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Chapter 39
In history as in human life, regret does not bring back a lost moment and a thousand years will not recover something lost in a single hour.
-- Stefan Zweig
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The cottage known as Bailey's Landing, having been constructed as a comfortable residence for a rural family, had been well suited to its purpose during its early years, but designed more toward the practical than the luxurious. That, however, had been remedied when it had been renovated to serve as a rental unit for vacationers. Although it would never be described as a four-star accommodation, it did boast certain amenities that recommended it to someone like Brian Kinney.
It was private, with no near neighbors. It was comfortable, clean, and well maintained, thanks to the efforts of a skilled and devoted caretaker. It was equipped with a modern kitchen and top-of-the-line appliances. And it had a shower in the master bathroom big enough to accommodate a team of Sumo wrestlers, if necessary.
Brian was just making his exit from that massive, luxurious enclosure - unaccompanied, for once - when he heard a thundering rumble racing up the stairs and down the hallway toward his bedroom. Thus, he was barely draped in a damp towel when a small figure came crashing through the doorway and leaping into his arms.
Gus, still much too young to understand the underlying meaning of the principle, knew one certain thing about his father, nevertheless: Brian Kinney did not believe in locks. Therefore, the child never even hesitated when he approached the bathroom door at a full run; he simply threw the door open and continued apace.
Brian managed to catch the little human projectile and spin him around without falling back under the assault of flailing arms and legs, and spared a quick thought that this was proof positive that Rick Turnage was truly a miracle-worker. The fact that he could withstand the assault without going down under the force of the impact justified every dime the surgeon had charged for his services - which was plenty.
Apparently a worthwhile investment.
As Brian spun around, hugging his only offspring close and trying not to flinch away from the high-pitched shriek of "Daaaddddeeee" that encompassed two full octaves and hit a decibel level almost beyond human tolerance, Justin came racing into the bathroom, intent on rescuing his partner and saving him from the unintended yet possibly lethal damage that a six-year-old in attack mode could inflict.
But he was too late, of course, as any potential bruising had already occurred by the time he arrived. He was not too late, however, to appreciate the spectacular view of Brian - dark hair dripping and disheveled, perfect lips curving in the achingly tender smile reserved for only one special individual, acres of golden skin, slick with water droplets, wrapped in a crimson towel, with his arms clasping a miniature version of himself to his chest. Justin suddenly found it difficult to breathe, lost in the beauty of the vision before him and realizing that the phrase "like father, like son" had almost certainly been coined for just such a moment. He paused briefly to acknowledge a fleeting surge of sympathy toward a whole new generation of victims, currently too young and clueless to realize that they were waiting in the wings to learn about the hazards of loving a Kinney, before abandoning his musings to rush forward and participate in the joy of the reunion, reveling in the exultation of being included in the intimacy of such an intense family encounter, but swallowing a tiny little nuance of envy when he could not quite ignore the fact that, although Gus loved him dearly, it would never approach what the little boy felt for his father - an observation which prompted the stirring of a scrap of memory.
"All right, so I'm a shitty father. Are we surprised? I'm upholding a fine family tradition."
And with that image, quick as the speed of thought, the envy was gone, replaced by a devout wish that Brian could see himself through his son's eyes and the eyes of those who were privileged to watch the two of them together, so he would understand just how far from a 'shitty' father he truly was.
With no indication of any physical discomfort, Brian strode into the bedroom with both his son and his lover held close, and sank to his knees beside the bed where he deposited Gus with a firm bounce, eliciting a spate of giggles from the six-year-old. Then the young father sat back on his heels and inspected his son, taking in the red straw cowboy hat dangling from a cord around his neck, the bright blue shirt sporting images of Woody and Buzz, the new but artfully faded 501's, and the authentic cowboy boots - Frye's, he thought, reluctantly conceding that the kid's grandfather might have fairly good taste after all - for a breeder.
Gus - of course - was talking in characteristic Gus-fashion, regaling his dad and his Justin, and anybody else who happened to be within earshot, of his adventures in the Magic Kingdom and his breakfast with Mickey and Minnie and Donald and Goofy, of how much he loved the flying Dumbo ride and how cool Epcot was and how much fun he and Gramps had on the jungle cruise and the pirate ship, and Brian realized that it wasn't so much what the child was saying as the sweet tone and cadence of that breathless voice that he found almost intoxicating - so much so that it quickly became almost like background music, allowing him to lose himself in the rhythm and the exuberance of the recitation without focusing on a single word. As for Gus, he barely took a breath as he shifted from sharing the tales of his exploits in the Disney version of Wonderland to recounting stories about all the quaint little hamlets and villages they had driven through on their way up the coast, as Brian settled more comfortably to enjoy the symphonic recitation of how much his son had loved . . . the super-cool motor coach that Gramps rented for the trip, that had a real bathroom and a bunk bed just for Gus to sleep in and how Gene - whose real name is YOU-Gene, but nobody calls him that, and why would anybody want to be called YOU-Gene, anyway - had let him help pick out the best place on the beach to park the big rig - and how Gene had laughed and said that they were all 'ficially 'trailer trash' now, and what was trailer trash anyway - and how they'd roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and made s'mores over an open fire while they camped out so close to the ocean that he could hear the waves when he went to bed - and how Gene always slept sitting up in the driver's seat, which made no sense at all except that maybe it was because there was only the one bed for Gramps, and Gus was pretty sure that Gramps wasn't much like Daddy since he didn't seem to want any other men in his bed, although he wasn't sure why Mama always said that Daddy would sleep with all the men in the world if he could, since Gus had never seen him sleep with anybody but Justin, and how Gus had noticed something one morning when Gene was getting dressed, but he'd waited to get here so he could ask his daddy why Gene would wear a holster under his shirt, and he was pretty sure there was a real gun in the holster, but why would their driver have a real gun, and how the other guy who was always around - his name was Howie, another funny name - followed everywhere they went in that ugly little green car, and he didn't talk as much as Gene but he was really good at starting a campfire, and he'd been really nice about trying to find a place where Gus could get a double scoop of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream, and how Gramps had taken him to eat at a place called Popeye's where he was just sure he was going to have to eat fish, because Popeye was a sailor man, so of course any restaurant with his name would have fish, and Gus didn't much like fish, but Mommie always told him he had to be polite and try to taste a little bit of everything whenever somebody was nice enough to buy him some food, but, guess what, Daddy, he didn't have to eat fish at all, because it was chicken they served him, and it was really good, so they'd found more Popeye's in all of the little towns they drove through on their trip, so he could have more of their chicken, and something called red beans and rice they served with it which he really, really liked, and the biscuits were great too, and he had decided that he was kind of glad that they hadn't taken the interstate, even though it would have been faster, because it was always boring riding down the interstate, even though there was a really cool DVD player in the motor coach with bunches of Sesame Street and Disney movies - even one with Captain Jack Sparrow that he was pretty sure Mommie wouldn't have let him watch, but Gramps said it would be their little secret, and this way he'd gotten to see lots of the ocean and the beaches, and some big islands, and lots of places with piers and boats and great big birds flying low over the water, and how Daddy looked better than before because he wasn't all wrapped up in bandages any more, but he was still pretty banged up, and did it still hurt, and how Gramps had helped him gather up lots of seashells and sand dollars and build a sand castle, and guess what else, Daddy, Gramps had even bought him a real, live puppy and . . ."
It was at that point that Gus finally ran out of breath and took a minute to look up into his father's eyes and recognize the bright glimmer of pure, bottomless affection he saw there, so he simply threw himself forward so he could once more be clasped tight to that sculpted chest. Brian, meanwhile, was focusing in on his son's final words. "Puppy? What puppy?"
There had, of course, been rational reasons for all the choices made concerning the trip up from Orlando - choices that had more to do with security than less practical concerns, although Ron Peterson had made certain that his grandson would be entertained and given every opportunity to enjoy the ride. It had been decided immediately, upon learning of the potential threat to the boy's safety, that a journey via motor coach, avoiding the I-95 corridor and sticking to less heavily-traveled highways and byways, would be less easily tracked or anticipated than either a commercial flight or a jet charter, especially since the vehicle lease had been negotiated under FBI auspices. At the same time, Gene and Howie - AKA Agent Eugene Spalding and Kinnetik security employee Howard Woolsey - would provide constant surveillance during the journey. It had also been made clear to everyone involved - both by FBI brass and by Brian Kinney himself - that Gus was to know nothing about any possible threats or the need for clandestine action to secure his safety, and that any violation of that condition would result in both official sanctions by the agency, and - more immediately - suffering the wrath of the legendary Stud of Liberty Avenue. Needless to say, the only individuals who were less concerned about the latter consequence than the former were those who had never had the pleasure - or not - of dealing with Brian Kinney in full protective mode. It simply did not bear thinking about.
