Chapter 51

The prince is never going to come. Everybody knows that; and maybe Sleeping Beauty's dead.

-- The Vampire Lestat -- Anne Rice

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It had been a long, exhausting four days for everyone, and each of them had scrambled to find ways to deal with it.

The security team was tense and jumpy, all laboring under a burden of guilt which was mostly illogical, as none of them had actually failed to perform as expected or according to policy. But that didn't seem to make much difference. Whenever any of them managed to push free of the shadow of what might-have-been-and-almost-was and begin to move toward a new day with optimism and self-confidence, they would come face-to-face with the recollection of the look on Chris McClaren's face during that interminable night when he'd believed that the man whose life had been entrusted to him would not survive the attack. As he struggled through those endless hours, it had probably not mattered that he and Kinney had established a strange relationship that went far beyond professional obligations; probably. It had only mattered that he believed his blunder had cost this extraordinary man his life. And 'extraordinary', they had all conceded, was the perfect descriptive for Brian Kinney; even those who privately disagreed with his so-called 'life choices' dared not dispute that term.

It was, perhaps, a measure of the times, if not actually a measure of FBI formal attitudes, that there were only a couple who would have counted themselves among that number, and they were very careful to keep such thoughts to themselves. None of them, whether Kinney fans or not, were certain they would ever manage to put this nightmarish incident behind them; they had come perilously close to being at the center of a particularly nasty and very public investigation of the failure of a protection detail, and they were all fairly certain they would not have emerged unscathed, no matter how innocent their individual actions might have been. But they were all absolutely positive about one thing: Chris McClaren would never be able to consign it to his past. He would live with it, because he had no other choice. But he would never forget, and most of them figured he was not the only one.

Trina reacted as she would always react to such emotional devastation. She spent a few hours weeping over wrongs which could not be righted, then set about cooking and feeding everyone within reach, including the primary figure in this melodrama. Though Brian remained secluded in the hospital for the duration - in ICU for the first twenty-four hours before being transferred into a private room with round-the-clock security thereafter - the woman who had, somehow, taken on the duties of an alternative mother-figure - extremely alternative, according to Brian - took one look at the pale slab of mystery meat and the lumpy glob of potatoes on his plate when his first post-ICU meal was brought in and declared that domesticated pigs would refuse to eat such slop. Thereafter, he received three meals each day, plus snacks and nibbles, hand-delivered by either Trina herself, or her delegate, as in whichever hapless FBI agent or security staffer happened to stumble across her path when she was looking for an available body. It didn't really matter who delivered the food; everyone at the beach house was so cowed by the matron of the manor that Brian was catered to with all the attention to detail and the kind of exemplary service which would have been provided by a 5-star restaurant, including perfectly folded linen napkins, Wallace sterling, Minton china, Baccarat crystal, and a selection of fine wine, which went unnoticed by the nursing staff, since it was presented in bottles labeled as 'sparkling cider'. He breakfasted on Eggs Benedict, blintz soufflé, or melt-in-your-mouth brioche, lunched on gazpacho, grilled prawns with cilantro sauce, or sourdough bruschetta, and dined on chicken Cordon Bleu, Beef Bourguignon, or prime rib with appropriately elegant side dishes and magnificent desserts, and had recourse to a small stash of plastic-wrapped trays of petit fours and baklava should he feel the urge to indulge his sweet tooth, which was not quite as non-existent as he sometimes wished.

Justin and Emmett, of course, shared the bounty, as did the entire security team, so all were happy, from a gastronomic standpoint, and Trina was kept busy, which was the important thing for her, for - like the rest of them - she was struggling to deal with a burden of guilt while trying to explain to herself why she had been stupid enough to leave Brian alone with a homicidal maniac. The fact that nobody had realized Jackson qualified for that title did nothing to alleviate her brooding.

At any rate, within two days the entire staff and patient population of the hospital were petulant and pea green with envy, and several of the principals had begun to avoid stepping onto a scale, subscribing to the theory that ignorance was bliss.

None of that, of course, applied to Brian who favored Trina with enigmatic smiles whenever she showed up at his bedside - which happened often - but that didn't change the fact that he spent more time playing with his food than actually eating it, and the same was true of Chris McClaren, who smoked more than usual and may have indulged in a few extra glasses of wine, but ate very little, and then only in the interest of keeping his strength up.

Others, however, were enthusiastic enough to make up for their lack of interest; Emmett, for example, was so impressed that he spent hours alternating between going over the handwritten cards that comprised Trina's recipe file and trying to convince her that she really needed to come back to Pittsburgh with him so they could open up a restaurant together. And Justin enjoyed his customary voracious appetite which was rarely influenced by his emotional status - good or bad. He was always hungry, and he always ate heartily, using food as a comfort zone - a temperamental barrier to ward off the evils he knew to be lurking around him. He ate; he dozed periodically, and he watched Brian; the combination seemed to work well enough to keep him centered and moderately content. Moderately.

Brian, of course, had no comment to make concerning the food or those who consumed it, as seemed to be his wont these days, but he noticed everything, nonetheless.

For most of the first three days, McClaren and Alexandra Corey spent practically all of their waking hours closeted in a private boardroom provided by the hospital administrator, researching and assembling case data, coordinating information, and organizing their facts in order to determine how to proceed from this point. Neither spoke much to subordinates or associates or anyone else, although McClaren did make a point of checking in with Brian periodically during the day and even more frequently during the night. Everyone around him wondered if he had found some magic potion to enable him to ignore a need for sleep, as he was there instantly when anything out of the ordinary happened, even during the long, silent wee hours of the morning. After the third such event - a minor dust-up occasioned by a malfunctioning blood pressure monitor - Justin stopped asking how the FBI agent always managed to be around for the tiniest little hint of an emergency. Obviously, he was just there, and he would continue to be there until he decided there was no longer a need for him to be there. Justin wondered sometimes if that time would ever come.

But even at those odd hours, the two principal figures - and nobody was quite sure of whether to identify them as adversaries or allies - seldom exchanged more than a few words; minimal conversation which still, somehow, achieved primal and very private communication. Everyone around them watched, noting expressions and inflections and phrasing, and pondered and wondered, but understood very little, and neither Brian nor McClaren appeared eager to provide enlightenment.

After a while, everyone just gave up on any hope of insight; even Justin seemed to know when to admit defeat.

As for Justin's other priorities, he simply established his place at Brian's side and refused to be budged or persuaded to move aside. Even the medical staff eventually accepted that they could either maneuver around him or simply give up in their efforts to perform their duties; there was no middle ground - no compromise. And ultimately, they all had to concede that his presence was at least as necessary to the patient's recovery as any of their medical treatments. Even though the two of them seldom talked together. Justin talked, of course; by his very nature, not talking was not within the realm of possibility. But Brian mostly just listened - and watched. His eyes seldom moved away from the figure seated at his bedside; thus, he expressed more with the steadiness of his gaze than he would ever have admitted vocally.

Something in his eyes suggested that he didn't like it that his focus provided clues to the degree of his need, but he seemed unable to shake off the compulsion.

On the fourth day, everything would change.

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By the time the stage was fully set and everything prepared according to the strict specifications of the FBI movers and shakers, Brian Kinney was fighting to maintain his control, not to mention his patience. Though he hadn't said much during the period of time required for his recovery, his mind had existed in a constant state of overdrive.

