Part 1

The phone rang as Paul stepped out of the shower. Toweling himself, he heard Annie answer the phone.

"Hello. Yes, Frank, he's here. Hold on. Paul? Telephone."

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he walked into the bedroom and saw his wife sitting up in bed, her shoulder-length red hair falling neatly in place, holding the phone with her hand over the receiver.

Paul bent over to kiss her. "Good morning." He gazed into her unseeing eyes and reached for the phone. To him, she saw every depth of his being, though she had been blind for many years.

"Good morning," she answered back in a purr as he took the phone.

"Yeah, Frank. What's the problem?" Paul asked, still smiling as he sat down on the bed. Annie began rubbing his back.

Frank Strenlich, Chief of Detectives, hesitated. Paul heard the heavy man breathe out a sigh of exasperation.

"Peter?"

"He's late," Frank answered.

"He may be out checking on something. Have you tried his apartment?" Paul put a finger to his lips.

Though Annie couldn't see the motion, she felt for his hand and squeezed, the one-sided conversation causing her to tense. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until her lungs started demanding fresh air.

"I've been calling his apartment for the past hour. The line stays busy. His cell phone is in the charger here."

"OK. I'll go see if he's home. I have a spare key. Maybe in his rush, he knocked the phone off the hook." Paul hung up the phone.

"You don't really believe that, do you?" Annie asked.

"No, but it's better than thinking of other possibilities." Paul dressed quickly, thinking of the other possibilities.

The apartment building's exterior shone brightly in the morning sun. Peter had hoped his fear of heights would be somewhat overcome when he rented an apartment halfway up the tall building. Paul pulled into the parking deck, searched for Peter's spot, and found his foster son's blue Stealth. He had hoped the car wouldn't be there. Peter had been known to be late to check in, usually he met with his snitch in the mornings before coming to the station.

Paul pulled into the extra parking space reserved for Peter's visitors. Looking over the Stealth, Paul felt the hood. 'Engine's cold. Hasn't been anywhere in a while.'

Exiting the elevator to Peter's floor, then walking down the hall, Paul felt a sense of foreboding. The feeling became stronger as he walked to Peter's apartment and discovered the door closed but unlocked. Paul reached to his waist, retrieved his snub-nosed pistol, and slowly pushed the door open further. "Peter? Are you here? It's me: Paul."

Not getting an answer, Paul walked into the apartment. The kitchen was off the short hallway to his right; a quick glance told him no one was there. Then he walked down the two steps to Peter's living room. He noticed first the train set sprawled on the floor, the village (which Peter and Paul had been working on since Peter was 15) scattered in broken pieces, and the plywood base overturned and propped up against the stand. The train itself was strewn across the floor, looking like a train that had jumped the track.

"Peter?" He called.

A low moan answered to his left, behind the bedroom door.

Again with gun ready, Paul slowly pushed open the door. All his senses were alert for any noise or movement that might be from an intruder. What Paul saw when the door was completely opened, though, stunned him.

Peter lay in the middle of the queen-size bed, his wrists bound together and tied over his head to the headboard. The white sheet covering him up to his waist had a blood stain as wide as Peter's hips. A knife protruded from his abdomen through the sheet. The phone had been pulled from its niche in the headboard and lay in a pile on the floor.

Paul cautiously checked the bathroom and closet, then rushed to Peter's side. He gently brushed the perspiration on Peter's forehead and cheeks away, noting Peter's breathing being shallow. He watched as Peter struggled to open his eyes, seeing the dark hazel pools reflecting the terror Peter had lived through.

Peter recognized Paul and relief flooded him as he realized his tormentor was gone. Instead, Paul was there, offering hope and safety. Blood loss and the battle to stay alive had taken its toll, and prevented the words from coming out.

Paul picked up the phone and reset it, getting a dial tone, and then called 911. "This is Captain Paul Blaisdell of the 101st Precinct. I need an ambulance; my son has been stabbed. Yes, that's right." Paul acknowledged the address the operator read off her screen then he dialed the precinct's number and asked for Frank. "I need a crime unit at Peter's," Paul said calmly. With his other hand, he placed his fingers lightly over Peter's lips as Peter tried to talk. "He's been stabbed. I have an ambulance on the way."

