Chapter 49

Maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have;
Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have.
Little things I should have said and done,
I just never took the time,
But you were always on my mind,
You were always on my mind

You Were Always on My Mind -- Wayne Carson Thompson; Johnny Christopher; Mark James


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It would have been more logical - not to mention more professional - to meet at the clinic; the medical equipment there would have facilitated a more thorough evaluation of the patient's condition, and that was a fact that none of them could dispute. Yet, all three had agreed - tacitly - that a conference at Turnage's beach house was preferable, although not a single one could have explained why.

For Turnage, of course, there was the inescapable logic of not having to leave the comfort of his home and go to the trouble of getting into his car, driving down the road, and opening up his office, but the simple truth was that the drive was less than a mile in distance, and there would be virtually no traffic on a Sunday afternoon, so any objection was completely ludicrous.

Still, he had not suggested it.

Of course, none of the three would deign to point out that the pitcher of perfectly blended vodka martinis, prepared by Ramon, the doctor's houseboy/butler/jack-of-all-trades, and set up on the credenza in Turnage's study was sufficient justification for selecting a domestic venue for their little conference, but none of them refused the invitation to imbibe either, once Dr. Griffin had completed his initial physical review of the patient's injuries.

Brian had acquiesced to the examination in relatively good grace (for Brian) only grumbling a bit and taking advantage of an opportunity to point out that there was absolutely no reason why a potential problem with his vision should necessitate a look and a grope at his cock, balls, perfect ass, and associated nether regions.

Griffin, however, had ignored both grumbling and innuendo and proceeded to complete the exam, leaving nothing to chance, using his own instruments which he carried with him in a hand-tooled leather bag and looking, throughout the procedure, so perfect for the role of a distinguished medical guru that he might almost have been a caricature, with his mane of thick, silver hair, pale, perfect skin, classic profile, serene gray eyes, and glasses perched at the end of his nose so he could look through them or over them as required. Brian wondered briefly why a world-famous ophthalmologist would need glasses at all; then he smiled as the answer occurred to him. Even the world-famous could be subject to a nuance of conceit, and this was almost certainly about image. He relaxed a bit then; he wasn't sure why diagnosing such a purely human failing in such a stellar individual made him feel a bit less intimidated (yes, even Brian Kinney occasionally felt intimidated) but it did.

Once the exam was completed, Brian and Turnage, both casually smart in designer jeans and polo shirts, slouched comfortably in plush easy chairs in the lounge area of Turnage's sprawling office, sipping their perfect martinis, while Andrew Griffin, slightly more upscale in linen slacks and a button-down Abercrombie & Finch shirt, enjoyed his own drink as he scrolled through document after document of medical data and test results, pausing occasionally to refer to visual files on the laptop open on an adjacent desk and additional data from a CT monitor.

The two physicians exchanged questions and comments, confining their conversation to the kind of medical jargon Brian would have found intensely annoying, if he'd been paying attention. But he wasn't, choosing to concentrate instead on the seascape visible through a broad sweep of windows and the group of bronzed, young surfers cavorting in the shallows just offshore.  One in particular caught his eye: tall, tan, muscular, with broad shoulders, a slender waist, long, shapely legs, and thick, dark curls framing a classically handsome face - Lord Byron in a Speed-O. He smiled as that metaphor occurred to him, realizing how ridiculous such an observation would sound to all his acquaintances who would sneer at the idea that Brian Kinney would even entertain such a notion. Nevertheless, the young exhibitionist (no doubt about that, even at this distance) was a perfectly suitable inspiration for the comparison, flashing brilliant smiles toward a group of girls sunbathing on the beach, and reminding Brian of a Welsh actor he'd once seen in a play about the scapegrace poet - a beautiful creature with eyes as transcendantly blue as a twilight sky, a perfect cleft chin, and a mop of dark, thick, silken curls. From his first glimpse of the leading man, he'd realized that some actors were simply born to play certain roles, and the young man romping through the surf had a look about him that called up images of that lovely memory. This kid was probably a manual laborer or a student at a local college who wouldn't know the difference between a canto of Don Juan and a verse of Green Eggs and Ham, but he certainly looked the part, thus providing a reminder about how deceptive such looks could be. Brian had, after all, enjoyed an intimate encounter with the actor in question, at a private party following the final curtain of the play. It had been a memorable occasion, and the two had gotten along tremendously, but the actor had demonstrated - repeatedly - that though there was an incredible degree of erotic poetry in his physical presence, there was none at all in his soul. They had spent a memorable week-end, enjoying frequent, amazing, mind-blowing sex and laughing as they arrived together at the conclusion that though the young man  shared certain libertine interests with the infamous poet, he could not have composed a decent sonnet to save his life. Limericks were more his style, the bawdier the better.

Brian sank more comfortably into his chair and sipped at his martini while he watched the group on the beach, although he realized he was probably imagining the resemblance, since he couldn't really see the young man very well.

He closed his eyes and amused himself briefly by trying to figure out just how long it had been since that encounter. The actor's name had been Geoffrey Evans - he was vaguely surprised to realize he remembered it - and their time together had been a bright interlude, the two of them sharing an eagerness to sample the pleasures of New York's gay community, and Brian was slightly disconcerted to realize he had not thought about the young man or that week-end in almost ten years. Nor had he seen the actor again, except for a couple of fleeting glimpses on some cable television program shot in Wales, although there'd never been the slightest doubt about recognizing him, no matter how fleeting such glimpses had been; those eyes and that body remained, now and forever, unmistakable. Evans had been - probably still was - the most beautiful physical specimen he'd ever met . . . almost. He frowned as he wondered why it should suddenly bother him that he would almost certainly never see Geoffrey Evans again.

"Because," said an ugly, vindictive, little voice in his mind, "it's easier to wonder about never seeing that face again than to actually confront the possibility of never seeing the one you can't bear to lose."

He glanced at the ship's clock on the mantle and realized that Justin would be in Pittsburgh by now. Probably already at his mother's townhouse, or maybe even at the loft, making lists and plans and arrangements for packing up and transferring his possessions from New York.

Brian frowned. He should really put a stop to that; he should tell Justin that it was silly to do this - that they'd been foolish to let themselves believe in happily-ever-after, but . . . He sighed. Not quite yet.

He sat up straight and shifted to confront the two physicians, as he roused himself from his brooding and realized they had fallen silent and were now waiting for him to notice.

Both were attempting to maintain professional demeanors, but Brian had learned a lot during his bout with cancer about reading the minds of those charged with his medical care. "So," he said softly, "let's have it."

"Well," said Griffin, "first you have to understand that this is not like diagnosing chicken pox. There's no specific lab test that can provide a definitive diagnosis, and there are still plenty of gray areas that might later come into play. So anything we tell you . . ."

Brian folded his lips together and took a deep breath."Yeah. I understand. But could we please just dispense with the caveats and get to the bottom line?"

Griffin sat back and took off his glasses, using a spotless linen handkerchief to polish them as he regarded Brian with a solemn gaze. "You were the one who originally raised this issue, weren't you? You sensed that something was not quite as it should be." He paused to riffle through the file in front of him, looking for a specific note. "You described it as 'an inability to focus on close objects' - which is a rather singular way to express the problem. You could have simply said, 'I can't see.' But you didn't, which seems to suggest that you realize it's more complicated than a simple change in eyesight. It's also obvious you're an intelligent, well educated man - the kind who would have done a lot of research before even broaching the subject of possible complications from your injuries. So it only stands to reason you'd have already done some preliminary investigation and reached some informed conclusions of your own. Care to share your speculations?"

Brian's smile was without warmth. "Isn't that what I'm paying you for? Or maybe I'm not going to have to pay you at all. Experimental subjects don't usually have to pay to be guinea pigs, do they, and, since it seems highly unlikely that you just happened to be in the neighborhood when I brought these questions up, I'm thinking the possibility of this condition being something more than a fluke or a figment of my imagination is intriguing enough for you to consider coming to take a look without worrying about who's paying whom - right? So the only really pertinent question would seem to be, why are you here, Doctor?"

It was nothing more than a throw-away comment, a typical Brian-Kinney smart-ass remark; yet the quick flicker that flared in the ophthalmologist's eyes suggested that Brian might have actually come up with a morsel of truth in his musings.

If nothing else, the not-so-rambling dialogue raised the physician's estimation of the mental acuity of his patient and forced him to realize that baiting Kinney and engaging in obfuscation was a complete waste of time.

"Fair enough," he said finally. "For the moment, let's just say that you interest me. Okay?"

"And I called him," explained Rick Turnage. "Isn't that good enough for you?"

Brian confined his response to a smirk that was not quite a sneer, along with a nod and a gesture for Griffin to continue, thus demonstrating he had no intention of indulging in speculation when those who should be able to provide actual facts were sitting right in front of him.

The ophthalmologist was frowning when he resumed speaking, indicating that he didn't care much for being interrogated or put on the spot so effectively. "Keeping in mind that nothing has been proven yet, I do feel it's wise to explore the possibility that we may be dealing with an extremely rare condition here. Vision problems can certainly result from severe physical trauma - especially from head injuries. But the symptoms you're displaying are . . . unusual, although we're a long way from being able to confirm anything. There are still many tests and exams to do, including a specific exam using a new narrow-focus macro-scanner I've developed for use in cases like yours. Unfortunately, the scanner is a prototype, and you'll have to travel to my research facility for us to use it, but I think it's critical that you do so. And Mr. Kinney - better sooner than later."

