CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"Well, son, I've gotta tell you, that's one helluva story."

"It's not a story," Justin replied simply. "It's the truth."

Horvath looked keenly at the young man sitting next to him on the sofa. "Why didn't you come forward when Jason Kemp was murdered?"

Justin sighed in frustration. "Because I believed Reichart ... the man everybody called the Psycho ... was a police officer. I believed he was Jason's murderer. And I believed that your Chief of Police was part of it, too. For all I knew, there could have been others. I didn't know who I could trust!" Brian noticed that the boy's hands were clenched tightly on his thighs, and placed a reassuring hand on his back. Justin glanced at him gratefully before taking a deep breath and continuing. "Besides, I didn't have any evidence. Would you have believed me if I'd just walked into your office and told you all this?"

Horvath shook his head. "Probably not," he admitted. "Although, Reichart ... okay, he liked to put on the tough guy act, and he always made out he was one of the boys; but thinking about it he never had a girlfriend, even when he was younger. The female officers couldn't stand him; he was always putting them down, and making wisecracks about fannies in uniform. I guess I can see him going for other guys. And, given his reputation, it wouldn't surprise me that he got off on hurting them when he did. And I can see how he might have taken things a little too far, and killed the kid."

"He killed Jason because he was trying to blackmail Stockwell!" Justin objected. "And he would have killed me too, because he thought I was part of it!"

"Which was why you decided to disappear and live on the streets?"

"Yes! When Spike went back to the Towers for my things, all my ID ... my, my passport even ... everything was gone. Stockwell knew everything about me ... I didn't even dare access my bank account, in case he traced me."

Horvath continued to watch him closely. "And you have no idea what happened to this photograph you claim to have seen?"

"No," Justin replied on a long exhale. "I only saw it the once. I suppose Reichart found it in our room, and I guess he either gave it to Stockwell or destroyed it."

"Are you sure you couldn't have been mistaken?" Horvath pressed. "Perhaps it was just someone who looked like him."

Justin shook his head adamantly. "Detective, I've known Jim Stockwell since I was a kid. It was him, alright. Besides, he'd agreed to pay Jason to keep quiet! Why would he do that, if he wasn't involved?"

"You only have Jason's word for that, don't you? Perhaps he never even spoke to Chief Stockwell; perhaps it was all just Reichart. Or perhaps it was some blackmail scheme cooked up by Reichart and Kemp, and the kid got too greedy ..."

"Bullshit!" Brian retorted. "Stockwell was involved, I know he was. I bet he and Reichart started pulling these young kids after Reichart retired. Don't forget that shield Reichart was carrying ... that dead cop's ... who could have supplied it more easily than Stockwell? Reichart cruises regularly ... he'd know the new kids, the ones nobody would miss. So he'd just arrest one, and then take him home for a night's fun with Stockwell. And next morning Reichart would drive the kid into the next state and dump him. What's the kid going to do? Complain against a cop? Or just keep going, and think himself lucky that he had a pocket full of money to tide him over? Except Jason Kemp was stupid enough to come back, and see if he could get some more."

"Reichart worked with a lot of guys during the time he was on the Force," Horvath objected. "Maybe one of them supplied him with the shield."

"You were the one who implied that Stockwell had been covering for Reichart right from the beginning, and that he helped Reichart escape investigation. Why are you baulking over his being involved in this?"

"It's ..." Horvath drew a hand over his face. "Look ... I can understand a guy feeling loyalty towards his partner ... turning a blind eye, even, although I don't condone it. But when you serve alongside someone, watch his back while he's watching yours, depending on each other ... well, that breeds the kind of friendship that's hard to break. What you're suggesting is a whole different ball game, and I've always had Jim Stockwell down as a good, honest cop. Plus, I find it very hard to believe that he could be homosexual. I've never heard anybody suggest that he's anything other than a real man."

Brian barked a laugh. "And what are we? Flaming queens?"

"No." Horvath had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to insult you. I know you guys don't all walk round with limp wrists - I'd never have pegged you as gay if Debbie hadn't told me. You know what I mean, Kinney; some guys don't try to hide it, like that flashy swizzle stick Honeycutt. And others ... well, it wasn't such a surprise to find Michael was gay, or even Justin here. But Jim Stockwell ... he's been happily married for years. He's got those two little boys and he worships the ground they walk on, for Chrissakes!"

