For Want Of Love

by WriterJC

A serial killer comes to town, just when Peter is trying to deal with being Shaolin. . . will he be ready?

TITLE: For Want Of Love

AUTHOR: WriterJC (shadowmom@writeme.com)

-Author's web page: http://www.geocities.com/jackeescorner

-Eventual story location: http://www.geocities.com/jackeescorner/fwol.html

CHARACTERS: Peter, Pop, the gang at the 101st, our favorite coroner and assorted guests and special guests.

RATING: Very strong PG-13 for implied violence and pretty graphic imagery. Adult situations.

SYNOPSIS: Another serial killer comes to town, as do a couple oddly matched FBI-types. Of course, this would happen right when Peter is trying to deal with being Shaolin, and Pop is trying to deal with Peter trying to deal with being Shaolin, and Lo Si is trying to deal with Caine trying to deal with. . . well, you get the picture g. And, it would simply be -way- too easy if those were the only things our favorite Shaolin have to contend with in this story.

NOTES&WARNINGS: Set sometime mid fourth season should do. Not really necessary, but I'd like to think this occurred a little before "Shaolin Shot" in the timeline. Implied spoilers for the 1st season episodes: "Initiations", "Sunday At The Hotel With George" and "I Never Promised You A Rose Garden", and vague if you blink you might miss it spoilers for the 3rd season episode: "Chinatown Murder Mystery: The Case of the. . . ", and well, rather blatant inferred spoilers for the 4th season episode "Dark Visions".

Also, for those who remember "Acquainted With The Night" (and hinted g), Agent Inez is back! But, this story is NOT a sequel to AWTN. So, if you haven't read it, and have no clue as to what I'm talking about, no worries. This story stands completely and totally on its own. It does however contain very, very mild spoilers for AWTN to any who have a mind to go and look it up. When this story is completely posted to the list/s, it will be available on my personal web page (listed above) and fanfiction.net

DISCLAIMER: The toys as well as the sandbox in which I am playing belong to the owners and copyright holders of the television series Kung Fu: The Legend Continues. I felt that since they left them just sitting out, the least I could do was to play with them. Of course, this "play" is profitless, and no infringement is intended. I even promise to clean them up and dust them off when I'm done.

The original characters, while mine (and I use that term loosely), all have minds of their own, and take offense to the designation "toys", although they have decided to hang out in the sandbox and play for a while.

Comments and constructive criticism are very welcome, either privately or publicly. And last, but not least, a very special thanks to MS, just because. J

-denotes emphasis-

*denotes mind-speak, or thoughts*

~denotes italics~

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For Want Of Love

By WriterJC

~For want of love, the man was broken

For lack of hope, the shell is all

If then the dream is but a token

What will remain to break the fall?~

Detective Peter Caine shoved open the outer door of the McEllery Lane apartment building and, leaning one arm against the building, drew in deep cleansing breaths. Slowly, in and out, even breaths, just like his father taught him. Gradually he felt his center returning, his mind slowly rebuilding the barrier that would shield him from the sensations that were assaulting his consciousness.

Misery, agony and torturous death had clung to the very air. Peter didn't need to be Shaolin to understand what had happened to the body that had been found in the apartment complex's storage basement; the signs were more than obvious. But his newly heightened senses made it much more difficult to distance himself, and in some cases, gave him grizzly glimpses into the agony of the slain or the insanity of the torturer and even the horror of those called in to investigate. He never knew when the sensations would kick in, whether they would be short glimpses or just vague feelings. Or if they would be the ones that were so intense that they hit him like a freight train, nearly taking his knees out from under him. He didn't know how his father had ever learned to handle it. He didn't think he ever would.

Peter heard footsteps approaching, and sensed Nicky Elder's approach before the young coroner could push open the apartment's outer doors. "What are your preliminary findings, Nicky?" he asked just as the man appeared.

Nicky, whose mouth had been formed to say Peter's name, favored the taller detective with a curious look. Under normal circumstances, Peter might have teased the shorter man about how he'd known that he would appear outside of the door at that moment. But today, Peter didn't quite feel up to it.

"Footsteps," he explained, gesturing toward the slightly open door.

"Ahh," Nicky glanced back and offered Peter a grin. "Good detecting. Maybe I need to get softer soles?" Nicky lifted a brown-clad foot, displaying very much used loafers that were in need of replacing, thus adding another piece to the puzzle of why the man couldn't get a date.

"That might be a good idea," Peter responded. "The sooner the better."

Nicky shot him a look, before glancing back down at his shoes. "You think?"

Peter pointed suggestively toward the notepad the man was carrying. "Nicky. . . "

"Oh, right," Nicky gestured with the pad. "Preliminary findings. Cause of death, I'm going to have to say is blood loss. Preliminary time of death was about 10 hours ago. Lot of lacerations -- early count is that there are at least a couple dozen stab wounds with something jagged and dull all over the . . . "

Nicky's words faded out as Peter's sensitized mind provided him with an image of just the type of implement that would produce the wounds that he'd seen.

". . . not sure what type of weapon was used, but forensics--"

"Poker," Peter cut in, the word out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"What?" Nicky stopped speaking and looked up at him curiously. "I. . . thought that was last Saturday, and you lost."

Peter shook his head. "The weapon. It wa - could have been a poker -- those decorative kinds, with the little hooks on the bottom. Like you use for a fireplace."

"Oh. Right." Nicky eyed him, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah, that might work considering the tearing action on the underlying flesh. I'll check into that Pete. And I'll get back to you with the rest of my report as soon as I can. Oh, by the way," he handed Peter a Polaroid. "We found this branded on his back when we put him in the bag."

Peter accepted the picture, knowing without looking what he would see. The reddened marks of a branded irregular heart and arrow shape in which one side of the heart was not completely closed, reflected back from the photograph. He blew out a breath, this was the second mutilated, branded body in a little over a week. Though he hoped it wasn't so, something deep within told Peter that he had a serial killer on his hands.

~*~

"Caine." Peter snatched up his car phone as he headed the Stealth in the direction of Chinatown. Over the course of the morning, vague images and sensations had continued to assault him, leaving him irritable and jumpy. By lunch time, Skalany had suggested he go meditate or something before she shot him. Peter had decided to take her suggestion, at least partially.

"Peter?" Nicky Elder's voice echoed across the telephone connection, before launching into a stuttering high speed update of his findings. That the man was enthusiastic about his work was not in doubt. Peter had to struggle to focus on what he was saying.

"You were right. No ID yet, but I can tell you that, unlike the first victim, the weapon that was used to kill our John Doe was a poker. A black one. We found flecks of acrylic paint in several of the wounds. Also, there were traces of Lorazeparidol in his system. It's a fast acting psychotropic drug used for hypnosis and sedation, even brings on a little short term antegrade amnesia. Probably made him more malleable. We found the other guy too late for there to be any rem--"

Peter's breath hitched as he felt the unwanted sensations returning. And Nicky had lost him somewhere around the word 'antegrade'. "Uh. . . Nicky. Can you get me a hard copy?"

"Um. Sure. No problem," Nicky replied, his voice taking on an edge of concern. "You okay, Pete?"

"Yeah. Fine. Thanks, Nicky," Peter managed before clicking off the phone and dropping it on the seat beside himself. He squeezed his eyes shut as the images and sensations began to build, much more intense than the others. . .

~The poker, rising and falling, tearing into resisting flesh but being pulled back out by a merciless grasp. Searing pain as the sharp hook jutting out of the implement impacted viciously with bone. . . ~

The echo of a horn blared as Peter narrowly missed crossing into oncoming traffic. Jerking the car back into the correct lane, he struggled to keep the effects of the vision at bay, to ward off the waves of approaching panic.

"Breathe," he told himself as he fought, concentrating on drawing in the air in

through his nose and out through his mouth. Painfully slowly he managed to push the images back, but he could feel them hovering at the edge of his subconscious, challenging his tenuous control. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he pressed hard onto the gas pedal and directed the Stealth toward Chinatown more quickly.

~*~

"Pop? You here?" Peter called shakily as he quickly made his way up the steps to his father's apartment. Reaching his father's main room, he stopped and turned in a circle.

"Pop?" he called again when he received no response. He dared not reach out with his senses for fear that he would lose what slight control he had. By the time he made a complete circuit of the rooms, a fine sheen of perspiration covered his brow as a result of his mental exertions.

"Where are you?" He sat back tiredly against the raised platform in the main room and dropped his head into his hands. The softly spoken words sounded almost desperate against the silence of the empty apartment.

"I am here, Peter," Kwai Chang Caine appeared suddenly in the doorway, startling his son. Caine's concern was evident in the way he quickly settled the large box of ceramic pots that he was carrying near the door and moved forward. "You are troubled," he stated the obvious as he raised a hand and touched Peter's damp brow.

Peter relaxed under the concerned touch. "Yes, I am troubled," he agreed. "I need your help, Pop."

"How may I be of assistance?" Caine inquired, lowering his hand to listen.

"It has to do with a case I'm working on," Peter pushed himself into a standing position, unable to sit still. "It--You know that I, well, sometimes I have flashes." Peter shot a quick look in his father's direction as he fumbled with the words. He still wasn't comfortable with that particular Shaolin ability.

"Yes," Caine simply nodded and waited for Peter to continue.

Peter blew out a breath and began to pace. "It happened again. This time at a crime scene. I did the breathing thing like you told me, and -- and it worked for a little while. But they kept coming back. And then in the car on the way over here. . . I-I almost couldn't stop it. I almost couldn't build the wall--I--No. . . " Peter's breath caught, he wasn't ready. "Not again. . . " He frantically clenched his hands in his hair as he felt the sensations rising, over-running his barriers, as if by the very act of talking and thinking about them, he had given them power.

And then, he heard his father's voice as if coming from a far distance. He felt Caine's hands settle on his where they still bunched in his hair. The calm emanating from the older man seeped into Peter, lending him a measure of calm.

"Peter," Caine called his son again. This time Peter heard and felt the words and his fingers slowly unclenched and he allowed his father to lower his hands. The sensations and the images faded away.

"All will be well," Caine told him quietly, bringing Peter's hands together, allowing Peter to soak in the calm, reassuring energy that he exuded.

Peter lifted an uncertain gaze to meet his father's. "Can you help me to make it stop?" he asked? He wanted no part of the assault on his mind. He felt as if he were going crazy.

"Peter," Caine sighed the type of sigh that always signaled to Peter that a lesson was forthcoming and not necessarily one that he was going to appreciate. Peter pulled his hands away. He didn't want another lesson.

"Since you completed your training," Caine continued. "You have gained the use of portions of your mind that had lain dormant. These. . . feelings, this. . . intuition that you are experiencing are yours to learn to control. These images may be a warning, or they may be the aura of emotions that were left behind. You can only know for certain through practice and patience."

Peter's shoulders dropped dejectedly. "So you won't help me?" he asked, disappointment sharpening into anger. His father had always wanted him to become Shaolin, but he had never warned of him of this particular consequence. "You're just going to sit back and watch me suffer and chalk it up to more of poor Peter stumbling along his path? I'm tired of the lessons Pop! Why can't you just help me? Tell me what you do to deal with it."

"I have already given you what you need," Caine replied firmly.

"Well then, maybe I'm not doing it right," Peter returned. "'Cause it's not working anymore. I can't believe you expect me to just live this way! How am I supposed to function like this?"

