"So if you're a sharpshooter, then where's your gun?"
"I lost it in a fire," said Peter. "A nice gun can be a bit expensive. Sort of a luxury, really." The Triad would probably buy one for him, but at what cost? He was already indebted to his Uncle for the first visit to Yuen Yee, and if he wanted to see her again... to see Tan again... and there was the rent, and who knew what else Li Sung was adding to Peter's tab. Maybe once he got all that paid down, he could ask— Then again, if he had one, the Triad would expect him to use it on other people, not just at the range.
Nothing was easy when the Triad was involved.
"Could you teach me to be a sharpshooter?" asked Sam, breaking Peter's thoughts.
"Maybe. You've gotta feel the gun, the target, but a lot of it is just about practice. You aim, you shoot, you miss, you shoot again..." He smiled. "You got a pea-shooter down here?"
Sam shook his head. "Mom doesn't know about this. Promise you won't tell her?"
Peter shrugged. "Long as it's not going to hurt you, I guess that's fine."
Sam looked at Peter for a long moment, then nodded to himself and pulled up a loose floorboard. "I found these in the Temple up there," said Sam, handing a few scrolls to Peter. "Most everything was burned, of course, but there's things to find. Hidden things."
He passed a few more of those things from inside. The brittle remains of a sword, rusted through and through; a book that looked like it might have been white under all the dirt; a set of soldiers— "Hey." Peter grinned. "These were mine, when I was a kid. I used to talk to them under my bed. I couldn't have been more than five..."
He trailed off as the memory fluttered through his head, barely hearing as Sam chattered away about where he'd found the objects, hidden away in some wall. The memory felt bittersweet: he had enjoyed playing with the toys, but he had been so very lonely...
"This was my dad's prized possession," said Sam, pulling out a metal box.
"Whoa!" Peter grabbed the gun from Sam and checked to make sure it was empty. This wasn't the child's toy he'd expected.
"He said it once belonged to Wyatt Earp." Peter raised an eyebrow, looked at it more carefully. It didn't look that old. "I'm going to get bullets from old man Hardin."
"And what are you going to do with it then?"
"Well, I'll learn to shoot it. And then... well, if Mr Cavanaugh comes up here again, I'll be able to protect my mom."
Peter stared at the boy for a moment, then shook his head slowly. He wasn't going to let another fatherless child end up learning how to kill. "So your dad never taught you how to shoot it?" The boy shook his head. "How about gun safety— did he teach you that?" Sam shook his head. "Guns are dangerous. Guns are— They aren't toys, they're there to kill people."
"But you're a sharpshooter."
Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah. That sounds like just a sport, doesn't it. And it is. But the minute you take that gun and point it at someone, it changes you. It changes everything you are. One minute you're an innocent kid, the next, you've got blood on your hands."
Peter looked at the gun for a moment, mind drifting back into memories. Kwai Chang Caine would never have taught him to shoot it. Tan had called shooting a form of archery and brought him to a range. Neither father was against weapons; Peter had seen Caine's deadly precision with the sword. He wondered: in the time of Wyatt Earp, when sharpshooter had practically been a job description, what would Caine have thought about his son's skills? What would Caine think of them now?
Sam reached for the gun, and Peter shook himself, handing it back to the boy. "It's a nice gun, and I can see why your dad liked it, but I don't think he meant for you to shoot anyone with it. And I don't want to teach people to murder."
Sam took the gun back, wrapping it carefully in its prison of cotton and placing it into the hidden spot with his other treasures. "But... I want to learn to shoot it, even if it's not at anyone. Please, teach me? You're probably the only person around for miles who knows how to do it right."
Peter sighed. He didn't want to say yes, but he didn't think Sam would drop it. On the other hand, Sam's mother had been married to a Shaolin priest. There was no way she'd let her son disrespect his father's teachings. It would be easier for her to say no. "Ask your mom what she thinks," he said.
