Chapter 53

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Sonnet XLIII --- Edna St. Vincent Millay

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It was late in the day, and the western sky was ablaze with lava-like flows of crimson and beaten gold, emitting flares of copper and saffron to shoot off into the growing darkness of the heavens. On the other side of the sky, a few brave stars already rode the crest of the ocean's relentless surge toward the land. The tide was coming in.

Sometimes it seemed that the tide was always coming in, getting closer to covering the world with every onslaught against sand and shore.

Brian shook his head, annoyed with his own foolishness. The tide was exactly as it had always been, and, if the world was being systematically destroyed (or going to shit, in the immortal words of Debbie Novotny) it had nothing to do with the ocean's relentless pursuit of domination.

It had much more to do with Brian Kinney and his personal operating manual.

He would have to leave soon - in less than an hour - and his eyes were riveted to the eastern horizon where a schooner of some kind, looking like the shadow of a child's toy at this distance, was beating a path against the wind, gradually being consumed by the dark broken line separating sea and sky. He had always loved the ocean, ever since his grandfather and namesake, Brian Patrick Kinney, had picked him up one summer afternoon when he was seven and driven him out to the Hamptons so he could get a glimpse of the real ocean instead of the hodgepodge of docks and detritus that composed most of New York's harbor. In his youth, the senior Brian had spent several years in the merchant marine, working in the engine room of a massive freighter called the Mariposa, which made regular round trip voyages along a trade route from New York to Cadiz, Spain. Finding the love of his life in a petite young woman named Jenny Malloy and the irresistible appeal of marriage and family had put an end to his days aboard the freighter and prompted him to take up carpentry for a living, but nothing had ever dimmed his profound love of the sea - a love he had managed to pass on to his young namesake.

Brian still recalled that day and his own amazement in finding that not only was he tremendously small and insignificant against that unlimited vastness, but so was his grandfather who seemed as tall as a mountain to him then, even though he was actually only a bit over six feet. The memory remained sharp and detailed even after all these years, even though they'd never made it back there, settling instead for occasional subway rides down to Battery Park to stand at the water's edge and gaze out beyond Lady Liberty and remember the sense of solitude which simply could not be achieved in the city.

Brian's mother always claimed he had taken after the senior Kinney, and that observation was always followed by a not-quite-sotto-voice sobriquet: "the old scoundrel". That was her term, of course; she would never resort to using a word like bastard, even though that was exactly what she meant. Her condescending attitude - a distorted reflection of his father's - was probably why Brian had always loved the old man so much, and been so loved in return. In his own way - never verbalized but always understood inherently - he had found his grandfather beautiful. Later, he would sometimes allow himself to preen - just a little - over the fact that many among his parents' circle of acquaintances consistently remarked that Brian the younger was the spitting image of Brian the elder.

When lung cancer took the old man at age 63, nine years after that trip out to Sag Harbor, Brian's parents tried to put on expressions of grief, appropriate to the occasion, but both took advantage of the opportunity to point out that the deceased would have lived much longer if he'd just kicked that tobacco habit. In other words, he'd been asking for it all his life and had nobody to blame but himself.

Brian wasn't sure, but he rather thought that was the exact reason why he had chosen to continue to smoke, dating from his first Marlboro at age 12 through all the succeeding years to the present, despite knowing it might very well kill him someday.

Losing his grandfather had been his first brush with death, and he'd been devastated, knowing somehow - even then - that he would spend the rest of his life wondering what his future might have been like if the old man had lived. It was a logical speculation because the senior Brian Kinney had been the only member of his family - maternal or paternal - who ever seemed capable of loving the junior Brian Kinney unconditionally.

With a slightly defiant smile, he lit a cigarette, and lifted it slightly in a wordless tribute to one who had been so important in his life, and who had spawned his fondness for the sea.

He would, of course, never see his grandfather again, but that hadn't mattered in the past because - somehow - he'd always felt close to the man whenever he could walk along a shore, gazing out across the endless swells of the waves, leaving footprints in damp sand and watching - fascinated - as the tell-tale wet shadow receded under the weight of every step.

And now . . . now that might be taken from him too. Would he never again be able to stand on a shore and take in the vastness around him, exulting in being a tiny unique spark in such a huge universe?

Would he ever see the ocean again?

Disregarding the condition of his designer jeans and freshly laundered shirt, he sank down on his knees in the sand and watched new stars sparking into existence as a steady breeze sprang up and caressed his face.

He spared a thought about how good a cold beer would taste at that moment, but knew he was too lazy to get up and go get one. Thus, when a dark figure approached and a cold bottle was placed in his hand, he was almost ready to consider the possibility that a magic genie had come to grant him one final wish.

Trina Thomas seemed to guess the nature of his thoughts and laughed softly as she settled beside him. "No magic required," she assured him. "I just know you too well. From your perspective, what doesn't go better with a cold Boston Lager?"

He wondered if he was really hearing what he thought he was hearing in her voice - an underlying nuance of melancholy with a thread of wistfulness. "You're too good to me, Trina."

She gave a tiny shrug. "Isn't that what I get paid to do?"

He grinned. "I pay plenty of people to do that, but most don't put much heart into it. You do."

She was staring out toward the ocean, and seemed to be avoiding his gaze deliberately. "Truth to tell, you've been a godsend for me, Brian. Times are tough all over, and jobs not that easy to come by. In this part of the country, good cooks are a dime a dozen, and the economy has screwed us all over. Even vacationers are more inclined to watch their pennies and fend for themselves." Then she smiled. "And the fact that you paid almost double the going rate for my services, well . . . that made you just about my favorite client ever."

"I don't pay more than a service is worth." He paused then, turning over an idea in his mind. "Did Emmett talk to you before he left? About coming to Pittsburgh, I mean."

Her smile became soft, indulgent. "Oh, he spouted off about me following him up there so we could open a restaurant or expand his catering business or some such. I didn't pay much attention, I'm afraid. He was just being sweet - just being Emmett."

He turned to face her directly, eyes glinting with something - mischief, maybe, or even sparks of anger. "You disappoint me, Trina. I figured you were too smart to fall for Emmett's wide-eyed, addle-pated, ingenue act. He's a whole lot smarter than most people realize. And he uses people's willingness to accept him at face value to be able to slide right under the radar - mostly. But there's a lot more to him . . ."

She reached out and covered his mouth with her hand, gently but very firmly. "Careful, Stud Muffin. Your loyalties are slipping through the cracks in your armor. I know perfectly well that Emmett has hidden depths which he goes to great lengths to conceal. But he's also a dreamer, and inclined to believe everything is possible, no matter how big the obstacles along the way."

Brian moved her hand - also gently but very firmly - and smiled. "And what are the obstacles that would stop you from doing as he suggests?"

She looked down then, scooping up a handful of sand before allowing it to stream through her fingers. "This is my home, Brian. It's always been my home. I wouldn't know how to live anywhere else."

Brian was silent for a moment, considering how to proceed, debating whether or not to push - hard - or simply let it go.

But letting it go wasn't really a part of his repertoire. "And you say that," he said finally, "because your life here has been so perfect? Because this place has made you happy and helped you find the perfect vantage point where you can sit and look back on your life and be satisfied with what you see?"

She turned to look at him, and he was both glad - and just a tiny bit alarmed - to read a simmering anger forming in her eyes. "And what do you know about it, Smart-ass? Why do you assume you have the right . . ."

"Do I need to have the right . . . to care about what happens to you? And yes, if you're saying we should lay all our cards on the table, I'll step up and admit that I know a lot about you and about your history. About the father who abandoned you and your mother when you were six. About the mother who worked herself to death - literally - to provide for you and your brother. About the husband you lost in Viet Nam, and the lover you lost in Desert Storm. And the son who died in Bosnia." He paused a bit as he watched her struggle to contain her anger. "Come on, Trina. You had to know your life story would be an open book in order for you to be hired on here. The FBI doesn't do things by half measures. So - to get back to the heart of the matter - what is it you have here that would keep you from looking for something new - something better - somewhere else?"

"In Pittsburgh?" she scoffed.

He shrugged. "Unless you have someplace else in mind."

"But I have family here. I own a house here. I have a brother here and three nephews, and . . ."

"A brother that you speak to once or twice a year, and nephews who only come around at Christmas to pick up their gifts from you." Once more, anger sparked in eyes the color of dark chocolate, but he continued unperturbed. "You should know the FBI doesn't just vet you; they vet everyone around you. So please don't keep using lame excuses. If you don't want to go, that's fine, whatever your reasons are. But if you've convinced yourself that you shouldn't go because of some kind of obligation to your family, that's something else entirely. So what's the real point here? You think you have to tie yourself to this town because you have to be around every All Saints Day so you can put flowers on the family graves? Do you honestly think it matters to them?"

She did not answer; just kept trailing sand through her fingers, but her hands were trembling, and Brian was pretty sure she was only an inch away from smashing her fist into his newly-repaired face.

"Look, Trina, I'm going to say this once. Just once, because I don't want to bug you about it. God knows I fucking hate it when people do that to me, especially when I've already made up my mind. But if you think you just might want to go, then consider this. Emmett and I talked about it - just a little. Nothing specific, but enough to be able to foresee that this could be a good deal for everyone. I'll provide the start-up funds, and the two of you will plan it, put it together, open it, and run it. And we'll all get very rich. If you're interested."

She turned to study his face in the dying light. "You're already very rich," she observed, "so why would you do something like that for us?"

He laughed, and she was struck - not for the first time - by how much she enjoyed hearing that sound. "Don't kid yourself," he replied. "I know a good investment when I see one, and there's no such thing as too rich. I'm not doing it for you."

Unexpectedly, she leaned forward and dropped a kiss on his shoulder. "Of course, you're not."

Then she got to her feet.

"Is that it?" he asked, shifting to be able to stretch out on the sand and cradle his head on his arms. "You're just going to pass on my very generous offer and . . ."

"No," she retorted. "I'm going to think about it."

"Yeah, well, don't think too long, just in case I change my mind."

She simply nodded and stood for a moment gazing down at him, and something in her face made him uneasy, made him feel like all of his defenses had been stripped away, leaving him naked and vulnerable.

When she turned and walked back toward the house, he breathed a sigh of relief and returned to devouring the vista stretched out before him - just in case.

He had done the exact same thing an hour earlier, when he and Justin had stood at the edge of the water and said their good-byes, but Justin, typically impatient and exuberant, had had little interest in ocean-gazing. Brian often wondered how the same beautiful individual could wear two completely different faces - the artist who saw and found beauty in everything, and the hedonist who could focus so intently on the moment and his pleasures within it, that the rest of the world just faded into obscurity. He doubted he would ever figure it out, but he reveled in it just the same.

He had not changed his story, had not admitted that the trip to Washington and his testimony before an FBI investigative committee was a complete fabrication, though he'd been mightily tempted to blurt out the truth and deal with the consequences. He'd successfully resisted the urge, but he wasn't entirely sure Justin hadn't suspected something. No way could the blond have figured out the details, of course, but nobody had ever known Brian Kinney the way Justin did, and nobody was more intuitive about plans and schemes and what if's and maybes. Or truths and lies. Justin was almost impossible to deceive. The only method that had the tiniest hope of succeeding was distraction, and Brian had always been very good at distraction.

When his fingers worked their way inside the waistband of Justin's jeans - the baggy variety for comfort during the trip - down to the cleft in that perfect bubble butt and then proceeded to slide lower, to explore deeper, Justin stopped demanding explanations and time tables and mundane details, and settled instead for wrapping himself around the man who owned his heart and trying to devour him. And mark him with a proprietary brand. Brian wasn't a big fan of love bites - especially the kind that were almost impossible to conceal beneath one's clothing; thus he fumed a bit while Justin proceeded to suck persistently and hard . . . and then harder. But he didn't really make much of an effort to avoid the proprietary marking.

