Heart-Wrencher

Peter Caine came awake with a gasp of pure terror, straining up from the bed as he tried to flee the nightmare that tore at his memory. He looked about, confused and frightened, trying to remember where he was and what the fast fading dream had been about.

He slumped back exhausted upon the bed; his sleep had not been restful. With a sigh he raised a hand, wiping his hair from his eyes as he took a deep, steadying breath. The nightmare had been so real, so frightening, and yet now that he was awake he was unable to remember exactly what it was that had so terrified him.

With a sigh of frustration he tossed back the covers and, moving in one smooth motion, he leapt from the bed, heading towards the shower, hoping that the warm water would do wonders for his disposition. He also realised that he would not be getting any more sleep, so he might just as well go into work early. The case he was working on was leading nowhere; the three gruesome murders were beginning to cause a murmur of panic to filter through the city, and - as the case was his - the pressure from above to solve them was getting increasingly intense, so putting a few extra hours in would not do any harm.

As he finished getting dressed, he tried to recall scattered fragments from the nightmare. He was certain that it involved his father; could just grasp the whispered hint of the shocked expression upon Kwai Chang Caine's face, the horror that filled his eyes as he witnessed something that was just out of Peter's sight.

With a gasp of building terror, Peter drew back from the memory as he felt his stomach lurch and he made it to the bathroom just in time.

***

The night shift was winding down and Precinct 101 was quieter than usual as Peter slowly made his way to his cluttered desk. An elderly Chinese cleaner was slowly making his way about the untidy room with a lone broom, his efforts not making much difference. Peter watched him for a few seconds before he threw himself down in his chair, throwing his car keys onto the desk and beginning to shuffle through the scrappy pile of messages that had been left there.

"You're early," Kermit commented, coming to stand behind his friend, a worried frown filtering across his handsome features.

Peter threw him a despondent look. "Yeah... well... since when have you been on the night shift?"

The other man frowned at Peter's tone. Kermit had a legitimate reason for being there, but from the pale complexion of his friend's features, Peter was there because he was running from something.

"Troubled night?" Kermit continued, choosing to ignore Peter's words as he drew a chair out and straddled it, delivering a piercing look at the other man as he tried to push Kermit's concerns aside.

"Don't try to make something out of this that isn't there," Peter stated, not taking his eyes off the messages before him, knowing that if he looked at Kermit the other man would see the fear that still lurked at the back of his eyes.

"Peter," Kermit asked, his tone deadly serious, "if there's a problem...? I know that the case..."

"No," the younger man snapped, throwing down the messages and, standing, making to grab up his car keys. "The case is going just fine."

"Hey... I was just asking," Kermit replied, moving swiftly to stop Peter's flight.

Taking a deep breath Peter stood back, away from the smaller man, before he smiled weakly and - reaching out - grabbed the arm nearest him, saying, "It's nothing - just a few sleepless nights... I'll get over it."

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Kermit stood back, knowing that Peter needed space, before he offered, "I've had a few of those myself, you know, and I can offer some help on how to handle them."

Peter gave him a sudden burst of a smile; it was grotesque and looked forced upon the handsome features. "You mean slaying the dragons and monsters that tread within my dreams."

"Something like that," Kermit agreed with caution.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm a big boy now and quite capable of handling my own dragons, and - at the moment - my biggest monster is the nutter who's killing these woman." He pointed back toward his desk, indicating the file that held the cold snapshots of the three women who had been murdered in the past week. Their deaths had been violent and slow, until the killer had finished them by ripping out their hearts and laying them neatly beside the victims - all, that is, apart from the last woman, where the police believed the killer had been disturbed before he could remove the beating organ - and that alone was enough to give a normal human being nightmares.

"That's..." Kermit offered, holding on to his own temper, "one of the reasons why I'm here so early."

"Blaisdell put you on my case?" Peter demanded, his anger rising at the thought of his foster father taking the case away from him without his knowledge.

Kermit shook his head and, turning, he moved towards his own office, knowing that Peter had taken the bait and would follow. As he sat down at his computer terminal, he heard the door quietly close behind him. "Paul asked me to do a background check on the method of death - you know, see if it rang any bells out there in the big wide world."

"What method...?" Peter ventured in disgust. "This guy is just ripping their hearts out."

"Yes, but even that's a specialised method of killing. I mean, to break through the breast bone alone takes a certain amount of strength and knowledge of the human anatomy."

"Which you can learn at any martial arts class," Peter added in a dry tone, his thoughts once more returning to his dream. "You could even learn the basics at one of my father's classes."

"Not strictly true," Kermit stated coolly before he offered, "and your foster father's suspicion was correct - there have been other murders that carry the same MO."

"Where?" Peter asked, moving to stand over the man as his fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard that lay spread out before him.

"One in Japan approximately two years ago - it was believed to be Triad related but never proven - then two women in France last year, followed by three in England... London to be precise, one man and two women. I wanted to get in early this morning to talk to one of their officers from Scotland Yard - a Detective Inspector Logan - who was on the case. He's pretty up on computers as well... it's so nice to talk to someone who appreciates the finer art of computer technology."

"Kermit," Peter began, his voice losing some of its edge as he teased, "I realise that computer dating is a growing industry, but could we stick to the business at hand?"

"There are times when your philistine attitude belies the teaching of both your fathers." Seeing the look this earned him, he relented and continued, "All right, the guy does the early shift at Scotland Yard, hence my extremely early morning. I spoke to him yesterday and he agreed to talk to his superior, dig out their file notes on the case and download them to me, so give me a few minutes and you'll have a hardcopy to eat over your breakfast."

