Part 9

Peter slept after Caine tended his injuries. Kermit used the time to talk to Caine.

"It that what cleaning Peter’s apartment was all about, atonement?" Kermit pulled no punched with the Shaolin. He knew that Caine took his remarks as they were meant, and that he didn’t have to sugar coat them.

"I feared that Mandy’s death would drive my son away from me. Every reminder of her murder would make him hate me more for not accepting the woman he loved."

"Why didn’t you welcome Mandy, Caine? I’ve seen you minister to people who have shot and beaten Peter. What made Mandy any less deserving?"

"She would do damage to his soul. The others merely hurt his mortal body. That injury could be repaired." Caine spoke with difficulty. He glanced periodically at Peter to make sure he still slept. Kermit had never seen the priest so on edge.

"Well, we found out why you felt like she was ‘shrouded in secrecy.’ She was part of the Witness Protection Program." Kermit hoped that he could relieve some of the priest’s concerns. It rattled him to see Caine, always as solid as a boulder, so upset.

"Witness Protection?" the priest questioned, unsure what the man in green glasses was telling him.

"The Feds have this program where people who testify against big criminals can have a new life. People get scared to go against some of these bad guys, afraid for their life. The Feds give them a new identity and a new life. That way they can be safe and start over fresh," Kermit explained, amazed once more at how worldly, yet sheltered, Peter’s father really was.

"I sensed death when I first met Mandy. She was covered in the stench of it. Her soul was not evil, yet her hands were not clean. . . much the same as I felt when I first met you." Caine told his friend gently, trying to explain his dread at Peter’s choice of a life partner.

Kermit flinched almost inperceivably. He wondered about Caine’s thoughts on *his* friendship with the priest’s son.

"There was an aura of pain around her, and I knew that it would affect my son. She would be the source of great suffering for him." Caine continued hesitantly.

"You just didn’t know that she’d have to die to fulfill the prophecy," Peter’s bitter voice sounded from the sleeping platform. He was struggling to sit up. Caine rushed to his side, but was greeted with visual daggers from his son. The rejection that he had feared filled the room and choked the life from the air. "She didn’t cause the pain, Pop." The sharpness of his tone cut into Caine’s soul. "She was murdered. She didn’t bring it on herself. They were after me. Whoever it was wanted to make me suffer. I was the one that should have been ‘shrouded in death’ or secrecy or whatever in your vision."

"My son. . . ," Caine began gently.

"Save it, Father. I don’t need your platitudes. I just need the Hell out of here. Kermit, get me home." He hadn’t heard all of their conversation, but he’d heard enough. Peter’s fury was in full flower. He shoved his father’s hands aside. Struggling back into his filthy shirt, he glared at Caine, as if daring him to come closer. Not even bothering, or perhaps able, to button the shirt, he stomped out of the apartment. He was halfway down the stairs when Kermit caught up with him.

"Don’t you think you were a little rough on him back there?" Kermit asked, having to take two steps at a time to keep up with the longer legged detective.

"I don’t want to talk about it. Not with you, not with him, not now, not ever. Are we clear on that?" Peter snarled at his friend. His mind was whirling from the things his father had said. He hadn’t been listening to half of the things that Caine had said when Mandy first came into his life. He only knew that the two people he loved didn’t really like each other. He figured he’d just walk the tightrope between them until the problems were resolved. Now he had lost them both.

"We’re clear on it *for now.*" Kermit’s tone told Peter that the subject was far from closed.

****

"This is better than I could have dreamed of," Xia spoke to the long haired black cat rubbing against her. She scratched her pet behind the ears and listened to the sound of the priest’s heart breaking. Her father would have been proud.

[end part 9]

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Part 10

"Peter, why don’t you just rent an apartment in our swing bed rehab facility," Dr. Meeksa chided the cop as he finished applying the splint to Peter’s left hand. The X-rays had disclosed no broken bones, but the soft tissue was extensively bruised.. Dale couldn’t really do much for the hand. Only time, ice, and refraining from punching solid objects would heal it. "You won’t be using this hand for a few days, Caine. Want me to write a note to your captain?"

"Meeksa, don’t you ever go home," Peter commented sarcastically. There was little humor in his voice, though his words attempted to make light of the situation. "Every time I’m in here I see you and then I have to get the lecture about staying out of trouble. When are your days off?"

"I’m like you, I don’t have any. . . and if I did, you keep this place so busy they’d just call me to work overtime anyway." Dr. Meeksa lightened his tone. The cop was obviously distressed. He would have to tread gently with him this time. "Now, let’s have a look at that side. Your hand was slightly infected. I’ll bet the suture line is, too."

