"Detective, why--why did he do this to me?" the elderly Chinese gentleman questioned Peter Caine, tears of frustration glistening in his eyes.

 "Mr. Chin, just calm down.  Now tell me what happened.  Please." Peter leaned against the counter of the small market.

 "I am not rich...I have nothing to steal," the store owner continued in shock.  "None of us here are wealthy people."

 "Mr. Chin, we think the Dragons steal just to see if they can get away with it.  None of the robberies have been for very much money.  Now..." Peter glanced at his still-blank notepad.  "Can you fill me in on what happened?"

 "Of course," the older man replied with a slight bow.  "I was helping Mrs. Woo with her purchases," he nodded to the elderly lady standing to the side with her daughter-in-law, " and this-this little boy ran in here and grabbed my hand, pulling me outside.  He-he told me, no, he begged me to follow.  He said, 'Please, come quickly.  My grandmother has fallen on the sidewalk and I think she is hurt very bad.' That's what he said--those same words."  He looked at the two ladies once again for confirmation, seeing the younger Mrs. Woo nod in agreement.

 "Did he speak English?" Peter asked, glancing at the three of them.

 "Yes-yes," the older man replied, Mrs. Woo once again nodding her acknowledgement.

 "Then what happened?" the detective queried.

 "I went outside with him--we all did.  It was raining and I looked out front, then up and down the sidewalk.  There was no grandmother there.  He...that boy lied to me!  Then I turned to ask him why he was being so cruel, and he was gone.  We came back inside and I saw my curtain to the back drop in place.  And then I knew--he was a thief.  I got there in time to hear the back door slam as his friends took off down the alley.  I heard their footsteps and when I checked my cash register, it was open--all my money is gone."  During his speech, he began nodding and waving both arms for emphasis.  Young Mrs. Woo began agreeing with him and the elderly lady added her two cents in Chinese.

 The staccato of voices grated on Peter's already pounding head, but he decided that the six arms waving in different directions was worse than the noise.  Finally unable to stand it any longer, he placed two fingers of his left hand in his mouth and whistled, long and loud.  In the stillness you could hear a pin drop and Peter nodded his thankfulness.  "All right, one at a time," he told them in English, then repeated in Chinese for Mrs. Woo, whom he knew spoke only her native language.

 "What more is there to say?" Mr. Chin summed it up.  "This little boy -- he is a thief, a robber.  I want you to find him, Peter Caine.  He must be punished."

 "Okay, okay," Peter replied.  "We'll find the kid.  Now, what did he look like?"

 "About this high," Mr. Chin held his hand up to his own waist, "small build, black hair, dark eyes, maybe seven or eight years old."

 The cop sighed.  "He's Chinese, right?"  At Mr. Chin's nodding head, he mumbled,  "Why couldn't he be some little redhead with freckles.  At least I could spot 'im."  Making notes on the pad, Peter inquired, "What was he wearing?"

 "Jeans and a t-shirt," Mr. Chin promptly replied.

 Peter glanced up, eyes wide.  "That's it?"

 "Yes, that's right," young Mrs. Woo agreed, then turned to check with her mother-in-law, who nodded her gray head in confirmation.

 "You've only described every kid in Chinatown," the policeman complained.  "What color shirt was he wearing?"

 "Blue," Chin quickly replied.

 "Green," the customer answered simultaneously, immediately turning to argue with the shop owner.  Becoming totally exasperated, Peter turned to Mrs. Woo, asking in Chinese the color of the shirt.

 Her weathered face broke into a wide smile and her head bobbed up and down in understanding.  "The boy's shirt was black," she promptly told him.  "And he was wearing a Dodgers cap."

 *****

 Peter walked up the stairway of the well-worn brick warehouse, stepping into his father's sparse living quarters.  "Dad"?

 After a moment's pause, Caine spoke from the other room, "In here, my son."  Looking up from tending one of his many herbs, he silently studied his son, immediately feeling the turmoil of Peter's emotional state.  Reaching for a towel, he wiped the dirt from his hands.  "Something troubles you, my son."

 In answer, Peter shrugged, continuing to wander around the room, his silence an indication of his somber mood.

 Pouring tea into two cups, Caine handed one to his unusually quiet son.  Although Caine cherished quiet and solitude, when it came from Peter, the Shaolin knew something was amiss.

 "Do you wish to talk?" Caine invited.

 "I need a break in this case," the policeman answered with a sigh, angrily kicking aside a pillow on the floor.

 Caine arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, his son's frustration an open wound.  "I heard of yesterday's robbery of Mr. Chin's market."

 "The Dragons are usin' a kid to help them steal," Peter told his father, quietly filling him in on the case.  "And now I'm supposed to find the kid.  No problem, how many seven year old, black-hair, dark-eyed Chinese boys are there in this community?"

 "Many," the priest replied with a shrug of one shoulder.   "But this child...has a unique aura about him.  You must seek the aura...not the child."

 "Well, Pop, I missed Aura 101 at the Academy.  And at the risk of sounding like a stupid American tourist, let's face it, these kids all look alike."

 "You have no leads?"

 "Oh, yeah.  One.  Yesterday he was wearin' either a blue, green or black t-shirt.  "Can't believe I haven't wrapped this up already," he wryly chuckled.  Pacing the room once more, he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

 Stepping in front of his son, Caine halted his progress before another household furnishing sailed across the room.  Peter jumped, but didn't pull away when his father laid a hand along the side of his neck before moving his fingers lightly to touch his cheek and forehead.

 "You are...stressed out?"

 "Yeah, I guess."  Peter pulled away from the touch, but Caine placed a hand on his son's shoulder, pressing downward.

 "Sit."

 "Dad.  I've got to go.  I was just in the neighborhood and--"

 "Sit, Peter.  And be quiet."

 "Look, Pop.  I can't stay."

 Caine glared at his son while his fingers worked their magic.  Peter collapsed to the floor in semi-lotus position, unable and unwilling to rise.

 It only took a few seconds of the priest's magical fingers kneading the pressure points in the young man's neck for him to begin to relax, almost against his will.  Peter's chin dropped to his chest as the tight muscles loosened.  "Yeah, Pop, right there," he encouraged his father to continue.

 "That is better," Caine remarked, removing his hands.  "Perhaps you can now focus on what is most important."

 "I did go by the sites of the last two robberies," Peter told him.  "The victims all thought they remembered seeing a kid around there.  Some help, huh?"

 "It is a beginning," Caine softly answered with a shrug.  "What is it about these robberies that is really bothering you?"

 "I'm not sure--maybe it's because all of them are here in Chinatown.  The Dragons aren't bashful about letting people know who they are.  The citizens here are expecting me to find these guys.  And I want to find them before something really bad happens...before someone ends up getting hurt.  This gang started out stealing purses from old ladies, then got bored and moved on to robbing small businesses.  What's next when they don't get a rush out of that anymore?"

 "Trust your instincts, Peter," Caine told him.  "These youths are in pain...they have no one to show them the way.  You must be that person.  I pray they won't kill to seek attention."

 "Get real, Pop," the policeman scoffed, climbing up from the floor.   "The only way they'll learn is behind bars...and after that, they'll be worse."

 "Only if you allow it to be," Caine replied philosophically.

 "Maybe you're right," his son replied.  "I heard you say one time that each person must be in control of his own life...he makes his own choices.  These kids have to make their own choice."  He shrugged, indicating he did not have the answers.  "I do have to go, Dad.  I'm supposed to meet Strenlich and Blaisdell in half an hour to go over all this.

 Caine walked him to the door and they stepped out onto the sidewalk.  "And...thanks for listenin' to me."

 "It is a..."

 "I know, I know...it is the 'function of a father'," Peter completed the statement.  The young man crooked his arm around his father's neck drawing him closer before kissing him on the forehead, a Chinese gesture of respect.

 Peter turned to go to his car before hearing the name "Caine" called out.  Mrs. Woo rushed to them from across the street, waving both hands above her head.  Caine bowed to the elderly lady, speaking softly to her. She pointed to the dry cleaning store in the next block where a small boy in jeans, black shirt and blue baseball cap was leaning against a car.  "That's him," she told them excitedly in Chinese.  "The young one from the market."

 "You're sure?" Peter asked.

 "Yes, yes, I am sure."

 "Great!" he began to move down the sidewalk.  "Thank you."

 "Peter, should you not call for back up?" his father questioned.

 The cop turned back around, anxious to be on his way.  "No time," he walked backwards.  "Thank Mrs. Woo for me and then follow, okay, Pop?  You can be my back-up," he finished before turning and trotting across the street, halting three cars in the process.

 Peter sauntered along the sidewalk still half-a-block away from the kid.  He was typical for a young boy -- Dodgers cap turned around backwards, jeans torn at the knees and a shirt, dirty from extended wear.  On his back was slung a battered, blue backpack.  Caine walked on past the boy and the dry cleaners, turning to look into the window at Sam Chung. The shop owner was on the phone, but raised his head and nodded to the young man as he passed.  Peter still constantly marveled at the fact that everyone in Chinatown seemed to know him as Kwai Chang Caine's son, the policeman, and they all took time to speak whenever he was in the area.

 Reaching the corner, he slowed and turned to look behind him, seeing his father down one block waiting on the corner.  As if on cue, the youngster glanced around, and ignoring them both, limped into Mr. Chung's store.  A loud wail echoed all the way back to the corner where Peter stood.  The policeman hurried back to the dry cleaner's entrance and stuck his head in the door.  "Hey, kid, what's goin' on?"

 The crying boy had Chung by the hand, trying to pull him outside.  Mr. Chung refused to budge from his telephone conversation, asking the child to wait.  The youngster set up another loud cry, nervously glancing toward the back of the shop.

 "Hey, kid, I asked you what's wrong," Peter tried again, grasping the boy's shoulder.

 The sobs continued and he jerked away.  "Nothin'.  Get away from me."  He slid another anxious glance at the back storeroom.

 "No, no, let me help," Peter pressed.  "What's the problem?"  Walking closer to the back room, he grabbed the kid's arm and dragged him along, peering behind the curtain.  "Okay, guys, out," he yelled.  "This is the police."

 A knife flew from the storeroom, pinning the curtain back against the doorframe not two inches from where Peter's head had been.  He shoved the youngster down and pulled his gun.  "Police," he shouted once more.  "Now come out with your hands up."

 "We've got a gun," a voice called from the back.  "Give us the kid."

 "No way," Peter yelled back.  "I'm gonna count to--"

 A shot was fired from behind the curtain and Peter scrambled around to the front of the counter, dragging the kid with him.

 "Run, Jerry," the little boy screamed, jumping up and trying to run toward the back.
 
 Peter jerked him back down, clamping a hand over the lad's mouth.  He was rewarded with a bite to his thumb.  "Yeowch!" he yelled.  "You son of a...gun.  That hurt!"  'Son of a gun' wasn't the expletive of choice, but the cop managed to refrain from a string of cursing in front of the boy. Another shot was fired and Peter forgot his thumb, calling to Mr. Chung.  "Hey, Sam.  Are you okay?  Sam?"

 The old man did not answer but sent his message to the kids in his storeroom.  "You will not rob me, you...you hoodlums."  He punctuated his remarks by firing his own gun into the back room.

 "Sam, NO," Peter shouted, his heart pounding in his chest. The kid continued to scream, "Run, Jerry.  Get out of here."

 Dead silence filtered from the work room until the back door was jerked open loudly and the sound of several feet beat a path down the alley.

 "Where the hell did you get that gun?" Peter shouted at the owner after jumping up and cautiously checking behind the curtain.

 "It is mine," Chung replied, calmly setting the weapon down on the counter.  "They will not take my money."

 Peter had a grip on the neck of the kid's shirt, hauling him along at his side.  Before the cop went through the curtain, the boy kicked him in the shin then whirled around and bolted for the door.

 "Hey, you!" Peter yelled, half running, half hopping toward the now-open door.  "Dammit, come back here you little creep."

 He drew up short when he came through the door, running into his father.  "Is this whom you seek?" Caine asked, indicating the youngster he was holding by the shoulders.

 "Yeah, that's him," Peter replied.  "Be careful, Pop, his body is a lethal weapon," he warned while reaching down to rub his leg.

 "I think I can...handle him," Caine assured his son, smiling.

 "Yeah, well, hang on to him."

 "No, let me go," the kid begged, panicking as a siren sounded from around the corner.

 "Back up has arrived, Peter."

 "I didn't call--" the cop glared at his father.  "Did you call in anyway?" he asked.

 "I did...not," Caine replied as the car pulled to a stop and the uniformed officers stepped out.

 "Hey, Pete, what's up?" the patrolman called out.  "Someone heard shots and called it in."

 "Attempted robbery," the detective explained.  "Let's see if we can find anything other than this little felon."

 "Hey, mister, you can't turn me in.  I'm just a kid," the youngster cried.

 "Watch me," Peter warned.  "In about an hour, you're gonna be a kid with a rap sheet." They walked back into the now empty shop.  "Hey, Sam, don't touch anything back there. Maybe lab can pull some fingerprints."

 Pushing through the curtain, Peter found Mr. Chung crying quietly.  "Aw, Jeez, Sam."  Mr. Chung was staring at the body of one of the teenagers sprawled on the floor, a blossom of red spreading over his shirt.  The cop reached down to check for a pulsebeat in the young man's neck, then shook his head as Caine and the boy entered the room.  "Get the kid out of here," he tersely told the patrolmen.  "And call the wagon."

 "NO!" the boy shrieked.  "Old man, you shot Jimmy."  The young face contorted and this time the tears were real.

 They matched the tears on Mr. Chung's stricken face as he explained in broken English, "He is my sister's boy.  My nephew."

 Caine placed his hand on Mr. Chung's shaking shoulder, turning him away from the gruesome reality on the floor.  "I will prepare some...tea," he spoke softly.  "Come."

 *****

 Peter paced back and forth in front of Blaisdell's desk, running his fingers through his hair in agitation.  "I knew something like this was going to happen," he muttered.  "It was inevitable.  Why did Sam hafta pull a gun?"