Peter pulled a face. "Just as long as you don't include any pictures, then," he added, remembering the photos that lay within the folder on his desk.

***

Peter barely made it to the restaurant where he had agreed to meet his father for breakfast. He had become so wrapped up in the information that Kermit had got from England that he had forgotten the time - the officer at Scotland Yard had certainly done his job well, compiling information on all of the murders. His own thoughts and suspicions, along with the trend, seemed to indicate that there would be at least another murder before the killer left the city and headed to another country to continue the murders.

"You... look... tired," Caine stated as he indicated a chair for his son to sit in. He had taken the liberty of ordering the coffee that his son liked.

Peter picked it up and swallowed a strong dose of the brew before he grimaced at the bitter taste. "Tough case," he explained, before he grabbed up the menu. "Have you ordered yet?" he asked, scanning the list before him. "I have asked for my usual," Caine answered, his tone slow and paced. He was watching his son with growing concern. Peter was almost fidgeting and casting nervous glances about the room as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. "Yeah, right, your usual." Peter shot a look at his father, before giving him a weak smile and apologising with a gentle, "Sorry."

"Are you all right?" Caine asked, almost reaching out to touch his son but letting his hand drop at the last moment.

Peter took a deep steadying breath, pushing the fears of the nightmare behind him. Seeing his father had awakened some of the memories and it coiled about his middle. With growing anxiety he knew that he would have to watch his actions about his father, as the older man missed nothing. Finally, he answered his father by asking a question that had been twisting about his mind since his conversation with Kermit, "Dad, why would someone remove the heart of their victim with their bare hands and then leave it laying beside the body... like... like some kind of trophy?"

Caine leant back in his chair and nodded slowly. "The Heart-wrencher murders?"

"We haven't told the press about the bare hands part," Peter cautioned, lowering his voice as he spoke.

"I can understand why... it would cause a certain amount of fear and panic."

"Why... why would someone... want to kill in that manner?" Peter questioned. "What does it prove? That the man's trained? Well, that's obvious by the torture he uses before he kills his victims." He pushed his coffee away in sudden anger. "Damn it, this guy's killed all over the world and no one's been able to capture him.... He's going to do his quota here and then just slip away."

"Maybe," Caine offered quietly, "you should look for the reason behind the murders, rather than the method."

"Yeah, I understand what you're saying... but... but I can't get away from the idea that the method has a lot to do with the reason." Peter reached up and rubbed at his forehead, fighting the beginning of a headache.

"The organ is never removed from the scene of the crime?" Caine asked, pausing as the waitress arrived with his order and waited while Peter gave his.

"Two of the hearts were placed beside the victims, but the last was not removed - I think that the killer was disturbed before he could... do it," Peter finished lamely. He then went on to explain what he had learned from Kermit that morning. "And it seems to be the general indication that he will commit another murder before he moves on." Caine held up his hand and cautioned, "From what you have told me, I would suspect that there will be two, maybe three more murders... not one."

Peter physically paled, a fragment of his dream slamming into his mind at his father's words. He could almost smell the blood from the victim, could hear the terrified screams as she fought for her life, and he knew that it was a battle that she was about to lose as, with a sickening thud, the woman slumped to the ground, her last sound a gurgled gasp of shock. Caine thought for one horrified moment that his son was about to pass out. "Peter," he gasped, reaching out and steadying his son.

Peter sat back, all colour drained from his sweating features as he swallowed compulsively for a few moments, desperately fighting to get the world to slip back into focus. When it did, he gave a shaky laugh, wiping a trembling hand across his sweating brow. "Guess I'm burning the candle at both ends too much."

"Are you ill?" Caine asked, resisting the urge to reach out and test his son's temperature.

"No," Peter stated firmly, waving aside his father's concern. "I'm just a bit... tired.... Maybe I'm too tied up in this case.. it just doesn't feel right... you know what I mean, Pop?"

Caine didn't bother to correct his son on his use of the word Pop, but he did consider the question his son asked. "Maybe if you are too... close... you should remove yourself from it?"

"No... no way, that's not going to happen. If I did that then this case is as good as blown - no one would be able to pick it up in time to catch the killer."

"What did you see just now?" Caine tried another track.

"What?" Peter questioned, his act of confusion not fooling his father.

"When you left me... just now... where did you go?" Caine kept his look upon his son, noting the return of colour to his cheeks as he fought to find an answer to his father's words.

Peter gave his father a disconcerted look before he answered honestly, "I've been having a nightmare," he finally confided in a shaking voice. "Ever since I saw the first victim, I keep seeing... smelling... it's like I'm there, a silent witness." He paused, gulping down the feelings that were starting to coil about his stomach. "It's like the killer is just out of my sight." He paused, searching for the words to explain the feelings that rippled through him every time he tried to remember the dream. His own personal hell.

"You said smell?" Caine enquired, his hand reaching over to rest gently on his son's. Peter turned his hand to grip his father's palm, uncaring of what the other diners might think of their actions. "It's like... like dead fish; it's almost choking me, it fills my mouth, nose.... I can't breath because of it."

"And you had a flash of this... nightmare... just now?"

"Yes, when you said about there being another murder, it was just there... in my mind." Peter squeezed his father's hand again. "You don't think I'm going a bit nuts here, dad... do you?" His tone had a slight shake to it that informed Caine that his son believed that might be the case.

