By Wendy: Shywalker

Part One

< > Denotes thoughts

Maggie walked down the sidewalk. As she prepared for another night's work, she looked tired; she felt tired. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her wallet, and by the illumination of the street light she looked again at the photo that she carried to remind her why she did what she did every night. Her daughter was all that was decent to come from her; she would do anything to make sure she stayed that way. That's why she paid for the expensive schools, and allowed her sister to bring up Dannielle as her own child.

Maggie touched the photo gently with her fingers, running them down the child's hair as though she were really brushing the child's blonde curls.

The beeping of a car horn woke her from her thoughts. Tucking the wallet back into her purse, she looked up and saw a car had pulled to the kerb in front of her. The front passenger window came down. Leaning in, Maggie was about to state her price when the car suddenly pulled away. "What the hell do you think you're playing at, arsehole," she called after the speeding car.

Maggie looked up and down the street. It was deserted. It was not a good place to make money tonight. <I'm so sick of this shit. Damn it. I'm going home.> She was about to turn around and walk away, when an arm suddenly encircled her neck from behind.

The arm was powerful. She kicked her legs, trying to get a grip on the pavement. As he began dragging her into the darkness of the alley, she tried to scream, but the arm choked off any sound. <I'm going to die! God, don't let me die!>

"Please, I have no money," she whispered as the grip lessened for a second, then grabbed at her again, this time tighter. Her lungs began to burn as the air became inadequate to breathe. <God, help me!> Maggie tried to reach up, tried to grab onto something, anything, to make him let go, but his grip was relentless. Blackness began to pass over her like a blanket, and the arms that had fought so hard for life fell limply to her side. The attacker released his hold and Maggie fell, sliding down his body, landing face up in the filth that now became her deathbed.

Peter bolted upright in his bed, sweat rolling down his face and body. <Damn it! What was that shit? Not again! This can't be happening again!> The last images like these he had received had caused him a great deal of anguish, as well, with everybody at the precinct thinking he was nuts. The captain had even sent him to a shrink. They had all thought he was short a few nuts and bolts, until he and Pop actually caught the killer. He was then given the benefit of the doubt, which didn't help his credibility all that much.

Peter wiped the perspiration out of his eyes with the sheet, then rising from the bed he walked to the bathroom. He ran the tap, throwing water over his face, he tried to clear his thoughts; looking into the mirror, he jumped back as a face stared smiling grotesquely back at him. "What the hell?" Startled, he fell backward. Trying to catch himself, his arm flung out and smashed through the glass door of the shower.

Peter shook his head as he looked at the blood that was oozing from the cut in the palm of his hand. <Clumsy idiot! You go through all that Shaolin training and you are as graceful as a three-legged dancer.> Pulling a towel from the rack, he wrapped it around his hand. As he picked himself up, he took a quick, sideways glance at the mirror and saw a very embarrassed detective looking back at him.

Part Two

The motel room was in the seedier part of town. Its new occupant stood in front of the film-covered mirror, staring at the face that stared back at him. The face glared at him, its eyes boring into his soul. <He knows. He knows all my secrets.>

"Of course I know," the face sneered. "You can't keep anything from me. You think you can get away from me. A new city -- you could get lost and I would never find you. Wrong! You very little, little man --you can never get away from me. I will leave you alone when you have done what I have asked of you."

The frightened man pleaded to the face. "I have done everything you asked. You promised! You promised after the last one you would leave me alone."

The face snarled back at quivering man. "Well, you stupid little man, I will leave when I am ready, not before. How thick are you? I have to explain everything twice, don't I?" the face shouted.

The man wiped his shaking hand over his sweating upper lip. "B-b-b-but...y-you," he stuttered nervously.

"Oh! So now you're blaming me for your failures," the face menaced.

"No, of course not," he apologised. "But there have been so many, all that...I would never blame you." He stopped talking in case he got himself in more trouble.

The face smiled. "Right! Now, are you finished whining, Bubba? Good! I have a good feeling about this city. There is someone special here; I feel it." The face looked at the sweating man with disgust. "Now, clean yourself up; we have work to do. I have to tell you to do everything. Mamma was right, Bubba: you're weak -- weak and stupid. A stupid, weak little man."

Peter had gotten the call on his way to see his father: a body had been found over on the west side of town. He made his way through the gathering of gawkers that crowded around the scene.

Peter shook his head as he struggled to make it through. <What sort of thrill do these people get, looking at someone else's misery? At the violence that ends someone's life?> He would never understand their ghoulish enjoyment. "Excuse me," Peter apologised as he bumped into a man. As their eyes met for a moment, Peter involuntarily shivered; shaking it off, he concentrated on the job at hand.

Peter walked down the alley, noticing the rubbish that littered the ground. <What a place to breathe your last breath on this earth.> As he neared the body, the first thing he saw was the laddered stocking on her leg, which was bent in a unnatural angle, her shoe lying discarded in her futile fight for life. "What have we got, Partner?" he asked Jody, who was going through the victim's handbag.

Jody looked up from her inspection and she nodded toward the body, then noticed Peter's bandaged hand. "What happened to you?"

"Accident," Peter said as he shrugged off the question. Peter bent down, taking a closer look at the face of the dead woman. "Maggie Saunders! Who would do this to her? She was harmless." Looking up, he saw Nicky. "What have we got, Nick?" Peter asked.

"Well, you know I need to do a proper examination, Pete, but at the moment, it looks like strangulation," he stuttered in his usual flustered way.

Jody walked over to them. "I'd say she picked the wrong man to pick up this time," she added to the conversation.

Peter stood, up taking another look at the body, and said sadly, "Well, she is still someone's daughter. It doesn't matter what she did for a living; she didn't deserve this."

Bubba slammed the door behind himself and breathlessly leaned back against it, trying to calm himself.

"Bubba! Get your weak little arse over here," the voice called to him.

Bubba meekly shuffled into the room, walking over to the mirror.

"You did it again, didn't you," the face accused. "You got the wrong one again."

Bubba rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "You, you said...she was the one. You said," he whispered.

"That's right, blame me again...Always someone else's fault when you get it wrong. Useless! Mamma was right."

A tear fell as he begged for another chance. "Please, Donnie, I'll get it right. Please, I'll do better."

Part Three

Back in the Precinct, Peter was about to start the paperwork when the captain called him into the office. "Well, what have got?" she asked as she sat down at her desk.

"A prostitute, Maggie Saunders, was found -- seemingly strangled -- over on the west side," Peter explained.

Karen leaned back in her seat, concerned at any murder in the city. "Well, what do you think?"

Peter leaned on the filing cabinet. "Jody thinks maybe a trick gone bad." His voice wasn't convincing that he believed the same theory.

"Okay, detective, spit it out." the captain knew Peter, and knew there was something on his mind.

Peter wasn't sure what he was thinking. Feelings or gut instincts were all very well and good, but he needed clues, evidence, something to put down in front of his captain. "I don't know, I guess the same as Jody's. There is nothing to say it was anything else. Anyway, it's still a bit early yet; I'll wait and see what Nicky has to say," he said as he left the office.

As he sat back at his desk, Peter still could not lose the feeling that he was missing something. "Jody, have you got Maggie's effects over there?" he called over to his partner.

Jody had just finished logging them, and brought them over to Peter. "What are you looking for?" she asked, curious, as she had found nothing that had helped.

Peter shrugged. "Nothing, I suppose. Justwanted to look for myself."

"Whatever. Just make sure I get everything back. I know what you're like, Peter Caine. Remember, I signed these in," she cautioned him.

It was sad, going through somebody's personal belongings, and Maggie's were no different -- maybe even sadder, for the life she led. Peter poured the contents of the manila envelope onto his desk. It wasn't much. The necessities of her life lay before him. He was surprised to see a small bag of fine white powder. Shaking his head, he also found a bottle of pills of some undisclosed substance, rattling with the sound of its near empty contents. Then there was the line of a dozen packets of condoms, indicators that she'd expected a busy night that never eventuated.

