Inconsolable

Part 5

Caine stopped before a set of thick double doors. He touched his fingertips to the metal and closed his eyes.

Paul waited a moment, watching the priest. Caine was very still, and it didn't look like he was going to move any time soon, so Paul waved over two officers and motioned for them to break in the door.

"Wait." Caine held up a hand.

"Are they in there?"

Caine turned to Paul and Mary Margaret, registered the tension in their eyes. "I sense much grief...and much pain," he said.

"Peter?" Paul wished to God Caine could just once speak at a normal speed. His own mind was racing, and Caine's deliberate pace only added more fuel to his growing anxiety.

"The killer is with him," Caine said, letting his palm press against the door. He closed his eyes again and let his hand slide slowly down the surface of the door. "They are both overwhelmed and confused. We must hurry. Both their lives are in great danger."

According to the map, the room beyond the double doors also opened out onto the parking lot on the west, and another corridor to the north. Paul held the mouthpiece close to his lips and ordered Fisk and Roberts into position. He glanced at his officers, then at Mary Margaret, who drew her gun and nodded her readiness. Then he turned back to Kwai Chang Caine.

"All right. On my signal. Three...two...one..."

Bradley watched Peter's head drop forward. He scooted closer to the cop, and the cage swung slightly. His handkerchief was soaked through and dark reddish black, so he pressed against the cloth with his fingers, trying to stop the incessant bleeding. He cringed sympathetically when Peter flinched at his touch. All the Thompsons together hadn't had this much blood! Or maybe he just hadn't stayed long enough to find out.

"Pete?"

He didn't answer.

Bradley brought both hands up to Peter's cheeks, and his fingertips smeared blood over the cop's face. He froze for a moment. Then his hands started to shake.

"I'm sorry, Detective Caine," Bradley whispered, wiping bloody thumbprints away from Peter's cheeks as if the prints were tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Come on. Stand up, and I'll get us down from here. Can you stand?"

Bradley hauled Peter to his feet, and the cage started to swing more violently. With everything else going on, that was all Peter needed. He thought he was going to be sick. Bradley propped him against the corner of the cage, then went over to the gate and pulled out a metal peg that was keeping the gate locked.

"Now, remember what I told you, right?" Bradley said with a hand on Peter's chest, hoping the cop wasn't going to pitch forward. Although he thought Peter could probably stand on his own, Bradley was for some reason afraid to let go of him. "You got your gun back, but I don't want you to shoot."

"I won't shoot you," Peter insisted, slowly running a shaky, bloody hand through his hair. The anticipation of finally being on solid ground again made him feel a little stronger than he had a few moments before. "You know where I stand."

Bradley turned to face Peter and put his other hand on Peter's shoulder. He looked into the detective's eyes, searching for something. But it wasn't there, and Bradley suddenly regretted what he'd said about another day, another time. Peter Caine would never have strayed down Bradley's path. Bradley knew this now, and it scared the shit out of him. Somehow, sometime, he'd gone terribly wrong. He'd wrecked something, and he was going to pay for it.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. His voice lost its urgency, and now he simply sounded tired and resigned. "I followed him home, Detective Caine. I went there for weeks, just watching to see when he left for work, when his family went out, when they all came back. I knew when they ate dinner, when they got the mail. I knew that at 8 o'clock they liked to sit in the family room and watch TV.

"Finally, I...I got angry. I mean, all this stuff was going on without me. You think he ever told his wife or those kids about me? You think he ever wondered what happened to me, what I was doing with my life, whether or not I had a family of my own? He left me. And he wasn't coming back, and I guess I just couldn't forgive him for that. I couldn't let it go.

"So one day I skipped work, and I took my gun over to the Thompsons' apartment. I knocked on the door, and he let me in, and you know what? I think he recognized me. But he didn't say anything. He just asked what I was selling. He said could I make it quick, because it was his son's birthday, and they were in the middle of celebrating.

