Hoofprints and Heartbeats, Part 1
Hoofprints and Heartbeats
Art | Master Post | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Upstate New York
Five Days After Neal’s Disappearance
The chilling words of his captor repeated over and over in his head, a taunting mantra that refused to leave him peace. I’m about to be the last person on earth who knows where you are, the man with the boots had said. He could still hear it plain as day, every inflection, every twist of those words had been forever ingrained in his mind, and he could see with perfect precision each contour of the man’s face before his world turned black. Neal thought at first his captor’s statement could not be true - clearly, the man with the boots did not know his Peter Burke: Peter, the man who could find him anywhere in the world; Peter, the man who would stop at nothing until he was home. And although, even all this time later, this same man had yet to bring resolution to his current predicament, Neal still remained confident that one day soon, his Peter would come.
Nonetheless, Neal couldn’t help but remember the sharp sting of the gun as his captors stunned him when he hit the floor of the van that day, and then again sometime along the ride. He woke up disoriented, with his ears ringing from the buzz of the stunner, incognizant of the time just as the van was lurching to a halt. He fought like a wild animal during the rough voyage to the room in which he was now being held, but the hands that detained him had subdued his efforts by an agonizing blow to the ribcage that had stolen the breath from his lungs. The punch by now had blossomed into a brilliantly purple bruise, encompassing a good portion of his left side and serving as a painful reminder of his situation each time he inhaled a breath.
The room he was kept in was stark, with the walls a bland tan color and the floors dusty and cold. Its air filled Neal’s nostrils with a musty smell that reminded him of the basement of his childhood home which frequently flooded with water from the overflowing tides of the Mississippi. There was a timeworn sofa in the corner, its crimson cushions dilapidated with patches covering various seams and tears, but it was where Neal found most comfortable to sleep and despite is aesthetically displeasing appearance, it was decently comfortable. Across the room, a plain card table with two folding chairs sat, small and unsteady from years of use. He had a bathroom with a small shower stall and a toilet, but no mirror, and of course, there was not a single window, painting, or any kind of décor adorning the walls. The only light source came from a surprisingly sophisticated ceiling fan that allowed him options for bright light as well as dim, and Neal soon found out that this luxury had been installed in order to ensure his productivity was not diminished in the otherwise tasteless accommodations.
The captors who held him wore black hoods and masks at all times and were deafeningly soundless during their interactions. This made it difficult for Neal to get even a slight read on the identity of the individuals or his whereabouts. Initial treatment had been harsh, with meager rations of bland food and tepid water coupled with some roughing up to ensure that the conman would be nothing other than compliant. However, as time droned on, the artist began to receive “assignments” delivered by hand in written form, with details as to what he was to accomplish and within what time frame. Everything he needed to complete these assignments was provided to him. Sometimes, he had been ordered to forge a painting, sometimes a sculpture. Sometimes he was asked to decode a message - these were his least favorite because he usually leaned heavily on Mozzie for that sort of thing. But with each assignment came a momentary break in the monotony of his day, a chance to exercise the brain he was sure was rotting from boredom inside his skull. And upon completion of each task, the treatment Neal received started to get better. He was fairly certain they would not kill him so long as he kept giving them adequate results, and so far, it seemed his work had been satisfactory. So he toiled on, day after day, torn between resenting the work they forced him to do and loving the opportunity to do more than just exist, all the while hoping, knowing, that reprieve in the form of Peter Burke would soon come.
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FBI Bureau, New York City
Eight Days After Neal’s Disappearance
Peter was certain Neal had run. The way Neal had stalked off, completely engulfed with rage about the unfairness of the whole situation suggested that he was on the verge of doing something stupid. He knew that walk; it was the same gait he had watched storm off a year ago after their boxing match, and the same he had witnessed even years before that when he let Neal walk home after their fight during the case involving Pierce. It was a Caffrey classic, and one of the few times Peter Burke could be confident he knew what his exactly partner was feeling. All of these memories flashed before his eyes, backing Peter into a corner that allowed only a single logical conclusion: that Neal had run. But this time, the agent didn’t blame him. The way the powers that be of the FBI were handling his criminal informant’s future made him wish he could run from it all too.
