Fishing Trip

Peter Caine looked across the room at his father. The man stood impassive, his face not reflecting any emotion. The younger Caine cleared his throat before finishing, "...so every year Paul and I go fishing, up near Bishop. You know - quality time and all that."

"So you will be away all next week?"

"Well... yeah, I er... wanted to ask you...." He paused, not sure what his father thought about fishing, then swallowed and hurried on, "er... if you would like to come with us. That is, if you don't have anything... I mean..." He laughed nervously, totally unsure of his ground. A feeling he was not used to.

Kwai Chang Caine watched his son as he shifted uneasily about the room. He was unsure if it was the room's resemblance to the temple, with its burning candles and imagery of a time lost, or if it was he, himself, that made the young man uneasy. He felt a sudden pang of regret for the lost years. "I do not feel that Captain Blaisdell would appreciate me accompanying you on your 'quality time' together," he finally said.

"Paul knew I was going to ask you...." Peter began, a pout forming about his lips. Then, suddenly changing tack he began to back out of the academy. "Hey, that's alright though, if you're against fishing or anything like that... I mean, it was just an idea... nothing firm, you know..." Then he was gone. Caine was left staring at the space he had occupied.

He stood silent for a few minutes, replaying the sudden arrival and departure of his son. With a sigh, he realised that he had added another brick to the wall that stood between them. The last few weeks had been good; Peter had started to drop by on a regular basis and the tension had begun to ease. Yet, when he had left this time, a feeling of unease had returned to fill the space between father and son.

***

Two days had passed since Kwai Chang Caine had last seen his son. He hoped that Peter would come to see him before he left on his week's fishing with Captain Paul Blaisdell.

He sat in meditation, the morning class having left half an hour earlier. As he breathed, he pulled in the essence of the elements about him, using their nature to calm his troubled thoughts about his son.

Slowly he opened his eyes, sensing a stranger enter the room. He tilted his head in surprise and welcome to his visitor. Captain Paul Blaisdell was a tall, handsome man with greying hair who was used to command, yet he stood uneasily in the doorway.

"Welcome," Caine said, rising and moving his hands in a gesture of entry.

Paul Blaisdell accepted the invitation and walked slowly towards the father of his foster son.

"Is Peter alright?" Caine asked, as always his voice calm, the words measured, never showing his worry.

Blaisdell let a smile filter across his features. "Yes... I left him at the station. He has a desk full of reports to finish before he leaves on Friday."

"Then this is a social visit," Caine surmised with a slight smile.

"You could say that."

"Then we will have tea." As he spoke, Caine led the way upstairs to his living space, situated over the academy.

After the drink had been brewed and set before them, Caine sat cross-legged and waited patiently for Blaisdell to speak.

The police captain took a sip of the hot brew and swallowed. "This is good," he said with a smile. "Tea is about the only thing we let Peter cook in our house." He paused, unsure what to say now that he was here. Never being a man to lose heart, he took another swallow and began, "Peter told me that he asked you to come fishing with us next week... He also said that you turned him down?"

Caine nodded. "I did not wish to intrude upon your time together."

Blaisdell sighed. "I thank you for that, but..." he paused, then added, "I would like you to come with us."

Caine blinked.

Seeing this, Blaisdell went on, "I can't deny that at times I'm as jealous of hell of the power you have over Peter. While he was growing up he never forgot you, never stopped loving you. Yours is a mighty powerful image to stack up against."

"Peter is a fine young man, mainly because of all that you taught him," Caine said in earnest. "I am glad that he had you to guide him during his youth."

Blaisdell sat back, his tea forgotten. "Peter wants you to come next week and, frankly, so do I. You've become a big part of his life and, at the moment, he is feeling torn between us."

"I have noticed that there is a certain amount of conflict within him."

Paul Blaisdell smiled. "Yeah, well... I think it's because he feels guilty. There is no need for him to feel that way: I love him like a son and nothing is going to change that." He paused again, gauging his words. "Anyway, I just thought that if you came with us and we sort of put on a united front... Just to show him that he doesn't have any reason to feel guilty." The police captain stopped, amazed that he could face an angry gunman with more ease than he could Peter's real father.

Caine felt pride well within him. That Peter should have been fortunate enough to find such a man to guide him was indeed a blessing he would always be grateful for. "In that case, I would be honoured to join you both," he finally admitted. "You are indeed a very shrewd man, Captain Blaisdell."