"No," Kwai Chang returned sharply. "Your subconscious is trying to tell you something.... Maybe you've... seen something, but not recognised it for what it is." It was a long speech for Caine, but he could still see the terror that lurked in his son's eyes and it concerned him.

"But..." Peter began, before he changed his mind and continued instead, "I've seen you in the dream as well."

"Me?" Caine questioned. "What was I doing?"

"You..." Peter closed his eyes as he pulled the memory back towards him, using the contact with his father to push his fear aside. "You're looking over to where I cannot see.... I think you're looking at the murderer, who's just out of my sight."

"I think that perhaps you should talk to your foster father.... I will come with you," Caine offered, knowing that Peter would not willingly go and see Paul Blaisdell.

Peter opened his mouth to deny his father's words, but discovered that he was unable to do so. Instead he backed away from the confrontation, saying, "Look, dad... er, talking about this has really helped, but talking to Paul will only get me yanked off this case faster than you could throw a knife. Look, I'll give you a call later." With that he spun about and fled the diner.

"Peter..." Caine began, but the young man was beyond listening to his father and Kwai Chang Caine was wise enough to realise this. Instead he watched his son leave with a heavy heart and a determination to see Paul Blaisdell before the morning was over.

***

Peter was perplexed and disconcerted; he had gone to his father for counsel and yet he had fled from him at the first words of advice that he had offered. In a way, he felt slightly foolish. Peter was sure that his mind was playing tricks on him over the last murder; it was a nightmare and nothing more - yet, if he told Paul about his restless night, he was sure that the police officer in him would take Peter off the case without further notice, and he didn't want to be removed... he felt sure that he had something to offer the investigation.

He gave a quick glance at his watch - it was still early, and he wanted to go back and look at the last crime scene again. He knew that the woman had not been murdered in the long-abandoned and derelict apartment building where she had been found, only dumped there after her death, yet he hoped that returning there would give him some inspiration. The information supplied by Detective Inspector Logan of Scotland Yard was very compelling, giving a detailed picture of a man obsessed with proving his own power over another human being. The form of torture had grown more elaborate with each death. The length of time the victims lived before losing their heart had grown considerably from the first, almost bungled, killing in Japan.

Peter knew that if he didn't solve the crime and apprehend the killer, then the man would slay again. He let his mind drift back over the information he had gained that morning; Detective Inspector Logan truly believed that he had been within a grasp of capturing the killer. He had discovered that the murders had all been committed in an old derelict warehouse section of London, near the River Thames. It was believed that the killer had connections with the restaurant trade, as some of the knives that had been retrieved from the warehouse were very specialised and used only by professional chefs, or cooks who took their hobbies seriously. 'From the angle of some of the cuts placed upon the victims,' Peter thought, 'it could also be said that the murderer took his hobby seriously as well.'

***

The apartment was just as the police had left it, even the yellow barrier tape had not been removed - but all this proved to Peter was that the area was so derelict that there was no one about to remove it.

He gave the sky a concerned glance as he heard the distant rumble of thunder and wondered how long he had before the storm struck. Casting a quick glance back at his car he decided to continue, but shorten his visit to the site.

The door creaked as he pulled it open, the hinges long ago given up on the pretence of being used on a regular basis. Light flooded in through broken windows, and the smell was that of a building no longer inhabited by humans - only other animals that were not so particular about their living habits. The rubbish laid piled up against the bottom of the stairs and along the corridor, and Peter wondered where the mess had come from and how it managed to find its way into the building. A gust of rising wind reminded him of the coming storm and broken windows.

The stairs creaked under his weight, and once or twice he needed to grab at the handrail as he felt one of the steps give slightly. Finally he reached the second floor, where the body had been discovered. As he made his way along the corridor, he realised that 'discovered' was not really the right word; it was now obvious that the killer had led them to this spot, just like he had the last time. Peter wondered briefly what had disturbed the man, preventing him from removing the heart, and - if he had had enough time to move the body to this place - why had he not finished his task and taken the heart? Could it be that the victim had died before he could return to finish his task and that had foiled his desire to kill the young woman himself? Peter pushed that thought to the back of his mind; he really wouldn't have an answer to that question until the coroner's report came back.

Peter reached out and slowly pushed open the door. It swung inward with ease; the taped outline of the body stood out clearly amongst the litter that covered the dirty floor. It was hard to imagine that a very pretty woman had laid within its impersonal lines.

A sound behind him had Peter turning and reaching for his gun at the same time, but before he could adjust to the fact that he was not alone in the room, the gun was kicked from his hand. He fell into a fighting stance and blows were traded fast and furious, but it was to no avail - a punch was delivered to his sternum, which was swiftly followed by a kick to the head as he bent over to catch his breath. He never saw the blow coming, nor felt his body hit the floor, his own sprawled torso lying splayed across the lines that depicted the positioning of the murder victim.

***

Kwai Chang Caine paused as he entered the busy confines of Precinct 101. It was a hive of activity; the front desk was surrounded by a small body of people who were arguing, even as they tried to put over their complaints to the officer standing behind the wooden barrier. He saw Caine and gave a little wave of acknowledgement. The older man smiled slightly and, nodding his head, made his way past the commotion, heading towards his son's area of the police station.

As he entered the detectives' room, he knew that something was amiss and instantly regretted that he had not been able to visit the station earlier, but he had been stopped by a young woman upon leaving the diner and asked to attend her grandmother, who had fallen that morning and hurt her arm. It was a request that Caine had been unable to refuse, and he had spent the next several hours mixing the herbs that would bring the old woman relief from her pain. It was now well past lunch time.

