Chapter 57

Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

 The Layersn - Stanley Kunitz

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

By the time Brian had exchanged his Banana Republic linen cargo pants and his dark red cashmere sweater for 501's and a black Hugo Boss casual shirt - perfect for a Sunday afternoon at the office - Justin and his new best friend, the gay architect, were knee deep in drawings and sketches and internet research and details of other Kikoski projects, exclaiming over the elegance of an Italian marble pillar in an Etruscan terrace or the graceful multiple arches of a mullioned window fronting a charming pied-à-terre in Le Marais, or the positioning of a stained glass portal in a Côte d'Azur chateau, perfectly placed for the purpose of catching and refracting morning light.

Brian paused for a moment as he stepped down into the loft's main room and enjoyed the vision of his young lover - entranced, enthused, engrossed - and beautiful.

Then he collected his briefcase and moved quietly through the room pausing just long enough to drop a quick kiss onto a shock of blond locks before heading on his way.

But as he reached out to slide the heavy front door open, he realized he should have known better than to think he'd be able to slink away in silence. He was shoved forward against the metal of the door, and then forced to turn to find his arms filled with a lithe, luscious body as his lips were claimed by a mouth that would forever be his favorite taste in the world.

"I'm only going to work for a few hours," he murmured, as full lips moved to nibble at the softness under his jaw.

"That's . . . too long. What am I . . . supposed to do . . . while you're gone?"

"You'll think of something," Brian laughed, taking advantage of his greater height and strength to lift his smaller companion into his arms and kiss him senseless while Justin immediately adjusted his position to wrap his legs around his lover's hips and press crotch to crotch.

"I could leave you two alone," said their guest, with an indulgent smile. "Or I could just watch. I don't think that would be such a terrible hardship."

"Another time," Brian answered, stealing one last kiss. "Gotta go."

"Be home early," Justin called after him as his lover made his exit.

Brian nodded, then paused and turned back to fix the architect with a level stare that was slightly speculative. "You make sure he gets what he wants, no matter the cost."

"No, wait," Justin protested as Kissinger nodded. "It has to be what we want. Not just me, but you too. It's got to be what we both . . ."

"It will be," Brian replied with a soft, enigmatic smile, dropping one more kiss on an adorable upturned nose, before moving to the door.

Justin tried to protest, to voice his misgivings, but Brian was already gone, taking the stairs instead of the lift and laughing as he went.

Justin paused and listened, and felt a chilly echo of the sound stir in the semi-darkness of the stairwell and tried to tell himself that it was not really ominous - that he was not really afraid.

He was simply being ridiculous.


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

"It's Sunday."

Cynthia leaned back in her chair and regarded the young man framed in her doorway - and enjoyed the view: black slacks, black shirt, black boots - a portrait in ebony. "I know," she answered.

"He doesn't pay you enough to make you work on Sunday."

She smiled. "Actually, he does. But he didn't make me do this; I have a few things to finish, and thought I'd take advantage of the quiet while Katy is out on a family expedition, with her godmother." Her eyes grew soft and slightly distant. "She's only here for a few more days, and I wanted to clear my desk so I can spend it all with her."

Lance Mathis strolled into the office and settled himself in front of her desk, his eyes dark with speculation. "She's very special, you know."

"Of course, I know," she answered with a gentle smile, "but I'm glad to know you know it too. Some people . . . don't."

"Yeah, well, some people are idiots."

Her laugh was bright and charming. "There are those who would say you've been spending too much time around Brian Kinney."

"Yeah? Well, he's . . . he's not at all what I thought he was. Is he?"

"No, he's not." She looked, for a moment, as if she'd expand on that thought, but, in the end, she chose to leave it alone.

The security chief studied her expression, wondering why he was so sure she was troubled by something she didn't fully comprehend. "Anything wrong?" he asked finally.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "What makes you think that?"

"Because you're sitting here staring into space," he replied easily, sprawling comfortably. "And that's not you. You work; you concentrate; you cogitate, but you don't stare. So - out with it, Woman. What's wrong?"

Her smile was suddenly weary. "That's what I keep asking myself."

"What do you mean? From where I'm sitting, we appear to be on the cusp of a very good time, for everyone."

"Yes," she admitted softly. "We do."

"But you're not convinced. Why?"

She settled back, one hand straying to play with a lock of her hair - a 'tell' that she probably had never even realized she had, but which was instantly recognizable to those who knew her well. Cynthia was worried.

"Why indeed? I wish I knew." Her eyes strayed for a moment toward a narrow storage closet in the back corner of her office. "It's like we're in the middle of a beautiful spring day - sun shining, flowers blooming, wind brisk and bracing. Everything perfect, but . . . somewhere off beyond the horizon, there's a low rumble that might be thunder. A storm that might never even come close to us, but it's there all the same, and I can't quite bring myself to ignore it."

"This is about Brian."

Her smile was lopsided. "Isn't it always about Brian?"

"Look, I know you've been hurt by everything that's happened to him. Hell, it even hurt me, and I didn't even know him back then. Considering what he's been to you, it's no wonder you're still concerned. But - unless I'm missing something - he's come through it all and managed to survive and thrive in spite of what those motherfuckers did to him. This morning, I was there when he and Justin signed the papers to buy that piece of property, and I watched him watching Justin, and he was . . . I don't know how to explain it. I've never seen him like that. I never dreamed that I would see him like that. You just don't think of using the words 'Brian Kinney' and 'love' in the same sentence, but . . ."

Her smile turned slightly sardonic. "No, you wouldn't," she answered. "But that's only because you never really knew him. Exactly the way most people never really know him. Brian has always been capable of the kind of love very few people ever experience - the completely selfless kind that is willing to give up absolutely everything for the person he loves. Most people have no idea how rare that is - or how rare he is."

Mathis was quiet for a time, thinking about what she'd said. Then he smiled. "The man just laid out a quarter of a million dollars to buy the piece of land that the light of his life wanted. What more can he . . ."

"Do you know how Brian reacts to any remark about how much he spends - for anything?"

"No, I . . ."

"The customary response is, 'I can always make more money.' Yes, he's bought this land because he knows it's what Justin wants. And yes, he'll pay whatever it costs to build the house that Justin wants. But . . ."

Mathis waited, and watched storm clouds gather in cerulean eyes. "But what?"

"But something's not right. Not complete. Not settled." Then she looked again toward the closet in the corner. "For either of them."

The security guard frowned. "Why on earth would Justin hold back? What would he . . ."

"Do you remember the portrait he painted in Brian's office, before we had any idea when or if Brian was coming back? The big one of Brian holding the guitar?"

"Yeah," he replied with an uncharacteristically tender smile. "If I had a gay bone in my body, I'd have been having wet dreams of that image. It was . . . incredible."

"Yes. It was." She studied his face carefully. "And haven't you wondered why you haven't seen it since then?"

He shrugged. "I just assumed they'd hung it at the loft. In their bedroom maybe."

"No. It hasn't been hung in the loft - or anywhere else."

"Why not?"

"Exactly." She stood up and walked to the closet to open the door, where a large, flat, rectangular object was wrapped in layers of plastic and padding, standing upright against the wall. "Why is it that Justin has decided to take what may very well be the best work he's ever done and leave it here - where no one will see it, or understand what it means?"

"Okay. I give up. Why?"

She returned to the desk and sat down, and he was stunned by the sadness he saw rising in her eyes. "I can only think of one reason. Because it says too much. Because it reveals too much. It says that his love for Brian is so complete, so boundless, that he's left vulnerable."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he's still reserving his options. It's what he's always done; it's what Brian always taught him to do. But it's the one thing he absolutely must not do, if they are ever going to be able to build a life together."

"But if Brian . . ."

"Brian will never force the issue. Until Justin is prepared to let everything go, to release his hold on his individual identity and trust Brian with his heart, reserving nothing, denying nothing - forever - Brian will always simply stand still, and watch him just walk away. The option is always going to belong to Justin.

"That's Brian Kinney. That's what he does."

"And that," said a new voice from the doorway, "is exactly why we have to do something."

Emmett Honeycutt walked into the room with his customary swish and sway, a designer travel bag tucked under his arm, with Drew Boyd bringing up the rear, wearing a smile that was one part rueful indulgence and one part sheer pride.

The cousins exchanged nods as the ex-football player offered an explanation. "Sorry, I tried to convince him he's making mountains out of molehills, but . . ."

"But," Emmett said firmly, "aside from Cynthia, nobody knows Brian and/or Justin better than me. Not even Mikey. And I'm telling you, people, we are walking into disaster here, and we can't just stand still and let it happen."

Cynthia sighed. "In point of fact, Emmett, I don't think you're wrong. But this is Brian we're talking about. Brian, who makes the Sphinx look like Jimmie Kimmell. If he doesn't want to tell us what's wrong . . ."

"McClaren knows," Emmett retorted. "I just know it."

"McClaren," Mathis echoed. "The only man I know who can be even more enigmatic than Brian Kinney. You don't actually believe . . ."

"What I believe," Emmett interrupted, "is that McClaren is currently checking out the criminal element in Miami, leaving Brian alone - and unguarded. Where is he?"

Cynthia laughed. "Brian Kinney has never been 'unguarded' in his life. But if you'd like to take a crack at him, who am I to point out that it's probably a suicide mission? He's in his office."

Emmett's grin was insouciant. "That's why I don't go anywhere without my big, bad protector. Not even Brian would dare to tackle him."

The couple departed as quickly as they'd come, leaving Cynthia and Lance to exchange smiles. "If I were Emmett, I wouldn't be too sure of that," the security chief remarked, "And I'd be even less sure that Drew wouldn't enjoy an assault at the hands of Liberty Avenue's #1 stud."

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

Brian was staring at his computer monitor when Emmett and Drew hurried into his office, without bothering to knock. Though they obviously assumed that he would forgive the intrusion and grant them his immediate attention, he actually did neither. He simply continued to review the data displayed before him, clicking on a small icon to expand his focus and pull up more information.

It was several minutes - long-drawn and awkward - before he acknowledged their presence. By that time, Drew Boyd had sprawled in a leather arm chair, making himself completely comfortable, while Emmett paced back and forth in front of the desk, becoming more animated with every passing moment.

"Brian . . ."

One finger lifted - as expressive as any figure of speech.

"But Brian . . ."

