WC: Better Men - Part 3
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men - Part 3 (repost)
Author's notes:
I've posted this about a week ago, but I've been told that the story didn't show up properly in the time line on people's friends pages. I'm not 100% sure what the problem was, but I hope this repost will correct the issue. For those of you who have already left comments on the original post, your messages were greatly appreciated, even if they won't show up in the repost.
This chapter is for all you h/c aficionados.
This is part 3 of 4.
To my excellent beta nice_disguise: Thank you for spending your precious time on this. No amount of WAFF is enough to repay you!
Comments, criticism and chocolate are always welcome.
Summary:
With the odds stacked against his consultant, Peter refuses to give up hope.
Better Men - Part 3
Ka-donk. Ka-donk.
Peter rolls onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Traffic is creeping along sluggishly as people head home to their families and out with their Friday night dates. The city is still hot and loud outside his windows. Inside the cocoon of his car he is barely aware of the heat and the noise. He has cranked the A/C and tuned the radio to the local public radio station, half listening to the sonorous voice relaying an anecdote that is supposed to be thought-provoking and witty and is neither in Peter’s distracted mind.
He glances over at the passenger seat and at the open banker’s box holding his consultant’s possessions that were pulled from a Lower East Side dumpster almost a week ago. A pair of shoes and the clothes Neal was wearing the night he showed up at his house, the shoulder bag and its contents: fresh shirts and underwear for two days, a ziptop bag with a disposable razor, a toothbrush and a miniature bottle of Bvlgari shampoo taken from some upscale hotel bathroom. Nothing of relevance.
A handful of photographs. There’s a worn one of Kate. A strip of photo booth snapshots of Neal and Sara, silly and playful and kissing. A sepia mug shot of Mozzie with a wig and a glued-on mustache, taken at one of those faux vintage photographers found at popular tourist attractions. The picture Elizabeth took of them in their tuxedoes. Peter didn’t know that Elizabeth gave Neal a print. Then there’s a candid of himself and El and Satch, taken in their backyard some time earlier this summer when Neal kept fiddling with a new camera that Peter had prayed wasn’t stolen. Nothing of relevance to their investigation. Nothing relevant. Except that, to Peter, it is.
There’s a small, faded photo of a toddler, no older than two, holding a man’s hand, the owner of the hand torn from the picture long ago. It would be almost impossible to recognize the child if it wasn’t for the trademark Caffrey smile. The boy’s name wasn’t Caffrey then. Peter is certain of this. It probably wasn’t Neal, either. He wonders how many people are left who know his identity, who would recognize the boy in the picture when they saw the man he had become. Peter wonders if Neal carries this photograph as a last reminder of who he was before he started living strangers’ lives. Peter may never know. The boy’s secret disappeared with the man a week ago.
The search for him had turned up nothing but the items sitting in Peter’s passenger seat. The site of the hostage exchange that Elizabeth had led them to had yielded nothing of value. A small parking lot in a public place, busy with joggers and construction crews and tourists by mid-morning. The traffic cams had picked up two vehicles fitting Elizabeth’s description leaving the scene, only to be lost among early commuters within blocks.
Mozzie had been no help. Paranoid as ever. Headless with concern for Neal and with anger at Peter. Mozzie disappeared a few days ago, off to look for Neal by means that Peter and the FBI weren’t privy to. Peter suspects Elizabeth knows how to contact him if need be.
Peter doesn’t press her for details. She has been quiet since her rescue. She assures him that she is fine and seeks normalcy in her job and her chores at the house. She does his chores, too, giving him time and space to let the search for Neal consume him. He worries about her, worries that whatever price Neal paid wasn’t enough to keep her safe.
Ka-donk. Ka-donk. Someone leans on the horn as he rolls off the bridge, bringing his attention back to the traffic that has picked up in front of him. Peter offers an apologetic wave to the impatient driver at his rear and steps on the gas to hurry home.
***
The FedEx envelope is waiting on his door stoop when Peter reaches the house. He checks his watch. It is already after 8 pm. An immediate surge of panic wells up in his stomach. The delivery truck wouldn’t have stopped by later than 6. Elizabeth should have been home about thirty minutes ago - she should have found the shipment before him.
“Elizabeth?” he calls loudly through the closed door, pinning the envelope under his arm and struggling to insert his key into the lock. Inside, the dog is barking excitedly. “You home, hon?”
“Peter?” The door swings open from the inside, sending his key ring to the concrete floor and revealing his puzzled wife. She wipes her hands on the dishtowel in her hand. “Something wrong, honey?”
Peter puffs out a relieved breath and stoops down to pick up his keys.
“Nothing. I just thought you weren’t home,” he says and offers her a self-conscious smile. “I didn’t mean to make a ruckus. The neighbors are probably thinking you kicked me out.” Peter glances at the row house next door where the curtains in one of the front windows have been pushed aside. He raises a hand in a tentative greeting, prompting the curtain to fall back into place.
“Come on in, honey.” Elizabeth smiles warmly and steps aside as he slips inside.
“You look like you need to relax. You’ve been a nervous wreck for days.”
“Tell me about it.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I saw that envelope out front and thought you hadn’t made it home.”
“Peter, we spoke on the phone thirty minutes ago. I was on my way back from the grocery store, remember?” She helps him out of his jacket. “You need to stop worrying about me every second of the day.”
“I know, hon.”
“And that envelope wasn’t there when I got here,” she continues and makes her way back into the kitchen. “I must have just missed the delivery guy when I let the dog out back. I’m surprised they left it without a signature.”
She grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, uncaps it and pushes the bottle across the kitchen island.
“Thanks, El.” Peter raises the bottle to his lips while throwing a disinterested glance at the envelope. He stops mid-motion, puts the bottle down, flips the envelope over and back. “There’s no shipping label on here. FedEx didn’t drop this off.”
For the second time tonight his heartbeat jumps to his throat.
“Do you think Neal…?” Elizabeth gives voice to his thought.
His small shake of the head means I don’t know. He reminds himself to stay calm, to not let his hopes flare up, as they have been with each insubstantial lead his unit has picked up since Neal walked out of his house a week ago. At the bureau, he has been successfully hiding behind a mask of professionalism. Here in his home, his stoic self-possession is unraveling at the seams. The small cardboard tab slips through his fingertips twice before he succeeds in pulling back the seal strip to release the top flap of the envelope. He exchanges a rushed glance with Elizabeth before prying the cardboard open.