"With meditation. . . "

"I don't have time to meditate!" Peter shot back. "I've got a serial killer on my hands who believes in killing his victims by the most brutal means possible. How am I supposed to catch this person if I can barely hold it together long enough to drive across town?"

Caine looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed. "This is a method, but there are. . . consequences."

"Now you give me consequences," Peter said. "Will it make them go away so I can work?"

"It will," Caine nodded. "But it is no substitute for learning to deal with them yourself."

"Just tell me what to do," Peter requested. As far as he was concerned, the consequences could be no worse than having unwanted sensations coming on him at the drop of a hat. If there was an 'off' switch to the Shaolin random psychic wave receiver that had taken up residence in his head, he wanted it.

Caine moved toward his shelves and reached for an old clay bottle that sat at the back of the topmost shelf. Carefully measuring out a portion into a small packet, he handed the packet to Peter. "Take a pinch of this whenever you need a reprieve."

Peter reached without hesitation into the packet and pinched out a bit and moved it toward his mouth.

"It will dampen your senses," Caine warned. "And the effect will not last long. Perhaps several hours. When you feel the effect beginning to wear off, you will experience a few moments of disorientation."

"Those are the side effects?" Peter asked, surprised. "From your expression, I was expecting to grow another head or turn green or something." Peter carried the pinch the rest of the way to his mouth and began to chew.

"We will not be able to sense one another while you are under the influence of the mixture."

Peter paused, feeling his tongue go numb where the herbs touched. "We won't?" he asked, the thought bothering him more than he cared to admit.

"We will not," Caine reemphasized. "Please do not use the mixture more than two times a day."

Peter opened his mouth to ask why, but wasn't sure he wanted to know if it was a personal request from his father or medical advice from his apothecary. Caine's lack of expression left him with few clues. "Okay, Pop," he replied, simply choosing to agree.

"You should began to feel the effects now," Caine told him as he turned to replace the clay jar on the shelf.

"Yeah, I do," Peter said feeling the numbness leave his tongue and begin seeping into other less defined areas.

"Take care, my son," Caine placed a hand on Peter's shoulder then turned and walked away.

Peter watched him go out onto the balcony, and felt as if on some level that he had disappointed his father. Again. *I will do better, Father.* he thought earnestly toward Caine's back. *I will learn to control the images. Just not right now. There's no time right now*. But for the first time in many months, Peter knew for certain that his father did not hear him.

~*~

Peter walked into the precinct and frowned at the oddly muffled quality to the place. The colors, sounds and even the smells seemed somehow dimmer, less vibrant. He had never realized how much his heightened senses had figured into his everyday life.

"Looks like you took my advice, partner," Skalany appeared at his side. "Good partner. But I think I should warn you," she pointed to the closed door of Captain Simms' office. "You had a couple visitors while you were away on your extended lunch."

"Who is it?" Peter asked her, unable to make out the visitor's identities through Simms' partially closed blinds.

"That's for you to find out and tell me later," Skalany said. "But I can tell you that one of the visitors in question referred to you by the term 'cutie'. You should also know that there is a pool going." With a smirk, she shoved a file folder into his hands.

Peter groaned as he accepted the folder, but smiled in spite of himself. "Do I want to know which side you came down on? And I'm -not- going to ask how much money."

Mary Margaret punched him in the arm. "Knock her dead, Partner. You always do. And it'll buy the both of us a nice lunch."

Peter chuckled. "What's this?" he gestured to the file in his hands.

"Nicky's report, and the ID on your John Doe," Skalany said. Peter immediately sobered as she began to fill him in.

"Jon David Crocker. Age thirty-two. Bouncer at the--"

"Detective Caine? My office, please?"

Peter turned at the sound of Captain Simms' voice. Beyond her open door he spotted two familiar dark heads. One of them nailed him with a pair of glittering green eyes. "If I were you, I'd change my bet," he muttered to Skalany before raising his voice for Simms' benefit.

"Right away, Captain."

~*~

"Special Agents Inez Strong and Thomas McGruder," Peter said as he entered Simms' office, remembering his last encounter with the agents nearly three years earlier when another serial killer had come to Chinatown with Peter and Caine on his hit list. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, taking a seat.

"Still Detective, is it?" Strong's typically acid tone hadn't mellowed any. "Maybe we got the wrong guy after all," she threw a smirking glance toward her partner.

"Turned down a promotion," Peter shot back at her. "Decided to keep doing what I do best."

"Oh? You mean BS, whine and pout?" Strong replied.

"And you're still drinking coffee, I see," Peter shot back at her, pretending not to notice the chuckle McGruder tried to cover with a cough. "It's good to see you again, too."

Inez pulled her blazer closed, covering the small coffee spot on her blouse. Her eyes twinkled as she responded. "And you're still such a cutie."

Capt. Simms cleared her throat conspicuously. "Well, now that you've re-introduced yourselves: Detective Caine, Agents Strong and McGruder are working on a case that they feel is related to the case you're working."

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Simms raised her hand, cutting him off.

"They are not looking to take over your case. But have requested that our department and the FBI work in conjunction. I'm assigning you to work with these two."

Peter turned an assessing look on the two agents. *This is going to be interesting.* "So what have you got so far?" he asked.

"What have you got?" Strong shot back.

"Hey," Peter objected. "I thought we were supposed to be working together."

"We are," McGruder spoke up, shooting a "behave" look in Strong's direction. Reaching into a briefcase at his side, he drew out a thick brown folder. "We've been tracking this killer for over a month. Here's a copy of what we have to date." He passed the file over to Peter.

"This killer has been dubbed the broken heart murderer. On each victim the branded image of an irregular heart has been found. The location varies from the soles of the feet to the back of the neck. The victims so far have all been men in their late twenties to early forties. Three in Vermont, one in Michigan and now one here.

"So far, no connection has been found between the previous four victims. All bled to death from multiple stab wounds. Because of the violence associated with the deaths we believe that the killer kills in an almost obsessive anger. The murder weapon is usually a common item. A meat thermometer, a letter opener, an ice pick and a chef's knife.

"We believe that the killer has, or wants to have, a romantic attachment to the victims as signified by the heart brand."

Peter blew out a breath as McGruder's synopsis drew to a close. "There was nothing about the victims themselves that could narrow down anything more on our killer?"

McGruder shook his head. "We've had a doctor, a teacher, a. . . swinger, for lack of a better word, and a pizza delivery man."

"Pretty much all over the map," Strong spoke up. "We've showed you ours, now show us yours."

Peter shot her a look, but complied. "There was another one this morning. Looks like the same MO. Both victims were in their thirties. One was a bouncer at a night club. Coroner just confirmed that his wounds were inflicted with a poker. The other was a night watchman at the airport - killed with one of those big forks used for grilling. Both were killed slowly by multiple stab wounds. Also, on the latest victim, our coroner found traces of some kind of psychotropic drug. I'll get you copies of the report."

"Hmm. Sounds like our perp," McGruder commented. "We really aren't here to step on your toes, Detective Caine. But we believe our killer is operating out of your town. And we'd simply like to work with you in your investigation. The next step is yours."

Peter smiled at the olive branch McGruder was extending, and extended one of his own. "First of all, it's Peter."

"And I'm Mac," McGruder responded, returning the friendly smile.

"And I'm nauseous," Strong inserted. "What did you say your next move was going to be?"

Peter sighed, thinking that the woman was just deliberately confrontational. "I'd -like- to check out our latest victim's apartment, talk to his work mates and neighbors, see if anything bubbles up."

"And they offered you a promotion for that?" Strong asked, not allowing Peter a chance to respond before standing and nodding toward Captain Simms then exiting the office. "Let's get this show on the road," echoed behind her.

"Good to meet you, Captain," McGruder stated in Simms' direction as he too rose and then with a wry grin in Peter's direction followed his partner.

"She's really a good agent," Peter said to Simms as he stood also to leave.

"I don't doubt it," Simms replied with a diplomatic smile. "Good luck, Detective. You're going to need it."

*Now that* Peter thought, *-I- don't doubt.*

~*~

"Old friend, something troubles you." Lo Si stated as he reached Kwai Chang Caine's balcony. The elder Caine was seated on the ground amidst the greenery transferring seedlings. Lo Si was certain that to most the younger Shambhala master looked serene and at unity with his surroundings. But Lo Si could feel the disharmony within the other man, and he knew the outward signs that Kwai Chang Caine was upset.

Caine's shoulders slumped slightly as he turned toward the older man. "What is usually the problem?" he asked with uncharacteristic sharpness.

"Ah," Lo Si did not even try to stifle a grin. "Young Peter. He tries even the patience of a Master. Tell me, Kwai Chang Caine. What has occurred?"

"I have given Peter the root of the gwui gengi. He is having. . . difficulties learning to handle his extended senses."

Lo Si sobered. Now he understood. "And you can no longer feel him." Lo Si knew how much the older Caine treasured the link with his son. The separation brought on by the gwui gengi would likely prove to be more of a challenge for the father than for the son.

"That is true, Master," Caine nodded in answer to Lo Si's statement.

"Will not the effects of the gwui gengi last for but a few hours?" Lo Si asked.

"Yes." Caine said. "But for those hours we will not be in. . . touch. It will be as if he is not there."

"And you will have no means of knowing when he will take more of the root," the Ancient voiced the rest of the distraught father's concerns. "See this as an opportunity, Kwai Chang Caine. Do you not sometimes find such an open link with Peter to be. . . distracting? Or perhaps the both of you have become too accustomed to such a connection and must learn for a time to walk separately."

"We have walked separately for too long. For fifteen years, he was not there. I do not wish to return to that time."

"Your link to Peter is -very- strong," Lo Si said. "Stronger than any that I have felt before. Even at your temple your connection was not as such. Such dependence can be addictive, debilitating. Learn from this experience Kwai Chang Caine, and allow your son to grow from it as well."

Caine sighed heavily, and Lo Si knew that he understood the logic of what he was being told.

"I will try," Caine said softly, returning to his seedlings.

Lo Si grinned impishly. *Do or do not.* He thought to the elder Caine. *There is no try.*

Caine's lips lifted into a smile at the familiar joke as he turned and bowed his head slightly. *Yes, Master.*

~*~

Peter stepped out of his Stealth and waited for Mac and Agent Strong to climb out of their rented vehicle. Strong's silver-toed cowboy boots clunked along the asphalt as she sauntered forward with a smirk on her lips. He marveled that even the echoing sound seemed slightly different when his Shaolin senses were in 'off' mode.

"Turns out our latest victim lived in the same apartment complex where his body was found." Peter said when they were beside him. "The body was discovered in a basement storage room of one of the buildings near the back of the complex. He lived over there, number 2417A, in one of the upstairs garden apartments." Pointing, he directed the group to the left. "Keys were on him. Manager says that all of the upstairs apartments have fireplaces, all supplied with complimentary poker sets."

Peter waited, half expecting a comment from Strong, but she merely raised her brows and stalked past him toward the building he had indicated.

"She's saving up," Mac murmured as he moved to Peter's side.

"Thanks for the warning," Peter chuckled as they set off after her. "So is it just me or is she a terrier with everyone?"

"Well," Mac said thoughtfully. "The 'terrier' part is there with everyone to some degree. But if she -likes- you, you get special treatment."

"Oh God. Tell me she doesn't like me."

"Actually, she's a little miffed at you."

"Miffed?" Peter questioned. "I would have used a few other words to describe her mood."