Picking up Maggie's wallet, Peter opened it, and the face of a pretty little girl of about four smiled at him. Peter wondered who the child was. A sister? A niece? Maybe a daughter. That was something he would have to check out. Also, there was two hundred dollars in cash; they had been right the first time: it definitely wasn't robbery. <Maybe Jody was right, and it was just someone who lost his temper.> But he couldn't shake a feeling that there was something he was missing.

Packing up the sorry contents, he decided to call it a night and wait to see what Nicky had to say tomorrow. Maybe a night sleeping on it might dislodge the unease he was feeling.

Part Four

The man had drunk one scotch too many, and as he made his way home through the park, he wasn't aware of the shadow that followed silently behind him.

"Shit!" The drunk cursed as he tripped over his own feet, landing face down on the grass. He decided that while he he was down, he might as well stay awhile and wait for the world to stop spinning.

"Oh, man, it's always the last one that does it," he laughed. Realising he was already two hours late, he began to prise himself from the ground. He had been late home twice this week; she had warned him what she was going to do to him if he did it again. "Oh, God, she is going to kill me," he said out loud.

"I don't think so," a voice whispered.

Out of the shadows, a shape grabbed hold of him, and pulled him back into the shadows from which it had come.

Peter eyes flew open again. "Damn it," he called into the darkness as he sprang up in the bed. This wasn't funny any more -- if it ever had been.

The visions that had exploded into his dreams had been brutal in their intensity. The knife had struck with a ferocious force, the passion behind the attack leaving the victim with no time to make a sound.

The blood -- there had been so much; it had seemed so real. Even now, Peter could swear he could smell the stench of it. The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. Rushing out of bed, he made it to the bathroom before he lost last night's dinner.

Running the tap, he again threw water on his face. Looking in the mirror, he was not surprised to see the face staring back at him again. This time Peter didn't look away. He stared back at the face, looking into the cold, dead eyes that seemed to reach into his soul.

Peter felt his mind being drawn toward the eyes. He felt himself drifting, floating towards... His trance state was broken by the sound of the phone ringing. <What the hell was that?> Peter thought as he tried to clear his now aching head. "Peter, you are going crazy."

The phone continued its monotonous ringing, causing Peter's head to feel like it was going to burst. "Shut up," he screamed at the phone, knocking it from its perch.

Peter was stunned as he looked at the up-turned phone. <Damn, where did that come from?> Picking up the phone, he heard Skalany's worried voice. "I'm fine, Partner. Just dropped the phone. What's up?" he asked as he ran his hand through his hair. Peter's face fell. "Okay I'll be there in ten minutes." Hanging up the phone, Peter began to get dressed, still not able to shake the ache in his head.

Part Five

Bubba was pacing the room his hands nervously flying in all directions, as he tried to explain himself, " I...I did what you said, I always d...do what you s...say, h...he wasn't t...the o...one."

Donnie stared back from the mirror, mocking Bubba," I...I ddid... hhhe wasn't...Damn it Bubba. We have something more to worry about that you whining. Some one knows."

Bubba stopped pacing, terrified of Donnie’s ire, " What... about us? I wasn't seen, I...I was careful D...d...donnie real c...c...careful."

"Jesus! Bubba, stop that stutterin’, You know it drives me crazy. I didn’t say you were seen, did I? some one knows about us, I’ve seen him, and he’s seen me. We have to find him. He may be who we’ve been looking for, our search maybe nearly over, Bubba."

" You think so...do you mean it? No more killin’, no more blood?" He asked hopefully.

Donnie smirked, " Well, not yet; we may just have to get his attention first. I felt it, Bubba--our minds touched, just like ours did, when we were kids, but there is something different about this one. He may just be the ‘chosen’ one."

For once Bubba had hope that this nightmare was finished, that he would be free. This man had to be the one. Bubba was tired of Donnie; tired of blood, tired of death; just tired.

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

Peter pulled up at the murder site. Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes as he tried to rest his aching head. It hadn’t stopped pounding, the nightmare, the face, since the eyes, reached in to his heart and squeezed. Thoughts and emotions were swirling around his head, a whirlpool of pain.

Jody wondered why Peter hadn’t got out of the Stealth. Walking over to the car, she tapped on his window. Peter’s head was resting back against the seat, his eyes closed, with his face twisted in pain.

Jody tapped on the window again, harder this time. The noise drew Peter’s attention at last. His eyes flying open, he looked up, where he saw Jody’s concerned face staring at him. Rubbing his head, he waved Jody off as he opened the car door.

"Peter, are you all right?" Jody asked as she put her hand gently on his shoulder. Peter shrugged her hand off. " A headache that’s all. Where’s this body?" he asked, ignoring her anxiety.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes saw the reality of another nightmare. He tried to stay detached and focused as he looked down at the man’s bloodied body, but the victim’s agony and terror tore into his soul.

Jody had watched Peter’s face as he stared at the victim. His face had paled, and he looked like he was about to pass out. She was about to go to him when she felt a gentle touch to her shoulder. Turning around, Jody found herself, looking at Kwai Chang Caine. Her relief at seeing Peter’s father was obvious to Caine, "You are worried for my son." A fact, not a question.

Jody nodded as she looked back toward Peter, "Yes, I am. He looks like he is going to pass out any minute. These murders are worrying him more than usual, even for Peter. Caine, please get him to go home. He doesn’t look like he has slept in a week."

Caine bowed slightly, "I shall see what I can do.Thank you, Jody, Peter is lucky to have a friend that cares so much."

Peter was still lost, drowning in the abyss of demons, when his father’s soothing voice called him back. "Pop? What are you doing here. How did you get past the...? Doesn’t matter. Stupid question, but what are you doing here?" he asked, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

Caine searched Peter’s face as they stepped away from the murder scene. "You have pain." He said softly, as reached out his hand to touch Peter’s face. Peter deftly dodged his father’s touch, but even without skin contact, Caine felt the heat radiating from his son, " You have a fever."

Peter glared at his father, " Is that all you came for--to play doctor? Well, Pop, I don’t need one and that guy over there--he is past needing your help. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a job to do."

Peter walked off, dismissing his father without a second glance.

Caine watched his son as he began to walk away. The fire that was burning in his son was building, threatening to destroy him from within, and Caine wasn’t sure if he could stop it.

Part Six

Once they were back at the precinct, Peter lasted five minutes at his desk. His head felt like it was going to split open, his stomach was turning over as sights and sounds assailed him. Faces he had never seen, in different stages of terror or death, touched his mind like a slide show. Women, men, old and young, no rhyme and reason. His stomach couldn’t take it no longer. Rushing to the men's room, he nearly knocked Kermit to the floor. "Whoa! Where’s the war?" Kermit called after the fleeing detective.

Peter made it just in time for his stomach to relieve itself of his lunch.sat breathless, his forehead resting against the coldness of the bowl. <Damn it! Get out of my head.>

Kermit followed his friends running feet and arrived just in time to hear his physical distress.Kermit waited for Peter to regain his composure.

Peter came out of the cubical to see Kermit standing near the doorway, "Feeling better, Kid?" Kermit asked, as he watched Peter clean out his mouth and throw water on his flushed face.

Peter looked back at Kermit through the mirror, his face dripping water, as he spoke, " Haven’t you get anything better to do than listen to me throw up?"

Kermit shrugged, "Nope, nothing better to do." he said with his usual, dry wit. Stepping over to Peter, his face became more serious, "What is it, Kid? What’s going on with you?"

"Can’t somebody just have a stomach bug without becoming a national news event." he snapped as he pulled a paper towel and wiped his face. Kermit passed Peter another towel, "Missed a spot-- Kid, I know you. Something is eating you up inside. If you can’t tell me, talk to your father." he appealed to his young friend.

Peter looked into the mirror, and again saw the face staring back. He watched as the face’s lips moved but made no sound.

