December 20^th

"Detective Caine, what the hell have you done to my duty roster?"

Peter grimaced, although he'd been expecting Strenlich's roar for the past half hour. Actually, he was surprised it had taken the other man this long. "What do you mean, Chief?"

Jody and Skalany exchanged glances from their respective desks, both easily seeing through the young man's act. Both women grinned, then hastily found excuses to make their way over to Peter's desk as the Chief approached. Neither wanted to miss a single word of the scene that was bound to ensue.

"This is what I mean," thundered Frank Strenlich, ignoring the women crowding around Peter's desk as he thrust a metal clipboard in front of the detective.

"This?" Peter quizzed, trying to inject as much confusion into his voice as possible. "This is the duty roster for the holidays. What could I possibly know about that?"

"You mean other than the fact you went into my office when I wasn't there and changed it?"

"Huh? You keep the holiday duty roster under lock and key every year -- well, at least until you post it -- and you think I ... altered it?" Too late, Peter realized he'd blown the "innocent act", as Paul had always called it, by making himself sound stilted by using the word "altered". Hell, why didn't I just let everyone see me do it? After that, the Chief's gonna know I'm guilty the same way that Paul always used to know I had something to say I knew he'd disapprove of if I slid into a room. The fact that both his current and former partners had dissolved into laughter did nothing to make him feel any more confident, but he plunged ahead nonetheless. "Why would you think something like that, Chief?"

One large forefinger stabbed at a line on the paper attached to the clipboard as it crashed down onto Peter's desk. "Rough night last night, Detective? Because you changed the wrong lines ... you just volunteered to pull shifts on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. And I'm sure you were trying to ditch the one shift you did have on Christmas Eve.

"Why would I have a rough night? I'm not the one sleeping with Kelly. Peter resisted the urge to voice the retort, uncomfortably aware that his relationship with Jordan had recently become as stormy as the one with Kelly Blake ever was. Instead, he made a show of examining the lines in question. "Anyone could have penciled that in," he protested.

"Peter, do you really think I don't recognize your handwriting by now?" The younger man squirmed in his chair as the burly man leaned over his desk to drive his point home. "Besides, whoever erased what was originally on here used a pen to write over it and smudged what he wrote. You're the only left-hander I've seen near my office lately."

Busted. "All right, all right." Peter spread his hands in mock surrender. "But it's not what you think, Chief."

Strenlich favored him with a hard stare, refraining from shouting for once. "Just out of curiosity, Detective, why are you so sure about that?"

"Well, because ..." The dark-haired man shifted uncomfortably. "... because you think I made a mistake while I was trying to get out of Christmas duty. But I didn't." He paused, then went on, "Don't you think that I know better than anyone that no one gets both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off entirely unless they're on vacation? My God, that was drilled into me from the time I was a teenager. Paul always came in here for a shift on one of the two days -- and he was the Captain. He could have taken both days off in a heartbeat, but he didn't think it would be fair to everyone else. Chief, I've always bitched about Christmas shifts as much as the rest of the precinct, but I would never try to get out of them. And I especially wouldn't do it in such an underhanded way."

"So what the hell were you trying to do?" Peter started a bit as the words came from a different direction than the one he'd anticipated; Strenlich was still shaking his head in silent disbelief when Skalany's voice cut into the discussion.

"Exactly what it looked like," the other detective mumbled. "Sign up for extra shifts both days."

"Peter!"

"Relax, Jody, I didn't change my partner's duty. Just because I'm volunteering to work extra doesn't mean I'd try to make you do it too."

Strenlich shook his head again. "This isn't like you. You're never that much use to us on the holidays anyway because your mind's always somewhere else."

"At home with the rest of the family," Peter acknowledged. "Relax, Chief, I won't let that get in the way this year." A few moments of silence went by, the others too stunned to respond, before he added softly, "Christmas just doesn't feel like Christmas without Paul here. Just like last year."

Frank cleared his throat. "All the more reason you should be with your family." He picked up the clipboard. "What do you say I cross these out, switch it back to the way it was?"

"No!" Three sets of eyes stared at Peter as the word blazed its way out.

"I mean, I want to do this -- let someone who's got kids catch a break. It's not exactly like I've got anywhere better to go anyway." Before anyone else could get a word in, he rushed on, "Don't even think it, Mary Margaret, the only thing this has got to do with being Shaolin is that Pop doesn't celebrate Christmas and his place wouldn't be anywhere better to be. I mean, I can go see him any day; as far as he's concerned there's nothing special about December 25th. And the rest of the family ... well, I'm the only one who'll be around anyway."

***

Annie Blaisdell swept her fingers across the Braille dial of her watch. Two hours since her flight had left home, another two before it touched down on San Cristian. For at least the tenth time, memory replayed the moment when she'd taken leave of her son at the airport. Five more minutes and Peter would have known I wasn't getting on a plane to Florida. This time I came close ... far too close. Damn it, Paul, how much longer do I have to keep my promise? Instantly, she regretted her impatience with her husband's secrets. Anger had been justified when she'd realized the extent of the promise she'd made to keep his motivations for leaving from their children, and for some time after. Now... anger had died months earlier, only to be replaced by a never ending fear and regret whose chill had long ago seeped into her bones.

Every trip she made to the Caribbean took a little more out of her, robbed her of a little more of her life, she reflected, the metaphorical turn her mind had taken surprising her a little. The lie she lived became increasingly difficult to sustain as the reason for keeping it became ever more essential. Ironically, the lies she hated telling rolled off her tongue with ease... and had done so since the moment Peter first saw the clue he shouldn't have.

***

"You're the only one who'll be around? Doesn't sound much like the Blaisdells to me," said the chief dubiously. "Christmas is too big a deal in your family."

"Yeah, I know, but..." Peter shrugged, still not sure he completely believed what was happening this year himself. "If Mom was going to be here, there wouldn't be any question about where the rest of us would be. But since she's not, Carolyn didn't really have any way to get out of going to Todd's parents' house. I know she didn't exactly want to do it, but she's been putting off spending any holidays with them ever since she got married. I don't think Todd or his parents would have been too thrilled about her staying home just to be with me and Kelly."

Strenlich shook his head. "What? Molly and I always alternated holidays with the in-laws. I thought your sister probably spent Christmas with your family and Thanksgiving with Todd's."

Skalany and Jody both rolled their eyes. "Where have you been, Chief?" asked the latter. "I thought everyone knew Todd's parents didn't think a cop's daughter was good enough for their son."

"She's a little too independent-minded to suit them too," Peter contributed, his tone caustic.

"Independent-minded. Hmmm, that's a pretty good euphemism to describe that particular trait you and your sisters share." Skalany laughed. "Hope you don't mind, Peter, but I'm going to stick to calling you bullheaded."

Rather than the rise her teasing usually produced, Peter offered only a "Cute, Skalany" before continuing, "She really, really wanted Kelly to come with her, especially since Todd's mother suggested that she might want to ask her sister along so she'd have someone to talk to."

"What?!" chorused the other three.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Real nasty, huh? Guess either she doesn't really want to deign to talk to Carolyn or she figures that Carolyn won't stick to 'safe' topics of conversation. Todd's folks are probably worried the baby will be too noisy too." Sarcasm bled through his tone. "Anyway, I could tell Kelly really felt sorry for her and she wasn't looking forward to being at home without either Mom or Dad there anyway, but she never would have left me all alone. And it wasn't like we could spend the whole time together both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in any case, because of work. So I told Kelly I had to work both days and I might pull double shifts and she should go with Carolyn and then I figured I better get myself on the duty roster for it right away or she'd know I was lying and..." He took a deep breath. "... here we are. I don't have anything better to do and I'm better off as far as getting in trouble with my sister if I don't wait till Christmas Eve to volunteer to work extra hours. Besides, it's the only way I have a hope in hell of getting out of anything related to that damn party Jordan's determined to throw Christmas Eve."

Strenlich made one last ditch effort. "Peter, are you sure Annie won't change her mind? You don't want her to be all alone if Carolyn and Kelly can't get out of their plans, do you? Hell, it's only December 20th, it could happen."

"Good try, Chief, but Mom left two hours ago. I drove her to the airport on my way into work."

"Real nice move, just dropping your Mom off instead of waiting with her for her plane," chided Jody, outrage edging into her voice. "Don't try to deny it, I know you just dropped her off. You were on time for work, which meant you were here two hours ago, even though you just said that's when she left."

"That was Mom's idea," Peter declared. "She said she wouldn't let me talk her out of taking a cab if I insisted on staying with her till the plane took off." He raked a hand through his hair. "I think Mom's just feeling guilty about leaving us at Christmas, maybe even about all the time she's been away for the same reason the past year and a half."

Jody eased one hip down onto the corner of her partner's desk. "Aunt Amelia again?"

Peter's grimace was answer enough.

"Never could figure that one out myself," contributed Strenlich. "From what you've told us about her, she doesn't exactly fit in to your family."

Skalany laughed scornfully. "From what Peter's told us about her, she sounds like a heartless bitch. Does she live up to her advance billing, partner?"

"How the hell should I know?" Peter returned, weary frustration getting the better of him. "I've never met her. I guess there's one in every family, some long lost relative who comes crawling out of the woodwork at the worst possible time. None of us -- Carolyn and Kelly and me, I mean -- had ever even heard of her before the call Mom got --" He broke off, the timing of the call shaking him as he realized it had been barely three days after Rebecca Calvert's true killer had been caught. "-- a few months after Paul left. All Mom would tell us about her was that she was a distant relative who Mom calls 'Aunt'. But we put the pieces together." He laughed humorlessly. "You know -- well, maybe you don't -- that huge box up in the attic filled with cards from family for every event imaginable? Well, after the first time she called, when Mom was so closed-mouthed about her, Kelly and I went upstairs and went through that box and there was nothing. I mean not a single card, not even a Christmas card or a birthday card to Mom or a congratulations card when Kelly was born. Nothing. Neither one of us had the guts to ask, but Carolyn did when we told her."

"Get this," Jody said as Peter fell silent. "I heard this story the last time his Mom was gone, during a particularly lengthy stakeout."

"You mean a particularly boring stakeout, don't you?" her partner teased, obviously fighting to keep a rein on his emotions. "Mom told Carolyn that she wouldn't even have told us Aunt Amelia called until she figured out what she was going to do about the call if I hadn't seen the piece of paper she'd been doodling on while she talked to Aunt Amelia."

Skalany raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Let me get this straight, Peter. Your mother's blind. And she's not an artist. But she doodles."

"Well, that's not really the word for it, but I don't know what else to call it. You know how sometimes when you're talking on the phone you start scribbling something just to have something to do with your hands and later on you realize that whatever you wrote or drew has something to do with your phone call? Well, Mom must have been playing with a piece of paper and her stylus when she was talking to her aunt because when I saw the paper I saw the Braille for the 'a' and the 'm' in Aunt Amelia's name." Forestalling what he guessed would be the dark-haired woman's next question, he explained, "When I first came to live at the Blaisdell house, I was fascinated by Mom's books and by the way she wrote. Braille seemed a lot more interesting than the language classes I took in high school -- than any of my high school classes, actually. She got me through math by teaching me Braille."

