By Jackee C.

Mud splattered on his sneakers as he trudged through yet another puddle, adding mottled streaks of gritty brown to the once black and white Converse All-Stars. It didn't matter. He was nearing his goal. For the first time, he would be doing it on his own, proving that he was ready for this responsibility. He didn't need some babysitter to walk him home from school. He knew his way around, and today he was going to prove it.

As he crossed through the rain dampened grass and neared the utilitarian brick building that was Johnston High School, the sounds of muffled grunts and groans greeted his ears. He picked up the pace. The taunts and cheers that accompanied the groans and whimpers registered in his young mind as a curiosity -- movie imagery to be brought to life.

Rounding the corner of the building he was brought up short. Three larger boys were beating up a thinner young man while another looked on. Curiosity turned to confusion as the scene continued to unfold, and he recognized the young man lying on the ground. He knew he cried out, but couldn't be sure of the words, and then he was running forward.

The larger boys paid little heed to his vain attempts to protect the other boy. They only laughed, pushing him away until he fell into the mud alongside their original target. The short-lived battle was over before it began. One of the larger boys said something that convinced the older boys to leave. They all shuffled away, their laughter echoing behind them.

As they disappeared behind the buses lined up near the student parking lot, he looked on with hatred in his eyes and mud and tears on his cheeks.

Something was wrong. Peter Caine knew it from the moment he steered his electric blue sports car into mid-afternoon traffic. Frowning, he threw a quick glance at the dash gauges. There were no warning lights, the tachometer indicated that the engine was at a nice, contented 2000 RPMs. There was even a full tank of gas. Everything seemed to be well in automobile land.

Turning his attention outward, he looked toward the clear, blue skies. No storms on the horizon. There was almost a playfulness to the atmosphere. Blustery autumn winds whipped at the branches of trees, scattering colorful leaves in a whirlwind dance. Even the pedestrian and automobile traffic seemed to move with jubilant energy under the brilliant sun of early fall. In a word, it was beautiful out. Just the kind of day Peter liked. So why was he getting such an incredible sense of foreboding?

Turning mechanically onto a side street, he continued to ponder the feeling on a less physical level. Maybe it was something from within. He felt okay. He'd paid the rent. He'd paid the cable bill -- not that he ever watched much television anyway. He'd --

A sudden flash of Day-Glo purple and a piercing sense of panic drew him forcefully to full alertness. His right foot slammed on the brake, throwing the car into a short, tire-screeching skid. By the time he focused out of the windshield, a small featured young woman with alternately green and purple hair stood frozen inches in front of his bumper.

"Jeez! Are you all right?" he called, making ready to climb out of the vehicle to offer assistance. It was the least he could do, considering the fact that he'd nearly mowed her down.

He'd hardly gotten the door open when the young woman's shocked expression turned to a snarl. "Learn how to drive, you freak!"

"Yeah! Freak!" A spiky-haired young man, garbed in chains and leather stepped to her side. Making identical obscene gestures in Peter's direction, they continued on across the street. The words "you suck" emblazoned across the back of matching jackets was his final view of the couple.

"There's gratitude for you," Peter huffed to himself, seriously considering the temptation to ticket the pair for borderline jay-walking, lewd behavior, poor fashion sense and whatever else he could think up along the way. But as satisfying as the thought was, it would only make him late for his appointment with Capt. Simms.

Resigning himself to duty, he put his car back in gear and continued on along the road. He studiously ignored the feeling of anxiety that nudged at his subconscious. "It's probably just the adrenaline," he murmured to himself. "Think about something else." Like the poker game at his apartment that night. Like the. . . Oh crap. Like the tequila I was supposed to pick up for Jordan's special margaritas.

There would be no time after work since Simm's meeting was likely to run long. But then he remembered that there was a liquor store just a couple blocks ahead. He threw a quick glance at his dash clock. If he could make the light at Summer Mill Road, get in and out of the store in six minutes, and take the freeway back to the precinct, he should have just enough time. Piece of cake. He could do this.

Summer Mill Road loomed ahead, and the light was green. Peter pressed his foot a bit more firmly into the gas pedal. Stay green.

One second ticked by. Stay green. We can do this.

Green changed to yellow. I can still do this. I can make this light.

"It is my destiny to make this light." Determined, he pushed even more firmly into the gas pedal. The high performance engine responded with a deep guttural sound as the car shot forward, pressing Peter slightly against the seat back The vehicle cleared the intersection just before the light switched to red.

"Woo! I love this car." His triumphant proclamation was barely past his lips when distinctly familiar flashing blue lights pulled in behind him.

"Oh, crap," he grumbled, looking down at his speedometer with a sinking feeling. Had his Shaolin Spidey senses been trying to warn him that there was a traffic cop nearby? Had he even exceeded the speed limit in the first place? As he scanned the street in search of a sign he caught sight of the liquor store. Pulling into the lot with the cruiser close on his tail, a plan began to form. Providing the patrolman had no gripes against the 101st, and could understand the value of a happy girlfriend and the correct drinks at the office poker game, nevermind getting back for a meeting with one's captain on time, the plan could work.

Peter cut the ignition with a sharp motion, satisfied with his idea. But when he would have removed the keys, his fingers lingered. The tiny stirrings of anxiety that had plagued him earlier were growing. He shook his head slightly as if to shake them off. It didn't work. The feelings wouldn't let go.

No time. There's no time for this. The words rushed through his mind as he climbed distractedly from the vehicle. Of course he didn't have any time. He had to buy tequila and meet with Simms.

There's no time! Can't stop it! Can't stop!

The words came more urgently, and Peter wasn't sure whether he had thought them or simply picked them up. Was his father trying to contact him? Pop?

"Remain in the vehicle!"

The patrolman's order interrupted Peter's disjointed musings. Reflexively, he extended his arms out to the sides in a gesture of non-aggression, and focused on the officer whose nameplate proclaimed that he was T. Denton. Peter didn’t like the nervous look the young patrolman shot in his direction. It was time to identify himself as one of the good guys.

"Listen. . . I. . . " Peter's voice trailed off as the feeling of foreboding suddenly pushed harder against his mind. His eyes seemed drawn in the direction of the liquor store. As he focused on the squat brick and glass building, sensation and imagery slammed into him with the power of a freight train. He staggered as his senses went into overload. Without conscious direction, he felt himself running.

"Stop!" Officer Denton's voice echoed into unimportance. Peter's entire focus was on reaching the liquor store. The distance to the glass front doors seemed impossibly far, and he felt as if time itself were dragging at his feet, holding him back from reaching his destination. But he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving. There was no more time.

He heard it then, a sudden deep rumbling boom followed by a brilliant flash. He felt the force slam into him mentally and physically. All was light and sound and color as he tumbled and fell, powerless to halt his momentum. And just as suddenly it was all gone. No sound, no color. Everything faded to black.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kwai Chang Caine moved quickly and steadily through the crowd gathered at the fringes of the liquor store parking lot. Nothing slowed his pace -- not the sounds of rapidly approaching sirens as emergency vehicles continued to arrive on the scene or even the acrid odor that clung to the air. Nothing until he cleared the crowds and got his first view of the building.

He froze for half a second as he took in the aftermath. Wreckage of glass, metal and wood extended out from the building like a great sweeping arm of destruction, leaving only the smoldering, charred remains of a structure. Caine knew instinctively that the destruction had taken lives and he worried for the slightly diminished light of the one he sought -- his son, Peter.

Moving forward, he recognized the shattering crunch underfoot as evidence of the violence of what had taken place. The fire truck, patrol cars and three ambulances parked on a grassy area to one side of the building testified as well. Pain, confusion and panic were pushed to the back of his mind as he finally located his son amid the chaos.

"You'll have to stay back, Sir." A uniformed officer barred his way.

"But my son is there." He pointed to the still form lying on a stretcher near one of the ambulances. A blue uniformed emergency medical technician was busily working over him. "He is a police officer. I must go to him."

"I'm sorry. No one beyond this point." The officer was firm.

"Let him in. He's with me." Caine turned as a familiar voice spoke from behind him.

"Kermit." He nodded his greeting and his appreciation to the bearded man with the green glasses. The officer behind the barricade examined Kermit's identification closely, but allowed them to pass.

"What has happened here, Kermit?" Caine asked, attempting to make sense of the heavy aura of pain and unexpected death that hung amid the lingering smoke. The sensations had the power to suffocate and overwhelm, yet he needed to understand what had happened so that he could understand the anguish that his son carried, even unconscious.

"Bomb." Kermit replied dispassionately as they picked their way through the debris toward Peter's stretcher. "Some wacko-nutcase trying to make a statement, no doubt. And, as expected, the kid manages to end up right in the middle of it. This isn't even the One-Oh-One's jurisdiction. Officers on the scene called the precinct. I was closest."

"You do not know why Peter was here, then," Caine said, disappointed that Kermit would not be able to provide an explanation for the unexpected emotional spike that he had sensed from Peter before their contact was severed.

Kermit offered a humorless chuckle as he gestured his head in the direction of a uniformed officer who was sitting half in one of the police cruisers, holding a pack to the side of his head. "According to that officer over there, getting a traffic citation."

"A traffic citation?" Caine hadn't expected that response.

"You know. A ticket?" Kermit looked at him questioningly, and Caine nodded for him to continue.

"In Peter's case, it was speeding and an expired tag. The officer says he just freaked and started running for the store. And then, boom! Bomb went off. Damn near took out the front of the building. Kid was lucky he didn't make it any closer or he would be dead."

"But he is not dead," Caine said as they reached Peter. Despite the daunting array of cuts and bruises marring Peter's face and arms, he sensed nothing immediately life threatening. He was vaguely aware that Kermit murmured something to the EMT as he closed his eyes and rested a hand on Peter's brow. But Peter was deeply unconscious, and resistant to the contact. Continuing to ignore the argument that the EMT behind him was rapidly losing with the bearded detective, he rubbed his hands together, gathering his strength for a deeper probe.

Feeling the heightened sensitivity in the tips, he extended them above Peter's chest, searching for disturbances that might suggest fractured bones or other internal injuries. He was surprised to find that whatever had so upset Peter was preventing the free flow of his body's own healing energies.

Frowning slightly, he lessened the intensity of his scan, continuing the movement along his son's body. This time he mentally catalogued cuts, scrapes, bruises and other surface trauma. All of the injuries would heal, given time and proper care.

"He will survive," he said, finally looking up at the intently observing ex-mercenary. He meant the words to be a balm for Kermit's unspoken fears, but he found that he needed the reassurance as well.

"Yeah," Kermit replied dryly. "He'll survive. To scare us to death another day." A faint, sardonic smile played across his lips.

"It is what he does best." Caine shrugged and smiled in return. His son had always had a knack for finding trouble.