"Please, call me Paul," the other man smiled, picking up his unfinished drink. "Living in a house with three women, I have to be shrewd or they would have eaten me for breakfast. One of the reasons I was so keen to have Peter come live with us was so that I had at least one family member on my side when it came to either shopping in the mall or a ball game."

"It must have been fun watching Peter handling your two daughters." Caine smiled at the picture this presented of his gentle son.

"Oh, he handled them alright. He had them eating out of his hands within three months. There was one time when he...." He paused, suddenly remembering that Caine had missed those years of his son growing up.

Caine, as if realising what had caused the other man to pause, leant forward and, resting a hand upon his arm, said, "I will expect you to tell me all about it next week."

Blaisdell let out a bark of laughter and nodded his agreement. "I was hoping you would fill me in on some of his exploits as a boy. Between us reminiscing next week, Peter's going to be sorry he asked his two dads to go fishing with him."

"Maybe, but I do not think that I am going to be," Caine replied, a feeling of deep ease welling inside of him.

***

Neither Paul nor Caine had mentioned his father's change of mind to Peter. So it was that, on Saturday morning, Paul Blaisdell pulled up outside the Kung Fu Academy. At Six-thirty in the morning, Peter was not really awake; a slouched figure in the back seat, sleeping bag pulled up about him as he tried vainly to gather a few more minutes of sleep.

The door opening and closing pulled him from under his covers. "Are we there yet?" he asked, meaning the motel/cafe where they always stopped for breakfast. The words died in his throat as he saw his father sitting in the front seat next to Paul.

He sat up straighter, pulling the hampering sleeping bag down further and exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, "What are you doing here?"

Caine shot Blaisdell a glance and smiled at the laughter he saw on the other's face. "My son asked me to go fishing with him."

"But you said no," Peter shot back, seeing the look pass between the two men and not sure if he liked the implications.

"So," Caine asked, turning to look his son in the eyes. "Am I not allowed to change my mind?" The raised eyebrow stalled Peter for words.

"Glad you could make it," Peter finally said, pulling the cover back up to his chest and shooting a glance between the two men. "I think," he finished.

The trip to the cabin passed swiftly, Paul explaining the tradition behind the holiday: how the women liked to get them out of the house once a year to do the spring cleaning... although, Paul commented drily, it always coincided with the sales.

Peter added how Paul had come home one year to find that the living room had been completely renewed. Blaisdell was graceful in admitting that he had really liked the new furniture, and the girls had wanted it to be a surprise for him. The younger Caine was wiping tears from his eyes as he explained that the credit card bill had been the biggest surprise.

A few hours later they pulled up outside a beautiful log cabin, set about a mile off the highway. The nearest town, according to the last sign post, was Little Hampton about eight miles to the east. As they unloaded, Peter - full of youthful exuberance - explained about the State jail that was eleven miles to the west and, the prisoners who had escaped and been re-caught, much like one would tell a horror story.

Caine raised an eyebrow and looked towards Blaisdell as he was handed a box of food. The other man said, "Don't worry, we get our own back at five-thirty tomorrow when we get him up to go fishing. He's not so lively then." It was said with relish and brought a smile to the older Caine's face.

"Boy, am I hungry," Peter stated, starting to go through the box of food his father was carrying.

"You only ate an hour ago," Paul protested, pushing the young man away from the food and handing him a suitcase. "Here, make yourself useful." As Peter walked away, Blaisdell called after him, "And see to the generator after you've dropped that off."

"I'm gonna die of hunger this week.... I just know I am," moaned Peter, moving away with his burden.

"Every year we go through the 'I gonna die' speech and," Paul looked at his watch, "he lasted seven minutes longer than last year."

"He used to be the same in the temple," commented Caine.

Paul nodded, then, shaking the feeling of disquiet that had settled upon them, he offered, "Would you like to help me sort the bedding out?" At Caine's nod he went on, "This cabin belongs to a friend of mine, Jack Shepherd, but he hardly ever comes up here now." As he spoke he led the way inside.

The cabin was a fair sized building; one large room held both living room and kitchen. "We've got two bedrooms and a bathroom through that door. Jack had it modernised about five years ago. Peter was in seventh heaven the first summer we came after that." Taking the box from Caine, Paul headed towards the kitchen and began to place items in the cupboards and fridge.