 "He thought he was doing what was best," Paul replied.  "Unfortunately, Mr. Chung and his family have learned the hard way how cruel weapons can be."

 "Has the rest of Jimmy's family been notified?"  Peter stopped his pacing and stared out the glass window into the squad room.

 "Yes, he...Jimmy was an only child.  Only fifteen years old.  His parents are older--apparently they had waited quite a while to have a child and he was their pride and joy--never a problem, a good student...the works.  The whole family is taking it pretty hard."

 "How did a kid from a good family like that get mixed up with the Dragons?" Peter asked, jerking around to face Blaisdell.  "And why the hell did he have to end up dead?"

 The captain shrugged.  "No one can answer that, Peter.  But maybe your friend out there can give you some answers."  He nodded toward the squad room where the youngster sat.

 Peter turned around to stare at the boy sitting defiantly in front of his desk, clutching the worn backpack in white-knuckled fingers.

 "He's the only chance I've got," the policeman admitted quietly, pulling open the door.

 "So, kid, you ready to tell me your name?" Peter asked, setting a cold Mountain Dew in front of the boy.

 "Go to hell," the kid spat out.

 "Hey, I'm tryin' to help you here," Peter yelled back.

 "Then let me go," the youngster replied.  "I ain't done nothin'."

 "Oh, really?  What were you doing in Sam Chung's store?  And by the way, how's your poor old grandmother?  I understand she had a fall yesterday."

 The lad jerked his head up to stare at the cop, eyes wide, his fear beginning to show.

 Peter spoke quieter this time.  "You're in a lot of trouble, kid.  Help me out.  One of your friends died today."

 The youngster seemed to draw into himself at the mention of the dead boy.

 "Come on, at least tell me your name."

 A stone face met his own glare.

 "Who's Jerry?  You yelled to him."

 Still no reply.

 "Look, kid, you gotta talk sometime.  Where do you live?  We've got to notify your parents."

 "They're dead," a small voice whispered, the black eyes now downcast.

 Peter stared silently at the youngster, remembering the ache of his own lost feeling as if it were yesterday.  "Who do you live with?" he asked.  "Jerry?"

 The kid shrugged.

 "Come on, help me."

 The lip trembled slightly.  "I want my brother."

 "Is Jerry your brother?" Caine asked again.

 The dark head nodded.  "Please, mister.  Let me go.  My brother's gonna be mad."

 "Do you live with anyone else?" Peter pumped him.

 He shook his head.  "Just me and Jerry."

 "I'd like to call you something other than 'kid'," the cop told him.  "What's your name?"

 "Ernie."

 "Ernie.  Okay, Ernie.  You got a last name?"

 "You just want it to find the Dragons," the boy shouted.  "Well, I'm a Dragon and we don't rat on each other.  I ain't gonna help you."
 
 Blaisdell came over to stand by Peter's desk.  "Need any help?"

 "Paul, this is Ernie Something-or-the-Other.  We haven't gotten far yet.  The little felon won't snitch on his gang."

 "He doesn't have to tell us anything else," Blaisdell replied.  "Mr. and Mrs. Fong knew the names of Jimmy's friends.  Apparently he just began hanging out with a Sammie Li and Jerry Po.  Seems Jimmy mentioned that Jerry Po had a kid brother named Ernie who was always hanging around."

 "Is that you -- Ernie Po?" Peter asked.

 "None of your business, Cop," he replied.

 "How old are you, Ernie?"

 "Old enough to take care of myself."

 "Yeah, that's obvious, isn't it?" Peter snidely remarked, receiving a censuring look from Blaisdell.

 "Look young man," Blaisdell interrupted, shaking his finger in Ernie's direction.  "Detective Caine asked you a question.   Now answer him.  How old are you?"

 The youngster cowed visibly by the captain's tone of voice.

 "T-ten," he mumbled.

 "Works every time," Peter muttered beneath his breath for Paul's ears only.  To the boy, he shook his head.  "EENNH.  Wrong answer.  Try again."

 "I'm almost ten," he yelled.

 "Not hardly," Peter again challenged.  "How old really?"

 "Eight," Ernie mumbled.

 "I'll buy that one," Peter agreed.  "Maybe."

 "What're you gonna do to me?" the boy asked loudly.  "You gonna lock me up?"

 "And throw away the key," Peter agreed with him, slamming the file down onto his desk.

 "Peter," Blaisdell sharply spoke.  "I've got a call in to Juvenile Hall.  They should be here in a couple of hours.  Just sit tight -- both of you."

 Peter's head jerked up at the mention of the detention center.  "Juvie?  You can't be serious."

 Blaisdell nodded, turning to leave.  "We've got no choice.  I've run a check on his brother--he's got no priors, but Sammie Li has been one busy little seventeen year old.  Ernie can stay out of trouble in Juvenile Detention."  The captain turned to leave, not seeing the stricken look on Peter's face.  Blaisdell's words had sent the young man spiraling back to his own childhood and he heard once again the door of the orphanage slam shut after Ping Hai had walked away for the last time...a sound that still haunted his dreams.

 *****

 "Hey, Captain, can I talk to you for a second?" Peter asked quietly after sliding through the door of Blaisdell's office.

 "What's up, Peter?"  Blaisdell looked at the younger man with concern.  "Are you okay?  You look kinda green."

 "No.  I-uh I'm fine.  It's just--"  The young man puffed out his cheeks then blew out the air, unable to ask for what he wanted.

 "It's the boy, isn't it?" Paul asked.

 Caine glanced up at his foster father in amazement.

 "You wear your heart on your sleeve, kid.  Always have.  He's getting to you--and a cop can't let that happen."

 "You did," Peter quietly replied, suddenly taking an extreme interest in examining his shoes.

 "You weren't a juvenile offender," Blaisdell told him.  "There's no place else for him to go."

 "Let me take him," Peter offered.  "It's my weekend off--I'll watch him.  Then next week we can meet with a caseworker.  Listen," he paused and swallowed, gathering his courage to speak the words.  "I know what weekends in the orphanage were like...I can only imagine that weekends in Juvie Hall are worse--especially for a scared little kid like that."

 "An hour ago he was a 'little felon'."

 "Yeah, well, I was hot.  He's really a little kid--kinda bratty, but still a boy.  I wanna find out more about him.  Maybe he's got some relatives.  I can't help him if he's locked away in Juvie."

 Blaisdell sighed.  "You're good at this, you know?"

 "At what?" Peter innocently asked.

 "Getting your own way."

 "Then I can take 'im?" the young man's eyes lit up.

 "Juvie was backed up anyway.  I'll call and see what I can do.  But Peter--"  Paul's finger began to point again.  "You hang on to this kid--don't lose him or both our butts will be in a sling."

 "No problem--he's just a kid.  Beside's with you as my role model, what could go wrong?"  He winked at Blaisdell, giving him a thankful grin.  "Don't worry, Paul, everything will be fine."

 *****

 "This your car?"

 "Yeah, you like it?" Peter replied, proudly eyeing the blue sports car.

 "What'd you do to get it?" Ernie asked.

 The cop opened the door and waited for the kid to hop in.  "What do you mean, 'What'd I do'?  I bought it."  He slid into the seat and stared at the boy.  "Buckle up.  What's your problem with my car?" he asked defensively.

 "Cops don't make enough money for cars like this."

 "How the hell do you know what cops make -- you're just a kid."

 "Hey, I get around."

 "Oh, yeah, right.  An expert.  I'll be sure to consult you the next big decision I make."  Peter pealed out of the parking lot, more angry at himself for letting the kid get him riled up than he was at the boy's smart mouth.

 "Where are you takin' me?" Ernie asked.

 "My place -- I already told you that," the cop told him in a calmer tone.

 A small voice whispered, "Why?"

 "Why not?  I mean you gotta stay someplace and Juvie Hall ain't no fun."

 "You could take me back to my brother."

 Peter shook his head.  "Can't do that.  Your brother is in big time trouble with the cops."

 "He doesn't have a gun," Ernie shouted.  "It wasn't Jerry shooting at you."

 "Maybe, maybe not," Peter countered.  "But he's in this, too.  If he wanted to turn himself in, we could talk.  If not, he's still considered armed and dangerous."  The cop shook his head and ran his hand through his hair.  "Why am I arguin' with you?"

 They drove in silence for a few minutes before Peter tried again.  "Hey, you got any clean clothes in that knapsack?"

 "It's a backpack."

 "Sor-ry."  Peter huffed.  "Do you have any clothes in it?"
 
 "What's it to you?"

 "Nothin'," Peter shouted.  "You just need clean clothes, that's all."

 "I've got a shirt."

 The younger Caine felt a tightness in his chest, remembering another young boy with nothing more than a sack of meager possessions.  "Okay, let's go to the mall," he decided.  "We'll get you some clothes."

 "I don't want no handouts," Ernie warned him.  "Jerry can take care of me."

 "Yeah, I can see that," the cop shot back.  "You're a regular Cleaver family."

 "Huh?"

 "Never mind.  Look, Ernie," Peter paused for breath.  "I-uh-I sort of know what you're going through."

 "Yeah?  You don't know nothin', mister.  You can't know what it's like not to have your mom no more."

  Peter jerked the car to a stop in the mall's parking lot.  "Wanna bet?  I lost both my parents and ended up in an orphanage--you oughtta try that for fun.  It's not easy watching the only person you trust in the whole world turn and walk away from you."  He stared bleakly through the windshield, once again flashing back to the orphanage.

 The child was silent, staring up at Peter with dark, expressive eyes.  "You were really in an orphanage?"

 "Yes, really."

 "Then that's why you wouldn't let them send me to Juvie Hall, isn't it?"

 "I don't know...yeah, maybe," Peter finally admitted.  "You ask too many questions.  Now, let's go."

 "Hey, Cop?"

 "My name is Peter."

 "Okay...Peter.  Thanks."

 The policeman was dumbstruck with that one word and reaching out his fist, gave the kid a cuff on the jaw.  "Come on."

 An hour-and-a-half later, they had managed to grab fast food on the food court and do major damage to Peter's credit card in the department store.  Before they had even made it to the boy's department, Peter had discovered a sale in men's wear that he couldn't pass up, ending up with two new pairs of jeans for himself.  Ernie had ended up with four pairs of jeans and an assortment of t-shirts and sweatshirts.  Peter had even picked out a lightweight jacket for the youngster before heading for the underwear department.

 "I ain't wearin' that!" Ernie promptly told him.

 "Why not?"

 "I don't wear them."

 "Well, you do now," Peter announced, picking up two packages of briefs.  "Here are some with the Ninja turtles--do you want them?"

 "Do you want a kick in the crotch?"

 Peter grabbed the young boy's shoulder.  "Hey!  Calm down.  I was only asking a question.  I take it you prefer basic white?"

 "I prefer 'none', but since you ain't askin', I'll take those," he pointed to the white cotton briefs.

 "Okay.  Let's get out of here before they cut up my card," the policeman said.  "We need to get you home and in the tub."

 "And I ain't takin' no bath."

 "Kid, that is not negotiable.  You're taking a bath."

 "I ain't neither," Ernie fought back.  "And you can't make me."
 

 "You can't make me," the youngster yelled once more, half-an-hour later.  He was standing in the middle of the bathroom, fully clothed, arms crossed, ready to do battle.

 "Watch me," Peter shouted back.  "Here's a towel and wash cloth--soap's in the tub.  Now do you want a bath or a shower?"

 "Neither."

 "Tough.  Either you get in there and get clean, or I'll give you a bath myself."

 "You wouldn't dare," Ernie hissed.

 Peter got down nose-to-nose, threatening, "Try me.  Now, bath or shower?"

 "A-a shower's good."

 "Then a shower it is," the policeman felt quite proud of himself.  Damn, I'm good," he thought, remembering a similar conversation he and Paul Blaisdell had had several years before, only then, he had been the one stuck in the tub.  Starting the water, Peter turned to leave.  "Now get clean, or you can take another one."

 "Close the door.  Behind you," Ernie ordered, standing fully clothed in the bathroom.

 "Get busy!  The water's running," Peter warned, closing the door.

 Hearing the water turn off several minutes later, Peter knocked on the door.  "Here's a shirt for you to wear to bed."  Receiving no answer, he opened the door.  "Did you hear--?  Aagghh!"  He jumped backward when a soggy washrag hit him across the face.  "What the hell--?"  Coherent words failed him and he backed out of the doorway before the door slammed in his face.  One shoe, then another hit the closed door as Ernie screamed obscenities that made the cop blush.

 Peter slid down the wall and sank to the carpeted floor of the hallway in a state of shock.  "Oh, Jeez," he managed, biting down on his thumbnail; his stress level skyrocketing.

 Several minutes later, the door slowly opened and Ernie emerged wearing Peter's large t-shirt, black eyes flashing in fury.  "You pervert!"

 The cop was calm.  Outwardly.  "Is it just me bein' stupid, or are you really pretending to be a boy?"

 "Nobody would ever know if you weren't so damn nosy," the young girl yelled.

 Peter shouted back.  "What difference does it make if you're a boy or girl?  And quit usin' that language," he ordered.  "Why do you want to be a boy?"

 "Jerry said it would be easier if I pretended," she admitted.  "He-he wanted all his friends to leave me alone."

 The policeman stared at the young face before him, understanding the older brother's concern.  "Well, that's okay for now," he eyed her beanpole figure, "but in a couple of years, that ain't gonna work.  So...what do we do?"  He glanced at his watch.  "It's after ten.  I'll have to find another place for you to stay."

 "See!  Even you don't want me 'cause I'm really a girl."

 Peter caught a glimpse of the lower lip trembling before she tucked her head down and wet hair covered her face.  Jumping to his feet, he disagreed, "Hey, that's not it at all."  Reaching out, he awkwardly patted her arm, then drew her toward the bedroom.  Picking her up, he sat her on the edge of the bed and kneeled before her.

