Chapter 43

Somehow I know
Without asking why,
That you love me more in a minute
Than anyone could in a lifetime.

* Marry Me -- Amanda Marshall, Rob Misener

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"Wow!" said Lance Mathis dryly, as he waited by the baggage carousel, observing the approach of the tall, slender figure threading his way through the crowd. "The boss is pulling out the big guns."

Chris McClaren didn't even blink. "It must be a pre-requisite for the job," he observed as he came to a stop and smiled down at Cynthia Whitney, his eyes never pausing for long, as they constantly examined the colorful and randomly shifting hodgepodge of people moving through the terminal.

"Pardon?" Cynthia was busy juggling a carry-on, a laptop, a purse, and hanging on to Katy's hand, so she appeared merely confused, rather than majorly annoyed.

McClaren remained straight-faced. "Tanned and toned. Armed and dangerous. Nice ass. Smart mouth. The profile of the ideal Kinnetik employee."

Mathis's eyes flicked down, taking in the FBI agent's decidedly non-traditional tight jeans and dark Polo shirt and noting how the outfit emphasized every perfect physical feature. "You planning to apply for a position?" he asked, with a quick smirk.

"Dream on. I work under the direct oversight of the attorney general, you know."

"Yeah," Mathis snickered. "I've seen the attorney general. You do remember who I work under, don't you?"

It was McClaren's turn to try - unsuccessfully - to suppress a quick snort of laughter. "Not bad, Stud. You're not thinking of switching teams, are you?"

The snicker morphed into a sarcastic smirk. "You don't have to be queer to appreciate the view," he retorted. "Do you think Elizabeth Taylor didn't know Marilyn Monroe was major-league hot?"

The FBI agent grinned, although his tone seemed slightly distracted. "Gotta love a man who appreciates the classics."

Mathis opened his mouth to respond in kind, but then changed his mind, when he noted that McClaren's eyes had gone cold as his attention had shifted to a paunchy, florid-faced businessman with a receding hairline and an ill-fitting suit who was staring at Katy as she swung back and forth to the rhythm of the music from her iPod. The man twisted his lips into an ugly sneer as the soft denim purse that was slung over Katy's shoulder swung out with the motion of her body and brushed against his sleeve. He even went so far as to lean forward, obviously preparing to offer a caustic comment, but then he happened to look up and come eye-to-eye with the FBI agent, whose expression spoke volumes, daring the man to follow through on his intentions.

Mathis did not bother to stifle a smile when the man thought twice and abruptly moved away, walking to the other side of the carousel to await the arrival of his luggage, while carefully avoiding looking toward either Katy or her glowering protector again. Mission accomplished beautifully, without a single word being spoken.

The security chief favored his FBI counterpart with a quick grin, a wordless but very heartfelt, "Well done."

McClaren's acknowledgement of the compliment was equally non-verbal, as he turned to attend to the mechanics of his mission. His job was to protect those who were dear to Brian Kinney, and that protection was not limited to defense against physical assault; it was, in fact, not limited at all.

"Are you two quite finished flirting?" snapped Cynthia, too wrapped up in the trivialities of the moment to have noticed the potential hurtful episode, and rapidly losing patience with her male companions while Katy was busy ogling a young couple who were enthusiastically exploring each other's tonsils as they waited at baggage claim. "If so, maybe you could volunteer a little assistance, before my niece learns - up close and personal - about the mechanics of procreation."

McClaren's grin grew wider as he saw a flare of something he could not quite define in the security chief's eyes, and he debated - for just a moment - the idea of throwing oil on the flames of Cynthia's annoyance. But ultimately, he didn't, figuring - correctly - that they'd all been through enough pointless drama. Cynthia Whitney didn't need further complications, to the situation or to her life.

"Hey, Little Mermaid," said Mathis, reaching out to smooth a blonde curl away from Katy's face and referencing her all-time favorite Disney movie about which she was always ready to talk, "you haven't eaten much this morning, and I'm pretty sure there's a Chick-fil-A down the concourse. How about some nuggets and waffle fries?"

The teen-ager's smile was brilliant. "And carrot and raisin salad?"

"Anything you want," he answered, tucking her hand under his arm.

She risked a quick look at her Aunt Tink. "And a peppermint chocolate chip milkshake?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

Mathis laughed, and deliberately did not look at Cynthia. "Anything means exactly that," he replied. "Anything."

Cynthia, of course, in full maternal mode, heard it all and gave her fellow employee a look which guaranteed he would be the one dealing with the sugar/endorphin high which would inevitably follow such a meal.

He nodded and smiled and prepared to lead his young charge away then, but paused when McClaren stopped him with a firm grip on his forearm. "A quick reminder," said the FBI man softly, "for your own good. I won't go into details about what Brian threatened to do to me if anything happened to either Cynthia or her . . . niece, but I'm pretty sure you can figure it out for yourself. It's a good bet we'd both wind up a couple of ball-less eunichs, if anything should happen to his young friend there."

Very deliberately, Mathis lifted his hand and patted the holster concealed under his well-cut leather jacket. "Admittedly, I haven't known him for long, but then again it doesn't take much time to figure out he's not a man you want to cross. Especially when he pays you big bucks for following his orders, whether he's remembered to give them to you, or not."

"Exactly," came the easy reply, "so she better be just fine. And, just in case . . ." McClaren turned and made a quick hand signal to a tall figure standing near the doorway leading out into the main concourse. "That's Eugene. He's got your back, and - more importantly - he's got hers."

"Get it to go," Cynthia called after them as Mathis and Katy walked away.

McClaren watched them go, a rare gleam of uncertainty in his eyes. "How long have they known each other?" he asked.

Cynthia glanced at her watch. "Oh, coming up on about six hours," she answered, and was pleased to see a quick expression of disbelief touch his face. "Katy is something of a force of nature, you know. She either makes friends very fast . . ." At this point, she could not quite suppress a sigh. "Or she never makes them at all, because some people are careful to keep their distance, like they're afraid her condition might be contagious."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Whitney," he said quickly, not quite sure if she would understand his meaning but compelled to speak anyway.

"Don't be," she replied quickly, attempting to camouflage any trace of the hurt she must regularly feel on behalf of her beautiful, innocent daughter. McClaren was, of course, much too perceptive to fall for it, but he was kind enough to let it pass without further comment. "It's their loss - not hers." Then she favored the FBI agent with a quick smile. "And this will work out just fine. While they pig out on their saturated fats-and-sugar brunch in the back seat, you and I can have a semi-discreet discussion in the front." Her smile grew to a grin as she interpreted the quick change in his expression. "And please don't bother with that innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-your-mouth, wide-eyed look. Granted I don't know you all that well - yet - but I do know Brian Kinney - well enough, at least, to be sure there's something he's not telling me."

He deliberately looked away, apparently focused on all the bright tumble of luggage now appearing at the entrance to the carousel. "What makes you think that?" he asked finally, absolutely non-committal.

"Oh, I don't know," she retorted. "Probably the same thing that's got your instincts kinking your gut into knots." She paused for a moment, her eyes suddenly unfocused. "It's not so much what he's saying. It's what he's keeping to himself."

She waited in silence while he retrieved two smart Samsonite bags from the conveyor, wondering if he would simply accept her observation without questioning further. But when he spoke up, she realized she should have known better.

"You can speak clearer than that," he commented as they moved toward the exit. "What is it you think he's avoiding?"

She huffed a quick sigh. "I'd love to be more specific, but he's . . . I don't know, but I think he's waiting for something. And he's . . . hesitant, as if he's keeping his opinions to himself. And that's just not Brian. You know?"

He appeared to be thinking about what she'd said, deliberately avoiding a knee-jerk response. "For example?" he asked finally, very softly.

"Okay," she answered, as they approached the entrance of the Chik-fil-A. "You may not be aware of this, but Brian, in his own way, is one of the most loyal individuals I've ever known, even if he has a unique way of showing it. But he never forgets debts of gratitude. And one of the biggest debts he feels he owes is to Remson Pharmaceuticals. There wouldn't be a Kinnetik if Remson hadn't taken a chance on him and his ideas. Anyway, Remson has developed a brand new drug for treating Alzheimer's - a major breakthrough in the field - and FDA approval has just come through. So we're mounting a major new campaign - a multi-million dollar effort."

"And?" The paused together as they watched Katy and Mathis waiting in line to get their take-out orders.

"When Brian did the initial campaign for Remson - the one that launched their revolutionary new AIDS treatment - he personally oversaw every step of it. From selecting the models, writing the copy. Supervising the photo shoot. Even down to choosing the printer's font and the color of the lettering."

"And?" McClaren was trying not to show his impatience, but he was beginning to wonder if her rambling had any real destination in sight.

She drew a deep breath, pausing briefly to compose her thoughts. "This new campaign could well prove to be the biggest thing we've ever done - a truly global effort. And Brian's been working on it for more than a year - since the first clinical testing began. This - this is really big; it's the campaign that could take Kinnetik to unbelievable heights of international success. He's planned it out perfectly, developed the concept, written the copy, designed the entire campaign, including creating the ambiance - the 'feel' of it, if you will. That's a Brian Kinney term, and you'll just have to take my word for it because it's not something that can be quantified or defined. But at the end of all that planning and preparation - literally months and months of work on his part, which continued even after he was injured - I came up with a list of candidates for models to represent the 'face' of the campaign, and I called Brian for the final decision, because Gregg and I - he's our art director - are having a major disagreement about which one we should use. I sent all the mock-ups, all the samples of the photographers' work, the models' portfolios - everything to Brian, so he could compare them before making his choice. And do you know what he told me?"