Brian thought for a moment. Then he nodded. "All right. When the Grand Inquisitor here has finished inflicting his specific brand of torture on me, I'll make arrangements to turn up on your doorstep - in due time."

Griffin then turned a quizzical eye toward the plastic surgeon who responded with a noncommittal shrug. "One small procedure left to do - scheduled for Tuesday morning - and a bit more therapy to restore him to fighting trim. A week or so, at most."

"Good then," Griffin replied, deliberately ignoring Brian's caveat and summing up, as if the matter was settled. "So we can . . ."

"But not," Brian interrupted, leaning forward so he was almost invading the ophthalmologist's personal space, "until you share your conclusions with me. If I'm going to submit to your experimental procedures, you're going to have to tell me why I should."

Griffin and Turnage exchanged glances, and the surgeon could not quite control a smirk. "I did warn you," he said quietly, and Griffin could only nod.

"Okay, Mr. Kinney. I . . ."

"Call me Brian. My father and I have absolutely nothing in common."

"Really?"

"Really. Especially since he's dead."

Griffin's smile was lopsided, since he obviously couldn't figure out how to respond to that so he opted to just forge ahead. "Brian then. In the course of your research, I'm going to assume you came across something called Anterior Ischemic Optic Neuropathy."

Brian glanced toward Turnage, his face almost without expression. "Let's just concede that I came across the term some place, which means it's only slightly less foreign to me than something spoken in high Mandarin."

Griffin stood up and walked toward the window, his eyes caught by the same group of surfers who had so fascinated Brian, and he spent a moment wondering if those fine, young specimens had any idea of how fortunate they were. Then he spent another moment hoping that they'd never have to find out.

"AION," he continued, his tone shifting automatically into lecture mode, "is a condition that would not ordinarily concern you. It's a degeneration of optic pathways that's commonly associated with elderly patients, especially those who suffer from chronic diseases such as diabetes or Huntington's. Unfortunately, in the last few years, a small number of cases have occurred in younger patients." He turned to study Brian's face, noting that the young man had paled slightly but was otherwise showing no signs of distress. "And the number appears to be increasing. In these cases, the condition develops after instances of severe physical trauma, in patients who required massive fluid resuscitation, prolonged intubation, and high ventilatory intervention and showed evidence of global hypoperfusion and systemic inflammatory response. In truth, we don't yet know why this happens, except that it is believed to be a consequence of the heroic measures required to treat such trauma. It's also associated with severe hypothermia, hemorrhagic shock, and intracranial hypertension, all symptoms which you displayed when you were first brought in for treatment. It's also postulated that crowding of the optical nerve fibers within the optic canal, caused by resuscitation-induced edema - or a small canal at the lamina cribrosa might produce venous outflow obstruction and increase pressure within the nerve.

"The symptoms you're displaying - particularly the rapid, incremental development of bilateral nonreactive mydriasis . . ." He paused and allowed himself a smug little smile when Brian frowned, not quite able to hide his confusion. "More commonly known as blown pupils. And the results of your fundoscopic exam which show indications of bilateral optic atrophy with spared vasculature and arterial narrowing of the left eye, along with white vascular cords in the right, lead me to believe that a diagnosis of AION is a viable possibility. Especially since none of your CT scans showed any evidence of cerebral infarction. Sometimes, reaching a diagnosis can be as much about reading the indicators that don't show up, as the ones that do. Although I must still caution you that there are other avenues that need pursuing before we can be positive. Nevertheless . . ."

Brian remained quiet for several moments, obviously waiting to see if the physician had anything more to add. Only when it became clear that nothing more would be offered did he clear his throat to speak. "Nevertheless, you're convinced, aren't you?"

Griffin did not answer quickly, choosing instead to regard his patient with a speculative gaze before deciding how to proceed. Then he nodded. "I am, but others might disagree. It's not a common diagnosis, and . . ."

"Turnage seems to believe that you're the best in your field," Brian interrupted, apparently not in the mood for disclaimers. "Are you?"

Again the pause, but this one was shorter. "Yes."

Brian's smile was brilliant and immediate. "Good. I hate false modesty. So all of this would be very interesting, if I spoke the ophthalmic equivalent of ancient Sanskrit. But I don't, so I'm thinking it's best for me to take your word for all the symptomatic analysis. Which means I only have two questions. What's my prognosis, and how do you cure it?"

"You're fond of cutting to the chase, aren't you?" asked Griffin with a snarky little smile.

"Actually, I'm not," replied Brian, happy to display a bit of snark of his own. "But . . ."

"Brian," interjected Rick Turnage, "you do realize this is all highly speculative. Dr. Griffin is internationally renowned, but his work is . . ."

"Mostly experimental?"

Turnage was not quite successful in an effort to suppress the flash of irritation in his eyes, or the sardonic smile that acknowledged he'd expected Brian to understand what had gone mostly unspoken.

"Yes, I get that." Brian deliberately removed the sunglasses that were now serving a dual purpose - to protect him from the painful glare of unfiltered light and to conceal the thinness of the hazel ring around his pupils. "But you still haven't answered my questions."

The physicians once more exchanged guarded glances.

Brian took a deep, impatient breath. "Please don't treat me like I'm mentally challenged. I assure you I'm not, and there's nothing you can say that's going to send me into bouts of hysterics. Just . . . say it."

Griffin's smile was genuine this time - and approving. "If we seem hesitant, it's not because we doubt your ability to comprehend, Brian. But unfortunately, medicine is still not an exact science, much as we might wish otherwise. Given that the number of variables in any living body is almost infinite, it's unlikely it ever will be. The bottom line is that we simply don't know. If we go strictly by the numbers - keeping in mind that the numbers of cases like this are exceptionally small - the likelihood is that your vision will continue to fail, until you are left completely blind. But we can't know for sure, and, even if it does pan out that way, there is no way of knowing how long the process will take. It could happen in a week, a month, a year . . . Based on previous cases, my best guess would be something between six weeks and three months. But again, keep in mind that the sampling available is just too small to make truly educated guesses.

"On the other hand, there is a possibility - albeit a slim one - that the deterioration will simply stop, that your eyes will adapt to the changes, the pupils will revert to normal size, and you'll be left with nothing more serious than the need for corrective lenses."

Brian looked once more out toward the beach, where the surfers and the sunbathers had decided to mingle and were setting up a volleyball net and Lord Byron in a Speed-O was looking ever more Greek-god-like as he leaned against a boulder and chatted up a shapely bikini-clad redhead. "But you don't think so," he said finally, savoring the view and trying not to think about a world in which he would never again be able to do so.

Griffin sighed. "No. I don't think so."

Brian took another moment to appreciate the way the sun bathed the young surfer's skin in shades of bronze and touched his hair with sparks of auburn. Then he turned back to study the faces of the two physicians. "And the second question?"

Neither replied.

Brian allowed himself one small sigh. "Let me guess. There's no cure."

Griffin hesitated. "There's no established cure."

Rick Turnage was looking straight at Brian at that moment, and turned away abruptly to conceal a smile, completely amazed at how expressive those hazel eyes could be in spite of the blown pupils. Brian was terrified but still managing - somehow - to hide how frightened he was, using a layer of sarcastic wit to camouflage the fear - and succeeding . . . almost.

"And that's why you're here," said the patient with a tiny, scapegrace smile. He turned and looked at Turnage, his expression almost unreadable. "I was pretty sure you didn't have to go all the way to Denver to find an eye specialist."

Turnage blinked. "How the hell did you know . . ."

Brian leaned forward and tapped the metal emblems on the key ring on Griffin's bag. "The Broncos or the Nuggets - either one by itself I could put down to coincidence. But both? Gotta be a local boy."

Griffin nodded. "Yes. My practice - and my facility - is just outside Denver, although I did happen to be in the area. Well, almost."

Brian grinned. "D.C? Baltimore?"

Te ophthalmologist's smile was only slightly grudging. "Miami, actually. A little vacation for me and my wife."

"Sorry to interrupt your plans," Brian retorted.

It was uncertain who was more surprised when Griffin laughed - including Griffin. "No, you're not," he said easily. "You've spent your whole life interrupting other people's plans, and I doubt that's going to change any time soon. Besides, this was just too . . ."

It was Brian's turn to laugh when the physician fell silent. "Irresistible?"

Griffin nodded. "Which you've certainly been called before, but not, I suspect, in this context."

"Right," Brian admitted, and the laughter was abruptly gone from his eyes. "So, tell me what - exactly - you do in your facility?"

"It's a surgical clinic."

"And?"

The ophthalmologist's smile was thin, almost weary. "And a research center, a place where we look for answers - for cures - for patients like you."

Brian nodded. "So - basically - it's housing for your lab rats."

"Well, that's a little harsh, don't you think?" snapped Turnage. "Dr. Griffin is trying to . . ."

"Complete his research," Brian interrupted, his voice strangely neutral, almost without inflection.

Turnage opened his mouth to continue his protest, but it was Griffin who stepped in and spoke up. "Yes," he said firmly. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do. Should I apologize for that?"

"No." Brian did not sound angry or disturbed, and both physicians wondered why. "You shouldn't. But - so far - you haven't said anything to persuade me that I should be a willing participant in your little maze."