The finger thrust upward - once.

Finally - completely frustrated - Emmett dropped into the second leather chair in front of the desk and contented himself with expressing his frustration with rolled eyes and a loud sigh.

It was almost five minutes later when Brian leaned forward and tapped a few keys on his keyboard, before looking up and regarding Emmett with a face almost carved in granite.

"I am in my office - with the door closed - for a reason," he said calmly. "And you'd better have a God-damned good excuse for interrupting."

"Well, of course I do. It's . . . it's Babylon business. So . . ."

Brian glanced at his watch. "By my count, Babylon doesn't open for another six hours, so what is it that can't wait?"

Emmett stood and opened the travel bag he'd carried in and pulled out a silky garment of a yellow so bright it was almost sulfuric. "This," he explained. "We need to work on your costume for the grand re-dedication, a festival to celebrate survival and everything that goes with it. And this, I thought, would be . . ."

Brian's expression remained remote. "That's what you barged in here for?"

"Well, yes. Partly. This needs to be a big occasion, Brian. After all you've been through - and what Babylon's been through, we need to make a statement - a real statement - for all of us. So I thought . . ."

"And when - exactly - is this soiree supposed to happen?"

"Well, I don't know, do I? That's part of what we need to discuss. Along with the parts you and Justin are going to play in it. To recognize your commitment."

Brian regarded Emmett with a small frown. "Our . . . commitment?"

"Well, it's about time, don't you think? I mean haven't you . . ." He fell silent as he noted shadows gathering in the depths of hazel eyes.

Brian sat back and folded his lips, refraining from speaking until the pulse in his temple stopped throbbing. When he did decide to speak, his voice was very soft, and Emmett was, at first, marginally relieved to note that the tone was devoid of anger. Then he had second thoughts as he noted that the soft tone was - almost - ominous.

"Putting you in charge of Babylon was intended to be a temporary measure, Honeycutt. But, after reviewing your performance, it seems to me to be a win-win situation to leave you to it, if you're so inclined. I've got other fish to fry, and - if you continue to perform as you have - it leaves me free to enjoy the benefits of the club without having to deal with the nuts and bolts."

Emmett managed - just barely - not to preen. But there was still that ominous undertone, so he confined his response to a small smile and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"Still, it's my club. So - in the event of emergency - I expect to be notified. If it's burning to the ground. If there's a toxic chemical spill. If people begin to drop dead from alcohol poisoning. Or if the fags and dykes of the Pitts decide to revolt against the fascist oppression of the city's breeder government and use Babylon as their rallying point. Then I expect to be called."

He rose then and moved around the desk to stand toe to toe with Emmett who had risen hastily to avoid being at a positional disadvantage. "But not - let me repeat that - not because you've got some wild hair up your ass about some kind of touchy-feely sentimentally orgasmic love-in you need to organize to express your personal 'fuck you' to the establishment. And - just to be perfectly clear - any 'commitment' Justin and I choose to make - or not make - is none of your fucking business."

He paused then and reached out to adjust the collar of Emmett's bright magenta silk shirt. "As for my 'costume' . . ." His eyes dropped to the actinic brilliance of the fabric bunched in Emmett's hands. "It's yellow."

Emmett chose to ignore the unpalatable portions of the speech and concentrate on salvaging something positive. 'It'll do amazing things to your eyes."

"Yeah. Like blind them."

"No, it . . ."

Those remarkable hazel eyes lifted then and looked directly into Emmett's green ones, and Emmett blinked, and saw . . . something that struck fear into his heart.

Brian however did not seem to notice. "In all the years you've known me, have you ever - even once - seen me wear anything . . ."

"What's wrong with your eyes?" It was barely a whisper, but it hit Brian with the force of a closed fist, and he stepped back immediately.

"I don't have time for this crap, Emmett, so just . . ."

But Emmett - despite a well-deserved reputation as a flaming nelly-bottom/submissive - could, when an occasion demanded it, display an unexpected degree of determination. "Don't do that. Don't you dare push me away. What's wrong with your eyes?"

Brian hesitated before turning away and walking to the window to stand in silence, gazing out and watching a wayward wind pick up leaves and dust and bits of trash and lift it all in a swirling maze toward neighboring buildings.

"Tell me," Emmett demanded, moving close enough to stand at Brian's back, close enough to touch. Almost.

Brian closed his eyes. "Trust me, Auntie Em," he said finally. "You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked."

Brian hesitated, noting that Drew Boyd had risen from his chair and moved closer, his bulk surprisingly comforting as he gave off an air of concern and protectiveness that was, somehow, not directed exclusively toward Emmett.

"Tell me."

Brian turned around, his expression unreadable. "Well, you should just look on the bright side. Pretty soon, you might be able to dress me in that blinding yellow, or strawberry pink, or neon orange . . . and I won't even know it."

Emmett's eyes were huge. "I - I don't understand. When . . ."

Brian shrugged. "A day. A week. Who knows? And - incidentally - how did you?"

"Your pupils," Emmett answered, barely audible. "They're uneven. What is it?"

Brian sighed. "Collateral damage - from the attack."

Emmett swayed suddenly and was comforted by the warm pressure of his lover's body against his back. "But there must be something to do about it. Right? It's not . . . inevitable. It can't be . . ."

Brian looked as if he wanted to accept that rationale. But, in the end, he couldn't. It wasn't something he had divulged to any of his inner circle up until this time, but - somehow - it felt right to tell Emmett.

"Don't know yet. There are doctors - an experimental treatment - but no way to know if it will work."

Emmett leaned forward and touched Brian's face with a shaky hand. "It has to work. It just has to. You have to be okay, Brian. If not, then . . . God! It's just so unfair."

Brian's smile was sardonic - almost bitter. "You can't possibly still believe that fairness comes into it. It's just . . . I don't know . . . the luck of the draw. And by the way . . ." He leaned forward and dropped his left hand to Emmett's crotch and began to squeeze - slowly but inexorably. "Just so we understand each other, if you tell anybody about this - and I do mean anybody - you are going to find yourself singing soprano - permanently - in a boy's choir. Understood?"

Emmett's eyes were filled with worry and despair, but his natural comic spirit was still irrepressible. "Oh, my God. Somebody grab a camera. Brian Kinney is playing with my balls."

But Brian simply tightened his grip. "Understand?"

"All right, all right." Emmett was able to avoid squirming, but only just. "I get it."

"Stop, Brian," said Drew Boyd easily, but there was definite steel beneath the softness of his tone.

Brian looked up to meet Boyd's eyes, and his smile suggested that, even at a time like this, he was still capable of enjoying the view. He was glad for Emmett - really glad - but, under different circumstances, might have been tempted to try his hand at sampling the fetching merchandise on display.

"No excuses, Emmett," he said sternly. "Ordinarily, keeping a secret is beyond your abilities, but this . . . this better be the exception."

Emmett nodded, but couldn't conceal the sadness in his eyes. "Justin doesn't know, does he?"

"No. And you're going to make sure it stays that way."

"Brian, you can't do this to him. You have to tell him."

Brian's smile turned mocking. "And chain him to me by making him responsible for my care and feeding. By forcing him to spend a lifetime giving up his dreams and his hopes in order to devote himself to taking care of Poor, Blind Brian - is that really what love is? Is that how I prove how much he means to me, by taking away his choices and forcing him to sacrifice himself for me?"

"He'd do it, in a New York minute. You know he would, because that's how much he . . ."

"Yes," Brian interrupted, his voice not quite breaking. "I know he would. And that's why you can't tell him."

Emmett wanted to argue; it was obvious in the stubborn set of his jaw and the steely glint in his eyes. But, in the end, he didn't, because he knew there was no way he could win this argument. He could, of course, follow the dictates of his romantic heart and march right over to the loft where he knew Justin would be and, with suitably dramatic flourishes, tell this tale of heartbreak and tragedy. But, in the end, much as he might want to do exactly that, he knew he couldn't.

Because it had to be Brian's decision, because . . . he blinked quickly as the unavoidable truth struck him . . . because Brian had earned the right to speak of it or keep it to himself.

But there was more to this story; there had to be.

"You won't be able to hide it for long," he said softly, reasonably he thought. "It's just sheer luck that he hasn't seen it already. I spotted it, for God's sake, and I almost never look you straight in the eye. Confrontation, in case you haven't noticed, isn't really my thing."

Brian and Drew Boyd exchanged wry grins. "I've noticed," Brian replied. "But it won't be an issue for much longer, so don't sweat it."

Emmett backed up another step, realizing that an unspoken truth - unpleasant and undeniable - was buried in that simple sentence. "You're going away," he said finally, flatly. "You're going, and you're not going to tell him where - or why."

Brian took a moment, the shadows in his eyes growing deeper. "I - will - not - lock him into a cage from which there's no escape. That's what this would do, and I won't allow it. I mean it, Emmett."

The big nelly-bottom finally nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Are you . . ." He paused and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Are you going to at least say good-bye?"

Brian's smile softened then, and he leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss at the corner of Emmett's mouth, retreating before Emmett had a chance to shift and take advantage of the opportunity to explore those legendary lips.

"Good-bye."

Emmett could only nod and allow himself to be guided to the door by his big bruiser of a lover whose beautiful eyes were surprisingly bright in the reflection of radiance from the skylight.

There was, finally, nothing more to be said.

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

Miami in the spring. Chris McClaren was pretty sure he could get used to it.

Of course, other cities wore spring well; Washington, Atlanta - even Pittsburgh, although how much of the latter's beauty was real or just a reflection of his feelings about a certain individual who resided there, he could not say. More than that, he would not say.

The FBI agent was no fool, and did not pretend to be unaware of his own feelings. He knew how he felt about Brian Kinney, and suspected that it was an affliction which would - unfortunately - be with him for the rest of his life. Again, he did not fool himself; affliction was precisely the right word.

It would remain unspoken, unacknowledged, whether it lasted a day, a week, a year, or forever, but that wouldn't change the fact of its existence.

And this place, this city with its pure, crystalline light and its vitality and intense vigor - where colors were just a little brighter than anywhere else, and the scent of spring was just a little sweeter, where the beaches were just a little whiter and the waters just a little bluer - it might have been created as the perfect setting to display the movable feast that was Brian Kinney.

Unfortunately, at this moment, despite its beauty, it was displaying other things.