"Tell me again." Justin's voice was muffled as his lips moved against the skin of Brian's throat, and Brian had to struggle to suppress a groan as the blond shifted in order to nuzzle the intensely sensitive spot below Brian's left ear. Nobody else in the world knew about that spot, thought Brian with a fond smile. Only Justin. Most of the time, he enjoyed his young lover's knowledge, but Justin was not above using it for his own purposes when he wanted Brian to squirm and long for what was temporarily impossible.

"If you don't stop that," Brian murmured, burying his face in the thick mop of Justin's hair, "I'm going to tear your clothes off and fuck you, right here in front of God, Trina, the FBI, and anyone else who happens to be wandering by."

"Then tell me and I'll stop." Giving absolutely no indication of stopping, of course.

"Why? Have you forgotten so soon?" There was laughter in Brian's voice, but also - just barely - a trace of irritation.

Justin pulled back and stared into eyes gone almost black in the waning light. "Tired of me already?"

Brian deliberately looked away, just a bit perturbed by the way his partner was studying his face. "Never," he breathed. "I could never get tired of you. Although I wonder if you can say the same."

Once more, Justin shifted to stare at Brian, seeing something new, something he'd never noticed before, though he couldn't put his finger on what it might be. "Now why would you say that? Do I have to do a Mikey imitation and remind you that you're Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake, that you'll always be young. You'll always be beautiful."

Brian grinned. "He does it better. Very passionate, and gets furious if I seem to doubt it."

"Yeah, but you never doubt me, do you?"

Brian really wanted to deny it, to snap at his young lover and wipe that smug smile off his perfectly sculpted face. But in the end, he couldn't. He could only smile and lean forward to claim those temptingly swollen lips.

Justin's response was immediate, and just a bit surprising. He bent his knees slightly and leapt up to wrap his legs around Brian's hips, fitting his crotch perfectly against the matching bulge in Brian's jeans. He made no effort to brace himself, or protect himself, or allow for any possibility that Brian might not be able to handle his weight and manage to keep them both upright, despite the fact that the man had only just recovered from life-threatening injurie

It was a true leap of faith.

But Justin's assumption of his own safety and Brian's strength proved to be valid. There was no cause for worry. Brian slid strong steady hands under Justin's arms and around his back and adjusted their bodies so they were more perfectly aligned, and if some small part of his sturdiness was based more on a stubborn determination to allow no nuance of weakness than on actual physical strength, that was just part and parcel of what it was to be Brian Kinney - a part which Justin knew full well and relied on regularly. Standing tall and steady, Brian just wrapped them both in the delight of the sensation, enjoying the fact that there was no air between them, as Justin explored his mouth with a fiercely eager tongue.

When Emmett emerged from the cottage moments later to remind Justin that they had a commercial flight to catch, that's how he found them, still so lost in each other that neither noticed his arrival until he barked out both their names.

Reluctantly, Justin pulled back, but did not allow himself to slide down the perfect body he loved so much. Instead, he simply smiled that intimate, knowing smile which was never given to anyone else, and went back to the subject he'd broached earlier.

"Say it." It was barely a whisper, but compelling nonetheless.

"I'll be back next week. I promise."

"Good, but that's not what I want to hear."

"Stubborn little shit, aren't you?" Brian's smile was indulgent.

"Learned from the best. So . . . say it."

It was Brian's turn then to lean forward and press his lips against Justin's ear. The "I love you" was just a breath, almost without sound. But it was enough.

Ten minutes later, when Justin climbed into the back of the SUV for the trip to the airport, he was still smiling and - just a little - walking on air.

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The light was almost gone now; there was only a pale smear of lemon frost silhouetting a row of shallow dunes and a few gnomish, misshapen pine trees looming off to the west as Brian stood - reluctantly - and brushed sand from his jeans.

A drift of smoke floated past him as he spent another moment gazing out across the breakers, wishing that a full moon would leap above the eastern horizon and allow him one last clear view of the Atlantic's surface. But it was not to be, although the stars were sharp and bright against the inky backdrop of space, so he could see the foam cresting on the waves as they plunged toward the shore.

He had known for a while that McClaren was standing behind him; he'd expected the FBI agent to speak up before this, urging him to get up and get on with it. But the exhortation had remained unspoken.

"You ready then?" A laconic question, with no trace of urgency.

"Depends. You finished ogling?"

McClaren grinned. "In your dreams, Stud Muffin. Do you ever - even for a moment -consider the possibility that some people don't spend their lives fantasizing about your perfect little ass?"

Brian's response was a slow, insolent smirk as he lit a cigarette. "I'm surprised you waited this long. Aren't we running late?"

McClaren shrugged. "It's Turnage's private jet, so I doubt they'd take off without you. RHIP, you know. Besides, I figured you needed to . . ." He paused then, and Brian was surprised to realize the agent was struggling to find the right words. Now what on earth could cause the ever articulate Chris McClaren to stutter . . . unless . . .

"Son of a bitch!" Brian's tone was level and very soft but cold as Arctic ice as he turned to read the expression on the agent's face. "You know, don't you? How the fuck do you know?"

"It's my job to know." McClaren did not flinch away from the anger sparking in hazel eyes. Instead he simply stood there, waiting for the outrage he knew he had probably earned.

"It's your job to know about the case, about my protection, about the safety of my family, and where I'm going when I leave here, so I couldn't very well object to you being there when the plans were made. But the law says you have no right to know anything at all about my medical condition, unless I choose to tell you about it. Which I didn't. So how . . ."

"Do you really think there's a computer in this country - or in the whole world, for that matter - that our little FBI nerds can't hack? Come on, Brian. Although, to be honest, I didn't have to go that far. Your Dr. Griffin has made quite a name for himself. If you enter his name in Google, you get thousands of hits, and most of the info concerns his research into new treatments for something called AION, aka anterior ischemic . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what it's called."

By virtue of a huge effort, McClaren managed not to flinch away from the undertone of hopelessness he heard in those simple words. "After that," he continued, "it was just a matter of putting the pieces together to see the whole picture."

"What kind of pieces?" Brian was still suspicious, not to mention angry.

McClaren stepped closer so he could look directly into Brian's eyes. "I get paid to pay attention to details, Brian. Things most people wouldn't even notice."

"Such as?" Still sneering, but not quite so hostile now.

"Such as the fact that you've been avoiding bright sunlight lately, even though you used to love sunbathing - preferably raw - and you've been wearing your sunglasses even when the day is overcast. Such as the fact that your pupils are always dilated - sometimes unevenly - even when there's plenty of light and no one is blowing your mind with a spectacular blow job. Such as the fact that you sometimes stumble over things you should have been able to see and avoid, and, once in a while, your hand/eye coordination isn't up to par."

He paused then, and looked once more into Brian's eyes, noting the blackness growing at their centers. "Right now, I bet I could take you in handball, tennis, racketball . . . you name it, despite the fact that there was a time - not so long ago - when we'd have worn each other out fighting to draws. You're losing your vision, Brian. It's not rocket science. So the only thing I haven't figured out is how bad it's going to get and how soon it's going to happen."

Brian deliberately looked away, for once having no interest in enjoying an examination of a nearly flawless face. "Have you mentioned it to anybody?"

The FBI agent heaved an exaggerated sigh. "You can speak plainer than that, you know. What you want to know is whether or not I told Justin, and the answer ought to be obvious. If he knew, do you really think he'd let you get away with your story about going to Washington?"

Brian took a deep breath. "No. He wouldn't."

"Which begs a bigger question," said McClaren, his tone relentless. "Why haven't you told him? He has a right to . . ."

"What he has a right to," Brian interrupted, his voice cold and hard, "is a full life, filled with possibilities and opportunities to set the art world on fire with his talent. What he does not deserve is to spend miserable years tending to an invalid out of a sense of obligation." He hesitated then and turned back toward the sea, striving for one more glimpse of something too well loved. "I promised him a beautiful life, and that's what he's going to have."

"Without you?" McClaren scoffed. "You really think that's possible. Without you, he'll never be as happy as he should be."

"Yes, he will. If he'll just give in and see the truth he's never been willing to see. I'm not the man he believes I am. I never was and - more to the point - I never will be."

"Do you really think that matters?" McClaren moved forward and took up a position at Brian's side, noting that the tide was rushing in now, eager to stake its claim on the shore. "Isn't it up to him to decide whether or not you're what he needs? Why do you . . ."

"Because I know, OK. I've spent my whole life knowing, and I'm not going through that crap again." He paused then to take a final drag of his cigarette, before tossing it into the surf. "I can't."

The FBI agent turned then, trying without success to read the expression concealed beneath features that suddenly appeared as hard and changeless as if they were carved in stone. Finally, he took a deep breath. "So that's it then. You're not doing this for him; you're doing it for you."

Brian's smile was brittle. "I'm always doing it for me."

He walked away then, moving quickly toward the house, eager to gather his things, say his good-byes, and move forward into the next stage of his recovery.

McClaren followed more slowly, wishing . . . He sighed as he approached the house, because he actually didn't know what he was wishing.

God damn Brian Kinney! Nobody should be able to wreak so much havoc on the people around him, especially the people who lo . . .

God damn it!

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"Daddy, are you sure about this?" Lindsey adjusted the bow tie she had tied for him, and tried to control the trembling in her hands. "If Mom senses what you're really doing . . ."

"Hush, now, Honey," he answered with a smile. "What am I really doing, except going to a club event with old friends? And if I'm listening a little more closely or noting details more carefully, so what? She'll just think that I've come to my senses so we can reclaim our place among the crème de la crème of Pittsburgh society."

Lindsey stepped back and stared at him. "Did you always feel this way?" she asked softly. "Or have I corrupted you after all these years?"

"If that's your way of asking if you're to blame for my change of heart, then just stop, right now. This isn't about you."

"Then what is it about, Dad?" she demanded. "Why would you . . ."

"Lindsey," he said firmly, turning to face her, "sometimes a man just outgrows his prejudices. Not because he happens to have a daughter who marches to the beat of a different drummer, or a grandson whose origin might be non-traditional, but because he finally comes to a point in his life where he can no longer refuse to see the truth, without all the ugly preconceptions that were drilled into him in his youth. I can't tell you how painful it is for me now, to remember how we treated you when we learned that you were . . . different."

She smiled, but there was a tiny spark of malice in her eyes. "You still have trouble saying the word, don't you? I'm not 'different', Dad. I'm a Lesbian. There are other terms, of course, but they tend to be a lot more explicit. Or downright nasty, I guess, but no nastier than the terms so many ultra-conservative, churchgoing bigots use when they're tossing back a few at their exclusive men's club. Is 'pussy-licker' any worse than 'cocksucker'? Not really, especially when they mean essentially the same thing - to wit, the old guard is better than us perverts, because they happen to fuck the way God intended. Do you suppose they've actually managed to visualize the Almighty sitting down with toy figures in order to work out how to get part A into part B, and what has to happen next, and how it all comes together to create new life, which is, of course, the only acceptable motive for fucking in the first place.

"No, Dad. In the end, it's all the same. It's just prejudice for the sake of convenience, and an opportunity to look down on those who are constructed slightly different. But I don't want you to go into this thinking you have to atone for the past, or to earn absolution for some kind of personal failings. You don't have to do that. You're a product of the world you were born into, and I don't resent you for . . ."

