Chapter 17

He leaned against the wooden railing on his deck to stare out into the starlit mass of the Atlantic and watch brilliant white breakers accost not-quite-so-brilliant white sands, as he listened to the thunder of the surf and noted the pale tracery of lightening flickering far out to sea, while a fitful wind swirled around him, molding his linen shirt to his body and tousling thick, dark hair until it stood on end. Master of all he surveyed; the phrase was particularly appropriate, he thought, as he gazed out upon the crescent of beach that comprised the border of his private reserve, stretching from the promontory on the left where the tall spire of a lighthouse perched at the edge of a steep drop-off that plunged straight down into turbulent water, to the row of dunes far off to the right that marched away from the broken shoreline. It was beautiful and pristine, and it all belonged to him.

Then he was reminded of another minimalist phrase which had become his mantra of late.

Rank hath its privileges.

He was living proof of that. It was definitely good to be the best in his field. And if that was a slight exaggeration - there was, after all, the rest of the world which might dispute the claim - it really didn't make much difference. He was the best in this country, and nothing else really mattered, for this was the place where it mattered most - the place where the demand for his services generated incredible profits and allowed him to indulge himself in any lifestyle he might choose.

Being the best had provided him with the wherewithal to live the life he'd always wanted, and to surpass the standards established by his father. The old man, after all, had been one of the best - a member of an elite group - and had achieved an astonishing level of professional and financial success while inspiring his only son to aspire to even greater heights.

Thus, Joseph Richard Turnage was still renowned worldwide as an accomplished plastic surgeon, even though he'd been retired for almost a decade, but J. Richard Turnage - he had dispensed with the despised "Jr." when he'd hung up his first shingle - had established himself at a remarkably young age as the premier plastic surgeon of his generation; perhaps of any generation to date. At this point, he was only thirty-seven years old, and his reputation for incredible skill and mastery of his art was surpassed only by his notoriety as a pompous, arrogant prick who not only refused to suffer fools gladly, but actually refused to suffer them at all. Thus, he was almost impossible to work for or live with, and the only people who could tolerate him were those who profited enormously by the association. Because of his expertise and an intuitive feel for artistry and beauty, his services were constantly in demand among the so-called 'beautiful people' - the movie stars and models and trophy wives who depended on the perfection of their faces and bodies in order to live their glamorous lives.

Rick Turnage was the man who created and/or maintained that perfection. It had made him very rich and enabled him to pick and choose which patients he would accept and which he would reject, and he was the only person in the world who understood the criteria he used for determining which was which.

Except - maybe - for one annoying bastard. He closed his eyes and visualized the documents currently sitting in the center of the blotter on the massive teakwood desk in his private office. Son of a bitch! This was not something he had expected to deal with at this time. He had other things on his mind, other priorities that needed addressing.

Like the voluptuous redheaded journalist who had come to interview him just ten days earlier, and agreed, several hours later, to join him for a week on his yacht, for a Caribbean cruise. As a man who sought to create beauty out of ugliness, he was always fascinated by loveliness that occurred naturally, without his intervention, and the journalist was one of a miniscule number of individuals who had needed no enhancement from him to qualify as the 'real thing'. Thus, he was enchanted and intrigued and eager to explore the depth of her charms.

He had reached the zenith of his profession, but, strangely, that achievement had coincided with reaching the nadir of his personal life. He and his father hated each other; his mother had gone missing on a trip to the Far East six years earlier and was presumed dead; his third wife was in the process of learning to hate him as much as her predecessors; his twin sister resented his success and his fame and his failure to display what she considered "proper family devotion"; and he could not remember the last time he had seen or spoken to either of his two sons.

He consoled himself by believing that it was simply the price of greatness. And by taking advantage of the attentions of the string of exquisite individuals - mostly women - who were eager to fill the empty places in his life, for their own ulterior motives. Primarily, they enjoyed the fact that those places were invariably filled with all the trappings of his life of luxury, but they also were pleased to be seen in the company of the man who created such beauty for others while needing no such service for himself, for Rick Turnage was as beautiful in his own way as any product of his skill.

Physically.

And he relished the rewards of his skill and his looks - rewards like the idylls he envisioned in the company of his newest passing fancy.

And now . . . this.

Shit! And even more annoying than the timing was the nagging suspicion that the fucker who had interrupted his plans had known exactly what he was doing.

It wasn't the first time he'd had good cause to despise Matthew Keller, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last.

He turned away from the spectacle of the sea and went back inside, pausing at the bar just within the entry to pour himself a hefty shot of Chivas Regal before continuing into his office where his desk was set into a bay window with a panoramic view of the ocean. The room was dark except for the golden cone of light falling from the vintage Tiffany lamp that sat on the corner of his desk, and it was no more than an element of random chance that the illumination fell directly on the grainy portrait sitting atop a sheaf of documents he had tossed there earlier, in a display of temper.

He didn't want to look at that face. And yet . . . in truth, he did want to look at it. But not like this. Not at this grainy, imperfect image that was about as clear as one could expect of something expelled from a fax machine.

With a disdainful snort, he sank into his high back leather executive chair, and swung to face his computer monitor as he tapped out a series of commands on his keyboard. It was only a matter of seconds before the screen lit up with the image he'd selected, and he sat back to stare at it.

He'd been right (as usual). The image provided by the fax machine was a poor substitute for the full-color perfection of the photograph culled from the pages of an article in a professional magazine.

Hazel eyes stared back at him from a face that was decidedly not smiling, but the gleam in those eyes clearly indicated that the man behind the face found something amusing.

Smart, bright, and blessed with brilliant sardonic wit; that was patently obvious in a perfectly proportioned face.

A perfect face - almost.

And that, of course, was the secret that Turnage had never revealed to anyone. True perfection, in symmetry and design and proportion, was beautiful to behold, but was, ultimately, boring. To make it truly stand out - truly pop - such a face needed some small detail that was a departure from the predictable lines of perfection.

And here it was, staring back at him, and forcing him to acknowledge, as he did only rarely, that nature, when it chose to do so, was still better at designing the ideal human form than he was.

The man's chin was not - quite - as rounded as it would have to be to reach true perfection, and the not-quite-smile touching those incredibly sensual lips seemed to say that the man knew it perfectly well, and dared anyone to point it out. There was no doubt that this man knew he was beautiful, and reveled in it; knew that anyone who looked at him would be consumed with either lust or envy.

Turnage stared for a while, sitting back and allowing his eyes to study each feature, wondering if there was a way to improve any one of them, to make the whole more beautiful than it already was. Then he leaned forward and generated another command, and the head shot vanished, to be replaced by a casual pose: Kinney, in impeccable Armani, standing with two stunning blonde women at his left, and another blond - an exquisitely beautiful young man - at his right, and the doctor's eyes narrowed. The caption indicated that this was a moment, caught on film, of the opening of the man's advertising agency, but the story told by the photograph was much more interesting than the one conveyed by the copy. While both of the women were staring up at Kinney as if he were the center of the world, he, in turn, was staring down at the blond man beside him, one arm wrapped firmly around the youth's waist, and it was obvious that the women - and the rest of the world - could have faded into oblivion and the two men would never have noticed, so lost were they in each other's eyes.

