Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction
Author's Chapter Notes:

Please note:  Although I do rather extensive research into details of the settings and circumstances of my stories, I sometimes take liberties in the interest of making the story believable.  Thus, although many of the features I mention concerning Pittsburgh and its environs are real, there is no Reilly Flats in the city.  At least, not that I know of.  It's a total fabrication, a device to emphasize certain factors of the plot.

This chapter does not feature any hot and heavy man action (dammit!); insteady, it is another example of filling in the blanks and setting the stage.  Since I have a terrible obsession for details, I sometimes let myself get bogged down in them.  I sincerely hope it doesn't detract too much from the rhythm of the story.

Again, major thanks for your comments and your support.

CYN

Chapter 26


The hook had been set by virtue of a lot of careful preparation - and a little bit of luck - but reeling in the catch, without allowing it to wriggle free, would require the touch of a master. Luckily, Jared Hilliard was a skilled angler - so to speak.

Fine-tuned orchestration of the events following the attempt to burn down Brian Kinney's residence had gotten exactly the results that Lance Mathis and his team had intended, but not without a concentrated effort. The police and security pursuit of the culprits had been an intense exercise requiring precision timing and just a tiny nuance of slight-of-hand - a deliberate choreography of glancing blows and near misses, culminating in Hilliard leading his two marks into the basement of an abandoned building with only seconds to spare as a group of pursuers rounded an adjacent corner to find themselves charging into a blind alley with no obvious means of escape.

The window through which the three had gained entrance to the old building was small and low to the ground, and almost invisible behind a couple of trash barrels, unless, of course, one knew where to look. It was the perfect hiding place - noted and prepared well in advance - and the two young targets had never thought to question Hilliard's knowledge of it. He was, after all, a street person - homeless, vagrant, and dependent on his familiarity with such places for his survival.

They had waited in dark, damp, almost breathless silence as the search had progressed, and Hilliard had been forced to hide a smile as the police personnel had played their parts admirably, two of them, at one point, even pausing just outside the window for a cigarette and a casual discussion about why they had to waste their time "protecting a little queer like Brian Kinney" - all carefully scripted, of course, to encourage the targets of the sting to begin to develop a sense of security.

The two young hoodlums had been so terrified of being found out that they'd alternated between struggling to breathe and shaking so violently that the tympanic rhythm of their knees knocking together had almost certainly been audible to the search party lingering nearby, but, in the end, all necessary parts had been perfectly played - and Jared Hilliard, AKA Jed Harper, had ingratiated himself into the lives of his new buddies, having given them cause to be extremely grateful for his intervention. He had also realized, almost immediately, that these two were mere tools in the hands of the still unknown, faceless individuals who had been responsible for the original attack and everything since. Neither Buddy Charles nor Pete Ruiz, in spite of their superficial façade of street creds, were capable of conceiving or implementing any kind of plan for causing damage or pain for Brian Kinney; in fact, neither of them even knew who he was or why he had been targeted. Thus, they were useless in helping to understand the motivations or the goals of the powers behind the plot. But they did possess one bit of knowledge that might prove invaluable to the investigation. They didn't know the basic truths behind the attack - but they knew someone who did, or who, at least, could provide the next link the chain. Thus, they were worth cultivating as a source.

With a little luck - and a judicious application of his own very specific brand of street smarts - he would be able to convert that asset into coin that would move the investigation closer to its desired conclusion - the identification and apprehension of the individuals who had fired the opening salvo in this little homophobic campaign that was threatening to develop into a full-fledged war of attrition.

But he needed to exercise extreme caution in taking the next move; the prey was still skittish, and his access to the lowest level of the conspiracy was no more than a toehold. He would need to be slow, methodical, and extremely wary in trying to expand it - but he already had an inkling of how to go about it - always providing that he could get help from his contacts - or make that Kinney's contacts - within the ranks of Pittsburgh's finest. He had talked to Mathis about his idea, and found him receptive, but the next step meant discussing the scenario with Horvath, who might be less willing to take a chance.

Still, it was time to concentrate on doing his part - taking the next baby step - before worrying about calling in the cavalry.

His cover was still intact. To reinforce it, and prevent any trace of suspicion about a connection to the area around Kinney's loft, he had gone back earlier in the day to remove his makeshift shelter from its position across from the building that was Kinney's residence. He had been circumspect in his movements, careful to preserve the lackadaisical quality of his decision to move on so that any observer would conclude that he was simply wandering off in search of easier pickings. Meanwhile, the less-random-than-they-seemed patrols of the neighborhood would continue, and a new protocol had been established, involving 24-hour surveillance - four team members, in six-hour shifts, patrolling the interior perimeter of the building's ground floor, behind newly-installed window tinting which would prevent their presence from being detected, as they made their rounds and made use of the continuous electronic monitoring which Mathis had implemented immediately after Brian's rescue.

Thus, Hilliard did not feel as if he were deserting his post; instead, he was marginally convinced that he was making real progress toward finding answers.

When he arrived at the site of his new flop, he paused for a moment, looking out across the abandoned park that was his destination, to the spires of the old church which was even older than most of the buildings around it, and spent a few minutes trying to imagine what the area might have been like during its early years. Now it was a blight upon the face of the city, dark and stained and derelict, a slum in every sense of the word and a far cry from what it had once been.

Reilly Flats had once been a working class neighborhood, which had begun its life as a semi-rural hamlet clustered around a general store, a barbershop, a dilapidated old Esso station (long before the advent of the ubiquitous Exxon logo) and a tiny pub, all huddled close against the solid gothic walls (and the solid moral compass) of the Holy Name Catholic Church, located beyond the extreme outskirts of the city. It had flourished with a true village mentality only to eventually be engulfed by the urban sprawl of greater Pittsburgh. In the course of its evolution, it had spread out to become a vast area which - remarkably - managed to retain a small-town sense of neighborhood. It had been composed almost entirely of single family dwellings - small, one- or two-story clapboard houses with covered, hospitable front porches, narrow basements, and detached single-car garages, constructed on shallow lots and providing shelter for lower middle-class factory workers - employees of the steel industry and chemical plants and foundries, tool and die makers, canneries, trucking firms, paper mills, and bottling companies. Small, grassy back yards provided space for multiple strands of clothes lines and tiny concrete-block patios supporting barbeque pits made from 55-gallon drums, all built within walking distance of a city block-sized expanse, locally known as Darby's Field, with a tiny little pond at the northern end and a fenced-off baseball diamond at the other, a simple venue which was a combination playground, athletic field, and gathering place for use by the whole community.