"Yeah. She's got this Mountie mentality. She always gets her man. You're the one that got away."

Peter didn't know whether to be afraid or flattered. "So what do I do to get her 'un-miffed', aside from the obvious?"

"Oh, you're doing just fine," Mac assured him. "Give her time. She'll come around. In the meantime. . . "

"Just roll with the punches? Got it."

As Peter and Mac approached the outer door of the apartment building, Strong stood waiting for them. A woman dressed in running shorts and a cutoff shirt stepped out into the sun. Gleaming red hair was pulled up into a bouncing ponytail.

Strong cleared her throat loudly as Mac and Peter watched the woman run off along the sidewalk. "We've got work to do -gentlemen-. And I do use that term loosely."

Mac and Peter exchanged looks then laughed as they followed her into the building.

"Bachelor pad," Strong commented as soon as the trio stepped into the darkly furnished apartment. Black leather & lacquer furniture as well as sports trophies adorned the room. "I'll bet yours looks just like it." She shot in Peter's direction.

"Unbelievable," Peter murmured under his breath. "You've never even seen my apartment. I thought you profilers had some sort of psychological edge."

"Oh, we do, Detective Cutie. And I'm pretty sure I've got you all pegged."

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You're smart. Off-handedly thoughtful. A closet do-gooder. Sensitive, bringing out all those female protective instincts while at the same time making them want to jump your bones--"

"Stop! Please!" Peter threw up his hands in surrender. "You're embarrassing me."

"Okay, how about this? You are the kind of guy women fall all over themselves for. You turn on that, patented, I'm sure, Peter Caine charm and *les petites fleurs* all swoon."

Peter let out a bark of laughter. "Be careful, Special Agent Strong. I'm going to think that you're one of the swooners."

"Nope," Strong shook her head. "I never swoon. I just pull my gun. And I've been wanting to shoot you since the moment we met."

"Now, you're scaring me." Peter shot back, more than a little truth in his statement.

"Good," Strong grinned at him. "Every relationship should have a little fear." Then turning, "Why don't you and brain boy check out this place? I'll go talk to the neighbors."

Peter chuckled as she disappeared out of the front door. "I think I like her," he said, checking out the fireplace for missing pokers. The set was complete.

"Are you sure you want to go there, Peter?" Mac asked, poking his head out from the closet that he was looking through. "I prefer my women unarmed."

"I don't mind armed women," Peter grinned. "And I know I don't want to go there. But still, she's fun and she speaks her mind. I think we could be friends."

"Uh huh," Mac nodded, eyeing him as if he had just taken complete leave of his senses. "Now -you're- scaring -me-. I've been her partner for four years and I've spent the majority of that time either apologizing for her, backing her up or staying the heck out of her way."

"Sounds like an adventure," Peter said, standing in the middle of the room, hands on hips as he scanned the place. His eyes stopped at the black lacquer coffee table. Atop the low table sat a half-eaten box of chocolates. A faint memory tickled at his brain, but he had a hard time grasping it. "I think. . . "

"What is it?" Mac asked, moving toward him.

"Wait a minute. . . " Peter pointed a finger at the table, concentrating. "I know. . . this is familiar," he moved closer to the low table. "I recognize this," Peter said, slipping a glove on as he kneeled down. Then, slipping a hand beneath the open lid of the box of chocolates, he pointed it in Mac's direction.

"You hold the key to my heart," Mac read the calligraphic inscription aloud. "That wouldn't be much of a stretch to tie into the heart brand."

"My thoughts exactly," Peter said. "And the other victim had a tin of cookies with those same words stenciled on the outside."

"So our killer notifies his victims. . ." Mac said, reaching into his jacket and drawing out a cellular phone.

"Or poisons them," Peter supplied.

Mac's brows raised at that, but then whomever he had dialed picked up. "Julie? I need you to go through the. . . "

Peter pushed up from the floor and went in search of Agent Strong, thinking that it probably wasn't a good idea to leave her terrorizing the neighborhood for too long. Besides, he wanted to notify her of what they had found. He met her walking away from the closing door of apartment B.

"We may have found something," he told her, then quickly brought her up to date.

"Not bad," she said approvingly. "Our evidence team probably overlooked that."

"Well, smaller, more intimate investigations allow one to get closer to the evidence."

"Umm hmm," she remarked, taking a step back. "I'll make sure to put that one in the suggestion box. I'll bet Mac is probably calling Julie in evidence by now. They're sort of attached at the hip -- he'll probably find lots of reasons to keep her on the line. Why don't you take this next door? Let me see the 101st's hot shot not-a-lieutenant in action."

Peter smirked, and knocked at the door of apartment C. It opened on the first knock to reveal the red-headed jogger who was delicately wiping at her brow with a towel. Pale blue eyes took in both Peter and Strong. "Can I help you?" she asked.

Peter shot a quick accusing look in Strong's direction -- whose face was a study of innocence -- then plastered on a smile for the red-head. "I'm Detective Peter Caine," he said, displaying his badge, "With the 101st precinct. This is Special Agent Inez Strong with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

The woman stood back and allowed them to enter the apartment. "I'm Cathie Hastings," she said. "Can I offer you anything?" Her eyes lingered in Peter's suggestively before she included Strong in the question.

"No. Thanks," Strong rolled her eyes in Peter's direction and began to walk around the living room of the apartment. She paused briefly before the fireplace, giving the decorative brass poker stand a once over. Peter noted that the entire set appeared in tact, also that there was not a bit of black acrylic paint anywhere to be found near the fireplace.

Turning back to Cathie Hastings, Peter smiled warmly and began his questions. Five minutes later as he and Strong prepared to leave, he found Cathie Hastings' phone number clasped in his left palm. He surreptitiously slipped it into his front pocket as he followed Strong out of the front door.

"I'll. . . see you around," Peter turned and waved as Cathie closed the door with a seductive smile.

"Toldja. Mushboy." Strong turned and headed toward Crocker's apartment.

"Told me what?" Peter asked.

"That -patented- Caine charm." Strong reminded him. "They just swoon. But you were doing a little swooning of your own in there."

"Wha--I was n--" Peter gestured back toward the apartment just as someone entered the building.

"Peter?" a familiar voice called.

Peter spun, startled. "Carol?"

"Oh God," Strong rolled her eyes in disgust. "Not another one."

Peter ignored her. "Carol, what are you doing here?"

Carol continued on into the hall. "I live here. Moved about a year ago. What are you doing here? Finally decide to look up an old friend? I never did hear from you after that incident with those parties and the girls."

Peter glanced nervously toward Strong. "Could you give us a minute, Agent Strong?" he asked.

"Not a chance," Strong grinned at him, crossed her arms and settled against the wall for the duration.

Peter blew out a disbelieving breath and turned back to Carol. "Which of these. . . ?" he asked, gesturing to the doors of the four apartments.

"You still have a way with women, I see," Carol commented, moving toward the door of apartment C.

Peter froze. "You live here?" he asked, pointing to the door in which he and Strong had just exited.

"Yeah," Carol looked up over her shoulder at him, her key poised for the lock. "That a problem?" Then her eyes widened knowingly. "Oh, you must have met Cathie. My sister. She's staying with me for a while."

"Right," Peter nodded, his mind putting the names together. "Tell you what, Carol. I'm sort of in the middle of an investigation here. I'll contact you later?"

Carol sighed and nodded knowingly. "All right, Peter. See you around." She disappeared inside of the apartment.

Strong leaned against the wall shaking her head. "Whose she?"

"We used to date," Peter murmured, heading for Crocker's apartment.

"Trail of broken hearts. Damn man, you ought to bottle that stuff." As Peter re-entered Crocker's apartment with Strong's laughing reply echoing behind him, he decided that perhaps it was time to rethink this particular adventure.

~*~

Peter settled back in his chair at Pietro's Diner while the server placed their meals before them. At the lull in conversation, his mind drifted to his father. He wondered how much longer until the effects of the stuff that he'd taken would wear off. It had been over five hours, and he was beginning to miss the familiar reassuring touch of his father's presence. He just hoped that there wouldn't be more frightening visions waiting for him on the other side.

"Just the way I like it," Strong commented, breaking into his thoughts.

"What? Gigantic?" Peter asked, taking in what the menu had billed as the 'gut-buster' sirloin. Mac's fajita platter and his own burger and fries looked wimpy by comparison.

"No. Bleedin'" Strong shot him a glance that told him that he should have guessed. "So we have dinner and then head over to this place where Crocker worked. I hope it isn't a 'boob' bar. I really hate those places. They make me feel inadequate." She pulled her blazer open and displayed her chest for Peter's perusal. "Do you think I'm inadequate?"

Peter choked on his fries.

Strong chuckled and went back to eating while Peter tried to regain his composure. He was saved from further reply by the ringing of Mac's cellular.

"McGruder?" Peter listened intently to the other man's side of the conversation. "Yeah. Oh really? Thanks Jules. Okay. Bye."

Mac clicked off his phone. "They've found something in the evidence. It's going to be couriered out from the Washington office overnight. We should have it in the morning."

"Any idea what the other items were?" Peter asked.

"She's emailing the list ahead." Mac said and went back to his vegetarian fajitas.

"Well, cookies and chocolates we have so far," Strong said. "How are your people coming on testing for toxins?" she asked Peter.

"No word yet. Our computer man did some work on that brand. But all he's come up with so far is the same things that Mac mentioned in his profile."

"Hmmm. . ." Strong murmured thoughtfully around a mouthful of steak.

"Hmmm what?" Peter asked.

"She's working on a theory," Mac supplied. "Don't bother her till she's done."

"When's that going to be?"

Mac merely shrugged.

Peter sighed and went back to his dinner.

Thirty minutes later as the group entered the Castillion Club, Peter felt a slight tickling along the back of his neck. He reached a hand up to brush away whatever had settled there. When he drew his hand away the tickling increased sharply. He turned his head and the room tilted wildly. His feet seemed to become tangled with one another and he felt as if he was going to fall.

"Hey. Caine. You alright?"

Peter's vision blurred and then sharpened to greater intensity and he found himself looking into the glittering green eyes of Special Agent Inez Strong who had a firm grip on his elbow. He didn't even try to reconcile the look of concern he saw in her eyes.

"I'm okay," he murmured, pulling away. "Must have tripped or something." He blinked and looked around the room, quickly acclimating to the return of the vibrant sounds and colors. No unwanted visions disturbed his senses; everything was back to normal with his Shaolin side.

"Yeah. Tripping." Inez didn't sound convinced as she continued to eye him.

"I'm fine. See." Peter stood and spread his arms to demonstrate that all was well. Then, "I didn't know you cared."

"Have I drawn my gun?" Strong asked, the acid tone returning. "Then don't get your hopes up."

Peter shook his head as he watched her stalk away.

~*~

Kwai Chang Caine inhaled deeply, feeling as if he could finally truly breath again. Almost unconsciously, he reached out to touch his son's living presence, sensing as Peter automatically allowed the link that connected them. For a moment, he was tempted to deepen the connection and 'speak' to his son, but he felt that while Peter knew of the returned connection, his mind was busy with other matters. So Caine simply allowed the energy intended for the deeper link to disperse, and left himself open, as usual, should his son call.