His protectors had been caught with their pants down, and that was bad enough. But the simple, undeniable truth was that he himself had been played - successfully and almost fatally - and that was something which didn't sit well at all. He'd spent a lifetime learning to read people - a protective skill vital to his survival, both as a gay man and a successful businessman. To be forced to admit he had been blind-sided was something he was not handling well.

Every time he thought about Jackson, and the conversations they had shared, he had to fight off an urge to leap from his bed, grab a gun from one of his defenders, and go find the bastard himself. Brian was not a total stranger to violence; he had been forced to defend himself more than once - occasionally with a surprising degree of brutality. But he'd never before felt a desire to kill someone. Maybe, he thought, if he should come face-to-face with his assailant, he wouldn't be able to follow through, but he wouldn't have bet good money on that possibility.

Thus, when the entire cast of this ongoing drama was finally assembled, taking positions around the moderately spacious private hospital room - the kind only offered to patients who were not bound by the stringent conditions of insurance company limitations - Brian, despite a demeanor that appeared almost serene, was hanging on to his last ounce of patience by virtue of Herculean efforts.

By and large, acquaintances would not have noticed - he was, after all, a master of the cool exterior - but neither Justin nor McClaren were so easily fooled, so both of them watched his face - that perfect, beautiful, now completely restored face - and wondered how long his reticence would last.

As it happened - not long.

"Have you caught him?"

It was so quietly spoken it was barely more than a whisper. And yet, everyone gathered for this meeting - now numbering well over a dozen if one included the medical staff and the various individuals standing by on the conference call - heard it clearly, and heard something concealed beneath it as well; something cold and calculated; something deadly.

"Not yet," admitted Alexandra Corey, with a quick glance toward her second-in-command, as he moved forward to stand directly in front of the patient, squaring his shoulders and waiting. Like a man taking his place before a firing squad, thought Corey. "But it's only . . ."

Delia Perkins was suddenly very glad she was not the one who had to step up and stand front and center - providing a target for the fury coming in almost visible waves off the man who was the focus of their investigation.

"A matter of time," Brian interrupted, his voice still very controlled, but beneath the deadly calm, something else lurked, something barely contained.

"Yes." That was McClaren, every bit as self-possessed and controlled as his interrogator.

"And how do you know that?" Still quiet. Still deadly.

"Because we closed off every avenue of escape. So quickly he had no hope of sneaking through. He's contained."

"Every avenue?" Brian actually managed to dredge up a smile, but still there was no humor, no trace of warmth in his eyes. "As in every highway, byway, airport, boat dock, bike path, hiking trail, or goat track?"

"Yes."

"That," Brian continued softly, "just might be stupidest thing anyone ever said to me. This isn't Manhattan, McFed, where you can close off the bridges and the ferries and the tunnels and train stations and public piers and assume that - with a little luck - you've managed to contain your perp. This is a rural area, sprawled along miles of rough seacoast, with a thousand acres of wilderness scattered through the mountains. If a man wants to go to ground, there probably aren't many better places in the world. Shit! I'd bet big money there are fucking hermits holed up out there in the wilds who haven't been seen or heard from in thirty years. So maybe you'd like to explain to me just how the fuck you think he's 'contained'."

By the time he'd finished speaking, his voice was no longer soft, and nobody looking at that perfect face would have made the mistake of finding it 'pretty'. At that moment, it was almost terrifying, filled with outrage and a towering hunger for vengeance.

"Brian," said Corey, "we've studied his records. He's not really the type to . . ."

"You have no idea what type he is," he retorted. "If you did, this never would have happened. And that's because you've never had to deal with being hated for . . . You know what? That doesn't matter. That's not important. But you better know this, Agent Corey. You better find a way to understand that there's nothing stronger than hatred like this - that it can motivate a man to do all kinds of things that you would never believe he could do."

He paused then to draw a deep breath. "But - for now - I'm prepared to pretend I believe your bullshit assurances, in order to get to the heart of the matter." He looked up then, and his eyes met those of Chris McClaren - hazel on blue, steel on steel. "You vetted him. Hell, you vetted everybody that got within a mile of me . . . and mine." He paused then, drawing another breath, more ragged than the last. "Now I want to know how you missed it. How he got close enough to . . ." He paused again, and his voice dropped to a whisper, filled with fury and pure, raw venom. "He was close enough to . . . " Another pause, another breath. "He could have killed my son . . . or Justin . . . and almost did kill me. So I want to know how it happened. What did you miss?"

McClaren was instantly conscious of a deep, intense stillness that encompassed both the room and every person close enough to listen in. "I fucked up," he said softly, firmly. "I didn't see what I should have seen."

For a moment, Brian simply stared at him, and the anger smoldering within the icy depths of his eyes was relentless, unforgiving. Then - for an instant so brief it might not have existed at all - there was the tiniest flicker of . . . McClaren couldn't really identify it, but he decided he would take it as permission to continue to do his job, to live his life without spending the rest of his days looking over his shoulder in dread of the inevitable revenge of Brian Kinney.

Brian did not say anything to indicate a shift in his attitude, but he did nod, giving tacit permission for McClaren to present his explanation. There was no guarantee, of course, that it would be accepted, but permission granted, nevertheless.

"So," said the FBI agent with a diffident smile, "time to face the music, is it?"

If he was hoping for some small sign of encouragement or indulgence from the primary focus of his attention, he was doomed to disappointment.

He took a deep breath and discarded the smile. "There's no denying it was a stroke of luck that we got to you in time to prevent Jackson from succeeding in his effort to kill you. For me, it was a matter of coming across one semi-clear image on a badly degraded surveillance tape and recognizing his face as he was leaving a convenience store where he'd purchased the burn phone he used to make one of his calls to you. It was the only place on the tape which revealed more than a portion of his face, and it only lasted a half-second, but it was enough. Subsequently, we recovered records from local cell towers of calls made on that phone which provided a lot of extremely interesting data, but we'll get to that later. That was my own bumbling contribution to our discovery of the danger, but your big debt of gratitude should be to Simon Redding, which is saying a lot since we treated him like Public Enemy #1 when we found out about his family ties to some of Pittsburgh's less outstanding citizens. In his case, he just happened to be in the right place at the right time to overhear a conversation that led him to the same conclusion I reached when I saw that tape.

"Simon's something of a jack of all trades, with a lot of different jobs. He says he likes it that way because it allows him to be free to pick and choose what he wants to do and what he doesn't want to do. Anyway, he does repair and maintenance work on the automobiles in the Seaside Rental fleet, several of which are leased out to Orthopedia, Inc, as part of the employment package for their therapists. Jackson was one of those employees, even though he didn't use it on the job. When he was working, he always drove the equipment van. Also, the lease had been drawn up for the use of the woman who was originally scheduled to be your therapist, Brian - the one Jackson replaced when she was involved in a bad car crash, so we didn't have any record of the lease. Anyway, the day before he made his attempt on your life, he returned the vehicle to the leasing company, telling them he wouldn't be needing it any more since he was finishing up his term of employment the next day. Redding happened to be at the garage at the time, and overheard what Jackson said and - more importantly - how he said it. According to Redding, the man sounded like he'd just won the lottery, gloating about taking advantage of his successful conclusion of his assignment and the rewards he would earn for making sure punishment was dished out to those who deserved it. Of course, he didn't explain what he meant by that, obviously assuming no one would ever put two and two together, to connect him to what would happen to Brian.