He saw Paul Blaisdell standing beside his son's desk, a worried frown creasing his handsome features. A dark-haired man stood by his side, dark sunglasses firmly in place; Caine knew that this was the person called Kermit. Caine was almost upon them before they saw him, and Paul's face slipped into a shocked expression before it cleared and became a stone wall, letting nothing slip through.

"Where is my son?" Caine asked, knowing that only some mishap befalling his son could have caused Blaisdell to show such concern and worry to those around him.

"Did you see Peter today?" Paul asked, his tone strained.

"I met him for breakfast," Caine offered, then waited patiently while the other two men digested this.

Paul looked up swiftly and saw that they were attracting a fair amount of attention. Turning, he said, "Let's move this to the office."

Caine followed and noticed that Kermit did the same, closing the door quietly after him.

Paul reached his desk and, turning, said calmly, "Peter's been taken."

"Taken?" Caine repeated. "By whom?"

"That's what we're not too sure about... but I've got an uneasy gut feeling about it," Paul finished, reaching up and rubbing at his tired eyes.

"Peter's been working on a very tough case..." Kermit began, but Caine interrupted.

"The Heart-wrencher killings," Caine offered, using the term that the papers had started to give to the murderer.

"Yes," Paul agreed, "but what you might not know is that we've been getting calls from the murderer - after each killing, he's called in and told us the location of the victim." He paused, looking down at his desk as if the next words he had to say were the hardest he'd ever had to speak. "He called in about twenty minutes ago.... He said that he has Peter and we have until eight tonight to find him, otherwise his next phone call will be to tell us where to find his body."

"Were you able to trace the call?" Even as he asked the question, Caine knew that they had not been able to, otherwise they would not have been standing before him.

"Wait a minute," Kermit suddenly said. "If Peter's mobile is turned on, we might be able to home in on that and at least get a general location." Even as he spoke, he was moving from the room.

"I'm sorry," Paul said hesitantly to Caine after Kermit had left the office.

"It is not your fault; our son has chosen his own path to walk, and I watch him with pride," Caine stated before the man could continue his apology. "We have no real clues," Paul confided, slumping down in his chair as the reality of his foster son's danger struck him.

"We might have one lead - or, if Kermit..." he paused, trying the name for the first time before he continued, "is correct about Peter's phone, then we have two clues."

"What do you mean?" Blaisdell asked in some confusion.

"When my son visited me this morning, he told me about the nightmare he's been having."

"Nightmare?" Kermit asked as he moved back into the room. "I knew there was something wrong this morning, but he was pretty clammed up about it." Then he added, "I've put the tracer on, but it's going to take a while."

"Kwai Chang was just telling me about a clue he seems to think he might have." As he spoke, he gave Caine an intense, questioning look.

Caine gave both men a calm look before he continued, "In his nightmare, Peter saw a woman being murdered, but never the killer's face... yet he could see that it was an abandoned warehouse and got an overwhelming smell of dead fish."

The expression on Paul's face turned from hopeful expectation to a hardened glare. "You're telling me that your clue to our son is a nightmare that he's had?"

"The mind and body often disagree in the form of a nightmare," Caine explained patiently. "I believe that Peter's subconscious is trying to tell him something in the form of his nightmare."

"That's hardly going to help us in finding him before the deadline, now is it?" Blaisdell snapped, before taking a deep breath and continuing in a more rational tone, "I've got every cop in the city out looking for Peter, but the chances of finding him are slim to none. I've got to phone my wife and tell her I'll be late home tonight because I'm trying to find our son before he gets his heart ripped out by a maniac, and you're telling me to go look in an old warehouse that smells of fish." He finished abruptly and spent the next few seconds reining in his anger again.

"As yet we have nowhere else to look, so - if we have nowhere to look - at least this gives us somewhere to start," Caine advised gently, knowing that Paul was fighting against his fear for his foster son's life.

"The site of the British killings was an old warehouse down by the River Thames - that might fall in with Caine's theory."

"So Peter knew about that and dreamed about the warehouse last night," Blaisdell stated in disgust.

"No," Kermit shot back. "We didn't get that information until this morning. There was no way Peter could have known."

This gave the older police officer pause and a slight flicker of hope rekindled in his eyes. "I'll get some units into that area."

"No," Caine interrupted, his own tone sharp for once, causing Paul to pause, his hand halfway to the phone. After taking a steadying breath, Caine explained, "If you do that, the killer will surely hear them and kill Peter and disappear. Let me go and look first; we have seven hours - give me three before you call in your men."

"It's a pretty big area," Paul advised, indecision clearly showing upon his features.

"But he does have a point, Paul," Kermit advised in his own quiet tone. "And," he added, "I could go with him - it's a big area, but we should be able to cover it in three hours."

"It might not even be the right place.... There are warehouses all over the city, and most of them are derelict," Paul argued.

"Most of the fishing warehouses are down on the south side, that's where the ships used to come in," Kermit stated with confidence.

The door to Blaisdell's office opened and a uniformed officer stuck his head in, saying, "The coroners report on the last victim, sir." He handed the captain a large brown envelope and departed.

Blaisdell pulled the report from its packaging and scanned the pages. Slowly he let his eyes rise towards those of Caine before stating in a quiet tone, "They found fish scales in the hair of the last victim." The implications of his words slowly sunk in to the other two men; Caine was accepting of the fact that his son had dreamed of the event, while Kermit was shocked that his young friend might have latent psychic abilities. "You've got three hours, gentlemen, then I'm pulling out all the stops and flooding that area with every available police officer I've got."