The envelope is empty but for a small thumb drive.
“I’ll get your laptop,” Elizabeth says, leaving Peter to stare at the run-of-the-mill piece of electronics in his palm. Neal didn’t send this. The thought materializes in Peter’s head with a certainty he cannot rationally explain. Nothing about this piece of black plastic feels like Neal, whose calling cards were often brazen and sometimes foolish but never ordinary.
“Here you go, honey.” Elizabeth slides the laptop in front of him then retakes her position on the opposite side of the kitchen island.
“This is probably just a spreadsheet left by one of my informants.” Peter tries to sound unconcerned. He folds the laptop open, turning it so that Elizabeth doesn’t have a view of the display from her position. “You know, exposing the next trading scandal of pork commodities.”
“I know, Peter. Oh, and I’m making pork chops for dinner.” Elizabeth starts leafing through a cooking magazine, making it a little too obvious that she wants to avoid staring at Peter’s face as he inserts the jump-drive with his eyes glued the screen.
The few seconds it takes for the display to power up are distorted to minutes in Peter’s head. An application wants to launch from the external drive and engages the notebook’s security suite. Peter stares at the pop-up warning, his finger momentarily frozen over the touchpad as the cursor hovers over the Accept prompt. When his fingertip touches down, Peter doesn’t truly expect stock charts and transaction reports to pop onto his screen. He mentally prepares himself for disappointment or anger or even insult-anything but the bone-chilling horror that grips him at the sight filling his high-resolution display.
The full-screen webcam image offers a view of a starkly lit, windowless room. The walls and floor are bright white. Not painted but padded, Peter notes confused. If there are any other architectural curiosities in the small space, Peter fails to take notice of them. The sole occupant of the room has his full attention.
On the padded floor Neal lies sprawled on his back, his head toward the wall that carries the high-mounted camera. He is naked but for a pair of gray boxers. The only other item on his body is a metal shackle, clamped tightly around his left ankle and tethered to the far corner of the room by a chain no more than two feet in length. The symbolism of the restraint doesn’t escape Peter. Neither does the fact that Neal’s clothes have been removed to offer him an unobstructed view of his consultant’s beaten body.
As Peter takes in the condition of the man on the screen he feels all blood drain from his face. His stomach turns at the sight of the dried blood crusting the skin under Neal’s nose and around his mouth. There’s a cut over his left eye, bruises covering his cheekbone and temple and disappearing among the roots of his unkempt hair. Contusions are spreading over Neal’s chest and abdomen, heavily concentrated on his left ribcage and flank. There’s a long, deep scrape across his chest and smaller ones on his shoulders and arms. His right forearm is held close to his body, the swelling and the awkward position suggesting more than superficial injury. The ligature marks on his wrists seem minor in comparison. Peter wants to believe they are a testament to Neal’s determination to flee his captors. He doesn’t want to consider that he may have been helplessly bound when his injuries were inflicted.
Peter finishes his survey with the large patches of discolored skin on Neal’s thighs and the scuffmarks on his knees and shins before his eyes travel over the padding on the room’s floor. The white vinyl bears smudges of rusty red where Neal must have crawled. Or was dragged.
Now Neal remains motionless. Peter stares at his chest, watches it rise and fall in quickened, shallow breaths that are the only signs of life in the room. Peter searches for any irregularity in the picture to convince himself that he is not looking at a looped recording but a live feed. The digital counter in the bottom right corner of the screen says as much.
12h:13m:24s.
The timer is counting up.
“Peter?” Elizabeth says softly. “You’re white as a sheet.”
He tears his gaze away from the screen and meets her wide, apprehensive eyes. Elizabeth slowly steps around the kitchen island. Peter knows he should stop her, shouldn’t let her see what’s been done to the man she’s come to think of as their friend. He doesn’t hold her back. He takes her hand and watches the tears well up in her eyes as she silently stares at the laptop display.
“He…” The words refuse to leave his dry mouth. “He wants me to watch him die.”
***
Two hours later Peter has rolled up his sleeves and is bracing his arms on the FBI conference room table. His laptop is positioned in the center of the table, surrounded by his team. They are an oddly mismatched bunch, with Jones in his gym clothes flanked by Diana and Christie in their Friday dinner date attire. Elizabeth buzzes around them, filling their mugs with fresh coffee, then she settles at the far end of the table. She looks out of place here in his office space. Peter knows he couldn’t have convinced her to stay home if he tried.
“Okay, folks, tell me what we know,” Peter requests. He is relieved to hear a semblance of confident authority return to his voice. It helps to have his team here, to have them look at him for leadership as they struggle to deal with the images of a man they’ve often considered one of them. “Jones?”
“Nothing yet, Peter.” The agent continues to rapidly enter code into his own laptop that is now connected to Peter’s notebook. He looks up for a moment, his eyes alert and focused under the visor of his baseball cap. “I haven’t been able to pin the origin of the camera feed. I’m bouncing from one IP address to the next, all over the tri-state area and as far as Korea. Our IT specialists are on their way in and should be here any minute. They may have better luck. Whoever set this up knew how to cover his tracks.”
“I highly doubt Keller has the expertise to do this himself, but he has a knack for enlisting the right kind of muscle and brainpower,” Peter muses and locks eyes with his wife. “Any word from Mozzie, El? He could ask around his circles. Whatever happened to his hacker girlfriend? Maybe she has some insight into who helped set up the feed.”
”No luck so far. He’s not answering my calls. I’ll leave another message.” She hits redial on her phone once more.
“Thanks, honey.” Peter moves on to the next person. “Diana?”
“Using Neal’s height as a reference I’m estimating that the room is about 7 feet wide and at least 11 feet long. No visible windows or doors. My best guess is that access to the room is via a door on the wall the camera is mounted on. We might be looking at a storage unit or utility room.”
“A cell?” Peter suggests. “A mental facility? What about the padded walls?”
“It’s possible, but the padding could have been retrofitted to any room,” Diana replies. “We can’t see the ceiling. There might be an access hatch there, which means we could be dealing with a basement. Without a sound feed from the camera we don’t have any ambient noise to help us pin the location. ”
“What about a shipping container?” Jones chimes in. “Those could be parked anywhere.”