"Luckily, he didn't notice that Redding was there, taking it all in. And, for his part, Redding didn't put it all together right away. He was confused by what he'd overheard, and it took him a while to connect the dots. But in the end, he knew all he needed to know, which was that Brian had been the target of a vicious attack, and was still in danger. So, ultimately, he was smarter than we were; he didn't understand the why and how of it, but he figured it didn't matter that he didn't know the details. He just knew what he had to do, despite the fact that . . . well, let's face it; the way we treated him when we showed him the door didn't provide much motivation for him to try to intervene to help us - or to help Brian - but that's what he chose to do." McClaren was looking directly into Brian's eyes, and did not miss the quick gleam that flashed in those blue depths.

Mr. Simon Redding might think that he was done with the high melodrama of Brian Kinney and his entourage, but he was wrong. Kinney would never, never leave debts unrepaid.

McClaren shifted a bit, directing his next remarks toward the speaker phone sitting on the table at Brian's bedside. "At any rate, the ruckus he stirred up alerted everybody that something was definitely wrong, so everything was already in motion by the time I got back to the house. Then, once we'd done everything we could do, to get Brian the treatment he needed to save his life, I got a frantic phone call from Mr. Kinney's very own, self-appointed, ridiculously over protective guardian angel."

Brian lifted one inquisitive eyebrow.

"Care to take it from there, Ms. Whitney?" asked the FBI agent, raising his voice a bit to make sure it carried to the speakerphone.

Cynthia's sigh was double-octave and quite loud, as she looked around her office and struggled not to squirm under the combined gazes of Lance Mathis, Carl Horvath, and Liam Quinn, sparing a thought to note not only who was present, but - just as significantly, who was not. "Well, isn't that the classic definition of 'a day late and a dollar short'?" she said, trying without much success to still the tremor in her voice. "I've never in my life felt like such a fool. For as long as I can remember, I've congratulated myself on being vastly superior to the masses - and never bothering to try very hard to hide it - because of this God-damned, so-called perfect memory, and, when I needed it most, it almost screwed everything up - permanently. You almost died, Brian, because my stupid brain refused to kick in and allow me to recall where I'd seen Jackson before. I didn't tumble to it until I was standing in the hospital parking lot here in the Pitts and watching an EMT unloading a stretcher from an ambulance. And that's when it hit me - that I had seen exactly the same thing before, only it had been Jackson in the role of the technician, looking exactly like he looked when I saw him unloading equipment from the van the day we left you. I remembered seeing him in the chaos after the bombing at Babylon. He was one of the ones who brought in the last of the wounded - the ones that were mostly DOA, because it was too late. God, Brian, how could I have been so stupid? How could I . . ."

"Tink." It was the first word Brian had uttered since McClaren had begun his explanation.

"Please don't," she said quietly, and the tears that were flowing from her eyes echoed in the tremor in her voice. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to have to sit here and listen while you try to comfort me. You almost died, Brian. You - not me - and I can't tell you how sorry I . . ."

"If you don't shut up," he said firmly, "I'm going to have to fire you, and then who's going to take care of my shit? So just . . . stop it now."

"But I almost . . ."

"Almost doesn't count." He looked up then, and his eyes met those of Alexandra Corey who was amazed that she had to struggle not to recoil from the ice she saw reflected there. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt intimidated - by anybody. She had faced off against U.S. Senators and Supreme Court justices and 4-star generals without ever once feeling an urge to flinch.

Thus, her unease in the face of this individual bordered on the ridiculous, but that didn't change the fact that she'd have done almost anything to assuage his anger and ease the pain he couldn't quite manage to hide.

At the same time, the infamously opinionated Dr. Turnage was glaring at her, obviously just a heartbeat away from throwing everyone out of the room to see to the needs of his patient. Despite his reputation as a martinet and a prima donna, he could be an irresistible force of nature and an absolute tyrant when it came to defending the physical well-being of those under his care, and the constant, accelerating beep of a heart monitor did nothing to alleviate the tension building in the room. Brenda Herring, on the other hand, was a model of serene concern as she stepped forward and adjusted a setting on the IV drip, eliciting a faint smile from her patient. It wasn't much, of course, but it was better than the frosty glare he'd been wearing since the interview began, and the annoying beat of the monitor slowed marginally as he managed to compose his thoughts.

"What I'm waiting to hear," he said softly, once the nurse had finished her task and stepped away, "is who he really is, and how he managed to slip through all of the FBI's so-called defenses. So far, I've heard explanations - of a sort - for why he didn't succeed in his efforts - barely. But nothing about who he is and how he got so close. Am I supposed to believe he was just some run-of-the-mill ambulance attendant with homicidal tendencies who managed to fly under the radar and maneuver through all your safeguards in order to . . ."

"No," said Corey abruptly, raising a hand to ward off the rest of what looked like it might turn into a tirade. "He wasn't an assassin-for-hire; he's been working toward this for a while, but we . . . we missed the connection."

"So-o-o-o." Brian deliberately drew the word out, his expression suggesting that he had waited as long as he intended to. "Who was he?"

"His name really is Jackson. Thomas Bradford Jackson."

Brian's eyes widened slightly, and flashed ice cold. "Bradford."

"Yes."

"As in . . . 'Brad'." It was not a question.

"Probably. Although we can't be sure yet. Still, from the data we've gleaned from our sources in Pittsburgh, it seems likely."

"And how, exactly, is it that the physical therapist assigned to me by my plastic surgeon has any connection to what happened in Pittsburgh?"

McClaren was the one who answered. "He probably had nothing to do with the original attack on you. He'd been gone several months by that time. But he almost certainly was involved in an earlier attack. We've got no solid proof yet, but it appears he was definitely there when Babylon was bombed, so we're working that angle."

The room was suddenly very still, except for Justin who drew a hoarse breath and shifted closer to Brian, as if to take shelter in the radiated warmth from his body. For his part, Brian was literally frozen, not even breathing for a full thirty seconds.

"Babylon," he said finally, wrapping a protective arm around Justin without even noticing what he was doing. "Are you telling me . . . ?

"We're not telling you anything yet," said Corey. "Because we don't know anything yet - for sure. We're just giving you the raw data, so you can maybe help us to put the pieces together."

Again, the room went silent, as Brian considered what she'd said, and everyone breathed a tiny sigh of relief when he spoke again, obviously deciding to put aside his misgivings - for the moment. "So who the hell is this fucker, and why would he . . ."

"When he was there - living in Pittsburgh - he went by the name Hobbs. Bradford J. Hobbs."

"Hobbs?" That was Justin, leaping to his feet, all pretense of serenity forgotten. "As in . . ."

"Yes," McClaren said quickly, not liking the near panic he saw rising in the blond's eyes, and equally unhappy with the flare of guilt he easily identified in Brian's. "The very same."

"But how . . ." Justin did not quite shrug away from Brian's comforting caress, but, for a moment, it appeared he might.

