laylafic

**~~NANOWRIMO STORY CHAPTER 17~~**

Entry word count: 9907

For Story Notes, click here.

Now on to Entry 18:

63.

Safety was a relative term.

You could feel secure stuck on a mountain ledge thousands of feet up in the air if you had the proper safety equipment to protect you. Or you could feel defenseless standing on solid ground if the world around you had gone awry and you had no one to watch your back. How safe you felt depended on your perspective and perspective evolved with your circumstances, with every second of every day.

To Justin, safety was the click the lock made as the loft door slid shut behind them. It was the comfortable drone of Deb’s voice on the speakerphone informing them she’d be over soon bearing food –more than what she’d already sent with her troupe, that is– that would last them till the weekend because she knew they had nothing in the fridge. It was the sound of Michael and Emmett laughing uproariously at Brian’s anal-retentive order of hanging shirts in the closet, and Brian’s mock insulting scoffs in response.

The loft buzzed with activity as Justin helped unpack the bags and watched Brian wash up and change clothes while Emmett tinkered around in the kitchen, clattering dishes, taking the Styrofoam containers out of the bags and putting them into the fridge. Michael ended the call with Deb right as his own cell phone rang and then he paced around the loft, talking to Ben about some conference in Philadelphia that he had to attend, and then he called Hunter who was watching the shop for him, to make sure the shipment he was expecting had been delivered that morning and to reassure him he’d be there soon.

Justin was standing in the middle in front of the kitchen counter when Brian came down from the bedroom and for a moment, the four of them stared at each other in silence, not knowing what to say. And then Justin looked at Emmett and Michael. "You guys want something to eat?"

"Thanks, sweetie," Emmett replied. "But I’m meeting with the new caterer in fifteen minutes to discuss the Morrison dinner on the twenty-sixth."

Michael picked up his jacket from the couch. "And I have to get back to the shop, Hunter has an afternoon class."

"But you guys go ahead." Emmett moved around the kitchen counter. "The meatloaf is in containers in the fridge, you just need to nuke it and the salad is in the blue boxes. There are sandwiches as well and Deb sent some lemon bars, especially for Brian---"

"I am not hungry!" Brian interjected sharply.

"Of course you are!" Emmett stared at him. "It’s almost one." He looked at his watch. "You had breakfast when? At seven am. It’s time for you to eat something."

"Relax, guys." Justin laughed as he walked over to Brian and wrapped his arms around his waist. "I think I can handle it."

"You’d better." Michael scowled. "Ma expects to find all of this food gone by the time she comes over tonight with even more stuff that’ll last you over the weekend"

"For Christ’s sake, could you possibly persuade Deb to not bother us for at least one fucking day?" Brian glared at them. "There’s enough food in that pile to feed a fucking hockey team!"

Michael laughed. "Yeah, you try telling her that."

Despite the banter, or perhaps because of it, Justin could feel Brian relaxing and that was a good sign. Brian wouldn’t be Brian if he didn’t give them a hard time while they were trying to take care of him. He was so fucking independent all the time that he absolutely hated anytime someone anyone tried to fuss over him. But Justin also remembered how Brian had looked a week ago, lying in that hospital bed, quiet and subdued and uncomplaining, remembered how that sight had made him feel—like a knife twisting in his gut. So this characteristic bickering was more than welcome. He knew they needed this, if everything else was to fall into its appointed place, one breath at a time.

So with tight hugs and tighter promises that they’d be back soon, Deb with more food, and the rest of them with more fun to be had, all of which Brian endured with much rolling of eyes and heaving of sighs, the guys finally departed, leaving the two of them alone, really alone, by themselves, for the first time in many days.

Justin rubbed his cheek against Brian’s sleeve-covered arm and looked up at his face. "Do you want to lie down for a while?"

Brian huffed. "Fuck, no."

Justin chuckled. "Well, I think I’m going to get myself some sandwiches. I’m starving."

Brian looked at him with a raised brow. "Good." His voice was gentle. "I’m going to check my mail."

"Okay." Justin watched as he went over to his desk and sat down on the computer. Brian had spent the last ten days cooped up in a hospital room, acquiescing to everyone’s well-intentioned mothering –or smothering, as he’d probably call it– so Justin figured he was bound to be feeling claustrophobic by now. He just needed some breathing space and Justin was going to make sure he got it.

So he turned to the kitchen, took the sandwiches and salad out of the fridge, grabbed the water, and took everything to the coffee table in front of the TV. He settled down with his head against the backrest and turned the TV on, flipping lazily through the channels as he ate. There was Shrek 6 on Nickelodeon and the latest Bond movie on HBO but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything. Time seemed to drag as he surfed idly, pulling his legs down and kicking at the coffee table. Flip, flip, flip he went from one channel to the next to the next, his mind too distracted to pay attention to what was on the screen. Every few minutes, he looked up to find Brian engrossed in his task, his eyes on the computer screen, his index finger moving on the mouse. Justin turned to the remote and realized he’d come to the end of the channel list, so he sighed heavily, pulled his legs up and started again from the start. Flip, flip, flip. Fuck, there was nothing interesting on, he pouted. Minutes went by and the next time when he looked at Brian, he saw him looking back with a look that was a cross between exasperation and amusement.

"Could you be any more fucking loud than you already are?" he demanded.

"What?" Justin replied, looking shocked. "I didn’t say anything?"

"Right." Brian rolled his eyes. "I can practically hear the mental commentary broadcasting on short wave."

"Then you must be hearing nothing but static." Justin grinned. He stared at Brian for a moment and then shrugged. There was no point pretending. "Would you like to share my sandwich with me?"

Brian looked down at the coffee table where there were two sets of plates and water bottles lying: one empty and one full—one set obviously waiting for him—and snorted, shaking his head. "Fine."