Kermit nodded toward the EMT who was moving to help other paramedics bring out a second gurney. "They're taking them to County. Ambulance is going to be full. I happen to be headed in that direction. Wanna lift?"

"I would be honored. Thank you, Kermit."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The leather of the Lazy Boy creaked as he settled into its well-worn confines. It was his favorite chair. It relaxed him, helped him to think. Just a simple pleasure in a complicated world, a world in dire need of justice. He would do his part in ensuring its arrival. This day had gone a long way in meeting that goal.

Now, he needed to think, to remember. The memories made him strong. Made him ready. They would help him to unravel the curious wrinkle that had appeared suddenly against the fabric of his plan.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter opened his eyes to darkness and for several moments had absolutely no idea where he was. But then his other senses kicked in, and he noticed that the cool air that brushed against exposed skin had a distinctly antiseptic undertone. Hospital. He immediately pinpointed the smell. I'm in a hospital?

Another familiar scent registered on his senses. It was faint, like incense and sandalwood. That was when he sensed the other presence.

"Pop?" He was amazed at how weak his voice sounded, how weak he felt.

"Peter. I am here." Caine responded immediately, as if he had been waiting for the summons. But Peter thought that he detected an almost imperceptible grogginess to the tone -- maybe even exhaustion. Had his father been sleeping?

"Pop, are you okay? What happened? What are you doing here?"

"I am fine, my son. Merely tired. I am here for you."

Peter saw the shadowy outline of his father leaning closer to the bedside as he spoke. Even in the darkness, he noted the slump of his shoulders, and when he concentrated, he could even feel the exhaustion emanating off of him.

A wave of protective anger rose as he realized the reason for his father's condition. "Pop, you've been giving me your strength. You didn't have to do that!"

"Your Chi was colored by dark emotions, my son. It was impeding your body's healing processes. I merely lent a hand where it was needed. The task was more difficult than I expected. I will recover."

Peter's anger decreased to mild irritation at his father's explanation. "You still didn't have to do that. I feel fine. . . maybe a little tired. Speaking of which, what am I doing here, anyway?"

There was a long pause before he spoke. "Do you not remember?"

"Uh, no, Pop. I do not remember," Peter replied, his irritation flaring. "I wouldn't ask if I did." First, his father had worn himself out giving him his strength. And now, he couldn’t remember how he'd ended up in the hospital in the first place.

"What is the last thing that you recall?"

Peter sighed heavily, and thought back. He knew this game. The medical staff had often played it after he'd awakened from a head injury.

"I remember leaving the municipal courts building and getting into my car. Did I have an accident?"

"No, you did not have an accident."

Peter waited half a second for his father to continue. "What Pop? What happened? What is it that you aren't telling me? I've got a right to know."

"You were pulled over by a police officer for an expired. . . tag?" Caine paused uncertainly, and Peter visualized the questioning look and his slightly tilted head.

"Okay. . . " Peter nodded, hopefully. "Expired tag on my license plate. That's never landed anyone in the hospital. Well, unless they're very creative, and even I'm not that creative. Go on."

"While the officer was talking to you, you ran toward a nearby building and a bomb went off. You were caught in the blast."

Peter lay for several moments trying to absorb his father's words and reconcile them to the non-memory in his brain. "I ran toward a building that was about to blow up. Why would I do that? Did I know the building was about to blow up?"

"I do not know," his father said. "But whatever your reason, you were greatly disturbed by it."

Peter heard the concern in his father's voice, and perversely, he chuckled. "And so there was a great disturbance in the force. Well Obiwan Kenobi, you may be my only hope, but you're tired hope. Why don't you stretch out in the empty bed over there and get some sleep?"

"A worthwhile idea," Caine replied. "We will talk more in the morning."

"Fine." Moments later Peter heard the soft creaking of the other bed.

"Good night, Peter. Sleep well."

"Night, Pop."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

It was a lovely fall day. The sun shone brilliantly against a glorious backdrop of autumn colors. The beauty though was subtly tainted with the gloom of death. He could feel it fluttering about, faint and mildly threatening, teasing at his senses like the quiet hiss of a poisonous viper. He looked about in search of the source.

A light breeze picked up at the same moment that he noticed a familiar figure in the distance. As he attempted to focus on the form, the wind strengthened, blowing about leaves and greenery, partially obscuring his view, but he could still make out the fall of thick, dark brown hair and the familiar mannerisms of his son. The sensation of death grew as he continued to look on.

Peter stood motionless before a building. Caine felt the panic and fear coming off of him in waves. His son was practically drowning in them. But as he watched, Peter closed his eyes, as if in meditation. Caine could almost feel the subtle releasing of the tension in his son's body, the controlling of the fear and panic. It was as if by force of will he had conquered the darker emotions. Caine felt a rush of pride as they were replaced by acceptance and peace.

But something cold and dark still hovered. Death. With heart-stopping horror, Caine realized that his son was preparing himself. He felt the faint touch of his son's mind, confessing his love, saying goodbye. It was as if the light of the sun was suddenly leached from the sky.

"Peter! No!" he yelled, struggling to be heard above the sudden roar of the wind. "No, my son! No!"

The rumbling came on the heels of the winds. It shook the ground beneath his feet, resonating into his bones. Then the blast. The horrifying energy of it occurred in the building before which Peter stood. Caine watched terrified as the debris-filled blast moved slowly, inexorably, toward his son. Though Peter's face was composed in an expression of peace, he raised his hands as if to fend off the awesome power of the destruction.

Caine knew the moment the heat of the blast touched the fringes of Peter's bangs. He felt as if all of his strength had left him, leaving him broken, spent.

"Peter. My son."

Caine opened his eyes and found that Peter was standing over him. His hands were clasped onto his shoulders, transmitting his shock and worry as clearly as his expressive eyes did.

"I am all right," Caine said, returning Peter's grip and using it as leverage to move into a sitting position. "It was only a dream." He could not conceal the edge of relief in his voice.

"Must have been some dream," Peter said, releasing him and taking a step backward. A faint sliver of early morning light shown through a slit in the curtains and played across his face, hiding it in partial light and partial gloom. Caine caught a sense of the divided emotions as Peter ran an agitated hand through his hair and stepped out of the light.

"You were calling my name a-and I kept getting these flashes. . . " Peter paced stiffly to the opposite side of the room and back as he stumbled over the words. "There was a bomb. And a building that blew up. I was killed in the blast wasn't I?"

"It was just a dream, Peter," Caine replied more insistently, though he still struggled with the after-effects. "It is a legacy that we both share."

"Then why were you so upset?" Peter wanted to know. "You were crying, Dad. Did you think it was real? Did you sense that it was real, will be real? There are still tears on your face."

Caine was surprised to find that his son was correct. He wiped at them and forcefully gained control of himself.

"A dream is just a dream. For the moments in time that the dreamer is feeling and seeing the images, the dream is real. But then the dreamer awakens and all is as it should be."

"You once told me that perhaps this life is no more substantial than a dream. Could this dream have some kind of substance? Could it mean that I was supposed to die in that blast?"

"No!" Caine said forcefully. He would not accept such a thing. This would not be the fate of his son.

Calming his voice, he continued. "No one knows the reason for all of the things we dream. But you are my son, and when you were injured, I felt it. It disturbed me greatly. The dream was merely a reflection of a father's fears for his child."

Peter looked across at him as if he was still uncertain, but the tension left his shoulders. "It scared the hell out of me," he admitted softly, then clarified. "Your dream. I never thought I would be able to look in on something like that."

"Your strength grows every day," Caine said proudly. "And besides, we are close. It is expected, on occasion."

"I want it to stay that way." Peter offered a tight smile before stepping closer and kissing him on the forehead.

"As do I." Caine returned his smile with a reassuring wink.

"Well, it's Saturday, and my day off." Peter attempted to cover a wince as he stepped back. "I don't want to spend it in a hospital. Time to bust outta here."

Caine opened his mouth to argue that Peter should rest. His mind might not recall the previous day's injuries, but his body did. It was obvious in the stiffness of his motions. But Caine held back from the argument that he would not win. And as his son proceeded to search the room for his clothing, he moved to assist him. Life and dreams were uncertain things, and he did not want to waste a single moment.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"He just ran toward the building. I yelled for him to stop, but he continued running. Then, right before the explosion, he put his hands up--like he was protecting his face. Like he knew something was going to happen. It was just like he knew. Damnedest thing I've ever seen. I was surprised when I found out he was a cop."

Special Agent Brian Maxey clicked off the tape recorder, ending the device's replay of Officer Denton's statement to the investigating officers. Sighing, he ran a hand through disheveled dark hair and glanced around the 59th precinct's meeting room #3. Spartan and cold, the room offered no solutions to the problems that plagued him.

"Coffee?" A woman's blonde head appeared around the opening door. Two cups of steaming brew were held in her hands.

"Agent Greig," he breathed, reaching appreciatively for one of the cups. "You must be an angel. When did you get here, and how did you know I needed a cup of coffee?"

"You just said it," she replied with a saucy wink. "Straight from the realms above. I know all your mere mortal desires."

Maxey chuckled. "If there're three sugars and one cream in this cup, I might be inclined to believe you."

The woman sputtered and dug into her pocket before throwing a hand full of packets across the table. "I might deliver the stuff, but you doctor it yourself."

"All my dreams down the tubes," Maxey teased before proceeding to select his condiments of choice. He observed the woman as she settled across from him. Her gaze lingered on the recorder before she spoke.

"Been here all night?"

"Was it the 5 a.m. shadow that gave me away?"

"Those pesky powers of observation. So has forfeiting your beauty sleep for a night in an old police station in some out of the way burg given you any clues as to whether or not this bombing requires our undivided attention?"

"It was a state run liquor store. Lives were lost. It's FBI jurisdiction."

"Barely."

He stiffened. Less than two minutes in the same room and she was already getting under his skin. "Wrong side of the bed, or is something on your mind, Greig?"

"You don't sleep, you get tired, you make mistakes that could get you dead. You've been on edge for two days now. It's not worth your life, Max."

"You know, I could have sworn my mother's name was Elizabeth."

"Good one."

"Look. Reading through files and listening to the tape got me a place to start. That's what I should have been doing two days ago instead of sitting back and doing nothing." Moving to his feet, he straightened his tie and attempted to bring order to his wrinkled shirt. Retrieving his suit jacket from the back of the chair, he shrugged into it.

"Way I hear it, two days ago all you had was some note, signed by 'G', saying that it was starting again. How was anyone to know that it wasn't just someone's idea of a practical joke? Price is dead, has been for five years. He can't come back and terrorize people from the grave."

"I should have known," Maxey shot back. "The detail was too correct. It was too like the notes Price used to send. You weren't there, Greig. You don't know what it was like back then. I can't let this all happen again."