 "It's not that I don't want you here," he tried to explain.  "It's just that...well, it wouldn't look right for a single guy takin' care of a little girl.  My captain had to ask permission from the authorities for me to bring you home and when they find out you're a girl, they'll have a fit."

 "So...we don't have to tell them.  If you won't say anything, they won't ever know," she argued.

 "Ernie, I can't do that."

 "Please," she begged.  "At least for the weekend.  You-you said we might go to a movie.  I ain't been to see a movie for a long time."

 Peter stared into the dark, pleading puppy-dog eyes, remembering his promise to the lonely child.  "Okay, for the weekend," he relented.  "But then I have to tell my captain."  And I hope I make it out of this alive, he thought to himself.

 Her young face crinkled in the first smile he had seen and she reached out, impulsively hugging his neck.

 The "tough" cop felt the sting of tears in his eyes as her small arms wrapped around his neck.  In the next instant, those tears threatened to spill over when two small feet kicked out, connecting hard with his mid-section.  From his kneeled position, Peter lost his balance and landed on his tush with a thud.

 "What the hell-uh-what was that for?!" he shouted.

 The girl's face was once again laced with fury, both hands balled into small fists.  "You lied to me," she hissed.  "It was all a lie."

 "What are you talking about?" he asked, climbing to his knees.

 She pointed angrily at the five-by-seven framed picture on the bookcase.  The outdoor shot showed Paul and Annie seated on the patio with Peter standing behind them, his arms around the two girls, all smiling for the camera.

 "That!" she shook her finger.  "You told me you were in an orphanage and that your parents were dead.  That old cop is your dad."

 Peter climbed off the floor, rubbing his posterior.  Smiling, he reached for the brass frame, then sat beside her on the bed.  "I didn't lie to you, Ernie.  This is Paul and Annie -- and he'd get you for that 'old guy' crack.  They were my foster parents.  I went to live with them when I was fifteen."

 "Who are they?" she pointed to the two smiling girls.

 "That's Caroline and Kelly.  They're my sisters."

 "But they aren't your real family," she told him.

 "No, not by blood.  But they made me a part of their real family.  Annie's the only mom I've ever known."

 "How about him?" she touched Blaisdell's picture.

 "He's like my dad.  He taught me a whole lot.  And I was lucky--just last year I found my real dad again."

 "I thought he was dead," she looked up at him.

 "Well, so did I, but he isn't.  In fact, you met him today. He's the guy that grabbed you in front of the cleaners."

 "That weird guy?"

 "He's a Shaolin priest.  And he's not quite so weird -- once you get to know him.  So, you see, I've got a great big family now.

 She looked at the floor.  "I don't.  My mom can't come back.  Neither can Grandmother.  They both died."

 "Where's your dad?" Peter asked gently.

 "Don't have one," she tossed out.  "It's just me and Jerry, and you won't let me live with him."

 "I can't just drop you in the middle of Chinatown.  Who knows where your brother is. But if you wanted to tell me--"

 "Hey, Cop.  I ain't no snitch!"

 Peter grinned at her fury.  "Didn't think so.  But it was worth a try.  How about some hot chocolate before you go to bed?"

 "Okay," she immediately jumped down.  They sat in the kitchen, the girl drinking instant hot chocolate, Peter gulping a beer.

 "By the way, what's your real name?" Peter asked with a grin.

 "Ernie," she replied solemnly.

 "No, really," he tried again.

 "I told you.  Ernie."

 "Uh huh."  He looked at her sideways.

 "Oh, all right.  It's Ernestine, but if you ever call me that, I'll kill you!"

 "Now that's not funny, Ernie.  Don't ever joke about killing anyone."

 "I was just teasing," she quietly replied.

 "I know you were," he agreed, "but it isn't good to joke about that."

 "I'm sorry Jimmy is dead," she whispered.  "He was nice to me."

 "I'm sorry, too," he answered, watching her yawn.  "Hey, let's get you to bed."

 "I am tired."  She punctuated the sentence with another yawn, hiding it behind her hand.

 "Then come on.  I'll fix your bed," Peter told her.

 The youngster still sat at the table, her head laying on one arm.

 "Here you go," he whispered, picking up the small, limp body.  The dark, straight hair fell across her face and onto his shoulder when she snuggled her head into his neck.  Stopping at his bed, he pulled back the comforter and laid her down on the sheet.

 Her eyes immediately popped open.  "This is your bed.  Where are you gonna sleep?"

 "I'll take the couch," he told her quietly.  "It makes a bed, too."  Reaching over to the bookcase, he picked up a small stuffed tiger.  "Would you like to sleep with this?  He's my special friend."

 She gave him a look of total disbelief.  "You think I'm a baby!  I've never slept with a stuffed animal."

 "There's nothing wrong with it," Peter assured her.  "Kelly won this tiger for me at the county fair.  I've had him a long time."

 The tiger nodded its head at the youngster.  "Hi, Ernie.  I'm Tony."

 She rolled her eyes.  "You're really crazy, you know that?"

 "I've been told that before," he laughed, tossing the tiger onto the bottom of the bed.  "By females a lot older than you. Good night, kid.  Sweet dreams."

 "Peter?"

 He crossed the room and turned out the light.  "Yeah?"

 "Thanks.  Thank you for not makin' me go to Juvie."

 "Sleep well, Ernie.  See you in the morning."

 Ten minutes later, he opened the door to check on her.  The tiger was clutched to her chest, one small fist firmly grasping one of its ears.

 Pete, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time? he wondered, feeling an uncontrollable tug on his heart.

 ***

 On Peter's scarce weekends off, he loved to sleep late.  Regardless of whether he was alone or, on a lucky occasion, with a "date", he managed to shut off his own internal alarm and really get some z's.  This Saturday was no exception, and he enjoyed the rare opportunity to slowly awaken without benefit of the obnoxious bussing of an alarm.  He sighed in his half-sleep and could have sworn that he smelled coffee.  Wishful thinking fleeted through his brain.  With a long stretch of stiff muscles, Peter rolled over...and onto the floor.

 "Aighhh," he squealed, pushing his face up off the carpet and glancing around to get his bearings.  Peter blinked in surprise at finding himself on the living room floor, then jerked to a sitting position when two black eyes came into his line of vision, peering at him, nose-to-nose.

 "Did you know you make funny faces when you sleep?" the youngster asked.

 Peter leaned against the couch, the sheet tangled around his legs.  Glancing around, he tried to orient himself.  "You sat there and watched me sleep?" he asked, pushing the hair out of his face.

 "Just for a few minutes," she replied.  "I held the coffee in front of your face, but you didn't wake up, so I figured if I looked at you long enough, you would open your eyes."

 "Don't do that," he replied, shaking his head.  "Don't watch me while I sleep."  Coffee.  He remembered her other statement.  "You made coffee?"

 "Uh huh," she answered, holding out a cup which he gratefully accepted, taking a careful sip.

 "Hey, this is pretty good," he commented in surprise, gulping down several swallows of the cooling liquid.  "Where'd you learn to make coffee?"

 She shrugged.  "I don't know...I just knew.  I'm hungry."

 "Hungry, huh?" he stared at her.  "Okay, let's see, I haven't been to the store for about three weeks--"

 Ernie agreed with a shake of her head.  The milk is kinda thick and lumpy and there's no cereal, so what's for breakfast?"

 "Do you like waffles?" he asked, finishing the coffee and setting the cup on the table before grasping the corners of his sheet and rising.

 "I love waffles," she replied with a shy smile.

 "Good, I know this place, you're gonna love," he confided in the youngster while heading toward the bath, trailing his sheet behind him.

 *****

 "Hey, Pop, you home?" Peter called out, walking into his father's living quarters Saturday afternoon, .

 "In here, Peter," Caine called.

 "I want you to meet someone," Peter told him, pulling the child along with him.  "Well, actually, you've already met.  Dad, this is Ernie.  Ernie's staying with me this weekend."

 One of Master Caine's eyebrow's arched.  "The child from the robbery?  I believe you referred to him as...  'a little creep' after he kicked you."

 The cop grinned.  "One and the same!"

 Ernie had entered the room, looking at Caine's belongings.  "What is all this stuff?" she turned and asked Peter.

 "I told you my father was a priest," he reminded her.  "These are some of his possessions."

 "Allow me to show you," Caine offered, ushering her around the room.  Peter watched the two of them while lounging against the wall.  After a few minutes, Ernie was engrossed in a Chinese puzzle and Caine returned to his son's side.  "He is a very bright child."

 Peter grinned.  "Do you notice anything different about him?"

 "In what way?" his father questioned.  "He is small for his age."

 Conspiratorily, Peter leaned next to his father's ear.  "He's a girl."

 "Indeed," Caine replied solemnly.  "Does Paul Blaisdell know?"

 "Well...not exactly.  Not yet, anyway."

 "Peter, will you not get into...trouble over this?"

 "I'll plead ignorance," the young man decided.  "That would work.  You won't tell on us will you, Pop?"

 "I will keep your secret," Caine agreed.  "For the time being."

 "Thanks.  Now how about going out to eat?  We're going to walk through the park and eat at Mama Grisanti's.  You like Italian, don't you?  They have your favorite vegetarian lasagne."

 "I would be...honored to accompany both of you.  I want to learn more about this child.  She is very...intriguing."

 "Yeah, she is," Peter agreed quietly.  "And she can grow on you real fast.  I just couldn't send her to Juvie Hall last night.  And that's when I thought she was a boy.  I'm glad a little girl didn't end up there."

 "And how did you discover Ernie was a girl?" Caine asked.

 "It-uh-well...it was sort of obvious," Peter blushed.

 "Yes, I suppose it was," his father agreed with a smile at his son's discomfiture.

 *****

 The duo were on their way back home after dropping Caine off at his apartment; Ernie deep in thought.  "Your dad's pretty neat."

 "Yes, he is," Peter proudly agreed.

 "Why does he look funny when you call him 'Pop'?" she questioned.

 "It's a nickname that he doesn't like very much," the cop admitted.  "But I can't seem to stop calling him that.  It-it used to be sort of a joke between us, back when we lived at the Temple.   And when-when I thought he was dead, I held imaginary talks with him and I always thought of him as 'my Pop'.  Now that he's back in my life, I don't want to quit.

 "I don't think he gets very mad," she wisely decided.

 "I think you're right," Peter agreed.  Entering the apartment, he took off his jacket, then removed his gun and holster from his belt, setting it on the table while removing things from his pockets.

 A small hand reached out to touch the smooth pearl handle of the gun and Peter grabbed it away before her fingers made contact.  "Don't bother that," he chastised sharply.

 "I was just gonna touch it," she remarked.  "I ain't gonna hurt your gun."

 "It's not what you can do to the gun--it's what could happen.  Kids don't have any business even picking up a weapon."  He spoke gruffly while shoving the gun on the top shelf of the closet.  Turning around, he saw the bull-headed look on her face.  "Ernie, it's not that I don't trust you, but I know how fast things can happen.  Bad things that you can't ever take back.  I wouldn't want either one of us to get hurt."

 Her feelings were still hurt, but she managed to nod before going over to flip on the television set, still trying to ignore him.  He sat down on the other side of the sofa.

 "Did you get enough to eat?"

 She nodded again, reaching for her worn backpack and pulling it to her chest.  He had noticed that whenever she was upset, the backpack was like her link to another life.

 "You wanna talk about what's bothering you?" he attempted again.

 She shook her head and they continued watching an inane sit-com on TV, Peter patiently waiting her out.

 "Do you want to see what I've got in here?" she asked him when the closing credits began to roll.

 "Sure...if you want to show me."  He was thankful that his patience paid off.

 She unzipped the dingy bag and pulled out two battered pictures, hesitantly handing the first to her new friend.  "That's my mom and grandmother.  They both died when I was a little kid."

 The faded color photo showed two ladies seated on a couch, Jerry standing behind them and a smaller version of Ernie enscounced between the women.  The little girl's eyes sparkled as she smiled into the camera.  "How old were you?" he asked.

 "Maybe five," she replied.

 "You look just like your mother," he told her.  "Even though you don't want to be a girl."

 "I wish I could remember more about her," she quietly reminisced.

 "I know how you feel," Peter admitted, reaching into his hip pocket for his wallet.  Flipping it open, he pulled out the worn picture of his own mother.  "This is my Mom--my real Mom," he explained, holding out the snapshot for her to see.  "I don't really remember anything about her except the perfume she wore.  My dad made it for her from flowers."

 "Do you miss her?" she looked up at him with wide eyes.

 Peter nodded.  "Sure, I guess.  It's hard to miss something you never had.  And when I was older, I went to live with Paul and Annie, so she's been my mom for several years.

 "You're lucky," Ernie explained.  "You got to have two moms and two dads."

 "Yeah, I was real lucky," he agreed, replacing the picture carefully back into his wallet.  "Let's see that picture," he pointed to the other one she had.

 She held out the snapshot of her and Jerry, the older boy holding her upside down.  Both were making faces at the camera.  "If-if you catch my brother, what's gonna happen to him?  Will he get killed like Jimmy did?"

 "Honey, we're doing everything we can to find your brother and Sammie," Peter quickly explained.  "We don't want anyone to get hurt--and that includes Jerry.  But we can't let them keep on stealing or hurt anyone else, either.  Ernie, I'm not askin' you to rat on them, but if you can think of anything that might help us find them, you really need to tell me.  Sometimes...sometimes you have to tell on someone you love for their own good."

 "I don't know where they are," she admitted.  "I've tried to think about where they would go, but we always moved wherever Sammie said to.  What if Jerry dies and I don't know it?"  She wiped a tear from her cheek.  "Then I won't have anybody and I'll have to go to an orphanage like you did."

 Peter scooted across the couch and pulled her closer, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

 "Yuck!" She jerked back, looking at him like he had grown two heads.

 "What's wrong with a little kiss? he teased.  "I'm not going to hurt you and I don't have cooties or anything."

 "It's gross."