Griffin moved slowly forward until he was standing directly in front of Brian, looking down into those startlingly dark eyes. Then he leaned forward and spoke in a near whisper. "Because you don't want to lose the ability to look out that window and appreciate the view - or to look into your own mirror and do the same. Because beauty isn't just a word to you, Brian. It's been a companion for you throughout your life, and it means something to you. And finally, because there is a face - I don't know who's, but you do - that you don't want to have to see only in your memories, and a man you don't want to have to walk away from, condemning yourself to living only in his.

"You will go blind, Brian. I can't prove it yet, but I know it just the same, and I am the only one who will care enough to find a way to fix you - not because I care about you personally, because I don't. I don't even know you, although I'll admit to liking what I see. But liking you has nothing to do with it; I'd do the same if you were the worst kind of psychopathic fascist bigot - because it's my job, and my purpose in life. Because it's what I was meant to do.

"Now, I won't hold your hand, or indulge in the kind of flattery that you're probably used to. I don't give a shit if half the free world thinks that you're sex on a stick and the hottest stud ever to come out of Pittsburgh (although I confess to wondering if that's an oxymoron) or how many pretty young things you've deflowered. The only part of you that interests me is your eyes, and that interest has nothing to do with the fact that they're drop-dead gorgeous. I just want to make them function the way they're supposed to. That's all. Got it?"

Brian had listened to the doctor's little speech without any reaction other than a tilt of his head, and, when it was finished, he folded his lips together and deliberately slid his sunglasses back into place over his eyes. Then he smiled. "Got it, Doc. It's always a pleasure dealing with a true professional."

Then he got up and walked out of the house, making his exit through the French doors that led to the terrace - and the beach - leaving the two physicians to stare after him in complete silence.

He was grinning as he started down the path toward the shoreline, knowing that he had done exactly what he'd intended to do. It was always better to leave an audience a little bit uncertain, a little unsure of what had just happened.

Meanwhile, he thought he might as well take a walk - and enjoy the view.

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She walked slowly across the well-groomed lawn, noticing how the multiple trunks of the massive birch tree at the front corner of the property intercepted the sun's late afternoon rays to paint lovely patterns of light and shadow across the double arched windows fronting the great room of the two-story house. It was a simple detail, and it certainly wouldn't have been sufficient to convince her to buy the property, but it didn't hurt either. Besides, she'd already reached her decision, with only one issue left to resolve.

Brightwood Falls # 43. She even liked the sound of the address, although she recognized that it was just a tiny bit pretentious, since there were no falls anywhere around, although there was a river barely visible through the stand of trees just past the turnaround at the end of the road, and the woods surrounding the subdivision were lovely enough, but not really bright, although - given the heavy presence of maple, ash, and sycamore she could see in the thick stand of trees across the way - they probably would be come September. Still, she liked the name, and realized it was mildly amazing that she could be pleased by something so simple - but not nearly as amazing as the other elementary truth she had only just recognized.

She reckoned it was probably a good thing epiphanies didn't happen often, and seemed to choose times and places appropriate to the mood of the moment.

For more than ten years of her life - encompassing her entire relationship with Melanie Marcus - she had chosen to believe she was living in a perpetual state of compromise, and it was what she really wanted - what made her happy. The truth was much simpler - and more alarming. The truth was that she had been 'settling' through all that time, in allowing Melanie to set the tone and establish the ambiance of the places they'd called home and the style in which they'd lived. Not that she hadn't spoken up to express her opinions or her tastes; she had. But somehow - with only minor exceptions - she'd usually been overruled, and it had been done in such a way that she'd been manipulated into believing it would have been selfish of her to insist - that concession was the only mature way to proceed.

She looked up at the façade of the townhouse which would become hers - if she signed on the dotted line - examining all the details and noting all the things that she found appealing, and realizing that the very things she loved most were the things that Melanie would dislike most intensely. Thus, if the two of them were still a couple and house-hunting together, this specific dwelling would have been immediately stricken from the list of possibilities with one firm penstroke. It would have been deemed unsuitable for consideration since it would not have fallen within Melanie's definition of acceptable compromise, and Melanie's definition would, in the end, be the only one that mattered.

Lindsey took a deep breath and moved out across the stretch of spring grass to take a seat in a lovely old porch swing hanging from the lowest limb of a towering elm tree. Then she looked around, taking stock and noting the specific features she found so pleasant. Stretched across the front of the house and spreading out around the section which protruded from the basic structure, forming a shallow L, was a curved flower bed spilling over with masses of phlox and buttercups and California poppies, mounds of pastel impatiens and ranunculus, and brilliant spikes of salvia, all nestled against the skirts of bright rose and pink and ivory-colored azaleas. In the corner, at the spot where the projection joined the main structure, an angular trellis stood against the brick, providing support for a lush climbing rose which would bloom as summer approached, draping the wall in drifts of deep scarlet.

Lindsey smiled, realizing that Brian would take one look at it and burst into his trademark derisive laughter. It was not sleek or modern or haute couture or avant garde; it was lovely; it was romantic; it was pretty. And he would know immediately, as Melanie never would or could, that it was the perfect setting for Lindsey and her son - a place where they would feel perfectly at home and content.

She continued her inspection, her eyes drifting from detail to detail: tinted, mullioned windows, a flagstone path leading to a paneled front door crowned with a stained glass fanlight, a brace of carriage-style sconces bracketing the entry, and a herringbone pattern of old Chicago brick framing a row of narrow windows topped with beveled glass transoms, all contrasting perfectly against shutters painted a deep forest green. On the second floor, dormer windows supported wrought iron planter boxes, fronting roomy bedrooms beneath a steep-pitched slate roof with a small balcony carved into one end, overlooking a stand of lilacs, currently wrapped in veils of pale lavender, in the side yard, set against a wooden gate providing passage through a high brick fence that surrounded a shallow, cozy back yard featuring a deck, a playground, and a small stone-lined pool. All in all, a wonderful home, with design features reminiscent of fond memories to provide an ideal setting for a happy, secure family life, while incorporating all the modern conveniences of the latest technology. Lovely and perfect - for her and her beautiful little boy who would be known, from this time forward, as Gus Peterson Kinney, whether Brian liked it or not. It was time to do the right thing if she truly expected her life to be as perfect as it possibly could.

Perfect.

So perfect that she looked up toward the top of the old tree and made herself a promise. Never again would she allow someone else to dictate how she lived, because that was not love. That was domination, no matter how carefully one phrased it or buried it under the guise of 'compromise'.

Of course, it was also 'perfect' in another way - as in perfectly and completely beyond her means. But that, she acknowledged, was not an issue unless she chose to make it one. There was no way to pretend that her income could even come close to covering the cost of this house - not today, and probably not ever, no matter how successful she might be in her profession. Therefore, she had a choice to make. She could refuse Brian's help, and accept the fact that she would never be able to provide such a home for Gus or for herself. Or she could swallow her pride and do the practical thing. She could let Brian pay for it, although she would insist that it be on her own terms.

What she would not do, ever again, was allow him to foot the bill for everything while everyone - herself included - pretended that his contribution was just an incidental circumstance, a trifle in the grand scheme of things. She would no longer allow that. Melanie had spent all the years of Gus's life enjoying the lifestyle Brian's money provided and never once acknowledging how much they depended on it. Thus, she knew what she had to do.

She would accept Brian's assistance, for two reasons - for the sake of her son, for whom she would gladly give up anything, including her pride, and because she herself had no desire to go back to living in relative squalor. She had been born into a rich family and enjoyed a privileged life throughout her childhood. But when she and Melanie had chosen to move in together and become partners, she had learned, for the first time, what it meant to be without resources, when her parents had refused to support her 'deviant' lifestyle. For a while, she had embraced the bohemian elements of their new existence, but it had not taken long for her to realize that she had given up a lot in order to be true to her sexual identity and her mate, and that the journey from filet mignon and lobster bisque to Hamburger Helper and tuna surprise was not exactly the stuff of dreams. She'd never blamed Melanie for it, nor been tempted to go back into the closet to regain access to her parents' approval - and assets. But she'd also never really learned to settle for living in reduced circumstances. Champagne taste meeting beer budget was not exactly a blueprint for contentment.

But then fate had taken a hand, when she'd made a decision - for once overriding Melanie's reluctance - to ask Brian to be the sperm donor for their child. Nobody had anticipated the bond that would form between the two biological parents or how firm that connection would turn out to be, wrapped up as it was in the deep love both felt for the child, but it was certain that, from that moment on, everything had changed. She had always known how Brian felt about Melanie; he'd never made a secret of his opinion. And vice versa; Melanie was equally outspoken, so it was no surprise that he would not have lifted a finger to remedy their financial difficulties in the earlier years of their partnership, until a baby became a reality. Once the pregnancy was confirmed, however, Brian had been the one who stepped up and opened doors for them.

Including the doors to the first home she and Melanie had bought together - the one for which her parents had refused to put up a single dime; the one for which Lindsey's share of the down payment had amounted to $10,000, which she had handed over to Melanie without offering any information about where it had come from, and which Melanie had accepted with no request for an explanation of its source, even though she had been present when Lindsey's mother had announced that she and her husband did not feel that contributing to such an 'unnatural environment' would be the right thing or the 'Christian thing' to do.

That was when Melanie had developed the skill of practicing obliviousness, which she would perfect over the years, ultimately raising it to an art form.