"So you take personal responsibility?" Greig demanded, standing as well. "You willingly let some sick-o go on a three month bombing spree, killing twenty-seven people in the process? The FBI frowns on that, Brian. But you were promoted and got a commendation. Doesn't that tell you something?"

Maxey stared off over her shoulder. She didn't understand and he had no intention of trying to explain it to her. "You don't understand."

"Fine." Greig raised her hands in surrender. "You win. I wasn't there. ATF sent me down to give you an assist. There's a team setting up at joint-agencies if you need it."

"Thanks." Maxey sighed and moved toward the door. "I've got a lead to follow. Come on if you're going."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"I can't believe you helped me to do that!" Peter laughed as he climbed out of the cab in front of his apartment building. "And what's worse is that when I get grief for leaving, no one is going to believe me when I tell them that you were my accomplice."

"It was my honor," Caine said, bowing slightly, his eyes twinkling. "Besides," he shrugged, "You are well enough to leave and it is as you say, your day off."

"My Pop." He clapped his father on the shoulder as they moved toward the glass front doors of the apartment lobby. "Want to come inside, or do you need to get home?"

"I would like to stay, if I may?" His father's eyes were hopeful.

Peter couldn't repress a grin. "Come on." He threw his arm across his father's shoulder, and they entered the building together. "So you game for me to whip up a little breakfast for the two of us? I think I have some frozen pancakes around some place."

Peter had to stifle a laugh at the pained expression that crossed his father's face. He was fully prepared for a lecture on the merits of food being eaten in its natural state, or at least not processed into oblivion. But to his surprise, Caine gained control of his grimace.

"If that is what you decide to prepare for me, my son, I shall endeavor to consume it."

Peter halted, his hand half-way to depressing the button for his floor on the elevator. "Pop, are you ill?" He pressed the button, then redirected the hand toward his father's brow. "I didn't think even a whole legion of Shambhala masters could convince you to eat fake food."

"It is not so much fake food, as distastefully altered."

Peter felt sure that his eyes must have nearly bugged out of his head. Then he chuckled, wondering at his father's sudden adventurousness with food. "Okay, I'll give you distastefully altered. I'm sure I've got a cook book lying around someplace. I'll whip you up some real pancakes. But no way am I going trekking to the woods for authentic maple syrup. You'll have to suffer with Mrs. Butterworth's like everyone else."

"I will manage."

Peter laughed and headed through the doors as the elevator arrived at his floor. "Try not to look like a condemned prisoner."

"As you wish."

Peter paused, frowning slightly. "What? Is it my birthday or something? You're being awfully obliging lately."

"It was a joke," Caine told him, and managed to land a gentle slap on his cheek before continuing down the hallway toward Peter's apartment.

Peter grimaced at having been caught off his guard. His father hadn't landed a good smack in months. He's probably due, he decided and continued down the corridor after him. By the time he reached the door, his father had already made his way inside.

"Show off," Peter murmured under his breath. His father still wouldn't teach him that trick, but told him that he would have to figure out how to do it himself.

"I heard that," Caine called from farther inside the apartment.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Twenty minutes later, Peter flopped on the sofa near his father, a spatula in one hand, the remote control in the other. "The Tick is a great show, Pop. What do you mean it is silly?"

Caine eyed him a moment and then looked beyond him toward the kitchen area. "I believe your pancakes are beginning to burn."

Peter spun and saw the smoke continuing to rise, though the exhaust fan was going at top speed. He shot to his feet and rushed back into the kitchen.

"Perhaps if you turned down the heat," his father suggested for the third time in as many minutes.

"This is a special recipe," he called down to his father. "They're supposed to cook fast. Why don't you try channel seventeen. It's Pinky and the Brain. You might get that one." Not, Peter laughed inwardly. The humor died away as he examined the charred, doughy samples of his efforts thus far. Maybe he should follow his father's advice.

"Nah," he murmured aloud, and choose to lift the pan above the burner instead. A knock sounded at the door just as he was trying to coax a glob of butter from the spatula onto the sizzling edge of a half-cooked pancake.

"Would you get that?" He asked over his shoulder, but Caine was already half-way to the door. He could hear the murmur of voices before a man and a woman dressed in business attire stepped into his living room.

"Detective Peter Caine?" The man spoke, reaching inside of his jacket and pulling out an identification card.

"Yes." Peter nodded, vaguely aware that he held a smoking frying pan in one hand and a butter smeared spatula in the other. Not exactly the image he wanted to project.

"Agents Brian Maxey and Ginger Greig. FBI & ATF. We're here to ask you a few questions."

"Is this official business?" Peter asked, settling the pan and the spatula on the counter. "Anything my captain should know about beforehand?"

Maxey shrugged, a smooth smile spreading across his features. "Technically it is official business, but it's off the record. I thought perhaps you could help me."

Peter shared a wordless communication with his father, who left with a slight nod to the two agents.

"What is it?" Peter asked warily. He didn't like the way Maxey seemed to be sizing him up.

"You look remarkably well for a man who was caught in a bomb blast just yesterday," Maxey responded. "According to the ER doctor, you received an impressive number of cuts and bruises and even a mild concussion."

Peter shrugged as he moved down the steps toward the living area. "I heal fast."

"So it would seem," Maxey nodded. "When we arrived at the hospital this morning, we were surprised to find your bed empty."

"Agent Maxey, if you would get to the point."

"It involves the bombing yesterday, Detective. An officer on the scene reports that you turned and ran toward the building, even before it blew up. Did you happen to know something that no one else knew?"

Peter's wariness notched up a level to uneasiness. He shrugged. "I can't answer that question."

"On the grounds that. . . ?"

"On the grounds that I don't recall," Peter responded, pointing to his temple. "Retrograde amnesia. You know, that's when --"

"Oh, I know what it is." Maxey cut him off. "A little convenient, don't you think?"

"Are you suggesting that I had something to do with that bombing?"

"You're an officer of the law. It's your duty to protect and serve. What I can't figure out is why, if you knew there was a bomb in a building, instead of calling for assistance, you run toward the building yourself when it is too late. Your police radio was in good operating condition. There was another officer on the scene whose radio was also in good operating condition. Frankly I'm surprised that you're happily enjoying breakfast when your choice may have caused the death of five people."

Peter went cold all over, momentarily losing the train of Maxey's words. Five people were dead? Five people, and he hadn't so much as acknowledged their deaths? In his grogginess the night before, he hadn't thought to get that detail from his father. And that morning, he'd only been thinking of his father and himself.

". . . uncomfortable questions, I'm sure, Detective. But you know that I have to ask them -- any good investigator would. I'm sure you yourself would admit that the situation is a bit questionable. But--"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Peter said, struggling to cover his shock. He didn't like the way Agent Maxey seemed to catalog his responses. "And the next time you have technically official questions that are off the record, maybe you should contact me at the station."

"As you wish." Maxey nodded before he turned and left the apartment, pulling the door closed softly behind himself and his partner.

Peter remained standing in the center of his living room grappling with the depth of his failure. Five lives had been cut short. Five lives that demanded justice, and he couldn't remember a thing.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Don't you think you were a little rough on him?" Agent Ginger Greig asked as she climbed into the passenger side of the pale blue rental car. "He is a police officer."

"So was Price," Maxey replied, turning the key in the ignition. "That didn't stop him from leading the FBI on a merry chase through three counties while the body count continued to rise. Detective Caine was hiding something. I could see it in his eyes."

"The only thing that detective was hiding was shock. You blind-sided him. What did you expect him to do?"

"I didn't blind-side him," Maxey objected. "I was following up. In his statement, the patrolman at the scene mentioned Caine's strange behavior. There was more than shock going on there. He is hiding something."

"I didn't meet this Franklin Price character who's evidently had you all in a wad, but I don't think Peter Caine blew up anyone. He's a victim. Besides, despite the fact that mad bomber types tend to like to be nearby to see the action go down, they normally try to avoid getting caught in the blast."

"I haven't totally figured that angle yet. Maybe he's got a hero complex."

"You stayed up all night for that theory?"

Maxey's voice cooled several degrees. "Look, Ginger, I'm glad you're here. But I really don't think I'll be needing an ATF assist on this one. The joint-agencies team will be plenty when I need backup."

"Oh no you don't," Greig leveled him with a furious glare. "Don't you try and throw me off like that, Brian Maxey. We've worked together enough times for me to know when something isn't right. And something isn't right here. You might not want an ATF assist, but you've got a friend if you manage to pull your head out of your posterior."

"You're reading too much into it, Greig."

"Whatever. I'll be sticking around town. Someone's gotta do some real investigating. You know how to find me when you need me."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

As Caine strolled along the street away from Peter's apartment, the rushing sounds of late-morning traffic, the soft billow of wind in the trees and the minute sounds made by man and creature all faded to the background. He did not find peace in them as he normally did. The dream that had disturbed his rest, now disturbed his waking thoughts. More than the dream itself, the fact that his own fears had infringed on Peter's rest bothered him greatly. Was the dream a reflection of his fears for his son, or was it a warning?

Caine would not accept the idea of burdening his son with his emotions, nor would he accept the idea that Peter was meant to die so violently. Like every parent, it was his wish that Peter live happily, marry a woman he loved deeply, have children, and if he must, die peacefully at a very old age. And he, as Peter's father, wanted to witness it all.

He was surprised when a gentle hand touched his arm, drawing him out of his contemplations. He looked down into the concerned face of Harriet Wong, the grandmother of the shy young boy who had recently lost both his parents in an automobile accident.

"Are you well, Master Caine?" She asked politely in Cantonese.

"I am well, thank you." Caine bowed slightly as he responded in English "And how are you?"

Harriet's brow furrowed, and she replied, again in Cantonese. "I do not feel like speaking in English today, Master Caine."

"But you must practice," Caine encouraged her, surprised at the absence of Harriet's usual sunny demeanor. "You have learned much already."

"English not good," Harriet struggled to say. "Too old learn. Too old raise boy."

"You are not," Caine assured her. "You are doing very well."

Harriet shook her head sadly and switched back to Cantonese. "Johnny would be better with a younger couple who understand the ways of this country. They are a mystery to me."

"What has happened?"

"I must produce a document proving Johnny's birth. This makes no sense. He is alive. Is that not proof enough that he was born?"

Caine stifled a smile. "Normally that would be enough, but in this country, often more is required. On Monday I will accompany you to the correct government office and we will request the proper document."

"That is all we have to do?" Harriet asked.

"That is all," Caine said with a reassuring smile.

"Ah." Harriet returned his smile. "Good," she added in English. "I am learn. With your help."