China blue eyes widened as Jody stared at him. Skalany appeared equally perplexed and Strenlich shook his head in disbelief.  Realizing how he must have sounded, Peter quickly clarified, "She promised to teach me if I applied myself really hard in math, which was always my worst subject. So I worked like hell on math so she'd do it. No one else in the family knew Braille so I guess --" He shrugged, flushing red with embarrassment. "-- I guess it was kinda almost like we had a secret code. It made me feel like less of an outsider -- you know, because now Mom and I shared something that Carolyn and Kelly didn't, the way they had family memories I wasn't a part of."

Impatiently, as Peter paused to take a breath, Frank asked, "What were you going to tell us about this woman before you went off on the tangent about the Braille?"

Peter sighed. "Well, evidently Aunt Amelia wouldn't even acknowledge Mom after she got married. Seems she thought that because Paul was a widower with a young daughter, he was just using Mom, just married her to get a mother for his child. And she just cut off all ties ... until that phone call. You see, she's elderly now and she's sick and she asked Mom to come and help. Personally, I think she probably alienated everyone else in her life, but she figured Mom would help her out if she played the family card. Ever since then, about once every six weeks, Mom's been going off to Florida to help Aunt Amelia deal with one crisis or another. This time ... this time she says she's going because Aunt Amelia's much worse and it may be her last Christmas."

"You're not going to want to hear this, partner," remarked Skalany, "but your mother's aunt sounds to me like the kind of controlling hypochondriac who's been on her deathbed when it's convenient for the last fifteen or twenty years."

"She might be that type, but this is legitimate," Peter argued. "Mom's compassionate, but she's not gullible. She wouldn't leave at Christmas if it wasn't the truth. She wouldn't lie to us."

***

A pungently musky odor Annie instantly identified as aftershave warred jarringly with the sweet scent of the hibiscus lining the airstrip's perimeter. The aftershave's smell was distinctive, marking it as a brand used by only one man with whom she was acquainted. Her heart sank. Alan Maranville never made enough of an effort to meet her at the airport. San Cristian was at least fifty degrees warmer than the wintry city she'd left four hours before, but it felt as though icy fingers were clawing at her as dread of what she was soon to learn took hold. Negotiating the last two metal steps as she descended from the plane, Annie stumbled, fear rendering her movements more clumsy than usual.

Seconds before she would have caught herself, a hand grasped her elbow and steadied her. Impatiently, Annie brushed off Maranville's attempt to help. "Why are you meeting my plane?" she asked pointedly, forgoing the greetings dictated by the tenets of polite behavior.

Maranville ignored the question and reached for the single suitcase that comprised Annie's luggage. Feeling the pressure as his hand closed on the handle, the blonde woman relinquished her own grip on the bag and resigned herself to waiting for an answer. He ushered her to the waiting car, all too aware that the woman's patience was wearing thin. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the fact that he needed to give attention to the road would spare him too... fiery a reaction to his news.

Two minutes elapsed after she heard the key turn and the car engine roar to life. Annie decided that allowing Maranville that much time to gather his thoughts could be considered an act of generosity on her part. "Perhaps I should rephrase my question, Alan," she began, her voice cold as ice.

Taking his eyes off the road for a moment, Maranville spared the woman in the passenger seat a sidelong glance... and fervently wished he hadn't. Her face was turned toward him, the set of her jaw tight. Far worse, if he didn't know better, he'd swear the sightless eyes behind her dark glasses could read on his face the verdict he was about to deliver. The mere thought put the fear of God into him; after all, it was unsettling enough that he knew he would soon be able to read the rage reflected there, albeit filtered through the lenses.

"I heard you the first time," he sighed. Searching for the words he needed, Maranville added, "I know it's Christmas and you want to be with your family... but I think it's best you're here."

Annie was briefly silent, increased tension in her jaw the only indication of how sharply the man's words had stung. Damn you and your research -- and damn you for failing to take precautions against its theft. Allowing herself the indulgence of thinking the accusations she dared not utter aloud, she found that her voice was steady when she did speak. "Which question should I be asking you, Alan? How bad or how much longer?"

***

Kermit slouched negligently against the door frame separating the Captain's office from the squad room, intently watching the woman behind the desk as she bent over the latest in the never ending stream of paperwork that crossed it. The stacks of file folders were higher than usual, and Karen's demeanor more harried than was her norm. Well, he reconsidered, at least the stack of paperwork was taller than normal. It was completely possible that he was the only one in the precinct who realized the wisps already escaping from her French braid were neither deliberately arranged stray tendrils nor the victim of a windy morning, but a sign that Karen Simms wasn't quite as collected as she might wish.

Karen reached her left hand across the desk for another folder, still focusing on the sheaf of papers in front of her. As she moved, the long golden braid swung forward from its resting place on her right shoulder, momentarily obscuring the periphery of her vision. Impatiently, she brushed it back with her right hand, not even noticing as the pen still in that hand dislodged yet more hair from the braid.

Oh yeah, thought Kermit, a bit surprised she hadn't yet reacted to his scrutiny. Another of the Commissioner's bright ideas -- demanding more reports to increase the end of year frenzy. Has to be. Aloud, he drawled, "I could make all that paperwork disappear if you're interested. Permanently. Just say the word and my resources are at your command."

A long couple of seconds elapsed before Karen looked up at him, but the knowing smile when she did told the ex-mercenary she hadn't been as unaware of his presence as he had thought. "Now that's a tempting offer." She let the words linger in the air for a moment, then reluctantly turned her attention back to the forms in front of her. Grimacing briefly at the papers, she looked back up at Kermit. "A few hours from now, I just might take you up on it. At the moment, I've still got the strength to refuse."

"You don't have to," he rejoined, enjoying the verbal game.

Karen shook her head. "Wouldn't be fair to other precincts if I didn't."

"Figured you'd say that." As she directed a puzzled look at him, he added, "It's the same thing Paul always said. Of course, I used to let him get a little more than elbow deep in the administrative details before I offered to help."

Karen flipped shut the folder in front of her, dropped her pen on top of it, and leaned back in her chair. "I do hope the reason for this... early intervention has nothing to do with the fact that I'm a woman, Detective."

Most people would have considered her slow, deliberate statement a severe one. Kermit Griffin wasn't most people. He laughed. "As I recall, I've never made you the offer before, Captain. So perhaps you should be a little wary of my doing it this early in the game."

"Point taken." Karen paused. "All right, spill it. What do you want to ask me that makes you think you need a bargaining chip?"  Kermit took a single step that brought him inside the office and closed the door behind him.

Karen arched an eyebrow. "This looks serious. Not exactly a Detective Griffin to Captain Simms type question, am I right?"

"No sense in the entire precinct hearing. At the risk of blowing my vacation and letting myself in for a shift on Christmas, I have an invitation to extend to you for Christmas Day. That is, unless you've already got plans."

She shook her head. "Working here Christmas Eve. That's all. I spent Thanksgiving with my son. That means Christmas is Jared's holiday with him. The best Christmas money can buy."

Wisely, Kermit opted not to press the issue of the biting sarcasm that was present in Karen's voice when she spoke of her ex-husband. "Well, I happen to have orders not to show up on Marilyn's doorstep on Christmas Day without you."

Karen's laughter filled the room. "Smooth invitation. You're lucky I've got a soft spot for ex-mercenaries wearing green glasses. If I didn't, I'd make you suffer waiting for me to say yes." A quizzical gaze directed itself at her as Kermit slid his glasses down his nose long enough to look over the tops of the frames. Another burst of laughter escaped Karen's throat. "The answer is yes, as long as you satisfy my curiosity. Orders?"

Kermit grinned at the skepticism in her voice. "I'm smart enough not to risk pissing off a woman with a new baby and two teenagers this close to Christmas. I tend to confine my end of the phone conversation to 'yes', 'no', and 'what time do you want me there?', at least the past couple of weeks." He turned to leave, then added, "We'll talk about the details tonight. My place. Eight o'clock? Or do you plan to still be tackling that mountain of paperwork there?"

Karen ignored the last question in favor of a query of her own. "Just one thing, Kermit. Is this the deep, dark mystery of where Kermit Griffin disappears to at Christmas? Are you afraid of letting people know you do something as ordinary as spend Christmas with your sister and her family?"

"Nice try, Karen. Keeping this a secret maintains the mystique." Kermit counted himself lucky that Karen didn't laugh out loud at how pompous that declaration sounded. "But the real mystery has to do with Christmas Eve and the night that follows."

"Am I ever going to find out where you go... or what you do... then?"

Kermit briefly turned back to face her again. "Maybe. One day."

***

"We've got to stop meeting like this." Annie forced a semblance of levity into her voice as she spoke, her hand resting lightly against her husband's cheek. Brief moments before, the silent vigil she'd maintained since her arrival at the cottage had become more animated as she instantly heard the change in Paul's breathing that signified the return of wakefulness.

A slight smile crossed Paul's lips as he found himself wondering how in God's name Annie had known immediately when he woke. He'd long before ceased to be surprised that she could do it under ordinary circumstances. However, catching his breath had become so difficult -- even though he was receiving oxygen -- that he found it impossible to believe his breathing would sound less labored while he slept, even to someone as finely attuned to changes in sound as Annie. "Tiring of the jet set lifestyle already, babe?"

Despite herself, Annie laughed at Paul's weak joke. As she did, an unexpected wave of relief coursed through her. The heat that had greeted her palm as it met her husband's skin had told her he was feverish, and she'd steeled herself for his disorientation on waking, even for the possibility he wouldn't recognize her. That his mind was so clear was a gift -- far from the Christmas present for which they both yearned so desperately, yet a gift nonetheless.

"We haven't said a proper hello yet."

Annie smiled as she felt a surprisingly strong grip exert its pressure on her hand.  "Just waiting for an invitation," she replied, leaning down to kiss Paul.

***

December 24th

Peter skirted a string of large white Christmas bulbs and a pile of tinsel as he paced his living room floor, phone in hand. This was his home, he thought irritably, giving Frank Strenlich's voice on the other end of the line only half his attention. A man's home was supposed to be his haven, the place he could hide from the world. Peter was firmly convinced of that much. He was equally positive that, at some point between the time he left for work that morning and the time he returned forty-five minutes before, his home had been overrun.

Within the space of ten feet, four women worked on decorating the place -- and they weren't the only ones engaged in the preparations. He hadn't wanted any vestige of Christmas visible this year, but evidently he'd been outvoted. Not that Jordan officially lived there, not that Jordan even paid half the rent. Theoretically, he supposed he could have made a stand against hosting this party. Realistically, he knew that registering any objections greater than those he'd voiced at the top of his lungs two weeks ago -- which had been cheerfully ignored by his lover -- would have been the modern-day equivalent of Custer's last stand."

