Chapter Two

Hours later, Kermit stood in one corner of his office, watching Peter through a crack in the drawn blinds. Without meaning to, Kermit began building a profile on Peter's behavior. The first word that came to mind was paranoid. It was something Kermit could relate to after years of being on the watch for old enemies.

Then he chided himself for analyzing Peter's actions so clinically. He was a friend after all. Old habits die hard though, he thought with a grunt.

Whispering to himself, he said, "Kid, you look like a popcorn kernel ready to explode. What's going on with you?"

Every once in a while, Peter would jump as if someone had touched him, but no one was around. Or he'd snatch up a piece of paper like it was something offensive and eye his coworkers ominously, all while constantly rubbing the back of his neck.

Kermit pulled off his dark glasses and chewed on the tip of one earpiece. His office was darkened, on purpose. He didn't want to add to Peter's paranoia, but the young man warranted further observation.

When Kermit had arrived at the precinct late that morning after a court appearance, he was dismayed to hear Captain Simms had broken her ankle and had gone home to recuperate. Not only that, but Peter had been blamed as the source of the accident.

Other stories started to filter his way about broken coffee cups, toppled containers of pens, malfunctioning machines, and misplaced files, among other things. All rather commonplace by themselves, but together they bordered on the bizarre.

Kermit tapped the earpiece of the glasses against his lip as he watched Peter's escalating state of agitation and distantly wondered where Caine was. The Shaolin priest had an eerie track record of appearing whenever Peter was in trouble. And by the looks of things, Peter was headed for big trouble.

Peter was staring at a piece of paper with a look of disbelief on his face, then the young detective stood abruptly, waving the paper around.

"Whose joke is this?" he shouted angrily.

"Oh yeah, it's show time," Kermit said sarcastically as he shoved his glasses back in place and opened the door.

Peter was no longer building up to something; he was about to explode. "I'm asking whose joke this is... because I want to ask the asshole who's been writing them exactly what they mean. I don't get it," he paused as he glared at the paper more closely.

"T-S-O-L? E-M-O-H?" he spelled out the written letters, giving each letter its own emphasis.

Barely stopping long enough for a quick breath of air, he threw both hands into the air and continued with his tirade, "Damn, I left my secret decoder ring at home today, so will somebody tell me what the hell do they mean?"

Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at Peter with expressions of confusion and worry. Peter just wasn't acting like Peter and it was obviously alarming those around him.

"Caine, I need to speak with you in my office," Kermit said forcefully. When Peter hesitated, he added, "Now."

Peter rubbed the back of his neck and his wide-eyed gaze swept the room once more before coming back to Kermit. Seeing the level of willpower Peter seemed to use just to walk into his office did nothing to ease Kermit's concern for the young detective.

Kermit closed the door once Peter was inside. He wasn't sure how to proceed. With Peter in his current state, something had to be done to settle the man, but which approach would work the best?

As he turned around, he saw Peter nervously pacing the small area. "Peter, sit," he ordered, keeping his statement deliberately short.

Peter gritted his teeth. For a moment, he looked like he was about to bolt, but then sat in a nearby chair. Kermit leaned against the closed door, thinking it was best to block Peter's escape route if he decided to run.

"What's going on, kid?"

Peter jumped to his feet, exasperation evident in his pale expression. "That's why you ordered me in here? To ask what's going on? Shit, do you think you have to step up to the plate now with Paul and Pop gone, like some designated pinch hitter?"

Calmly, Kermit answered in a low tone, "No, I'm not. I'm just the guy wondering why you look like you're about to lose it out in the bullpen for no good reason."

Peter's hazel eyes flashed with pain and frustration before he turned away, running a hand through his dark hair before resting it on the back of his neck. "There's a reason... I don't know or care if you think it's a good one," he whispered to the wall he was facing.

"Try me. I might surprise you. You forget that I still owe you a big one for helping out at Marilyn's."

Peter turned halfway and paused. "No, I might surprise you. Hell, you may even be right. I'd be thinking I was losing it, too, except for what I have in my hand."

Kermit took a step toward him. He had forgotten about the paper. "What's that?"

Peter handed it to him, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two dozen more pieces of crumpled paper. "I've been finding them all day long. In my pockets, in my desk drawers, in random case files... Hell, there was even one written on the toilet paper in the restroom. I just can't figure out how they are doing it, whoever it is."

Kermit eyed the papers carefully, turning on his desk lamp as he spread them out across his desktop. There was something eerily strange about the consistency of the scribbled letters. They appeared to be written in a malodorous reddish-black ink, smelling vaguely of sulfur. Most had just one word, but sometimes both were written on the same page, tsol and emoh.

Peter's voice was quiet, almost frightened as he continued, "It's not just that. It's the accidents happening around me all day, with Captain Simms being the worst." Peter's voice broke slightly as he took an involuntary breath of air.

"Since I've come to work, my telephone and cell phone have stopped working, at the same time. My desk lamp and the coffee machine are on the fritz. And that's just since I've been here. Before that, my electric razor wouldn't turn on and the coffee maker at home wouldn't start. The topper was having to have the Stealth towed into the shop."

Kermit stared at him for a moment. "Okay, so you're having a really bad day. What's your point?"