“If it is, it wouldn’t be outside,” Christie quietly points out, drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s been 95 degrees all day. The temperatures in a closed container would have been too high for him to survive.”
“Good point. Let’s concentrate on indoor locations.” Peter offers her an encouraging nod. For a civilian, inadvertently torn from a Friday night movie and drawn into an FBI investigation, she has been admirably composed. Peter glances at the laptop screen then back at Christie. He had been hesitant to ask Diana to bring her girlfriend along when he had interrupted their evening together. Peter respects his colleagues’ need to keep their jobs out of the safe havens that are their personal lives, but he knew the young physician’s expertise would be of value. Diana hadn’t objected. Everything about this situation is personal.
“Christie,” Peter is reluctant to ask what must be asked. His hesitancy has nothing to do with Christie or the boundaries overstepped when he brought her in. It has everything to do with the man on the screen and the cruel reality Peter is unwilling to face. “Could I ask you for your professional opinion on Neal’s condition?”
“Of course,” she slips into a calm, neutral tone that Peter assumes she reserves for dealing with anxious relatives of her patients. She pulls the laptop closer. “The facial trauma suggests that he took several blows to the head. That makes us concerned about cerebral hemorrhage or a possible concussion. Without a proper neurological assessment, there’s no way for us to know. I would have a better idea if he were awake. I haven’t seen him move since we arrived, but let’s assume he is asleep not unconscious. Unconsciousness would be very worrisome at this point. Internal bleeding is our second big unknown. The abdominal bruising is fairly severe, but his muscle tone may have offered some protection. We’re probably dealing with a fractured right arm or wrist, possibly several rib fractures judging by the extent of the bruising on the lateral torso. His respiratory rate is a little elevated, but otherwise looks good. That gives me hope that we can exclude a pneumothorax and that his lung wasn’t punctured. Most of the other injuries appear minor at first glance. Abrasions and bruising on the extremities. His knuckles are bleeding. Looks like our boy didn’t go down without a fight.”
She briefly looks up at Peter. His grim expression mirrors the distress in every face around the table. His nod asks her to go on.
“Assuming none of the injuries are acutely life-threatening and assuming there is proper oxygen supply, we need to worry about dehydration on the long run,“ Christie continues and points to a corner of the image on the screen. “It looks like there’s a small bottle of water. If he drinks and does so judiciously, it will buy us some time. There are a couple of large empty bottles, I’m assuming to relieve himself. I’d like to see him use them.”
All eyes turn to stare at her blankly.
“To see that his kidneys are functioning, that there’s no blood in the urine.” Christie adds. “I’m not going to lie to you, Peter. Monitoring him superficially from afar won’t be very helpful. But it may give us an idea of what timeframe we have to work with.”
“Could you venture a guess?” Peter says and his voice is unsteady for the first time since they’ve assembled here. His thoughts race back to a courtroom years ago, where he sat with mixed emotions and waited to hear the sentence imposed on a brilliant young criminal. The punishment was just and fair then. This is neither, and Peter’s feelings couldn’t be more certain.
“If it wasn’t for the injuries and given that there is at least some water provided, I’d say a man in his physical shape could last for a few days. Depending on temperature and exertion. If he is seriously hurt, then we’re looking at significantly less than that. Hours perhaps.”
“How bad is the pain?” Elizabeth asks quietly.
Christie exchanges a helpless glance with Diana and then with Peter.
“It’s hard to tell without knowing the full extent of his injuries,” she finally replies. “But unless he’s medicated, it would be substantial.”
Uncomfortable quietness fills the room as Jones stops typing for a moment.
“Okay, everybody,” Peter announces and injects his voice with the assurance they need from him. “Caffrey’s situation isn’t good, but it’s not hopeless. We’ll figure this out! Jones, keep working on tracing the signal. Get every techie with a laptop you need. I don’t care that it’s the weekend. Diana, get a team to check into the leases of every storage facility that rents rooms of the approximate size. See if anything connects to Keller or one of his aliases. Start in Manhattan and work your way out. Check upholstery companies. Find out if anyone was hired to install vinyl wall padding in the past week. I know it’s a mammoth task, people, but it’s all we got. The clock is ticking.”
14h:53m:18s
***
“Peter?”
His head feels too heavy to lift from its resting position in both of his hands. His knees are sore where his elbows are digging into them. He has been sitting in the same spot long enough that he is convinced that he has worn a permanent dent into the sofa cushion. His eyes feel dry and gritty, his lids heavy, but they refuse to close.
“You need to go to sleep, Peter.”
Peter finally musters the energy to straighten his back and raise his eyes. He wonders how long Elizabeth has been standing there, watching him in the glow of the laptop display that is the only source of light in the dark room.
“Hey, honey.” He yanks his eyebrows up and blinks at her rapidly. “Sorry, did I keep you up? What time is it?” He glances at the bare patch of skin where his watch is usually found. He took it off hours ago. The only time that still matters are the hours, minutes and seconds on the screen.
88h:45m:14s.
She sighs heavily as she folds the front of her silk robe closed and ties the belt. Her eyes briefly scan the coffee table. His water glass is full and the plate of fruit is untouched. His mug of coffee is empty, but he can tell that she has decided to no longer be his pusher for an escalating caffeine habit. Elizabeth drops onto the couch by his side. She takes a cursory look at the computer display, at the white room and at the bruised back of the man curled up in a corner of it. Peter watches the flicker of pity in her eyes. She has been guarding her emotions well these past days, hasn’t permitted herself to break down in front of him. She wants to be strong for him so that he can be strong for Neal. Peter knows she will crack under the pressure soon, and he’ll be here for her then. Soon, but not now. Her focus is back on Peter.
“He’s asleep. You should rest too,” Elizabeth says softly. “It’s been three days. You can’t keep this up any longer.”
“He’ll wake up again soon,” he replies and looks at the screen instead of her. “I think the constant light is messing with his head.”
Neal is only dozing off for short periods of time now, two hours at the most. He wakes increasingly disoriented. He gave up trying to slip his shackle two days ago. The cries for help that Peter can see but not hear stopped yesterday. Neal hasn’t been able to get to his feet since this morning. This afternoon he finished the last of his water. Peter was there to watch it all, to bear witness to every bitter milestone in the life that is fading in front of him.
