Sentinel!Neal post 4
More Sentinel!Neal. This bit follows more-or-less directly from the ending of the section posted on Feb. 29. So, Neal and Peter have been working together for a while, Neal's been doing Sentinel lessons for a while, and Peter has fairly recently figured out that Neal is really quite ill after them, and has responded to this discovery by changing his lessons to the afternoons.
“Honey,” Elizabeth said as they climbed into bed, “does Neal ever do anything that doesn’t annoy you?”
“Sure.” Peter mentally reviewed the last few minutes of conversation-okay, the last ten minutes of him complaining about Neal and not letting El get a word in edgewise-and then the last week or so’s worth of “how was your day, hon?” conversations.
Neal annoying him was definitely a predominant theme. They’d talked about his negativity before; Peer knew the drill by now. “He has good insights into our cases. He’s working hard in his Sentinel lessons, and he’s finally getting to the point where he can use his senses in the field. And when he’s not picking apart every little thing, he’s kind of fun to be around.” There, three positive things, without being asked.
“Do you ever tell him that?”
“God, no. His opinion of himself is already high enough.”
“Nobody enjoys working with someone who’s grumpy all the time,” Elizabeth said.
“He’s not grumpy all the time,” Peter admitted. “Sometimes he’s obnoxiously cheerful.” That always made Peter wonder what he was up to. Neal’s other operating mode was quiet and subdued, which only emerged after his lessons, and Peter now knew was a result of his being in severe discomfort. Peter felt guilty for having, before he knew, sort of enjoyed those times, and even guiltier for still enjoying them. But it was nice to have Neal at his side, quiet and compliant.
“I meant you, doofus. If I had to work with somebody who never seemed to notice when I did anything right, I’d complain a lot too.”
“He doesn’t complain about me being grumpy. He complains about everything else, but not that.”
“Hm.”
That was definitely not a good ‘hm.’
“There’s something else he doesn’t complain about,” Elizabeth pointed out. “He doesn’t complain about how sick he feels after you two have your lessons with Mr. Ketner.”
Peter winced. “Yeah, I know. I screwed up there.” He’d apologized, and fixed Neal’s lesson schedule-what more could he do?
“Yes, you did, but that’s not my point. What have we learned about when Neal complains?”
“That if he didn’t do so much of it, I might have a chance at noticing when something’s really bothering him?” Peter hazarded. That probably wasn’t what El was going for.
“Exactly.” She looked at him expectantly.
“What?”
“Remind me, honey, what is it that Neal does for a living?”
“He’s a con man.” She knew that.
“Right,” Elizabeth said. “And he’s pretty good at it, right?”
“Right.”
“So he knows how to, say, make sure that somebody is too busy watching something else to notice what he doesn’t want them to see.”
“Oh.” Peter finally figured it out. “You’re saying, maybe he complains all the time so I won’t notice what’s really bothering him.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“That’s stupid. I mean, maybe you’re right, but that would be a stupid thing for him to do. It’s my job to help him with his senses. What does he get out of making that harder?”
“He gets to not show weakness in front of somebody who controls his entire life and who doesn’t like him very much.”
“I’d like him just fine if he wasn’t so obnoxious all the time.” Peter had liked Neal, or at least been entertained by him, when he was chasing him.
“Well, maybe he wouldn’t be so obnoxious all the time if you liked him,” Elizabeth suggested. “You need to break out of this vicious cycle.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Let’s invite him over for dinner.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s just what I need. He hasn’t had a chance to complain about my house, my wife, or my dog yet.”
“And what, exactly, is he going to find wrong with your wife?” El said teasingly.
“I have no idea, and I don’t want to know.”
“He has manners,” El pointed out. “He wouldn’t have been able to con that rich woman into giving him a home if he didn’t. I bet if he’s invited to a social occasion, he’ll behave himself. And you said he’s fun to be around when he’s not unhappy.”
“Right, but if he’s not, I’ve just voluntarily put myself in for an extra three hours or so of him, plus given him a whole supply of ammunition.”
“Honey,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve planned gallery openings, and weddings, and $500-a-plate fundraisers, and that reception for the Queen of England. I think I can manage to put together a dinner party that Neal Caffrey will find acceptable.”
Peter wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t think of a way to say so that would sound like a criticism of Neal’s fault-finding abilities, not Elizabeth’s skill. “He likes wine. Get some wine. Lots and lots of wine.”
#
Neal was sitting at his desk, minding his own business, when Peter came to the railing and beckoned him. “Neal, come here a second.”
Neal tried to remember what he had done recently that Peter would feel the need to talk to him privately about. They’d just had a team meeting less than an hour ago; most subjects he’d want to broach he could have mentioned then. Maybe it was a Sentinel thing. Or possibly a going-back-to-prison thing, but he thought they’d moved past that. He went up to Peter’s office, trying not to look guilty.
“Saturday,” Peter said.
“What about it?” Saturday he had slept in, having had a pretty rough Sentinel lesson the day before, then gone grocery shopping and helped Cyndi with her life drawing assignment. She was working from a photograph, so Peter couldn’t object to that, could he?
“You’re coming to dinner.”
“I am?”
“Yes. At my house. If you don’t have plans.”
That was not what he was expecting. “Okay. Why?”
Peter hesitated, then said, “My wife wants to meet you.”
Oh. He considered a range of questions, including, ‘Is she going to hurt me?’ and ‘She does realize you hate me, right?’, but eventually settled on, “Should I bring anything?”
“No. Six o’clock.” Peter gave him the address, which Neal already knew anyway.
“Uh, that’s outside my radius,” he pointed out.
Peter nodded. “I’ll alert the Marshals.”
“Great,” Neal said, since he now knew he could lie to Peter. “Looking forward to it.”
“Good. See you then.”
“Uh….”
“Yes, I’ll also be seeing you every day until then. Go, get out of here.”
Neal went.
Over the next few days, Neal developed a series of theories about the intentions behind the dinner invitation. Maybe Peter’s wife thought that he was spending too much time with Neal, and wanted to find out if there was anything going on that shouldn’t be. That was probably the best of the possible options-once she saw them together, she’d realize there wasn’t anything to worry about. Maybe Peter thought it was time for another ‘shape up or ship out’ lecture, and that a change of scenery would give it more impact. If so, Neal was completely screwed, since he was already trying his best. Maybe Peter wanted to provide a visual demonstration of how perfect his life had been before Neal came along to screw it up-he hadn’t gotten in any digs on that subject recently. Maybe he wasn’t going to alert the Marshals, and when Neal showed up at the house he’d be taken down in a hail of gunfire.
Okay, that last one was more of a paranoid fantasy than a theory.
In his more optimistic moments, he thought that maybe Peter just wanted to get to know him a little better. Maybe he had decided that Neal wasn’t going to get himself shipped back to prison any time soon, so it was time for him to meet his wife. Maybe, just like he usually took people out to lunch on their first day, he usually had coworkers over for dinner every couple of months. Maybe he had finally accepted that Neal wasn’t a terrible person who had intentionally ruined his life, and wanted to make a new start.
The last one was more of a hopeful fantasy than a theory.
On Saturday afternoon, he changed outfits three times before settling on a khakis-and-sports-jacket combo, with a Polo shirt under the jacket. Neat and a little dressy, without being ostentatious. It wouldn’t do to show up at Peter’s home better-dressed than he was, even though in the office it was sort of unavoidable.
Peter had told him not to bring anything, but he couldn’t stand to show up empty-handed, and eventually settled on flowers. Subway-station flowers, which were cheap enough that he couldn’t plausibly be accused of obtaining them by criminal means.
Plus they would look pathetic in the front-page pictures of his bullet-ridden body.
He got to the subway station and has his flowers purchased before five o’clock, which meant that he had to kill some time-if he left his radius too early, the Marshals might show up anyway, which would be very embarrassing if Peter hadn’t intended that to happen. He found a guy running a Find the Lady game, and profitably used the time mentally critiquing the guy’s performance, which was terrible. Neal was twenty feet away and could tell where the Lady was every time, and it took him about ten seconds to pick out the guy’s shill.
It would be a perfect opportunity to make a quick couple hundred bucks, but Neal still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that Peter didn’t know when he was lying, and what if he asked if Neal had done anything illegal on the way there? Better not to risk it.
