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Chapter Six

 

 

            Jennifer cherished dim memories of her father’s holding her when, as a preschooler, she had been frightened to tears by nightmares.  Later her grandfather had comforted her on his lap when she was distraught over a broken doll.  For several minutes, nestled against Caine’s chest, she was again that scared or broken-hearted little girl, not the tough-minded professional woman she usually imagined herself to be.  She was grateful for his strength, since she could not seem to regain control of her emotions or her physical reactions.  They had almost reached his building before her sobs eased into occasional jerking whimpers.

            “Jennifer,” Caine whispered, with his lips against her hair, “can you tell me what happened?”

            “Not . . . yet.”  She took a long, quavering breath.  “I should have . . . followed . . . your advice.”

            “Perhaps.  But you are safe now.”

            Jennifer’s eyes began to sting and her throat to tighten again.  “But poor Ben Chou isn’t. . . . Oh god, Caine . . . what if it’s my fault?”

            “Shhh.  There is no way to know that, and no point in punishing yourself needlessly.”

            What he said was sensible, as usual, and she clung to the thread of hope it offered.  Pulling out of his embrace, she fumbled through her purse for tissues to dry her eyes and blow her nose, then realized she had removed those items.  Without comment, Caine pulled a handkerchief out of his own pocket and handed it to her.

            The cab stopped in front of the produce company, and Caine saw that the meter said $2.50.    A search of his other pockets turned up $2, and he asked Jennifer if she could cover the rest, plus tip, which she did.  Caine kept one arm around her all the way up to his apartment, and she was reminded of the way he had helped Peter up the stairs last night.  When they reached the center hall, he let her go, saying, “Peter will want to see you as soon as possible, to know you are unharmed.”

            “Physically, you mean?  Let me pull myself together first.  I’m a wreck.”

            “Certainly.  Tea?”

            “With a shot of brandy in it?”

            Caine nodded.  “If you wish.”

            “No kidding?  You really have some?”

            “Of course.  Come into the kitchen.”

            The kitchen was where they found the Ancient, using his culinary skills to prepare dinner.  The aromas were wonderful.  Jennifer was amazed to note that it was not six o’clock yet.  She thought she had aged about ten years in the last hour.  Lo Si turned around and took stock of her red eyes and tear-streaked face.  “You are all right?” he inquired solicitously.

            “More or less.  Is there any tea?”

            “I just made some.  Chamomile.”

            “How perceptive,” Caine murmured, opening a cupboard and removing a pint flask.  “Sit down for a while, Jennifer.”  He poured some amber liquid from the flask into a teacup, filled it the rest of the way with tea from the pot Lo Si had indicated, and handed her the cup.

            She sniffed at the cup before sipping.  “Apricot?”

            “Correct.  Compose yourself while I see how my son is.”  He left the flask on the table when he walked out of the kitchen.

            Peter was awake, fretting.  “Pop, thank god you’re back! . . . Did you find her?”

            “I did.  She is very upset but not hurt.”  Caine knelt on the floor and took Peter’s left hand in his own, then ran his right hand along meridians to check the flow of chi

            “What happened?”

            “She has been unable to tell me, but perhaps when she feels calmer, she will tell both of us.”

            “Well, did she see Chou . . . or not?”

            Caine hesitated.  “I believe so, but he may not have been alive.”

            “Son of a bitch!”  For a moment Peter was too shocked to say anything else.  Then his temper flared.  If Chou had been slain, how close had Jennifer come to losing her life, too?  “Damn it, Pop . . . you should have stopped her! . . . You promised to keep her here, safe!”

            “Not precisely, Peter,” Caine answered with asperity.  He was willing to accept some of the blame, but not all.  “I asked her not to leave, but she was determined to have this meeting.”

            “Jesus, didn’t you think about what they might do to her . . . if they could do this to me?”

            The obvious retort died on Caine’s lips.  He had nearly forgotten that Peter was ignorant of an important fact about the attack--as he himself had probably been ignorant of several other facts about Jennifer’s situation.  His promise to Jennifer bound him this time.  He exhaled and tried to answer evenly, “I could not tie her up, after all, or watch her every minute.  However, I concede that I was a less-than-adequate bodyguard, and I offer you my apologies.”  He bowed his head.

            Peter sighed.  He had spent more than an hour waiting and fuming, thinking of the words to use to berate his father for carelessness if he returned without Jennifer.  He had even used a few of them just now.  However, his old man had come through again, and Peter didn’t have the heart to keep lecturing.  Caine hardly ever used a regular telephone; how could he be expected to understand cellulars?  Jennifer, on the other hand, was not supposed to be clueless about such things.  Her problem, Peter supposed, was a lack of experience with the criminal mind and methods.  But he, Peter, was the cop.  He should have been able to warn them, tell them what to do or not do.  Trouble was, the beating had removed him from the game for much too long.  He had to find some way to get back on his feet and off the bench.

            What he finally said, gently, was, “Pop, okay, I forgive you. . . . Everything turned out all right. . . . I really wish you would get your own phone, though. . . . It would solve a lot of problems.”

            “And create others.”  Caine gave Peter’s hand an affectionate squeeze and slipped into a cross-legged position on the floor.  “You are steadily improving, my son.  You find it easier to talk?”

            Peter smiled faintly.  That last dose of elixir must have been stronger, for he had noticed a dulling of some of the pain, the ability to string more words together before he ran out of breath.  He could actually open his left eye now, though not all the way.  Considering that less than twenty-four hours had passed since the attack, and allowing for that ill-advised escapade with the Beretta, he wasn’t doing too badly.  He thought about what a godawful mess he must have been last night, when his father first saw him.  He hoped he never had to see a child of his own in such condition.

            A knock on the door made both of them look around.  Jennifer said, “May I come in?”

            “Sure,” Peter answered.  As she approached, he said sympathetically, “Rough day, eh?”

            A wan smile.  “You could say that.”  She sank down on the floor on his right.  “You were right, Peter.  I’m an amateur, in over my head.  I may have gotten Ben Chou killed.”

            Wincing, Peter reached out for her hand.  “Tell us what happened.”