During the middle years of the twentieth century, the Flats had been home to a predominantly white population, many of them second or third-generation descendents of Irish or German or Italian immigrants, hard-working and fiercely independent. Though never home to the social or cultural elite, or the wealthy or politically prominent, it had been a good place to live, the kind of grass roots, heartland community that contributed greatly to the world's idea of what comprised the American dream. Despite occasional hard economic times and cyclical troubles, it had been a product of American's Age of Innocence - a surprisingly safe refuge from the darker times looming on every horizon. Brian Kinney and Michael Novotny and the others who were part of their crowd would not understand how much it was missed by some of the people who had been a part of it, but Debbie Novotny understood it perfectly, having been born and raised within its borders; it had always bothered her that her son had never experienced that kind of social innocence - an urban world where children had been able to play safely in and around the streets without having parents driven instantly to a state of panic if their offspring were out of sight or out of mind for a few hours, and where terms like "child molester" and "pedophile" and "sexual predator" had not yet become a part of the lexicon of the streets.

Maybe, Debbie sometimes thought, it had not been Camelot or Xanadu or Shangri-La - exactly - but, in retrospect, it seemed to have come very close.

But time, economic fluctuations, and the eventual decline of the steel industry had caused elementary changes in the neighborhood. The old-timers who had built the area during the halcyon days of their youth, had died off, and the younger generation had migrated to the suburbs, while the infrastructure had deteriorated. Single-family dwellings had gone to ruin over the years as personal income had declined, and the erection of cheaply-built housing projects and multi-storied warrens masquerading as apartment houses had resulted in an influx of the poor, the unemployed, and the uneducated.

Nobody was ever exactly sure when the much-lamented community had disappeared, lost beneath the rise of the ghetto.

Darby Field, once the site of softball tournaments and 4th of July celebrations and block parties and impromptu hockey games and intense snowball fights during the long, dark winter months, was now little more than a trash-filled, overgrown vacant lot that provided a short cut from one crowded, dirty street to the next, with nothing more than a few cracked concrete slabs scattered here and there, the half-collapsed skeleton of a tin-roofed section of bleachers and one rusted basketball hoop dangling from a broken backboard to remind anyone of what it had once been.

Jared Hilliard chose his spot carefully, tucked away beneath the only remaining part of the bleachers that had not caved in upon itself. It was not, in truth, much of a shelter, but it was better than some other places he had used during his years as an undercover cop in his native city of Baltimore, when playing the role that allowed him to develop a rapport with the street people who often knew much more about truth and reality than the so-called respectable members of a given society might realize. His efforts had earned him a nickname within the department that he'd been rather fond of - the Chameleon. But these days, he didn't allow himself to spend much time thinking about those years, or the career that was irrevocably lost to him when a drugged-out prostitute had shot him in the back while he was defending her from the pimp who was trying to carve her into mincemeat. Sixteen months later, after multiple surgeries and intensive rehab, he had been informed by his oh-so-sympathetic superiors that the damage caused by his injury precluded his return to his previous job. Instead, he was offered a position overseeing the evidence locker at central headquarters - a position most frequently filled by beat cops no longer able to deal with the rigors of patrol and biding their time until they had sufficient tenure to retire.

He had considered the offer for exactly two minutes before surrendering his gun and his badge to the lieutenant who had been charged with breaking the news. Then he had walked out of the precinct office, never to return.

It had been the end of a dream he had pursued throughout his youth, beginning with his stint in the army which provided the funding to allow him to earn a criminal justice degree in order to qualify for a professional-level position with the police department where his two older brothers were both employed as patrolmen.

He had left Baltimore a week later, finding employment with a private security firm in Philadelphia, quickly establishing himself as an expert in undercover surveillance. A year later, the company had expanded and opened an office in Pittsburgh, and Hilliard had accepted an assignment there, only to find, to his complete astonishment, a home, like none he had ever known before.

He still didn't understand why the city had immediately felt so familiar to him, or why he had realized that it was the place he was meant to be, but he did not try to deny it. He had always been a big believer in taking life as it came to him, and Pittsburgh, for whatever reason, had come to him like a revelation. It was home, and it always would be, even though the job - and the people he worked for - still left a great deal to be desired. A few months later, reacting to a vague sense of wanderlust, he had found himself strolling into a pool hall on Liberty Avenue and striking up a conversation with a friendly young executive-type named Lawrence Blanchard, who was, at that time, chief of security for Kinnetik Corp, the predecessor of Lance Mathis.

The rest, he thought, as he gazed out across a field of broken memories, was history.

Well - almost.

He had liked Lawrence Blanchard immediately, finding him approachable, hip, direct, and blessed with an understated, wickedly dry sense of humor that reminded Jared of his baby brother, David. Jared's father, a deeply religious man with iron-clad protestant convictions, had always mourned his youngest son's sharp tongue and smart mouth, generally labeling his attitude and his commentary as blasphemous, but Jared had always preferred to describe young David's outlook on life as both remarkably accurate and extremely irreverent - a combination he enjoyed enormously. Blanchard and David would have gotten along beautifully, he thought, and when Blanchard offered him a job as assistant security director at Kinnetik, after having known him only a matter of hours, explaining that the position would entail being part of a team dedicated to protecting the interests of the Liberty Avenue version of Casanova, he had accepted without a second thought, thoroughly intrigued. Any man who could inspire such a sobriquet he knew he had to meet.

Later, he would come to speculate about how his younger sibling would have reacted to the colorful - some might say flamboyant - individual who was both the source and the focus of his employment. Conversely, he never had to wonder what his father would have thought of Brian Kinney. Jared had been present at Kinnetik - the very first shift of his very first day on the job - on the occasion of Brian's infamous shouting match with his mother, after his bout with cancer, and the security guard had known immediately how difficult it must have been for Brian to endure the condemnation that was written so large on his mother's face as she'd hastened out of her son's office; Jared had known because he had endured something very similar on the day his father had learned that his third child - the fine, upstanding, police-officer son, who had always been his pride and joy - was not quite as much an adherent to the straight and narrow path as he'd always believed.