"Randolph Hobbs - grandfather of your high school acquaintance, Justin - has quite a reputation as a lady's man. Seems he's got a thing for younger women. Apparently, a few years ago, he found himself a new wife. She was from Georgia - a true southern belle, according to the gossip, and they got married the day after his last divorce was final - his fifth marriage, her third. She was very pretty, had even spent some time in Hollywood back in the 70's, where she made a few B-movies. She snagged herself a rich Georgia businessman for her first husband. Thomas Jackson - our perp's father. Later, he left her for a younger model, so she moved on and spent a few years living on a generous alimony settlement, before finding herself another husband with an even larger fortune. That one lasted two years. Seems she's a prime example of the classic trophy wife who happened to have a couple of kids from her first marriage. One daughter, who lives somewhere in Europe, and is apparently estranged from the rest of the family, and Jackson, who must have thought he'd died and gone to heaven when his mother married into a family like the Hobbs. He grew up in the suburbs of Atlanta. Came from money, of course, but never had much of a relationship with his father, or any particularly strong family ties with anyone else. Never especially bright or talented; something of a reputation as a loner. He kept his nose clean during his youth - no criminal record of any kind, which is why he didn't show up on our radar when regular background checks were run - but he did have some interesting social and educational contacts. Some discreet ties with several ultra-conservative fraternal organizations - a member of the Chosen Sons of the Confederacy, the Heritage Society, a social club - supposedly - called the White Knights - which is a pretty good clue as to what kind of groups they were, by the way. We're still checking them out, but there are plenty of rumors of involvement with white supremacy survivalists and philosophical racial elitism - but nothing definite, nothing criminal, although very suggestive of a particularly ugly mindset, if you get my drift. But even in those circles, he kept a low profile - off the map, so to speak. Nothing to raise any red flags."

"Nazis," observed Brian.

"They probably wouldn't have liked that word very much - professing such old school American patriotism and all - but it's pretty damned accurate. Anyway, when his mother married Hobbs, Jackson must have felt like he'd finally caught the brass ring - immediate entrée into an old, wealthy, prestigious, and pristinely white family. At the time of the wedding, he was in school at Ohio State - his father's alma mater - in a premed program. But he was struggling, on the verge of flunking out. Apparently didn't have the intellect or the chops to deal with the academic requirements. So he dropped out and transferred into a program for EMT training at Columbus State College. Once he was finished with the classwork, he needed field experience to complete the program, and that's when Pittsburgh came into the picture. Although he was officially employed by Midwest Emergency Services - with home offices in Columbus - his actual on-the-job service was done in the Pittsburgh branch. But that didn't show up on his employment history. When we vetted him, the records simply indicated that he was living and working in Columbus. Adding to the problem was the fact that he decided - when he moved in with his mother and her Sugar-Daddy husband - he wanted to take on the family name, probably so the old man would be flattered by his loyalty, although that doesn't seem to have worked very well. Apparently, the only time Hobbs, Sr., was glad to claim a relationship with his step-son was when he had need of his services, and we're not talking medical expertise here. But anyway, while Jackson was in Pittsburgh, he changed his name. Thomas Bradford Jackson transformed himself into Bradford J. Hobbs, apparently rejecting all ties to his father by dropping the name completely. He never made it official, of course. There would have been legal records of that, but it just served to confuse the issue more."

"So," said Brian slowly, "he was there the night that Babylon was bombed."

"Yes."

"That's what Cynthia remembered."

"Yes."

Brian looked up then, and McClaren was physically stricken by the pain he read in the depths of those dark eyes. "So . . . you're exploring the possibility that the attack on me . . . had something to do with the bombing at Babylon."

McClaren closed his eyes briefly, wishing that - just this once - Brian could have been less intuitive and more obtuse. "Yes," he admitted. "We'd be foolish to overlook the link between the two events."

"As in . . . me."

McClaren nodded. "As in you."

Brian took a deep breath. "So how did this Hobbs-wannabe worm his way into a position as my therapist? Shouldn't somebody have noticed . . ."

"It was just bad luck, Brian. Old man Hobbs got rid of Wife # 5 in record time, and there was no reason to connect her or her offspring with any of the ugliness he might have been involved in, even after we recognized the possible connection between him and the attack. She took off for the Sweet Life on the Riviera, and Jackson was no longer a member of the extended family. Although he did, apparently, keep in touch with the old man, but when his mother left, he wasn't exactly welcome in the family home any more - especially when Wife # 6 settled in, so he went back to Columbus, took some additional classes to get licensed as a therapist, and got a job with the branch of Orthopedia there."

He sighed. "And that's where just plain old luck - good for him, bad for you - came into the mix. Dr. Turnage's clinic has been a client of Orthopedia for years. Through certain sources in Pittsburgh . . ." McClaren hesitated, not wanting to go into details with so many interested parties present, and was marginally relieved when he read the expression in Brian's eyes indicating a willingness to accept his discretion - for the moment. "Those who'd managed to find out where you were going, realizing that you would need therapy, got in touch with him so he could check out the medical records of potential clients. That's how he found out you were going to be utilizing the service. After that, it was simply a matter of getting Jackson transferred here, to replace the woman who was originally scheduled to be your therapist."

McClaren had been hoping that Brian would not think to question that particular bit of information. Of course, he should have known better.

"What did they do to her?"

The FBI agent did not try to evade the question, but he didn't elaborate either. "She'll live."

Brian closed his eyes and resisted an urge to lift his hand to massage his aching head. He was grateful when he felt a glass of icy water pressed into his hand, and he looked up to find Emmett regarding him with eyes deeply shadowed with an awareness of his pain. To his own surprise - and Emmett's astonishment - he reached up to grasp his friend's bicep with a gentle squeeze. "So how does this all tie together?" he asked, after taking a sip of his water. "Are you telling me Jackson was acting on behalf of his mother's ex? Is this all just conjecture or is there - somewhere within this monumental fuck-up - some kind of evidence to . . ."

"Not to worry, Mr. Kinney," said Alexandra Corey firmly, offering him a genuine smile - her first of the night. "In regard to the Hobbs family, we've got our proof."

"Such as?"

Her smile grew wider. "For one thing, DNA doesn't lie. And for another, it's a time-honored process in FBI investigations to follow the money, and - in this case - that's every bit as damning as the blood trail."

"Sooooo, the Hobbs - father and son - are in custody then?"

"Not quite yet," she admitted. "But they soon will be. They're both under constant surveillance, so there's no way they're going to do a runner. Meanwhile, we're setting up the final stages of our little coup."

Brian turned toward McClaren, one eyebrow lifted, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The FBI agent regarded him steadily. No smile; no light in his eyes. "We're not going to settle for just catching one or two of the fringe characters, Brian, or the low man on the totem pole, like Jackson, who, by the way, had a reservation on a red-eye flight to LaGuardia for the night you were attacked. A flight he didn't make, so it's pretty obvious his plans didn't work out exactly as he planned. Anyway, we're going to get them all - the muscle, the thugs, the money men, and - above all - the movers and shakers who set out to make this happen in the first place. We're going to make sure they never bother you or anyone else again. It's been a long, difficult, winding road to follow, but we're almost there now. The final pieces are in place to wrap everything up tight."

Brian was silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then he shifted slightly, turning his gaze to meet Alexandra Corey's eyes, though his arm remained firmly wrapped around Justin's shoulder.

"OK. So tell me . . . where did this money trail lead?"

Corey smiled, but the expression did not touch her eyes which remained cold and full of shadow. "As to that, have you ever heard of an organization called Landmark?" She didn't really wait for an answer. "No? Strangely enough, as it turns out, neither had I, nor any of the rest of my colleagues, which is a pretty impressive achievement all by itself. You gotta give 'em credit for cleverness and an instinct for self-preservation that almost qualifies as paranoia." Then her smile broadened, and there was an almost unholy gleam of satisfaction that flared within the ice field of her eyes. "But we learn quickly, Mr. Kinney. And so will you."

