The Price of Love

By Terri D. Thomas

Part 7

"Anybody seen Caine?" was the shout from the burly Frank Strenlich. The rotund man was holding a file in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

Blake walked into the squad room shaking his head, "Nope."

"Anybody seen Kermit?" the Chief's voice still boomed.

Blake repeated the negative response. He sat down at his desk and opened up the file sitting on top. "I've been in since about 7:00 and I haven't seen either of them."

Strenlich glanced at his watch, it was almost 9:00. Kermit was always in by 7:00. Peter, on the other hand, could be expected anywhere between 6:00 and lunchtime. The Chief smiled to himself, it was a good thing Blaisdell's kid was such a damn good detective or Strenlich would have fired him years ago for his tardiness. The Chief turned to Blake, "If either Caine or Kermit report in, I want to talk with them."

"Yes, Chief," Blake responded obediently.

Strenlich walked to the Captain's office and tapped on the doorframe. She looked up from the report she was reading, "Yes Chief."

"Did you see the report from the night shift Commander?" He held out the file in his hands.

Simm's shook her head no, "I've been working on budget reports all morning."

"You'll want to see this." He said, his face serious.

She grabbed the file and flipped to the summary page. "Caine and Kermit were in a shooting. Why wasn't I told about this earlier?"

Frank shook his head, "I don't know. I found the report on my desk with a note from the Commander saying that Peter and Kermit would be in early to explain." He looked back out over the squadroom. "They haven't been in yet."

The Captain's eyes narrowed, "Find them."

The Chief nodded, "I'll call."

The force of the blow created a flash of pain across Peter's face, rudely rousing him from his slumber. . .no, not slumber, unconsciousness. Blood filled his mouth from the resulting cut on the inside of his cheek and a groan caught in his throat. His eyes were heavy and he had to force the lids to open. Before he could take note of his surroundings, another fist connected with his face, snapping his head back painfully. This time the groan was completed.

With the world tilted at an odd angle now, it took a moment for Peter to get his bearings, as he realized that his head was cocked backwards and turned slightly to the right. He concentrated bringing his head back to a more comfortable position, but the offending hand decided to offer unwelcomed assistance. It grabbed a fistfull of his hair and pulled his head upright.

A sudden stabbing pain pierced Peter's side and he tried to look down to see what was wrong. The hand prevented the movement. Peter struggled against the hand, but with his own hands tied to the arms and feet tied to the legs of the chair, he had no ability to fight back. He did the only thing he could do, look his attacker straight in the eyes with defiance.

Peter looked at the face which belonged to the hand that held him, prepared to confront his unknown attacker. His eyes gazed upwards and made contact with those of the assailant. Peter hitched his breath when he recognized the face immediately, "Stiles."

"Hello Peter." Bartlett Stiles voice was friendly, but the smile was cold. "I was hoping you'd be joining us soon."

"How'd you. . ." Peter's voice was raspy and he swallowed, trying to clear the blood from his mouth. "You're in prison."

Stile's laughed, "I was in prison. Now I'm out."

"How'd you get out?" Peter frowned at the man.

"It's amazing what some well-placed bribes will do, not to mention a few good connections." The ex-SWAT commander shrugged.

Peter looked around the room, his eyes clearer. It was dark and musty, probably a basement in an older building. It was lit with a single light bulb in the center of the room. "So, what's going on, Stiles? Why am I here?"

Stiles fist shot out again and connected with Peter's jaw, once again painfully snapping his head back. "I ask the questions. You are a prisoner of war. You have no rights. You will only speak when spoken to and you will answer all my questions when asked. Understand?"

Peter raised his head, immediately deciding the man was crazy. He didn't respond. Stiles fist slammed into the side of his head, making contact with Peter's temple. The blow caused an immediate bout of dizziness and Peter dropped his head forward, unable to keep the room from spinning. Stiles grabbed his hair again, pulling the head up. "I said, 'Do you understand?'"

"Go to Hell, Stiles," Peter spat at his torturer.

"Already been there," the man whispered back sinisterly. "And now you're going there too."