"Not a clue."

"He told me to use my own judgment."

McClaren frowned. "Sounds like he just trusts you to . . ."

Her eye-roll stopped him cold. "Trusts me?" she laughed. "Believe me, Agent McClaren, this has nothing to do with trust. He'd trust me with his life or with Gus's . . . or Justin's. Trusting me is not an issue; he knows that. But when it comes to his professional performance, there's no such thing as trust. It's about control, and if you look up the term 'control freak' in a dictionary, you'll find a photo of Brian Kinney beside the definition. He simply does not allow anybody to get between him and his vision of what a campaign should be - not even the artists who interpret his concepts. He controls every detail, every nuance. So the idea that he would just step aside and allow me - or anyone - to do it for him is so alien that I'm wondering if I should go looking for a pod in his basement. You know?"

"Well," he said, uncertain of whether or not he should be concerned. Or - if he was honest - a little uneasy, not to mention astonished, that there might be something going on which he had failed to notice. "He's been a little busy, you know. With all the therapy and the treatments and . . ."

Cynthia did not - quite - roll her eyes again, but it was close. "When we started talking about these ads, he told me that he was visualizing an older woman as the focal point of the ad - complete with silver hair and wrinkles, but a woman with vivid blue eyes, dressed in a bright red dress and stiletto heels with diamonds in her ears - a woman who could walk into the casinos at Monte Carlo and be taken for royalty - no questions asked. And yet, when I finally found a bit of time to search out the perfect outfit, I called to ask him which designer he had in mind. Because, when it comes to fashion, there is no one who knows more than Brian Kinney. So I was online, pulling up Vera Wang and Dolce and Gabbana and Badgeley Mischka and Carolina Herrera - looking for something that would really knock his socks off - and do you know what he said? He said, 'You know what I like, Tink. Surprise me.' I was so shocked I never even noticed when he hung up on me."

"And did you? Surprise him, I mean?"

She shrugged. "I picked out what I thought would best personify the image he would want to project, and I sent it for his approval. He replied with one word. 'Okay.' That's it. Just 'okay'. And it was this really gorgeous red silk, fitted dress with a brocade scarf and a sculpted suede jacket - the kind of thing that he normally would have raved over. The kind of thing he should have either loved at first sight, or hated enough to gag over. And I spent hours agonizing over the selection, because I wasn't quite sure the color was right. There are literally thousands of shades of red, you know, and when you say 'red', Agent McClaren, I'm pretty sure you don't give a second thought to which of them you're referencing. But for Brian? I was ready to bet that we'd have to go through a few dozen choices before the red of the chosen design matched up to the red he had in mind."

"And?"

"Two words this time. 'That's fine.' In a quick, flat tone which suggested that he barely even looked at it. Ergo . . ."

"Something's wrong." McClaren sounded like he needed no further convincing. "But I don't have a clue what it could be. As far as I can tell, everything's going well, although sometimes he seems . . ."

He paused then and was assailed by a series of odd images - flickering recollections of Brian's face at random moments, when something indefinable seemed to rise in the depths of those incredibly expressive hazel eyes - eyes which could reveal so much in one moment and conceal so much in the next.

"Seems what?" she asked, determined to pick his brain for anything that might help her settle the uneasiness in her mind - and her stomach.

"Just . . . distracted, I guess. But he does that, doesn't he? It's not unusual for him to be physically present but mentally wandering around in his own private inner landscape."

Cynthia was studying his face, looking for a clue to what else he might be thinking. And there was something else. She sensed it immediately, and didn't hesitate to press on, to demand access to his thoughts. "And what else? Come on. You don't live inside the magnetic attraction of Brian Kinney without getting to know the signs. What else have you seen?"

His sigh was heavy, and he was obviously not the least bit happy with what he felt compelled to say.

"It's like he's studying everything around him. Like he's trying to . . . to memorize it all."

Her pause was brief as she considered what he'd said. Then she nodded. She didn't understand it any more than he did, but she knew, on an instinctive level, that he was right.

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When the doorbell rang, Michael told himself it was just his imagination, despite the quick rise of shadows in his husband's eyes. It was not possible such an innocuous sound it had taken on the ominous tones of a funeral bell. It had not, after all, proven to be a complete harbinger of doom this morning in that it had announced the arrival of Lindsey, bearing a metaphorical gift of proffered reconciliation and cooperation. It had also provided access for Liam Quinn, carrying with him all the assurances of Brian Kinney's unflappable certainty.

On the other hand, it had also admitted his mother, who was still - at this moment - silently glowering at the world, lingering over a cup of coffee long gone cold and not the least bit happy about the ultimatum with which she'd been presented by her son's new legal eagle. And, of course, earlier - in the wee small hours - it had heralded the arrival of a small, extremely virulent force of nature - a tempest which was obviously beyond calming in her attempt to find an alternative target to substitute for the one she could not reach in her moments of extreme fury. He was pretty sure Melanie would not have objected to that description; she probably would rather have enjoyed it, imagining herself to be irresistible - and completely justified - in her rage.

It wasn't supposed to be intriguing; he wasn't supposed to take any satisfaction from his maundering. But he did. There was no denying it.

Melanie had terrified him; no point in denying that. And his mother had delivered an emotional pounding which left him bruised and struggling to breathe. And yet he could not deny that Lindsey had managed to toss him a lifeline, an anchor to which he'd been able to cling as he floundered around in the intensity of the storm within a storm. And then Liam had walked in. Irish, of course; with a name like that, how could he be otherwise? Probably Catholic born and bred; maybe even devout. But Michael knew, in all certainty, that Christ Himself had never practiced calming troubled waters with a greater degree of success or greater panache.

And then, in the lovely afterglow of the initial conversation with Liam, Emmett had dropped in, bearing croissants and beignets from the French bakery down the street and a tub of his home-made apple butter to further reinforce the growing serenity of the morning, as he looked for company and comfort and coffee strong enough to substitute as paint remover. He had been slightly put off, of course, by Debbie's continuing glower, but had quickly set about brewing cappuccino fit for a king, successfully ignoring her ominous silence. At that point, things had been looking up.

Debbie, of course, continued to project her impression of a looming tsunami - a whole different order of magnitude from the functions of normality which swirled around her, like rushing waters finding a path of least resistance around a boulder in midstream. She appeared to be determined to go on wrangling with her old, familiar demons, dismissing any attempt to soothe her wounded ego or draw her into the desultory conversation around the table - desultory except for Lindsey and Liam, who were deeply involved in the study and discussion of a group of documents the lawyer had pulled from his briefcase.

Michael was grateful - mostly - that Melanie had been long gone by the time Liam had arrived, thus avoiding a face-to-face confrontation between the two attorneys, but somehow, he had no doubt that the woman who was the mother of his only child would soon discover that she had met her match - in determination and in professional skill - and maybe even just a little bit more.

At any rate, he really shouldn't be experiencing such an extreme degree of dread over something as simple as answering the front door.

Until he actually opened it and realized that his first instincts had been entirely correct.

Shit!

Which, said a snide little voice in his mind, was the perfect comment to make because that was exactly what Ted looked like.

When the accountant had looked into Michael's face as the door swung open, there had been a brief moment when hope had flared in coffee-brown eyes. But it had faded almost immediately, leaving behind a dull, lackluster emptiness.

In recent years, appropriate to his professional status as Kinnetik's CFO, Ted had developed a well-defined sense of style, bordering on sophistication. As sophisticated, at least, as it was possible to be within the physical limitations of the person he was. He would never possess the kind of traffic-stopping beauty or eye-catching presence that Brian Kinney wore like a second skin; he would never exhibit the kind of grace and inherent style that was so natural to Brian, and so pursued by people who paid big bucks to look only half as good. Nevertheless, friends and acquaintances had come to expect a certain sartorial elegance in his appearance.

There was nothing of that in the man standing now in the doorway, looking as if he might have just spent the night in a homeless shelter - or a dumpster. Unshaven, uncombed, eyes red and swollen, face gaunt and pallid, dressed in sweatpants and a grungy Led Zeppelin hoodie that had definitely seen better days, he stood slumped and trembling, making no attempt to enter. Waiting to be invited in - or not.

And - for one tiny but endless moment - neither of them was sure which it might turn out to be.

But Michael was, above all, a creature of habit and a consistently soft-heart, always excepting the fact that the only person he had ever managed to turn on - completely and irrevocably - was the one man who had always owned his heart (and he was eternally careful not to examine that fundamental truth too closely). In the end, he could only step back, opening the door to admit the new arrival.

"Jesus, Teddie!" he muttered as he moved, making no attempt to resist the urge to state the obvious. "You look like shit."

Ted nodded. "Appropriately enough, don't you think?" He followed Michael toward the kitchen, never lifting his gaze from his focus on the floor directly in front of his feet.

Thus, he did not actually see the five faces which turned to regard him as he came through the door, but he felt the ponderance of their regard like the weight of a heavy blanket.

He risked a quick visual sweep - a nervous, rapid flicker of his eyes, obviously intended to identify potential threats, or seek out possible allies. Although - of course - there were none of the latter.

Except - his attention settled on Debbie, quickly identifying the anger still residing like a deep, impenetrable shadow in her eyes, and he knew a fleeting moment of hope. Perhaps all was not quite lost - yet.