He glanced at his watch as the unmarked police car proceeded around a sweeping curve on N. Bay Road, a broad, palm-lined expanse where sprawling mansions sat amid perfectly cultivated grounds on one side of the road, with the unspoiled grandeur of the Atlantic on the other.

"Beautiful neighborhood," he commented to the smartly-dressed, beautifully coifed young female detective who had been delegated to drive him to his destination. Sofia Rodriguez had been happy to accept the assignment.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes firmly on the road, although - occasionally - she took advantage of the opportunity to sneak a quick peek in the rearview mirror. It wasn't often an FBI agent came packaged with a face and form like that of Chris McClaren, and she spent a moment wondering if anybody could really have eyes that blue without some kind of artificial enhancement. But no; a closer look - quick but thorough - confirmed they were absolutely natural, no matter how ridiculously beautiful. "This is the crème de la crème of Miami Beach. A million dollars wouldn't even get you inside the front door of any of these places."

His smile was classic. "The wages of sin?"

She nodded. "Undeniable proof that crime pays."

"Have you been a part of the investigation of the LaSalles from the beginning?"

"Pretty much." Her dimples were lovely when she smiled - and definitely reminiscent of another set of dimples, equally lovely. "One of the perks of a Latino appearance for an undercover cop in this socially diverse city. Having a Cuban maid is one of the marks of status in a place like this - a not-so-subtle means of sticking the finger to Fidel and his socialist ideals."

"So you actually met this Bradford character yourself?''

She nodded and barely managed not to shudder. "A real piece of work. In fact, he's the reason I'm no longer undercover on the case. There aren't too many things I won't do for the sake of an investigation, but getting sexually assaulted by that pervert is crossing the line."

"He didn't actually . . ."

"No, but only because I know how to take care of myself. But my little self-defense routine - and the fact that the family matriarch refused to accept my version of what happened - made it impossible for me to continue."

"Why didn't she . . ."

"I'm Cuban," she replied with a shrug. "He's not. Not quite anyway."

"You've seen the photos of our suspect. Is it him?"

She shrugged. "If it is, he's made some changes. In the shots I saw, he was sort of pale and washed out. Almost colorless. And now - very dark hair, a dark goatee, and, I think, a heavy spray tan. He's going for a Latino look, but he doesn't quite pull it off. In addition, he's packed on a few pounds, but - if I had to guess - yeah, it's him."

"And nobody's been able to get fingerprints on him?"

She smiled. "No. Unfortunately, my little altercation with him came before somebody at HQ put two and two together to raise the question about his identity, and he's kept a pretty low profile, so we haven't really had probable cause to demand access. Do you think you'll know if it's really him?"

McClaren glanced off toward the ocean, its meringue-frosted gem-tones spread out like a visual feast for the vast estates and formal gardens lining the road to his right. He spent a moment remembering Brian's face when he'd found him unconscious and on the verge of death - the faint blueness tinting his lips, the pale suggestion of a frown expressing words impossible to speak, and the feel of his skin - cold and clammy and totally lacking in the warmth - almost heat - that was so characteristic of his normal body temperature.

"Oh, yes," he answered finally. "I'll know."

He checked his watch again, realizing he was going to cut it very close to make the flight back to Pittsburgh.

The retrieval - for lack of a better term - of little J. R. Marcus had been more complicated and taken longer than he'd expected. It had also been sufficiently confrontational to justify Brian's misgivings and decision to send McClaren to accompany Michael on his errand.

Melanie Marcus had greeted Michael and Ben at her parents' door and proceeded to put on a show that started with relatively soft-spoken sarcasm, escalated into vitriolic shouting, and ended with near hysterical shrieks and threats which had alarmed her parents and frightened her daughter into broken-hearted sobs. It was at that point that McClaren had stepped forward, holding on to his patience by a mere thread and managing to persuade her - red-faced and hyperventilating - that she really didn't want her daughter's final memory of the occasion to be such a complete loss of control on her part.

After all, he had pointed out - using the cold, rational, ultra-controlled voice he ordinarily used in witness testimony - if it happened that the courts should decide to intervene and limit her access to her daughter - all in the child's best interest, of course - she would regret that her daughter's final image of her would be of such a corrosive nature.

He had been careful to avoid phrasing it as a threat, and there had been no violence in his eyes. But there had been a promise - very deliberate, very focused - and Melanie Marcus, while hell-bent on having her own way and exacting revenge for every slight - real or imagined - she had suffered at the hands of Brian Kinney, had found herself not quite capable of ignoring the nuances of the comment that went unspoken, but not unrecognized. Early in her association with the woman who had become her partner, she had learned that one crossed Kinney at one's own risk; she had been surprised on this occasion to realize there were others who might turn out to be just a dangerous, even when such an individual's eyes - as blue and guileless as a sunlit sky - seemed to belie the possibility.

She had wondered for a moment how many people made the fatal mistake of underestimating Chris McClaren simply because he was so pretty, and, by the time she was able to shake off that rather alarming thought, the confrontation was over and J.R. was being buckled into a car seat in the back of the deliberately anonymous dark sedan which would take the Novotny party back to the airport.

McClaren, meanwhile, had stood by, watching in silence, until the car drove away. Then he had simply nodded at her - apparently granting her his approval for managing to exercise some small measure of restraint - before making his own exit in a different vehicle.

He had adjusted the car's side mirror to allow him to observe Melanie's demeanor as he'd been driven away, and made a mental note to keep a metaphorical eye on the furious young woman. She might have had no choice but to accept what had happened today, but the level of her outrage was so extreme  he doubted she would give up the fight.

Melanie Marcus was not done yet and would bear watching.

He sat back in the soft leather of the car seat, enjoying the ambiance of the vehicle, sweetly accented by the delicate scent of Donna Karan's Cashmere Mist cologne his driver wore in exactly the correct amount to emphasize the smart but feminine cut of her Evan Picone suit, and by the soft, dulcet tones of Jim Croce's matchless interpretation of Time in a Bottle.

What a concept - one the FBI agent dared not allow himself to contemplate too intensely. And yet . . .

"If I had a box just for wishes
And dreams that had never come through . . ."*

But enough of that. Unlike the one in the song, his box would be . . .

Soon, Brian Kinney would be only a memory - one case in a lifetime of work. One face in a crowd.

Of course he would.

"Is this going to be a problem for you?" he asked, eager to turn his mind to more productive thoughts. "Won't the family or the staff recognize you?"

She grinned. "Are you kidding? I'm wearing a suit that cost more than I made in a month of bowing and scraping in that house. And besides, Madam LaSalle never bothers to look at the faces of the female servants, although she does a fair job of inspecting the bodies of the male members of the staff."

She glanced toward him, and he couldn't quite make out the expression in her eyes behind dark-tinted glasses. "You should watch yourself. She'll be tempted to eat you alive."

His smile was cold. "Not to worry, Sargeant. Like you, I know how to defend myself."

I bet you do. She did not - quite - say it aloud, but he heard it anyway.

"But what about the others?" he went on. "Won't the hired help realize who you are?"

"I doubt it," she shrugged. "They tend to keep their eyes and their heads down. It's safer that way."

He turned to study her face again, noting the smile that was, at best, bittersweet. "God bless the USA?" he ventured.

She sighed. "I don't mean to make it sound like we're poor, poverty-stricken Hispanics around here. Or victims of the upper crust. Though bigotry is as alive and well here as anywhere else, the truth is that most people have come to accept us as facts of life. They're not all thrilled with the fundamental truth of it, but they realize that we're here to stay. And for many of us - like me - the opportunities have been great. I got my degree, paid my dues in the ranks, and wound up doing exactly what I wanted to do. So if I occasionally run into a bit of the kind of nasty racist crap that so many people have to deal with, I just count it as part of the price of my success." She turned then to study his face, glad he had not yet donned the aviator sunglasses tucked into his shirt. "Surely you know what I mean. The kind of prejudice you have to face is even uglier, isn't it?"

His smile was slightly lopsided. "Gay-dar going off, Sargeant?"

"Not really. It's just . . ."

"Just what?"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to offend." she answered, only a tiny bit embarrassed. "Are you sure about this? If he is who you think he is, he's going to recognize you immediately. What if he runs?"

The smile grew just a bit colder. "Then we get the chance for a little payback. Only - do me a favor and try not to kill him, okay? He's the missing link in my case, the final connection between the powers behind the throne who planned the whole thing and the victim." He felt his breath catch in his throat as he uttered that word, discovering he didn't much care for using such a term in reference to Brian Kinney, and reflecting on what was so dreadfully wrong with a world in which such a man could be defined by such a tragic misnomer.

"Besides," he said softly, "There are others who have a better claim to the right to kill the bastard, as slowly and painfully as possible."

She pulled into a broad, curved, cobblestone driveway, and stopped the car, hesitating for a moment before opening her door. "You wanted to know about my so-called 'gay-dar'? I actually don't have any. But this Kinney guy - when you talk about him, you . . ."

He paused in the process of making his own exit, not sure he wanted to hear what she had to say but knowing he had little choice. "I . . . what?" he asked, when she did not continue.

"There's something in your voice," she answered finally. "Something . . . different. He must be . . ."

"Yeah," he answered. "He is." Knowing she understood that there were no words that could quite explain that 'difference' - no words, at least, that he was willing to speak.

She sighed again - dramatically this time. "You know, the truth really hurts sometimes," she said sharply.

"What? What truth?"

"All the good ones are either taken - or gay," she replied with a grin, and he could not quite contain an urge to blush.

They shared a quiet laugh as they walked up a flagstone path to the entrance of the sprawling 2-story Tudor-style mansion, with its elaborately carved arched front door, embellished with a wrap-around beveled glass transom, and set within a wood-paneled alcove.

The FBI agent had not been entirely certain his companion would prove correct in her assumption that no one would recognize her, but his doubts proved to be groundless.

They were admitted into a large, high-ceilinged foyer, wainscoted with richly-carved teakwood, a perfect contrast for lustrous pale mocha-colored raw silk-covered walls, all awash in afternoon sunlight streaming in from mullioned windows arranged in stair-steps along the exterior wall of the broad spiral staircase that swept up toward the second floor. On the opposite wall, centered and perfectly illuminated by soft, indirect lighting from below, a huge painting hung - bright and enormously complex and drawing the eye into a fantastic, abstract landscape wrapped around a solitary figure in shadowy distance, a brilliant display of light and imagination. McClaren wasn't an expert, of course, but he had been involved in an investigation of art fraud a couple of years earlier, so he was pretty sure he recognized the work as a Hernan Bas oil - an original, not a copy. Proof - if further proof was needed - that the LaSalle family dwelt in the upper echelon of the moneyed elite.