In the end, Melanie had selected the house and almost everything in it, even though Lindsey had shouldered half the cost. At the time of the purchase, Lindsey had not actually disliked the house, although it had certainly not been her first choice of all those they'd been shown. Still, she had voiced no major objections to Melanie's decision, and finally accepted the fact that the only area in which Melanie seemed willing to defer to Lindsey's expertise had been in the selection of artistic accents, since Lindsey was the 'professional' in that field. But even there, the attorney had always managed to voice just enough opposition and show just enough disdain for Lindsey's original choices that Lindsey had finally sighed and conceded that the clash of tastes wasn't worth a major confrontation, so they had always wound up going with option two or three - consistently abandoning Lindsey's original preferences.

The pattern of their lives had developed at a slow, steady pace, until it pervaded everything, so that, at the end of every dispute, every disagreement, Lindsey had simply accepted what she had begun to see as inevitable, and - with not a word being spoken - she had slowly learned to hate that house, because she had come to feel that it was not her home - that it was, instead, the dwelling of Melanie Marcus and some blond stranger who might look like her and sound like her and even act like her to some degree, but actually knew nothing of her heart or her character or her truest desires.

It had hurt, of course, when they had chosen to run away from Pittsburgh and its environs and move to Toronto, feeling compelled to desert the place where they had started their marriage and the home to which Gus had come when he was born, but it had never been the actual house that she mourned; instead it had been the idea of the home it should have been.

So she had come now - through a circuitous route - back to a familiar position, much like the place she'd started from. If she wanted to live in this house, it would only be possible if Brian picked up the tab, although she would insist on repaying his investment. Of course, she would probably never be able to pay it off, and he would never accept a penny of interest on it, and any default on her part would result in exactly no change in her life, but still, a monthly stipend would allow her to hang on to some small fragment of her dignity and feel as if she was contributing something meaningful to the support of her child.

Providing, of course, that her little boy approved, and that was the only question remaining to be answered. It was also the reason she was here now, awaiting the arrival of her son, along with several others.

She couldn't wait to see Gus, and to show him the house and gauge his reaction to it.

The 'others' however, were less eagerly anticipated.

The house was still partially furnished, with movers scheduled in within a few days to pack up the last of the furniture, but the realtor had handed over the keys without a single qualm - another example, no doubt, of the power of money. Kinney money, to be exact - "door opening" money, which easily provided access to the more public areas of the house in order to accommodate a small meeting - a meeting Lindsey would prefer to skip. Still, she knew there was no avoiding it.  She sighed and stood up, smoothing her dark skirt with her hands and adjusting the smoke and burgundy - colored scarf around her neck, as she looped the strap of her Gucci handbag over her shoulder just as the deliberately anonymous SUV pulled into the driveway, closely followed by a dark sedan with tinted windows. Just seconds later, another vehicle - almost identical - arrived, and Lindsey wondered why they didn't just plaster the cars with signs proclaiming them as FBI property, for she was sure that wouldn't be any more obvious.

She moved forward eagerly, knowing Gus would be first out. That was a certainty, and it suited her perfectly. She had talked to him every day, of course, and both her father and Brian had sent photos via email and iPhone, but it was not enough. She wondered sometimes if all mothers felt as she did - physically and emotionally dependent on the sweet sight of their children's faces. As a drug of choice, it was preferable to all others - not to mention more profoundly addictive.

Then her thoughts were drawn - inevitably - to J.R. and she had to pause for a moment, leaning forward to brace her hands against her knees and draw a deep, calming breath. She knew that, due to her actions during this debacle, she had surrendered all hope of ever being allowed to be a part of that darling little girl's life, a condition that would not be changed by how much she might love and miss the child or even by how much J.R. might love and miss her. The genuine caring and devotion between the two of them would make no difference - would be as insubstantial as a single grain of sand caught up in the scirocco-style maelstrom of Melanie's thirst for vengeance.

The little girl would pay for what Melanie would choose to see as Lindsey's betrayal, and there was absolutely nothing Lindsey could do about it. Or anyone else either.

Except . . . she sighed, knowing it wasn't fair. Knowing Brian couldn't possibly solve all the world's problems and that it was wrong to expect him to.

But still . . .

She put on a big smile as the car door opened. There would be time enough later for dark thoughts and regrets and dealing with lost hopes. But this, right now, was her welcome home to her darling son, and nothing was going to spoil that.

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

She sat at the dining table and stared out through the French doors to where Gus and his new best friend - AKA Beau Soleil, courtesy of Brian Kinney - were playing tag by racing around and through haphazard arrangements of vari-colored ceramic and clay pots, overflowing with masses of lavender-tinted hydrangeas, bright yellow daffodils, blue and white irises, bright hyacinths and tulips, and the cream and crimson trumpets of vibrant lilies. It was perfectly obvious that she should never have worried about her son's reaction to the house; he - and his companion - had fallen immediately and irrevocably in love with the place. The pool, which he was currently avoiding like a concrete version of the plague, would be a concern, of course - might even require a protective enclosure, since Brian would exhibit his customary compulsive tendencies when it came to protecting the people and things that he loved. But that was just a detail. The important thing was the fact that both mother and child loved the house.

Lindsey turned away from the view and picked up the Starbucks cup that Alexandra Corey had presented to her as they'd all gathered around the dining table - and how, she wondered, had the woman known about her ridiculous weakness for Caffé Mocha, a concoction that was more confection than coffee? She thought she should have been annoyed, especially since both her father and Agent Corey were sipping at their cups of plain, strong coffee with obvious relish. It shouldn't have made her feel like a child at the grown-ups' table; she knew that. But it did, nevertheless.

She sighed and turned slightly, just enough to be able to catch glimpses of Gus as he ran and played, and Lance Mathis as he leaned against the corner of the fence near the gate, standing guard. It should have bothered her - that she was comforted by the presence of a security guard to watch over her son, not to mention the two FBI agents who were patrolling the property. She should have resented the necessity, but she didn't. She was much too busy being grateful for the peace of mind their presence provided.

Ron Peterson was also enjoying the view, not to mention the sound track, as Gus burst into bouts of periodic laughter while the dog yipped or growled or howled, according to its own unique take on the actions at any given moment. But he was also taking advantage of the opportunity to watch his daughter's face as she delighted in the simple pleasure of having her son returned to her. His beautiful daughter. How long had it been, he wondered suddenly, since he had thought of her in those terms, and what the hell had been wrong with him that he had let himself forget how beautiful, how special she was?

He knew the answer, of course, although he didn't want to dwell on it. For years, he had been unable to think about Lindsey without also thinking about her partner in life - a woman he had never liked and never accepted. He felt guilty about that; he really did, since Gus still referred to Melanie as 'Mama'. Gus had accepted her, and she had apparently loved Gus as well, although he had some reservations about that. Her behavior since the birth of her own biological daughter had raised some doubts - doubts which he was pretty sure Lindsey shared. Doubts which must be very painful for her.

He sipped at his coffee before offering a gentle smile to his daughter, as a thought occurred to him. Had it really been Lindsey's sexual orientation which he had rejected so profoundly, or had it simply been Melanie Marcus? He wasn't even sure he wanted to know the answer to that question. But then he frowned as his thoughts drifted to his wife, and her beliefs and attitudes. There had never been any uncertainty in Nancy's mind about how she should feel about Lindsey or her 'unnatural perversion' or her unfortunate choice of partners. In truth, there had rarely been any uncertainty, about anything, in Nancy's mind. She considered herself an arbiter of good taste and Christian values, which she had demonstrated during the 80's, when the AIDS epidemic had made its disastrous debut on the stage of world events. According to Nancy, the disease was a masterstroke, delivered by the Hand of God, in that it was 'killing all the right people'.

He tried not to remember the look on his daughter's face when she'd overheard that comment from her mother. At that time, only nine years old, she had not announced her own sexual orientation - possibly had not even realized it yet for herself; she had nevertheless been appalled and horrified by her mother's cavalier dismissal of the suffering and dying of the victims of the horrible disease. Later in life, when she had grown enough to be confidant of her own beliefs and her right to them, she would speak up and inform her mother that she had never been able to forget or forgive that statement, correctly labeling it as the kind of vile, ignorant homophobia that could only be practiced by bigots and fascists without a single scrap of the compassion that was supposed to be a trait of the followers of Christ.

And what had he done, during all that ugly turmoil? He sighed again, and took another sip of coffee. He had done what he always did. Nothing. Going toe to toe with Nancy had just never seemed to be worth the effort. At the time, he had not recognized his reluctance to engage as a failure to defend his daughter. But he did now. The only problem was that it was probably too late.

But he could at least offer support in this hour of need. He could admit that he understood how he had failed her, and confess that he had never really liked Melanie. But he had always loved his daughter, and perhaps he could explain that his objections to Melanie had been caused - at least in part - by his dislike of the way she'd treated Lindsey. He needed to make sure that his daughter understood all of that, no matter how he'd felt about her chosen spouse, even though it probably didn't matter any longer, because Melanie appeared to be losing her status as a factor in Lindsey's life.

He turned then to look at the young woman sitting across from him, and just happened to catch a glimpse of a faint spark in her eyes as she glanced toward Lindsey. Then he looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught gawking, and found himself suppressing a tiny huff of laughter. Never let it be said that his daughter did anything the easy way.