He had come here hoping that he might find Melanie still hanging around, delaying her departure, and - perhaps - willing to listen to his pleas for leniency and forgiveness or to be willing to overlook his transgressions in the interest of presenting a united front against the . . . He paused and felt a sick twisting in his gut. Had he actually come to a point at which he was ready to identify Brian Kinney and his band of merry men as the enemy? He took a deep breath, reluctant to admit the possibility but seeing little in the way of alternatives. In the same vein, he had harbored some small hope that Ben - eternally at odds with Brian over his treatment of Michael, or, if one were relentlessly honest, over Michael's recently reborn and apparently deathless fascination and loyalty to Brian - might have been willing to offer some small spot of understanding for the actions Ted had felt compelled to take.

But a quick look at Michael's husband had quelled that idea in a hurry. Whatever resentment Ben might feel toward Brian was insufficient to enable him to overlook what he was apparently prepared to interpret as flagrant betrayal. Some things, it seemed, were beyond the realm of emotional preference.

Ben stood within the shadows, still leaning against the kitchen counter, choosing to focus on the contents of his coffee cup, after one brief scan of the new arrival. Still, there was something in his expression - something slightly out of character, maybe even a bit judgmental. But Ted was almost sure he must be imagining it, almost certain that the ultra-liberal professor would not really be entertaining the notion that Ted's appearance - slightly downtrodden, slightly pathetic, slightly reminiscent of a phrase about tired, poor, huddled masses, yearning to breathe free - was a deliberate, none-too-subtle bid for sympathy. Surely it was only a figment of imagination, but perhaps it was best not to dwell on that bit of speculation.

But Debbie - Debbie was looking confused and uncertain and directionless. Perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps all was not yet irretrievably lost.

"Coffee, Teddie?"

The accountant managed - but only just - to avoid cringing away from the frigid, detached quality of that beloved voice. Still beloved, even though time and random chance - and his own blatant stupidity - had cost him any hope for a return to the relationship he had once shared with Emmett.

"Yes. Thanks, Em."

Emmett moved forward to set a mug - bearing a cartoon sketch of Donald Duck and nephews involved in a game of miniature golf - in front of Ted, before pouring out a stream of steaming, ink-dark liquid.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," said the gorgeous young creature sitting beside Lindsey, briefcase open in front of him. The eyes - chameleon eyes, lingering somewhere between aquamarine and emerald - regarded Ted coolly, not exactly hostile, but not particularly welcoming either.

"You're Liam Quinn," Ted observed. "I know who you are, and why you're here."

"Oh, good," replied the young lawyer. "No need to waste time with idle pleasantries."

Ted stirred a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee, trying to come up with a suitably witty response. But in the end, he could not quite quell the upsurge of uncertainty in his tone as he replied. "Wasting no time, are you? Plotting out your campaign to preserve the power of the current regime, I suppose."

He fully expected a biting retort from the young lawyer, but it was Ben who answered as he took a seat at the table. "I'm a little puzzled, Ted. All things considered, I guess most of us understand why Melanie resents Brian, but - correct me if I'm wrong - didn't he provide the means and method for you to reclaim your life?"

Ted barely managed to suppress a scoff. "Right. The gospel according to Kinney."

He looked up and just happened to gaze directly into Emmett's green eyes, and then wished he hadn't. There was no mistaking the deep hurt reflected there. "Dear God, Teddie. How could you . . . :

"How could I what?" Ted's voice was level, flat - almost without emotion, betraying nothing of the surge of desperation rising within him. Emmett, of all people, had to see the truth, had to understand why he had been compelled to do what he'd done. "How could I see him for what he is - for someone who's used everyone around him? Someone who's taken advantage of all of us, and our willingness to forgive him, and our eagerness to please him because he's the almighty Brian Kinney? It's all just bullshit, but none of you are going to believe that. So you tell me, Emmett; what exactly do we owe the divine Brian? What do you . . ."

"Stop!"

Ted closed his mouth so abruptly that he almost bit his tongue and turned to confront the source of that command.

Debbie Novotny was getting to her feet and leaning forward, bracing her arms against the surface of the table.

"Stop it, Ted," she said slowly. "You're holding up a mirror . . . that I don't want to have to look in, Whatever else I might have done, I hope I've never denied that I . . . that we owe him. I couldn't do that. Could I?" Then she turned to meet Michael's gaze. "Is that . . . did I sound like that?"

Michael frowned, and looked toward Ben, obviously reluctant to answer.

"Yes," said Ben. "That's exactly how you sounded. And I . . . I gotta tell you - both of you - if anyone in this room has a bigger bone to pick with Brian than I've had, from time to time, I'd be damned surprised. And I know - shit, we all know - that he's just as flawed, just as human and imperfect as anybody, and maybe more than most. But I defy any of you to claim that he's ever stabbed you in the back. No denying that he's hurt you - he's hurt all of us any number of times - but whatever he's done, he's looked us all in the eye while he did it and never once tried to hide who he is. He's never sneaked around to betray us. And I don't think the same could be said of most of us."

There was a moment of heavy silence, and no one spoke until Liam Quinn cleared his throat. "Well said, Professor Bruckner. And now, we have strategies to plan, so there's a situation here that must be addressed before we can proceed. Namely, anyone who wants to be a part of the Brian Kinney defense team must decide now, as there's no neutral territory here." He first looked at Ted; then he turned to study Debbie's face, and there wasn't a single trace of warmth in his eyes, prompting Ted to realize that this was a man he would not want to confront in a court of law - or a dark alley, for that matter, despite the fact that he was as beautiful, in his way, as a cover girl.

"Mrs. Novotny?" The young lawyer's tone was completely neutral, without a nuance of hostility, but it was also entirely implacable.

She nodded, after a brief hesitation.

"Please," he added firmly, "be certain. If I can't trust you - if Brian can't trust you, you need to speak up now. Because - and I promise you this - you do not want to find yourself in a position of having him discover that you've betrayed him - not now. Because - trust me on this - he has always forgiven you, all of you, for the times you've thrown him to the wolves, but this time, it means too much. There's too much at stake, and you might just find yourself coming face to face with a Brian Kinney you've never met before, someone that you really don't ever want to meet. So . . . are you sure?"

Debbie sank back into her chair. "I never stopped to think . . . I - I love Brian. I've always loved Brian, but I just - I wanted . . ."

"You wanted something he could never give you, something he was unwilling to lie about," said Ben softly, and the gentle look in her eyes said that she was astonished that he could understand that and forgive her for it.

"Yes," she admitted. Then she looked toward Quinn, seeking reassurance. "And I don't want to lose my granddaughter. I thought I'd never have one, and I . . ."

The lawyer stared into her eyes for a moment, before favoring her with a tiny smile. "And you always had some strange notion that Brian might have . . ."

"Yeah," she said quickly, deliberately not looking up to meet Michael's gaze. "But that doesn't matter. I just . . . I don't want Michael to lose . . ."

Liam reached out and took her hand. "That's why I'm here, Mrs. Novotny. Do you really think there's anything Brian wouldn't do to protect Michael's interests - and J.R.'s? Do you really distrust him that much?"

Debbie took a deep breath and looked directly into the young man's jewel-toned eyes. "How good are you?" she demanded.

And he laughed, squeezing her hand. "Oh, I'm good, Honey," he answered. "You won't believe how good I am when I put my mind to it."

Then he fell silent, and turned to look at Ted. "That just leaves you, Mr. Schmidt. Are you in or . . ."

Ted offered a nervous little chuckle. "What? You're just gonna trust me? Just take my word that I'm going to be a good little soldier and follow the orders of my commander-in-chief?"

"They might," answered Liam, with a nod toward the other people around the table, "but I won't. All I know of you is what Brian has told me, and - while he might be willing to  take a chance on you - I'm not so trusting. So you don't get to just nod and say 'Okay'. You have to give me your word, and understand that going back on it will result in grave consequences."

"I already did that," Ted snapped. "That's what Brian demanded in order to allow me to continue to earn my salary - my word that I would knuckle under and follow his instructions, to the letter. So what else . . ."

Quinn smiled. "In that case, you were dealing with Brian. Now, you're dealing with me, and, once you get to know me, you'll find that I'm a suspicious bastard who's very slow to trust. You've already left yourself vulnerable for the ridiculously bad judgment you've exercised during this debacle, but Brian - for whatever reason - has chosen not to pursue the avenues available to him, for payback. And I haven't tried to intervene - yet. But don't assume, Mr. Schmidt, that I wouldn't do so if you push your luck. And don't assume that he won't act, if he must. Loyalty can only forgive so much."

"Loyalty?" echoed Ted, his voice very cold. "Brian? What - I'm supposed to get on my knees and beg him to forgive me? Is that what you're telling me?"

Liam Quinn sat back and took a sip from his coffee, taking a moment to consider his next comment. "Tell me something, Mr. Schmidt," he said finally. "Why are you so angry? Is it because you lost the money you invested in this Ponzi scheme, or is it because you were prevented from taking Brian down with you?"

"What? How can you even think . . ."

"What else am I supposed to think? You're obviously angry at Brian, and I can't for the life of me figure out why. I can only assume it's because he escaped the loss that you suffered."