The soft-spoken young servant - a lovely Latino with golden skin and deep chocolate eyes - who had admitted them never looked directly into their faces, except for a brief glimpse at McClaren when he identified himself as a federal agent. In truth, she spent more time examining his ID badge than his face.

"How can we help you, Sir?" she asked finally, still not looking at him or his companion.

"I need to speak to Mr. Douglas LaSalle, please."

The young woman shook her head. "Mr. LaSalle does not currently receive visitors, Sir. His health is . . . delicate." The tone and cadence of her voice suggested this was a speech she was often called upon to repeat.

McClaren took a moment to formulate a response, considering his options and making sure to keep his demeanor gentle and respectful. "I'm afraid I have to insist. It concerns events which occurred at the clinic Mr. LaSalle attends for his treatments. Unless he is borderline comatose, I must speak to him. And, in that event, I would need to see the medical staff member who accompanies him for his treatments."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but . . ."

A stern voice - sharp with annoyance - rose from a shadowy area beyond a graceful archway at the end of the entry corridor. "Inez, who is that?"

The maid, with a tiny sigh, turned to face the imposing figure who had stepped out of the shadows, answering with the barest trace of a tremor in her voice. "It's the FBI, Mrs. LaSalle. They insist on speaking to Mr. Douglas."

"Nonsense," came the reply. "That's not possible. Send them away."

Alicia LaSalle was tall and slender - almost willowy - and imposing in pearl gray silk with exquisitely soft draping - a Gucci design by the look of it - and she walked forward with deliberate hauteur. Her expression was cool as she approached, but relaxed slightly as she got close enough to study the young man standing before her. She was, of course, immaculately turned out - freshly coiffed and manicured, with diamond teardrops in her ears and carefully applied make-up, and her face was totally free of even the smallest of lines or wrinkles. Nevertheless, this was not a young woman, and the skin covering her cheekbones and brow was so taut she appeared perpetually startled. A perfect specimen of  both the advantages and the hazards of a regular association with a skilled and willing plastic surgeon.

Her eyes - pale gray and deep set - regarded McClaren with a combination of prurient interest and cultural disdain, obviously expecting him to accept her decision without demur. But Mrs. LaSalle was about to learn a harsh lesson and be forced to acknowledge that the slogan she had lived by throughout her entire life - namely, that rank hath privileges that trump everything else - was not always fundamental truth.

Without waiting for invitation or permission, Chris McClaren moved past the young woman at the door and strode down the corridor to come face-to-face with the lady of the manor. Her expression was anything but ladylike as she prepared to cut down this impertinent intruder, only she never got the chance as McClaren flashed his badge once more and decided, based on the unmistakable flicker of appreciation in those small gray eyes, that charm might work better than coercion in this instance. "I'm sorry to be a pest," he said, with a maximum wattage smile calibrated to entice and enchant, "but I'm afraid our investigation is at a critical stage, and Mr. LaSalle may have some vital information for us. He was present at the clinic when an incident occurred involving a matter about falsified credentials in a member of the medical staff, and that's something we can't dawdle over, as I'm sure you'll appreciate. It wouldn't do to have unqualified staff members treating the patients at such a prestigious facility, now would it?"

Alicia LaSalle clung to her annoyance for a full five seconds, before caving in before a wave of much more pleasant emotions, her eyes missing nothing in her inspection of the strapping young man who was looking at her with a remarkable degree of warmth.

"Of course, it wouldn't," she agreed, but mostly just to have something to say as she actually had no idea what he was asking; she was much too busy staring into those incredible blue eyes. "How can we help?"

McClaren smiled again, understanding that her offer had nothing to do with any desire to help his investigation and everything to do with keeping him at her beck and call. "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do yourself, Mrs. LaSalle. It's your husband I need to see, or - if needs must - his nurse."

She turned and led him back through the archway at the end of the hall into a large sitting room that was the epitome of English Country House, right down to the chintz-covered sofas, the vintage Savonnerie rug covering a portion of the parquet floor, the Wedgwood tea service sitting on a dark cherry traditional coffee table, and the antique Waterford china pieces displayed above a mahogany-framed fireplace. She proceeded to seat herself on a raw silk settee and patted the cushion beside her in invitation. "I am really sorry, Agent McClaren, but I'm afraid it's quite impossible. Douglas isn't here." She had not spared a single glance for his companion, who watched and struggled to control an urge to grin, knowing it was probably unprofessional to enjoy a small taste of payback as her previous employer fell victim to an application of deliberate guile, but she was enjoying it anyway.

McClaren accepted the wordless invitation, managing to maintain some small distance between him and his hostess - very small - as he seated himself and glanced toward Sofia Rodriguez and saw her respond to his unasked question with a quick shake of her head. If the elder LaSalle was, in fact, missing in action, it was news to the police officers tasked with keeping an eye on the family.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a diffident smile. "I realize it's an imposition, given the state of his health, but . . ."

Mrs. LaSalle, however - no matter how smitten - was not accustomed to dealing with deliberate impertinence and would not stand for it now. "I'm quite sure," she replied firmly. "He flew out last night, and I don't mind telling you it was most inconvenient. These medical people have no respect for their patients' schedules. My daughter was supposed to take our Lear jet to Jamaica last evening and had to delay her trip because my husband's physicians waited until the last minute to schedule him for evaluation for a possible transplant at Presbyterian hospital. We only found out yesterday that he had to be there this morning. So, you see, it's just not possible for you to speak to him."

McClaren could not suppress a small sigh. "And his nurse? Um. . ." He took a moment to pretend to consult a notebook. "Mr. Bradford?"

Again, the desire to create a sense of intimacy with such a delectable young morsel conflicted with a desire to squelch such blatant disrespect. "Tommy is where he's supposed to be," she replied coldly. "At Mr. LaSalle's side. Doing his job."

"At Presbyterian Hospital?" McClaren replied, seeking clarification.

"Yes."

"In New York?"

Mrs. LaSalle did not - quite - roll her eyes. "No, of course not. He's at UPMC. In Pittsburgh."

Alicia LaSalle would later call the FBI public information office to complain about the unforgivable rudeness of the delectable young man who leapt to his feet almost before she'd finished speaking and ran for the door with his young, Hispanic companion at his heels, without so much as a thank you or a word of farewell.

Young people today! Not an ounce of respect to be found in the lot of them!

The FBI representative would accept her complaint, soothe her outrage, assure her that appropriate action would be taken, and promptly toss the record of her call into the trash can figuring - rightly - that wounded egos of the rich and famous did not fall under the agency's purview.


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



There was a trace of droll amusement in Cynthia's voice as she leaned into his doorway. "For a man contemplating something that's supposed to make him obscenely rich, you don't look particularly pleased."

Brian leaned back in his custom-made leather chair and offered her a smile that was non-committal - almost weary. "And you don't look like a young mother who's enjoying her day with her daughter, as instructed."

She moved toward him, carrying a small tray which held a covered dish, a couple of wine glasses, and a bottle of Talley Vineyards Pinot Noir, pricey but not outrageously so. "You skipped lunch," she said firmly, "and my daughter is currently either at the movies with her godmother, probably deciding whether or not she should give up her obsession with Robert Patinson and defect to the Justin Bieber camp. Or getting ready to attend the circus at the civic center. So . . ."

"So you could have gone with her," he pointed out.

"I don't care for circuses," she replied, "They bore me."

Brian spent a moment recalling a liaison that had occurred during his senior year at Penn, a vividly spectacular week-end involving a trapeze artist, a juggler, and a young and eager version of himself, and considered pointing out that she might not know what she was missing, but then - given the participation of her very special daughter - he decided to keep it to himself. But the memory made him smile, and Cynthia - ever attuned to his moods and methods - was grateful to have been able to inspire whatever memory had spurred his reaction.

"I'm not a child, you know," he said softly, "and I can take care of . . . "

"I know that you can," she interrupted. "But lots of times, you don't. Especially when you get caught up in a project."

She set the tray on his desk, removed the domed cover to reveal an appealing presentation of chicken cordon bleu, a broccoli-tomato salad, and a bacon-topped baked potato, and sank into a chair to wait for the di rigueur Kinney response.

"Are you trying to fatten me up?" he asked without a trace of a smile.

"Now why would I do that?" she retorted. "One of the major perks of my job is being able to ogle my boss's perfect ass, so I'd be the last person to want it buried under rolls of disgusting fat."

"So why . . ."

"Because I know you too well, oh, captain, my captain. You went out to brunch with Justin this morning - as part of your perfectly prepared little plot to surprise him with the gift of a lifetime - and while he downed stacks of pancakes and rashers of bacon, you nibbled on some wheat toast and drank a gallon of coffee. And tonight . . . well, Babylon awaits, does it not? And while you can and do enjoy a whole host of delights within those hallowed walls, food is not among them. So . . . eat, Fearless Leader, and I promise nobody's going to stand over you with a cane to make sure you finish every bite."

Brian tried to conceal the smile that tugged at his lips, but couldn't quite pull it off, which said plenty about his associate's ability to manipulate him. It was a privilege granted to very few.

"So what's up with the project?" she asked, as he uncorked the wine, taking a moment to enjoy the rich aroma, tart with a hint of vanilla and violet.

"What do you know about it?" He asked, pouring the garnet-colored liquid into her glass and pushing it toward her.

"Nothing, except what my nosy little eyes have observed. Namely, Teddie acting all squirrelly and scurrying around like a James Bond wannabe, carrying files and plans and alternating between looking like the man holding the keys to the kingdom and the one waiting for the axe to fall. Doesn't take a genius to figure out that something's up. Plus, you're here on a Sunday afternoon, when Justin is probably sitting at the loft, waiting for you to come home to get your reward for what you did this morning. Yet, here you sit. So something's bothering you - bothering you enough to keep you here digging through computer files like you've discovered a clue to the location of the Holy Grail. So . . ."

He smiled. "You're wasted here, you know. You should be working for the CIA or the FBI or some kind of special-ops, Jason-Bourne type secret agency."