"And that's when they all died, Detective Caine. I did that to them, and I did this to me. It's my fault I'm alone now. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, wouldn't you?" He smiled briefly and shook his head. "But you never get used to that. And it's my own fucking fault this is happening.

"Now you tell me," Bradley said, shaking his companion harshly, his voice suddenly hard and angry. "Could you forgive me for that, Detective Caine? Is that forgivable? You sure all you need is justice and retribution?" His hands were still clutching Peter's shoulders, and he pulled the cop close, so that his lips were right next to Peter's ear. "You saw what I did to them. Pretty gruesome, huh? Well, listen." He clamped a hand over Peter's mouth and shoved Peter's head back against the chainlink. "Do you hear it?"

Bradley waited a moment, and when Peter didn't answer, he grasped a wad of Peter's shirt in his other hand. "Do you?" he demanded. "It's that little kid! Just before I shot him, he yelled out, 'Father!' in this sorry little ten-year-old voice. And he was talking to *my* father, Detective Caine. Do you think if I ever called that out, that any fucking one would come to me? You ever tried it, Pete? Who ever comes when an orphan calls out 'Father?' Nobody, Detective. Nobody. Never.

"Well, I tell you, that's unforgivable! There's no consolation for that kind of fucking madness. And for that, Detective Caine, *I* want revenge. Yes, I put my hands in that little kid's blood." Bradley shook his head knowingly. "Just like right now you want to put yours in mine." He let go and stepped back, setting the cage rocking again. He lifted his arms from his sides, presenting himself as an open target. "Well, go ahead, Detective. You've got your gun back. And I know where you *really* stand, you son of a bitch, hypocrite cop. Go ahead and take your revenge. I did. I mean, Thompson and his family lying there...now that is justice," he said, thrusting a finger out towards Peter's chest. "And Pete, my friend, that is revenge!"

Bradley's last word echoed through the room and chilled Peter's blood.

Then everything was quiet except for the low rumble of the generator, and the creaking of the cords connecting the cage to the rafters as they swung back and forth.

Cold light from the broken window streamed across Peter's face, casting a pale yellow glow onto his blood-stained cheeks. His knees started to buckle; he'd had absolutely enough.

"You're wrong," Peter declared sadly, clutching the cage wall for support. His voice was so focused and steady that it carried across the empty room, into the cold walls, and up through the dingy windows. "Sometimes you have to wait a very long time. But if you call with enough conviction, someone *will* hear you. And they will come."

"Now!"

Suddenly, three sets of doors crashed open, spilling armed officers and thick streamers of light into the room. Bradley grabbed abruptly onto the front of Peter's shirt and flung him roughly towards the unlocked gate. Instinctively, Peter grasped onto the fence with both hands, sending Bradley off balance. The gate flew open, and as Bradley felt himself start to fall, he reached out and found Peter's wrist, wrenching the cop hard to the cage floor.

"Peter!" somebody yelled. One of his fathers.

"Don't shoot him!" Peter cried out breathlessly.

Bradley was still holding onto him, dangling forty feet off the cruel cement floor. Peter wrapped his hand around Bradley's wrist and held fast, his body pinned painfully against the fence. The whole cage tilted and dipped toward the men's combined weight.

"He has to get a fair trial." Desperation and complete exhaustion made Peter's voice break. "I promised him he wouldn't die here, Paul."

Nobody said anything. As a matter of fact, Peter couldn't even hear himself breathing anymore. He turned his head as far as he could and looked down through the fencing at Bradley.

He was such an unremarkable-looking person. Maybe they'd passed each other before on the street. Maybe they'd spoken to one another at the orphanage. Peter's mind raced to memorize the light brown of Bradley's short hair, the blue eyes set far apart on Bradley's face. He had a strong nose. A strong aquiline nose. Peter tried to imagine what Bradley must have looked like as a child, but all that would come to mind was little Scotty Thompson lying face down in his birthday cake.

