make. He screwed me - once - and it was the only time I ever saw him non-plussed."

"Meaning?"

Lindsey sank back and took another sip of her wine. "Brian is never at a loss for words, and he doesn't mince them, except when he doesn't want to be a nasty prick, but can't think of any way to avoid it."

"I'm sorry. I still don't get it. Why would he . . ."

Now it was Lindsey's smile that was lopsided. "How do you tell a girl that you just fucked through the floor that she didn't exactly make the earth move for you? Oh, he didn't have any trouble reaching a climax. He was a twenty-year-old sex machine, and that wasn't an issue. But it was just friction and hormones. Nothing remotely life-changing, and he couldn't pretend otherwise. Even Brian wasn't quite brash enough to admit that, without a little blush."

Briggs choked on her wine. "He blushed? Brian Kinney actually blushed?"

"He did. And that's when he coined the phrase, 'Midsummer madness'. I think it was probably the kindest put-down he ever came up with. But it was definitely a cold shower for me. I'm not going to claim that I wouldn't have repeated the performance if he'd ever shown the slightest interest - his reputation as a walking, talking wet dream is well-deserved - but I'd have died before I let him know that."

"And he didn't - show any further interest, I mean." It wasn't really a question.

"No," Lindsey admitted with a rueful sigh. "He didn't."

Briggs's gaze was sympathetic. "He should come with a warning label. That goes without saying. But you're not really blaming him for what happened between you and Melanie, are you?"

"I'm pretty sure we've already covered that. Much as I'd like to blame him - it's practically a national pastime, you know - I can't. And I won't. This wasn't about Brian or Sam. Or anybody else, except Melanie and me."

Briggs bit her tongue, almost hard enough to draw blood, to avoid asking about 'Sam'.

"And what happens now?" she asked instead. "Do you think you can get past all this?"

Lindsey looked down, once more studying the unique shape of her wedding ring. "I don't think that's the question. I don't think it's about whether or not we can; I think it's about whether or not I want to."

She hesitated for a moment before looking up to meet Briggs' dark eyes. "I don't think I like the person I've become during the last few years. I seem to have . . . misplaced part of me."

Briggs did not allow herself to express the feeling of relief that surged through her. She did not want Lindsey to realize that the conclusion she had just reached was a reflection of what other people had been thinking for a very long time. Despite the fact that the two of them had never been close, never shared intimacies, and never managed to set aside their differences - especially those generated by one Brian Kinney - she had always admired her sorority sister, for her liberal philosophy and her generous spirit, and she had mourned the changes in that wonderful personality as the years had gone by.

"Then perhaps it's time you reclaimed it," she said softly. "Tell me - are you still the bleeding-heart liberal you used to be? The one who would have gone toe-to-toe with the Establishment, to right a wrong and demand justice?"

Lindsey bit her lip, looking - for just a moment - like Brian Kinney contemplating a secret truth. "Is that who I was?" she asked. "Is that how you saw me?"

"Yep. And that's how I'd like to see you again, because . . . I could use your help, Linz. It would be the right thing to do. And it might just help Brian."

"Oh, that's dirty pool, Briggs," Lindsey replied with a laugh. "Who do I have to betray?"

Briggs took a deep breath. "Well, I, um, I rather wish you hadn't phrased it like that?"

"OK, now you're beginning to scare me. What, exactly, are you after?"

"What do you know about an organization called The Club?"

Lindsey's eyes widened briefly, and Briggs wondered if she'd made a terrible mistake. Thus the laughter caught her completely by surprise.

"Is that what this is all about?" Lindsey demanded. "You've come around here, buttering me up and trying to sweet talk me into . . . what? Playing traitor to my dad, because of his supposed allegiance to that 'Good Old Boys' Network'. Is that what you're trying to do?"

Briggs shrugged. "OK, so I'm busted. I knew it was a risk, but we need information."

"Such as?"

"Such as whatever you - or he - could tell us. It's not just a harmless social club, Lindsey; it's much more . . ."

