FIC: Twenty-five Days (part 3)
Back to part 1
Or back to part 2
___________________________________
***
Day 14
Neal had spent the last two days finishing the Degas, just as he had done before, right down to ensuring that the aging included immature micro-fractures. He found it ironic that he was wishing Philip Kramer might get a hold of this one soon.
Today was devoted to the issue of the passport. There was no getting around the problem of the paper. Once, with the right materials and a lot more time than he'd had even from the day Boots picked him up at the park, he could have created the paper himself. Those days were long gone with the latest round of security features added to the US passport. He couldn't let her think that someone else could forge her passport as well as he could, nor could he even let her consider the possibility that he was trying to steer her toward anyone, but the New York City forging community was a lot smaller than she might have realized. If she was being truthful and the paintings weren't going to see the light of day any time soon, he could only hope that Mozzie had made contact with the city's top passport and document forgers.
*****
Peter's team had assembled a list of a couple hundred addresses that had received deliveries of items on the list. A few addresses received several different shipments from different companies, but the most interesting one was the one address that received an industrial oven a couple of days after a number of oil paints, brushes, canvases and an easel had been delivered.
Peter and Jones drove out to the address that turned out to be a small storefront in Long Island City. Through the large front window they could see a desk with a few papers in a tray, a chair, some filing cabinets, a door to the foyer and a door to a back room. Access was evidently through the exterior door to the small foyer, which was locked. There were apartments on the three floors above the storefront.
"What do you think, Peter? Maybe Neal's in here?"
"I don't know, maybe. It looks empty now but there's something behind the main room, and the apartments upstairs could be anybody. If we go in now without a warrant, any evidence we find is useless. But I hate to walk away and risk missing someone going in or out. Let's go wait in the car, get the van out here, and do some research on this building."
***
"Time for your list, Mr. Caffrey."
He drew a deep breath. He handed her a single sheet of paper with a list of supplies written with the wax pencil she'd allowed him to use. He watched as she read through the specific inks and dyes, pens and tips, metal strips, a camera, photo printer and paper, a holographic printer, and - "
"A blank passport book? Are you serious?"
"If I could make the paper myself these days, believe me, I would. I can make you the best passport money can buy, but no one makes the paper any more. The best forgers in the community have some older ones hidden away that they use. If I had the right equipment and enough time - and I mean months, not days - I could make my own, but I haven't really been free to pursue that line of work for a few years now."
"And what did I say about your recommendations for outside individuals?"
He put his hands up.
"These are just about everyone in the in this area that's likely to have what I need to do this for you. You ask your people - I'm sure you have someone in your client list who's familiar with the forging community. Get a recommendation from them. If they know somebody who's not on this list, then they're new and I don't know their work."
***
Day 15
Peter and Diana sat in the van outside the small storefront for hours while Jones looked for anything he could on the ownership and occupancy of the building. Deliveries had been made to C and M Associates, but the business was never registered in New York. Payments for both the packages and the rent were all made with pre-paid credit cards, purchased with cash at a number of different retailers in New York and New Jersey. A lot of trouble to go through if you're not trying to cover your tracks, Jones had commented.
Since two weeks had passed since Neal's kidnapping it was getting harder and harder to convince upper management to allow the search to continue. Hughes was sympathetic and would push to allow their investigation to continue until Mara Summers' trial was scheduled to begin, but without hard evidence he would have to pull the plug in ten days. Peter was hopeful for, but not really expecting, approval for a warrant to search the business based on the delivery of some art supplies and an oven; he was still disappointed when it was denied. There was nothing to prevent them from talking to the upstairs tenants, though, so he and Diana slipped out of the van and rang the second floor doorbell. They were just about to give up and try the third floor when a woman's voice came over the intercom.
"Is this another delivery for downstairs?" she asked, sounding annoyed.
"No, ma'am," answered Diana. "We're with the FBI, we're just looking for some information you might be able to help us with. Can we talk?"
A buzzer sounded and the lock on the front door disengaged.
***
The downside of not having anything to work on was that Boots didn't show up with food or the fan Neal relied upon for fresh air. He assumed Boots was checking out Neal's list of names, and used the time to look for whatever tools he could make with what he had available.
Which consisted of the inner workings of the toilet tank and the cot.
****
"Your downstairs neighbor - do you know what kind of business it is?" Peter asked the middle-aged woman who lived above the storefront.
"No, I ain't never seen them do nothin' but move boxes that I have let the delivery people in for. I mean, the guy has a sign to ring my doorbell every time something shows up."
"That sounds rather rude," Diana said sympathetically. "Were there a lot of deliveries here?"
"Yeah, a lot - maybe, uh, eight, ten, the week before last. I mean, he asked, before the first one, if I was home and could do it, which was fine, but I thought it would just be one or two. The last one, though - I had to tell him, no more. That was ridiculous. An oven. I mean, an oven, dropped off in that little entryway downstairs. Do you know how hard it was to get around it? God forbid if there was a fire or something."
"Do you remember when that was?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, a little over a week ago."
Peter and Diana exchanged looks. This was the same information they had gotten through the purchases that were delivered to the building.
"And then, first night he comes back and drags it into the back of the store, he uses it and I swear, whatever he was cooking stunk to high heaven. Then he did it again a couple days ago."
"What did it smell like?" asked Peter.
"I don't know, but it sure didn't smell like food. Smelled like chemicals or something. Come here," she said, taking them to her kitchen. "Maybe you can still smell it where the pipe comes up through the floor."
Peter knelt on the floor and put his nose to the small opening around the water pipe. He looked at Diana and nodded.
"Can you describe him at all?"
"Not really, no. Shorter than you, brown hair. Wore really nice boots."