As a result of this caution, Gus had arrived rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed and delighted with the opportunity to regale his father with tales of his adventures, and Brian had been content to simply listen.
Until the utterance of those unexpected, startling words.
"What puppy?" Brian repeated, twisting on his knees as Ron Peterson strolled into the room, not quite successful in his efforts to subdue a small, squirming bundle of white fur in his arms, a tiny creature that seemed to be in the midst of some kind of spastic contortion intended to allow it to turn itself inside out and upside down while simultaneously freeing it from the grip that prevented it from reaching its objective - an objective which was currently clasped tight against Brian's chest.
Ron Peterson drew a deep breath, obviously caught on the horns of a dilemma, wondering whether to be more embarrassed by his inability to control the frantic little beast, or by having yielded to the temptation to buy the tiny creature in the first place, and the scowl on Brian's face was not offering any indication of which would prove to be the better alternative. The older man realized abruptly that this was the classic definition of a no-win scenario.
At that point, three things occurred almost simultaneously. Gus shifted to rearrange himself on his father's lap, causing Brian to lose his balance and plop to the floor, flat on his ass and without a nuance of his customary style and grace; the bundle of fur in Peterson's arms succeeded in freeing itself and plunging toward its target; and Justin leapt forward in an attempt to intervene - to rescue his partner, resettle Gus, and catch the ferocious little canine before it could reach its objective - but he was laughing too hard to accomplish anything.
During the ensuing mayhem, Brian's towel worked loose and fell free, leaving him naked and slightly disoriented from his seat on the floor as his son and a four-legged whirlwind of boundless energy set out to explore the sculpture of his body.
"Hey, Daddy, your tallywacker is showing. Will mine be that big when I grow up? Is that why Mama calls you a big dick sometimes? You know what? I didn't name the puppy yet. I just call him 'Pup', because I wanted you to help me find a perfect name for him. Okay, Daddy?"
Brian, needless to say, was speechless by this time, alternating between attempting to regain his lost dignity and protect himself against the flailing hands and limbs of his writhing child and the enthusiastic assaults of a tiny but ridiculously ferocious puppy that seemed determined to investigate all the enticing nooks and crannies of the naked body that was suddenly available for its exploration, and staring daggers at Ron Peterson - the perpetrator of this outrage - and at his beautiful, but soon-to-be-in-mortal-danger young lover, once he succeeded in getting his hands on the insufferable little twink, who couldn't seem to stop laughing.
"How about Nosy Little Bugger?" Brian muttered, not quite under his breath, shifting to prevent the dog from working its way more deeply under the towel he was desperately trying to retie around him - which, of course, simply sent Justin into a renewed gale of laughter.
The timing was perfect, and the tableau complete when Trina Thomas leaned through the doorway, allowed herself a single moment to notice - and enjoy - the view, before flashing her trademark brilliant grin and contributing her own wry comment. "Entertaining, are we?"
But if she - or anyone else - expected Brian Kinney to blush with embarrassment, it was simply proof-positive that they did not know the man at all. With a characteristic smirk, Brian managed to push himself up, simultaneously avoiding the flailing limbs of his son and the determined assault of the tiny dog, and retrieve his towel which he tucked around himself once more, in a completely leisurely manner. Wounded or not; aging or not - he was still Brian Kinney, and he had never once been ashamed of exposing his body. He was not about to start now.
"Did you want something," he asked, with a lifted eyebrow, "or did you just come racing up here to get in on the ambush?"
Her grin grew brighter. "Just to tell you that breakfast is served, Lord and Master, and that Chris is sitting in the office with a huge grin on his face and said to tell you that you're going to miss the fireworks if you don't get your butt downstairs - and soon." Then she dropped her eyes to stare at the miniature version of Brian Kinney who was looking up at her with eyes every bit as beautiful as his father's. "And to demand an introduction to Mini-You."
Brian blinked. "Mini . . . me?"
Trina sank to her knees and took Gus's hands in her own, absolutely certain that she would never see a more exquisite child. "Hello, Little Man. I'm Trina, and you are . . . God! You're beautiful. Christ, Brian, what did they do? Clone you?"
Gus tilted his head, fascinated by the woman's huge, almost black eyes and the fact that she smelled amazing, like fresh gingerbread and apple butter. "My mama says I look just like the world's biggest asshole."
"Gus!" said Ron Peterson sternly. "Language!"
Brian laughed while Gus rolled his eyes. "But I didn't say it, Gramps. Mama did."
Peterson smiled and looked up to meet Brian's eyes. "'Mama', apparently, says a lot of things," he observed quietly.
Brian allowed himself a tiny, enigmatic smile. "I'm sure she does, but I'd bet good money that we haven't heard the half of it - yet."
Justin, having finally managed to stop laughing, was now regarding his partner with a quizzical frown. "Brian? What's going on?"
The smile became a full-out grin, and Justin was abruptly reminded of how seldom he saw that no-holds-barred expression of satisfaction on that perfect face.
"Payback," said Brian softly. Then a tiny shadow formed in his eyes. "Guess that makes me a real asshole to enjoy the prospect so much."
And Justin, after a split-second hesitation, burst into renewed peals of laughter. "You," he gasped, when he could once again muster breath to speak, "are so full of shit."
"Language, Juss," said Gus sternly.
Brian grinned again, enjoying both Justin's candor and the interplay between his son and his lover, almost as much as he enjoyed the caress of a firm young body against his mostly bare skin as Justin stepped forward and slipped into his arms. "You've never once given a shit whether anyone else thinks you're an asshole, and if you tell me that you're going to change now - because of some screwed-up notion that it's what I'd want - then we're going to have our first serious fight. I don't want some sanctimonious, pious, conformist, pseudo-Christian martyr; I want Brian Kinney - in all his smart-ass glory. And after all the shit you've gone through . . . yeah, I know, Gus . . . you're entitled to gloat over any little bit of payback you get. As long as I get to gloat right along with you."
Brian touched his lips to Justin's forehead before whispering. "It might get ugly, Sunshine, and you might feel kind of . . . caught in the middle, considering who else is involved."
Justin flashed his trademark smile. "When it comes to you, there is no middle, no matter who else gets in the way."
At this point, Trina leaned forward to collect Gus, with promises of banana pancakes and fruit smoothies, and paused just long enough to whisper in Brian's ear. "You're a lucky prick, Brian Kinney. Most people are fortunate if they only get one bright kid. You've got two."
Brian glared at her, and did not - quite - actually tell her to fuck off, but the sparkle in her eyes told him that she'd heard it anyway.
"Now," said Justin firmly, as Trina led Gus from the room, "you put on some pants, while I get acquainted with the newest member of the family."
So saying he scooped up the bundle of fur which, for some strange reason, had not followed Gus out the door but was, instead, sitting at Brian's feet, panting and watching his every move.
"That's not a dog," Brian observed with a baleful eye directed toward his son's maternal grandfather. "It's a mop - with eyes. What, exactly, is it?"
Ron Peterson sighed. "It's a West Highland terrier - in need of a trim. Not purebred, I guess, since there were no papers on it, but . . . honestly, Brian, I had no intention of buying Gus a pet. Not even the turtle he wanted for his aquarium. But . . . when he saw this puppy, he just . . . I said no, but then he . . . he got really quiet, and he had these huge tears in his eyes, and I . . ."
Justin laughed. "He played you." Then he turned and grinned at Brian. "Wonder where he learned to do that."
"From watching you," retorted Brian, smirking as he dropped his towel, took a millisecond to pose against the radiance washing in through the huge windows over the bed, before slipping into a pair of cut-offs. The smirk became a quick smile, as he noticed that Justin had to take a minute to swallow - almost certainly around the lump in his throat caused by the sight of his partner's much-desired, nearly fully recovered body.
To cover the awkwardness of the moment, Justin lifted the puppy up to stare directly into its huge, dark eyes, and the little terrier proceeded to lick his face and wag its tail and scramble to try to get closer to its new bosom buddy.
Justin grinned, and the dog grinned back, and Brian was suddenly stricken almost speechless. "Do that again," he directed, while pulling on a clean wifebeater.
"Do what again?"
"Hold him up and grin at him."