"Don't change the subject," she replied with an eye-roll. "Eat, and tell me what's bothering you?"

He sighed again, his eyes trained on his computer screen, but he did pick up his fork and begin to move food around his plate. Whether or not he would actually eat it was yet to be determined. "I don't really know, except that there's something - something that doesn't add up."

Her smile was diffident. "Why don't you show me what you're working on?"

"No way," he retorted, realizing that he was, actually, a bit hungry, as he began to eat. "Katy's waiting for you."

"Not yet. I've got another couple of hours at least. So fess up, Boss. Two eyes are always better than one, you know."

Brian sighed. "One hour," he stipulated, as he plied knife and fork to slice into the succulent stuffed chicken. "After that, you go, whether we've figured it out or not."

"Agreed." She moved around his desk and leaned forward to study the screen on his monitor which was currently displaying an architectural sketch of a vast complex of contemporary buildings and lush gardens, all arranged around a central plaza featuring a series of eternity pools forming an arc around a cascade of water descending from a towering abstract sculpture. It was stunningly beautiful.

"Wow!" Cynthia's voice was hushed, almost awed. "That's . . . that's exquisite, Brian. What is it supposed to be?"

"A new art and entertainment complex - museum, gallery, concert hall, theater, etc," he replied. "And you're right. It is beautiful and - supposedly - I'm being invited to be a part of an elite group of investors who'll sponsor the project and make it all possible."

Her eyes widened. "So it really could make you a multi-multi millionaire. Not to mention gain you entry into the exclusive ranks of the rich and famous."

"So it seems," he replied.

"And yet, you're not smiling."

Then he did smile, but it was lopsided and slightly sardonic. "Somehow, I just can't wrap my mind around the possibility that these 'rich and famous' pillars of conservatism, people who have spent their entire lives despising me and everything I stand for - and not being afraid to say so - have suddenly decided to give up their prejudices and welcome me into the fold. Is it just me or is that a little like the villagers in Transylvania deciding to discard their crucifixes and welcome Dracula into their homes?"

She couldn't suppress a grin. "Nice analogy, Count."

She frowned as she noted that he was back to toying with his food instead of eating it.

"Yeah. The thing is . . . I'm sure there's a catch somewhere. Even though Teddie has done his due diligence and gone through it all with a fine-toothed comb and vouches for every detail. Even though I've done the same and come up with zilch. It all looks right. It all seems straightforward, and I don't . . . " His smile was weary. "If I pass this up, Tink, just because my gut is telling me something is wrong, and then realize it was simply my paranoia working on me, what kind of fool does that make me?"

"You're not a fool, Brian," she replied with a gentle smile. "You've just been burned and reburned too many times. It's God-damned hard to forget that and trust in the good intentions of people who've never given any indication of considering you to be worthy of simple courtesy, much less a golden investment opportunity."

He folded his lips together and regarded her with the glint of affection sparking in his eyes. "You realize, of course, that you're only reinforcing my paranoia."

She shrugged. "It's not paranoia if someone really is out to get you."

"Well said," he said. "So help me figure it out, Milady. What am I not seeing?"

She stepped away, moving toward the door. "Send the files to my laptop, and I'll try a different approach."

"What would I do without you?" he called after her, giving voice to an emotional attachment he rarely admitted.

"Flounder around like a beached whale," she replied with a grin, "and ruin that spectacular face with ugly frown lines."

Brian did not - quite - shudder.


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

Alexandra Corey sat behind her desk in her cluttered office on the upper floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, and wished she could have ignored the minimal traces of alarm that she'd identified in her subordinate's voice as he'd related what he'd learned in Miami. More than wished, actually; wished desperately. There was, she was (almost) certain, nothing to worry about.

Brian Kinney was in the best place he could be, security-wise, safe within his own version of an ivory tower, with his own security people in place, supplemented by a veteran FBI staff, although - at that precise moment - those staffers were dispatched on other errands. Necessary errands, but, hopefully, of brief duration. So in a matter of a couple of hours, the wall of security surrounding the FBI's star witness in this case would once more be impregnable. More impregnable - but only slightly - than it was right now.

It would take an act of sheer idiocy - not to mention desperation - to make any attempt to get to Brian now. She had good reason to know that his own security personnel were both highly skilled and intensely motivated to protect their employer; in addition, both Delia Perkins and Eugene Spalding - extraordinary agents in their own rights - were there in Pittsburgh, only minutes away should their presence be required.

But still, they weren't on site, which was a bit troubling. McClaren - the primary agent in charge of Kinney's protection - was on his way back from Miami; the purpose for the trip had been multi-fold, and even he had been unable to argue with the wisdom of his assignment, all things considered. At the same time, Eugene Spalding was currently working in the cyber-crimes lab at Pittsburgh police HQ, deeply involved with Priscilla Young and Sharon Briggs in retrieving masses of data from the files retrieved from John Vincent Fincher's office and the encrypted Club records provided by Henry Flagg, while Delia Perkins was babysitting Flagg himself, at an agency safe house, pending the arrival of a Wit-Sec team to take over the task. Said team was scheduled to arrive on a late flight from Chicago, and Corey had agreed with the assessment by Briggs and Jared Hilliard that the accountant would not handle being left alone well. The consensus was that - if given the chance - the elderly man might take advantage of the opportunity to disappear into the night.

It had nothing to do with his sense of moral duty; once shown what his employers had done, he had been horrified and appalled. But one could hardly believe he had not suspected that things were very, very wrong during all the years he'd engaged in creative accounting to cover the things The Club did not want seen. And he was frightened - a not unreasonable reaction to realizing his testimony would be key to bringing his former bosses to justice. Leaving him to his own devices was not smart; thus, the FBI team was temporarily unavailable to oversee the security of Brian Kinney, but that, in itself, was not cause for alarm.

Kinney's personal security team was more than equal to the job required of them, but . . .

Despite the large number of people involved in the investigation, there was no ignoring the fact that there was an even larger number of individuals requiring protection (according to Brian Kinney, anyway - the golden boy whom the FBI could not afford to cross). Thus she could not deny that the defenders were spread a little thin.

In light of all this, she had taken Chris McClaren's uneasiness seriously enough to employ her contacts in the Pittsburgh area to address his concerns.

With a single call to Detective Carl Horvath, she had set in motion a series of inquiries that yielded the information she'd been seeking. To wit that - A. Douglas LaSalle was, indeed, currently confined in a private suite at UPMC Presbyterian Hospital. B. He was scheduled for rounds of testing and treatment for the next two days involving preparation for a possible organ transplant, and C. his medical attendant - one Thomas Bradford - was on duty at his side, constantly available to see to his every need.

She could certainly understand McClaren's misgivings, but every possible scenario had been addressed to make sure that no one - Bradford or anyone else - could gain access to young Mr. Kinney. He was, to use a phrase that her mother - a native of the village of Wickenby in Lincolnshire, England - had always favored, safe as houses, although she had never been entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded good, sounded reassuring.

Additionally, there was still no proof that this Bradford character was, in fact, the individual who had come so close to succeeding in a clandestine attempt to end Brian's life. Everything was still a matter of speculation.

Alexandra Corey did not enjoy speculation.

It was going on seven when she picked up her phone and directed an assistant to call Dulles and have the FBI jet prepared to lift off within the hour.

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


The image currently displayed on his monitor was pleasant enough, though not exactly prepossessing. If he looked hard enough and allowed his imagination to flourish, he could just make out how the stretch of riverside property could be transformed into the architectural triumph suggested by the drawings he'd spent the entire afternoon studying. The physical features were all present and accounted for - the semi-dramatic drop-off to the river, the silhouette of a broken precipice in the distance, and the narrow curving ravine that would be transformed - via the tender mercies of a master landscape artist - into a stunning path for nature lovers who might tire of the more contrived offerings to be found in the stunning array of buildings on the site.

It would be breathtaking, and he could be a part of its creation.

Brian Kinney - pillar of the community; mover and shaker; cultural maven; philanthropic entrepreneur, and - oh, yes - multi-millionaire.

Of course, in point of truth, he was already a multi-millionaire. But only just, since "multi" - by definition - indicated any number greater than one. So he qualified, barely. But this project, if it played out as presented, would enroll him in the ranks of the very, very wealthy.

That was a prospect he found extremely enticing.

Plus - he hardly dared to think it - would it also buy him . . . With an impatient slap of his hand, he moved away from the photograph and pulled up a more prosaic document, the details of the land purchase. He had spent his entire life not giving a royal fuck whether or not society approved of him and his lifestyle, and he was damned if he was going to start now.

So this was about the money. Not his place in the community. Not the respect of his financial peers. Not taking his place among the social elite.

Just money. But not just money. Money - as in enough money to guarantee he would never again be put in a position of dire need, and - more importantly - he would be able to provide for his son and Justin, so neither of them would ever lack for anything. And there were others, of course - people who were enormously important to him - even if some of them had never realized just how important they were.

Section 78 - 40.3N - 79.9W: that certain tract or parcel of land, containing 23.7 acres, more or less, being located in the Northeast Quarter of Section 78, Township 40 North, Range 70 West, Borough of West Hampton, Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, bordered by a .347 mile frontage on the Monongehela River, adjoining a lateral stretch of . . .

Blah, blah, blah. Pages and pages of details on arcane things like mineral rights, rights of way, adherence to environmental regulations, zoning issues, etc, etc, etc.

The bottom line was, of course, the one thing which required no esoteric knowledge of realty. Sales price: $7,990,425.00.

And that was merely the cost of the land, unimproved, to be divided equally among four investors. He did not yet know the identity of the other three, but he could make a fair guess about one of them.

He did not know C. R. Wylie. Had never met him, or had any desire to make his acquaintance. But he already didn't like him, a circumstance for which he made no excuses. He didn't need to know the man in order to determine that he was the kind of breeder power-broker who would have been front and center in the defense of Proposition 14. That was a given. Still, he had done business in the past with people he didn't like; personal fondness was not required for a successful business relationship.

Liking did not really matter, but trusting - that was something else entirely.

Brian folded his lips and resisted an urge to massage his temples with rough fingertips. It was patently ridiculous to have a headache pounding in his skull over something he could not resolve. He never indulged in false modesty; if anything, he was more inclined to be over-confidant, a trait that had frequently driven his lover, along with many of his friends, to distraction. But in this - he didn't want to admit he was in over his head - but he was.