"Thank you. If you hear him come back, could you call us, please? Don't say anything about us to him, if you don't mind." Diana gave the woman her card.
"Yeah, no problem. I'm hoping you can get him out of here."
"So, Peter, what did you smell?" Diana asked after they left the building.
"The smell of freshly baked oil paint."
***
Day 16
"Here," Boots said, handing Neal a paper plate with yet another sandwich. "Guess we forgot to give you something yesterday."
"Forgot, sure," Neal said, feigning feeling ill and weak. It wasn't hard to do.
"I talked to our people, they recommended a guy named Devlin from your list."
Neal nodded.
"Devlin's good, he's discrete," he said, thinking of Devlin's I DO ID tee shirts.
"He said he'll have it tomorrow. I'll bring it to you then. I got most of your list, just waiting for delivery of one of the machines you asked for."
***
It was the smell of the process used to age canvases that got the White Collar team its warrant, but when they entered the building there was nothing from the list of materials except for the stove. There was also no sign that Neal had ever been there.
***
Day 17
"Here's your book," Boots said, handing the blank passport to Neal. "The only reason I didn't give the job to him instead of you is that we can't have anyone else see Mara's picture."
Neal looked through the book carefully.
"This looks good. Do you have the supplies I asked for?"
"I do, but Mara thought you could have one day off with food and the fan to show you she can reward as well as punish. I get to babysit you out here in the hall, so I guess I'm in the doghouse for something."
Neal just shrugged and laid down on the cot. He would have preferred the privacy he needed to start taking apart the door frame, but a comfortable rest and a full meal weren't all that bad.
***
Day 19
Three days in a row with food and air - Neal realized that his things-that-make-life-enjoyable list was rather pathetic, compared to his time before prison, or when he was on the anklet. Hell, even compared to prison itself.
He was a lot steadier and clear-headed, though. He had the photo and the magnetic identification strip, prepared a few stamps, and would be ready to mix the inks tomorrow. He told Boots he just needed the laminator to finish the front end of the book. He managed to hide a couple of the European Union and other foreign stamps when he realized Boots didn't really pay attention to the quantity of materials leaving Neal's cell. He was more interested in the number of blades and sharp items, so there was no way Neal could hold back anything he could use to escape.
For the last two nights he had gone into the bathroom and pretended to vomit, making enough noise so that he could disassemble the metal bar between the float and the handle. Summers had come down to check on him from the doorway the first night; on the second she just spoke to him over the intercom. He told her it was his stomach, that he couldn't keep food down, but he'd finish her passport on time. The third time he "vomited" in an hour she turned off the intercom, and he realized just how quiet it was when the poor-quality speaker was off.
Still, she could turn it on at any minute, or Boots (or she) could show up, so he worked as quietly as he could. Although the door's hinges were on the outside, he was able to partially remove the frame on his side with the metal pieces he had scavenged from the toilet and the cot frame. He estimated it had taken him about six hours to get halfway done. He put the frame back in place enough so that it wouldn't fall off when the door was opened from the other side, and thought he might finish it and get out tomorrow night. He put the cot and toilet back together and crawled back to bed, and only then realized he had a raging headache.
***
Day 22
"Peter, we may have found something," Mozzie nearly screamed over the phone. "A - guy I know - a lesser former competitor of Neal's - he may have sold a blank passport book to someone who didn't need anything but the book. The buyer said he could get everything else he needed."
"This guy reliable?" Peter asked, barely able to breathe.
"Reliable, yes, I think so. Timely, not so much. It was five days ago when he turned over the book. He didn't say anything earlier because he didn't make the connection, but now, well, he thinks it could be something."
"I need to talk to him."
Mozzie sighed. "I'll bring you to him, for Neal, of course, but this isn't someone I want to burn. If this is really the guy that took Neal, my contact doesn't even want June's reward money."
Peter nodded, even though he knew Mozzie couldn't see him. "Alright, set something up as soon as you can. I just want Neal back, too."
Five minutes later Mozzie texted an address to Peter. Peter got there forty minutes later, as directed.
"Why am I not surprised it's a church," he mumbled to himself. It was an old style Catholic church with heavily grated closed door confessionals, the kind that generations of sinners couldn't be seen through.
"Come on, Suit," Mozzie said, pulling on his arm as soon as Peter entered the vestibule. "You get to be the priest today. He's waiting for you in the one closest to the altar."
Peter wondered if he should be the one confessing his sins for impersonating a priest, but reminded himself it was a sting, not a con. It wasn't even a sting. Mozzie's guy knew that Peter was FBI. This was to save a friend.
He sat in the priest's box and slid open the door on his side of the grate.
"Uhh, you have something to confess?"
Devlin was actually kneeling with his hands folded in front of his face, even though Peter could only see his silhouette.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I may have done business with a person who wants to harm someone I know and respect."
"What can you tell me about this individual?"
Devlin described him almost as thoroughly as Neal or Mozzie would have, with an eye to detail for appearance and voice. He took particular notice of the hand tooled cowboy boots.
"Can you describe the item you provided to him?"
Devlin shook his head. "It was just a blank US passport book. There's nothing in it that makes it any different from any other book before the individual security features and ID are added. The guy said he had somebody to do the work but he couldn't make the book himself without time and materials."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing."
"For your penance, if I ever catch you selling passport books again I will have you arrested. Thank you for your help with this, though. If you need anything, Mozzie knows where to find me."
***
Neal nearly finished the passport, but his headache from last night only moderately abated. The last thing he wanted to do was make any mistakes with the stamps, so after he mixed the inks he only stamped in the US re-entry stamps, leaving the foreign ones empty for now. Without a mirror he assumed he had bags under his eyes, but just to make sure he rubbed the slightest traces of brown pigment around his eyes. Even Boots noticed and commented, "Man, you look like shit."