"You know what?" he said suddenly, sharply. "If people like me, the charter members of those traditional, good-old-boy clubs - the social networks that existed ages before anyone even figured out what a social network was - if we don't step up and do something, don't raise our voices and admit we were wrong and our parents were wrong and their parents before them, then nothing changes, Lindsey. Then your son will grow up bearing the stigma of his parents' sexual orientation and endure the same kind of crap from the next generation of bigots."

He shot his cuffs as he turned to check his reflection in the antique cheval mirror near the window. "So keep that in mind. I'm not doing it for you. If I'm doing it for anyone, it would be for Gus, but the honest truth is that I'm doing it because I've finally, belatedly, realized that it's the right thing to do."

Lindsey paused for a moment, savoring a dawning certainty that her father was actually turning out to be the man she'd imagined him to be when she was very young - her hero. Her mother, on the other hand . . .

"Have you thought it through?" she asked finally. "You know she won't agree. I'm not even sure she'll forgive you if it all comes out. She'll think you betrayed everything you - and she - have always stood for."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's time to follow my conscience, and stop knuckling under to hers. I love your mother, Linz - warts and all. Always have. But it's been a long time since I've looked at her through rose-colored glasses. I see her for the person she is, and I love her anyway. But I can't pretend any more that she's perfect, or our marriage is perfect. And if I don't try to fix it now . . ."

"What?" she said quickly, knowing there was something more, something he was not saying.

But his only response was a smile and a light kiss dropped on her forehead. It was time to make an appearance downstairs, to praise the exquisite designer gown his wife had gone to New York to purchase for this very special occasion, the annual founders day/fundraiser for The Club - a true celebration of the preservation of a very specific way of life, distinctly separate from so many others.

"Where's Gus?" he asked as they headed toward the door.

"In the kitchen, playing hide and seek with Minerva."

His smile was very tender. "She'll love that. She's always remarking that this house is too empty and too quiet without the sound of children's laughter."

Lindsey quirked a skeptical eyebrow. "To which Mom replies with a stern, disapproving glare. Right?"

"Something like that," he admitted.

"So let me guess. The 'good' daughter . . ." She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers, "has yet to fulfill her promise to make you guys proud grandparents."

He stopped abruptly and turned to look down at her, his expression unexpectedly stern. "I know this is painful for you, Honey, and I wish I could change your mother's attitude. Unfortunately, I can't. The only thing I can do is insist that you remember that I am a very proud grandpa. Gus is . . . my God, Linz. I don't think the world is ready for a child like that. A dynamo who combines the intellect and the beauty and the sheer nerve of both his parents. I think he'll either set the world afire with the dynamics of his vision and his creativity, or he'll blow it to bits with his passion. Either way, I couldn't be prouder."

She took a moment to study his face. "I can hardly believe this," she said finally, slowly. "You really did manage to look under the façade Brian presents to the world, and see some parts of the real man, didn't you?"

His smile was wry. "Enough, at least, to understand why you've always loved him."

She drew a deep breath. "Yeah, and that's a big part of the problem, I guess. I could never make Melanie understand how I felt about him."

"Are you sure, Honey? Maybe she did understand it, and that's the real problem. Maybe she understood it even better than you do."

She laughed softly. "No, Dad. She didn't. I do love Brian, and I'm never going to let anyone dispute that again. I'll always love him, but it's not like the love I felt for Mel. Please don't fool yourself, or get your hopes up by thinking I'd revert to normality if Brian would just make an honest woman out of me. He's not a magic cure for what ails me, because . . . Look, I know the conventional right-wing wisdom is that homosexuality is an affliction that can be cured, but that's just bullshit, Dad. I don't love him like that. Our love is . . . it's just different. It's real - bedrock real, but it's not the soul-mates, happily-ever-after, need-each-other-to-be-complete kind of love. It's just . . . you know I really don't know how to explain it, except to say that it's vital and deep and a big part of our lives, and I can't even begin to tell you how good he's been to me and Gus. But it will never transform either one of us into something else - something we're not."

His smile was slightly lopsided. "But you can't blame me for wishing it was possible. Not for me. Not even for your mother. This is your life to live, and our opinions don't really matter. But it matters for you and for Gus. Your lives would be so much easier, and simpler."

She nodded. "Yeah. I know. But I could never be happy living a lie, and I won't teach Gus that life in the closet is an acceptable choice. I hope you can understand that."

He reached out then and cupped her cheek gently. "I do, but I can't help but wonder how you managed to grow up so strong and so brave. You certainly didn't learn it from your parents."

"Oh, I don't know," she replied. "I think what you're doing now is extraordinary. Brian thought so too. He called you a gutsy old bugger."

He looked horrified, and Lindsey laughed. "Don't worry, Dad. Coming from Brian Kinney, that's a compliment."

His smile - slightly lopsided - said he was unconvinced, but he would let it pass.

Nancy, perfectly coiffed and wrapped in bright blue sequins, was waiting for them when they reached the landing.

"Beautiful gown, Mom," said Lindsey, suppressing an urge to observe that the formal looked more like glitzed-up kimono than belle-of-the-ball gown.

"Isn't it?" Nancy replied, adjusting the shawl-like collar and the v neckline that showed just the tiniest bit of cleavage. "It's Diane Von Furstenberg, you know. From her latest collection."

Privately, Lindsey wondered when the New York designer had gone just slightly geisha, but she said nothing. The twinkle in her father's eyes approved of her discretion, although she was pretty sure he shared her opinion.

Lindsey smiled as a shriek of laughter burst from the kitchen, but it was short-lived as she looked up to note the grimace distorting her mother's features. "You really should show him how to practice an inside voice, Lindsey."

"Oh, come on, Nancy," Ron said quickly, sharply. "He's playing with Minerva. Don't you remember how Lindsey used to bellow when she . . .

"Yes," Nancy retorted. "How could I forget it? Like mother, like son, I suppose."

Lindsey stared at her mother for a moment before responding, realizing Nancy seemed to need reminding she wasn't the only member of the family who could project an icy chill. She adopted a lopsided smile and met her mother's eyes boldly. "Actually, in this case, it's probably more a case of like father, like son. Brian can hit a high C like you wouldn't believe . . ." She paused deliberately and allowed the smile to ease into a smirk that was definitely lascivious. "Given the right provocation." The hard glitter in her eyes made it very clear she wasn't talking about a choral performance.

Nancy was barely able to control her impulse to retort in kind. Instead, she allowed her eyes to drift down to inspect her daughter's attire, taking in the Stella McCartney silk blouse and the form-fitting True Religion jeans - ultra stylish and undoubtedly expensive, but not the kind of outfit she considered suitable for her daughter. But then again, this was the rebellious daughter - the one who refused to accept the enviable position that both family and society had granted her.

"You could come with us, you know," she said, with another hard glance at the outfit that she classified - silently - as hippie haute monde. "We'll wait if you want to change."

Lindsey tried not to laugh, but could not quite pull it off. She knew her outburst would only intensify her mother's obvious irritation, but she couldn't help it. "I don't think your fellow Club members would approve of the invitation, Mom. They'd probably accuse you of sleeping with the enemy."

"That's ridiculous," Nancy snapped. "They've never snubbed you, Lindsey, or attempted to lock you out. You've done that all by yourself."

Lindsey went very still, her jaw rigid and clinched tight as she struggled to control the impulse to lash out. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Mom. I wouldn't dream of crashing your party. Oh, and - just so you know - this is not a phase I'm going through. It's not a fad or a fling or a passing fancy. I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and realize that all I really want in life is a man's cock to play with. This is me; it's who I am. Live with it - or don't. Either way, your decision won't change anything."

Nancy's face went chalk white, and she gaped like a fish, but apparently couldn't find the breath to reply.

Ron, however, felt compelled to step in. "Lindsey . . ."

Deliberately, Lindsey placed gentle fingers over her father's mouth. "Don't say anything, Dad. I should have spoken up years ago. And now, I'm going to take my son home to our lovely new house - the one provided by the faggot father who isn't worthy of the right to draw breath, according to your social equals - and we're going to begin to build our new life. If you want to be a part of it, you know where to find us."

Her tone and the gaze she directed only to her father made it obvious that the invitation was not intended for her mother, who continued to gape as her oldest daughter collected her son from the kitchen, smiling as Gus was hugged and kissed by Minerva and gifted with a handful of cookies, waited as grandfather and grandson shook hands and laughed and hugged each other, before making her departure, not sparing another word or glance for her mother.

"You could have said something," Nancy said finally, her entire body trembling, once Lindsey was gone. "You could have stood up for me, defended me. Why did you let her speak to me like that?"

Moving slowly, Ron collected his keys from the table by the front door, and picked up the ornate, embroidered shawl she had left hanging on the coat rack. He moved forward to drape it over her shoulders and adjust it accordingly.

"You haven't answered me," she snapped.

"No, I haven't."

"Why not?" Her voice wavered, just slightly.

"Because," he replied in a strange subdued voice, "you wouldn't like hearing what I have to say."

Then he escorted her out the front door to the Mercedes waiting in the driveway. The drive to The Club was made in complete silence, and Nancy was suddenly stricken with the strange, unexpected notion that her husband might never choose to explain himself, might actually elect never to speak to her again.. She had used heavy silences, long-suffering sighs, and wounded sulking as weapons against him throughout their married life, but she had never once been the target of reprisals.

She folded her lips together and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her as she took the only comfort she could find. It was, of course, all Lindsey's fault.

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


The Petersons were greeted warmly by long-time Club staff members as they walked up the steps to the main entrance, and Nancy was delighted to be back in such a comfortable, familiar atmosphere, noting with pleasure that the staff were dressed in perfect formal attire and seemed intent on catering to every whim of the distinguished members and their guests. She was not so delighted when Ron gave her a gentle push toward a group of wives gathered in the small pub area where a mouth-watering array of canapés and aperitifs was set out on a buffet table. He excused himself quickly, mumbling something about saying hello to Club officers. He was gone before she could register a complaint, but not before favoring her with a small, tight smile; it was not his natural relaxed grin, but it was enough to convince her that he was beginning to feel sorry for his earlier outrageous behavior and she could expect a full demonstration of Ron Peterson in apologetic mode once the evening was over.

Later, she would think back on this moment and realize just how clueless she had been, but, for now, she had old bonds to rejuvenate and new acquaintances to evaluate for their potential contributions to her social standing.

It was only a matter of minutes before she was deep in conversation with a Gucci-clad Donna Hobbs, the buxom blond wife of Randolph, Sr., and Marilyn Stockwell, tall and svelte in forest green Versace, discussing the latest New York fashion week and the splendid creations of Badgeley Mischka and Vera Wang, and then moving on to the sad state of city politics since 'that uncouth peasant' had taken over the mayor's office and the decline of the police department since Chief Stockwell's unfortunate departure, making no mention, of course, of the reason for the loss of his position. After that, they ventured into opinions and speculations about the new production of La Boheme, scheduled at Schickel Hall in the summer. Then it was time to turn their attention to a new presence in their exclusive little group as they proceeded to compliment Craig Taylor's very young wife on the short, flirty blush-colored chiffon frock she'd chosen for the evening. It was a thoroughly enjoyable exercise for the three older women, allowing them to practice saying all the right things to prevent the newcomer from realizing she was the target of a particularly nasty form of condescension, expressed only in the most genteel albeit slightly feline way, of course, and to observe, via discreet smirks and clandestine eye-rolls, that the dress was far more suitable for an ingénue than the wife of a successful businessman, more appropriate to spring prom than country club soiree. Nancy, Marilyn, and Donna smiled knowingly to each other, as young Leslie Taylor blushed and preened under their insincere compliments, and tried not to speculate on why she felt slightly muddled and confused. She had never been here before, and a little voice in her mind suggested she should make a point of never coming back.

