The Heart Of A Man
What is in the heart of a man?
Can any here ponder or show
What in the end, when all's said and done
The man must come to know?
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Captain Paul Blaisdell watched as Detective Peter Caine lowered his weapon and
checked the clip before casting a cocky grin his direction. Paul knew without looking at
the black silhouetted form that the young man's shots had been dead on, but he made a show
of pressing the switch that would bring the paper toward the front of the firing range
anyway.
"Does this mean I can finally get back to work?" Peter asked slyly as he
removed the requisite eye and ear protection.
Paul threw him a longsuffering grin as he pulled the paper from its hook. "And the
doctor's cleared you?" He asked the question that he had asked three times prior.
"Yes," Peter reiterated with characteristic energy. "Fastest recovery
they've ever seen. I've even got a note. Wanna see it?"
Paul looked toward him and chuckled. "No, I don't think that'll be necessary. What
about your father? What does he say?"
"Paul. Come on, look at the paper. I'm ready to come back. If I have to sit around
for another two weeks I'm going to end up pulling the rest of my hair out."
Paul glanced toward the barely visible spots where the doctors had drilled just weeks
before. He remembered vividly how close the fall had brought Peter to death. The once
jaggedly shaved sections were well on the way to catching up to the rest of the young
man's thick dark hair. Thanks, no doubt, belonged to some miracle of Kwai Chang Caine's.
Paul knew that the priest had provided Peter with some sort of concoction to help with the
general healing process, but he had a suspicion that in addition to whatever else it did,
it also put the young man's hair into some sort of hyper-growth mode.
Looking back down at the hollowed out center of the smallest white circle of the
silhouette, Paul was forced to concede defeat. Peter would easily re-qualify as a
marksman, effectively leaving no professional excuse for keeping his favorite hot-shot cop
away from the precinct. But he had no problem coming up with personal reasons. The
foremost being that they had come far too close to losing him this last time. Paul's heart
just wasn't ready to take the risk so soon.
"A few weeks behind a desk would do you some good," he finally answered
Peter's anxious question. "Not to mention all that filing Strenlich has been putting
off for years."
"You're kidding me right?" Peter's previously self-assured grin fell away.
"I can't sit behind a desk for a few weeks. I'm already half stir crazy as it
is."
Paul bit the corner of his lip and leaned against the wall as he affectionately
considered the younger man. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't go for that."
Peter's grin returned, full of cocky self-assurance. "I knew you would understand.
So I'm back on the streets? What's my assignment?"
Paul stood away from the wall and gestured that his foster son precede him along the
row that would lead them toward the entry desk. "I'll think of something," he
murmured. Safe.
"Report to Strenlich first thing in the morning. I've got that damned Mayor's
retreat tomorrow so I'll be out of touch most of the day." He considered skipping the
event, despite the fact that it would ruffle a few political feathers. Then, mentally
shaking himself, he dismissed the idea. It was local, and he'd only be out of easy reach
for eight hours. Even Peter Caine should be able to manage to keep his nose clean for an
eight hour day.
Chuckling softly, he looked again at the paper silhouette. "You're still one hell
of a shot. I'm proud of you, son. It's good to have you back." He ran a hand over the
young man's shoulder.
"I had a good teacher," Peter murmured, looking away and down, obviously
embarrassed at the praise.
"Yeah, you did," Paul replied softly, thinking that the credit should
probably go more to Kwai Chang Caine than to himself. Peter already had a trained eye when
he came to them.
"Speaking of which," Paul added as he handed the silhouette to the range
attendant and reached into a pocket for Peter's 9mm Beretta. He took a moment to run a
hand over its silver surface before passing it to the detective, butt first. "I
thought you might be looking for this."
Peter accepted the weapon, settling the grip into his palm. Paul imagined that he was
checking it to see if it still fit. He hadn't gotten to where he was in life without
having experienced the sensation a time or two himself. That was a part of the young man
that Paul knew didn't come from Kwai Chang Caine.
"Numbers please?" the attendant spoke up, breaking into the moment. Paul
listened as Peter recited his badge number for the documentation, remembering that the
doctors had worried that he might have memory problems during and after recovery. He
stifled a small sigh of relief when Peter completed the task with no apparent difficulty.
He wondered idly how long it would be before he could look at his son and not see him
laying so still and near death in that hospital bed, how long before he would stop
worrying or looking for signs to reassure himself that Peter was indeed going to be
okay.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
"Maybe it's just me," Peter said as he gazed over the balcony at the growing
mass of humanity that was shuffling its way among the merchants of Chinatown Mall.
"But, this feels a hell of a lot like kiddie detail."
"Relax, Peter," Detective Jody Powell said, her voice laced with friendly
exasperation. "You're barely back a day--did you really think Blaisdell was going to
let you loose on the streets? Besides," she added, gazing after a muscle-bound man
exiting a local health food chain, "Where's your sense of art appreciation?"
"Oh." Peter laughed, not missing the way her eyes had followed the man.
"I see what you're appreciating. But the art that we're supposed to be watching is
downstairs."
"Damn. . . I much prefer the body in motion," Jody replied with a wicked grin
as she followed him onto the escalator.
Peter chuckled and shook his head before allowing his eyes to drift over the activity
taking place around them. A large ornate banner declaring that portions of the Thomas
Crawford Collection would be on display for the next four days was being attached at
ceiling level. Just looking up at the men working was enough to send his height
sensitivity into overdrive. He quickly refocused on the people maneuvering around the
cordoned-off area in front of Crawford's Jewelers.
"You know what I don't get," he said, continuing to watch as two uniformed
security guards carrying a large blue case moved into the cordoned-off area. "I don't
get why they even need us. It already looks like the annual gathering of Rent-A-Guards of
America or something." He waved a hand at the half dozen other guards that were
stationed throughout the corridor.
"And obviously very few of them have a gym membership," Jody commented,
eyeing several of the more chunky guards as the escalator deposited them at ground level.
"Definitely no poetry in motion going on around here. What say we join the
melee?"
Peter shrugged, not seeing that he had much of a choice. He just hoped that the boredom
didn't kill him before the utter inanity of the task did.
Shouldering his way through the crowd, he displayed his badge to the two tall, burly
rent-a-guards who stood at the opening of the cordoned-off area. Peter mentally tagged
them Frick & Frack. Both unarmed. "We're here to see the store manager, Mr.
Burton. Know where he is?"
Frick jerked his head disinterestedly toward the inside of the store.
"Thanks," Peter muttered, stepping around the two and heading into the store.
As he crossed over the threshold, a subtle scent assaulted his nostrils, enveloping him in
a rush of sensation. He paused and closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in the sweet
smell that tickled at his memory. A fleeting image floated through his mind but was gone
before he could grasp it.
"What's up, partner?" Jody eyed him strangely. "You okay?"
"Yeah . . . ." Peter half-turned toward her. "Do you smell
something?"
Jody raised a brow and opened her mouth for what Peter felt sure was going to be a
wisecrack. Before she could speak, there was a collective gasp of panic from beyond the
doors. Bodies began to move, revealing four black clothed and ski-masked men bearing
automatic weapons. The people in the hall were diving for the floor, diving for exits,
diving for children; half a dozen unarmed security guards, including Frick and Frack, dove
for cover.
"Nobody move!" The nearer masked man ordered as he directed a lethal looking
weapon toward the occupants of the store. Peter noted that along with the black ski masks,
the men also wore Ray Bans.
"You and you." The man waved his gun in Peter and Jody's direction. "On
the floor. Now!"
TBC