Neal just looked up from his work.
"It's the excellent lighting conditions here, I'm sure. I still need a laminator to finish this."
"It'll be here tomorrow, don't panic."
Later that night, Neal removed the rest of the door frame and carefully and quietly pulled the door back into his side of the room. He was faced with an unexpected obstacle. A heavy, solid piece of hardwood covered the entire opening. It was held in place by metal sliders on the floor, and presumably the ceiling that he couldn't see from his side of the room. He tried pushing it to the right, to the left, and straight out, but it was securely in place.
Getting past this was not going to be quick or quiet. He put the door back in its place, pressed the doorframe into position, went into the bathroom alcove, and, for the first time in three weeks, sat on the floor and let himself acknowledge that he would not leave this room alive. He was as close to despair as he had ever been in his life, more than when Peter arrested him the first time, more than when he had to give up Manhattan during his commutation, more than when things were at their worst with Hagen and Rachel and Peter - even more than after Kate's death.
Fifteen minutes later, he had another plan. It would have to wait one more day.
***
Day 23
"Agent Barrigan?" asked the familiar voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes, this is she. Can I help you?"
"This is Jenny, from the apartment above the store with the guy who got all the deliveries. Do you remember me?"
"Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"
"Well, you said to let you know if he came back. He's not here, but he just got another package, so he'll probably be here sometime today."
Diana practically skipped up the steps and into Peter's office.
"Boss, we still got a team in Long Island City?"
He looked up at her and nodded.
"He'll be there sometime today. He just got a delivery."
Peter smiled more broadly than he had in three weeks.
"Give them a heads-up, and let's go catch us a bad guy."
***
The passport was finished. Neal figured Boots didn't really need to know how the photograph was affixed to the book, but thinking he needed more equipment would buy Neal more time. He was more concerned that all of the stamps be exactly right, so he continued to add them, making sure each was perfect.
***
It was nearly one a.m. when a man about Neal's height with brown hair and cowboy boots walked down 23rd Street, glancing around as if looking for something. He entered the building long enough to retrieve a box from the foyer, and exited into a ring of FBI agents, weapons drawn. Peter Burke cuffed the man himself after reading the name on the package - "Christopher Woolsey, you're under arrest."
***
Day 24
Neal stood in the middle of his prison holding the completed passport while Mara stood in the doorway, holding the stun gun.
"Push it over to me," she said, "and I'll have it verified. If it's good, I'll decide how to release you once I'm away from here."
Neal stood where he was, not moving, looking at her. Boots didn't come in first, as he always did, and she'd forgotten to turn his overhead light out before she opened the door, so he could see her face clearly.
"No. If you want it, come and get it. You're nervous, Doctor. You're picking at your nails. Why is that?"
"Damn you, just slide it across the floor."
"This room - I'm outside your radius, aren't I? You're wearing a tracker that's probably accurate to within a few inches. And there's no one else here but you."
She fired the stun gun at him. He dropped the passport as he fell to his knees, all the while looking at her. She fired again, and he collapsed to the floor. She bit her lip, took a few steps in and kicked the passport back toward the door, then locked him in for the last time.
***
"I want a lawyer," Woolsey said to anyone who would listen.
"As soon as we decide whether to charge you under New York State law, federal law, or the Patriot Act."
"What difference does that make? I still get a lawyer."
"Not if we charge you with terrorism, then we turn you over to the military as an enemy of the state."
"What?"
"That passport you got from a suspect we've had under surveillance. He sells them to foreign nationals and local militia groups."
"I don't believe you. I'm not a terrorist."
"Well, you think about it. We'll talk more after you've had a chance to consider your options."
Peter left him in a holding cell to consider his options.
***
Day 25
Neal woke up with a blinding headache, knowing he'd lost several hours again. He also knew Summers was never coming back, Boots was never coming back, and no one else knew where he was.
The dizziness was getting worse. He no longer worried about any noise he'd make, hoping just to be able to get out before he over-breathed whatever oxygen was left in the room. He pulled the metal pipe from his cot frame and forced it against the door frame to remove the frame and the door. He'd come up with three ways to get past the heavy wooden panel. The first, the easier way, was to see if he could reach some kind of latch with the thin metal bar from the toilet handle.
He carefully slid the bar all the way around the small gap between the panel and the other side of the cinderblock wall, but never reached an end of the panel. He tried pushing the panel in both directions, but it still wasn't going anywhere, even sitting on the floor and pushing with both legs.
That left one other way out, and it was going to take a while. He picked up the hallow pipe from the cot and started the tedious process of digging through the panel, a few splinters of wood at a time. The pipe was pitted and he ended up with cuts and bruises, and if the blood and sweat on his palms hadn't made it harder to grip the pipe he wouldn't have even noticed. He was breathing heavily but not getting nearly enough air to maintain his level of activity. The dizziness became faintness, and he slid to the floor grasping the pipe.
And then he felt an almost infinitesimal movement of air against his wet hand. He pressed his face as close as he could to the small gap between the panel and the wall and inhaled the slightest bit of air - wonderful, beautiful air.
****
Jones called him just as he was about to go to the office to meet with Christopher Woolsey.
"Peter, I'm watching Summers's tracker. She just left her house."
"Damn it, where are the Marshals?"
"They said the judge had given her permission to go to church. Today's Sunday and her trial starts tomorrow. Maybe she feels the need for a little outside help."
"Keep tracking her, call Diana and see if she can meet me. Where is Summers now?"