Ron, meanwhile, had slipped away into the crowd, taking care to avoid attracting any special attention and staying out of his wife's line of sight. He was mostly successful in his attempt at invisibility, until he turned to enter the main club room and collided with a very busy young waiter carrying a tray full of frozen silver goblets filled with perfectly prepared mint juleps - an affectation of southern tradition that was a favorite among The Club's upper echelon. The waiter, young and agile, managed to avoid allowing any of the silver cups to crash to the floor, but was less successful in preventing the spilling of the contents, and Ron Peterson wound up with a shirt front dripping with prime cocktail.

"Oh, Mr. Peterson, I am so sorry." Nicholas Avolar was dressed in an immaculate white waiter's jacket, perfectly creased black trousers, and shoes so well shined that they reflected the room around him. He seemed to be mortified by his own clumsiness.

Ron smiled and accepted a spotless linen napkin from the agitated young waiter to attempt to mop up the liquid. "It's all right, my boy. Both the shirt and I will survive, I'm sure."

"Oh, no, no," Nicholas insisted, signaling to a passing server to replenish the tray of drinks and see that it was delivered correctly. "We have a supply of extra dress shirts in the cloak room just for such accidents. Please come with me, and we'll have you fresh and dry in no time at all."

"But you don't have to . . ."

"Please, Mr. Peterson," said Nicholas, a bit sharply. "It's my job, and you know how the lords of the manor feel about servants who don't follow protocol."

Ron Peterson was slightly puzzled by the young waiter's insistence, but realized that it wasn't worth causing a scene - especially under existing circumstances - so he allowed himself to be escorted into a dressing area in one of the more private men's rooms tucked away in a remote corner of the ground floor.

Once there, all was made clear, and he turned to offer Nicholas a congratulatory smile. "Oh, well done, young Nicholas," he said softly, wondering for a moment why the youth seemed to flinch away from that form of address. Jared Hilliard, handsomely clad in a short, deep red waiter's jacket that fit him perfectly and emphasized his muscular form, stepped forward and helped the older man strip off dinner jacket, tie, and the soaked shirt in order to affix a very small microphone and wire to Peterson's chest. He was then handed a fresh shirt, and his dinner jacket, spot-cleaned of course, and Nicholas was there to re-tie his tie. The entire process took less than four minutes.

"Nothing to worry about, Mr. Peterson," volunteered Hilliard. "This is state-of-the-art technology, so you're not going to be lighting up anybody's radar or shorting out the sound equipment. You're perfectly safe. I can give you my word on that score, because if I were to lose my mind and allow you to take any risks, one Brian Kinney would reach down my throat and rip out my lungs - among other things. Since I have no desire to wind up singing soprano in a children's choir, we're not going to take any chances."

"So what do I do?" Peterson looked completely bewildered.

"Nothing. You don't have to do a thing. Just . . . mingle. The equipment will record whatever happens around you, and the techs who are monitoring it control everything remotely. I won't go into detail here, because we don't have the time, but I can assure you that a major clean-up operation is taking place as we speak. The feds have decoded the information Henry Flagg provided, and they're moving in to close the operation down from that end. As soon as that's completed, they'll be ready to step in here. So your part in this is very limited. Just . . . walk around and observe and, if you hear anything you think is pertinent, just edge a bit closer and listen a little harder."

"That's it?"

"That's it. If something should happen and you feel you need help, I'll be right here." He flashed a charming grin. "In my capacity as the men's room attendant. But I'm sure you'll be fine. And if all goes well, you'll be witnessing the end of an era here tonight - an era that should have ended a long time ago."

A burst of laughter and a short riff of piano music rose from the main dining room, and Peterson paused only long enough to shake hands with both Hilliard and a hugely nervous Nicholas Avolar before returning to the party to take his designated seat at a big table near the dais on which The Club's senior officers - positions occupied only, according to Club by-laws, by descendants of the original eight founders - were to be seated.

Excepting only that rarified station, the Petersons place was among the best in the house. Seated across from them were Randolph Hobbs, Jr., and his wife, Teresa, and Randolph's son, the notorious Christopher, who'd made an indelible name for himself by attacking a young gay man with a baseball bat on the occasion of his senior prom. At his side sat his fiancé, Allyson Fincher, daughter of Fox television mogul, John Vincent Fincher, who was seated between his daughter and his wife, a tall, thin woman with a pinched face that seemed uncomfortable in any attempt to smile. Fincher spoke to neither of them, too engrossed in the script for his stint as master of ceremonies for the evening's program to spare time for casual conversation.

Ron stared at Christopher Hobbs for a moment, and wondered if the Club-member-to-be even remembered the night he'd almost killed an innocent young man, simply because the youth had dared to perform a classic, beautifully executed dance with the man of his dreams, stunning the assembled audience - his fellow senior class members - into complete silence. In remembering that occasion, Peterson was sharply reminded of his own reaction when he'd heard the news, and he felt a pang of guilt in his gut. Would young Hobbs feel the same, even if only in a small way?

Probably not, he concluded, as he watched the young man staring daggers at a waiter who was serving young Miss Fincher a glass of champagne and apparently taking too long and looking at the young woman too intently to suit her fiance's notion of propriety.

Beyond Lydia Fincher, Craig Taylor was focused on his newly-acquired wife, who was obviously slightly ill-at-ease in what must feel like a very senior setting to such a young woman.

On Ron's left were Marilyn and Jim Stockwell, who undoubtedly would have been a member of the Club's upper echelon, if not handicapped by the circumstances of his humble birth. Further down sat Virginia Schickel, widow of the infamous George, who was, of course, no longer discussed in polite company (in public anyway) and her handsome escort for the evening whose name no one would bother to learn or remember, although he did inspire some speculative looks from other matrons in the crowd. Beyond them was William Wainwright and wife, Elaina, new to Pittsburgh but scion of an old, well-connected Philadelphia family, a candidate for membership.

And that, thought Peterson, probably explains why Nancy and I have been placed at this very prestigious table; Wainwright is the greatly desired new recruit, while I am the prodigal son, with both of us capable of making substantial contributions to the coffers of the institution.

"Don't look now," he whispered to his wife as he draped a perfectly starched linen napkin over his lap, "but we're being wooed."

"Don't be boorish," she retorted softly. "I think it's charming that they're willing to welcome us back into the fold."

"What they're hoping to 'welcome'," he answered with a smirk, "is my money."

Her gaze was icy. "You've been spending entirely too much time with Lindsey."

The discussion would probably have continued to devolve, perhaps even ending in a nasty little scene, but they were interrupted as Fincher made his way to the podium and waited in easy silence as polite applause erupted around the room. He needed no introduction, of course. His face was synonymous with Fox News in the metropolitan area; thus he was always instantly recognized - with warmth and approval from fellow Club members and advocates of ultra-right wing political causes, and with skepticism and distrust by members of the liberal establishment. There were, of course, none of the latter present here tonight, and Fincher's smug smile signaled his approval of that fact.

The welcoming speech was short, although it did allow the newsman to indulge himself in a few insider jokes that would have been incomprehensible to the great unwashed, the masses who were the target of the nasty comments. The laughter in the audience was of a kindred nature - the elite approving of the still more elite expounding on the flaws and fallacies of the other 99% of the world. Fincher concluded his opening remarks and then introduced the members of The Club's board of directors individually, who entered, one by one, from a discreet doorway at the rear of the room. Each then proceeded to make his way to the main dais, accompanied by appropriate polite applause, where they joined their respective spouses, already seated there. There was Hobbs, Sr., of course, and Richard Crandall - a scion of one of the oldest families in Pittsburgh; Samuel Boroughs, eldest grandson and great grandson of steel magnates; Victor Wells-Frampton, whose ancestors had established one of the first banks in the newly-incorporated city; Anthony Moran, former ambassador to the court of St. James and owner of Contemporary Publishing, and Nathan Foley, principle shareholder of the Astra Leisure franchise, with spas and resorts scattered throughout the country. Next to emerge was the heir apparent to the chairmanship of the organization, his thick mop of silver hair perfectly groomed for this occasion. He was not really a "Junior", of course, but everyone in this place called him that, and he accepted it with good grace, realizing that it was a small price to pay for the reward he would reap later. So "Clayton, Jr." he would remain in these surroundings, while his friends, business associates, and beautiful trophy wife, Victoria, would continue to address him as Paul. Finally, bringing up the rear, of course, was the smiling Clayton himself - not so much senior as original - the most distinguished true lord of the manor, looking every inch the part of the aristocrat, accepting homage equally from his peers and those who aspired to become his peers. With a quick wave of his hand, he settled into his chair at the head of the table and exchanged greetings with his wife, who looked stunning in a charcoal gray Vera Wang gown. She was much younger than her husband - perhaps even a bit outlandishly so - but it was certain that no one among this assembled group would choose to mention it.

By time-honored tradition - unspoken but very real nonetheless - no one would begin to eat until the chairman of the board did so, after raising his glass in the annual toast, for which the entire assemblage rose to its feet.

"To the tradition of excellence," he intoned in a deep, steady voice, "and the power and will to protect, defend, and perpetuate its existence."

"Here, here!" was chanted by all, voices bright with cheer and camaraderie.

They drank before resuming their seats and tucking into the first course of the elaborate dinner, a mouthwatering shrimp and scallop ceviche. Conversation during the meal itself was desultory, even sparse, because one did not waste time on casual chit-chat when afforded the opportunity to enjoy a meal prepared by the legendary Rachel Charles and her staff. There was not a single diner who did not relish the succulent veal medallions with mushroom veloute sauce, garlic-smoked potatoes, and corn-leek gratin, with special reverence paid to the chef's trademark croissants. The chocolate-caramel mousse that completed the meal was also exquisite, and the entire assemblage joined the members of the board in sending profuse compliments to the chefs involved.

Ron Peterson ate well, like everyone else seated at the table; indeed, like almost everyone else seated at every table in the cavernous room. He supposed, looking around, that there might be a few of the ultra-body-conscious wives - anorexic by choice - who resisted the urge to clean their plates, but they were very few indeed. He was still a bit nervous, of course, but it wasn't often that one was given the chance to savor one of Rachel Charles's legendary creations, and he was not going to miss out on the opportunity.

He made a point of enjoying every bite. But when the meal was finished, he was not to be given time to sit back and bask in contemplation of the food's excellence. Instead, he was summoned - albeit very discreetly - to adjourn to the privacy of one of the executive conference rooms in a secluded area off the second floor balcony, while the son and heir of the chairman of the board stood at the podium and presented a prepared speech - a recitation of the goals and values of The Club and a comprehensive summation of its long history, including a few legendary tidbits that had been carefully excluded from more official versions. Since everyone present was either a full-fledged member of The Club's very exclusive 'in' crowd - or soon would be - he detailed these unpublicized events with great gusto, and his efforts were welcomed with delighted laughter and periodic applause.

Peterson was not sorry to miss the speech; in recent years, he had begun to despise smug little 'insider' jokes, coming to the admittedly belated conclusion that they were usually cruel and unnecessarily condescending. He was, however, slightly puzzled to note that many others were also making their way toward the conference room, the chairman of the board among them, and he wondered if the son would notice and resent his father's desertion. But if he did, Junior covered it perfectly and went on speaking, apparently relishing his task as spokesperson for the establishment on this momentous night.