He didn't know enough about the real estate market to make an informed judgment. And - in spite of his insistence to the contrary - neither did Ted Schmidt.

Brian needed some independent advice - knowledgeable advice from someone with no stake in the outcome of the deal.

He was mildly astonished to realize that he really wished that he had not sent Chris McClaren to Miami. Which was extremely foolish, of course. McClaren might be ridiculously well-informed, and intelligent to the point of brilliance, but he wouldn't recognize a golden investment opportunity if it stared into those incredible blue eyes and explored his mouth with a hungry tongue.

It wasn't his area of expertise. Nevertheless . . .

Soon, it won't matter. Soon, he'll be gone. Just like everybody else you've ever . . .

His maundering was interrupted by the ringing of his phone, and he was grateful for the diversion. A glance at the caller ID caused him to smile, and he answered by engaging the speaker function.

"Sunshine," he purred with a smirk, as he lit a cigarette and ran a hand across his jaw, noting the stubble that he decided to ignore for the moment. At one time, he would never have tolerated it, but things were different now. Way different. "I thought we were going to meet at the club."

"Change of plans," Justin replied, his voice just husky enough to inform his lover that he'd been indulging in a bit of smoking of his own, and not of the strictly legal variety. "Debbie's here, with enough puttanesca to feed a small army and a whole box full of cannoli."

Brian suppressed a groan. There were very few things - nutritionally speaking - which he found hard to resist, but cannoli was in a category all its own.

"My way of saying thanks." Debbie's voice was just as loud and brash as always, but there was a new note there - a soft note he was unaccustomed to hearing.

"You don't have to say anything," he replied gruffly. "Didn't do it for you."

"Of course you didn't," she retorted. "What was I thinking?"

"Anyway," Justin said quickly, "you need to come home before we go to Babylon. To eat, to look over what Mr. Kissinger and I came up with today, and, um, to, um . . ."

"He's trying to be discreet, Stud Muffin," said Debbie with a laugh. "And I promise to be long gone by the time you get here, so you two can do . . . whatever it is you do when you're alone. After all, I have a welcome home celebration to prepare. Which, by the way, you guys could join, if you can tear yourself away from your fuck-fest for a while."

"Now let me think," said Brian, with a droll smirk. "A Novotny house party, or plowing . . ."

"Enough of that," Justin said quickly. "Just get your ass home, okay?"

"You hungry, Sunshine?"

"You have no idea." That was just a whisper, definitely not meant for Debbie's ears.

"OK, but it'll be a while yet." Brian pretended not to hear Justin's harsh sigh. "I've got a few things to finish here."

"What's more important than . . ."

"Nothing," Brian said quickly, "but I need to finish up so I don't have to deal with all this again."

"Deal with what?"

"Details," Brian said easily. "Just details. Cleaning up some of Teddie's mess."

Justin sighed again, more gently. "Okay, but just - don't be too late, huh? I miss you. I need you here, with me. Now."

"Just relax, Twink. I'll . . ."

"McFed's not there, is he?"

Brian frowned, hearing the note of uncertainty in Justin's voice, and wishing he could think of a way to sooth it. "No. He's on his way back from Miami."

"And he hasn't called you?"

Brian sank back in his chair. "Now why would he call me? It's not like we keep tabs on each other."

"Wrong. You might not keep tabs on him, but he sure as hell keeps . . ."

"It's just his job, Justin."

"Yeah. Right."

Brian spent a minute staring blindly at the image on his computer screen, debating what to say next. "You jealous, Sunshine?" he asked finally, allowing a note of impatience to color his tone.

Justin mumbled something.

"What was that? I didn't quite . . ."

"Yes, Goddammit. All right. I'm jealous. You satisfied?"

The impatience was gone, and the tone was gentle and filled with affection. "Yeah. I am. And when I get home, I'll show you how much."

Justin was still laughing when Brian disconnected and looked up to find Cynthia watching him, her eyes bright with warmth. "What?" he asked. "Aren't you going to tell me I shouldn't tease him?"

"Nope. I figure you've earned it. And he's not a baby any more. If he can't take it now, he needs to learn to."

He regarded her steadily. "Okay. Who are you, and what have you done with my Tinkerbell?"

"Your 'Tinkerbell' grew up, Peter. You should try it sometime."

His smile was sardonic. "And there she is. In character once more."

She nodded toward his computer. "Find anything?"

"Not really. You?"

She hesitated, apparently considering how to word her response.

"You did," he said sharply. "Come on. Spill it. What did you . . ."

"It's probably nothing," she replied finally, reluctantly. "Just a typo, but it needs checking out."

"What kind of typo? What did you find?"

She flopped into an arm chair. "Like I said, it's a tiny discrepancy. I'm not even sure why I did it, but I fed the coordinates provided in the legal plat description into the Google Map app, and . . . and the image that came up didn't exactly match the photos provided by the realtor. Not quite."

"What do you mean? How was it different?"

She took a deep breath. "The configuration of the river-front looked rougher to me - more deep-cut - and there were remnants of what seemed to be old construction. Nothing major - mostly just a few pieces of old stone and a couple of piles of rubble - which might mean nothing except that the Google image was an overhead shot, and the photos weren't. So it might just be that the photographer was working from a different angle, or the remains of the structure would only be visible from a certain altitude. So, tomorrow, I'll go down to the clerk of court's office, and . . ."

She was interrupted by the sound of Katy Perry's "Firework" erupting from her iPhone - the ringtone that identified the call as coming from her daughter.

Brian, realizing who was calling, prepared to shout out a greeting, but the words died on his lips as he watched Cynthia's face blanch to a startling pallor within a matter of seconds as she listened to her daughter's voice.

"Katy, Katy, wait, Honey," she gasped, lifting one trembling hand to her forehead and trying to understand the shrill outpouring of broken words Katy could not seem to organize in order to make sense. "What happened? Where's . . ."

"What's wrong?" Brian demanded, leaping to his feet.

Cynthia's eyes were huge and tearful. "She's lost. She can't find . . ."

Without ceremony or hesitation, Brian grabbed the phone. "Katy, it's Brian. Now I want you to take a deep breath, and listen to me. Can you do that?"

For a moment, there was only a keening sound, interspersed with sniffling. Then - finally - a small, tentative voice. "O. . . kay."

"Okay. Now everything's going to be fine. Just tell me where you are."

"I don't know," the girl wailed.

"Yes, you do," he answered, deliberately calm, almost serene. "I want you to look around, and tell me what you see."

Meanwhile, he was scribbling a note on his blotter, which he pushed toward Cynthia. "Get Mathis to track her phone."

Cynthia nodded and went racing out of the office.

"Talk to me, Katy. Tell me what happened."

"I just . . . I had to go to the bathroom, and Aunt Mona was getting popcorn for us . . . and when I came out, I - I couldn't find her, and then this lady came up and grabbed my hand and said that Aunt Mona was sick, so I had to go with her, and . . . and she pulled me downstairs and down a long hall, and . . . and then there were a lot of people, and I . . . she pushed me away and let go of my hand, and I . . . there were no more people, and . . . Brian, I'm scared. I don't know where . . ."

"Katy," he interrupted, sensing the hysteria rising in her voice, "I want you to look around, and tell me what you see."

She sniffled loudly, and took a deep breath. "It's dark," she said finally, "and it smells bad."

An insistent beeping interrupted the sound of her voice, and Brian glanced at the caller ID to identify Cynthia's aunt, but he dared not cut Katy off. The aunt/godmother would just have to wait.

"What else?" he asked gently, as Cynthia raced back into the office. He scribbled another note, directing Cynthia to call Mona immediately. "Come on, Katy. Talk to me. Are there people there, or . . ."

"Not right here," she answered. "But I can hear them. They sound busy and . . . and cross And . . . and there are bars behind me. I can feel them. And there's hay on the floor. And . . . Brian?"

"Yeah, Baby Girl?"

"I'm so scared."

"I know," he said softly. "But you're going to be all right. I promise, Katy. You just keep talking. Just tell me everything you can think of. What do you hear?"

"Someone is shouting," she answered, "but I can't tell what they're saying. And I hear some kind of animal growling. It's . . . it's not far away."

Brian took a deep breath. "All right, Katy. This is what I want you to do. I need you to sit very still, and . . ."

"Got it," shouted Lance Mathis, as he hurried into the office. "She's still at the fairgrounds, although I can't tell exactly where."

"She's in the staging area, where they keep the animal cages. You go with Cynthia. Right now."

"Brian," said the security chief, obviously torn and reluctant, "my job is to protect you."

"Your job," Brian retorted coldly, "is to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. And I'm telling you to go get that child. Now."

Mathis hesitated for a moment, before nodding. "All right. But you make Goddamned sure you stay right here. Hilliard and Boyles are both on duty, and Schmidt is still around somewhere, and LaFleur is upstairs, so you should be OK. But you don't leave this office, Brian. The timing on all this is a little too suspicious for my liking, so you make sure you stay put."

Brian ignored his security chief and handed the phone to Cynthia, who was shrugging into her jacket.

"Keep talking to her," said Brian. "She's close to panic, so you need to reassure her."

Cynthia's smile was lopsided as she headed for the door. "Probably can't do it as well as you, but . . ."

The rest was lost as she made her exit, with Mathis at her heels, and Brian found that the subject he'd spent the afternoon investigating suddenly held no interest for him. He reached out and turned off his computer, and grabbed his remote to activate the stereo system, leaned back and propped his feet on his desk, and tried to lose himself in the plaintive softness of Bono's voice as it filled the room.

"Is it getting better?
Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now?
You got someone to blame."**

Katy would be all right, he thought. She would be fine. She had to be fine.

He fought to relax into the music, to slow his breathing and his heart rate. Most of all, he fought to restrain an impulse to get up and smash his fist through any suitably breakable surface, but, in the end, it was hopeless, although he did manage to confine his violent urges to throwing a vase across the room and watching it splinter against the wall. His mind repeatedly turned to the question of what had really happened to Katy, and whether or not it was connected to the continuing melodrama his life had become.