After Joan Kinney had made her escape from her son's presence and from his life - undoubtedly washing her hands of him and wiping the dust of the place from her feet in a manner befitting Biblical decree, Jared had stood in the lobby for a few minutes, remembering his own feelings following his father's rejection, which had come in the form of an eerily calm announcement of Hilliard Sr.'s certainty that no fornicating abomination could possibly be a son of his. That occasion had been followed by the same kind of stunned silence that followed Brian's mother's departure, as everyone else in the building had seemed frozen and uncertain of what - if anything - should be done, but Jared had acted instinctively, going to Brian's office and knocking on the door, not even sure what he meant to say, but knowing he had to say something.

He had been surprised to find Brian smiling when he'd stepped into the office, and he'd faltered then, suddenly wondering if his presence might be considered intrusive rather than supportive.

Brian had looked at him, interest flickering in beautiful hazel eyes, but with no real sense of recognition.

"What's up?" the heart and soul of Kinnetik had asked, his smile growing larger as he'd apparently found some cause for obscure amusement in his own words.

"Are you . . . all right, Mr. Kinney?"

Brian had frowned then. "And that would be your concern . . . how, exactly?"

Hilliard had offered a small shrug. "It's what I get paid to do."

"What? Sticking your nose in my business?"

Hilliard, with absolutely no indication of embarrassment or apology, had replied, "No. Protecting you."

Brian had paused, looking confused. "From my
mother?" There'd been no mistaking the degree of his incredulity.

And Hilliard had laughed, recognizing the farcical nature of the moment, prompting Brian to laugh with him, while asking, "By the way, who the fuck are you?"

That had been their formal introduction, and they had shared a few laughs about it since then, mostly late at night when Brian was working after hours on some special project and had invited Jared in for brandy and cigars. Brian had, of course, given the comely security guard the
de rigueur once over that was expected of him in any face-to-face encounter with an attractive man, and Hilliard had recognized, immediately, that the man did not believe in fouling his own nest - which, he occasionally admitted in the privacy of his own thoughts, was a real pity. However, as time had passed, Hilliard had discovered something about his employer that had surprised him, once he'd managed to get beyond the levels of attraction and desire that Kinney inspired in almost everyone. He had expected to lust after the man; he had definitely not expected to like or admire him.

In some ways, such feelings made his job easier. In others, much more complicated.


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

He unloaded his belongings from the shabby old wheelbarrow that served as his means of transport, and proceeded to erect his shelter, re-using plastic sheeting and cardboard and an assortment of items salvaged from trash barrels and dumpsters. He had been doing such tasks over such a long period of time that it had become routine, requiring little in the way of conscious thought, and allowing him to concentrate his attention elsewhere.

Thus, he was instantly aware of the approach of the two teen-agers who had urged him to take up residence here, within the area that they considered their own stomping ground, where - they had suggested - their extended families would welcome him to the neighborhood, which, of course, was exactly the kind of connection that Hilliard had been anticipating.

"Hey, Jed," said Buddy, as he knelt at the entrance to the newly constructed shelter, "why were you hanging out in Queerville? I mean, you're not . . . like that, are you?"

Hilliard fixed the teen-ager with a stern glare. "How is that any of your business, Punk? And what have you got against queers anyway?"

"They're queers," the boy answered, obviously feeling no need for any further explanation.

"Yeah, well, let me tell you something, Stud," Hilliard replied. "A little piece of wisdom, just in case you ever find yourself in dire need. The people who live there - in the area you call Queerville - are a hell of a lot more generous than your ordinary man on the street. Ask anyone who's ever been homeless, and they'll tell you that you've got a lot better shot at getting help from the fags on Liberty Avenue than the solid citizens of Shadyside or Squirrel Hill."

"Yeah," said Pete Ruiz doubtfully, "but they're . . . queers."

Hilliard sighed. "Yeah. I believe that's already been established. So - just so we're clear on it. Is that why you were trying to burn down Kinney's loft? Because he's a fag?"

Ruiz shrugged. "That's enough, ain't it?"

"Actually, it's not," Hilliard answered. "You took a really stupid risk. For what? So you'd get some kind of silly kick out of some secondhand account of the blaze? I mean, it's not like you were going to get the chance to stand around and watch it go up in smoke. And why that specific place, for fuck's sake? There are plenty of easier targets on Liberty Avenue. Like I told you, the guy that lives there has more money than God, and lots of friends, so, if you're not angling for a long stay at Frackville, you'll pick better targets for your petty vandalism."

"Look," said Ruiz, "it wasn't like that. We were just doing something for . . ."

"For kicks," Charles interrupted, an angry warning blazing in his eyes as he glared at his friend. "Look, Bro, we know we were stupid, and it could have gone bad for us if you hadn't stepped in. So . . . we owe you one. And my mom - she wants you to come have supper with us. Tonight?"

Hilliard looked askance at the young black man whose skin was the color of dark honey and very beautiful. "Wait a minute. You told her? She knows what happened, what you did?"

The teen-ager grinned. "I may be young, but I'm not brainless. Of course, I didn't tell her the truth. She got a . . . slightly edited version. She thinks you saved me and Pete from a bunch of North Charles Street Crips."

Hilliard drew a deep breath. "And now you expect me to what? Go along with your lies."

Charles shrugged. "All you have to do is nod and just agree with whatever she says. It'll be okay. And when's the last time you had a real home-cooked meal, Dude? She's a great cook. Even rich white dudes can't get enough of her cooking."

"Yeah?" Hilliard laughed. "And how many rich white dudes drop in for dinner at your house?"

The youth rolled his eyes. "Not at my house, Asshole. At her job. She cooks for this fancy rich man's club out in the north hills."

Hilliard frowned and looked out across the park toward the drab concrete façade of an apartment tower, knowing that he needed to shore up his image as a homeless veteran. "I don't do too well in . . . social settings," he explained. "I'd probably make your mother uncomfortable."

Pete Ruiz leaned against an upright support beam and lit a cigarette. "No worries, Man. Buddy's dad was a Viet Nam vet, who came back home with lots of problems - physical and mental - so there's not much you could throw at Miss Rachel that she couldn't handle."

Hilliard's eyes were suddenly full of shadows. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

Buddy Charles frowned. "Okay. You're right. I don't know. But it's just one meal, and my mom really wants to thank you for your help. One hot meal and a few hours inside, where it's warm. What have you got to lose?"

Hilliard managed - barely - not to smile, as he concluded that the important question was actually the reverse of the one the boy had posed. What, after all, did he have to gain?