"She's driving south on East Shore Road. How long will it take you to get up to Kings Point?"
"I'm about 40 minutes away. Let me know where she goes and we'll just keep an eye out. Just in case. I feel the need for a little religion, you?"
"Don't you know it. Diana's going to cross over further north as soon as her sitter gets there, so she should get there around the same time as you."
Diana called about five minutes later.
"Boss, you better not be feeling guilty over my Sunday. This is Neal we're talking about. I want to find him and put her away almost as badly as you do. I should be there in less than a half hour."
"Peter, it looks like she really is at a church," Jones reported. "It's at - uh-oh, it's about two blocks from the Port Washington Yacht Club."
"You have a list of her seized assets handy?"
"Right here, and, yes, she's got a boat docked at Port Washington. I'll call the Harbor Master at Port Washington, have him let us know if she shows up."
"See if our Marine Unit is available to -"
"Peter, her anklet just went off-line."
"Bet she's heading for the boat. Diana, how close are you?"
"About fifteen minutes out. You?"
"Maybe ten. I'm going right to the yacht club."
"I'll see you there."
***
Neal felt reenergized after a few breaths of air, but it didn't last. As exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, he rested on the floor inhaling the limited air that came through the gap before preparing for one final push of breaking through the heavy panel.
***
Diana was mistaken. She and Peter arrived within a minute of each other. She saw Peter talking to the Harbor Master, who was pointing down the to the middle of the next row of slips. They could see Summers's boat starting to pull out of its slip as they ran down the wooden dock, until a Marine Police speedboat blocked her in. She had no choice but to re-dock. The Harbor Master and his staff tied off Summers's boat and put up a gangplank for Peter and Diana to board.
"Is this part of your church service?" Peter asked, taking her purse from her hands. He opened it and found a passport.
"Thought the courts took this from you," he said. "Where'd this one come from?"
***
It felt like hours had passed when Neal recognized that he did not have the strength to get out. His bloodied hands were making it hard to keep a grip on the bar, and the harder he tried to dig the more the bar slipped. He wasn't giving up, not exactly, but realistically he doubted he'd escape. He only wished he could somehow let Peter and Mozzie and everyone he'd known and loved what had happened. Someday, maybe someone would buy this - whatever it was he was imprisoned in - and maybe they'd find this room.
All he had with which to write a message was the blood on his hands. A cliché, perhaps, but still a classic, and he thought fondly of Kate. There were so many things he wanted to say, not that his message would get to anyone soon, but in the end he just wrote on the wall,
PB - THK U 4 -
(thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for caring. Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for my life.)
PB- THK U 4 ALL
XO
NC
****
Peter flipped through Mara's passport. The paper and the cover were real, it looked as if it had been handled and carried for the six years since its issue date. Summertime trips to the European Union, all with appropriately dated US stamps for returning, a few mid-winter trips to Costa Rico, Sydney, and -
“Where’s Neal?” he asked softly.
She didn’t answer.
“Where. Is. Neal,” he repeated, holding the page with the Cape Verde stamp in front of her face.
She glared at him.
“I want immunity.”
“Is he alive?”
“He was when I left him,” she replied.
"And when was that?"
"Yesterday."
Peter stared at her for a few moments. The look of fury on his face made her step back, right into Diana.
“Diana, read her her rights, take her to a holding cell and charge her with kidnapping, escape, holding a forged passport, and anything else you can think of.”
Summers looked stunned.
“We had a deal,“ she said, sounding like a petulant child as Diana cuffed her.
“We never had a deal.”
*****
He worked at the splintered spot he'd made in the wood a few more minutes, sucking in a little more air, and noticed with indifference that his vision was tunneling to the one small spot he'd scraped off the panel. He poked weakly at it a few more times but couldn't gather the strength to remove even a few more splinters. He closed his eyes and laid down again.
"Neal."
He dreamed that Peter was calling him from far away. It seemed like a pleasant way to die, hearing Peter's voice again.
"Neal."
Peter's voice sounded closer and more desperate.
"Neal!"
Neal opened his eyes. He still heard Peter's frantic shouts.
"Peter?" he whispered. He pushed himself to sit upright and swung the pipe against the panel two times before he had to lay down again.
"Peter," he called out again, weakly, just in case the Peter he'd heard wasn't a hallucination, banging the pipe on the floor one last time as his eyes closed.
It took a few seconds before he realized that a pair of strong arms were wrapped around his chest and pulling him out of the room.
"Neal, Neal, stay with me, Buddy," Peter said, dragging Neal from his dark, stagnant prison and into the larger basement room. He gently laid him on the floor and checked his pulse with one hand while he placed the other on Neal's chest. Neal's pulse was racing, his breathing very shallow and rapid.
"Alright, you're going to be okay. Come on, Neal," he said softly as he sat on the floor and pulled his semi-conscious partner onto his lap. Peter took his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called for an ambulance, all the while running his hand over Neal's chest (just to be sure he was still breathing, he told himself).
Just as he was about to call Mozzie Neal turned his head and opened his eyes.
"Peter?" he murmured, reaching up to touch Peter's hand.
Peter couldn't answer. For the first time in over three weeks he was able to let go of the fear he'd lived with, that they would - someday - find Neal's lifeless body somewhere, but he'd never again hear Neal's voice and his laugh, see his eyes sparkle when he'd come up with a brilliant (and probably outrageous) solution to a problem. Peter didn't even try to hold back his tears as he pulled Neal up a little higher and hugged him with both arms. When he could trust his voice, he finally said, "it's damn good to see you again." Neal twisted slightly, wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, pressed his head against Peter's chest, and nodded. "Yeah, you, too," came the breathy reply.