            After a deep breath she explained what Chou had asked her to do over the phone and how careful she had been to make sure she was not followed to the mall.  The hard part was describing how Chou’s body had looked, so that they would understand why she was sure he was dead.  Though she reported what she recalled about the killers’ appearances, those details were sketchier because what had riveted her attention in those few seconds had been the body.  She also had not noticed the make or license number of the car, although her impression was that it was a dark red color with a black vinyl roof.

            “I’m sorry, Peter.  I’m not going to make a great witness.  I was just so stunned.”

            “Would you know those guys if you saw them again?” Peter asked.

            “The ones holding the body--I think so.  The other one--I’m not sure.”  She looked at his father.  “But he might have been the one you knocked out in the mall.”

            Peter gazed at Caine with interest.  “You knocked one out? . . . Did you get a good look at him?”

            The man’s face, as he had charged, had imprinted itself on Caine’s mind.  He shrugged.  “A Korean.  Mid-20’s.  Stocky build.  A scar through one eyebrow.  The left.”

            “Could you pick him out of a lineup or mug book?”

            “Perhaps.”

            “Well, that’s better than nothing, but . . . “  Peter’s voice faded, and he frowned in sudden confusion. 

            “What is it, my son?”

            “From your descriptions, . . . these guys don’t sound like the same ones . . . that jumped me. . . . How many goons can Garson afford? . . . Jenn, you were there both times. . . . Were any of them the same?”

            Caine and Jennifer exchanged glances, and with a clutch of apprehension she realized that one more unpleasant duty could not be put off any longer.  Caine said, “Perhaps I should leave.”

            “No!” she said sharply.  Then, more calmly, “Please don’t.  I need the moral support.”  She flashed Caine a quick, frightened smile.  He stayed where he was.

            “Peter, I have to tell you something.”

            “What?”

            “You’ve been assuming that the men who beat you up were sent by Garson.”

            He already looked puzzled.  “Yeah.  So?”

            “They weren’t.  The leader of them was my cousin, Wayne Sung.  The other four were his buddies.”  She stopped because her mouth and chin began to quiver, and she stared down at the floor, trying to hang on to her control.

            Peter could not really grasp what she was saying.  It made no sense to him.  “What?  Why would your cousin . . . come after me?”

            Jennifer took another deep breath and wrapped his hand in both of hers.  “Because you’re mostly Caucasian. . . . Remember when I said my mother wished I’d marry the guy in San Francisco, because he’s Chinese.  Wayne is much worse.  He wants me to date only full-blooded Chinese men.  He found out that I spent the night with you.  He warned me not to see you again, but I didn’t take him seriously, and that was a mistake.”  Tears began to roll down her cheeks.  “The beating was his way of punishing you for--to his way of thinking--defiling me.”

            “My god,” Peter whispered, still utterly bewildered by this news.  “How did he find out . . . about us?”

            “Saw us at the House of Fortune.  Told my mother I was in town Monday night.  Just what you warned me about . . . but I blew it off . . . as not worth worrying about. . . . Peter, I’m so sorry.”

            Peter swallowed hard and tightened his grip on her hands, despite the pain in his shoulder.  “Does your whole family feel this way about me?”

            “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure, because I’ve never asked them.  Right now, I don’t give a damn what any of them think, anyway.  I’m only worried about what you think of me after this whole fiasco.”

            Peter watched the tears run down her face and her shoulders shake with sobs she was trying to repress.  “Come here,” he said, tugging on her hands.

            “I can’t.  I’ll hurt you.”

            “I don’t care.  Come here.” 

            He pulled her down against his chest and carefully put his arms around her.  She resisted at first, afraid to cause him pain by pressing against his bruises, but then yielded to him and slipped one arm across his middle.  When he looked at his father, over the top of her head, Peter’s eyes were full of tears and pain and defiance.  Caine simply gave him a crooked smile and a headshake.  He was not about to interfere.

            After a few seconds Peter said huskily, “Sweetheart, I feel the same way about you today . . . as I felt yesterday . . . before any of this happened. . . . As for your shithead cousin--” His voice acquired an edge. “-- I don’t know why . . . he thinks he has the right to pick your boyfriends . . . but I look forward to throwing his ass in jail . . . as soon as I’m well enough. . . . Ow! . . . Unless you have a problem with that?”

            Jennifer slowly and cautiously sat up and wiped her sweatshirt sleeve across her eyes.  “No.  No problem at all.”  As she said it, she realized she meant it.  Wayne was dead wrong if he thought she wouldn’t testify.  She blinked at Caine as she added, “I’ll help you fill out the complaint.”  The Shaolin’s gentle smile of approval warmed her.  Or maybe the feeling came from knowing that she was finally doing the right thing.

            Peter asked, “Do you know the names . . . of the other four?”

            “I know Joe Cheng, because he lives across the street from Mother.  I guess that’s why they were able to set up the ambush without arousing suspicions.  The others I didn’t recognize, but I’m sure they all belong to the same social club, the Dragon’s Disciples.”

            “I’ve heard of them,” Peter said tightly.  “Didn’t think they were into gang violence.”  He looked at his father.  “Did you know?”

            Caine nodded.  “She told me last night.”

            “And asked him to say nothing to you,” Jennifer put in, “until I could tell you myself.”    

Peter closed his eyes, looking drawn and tired.  His shoulder and back ached badly now, and it was getting harder to concentrate.  “Secrets,” he muttered.  “So, after you told him who jumped me . . . did you also explain . . . about Garson and Chou . . . and why I was worried about your safety?”

            Jennifer shook her head.  “Not the whole story.  Only what I had to tell him.”

            “Why not?”

            “Afraid he’d stop me.  Probably stupid on my part, but I don’t know what else I could’ve done.  How did they get to Chou?  Nobody followed me.  I’m sure of it.”

            “You’re right.  They knew where you were going . . . and they were there ahead of you.”

Peter paused, wondering if he should say any more.  He didn’t know everything that had occurred while he was asleep.  He might be wrong about the phone.  Maybe the killers had followed other leads to track Chou and just happened to overtake him as he arrived for the rendezvous with Jennifer.