Gay, then! And that much more intriguing for it. Gay, and bold enough to make no secret of it.

Turnage wanted to snarl his rage as he felt the hook, dangled before him by that motherfucking Matt Keller, embed itself more deeply in his tenderest tissues.

Fuck! He didn't want to do this. He wanted to go to Barbabos, and to St. Thomas - to Paradise Revisited - while fucking the redhead every hour on the hour. He wanted sin and surf and frozen margaritas as the sun sank over tropical waters. He sure as shit didn't want to go to Pittsburgh.

But there was one thing - only one thing - he wanted even more than his sensual pleasure; it was the thing which kept him perpetually seeking out new cases and accepting new patients, when he could have simply rested on his laurels. He wanted his Mona Lisa; his Starry Night; his Pieta.

His masterpiece - the one he'd been seeking all his life; the one case which would prove to be his ultimate accomplishment, his greatest work of art.

Still, he really, really didn't want to go to Pittsburgh, of all places.

But, if he took the bait Keller had set for him, there would be no help for it. Yes, his clinic was here, just a couple of miles away from his beautiful seaside home, and yes, he would be free to insist, as he always did, that the patient come to him, treatment and surgery to be scheduled at the convenience of the physician. But even he could not - quite - get away with demanding that this young man, now so badly damaged and clinging to life by a thread, according to the chart information Keller had provided, travel half-way across the country for treatment that might not be feasible, or even possible. In order to determine whether or not he could do the job Keller was asking him to do, he had to accept the bait - and go see for himself.

Shit!

When he picked up the phone and dialed, he promised himself he would allow only three rings; thereafter, all bets were off.

He almost snarled when the dreaded response came after only two.

"Keller."

"How bad is the damage?"

"I sent you . . ."

"Yeah. Which is about as revealing as a kid's finger painting. So . . . how bad?"

A sharp huff of breath, quickly suppressed. "As bad as I've ever seen. They did a hell of a job on him."

Silence then. "Is he as . . . was he really . . ."

"The most beautiful man I've ever seen." There was no uncertainty in Keller's words. "And that's not just my opinion. Ask anybody. Ask . . ."

"I don't want to ask anybody. I want you to tell me the truth. If you're lying to me . . ."

"Look, Turnage." All patience exhausted now, but fury still held in check, if only barely. "No matter what we may think of each other - you and me - the one thing you can't accuse me of is lying to you. Not ever. And you're smart enough to know that if there was anybody else - anywhere in the world - I could trust to do this job, I'd have called them. You're the last person, literally, that I'd ask for this kind of favor. But . . . this time, it matters. Only the best will do."

More silence, punctuated by a distant roar that was the constant growl of the sea while Turnage mused. "If you're wasting my time, you're going to pay for it."

"OK."

"And if I do this, you're going to owe me."

"We'll see about that."

"Look, motherfucker," snarled the plastic surgeon, huge blue eyes gone icy with resentment, "who do you think . . ."

"I think," Keller interrupted, "I'm the man who just gave you something you've spent your whole life looking for."

"What the fuck do you . . ."

"Your masterpiece." Sharp, flat, unapologetic - and holding not a trace of uncertainty. "It's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

The only answer was a beat of silence, followed by the sharp sound of a disconnect.

But it was enough to make Keller smile. The hook was set; the bait, taken.

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

The silence between the two women was neither comfortable nor easy; it was, instead, heavy with words not yet said but lingering unspoken. Waiting.

The room was spacious and well-appointed, a great improvement over the tiny one they'd taken when they'd first arrived in Pittsburgh; the upgrade was, of course, courtesy of Kinnetic Corp - something they both knew, but neither had actually acknowledged.

Lindsey was the first to break the silence, although she could have thought of at least a million things she would have preferred to do.

"I want him here, Mel. Surely you can understand why . . ."

"Oh, I understand all right." Melanie's voice was harsh, almost strident, and bordering on shrill, threaded as it was with bitter resentment. "I understand that it's taken us a whole year away from this place - away from him - to finally get him out of our lives so we can be a real family. And now, first chance you get, you want to drag Gus back here, so Brian can play daddy again. At his convenience, of course. Never mind how it might screw things up for us. And for Gus."

Harsh words of accusation rose to Lindsey's lips, but she forced herself to swallow them, to pause and think carefully before saying something she would regret.

Instead of blurting out the bitter recriminations roiling in her mind, she chose to walk to the window and stare out into the darkness, watching a spring wind play among the branches of a red maple just budding with the promise of warm weather to come. "That's not fair, Melanie," she said slowly. Gently. "When we took Gus away to Toronto, I promised Brian he would still be a part of Gus's life, that I would make sure his son didn't forget him. And since then, I've allowed you to systematically try to dismantle every link that connects them to each other - to do everything you could to get Gus to forget his father ever existed, despite the fact that it's never seemed to bother you too much to take advantage of Brian's generosity and his love for his son, when it's convenient for you. I saw it in your face every time you commented about Brian 'playing father' - when he'd come to pick Gus up so they could spend time together. But, because of everything we endured before, I didn't want to make an issue of it. I thought it would just blow over, with time. But it's not fair, Mel. It's not what I promised in order to get him to give us his blessing."

"Don't you dare talk to me about what's fair," Melanie snapped. "It's my salary that's always provided for us. It's my hard work that enables me to keep you in style and allow you to dabble in your precious art and keep Gus in the best private schools while my daughter has to make do in a crappy daycare center that . . ."

Lindsey spun quickly, her eyes wide and filled with shadow. "Excuse me. Did I just hear you refer to J.R. as your daughter? Is that what you just said to me? That's odd, because I always thought she was our . . ."

"Right," Melanie retorted, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Only she's not Brian's. Is she? She's just a product of inferior genes - mine and Michael's and . . ."

But Melanie's voice trailed away into silence as she realized what she had said - and what she had almost said - and she experienced a moment of bitter regret, for she knew in her heart that the accusation was unfair. Lindsey loved J.R. every bit as much as she loved Gus. But why did it have to be this way? Why was it that, every time she looked at the little boy who was supposed to belong to her and her partner, all she could see was the beautiful face of Brian Kinney?

Fuck!

When Lindsey sank into the overstuffed chair near the window and spent a few moments fighting to regain her composure, Melanie was suddenly conscious of a specter rising in the room, a ghost of old pains and not-quite-forgotten anguish, and she felt a lump forming in her throat that felt like a chunk of dirty ice. Thus, when Lindsey began to speak again, Melanie recognized a deadly coldness in her voice that seemed perfectly suited for the moment. "Is that the real reason you wanted to move to Toronto, Mel? Was all that rationalizing about keeping our kids safe and building a new life in a place where we'd have the right to be a real married couple just . . . an excuse?"

"Of course not. Why . . ."