Before Peter could answer him, Kermit's desk light blinked out. Peter raised his hands as if that explained it all. Kermit straightened and came around his desk.

"Yes, that's weird, Peter, I'll grant you that much, but it isn't the end of the world. There's something more. What is it?"

Peter wrapped his arms around his chest so fast that Kermit thought he was having some sort of spasm, and then Peter started his pacing, obviously searching for words of explanation.

Without warning, he stopped in front of Kermit. When he looked up at Kermit, it felt like Peter's emotion-darkened eyes were boring right through Kermit's soul. "Kermit, have you... have you ever felt like someone was standing right beside you – I mean, right beside you – but when you looked around, no one was there?"

Without missing a beat, Kermit replied, "Sure, used to happen all the time, but now the medication takes care of that problem."

The sudden flash of pain in Peter's eyes told him his quip had wounded Peter badly. Kermit raised his hands in supplication. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for. Yeah, sure, it's happened, but it's always just a passing thing. Peter, you have to be able to trust what your senses tell you. As a cop, your life and the lives of those around you might depend on it."

Peter's gaze darted away for a moment, and then was back on him again with even greater intensity. "And if my... my senses tell me that I'm not alone? That someone, or something, has been screwing with me all day?"

Kermit placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, about to say words designed to calm his friend when he suddenly gasped in pain. As he pulled his hand away, he noticed a small bloodstain on Peter's jacket, then as his hand hovered in the air, a drop of blood dripped onto the floor. The sight shocked both men and Kermit flipped his hand over to see what had caused it.

A piece of paper was stapled to the palm of his right hand, the metal staple twisted and tarnished, as if it was ages old instead of seconds. There was just enough of the note not splattered with blood to leave it readable.

One of the mysterious words was written on it. The ink wasn't even dry as Kermit read 'emoh', silently noticing how the reddish-black ink bore an eerie resemblance to his recently splattered blood beside the scribbles. His gaze darted from his hand to Peter and back to the paper again.

Peter didn't hesitate. He pulled the paper, staple and all from Kermit's hand, and tossed it onto the desk in disgust and frustration. "SHIT!"

He turned back to Kermit, who was still standing in the same place, now with one hand holding the other. A few more drops of blood had collected in the palm of his hand from the two small puncture wounds.

Kermit Griffin had incurred far worse wounds over the course of his life, but none had left him as stunned as the minor one he had just suffered. Finally, when he was able to move and talk again, it was more to himself than to Peter. "There has to be a logical explanation for this... "

"Yeah, right, when you come up with it, you let me know! Until then, I'm shutting down my computer and leaving before anyone else gets hurt around here!"

Peter threw open the door and stormed into the bullpen. Kermit followed him out, but a series of events began that prevented any further progress.

First, the power to the bullpen flickered off and on, as if it was trying to correct itself. As Peter pulled his chair away from his desk and reached down to turn off his computer, a look of pure terror crossed over his face. He screamed and clutched his right shoulder.

A split second later, his computer tower erupted into flames, and the monitor exploded, the blast sending Peter flying through the air.

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The smoke was thick as the combined efforts of three fire extinguishers were used to put out the last of the flames. Kermit knelt over Peter, shielding him from the chemical fog produced by the extinguishers. As he put his ear to Peter's chest, he was relieved to hear the steady rhythm of Peter's heart beating and the sound of air flowing in and out.

He was about to rise when he thought he heard a whisper, something that crept across his soul and left him shivering in its wake. "Kermit."

A cold fingernail brushed against the back of Kermit's hand, breaking the paralyzing spell of the whisper and he bolted upright. Peter's words came back to him – 'Kermit, have you...have you ever felt like someone was standing right beside you, I mean, right beside you, but when you looked around, no one was there?'

Kermit knew his eyes were wide with fear, but the only person near him was Jody. She was kneeling at Peter's other side. Fortunately, she couldn't see his eyes because of his dark glasses. They did come in handy at times.

Jody's voice was tense with worry as she asked in a rush, "What, Kermit? Is he breathing? Is he alive?"

All Kermit could manage was a nod before the paramedics and firefighters rushed in to take over. He stood, but it was as if he was stuck in slow motion, and the rest of the world was in fast forward.

His gaze darted from Peter to the back of his own injured hand, holding one hand with other as if it had been broken, instead of brushed against by the paramedics to get to their patient. He turned the hand over and the telltale staple punctures of his palm were red and puffed, as if angered by the earlier penetration of metal.

Peter's frightened words kept echoing in his head. Kermit swallowed and backed out the main stream of traffic, relieved to see Peter was starting to come around, though he was still quite groggy.

Kermit felt the same way, like he'd just been rocked by an explosion – an explosion of one word. "Kermit."

His name had been whispered with the same damned lilt he'd heard back at Marilyn's.

The ex-merc shivered uncharacteristically as he recalled following the criminals, who had Marilyn, into the basement. He had barely entered the hallway when the walls had grabbed at him, ghostly images of hands reaching for him while whispering his name.

He gritted his teeth as he dwelled on those disturbing memories. He'd thought they had sent hell back where it belonged the day before, but apparently, hell had followed them back to work.

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