"Agent Corey," said Lindsey suddenly, dabbing a napkin at a spot of whipped cream on her bottom lip, "I assume there's something you need to tell us - something so important that you felt the need to impose on my reunion with my son." She paused for a moment to favor her father with an apologetic smile. "Something that involves my father, I suspect, so please . . ."

"You're correct," replied Corey firmly, "and I actually regret the imposition." Then it was her turn to offer the slightly formulaic apologetic smile. "Despite our reputation to the contrary, all FBI agents are not insensitive louts. But there are things in motion, things that are part of the investigation into Mr. Kinney's attack, that need addressing. And frankly, we could use some help, especially in one particular area."

Lindsey was quiet for a moment, before shifting slightly to face the fourth participant in this impromptu little gathering. "Sharon, I'm still not convinced that this is such a good . . ."

"Don't you think," Briggs interrupted, deliberately looking down at her own hands and refusing to meet Lindsey's gaze, "that your father should be allowed to make that decision for himself?"

"Not when he doesn't know the risks."

Briggs looked over at Ron Peterson, and was surprised to find a kindred glint of amusement in his eyes. The man knew his daughter, and knew that she was not about to back down from any fight. Apparently, too many years of being manipulated had left her with a new commitment to speaking her mind and rejecting any attempt at coercion.

"But that's why we're here," said Corey. "To explain the risks, and what's at stake."

"But you can't . . ."

"Lindsey," said the man himself, "I'm not a child, and you're not my mother. I want to hear what Agent Corey has to say."

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "Of course, you do. You know, just once in my life, I'd like to have a man actually pay attention to what I have to say. Just once."

"Who else doesn't listen?" he laughed.

Her eyes narrowed. "As if you didn't know. He probably put you up to this."

"No. He didn't."

"Uh, huh."

"Lindsey?"

"What?" Her tone was not quite white hot with fury - but it was close.

"I promise you. Brian didn't say a word to me about anything Agent Corey might want to discuss."

Lindsey elected to swallow any further comments, although the look in her eyes still suggested that she was not fully convinced.

"Agent Corey," said Ron Peterson, fully aware that his daughter was still skeptical, but realizing that she'd either deal with it - or not. It was her choice. "Tell me what's going on."

Corey nodded. "Very well. What's 'going on', Mr. Peterson, is that we've unearthed some pretty compelling evidence to indicate that the attack on Mr. Kinney was not the random act of violence we originally believed it to be. It was, in fact, meticulously planned and carefully executed - the product of a concentrated effort by a very motivated group of individuals."

Peterson sipped at his coffee, but his eyes never wandered away from his study of Corey's face, until he deliberately shifted to examine Sharon Briggs' expression. Then he smiled. "Now why do I get the distinct impression that you're about to tell me something I'm not going to enjoy hearing?"

It was Corey's turn to smile, although there was no real humor in her eyes. "Because it's never easy to learn ugly truths about people you know - even if they're people you don't particularly like. It's hard to find out that individuals you have dealt with - personally or in business - are not what you expect them to be?"

"Ms. Corey," he said suddenly, "can we just get on with this? I assure you that I'm not this wide-eyed Pollyanna you seem to think I am. I don't look at the world through rose-colored glasses, and I consider myself a fair judge of character, and I know how capable most of humanity is of ugly bigotry and cruelty.

"Maybe you do," she responded. She reached down then and removed a thick file from her briefcase before turning to regard Lindsey with a steady determination. "Ms. Peterson," she said softly, "there is no need for you to see what's in this file."

Lindsey bristled. "But . . ."

"I promise," Corey interrupted, "that it is nothing you haven't seen before. In fact, since you saw it, in the flesh, so to speak, this is just a pale reflection of the reality. But you don't want to see it again. We both know that."

"Then why should my father have to . . ."

"Because it's the only way to show him the true character of the people who did this - and he needs to know that. You already do."

The look on Lindsey's face spoke volumes, telling everyone in the room that she really did not want to give in - that she didn't want her father to have to endure what she knew awaited him within that file. But, in the end, she just nodded, exchanged a single, meaningful look with Sharon Briggs, and left the room.

No one spoke until she appeared in the garden and sank to her knees to enter into an animated conversation with her son.

Ron Peterson spoke first. "Enough beating around the bush, Agent Corey. Show me what you came here to show me."

Corey nodded, but did not immediately hand him the file. Instead, she took a moment to try to explain her reasoning in bringing all of this to his attention.

"Mr. Peterson, you were, at one time, an active member of a local group known as The Club - a group which purports to be nothing more than an exclusive social club with conservative, political affiliation, a men's club formed by individuals with old money, coming from old blue-bloodlines and anxious to preserve historical social values. Yes?"

Peterson simply nodded, choosing to bide his time before offering any other response.

"Would it surprise you to learn that we've uncovered compelling evidence indicating that The Club and some of its members were involved in the attack on Brian Kinney?"

Lindsey's father did not answer for a moment, choosing instead to look outside and watch his grandson rolling around in the grass with his exuberant pup.

"It would," he replied finally, "but not because I wouldn't expect blatant homophobia from them. I would. But I'm more than surprised at the idea that they would lower themselves to get their hands dirty in dealing with someone like Brian. To a man, every one of them would consider him beneath their notice, or contempt."

Sharon Briggs' smile was cold. "And you'd be exactly right, under ordinary circumstances. But Brian made some very elemental mistakes. He stuck his nose in where it didn't belong, according to their perceptions. He interfered in the affairs of his betters. And then there was the truly cardinal sin - the one for which there could be no absolution."

"Which was what, exactly?"

Alexandra Corey leaned forward and laid the file she'd pulled from her briefcase onto the table. "In a word, he cost them money. A lot of money. And this . . . this file will show you how they wrought revenge for his actions."

Peterson sat for a moment, simply looking down at the blank, manila surface of the folder, knowing with absolute certainty that he really didn't want to open that file. "But I still don't see what this has to do with me. Even if you're right, I've had no contact with The Club for years, so I'd have no real access to . . ."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Peterson," said Briggs, a dark ironic gleam flaring in her topaz eyes. "You're a member of the elite, and that's a door that never really closes. Right? Especially right now, given the current political climate. But aside from that, in a few days, their annual Founders' Day Festival will begin, and, although it's a given that nobody can just walk in off the street and apply for membership in this particular version of the Good Old Boys Club, it's also true that being a member is like joining the priesthood; once you're in, you're in forever, unless you do something truly unforgivable to get yourself excommunicated - like vote Democrat or support banking reforms or the ACLU. Anyway, during this so-called celebration, they're always eager to reclaim members who may have drifted away over the years, because - well, there are all those lovely fees and membership dues, aren't there? It's one part party and two parts fundraiser. And we just happen to know - because we made it our business to find out - that invitations have already gone out to previous members, inviting them to re-enlist, so to speak. And your name just happened to be on that list. So here's the real point of this conversation. We have people in place all around The Club; we've managed to infiltrate or co-opt our way in to virtually every level, except one. We have servants, and drivers, and waiters and clerks and menials of all varieties." She paused and flashed Alex Corey a bright grin. "We even have a chef. But that still leaves one level we haven't managed to breach. The membership - with its inviolable class loyalty - remains closed to us, and unless we can find a way in, any justice we manage to achieve in this investigation is likely going to be limited to the minions at the bottom of the power grid - the thugs who take orders and do as they're told, while the Powers That Be who planned it and paid for it and enjoyed the benefits are going to go scot-free and never be held accountable. Is that what you want to see happen here?"

He drew a deep breath. "So that's what you want from me. You want me to step back into the place I once occupied there, in order to spy on these people and betray any loyalty I might owe to them. Is that right?"

It was Briggs who leaned forward and flipped open the cover of the file folder, exposing the photograph that lay on top of the stack of documents there - a lurid, neon-bright photograph that could only be a construct, a . . . what did the young people call it these days? A photo-shopped example of the worst kind of sensationalist image. There was so much blood, so much visceral damage - mutilated body and torn skin and exposed bone and mangled sinews - so much horror-film excess that it couldn't be real. It couldn't. That couldn't really be Brian Kinney, bludgeoned and butchered and left for dead. Brian Kinney, whose beauty even the most ardent homophobe could not deny; Brian Kinney, the father of his grandson. It just couldn't be. In truth, it couldn't even be a human being. It had to be a construct, a compilation of discarded guts and animal body parts, a costume suitable for the worst kind of macabre Halloween theatrics. Didn't it?

"Before you start going on about privilege and class loyalty," said Alexandra Corey in a voice that was almost a snarl, "you look at that, Mr. Peterson, and see what they were capable of doing. You look at what their money and their upper class superiority and their vicious bigotry created. And then you can talk to us about honor and whatever twisted kind of loyalty you think you might owe."

Peterson wanted to come up with a suitable answer to refute her claims and defuse her anger, but he couldn't. He was much too busy stumbling away from the table and reeling into the kitchen, looking for a suitable place in which he could throw up.

Corey and Briggs simply remained in their places, waiting for him to regain his composure - and control of his esophagus. It took a while.

When he returned to the room and resumed his seat, his face was pale and drawn, and his eyes were touched with new shadows. He folded his hands in front of him, to still the tremor in his fingers, and spent a moment trying to regulate his breathing before turning to face Agent Corey.

"Just tell me what you want me to do."