Kermit watched Peter as he stared intensely at the mirror, as if studying his own features, "Hey Kid, You listening?" Kermit asked, grabbing Peter’s shoulder.

Peter suddenly grabbed Kermit’s wrist and twisting him, so they were face to face.

Kermit was so stunned by the sudden ferocity of Peter’s movement, that he stood rigid as Peter leaned in to him, " Stay out of my fucking way, Griffin, and never mention my father, ever," he spat.

Peter looked down at his hand as it enclosed Kermit’s wrist. <What the hell?> Peter let Kermit’s hand drop, as suddenly as he taken hold of it. "I’m sorry...I don’t...," he apologised as he tried to leave.

Kermit tried to stop him. " Kid, it's all right. I don’t break that easy. If I didn’t like you so much, do you think you’d be still standing?" he said, trying lighten Peter’s mood.

Peter put half an effort into a smile, "I’m sure I wouldn’t. Kermit, I am not feeling well, if you hadn’t guessed. Could you make my excuses? I’m going home." He said as started out the door.

Kermit followed Peter. " Kid, I’ll give you a ride," he offered.

Peter shook his head, " Thanks Kermit, but I might stop in and see Pop on the way. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning." Seeing Kermit’s concerned, he smiled. " I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll be all right."

As Kermit watched Peter walk from the Precinct, he made up his mind. "You will be if I have anything say in it, Kid," He said under his breath as followed his friend out the door.

Peter had lied, he wasn’t going to see his father. He couldn’t face him, his questions-- questions, he had no answers for. <Maybe Pop, can help you. Explain the visions, help you sleep. Since when did you start talking in the third person, Peter?>

As Peter opened the door to his apartment, he realised he wasn’t alone. Sighing, he closed the door. "Pop, what are you doing here? I have had a long day. I just want to rest."

Caine stepped forward, trying to reach out to his son, but Peter again avoided his touch. " Peter! You must..."

Peter glared at Caine, " I must what, father? Why must I do anything you say?" He said rubbing his head, " My life was going along just fine. Then here you come, I’m chased by Sing Wah and triads. You make me doubt the choices I make as a police officer." Peters voice began to rise, as his father stood listening to his son’s tirade.

Caine was trying to sense where this was coming from, but his son’s mind was blocked by something he couldn’t get a hold of. "Peter, you not well. Please, let me help you?" Caine pleaded.

"Damn it! Don’t you listen. Do I have to spell it out, father? I don’t want your help. I don’t need you help. What I would like, is for you to do is leave, now." Peter said gesturing to the door.

Caine bowed to his son, " I shall do as you ask...for now, my son. But I will not be far away, if you should need me." As Caine walked past

Peter, he took the chance to reach out again to Peter. This time Peter allowed his father’s touch. As Caine’s palm connected with Peter’s skin, visions of pain and death attacked him.

The shock of the connection made Peter jump, and he brought his arm up, pushing his father’s hand away.

Peter sneered," Couldn’t help yourself. Had to play Shaolin instead of father, didn’t you?"

" I am above all else, your father. You know that, Peter." Caine entreated his son.

Heading toward his bedroom, Peter again gestured to the door, " As I said, I’m tired. You know the way out, Father!"

Caine stood in the empty room, feeling the repressive air that now hung over the apartment. Peter’s constant references to calling him Father, instead of Pop, had not gone unnoticed as well. Caine sat down on the floor, and settled himself for a long night. Peter was in no condition to be alone no matter what his voice said, his heart spoke louder.

Part Seven

Bubba moved quietly through the streets. He had learned over the years how to become invisible, to become a nobody. <You are a nobody, Bubba> Donnie's voice picked at him.

"Do we have to do this?" he asked. But Donnie just laughed, reminding Bubba of the past, that people had to die for the Chosen to live.

~flashback~

The house was run down. Its surrounding fencing had gaping holes where the pickets were either hanging broken or lying discarded on the dead lawn. The house itself was in worse condition. Paint was peeling in a multicoloured flaking of skin. Its shutters hung on one hinge, crashing against the house in the dry, hot summer wind.

The house looked unlived in, and in a way it was. Everyone who lived there was dead in one way or the other. The family sat around the table, silently eating their meal. The father sat at the table across from his two sons, whose eyes never left their plates. The mother sat at the head of the table, spooning her food into her mouth while her darting eyes never left her husband and sons.

The biggest son spoke barely above a whisper as he asked if he could leave the table.

The mother's eyes stopped moving and glared at him.

The boy gently laid his spoon on the table as he clasped his hands together on his lap and dropped his head. "I'm sorry, Mama," he whispered. He had forgotten one of mama's rules: Do not speak at the table unless you are spoken to.

His mother slammed her spoon onto the table, causing the table to shake. "You're sorry! Well, I'm damn sorry that I have to look at your faces every meal. I'm sorry you are so damn useless. I am just sorry I had your sorry little arses. I am sick at the sight of the lot of you," she raged, storming from the table.

The brothers watched her leave. Then Donnie looked at Bubba. <You idiot! I told you not to upset her. It will be harder to surprise them when she is agitated.>

Bubba bowed his head again. <I'm sorry, Donnie. Do we have to do this? I don't...>

Donnie glared at his twin. <I don't...what? You want to keep living like this? Well, I don't. We are the Chosen, Bubba. We can never reach our potential here, with them." He nodded toward his father, who had continued to eat throughout the tantrum.

Bubba didn't understand this 'Chosen' stuff that Donnie was always talking about, but it was strange that they could hear each other without talking. It was also strange that they looked nothing alike. Donnie was handsome, clever, and left-handed. Bubba knew he was a big, hulking, right-handed idiot -- he was reminded often enough. Yet they were joined in the mind as one. <Maybe Donnie's right after all. After all, he is the clever one.>

Donnie waited patiently that night, while Bubba paced the bedroom, turning the gun over in his hands. <It's time, Bubba.>

Bubba stopped pacing. "Now? Donnie, I c-c-can't," he stuttered.

"Damn it, give it here," Donnie snarled, grabbing the gun and disappearing out of their room.

Bubba stood frozen, listening to the silence of the night. Suddenly the peace was shattered by the sound of gunshots. Each shot made Bubba jump. Sudden silence, broken only by the sound of approaching footsteps, left him trembling.

The door opened, and Bubba watched as a blood-splattered Donnie made his entrance, the gun still in his hand.

Donnie was free -- well, nearly. He had been dragged down for long enough, and now there was only one person holding him down.

Bubba suddenly realised that he was next on Donnie's list. He knew now how much stronger his brother's mind was than his, to have hidden his plans from him. "Why?" Bubba pleaded out loud.

"Because, Brother, I am the Chosen," Donnie said, bringing up the gun and aiming at Bubba.

Bubba moved quickly for such a big man, and the shot only winged him. Grabbing hold of Donnie's gun hand, Bubba wrestled with his brother. <Why, Donnie? Why?>

The shot brought them to a standstill.

Donnie was stunned. <This is not the way it's supposed to go. Why? I am the Chosen. I AM THE CHOSEN!> his mind screamed with his dying breath.

Bubba worked through the night, his tears mixing with the rain that had begun to fall. He started to dig with a spade, but by the end he was on his knees in the mud. He tore into the ground, making a place to bury the pain.

Bubba knelt beside the grave, patting into place the last of the mud tomb. In his despair at his loss, there was a sudden realisation of freedom. "I'm free. I'M FREE" he screamed to the heavens. He sat there in the darkness, holding up his head to the rain, and enjoyed the feeling of freedom and rain on his face.

<You're not free, Bubba, and you won't be until we find another -- another to take my place. You owe me, Bubba. I am dead because of you. You owe me.>

Donnie's voice broke through Bubba's short-lived freedom. "No! This is not possible. You're dead!" Bubba screamed. "You're in there. You can't be in here," he said, hitting the sides of his head. "You're dead, dead, dead..." he repeated as he rocked back and forth.