Suddenly light filled the room and the fridge kicked into life. "Peter's got the old generator going, I see," Paul commented, looking up. "He only does it so he can have a warm shower." Seeing Caine's look, he finished, "Your boy loves his home comforts."

Looking about the well-furnished cabin, Kwai Chang Caine stated, "So I see."

"Okay folks," Peter said, bounding into the room, "I'm for a shower and some hot food."

"Forget it, buster. We have to go into town and let them know we're here." Paul's firm voice pulled him up short on his way to the bathroom.

Peter stopped, contemplated answering back, saw two pairs of parental eyes watching him, and decided against it. Holding up his hands in mock surrender, he queried, "I wonder if that cafe's still in Pine Lake?" Then he was gone... out of the door and waiting by the car.

Seeing Caine's look, Blaisdell assured him, "He won't be this keen at five thirty tomorrow. Getting him up is well worth the aggravation now."

"I shall look forward to it," Caine said, following the other man out to his impatient son.

***

The days passed pleasantly and Caine found that he was enjoying himself immensely. They had checked in with the local police and picked up the supplies Peter had insisted they would need that first morning.

Although Caine did not fish, he did enjoy sitting on the bank watching the other two. Peter was hopeless when it came to fishing, always insisting that they throw the fish they caught straight back. Blaisdell explained patiently to Caine that every year they went through the same ritual.

The afternoon sun was now playing across the lake on its downward slope. They had been fishing since lunch time and only Paul seemed to be having any luck, catching two fairly large fish. He was leaning over Peter's shoulder, trying to explain the virtue of tossing the fly hook far enough into the water to attract the fishes' attention.

Peter listened, a slight frown of concentration upon his face. Neither man seemed too bothered by the fact that Paul had given the same advice the day before. Caine sighed; he was at peace. He enjoyed seeing the by-play that existed between foster father and son. It was warming to know that Peter had not suffered for lack of love while they had been parted.

Paul finished his lecture and slowly headed back towards his own line. "Remember to toss it out towards that overhanging tree. You want to entice the fish, not brain it with a dunk throw."

"Right," Peter agreed. "Not brain the fish, just entice it. Jesus, I just want to catch the fish, not date it," he mumbled under his breath. He wilted under his father's look.

Blaisdell heard the words and saw the look, and it brought a smile to his lips. The last few days had been good. Peter had been edgy the first night, but had soon settled down to his usual moan at five-thirty the next morning.

Paul was just about to pass comment on the young man's fishing ability when a shot rang out. Peter yelled as he clutched at his shoulder, slipping to the ground. Caine was instantly by his side, using his own body to shield his son. Blaisdell reached instinctively for the gun that he had left back at the cabin.

"Nobody move," came the voice from the trees. Paul looked frantically over towards where Caine and his son were laying on the ground. Peter had gone still under the older man, and Blaisdell felt a moment of fear for his foster son.

Three men appeared out of the trees to their right. They were dressed in convict's clothes and one was limping badly, holding on to the third man for support. Yet it was the man in front that held Blaisdell's attention. He carried a rifle, held ready to fire. The look in his eyes warned Paul that he would accept no nonsense from them. Silently he motioned Blaisdell over towards the others.

Blaisdell gratefully moved over to Caine, who had risen slightly and was gently pulling Peter up into a sitting position. The younger man looked pale and shaky. Paul could see the gaping wound in his upper chest, the amount of blood indicating that the bullet had not gone straight through.

"Move it," demanded the rifle holding criminal. "Nice and easy," he added for good measure.

Paul reached down and he and Caine helped Peter to his feet, where he stood swaying slightly, a look of confusion upon his face. Paul knew how he felt. The attack had happened so suddenly, it left them totally open to these men and their demands.

Caine gently wiped one hand across his son's face as he urged him to move forward. Peter nodded and began to stumble towards the cabin, his father's support about his waist the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Once inside the cabin, the injured criminal was lowered roughly to the sofa while the rifleman indicated that the other convict was to search the place. At all times he kept the other three men covered. The whoop of joy from the bedroom indicated that their guns had been found. "Look at what we've got here, Brad," the man crowed, holding out the weapons as he came back into the main room.

"Give 'em here," snarled Brad, replacing the rifle with the less awkward hand guns. He weighed them a few minutes, then passed one back to the finder. "Get some rope," he snapped

"My son needs tending," Caine said, concerned by Peter's pale complexion.