Damn it to hell." Peter gave serious thought to kicking the box he'd just tripped over across the room, but decided against it. With his luck the box in question would turn out to be filled with bulbs or breakable ornaments if he indulged his temper. "No, Chief, that wasn't directed at you. My living room's turned into an obstacle course."

Strenlich kept on talking. Peter tuned him out and started another circuit of the room. He'd actually volunteered for this assignment when the precinct was approached about it the day before. It had just been a matter of waiting for this call and hoping that the Chief of Detectives really wouldn't hesitate to demand his presence. Right now, though, the young cop had more important things to worry about than an FBI operation. Mysteries like why in the hell the Christmas bulbs that seemed to be multiplying looked larger than the bulbs in the fixture under the ceiling fan in the Blaisdells' kitchen. And if she has to use enough lights to blow every fuse in the place, would it be too much to ask for at least some of them to be colored? he wondered.

The other man's voice had stopped, the newfound silence practically demanding he fill it. "OK, Chief, I'll be right there." Peter headed toward the table just outside the partial wall dividing living room and kitchen as he spoke, reaching it moments after severing the connection. He dropped the phone and headed toward the coat closet without breaking stride. If he was lucky, he'd make it out the door before Jordan noticed he was leaving.

It would have been too much to ask. Before he'd even opened the closet's louvered door, Morgan's voice rang out from behind him. "He's getting away, Jordan."

Peter barely had time for the uncharitable -- and, he was sure, unworthy -- thought that he wished Morgan would fall off the stepladder on which she was perched before he heard Jordan come racing out of the kitchen. He didn't bother to turn around before pulling his black leather jacket off its hanger and closing the closet door again. When he did, it was to discover Jordan leaning over the wall between the front hallway and the rest of the apartment, shaking her finger at him. No, he realized as she protested, not only one finger. For a couple of seconds, before she gave up and just rested her forearms atop the wall, both hands were moving -- and the index finger of each hand was being directed at him as if at a recalcitrant child.

"Uh-uh," Jordan said for the second time. "I'm on duty tonight. You gotta get this place ready. The party starts in three hours."

For a split second, the look in Jordan's eyes conveyed her annoyance that Peter hadn't hurriedly turned the second he heard her voice. Without realizing he was about to do so, Peter found himself tuning in to the thought which accompanied that frustration: Don't think you can worm your way out of this so easy, lover. He barely refrained from wincing as he paused to shore up the mental shield that usually prevented him from accidentally picking up on others' thoughts.

Once he'd done so, Peter forced himself to count to ten before speaking in hopes he wouldn't say something he'd regret. "Jordan, I'm sorry. The Chief called." Only a thin veneer of patience kept his words from sounding as testy as he felt. "He needs me for back-up -- an FBI liaison operation." The weight of her displeased gaze made him scramble for some way to fast talk himself out of the apartment. "Keep the ..." His mind went blank; he continued the sentence with the first Christmas-oriented word he could think of. "... eggnog... cold for me."

Before he could slip out the door, Jordan stopped him by briefly resting a hand against his jacket. "You are the most irritating, exasperating person I know." Laughter lit her eyes and the words sounded amused, but Peter had learned long ago to look beyond the obvious. Right now, both his Shaolin senses and his cop instincts were warning him that she was royally pissed off.

Ignoring his own awareness of her true reaction, Peter shrugged and answered flippantly, "Well, must be why you love me." He reached up and kissed her, then swiftly headed for the door.

The last thing Peter heard before the apartment door clicked shut behind him was Jordan's low, but slightly irritated voice, her words clearly not meant for his ears. "You're not supposed to know that." The words echoed in his head as he paused in the hallway to zip up his jacket. They didn't make a damn bit of sense. Why would Jordan want to deliberately hide an emotion like love? That was something he couldn't fathom, and he didn't have the time to worry about it now.

***

Christmas Eve was the night dedicated to peace on earth, good will to men, reflected Annie. It was hardly the right time to force a confrontation several thousand miles from home with a man she barely knew, despite more than a year of intermittent contact, and trusted even less -- especially when that man's work was Paul's only shot at survival. By the time she heard her husband's ragged breathing even out slightly, settling into the pattern she now recognized as marking an exhausted sleep that would last for hours, she was past caring about any of that.

Since she arrived on San Cristian, Annie had remained pleasantly surprised, though not encouraged, by Paul's clarity of mind. After her last visit, when his periods of lucidity had grown fewer and shorter, she'd been forced to acknowledge how far the poison's effects had progressed. Accordingly, she'd been grateful at the difference when she returned, thankful that they'd be able to talk about their family and to share Christmas. Yet a small voice at the back of her mind constantly nagged at her that the clear mind could, in and of itself, be no more than a sign of how imminent his death was. She'd known of far too many people over the years whose minds, fogged by illness or by the drugs that kept them alive and relatively comfortable, had suddenly regained a penetrating clarity. And that clarity seemingly had been granted them so that they could use their few remaining hours or days to say the things that had been left unsaid.

Annie had long since reconciled herself to the possibility of becoming a widow; it came with the territory when one married a man in Paul's line of work. Either of his lines of work, actually. Knowing that every phone call and every peal of the doorbell could be the dreaded "notification call" both a soldier's wife and a cop's wife fear was one thing, expecting it quite another. When she'd decided to marry Paul, Annie had also decided to accept the reality that any call or visit could bear news of his death, place it at the far edges of her awareness, and live her life as though that sword didn't balance precariously over both their heads.

Nothing had shaken her faith that they would have a long and happy future together. Not even the phone call from which she'd first learned only a miracle could save Paul's life. She refused to resign herself to widowhood until there was no other option. Right now, though, Annie was dangerously close to believing there was no other option.

It was ironic, she thought to herself, that she actually found herself hoping Paul had lost a little of that astonishing clarity with which he'd been blessed the past few days. If he had, she would find it easier to maintain hope.

A little more than an hour before, Maranville had insisted on one of the private talks with Paul that Annie had long ago given up challenging. After all, she knew she'd get the truth of what transpired during those visits from Paul -- and that, if Maranville was idiotic enough to conduct one of those conversations when her husband's mind wasn't clear, the scientist wasn't going to have a clue what hit him once Annie Blaisdell started taking him to task.

Now, she wondered if today's circumstances had been deceptive. Had Maranville wrongly presumed Paul's mind was clear, the same way she'd taken for granted that her husband was thinking clearly when he began to recount the two men's discussion to her? Annie prayed that was the case, that Paul had misinterpreted Maranville's words. If he hadn't... if he hadn't, Maranville had lied. More than that, he'd lied in the cruelest way possible at a time when the truth was more important than ever.

There was only one way to find out.

"I'm sorry, darling," Annie whispered, trailing her hand gently along her husband's cheek. "I'll be back before you wake up." Springing out her cane, Annie headed out of the room like a woman on a mission. She wanted answers and she wanted them now. Alan Maranville was going to provide those answers, whether he liked it or not.

***

"I know James Raitt is a mobster, but what's Operation Baton?" Jody Powell asked her partner, half seeking a way to fill the silence that had descended on the SUV Peter was driving, half probing to discover whether Peter's volunteering them for the operation meant he was privy to more of its details than she was.

"Some kind of switch. Cars. Double of Raitt. Going in different directions. Bad guys will have a tough time trying to figure out where he really is." With the exception of the double of Raitt, Jody had already known what was covered in Peter's rapid-fire reply. And even that was a strategy she'd suspected might be taken. She had no time to ponder his response, however. He continued, without taking a breath between sentences, "Are you going to the ... uh ... the Christmas party once we're off duty?"

Yeah, right, watching you and your girlfriend host a Christmas party is the way I want to spend Christmas Eve. Jody refrained both from voicing the thought and from rolling her eyes. "No, I've got plans, but thanks anyway." She was pleased to note that her voice sounded more nonchalant than she'd thought she could make it.

"You know, Jordan really likes you."

"Well, I really like her too." Jody's words sounded forced to her own ears, but she doubted Peter had noticed, just as she wondered why he'd felt constrained to make such a statement. After all, she couldn't be expected to respond to an opening like that any other way, even though they both suspected it wasn't entirely true -- no matter how often Jordan claimed to really like Peter's partner. As much to cover her own discomfort as to ease some of the tension that radiated from the other detective, she added, "Relax, will you? I'm over you. I don't think about you, I don't fantasize about you, and I definitely don't dream about you." Jody knew she sounded a bit flip, but that was all right as long as Peter didn't think she sounded bitter. Seconds later, she decided that any brittle edge to her voice had eluded her partner.

"I'm crushed." Peter's voice was slightly sarcastic. To his own surprise, he realized there was a part of him that really was hurt by her declaration... just as he'd been stunned and hurt when she told him her emotional words during the earthquake had been a result of delirium, rather than true feeling.

"And I'm lying." Jody laughed briefly.

A tiny smile touched Peter's lips as he heard her admission, wondering just how much of what she'd told him was false. Discomfort with the direction his own thoughts were now taking led him to search the road for something that he could talk about instead. Desperation led him to feel overly grateful when he spotted Captain Simms, dressed in a black coat with fur-trimmed hood, walking toward the precinct. "There's the Captain. Wonder why she's walking."

***

More than a year of Annie Blaisdell's occasional trips to San Cristian should have prepared Alan Maranville for her arrival at his own home across the compound, he reflected later -- when he had the chance to recover from her visit by turning to a bottle of 151 proof rum.

~ Startled, Maranville looked up from his book as he heard the slam of his front door, followed by what sounded at first like a three-legged stride eating up the expanse of the hallway. As his shock at the intrusion faded, he was able to identify the continuing sound as the angry click of high heels and a metal cane against the tile floor. He groaned, slipped the bookmark into the page he was reading, closed his book, and set the tome on the table beside him. I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to have done now, he thought testily, but I'm sure I'll find out soon.

He wasn't disappointed. Nearly on the heels of his thought, Paul Blaisdell's wife stood in the archway between study and foyer, her posture a study in fury.

"Have a seat," he offered.

"I prefer to stand, thank you." Annie's tone was frosty enough to chill the room more than did the air conditioning.

Shit. Usually, he dismissed behavior like this as hysteria (or, at the very least, failure to see reason) when it was exhibited by a woman. Unfortunately for him, he'd come to know Annie Blaisdell well enough to know he did not want to make an enemy of her. Crossing toward the wheeled wicker trolley that constituted his bar, he asked, "Can I offer you a drink?"

"You can offer me an explanation, Alan." Annie paused long enough to hear him remove the lid from the ice bucket, drop a couple of ice cubes into a glass, and pour liquid (her guess was the rum he drank almost exclusively) over the ice. "You can tell me exactly what the hell you told my husband the last time you spoke to him."