Sharon Briggs thought that it was to his credit that he didn't ask if the photo was real.

Agent Corey's smile was sympathetic. "I realize that some might consider this . . ." She gestured toward the photograph which was - thankfully - once more hidden within the file, " a dirty trick, Mr. Peterson. So I want you to be very sure, because there could be some measure of risk. We wouldn't want . . ."

"Are you protecting my daughter and my grandson?" he demanded.

She nodded. "Brian Kinney is satisfied with our efforts. That should be good enough for you. But still . . ."

"Whatever I might have once felt toward Brian," he said softly, "that doesn't change the fact that he's the father of my grandson, and nobody - absolutely nobody - should have to suffer what he lived through. So you just tell me where to look and what to do, Agent Corey, and consider it done."

"Very good," said Sharon Briggs, and her eyes - for the first time since the beginning of this meeting - regarded Peterson with a measure of warmth and approval. "We'll work up a package for you, so you know exactly what to expect and what to do to find the information we need."

Peterson nodded and rose. "Excellent. I assume you'll be in touch."

"Of course."

From outside, there was a burst of laughter shared between mother and son, and Peterson moved toward the door. Then he paused and turned back to face his co-conspirators. "One thing," he said slowly, reluctantly. "It would be better if our little arrangement could remain strictly between us. Understand?"

"We're not likely to advertise it," agreed Corey. "It's never a good idea to betray the existence of one's covert assets."

He nodded, but still looked worried, and it was Sharon Briggs who recognized the source of his concern. "You're thinking about Mrs. Peterson, aren't you?"

She was quick to spot the warm flare of gratitude in his eyes. "Don't worry about it," she assured him. "We can be very discreet."

Peterson spent a moment thinking about how his wife would react should she find out about his co-operation with the authorities and hoping that the undercover officer was as good as her word.

"Now, Ladies," he said with a smile, "if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my daughter and my grandson out to dinner at Red Lobster where he's just discovered that the popcorn shrimp with mac and cheese is his favorite thing in the entire world - until the next thing that catches his fancy - and where I think Lindsey and I can do some serious damage to a couple of Lobsteritas."

Then he was gone, and Alexandra turned to exchange smiles with Sharon Briggs. "Think he'll come through?"

Briggs took a deep breath. "Yeah. I think he will. He was actually pretty brave, you know. Since he's never seen anything like that in his life, just to be able to take it all in and offer his support is pretty damned impressive."

Corey nodded, and decided that - all in all - she was favorably impressed with a lot of people in a place she had once referred to as "Provincial Little Pittsburgh".

There was a lesson to be learned in that conclusion, but she couldn't spare the time to think about it. It had been a long day, and Red Lobster shrimp Bruschetta and a mango mai-tai didn't sound half bad.

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

"How is he?" Justin made no attempt to pretend patience or camaraderie. He was tired; he was hungry; he was horny (as always when Brian was unavailable). He'd been running on fumes and adrenalin all day, and he still had a lot of arrangements to complete before he could kick back and rest. He was due to meet Cynthia at the hospital in less than two hours to pick up Cedric Lasseigne from his appointment at the clinic; the gallery had left him three urgent messages just within the last two hours, which he yet to return; one of the artists at Kinnetik had told him about a fabulous house out in Remington Forest that was not yet listed with a realtor, but would be put up for sale any day now and needed checking out before anyone else could snap it up; and his mother was insisting that he come to dinner - with Tucker.

But all of that paled in comparison to an uncontrollable urge to get one over on the infamous, endlessly annoying Chris McClaren, who sounded . . . odd.

"He's doing okay, Justin, for someone who was under the knife this morning. According to Turnage, the procedure went well, and he'll probably sleep for the next couple of hours. Then he should be ready for a meal and a brief afternoon session with Jackson. Now - if you're OK with all that, I promise that, sometime today - before the sun goes down - I'll try to remember to have him call you."

"Does he have his cell phone?" Justin asked, his tone saying every snarky thing that his actual words did not.

McClaren didn't bother to try to suppress a sigh of impatience. "Since you just dialed that number - and I just answered it - what do you think?"

"I think he's going to have your ass for breakfast when he finds out you took his cell."

"Probably would, if I had been the one to take it. But it wasn't me. It was one of the surgical nurses, and I don't think her ass - although it might very well be on offer - will hold any interest for him, unless he's suddenly decided to turn over a new leaf and play for the opposition."

When Justin didn't immediately produce a snappy comeback, the FBI agent sensed something - felt something just a wee bit off, which matched up perfectly with his own growing sense of unease. "Justin," he said, just slightly tentative, "is something . . ."

"No. Not really." He paused briefly, and wondered when he and his arch enemy had begun to understand each other so well that they could complete each other's questions. "It's just . . . he didn't call me this morning. Or yesterday either. I mean, it's not that I didn't talk to him; he answered when I called, but . . . but he sounded . . . different. He's not . . . I mean, is there anything going on? Anything new, I mean, that I don't already. . ."

McClaren grimaced, suddenly grateful that this conversation was not taking place face-to-face. He did not actually know much about the new development in Brian's health, and understood that it was not his place to report it, but that didn't keep him from feeling guilty in keeping the truth from the young man who would probably be the individual most affected by it. "You know Brian," he said finally, trying to sound both supportive and dismissive at the same time. "Whatever's going on in his head, he'll share - when he's ready. So just . . ."

"Yeah. OK. Just tell him . . . tell him to call me. I've got a few questions I need to go over with him, and there are some things I need to clarify before . . . Well, just before."

"Right. I'll tell him."

The FBI agent was quiet for a few moments after ending the call, lost in thought as he looked out toward the beach, noting that the college kids were still in residence next door, all busy assembling bags and ice chests and gear for some kind of outing. Since a sleek-looking cutter was beating its way toward the shore through choppy surf, banking sharply against a wind blowing out of the North, it was a pretty good bet that they were planning to spend the afternoon exploring nearby islands. For a moment, he envied them, as he speculated on what they might find out there beyond the breakers and what kind of mischief they might indulge.

A brief but very enticing image of young Dr. Kevin Halloran flared in his mind, and while he didn't fool himself into thinking that his Gay-dar was quite on a par with Brian Kinney's, he had definitely not imagined the interest in that young man's eyes when he'd watched Brian being - well - Brian. The resident might like girls just fine - thank you very much - but he also had a friendly eye for a perfect, masculine physique. And McClaren conceded - with a tiny little laugh - that he could definitely use the distraction of exploring such a well-muscled young body to keep him from dwelling too much on what was not going to happen any more with Brian Kinney.

But not right now. Now, there was something . . . Dammit! He wished he knew what it was that was bothering him so much, and why he felt like some dark cloud was lingering just over the horizon, hovering and waiting for a chance to rush forward and engulf them all in a tsunami of operatic proportions.

"Chris!"

"Yeah?" He moved toward the kitchen, where Trina Thomas was bent double, scrambling to find something in the bottom of the refrigerator.

"Your boss just called." Her voice was muffled as she didn't bother to emerge from the chilly depths of the massive old Frigidaire. "You have to take a run down to Phil's Wholesale, out on the Prince William Bypass."

"I have to what?" He settled on a barstool, and noted that - for a woman, and a fairly statuesque one, at that - she had a nice ass.

She straightened up and fixed him with a cold stare, obviously aware of where his eyes had been focused. "Did I stutter?"

"No, but . . ." He paused as she returned to her exploration. "Excuse me, but what in hell are you doing?"

She straightened up again, placing her hands on her hips, and taking a deep breath. "I'm mining for asparagus, if you must know."

McClaren blinked. "You're . . . what?"

Trina huffed an impatient sigh. "His royal nibs in there . . ." She nodded toward Brian's office where the patient, still recovering from his surgical procedure, was sleeping on the sofa, tucked under a hand-made quilt he was particularly fond of . . ."wants asparagus and crab salad for his dinner. And that's great, except that the asparagus I bought at the market two days ago has wilted and died, and I wouldn't serve it to my dog."

"So," he drawled, "let him eat cake."

He knew it was a mistake the moment he said it, but it was too late to take it back as she turned to fix him with an angry glare. "Listen, McFed." He managed not to flinch away from her caustic adoption of Brian's favorite name for him - but only barely. "You may be the big expert around here in security and defensive perimeters and witness protection, and God knows, we've got enough medical experts on call to run an entire department up at Johns Hopkins. But when it comes to Brian's fundamental needs to help him recover from all this crap he's endured and regain his health, the true authority is me. In case you haven't noticed, he hardly eats, and when he does, it's only because I've managed to come up with something unique enough and mouthwatering enough to intrigue him. So - when he asks for something specific, something that strikes his fancy and whets his appetite, then you can bet your last dollar I'm going to provide whatever it is he wants. Comprende?"

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean anything by it. So send someone to buy some frigging asparagus."

Again, she sighed. "As if I'm going to trust any of you city boys to know an asparagus from an armadillo." She went into the pantry to fetch her handbag. "I'm going to the farmer's market. And while I'm out, I'll stop in at the bakery to pick up those croissants he likes, and at the fish market to pick up some fresh crabmeat. And the winery, to stock up on that pinot noir he likes and some more Sam Adams Boston Lager. God, the liquor store is going to go into withdrawal symptoms when he's gone. And while I'm at it, I might as well fetch the groceries we'll need for the rest of the week."

