Guardian Angels, Part 3

Paul Blaisdell was worried about Peter. The Ancient's warnings scared him more than he cared to admit. After returning Lo Si to his home, Paul made a beeline for Peter's apartment. He pulled his car into the designated visitor parking area, walked through the parking garage and immediately saw that Peter's assigned space was empty. Paul's heart skipped a beat. Peter should have been home by now. Maybe he and Mary Margaret stopped to grab a bite to eat somewhere, he reassured himself. He pulled out his phone and dialed Peter's cellular number. The digitized voice of the operator came on the line, "The customer you have dialed has either left the service area or turned the phone off. Please try your call again." This wasn't helping to ease Paul's worries. Before he could decide his next course of action, the phone rang. Startled, he almost dropped it.

"Blaisdell."

"Captain? It's Frank." The tone in the Chief's voice immediately indicated a problem.

"What is it, Frank?" Blaisdell couldn't help the anxiousness in his voice.

"It's Peter...," he paused, as if searching for the right words, took a deep breath, then he continued without further hesitation, "Paul, Peter's car was ran off the interstate. He was kidnapped. Skalaney saw the whole thing."

Numbness set into Paul's mind. Despite the many years of facing danger head on, he couldn't fight the sudden fear that gripped his stomach. The Ancient's warnings sounded in his head, "Peter is not safe...he is in danger."

"Who took him, Frank?" Paul couldn't stop the unsteadiness of his voice.

"We're not sure. There were four men, but it was too dark for Skalaney to get any descriptions. She did get the license plate number of the car, but it was reported as stolen earlier today."

"I want to talk to Skalaney myself. Where is she?" Paul fought for control over his emotions, attempting to suppress his fatherly concern for his son and instead take back his cop professionalism.

"She's at the scene with Broderick. I'm getting ready to head over there myself. The accident was on I-420 at mile marker 65, east of the Walnut Street exit."

"I'll meet you there," Blaisdell was ready to pound the off button when he heard Frank's voice.

"Paul?"

"Yeah, Frank."

"He'll be ok. We'll find him."

"I know," he tried to convince himself. "Thanks, Frank."

*Cold...dark...pain...* for a long while, these were the only words that entered Peter's mind. It suddenly dawned on him that his eyes were open, although the world around him was a blur of gray. He worked on focusing his vision, with only marginal success. Lying on his back, all he could see was the concrete ceiling above him. Complete thoughts, which had been impossible to attain earlier, were suddenly beginning to gel.

He had attempted to turn over on several occasions, each time forgetting that his hands and ankles had been cuffed, spread eagle, to the iron posts at the four corners of the cot, immobilizing him. The discomfort of having his arms stretched over his head was becoming unbearable. He had tried to shift his position to ease the pain of his aching joints, but he could find no position which felt any better.

He raised his head to examine his surroundings. Piercing pain slammed into his temple, behind his eyes. At the same time, a fist pounded into his right side, in his lower rib cage. He dropped his head back to the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut. After what seemed like minutes, but had been only seconds, the knives changed to mallets as the sharp pain subsided to a less severe throb. Stubbornly, he raised his head again. The daggers poked at his head in warning, but were bearable this time. He slowly turned his head to see that he was in a small room, no bigger than a closet. Cold concrete walls surrounded him. There were no windows and only a single steel door providing access to the room. A toilet and lavatory was on the wall opposite the cot. A light bulb insufficiently lit the room. A damp, musty odor tickled his nose and he fought the urge to sneeze, knowing that his head and ribs would suffer the consequences.

Peter tugged against the metal cuffs holding his ankles and wrists, but as he suspected, the iron posts securely restrained him. He rested his head back against the mattress and thought about the events which had led to his predicament. He remembered the accident...the Corvette, and his world, spinning out of control, careening into the ditch. He didn't recall much after that, only bits and pieces of memory flashed across his mind. The car's roll into the ditch had thrown Peter hard to the right and then to the left, his left shoulder painfully slamming into the door. He remembered the door swinging open, the screeching of metal as it snapped off with the car's weight rolling on top of it and only the strap of the seatbelt keeping him safely within. The car had landed on its wheels and Peter's head had been thrown against the steering wheel. He had the wind knocked out of him and for a short time, he couldn't move.

