Peter seemed frozen in place. The expression on his face scared the hell out of Paul. He had never, in his memory, seen this expression on Peter's face, nor witnessed such stillness in his foster son, except in the hospital when unconscious.

"Peter?" Paul and Annie spoke simultaneously.
P.T. watched his grandson with growing concern. Oh God, what have I done!.

The young man did not respond to anyone or anything in the room. He was momentarily consumed by the simple act of breathing. His body felt numb and incapable of movement. The words Sinclair had spoken only seconds before were screaming through his mind, robbing him of speech. . "Laura. My daughter's name was Laura. Your mother, my daughter. I am your grandfather." Peter felt a deep urge to respond, but words were simply not within his grasp at the moment. Inaction not being a normal part of his personality, he soon found himself compelled to take the only course left open to him. The young detective sprang to his feet, startling his companions.

Annie immediately felt the displacement of air around her. "Peter? Talk to us, sweetheart, please."
Paul and Sinclair rose from their chairs in unison.
"Peter? I know you have a lot of questions, son, but please, just hear us out!"
His foster son shook his head and turning, moved quickly out of the room with Paul, Annie and P.T. Sinclair quickly following.

"Peter wait!" Paul grabbed his son by the arm just as he reached the front door. Swinging the young man around to face him, he pleaded, "Please, don't run away from this! Give us a chance to explain."
Peter jerked his arm out of Paul's grasp and began backing toward the door leading outside to the circular driveway. His hands were held out in front of him, keeping the others in the room at a distance.

"No! I c-can't deal with this right now," and with those words, he turned and fled the house, leaving Paul, Annie, and his grandfather to stare after him.

Within a heartbeat of Peter's departure, P.T. Sinclair made his move, pushed by the voice whispering through his mind. "Go after him, Dad. Please, he needs you."
Moving swiftly, he was out the front door before Paul and Annie could react, driven by the words of his dead daughter. In that short space of time, he had made a decision. He would fight for his grandson. Fight with all he had to become a part of Peter's life. He would not take no for an answer. There was far too much at stake.

Annie and Paul suddenly found themselves alone in the room. Slowly, Annie raised her hand, covering her mouth. She couldn't contain the slight whimper that escaped.
Paul moved quickly to wrap comforting arms around his wife. Placing a kiss on the top of her head, he was finally able to speak. "Easy, babe, easy. It's going to be okay. What happens next is up to grandfather and grandson. We have the hard part, waiting. Peter is stubborn but I think he just may have met his match in his grandfather Sinclair."

Annie, her face now buried against Paul's chest, shook her head to indicate she had heard his words and agreed. Paul knew Peter would return, like a storm on the horizon, and then it would be their turn on the hot seat. He just prayed, that with their help, Peter would manage to clear that last and most difficult hurdle.

Stumbling from the house, the young detective quickly made his way to his car sitting in the circular drive and scrambled in behind the wheel. Only then did that first rush of adrenaline desert him. Grabbing the steering wheel in a death grip, he closed his eyes and desperately fought to control his breathing, to stop the world from spinning. He felt like such a coward! Peter Caine, running away, true-to-form. As he sat there staring straight ahead, suddenly the passenger door jerked open and a body slid onto the seat next to him. Startled, Peter's head jerked to the right and he found himself staring into the eyes of P.T. Sinclair. The only sound was the drum of rain beating against the Stealth's roof, as the skies began to empty. A storm had been brewing all day and had, Peter decided, picked the perfect time to make its debut. It matched his emotions perfectly. His hands still gripping the steering wheel, he turned back, staring out into the inky night as the rain's intensity increased.

"Okay, Kid! You play it your way, but let me warn you! You don't have the corner on stubborn. You don't even have the corner on running. I've had more practice with avoidance than you can ever imagine. But now I'm just a tired old mercenary who has had years to develop the patience and tenacity to out wait you. I'm not going anywhere until we have talked this through."

"Are you finished!?" spat Peter through clenched teeth, glaring at his grandfather..
P.T. never wavered. "For the moment."
The young detective cranked the key in the ignition and the Stealth roared to life.
Sinclair sat quietly waiting in the passenger seat.