McClaren heard something then - something disturbing in her tone - and looked up just in time to catch a shadow moving in her dark eyes. His voice was gentle when he offered his response. "You're really going to miss him, aren't you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Now why on earth would I miss someone who just . . . soaks up all the light in any room he's in, and runs everybody nuts trying to please him, and gets everything he wants just by flashing that smile that takes your breath away, and just . . ." She paused and looked at him and wasn't quite fast enough to blink away the tear in her eye before he could see it.

"Colors your world?" he guessed.

Her smile was lopsided. "Yeah. Colors your world."

The FBI agent studied her face for a moment, debating whether or not to verbalize what was on his mind. Then he stopped debating and took the plunge. "You could go with him, you know. I know he offered, and I'm pretty sure you know he wasn't joking. Despite being one of the biggest pricks I've ever known, he doesn't make promises he can't keep."

She grinned. "Except when it serves his purpose."

He laughed softly. "Yeah. Except then."

She moved across the room and stood looking out toward the bay. "I know," she said finally. "But this . . ."

"This is home," he guessed, when she hesitated.

"Yeah. This is home."

He nodded. "Makes it hard, I know. But maybe you should rethink it. Because sometimes, I think, home is like . . ." He grinned, and ducked his head to cover a twinge of embarrassment. "Have you read Hemingway, Trina? He once wrote that, for those who live there when they're young, Paris is 'a moveable feast'. Maybe home is a little like that; it goes where you go, as long as you're there with people you love."

She stared at him, mouth slightly agape, before tilting her head and offering her own bit of snarky commentary. "I swear, if you start quoting Dylan Thomas or Oscar Wilde, this conversation is going to end on a very ugly note."

He laughed. "Nope. You'll have to go to Brian for that. Now, what was all that about me needing to go to . . . where was it?"

"Phil's Wholesale. It's that discount store in the Glynnmeadow Shopping Center, out near Exit 16."

"And why would I need to . . ."

She sighed impatiently. "Your boss says they have security tapes there that might show the person that bought that cell phone - the one that made that call to Brian. But it's an older model camera, and it's not connected to any computer system, so it can't be uploaded. Agent Corey wants you to go take a look, since you'd have a better shot at recognizing any familiar faces that might show up there."

He frowned, knowing he was the logical choice to go. No one else here had studied all the files of all the suspected conspirators and their associates and other possible connections. He would have to go. And it certainly wasn't as if he wasn't often away from the house, on various errands and in doing research for the investigation. So it wasn't a big deal.

He just couldn't quite figure out why it was bothering him so much.

Trina was staring at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as if she could tell that he was perplexed about something. "What is it?" she demanded finally. "Is there some reason you're still sitting here, when that tape might provide some pretty good clues about who tried to kill him?"

He sighed. "No. No reason. So . . . you gonna be gone for a while?"

"No longer than I have to," she retorted. Then that look on her face intensified. "Why? Is there some reason . . ."

"No. No reason. Just . . ." He looked toward the office. "What if he wakes up and needs something?"

"He's not an invalid, Chris," she explained gently, "and he wouldn't appreciate it if we treated him like one. Besides, Jackson's due here any minute now, which is perfect, since it'll give Brian a target to work out his frustrations on, so peace will be restored - mostly - by the time we get back. So - you coming?"

"Yeah," he replied, reaching for a shirt to slip on over the wife-beater he chose to wear around the cottage. "I'm just going to let Delia know we're leaving, so someone can be posted closer to the house." He lifted a deprecatory hand when he saw her open her mouth. "Yeah. I know. I'm paranoid. But that's what I get paid to do."

Trina smiled, and decided not to argue. He was, after all, the protection expert.

McClaren spared the time for one quick detour, to allow him to look in on the patient, who was still sleeping off the after-effects of the mild anesthesia Turnage had used for his minor procedure.

The FBI agent moved into the room and stood for a moment, feasting his eyes on the peaceful vision of Brian nestled into the sofa cushions, with his face braced against his forearm. McClaren smiled, noting how strips of sunlight fell through the blinds behind the desk and painted gold strips across Brian's profile and torso and sparked auburn glints in his hair; he wanted to stop staring, but could not drag his eyes away, lost in a sense of wonder over the singular beauty of the man laid out before him who was, somehow, more beautiful in sleep than when he was awake and making a conscious effort to dazzle the world around him. The injuries from the attack were all repaired now, except for the one bandage remaining low on his jaw - a remnant of the morning's minor surgery - and McClaren had to fight to resist the urge to reach out and touch that sculpted face, understanding on an elemental level that he no longer had the right to do so.

He stepped back quickly, as Brian shifted and drew a deep breath, before nuzzling more deeply into the pillow beneath him. A tiny grimace of discomfort flickered across that almost perfect face, but it was gone almost before it formed, and McClaren concluded that the patient was not really in much pain; he was simply reacting to a fleeting nuance of discomfort.

Soon this would be over, one way or another. Soon, he would no longer have a reason to be a part of Brian Kinney's life. Soon . . . but not soon enough. He knew that - and wished he didn't.

After allowing himself to lean forward and touch one silky lock of dark hair, he turned away and hurried out of the room and out of the house, intent on doing his job, on making progress in the investigation; on anything except exploring or acknowledging his feelings for this stubborn, hard-headed, enigmatic man - feelings he would never allow himself to express or admit. Feelings he was pretty sure he would never manage to leave behind.

He spoke to his assistant, and then stood in the driveway for a moment, as the security staff shifted according to his instructions, adjusting their patrol routes so at least one person would be in position at all times to monitor the cottage visually and be within shouting distance should Brian waken and need assistance. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Jackson's van turn in from the main road. He knew it was illogical to be uneasy about leaving Brian alone, but then - there was very little in his feelings about Brian that was logical, and he was pretty sure there never would be.

He allowed himself a quick, marginally embarrassed little smile as he decided that he deserved a little treat. Fuck the SUV and the surveillance sedan; he 'd take the BMW and indulge in a bit of fantasy during the drive - Brian Kinney at his side, dozing, smiling in the grip of a pleasant dream, bare-chested and beautiful.

Delia Perkins was standing near the gate, watching as Chris and Trina drove away in separate vehicles and caught a glimpse of her boss's face as he passed. She had things to do; she always had things to do, especially if she wanted to be considered for the promotion that might be coming up in a few months. Still, she took a moment to wonder what on earth might have put that odd, wistful little smile on McClaren's face? The man was something of an enigma - and not just to her. She didn't think anybody knew him very well, but she was absolutely sure of one thing. Chris McClaren just didn't do wistful.

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The sun had begun its inevitable slide toward the horizon by the time Justin jumped out of the taxi at the main entrance to Allegheny General. When he'd made his grand exit from his life in Pittsburgh to go seek his fortune in New York, he had done the sensible thing and sold his car. It had not been easy, since, like every other young male in the country, he'd begun to identify himself - at least in part - with the vehicle he'd been driving. It was just a part of American culture everywhere - except New York City, which was a whole different world; a world of taxis and subways; a world where people actually walked from Point A to Point B; a world where a sexy young man was not validated by his ownership of a Porsche or a BMW - or a vintage Corvette. He had adapted to the new ambiance quickly, growing adept at hailing taxis and leaping through subway doors that were on the verge of closing, or squeezing aboard a downtown bus that was already completely full.

And then he'd met Steven and slowly but surely been drafted into a different world, the world of privilege and pride of place, where he soon discovered that the opportunity to be chauffeured from place to place and thus avoid the pandemonium and frustration that was endemic to the Big Apple was one of the most gratifying pleasures in life, even when it came at the expense of having to listen to a nasty little voice in his mind taunting him with remarks about pretentiousness and the risk of becoming a member of that elite group that somehow stood head and shoulders above everyone else, with no discernible justification for doing so except the possession of lots of lovely money.

He had not spent much time pondering the change, mostly because that self-same ugly little voice occasionally took inordinate pleasure in speaking up at odd, awkward moments to remind him that there were those who could legitimately lay claim to a rightful place in that rarefied atmosphere, but would rather cut off a limb than venture there.

It was one thing, after all, to earn the right to look down on homophobes and hypocrites and posturing sociopaths; it was something else again to assume that right based on nothing more than the size of a bank account or the celebrity of one's name.

Anyway, he would now have to readjust himself and rejoin the throngs of young American men who loved their cars almost as much as they loved their mates, regardless of gender. The thought brought a quick smile to his face, as he remembered spotting a sleek, silver Camaro convertible on a showroom floor down on Market Street.

He closed his eyes for a moment and visualized car-shopping with Brian, and all the lovely, myriad ways his lover would find to break in the sports car and test its suitability for all sorts of things. With that thought, he broke into a broad smile, which only got brighter when he realized something else: for the first time in his life, he would be able to buy a car for himself. Not in a total cash transaction, of course. Proceeds from his show had been really good, but not quite that good. But he would have enough to make a substantial down payment and a verifiable prospect for additional income to justify the bank offering him the loan.

Brian would object, of course - would insist on paying the balance and offer perfectly logical reasons for why he should do so. But Justin was going to take great pleasure in being able to decline the offer. Few indeed were the people were ever able to resist Brian's determination and say, "No", and Justin was delighted at the prospect.

So . . . car-shopping on the menu. As soon as Brian was home to stay.

Until then, he'd have to deal with the outrageously exorbitant rates charged by the local taxi companies or the generosity of friends. Like now.