Justin, looking slightly uncertain, did as he was told, and, once again, the sight of that little face, so eager to please and to nuzzle against his skin, inspired one of his trademark smiles, which the dog, somehow, managed to mimic.
This time, Brian laughed.
"Soooo," said Ron Peterson tentatively, "we're ok? With the dog, I mean?"
Brian shrugged. "That'll be Lindsey's problem."
Peterson sighed. "Yeah. That's what I figured you'd say. Her - and her partner." He took the puppy from Justin and scratched behind its ears. "Poor little thing."
Brian was thoughtful for a moment. "If I recall correctly, Lindsey used to love dogs."
"Yes. She did. But . . . she's not the real issue, is she?"
Brian's response was slightly smug. "I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you." Another quick smile for Justin, with just the faintest shadow in those hazel eyes to indicate that he knew he should probably be ashamed of himself - but wasn't.
He sat on the bed then, to pick up his discarded jeans from the night before and retrieve the contents of his pockets, and the little terrier immediately went into its spastic contortions and freed itself from Justin's grasp to leap onto the bed and jump into Brian's lap where it proceeded to brace itself against his chest and lick its way up his throat to his face.
Brian - for the space of a heartbeat - was too stunned to react and both Ron Peterson and Justin were taken aback by the loveliness of the moment.
"What the fuck . . ." Brian attempted to shrug free of the animal's embrace, but the little dog held on, apparently more determined to maintain its position than Brian was to dislodge it.
"Wait, Brian," said Justin softly. "Just . . . wait. Just . . . sit still."
Brian's expression said that he was certain that his young lover had completely lost his mind, but - with a dramatic eye-roll - he did as he was told. The licking went on for just a couple of seconds, and then the puppy gave a big sigh and settled itself into his lap, curling up and closing its eyes as if it had finally found its way home after a terribly hard day.
Justin's smile was achingly tender. "Another conquest for the Stud of Liberty Avenue."
Brian simply stared at him. "There's a dog - in my lap."
"Yes. There is."
"I don't do dogs."
Justin's smile became a brilliant, trademark grin. "But this one, apparently, does you."
When Chris McClaren rushed through the door, mouth open to voice his displeasure at Brian's failure to respond to his message, he paused in mid-stride, and his eyes grew wide with disbelief.
"There's a dog - in your lap," he observed.
"You noticed," replied Brian, deadpan. "How very perceptive of you!"
"Does it suck cock?"
Brian . . . blinked. "What?"
McClaren shrugged. "I can't figure out any other reason you'd be fooling around with it, while the financial world is going into major meltdown, even as we speak. So - whatever you're doing, quit doing it and haul your ass downstairs - or you're going to miss the show."
Justin was shaking his head, realizing that he was completely clueless about what was happening, but knowing that it had to be important. So he scooped up the terrier from Brian's lap, while his partner scrambled to his feet.
"You've still got to pick a name for him," Justin called, as Brian went striding out the door.
"Already did," came the answer from half-way down the hall.
Justin and Ron Peterson exchanged puzzled glances. "You did?" Justin called. "When?"
"When I saw the two of you gazing lovingly into each other's eyes." This time the answer was almost a shout, as Brian followed McClaren down the stairs.
"So . . . what's his name?"
A quick sound of laughter, followed by, "Beau Soleil."
Justin frowned, once more looking toward Gus's grandfather. "Say what?" he muttered.
"It's French," Peterson replied, with a gentle smile. "It means 'pretty sunshine'. At least," he added, with a speculative gleam in his eye as he thought of a second meaning - which he would keep to himself, "that's the literal translation."
Justin's eyes narrowed and were suddenly hard with glints of resentment. "Oh, no, he did not."
Peterson just grinned. "Oh, yes, he did."
"Yeah, well, he better just . . . think again."
Peterson nodded, but he couldn't quite swallow the grin, suddenly absolutely certain that the name would stick - and so would the dog.
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Ted's voice had taken on a stridency that only occurred when he was extremely frustrated and on the verge of losing his patience entirely, but he struggled to hold on and maintain control. Not because he felt any compunction to continue to be polite to people who were proving to be idiots of the first order, but mainly because he was pretty sure that losing his temper would profit him not at all. So far, he had been shuffled from one scatterbrained female teller, to an equally scatterbrained female supervisor, and he was now attempting to communicate with a similarly mentally-deficient female assistant manager. All three had grown progressively more shrill and less accommodating in the course of their conversations. He was now only one short breath away from demanding to speak to the president of the damned bank.
Who, after all, did these people think they were, and why would they dare to assume that they had justification for refusing to provide the information he was demanding concerning Kinnetik's accounts.
"Mrs. Dreyfus," he said coldly . . .
"Actually," said the woman who was the next little step up the hopeless chain of command at First Commonwealth Bank of Pittsburgh, "it's Ms. And while I do understand your concerns, Mr. Schmidt, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do - via telephone - to address these issues. The accounts are currently under review by federal authorities. I'm sure you can appreciate that we cannot override their . . .
"Oh, I see," Ted snapped. "You can't override their authority, but you have no similar problem with overriding mine - when I am a signatory on the account. Tell me, if these accounts are frozen, how is it that you are processing . . ."
"The accounts are not frozen, Mr. Schmidt," said Jo Ann Dreyfus, who was sitting in her bright, comfortable little office, visualizing how much she would enjoy watching the increasingly nasty Mr. Schmidt get his balls clamped in a vice. "Please don't put words in my mouth. They are simply subject to scrutiny by the justice department. Processing of disbursements and deposits continues as usual."
Ted forced himself to take a deep breath, to avoid snarling at the woman which would probably generate a bout of hysteria on her part and make it even harder to secure the information he needed.
Time was too critical for that.
"But that is exactly my point, Ms. Dreyfus," he countered, deliberately emphasizing her title. "Processing of disbursements has not been completed according to instructions. A transfer of funds was initiated last week - by me - but the sum is still showing up in the primary investment account. The transfer doesn't even show up as a pending transaction, and this matter is very time-sensitive. It would be extremely unfortunate - for the bank - if this transfer were not completed in a timely manner, and the failure to fulfill those instructions proved to be costly to Mr. Kinney. If that should happen, the bank would certainly be held liable. And I can assure you that Mr. Kinney is not a man renowned for his forgiving nature."
Jo Ann Dreyfus took a moment to count to ten. "That may be true, Mr. Schmidt," she answered finally, icily polite, "but the oversight by federal authorities was with the full knowledge and consent of Mr. Kinney." There was absolutely no way Ted could fail to recognize the smugness of her final suggestion. "Perhaps you should check with your employer concerning his wishes before you start issuing empty threats."
And with that, the woman hung up, leaving Ted with his mouth gaping, his eyes bulging, and his face flushing to an ugly shade of purplish red.
What the fuck? How dare they . . .
He turned once more to his computer monitor, hoping against hope that he had misread the information provided there on Kinnetik's financial holdings. But he hadn't.
Then he entered a new command, minimizing that screen while establishing a new connection, showing the balance of the money accepted and posted on the Hargrave-Correll Securities Fund website under the ID number assigned to the Kinney/Schmidt investment account.
No change. $240,000.00.
This was just . . . just inexcusable. If the information he'd gleaned from his old friend, Marshall, was accurate - and he had no reason to doubt it - he was on the verge of becoming a moderately wealthy man, due to an explosion of the capital value of the fund, and Brian . . . unless the stupid bank acted immediately, as instructed, to complete the transfer, Brian would be left holding the bag - his original $2,000,000.00 bag - losing the titanic profits his own investment would have generated. And Ted, of course, would lose his opportunity to assume the role of the hero of the piece - the man who had manipulated Brian's moderate fortune into a level of wealth that few investors were ever fortunate enough to obtain.
Ted Schmidt - financial guru, fiduciary wunderkind. Recognized for his achievements, and respected by his peers, and - perhaps most gratifying of all - deserving of the undying gratitude of Brian Kinney.
Ted's hands closed into fists, and he stood up slowly, his face a mask of frozen rage. No. He would not accept this incredible fuck-up and forfeit his chance to grab the ultimate brass ring all because of the blatant incompetence of some bumbling, idiotic schmuck in First Commonwealth's accounting department.
There was only one way to remedy this - to prevent the unthinkable from happening. He had to go down there and square off - face to face - with Ms. Dreyfus - or anybody else who might think they had a right to stand in his way. He was Ted Schmidt, standing on the brink of becoming a mover and shaker in the world of international finance, and no dyke paper-pusher was going to interfere with his plans.