Even after all that, Neal still found himself on the sidewalk outside of Peter’s house at seven minutes till six. That was too early-five minutes give or take was okay, and in this situation “give” would be better, showing eagerness, but seven was way too much. He decided to knock on the door at 5:56. He studied the cars parked along the street, and tried not to look as if he was considering stealing any of them.
At 5:55, Peter’s front door opened. “Most people knock,” he called.
Neal hurried over. “I just got here.”
“You’ve been standing out here for two minutes,” Peter countered.
There was no explanation that wouldn’t sound either ridiculous, suspicious, or both, so instead he held out the flowers and said, “Here.”
Neal could see Peter considering and rejecting possible responses. He finally settled on, “Thanks.”
A woman Neal recognized as Peter’s wife came into the foyer. “Hi, Neal, come on in.”
Peter stepped back and let him in the house. There was no hail of gunfire, so already this was going better than it might have.
“I’m Elizabeth.” She extended her hand.
Neal shook it. “Neal.” Obviously, she knew that.
“Did you bring these?” She took the flowers out of Peter’s hand. “They’re lovely. I’ll just put them in some water.”
“Good idea,” Neal said. Peter gave him a look like he thought Neal was being a smartass, which he supposed it did sound like.
While Elizabeth was in the other room, presumably following through on her good idea of putting the flowers in water, Peter invited him to sit down. Neal perched carefully on the edge of the sofa. A big yellow Labrador got up from a dog bed in the corner and ambled over. “Hey, buddy,” Neal said, patting him.
“That’s Satchmo. If you’d knocked, he would have been at the door barking.”
“I was going to,” Neal said, wondering how long Peter was going to keep harping on that subject.
“Just as well, really.” Peter sat in a nearby chair, looking no more comfortable than Neal felt.
Elizabeth came back in, carrying three glasses of wine on a tray. After handing them around, she sat at the other end of the sofa.
Right, Neal should have taken the chair, so he wouldn’t be sharing furniture with Peter’s wife. It was a little late now.
“You look nice,” Elizabeth said.
“Um, thanks.” Peter was wearing a suit and tie-not the paisley one-and Elizabeth had on a black cocktail dress. Apparently he should have gone with outfit #2; he was a little under-dressed. “You too.”
“Thanks.”
Neal sipped at his wine, for something to do.
“How is it?” Peter asked.
Neal froze. Was he supposed to offer a critique of the stuff, or remark on how much better it was than prison-toilet wine? Finally, he settled on, “Nice. It’s, um, good.” He drank some more.
“Peter mentioned you like wine,” Elizabeth said.
“I do.” Wait, was she implying Peter thought he was a lush? “Just, you know, occasionally.”
Peter sighed loudly.
#
“See what I mean?” Peter whispered to El while they were in the kitchen getting the roast out of the oven.
“He seems a little nervous, honey.”
“That isn’t nervous; it’s passive-aggressive.”
She glanced up from the hot oven to give him a skeptical look. “Where’s that platter?”
Peter found it on the counter behind him and held it at the ready. El sat the roasting pan on the top of the stove and took the platter.
“You might want to try not glaring at him every time he opens his mouth,” El continued.
“I’m not glaring.”
“Hm, well, you can’t see it. I could hold up a mirror.”
“Fine,” Peter said. “I’ll stop glaring.”
“Try to watch the sighing, too.”
For the next few minutes, he carved the roast, put the potatoes in a dish, and handed El the whisk and cornstarch as she made the gravy. The process was complicated somewhat by the fact that there was a vase full of flowers sitting right in the middle of the countertop.
Peter had, barely, managed to stop himself from pointing out that if Neal really was living on a hundred dollars a month, he shouldn’t have had money to waste on something like that. Peter took the subway too, sometimes, and he knew that the flowers sold there started at $12.99, and they didn’t take food stamps. For as much as Neal complained about not having enough money, he was downright stupid about managing it. Peter would have been more sympathetic to his complaints if he’d ever mentioned a legitimate, necessary expense that he was having trouble meeting, but it was always things like how he had to get his hair cut by June’s housekeeper (who did a perfectly fine job of it, as far as Peter could see) and he could only go to museums on the one day a week that they were free.
So the flowers were either stolen, purchased with illegally-obtained funds, or represented over ten percent of Neal’s monthly budget. Peter didn’t like any of the possibilities, and sincerely wished Neal hadn’t brought them. But if he said so, Elizabeth would only point out that they showed Neal was trying to be a good guest, and shouldn’t he be putting as much effort into being a gracious host?
Elizabeth was putting in an effort. The roast was beef tenderloin, costing the equivalent of a week of Neal’s grocery budget, and a pretty big chunk of theirs, and the potatoes were the kind Elizabeth said were too much work to make often. Out-of-season asparagus for the vegetable. Peter wondered if Neal would realize that this was the Burke household’s best company dinner, and if so, would he silently-or not-so-silently-judge it.
But when they sat down to eat, Neal said all the right things-it looked delicious, was delicious, they shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Peter let Elizabeth carry the conversation, and concentrated on not glaring or sighing. Once the subject of the food was exhausted, Neal asked Elizabeth a few polite questions about her job, and she responded by talking about a gallery opening she was planning.
“Hey, that one’s inside my radius,” Neal said when she mentioned where it was being held. “It is invitation-only?”
Before Peter could react to the idea of Neal turning up at one of Elizabeth’s events, she said, “Yes,” and Peter sighed with relief.
“Too bad,” Neal said. “I’ve been going to a lot of gallery openings lately. The ones where they let anybody in, I mean. The art usually isn’t that good-or the wine-but it’s an evening out that doesn’t cost anything, and struggling artists are usually fun to talk to.”
“The ones at the Cross gallery aren’t exactly struggling,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “but I can vouch for the wine. I can probably get you an invitation; it isn’t that exclusive.”
“That would be great.”
Peter tried to subtly signal to El that this was a bad, bad idea, but she ignored him. “Actually, if you wore a nice suit you could probably get in without one.”
Neal grinned. “I have done that. In the past, I mean. Openings, or any kind of party really, are pretty easy to get into. Showing up and acting like you belong works most of the time. Last resort is to dress up as a cater-waiter.”
“Hm,” Elizabeth said. “So if I’m ever working an event and notice that there’s one more cater-waiter than the client is paying for….”
“Yep, they’re probably casing the joint.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Picking the right person and just asking for an invitation is surprisingly effective, too. Or hinting.” Neal looked cautious for a moment. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I was actually planning to steal anything from the gallery, naturally.”
Peter wasn’t so sure-telling the mark exactly how he was scamming them was one of Neal’s tricks; the appearance of honesty was disarming-but Elizabeth just smiled and said, “Naturally.”
So Neal and his wife were hitting it off. Peter tried to convince himself that was a good thing, or at least not a bad one. He was going to have to go to that gallery opening, to make sure Neal behaved himself, but Neal did seem more relaxed than he did at work. Maybe Elizabeth was right, and Neal would be less of a pain in the ass to be around if he felt more at ease.
#
Neal was surprised to find that he liked Elizabeth, and that she seemed to like him, too. Of course, that was at least partly down to professional skill-Elizabeth’s job required her to be gracious to everyone, much as Peter’s required him to be suspicious. Still, it was nice, talking to somebody who knew who he was but didn’t automatically assume the worst.
After dinner, he and Elizabeth returned to the living room, and Peter went to the kitchen to make coffee. Some impulse-or possibly the wine, which he’d been hitting a little harder than he was used to-made Neal take advantage of the moment to lean in close to Elizabeth and say, “I really am sorry about ruining your husband’s life. I know he doesn’t believe me, but I didn’t do it on purpose.” Maybe if he could convince Elizabeth, she’d convince Peter.
Elizabeth glanced around the room. “Peter’s life is ruined?”
“You know, with the whole Guide thing.”
“Did Peter actually say that the ‘Guide thing’ ruined his life?”
“No, he just sort of implied it.”
Elizabeth looked toward the kitchen. “Honey?”
Peter called back, “Yes?”
“Has being Neal’s Guide ruined your life?”
Neal wanted to die. He tried frantically to think of some way to get Elizabeth to drop the subject, but short of setting the dog on fire, he couldn’t think of a distraction big enough. Peter emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three coffee cups. “For Christ’s sake, Neal, don’t be such a drama queen.”