"Which is exactly why my father walked out, within a few months of walking in for the first time." She regarded Briggs with a steady gaze, her eyes intensely blue and threaded with bright glints that might have been anger. "Listen, Briggs. I won't lie to you and claim that my father is a paragon of liberal ideals, or the type to wax poetic over Lesbian love affairs. He had a very hard time accepting my lifestyle, especially since my mother turned out to be queen of the homophobes. And if I'm completely honest, I'm still not entirely sure why he seems to have had a change of heart lately."

She took another sip of her wine. "But I can guarantee this. He was never the type of man to condone the kind of vicious bigotry that was leveled at Brian. He's a good man, fundamentally. Just a bit confused by his conservative background, and unprepared to deal with the world as it is now."

"OK," said Briggs slowly. "So does that mean that he'll be willing to talk to us? Or even to lend a helping hand in the investigation?"

"What kind of helping hand?"

Briggs stared into her wineglass, her eyes dark with speculation. "Initially, just information about the structure and background of the place. Everything we've learned so far has been from from the perspective of employees, or outsiders looking in, and it would help if we could get a closer look. Some members of The Club are under intense scrutiny, based on evidence we've gathered, and soon, they're going to be questioned and investigated more deeply. We'll probably learn a lot more then, especially from those who are unaccustomed to dealing with police procedures. But there are still too many unanswered questions, and some of the true powerbrokers might just slip through the cracks, unless we can close them. No matter how reprehensible you and I might find their actions to be, there is a fanatic brand of loyalty in this kind of group. It's almost a brotherhood, and some of its members possess a fierce, misguided sense of honor; they'd literally die before betraying one of the brethren."

"But my father isn't an insider," Lindsey answered steadily, "and he's certainly not a 'brother'. I told you; he didn't hang around, once he realized who and what they were."

"Uh-huh." Briggs smiled. "I'm beginning to understand that wish for a cigarette. But look, Lindsey. Given your mother's . . . philosophy, I would think he would simply have chosen to walk away quietly. Am I wrong?"

Lindsey chuckled. "Tell me, have you been studying my father? Because, if so, you'd know he's not really the type to make a scene and confront those who don't think like him. He doesn't even confront my mother - or, at least, he never used to. I'm not sure about now."

"So, the bottom line is that he never told the members of The Club he thought they were a bunch of narrow-minded, Neanderthal bigots."

"No. I'm sure he didn't. Although he did express his disenchantment to my mother, who was not particularly happy with him."

"But - as a result of his reticence - he could go back. Couldn't he?"

Lindsey went very still. "Sharon, you're talking about people who may very well have been responsible for what happened to Brian. Right? Do you really think I'd risk my father getting involved in . . ."

"Why don't you let him decide?" Briggs' voice was firm - without apology.

"But . . ."

"He's not a child, Lindsey. Shouldn't he have the right to speak for himself?"

Lindsey's eyes were cold, ice-flecked. "What exactly do you want him to do?"

Briggs stood up and walked to the window to watch a wisp of cloud thicken and rise to obscure the face of the moon. "The Club is having its annual founder's celebration next week, which is just a fancy camouflage for their primary fund-raising drive, along with the ultra-exclusive membership review, when they open their ranks - very narrowly, of course - to prospective new members. The guest list is very impressive and includes names which are subjects of interest in our investigation."

"And?"

Briggs sighed. "And here's the truth, Lindsey, or, at least, the Truth According to My Gut. I think we're on the verge of breaking this case wide open. I think we're about to bag ourselves some major movers and shakers in the world of organized bigotry. But I don't think we've got the leader of the pack yet. I think there's someone else - someone we haven't identified. Someone who may be protected by the hierarchy beneath him. So what we need is someone who can slip inside, who can see things without pre-existing bias. Someone with a fresh viewpoint."

Lindsey took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Someone like my father."

"Yes."

The silence stretched thick and unbroken, until Lindsey rose and moved toward the fireplace, suddenly very cold and filled with dread. "Tell me something. If it were your father, would you be willing?"