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


Brian relaxed against the suede softness of the plush recliner, noting to himself that traveling via private jet was definitely the way to hop across the country, held tenderly in the lap of luxury. He tried not to fidget under the attentions of the nurse who was cutting away the last of his bandages. Ordinarily, he would not have resisted the gentle touch of a human hand - even of the female persuasion - but he was tired of having people treat him as he were made of fragile crystal, just one high C away from shattering.

Brian Kinney was nothing if not tough, despite the perfection of his face and form.

He frowned. Make that the former perfection of his face and form. How long would it be, he wondered, before the self image within his mind matched the reality of the vision he might glimpse in any mirror. And how long before he came to envy Count Dracula's immunity to reflection?

He turned his head then, to glance out the window and spotted the distinctive sprawl of the nation's capital laid out beyond the port wing, the curve of the Potomac glittering in the brilliance of the afternoon sunlight. Chris McClaren was watching as well, sipping at a glass of very old, very expensive single malt whiskey which had been served up by the lone flight attendant who was still standing nearby, waiting to respond to the beck and call of any of the plane's passengers. Or the man who was, undoubtedly, her lord and master.

Rick Turnage was, of course, ignoring them all, giving his full attention to an image on his computer screen.

"Nice wheels, Doc," said Brian, his eyes taking in the details of the luxuriously furnished main cabin of the Lear Jet.

Turnage didn't even lift his eyes as he offered up a minimal response. "It serves the purpose."

"Please, Mr. Kinney," said Brenda Herring softly, as she attempted to wipe away the last of the adhesive residue from his face while maintaining a professional demeanor. "Just a few more moments and we'll be done here."

When Brian flinched away from her touch as she was forced to rub forcefully at a stubborn spot, she recoiled slightly. "I'm so sorry," she murmured. "Dr. Turnage needs to be able to examine you thoroughly, so we need to remove every trace of this adhesive, but I'm trying not to hurt you."

Brian looked up into gentle gray eyes, and frowned. "How did you," he asked in a tone that managed to combine tender regard with more than a touch of sarcasm, "wind up with him?"

Rick Turnage was still busy at a miniature version of the desk that occupied center stage in his office at home. "Brenda supplies what I can't," he volunteered, looking up quickly to confront his patient with cold blue eyes. "Coddling."

Brian surprised himself by responding with a bark of laughter. "I hope you pay her extremely well. Making up for your singular bedside manner must be a particularly demanding, almost full-time job."

Turnage frowned. "What I pay my assistant," he said slowly, "is none of your concern, Mr. Kinney. But I'm curious about what you're expecting from me. If you want me to stroke your ego - which doesn't appear to need any stroking, from me or anyone else - then you're in the wrong place. I assure you, there are plenty of sycophants out there who'll be happy to hold your hand and moan and groan with you over the cruelty of fate and your terrible misfortune. If that's what you want."

Brian's smile was cold. "It's not. I don't need anyone to grieve on my behalf."

"Good, because that's something I can't give you, although I'm sure Brenda will be glad to manufacture tears for you, if it'll make you feel any better."

The nurse in question simply continued with her task of cleaning Brian's face, but her smile as she did so was very sweet, and her touch seemed to grow even more gentle, managing to convey her message without ever actually needing to speak.

"On the other hand," said Turnage, rising and moving to Brian's side with a small leather pouch in his hand, "if you want the damage that was done to you repaired, you're exactly where you need to be."

Brian took a moment to study the man's expression before choosing his response. "All right, Doc. It's time for truth - with all cards on the table. I understand that medicine is not really an exact science - that there are no iron-clad guarantees. But I want your best professional opinion. Do you really believe that you can . . . fix this?" He lifted one hand in a gesture that managed to convey the full sweep of his injuries.

Turnage did not answer immediately, and Brian found that he was grateful for that. He did not want knee-jerk assurances and easy promises. He wanted the truth - or as much of it as the physician was capable of providing.

The doctor leaned forward, his eyes examining every detail of the patient's features, taking in the full extent of the damage; what would fade with time, what would heal without intervention, and, more importantly, what would not. He wanted to be glib in his response, cocksure and unapologetic and disdainful of any possibility of failure; it was an attitude he frequently assumed in such moments.

Only . . . Shit!

Instead of offering his customary arrogant assurances, he surprised himself by settling into the chair at Brian's side and choosing his words carefully. "You're right. As much as I might prefer to disagree, I cannot promise you - without reservation - that it will be possible to . . . 'fix you', as you put it. But I will tell you this; if I can't do it, it can't be done. And I firmly believe that I can not only repair the damage . . ." He could not suppress the gleam of avarice that flared in his eyes . . . "I can improve on the original. You'll not only be the beautiful Brian Kinney again; you'll be better."

"No, I won't."

Turnage frowned. "Why not?"

Brian chose to favor Nurse Brenda with his most brilliant smile, which still managed - somehow - to be brilliant despite the terrible mutilation caused by his injuries. "Because you can't improve on perfection."

The nurse squeezed his hand, barely managing to swallow the little laugh that his insouciance had triggered. It was truly a marvel, she thought, that a man so severely damaged could still manage to touch the hearts of those around him. She also noted that Chris McClaren didn't even bother to try to suppress his snicker.

Turnage went back to his examination of Brian's injuries, his gloved hand exploring a particularly ugly scar just in front of the left ear that had damaged underlying muscle tissue, resulting in a distortion of the shape of the eye. "I could build up your chin, you know," he said, fingers probing and pulling as he ignored the patient's attempts to evade his touch. "It's not really proportional to the rest of your face, and it would be fairly easy to correct, so . . . oh, for God's sake, would you please be still!"

Brian shifted slightly and fixed the physician with a cold stare. "My chin was fine, just the way it was."

Turnage was abruptly, uncomfortably aware that Chris McClaren was standing close behind him. Too close, and it was vaguely alarming to realize that he had never even noticed when the FBI agent had approached, almost as if he had simply . . . materialized, out of thin air.

"I believe Mr. Kinney is . . . uncomfortable, Doctor," said McClaren softly, but there was an element of steel beneath the velvet tone. "Perhaps you could give him a little time to recover."

"Time is something we can't afford to waste," snapped Turnage. "I need to take some measurements of his bone structure, and diagram his injuries, and . . ."

"Dr. Turnage," said Brenda, "I'd be happy to do the measurements, while you record the damage." Her tone was very professional, but her smile was slightly diffident. "Surely, that would be the most efficient use of our time. Wouldn't it?"