"Doesn't mean anything," Brian said grimly, "except that he's adept at living in the closet. So are a lot of guys. I had a potential client this year, straight as they come; married, a couple of kids ... even I didn't get a ping off him. Turns out he uses his business trips to get his itch scratched, and his wife doesn't suspect a thing. Maybe Stockwell's wife is the same ... or maybe she just learned to turn a blind eye, so long as he was discreet."

"Maybe's aren't proof, Kinney. And that's all you've got at the moment."

"We have more than that. Don't forget what Stockwell said to me about Justin," Brian replied. "He lied about Justin being a thief and a drug addict, and about his father trying to find him. That's pretty damning in itself, isn't it?"

"He's an old family friend," Horvath grunted. "Justin himself admits that. It would be natural for him to try and trace the kid, if he suddenly had news of him."

"Then why lie about him?" Brian demanded. "Why try to blacken his name if he's so concerned?"

"Perhaps that's what Justin's father told him, have you considered that? Perhaps it seemed less of a shame to Taylor to say that the boy was a criminal rather than admit he got expelled for being gay."

Actually it hadn't. Brian blinked. "Then why didn't he try to find him through legitimate channels? And why did he imply that Justin was still young enough to be under his father's control?"

"Maybe you misunderstood him. And if Stockwell did believe that Justin had been acting illegally, then I guess it would make sense for him to try and find him privately rather than make it official."

Brian looked at Justin. Justin grimaced. "I knew he wouldn't believe me. This is a total waste of time."

Horvath shook his head. "You're wrong, son; I don't disbelieve you. I have a lot of experience when it comes to people lying to me, and you don't fit the mould." He gave Justin a small smile. "I have no doubt you're telling the truth as you see it - and who knows, maybe you're right. I'm not naive enough to think that every man in a position of authority doesn't abuse it ... I was a young officer during Nixon's presidency, so I know anything's possible. All I'm trying to say is that there may be a different interpretation of the facts. Well." He sighed, rubbed his hands on his knees and climbed heavily to his feet. "However Reichart got hold of that shield, he was using it illegally in an attempt to find you, and that alone needs investigating." He turned to Justin. "I promised Kinney I'd hear you out and keep an open mind, and I will; although I can't take these accusations about Chief Stockwell any further without some evidence to support your testimony, I'll certainly keep it in mind when I interview Reichart. And if the DNA does match, and backs up your story, then I'll talk to you again."

Justin, well-mannered little WASP that he was, rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Thanks for taking the time to listen, Detective," he said politely. "I appreciate it, even if I didn't manage to completely convince you."

Horvath raised his eyebrows slightly as he returned the handshake, and Brian pressed his lips together hard to mask his smile. Horvath had probably expected to interview a normal rude, bratty teenager and Justin had come across as anything but. He'd told his story clearly and concisely, and had kept his cool even when Horvath had tried to trip him up, and Brian was pretty sure that the detective was impressed. Brian was pretty impressed, too.

He saw Horvath out, locked the Loft door and then returned to join Justin on the sofa. The blond was sitting absently chewing at a thumbnail; a deep crease had appeared in the smooth skin between his brows and his shoulders were bunched with tension. Brian watched him for a moment, then sat back and patted his thighs invitingly. "Come on, Sunshine. Lie down and put your feet here."

Justin turned to him. "Huh?"

"Your feet. Here."

Justin looked confused, but did as he was told; swivelling his legs round so that he was lying on his back, his feet resting on Brian's lap. Brian pulled off the baggy woollen socks the kid was wearing and took hold of Justin's left ankle.

Justin instantly began to wriggle, trying to squirm his foot out of Brian's grip. "Don't!" he gasped. "I hate my feet being touched! I'm really ticklish!"

"Are you, now?" Brian grinned to himself, mentally filing this new titbit of information away in his rapidly burgeoning Sunshine Operating Manual for later consideration. "Well, don't worry. This is all about relaxation, not torture." He settled the heel of Justin's foot comfortably on his thigh, braced his fingers around it and drew his thumbs slowly upwards along the sole from the heel to the ball, pressing firmly into the instep as he did so.