            As it was, he didn’t have to say anything.  He could see, in her eyes, the horror of the realization.  He still had hold of her hand, and he gave it a squeeze.  “The car phone?” she whispered.  She started to shake her head in denial.  “But Peter, the calls were so short.  How could they possibly zero in so fast?”

            “How many calls . . . were made on that phone?”

            “Well, mine, to Mother’s answering machine.  Your dad’s, to the precinct.  And Chou’s, later.”

            “It’s possible, then.  Blake could tell us. . . .These guys are pros. . . . We know they had a receiver/scanner for the wiretap. . . . If they saw you make the earlier calls . . . and got lucky . . . they could have tuned in on Chou’s call.”

            Jennifer’s guilty, dejected expression made Peter think of his own guilt over Max Forrester’s death.  “Jenn, I know how you feel.  Really.  I’ve had ghosts of my own to deal with. . . . You do what you can, and whatever happens . . . you have to live with it. . . . But it can be awfully hard. . . . Right, Pop?”

            Caine only nodded; his eyes full of sympathy.

 

                                    *                                        *                                        *

 

            When the special unlisted phone in his penthouse rang, H. William Garson answered it with a mixture of anticipation and dread, which was only heightened when the voice on the other end said, “Colonel Park here.” 

            “Yes.  Your report?”

            “The target has been destroyed and the debris disposed of.  However, we still have a problem.”

            “Oh?”

            “The girl.  She broke in on us before we got the target under cover.  She saw too much.”

            Garson had been living with frayed nerves for too long.  “Damn it, Park, I told you I wanted no ripple effect on this job.  No escalation.”

            “I know, and I had it worked out to go down that way.  She shouldn’t have seen anything but an empty hall.  I don’t know what made her open the door.  But it happened, and now we have to deal with it.  We also have to do it fast, before she can talk to the wrong people.”

            “Did you get the tapes?” Garson snarled.

            “We got what the target had on him, and we destroyed them.  We still have no clue about where the rest are.  You better hope that he was the only one who’ll ever know.”

            “He said nothing before you, um . . . ?”

            “He didn’t have time.”

            “So now what?”

            “We take care of our problem tonight.”

            Garson could not afford to ask for details.  He did not really want to know them.  He had hired professionals, and he was paying them a great deal of money.  “All right, just let me know when it’s over.  If six months goes by with no fallout, I’ll sweeten the bonus.”

            “Good.  You should hear something tomorrow, or Friday at the latest.”

            After hanging up Garson poured himself a stiff drink and noticed the tremors in his hands.  He was glad his wife had gone shopping for the evening.  It was depressing enough to know that Ben Chou, once his friend, was dead, but even worse to know that that pretty young journalist would soon follow him.  Why couldn’t she have stayed with the original idea of writing a flattering piece instead of poking her nose into things that didn’t concern her?  And why couldn’t Ben just have kept his mouth shut?  They could have gone on for years and retired in luxury.

            Well, tomorrow this nerve-wracking ordeal would be over, and he would try to straighten out his life.  No more skimming--at least not for the foreseeable future.  To have another situation like this one would probably kill him.

 

                                    *                                        *                                        *

 

            Before Jennifer could summon words to reply, the Ancient entered the room with a tray of food for Peter.  He carried it around to Caine’s side of the bed before setting it down on the floor.  “Real food this time?” Peter said hopefully.

            “Noodles,” the Ancient replied with his usual good-natured smile.  He looked toward Jennifer and said, “Young lady, your dinner is ready in the kitchen.”

            Jennifer’s appetite was negligible, but she couldn’t bring herself to refuse the old man.  “Thank you, Lo Si,” she said, getting to her feet.

            “Jenn?” Peter said.

            “Yes?”

            “Do you have your computer here?”

            “Uh huh.”

            “After dinner . . . sit down and write up everything you can remember . . . about what happened in the mall. . . . Every detail.  While it’s fresh in your mind. . . . If it hurts too much, bring it in here . . . and sit with me while you do it.”

            She understood what he was trying to do and smiled faintly.  “Okay.”

            Jennifer and the Ancient went away together, and Peter stared at the tray of food.  “What is it?”

            “I am sure you recognize the banana and the tea,” Caine said dryly.

            “You know I mean what’s in the bowl.”

            Caine poked at the contents with a spoon.  “Looks like . . . rice noodles, chopped up, with a little scrambled egg, peas, and tofu, in a sauce, probably quite mild.  Something your abused jaw and digestive system can handle.  Do you wish to feed yourself?”

            “I hate being spoon fed,” Peter replied, “in any sense.”  He reached out to his father for assistance in sitting up and spent a few moments steadying himself and testing which cheek could bear his weight with the least pain.

            Relieved of the task of feeding his son, Caine limited himself to handing Peter what he needed at the moment, starting with the bowl of noodles, and watching to see how soon he would tire.  After several minutes he remarked, “You took the news about Jennifer’s cousin more calmly than I expected.”

            Peter swallowed his mouthful of food and looked at Caine with a bleak expression.  “What did you expect me to do, Father? . . .  Scream and rant at her?  Cry? . . . I can’t get up and go after the assholes, can I? . . . I’d like to.  You probably know that. . . . I guess I’m trying to practice greater control than I used to. . . . Or maybe I was just so relieved that both of you were home safe . . . that I couldn’t feel anything else right away.”

            He scooped another spoonful into his mouth and worked on it for a while, chewing carefully because of his sore jaw.  Caine waited, wanting him to talk it out.  At length Peter said, “I don’t understand race hatred like that. . . . It never occurred to me that the Sungs . . . could object to me because I’m only one-fourth Chinese . . . instead of 100 percent.”  He shook his head sadly.  “The funny thing is, lately I’m finding that inside my head . . . sometimes I’m more Chinese than I ever thought I’d be. . . . Other times, the whole culture seems alien and incomprehensible . . . and I’m just an all-American jock cop. . . . That’s weird, isn’t it?”  His look at his father was a plea for understanding.  He went on, “I know when I first found you in that hospital bed . . . I wanted nothing to do with the stuff I learned at the temple. . . . I said that often enough, didn’t I? . . . Being partly Chinese was just . . . something that gave me an edge in Chinatown, to do my job.  I thought I had come too far away from it. . . . I didn’t feel a connection anymore.