Emmett, who had, until this moment, been hovering a bit, maintaining a grim wait-and-see attitude as he pretended to be engrossed in choosing a new pastry from the tray he had prepared, chose that moment to come forward and take a seat at the table, directly across from his one-time lover, in order to confront him eye-to-eye. "No," he said, responding to Quinn's inquiry but directing his words to Ted. "That's not it, is it, Teddie? Although the money's important to you, since you never quite got over the undeniable truth that you were once an internet porn-king and a very rich man, and you aren't any more. But that's not the real issue here. The point of it all is that you were never able to force Brian to see you as you think you deserve to be seen: as the super superior sophisticate, the financial guru with his college degree and his society connections and his conservative values, as someone entitled to the respect and deference of those of us who can be safely relegated to the status of - what was it? - pieces of trash from Hazlehurst, Miss? So it doesn't really matter what he might have done for you, or how he might have rescued you and restored the life you'd lost. The only thing that matters is that he never acknowledged how fortunate he was that you were willing to lower yourself and deign to work for him. After all, he couldn't possibly have earned his own college degree by virtue of hard work or intense talent or natural intelligence - couldn't have deserved the respect of his associates and colleagues - right? He's just Brian Kinney, all flash and no substance, getting by on the luck of the draw - his looks and the incidental truth that he's still the undisputed king of Liberty Avenue and still the best fuck around. Right, Teddie?"

The accountant leapt to his feet. "Is that what you think of me, Emmett? Do you really think I'm that shallow and . . . and . . . fucked up? After everything I did - for you and for Michael and . . . and, above all, for him?"

"Well," said Quinn, "I certainly can't speak to your patronage - if that's an appropriate term - for everyone else here, but I can tell you exactly what you almost managed to do - for him. You risked $2,000,000.00 of his money, in an ill-advised investment scheme, and, so far as I can see, your only motive was to impress him with your cleverness, and grab a bit of swag for yourself in the process. You didn't even perform due diligence on the investment - based, I suppose, on your previous association with the hedge fund honcho. But I'm told by the powers-that-be that there've been huge indications - bright red flags - of problems at Hargrave-Correll for months, at least. So any effort on your part to look beneath the surface would have avoided this entire mess. At the same time I just have to ask you, Mr. Schmidt, whether or not you've stopped to visualize what would have happened if you'd succeeded in what you were trying to do? Granted, Brian is a rich man - comparatively speaking - but do you really think he - and Kinnetik - could have survived a loss like that? If the FBI hadn't intervened, that company which you're so proud of would be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy today - courtesy of your actions. And when you compound that betrayal with the fact that your indiscretions might have jeopardized the security of Brian's son . . . how exactly have you managed to arrive at the conclusion that you are the injured party here?"

"But that's not what I meant," he shouted, leaning forward to infringe on Quinn's personal space. "I only meant to make him see - to make him . . ."

"Sit down, Teddie."

Once again silenced in mid-tirade, Ted floundered, uncertain of who had spoken, and then, with the dawning of realization, wishing he could have continued in his ignorance.

Michael Novotny just wasn't one to step up and take charge. It just wasn't in his character. But now . . .

"Since I was fourteen years old," Michael continued, obviously off on some tangent which appeared to have no connection to this moment, this confrontation. And yet . . .

"That's how long he's been taking care of me. That's how long Brian has fought my battles for me, shielded me from so many things - even the consequences of my own foolishness. And in all that time, I've never once realized that maybe - sometimes - he might need someone to step up and take care of him. Maybe, sometimes, all of us who've been content to sit back and take advantage of his protection need to rethink our lives and our willingness to let him risk everything while we enjoy being safe and sound and risk nothing."

He leaned forward then and regarded Ted with eyes gone dark with passion and intense, relentless anger. "No more. You did what you did because you wanted to make him feel obligated; you wanted him to owe you, so then you wouldn't have to be a part of the fan club - menials like the rest of us who owe him more than we can ever repay. But all you succeeded in doing was adding to the debt you already owe."

"Michael, I . . ."

"Shut up, Ted. It's me who has the most to lose here; it's my connection to my daughter that's at stake, because if you haven't tumbled to the fact that Melanie is going to use every weapon at her disposal, including her entire bag of dirty tricks, to try to win this little battle, then you're not near as smart as you think you are. And you know why she's going to do that? Not because she thinks J.R. will be better off without me. Not because it's the wise or the prudent thing to do. Not because it's right. No. She'll do it because she knows that hurting me hurts Brian, and she's counting on my love for J.R. to convince me to take her side and walk away from the man who's always been the best friend I will ever have. So what does that say about the kind of mother she is, Teddie? And when you take her side - for the same reasons - what does it say about you?"

"But that's . . . that's not what I meant. Michael, you know that I'd never do anything to hurt you. I can help you. That's all I want to do. You have to know . . ."

Michael sighed. "Yeah. I do know. And it used to be enough. It used to matter. But it doesn't any more. Because the only way I can earn your 'help' is to stand with you - and Mel - against Brian. And that's not going to happen. Get out, Ted."

"Michael, please . . ."

Ben stood slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets so that his demeanor remained completely casual, but somehow, everyone in the room was immediately reminded of just how big - and physically imposing - Ben was. "You heard him, Ted."

"But I wouldn't . . ."

Michael had tears in his eyes, but they did nothing to temper the terrible resolve in his expression. "Sorry, Teddie. The risk is too great. I just can't be sure that your desire to hurt Brian - to make him pay for not giving you what you believe he should - isn't stronger than any loyalty you might feel to me - to us."

Ted took a deep breath and looked around at the group, focusing on each face in turn, and finding nothing in any of them to offer any hope of changing what had just happened. They were not without some measure of pity and regret, but it was not enough. They were no longer willing or able to believe in him.

It was staggering to realize how quickly his world had narrowed, to the point where the circle of personal trust around him was only large enough to enclose himself and Blake, the only one left who would stand with him against everyone else. All his other so-called friends, watching him, evaluating him - they were sitting in judgment now, all believing him to be capable of blatant disloyalty and dishonor. And that, of course, was nonsense. He was the one who had been betrayed - the one discarded and left behind.

He had lost everything, everyone else . . . to Brian Kinney.

He stumbled toward the door, blinded with pain - pain threaded through and transformed by fury.

This wasn't over. Someone would pay for this.

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


Cynthia relaxed against the leather seat of the SUV and let her eyes drift out toward the shoreline, where the sea glittered in the morning sunlight as Bob Seger's voice issued - soft and muted - from the radio.

And I remember what she said to me,
How she swore that it never would end.
I remember how she held me oh so tight.
Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then.

Against the wind,
We were running against the wind;
We were young and strong, and we were running
Against the wind. *

She had no idea why she was suddenly compelled to reach out and change the station, but she felt better somehow when the slightly mournful melody shifted to some mindless pap from one of the endlessly interchangeable sweet young things so prevalent on current pop charts.

"Big difference from Pittsburgh," observed Chris McClaren, as they made a quick exit from the interstate and veered onto a coastal two-lane, with dunes and small piers and stretches of beach and tidal pools on their left, leading out toward the rolling expanse of broken surf.

"Yeah," she replied, shifting slightly to follow the twisting flight of a group of terns and then moving forward to gaze out toward the East where a group of sailboats were just visible above the horizon. "I always feel ridiculously small when looking out to sea."

The FBI agent smiled, his eyes concealed behind the impenetrable darkness of his Oakleys. "I can't imagine you feeling ridiculously small - anywhere."

Cynthia almost giggled, but managed - at the very last moment - to confine her amusement to a quick grin. "Are you flirting with me, Agent McClaren?"

He was less restrained, and allowed himself a quick chuckle. "I think you know better than that."

She didn't bother with trying to conceal the quick rush of sympathy that rose in her eyes. "Lethal, isn't he?"

McClaren chose to ignore the question, and she allowed him to do so.

"But all is not well," she continued. "Have you thought of anything else? Any hints as to what's bothering him?"

He shrugged. "He watches everything like a hawk. Looks into every aspect of the investigation - monitors everything. Sometimes offers suggestions for things that should be checked out and shows a lot of surprisingly good instincts for things that need investigating. But then, that's Brian, isn't it? He's got more insight than anyone ever expects."

"And the investigation? Anything new there?"

McClaren glanced back over his shoulder, realizing that Lance Mathis was perfectly capable of carrying on two conversations at once, and was currently monitoring what he and his front seat passenger were saying while simultaneously paying close attention to Katy's slightly rambling speech. "I'd be very surprised if you didn't know as much about that as I do."

She smiled again. "True enough, but I've been on a plane for the last three hours, so if you have anything new . . ."

He shook his head. "Initial DNA analyses came through a little while ago, providing some extremely interesting information. Confirming some of our suspicions, and raising others. Young Nicholas, as he's commonly known, was a big help in getting us the items we needed for testing. In the process, I think he's made a couple of new friends who are going to move heaven and earth to help him out of the hole he's been thrown into, and I have an idea Brian is going to be reminded - often and intensely - of a debt he might owe to this kid, because the information he's provided, along with some new data that Jared and Sharon uncovered, have pointed us in a new direction. Toward a new source, who might just prove to be the mother lode of evidence, for every aspect of the case. Sometimes - many times, actually, in situations like this - it turns out that the most important discoveries happen when we follow the money. So that's what this will probably lead to - an avenue to use in an attempt to trace who paid for what, and to whom."

"Logical," she replied. "Although . . ."

"Although what?"

"Do you ever wonder why? I mean . . . why would the fact that Brian happens to fancy pretty boys instead of pretty girls enrage someone so much that they're willing to invest big money just to . . . what?"

"To show him the error of his ways?" he replied. "To re-educate him?"