"Sit him on the floor and wait, old man," snarled Brad, pointing the gun directly at the younger man. "Any moves and he gets another bullet with his name on."

"Who the hell are you?" Paul snapped, angered by the threat to his foster son. He reached to assist Caine as he gently lowered Peter to the floor, wincing at the groan of pain this action caused.

"I'm dying, Brad.... I'm dying..." wailed the inured man on the couch. He moved feebly into a sitting position, holding his injured leg for emphasis.

"Yeah, well, if you'd done as you were told Jimmy, you wouldn't have got shot," snarled Brad, never taking his eyes from the three prisoners.

"I can only find this nylon cord," said the third criminal, returning from his search of the cabin.

"Fine, get them tied up."

Caine had been kneeling, trying to slow the blood from Peter's wound. Looking up, he met Paul's glance and slowly shook his head. Now was not the time for attack. Peter was too vulnerable, the gun too steady in the other's grasp to risk his son's life.

"If you will let me tend my son, I will also help your friend with his injury," Caine said, standing up to look at Brad.

"Brad, let the china-man look at my leg, man... it's killing me.... Brad..." whined Jimmy, almost crying in his effort to gain sympathy.

The gunman snarled, then, motioning the two older men away from Peter, he moved over and squatted down beside him. Pressing the gun to his head, Brad smiled. "Deke, tie the other one up. Chinaman, you see to Jimmy. One wrong move and this guy gets to decorate the room... real personal like." Peter moved his head at the sound of the voice so close to him. Brad viciously poked the gun into his neck, causing him to gasp in pain.

Blaisdell turned and, holding out his hands, he allowed Deke to tie them, wincing as the other man tightened the cord until it was biting into his wrists, then he was shoved into a seat. He glared at Deke, who just smiled and spat a wad of tobacco at his foot before he made his way into the kitchen.

Caine moved silently across the room and bent over Jimmy, who whimpered as the taller man leant over and gently removed the rough bandage that had been wrapped tightly about the wound.

Caine shot a look toward Peter when he saw that Jimmy's wound was not nearly as bad as his son's. It was only a flesh wound; the bullet had ripped across the muscle and it had already stopped bleeding. "This is not too bad," he said gravely.

"I know I'm gonna die," wailed Jimmy, ignoring what Caine had said as he fell back upon the sofa.

"I will need my bag," continued Caine, slowly standing up.

"You stay there, Chinaman. Deke, get what he needs."

The other criminal's head snapped up and he started to snarl his refusal, but the words died on his lips under Brad's glare.

"It is a brown bag with herbs in," Caine supplied. Turning back toward the injured man, he slowly began to expose more of the leg. "I will also need hot water."

Deke made no more complaints as he got the items Caine indicated. Caine worked swiftly, cleaning and binding the wound. Finally he gave the groaning man a tea of herbs and helped him sip the burning liquid. "This will allow him to sleep and gather his strength," he explained as he finished and settled the man back.

"Fine," snapped Brad. "Deke, tie him up with the other one."

"I will now attend to my son," Caine stated calmly. Brad met his look and slowly judged the danger of pushing this man too far.

"Alright," he finally agreed, "but remember I will shoot to kill...." He let the threat hang.

Caine sighed at the continual threats. They showed a man not used to command and full of fear. He also knew that men like Brad reacted violently when afraid.

Gathering up his bag and the water, he headed over to Peter. The young man had not moved since the painful stab in the neck from Brad's gun.

"Peter?" he questioned as he knelt down beside his son.

"Pop?" came the confused, breathless answer as the younger man tried to move. He bit back a yelp of pain and lay still under his father's gentle touch.

"Don't move." As gently as he could, Caine removed the restricting part of the shirt. The wound was ugly and red, already swollen and hot to the touch. Reaching out, he rested his hand upon his son's brow, frowning at the heat he felt gathering there.

"How is he?" Paul asked, ignoring the glare this earned him from Brad who stood holding the gun pointed at him.

"It is not as bad as I first feared, although the bullet is still there," stated Caine, gently washing the blood away from the wound. As he tended his son, he was filled with pride for the dignity that Peter was displaying: he lay quiet under his care, watching him with eyes full of trust. After Caine had finished, he lifted the dark-haired head and allowed him to sip at some herb tea. "Can I have a blanket and a pillow?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Brad considered the request before nodding to Deke. "Get him what he wants."