Turnage could not quite conceal the grimace that touched his face, and Brian realized immediately that the man was being played, and knew it. Furthermore, it was pretty obvious that he did not like it, but Brenda Herring was, apparently, not quite such a helpless supplicant at the feet of the Great God Turnage as she'd first appeared, as the doctor elected to back down, rather than call her on her insolence.

Brian decided that he was coming to admire Nurse Herring more with every passing moment, and the expression on Chris McClaren's face suggested that he might agree - if, indeed, the tiny, barely-there smirk that had appeared so fleetingly on his features could be termed an expression at all.

The patient allowed the nurse to position him carefully, in preparation for using the instruments in the leather case to measure the dimensions of his bone structure. His eyes, however, remained restless, following Turnage's movements with more than a trace of skepticism. "Matt Keller told me that you do volunteer work on children from third world nations, with facial deformities."

"That's correct," Turnage replied absently as he adjusted the settings on his interactive pen display unit.

"Hard to believe," Brian observed.

"Why's that?"

"Because arrogance and charity don't usually co-exist very well." Brian grinned. "I should know."

At this point, Chris McClaren was forced to turn away, to avoid laughing in the face of both the physician and his patient, but Turnage, in characteristic narcissist mode, simply ignored the FBI agent and appeared to be considering his response carefully. "You think me incapable of charity?" he asked finally, apparently not even remotely insulted.

Brian smiled. "I think you unconcerned with compassion - and incapable of empathy."

To the surprise of everyone in the cabin - except Brian himself - Turnage nodded. "Very astute, Mr. Kinney. So why do you think I donate my time and efforts to repair those damaged children?"

Brian did not hesitate. "Two reasons. Because you learn from them - every attempt is an opportunity to get better - and because it strokes your ego to be acknowledged for your humanitarian efforts."

Turnage paused for a moment, resetting the definition on the screen of the pen device, suddenly caught up in the memory of the first of the children he had 'repaired' - a six-year-old girl from the Dominican Republic who'd been born with a horribly deformed cleft lip - among other things. Her name had been Paola, and fortune had been hideously unkind to her, in a multitude of ways. Though he had managed to reconstruct her face so that she had no longer been a creature of extraordinary ugliness, there had been little he could do to repair her body of the other birth defects which had left her twisted and paralyzed and almost certainly doomed to an early, meaningless death. Nevertheless, when she had been ready to depart, to go back to her bleak existence in the slums of Santo Domingo, she had smiled at him and thanked him for making her 'beautiful'. In truth, she had not really been beautiful; the extent of her deformities had precluded that possibility, but her comment had led him to understand that beauty - and normalcy - were all a matter of degree.

He had never told anyone about what he had felt when she'd expressed her gratitude or what he had learned from her example of courage and grace. And he wasn't about to do so now.

Humility was not a suit that he wore easily or often or well.

"Right," he retorted finally. "Now, can we stop philosophizing, and get on with the business at hand?"

The physician moved back to his desk to bring up a new file on his computer, and Chris McClaren dropped into the chair at Brian's side, a speculative look on his face.

"What?" asked Brian, slightly alarmed to realize that he had begun to read the FBI agent's expressions with a remarkable degree of accuracy.

"Did it every occur to you - considering that he's going to be standing over your unconscious body with a scalpel in his hand - that it might be a good idea to avoid pissing him off?"

Brian lay back against the pillows that Nurse Herring had arranged beneath him in order to brace his neck and shoulders, and regarded McClaren with a stony stare. "Don't see the point," he answered after a moment of consideration, "seeing as how he'd rather cut off his own thumbs than take a chance on fucking up the work he does on me and winding up looking like a first-class screw-up."

McClaren appeared to think it over. Then he smiled. "Unless you make him so furious that he decides it would be worth it, just to shut you up."

Brian confined his response to a wordless half-shrug which translated - in typical Brian jargon - to something akin to "So what?"

"I want to talk to my son," he announced suddenly to no one in particular. "Now."

Turnage didn't bother to try to camouflage a huff of impatience. "Look, Kinney, we really need to finish our preparations. My primary surgical team will be waiting for us when we land, and . . ."

"In that case," Brian interrupted, "it would be better if someone gets my son on the phone for me now - rather than later."

The nurse paused for a moment in the measurements she was taking to clean away a final spot of adhesive residue from an area under the patient's jaw and regarded him with steady, sympathetic gray eyes. "Mr. Kinney," she began, "don't you think . . ."

"I think," he replied firmly, "that I've made myself clear." Then he turned to look up directly into McClaren's eyes. "Would you get my son on the phone? Please."

McClaren paused briefly, returning Brian's gaze, not quite sure what it was he was hearing in the ad exec's voice. But then he realized that it wasn't important to understand why Brian wanted to talk to his young son at this particular point in time. It only mattered that he wanted it. So he nodded and retrieved the telephone handset from its cradle against the forward bulkhead, and put the call through without comment.

Brian lay quietly, allowing the nurse to proceed with the task she was performing, but his posture was becoming increasingly rigid as his breathing seemed to grow rougher and less regular, and McClaren watched him with growing concern. Thus, it was with a sense of relief that he moved forward to hand the telephone to Brian, as a small, shrill voice echoed through the cabin, a voice screaming, "Daaaddddeeee!" And immediately, Brian was relaxed again, his eyes bright with anticipation.

"Hey, Sonny Boy," he said softly, settling the handset against his shoulder. "How are you?" ''

And that, as usual, was all that was required to set Gus into full soliloquy-mode, cataloging every detail of his day and his thoughts and his enthusiasm and the thousand other aspects of who he was, while Brian simply smiled and listened, interjecting an occasional word of encouragement or request for enlightenment.

Chris McClaren returned to his post near the window, staring down at the eastern shoreline and the muddy gray sweep of the Atlantic beyond, and let his mind wander, while he monitored the conversation going on behind him with half an ear - just in case there might be some scrap of useful information in Brian's responses to his son's breathless monologue. It was truly amazing, he thought, how the attitude of one person could set the tone for everyone within the sound of that particular voice, even when the man in question was totally focused on a person and a place that was steadily falling farther and farther behind them.

Then he grinned as he wondered how traditional psychologists would categorize Brian Kinney. Would they agree with his own assessment? Would they be able to overcome innate, hard-wired resistance to the idea that an out-and-proud, unapologetic, totally upfront homosexual could also be the alpha male of any given group? Or would they voice their disagreement loudly, scoffing at his conclusions?