            “But I sure wanted you back.”  Peter swallowed a tightness in his throat, as the old aching, yearning sensations returned for a moment.  “I wanted to be with you as much as possible . . . to make up for some of that lost time. . . . Only, for a while you were hard to get close to. . . . Or maybe I was putting up the barriers, because I was scared . . . of losing the identity I had created over fifteen years. . . . I had trouble understanding or accepting your way of seeing things. . . . Out of practice, I guess. . . . But that’s been changing slowly. . . . I’ve been getting in touch with the Chinese side of my heritage . . . by spending time with you and the Ancient . . . and others. . . . I’m more comfortable with a lot of it, feeling less threatened. . . . That’s what’s so ironical about this:  As I feel more a part of China . . . the Sungs reject me out of hand because I’m too white.”               

He laughed, but without real humor.  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”  The lump in his throat was not going away.  Maybe some tea would dissolve it.  He held out his hand for the teacup.

            “No,” Caine agreed.  “It does not.  Is your relationship with Jennifer becoming serious?”

            After several swallows of tea, Peter answered, “As in, is an engagement imminent?  Not really. . . . As in, do we care for each other . . . and have we gone to bed?  Yeah.”  Peter looked at his father questioningly.  “Suppose we did want to get married. . . . How would you feel about it?”

            “Fine.”

            “Succinct as always, Pop . . .but not illuminating. . . . Does that mean you would approve?”

            “It does.”

            “Have you secretly always hoped . . . that I would marry a Chinese woman?”

            “No, Peter.  After all, I did not.”

            Peter smiled crookedly.  “True.”  He handed the cup back.

            There was a silence lasting several minutes while Peter polished off the food in the bowl.  As Caine took the empty dish, he suddenly said, “Your mother’s family did not approve of our marriage, partly because of my mixed blood, partly because of my . . . unconventional beliefs.”

            “No kidding.”  Peter was intrigued.  “Bet they didn’t beat you up, though, did they?”

            A smile played around Caine’s lips very briefly.  “No.  Laura had already cut herself off from her father, for reasons that had nothing to do with me, so when he made it clear that I was not welcome in his home, she did not much care.  She was always a strong-minded, independent woman.”

            “I guess she had to be,” Peter mused, “to fall for a Shaolin priest--and win his heart.”

            Caine smiled without replying.  After Peter had eaten all he wanted, Caine pushed the tray out of the way and said, “Before you lie down again, I want to check that swelling on your back.”

            “Is that really necessary, Torquemada?”

            Caine ignored the jibe.  “I think so.  Can you put your left hand on my shoulder?  Good.  Last night you could not raise your arm that high.  Hang on, son.”  Caine’s warm hands first moved across Peter’s ribs where the crack was.  He sensed much less disturbed energy in the area than he had felt earlier.  Then, bracing his left hand on Peter’s midsection, he slid the right hand around to the lower back.  His touch was light, barely making contact, yet Peter flinched, yelped, “Ow!  Shit!” and shuddered.  His fingers dug into his father’s shoulder as hard as the wrist sprain permitted.  “Enough, Pop!”

            “I know.  Take a breath, Peter. . . .  The usual treatment for that kind of injury is for a doctor to relieve the pressure by using a syringe to draw off some blood.  Aspiration.  It is not something I can do, but I may be able to persuade Dr. Hsu to come by tomorrow and see to it.  You would be more comfortable afterward.”

            “All right, Pop,” Peter gasped.  “Do it.  Christ.”  Suddenly he laid his forehead on the back of the hand that rested on his father’s shoulder.  Caine stroked his hair and kissed him.  Peter’s next words were somewhat muffled:  “Pop, you really shouldn’t do that kind of exam . . . right after I’ve eaten.”

            Alert, Caine said, “You feel sick?”

            Peter raised his head and inhaled.  “I’ll be okay. . . . When’s the next dose . . .of sleepy time tea?”

            As Caine was about to reply, a familiar feminine voice called out, “Caine?” from the direction of the studio.

            Peter withdrew his arm from his father’s shoulder and said, “Skalany?” under his breath.  He watched Caine’s expression soften; his eyes widen with pleasure.

            Caine said, “She will want to see you.  Can you handle another visitor?”    

Peter smiled back at him, briefly.  “Sure.”

            Caine helped him to lie down again and pulled the covers up to conceal most of the damage.  Then he walked out to greet Peter’s partner.  Seeing Mary Margaret always lifted his spirits, and her smile was a bright beacon in the candlelit studio.  He spoke her name, took her hand, and kissed her cheek, wishing they had time and opportunity for more.

            She said, “Kermit told us about Peter, and we’ve all been very concerned.  How is he?”

            “In great pain.  But he will recover.”

            “Is he awake?  May I say hi?”

            “Of course.  Come with me.”  He kept her hand in his as they walked to the back rooms, then ushered her into the bedroom ahead of himself.

            Mary Margaret paused just inside the door to take in the sight of her partner, supine in his father’s bed.  With the overhead light off, the only illumination came from the gooseneck lamp Caine had moved in here.  Still, she could see the mottled swelling on the left side of Peter’s face, the Band-Aid on his eyebrow, the bruises on his shoulders and on the left arm, which was outside of the covers.  She shivered involuntarily in sympathy.  His eyes were open, though, and he seemed alert.

            “Hi,” she began, walking forward to kneel down on his right.

            “Hi yourself.”

            She hoped her face didn’t show too much of the shock she felt.  What could one do but try a wisecrack?  “Was it a truck that hit you, or a herd of elephants rampaging?”

            “Just five Dragon’s Disciples.”

            This was news.  “What?  I’ve never known them to do anything but strut around and make loud noises.  Since when are they into strong-arm stuff?”

            “Since last night, I guess.”

            “Why didn’t you tell Kermit this?  We could have had the whole bunch in the tank by now.”

            “Didn’t know it myself . . . until a little while ago.”

            A strange answer, in Skalany’s opinion.  Then again, a hit to the head could wipe out the memory of events leading to the impact.  “Why would they thump on you?”