Returning from the bedroom, Deke tossed a blanket and pillow at Caine, who caught them deftly, murmuring his thanks. He placed the pillow under Peter's head, then wrapped the shivering body firmly in the blanket. "Try to get some sleep," he advised, wiping a lock of hair from the damp forehead.

"I'll do my best," Peter replied, a weak smile slipping across his face.

Caine gently patted his face then, standing, he turned towards Brad who ordered, "Tie him up, Deke... make sure the knots are real tight."

Deke was eager to obey that command, his toothless smile indicating that he liked the role of second in command. Brad, meanwhile, moved over to Peter and, pulling the cover back, knelt down and pulled his hands together, ignoring the cry of pain this evoked, deftly tying them together. When he had finished, he reached out and tapped the other's face as Caine had done. Turning, he met Caine's glare with a smile. Standing, he pulled the cover back up and moved over to the kitchen. "Keep your gun on the young one, Deke," he said. He did not need to finish the threat.

As day turned into night, Brad and Deke continued making themselves at home. Occasionally Jimmy would groan from his place on the sofa, but the others chose to ignore him, instead drinking the beer they had discovered in the kitchen and picking at the food, before tossing the useless remains on the floor.

Paul could feel the anger burning slowly within him. He knew that the men who held them hostage were not to be taken lightly. The brutal shooting of Peter proved that Brad, at least, had no compunction about killing them. He still might, when they left.

Caine, meanwhile, spent the time in meditation, gathering his being for the battle he knew was to come. As he meditated, he flexed his muscles, slowly playing with the nylon rope until it was loose enough for him to slip one hand free if the occasion arose.

Peter felt the heat close about him, drawing upon his ability to breathe. Every breath was becoming a battle he did not feel he could win. He knew that he had been shot; He'd felt the brutal kick of a bullet before, but he had never felt the slow burning that spread about his being... yet he knew that it was due to infection. His father had done what he could, but no herbs could prevent the torn cloth that had been forced into the wound from becoming infected. As he lay gasping, he listened to the voices about him with a dreamlike quality.

"Why did they move us early?" Deke wanted to know, his voice tinged with nervousness. "I think they knew, man... they knew."

"They haven't got a clue," stated Brad, slowly pacing about the room like a tiger about to be cast back into a cage. "It was pure luck, but...it was me..." He stopped for effect. "My genius that got us away."

"I could have sworn that it was the stupidity of the guard," snapped Deke, moving into the kitchen and gathering another cold beer.

Brad spun to glare at him, but stopped before he said anything, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he turned instead to his prisoners. "Do you have a map?"

Paul's head snapped up. Brad's temper snapped and he sped forward and pushed the gun into the startled man's face. "A map, damn it, and I want it now."

"There is one in the cupboard over there by the window," supplied Caine, his voice gentle and calm.

Brad looked at him, a cold studying look that boded ill. "This your kid, then?" he suddenly asked, changing tack as he moved to stand over the restlessly sleeping Peter.

"Yes... he is my son."

Reaching out, Brad prodded the young man over onto his back. Peter groaned at the movement, but limply rolled over. "He doesn't look like you."

"Nevertheless, he is my son."

Brad slapped Peter's face, bringing the man out of his stupor. "This your old man, boy?"

"Leave him alone," Paul snapped, his voice quiet but a threat still sounding in his tone.

Brad looked at him in surprise. "And what's your connection?"

"Just leave him alone," Paul repeated, realising that he was giving Brad the anger he wanted and determined that he would give this man nothing more to use against them.

Brad was just about to comment again when Deke leapt up from the window where he had been sitting. "Someone's coming. Headlights coming this way." He looked towards Brad, panic clearly showing in his eyes.

Brad moved to the window and, lifting the curtain, hissed his anger. "Get Jimmy and the others into the bedroom." Deke jumped to obey him. Pointing his gun at Blaisdell and Caine, he motioned for them to move. Reaching down, he caught Peter under his good arm and pulled him roughly to his feet. He staggered as he was pushed towards the bedroom.

Both Paul and Caine moved to offer what support they could, but with their hands tied their help was minimal. Jimmy, meanwhile, was assisted by Deke, who literally hauled him into the bedroom and threw him upon the bed. Jimmy yelled in pain, but subsided when Deke caught him a blow about the head.