Justin made room for him between the cushions and they both settled down, their arms linked together. There was a strange, soft languor in Brian’s disposition—something serene and quiet and unhurried, that seemed to be catching, and Justin found himself relaxing, his arms wrapping protectively around Brian as he fed him the sandwiches from the plate. Brian felt warm and hard and alive in his arms, despite his relative thinness—which was something Justin knew they had to work on. He may protest and complain to the world that he wasn’t really hungry and didn’t need to be mothered, but Justin knew Brian had to eat and rest properly if he was going to get back in shape anytime soon. Even though the doctors had said there was no permanent damage to his heart and that he was going to make a complete recovery with proper rest and recuperation, Brian needed someone to watch out for him—complaints or not. Justin was just glad Brian was letting him be the one to take care of him. That Brian trusted him enough to care for him—after all the shit that had happened—meant the world to him.

When the sandwiches were finished, he looked at Brian. "You want some more?" He made to get up. "Can I get you more water?"

But Brian stopped him from moving. "I’ve got it." His hand twisted in Justin’s sleeve as he pulled him back against him. "Stay here."

So Justin stayed where he was, feeling his breathing slow as he felt Brian’s hand rubbing circles on his back, then sliding up to tangle in his hair. He turned his face to rub his nose into Brian’s neck and kissed the warm skin there. Brian held his chin with his fingers and stared into his eyes for a moment and then bent forward to brush his lips against his—and Justin’s eyes fluttered closed. There it was again, that peaceful languor that he’d felt before, in the warmth of Brian’s breath puffing against his cheek, in the tightening of Brian’s arms around him. But underneath that languor, there was something else that wasn’t quite at rest yet. He could feel in the thudding beat of Brian’s heart, and in his fingers twisting in Justin’s shirt, as he held Brian close and just kissed him, over and over and over again. Strangely, there was no heat in the kiss. It wasn’t designed to induce passion or a burning clamoring intensity that their kisses normally did. It was a wordless expression of love and pain and gratitude and desperation and he found his body melting against Brian of its own accord.

When the kiss ended, Brian held his forehead against him and stared into his eyes. "I am fine, Justin," he insisted.

Justin managed a smile. "I know." He willed his hand not to shake as he picked up the remote and handed it to Brian. "Let’s watch TV," he said and then curled his body and pulled his legs up on the couch as he settled against Brian’s side. Brian wrapped one arm around him and flipped through the channels as Justin laid his head down on his lap and looked at the images dancing on the screen.

Against the backdrop of dialogue from an old western, Justin came to the realization that he wanted to tell Brian everything he needed to know. There was so much going on, so much at stake there, and Brian had a right to know the truth. And Justin was going to tell him. He knew the others weren’t happy that he’d kept Brian in the dark all this time. Even Mom had urged him last night to sit down and talk to Brian. And Justin had assured them it was time.

But not tonight. They would have this one night of rest, and then they would sit down and tell him everything he needed to know. Just one night without worries. That was all he was asking for. Fuck, he wanted to tell Brian. He needed to vent, needed to share himself. He held Brian’s hand and brought it to his lips and kissed the fingers one by one. He felt Brian’s free hand resting over his head, and its fingers slowly tangling into his hair and sighed.

It was like a free fall. The world had gone awry and violent winds buffeted him from all sides as he felt himself plunging down hundreds of miles through the endless skies, the deadly ground rushing up to meet him in a frenzy. But the weight of Brian’s hand felt solid between his fingers, like the catch of a parachute that might save him from certain death.

Safety was relative, but with Brian’s heart beating reassuringly under his ear, it felt almost within reach.

He had his harness around him. His safety net was secure.

That was all he had and for now, it seemed enough.

64.

The link was discovered when they’d nearly concluded that all their efforts had been in vain.

They’d only been issued a "search only once" warrant to find whatever they could to build a case since the evidence against Henry had been practically non-existent and their probable cause rooted in information that’d seemed flimsy at best. They also didn’t have jurisdiction to physically remove anything from the property—which meant they had to confine their catalogue to snapping photos and making copies of everything that they deemed interesting. Which really hadn’t been much. Nothing in that neatly put out, perfectly ordinary house filled with mundane everyday stuff seemed interesting in the least.

So they were more than surprised when, while running this mundane stuff against the evidence they’d collected linking the theme park to Taylor Electronics, that a piece of the puzzle suddenly fell into place.

It was amidst the stack of photographs and albums from the shelf in Henry’s living room. Photos of Henry’s family and friends, his ex-wife, neighbors and in some cases a few business associates. Pictures of weddings and bridal showers and office parties and neighborhood barbeques. And among these, a face they’d recently added to their Crafton theme park file.

Lisa Marie Payne.

The woman from Alton Inc. who’d signed the deal with Craig Taylor and his firm five years ago and who’d bought not only real estate across Pennsylvania on their advise, but who was also the grand-niece of Ida Frances Thompson, the old woman who owned the company running the Crafton theme park. The police had already established a link between Lisa Payne and Craig Taylor, but it appeared that aside from this business association, Taylor Electronics and Alton Inc. shared another interesting aspect. Both these businesses had been active proponents of Proposition 14 – the anti-gay legislation. So it was no wonder Henry Stanford, who was a staunch homophobe, was one of the members of the Taylor Electronics team who’d gotten particularly close to Lisa, Alton’s star member.

For she was in quite a few of Henry’s personal photos. It appeared the husband and wife had gotten quite chummy with Lisa during that last year. But how far did it go? According to Alton’s records, Lisa had resigned from the company in December 2004, because she’d gotten a job somewhere in Europe. This was verified by Craig Taylor as well. Lisa had initiated the deal they’d signed with Alton, had gotten it off the ground and worked on it for almost a year, during which time she’d taken personal property advise during the trips she’d made to Pittsburgh, but apparently, after all this was over and done with, she’d left for greener pastures.