 "It's not gross when it's a happy kiss to make you feel better.  But if it makes you uncomfortable, I won't do it again."
 
 "I'm not your girlfriend," she told him.

 "Neither is my dad," Peter countered, "but I sometimes kiss him."

 "Nobody's kissed me since my Mom died," she admitted, snuggling a little closer.

 He patted her shoulder.  "Well, whenever you think you're ready for a kiss, let me know, okay?"

 "Deal," she nodded.

 *****

 Sunday the phone was ringing when Peter and Ernie returned from the movie. They rushed in the door, Ernie listening intently to Peter's side of the conversation.

 "'Lo," he grabbed the receiver.  "Hi, Mom."  After a moment's silence, he replied, "Uh, yeah, sure.  I'd love for you to meet Ernie, too.  Yeah, he's a great kid.  Tonight?"  He looked at the youngster with a helpless expression.  "Sure, uh, now?  Okay," he hesitantly agreed.  "No problem, see you then."  He hung up the phone and ran an agitated hand through his hair.  "Oh, boy," he muttered.  "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy."

 "What'sa matter?" Ernie asked.  "You don't want your mother to meet me?"

 "No-no, it's not that," Peter assured her.  "It's just...well, if I don't tell Paul that you're a girl, I'm gonna be in BIG trouble."

 "But if you do tell him, I'll have to go someplace else to stay."

 "Yeah, I know.  Maybe...maybe I'll just forget to mention it.  Is that okay with you?"

 "It's just our secret," she grinned.

 "Hey, we've got to get this place cleaned up!" he told her, grabbing some newspapers off the couch.  "They are at the restaurant and are coming by on their way home."

 "Aw, you don't want your mom seeing this mess," she teased.

 "Well, actually, Ernie, my mom is blind.  She can't see and that is why we've got to pick up the stuff.  I don't want her to fall and hurt herself."

 "She can't see anything?  For real?"

 "Nope.  Not with her eyes, but she sees things differently--she sees things that no one else can."

 "Can she smell?" the child asked.

 "Of course," Peter replied, tossing the throw pillows onto the couch.  "Why?"

 "Cause she'll know where your dirty clothes are," she replied, holding up a sweatshirt and one dirty sock, her nose wrinkled in disgust.  "And you made me take a bath."

 "I went running," he explained, grabbing the items.  "All right, smarty pants, so I'm not the best housekeeper in the world.  Don't rub it in.  Now you remember you are a boy -- you got that?  Or Blaisdell will yank you outta here before we know what happens."

 "Well, if anybody messes up, it will be you," she retorted.  "I've been pretendin' to be a boy for a long time.  Just don't try to kiss me again!"

 "I'll try to contain myself," he muttered sarcastically.  "Just trust me--now isn't the time to blow it."

 At the sound of the knock on the door, Peter panicked.  "They're here.  Okay, we're gonna make it through this.  You stand by me, okay?"

 "Yes, Peter," the girl calmly replied.  "But you'd better calm down."

 "I'm cool," he assured her, taking a deep breath before answering the door, then reminding himself once more, "I'm cool".  "Mom.  Paul, hi.  Come on in," he told them in a rush, kissing Annie's cheek when she entered the room.  "Well, this is Ernie."  He nudged the girl closer.

 "Hello, Ernie," Annie smiled and held out her hand.

 "Hi," the youngster solemnly replied, hesitantly shaking the lady's hand.

 "Hello, son," Paul greeted him.  "How's your weekend going?" he asked, reaching out his hand to the young 'boy'.

 "Okay," Ernie replied.  "We went to see a movie today."

 "Great," the captain replied.  "Did you like it?"

 The child nodded.  "Sure.  It was good and we got popcorn and candy, too."

 "Uh, Mom--Paul, would you like to sit down?"

 "Yes, please...are there any obstacles?" Annie warily asked.

 "Of course not," he all but shouted, making a face when the youngster giggled.

 "Peter, mind your manners," his mother warned.  "Don't make faces at your guest."

 "See, what did I tell you?" Peter whispered.  "She knows everything.  Can I get you guys anything to drink?"

 "Something quick," Paul accepted.  "I've got a conference call with the governor at eight.  I'll help you."

 "Good.  Ernie and I will sit here and get acquainted," Annie told them.  "Why don't you have a seat," she asked, patting the cushion next to her.

 "Okay," Ernie agreed, ignoring Peter's panicked look.

 "Is everything going okay?" Paul asked once they were out of earshot.
 
 "Yeah, good," Peter replied, quickly tossing ice cubes into glasses.  "We had a few difficult moments Friday night, but most of the time things have worked out.  He's a good kid.  I can't believe he was stuck being the fall guy for those punks."

 Paul pulled a plastic envelope from his jacket.  "Speaking of those punks, they left this in the car seat of a black and white parked in Chinatown.  It was attached with a stiletto."

 Peter took the note, reading 'We want the kid.  Monday.  Then nobody will get hurt.'  He tossed the baggie back to Blaisdell.  "Well, they ain't getting 'im."

 "No, they're not," Paul agreed.  "But what do we do with him?  You can't keep him this week.  Peter, we've got to contact Juvie again."

 "Paul?  Peter?  Do you have those drinks yet?"

 "Sure, Mom.  Coming."  He handed two glasses to Paul.  "We'll talk later."

 "Here you go, Ernie.  Root beer."  Blaisdell handed a glass to the child.

 "Ernie and I have been talking, dear.  You can bring him by the house when you go to work in the morning -- he is spending the day with Kelly and me," Annie announced.

 "Uh--"  Peter went brain dead, looking to Paul for assistance.

 "Annie, it's been a long time since you've handled an eight year old," her husband reminded.  "Don't you think--"

 "Nonsense," she interrupted.  "Ernie and I have already discussed it.  We'll be fine."

 Blaisdell glanced at Peter who shrugged his shoulders.  They both knew enough not to argue when Annie was in one of these moods.

 "Well, if you're sure," Peter hesitantly agreed.

 "Of course, I'm sure.  Now do you have plenty of clothes?  Do you need anything?" she asked, turning back to the child.

 "No, we went shopping," Ernie replied.  "Peter bought me some things."

 "Good.  I'll see you in the morning then.  Dear, we need to get home," she told Paul.  "Don't forget your call."

 "Yes, we do," he agreed, draining his glass.  "I've got some work to prepare for it, too."  He yanked on Ernie's ever-present baseball cap.  "Son, you could use a haircut."

 "Yes, sir," the child meekly agreed.

 "Aww, Paul, leave Ernie's hair alone," Peter quickly came to the child's defense.

 "Maybe you could find a 'two-for-one' sale."  Blaisdell poked him in the chest, then reached up to tug on a strand of hair laying over Peter's collar.

 "That's not funny, Captain."

 Annie stood on tip-toe to plant a kiss on Peter's cheek.  "Don't mind him, Sweetheart.  He's just trying to cause trouble."  She reached up to pat the same cheek she kissed, whispering, "We need to talk, Dear."  Louder, she included Ernie, "Bye,  See you both in the morning."

 "Bye."  Peter shut the door, collapsing against it.  "She knows.  How does she always know?  What did you say to her?"

 "Nothin'.  How do you know she knows I'm a girl?"

 "I can tell," he replied.  "When she catches me at something, she uses that same tone of voice.  I just know!"

 "Your mom's cool.  She won't squeal on us," the child decided.

 Peter thought for a moment.  "Yeah, you're right.  She won't squeal."

 "Annie--I mean, your mom said she liked having girls.  She said, that after having girls, she got you and you were a--"

 "I was a what?" Peter asked, suddenly extremely interested in this conversation.

 "What's a holy terror?" she questioned.

 He laughed.  "Yeah, I guess I was," he admitted sheepishly.  "For a while anyway.  That means I gave her some trouble."

 "Like me?" she asked him.

 "No, Ernie, you're no trouble--a little stubborn maybe, but you're not trouble."

 *****

 "What's happenin'?" Peter asked upon arrival at the precinct Monday morning.

 "Blaisdell wants to see us," Strenlich reported, punching his thumb in the direction of the captain's office.  "How's Daddy-hood?"

 Peter stopped on his walk to his desk, doing an about face toward Blaisdell's office.  "Don't start on me, Frank," he grinned.  "The kid and I are doin' fine."

 With a knock, he opened the office door, he and Strenlich entering.  "What's up, Paul?"

 "Did you get Ernie situated?" he asked.  "I wish I could have stayed until you arrived."

 "Uh, yeah, everything's cool," Peter replied, thinking about his mother's comments earlier that morning.  He had barely made it into the house...

  "Peter, is there anything you want to tell me?"

  "I-I don't think so," he stammered like a schoolboy, pushing Ernie ahead of him into the den.  "Is-is there something wrong?"

  "You tell me."

  "No...sorry.  Can't think of a thing."

  "Peter Caine--I know this child is not a boy and you know that I know that fact.  Now what's going on?"

  Peter swallowed, glancing down at the youngster.  "How did you figure it out," he finally managed to ask.

  She placed her arm around the young girl's shoulder.  "I'm a woman--a mother.  I just knew."

  "Does Paul know?  I mean...did you tell him?"

  "Of course not.  If he knew, he would have to turn her in to the authorities and that wouldn't be best for Ernie."

  "Thank you," the young girl whispered, turning to hug Mrs. Blaisdell.

  "Yeah, Mom, thanks," Peter breathed a sigh of relief, kissing his mother's cheek.  "You're pretty neat..."

 "Hey, Pete, you with us?" Strenlich asked loudly.

 He jerked back to the present, startled.  "Yeah.  What's up?"

 "We could have trouble," the chief replied.  "Jimmy Fong's funeral is this morning."

 "Oh, boy," Peter commented.  "How many people do we have to cover it?"

 "Not many," Blaisdell admitted.  "We've got a precinct to run.  But I want you there."

 "Right.  Do you think they'll show?"

 "Who knows," Strenlich replied.  "But if they do, all hell could break lose.

 "You got that right.  We'll be ready.  At least Ernie's safely out of Chinatown."

 *****

 Peter stood away from the mourners, his father at his side.  Many family members made the procession, Sam Chung and his wife following the other family, standing apart from the rest.  The old man's grief caused him to look aged beyond his years.

 "What's gonna happen to him?" Peter asked his father quietly, nodding in the old man's direction.

 "I...do not know," Caine admitted sadly.  "He has brought dishonor to his family.  He must...forgive himself in order to seek forgiveness.  It will be very...difficult.  For all of them."

 The procession into the cemetary ended and the priest stepped up to the flower-draped casket, speaking solemnly, "The family has asked Kwai Chang Caine to bless this assembly.  Master Caine."

 Peter stood in awe as his father intoned a blessing, first in Chinese, then in English for Jimmy's many American friends who were in the audience.  Glancing around the mourners, Peter spied movement from behind a large monument and kept watch even though his eyes were downcast.  He counted three people from behind the two monuments on the hill.  During the blessing, they ran behind the large stones running away from the assembled crowd.

 Even though his father had not yet finished, Peter silently stole away, running softly over the green grass in search of the boys.

 Master Caine ended his blessing, looking at the crowd just in time to catch a glimpse of his son running down the hill in pursuit.

 The streets were deserted, stores were closed; all of Chinatown was at the funeral.  Peter heard sounds coming from the small diner and glancing in, found that the place had been trashed.  Tables were overturned and the perpetrators were just leaving via the back door.  WE WANT THE KID was scrawled across the wall in red spray paint.

 The policeman ran down the sidewalk toward the bakery, running through the alley to the open back door.

 "Hurry up. Find the cash," a rushed voice ordered from inside.  "Let's get going."

 One figure ran from the store, promptly landing on his face in the alley from the cop's well positioned kick to the knee, followed by a blow to his solar plexus.

 The second exited and seeing his friend down, turned quickly around, receiving a kick in the side.  He staggered backward against a stack of empty crates, falling among them.

 The third teen, shouting loudly, ran through the open doorway, his kick hitting Peter in the kidney.  The cop went down on one knee, then swung around, grabbing the young man by the leg, twisting him to the ground.

 Number One managed to get up and swing a leg which connected with Peter's shoulder.  The cop, who was still on his knees, lost his balance and reached out to grab for support.  A sound behind him caused him to realize that Number Two was getting ready for more action.

 Peter jumped up, and turning, swiftly managed to hit Numbers One and Three with one kick.  Number One landed on the concrete once more while Number Three dove back into the bakery.  The policeman turned to look for Number Two and saw quick movement as his father hit the young man in the upper chest with his open palm.  The kid went down like a limp rag.

 A shot whizzed by Peter's ear and he dove for cover, grabbing his father's arm at the same time.

 "You're not gonna get me, Cop," the kid yelled.

 "We'll see," Peter shouted back.  "We've got your friends--why don't you make it easy on yourself and come on out?"

 Another shot pinged off the crate.  "Guess not, huh?" Peter spoke to his dad.  "Thought you were doing the funeral."

 "Only the blessing--someone else was presiding," Caine explained.  "I saw you leave and...followed."

 Number One was waking up and Peter grabbed him by the shirt collar.  "Hey, you, what's your friend's name?  The one inside."

 "Sammie," the young man spluttered, trying to catch his breath.

 "Hey, Sammie, come on out," Peter eased up against the building, drawing his gun.  Two more shots were fired from inside and then sirens were heard a couple blocks away.  The next sound was glass breaking in front of the bakery.

 "Watch them," he yelled to Caine and took off down the alley, reaching the sidewalk in front just as the black and white arrived.  "Did you see anyone?" Peter shouted, looking for any sign of the kid on the deserted sidewalk.

 The policemen climbed out of the car, both shaking their heads.

 "Dammit," Peter shouted, landing a well-placed kick to the squad car's tire before turning to stomp back down the alley.   He discovered his father coming his direction, holding onto the two young thieves by their collars.  Caine's eyebrow was raised in an expression that made Peter feel like a child and before his father could speak, the cop warned, "Don't. Say. It."  For good measure, he turned and kicked the tire again.