The subject they very carefully didn’t talk about, the enormous pile of elephant dung in the room, dragged out into the open, and Peter’s response was, ‘Don’t be such a drama queen’? That was a little…anticlimactic. “You never wanted to be a Guide,” Neal reminded him.
Passing Elizabeth one of the coffee cups, Peter said, “No, I didn’t, and now I’m stuck with a job responsibility that isn’t what I would have chosen. My life is inconvenienced, not ruined.”
In other circumstances, Neal might have been offended to be referred to as an inconvenience, but ‘inconvenience’ was a substantial upgrade from ‘life-ruiner’.
Handing Neal the second coffee cup, Peter continued, “And it’s not like you made me into a Guide. Even if my life was ruined, you didn’t do it all by yourself. You’re not that important, in the scheme of things.”
“But I was the one who outed you,” Neal pointed out. “I didn’t know you were in, I mean, but I still did.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to ‘out’ me if I hadn’t lied about it in the first place,” Peter said. “To a significant extent, I brought this on myself. And yes, that’s a moral. Actions have consequences, and just because I don’t like the consequences doesn’t mean I get to go around looking for anybody else to blame.”
Neal ignored the moral, which was what he had come to expect from Peter, and focused on the genuinely new information. “So you don’t think I ruined your life.”
“My life is not ruined, and you did not personally ruin it,” Peter confirmed.
“Then why--” Neal stopped short. He must be drunker than he’d thought; he was about to say, ‘Then why do you hate me?’
“Why what?”
“Why do you constantly talk about sending me back to prison?” There, that tracked reasonably well from the conversation they’d been having, and wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as asking why Peter hated him.
“Because,” Peter said slowly, “I keep thinking that eventually, you’ll grasp that what you have here is a pretty good deal, and maybe you should be grateful for it instead of complaining about every little thing.”
“Peter,” Elizabeth said, “how often do you threaten to send Neal back to prison?”
“About five or six times a day,” Neal said. It was a slight exaggeration, but he’d already been accused of being a drama queen.
Peter glared at him. “I do not. I threaten to send you back to prison if you commit a crime or otherwise fail to fulfill the conditions of your sentence. I ask if you would prefer prison when you indicate that life on the outside is not to your liking. There’s a difference.”
Neal supposed there was, but he hadn’t thought of it that way before.
“You don’t think I’m actually going to send you back to prison for criticizing my ties, do you?”
“No,” Neal said. He wasn’t that pathetic. “I just thought you enjoyed reminding me that you could.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I don’t actually have the authority to send you back to prison on a whim. I’d have to either arrest you, if you committed a crime or violated your sentence, or submit a report to the prison board demonstrating that it wasn’t working out, and you’d get a hearing.”
Neal knew that, actually-it was in the booklet about his rights as a work-release prisoner. He had no illusions that the authorities wouldn’t take Peter’s word for it that the arrangement wasn’t working out, though, if he chose to tell them it wasn’t.
“However,” Peter continued, “you could go back voluntarily at any time, if working for me and enjoying the relative freedom of half of Manhattan is such a tremendous burden to you.”
He knew that, too. He also knew that his next destination was likely to be a secure psychiatric facility, where they’d do God-knows-what to keep him from escaping. A custom-fitted straitjacket, maybe, or drugging him up to the eyeballs. And that was only if he was lucky, and they didn’t realize that providing him with just enough access to a Guide to meet the legal definition of “adequate,” and no more, would leave him unable to escape from a wet paper bag.
“Would you like to exercise that option?” Peter asked.
What, he was going to make him say it? “No. I’d rather not go back to prison.”
“I didn’t think so. And as long as you agree that what you have now is better than prison, you have nothing to complain about.”
“I’m not complaining,” Neal said.
“Not right this second,” Peter said. “Tell you what. I think I’m about as tired of hearing you complain about things as you are of hearing me talk about sending you to prison. What do you say we both knock it off?”
“Okay,” Neal agreed, wondering what the catch was. Not complaining seemed like a small price to pay to have Peter not mentioning prison every five minutes.
“Good,” Peter said.
“Honey,” Elizabeth said, giving him a significant look.
Peter nodded. To Neal, he said, “You understand that there’s a difference between complaining and bringing an actual problem to my attention?”
Neal hesitated. Most of the things Peter threatened to send him back to prison for talking about were real problems. Okay, the comments about Peter’s ties were a little unbecoming-even if he did have to look at them-but the surveillance van was smelly, mortgage fraud cases were boring, and it really was very difficult to live in Manhattan on a hundred dollars a month, especially if you weren’t allowed to steal anything.
“A real problem that you haven’t already told me about, at length, and that you have some reason to believe I might be able to help you with,” Peter elaborated. “Like…when we changed your lessons to the afternoons. That is better, right?”
Neal nodded. “Yes, much better.” Especially since, so far, Peter had always come up to his apartment and sat with him for a little while after them.
“Good. We could have done that sooner, if you’d said something. That kind of thing, you should tell me about.”
Now Neal was starting to understand. Peter was defining ‘real problems’ as ‘problems Peter would care about.’ He had a pretty good handle on which ones those were: the problems that kept him from doing his job. “Okay. Yes. I’ve got it.”
“So we have a deal?”
“Yes. Deal.”
So, as it turned out, the outcome of dinner at the Burkes’ turned out to be not wildly far off from his optimistic fantasy. Peter didn’t think Neal had ruined his life, and while he hadn’t gone to far as to suggest a fresh start, he at least seemed to think they could get along better in the future.
#
“Sure is rotten out,” Diana said, shaking her umbrella outside before closing the back door of the surveillance van. “And the damp really brings out the smell in here.”
“I can’t complain,” Neal said. “It’s raining up at Attica, too.”
Peter sighed. Neal was sticking to the letter of their deal, which apparently to him meant that he could draw attention to the various things he was refraining from complaining about.
“What?” Neal said. “I’m not complaining. Prison doesn’t smell very nice, either.”
Peter shook his head. The new routine was, he supposed, a little less irritating than the actual complaining had been, and Neal at least seemed to get some enjoyment from it. “Carry on.”
“Did I miss anything?” Diana asked as she took her seat.
“A dog peed on that doorman’s leg,” Neal said, pointing to one of the monitors.
“Is that relevant?”
“No, but it was kind of funny.”
Peter supposed he ought to appreciate that Neal was making an effort to find topics of conversation that didn’t involve complaints-it was at least preferable to a five-minute monologue on how nothing was happening, he was bored, and it was completely pointless for them to be sitting here.
“Big dog?” Diana asked.
“No,” Peter said. “One of those little poodles.”
“Bichon frise, I think,” Neal said. “Different haircut.”
“Is that our suspect coming through the lobby?” Diana asked.
Peter and Neal both looked at the monitor. “Yes,” Peter said. “Looks like he’s talking on a phone…Neal, do you want to see if you can hear him?” Ketner had said, at their last lesson, that Neal was probably ready to start using his senses in the field a little bit, and this was as good a time as any to practice.
Neal nodded. “Okay. Um.” He lifted his hand.
“Yeah, okay.” Peter took his wrist. Neal formed the link, and shut his eyes. “It should help if you’re watching him,” Peter reminded him. He was pretty sure that was how the piggy-backing thing worked.
“I’m still working on the dial part,” Neal said. “Okay.” He opened his eyes and looked at the monitor. “He says, ‘Is the meeting set up?’… ‘No, that’s too early’… ‘That’s still too early’… ‘Fine, if that’s the best you can do.’”
Naturally, he didn’t say anything as helpful as, ‘The meeting to finalize the money laundering arrangements? Yes, let’s have it at 10:30 tomorrow at an address that I will repeat for the benefit of anyone listening in,’ but Peter hadn’t really expected him to.
“Now he’s yelling at the doorman about getting him a cab-he’s having a pretty rotten day, isn’t he? Oh, shit.” Neal winced and pulled his hand away as even Peter heard the doorman whistling for a cab.
“You okay?” Peter asked.
Neal nodded. “Yeah. Is he--” He looked in the monitor and stuck his hand out again. “I might be able to get the address--”
Peter took his wrist again, but Neal still had his eyes closed when the cab pulled away from the curb. “Missed it.”
“Damn.” Neal pulled his hand away and rubbed his wrist. “I need to get faster with the dials.”
Peter couldn’t disagree. He picked up his radio and made sure the car parked around the block was ready to pick up the tail when the cab passed.
“Sorry,” Neal said when he finished.