Peter tried to maintain eye contact with his attacker, deciding to stare him down. A door opened from across the room and a figure walked in. Peter could see it was a man, but the room's poor lighting prevented him from making out any details. "Good. Now we can begin." Stiles coldly smiled at the young cop.

The new visitor was blocked from Peter's view by Stiles' body. "Are you ready, my friend?" Stiles asked. Peter, confused, thought he was talking to him, then he realized that Stiles was talking to the new arrival.

Stiles stood straight and backed away from Peter. Peter, his view still obstructed by Stiles, heard two simple words that drove a dagger through his heart, "Oh yeah."

End Part 7

The Price of Love

By: Terri D. Thomas

Part 8

Strenlich let the phone ring at least ten times, but there was no answer. Frank hung up, more than a little irritated by the absence of his two detectives. It was 10:30 and neither of the men appeared to be at home, nor were they at work, which meant they were somewhere they shouldn't be. A shadow fell over the desk and the burly chief looked up. "Caine?" Frank was startled to see Peter's father standing patiently, hat in hand.

"I am sorry that I am disturbing you, but I was wondering if you had seen Peter this morning?" Caine's normally calm face looked slightly stressed.

"No, in fact we've been looking for Peter and Kermit all morning. Neither one reported for his shift." Strenlich leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyes absently. "I'll be honest with you, Caine, I'm worried."

"Why do you worry?" Caine asked the rotund man.

"Last night Peter and Kermit were involved in a mob shooting." He opened up a file on the desk. "Peter was apparently trying to get evidence to convict a mob lawyer of money laundering and murder. He had agreed to meet him last night."

"Yes. I was with Peter when the meeting was arranged." Caine nodded.

"Well, things went sour. The lawyer was killed and Kermit shot the gunman. I'm afraid the mob may not have taken too kindly to that act."

"So you believe that Peter and Kermit are in danger?" Caine asked.

"Well, I certainly think it's a possibility. I tried phoning both of them, but neither were at home. I was just getting ready to go to their apartments to see if there were any signs."

"I will go with you." Caine said simply. Strenlich thought about trying to convince Peter's father to stay behind, but realized that trying to stop Caine was like trying to stop the wind. The Chief grabbed his coat and headed for the door, Caine following close behind.

The blood from the wound on Peter's temple had sealed his eyelid shut. He had to concentrate to force the eye open. He wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious, but judging by the stiffness in his joints and the pain in his side, he was certain that it had been several hours. Opening his eyes had not made much difference. The room was dark, the only light had been turned off, leaving Peter in total blackness. The cold of the basement seeped into his body, and he couldn't stop the tremors that shook his muscles and took his breath.

His mind drifted back to his last thoughts before losing his grip on reality. Stiles had hit him, ordered him to answer his questions. . .what questions? Guess it really didn't matter now. Then the door had opened; another had walked into the room; and then a voice which should have brought hope to Peter, instead brought only pain.

The "Oh yeah," Peter had heard was unmistakably Kermit's. Peter raised his head, shocked to hear Stiles referring to Kermit as "friend." Kermit hated Stiles as much as he did. It had to be a mistake. Peter's hopes skyrocketed when he realized that Kermit held the Desert Eagle in his hand, meaning he was there to help him. The young cop smiled a crocked grin at the ex-mercenary, fully expecting him to take out Stiles. Instead, Kermit walked forward, smiled at the bound man, raised the gun and brought it down on to Peter's temple. Darkness and pain engulfed Peter's vision and he lost consciousness.

The head wounds had resulted in blurry vision. Peter blinked several times in a futile attempt to clear it. The pain in his side flared up and he strained to look down and examine the wound. The bullet fired at him in Kermit's apartment appeared to have grazed his right side. He was pretty sure the wound itself was not fatal, but the pain was certainly debilitating. But the pain in his side was nothing in comparison to the pain in his heart. Kermit smiling sinisterly as he struck his friend, without hesitation or forethought was not only a physical shock, it had been an emotional trauma as well.

