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Chapter Two

"Mending Fences"

With coat in hand, Paul headed for the precinct's front door, only to be blocked by Frank Strenlich.

"Captain?" Something in Strenlich's tone caused Paul to halt his clipped pace. His eyes narrowed as he noticed Frank had successfully blocked his path.

"I don't have time to talk right now, Chief. I'll be back–" Blaisdell attempted to step past the Chief of Detectives. Strenlich, an ex-marine, was a big guy, even by casual standards. When he wanted to be in a person's way, he could easily do it.

Lowering his voice, Strenlich's compassion for Paul's situation came through in his tone. "Captain, I hate to bother you with this, especially now, but it's the Crowder matter...You wanted to be notified the moment-"

Strenlich's dedication to duty came at a cost when Blaisdell exploded with uncharacteristic anger. "I said I don't have time for that right now, Chief! Is there something wrong with your hearing?" Paul said with more anger and volume than intended.

The bullpen came to a dead stop and the normally bustling area was now quieter than the local mortuary. Its occupants were intent observers of the unfolding drama between their ranking officers. Even the phones went silent, as if holding their breath at the unfolding confrontation.

Frank stood tightlipped, not saying a word. He only held out the file in his hand so that Blaisdell could read its cover.

Paul's expression shifted when he finally read the file in his face. Abruptly, he was at a loss for words. Swearing silently, Paul pulled off his overcoat and threw it into his office. He snatched the paperwork from Frank's extended hand without another word as he bounded upstairs to deal with the offending matter.

Paul begrudgingly concluded his administrative duties, though they seemed to go on forever. For one brief moment, he contemplated another delay to find Strenlich and make amends. Yet, he was more deeply disturbed by the way he had left things with Peter and the stronger compulsion won out. He would seek out Frank later. There was a pressing apology to take care of first.

So, nearly thirty minutes after Peter had stormed out of his office, Paul Blaisdell exited the precinct with one purpose in mind. He paused for a moment after stepping out into the chilly December air, jingling his keys in one hand. He chewed on his lower lip as he considered what to do next.

'Where the hell would Peter go while spitting mad at me and his father gone?'

Pulling his heavy coat closer around him, his thoughts gravitated towards to the ugly scene that had caused Peter to be so angry in the first place.

'He's probably long gone by now,' Paul thought despondently as small clouds of mist formed with his every exhalation. 'Yet, his car is still in the parking lot...'

Over the din of the busy street in front of him, Blaisdell heard a regular and almost familiar rhythm, a thumping sound not normally present in the daily street noise. Paul ambled in the general direction of the side parking lot, following a detective's hunch tempered with years of a father's knowing ways.

In a far corner, almost obscured by a huge trash dumpster, Paul saw the top of a well recognized brown-haired head. He maintained his course, but increased his pace with his discovery. Moving quietly, Paul came to a stop as he watched Peter working out in rolled-up shirt sleeves despite the cold temperatures.

Once again, Peter slammed his hockey stick against the puck with an audible grunt of effort. The battered piece of rubber ricocheted off the graffiti-laden brick wall and he dove for it again, never pausing for the slightest break.

His shirt clung to his chest, soaked through with perspiration. Obviously, he'd beaten the heck out of the defenseless hockey puck until it was now dented and deformed. Paul frowned. It didn't take the wisdom of Solomon to understand the puck represented his head, struck in effigy, much like the file cabinet back in his office. Then again, abusing a hockey puck was much preferred to abusing another person.

'Especially when that other person could be me,' Paul thought with a sarcastic chuckle.

Peter paused to steady his ragged breathing, and then Paul saw him catch a glimpse of his presence. Mouthing a litany of swear words before turning away, Peter was apparently attempting to gather his emotions as he stood with his back to Paul.

One hand flexed open and closed in an exercise of futile indecision as Paul stepped closer to his son, but then he hesitated. His only thoughts were of reconciliation and apology as he thought, 'Peter, what are you thinking? If I could only see your face, I'd know what to do. You can be such an open book to me at times like these...All I need is a quick glance and I'd know.'

When Peter remained immobile, apparently fixated on the brick wall before him, Paul bent over and picked up his son's hastily discarded pullover sweater and jacket as a peace offering to break the awkward moment.

Even though the sun shone through overcast clouds, snow had been predicted for later in the day. Once Peter had stopped his frantic exercise, Paul could see his limbs tremble with the air's chill. Clearing his throat, he offered the outstretched clothing to Peter. "Son..."

The spell of indecision which had held Peter in place seemed broken by the sound of Paul's voice. Peter glanced over his shoulder, and then hastily snatched the clothing from Paul's hand. He spun around, looking ready to storm away again.