Brad followed them into the bedroom. "It's the police." he stated. Moving to Paul, he spun him around and cut the cord that bound his hands. "You talk to them. Say one word out of place and this boy gets it.... no mercy miss this time," he said, pulling Peter against him and placing the gun to his head. Feeling the body against him slipping into unconsciousness, he supported the lax form tightly against himself.

"What if they want to come in?" Paul asked, stalling for time.

"Make sure they don't," snarled Brad. "Deke, keep your eye on Chinaman." With that he pushed Paul out into the main room and dragged Peter along with him.

As they entered the living room, Peter tried feebly to twist free, but Brad was waiting for such a move and, lifting his gun, poked at the wound. Peter collapsed even further into Brad's support, gasping in pain.

The car stopped outside the cabin and they could all hear the approaching footsteps. The banging on the door seemed loud and unnatural. It stilled the actions within the room. Then, dragging Peter back, Brad hissed. "One wrong word."

Paul nodded, knowing that to act now would cause the death of his foster son. Slowly he opened the door. Before him stood the local sheriff. He forced a smile to his face and asked, "Why, Sheriff Dayton, you're out pretty late this evening, aren't you?" The words sounded hollow to his ears, but the man before him accepted them as natural.

"Yeah.... sorry to disturb you all." As he spoke, he removed his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief before running it about the brim of the hat and replacing it. "We've got some escaped convicts; damned nasty bastards nigh on ripped the throat out of one of the guards. Anyway, was wondering if you've seen anyone unusual here's about."

"We've not seen anyone," Blaisdell said, keeping all expression from his face.

Sheriff Dayton nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Well, I guess you know how to look after yourself. Anyway, if you hear or see anything...."

"I'll let you know."

The man in uniform frowned; usually Paul Blaisdell was a lot friendlier. "Had much luck fishing?" he asked, feeling a twinge of unease as he watched the man before him.

"Not bad, but you know how it is. Sometimes they bite and other times..." he shrugged, "nothing."

"Well, I guess I had better be going, I've got a few more cabins to get to tonight." As he turned away from the door, he cautioned. "I would be careful about going out alone. Brad Johnson, one of the escapees, was convicted of several murders, nasty little bastard."

"We'll be careful."

"Alright, Paul," finished the officer, moving slowly back to his car. As he reached it, he turned and waved. Blaisdell lifted his hand in return. As the car pulled away, he let out his breath.

"Nicely done," Brad said, coming up behind him.

"I didn't do it for you," Paul said as he turned to face the other man. He looked beyond the smiling face of the criminal towards his foster son, Peter, who now stood leaning against the wall near the kitchen.

"Deke get that chinaman out here and tie this one back up." Brad kept the two men under careful aim while Deke set about retying the ropes that had bound Paul.

Once that was done, he moved back over to Peter, who had not moved. His shoulder was a living mass of pain, the drink his father had given him was fast wearing off. He tried to shake off the feeling of lethargy that seemed to be sapping his strength, but stumbled as Brad shoved him towards the sofa. Gratefully he sank down into its depths.

Brad gathered up the map and sat down beside him. "How well do you know this area?" he asked, opening the map.

Peter shot him a startled, confused look. The tone was almost friendly. "Not too well," he gasped, blinking the sweat from his eyes. He shot a look towards his father and Paul who were back in their original position by the fireplace, Deke standing guard over them.

"Do you know how far away from this airstrip we are?" Brad asked, pointing to a stretch of land a few miles away. Peter had never been there, but knew it was only a few miles further down the road. A dirt track led to a one-lane runway, that in times past had been used as an airfield.

"Not really," Peter replied. "We only come up here once a year for the fishing," he added for good measure.

"You like fishing?" the other man asked, a smile of remembrance crossing his features. Peter looked at the criminal and declined to answer. Brad sighed, not really expecting an answer. "Listen boy," he said, turning Peter's face towards him. "We're going to be out of your way in a few hours, so let's just make this as pleasant as possible for all concerned, eh?"

"Yeah, right," snarled Peter, his temper fraying. "You shoot me, tie them up and threaten to blow my brains out, and then expect us to 'make this as pleasant as possible' for you."

Brad stood up, laughing. "I've got nothing against you, boy, it's just circumstances." He waved the gun about. "I want to be friends with everybody, like those girls I killed. Hell, I was just being friendly and they had to go and get snooty about it."