"Do you think they really believe that? Do they really think that homosexuality is just some passing fetish? Or a virus, maybe - something they can cure or suppress - or immunize against? According to the last estimates I read, we're talking about more than seven percent of the population of the country. How can they possibly dismiss numbers like that as some kind of aberration? Something that needs curing? It's like declaring that every natural redhead is a genetic freak. Actually, it's worse than that, since only two or three percent of the people in the world are redheads."

McClaren laughed - a deep, rich rumble - and Cynthia could not help but observe that no one - anywhere - would suspect that he was gay; he was, down to the last molecule, a walking definition of macho, and the fleeting image produced by her imagination - him and Brian Kinney wrapped up together in an intimate embrace - was sufficiently inspiring to make her reach for the button to roll down her window and allow a bracing breath of air to cool her face.

For his part, the FBI agent was somehow not surprised that the woman who was Brian's chosen surrogate would have such facts and figures instantly available in a memory that was apparently every bit as impressive as Brian believed.

In the back seat, Lance Mathis smiled; with each passing day, he grew more and more impressed with Cynthia Whitney - her mind, her wit, her strength, her courage, and - most of all, perhaps - her determination.

"So, Katy," he said, after having listened to the girl's recitation of the meaning and the mystery of tidal pools, "what do you want to do when we get to the cottage?"

"Walk with Brian."

He studied her face, undeterred by the slightly odd proportions and easily capable of seeing the lovely innocence beneath any perceived distortion. "And?"

"And nothing really. Just walk. Make footprints in the wet sand. You ever notice how your weight makes dry spots grow around you when you walk on a wet beach?"

"Yeah," he replied, enchanted by her shy smile. "I've noticed."

"Brian showed me that. He says it's because the world notices when I pass by, even if stupid people don't."

Mathis blinked. Brian Kinney had actually told her that? Brian Kinney, who - if he was right, and he was pretty sure he was - would have been the last person - literally the last person - most people would have expected to show any inkling of understanding or empathy to someone like Katy. "He really said that?"

She nodded, and then busied herself with changing the settings on her iPod, looking for a new song to catch her fancy. But then she added one final comment. "He's bigger on the inside, you know."

Mathis simply frowned, obviously confused, but Chris McClaren burst out laughing, eliciting another smile from Cynthia.

"Miss Katy," he called as he turned to offer her a big grin, "I have a secret stash of DVDs that you're going to love!"

"What?" demanded Mathis, sensing that he was missing out on something.

"Don't run across too many Who fans these days," replied McClaren, "and we gotta stick together, hey? So, Katy, Nine . . . or Ten?"

"Ten, of course."

The FBI agent laughed again. "Of course. And now for the big question. Rose, Martha . . . or Donna?'

The teen-ager's smile was radiant. "Oh, puh-lease," she retorted with a perfect eye-roll. "You can't be serious. Is there anybody besides Captain Jack?" **

McClaren grinned. Of course - allowing for the slightly twisted influence of one Brian Kinney, he realized that he should have known. He turned then to make sure to catch the girl's eye. "You're absolutely right, Katy. He is bigger on the inside."

"Oi! McFed," she responded, as the SUV bucked over one of the numerous potholes that made a trip down the narrow coastal lane feel a bit like a roller coaster ride. "You might want to keep your eye on the road!"

It was Cynthia's turn to laugh. "In case you'd forgotten, he never knows when to keep his mouth shut. And she never forgets anything he tells her."

Still, the FBI agent found it hard to suppress his grin. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like laughing. Young Katy, it seemed, was good for the soul.

Meanwhile, Lance Mathis sighed, deciding to postpone satisfying his curiosity until he could get a chance to speak with Cynthia in confidence. Looking clueless was never a good idea, especially in front of a smiling, slightly smug teen-ager and a smart-ass FBI agent.

Moments later, they were pulling into a private driveway, and Cynthia was getting her first good luck at Bailey's Landing and the breathtaking vista around it. For a moment, she was speechless; it was exquisitely beautiful, and it was the perfect setting for the man who stood watching as they drove up, his features touched with the small, intimate smile which was reserved for those most precious to him.

Not many people were ever allowed to see that smile.

She was out of the SUV and in his arms in one mad rush, and she wasn't entirely sure which of them was more delighted in the moment.

Justin was nearby, along with Gus and his grandfather, and there were plenty of other people around - security guards, no doubt, and staff members, and, around the side of the cottage, there were a couple of cargo-type vans where several men were stowing equipment into storage compartments in the rear of one of the vans while gardening supplies were being unloaded from the other. They seemed intent on their tasks, and no one bothered too pay much attention to the new arrivals.

Lots of activity, lots of people, lots of vague faces, and Cynthia supposed that, later on, she would process everything and sort out who was whom and whether or not she should know them and how they related to Brian and his entourage.

But for that moment, despite the joy of seeing Justin and Gus, and the eagerness to meet the people who were now so much a part of his life, it was only Brian who drew her eyes, only Brian who filled her thoughts.

Only Brian, who would never be her beloved, but would always love her without limits and always deserve and treasure the love she gave him in return.

For a full minute, she enjoyed his embrace, enjoyed the renewed sensation of his strength and the sense of protection he always offered. Then he was turning away, his face - that beautiful face, almost fully restored - lighting up as Katy rushed toward him.

"K-K-K-Katy!" he cried, bracing himself as she threw her body into his arms so he could lift her off her feet and swing her around, and if he grimaced just a bit, swallowing the twinges of discomfort generated by the motion, he made sure no one noticed. Except for Justin, of course, and Chris McClaren. The two of them always noticed, but elected - on pain of dental extraction as a means of retaliation - to keep their observations to themselves.

Cynthia, as always, wasn't really fooled either, but she was an old hand at knowing when and how to choose her battles - when to speak and when to shut up. Thus she said nothing - for the moment.

It was pandemonium for a while, as Justin and Gus rushed forward to welcome the new arrivals, and introductions were performed, while Katy and Gus had a squealing, freeform chase-and-tumble match with Beau Soleil.

Cynthia watched, mouth gaping, looking back and forth between the excited little terrier and her boss's face. "A dog," she said flatly, finally. "You . . . have a dog."

Brian's nostrils flared. "In the interest of absolute accuracy, Gus has a dog. I remain - as ever - canine-free."

"No, no, no," she retorted with a gleeful grin. "It doesn't work that way. He's your kid; he's six years old; he has a dog. Ergo - you have a dog."

Brian opened his mouth to offer up a snarky response, but then thought better of it. It was only rarely that Brian Kinney found himself floundering for a smart remark, and Cynthia felt a silly urge to crow in triumph as she noted that no one seemed to find it the least bit remarkable when the dog accompanied the group when they trouped inside.

Brian Kinney - with a dog. She wondered for a moment if such a thing might be construed as a sign of the Apocalypse.

Thereafter, the entire group got involved in unloading and distributing luggage and moving to get settled in assigned rooms with Trina enjoying the role of hostess before leading them all to a lavish lunch buffet featuring local delicacies, a recently perfected variation of chicken Kiev, a mouthwatering asparagus-prosciutto tart, and her signature bread pudding with praline sauce, while outside the last of the portable equipment used in Brian's physical therapy was loaded into the medical van, and the exchange of gardening supplies continued.

Brian sat between Cynthia and Katy in the formal dining room, but it was mostly the teen-ager who dominated the conversation, demanding his constant attention. Somehow, though, no one seemed to mind - not even Justin, who was usually slightly discomfited when he was not the subject of Brian's focus. Even Gus - ordinarily prone to go so far as to climb into his father's lap if he felt even slightly ignored - seemed to sense that Brian's relationship to this young woman was something special, something almost incandescent.

Cynthia, of course, was happy to sit quietly and soak up the ambiance of the love between her amazing daughter and this amazing man.

After a while, carrying a champagne flute filled with a perfectly prepared mimosa, she rose from her place at the table - suitably stuffed - and wandered out to the deck, to enjoy the sweeping view. She settled herself into a low deck chair just as the two cargo vans at the side of the house pulled out and headed toward the road. She wasn't paying much attention and only turned toward them because the glint of sunlight off one of the side mirrors on the dark red vehicle caught her eye.

She sighed with contentment, lulled by the whisper of the surf and the lovely warmth of the breeze that caressed her skin, and sipped at her drink, reveling in the sound of her daughter's laughter, as Brian tried to cajole the teen-ager into taking a bite of the crabmeat au gratin that was one of Trina's specialties.

Beautiful day, and the beginning, she was sure, of a beautiful visit.

Except . . .

She frowned slightly, and tried to dismiss the tiny little nagging sensation of unease that had settled somewhere in her gut. She knew she was just being silly. Especially since she had no idea what might have caused the twinge in the first place.

She was still brooding, still puzzled, a few minutes later when Brian strode out of the house and dropped into the chair beside her, frowning slightly.

"What's up, Tink? No luck luring Stud Muffin into your bed?"

"Careful, CEO" she retorted. "That remark would constitute sexual harassment anywhere in the civilized world - except, of course, that you don't really qualify as civilized, since your first thought, in any situation, is always about sex. Also, any occupant of my bed is none of your business anyway, so don't go speculating."

Brian chuckled. "I don't need to speculate. I know you too well, including exactly what kind of package you find hard to resist." When he deliberately allowed his gaze to drift toward the window where Lance Mathis was shaking his head in an attempt to resist Trina's offer of a second serving of dessert. "A very nice package, by the way."