Maranville relaxed despite himself, nearly returning the tumbler in his hand to the glass top of the cart. "I hardly expected this kind of reaction from you after that. I thought you'd be thanking me for finally coming up with the antidote. After all, that is what you and Paul have been counting on me to do."

Having pinpointed the scientist's location by paying close attention to where his voice emanated from, Annie took several steps in his direction. Although she showed no uncertainty about her path, she started a little as her cane swept to the side and hit the leg of a chair only two feet to her right.

Tipping his glass up, Maranville took a sip of his drink as he watched the blonde woman's progress. Her unerring instinct for the layout of a room she'd been in only once or twice never ceased to amaze him, although he doubted she'd appreciate the sentiment. That thought crossed his mind for only an instant before being replaced by the same self-satisfaction he'd felt since earlier that day. When the blow came, it caught him unaware.

Annie's open hand swung out at Maranville, the crack resounding as she struck him.

"What the hell was that for?" he demanded, reflexively bringing the cold glass up to soothe his stinging cheek.

"Don't... you... dare... pretend... ignorance," Annie spat out, savagely emphasizing each word.

At a loss, he stared at her, then managed to say, "Annie, I don't know what got lost in the translation or how it happened, but I told Paul about my success as soon as I was sure that this time the treatment we'd begun really was the antidote."

"You began administering it two weeks ago," she rejoined. "Yet you told us yesterday that Paul's last blood test didn't show any change in the poison in the bloodstream, except for its continuing mutation. And the day I got here, you as much as told me that we were close..." Annie's voice cracked on the last word; she took in a deep breath before continuing, "... close to the end, that these were Paul's last days. What do you gain by contradicting yourself now?"

Maranville slammed his glass down with nearly enough force to shatter the glass surface on which it landed. "All along, I've speculated that when I find the antidote, it will act in much the same way as chemotherapy. I've operated under the assumption that it will do its job gradually, but will differ from chemotherapy in that once it works it will permanently cure a victim of Compound 47A by destroying the poison, not by putting its effects into remission."

"Go on," Annie cut in.

"It took me a while to realize that this didn't necessarily go hand in hand with the treatment making a person feel worse than he did because of what he was suffering from. If you want to throw a fit about the fact that the antidote hasn't actually started destroying the poison yet, go right ahead. I reviewed all my observations of the past two weeks, Annie, and then I went back in my notes. Two weeks ago, Paul wouldn't have been able to carry on a coherent conversation with you for five minutes. He's had increasing mental clarity for the past week. I don't expect it to continue with the kind of regularity you've seen, but the data persuades me that the episodes of disorientation will be fewer and farther between. More to the point, your husband shouldn't be alive now. The day before I started this treatment regimen, I thought it was less than twenty-four hours before I'd have to place a certain call you don't want to get." Maranville took a bit of satisfaction in Annie's tiny flinch as she registered his meaning. "I certainly didn't think he'd ever again have the stamina he's exhibited the past few days. This treatment has kept your husband alive when he shouldn't be. And it's been sporadically easing his symptoms. It's only a matter of time before it starts attacking -- and destroying -- the poison. That's what I told Paul this afternoon. I take it he told you something different?"

Annie sighed. "He told me you found the antidote. The fatigue was setting in and he didn't say much more before he fell asleep. I suppose he didn't have the stamina to go through the whole story." She paused, then added, "You'll understand if I reserve my gratitude until I know this isn't just another case of false hope?"

"Merry Christmas, Annie." Maranville ignored the question, unsure exactly how to answer it.

She nodded as if grasping his reluctance to inadvertently antagonize her again. "Merry Christmas, Alan." ~

Maranville tossed back a gulp of rum, the fiery liquid burning his throat on the way down. One thing's for sure. I do not want to risk that woman's wrath one second more than I have to. This sure as hell better be the antidote. I don't think I'll survive Annie Blaisdell if it isn't.

***

Karen Simms looked up as Quirk entered her office, slightly surprised he'd been so quick to respond to the request she'd asked Kelly Blake to convey to him. The fact that she was seated had her at a decided disadvantage... but the baby nestled in the crook of her arm took precedence above all else. Continuing to rock the child as if Quirk weren't there, Karen was achingly aware that the soothing movement was all that would calm the tiny girl she had rescued from the alley where her mother had abandoned her. The infant was in bad shape, likely suffering from exposure and, Karen had become fairly certain, beginning the early stages of withdrawal from whatever drug her mother had used throughout her pregnancy.

The rest of the precinct's occupants were capable of taking care of themselves. The nameless baby in her arms had only Karen -- only a stranger -- to rely on. Ordinarily, Captain Simms would never have entertained even the thought of bargaining with the men who had taken the precinct. Tonight, if this newborn were to survive, Karen Simms had no choice. Steel edging her deceptively soft voice, Karen declared, "You can't want this child to die.”

"I don't want anyone to die," Quirk replied brusquely, standing in front of Karen, bending to nearly equalize their eye levels.

"Then let me take her to a hospital." Karen paused, her hesitation barely perceptible, and swallowed her pride enough to beg. "Please."

"And you'll promise not to tell anyone about this hostage situation." As he scoffed, the man straightened and paced a couple of steps away. "You won't be coming back here with Captain Lasher and his SWAT team?"

Assessingly, Simms returned, "You seem to know a great deal about this precinct."

"Oh, yeah. As Kermit would say." The trace of distaste that had been in Quirk's voice resolved itself into a snort.

"You know Kermit?" Somehow, Karen found the concept more shocking than it should have been.

"You don't work in the mercenary trade and not know Kermit. He's not in residence at his computer tonight?"

Karen looked down at the child in her arms, fighting to avoid betraying the thought that instantly strobed through her mind. Oh, I think you knew damn well that Kermit wouldn't be here. Testing the waters, she began, "Kermit goes away at Christmas." Looking up, she continued thoughtfully, "No one ever knows where." But, damn it to hell, I wish I knew where he was now instead of where he's going to be tomorrow.

Quirk's laughter told Karen that he didn't have any more of an idea than she did as to Kermit's whereabouts. "Yeah, sounds like Kermit." He edged his hip down onto the desk. "I'm glad he's not here. I wouldn't want to try and face him down."

A surge of pride went through Karen; she thanked God she'd already cast her eyes down toward the infant again.

"But maybe he's gone soft too."

Simms looked up at Quirk, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Kermit Griffin going soft wasn't an eventuality she expected to witness in this lifetime. The usage of the word "too" intrigued her as well, and she wondered who it referred to -- Blaisdell or some other ex-mercenary.

The memory of Kermit's recounting of Straker's attacks on Paul's code of morality made her decide Quirk meant Blaisdell as she heard his next words. "That's what happens to those with conscience. They can't function as mercenaries any longer."

"Ah. But you can." Simms' calm tone and steady gaze were meant as a direct challenge, and Quirk took them as such.

"Spent too much time in the Third World, where life is just garbage strewn by the side of the road." He rose and began to pace again.

Karen half-laughed at the incongruity of this denigrator of conscience speaking as though events in the Third World had offended his moral senses. "This isn't a Third World country," she argued. "It's Christmas Eve in an American city, and innocent lives..." Unable to stop herself, she looked briefly down at the baby. "... are going to be lost for what? For a man like James Raitt?"

Her scorn failed to penetrate Quirk's arrogant veneer. "It is too bad, isn't it?"

***

Annie shifted position in the wicker chair, curling her feet up under her. The cottage was so damn quiet, the only sounds breaking the silence those of her own breathing and Paul's. No other sounds penetrated the stillness, not even the oddly comforting ones of a house settling that she would hear even in the dead of night at home.

Home. She sighed inwardly, leaving her longing unvoiced for fear of waking Paul. Unspoken, the ache was no less intense. Last year Christmas had been hell as she fought to maintain a front for her children, all the while dying a little inside. No one had ever guessed the truth that Annie not only missed her husband, but was all too aware of the battle for life he had begun to fight -- alone and hundreds of miles away.

This year was worse.

Paul might still be dying. Regardless of Maranville's conviction that he had found the antidote and Paul's willingness to believe him, Annie knew that was true. There was nowhere else she could possibly be but at his side, nowhere else she could imagine being this Christmas. But she still felt guilty. Guilty for lying to her children, guilty for keeping her husband's secret, guilty for failing to be home at Christmas.

She and Paul had spent their share of Christmases apart over the years. The nature of the mercenary trade dictated that, and they'd been lucky enough to have been separated at Christmas far fewer times than most couples linked to that world. She had spent no Christmases apart from her children -- until this year. And now, because of her absence and Paul's determination to keep his illness a secret, the entire family was scattered.

As difficult as this Christmas was for Annie, she felt far worse for her children than she did for herself. At least she, like Paul, had made her own choice about how to spend the holiday with full knowledge of all the facts. Neither her daughters nor her son really understood why they wouldn't celebrate the holiday with their mother. Annie had thought her "Aunt Amelia" cover story had holes large enough to drive a truck straight through... especially when she told her children that she wouldn't be spending Christmas with them this year. She'd expected at least one, if not all three, to realize she was lying and probe for the truth. Part of her had hoped they would, for she might then have been able to justify telling them the truth despite her promise to Paul. None of them had. None of them could believe that their mother would lie to them about anything but a surprise party.

Instead, Annie was firmly convinced she had good reason to feel sorry for all of them. Carolyn had dreaded this visit to Todd's parents' home; after dealing with Hamilton and Josephine McCall at the time of Carolyn's wedding, Annie suspected her older daughter's dread was well justified. Kelly... Kelly shouldn't have had to play human buffer between Carolyn and her in-laws. Worse, Annie knew she wouldn't have if there had been any possibility of the Blaisdell family being together for Christmas. And Peter... Peter's entire experience of Christmas was so inextricably linked to the Blaisdell celebrations that he would try to bury himself in his work in hopes he wouldn't have to acknowledge the holiday at all. Unfortunately, things were never that simple for Peter, and Annie had seen trouble brewing the moment she learned that Jordan intended to add to the signs of the season which he couldn't avoid by throwing a party at his home.

Annie shook her head. All of them were going to be lonely to some degree this Christmas, lonely because the family wasn't together. But why did instinct tell her that Peter would be the loneliest of all, yet surrounded by the most people who cared about him?

A sudden frisson washed over Annie, the tiny shiver screaming of danger. She dismissed it as her imagination, though the sensation continued to trouble her for several more minutes.

Not until the next day would she know that during those minutes all hell had, quite literally, broken loose at the 101st Precinct as it was retaken from Quirk's men. Then she would realize that she had sensed the mortal danger her son and his colleagues faced. Annie would never speak aloud what had just happened for fear it would be categorized as some kind of weird psychic connection. She knew better. It was a mother's instinct for when her child was in trouble, surfacing in a quiet fraught with tension.