Thank you for your time.
Or back to part 2
___________________________________
***
Day 14
Neal had spent the last two days finishing the Degas, just as he had done before, right down to ensuring that the aging included immature micro-fractures. He found it ironic that he was wishing Philip Kramer might get a hold of this one soon.
Today was devoted to the issue of the passport. There was no getting around the problem of the paper. Once, with the right materials and a lot more time than he'd had even from the day Boots picked him up at the park, he could have created the paper himself. Those days were long gone with the latest round of security features added to the US passport. He couldn't let her think that someone else could forge her passport as well as he could, nor could he even let her consider the possibility that he was trying to steer her toward anyone, but the New York City forging community was a lot smaller than she might have realized. If she was being truthful and the paintings weren't going to see the light of day any time soon, he could only hope that Mozzie had made contact with the city's top passport and document forgers.
*****
Peter's team had assembled a list of a couple hundred addresses that had received deliveries of items on the list. A few addresses received several different shipments from different companies, but the most interesting one was the one address that received an industrial oven a couple of days after a number of oil paints, brushes, canvases and an easel had been delivered.
Peter and Jones drove out to the address that turned out to be a small storefront in Long Island City. Through the large front window they could see a desk with a few papers in a tray, a chair, some filing cabinets, a door to the foyer and a door to a back room. Access was evidently through the exterior door to the small foyer, which was locked. There were apartments on the three floors above the storefront.
"What do you think, Peter? Maybe Neal's in here?"
"I don't know, maybe. It looks empty now but there's something behind the main room, and the apartments upstairs could be anybody. If we go in now without a warrant, any evidence we find is useless. But I hate to walk away and risk missing someone going in or out. Let's go wait in the car, get the van out here, and do some research on this building."
***
"Time for your list, Mr. Caffrey."
He drew a deep breath. He handed her a single sheet of paper with a list of supplies written with the wax pencil she'd allowed him to use. He watched as she read through the specific inks and dyes, pens and tips, metal strips, a camera, photo printer and paper, a holographic printer, and - "
"A blank passport book? Are you serious?"
"If I could make the paper myself these days, believe me, I would. I can make you the best passport money can buy, but no one makes the paper any more. The best forgers in the community have some older ones hidden away that they use. If I had the right equipment and enough time - and I mean months, not days - I could make my own, but I haven't really been free to pursue that line of work for a few years now."
"And what did I say about your recommendations for outside individuals?"
He put his hands up.
"These are just about everyone in the in this area that's likely to have what I need to do this for you. You ask your people - I'm sure you have someone in your client list who's familiar with the forging community. Get a recommendation from them. If they know somebody who's not on this list, then they're new and I don't know their work."
***
Day 15
Peter and Diana sat in the van outside the small storefront for hours while Jones looked for anything he could on the ownership and occupancy of the building. Deliveries had been made to C and M Associates, but the business was never registered in New York. Payments for both the packages and the rent were all made with pre-paid credit cards, purchased with cash at a number of different retailers in New York and New Jersey. A lot of trouble to go through if you're not trying to cover your tracks, Jones had commented.
Since two weeks had passed since Neal's kidnapping it was getting harder and harder to convince upper management to allow the search to continue. Hughes was sympathetic and would push to allow their investigation to continue until Mara Summers' trial was scheduled to begin, but without hard evidence he would have to pull the plug in ten days. Peter was hopeful for, but not really expecting, approval for a warrant to search the business based on the delivery of some art supplies and an oven; he was still disappointed when it was denied. There was nothing to prevent them from talking to the upstairs tenants, though, so he and Diana slipped out of the van and rang the second floor doorbell. They were just about to give up and try the third floor when a woman's voice came over the intercom.
"Is this another delivery for downstairs?" she asked, sounding annoyed.
"No, ma'am," answered Diana. "We're with the FBI, we're just looking for some information you might be able to help us with. Can we talk?"
A buzzer sounded and the lock on the front door disengaged.
***
The downside of not having anything to work on was that Boots didn't show up with food or the fan Neal relied upon for fresh air. He assumed Boots was checking out Neal's list of names, and used the time to look for whatever tools he could make with what he had available.
Which consisted of the inner workings of the toilet tank and the cot.
****
"Your downstairs neighbor - do you know what kind of business it is?" Peter asked the middle-aged woman who lived above the storefront.
"No, I ain't never seen them do nothin' but move boxes that I have let the delivery people in for. I mean, the guy has a sign to ring my doorbell every time something shows up."
"That sounds rather rude," Diana said sympathetically. "Were there a lot of deliveries here?"
"Yeah, a lot - maybe, uh, eight, ten, the week before last. I mean, he asked, before the first one, if I was home and could do it, which was fine, but I thought it would just be one or two. The last one, though - I had to tell him, no more. That was ridiculous. An oven. I mean, an oven, dropped off in that little entryway downstairs. Do you know how hard it was to get around it? God forbid if there was a fire or something."
"Do you remember when that was?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, a little over a week ago."
Peter and Diana exchanged looks. This was the same information they had gotten through the purchases that were delivered to the building.
"And then, first night he comes back and drags it into the back of the store, he uses it and I swear, whatever he was cooking stunk to high heaven. Then he did it again a couple days ago."
"What did it smell like?" asked Peter.
"I don't know, but it sure didn't smell like food. Smelled like chemicals or something. Come here," she said, taking them to her kitchen. "Maybe you can still smell it where the pipe comes up through the floor."
Peter knelt on the floor and put his nose to the small opening around the water pipe. He looked at Diana and nodded.
"Can you describe him at all?"
"Not really, no. Shorter than you, brown hair. Wore really nice boots."