He was surprised when she went very still, eyes wide and filled with momentary uncertainty. "Should I be worried? Am I missing something here?"

He laughed. "Not a thing. He's straight as an arrow, Cyn. And you know me well enough to be sure I'm never wrong about that kind of thing."

Her smile was still a bit tremulous, and he knew there was something else - knew he'd been right in the beginning when he'd sensed that something was bothering her. "You didn't answer my question, you know."

She looked out toward the horizon and saw something break from the water's surface far out beyond the rough tumble of breakers - graceful and very fast - and was grateful for another opportunity to divert his attention. "Is that . . ."

Brian followed her gaze. "Dolphin, I think. Beautiful, but you're still not answering me."

She sighed, realizing that she should have known better. Diverting Brian was always easier said than done. "Because I don't know what to say. I don't know anything. I've just . . ."

"Got a feeling," Brian finished her sentence. It did not sound like a question.

"Yes, and don't finish my sentences for me. It makes us sound like an old married couple."

She laughed when a look of sheer horror touched his face; then she turned again to look out toward the front gate, where the red van was just pulling into the road as the white one paused for a moment when one of the security detail stepped up to speak to the driver. Nothing remarkable in either case - nothing there to raise an alarm, to be concerned about.

Nothing . . . familiar?

Only there was something, something lingering just below the level of consciousness. Something she was sure she should know, but could not bring into focus; something . . . out of context.

"You'll tell me if you figure it out," said Brian, laying back and closing his eyes, completely secure in his certainty. It was, after all, what she always did, and he didn't require a verbal response.

She wished she felt equally secure and relaxed. She even wished she knew why she didn't. Of course, she would tell him, when it came to her. If it came to her.

Well, shit!

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

The Club was a different place in the early morning hours - silent, even though it wasn't empty. To achieve the level of perfect service, of providing for every possible contingent desire of the members - almost before they even realized what they might want - it was necessary for the staff to begin work very early. They worked diligently, trying to anticipate every conceivable contingency, with few breaks and precious little in the way of social interaction. And they seldom discussed anything.

The place wasn't really haunted, of course; no non-corporeal spirits actually walked the hallowed halls. It only felt that way.

Only, in the case of a few longtime employees, perhaps the haunting was real, in part, but it was something about which none of them ever spoke. Some truths, it seemed, were best left unaddressed and unacknowledged.

This was true of Rachel Charles, who channeled her natural curiosity away from seeking answers to questions she had no right to ask and into finding new sources for the very best produce and supplies to help her reach new levels of culinary excellence and to locate copies of vintage cookbooks, with the same goal in mind. She suspected many things but actually knew very few and would have been happier to know none at all.

It was also true of Zachary Jefferson, who had manned the front gate for almost forty years and still remembered a time when most of the members would arrive for their extended luncheons and their fashionably late dinners in European limos driven by chauffeurs who wore dark suits and caps and lived by the three-monkey credo: see, hear, and speak no evil, or - more to the point - discretion in all things. Zachary had seen much over the years, but made a point of remembering very little.

It was also true of Morris Steadwell, who had filled the prestigious position of major domo of The Club for more than two decades but had been forced to step aside just after the dawn of the new century, for health reasons. No longer able to juggle the wide range of duties inherent in that stressful role, he had narrowed his focus to the oversight of the extensive and impressive wine cellar, becoming a sommelier of the first order. Though approaching his seventieth birthday, he still spent a couple of months each year traveling through the Loire valley and the Bordeaux and Cognac regions of France, always looking for the ultimate - the flawless bottle of wine. And if, during the performance of his duties, in the process of selecting and presenting - with appropriate je ne sais quoi - the perfect wine to accompany one of the perfect meals that were served - with discretion, of course - in one of the private dining suites, he happened to notice that the lady sitting within the heavily curtained alcove, beside the club member, smiling and accepting her companion's loving attention and lavish gifts, was not, in fact, the member's wife . . . well, that was really none of his concern, was it? It was just business, as usual.

And so it went, including, to some degree, every senior member of the staff. All possessed tiny little pieces of various puzzles, but none saw the whole picture - or wished to.

But none among them was as knowledgeable, as well informed, as Henry Flagg, AKA Cap'n Henry. None knew more, and none said less.

Tucked away in an area that was almost - but not quite - a garret in the attic, Henry's office was narrow, cluttered, and filled floor to ceiling with shelves, bookcases, and filing cabinets, leaving only enough room for one single-pedestal metal desk, a battered old secretarial chair, and a small deacon's bench. There was one narrow dormer-style window, almost obscured by the glossy foliage of a thriving pothos vine, and a tiny Coca-Cola fridge tucked into the corner beneath the only personal items in the room, a carefully arranged assortment of photographs - six of them, all in matching frames. Family photos, of an older woman with a halo of silver hair, and a young boy, pictured at various ages - toddler, child, teen-ager, and young man. Looking remarkably different in some of the shots, but all still recognizably the same person - a developing, younger version of the slender, silver-haired man who sat behind his desk and regarded Jared Hilliard and Sharon Briggs with the same degree of warmth he might have displayed toward a pair of serpents invading his private, professional space.

He made absolutely no attempt to pretend that he didn't have more urgent things to do than make time for this little interview. And yet . . . Henry Flagg had not survived - intact - in a world where rich, white men controlled the very air he breathed without figuring out a few things and developing a remarkably refined set of instincts.

He studied the faces of the young woman - Shirley Harper, according to the thin dossier on his desk, and her companion - ostensibly her brother - and felt something shift within his consciousness. Something fundamental. Something that made him wonder if he should have been frightened.

He smiled, and Jared Hilliard saw hints of the strong, handsome man that Henry Flagg must have been at one time. Like the face in those pictures. Extremely handsome and full of life. One of the photos - the newest of them, judging by the age of the subject - was a duplicate of another photo, which resided now in the file that Sharon Briggs was holding.

The two of them had talked a lot about what they were about to do, and they had agreed this was the best course of action. But agreement between them was still no guarantee that they were right. It was a risk they felt justified in taking, but, if they were wrong, they might very well lose a potentially priceless source of information.

Time to find out what would happen next.

"You know, Shirley," drawled Henry Flagg, "I didn't mean to alarm you. There was no need for you to bring . . . protection with you."

Briggs smiled. "I just thought you might need a character reference, Cap'n. Judging by what you said."

Flagg shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that. There was just some confusion about your social security number. Probably just something as simple as transposed digits or a government snafu, don't you think?"

Jared Hilliard sat forward and regarded the older man with a speculative gaze. "You know, Mr. Flagg," he said softly, "you don't strike me as clueless. If we really wanted to avoid raising red flags, do you think we'd screw up something as elementary as a social security number?"

The elderly man sat back in his chair and folded his hands against his chest. "So . . . what now? Do you think I'm going to play the role of the befuddled old fool and pretend . . ."

"Actually, no," said Sharon. "That's not what we expect at all. In fact, rather the opposite. If we've guessed correctly, you've already begun to put two and two together and figure out that all is not as it seems."

He smiled. "If you're suggesting that I'd already begun to wonder about you - specifically - Miss Harper, you'd be correct. You know, you're very good at blending in, becoming part of the background, and your culinary skills are quite remarkable, but, once in a while, you let something slip through which doesn't quite fit the profile you're projecting. A bit of an accent which doesn't quite ring true for a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, or, more often, a hint of something in your carriage, in your posture - a bit of a noble stature that hints of a different life, a different perspective."

"So, have you figured it out yet?"

Flagg shrugged. "Not specifically, no. But I figure it's all part and parcel of a series of odd things which have cropped up lately."

"Such as?"

"Such as strange vehicles parked in unexpected places around the area, especially in places which have good lines-of-sight to all the building's entrances, and to areas that might allow visual surveillance of the interior of the Club. Such as some unexpected nervousness among younger members of our staff - the kind of unease that might suggest they've been questioned and then cautioned to say nothing of the encounter. Such as one particular young staff member - one who has almost unlimited access to the inner circle of our organization - who has been pale and slightly disoriented and awkward of late. So awkward that he managed to damage a trayful of expensive stemware to such a degree that it had to be discarded. Such as a strange sensation which has become increasingly difficult to ignore - a sensation of being watched."

Hilliard grinned at the young woman who was purported to be his sister. "Told you he'd begun to figure it out."

"What I can't figure out," said Flagg, "is why you've assumed that I won't pick up the phone and call security to have you escorted from the building, and . . ."

"Oh, I think you have," Sharon said firmly. "There are really only two viable possibilities, aren't there? Either we're working some kind of monumental scam, looking to score big money - in which case, you can't afford to throw us out until you get some idea of what kind of cards we're holding that might make your precious club vulnerable. Or . . ."

"Or?"

"Or the time has come for the members of your exclusive little version of the Third Reich to face the music and pay up."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Jared settled back in his seat. "Yes, you do. Or, at least, you know part of it. More than anyone else here, you hold pieces of all the puzzles which could be put together to expose a sordid history of the actions of the people who hold the power here. You know where the money goes - and where the bodies are buried."

Flagg smiled and spread his hands in a classic gesture of openness and innocence. "Our financial records are literally an open book," he replied. "If you're IRS, then I must say you've gone to an awful lot of needless trouble when all you had to do was ask."