Ever since Neal’s disappearance, Peter had only half-heartedly been participating in the Bureau’s massive effort to bring the conman back into custody. Of course, he had been searching on his own, but after the senior agent had turned down the offer from DC, and then Neal disappeared, speculations quickly made their way among the big wigs in the capital. It was suspected Peter was involved. But he didn’t care; professional advancement was the least of his worries as his heart was slowly breaking. His life had suddenly become empty and he didn’t know how to fix it. He went home to an empty house without Elizabeth there, slept in an empty bed. His car was empty sans his partner in the morning, fiddling with his hat and the radio station, making sarcastic remarks about the deviled ham sandwiches Peter had packed for lunch. Life seemed to have lost it’s spark; and frankly, scouring the globe again for his partner left still unresolved feelings of fear and anger creep into the corners of his mind. It was like re-living a nightmare, and he could not wake himself up. But through all this Peter was certain that Neal had made the right decision - despite his belief in the system, if the system wouldn’t grant Neal the freedom he earned, then he was glad he had found a way to enjoy it.
Because he had married himself to this idea of Neal basking on an island somewhere, or spending airy nights in a loft of a European city, undoubtedly with his bald-headed sidekick close by, the sudden presence of their mutual and quirky friend took him by great surprise. Mozzie stumbled into the office a complete wreck a week after Neal’s disappearance, babbling on about conspiracy-laden government agencies and how an asset such as Neal was well worth kidnapping. He seemed convinced that Neal had made the decision not to elope on a new adventure, contrary to the agent’s line of thinking. Peter had to admit that it would be uncharacteristic of his partner to move on without Moz in tow. And then, that very afternoon, pieces of well-forged artwork started to appear on the black market. A painting here, a sculpture there, all of which were completely untraceable but each bearing the resemblance of Caffrey’s faultless style. Suddenly, the image Peter held fast in his mind of his partner living out his newest reinvention in glorious freedom was replaced by that same man, broken, alone, and forced to exploit his talents for another person’s illegal gain. This new image, quickly becoming reality faster than he could process, stole any hope he had remaining about this situation, and it left Peter absolutely sick.
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Upstate New York
Ten Days After Neal’s Disappearance
“I want to speak to someone,” Neal said casually but with conviction, expertly eliminating any hint of an agenda from his voice as the black-hooded figure placed the forger’s next assignment on the table before him. “I want to speak to someone, or I won’t complete this.”
The figure stood above him, looming over threateningly but not making a single move. Whoever was hiding seemed to be contemplating his request, and Neal took the opportunity to push a little more.
“I’m not trying to run,” he said, standing so he was now at equal levels with the faceless person before him, “I’ve done what you’ve asked me too. But before I complete this next task, I want to talk to someone.”
The figure turned and looked toward the doorway where another masked individual had appeared. And then, a third figure emerged, hooded like the others, stumbling as it was pushed forward into the room. It all seemed a little too easy.
“Five minutes,” the man standing before Neal said, his voice deep, rough, inhuman, but distantly familiar, and then he and the figure by the door vanished, leaving Neal alone with his newfound visitor.
“Take off your mask,” Neal ordered promptly, steeling his nerves for the conversation about to ensue. The person before him obliged, again too easily Neal noticed, and he braced himself for what he was starting to believe was a set up. However, any attempts at mental fortification melted away when he saw the face that had been revealed before him.
Her blue eyes were afire as she stared back at Neal, with her lips slipped upwards ever so slightly in a smile that was demonic and simultaneously demure. Her gaze held an intensity and an urgency that he dared not embrace, lest this whole thing be another one of her cons, and as he watched her walk slowly around the room, all of the things that had transpired since he had first met the murderer played on a constant loop in his mind. Over and over he saw the pictures surrounding her mirror, the files he and Peter had boxed up, Siegel’s and Hagen’s bodies lifeless on the ground. He should have known she’d be at the heart of this. For days, he had been planning what he’d say when he finally got the chance to speak with someone, and now, he found himself so uncharacteristically at a loss for words that all he could do was look away, and of course, she didn’t miss the opportunity to speak first.
“I know something you’d want to know, Neal,” Rachel spoke softly, breaking the silence and taking control of the situation with ease as she so often did. She moved toward him deliberately, her actions derisive and taunting before she reached out and took his hand in hers. This cold touch made the young man cringe before he recoiled out of her grasp, shooting a fortified glower in her direction with blue eyes frosted over by anger and frustration.