Caine continued along the street, assisting Harriet Wong with her English. The simple act of helping her, settled his previously troubled thoughts. By the time he left her at her residence on the edge of Chinatown, he could again hear the sounds of nature and feel the thrum of life all around him. A dream, he decided, was just a dream, and everything was as it should be.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter poked his head into the empty office of Kermit Griffin. Since the PC was up and running and the door was actually open, the ex-merc couldn't be far away. Peter turned and scanned the squad room. Maybe the computer geek had gone downstairs to the archives. He leaned against the door to wait.

As it was nearing lunch, many of the day shift detectives were out, yet the squad room still buzzed with muted chaos. The usual array of Saturday morning shoplifters, car thieves and miscellaneous offenders awaited their turn at the desk -- some even looked familiar. But Peter's eyes settled on Flora Pedigrue, a thin woman of about seventy who bore a perpetually surprised expression. Despite her innocent look and aged attire, Mrs. Pedigrue was a kleptomaniac who could well afford the things she pilfered. Peter remembered clearly each of her previous visits to the precinct, and was beginning to suspect that Mrs. Pedigrue shoplifted for the sheer sport of outsmarting the legal system.

"Great," he murmured to himself. "I can remember the personal history of a woman I've seen all of three times, but I can't remember something as momentous as nearly getting myself blown to bits."

"Talking to oneself is not a good sign. Shouldn't you be somewhere having your head examined?"

Peter turned in surprise toward the voice at his side. "Kermit? I thought you were downstairs."

"Yeah well, I thought you were in the hospital. Funny thing, huh?" Nodding in the direction from which he had come, Kermit continued into his office. "I was in the john. Though we'll never admit it, nature calls for ex-mercs too, you know. Especially when the coffee and the --"

Peter held up his hands in defense. "I don't need to know this."

"Sorry. Forgot that Shaolin don't pee."

Peter ignored the comment. "Look Kermit, I've got a problem. Three actually."

"Let me guess. Expired tag?"

"My tag's. . . ?" Peter paused to stare at the bearded man for several moments, suddenly remembering what he'd forgotten to do the month prior. "Okay, make that four."

"Four it is. But first, answer a question for me."

"This better not have anything to do with the john."

"Nah. More along the lines of you making like Flo Jo in front of a building about to go boom."

"Oh that?" Peter shot him a look. "That's one of my problems. See, that memory is kinda hazy. Actually blank. I was hoping you could give me the highlights."

"You don't remember anything at all?"

"Like it never happened --'cept for these." He raised his arms to display the tiny scratches along the sides of his hands.

"Some memory loss isn't too unusual after a head injury," Kermit suggested.

"It is for me. It usually comes back by now. Which leads me to problems number two and three."

"Which are?"

Peter looked sheepishly away before answering. "I, uh, seem to have misplaced my car somewhere between getting into it at the municipal courts building and waking up at the hospital."

Kermit stared at him a moment before turning toward his computer keyboard. "You checked the impound?"

"Yeah, first thing." Peter bent to look over the ex-mercenary's shoulder.

"So what's number three?" Kermit asked as he began tapping at his keyboard.

"See what you can dig up about why an FBI Agent by the name of Brian Maxey is interested in the case."

Kermit turned to look at him oddly. "A bombing of a government facility that causes loss of life is usually FBI jurisdiction. Although the ATF could probably stake a claim."

Peter frowned. "The agent with him was ATF. Was it the courthouse?"

"No, it was that state run liquor store off Summer Mill. You really don't remember anything do you? Sure you should be out of the hospital?"

"I have it on very good authority that I'm well enough to leave."

"I won't ask. And if--" Kermit paused in his rapid tapping on the keyboard and stared at the monitor. "This is interesting."

"What?" Peter scanned the screen, searching for the bit of information that got the ex-merc's attention.

"Guess who's got your car."

Peter felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Who?"

"The FBI. It was signed out of the impound this morning by an Agent B. Maxey."

Peter's jaw set as he ran a finger along the report that displayed on the monitor. He stopped and jabbed at the address of the impound before turning and heading toward the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Kermit demanded.

"To get my car."

"What are you going to do? Walk?"

"I'll sign out a car, or grab a cab, take a bus. Whatever works."

"Or you could just ask a friend to drive you," Kermit said, moving to his feet.

"Yeah, that was my next suggestion."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kermit watched as Peter paced from one end of the cramped joint agencies impound office to the other. Every few rotations he'd throw a glance in the direction of the overalls-clad man sitting behind the desk. A round patch sewn to the overalls identified him as Dwayne.

"Still on hold. They're transferring us to his cellular," Dwayne said helpfully. "If the--"

Peter's pacing halted as Dwayne began to speak into the handset.

Leaning forward, Kermit pushed a button that placed the call on speakerphone. The loud squeal of feedback pierced the air before he snatched the phone from Dwayne and settled it into its cradle. Ignoring the mechanic's offended look, he spun the phone and spoke. "Agent Maxey?"

"Speaking. Who is this?" The disembodied voice that echoed about the office was more than a little irritated.

"Detective Caine." Peter's voice sounded from over Kermit's shoulder. "What's your basis for holding my vehicle?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Oh, so that's what this is all about?"

Kermit didn't like the smugness that suddenly flowed into the man's voice. From the glacial expression that fell over Peter's face, Kermit didn't imagine that Peter did either.

"Unfortunately, I can't help you there," Maxey continued. "Your car has been entered into evidence along with Officer Denton's cruiser as well as the other vehicles that were parked in the lot."

"If you're looking for trace evidence from the explosion," Kermit spoke up. "There was plenty of it all over the parking lot. You don't need Detective Caine's private vehicle."

"And you are?"

"Griffin."

"Griffin." Maxey repeated the name thoughtfully. "What do you know about gathering of evidence after an explosion?"

"I've taken a class or two with the ATF."

"Some of those are pretty select and highly technical classes. Invitation only. They don't ask just anyone. I'd be interested in seeing the resume you sent them."

"I'm sure you would," Kermit quickly dismissed the man's line of questioning. "We were speaking about Caine's vehicle."

"Yes we were. I'm afraid I can't release your vehicle Detective Caine. I believe in being thorough. But do feel free to appeal to the Impound Commander." There was a distinct click as Maxey disconnected.

"What does he mean appeal to the Impound Commander?" Peter asked.

Kermit responded. "He means that only the agent of record, the Impound Commander or an act of congress can get your car out of here."

"Impound Commander won't be back till Monday," Dwayne spoke up helpfully.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Bryan Maxey stood in the shadows as he watched the high-rise apartment across the street. Night had fallen and the lights leading up the wide drive were beginning to illuminate when a green Corvair pulled in off of the main street and continued on toward the traffic circle. Maxey continued to watch as the Corvair's passenger side door opened and Peter Caine climbed out. Then, pushing the door shut, Peter stepped back from the curb and watched the Corvair pull away.

Maxey brought a night-vision camera up and snapped a picture as the green vehicle pulled out of the traffic circle and continued along the drive toward the street. Keeping the camera in position, he strained to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the brilliant lights that lined the drive reflected off the windshield, defeating his efforts. As the Corvair made a left turn onto the street, he quickly snapped a profile shot as well as an image of the retreating vehicle. Satisfied, he slipped the camera into his coat pocket, feeling it slide against an envelope as he did so.

Looking back toward the apartment, he prepared to step out of the shadows to continue on his way but the sight of Peter Caine still standing at the curb halted him. The fact that detective appeared to be looking directly at him, as if he knew that he was there, chilled him. Thinking that perhaps he wasn't quite as well hidden as he'd thought, he shrunk deeper into the shadows.

Peter seemed to follow his motions for several moments before turning away and moving into the lobby. Vaguely unsettled, Maxey remained hidden long after the curbside and the glass-fronted lobby were clear.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter pushed open his apartment door and stepped into the stale aroma of burnt butter and charred pancakes. Shutting the door behind himself, he moved into the kitchen and cleared away the reminders of the morning's events.

The bowl of pancake mix had gone gooey and filmed over -- a reflection of his good intentions in making breakfast for his father. Black fringed pancakes had stiffened into barely recognizable frisbees of dough. So much for the Shaolin cooking cop. Just good intentions gone bad.

Like when he ran toward that liquor store. More good intentions gone wrong. Cold, half-done, burnt pancakes and singed lives and families that were no longer complete. He had failed on both counts. The pancake mess he could clean up. He couldn’t fix lives that had been broken by the death of a loved one. But he could honor those lives by making sure that justice was served. And he would do better next time. Somehow he knew that there would be a next time. Just like he knew that he was being watched when Kermit dropped him off minutes earlier.

As he scraped the pancakes into the trash, his thoughts turned to who might have been watching him. The presence hadn't seemed malevolent. He wasn't sure how to categorize it, exactly. Intense, yes. Determined, yes. Beyond that he wasn't sure. The feelings had been very vague and he wasn't nearly as good as his father at reading people even when he wanted to.

The idea of confronting the person had crossed his mind, but it hadn't felt right. It wasn't that it hadn't felt right to his detective's instincts. It was his Shaolin senses that had sounded the warning.

"I'm cracking up." He told himself as he scrubbed at the last bits of batter that were stuck to his stove. "I've heard of cop hunches, but this is ridiculous. Now I'm getting Pop hunches."

Chuckling at his own exhausted humor, he tossed the dish cloth into the sink and headed for bed. It was time to give in to his battered body's complaints and get some rest.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Brian Maxey pulled into the parking lot of the Hide-A-Way Hotel. The establishment lived up to its name. Few incidental travelers knew of its existence as it was off the beaten path. Just the kind of place he wanted.

He wondered how long it would be before one very irritating ATF agent showed up on his door step. Greig was like a dog with a bone when she thought she was on to something. He'd rarely been that bone, but he had a feeling that a battle was coming between the two of them. He didn't want to fight with the woman, but he couldn't shake the idea that Peter Caine knew more than he was telling. He needed to know what that something was.

Reaching into the backseat of the vehicle, he retrieved his laptop. There was some investigating of a certain "Griffin" he wanted to do before he bowed to human weakness and tried to get some sleep. There was something about the man that bothered him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kwai Chang Caine was just settling into a light meditation when he caught a vague sense of confusion from Peter. His initial instinct was to delve deeper and focus in on the feeling, but he stopped himself. Peter had earned the right to become Shaolin, and the young man valued his privacy. He deserved to be treated as an equal, as the adult that he had become.

While Caine battled against his fatherly instincts, another sensation from Peter caught him. No more confusion, but growing fear and then abject horror. Even if Caine wanted to keep his distance, he could not. He was dragged along into the maelstrom of his son's emotions.