Kermit nodded and, without a word, turned towards the door - every moment lost was a moment wasted. Caine paused as he left the office and, turning back, he stated confidently, "We will find our son."

"How can you be so sure?" Blaisdell asked - his tone still held lingering doubt.

"Peter is not the only one who dreams."

***

Peter knew pain. There was nothing in his whole world except the searing agony of his stomach and the throbbing of his arms that were suspended above his head. His feet barely touched the floor, and he had to keep shifting his position to prevent his arms from being ripped from their sockets, which in turn caused his wrists to chafe against the shackles that held him. The room was in total darkness. Not a sliver of light managed to creep into the chamber, and this seemed to affect him more than the injuries that he had sustained.

He had climbed to consciousness in his present condition. The pain in his stomach he could only put down to being constantly and forcibly kicked while he was unconscious, not realising that he had actually been cut several times with a very sharp knife, and that the sweat that dripped down his chest and stomach was actually seeping blood. He was sure that a rib or two was either cracked or broken by the way his breathing ripped through him and turned every movement into sheer agony that would leave him gasping and dizzy, and sick with the spinning knowledge that he was about to slip into unconsciousness. After two hours, he found himself wanting to do so - if only to get away from the pain for a short while. The only problem was that it was only for a short time, then he would once again awaken to the total disorientation of a darkened room and the constant pain. He lifted his head as he heard a noise outside. Suddenly light flooded in and he was forced to close his eyes as the pain of the unexpected glare split his vision, causing tears to seep out from behind his closed lids.

"You are comfortable in my little abode?" a quiet, even tone asked. The voice had a twang of Oriental to it, and Peter fought to keep his eyes open as he caught sight of his kidnapper for the first time. What struck him most was the size of the man: he was no taller than Peter's own shoulder, yet his upper body seemed to be a block of solid muscle, the arms almost out of proportion to the rest of his body. He was nearly bald and bore the signs of a wispy moustache that draped down either side of his mouth, giving him an almost comical look, which was shattered once you saw the depth and darkness of the man's small, almond-shaped eyes. They were cold, calculating... giving a strong impression of a bad-tempered snake willing someone to tread within its path.

Peter took this all in within seconds of seeing the man; at the same time he recognised him. "You're the cleaner... who started at the station... a few days ago," he finished weakly, as he remembered the conversation that he had had with Kermit in front of the man that morning.

"You are truly a detective," the man commented about a cruel smile.

"You killed those women," Peter stated with growing certainty. The man just inclined his head, so the injured man continued, "Why?"

The killer considered the question for a few seconds before answering logically, "Because I could."

Peter was forced to move and gasped in agony as his arms were once more strained beyond their normal endurance, and tiny ripples of pain flared across his chess. He glanced down at his body and swallowed his shock to see the small rips that lay like tiny channels across his chest, his actions causing them to tear open again and begin to bleed once more. He's entire body was slick with blood, which soaked into his trousers causing him to feel instantly sick.

The killer's eyes flared with intense interest, and licking at his lips with sudden anticipation as he witnessed the other's suffering. "Are you.. in pain... thirsty?" he questioned, moving closer to better see the face of the man chained to the wall.

Peter gasped through his pain and cast a bitter look down at the smaller man. "What do you think?" he snarled, unwilling to give this man an ounce of his suffering to pleasure himself.

The killer nodded slowly, replying with cold certainty, "I know... I know the thirst that slowly creeps up the throat. The desire to drink will overcome all other emotions, until you are willing to sell your soul for one sip."

"You'll die of old age waiting for that to happen scumbag," Peter spat at him, but his anger wilted as the pain once more ripped into his brutalised being.

"The women only lasted a few hours - eighteen was the longest - but you..." he paused as he reached out and slowly ran a gentle finger down Peter's cheek towards his chin. The action was so reminiscent of Kwai Chang Caine's own actions that it caused Peter to close his eyes again and swallow down the welling fear and loss. "You," the killer continued, "you've strength. I know about your father, your teachings... it will make you a worthy opponent."

"I'm not my father," Peter gritted out from behind clenched teeth.

"No... you're not," the killer agreed before he changed track. "Do you know that they are looking for you?"

This brought Peter's glance up again as the killer began to slowly pace about the small room, which the captive now recognised as an old industrial frozen meat locker. He began to note his surroundings with the light that now flooded into the room. "Who?"

"Your fathers...." Seeing the look this earned him, he smiled before saying, "I told them that I had you... it will make the hunt so much easier, don't you think?"

"You're mad," Peter hissed, his energy fast-fading, but his determination not to let the other man know this was almost as great as the pain he was feeling.

"You've only just worked that out. I've killed twenty-four people..." Seeing the startled look that Peter threw at him, the killer smiled and added, "You didn't know it was that many; well, you're going to be my final victim." Again he paused in front of his captive and patted his face. "That makes you special to me, and I want your suffering and death to be equally as special." As he spoke, he seemed to come to a decision. Moving back toward a bag that Peter had not seen before, he dug deep into its depths and pulled out a syringe full of a clear liquid. Without preamble, he injected the contents into Peter's exposed arm. A coldness seemed to filter up from Peter's arm, slowly slipping along the vein; behind it came a tingling sensation that slipped up along his shoulder to his neck, then it exploded through his whole body. He began to violently shake and realised with a detached feeling that he had been released from his bonds and now lay flat upon the floor. His jailer was watching him, noting every twitch and each convulsion as it played across his body. "I made this concoction myself," the killer confided, his voice slow and disjointed, but Peter knew that it was from the drug and not the speed at which the other man was speaking.