"Thank you. If you hear him come back, could you call us, please? Don't say anything about us to him, if you don't mind." Diana gave the woman her card.
"Yeah, no problem. I'm hoping you can get him out of here."
"So, Peter, what did you smell?" Diana asked after they left the building.
"The smell of freshly baked oil paint."
***
Day 16
"Here," Boots said, handing Neal a paper plate with yet another sandwich. "Guess we forgot to give you something yesterday."
"Forgot, sure," Neal said, feigning feeling ill and weak. It wasn't hard to do.
"I talked to our people, they recommended a guy named Devlin from your list."
Neal nodded.
"Devlin's good, he's discrete," he said, thinking of Devlin's I DO ID tee shirts.
"He said he'll have it tomorrow. I'll bring it to you then. I got most of your list, just waiting for delivery of one of the machines you asked for."
***
It was the smell of the process used to age canvases that got the White Collar team its warrant, but when they entered the building there was nothing from the list of materials except for the stove. There was also no sign that Neal had ever been there.
***
Day 17
"Here's your book," Boots said, handing the blank passport to Neal. "The only reason I didn't give the job to him instead of you is that we can't have anyone else see Mara's picture."
Neal looked through the book carefully.
"This looks good. Do you have the supplies I asked for?"
"I do, but Mara thought you could have one day off with food and the fan to show you she can reward as well as punish. I get to babysit you out here in the hall, so I guess I'm in the doghouse for something."
Neal just shrugged and laid down on the cot. He would have preferred the privacy he needed to start taking apart the door frame, but a comfortable rest and a full meal weren't all that bad.
***
Day 19
Three days in a row with food and air - Neal realized that his things-that-make-life-enjoyable list was rather pathetic, compared to his time before prison, or when he was on the anklet. Hell, even compared to prison itself.
He was a lot steadier and clear-headed, though. He had the photo and the magnetic identification strip, prepared a few stamps, and would be ready to mix the inks tomorrow. He told Boots he just needed the laminator to finish the front end of the book. He managed to hide a couple of the European Union and other foreign stamps when he realized Boots didn't really pay attention to the quantity of materials leaving Neal's cell. He was more interested in the number of blades and sharp items, so there was no way Neal could hold back anything he could use to escape.
For the last two nights he had gone into the bathroom and pretended to vomit, making enough noise so that he could disassemble the metal bar between the float and the handle. Summers had come down to check on him from the doorway the first night; on the second she just spoke to him over the intercom. He told her it was his stomach, that he couldn't keep food down, but he'd finish her passport on time. The third time he "vomited" in an hour she turned off the intercom, and he realized just how quiet it was when the poor-quality speaker was off.
Still, she could turn it on at any minute, or Boots (or she) could show up, so he worked as quietly as he could. Although the door's hinges were on the outside, he was able to partially remove the frame on his side with the metal pieces he had scavenged from the toilet and the cot frame. He estimated it had taken him about six hours to get halfway done. He put the frame back in place enough so that it wouldn't fall off when the door was opened from the other side, and thought he might finish it and get out tomorrow night. He put the cot and toilet back together and crawled back to bed, and only then realized he had a raging headache.
***
Day 22
"Peter, we may have found something," Mozzie nearly screamed over the phone. "A - guy I know - a lesser former competitor of Neal's - he may have sold a blank passport book to someone who didn't need anything but the book. The buyer said he could get everything else he needed."
"This guy reliable?" Peter asked, barely able to breathe.
"Reliable, yes, I think so. Timely, not so much. It was five days ago when he turned over the book. He didn't say anything earlier because he didn't make the connection, but now, well, he thinks it could be something."
"I need to talk to him."
Mozzie sighed. "I'll bring you to him, for Neal, of course, but this isn't someone I want to burn. If this is really the guy that took Neal, my contact doesn't even want June's reward money."
Peter nodded, even though he knew Mozzie couldn't see him. "Alright, set something up as soon as you can. I just want Neal back, too."
Five minutes later Mozzie texted an address to Peter. Peter got there forty minutes later, as directed.
"Why am I not surprised it's a church," he mumbled to himself. It was an old style Catholic church with heavily grated closed door confessionals, the kind that generations of sinners couldn't be seen through.
"Come on, Suit," Mozzie said, pulling on his arm as soon as Peter entered the vestibule. "You get to be the priest today. He's waiting for you in the one closest to the altar."
Peter wondered if he should be the one confessing his sins for impersonating a priest, but reminded himself it was a sting, not a con. It wasn't even a sting. Mozzie's guy knew that Peter was FBI. This was to save a friend.
He sat in the priest's box and slid open the door on his side of the grate.
"Uhh, you have something to confess?"
Devlin was actually kneeling with his hands folded in front of his face, even though Peter could only see his silhouette.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I may have done business with a person who wants to harm someone I know and respect."
"What can you tell me about this individual?"
Devlin described him almost as thoroughly as Neal or Mozzie would have, with an eye to detail for appearance and voice. He took particular notice of the hand tooled cowboy boots.
"Can you describe the item you provided to him?"
Devlin shook his head. "It was just a blank US passport book. There's nothing in it that makes it any different from any other book before the individual security features and ID are added. The guy said he had somebody to do the work but he couldn't make the book himself without time and materials."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing."
"For your penance, if I ever catch you selling passport books again I will have you arrested. Thank you for your help with this, though. If you need anything, Mozzie knows where to find me."
***
Neal nearly finished the passport, but his headache from last night only moderately abated. The last thing he wanted to do was make any mistakes with the stamps, so after he mixed the inks he only stamped in the US re-entry stamps, leaving the foreign ones empty for now. Without a mirror he assumed he had bags under his eyes, but just to make sure he rubbed the slightest traces of brown pigment around his eyes. Even Boots noticed and commented, "Man, you look like shit."