Caine found himself standing in a desert. Vicious winds whipped the sands into a stinging frenzy. The grains beat at him, delivering tiny stings to his cheeks and hands as he attempted to shield his eyes. Struggling to stand against the wind, he focused on the form that stood several yards in front of him, seemingly unaffected by the storm.

"Peter!" He called to his son, but Peter's attention was captured by an image that appeared to be super-imposed on the air in front of him. It was the image of a scene being played out before a beige brick building in the city.

Haunching his shoulders, Caine tried to move forward, to come to his son's aid. But the winds pushed at him and the intensity of the sand storm increased. Yet his distance from Peter remained the same. And Peter seemed oblivious to his presence.

It didn't matter. Caine knew what was to come. This had been his dream before it was Peter's.

The sound of Peter's voice rose above the howl of the wind. "No!"

Peter attempted to run toward the unfolding scene. "Stop it! This isn't true! It isn't real! I'm not ready!"

The explosion rocked the building with astonishing force. The blast moved beyond the image and entered into the desert, ramming into Peter, knocking him off his feet. Caine felt the hot edges of the blast just before everything went frighteningly cold, dark and still.

Caine's eyes flew open as he gasped in air. Clenching his fists, he struggled to regain his center. It was several shaken moments before he could reach out for Peter. Using the faintest touch, he learned that Peter was awake and moving about his apartment. He imagined that he was splashing water on his face in an effort to clear the remnants of the nightmare. But he knew, water would not be enough. It would not be enough for Peter, and it would not be enough for himself.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Pop! You here?" Peter called by way of announcement as he took the steps two at a time up to his father's apartment. It was early, but he knew that his father was up. He could feel his presence as clearly as if he was standing before him. Narrowing down the precise room would take concentration.

"I am here." Caine's voice sounded from the balcony, making it unnecessary for Peter to have to go in search of him.

Peter walked across the room and through the French doors to join his father.

"You are not driving your vehicle?"

"How did you--? Never mind. Long story. Caroline's letting me use her Jeep for a few days. "

"Ah." Caine nodded and continued to prune at one of the many vines growing along the wall. "She and her child are well?"

"Yeah. They're great." Peter watched him for several moments, trying to figure how to put conflicting thoughts into words. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it.

"If you ask, Peter, I will answer as best I can."

Peter let out a short laugh and shook his head. "Almost forgot who I was dealing with."

Caine did not reply, but simply continued to prune. Peter began to wonder if something was bothering his father. He hadn't looked in his direction since he arrived. Frowning he placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You okay?"

Caine continued to pluck leaves from the vine. "I am fine, Peter."

"Then why won't you turn around and look at me when I'm talking to you?" Peter asked, a touch of exasperation creeping into his voice.

Caine placed the pruned leaves into a clay bowl with deliberate care then turned to face him. "It was not my intention to offend you, my son."

"I'm not offended, Pop," Peter said, staring into his eyes, attempting to gauge his emotions. But Caine was closed to him. Peter got nothing beyond what he could see. Frowning more deeply he turned away in confusion.

"There's something going on here," he said upon turning back. "There's something bothering you and you're hiding it from me."

"It is not my wish to hide anything from you," Caine said in quiet measured tones.

"But you're going to do it anyway?" Peter shot back.

Caine sighed. "A father should not burden a son with his fears."

"Why not?" Peter asked. "I can't think of anything I haven't burdened you with. I'm always leaning on you. It's okay if you want to lean on me sometimes."

"It is the function of a father to provide support."

Peter ran a hand through his hair. "You are so stubborn. I guess I got it honest. And beating my head against this brick wall isn't going to get me anywhere. You won't talk to me, talk to the Ancient. I gotta go."

"Peter." Caine's hand on his arm stopped him from heading back into the apartment. "There was something you wanted to ask me?"

Peter looked at him a long moment before simply blurting the question out. "Does a Shaolin know the moment that he is going to die?"

Caine's eyes widened, and Peter thought that he saw a flash of fear shoot through them before the older man averted his gaze. When Caine would have moved away, Peter reached for his arm.

"Why do you ask this?" Caine did not look up.

Peter debated telling his father about the dream he'd had the night before then decided against it. "I was just wondering," he said, releasing his arm. When Caine's eyes rose to meet his, it was Peter that looked away.

"There are some," Caine admitted.

"Are you one of them?" Peter wanted to know.

"I know that I will die under starry skies on an Autumn night. I do not know the circumstances. I do not know the date or the hour."

Peter felt an odd pain settle in the pit of his stomach at his father's words. Pain and fear. Half a dozen questions demanded answers, but he was only able to voice one. "How do you know?"

Caine met his gaze. "I know."

The odd pain in Peter's stomach rose to encompass his chest. It was difficult to force air in and out of his lungs. "I. . . I gotta go." He turned and all but ran from his father's apartment.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He let the people flow around him as he moved steadily through the parking lot. Few gave him a second glance as he fingered the white slip of paper inside his jacket pocket. Gloved fingers dulled the sensation, but that was a necessary precaution. It was not yet time to tip his hand. But all was in motion, and the symmetry was flawless. The wrinkle, he decided, was merely an anomalous blip that could not affect his plan. His plan would go on. It would all be over soon.

Spotting his target, he carefully lifted the edge of the wiper blade and slid the paper underneath. Milling pedestrians never noticed a thing. Sometimes being genetically unremarkable could be used to advantage.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Come on, Forester," Peter spoke urgently into the phone. "You've gotta know something. All I need is a name. Anything."

"I told you, Pete. I don't know nothing." Forester's gruff voice echoed along the connection. "The FBI's got some special task force and I ain't on it."

"Right. Thanks Forest." Peter gave in on pushing the man as he noticed Kermit entering the bull pen. "If you hear anything. . . "

"Then I'll see what I can do."

"S'all I can ask." Peter dropped the handset in its cradle and made a bee-line for Kermit's office.

"You got anything?" he asked as Kermit settled a briefcase off to the side of his desk.

"Oh yeah," Kermit said as he settled behind his keyboard and punched several keys. Immediately a screen with an FBI logo sprang into view.

"Well?" Peter bent to read over Kermit's shoulder.

"A few years back Special Agent Brian Maxey was just Agent Brian Maxey. But then he broke a serial bombing case in Kansas. The lunatic killed twenty-seven people before he was caught. The case went to trial, but was never finished. The perp, a Franklin Price, committed suicide before he could be sentenced. That case sort of made Mr. Maxey the FBI's golden boy du jour and got him the Special Agent title. He's been on a plucky, loosely organized, cross-agency team ever since. He gets sent in to determine whether certain bombings and activities that capture the team's eye are instigated by assorted crazies or are the result of run of the mill civilian weirdness."

"He's not looking at this case like it's run of the mill," Peter told him matter-of-factly as he stood to pace. "We've got some sort of serial bomber on our hands, and I'll bet it's tied to that Price case."

"I'm just your friendly, albeit armed to the teeth, neighborhood hacker. Mind telling me how you came to that conclusion?"

"He's set up a local task force over at the 59th. That tells me he's sticking around. And my gut is telling me that this case is very personal to him. I think we need to do some more digging on the Price case."

"According to the files the case was pretty tight. You don't think the wrong man was tried?"

Peter shrugged. "Maybe the original perp had an accomplice? Some kind of ritual reasoning? You said Price died five years ago. Maybe it's a fifth anniversary of his death thing?"

Kermit looked skeptical. "Maybe. I'll have to do some digging, see what I can find. There were quite a few things that didn't make it into the official file."

"Like what?"

"For one, it seems that the illustrious Mr. Maxey had some sort of rapport with the bomber. He always sent notes postmarked from the town of his next hit to Maxey personally. Then just before he was caught, he sent a letter. The letter led to his capture. The FBI got a latent print off the corner of the envelope. Unfortunately, the letter itself isn't in the computer record."

"The letter had his prints but the rest of the notes didn't?" Peter asked.

"Guess he didn't want to get caught until he was good and ready. Or until someone was good and ready for him to."

Peter turned and looked at Kermit. "If the serial bomber is at it again, then he must have known the suspect from the previous case if he set him up."

"Or it could be a copy cat." Kermit countered.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "But you said the fact that the killer was sending Maxey notes wasn't in the public file."

"We don't know that anyone's been sending Maxey notes."

"The bombing happened Friday afternoon. Saturday morning he was in my apartment. Someone sent him a note."

"I'll buy that," Kermit agreed. "So we check out everyone involved in the original case, and we dig up the dirt on Franklin Price, the guy who was arrested the first time around. See what floats up."

"Thanks Kermit." Peter clapped him on the shoulder as he left the office.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"You have made enough for all of Chinatown. Should anyone have need of a muscle relaxant, we will be prepared for some time to come."

Caine looked up from his grinding at the sound of the Ancient's mischievous tones to note that he had ground far too much of the selected herb. "I was preoccupied, Master."

"Yes. I know this." The Ancient extended a cup of tea in his direction. "I was able to enter and make tea without your notice. You are slipping, Kwai Chang Caine."

"Perhaps you used a little stealth and shadow," Caine ventured as he accepted the tea and followed the older man to the small dining table.

"Perhaps." The Ancient nodded and smiled. "You will tell me what is troubling you?"

"A dream repeated and shared by both Peter and I." Caine said as they seated themselves.

"Tell me of the dream."

Caine sipped at the tea before he began. When he was finished, a feeling of anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach. The situation had been explained to his friend and his friend would only tell him the truth. He was not sure that he was ready for the truth.

"You have shared this dream twice?"

"Yes. First I, then Peter."

"Three times is confirmation, Kwai Chang Caine. Confirmation is not always given. You must prepare him."

Caine balked at the idea. "Is it not possible, Master, that the dream occurred as a result of my fear for my son? Peter was near and so felt the effects."

The Ancient nodded. "This is possible. But there was a second occurrence."

"Peter was dreaming; I was in meditation. Could not his dream have been in response to experiencing my dream? He was very upset by it."

"You have trained your son to be Shaolin. You have prepared him for life. Would you leave him unprepared for death?"

"I cannot lose my son. I cannot tell him that I think he will die."

"Destiny has been your friend and your enemy, but it has never been yours to mould. Prepare him, Kwai Chang Caine, or he will be lost to you forever." The Ancient's voice was stern and cut Caine to his heart.

"Peter is strong," he continued gently. "Have faith in him, in his instincts. When emotions cloud our vision, we often cannot see what is before us. Do what is necessary despite how you feel, my friend. Destiny will take care of the rest."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

The dark-haired young man slung the deep green back pack on his shoulder as he approached the blue rental car. "I can't believe you're here doing this," he said to the dark-suited agent who followed him. "I can find my own way back to the campus."

"It's late. Big brother's rights." Brian Maxey stepped beneath the illumination of a street light as he reached to unlock the driver's side door. "Besides, I'm in town on a case. And despite the fact that you're not back home with Mom and Dad like you're supposed to be, I can't not visit my little bro."