As soon as Peter realized he was upright, he attempted to free himself from the belt and climb out of the car. His left arm, numb from the impact on the shoulder, refused to follow the orders his brain was sending it, leaving Peter to undo the seatbelt with his right hand. It unsnapped and Peter began the slow process of extricating himself from the vehicle. Before he could complete the motion, a set of hands grabbed at him. He assumed it was Skalaney. A sheepish grin crossed his face as he raised his eyes to look at her. "Guess it's time for me to go back to driving school, huh..." He made eye contact with her and then suddenly realized it wasn't his partner providing assistance. The hands belonged to a squared-jawed man, who was roughly jerking him from the car, with careless disregard for any injuries he might have sustained. "Hey, pal, take it easy. I'm not feeling so hot."

"Shut up or I'll shut you up myself," a gruff voice responded.

Peter realized that the man was not here to help and then he remembered the car that had run him off the road. His left hand dropped to his gun, as he attempted to clear it from his holster. His assailant painfully grabbed his wrist, pushing his arm down. Peter had no strength in the arm and the gun fell from Peter's grasp. He attempted to twist his arm up and out of the man's grip, while aiming a knee at his groin. Peter had not counted on being outnumbered, though, and a second man threw a punch at Peter's solar plexus before he could complete the kick. All of Peter's air left his body in one painful, exhaling gasp. One set of hands held his arms to his side, while the other set pressed a cloth into his face, covering his nose and mouth completely. Peter, smelling the familiar scent of chloroform, tried to hold his breath, but the punch to his chest had made the need for air irresistible. He couldn't fight the urge to inhale. The deep breath caused his head to spin, black spots forming in front of his eyes. He tried to fight the effects, but to no avail. The world tumbled into darkness.

That was all Peter remembered before waking in this concrete prison. He had not seen his captors since he had regained consciousness. There had been no sound from outside the room, only complete and total silence. He was alone. Peter had to fight the rising fear in his stomach. He reassured himself with thoughts that Skalaney had to know what had happened to him. But then fear took over again as he realized that his assailants might have hurt Skalaney. That thought made Peter sick to his stomach and he fought to push it out of his mind.

Presuming Skalaney had seen the incident, Peter could be certain that Paul had the entire precinct looking for him. He took comfort knowing that they would not stop until he had been found.

Joints aching from the non-movement, Peter, once again, attempted to shift his position. He found little relief from the effort; in fact, the new position had caused the pain in his side to flare. Peter couldn't help the quiet groan that came to his lips. He lifted his head to see how bad the injury was, but was rewarded immediately with the daggers to the head again. He pressed his head back into the mattress and closed his eyes tightly.

Paul Blaisdell arrived at the scene of the accident within minutes of Frank's call. He pulled his car to the shoulder of the road, a few feet away from the wrecker, which was preparing to pull Peter's Corvette from the ravine. He saw Mary Margaret, Frank and Broderick standing in front of the wrecker, watching the slow progress of the work. Paul approached the three silently. Frank, feeling a presence at his back, turned to see the Captain.

"Anything?" Blaisdell asked abruptly, without any greetings to his officers.

"No, Sir." Strenlich responded. "The lab boys have dusted for finger prints around the frame of the car, but haven't come up with anything."

"What about on the handle of the door?" Blaisdell was looking at the mangled black sports car.

"No luck," Frank shook his head. "The door was ripped off in the accident."

Broderick stepped forward with his hand extended. "We found this by the car." It was Peter's gun, sealed in a plastic evidence bag.

Paul took the Barretta in his hand, holding it delicately in his grip. He was pensive for a moment then he looked at Mary Margaret, a look of professionalism reentering his eyes. "I want to know everything that happened, Detective."