~end of flashback~

Part Eight

Peter knew his father hadn't left as he had ordered him to. He didn't know whether to be angry or relieved. The rage that had so overpowered him only minutes before had calmed, and now all he felt was shame at the treatment he had given his father. He didn't know where it had come from or where it had gone. He was too exhausted to argue any more. He just wanted to sleep -- no dreams. He wanted a void of emptiness to crawl into -- no pain, no blood, and no death.

The first thing that struck at Peter as he slept was the pain as the knife struck at his body. The blade sliced through the skin of his arms as he tried to protect himself. The shiny blade glinted in the moonlight as it struck again and again. Each lunge pierced his body, and he began to choke on his own blood. The blade soon turned red. Peter used all his strength to force the knife into the body. He struck again and again, feeling bone and flesh giving way to his frenzied attack. <At last I'll be free.>

"No!" Peter leaped up. Scurrying to the edge of the bed, he jumped off and fled to the corner of his bedroom.

As Caine meditated he felt Peter's distress, feltthe ferocity of his pain and terror as his mind fought for his life. Trying to fight his way through Peter's emotions, Caine's mind was suddenly assailed with a murderous rage.

Caine's eyes flew open as he rushed to his son's bedroom. "Peter!" he called urgently into the darkness. Turning on the light for Peter's benefit, he could see his son's bed had been slept in but was now empty. Searching the room, he found Peter backed into the corner of the room, staring around, wide- eyed.

"Peter, you are safe." Caine spoke gently, trying not to frighten his shaking and agitated son.

Peter's eyes darted around the room. "Do you see it?"

Caine took a step toward Peter. "Do I see what, my son?"

Peter held out his hands, gesturing for Caine to look at them. "The blood, of course. See?" He held up his palms for Caine to see.

Caine moved even closer to Peter, as his son's eyes never left his hands. "What is the blood from, Peter? " He took another step.

Peter looked at Caine, dumbfounded that he could ask such a stupid question. "From the people I have killed, of course. I can't be free until the Chosen is found."

Caine was only steps away from Peter now, as he asked. "What is the Chosen, Peter?"

Peter stared at the stranger, his suspicion and anger growing. "Who are you? How do you know me?"

"Peter, I am you father. Please come back to me," Caine beseeched his son.

Peter's anger exploded. "Father, I killed you! What does it take to make you stay dead?" he shouted and lunged at Caine.

Caine saw Peter coming. Stepping out of the way, he tripped his son and, applying pressure to his neck, put him to sleep.

Sitting down beside his sleeping son, he cradled his fevered body. "Oh, my son, what is happening to you?"

Part Nine

Peter woke with a start. The nightmares that had filtered through his dreams had left their mark. His bruised soul was now stained by something he didn't understand.

As he sat up, Peter's head began beating out a very bad out-time tune of agony. Leaning back against the headboard, he tried to straighten out the random images that glided through his mind. He tried telling himself it was a dream, a coincidence of rotten timing and bad Shaolin channel tuning, but his fears told him it was more --much more.

Peter heard a knock at the door. "Go away," he mumbled. He began to slide back down under the covers, but the sound of voices made him stop and listen. He furiously threw back the covers and stormed out into the living room.

Kermit and Caine turned to see Peter emerging from his bedroom, still dressed in only his boxers, his eyes blazing.

"Just make yourself at home," he snarled at them.

The change overnight in Peter did not go unnoticed by Kermit. Peter's eyes looked haunted and his skin was pale and sweaty. Kermit couldn't help himself. "You look like shit, Kid."

Peter walked past Kermit. "Well, go somewhere else. You might find a better view. What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked, pulling a drink from the fridge. "And I thought you went home."

Caine could feel Peter's pain and confusion. "I stayed. Do you not remember last night, my son?"

Peter slammed the drink down on the counter and started to walk back to his bedroom. "I don't know what you are talking about. You both know where the door is. I suggest you use it."

Kermit grabbed Peter's arm as he tried to flee from the room. "Not so fast, Kid. Your father asked you a question...or am I going to have to give you a lesson in manners?"

Peter swung around, pulling his arm from Kermit's grasp. "Lay off," he snapped. He saw that he was not getting out of this. Huffing, he gestured to his boxers. "Can I at least get some pants on?" He stormed from the room to get dressed.

Kermit shook his head, looking at Caine. "What the hell is going on with him? What did happen last night?"

Caine shrugged, his confusion evident on his face. "I do not know. For a moment, Peter was not Peter."

Kermit was confused. "Peter was not Peter! What the hell is that supposed to mean? I know the kid can test the strongest patience and be confusing as hell at times, but Peter is always Peter."

"Is that why you followed him home? Because Peter was being Peter?"

"Okay, you got me there. The kid has been acting weird lately. Sue me; I was worried. If there is trouble, he seems to find it. Thought I could help head it off. Seems -- as usual with the kid -- I was too late."

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

"Damn it! Who the hell do they think they are? Ganging up on me like I'm some child that has to be watched all the time," Peter grumbled as he dressed. Trying to calm himself, he rubbed at his temple. The headache was getting worse. He staggered, grabbing the closet door for support as the world began to spin. Clenching shut his eyes, he saw it...the gleaming metal tinged in red that came at his mind's protection, slicing it away as easy as rice paper.

<Pop...help me!>

Caine had already started to move. He entered Peter's room just in time to see his son's pleading eyes close as he collapsed to the floor.

Part Ten

"Jesus! What happened?" Kermit saw Caine's face drain of colour and was only a couple of steps behind as Peter's father ran to his son's room. Once there, he found Caine on the floor clutching his son's fallen body to his chest.

Kneeling down beside his friend and his father, Kermit saw that Peter was unconscious. "Caine, is he all right?" When he received no answer, he looked up from his friend's troubled form to see Caine's eyes lost in despair. "Caine, please talk to me. What's happened?" he pleaded with the despondent father.

Caine seemed to sit still for eternity, when in fact it was only seconds; then he seemed to snap out of the lost isolation that his son's pain had drifted him toward. Cradling his son even tighter to him, Caine tenderly ran his free hand over Peter's face, not able to ignore the rampart fever that was coursing through his son's body.

"Please, Kermit, help me move Peter to the bed."

With little effort, they moved Peter. Kermit hadn't realised how much weight Peter had lost over the last few days, and the heat that Peter was radiating was hard to miss. "Caine, the kid's so hot, shouldn't we call an ambulance?"

"There is no hospital that I know of that can help my son," Caine answered sadly, slipping some herbs between Peter's lips.

"What do you mean? I thought you said you didn't know what was wrong with him?" Kermit snapped, taking his fear out on the only other person in the room that could hear him.

Understanding but ignoring Kermit's anger, Caine instead focused on the question. He never took his eyes off Peter for a moment. "I do not, but I do know what I feel -- and I feel my son's horror and helplessness. What I saw before me last night was not my son, but someone in great pain, weakness, and fear -- and yet fueled by the tremendous power of hatred and fury."

"So what do you think is going on? Look, Caine, I'm sorry, but I deal in black and white. Leave them alive if they are innocent; shoot 'em if they are guilty. You are talking things I could never understand. Explain in my language," Kermit asked, as he absentmindedly pushed a strand of hair off Peter's face.

Caine had seen Kermit's action; for all his tough talk, he was a good friend. "I do not know how to explain something that I am not sure that I understand myself, but I will need more herbs than I have here."

Kermit moved to the door. "What do you need?"

Caine ran his hands over Peter's perspiring face. Leaning over him, he kissed his son's forehead. "I will be back, my son. I love you." Touching his son's head once more, he looked at Kermit. "I must go, but thank you. Please watch my son. I will be back as quickly as possible." Taking another look at his son, Caine swiftly left the room.

Kermit watched Caine leave, then looked back down at his friend. <No...brother.> "Oh, Peter, don't you leave me, too."

