The Price of Love
By Terri D. Thomas
Part 3
Kermit arrived home well after 10:30 that night. He had found the deposit records Peter had requested, and it certainly looked as if Anderson Fielding was on the take. After returning a few e-mail messages to acquaintances from around the world, Kermit decided it was time to head home.
It felt good to be back. The two weeks in Des Moines were uneventful and seemed to drag on forever. Getting back to the faster paced life at the 101st was definitely more appealing to an ex-mercenary. He removed his suit jacket and took the gun from its holster. Loosening the tie, he walked into the bathroom, debating on taking a shower. His muscles were stiff from disuse and the warm water sounded appealing. He stripped down and turned the facet to the hottest temperature his body could tolerate.
Stepping beneath the pulsating water, he allowed his mind to clear. Closing his eyes, his thoughts drifted aimlessly to Peter's investigation, to the stack of work on the corner of his desk, to the Captain, to the seminar. . .to the pain. His eyes flew open. "Where did that come from?" His voice surprised even himself. With a newfound uneasiness he tried to grasp onto the last thought, but it escaped him, having the consistency of air. He shook off the gnawing feeling developing in his stomach, and grabbed the soap, deciding it was time to finish the shower instead of letting his mind wander off.
Suddenly tired, he climbed into bed after toweling dry. His body was chilled and he buried himself beneath the covers in an effort to keep warm. Maybe he was coming down with something. Great, he thought, I've been gone two weeks from the precinct at some pointless seminar and now I'm going to be out with the flu. Captain's gonna love this.
He curled up on his side and closed his eyes, mind starting to enter a relaxed state. Within a minute, he fell asleep.
Unlike his son, Kwai Chang Caine entered a meditative state easily. He sat on the floor, in a half-lotus position, eyes closed. Peter sat across from him, staring at the candle which had been placed in the middle of the floor. The younger Caine concentrated on his breathing, attempting to keep it slow and steady. He tried to empty his mind, but instead found it jumping from one subject to another, never staying on one thought for any length of time. His father had suggested using the candle to focus his concentration, but instead, Peter found that the candle did nothing to ease his thoughts.
Finally, he could take no more. "Was Mom any good at this?"
Without opening his eyes, his father answered with a slight smile, "She was not."
"Good. You always said I took after her. Makes me feel better." Peter sighed deeply and shifted position, noticing his left foot was falling asleep.
Caine opened his eyes, "Peter, you must practice the art of meditation. It is not something that comes naturally. It requires concentration and patience."
"Well, Pop, I hate to surprise you, but patience has never been one of my long suits." Peter smiled.
"Something else you inherited from your Mother." Caine returned the smile and then closed his eyes, returning to his state of serenity. Peter watched, envious at the ease in which his father bounced back and forth from consciousness thought to meditation.
He closed his eyes again and concentrated on clearing his thoughts. The jumbled and unorganized patterns of his musings began to fall into place, as if forming a line of doors down a long hallway. He pictured himself walking down the hallway and shutting each door. Try as he might, however, he couldn't ignore the temptation of peaking in each room. . .thinking about the thought. . .before closing the door.
Door number one- He saw himself peaking over Kermit's shoulder, watching the computer experts fingers gliding over the keyboard, accessing the information needed from the bank records. . .I need to figure out a way to get into Fielding's office. . .maybe Kermit can help me with that too. Then the door shut.
Door number two- Kermit. . .wonder if he would want to go to the hockey game with me Wednesday night? This door similarly closed.
Door number three- Paul used to go to the hockey game with me. God, I miss him, I hope he's okay. Peter hugged Paul, saw the tears in his eyes as he said his goodbye. Slam the door shut.
Door number four- Pain.
Peter's eyes flew open and an uncontrolled gasp escaped his throat. Caine opened his eyes and was at his son's side in an instant. "Peter? What is wrong?" He had felt the disturbance in his son's chi immediately.
Peter said nothing for a moment, unable to answer, confusion written all over his face. "I. . .I don't know. I was trying to meditate. . .trying to clear my thoughts. . .suddenly the only thing in my mind was pain."
"Where do you hurt?" His father's hands quickly skimmed over the surface of Peter's body, matching his son's confused look. "I can find nothing wrong."
Peter frowned. "That's just it. I don't hurt. I'm not in pain. It was just that my mind centered on pain."
Caine tilted his head and then placed a hand on Peter's forehead. "Perhaps a memory you were trying to block caused you this discomfort. What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing, really. I thought about a case I'm working on. . .and going to the hockey game with Kermit. . .and saying goodbye to Paul. . .and then. . ." his voice trailed off. "I can't remember. Why can't I remember, Pop."
"Do not worry. I am sure that it is nothing to be concerned about." Caine placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "It is probably best that you go home and get some rest. It is past your bedtime," he smiled at his son.
Peter tilted his head and grinned at his father, "Past my bedtime? Give me a break, Pop. It's only 10:45. And when did you start taking it upon yourself to know when I go to bed."
"A father must make sure that his child has enough rest." His tone became paternal, "You do not get enough sleep, Peter. Perhaps that is why your meditation was disturbed." He climbed to his feet and offered Peter a hand.
Peter accepted the gesture and allowed his father to pull him up. "So you gonna tuck me in, too?"
"You have only to ask, my Son." His father grinned and then quickly brought his right hand to Peter's cheek in one of his infamous love taps.
"Maybe next time, Pop." The younger Caine leaned forward and placed a kiss on his father's forehead. His father smiled warmly and escorted him to the door.
"Will you stop by tomorrow?" He asked as Peter walked down the hallway.