Finally, Peter couldn't stand it any longer. "I'm leaving, are you getting out!?"
"No." His grandfather's voice held an edge of steel, even as his body seemed to sink back comfortably against the seat.
"FINE!"
Peter stomped on the gas and the little blue sports car shot forward, tires squealing.
The sound carried back to the two people now standing with arms entwined before the large window looking out over the driveway.

Paul Blaisdell observed the quick departure of his son's car; around and down the circular drive, making a quick left turn out onto the street. He sighed, and then something caught his attention and he stiffened.
Neither P.T. Sinclair nor Peter Caine took notice of the strange white truck parked out on the main roadway, just across from the Blaisdell home. As the Stealth flew down the drive, making a sharp left, the truck, its engine running, quickly pulled out and followed.
But Paul Blaisdell had seen it and his cop's instincts, not to mention mercenary instincts, kicked into high gear. There was something wrong, very wrong. There was no doubt in his mind of what he had just observed. The white truck had been waiting and was now following Peter's car.

Annie felt her husband's body stiffen. "What, Paul? What is it?" Annie had been a cop's wife too many years. She sensed the instant Paul switched from concerned father to alert cop.
"I'm not sure. It may be nothing, and then again. Listen, honey, I hate to leave you alone, but I just saw a truck parked across the street and it pulled out behind Peter's car. I think he's being followed."
"Go Paul! I trust your instincts. If it doesn't look right to you, then it probably isn't. I'll be fine. Just bring our son home safely, please!"

Paul headed for the garage at a run. By the time the sedan was out of the garage and making a left turn onto the street running in front of their home, the police captain had already dispatched the nearest available units and was in contact with Frank Strenlich, his Chief of Detectives, at the 101. There was absolutely no doubt in Paul's mind that the truck he had spotted was after Peter. "Dammit! The kid couldn't possibly be anymore vulnerable than he was at this moment!" All he could do now was to pray that P.T. still had enough of his wits about him to notice the truck following them. A feeling of danger settled over Paul like a shroud, causing his foot to lay heavily upon the gas pedal. The sedan's speed increased considerably on the now dangerously rain-slick highway.

"What the hell's wrong with that guy!" sputtered Jase. "Don't he know there's a speed limit along here? He's a cop, for christ sakes!"
"Shut up, Jase!" yelled Arnie. "Faster, Jimmy, don't lose him!"
"Yeah, yeah, don't get your shorts in a knot, I ain't gonna lose him! This sweet machine is more than a match for that little toy-car. If this truck had anymore power we'd have lift off!"
"You lose that cop and it'll be you who's lifting off!"

Inside the Stealth silence reigned. Peter wanted nothing more than to drive on into this storm tossed night and allow the driving rain to cleanse him of his own personal demons, but his uninvited and silent passenger pretty much eliminated that possibility. Peter made a sharp left onto Ridgeway Drive, a narrow winding road, which followed along the cliffs overlooking the Isis River, not far from his foster parent's home. Whenever Peter felt the need for quite contemplation, he often took this longer, scenic route back to his apartment.

P.T. sat quietly, seemingly unconcerned as the Stealth screamed down the street, but actually it was all he could do to refrain from bracing himself against the dashboard. The last thing he wanted at the moment was for Peter to discover just how much this wild ride was grating on his nerves. No, he would not give his grandson the satisfaction!

Paul almost missed the fact that the other two vehicles had changed direction. The vegetation being rather sparse along Ridgeway Drive allowed him to catch sight of two sets of headlights moving along the road and his heart missed a beat to see the trailing vehicle rapidly gaining on the lead car.

Paul quickly jerked the wheel and made a sharp left in pursuit of the other two drivers. Grabbing his mike, he immediately informed all units of the change in direction. No sooner had he finished giving out those instruction than Kermit's voice filled the car.

"Our ETA to your present location approximately one minute. Have you raised Peter on the radio yet, Captain?"
"That's a negative."