"We're not IRS," replied Briggs. "Although I've seen your tax records. They're quite impressive, actually. And a classic exercise in misdirection. But you should know, Mr. Flagg, that misdirection in tax filing is only effective so long as no one suspects enough to scratch the surface to see what lies beneath. Have you ever scratched the surface, for example?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Hilliard sighed. "Maybe you don't. But I suspect it's more a case of not looking, because you're afraid of what you might find.

"We can follow the money, you know. Are in the process of doing so right now, and it's only a matter of time before we find what we're looking for. But you could make it easier - save us a lot of time and trouble and, perhaps, save more than that. There are innocent people who might wind up paying the price for your silence."

Flagg regarded them coldly. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Briggs smiled. "We're the people who are going to sink this disaster you call the Club, Cap'n Henry. And you have to decide whether or not you want to go down with the ship."

"Police?" he asked.

She nodded.

"But I don't really know anything. All I could tell you would just be conjecture. I don't . . ."

"In that case," said Hilliard, "maybe you should just listen to what we can tell you."

He then reached into a battered old brief case and pulled out a group of photographs - stylish, professionally composed images of Brian Kinney in his finest hours. Next came another group of photographs - lurid depictions of the damage inflicted on the same young man at the hands of his attackers.

Henry Flagg went pale as Hilliard described the injuries in detail.

"But what has this to do with me?" he asked finally, voice shaking.

It was Sharon Briggs who took over the narrative at that point, summarizing the statement which Brian had given to the FBI about his confrontation with the thugs in the warehouse, and the men who had stood and watched it all play out.

At that point, Hilliard spoke up. "You're a smart man, Mr. Flagg. You surely know about DNA forensic evidence, and what it can prove. As it happens, we've recently managed to collect sufficient evidence to tie a number of your core members to what happened in that warehouse that night. They were the movers and shakers who put it into motion - who paid for it - and you, Mr. Flagg, can provide the data we need to trace that money. The case we're building is very strong, but you can make it stronger. You can make it foolproof."

The elderly man took a deep breath, and took a moment to remove his spectacles and clean them with an immaculate handkerchief . "As it happens, I do know about DNA evidence, Mr. Harper, if that's even your name. Which means I also know that it's not nearly as infallible as you claim. Mistakes are made, and, sometimes, they're deliberate. You're talking about an assault by thugs and vandals - animals. Why would I want to help you tie this kind of horror to the members of this Club, members who know nothing of such a nasty, horrible world? And why would such men get involved in something so tawdry?"

Hilliard picked up the most graphic, most livid photograph of Brian's face after the assault, and slapped it down on the desk. "Because he's gay, Mr. Flagg. Because he has the audacity to be beautiful and desirable and charming and has absolutely no desire to fuck his way through the pussies of the world. That's why."

"Then his soul is already damned to burn in hell. He's an abomination, and . . . and . . ." He put his glasses back on his nose. "Flaunting himself in the faces of decent people is what brought this down on him."

Sharon Briggs took a deep breath, and wished she had not understood the depth of the pain that flared in Hilliard's eyes as he'd seen and interpreted the contempt that registered in the old man's face.

"So . . . what?" she said quickly. "You're actually saying you think he deserved this?

The old man closed his eyes. "No," he admitted. "Nobody deserves something like that. But that's the reason it happened, isn't it? Because he refused to stay in the closet, where he'd have been safe?"

The undercover agent sighed, and wished, for just a moment, that she could disappear from this room, could avoid witnessing what was yet to come. But she couldn't. And she wouldn't deprive her partner of the satisfaction - grim and bitter as it was going to be - of playing their hold card.

"You really believe that?" asked Hilliard. "You really think hiding who you are will keep you safe? That living your life in such a way to avoid offending the homophobes is what a gay man needs to do in order to survive?"

He reached over and took the file that Sharon was holding, and pulled two items from it.

"Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. All it takes for the haters to find you is one little slip-up. One little indiscretion. One little mistake in judgment. For example, let me introduce you to a subject of an investigation that was done right here in Pittsburgh a few years ago. A young man, just a few years out of college and on the fast track for success in his profession - talented, intelligent, very gifted. Very handsome fellow. His friends sometimes commented that he looked a bit like Sidney Poitier."

Henry Flagg went very still, but he said nothing.

Hilliard's eyes were hard as he continued. "He was very careful to follow the paths laid out for him, by family and community, by church and state. Worked hard, climbed up through the ranks. Got engaged when he was in his mid twenties, because that's what a successful up-and-coming professional was expected to do, right? Beautiful fiancé, rosy future - everything coming up roses. And if the young man happened to have a special secret - something that he kept hidden away, deep in a closet - well, that was nobody's business, was it? Nobody ever had to know, especially not his very traditional,ultra- Christian family. Only . . . he knew; the young man knew, and sometimes - just once in while - he found himself in such dire need, for someone to trust, someone with whom he could be himself and shed the façade, that he would let his guard drop. Just a little bit. Just for a little while. And then, once the irresistible itch was scratched, everything would go back to normal; everything would be fine again, and he could go back to playing his role. Until the next time.

"Only, just by sheer bad luck, the time came when he made one small mistake; he assumed something. He revealed himself to the wrong person."

Jared leaned forward. "Would you like to meet our case subject, Mr. Flagg? Would you like to examine his case file?"

"No, I don't think . . ."

Jared slapped two photographs down on the desk, covering the ones of Brian Kinney, before and after. There was, however, a similarity between the two new images and the previous ones. These were also before and after.

"See anyone you know, Mr. Flagg?"

"Please." The old man's voice was barely a whisper. "Please, don't."

"Did you really not know, Mr. Flagg?" Jared demanded. "Or did you just pretend not to know, because it was easier that way?"

"You're wrong." But it wasn't really a statement. It was more like a plea.

"Daniel Henry Flagg," said Hilliard, his voice cold, relentless. "Only child of Henry and Grace Flagg. Graduated cum laude from Temple University with a bachelor's degree in architecture, hired immediately by the prestigious firm of Lacey, Morrison, and Gaunt and well on his way to a partnership within a few years. Engaged to Rachel Meadows, a teacher at Eden Christian Academy. He was a member of the Trinity Methodist Church - a deacon, actually. Well respected, admired - a staunch defender of Christian values. Only . . ."

"Please . . . stop."

"Only it was all a lie, wasn't it, Mr. Flagg? Because Daniel - your only son - was a homosexual. Wasn't he? That's what he could never admit, what you could never accept. And that's what got him killed."

"No!" The elderly black man leapt to his feet. "No! He was mugged. Attacked by a gang from the ghetto. By black thugs who just wanted his wallet and his car, and . . ."

Hilliard sighed. "Right. Black thugs who just wanted his wallet. Strange, don't you think, that these 'thugs' took the time to drag him off a city street corner - which just happened to be two doors down from a gay bar - into the basement of an abandoned storefront and spend a couple of hours beating him with chains, raping him with a tire iron, and then - for good measure - carving the word 'fag' into his abdomen? Not quite like any black gang members that I've ever come across."

"Jared," said Sharon softly. "That's enough."

The old man was huddled now, his face braced against his hands, trying not to look at the two photographs Hilliard had laid out for him. His son - his beautiful, perfect son - smiling at the camera and standing in front of the new car, the dark red BMW he'd just purchased. Proud, successful, Armani-clad. Beautiful, as always - and Henry had always managed to stifle that tiny little voice inside him that suggested that maybe - just maybe - Daniel was a tiny bit too beautiful.

The other picture was the antithesis of the first: Daniel - mutilated, bloody, torn and broken. Lifeless and carved up like a piece of meat.

"Please," he said finally, all bravado gone. "Please just go away."

Hilliard said nothing, the adrenalin rush of confronting the old man's willful ignorance gone before an onslaught of empathy. One could not simply dismiss such anguish, even if it might have been partially deserved. Henry Flagg was not a bad man; he was just a product of the world that made him, and nothing Jared Hilliard could say to him would ever be as harsh or as painful as his own realization of what his bigotry had cost him.

But Sharon Briggs knew that they could not afford to back down more. Hard as it was, there was more to be revealed.

"Mr. Flagg, did you ever ask to see the full case file about Daniel's murder?"

He shook his head. "Never saw the point. It was just a gang thing. They never found who did it."

"No," she agreed. "They didn't. But they did investigate. They did talk to witnesses, and to everyone who had come in contact with Daniel during the days leading up to the attack. Including one person that he seems to have encountered at Connections - the underground bar on Chilton Street."

Henry Flagg sighed. "You've made your point, you know. You don't have to keep harping on it, and I'd really rather not discuss it."

Briggs nodded. "Yes, I can see that, but you're missing the point here. Connections is a very discreet place. It serves a very select clientele, and lots of people don't even realize it's a gay bar. Including the young man who happened to run in there a few nights before Daniel was attacked. It was pouring that night, and he just dashed in to wait out the storm and have a drink while he waited. And when Daniel saw him there, he . . . assumed. We think it was that assumption which got him killed."

Flagg was still slumped over the desk, still struggling for breath. Then he went rigid, before rousing himself to look up and study the face of the beautiful young woman who was looking at him with rare sympathy in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked, barely audible.

It was Hilliard who laid the file out before him, and pointed to a paragraph half-way down the page - the transcription of an interview with someone Daniel had encountered earlier in the week.

The words were ugly, vile, and hateful, and Flagg just skimmed over them. He really didn't want to read the comments of someone who obviously hated his son, and felt no sympathy or regret over what had happened to him.

"I don't want to read that," he snapped.

"Of course, you don't," said Hilliard, "and you don't have to. But you might want to look at the name of the witness."