            “Long story, Mary Margaret,” Peter said wearily.  He did not seem inclined to elaborate, and his mouth tightened in a familiar way that said, Touchy subject.  Don’t press.

            Skalany raised questioning eyes to his father’s.  When Caine shrugged, she inferred that he was saying, When he is ready, he will tell you.

            “You’re quite a pair,” she said, keeping her tone light.  “Are you sure your family name is Caine and not Clam?”  She was relieved when they both smiled slightly instead of looking offended.  “Seriously, though, people who would do this to someone shouldn’t be walking the streets.”

            “I know,” Peter whispered, and then he deliberately changed the subject :  “Did you talk to the Robinson family?”

            “Yeah, but they’re clams, too.  They’re scared that what happened to Torrell will happen to one of the other sons.  We’ll have to try some other angles.”

            “Figures.”

            Skalany gave him a rueful smile.  “Yeah, well, set that aside for now, partner, and concentrate on getting well.  I must say, if you wanted a few days off, there were easier ways of getting them.”

            Peter actually grinned, even though it hurt.  “Not with Simms running things.  I’ve tried.”

            Impulsively Skalany leaned over and kissed his forehead.  “Sleep tight, partner.  I’ll try to stop by tomorrow, too.”

            In the hallway Skalany lowered her voice and asked Caine, “Can you tell me any more about what happened to him?”

            Caine weighed the request.  Though he was no longer bound by specific promises of silence, clearly Peter preferred to keep some information private.  He stalled by inquiring, “Do you have time for some tea?  Have you had dinner?”

            “Dinner, yes, I have.  I’d love some tea, thank you.”  Her eyebrows went up as she awaited an answer to her original question.

            They were passing the kitchen door, and from within someone said, “Mary Margaret, is that you?”  The owner of the voice promptly appeared, looking even more the Chinese all-American girl, in her jeans and sweatshirt, than she had the day before.  She was no longer upbeat, however; instead, her manner was subdued, even depressed, and Skalany would have sworn she had been crying not long before.  Jennifer continued, “I thought I recognized your voice.  I guess you came to see Peter.”

            “That’s right.  How are you?”

            Before Jennifer could tell her, Caine said in surprise, “You two have met?”

            “Yes,” Skalany replied, “Peter introduced us yesterday when he had Blake looking for wiretaps at her mother’s house.”

            “Ah,” said Caine.  Another fact Peter had never mentioned.  “Let us get the tea.”

            In the kitchen Skalany and the Ancient greeted each other warmly.  As Caine poured tea for everyone, the Ancient informed him about where he could find his dinner if he ever decided to eat.  The two of them huddled briefly to discuss what had to be done for Peter later, and then Caine asked Jennifer if she wanted to join Mary Margaret and him in the meditation room.  Jennifer, however, was not feeling much like socializing and opted to help the Ancient finish cleaning up.

            The meditation room was already deep in shadows because the sunlight faded here before it did so in the studio.  Candles on the altar provided the only interior light.  Caine and Skalany sat cross-legged on the exercise mat, which he had not rolled up since his last workout and sipped their tea.  She was glad she had stopped at home first to change from skirt to loose slacks; she had been here often enough to know that Caine was not much for conventional furniture.

            The day had been long and stressful, and Mary Margaret was tired.  She would have been content to sit with Caine in perfect silence for a while, drinking tea and letting all the day’s tensions loosen and dissolve into peacefulness.  The cop in her, however, could not rest yet.

            “You never answered my question,” she reminded him gently.  “Is there some reason for all the secrecy surrounding this assault?”

            Caine stared down into his mug before saying, “Peter only learned the reason for the attack a short time ago, and it is difficult for him to deal with it.”

            “Does it have something to do with Jennifer?”

            With obvious reluctance, Caine replied, “Yes.”

            And you would rather that I not ask any more questions, Skalany thought to herself.  She tried a different approach.  “Last time I saw Jennifer, she was staying at her mother’s.  Now she’s here.  Why?”

            “Peter thought she needed protection.”

            “You don’t agree?”

            “On the contrary.  I do agree.”

            “Peter already told me about this Ben Chou and why Jennifer hoped to meet with him.  Was the assault related to that business?”

            Caine shook his head.  “No.”

            Skalany was baffled.  “Well, did she ever hear from Chou again?”

            Caine sighed.  “Chou is dead.  Jennifer saw the killers taking the body away.”

            Skalany nearly dropped her mug.  “My god, Caine!  Where and when did this happen?”

            “At the Chinatown mall just this afternoon, shortly after five o’clock.”

            “Isn’t she going to report it?”

            “I believe she will.” Caine set his mug down on the mat and locked his fingers together.  “However, she has been frightened and upset.  We have not had much time to consider the next step.  Peter suggested that she should use her computer to make a record of what she saw.”

            “That makes sense, but it’s still no substitute for a police report.  Did she see him killed?”

            “No.”

            “Were you there?”

            “No.  Not at that time.”

            “All right, all right.  Start from the beginning and fill me in.  Please?”

            So, Caine took a deep breath and explained how Jennifer happened to go to the mall and see the aftermath of a murder.  He included Peter’s theory about the car phone.  When he finished, Skalany remarked, “If she saw them, I’m surprised they didn’t chase her down and kill her right there.”

            Lifting his mug for a swallow, Caine said laconically, “One tried.  I got her away in time.”

            “Ah.”  The understatement almost made Mary Margaret smile, but her next thought erased the amusement immediately.  “I would be worried that they will come after her here.  If they tapped the car phone, they know where she is--right?”

            Caine recalled Kermit’s morning adventure and nodded silent agreement as he drank.  The potential danger had occurred to him as far back as the cab ride.  Soon it would have to be dealt with.

            Skalany paused for a few sips herself as she pondered several options.  Official departmental protection was virtually impossible when no crime report had been filed.  Should she offer to stay here tonight as unofficial watchdog?  She frankly suspected that, exhausted as she was, she would just fall asleep and be utterly useless.  Besides, she had seen Caine fight.  The Ancient, too, for that matter.  She could not imagine any individuals better able to defend Jennifer Sung than these two Shaolin masters.  Not even Peter, who was incapacitated anyway, or Kermit, who wasn’t.  Perhaps the girl was already in the best possible place, in the best possible care. 