And then there was the mystery of Henry’s wife.

Until that time, the police hadn’t paid much attention to Madeleine Stanford. They knew she and Henry had gotten married in 1997 and that Madeleine had worked as an office manager at a private vocational training school in Monroeville. From all accounts, Henry and Madeleine had had a stable marriage. But sometime in the summer of 2005, something had changed in their happy household, leading them to split up and go their separate ways.

Madeleine was supposedly living in Sao Paulo since July 2005 but no one had heard from her since her departure. All efforts to contact her on her last known location had been in vain. She’d had only one living relative in the States on record – a brother named Alfred Lansburg, who’d done several stints in a number of state and county jails on dope and drug possession charges, before getting stabbed to death in a drunken brawl in a small pub in Killdeer, ND three years ago. His killer, an unknown man whom no one that night had been sober enough to recognize, was still at large.

What was the history with Madeleine? What had gone wrong between Henry and her that she’d decided to leave him? And how well did Henry and/or Madeleine know Lisa Payne? And the biggest kicker of them all: Why the hell did all the people that Henry came in contact with either keep dying or disappearing from the face of the planet?

If Henry Stanford really was in Pittsburgh right now, as Tucker Osborn’s testimony seemed to suggest, then they had to find out where he was hiding and what he was up to next.

They only hoped they could do it before somebody else disappeared.

65.

As a lawyer for the last thirteen years, Melanie Marcus had seen the criminal mind at work from many different angles.

She’d fought for abused women and children. She’d seen discrimination on the basis of ethnic background and sexual orientation, and violence committed against people who were defenseless and shit out of luck. She’d defended equal rights for gays and lesbians, and even survived a bombing in which many others like her had perished. She knew what it felt like to be part of a large group persecuted by bigots who didn’t believe in equal rights for everyone.

But until now, she’d never experienced the horror of being so systematically singled out by a psychopathic maniac.

For that was exactly what it felt like. As if she, and everyone she held dear in life, was suddenly in danger, their lives in peril, their livelihoods at stake. As if they weren’t human beings but rather freak fungus specimens being studied under a microscope in a small petri dish. And this wasn’t Proposition 14. This wasn’t the bombing and its aftermath. This was a deeper, more personal threat than anything she’d experienced before.

All these years, she’d thought her family was safe and sound and well-protected because she’d taken them out of harm’s way and given up her home and career in Pittsburgh to lay new foundations in a place where no one could harm them. But it was all a lie, wasn’t it? Someone had been watching them anyways, been keeping track of their movements. The hackings at Kinnetik, the dossier on Brian, the psycho’s threatening words to her down in the tunnels when he’d specifically mentioned Gus. All of it pointed towards the same: they weren’t safe anywhere as long as the threat existed. Because it was a personal attack. A personal vendetta.

She couldn’t imagine what Brian would feel when he found out what was happening. That is if someone took the effort to sit down with him and fucking explain what was happening. Try as she might, she couldn’t really come up with even a single excuse to put the blame of this whole mess on him. Yes, Brian was the focus of this madness, and by proxy, everyone related to him was at threat. But no matter what she’d thought of the way Brian and Justin had gotten together 10 years ago, or how he’d treated Justin all this time, or how he lived his life now, even if she didn’t take into account what’d happened on Halloween night—and Melanie had a feeling she’d never forget that night as long as she lived—Brian Kinney was not at fault. It might be for the first ever time in his life, but it was true. He was not responsible for this shit. He was not responsible for what was going on in that fucking psycho’s mind.

He’d been stalked and followed and fucking hounded for the last ten years without ever getting a wind of it, and he still didn’t have a clue. It was Thursday morning, eleven days since they’d been attacked in the tunnels, and everyone was trying to save Brian Kinney from himself when the real threat was out there. She had merely an inkling of what was going on and it was driving her mad. Brian, who was at the center of this thing, who was the focal point of this unmitigated, unwarranted pool of hatred and insanity, was clueless, and no was fucking telling him a fucking---

"But he would be devastated," Lindsay was saying, her voice strained. "He already blamed himself when Justin was bashed-- he went on a bend where he was drugging and drinking like I’d never seen him before. And now, after all this time, he finds that Justin’s father started this thing years ago? This madness? And that it was taken over by this lunatic who was down there in the tunnels with him, with all of you?" She bit her lips as she stared at Melanie. "And for what? Because Brian fell in love with Justin?"

Melanie resisted the urge to sigh. "Lindz--- what has that got to do with anything that’s happening?" She tried to keep her voice down. JR and Gus were upstairs and it would do them no good to upset the kids.

Lindsay looked disbelievingly at her. "But that’s where it started and that’s how he’d going to see this. That it was because he loved Justin that all this happened---" Oh Jesus, count on Lindsay to turn everything into the epic romance tragedy of the century. "And when it took him so long to finally believe in the fact that he could love someone, and that someone could love him back---" Lindsay seemed on the verge of tears. "Do you have any idea how he’s going to feel?"

Melanie stared at her wife, her throat working convulsively. Yeah. As a matter of fact, she did. Lindsay might be Brian Kinney’s best friend since fucking college, but she hadn’t been the one down in the tunnels with him, watching him nearly die of fucking grief. Only Melanie had had that particular misfortune. So yeah, she had a pretty good idea about how he was going to feel. "That’s not the fucking point," she said, pressing her lips together. "And you know that, Lindz. We can’t hide it from him for the rest of his life."

"No one’s hiding anything." Deb walked into the room, a stack of laundry in her arms. "Carl and Justin are there with him right this minute—talking."

Melanie looked up in surprise. "They are?"