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

Bubba had felt the connection to the stranger. He had felt it as her blood had spilled and soaked into the ground. He had felt the stranger's sorrow for her dying breath, only to have his sorrow swallowed by his own fear and vulnerability.

Bubba had felt the man's despair as one by one his defenses were destroyed, and his mind was laid bare to them. He had felt it and understood it. It was a feeling of hopelessness, one he himself had lived. Bubba had been powerless to stop Donnie's domination of his mind, too weak to say no. He would do what he was told until Donnie got what he wanted; then he would be free.

This last one, she was harder; she had nearly gotten away. The stranger's anguish and urge to protect her had caused Bubba to falter for a moment, but Donnie's strength had joined his own and overpowered the stranger.

Bubba nervously paced the room and wiped the sweat that was rolling down his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Looking into the face that gloated over it's new kill, Bubba beseeched it, "Is he the one, Donnie? Please tell me he's the one."

"No, no, he's not, but he knows about us. He could spoil everything. I have to know more about him, how and what he knows. He got close to us this time, too close. We have to find him, Bubba. "

Bubba tapped at the side of his head nervously as he asked in a halting whisper, "B-but...how?"

Bubba suddenly grabbed at his head in pain, and fell to the floor, as Donnie screamed at him, "Did that hurt? Well, don't ask such stupid fucking questions. The same way he found us, of course. While he was stumbling around in our minds, I went tiptoeing through his. This policeman, Peter Caine, has a very interesting mind, one I could have a great deal of fun destroying."

Part Eleven

"No! Get the hell out!"

Peter's screams pierced the air of the apartment, sending a shiver crawling its way up Kermit's spine. He rushed toward the anguished shouts, and arrived just in time to stop Peter from falling from the bed in his desperate scramble to flee whatever nightmares he was seeing.

"Hold on there, Kid." Kermit had to use all his strength against the opposing force of Peter's desperation. The sweat now coating Peter's body made getting a grip on his windmill of arms and legs nearly impossible. "Damn it! Keep still," Kermit ordered as the younger man's hand connected with his glasses, knocking them flying across the room. <Caine, where are you?>

"He's coming for me." Peter's voice was barely a whisper. His eyes pleaded to Kermit for sanctuary from his demons.

"Who, Kid? Your father? Tell me. What the hell are you seeing?" Kermit asked helplessly, feeling Peter's struggle folding like a collapsing house of cards.

Pulling himself away from Kermit's grasp, Peter curled into a ball. Pulling up his legs, he wrapped his arms around his knees and hugged them protectively to his chest.

"Damn it! Why can't you guys get anything as simple as a cold?" Kermit ran his hand wearily through his hair. Worn out with concern, he dragged himself from his position beside Peter. He picked up his glasses from the floor and placed his mask back on his face. Looking at his friend from behind his guard of green, he tried to control his feelings of uselessness. He couldn't help praying it was Caine Peter could see and feel coming. <Who else could it be?>

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

As if an answer to Kermit's prayer, Caine entered the bedroom, nearly giving the ex-mercenary heart failure. "Shit, Caine! Want to make some noise next time?"

"I shall try. My son has been restless." Not a question -- a felt fact.

"He was calling for you." Kermit watched as Caine plied some herbs through Peter's lips, tenderly brushing Peter's wet hair from his forehead.

Without taking his eyes off Peter, Caine shook his head. "It was not me he was seeing."

"P-P-Pop?" Peter's eyes slowly came into focus, as he slowly uncurled and inched his way toward the safety of his father's touch. "Make him stop. Make him get out," he pleaded, clawing at his father's shirt.

"What are seeing, Peter?" Caine tried to keep his voice calm, knowing that asking his son would cause him more anguish and pain.

"Can't you...? Instead of making him say, can't you see what he is seeing?" Kermit interjected.

"I can feel his fear -- the hate, the pain that is being forced on him -- but no, I cannot see what he sees. I need him to tell me if we are to find who is doing this," Caine explained, maintaining eye contact with Peter.

"Who?"

Caine put his hand up to silence Kermit as he asked again, "My son, what do you see?"

Peter shook his head, burying his head into his father's chest. "No! I-I can't."

Caine tenderly ran his fingers through Peter's hair. "You must, Peter. If we are to make this go away, you must face and identify the one who is doing this to you."

Peter kept his face buried for a moment, then slowly raised his head to look into his father's eyes. "He's in here." Peter angrily thumped at his head with the palm of his hand.

With the speed of a snake, Kermit snatched at Peter's hand, stopping him from hitting himself again. "Then let your father help you get the bastard out."

Part Twelve

"God damn it!" Donnie swore. "I don't believe it! He is actually trying to fight me. Me! Well, if the detective wants to play games, we'll play games, all right."

Bubba had by this time worked himself into a frenzied state as he listened to Donnie's rantings, rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed. The continual tapping of his head had joined in with his mumbling ramblings, a prayer of release from what seemed like a lifetime of madness and blood. A new memory attacked with each thump of his beating fists. Visions of his painful childhood struck at his face and beat at his back and legs. He curled into a protective ball to save himself more pain.

"You listening to me!" Donnie's voice sliced through his mind like a scalpel, drawing him back to his still rocking reality.

"Y-y-yes, Donnie, I heard." Bubba's pitiful whisper was barely audible.

Bubba could feel Donnie's anger building as he tried to focus on what his brother had said. "When?" he asked the face that glared at him from the mirror.

"I will tell you when. Like I tell you everything you do."

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

Peter felt the gentle loosening of the grip on his wrist, as Kermit released his fingers' grasp. He knew they were right; he had to face this demon before he fell into the abyss on whose edge he had been teetering.

Trying to sit up, Peter nearly fell with the exertion, but was effortlessly caught by his father's strong grip.

Caine could shocked when he caught Peter's body. <How could my son have lost so much mass in such a short time? Why did I not notice sooner?> Trying to clear away negative thoughts, he refocused his energy solely on his son. <Use my strength, my son.> "What do you see, Peter?"

Peter's breathing was harsh and labored as he struggled against the pain and nausea that the visions evoked. The sweat beaded and dripped down his face. Closing his eyes, he tried to regain some control over the life that had somehow been lost to him over the last few days.

"Breathe, Peter. Calm. Distance yourself from what you see. You are here, safe with Kermit and me. No one can hurt you, my son. Breathe."

Peter slowed his breathing, listening to his father's tranquil voice, strong and close. He sank deeper and deeper. The further he went, the darker it became. He was so cold. Peter's eyes suddenly sprang open. "The rain won't wash it away. There is so much blood..." Peter held out his hands, staring at sweaty but clean palms. "It's all over me. Why won't it wash away?"

Caine did not wish to distract Peter too much. He kept his voice low and level. "There is no blood, my son. It cannot hurt you. You are safe. What do you see?"

Peter's eyelids drooped and closed. Sounding sluggish, he droned, "Bodies...men...oh, the women...so many...so much blood...all dead...but HE needs to find the one...I'm tired...I need to rest...HE won't let me...need to rest..." Peter's eyes flew open again. "Pop, I see..." Suddenly Peter's whole body began to shudder, turning into a violent, trembling convulsion.

Caine again caught Peter in his arms. Holding tightly to his son, he tried to keep his balance as he reached into his satchel for the herbs he had collected earlier.

Kermit came out of his stunned stupor, grabbing at Peter's thrashing legs. "What the hell...?" Grateful at least that Peter's weakened condition made holding him down easier, he watched as Caine struggled to force the herbs through Peter's clenched teeth.

Gradually Peter's tremor subsided, and his face became somewhat peaceful.

Watching Caine running his fingers tenderly through his son's hair, Kermit asked quietly, to not disturb the resting man. "Okay, I'll play. What happened this time?"

"I believe my son has faced and identified his demon."

Kermit waited for more. When Caine kept silent, he asked impatiently. "And?"

Caine turned, saying simply, "We wait."