-Perhaps the Ancient is correct-, he thought, realizing that he had become reliant on constant contact with his son, even more so than Peter. But he would not allow a repeat of what had taken place in the past. Losing Peter the first time had left him a broken shell of a man, only the dream of finding his son's essence had kept him going. If Peter was lost because of his failure as a father to protect him, Caine knew that it would be his undoing. There would no longer be any hope. He determined that as long he breathed, he would be there, waiting, in case his child should need him.

~*~

"Well, that was very useful," Agent Inez announced as the trio left the Castillion Club. "Seems our dead guy liked a lot of playing along with his bouncing. He must have dated damn near every waitress, dancer and singer in the place. And as for you," she shot a finger-shaking, 'you've-been-naughty' look in Peter's direction.

"It was just lovely to see Carol again, not to mention your -other- ex-girlfriends. Let's see," she began to count off on her fingers. "Tyler, Melissa, Teresa, Tabitha--"

"I didn't date Teresa or Tabitha," Peter cut in, finding the situation tiresome. It was bad enough just knowing the Carol and Tyler were friends, especially since he had left one for the other.

"Oh, right," Strong replied to his correction. "Teresa and Tabitha just -wanted- to date you, -simultaneously-. You didn't happen to get their collective number while I wasn't looking did you?"

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Oh, wait. I almost forgot the icing: All of -your- ex-girlfriends have had a relationship with the dearly departed Mr. Jon David Crocker. Now don't that beat all? You know, Detective Cutie, the way things are going, you just might be next on our killer's list."

"Ha-ha, very funny," Peter responded dryly. "I just used to have a thing for club singers. Crocker was a bouncer--same circles."

"Whatever," Strong smirked. "You do realize that we're going to have to run checks on them."

"Yeah, I realize that," Peter replied irritatedly. The antagonistic impressions that he'd gotten from both Tyler and Carol were weighing on him, making his fuse a little shorter than normal.

"Anyone else up your sleeves that we can put on our suspect list?"

Peter sighed. This night absolutely had to end soon.

~*~

"Bachelor pad." Peter grumbled to himself as he gave his apartment a once-over. "Where in the world does she get this stuff?" Then shrugging off memories of his day with the oddly paired FBI duo, he kicked off his shoes, put his feet up on the sofa, and began to peruse the file that Mac had given him.

The first murder had taken place six weeks prior in Michigan. He could find no pattern in relation to the number of days between killings. He glanced quickly through the photographs of all of the victims. Once, and then again and noticed that they all had the same general coloring. Dark hair, clean-shaven.

"Maybe our killer is hunting a type?" he thought out loud. "Tall, dark, handsome and marked for death. The key to my heart. . . "

*Hiya Handsome* A voice echoed darkly through Peter's brain. *You know you hold the key to my heart. Now it's time to play.*

Suddenly a collage of images washed over him and through him. Faces, all of the faces of the victims and more, flew through his mind. All were visions of horror. Visions of murder. Visions of death and confusion. A whirlwind of pain and torture. Then through the images an instrument of death stabbed down at him, sharp, vicious, biting with malicious intent. Peter threw up his arms in a desperate bid to protect himself, and then the world tilted, then the sensation of falling, then a jarring thud.

Peter's vision cleared and he found himself on the floor, the contents of the file folder scattered around him. Breathing heavily, he struggled to find his center, but it was denied him. The calm would not come, only more images, more feelings, more terrifying emotions and it was all Peter could do just to hold on.

This time the images were more coherent. Bare feet, bloodied. A bare torso, jean-clad legs, trembling and covered in blood from many wounds. Then he saw the straight razor, moving rapidly, coming for his throat. He felt the sharp slicing sting as it did its macabre work, felt the life blood rushing forth from his body. He tried to scream, but only a terrified gurgling came as his rapidly pounding heart pushed the precious fluid out more quickly.

When the wave passed, Peter found himself curled on the floor. His hand went rapidly to his throat. He whimpered with relief when he found it intact. His next action was to scramble for his jacket and the packet of herbs that his father had given him. Tearing into the envelope, he grabbed out a portion of the crinkled leaves and shoved them into his mouth.

The numbing began almost immediately, staving off another wave. He closed his eyes and rested his head tiredly against the seat of his sofa. He didn't want this, couldn't handle it, had never asked for it. Why wouldn't it just go away? His life had been going just fine without them.

~*~

Kwai Chang Caine came out of a light meditation to the sense of Peter's torment. He could not see the images, but he could feel the upset and fear. He rose to his feet, wishing only to go to his son, to offer comfort. But then he felt Peter's presence fade, blocking their link.

Caine sighed heavily, and settled back to the floor. Though he knew that the strength of his son's visions suggested incredible potential -- should Peter ever learn to unlock it -- it still troubled his father's heart to see him have to struggle with the journey.

Caine meditated well into the night, until he knew that the second dose of the gwui gengi had worn off and that his son slept.

~*~

Peter yawned and headed for his desk, a second cup of coffee in one hand and the FBI file folder that Mac had given him and several unread messages in the other. The dose of the herbs that he had taken the night before had worn off some time after one a.m., plunging him into a world of violent, heart-stopping dreams that he could not remember on waking. At about two thirty, he'd taken another portion, silently asking his father to forgive him if it equated to taking the mixture more than twice in a day.

Despite the fact that the dreams no longer plagued him, the return to sleep was long in coming. He'd finally gotten up an hour early to try to get a jump start on the case. The sooner it was solved, the sooner he could get his life back on track.

"Trying to beat your new best buddies?" Kermit appeared beside him to ask.

"That was the plan," Peter replied. The look Kermit was shooting him suggested that he had failed.

"They're in conference room three."

"Great," Peter breathed. He was far too tired, and it was far too early to deal with Agent Strong. "You come up with anything in your search?"

Kermit crooked a finger and led the younger detective into his office. "I haven't shared this with the acronym brigade," he said as he settled behind his keyboard. "That's your lucky duty." Then, hitting a key, a screen full of company logos bloomed into place.

"FYI: This is information on that drug Nicky found on the last victim. It's a derivative of Lorazepam -- which is a DEA Schedule IV controlled substance. Lorazeparidol is its rarely used cousin -- by the legitimate medical profession, anyway. It's fast acting, difficult to trace and has few side-effects."

"I suppose this means you've run across it a time or two?" Peter stated.

"A time or two," Kermit said. "If done right it puts its victims in a trance, makes them open to suggestion, any suggestion. And they don't remember a thing afterward. It's effectiveness doesn't last for very long, though. Not the kind of stuff your average Joe would be able to get his hands on, or even know about."

Peter nodded and stored the information away, as Kermit moved to another screen.

"These are a list of companies that will make brands suitable for your every need. The top three cater to the S & M set. Mail order, in a plain brown wrapper. I just so happened to 'stumble' over the client list for one of them. The other two were somewhat more discreet. If their customer lists are online, I can't find 'em. Maybe you can convince McGruder and Loud to hassle them from afar since both companies are way out of our jurisdiction.

"The other companies are farming corporations, supplying cattle prods, feed, and the like." Kermit hit the print button and switched to another screen.

"These are all of the companies that pack custom candies and cookies and other assorted goodies -and- do custom inscriptions. All 3,028 of them. Good Luck." Kermit hit the print button again. Then, after glancing over his shoulder, he switched to another screen which contained images of Carol and Tyler. "This is what our friends are working on."

Peter bent in close over the monitor watching the stream of information on the two women. "Why just Carol and Tyler? There must have been at least 15 women in that club that had strong feelings about Jon Crocker."

"Did you know that Carol and Tyler both grew up in the same town in Vermont?" Kermit asked. "Wacky coincidence?"

Peter blew out a breath. "I didn't even know that they really knew each other, let alone are good friends now. Of course, they're both singers. . . but still. . . "

Kermit chuckled. "I'd just like to be a fly on the wall during that little discussion about dates over a cup of general foods international coffee. But Burlington is a big town. Maybe it really was a coincidence."

"You don't believe in coincidences, remember?" Peter murmured. "I need to go check something out."

"I knew you were going to say that," Kermit said. "Sure you won't need some back-up?"

"No," Peter shook his head. "Carol and Tyler are not vicious cold-blooded serial killers. And I'm not just saying that because I dated one and was engaged to the other."

"What? Your Shaolin RADAR tell you that?" Kermit asked.

"Yeah," Peter nodded, remembering his meeting with both women the night before. His Shaolin Spidey Senses hadn't so much as flickered as far as the visions went. "Something like that."

Kermit shrugged expressively. "What should we tell your new playmates?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something," Peter replied with a grin as he walked out of the office.

"Caine!" Strenlich's voice stopped Peter before he could get out of the bullpen.

"Yeah, Chief?" Peter turned, running through a mental checklist for anything that might make him due for a reaming from the Chief of Detectives.

"Got another one." Stenlich said, his voice dropping as he handed Peter a slip of paper. Suddenly, Peter wished for the reaming.

~*~

Caine knocked lightly on the door of Peter's apartment. When he had awakened and been unable to sense his son's presence, he feared the worse. He had told Peter not to take more than two doses in a day and his son had agreed. Yet, he was not there. Caine could not feel him. There were only three possible explanations. Either Peter was no more, which Caine would not consider; or he had been captured and drugged by one of the many sworn enemies of the Shaolin, or Peter had been disobedient and taken too much of the root.

Caine found the third possibility far more likely. Did not the young man understand that he had told him not to take the herbs too often for a reason?

Giving up on waiting for his son to answer the door, Caine reached out and opened the door in his own way. It was still early, and perhaps Peter was still sleeping. Caine knew that he was not due to leave for his job at the precinct for another hour.

Moving on into the darkened apartment, he headed toward his son's bedroom. Caine was brought up short when he found it empty.

~*~

As soon as he stepped out of his car, Peter felt the tickling that told him that the herbs were wearing off. Steadying himself against the open door, he waited for the dizziness to pass. It took much longer to shake it off than it had the first time, and a soft dull buzzing remained. The buzz along with the feeling of death and gloom that descended on him made him want to go for the packet and take another swig.

Instead, he took in his surroundings. The location was a maintenance shed near the fountains of Sloanville Memorial Park. Mac and Strong, who had followed in their own vehicle had pulled in behind the two patrol cars that were already on the scene and were headed toward the building.

"Great." Peter murmured as he noticed the other vehicle that had pulled in among the trees. Sandra Mason was out of the van, her camera man on her heels, as she made quick strides in Peter's direction.

Peter's longer legs carried him toward one of the officers before she could reach him. "I don't want anyone getting past this point," Peter told the officer, and pointed at Sandra. "Especially her." Then pointing toward Mac and Strong. "They're with me."

"Not a problem, Pete," the uniformed officer responded, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes as he looked toward the reporter. "Bennington is inside if you want the rundown."

"Thanks," Peter clapped the man on the shoulder, then taking a deep steadying breath, entered the building.

The maintenance building was lit by a single bulb that hung from the dingy ceiling. The building appeared to be divided into sections by groupings of heavy metallic racks that brushed the ceiling and work benches. Peter sensed that the body lay beyond the row of racks at the far end of the building.

"What have you got?" he asked Bennington, watching as Strong moved beyond the officer, in search of the body. Mac followed her.

"Park maintenance manager decided to borrow a few city tools this morning and found our latest John Doe over there. Someone branded his forehead, same as before."

Peter glanced around the dim room. "Where's the maintenance guy?"

"Gal," Bennington corrected. "They took her back up to the office. She was real upset. Didn't want to stick around here."