"Because I'm not quite as stupid as you seem to think I am." There was a terrible, new resolve in the blonde's tone, a determination Melanie had never heard before. "For years, I allowed you to paint Brian as the villain of this piece. Even when I knew better. And let's just clear the air here, shall we? You and I - together - chose the daycare that J.R. attends, because we both agreed that the staff there was the most loving, most nurturing, most dedicated of all the places we visited. The fact that it was not the most expensive one we investigated was just a bonus, not a criteria for judgment. As for my 'dabbling' and your 'keeping' me - I am well aware that my job doesn't establish groundbreaking legal precedents, or change the world, but it does allow me to encourage artistic efforts and help young people develop their talent, so it feels worthwhile - to me. And I happen to be very good at it, so it allows me to earn a decent salary. Not, of course, on a par with yours, but if you've convinced yourself that I couldn't survive on it, maybe you should think again. Particularly since neither one of us has ever survived without a little help from a special friend. And you may claim that you were unaware of Brian's contributions over the years, but we both know that would be a lie. Just because I didn't rub your face in it doesn't mean you didn't figure it out. As you're so eager to remind me, you're not that stupid."

Melanie's cheeks flushed hot and red as she rose and crossed her arms across her chest. "As if you'd ever passup a chance to remind me of how much he's always been a part of our lives. And now you want to bring our son back here, simply because . . ."

"Because it's what he would want," Lindsey interrupted. "And because he has a right to expect it. Have you really managed to forget that the only reason you have parental rights to Gus at all, is because Brian gave them up to save our marriage? Is it possible you've convinced yourself that never happened?"

"I - don't - care!" Melanie snarled. "I don't want him in our lives; I don't want to have to put up with his bullshit, or with you making excuses for him, or with how you feel about him."

"He almost died, Mel."

Melanie opened her mouth and managed, by the thinnest of margins, to close it again without uttering the toxic words that were trembling on her lips, but it was immediately obvious that her effort was in vain. Spoken or not, Lindsey had heard them anyway, and could only stand and stare at her partner, eyes full of a terrible certainty.

When there was a discreet knock on the door, it was debatable which of them was more relieved at the interruption.

Or more surprised when the identity of their visitor was revealed.

"Daddy," said Lindsey, her voice faint with disbelief as she opened the door. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

Ron Peterson stood motionless and stared in silence for several seconds at the daughter he had not seen for more than a year. Then he glanced toward Melanie, and was quick to identify the glitter of anger in her eyes, confirming his suspicion that he was interrupting a confrontation of some sort, based on the muffled words he'd overheard as he'd come down the hall.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I've come at a bad time."

"Actually," replied Lindsey, deliberately avoiding looking toward her partner, "your timing was perfect. But I still don't understand how . . ."

"The news has been full of the story about Brian's attack," he answered, "so I figured you had to be in town."

Then he reached out, moving slowly so as to allow his daughter the opportunity to resist should she choose to do so, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "I know how much he always meant to you, and I . . . well, he is the father of my grandson. So I called his assistant; and she was kind enough to tell me where to find you. You know, I'm not sure why but . . ." He leaned back and favored her with a tentative smile, "I always kind of liked him. Although your mother . . ."

Lindsey looked up at him, studying the gentleness in his eyes and hearing something almost unprecedented in his voice. "Where is Mom?" she asked, knowing without asking that her mother was not waiting somewhere in the corridor.

Mr. Peterson sighed. "Corfu, I think. Or Kalamos, maybe. What day is it?"

"She's in Greece? What in the world . . ."

"She and Lynette went to see Mamma Mia on Broadway a couple of months ago, and got inspired. So they're island-hopping in the Aegean."

Melanie cleared her throat, obviously weary of being ignored, but Lindsey forestalled the comment she was about to make by grabbing her handbag and taking her father's arm. "Why don't you buy your daughter a nightcap?" she suggested with a smile.

The Petersons - father and daughter - departed quickly, leaving Melanie to brood and simmer and look for a suitable outlet for the rage building inside her.

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


Lindsey ordinarily confined her consumption of alcohol to an occasional glass of wine or, at celebratory moments, a champagne cocktail. But she didn't hesitate when she seated herself at the hotel bar beside her father. "JB," she said to the bartender. "A double."

"Make it two," said Ron Peterson as he regarded her with one raised eyebrow. "Are we celebrating?" he asked with a tiny smile.

"We are," she replied firmly as the bartender poured their drinks. She lifted her glass to touch it to the one her father was holding. "Brian's going to live. That's cause enough, don't you think?"

He nodded, and they drank together. Then he chose to stare into the mirror behind the bar, rather than look at her directly. "I have to confess, Daughter Mine, that I've never completely understood your relationship with him - given your sexual orientation, I mean."

She surprised herself with a tiny laugh. "Join the crowd," she replied. "I don't think anybody understands it exactly - including me and Brian. But however we might try to explain it or define it, it's real and it's precious. To both of us - and to our son."

Ron shifted his gaze and sat for a while staring down into his drink. "He's not here with you, is he?"

"Not yet," she answered hesitantly. "I assume you heard some of the . . . conversation Melanie and I were having when you knocked on the door. That was the subject of our discussion. I want Gus here. Immediately. And Melanie . . . disagrees."

"Has Brian asked for him?"

She shook her head. "Brian hasn't regained consciousness yet. But when he does, I think he'll want to see his son." She sneaked a quick glance at her father's face and surprised something in his eyes that she couldn't quite identify. "I know you and Mom don't think much of my life choices, Dad. Or of the people I've chosen to include in my life, but Brian - no matter what you might have heard about him - loves Gus very much and, in his own admittedly oddball way, he's been a good father. For one thing, he's always been there to provide for Gus - and for me - when I've needed him, even though Melanie has not always been very . . ."

"Appreciative?" Mr. Peterson did not appear to be surprised by how easily the right word came to him.

Lindsey smiled and nodded and drained her glass. Then she turned to regard him directly. "Why are you here, Dad? The real reason. I don't think it's just that you got tired of being on your own while Mom's globetrotting."

Since her father had always been gifted with a facile tongue and a quick wit, Lindsey was marginally surprised - and slightly alarmed - when he was slow to respond and when, as he began to speak, he still refused to meet her eyes.

"I've missed you, Linz. More than you know; more than your mother knows, and I . . . lately, I've begun to realize that I don't want this to go on. I want . . ." He sighed, and drained his drink. "I want to get to know my grandson. And I want my daughter back. It's time to mend fences, before it's . . ."

"Before it's what?" she asked, not quite able to control the tremor in her voice.

"Before I get too old to enjoy the reunion," he replied, with a bright smile. But Lindsey was almost certain that was not what he'd originally intended to say.

"But why now?" she demanded.

He shrugged. "Maybe because of this whole debacle with Brian. I mean, he's a young man, strong and capable and healthy, and yet . . ."

"And yet, he almost died."

"Right."

Lindsey sipped and thought. "What else?" she said finally, knowing there was more.

His smile was slightly self-deprecating. "It looks like Lynette is not going to be able to have children," he admitted. "They're not sure yet, but . . ."

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," she said gently as she thought about her sister and the extended family who loved her so much. "Mom must be . . . devastated."

He simply nodded, his eyes suspiciously bright in the gloom of the bar. "Well, you know your mother. She'll survive."

Lindsey was quiet for a time, playing with her glass, watching her father out of the corner of her eye and hearing something else. Something he wasn't saying. Something, she finally realized, he was not going to say - not yet. Not tonight.