“Neal, please,” she said again, emotion suddenly gripping her voice. She was good, too good for him to read and he despised the vulnerable position that left him in. He hated how good she was. “We don’t have much time.”
He met her stare again through his curtain of overgrown bangs, and the way her newly-darkened hair framed her eyes reminded him painfully of Kate. Her appearance was that of a mirage, constantly changing form into whatever Neal seemed to desire the most each time he saw her again.
“Please listen to me,” Rachel spoke pleadingly, resembling Rebecca ever so slightly now, deceivingly innocent in tone and inflection, with a hint of desperation flickering in her eyes, “I know who is behind all of this, I can give you answers if you can trust me.”
“Trust you?” the artist asked abruptly, finally speaking in a voice that sounded more caustic than he had intended, “How do you suppose I do that?”
“Mutually assured destruction is a powerful motivator, isn’t that correct, Neal?” she replied, throwing the conman’s own words back at him in a bitter way. She was slightly tilting her head to the side and leaning forward in a manner that made the consultant’s skin slither, and the innocence she had possessed just moments before had dissipated. She could switch angles on a whim, and the unpredictable changes in her demeanor disarmed the conman’s defenses. “I was hired to work for someone a long time ago. I had no idea the job ran this deep, and now that they finally have you, there’s no need for me anymore. I’m obsolete.”
She let the gravity of what she had just said linger in the air before she continued, and Neal was momentarily caught in the moral battle of feeling triumphant that justice might finally prevail and feeling distraught by the finality with which she seemed to have accepted her fate.
“And you, you want your freedom, don’t you?” she said provokingly, her body dangerously close to his as she put her hand on his chest, “You won’t ever get it without my help.”
Appalled by the breeching of his personal space, Neal grabbed her wrist and put her hand back at her side defiantly. He stepped backwards, distancing himself from her, but still kept steady eye contact.
“Where are we?” he spat out coldly, “We start with that.”
“That’s my man,” she cooed coyly, causing the stinging taste of bile to rise up in Neal’s throat, but then she immediately let down her charade and assumed a business-like demeanor, having elicited the openness in the conversation she had been after. “We are in upstate New York, about thirty miles east of Buffalo.”
“Mozzie, is he safe?” Neal asked calculatedly. Rachel huffed a nod in censorious affirmation.
“Peter, Elizabeth? What about them?” he probed again.
“Yes, your shackle and his wife are still safe and sound. It’s no doubt they think you ran,” she answered disapprovingly as she produced a crumpled map from her pocket, “But we are going to change their mind.” Rachel drew out the last three words in a slow emphasis as she slid the map across the table.
Confused, Neal pulled it closer to him and regarded it with uncertainty. It was timeworn, as evidenced by the yellowing of the paper and the creases through the folds, and it revealed nothing of significance that the conman could decipher except what looked like a red pin drawn on a spot next to a tiny body of water. Suddenly, three sharp cracks at the door caused them both to jump.
“What is this?” Neal asked, speaking quickly now but hushed, with narrowed eyes and dilated pupils caused by the rush of adrenaline that had surged during their brief interruption.
“It’s a map,” Rachel hissed quietly, “It’s a secure location we will escape to as soon as you can pass the message to Peter.”
“Escape? And what, he comes and finds us, and we all live happily ever after?” Neal questioned, bewildered, “He’s not going to know what this means, or where it leads. And why would I run anywhere with you?”
“You have a habit, Neal, of continually underestimating the abilities of those around you, especially of those who know you the best,” Rachel said, as she moved her hands to her hips and stood a little straighter. “You find a way to get that to Peter, and I assure you he will know how to find us. I’ll be back in two days.”
Three more cracks at the door signaled that the end to their clandestine conversation was overdue. With that, Rachel turned and walked off towards the door.
“Wait. You said you knew who is behind all this. I want a name,” Neal called after her in a last ditch effort to make sense of what had just transpired.
With a hand on a door not yet open, she held up two fingers and mouthed “Two days” as a reminder to the unsettled conman across the room.