"Whatever." The dark-haired young man grinned good-naturedly. "Ignoring the fact that that's a total crock, there's something I need to do. Mom understood. I promised her my undivided attention next weekend."

"Well if I hadn't called Mom and Dad I never would have known and I might have missed you," Maxey said. "So what's so important that you had to disappoint your mother? Hope it wasn't a girl. I might just have to stay in your dorm, or drag you to my hotel for a few days to keep you out of trouble."

"You and what army of Gillian Andersons?" The young man chuckled. As he did so a flash of white against the windshield of the car caught his eye.

"What's this?" He reached for the white slip of paper that was pushed beneath one of the wiper blades.

"Don't touch that!"

"Hey. Sorry. Not touching." He raised his hands in surrender and took a step backward. Over-the-top was par for the course as far as his brother's reactions were concerned lately.

"Move away from the car, Geoff. Slowly."

Geoff did as he was told, watching as his older brother looked cautiously about them. When Brian reached into his jacket and retrieved a pen light, Geoff caught a glimpse of his gun. He knew that his brother carried one, but he'd always kept that part of his life separate. The first inklings of worry began to settle in the pit of his stomach.

"Whoa. You're freaking me out here, bro," Geoff said as Brian stooped beside the vehicle and shone the light underneath. "What are you looking for anyway? It's probably just some guy wanting to polish your shoes or make copies or set up a web page or something. People are always leaving flyers and stuff."

Brian stood, seeming to visibly relax before pulling out a handkerchief. He carefully dislodged the envelope from beneath the blades and wrapped it in the handkerchief. He paused before climbing into the vehicle. "You coming?"

Geoff stared back for several moments before opening the passenger door and climbing in as well. "You know, if this is what it means to be thirty-something. . . "

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter re-read the print outs Kermit had given him for the dozenth time. Franklin Price, the man arrested for the bombing attacks, had been a Kansas City State Trouper. He had fit the FBI's profile of a male twenty-five to thirty-five, above average intelligence, and in law enforcement. Much of the evidence found showed that the bomber had in-depth knowledge of crime scenes and how they were investigated.

Peter flipped the page and gazed at the image of Price entering the courtroom. He was clean cut, average height and average build. Peter examined the pictures that had been a part of the files Kermit had managed to pilfer.

There was a news paper record showing a grainy photograph of a blond-haired woman and a brown-haired man posing with a late teen and a pre-teen boy. The label beneath the photo stated that image was a photograph depicting Franklin Price's family from a more innocent time in his life.

Peter flipped through a couple more pages and frowned. He went back and reviewed the images from the court room.

Pushing back out of his chair he moved quickly toward Kermit's lair.

"Hey, notice anything odd about these court room pictures?"

Kermit removed his sunglasses and peered at the images. "Whoever scanned them could have done a better job?"

"No. . . well maybe," Peter chuckled. "But look and tell me if anyone is missing."

Kermit took another look at the photos. "His parents."

"That's gotta be a blow," Peter said. "And imagine how any good attorney would play that up to the jury. This guy is so guilty even his parents won't come to the trail. Even they think he did it."

"Ouch. Could have contributed to his suicide. Be a shame if he didn't do it."

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "Do we know where his family is? I'd be interested in talking to them."

"Should have something on them before too long. Meantime, I've got more information on the illustrious Agent Maxey. His Alma Mater happens to be the university here in town. His younger brother started there this year. Guess who else graduated from there two years after Maxey?"

"Price?" Peter's brows went skyward. "The plot thickens. Think they knew each other?"

"The dig continues." Kermit gestured over his shoulder. "You've got company."

Peter peered out of the office to see his father standing patiently beside his desk. "What's he doing here so late? Probably to remind me to go home and go to bed."

"How precious. A Shaolin tucking in."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it."

Peter strolled out of the office to meet his father. "What are you doing here, Pop?"

"We must talk."

Peter frowned at his father's intensity. "Finally decide to confide in me?"

"Peter, I --"

The ringing of the phone interrupted Caine's words.

"Hold that thought, Pop." Peter snatched up the receiver. "Caine."

"Pete." A gruff voice sounded across the line. "'Bout what we were talking about earlier."

"Yeah, Forest. Go."

"You didn't hear this from me, but there's some kind of stake out thing going on at the Coroner's office tomorrow."

"Do you know what time, or what it's about? Is the FBI involved?"

"I don't know. All I know is that it's going down. And that Jake, who's on the task-force is going."

"All right. Thanks Forest. I owe you."

"Yeah. Big time."

Peter hung up the phone, feeling a rush of adrenaline as the bits of the case were beginning to come together. He wondered if Maxey had gotten another note which lead him to believe that there was going to be a bomb in the Coroner's office. Maybe he should warn Nickie.

"You have a lead?" His father interrupted his musings.

"Yeah. Some information from a friend."

"Concerning a bomb?" Caine asked quietly.

"Yeah. . . How? Never mind. But yes, probably."

"Do not go, Peter. You must stay away from the area."

Peter frowned. "What? Why? People could get hurt, Pop. I've gotta go."

"No Peter. You must not. Do as I say!"

Peter blinked. His father rarely raised his voice. He glanced around at the other detectives who were startled by the outburst.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm an adult capable of making my own decisions. Maybe if you could tell me why I would agree with you."

Caine opened his mouth as if searching for words. Then, "Peter. I have asked you for nothing in our years together. Can you not do this thing for me?"

Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. I won't go. But that doesn't mean that I won't try to keep people away from there."

"I would not expect anything different," Caine said.

Peter glanced at his watch. "Look, it's getting late, and there are still a few things I'd like to take care of. Tomorrow, we talk."

"Yes." Caine nodded. "Tomorrow we will talk."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"Why didn't you tell me you had a brother in town?"

Agent Maxey looked up into the displeased expression of Agent Greig. "I didn't think I did," he muttered, returning his gaze to the latest memo that he'd received from the city's bomber.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she demanded. "He attends the University. How can you not know that?"

Maxey took his time, blowing out a breath before he answered. "He was supposed to be back home with my parents. My mom invited him up special because I asked her to. But in typical teenage fashion, he had other plans."

"You think he's a target?" Greig lowered her voice, settling in the seat beside him.

"Not exactly the way I like to think of my brother, but I can't ignore the possibility. Although this could all be a coincidence."

"New bombings taking place in the city where your brother is going to school? Too many coincidences never add up to anything good. That why you got him staying at the safe house tonight?"

"Yeah. I don't want to scare the poor kid, so I told him it was procedure because he was there when I found the note. I've always kept this part of the life away from my family. I don't want him to have to live with the fear."

"I think you should tell him the truth."

"I can't. Not tonight."

Greig seemed to accept his decision. "So, what makes you think this note is talking about the Coroner's office?"

Maxey looked down at the slip of paper containing words printed across generic paper in a generic font on a generic printer.

"The first note said: Time to party again. BYOB. In retrospect, it seems obvious that this would be a liquor store. This note says: Death cuts out the heart. Die-section. Death by pieces. Bodies are dissected at the coroner's office. Also, in the previous case, the clues were always alphabetical. The pattern here is the same. The first hit was the ABC store, or Alcoholic Beverage Control Center. Price always hit government buildings. Since death was highlighted in the note we're looking for a government building that somehow relates to death or dying."

"So do we have another brilliant crack-pot on our hands, Max, or just a driven lunatic?"

Maxey shrugged. "Doesn't matter. The victims are just as dead. And now, I'm going to go back to my obscure little hotel and spend a sleepless night in the Lazy Boy worrying about my kid brother."

"You've got a Lazy Boy in your hotel?" Greig looked jealous.

"Best kept secret in this out of the way little burg."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"No!" Caine sat up from his sleeping pallet drenched in sweat. The dream had returned again. Three times is confirmation. The Ancient's words rang through his mind. You must prepare him.

Can a Shaolin know the time of his death? Peter's words came back to him. Did Peter have some idea of what might occur? Did he have some sense of it? Was his subconscious attempting to prepare him when his father would not? Would Peter even be one of the Shaolin who were capable of such knowledge?

Are you one of them? Caine remembered his son's question, and his own response came back to haunt him. I know that I will die under starry skies on an Autumn night. I do not know the circumstances. I do not know the date or the hour.

Caine knew that should Peter perish in an explosion, that would be the day and the hour of his own demise. Perhaps it was time to prepare himself as well.

A soft step brought him from his musings. Reaching out into the outer rooms mentally, he realized that Harriet Wong had arrived. Belatedly he remembered that he was to escort her to retrieve a birth certificate for her grandson. Preparations for death would have to wait until he first completed this obligation.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. The dream had returned again, more powerful than before. Running trembling hands through his hair, he stood and headed for the shower. He needed to see his father before he went in to work. He needed answers and he needed them now.

Twenty minutes later he was behind the wheel of Caroline's Jeep, headed toward Chinatown. A call to Strenlich had confirmed that he might be a couple hours late. He had passed on the information to Kermit that he'd gotten from Forester and done everything he could to warn Nickie without coming out and telling him what he thought might happen.

As he drove, a sensation of anxiety rushed through his system. There was something that he had to do, but he didn't know what it was. He tried to push it from his mind and concentrate on his driving, but it would not be ignored. It hovered at the edges of his subconscious like a taunt. By the time he pulled the Jeep to a halt in front of his father's apartment, he felt as if he was about to jump out of his skin.

"Pop! You here?" He took the steps three at a time and then burst into his father's rooms. "Pop?" He called again in confusion when he didn't sense him.

"He is not here." A quiet voice spoke from behind him.

"Lo Si!" Peter exclaimed, startled at the appearance of the elderly Shaolin. "Where's my father?"

The Ancient captured Peter's hands. "You must calm yourself, Peter. Your heart races. Your focus is lost."

"Lo Si, I have to find my father. There's something going to happen. I promised him I wouldn't go, but I have to."

The old man's eyes narrowed. "No, young Caine. You must go to your father."

"Lo Si! I can't! Something is going to happen!" Peter was beginning to panic. He had to go. He had to do something. He had to leave.

"Go to your father! That is where you must be! He must prepare you."

Peter took a step back. The older man's forceful words got through to him. "Where is he, Lo Si? Prepare me for what?"

"He has taken Harriet Wong to get a birth certificate for her grandson. There is no time to explain. Now go."

Peter backed away from the older man, then spun and ran down the stairs toward the Jeep.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Caine reached a hand up into the transit bus and assisted Harriet Wong down the steps. "This," he gestured across a grassy area toward a squat red brick building, "is the County Courthouse. It houses the Bureau of Vital Statistics. You may make your request for a copy of your grandson's birth certificate. Do you have the other documents that I recommended you bring?"