For now, Annie knew none of this. For now, she forced her thoughts to turn away from vague fancies of danger to the here and now. For now, she sat and waited for her husband to wake, knowing she would choose to be nowhere else.

***

Holy shit. They turned this place into some kind of winter wonderland, Peter thought as he entered his apartment, which was already jammed with people, the party in full swing. At some point in the three hours between his departure and the time the party began, a Christmas tree had been dragged in, trimmed, and draped with lights. Draped with lights, like just about every other surface that came into view as he did a quick visual scan of his living room. A pine needle fell onto his jacket from the side of the front door and, casting a glance at the evergreen garland framing the closet door, he realized that whatever wasn't edged in lights was edged in live greenery. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see some sort of snowflake perched atop the wall between kitchen and living room; its presence, which he had argued against, told him without even looking that Jordan had also hung stockings on the wall as she had threatened to do.

Before he had time to close the front door behind him, Peter saw Jordan descend the steps from the kitchen. A glass of red wine was in her right hand; a detached part of his brain noticed that as the rest of him focused on her attire. Black slacks and a black see-through blouse over a black bra. He might not know -- or care -- much about women's clothing, but even he knew that the outfit was far more risqué than what any of their female guests, even Morgan, wore.

"Oh, hey."

Distracted, trying to get to the closet to hang up his jacket, Peter responded in kind.

"Listen, we caught that rapist." She paused a second, none too pleased that Peter's demeanor as he opened the closet and hung up his jacket betrayed that he wasn't really listening. "It was freezing and it was scary, but we did it."

"Yeah, good." Peter was glad he sounded preoccupied. He didn't need to deal with Jordan's reaction to what he really thought about her priorities in front of this many people. If he said what he was thinking about the rapist's arrest being more important to her than the entire precinct being taken over, it would turn into a battle royal, and he didn't want that on Christmas Eve.

Her tone betraying that the question was an afterthought, Jordan asked, "Is Kelly OK?"

"Yeah, she's fine. I had trouble keeping her in the hospital, but Strenlich's with her now and I think they'll be here before midnight." Peter fell silent, wondering if she'd hone in on the last piece of what he said, as he suspected she would. After all, this damn party had been the most important thing in her life the past two weeks.

It was impossible to tell. All Jordan said in reply was "Oh, good." Peter decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was talking about Kelly being all right.

He leaned forward to give her a hurried kiss before braving the party. Almost as their lips met, the front door burst open; Skalany and Blake fell into the room.

"We got the eggnog," pronounced Skalany unnecessarily as she and Blake, who was carrying a plastic-wrapped bowl full of the beverage, kept on walking, forcing Peter to draw back against the closet door. By the time Jordan went to close the door their guests had left open, Peter had started to laugh at the bad timing.

"Peter." Skalany's voice demanded his attention; he directed his glance toward her. "Where's your dad? Jeez, I got enough mistletoe here to get busted at the border." To emphasize her words, she held up the large plastic bag which contained the plant.

"Ah, he'll be here."

"All righty."

Peter breathed a sigh of relief as Skalany followed Blake into the kitchen, glad to have a couple of moments to himself. Probably no more than a minute had passed, at the outside, before the door swung open again. It was Jody. Surprised, Peter quickly moved to greet her. "Hey partner."

"Hello."

"I thought you had other plans," Peter said as he took the coat that had been draped over Jody's arm when she walked in. He was unaware of Jordan standing a few feet behind him, watching the partners as she ran a finger around the rim of her wineglass.

Jody wasn't. "I changed them," she told Peter, her voice casual. Walking over to Jordan, she linked her arm through the other woman's companionably. "Sooo... you need any help?" Jody's query didn't sound as forced as it actually was.

"Yeah, I'm desperate for a friendly face." Both Jordan's smile and her tone were a bit too bright.

"Well, that's me."

Stunned at what had just occurred, Peter found he had to make a conscious effort to think in order to hang up Jody's coat. As he was doing so, the door opened to admit yet another guest. "Captain." As much as he tried to hide it, a little surprise was evident in his voice. He really hadn't expected her to come without Kermit there; as far as he could tell, Simms seemed to believe that a female in command couldn't afford to be as... familiar... with her officers off duty as Paul had been.

"Hi." Karen ignored the hint of shock in Peter's voice, shrugging off her coat and handing it to him.

"It must have been... hard for you to leave that baby." Peter groaned inwardly. Smart move, bring up what's got to be the second toughest topic of the night for her.

"It was." Karen paused, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder, then spoke as Peter turned away to hang up her coat. "Very hard."

As he closed the closet door, Peter asked, "What are you gonna do if nobody claims her? And you know that no one will."

"Well, don't be so intuitive, Detective. I don't know what's going to happen." Karen ended the conversation by heading for the living room.

Watching her, unaware that his father was entering the still open door behind him, Peter said softly, "I do."

"As... do I," agreed Caine as he approached his son.

"Pop. You made it." Peter clapped his father on the arm, then turned to Cheryl, who had arrived with the older man. "Cheryl, are you OK?"

"I am now."

As the other two entered the living room, Peter took the time to close the door, then headed over to them. After a few more moments of conversation, Cheryl left the Caines alone to talk.

With a willful effort, Peter prevented himself from shifting uncomfortably. In his mind's eye, he was seeing the over-decorated apartment through Caine's eyes -- at least, as he imagined the Shaolin priest was seeing it -- and disapproving vehemently. As much as he had wanted his father -- well, at least one of his fathers -- here tonight, Peter was beginning to think he shouldn't have extended the invitation. Pretending nonchalance, he asked, "Pop, should we be doing this? Celebrating Christmas?" It bothered him that he needed Caine's approval so badly when Christmas had become so important to him over the years as a special family time. Knitting his brows, he expanded on his question, trying to defer to what he thought would be Shaolin expectations. "I mean, I don't recall us celebrating Christmas at the Temple. Although we had a tree and presents once in a while." He stopped short, having managed to confuse himself thoroughly as he remembered the way mainstream customs had occasionally made their way into the Temple at Christmas time.

Caine's calm voice cut into Peter's troubled thoughts. He didn't answer the question directly, merely stated, "We are all on this earth to give and receive love."

Cryptic. As usual. Peter registered that, then decided to take it as a "yes". After all, he reasoned, any celebration of people giving and receiving love must somehow fit in with the Shaolin tradition.

***

"Silent Night", performed in the original German with guitar accompaniment, led into "Blue Christmas", which in turn led into "Adeste Fideles". Static burst over the speakers for a minute, though it was unclear to the listener whether a speaker or the tape was at fault. By the time the static had ended, a jazzy rendition of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" was half over. That song was followed in rapid succession by "Away in a Manger", "I'll Be Home for Christmas", "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear", and "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree".

Kermit shook his head, a wry smile playing at his lips. He considered his own taste in music eclectic, but the tapes Constantin Kazakis pulled together for Christmas at his diner gave a whole new meaning to the word.

"Dreck," pronounced a woman's heavily accented voice seconds after the song changed again, this time to "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer". Without asking, she lifted Kermit's coffee mug to refill it. "Pure dreck."

"Not everyone's choice of music is as traditional as yours, Irena," Kermit pointed out lazily.

"You are fine one to talk about tradition." Irena slammed the mug down on the table in front of him. "Is Christmas..." She looked up at the large round clock on the far wall, which showed it was past 1 a.m. "... Day. Why you choose to be here instead of with your family?"

Ignoring her question, Kermit let out a snort of laughter. "You speak better English than I do Russian." That was saying a lot, and they both knew it. "Why the act?"

Irena grimaced and inclined her head toward the burly man seated astride a stool at the far end of the counter. "That one." She flicked keen brown eyes across Griffin; his body language didn't warn her off as an intruder, as was usually the case when he came in alone. His mannerisms weren't exactly inviting her to join him either, but Irena slid onto the vinyl bench across from him anyway. "He doesn't take rejection very well. As long as he thinks I'm just a dumb-ass Russian who doesn't understand English well enough to grasp what he's implying, I'm safe. He's been here for the last three hours. I've been speaking broken English for the last three hours."

"Want me to handle it?"

Irena laughed. "If the police talked to him, he'd know I wasn't a pathetic illegal immigrant who barely speaks the language. And then he really might cause trouble. This diner doesn't bring in enough that Connie could afford him driving away business." Resting her elbows on the table, seemingly unaware of the coffee pot nearly close enough to her right arm to scald it, Irena continued, "You haven't answered my question yet. You are not alone in the world. You have family, you have friends. Why are you here on Christmas instead of with them? Why don't you realize you have somewhere better to go?"

"I have my reasons," Kermit parried. "Besides... I could ask you the same question."

"Ah, but this is not my Christmas. I am Russian."

"Certain events outside Volgograd would lead me to draw that conclusion," he replied dryly.

Unperturbed, Irena went on, "On the night of your Epiphany, I'll celebrate Christmas. I may be alone in this country, but I won't be alone then. There are many people I will celebrate with." She paused for a moment, then added, "Why do you choose to be lonely?"

Kermit started, never having given a thought to what the hours he spent in this booth on so many Christmas Eve nights looked like to others. To him, they were merely a way station between the well-guarded traditions he had established before and after his time at the diner. He found himself explaining, "I'll spend tomorrow with my family. Tonight... I had somewhere to be earlier and I've got somewhere to be in just a few minutes. I just come here to pass some time."

The woman nodded as she rose from the booth and lifted the coffeepot. "Good. No one should be alone at Christmas."

As she began to walk away, Kermit detained her by grasping the wrist of her free hand. "Irena, do you ever regret it?"

Turning to face him, she shook her head slowly, knowing precisely what he meant. "Not going back? No. Never. Glasnost. Perestroika. Neither fulfilled their promise. Neither would have eliminated the danger. Some of those who stayed were lucky, even some of the most vocal dissidents. You know I would not have been." She fixed him with a clear and penetrating gaze. "The KGB still exists, merely under a different name. They would still hunt me. Here..." Irena shrugged, then continued, "... I may not have status as I once did there, but I am free. Thanks, in no small measure, to you."

"Irena..."She cut him off. "In the end it comes down to the choices between right and wrong. Sometimes we suffer the consequences for doing right. But I don't regret what I did then. I never will. So if that's the reason you come here this time every Christmas, you don't need to. You've nothing to feel guilty for."

Kermit waited a few minutes more before leaving the diner. As he walked to his car, Irena's unspoken question as to why he came to the Olympus Diner every Christmas nagged at him. Finally, he stood still, whispering to himself what he would never have admitted to the Russian woman. "I come here because it's appropriate, Irena. My grandmother's name was Irene."

***

December 25^th

Midnight had long since come and gone. Jordan and most of her guests were having too good a time to realize how far past midnight it was. Peter Caine was too miserable not to know to the minute.

The party was a huge success. Even his father, much to Peter's shock, seemed to be enjoying it as much as if he actually celebrated the holiday. Everyone had gotten into the spirit of the season, concluded the young detective as he watched the others. Everyone except me, he thought morosely. The longer he tried to force himself to have as good a time as the others, the more lonely he became until, finally, the pang was actually a physical ache.