They discussed nothing through most of dinner, idle chatter mostly between Kwai Chang and Mrs Lowry, but the peace of the evening was shattered as soon as Sam declared, with an excited grin: "Peter said he can teach me how to shoot dad's gun!"
Kwai Chang threw his son a look of dismay, and Peter threw up his hands. "I didn't say that, and besides, I thought he had an air rifle."
The protest fell on deaf ears as Sam looked at his mother. "He's a sharpshooter, so he knows all about guns, just like dad knew all about kung fu. I could learn to shoot it— not at people or anything, just at trees and bottles and stuff. It's a sport, that's what Peter said—"
Peter was staring at the boy, looking halfway to a frustrated embarrassment. "And that's really not what I said."
"Sam, guns are dangerous," said Mrs Lowry. "Your father's gun is supposed to be a keepsake, not a weapon."
"You use a shotgun."
"That's different," she said.
"It is not."
"It's to defend yourself. That's all I want, mom. Do you know, the kids at school say the townspeople destroyed the Temple up there," said Sam. "They marched on it with burning torches and tried to kill the priests. Even kung fu masters couldn't stop them from burning it down, but if they'd had guns up there—"
Peter dropped his fork, feeling queasy. "Sam, you're disturbing our guests."
"The Temple was destroyed by a renegade priest named Tan," said Peter. "Not the people in Braniff."
"Oh... But... the townspeople did march on it, didn't they? One moonlit night, like wraiths all in black, led by Vance Cavanaugh."
"Let's not talk about him tonight, okay?" Sam frowned and opened his mouth to continue talking, and his mother desperately cast about for a new topic. "You know, I remember Mike always talking about Caine's son, but never about your mother. What was she like?"
"Oh." Peter's eyes didn't rise from his meal. "Well, she died when I was very young. I barely remember her. But, I uh... I do have this picture of her." He pulled the locket from around his neck and opened it, looking at the woman inside with a soft smile. "Pop found it in the Temple when we were going through—" He passed the little piece of jewelry over to Mrs Lowry.
The woman smiled as she looked at the image inside. "She was very beautiful," she said. "I can see her in you." She passed the locket back to Peter. "Show Peter your locket, Sammy."
Peter looked over to the boy. His face was downcast, but his cheeks were as red as the tomato sauce. "I lost it."
"You lost your father's locket?"
"Yes. I'm sorry." The boy stood and ran out of the room. Peter scratched the back of his neck, then left to follow him.
"He's all tied up in knots over Vance Cavanaugh." Mrs Lowry sighed, her voice carrying through the house. "And he thinks he's the man of the house now. He wants to protect his mother."
His father's response was quieter, but Peter heard it nonetheless. "I will protect you," he said.
Peter didn't look back as he followed the child back to the barn, with all the treasures that had come to Sam since his father had died. The boy had pulled out the gun again. Peter was glad Mike Lowry hadn't left any bullets behind for his son's collectible.
He walked over and sat down next to Sam, grabbing one of his old toy soldiers. "So... what happened to that locket?"
Sam looked over at him and shook his head. "One of Vance's guys took it. Just ripped it off my neck while I was in town. I tried to get it back but the jerk just laughed at me." He shook his head. "I couldn't tell mom."
"Is that why you wanted to learn to shoot so badly?" Sam shrugged, and Peter sighed. "What was in the locket?"
"Picture of my father on one side, and my mom on the other." Sam sniffled. Peter didn't see any tears, but he certainly wouldn't have faulted the kid. "Dad gave it to me a couple of days before he died. It's his birthday next month, and I... I was going to take it with me when I went to his grave."
Peter put an arm around Sam's shoulder, a one-armed hug as he thought about the things that he had lost. The adult bullies at the foster homes who'd kept his things away from him for his own good. The worse ones at the orphanage who'd outright stolen the few meager possessions he'd had. "You think I'll ever get it back?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sometime." Peter looked at the Sam and remembered the child he'd been: defenseless against the cruelty of the adults around him. He wasn't going to let it happen again. "Tell my dad that I'm going down to town for a while. I'll be back for coffee."