Peter shrugged. It would have been nice for Neal if the experiment of using his hearing for surveillance had actually produced some useful information on his very first try, but that wasn’t how the job usually worked, and Neal needed the practice anyway. “You feel okay?”
“Yeah. Just doing it for a few minutes like that isn’t bad.”
“Good.” It was unfortunate that Ketner couldn’t give Neal shorter lessons more often, but maybe practicing for a few minutes at a time, several times a day, would help him improve without making him too uncomfortable.
“So,” Neal said. “Now we sit here for three more hours on the off chance that he comes back?”
“Right,” Peter said. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. Looking forward to it.”
“Maybe the doorman’ll get peed on again,” Diana suggested.
#
The no-complaining agreement seemed to be working out fairly well. It took Neal a little while to fine-tune the concept-Peter was defining “complaint” a lot more broadly than he would-but Peter took to just saying, “Prison,” every time he thought Neal stepped over the line, and pretty soon he had it worked out.
Elizabeth came through with the invitation to the gallery opening, which was a pleasant surprise. Neal had figured Peter would talk her out of it. But the invitation turned up on his desk, obviously delivered by Peter, and he was even let out of work at a reasonable hour on the day of the event. When he got to the gallery, Peter was there, but Neal behaved himself and didn’t bother him.
The paintings were good, too-big, sweeping canvases with landscapes strung out along the horizon lines. The effect reminded him of one of the visual distortions he sometimes had after his Sentinel lessons. The Monday after, he was telling Jones and Diana about it in the conference room, before Peter showed up for their meeting.
“So is the artist a Sentinel?” Diana asked.
“No,” Neal said. He had asked. “He says they’re supposed to be about the effect of highway driving on visual perception. I can see that, too, especially in the Midwest. But they’re pretty cool.” Peter entered the room. “You should go; the show’s there for another month.”
Peter looked over at him, his ‘What are you up to now?’ look.
“Just telling Diana and Jones about the gallery opening.”
“Not a lot of art galleries in prison,” Peter noted.
“I wasn’t complaining about it,” Neal said, offended. “It was nice. I said it was nice.” He looked at Diana for support.
“He did,” Diana said.
“See?”
“Sorry,” Peter said. “I forgot.”
“I should get a free pass for that,” Neal said.
“A free pass for what?” Jones asked.
“Peter’s not supposed to remind me how much worse I’d have it in prison unless I complain,” Neal explained. “We have a deal.”
Diana tried not to smile. “I don’t know, Boss, I think maybe he deserves a free pass.”
Peter sighed. “Fine. One complaint. Go for it.”
“Oh, no, I’m going to save it.” He hadn’t expected Peter to actually agree, but now that he had, Neal might as well figure out how to have fun with it.
Peter looked at Diana, who apparently had established herself as referee.
“Free passes can be used at the discretion of the bearer,” Diana said. “That’s pretty standard.”
“Okay, but you only get to use it once,” Peter said, with another sigh. “No saying, ‘If I was using my free pass, I’d say blah, blah, blah, but I’m not so it doesn’t count.’ It counts.”
“It’s like you’re talking to a genie,” Neal said, impressed with Peter’s willingness to play along.
“A genie?”
“You know, how you have to state your three wishes very precisely, with no loopholes, so you don’t get an ironic twist on what you actually wished for,” Neal explained.
“Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like,” Peter said. “Except for the part with the wishes. And the part where I can’t put you back in your lamp.”
Neal looked at Diana.
“Lamp is not the same thing as prison,” she said with a shake of her head. “But in this deal, is Peter allowed to complain about you? Because that was close.”
“Unfortunately, he is.” He should have thought of that when he was making his wishes, Neal supposed.
“Does anyone have anything to say about the Herringford case?” Peter asked pointedly.
“Shutting up now,” Neal said.
So really, things were much better between him and Peter. Life in general would have been much improved, except that now that Ketner had cleared him to start using his senses in the field-briefly, and in safe conditions-Peter seemed to want him to do it all the time, often for things that it didn’t seem particularly important. Sometimes Neal thought he was looking for excuses.
The extra practice was helping Neal get faster at using his dials, which was a good thing because opening up his hearing or smell in any normal environment was inherently riskier than doing it a clean room. There was no telling when a cell phone would ring or somebody wearing too much cologne would walk by, and if he couldn’t dial down quickly at the first sign of trouble, he tended to wind up sitting in a corner trying not to throw up, while Peter assured concerned onlookers that he was fine and just needed a minute.
As he told Peter, using his senses for a few minutes at a time didn’t incapacitate him the way working for three hours at a stretch in his lessons did, but that was about the only thing he could say about it without complaining. It still tired him out, and left him vulnerable to sensory spikes-though after a brief period of using his senses, they were only a possibility and not an absolute certainty. But it always seemed to happen that just when he started to feel himself again, Peter would decide it was time for him to smell, listen to, or look at some new piece of trivial evidence. He usually asked if Neal could handle it, and didn’t do anything worse than sigh and look put-upon on the few times that Neal said ‘No’ when he was still able to walk and talk, but Neal didn’t want to risk losing the privilege if he over-used it.
One afternoon, they were being kept waiting by the secretary of a stockbroker they were investigating for fraud. No amount of Peter waving his badge around could get them past her desk, which was set up in front of the door leading to the inner office. She insisted that Mr. Sullivan was unavailable, and they would be shown in as soon as he was available, and until then they just had to wait.
“I’d like to know what he’s doing in there,” Peter said.
Neal nodded. So did he.
“Do you think you could…?”
It was a good idea-this was exactly the sort of thing his senses were good for. The trouble was, he’d already used them to provide scent-evidence verification that Sullivan had touched some memos he claimed not to have seen, to pick out background sounds in a tapped phone conversation, and to examine another agent’s dubious-looking bearer bonds. Of the three, only the first was something that couldn’t have been done with specialized equipment instead-or a magnifying glass, in the case of the bonds. If he hadn’t used his senses since the Sullivan memos that morning, he’d be pretty confident that he was good to go now, but he had wasted them on the other things.
Still, he did want to know. And he could probably do it. He nodded, and they dropped their hands to their sides, where Peter could hold his wrist without the secretary seeing.
As usual, Peter gave him absolutely no help with the link-up. It was like trying to shake hands with a wall. Still, since he’d been doing it three or four times a day for the last couple of weeks, and in lessons for three months before that, he had gotten the knack of it. Neal established the link quickly and cautiously dialed up his hearing.
The first thing he noticed was the ticking of the wall clock. Filter that out, like Ketner had taught him, okay…next obstacle was the hum of the secretary’s computer monitor; why she didn’t have a nice, quiet LCD he had no idea. Sullivan did, for the computer in his office. “I’m in,” Neal said softly.
“Ssh,” Peter said.
Right, it would probably be more subtle if he listened silently now, and gave Peter a report later.
Sullivan was definitely in the office, but he wasn’t talking, on the phone or otherwise. Neal heard a few mouse-clicks, then footsteps and a file drawer opening, followed by the hum of some appliance being turned on. A printer, maybe? No. He dialed down fast and turned to Peter and whispered, “A shredder. He’s shredding documents in there.”
In one motion, Peter dropped Neal’s wrist and stood, pulling out his badge. Neal started to follow, but as he stood the horizon tilted a dizzying forty-five degrees and stretched miles away-an effect that was far less cool in real life than in a painting. He sat down again and tried to keep his head perfectly still.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to worry about tipping off the secretary for long. In about half a minute, Peter was through the door, and Neal could put his head in his hands and look as pathetic as he wanted while trying not to throw up.
Some time later, some more agents and an evidence-recovery unit showed up, and Peter came out of Sullivan’s office. “Hey.” He sat down next to Neal and patted his shoulder. “Overdid it a little bit, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed Neal’s shoulder a little more. “That was good, though. We got him red-handed destroying evidence.”
“Great.” Neal risked looking up. The horizon stayed where it was supposed to be.
“You okay to go back to the office?”
Home would have been better, but Neal could handle the office. “Yes.”
“Good; we’re going to have a lot of evidence to go over.”
“What kind of evidence?” If it was anything he had to use his senses on, he was going to beg off, no matter how huffy Peter got about it.
“Hm? Oh, memos, reports-the stuff the ERT guys are boxing up in there. No, you’re done for the day, Sentinel-wise.”