“I promise you, Neal,” she then said, looking back over her shoulder before disappearing into the darkness beyond, “To figure this out, you are going to need more than just a name.”
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FBI, New York City
Thirteen Days After Neal’s Disappearance
Immediately upon his realization that his friend may be in more danger than he had originally perceived, Peter had made a call to his wife requesting that she leave DC, fearful that again his work life could affect his personal. It was not without much resistance, of course, but after Peter conveyed the gravity of the situation and that he could not trust anyone, including those at the DC Bureau right now, she agreed to pack a few things and head back north toward their ‘safe haven.’
He had thought often of her in the past few days. The remote location of their safe home made it difficult for Peter to reach her - as they hadn’t kept up payment on a landline and cell service here was spotty at best. The agent and his wife had prearranged this location years ago, a small wooden and stone fronted home overlooking a lake upstate, in case the agent’s job ever lent their private lives any jeopardy. The couple had always been careful to ensure not another soul besides each other knew of this understanding. Their safe house was something of a family heirloom, as Peter had inherited it when his great uncle had passed away. They used it as a vacation home occasionally, but it sometimes seemed irrational that they pay for the upkeep of the four horses that had also been a part of the inheritance when they hardly were able to make use of them. But each time they went back to enjoy the beautiful house adorning the lush rolling hills of the New York countryside and the peaceful reprieve from their bustling city life, they had to admit that the place just wouldn’t be the same without the sound of the thundering hoof beats in the distance. And so, their secret getaway, which he and Elizabeth affectionate had nicknamed the “Safe Haven”, remained a part of their lives in its entirety, wind-whipped manes and all.
But right now, happy as he was that his wife would be safe there, this place and all of the tranquility it signified seemed so far off in Peter’s mind. Neal’s life was in peril, and he had only forged pieces of artwork that bore vague resemblance to his friend’s talents as a starting point to bring him home.
“Where do we start, Boss?” Jones asked, his voice cutting through Peter’s thoughts and bringing him back to reality. There were three paintings laid out on the conference room table that had been intercepted by the Bureau the prior day, and each of them bore a suspicious resemblance to previous work Neal had done.
“If these are Caffrey’s,” Peter answered, “Then he may be trying to pass us clues. We search every centimeter of these paintings until we are absolutely sure these are nothing but a few impeccable forgeries.”
“If we find something, how will we know it’s his?” Diana asked from across the table.
“It’s Neal,” Peter responded succinctly, “We’ll know. Now get to work.”
The trio singled off and each took a painting. They were beautiful, a Rembrandt, a Monet, and a Matisse, all almost imperceptibly forged and impossibly identical to the original. Immediately, the agents became engulfed in their work, scouring every aspect of the painting for some indication that Neal might be signaling for help. Eventually, they lost track of time, looking up only to trade paintings in hopes that a fresh set of eyes might reveal something the old pair had overlooked. Seconds quietly turned into minutes, minutes to hours, and with each passing round of the clock that divulged no new information, Peter’s heart broke a little more.
“I see you found some paintings,” Mozzie’s voice interrupted accusingly some time later. Peter looked up with weary eyes to find the man standing in the doorframe of the conference room, looking disapprovingly at the scene before him. “And I see you had no need to tell me.”
“I told you I would call if we found something,” Peter answered exhaustedly, “We haven’t found anything.”
“You found these paintings,” Mozzie snarked back, gesturing to indicate the forgeries, “That doesn’t qualify as something?”
Peter rolled his eyes. He knew he should have called Mozzie, but he had hoped his team could recover a clue on their own. Ever since Neal’s disappearance, Moz had not so delicately made it known that he blamed the Bureau, and specifically Peter, for his friend’s current debacle, and while Peter understood the distress of the concerned man, he certainly did not need anyone to help him feel guilty about the whole thing. His own conscience had that very well covered.
“Mind if I take a look?” Moz spoke again, still standing in the same place, and Peter got the idea that this was not really meant to be a question.
“Diana, Jones, take a break, we’ll continue from here,” Neal’s partner said, dismissing the two mentally exhausted agents and allowing Mozzie to come in and have a try. The eccentric man then proceeded to employ a very different approach than the trained agents before him, scanning each painting briefly and regarding each work as a whole rather than diving into the finer details. This struck the senior agent as odd, but he let the quirky man continue.