The next voice squawking out of the radio was Strenlich's. "Captain, Peter was having trouble with his radio yesterday. He was supposed to take it into the shop and have it fixed. Blake just got off the phone with Jamieson and he says Peter never showed. His radio may be non-functional." Frank glanced around his office as he delivered his message. The room was filled with concerned officers of the 101st precinct. Everyone strained to catch each word coming from the speaker phone. This was one of their own in trouble out in the field. Every face was intent upon the unfolding drama.

"Kermit, you copy?"
Silence, then, "Oh yeah!"
Paul knew that off the air Kermit was saying far more than just, "Oh Yeah."
"Kermit, Peter is not alone. Sinclair is with him."
Again silence.
"Do you copy, Kermit?"
"I copy, Captain. We just made the turn onto Ridgeway. Three units are moving in your direction from the north. Road blocks are going up as we speak."

Paul could imagine the questions now flying through his friend and ex-mercenary's quicksilver mind. Kermit knew P.T. Sinclair quite well, although not as long or nearly as well as did Paul. He knew also that Kermit genuinely liked the man and had great respect for him. Kermit had only learned last year of P.T.'s connection to Peter. Paul had decided to share that bit of information with him shortly after the dragonswing episode. His first reaction had been, "Well, now. The mercenary world certainly is a small place, isn't it? I knew I had seen those expressive eyes somewhere before. Does the kid know?"
They had spent at least another hour or more discussing the possible ramifications of Peter and P.T. Sinclair's kinship. His computer guru had made it quite clear that he did not agree with keeping this information from the kid, but he would honor their request for silence, at least for the time being.

As the Stealth approached the first winding curve on Ridgeway Drive, Peter eased up on the gas and the Stealth slowed. As they started into the first curve, P.T. suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck literally rise and years of mercenary instincts kicked in. Glancing in the side mirror, he spotted what appeared to be a truck bearing down on them at a high rate of speed.

Peter caught P.T.'s slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced at his grandfather and then his eyes immediately fixed on the rearview mirror.
"What the hell! That guy is really moving! Probably drunk."
"You aren't expecting company, are you?" inquired Sinclair, looking over at his grandson.
"No, are you?" snapped Peter.
P.T. ignored both the question and the tone, as his concern grew.

Shouts of jubilation filled the inside of the white truck. The three men could not believe their luck. Dollar signs swam in their heads like sugar plums at Christmas as they contemplated a quick and easy job.

"It'll be an early night," grinned Arnie. Mr. Morrow was going to be very, very pleased and when Victor Morrow was happy, he could be quite generous. Anticipation filled the cab as they pulled up behind the Stealth. All three men were so focused on what they were about to do that none were yet aware of the flashing lights or the wail of sirens bearing down from behind.

Peter slowed the stealth, thinking to allow the idiot behind him to pass. Even though it wasn't safe he did not, at the moment, see a better option. The truck's headlights were blinding him. Expecting the other vehicle to pass as he slowed, Peter was astonished when instead, it shot forward and rammed the back of his car.

"Shit!" yelled Peter as the little sports car began to slide on the wet pavement. He fought the wheel to bring the car back under control. This time P.T. did brace himself against the dashboard and began seriously considering his chances of surviving the impending crash, which he had no doubt was only seconds away.

Paul, with the unmarked police unit containing Kermit and Skalany narrowing the gap between them, arrived with lights flashing and sirens screaming just in time to witness the pickup slam into the rear of the small blue car containing his son and P.T. Sinclair. The Captain held his breath as he helplessly watched his son's car go into a vicious slide. Time seemed to slow as he observed Peter fighting to regain control. The Stealth finally lost its battle to grip the water soaked pavement. Careening across both lanes of the highway, the sports car slammed broadside into the substantial guardrail; Its precise purpose being to keep errant vehicles from plunging over the cliffs onto the rocks below. The driver's side door took the brunt of the collision against the unforgiving guardrail and bounced off, finally sliding to a stop in the south-bound lane at the precise moment three squad cars arrived from the north in a flurry of sound, dancing lights and squealing brakes.

Inside the cab of the pickup, where only moments before there had been shouts of jubilation, a deadly quiet descended. The three occupants were now aware of the whaling sirens and flashing lights.