He quickly left his office, pausing at the reception desk to advise young Delaney - looking particularly delectable today in a charcoal gray pin-stripe Armani knock-off that even Brian Kinney might have approved - that he would be out of the office for a few hours on pressing business, and making his way toward the employee entrance when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at its screen revealed that the call was from Blake, and, in his haste, he almost elected to ignore it and allow it to go to voice mail. But, in the end, he changed his mind when he remembered how much he owed to his partner, and how Blake rarely called unless he had something important to say, since he was not much given to idle chit-chat.
Thus he paused in the vestibule to take the call, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves before speaking.
"Hey, Honey. What's up?"
"Ted," said Blake slowly. Almost tentatively. "Are you . . . all right?"
Ted barely avoided an eye-roll, reflecting that his concerns for his partner's motives did not extend to allowing for unfounded worrying. "Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
Blake hesitated, apparently listening to a voice in the background before he replied, which only served to irritate Ted further. "Ted, do you remember me telling you about a client of mine - an investment broker who was so stressed out with trying to figure out how to manage his father-in-law's millions that he ended up snorting cocaine on a daily basis?"
"I remember," Ted answered, with a snarky little smile. "I remember that you refused to tell me his name. I also remember thinking that I wouldn't mind having a problem like that."
"Ahhh, yeah." Blake cleared his throat. "Well, he's been making excellent progress in the last six months. So much so that I thought he was almost finished with his treatment. But this morning . . ."
It was Ted's turn to clear his throat. "This morning?" he prompted, patience near exhaustion.
"This morning, he's in the Allegheny General ICU, suffering from a severe, apparently deliberate overdose. His wife reported finding him in his office, sitting at his computer, with news from the European stock market on the screen. News about the Hargrave-Correll Fund."
Ted went silent for a moment; then he laughed loudly. Almost guffawing. "Yeah, right. So - what am I supposed to do now? Go running to the TV in a panic? Is that what this is all about? Did my ship come in while I was dithering around this morning? Am I going to turn it on to find out that I got very, very rich - overnight?"
Blake sighed. "Not exactly. But that pretty much answers my question. You did transfer all your available cash into that fund - didn't you?"
"Yeah. I told you I was going to. Are you sorry now that you decided not to join me?"
"Ted." Blake's voice was very soft - so soft that, for the first time, Ted felt a tiny nuance of . . . something. Something not quite right. "Go sit down at your desk . . . and turn on the morning news."
"But . . . but I was just on my way out."
"Trust me when I tell you that this is important. Okay? And . . . I'm on my way. I'll be there in ten minutes, so just wait for me."
"Blake, what's going on? What have you heard?"
The drug-abuse counselor hesitated - suddenly remembering a very different Ted Schmidt from the one who was currently his life-partner - a Ted Schmidt damaged and bewildered by events he could not control and so broken that he was almost beyond redemption. "Teddie, there's a problem with the Hargrave-Correll Fund. A huge problem. It looks like Hargrave and his partner have disappeared. With a lot of money."
Ted took a deep breath. "But . . . that's impossible, Blake. That just . . . it can't be."
"You just wait for me," Blake replied quickly, recognizing the rising note of desperation in his partner's voice. "I'm on my way."
Blake disconnected, but not before Ted heard the distinctive throaty growl of the ignition of his '76 Mustang. Obviously, he was on his way to meet Ted - and he was in a hurry.
Ted turned back toward his office, moving slowly, something inside him whispering that maybe he really didn't want to move at all, especially when he saw Lance Mathis coming out of his office with his face arranged in a solemn expression that did not - quite - manage to cover up a pale gleam of . . . something in his dark eyes. Moments later, it was Cynthia who was walking toward him, also striving to maintain a professional demeanor, but not quite managing to pull it off. Strangely, neither of them was looking his way. Yet he knew, somehow, that both were focusing on him, though they tried to pretend otherwise.
Something was definitely up; something . . . ominous.
Then his phone rang again, and he glanced down at the screen, cringing when he saw the name displayed there.
Melanie Marcus.
She had gone back to Toronto three days earlier - to resume her residence there and be reunited with her infant daughter, and maintain - for a while longer - the fiction that everything was still all right in her not-quite-as-cozy-as-it-should-be domestic situation.
Lindsey, of course, was still in Pittsburgh, ostensibly awaiting the return of her son from his visit with his father and grandfather. But that was simply a convenient fiction - something that everyone treated as a truth, but only in order to avoid discussing other possibilities. The bottom line was that nobody really knew what would happen next regarding the Marcus/Peterson household. On the night before her departure, Melanie had confided in Ted that Lindsey had been distant and unresponsive during the few conversations the two of them had shared since Mel's eviction from the hotel suite - had even gone so far as to ignore Melanie's half-hearted attempts at an apology for her comments regarding Brian and his circumstances. And that was truly a first. In the past, Lindsey had often gotten angry over remarks Melanie had made in the heat of anger, but she had always been willing - even eager - to forgive and forget whenever Melanie was ready to put on an appearance of remorse, even when both of them knew it to be nothing more than a convenient pretense, designed to enable them to bury old differences without ever really resolving anything.
Ted was abruptly reminded of something that Debbie had said that morning, when he'd stopped by the Diner for his regular breakfast. Knowing that Melanie had elected to move in with Ted and Blake after the big face-off at Kinnetik, she had poured his coffee while asking about the whereabouts and condition of her granddaughter's mother. When he had informed her of Mel's departure, Debbie had gone very quiet, which - for anybody else - would have symbolized nothing at all. But Debbie Novotny didn't do quiet. Ever. So it had been pretty obvious that something was definitely bothering her.
"Deb?" he'd said softly. "What's . . ."
Her smile had been just a pale shadow of her customary cheerful grin when she'd turned away to set the coffee carafe back on its warmer. "I feel like I'm trying to learn a whole new language," she'd admitted.
"What new language?"
The smile had turned rueful. "The one that doesn't blame everything on Brian Kinney. You know, just a few days ago, if you'd told me this - with me knowing everything I know about him and about Mel and Lindsey's relationship - I'd have been screeching my head off about how he'd managed to do it again, to fuck up everybody's lives without even working up a sweat. I'd have done it without thinking, because it would have come to me as naturally as breathing. Blaming Brian is what we . . . what I've always done."
She'd come around the corner then and taken a seat beside him. "But now - whenever I start to bring out the same old song and dance, I keep hearing the things that Cynthia said. And then, I start . . . wondering. Do you know that - initially - I didn't believe her? I thought she was just making it up, or exaggerating . . . defending him. Just like Michael always did, but . . ."
"But what?"
She'd ducked her head a bit then, and clamped her lips together, actually managing to smear her bright red lipstick. "I checked out what she said.. The things that it was possible to check anyway. And . . . she wasn't lying, Teddie. And now - even though I want Melanie and Lindsey to be able to work this out, because . . . well, because they're like family to me, and I always believed that they really loved each other and because they both love my granddaughter - I keep hearing the things that Melanie said about Brian, and it makes me wonder."
"Wonder what?"
"How I'd feel," she'd said softly, "if someone had said those things about someone I loved. Let's face it, Teddie. What Brian said about Vic - when he died - was nothing by comparison, and I practically took his head off, and I really thought I'd never be able to forgive him. And I don't think it matters much that Lindsey's love for Brian isn't something that's easy to define or understand. It's enough that she does love him - and that he loves her, even though he'd never admit to it."
She'd paused then, concentrating on a thumbnail where the polish had begun to chip. "Was she right, Teddie? And were Lindsey and Justin and Emmett right? And even Michael, sometimes. Have we all just blamed Brian for everything because it was an easy habit to fall into, and a hard one to break? Did we really . . . never know him at all?"
He hadn't expressed his knee-jerk opinion in response to her question. One did not, after all, tell Debbie Novotny that she was full of shit, unless one harbored a secret wish for castration. But the thought had been there, discreetly concealed beneath the meaningless platitudes he had offered.
What the fuck was going on? Had the whole world gone crazy? Brian Kinney - a hero? An enigma? Bullshit!