 The two young men were taken to the precinct in different cars and placed into two interrogation rooms without being given the opportunity to speak with each other.

 "Which one do you want, Pete?" Strenlich asked.  "We've got a Jerry Po and a Donnie Kelly.  Take your pick."

 "I'll take Po--you can have the other one."  Peter opened the door and entered the interrogation room, jerking a chair around and straddling it.

 "So, Jerry, how's it goin'?"

 "I ain't tellin' you nothin' until I see my little brother."

 "Well, you're not calling the shots, Punk.  Now I suggest you tell me where Sammie is."

 The boy just sat there, staring at the scratched table top.

 "Look kid you're in big trouble.  You're an armed felon--they're gonna try you and your friends as adults.  You'd better cooperate."

 "I never hurt nobody," he defiantly told Peter.  "I ain't even got a gun."

 "Yeah, and how are you gonna prove that?" the cop asked.  "Someone likes taking pot shots at cops."

 "I'm tellin you the truth, man.  Sammie's got the gun.  Not me or Donnie...or Jimmy."

 "That's right--don't forget about Jimmy.  Why don't you tell me what happened Friday."

 "Look, man, I don't havta talk to you."

 "No, you don't," Peter quickly agreed.  "You can wait and have a trial, then listen to the public defender plead your case.  If you're lucky, you'll get out by the time your kid brother graduates.  On the other hand, you can talk to me.  If you prove you want to help, I'll do everything I can to keep you and Ernie together."

 "Where is Ernie?"

 "He's...in good hands.  Don't worry about him."

 "Is-is he in Juvie?"

 "Trust me, Ernie's okay.  Now why don't you help yourself and your brother out?"

 "Hey, man, I know all about you cops--you tell a good story, but you ain't interested in helpin' me."

 "That's not true," Peter hotly argued before deciding on a different approach.  "Listen, Jerry--what's gonna happen to the kid if you end up in prison?  Detention, foster care?  Ernie's a bright kid, but his future is depending a lot on you.  So...what's it going to be?"

 The teen was silent, staring at a crack in the wall above the detective's head.  With a loud sigh, he finally asked, "What do you want to know?"  Shoving his chair back from the table he slouched in it, ready to change Ernie's future any way he could.

 "I want everything.  Who's in charge?  Who's got the money you stole?  Where is your hideout?  Everything."

 "Well, I met Sammie after Ernie and I came to town from L.A.  We got to talking and just clicked.  We started out stealin' food, then we took money from old ladies so we could buy food..."  The teen told the progression in his own words, Peter listening silently until he was finished.
 
 "Where'd you get the gun?"

 "In one of the old ladies' purses."

 "Un Unh," Peter quickly disagreed.  "No one reported a gun stolen."

 "Would you?  It's a snub-nose 38.  Probably not even registered.  Sammie stole the bullets at the pawn shop."

 A knock at the door interrupted Peter's next question and he looked up to find Strenlich motioning him into the hall.  "What have you got?" the chief asked.

 Peter met Frank in the hallway and closed the door.  "He squealed."

 "Yeah, mine too.  Now we need to pick up this Sammie."

 "That may be difficult," Peter answered.  "He's not stupid.  He'll lay low for awhile."

 "Are you going to tell the kid you've arrested his brother," Strenlich asked.

 "I-I don't know," the young cop hedged.  "Maybe not yet.  Are you ready to take these guys to lock up?"

 "When you're finished with him.  Mine's cooling his heels."

 "Give me a second," Peter told the chief.  "I'll be done in a minute."  Opening the interrogation room door, he told the teen, "Jerry, they're gonna take you upstairs now."

 "What-what's gonna happen to me...and Ernie?"

 "I don't know yet," Peter honestly replied.  "But I meant what I said--I'll try to help the two of you."

 The boy nodded.  "Uh...um...there's somethin' about Ernie you prob'ly need to know."  He glanced up at Peter, then darted his eyes away, fearful of telling his last secret.
 
 "I think we know everything we need to," Peter assured him with a wink.  "Don't sweat it--what you did was smart thinking."

 "Thank's, man."  The teen breathed a sigh of relief.

 *****

 "So, what have you done today?" Peter asked, coming in the back door and finding Ernie in the kitchen with his mother, ripping apart lettuce leaves for a salad.

 "Peter, we went to the zoo," Ernie excitedly told him.  "Your Mom and Kelly and me.  Kelly's really neat."

 "I know she is.  What was your favorite animal?  Hi, Mom," he added, hugging the small blonde woman.

 "Ummm...the tiger, I guess.  He looked like Tony."

 "I like tigers, too.  Something smells good in here," he sniffed the air.

 "I helped," Ernie told him proudly.  "It's pot roast."

 "Hey, that's my favorite," he squeezed the young girl's neck.

 "If you set the table, we'll be ready to eat when Paul gets home," Annie told him.  "He is on the way, isn't he?"

 "He said tell you he's fifteen minutes behind me.  Promise."  He snared a tomato from the salad, getting his finger whacked with the wooden spoon in the process.  "Ouch.  Mom that hurt."

 "It was supposed to," she remarked, turning him around with a hand on his shoulder.  "Go set the table."

 "Where's Kel?" he asked.

 "A date," their mother explained.  "She was meeting friends at the movies."

 "Hurry, Peter, set the table," Ernie ordered.  "I'm hungry."

 "Me, too," he agreed.  "I'll show you where the silverware is--you can help."

 After the meal, the duo was elected to clean off the table while Annie and Paul enjoyed a second cup of coffee.  On one of Peter's trips back to the dining room, his mother drew him aside.  "We passed a carnival today.  Ernie really was excited when we saw it, but we didn't have time to stop.  I know uh-he would love to go there."

 Peter hugged her.  "Maybe we'll go tonight.  Thanks, Mom."

 "Bring Ernie back tomorrow," she told him.

 "Mom, my dad has offered to watch him tomorrow.  You don't need to babysit two days in a row."

 "All right, but I expect you to have him back here on Wednesday."

 "Wednesday is the day the administrator from Juvie is coming for an appointment," Paul interrupted.  "I forgot to tell you earlier."

 Peter nodded, fear creeping in.  "Great.  We'll-uh, I'll be there.  Well, let me finish these dishes and we'll get out of your hair."

 "Don't overstack them, dear."

 "Yes, ma'am, I'll do my best," he grinned, winking at Paul.  She had been reminding him of the same thing every time he loaded the dishwasher.  "One mistake, twelve years ago, and she never lets me forget it."

 "I'm done, Peter," Ernie came up behind him.  "Thanks for all your help."

 "If you yell at me, I won't take you to the carnival tonight," he warned with a grin.

 "You're kidding.  Really?  We can go?  You told him," she accused Annie.

 "Sure I did," Peter's mother agreed.  "I knew you wanted to go.  Let me tell you a secret.  Peter loves those rides, too."

 He especially loves the ferris wheel," Paul added.  "The bigger the better."

 "Good," the youngster nodded. "We'll ride it."

 "Uh, Mom.  Paul.  Thanks a lot," Peter grumbled while they burst into laughter.  "Ernie, I don't do tall rides.  I'll go round-and-round for hours, but I won't go up.  I don't like heights."

 "You're scared?!?"

 "Absolutely," he freely admitted.  "No ferris wheels."

 "That's funny," Ernie replied with a shrug of one shoulder.  "Jerry hates them, too."

 *****

 "Okay, we've got one ticket left," Peter announced two hours later.  "Who is going to ride and who's gonna watch?"

 "I'll ride," Ernie grabbed for the ticket.  "I want to ride that."  She pointed to the ferris wheel, the one ride Peter had been avoiding even looking at for the entire evening.

 "You'll ride by yourself?" he asked in amazement.  "You're not getting me on it."

 "Okay, okay.  But can I?" she begged.  "Please."

 "Yeah, go ahead.  And stay sitting down on the seat," he warned.  "Don't you dare stand up in that thing.  I'll be right here waiting for you."
 

 Peter stood next to the cotton candy stand waiting for her return.  She had shouted his name each time the huge wheel went around and he had dutifully watched and waved each gyration.  Now the rotation and staring upward at the monstrous wheel had made him decidedly queasy.  Of course, the cotton candy and snow cone on top of his Mom's dinner probably hadn't helped any.

 Ernie took gleeful delight in calling to Peter each time the giant wheel circled.  She could see from the look on his face that he didn't enjoy looking up at her, but he waved each time.  Just like her brother.  Ernie thought of Jerry, missing him and hoping he was safe.  But glancing down once again at her new-found friend, she realized she really liked staying with the policeman.  It had been a long time since she had felt so safe.

 Her car stopped with a jerk on top of the ferris wheel and a grating sound on the floorboard caused her to look down.  She spied the small object, her eyes widening in surprise.  Reaching down, she picked it up as the wheel leaped forward once again, carrying her down to the bottom.

 Ernie cradled the small object in her hands and remembered Peter's warnings for caution.  Once off the carnival ride, she eagerly joined him.   "Peter, Peter," she called excitedly.  "See what I found."  She presented him with a gun, small enough to fit in her petite hand.  He reached his hand out in surprise, but a low pop sounded before his fingers made contact with the weapon.  Peter realized the gun had fired, but didn't make the connection that he had been shot until he caught the shocked look on Ernie's face.  Then he stared down at his shirt and saw blood.

 "God, I've been hit!" he mumbled in amazement as he stared at the wet stickiness on his fingers.  Once again, he leaned back against the small structure as the pain began to make itself known.

 "Peter?" the girl cried.  "I-I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to shoot it.  I remember what you said about guns and knew I had to bring it to you."

 "It's okay," the cop assured her, "You did the right thing."   Drawing his badge he flashed it to the growing number of by-standers.  "Listen, people, I'm a cop.  And I think I'm gonna need some help."  He felt his legs beginning to buckle and muttered, "I gotta sit down."

 An off-duty emergency technician rushed over and got him flat on the ground.  "Ernie?" Peter called.  "Where's Ernie?"  He spied her standing off to the side, her pale, drawn features wet with tears.

 "I'm sorry," she whispered.  "Please don't die, Peter.  I just wanted to hand you the gun."

 "It's okay, Ernie.  Come here," he urged.

 The technician pressed down on the wound to stop the flow of blood and the policeman groaned, arching his back up off the concrete.

 "NO!  I killed Peter," a small voice sobbed.  "Peter, I'm sorry."

 He opened his eyes, focusing on the pain.  "Ernie, come over here," he ordered, looking wildly around for her.  "Where-where'd she go?"

 A lady holding onto two children of her own replied, "She ran that way.  I think she was going to be sick."

 The cop tried to push himself up from the pavement.  "Ernie," he shouted.

 The technician pushed him down.  "Hey, fella, you've got a bullet in your gut.  Hold still."

 "Somebody find her," he pleaded.  "Ernie!" he yelled once more.  "Come back!"

 The ambulance quickly arrived and loaded a now, very agitated cop.  An oxygen mask was fitted over his face which he promptly removed.  "You don't understand--there's a little kid lost out there.  I can't leave here.  You've got to help me."

 "We're trying," the EMS tech replied.  "Lie still and breathe through this."  The mask was re-fitted as the vehicle drove away, siren blaring.

 "Then call the cops," Peter pushed it aside once more.  "Get Blaisdell at the 101.  Tell him to meet me at the hospital--it's an emergency."

 "You'll be fine, if you'll just relax," the technician assured him, this time holding the mask in place.

 "I'm not the emergency, Ernie is," Peter argued, jerking his head free from the plastic bubble.  "I've got to talk to my fa--"

 The tech grasped his patient underneath the chin, holding the mask in place with his thumb.  A thick pad of gauze was taped over the bloody bandage already on Peter's stomach, and with a gasp of pain, the policeman arched upward before finally passing out.

 "We're at the hospital," Peter heard the attendant say when he once again came to.  "You can try to argue with the doctors."

 Peter did just that, talking non-stop all the way to the trauma exam room.  A crowd of professionals surrounded the gurney, each person intent on their own task to perform.  No one bothered to listen to his protests, and Peter was alone in the crowd.

 Shears split his shirt up the front and it was peeled back before the nurse sliced down the side of his jeans.

 "Hey, hey, these are new jeans," he shouted.

 "Sorry, son," the older nurse told him.  "You just relax and lie still," she added while competently stripping him naked and throwing a cold, stiff sheet over his lower anatomy.

 He reached up and pulled at the mask again, feeling red heat covering his entire body.  "Have the cops gotten here yet?  I need to talk--"

 "You need to relax and let us do the work," the doctor ordered, probing around the wound.

 Peter sucked in his breath.  "You don't understand.  Ow!"

 "Mr. Caine, whatever it is can wait.  Now settle down.  We've got some tests to do."

 "I've got to find Ernie."

 "Later," the doctor succinctly told him.

 Both arms were held down and IV's inserted.  The doctor probed and poked, running a dye through him to see if a kidney was pierced.  Gently, he was rolled over and they checked thoroughly every inch of him to make sure there was no exit wound.

 "Just relax," the doctor once again reminded him, snapping a rubber glove on his hand before picking up a long metal rod. "This will be uncomfortable."  Peter had heard the "uncomfortable" euphamism before and braced himself for "pain".  He was held on his side by two nurses and the sheet was pulled down.

 "Where the hell are you planning to put that?"

 He found out real quickly, his eyes widening in shock.

 "I'm looking for blood," the doctor explained.  "This'll be over soon."

 Peter knew he wouldn't find it because all the available blood had rushed to his face.  He was rolled over on his back and the doctor stared at him with a perplexed look.

 "What'sa matter?" Peter mumbled, receiving no answer.

 "Is X-ray set up?" the doctor asked the others, ignoring his patient's question.

 "Before that, I still need to talk to Captain Blaisdell," Peter tried again, his pleadings falling on deaf ears.  "Please."

 The doctor finally acknowledged him.  "Look, I've got to find a bullet in your gut.  That's the only urgent thing right now.  Everything else can wait."

 "No--you're wrong.  There's a little kid out there.  Alone."