"Dammit to hell!" bellowed Arnie.
"Shit, cops!" was the next words to exit Jase's mouth.
"Oh my gawd," mumbled Jimmy, as he slammed his fists against the steering wheel.

Paul did not hesitate. "Those sonofbitches are not going anywhere!" he growled. Gunning the sedan's engine, he pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The car shot forward coming to a very abrupt, metal-grinding halt as it collided with the left back fender of the stationary truck . Slightly shaken by the bone-numbing jar provided by his car's seatbelt, Paul managed to release himself and exit the car. No movement was evident, as yet, inside his son's car, which remained sitting in the middle of the highway.

Kermit and Skalany were stopped and out of the Kermitmobile, guns drawn, even before Paul's sedan had impacted the white truck. They were immediately joined by six other officers, whose arrival had coincided with theirs. The shouted orders bounced off the surrounding cliffs - "GET OUT OF THE VEHICLE. NOW! THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS! THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS! HANDS UP WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM! OUT! OUT! NOW!"

Everywhere Arnie, Jase and Jimmy looked there were uniforms and suits with guns and rifles aimed directly at them. Within seconds, defeat expressed itself in the slump of their bodies.
Jimmy spoke first, "Hey, man! I'm not ready to die! There ain't enough money in this for me!" His face had lost most of its color.
Jase looked at Arnie, "So, big hit man, what do we do now?"

Arnie, sweat beginning to trickle down the sides of his face, weighed his options. If they didn't pitch out their guns and exit the truck with their hands in the air within the next few seconds, they would surely die in a hale of gunfire. Suddenly, the words of Vic Morrow echoed through his head, "Fail and they'll be burying the three of you before they bury Caine."

Arnie quickly made his decision. He wasn't ready to die here and now on this narrow highway as rain bled from the sky. He would just have to take his chances with Victor Morrow and if he was going down for trying to kill a cop, well then, he was taking Morrow down with him. Maybe he could strike a deal with the small army of cops now surrounding their truck.

"Okay, we've got ourselves a no-win situation! Cops can get real nasty when you try to take out one of their own. With a deep sigh, Arnie reached for the door handle. "Let's go!" The three men quickly moved to comply with the shouted commands.

Paul watched as well-orchestrated chaos reigned. The three prisoners had been quickly secured and were in transit to the nearest precinct. The scene had been roped off and evidence gathering was underway. The fire department, along with two ambulances, had arrived shortly after the three prisoners departed. P.T. had immediately been removed from the wreckage and placed on a gurney by the crew of one of the ambulances, while firemen worked feverishly, using the jaws of life, to extract Peter from his smashed vehicle. Paul now stood hovering over the paramedics as they stabilized the young detective for transport.

According to P.T., Peter had been unconscious from the instant the Stealth bounced off the guardrail and came to rest in the middle of the highway. The shattered driver's side glass lent credence to his claim. The left side of Peter's face had been covered with blood, soaking into the collar and down the side of his white Henley. He didn't look much better now that the bleeding had been stanched and wiped from his face. Paul did his best to keep tabs on both his son and P.T.

Finally, Kermit stopped him in mid-stride. "Paul, stay with Peter. I'll see to Sinclair. I just talked to the paramedics and P.T. seems to be okay. No serious injuries as far as they can tell, but they'll give him a ride to the hospital for a more thorough examination just to be on the safe side."

Paul stared at Kermit, but did not respond, causing some concern on the part of the ex-mercenary. His Captain and friend looked as though he was in shock.
"Paul, are you okay? You did ram that truck pretty hard." Glancing over at Paul's sedan, Kermit added, "I think you may need a loaner for awhile." Refocusing on his Captain's face, he sighed. "Go on, Paul, I will handle things from this end. Ride to the hospital with Peter. I sent a unit to get Annie and take her to the hospital. She is going to need you to be there when she arrives." Looking in the direction of the paramedics, who were busy loading Peter into the ambulance, he asked, "Has Peter regained consciousness?"