Cynthia would undoubtedly be arriving at any minute, to meet him and his friend Cedric, and drive them back to Kinnetik, where Cedric would sign all the necessary paperwork to enable him to start his new job as a member of the janitorial staff - all courtesy, of course, of Brian Kinney. It was not a prestigious position, and Justin was fairly certain that the elderly man's skills and education and intelligence should qualify him for a much better job, probably even in a professional capacity, but - for now - it would do, especially since Cedric appeared unwilling to discuss other possibilities. He had at first been suspicious and reluctant when Justin had told him about Brian's offer; then he'd been overwhelmed. Finally, he'd decided to put aside his doubts and celebrate his good fortune, especially when he learned that the compensation, modest as it was, included a studio apartment tucked away in the top floor of the building. It was tiny, and included only a main room, a narrow bathroom with a shower, and a cramped little L-shaped kitchen area. Truly not much, but it would be private. Since his release from the hospital, he had been forced to share quarters in the half-way house, and the idea of finally having a bit of space to call his own seemed more important than whatever wage he might earn.

Justin prowled through the crowd gathered around the hospital entrance, and began to wonder why so many people were clustered near the doorway and farther around the building, toward the ER reception area. It was a typical week-day afternoon, and there should have been just the humdrum, every day comings and goings of visitors and tradesmen and medical staffers changing shifts. Instead, there was a crush of pedestrians, all trying to make their way inside, and now that he was not lost in his own thoughts, he could see a line of emergency vehicles converging on the emergency entrance, and blink at the intrusive flash of red lights revolving and bathing the hospital's ivory walls in scarlet.

"Hey," he said, leaning in to speak to a security guard standing near the front doors, "what's going on?"

"Big explosion out on the 16th Street Bridge. Lots of damage; lots of people hurt."

"What kind of explosion?" Justin felt panic stir in his gut. The bridge wasn't terribly close to the area of Liberty Avenue that housed Kinnetik and the loft and the homes of all his friends, but it wasn't that far away either.

"Nobody knows much yet. TV news is reporting that it might have been a big rig carrying dangerous chemicals, but it could be anything, you know."

Justin was very still, considering what the man had said - and what he hadn't.

Since he'd spent a lot of time in New York lately, and absorbed a certain amount of the mentality of a city that knew, firsthand, what it was to be a victim of a terrorist attack, he was perhaps just slightly more apt to edge toward certain uncomfortable speculations than the average American. But not much. The entire country had watched as those twin towers had collapsed, so now, whenever any violent event happened in a major American city, there was a tendency to leap first, and look afterwards.

Which meant, of course, that no one would deliberately use that one, particular word, though every one would think it.

"Justin! Justin!"

The blond young man turned to greet his friend, and was amazed at how grateful he was for the distraction. For his part, Cedric was obviously concerned about the chaos erupting around them, but the external turmoil did not touch the serenity in his eyes. Justin saw it and easily identified it, and felt himself relax further. Cedric Lasseigne had certainly lived through his share of tragedy and trauma. He had endured Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath, as well as plenty of hurricane-sized upheavals in his own life. If he could do that and still face the world bravely, without flinching, then Justin knew he could do the same.

"So, old man," Justin said with an easy smile as he hugged the elderly man and relieved him of the canvas bag draped over his shoulder, "what did the doctor have to say?"

Cedric shrugged. "I'm good to go. Free to dust and sweep and clean the windows and swab the decks and watch your Mr. Kinney charm his way through swarms of nubile young men."

Justin laughed. "You haven't even met him yet, and you already have his number. He's going to love you."

"Or not." The tone was stern, but there was a definite twinkle in slightly faded gray eyes. "So what's going on out here?"

It was Justin's turn to shrug, although he was not quite as sanguine as he tried to appear. "Life in the big city," he answered, as he looked around and noticed the arrival of two more ambulances, escorted by police cars with sirens blaring. He deliberately turned away, not wanting to watch as the carnage was revealed. "Let's see if we can find our ride."

Cedric merely nodded, but he stood for a moment, studying the face of his young friend as he heard something - something just slightly off kilter in Justin's voice. The young man was uneasy, bothered about something, and the elderly refugee from Louisiana Cajun country did not think it had anything to do with what was going on around them.

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Cynthia was literally gritting her teeth in frustration as she tried to find a way into the hospital parking lot. This was supposed to be a quick little side-trip - a favor to Justin in retrieving the elderly man Brian had hired, sight unseen. She had been to the bank, to take care of more of the endless details involved in safeguarding Kinnetik's funds, and to the corporate law firm to sign off on a new contract with a fledgling cable company, but she still had a mountain of work on her desk that had to be done before she could retire to her home and lose herself in a bathtub-sized Margarita.

She always had a mountain of work on her desk, which was both good and bad. Bad in that she could never feel that she was truly finished with any job - and good, because she knew that she was needed, that Brian couldn't get along without her, for which he paid her extremely well.

So the work was a blessing, she supposed, which she would like to get back to before the day was completely done.

She had not realized that she was driving into the equivalent of a war zone until she'd made the turn onto Allegheny Boulevard and been confronted with a gargantuan traffic jam.

After a few futile efforts to work her way toward the hospital's main entrance, she finally settled for parking her dark gray Audi on a narrow strip of grass just past the emergency access lane, and pulled her cell phone from her purse in order to let Justin know where to find her. She dialed and waited, hoping that he would hear the ring amidst all the confusion going on in the parking lot.

No answer. She disconnected, tucking her phone back into her purse before getting out of the car to look around and try to spot that mop of bright blond hair as two ambulances tore past her and swerved into the turn leading toward the emergency entrance. Though she cringed away from the idea of watching a train wreck in progress, she couldn't help but stare, as both vehicles came to a screeching stop, and uniformed paramedics leapt out of the rear doors only to turn and lean back in to grab stretchers on which patients were lying, broken and bleeding.

It was a horrible sight, although . . . something was not quite right. Not quite as it should be, because . . . it wasn't dark. Why, she wondered, did her mind insist that it should be dark?

Why did her mind insist that she'd been here before - seen it all before - only it had been dark then?

And everything, everyone had smelled of smoke and ash, because - of course - because Babylon was burning.

She gasped, caught up in the flames and horrors of blood-bright memory.

She blinked and tried to clear her eyes - to see what was really here rather than what was rising in her mind as she watched two of the ambulance workers successfully maneuver a gurney out of the rear of the ambulance, pausing to adjust the IV apparatus that was attached and tuck a blanket more tightly around the patient. One of the two, a tall, good-looking guy with a thick thatch of dirty blond hair, was trying, without much success, to wipe drops of dark blood from the side of his face, and only managing to smear it on the front of his white shirt with its logo patch. He looked . . . Cynthia went very still. He looked . . . Oh, my God!

She had to make a call. She had to make a call right now. Where was her God-damned phone? And why, oh, why, oh, why was she just seeing it now, and realizing that she should have known - should have remembered before?

Dear God! Brian!

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A senior FBI agent should not have to spend his time scrolling through blurry tapes from an antiquated security camera; that should be a job for some low-life clerk with nothing better to do. Although - come to think of it - what exactly did he have to do that was so much better?

He was annoyed and irritable and . . . itchy. Not a very professional description, of course, but accurate enough, even though he couldn't quite figure out what was bothering him.

He was just finishing up the second of four reels of tape when his cell rang, and he listened as Trina Thomas recited a litany of the shortcomings of a local produce vendor that 'wouldn't know a decent stalk of asparagus if it bit him in the ass', the arrogance of a certain young scoundrel who 'didn't pay her enough for this stupid job', and the inefficiency of a postal clerk who had lost the piece of certified mail that had been addressed to Brian and subsequently 'could not find her own ass with both hands and a magnifying glass'.

Trina was not happy that she was not going to get back to the cottage until much later than she'd promised and would then, no doubt, have to listen to the Lord and Master bitch about her tardiness.

McClaren just laughed and assured her that there was no problem. Brian was probably still asleep.

Probably. And he didn't allow himself to dwell on why that assumption caused him to feel uneasy.

Kinney jitters, he thought with a rueful smile. Who'd have dreamed that a seasoned, skilled, veteran FBI agent could succumb to such foolishness?

He loaded the third tape, and began to watch, glancing up occasionally to note the march of dark clouds across the sky, closing in from the West and painting the entire landscape a strange shade of gold, eerie and still. It was as he looked back from a moment studying the progress of the storm that he caught a glimpse of something that seemed just slightly . . . off. But it was fast and blurred and indistinct, and not very revealing.

He paused the tape and rewound it. And played it again, and saw something . . . just there. Just at the edge of the screen, a quick, barely glimpsed image of a partial profile of a face mostly concealed by a trucker-style cap. A face that he could not identify, until . . . He straightened abruptly. If he'd been looking away at that exact moment, he never would have seen it, for it was only when the customer reached out to receive his change that he was visible. Only for a second.

But it was enough, except . . . oh, dear Jesus!

He clamped down hard on the gorge rising within him, and the paralyzing fear that the recognition had come too late.

He ran out of the office without a word to anyone, leaving the store personnel gaping and grumbling about the rudeness of city folk. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He was shouting into his cell phone before he made it to the car, but nothing - not the assurances of his staff nor the voice of hope in his mind nor the desperation in his heart could reassure him.

Dear God! Brian!

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