Neal just looked up from his work.
"It's the excellent lighting conditions here, I'm sure. I still need a laminator to finish this."
"It'll be here tomorrow, don't panic."
Later that night, Neal removed the rest of the door frame and carefully and quietly pulled the door back into his side of the room. He was faced with an unexpected obstacle. A heavy, solid piece of hardwood covered the entire opening. It was held in place by metal sliders on the floor, and presumably the ceiling that he couldn't see from his side of the room. He tried pushing it to the right, to the left, and straight out, but it was securely in place.
Getting past this was not going to be quick or quiet. He put the door back in its place, pressed the doorframe into position, went into the bathroom alcove, and, for the first time in three weeks, sat on the floor and let himself acknowledge that he would not leave this room alive. He was as close to despair as he had ever been in his life, more than when Peter arrested him the first time, more than when he had to give up Manhattan during his commutation, more than when things were at their worst with Hagen and Rachel and Peter - even more than after Kate's death.
Fifteen minutes later, he had another plan. It would have to wait one more day.
***
Day 23
"Agent Barrigan?" asked the familiar voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes, this is she. Can I help you?"
"This is Jenny, from the apartment above the store with the guy who got all the deliveries. Do you remember me?"
"Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"
"Well, you said to let you know if he came back. He's not here, but he just got another package, so he'll probably be here sometime today."
Diana practically skipped up the steps and into Peter's office.
"Boss, we still got a team in Long Island City?"
He looked up at her and nodded.
"He'll be there sometime today. He just got a delivery."
Peter smiled more broadly than he had in three weeks.
"Give them a heads-up, and let's go catch us a bad guy."
***
The passport was finished. Neal figured Boots didn't really need to know how the photograph was affixed to the book, but thinking he needed more equipment would buy Neal more time. He was more concerned that all of the stamps be exactly right, so he continued to add them, making sure each was perfect.
***
It was nearly one a.m. when a man about Neal's height with brown hair and cowboy boots walked down 23rd Street, glancing around as if looking for something. He entered the building long enough to retrieve a box from the foyer, and exited into a ring of FBI agents, weapons drawn. Peter Burke cuffed the man himself after reading the name on the package - "Christopher Woolsey, you're under arrest."
***
Day 24
Neal stood in the middle of his prison holding the completed passport while Mara stood in the doorway, holding the stun gun.
"Push it over to me," she said, "and I'll have it verified. If it's good, I'll decide how to release you once I'm away from here."
Neal stood where he was, not moving, looking at her. Boots didn't come in first, as he always did, and she'd forgotten to turn his overhead light out before she opened the door, so he could see her face clearly.
"No. If you want it, come and get it. You're nervous, Doctor. You're picking at your nails. Why is that?"
"Damn you, just slide it across the floor."
"This room - I'm outside your radius, aren't I? You're wearing a tracker that's probably accurate to within a few inches. And there's no one else here but you."
She fired the stun gun at him. He dropped the passport as he fell to his knees, all the while looking at her. She fired again, and he collapsed to the floor. She bit her lip, took a few steps in and kicked the passport back toward the door, then locked him in for the last time.
***
"I want a lawyer," Woolsey said to anyone who would listen.
"As soon as we decide whether to charge you under New York State law, federal law, or the Patriot Act."
"What difference does that make? I still get a lawyer."
"Not if we charge you with terrorism, then we turn you over to the military as an enemy of the state."
"What?"
"That passport you got from a suspect we've had under surveillance. He sells them to foreign nationals and local militia groups."
"I don't believe you. I'm not a terrorist."
"Well, you think about it. We'll talk more after you've had a chance to consider your options."
Peter left him in a holding cell to consider his options.
***
Day 25
Neal woke up with a blinding headache, knowing he'd lost several hours again. He also knew Summers was never coming back, Boots was never coming back, and no one else knew where he was.
The dizziness was getting worse. He no longer worried about any noise he'd make, hoping just to be able to get out before he over-breathed whatever oxygen was left in the room. He pulled the metal pipe from his cot frame and forced it against the door frame to remove the frame and the door. He'd come up with three ways to get past the heavy wooden panel. The first, the easier way, was to see if he could reach some kind of latch with the thin metal bar from the toilet handle.
He carefully slid the bar all the way around the small gap between the panel and the other side of the cinderblock wall, but never reached an end of the panel. He tried pushing the panel in both directions, but it still wasn't going anywhere, even sitting on the floor and pushing with both legs.
That left one other way out, and it was going to take a while. He picked up the hallow pipe from the cot and started the tedious process of digging through the panel, a few splinters of wood at a time. The pipe was pitted and he ended up with cuts and bruises, and if the blood and sweat on his palms hadn't made it harder to grip the pipe he wouldn't have even noticed. He was breathing heavily but not getting nearly enough air to maintain his level of activity. The dizziness became faintness, and he slid to the floor grasping the pipe.
And then he felt an almost infinitesimal movement of air against his wet hand. He pressed his face as close as he could to the small gap between the panel and the wall and inhaled the slightest bit of air - wonderful, beautiful air.
****
Jones called him just as he was about to go to the office to meet with Christopher Woolsey.
"Peter, I'm watching Summers's tracker. She just left her house."
"Damn it, where are the Marshals?"
"They said the judge had given her permission to go to church. Today's Sunday and her trial starts tomorrow. Maybe she feels the need for a little outside help."
"Keep tracking her, call Diana and see if she can meet me. Where is Summers now?"
"She's driving south on East Shore Road. How long will it take you to get up to Kings Point?"