When the invited group was assembled in the conference room, the personal waiter to the board members - young Nicholas - served snifters of Remy Martin X.O. cognac for each of the men as they took seats around an oval conference table. Then, he proceeded to pass out Padron cigars - each carefully pre-cut - pausing each time to offer a light with a Cartier custom cigar lighter. Craig Taylor and Hobbs, Jr., seemed especially eager to light up. Peterson, with a glance around the room as he took his first shallow puff, realized that most of those present could be classified as 'old guard' - long time members of the inner circle - with only a couple of exceptions, including himself, Jim Stockwell, and William Wainwright, aka the new kid on the block.

This little conclave might prove interesting and informative. He sat very still, listening carefully.

It was, of course, the chairman of the board who spoke up first, from his position at the head of the table.

"Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "let us raise a glass of this extraordinary cognac to the preservation of the traditions of The Club. I'm sure that is one goal that we all share equally."

Ron Peterson touched his glass to his lips, but he did not drink.

When Clayton turned toward Peterson and Wainwright, seated side by side, the former had to resist an impulse to hold his breath, feeling certain that this moment was the culmination of the evening's purpose.

"We wanted to take a minute of your time, Ron, and yours, William, to express our appreciation for your presence here tonight. Ron, it's been a long time, and while we understand that family and business issues can sometimes make Club participation difficult, we are delighted that you've returned to the fold. And William, it's always a joy for me to meet new members who so perfectly fulfill the criteria for membership here. I can assure you there are very few who are such a perfect fit for us. Thus, you are both most welcome.

"Now, as you undoubtedly know, an organization like ours is expensive to maintain, and we thought - before we hit you up for donations . . ." He smiled, and there was a low rumble of laughter from everyone around the table. "We thought you might like to hear some of the purposes for which the contributions of our generous members are used. Much of our work is done publicly, of course - charitable causes that are noble in nature and serve to enhance the good name of our Club: library funds, orphan's relief programs, St. Jude's, medical research labs, cultural and collegiate endowments - many other worthy causes. Others are more . . . discretionary, shall we say?"

He paused again, and his smile seemed just a bit cold, a bit self-satisfied. "Although I'd love to stay here and present the details for you, and enjoy your responses, I'm afraid duty calls, as I must maintain the public image and join my son on the podium. Frankly, I'm not very good with the details and nuances of our less well known causes, but I'm sure you'll get all the information you need from these good gentlemen here - sufficient, at least, to encourage you to loosen the old purse strings."

Another round of easy, not quite self-conscious laughter, disguising a genuine pitch for contributions beneath a veneer of genteel humor.

He rose then and made his way toward the door, stopping to shake hands with both Wainwright and Peterson, and complimenting both on the loveliness and lady-like demeanor of their wives. Ron Peterson only barely managed to control an urge to snort at the idea of Nancy being called "lady-like". He remembered her shrill, blistering tirade on the occasion last winter when she'd caught the neighbor's granddaughter chalking a hopscotch grid on the surface of their driveway. Sarah Wimbley had not spoken to either of them since, after stepping in to collect the trembling six-year-old and informing Nancy, in her perfect, plummy British accent, that she should "grow a heart" or "eat shit and die" - whichever came first.

There was a moment of silence as the old man left the room, and Nicholas stepped forward to offer refills of the cognac. Several took advantage of the offer, but, once he had finished, he was directed to leave the bottle and see to his other duties, by James Stockwell, who might not have the pedigree required to assume formal leadership duties, but possessed a sufficiently domineering personality to be able to pull it off.

"Well, then," said Randolph Hobbs, Jr., proud father of homophobic Christopher, "shall we get to it? If you gentlemen wish, I can go into all of the charitable causes with which we are affiliated, but I rather think that would be a waste of time. It's all a matter of public record, and you've probably already studied it. It's impressive, but - ultimately - boring." He looked up then and favored them with a somewhat lopsided smile. "However, there are other things - things that are not really part of the public record, but things gentlemen such as yourselves would probably enjoy hearing about. If you're interested, of course."

Both Peterson and Wainwright nodded, but the former was hoping the misgivings stirring in his gut would not be reflected in his expression. He had an ugly feeling that he knew what he was about to hear, and he suddenly didn't want to be any part of this. If he knew it for sure, would his prior association with The Club make him guilty of fomenting the same kind of ugliness against other people, in other times?

Hobbs, Jr. took a deep swallow of his cognac, followed by a heavy pull on his cigar. Then he smiled. "Let's start with our covert actions to defeat Prop 14, shall we?"

Ron Peterson, father of an out-and-proud Lesbian daughter and grandfather of the son of the notorious Brian Kinney, studied the other faces gathered around the table and noted that every one of them wore an expression of anticipation and smug satisfaction.

"After that, we'll get to the really good stuff."

With a small sigh, Peterson picked up his cognac glass and had to suppress a powerful urge to gulp it down, as he found himself wondering if this interminable night would ever end.

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

It was almost eight when Ted walked out of the office and locked the door behind him, and he wished for a moment that he'd grabbed a jacket from the coat rack in his office as a gust of damp, chilly wind swept across the parking lot, stirring dust and debris and carrying the less-than-savory scent of Liberty Avenue. But it was only a dozen yards to his car, so he made a dash for it, hugging his suit jacket tight around him.

It was eerily silent in the parking lot, except for the muted moan of the wind, but then that shouldn't be surprising. Everyone else - excepting only security staff - had been gone for hours. No one else worked the kind of hours that Ted put in; not even the mighty Cynthia. But that, of course, counted for nothing in the Kinney scheme of things.

Once in the car, he took a moment to loosen his tie and collar. He wasn't entirely sure why he still insisted on wearing a suit - one of his very expensive, individually tailored suits - to the office every day. He knew full well that it wasn't necessary, and it didn't accomplish anything, since he was no longer privy to client interviews or creative brainstorming or executive conferences, and no longer an object of respect or envy to the other employees. He was just plain Ted - the uptight accountant who had once had the ear of the most powerful man in the company; a has-been, a sad remnant of the important person he'd once been. As far as the rank and file were concerned he could have wandered in wearing sweats and a baseball cap, and they would probably neither notice nor care.

So much, he thought, for having earned the loyalty of the singular core of Kinnetik power. There was no such word in Brian Kinney's vocabulary; thus, Ted knew he must be really careful in what he planned to do next. He must perform so perfectly and generate such an amazing result that Brian would be dazzled and overwhelmed and forced to reconsider his previous hasty decisions. The big man would have no choice but to take Theodore Schmidt back into his inner circle, but there would be one major difference in the circumstances. Ted would never again allow himself to enjoy complacency; he would forever remember that Brian's 'loyalty' was contingent on the events of the moment. It could never be earned and kept; only earned and lost, or earned and re-earned.

He frowned as he adjusted his seat belt in the luxurious Audi he had bought for himself just a couple of months before the attack on Brian, simultaneously engaging the keyless ignition and adjusting the heater to its highest setting. The calendar might proclaim that it was spring, but, in Pittsburgh, that didn't always count for much. He was cold and tired and hungry, and he wanted, more than anything, to go home to enjoy a cozy fire in the fireplace of his newly redecorated den, a warm meal of his favorite comfort foods, affectionately prepared and served by his loving partner, and, last but not least, the lovely slender body of his young lover. Unfortunately, that wasn't possible tonight, because Blake was at a professional conference in Chicago, and wouldn't be home until the following day.

In truth, if he were brutally honest with himself, it might not have been possible anyway because Blake had been a bit distant of late, with a look in his beautiful eyes suggesting that he might be having second thoughts about their relationship.

Another thing that could be laid at the feet of one Brian Kinney. How many relationships, the accountant wondered, had faltered and died due to interference by the so-called Stud of Liberty Avenue?

Emphasizing the gloomy trend of his mood, his stomach rumbled, and he remembered that he had skipped lunch in favor of the online research he had been doing concerning his new pet project. He sighed then, knowing that there was virtually nothing worth eating at home, unless he was prepared to settle for canned soup and crackers.

So, a trip to the Liberty Diner was in order. At least, at this hour, it shouldn't be crowded. Everyone who was a member of the Liberty gay street scene - which was almost everyone who frequented the Diner - would already have made their way to Babylon or Poppers or one of the dozen other gay clubs along the street. Maybe he'd even be lucky enough to find that Debbie was no longer on duty, and he could get his food and eat in peace.

He didn't much relish the idea of one of her conversations on a night like this.

He was still smarting from his disappointment earlier in the day when he had tried to set up an after-hours meeting with Mr. Wylie to go over the latest data about the potential property acquisition which would make the members of the Schickel Foundation very, very wealthy - the amazing project that had been presented to Ted as a special favor by Wylie, to allow him to get in on a golden opportunity in order to regain his position as Brian Kinney's right hand man, if only he could persuade his employer to invest in what would prove to be a financial bonanza.

He had hoped to arrange a late dinner at one of the city's better restaurants, where he could go over the latest survey information that Wylie had sent to him via messenger earlier in the week.

It was a phenomenal opportunity to reap huge benefits, while simultaneously courting favor with some of the most influential business people in the city, the state, or maybe even the whole Northeast section of the country. But discretion was vital, and timing was everything. He had to present the project at exactly the right moment, timing his presentation precisely so there would still be time for Brian to take advantage of the opportunity, but not enough time for him to dither over it. And in order to do that, he had to be sure that every t was crossed and every i, dotted, with no surprises lurking in the wings to spring up and bite him in the butt at the last minute.

He'd whined a bit when Wylie informed him that he had a prior commitment which he could not reschedule, and the elderly attorney had quickly let it be known that he didn't appreciate being pressured. Ted had backed off, of course. Immediately. One did not, after all, risk offending a powerbroker of Wylie's stature. Without him, Brian would be shut out of the biggest money-making proposition of his life, and Ted would lose any chance of regaining his rightful place in the Kinney hierarchy.

He managed to ignore the insistent little snarky observation in the back of his mind which pointed out that he shouldn't have to grovel to secure the man's cooperation. But one did what one had to, or so he assured himself.

So - the Diner. But if Debbie was there . . . he briefly entertained the thought of stopping off at the McDonald's just down the street, but the thought of burgers, fries, and a shake just didn't appeal. Whatever he might have to endure - company-wise - at the Diner, he would, at least, get a decent meal. Nothing cordon bleu, of course, but tasty and rib-sticking and close enough to home cooking to satisfy his palate.

He tried very hard not to think about the casual conversation he'd overheard as he'd fetched a cup of coffee in the lounge at the office, when the Kinnetik receptionist - a delicious young morsel of Brian's choosing, of course - had been informed by Cynthia's newest assistant, who looked enough like her boss to make Ted wonder about the question of nepotism, that security would be sending a car to the airport in the evening to pick up a couple of new arrivals.

So the younger member of the prodigal couple was coming home, and so was Emmett. Emmett, who had once been the love of his life and had fought on his behalf against anyone he deemed unworthy of Ted's trust, who had always been there to make sure he was cared for and fed and nurtured. If he called Emmett, maybe . . .

He heaved a deep breath. If he called Emmett, he could expect that cold, relentless tone of voice  he'd never imagined Emmett could direct toward him. And he could probably count on a beat-down by the very masculine, very protective Drew Boyd.

No. The Diner it would have to be.

Nevertheless, he was still engaged in a mental argument with himself as he pulled into the parking area beside the diner, trying to come up with a sensible alternative. There were, however, only two other cars there, neither of which he recognized so he heaved a sigh of relief before heading in.