In the end, he turned back to his computer and resumed his research, deciding that Cynthia's small discrepancy deserved further investigation. It might be nothing; on the other hand, the money he would have to contribute in order to purchase the one-quarter interest in the land was sufficiently substantial to make it worthwhile to check out everything. Any discrepancy was potentially lethal.

It took a while, but he was finally able to immerse himself in the research, although he kept his iPhone at hand, caring more about the call his chief of security would make once the little girl was recovered than about any results he might discover - even though he realized that the results were well worth his effort.

The people who existed in his heart were the most important things in his life - a fact which would have surprised acquaintances who knew him as a shallow, materialistic hedonist. But beyond those special individuals, money also mattered - a lot; a fact that would not have surprised those same acquaintances at all.


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

The office had undergone quite a transformation since Emmett had taken on management of Babylon. When Brian had occupied the managerial desk, the room had been elegant in a spare, uncluttered way, depending on clean lines and subdued lighting for an ambiance of sophistication and professionalism, with only small, personal concessions to the lifestyle inherent in the nightclub's existence, and the only color in the room provided by a Justin Taylor original painting - an abstract of soft jeweled curves and brilliant, sunlight-kissed angles.

The painting hung undisturbed; even Emmett knew better than to disturb such a masterpiece. But the rest of the room was different now - different in a way that proclaimed, "Emmett Honeycutt is here". Proclaimed loudly. Black leather and dark gray suede, and smoked glass had been replaced by rich woods and gem-toned prints and banks of silken pillows. He had reined in his most over-the-top inclinations and avoided bright pastel florals and lace accents out of deference to the fact that this was still - officially - Brian's office, and he could not pretend that Liberty Avenue's #1 Stud would not go ballistic if the transformation were carried too far.

He reached out and switched on the Tiffany floor lamp that poured soft golden light across the surface of his French empire-style writing desk and took a moment to enjoy the rich finish of the rare bird's eye maple parquet top that almost glowed in the reflection. It was a reproduction, of course. He could not afford the original, genuine article, and he could only imagine Brian's reaction if he'd been asked to fork over the cash for such an item.

Brian appreciated beauty - more than most; but he had little interest in antiques, preferring contemporary designs and minimalist elegance. Except in cars, of course, and classic guitars, as witness the perfectly preserved sapphire and cream-colored Stratocaster he'd paid a not-so-small fortune for at a charity auction of items donated by Eric Clapton. The instrument, autographed and encased in glass, occupied a place of honor over the desk.

Brian often claimed to have little interest in tradition, and, given his family history, Emmett found he could hardly blame him. He usually tried not to think about the childhood Brian had endured, but, occasionally, it would rise in his mind and leave him virtually gasping for air and fighting off intense bouts of sympathetic pain.

Still - Emmett sprawled back in his leather chair and studied the face of the man featured most prominently in a panoramic photograph that hung on the wall before him - a portrait of Babylon - BtB. Before the Bombing, capitalization intended. It was a black and white reproduction of a group of patrons gathered around the bar, featuring happy, laughing, beautiful faces, filled with the kind of exuberance that was a product of being young and openly gay. And in the forefront, surrounded by his adoring (mostly) public, stood Brian Kinney, lifting his glass to toast whatever was being toasted, and basking in the lust-filled attention of those around him - people like Michael and Blake and Teddie and Emmett himself, and dozens of other sweet young things who would have gladly allowed Brian to have his way with them. All he'd have needed to do was say the word. And that included the lovely young blond who was standing at his side, gazing up at him with huge, star-struck eyes - the one who would, not too long after the occasion of the portrait, claim the heart of Babylon's star stud.

Brian and Justin - a most unlikely match, but one that, somehow, seemed meant to be. Unless . . .

Emmett closed his eyes and remembered, saw the huge shadows obscuring the brilliance of Brian's eyes, and saw, just as clearly, the determination that drove the man. Then he thought about what he had not seen; he had been unable to identify a trace of despair or fear in those dark eyes, but he knew instinctively that both were there. Brian would die before he allowed anyone to see what was eating him away inside. Brian Kinney was lost - lost as he had never been before. But he would never permit Justin to see it, or to sacrifice his ambitions and his dreams on the altar of 'taking care of Brian'. Justin, Emmett knew perfectly well, would never see it that way, but convincing Brian . . . he was afraid that would prove to be an exercise in futility.

So what, he thought, do I do about it? He did not fool himself; Brian's threats had not been idle. If he made an attempt to circumvent Brian's orders, he would pay for it, possibly pay more than he could afford to lose. And yet . . . for too long, people who were supposed to be Brian's friends had stood by and allowed him to stand alone, to suffer the consequences of actions that should never have been his to bear. If someone loved him - really loved him, as a friend should - shouldn't that someone refuse to just watch Brian sacrifice himself ? Shouldn't someone do something?

He was still debating and wrestling with his conscience when the office phone rang, startling him out of his reverie.

He answered impatiently, not yet having made his decision and not happy to be interrupted, but his impatience did not last long. In a matter of seconds, he had completely forgotten his musing as he was confronted with something much more alarming.

Randy - the new bartender with the adorable cleft chin and bubble butt - was hardly coherent as he almost shouted into the phone.

"Wait, wait, hold on," Emmett said loudly. "Calm down and tell me . . ."

"There's a bomb. They said there's another bomb."

"Who said . . ."

"A guy. On the phone. He said . . . he sort of sung this little poem, and then he laughed, and said we all better run, if we didn't want to be blown up, like last time."

Emmett was running for the door before the phone settled into its cradle, and, in the blink of an eye, an ordinary Sunday descended into chaos, as he raced downstairs into a scene of fragmented madness. But he wasn't allowed to linger for long. Drew was taking no chances, assuming authority over the staff and making sure that everybody got out, even before the arrival of the first police car.

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

"Don't just stand there," said Brian, in his coldest, most implacable lord-of-the-manor voice, as he cradled the phone against his shoulder. "Go!"

"Brian, I can't just leave you here," replied Jared Hilliard, as an intense flash of lightening poured molten brilliance into the bleak landscape outside the window. "My job . . ."

"Is to protect my property. Now move, damn it! If Babylon burns again . . ." He did not finish the sentence, because he knew there was no need to do so. The horror reflected in his eyes said more than enough, emphasized, somehow, by the rumble of thunder announcing the approach of a late storm. "Too many people have died already."

"I know that," said Hilliard, his voice surprisingly gentle as he was stricken by the realization that he had just joined a very exclusive club, membership restricted to the vanishingly small number of people who had ever been allowed to see Brian Kinney's vulnerable side. "But we're already short-staffed here, with the feds neck-deep in their investigation and with Chuck and Angel deployed to keep an eye on Justin and Ricky staked out to watch Gus. Besides, it's not like the Babylon staff is going to have to face the threat alone. Half of Pittsburgh PD is probably on the way, along with SWAT and specially-trained bomb units. And, since you sent Mathis out with Cynthia, it's only me and Boyles left here, so we can't . . ."

"Yes, you can," Brian interrupted, allowing a trace of warmth to bleed into his tone. "Mathis just checked in to say they found Katy, and she's okay. Shaken, but okay. So he'll be back here as soon as he can drop them off at home, and make sure they're all right. And I'm going to call Chuck and have them take extra precautions for Justin. I don't want him to know about the bomb threat; not yet.

"So you see, there's nothing for you to worry about. You lock everything up when you leave, and I'll stay here, safely tucked away in my ivory tower, until everyone gets back. What I really want to do is go to Babylon myself . . ." He paused and rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger, "but I know I'd just get in the way, not to mention the fact that everybody and his dog would be screaming bloody murder at me for risking my sweet little ass." The sardonic smirk in his voice was unmistakable. "So I want you to go. You know as well as I do that the only way anyone could break in here when this place is locked up tight would be with a tank or a cannon, and I don't think there are any of those lurking out there in the streets."

"But . . ."

"Besides, the old man is upstairs, so you're not leaving me completely helpless and alone, and McFed should be back soon. So just . . ."

"Bri . . ."

"Either you go, or I will!" There was not the slightest nuance of uncertainty now. Just raw determination."

Hilliard took a deep breath, and muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

The security guard responded with a glare. "I said that if you get yourself bludgeoned and mutilated while I'm gone, I'm personally going to kick your 'sweet little ass' myself."

The smile that touched Brian's lips was the very same one that had inspired outbursts of lust in a vast number of the younger citizens of Pittsburgh - both gay and female. "That might be interesting. But I'll be fine. Now get the fuck out of here, and make sure you call me and keep me posted on everything that's happening."

Hilliard wanted to argue more, to say more, but, in the end, he didn't, finally conceding that, in a contest between an irresistible force and an immoveable object, there could be no real winner.

He activated all security protocols, collected his team-mate, locked the building down, and raced out into the growing darkness, telling himself that the clouds boiling overhead and the ozone scent carried on a fitful wind were not really omens of approaching doom.

Kinnetik was secure, he assured himself, knowing the building was completely impregnable now - knowing with his mind, even if his heart insisted on suggesting otherwise. No one could break in; no one could get in, at all, unless alarms and locks were to be deactivated, either from the inside or by virtue of the closely guarded, constantly monitored remote control devices, access to which was limited to security supervisors and upper management.

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


It had not been the smoothest of flights, and Michael had never been particularly fond of flying in the first place. Still, having his beautiful daughter by his side, content now and recovered from the distress of the confrontation between her parents, with Ben sitting just across the aisle, compensated for his unease. Mostly.

What did not compensate for anything - what actually made everything just that much worse - were the storm clouds obscuring the normally crystal blue eyes of his FBI escort. Chris McClaren had not spoken a word to any of their group since take-off, although he'd spoken plenty into his sat phone.

Or tried to, at least.

Michael wasn't sure which was worse: the FBI agent's perpetual scowl during the phone calls that actually went through and connected him to someone on the other end of the call. Or the other expression - the one Michael could not actually identify - which distorted McClaren's features into a complex caricature of his ordinary stoic demeanor when his calls went unanswered.

More than anything, Michael wanted to demand an explanation, so he would know what had happened during the two hour span when the FBI agent had gone off on an errand of his own, while the rest of the group enjoyed an early dinner at Sbarro at Miami International Airport - a choice Michael had come to regret as the taste of garlic lingered too intensely in his mouth. Adding to the sense of anxiety and discomfort was the fact that McClaren's attitude when he'd originally departed from the airport had been jovial and relaxed; his demeanor on his return, however, had been tense and impatient - almost grim - and he had literally herded his charges onto the plane, ignoring all requests for an explanation for his change of mood.