"Yes, they are," Deb sat down at the table with them. "They decided not to go into too many unnecessary details, because we can’t upset Brian too much at this point---" Melanie felt a scowl form on her face but Deb forestalled any complaint with a pointed finger in her face. "Brian’s still not fully recovered, you know that. But he needs to know the history of Craig Taylor’s homophobic hatemongering and his years long association with assorted fucking psychos of the world." There was a bitter twist to Deb’s mouth as she stared at her closely. "So they’re touching all the highlights. They’re going to tell him everything he needs to know. Okay?"

Melanie looked at her for a long moment and then sighed. "Okay."

"And you don’t worry, honey." Deb put a hand on Lindsay’s arm. "Justin’s going to be there and he’ll make sure Brian knows no one blames him."

Lindsay sighed. "It’s not the others blaming him that I am worried about."

Before Melanie could respond to that, her phone rang. "Hi Larry. What’s up?" She watched Lindsay’s brow go up at the name of her former business partner in Pittsburgh and raised a finger in a shushing gesture as she listened to what he was saying. "Yeah. Okay. Yes. It’s P. A. Y. N. E. That’s right. In January 2004. Okay. Thanks." She clicked the phone shut.

Lindsay was looking at her strangely. "You called Larry Jacobs?"

"Yeah," she replied.

"What for?" Lindsay frowned.

She shrugged. "Just asked him to look up the employee list for Taylor Electronics, as well as the people who’d had major dealings with them around five years ago." She remembered they’d made a portfolio of Taylor’s staff and business associates during Proposition 14 when the company’s name came up on the list of anti-gay protestors. It’d seemed remarkable at that time because of the company was owned by Justin’s dad. And while she didn’t remember Alton Inc.’s name in particular, she didn’t think it would hurt to look up names associated with them that had recently been brought up by the police. "I just thought, there might be something in there that might help with the investigation, so Larry’s checking up a few things for me."

They were flying back to Toronto on Monday morning. And while Melanie realized it would be nice to get back into the flow of things at home, and get the children settled back into their schedule, she also knew they would all be worrying about what was happening with their family in Pittsburgh until all this shit was resolved.

Because she knew it won’t be over until they caught the psycho behind this anarchy.

66.

For what it was worth, Brian seemed to take it much better than they’d expected.

Carl had joined Justin at the loft, where Michael and Ted were already waiting for his arrival. He watched Brian come down from the bedroom, looking a hundred times better since coming home from the hospital and thought, what a difference a day makes. He suddenly realized he was glad they’d waited all this time, had given Brian a chance to recover. He seemed much better primed to tackle the problems facing him now.

Surprisingly, Brian didn’t seem particularly shocked about Craig Taylor’s actions and decade long history of loathing for him. The loathing part, he said, he was already familiar with. Sure, it was unfortunate that Craig had felt the need to hire a private detective and have him followed and his every activity catalogued for the better part of a year, but considering the fact that the man had blamed Brian for turning his son gay since the very beginning, he figured not much was beyond him.

Not so surprisingly, the revelation about Henry Stanford’s role in this whole debacle, and the effect it had on Justin and their connected family, upset Brian almost to the point of distress. Just like at the hospital, when he’d had the same question upon waking up from his coma, Brian wanted to know what had happened to Justin in the tunnels. Had he been hurt? Had he been scared? What was it that he wasn’t telling Brian? They watched the full-on drama unfold as he paced around the loft, demanding to know what, if anything, that psycho had said or done to Justin when he’d been alone with him. Watched as Justin had slowly and painstakingly talked him down from all-out panic, holding him close, comforting him with soothing words, murmuring reassurances that he was fine, that he wasn’t hurt, that it was over. It had taken him a while but the words seemed to have a calming effect on Brian and he allowed Justin to lead him back to the couch to continue the discussion.

That was when they told Brian about the axe’s discovery behind Babylon. That was something they’d agreed Brian needed to hear from them, before he spoke to one of the club’s patrons or staff members on returning back to work. The psycho was clearly trying to leave a message, Carl had explained, as he gave Brian details about where he thought the police’s investigation was leading. The police realized it felt like a game, as if the psycho was leading them on. And they now felt they were closer to linking how these clues might lead them to Henry.

Of course, they’d agreed not to mention anything about the fingerprints for now, so they didn’t. There was no point in upsetting Brian anymore than he already was.

Strangely, the axe disclosure, and the realization that the clown from the tunnels had a solid tangible form, seemed to put Brian at ease for some reason. Perhaps, Carl thought, a solid tangible reality, no matter how gruesome, was more conquerable to your subconscious when pitted against a nightmare that only lived and breathed inside your head.

The discussion became much more focused after that. Brian suddenly seemed on the alert, almost primed for action. He asked Ted exhaustive questions about the hacker at Kinnetik and grilled Carl about the latest status with the police’s investigation. He wanted to know what they’d discovered about the history behind the theme park’s association with Craig Taylor’s company. He asked what steps they’d all taken since the night of the attack and how much he’d missed. He wanted to know everything and seemed to have theories of his own, once again reminding Carl of the fact that he was a highly intelligent man with keen insight about every situation.

It was no wonder the family ran to Brian Kinney every time they were in a jam. He might be a smart-ass most of the time and he might act like he couldn’t give a damn, but he was naturally authoritative and he always knew how to fix their problems without making a big fuss about it.

Hence, this major task done, Carl had headed off towards home, leaving Ted to discuss more Kinnetik business with Brian and dropping off Michael at the store. It was as he was getting in his car that he got the phone call from Mel, asking him to get back as fast as he could.

She said she’d found a better probable cause for Henry than the police had.

67.