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


When the phone call was finished, following a quick announcement from Agent Corey that the rest of the meeting would be restricted to those with a Need-To-Know clearance, which obviously didn't include the cast assembled in Pittsburgh, only Cynthia and Lance Mathis remained in her office, and she sat for a few minutes - totally drained and wondering how she would manage to get through the rest of the day. A day that would almost certainly not get any easier as it went on.

She had meetings scheduled with the chairman of the board of Iconics and the CEO of Remson Pharmaceuticals, lunch with Dylan Court, the shortstop for the Pirates who had been suggested as the new model for Brown Athletics underwear (and wouldn't Brian hate it that he wasn't around for that); a review of proposals for a massive campaign for a state-wide travel agency offering a fantastic new program featuring European cruises, and a staff meeting to go over budgetary issues concerning older campaigns that had proved less successful than expected. Brian Kinney was not a proponent of pouring good money after bad, and not one for calling on draconian measures to extend lives that should be allowed to expire naturally.

One of those campaigns in particular would prove to be problematic; of that she was certain. Sovereign House - the Philly-based publisher of Libretto magazine and a handful of other artistic periodicals - had been a Kinnetik client for just over two years, and it had been a thorn in Brian's side, practically from the beginning. It had, however, enjoyed the protection and the particular interest of the Kinnetik CFO, who had worked out the original contract and continued to promote new ideas to promote the company's products, so no one had pushed too hard to resolve the situation. It was, after all, a small account, requiring only minimal investments of time and money to fulfill professional obligations on the part of the ad agency. But the owners had consistently refused to accept any suggestions, from Brian or any of his subordinates, on how to improve the firm's products or image or generate new areas of interest to increase sales; they had, in fact, rejected all such ideas and resisted any effort to inject innovation into their antiquated advertising campaigns. In addition, they had protested several charges billed to them, finding the content of the ads to be "inappropriate to our cultural image" and even going so far as to refuse to pay for a small campaign on local cable television channels, claiming that the 15-second spots lacked "the restraint and elegance traditionally associated with our endeavors".

That had been the final straw for Brian.

His response, when Cynthia had reported the reasons for the conflict, had been succinct. "Fuck it. Turn the account over for collection and dissolve the contract - I'm sure legal can come up with a few dozen pertinent precedents - and then they can sink into the oblivion of their own making, with appropriate restraint and elegance."

And that was that; the master had spoken, and one did not ever force him to repeat himself, not unless one had masochistic tendencies.

Of course, Ted would not take it well; that went without saying. But then he probably wouldn't say much. He would confine his expression of anger to looks that could kill, all directed toward Cynthia, as he usually did these days.

There was no doubt that - if looks could kill - she would have been dead many times over in recent weeks.

Still, there was no avoiding the certainty that there was almost no hope of salvaging the day.

"You okay, Tink?" Lance Mathis was watching her, smiling gently, and she did not fail to recognize that he seemed to have taken a particular delight in adopting Brian's pet name for her.

But she was too overwhelmed to bother to call him on it, although the brief eye-roll as she looked up at him spoke volumes. "Oh, sure, I'm just peachy. Aside from the fact that I almost managed to get my best friend killed - and did manage to dither around long enough to let the murderer take to his heels and escape into the great unknown. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"You heard Brian, Cynthia. And you know better than to think he's resorting to some kind of sentimental nonsense. We both know that's not his style. He needs you. Maybe more than he needs anybody else. Because you don't wait to figure out what he wants you to do. You don't wait for his guidance or his permission. You just go ahead and do what you know needs doing, and I don't think anybody else in his life can make that claim. Because they're all too busy figuring out what they need from him, what they want. Even Justin. You're the only one that doesn't do that."

He paused and then gave her a quick smile. "Well, you . . . and McClaren maybe. But with him, it's complicated. He does what he does because he thinks he knows better, which may or may not be true. And because he's just as lovesick over Brian as the rest of the pack, even though he'll never admit that, and he'd never let it go any further, even if Brian was willing. Which he's not. For the two of them, Justin is like a monumental wall they'll never manage to get around, although I'm not entirely sure they shouldn't, but that's not my call to make. Nevertheless, the two of you are the only ones who have the courage and the determination to refuse to worry about what Brian thinks or feels or wants - and simply do what he needs done. Even when he doesn't like it. Even when he might want to kill you for it. And if you think Brian doesn't know that, then you're not nearly as smart as I think you are, or as he knows you are."

Her eyes were huge and very glossy. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"It should," said another voice, low and pleasant and almost without inflection. "It speaks to how much he believes in you. And to your capacity for loyalty. It takes a lot of courage to love someone enough to defy them in their own best interest."

"Mr. Quinn," said Cynthia. "I thought you'd gone."

"I came back," he said with a shrug, dropping bonelessly into one of her lovely wingback chairs. "I have a couple of matters to raise. Private matters that don't concern Detective Horvath. Or maybe one of them does, but I don't work for the police. I work for Brian Kinney, and I need to be able to answer his questions when he asks them."

"Such as?" Cynthia looked intrigued, and focusing on Quinn's beautiful face was hardly a hardship, although Lance Mathis didn't look too thrilled with the prospect.

"So what's up with their plans to involve Ron Peterson in their little scheme?"

Mathis blinked. "How do you even know about that? I don't think I'd know about it, if one of my staff members wasn't currently operating undercover, along with one of Pittsburgh's finest."

"Kinney," explained Quinn. "I swear, the man's got an intelligence network that the KGB would have envied. But in this case, I'd guess he got it directly from Ms. Peterson, and he's worried her father might be at risk if he gets involved with The Club and its highbrow patrons."

"Highbrow?" Cynthia echoed. "Is that really what he called them?"

Quinn grinned. "No. But I wouldn't want to quote what he really said, in polite company."

Mathis smiled. "She's been working for Brian Fucking Kinney since Kinnetik was just a twinkle in his eye. You really think she's going to be offended by a few cuss words?"

"What I think," Quinn replied softly, "is that the lady has to put up with enough crap already, and I don't intend to add to it. I meant what I said before, you know." He looked directly at Cynthia, and she was touched by the warmth in his eyes. "He's lucky to have you."

Then he looked up at Mathis. "So, what do you know about Mr. Peterson's role in all this?"

"Not much. But I don't think he'll be in any real danger. The in-depth information - the details that are going to bring down The Club and its movers and shakers - is not going to come from Peterson. It's rising from the bottom of the organization, so to speak. These fuckers - sorry, Tink - have convinced themselves they're invincible - and God is on their side. So much so that they haven't even considered the possibility they might be vulnerable to an attack from within."

"Let me guess," said Quinn with a smile. "The so-called 'money trail'?"

"Yes."

"Bookkeepers? Secretaries? Servants?"

"All of the above."

"So Peterson . . ."

"Just an observer. He might be called upon to add a bit of frosting to the cake, but I doubt there'll be much to it."

Quinn nodded. "So if Brian asks for my assurance that the man won't be in any danger . . ."

Mathis glanced toward Cynthia, who spotted the uncertainty in his eyes.

"One thing you should know, Mr. Quinn," she said firmly, "is you never make promises to Brian Kinney unless you're 100 % certain you can keep them. You tell him the truth, even at those times when he doesn't want to hear it. Even when the risk of being wrong is minimal."

He considered her words for a moment. Then he nodded. "Why do I get the feeling that I really want to be around to see him lose his temper one of these days?"