Briggs turned to stare at her old acquaintance, noting how lovingly the flicker of firelight caressed the classic profile. "Honestly? No, I wouldn't. But I would understand that it wasn't really my choice to make."

Lindsey leaned forward and braced her forehead against the mantle. "I'm scared, Sharon. And I have this strange feeling that if I ask him, he'll do it for all the wrong reasons."

"What does that mean?"

Lindsey turned to meet the gaze of dark, topaz-tinted eyes. "I don't have a fucking clue."

Briggs blinked, and surprised herself with her next question. "Are you . . . are you going back to Melanie?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know."

"And how does that bear on the case?"

Briggs smiled, and stepped forward to reach out and smooth a stray lock of hair away from Lindsey's face.

"It doesn't."

Lindsey wasn't sure why she felt a soft breath catch in her throat, or why her smile was tentative, almost tremulous. "You know," she said, turning slightly so that Sharon's fingers caressed her jawline, "the wine is very good. But I've got a bottle of Makers' Mark bourbon that would be even better. Are you . . . off duty?"

Briggs turned and moved back to the sofa, where she sat down, removed her shoes, propped her feet on the coffee table, wriggled her toes, and sank back against silken cushions with an appreciative sigh.

"I am now."

Lindsey's smile deepened and steadied, as she rose to fetch the bottle of the remarkably good whiskey to which Brian had introduced her.

She was just returning, with a tray and two glasses, when there was another knock at the door, and she wondered - again - why every unexpected development felt like a bad omen, and whether it would always be so.

Sharon Briggs was watching her, offering up a lovely smile to indicate that she understood and shared Lindsey's misgivings as she went to answer the door.

Misgivings that - in retrospect - would turn out to be mere shadows of what was actually waiting beyond the door.

"Lindsey, I need to talk to you. This crap has gone on long enough."

Melanie, looking weary and frazzled, pushed forward, shouldering her way through the door without waiting for Lindsey to step aside, but coming to an abrupt halt when she realized who was looking up at her from the sofa.

"What the fuck is she doing here?"

Lindsey's initial response was composed of two words - half mumble, half groan. "Oh, shit!"


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

The tail lights of the SUV flared just as the car disappeared around the turn that would take it to the main road, and Brian released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. But Chris McClaren had noticed, and turned to face the man who was his primary responsibility. He managed to retain his stoic demeanor, his face stony and expressionless, but he wondered if Brian could see through the façade and recognize the dread beneath it.

For he knew what was coming.

"Do I have to say it?" The words were as sharp and cold as ice pellets, driven by a polar wind.

"No."

"Then explain it to me. My son could have been killed tonight. On your watch."

"I know."

"If that had happened, do you have any idea what your life would have been worth?"

McClaren took a deep breath. "In fact, I do. But more importantly, I know what your life would have been worth."

"Don't play word games with me, McFed. How could this have happened?"

And there it was. Beneath the fury and the bravado and the fierce protectiveness, there was the most elemental emotion of all. Brian Kinney was angry and outraged and appalled, but, most of all, he was afraid.

"I don't know." There was no way to evade the truth, or avoid the consequences, and the only way to survive this confrontation was to deal with pure, undiluted truth. "All I can do is move heaven and earth to make sure that it won't happen again."

Brian stepped forward, moving deliberately into the FBI agent's personal space. "I want to . . . I need . . . "

"I know." It was just a whisper, a gentle breath against Brian's face. "You can take a swing at me, if you like."

Brian turned his head, and something flared in the depths of his eyes. "And you're just going to stand there . . . and take it?"

McClaren's smile was barely there - a shadow of his customary sardonic grin. "Well, I didn't exactly say that - now did I?"

Brian hesitated, and folded his lips. "We could have an old-fashioned, knockdown, drag-out fist fight."

"We could, but, given the fact that you're still showing some scars, I might mess up all the work done by your sociopathic plastic surgeon - and he wouldn't be very happy with either one of us."