            Nevertheless, she said, “Now I don’t feel right about leaving.  I should stay here tonight and help you guard her.”

            Caine smiled a little.  “That is a very generous offer, but not necessary.  You need your rest.  We will be fine.”

            Her eyes searched his face, looking for any hint of uncertainty, any clue that he was just being polite, any break in that serene confidence he always projected.  She found none.  He went on seriously, “Mary Margaret, you know that under other circumstances I would be pleased to have you stay.  Tonight is different, but do not worry.  Lo Si and I will handle it.”

            “Do you have a plan?”

            “Not yet, but we will.”

            To argue with that kind of assurance would be difficult and probably futile.  Mary Margaret did not try.  She vowed to come back in the early morning in case they needed any errands run, and Caine conceded that it would be a good idea.  He walked her to the hall entry and kissed her goodbye with gentle affection.

 

                                    *                                        *                                        *

 

            Enraged, Wayne Sung aimed a hard kick at the tire on his black Mustang.  The vibration that shot through his foot and shin did nothing to improve his temper.  Nor did it cure the problem of his overheated car.  Steam and smoke continued to boil out of the hood, flavoring the air on the freeway with the sweetish aroma of antifreeze.  Whether the cause was a bad hose or bad thermostat, he was stuck.  It would be hours before he could get towed and repaired, and he did not have the time to waste on this.

            Apparently, his life as he had known it was over.  Losing the argument with his father had been bad enough.  Now why in hell did his car have to break down on the same day?  A little nagging voice told him the gods were punishing him for something;  he told it to shut up and leave him alone because he had done nothing really wrong.

            He had, however, totally miscalculated his father’s reactions.  He had expected approval; instead, he received blistering disgust.  Why?  Granted, he and Louis did not talk much about matters unrelated to business, and he was not spending much time around his parents’ house after work these days.  Yet hadn’t Louis expressed pleasure over his choice of a Chinese girl to be his bride?  And hadn’t he also been well satisfied when Paula broke up with that waiguoren, Atwell, thanks to Wayne’s efforts--not that Louis actually knew about Wayne’s efforts.

            And hadn’t Louis and Lena forced their American-born offspring to attend Chinese school on weekends for years, so that they would learn to honor their ancestors’ culture and be able to speak, read, and write the language?

            And had he ever heard his parents contradict their parents whenever the latter grumbled about the young Chinese purebloods who were marrying non-Chinese Americans in what seemed to be increasing numbers?

            And had he not listened for years to his elders, within the family and without, complaining about the general decadence of American society, the lack of discipline among American youth compared with Asians, and the decline of respect for elders and traditions among Chinese youth who became more Americanized?

            Then how could his father pretend to be so appalled when he and his friends acted in defense of their women, their tribe, their genetic purity?  The waiguoren  had to be taught a lesson.  Wayne and his friends could not use physical force on Jennifer, but they could on Peter Caine, thereby killing two birds with one stone, because hurting him would hurt Jennifer and would show her what would happen if she continued to date men who weren’t right for her.  She would stop because she would not want them to be hurt.  Then maybe she would please her mother by accepting Larry Feng, or, if not, maybe another Chinese male would turn up that she would like better.  And then Wayne would not have to worry about someday having to be nice to a bunch of half-breed brats of the kind Jennifer might produce if she married the likes of Peter Caine--brats he would be expected to allow his own beautiful pureblooded children to associate with because they were family.

            Wayne did not even bother to take the cap off the radiator.  He refused to burn himself on it.  He slammed the hood angrily and nearly tore the car apart looking for some kind of cloth to hang on the antenna as a distress signal.  He was not willing to wait with the car for somebody to rescue him, however.  He would walk to a service station or at least find a telephone somewhere.

            Okay, okay, it was true that his family did owe the Caines something for finding his grandfather’s murderer.  Wayne thought it was the father more than the son who was the responsible party, but the son had contributed something, he supposed.  Jennifer had said so, anyway.  But that did not obligate her to go to bed with him, damn it.  Wayne became incensed every time he wondered whether that was why she had started to go out with him.  At this very moment his anger made him pick up a twisted piece of chrome lying on the shoulder of the highway and hurl it as far as he could.

            In the trunk he managed to find an old rag, but there wasn’t enough to tie around the antenna effectively.  He lowered a rear window slightly, stuffed the rag in the crack, and raised the window again to pin the rag in place.  By this time, he was shivering from the wind that blew across the wide-open highway.  From the back seat he snatched his beloved jacket with the golden dragon insignias and shrugged it on while he turned slowly to scan for a gas station or some other oasis.  Nothing was visible from where he stood.  He would have to hike to the nearest exit, about three-fourths of a mile away, and hope for something near there.  That was what he got for running off after the meeting with his father and driving off into the ‘burbs to vent his anger.  He should have stayed in town.  Damn Peter Caine anyway.

            Of course, his father maybe had a point when he said that Wayne had not done the family any favors by attacking a friend of the new emperor.  Wayne, however, was not much of an imperialist.  He did not realistically expect the Communists to be overthrown and did not believe that currying favor with young Sing Ling would pay off significantly.  Louis’s fears about losing business were probably unfounded.

            Undeniably, though, Peter Caine was a cop, and messing with cops carried risks which Wayne had been too pissed off to care about but which now were giving him some nervous moments.  He did not expect to be convicted for attacking Caine because the neighborhood was solidly Asian and, anyway, the only witnesses were his own relatives and friends, who wouldn’t turn on him.  But as his father had bellowed--something his father never did--unpleasant things could happen to a cop-beater during an interrogation by other cops.  He could be crippled or killed without ever coming to trial.  That possibility was something he had not taken into consideration before the assault, but he was certainly considering it now and looking for a way out.  Yet as he trudged along the shoulder of the busy highway, turning up his collar against the wind and squinting into the setting sun, he could not for the life of him, think of any escape from this box. 