His phone continued to ring, and he continued to stare down at it. It was still pretty early in the morning - too early for Melanie to be calling just to chat and re-ignite her daily rant about Brian Kinney and his latest unforgivable behavior.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the button to reject the call and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Then he hurried toward his office, deliberately ignoring the furtive glances of the people who were trying so hard - but without much success - to appear not to notice him at all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Interpol summary currently displayed on the monitor screen, clear and concise now that it had gone through the FBI decryption process, was much more detailed and factual than the news report currently being read by Charlie Gibson on Good Morning, America, but not nearly as sensational or dramatic. Brian tried - really tried - to avoid an urge to gloat. The news was, after all, not really a source of joy. The exposure of the massive pyramid scheme perpetrated by Marshall Hargrave and Patrick Correll and their associates would have a horrible impact on thousands upon thousands of investors, many of whom would be ruined by the so-called Ponzi scheme. And the fact that Hargrave himself - along with a band of his co-conspirators - had gone to ground, after eluding authorities and disappearing somewhere among the thousands of islands of Polynesia, would only add insult to injury.
It was a dark day for Wall Street and the financial world.
But it was not - thanks to the vigilance and oversight of the FBI and its contacts in the SEC - a dark day for Brian Kinney.
He did allow himself a smile to acknowledge his good fortune; okay, so it was more of a broad, jubilant grin than a simple smile, which he knew to be inappropriate, but could not quite resist - but the smile faltered and faded when he realized how easily he could have been among the vast numbers who'd been betrayed and ruined by the greed and avarice of men who had been building their fortunes for many years, at the expense of investors who trusted those at the tip of the pyramid with their hard-earned money.
The entire financial world was reeling, and knowledgeable sources had barely begun to assess the extent of the damage, but speculation was already rampant that the victims of the scam would be lucky to retrieve ten cents on the dollar of their original investments. Though the accounts and assets of the discredited securities firm had been seized, the simple truth was that most of the funds had already disappeared, along with the perpetrators of the scam.
The Interpol data was, of course, more specific, providing details of Hargrave's flight, of the individuals who were complicit in the massive fraud, and of the magnitude of the theft, but, in the end, it provided little hope for the recovery of the stolen funds or the apprehension of the guilty parties.
"How could this happen?" Brian asked McClaren, still enormously relieved that he had been spared the carnage, but outraged nonetheless on behalf of others who had been less fortunate. "How did they get away with it?"
McClaren shrugged. "It just proves that old adage. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. The strange thing is that you'd think wealthy, sophisticated people would know that, but they can be just as gullible as anybody else. Especially when it's 'one of their own' - so to speak - who's taking advantage of their vulnerability."
"But why didn't you guys step in and . . ."
The FBI agent gazed at him with a sardonic smirk. "You, of all people, know that we can't move until we have sufficient evidence for an indictment, and most of the information in this case had to come from the SEC. To say that they're slow is a huge understatement. Slow . . . and super cautious. And they don't relish taking down one of their own, and Hargrave was a big-time member of the financial In-Crowd. That's what put him in position to do so much damage in the first place. Knowing all the right people is the first step in scamming the big boys."
"You think they'll catch him?"
"Who knows? He and his fellow slimeballs walked away with more than fourteen billion dollars, according to early estimates. In some places, that could buy him a small country of his own. On the other hand, a hell of a lot of people are going to be super motivated to find the fucker, so . . . in the end, it's all going to come down to who gets lucky."
Brian nodded.
"Like you." McClaren's eyes were suddenly busy looking around the room, looking anywhere or everywhere - but at Brian.
"Yeah. Like me. Guess I owe you one, huh?"
McClaren laughed, before standing up and stepping forward, leaning down to take a quick but thorough kiss from the brunette. "You owe me a lot more than one," he replied in a whisper. "Happy birthday - for the rest of your life."
"Am I . . . interrupting something?" Justin's voice was almost without inflection, but the deliberate calm of his demeanor fooled no one, and Brian grinned. He knew it was petty of him, but he always rather enjoyed being an object of jealousy.
"No. You're just in time to come help me celebrate my narrow escape . . . and gloat - just a little - that others weren't so lucky."
Justin, with the dog (damned if he was going to designate the pup with that ridiculous name) in one hand, and Gus tugging at the other, glanced toward the television screen, just in time to see an ABC reporter introducing a major player from a Wall Street investment firm. Both the newswoman and the banker looked particularly solemn.
"It appears," said the stately-looking man, completely in character in his Brooks Brothers suit and an ugly - but expensive - Fiorio silk tie, "that federal agents were on the verge of moving in to shut down the operation, but they were too late, by no more than a matter of hours. This is . . ." He paused, and, for just a moment, the cool façade seemed to waver and expose the face of a real person beneath the mask. "This is going to be catastrophic, for a lot of people."
Justin turned to study Brian's face. "But not for you," he observed.
Brian smiled. "And how do you know that?"
Justin couldn't resist offering up a broad grin. "If you were broke, you'd be looking for somebody to strangle."
Brian nodded. "True enough."
Then Justin's eyes narrowed, and a speculative gleam flared in those blue depths. "But somebody," he said slowly, "wasn't so lucky. Right?"
Chris McClaren grinned. "Smart kid."
"I'm not a kid!"
The grin softened to an indulgent smile. "Of course, you're not."
And with that, McClaren rose and strolled out of the room, pausing only to close down the Interpol document on the computer.
Justin took a deep breath, obviously annoyed. "Why'd he do that?"
Brian gave a half shrug. "Eyes only. You're not authorized."
"But you are?"
Brian didn't offer any response aside from a flat, level look that made Justin squirm under the steady scrutiny.
"You finished being pissy?" Brian asked finally. "Because I have a couple of calls to make. You can stay - or not - but you can't interfere. Okay?"
Reluctantly, Justin nodded, as Gus stepped forward and looked up at his father with an expression that betrayed a tiny nuance of uncertainty. "What about me, Daddy? Am I being pissy, too? Can I stay too?"
The transformation of Brian's expression - from stern impatience to unlimited indulgence - was instantaneous. "Of course, you can stay, Sonny Boy. There's some games and puzzles over there in the bookcase. Why don't you find something to do for a little while, and then we're going to go out to explore the beach, until Daddy has to get dressed for a meeting. And tomorrow, you're going to have a nice surprise. Somebody special is coming for a visit, and you guys are going to have a blast together."
Gus, by this time, was jumping up and down. "Who, Daddy? Who's coming?"
Brian's smile was gentle. "That's the thing about surprises, Gus. You have to wait for them. Meanwhile, how about a different surprise? First, I have to make an important business call, and then, we'll call Mommie. How's that?"
"Awesome!" Gus cried, with a perfect fist pump, and, in the beautiful manner of the innocent, he - and the puppy - were shortly involved in trying to sort out the pieces of a worn old jigsaw puzzle, and it mattered not in the least that the dog was doing more harm than good, and that the puzzle - originally consisting of 300 pieces - was missing more than a few. It was the process - and the laughter - that mattered. And the distraction, thought Brian as he reached for the phone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
If a person wished to avoid the report of the crash and burn of a Wall Street phenomenon, it would be necessary to stay away from every major network and news source. Ted knew that for certain, because he'd tried.
It had been a silly, idle thing to do - flipping through all the cable channels to see if anyone on the planet was unaware of what was going on - but he had done it anyway. The effort had been futile, of course.
At this moment, he was watching Fox News - ordinarily one of his favorites - as some earnest-looking (and majorly hot) young reporter was broadcasting from the sidewalk outside the granite and glass edifice that had been the primary location of Hargrave-Correll for almost a decade. It did not look so very different now - except that there was no uniformed doorman standing at the entrance, ready to assist clients in hailing a taxi or summoning a waiting limo or to raise an umbrella to escort the powerful brokers or major-league financiers through a spring shower to a waiting vehicle.
Now there were only stern-looking young men in dark suits standing there, steely eyes trained on anyone who might approach, and the massive double doors were locked and sported a small, discreet sign which announced that access to the building was restricted, granted only by permission of appropriate federal authorities - the SEC, the FBI, the GAO - a veritable alphabet soup of government agencies.
A frazzled and obviously dismayed young woman was talking to the reporter, explaining that she had arrived at work as she did every day, at exactly 8:50 AM as was her wont, since the company brass were intolerant of tardiness for any reason, to find the building locked up tight, with only a bare-bones explanation from the federal agents who were posted at the door. But surely . . . it had to be some kind of huge mistake, didn't it? Hargrave-Correll was the most successful investment company formed on the New York financial scene in the last twenty years, with assets in the billions. So . . . it had to be a great big (bleep)-up . . . didn't it?
Yes, Ted thought. It did. A (bleep)-up of the first order - and he was pretty sure he knew full well who'd gotten (bleep)ed.