Brian nodded. "You might, but - then again - I'm pretty pissed off. Pissed off enough, maybe, to wipe the floor with your ass."

McClaren stepped closer, close enough to nuzzle his lips against the side of Brian's throat. "And here I was thinking that you were kind of fond of . . . my ass."

Unexpectedly, Brian laughed. It wasn't much of a laugh, but it was decidedly better than nothing. "Not fond enough," he said finally.

McClaren stepped back, and there was no amusement in his eyes as he met Brian's gaze squarely. "You're sending them away. Tomorrow - right?"

"Yep."

"They'll be safe. I swear to you. And if I'm wrong, then my life is yours, to do with whatever you please."

Brian simply stared at him for a moment, weighing the emotions he could read in the blue orbs that returned his gaze so steadily. Then he nodded, and McClaren smiled. "I notice you didn't say anything about . . . protecting yourself."

"I'm a big boy." Brian's response was flat, without inflection.

"I hate to belabor the point," McClaren observed, "but you were a big boy before this, and look how well that worked for you then."

"Once burned," Brian retorted.

"Shit! When the eternally glib Brian Kinney starts talking in clichés, things have really gone to shit."

Brian regarded him with cold eyes. "Please tell me you haven't just figured that out."

McClaren suppressed a sigh. "All right. I get that you're pissed. Now can we put it behind us, and get back on track here? I need to talk to my team, and you - you need to shut the fuck up and let me do my job."

Slowly - reluctantly - Brian nodded. "Just make sure . . ."

"Drop it, please. Now - am I forgiven?"

"Not even close."

"Goddammit, Brian. I . . ."

"You don't get it, do you?"

McClaren went very still, hearing a strange note buried in the elegant tones of that controlled voice. "Get what?"

"I pay for my own mistakes. I pay. No one else - ever."

The FBI agent felt something shift deep in his chest, and wondered if anyone, anywhere - even those who believed with no doubt that they could read Brian Kinney like an open book - had ever been allowed to witness this particular, deeply-buried truth find its way to the surface of this complex, deeply conflicted man. "Is that what this is all about, Brian? Is all of it - everything that happened to you, or ever will happen to you - is it all some kind of penance? Some kind of price you have to pay for . . . for what? For being who you are? How is that . . ."

"No. Not for being who I am."

"Then what? How . . ."

"For not being who I needed to be. For not . . ."

"Not what?"

A heavy, thick silence - a stillness that seemed to encompass everything and everyone around them. Heavy, stifling - and gone, as Brian flashed a trademark smirky grin. "Not any of your business. Now, don't you have a team to harass?"

McClaren - unfooled, but resigned - nodded. "And what are you going to do?"

Brian glanced at the watch he had only recently begun to wear on a regular basis. "I'm going to put my son and his dog to bed and then - maybe - drink myself into a stupor. Or something."

McClaren nodded and turned to tend to the unpleasant business of discovering who had been responsible for the lapse in security, but then he paused and took a moment to look back at Brian, sensing something that he couldn't pinpoint in the man's demeanor or his voice. Something . . . troubling. But, whatever it was, it was there and gone too quickly for him to identify it.

"You just behave yourself," he said finally.

"I always do."

Somehow, the reassurance did not make the FBI agent feel any better.

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

It was nearing eleven when the dark BMW shot out of the semi-detached garage and was  past the gatehouse and into the lane before the on-duty guards had a chance to even challenge it, and Chris McClaren stood watching it vanish into the night, cursing himself for his own blindness. He knew he should have anticipated this, should have realized Brian was being far too docile, too cooperative. Too Un-Brian.

"What the fuck?" Agent Delia Perkins had been finishing up her turn at the gate, waiting for her relief in just a few minutes, and McClaren was pretty sure that Brian would have taken that fact into account. It had been an eventful day, and the staffers were all a bit overwrought and weary of the whole thing, and Brian would have known that as well as anyone.

"Where the hell is he going?" she asked, her customary lovely southern accent lost beneath a burst of strident anxiety.