“Okay, good.” He could rest on the car ride back, and if he needed a little more time after that, he could work slowly for a while.
“Honey,” Elizabeth said as they climbed into bed, “does Neal ever do anything that doesn’t annoy you?”
“Sure.” Peter mentally reviewed the last few minutes of conversation-okay, the last ten minutes of him complaining about Neal and not letting El get a word in edgewise-and then the last week or so’s worth of “how was your day, hon?” conversations.
Neal annoying him was definitely a predominant theme. They’d talked about his negativity before; Peer knew the drill by now. “He has good insights into our cases. He’s working hard in his Sentinel lessons, and he’s finally getting to the point where he can use his senses in the field. And when he’s not picking apart every little thing, he’s kind of fun to be around.” There, three positive things, without being asked.
“Do you ever tell him that?”
“God, no. His opinion of himself is already high enough.”
“Nobody enjoys working with someone who’s grumpy all the time,” Elizabeth said.
“He’s not grumpy all the time,” Peter admitted. “Sometimes he’s obnoxiously cheerful.” That always made Peter wonder what he was up to. Neal’s other operating mode was quiet and subdued, which only emerged after his lessons, and Peter now knew was a result of his being in severe discomfort. Peter felt guilty for having, before he knew, sort of enjoyed those times, and even guiltier for still enjoying them. But it was nice to have Neal at his side, quiet and compliant.
“I meant you, doofus. If I had to work with somebody who never seemed to notice when I did anything right, I’d complain a lot too.”
“He doesn’t complain about me being grumpy. He complains about everything else, but not that.”
“Hm.”
That was definitely not a good ‘hm.’
“There’s something else he doesn’t complain about,” Elizabeth pointed out. “He doesn’t complain about how sick he feels after you two have your lessons with Mr. Ketner.”
Peter winced. “Yeah, I know. I screwed up there.” He’d apologized, and fixed Neal’s lesson schedule-what more could he do?
“Yes, you did, but that’s not my point. What have we learned about when Neal complains?”
“That if he didn’t do so much of it, I might have a chance at noticing when something’s really bothering him?” Peter hazarded. That probably wasn’t what El was going for.
“Exactly.” She looked at him expectantly.
“What?”
“Remind me, honey, what is it that Neal does for a living?”
“He’s a con man.” She knew that.
“Right,” Elizabeth said. “And he’s pretty good at it, right?”
“Right.”
“So he knows how to, say, make sure that somebody is too busy watching something else to notice what he doesn’t want them to see.”
“Oh.” Peter finally figured it out. “You’re saying, maybe he complains all the time so I won’t notice what’s really bothering him.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“That’s stupid. I mean, maybe you’re right, but that would be a stupid thing for him to do. It’s my job to help him with his senses. What does he get out of making that harder?”
“He gets to not show weakness in front of somebody who controls his entire life and who doesn’t like him very much.”
“I’d like him just fine if he wasn’t so obnoxious all the time.” Peter had liked Neal, or at least been entertained by him, when he was chasing him.
“Well, maybe he wouldn’t be so obnoxious all the time if you liked him,” Elizabeth suggested. “You need to break out of this vicious cycle.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Let’s invite him over for dinner.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s just what I need. He hasn’t had a chance to complain about my house, my wife, or my dog yet.”
“And what, exactly, is he going to find wrong with your wife?” El said teasingly.
“I have no idea, and I don’t want to know.”
“He has manners,” El pointed out. “He wouldn’t have been able to con that rich woman into giving him a home if he didn’t. I bet if he’s invited to a social occasion, he’ll behave himself. And you said he’s fun to be around when he’s not unhappy.”
“Right, but if he’s not, I’ve just voluntarily put myself in for an extra three hours or so of him, plus given him a whole supply of ammunition.”
“Honey,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve planned gallery openings, and weddings, and $500-a-plate fundraisers, and that reception for the Queen of England. I think I can manage to put together a dinner party that Neal Caffrey will find acceptable.”
Peter wasn’t so sure, but he couldn’t think of a way to say so that would sound like a criticism of Neal’s fault-finding abilities, not Elizabeth’s skill. “He likes wine. Get some wine. Lots and lots of wine.”
#
Neal was sitting at his desk, minding his own business, when Peter came to the railing and beckoned him. “Neal, come here a second.”
Neal tried to remember what he had done recently that Peter would feel the need to talk to him privately about. They’d just had a team meeting less than an hour ago; most subjects he’d want to broach he could have mentioned then. Maybe it was a Sentinel thing. Or possibly a going-back-to-prison thing, but he thought they’d moved past that. He went up to Peter’s office, trying not to look guilty.
“Saturday,” Peter said.
“What about it?” Saturday he had slept in, having had a pretty rough Sentinel lesson the day before, then gone grocery shopping and helped Cyndi with her life drawing assignment. She was working from a photograph, so Peter couldn’t object to that, could he?
“You’re coming to dinner.”
“I am?”
“Yes. At my house. If you don’t have plans.”
That was not what he was expecting. “Okay. Why?”
Peter hesitated, then said, “My wife wants to meet you.”
Oh. He considered a range of questions, including, ‘Is she going to hurt me?’ and ‘She does realize you hate me, right?’, but eventually settled on, “Should I bring anything?”
“No. Six o’clock.” Peter gave him the address, which Neal already knew anyway.
“Uh, that’s outside my radius,” he pointed out.
Peter nodded. “I’ll alert the Marshals.”
“Great,” Neal said, since he now knew he could lie to Peter. “Looking forward to it.”
“Good. See you then.”
“Uh….”
“Yes, I’ll also be seeing you every day until then. Go, get out of here.”
Neal went.
Over the next few days, Neal developed a series of theories about the intentions behind the dinner invitation. Maybe Peter’s wife thought that he was spending too much time with Neal, and wanted to find out if there was anything going on that shouldn’t be. That was probably the best of the possible options-once she saw them together, she’d realize there wasn’t anything to worry about. Maybe Peter thought it was time for another ‘shape up or ship out’ lecture, and that a change of scenery would give it more impact. If so, Neal was completely screwed, since he was already trying his best. Maybe Peter wanted to provide a visual demonstration of how perfect his life had been before Neal came along to screw it up-he hadn’t gotten in any digs on that subject recently. Maybe he wasn’t going to alert the Marshals, and when Neal showed up at the house he’d be taken down in a hail of gunfire.
Okay, that last one was more of a paranoid fantasy than a theory.
In his more optimistic moments, he thought that maybe Peter just wanted to get to know him a little better. Maybe he had decided that Neal wasn’t going to get himself shipped back to prison any time soon, so it was time for him to meet his wife. Maybe, just like he usually took people out to lunch on their first day, he usually had coworkers over for dinner every couple of months. Maybe he had finally accepted that Neal wasn’t a terrible person who had intentionally ruined his life, and wanted to make a new start.
The last one was more of a hopeful fantasy than a theory.
On Saturday afternoon, he changed outfits three times before settling on a khakis-and-sports-jacket combo, with a Polo shirt under the jacket. Neat and a little dressy, without being ostentatious. It wouldn’t do to show up at Peter’s home better-dressed than he was, even though in the office it was sort of unavoidable.
Peter had told him not to bring anything, but he couldn’t stand to show up empty-handed, and eventually settled on flowers. Subway-station flowers, which were cheap enough that he couldn’t plausibly be accused of obtaining them by criminal means.
Plus they would look pathetic in the front-page pictures of his bullet-ridden body.
He got to the subway station and has his flowers purchased before five o’clock, which meant that he had to kill some time-if he left his radius too early, the Marshals might show up anyway, which would be very embarrassing if Peter hadn’t intended that to happen. He found a guy running a Find the Lady game, and profitably used the time mentally critiquing the guy’s performance, which was terrible. Neal was twenty feet away and could tell where the Lady was every time, and it took him about ten seconds to pick out the guy’s shill.
It would be a perfect opportunity to make a quick couple hundred bucks, but Neal still wasn’t a hundred percent convinced that Peter didn’t know when he was lying, and what if he asked if Neal had done anything illegal on the way there? Better not to risk it.
Even after all that, Neal still found himself on the sidewalk outside of Peter’s house at seven minutes till six. That was too early-five minutes give or take was okay, and in this situation “give” would be better, showing eagerness, but seven was way too much. He decided to knock on the door at 5:56. He studied the cars parked along the street, and tried not to look as if he was considering stealing any of them.