The windows were partially obscured by moisture condensing on the glass, and when he stepped inside he couldn't see anyone for a moment, as he allowed his contact lenses to clear. He was grateful for the warmth and the aromas that filled the air: beef stew, and chili, he thought, and maybe some kind of chowder. And lemon bars, of course. It wouldn't be the Liberty Diner without lemon bars.

He looked up then, toward the counter, and saw that one wish, at least, had been denied. Debbie was there, in a characteristically colorful t-shirt, featuring a cartoon of two body-builder types wrapped in each other's arms, with a banner surrounding them reading "Queers Rule". She was pouring coffee for a single customer who was hunkered into a near-crouch at the end of the counter, a scruffy older man who was probably homeless, judging by the tattered condition of his clothing, and the way his hands shook as he gripped the coffee cup. Probably one of Deb's charity cases, he concluded. Not worthy of notice.

"Hi, Deb," he said quickly, figuring it would be better to take control of the conversation and guide it to where he wanted it to go, rather than risking her bringing up things he would prefer not to discuss.

"Hi, Teddie," she said, surprisingly subdued in her greeting. "You just getting off?"

He nodded and settled himself on a stool at the counter, as far away from the scruffy coffee-drinker as possible. "Gotta burn the midnight oil to keep up with the work load," he replied. "Can't disappoint the boss man, you know."

The voice that lifted behind him was cold enough to make him shiver. "Unless I'm mistaken," said Lindsey flatly, "you already did."

More than anything in the world, Ted wished he could figure out a way to just drop through the floor. He had not seen Lindsey since the last big confrontation in Brian's office, and he would gladly have avoided seeing her for the foreseeable future.

How the hell did she get here? Melanie had the SUV and . . .

Then it struck him. One of the two cars in the parking lot had been a brand new Buick LaCrosse, and he had glimpsed a child's car seat in the back as he'd passed. Of course. She would not need the old SUV any more, because someone had already provided her with something newer and better. Mel could keep the vehicle that Emmett had bestowed upon the couple during his very brief spate of inherited wealth. Lindsey would no longer need charity.

Ted spun around on the stool and regarded the mother of Brian's only son with a flare of rage in his eyes. "Well, hi there, Linz. And Gus." He spotted the boy sitting in a corner booth, working on a plateful of French fries and a giant strawberry shake. "Guess I don't have to ask how you two got here, do I? Daddy's doing his thing, as usual, providing the biggest, baddest new car on the lot. All that's left to do is put a sign in the window to proclaim, 'Brian Kinney was here'. It's amazing what money can buy these days."

Lindsey was unperturbed, but her smile was sharp, almost brittle. "It's even more amazing what it won't buy. Like loyalty, which should have been paid for a dozen times over, at least, and not only with money."

Ted jumped to his feet. "Loyalty. You've got a hell of a nerve talking to me about loyalty. How about your loyalty to your partner? How about that? Left her high and dry when the mighty Kinney deigned to whistle for you to come to heel."

Lindsey studied his face for a moment, looking for . . . he wasn't sure what she was looking for, but he was pretty sure, judging by her expression, that she wasn't finding it. "Just to set the record straight, Ted," she said softly, "I never abandoned Mel. I simply made it clear that some of the things she had done - without my knowledge or consent - would have to stop, and that I was unhappy in Toronto, as was Gus. She was welcome to come back here and rebuild our life, but . . ."

"But," he almost snarled, "she'd have had to buckle down and allow the lord and master to set the terms of the agreement. How could you expect . . ."

"Expect what? Expect her to acknowledge that Brian is Gus's father and has always supported him - and us? That was all, Ted. She didn't have to like him, didn't have to associate with him or even talk to him. She just had to own up to the truth and admit that he's earned the right to be part of Gus's life and to have some say in how his son is raised. That's all. She was willing to grant those rights to Michael, who certainly loves J.R. and wants to be acknowledged as her father, but has never been able to contribute a shiny dime to her support. But not a single nuance of the same for Brian, who has been the bedrock provider for all of us ever since Gus was born, without ever expecting a thing in return. So you tell me, Ted: what would he possibly have demanded that she couldn't stand to concede? She was sure as hell eager and willing to spend his money, and just as much of it went to support her and J.R. as Gus and me. So you just think about that, Teddie, and figure it out for yourself."

He was silent for a moment, his mind in a kaleidoscopic whirl as he tried to put aside his own prejudices and put together a coherent thought.

"And me?" he said finally. "Why did he abandon me? What did I do . . ."

"Teddie." Unexpectedly, the warning tone came from Debbie. "You want to think about what you're about to say. Because - although I know you didn't mean to do it - the simple truth is that you did endanger Gus - and Lindsey - by telling people about their relationship to Brian, people who had no right or need to know. Given what had just happened to Brian, it was thoughtless and dangerous and . . ."

"Doesn't look that way to me." Ted's voice was almost a sneer. "After all, Brian's money will make sure nobody can get anywhere near them. Meanwhile, the rest of us just get tossed aside, to fend for ourselves."

Lindsey's eyes were full of ice. "Last I heard, Mr. Schmidt, you still had a job and a salary and an office. What exactly is it you think you've been deprived of?"

"He owes me," he cried, his face gone red and splotchy. "Without me, he'd . . . he'd have lost everything. It's my work that's made it possible for him to be such a huge fucking success. He needs me, and, without me, he's going to fuck it all up. Him and his precious Cynthia. And you're going to go right on expecting him to provide unlimited funds so you can play at your artwork, and Gus can go to the best schools, and he'll just . . . he'll just forget the rest of us. Like we were never a part of his life."

"Ted," Lindsey said softly. "It won't be that way. Yes, he might be angry right now, but Brian isn't very good at holding grudges. He'll come around if you'll just . . ."

"No. I will not be another charity case. He needs me, and I'm going to make sure he knows it. Soon enough, he'll see the truth, and he'll know how much he needs me. And then . . . well, we'll just see who matters in his life."

Debbie leaned forward and braced herself against the counter to study his face. "Teddie, what the fuck are you up to? You're not going to do something stupid - again, are you?"

His smile was glacial. "I never do stupid things, Deb. Everybody has a bit of bad luck sometimes, but I do not make stupid mistakes. You're all forgetting that there were tens of thousands of investors - smart, knowledgable investors - who got bilked in that massive Ponzi scheme. With the information I had, it was all logical. There was no way I could have known. But I know plenty of other things, about how to recognize a wonderful opportunity when I see it. And you're all going to see that. Soon enough."

Debbie looked unconvinced, but said nothing more.

"Now, can I have some beef stew and lemon bars to go, please? Or are you going to tell me my business isn't welcome here?"

"Of course, I'm not," she replied, but there were still shadows in her eyes. She couldn't figure out what the accountant was up to, but she was absolutely certain that Brian was not going to like it.

She dished up a generous serving of stew and a couple of lemon bars, and handed them to him with a gentle smile. "You take care, Teddie. And try to remember that Brian might be willing to forgive certain things, but there's a point of no return, you know. Please don't go there."

This time, his smile was smug. "Don't worry, Deb. I know what I'm doing. You'll see."

As he made his way to the door, he could feel Lindsey's eyes upon him, and he had to fight to resist an urge to give her the finger. It wouldn't do any good, and she'd only run to Brian to whine about it, but, oh my God, it would feel wonderful, liberating . . . fucking perfect.

So he waited until he was through the door, where she wouldn't have a clear view, and then indulged himself, never noticing that he was still visible to the small figure tucked into a booster seat in the corner booth.

Screw Lindsey Peterson, and screw Brian Kinney too. And he allowed himself an ugly little snicker as he wished that they would just give everybody else a break and learn to screw each other.

"Mommie?" called Gus, as Lindsey and Debbie exchanged weary glances.

"What, Gus-Gus?" asked Lindsey, realizing she would have to stop calling him that before long, as he would begin to resent it all too soon. Growing up was happening much more quickly than she would have liked.

The little boy was studying his hands intently, his tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated, and looking so much like his father that it almost took Lindsey's breath away. "What does it mean," he continued, using the fingers of his right hand, to manipulate those of his left to arrange them so that the middle finger was standing up alone, "when somebody does this?"

Lindsey blinked, hard, and then had to pretend to ignore the burst of laughter that Debbie could not quite stifle.

"It's nothing, Baby."

"But that's what Teddie was doing, so why . . ."

Lindsey frowned. "It's just something that nasty old men sometimes do, especially when they're making an ass of themselves."

"You said 'ass'," he intoned with great solemnity.

"Yes, I did," she agreed. "Sorry about that. Won't happen again."

He went back to slurping the last of his strawberry shake, perfectly content with her response. And she felt a lump form in her throat, reminding her of how much she loved him and how she could deal with anything, as long as Gus was safe and happy.

"Let's go home, Sonny Boy. And you can call your daddy, if you like."

His beaming smile told her that she'd said the magic words. She helped him into his jacket, and waited while he exchanged hugs with Debbie.

Everything would be all right, she thought, as they made their exit and walked out to the beautiful new car Brian had provided for them. It bothered her a little, that she automatically thought of it in those terms, but she was determined that it wouldn't bother her for long because she was going to make certain that things changed for the better. She was looking for work already, had managed to schedule an interview for the following week with the curator of the Carnegie Museum of Art, and if a small voice in the back of her mind insisted on reminding her that the very elegant Mr. Grant Dorsett had once been team-mate, frat brother, and extremely good friend of Brian Kinney, she would just have to learn to accept certain things as coincidence and enjoy her good fortune. She was completely focused on making a new life for herself and her son and being able to support the two of them without having to rely on Brian to do so. But, for now, she would do whatever was necessary to protect her child and give him the life he deserved.

Everything would be all right - everything had to be all right - and if there was an undercurrent of desperation buried beneath her determination, well . . . she would worry about that later.

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


Deep in the shadows provided by a stand of sturdy elm trees, at the end of a cul-de-sac bordering on the north end of the grounds of The Club, a dark, nondescript panel truck was parked at the edge of the turn-around. It was designed to avoid attracting attention in any setting and even more so in area virtually uninhabited. The only thing that might have made it stand out among others like it was the number of antennae and aerials attached to various spots around the roof and chassis, but there was really no one around to notice. There were few houses on the little street, and no traffic to speak of, although anyone who might have bothered to check would have noticed that there had been a surprising number of vehicles and even occasional pedestrians coming and going over the course of the evening. Still, all around the truck there was a heavy stillness, broken only by an occasional strain of music from the only brightly illuminated structure in the area: The Club - just visible through thick veils of foliage.

Inside the truck, there was sound and light and motion, but no trace of what it contained was allowed to leak out into the night around it.

The atmosphere in the interior was subdued, but hardly silent, as the instruments packed into every available inch of space created a soft, incessant whirring, with occasional beeps and blips, and the monitors which displayed views from cameras concealed all around the perimeter of the subject of study - and within it, in a couple of cases - hummed softly as well. And then there were the sounds picked up by various microphones, concealed in strategic spots within the mansion, and others hidden beneath the clothing of various individuals on the premises. In addition, there were regular reports and comments from the two-way radios in the headsets of those patrolling - discreetly, of course - within and around the grounds.

But from the individuals actually seated within the electronic command center, there was not a sound, as Carl Horvath, Alexandra Corey, and Lance Mathis sat motionless, stunned by what they'd just heard.

The first hour of surveillance had yielded little that could be considered incriminating, although it was certainly revealing of the general attitude of the elite members of a still more elite organization. But then, the private conference had begun, and they had listened in growing horror, determined to hear every word, to miss nothing of the narrative delivered by Randolph Hobbs, Jr., but they quickly realized they needn't have worried. There was nothing subdued or clandestine about the man's comments; he had been only too willing to tell the story, even to provide certain gory details when questioned.