Mel was pacing around the living room, her body language tense. "We thought the reason Lisa Payne and Henry Stanford got so close was because they were both homophobes, right? Just like the companies they worked for?"

"Yes." Carl nodded. "Both these companies contributed generous amounts towards Proposition 14. They helped arrange rallies, provided space to hold meetings and seminars. Taylor did it in Pittsburgh, Alton in Scranton. Wasn’t Lisa part of all this?"

Mel shook her head. "Lisa wasn’t around by the time Proposition came around. The reason we didn’t have any information on Lisa Marie Payne before," she said, "was because she left Alton right before Proposition 14."

Carl looked at her. "You’re right. The timeline coincides. So if Henry had any association with her, that association ended before that time, with her departure."

"True." Mel raised a finger in agreement, then grunted. "But the kicker of it is… from what Larry found out about her life in Scranton, there is no way that woman would’ve ever supported her company’s stance on gay rights."

"Why do you say that?" Carl asked.

Mel stared at him. "Because, she was one of us."

Carl frowned. "What?"

"That’s right," Mel replied, her eyes twinkling. "Lisa Payne was an out and proud member of the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, Scranton chapter."

68.

It was far worse than he’d expected.

Brian knew he’d led everyone to believe that Craig Taylor’s pathetic activities of the last ten years and his fucking bullshit dossier on Brian’s life during that time hadn’t really shocked him. And in a way, it was true. Brian didn’t give a shit about anything Craig Taylor did to him—as long as it didn’t affect Justin. That was all he wanted, for Justin to be safe and sound at all times.

For as long as he could remember, he’d told Justin to forget about his father. Told him that if he didn’t stop worrying over what Craig thought of Justin and his lifestyle, then he’d always be disappointed. Unlike Jennifer, Craig was a homophobic asshole. Jennifer loved her son unconditionally. His father, on the other hand, was fucking irredeemable as far as doing right by his children was concerned, and Brian knew that no matter what Justin did, he’d never be able to please Craig. Would never be able to come up to his perceived bullshit standards about how he thought his son should live his life.

Brian knew this because he’d lived through it himself for the first eighteen years of his life. Lived through the same disappointments and hate and misery and anger and abuse and bitterness, before he’d scored himself a scholarship and gotten out of The House That Jack And Joanie Had Built. His childhood might not have been wrapped up in the pretense of white-collar country club WASP upbringing that Justin’s had, but Brian had known rejection as well as Justin had. Justin was luckier in the sense that he had Jennifer, who at least loved him without any reservations—while Brian had been stuck with Joanie.

Except Brian had stopped believing in Jack a long time ago, whereas Justin had never really quit. He may talk and act like he didn’t give a shit, but he did—and that was the problem. Because Brian didn’t care what Craig did to him. But he couldn’t stand to think that what Craig did to him had an affect on Justin.

That was fucking unacceptable.

He couldn’t let Craig’s insanity affect Justin—not when it was because of what Craig blamed Brian for. This was between Brian and Craig, right? That was fucking where it was supposed to stay. Justin was not supposed to get hurt. He was not supposed to get dragged into a labyrinth of tunnels by a madman wielding an axe. Brian was supposed to keep Justin safe and sound. That was all he wanted. That was all he cared for.

But Brian couldn’t let on how much this was pissing him off. He couldn’t let them know he was upset, because he couldn’t bear to be treated like an invalid for another second. He needed to be involved in this with both his feet on the ground, his eyes open, his senses at alert. And for that, he needed to reassure them that he was capable of handling this like an adult. They’d already waited too fucking long to trust him with the truth because they’d been afraid he’d been too fucking fragile to take the pressure. Brian had no intention of proving their point to them by flipping out now.

"When are we going back to the House, Uncle Brian?"

Brian looked up from the book page he’d been staring at for the last many minutes and shook himself out of the daze. He hadn’t read a word, of course—his mind was elsewhere. Damn, well, he needed to snap out of his shit. He looked at the little girl who’d slithered next to him on the couch and was now staring up at him with her big brown eyes. God, she looked so much like Mikey—she was definitely her father’s daughter.

This had been a much-trumpeted and written-about reunion between the fallen Uncle’s return from the Big Bad Hospital and the Kids of the family. Okay, two kids—one of whom was his own. But Lindsay and Deb had been insistent that the kids come over and see them and Brian realized he didn’t mind too much either—he’d missed hanging out with them as well. So Michael had dropped the kids to the loft after lunch to spend time with them and now they were waiting for their pizzas and Chinese takeaway to arrive. Justin was in the shower right now and if it had been any other time Brian would’ve likely joined him there, but because of the kids, he’d been forced to refrain.

Well, at least that’s what Brian was telling himself. Whatever. He didn’t want to get into that mental quarrel with himself right now.

He heard a faint sound that suspiciously sounded like a snort and looked up to find Gus pouting at the TV screen with a dismissive look on his face, his arms crossed on his chest defiantly. Shit, and this boy was definitely his father’s son. Brian took a deep breath and decided discretion was the best option for now and ignored the pout for the moment. He smiled at the little girl. "Why, JR? When was the last time you went there?"

A frown appeared between JR’s brows. "On Halloween day. Since then, Mama has got us running from Daddy’s house to Gramma Deb’s place, and it’s fun and all right, but all our cool stuff was left at the House and I miss my room there---" she spoke in one go, without stopping for breath."---and Hunter took us to the Community Hall’s swimming pool but that wasn’t even properly heated and I froze my bum in there and I haven’t been back there in so long that the pumpkin must’ve all shriveled up and died by now," She looked up at Brian, her lower lip jutting out in a pout not unlike her brother’s. "Why wouldn’t Mom and Mama let me bring the pumpkin from there, Uncle Brian?"