The bar wasn't as run down as he'd have expected, given how small the town was. "Beer," he said, leaning over the wooden bar and putting a few dollars down.
"I saw the lights! I tell you, that woman's trying to restart that cult from up on the hill. We oughtta drive her out..."
Peter stopped, turned to face the man who'd spoken. He was older, older than Peter's father, even. There was something in his eyes that echoed against Peter's brain: fear, transformed into anger and hatred. Peter's temper rose against it, but he let it hide behind his expressionless face. "The Shaolin aren't a cult," he said.
"Sure they were. That place was all rice and goat's blood. Sacrificed animals. No one could ever prove it, but we all knew they were doing the kids."
"Doing the kids." Peter's lips pursed. He remembered those accusations. People warmly telling him that he was safe now that his father was dead, now that he was away from those monks, as if the explosions and the smoke were some sort of blessing. As if he hadn't lost his entire life to the flames.
"Chink bastards couldn't get away with it forever."
"Huh." Peter stared at the man for a while, then nodded. "Yeah, I remember you. Vance Cavanaugh, right? We used to talk about you. Well, my father did— he was the leader of that Temple. I was just a kid, so I just... watched you. You came to burn the place down, but you were terrified of us. Just another coward, trying to hurt old men who would have happily lived the rest of their lives studying books and meditating."
"You? That cult leader's kid?" Vance stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "Well the apple fell far from that tree. You sure he's your dad?" Peter's face darkened, and Cavanaugh's nasty grin widened. "Well, well, maybe you are. Are you trying to step into his cult leader footsteps? I heard he was always leaving you alone up there... maybe you weren't good at giving him what he really wanted, huh? Maybe you figure you'll find some boys who are better at it?"
He wanted to hit this man. Every fiber in his being wanted to hit him with enough force to destroy him. His hand was already clenched into a fist, and Peter relaxed it with a conscious effort. He smiled at Cavanaugh, then, without looking, grabbed the locket and ripped it off of his friend's neck. "This isn't yours. Leave the Lowry's alone," he said, and started walking away. Behind him, Cavanaugh and his groupies stood.
Peter was expecting the punch to be thrown; he grabbed it, twisted the man around and put his head through the nearest table. Beer bottles were overturned, french fries scattered all over the floor. "You call that a swing?" He tossed the man over the table. "Man, I'd hate to see your golf game!"
He turned back to see Cavanaugh and the rest were staring at him. They looked unimpressed. "Those old monks," said Peter with a grin, "they were all about peace. Tranquility. But someone burned down the Temple, and I ended up with a different education."
The adrenaline was pumping. He wanted nothing more than to kick the living daylights out of these men, but if he did... for one thing, Pop would know, and he could well imagine the disapproving stare he would earn. For another, if he went too far, the whole town would lie about him to the local sheriff, and that wouldn't go over well, either. He didn't have Tan to offer a friendly bribe anymore.
Cavanaugh tossed his beer in Peter's face; Peter had half expected it and sent a kick back over to where the locket thief had gotten up and tried to hit him from behind. But Cavanaugh wasn't content to just watch other people try to hit Peter. He grabbed a bottle, and swung it down towards Peter's head.
But Vance was a drunk and Peter hadn't spent years in street fights without knowing it was coming. With lightning speed, he reached out and grabbed the man's wrist, twisting with just the right amount of force. Cavanaugh screamed and dropped the bottle.
"He was trying to hit me," said Peter in a loud voice. "I think we all believe in self-defense, don't we?" There were enough nodding heads in the crowd that Peter knew he was in the clear, so long as he didn't try to go any farther. He crouched down to where Cavanaugh was clutching his wrist in a state of shock. "You're going to leave them alone, right, Vance? I'm not a priest like my father."
The man just stared.
Peter smiled and stood. "I know most of you are drunk, but someone should bring this man to a hospital, make sure his wrist's okay." There was a sudden flurry of activity, and Peter slipped into the night while Cavanaugh's friends looked at his injuries.