 "That's not my problem," the doctor replied unsympathetically, leaving the room while the X-ray tech set up.

 "But it's mine," the policeman yelled after him, tears of anger and frustration welling up in his eyes.  Peter managed to hold still for the pictures while his mind was working overtime.  He tried a different approach when the nurses and doctor returned.  "I'm a cop," he calmly told them, "and I've got police business.  Get me my Captain.  Now."

 "If he takes off that mask again, tie his arms down," the doctor muttered to one of the nurses.

 "You. Don't. Understand." Peter gritted his teeth in frustration, kicking out at the sheet wrapped around his legs.

 The doctor reached for a long tube and flexed it.  "This will keep you quiet," he grimly smiled.  "This isn't fun, but I've got to see if there's blood in your stomach.  So far, I haven't located the bullet."

 Peter looked at the tube the size of a water hose and knew that he wouldn't be talking to Paul or anyone else once that went down his throat.  In his hopelessness, he also felt calmness, and suddenly realized that his father was nearby.

 "Now relax," the nurse told him, gently turning his head to the side.  "Swallow when I tell you."

 Her grip on his head was released and she and the doctor both jumped back when a blood curdling cry echoed through the emergency room.

 "POP!!!!"

 *****

 Kwai Chang Caine walked through the double doors of the waiting room, searching the sea of faces for Paul Blaisdell.  The captain spotted him and quickly met him half-way across the room.

 "How is our son?"

 "The doctor is still in there," Blaisdell explained.  "They said Peter was conscious and complaining loudly when they brought him in."

 "That is...a good sign?" Caine hopefully asked.

 "For Peter, it's almost normal," Blaisdell gave him a nervous smile.

 "That is true."  Caine looked around the room.  "Where is Ernie?"

 "That's a problem," the captain admitted.  "No one knows.  And we don't know exactly how Peter was shot.  There weren't any close witnesses."

 "POP!!!!"

 One instant, Blaisdell was speaking with Caine.  In the next, the priest had vanished.

 *****

 Caine stood at the foot of the gurney which held his son who was fighting the hands trying to minister to him.

 "Peter.  Be still," he spoke quietly and firmly.

 "Who the hell?" the doctor asked.  "Get that man out of here."

 "Let me talk to my dad," Peter pleaded, immediately calming down.  "Please."

 The doctor noticed in surprise how rapidly his patient had quieted.  "Okay.  Sixty seconds--no more."

 Caine reached for his son's bare foot sticking out from the sheet and began kneading the bottom of it.  The doctor and nurses were taking up the rest of the space around their patient and it was the only available flesh he could reach.  "Calm down, my son."

 "Pop, Ernie's gone.  She-she thought I was dyin'.  You've got to find her.  Please."

 "I will...find her.  Be quiet now...and obey."  He pointed to the doctor, emphasizing just who he wanted his son to listen to.

 Peter's eyes slowly closed.   "It hurts, Pop," he finally admitted.

 "I know, Peter.  Accept the pain and then...release it."

 The doctor watched in amazement as his patient took a deep breath and began to relax.  "I don't know what you did to him, but you can come to my ER anytime," he told the visitor.  Turning, he found no one at the foot of the bed.  "Tell me I didn't imagine some old guy here," he whispered to the group.

 Peter opened his eyes and gave them a slight grin at their perplexed looks.  "That's my Pop."

 The doctor had no comment, but simply shook his head.
 

 An hour later, the tube was removed and the policeman was readied for surgery, the bullet still not located.  He had been poked, prodded and bullied and was fatigued from both the pain and the physical abuse.

 "This is a pre-op," the nurse explained, emptying the contents of a syringe into the IV tubing attached to his hand.  "You'll feel it working very quickly.  In fact, you'll probably be asleep in a couple of minutes."

 "I still need to talk to my captain," Peter quietly told her, his voice hoarse from the tube and his own very vocal abuse.

 "I think I can arrange that now," she smiled at him.  "You don't have much time though."

 "Hurry," he pleaded.  "Please."  His eyelids closed in exhaustion.

 "Hey, kiddo," a welcomed voice whispered as Paul gripped his shoulder.
 
 "Paul," the young policeman forced his eyes open.  "Ernie...found a gun on one of the rides.  It went off...thinks I was gonna die.  Sh'got scared and took off."

 "I know about the gun," Blaisdell explained.  "The owner had it in his pocket and lost it on the ride.  He realized it was missing and was looking for it when he heard it go off.  Damn, that thing didn't even have a trigger guard--and his registration expired last year.  I'm gonna delight in nailing his tail to the wall."

 "M'glad Ernie didn't get hurt," Peter mumbled, fighting to stay awake.

 "We'll find him, Peter.  Don't worry.  Your dad is out searching right now."

 "Paul?"  Peter's eyes slowly slid shut.

 "Yes, Son?  What is it?"

 "You know Ernie?"

 "Of course."  Paul smiled at the drug's effect on his son.

 "Well...he's-he's--"  He tried in vain to focus his eyes on Paul's face.

 "He's what, Peter?"

 "He's a girl."  The policeman missed the look of total shock on his captain's face.

 "He's a what?!  Peter, wake up!"

 *****

 Peter floated somewhere just short of awareness for what seemed an eternity.  There was something he knew he was supposed to remember, but it teased his mind, remaining on the fringes of his consciousness.

 Faces confronted him; his own young reflection looking in a pool at the temple, the shadowy figure of his mother, his father from before the fire.  He drifted in limbo, his thoughts chaotic, then more faces floated before him.  Paul and Annie, the girls.  His dreams were less frenzied now; he saw Paul smiling at him, then the face of Kwai Chang Caine melding with that of the captain.  His father smiled down on him, but was quickly replaced by Blaisdell.  Two men -- totally different; two fathers.  Peter smiled and peacefully sighed in his sleep.  The view changed and a small pixie face flashed before him then disappeared and Peter felt another moment of panic.  In his dreams he ran through the streets searching for that face.  The child turned and laughed at him and he relaxed, finally able to put a name to the elusive face.  Ernie.

 Ernie!  Memories slammed him hard when he remembered the bullet hitting his stomach and Ernie's frightened face filled with remorse.

 "Ernie!" he shouted, coming fully awake.

 "Peter, hold on."  Strong hands squeezed his shoulders, pressing him back onto the bed.

 "Ernie," he panted once more.  "Where-where is he-she?"  He wildly looked around the room, fighting against the hands that held him down.

 "Peter, it's okay.  Wake up...and be still -- I'm not going to hurt you."

 He felt the bed dip beneath his right side and fell backward onto the pillow, breathing in a deep, shuddering sigh.  Blinking, he made out Blaisdell's worried features.  "Paul?"

 "Right here, kiddo."  The older man took one hand from Peter's arm and reached up to push the damp hair off his forehead.  "Take it easy, everything's all right.  How do you feel?"

 "Paul?" he spoke with more stamina, gripping his foster father's arm.  "Did you find Ernie?  Where is she?"  He frantically looked around the room, calling "Dad?  Where's my father?"

 "Calm down, Peter.  Caine is still out looking for the boy-um...girl.  We're going to have a nice long discussion when you're feeling better," he gruffly promised.  "And your mother will be included.  I understand she was in on this little charade.  Your dad was here about an hour ago, made sure you were okay after surgery and left to search again."

 "Nobody's seen any sign of her?"

 "None," Blaisdell hesitantly replied.

 "Paul, you should have seen her face.  She thought I was dying.  She panicked--who knows what could happen to her.  She's just a little kid."

 "We'll find her, Peter," the captain promised.  "Now how do you feel?"

 The young man hadn't given much thought to his own body and stopped to ponder his situation.  "Okay, I guess.  My side's beginning to ache.  I hate that medicine they give me--makes me all doped up and it's hard to think."

 Blaisdell dryly commented, "It's called a sedative.  I think that's what it's supposed to do."

 Peter gave him a ghost of a smile.  "But I don't have to like it."

 The captain sobered quickly. "You were lucky, Peter.  The bullet tore along the muscle and lodged in your side without hitting anything vital."

 "It's not that bad," Peter decided. "Kind of like a bad toothache.  Even when I was first shot, there wasn't much pain...except when someone pushed on it."

 "Get some rest," Blaisdell ordered.  "I'm going back to the precinct and see if there's been any news."

 "Find her, Paul," Peter quietly pleaded.

 "We'll do our best.  Go back to sleep."

 "What time is it?"  The voice was slurred as the drugged sleep began to overtake him once more.

 "Close to midnight.  Stop fighting it, Peter."

 The brown eyes flickered open, then slid shut as the medication pulled him downward into the mist.

 *****

 The youngster ran through the dark streets, tears streaming down her face.  Once she spotted a police cruiser comng her direction and quickly hid in the alley behind a stinking dumpster.  She recognized the street as one that would eventually take her back to Chinatown and she kept on running, keeping in the shadows.  Darkness prevailed and in many places, the night was suffocating her.  She marked distance from one lamp post to the next and took her bearings at each one.  Eventually she knew she was back on what her brother called "their turf".  Not knowing where Jerry and the others had run to, she decided to head back to the last hideout they had, which was the abandoned warehouse she and Jerry had been living in.

 There were no lights in the district.  The two-story warehouse had long since been abandoned and she could see no lights from within.  She tried the heavy front door but was unable to budge it.  The side entrance was bolted; Sammie had put the shiny lock on it and wore the key around his neck, so she went around to the back where she knew she could get in.  The metal barrel was still next to the window and she jumped on the wooden crate to stand on the barrel.  Leaning against the building for balance, she pushed upward on the window, feeling it give under her weight.

 The window was open and she kneeled down to go inside when a hand grasped her ankle.  Jerking, she lost her balance on the barrel.  The hand kept hold of her small ankle and the other grabbed her arm, swinging her down onto the ground.

 "Let go of me," she screamed, fighting to free herself.

 "Hey, Little Bro, ain't you glad to see me?" Sammie told her. "It's me, Sammie."  He dropped her to the ground.

 "Where's Jerry," she warily asked, rubbing her ankle.  Even though this older boy was a friend of her brother's, Ernie never had learned to like him...or trust him, for that matter.

 "I'll take you to him," Sammie offered.  "We've moved in down the street."

 "Is Jerry okay?" she asked, standing up and dusting herself off.

 "Hey, your brother's fine.  Don't worry.  Come on, let's go."

 She trudged along behind the older boy through the damp, dark alley, entering into the back of an even darker building a half block away.  The older boy covered the entrance once again with a tarp, then turned on an electric lantern.

 Ernie looked around the sparse surroundings.  One dirty sleeping bag was in the corner and the other floor surface was littered with dust and empty fast food containers.  The smells of days-old food was rank and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

 "I want to see Jerry?"

 "What's your hurry, Ernie, my man?  Don't you like my company?"

 "I just need to talk to my brother.  It's important."

 "Hey, if it's important, tell me.  Maybe I can help."

 "No--I don't think so," she shied away from the older boy, looking for a place to sit.  "I'm tired.  I'll just wait for Jerry."

 "Well, Jerry ain't comin' for a while, kid.  You see, the cops got him and Donnie early this morning."

 Ernie's head snapped upward at that remark.  "That's a lie.  Peter would've told me before-before--"  She drew her knees up, circling them with her arms and dropped her head down on them to hide her face.

 "What'sa matter?  Don't you believe me?" Sammie taunted.

 She shook her head, still not looking at him.

 "Come on, brother.  Talk to me," he urged.

 Ernie slowly raised her head, tears dropping down her cheeks.  "Tonight, I-I found a gun and was gonna show it to Peter, but it went off and I-I shot him."

 "Who's Peter?  Not that cop, Caine?"

 She shook her head.  "I-I think he's dead."

 Sammie stared at her in shock for several silent seconds before a grin slowly creased his face.  "This is a joke, right?  What were you doin' with Peter Caine?"

 "He's been takin' care of me 'cause Juvie was backed up."

 "No shit?  Hey, kid, you're all right, you know that?  You just took care of my biggest problem--Caine."

 "But I shot him," she repeated.

 "Yeah, good enough for him.  He's the one who arrested your brother."

 "No, he couldn't--."  She got up to leave.  "I've got to find Jerry."

 Sammie grabbed her by the arm and tugged her backwards.  "You ain't goin' no place, Squirt.  You and me are gonna be partners, you know that?"

 "Let go of me," she squealed.  "That hurts."

 In a lightning move, Sammie backhanded her across the cheek, the force knocking her to the floor.  "Don't give me no lip, kid," he warned, his eyes gleaming in anger.  "Now I'm gonna go see what I can find out about Caine.  See if you're tellin' me the truth.  Get up."

 "No."
 
 Sammie lunged for her, grabbing her by the arm once more and jerking her to her feet.  "I said 'get up'".  He half-carried, half-dragged her squirming body across the room, and opening a metal door in the corner, tossed her onto the floor inside before slamming the door shut.

 The small room muffled most of her screams as she banged on the door.  "Let me out.  Please Sammie, I'll be good."

 The teen only laughed as he extinguished the light and left the building.

 *****

 Ernie beat the huge door until her arms and hands were exhausted, then she dropped to the floor, curling into a ball.  The tears had dried, but she couldn't stop the broken sobs, now mixed with hiccups, from escaping.  The room was in total darkness, so she had no idea how large it was--or what else lurked in it.  The door was at her back and she pressed against it for the only comfort she could find--her only link to the outside world.  "Peter, I'm sorry," she asked forgiveness once more.  "But why didn't you tell me about Jerry?  Why?"  Time went by slowly and she soon found her eyelids drooping, her energy depleted.

 Sammie returned after daylight and opening the door, found her asleep in front of it.  "Hey, kid, wake up."  He nudged her none-too-lightly with his toe.  "You sure got Chinatown on its end.  Every cop in the precinct is on the look-out for you.  Guess that's what happens when you kill one of their own--they get real mean."