At 5:55, Peter’s front door opened. “Most people knock,” he called.
Neal hurried over. “I just got here.”
“You’ve been standing out here for two minutes,” Peter countered.
There was no explanation that wouldn’t sound either ridiculous, suspicious, or both, so instead he held out the flowers and said, “Here.”
Neal could see Peter considering and rejecting possible responses. He finally settled on, “Thanks.”
A woman Neal recognized as Peter’s wife came into the foyer. “Hi, Neal, come on in.”
Peter stepped back and let him in the house. There was no hail of gunfire, so already this was going better than it might have.
“I’m Elizabeth.” She extended her hand.
Neal shook it. “Neal.” Obviously, she knew that.
“Did you bring these?” She took the flowers out of Peter’s hand. “They’re lovely. I’ll just put them in some water.”
“Good idea,” Neal said. Peter gave him a look like he thought Neal was being a smartass, which he supposed it did sound like.
While Elizabeth was in the other room, presumably following through on her good idea of putting the flowers in water, Peter invited him to sit down. Neal perched carefully on the edge of the sofa. A big yellow Labrador got up from a dog bed in the corner and ambled over. “Hey, buddy,” Neal said, patting him.
“That’s Satchmo. If you’d knocked, he would have been at the door barking.”
“I was going to,” Neal said, wondering how long Peter was going to keep harping on that subject.
“Just as well, really.” Peter sat in a nearby chair, looking no more comfortable than Neal felt.
Elizabeth came back in, carrying three glasses of wine on a tray. After handing them around, she sat at the other end of the sofa.
Right, Neal should have taken the chair, so he wouldn’t be sharing furniture with Peter’s wife. It was a little late now.
“You look nice,” Elizabeth said.
“Um, thanks.” Peter was wearing a suit and tie-not the paisley one-and Elizabeth had on a black cocktail dress. Apparently he should have gone with outfit #2; he was a little under-dressed. “You too.”
“Thanks.”
Neal sipped at his wine, for something to do.
“How is it?” Peter asked.
Neal froze. Was he supposed to offer a critique of the stuff, or remark on how much better it was than prison-toilet wine? Finally, he settled on, “Nice. It’s, um, good.” He drank some more.
“Peter mentioned you like wine,” Elizabeth said.
“I do.” Wait, was she implying Peter thought he was a lush? “Just, you know, occasionally.”
Peter sighed loudly.
#
“See what I mean?” Peter whispered to El while they were in the kitchen getting the roast out of the oven.
“He seems a little nervous, honey.”
“That isn’t nervous; it’s passive-aggressive.”
She glanced up from the hot oven to give him a skeptical look. “Where’s that platter?”
Peter found it on the counter behind him and held it at the ready. El sat the roasting pan on the top of the stove and took the platter.
“You might want to try not glaring at him every time he opens his mouth,” El continued.
“I’m not glaring.”
“Hm, well, you can’t see it. I could hold up a mirror.”
“Fine,” Peter said. “I’ll stop glaring.”
“Try to watch the sighing, too.”
For the next few minutes, he carved the roast, put the potatoes in a dish, and handed El the whisk and cornstarch as she made the gravy. The process was complicated somewhat by the fact that there was a vase full of flowers sitting right in the middle of the countertop.
Peter had, barely, managed to stop himself from pointing out that if Neal really was living on a hundred dollars a month, he shouldn’t have had money to waste on something like that. Peter took the subway too, sometimes, and he knew that the flowers sold there started at $12.99, and they didn’t take food stamps. For as much as Neal complained about not having enough money, he was downright stupid about managing it. Peter would have been more sympathetic to his complaints if he’d ever mentioned a legitimate, necessary expense that he was having trouble meeting, but it was always things like how he had to get his hair cut by June’s housekeeper (who did a perfectly fine job of it, as far as Peter could see) and he could only go to museums on the one day a week that they were free.
So the flowers were either stolen, purchased with illegally-obtained funds, or represented over ten percent of Neal’s monthly budget. Peter didn’t like any of the possibilities, and sincerely wished Neal hadn’t brought them. But if he said so, Elizabeth would only point out that they showed Neal was trying to be a good guest, and shouldn’t he be putting as much effort into being a gracious host?
Elizabeth was putting in an effort. The roast was beef tenderloin, costing the equivalent of a week of Neal’s grocery budget, and a pretty big chunk of theirs, and the potatoes were the kind Elizabeth said were too much work to make often. Out-of-season asparagus for the vegetable. Peter wondered if Neal would realize that this was the Burke household’s best company dinner, and if so, would he silently-or not-so-silently-judge it.
But when they sat down to eat, Neal said all the right things-it looked delicious, was delicious, they shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. Peter let Elizabeth carry the conversation, and concentrated on not glaring or sighing. Once the subject of the food was exhausted, Neal asked Elizabeth a few polite questions about her job, and she responded by talking about a gallery opening she was planning.
“Hey, that one’s inside my radius,” Neal said when she mentioned where it was being held. “It is invitation-only?”
Before Peter could react to the idea of Neal turning up at one of Elizabeth’s events, she said, “Yes,” and Peter sighed with relief.
“Too bad,” Neal said. “I’ve been going to a lot of gallery openings lately. The ones where they let anybody in, I mean. The art usually isn’t that good-or the wine-but it’s an evening out that doesn’t cost anything, and struggling artists are usually fun to talk to.”
“The ones at the Cross gallery aren’t exactly struggling,” Elizabeth said with a smile, “but I can vouch for the wine. I can probably get you an invitation; it isn’t that exclusive.”
“That would be great.”
Peter tried to subtly signal to El that this was a bad, bad idea, but she ignored him. “Actually, if you wore a nice suit you could probably get in without one.”
Neal grinned. “I have done that. In the past, I mean. Openings, or any kind of party really, are pretty easy to get into. Showing up and acting like you belong works most of the time. Last resort is to dress up as a cater-waiter.”
“Hm,” Elizabeth said. “So if I’m ever working an event and notice that there’s one more cater-waiter than the client is paying for….”
“Yep, they’re probably casing the joint.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Picking the right person and just asking for an invitation is surprisingly effective, too. Or hinting.” Neal looked cautious for a moment. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I was actually planning to steal anything from the gallery, naturally.”
Peter wasn’t so sure-telling the mark exactly how he was scamming them was one of Neal’s tricks; the appearance of honesty was disarming-but Elizabeth just smiled and said, “Naturally.”
So Neal and his wife were hitting it off. Peter tried to convince himself that was a good thing, or at least not a bad one. He was going to have to go to that gallery opening, to make sure Neal behaved himself, but Neal did seem more relaxed than he did at work. Maybe Elizabeth was right, and Neal would be less of a pain in the ass to be around if he felt more at ease.
#
Neal was surprised to find that he liked Elizabeth, and that she seemed to like him, too. Of course, that was at least partly down to professional skill-Elizabeth’s job required her to be gracious to everyone, much as Peter’s required him to be suspicious. Still, it was nice, talking to somebody who knew who he was but didn’t automatically assume the worst.
After dinner, he and Elizabeth returned to the living room, and Peter went to the kitchen to make coffee. Some impulse-or possibly the wine, which he’d been hitting a little harder than he was used to-made Neal take advantage of the moment to lean in close to Elizabeth and say, “I really am sorry about ruining your husband’s life. I know he doesn’t believe me, but I didn’t do it on purpose.” Maybe if he could convince Elizabeth, she’d convince Peter.
Elizabeth glanced around the room. “Peter’s life is ruined?”
“You know, with the whole Guide thing.”
“Did Peter actually say that the ‘Guide thing’ ruined his life?”
“No, he just sort of implied it.”
Elizabeth looked toward the kitchen. “Honey?”
Peter called back, “Yes?”
“Has being Neal’s Guide ruined your life?”
Neal wanted to die. He tried frantically to think of some way to get Elizabeth to drop the subject, but short of setting the dog on fire, he couldn’t think of a distraction big enough. Peter emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three coffee cups. “For Christ’s sake, Neal, don’t be such a drama queen.”
The subject they very carefully didn’t talk about, the enormous pile of elephant dung in the room, dragged out into the open, and Peter’s response was, ‘Don’t be such a drama queen’? That was a little…anticlimactic. “You never wanted to be a Guide,” Neal reminded him.