Peter nodded. He could understand why. The oppressive feel of violent death weighed heavily on him. After thanking Bennington, he moved toward the area of the room where he knew he would find the body.

". . . is different. Something has definitely changed," Strong was saying as Peter approached.

"I'll get the digital," Mac said, moving around the body and into Peter's view.

"What's changed?" Peter asked, as he rounded the shelving, watching Mac head out of the building.

"Should be obvious," Strong replied. "This one wasn't allowed to bleed to death slow and well, not exactly easy. It was done in a hurry. His throat was cut."

Peter's eyes, which had been preoccupied with the bare, bloody feet that tickled malevolently at his memory, shot up past the blood covered jean-clad legs and the bare torso to the man's severed throat. It all came rushing back with the force of a battering ram, slamming across his consciousness gaining momentum as if powered by some fearsome reservoir of strength.

*No, not again*, he pleaded silently as he grabbed hold of the nearby metal rack, struggling to remain upright. But he knew that it would not be enough. The vision was much too powerful this time and was sapping away his strength, flooding his synapses, taking him under. And then he felt a resurgence of power as his father joined with him, strengthening him, making him steady.

His vision cleared, and he was again looking into the green eyes of Special Agent Strong. She again had a firm hold on his arm.

"That's way too rookie a move for a not-a-lieutenant, and it's the second time you've gone all pale on me, looking like you were going to pass out. Mind telling me what's going on with you, Detective?"

~*~

Kermit wandered away from the coffee machine and back toward his office. The stuff contained in his mug should probably have its own EPA warning, but if the caffeine didn't get your eyes open the taste certainly would. He glanced toward the desk as a burst of sound exploded with Broderick's irritated voice smack in the middle. He did a double take when he noticed Kwai Chang Caine moving impatiently around the disturbance. Impatience wasn't exactly in Caine's nature as far as Kermit knew, unless something was very, very wrong. His feet made a detour toward the older man.

Before he reached him, he saw Caine come to a halt and his face flushed crimson and then went completely white as he staggered. Kermit set the coffee down on a random desk and placed an arm under his elbow and steered him in the direction of his office.

"You okay?" he asked, once he'd settled him in a seat. It was a bit unsettling to Kermit to see Caine like that. He could only remember that occurring one other time, and then he had been poisoned to within an inch of his life.

"It is just a headache, Kermit," Caine said, seeming to come out whatever daze he'd been in.

"That didn't look like any kind of take-an-Advil-and-call-me-in-the-morning kinda headache I've ever seen," Kermit replied.

"I must talk to Peter," Caine said, pushing himself tiredly up from the chair.

"You think that's such a good idea? He's at a crime scene right now. It's close by, but. . . Why don't I call on his mobile phone?" Kermit held back on asking why he didn't use that old brain-phone that he was almost, but not quite sure that the two of them used on occasion.

Kermit almost fell out of his chair when Caine agreed to the use of technology.

~*~

Peter looked shakily down at the hand that was holding onto his arm, wondering if he had the strength to shake it off. "Must be the flu," he said, saying the first thing that popped into his mind. "I've got medicine out in the car, I'll be fine." Strong released him, leaving the mystery unsolved as to whether he could have pulled away.

"Is he all right?" he heard a returning Mac ask as he stepped out into the morning sun. He didn't hear Strong's response, nor did he care to. He just wanted relief from the visions, and from the pain that now bloomed in his head. Nevermind the shock that he had witnessed the man's murder the night before. Already he could feel the beginning of sensations that signaled the onslaught of another bout with the images.

Quickly settling in his car, he dug around for the packet of herbs that his father had given him the day before. To his unpracticed eye, it looked as if he had two doses left. He wondered if he took them both at once it would get him through the next eight hours. Then he could go ask his father for more, and also thank him for lending him a portion of his strength. He would have thanked him in a more Shaolin manner, but his mind seemed a little 'tender', for lack of a better word, and he wasn't sure that he could work up the energy.

"Down the hatch." Upending the packet, he pored the rest of the herbs into his mouth and quickly chewed them. He welcomed the numbness. The ringing of his phone startled him.

"Caine."

"Pete? Hold on a sec." Peter heard Kermit's voice over the connection, and then heard the phone being passed to someone else. He looked out of his windshield as he waited for the other party to come on the line, watching as one of the uniforms prevented Sandra Mason from approaching his car. He had to smile in spite of the situation.

"Peter?"

His brows went into his hairline as he recognized his father's voice. "Pop? Is everything all right? Why are you calling me on the phone?"

"You have not done as I asked you," Caine's voice came over the line, deeply disapproving.

"I'm sorry about that, Pop, but I needed to do it," Peter replied, knowing exactly what his father was talking about, even without their connection. "The dreams wouldn't go away and I couldn't get any sleep."

"You must not take any more." Caine said, firmly.

Peter was silent for several moments. "Uh. . . too late, Pop. I just had a really bad one. . . wait, but you knew that. You were there, I felt you. You gave me your strength."

"The vision was strong Peter, because you took too much. Your system has become saturated with a derivative of the gwui gengi root. Your own body converts the root to a form that enhances visions. In small doses your body is able to metabolize the substance and there is no adverse effect. But, if you take more than two doses in one day's time, when the drug wears off, the visions will be stronger. I should have told you that."

Peter felt himself go cold all over. *Yeah, Pop, you should have shared that necessary piece of information with your son.* "It's all gone; I took the rest of it, probably about two doses. I thought it would just make it last longer."

"It will last longer, perhaps twelve hours. But you should not be alone when the effect wears off."

"What'll happen if I am," Peter asked, noting the time on his dash clock. Eight oh three A.M., and already he felt as if he had been through the ringer.

"Do not worry." Peter heard the reassurance and determination in his father's voice. "The Ancient and I will help you. You must join us tonight."

"I will," Peter nodded. "Seven-thirty. I'll see you at seven-thirty."

~*~

"Our killer is definitely a woman," Peter announced, as soon as he re-entered the building. "She enjoys the torture, takes her time with it. She probably even laughs while she's doing it."

Strong and Mac looked up in his direction. Both eyed him carefully as if assessing his condition.

"I'm fine," he assured them. "I just caught a little something. I'm good."

"Maybe you should go see a doctor," Mac suggested. "You were looking pretty bad there for a few minutes."

"I have," Peter stretched the truth a little. To Chinatown and a good portion of the emergency staff at County, Kwai Chang Caine's word was as good as any MD. "The stuff just wore off," he continued. "Look, are we going to solve this case or are we going to argue about getting me to eat a batch of my mother's chicken soup?"

Mac looked as if he accepted Peter's responses, Strong's gaze remained suspicious. "If I see any sign of your medicine 'wearing off' again, I'll drag you to the hospital myself, even if I have to shot you to get you there. You're no good to me flat on your back."

"You must be worried, to let an opening that big go by," Peter attempted to joke.

She locked gazes with him. "I just want us both to do our jobs."

"Fine," Peter said.

"Fine," Strong agreed. "Now, as I was saying before you went all pale on me is that our killer has changed her MO. From the looks of these wounds, she's even using the same kind of murder weapon. Now, either something has shaken her up, -- and yes, I agree that it is a woman -- or something else happened to change her routine."

"Like maybe you think she's one of the women we questioned yesterday, or was in the bar?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, maybe," Strong agreed. "Also, we found a little something for your forensics team. Looks like our DB put up quite a struggle when he got his throat sliced, dragged little miss murderer around pretty good. Snagged her clothes and caused her to lose a few strands of this. Even broke a nail." She reached into the evidence box that the officers had been putting together and pulled out a bag containing strands of platinum blonde hair, and another containing several bloody strands of some type of fabric fiber and the rounded shape of a broken pink-tipped fingernail.

"A blonde." Peter tried to run through a mental check list of the women that they had spoken with the night before. Other than the fact that there had been several blondes, his tired mind was not willing to cough up further information.

"Maybe." Strong replied.

"Right." Peter nodded. Then, "Our computer expert found information on three companies that deal in personal branding devices. One of them. . . volunteered its client list. The other two," Peter gestured toward them. "We thought you guys. . . "

"Could throw our weight around?" Strong spoke up.

"Exactly." Peter responded.

"Sounds like a party," she shot back. Mac was already pulling out his cellular phone. Peter handed over the folded papers containing the information.

"While you're doing that, I'm going to run an errand. Meet you back at the precinct."

~*~

"Wow. Three times in twenty-four hours," Carol said as she opened her apartment door. "If you're here to see Cathie, she's gone running."

"I'm not here to see your sister, Carol, I'm here to see you."

Peter saw the brief flicker of pleasure in her eyes, which quickly died. "More questions about Jon's death?"

"Actually, more questions about you and Tyler."

Carol looked surprised for several moments. Then shrugged, "What's there to know? We're good friends, we share everything, now."

Peter tried not to shudder at the thought. "You even grew up in the same town. Burlington, Vermont, wasn't it?"

Carol's gaze turned chilly. "You've been investigating me. You think I could actually kill someone? Even a playboy like Jon? Do I need an alibi, too?"

"It's procedure, Carol. It has to be done. What time did you leave the club last night?"

"At two! When it closed. Like usual. You do remember that part of our lives don't you?"

"Carol. . . " Peter raised his hands in a calming motion, but Carol ignored him.

"I can't believe you! You waltz into my life, turn it upside down and then just walk out to go be with Tyler. Then you waltz back into it and ask me to go undercover for you and almost get me sold into white slavery! What is it this time, Peter? What do you want? What is it that you're going to do that's going to turn my life all out-of-whack again?"

Peter grimaced. "I didn't. . . I'm sorry, Carol. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to ask if you knew Tyler before you came here."

"No," Carol spat the word toward him. "I didn't know her. But we did discover that we have a lot in common. Not just you."

"Thanks, that's all I needed. I'm sorry." Peter moved quickly toward the door.

"Sure," Carol followed him with her eyes. "Happy to help," she added caustically. "Oh, and one more thing before you go."

"What's that?" Peter turned.

"Don't hurt Cathie. She's had a difficult enough life and she doesn't deserve that."

Peter offered her a small smile. "If it's any consolation, Carol. I'm not the one investigating you. I'm on your side. I know you couldn't have done anything like what happened to Jon Crocker."

"Thanks for that, Peter," Carol replied, her voice softening slightly. "I'd hate to think that the man I loved thought that I was capable of murder."

"We went through a lot together, Carol. We'll always be a part of one another's hearts."

Carol smiled ruefully. "I know that. Goodbye Peter."

"Goodbye, Carol." Peter replied, realizing that they had never actually said that before.

~*~

Peter entered the precinct behind a white-uniformed delivery man who was carrying a very large box that wafted heavenly aromas.

"What's this?" he asked Broderick as the man was allowed past the counter and into a back conference room.

"Our two bureau visitors sprung for lunch," Broderick told him. "Japelli's Deli, with all the fixin's. Pretty nice, huh?"

Peter smirked. "It's an expense write-off."

"I'd like to see you try it." Broderick replied.

"I value my life," Peter told him and continued around the desk, following the smell of meatball subs and deli vinegar.

"Grab it and go," Strong said as she and Mac met him in the hall. "We just got an ID on this morning's dead body."

"Right." Peter made a U-turn and followed the pair. "Save some for the rest of us," he pointed toward Blake. "Stash one away for me?" he whispered to Mary Margaret as he passed her desk.

Three hours later, the trio returned to the precinct.