"Yes. Right here." Harriet patted her shoulder bag. "You are very kind to assist me."

"It is my h--" The sound of screeching tires drowned out the rest of Caine's statement. He turned to see a green Jeep skidding up near the bus stop. The vehicle had barely rocked to a halt before Peter climbed frantically out of the driver's side door.

"Pop! There's. . . I gotta. . . " Peter's voice trailed off as he turned as if mesmerized toward the courthouse.

"No. . . " he whispered under his breath. "No. . . not again. . . "

Caine was stunned by the flash of imagery and sensation that washed over his son. And then Peter was running across the grass toward the courthouse. With a firm "remain here" to Harriet, Caine followed.

Images of the previous night's dream flashed vividly through his mind as he struggled to close the distance between himself and his son. But Peter was much younger and ran with a will and a desperation equal to Caine's own. He was hard pressed to keep the distance between them from growing.

"Peter!" He called to him both physically and mentally, but Peter showed no signs of having heard him; his focus seemed to be elsewhere.

"No, my son! No!" Caine put on a burst of speed as Peter came to a halt in front of the building. All his fears from the past few days converged, choking him, causing the words to come out in a voice that seemed not his own.

"Stay back!" Peter spun at the sound, and to Caine's utter shock raised his arms and hit him with a Chi burst that impeded his momentum and knocked him backward. Caine landed in a heap in the damp grass.

Struggling to his feet, his only thought was of reaching Peter, preventing an ending of the young man's life. It was too soon and he had selfishly not prepared him. If destiny could not be altered, then he would meet his own as well.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Kermit watched from his car window as a couple of would-be joggers paused in front of a postal drop box several yards away from the Coroner's Office. Both opened bottles of designer water and took small sips. But Kermit noted the way one of them spoke into the upraised collar of his sweat jacket.

Another plant, he decided. So far that morning he had spotted four. Five if he included the officer he recognized from the 59th.

Glancing at his watch, he wondered how long he would have to wait. Peter has seemed so sure that something would be going down at the place that morning. Judging from the amount of "undercover" attention the place was receiving, Kermit was inclined to agree with the young Shaolin cop's assessment.

When he was beginning to wonder if the bomber had been spooked, he noticed the door of the white van that he had tagged "undercover headquarters" was opening. A tall man dressed in a dark suit stepped out and moved along the street in Kermit's direction. The man paused to knock at the passenger side window before climbing into the Corvair alongside Kermit.

"Agent Maxey, I presume." Kermit continued to stare out of his windshield, never looking in the man's direction.

"And you're Griffin, with a 'G'."

"If you don't want points off for spelling."

"What brings you to the Coroner's Office this morning, Griffin?"

"Thought I'd come out and offer a little constructive criticism of your undercover team." Kermit gestured out of the windshield. "White vans, very FBI, very obvious, especially when dark-suited men keep climbing in and out. And the yuppie joggers don't walk the same block ten times or do dirty sneakers. I won't even go into the home hair cut--"

"Points taken." Maxey reached into a pocket and withdrew a walkie-talkie. "Call it off. Repeat. Mission abort."

"Does this mean Detective Caine gets his car back?"

"Is that what this is about? Caine's car?"

"Oh yeah. He's quite fond of it."

"And you're quite fond of him. What's your relationship?"

"I don't do twenty questions."

"And I don't--"

The sound of a muffled boom interrupted Maxey's statement.

"That sounded like a bomb," Kermit murmured as he turned the keys in the ignition.

"Sounded like it was nearby," Maxey agreed, pulling on the seatbelt. "Hope your friend Peter Caine isn't anywhere around."

I hope you aren't either, kid. Kermit yanked the vehicle away from the curb and tore off in the direction of the sound. Moments later, the confirming call came over his radio.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

As Peter passed through the front doors of the courthouse, he had a hazy recollection of having pushed his father away. The thought would not come into focus, though. There was no time. His thoughts were occupied with the line of people who where waiting to pass through the courthouse metal detector.

"I'm a police officer! Everybody out! There's a bomb in this room!" Reaching into his jacket, he yanked out his badge and displayed it for all to see.

Silence reigned as everyone turned in his direction and froze. Then chaos broke loose. People began to run toward the front exit. The two uniformed officers who stood on the opposite side of the large machine retreated further into the building behind a second set of reinforced doors.

A young man who had ran for the front exit turned and headed back toward the rolling belt of the metal detector.

"No! Leave now!" Peter reached for him to pull him back toward the doors.

"My back pack!" The young man pointed to the object that was rolling along the conveyor toward the innards of the metal detectors scanning system.

"Leave it!" Peter pushed him forcefully through the open front doors and followed him out.

Moments later he felt the blast shake the building to its foundations. And then the shock wave hit him from behind. He was flying, sailing through the air until he plowed into a blur of browns and greens and the smell of incense and dirt. All that followed was nothingness.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Caine rolled Peter onto his back as officers from within the courthouse appeared from other exits. Several officers attempted to calm the crowd, while another approached on Peter's opposite side. Harriet Wong stood back among the gathered group and Caine nodded gratefully in her direction.

"An ambulance is on it's way," the uniformed officer told him.

"He will be fine," Caine said to the young man who seemed intent on checking Peter's pulse and breathing for himself.

"The paramedics should still have a look at him. Why don't you monitor him for signs of shock till they come?" With that the young officer stood and breezed away to help his fellow officers.

"He will be all right." Caine did not look up, but continued to focus his attention on Peter. His nightmare had become reality, but his son was still with him. He ran a hand that held only the faintest of tremors along his brow.

The young man who had preceded Peter out of the door of the courthouse edged up alongside him. "Is he going to be okay?" he asked worriedly.

"He will be fine." Caine repeated the words he'd stated to the police officer. "He will awaken soon."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No." Caine looked up at the young man. "I am a Shaolin priest, and his father."

"Well I'm freaking out, here," the young man said. "How can you be so calm? I've never been through anything like that. If your son hadn't have kept me from going back for my back pack, I would be dead."

"Calm is often a covering for a turbulent spirit. True calm, though, that permeates ones soul is rare indeed."

"So which is it?" he asked with a hint of a smile. "You have a rare kind of calm, or you're just faking it?"

"Perhaps a little of both?" Caine found himself smiling in return.

"I wish I could have either about right now because I'm really not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be holed up somewhere 'safe'. My brother is going to go through the roof when he finds out. So if you can spare even a little fake calm, I'd like to have it."

"You can have calm of your own," Caine assured him. "It is within you to do so. Trust in your knowledge of self. Accept the things that are as they are and then release your anxieties. Simply let them go."

"So that's how you do it?" the young man asked earnestly, leaning forward. "It's as easy as that?"

Caine's expression clouded. "Not always. Some things are very difficult to accept. The mind balks. But in life, like everyone else, I am but a student. All things require practice and often experience."

"I want to--" his statement was cut off by the arrival of Kermit Griffin and the FBI agent that had visited Peter's apartment two days prior.

Caine felt the shock that washed through the agent's system as his eyes settled on the young man who kneeled on Peter's opposite side.

"Brian?" The young man's wary gaze rose to meet that of the stunned-looking agent.

"Geoff? What are you doing here?" The agent's words sounded gruff and unyielding, but Caine could sense that there was more beneath the surface that the agent was hiding.

"I-I got a ticket. I had to go to court."

The agent looked from his brother to Peter and his expression darkened further. Throwing a meaningful look in Kermit's direction, he pulled a pair of handcuffs from an inner pocket and approached Peter.

"What are you doing?" Geoffrey asked, moving to block his brother's path. "He saved my life. If it wasn't for him, I'd be dead. You can't arrest him!"

"I'm taking him in for questioning." Agent Maxey brushed off his brother and lowered himself beside Peter. "You wouldn't understand."

"I would, and you're not taking him anywhere." Kermit's voice was low and dangerous as he positioned himself on Peter's opposite side. "You have no basis for arresting this man."

"Oh but I do. Detective Caine conveniently happened to be at the scene of both bombings. And he made no attempt to call for backup in either case."

"He was unconscious in both cases," Kermit pointed out. "He couldn't have placed those bombs."

"What about you, Griffin? You have the know how."

"Sorry, I prefer computers to things that go boom."

"Well they don't seem to like you. According to every database I checked, you don't exist. Even the DMV seems to have trouble finding the file associated with your license tag number."

"Probably a glitch in the system."

"I know what you are Griffin, and while I don't disagree with the need for your kind, I do think that you're dangerous and that someone or some thing needs to keep tabs on you."

"That won't be you and that won't be today."

"Maybe not. But if you don't get out of my way, I will have you cited for interfering in a federal investigation. If Caine is clean, he has nothing to worry about."

Agent Maxey reached for Peter's arm and Caine halted him with a raised hand.

"That will not be necessary."

"It certainly won't be." A woman's voice sounded from behind the group. Caine glanced over his shoulder to see a blonde-haired woman approaching. Captain Karen Simms walked at her side.

"I'd like to second that," Simms stated.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Peter opened his eyes to see a dozen blurred images hovering over him. Stifling a groan at the pain that positively jack-hammered through his brain, he struggled to focus his vision. The dozen images coalesced into more-or-less four masculine faces and a pair of dangling hand-cuffs.

Agent Brian Maxey, the bearer of the hand-cuffs looked furious. The angrily spoken words that he began to say to someone out of Peter's limited field of vision confirmed that idea. Caine, seeming to sense his son's discomfort, reached a hand for his brow and rubbed a thumb along his temple. Peter felt a little of the pain ease. He couldn't contain the sigh of relief that escaped him.

The small noise seemed to draw the attention of Kermit, Maxey and the vaguely familiar young man who was likewise leaning over him. Disliking the disadvantage of being flat on his back while something big was obviously going down, Peter carefully pushed himself into a sitting position. He almost made it without letting on that he felt as if his gut was taking a ride on white water rapids.

Everyone began to speak in his direction at once.

"What the hell did you think. . . ?"

"Thank you so much. . . "

"I. . . I. . . "

"Detective. . ."

"You must rest."

Peter closed his eyes and winced. The addition of another voice brought his eyes open again.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

He looked up into the face of a red-haired Emergency Medical Technician and groaned. He had no recollection of how he'd ended up flat on his back on the grass in front of the municipal courts building, but judging by the concerned expression his father speared him with, it was going to be a doozy.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Thirty minutes later, Peter pushed himself up from the back of the ambulance and moved out into the still milling crowd. The red-haired paramedic had completed his task of bandaging several new cuts on his hands and was clearing away his equipment.

As Peter took his first step into the crowd the memory of the morning's events returned between one blink and the next. Suddenly it was all there when seconds before it had been hazy. His thoughts went immediately to finding his father, to apologize for pushing him away as he had.