He doesn’t want to watch. He doesn’t want to see the confusion in the other man’s eyes whenever he wakes from his fitful sleep. He doesn’t want to watch that confusion turn to despair when the man passes a hand over the vinyl tufted walls and slowly realizes that his nightmares are an inescapable reality. He doesn’t want to see that man curl up in pain and shield his eyes from the glaring light.
Peter can’t bear to see his name on his friend’s soundless lips.
Sitting in his house, staring through this 15-inch window into the artificial brightness of The Room, Peter wonders what Neal is hearing in his soundproofed prison. He tries to imagine faint elevator noises and droning air conditioning units-anything but the punishing silence that the camera transmits. Neal doesn’t deserve to die in isolation with nothing but his hazy thoughts and his unheard shouts to keep him company.
Elizabeth’s fingers curl around his lower arm and Peter jerks out of his reflections.
“Then you need to keep a clear head for the both of you,” she says in reply to something he thinks he uttered hours ago. “Lie down, Peter. Please. Just for a while. I’ll watch Neal.”
She scoots to the far end of the couch, pats her lap in an invitation for Peter to rest his head there.
He capitulates with a noisy exhale.
“You’ll wake me if anything happens?” He asks.
“I promise,” she says and gestures him to get moving. She cushions her thighs with a pillow.
He kicks of his shoes and is ready to settle onto her lap.
“Take off your shirt and tie. Pants too,” she requests in no-nonsense tone and ignores his querulous frown. “Trust me, you’ll be more comfortable.”
His muscles protest the work required to get up from the couch. Under the watchful eye of his wife Peter strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He tosses his clothes onto the floor in an immature act of protest to being told what to do. He climbs onto the sofa, stretches as best as he can on the piece of furniture not built for his tall frame. His head sinks onto the pillow with a contented sigh.
“Nope,” Elizabeth isn’t satisfied just yet. “Face the other way. I don’t want you looking at that computer.”
Peter reluctantly turns over and is rewarded by his wife’s tender fingers raking through his hair. She pulls the thin afghan over him and continues to caress him gently. The effect on his exhausted body is almost instantaneous. He tries to hold on to conscious thought, but his focus drifts the moment he closes his eyes. Sleep is pulling him under and Peter is ready to let it claim him. Then the quiet sobbing at the edge of his consciousness pulls him back.
“El?” He struggles to open his lids halfway.
“I’m sorry, Peter.” She says, her voice raw. “Go to sleep. I’m fine.”
Peter sighs and wonders why he surrounds himself with people who are convinced that he is incapable of telling the difference between fine and thoroughly miserable. He rolls onto his back to look up at her, finds her tear-filled eyes trained at the display.
“Honey?” It is a tenderly spoken threat.
“I should have been more careful,” she says. “I shouldn’t have let him take me.”
The guilt in his wife’s voice makes his heart ache.
“Elizabeth,” he infuses his voice with all the conviction he can summon. “Don’t you think for a second that any of this is your fault. You became a pawn in an egomaniacal game of chess that Caffrey started with Keller years ago. Don’t beat yourself up over this, El. Be angry with Keller. Or with Neal for never knowing when enough is enough. Or with me for letting Neal get close enough to us to put you in his enemies’ crosshairs.”
“I liked having Neal in our lives,” she admits quietly.
Liked? Peter stumbles over her words. Is she willing to acknowledge what he dares not think about? Is Neal’s end a foregone conclusion in her eyes? Or is it the end of their friendship, as she knew it, that she has resigned to? Does she secretly know that, regardless of the outcome of Keller’s sick game, there will be no going back? If Elizabeth, the steadfast apostle of his friendship with a criminal, the eternal advocate of everything good in Neal, was faltering, how could Peter still hope?
“I know, hon.” Peter simply says and softens his tone. He pulls her hand to his chest and entwines his fingers with hers. He looks up at her saddened face. He wants to tell her that he liked having Neal around too, as a colleague, a protégé-as a friend. He stays quiet.
“I tried, you know,” he continues after a long pause. “I tried to get through to him. I wanted to offer him an out from the trajectory his life was on.”
“I know.” Her palm smoothes the wrinkles on his forehead. “But you can’t give up. Neal may need more than a friendly push in the right direction. Let’s face it, he needs a team of oxen to drag him down the right path.”
Peter chuckles, politely and with immense relief. She hasn’t abandoned Neal. She hasn’t abandoned her hopes for their friendship and for a future. He squeezes her hand and doubts she will know it to be the gesture of gratitude that it is. He takes a deep breath. Then his brow furrows again.
“Wait. Am I the oxen in this scenario?”
Elizabeth takes her time to reply.
“No, baby,” she finally says, with a somber voice but a twitch in the corner of her mouth. “We’re a team in this scenario.”
She bends down to kiss him.
***
Peter sits stooped over his office desk. He hasn’t looked at the laptop screen for almost five minutes. He doesn’t have to to know the numbers on the counter.
126:34 and change.
Peter’s eyes are glued to the map in front of him and at the ten by twelve block rectangle drawn on it in heavy marker. So close.
They have Mozzie’s hacker girl to thank for that demarcation line. She had been able to pinpoint the origin of the webcam feed to this area in Lower Manhattan. Pinpoint. On a map of the state, even of the five-borough city, that term would certainly apply. In reality, searching an area of that size in one of the most densely populated and built up cities in the world amounts to the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. Every dot on this map means another high-rise, another vertical stack of offices and apartments and storage closets. The odds of finding Neal are next to impossible.
They’ve waited in vain for any word from Keller, for a gloating phone call, for a ransom note, for another move in his sinister game. There was none. Keller’s game is over. Leaving Neal to die right under Peter’s helpless hands isn’t a strategic maneuver. It is a victory lap.
Peter looks around the nearly deserted office space. Every available man and woman is out, determined to beat those odds. Hughes made the search the unit’s top priority, put every other case on hold. Perhaps because Hughes knows that everything else can wait because it won’t have to wait for long. Their efforts will be over soon. One way or another.
Peter sweeps his eyes over Neal’s empty chair in the bullpen and back to the laptop screen on his desk. Neal hasn’t been conscious in hours. He is almost gone now, his breathing nearly imperceptible. The only other sign of life are the tremors that intermittently run through him as his body is trying to shake the man inside awake.