So it would be left to her to make the next gesture. He had come to her, had trusted her with the few comments he was able to make.

"Dad," she said slowly, tentatively, "I'd really like for Gus to be here when Brian wakes up. But I'm not comfortable with leaving. If something should go wrong, and I wasn't here, I don't think I could ever forgive myself. And I don't want to hire some stranger to bring him to me. I think it would frighten him. I thought maybe Melanie would . . . but I don't think that's going to happen. So, if you're available . . ."

If she hadn't been staring at his face in the mirror, she doubted she would have noticed the bright, crystalline blaze of pure joy that lit up his eyes, and then, of course, she had to pretend not to have seen it because she had a feeling he would be embarrassed to admit how much it meant to him.

"You know," she continued, "I have a daughter too. You've never met her, but I know you'd be as enchanted with her as everyone else is. Only I don't know if Melanie would allow . . . "

He nodded. "I understand, Honey. I don't want to cause you any trouble, but I'd be glad to bring them both back, if all parties agree. Whatever you wish. And I'll leave first thing in the morning." He fell silent for a moment before reaching out to touch her face with gentle fingers. "And thank you, Lindsey. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

When he reached for his coat, apparently ready to depart, she grabbed his hand and gave him a genuine bright smile which reminded him of the relationship the two of them had shared when she was much younger. "You don't have to run off right now," she laughed. "Let me write down the address for you, and directions."

His smile was gentle. "I know the address, Honey. I made certain of that, and I even got directions on MapQuest - months ago. Just in case."

She looked down quickly, not sure she wanted him to see the luster of tears rising in her eyes. "I never dreamed you'd care enough to do that."

"Lindsey," he said softly, "I never stopped caring. It was just . . ."

"Mom," she said firmly, knowing she was right, but also knowing he would almost certainly never admit to it.

He frowned. "You have to keep in mind that she grew up in a different world, and she never learned how to adapt to the way it changed around her. I know it's been hard for you to accept, and I wish I could have figured out a way to fix it. I wish I'd been there for you, when you needed me."

"You're here now," she said, touching his hand once more. "And that means more than I can tell you. Thank you, Daddy. But she won't be happy with you, will she? Maybe we should just keep this . . ."

"No." If he had been tentative and uncertain before, that was no longer true. "I've kept things too much to myself over the years. And it certainly won't be the first time your mother has been less than happy with me." He leaned forward and covered her hand with his own. "It's time to settle this. You're my daughter, Lindsey, and that's not going to change. I don't want to waste what time . . . any more time."

With a small sob, quickly swallowed, Lindsey put her arms around her father, and rested her forehead against his shoulder, briefly amazed at how comforting it was to be able to do so. So she snuggled a bit closer, and enjoyed the familiar scent of his aftershave and the faint residue of the special blend of pipe tobacco he had used for as long as she could remember.

Thus she did not see the quick grimace that touched his face or the flicker of pain that flashed in his eyes as he let himself understand how much he had lost that he would never be able to regain.

But this much he could do for his beloved daughter, too long estranged and pushed away because of the demands of convention - this and a few other things he needed to arrange, even though he knew it would never be enough.

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

Kinnetic had never been so quiet, she thought. Even late at night, there was almost always someone working against a deadline or scrambling to capture an image or an idea before it faded with the moment or feverishly attempting to transcribe vision into reality - to create something so perfect for its purpose that it would impress the man who was the heart and soul of the company, even though the man himself would have laughed at such a romantic notion. Many times, regardless of the hour, Brian could be found in his office, having lost track of time in the grip of inspiration. At such times, he frequently did his best work, tapping into something inside himself, some wellspring of intuition that produced unique methods for capturing imagination or generating interest.

Cynthia had often watched him work at such moments, marveling at his degree of concentration and the depth of his perceptions, always being very careful to avoid attracting his attention. One did not, after all, interrupt genius at work, and she occasionally allowed herself a moment of smug satisfaction in the knowledge that she was one of the few who understood the depth of his talents. Though his education had been intensive and extensive, it had only provided the polish, to put the finishing touches on his abilities; the ability itself had come naturally. No one - including Brian - could ever quite define how he always found the perfect way to present the messages he was charged to deliver; he just did it.

But he wasn't doing it now, and neither was anyone else.

Cynthia entered his office slowly, her eyes sweeping the room to make sure it was as immaculate as he preferred before proceeding to his desk where she touched a fingertip to a sensor concealed beneath a carved molding; a quick pulse of light scanned her fingerprint and dispatched an electronic signal to a mechanism that opened a hidden panel in the wall between Brian's office and his private bath.

The safe was small but state of the art, accessible only to Brian himself and to Cynthia. Inside were a number of files containing data vital to the company operation, details from his investment portfolio and copyright certificates and Gus's trust fund, certain enormously valuable contracts, certified copies of Brian's will and other legal instruments, insurance policies, and his personal documents, including his copies of Gus's ID and custody papers.

It was these final items Cynthia withdrew from the safe, glancing at her watch to confirm that Lindsey and her father would be arriving shortly. Since Ron Peterson was ready to depart for Toronto to fetch his grandson and bring him back to Pittsburgh, Cynthia had agreed to provide the necessary documents to make sure there was no difficulty at the border in bringing the little boy into the country. Since Brian had not yet recovered sufficiently to tell her what he wanted her to do in this instance, she was operating on sheer instinct, but she couldn't imagine that, once he was awake, he would not want to find his beloved son at his side.

She retrieved the items she needed and relocked the safe, before turning to make her exit. But she had only taken a few steps when she hesitated in mid-stride, glancing toward the big desk that dominated the room. She went very still and found, to her amazement, that she was trembling and barely able to stand.

She had almost lost him; he had almost died, and this was the very first time she had allowed herself to consider all of the ramifications of losing him and how it would have impacted on her life.

Cynthia did not love Brian - not, at least, in the way that other people loved Brian. Not like Justin loved Brian, or Michael loved Brian, or Lindsey loved Brian - even though the latter two would never have admitted that the love they had for him was not so very different from the love Justin had for him. They had long ago managed to adjust their perceptions to convince themselves that their feelings for him had no romantic connotations.

Cynthia had never bothered to voice her opinions on the matter; not even to Brian himself. But she knew the truth - just as he did, though he had never verbalized his certainty either. But he knew, just the same.

But she wondered if he understood how she felt about him. Probably not, since she didn't entirely understand it herself. She was not in love with Brian Kinney; she did not worship him or sit at his feet and allow him to guide her through life. She did not believe him perfect or infallible; in truth, they argued and fought at least as often as they co-operated and agreed.

But she did love him, in her own way, for she knew something only a very few individuals were privileged to know. Brian was the most honest individual she had ever known, and while she would never be naïve enough to believe that him incapable of lying, she did know, without a single doubt, that he would never make a promise he didn't intend to keep.

He was the brother she had never had and the best friend she ever would have, and their relationship had grown and deepened during the year since Justin had decamped to New York. She was now a member of a very elite fraternity - and yes, that was the right word, despite its gender bias. This fraternity only had two members: her and Michael Novotny, and the criteria for membership was very narrow. To wit - they were the only two people in the world who had ever been allowed to see Brian Kinney cry.