"You broke his wrist," said Sam, his voice awestruck.
"You... saw that." There was a frown in Peter's voice. Kwai Chang Caine stood to the side, just out of their line of sight but watching as Peter sighed and held out a hand. "Don't tell your mom, okay? Or my Pop. They'd be disappointed in me. Kung fu's not supposed to be used to injure people who can't defend themselves."
"Then why'd you do it?"
"Sometimes, I just... don't control my anger how I should."
"I get angry, too," said Sam quietly.
"It's hard to be without a father. You still need him, and he's gone." Peter looked down. "It's still on us, though. We've got to do the right thing, control ourselves, not just do whatever we're feeling."
There was a quiet pause, then Sam spoke. "You got my locket back?"
"Yeah. I figured it was the least I could do. Your mom's giving us dinner and a place to sleep tonight— even if there is only one guest bed." Peter laughed quietly. "Look, why don't you go put that somewhere safe, okay? Down with the rest of your father's things."
Sam nodded. "Thanks," he said, then paused, gave Peter a quick hug, and ran off into the house.
Kwai Chang continued to watch his son, sitting on a fence, scuffing the dirt at his feet every now and then. Insects chirped around him, and eventually, he sighed and stood up, stretching out his arms.
"I thought you said eavesdropping was rude, Pop," he said.
The priest stepped out of the shadows and walked to his son's side. His eyes ran over his son, looking for injuries: there was a slight cut on one hand. The beer on the front of his white shirt was probably going to stain. "Whose wrist did you break?"
Peter looked at him in the dim moonlight, then shrugged. "Vance Cavanaugh. He tried to whack me in the back of the head with a bottle."
"And you think... I will be disappointed?"
"I didn't have to break his wrist," said Peter. "I could have taken him down without doing that."
"But...?"
"But I was angry. Furious." Kwai Chang nodded, watching as his son's lips formed a thin line. "He shouldn't be allowed to say those things," muttered Peter. "No one ever touched me or any of the other boys up in that Temple. No one was sacrificing goats, or... or..." Peter shook his head. "Why does that man get to live his life in safety and peace while we got separated? What kind of messed up world lets grown men steal trinkets from grieving children?"
"Perhaps there is no reason for suffering. Perhaps it simply... is." Peter's only response was to stare at him with a peculiar look on his face. "Mike Lowry also had difficulty with a world that allowed such iniquity."
"Hm. He wasn't part of the Triad, was he?" Peter asked with a chuckle. Kwai Chang shook his head and Peter took in a deep breath. "We heading back up to the Temple tomorrow?"
"No. We will remain here and repair the buildings." Peter nodded and yawned. "Ah. The one guest bed. You may take it. I will... meditate."
The next day was filled with cutting, measuring, sanding and hammering. The physicality of it helped Peter to use up the anger that had been building in him since they'd arrived. Anger over being abandoned, anger over what had been lost in the fire, anger over what Tan had asked him to give away and what he couldn't figure out how to retrieve.
He was sitting down for a break after they'd finished installing the new roof for the barn when his father walked over to him. "You are troubled," he said, in that obnoxious, mild tone he had. "Not by these events."
"Speak normally, would you? 'What's wrong, Peter.'"
Caine nodded. "What is wrong, Peter?"
Peter huffed, and sipped his tea uncomfortably. "There's a lot wrong," he said. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to open this conversation. He wasn't sure at all. But his father was staring at him in that way of his, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad. "The memories, and the thoughts... they hurt."
"Tell me about it, my son."
Peter frowned. He wasn't sure— but he couldn't help the memory coming up at him.
Men coming down from the ceiling. Chaos, confusion everywhere. The stands of candles were knocked over, the explosions were everywhere, loud and painful in his ears. "The trick is not to mind..."—
Even in his memory, he found other memories—
Peter was injured. His leg hurt; something had fallen on it. A beam from the ceiling? A piece of wall? In all the confusion, he hadn't even seen what had happened. All that he knew was that it hurt, and that he couldn't stand up. Couldn't get up and walk out of the Temple on his own power.