"Okay, he was a garbage man. He had a bachelor pad," Peter had to agree with Strong's assessment on the latest victim's apartment. "And the same drug was in his system. But what else, or who else, does he have in common with our other victims?"

"Our people came through with the client lists from those other two companies," Mac spoke up. "Got the call in the car. They've been e-mailed to you."

"How'd you get my e-mail address?" Peter asked, curious.

"We -are- the FBI." Strong told him.

"Okay, whatever," Peter said. "So we go through all of the names associated with each one of the victims and see what comes up."

"You got it, Cutie. Also, our other package and your tox report on the cookies and candy arrived while you were out running 'errands'. The other things with that inscription were all food items of some kind, and none of them contained any identifiable drugs, so she wasn't poisoning them. Which leads me to believe that our killer purposely chose sweets."

"Sweets for the sweetheart?" Peter suggested.

"Hmmm. Maybe," Strong said. "Or else there is some deeper psychological reason. Maybe she never had a sweetheart to give her sweets. Or maybe she only kills the ones she wants to give her sweet-nothings."

"You're the profiler." Peter shot her a look. "So if the drug isn't in the food, she must be getting it to them some other way. And why is she even bothering – what is it that she's having them do while she has them under the influence of this drug?"

"I could think of lots of things," Strong said, with a smirk, but then sobered. "But the most obvious, and one I'm really not surprised you tall-types missed, is that all of these victims have been tall. Six feet or more. So unless our killer is a Xena wannabe, she's not going to be able to just throw them over her shoulder while she yells a battle cry and carries them off to an untimely demise."

"So what you're saying," Peter replied, catching on, "Is that she drugs them with this lapri-what-the-hell-ever and just what. . . -tells- them to follow her wherever she wants to take them and torture them?"

"You got it, big guy."

"So," Mac spoke up. "This place is probably not too far away since the drug's effectiveness isn't much longer than 20 – 30 minutes tops."

"Good point," Peter said. "I'll get on it – after the e-mail."

Peter settled behind his desk to print his e-mail while Strong and Mac got settled in the conference room. The size of the file was starting to worry him, but he sent it to the printer anyway. How bad could it be?

"Detective Caine?" A soft, feminine voice called to him.

He looked up into the pale blue eyes of a beautiful redhead. It took him a few moments to realize that it was Carol's sister Cathie.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "You looked different without your workout clothes."

Cathie smiled at him. "It's no problem. I saw your car leaving Carol's today. Did you get my message?"

"Message?" Peter's brows rose. "You left me a message?"

"Yes. About dinner actually, and afterward. They're showing a great retro-flick out at Old Acorn's drive-in. I thought you might like to go."

"Cathie," Peter tried to let her down gently. "I really can't."

"How about a late lunch?" she asked.

Peter shook his head. "I can't."

Cathie smile wryly. "You broke my sister's heart, now you're going to break mine, too."

"I'm sorry," Peter tried to explain. "The case. . . " He gestured helplessly. "I'm sorry."

"Well, okay," Cathie let him off the hook with a forgiving smile. "I understand. See you around."

"Bye," Peter waved after her, watching as she wandered through the busy bullpen and headed out of the precinct.

Kermit leaned down beside him and pulled down his glasses to watch as well. "What's her name, and what disease does she have that you're trying to get rid of her?" Kermit asked.

"Her name is Trouble, as in Carol's sister, trouble."

"Point taken," Kermit pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Frank from forensics called. The blonde hair was fake. The fingernail was real. The fiber was Lycra."

"Lycra. . . " Peter murmured thoughtfully. "Like in biker shorts and workout clothing Lycra?"

"The one and the same."

"Kermit, there's one more background check we need to run."

"No sweat," Kermit replied. "Who?"

Peter told him.

~* ~

Peter growled in frustration as he fed another stack of paper into the network printer. Then going back to his desk, he went to see just how much longer this was going to take. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw the number of pages.

"What is taking you so long, Detective Caine?" Strong approached.

"I'm still printing our little client list. No one bothered to mention that it is 973 pages!"

"Well, you're the one who was talking about being intimate with the evidence. Here's your chance to prove its superiority to having a team of flunkies do the grunt work for you."

Peter shook his head as she walked off, and then noticed something different about his desk. A bowl of flowers with red rose-shaped cellophane tips caught his eye. Picking up one, he noticed that it was simply Hershey's kisses wrapped to form the shape of roses. A small calligraphic card fell out of the arrangement.

-You hold the key to my heart- was plainly visible.

Taking the arrangement, he went in search of the irritating agent and found her in the conference room. "This isn't funny," he waved the arrangement at her. "Especially in the middle of a serial murder investigation."

"Excuse me?" she looked acidly in his direction. "What are you ranting about now? Break a nail on the printer."

Peter made a face at her. "This is what I'm ranting about," he shoved the card in her hand. "You keep 'em." With that he turned to leave the room. According to his print manager, he still had 300 pages to go baby-sit.

"My God, Caine. You're next." Agent Strong's softly spoken words froze him to the spot.

"What?"

"I did not send these to you," Strong reiterated. "And neither did Mac," she gestured toward her partner who nodded his head in confirmation. "The killer did."

Silence reigned for several moments. Then Peter spoke. "I guess we also now have to look for someone I have in common with the victims. That should make it easier." No one spoke, so he continued. "I gotta go fight with the printer."

~*~

"Need some help, Pete?" Blake appeared in the printer room, just as Peter got his 873, mostly-in-order pages balanced and even.

"Not unless you know of a way to make this thing hurry up and spit out the next hundred pages." Peter replied.

"That would be a miracle even I can't handle," Blake said, bumping him slightly as he moved in closer and examined the device. "This thing should have been replaced five years ago."

"Well obviously the city thinks that Old Bessie has a couple more years left," Peter responded dryly. "Hope you aren't waiting for something to print."

"No," Blake shook his head. Then, "Uh. . . not anymore, anyway." Offering Peter a small smile, he turned and left the room.

Peter shrugged, too tired to wonder what that was about.

~*~

"The scary thing about this," Peter said as he checked off page number 207. "Is how many of these people go by the title 'Congressman'." Then, glancing toward his watch, he stood. "I've gotta go."

All eyes around the conference table which consisted of Strong, Mac, Mary Margaret and Chin, turned on him. Jody, it seemed, had chosen an inspired time to take a vacation. Kermit was busy trying to find out who'd sent the arrangement in between continuing background checks. And Captain Simms was doubtless still haggling with the mayor over protection for Peter.

"You can't have much more than twenty pages in your stack," Strong argued, "And then someone should go with you."

"Please, stop, you're sounding like Captain Simms."

"That would be because that's what she said," Strong shot back.

"I have to go -now-," Peter returned, looking again at his watch. It was already 7:27, and he'd promised his father that he would be there by 7:30. He really didn't have time to argue.

"Then I'm coming with you."

"I don't need a babysitter," Peter replied, heading out of the room.

"Obviously you do," Strong was right behind him. "Since you're showing the intelligence of a tadpole."

"Ooh, insults. Sorry, names don't hurt me."

"But serial killers do, Detective Caine. Am I going to have to shoot you?"

"You know," Peter turned on her. "You've been promising that for a long time. Put up or shut up."

Strong stared angrily back at him, but said nothing.

"I'll be at my father's." Peter said as he walked out of the building. "Everyone knows where it is," he tossed over his shoulder.

~*~

Kermit moved to stand beside Special Agent Inez Strong as she stood staring down the steps that led out of the 101st precinct. "He left?" he asked.

"He left," Strong replied. "Alone."

"He does have that tendency. But he asked me to--"

"We found something!" A breathless Agent McGruder approached the pair. "A name came up in the files. The doctor. Sam Carlson. He was the first victim."

"Carlson?" Kermit asked, instantly alert.

"Yes," McGruder nodded. "He was on the frequent buyer plan."

"As I was telling your partner," Kermit said, as he handed over the printed documents that he had planned to give to Peter. "Detective Caine asked me to run another background check. Carlson's name popped up as her shrink, right up to the time of his less-than-stellar demise. And guess what cities she's been living in for the past six weeks?"

"Boys, I think we may have found ourselves a murderess." Strong said, glancing over the papers.

"What say we bring her in and borrow a fingernail?" Kermit asked.

~*~

"Damnit, seven thirty-nine." Peter glanced at the dash clock as he climbed hurriedly into the Stealth. Pulling the door shut, he settled quickly back into the seat, wondering how long it would be before his father came looking for him.

A quick sharp jab in the back of his neck caused him to cry out. *Oh please, don't let it be wearing off now* he pleaded silently as he moved a hand to the area. All thoughts of his father's root fled his mind as his hand came into contact with the slick plastic of a syringe. He tore the offensive item from the headrest where it had been rigged, then turned at the sound of someone trying to open the passenger door.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he gazed into her eyes.

"Unlock the door, Peter," she said, raising a hand to the window.

Peter noted mid-length, perfectly shaped nails on all but one finger. *No way in hell,* he thought. *Not without my gun.* But inexplicably, his hand moved toward the electronic lock.

*What the hell. . . * He thought in shock as he flicked the switch and watched as the black-clad woman climbed into his car and leaned toward him. His thoughts faded to gray, and moments later, even his mind wasn't his own. . .

~*~

Mary Margaret was tidying up her desk to leave when Caine walked into the precinct. She had missed his earlier visit, and was glad that she'd stayed behind.

"Hello, Caine. It's good to see you."

"And you, Mary Margaret," Caine bowed slightly, his eyes drifting toward Peter's desk. "But I am looking for my son."

Mary Margaret's face fell. "He left to see you, over a half-hour ago. Maybe you missed each other." She said the words, and she knew that they weren't true. "Can't you sense him?"

Caine shook his head sadly. "I cannot at this time."

"Well, Kermit and--" As if by saying the name, he was caused to appear, Kermit pushed through the doors of the precinct followed by Chin and the two agents. His eyes froze as they settled on Caine.

"Where's Peter?" he demanded.

Caine shrugged helplessly. "I do not know."

"Didn't you get her?" Mary Margaret asked, looking worriedly between Kermit and the two FBI agents.

"She wasn't there!" Kermit exploded. "She was probably too busy kidnapping Peter while we had our thumbs--"

"Peter has been. . . kidnapped?" Caine interrupted, looking more alarmed than Mary Margaret could ever recall seeing him.

"Looks that way," Kermit said. "Can't you sense him, Caine? Is he okay?"

"I. . . can -not-" Caine replied. "Not at this time."

"Okay," Special Agent Strong spoke up. "I'm not even going to touch that 'can you sense him' thing. Shouldn't we be planning how we're going to get him back before he ends up dead?"

"Always planning, Sweetcakes," Kermit said in her direction. "Who has Blake's home number?"

"Call me that again, and I'll be forced to pull my weapon," Strong shot back in Kermit's direction. "And I've got Blake's number." Then her face bloomed into an admiring smile. "You put a bug on him, didn't you?"

Kermit's only visible response was a quirk of the lips.

"I like the way you think," Strong said, handing over a sheet containing what looked like all of the home phone numbers of the officers at the 101st precinct.

Mary Margaret did a double-take. "How'd you get that? And how did you know about Blake and bugs?"

"We -are- the FBI."

~*~

Cold. That was the first thing he noticed as his mind began to make the sluggish climb to consciousness. The next thing he noticed was that the world seemed to be spinning despite the fact that his eyes were closed. He didn't particularly want to know what it was going to be like when he opened them, but he did it anyway.