Part Thirteen

Kermit watched from the doorway of Peter's room as the priest kept watch over his sleeping son. Caine's patience always amazed the detective; his only actions were for the basic things, such as to lightly move a stray piece of hair from Peter's forehead. <What is it about you, Kid? Why do you attract hell on earth?> "Is it worth it?" Kermit asked out loud.

Caine looked up, his face registering no emotion as he asked. "Is...what...worth it?"

Kermit motioned toward Peter. "This. Is what you and Peter are, worth this? The kid has nearly been driven insane...by this...voice or whatever it is. How could you wish this sort of gift on anyone, especially your own son?"

Caine's shoulders slumped a little. With a small sigh, he answered Kermit's question. "I do not. I could never wish this pain on my son." Touching Peter's hand for reassurance -- he wasn't sure whose -- he continued, "But he is Shaolin. These...gifts, as you call them, are part of who we are, part of who Peter is. When he passed his training, he journeyed to a new level of awareness. He will, in time, learn to control unwanted thoughts...but until then,I will be here."

<But that's it, Caine. You're not always here, are you?> Kermit thought he saw Caine flinch. Taking off his glasses, he tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes, and he found himself apologizing for his questions and his thoughts. "I'm sorry, Caine. I know you love the kid."

"As you do."

Caine's and Kermit's eyes locked for a second. "Tell anyone that, Caine, and I just may have to shoot you -- and that would spoil my reputation, being the peaceable type of guy I am." Winking, he smoothly slid the glasses back on his face. "Anyway, you're a priest. You can't tell anyone."

"I am not that sort of a priest." Caine smiled; then, clasping his hands, he bowed. "But your secret is safe with me."

"And I feel like shit, so I won't tell anyone," a voice spoke weakly from the bed.

Caine frowned at the curse, but let it pass. Reaching for a glass of water, he put it to Peter's lips.

After sipping at the water Peter tried to sit up, and grabbed at his head. "Damn! What hit...?" The memories of the last few days attacked all at once, causing his head to spin. For a moment he thought he would be sick.

"Are you all right, my son?"

Trying to keep the bile from rising, Peter swallowed a couple of times, feeling two sets of hands taking hold of him. Nodding weakly, he allowed himself to be leaned back against the pillows. "Man! That was fun. Can I have some more water, Pop?"

Caine passed the glass to his son's shaking hands, not letting go as Peter tried to drown the nauseous motion in his stomach.

Once he felt the feeling had passed, Peter nodded, and his father took the glass from him. Peter let cop instincts take over, and he started to sort through everything that had happened to him over the last few days.

Kermit watched Peter. He could see his mind ticking over and shifting gears. "Okay, Kid, what do you have for me?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm not sure. A face, name, thoughts." Gently shaking his head, he tried to put two and together. "He's our killer. He's done it before, other places." The visions threatened to surface again, and it took all the strength he had left to keep them down.

Kermit was puzzled. "Are you saying the murders you are working on are the work of one man? I don't understand. I didn't know there was a link, especially as they're right- and left- handed kills. So is this an ambidextrous killer?"

"Yes and no." Peter tried to find the words to explain the thoughts he had picked up. "One, but not one? I don't understand this."

"Well, I don't know about your father, but I'm with you. Did you see a face?" Kermit questioned Peter.

Peter nodded.

"Then we have something to work with. I'll get the sketch artist over here and..."

"No! I want to go to the precinct." Peter spoke a little too loudly. "Sorry." He dropped his voice level. "I want to get back to normal."

"I don't know about that, Kid. You have been through a lot."

Peter looked his father, his hazel eyes pleading for answers. "Pop will help me. We have to stop him before he kills again."

Part Fourteen

As they drove to the precinct, Peter felt his father's comforting hand on his shoulder from the back seat, telling his son he was there. Turning to Kermit from the passenger seat, Peter inquired, "So...did you mean it?"

"Mean what?" Kermit asked, his eyes staying focused on the road.

Peter struggled to stifle a chuckle as he leaned his head into Kermit's shoulder. "That I'm family. That you loved me." <It feels good to smile again.>

Kermit pretended to scowl. "If you don't get your head off my shoulder, Kid, the only thing I'm going to love is giving you a head start before I shoot you." <Nice to have part of you back, even if it is the pain-in-the-ass part.>

"See, Pop, he loves me." Peter couldn't hold in the chuckle any longer as he leaned back into the caress of his father's hands. Peter's smile slowly faded as he reached behind him, stopping Caine's hand with his own. The plea came softly and from that place that he had been trying so hard to forget. "Don't...Don't let me go away again, Pop."

Caine gripped Peter's hand, softly reassuring him, "No matter where you go, my son, I will be there with you."

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

The man sat on the bench across from the precinct, watching the world go by (as many people did), one of those people that no one looks at twice. The stranger seemed uninterested in anything in particular, until the green Corvair pulled up outside the station. Even then his glance seemed casual.

He watched as the three men alit from the car, moving to the front steps of the precinct, stopping only to catch the younger man as his feet faltered. The man watched as the older man's hand reached out to the young man, and, with tenderness he had never seen or felt himself, he watched him gently touch the young man's cheek. It was a gesture that seemed to come so naturally to these two men, but that was foreign the watcher, so foreign that a tear fell from the corner of his eye as he wished for his own touch of love.

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

The Captain had just deposited another file on the towers of folders that had grown on Peter's desk when she saw the approach of her two absent police officers, followed by Caine. "Well, my two lost detectives and father? I was just about to send out a search party. In my office. Yes, Caine, you, too," she commanded.

Closing the captain's office door behind him, Kermit kept a watchful eye on Peter, who quickly found a seat as his father stood quietly behind him.

The warning bells went off in Karen's head straight away. Not only did Detective Caine not argue about being dragged into the office, he actually sat in a chair without being ordered to.

Looking him over, she couldn't help but notice the pale hue of Peter's skin and the dark circles that had started to form under his eyes. <I know these cases were getting him down, but this? How did this happen under my nose without my noticing?>

All the words with which she had planned to berate Kermit and Peter were lost, defeated by the young detective's obvious distress. "Oh, I just know I am going to need to sit down for this." Karen sat in her chair and looked at Kermit for the answers. "Okay, Detective Griffin, fire away. I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

As Kermit retold the events of the last few days from everyone's point of view, Karen eyes glanced sporadically at all the principles in the saga. She wondered what happened to the days when all a captain had to worry about was her officers' conduct, paperwork, and fending off the commissioner. She had to question when priests and detectives with second sight became such an everyday event. Listening, she surprised even herself with her willingness to accept what Kermit was telling her.

Leaning back in her chair, she looked at Peter, who seemed to be waiting for...for what? A one-way ticket to the psychiatric wing? A request for his resignation? He would get neither from her. "Are you all right, Detective?"

Peter looked the captain, uncertain what to say. <Yeah, great. I see things and hear voices. Yep, as normal as the next guy.> "Yes, Captain, I'm fine. I thought you..."

"Yes, I know what you thought, Detective Caine. I don't care how you do it, as long as it's legal and the paperwork has all the dots in the right places. You get this bastard off my streets."

A faint smile lined Peter's face as he stood up and, with his father, left the room. Kermit was about to follow, when Karen's voice stopped him.

"Kermit, he needs you. Watch his back."

The detective moved his glasses down his nose and winked as he left the office. He didn't hear her whispered plea, as she looked toward the sky. "And God watch the three of you."

Part Fifteen

With the blinds drawn and the safety of a locked office, Kermit decided Peter might be more comfortable working on the face with him than with the precinct sketch artist. Kermit couldn't help noticing the shaking hands, though Peter did his best to hide them. "Are you ready for this?" he asked the younger man.

"Of course I am. Well, as ready as I'll ever be." Peter sighed as he glanced over his shoulder at his father, who stood quietly behind him. His father's gentle strength empowered him. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Let's get on with this."