"I don't know," McClaren admitted, "but I will soon enough." He touched the Blue Tooth device in his ear and spoke to Howard Woolsey who was currently manning the computer surveillance system. "Have you got him yet?"

"Yep. LoJack fully operational. He's on the coast road, heading North. Going like a bat out of hell, too."

"Typical. Don't lose him." McClaren ran toward the garage. "I'm going after him."

"Well, you better hurry, or you'll never catch him."

The FBI agent paused just long enough to grab a helmet from a shelf beside the garage door, momentarily glad that he had not given in to an urge some hours earlier, to shed jeans and boots and grab a chance for a quick swim. The Harley was in its customary place, waiting under a tarp, fully gassed and ready. It had not been used much during their stay, less practical in the beach environment than the pair of four-wheelers used by the staff for regular patrols. But, for now, it would be perfect for his needs.

"I'll worry about him," he assured Woolsey. "You guys just make sure that everything here is secured, or you'll have to deal with him when I drag him back."

"Everything's fine here, Boss."

McClaren didn't waste time stating the obvious. He simply leapt on the bike, and roared out into the night.

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

Brian knew he should feel guilty for pulling this double-cross. He also knew that McClaren would be in pursuit almost instantly. So there was no time to lose.

He was late already, but - no matter how cranky the man might prove to be - Turnage would not turn him away when he showed up at the doctor's door. He was sure of that. Despite being a major drama-queen of the first order - a term which Brian believed had absolutely nothing to do with sexual orientation - Turnage was a world-class physician, and he would not ignore the needs or potential problems of his patient.

Even when he had (correctly) judged said patient to be an arrogant, narcissistic bastard who delighted in causing trouble.

Brian smiled. He wondered if anyone would be surprised to realize that he knew exactly how most people thought of him.

Probably not.

The smile didn't last long, as he reviewed the events of the day and the night, and thought about the things that lay ahead of him - the tasks he had to perform.

Whether he wanted to or not.

But first, there was something he had to find out. Hence the visit to the doctor, and the necessity for going alone. There were simply some things that he was not prepared to share with anybody. Not now. Maybe not ever. That was yet to be decided.

When his cell phone rang, he didn't even bother looking at the caller ID. "Save your breath," he almost snarled as he answered the call. "I needed some time."

He had expected to hear Chris McClaren shouting at him about being an idiot; thus, the silence that was the initial response to his greeting took him by surprise.

Somehow, though, the electronically disguised voice that spoke next was not as much of a surprise as he'd have thought it would be.

"You got lucky tonight, Little Pervert. Next time, you won't." There was a pause, then an ugly laugh. "He looks too much like you for his own good."

And then the line went dead.

He took a moment - only a moment - to catch his breath before hitting his speed dial.

"Where the fuck are you?" answered McClaren, still on blue-tooth, and straining to hear over the noise of the Harley engine.

"Never mind that. I need you to get somebody to trace the last call that came in on my phone. I assume you can do that."

McClaren's pause was brief, obviously not eager to admit that Brian's cell phone had been monitored since the beginning of the investigation.

"Already processing," he confessed finally. "Why?"

"Because I just got a call from our uninvited guest."

"What?"

Brian had to take a moment, to draw a deep breath. "Katy was right, Chris. Someone was there. Someone who wants to hurt my son."

"Brian . . ."

"Do you understand me? You've got to . . ."

"Brian. Gus is safe. I swear it. Everything is locked down. And - whether you're willing to face it or not - it's not really Gus that they want to hurt. It's you, so . . ."

"Yeah?" Brian's voice was harsh, and sharp as a blade. "And what - exactly - would be the best way to do that?"

This time, it was McClaren who paused. "Okay. I see your point. But nobody's going to get to him tonight, Brian. Or to anyone else who matters to you. So where the fuck . . ."

"Just trace that call, and find that motherfucker. I won't be gone long."