Could a man be lonely in a sea of people, he wondered. Yes, Peter decided, he could when the people he most wanted to be with weren't there.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds. Whoever came up with that pearl of wisdom ought to be taken out and shot, Peter thought darkly. Paul's absence was hitting him harder this year than it had last year, even without taking into account the rest of the family's simultaneous absence.

***

Jordan was too busy to even notice when Peter slipped out of the room. Jody wasn't.

Making her way through the crowd toward the apartment's second bedroom, she wasn't surprised when she realized she wasn't the only one. Not after what she'd learned from Mary Margaret a little while before. "He doesn't really want to be alone," Jody ventured softly without turning to face the man. "It's just that the people he wants to be with aren't here."

***

Peter registered the familiar presence before the door opened. He was inordinately and inexplicably grateful that neither of those who'd entered was Caine. Thinking this probably meant he risked calling some ancient Chinese curse down on his head, but the last thing he needed right now was cryptic Shaolin wisdom.

"So this is where your train set moved to." Jody's soft voice came from the doorway, a slight hesitancy in her inflection. Almost as if ... she were afraid she wasn't welcome. It suddenly became very important to Peter to let her know that she was.

"Kelly and I had a few fights over it when it was still in the living room. It took a while before it occurred to me that moving it in here would shut her up and I'd still get the better part of the deal. Now it's got an entire room to itself." He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Some people turn second bedrooms into dens, some turn them into computer rooms, some turn them into gyms. I turned mine into a place for my model railroad. Pretty silly for a grown man to have a room for toys, huh?"

"I don't think so, Peter. I don't care what Kelly or Jordan or anyone else says. This isn't a toy." Jody hesitated, as if wondering whether she should risk going further, then added, "It means too much to you for it to be that. Didn't you tell me once that you and Paul worked on this together?"

"Yeah. He saw me look at a train set in a store window back the first year I lived with the Blaisdells." A wistful smile crossed Peter's face at the memory. "I was entranced by it, by the detail, by the intricacy, by everything about it. But I never thought ... I never thought I'd ever have anything like it. After all, it had to be expensive. Why would anyone spend that kind of money on me? And it was summer when I saw it, so I pretty much forgot about it by Christmas. But Paul didn't." Peter's voice dropped a notch as he went on, "Jody, he remembered the look on my face when I just saw that train set and bought me the beginnings of this one because he knew how much it would mean to me. He knew, even when I didn't. I mean, it wasn't really the trains that mean -- that meant -- so much. It was..."

"... how much he cared," Jody finished for him.

"Yeah." Peter's voice nearly cracked on the single word. "After that, every birthday, every Christmas, there was more. We both worked on expanding this railroad, not just with more tracks and more cars, but by building a whole little village around it."

"Other than remembering the track running around the Christmas tree every year, what's reminding you most of him right now?" she asked.

"Don't laugh." Peter turned and fixed the other man in the room with a glare. "Either one of you." He turned back to the large card table on which the railroad was set up and carefully lifted a porcelain figure from somewhere near the tracks. "The sheep."

"The sheep," Jody repeated, uncomprehending.

Blake laughed. "Sorry, Pete, can't help it. I remember those animals from before you knew Paul. How many do you have here?"

Peter counted rapidly, sure that the guess he made off the top of his head was overkill. It wasn't. "Forty."

"Forty?" Jody's voice was filled with disbelief. "I can't figure out why you even have one, much less forty."

"Well, they always wound up in the village around the train at Christmas. When I moved out, Mom decided she'd send these with me, get rid of at least some of them." Peter grinned. "The sheep were always the most interesting part of the Nativity. I guess that most people, if they have more than one Nativity set or they have extra pieces of one, have extra angels or six Wise Men or something. We had sheep." He laughed. "My first Christmas with the Blaisdells I thought I did something wrong for a while."

~ "I'm finished, Paul," the teenager shouted from the head of the stairs. "I got the last box of Christmas decorations out of the attic." It was the boy's first Christmas with his new family and he was anxious to help.

Annie answered before Paul did. "Did you get the three boxes way in the back too?"

"I got everything," Peter yelled back, glad he'd scrounged around to make sure he'd brought down every single box marked "Christmas".

He didn't expect the next words he heard from Annie. "Damn. Damn. Damn." ~

"It took me a couple of hours to realize Mom wasn't mad at me, she was just mad because, like every year, she tried to hide a few of the boxes that contained sheep and, like every year, every single sheep Paul owned reappeared."

"Blaisdell has more sheep than most sheep farms," Blake put in. "I remember, you used to go over to his house at Christmas time and there were sheep everywhere. In the Nativity scenes, on the mantel, on the desk in Paul's study, on the sides of the steps going upstairs."

Peter correctly interpreted Jody's shocked expression. "He means the part of the stairs that juts out on the side of the banister. We used to wind the holly garland down the banister and set the sheep so they were climbing the stairs at the same time. We had them everywhere but the kitchen actually. One year Carolyn and I got the bright idea of putting them on the kitchen counter. About two hours later, Mom was yelling at us by our full names to get those damn sheep out of her kitchen. That time Paul told us we were braver than he was." Peter laughed at the memory, then continued his tale.

"Paul started collecting those sheep as a kid. There are rams, ewes, little baby lambs, and nondescript sheep. Some of them are porcelain with bases painted green like grass, some porcelain without bases. And some of them, like this little guy right here..." Peter set down the figure he was holding and picked up an ancient-looking woolly sheep whose legs looked to be held together with Scotch tape. "... are just old, mangy sheep that most people would throw away. Paul never did, no matter how many more 'better' sheep he got. He kept mending them, treating them with kid gloves. These are my favorite. They remind me of me."

***

"It's after midnight, Annie. Come to bed."

Annie started a bit, surprised that she'd been so lost in thought she hadn't realized Paul was awake. She responded, "That means it's Christmas Day. Merry Christmas, sweetheart." As she did, it struck her that, on some subconscious level, she'd felt Paul watching her and chosen not to acknowledge it, preferring their companionable silence to mentioning her confrontation with Alan Maranville.

"Merry Christmas, Annie. What's wrong?"

"Other than the fact that it's Christmas and we're here instead of with our children?" she asked rhetorically. "Well, I... went at it with Maranville because I thought he'd lied to you about the antidote."

Paul began to worry when Annie fell silent and, instead of elaborating, remained quiet as she made her way over to the bed. He waited as she shed her robe and placed it at the foot of the bed, then slipped between the covers, carefully avoiding the IV lines. Finally, when she still hadn't spoken, Paul asked his wife, "What happened?"

Annie's facial expression betrayed her discomfort. "I hit him... before I had all the facts. Before I knew his theory about how the antidote had worked so far."

Paul laughed. "Jumped the gun a little, did you, babe?" He reached out to wrap his arm about her; Annie settled cautiously against his shoulder, their need to be close to each other outweighing her fear that she could hurt him. "It won't kill him to be taken down a peg."

"That's not all I'm upset about." Annie's voice was barely a whisper. "God help me, for a minute I actually hoped you weren't thinking clearly when the two of you spoke, because I couldn't believe he could have found the antidote. It was easier for me to doubt you than to believe what you told me, Paul. I don't much like what that says about me."

"Well, I do." Paul felt Annie's shock as she tensed against him. "You thought he hadn't found the antidote and it was easier for you to think I'd misunderstood him than that I'd been taken in by a lie. You chose the way of thinking that let you keep fighting for me." He paused, then went on, "A couple of weeks ago, I probably wouldn't have been thinking clearly.”

"Yeah, I know." Sensing the startled gaze her husband directed at her, Annie added, "He told me that two weeks ago you wouldn't have been able to carry on a coherent conversation for more than five minutes."

Paul chuckled. "That's not exactly true, babe. I mean, I know I've been out of it a lot, but there was at least one time when he thought I was because he wasn't interested in an explanation that was a long story. One day I was thinking about what you and our kids would be doing and about decorating the house for Christmas. He asked me what I was thinking about and I told him the first thing that came to mind. Guess most outsiders wouldn't have understood that one."

"Well?" Annie prodded.

"I was thinking about the big production every year about the sheep and remembering your usual reaction when you realize they're out."

Annie held back her laughter with difficulty. "Oh, dear Lord, you didn't tell him --"

"Sheep invasion?" Paul laughed. "Guilty as charged."

Dissolving into laughter for a few moments, Annie quickly sobered. "Paul, this year and last year, we still put out all those damn sheep of yours. Do you have any idea how much I'd give to argue with you about them?"

"Next year."

The weight of Paul's promise hung heavily on husband and wife, both equally aware he didn't know if he could keep that promise and equally desperate to believe he would. Until then, the Christmas songs playing softly on a CD had been white noise to both of them. As both mentally added the coda "God willing" to Paul's vow, the words of the song now playing struck them. "Next year, all our troubles will be out of sight," declared the singer. Paul and Annie Blaisdell each breathed a silent prayer that such would be the case, deciding that -- at least for today -- they would accept it as truth and consider Maranville's announcement that he had at last found the antidote their Christmas miracle.

***

On any other night, the immense stone building's sturdy wooden doors would have been locked tight against the elements by now, too many incidents of vandalism having led to the decision to close it (like so many other churches in the city and its suburbs) at night. To those who remembered a time when it had been otherwise, it seemed somehow... obscene... that what had once been a place of sanctuary twenty-four hours a day was no longer available as that spiritual safe haven during the night, during those long, dark hours when that sanctuary was needed most.

Tonight, though, was the night of nights, the holiest night of the year in Christendom. Tonight the cathedral threw open its doors and kept them open throughout the night. To do otherwise would make little sense when more than a thousand people crowded into the Gothic structure to celebrate Midnight Mass.

It was 2:08 a.m. Less than fifteen minutes ago the joyous sound of the hymns which closed the Mass had given way to a crowd teeming out of the cathedral, the stream of congregants greeting the bishop and the priests who'd concelebrated the Mass with him. Fifteen minutes was little time, only a quarter of an hour, but its passage made a vast difference.

Now the building was still and empty, the interior temperature already beginning to drop as the steam heat went down and the added warmth generated by the bodies crammed in mere minutes ago began to dissipate. A lone man's steps echoed eerily as he crossed the stone floor of the cathedral vestibule, pausing at the holy water font to dip his finger and make the Sign of the Cross before entering the nave of the church. His actions were automatic, childhood teachings coming to the fore and belying the many years that had passed since religion had been a part of his routine.

He'd waited outside St. Michael's Cathedral for nearly half an hour tonight as the Mass ended and the church emptied out. There was no rational reason for doing so, of course; he didn't need the "Come home for Christmas" billboards the Diocese ran on the sides of buses during the holiday season to know that he, like others who'd fallen away from the Catholic faith, would be welcome at Midnight Mass. Waiting every year until the cathedral was so empty that even a whisper echoed was Kermit's own quirk, as was thinking of himself at this time of year as a fallen away Catholic. Both were Irene O'Hanlon's influence.