That simple truth said as much about the two of them as it did about Brian; he did not trust easily but, when he did, he trusted with his whole heart. And it left him unexpectedly vulnerable.

She had come to understand that very slowly as their friendship had grown and deepened, and she resolved that she would never, never betray that trust. Not the way Michael had.

She was constantly amazed that Michael had never realized how deeply he had hurt Brian, but she had gradually come to understand the reason for his ignorance. Obviously, Brian had never told him, had never allowed him to see the hurt he'd inflicted. Any more than he had ever allowed the rest of the people who made up his extended family to recognize how often and how thoroughly each of them had betrayed him over the years.

Sometimes, in moments of frustration or anger, she thought she'd really enjoy having a chance to confront all of them, and force them to see the truths none of them had ever been willing to acknowledge or examine.

But no. She sighed, as she heard the discreet chime that announced the arrival of her visitors. She would remain silent, no matter how much she longed to make them understand the depth of their betrayal. She would remain silent, because that was what Brian would expect from her. Unless, of course, they ever came to her, to question the whys and wherefores.

She smiled as she moved toward the door. If that should happen, unlikely though it was, then all bets were off.

She hurried to the lobby, inspecting the contents of the file she was carrying to make sure it contained everything Mr. Peterson would need, glancing once more at her watch to gauge how long it would take her to finish up here and get to the hospital.

Today would be the day, she thought. Today Brian would open his eyes and return to the land of the living, and she intended to be there when . . .

She rounded the corner and stepped into the lobby, expecting to be greeted by a smiling Lindsey and her father, but the tableau awaiting her was not at all what she'd anticipated.

She found Lindsey crouched on her knees, eyes huge and welling with tears with one hand clamped tight over her mouth while the other was clinched against her chest, clutching a rolled-up document. She seemed to be gasping for breath while her father knelt beside her, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing, nonsense words in her ear.

"What . . . what's wrong?" Cynthia asked, suddenly finding her own breath difficult to draw. "It's not . . . he's not . . ."

Mr. Peterson stared at her for a moment, confused and uncertain, before realizing what she was asking. "No, no," he replied. "He's fine, as far as we know. It's not that. It's . . ."

Cynthia forced herself to center, closing her eyes and managing a deep cleansing breath. It took a moment, but she was finally able to regain her composure and summon up the ability to deal with whatever new crisis had arisen. "What's wrong?" Her voice was steady this time, and cool, almost without inflection.

But Lindsey could not find any words to convey her horror, so she simply extended her hand and dropped the item she'd been clutching to the floor. It was a rolled up tabloid sheet that opened as it fell, revealing the garish images that covered the entire page.

Brian Kinney - before and after.

Cynthia managed, barely, not to stagger as she forced herself to lean forward and pick up the paper. It wasn't as if she hadn't already seen the images, as these were the very same photos that had been flooding the Internet ever since Brian had been attacked. But it was different somehow - more immediate, more deliberate, more intense - to see it printed on news stock and hold it in one's hands.

She stared for a moment, unable to utter a single word. She recognized the photograph on the left side of the page; it had been taken during the party to celebrate the launch of Kinnetic Corp, and showed Brian looking down at someone, wearing a soft smile. Although there was nothing in the photo itself to indicate who he was looking at, Cynthia knew that it had been Justin at his side, Justin who had put that smile on his face. The second image, adjacent to the first, was not quite as crisp or focused - snapped, no doubt, in haste, by someone who just happened to have a digital camera handy and recognized a golden opportunity when it presented itself.

She had seen the picture before, but she had not allowed herself to really look at it, until now.

It was Brian's face, all right, but a face distorted and mangled, torn and sliced and mutilated and, in a few places, laid open to the bone - swollen and lurid and robbed of all its beauty, though still, somehow, recognizable.

The headlines were huge and printed in brilliant scarlet. At the top of the page, the line read, "Beauty . . . and the Beast."

And at the bottom, equally large and vivid, "The Wages of Sin."

There was no logo, no masthead - nothing to indicate who might have produced the page. And on the reverse, there was only a vitriolic outpouring of homophobic nastiness, identifying Brian as a "notorious homosexual with a record of depraved behavior and accusations of child molestation" and claiming that he had gotten what he deserved for choosing to indulge his filthy perversion and flaunt himself in the faces of the God-fearing Christian community of Pittsburgh.

Lindsey continued to weep, rocking herself now in a jerky rhythm, still breathing erratically.

"Where did you get this?" Cynthia was finally able to ask.

Ron Peterson sighed. "They're all over the place. Stacks of them on top of every newspaper stand, and beside the doorways of every building on Liberty Avenue."

"Jesus!" she whispered. "How could anyone . . ."

Ron Peterson stood abruptly and walked to the window where he stood looking out into the soft pastel brightness of a spring morning. "I don't know," he said softly. "I feel like I should apologize. Even though I would never . . ." He paused and tried to swallow around the huge lump in his throat. "I never thought something like this could happen here."

Lindsey turned to study him, disbelief rising in her eyes. "Daddy, don't be deliberately stupid. It's only a little over a year since some cretin planted a bomb at Babylon, and killed eight people. Simply because they were gay, and happened to believe they should have the same rights as everybody else. This . . ." She gestured toward the lurid tabloid page without really looking at it. "This is exactly the same thing. They wanted to kill him - to destroy him - and now they're gloating because they think they've succeeded."

Cynthia looked up then, and the two women stared at each other, sharing the same thought. It was Cynthia, however, who gave it voice. "If they think that, they're in for one fucking big surprise."

At that moment, Cynthia's cell phone rang, and a glance at the screen revealed that it was Matt Keller calling.

She had to pause to take a deep breath, struggling to believe it would not be bad news. The tabloid sheet had shaken her, and made her doubt her determination and certainty, but she would not let it take away her faith.

"Hello."

"Good morning, Number One." Keller's voice was bright and strong and gave no indication that he had spent the better part of the night fighting to save the life of an accident victim. "I think you might want to get your ass over here."

"Is he . . ."

"Not yet," he replied, "but he did regain consciousness last night, for a few minutes."

"And," she paused to take a deep breath, "was he . . . all right?"

She could almost hear the smile in his voice when he replied. "He was exactly as you'd expect him to be. So I think your wait is almost over."

She closed her eyes and took a moment to whisper a two word prayer.

"I'll be there in a half-hour," she assured him.

"No big rush," he answered, "but you might as well be prepared. The herd is already gathering. And we've moved him to a private room, so they won't have to wait for ICU visiting hours to see him."

She swallowed hard, not entirely sure Brian would be pleased to waken to a chorus of babbling voices, but not bothering to voice a protest. Once she was on the scene, she would make sure he would not be troubled by unwanted visitors.

She quickly thrust the documents for Gus into Ron Peterson's hands, and gestured for Lindsey to accompany her. "You," she said to the man, "go get Gus and bring him back here so he can see his father."

Then she grabbed Lindsey's arm and pulled her to her feet. "And you come with me. He's out of danger, and they think he'll be waking up soon."