Oh boy. "Aw, that’s terrible, Kid." Brian ruffled her hair affectionately, and then continued in a stern tone—hoping it’d placate her. "I’ll have to speak to your mothers about this and demand to know how they could do that to your pumpkin."

Gus chose that moment to speak. "You idiot, you know why we couldn’t go to the House and you know Mom and Mama have been busy." His tone was almost accusatory.

And totally uncalled for. "Hey, don’t talk to your sister like that!" Brian frowned at him.

But JR had taken Gus’s admonition to heart. "Oh. I am sorry, Uncle Brian." She sniffled. "I didn’t mean it that way."

Gus scowled. "Of course, you did."

Tears sprang to JR’s eyes. "Noooooo, I swear, I didn’t---"

Brian put his hands on JR’s shoulders and gently turned her towards him and looked into her eyes. "I know you didn’t, JR! And it’s all right. I am sorry, you’ve not been having much fun these last few days." He looked at his son. "Gus, I will not tolerate you being an ass to your sister. Now apologize to her for calling her names."

Gus pouted at the TV screen for a few more seconds and then mumbled something that sounded like ‘sorry’.

JR looked up at Brian. "I am really glad you’re okay, Uncle Brian. I was so scared when you weren’t home and no one was telling us what was going on." Her lower lip trembled as she recounted her ordeal. "Don’t be mad at Gus, he’s been a really good brother lately. He even let me search on the internet for the hospital because Mama wouldn’t let me visit you, so he showed me pictures from the website, so that I could see where you were staying."

Brian felt a smile form at the corner of lips and sneaked a glance at Gus, who was no longer pouting. Instead he seemed to be concentrating at the TV screen with the utmost interest. Brian looked down at JR. "He did, huh?"

JR nodded. "Yes, it looks like a nice hospital." Then she smiled. "But I am glad you’re back home."

He dropped a kiss on her head. "I am glad I am back too, Kid."

He allowed the little girl to leave a smacking kiss on his own cheek and then she was off running again, picking up her dolls and books from the carpet and busying herself in her games once more.

Brian looked at her for a moment and then turned to Gus. "Come here," he called him and watched patiently as Gus made a big production of heaving a big sigh and putting the remote down and getting up from the couch to walk up to his father. He nudged Gus with his knee and mock-frowned at him. "Stop being so mean to her, okay? She’s just a little kid."

Gus sniffed. "She’s a twerp, that’s what she is."

"Christ." Brian chuckled. "You almost sound like I was at your age."

After a second, Gus smiled too. And then he surprised Brian by throwing his arms around him. "Didn’t want to go there without you," he said.

Brian ran his fingers through his son’s hair and asked, even though he knew what he was talking about. "Where?"

"To the House," Gus said. "Not without you, Dad."

Brian held his son close for a long moment, breathing in his innocence, realizing with every beat of his heart how much this meant to him. God, he’d never thought he’s ever feel this way about anyone, but all he’d had to do was look at his newborn son once and he’d fallen head over heels. The same night he’d met Justin, the night his life had changed and it’d never been the same. His two boys, his two biggest weaknesses. He ruffled Gus’s hair and then straightened up, unwrapping his arms from around the boy, and told him to go play with his sister.

He got up from the couch and stretched himself as he walked to the computer. He unlocked his system with his password and brought up his messenger window and noticed he had a few new emails waiting for him.

After his visit in the hospital last week, Morris Sinclair hadn’t wasted much time in hooking him up with a guy whom he said had a good reputation of digging up information that wasn’t easy to come by. Brian wasn’t sure how true that was, because the man hadn’t been able to come up with Craig or Henry’s names on his own, but that was because the case was open right now—he’d been told. It wasn’t easy to dig up stuff when the investigation was still going on and the police were naturally vigilant about the threat of information leaks. But he had his sources, he’d said, because he’d found the name of Andrew J. Spencer—the man who’d worked as the clown at the theme park. The man who was supposedly a victim of an identity theft, and who’d apparently been dead for five years. He’d also come up with Melina Sotheby’s name and the fact that she was missing since that night. So Brian figured he was good for at least some information, even if it was information that was rendered moot because of the people associated with it both being dead.

He clicked on the email tab and watched the new window open, indicating a new message from him. He looked at the bedroom door and through the open slits, noticed that Justin had come out of the bathroom and was now drying himself with a towel as he rifled through the closet for something to wear. His damp hair fell over his neck and the smooth curve of his back squeezed something in Brian’s chest. Shit, his Sunshine always had that affect on him. He looked down at the screen and ignoring the inner voice telling him now wasn’t the time to talk to this guy, clicked on the message. It opened and there were just two lines to it:

Two discoveries made. Call me.

Brian watched the bedroom door and saw Justin putting things away into the closet. He looked at the kids and saw them arguing over channels and picked up his cell phone. He got up from the chair and turned towards the window as he dialed the number. He looked outside on the street as he heard the bell rang twice before it was answered.

"I don’t have a lot of time," he said quietly. "Tell me the two things."

"Got it," the man replied. "You asked me to focus my attention on the transcripts of the cross-questioning." Brian felt himself tense. He’d asked about the transcripts because he wanted to know what Justin had told the police about the attack—since he wasn’t telling him anything. But he hadn’t expected a break so fast. "Well, the transcripts for open cases are obviously kept under tight-wraps, so I couldn’t get a hold of the original documents. And besides your boy didn’t tell much about what had happened down there---" Brian felt his shoulders slump. "---and since that was what you’d specifically asked me to look for, I was ready to give up." There was a pause. "However, it seems, the lady did talk."

Brian felt his brows wrinkle. "What?" He turned to look at the bedroom and saw the door was open and Justin was in the kitchen now—taking something out of the fridge.

"Your friend, Melanie Marcus," the man was saying. "Not a lot details here but it appears from the summary I found that the focus of her interrogation was towards what she reported the suspect saying about her son."