In the end, it wouldn't matter; he needed no confirmation from anyone else.

He turned then to study Brian's face, and was marginally surprised to realize that he had learned to look beneath the horrible damage, below the injuries and the trauma, and see the man who still lived beneath the façade. That man was smiling now, obviously deeply, irrevocably in love with the child he claimed he'd never wanted, and not looking especially alpha in his father-guise.

But McClaren knew the truth. There was a deep, sensually-satisfying peace in the cabin at that moment, and it touched them all. And it emanated from the man at its center.

The alpha male.

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


"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

Cynthia sighed, noting that Ted's voice tended to climb into operatic octaves when he was distressed. Or angry.

"Sit down, Ted," she said softly, "and I'll . . ."

"I don't want to sit down, thank you very much," he retorted, standing very stiff and straight. "I want to know why Brian would just . . . vanish like this. Where the fuck has he gone?"

She considered her response carefully before speaking, trying to find a way to defuse the situation and calm her associate's outrage. "He's being transported to a private clinic. For intense physical therapy. And surgical intervention."

Ted began to pace, his movements jerky and without grace. "And Kinnetik? What happens to this company - the one I've . . . " He paused, and had the grace to flush crimson beneath her speculative gaze . . ."we've all fought so hard to build?"

She smiled, but swallowed it quickly as she realized that he would interpret any such expression as patronizing and condescending. "Relax, Ted. It's not like he's traveling out into the depths of the Sahara, or to the ice ridges of Antarctica. He'll have access to telephones and computers, and he'll be checking in regularly. He's run the company in absentia before, so . . ."

"I know, but . . . there are sensitive decisions to be made. Financial issues that need addressing, and clients to entertain and mollify, and new accounts that require . . ."

She held up a hand to put a stop to the tirade, and to prevent it from escalating into a full-fledged queen-out. "Ted, simply jot down any question you might have, and send them all to me via email - as needed - and I'll make sure he gets them."

Ted stopped pacing and fixed her with a cold stare. "Why should I send them to you? Why can't I go directly to him for answers? I have his email address, and his cell phone number so why . . ."

But Cynthia was shaking her head. "Ted, he's not . . . he needs time to . . . come back from all this, which is why he's asked me to handle as much as I can of the day-to-day business of running Kinnetik. He needs to be able to concentrate on getting better, and he trusts me to . . ."

"Aha!" he replied sharply. "That's the real issue here, isn't it? He trusts you. He's put everything in your hands."

"Of course, he hasn't," she replied, refusing to allow her own anger to flare in the face of the accountant's hostility. "You, Ted Schmidt, are his CFO. For God's sake, man, you control the money. All of it. Do you really think he'd just walk away and leave you with that kind of power . . . if he didn't trust you implicitly?"

For the first time since entering the office, Ted's resentment seemed to fade, and he allowed himself to settle into a chair. "No," he admitted. "He wouldn't. It's just . . ."

This time, Cynthia allowed herself the tiny smile. "We're all scared, Ted. No matter how successful the company is, or how efficiently it operates in his absence, without Brian, it's not . . . Kinnetik."

Ted sighed. "No, it's not. But I guess we're all going to have to step up, until . . . well, until we see what happens. Have you considered the possibility that he might . . ."

He fell silent then, and looked as if he wished he had not begun to express his darkest concerns.

"No," she said quickly. "And neither should you. He's Brian Kinney - and he will come back - one way or another."

But Ted thought about the images he'd seen in that awful tabloid - the damages that might be irreversible - and he wondered. If Brian could no longer be Brian, would he even want to come back? Or to face life at all? If one had been such a man - the object of desire and sexual fantasy for hundreds, even thousands of individuals, male and female - and was forced to conclude that such a thing would no longer be even remotely possible, would he find the courage to confront those who had resented him - and envied him - throughout his whole life?

Cynthia seemed to be positive that he would, but Teddy wasn't so sure.

"Okay," he said finally, rising and heading for the door. "Oh, and by the way, I think I've landed a new client for us. I've scheduled a meeting with some of the board members to explore . . ."

"Ted, wait," she said firmly. "We need to talk about our . . . spheres of influence, for lack of a better term. As always, you have complete control over all matters financial and fiscal. But handling clients, overseeing campaigns, day-to-day operations - those fall under my jurisdiction. Including deciding which new clients we might take on."

He stopped and turned to stare at her. "But . . . I've always had a say about things like that."

She nodded. "And you'll have a say now. But the final decision is mine. With Brian's oversight, of course."

Ted opened his mouth to protest, but decided against it when he saw the look of resolve in her eyes.

Bitch!

He blinked, and chided himself for giving in to such a tawdry impulse. He and Cynthia had worked together for several years now, and he had always respected and admired her. But for Brian to choose to entrust her with control of the company . . . It just wasn't fair. It wasn't, after all, as if he hadn't known that Brian would be going away for a while, or even that Cynthia would be left in charge. But he had never dreamed that he - Ted Schmidt, CFO of Kinnetik and personal confidante of its owner - would be denied immediate and constant access to the man who was the heart and soul of the company. It was just - unconscionable.

"Of course," he said aloud. "I'll reschedule the meeting - subject to your approval."

She nodded briskly. "Good. I know Brian will appreciate your cooperation."

Of course he will. When everything he hears is filtered through you, you'll make sure that you come out looking like his champion, while the rest of us are just nameless, little drones.

He made his exit quickly, leaving her to pore over a graphic presentation of the new Dandy-Lube campaign, and hurried toward his office, careful to exhibit nothing of the renewed resentment that was rising within him, understanding that he needed to take refuge in a quiet, private place where he could sit and consider his best course of action.

Cynthia Whitney was about to find out - the hard way - that Ted Schmidt was nobody's fool. He was perfectly capable of recognizing a power play when he saw one, and he was definitely seeing one now. Brian was vulnerable, as he had never been before; that much was clear. Obviously, he wasn't thinking clearly, and might even be susceptible to manipulation by a scheming opportunist, and Cynthia was finally showing her true colors as a corporate predator, apparently eager to take advantage of her employer's temporarily inadequate defenses.

Ted took a deep breath as he moved toward his office, knowing that he needed to explore all the possibilities and take measures to protect himself, and to protect Brian from his own weakness.

He might even need legal advice. And he certainly knew where to go to get that.