Cynthia laughed. "Stick around long enough, and you will. The Kinney temper is like a tidal wave. You never know where or when, but ultimately, it's inevitable. Now, you said you had 'a couple' of issues to raise, so what else?"

Quinn managed to look sympathetic without actually changing his facial expression. "I need to see Ted Schmidt's personnel file."

Cynthia went very still. "Are you sure that's necessary?" she asked finally.

"Yes. I'm sure."

"But . . ."

"Ms. Whitney, I get paid - and paid very well, by the way - to protect my clients. And that's what I intend to do, even when I don't particularly like what has to be done."

"There's no employment contract," she explained, as she stood up and moved toward Brian's office. "You understand that, right?"

He smiled. "There's always an employment contract. It just isn't always in the form of a written document."

She could have played dumb and pretended not to understand him, but she didn't bother, and a quick glance toward Lance Mathis revealed that he shared her reticence.

There was no point in disputing an elemental truth. When a person worked for Brian Kinney, it was with the understanding that the employer/employee relationship was based upon one fundamental, inviolable commitment.

One rule.

You don't fuck over the Boss.

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


"So," said Brian, settling back against a stack of pillows and trying to ignore the ache at the base of his skull, as Rick Turnage and his medical entourage filed out of the room, "Landmark. What is it, and how is it involved . . . with me and with Babylon?"

"Details are still sketchy," answered Alexandra Corey, "but not for much longer."

"How did you uncover it?"

McClaren settled into a chair at the side of the bed and regarded Brian with a slightly sardonic smile. "You need to give your boy, Hilliard, a raise. Turns out he and Ms. Briggs managed to dig up the definitive source of evidence."

"Such as?"

The FBI agent turned to gaze out the window, but not quite quickly enough to prevent Brian from identifying a shadow of sadness in his eyes. "If you want to tap into the truth of a man's heart, you need to find the source of his grief. That's what they did. Turns out the guy who's been handling The Club's accounting for over two decades was a victim of the same kind of ugliness they turned on you. Only he didn't know it; he had to be shown."

He turned back toward Brian and didn't bother trying to suppress a sigh. "Exposing that kind of secret isn't easy, for anybody."

"Is Briggs all right?"

McClaren smiled. "Another old college chum, huh? I sometimes wonder if there are any beautiful women in Pennsylvania that you didn't recruit during your university days. She's still under deep cover, I expect, so I don't know when she'd be available to talk to you. But I'll let her know you're asking."

"Thanks. And I didn't recruit her."

Emmett chuckled softly. "No? Then answer me this. Did you ever meet a woman who didn't think she could cure you of your affliction and turn you straight?"

"Once," Brian retorted, with a smirk, and everyone in the room knew instantly who he was talking about. "So," he continued, deliberately putting Melanie out of his thoughts, "what exactly did this money trail reveal?"

"Starting points."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"The Club's accountant has twenty years worth of records about donations, income, receipts, disbursements, projects, political campaigns and causes, but most of it appears to be fairly mundane at first glance. Because it's set up that way. It starts out pretty straightforward; then it branches, and branches again and again. Ad infinitum. So in the end, it's like a vine that curls and coils and spreads and looks impossible to follow."

"So how do you . . ."

"I said it looks impossible to follow. Not that it actually is. All you need is the right kind of bloodhound."

Alexander Corey's smile was slightly smug. "She'll be delighted to know you called her a dog."

"Another FBI super asset?" asked Justin, still tucked up against Brian's side; still reeling slightly from new revelations about old enemies.

"We call her Medusa," replied Corey. "In this guise anyway."

"Why would anyone want to be called that?" Justin looked genuinely puzzled.

"Well, you know the story about the original, right?" said McClaren. "How no one could look at her and survive? Same thing here - but in reverse since she's the one doing the looking. If you have things to hide, tucked up somewhere in a software application, you really, really don't want Priscilla Young to catch even a tiny glimpse of you, because - once she does - you're very, very dead."

"She's that good then?"

"She's that good," confirmed Corey. "The best I've ever seen, and that's really saying something considering the Bureau has access to the best minds in the business."

Brian smiled. "Speaking of recruiting . . ."

"Don't even think about it," Corey said quickly, firmly. Wondering if he was joking; hoping he was joking. The Bureau had power and prestige to offer, which constituted a considerable advantage over private industry - usually. But Kinney had money, a willingness to use it, and . . . well, Kinney. All together, that provided some pretty powerful incentives.

"So when can we expect this whole thing to wrap up?"

McClaren's smile was only slightly tainted with uncertainty. "Briggs is scheduled to pick up the last of the accounting records today, so Young should be able to start her tracing immediately. A lot depends on how complex the records are - and how clever the encryption - but she usually gets results PDQ. After that . . . the big fundraiser for The Club is coming up next week-end, and we're hoping everything is in place by then so we can tie it all up in one neat package. With a big red bow."

"Awww, that's sweet," drawled Justin, his voice hard-edged, almost bitter. "A pretty present - from you to Brian."

"Yeah," McClaren replied sharply, his eyes moving to meet those of the man in question, completely ignoring the source of the comment. "From me to Brian."

Justin's eyes were ablaze with anger, but nobody was looking his way to notice - not even Brian who was momentarily unable to look away from the FBI agent who was staring at him.

The silence in the room was suddenly deafening.


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


Henry Flagg realized that he had spent more time looking around at all the esoteric objects in his office in the past week, than he'd spent in more than twenty years.

It was a little humbling to come face to face with the fact that, in the long run, he didn't have very much to show for all the time and effort and sheer hard work he'd invested in this place.

It was even more humbling to realize that his observations of his office were a fair analogy for observations of his life.

He was only now beginning to comprehend how much he'd lost over the years. One year in particular.

"Tell me, Ms. Harper - if that's even your name - is the young man who came with you the other day really your brother?"

Sharon Briggs, wrapped up tight in her Shirley Harper persona, complete with apron and chef's hat, shook her head. "No. He's not. And you're right. It's not my real name."

He nodded, and then turned to look out the window, noting as he did so that his variegated pothos vine was flourishing, almost obscuring the surface of the glass, and dappling the entire room in restless shadow. All around him, his plants were thriving. He had nursed them lovingly over the years, watering, fertilizing, dividing, transplanting, and they had repaid his careful attention with glowing good health. He wished other things in his life had fared as well. "Do you suppose," he asked softly, "anyone ever called him 'beautiful'?"

It was her time to smile. "I think you can bet on it."

"And how do you suppose he reacted to that word?"

She shifted in her chair, leaning forward to try to catch his eye, but he refused to look her way. "If you're asking me if he's gay," she replied, "the truth is that I don't know. " She was lying, of course, but absolutely determined to preserve Hilliard's privacy. "But I think I know him well enough to say that he'd take such a comment as it was intended. It's a compliment - isn't it?"

"Is it?" His voice was even softer now. "That's what people used to call my son. All sorts of people. Women, girls - even some men."

"And how did he react to it?"

"He didn't." His sigh was rough and loud. "He knew better. He knew . . . I wouldn't like it."

"Mr. Flagg," she said gently, "did you love your son?"

"I did," he said, after a pregnant pause. "I just didn't know how much, until . . . it was too late to tell him."

She smiled and nodded toward the stack of ledgers assembled on his desk. "You're telling him now."

He nodded. "I am. But not with those."

"I'm sorry. I thought . . ."