Confusion took over Peter's brain. There had to be a logical reason for Kermit doing these things. He knew that Kermit he hated him for what he did to Paul. He had said on several occasions that if Stiles had not been imprisoned, Kermit would have dealt his own brand of justice. Never would Kermit work with the man, Peter was sure of that. So why would Kermit be here with Stiles now?

Suddenly, the door to the basement opened. The light from the outer room temporarily blinded Peter. He shut his eyes to block out the glare until he heard the door shut. The single light bulb in the room was turned on, causing pain to the eyes again. Peter shut and then slowly opened them, hoping they would adjust to the lighting soon. As his vision cleared, he saw Kermit standing in front of him, smiling.

"Oh God, Kermit. Get me out of here." Peter couldn't help his immediate prayer for help.

Kermit said nothing, only continued smiling. "Kermit, please. You have to get me out of here." Nothing. "Kermit, what's wrong? Why are you here?"

Kermit walked behind Peter's chair, stopping directly behind the bound man. He reached forward and rested a hand on Peter's shoulder. "You know, paybacks are hell," he whispered in Peter's ear.

A look of confusion crossed Peter's face, "Kermit, what are you talking about?" Peter tugged on the bindings, "You gotta get me out of here."

Kermit continued to whisper in Peter's ear, "You thought you could break me. . .break Paul, but you didn't. . .you failed." He stood and walked in front of Peter again. "You screwed up. You should have made sure that I didn't get out of Afghanistan alive."

Peter shook his head, "Kermit, you're not making any sense."

Kermit stepped forward and grabbed Peter's chin, holding it tightly in his grasp, "I'll never forgive you for what you did to Paul. He was my best friend. . .I will have my revenge, I promise you that."

"Paul? Kermit stop it!" Peter yelled, the confusion and pain of Kermit's words overwhelming him. "I didn't do anything to Paul. . .What in the hell are you talking about?"

Kermit stepped closer and kneeled down in front of Peter's chair. He reached forward and placed a hand on Peter's arm, which was still tied down to the chair. "Shut up," he said quietly to the prisoner.

"Kermit? Why are you doing this? I don't understand." Peter pleaded for a logical answer.

"If you don't shut up, I'll shut you up." The man said without emotion.

"Kermit, listen to me. There's something wrong with you. Stiles has done something to you. . .you have to listen to me." Peter couldn't stop the panic which was starting to rise in his voice.

Kermit's hand shot downward and grabbed Peter's right side, squeezing the bloody gunshot wound. The suddenness of the assault took Peter by surprise and he wasn't able to stop the scream of pain escaping from his lips. His vision blurred again as black spots gathered in front of his eyes. His head listed forward and the last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the smile returning to Kermit's face, "I told you I'd shut you up. Next time, listen."

End Part 8

The Price of Love

By Terri D. Thomas

Part 9

"Peter!" Caine grasped his side desperately and leaned into the pain.

"Caine, what’s wrong?" Strenlich supported the priest by an arm to keep him from falling.

It took a moment for Kwai Chang Caine to recover. He took a deep breath and straightened. "Peter is hurt. He is in pain," the father replied wearily.

Strenlich looked at the blood, which stained Kermit’s living room, "Then this is from Peter?"

Caine looked at the crimson discoloration and nodded, "I believe so."

"What about Kermit?" Strenlich couldn’t help but conclude that both of his detectives were in trouble.

Caine said nothing. Instead he walked to the couch and picked up a blanket which was carelessly thrown over the back. He held it in his hands and closed his eyes. "I feel his pain."

"He’s hurt too?"

Caine slowly shook his head, "No, not hurt, but he is in pain."

Strenlich’s face changed from confusion to frustration. "Damn it, what are those bastards doing to them?"

Caine shook his head, "I do not think it is the. . .mob which is causing this pain."

"Of course it is," the Chief argued. "Who else could it be?"

"I am not sure. Peter’s mind has been in a state of confusion and torment for the past two days. I feel that his confusion is somehow linked to the physical pain he is experiencing now."

"But what would that have to do with Griffin?" Strenlich was perplexed.