"Drop dead," Peter mumbled, his energy now totally spent. He wanted to fight the man, desperately needed to continue the verbal battle, but he could not keep his eyes open.

As he slipped into a welcoming darkness, he heard the killer confide, "No... that's your role in this game... eventually."

***

The weather had turned colder as the afternoon progressed. Kermit threw a questioning glance at the man who walked so steadily beside him. Kwai Chang Caine had been constantly moving from one old warehouse to the next, taking only a few minutes to search each abandoned factory before moving on. It was almost like he was searching with his soul, rather than his senses. Kermit had seen this done before, in the war; a few men were able to survive in the thick jungle by using their knowledge and ability to discern the surrounding area for any form of life, hostile or otherwise.

For once Kermit felt like a loose end as he faithfully followed the older man as he trod the pathways from one building to the other. He glanced once more at his watch, knowing that half their time had now been used and soon Captain Blaisdell would be flooding the area with his own personnel... and he knew, like Caine, that it would spell the end of Peter Caine if they had not found him before then.

Caine stopped and slowly turned in a circle, saying, "He is near... I can feel him."

"Where?" Kermit asked before he could stop himself. As he spoke, he slowly glanced at the buildings around them, as if expecting to see Peter suddenly appear, knowing deep in his heart that he would give up wearing his glasses for a month if only the younger man would.

"Not here... but close." With that, Caine turned and began to retrace his steps, then he moved down one of the narrow alleyways that riddled the area. Kermit sucked in a breath of annoyance and hurried after the man.

***

The drug was still seeping sluggishly about his system, but Peter was now able to think more rationally. Slowly he shuffled himself over towards the wall and leant against it. The killer had moved a small table, chair and light into the room and pulled the door closed behind him. His whole attitude informed Peter that he didn't consider him a threat, so he no longer had the need to restrain him.

"They're going to find you," Peter finally said, needing to break the silence, his voice still carrying signs of the drug, the words hard to form.

"Not before you die," the killer replied matter-of-factly.

"Is this just about killing?"

The man sitting upon the chair considered his words before he smiled and answered, "No... it's more about the fact that I can do it, and - more importantly - get away with it."

"But why... why kill all those people?" Peter was honestly at a loss to understand what motivated a person to take so many lives so coldly.

"They were weak, unfit to survive in the world... I did them a favour, really."

"Like you're going to do me?" Peter snapped, glaring at the man who reached up and picked a mote of fluff from his jacket, his whole being radiating boredom.

"You're weak, Peter, that's why you're going to die... not because I'm stronger than you, but because you're going to allow me to kill you...." He leant forward, suddenly eager to explain his reason to his next victim. "I could never have taken a single heart if they had been worthy of keeping it."

"My God," Peter gasped as he looked into the realisation of truth that he saw in the other's face. "You actually believe that."

The killer sat back and wiped his hair from his face. "You are seriously starting to disappoint me, Peter.... I thought you would prove to be more worthy of me... but you're no different than they were."

"Why the drug, why not just torture me and kill me like you did the others?"

"Why not the drug? It gave me time to consider my options and pass the time of day... a day you'll never see the end of, by the way...." Before Peter could ask the question, the killer continued, "I've given them until eight to find you... even now your father is looking for you.. outside these very walls, his very good you know. Poor, poor daddy dearest - he lost you once, and now he's going to lose you again."

"I'm not dead yet," Peter snapped with returning life.

"That's it... fight me.... fight me boy... Only by fighting will you be able to survive a while longer." Suddenly the killer stood and stretched, finishing, "I'm going to leave you for a while... I've a few things to get ready before your... but, no... that would be telling." As he opened the door, he offered, "I'd take this time to rest up if I were you... gather your strength.... You're going to need it."

As the door closed, Peter wanted to curl up and allow the constant pain to wash over him and lose himself in the darkness that was beckoning. Yet he knew that the killer was right: he had to fight to survive. He also knew that the man was setting some kind of trap and that he, Peter Caine, was the bait - and that meant that there could only be one of two animals that he wanted to snare.

With a determined effort, Peter pushed himself up onto his knees and began to use long-ago forgotten techniques to push the agony away. He drew upon an inner strength that he had not used since the destruction of the temple and the knowledge that his father was dead. As the minutes passed, so did the pain, buried under layers and layers of training. Slowly he opened his eyes and felt his body grow accustomed to his surroundings as he reached out and began to attune himself to his position and his ability to fight the man who wanted his father dead.

***

As Caine turned the corner, he knew with certainty that he was being led. The clues were faint and hardly discernible, but they were clear enough for him to follow. The police officer named Kermit walked by his side and Caine noted that his stance had become suddenly more wary; the Shaolin priest realised that he, too, was acting out of instinct rather than certain knowledge.

"I not sure," Kermit began, "but I think that we could be following a trail here." As he spoke, he pointed towards a building further down the line.

Caine reached out his hand and gently lowered the other man's pointing finger, replying, "I know." He too had seen the bright red scarf that lay twisted upon the ground by a door that was slightly ajar, and he knew that it was his son's; had seen him wear it many times. He gave the surrounding area another glance before he added, "It might be wise to alert Captain Blaisdell of our position."