His eye was caught first however by an obvious argument between Agent Maxey and the female ATF agent. Ginger something, he thought she'd been introduced as. Almost as soon as he cleared the cordoned off area, she made a bee-line for him. Maxey followed more slowly, his anger seeming barely in check.

"Detective Caine, I've asked your captain's permission to have you join our team." The woman spoke as she approached, her hand outstretched.

"What?" Peter grasped her hand on reflex, not sure he had heard her correctly. Last time he'd checked, the FBI had impounded his car. The idea that he was going to join, rather than be their investigation seemed unlikely.

"I said we would like you to join our team. We feel that you will be instrumental in helping us apprehend the bomber. Captain Simms has already approved your temporary re-assignment. That is, if you feel up to it."

"What about him?" Peter jerked his head in the direction of Agent Maxey. "How does he feel?"

"He feels fortunate to have you with us." Peter heard an underlying meaning in her words and chose to remain silent. Looking beyond the two agents he saw his father speaking with a dark-haired young man. Caine's gaze rose unerringly to meet his.

Peter watched as Caine spoke several more words to the young man at his side and crossed toward him. Excusing himself from the agents, Peter met him halfway.

"I must take Mrs. Wong home. Will you come by later?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, Pop. I'll come by later."

Caine held his gaze for several moments, before a faint, vaguely sad smile turned up the corners of his mouth. Peter felt the warmth of his father's love brush against him and then Caine turned and walked away.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

He watched as the ambulance wended a path through the crowd of vehicles and headed out of the congested area. News trucks and patrol cars were scattered about the area as law enforcement both uniformed and plainclothes moved about, questioning witnesses, examining evidence and holding back the crowds. Such response from such a small explosion. An explosion that had failed to reach its intended target. Once again the wrinkle had returned to mar the perfection of his plan. He looked on as that wrinkle spoke with his father. He was beginning to believe that the interference was not coincidental. He would have to act if his plan was to continue.

As he closed his eyes to again remember, to give himself strength by means of a memory, an idea occurred to him. Maybe it was time to create a wrinkle of his own. Fingering the envelope in his pocket, he looked for an opportunity to approach the SUV that was parked haphazardly near the bus stop. He was perfectly disguised. No one would ever suspect him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"I trust you will do an adequate job, Detective?" Simms said as she and Kermit appeared at Peter's side.

Turning from his father's retreating back, Peter focused on the two officers. "Don't I always?" The requisite cocky response came off more distracted than confident.

Simms gaze drifted after his father and back toward him. "You're always a lot of things, Peter Caine. Be careful." With that she shot a glance in Kermit's direction and moved out into the crowd.

"Great lady to have on your side," Peter murmured.

"Oh yeah." Kermit's smile was a barely discernible raising of the corners of his mouth.

Peter chuckled and patted the older man on the back. "So, any idea how I went from America's most wanted to Uncle Sam wants you?"

"Wore them down with the old Peter Caine charm."

"That or she wears the pants in that family." Peter gestured toward the two agents who were speaking with other members of the crime scene team.

"Nope, even better." Nodding his head in the direction of the dark-haired young man that Peter had helped out of the building, Kermit continued. "That kid is Geoffrey Maxey. Last name ring a bell?"

"You're kidding me."

"Not this time, Kemosabe. He's Maxey's little brother. He's been attending the University here. Freshmen year. Turns out the incendiary device that caused the explosion was a two-parter. One part was embedded in the metal detector. The other part was in the kid's back pack. As soon as it went through the scanner, big boom.

"Seems it looks a little suspicious for old Mr. Maxey to continue to head up the investigation now that little brother is a possible suspect or intended victim. Puts a whole new light on things."

"Yeah," Peter mused thoughtfully. "Certainly does. Were you able to get any other information on Price's family?"

"Not long after the arrest, they packed up and left Kansas City. No forwarding address. There wasn't very much online, but I did managed to contact the newspaper that did the article. They're sending a packet overnight from their archive. Should be here in the morning. Might catch something that's not in the online file."

Peter nodded and looked off toward Caroline's Jeep. "Think this means I can get my car back?"

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

"You know, if you wear a hole in the carpet, ATF is not picking up the tab." Agent Ginger Greig did not look up as she spoke, but continued to type into her laptop. She knew the word had the desired affect when the sound of Maxey's pacing came to a halt.

"I can't believe you're doing this to me," he said. "Haven't we worked together enough times for you to trust me?"

"Who says I don't trust you?" Greig stopped to look up at him.

"You may as well have yelled it when you asked Caine to join the task force."

Greig sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once. I do trust you, as much as I trust anybody. You're a damn fine agent otherwise you never would have made it so far at such a young age. If you feel that Peter Caine is somehow a key to this case then I have to believe you. Your instincts are usually dead on. It's your methods that could use a little work."

"What? "

"I said your methods suck, Max. Especially where your emotions are involved. You're taking this case personally, and with good reason it seems. But the point is, you're letting that emotion cloud your vision. This way, I can keep an eye on both you and Peter Caine."

"You should ha--"

The sound of a discreet tapping at the door cut off Maxey's intended response. Greig raised her voice to allow the knocker entry.

"Hope I'm not disturbing anything." Peter Caine poked his head into the room. "One of the officers told me to report here."

"Come on in, Detective," Greig waved him to a seat further along the meeting room table.

Peter closed the door behind himself before moving forward and dropping a plastic enclosed envelope on the table.

"I picked it up before I knew what it was," he said. "Found it in my jeep. I think it's another note from the bomber."

Ginger didn't miss the way Maxey jerked before he moved quickly forward. "How did you know about the notes?" he demanded.

Peter turned on him. "It's kind of a clue when federal agents start showing up at your apartment on a Saturday morning accusing you of blowing up people. I checked you out. The most stand out thing in your career is the Price case."

"The notes were not a part of the public record."

"I'm not the public. Besides, getting a fancy federal agent like you to a crime scene in under 48 hours is nothing short of a miracle. You were at my apartment bright and early in just under eighteen. That tells me that you were expecting something. You had a note."

"Nice hypothesis, Detective," Ginger spoke up. "You got any evidence to back it up?"

"Him." Peter pointed a thumb in Maxey's direction. "He all but admitted to it."

"He's got a point there," she admitted toward Maxey.

"On the top of his head," Maxey murmured. Ginger ignored the childish comment.

"Why don't we just see what the message says?" she asked.

Reaching into her briefcase, she withdrew a pair of gloves and then carefully removed the envelope form the bag.

"Paper looks generic," she said, holding it up to the light. "No watermark. Plain font. Laser printer."

Placing the page on the table she read the words aloud:

'Now you're just like me. This is what I'm driven to do. My fate was sealed forever ago.'

"What could that mean?" she turned to Maxey.

Maxey repeated the words thoughtfully before he replied. "Something to do with driving? Something to do with seals? Something to do with fate?"

Peter let out an exasperated sound and shook his head. "It's to do with you and him. This note is directed toward you."

Maxey threw him a distrusting look and was about to speak, but Peter cut him off.

"Think about it. He starts with 'now you're like him'. Don't you remember what he tried to do today?"

"Of course I remember. He . . . " Maxey glared at the detective, but then his angry expression faded to one of bewilderment.

"He tried to kill my brother." Maxey whispered the words with a hint of shock in his voice. Then more loudly, "He tried to kill Geoff. . . He was trying to make me like him. By killing Geoff. Someone close to him is dead and he blames me."

He paused and stared across at Peter. "But he must know Geoff survived. And why would he put the note in your car?"

"He didn't have time to write a new one," Peter suggested. "He had to be on the scene to get at my Jeep. There was no way to create a new note in a controlled environment where he could be sure not to leave any physical evidence."

"Right. Right." Ginger could tell that Maxey's excitement was growing. The same excitement was growing in Peter Caine's face. They both seemed to come to the conclusion at the same time.

"Price had a brother."

"Do you know where he is?" Peter asked.

"No idea. He was a juvenile back when we busted Price. We really didn't pay him much attention. But it could be him. Revenge for what happened to his brother?"
"Yeah, possibly. He's got to be somewhere in the city, and he's obviously familiar with evidence and police procedure."

"And he knows something about--"

"Gentlemen," Ginger raised a hand halting the rapid-fire exchange that no longer seemed to include her. "As amazing as this is to behold, and supposing it is Price's brother, how do we find him?"

Peter and Maxey looked at one another, then Peter's face spread into a grin. "I've got an idea."

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

As Agents Maxey and Greig ran through the next day's backup plan with the inter-agencies team, Peter settled into a chair at the back of the room. Teams was being sent to each of the Divisions of Motor Vehicles in the city in the hopes of discovering where the devices might be planted. If that plan failed, they would be forced to attempt to find individuals who might inadvertently be carrying explosives on their persons.

He knew in his heart that the plan was a nightmare, destined to fail. What he didn't know was what part he would eventually play in it. What bothered him more than the feeling of imminent disaster was the fact that he hadn't had an opportunity to speak with his father yet.

The things that had taken place that morning weren't like the dreams he and his father had. In the dream, Caine had not chased after him. He had not pushed his father away. He had not run from the explosion. He'd just stood there and accepted it. Was that what he was going to do? Was he to stand there and accept death?

"Hope I wasn't boring you."

Peter looked up and chuckled at the sound of Maxey's voice. "No. I got it. I know what we're supposed to do."

"You just don't think it's going to work, do you?"

"It's a losing battle," Peter replied. "We got nothing on the aged photograph that Kermit came up with. Nothing on the parents or the brother since the bombings. Not even a yearbook picture. He might as well be a ghost. Hell, we can't even be sure that the DMV is the government office he has in mind."

"It's a government office that has to do with driving. That's all we've got to go on. Besides, we just got a call. Team A found incendiary devices at the 9th street DMV."

Peter raised his brows in surprise. "Could be a trick."

"Yeah. That's what I keep thinking. My instincts are screaming that this is too easy."

"I'm an advocate of following one's instincts," Peter said with a grin. "Ever wondered why these guys singled you out?"

Maxey looked uncomfortable for several moments. "I knew Franklin Price when we were kids in high school," he confided. At Peter's startled look, he amended, "I didn't know him, know him. We weren't friends. He was an underclassman during my senior year.

"There was this girl, drop dead gorgeous - I don't even remember her name now, but everyone had a crush on her, including me. But she was dating the quarterback. Stan - The Man - Stanley.

"Well, this girl, I realize in retrospect had a cruel streak. And one day after school she starts teasing Price. Toying with him, pretending to like him, you know. She was a senior and he had to be a freshmen or sophomore. Well, Stan-the-man shows up. He puts on his jealous act and the girl starts accusing Price of bothering her.

"Here I am, not exactly the most popul