With Peter's instructions, the face was slowly took shape. Caine could feel his son's agitation as the eyes slowly became the ones he had described. A barely audible gasp escaped Peter's as the eyes stared back at him. "Doesn't really do the guy justice. His eyes are much more...dead...than that, but, yeah, that's him."

Kermit printed the picture, watching the face slowly appearing on the ejecting paper. "But it's not?"

Peter shook his head. "I know it sounds weird and doesn't make sense. I can't explain it. It is him. It's the face that has been haunting me. IT IS HIM, but..."

Watching the young man's weariness as Peter ran his trembling hand through his hair, Kermit nodded to Caine. He stood, grabbing his coat. "Doesn't matter at this very minute, does it? Let's get you home."

Peter needed to find this guy before he killed again. "But..." The light touch of his father's hand on his arm stopped him from saying any more.

Shaking his head, Kermit went to the door. "No buts, Kid. I'm taking you and your father home. Don't worry; I'll come and get you tomorrow, and we will work on this."

Peter started to rise from his chair, looking at the two determined men. "I'm not going to win this one, am I?"

"There are more important battles to win than this one, my son. For now, you must come home with me and rest."

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

As Peter sat mediating, his eyes closed, he began to search for the inner calm he had been needing so badly. He had to admit to himself that Kermit and his father had been right to bring him to his apartment. He felt safe and at peace here; his father's strength and balance seemed to radiate from every inch of it. He hadn't realized how much he had come to rely on his father, especially now.

Kermit was surprised when Caine gestured for him to follow him out of the room, leaving Peter sitting oblivious to their departure. As they entered the preparation room, walking out to the balcony, he couldn't hold in his questions any longer. "Okay, what are you doing, Caine? You can't think that it's a good idea leaving him alone like that?"

Caine looked over the streets below, watching as the man began to cross the road.

Kermit moved quickly to the balcony ledge, wondering what had taken Caine's interest. He joined Caine in watching as the man disappeared into the first floor doorway. "Who was that?" Kermit asked, his hand automatically starting for his gun.

"That, Kermit, was one of the hardest things I have ever done." Caine's eyes closed as he took a deep breath. "That is your killer."

"What!"

Part Sixteen

Kermit had partway pulled his gun from under his jacket when his arm was grabbed in a hairbreadth of time. Fingers of iron gripped the mercenary's wrist, stopping his movement in its track.

"No!" Caine softly ordered.

Kermit glared at the priest, his anger building. "You can't be serious," he snapped as he struggled to loosen Caine's grip. "If you think for one second that I am going to stand here..."

"You will do what I tell you," Caine gently commanded, seemingly ignoring the ex-mercenary's struggles to release his imprisoned arm.

"That's my friend in there!" Kermit shot back. "Damn it! What kind of father are you? If your Shaolin principles won't allow you to do it, step aside. I'll get the bastard myself."

"Do you think...that is what...this is about?" Caine stared intently into Kermit's glasses, seeing the fire that blazed from behind them. "It is not. This man's pain is linked to my son's pain. His tortured life has led him to Peter. He looks for the one person who can free him from it."

Kermit was incredulous. "Are you saying that this murderer, this man who has killed so many innocent people...that his pain is more important than Peter's?"

"No. Just equal to it."

Kermit scowled at Caine, nodding toward his arm. Hearing the priest's unanswered question, he frowned. "I won't leave. Not until I've heard your side, or until the kid needs me."

Nodding, Caine released Kermit's wrist. He clasped his hands and bowed. "I hope...I did not hurt you, Kermit."

Moving to the doorway, Kermit had to force himself to stay when everything was telling him to go. "Don't worry about me, Caine," he sneered. "I just hope your blind faith doesn't get the kid killed." Leaning on the frame of the doorway so he could keep an ear open for Peter, he looked at the older man. "Okay, convince me."

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

Bubba made his way slowly up the stairs, not caring if he was heard or not. He was past caring about anything any more. His salvation was calling him stronger than anything he had felt in a long time.

With his Donnie's abusive chides ringing in his ears, Bubba walked into a room lit with the shadows of candles. He watched the man who was sitting, eyes closed, in the middle of the room. The man showed no recognition of Bubba's entry, instead reminding the intruder of a statue in his stillness.

Walking around the room, Bubba was struck by the silence and peace. He was beginning to lose himself in the same peace and silence when the pain struck, forcing him to his knees. Bubba began his habitual rhythmic rocking, his hands curled into fists which started to tap his head. His moaning mantra, a helpless plea for release, became a soft hum.

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

Peter sat beside his lake, feeling the cool breeze flowing over him. The heat of the sun warmed his skin, and he picked up a stone, throwing it so it skimmed across the water. A smiled passed over his face. He wished he could stay there, away from pain, away from the voices.

"Away from me, Peter?" A shadow passed over him. The figure that was joined to it followed, stopping to stand in front of the seated man. "Did you think you could get away from me?"

"Did you think you could hide from me?" Smiling, Donnie paced in front of Peter as he surveyed the lake. "So, this is your secret place -- though it's not so secret anymore, is it?" He laughed.

Peter stood, glaring at the intruder. "How?"

"How? Don't you realize, Peter, that nothing --" He jabbed at Peter's head with his finger. "-- Nothing in there is a secret from me."

Swatting away Donnie's arm, Peter stepped back, scrutinizing the apparition that now stood before him. "I have no secrets."

"Oh, but you do, and I know them all. But I like to be fair. I've seen your secret place; let me take you to mine."

Peter started to feel ill as the scenery began to sway and melt, folding in on itself. Falling to the ground, he closed his eyes, trying to force the nausea back down. When he had succeeded in regaining some control of his stomach, he opened his eyes again.

He found his green grass and shimmering lake had been replaced with cold, hard concrete and empty space. Findings his legs again, Peter stood and looked around. He found himself standing on a tall building, so far into the air that, when he looked over the edge, he couldn't see the ground. His fear of heights overrode any questions about how this had been done to him. He backed away from the edge to the middle of the rooftop. <Now would be a good time to come out of this, Peter.>

"You'll wake up when I say you can," a voice called from behind him. "Do you like my secret place? I just know how much you love high places." With his arms outstretched Donnie twirled around. "It's so high you can see everything from here, everything and everybody." Stopping his dizzying dance, he scowled at Peter. "I can see everyone's dirty little secrets from up here. I saw that slut's dirty mind. I knew what she wanted to do with men, and I knew she wouldn't be missed by anyone."

"Except by her daughter."

"HER DAUGHTER is better of without the whore! Some parents don't deserve children. They don't deserve to breathe life themselves, let alone give it," Donnie spat.

The two men began to circle each other. "Who made you judge and executioner?" Peter concentrated for a moment and then smiled. "Donnie! Nice name."

Peter thought he heard a slight growl as Donnie's face darkened; then the smile reappeared. "I let you have that one."

Continuing his circling, Donnie watched Peter as he spoke. "I am judge because I am the Chosen. On my word it's life or...death, preferably the latter."

"But you're not the executioner?"

"No, no, I'm not, a slight accident there. Things didn't go entirely my way. My two-walls-short-of-a-house brother killed my breathing body, so I had no choice; he became my sword."

"But he has had enough, hasn't he?" Peter asked.

"Perceptive, Peter. Yes, he has, and that is the reason you are here, my friend."

Peter laughed out loud. "You don't honestly expect me to be your new sword?"

"Oh, no, on the contrary, you are a problem for me. You were picking up on who I am. Soon you would have found Bubba, and though I would be better off without the big ox, for now he is my only link to the earthly coil. So, no, Peter, I just expect you to die."

Part Seventeen: Conclusion

Kermit hadn't stopped pacing, his steps becoming faster as his agitation grew. His head was on a constant swivel as he continued to look toward the room were Peter was alone with the killer. "Okay, I understand the Son of Sam plea. He wouldn't be the first murderer to say he was taking orders from some voice, and I also understand the worlds you deal in. What I don't understand is why you can't help Peter."