Passing Elizabeth one of the coffee cups, Peter said, “No, I didn’t, and now I’m stuck with a job responsibility that isn’t what I would have chosen. My life is inconvenienced, not ruined.”
In other circumstances, Neal might have been offended to be referred to as an inconvenience, but ‘inconvenience’ was a substantial upgrade from ‘life-ruiner’.
Handing Neal the second coffee cup, Peter continued, “And it’s not like you made me into a Guide. Even if my life was ruined, you didn’t do it all by yourself. You’re not that important, in the scheme of things.”
“But I was the one who outed you,” Neal pointed out. “I didn’t know you were in, I mean, but I still did.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to ‘out’ me if I hadn’t lied about it in the first place,” Peter said. “To a significant extent, I brought this on myself. And yes, that’s a moral. Actions have consequences, and just because I don’t like the consequences doesn’t mean I get to go around looking for anybody else to blame.”
Neal ignored the moral, which was what he had come to expect from Peter, and focused on the genuinely new information. “So you don’t think I ruined your life.”
“My life is not ruined, and you did not personally ruin it,” Peter confirmed.
“Then why--” Neal stopped short. He must be drunker than he’d thought; he was about to say, ‘Then why do you hate me?’
“Why what?”
“Why do you constantly talk about sending me back to prison?” There, that tracked reasonably well from the conversation they’d been having, and wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as asking why Peter hated him.
“Because,” Peter said slowly, “I keep thinking that eventually, you’ll grasp that what you have here is a pretty good deal, and maybe you should be grateful for it instead of complaining about every little thing.”
“Peter,” Elizabeth said, “how often do you threaten to send Neal back to prison?”
“About five or six times a day,” Neal said. It was a slight exaggeration, but he’d already been accused of being a drama queen.
Peter glared at him. “I do not. I threaten to send you back to prison if you commit a crime or otherwise fail to fulfill the conditions of your sentence. I ask if you would prefer prison when you indicate that life on the outside is not to your liking. There’s a difference.”
Neal supposed there was, but he hadn’t thought of it that way before.
“You don’t think I’m actually going to send you back to prison for criticizing my ties, do you?”
“No,” Neal said. He wasn’t that pathetic. “I just thought you enjoyed reminding me that you could.”
“Okay,” Peter said. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I don’t actually have the authority to send you back to prison on a whim. I’d have to either arrest you, if you committed a crime or violated your sentence, or submit a report to the prison board demonstrating that it wasn’t working out, and you’d get a hearing.”
Neal knew that, actually-it was in the booklet about his rights as a work-release prisoner. He had no illusions that the authorities wouldn’t take Peter’s word for it that the arrangement wasn’t working out, though, if he chose to tell them it wasn’t.
“However,” Peter continued, “you could go back voluntarily at any time, if working for me and enjoying the relative freedom of half of Manhattan is such a tremendous burden to you.”
He knew that, too. He also knew that his next destination was likely to be a secure psychiatric facility, where they’d do God-knows-what to keep him from escaping. A custom-fitted straitjacket, maybe, or drugging him up to the eyeballs. And that was only if he was lucky, and they didn’t realize that providing him with just enough access to a Guide to meet the legal definition of “adequate,” and no more, would leave him unable to escape from a wet paper bag.
“Would you like to exercise that option?” Peter asked.
What, he was going to make him say it? “No. I’d rather not go back to prison.”
“I didn’t think so. And as long as you agree that what you have now is better than prison, you have nothing to complain about.”
“I’m not complaining,” Neal said.
“Not right this second,” Peter said. “Tell you what. I think I’m about as tired of hearing you complain about things as you are of hearing me talk about sending you to prison. What do you say we both knock it off?”
“Okay,” Neal agreed, wondering what the catch was. Not complaining seemed like a small price to pay to have Peter not mentioning prison every five minutes.
“Good,” Peter said.
“Honey,” Elizabeth said, giving him a significant look.
Peter nodded. To Neal, he said, “You understand that there’s a difference between complaining and bringing an actual problem to my attention?”
Neal hesitated. Most of the things Peter threatened to send him back to prison for talking about were real problems. Okay, the comments about Peter’s ties were a little unbecoming-even if he did have to look at them-but the surveillance van was smelly, mortgage fraud cases were boring, and it really was very difficult to live in Manhattan on a hundred dollars a month, especially if you weren’t allowed to steal anything.
“A real problem that you haven’t already told me about, at length, and that you have some reason to believe I might be able to help you with,” Peter elaborated. “Like…when we changed your lessons to the afternoons. That is better, right?”
Neal nodded. “Yes, much better.” Especially since, so far, Peter had always come up to his apartment and sat with him for a little while after them.
“Good. We could have done that sooner, if you’d said something. That kind of thing, you should tell me about.”
Now Neal was starting to understand. Peter was defining ‘real problems’ as ‘problems Peter would care about.’ He had a pretty good handle on which ones those were: the problems that kept him from doing his job. “Okay. Yes. I’ve got it.”
“So we have a deal?”
“Yes. Deal.”
So, as it turned out, the outcome of dinner at the Burkes’ turned out to be not wildly far off from his optimistic fantasy. Peter didn’t think Neal had ruined his life, and while he hadn’t gone to far as to suggest a fresh start, he at least seemed to think they could get along better in the future.
#
“Sure is rotten out,” Diana said, shaking her umbrella outside before closing the back door of the surveillance van. “And the damp really brings out the smell in here.”
“I can’t complain,” Neal said. “It’s raining up at Attica, too.”
Peter sighed. Neal was sticking to the letter of their deal, which apparently to him meant that he could draw attention to the various things he was refraining from complaining about.
“What?” Neal said. “I’m not complaining. Prison doesn’t smell very nice, either.”
Peter shook his head. The new routine was, he supposed, a little less irritating than the actual complaining had been, and Neal at least seemed to get some enjoyment from it. “Carry on.”
“Did I miss anything?” Diana asked as she took her seat.
“A dog peed on that doorman’s leg,” Neal said, pointing to one of the monitors.
“Is that relevant?”
“No, but it was kind of funny.”
Peter supposed he ought to appreciate that Neal was making an effort to find topics of conversation that didn’t involve complaints-it was at least preferable to a five-minute monologue on how nothing was happening, he was bored, and it was completely pointless for them to be sitting here.
“Big dog?” Diana asked.
“No,” Peter said. “One of those little poodles.”
“Bichon frise, I think,” Neal said. “Different haircut.”
“Is that our suspect coming through the lobby?” Diana asked.
Peter and Neal both looked at the monitor. “Yes,” Peter said. “Looks like he’s talking on a phone…Neal, do you want to see if you can hear him?” Ketner had said, at their last lesson, that Neal was probably ready to start using his senses in the field a little bit, and this was as good a time as any to practice.
Neal nodded. “Okay. Um.” He lifted his hand.
“Yeah, okay.” Peter took his wrist. Neal formed the link, and shut his eyes. “It should help if you’re watching him,” Peter reminded him. He was pretty sure that was how the piggy-backing thing worked.
“I’m still working on the dial part,” Neal said. “Okay.” He opened his eyes and looked at the monitor. “He says, ‘Is the meeting set up?’… ‘No, that’s too early’… ‘That’s still too early’… ‘Fine, if that’s the best you can do.’”
Naturally, he didn’t say anything as helpful as, ‘The meeting to finalize the money laundering arrangements? Yes, let’s have it at 10:30 tomorrow at an address that I will repeat for the benefit of anyone listening in,’ but Peter hadn’t really expected him to.
“Now he’s yelling at the doorman about getting him a cab-he’s having a pretty rotten day, isn’t he? Oh, shit.” Neal winced and pulled his hand away as even Peter heard the doorman whistling for a cab.
“You okay?” Peter asked.
Neal nodded. “Yeah. Is he--” He looked in the monitor and stuck his hand out again. “I might be able to get the address--”
Peter took his wrist again, but Neal still had his eyes closed when the cab pulled away from the curb. “Missed it.”
“Damn.” Neal pulled his hand away and rubbed his wrist. “I need to get faster with the dials.”
Peter couldn’t disagree. He picked up his radio and made sure the car parked around the block was ready to pick up the tail when the cab passed.
“Sorry,” Neal said when he finished.
Peter shrugged. It would have been nice for Neal if the experiment of using his hearing for surveillance had actually produced some useful information on his very first try, but that wasn’t how the job usually worked, and Neal needed the practice anyway. “You feel okay?”