A blurring mass of black sprinkled sparsely with faint spots of whitish fuzz filled his vision for several moments before focusing to crystal clarity and beyond. The pricks of light grew so intense as to be piercing, causing Peter to squint against the intensity.

"The sky?" he murmured in confusion, moving to get up. His own voice echoed unnaturally loud through his brain, and he found, quite suddenly that he couldn't move very far.

He lifted his head, ignoring the wobbly way in which the world tilted at the quick motion, and took in his surroundings.

"Oh God," he breathed, noting that he lay spread eagled atop some sort of cement platform. His arms and legs were trapped in thick, sturdy cuffs at the end of long chains that were attached around two iron poles imbedded into the cement. The chains were rigged in such a way that if he moved one arm or leg, the tension in the chain pulled painfully against the other.

The cement ran reddish near the iron poles. At first Peter thought it was blood, but then realized that the appearance had only been a trick of the moonlight. It was rust, plain and simple, a fact of nature and an act of corrosion. His blood, he was sure, would be the first spilled in this place.

His feet were bare, and his shirt, jacket and gun had been taken. He felt naked and vulnerable under the star-sprinkled sky, waiting for his captor to return. But he had no intention of being the helpless victim.

The memories of his capture began to come back in a rush as he pulled both arms experimentally against the pole that held the chain that bound his wrists. He had left the precinct and unlocked his car, then when he'd gotten in and closed the door something had pricked the back of his neck. No doubt a syringe loaded with a certain psychotropic drug. Everything had faded to gray after that.

"Damn stuff lives up to its billing," he ground under his breath, struggling harder against the chain. "I can't even remember who got the drop on me or how I even got here!"

"Pop, where are you when I need you?" he murmured as he dropped his head back to the cement, wondering if the root his father had given him had worn off. The piercing pain that echoed through his brain was answer enough. The stuff had probably worn off while he was out. But the tenderness that he had felt before his last overdose had amplified to full-blown agony. And it seemed as if he'd awakened something by the very attempt to contact his father. The pain did not go away, but quieted to a low droning thrum which set his sensory nerve endings on edge.

Peter determined then and there that he would learn to control the visions, because as long as he lived he never even wanted to see a bottle of gechi gengi or whatever the hell his father had given him.

He pulled again at the chain, knowing that he was using much less force than before and that whatever was going on in his head was slowly draining his energy just as surely as the killer would try to drain the life from him.

As if the thought conjured something more, he became aware of a malevolent presence. Its sense was dark and drenched in malice, vengeance. Peter winced at the pressure it brought to bear against his mind.

"Hiya Handsome," a soft, feminine voice with an edge of steel echoed oddly through his mind and through the night.

Peter lifted his head and looked into the pale blue, completely insane eyes of Cathie Hastings. She was dressed in black, and her hair was again pulled into a ponytail. The long, menacing shape of a black poker was grasped in her right hand.

"You hold the keys to my heart," she said, her voice continuing in the very strange mental-physical double speak that Peter was beginning to realize was due to the effect of the derivative of the root that his father had told him about. He was in Cathie's head, hearing her thoughts.

"And now it's time to play?" Peter stated the words that were due to follow, remembering them vividly from his vision the night before.

Cathie's surprise was obvious in her expression and in the reactions that leaked from her mind. The malevolence was now tinged with curiosity.

"How did you know?" she asked. "How did you know that was what I was going to say?"

"I was there, Cathie," Peter told her. "I saw it. I know about Jon and Michael. I know how you cut his throat and laughed while his blood poured out. I know that's what you want to do to me."

"You're right," she said, pleased that he understood. "That's what I want to do to you, because you deserve it. You broke my sister's heart, you broke Tyler's heart, you broke mine. You're worse than the rest of them."

Peter felt her rage, her hurt and her desire to seek vengeance on him and any other man who fit her idea of 'the rest of them'. He felt that his only hope of getting out of the situation in his weakened condition was to convince her that she didn't need to hurt him, that he wasn't like 'them'. Despite the increased pain, he left himself open completely, his mind utterly vulnerable as her thoughts and feelings washed through him and over him.

"What happened to you?" he asked her, allowing his head to fall back against the cement again, hoping that in some small way the action could conserve his waning energy. Though he wondered if the cold of the cement, which was leeching warmth from his unprotected body by degrees, wasn't working against him.

"What happened to me?" Peter sensed her shock at the question, then rising anger. "Why do you want to know? You just want to trick me -- to get into my pants. Carol says you were good at that, could talk a girl right out of them. That's why I had to hurry and get to you, to save my sister and myself."

"That's not what I want Cathie," Peter assured her quietly, lifting his head again to meet her gaze under the moonlight. "I really just want to know. I'd like to understand what happened to make you so sad and angry and hurt and alone."

Cathie met his gaze and a little of the insanity drained away. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you Peter?" Peter felt the vulnerability seeping through the steel.

"I won't lie to you," Peter said. "I promise."

He knew before she nodded that she believed him. She began to tell her story.

"You like my body?" she asked, lifting her arms above her head to model the black unitard that she wore.

"You're beautiful," Peter told her honestly, sensing the pride and pleasure that rushed through her at showing it off.

"This is sort of my 'secret avenger uniform'," she confided. "The first. . . times, I just wore any old thing. But then, I found this." She ran a hand over the Lycra material. Peter could feel the smoothness, the coolness of the material as she felt it. "And this," she displayed the poker. "Very effective, and not nearly so messy. I've decided to keep it. It's like my magic wand."

She smiled a self-satisfied grin, but then it faded away as shame and deep hurt replaced pride. "But," she released a heavy sigh. "I wasn't always like this, you know. I used to weight. . . more. A lot more. But I was mostly okay with it until I found my longtime fiancée, the man who was supposed to love me with another, much thinner, woman. Said he could never marry a fat cow like me. Then he beat me for catching him. When I came home from the hospital, all of my stuff was gone and so was the money from our account. I supported him for three years, and that was the thanks I got."

Peter felt the remembered humiliation as it washed over him in wave after wave. But then, she caught herself, wiped at her eyes and continued. "So, just like any average American who goes through a difficult time, I went to see a shrink. He told me that gaining control of the weight would help me gain control of my life. So I lost the weight. I worked hard at it, just for him. He was my friend, he spurred me on. It took seven, starving agonizing months, but I did it. But guess what that bastard did a month later. He slipped me some drug that made me more compliant and then he had his way with me. But surprise, surprise, it wore off too soon and spoiled his fun. I thought he loved me! But he didn't. I decided that the only way I could take back control of my life was if he wasn't breathing air on the same planet that I lived on.

"So, I got a hold of his little bottle of drugs and I used it on him. Lorazeparidol, it's called. Made him do my bidding for a little while. I even made him brand himself with the little sex toy he'd taunted me with. Then I left him to die slowly and painfully."

She smiled, and the maniacal mirth bubbled forth as she remembered, forcing the memories also onto Peter's open consciousness, terrorizing him with the images of Dr. Sam Carlson writhing in agony, pleading for mercy as Cathie repeatedly impaled him with a brass-handled letter opener. Peter dropped his head back on the cement, spent, after the vision cleared.

"He didn't understand until it was too late that I wasn't going to be used, ever, ever again." Cathie's mind was filled with self-righteous determination.

"I moved on after that, until I eventually came here." She sighed, confusion and frustration filling her. "What's wrong with me Peter? Why can't anyone love me for who I am?"

"Carol loves you," Peter told her.

Anger and spite flooded his senses. "She doesn't! She only loved me when I was her poor overweight older sister. Always there to hold my hand, always wanting to help me cause no one else wanted to, not even my parents. Now she's just jealous 'cause I look better than her and her boyfriends look at me like they never look at her. She even told me to stay away from you. But I know now that you're not like the others, Peter. You understand. And you listen, and you care."

A rush of mania echoed from her mind again and Peter wasn't sure what he should say, so he said nothing.

"You do love me, don't you Peter?" she asked, insanity back and shining brightly in her eyes.

"My father taught me that everyone and all life is precious and worthy of love," Peter said.

"That's not an answer!" she yelled, murderous rage exploded unexpectedly and she stalked forward, brandishing the black poker. "I want a real answer dammit!"

Peter felt the intent before the hooked edge tore into his left thigh, rending skin and muscle. He cried out as his senses were flooded with the searing agony of the wound, and the double-edged sword of feeling the pleasure his attacker felt at his pain, and her perception of the way the poker felt tearing into his flesh, and at the power she wielded over his very survival.

"You love me! Say it!" Cathie demanded.

"Cathie!" Peter cried her name desperately, helpless to fend off the additional blows that he knew were coming. "Cathie I can't tell you that. It would be a lie. I promised that I wouldn't lie to you!"

"You love me! You love me! You love me!" Cathie screamed, completely manic as she hit him, mercilessly burying the poker again and again and again into his unresisting flesh. "You'll love me or you'll die trying!"

Peter's mind went hazy and his body arched off of the cement as the pain, vicious and unrelenting, tore through him, stealing his ability to breath, to think. Nerve endings screamed at the piercing assault that gouged into tensed, quivering muscles, shooting agony on top of agony though his thighs and shins. He was helpless to contain the whimpering animal screams that were likewise ripped from his throat, from his very being. Reason was lost, and the pain was Master.

"I love you! I love you!" He shouted the words. They meant self-preservation, escape for a time from the dual mental-psychological torture.

"I love you," he breathed, reflex tears of pain and fear mixing with sweat. "I . . . love you."

He sensed Cathie moving closer. She laid the bloodied poker aside and wiped at his cheeks. "I'm sorry I had to do that," she said gently. "I just really need for someone to love me."

Peter released a shuddering breath as he looked exhaustedly up into her demented gaze. He wondered if he would survive the night. The mellow tone of her thoughts didn't match the crazed light in her eyes. He had to do something soon, before it was too late.

"Can you unlock one of my arms?" he asked tentatively.

"Why?" her mind was suddenly suspicious.

"I. . . just want to wipe away your tears, too." Peter said.

"Oh Peter," she smiled tremulously. He felt the rush of tenderness that washed over her.

"No funny stuff, now," she waggled a finger at him before reaching into a small pocket for the key to the metal cuffs that surrounded his wrists and ankles.

"No funny stuff," Peter agreed, knowing that she was speaking of sexual overtures. He flexed his hand as the cuffed fell open and painfully dragged his left arm across his body and up to her face. With trembling effort, he wiped at her tears.

Cathie's smile would have lit up the night, if not for the mania that went along with it. Her mind was a flood of joy and satisfaction washing through and over him, and she sighed and closed her eyes thinking that she had found home.

Peter winced, a fleeting sense of guilt washed over him at his deception, at offering only a counterfeit love in order to save his life and whomever else she decided to set her sights on.

"Could I have something to drink?" he asked, allowing his arm to fall back to his side.

"I have a bottle of Evian," she said softly, and kissed his damp cheek. "I'll be right back."

Peter nodded and tried to smile at her. When she left the platform, he reached his left arm over to his right and tried to remove the cuff, but he couldn't focus the energy without dark spots appearing before his eyes. With his left hand free of the metal cuff, there was enough play in the chain to allow him to get himself into a sitting position, which did allow a better view of his surroundings. His car and his clothing were no where in sight, but Cathie was stooped several yards away from the raised cement platform, digging around through a gym bag. The black poker was laying the ground beside her.