And now - Michael looked up as the seatbelt signs came on, and the flight attendant's voice came over the intercom.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the captain requests that you all take your seats, please, and make sure your seatbelts are fastened. We expect to encounter a small degree of turbulence as we approach our destination, and have been requested to enter a holding pattern until the weather clears below us. Our arrival will be slightly delayed, but . . ."

"Son of a bitch!"

Michael blinked. He was sure he'd heard Chris McClaren swear before; the guy had successfully taken on the role of Brian Kinney's new boy toy during the sting stage of the investigation, so it went without saying the man knew his way around some pretty colorful language. But he was equally sure he'd never heard him snarl an epithet in a voice thick with pure venom. It was also telling that the FBI agent had taken a swing at the seatback in front of him, although he had managed to restrain himself sufficiently to avoid inflicting actual damage.

It was Michael who opened his mouth to speak, but it was Ben who beat him to it.

"All right, Agent McClaren," said the professor firmly. "It's obvious that something is very, very wrong, and I think we've earned the right to hear it."

The glint of ice in the FBI agent's eyes was intimidating, but Ben refused to back down. "What's wrong?"

For a single moment, it was uncertain how McClaren would react, and neither Michael not Ben was entirely certain he would not lash out - physically - in reaction to Ben's demands. But, in the end, he didn't, although Ben was fairly convinced that the man had come close to losing his temper altogether, and somehow, Ben thought he wouldn't want to be around when that happened.

"Babylon," the agent said finally, his voice soft, subdued. "There's a bomb threat."

Michael felt something heavy settle in his chest, as he closed his eyes and remembered. The memory was still fresh enough in his mind to be sharp and piercing and extremely painful. "No," he breathed. "Not again. They can't . . ."

"They won't," McClaren said quickly, realizing - belatedly - that revealing the existence of the threat to Michael was probably a very bad idea, given how narrowly the young man had escaped death from the last attack on the club. "It was a threat, and they've got the police department there, with bomb squads, along with all of Brian's security people. So just . . . don't worry. They got everybody out, and they're searching the place now."

Michael took a deep breath, and felt the hard lump in his chest ease off. "Okay, but that's not all of it, is it? What's got you so paranoid?"

"Paranoid? What makes you think . . ."

"Because," said Ben easily, "you've been antsy every since we got on the plane. If everything is being handled on the ground, why are you so . . ."

"Because not everything is as clear as it should be." He hesitated and seemed to choose his words with care. "I've managed to get through to all of my own people, and to Detective Horvath, and to Mathis and Hilliard. But I can't get through to Brian. Every time I try, I just get his voice mail."

Michael barely avoided rolling his eyes. "You, of all people, should know what that means. If he's not picking up, it's because he's busy with a different kind of pick-up. Justin's probably sitting in his lap, feeding him . . . something. So just . . ."

"No, he's not. I just talked to him. He was just getting out of the shower and getting dressed to go meet Brian at Kinnetik. So that raises the question again. Why isn't he answering his phone?"

"No," said Ben, after a thoughtful pause. "The real question is why you're so alarmed by not being able to reach him." He leaned forward and studied McClaren's expression. "What is it that you found out in Miami?"

But that far, the FBI agent was not willing to go. "It's probably nothing," he said finally. "I just need . . ."

Michael sat back then, and wrapped his arms around the little girl who had fallen asleep with her lovely little face braced against his shoulder. He did not attempt to elicit any more information, realizing that the effort would be useless. But he did realize something he was certain McClaren did not want him to know. The FBI agent was undoubtedly concerned for Brian's safety, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. He thought the agent's last few words were very telling; he did - indeed - 'just need'.

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


Almost time to go.

Ted heaved a sigh of relief and congratulated himself on a job well done.

He had not intended to do a full analysis of Kinnetik's current financial status, nor a projected profite and loss statement when he'd come in to work that morning. He glanced at his watch and noted he'd actually put in more than a regular full day, and a bright, hard flash of lightening announced that it had grown dark and stormy without him noticing as he'd hovered over his computer.

He had meant to be home much earlier; had, in fact, promised Blake he'd return in time for them to drop in at Babylon and spend the evening with their friends. Of course, these days the relationships between him and those so-called friends was a bit strained. But that would all be resolved soon.

Because Ted knew the fundamental truth. He did not require forgiveness from most of their crowd. In the end, it wouldn't really matter how Michael or Ben or Debbie or Emmett felt; it would only matter what Brian felt.

When he wormed his way back into the good graces of Brian Kinney, all would be forgiven.

A sudden rumble in his belly reminded him he hadn't eaten at all today. But it would be worth it, as the documents he'd produced would prove him right. Kinnetik had made a lot of money so far this year - enough money to justify the withdrawal of a substantial portion of its profits for investment in a new venture, a venture which would transform a moderately well-to-do Brian Kinney into a member of the financial elite. Brian would be rich, and Ted - well - in the final analysis, little old underestimated and constantly-ignored Theodore Schmidt would be credited with creating the opportunity.

He could definitely live with that.

And now, everything was ready. All the supporting data was correlated and printed and assembled. All he had to do was wait for the next day, make sure that Cynthia Whitney was otherwise occupied during the course of Brian's meeting with Mr. Wylie (no point in taking a chance on the blond bimbo interfering with his plans) and sit back to rake in the profits and the praise.

He sat back in his chair and allowed himself just a moment to daydream, to enjoy the first faint taste of the sweetness of revenge.

Another glance at his watch. He should call Blake; if he hurried, there still might be time to make a night out of it. Babylon and bright, neon-washed bodies and music loud enough to deafen. Oh, yeah, that would be . . .

When his phone rang, he almost believed it must be Blake, reading his mind. But it wasn't Blake at all, and he realized as soon as he identified the caller that his plans would have to be put on hold for at least a little while longer, for this was the one person, out of everyone he knew, he could not afford to ignore or offend.

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

For the most part, Brian had given up any hope of completing his research, although he'd already learned plenty. Probably even enough to make a final decision, but he would wait to get official documents just to be prudent.

There was, after all, a staggering amount of money at stake.

But there was nothing more to be done tonight; he was much too busy playing trauma counselor to some of his employees and stern taskmaster to others.

He'd managed to reach Mathis as he was leaving Cynthia's house and divert him to Babylon, so he could get firsthand reports from his security chief about the progress of the evacuation and the search of the premises. And Mathis had proved his worth - again - leaving Brian to observe that he needed to buy Drew Boyd and his big nelly-bottom partner a really nice gift, both to celebrate their commitment ceremony, if that was what they deigned to call it, and as a thank-you gift, for it was Boyd who had brought Mathis to his attention in the first place.

The man was turning out to be worth every dime of his generous salary - and more.

As an exceptionally loud rumble of thunder erupted overhead, shaking the building to its core, he had Mathis on speaker phone providing a blow-by-blow description of the police search of the Babylon premises and Emmett, just recovering from a bout of hysterics, on  his cell phone, adding breathless comments as he fought to regain his composure.

It was chaos, compounded by the ferocity of the storm breaking around it, but it was slowly evolving into some kind of fractured order. Emmett grew calmer slowly, probably due to the soothing utterances - a basso descant to the ongoing conversation - coming from the big, strong athlete who had assumed the place at his lover's back and refused to be moved. Mathis, as always - almost - was a paragon of control and organization, watching everything that was going on, and reporting the salient points to his boss, as well as soliciting and observing Brian's comments and recommendations in return.

As for Brian - mostly he just listened, unless he felt some comment was justified, content to know everyone was safe and catastrophe had been averted. For the moment - although he did wonder how long it would last.

It had occurred to him - and to Mathis, no doubt - that the incident involving Katy could not have been some random act of mischief. The woman who had grabbed her and herded her into the crowd had been specific, had known how to motivate the child by using her aunt's name to compel her cooperation.

Which begged more than one question.  What the hell was going on?

With a vague sense of events building steadily toward some as-yet-to-be identified conclusion, he took a glance at the call log on his cell phone and noted that McClaren had been trying to call him, so he decided to disconnect from everyone and find out what was urgent enough to have made the FBI agent try to reach him a half dozen times in the last twenty minutes.

He said his good-byes and terminated the calls, and was just preparing to hit the appropriate button on his speed dial, when there was an unexpected disturbance at his door, heralding a new arrival. Only - no one was supposed to be here. And it was then that he felt the first frisson of unease. It was probably nothing, just a trace of paranoia brought on by the over-protective attitudes of all his security team, but . . .

When he realized that it was Ted rushing into his office, he wanted to feel reassured, to assume that his chief accountant was harmless and he had no just cause to be nervous. And yet . . .

He took a moment to glance at his watch. "Theodore, what are you doing here? I thought you'd gone."

"Sorry, Boss." Ted's eyes were wide and strangely glossy, and his voice was more shrill than usual. He was definitely nervous about something. "I know this seems like an imposition, but it's really not. And it's very important. There's someone here, you see. Someone who needs to see you now - urgently."

Brian went very still. "You . . . let someone in the building?"

Ted jerked to a halt, and there was no mistaking the gleam of irritation in his eyes. "Well, of course I did. Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

Brian looked up then, ignoring the frown on the accountant's face in order to focus on the two figures standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the brighter light in the corridor behind them.

"I know our appointment was scheduled for tomorrow, Mr. Kinney," said the taller of the two, striding into the room and extending his hand in what was supposed to be a show of camaraderie. "But I've just learned that I have to fly to Zurich tomorrow, on an urgent matter, and I hoped you could make a few minutes for me now. I'm C. J. Wylie."

Brian sat back then, his eyes focused on the other man who was still standing in the doorway, a brilliant flash of lightening catching and emphasizing the bright silver in his hair.

And that was the final detail, of course, as Brian felt a cold certainty flare in his gut. It was all so clear now - so clear he wondered why he'd never figured it out before.

"I know who you are," Brian said softly. Then he shifted his eyes to meet those of the tall, lean individual standing in front of his desk. "I know exactly who you are."

"Yes," said C. J. Wylie - better known to his acquaintances in the upper echelons of society - as Clayton. "I thought you probably would."

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


*Time in a Bottle - James Croce

** One- Scott David Graham, Andrea Britton