"Yeah. It'll be late, though. I'm going to ask Kermit to help me with a special project and I'm not sure when we'll be finished."
"I will wait up for you. Perhaps we can practice your mediation once again." His father said hopefully.
"Oh joy," Peter laughed, knowing that it would be another evening filled with frustration. He bounced down the stairs, climbed into the Stealth and drove off into the blackness of night.
End Part 3
The Price of Love
By Terri D. Thomas
Part 4
Peter climbed into bed almost immediately after returning home. "See Pop, I don't need you to tuck me in," he smiled to himself. Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift back to the meditation session. He wished that he could be more like his father. . .understand the thoughts that passed through his mind, organize them and then let them go. The peace would be nice.
Without knowing it, Peter's conscious let go of his mind and sleep took over. The subconscious thoughts of the dream world now controlled. He was running with a man through a forest. There was gunfire all around him. He couldn't see the man's face at first, but his physical presence was familiar and comforting.
Trees grabbed at his clothing as he stumbled through the woods, avoiding the bullets that were smacking into the ground at his feet. Suddenly there was a gasp of pain and his unknown companion fell to the ground. He stopped and turned to help. Arm reaching down he turned the body over and found he was staring into Paul Blaisdell's face.
"Paul? Oh my God, Paul. You're hurt." The gunfire continued, and he dropped onto the ground next to his father, covering his body with his own. A shadow fell over his body, blocking the sunlight. He looked up and could only make out a silhouette of a man, gun in hand pointing at the defenseless men. Peter took a deep breath and reached for the gun he had dropped when falling to the ground, but before he could lift it, a horrendous explosion echoed through the forest and pain enveloped his chest. As his vision blurred, turning to black, the gunman crouched down to examine his work. Peter found he was staring into the cruel eyes of…Oh my God, no…"It's me!" He yelled and shot up out of bed.
Five miles across town, Kermit screamed.
Peter didn't sleep for the rest of the night. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was his own face holding the gun that had shot Paul. . .shot himself. It didn't make sense; of course dreams rarely did.
Peter returned to the precinct at the crack of dawn, finding that sitting at home was too disturbing. He thought about consulting his father over the mysterious dream, but then decided that it was childish to run to his father's arms just because of a nightmare, especially after the "Do you want me to tuck you in" incident.
He vowed to forget the dream and push it out of his mind, in the same way he pushed away the nightmares he had as a small child. But those nightmares were of dragons and monsters, not of father's being shot by his own hands. He shook his head and made his way to the coffeepot, deciding that a shot of caffeine might clear his head.
It was only then that he noticed that Kermit's office light was on and the door closed. Detouring from the route to the coffeepot, he made his way to his friend's door and tapped lightly. "Kermit?"
There was no response and so Peter decided to peak in carefully. Kermit sat at the computer, but he was not typing. His head was resting in his hands and he appeared to be asleep, but with the sunglasses it was impossible to know for sure.
Peter wasn't sure whether to disturb the man. He decided that maybe it was better to leave him alone and started to shut the door silently. Suddenly, Kermit looked up and over at the door, startled. "Peter?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you." Peter said quietly.
"It's okay. I must've drifted off. Come on in. I could use the company." He sat back in his chair and pulled off the sunglasses, rubbing his eyes absently. "You're in awfully early this morning. Wanted to get an early start on the Fielding case, huh."
Peter smiled. "Yeah, right. Dedication's my motto." He leaned back in the chair and tilted his head, "Why are you in so early?"
"What, I'm not dedicated?" Kermit asked with mock insult.
Peter chuckled. "I get the feeling that neither of us are here out of dedication today. I couldn't sleep. . .how about you."
Kermit shrugged, "Me either."
"Great, we’re gonna be in rare form today, huh." Peter grinned.
"Yeah, the way I feel right now I would keel over in the middle of a hot pursuit." Kermit said defeatedly. "I thought maybe I was coming down with the flu, but then I realized that . . ."
"Frogs don't get sick?" Peter joked.
The dirty look from Kermit stopped Peter from pursuing the comment any further, "No. I realized that I wasn't running a fever."
"Well, maybe you're just exhausted from the trip. Iowa can take a lot out of you, you know," Peter shrugged.
"Yeah, too exciting. Maybe next year they can hold it in Kansas." Kermit responded sarcastically.
Peter chuckled again and then looked around to make sure no one else was listening in, "Hey, I need a favor. I want to sting Fielding. I'm gonna drop some hints that I can connect him to Jackson's death and the mob and see if he'll lead me to his boss. I debated on going inside Fielding's office tonight to see what I could dig up, but decided that would not be wise if I wanted to keep my job."
"Jackson's the dead informant?" Kermit asked, sliding the glasses back on.
"Yep. He was a good friend of Donny Double D's. Donny's pretty shook up about what happened. I promised him I would help."
"So what do you need me to do?" Kermit tilted his head, smiling at his friend.
"I just want you to keep me company. . .backup." Peter shrugged.
"You mean the great, hotshot cop, Peter Caine, is asking for backup." Kermit laughed. "God, does that mean there are Ice Capades in Hell now?"
It was now Peter's turn to give the ex-mercenary a dirty look, "Hey what can I say, I've matured."
"Yeah, right." Kermit was still laughing.
"So will you help me?" Peter pressed.
"You bet, Kid. What time are we going to set Mr. Fielding up?"
"Let's do it this morning. That'll give us the whole day. Maybe he'll make a move quick and we can both get a good night's sleep." Peter stood and left Griffin's office, determined now to get a cup of coffee.
End Part 4