The mere mention of Annie's name drew Paul out of his reverie. "No, he hasn't and that has me worried, Kermit."
"The kid has a hard head, he'll be okay. Ride to the hospital with him. Mary Margaret and I will finish up here and meet you there as soon as we can get away. The uniforms kept the precinct updated as events went down tonight. I have already talked to Frank, given him the latest update from this end. I think you can expect a pretty good crowd at the hospital. There may already be a waiting room with your name on it." With those final words, Kermit turned and moved away.

Paul began walking toward the back of the ambulance containing his best homicide detective and foster son. He was just becoming aware of Hs bone numbing exhaustion. P.T. 's ambulance had pulled out moments ago to deliver its cargo to City General. Stopping just outside of the open back doors of the ambulance, Paul spoke to the young paramedic. "I'm Captain Paul Blaisdell and that's my son inside. I seem to be in need of a ride, got any room?"
The young man observed the man's unnaturally white face, wet, mud-splattered clothing and bone weary expression. "Hop in Captain. We'll make room for you."

****

A week later.......


Peter Caine sat in a big, overstuffed leather chair pulled up next to the large bay window overlooking Lake Muir. He loved this view. It made him feel as though he had his own private secret place. He had spent the last three days in this large, rambling house - his grandfather's house - recuperating from the car accident of a week ago. His car was still in the shop. Peter felt as though he too was "still in the shop." The thought brought a slight smile to his lips, but it was the knowledge that the three hired goons who had run him and P.T. Sinclair off the road a week ago had, in the end, turned on Victor Morrow. It was that knowledge that put the biggest smile on his face. That little crook and his henchmen wouldn't be running anyone off the road again for a very long time.

Peter's injuries were healing, albeit slowly, which greatly frustrated him. He had spent four days in the hospital, having suffered a severe concussion, three broken ribs, a broken right wrist and a fairly serious scalp laceration, not to mention a multitude of scrapes and bruises. He was sore as hell and moving like an eighty-year-old man, which did nothing to improve his mood and if he remembered correctly, he had spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping the first two days in this house. He still felt woozy, as though his head was filled with cotton. It also seemed to him as though every time he closed his eyes, his grandfather would immediately appear to wake him. Surely that must be his imagination. The last three days had been mostly a jumble of images that his mind seemed to have difficulty sorting. He was not quite sure what was real and what was a dream, or maybe even an hallucination. The headaches were still plaguing him, although becoming milder and farther apart. He refused to take anything stronger than Tylenol. The first day, or maybe it was the second, he had experienced a rather startling dream that Rykker was in the room with him and even awakened him at one point. It had to be a dream, right? Maybe he should check that one out with his grandfather. Most of his waking hours were spent in this room, in front of this window.

When Paul had told him in the hospital that upon his discharge he would be spending a week recuperating at his Grandfather's house on the Lake, Peter had protested. His foster father immediately issued an ultimatum. "You can recuperate at P.T.'s home or stay another week in the hospital, Peter. It is up to you. He still had enough of his wits about him at the time to recognize that look and tone of voice. He had capitulated. Anything to escape the torture zone!

P.T. Sinclair quietly entered the room. He paused just inside the door and observed his grandson. He had been doing a lot of that lately. Peter's need for sleep allowed him the pleasure of sitting nearby and just watching the young man. He understood how lucky he was to have suffered only a few cuts and bruises in the accident. Peter had not been so fortunate. At least now he was certain of his grandson's full recovery - a certainty definitely in question the first few days of Peter's hospital stay. P.T. was glad to have this time alone with Peter, even though it had been forced upon his grandson by Paul. He felt that given a little time together, without the intrusion of others, he and Peter would soon be on the road to working through their differences. That was the main reason he had sent Rykker on his way during the kid's first day here in the house. P.T. smiled. Rykker had understood his need to be alone with his grandson, but at the same time, his brother had very much wanted to stick around until his nephew was a bit more lucid and could keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes. It was then that P.T. realized just how much Rykker had grown to care for Peter. A fact the young man would, no doubt, find truly astonishing Oh well, there would be time later for Rykker and Peter to get to know each other better, to become closer.