"If you tried to carry those books out of this office, well . . . first off, you'd need a fork lift to manage it. Secondly, you'd never get out the door without being taken down by security. And thirdly, it would take you months, perhaps even years, to extract any useful information from them, even with the help of a forensic accountant with extraordinary skills. I may look like a simple black servant, but I'm not. I've spent many years learning the art of subterfuge, in order to prepare a set of books that would fool any casual observer, as well as any not-so-casual tax auditor. Those ledgers are here just to demonstrate how easily I could have resorted to trickery and obfuscation - appearing to co-operate while actually doing everything possible to hide the truth. I could have hired a lawyer. To protect me - and I'm wondering now if I should have. You know you don't seem particularly . . . appreciative for . . ."

"You want me to appreciate what you're doing? Maybe I would have . . . if you'd acted in time to prevent the ugly things that have happened. Your silence . . ." But she elected to close her mouth then, trying her best to remember that this man had also lost much - maybe the most of any of them, even if he hadn't yet realized the entire truth.

At any rate, he chose to ignore her outburst and back away - at least temporarily - from his own observation and return to the discussion of the critical details at hand. To that end, he turned away from her and opened a small drawer in the credenza behind his desk, to extract two items: a thumb drive and a small spiral notebook.

"Providing you have someone who's gifted in computer use, this should be all you'll need. The thumb drive contains all the pertinent information from all these ledgers, and the notebook gives you the codes to decipher the encryptions."

"So," she said slowly, "this stack is just to impress me, to show me that you're doing us a favor by cooperating? Is that your idea of doing the right thing - of earning your son's forgiveness?

"Did you know?" she continued, not waiting for an answer she was pretty sure she wasn't going to get anyway, as she accepted the two small items, took a moment to flip through the pages of the notebook and note columns of letters, numbers, and symbols which meant nothing to her but would - hopefully - provide insight for those who would delve into it. She then tucked them into a deep pocket beneath her apron. "Did you know what the noble patrons of your precious club were doing?"

"I knew some of it," he admitted, after a moment's thought. "I didn't know all of it."

"And if you had?"

He took a deep breath. "I hated what my son was, Ms. Harper. I hated what it did to him, and to our family. It tore us apart. And everything I knew, everything I'd ever been taught in my life, made me believe it was an abomination - that it was my responsibility to see he was cured. And saved. But I . . . I never once dreamed it would cost him his life, that he would be taken from us so there was never a chance to ask for forgiveness."

Her eyes, previously filled with warmth and sympathy, were suddenly ice-flecked. "So, even in the face of everything that happened to him, you still think he had something to be forgiven for?"

"No." The word was sharp and hard, like the sound of a gunshot. "No, he didn't. But I did. And now, that will never happen, will it? That opportunity is gone forever."

"Maybe," she conceded, "but that shouldn't keep you from trying to earn it." She hesitated for a moment, obviously considering whether or not to proceed. Then she took a deep breath. "I knew your son, Mr. Flagg. We were both in Professor Goodwin's history classes. He was . . ."

"What?" Flagg demanded, when she hesitated. "He was what?"

"He was beautiful, and frankly, I don't give a damn whether you like that term or not. He was. Beautiful of face and form. But beautiful in other ways as well. The shame of it all - for you - is you were so busy being ashamed of the simple physical trait of his sexual orientation that you never bothered to look below the surface and get to know the man he was. He was a good man who would have led a good life, if only people who think like you hadn't taken it upon themselves to end it."

"But I . . . I never would have done something like that."

"No? And what if he hadn't been your son? What if he'd just been some stranger, someone in whom you had no interest and no concern? Someone . . . like Brian Kinney, who has a lot in common with your son - with one big difference. He managed to survive, and he's going to fight back. For himself, and for all those like your son, who never got the opportunity, and against all those people - like you - who just decide to turn away, to not see what they don't want to know about, because it's not their concern, is it? And right and wrong doesn't even enter into it. The victims, after all, they're not like you. They earn their punishment, don't they?"

"I don't know what else I can do," Flagg sighed. "You do realize my life will never be the same. What I'm doing will mean the end of everything I've known. I know it's just a bastion of social pretension - a silly throwback to a time when money and power bought respect and prestige. But it's also been the focus of my life, my security, my . . ."

"It killed your son. Don't you understand that yet? This is not just some silly gentlemen's club, where the good old rich boys can sit around and reminisce about the lovely golden days when servants knew their places and commoners tugged their forelocks to show their respect. Behind the façade of genteel tradition, this place is a hotbed of racism and bigotry and homophobia. Is that what you're defending?"

"I didn't know."

She smiled and rose to her feet. "No. You didn't want to know. And you didn't need to, did you? As long as you minded your own business - and remembered your place - you were exempt from all the ugliness. Too bad for you your cooperation didn't buy the same protection for your queer son."

"Will I have to testify?" he asked, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Probably."

"Will I be . . . protected?"

She hesitated as she turned toward the door. "And if I said no - what then?"

"I . . ."

"Don't worry, Mr. Flagg. The FBI lives up to its obligations. There might even be a possibility of getting you into Witness Protection, if it's deemed necessary. Then you can start a whole new life, and nobody will ever have to know your shame. You can pretend you never had a son at all, much less a useless little faggot."

He wanted to tell her she was wrong; he wanted to tell her he'd never have used that word to describe the young man who had, at one time, been the center of his life.

He wanted to, but he couldn't.

"When . . . when will all this happen? Will I know in advance? Will I . . ."

"If necessary, we'll escort you from the premises when the time comes. But if it were me, I think I'd arrange to take off for a few days. Come up with a great aunt who needs hip surgery, or something. And I'd do it now." Her smile was not pretty. "Our computer people are very gifted . . . and very fast."

"You're not very forgiving, are you?"

Her smile was not pretty. "I'm not the one you need forgiveness from, Mr. Flagg. Unfortunately for you, I think that boat has sailed. But if you make a genuine effort - a real attempt to burrow down under all that ugly, homophobic garbage you've been wrapped in all your life, you might just come out of this as a better person. Then - if your Christian faith is more than just lip service you pay to some protestant sect that talks about Christian values but actually has none - you might be able to believe that your son will hear . . . and understand."

With that she was gone, and he tried not to feel like his entire life had just walked out the door with her.

A gentle breeze moved into the room from the open window, and the leaves of his plush array of houseplants stirred and rustled in the wind, and he wondered if he could figure out some excuse to take them with him. They might, after all, be the only friends he had left when it was all over.


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


Brian took a deep, thoroughly satisfying drag from the cigarette he had persuaded McClaren to provide for him - the first one he'd had since Jackson's almost successful attempt on his life - and looked up to watch the sun stream through thick sweeps of the white and deep rose-colored blossoms that covered the trees surrounding the second-floor terrace where he'd found a quiet nook in which to indulge one of his favorite vices.

"You do know you're not supposed to be doing that, don't you?"

He smiled, not bothering to look around to identify the speaker. He had, after all, been expecting this particular arrival.

"What are these trees?" he asked, taking a moment to appreciate the lush beauty of the setting and never once realizing that the golden quality of the sunlight that haloed around him defined and accented his own natural perfection of face and form.

"Crepe myrtles," came the response, with the voice encompassing a verbal shrug. "Surely you've seen them before."

Brian nodded. "Just never bothered to ask about a name."

Simon Redding chuckled. "Now why do I think that's something you've done plenty of times in your life?"