Lindsey huffed a deep breath and managed to square her shoulders, her face taking on an expression of grim resolve. Then she leaned forward and plucked the tabloid from Cynthia's hand, rolling it up so the images were no longer visible, and tucking it under her arm. "There are some people," she explained in a faint whisper, "who ought to see this."

Cynthia regarded her solemnly. "Yes. There are," she said finally. "Now let's go."

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

Michael had arrived first - except for Lance Mathis of course, who had been there all night - and proceeded to call everybody else, and they had all hurried to the hospital, but hesitated to barge into the room en masse. Thus, they had decided to drift in gradually - two by two - to avoid the unwelcome attention of the duty nurse. The hospital's policy on visitation was not terribly strict, except in the critical care areas, but nobody wanted to push their luck. So they'd strolled in, trying to look as if they had every right to be there, and taken their places, making sure to keep their voices down and avoid attracting attention.

Thus the posse was fully assembled before the dietary staff had finished serving breakfast, except for Justin, who was picking his mother and sister up from the airport on their return from their visit to Jennifer's family, and Lindsey and Cynthia, who'd had a task to perform at the Kinnetic office. Everybody - except Melanie, of course - had been curious about the nature of that errand, but no one had quite dared to question since Melanie's relentless frown had discouraged any expression of curiosity.

As they'd entered, each of them had moved to Brian's bedside and spent a moment staring down at him, looking in vain for some sign that he was conscious of their presence. Both Michael and Emmett had leaned forward to whisper something in his ear, and everyone else - except Melanie - had gotten close enough to touch him briefly, clasping his hand or stroking his face or his arm. Then they'd all settled themselves to wait, taking up chairs around the room or leaning against the wall, all positioned so that they could watch for any indication that the patient might be waking up.

Ben and Hunter had engaged Ted and Blake in quiet conversation, discussing the upcoming publication of Ben's latest story in The New Yorker, while Drew Boyd had retired to the hallway to talk with his cousin as Mathis took his turn at standing guard, both of them turning to greet the latest arrivals as they stepped out of the elevator. Michael and Emmett remained mostly silent, content to watch Brian, barely aware of the others in the room, while Debbie had settled herself in a chair by the window, suddenly caught up in a feeling of déjà vu. It had not been so long ago, after all, that she had sat in just such a room, waiting to learn if her only child would awaken from injuries inflicted by the same kind of homophobic bastards who had tried to kill Brian.

Michael had survived - and so would Brian. She could not allow herself to consider any other possibility. But . . . no, she would not think about that. Not now.

Eli Gruber had been the last to arrive, entering when his partner had come bustling in, in scrubs and lab coat, carrying his supplies for drawing blood. At that moment, Emmett had glanced at Michael, looking as if he wanted to question the man's right to be present at such a moment, but, in the end, he chose to remain silent, not wanting to cause a fuss over something that wouldn't matter anyway. Eli had then gravitated toward Melanie who seemed to welcome his presence and his interest in her opinion on a new version of Proposition 14 that was being sponsored by a local right-wing group.

For his part, Monty Peabody rather enjoyed being the center of attention as he went about his task of drawing blood from the port attached to Brian's shoulder. Thus, when he was done, he spent a few extra minutes making sure that the specimen tubes were correctly labeled, and then proceeded to reposition IV lines and check out the display on the monitors. In truth, he knew little of what all the data meant, since he was simply a lab tech who had taken a couple of courses in phlebotomy to qualify for a slightly higher pay grade. But it seemed a very professional thing to do, and he didn't want to miss out on any opportunity to impress his neighbors, the Novotny-Bruckners, and their friends.

Still, he was usually competent in the performance of his duties. But this particular patient had certainly done nothing to earn either his concern or his compassion, and he couldn't quite suppress a sense of satisfaction in seeing the mighty Kinney brought so low; thus he was not as gentle as he ordinarily would have been as he tugged the blanket up to cover the patient's arms and noticed a slight tremor through torso and shoulders, a response that was almost a flinch and that might indicate some measure of discomfort. The medical staff had noted on Kinney's chart - which Monty had made a point of inspecting just as if he knew what all the cryptic notations and abbreviations meant - that the patient would soon begin to regain consciousness for short periods of time, and Monty wondered if the moment might be at hand.

But he decided it would be inappropriate for him to make such an announcement. In fact, it might be amusing to . . .

"My, my, my!" he said with a quick glance around the room. "How the mighty have fallen, hmmm? Have you guys heard about the article in the tabloid that's all over the streets? I hear it's quite . . . graphic."

"Yeah, I heard about it. Beauty and the Beast, huh?" Ted's voice sounded strange, as if he wanted to say more, but didn't quite dare.

"Homophobic pricks!" observed Mel. "What kind of shitheads would do something like that? Still . . ."

Ted looked up, picking up on a strange jarring note in her tone, and met her eyes, immediately reading the expression there with perfect clarity. "Still," she repeated, "there is some tiny little nuance of poetic justice in all this. If you know what I mean."

Debbie turned away from the window where she'd been watching passing traffic, and spotted the tentative smiles that neither Ted nor Mel could quite conceal and closed her eyes quickly, not wanting to see or understand the meaning. "Like finding out that the idol has feet of clay after all?" she asked. Then her eyes went wide as she wondered how she could have allowed herself to say such a thing. Brian had almost . . . but no. She preferred not to think about that. In truth, she would have preferred to not even know it. If the invincible Brian Kinney was not immune to the fickleness of cruel fate, then what chance did the rest of them have?

The complete, total silence in the room was broken by a small, quickly stifled titter, and no one was exactly sure where it had originated. Nor did anyone really want to know.

Except for Emmett, who was definitely not laughing as he got to his feet, staring at the faces of the individuals around him. "I don't believe you people," he said softly. "I can't believe that any of you - no matter how much you might resent Brian - could find anything even remotely funny in this."

"Oh, come on, Em," said Ted. "Surely even you can understand a peon's interest in seeing the mighty Kinney taken down a peg or two."

Emmett stared at his old friend, and had the strangest sensation that he was looking at someone he didn't know at all. "Would that be the same interest that the savages who did this had, in seeing a fag cut down to size?"

"Aren't you giving him a little too much credit?" said Eli Gruber, not bothering to suppress the sneer in his voice. "He wasn't anything special to them. They just wanted to kill a fag - any fag. And this one came along at the right time, and just happened to be the perfect target, seeing as how he's forever all over the newspapers, rubbing people's faces in his decadent lifestyle."

As it happened, Ben was the only one who was looking in Emmett's direction at that moment, and he was startled when Emmett flinched away from Eli's words, flinched as if to evade a physical blow. What in the world would account for that, he wondered. But he didn't get a chance to ask.

"Did they now?" said Emmett, very softly. "I wonder. Or maybe they intended to get exactly this reaction. Maybe what they wanted was to destroy someone who was a walking work of art - to take away the man he was and make him into something else. Something people could cringe away from - and feel superior to, or laugh at. And if that's what they meant to do, then you're giving them exactly what they wanted, aren't you?"