“Hang in there, buddy,” Peter says to the screen and to himself. His words sound foolishly trivial and as awkward as the slug on the shoulder he would deliver along with them if Neal were here. Peter wishes he could have been more forthright in showing his fondness of his friend. He wishes he could have found it in himself to comfort Neal better when he needed it, through the death of Kate, through the hours when Mozzie’s life hung in the balance. Maybe it would have made a difference, would have helped the other man to drop his guard and let Peter in.
Peter sighs. Who is he kidding?
He looks at the still man on the screen. This thief, who was always generous with other people’s possessions and who walked out of Peter’s life willing to pay his debt with the only thing that was truly his. The only thing that mattered. His life. Peter hopes that Neal will find some peace in this thought in these final hours, that his last act of consequence was one of giving, not taking.
“Damn it, Caffrey!” A wide sweep of his arm clears stacks of paper and his pencil holder from his desk. The act is senseless and largely dissatisfying. It beats doing nothing. Peter gets out of his chair, paces his office, trying to revitalize his weary body. He doesn’t remember when he slept last. He couldn’t if he tried. Not until all is over. Perhaps not even then.
The phone on his desk rings. He answers it in a hurry, steeling himself for another No luck, boss.
It’s Delaney from the Counterterrorism division a few floors down. Peter has lost interest in the conversation already. He drops back in his chair, pinches his nose and waits for the other man to stop talking.
“So, can my guys borrow it for a couple of hours?” Delaney ends his explanation.
“Sorry, what?” Peter rubs his forehead.
“Your surveillance van.”
“Sure, um, when?” Peter switches windows on his laptop, briefly checking his teams’ whereabouts on the map.
“Now,” Delaney replies and sounds about as annoyed with Peter’s inability to listen as Peter is with his insistence to keep talking.
“What? No,” Peter frowns. “Both of our vans are out. One of my boys went missing. Try me again in a week. Alright?” He is ready to hang up.
“Come on, Burke,” Delaney grunts. “I parked my car next to your van five minutes ago. I’m still on the elevator up from the parking garage.”
Peter looks at the screen again, trying to figure out what the man on the line is talking about.
It’s impossible.
He hangs up the phone without another word, dials Jones’ cell on his way out the door, requests an ambulance before reaching the elevator.
No.
***
Peter exits the elevator on the lowest parking level and stops to survey the rows of cars. His eyes lock on the far Northwest corner. It couldn’t be. Keller wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have brought Neal here, trap him right under his nose, leave him to starve right under his desk. Peter’s blood runs cold. That is exactly what Keller would do.
Peter’s head whips around when the second elevator pings behind him. The unsuspecting security guard who steps through the parting doors stops mid motion when confronted with the agent.
“You!” Peter calls out and flashes his badge. “Find me something to break that van open. Now!”
The guard briefly looks around the garage, nods without any grasp of the situation but dutifully retreats back into the elevator. Peter turns on his heel, takes a half step then changes his course. He heads over to the vending machine by the stairwell access, hastily searching through his pockets for change. He comes up a quarter short. He slams his hand against the side of the machine, cursing the extortionist who determined that it is acceptable to charge three dollars for a bottle of water. A moment later the glass front of the vending machine shatters under the butt of his gun. He grabs two waters and rushes off in the direction of the parked van.
His steps slow as he approaches the vehicle, his legs suddenly reluctant to cooperate. His heart is beating in his throat. He slowly circles the van. It looks perfectly ordinary. The paint job, the model year, the FBI license plate. He peeks through the window. The view of the back of the van is blocked by a sheet of plywood. The sinking feeling in Peter’s stomach is suddenly sickening. Peter pulls a penlight out of his pocket and drops onto his front. He scans the underside of the vehicle. Concealed by the bumper, a power cord snakes under the vehicle and disappears. He takes a second look, for explosives or wires or anything that hints at a booby trap. Nothing else catches his attention. Peter is back on his feet instantly. He tests the side door of the van. It is locked. He backtracks to the rear of the vehicle.
Peter stares at the door latch then slowly wraps his fingers around it. Keller wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have left Neal here, chained only inches away from an unlocked door. Peter takes a deep breath and pulls the latch. The van’s backdoor opens without resistance.
A wave of stagnant air hits him before the door is fully open. Then he stares into the white box that has been his consultant’s personal hell and his. He squints in the garish bright light, lets his eyes brush over the padded walls before he has the courage to look at the man curled up by the far wall.
“Neal?” Peter’s voice wants to fail him. His legs aren’t faring much better when he climbs through the door. Lying on his right side with his back to him, Neal doesn’t move. Peter drops to his knees behind him, slides two fingers against the pulse point on Neal’s neck.
“Come on, Neal,” he pleads and exhales in relief when he picks up the throb of the carotid artery and notices the shallow expansions and contractions of Neal’s chest. He rests a hand on Neal’s shoulder, superficially assesses the state of the other man’s body. Up close the injuries are more shocking than Peter is prepared for. He forces himself to look, to accept that what he stared at for days were more than pixels on a screen. He carefully touches his fingertips to Neal’s grossly discolored left side. The broken and scraped skin over the bruised tissue has begun to scab over and feels rough under his touch. This feels real. This was done to Neal. To destroy him. To ruin both of them.
“Neal?” Peter calls with more urgency. “Caffrey? Can you hear me?”
There is no noticeable response. Peter moves down Neal’s body to inspect the chain that tethers him to the corner of the van. The terminal link is welded to an anchor in the floor of the vehicle. At the other end of the two-feet chain a heavy bolt closes the metal ring that is clasped tightly around Neal’s left ankle. He grabs the head of the bolt. It is slick from Neal’s desperate attempts to free himself. Peter wipes his fingers on his pants. They will need a heavy-duty wrench to undo the bolt if not a saw. He sighs and crawls over to Neal’s head again.
“Hey, Neal,” he says softly. “I’m going to turn you onto your back, okay?”
Grabbing him by the shoulder and knees, Peter rolls the other man toward him. His body limply falls into the new position. Indecisively Peter settles a palm on Neal’s chest, rests the other on his forehead. His skin feels damp and too warm. He is breathing and that’s all that matters for the moment. Peter takes his consultant’s face in both hands. The thickening stubble is crusted with dried blood and conceals a discolored jaw. Peter carefully runs his fingertips over the bruising and scabbed wounds around Neal’s left temple and hairline. Then he cups his face again and strokes his cheeks with his thumbs.