Mary Margaret had been silent since Blaisdell had arrived. She was unable to make eye contact with her Captain, and instead chose to look at the Corvette. "Uh...the Park Avenue, approached Peter's car. I was behind him in my car...about a mile behind. Peter was furious that I was supposed to escort him home and so he tried to out distance me in the traffic. I tried to keep up with him, but my car wasn't fast enough," she paused for a moment, realizing that she was jumbling her thoughts. "Anyway, the Park Avenue paralleled Peter's car and fired on him...I could see the flash from the gun. It looked like Peter slammed on his brakes, and then he just spun out of control and went into the ditch. I didn't know that the car rolled." She stopped again, taking a deep breath, hoping her voice didn't sound as weak as it did in her head. A chill passed through her body, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

Paul came closer to her and put an arm across her shoulders protectively. She started to pull away, then realized how reassuring and warm the contact felt, so she leaned against Blaisdell instead. "One of the men had an Uzi...he held me back...I couldn't get close enough to see what had happened to Peter. Another guy...that guy over there," she pointed to the older man in a suit who was talking with a patrolman, "he tried to help, too, but the man with the Uzi fired at us. I was pinned down...I couldn't get any closer. I saw two other men drag Peter into the Park Avenue...he wasn't moving...he wasn't fighting them..." she couldn't stop her voice from quivering now. Paul pulled her closer. "I tried to fire on the tires, but I couldn't see in the dark and the Uzi had me pinned down again. The next thing I knew, the car had taken off. I tried to follow, but I couldn't keep up."

Broderick spoke up, suddenly, "Stack and Barrett saw the Park Avenue on Walnut, but lost it in traffic. We have an APB out on the car, but nothing has turned up yet."

"I tried to stop them..." Skalaney repeated. "I'm so sorry, Captain." She tried to turn away from him, guilt overwhelming her, but Paul didn't release his grip and he pulled her into a hug. Resting his chin on her head, he used a fatherly voice to calm her, "It's okay, Mary Margaret. You did all you could. It's not your fault."

"But, I was supposed to be watching Peter..." Mary Margaret tried to push away.

A little more sternly this time, Paul repeated, "It's not your fault." He paused for a moment, "Is there anything else that happened...anything at all that could help us find him?"

Suddenly, Skalaney pushed away, her voice suddenly stronger, "Yeah...the man with Uzi said that you would get Peter back when they had..." she paused to make sure she used the right name, "Griffin. They said they'd be in contact with you."

Without comment, Strenlich pulled out his phone and dialed the precinct. Sgt. Johnson answered, "101st Precinct."

"Yeah, Johnson, it's Strenlich. Have there been any calls for Captain Blaisdell tonight?"

"No Sir, not that I'm aware of."

"If anything comes in, anything at all, I want you to forward it to his mobile phone."

"Yes Sir..." Sgt. Johnson paused and then continued, "Sir, I have four units scouring the area around the warehouses on Walnut, but there has been no sign of the Park Avenue. Do you want me to leave those units in the area?"

"Yes. I want them looking searching every inch of that area. I want that Park Avenue found...It's our only lead to Detective Caine."

"Yes Sir."

Frank disconnected the phone and turned to find Paul, Broderick and Mary Margaret standing next to the crumpled form of the Corvette, now being loaded on the back of the wrecker. He walked up behind his Captain and heard him whisper, "Peter loved that car. I don't think he'll be able to fix it this time." Paul was quiet.

Frank laid his hand on Paul's shoulder, "You going to be okay?"

There was no response from Paul for a moment, then he turned to his friend, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, "Yeah...let's go find my son." Paul walked briskly past the group and back to his car. Skalaney, Strenlich and Broderick followed, awaiting instructions.

"Sargent, I want you back at the precinct and in charge of the search. Skalaney, I want you to talk to the owner's of the Park Avenue and see if they know anything about the theft. Chief, I want ever available Detective doing a door to door search of the warehouses on Walnut. Whatever it takes to get each and every owner to consent to a search...I want it done."

Skalaney and Broderick obediently returned to their cars. Frank hesitated.

"Something wrong, Chief?" Blaisdell asked.

"Where are you going to be?"

"I'm going to the Ancient's and then I have to see a friend. If anything comes up, call me." Blaisdell walked back to his car without further comment.