"Peter?"
The young detective glanced up, as his grandfather suddenly appeared beside him, staring off across the lake.
"How are you feeling, son?"

Peter understood perfectly that P.T. was trying to strike up a conversation, open up a dialogue. He could feel his grandfather's concern and his need to not only give Peter an opportunity to ask questions, but in doing so, give himself a chance to speak of all that had come before - before his confession in the Blaisdell home a week ago. Now if he could just stay awake! He had done some serious thinking between naps, both here and while in the hospital. One very important fact kept jumping out at him. In spite of his own behavior, running from the house like a coward, his grandfather had not walked away. He had not abandoned Peter. Instead, he had come after him and in doing so, made it abundantly clear that he was determined to stay, no matter what the outcome. This man was not one to give up easily. "Geez, he might be even more stubborn than I am." Now there was a scary thought.

"Grandfather?"
Outwardly, P.T. was the epitome of calm, but inside excitement roiled. It was all he could do to keep from reaching out and touching the young man. He wasn't sure how Peter would react to such a gesture so he refrained. Instead, he contented himself with the fact that Peter had just called him "grandfather." It was the first time anyone had called P.T. Sinclair grandfather in a very, very long time and he loved it! He had waited so many years to hear that magic word, once again.

"Yes, Peter?"

"I've been thinking. That night in the car? You said you would not leave until we had a chance to talk things through."
"Yes I did and I meant it. I am not going anywhere."
Peter gave a contented sigh. "Well then, will you sit here next to me by the window? I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."

The ex-mercenary smiled and pulled up a chair facing his grandson. "Okay, shoot."
"Tell me again the things you told me at Paul and Annie's last week. I'm kinda having a hard time remembering all of it. Will you tell me about my mother? Did you know my father? What did you think about Mother marrying a Shaolin priest? Did you know I existed and, if so, when? Why did you wait so long to find me and tell me that you are my grandfather? And what does P.T. stand for?"

Sinclair held up his hand, stopping Peter's rapid fire questions. "Whoa, son. I'll answer all of your questions, I promise. Let's start with the easiest one first. My full name is Peter Thomas Sinclair. Alexandria, your grandmother, started calling me P.T. and it just sort of stuck. Although," he grinned, "there were those times when she preferred to use the longer version."

Peter watched his grandfather's face and smiled. "I was named after you?"
"Yes, you were. That is what your father told me the first time I visited your temple in Northern California. He told me they had named you after both fathers. Peter, after me and Matthew after his father. My older brother's son, who died in a boating accident when he was twelve, was also named Peter. Popular name in our family."

"Wait a minute, you visited the temple? When?" Peter sat a little straighter in his chair, the subject capturing his undivided attention.
P.T. took a deep breath. Leaning back in his chair, he began the story of his first visit to the Shaolin temple in Northern California......

****

He stood perfectly still looking up at the amazing spectacle before him. He'd never seen such a building. It was almost overwhelming. P.T. Sinclair took a deep breath and slowly walked up the steps of what he believed to be the front of this....what was it called? Oh yes, Shaolin temple. Entering through large double doors he found himself in a large, open room. There were about a dozen men and young boys engaged in martial arts practice. That much he recognized. Since no one seemed to take notice of his presence and not wanting to interrupt, P.T. made his way back down the wide steps. Catching sight of a walkway leading off to his left, he turned and headed in that direction. Shortly, he passed through an open gate and found himself strolling through a beautiful, well-tended garden. Suddenly, the sound of a child's laughter drew his attention. Rounding a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. The scene before him would replay itself through his mind many times over the coming years. A short distance from where he stood, a young child of no more than 2 or 3 squatted down next to a large pond. He could not see what the pond contained from his vantage point, but assumed it contained fish. On a stone bench next to the child sat a very old man, smiling and speaking to the young boy in what sounded like some sort of Chinese dialect. From the robes the old one wore, Sinclair assumed he was probably a priest of some sort. The child was obviously quite entertained and delighted by whatever was in the pond.

Suddenly, P.T. felt a presence. Quickly turning, he discovered a tall man, dressed in loose pants and some sort of tunic tied at the waist, observing him. The man's head was totally bald. The Shaolin must shave their heads was his next thought. The man bowed slightly and spoke in a soft, almost lyrical voice, "May I be of service to you?"