Peter stripped off the grungy shirt, suddenly aware that he badly needed a shower. The doctor poked the injury gently, yet hard enough to cause Peter to draw a sharp breath.

"Well, I see you tore several of the stitches out before they were removed. Did you take them out yourself or come in to the hospital to have it done?" Peter flushed and Dale guessed correctly that Peter had removed his own stitches. "It shows some signs of infection, but it looks like your father has been treating it. The infection is clearing up. What is he using on it?," Dale asked, concentrating on the wound. He missed the glance that Kermit gave Peter, and the look of disgust on the younger cop’s face.

"Leave my father out of this. Let’s just say that I fired him as a doctor. You’ll be handling all my treatments from now on." Peter’s voice was tight and filled with anger. Dale Meeksa took a step back and studied his patient intently. He had not expected that sort of reaction.

"Well, in that case, I better get you on some heavy duty antibiotics. You look like you’ve been rolling in the gutter. That isn’t exactly what I meant when I said to keep the wound clean." The doctor examined the injury with renewed interest. He felt more comfortable with Peter’s injuries than the man in front of him, glaring into space.

***

The trip back to the apartment was an endless journey, a trail of silence that left Kermit actually missing Peter’s usual chatter. As they neared the parking garage, Peter’s mood visibly changed. The fury drained out of him and despair took its place.

"I thought he’d figured it out. . . ." Peter commented very quietly, almost as though he didn’t want Kermit to hear what he had to say.

"All right, kid. Let’s get this the Hell out in the open." Kermit’s tone was one of frustration and confusion. "We get to the apartment and you fall all over your old man telling him how sorry you were. He fixes you up, and lets you sleep, then you wake up like something out of the Exorcist. What the Hell did I miss?"

"I couldn’t let him blame her for what happened, Kermit." Peter’s voice was choked and tight. "She was the best thing that ever happened to me. Why couldn’t he see that? When you told me he picked up my place after. . . that he straightened it out, I figured he finally realized that he was wrong. Damn him. He is stubborn. She died because of me and he still thinks that it was her fault. I heard what he said about her bringing me pain and injuring my soul. "

"Peter, you and your father have to work this out, together. It may take some time, but it has to be done. I know you’re hurting now, so back off a little. He is only looking out for you." Kermit couldn’t believe that he was defending Caine to Peter--especially in light of the events of the last few weeks. Damn it, he’d liked Mandy.

"Let’s just drop it for now. I just want to get home, shower, and sleep for the next two weeks. I don’t think I am going to be too welcome at the station with this splint. I can’t type right handed and I sure as Hell can’t use my gun."

"I’ll fill Captain Simms in at the beginning of shift tomorrow. You can call in tonight before you go to bed," Kermit suggested.

"You’re not coming up?" Peter’s tone suggested he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be alone.

"No, kid. I have some things at the station I need to get cleared up. I’ll stop by tomorrow to see how you’re doing." Kermit knew that Peter’s first few minutes in the apartment were likely to be very emotional ones. The younger detective had to meet the demons on his own, or he never would be able to face them. It was time.

***

Peter started peeling the filthy clothes the second he closed the front door. He left a trail that would have been the envy of even Hansel and Gretel. By the time he walked into the bathroom, the only thing covering him was dirt and bruises. As he turned on the water, watching the steam curtain the glass shower doors, he remembered briefly what Dale Meeksa had said about keeping the wound across his ribs dry. He shrugged in an almost Kwai Chang way. *Water’s better than dirt.* Climbing into the shower he flinched as the hot water slammed against his skin, tiny pellets beating on his tired, bruised body. He leaned against the tiled wall and let the water pelt down on him.

An eternity later, the tired cop knew he had to get out of the shower before he fell asleep on his feet. It seemed as if he slept half his life away the last few weeks, and spent the other half looking forward to sleep.

Padding into the bedroom out of habit while he dried himself, he glanced up at the wall. The fresh paint smell, combined with the scent of cleaning solution hit his nose and he stopped, dropping the towel to the floor. He was chained to the spot and the room seemed to spin around him echoing sights and sounds from two weeks past.

and his head slammed back as if hit by the gun butt again.

Peter fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face, the fading bruise aching as if it had just appeared.

*God, no, not Mandy.*

*Why her? Why not me? Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me be the one that died, not her.* The dark haired man sobbed openly now, grabbing handfuls of the deep carpet, wanting to tear open his aching chest to stop the insistent beat. . . beat. . . beat. . . of his heart.

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