Strenlich couldn't stop the look of surprise on his face. The last person he ever thought Blaisdell would turn to would be the Ancient. He shrugged his shoulders and climbed into his sedan.

An unidentifiable sound startled Peter, jerking him awake. He listened carefully, but the sound was not repeated. He settled back down against the mattress. He wasn't sure how long he had slept. His arms were angled such that it was impossible to see the face of his watch. His head still hurt, as did his side. His shoulder joints and legs were screaming at him, but he could do nothing but absorb and accept the pain...*I'm starting to sound like Pop* he thought to himself.

Peter couldn't help but let his mind wonder to his father. He would give anything to have him back. Peter had tried repeatedly to understand his father's need for solitude, his search for focus…for the Tao, but the pain of watching him walk away from Peter's life was almost unbearable. What hurt Peter most was the lack of contact. When his father had left two months ago, Peter took comfort in the thought that his father would be near, through letters or postcards…he didn't use a phone. But there had been nothing…no contact…no communication…not even an errant thought. In essence, his father had lied. He had stood on the street corner and told Peter and Lo Si that he would be near…but he wasn't. He had abandoned Peter, only this time it was by choice, not mistake. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, *God, I miss you...I need you...please come back to me, Father.* He couldn't stop the tear which formed in his eye and slowly ran across his temple and down to the mattress. The pain and helplessness of his current situation, along with his thoughts of his father, tumbled his mind back to the temple's destruction. He found his plea for his father's return changing to the same plea for rescue he had cried so long ago...*help me, Father, help me.*

Suddenly, there was a sound at the door. Peter lifted his head again, fighting the pain and squinting his eyes against the artificial light from the exterior that suddenly glared through the opening. The unidentifiable figure of a man walked through the door. Two others followed.

The men said nothing. Peter couldn't stand the silence. "Who are you? Where am I?" Peter knew he wouldn't receive answer to these questions, but he couldn't stop the questions from rolling off his lips.

The men didn't respond to the question. Instead, two of the men approached Peter, one stood at the foot of the bed, the other at the head. Each man held a key and undid the cuffs around his limbs.

The first man suddenly spoke, "Mr. Caine, this is your opportunity to make yourself more comfortable. You will have ten minutes to eat and relieve yourself." A fourth man set a tray of food and a bottle of water on the floor next to the bed. "Ten minutes...no more...no less." The four men exited the room without further comment, the door shutting securely behind them.

Peter tried to rise, but found that the stiffness in his arms and legs was preventing movement. He flexed his limbs slowly and immediately his left shoulder screamed at him in protest. He rolled to his right side, and gasped in pain as his ribs made contact with the mattress. He fell onto his back again, trying to quash the pain. Determined, he tried to push himself up with his right arm. After a few moments of struggle, he successfully brought himself to a sitting position, legs dangling off the cot. He stood unsteadily and placed his hand against the wall to maintain his balance. He walked to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. He threw his right shoulder against it, but it held firm, as he knew steel would. He rubbed his raw wrists absently and turned to the food that had been placed on the floor, realizing that he would be an idiot to not eat and maintain his strength. He walked back to the tray and settled it onto the bed next to him.

Paul Blaisdell arrived at the Ancient's apartment. Once again, the door was opened, despite the fact it was almost 3:00 in the morning. This time, though, the Ancient met him at the door before he could walk into the room.

"What has happened to young Peter," the Ancient asked before Blaisdell could speak.

"He was kidnapped." Paul walked past the Ancient and sat on the couch. He was tired and couldn't fight the urge to rest his head in his hands. "We don't have a clue where he is and Skalaney thinks he may be hurt."

"How did this happen," the Ancient sat on the couch next to Peter's foster father. Paul repeated the night's events, while the Ancient poured hot water into two cups that were already sitting out on the coffee table.

"Drink this, it will help to ease your fear." The Ancient handed one cup to Paul. Only then did Paul realize that Lo Si had expected him. The two cups and teapot had already been sitting out when Paul arrived.

"How did you know that Peter would be in trouble tonight."

"I can not say."

Paul's temper flared. "What do you mean by that?"