Brian turned to regard his visitor with a scapegrace grin. "I don't know. Why do you?"

The older man considered delivering an acidic retort, but, in the end, he didn't. He wouldn't claim to approve of everything Brian Kinney was, but he did appreciate candor, and he was pretty sure he would get plenty of that from this enigmatic young scoundrel. "So," he said after taking the time to light his own cigarette, "want to tell me why I'm here, instead of being out and about and enjoying my day off?"

Brian turned once more to gaze out into the hospital grounds, which were lush and beautiful with spring foliage, and very different from medical establishments in harsher climates. It was as if nature's bounty sought to compensate for the grimmer aspects of such a place. It didn't really work, he thought; underneath all the splendor, there was still the faintest scent of sickness and death, but at least it served to divert the mind - for a few minutes anyway.

"You came back," he said finally, very softly. "After everything that happened, you chose to come back. I'm not sure I'd have done that. I'm not sure . . ."

To his surprise, Redding laughed. "Yes, you are. The difference is that you never would have let them run you off in the first place. You're so in-your-face determined that you never back off. Let me tell you something, Mr. kinney. I've spent my whole life living under the radar, so to speak. It's how I survived - how I chose to survive - and I'm not going to apologize for it. It might not be the right way, or the best way, but it worked for me, because that's the person I am. But you? You don't know how to hide. And I can admire that, without really understanding it. It works for you, but it puts you at risk. You and . . ."

"And everyone around me," said Brian with a sigh. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"

"Look, I'm . . ."

"No. Don't say it. Don't apologize. Because, when you get right down to the bottom of it all, you're right. My . . . determination might very well cost me more than I could stand to lose."

Redding took a moment to study that spectacularly beautiful young face, and felt a deep, abiding sadness touch him. "You're not talking about your own life, are you?"

"No."

The older man nodded, and took a deep drag of his cigarette. "What are you going to do?"

Brian straightened, and adjusted the sash of his dark silk robe. "Whatever I have to."

"Can I give you some advice?"

Brian chuckled. "Well, if you don't, you'll be the only person east of the Mississippi who hasn't. So . . . fire away."

"I did the right thing," Redding said softly. "No matter how you look at it, it was the right thing to do. She was married. She had children. She was . . . white. And I . . . I had nothing to give her, nothing that was worth the sacrifice she'd have to make."

He fell silent then, his eyes staring out into the morning but no longer seeing what lay before him.

"And?" Brian prompted, when it appeared the older man would not continue.

"And she still died, and I was still alone. If I hadn't done 'the right thing', things might have worked out differently. We might have managed to build a life together. But that didn't happen, and now . . . now I'll never know what might have been."

"So . . . what? I should just seize the moment and grab what I want and . . ."

"You should remember that you can do all the right things, the unselfish things . . . and God can still take away the things you love most. You can't control life, Mr. Kinney - yours or theirs. In the end, it's a downstream journey and, much as you'd like to believe differently, you can't fight the current."

"Very poetic."

Redding smiled. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Part of my charm."

The smile became a rough rumble of laughter.

"I wanted to thank you."

Redding turned to meet Brian's eyes. "You're welcome."

"And to ask if there's anything . . ."

"Unless you'd like me to rearrange the features of that pretty face, you'll stop right there. I didn't do it to get some kind of reward."

"No? Then why did you do it?"

"Because it was the right thing to do. Sometimes, it's just that simple."

Brian took a final drag of his cigarette before looking up to watch an errant wind ruffle through the abundant foliage of the crepe myrtle trees. "Yeah. Sometimes it is."

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"You ready to tell me the rest of the story?"

Chris McClaren leaned against the balcony railing and clasped his hands, enjoying the natural warmth of the morning sun, which would, as the day wore on, become much too warm for comfort. "What makes you think there's any more?"

Brian lifted one hand to shade his eyes as he looked up to follow the spiraling path of a hawk soaring overhead. "Because I'd rather not believe that the mighty FBI is capable of that kind of stupidity."

McClaren pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from his pocket and offered one to Brian as he took the last one in the pack for himself. "Why do you . . ."

"Oh, puh-lease! Stop playing stupid. All of that 'we didn't realize' and 'we were surprised to learn' and 'there was no way to predict'. If that kind of oversight happened in all your investigations, this country would have been over-run with terrorists and Mafia drug lords and God knows what else a long time ago. So how was this case different? How did this happen?"

The FBI agent smiled. "You're annoying at the best of times, Brian. But you're even more annoying when you're right."

"So are you going to explain it or . . ."

"We went into this blind, Brian. This is . . . it's not just big. This is about way more than some ongoing drama in provincial little Pittsburgh. The truth is that we thought we were dealing with a bit of local homophobia, a stand-alone event that happened to occur in an area which had been the scene of a growing number of hate crimes. And the powers that be - the ones I take orders from and even the ones they take orders from - seized upon this particular case to try to focus attention on the problem. But when we began to dig, to try to pull up motives and tangible information . . . frankly, Brian, we didn't have a clue what we'd stumbled on. And we're still learning. As it turns out, this isn't just about the local homophobes grabbing an opportunity to thrash and throttle the local pretty boy. It's much bigger than that, much deeper. And it goes back a long way."

"How long?"

"Years at least."

"And Babylon?"

McClaren nodded. "Yes."

"So what you're telling me . . ." Brian paused, and almost choked on the smoke he'd just inhaled. "Babylon happened because of . . ."

"No." In one amazingly quick motion, McClaren had stepped up and grabbed Brian and used one hand to force them face to face, almost touching. "No. Babylon was not because of you. If anything, the reverse is true. You were because of Babylon. They wanted to destroy you because you refused to allow Babylon to die, because you refused to bend over and take it up the ass like a pretty little faggot."

Unexpectedly, Brian grinned. "You've sure got a way with words, McFed."

But McClaren did not smile, because there was no reflecting smile in Brian's eyes.

"What are you going to do?"

Brian stepped away abruptly to return to his observation of his surroundings, but the FBI agent did not miss the fact that he'd been quick to look away in an attempt to hide the shadows rising in his eyes.

"Send everyone home, finish up with Turnage, and move on to the next phase."

"Meaning what?"

"Not your business."

It was McClaren's turn to grin. "Not your choice to make, my friend. You are my business, until Alexandra Corey - and the Attorney General - say otherwise."

"I have things to do," Brian replied. "Private things."

"Uh, huh!"

"You don't get a say in this."

"Uh, huh!"

"Goddammit, Chris, I . . ."

"This must be serious."

"Why?"

"You called me 'Chris'. You hardly ever do that."

"I can think of plenty of other things to call you."

The FBI smiled. "And I don't give a damn what you call me. You are not going to steal away like a thief in the night, Brian. Where you go, I go."

Brian sighed. "You know what?"

"What?"

"There's not going to be a fairy tale ending to all this. No riding off into the sunset for the handsome prince . . . and his pretty little faggot."

"No?" McClaren took a final drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out in the big concrete urn beside him. "So tell me . . . which one are you?"

Despite himself, Brian grinned. "Asshole!"

"Hey. I'm the easy one," replied the FBI agent. "With me, you can rant and curse and demand all you like, and I'm just going to go on doing what I have to do. So I'm not the problem here."

"Meaning what?"

McClaren leaned forward to brace his forearms against the balcony railing, and watched a squirrel leaping up through the branches of a towering sycamore tree. "Meaning . . . who's going to tell Justin?"

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