Bradley's lips curved into a weary smile, and slowly, the pressure around Peter's wrist lessened, until Bradley wasn't holding on anymore. Peter watched helplessly as Bradley reached into his yellow jacket with his left hand, and it dawned on him vaguely that although he'd given back Peter's Beretta, Bradley still had his own weapon.

"Detective..."

"Orie, no!"

Then somebody screamed, "Gun!" and multiple shots rang out almost simultaneously.

Peter would never know exactly whose gun discharged when and whose bullet hit Bradley where, but he felt each impact as a distinct and brutal tug on his arm.

When it was over, Peter couldn't think. He couldn't move. The dead weight of Bradley's body had him crushed up against the chainlink wall, and his muscles trembled from the strain of holding on. The pain in his side flared with agonizing intensity, but he didn't let go. He couldn't let go. And for the life of him, he didn't know why not.

Kwai Chang Caine stepped forward into the light and gazed up at his son.

"I'm so sorry, Pop," Peter muttered softly, knowing his father would hear.

"I know," Caine replied soothingly. "Peter, you must let him go."

"I can't."

"My son...you must."

Finally, Peter released his grip.

A cold wind blew in from the parking lot, through the room and through the rafters. The cage swung. And Peter lay very still.

Mary Margaret sipped at her coffee, then gently replaced her cup on its saucer. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table edge, her fingers laced delicately beneath her chin, and smiled across the table at her date. A long white taper burned between them and slightly off to the side. The flame flickered and bobbed, reflected in Kwai Chang Caine's eyes as he watched her watching him.

"I know what you're thinking about."

Caine's head tilted slightly to the side, and a tender smile crossed his face. "I would never try to hide my thoughts or feelings from someone I trust," he said. "But please, tell me then. What is it that you sense?"

Mary Margaret looked earnestly into Caine's eyes. There was so much about him that she would never know, but one thing was very clear. "Not a second goes by that some part of you isn't thinking about him."

Caine shrugged a shoulder. "He is my son," he explained simply. "He is a part of me, and I cherish that. I love him."

Mary Margaret reached forward and took one of Caine's large hands in hers. She ran her thumb over his calloused palm, then folded her fingers in his. She gazed down at their hands for a moment, then looked back up at Caine.

"He's my partner, and I know him pretty well. I still believe not many things in this world make him happy." She squeezed Caine's hand. "But the love you have for him...the connection you share...well...that's one of those things that do."

Caine squeezed back and bowed his head slightly.

"Hey," Mary Margaret suggested, as they stood and Caine helped her with her coat. "Would you like to take a walk in the park? I know it's kind of chilly out, but it's beautiful at night."

"I would like that very much," Caine said, pulling on his own soft tan coat. "But may I...take a rain check? There is someone I must speak with tonight."

Mary Margaret nodded her understanding. She paused for a moment with her hands in her pockets. Then she chuckled and took Caine's arm.

"What is funny?" he asked, leading her out into the quiet night.

Mary Margaret stopped, turning to face her date. "Well...this." She put her hand in his again, looked up into his eyes and smiled mischievously. "I bet this drives him crazy, doesn't it?"

Caine laughed out loud and squeezed Mary Margaret's hand. "Ah. You do know my son."

Peter sat with one knee bent and the other leg extended out in front of him. He pressed his back up against the empty wall, and his right hand wrapped protectively around his bandaged torso. He absently rubbed through his t-shirt at the dull ache in his side where the bullet from his own gun had grazed him, while his left forearm rested on his updrawn knee. He stared across the narrow hallway at the yellow police tape hanging from the Thompsons' front door. The tape was already starting to fall off.

As a homicide detective, it was Peter's duty to apprehend the sickos who committed these horrible crimes. But everything in him felt there must be some way, something he could do, to prevent them from happening in the first place. Just putting people away--or worse, executing them in the name of the law--wasn't enough anymore. Mankind had already engaged itself in the cycle of revenge, and Bradley had been absolutely right: it was people like Orin Bradley and Detective Peter Caine who kept the cycle spinning at a wickedly terrifying pace. And it was people like the Thompsons who suffered.