“Yeah. Just doing it for a few minutes like that isn’t bad.”
“Good.” It was unfortunate that Ketner couldn’t give Neal shorter lessons more often, but maybe practicing for a few minutes at a time, several times a day, would help him improve without making him too uncomfortable.
“So,” Neal said. “Now we sit here for three more hours on the off chance that he comes back?”
“Right,” Peter said. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. Looking forward to it.”
“Maybe the doorman’ll get peed on again,” Diana suggested.
#
The no-complaining agreement seemed to be working out fairly well. It took Neal a little while to fine-tune the concept-Peter was defining “complaint” a lot more broadly than he would-but Peter took to just saying, “Prison,” every time he thought Neal stepped over the line, and pretty soon he had it worked out.
Elizabeth came through with the invitation to the gallery opening, which was a pleasant surprise. Neal had figured Peter would talk her out of it. But the invitation turned up on his desk, obviously delivered by Peter, and he was even let out of work at a reasonable hour on the day of the event. When he got to the gallery, Peter was there, but Neal behaved himself and didn’t bother him.
The paintings were good, too-big, sweeping canvases with landscapes strung out along the horizon lines. The effect reminded him of one of the visual distortions he sometimes had after his Sentinel lessons. The Monday after, he was telling Jones and Diana about it in the conference room, before Peter showed up for their meeting.
“So is the artist a Sentinel?” Diana asked.
“No,” Neal said. He had asked. “He says they’re supposed to be about the effect of highway driving on visual perception. I can see that, too, especially in the Midwest. But they’re pretty cool.” Peter entered the room. “You should go; the show’s there for another month.”
Peter looked over at him, his ‘What are you up to now?’ look.
“Just telling Diana and Jones about the gallery opening.”
“Not a lot of art galleries in prison,” Peter noted.
“I wasn’t complaining about it,” Neal said, offended. “It was nice. I said it was nice.” He looked at Diana for support.
“He did,” Diana said.
“See?”
“Sorry,” Peter said. “I forgot.”
“I should get a free pass for that,” Neal said.
“A free pass for what?” Jones asked.
“Peter’s not supposed to remind me how much worse I’d have it in prison unless I complain,” Neal explained. “We have a deal.”
Diana tried not to smile. “I don’t know, Boss, I think maybe he deserves a free pass.”
Peter sighed. “Fine. One complaint. Go for it.”
“Oh, no, I’m going to save it.” He hadn’t expected Peter to actually agree, but now that he had, Neal might as well figure out how to have fun with it.
Peter looked at Diana, who apparently had established herself as referee.
“Free passes can be used at the discretion of the bearer,” Diana said. “That’s pretty standard.”
“Okay, but you only get to use it once,” Peter said, with another sigh. “No saying, ‘If I was using my free pass, I’d say blah, blah, blah, but I’m not so it doesn’t count.’ It counts.”
“It’s like you’re talking to a genie,” Neal said, impressed with Peter’s willingness to play along.
“A genie?”
“You know, how you have to state your three wishes very precisely, with no loopholes, so you don’t get an ironic twist on what you actually wished for,” Neal explained.
“Yes, that’s exactly what it’s like,” Peter said. “Except for the part with the wishes. And the part where I can’t put you back in your lamp.”
Neal looked at Diana.
“Lamp is not the same thing as prison,” she said with a shake of her head. “But in this deal, is Peter allowed to complain about you? Because that was close.”
“Unfortunately, he is.” He should have thought of that when he was making his wishes, Neal supposed.
“Does anyone have anything to say about the Herringford case?” Peter asked pointedly.
“Shutting up now,” Neal said.
So really, things were much better between him and Peter. Life in general would have been much improved, except that now that Ketner had cleared him to start using his senses in the field-briefly, and in safe conditions-Peter seemed to want him to do it all the time, often for things that it didn’t seem particularly important. Sometimes Neal thought he was looking for excuses.
The extra practice was helping Neal get faster at using his dials, which was a good thing because opening up his hearing or smell in any normal environment was inherently riskier than doing it a clean room. There was no telling when a cell phone would ring or somebody wearing too much cologne would walk by, and if he couldn’t dial down quickly at the first sign of trouble, he tended to wind up sitting in a corner trying not to throw up, while Peter assured concerned onlookers that he was fine and just needed a minute.
As he told Peter, using his senses for a few minutes at a time didn’t incapacitate him the way working for three hours at a stretch in his lessons did, but that was about the only thing he could say about it without complaining. It still tired him out, and left him vulnerable to sensory spikes-though after a brief period of using his senses, they were only a possibility and not an absolute certainty. But it always seemed to happen that just when he started to feel himself again, Peter would decide it was time for him to smell, listen to, or look at some new piece of trivial evidence. He usually asked if Neal could handle it, and didn’t do anything worse than sigh and look put-upon on the few times that Neal said ‘No’ when he was still able to walk and talk, but Neal didn’t want to risk losing the privilege if he over-used it.
One afternoon, they were being kept waiting by the secretary of a stockbroker they were investigating for fraud. No amount of Peter waving his badge around could get them past her desk, which was set up in front of the door leading to the inner office. She insisted that Mr. Sullivan was unavailable, and they would be shown in as soon as he was available, and until then they just had to wait.
“I’d like to know what he’s doing in there,” Peter said.
Neal nodded. So did he.
“Do you think you could…?”
It was a good idea-this was exactly the sort of thing his senses were good for. The trouble was, he’d already used them to provide scent-evidence verification that Sullivan had touched some memos he claimed not to have seen, to pick out background sounds in a tapped phone conversation, and to examine another agent’s dubious-looking bearer bonds. Of the three, only the first was something that couldn’t have been done with specialized equipment instead-or a magnifying glass, in the case of the bonds. If he hadn’t used his senses since the Sullivan memos that morning, he’d be pretty confident that he was good to go now, but he had wasted them on the other things.
Still, he did want to know. And he could probably do it. He nodded, and they dropped their hands to their sides, where Peter could hold his wrist without the secretary seeing.
As usual, Peter gave him absolutely no help with the link-up. It was like trying to shake hands with a wall. Still, since he’d been doing it three or four times a day for the last couple of weeks, and in lessons for three months before that, he had gotten the knack of it. Neal established the link quickly and cautiously dialed up his hearing.
The first thing he noticed was the ticking of the wall clock. Filter that out, like Ketner had taught him, okay…next obstacle was the hum of the secretary’s computer monitor; why she didn’t have a nice, quiet LCD he had no idea. Sullivan did, for the computer in his office. “I’m in,” Neal said softly.
“Ssh,” Peter said.
Right, it would probably be more subtle if he listened silently now, and gave Peter a report later.
Sullivan was definitely in the office, but he wasn’t talking, on the phone or otherwise. Neal heard a few mouse-clicks, then footsteps and a file drawer opening, followed by the hum of some appliance being turned on. A printer, maybe? No. He dialed down fast and turned to Peter and whispered, “A shredder. He’s shredding documents in there.”
In one motion, Peter dropped Neal’s wrist and stood, pulling out his badge. Neal started to follow, but as he stood the horizon tilted a dizzying forty-five degrees and stretched miles away-an effect that was far less cool in real life than in a painting. He sat down again and tried to keep his head perfectly still.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to worry about tipping off the secretary for long. In about half a minute, Peter was through the door, and Neal could put his head in his hands and look as pathetic as he wanted while trying not to throw up.
Some time later, some more agents and an evidence-recovery unit showed up, and Peter came out of Sullivan’s office. “Hey.” He sat down next to Neal and patted his shoulder. “Overdid it a little bit, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He rubbed Neal’s shoulder a little more. “That was good, though. We got him red-handed destroying evidence.”
“Great.” Neal risked looking up. The horizon stayed where it was supposed to be.
“You okay to go back to the office?”
Home would have been better, but Neal could handle the office. “Yes.”
“Good; we’re going to have a lot of evidence to go over.”
“What kind of evidence?” If it was anything he had to use his senses on, he was going to beg off, no matter how huffy Peter got about it.
“Hm? Oh, memos, reports-the stuff the ERT guys are boxing up in there. No, you’re done for the day, Sentinel-wise.”
“Okay, good.” He could rest on the car ride back, and if he needed a little more time after that, he could work slowly for a while.