The questions had come from several members of his audience, and some of their remarks had been almost gleeful, but the individual wearing the wire - Ron Peterson - had not spoken at all. That did not indicate, however, that he had not reacted to what he'd been told. His breathing had grown harsh, almost labored, even loud enough to be heard through the wire he was wearing, as he realized how little he'd known of these people whom he had at one time considered his peers. The casual recitation of the parts they had played in the atrocities committed in the name of "preserving tradition and Christian morality" left him stunned, and the dismissal of fatalities and grave bodily injuries resulting from the clandestine support of "the cause" was somehow more horrible for being so casually referenced, coming under the heading, according to Hobbs, of "necessary collateral damage".

The voice speaking so factually was pleasant, almost soporific, making the horrors he spoke of seem even worse somehow, as did the occasional laughter of his audience members.

He did not go into specific details of who exactly did what and when and to whom, but he made it very clear that Club funding had contributed heavily to the bombing of Babylon in protest of the "vile, perverted purposes" of Proposition 14, regular attacks against members of the gay community - especially those "strutting their stuff and displaying their wares" in the vicinity of Liberty Avenue, and - last but certainly not least - the campaign to free the city from the influence of one of its most flamboyant, out-and-proud perverts. The incidentals about what had been done to Brian Kinney - and why - were provided with a relish that was almost gleeful.

Carl Horvath had been studying his hands throughout the ghoulish recital, realizing when it was done that he would almost certainly never be quite the same person he had been before. He looked up to study the face of Alex Corey - to find out if she could maintain her air of blasé professionalism in the presence of such unmitigated evil. The answer was not quite as obvious as he'd expected, but she would endure. Of that he had no doubt.

"Heard enough?" he asked. "Can we go in now?"

She raised one hand to silence him as she responded to a message on the computer console she was watching.

When she smiled, it was not pretty and had nothing at all to do with happiness or warmth and everything to do with a thirst for justice. Or maybe revenge, although she would probably deny any such venal emotion.

"They got 'em," she reported to the two men watching her so closely. "They picked up the so-called broker who acted as liaison between the sponsors, AKA the patrons of The Club, and the thugs who actually did the dirty work. And Mr. Lawrence Previn was only too willing to spill his guts in exchange for a guarantee that he would not be forced to serve out his sentence in the prison's general population." Her smile widened. "Seems he's a 'pretty little thing', according to the head profiler who questioned him, and is more afraid of winding up as somebody's bitch than any retaliation from his high and mighty clients. He talked long and hard, and provided names and addresses and volumes of evidence, and teams of agents are rounding up the other perps as we speak, leaving us to seize the big boys, including those that footed the bill while keeping their distance so their hands would stay clean."

"Clean," echoed Mathis. "You can't deal with filth like that and not come out of it smelling of the shit. So what comes now?"

"So-o-o," she drawled, with a quick wink, as she activated her two-way and issued a string of orders, short, pithy, and precise. Then she rose and grabbed her jacket, while the two men watched her warily. "What are you waiting for?" she asked as she moved toward the door. "Better hurry, or you're going to miss the fun."

Neither waited to be asked twice.

But the journey was short-lived for Kinnetik's security chief, as a call came in on his mobile just as the team was assembling to make a grand entrance.

He was deeply disappointed that he would miss all the fun, but he knew where his duty lay and what he would face at the hands of Brian Kinney if he failed to do it.


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


Those privileged to have been invited to attend the private conference returned to the dining room to participate in the closing ceremonies and witness the actual induction of new members. Or, on this occasion, the new member - singular. Only William Wainwright had been found worthy this year. He had demonstrated his suitability, thought Ron Peterson, by indicating his loud, enthusiastic approval of The Club's affiliation with other groups, clandestine by necessity, and by thoroughly enjoying the recitation of their exploits.

Peterson had managed to suppress his revulsion as he'd listened, but only barely. When he resumed his seat at the banquet table, he sat for a moment watching his wife planning a day at the spa with Teresa Hobbs. Did Christopher's mother know, he wondered. Had anyone ever recited the gory, crimson details of the acts sanctioned by The Club's political agenda for her amusement?

Then he looked at Nancy and wondered. What would she think and feel once she learned the truth about these individuals she admired so much? For he had no doubt that she would find out - and very soon now, unless he missed his guess. He had not contributed a single word to the conversation in the conference room, because he had realized there was no need to do so. Hobbs, Jr., had said it all.

William Wainwright was making his way toward the podium, all smiles and eager handshakes, when the double doors leading to the main vestibule smashed open, to reveal the figure of Shirley Harper silhouetted against the brighter light of the corridor. She stood very still, her chef's jacket still spotless despite an evening of fast-paced, potentially messy labor over a hot stove. She completely looked the part she had played throughout recent weeks. Except for her eyes, which seemed larger than usual - and darker.

It was Randolph Hobbs who rose to his feet, his face twisted with anger. "Ms. Harper," he said loudly, "you have not been summoned."

"No," she replied sharply, "but you have."

And with that, every door around the vast room swung open to admit a host of police officers, FBI agents, and Kinnetik security forces, the latter operating strictly under the oversight of said officers. The only noticeable difference between the private staffers and the members of the force was the fact that they did not carry weapons, but there was no need for them. The police and FBI had the situation well in hand.

Still, there was always safety in numbers, and the authorities were determined to make sure that every avenue of escape was covered and every perpetrator surrounded.

Jared Hilliard moved forward to stand beside his alleged "sister", and the two shared huge smiles, both reflecting that this moment had been a long time coming, while, out in the driveway at the front of the house, a taxi rolled up to the door, barely coming to a halt before a lean, blond tour-de-force erupted from the back seat. Only Lance Mathis's immediate move to intercept the newcomer prevented Justin Taylor from crashing the party prematurely. The security chief tried to convince the younger man to get back in the car and allow police and FBI and security personnel to do their jobs unencumbered, but one look at that determined face and he knew he was doomed to failure. Therefore, he did the next best thing, the only thing he could do, by planting himself at Justin's side and refusing to release his grip on the young man's sleeve. He then dismissed the cabbie, and dispatched one of his team to retrieve the company sedan parked in the cul-de-sac behind the building. The situation inside seemed to be well in hand, but Mathis was damned if he was willing to take a chance on allowing Justin to throw himself into the scene and risk injury - or worse.

At last, the young man realized he was not going to manage to overcome the security chief's determination, so he settled into silence, but no way was he going to be persuaded to go.

Mathis rolled his eyes and resigned himself to missing out on the opening act playing out at that moment within the mansion.

In the vast dining hall, a stunned silence was followed by a voice raw with fury. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded John Vincent Fincher. "Do you have any idea who you're dealing with? This is a private organization, and you're trespassing . . ."

He fell silent abruptly, mouth gaping in amazement, as Carl Horvath stepped forward and snapped handcuffs around his wrists.

"How dare you?" That was Randolph Hobbs, Jr., so angry that he couldn't think of a thing to say that would adequately express his outrage. "You have no right."

"I beg to differ," replied the FBI Special Agent Alexandra Corey in a cold, steady voice, as she lifted a hand holding a batch of official documents, including a stunning array of arrest warrants and search warrants, covering every possible variation of search that might be needed to secure any physical evidence on the premises. With the other hand, she set a miniature tape deck on the table, and depressed a button to activate it. The voice that rang out was instantly recognizable.

". . . carried away, and took it further than we intended, but that's the price you pay when you have to maintain some distance from the actual event. Couldn't risk having our involvement exposed, could we? To maintain that margin of safety, you sacrifice a bit of control and can't be sure that the thugs who get paid to carry out orders will do exactly as they're instructed, and not get too enthusiastic in the grip of their bloodlust. It's a shame, that people got killed, but they really asked for it, didn't they. I mean, these weren't exactly men of honor or the flowers of femininity, were they? Anybody who frequents a place like that or demonstrates on behalf of an outrage like Prop 14 is just asking for trouble. Plus, there was one unforeseen benefit of the intensity of the attack in that it made sure that Babylon was shut down for a nice long time, ridding Liberty Avenue of the stench of the place. For a while, anyway. Until the biggest pervert of them all stepped in to rebuild it and make it worse than ever."

The FBI agent stopped the tape then, and hit the fast forward button to reach another significant part of the conversation. ". . . should appreciate this, Ron, since you have more reason than most of us to despise that nasty little faggot. I brought this disc especially for you to take home and watch. I think you're going to enjoy seeing the bastard who corrupted your daughter get his just deserts. The lighting wasn't great, of course, because we had to be careful. Pervert or not, he's a smart bastard who doesn't miss much, so we couldn't take a chance on being recognized, since the plan wasn't to kill him outright. Just to mess up that pretty face and infect him with the AIDS virus so he'd have time to repent his sins, and never be in a position to have his way with anybody, ever again. Shame it didn't work out that way. If we'd only been a little faster, and the rescue team had been a little slower . . ."

Corey stopped the tape there and looked around the room in silence, gauging reactions. She saw horror reflected in a number of faces, but not nearly as many as she thought there should be. Then she moved forward and stopped directly in front of Ron Peterson. She did not speak; instead, she simply extended her hand and waited until he reached into his suit jacket and extracted a small, flat plastic case which he laid in her hand.

She nodded her thanks in a way that did not indicate any prior contact with the man, before stepping up to the podium and adjusting the microphone. Then she waited for a few moments, to allow the squawks and protests of the various suspects to die down and to be sure they were all paying attention.

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen," she said finally, but the expression on her face belied the gentility of the address. "I am Special Agent Alexandra Corey of the FBI. Please listen closely. Randolph Hobbs, Samuel Boroughs, James Stockwell, Craig Taylor, Randolph Hobbs Jr., and John Vincent Fincher, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, for conspiracy to commit assault with a deadly weapon, for the attempted murder of Brian Kinney, for insider trading and fraud, for interfering with a federal investigation, and for violation of the recently-enacted federal hate crimes legislation. Each of you has the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney and to have that attorney present during your questioning. If you cannot afford legal representation, an attorney will be appointed for you by the courts. You have the right to decide at any time to exercise these rights and refuse to answer any questions or make any statements."

She paused then and allowed her eyes to move from one to the other of the suspects, all of whom had finally realized that struggling and mouthing off would not serve them well. They all glared back at her, but nobody dared to utter a word of defiance.

"Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"

Dead silence, and Corey walked around the podium to stand directly in front of the shackled group. "We will stand here for as long as it takes," she said quietly. "Until you answer my question. Now, let's repeat it, shall we? Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?

Shuffling and reluctant, each of the men nodded.

"Aloud, please."

There was a guttural chorus of "yeses" and a couple of "I dos".

Then Alexis turned and moved down to the middle of the main table, where the chairman of the board was regarding her so coldly that she wondered if she would suffer frostbite if she lingered there too long.

"These," she said, raising her voice to be everyone in the room could hear her as she held up the sheaf of documents once more, "are search warrants, which grant us the authority to search the premises of this establishment, any adjacent grounds and buildings, vehicles found on the premises, as well as the personal belongings of staff and members, if it is deemed necessary. The search will be thorough, and will begin at once. Club members, guests, and staff will be required to depart immediately, after providing names, addresses, and contact information to the officer stationed at the main entrance. Please remember that you may be called in for questioning should the need arise.

"That is all."

The chairman rose to his feet, and adjusted his bow tie, before looking out across the audience, noting the looks on the faces of the assembled audience - horror, confusion, anger, and - in a few cases - an ugly glitter of excitement.