Quick footsteps in the hallway outside his door reminded him - in a distant, distracted kind of way - that he really should have taken the time to lock his door when he'd returned from his abbreviated little jaunt. But he hadn't, and it was too late now, as Blake entered, almost running and leaving the door ajar, eyes wide and filled with incipient panic, and then stopped so abruptly that Ted almost expected to hear a screeching of brakes.
"Ted?" The tone was exactly what one would use in an attempt to elicit a response from a corpse. Which, Ted rationalized, was probably not particularly inappropriate.
"Yes?"
"Are you . . . all right?"
Dark eyes - darker than usual - lifted to regard the slender young man who had been Ted's partner, his soul-mate, his savior - in more ways than one. "Why wouldn't I be all right?"
Blake nodded toward the television screen, where the interview with Hargrave-Correll employees continued, although Ted had chosen to mute the sound. "It's . . . it's a lot to take in. Out of the blue, so to speak."
Ted actually smiled. "Out of the blue? For some of us, maybe. Some, but not all."
"What are you talking about?" Blake asked softly, moving slowly around the desk and taking a seat on the edge, where he could look down at his partner as he sprawled back in his executive chair, his posture surprisingly relaxed - almost indolent.
Ted looked up at him, and Blake had to fight against a sudden urge to recoil, to flinch away from the look he saw in the man's eyes, even as Ted beckoned him closer with the wiggling of a forefinger. "Conspiracy," he whispered, when Blake leaned close. "That's what this was."
Blake sat back, obviously puzzled. "How do you figure that?"
"What else am I supposed to think?" Ted retorted. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me," Blake responded, clearly bewildered.
Ted's smile faltered and hardened as the quick tap of approaching footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond the open doorway. "Then you just wait," he said in a strange, almost detached tone, "and it will be."
When both Cynthia and Lance Mathis stepped into the office, his smile became mocking. "Aha! Time for the other shoe to drop, is it?"
"Ted, I . . ." That was Cynthia, intent, no doubt, on stepping up to defend her treacherous employer. As always.
But Ted was having none of it. "No need to explain, Ms. Whitney. I get it. I've always been a fast learner, you know."
Cynthia frowned, unintimidated, but slightly confused. But there was not the slightest nuance of uncertainty or confusion on the face of Kinnetik's security chief, who simply regarded Ted with a non-committal gaze before stepping forward and depressing the speaker button on the office phone.
Ted blinked, but only once. "Hello, Brian. I guess the gang's all here now, hmmm?"
"Theodore." The voice and tone were completely neutral, without inflection. "You've heard the news, I take it."
"Oh, yes. I heard it. And obviously, you heard it too. But . . ." he paused then to lookup and fix Cynthia with an icy stare. . . "it wasn't really news for you, was it? You already knew. Didn't you?"
"Yes. I did."
Ted looked slightly stunned; he had obviously not expected such a blatant admission of guilt. But Brian seemed completely unembarrassed - unapologetic, as he continued. "Just as you would have, if you'd bothered to do your job, and check the details on the investment you were so eager to make."
"What?" Ted leapt to his feet, outrage glittering in his eyes. "What are you talking about? You knew I was doing this . . . you knew I was risking my own money . . . and you did nothing to try to stop me. How could you . . ."
"Well, first of all, I wasn't supposed to know anything about it. Was I?"
Ted took a deep breath. "Okay. I guess I was wrong not to tell you, but I . . . I just wanted you to . . ."
"To what? To be so overwhelmed and dazzled by your genius once the investment paid off, that I'd throw myself at your feet in undying gratitude?" There was a brief pause, and everyone in the room caught a whisper of a quick giggle as - hundreds of miles away - a lithe blond wrapped his arms around Brian's waist and whispered suggestions of methods Ted might have dreamed up for having Brian express his gratitude.
"Jesus, Theodore," Brian drawled. "Did your really expect that to happen?"
"But . . . but it doesn't make any difference, don't you see," Ted insisted. "Whether I told you or not, you still found out.. You still took measures to defend yourself and leave me hanging out to dry. It was . . . for you, Brian. I took the risk . . . for you."
"But it wasn't your money that made the deal possible, made it big enough to impress your bosom buddies and warrant inclusion in their little scheme, was it?" Brian replied, completely unperturbed. "It was mine. And, according to my sources - which are pretty damned reliable - there've been signs of trouble at Hargrave-Correll for months. That's why they decided to cut their losses and run. Why the feds were closing in. Because the pyramid was collapsing under them, and the rumors were rampant. Which you would have known, if you'd just bothered to do a little bit of research. But you didn't, did you, Theodore? You were too busy trying to impress your old college chum, and using my money to do it."
"So what is this?" Ted snapped. "Payback? Vengeance? A petty little game of getting even?"
"You think we're even?" Brian asked, after a beat of silence. "Let's just re-examine that, shall we? For you, maybe it's about the money. But it's not, you know. Not really. Oh, I'd have been pissed - hugely, majorly pissed - if you'd succeeded in pissing away two million dollars. But it's just money, Theodore. It comes and it goes, and I can always earn more. That's not the important thing here."
Ted frowned, obviously ready to dispute such a spurious claim.
"I could have forgiven the money," Brian continued, his voice very soft. "That's not the problem. The problem is that I trusted you. With my money, yes. But with things that were much more important. I trusted you to have my back - to keep your mouth shut and protect the things that matter to me. To keep my son safe. To keep Justin safe. To support Cynthia if she needed it, and to take care of my business. And to make sure that you didn't do or say anything to make things worse for me."
"Well," snapped Ted indignantly, "at least you can't accuse me of violating that trust."
"I can't?"
In the smart, comfortable beach cottage, poised on its crescent of sand at the edge of the Atlantic, Gus and the puppy continued to wrestle and giggle over a scruffy old toy, Trina Thomas proceeded with her plans to come up with a new, better way to prepare the shrimp she had purchased that morning at the seafood stand at the marina as she chatted with Ron Peterson, Chris McClaren sat in the parlor going over new sit-rep reports and listened in on the awkward conversation while trying to pretend complete disinterest, and Justin Taylor closed his eyes, stepping closer to his lover to offer any comfort he could provide, wondering how Ted could fail to hear it - could fail to identify the deep, bottomless well of sadness contained in two tiny words.
There was a brief silence, as Ted considered how to turn the tables, how to make Brian understand that it was Ted who had been betrayed; Ted who had paid the ultimate price for Brian's failure to take his chief accountant into his confidence. Ted, who had been wronged.
But it was Brian who had the last word after all. "Maybe," he said slowly, "you need to think about it a little harder."
Then he hung up, leaving Ted still seated at his desk, mouth open and heart still filled with rage. "What the fuck does that mean?" he asked, of no one in particular.
But Lance Mathis was apparently prepared to provide an answer. "The meltdown at Hargrave-Correll has dominated the newscasts today," he said softly, "but there have been other things going on as well." Carefully, he leaned forward and laid the morning edition of the Post-Dispatch on Ted's desk. "You might find the article on page four particularly interesting."
"I can hardly wait," Ted snapped. "I've lost my life's savings; my boss blames me for everything that's gone wrong in his life. What's next?"
Mathis maintained his cool demeanor, ignoring the accountant's rant. Then he leaned forward, sparing a quick, sympathetic glance for Blake. He really did feel sorry for the substance abuse counselor, but not sorry enough to keep his mouth shut.
"If you ask me, Schmidt," he said softly, "you got off easy. But hey! It's early yet. You might still manage to piss him off enough to make sure you get your just rewards."
With that, Mathis walked out of the room, and Cynthia, after watching Ted for a moment in an attempt to gauge his mood, turned to follow him..
"I assume," said Ted coldly, "that you agree with him - that you think I deserved to get thrown to the wolves."
Cynthia turned back, and regarded him with a sad, level gaze. "I don't know what to think, Teddie. I want to believe that it was just a mistake - that you're loyal to a man who's been very good to you. But . . . I don't really know. Truthfully, I think the only person who can answer that question . . . is you."
Ted took a deep breath, fighting against a tightness in his chest. "And of course, it doesn't matter at all what he - and you - did to me?"
Cynthia sighed. "And what - exactly - was that, Teddie? He expected you to do your job, to help me do mine. To protect the people he loves and his company. Isn't that what you get paid - and paid very well, I might add - to do? Where - exactly - did he go too far in what he asked of you?"
"He . . . he . . ." But he found that he couldn't come up with a cogent answer.