"It could be a trap," Kermit stated, glancing towards the open door, not wanting to leave the other man alone but knowing that the tall building would prevent his mobile phone from working.

"We do not have much time." Caine smiled gently at the younger man at his side before he continued, "And I'm sure that I will be able to look after myself until you return."

Kermit knew that the Shaolin priest was making fun of him but, instead of annoying him, it gave him hope to believe that they would find his friend alive. "You'd better leave me a trail that I could find blindfolded, otherwise Blaisdell is never going to forgive me."

"Go," Caine stated, giving Kermit a gentle shove as he finished, "you will find us, do not fear." Kwai Chang watched until the other was out of sight, then turning he determinedly headed towards the open door. His step was firm but cautious.

The warehouse was dark; the light from the windows was dimmed by the years of dirt that had grown upon the panes, giving the place an almost surreal feeling. The smell of fish was strong and Caine paused, knowing that his son was near. "Where is my son?" he asked in a strong voice. It echoed and vibrated about the large warehouse.

Silence was his answer and he continued to tread his way further into the building, his eyes taking in very mote of dust and flicker of light that played about the edges of his vision. He knew that someone was waiting in the darkness and yet he was unable to make out their form, so he made no effort to spy them. Instead, he continued to walk towards the distant wall that cut the building in half.

As he slipped into the other half of the warehouse, he saw a large cold storage room in the furthest corner and knew instinctively that this was where Peter was being held. He also knew that the path towards it would be the hardest to walk. So instead he stopped and, lowering himself to the ground, he sat and let himself fall into a light trance, knowing that the murderer was aware that Kermit had gone for help and that time was now against him.

"Your son is seriously injured; the loss of blood growing with every passing second," a voice whispered out of the shadows.

"Yet he is not dead," Caine answered evenly.

"Death is a frame of mind, and he's slowly slipping towards the abyss."

"No," Caine retorted with certainty. "I would know it here," he continued as he pointed at his heart.

"Yes," came the hiss, "but the heart is such a fickle thing, don't you think? After all, it told you once that your son was dead and you believed it then."

"No," Caine reaffirmed. "A friend told me my son was dead and I believed him."

"What shall we do, Kwai Chang Caine? Shall we wait for the police to arrive, at which time I will disappear forever and your son will most certainly die. Or will you fight me here and now, then we'll see who is the greatest hunter."

"I am not a hunter," Caine said, his tone underlined with puzzlement. "I merely seek my son."

"And to save him you must go through me." The tone was final, the period for talking coming to an end.

"I will do whatever is necessary to save my son," Caine finally admitted.

"Good, then it is only right that he should watch the way his father dies protecting him." As the other man spoke, the cold storage door swung open and Peter appeared. He had been strapped to a chair, positioned just inside the door so that when it opened he could clearly be seen. The open wounds were eminently visible to the Shaolin priest. Caine was shocked at his son's appearance. He was deathly pale, which played shockingly against the bright red blood that soaked his person; the sight reminiscence of a horror movie. Yet he was conscious and clearly able to understand the game that was being played out before his eyes, and Caine realised that Peter was fearful of his father's safety.

The older Caine gave his son an encouraging smile, which faltered when he saw the hopelessness which was reflected back at him and knew that the killer had not spoken falsely: Peter was, indeed, slipping into the abyss of his own death. "You demand to fight," Caine suddenly called, his anger rising as he slowly turned his look away from that of his son, "and yet you do not show yourself."

"I am here," a voice spoke to his left and, turning, Caine saw the man who had killed so many for pleasure.

"You know that I am a Shaolin master," Caine stated, obliged to inform this man of his ability.

The killer smiled and replied, "And I am a master at my own trade... as you can bear witness to," he continued, motioning towards Peter.

Caine was not going to allow himself to be distracted; instead he fell into his fighting stance. The sooner this battle was fought, the sooner he could get his son to safety and a hospital.

***

Peter blinked as the door before him opened and light once more flooded in. After blinking a few times, he was able to see his father standing across the room. It was the one thing he had been dreading and it caused him to despair. He had spent the time trying to recover his strength, only to have it ripped away again once the killer had returned. The man had laughed hysterically at his feeble efforts to fight him, tossing him easily across the room as he attacked, leaving him stunned and unable to defend himself as the man leant in once more and sliced at his body with his specially-prepared knife. The pain of each new wound hardly registered in the seething mass of his other injuries, and yet the new blood seemed to cause the killer immense pleasure, until finally he seemed satisfied with his handiwork and dragged Peter over to a chair, tying him firmly to it. There he had sat, positioned just inside the room, facing the door.

Now Peter knew why he had been hurt again; it was to have the effect of making his father angry, and - looking at the raw energy that bristled off Kwai Chang Caine - he could sense that it had worked. "Don't let him cloud your power, Dad," he cried out, struggling against his bonds, knowing that he had loosened them considerably since he had been tied.

The fight before him began; it was played almost in slow motion as each man tested the strengths and weaknesses of the other. It was apparent that the killer was a master in his own right, his motions powerful and fluid; each kick, punch and spin was precisely timed and executed.

Yet, Caine was able to block each move, parry each thrust and turn aside every kick, slipping easily into his dance of defence, knowing that time was against the killer. If he could keep the man occupied, then Kermit would return soon with assistance.

The killer slipped out of range once more before he paused and stood for a few seconds, gauging the other man who stood loosely before him. "You are toying with me... perhaps you hope to delay me..."