“Neal. Wake up, buddy!” He demands and is surprised by the strength and authority in his voice. Neal’s forehead wrinkles. His eyelids flutter and open a small crack. His hazy eyes brush over the ceiling and over Peter’s face as if it was indistinguishable from the white padding on the wall. His lids drift shut again.
“No, no, no.” Peter pats his cheeks gently. “This is happening, Caffrey. I’m here. Open your eyes.”
Neal stubbornly ignores him.
“Damn it, Neal,” Peter shakes the other man’s shoulder now. “I know you can hear me. Now wake up. That’s an order. You don’t get to play possum with me, you got that?”
There is a small twitch in Neal’s face. Nothing more.
Peter rapidly changes plans. He lets go of Neal, leaving his head to loll to the side. Peter grabs one of the water bottles he confiscated from the vending machine. He digs through his pockets for his pocketknife. He folds out the corkscrew tool and drills three small holes into the plastic bottle cap. Peter takes hold of Neal’s chin, works the tip of his thumb between the dry and cracked lips. He squirts a small amount of water into his consultant’s mouth.
The effect is immediate. Neal opens his eyes wide.
“See,” Peter smiles softly and brushes his palm over Neal’s forehead. “Told ya I was real.”
Neal opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing but a voiceless croak escapes his throat.
“Shhh. It’s alright, buddy. Don’t talk.” Peter soothes. He doesn’t need to hear him speak when his consultant’s feelings are evident in the moisture that wells up in his bloodshot eyes. Neal’s hand comes up to clutch his sleeve. It takes more than one attempt to keep his grip of the fabric. Peter briefly rests his hand over Neal’s for a moment of comfort then he extracts his arm from the other man’s weak hold. He slides his hand around the back of Neal’s neck.
“I need you to drink some more,” he requests and lifts Neal’s head a little while tipping the bottle against his lips. He continues to squeeze the bottle, dispensing small amounts of water at a time. Neal struggles to swallow, his parched and bruised throat resisting to take in the life-saving liquid. He coughs and turns his head. The agony the ripples of cough send into his broken bones is written all over his scrunched face. Worried, Peter puts the bottle aside for now and keeps his hand on Neal’s shoulder, hoping his gesture provides small comfort. Neal recovers slowly and blinks the tears away when his eyes meet Peter’s again.
“Where?” he speaks in a husky, feeble voice.
Peter sighs heavily and looks around the padded space. Neal must have nearly lost his mind in here, without a concept of the time passing, without a clue to what or where this room was, with a door and the answers to these questions just inches away but out of reach of the shackled man. Maybe one day Neal will appreciate the irony in Keller’s cruelty.
“Your least favorite place, Caffrey,” Peter says cryptically with a pitying half-smile.
Neal’s brow furrows.
“Tallahassee?” Neal breathes.
Peter chuckles.
“Not quite, partner. Guess again.”
Neal twists his neck, trying to peek past Peter and out the opening in the wall of his prison. Peter looks on as Neal’s head sluggishly puts two and two together.
“Shit.”
Peter can only nod his complete agreement.
“How long?”
“Days,” Peter states vaguely. He sorts through his thoughts, debating how much detail of the few days Neal can process right now. Did he know about the camera feed? Did he know that Peter and the FBI-Elizabeth and Mozzie-were forced to be helpless witnesses to his suffering? Neal has a right to know, but not now.
“Peter?” Jones, as he often does when his presence is most needed, materializes in the open van door, the security guard in tow. The junior agent takes a cursory look at the scene and doesn’t let his face reveal what is going on inside his head. “Ambulance is on its way, Peter. ETA in 5. Diana is waiting for them by the gate.”
“Thanks, Jones,” Peter nods gratefully. “They can’t move Caffrey until we get that chain off of him. There’s a 7/8-inch bolt closing the anklet.” Peter shudders at using that term for the heavy shackle around Neal’s leg.
“Maybe 15/16,” he continues. “That’s our best bet short of having to cut through the steel. See if you can find a wrench.”
Peter points at the toolbox the security guard is carrying. The guard silently hands over the tools and nervously stares into the van at the nearly naked, injured man sprawled out on the floor. Peter follows the guard’s line of sight. Without a word he shrugs out of his jacket and covers as much of his consultant as he can.
“Coming in,” Jones announces. He drops the toolbox by the door and slips off his jacket, handing it to Peter who folds it and slides it under Neal’s head. The junior agent grabs several wrenches and carefully steps over Neal, offering the wounded man a small nod.
“Hey, Neal, let’s get you out of here, alright?” He squats in the corner of the van, rests a hand on Neal’s shin as he inspects the shackle and the wounds Neal inflicted while trying to escape the restraint. “I’ll be careful, but this may be a little uncomfortable.”
Neal nods and doesn’t look at Jones. He looks at Peter instead, still circumspect, still worried that Peter may be nothing more than a fabrication of his clouded mind.
“El?” He asks hoarsely. He gasps in pain when Jones turns the shackle around his ankle. The fingers of his good hand clamp around Peter’s forearm.
“She’s fine. Worried about you, but okay.” Peter pats the back of Neal’s hand until it relaxes. “So is Mozzie. Well, what qualifies for okay in his case.”
Neal’s attempt at a smile is nothing short of sad. Then he grits his teeth, his fingertips digging painfully into Peter’s arm once again.
Jones shoots Peter an apologetic look.
“Sorry, this bolt is tight.”
“Do what you have to do, Jones,” Peter assures him. He pries Neal’s fingers from his forearm, lets Neal grab his hand instead. There is surprising strength in the hurt man’s grip. Perhaps the pain mobilizes the last physical reserves Neal has. Perhaps Neal needs the contact to convince himself that Peter is real. Perhaps he fears to slip away should he let go.
“I know it’s bad, kiddo. But it’ll be okay. Soon. I promise.” Peter squeezes Neal’s hand.
Neal looks at him as if his words have stopped to register.
“Tired…” he whispers and his eyes can no longer hold their focus.