Brian felt a cold chill break out on his skin at the words and realized he needed to sit down—his knees had all of a sudden gone weak. "Her son?" The words felt strangled in his throat as he noticed the hand he was holding the phone with begin to tremble. He saw JR look up from the TV to watch him and forced his face to remain expressionless, his hand tightening around the phone. Her son.

"Yes," the man continued, "apparently that creep threatened the kid when she was trapped in the tunnels with him and she told the police she feared for her family’s safety."

Gus was whispering something in JR’s ears and Brian watched as the little girl let out a shrieking laughter but couldn’t for the life of him fathom what could it be that she found so funny. There was a strange hissing noise in his ears and he realized it was his own blood coursing through his veins, flowing into his brain, loud and raucous to his senses. Expressionless, he told himself—that’s how he had to remain.

"I see." He heard himself say. "What was the other thing?

"Well, there’s not much available to wade through," the man said. "But I came across a one-pager detailing all the evidence they’ve collected so far, and there was a lot of crap that didn’t seem important---" He saw Justin call out to the kids and watched as they jumped up from the couch and ran over to him. "---but there was a list of all the prints they’d collected in the tunnels, and of course, everyone from your group was listed there, including you."

"That’s because we were all there, our prints had to be present," he said, his voice sounding like a stranger’s to his ears.

"Yes, but your prints, Mr. Kinney, were found at a place other than the tunnel too," Brian heard the man say, as the loft buzzer sounded and he watched Justin walk over to the intercom to speak to someone. "I almost missed that too, because I wasn’t supposed to be looking for your prints, now, was I?" Pizza and Chinese takeout. Yes, that’s what it was. "But there was a strange entry next to your name, and when I looked it up, I found out it was because yours was the only print that was found on that object."

"What object?" Brian asked.

"The axe that was found at the back of your club, Babylon."

Brian opened his mouth to respond but found his throat had closed. He watched Justin open the loft door to take the delivery and tried to swallow around the golf ball that suddenly seemed to be stuck inside his throat. The noise in his ears had kicked up a few thousand decibels because he could watch Gus running around to the kitchen counter to grab Justin’s wallet, could see JR springing after him, her mouth opened in a parody of a playful shriek, but he couldn’t hear a word they were saying for the deafening roar in his ears. He watched Justin pull the wallet out of Gus’s hand, saw his eyes twinkling as he laughed at their antics and paid the deliveryman. But Brian’s throat was dry and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, and for a second he thought he wouldn’t be able to even breathe. He watched Justin close the door and turn around to look at him and Brian prayed nothing showed on his face. Expressionless, he thought. That’s what he had to be. Blank. Can’t let him see anything. Got to be blank.

"Shit," he could hear the man say from the bottom of the well at the other side of the phone line. "They hadn’t told you, had they?"

Justin was pulling plates out of the rack and stacking them on the counter, his hair glinting golden in the fluorescent light. "No---" Brian’s lips moved. "---they hadn’t."

"Well, the police obviously knows it’s a plant---" the man continued as if nothing had happened, "---but the motherfucker is clearly having a grand time at everyone’s expense, isn’t he?" And nothing had happened. Nothing, really. It was just an axe. It was nothing. "But don’t worry, there is---"

Brian got up from the chair and staggered in a breath. Just an axe. "I have to go now, I’ll talk to you later." He was sliding the phone shut before he’d finished speaking, before the other man could get a chance to reply, and was striding towards the bedroom. From the corner of his eye, he saw Justin move from around the counter and call out as he climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

"Brian?" his voice sounded far away, as if he was somewhere that wasn’t here—like at the bottom of that well. "Brian, the food’s here. Brian---"

"Yeah," Brian said, "I’ll be right back." Just his fingerprints. It was nothing. Nothing.

He stepped inside the bathroom and slid the door shut behind him.

69.

It was the last address on the list the police had gathered for Lisa Payne’s real-estate portfolio in Pennsylvania.

Most everything else they’d found were locations around the Pittsburgh Metro area and their surrounding suburbs. A 3-bed condo in Bethel Park. A twenty-percent stake in a 6-story apartment-house building in Greensburg. A fifty:fifty stake in a 4-story office complex in downtown Sewickly. All this she’d apparently invested in on the advise of Taylor Electronics investment director, Stephen Cobbs. But since these transactions weren’t officially executed through Craig’s company, the police had had to do a lot of teeth-pulling to come up with the exact dates and documentations from Mr. Cobbs.

The police sent plain-clothed men to all three addresses, and found all of them rented out to law-abiding, tax-paying individuals and/or corporations, and the people living or working at these locations had either never met Ms Payne or hadn’t heard from her in approximately—and the police was beginning to notice the theme, not so surprisingly—the last five years. Their only interaction with her, they found, was through the yearly rent paid out according to the lease papers drawn sometime during 2004—which they paid through the real estate firm that handled Lisa’s account.

And then they’d found this house, located approximately 65 miles southeast of Pittsburgh Metro—the first one on the list that was unoccupied. Also the first one that wasn’t advised by Stephen Cobbs, and which had a joint-ownership signed with Lisa’s old grandaunt, Ida Frances Thompson.

Perhaps, they should’ve found this one before they looked elsewhere, since Ida’s link with the Crafton theme park made any other property owned by her a hot prospect in this investigation. But the legal firm that had executed this transaction five years ago had gone bankrupt in 2008 and it took them five days to link this number with the data they had on Lisa’s file.

The police realized they should’ve anticipated these technical complications after the previous search warrant experience—especially considering no one had any reason to think Ms Payne was in any sort of danger. Except for the detective in charge, of course. So it cost them another twelve hours to wrangle out a search warrant from a judge—on the premise that they had reason to believe Ms Payne might’ve come to some sort of bodily harm because of her lifestyle in Scranton (she was a lesbian) and the suspect’s extreme discriminatory views against that lifestyle (he was a homophobe).