"Please do as you've been asked," he said, striving for serenity in order to reassure anyone who might be feeling panicky, such as Craig Taylor's baby-doll wife, who looked as if she might swoon at any second. "The Club has survived such outrages before and will do so again. You have my pledge that the proper authorities will be contacted immediately, and heads will roll for this impertinence."

Alexandra Corey turned to study the smug look on his face and smiled her characteristic cold, implacable, FBI-caliber smile. "Impertinence? I don't think so, Sir. But we'll see, shall we? And - just so we're absolutely clear on this - you should consider yourself and your family on notice. For the moment, you are confined to the city. This investigation is barely out of its infancy, and I promise you there will be more arrests before we're done. Furthermore, for the moment, this building and the grounds around it are under police jurisdiction, so we can be sure all pertinent information and evidence has been retrieved before anyone is allowed access. Understood?"

"Perfectly." She did not flinch away from the ice in his voice or the smoldering anger in his eyes, but she was suddenly sure that she knew exactly how it must have felt to be a Jew on the streets of Berlin during the Third Reich. The man exuded arrogance, and the bitter smile he directed toward her was that of a monarch barely tolerating the presence of a stinking peasant.

Corey stood taller and leaned closer. "You and I will meet again, Sir. You can count on it."

Then she turned and walked away, and did not see the glitter of rage in his eyes. But she didn't need to see it; she felt it anyway.

As the crowd stirred, looking lost or mystified or simply in need of guidance, the prisoners were hastily escorted out the front entrance where a large police van, known colloquially as a paddy wagon, was waiting.

The six men seemed to have regained control of themselves and regarded the officers escorting them with cold glares, but none of them spoke or bothered to protest as they were pushed steadily forward. Their minds were far too occupied with visions of lawyers standing before judges sympathetic to conservative causes, and charges dismissed, one after another. Still, they remained silent, none of them speaking at all until . . .

The group came to a stop at the door to the van as the narrow opening could not accommodate an entry en masse. Thus each of them was encouraged to climb up the short steps quickly, but a certain amount of jostling and delay was unavoidable. Craig Taylor waited with the rest, fuming but managing to control any urge to spit in the faces of his captors. He knew that would not be a good idea. But then, he made the mistake of looking up only to find himself staring directly into eyes filled with blue ice and tears, eyes filled with loathing - and pain, terrible pain, such as he had never imagined to see in the eyes of his only son.

Justin was standing beside a dark sedan, which bore a discreet logo on a rear window: Kinnetik. At his side, was a tall young man wearing dark pants and shirt which was not - quite - a uniform, but spoke of authority and security just the same. One of Kinney's minions, no doubt.

Almost as if by virtue of some kind of signal, the crowd gathered around them went dead silent and completely still as the younger Taylor stepped forward, shaking off the attempt by Lance Mathis to hold him back and moving into his father's personal space deliberately, and then - just a little bit closer.

"You were a part of this," Justin said softly, but very clearly; clearly enough to be heard by everyone in the vicinity who cared to listen. "You destroyed people's lives - people who never did anything to you. People who just wanted to be allowed to live and love as they chose. And then . . . then, you tried to kill Brian. You stood there and watched what they did to him, knowing . . ." He paused and swallowed around the huge lump in his throat. "Knowing that he is everything to me, that killing him was like killing me. You . . . did this, and you'll have to live with it - forever."

"Do not speak to your father like that, Boy." That was Jim Stockwell, in full police chief mode, which was, of course, ridiculous under the circumstances.

But Justin merely smiled - a cold, bitter smile that was completely devoid of any nuance of sympathy or warmth or forgiveness. "What father?" he replied softly. "I used to think I had one, but I was wrong. I have no father."

Craig Taylor's eyes widened, as something cold and sharp, like shards of frozen glass, seemed to stir inside him. It shouldn't hurt. He had lost Justin a long time ago - the very same day that his son had found his so-called soul mate and turned his back on everything his father believed in. It shouldn't hurt at all.

But it did.

Justin didn't linger. One second he was there (and why, wondered Craig Taylor, had he never really noticed the beauty of his offspring); the next he was gone, and the elder Taylor climbed into the van, driven by the firm hand that grasped his arm. He glanced out the wire-reinforced window as he was propelled into a seat while the officer in charge of him attached his handcuffs to a vertical steel bar at his side, and he was just in time to see Justin slide into the back seat of the dark sedan and be driven away, vanishing quickly in the darkness of the night.

It shouldn't hurt at all. He'd resigned himself long ago that any hope of a relationship with his son was impossible. So it shouldn't hurt. He faced forward, with his face as still as a stone carving, as a small voice in his mind told him that he was a liar; that he'd always hoped for a reprieve, for a way back. And now - he did not even notice the tears welling in his eyes; now that hope was dead. Now it was time to face the ultimate truth; he had no son.

Inside the dark sedan, Lance Mathis did not speak or try to catch Justin's eye in the rear view mirror. He wanted to offer comfort, but knew he had none to give. And that he wasn't the right person to give it.

The drive to Babylon was made in silence broken only by the occasional harsh breath Justin could not quite suppress. When they pulled into the owner's special parking spot, Mathis quickly turned off the motor, leapt out of the car, and opened the back door before Justin could even think to do so.

"Come on," said the security chief. "We need to get you inside and upstairs now."

"Why?" said Justin wearily. "What difference does it make? I don't want to . . ."

"I don't care what you want," Mathis said firmly. "It's what you need that counts."

"Such as?" Justin had grown accustomed to doing pretty much as he pleased, without interference, and found that he didn't care much for . . .

"You have a phone call to make." Mathis took his arm and pulled him toward the private entrance, "and sooner would be better than later."

Justin's eyes grew huge. "No. No, I'm not going to let him see me, like this. He doesn't need to have to step up and take care of a sniveling baby."

"You know," Mathis said, with a strange grin, "sometimes I can't figure out which one of you is more stupid. Now you get upstairs and make that fucking call, or I'm going to tie you up and do it for you."

Justin's jaw dropped.

"Now! Move it."

Justin took one deep breath, gauged the intensity of the spark of - he wasn't quite sure what it was in Mathis's eyes but he realized abruptly that he'd be wise to do as he was told, for once in his life.

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

The hum of the engines was smooth, almost soporific, almost as relaxing as the deep amber liquid in his brandy snifter. He wasn't really sleeping, but he wasn't entirely awake either. He was, however, awake enough to notice when Chris McClaren moved toward him and paused to pull something from an overhead storage bin. He was glad to be conscious enough to notice as the light behind the FBI agent was perfectly placed to cast his body in relief and emphasize every perfect line, every perfect muscle, not to mention a more than perfect ass.

He would not renege on the promise he had made to himself. Somehow, that took priority in his mind, even over the promises he might have made to Justin. So - no matter which promise he chose to keep - it left the luscious Mr. McClaren's body strictly off limits. But that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the view.

"Quit ogling my ass," said McClaren as he settled into the luxurious leather armchair that was the twin of the one in which Brian was semi-sitting/sprawling.

"Quit pretending you don't enjoy it," Brian replied softly, closing his eyes completely and losing himself for a moment in the Coltrane jazz coming through the sound system.

"I need to tell you something," said Chris. "One part of what I have to say, you're going to like. The other part . . . not so much."

Brian stretched and sat up to take a sip of the excellent Courvoisier brandy with which Dr. Turnage stocked his bar. "Shoot," he said with a nod.

"The raids happened this evening, all over the city of Pittsburgh, and in a few other places too. And they got 'em, Brian. They got the perps and the planners and a mountain of evidence, and apparently, that's just the tip of the iceberg. They're turning up more and more as they go through everything."

Brian looked down at his glass, his eyes gone distant and dark. "They got them . . . all?" he asked finally.

"All of the ones we knew about, but they're still turning up new evidence to identify the rest. And this is huge, Brian. Network news is going nuts, and that's just the beginning."

Brian took another sip of his brandy, before looking up to nail McClaren with one of those stern gazes that saw everything, even though the eyes themselves weren't actually seeing very well at the moment.

"Hobbs?" he asked. "And Stockwell?"

"Two Hobbs for the price of one, actually - Daddy and Junior - and they're all being booked as we speak. Only Randolph Jr., was present to witness your . . . ordeal, but the paper trail and the cooperation of our star songbird-witness was more than enough to get an arrest warrant for both. And Stockwell too."

Brian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Taylor?"

When McClaren took the time to light a cigarette before answering, Brian knew this was the crux of the matter, the part he was not going to like.

"Yeah. He was taken in too."

"But?"

"Not but, exactly, except that there was one . . . unexpected little complication."

"Which was?"

"Justin was there when it happened. He confronted his father before the policemen could get him loaded in the wagon." He said it all quickly, in one breath, in order to get it out and get it over with.

Brian seemed to freeze for a moment, his body rigid and trembling. "Shit!"

"Yeah. Bad timing, I guess. Really bad."

"You're not really trying to make me believe it was just coincidental, are you? Because if you are, I'm disappointed in you, McFed. You should know there's no way I'm buying that. So let's just save time and breath and you tell me exactly how it happened."

"Well . . ."

"Bottom line. How did he know about it at all? According to my watch, his flight only got in ninety minutes ago. So how could he possibly have known . . ."

McClaren sighed. "He just walked out of the arrival gate at exactly the wrong moment. Drew Boyd had gone out to the airport to pick him up - and Emmett, of course - and was getting last minute instructions from Mathis about how to avoid divulging anything. He was just a few seconds late in realizing that Justin was standing right behind him, listening to every word. Boyd swears that he didn't say much of anything at all, but your little twink is too smart by half, Brian. He figured it out and jumped in a cab. Boyd immediately called Mathis, of course, but there wasn't much he could do except wait outside The Club in order to intercept him before he could go racing in there like a knight on a charger, ready to take on the world."

Brian had turned to stare out through the windows and note the patterns of moonlight on the cloud bank that stretched away toward the West. "Is he all right?" he asked finally, barely audible.

McClaren leaned over and picked up the satellite phone resting in its cradle on the nearby desk. "That," he answered softly, "is for you to say."

For a moment, Brian didn't move, staring at the object in the FBI agent's hand as if it were as lethal as a coiled cobra. McClaren caught a glint of near panic in eyes grown darker than the night outside the window, but he refused to back away or allow Brian to do so. Instead, he pushed closer, laying the handset against Brian's chest as he leaned in to drop a quick kiss on the velvety softness beneath that perfectly sculpted ear. "He needs you now, Brian. You're the only one who can help him figure out how to live through this."

Brian was still for a moment, but his hand was perfectly steady as he took the phone and lifted it to his ear as he pressed the right button to accept the call. "Hi, Sunshine. I hear you've been busy."

"Brian?"

The man who was known for having the brassiest balls in the entire state of Pennsylvania was forced to pause long enough to take a deep, rough breath in order to overcome the devastation that enveloped him as he identified the tone of defeat in that hopeless, broken voice.

"I'm here, Justin. I'm right here."

"Why . . ." There was a slight gasp, followed by a sniffle before Justin could try again. "Why are you still flying? You should have landed by now."

"Personnel problems, Sunshine," Brian lied smoothly. "Regular pilot came down with a nasty virus, and we had to wait to call in a replacement."

"Oh. So there's nothing . . . wrong?"

Brian glanced toward the window and saw the glow of a city coming up ahead and knew they would arrive soon and he would begin the next stage of what was turning into an interminable journey. He turned then to look up and read the terrible sympathy in McClaren's eyes and knew what he had to do. With only the barest tremor in body and voice, he did it.

"No, Baby. Nothing's wrong. I'll be with you soon. I promise."

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