Clasping a firm hand on Peter's shoulder, Paul felt the young man stiffen, and he realized Peter's trembling wasn't just from the cold, but also from an overflowing well of anger and resentments.

"Peter, I'm so sorry. I never meant-"

Without turning around, Peter began speaking to him with outstretched hands lifted upwards. Paul heard Peter's pleading voice growing in exasperation the longer he spoke, "Why does he do it, Paul? Why? Damn it, I'm his son! I should know where he is, how he is, why he is-"

With a sudden rush of selfish relief, Paul knew in his heart that Peter's angry outburst wasn't based solely on their spat. Rather, it was the cascading flood of anger, hurt, and betrayal Peter had kept buried after he discovered Caine had left again. Those emotions had now broken through his protective barriers to burst forth anew.

It was a reaction Blaisdell had been waiting to see ever since Kwai Chang Caine had vanished. Instead, Paul had seen Peter's broken heart manifest itself as mercurial fits of anger and reckless behavior. Finally, Peter's pent-up emotions were now being expressed in a more constructive manner. At last, he was ready to talk. It had always been the first step in the healing process for Peter. Another glance at his son confirmed that and more.

A silent message from Peter's rigid body language came in the form of arms wrapped tightly around his chest. It told Paul that Peter needed more comfort to quiet his inner demons than Peter could provide for himself. Without saying another word, Paul took his son into his arms and held him there.

Peter sank into his welcomed embrace in much the same way he had as an angry young teenager. For so long, the teenaged Peter's anger was used to push the world away when in reality all Peter ever really wanted was for some portion of that world around him to open up for him.

Paul had been there for Peter since the day he took Peter away from the orphanage. Ever and always, steadfast and sure. At least, that was what Paul was hoping would be conveyed to his son through his embrace. When, at last, Peter pulled away from Blaisdell under the pretense of donning his warmer clothing, Paul watched him carefully. The young man refused to look in his direction. Some lingering bit of Peter's anger still burned, keeping a wall between them. Apparently, Paul thought with a wry smile, Peter was an equal opportunity grudge holder.

In a flash so typical to his personality, Peter changed channels in his attitude, using some internal remote control device. He shook his head and sighed as he bent to retrieve his puck. He flipped the odd-shaped thing into the air and caught it deftly as he leaned against the nearby wall. Tossing it up higher this time, he watched it hang briefly in the frigid air before it dropped into his waiting hand again.

Paul followed him to the wall and leaned against it too, seeking some support from the sturdy building, feeling a little spent himself from the intense display of feelings he had just witnessed. Flipping the puck in a seemingly carefree manner, Paul noted Peter's face was still flushed from his emotional outburst and exertion, but also from the chilling temperatures. Still, neither man said a word for several moments, both afraid to say the wrong thing.

Finally, Paul spoke in a soft voice, "He loves you, Peter. You know that, right?"

Peter went from standstill to a human dynamo with that statement. "Hell, yes, I know that! But if he loves me-Why does he do this to me? It drives me nuts every damned time he does it!" Peter shouted as he threw the puck against the asphalt pavement.

When the puck ricocheted off Peter's shin in a show of inanimate retribution, he winced and bit his lip. Paul rubbed his mouth to mask his quick smile.

After Peter's curses halted, Paul spoke softly, "I know, son, I know it's upsetting for you, but you have no more control over your father's actions than you do over the setting sun. You have to accept that and leave it be while knowing the love you two share for each other is truly a miraculous thing."

Peter nodded as he rubbed his shin before finally dropping his leg. "Paul, I try so hard to accept things and let them go, but I never really seem to. I just don't understand it."

Paul felt himself break into a broad smile. "Peter, you've never let go of a single thing of importance in your life that didn't have your fingernail marks deeply imbedded in it by the time you were done...It's just a part of your nature not to give up on things you care about. Part of that natural tenacity which makes you such an exceptional detective.

"We are what we are. I can tell you that you need to accept a certain situation and leave it be, but it's a whole other ball of wax to be able to do it myself. So, we sit. We talk. Then, we just do the best we can with what we have."

Paul patted Peter on the arm as he finished and gave him an understanding smile. Peter's head bounced up and he stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time since he stormed out of the precinct earlier.

"God, Paul, I'm so sorry. Here you are trying to make me feel better and I never even apologized for what I said...for what I almost did in your office. I–I..."

'Peter, after knowing you for fifteen years, do you honestly think I would believe you capable of striking me over...words? No, our bond is greater than that."