Peter cringed under the insane glare he saw in the other's eyes, but Brad had turned away from him and was looking at his father instead. "Now you, Chinaman, you know what it's like to be the odd one out. Me, I was always good at school, but the teachers didn't like me, they kept beating me down." He laughed again.

"I would like to check my son's dressing," Caine said quietly, "and the other boy's leg will need looking at."

Brad blinked a few times, as if pulled from the hole he was falling into. He reached up and wiped his face, then, gathering control back, he allowed, "Okay, but remember... I will have your friend covered." He moved over and squatted down beside Blaisdell.

Deke moved to one side, allowing Caine to pass him. After he was released, Caine moved to gather his medicine bag and a bowl of water. Deke followed him into the bedroom and stayed with him while he attended to Jimmy, who groaned and whimpered like a small child until finally the sedative of the herbs took him into slumber.

"He will sleep for the rest of the night," Caine said as he returned to the living room.

Slowly he approached his son. Although Peter seemed more alert, Caine could tell from the light in his eyes and his uneasy panting that he was caught within the folds of a fever. Instinctively, Peter leant into the gentle hand that was placed upon his forehead, seeking comfort from the touch.

Gently Caine cleaned and rebandaged the wound. As he knelt by Peter's side to administer the warm herbal tea, he spoke quietly, offering soothing words of comfort. After the liquid was gone, he helped Peter to lay flat upon the sofa and, moving over, picked up the blanket and pillow and arranged them gently about his son. By the time he had finished, Peter was deeply asleep. He gave a sigh, wishing there was more he could do, but the odds were too high and the weapons aimed at his son and friend too steady to chance an attack. Standing, he allowed himself to be tied up again.

***

The night passed slowly for the two older men. Blaisdell finally drifted into an uneasy sleep. Caine sat silent throughout the night, his attention divided between his softly moaning son and the two men who held them prisoner. Brad had ordered Deke to get some sleep and, after four hours, had awakened him to keep guard while he grabbed a few hours.

Kwai Chang Caine waited until silence filled the cabin. Only the gentle mumbling of his son's delirium broke the night sounds.

"Do you mind if I speak?" Caine asked Deke, his manner humble.

"Why?" asked the other man, coming to stand over the Shaolin priest.

"I wish to comfort my son. He will be reassured if he hears my voice," Caine said, asking permission from a man who usually only took orders. Deke felt the slight thrill of power and, reigning it in, nodded his head in agreement.

"As long as you keep it down."

"I will keep it down," Caine agreed with a slight smile.

Blaisdell watched the interaction between the two men and wondered what Caine was up to. As the Shaolin priest began a slow quiet chant, he felt the compulsion to listen. Looking over at Peter, he realised that what Caine had said was true; the words did seem to be soothing him, as his murmuring drifted off and sleep once again settled about him.

As Caine spoke, he began to loosen his bonds. Although he said the words to comfort his son, he kept his eyes fixed firmly upon Deke who had taken a seat by the fireplace.

The prayer was really a story of remembrance, of a priest who had lost his faith and found it again in the belief of a child. It was one that he had told Peter upon many occasions after the boy's mother had died. The rhythm was soft and compelling, the tone gentle. Like water lapping at a sandy beach, the words filled the cabin with a feeling of contentment.

As the last words were spoken, Caine slipped loose and slowly stood. Paul let out a gasp, as Deke still seemed lost in the words, his eyes fixed firmly upon the fire in the grate, not realising that Caine was free. Gently, almost wraith-like, Caine slipped across the floor, his movements slow and graceful. The air about him was not disturbed by his movement.

Upon reaching Deke, he slipped out a hand and applied pressure to his neck. The man slumped forward without a sound, his gun dipping towards the floor. Caine caught it easily and, turning, made his way just as gracefully back to Blaisdell.

He met the other's shocked expression with a slight smile. Bending down, he untied Paul's wrists and, handing him the gun, motioned towards the bedroom where Brad and Jimmy were sleeping. Blaisdell, understanding his intentions, nodded his agreement.

Caine slipped into the bedroom, the nylon rope that had bound them clasped loosely in his hands. The sound of a short struggle erupted from the room, followed closely by a howl from Brad which dwindled into a whimper, then faded into silence. Caine emerged a few minutes later, his hands no longer holding the rope. He nodded to indicate that all had gone well.

Blaisdell had not wasted his time while Caine had been occupied. He had tied up Deke, who still showed no sign of waking.