"Uh, no. No, I uh.......well, yes, maybe you can".
The man simply stared at him, his head tilted to one side, as if asking a question.
"My name is Sinclair, P.T. Sinclair. I'm looking for a man, a Shaolin priest by the name of Caine. One Kwai Chang Caine, to be exact."
"You have business with this......priest?"
"Yes, you could say that."

The man remained silent and unmoving. It was almost as if he were staring into Sinclair's very soul. He found it to be quite unnerving.
"You are Laura's father, are you not?"
The statement was totally unexpected. Recovering quickly, P.T. replied, "Yes, I am. But how did you know? Are you Caine?"

As he returned the man's stare, Sinclair saw a deep sadness within the innermost depths of those calm, serene eyes now intently watching him.
The priest nodded. "Yes, I am Kwai Chang Caine, your daughter's husband."

"I have been away for a long time, outside the country, but I had to come." Sinclair knew he probably wasn't making any sense, but it was the best he could do under this man's inscrutable gaze.
"You have come to visit your daughter's grave." It was not a question but a statement. "You have come to see the man your daughter married. The man she left you, her father, to marry. A stranger to you."

Although Caine's dress, manner and speech were a bit strange, P.T. had to admit that he had gotten right to the heart of the matter. "Yes, I guess you could say that."
"You will always be welcome here." Bowing, the priest spoke softly, his face reflecting a strange mixture of both love and sadness. "I deeply loved your daughter. She brought great joy and laughter into my life. Her soul was a brilliant light. She was....the love....of my life." The last was spoken barely above a whisper.

At that moment, the sound of a child's voice rang out. "Fadder! Fadder!"
A whirlwind shot past Sinclair. The priest's face softened into an expression of love unlike anything Sinclair had ever witnessed and a smile spread across the man's face like a beacon. He bent down and caught the small tornado before it collided with his legs. Swinging the child up into the air and then back down into his arms, he hugged the little boy to him, as the child's small arms encircled his neck.

The little boy twisted in his father's arms and looked across at Sinclair. Recognition stunned P.T. That smile, the shape of the face, the nose, and the gleam of pure delight in the child's eyes........all belonged to his Laura.

The priest watched the play of emotions sweep across Sinclair's face. Looking at the boy and then back at the older man, Caine spoke, "Peter, this is Mr. Sinclair. He is your grandfather."
The little boy ducked his head and shyly peeked out at him from beneath a cascade of dark curls. His expression was so like the that which he had often observed on the face of his beloved daughter at about the same age.

"Hello." The boy watched P.T.
With a lump forming in his throat, he was finding it difficult to speak but managed to smile at the small child in Caine's arms.
"Hello, Peter." The little boy gifted him with a huge smile. P.T. barely managed to tear his gaze from the child's face, as he again looked at the priest.

"He is Laura's son, isn't he?" It was as much a statement as a question.
The tall priest slowly smiled. "Yes, he is the gift Laura gave to me….. and to you. This is Peter Matthew Caine. He was named for both our fathers. If not for this greatest of gifts, I do not think I would have been able to go on after Laura began her new journey. She left behind our son."

"He looks so much like his mother. He's beautiful," breathed Sinclair. How old is he?"
"Peter, tell your grandfather how old you are."
Peter, who had been curiously watching both his father and Sinclair during their exchange, grinned. The world seemed to brighten with just that one smile. Peter held up two fingers for Sinclair to see.
"Two! I…. ammm.....two!" Peter looked back at his father for confirmation. His father smiled at the child and nodded.

"Mr. Sinclair?"
"Please, call me P.T. Under the circumstances, I do not think there is a need for such formality."
"Yes, you are correct. Please, you may call me Kwai Chang. I would consider it an honor if you would stay here with us," Caine gave a sweeping arm to their surroundings, "so that I may answer your questions and you may get to know your grandson. I will.......take you to visit your daughter's grave."