The silence that fell this time was neither easy nor comfortable. Nor did it last long as Lindsey and Cynthia chose that moment to step into the room from the corridor, where they had been talking quietly with Lance Mathis when they'd overheard the comments made concerning the tabloid article.

"Bravo, Emmett," Lindsey said gently, stepping forward and reaching up to drop a kiss on his cheek. Then she moved to the bed where Brian lay silent and motionless, with only the gentle inhale and exhale of breath indicating that there was life yet within his body. She nudged Monty aside none too gently so she could edge closer and spend a moment staring down at the bandages that covered the patient's face, her fingers clinched around the newspaper rolled up in her hands.

It took several moments for her to compose herself, before she turned back to survey the faces of the group, and she was not surprised to find that none among them was quite brave enough to meet her eyes. Except Cynthia, of course, who looked as if she was ready to take on an army.

"I'm with Emmett," said Lindsey, so softly that all of them had to concentrate to hear her. And maybe that was her intention. "I can't believe it either."

First she looked at Ted. "How many times has Brian Kinney saved your ass, Teddie?" Then she turned to look at Debbie, then Michael. "How many times has he saved us all? How many times has he stepped up, to protect us, to rescue us? How many fights has he fought for us? How many that we know about - and how many more that we don't? I mean, never mind the wedding that never would have happened without him, or the jobs that never would have been there if he hadn't seen to it, or the prison sentence that was avoided because he intervened. Or the homophobic bastard who would have been mayor if Brian hadn't stepped up and risked everything to make sure it didn't happen. Or how about saving Justin's life? We know about those things, because there wasn't much he could do to hide them. But there's plenty more that we don't know, because he never told us. For example, did any of you ever stop to wonder how Justin managed to stay in school after he decided to run off with his fiddler? I mean, he obviously had no money, and his rat-bastard father wouldn't support him, and he couldn't qualify for financial aid because his family was too well off. Well, let me enlighten you. Brian paid his tuition. Paid it without saying a word, even to Justin - and when Justin went to him, to tell him he didn't have to do that in light of all that had happened, Brian's only response was, 'A deal's a deal.' He had promised to pay for Justin's schooling, and he would do so. No matter what, and it had nothing to do with who was fucking whom."

She paused and waited, but no one said anything. Then she looked at Debbie. "And if you're thinking he might have bragged about it later, let me set you straight. The only reason I know about it is because Justin told me - on the day he came to me and confessed that he'd figured out that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life, and was terrified that Brian would never take him back. But that's not Brian, is it? Brian always takes us back, even when we act like total shitheads."

She turned away then, and looked out into the brilliance of the morning. "I know a few other things too. Things I'm not supposed to know, because Brian never told me any of it, never wanted anybody to know. For example, I was in his office one day - several years ago - waiting for him to finish a meeting so we could go to lunch, when I noticed his checkbook lying on his desk, and, being just as nosy about Brian's life as the rest of you, I couldn't resist taking a peek. It didn't take long for me to understand what I was seeing because it answered a question I'd been wondering about. You see, I knew that big corporations aren't known for acting out of the goodness of their hearts. Like mortgage companies, for example. If anyone really spent any time thinking about it, they'd figure out PDQ that no commercial lender is going to allow a homeowner to suspend payments on their mortgage for almost two years, without penalties or interest or threats of foreclosure, simply because the homeowner has a sick brother who requires total care 24/7, and there's no way the owner can go to work to earn money to pay the mortgage. And yet, that's exactly what a certain mortgage company did. Isn't it, Debbie?"

Debbie Novotny's face went stark white as she rose slowly to her feet. "What are you saying? They agreed to . . ."

"Yeah," Lindsey interrupted sharply. "Sure they did."

"Now hold on," said Michael. "I went to them myself, and they said they'd allow it because my mom had been a loyal customer for so many years. They said . . ."

She regarded him with raised eyebrows. "Of course, they did!"

Debbie's eyes were suddenly huge. "Brian," she whispered.

"Brian," Lindsey echoed. "And that's just one time that I happen to know about - not because he told me, but because I stumbled across the evidence. Anyway, it always made me wonder how many other times things like that happened, and nobody ever knew. I figure Cynthia probably knows more than any of us, only she's too loyal to give him up - but I'm pretty damned sure there's a lot more that we'll never know. But apparently, when it comes to Brian, he can never do enough. But as for us - who are supposed to be his friends - it's always a case of 'What have you done for me lately?', isn't it?"

She sighed. "I always thought we all made him the target of our snotty little snipes because he was so much tougher and brighter and braver and more beautiful than the rest of us, and I guess I was right, as far as it goes. But I think it was also because he was always stronger and better able to take whatever we dished out, without caving in or folding up. But do we really believe he was never hurt by it? That he didn't notice how often we assumed he was guilty, only to find out later that we'd been wrong? And I'd bet that none of us ever bothered to step up and apologize for misjudging him."

She paused then and turned to stare at the silent occupant of the hospital bed. "Of course, he'd have just laughed it off if we'd tried, because that's how he is, isn't it? But there's no denying that all of us - including me - acted like a bunch of shitheads."

"Oh, come on, Linz," said Melanie, eyes sparking with anger and the jealousy she was never completely able to conceal. She would never quite find it in her heart to forgive Brian for being Gus' father - or Lindsey for deciding that he should be. "Even you have to admit that he usually asked for it."

Lindsey, who had known Brian even longer than Michael had - and loved him through all that time, although not the way a woman usually loves a man - turned to regard her significant other with a cold stare. "You know what?" she said softly. "He was right. Sometimes, you really are a cunt."

"What do you . . ."

"Before you go patting yourselves on the back - for your witty repartee and your cleverness, perhaps you should take a look at the article that has you all so amused, so you can get a really good laugh at his expense." She flung the rolled-up newspaper at Ted, who had to grab it to keep it from hitting him in the face. It fell open in his hand, and he stared at the images - side by side, full page images - of Brian as he had been, at the height of his beauty, and Brian as he'd been when brought in to the hospital that fateful night, as he lay close to death. In livid, full color, the contrast was devastating.

No matter how much they had heard about what the article depicted, there was no way they could have been prepared for the horror of it.

"Oh, God!" Ted's voice broke as he stared at the photographs, as the vile, vicious images assaulted him, assaulted them all, making them struggle to breathe, to understand how anyone - no matter how homophobic or vindictive - could have done such a thing.

No one else seemed able to speak. Not even Melanie.

"Get out!" said Lindsey coldly. "Everyone except Em."

"What?" snapped Michael, leaping to his feet in outrage. "I didn't say anything."

She turned cold eyes to glare at him. "No. You didn't."

"But . . ."

"He spent his whole life looking after you, and you couldn't muster up a single fucking word in his defense."

"Now wait a minute," said Ben, obviously uncomfortable with the confrontation but unwilling to allow Michael to be singled out or targeted.

"No, you wait a minute," Lindsey snapped. "All of you can take your sanctimonious, pseudo-flower child, supercilious, oh-so-superior attitudes and go enjoy your own inflated opinion of yourselves, because sitting here gloating over what those motherfuckers did to him is sure as shit not doing him a God-damned bit of good, although I'm sure it's making all of you feel much better. So get out!"