Before he could continue, Caine broke in quietly, "You have stated that you are able to defeat me... that you are a great hunter... and yet you dance about... unable to strike the killing blow." Caine had timed his tone and his words and saw the barb hit home.

The killer stiffened, anger coursing through his body as he flicked a quick glance towards the bound man. "Your son is about to demonstrate my ability to kill in one attack." As he spoke, he lunged towards Peter. Caine reacted with lightning speed, but even as he did so he realised that the killer had been positioning himself for this attack and would reach his son before he could prevent him. With an energy born of desperation, Caine launched himself across the room, his body becoming one with the air which flowed about him.

Peter, meanwhile, had realised the intention of the killer at the same time as his father and gritted his teeth as he fought against the last of his bonds. Suddenly they snapped and he was moving out of the chair, away from the deadly attack. The killer compensated for his victim's change of location, but Peter was swinging about to defend himself. It was purely a defensive action, and he gasped as the blow caught him across the shoulder and slipped along the front of his chest, throwing him backwards against the wall of the cold storage room.

Before the killer could draw back his arm to strike again, Caine was upon him. He let the anger at the threat to his son flow from his being, knowing that the man before him could use it against him if he tried to harness it. Instead he pulled himself back and let the flow of power course down his arm to the heel of his palm. The impact caught the killer just below his heart; his eyes widening in shock and fear as he recognised the technique he had used to kill his victims, but instead of the heel of the palm he had used the tips of his fingers to penetrate the chest cavity. Yet, Caine's blow was not intended to kill, merely to incapacitate the other man - which it effectively did, causing him to slump to the ground, gasping for breath as his heart recoiled from the shock of impact.

Even as the man fell, the sound of footsteps running reached Caine's ears and, turning, he witnessed the arrival of Captain Blaisdell, closely followed by Kermit and a squad of police officers. Caine ignored their entrance, heading instead towards his fallen son.

Paul came to a halt, taking in the scene before him, waving his men toward the fallen killer, totally disinterested in the man now that he saw that he was no longer a threat to anyone. Instead he headed forward, intent only on his foster son who was feebly struggling under his father's knowledgeable hands. "You must lie still," Caine was firmly advising Peter as he gently pushed him back down, his own coat now a pillow under the younger man's head.

"Kermit, get an ambulance... now," Blaisdell ordered, shocked at the criss cross of wounds that were woven across Peter's chest, most of them still oozing blood. He squatted down beside his injured foster son. "I know I told you to get a hold on the case, Peter," he said more light-heartedly than he felt, "but I didn't imagine that the killer would get a hold on you."

"I'm sorry, Paul..." Peter began, remorse filling every ounce of his tone.

Once more he tried to rise, only to have Paul reach out a hand and copy Caine's actions of a few moments before, saying, "Don't you dare move, young man. Your mother's going to have my hide as it is, and the sooner you're back on your feet, the easier she'll be on me - so you just concentrate on getting better."

"Mum'll never give you a hard time..." Peter smiled up at his foster father as he added, his tone starting to slur once more as reaction set in, "You're the captain." As he finished he closed his eyes, letting a hand fall onto that of his father as he mumbled, "I'm really tired, I think I'll just...." He never finished what he was saying as exhaustion overtook him and he slipped into its welcoming depths.

"Peter!!" Blaisdell began, fear tingeing his tone.

Caine reacted to the concern, saying, "He is only sleeping... he is weak, but he will recover."

"Lord, I hope so," Paul stated. "Sometimes I just can't believe the trouble that lad gets himself into."

Caine gave the other man a warm smile and agreed, "He has always had the, er... knack of getting himself into troublesome situations."

Paul nodded; only a father could understand the anguish of concern that Caine was voicing behind his casual comment.

"Captain," Kermit said, moving from the handcuffed prisoner who was still unconscious over to the other men. "How's Peter?"

"He will be fine," Caine answered.

The dark-haired police officer accepted his words without question before he continued, "The killer..." Kermit pointed to the man in question. "He's been at the police station the last few days... in fact, I saw him there this morning when Peter came in."

"At the 101?" Blaisdell asked, shocked at the implications.

"He's been cleaning the place and, come to think of it, he was hanging about Peter's desk yesterday... but knowing the state of Peter's desk, I just assumed - as the cleaner - he was just itching to get the damn thing tidy."

"That would account for many things," Caine said in an even tone.

"What do you mean?" Blaisdell asked.

"Peter's nightmares and psychic ability might not have been so psychic... more induced," Caine stated.

"How?"

Caine considered the question as he watched his sleeping son, then answered slowly, choosing his words with care, "There are herbal potions that could be used to make a person more susceptible to suggestion... and Peter did mention that he was sick after having these nightmares."

"But why...? If the killer wanted him dead, he could have just killed him. Why all the song and dance?" Paul asked, totally at a loss to understand the killer's motives.

"He was only interested in the hunt and the kill, and Peter..." again a gentle hand was placed upon the forehead to wipe back the stray lock of hair, "he was only the bait."

"Yeah... well," Kermit commented dryly, "I doubt that the killer realised that he was yanking the tail of a dragon and an old wolf when he staked out that little lamb."

Blaisdell, now that he knew that Peter was safe, was prepared to be magnanimous - but there was a limit, so he snapped, "Not so much of the old."

"Hey, no offence," Kermit placated. "After all... I'm only a frog," he finished with a sweet smile as the sound of the ambulance arriving ended any further conversation.

THE END

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