"I'm about 40 minutes away. Let me know where she goes and we'll just keep an eye out. Just in case. I feel the need for a little religion, you?"
"Don't you know it. Diana's going to cross over further north as soon as her sitter gets there, so she should get there around the same time as you."
Diana called about five minutes later.
"Boss, you better not be feeling guilty over my Sunday. This is Neal we're talking about. I want to find him and put her away almost as badly as you do. I should be there in less than a half hour."
"Peter, it looks like she really is at a church," Jones reported. "It's at - uh-oh, it's about two blocks from the Port Washington Yacht Club."
"You have a list of her seized assets handy?"
"Right here, and, yes, she's got a boat docked at Port Washington. I'll call the Harbor Master at Port Washington, have him let us know if she shows up."
"See if our Marine Unit is available to -"
"Peter, her anklet just went off-line."
"Bet she's heading for the boat. Diana, how close are you?"
"About fifteen minutes out. You?"
"Maybe ten. I'm going right to the yacht club."
"I'll see you there."
***
Neal felt reenergized after a few breaths of air, but it didn't last. As exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, he rested on the floor inhaling the limited air that came through the gap before preparing for one final push of breaking through the heavy panel.
***
Diana was mistaken. She and Peter arrived within a minute of each other. She saw Peter talking to the Harbor Master, who was pointing down the to the middle of the next row of slips. They could see Summers's boat starting to pull out of its slip as they ran down the wooden dock, until a Marine Police speedboat blocked her in. She had no choice but to re-dock. The Harbor Master and his staff tied off Summers's boat and put up a gangplank for Peter and Diana to board.
"Is this part of your church service?" Peter asked, taking her purse from her hands. He opened it and found a passport.
"Thought the courts took this from you," he said. "Where'd this one come from?"
***
It felt like hours had passed when Neal recognized that he did not have the strength to get out. His bloodied hands were making it hard to keep a grip on the bar, and the harder he tried to dig the more the bar slipped. He wasn't giving up, not exactly, but realistically he doubted he'd escape. He only wished he could somehow let Peter and Mozzie and everyone he'd known and loved what had happened. Someday, maybe someone would buy this - whatever it was he was imprisoned in - and maybe they'd find this room.
All he had with which to write a message was the blood on his hands. A cliché, perhaps, but still a classic, and he thought fondly of Kate. There were so many things he wanted to say, not that his message would get to anyone soon, but in the end he just wrote on the wall,
PB - THK U 4 -
(thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for caring. Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for my life.)
PB- THK U 4 ALL
XO
NC
****
Peter flipped through Mara's passport. The paper and the cover were real, it looked as if it had been handled and carried for the six years since its issue date. Summertime trips to the European Union, all with appropriately dated US stamps for returning, a few mid-winter trips to Costa Rico, Sydney, and -
“Where’s Neal?” he asked softly.
She didn’t answer.
“Where. Is. Neal,” he repeated, holding the page with the Cape Verde stamp in front of her face.
She glared at him.
“I want immunity.”
“Is he alive?”
“He was when I left him,” she replied.
"And when was that?"
"Yesterday."
Peter stared at her for a few moments. The look of fury on his face made her step back, right into Diana.
“Diana, read her her rights, take her to a holding cell and charge her with kidnapping, escape, holding a forged passport, and anything else you can think of.”
Summers looked stunned.
“We had a deal,“ she said, sounding like a petulant child as Diana cuffed her.
“We never had a deal.”
*****
He worked at the splintered spot he'd made in the wood a few more minutes, sucking in a little more air, and noticed with indifference that his vision was tunneling to the one small spot he'd scraped off the panel. He poked weakly at it a few more times but couldn't gather the strength to remove even a few more splinters. He closed his eyes and laid down again.
"Neal."
He dreamed that Peter was calling him from far away. It seemed like a pleasant way to die, hearing Peter's voice again.
"Neal."
Peter's voice sounded closer and more desperate.
"Neal!"
Neal opened his eyes. He still heard Peter's frantic shouts.
"Peter?" he whispered. He pushed himself to sit upright and swung the pipe against the panel two times before he had to lay down again.
"Peter," he called out again, weakly, just in case the Peter he'd heard wasn't a hallucination, banging the pipe on the floor one last time as his eyes closed.
It took a few seconds before he realized that a pair of strong arms were wrapped around his chest and pulling him out of the room.
"Neal, Neal, stay with me, Buddy," Peter said, dragging Neal from his dark, stagnant prison and into the larger basement room. He gently laid him on the floor and checked his pulse with one hand while he placed the other on Neal's chest. Neal's pulse was racing, his breathing very shallow and rapid.
"Alright, you're going to be okay. Come on, Neal," he said softly as he sat on the floor and pulled his semi-conscious partner onto his lap. Peter took his cell phone from his jacket pocket and called for an ambulance, all the while running his hand over Neal's chest (just to be sure he was still breathing, he told himself).
Just as he was about to call Mozzie Neal turned his head and opened his eyes.
"Peter?" he murmured, reaching up to touch Peter's hand.
Peter couldn't answer. For the first time in over three weeks he was able to let go of the fear he'd lived with, that they would - someday - find Neal's lifeless body somewhere, but he'd never again hear Neal's voice and his laugh, see his eyes sparkle when he'd come up with a brilliant (and probably outrageous) solution to a problem. Peter didn't even try to hold back his tears as he pulled Neal up a little higher and hugged him with both arms. When he could trust his voice, he finally said, "it's damn good to see you again." Neal twisted slightly, wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, pressed his head against Peter's chest, and nodded. "Yeah, you, too," came the breathy reply.
Thank you for your time.