Formal practice of the faith had ended, for all intents and purposes, when he was eleven... when his grandmother died after a brief and agonizing battle with pancreatic cancer. It wasn't until years later that he'd realized Trish O'Hanlon Griffin's faith, already sorely tested by her husband's domineering nature, had died at the same time. At eleven, all he'd known was that, suddenly, the family no longer attended Sunday Mass -- and no longer did anything else that readily identified it as Catholic. At eleven, part of him had still craved the formalized ceremony of the faith.

Today, Kermit could count on the fingers of one hand the Masses he'd attended in the past quarter of a century where he hadn't been part of the proverbial thin blue line at a police funeral or one of the few acknowledging the soldier's death of a fellow mercenary. His father's funeral Mass. The memorial Mass Marilyn had arranged on the first anniversary of their mother's funeral. And, five years ago, the Mass the day they'd laid David to rest.

Life had long since robbed Kermit Griffin of the conviction that religion could change anything -- and he would have vehemently denied the reality of how often he'd had occasion to pray over the years. Tonight, though, none of that mattered. Tonight was Christmas and he characterized himself in the way his grandmother would have. Some thought the words "fallen away" sounded more judgmental than did the word "lapsed", even though both meant the same thing. To Kermit, "fallen away", which would have been the term his grandmother used, merely recalled her unswerving honesty and acceptance. As certain as he was that she would be saddened that her grandchildren no longer practiced her faith, he was equally certain that, if she were alive now, she would accept him despite all his faults... in spite of all the violence which stained his soul.

Memory took Kermit back in time to when he had been a small boy attending Midnight Mass with his entire family, the thrill of staying up so far past his bedtime overriding his need for rest. Marilyn had been too young when Irene died to really remember spending Christmas with their grandmother, David not even born at the time. But Kermit remembered the ritual Irene O'Hanlon had established -- and had first shared with her grandson when he was seven years old.

"Old enough," Irene had decreed that Christmas Eve, her determination overriding Mike Griffin's loudly voiced objections, before the family left for Mass. Afterwards, for the first time, Kermit had remained in the church with her as she went about her yearly ritual. At other times of the year, Irene might have lit a candle to petition for something -- or someone -- important to her. At Christmas, she lit candles for another reason entirely ... to remember. Even if she'd explained, Kermit was sure he wouldn't have understood back then why she'd opted to engage in this act of remembrance on Christmas, rather than All Souls' Day. She'd never explained, and he'd long ago ceased to care, save for isolated moments of idle wondering.

That year so many years ago, he'd watched as Irene lit candles for the family members she'd lost and listened as she recited a prayer for each relative while she lit the candle for that person. Then she'd lit another row of candles and he'd asked why. "For the lost souls," Irene had said simply. Kermit still wasn't entirely sure he understood which lost souls his grandmother had been thinking of. It didn't matter any more; the compassion for strangers was what counted,

Like so much else, this was a tradition left behind when his grandmother died, a family custom that became only a memory. Until he was eighteen years old, spending Christmas halfway around the world. In the middle of war-torn Vietnam, he'd managed to find an oasis of peace in a Catholic church in Saigon. Kermit had found himself replicating Irene's actions of so many years before, and in the process finding it easier to withstand that first Christmas away from home.

Since then, he mused as he approached the side altar, no matter where he was at Christmas, there was one constant. After a Midnight Mass he didn't attend ended, he sought the quiet of a Catholic church and salved the disquiet of his own soul by renewing that ritual passed on by his grandmother.

Even now, this was his secret, a tradition witnessed by few people over the years. Most of those had been strangers, priests returning to the church to make sure the candles had been snuffed out or those seeking sanctuary there. Paul Blaisdell had been with him that Christmas in Saigon and on more than one other. Annie likely knew; Paul had probably shared that with her as he did everything else. Maybe... maybe it was time to tell Karen.

Such decisions were for later.

Kermit slipped a hundred dollar bill into the poorbox at the side of the altar, aware of how shocked the ushers would be when they opened it to add the money to the rest collected for the poor on Christmas Day. Then he lifted a long match, held it over an already lit candle long enough for the flame to catch, and transferred that flame to the first of the many candles he would light that night.

Fittingly, that first candle was for the only grandparent he had ever known. The others lit for the family he'd lost followed. One for his father, reminding him of how surprised he'd been that Christmas in Saigon when he'd found his hand moving to light a candle for the man despite the enormous differences father and son had endured. At eighteen, Kermit had needed to justify lighting that candle by focusing on the circumstances of Mike Griffin's death in battle. Now, it was enough that he was lighting a candle for his father.

The next candle was for his mother. As always, Kermit's prayer for Trish's soul was filled with the regrets that surrounded his memory of her death. Regret at what he and only he saw as his own role in it. Regret that he hadn't been there when she died. Regret that it had taken him more than a year to gain the courage to visit her grave.

Lighting the candle for David, Kermit noted with what little detachment remained that his hand was steady. That surprised him. The first Christmas after David's death, it had taken him ten minutes to hold the match steady long enough for the candle wick to catch a sustained flame. This soon after the showdown with Douglas Larson, he'd expected his hand to be equally shaky. "Maybe you're still speaking louder to me than anyone, David," he whispered, knowing that on this night he wouldn't have been shocked if his brother had answered him. "Maybe you're telling me to forgive myself." That forgiveness wasn't something he was ready for yet; indeed, he might never be ready to grant himself that absolution. Yet, somehow, the growing certainty that David had forgiven him long ago eased his troubled soul.

Last year he'd stopped lighting candles for family after the one he felt obliged to light in memory of Marilyn's late husband, Jeff. This year, there was one more he felt compelled to light, a candle for a woman Kermit had never met. It didn't matter that he hadn't known Doris Hellstrom in life. It was a given that he would honor her in death now that he knew the truth about Jim -- he owed her his undying gratitude for raising his son as her own.

Finally, it was time to light the candles for the lost souls. Kermit still didn't know what had been in Irene O'Hanlon's thoughts as she lit that extra row of candles each year. He knew exactly why he was systematically setting ablaze every last unlit candle at the side altar. It was his penance.

The day of the earthquake, Karen had asked if he'd saved many lives as a mercenary. His answer had been "Saved a few. Took too many." Every Christmas he did what he was doing now. He lit candles and said a heartfelt prayer for those he'd killed and those he'd failed to save.

It wasn't enough, Kermit thought as he turned to leave. Nowhere near enough.

Yet a woman better than he deserved had readily agreed to spend Christmas with him.

Maybe it was a start.

***

His apartment wasn't empty. Kermit's instinct registered that reality before he saw the glimmer of light visible in the crack beneath the door.

In the same motion he swung open the door and removed the Desert Eagle from his waistband. Seconds later, he relaxed as Karen Simms' voice greeted his ears at the same moment that he spotted her curled into a corner of his sofa.

"I'm unarmed, Detective. Do you believe me or would you like to search me?" she quipped.

Reaction setting in, his heart starting to pound as he realized he'd just held Karen at gunpoint, Kermit closed the door and joined her on the couch before he responded.

Karen narrowed her eyes as she watched him discard the Desert Eagle on his coffee table. Most people wouldn't have thought he was behaving any differently than usual. She could detect tension that hadn't been there the day before. "I'm all right," she reassured him. "I don't know what you heard, but the only casualty we took tonight was Kelly Blake. And she was treated and released."

Jesus Christ. "I haven't heard anything, Karen," Kermit ground out through clenched teeth, wondering how close he'd come to losing her. "Tell me."

Fifteen minutes later, he thought he'd heard quite enough. He was just as sure that Karen hadn't told him everything. "I could use a drink."

Kermit had just taken the stopper out of the brandy decanter when he heard Karen's voice, filled with uncertainty. "Kermit, how do you feel about --" She faltered, then rushed on, "I think I'm going to be a mother again."

He dropped the stopper, a level of panic unfamiliar to him coursing through his veins.

Kermit retrieved the decanter stopper he'd dropped, then poured and downed a healthy amount of cognac before he trusted himself to respond to Karen's unexpected announcement. "What do you mean you think you're going to be a mother again?" he asked as he turned to face her.

"I mean that I'm not sure whether it's a good idea." Karen paused to order her thoughts, then continued, "I suppose emotion's warring with logic right now. Part of me wants this child so much, but the rest of me realizes that trying to raise another child would likely be a mistake at this point in my
life."

"It hasn't occurred to you that this isn't your decision alone?" Kermit drained his glass. He still stood across the room from Karen. It was better this way, better if he wasn't too close to her. Perhaps he could actually keep a rein on his temper.

Karen's next words destroyed that fantasy. "Of course it is."

What little restraint Kermit had been able, by sheer force of will, to retain until now promptly disintegrated. "Damn it, Karen, I have a say in this too. Where the hell do you get off even thinking that you have the right to make unilateral decisions about how our child is going to be raised?" The thought that she might opt to turn over the rearing of their baby to someone else shook him to the core. He deliberately refused to entertain the far more terrifying possibility that she might be considering abortion.

"She's not your baby, Kermit. God, I wish she was." Karen let out a weary laugh. "She's not my baby, either."

Kermit let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the relief which replaced his tension mingling with regret that Karen wasn't carrying his child. He nearly missed her next words as he analyzed those mixed emotions.

"Not yet. Probably not ever. Whoever she is... her mother abandoned her in an alley last night. If I hadn't been walking by, she could be dead of exposure by now."

Fighting to maintain his own composure, Kermit crossed to the sofa and sat beside Karen. "She owes you her life. You're not responsible for that life, though."

"I know." Karen nodded, intellectually accepting the fact that she most likely wasn't in a position for Social Services to award her even temporary custody of the infant anyway. The knowledge only made matters worse. All she could see was the tiny child she'd held in her arms only hours before. All she could hear was Peter Caine's assurance that the remote possibility no one else would claim the child would come to pass. Looking up at Kermit as he put an arm around her, she whispered, "But what if no one wants her? What if I find I want that responsibility? What does that do to us?"

Kermit couldn't answer, couldn't honestly say he would entrust a helpless infant to his care, even briefly. He could offer only a weak "We'll find a way to get through it."

To his amazement, it was enough. "Tomorrow morning, before we go to Marilyn's, I want to go to the hospital and check on her. I want you to meet her, too." Karen leaned into Kermit's embrace. "For the rest of tonight, though... I just want to spend the rest of the night in your arms."

"Oh, I think that can be arranged," drawled Kermit as he got to his feet and drew her up with him. The destination he had in mind was the bedroom; luckily, he knew it was the same destination she'd intended.