Hanging up the phone, Paul looked at the knife. His first aid training came back: never remove a protruding penetrating object. The knife's hilt was jade, carved in the form of a dragon. Only a small amount of the straight blade was exposed in the morning light streaming in from the vertical blinds, showing the splattered blood on the knife and sheets.

. Paul recognized it as the dagger Peter had retrieved from the temple after it had been destroyed when he was 12. When Peter had come to live with them, the orphanage had given the dagger to Paul; fifteen years later, when Peter's real father was found to be alive, Peter had given the ceremonial dagger back to Kwai Chang Caine.

Paul gingerly untied the restraints on Peter's wrists, carefully laying his son's arms to his sides. Peter grimaced with each move, squeezing his eyelids tight and pursing his lips against the pain. Paul apologized for the pain he was causing and prayed the paramedics would arrive soon.

"Paul," a whispered word came out.

Paul again tried to keep Peter quiet and still, as Peter started trying to move his arms and legs. Paul recognized these as signs of shock from the blood loss - the pale color, sweating, restless behavior. But deep inside, he wanted answers.

"Why did…he do…it?" Peter's breathing was more labored. The bloodstain on the sheet grew as a shiver ran through his body.

Paul pulled up a blanket from the foot of the bed and covered Peter, being careful of the knife. "Do you know who did this?" Paul asked.

"P-P-Pop. Why?" Peter's eyes filled with tears of pain and confusion.

Paul didn't know if Peter meant his father had stabbed him, but this was Caine's dagger. "Sh-h-h. Relax," Paul encouraged, as Peter again started to move.

The sound of a stretcher rolling down the hall alerted Paul to the arrival of the paramedics. A two-way radio squawked as the two men came in.

Behind them were Chief Strenlich and a crime scene team. One man on the team quickly took a picture of Peter and the knife as the paramedics stabilized the dagger to prevent movement during transport. Paul stepped back next to Frank and watched the various personnel do their jobs.

"He know who did it?" Frank asked, shifting his broad, compact frame from the doorway so the medics could move Peter to the stretcher.

Paul took a deep breath and ran the back of this hand across his mouth. "I think so. Carter, before they go, take a picture of his wrists."

Carter obeyed, then proceeded to take further pictures of the restraints tied to the headboard. Another officer dusted for prints. Detective's Kermit Griffin and Mary Margaret Skalaney stepped to the side as the paramedics pushed the stretcher with Peter through the doorway. As the stretcher passed Paul, he leaned down and whispered in Peter's ear, "I'll meet you at the hospital."

Peter nodded, his face covered by an oxygen mask, his right arm connected to IV tubing that lead to a bag of fluid held by one of the medics.

The three detectives trailed Paul into the living room so the crime unit could finish in the bedroom. "I used the phone and placed it back on the headboard. Whoever did this may have knocked it down." Paul stated.

A commotion at the front door caught their attention. "Is he all right?" a feminine voice asked.

"Who's that, Geralsky?" Frank called out.

"Says she's a neighbor," the uniformed officer answered.

Frank motioned to let her in.

The woman was pale, her dyed blonde hair up in curlers, exposing her dark roots.

"And you are?" Paul asked.

"Maria. Maria Turner. Is Peter all right? I saw his father come in this morning."

Paul was alert and asked, "You've seen his father before?"

"Well, yes. He helped me with my arthritis. Lovely man."

"What time did you see him this morning?" Paul continued, apprehension growing. It was one thing for him to think of Caine as a suspect, but to have a witness who saw him was another.

"Well," Ms. Turner proceeded. "I couldn't sleep. I heard him knocking on Peter's door and it was 4 o'clock in the morning! That's when I saw him."

Paul thanked her and told her they would contact her if they had more questions.

After she left, Paul looked at his three officers. The words he was about to say chilled him. "I want Caine picked up for questioning."

Strenlich, Griffin, and Skalaney stared at him in stunned silence.

Skalaney was the first to get her senses back. "Captain, you can't be serious! That's Peter's father. He couldn't do this."

"All I know is: Peter asked me why his father did this, the dagger in his gut belongs to Caine, and that woman saw him. Pick him up, Detective."

To Part 2