"Thank you. I would like that very much, and I have many questions. How long may I stay?"
The priest shrugged. "For as long as you wish. You will always be welcome here."

The child ducked his head and then looked up at Sinclair with a gleam of mischief in his large hazel eyes.
Oh, I bet you are a handful, little one, thought Sinclair, suppressing a grin.

Extending one small arm and pointing at P.T., the child proclaimed, "Gwanfadder."
There was that same smile again, totally engulfing the tiny face and P.T. knew he was lost...... as his heart and soul were captured by Laura's smile on that face so much like its mother's, the face of her tiny son.

****

Peter listened to his grandfather's story, enraptured. Suddenly his brows furrowed in thought and Sinclair could literally see the wheels turning. "Wait a minute. Wait! I remember that!" Looking across at his grandfather, Peter spoke in amazement, "I do grandfather, I really do! Not everything, of course, but I remember some of your visit. And to think, all these years I thought it was just my imagination, or that maybe I had dreamed it. I never knew who the man was in my memory, just that I liked him."

His grandfather smiled. "I had only planned to spend a couple of days at the temple, but ended up spending a month, getting to know your father and learning about that part of Laura's life that I had missed. More importantly, getting to know my beautiful grandson. I spent early mornings visiting your mother's grave. I also spent part of every day taking Kung Fu lessons from your father. Those certainly came in handy over the years. Oh, don't look so surprised, Peter. I'll have you know I was quite the young stud back then!" Sinclair chuckled.

Peter returned the grin. "What? I didn't say anything."
"Yeah, right, kid," smiled Sinclair. "Anyway, I spent most of every afternoon with you and after you were tucked into bed at night, your father and I talked into the wee hours of the morning. I got to know the man my daughter fell in love with and married. You were smart even at that age, a very precocious child. I remember your favorite book was Winnie-the-Pooh. You seemed to like the Tigger character best. So did your father. I always figured it was because that little tiger was most like you. Sinclair smiled fondly at the memory. "No doubt you do remember at least some of that visit, Peter. You were so full of life, just like your mother." Sinclair directed a look so filled with love that Peter blushed. He wasn't sure how to respond. This was all pretty new. "You were such a beautiful child." Looking at Peter, P.T. teased, "No doubt about it, you got your good looks from my side of the family! From your grandfather, would be my guess."

A big grin slowly engulfed Peter's face. "Absolutely! Everybody says I'm quite the young stud, you know."
His grandfather laughed. He sat for a minute just looking at his grandson. "You brought joy to everyone around you, son, especially your father. I don't think I've ever seen a father have the degree of love for a son that your father had for you. You meant everything to him. You literally gave his life meaning."

"Yeah, well, guess that's changed." Sinclair heard the pain and bitterness reflected in Peter's tone.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories. I know Caine's sudden departure has caused you pain."
"If you don't mind, grandfather, I would rather not talk about it right now. I am feeling kind-of tired. I really have enjoyed the memories you have shared with me. Thank you. Tomorrow......tomorrow could we continue to 'talk things through,' do you think? I have a lot more questions I would like to ask. Guess I need to clear some of this fuzz out of my head first, but I would really like to hear a lot more about your life and about us."

"Yeah, kid, you've got it. Now, we need to get some food into you and then put you to bed. We do not want to slow down your recovery. Not to mention the fact that if I don't pass muster, Paul and Annie will swoop down and pluck you right out of here, and don't think they haven't been checking up on me, either," laughed Sinclair. "Come on, let's go see what that expensive cook I hired has prepared. I am sure it is delicious and if he followed my orders, not on our diet."

P.T. assisted Peter in rising from the chair. Carefully placing an arm around the young man's shoulders, so as not to exacerbate his injuries, P.T. gently drew Peter in close to his side and the two men, grandfather and grandson, slowly made their way out of the room.

"Grandfather?"
"Yes, Peter?"

"Is Rykker really your brother? I mean, you know...is he really....Uh .....he really is......hell! Is he really my uncle?"

As the two made their way to the dining room, P.T. Sinclair's laughter reverberated throughout the large, sprawling house. "Oh yeah, Peter! Oh Yeah!"

The End…..

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