And then he saw him. "Father!"
"I was hurt. I was lying on the floor of the Temple. The place stank of incense and gunpowder. The screams were ringing in my ears. The smoke was so hot it burned when I breathed it in, so thick it was hard to see. I was hurt, and I saw you through an opening in the wall. And you looked at me and you turned your back. You left me to die."
"I did not." The priest shook his head. "There was an explosion. I was hurt."
"Yeah. Of course you were, I know that." He paused. "I know that, but... But it feels like an excuse, because... because you always left. Tan said it. Cavanaugh said it. Even people in the town knew you liked to... to go off on your own. To leave me behind."
His father frowned.
"And it's not just that, Pop. When you came back, you weren't even looking for me. And then you killed the man who didn't leave."
"Tan?" Peter nodded as Caine took his hands. "He was hurting you, my son. I could not let that continue."
"Sure, but—" Peter shook his head. "Why did you leave me after? I had nothing. I chose you. I... I could have chosen him, and I didn't, and that's my choice, I'm not blaming you for that, but why...? I chose you, Pop. Why didn't you choose me? Wasn't I good enough?"
His father looked stunned.
Peter sighed, then shrugged and stood, pulling away sharply. "Look, I don't expect an answer. It's probably wrong for me to even ask the question, right?"
"It is not," said Caine, standing quickly. "Peter... I was attempting to protect you. I was mistaken. Please, do not take my errors as commentary on your worth. You are my son, you are worth... more than I can describe."
"Yeah? Even though I'm not... not the innocent child you lost?"
The priest nodded, a combination of somber, earnest, contrite... so many emotions packed so tightly that Peter could barely see all of them under that emotionless facade. "When I was told that you were dead," he said, his voice breaking slightly on the word, "my heart... was shattered. There were times when... I thought to take my own..."
Peter shook his head uncertainly at the revelation.
"When we reunited," said Caine, "I regained a piece of my own soul. I knew that I must protect it with every fibre of my being. But then, with Tan, I could see no choice that did not result in his death. I did not wish for my presence to cause further harm."
"So you figured a... metaphorical death was the best option?"
Caine considered the statement for a moment, then nodded. Peter sniffed, then kissed his father's head. Neither was quite sure what to say next, so it came as something of a relief when Mrs Lowry and Sam came out of the house. "We're going into town to get the supplies you need. Sam's coming with me."
"I will accompany you," said Caine, glancing at Peter.
"I'll just stay here if that's okay with you," he called out loudly, then added, in a quiet voice that only his father would be able to hear, "I need some time. Might head back up for a bit."
Caine nodded.
Peter walked into the Temple, eyes adjusting to the dim light as he crossed the threshhold. His hands touched the vines once again, and his eyes alighted on the remains of the columns that had clearly been more decorative than structural. They were damaged, much as he was, by a fight that hadn't really concerned them.
Tan and Caine.
They were like yang and yin, in some ways. Kwai Chang Caine seemed to be the embodiment of non-action, barely moving without deep consideration. Tan had always had some plan on the go, many times involving Peter himself. Tan was the general, the great Dragon. Did that make Caine the tiger?
He looked at his arms, imagining for a moment the familiar symbols. If Peter had remained in the Temple, he might even now have those symbols branded into his forearms. But of course he hadn't. He'd been robbed of the opportunity. Those symbols weren't for him, not anymore.
He shook the thoughts out of his head.
There— there was the opening. He walked over to it purposefully, making barely a sound as he crossed over the greenery that had taken over the Temple's flooring. His father... he would have stood there. He could see it in his mind's eye... he took a step back, crouched down to find the angle.
There. Right there, just like that.
He had been here crawling towards the entrance when he had seen his father through the smoke. He bit his lip. There was not much here to ground him against the memories; he would have to trust that Lo Si— Ping Hai— that the Ancient had helped him enough that he wouldn't be consumed by them.