The line went dead then, and McClaren swallowed a few choice curse words. Then he decided he'd do well to get over it and get on with his job. He'd catch up soon, and when he did . . . He wondered when - not if - his patience with Brian would be sufficiently exhausted to cause him to do his best to give the man a black eye.

Probably sooner than later.

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


"You're late."

Brian took a seat at the end of the exam table and regarded the doctor steadily, no hint of apology rising in dark, shadowed eyes. "I know. It was unavoidable."

"And if I hadn't answered the door?"

Perfectly shaped lips lifted in a faint smile. "But you did."

Turnage sighed. "Where's your entourage?"

"I sent them off on a wild goose chase. What do you care?"

The physician leaned closer, his eyes examining every square inch of Brian's face, but it was a clinical inspection - something Brian was not particularly comfortable with. "Judging by the damage done to you during the attack," replied Turnage, "I'd hate to think I've been wasting my time and my skill only to have you become a target again."

"Why, Doctor, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't."

Brian just smiled.

Turnage moved away, and opened a drawer in the credenza that covered the entire wall of the small office.

"You do understand that this is not my specialty," he said sternly. "That anything I find will be strictly preliminary."

"I do. But I assume you could probably tell me if I have nothing to worry about."

Turnage turned to stare at him, obviously slightly surprised. "You don't strike me as the kind of man who doubts himself, Mr. Kinney. So what do you expect to learn?"

"The truth," Brian replied, holding the doctor's gaze without flinching. "You don't strike me as the kind of man who would mince words. If it's nothing, you'll say so."

"And if it's something?"

Brian did not smile. "You'll say so. So just get on with it."

Turnage looked thoughtful; then he nodded, and turned back to the cabinet, gathering the necessary equipment, while Brian took a moment to compose himself, taking a deep breath, determined to face whatever might be at hand.

In the end, the exam did not take long, and, exactly as he'd expected, the physician could not give him any kind of definitive answer.

He could however provide some speculation, even though he was obviously reluctant to do so.

"Verdict?" Brian asked finally, when Turnage was spending an inordinately long time recording his observations.

The physician took a deep breath. "Well, for what it's worth, you're right. It's not just your imagination. However, I can't tell you exactly what it is, although . . ."

"Come on, Doc. Just spit it out, will you? Whatever you tell me, it probably won't be as bad as what I'm thinking."

Turnage sighed. "As I told you before, I can't be sure. We need a specialist, and I don't mean in a week or a month. I mean now. As in tomorrow. Too much time has passed already."

Brian nodded. "So what is it you're trying not to tell me?"

Turnage took a seat behind his desk and regarded Brian steadily. "First of all, you need to understand that this is - God! This is beyond rare. If I'm right."

"Just say it."

"Have you ever heard of something called AION?"

Brian huffed an impatient sigh. "Spare me the acronym. What is it?"

"Anterior Ischemic Optic Neuropathy."

"Which means?"

Turnage folded his hands on his desk. "It means you could be right. Despite the fact that this condition is very rarely associated with physical trauma, it is possible."

"And?"

The doctor rose quickly, his body language expressing an anger that he refused to allow to bleed into his voice. "And what? What do you want me to say, Brian? I told you - it's not my field. I can't give you a valid prognosis. You know that."

Brian stood too and stepped forward, deliberately intruding on the physician's personal space. "I'm not planning to sue if you get it wrong, Doc. But I want to know what you think. I want to know what's at risk."

"You already know that."

"Say it."

Turnage moved away, turning to look out toward the horizon, to watch as moonlight frosted the ocean's waves with silver froth. "You could go blind. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Brian's smile was bittersweet. "I just wanted to see if you were brave enough to tell me."

This time, Turnage made no attempt to camouflage his anger. "Or did you just want to show me you were brave enough to hear it?"

Brian was turning to walk away when he had a moment of epiphany, suddenly realizing what Turnage could not bring himself to say. His anger was not directed toward Brian's insistence on hearing the truth; it was, instead, rage at the futility of the situation.

Rick Turnage was not accustomed to feeling helpless.

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