"I am not certain. But I know that Peter’s pain is directly related to Kermit’s."

Strenlich took a deep breath, considering their next move. "Do you have any idea where they are?"

Caine closed his eyes, attempting to calm his chi and link with his son’s. Defeated, he shook his head. "All I can feel is Peter’s pain. He is experiencing intense emotions. He does not understand what is happening to him, or why. He feels betrayed." The last words were a mere whisper.

"So what do we do?" Frank was at a loss for solutions.

Peter’s father dropped the blanket to the couch. "I must find Master Lo Si. I believe he can help me."

The intense stabbing pain in his side brought Peter to his senses instantly. He slowly opened his eyes, dreading what he would see. He was not disappointed. Kermit Griffin stood in front of him, watching like cat ready to pounce on its prey.

"Can’t have you passing out on me." He grinned at his friend.

Peter shook his head, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. The pain in his side had intensified and he could feel the stickiness of the blood that seeped from the wound and penetrated his shirt. "Kermit, please. Something’s wrong with you. You have to listen to me."

Kermit glared at the young man. "The only thing wrong with me is that you killed Paul and I never made sure you paid for it." His fist slammed into Peter’s abdomen. Peter wasn’t prepared and felt the air escape his lungs.

Fighting for breath, Peter felt tears gathering in his eyes. "I killed Paul?" he gasped, "Are you nuts? What are you talking about? Paul left. He’s not dead." Actually, Peter realized that it was possible Paul was dead. There had been no contact from the man for over two months. With the enemies he had attracted over the years, death was a daily companion. But Peter killing Paul? What could Kermit be thinking to accuse him of something that heinous?

Griffin’s fist shot forward again, connecting this time with Peter’s wound. Peter groaned, his head falling forward. This time, the tears fell.

The door to the room opened and Bartlett Stiles entered. "Griffin?"

Kermit turned to the man obediently. Stiles smiled. "Leave us."

Without question or comment, Kermit exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

"I wish he had obeyed my orders like that years ago. Things would have been so much simpler." Stiles grinned.

"What have you done to him," Peter grimaced. He was fighting to maintain consciousness, a flood of emotions and agony overtaking his mind.

Stiles laughed and began to circle Peter's chair. "You know, they say that a man can't be hypnotized into doing something that is against his nature. They're right. But with the drugs available these days, who needs hypnotism."

"He's been drugged?" Peter couldn't help the surprise.

Stiles leaned against the wall, still proudly smiling at the bound man. "Actually, it's a cleaver combination of drugs that I stumbled across a few months ago. Some. . .friends. . .of mine were using it to, shall we say, influence the outcome of a small skirmish Kenya. It's really quite impressive. One drug makes the mind open to suggestion, the other actually affects long-term memory. When combined, memories can be altered with just a few carefully worded suggestions."

"The dreams. . .I saw me hurting Kermit. . .hurting Paul. That was you?" Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Neat trick, huh." Stiles laughed. "I took a memory that I knew was painful for Kermit. . ."

"Afghanistan?" Peter interrupted.

Stiles nodded and continued, "and then I manipulated it so that he saw you as his torturer, rather than the soldier that really inflicted the pain."

"But he says that I killed Paul. . .how did you. . ." Peter's eyes still showed his confusion.

"I planted that memory." Stiles walked around the chair again. "You see, I was present when Kermit and Paul were debriefed after the Afghanistan fiasco. Kermit had told me that he was certain Paul had been killed by their torturer. All I did was made him forget the truth."

"But if he thought I had killed Paul, why didn't he shoot me on sight a few days ago?" The pain in Peter's side was now becoming unbearable, but the pain in his heart was worse.

"Simple. . .that wasn't my plan," Stiles snorted.

"What is your plan?" Peter dreaded hearing the answer, but he had to ask the question.

"I will take my ultimate revenge against Paul Blaisdell," Stiles answered firmly.

Peter said nothing, now certain he didn't want to hear the next words. Stiles spoke anyway, "Kermit kills you. . .and then Paul kills Kermit."

End Part 9

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