Justin blinked nervously up at him, taut with apprehension; then, as Brian repeated the movement, keeping up a steady pressure, he began to relax. He folded his hands behind his head and gave a small sigh. "Mm. That's nice."

"It's supposed to be." Brian kept up a slow, rhythmic massage until Justin's foot was warm and pliant under his fingers; then he moved on to the ball, this time using a circular motion. He pressed harder, digging in his thumbs, kneading the muscles and stretching the tendons beneath, and Justin closed his eyes blissfully. He started making quiet little noises of pleasure and appreciation.

"According to reflexology, the foot mirrors the body exactly," Brian explained. "In which case, this area corresponds to your neck and shoulders." He held Justin's foot steady with his left hand and began to massage the base of his big toe between his right thumb and forefinger, gently squeezing and rubbing, and Justin moaned. "Oh God, Brian, that's so good."

"Just relax." Brian lifted Justin's foot, pushing up the leg of Justin's sweat pants with his left hand and caressing his calf, feeling the soft hairs tickling his palm. He leaned forward and placed a warm, open-mouthed kiss on the sensitive skin just below Justin's ankle, making him shiver. He pressed another one deep into Justin's instep, and then drew his tongue slowly along the same path his thumbs had travelled. He bit gently along the ball of Justin's foot before taking his little toe between his lips and sucking it.

Justin gasped and shuddered; his hips bucked upwards, his erection straining against the crotch of his sweats.

Some dim corner of Brian's mind protested at the very idea of his sitting here, sucking on another guy's toes like they were a couple of dykes; but whereas once that voice would have been an outraged bellow drowning every rational thought until he was goaded into reaction just to shut it up, now it could only achieve a peevish grumbling in the background, and Brian easily ignored it. He drew back and studied the wide-eyed, flushed young face below him, framed by a fan of blond hair. "You're beautiful, you know that?" he said truthfully; and at this new revelation of lesbionic sentimentality his internal arbiter gave a final strangled squawk of despair and was stunned into silence.

Justin said nothing, but he smiled and opened his arms invitingly. Soon after, the only sounds in Brian's head were those of mutual desire and fulfilment.

Justin was already asleep, curved in his usual default position with his head on Brian's left shoulder and his left leg hooked over Brian's thigh. Carefully Brian eased his arm out from under Justin's head so that he could reach over to his nightstand and retrieve his cigarettes; he pulled one out of the packet, lit it and then laid back, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs as he gazed up at the shadowy rafters.

It was strange how comfortable he felt with Justin sharing his bed. Normally Brian hated sleeping next to someone, which was mainly the reason why he kicked his tricks out as soon as he was finished with them. He never wanted to see them in the morning light, when the lust was spent and he was usually left wondering what the fuck he had seen in them in the first place. What kind of a conversation could you have with a person when all you wanted was to see them gone? The only reason he'd been able to tolerate Michael staying overnight was precisely because they'd never fucked, so Brian had never faced the potentially devastating revelation that a physical union had proved to be far less successful than their platonic one.

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke. When he'd told Justin that Ben was good for Michael, he'd meant it; because Ben was exactly the kind, patient, supportive partner Michael needed. Michael had plenty of strengths, more than he knew; but he still had a psychological need for someone to lean on, someone to depend on, which was why he'd fallen for Doctor Dave's blandishments in the first place. Lindsay was the same; much as she liked to boast about her own self-reliance, she still needed practical, clever Melanie both to restrain her more unrealistic fantasies and keep her focussed in the real world, and to maintain the standard of living which she felt she had the right to expect. And therein lay the problem, as far as Brian could see. In any relationship he'd ever come across there was always one dominant partner and one subordinate; one top, one bottom. Even where both partners were hopelessly weak, like his parents, the rule still held; there had never been any doubt that Jack, for all his failings and stupidity, had been undisputed master of the Kinney household. Ted and Emmett – well, the jury was still out on who called the shots in that set-up. Brian suspected they were both too emotionally unstable for the relationship not to spontaneously combust sooner or later.

Brian could never respect someone weak enough to depend on him. He knew that it would take a very short time for him to resent the weight of their needing and their expectations, not to mention their inevitable disappointment when he failed to deliver; and then, just like Jack, he'd hate them for it, and torture them until they crawled away maimed and broken. The response was pre-programmed in his genes and Brian believed it was as immutable as his height or the colour of his hair.