"I think it would be best if you went for the police," Caine advised, moving over to check on Peter's condition. The young man had slipped into a deep, fevered sleep, his croaking voice whispering childhood fears, causing his father to close his eyes and fight to contain his own emotions at the memories his son's words evoked.

"How did you do that?" Paul asked, still confused by the power Caine had used to overcome his bonds and his method of moving across the room, almost like the passing of a summer breeze.

"The Tao says to yield, but there are many ways of yielding and many forms of surrender."

Paul looked at him for a few seconds, then realised that he might never fully understand the man who stood before him. Shaking his head, he said, "I'll be back shortly." As he opened the door, he continued, "I'll bring back an ambulance."

Caine looked towards his son and nodded in agreement. Looking back at Paul, he said with a slight smile, "There are times when a telephone would prove useful."

Blaisdell smiled and, reaching over, gently removed a stray lock of unruly hair from his foster son's forehead. "Yeah... he told me about your discussion in that area."

As Paul headed towards the door, he turned back and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Caine spoke for him. "I know... he is a very special person." Blaisdell nodded his agreement, then, turning, left the room. A few seconds later, Caine heard the car as it drove down the small road that led to the highway.

Caine turned and checked on Peter's condition. The infection was deep, and he knew that his son would be spending the next few days in the local hospital. Sighing, he knew that Peter would not be pleased with the turn of events, but like he had told Blaisdell a short time before, there are many ways of yielding and many forms of surrender. His son had never yet surrendered to his injuries, and he was not about to let him start now. Lowering himself to the ground, he sat lotus-fashion by his son, awaiting his friend's return.

Blaisdell was back within the hour, with Sheriff Dayton in tow, to find Caine sitting in exactly that same position. The man did not move while the prisoners were escorted from the cabin, merely reaching out to soothe Peter as the noise threatened to pull him from his sleep. The gentle hand sent him drifting back into deep slumber.

Blaisdell was surprised when neither Brad, Deke or Jimmy put up much of a struggle. He had expected Brad to at least curse the Shaolin priest for his downfall. Instead, he had left the cabin like a child subdued by a scolding parent, his manner sullen but silent.

"Well," began Sheriff Dayton, coming back into the cabin after securing his prisoners in another car and sending them on their way with an armed escort. "I've arranged a little reception committee at that airfield; we should get whoever is behind the breakout." Turning to look at the injured man and his father, he informed Paul, "The paramedics are on their way." As if in answer to the sheriff's words, the sound of sirens pierced the silent night.

"I'll radio the hospital and let them know you are on your way, then." As he turned towards the door, he acknowledged, "Thanks for your help. Brad Johnson is a nasty piece of work, and this escape attempt should put him away for a few more years." He tilted his head at the men in the cabin and departed.

Blaisdell stood silent for a few minutes, letting reaction set in. He was a trained police officer, had faced many dangerous situations, but had never felt as helpless as he had that night. The threat to Peter, to his foster son's life, had been too close, the original attack so sudden, it had robbed him of his ability to react like the trained officer he was.

Caine was beside him before he realised that the man had moved. "There was nothing you could have done." The quiet voice was warm and reassuring.

"I should have reacted faster," Paul spat out, his anger suddenly coming to the fore, blinding him with its power. "Peter could have died and I would have let it happen. I was helpless; tied up and useless."

Caine reached out and gently touched Paul's arm, drawing his attention to the calm face. "To have.... reacted would have cost Peter's life. You did what any father would have done. You reacted.... to save his life. No one could ask for more."

"Would you be so generous if Peter had been killed tonight?" Paul asked, his anger now under control, but his conscience unwilling to forgive.

Caine took a deep breath and held it as he collected his own fears of the night. "I, too, was unable to act. I saw Peter's pain.... was not able to prevent it. I should have protected my son."

Blaisdell looked at the man who stood before him and felt sorrow at his words, knowing that Caine was not only thinking of the night's events, but of the destruction of the temple many years ago. Reaching out, Blaisdell said softly, "It's not easy being a father, is it?"

Caine drifted back from his own musing. "Where Peter is concerned... I never thought it would be." Finishing, he smiled and continued, "But at least he is consistent."

Blaisdell laughed along with the Shaolin and, touching him on the arm, advised, "I have to warn you, he is a terrible patient and we are going to be stuck here with him for at least another week."

Caine bowed in acceptance. "In that, he is also consistent."

THE END

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