 Ernie refused to look at him.  Peter was dead.  And she had killed him.  Even after his lecture on kids and guns, she had still killed him.  She thought of kind Master Caine and the obvious love he had for his only son.  Then she remembered Annie and the funny stories the lady had told her about when Peter was growing up.  All those people who would miss him --the same people who blamed her for his death.

 Sammie's voice interrupted her dark thoughts.  "Yep, guess me and you will have to stick together from now on, seein's how the law's lookin' for both of us."

 She shook her head and finally looked him in the eye.  "I'm going to the police station and find the captain.  I don't want to run no more."

 Sammie shook his head.  "Ain't gonna happen, kid.  They'd eat you alive.  Besides, I've got my own plans for you.  You're gonna come in real useful.  Now get back in there."  He pushed her back inside the small room and slammed the door shut, once more cutting off all the light she had.

 The teen's eyes gleamed with anticipation.  He was going to get back at Jerry and Donnie for spilling their guts.  He knew they had talked and he planned to use the kid to make the cops release his gang.  And then they would pay.

 *****

 Peter swung his head around at the sound of the door being opened.  "Pop?  Did you find her?"

 Caine wore his most unreadable mask.  "No, my son," he whispered.

 Peter's face fell.  "The one time I get a straight answer out of you and it's the wrong one."  He slammed his head back onto the pillow.  "Where could she be?  Pop, we've got to find her."

 "She is alive...I feel her essence, yet...she eludes me."

 The policeman pushed aside the sheet.  "Where are my clothes?  I've got--"

 Caine placed a hand in the center of his son's chest in a move so fast that Peter missed it.  "You can do nothing, Peter."

 "Dad--please."

 "No."  Caine pulled the sheet up to Peter's neck.  "You will rest."

 The nurse entered the room followed by Blaisdell.  "Good morning," Paul spoke.  "How are you feeling?"

 "Paul?  Anything?"  The hope in Peter's eyes quickly changed to anguish at the negative shake of the other man's head.

 Blaisdell turned to Caine, knowing he wouldn't get straight answers from his son.  "Caine, how is he?"

 The priest shrugged.  "He thinks he is fine."

 The nurse finished taking her patient's pulse and quickly disagreed with Peter's opinion.  "He would be much better today had he taken the pain meds last night.  His chart indicates he may have slept two hours all night long -- if he was lucky.  And those two hours were before the anesthetic wore off."

 Two identical stern looks turned his way and a familiar one-word admonishment came from Blaisdell.  "Peter."

 "Don't look at me like that," the younger Caine immediately argued.  "And Pop, you can't say anything--you don't even take any medication.   Besides, you always told me to accept the pain--embrace it.  Right?"

 "That is true."  Caine slowly nodded his agreement.  "But instead of embracing, you are fighting the pain.  That is futile."  he waved his hand in the air for emphasis.

 "You didn't eat your breakfast." the nurse commented, pushing the tray away from the bed.

 "Have you smelled that stuff?" Peter muttered to her before turning his head to stare at his two "fathers". "What do we do now?  She's all alone out there."

 "Peter, we're doing everything we can," Blaisdell tried to assure the young man.  "You've got to let it go."

 "I.  Can't," Peter bit out. "You weren't there--you didn't see her.  You see, I gave her this big lecture on guns.   All this scared the shit out of her."

 "We will continue to search for the child," Caine told him.  "I had to make certain you were improving."

 "I'm okay," the words came out in a hiss of breath as the nurse pressed his tender abdomen checking the wound.

 "You've got twenty-five stitches in your belly," she reminded him.  "I hardly call that okay.  The doctor will be in soon and I'm sure he'll agree with me."

 "I'm not the problem here," Peter argued.  "Please, just go find her.  What if Sammie finds her first?"

 "Don't worry, Peter.  He won't."  Blaisdell's beeper sounded, and glancing down, he silenced the noise.  "Mind if I use the phone?"  After dialing, he barked "Blaisdell", then listened for a few moments before muttering, "I'll be right there."

 "What?" Peter demanded before the connection was even severed.

 "Nothing.  I'm just needed at the precinct."

 "Paul, you're lyin'.  I can tell."

 The captain moved closer to the bed and gripped the younger man's arm.  "Peter, I've got to go to the precinct.  Stop worrying and get some rest.  You look like you're ready to collapse."

 "That call was about Ernie, wasn't it?"

 "Peter, this is entirely a different matter and doesn't concern you," Paul sharply replied.

 "The hell it doesn't," Peter shot back.  "If that's so, why won't you tell me what's goin' on?"

 "There's a problem in Chinatown--a hostage situation.  Look, son, your exhaustion has made you paranoid."  He gently squeezed his foster son's shoulder.  Come on," he wheedled in a fatherly tone.  "For once, take care of yourself and let us do the worrying."

 "What I've got to do is find Ernie."  Peter once again threw back the sheet before Paul jerked on his arm, quickly changing his tactics from "father" to "boss".

 "You will stay in this bed," the captain threatened, "or your father and I will personally take turns sitting on you until you're well.  Is that clear?"

 Peter's eyes blazed with fury and he refused to look at Blaisdell, turning to his father instead.  "Pop?"  The one word was a pleading for help.

 "Your father only wishes what is best for you."  The priest reached out his hand to touch the side of his son's face.  "You must rest," he whispered.

 Peter jerked his arm up, knocking Caine's hand out of the way.  "I don't want any hocus pocus to make me rest," he bit out.  "If you won't help me, just leave me alone."

 "As you wish," Caine bowed his head and slowly backed away.

 Peter was only slightly ashamed of his outburst, but refused to look at either man, instead, closing his eyes.

 "Caine, can I speak to you a moment?" Blaisdell asked, motioning his head toward the hall.  "Peter, I'll let you know as soon as we find her.  And that's a promise."

 The sullen young man continued his pouting.

 "We will return," his father assured the stony figure.

 As soon as the door closed behind the two men, Blaisdell grabbed the sleeve of Caine's jacket in a desperate move.  "Sammie Li has Ernie and is threatening to kill her unless his two friends are released from jail."

 "Where are they?"

 "At that empty warehouse near the wharf.  Look, Caine...I hate to ask, but I could use your help."

 "Of course," the priest bowed his head in acknowledgement.  "What of our son?"  He turned to stare at the closed door.

 "At least he's out of danger," Blaisdell replied.  "Hopefully we'll be back soon with the kid."

 *****

 Peter waited only a few moments to ensure they would not be returning, then pushed down one side of the bed's rail and reached for the telephone.  Quickly dialing, he impatiently waited.  "Hey, Sandy, it's Caine.  .... No, I'm okay.  Listen, Blaisdell just called me with that hostage situation, but his car phone was acting up again.  Where is that location?  .... I got it.  Thanks, Sandy, I owe you lunch."

 He managed to sit on the side of the bed with no more than a tug of his stitches.  So far, so good.  His legs were wobbly, but he got his footing by holding onto the IV pole.  "IV," he muttered, looking down at the needle taped to the back of his hand.  Embrace the pain, he was reminded of his father's words as he pulled first the tape, then the needle out his hand.  Grimacing, he muttered, "Doesn't work, Pop."

 Peter worked his way around the bed, feeling like a stooped old man.  At the foot of the bed, he stopped short after feeling the breeze on his backside.  "Clothes!  Where the hell do I find somethin' to wear?"  He peeked around the curtain in the center of the room, until that time unaware that there was someone in the other bed.  The elderly man was sleeping soundly.

 "Uh, excuse me, sir.  Sir, can you wake up?  Well, in that case, could I maybe borrow some clothes?" he asked while shuffling over to the tiny closet stuck in the corner of the room.

 *****

 "Hey, Cops," Sammie yelled from the second floor of the three story warehouse.  The large door was a black, gaping hole and at the front stood Ernie with the teen kneeling behind her, hiding out of the range of fire.  "I told you what I wanted.  You've got thirty minutes to get the rest of the Dragons here.  Or this kid gets it."  A rope was tied in a noose around the child's neck, the other end wound around the teen's hand and arm.  "I'm tellin' you, I'll toss 'im out the door.  Bet his neck would snap in a second, don't you?"  He tossed his head back and laughed.  "And you don't have a rat's chance in hell to take me out without takin' the kid with me."  He pulled the frightened child back into the black hole.  "Remember what I said--thirty minutes.  No more."

 Blaisdell slammed his hand on the hood of the patrol car.  "Damn it.  He knows we can't shoot.  The S.W.A.T. team has a man on every available surface and we can't get to him.  And the only other entrance is padlocked and rigged with a motion sensor.  There's no way we can even get inside."  The captain scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration.  "There's no reasoning with this kid.  I don't know how to get Ernie out of there."

 "Perhaps what your 'S.W.A.T. team' cannot accomplish," Caine said softly, "one man can.  A way without guns."

 Blaisdell turned to glare at the other man and attempted to calm down before shouting.  "You can't go in there alone.  Civilians," he stormed out of habit.  He turned upon hearing his name called by one of the patrolmen in the black and white.

 "Hey, Captain.  The hospital just called.  They think Pete has walked out."

 "Of all the stupid, pig-headed..."  Blaisdell's fist rammed into the car with enough force to dent the hood.  "Where the hell did he go?"

 "Captain," the priest admonished.  "I can see that environment does play a part in child rearing.  If you will look over there--" he nodded to the figure exiting the cab across the street, choosing not to finish his statement.

 Peter walked slowly toward them, a pathetic figure in over-sized brown pants mis-matched with a red-and-blue plaid shirt.  "Where's Ernie?" the injured policeman asked the group standing in front of the warehouse.

 Blaisdell looked him up and down.  "My compliments to your tailor."

 "Paul, I'm not in the mood," the young cop warned.  "Now, what's goin' on?"

 "Peter," his father quietly spoke.  "This was not wise.  You are very...weak."

 "Dad, I'm well aware of my physical capabilities.  Would someone tell me where Ernie is?"

 "In there," Paul replied, pointing to the large open warehouse.  "As a hostage.  Sammie wants to exchange her for his other two Dragon friends," he hesitantly confirmed.

 "No!"  He jerked around, then grabbed the car when his knees threatened to buckle.

 Caine grabbed his son's arm.  "Perhaps you should sit?"

 Peter shook his head and shrugged out of the supporting hold.  "I'm fine.  What's he planning?  And why is he hiding?"

 "He gave us thirty minutes to bring the others here.  He's just waiting patiently," Paul explained.  "The only other entrance is padlocked and booby-trapped.  We've tried to get in."

 Peter stepped away from the car, slowly walking toward the warehouse.  "Hey, Sammie," he shouted.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father angle toward the building, keeping in the shadows of the alley.

 Shuffling was heard inside the open door.  "Up here, Cop.  Where's the Dragons?"

 "Peter!" Ernie shouted, twisting around to the teen holding her hostage.  "You said he was dead.  You lied to me!"  She jerked, trying to get away from him, but Sammie yanked on the rope, silencing the child.

 "No!" Peter frantically yelled.  "Look, you want a hostage?  Take me, scum.  Leave the kid alone.  Look, Sammie, I'll make sure you get out of here--I swear.  Just-just let Ernie go."

 The teen appeared to mull over the proposition.  "Nah--don't think so, Cop.  You see, I could take care of you both."  He pulled a gun from behind the child, pointing it at Peter.  "You've got five minutes left."

 "Peter, I'm sorry," Ernie yelled down to him, her voice sounding small and far away.

 "It's okay, Kiddo.  Everything will be all right," he tried to assure her as Sammie dragged her away from the opening.

 They heard Sammie's surprised cry, then Peter watched in horror as Ernie's small body was hurdled through the opening.

 "Nooo!" he screamed, running to reach her as she fell.  Footsteps echoed behind him as her feet slammed into his chest and he went down to the ground with a thud, the youngster landing on top of him.  By the time Blaisdell and part of the S.W.A.T. team reached them, Peter was struggling with the rope around the child's neck.  "I don't think she's breathin'.  Oh God, Paul, help me!"

 The captain finished removing the rope as Caine reappeared in the parking lot, anguish written on his face.  "I...was not in time."

 "Pop!  Help her."

 The priest splayed his fingers and ran both hands through the air two inches above her body, before reaching for the child.  "Let me take her," he grasped her arms and slowly turned her over onto the asphalt and off his son.

 Peter rolled to his side with a grunt of pain, pulling his arm beneath himself in order to see better.

 "Lay still," Blaisdell admonished him, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

 "She's bleedin'," Peter exclaimed, pointing to the bloody t-shirt.

 "No, my son," Caine disagreed.  "You are the one bleeding."  He nodded his head to the stain spreading on Peter's borrowed shirt.  "Now, I must...concentrate."  The priest closed his eyes, and inhaling a deep breath, placed both hands on the child's chest.

 She immediately choked in a breath and then let out a raspy cough, her head lolling on the pavement.

 Peter placed his hand on top of her head.  "Take it easy, Ernie.  You're okay."

 "Peter?"  Her eyelids fluttered open and she searched for him.

 "You should not talk, little one," Caine urged after hearing her scratchy voice.

 "Peter?  He said that you were dead and the police were gonna come get me and take me away."  She tried valiantly to stifle the sob desperately trying to escape.

 "I'm not gonna die.  You shouldn't have run away."

 "I was scared.  I...you looked dead."

 "But I'm not.  Maybe a little beat up," he admitted, "but I'm okay."

 Sirens were heard getting closer and Blaisdell once more kneeled down next to them.  "We'll get you both to the hospital," he told them with a pointed look at Peter.

 "Ahh," Caine hesitated, looking up at the activity in the warehouse.  "We may need another ambulance for your prisoner," he announced.  "In an attempt to reach the child...," the priest shrugged a shoulder in what could have been embarrassment.  "He was in the way.  I believe his shoulder...is broken."

 Blaisdell followed his line of vision.  "How the hell did you get up there?" he asked, then held up his hand.  "Never mind, I don't even want to know.  The door was padlocked and booby-trapped with noise detectors.  I saw them myself."

 Caine cocked his head to the side.  "Have you not heard that...locks are made to be opened?"