But Justin ... he wasn't weak. He was young, yeah; but he had balls like a bull. He hadn't begged Brian to fuck him; he'd simply put himself on offer and left it up to Brian whether he took the bait or not. He'd asked nothing, expected nothing; in fact, he'd been quite prepared to walk away when he felt Brian was pushing too hard. He had the courage to make a decision and live with its consequences, and when he was dealt a bad hand he just got on with it; unlike the rest of Brian's acquaintances who spent much of their time bemoaning their lot, Brian hadn't heard the boy utter one word of self-pity or complaint about the mess he'd unwittingly become embroiled in. Nope; the kid certainly ticked all the boxes. Not only was he a phenomenally good fuck, he was funny and smart, and Brian's intellectual equal in a way Mikey could never hope to be. Brian found himself actually looking forward to waking up with the kid, to seeing those sleepy, welcoming eyes open as Brian teased him to consciousness; he wanted to start his day like that, and end it by coming home to find Justin puttering around his kitchen, or curled up on his sofa sketching. Brian wanted to fuck him again; not just tonight, but tomorrow night and the night after that, and the night after that, too ...

The voice in his head piped up again, muttering darkly about breeder domesticity and conformity and all the shit that came with it. The thing was, Brian didn't disagree; he could stand anything but boredom, and when he thought of his friends he could swear hand-on-heart there wasn't one aspect of their cosy lives or predictable relationships he envied or would even be able to tolerate. The idea of seeing the same face and fucking the same body day after day had always been justifiably incomprehensible to Brian, for the simple reason he'd never met anyone who had interested him enough to imagine trying. He had long ago come to believe that such a person simply didn't exist.

Now, he wasn't so sure. The idea of being with Justin – even living with Justin – felt anything but boring. Brian suspected it would be more like riding a runaway horse, hanging on for grim death and praying that if you did get thrown off at least you wouldn't get trampled to death by the flying hooves. Brian found himself smiling at the image, and thinking that there were probably worse ways to go.

Was he really considering some kind of on-going ... thing with the boy? That was so ... lame. There was the age difference to start with: Justin was so young, so untried. Okay, he was more mature than most of Brian's friends because in many ways he'd been forced to grow up before his time, but in doing so he'd missed a lot. Things like going to college, hanging out with kids his own age, clubbing and partying and getting stoned. He'd missed the fun. Whereas Brian had been there, done that, got the tee shirt – fuck, he was still wearing it. He couldn't expect someone of Justin's tender years to settle for the first guy to fuck him, no matter how hot the sex was. The world was full of men, most of them far more emotionally available than Brian, and Justin deserved the chance to window shop. He also deserved the chance to make something of himself, and Brian intended to see that he got it; a young man with his talent, his intelligence, his charisma, could not go to waste serving in a diner. No, Justin had to finish his education; hadn't the kid said he'd applied to PIFA? Maybe he'd been accepted. Brian didn't know what the fees were, but surely they could work something out; maybe Justin would qualify for a grant, or if not Brian might be able to talk him into accepting a loan. There were more ways than one to skin a cat – even a stubborn, ballsy blond one with sharp claws.

And then? Justin would go on his way, presumably. On to the bright, shining future that Brian didn't doubt awaited him, and Pittsburgh would be left far behind. And that would ... fucking hurt, actually.

The trouble was, Brian liked the way he felt when the kid was around. He felt ... happy? Was it happy? He frowned. Happy was how he felt when he was dancing at Babylon, nicely buzzed and revelling in his kingdom. Or how he felt when he landed a new account, or splashed on a new pair of Gucci loafers. This emotion was less transient, more lasting. More satisfying? Perhaps. Was content the word he was searching for? Surely not. Content was a word Brian had always associated with old people, or with the poor hopeless bastards of the world who had to settle for what they'd got because they lacked either the ability or the ambition to aim any higher. Just another breeder concept; another consoling sop to refute the mediocrity of their existence, along with words like love and monogamy and marriage. But it seemed to Brian now that content could also mean that you had achieved what you had sought for, and that you really didn't want any more; that you had finally touched the distant bright star you had been striving for all your life, and found that it was enough.

He sighed, and stubbed out his cigarette.

He was so fucked.

TBC