It wasn't much of a struggle to start the memory. It had never been difficult to remember this.
He could smell the smoke around him as he looked at the hole in the wall. He could feel the heat, too, hear the explosions. This memory had always been... difficult. Consuming. This memory had always come too close to him, taken too much from him.
He could feel himself losing to it, his breathing becoming fast and shallow, his heart an intense drumbeat in his teeth, his fingers tingling with pins and needles. This wasn't working— it wasn't working! He needed to short circuit it—
But he was already caught, the memory replaying over and over, painful in its intensity. The smoke, the incense, the Temple; there was no external force to ground himself against. Some dispassionate part of him knew that it would subside, but the emotional part— He should have known! He was probably going to die here, locked forever in a memory of terror—
He was so caught in the memory that he did not hear the sound of someone approaching behind him. He put up no defense when they clocked him with the butt of a gun.
He woke tied to a pillar, Vance Cavanaugh pacing in front of him. The man's wrist was in a cast, but it didn't seem to be stopping him from holding onto a pistol— no, no, that was a Desert Eagle he was holding. Peter blinked a few times, his mind wondering how badly the other man was about to injure himself with the recoil from shooting Peter in the head.
"Hey, Vance, he's got his eyes open."
The old man looked Peter in the eyes and smiled nastily. There was an unfocused look there. Painkillers? Peter wished he had some, his head hurt something awful.
"Go get his old man," he said. "Tell him I'm waiting."
Peter's eyes watched the gun as it swayed back and forth, just a little, trying to see if the safety was on. Yeah, yeah, there it was— Internally, Peter smiled in satisfaction. Cavanaugh was a coward, he wasn't going to shoot him and destroy his own wrist, the gun was for show. But there was something else here: wires. Attached to explosives? Peter tried to follow the lines with his eyes, but it was difficult in the darkness.
Cavanaugh chuckled to himself. "Not so mouthy now, are ya, boy?"
Yeah, well, it was hard to speak around the gag cutting into the corners of his mouth. He let his eyes do the talking, letting them express the hatred, the contempt that he felt for the man in front of him.
"Yeah, not so mouthy at all." He walked forward until his face took up all of Peter's vision, his breath hot on Peter's face. Peter noted the smell of alcohol. "You broke my wrist, boy. I've been waiting for you to wake up so I could get some payback."
Okay, that was about what Peter expected. He had the range of motion— he moved forward with all his power, his forehead against the softer cartilage of Cavanaugh's nose. The old man fell backwards, blood streaming down his face from the broken nose. Peter did his best to smile.
"Son of a bitch—" His hand went to his nose to staunch the flow. "Ben! Break his fucking arm."
The man who came towards him looked a bit scared, but a bit of prodding from Cavanaugh, and he seemed to gain some courage. Peter gave as much of a scuffle as he could, but he was the one with his hands tied around a pillar. No matter how he tried to twist and strike out with his legs, he couldn't do much to stop the thwack of a stick hitting his arm over and over...
He tried not to cry out. He tried to use the techniques he'd been taught by both fathers. He sucked air in through his nose, blew it out through his mouth, tried to grit his teeth around whatever fabric they'd stuffed in his mouth.
It hurt, though, and he wasn't either of his fathers. He did mind the pain, and it squeezed out through the corners of his eyes and the occasional grunt. They might be amateurs compared to people Peter had known, but that didn't make any of this painless.
When it was said and done, he could only wonder how bad it was. Was his bone shattered? How would he even know? His head hung low as he panted, and the strain exacerbated the pain.
"Where's your smile at now, boy?" Cavanaugh taunted.
He brought his head up, looking at his captor with fury. If it weren't for the gag, he'd have spat in that horrible old face. As it was, there was very little he could do. Cavanaugh wasn't even in range for Peter to kick the man's shins.
He leaned back against the pillar. His father would surely be here soon, and Peter needed to figure out a way to help him when he arrived.