"You have no right . . ." said Debbie in a pallid imitation of her customary bluster, obviously still shaken.

"No, she doesn't," said Cynthia, speaking up for the first time as she fished a document out of her over-sized Gucci handbag. "But I do. If you knew Brian at all - which, by the way, most of you do not - you'd know he doesn't leave things to chance. This is his power of attorney. Signed, sealed, notarized, and delivered, authorizing me to make decisions concerning his care, his life . . . whatever decisions need to be made while he's incapacitated. And right now, I'm making this one. Lindsey is dead right. Get - the fuck - out!"

No one moved for a moment, until the door opened and two figures stepped into the room - Drew Boyd and Lance Mathis - and the security chief moved to stand at Cynthia's elbow, his eyes moving to meet those of everyone else in the room. Only Emmett had enough presence of mind to notice that the young man they had all met within the last few days - diffident and friendly and unassuming - had suddenly been transformed into someone who was a force to be reckoned with. If any of them had thought to resist Cynthia's instructions, they immediately realized the folly of the notion. There was no doubt that Mathis was ready and willing to do whatever he had to do to fulfill his duty - to defend and protect the young man who was the only reason for his presence here - and God help anyone who might try to interfere.

The group rose quickly then, stumbling as if in shock and too stunned to offer up any coherent protest, and headed for the door, with Eli, pale and all atremble, in their midst and Monty, who had enjoyed the little uproar he'd generated until the two blonde bimbos had stepped in to spoil the fun, bringing up the rear.

"Oh, and speaking of cunts," said Cynthia, her eyes cold and her face set in the mode that had terrified subordinates for as long as she'd been Brian Kinney's good right hand, "there's one more thing." She moved forward and stood nose to nose (or rather nose to non-existent hairline, since she was several inches taller) with Monty Peabody, and her voice dropped to a sinister near-whisper. "If either you or your cunty, pretentious, self-important, sycophantic, puffed-up, pathetic little pussy-partner ever come near him again, then you're going to find out just how vindictive this pissed-off non-lesbian feminist bitch can be. Because I'm not Brian; I'm not nearly as forgiving or as laid-back as Brian, and you might be surprised to find out that, for such a worthless, immoral, promiscuous fuck-up, a man so richly deserving of your contempt and condemnation, he has an astonishing number of friends - and contacts - in some very high places; friends who can actually appreciate the fact that he's the most honest, unhypocritical man they've ever known. Contacts he would probably never use, because he doesn't think that way. But I do, and I'd be perfectly happy to use them all. In short, by the time I'm done with you, you might just wake up from your little Stepford fag, pseudo-intellectual existence to realize it's an extremely bad idea to fuck with Brian Kinney."

"You can't threaten me," whined Eli. "Who do you think you . . ."

She smiled, and Emmett was glad he was not the object of her scorn. "I'll tell you who I am," she said softly. "I'm the personal assistant of the man who single-handedly devised the advertising campaign which has raised over twelve million dollars for this hospital's new transplant clinic. Now . . . who - the fuck - are you?"

She turned her back on him, and treated Emmett and Lindsey to a big smile as she heard him scurry for the door, like the cockroach he was.

Thus, the group found themselves standing around in the hallway, slightly disoriented and not altogether certain of how they'd come to be there and still stunned by the sudden change of direction of their day. They all paused to exchange glances, none of them quite sure of what to say, as Monty and Eli made a hasty retreat, neither of them comfortable under the cold unflinching gazes turned upon them. Then Ted held up the tabloid article that had sparked the confrontation, and they all crowded in to take a closer look at the lurid item and to inspect the grisly photographs. By the time they had seen it all and read it all and absorbed the ugliness and the vitriol from its cruel rhetoric, there wasn't a smile in sight - only the horror of having, even for one moment, lowered themselves to the level of those who'd written it and spread it around like the disease it was, and Lindsey and Cynthia, watching from the doorway, knew a moment of powerful vindication.

"You go, Girls," said Emmett with a gentle smile, as he draped an arm around each of them. "Remind me never to piss either one of you off."

"Fuckers!" Lindsey snapped, before turning to look up into his face. "You OK, Honey? You haven't exactly had it easy lately yourself."

He nodded. "I'm all right. A few bumps and bruises - in places best left unmentioned - but nothing to worry about."

She turned toward the bed, sparing a small smile for Drew and Lance. "If you three hadn't gone after him . . ." she whispered.

"You know," said Cynthia, as she moved around the bed to study her boss's face - what little of it she could actually see, "I have to confess that I'm glad I wasn't there. I don't know if I could have stood seeing him like that."

Emmett's smile was gentle. "I imagine you've seen him at his worst. Maybe even more than we have."

She nodded. "I guess - in some ways. I've seen him drunk and drugged out and sick and scared and desperate and . . . " She paused to draw a deep, hoarse breath, remembering how he'd looked in the days following Justin's departure, "lost. But I've never seen him helpless. Brian Kinney doesn't do helpless." Her smile was tremulous. "It just upsets the natural order of things."

Emmett didn't know Cynthia nearly as well as he knew Lindsey, and he was a little hesitant about approaching her, but, in the end, he just stepped up and wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. "Don't think about that. We have to believe it's only temporary and thank God that we were in the right place at the right time to see those guys take off after him, and that Lance was right there, with his car."

"They'd have killed him," said Lindsey, and this time the tears would not be denied although she did not give in to the urge to sob out her anger and her frustrations.

"One way . . . or another," Emmett admitted, remembering his discussion with the police and Lance and Drew and the conclusions they'd all drawn, and closing his eyes against the images that rose in his mind: the vicious snarls on the faces of Brian's attackers, the hatred and the lust for violence, and the power of the blows they struck, and the terrible sound of the impacts of fists and boots and unyielding metal against defenseless flesh. Between those memories and the equally vivid ones of his own experience as a victim, he didn't sleep much these days, and wondered if he ever would again, without having to endure those graphic images playing out in his mind. He sighed as a gentle hand touched his shoulder and he felt soft lips just brush the nape of his neck.

"Hush now," he said gently, his eyes rising to acknowledge Drew's caress as he took Lindsey's hand and enclosed it with his own. "You know he wouldn't want you to cry."

"No," said a strained voice, barely audible, "he wouldn't."

Cynthia, of course, was quickest to recover - except for Mathis, who managed to look completely unsurprised - and first to react, as both Emmett and Lindsey dissolved in fresh tears. She leaned forward and took Brian's hand, touching him as gently as if he were fragile and breakable, which, in a sense, he was at that particular moment, although he would quickly demonstrate that he was still Brian Kinney, still invincible, still undefeated. "Welcome back, Boss man," she said firmly, allowing not the slightest hint of a tremor to affect her voice. Still, she couldn't quite resist a compulsion to bend down and drop a fleeting kiss near his ear - one of the few places on his head that was not swathed in bandages.

When he whispered something she could not quite catch, she turned to position her ear against his lips so he could repeat it.

Then she smiled.

Two words from him, and she was on cloud nine. How ridiculous was that? But still, Brian Kinney did not pass out praise like sticks of gum. To get it, one had to earn it.

Two words in a broken whisper. "Good girl."

And it was enough.

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