“No, Neal!” Not letting go of Neal’s hand, Peter leans over his friend. He takes hold of his face, turning it to force eye contact. “Listen to me, Caffrey. I haven’t slept in days turning every filthy stone in this city for a trace of you. And you better show some damn gratitude by staying with me right now, you hear me? You get to sleep when I get to sleep. And that won’t be until some overpaid guy in a white coat has convinced me that my headache of a consultant will wake up the next morning to complain about the hospital coffee. You got that, Caffrey?”
Neal’s lips try to curl again. He opens his mouth to speak but can only nod weakly. Peter feels his friend’s fingers trying to grab his shirtsleeve but his grip slips.
“I’m here, Neal,” Peter softens his tone. He wraps both of his hands around Neal’s. “I’m not letting go. But I need your help. Just keep looking at me. That’s all I ask. And for once you’re going to do what I ask, you hear me? ‘Cause I’ll be damned if I go home to Elizabeth to tell her that I came this close and let you go.”
Neal is fighting. Peter can see that. Neal has been fighting since he was trapped in here. The white vinyl walls bear his bloody handprints. His escape attempts have done enough damage to his shackled leg that Jones’ careful touch sends waves of agony up his body. Now every ounce of strength Neal has left is consumed by his struggle to keep his eyes open.
“Where’s that ambulance?” Peter yells at the world outside the van.
“Coming, boss!” Diana’s voice sounds from a few yards away. She appears in the open van door seconds later. She tips her head at Peter and runs her eyes over the man covered by Peter’s jacket. Then she exchanges a worried look with Jones. “Do you need my help getting that thing off of him?”
“No, almost done,” Jones replies.
Diana steps aside to allow two of the EMTs to pass and climb into the van, which is suddenly as crowded as ever.
“Stay,” Neal breathes. “Please.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move.” Peter feels a hand settle on his shoulder.
Neal shakes his head.
“Sir, there is not enough room.”
“Peter,” Neal begs.
“Sir?” The EMTs hover impatiently at his back.
“I’ll be right here.” Peter squeezes Neal’s fingers. He reluctantly releases Neal’s hand and retreats to a corner of the van, giving the EMTs and Jones room to do their jobs.
Peter slumps back against the padded wall, and it suddenly feels like he needs the support to stay upright. His knees are wobbly, his hands trembling. His body screams for rest. The tension that has kept him going for days is draining from his muscles and collecting into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach. The sensation is nauseating. He can hear his pulse race in his ears. Everything else sounds muted and distant. Peter blinks rapidly, shakes his head to clear it. He wants to follow what is happening to Neal, wants to stay present for his friend, but what follows is a blur of sounds and sights.
He hears the EMTs speak to their patient with loud voices. They ask his name. Neal. Neal Caffrey is the quiet, sluggish reply. Peter doesn’t know if he expected something different. There are more questions about what year it is and what city they are in that Neal can answer. And questions about what day of the week it is and how severe the pain is that are beyond him. Peter thinks he hears his name, called in hoarse despair. He tries to peer past the busy hands that tend to his friend, that insert needles and hook up monitors and feed him oxygen through a mask over his mouth. He finds Neal’s eyes, wild and afraid and looking for him.
Then there is Jones’ triumph over the shackle and Neal’s heart-rending moan when the metal is lifted from the raw skin underneath.
They move Neal into the ambulance, and Peter refuses to leave his side. The space in the back of the vehicle is cramped. As the ambulance weaves in and out of lanes on the busy downtown streets, Peter sits quietly in a corner, keeps out of the way, wraps his fist around a grab bar as if his life-as if Neal’s life-depended on it. The sirens blare outside and he is convinced he can feel the sound throb behind his eyeballs. Inside, there are beeping monitors. Calm and regular, at first, then escalating in frequency. Then all rhythm is replaced by the agitated voices of the EMTs, by the buzz of the charging defibrillator paddles, by the thump that releases the current into Neal’s chest, by the squeaking noise the gurney makes when Neal’s battered torso arches up to crash back down an instant later. Once. Then again.
“He’s back.”
The EMT’s words enable Peter to breathe again.
“You alright, sir?” One of the technicians surveys him with concern.
Peter thinks he nods. The other man offers him a stick of gum. Peter thinks he accepts.
“A couple more minutes.” The man keeps talking to him, perhaps trying to avoid arriving at the hospital with two patients instead of one. “He a friend of yours?”
Peter knows he nods.
Back to Part 2
On to Part 4
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men - Part 3 (repost)
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Friendship, Missing scene/alternate canon
- Warnings: Violence
- Spoilers: Countdown, Various other references
Author's notes:
I've posted this about a week ago, but I've been told that the story didn't show up properly in the time line on people's friends pages. I'm not 100% sure what the problem was, but I hope this repost will correct the issue. For those of you who have already left comments on the original post, your messages were greatly appreciated, even if they won't show up in the repost.
This chapter is for all you h/c aficionados.
This is part 3 of 4.
To my excellent beta nice_disguise: Thank you for spending your precious time on this. No amount of WAFF is enough to repay you!
Comments, criticism and chocolate are always welcome.
Summary:
With the odds stacked against his consultant, Peter refuses to give up hope.
Better Men - Part 3
Ka-donk. Ka-donk.
Peter rolls onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Traffic is creeping along sluggishly as people head home to their families and out with their Friday night dates. The city is still hot and loud outside his windows. Inside the cocoon of his car he is barely aware of the heat and the noise. He has cranked the A/C and tuned the radio to the local public radio station, half listening to the sonorous voice relaying an anecdote that is supposed to be thought-provoking and witty and is neither in Peter’s distracted mind.
He glances over at the passenger seat and at the open banker’s box holding his consultant’s possessions that were pulled from a Lower East Side dumpster almost a week ago. A pair of shoes and the clothes Neal was wearing the night he showed up at his house, the shoulder bag and its contents: fresh shirts and underwear for two days, a ziptop bag with a disposable razor, a toothbrush and a miniature bottle of Bvlgari shampoo taken from some upscale hotel bathroom. Nothing of relevance.
A handful of photographs. There’s a worn one of Kate. A strip of photo booth snapshots of Neal and Sara, silly and playful and kissing. A sepia mug shot of Mozzie with a wig and a glued-on mustache, taken at one of those faux vintage photographers found at popular tourist attractions. The picture Elizabeth took of them in their tuxedoes. Peter didn’t know that Elizabeth gave Neal a print. Then there’s a candid of himself and El and Satch, taken in their backyard some time earlier this summer when Neal kept fiddling with a new camera that Peter had prayed wasn’t stolen. Nothing of relevance to their investigation. Nothing relevant. Except that, to Peter, it is.