"I only felt that Peter would be in danger tonight. I did not know how or what would happen."

"Do you know where he is at now?" Paul couldn't help the desperation in his voice.

"I am sorry, but no, I do not know where Peter is."

"Is he...," Paul couldn't complete the sentence for a moment, "Is he still alive?"

Lo Si didn't answer immediately, instead he closed his eyes and said nothing. Then he opened them and responded with a simple "Yes."

"Can you tell if he's hurt?"

Lo Si shook his head, "I am sorry, but while I consider Peter to be like a grandson, my link to him is not that strong. I can only sense that he is alive."

"Wait a minute, your link may not be that strong, but Caine's is. Can you find Caine? Do you know where he is?" Paul was hopeful again.

"I do not know where Kwai Chang Caine is. He did not tell me where he was going. I am like you...I can only hope that he can sense Peter is in trouble and come to his aid."

Paul slumped his shoulders in defeat. He realized that he couldn't wait to see whether Caine showed up to rescue his son. Paul would have to try other, more conventional methods to find Peter. He stood to leave, then he turned back to the Ancient, "If you have any more feelings about Peter, you will call me, won't you." It wasn't a question, it was an order.

"Of course." Lo Si bowed respectfully to the Captain. Paul silently left the old man's apartment.

He walked back to his car and saw the outline of a man sitting on the passenger side. He immediately recognized the man as Kermit. He tried to push back his worry and fear for Peter's well being and replace them with an air of calmness. He climbed into the driver's side. "What in the hell are you doing here? I thought we had an understanding."

"Were you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That Peter was kidnapped tonight."

Paul was silent for a moment. He couldn't lie to his friend. "How'd you find out?"

"It's amazing what you can hack into at the police department. I saw the dispatch report. Has there been any contact from Nabours...I'm assuming that he wants to exchange Peter for me."

"There's been no contact, yet. His abductors are supposed to call me."

"No leads as to where they've taken him?"

"Nothing."

"So, were you going to tell me?"

Paul looked into the eyes of his friend. The sunglasses had been removed. "No. At least not yet."

Kermit couldn't help his anger, "Damn it, Paul, this is my fault. Peter's life is at stake because of me. You don't have the right to hide something like this from me."

Paul matched Kermit's anger, "I have every right...you're my friend and Peter's my son. I don't want either of you hurt." Paul leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. "I'm going to find him...but I'm not going to sacrifice you in the process."

"But, Paul..."

"Kermit, that's enough...I don't want to talk about it any more." Paul started the car engine and pulled out into the street. He was going to take Kermit back to the hide out and at least make sure that his friend was protected.

Peter was certain his captors would keep their promise. After eating the meager meal and using the facilities, Peter looked at his watch. He calculated that within a minute or two the door would be opened, providing his only chance to escape from his captivity. Like clockwork, a key was turned into the lock on the other side of the door. Peter laid down on the floor and feigned unconsciousness, attempting to convince the men that he was more helpless than he actually was. His plan was to strike out at them when they came to lift him off the floor, taking them off guard. He assumed that he would be fighting all four men, and while he doubted he was physically up to the challenge, he hoped that the desperation of his situation would add to his abilities.

The door opened and two of the men entered the room. They stopped when they saw Peter's body lying on the floor, unmoving. One crouched down to check his pulse. At that moment, Peter struck out at the man with all his strength. The palm of his right hand rammed into his nose and the man's head was flung backwards, blood spraying from his face. The second man rushed forward and Peter kicked out, catching him in the groin. The man crumpled to the floor, writhing in pain. Peter climbed to his feet and rushed to the doorway...and into the arms of the other two men. He fought like a madman, flinging his arms and legs against his captors. Twisting his body, he had started to work himself free of their grip, when suddenly and unexpectedly he was struck from behind, a foot ramming into his lower back, impacting with his kidney. The pain from the blow dropped Peter to his knees, he cried out and couldn't stop the tears which suddenly clouded his vision. A second blow came from above and impacted with his temple; the temple which had been bruised by the steering wheel of his car. Peter gasped in pain and collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

End Part 3