            Well, at least the breakdown had postponed his humiliation.  Maybe he should be glad it had happened.  Unfortunately, if it prevented him from meeting his father’s deadline, he was doomed.  After years of letting Wayne do pretty much what he wanted outside of the office, Louis had picked a hell of a time to crack down on him.  He claimed he was trying to save his son’s life, but to Wayne it seemed more like he was chickenshit.  Still, he was not likely to relent on the ultimatum.  It took a lot to rile Louis Sung, but when he finally did get mad, he was stubborn as hell.

            There had to be a way out.  There had to be.  Some way to appear to be complying but not actually go through with it.  Something less humiliating than his father’s terms.  Maybe even some way to get rid of Peter Caine and make it look accidental.

 

                                    *                                        *                                        *

 

            After Skalany’s departure Caine’s thoughts remained with her as he slowly walked up the hallway.  He was often amazed that the twenty-or-more-year difference in their ages mattered so little to either of them.  He detoured through the meditation room to pick up the mugs, and as he exited and passed the door of the studio, he noticed that Lo Si and Jennifer were in there with their heads together over one of his worktables.  Probably the old apothecary was showing her how to mix the herbs that would be steeped for Peter’s next dose of tea.  Caine decided that perhaps now would be a good time to eat some of the dinner Lo Si had made for him.

            He was sitting at the kitchen table, about half done with the meal, when a voice from the doorway called his name.

            Caine looked up at the Ancient’s unsmiling face.  “Master?”

            “You have a visitor.”

            Caine, surprised, rose smoothly.  He looked inquiringly at the old man, but Lo Si offered no further information.  He merely said, “Take your time.  I will see to Peter’s needs.  But after the guest is gone, do not forget to finish your own dinner, my friend.”

            Caine gave him a companionable pat on the shoulder and walked into the studio, where he was astonished to find Sung Lu Wei--Louis Sung--whom he had not seen since the funeral of Sung’s father.  Jennifer was still there, too, sitting on the edge of the platform, her expression inscrutable but certainly not happy.  Her uncle had discovered Kermit’s Polaroid shots of Peter’s injuries and was studying them intently, holding a candle in his hand.

            When Caine entered, Louis Sung set the candle back on the table and bowed deeply to the Shaolin priest.  “Master Caine.”

            Caine returned the bow, but much less deeply, being not only the priest but the one offended.  Guardedly he said, “Sung Lu Wei.  It has been many months.”

            “I see that my niece is here.  Has my son been here yet?”

            Caine covered his surprise.  “No.”

            Grimly Louis Sung said, “He had better arrive soon.”  Then his tone of voice changed.  “Master Caine, I am deeply sorry for what my son did to yours.  It was inexcusable, and I assure you that he will pay a penalty.”  After a hesitation he asked, “Will your son press charges against mine?”

            “I think it is likely, when he has recovered sufficiently.”

            Sung grimaced.  “How bad are his injuries?”

            “You have seen the pictures.”

            “I hope there will be no permanent disability.”

            “So do I.”

            There was a brief silence, no doubt uncomfortable for Sung as Caine waited for his next move.  He had already offered an apology and found out whether his son was likely to be arrested.  What else was part of his mission?

            Finally, Caine took the initiative.  “Sung Lu Wei, your son has dishonored his family by committing a grave offense against mine.  I wish to know what, as his father, you have done or intend to do about it.”

            After a moment to collect his thoughts, Louis Sung replied, “I have told Wen Ching that he must come to you and offer apologies to you and your son.  That he must also offer restitution out of his own pocket, not mine, and that includes covering all medical bills plus pay for days of work lost.  That he must renounce that group of fools he has been hanging around with.  That I am sending him to Hong Kong to work in our offices there until after the Communists take over, since he claims to have such a deep love of all things Chinese. And that if he refuses any part of this, he will no longer have any role in our family or our company, and his portion will be divided between his sister and his cousin.”

            Louis Sung  smiled wryly.  “I believe these measures will be enough to bring my son into line and make him understand how serious a mistake he made.  Do they seem satisfactory to you, Master Caine?”

            Actually, they far exceeded anything Caine had expected from Louis Sung, but upon reflection he thought that the seriousness of the crime certainly justified them.  “Yes,” he replied.  “Your plan is well considered, Sung Lu Wei, and in my opinion would restore your family’s honor if my son consents and your son complies.  However, as the person who has suffered most, Peter must be consulted, and I cannot predict what he will say.  As a police officer he may feel that official action is necessary, especially since four others were involved in the attack.”

            “Naturally, I do not want my only son to end up in prison, Master Caine,” Sung said humbly, “even though his actions may have merited it.”

            “No father would,” Caine said softly, recalling Peter’s recent narrow escape from a frame-up for murder.

            “Of course,” Sung added, “if he is arrested, I can’t send him out of the country to Hong Kong, either.”

            Caine merely lifted an eyebrow to concede the point.  “Do you share your son’s beliefs, Sung Lu Wei?  Do you also object to Peter’s courtship of your niece?”

            “I did not know about it until today,” Sung replied, “but no, I see no reason to object.  My niece has a mind of her own anyway.”  He aimed a smile in Jennifer’s direction, and she returned it fleetingly.

            “As I have seen,” said Caine,  “and as does Peter.”

            “Master Caine, when will your son be well enough to hear our proposal and make his decision?”

            “Not tonight,” Caine said firmly.  “Perhaps by the day after tomorrow.”

            “There will be no arrest before then?”

            “I do not believe so.  If so, it would not be Peter’s doing.  I cannot speak for his captain.”

            Louis Sung sighed.  “I shall return on Friday night, then, with Wen Ching, to speak with your son if he is able.  Jennifer, if Wayne does not show up here tonight, please call me tomorrow to let me know.”  He turned to Caine and bowed again.  “Master Caine, you have my deepest gratitude.  I wish your son well.  Please tell him that.”

            Caine bowed, saying, “Sung Lu Wei, you are an honorable man, as your father was.  I hope your son will also prove to be.”

 

            When she was sure her uncle was gone, Jennifer expelled a long breath and said, “Caine, that was amazing!  I have never seen my uncle so intimidated since my grandfather died.”

            “He has only this one chance to keep his son out of prison,” Caine said.

            “Actually,” Jennifer said, “he may be even more afraid of what Peter’s friends could do to Wayne between arrest and arraignment or trial.  I told you both, my people don’t trust the police very much.”