He wrapped a loving hand around Peter's neck and shook him gently. Then he released his hold to pick up Peter's slightly swollen hand, already darkened with newly formed bruises.

The younger man flinched. Blaisdell, who knew his chosen son so well, also knew Peter's involuntary movement was not so much out of pain, but more from embarrassment. Paul's fingers gently rubbed over the injured area, and then he sighed when he remembered how badly he had handled things earlier. As if in automatic response, he heard Peter sigh in a rushed huff.

Paul didn't have Caine's gift of knowing other people's thoughts, but he was sure Peter was mentally kicking himself for allowing his anger to leave such a blatant visual reminder. Something to be seen by Paul at any time, serving as a constant example of his poor behavior.

Blaisdell sought out Peter's troubled gaze. "No, son. I should be the only one apologizing here. I don't know where that damned speech of mine came from, but I think you were right."

Licking his slightly chapped lips, Paul continued, "You were red hot with anger and said I appeared green, but, that wasn't it. I was seeing green. The pure and simple green of jealousy. What a God-awful thing that is," Paul muttered, as if his words had left a nasty taste in his mouth.

Peter shook his head before smiling with an enigmatic grin which reminded Paul so much of Kwai Chang. "Dad, do you know how lucky I am? I mean, for a guy to have just one father he can love and cherish is an amazing thing anymore. But I've got two. That's gotta be pretty damned confusing for you on levels I haven't even thought of yet. Hell, it's confusing enough for me! Our family dynamics are not the norm. If your nerves get a little frazzled, especially when dealing with me and my temper tantrums, well...all I can say is that it's justified. And you were right, you know."

Shaking his head for a moment, Peter continued, "I am not my father. Not by a long shot. In both the good ways and the bad. We were made from different molds. I admire the hell out of the way he can help people...and the things he can do just blows my mind. I love him so much it actually hurts me sometimes, but I can never be Kwai Chang Caine.

"Still, I can do a pretty good job of being Peter Caine. I have you to thank for that. For keeping my head straight long enough for Pop and I to connect again. But we shouldn't be arguing over stuff like that."

Peter sighed deeply, then continued, "All I can say to make up for-for what happened earlier is to say I love you, Dad. More than words can ever say."

He gave Paul another hug. This time, Paul felt Peter's arms tighten around him, but it had a different feel to it. Not a clutch of fear. Not a brisk brush of anger and resentment. No, this one exuded love and appreciation through its hold. Peter sighed with the obvious depth of his gratitude, and then he straightened slightly. "If you still want me to go on that assignment, I will. No more complaints about it, I promise."

Peter's voice was gentle and loving, revealing nothing but a willingness to make this father proud of him. Peter pulled back to look directly into Paul's face. Blaisdell was relieved to see that familiar twinkling of mischief make its reappearance in Peter's playful expression.

Paul cleared his throat before saying, "Might be a good idea for you to get out of town for a day or two. Get a fresh perspective on things. You've been doing a pretty good job of driving yourself into the ground over the last week."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too."

A lopsided grin came over Peter's face before he worked to suppress it for Paul's benefit. "Besides, I think I heard Jody and Skalany plotting this morning to put rat poison in my coffee if I didn't settle down."

Paul coughed to cover an abrupt chuckle. "No, actually that was last night's plan. This morning, Blake and Kermit put together the makings of a spectacular car bomb for you. It's a good thing you didn't decide start up your car when you barreled out of the precinct."

Paul's classic poker face caught Peter's and they both dissolved into a fit of laughter.Blaisdell patted his son on the shoulder as he wiped away a tear, but this time, there were only tears of joy.

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"There will be a police detective leaving from the 101st precinct tomorrow morning to transport the witnesses from their seclusion back to town, but don't bother following him from there. I know where he will be at 2 o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Your people can pick up his trail at that location.

"I'll have his personal file, along with copies of the police files on Crowfoot and Hills. There should be plenty of photos to serve you adequately. Also a description of the vehicle he'll be driving. I'll have it all sent over to your drop site via messenger within the hour. I trust you will live up to that expensive reputation of yours."

"Not a problem as long as you've transferred the agreed upon funds into our Swiss bank account," a cold voice replied in a slightly bored tone.

"Half of your fee has already been transferred; the balance will be transferred once your task is completed. You may verify their presence at your own convenience. Notify me once the deed is done."

"Will do."

There was a click on the line to signify the end of the conversation. The older, refined man looked at the expensive handset of his telephone and quietly hung it up as he wondered what exactly his vast sums of family money had purchased. He loved his son, but he felt like he had just sold his soul to the devil with this transaction. And perhaps he had.

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