Maybe Curtis Thompson might. Maybe his wife might. But those two kids would never know why they died that way, or who their killer was. Nor could they ever understand what pushed their killer to commit the act. And Bradley was right yet again: they would never be able to forgive.

People made promises, and people had regrets. Peter had promised Bradley that he wouldn't die in that old power plant. And Peter regretted having broken that promise. At the very least, Bradley hadn't died alone. He'd died with his hand gripping a gun, staring up into the eyes of the only man in the world who knew anything about him. Bradley didn't understand that being known couldn't save him. He didn't understand that he had to know himself.

Peter leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was on medical leave from the precinct for the next two weeks, and he hadn't seen either of his fathers since leaving the hospital with white tape strapped tightly around his stomach and a bottle of pain pills for his trouble.

He didn't need the time off. He had bled a lot, and he had a bump on the back of his head, but nothing Bradley had done to him hurt more than sitting alone in that hallway across from the Thompsons' apartment. He could still hear the ghostly whisper of their last moments echoing through his mind.

He brought a hand up and pulled his fingers back through his hair. He let the hand rest there, clutching at a fistful dark brown curls. Then he sighed and let go, letting his arm fall back down to his side.

"You look like you're waiting for someone."

Peter looked up, and Paul Blaisdell smiled ruefully. He slowly bent down to sit next to his son. They were silent for a long time, watching the door. Then Paul said, "Manager's got someone coming to clean it out tomorrow morning. I guess the mother on the wife's side will be taking care of all their personal effects."

"None of them ever had a chance," Peter said, eyes not moving from the door. "That's what disappointment does to people."

"And what does it do to you?"

Peter looked over at his foster father, saw the genuine concern in his bright blue eyes. It was the same concern that had always been there, from the moment they came into each other's lives.

"It kicks my ass, Paul," he said honestly. He smiled sadly.

"I bet it does," Paul replied, turning back to the door.

The hall was silent for another few moments before Paul spoke again.

"You know you can say anything to me. If there's ever anything--anything at all--that you need, I'll always be here for you. I'll always be your friend, Peter."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly. Then he felt Paul's hand on his shoulder.

"Listen to me now," Paul said. Peter opened his eyes again and turned his head to face his captain. "No matter what happens, or who happens, I want you to understand. You will always--always--be my son."

"I know that, Paul," Peter said quietly. He smiled briefly, but the smile quickly faded away. "It's just...sometimes I'm afraid none of these emotions can ever be resolved. And the things Bradley said to me up there..."

Peter's face sort of crumbled for a second as he struggled for control, and the expression broke Paul's heart. No matter how old he got, or what he'd experienced, Peter would always have the face of a child.

"He didn't want me to shoot him, Paul. He saw in me the underlying need for revenge that I couldn't even see in myself. And it was like he was trying to save me the guilt. But I still feel guilty. For everything. For all of it."

It's my fault I'm alone now. You never get used to that.

"Your father came to the station tonight." Paul leaned his head back against the wall. "He's the one who told me where to find you. I asked him if he didn't want to come talk to you himself, but he said he knew you'd come to him when you were ready." He paused. "You've got time. You've both got time. He'll wait for you, son. Just let it happen."

"I let things happen to me all the time. Sometimes I feel like I've completely lost control."

"We all feel that way sometimes, kid." Paul sighed. "What would your father say to you right now? Something about a stick of incense...how you blow out the flame, yet the fire continues to burn."

Peter turned to his foster father and grinned. "That sounds like something he might say."

Paul smiled back. He'd known from the first time he saw Peter Caine that for the rest of his days, a part of him would always worry and fear for this kid's life. But Peter was brave. He was tough. And he would continue to burn strong.

"Of course," Peter went on thoughtfully, "he would've said it more eloquently."

Paul laughed.

"And it probably would've made a little more sense..."

Paul stood and held a sturdy hand out to his foster son.

"Were you waiting for someone, Peter?"

"I was. And I'm glad you came."

End