The glint of something in the moonlight caught his eye. The key. She'd left the key lying near him on the cement. As she approached, he palmed it with his left hand and slipped it beneath his leg.

When she reached the platform, she settled on the edge and placed a long slim case and his gun down alongside herself. An emotion that Peter couldn't identify flowed over her as she opened the water and handed it to him.

"I've decided that I want us to cherish this moment always," she said. "I want to make you completely mine," she continued, opening the slim case and drawing out a small heart-shaped brand and a lighter. "And then," she giggled, running a finger along the gun, "We're going to be together forever."

"What about rings?" Peter asked. "We need rings."

"Oh no," Cathie flicked the lighter to life, and held it to the edge of the brand. "This is much more permanent, don't you think? If people had to be branded to be married, there would be a lot less divorce."

-And a lot more shacking up- Peter thought as his sluggish brain frantically searched for a way out of this one.

"Let me do that for you," he said, setting the water aside and reaching one-handedly for the brand and the lighter.

Cathie smiled with delight. "Of course, my love."

Peter used his still chained right hand to hold the brand, and his left to handle the lighter. "How long does this usually take?" he asked her.

"Just a few minutes," she smiled adoringly.

Peter's hands trembled slightly, and it wasn't too much of a stretch when the lighter and the brand fell from his fingers and rolled off of the other side of the platform.

"I'll get that for you," Cathie was being insanely agreeable.

As soon as she moved beyond him, Peter grabbed up the key and unlocked his right arm. The cuff fell away with a clank that he wasn't quick enough to muffle.

Cathie turned, her eyes lighting on him as she exploded in rage. "You bastard! You are just like all the rest!" She lunged toward him, her fingers curled like talons. She looked as if she would kill him with her bare hands.

Peter dropped the key and went instinctively for his gun. But he wasn't fast enough. Cathie rammed into him, her hands aiming for his throat, and they both went tumbling toward the edge of the platform. Peter's gun went off and then tumbled over the side as he fell hard on his back near the edge of the platform. Only the chain that still bound his feet prevented him from going over. Cathie wasn't so lucky, Peter both felt and heard her hit the ground below. He also heard as she ran frantically to her gym bag for her weapon of choice, the deadly black poker. He knew the instant she found it, and the fanatic satisfaction that rushed through her. He heard her mental battle cry when she turned and ran back at him, poker raised, aiming for his head.

While she had gone for the poker, he had gone for the key, his entire focus on unlocking the cuffs that bound his ankles. He turned back just in time to see the poker coming for him. All his exhaustion and pain-fevered mind could think to do was to roll. He landed hard on the ground, stars spiking through his vision at the additional damage to his wounded legs.

He heard the poker crash against the cement with a clang, and felt Cathie's increased rage, and knew that there was little time.

Grasping the edges of the cement, he fought through the waves of pain and tried to pull himself upright. If he could just find his gun. . .

Suddenly, a blinding beam of light shone in his eyes. A half dozen thoughts and sounds and emotions rushed him at once. Fevered murderous rage, malicious intent, fear, anxiety, sympathetic pain, unabashed love, thundering relief, righteous indignation. Countless voices in a painfully loud mental-physical double speak yelling his name, identifying themselves as officers of the law, screaming in manic anger. The echoing report of a gun. Peter's mind just could not accept another sensation and simply shut down. He knew no more.

~*~

Kwai Chang Caine rushed forward and caught his son, then gently eased him to the ground. He had felt Peter's mental retreat, and knew that it was for the best, as it would give his body a chance to clear the toxins brought on by the overdose of the gwui gengi. When the time was right, he would help him return. This he could do.

Settling Peter's naked upper body against himself, Caine began to assess his wounds. He winced in sympathy at the level of agony his son had undergone to have withstood the injuries to his legs, injuries that were soaking blood into the dark fabric of his jeans. Running a hand above the damaged areas, he sent healing pulses of energy to hasten the clotting process. Then, removing his satchel and jacket, he placed the jacket over his son's chilled body.

"He okay, Caine?" Kermit stooped at his side to ask.

"No," Caine shook his head, and ran a hand over his son's hair. "But, he will be."

"Ambulance is on the way," Kermit clapped him on the shoulder, Caine smiled his appreciation at the comforting gesture as Kermit stood and moved back toward the young woman who was being taken into custody.

Sighing heavily, Caine turned back to his son and gazed into the unnaturally pale features. But beneath the pallor, and the residual lines of pain, Caine saw maturity and strength and integrity. His son had grown into a fine man, a fighter who had surrounded himself with many friends that he cared deeply for and who genuinely cared for him.

"I am very proud of you, my son," he whispered, wrapping one of Peter's cold hands with his own. "Very proud."

When the ambulances arrived to transport Peter and the prisoner to the hospital, Caine gently squeezed the limp hand, sending an infusion of love, and stood back to let the paramedics work.

~*~

Kermit watched through the small window in the hospital room door as Kwai Chang Caine stood over his sleeping son. He ran a hand over Peter's forehead and along his cheek and then down to his chest. He remained standing that way for several long moments before a smile spread across his face. Almost immediately, Peter's face began to twitch and his eyes fluttered as if he was dreaming.

"I should have known," Kermit whispered, shaking his head. It had been two days, all of Peter's wounds had been patched up and still the doctor's had not been able to awaken him from the unexplained coma. Through it all Caine had kept silent vigil, not as if he was worried for his son's survival, but as if he was simply waiting.

Kermit pulled down his glasses for a better look when he saw Peter's brow furrow and his head shake as if he were frightened. But then, he noticed the firm expression on Caine's face and the way one hand moved from Peter's chest and then to his cheek.

"You can do this, Peter," Kermit could just make out the words that Caine uttered to his son.

Peter emitted a small whimper, and the twitches and flutterings became more frantic. "Peter, you must. You can. Surrender, do not fight them. Let them wash over you, through you," said Caine's determined voice.

Kermit watched, his heart in his throat, as the whimpering and expressions of fear increased. "Come on, Peter," he murmured under his breath, willing the young man to overcome whatever test or obstacle that was before him.

And then, Peter's frantic motions began to slow, his expression clearing by degrees until he settled peacefully into sleep

Kermit wasn't sure how he knew that it was sleep, and not something deeper, but he did. The way Caine relaxed and opened his eyes with a satisfied expression seemed to add credence to the idea. The father bent and kissed the son.

"Oh yeah," Kermit said and pushed his glasses back up his nose before making his way out of the hospital.

~*~

Peter, sitting stiffly in the hospital bed watched as Carol disappeared from the room to be replaced by Special Agents Strong and McGruder.

"So he finally wakes," Mac said with a smile and handed over a card. There was no envelope. "You were unconscious for almost three days. We thought we were going to have to leave without saying goodbye and thank you."

Peter returned the smile. "I guess I just needed the rest," he said, his eye caught by the picture and caption on the front of the card.

"Why is Peter Pan green?" he read aloud, wondering if this was something that Kermit might appreciate more than he.

"Open it. Read it. You know you want to," Strong spoke up with a gleam in her eye.

Peter opened it. "'Cause if someone panned your Peter, you'd be green, too. . . " He flushed a pink hue. "Oh my God. Where did you get this, Off-color Cards Incorporated?"

"No damn boring get well cards from me," Strong said, then reached out her hand. "Was a pleasure working with you, Detective. Even though you were stubborn and a little pig-headed and managed to get yourself captured."

"Oh, thanks. You really know how to build up a guy's ego," Peter laughed, taking her hand. "But at least I delivered the baddie right into your waiting hands, and you even got to shoot her I hear."

"You get your jollies where you can." Strong shrugged.

"We'll have to do it again, sometime." He reached across and shook Mac's hand as well.

"Our flight is leaving in about an hour, we've really got to run," Mac spoke up and gestured toward the door. "If you're ever in Washington. . . "

"I'll remember that," Peter said, waving as they headed out into the hallway. Agent Strong leaned back into the room.

"I've been meaning to ask you," she said, "Is Detective Griffin single?"

Peter choked on the breath he'd been taking.

"Should I take that as a 'no'?" Strong pressed.

"May I . . .come in?" Kwai Chang Caine appeared beside her with an innocent expression on his face.

"Yes! Pop, come on in," Peter replied quickly.

"Ah, to hell with it," Strong waved a dismissing hand at the two men. "I'll just send him a cactus."

Both Caine and Peter laughed as she exited the room.

"You are feeling better?" Caine asked.

"My legs are a little sore, and walking is going to be challenging for a while, but yeah, I am better. You had a little something to do with that didn't you?"

"Only a little," Caine shrugged. "You did much on your own."

Peter smiled, happy that his father was pleased with him. He had vague memories of his father in his mind, before he had awakened. All of his barriers had been in shambles and he had been afraid to come out. "You helped," Peter insisted.

A proud smile lit Caine's face. "I told you only that you needed to stop fighting, and surrender to the feelings and the images. You did all of the work, my son. You built the barriers on your own, stronger than before."

"I guess it's true what they say: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, huh, Pop?"

Caine nodded. "A wise saying."

Peter sobered. "When I was out there, with Cathie, could you feel all the stuff that I was feeling?"

"Not until we were very close," Caine said. "Your mind, in its wounded state, was not able to hold a link at such a distance. And even when we were closer," he gestured a hand in the air. "Your mind was. . . fractured. I could not find you."

Peter was confused. "So how did you. . . how was I found?"

Caine shrugged. "Detective Griffin asked Detective Blake to plant a. . . bug on you. The bug led us to your car and your clothing. The sound of your gun lead us to you."

"Whoa," Peter's brows raised teasingly. "My –gun- saved me?! Technology saved me? Not some mystic Shaolin power? Mark down the date!"

"Why would I mark down the date?" Caine shot him a confused look, but Peter knew that his father was very much aware of what he meant.

"Sure, play Mr. Naive Shambhala Master. It's not gonna work."

Caine shrugged innocently. "What is not going to work?"

"I know you know what I mean," Peter pointed at him, grinning. Then, sobering, "I talked to Carol, Cathie's sister, a little while ago. She says that she's being mentally evaluated, but that she knows that something isn't right with her. They found all of the murder weapons in her bedroom. She even had a collection of black pokers, probably stolen from that basement where she killed one of her victims."

Peter was quiet for several moments as he remembered the things Cathie had done to him and others, and the things that she had felt. "Pop, I was inside her head. I felt what she felt. I saw what she saw. All she ever really wanted was love and approval, just like any of us. *Just like me.* But she got confused, and started thinking that she could threaten or punish people into loving her. How does that happen?"

"There are many things in the path of our lives which damage us. Sometimes, when the damage is great, all hope is lost and can cloud the vision, leaving only the shell of a person. There was no hope in her heart, and thus nothing to . . . cushion the collapse of reason. We can only hope, for her sake, that someday she will find some hope for herself."

"Yeah, Pop. I'll hope for her and Carol's sake." Peter sighed and smiled at his wise father. Some days, it was the absolute worst things in the human condition that made him treasure the truly unique bond he had with his father. And the love that fairly vibrated between the two of them, the love that had survived everything, even death.

"I'm glad that we have each other, Pop," he said out loud, sending a mental surge of affection with it. "And that we're so close."

"As am I, my son," Caine said. "As am I."

--

The End.

I hope that you have enjoyed the journey.

This story, as well as Acquainted With The Night came be found on my personal web page:

http://www.geocities.com/jackeescorner