 "Not really," the other man smiled.  "Is that a Shaolin saying?"

 "I think I read it on the restroom wall someplace," the priest admitted with one of his rare smiles.

 Two stretchers were rolled to take the patients away.

 "I don't want to go with them," Ernie grabbed Peter's hand.

 "It's okay," he assured her.  "You'll be fine."

 "Can I ride with you?" Blaisdell asked her.

 "Okay," she agreed in relief, then turned back to Peter.  "If you wanted to..." she began, then hesitated.  "I mean...if it would make you feel better, you could give me that kiss now."

 The young man smiled, unable to speak beyond the knot in his throat.  Before the ambulance attendant reached for the little girl, he leaned over and placed a kiss on the top of her head.  "See you soon," he promised.

 *****

 "Give me that remote!" Peter grabbed the little black box from his hospital room guest.

 "But I don't want to watch Ninja Turtles," Ernie argued, trying to snatch it back.

 "Tough," he replied, changing the channel.  "It's my TV.  In your room, you watch your own TV."

 "My room's boring," she sighed.  "When can we get outta here?"

 "Tomorrow," he promised.  "Even if we have to break out."

 "What's this I hear?" Paul Blaisdell asked, sticking his head in the door.  "A mutiny?  I could hear you two arguing all the way down the hall."

 "Peter wants to watch the turtles," Ernie explained from her perch on the foot of the young cop's bed.

 "Figures," Blaisdell dryly replied.  "Did you know he has the cartoons all on tape?"

 "Dumb, huh?" she asked.

 Opening the door wider, Blaisdell allowed a young lady to enter, then brought in a three-foot stuffed rabbit sporting a purple and pink bow tie and two huge buck teeth.  "Here you go, Ernie.  This is from Annie."

 "Wow!" she exclaimed.  "Thank you.  He's neat."

 "What do I get?" Peter pouted.  "I'm sick, too."

 Paul cuffed the young man's jaw.  "Any more stunts like yesterday, and I'll gift wrap a pair of handcuffs to chain you to the bed."  Turning, he introduced his guest.  "Ms. Donelson, I'd like you to meet my son, Peter Caine, and this is Ernie Po."

 "Pleased to meet you," she smiled at Peter, then turned her attention to the young girl.  "Hi.  I like your rabbit.  What will you name him?"

 "Um...I'm not sure."

 "How about Peter Rabbit?" the lady smiled, glancing at Peter.

 The suggestion caused the youngster to bubble with laughter.  "Yeah!"

 "No!" Peter hotly disagreed.  "Ernie, you wouldn't.  I don't have buck teeth and wouldn't be caught dead in a bow tie!"

 "His name's Peter," she exclaimed.  "I like the name."

 The captain explained their guest's presence.  "Ms. Donelson is the social worker for the county.  Since you two missed yesterday's meeting, I decided to bring her to you."

 "Well, we were kind of tied up yesterday," Peter nervously joked.  "Weren't we, kid?"

 "Uh huh," she warily agreed, casting furtive looks at the two visitors.

 "Well, Ernie," the social worker began.  "We've got to decide where you are going to live."

 "I like Peter's apartment," she immediately stated.

 "Ernie, Officer Caine can't keep you on a full-time basis," the lady tactfully replied.  "I know Peter's been a great friend these past few days, but we want to give you a family."

 "What-what are you gonna do?" Peter stuttered.

 "We just came from the precinct," Blaisdell explained.  "We had a good discussion with Jerry."

 "My brother?" Ernie's eyes shot up to look at the captain.  "Is he okay?  He called me last night," she excitedly told them.

 "Jerry is fine," Ms. Donelson replied.  "But he misses you."

 "I miss him, too," the girl admitted.

 "You know," the social worker added, "I think Jerry took pretty good care of you."

 "Then can I live with him?"

 "Not just yet," she was told.  "But Jerry likes the idea we have."

 "What idea?" Peter shot a look at Blaisdell, feeling very left out of the loop.

 "There is a family in Chinatown interested in becoming your foster parents, Ernie," Blaisdell revealed.

 "And," Donelson took up the explanation, "they want to help Jerry, too.  In fact, after he is released, he can live there with you."

 "Really?" the girl hopefully whispered, with a quick glance at Peter.

 "Who is this family?" Peter asked tightly.  "Anyone I know?"

 "Vaguely," Blaisdell replied.  "Mr. and Mrs. Fong came to us inquiring about Ernie."

 "Jimmy's parents?" he asked.

 "Yes.  Would you like to meet them?" he asked the child.

 She turned to Peter once more for reassurance, receiving a nod of encouragement.  "Go for it," he winked at her.

 "I guess so," she decided, albeit reluctantly.

 Blaisdell opened the door and motioned.  Mr. and Mrs. Fong entered along with Kwai Chang Caine.

 "Dad?"  Peter questioned.  "Might know you were in on this."

 The priest only nodded once in his son's direction, a slight smile on his face.

 Mrs. Fong immediately went to the child, asking about the rabbit.

 "His name is Peter," Ernie hesitantly explained.

 "Peter?" Caine softly echoed, glancing at his son, one eyebrow raised.

 "Not one word, Pop," the young man threatened.

 "We explained to Ernie about your offer," Ms. Donelson told the couple.  "She was very interested in the fact that Jerry might be able to live with you, too."

 Mr. Fong explained, "Our son talked fondly of you and your brother.  Our only wish..." he hesitated.  "We wish we had pressed him further to learn the nature of the friendship.  It is too late for us to help our son, but we have learned from this tragedy."

 His wife reached up, laying a hand on his arm.  "We would like to keep others from making a mistake," she explained.  "And we immediately thought of you.  Of course," she smiled down at the girl.  "We thought you were a boy."

 "As did we all," Blaisdell drolly interjected, glaring at his foster son who tried to look as innocent as he could.

 "Does it matter that I'm a girl?" she asked.  "Peter didn't care," she hastily added.

 "Of course it doesn't matter," Mrs. Fong quickly replied.  "I wanted other children...but that was not possible.  I always wanted a daughter."

 "As did I," Mr. Fong added.

 "But I'm not much into those girl things," Ernie distastefully warned them, glacing at her rabbit.  "But I do like stuffed animals."

 "Ernie, if you agree to live with us, we'll work out the problems," Mrs. Fong reached over for a quick hug, which didn't cause the youngster to retreat.

 "What do you think?" Ms. Donelson asked.  "Would you like trying to live with the Fongs?"

 The youngster once more silently turned to Peter for guidance.

 "Sounds good, huh?" he asked around the lump in his throat.  He grinned even knowing what he was going to lose.

 "Can I still see you?" she nervously asked.

 "Hey, kid, you can't get rid of me that fast," he warned.  "I'm gonna pester you to go to the movies with me.  Deal?"

 "You promise?"

 "I promise," he replied, reaching out to grab her hand.  "But you need a family," he quietly told her.  "Everyone does."

 "Then I'll go," she decided, turning back to her new parents.

 "Wonderful!" Mrs. Fong exclaimed.  "The hospital is ready to dismiss you if you would like to get your things."

 "Now?" she asked.  "I can go?"

 "No fair," Peter grumbled.  "I want to leave, too."

 "You've been a bad boy," Blaisdell whispered for Peter's ears only, leaning over the bed.  "You get to stay until tomorrow.  And when you get back to work, I'll make sure there's plenty of paperwork to keep you occupied at your desk.  Won't that be fun?"

 "You're all heart, Cap'n," the policeman muttered.

 "Well, if everyone is in agreement, I'll get the paperwork rolling," Ms. Donelson told them.  "If you want, I'll meet you all in Ernie's room."

 "That is fine," Mr. Fong agreed while his wife reached out a hand to Ernie and the rabbit.  "Shall we go?"

 She jumped from the bed to follow them, then hesitated, turning back to Peter.  "You promise to come see me?"

 "You betcha."

 Ernie walked to the door, then turned and ran back to the bed, grabbing Peter by the neck with both arms.  She kissed his cheek, whispering, "I love you."

 "Yeah," he choked out, squeezing her tight.  "Love you, too.  Now go on, get outta here."

 Everyone exited except Caine, who silently watched the door close before turning back to his son.

 Peter looked at everything in the room, his eyes moist while pointedly avoiding his father's glance.  The elder Caine moved closer to the head of the bed.  "It...hurts, my son," he stated.

 "Oh, yeah," Peter agreed.  "Like hell."  Like a child himself, he reached for his father with open arms.

 Caine encircled his son's back, pulling him into his embrace, careful not to disturb his wound or the bandages.  "It will...get better.  And Ernie is nearby.  She will welcome your visits."  One hand massaged the tension from Peter's back while the other entwined itself into his son's dark hair.

 "I know." Peter sniffed.  "And this is really great for her.  I'm glad--really, I am.  It's just that I'm really gonna miss her, you know?"

 "Yes, I do know," the older man fervently replied, his strong hand massaging the muscles in Peter's back.  "More than you can imagine."

 The door opened again and Peter jerked away with embarrassment before realizing the newcomer was Paul.

 "Are you doing okay?" he asked, easing into the room.

 "Sure," Peter assured him, wiping his hand across his face as he eased back against the pillow.  "This is good, right?"

 "This is what she needs, Peter," Blaisdell told him.

 "Yeah, I know," Peter admitted.  "And I'm glad the Fongs are willing to take Jerry, too.  I don't think he's really a bad kid."

 "The Fongs' realize they also have a second chance," Caine spoke.  "Their family will be blessed by Ernie."

 "She sure has a way about her," Peter grinned.  "I was just getting used to her."

 "You'll make a great dad some day," Blaisdell complimented.

 "Hey, now, let's not get carried away here," the younger Caine quickly asserted.

 "Grandchildren," Caine nodded at Blaisdell.  "A splendid idea."

 "I think so myself," the captain agreed.  "You know, Strenlich has a niece that has been eyeing this young man for quite some time.  I think I'll put in a good word for our fair son."

 "That would be...most helpful," the priest agreed with a deadpan expression.  "Perhaps a dinner for us to meet her would be wise."

 "I'll work on it and let you know," Blaisdell nodded.  "Of course, she does resemble her uncle somewhat."  He shrugged off the concern.  "But you never can tell who the kids will look like."

 "Cut it out," Peter ordered, sitting back up in bed.  "You know, most of the time, having two dads is a blessing, but when you gang up on me, you are about two too many!"

 "What's the purpose of having a son if you can't tease him?" Blasidell asked with a twinkle in his eye as he reached up and gripped Peter's shoulder.

 "Indeed." Caine agreed solemnly, lightly slapping his son's jaw.  "It is the...duty of a son...to endure.

 *****

 Peter climbed the stairs to his father's loft apartment, listening to the haunting melody of Caine's flute.  He stood in the shadows and watched his father make the music, a melancholy feeling washing over him.  The tones soon quieted and Caine turned toward him.

 "Come, my son.  Sit."  He waved his hand for Peter to enter the room.

 The young man slowly came forward, still uncharacteristically silent.

 "You are troubled."  The comment was not a question; Caine could perceive his son's moods even before Peter himself could and had deciphered Peter's disposition before he was up the staircase.

 "I'm okay," the younger Caine mumbled, finally stopping and leaning against the stone balcony.  "It's just..."

 "Just what, Peter?"

 "I saw Ernie today."

 A look of concern crossed Caine's features.  "Is she not well?"

 Peter immediately shook his head.  "No, she's fine.  In fact, she's really great," Peter amended, finally smiling.  "There's nothing wrong.  She's adjusting with the Fongs and I think everything will work out.  They've invited me on a picnic with them this weekend."

 "Then...if Ernie is fine...what is the problem?" the priest urged his son to continue.

 The young man left his perch on the wall and began walking around the balcony, fingering the plants.  "I guess I've been really selfish all these years," he finally admitted.

 "Selfish?" Caine raised an eyebrow.  "Peter, one of your attributes is that you always give.  It has always been so."

 Peter shrugged off the compliment and shook his head.  "Not really," he softly spoke.  "All that time...after the fire, I thought about losing you.  The loss I felt...everything we missed out on.  It consumed me.  Then, when I found you again, I turned all that rage onto Ping Hai--hating him for severing our relationship."

 "It was a necessary...deception," Caine replied, although his tone of voice almost sounded as if he needed to convince himself of that fact.

 "Well, Dad, that's debatable," Peter argued.  "But in all that, never once did I realize what it was like for you losing a child."  Tears sprang into his eyes and he tried to contain the moisture.  "I mean...just knowing Ernie for a week, I was under her spell.  When she wasn't there any more, there was a void in my life."  He paced the small area once more, arguing with himself.  "I mean, it's crazy.  She isn't dead--she lives fifteen minutes away from me and I can see her anytime I want to.  How did you stand it?  Believing for all those years that I was dead?  How did you fill that void?"

 Caine carefully set down the flute and raised from his position on the floor.  "I learned to...exist for many months after I left the temple.  Some days it was...easier to live than others.  As time passed..." he shrugged once more, "I...adapted."

 "I feel like a jerk," Peter replied, running his hand through his hair.  "How can I get so worked up over this little kid when parents--real parents--are losing their own children daily.  Look at the Fongs--Jimmy was their whole world - and now what?  He's gone.  And there's nothing we can do to ever make a difference."

 A hand was laid on his shoulder.  "Peter."  The one word was a soft command and the young man turned around.  Caine's arms beckoned and his son fell into a hug, grasping his father tightly.  "Because you are who you are...everything you do makes a difference," the priest stated.  "For me, for the Blaisdells, and even for Ernie.  You helped her at a time when she was lost.  Don't ever forget that."

 Peter shrugged in the embrace.  "Maybe.  I don't know."  He gave a wry laugh.  "Guess I'm just confused right now."  With a pat on his father's back, he pulled away.

 Caine captured his son's head between both hands and pulled him down, planting a kiss on his forehead.  "I love you, my son...for everything that you are and will become."

 "Thanks, Pop." Peter mustered a smile through the tears.  "And I love you, too."