"Yes. That's what I thought." Cynthia looked at him, and he almost cringed away from what he saw in her eyes. Not anger. Not contempt. Not even disappointment. What he saw there was pity. Cynthia Whitney felt sorry for him, and he realized that it hurt more than having acid thrown in his face. "Read your paper, Teddie. And learn more truths about what you almost managed to accomplish - for Brian."
She left then, closing the door behind her and managing, despite the anger that she had not been totally successful in suppressing, to avoid slamming it. In her wake, the silence in the room was profound - almost painful - until Blake elected to dispel it, sensing that allowing it to continue would be dangerous.
His smile was tremulous. "At moments like this, I sometimes regret being unable to take refuge in a bottle of single malt whiskey."
"Moments like this?" Ted echoed very softly. "Have you ever - in your entire life - been completely fucked over and betrayed by people who are supposed to be your friends? And if you haven't, how can you possibly have the slightest idea what it's like to endure 'moments like this'? Trust me when I tell you that you can't imagine how it feels."
"Teddie, don't you think . . ."
Kinnetik's CFO's eyes were dark and icy as he turned to stare at his partner. "If you're going to try to convince me that I should look at it from a different perspective - from Brian's perspective - just . . . don't. Don't go there, Blake. Don't make that mistake."
Then he very deliberately shifted his body to turn away, to avoid seeing - or understanding - the look in Blake's eyes. He'd had quite enough of pity for the day. Anything would be preferable, he thought. Even anger. Even contempt. Anything . . . except pity. He had been pitied before - many times - and, until just a short time ago, he had believed, had been absolutely certain, that no one would ever have cause or justification to pity him again.
What a complete fool he had been.
He picked up the Post-Dispatch and folded it open to read the headline on the article at the top of page four.
"Charitable Enterprise Exposed as Fraud."
Ted went very still, not even remembering how to breathe for the space of a heartbeat - not wanting to read the rest. Not wanting to know. But there was, of course, no way to avoid the whole truth now. The whole, ugly truth.
He only read the first paragraph, but it was enough.
"Former Schickel Hall program director, David L. Graham, was apprehended by federal authorities last night, as he attempted to board a Liberty Air flight bound for Atlanta, where he was scheduled to transfer to a connecting flight to Valencia, Venezuela. The arrest came at the conclusion of an extensive FBI investigation into the charitable organization known as Aid for Bolivian Orphans. According to the articles of incorporation of the charity, Graham is listed as founder and CEO. In a press release shortly following the arrest, the FBI divulged that substantial evidence, accumulated by undercover operatives, alleges that Graham and a group of co-conspirators collected massive contributions from donors throughout the northeastern US, ostensibly to provide relief funding for children of poverty in the Bolivian city of El Alto. Graham claimed that his motivation for the creation of the charitable fund was due to family ties to the region, but, according to FBI sources, Graham was a life-long resident of Kansas City, Missouri, until his move to Pittsburgh in 1995, and his claims of any family connection to the nation of Bolivia appear to have no basis in fact."
Ted closed the newspaper very carefully and deposited it in the wastebasket behind his desk. He deliberately did not look at Blake. He also avoided looking at the computer screen, where the morning news was still being reported. Not knowing the full extent of the charitable scam, there was no way he could be sure it would not be brought up on the national broadcast, and he was pretty sure that he had heard all he needed to hear - about investment funds and charities and scurrilous bastards who took advantage of the gullibility of strangers.
Gullible.
It was a word he had never expected to have applied to himself.
Gullible - and stupid.
And pitiful.
He closed his eyes and knew the truth. In the final analysis, that was the right word.
His cell phone rang at that moment, and he did not have to look at the screen to realize who was calling.
Ultimately, no matter how determined one might be to avoid it, the music had to be faced.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"So, what do you think?" Debbie Novotny was doing one of the things she did best in the world - hovering. In this instance, over the table where Lindsey, Michael, and Emmett were sampling the newest item on the Diner menu.
Michael was too busy inspecting the bite of creamy, caramel-coated dessert on his spoon to think up a response, but Emmett was more articulate. "Is it sufficient to say that if you guys won't give me this recipe, I'm going to have to engage in culinary espionage?"
"Good, huh?" Debbie was beaming.
Lindsey deliberately rolled her eyes. "Good doesn't even begin to cover it. Where did you come up with this?"
"Justin's new/old friend," Debbie answered. "You know - the guy from New Orleans that he met while Brian was in the hospital."
Lindsey frowned. "Oh, yeah. I remember. Cedric, was it?"
"Right," replied Debbie. "He's been in a few times - mostly to check on Sunshine, I think, although I haven't had much news for him, seeing as how you guys are being so damned stingy with your exclusive information, vis a vis Mr. Kinney and his blond twink. Anyway, we got to talking, and it turns out his mother was some kind of New Orleans cooking legend or something. Anyway, he was nice enough to share a couple of her recipes, and this one - well, let's put it this way. The first time we served it - Leon had cooked up a double batch - they were gone in ten minutes. The next time, he doubled it again. Same thing."
Emmett tilted his head, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "So Justin's Cajun buddy is a cook, is he?"
Debbie shrugged. "Don't know about that, but it appears that his mother was."
"Is he still at the halfway house?"
She nodded. "Still looking for work, I think. Not too many jobs available for someone his age and with his problems. Why?"
But Emmett was not ready to share his musings - yet. "What's this called anyway?" he asked, savoring his last bite of the dessert.
Debbie grinned. "Well, he called it tortue praline gateau . . ." her pronunciation would have rendered the words completely unintelligible to any Francophile . . . " or something like that - but we just call it caramel pecan bars."
Emmett summoned up his most fabulous smile. "Oh, no, that's far too plebian. I intend to come up with a name for it that's worthy of its scrumptiousness. Leave it to me."
"So," said Debbie, barely avoiding an eye-roll, "anything new on the BK front?"
Lindsey sighed. "Gus is there with his daddy by now. I just . . . I know he's okay, that Brian would cut off his own testicles before he'd let anything happen to him, but . . ."
Debbie leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on Lindsey's shoulder. "More to the point, Honey, he'd cut the testicles off anybody who so much as made a move toward that kid. I know it's natural to worry, but . . . Jesus! I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I'm pretty sure that Gus is safer with Brian than he would be with anyone else in the world." Her smile went slightly tremulous. "What kind of fucking fools have we all been, hmmm?"
It was at that moment - semi-prophetically - that Lindsey's cell phone rang. She flipped it open, and it was only half way to her ear when all of them heard the shrill, staccato stream of syllables erupting from its speaker. "Mommie, Mommie, Mommie, you'll never guess what."
Lindsey's face was instantly transformed into the universally beautiful expression of doting mothers everywhere. "Hi, Gus. What is it?"
"No, no, no," he crooned. "You have to guess."
"Put it on speaker," urged Debbie. "We all want to talk to him." What she didn't say - because she didn't have to - was that they all knew who else was likely to be on the line and how much they all wanted to hear that voice too.
Lindsey knew it, of course - full well. But she did as asked anyway.
"You're on speaker, Gus. You should say hi to Gramma Debbie and Uncle Mikey and Emmett."
But Gus was too excited to bother with niceties - so someone else answered for him. "You're wasting your time, Wendy. He's currently floating about ten feet off the ground, so you probably better guess what he wants to tell you, or this could be a really long conversation."
"Ummm, okay," said Lindsey, playing along. "Let me see. Daddy bought you a sports car."
Gus crowed with laughter. "No, Mommie. That's silly."
"Okay. He taught you how to surf."
The laugh became a giggle. "Not yet."
Lindsey hesitated for a moment, not certain that she liked what he was implying. "You rode a dolphin," she offered.
This time, the pause was on the other end of the line. "Oh, that's great, Linz. You had to bring up something he'd never thought of before, so now . . . where the fuck am I going to find a dolphin for him to ride?"
"Language, Daddy."
The group gathered around the table in the diner all smiled.
"Hi, Lindsey," said a new voice - one she recognized instantly.
"Hi, Daddy. Still enjoying the trials and tribulations of grandfatherhood - or are you ready to throw in the towel?"
"Never," he answered softly, and Lindsey was amazed to realize that there were tears rising in her eyes. Good thing Brian couldn't see her, she thought, or she'd never live down the momentary temptation to behave like a lesbian.
"Okay, Gus," she said finally, ignoring the sneaking suspicion that Brian had understood her feelings exactly without a single word being spoken. "I give up. What is it that I can't guess?"
"I got a puppy," he laughed. "Gramps bought it for me, and Daddy named it, and . . ."