"Peter is under no threat from the man in the room, from the physical world. His danger lies in the metaphysical, in the real killer's world. For my son to survive, he most overcome his fears and defeat this demon on his own ground." Moving to the middle of the balcony, Caine sat on the floor, crossing his legs as he looked up at Kermit. "You must promise me you will not enter that room before I tell you it is safe to do so."

Kermit shook his head. He couldn't believe he might be about to agree to this. "And what are you going to do while we...wait?"

Caine sighed, closing his eyes as he prepared to meditate. "I will do what any father would do. I shall pray and be here for when I...can help my son."

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

The wind started to pick up, the breeze growing into a whipping gust and the once blue sky now angry and dark. Peter stood on the high rooftop facing this self called Chosen One, angry at the death and suffering this entity had caused. "You want me dead? Well, I always hate to disappoint serial killers from other planes of existence, but if anyone is leaving this dimension for eternity, it's going to be you."

Donnie laughed, circling the detective. "I just knew you were going to be fun. You don't even question that I exist. This all seems perfectly logical to you. Must have been all that incense and chanting at the temple that did it. You know, it is a pity all that love and respecting others gets in the way; we could have made a great team."

"Yeah, well, sorry, the thought of killing my father while he sleeps just doesn't appeal to me," Peter taunted Donnie.

Donnie reacted as if he had been slapped, snarling, "You know nothing about it."

Peter allowed himself a smile. "Quote, 'while he has been stumbling around in our minds, I have been tiptoeing through his', unquote. Did you think that you could rape somebody's mind and they wouldn't notice? Well, Donnie, I noticed. All that incense and temple chanting wasn't because I had nothing to do on the weekend. The only thing about you that was different was that you had a special link with your brother, one you abused because you thought you were better and stronger. You murdered your parents and attempted to murder your brother, but he surprised you. Now, even in death you can't let go of your hatred, forcing your brother to become the instrument of that hate. You are nothing but a cold-blooded murdering bully. There is no great destiny for you; there never was and there never will be."

Donnie's face turned red as the rage burst from him like a erupting volcano. Lashing out with his leg, he impacted his foot with the side of Peter's head, spinning him to the ground. "I AM DESTINY!" he shouted at the fallen man. "I am the Chosen, and part of that destiny is going to be seeing the fear in your face as you fall screaming to your death."

His leg kicked out again, but Peter was ready for it this time. Deflecting the leg with a forceful shove of his hands, he put Donnie off balance, sending him crashing to the floor. "Hey, in my book, it's not over until the sicko dies."

Both men were on their feet again, the circling dance continuing. "Would you mind if I lead? I'm a bit tired of this particular ballet," Peter quipped as he threw out his leg, his foot impacting with Donnie's chest.

Again Donnie landed on the floor. Catching his breath as he hunched on all fours, the enraged man roared as he sprang, "I AM GOING TO SEND YOU TO HELL, CAINE."

Peter tried to evade the incoming body of rage, but the force of the blow and Donnie's weight sent him stumbling backwards.

The look on Donnie's face as they both tumbled over the railing of the rooftop was one of shock. Finding himself saved by hanging from the legs of Peter Caine was even more surprising. He knew he couldn't hang on forever, but he also knew if he could kill the mortal Caine, he would be safe. Reaching inside himself, he called to Bubba, his last hope.

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

Bubba still lay rocking and moaning when the pain suddenly vanished and his brother's voice called to him.

"Bubba! I need you. Do you see that man in the room?"

Looking over at the still-sitting statue, he nodded. "Yes, Donnie, I see him."

"KILL HIM."

Bubba started rocking, his breathing becoming frantic. "No, Donnie, I can't. No more, please," he begged.

"DO IT ! Damn you, Bubba, why couldn't you have just died instead of me. You're useless. DO IT NOW!"

Bubba picked himself up from the floor. Looking around the room, he saw Kwai Chang Caine's ceremonial dagger. Picking it up, he ran his fingers over it and advanced toward Peter.

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

Peter's hands were slipping. It took all his concentration to hang on as the weight of two bodies pulled at his arms. He tried to shake free of Donnie's grasp, but it only caused more pressure for him. With his eyes closed against rising panic at the endless drop below him, Peter continued to hold on with all his strength.

Donnie waited for Bubba to finish off the mortal body of Peter Caine. Holding on, he awaited recognition that the job had been done. Suddenly, the realization of what had happened hit. "No!" he screamed.

Peter felt Donnie's grip slip as his voice was carried away by the wind. Renewing his own grip, he kicked out as best he could at the slow;y lessening weight. With one last effort, Peter shucked the weight from his body. He didn't look to see Donnie fall; all he wanted was to get back up. All his strength was gone. Peter felt his fingers slowly slip from the railing.

Just as his fingers were about to lose contact, hands grabbed his wrists. Peter felt himself lifted over the railing to the safety of the rooftop. He opened his eyes to find his head cradled on his father's lap. The gentle and proud eyes of the priest looked down at him as he ran his fingers through Peter's hair. "You did well, my son."

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

Peter looked around and found himself back in his father's apartment. He was still on his father's lap, but Kermit was now in the picture, as he stood over them handing Caine the glass of water he had asked for earlier, relief obvious on his now calmed exterior.

"What happened?" Peter asked, running his tongue over his dry lips.

Caine pressed the glass to Peter's lips, allowing him to sip. "You defeated the killer, my son."

Peter tried to move, but was weak. He found himself easily pushed back down by his father. "I defeated him, Pop? What about..." He suddenly became agitated. Searching for his friend, Peter called out, "Kermit, you have to find his brother. His name is, um, Bubba! He is the one that did all the killings."

"You don't have to worry, Kid. He took care of that problem for us."

Peter followed the direction of Kermit's head movement and saw Bubba's body lying on the floor, the dagger protruding from his heart. Peter couldn't help but notice the smile the body still wore, a kick in the teeth for the brother Bubba had grown to hate. Peter felt a sadness for the killer, but also some sort of happiness that he had found the release he had been seeking for so long.

Turning back to his father, Peter saw the sadness his father, too, felt for the lost soul. "I'm sorry, Pop."

"Sorry?"

"That I brought death into your house."

Caine smiled as his hand lightly touched his son's cheek. "Do you not realize that you also gave back life? There are people who would have died if you had not stopped this killer, and the souls already passed may now travel to their next life. No, my son, never be sorry for risking everything to do what is right." Bending over, he kissed Peter on the brow. "I myself am very proud of my son and am overjoyed to have him back."

"Minus the fritz in my antenna. Your son is glad to be back." Smiling, Peter yawned. "So what do we do now?"

"Ah. Now Kermit will take care of the police duties and explanations. While you rest, I will mix some herbs to help you get your strength back."

"Whoa! Kermit will what? Now hang on a minute? Why should I be the one to explain this?" Trying to suppress a smile, Kermit left to call for the coroner, muttering, "Yeah, okay, leave it to Griffin. He will fix it. I defy anyone to able to surprise me on anything anymore. Life with the Caines, it's a lesson in 'nothing is impossible'."

Caine lifted Peter to his feet. Peter looked at the fallen man again, then let Caine lead him onto the balcony.

A few minutes later, as he sipped the foul-tasting tea his father pushed on him, he commented thoughtfully, "I'm sorry about your dagger, Pop, for it to be used like that. You know, I'm not happy he is dead -- because it wasn't all his fault -- but he did save my life and others by doing what he did." Staring intently into his father's face he asked, "Do you think he found some sort of redemption?"

Caine shrugged. "I think he found a release from the bonds of hatred, a release from his pain. Maybe that is all he needed."

"Maybe." Rising to his feet, Peter walked over to stand beside his father and watch the police cars and coroner's van pulling up below. "I never did thank you, Pop, for letting me face it myself, and for being there when I needed you."

"I love you. I try to be a good father...emphasis on the name, 'Father'."

Pulling Caine close, Peter kissed his forehead, "I love you, too...Pop."

The End