***

Ten a.m. had come and gone. So had Peter Caine's third cup of coffee, part of his fourth cup, and the first hour of the extended Christmas Day shift for which he'd signed up. He still wasn't awake. Eleven hours to go, he reminded himself, wondering for the first time why it had seemed such a good idea to volunteer to do a twelve hour tour on Christmas.

"You look like hell, Pete," Blake greeted him. "Late night?"

Peter managed to summon a weak smile as he reluctantly set down his half-empty coffee cup. "In other words, how long did the party go after you left? Let's just put it this way... I never thought there were so many people in this precinct with either nonexistent or really late in the day Christmas plans. I didn't get to bed until 5:30." He made a half-hearted attempt to stifle a yawn. "I don't think Jordan was too happy I didn't help her clean up." To his horror, he heard the words he'd just said; he'd meant only to think them.

Blake ignored the slip. "You doing OK today, what with it being Christmas and all?"

"And me being alone, at least as far as missing everyone I usually spend Christmas with?" Peter guessed. "Yeah, I'm actually doing better than I thought I would be. But I think I should be the one asking you that question." He hesitated, then added, "Skalany told me about Mary. I can't believe I never knew about what happened to her."

"Not too many people did." Blake admitted, "Christmas has been hell ever since. Last night was the first time I've really been able to face it."

Peter laughed. "You mean Jordan's party was actually good for something?"

The older man wondered briefly about the acerbic edge to the other's tone before he answered. "Guess I finally started to grasp the wisdom contained in one of my wife's favorite Christmas carols."

***

Meeting the infant who had worked her way into Karen's heart the night before wouldn't have been Kermit's first choice of a way to spend Christmas morning. This little girl was liable to worm her way into his own affections as rapidly as she had Karen's, he reflected sourly. That could be dangerous; the last thing a child already so shortchanged by the world needed was an introduction to the ghosts that lurked in the background of his life.

If it had been up to him, he wouldn't have been following Karen to the nursery of County General Hospital. But it was Christmas, and he didn't have the heart to deny Karen her wishes.

Seconds later, he reevaluated his fervent desire to be anywhere else at all as an overly cheery nurse informed Karen, "Oh, Captain, that little girl you brought in last night is so lucky that it's Christmas and one of the local TV stations decided to do a nice human interest story about her this morning. Her grandmother -- her mother's mother -- saw the piece and came right here. She's with her now. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Where the hell was she last night?" Karen's voice was pitched low enough that her irate words reached only Kermit's ears. Her high heels clicked furiously against the tile floor as she spun and headed toward the nursery itself, where she'd last seen the baby hours before.

Kermit followed her hastily, determined to stop her before she did or said something she'd regret. He reached her just as she drew close to the glass window between corridor and nursery -- and instinctively braced himself for impending disaster as a woman came out of the nursery and headed straight for Karen.

"You're Captain Simms, aren't you?" asked the woman, extending her hand. "I saw you on the news last night when they were talking about the police station that had been taken over. I never guessed -- I never guessed that you had saved my granddaughter until someone told me this morning. I'm Alice Randall. It's not anywhere near enough, but thank you."

Reluctantly, Karen offered the other woman her own hand for a brief handshake. As she did, she swiftly studied Alice Randall, reassured that she could feel the intensity of Kermit's gaze as he did the same. The baby's grandmother was probably in her early forties, but so careworn and tired that she could easily have been mistaken for being much older. The hand Karen had shaken was work roughened and the woman's clothes clean but worn. "She's a very special child," Karen managed.

Alice smiled sadly, the action not quite reaching her eyes. "She's a very lucky little girl, too, that someone like you found her when Melissa left her in that alley. When I think of what could have happened to her..." She shuddered momentarily, then rushed on, "Captain, there was a lady from child welfare here this morning. She told me I'd need to file papers to get custody of my granddaughter even though Craig... that's my daughter's boyfriend... decided he didn't want any part of either one of them when Melissa got pregnant. He's in jail anyway, and I'm afraid that's where Melissa will end up once they find her. But Faith doesn't deserve to end up in an orphanage because of their mistakes.”

"Faith?" Karen questioned, her voice gentle.

"I... as far as I know, Melissa didn't name her before she left her. She probably wasn't thinking about anything but her next fix." Karen nearly missed the note of despair and self-remonstration in the other woman's voice as she heard Kermit catch his breath. "I thought Faith would be the best name she could have because God really has been watching over her. He sent you to take care of her and then He let me find her. Maybe you can help me, ma'am. The lady from child welfare told me someone had already expressed interest in Faith. I'm sure whoever did is better off than I am. I'm afraid they'll decide she should be raised by them."

Karen let the word "ma'am" slip by. "Unless there was someone else this morning, she was talking about me. I told her how hard it was for me to leave this baby." Regret laced her tone, leaving Karen unsure whether the sorrow was for the infant's grandmother or for herself.

Alice's eyes widened in panic; Kermit nearly winced at the agony visible in them, though he couldn't fathom why. "You were so good to Faith last night. I thought maybe you could help convince them to give her to me. But you and your husband --" She nodded toward Kermit as she spoke; neither he nor Karen corrected her. "-- you have so much, you can give her so much more than I can. No one will stop to think about how much I love her, how she needs her grandmother." Alice faltered, then squared her shoulders and went on. "Look, we never had much, not even when my husband was still alive, but I did my best. I really was a good mother. I had to work to support us, but I made sure I was home with Melissa as much as I could be. I tried so hard, I know I should have done better, but she was always a good girl. That's why I never thought she'd fall in with the wrong crowd. By the time I found out she was taking drugs, Melissa was pregnant and she was 18; she was moving out of the house. God help me, I couldn't stop her, I couldn't even make her get help. But I can raise Faith the way she should be raised. You have to believe me."

The reality of why Alice Randall's pain was as palpable to him as Karen's hit Kermit with such force he nearly staggered at the impact. In his mind's eye, it was suddenly fifteen years earlier, the woman protesting about how hard she'd tried and unable to accept her own failure at preventing the addiction of someone she loved a young and frightened -- and thoroughly miserable -- Marilyn. He held his breath, waiting for Karen's reply. Memories assailing him, he never heard it. The next voice he registered was Alice's.

"How can I ever thank you?"

He looked over to see Karen forcing a smile as she enfolded the other woman's hand in her own. "Just take care of her. And don't be surprised if I come to see her once in a while -- she already has a way of getting people attached to her." Kermit could see her struggling to suppress emotion as she hastily turned to leave, and he moved to her side.

"Except her own mother," Alice said sadly, her voice barely reaching the other two as they made their way toward the elevator.

Much to his own surprise, Kermit found himself turning and telling her, "Don't give up on Melissa. If she wants to turn her life around -- when she wants to do it, she will."

***

Karen strode rapidly toward Kermit's car, gulping in deep breaths of the frigid air. The morning sky was a leaden grey, its clouds threatening another few inches of snow. Somehow, this Christmas that was appropriate.

Seconds before her pace would have taken her to a patch of ice, a hand closed about her upper arm. Karen halted and said in a strangled voice, "Tell me I just did the right thing back there."

"You don't need me to tell you that. You already know it." Kermit moved his hand to her shoulder; she responded by turning to face him.

"Then why does it hurt so much? Why couldn't I even bring myself to go in to see her?" Karen was grateful when his arms came around her; realizing he'd known without asking how much she needed his strength meant everything right now.

"Because sometimes a clean break's the easiest way to let go," Kermit whispered, grateful she'd rested her head on his shoulder and couldn't see that he was nearly as shaken.

"When I heard the nurse say the grandmother was there, I just stormed in like some avenging angel," Karen rebuked herself. "I wanted to know how she dared think she could raise this child when she'd done so badly with Faith's mother. Listening to her, to how much love she has --" She broke off, shaking her head. "It made me realize I was in no position to judge, not living in that glass house of my own. But you... I can't believe what you said to her when we left.”

"It's Christmas." Karen drew back from him and looked up, her gaze piercing green lenses and challenging his effort to shrug off what he'd said. "Her daughter's mistakes aren't her fault. And David taught me that sometimes someone can make his way back." A long moment of silence passed. "We don't have to go to Marilyn's today if you don't want to."

Karen shook her head. "No. It's Christmas. Let's leave our troubles here, at least for today." She was quiet for a few seconds, then shook her head, her expression faintly amused. "Peter was so certain that no one would claim the baby that I believed him. I actually thought that maybe he really knew what was going to happen to Faith. I suppose I wanted to believe him. Wishful thinking, huh?"

"Maybe on both your parts," Kermit replied thoughtfully. "I wouldn't be surprised if Peter wanted so badly to be sure Faith wasn't alone in the world that he convinced himself you were the woman he knew would end up raising her."

***

"What wisdom?" Peter asked curiously.

Blake chuckled. "You know, most people would have asked what carol. A couple of things, actually. I finally managed to tell the difference between Christmas past and Christmas present... and to accept that the Christmas we're celebrating today actually could bring some good things along with it. I still think what the song says about 'joy that will last' is overkill, but maybe I'll see that differently someday too."

"And?"

"And I realized that Skalany was right when I asked her who would have listened if I'd talked about Mary and she said, 'Everybody in this precinct'. Maybe the carol's wording is a little florid, but I think the sentiment's about right."

Peter filled in the words the other man hadn't said, singing them softly. "'Faithful friends who are dear to us; Gather near to us once more.' Yeah, you know, that part of it started to hit home for me last night too. I'm not saying I don't still wish Jordan had never thrown that party, but there were a lot of people whose being there made it easier to deal with the fact that the rest of the family wasn't." He sighed. "Still, I hate the fact that they're gone."

"At least it's just this year," Blake offered awkwardly.

As Peter began to answer, his phone rang and he pounced on the incoming call instead. "Detective Caine."

"Merry Christmas, Peter." His mother's voice came across the line, more welcome than any he'd heard yet this Christmas Day.

"Mom?"

Blake rose and ambled over to the coffee maker, in order to give the younger man some privacy for his phone call. When he returned to his desk several minutes later, he was just in time to catch the end of Peter's side of the conversation.

"Next year won't be like this, right, Mom?" the young man asked hopefully.

On the other end of the line, Annie smiled. "Next year, we'll all be together, just like always," she promised. Moments later, as she returned the receiver to its cradle, she laced her fingers through Paul's and added, "I'm actually starting to believe myself. A couple of days ago, I wouldn't have dared, but now..."

Paul chuckled and directed his wife's attention to the song they'd listened to over and over during the last several days. "Maybe someday soon our troubles really will be over and every time we talk about the family being together again, we won't think that qualifier is so appropriate."

Annie had no need to ask what qualifier; she too heard the singer warble, "Someday soon we all will be together; If the fates allow". Absently, she joined in on the words "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow. So have yourself a merry little Christmas now." Midway through, she became conscious of Paul's baritone blending with her soprano -- and of something else. In the deepest recesses of her soul, she believed their longed-for Christmas miracle soon would truly come to pass.

FIN