The old man looked down again, and found the name. It was just a common name - a name that would have meant nothing to almost anyone else in the world.

A name - that reduced his entire life to ashes.

He drew a deep, painful breath, and looked up directly into the hard, implacable eyes of Jared Hilliard, and asked one simple question.

"What do you want to know?"

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

"Well," said Justin, as he watched Gus and Katy squeal and cavort on the carousel, each of them atop a colorful dolphin, "was it worth it?"

Brian grinned. "Yeah. But don't tell Trina. I already pay her too much money."

Cynthia and Lance Mathis were standing shoulder to shoulder nearby, talking quietly and enjoying the children's banter, when Justin stepped forward and laced his arms around Brian's neck to pull him down for a long, deep kiss, much to the delight of many in the crowd - and the outrage of many others.

"Not that I'm complaining," whispered Brian when Justin pulled back and looked up into hazel eyes, exactly as if the two of them were alone in the world, "but what was that for?"

Justin's smile was achingly tender. "For being the one and only Brian Kinney. For being unlike anyone else in the world."

It was Brian's turn to initiate the deep, thorough kiss, and Justin's turn to question, once it was done. "And that?"

Brian's grin became a snort of laughter. "For putting up with the one and only Brian Kinney."

Justin sighed and burrowed his face into the softness of Brian's shirt. "Gus is a lucky kid, you know."

"Yeah," Brian scoffed. "So lucky he has to have the FBI standing guard to keep him safe."

But Justin was not going to let his lover get away with that kind of pseudo-guilt. "No, he doesn't. The only protection Gus needs - now or ever - is you."

"Justin . . ."

"Will you please stop this shit!" Justin's voice was tinged, just slightly now, with impatience. "None of this is your fault, Brian. I know you've spent your whole life carrying the weight of everything - all the way back to original sin - on your shoulders, but you need to let it go. You don't have the first clue, do you? You have no idea how special you are."

The laugh came again, with a bit more edge. "Oh, yeah, I know exactly how special I am, as in . . ."

"Don't - you - dare!" Justin was still mere inches away - close enough for the two of them to share breath, but there was now no mistaking the flare of anger in his voice. "Brian, have you ever watched Katy, and seen how other people react to her, and - more importantly - how she reacts to them? Have you ever really watched?"

"I've watched." There was no warmth in that answer; it was filled with the ice of resentment, of bitterness.

"And yet . . ." Justin's tone was soft again, with a note of wonder. "How is she with you? Do you understand that she holds on to everything you say to her? That she keeps it close to her - like a precious keepsake. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Katy doesn't see the public persona of Brian Kinney. She doesn't see the Stud of Liberty Avenue. She sees you - the real thing, the genuine, unvarnished Brian Kinney; and she loves you with her whole heart. So that means that you've got a lot to live up to."

Brian frowned and moved to step back.

"Oh, no, you don't." Justin was having none of it. "Because I see you too. You may be really good at hiding under that suit of armor, but once a person gets inside, they never step out again. You're stuck with us, Old Man."

For a moment, Brian simply stared at him, and Justin felt a momentary rush of unease as he saw something . . . something he could not quite identify, in that steady gaze. Then Brian smiled, and whatever it had been was gone. Just a figment of his imagination.

"Who you calling old?"

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

They were moving away from the carousel now. The kid and the retarded girl had ridden three times before they were satisfied, and the group - flanked by their security detail - was moving to one of the refreshment booths. The boy - who the hell named a kid 'Gus' in this day and time - was demanding cotton candy and fried ice cream, while the girl seemed content to just walk along, holding on to the pervert's hand, although she did favor him with a radiant smile when he suggested she might like a snow-cone. Kind of pathetic, that. She obviously didn't know any better than to trust someone like him, but it was a damn shame that the woman in the group didn't step in to get her away from the man who, in an ideal world, would never be allowed near any child, anywhere - including his own son.

The place was packed tonight - which was both advantage and disadvantage. It made it fairly easy to get lost in the crowd, to avoid being seen. But at the same time, there would be no opportunity to throw a little fear of God into the pervert.

A shame really.

Although . . . perhaps all was not entirely lost. The mission, as planned, was still progressing as it should, and there was no point in risking final success by rushing in. But perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to rattle some cages.

The security detail was perpetually on high alert; they never let their guard down. But it never hurt to play on the nerves of those charged with protection.

Sometimes, a little pandemonium was good for the soul.

Now, it was just a matter of getting in position, waiting for the right moment, and a tiny little bit of luck.

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

"There you go, Girlfriend," said Brian, bending forward to hand Katy her multi-colored snow cone. "Your very own rainbow."

"Daddy," said Gus, eyes wide. "Can I have one of those?"

Brian grinned at his son, who was already holding a huge puff of pink cotton candy, and was still waiting on his serving of fried ice cream. "Your mother is so going to kill me."

Gus's grin was a mirror of his father's. "Not if she doesn't know."

Ron Peterson laughed, and Brian looked up to meet the man's eyes. Since he already knew the truth about the disease which was spreading through Peterson's body, it was fairly easy for him to note the signs of its progress. Peterson had lost weight just in the short time since they'd discussed his prognosis, and there were new lines around his mouth and eyes - formed, no doubt, as a result of the pain he was enduring. Nevertheless, there was genuine joy in his eyes as he returned Brian's gaze, and Brian was gratified that the older man could take such happiness from Gus's innocent delight.

The lady in the refreshment stand - a buxom blonde wearing way too much mascara, but sporting a beautiful, generous smile - seemed to be having trouble deciding who she most wanted to ogle, her eyes drifting first (naturally) to take in Brian's face and body; then on to Justin, to Mathis, and to McClaren. But then she settled on gazing at Katy, and something in her face softened, suggesting to Brian that she knew something of the tragedy of Down's Syndrome.

"If you're smart, Love," she said, addressing Brian, but still looking at Katy, "you'll move down the pier and take a seat in the grandstand area. They're about to set off a fireworks display, and that'll be the best spot to watch it."

Brian glanced at her nametag, and leaned forward to pass her a hefty tip. "Thanks, Janie."

She studied his face for a moment, before shifting her gaze to meet Justin's eyes. Then she smiled. "It never fails," she said with a gentle smile. "The beautiful ones are either taken or gay - or both."

Justin's smile was brilliant.

The group set off then down the pier, with the kids leading the way, Brian, Justin, and Cynthia behind them, while Mathis and McClaren brought up the rear. Other security and FBI people were scattered through the crowd around them, constantly on alert.

"By the way," said Justin, addressing both Cynthia and Brian, "I need a favor. Although I'm pretty sure, it'll turn out that I'll be doing you a favor, in the end."

Cynthia grinned at Brian. "Why do I get the feeling we're about to be conned?"

"Because we are," Brian retorted. "So spit it out, Sunshine. What do you want?"

"I've got this friend - back in Pittsburgh - who needs a job."

Brian frowned. "Artist?"

"No."

"Salesman?"

"No."

"Clerical?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Jack of all trades," said Justin with a grin. "But mostly . . . food."

"I'm not sure I . . ."

"You just wait," Justin went on, very pleased with himself and wondering why he hadn't thought of this before. "If there was ever a match truly made in heaven, it was you, Brian, and Creole coffee."

Brian merely looked puzzled, as Cynthia laughed. She was pretty sure she had figured out where Justin was leading.

They arrived at the small grandstand, and took seats. It was not really planned that way, but somehow, Brian wound up at the center of a tiny circle, with Justin and Katy flanking him, and Gus sprawled across his lap. They chatted for a few minutes, as Justin sang the praises of the new friend he'd made in Pittsburgh when he was waiting for Brian to recover; then a loudspeaker sputtered and whined as a disembodied voice welcomed the crowd to the first fireworks celebration of the season.

It was not particularly impressive, but it was pretty enough, and it was certainly loud.

Gus and Katy oohed and aahed as bright crimson and gold fountains erupted overhead, following heavy explosions that sounded like artillery volleys.

At his spot near the front of the bleachers, Brian had just turned to lean over and plant a quick kiss on Justin's cheek, when there was another series of booms. Thus he saw what no one else noticed at first. A banner, hanging along the low fence to his left just exploded, blasted into tatters, as something small and lethal whizzed by the small group.

Then pandemonium ensued. Brian shouted - he would never remember exactly what he said but would always remember what he did. It felt like slow motion; he was sure, even as he moved, that he would be too late - that someone else, someone more precious to him than his own life, would pay the price for his foolishness. He grabbed Justin, Gus, and Katy and threw them down across the bleachers and covered them with his own body, while the crowd around them, just now realizing that something was wrong, that something was happening which shouldn't have happened, erupted in a panic and began to flee.

Seconds later, Brian felt a body drape itself across him, arms wrapping around him and pulling him close, as instructions were shouted and footsteps raced away, back along the dock.

"I got you, Brian," said Chris McClaren, spreading himself out to shelter the man who was his responsibility, even as Brian continued to shelter and protect those beneath him.

"I got you."

But Brian could take no comfort from that assurance - not until he could pull back and get a good look at the three squirming beneath him.

Not until he could know that they were safe. He could hear Justin screaming his name, could hear Gus and Katy crying out, but he could not move.

He could only stay where he was, forming a barrier between them and whoever it was who wanted to destroy them.

Nothing else mattered.

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


* Against the Wind - Bob Seger
** References to recent Doctor Who characters and plot devices, created by the BBC

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