The shorter man picked each piece up, tilting it at various angles against the light, running his fingers over its face to feel for peculiar changes in texture. He scoped out the corners where the canvas kissed the wooden frame, searching for signs that the material may have been removed and then subsequently replaced. He gave attention to the borders, and the angle at which the material wrinkled along its edge adhered to the wood. When none of these things produced results, he crossed his arms and stepped back from the table, defeated. Disappointment weighed heavy in the air, and new lines of worry slowly weaved their way across the contours their faces.
Suddenly, though, ingenuity struck Mozzie. “Suit, what if he incorporated a clue we couldn’t see, to minimize the risk of the buyer discovering it?”
At this, Peter looked up. That was something his worn out mind had never thought of. It made sense, though.
“Okay, okay. I like that. What can we do to make it visible?”
“There are so many things - chemical reactions, heat sensitivity, aerating,” Mozzie listed excitedly in reply.
“Wait,” Peter said, his eyes bright like flames as revelation hit him square in the chest, “Wait. The bank bonds I caught Neal on… He signed the seal, visible under polarized light.”
Mozzie’s eyes widened at the possibility as Peter flew out of the room, not bothering to wait for a verbal response. He returned seconds later with a gadget that polarized light from normal fluorescent bulbs and allowed things to be seen on a different color scale, most often used to see sketches underlying a painting. Immediately, he passed it over the first piece, the Rembrandt. When this came up short, he quickly moved on to the Monet, but again yielded little results. Trying not to lose hope, he let out a heavy breath as he peered through the gadget at the Matisse, the final painting.
At first, he almost missed it. The pencil lines were so erratic and faint that it was only their dissimilarity to the painting itself that caught his attention. They were jagged, seemingly incoherent, but definitely present.
“There’s something,” Peter thought aloud, “But I can’t make out what it is.”
Mozzie grabbed the device impatiently and pushed Peter aside, muttering something about incompetency and bureaucrats. After a minute or two of scrupulous examination, the bald man looked up excitedly.
“I think it’s a map!”
Peter took the polarizer back from the shorter man and took a second look for himself. Yes, now that Mozzie mentioned it, Peter could make out what appeared to be jagged lines representing some type of road. He followed it up to the top of the painting where it split into two directions, each which led off of the canvas. Desperate for some orienting feature within the hidden message, Peter brought the scanner to the bottom left corner, which revealed some kind of mountain. He continued moving the device toward the center of the painting, and suddenly his eye caught what appeared to be a small body of water with some kind of marker immediately to its right. So Neal had provided an exact location, but the generalized area in which it existed was still clouded. Again impatient, Mozzie shoved his way in front of Peter and took over the polarizer, forcing Peter to take a step back.
The agent was left with a nagging feeling that he was missing something huge despite this new revelation. The proximity of the mountains, the splitting of the road, the location of the lake in relation to the marker - all of it seemed like something identifiable, yet his mind refused to make the connection. Clearly, Neal thought this was a location he should recognize. But where was it?
As he racked his mind for options, he stepped over to the glass window to observe the city street below. The rest of the world was still in motion despite the catastrophe that had arrested Peter’s. Life had not been the same without Neal, and deep inside, Peter’s heart burned to know that he was okay. The sleepless nights, terrifying dreams, and overall disinterest in anything but finding Neal were taking a toll on his mind and body. Nonetheless, life carried on around him like nothing had changed. Delivery men on bicycles zoomed past, throngs of people flocked across the street, the peaceful clod of the horse and buggies carried tourists throughout the town, and not one of them had a clue of just how different the world had become since Neal had been taken.
Abruptly, comprehension gripped him as the imagery below jogged a memory. Horses. Grabbing the polarizing device from an alarmed Mozzie, Peter scanned the entire image to ensure he was correct, but there was no mistaking it now. The outlines of the map were suddenly that of an old friend to Peter - a place he knew well but had shoved to the back of his mind in the wake of a busy life. Neal was sending Peter to his very own “Safe Haven”. After so many tense days, he finally knew where Neal was.
But now, perhaps even more concerning, was how Neal made the connection between this place and Peter, and if indeed he arrived there, whether or not he would be alone.
On To Part 2!