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


Allegheny General Hospital wasn't a particularly splendid example of architectural elegance. It tended more to the utilitarian than the artistic. But it did have one feature that could - on rare occasions - render one speechless with appreciation, and Cedric Lasseigne was experiencing such a moment as he sat on an upholstered bench in a small alcove near the admitting desk and waited for his final discharge papers to be brought to him.

The front lobby featured a kind of glass-walled atrium that soared six stories into the air, projecting from the western face of the building like a rectangular shaft, and, on rare, cloudless afternoons - like this one - it became a kind of focusing crystal that bathed the interior with refracted sunlight, causing almost everyone who entered to pause for a moment of silent appreciation and - for some - a bit of introspection devoted to the concept of stopping to smell the roses, in whatever form they were offered up.

Lasseigne was a big believer in rose-sampling, and he smiled as he spied the young man hurrying toward him, the sunlight striking glints of pure gold from a mop of amber hair.

"Got 'em," called Justin, waving a small sheaf of documents as he came across the lobby. "You're officially a free man."

Cedric's smile was brilliant, if slightly weary. "I sometimes thought I'd never see the day," he admitted.

Justin regarded him with genuine affection, and Cedric reflected - certainly not for the first time - that the young man's remarkably blue eyes were completely incapable of concealing whatever emotion he might be experiencing at any given moment.

"Okay," said the blonde, picking up the one, small duffle that contained virtually everything that the old Cajun owned. "Let's get you home."

But Cedric was not yet ready to concede defeat in his effort to convince Justin that he did not require further assistance. "Justin, wait," he said sternly. "I don't need your help. In the first place, a half-way house hardly qualifies as a 'home'. And, in the second, I have been navigating the dark and dreary streets of this city for a very long time, without requiring intervention from anyone." He smiled then. "Not even a - what is it that your Brian calls you when he wants to be particularly assinine? - a piece of blonde boy ass? I am perfectly capable of making my own way."

"I don't doubt that," Justin replied, refusing to take the bait of the insult, "but why should you?"

He glanced toward the hospital's main entrance, and saw exactly what he expected to see. The dark sedan with the nondescript young driver was waiting at the front landing. He had finally, though reluctantly, given up his fruitless protests about the security people who shadowed his every move, and decided that he might as well take advantage of the opportunities they provided. Such as immediate, convenient transportation - for him and any companion - to wherever he wanted to go.

"Come on," he urged, taking the older man's arm in a casual grip that camouflaged the fact that Lasseigne was not entirely steady on his feet and required a bit of support.

They started forward, but Justin paused immediately as he spotted two figures coming through the crowd, and sighed, realizing that he wasn't sure he was prepared for the moment racing toward him at breakneck speed.

"Sunshine!" Justin winced, and wondered if Debbie had ever managed to shatter glass with the sheer volume of her voice. "What the fuck is this about Brian being gone? Gone where? And why? And without even telling me?"

"Or me?" said Lindsey, for once almost as loud and as outraged as her red-headed companion. "What was he thinking? And where the hell did he go?"

Justin settled Cedric back into his seat on the bench before turning to face his inquisitors.

He debated what he should say to them, but realized quickly that he could only tell the truth. "I don't know," he admitted. "He didn't tell me where he was going."

"What do you mean, he didn't tell you?" That was Debbie again, volume and pitch increasing. "Then who did he tell?"

Justin shrugged. "I'm sure Dr. Keller knows, but I doubt he's going to tell you anything. Doctor/patient privilege, you know."

Lindsey's eyes narrowed. "We'll just see about that. I'm the mother of his child, so . . ."

"Lindsey," Justin said suddenly, "does it occur to you that he would have told you himself - if he'd wanted you to know?"

"Yes, well, he doesn't always know what's good for him. You, of all people, should know that."

Cedric Lasseigne was observing the exchange between these people who obviously considered themselves proprietary friends of Brian Kinney with great interest, and wondered if any of them ever stopped to consider the deeper meanings concealed beneath their words. He rather doubted it.

"Besides," said Debbie, "why would he do this? Why would he leave behind the only people who care about him?"

Justin sighed. "I think he . . . he's going to try to figure out where he goes from here. What he really wants, and whether or not he can . . . come back from this."

"What?" Debbie again, still angry, still loud. "Like whether or not they can fix his face? Or whether or not he can regain his title - be the Stud of Liberty Avenue again? Is that all he cares about?"

The redhead looked up then, and happened to catch the hard gleam that flared in Justin's eyes - and found herself suddenly stricken speechless, realizing that she had never before seen the young man so completely overwhelmed with anger.

"Is that what you really think of him, Debbie? How can you have known him all his life . . . and still not have the first clue about who he really is?"

"Sunshine, I . . ."

"Don't call me that," he snapped, turning once more to help Cedric to his feet. But he hesitated as he started to lead the old man toward the front entrance, and turned back to face the two women, both of them still open-mouthed in shock. "That's Brian's name for me - and he's the only one that gets to use it."

Debbie closed her mouth abruptly, and it never even occurred to her to point out that she was, in fact, the one who had bestowed the nickname on the young blonde. Given the look on his face, she figured she was better off letting it go.

She was right.

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

The coffee shop wasn't exactly upscale, but it was a big improvement over the hospital cafeteria, thought Sharon Briggs. And the Guess jeans and Tommy Hilfiger jacket she had donned, to replace the faded, drab K-Mart garments she had worn during her extended visit at Allegheny General, felt wonderful against her skin, by comparison. They might not be in the league of the Dolce and Gabanna and Prada designer wear that she preferred during those rare periods when she was able to exist within her real persona, but they were, nevertheless, a vast improvement and perfectly in character for a young professional just dropping in at Barney's Coffeehouse for a mocha latte.

In addition, they had the advantage of rendering her completely unrecognizable to anyone who had noticed her as she hung around the hospital waiting rooms, waiting to learn the fate of her 'aunt'.

Like the man who was seated in the booth directly behind her, ordering a double serving of cappuccino, and drumming his fingers against the formica tabletop. Obviously waiting for something - or someone.

Sharon turned slightly in her seat, to glance out toward the street where the sunshine was almost blinding in its purity, which was a good thing for her. It allowed her to continue to wear the dark glasses that concealed the movement of her eyes, and the fact that she was constantly scanning the individuals who were moving along the sidewalk outside, waiting to identify the person who would be joining the subject of her surveillance.