It was a large imposing structure, located at the depression of a sloping hill, built presumably sometime around the turn of the last century. It was lonely country, with the closest surrounding dwelling almost half a kilometer away eastward. The place might’ve been impressive at one time but the previous owners had obviously not bothered with maintaining the exterior and the surrounding lands. Not that the current owners had done much better. Large overgrown shrubs and thorny bushes obscured the path leading to the entrance, and as they made their way through the moss-covered trail towards the front door, they noticed---

70.

---that the garage door was locked and the shutters on the windows drawn. An artful use of brick and stone was employed on the rustic exterior of the house and beautifully manicured leafy shrubs surrounded the main entrance. A neatly laid-out pebbled walkway wound around the main building, running between the garage and the dog grooming station, leading to the picket-fenced gate at the side that separated the main yard from the back of the house, where another pathway—this one laid with resin—led towards the elaborate courtyard behind which the pool lay glistening under the winter sun.

Inside, the floor plan featured a massive vaulted great room as the nucleus of the house, affixed with a large stone fireplace at one end and a built-in media center at the other. Double French doors separated the great room from the formal dining room that connected through another door to the kitchen, which had its own walk-in pantry and snack-bar counter, and which opened to a sky lit outdoor section—with a cook top and a corner fireplace as its appointments. On the other side of the house lay the game room, through which both the entrances to the wine cellar and the indoor swimming pool were accessed, and a small guest room, that had been converted into a fully-equipped home office.

The master suite was on the second level, featuring a tray ceiling in the bedroom, twin walk-in closets lining a short hall that led to the luxury bath, where you found a spa tub, a large shower and a sky lit double vanity area. A large window in the master suite overlooked the tennis courts and the stables behind the house. Three family bedrooms, one of which had been transformed into a recreation room that probably made a perfect children’s gathering place, were on the other side of the floor, as well as a double terrace access which was connected to the first level with a separate circular stairway and overlooked the impressive six-acres around the house.

But it was the doors that fascinated him. Doors that held, and doors that tumbled. Doors that had never been able to stand in his way before. All the entrances to the house at every point of entry and exit were secured by the latest electronic-security lock systems. The front entrance. The kitchen. The basement. The terrace. The wine cellar. The swimming pool. Everything was locked good and proper, and with his little electronic gadgets and electromagnetic devices, they could be enhanced to dance to his own melodic tunes.

It was interesting how this old home that had been originally built over a hundred years ago, had been renovated and reconstructed and magically transformed into this modern and luxurious country mansion, with spectacular features designed into each and every corner—every little amenity contrived and configured to impress and astonish. The love and faith and adoration with which all this work had been done was visible in every wall, and window and walkway.

Faith was the last resort in every man’s existence. Faith was the cornerstone of every thought and idea you came across, it was the spirit on which every action and decision was based on. When faith was shattered, you had nothing left. Nothing. And sometimes faith shattered in such an abominable, revolting, repulsive manner that you felt as if your heart would stop beating, that you wouldn’t be able to draw another breath for the tears stinging in your eyes and the red hot burning anger scalding your veins and your arteries. That’s how painful the shattering of one’s faith could be.

Faith was the last thing he’d come looking for in Kinney’s House of Sin. Faith wasn’t something scumbags like Kinney understood. Kinney was filth, he was like a detestable vermin, his lifestyle was disgusting and immoral and everyone he associated with was rotten, ugly and condemnable. That’s why he’d spent so many years and so much of his energy on hating Kinney. It was so obviously easy –was in fact the moral obligation of every righteous man— to condemn this abominable creature and everything he stood for. Kinney had caused so much damage to so many people’s lives by leading his decadent and sinful lifestyle. He’d ruined three generations of people who’d loved and cherished him: His poor parents who must’ve been devastated to realize their only son had turned into a fucking fairy. Craig’s innocent son, Justin, whom he’d turned gay when he was still a teenager, who --mind you-- was no longer that innocent child, for he’d turned into a bigger queer than the man who’d ruined his life. And that bastard son he’d spawned with those lesbian bitches.

But then Kinney wasn’t the only one who’d been a colossal disappointment.

He’d been gutted by the people he’d trusted more than his own fucking life. All he’d ever done was for his faith, and for the goodness of the trusting, law-abiding citizens of his beautiful town that he’d vowed to honor and respect for all eternity. All he’d ever wanted was for the scum and filth and foul-smelling refuse of this earth to be diminished and destroyed so that their lives could once again by clean and neat and orderly. That was why he’d dealt with those two cunts who’d betrayed him the way he had—they’d had it coming. They were bitches in heat but their blood was bad, so they needed to be put out. And it had all come together for him just at the right time. He’d planned painstakingly for years to come to this moment because he’d thought he’d finally found a role model. A man whom he’d thought was kind and gentle and good, a loving father and husband who’d been wronged by the sinful seed that had somehow germinated out of the filth of an evil spawn, who’d been wronged by his slutty wife and the slutty son-of-a-bitch.

He’d thought Craig Taylor was that man. He’d trusted Craig with his life and his honor. But Craig had betrayed him too. He’d lead them to his house and his life and now everything laid bare in the scorching sun, sullied by the filthy footsteps trampling all over his hallowed hideaways.

He was not going to let this go quietly. These people had to learn that they couldn’t destroy a person in such a horrendous fashion and walk away from it unscathed.

It wasn’t over.

He had the locks covered. He had the doors dealt with.

And when Kinney and his henchmen came to visit their not-so-humble abode, Henry would be waiting.

************

The Finale!