            “Was he lying, then, when he said he did not object to your relationship with Peter?”

            “Did you pick that up?  I don’t know.  More likely, he just has mixed feelings about it.”  She sighed.  “Maybe they all do.”

            Caine walked over and stood in front of her.  “Did you finish your dinner before your uncle arrived?”

            “Not really,” she replied, “but I’m not hungry anyway.  Did you ever eat?  I should keep you company, but I think I need a little time to myself, if you don’t mind.”

            She looked so forlorn and disheartened that Caine was moved to comfort her,  “No, I do not mind,” he said, holding out his arms.  She slid off the platform edge and came into them gratefully.  There were no tears this time, but she clung to him for quite a while.  When she did let go, she looked up at him and said, shaky-voiced, “You know, I haven’t had a father for twenty years.  If I could choose a replacement, I’d want you.”

            He bowed.  “I am honored.”

            Jennifer went off to her room, and Caine went to the kitchen to wolf down the rest of his dinner  and to use Lo Si’s herbs for the infusion that would help Peter to sleep.  He wondered whether to tell Peter now about Louis Sung’s visit or wait to see if Wayne Sung would show up and what he would say.  He made no decision before carrying the warm mug to his room, where the Ancient was preparing to depart, having done everything else necessary to get the patient ready for the night.

            With both of his tormenters on hand, Peter could not resist the chance to crack wise:  “I don’t know . . . which one of you . . . is the more cheerful sadist.”

            Amused, Caine said promptly, “Lo Si definitely has the more amiable temperament.  Is that not right, Master?”

            The old man smiled broadly.  “Certainly.”

            “Okay, okay,” Peter said.  “Lo Si, please don’t leave yet.  Dad, we need to talk.”

            The two Shaolin monks looked at each other and at him, knowing that he was tired and hurting.  Caine said, “My son, can this wait?  You need to rest a while.”

            Testily Peter replied, “No, Dad, it can’t.”  He closed his eyes briefly, obviously marshaling his resources and trying to control his temper.  “Jennifer is in more danger now . . . than she was before. . . . Now she’s a witness to a murder. . . . They may come here . . . to silence her. . . . Please, please . . . we have to protect her. . . . You have to keep watch over her. . . . Don’t let her . . . out of your sight.”

            Caine’s eyebrows lifted as he contemplated his son’s inability to suppress his cop’s instincts even when so badly injured.  He said, “We would need her cooperation, Peter.  That means explaining the danger clearly, holding nothing back.  She will be very frightened.”

            “Better scared than dead, Pop,” was Peter’s terse answer.  “She can handle it. . . . She has to.”

            “All right, Peter.  I will talk to her as soon as you have drunk this.”

            Jennifer saved him the trouble of looking for her by returning with her computer while he was helping Peter to finish the tea and rearranging the covers one final time.  “I decided I didn’t feel like being alone after all,” she said to Caine by way of explanation as she plugged the PowerBook into an outlet in a corner where, she thought, she would not be in anyone’s way.  “I hope it’s still okay for me to be here.”

            “I am glad you are here,” Caine said.  “We were just discussing something important that concerns you.”

            She sat down close to Peter and looked from one of them to the other.  Lo Si had slipped off to the kitchen with Peter’s empty mug, but he was back now, standing by the door.  All three of them were wearing expressions even graver than her own, if that was possible.  Her pulse rate took a leap.  “What is it?”

            Caine said, “Peter believes that the men who killed Chou will realize that you are now a threat to them, and that they will try to . . . eliminate you next.  Perhaps tonight.”

            “Oh my god.”  Fear chilled her and made the hair on her neck stand up.  She was not used to thinking of herself as a target, and she had been oblivious to the implications of the events at the mall.  Of course she was a threat to the killers, and of course she had no immunity.  In a small voice she said, “What can we do?”

            “Peter’s suggestion was that one of us should be with you tonight at all times.  Essentially that means that either you sleep here, next to Peter, while Lo Si and I take turns on watch in the studio, or that one of us sleeps in your room, on one of the extra bunks, while the other is on watch.”

            Jennifer almost smiled in spite of herself.  “What a charming idea--ideas. . . . If I wanted to sleep here, near Peter, what would I sleep on?”

            “We could drag the mattress from your bed in here,” Caine offered, “and put it on the floor just about where I am sitting.”

            Jennifer gazed at Peter, who looked to be asleep already.  “You sure Peter wouldn’t mind?”

            Faintly the patient murmured, “Peter wouldn’t mind.”

            “Then that’s what I’d rather do,” she said firmly, adding,  “No offense, gentlemen.”

            “Of course not,” Lo Si interjected.  “Kwai Chang Caine, let us move the mattress now.”

            Caine hesitated for a moment, realizing that he had had no chance to tell Peter about Louis Sung’s visit.  It was apparent though, that Peter was very tired and not really able to focus his attention for long.  Delaying the news until later would probably do no harm.  He nodded at Lo Si, and they left the room.

            When they were gone, Jennifer said to Peter, “Darling, can you still talk to me a little?  I need some expert advice.”

            “Sure, Jenn.”  He opened his eyes as far as he could and tried to concentrate.

            “I’ve been wondering about my next move.  Naturally I have to tell my editor the story’s dead, but how can I leave it at that and let Garson win?  What if I go to the D.A. and tell them everything?  Do you think they could start an investigation on the strength of my word alone?  I don’t have any hard evidence.”

            Peter did not answer immediately.  He had to think about it, and right now thinking wasn’t easy.  Eventually he said softly, haltingly, “If the body turned up . . . that would help. . . . Not likely, though. . . . Gas company records would back you. . . . Wiretap bolsters your story. . . . Blake could tell them. . . . If his boat could be found and raised . . . it might show signs of sabotage. . . . I’m not a lawyer, Jenn. . . . Worth a try, though. . . . Tomorrow we could contact Simms. . . . She’s in good with the new D.A.”

            “Okay, Peter.  Whatever you say.  Go to sleep now, while I type.  You look wiped out.”

            “Uh huh.”

 

                                    *                                        *                                        *


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