She did not worry about being recognized, even though the man had been standing at the nurses' desk - as he so often did - when the skinny, overworked young resident had come out of the ICU to inform Shoshona that her 'aunt' had finally succumbed and passed away. Peacefully.

Sharon had been glad that the old woman had not endured further suffering; she had also been grateful that the timing was perfect, from her perspective. The woman's passing provided a timely excuse for her departure, just as the morning shift was ending, and many staffers were finishing their day. It was a perfect opportunity to pursue the lead she had developed.

Thus, here she sat. Sipping her latte, and waiting, confidant that her subject would not recognize her. It often amazed her how people always managed to see exactly what they expected to see - and ignore anything that didn't fit their preconceptions. So the man would not connect this pretty, stylish young woman to the skanky little hooker he had observed earlier at the hospital, even if he were to stare straight at her. Which he wouldn't. She was not his type.

The bell over the entrance jingled, and Sharon looked up - and barely managed to suppress a smile.

Bingo.

She would not even need to utilize her fine-tuned powers of observation to help her learn the identity of the individual for whom her subject was waiting. She recognized him immediately, and knew that she had discovered a significant link in what might prove to be a very heavy, very long chain.

She sipped again, and listened while reaching up to activate the tiny tape recorder concealed beneath the leather collar of her jacket.

"You're late," said Monty Peabody.

But he didn't sound particularly annoyed. It wasn't every day, after all, that a simple lab tech was granted an exclusive one-on-one meeting with John Vincent Fincher, contributing editor of the local Fox television news team and author of a recent bestseller called Self-Defense, a weighty volume which purported to justify the distorted interpretation of the American Constitution to enable authorities to ignore the constraints of long-established protocols like the Geneva Convention, in the name of 'national security'.

Sharon's father - ordinarily the most tolerant of men - had labeled it the most disturbing piece of Nazi-caliber rationalization he had ever read. Sharon agreed.

"Sorry, Monty," said the news man, seating himself across from the lab tech and taking a moment to smooth the immaculate sweep of perfectly barbered silver hair back from his forehead. "Traffic, you know."

He paused to order coffee - plain, black, dark roast - before continuing. "At any rate, I hope I haven't kept you from something important."

Sharon Briggs bit back a smile. How was it, she wondered, that she could hear the derision in that cultured voice so clearly - the assumption that a poor schmuck such as the lab tech could not possibly have anything more important in his life than being at the beck and call of a man of Fincher's standing - while Peabody couldn't hear it at all.

"No, no. I'm just . . . a little nervous. This is a first for me."

"I know, and I want you to understand how much we appreciate your cooperation. You're doing us a huge favor. And, at the same time, you're supporting the people's right to know the truth. This . . . Kinney person has been painted like some kind of hero by the liberal press, and I think we both know what a sham that is."

Monty nodded. "I know. It's deplorable. To take someone so . . . common, and try to turn him into an innocent victim. It's disgusting. And people should know the truth. Know what he really is."

Fincher nodded and smiled. "It's always satisfying to be reminded that there are still good, decent, common people in this country who are motivated to do the right thing. To want to see justice done. So . . . what do you have for me?"

"Well . . . " For the first time, the lab tech seemed to hesitate. "This is really dangerous for me, you know. I could lose my job if anybody finds out, and, well, you know . . ."

"I do indeed," Fincher replied, and reached into his pocket to extract a plain white envelope. "And I think you'll find this more than adequate to . . . compensate you for the risk you're taking. And, of course, for the photographs. They were very . . . useful to us, and, if there were any real justice, you'd be hailed as a hero for your actions."

Monty allowed himself a smug little smirk, and took a moment to open the envelope flap and stare at the check inside.

The smirk became a full-fledged grin as he read off the numbers on the check, then tucked the envelope into his own jacket, never noticing the quick but intense look of contempt that flickered across his co-conspirator's face.

The lab tech took a thumb drive from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table. "This includes copies of his medical records, chart notes, everything I could find. But there is a problem."

Fincher looked up then to meet the lab tech's eyes, and Monty almost flinched away from the glimmer of raw rage he thought he saw there. But the gleam was gone almost before it registered, and he was able to convince himself that he had been mistaken. He was, after all, a hero, according to the man to whom he had just sold his soul.

"What kind of problem?" Fincher asked, having regained his urbane composure after a momentary urge to throttle the black bastard who was daring to look him straight in the eye, as if he were entitled to do so.

"Kinney's gone. They moved him this morning, and, so far, I haven't managed to find out where they took him."

The newsman's eyes went dark and cold. "Moved him . . . how?"

"I'm not sure. I was picking up some lab samples at Saint Clair Memorial, and when I got back, he was gone. It was all very hush-hush, you know. The police have been all over him, so I was lucky to be able to get what I got. I don't think . . ."

"Mr. Peabody," Fincher interrupted.

"Yes?"

Fincher leaned forward, and there was no mistaking the hard gleam of impatience and frustration in his eyes. "We just paid you a great deal of money for comprehensive information about Brian Kinney. Including what happens to him next, and where he's going to be. Are you now telling me that you are unable . . . to provide the information you promised us?"

"No," replied Monty, his mouth suddenly dry, almost painful. "Not at all. I just don't have it . . . yet. But I will. I promise you, I'll find out."

Fincher sat back, fixing the lab tech with a glare that stated - more clearly than any spoken word could have - that he had better be right, and it had better be soon.

"Very well then," he said, rising and pausing just long enough to adjust his Armani jacket so it showed his lean physique to best advantage. "I'll expect to hear from you. By Friday?"

Monty frowned. "That's only two days. It might take longer, if . . ."

Pincher smiled, but there was no trace of warmth in it. "For your sake," he said softly, "I hope not."

As he walked away, Sharon Briggs reached up to adjust the scarf around her neck, and turned off the tape recorder. But she did not leave. Not just yet. She was curious to see if her subject really was as dumb as he seemed to be - or if he would figure out that he had just been threatened with dire consequences should he fail to deliver what he had promised.

But Monty seemed content to sit there and enjoy his cappuccino, probably contemplating how he was going to spend the money that he had received for selling out his professional integrity. Sharon, on the other hand, wondered what price a corrupted soul was going for these days.

When the lab tech stood and sauntered out into the late afternoon sunshine, she followed at a discreet distance, noting that he seemed very pleased with himself as he turned toward his home.

Yep. Just as she'd thought. Dumb as dirt.

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


TBC

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