"A . . . puppy?" she echoed, simultaneously touched by the sheer joy in her son's voice - and filled with dread as she visualized the emotional reaction of her partner on hearing such an announcement.
She waited until she could hear Gus - accompanied by a spate of barking - laughing and apparently racing around the room, before continuing. "Brian, how could you . . ."
"Hey, don't blame me," he retorted - and it didn't require ESP for her to realize that his tongue was in his cheek and he was indulging in a trademark Kinney smirk even as he reassigned blame. "I didn't buy the mutt."
A bright little voice echoed the sentiment. "That's right, Mommie. He didn't buy the mutt. And Gramps didn't want to buy it, but . . . you don't understand, Mommie. It was like . . . me and him were s'posed to be together."
"He and I," she corrected automatically.
But Gus merely sounded confused. "Him and you? What do you . . ."
"Never mind, Gus," she said finally, knowing she was both outnumbered and outgunned. "So . . . what's he like? And what's his name?"
"He's white and he's funny and he climbs up on Daddy's lap . . . and his name's Bo," he replied, and once more there were sounds of scuffling and laughter.
"Bo?" she repeated. "Is that the best you could do, Brian? Bo?"
"I'll explain later," he answered. "Lindsey, have you . . ."
"What's the matter, Stud Muffin?" Debbie interrupted, still slightly amazed at the idea of any dog being allowed to climb up on Brian Kinney's anything. "You can't say hello to your friends?"
Lindsey smiled as she imagined the litany of smart remarks that were running through her old friend's mind as he considered how to respond, but in the end, he simply said, "Hi, Ma. Still sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. I see."
"Good morning to you too - Asshole." But the gentleness of her smile gave the lie to the stridency of her words.
"Hey, Brian," said Michael. "You okay?"
"Fabulous, as always, Mikey."
"So . . . you coming home any time soon?"
The hesitation was brief, but very, very noticeable to the group gathered in the Diner. "Not yet," came the answer finally.
Michael tried not to frown. 'Not yet' was certainly not the answer he'd hoped to get, but at least, it was better than a simple, irrevocable 'No'. For that, of course, was the fear that lingered in Michael's heart - in the hearts of all of the extended family, for that matter - that Brian would reconsider his life and his place in their lives and decide that he didn't need . . . but no. He would not explore the rest of that thought. He would choose to believe that 'Not yet' meant exactly that.
"Babylon misses you," volunteered Emmett, absolutely determined to avoid any suggestion that he might share that emotion.
Strangely, it was that comment that seemed to take Brian aback, just a bit, and make him pause to consider how to answer. "Thanks, Emmy Lou. I expect you to keep the home fires flaming bright."
Then a new voice joined the discussion. "Hey, Everyone," said Justin.
The Pittsburgh group simultaneously released a bit of pent-up breath they hadn't even realized they'd been holding. If Justin was feeling confidant enough to join in the conversation and Brian wasn't thundering at him to mind his own fucking business, then things must be looking up in the ongoing, never predictable, usually cyclonic chronicles of the Taylor-Kinney love story. And every one of them knew better than to ever use those words within Brian's hearing.
"Hi, Sunshine," said Debbie. "You guys . . . behaving?"
"No," laughed Justin, and they were all gratified to hear an echo of rumbling laughter from the man at his side. "Did you expect us to?"
"Is it . . . nice there?" asked Lindsey, wanting - more than anything - to know where her son - and his father - were, but knowing also that she shouldn't ask.
"It's great, Linz," Justin replied. "Gus and I and . . . the dog are just going out exploring. We'll catch you a starfish, if you like."
And Lindsey smiled. It wasn't much, of course, but it was better than nothing.
"Say good-bye, Gus," said Brian, his tone gentle but something in the clipped quality of his words indicating that he had more to say to Lindsey - things that he did not want Gus to overhear.
"Bye, Mommie. Hey, Juss . . . do they really have dolphins you can ride? Where would . . ."
His voice faded into the distance.
"Take it off speaker, Linz," Brian directed.
Lindsey looked at the faces gathered around her, and saw that they understood the misgivings that were rising as shadows in her eyes. It seemed that they all knew that they should just walk away and give her some privacy. Yet they stayed, pretending to focus on their plates or their coffee or the pedestrians walking by outside the door. Anything . . . but whatever it was that Brian needed privacy to say.
"What is it, Peter?" she asked softly, trying to ignore the knot forming in her throat.
"Have you talked to Melanie this morning?"
"No. Why?"
The knot was suddenly a huge lump, as she realized that she was about to learn something she probably would not want to know.
She was right.
Clearly and concisely - he was, after all, an ad man of the first order, well accustomed to providing the maximum of pertinent information in a minimum of words - Brian told her about the whole Hargrave-Correll debacle . . . and Melanie's participation in it.
When he was finished, he simply waited, giving her time to absorb what she'd heard.
"I don't understand, Brian," she said finally, barely audible. "Why would they do something like that? Why would Teddie . . ."
She couldn't bring herself to complete the thought.
Brian sighed. "I think he just . . . wanted it too badly, so he got in over his head. I want to believe that's what it was - that he wouldn't deliberately betray me."
Lindsey rubbed her forehead with tremulous fingers. "Even after . . . everything that's happened, I never expected that he'd . . ." She took a deep breath. "And Melanie?"
Brian deliberately avoided the knee-jerk response that he wanted to give her - not because he wanted to spare Melanie, but rather because he wanted to spare Lindsey. "If you're waiting for me to defend her . . . better be prepared for a long wait. However, in her case, since she's no financial wunderkind, it's possible she just saw what she believed to be a good opportunity to make some mega-money. Can't really fault her for that. Shit, Linz, if it hadn't been for my fed contacts letting me know what was going on behind the scenes, I might have been tempted myself."
"But it was Ted's responsibility to know. Wasn't it?"
"Yeah. It was - but I'm trying to believe that he was just . . . blinded by the glitter."
"Brian," she said softly, trying hard to ignore the rising alarm in the eyes of her companions, "has Cynthia told you . . . all of it? Do you know . . ."
"I know enough," he replied coolly. "Just . . . drop it for now. Okay? But you're going to have to deal with one majorly-pissed partner, Wendy. And she's going to . . ."
"Blame you," she interrupted. "You didn't have to tell me that. I already knew."
"Yeah, well, I just thought you should be prepared."
"Forty thousand dollars," she whispered. "Jesus, Brian! I didn't even know we had forty thousand dollars to invest. How's that possible? And is there any hope . . . will she get any of it back?"
"Very little," he answered, seeing no point in sugar-coating anything. "But . . . if you need money . . ."
To her own amazement - and that of all the people gathered around her who were trying to pretend that they hadn't been eavesdropping - she managed to dredge up a tiny, bitter laugh. "Have you ever stopped to count up how many times you've said that to me in the last six years?"
He didn't hesitate. "Doesn't matter. It's only money."
She took a deep breath. "I doubt that Mel is going to see it that way."
"Lindsey," he said slowly, hesitantly - which was enough, by itself, to make her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Do you need . . . if you need anything, I . . ."
"I know," she interrupted, allowing the warmth building within her to express itself in her tone. "Brian, I've always known. And - when I figure everything out - you'll be . . . the second to know."
He cleared his throat, probably to buy a bit of time. "Okay then. Don't worry about Gus. I'll make sure he's fine - and having the time of his life. Your dad is . . . he's surprisingly good with him."
"I'm shocked," she retorted with a grin. "A breeder? Good enough to associate with the son of the great god, Kinney? What's next? Armaged . . ."
"Shut the fuck up!" he snapped.
"You behave yourself," she said gently. "Don't go corrupting my kid."
This time, the laughter was deep and genuine. "Gotta go," he announced. "I have a whole new vocabulary to teach to my offspring."
"Hey!" she said quickly. "Bo? Honest to God, Brian, that's all you could come up with - not to mention how I'm going to explain this to . . ."
She trailed off then, suddenly wondering if, under the circumstances, any explanation would even be necessary.
Brian, realizing the direction of her thoughts, redirected her toward the original question. "Not 'Bo'," he chuckled. "Beau - as in Beau Soleil. You'll have to see it for yourself, Linz, but I swear to God that dog and Justin must have been identical twins in some past life."
Thus, as intended, he left her laughing.
For a moment anyway - until she remembered the rest of the conversation, and what she would undoubtedly have to face from the woman who was supposed to be her partner - for better or worse, in sickness and in health, and - God help them - for richer or poorer.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
TBC