There’s a small, faded photo of a toddler, no older than two, holding a man’s hand, the owner of the hand torn from the picture long ago. It would be almost impossible to recognize the child if it wasn’t for the trademark Caffrey smile. The boy’s name wasn’t Caffrey then. Peter is certain of this. It probably wasn’t Neal, either. He wonders how many people are left who know his identity, who would recognize the boy in the picture when they saw the man he had become. Peter wonders if Neal carries this photograph as a last reminder of who he was before he started living strangers’ lives. Peter may never know. The boy’s secret disappeared with the man a week ago.
The search for him had turned up nothing but the items sitting in Peter’s passenger seat. The site of the hostage exchange that Elizabeth had led them to had yielded nothing of value. A small parking lot in a public place, busy with joggers and construction crews and tourists by mid-morning. The traffic cams had picked up two vehicles fitting Elizabeth’s description leaving the scene, only to be lost among early commuters within blocks.
Mozzie had been no help. Paranoid as ever. Headless with concern for Neal and with anger at Peter. Mozzie disappeared a few days ago, off to look for Neal by means that Peter and the FBI weren’t privy to. Peter suspects Elizabeth knows how to contact him if need be.
Peter doesn’t press her for details. She has been quiet since her rescue. She assures him that she is fine and seeks normalcy in her job and her chores at the house. She does his chores, too, giving him time and space to let the search for Neal consume him. He worries about her, worries that whatever price Neal paid wasn’t enough to keep her safe.
Ka-donk. Ka-donk. Someone leans on the horn as he rolls off the bridge, bringing his attention back to the traffic that has picked up in front of him. Peter offers an apologetic wave to the impatient driver at his rear and steps on the gas to hurry home.
***
The FedEx envelope is waiting on his door stoop when Peter reaches the house. He checks his watch. It is already after 8 pm. An immediate surge of panic wells up in his stomach. The delivery truck wouldn’t have stopped by later than 6. Elizabeth should have been home about thirty minutes ago - she should have found the shipment before him.
“Elizabeth?” he calls loudly through the closed door, pinning the envelope under his arm and struggling to insert his key into the lock. Inside, the dog is barking excitedly. “You home, hon?”
“Peter?” The door swings open from the inside, sending his key ring to the concrete floor and revealing his puzzled wife. She wipes her hands on the dishtowel in her hand. “Something wrong, honey?”
Peter puffs out a relieved breath and stoops down to pick up his keys.
“Nothing. I just thought you weren’t home,” he says and offers her a self-conscious smile. “I didn’t mean to make a ruckus. The neighbors are probably thinking you kicked me out.” Peter glances at the row house next door where the curtains in one of the front windows have been pushed aside. He raises a hand in a tentative greeting, prompting the curtain to fall back into place.
“Come on in, honey.” Elizabeth smiles warmly and steps aside as he slips inside.
“You look like you need to relax. You’ve been a nervous wreck for days.”
“Tell me about it.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I saw that envelope out front and thought you hadn’t made it home.”
“Peter, we spoke on the phone thirty minutes ago. I was on my way back from the grocery store, remember?” She helps him out of his jacket. “You need to stop worrying about me every second of the day.”
“I know, hon.”
“And that envelope wasn’t there when I got here,” she continues and makes her way back into the kitchen. “I must have just missed the delivery guy when I let the dog out back. I’m surprised they left it without a signature.”
She grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, uncaps it and pushes the bottle across the kitchen island.
“Thanks, El.” Peter raises the bottle to his lips while throwing a disinterested glance at the envelope. He stops mid-motion, puts the bottle down, flips the envelope over and back. “There’s no shipping label on here. FedEx didn’t drop this off.”
For the second time tonight his heartbeat jumps to his throat.
“Do you think Neal…?” Elizabeth gives voice to his thought.
His small shake of the head means I don’t know. He reminds himself to stay calm, to not let his hopes flare up, as they have been with each insubstantial lead his unit has picked up since Neal walked out of his house a week ago. At the bureau, he has been successfully hiding behind a mask of professionalism. Here in his home, his stoic self-possession is unraveling at the seams. The small cardboard tab slips through his fingertips twice before he succeeds in pulling back the seal strip to release the top flap of the envelope. He exchanges a rushed glance with Elizabeth before prying the cardboard open.
The envelope is empty but for a small thumb drive.
“I’ll get your laptop,” Elizabeth says, leaving Peter to stare at the run-of-the-mill piece of electronics in his palm. Neal didn’t send this. The thought materializes in Peter’s head with a certainty he cannot rationally explain. Nothing about this piece of black plastic feels like Neal, whose calling cards were often brazen and sometimes foolish but never ordinary.
“Here you go, honey.” Elizabeth slides the laptop in front of him then retakes her position on the opposite side of the kitchen island.
“This is probably just a spreadsheet left by one of my informants.” Peter tries to sound unconcerned. He folds the laptop open, turning it so that Elizabeth doesn’t have a view of the display from her position. “You know, exposing the next trading scandal of pork commodities.”
“I know, Peter. Oh, and I’m making pork chops for dinner.” Elizabeth starts leafing through a cooking magazine, making it a little too obvious that she wants to avoid staring at Peter’s face as he inserts the jump-drive with his eyes glued the screen.
The few seconds it takes for the display to power up are distorted to minutes in Peter’s head. An application wants to launch from the external drive and engages the notebook’s security suite. Peter stares at the pop-up warning, his finger momentarily frozen over the touchpad as the cursor hovers over the Accept prompt. When his fingertip touches down, Peter doesn’t truly expect stock charts and transaction reports to pop onto his screen. He mentally prepares himself for disappointment or anger or even insult-anything but the bone-chilling horror that grips him at the sight filling his high-resolution display.
The full-screen webcam image offers a view of a starkly lit, windowless room. The walls and floor are bright white. Not painted but padded, Peter notes confused. If there are any other architectural curiosities in the small space, Peter fails to take notice of them. The sole occupant of the room has his full attention.
On the padded floor Neal lies sprawled on his back, his head toward the wall that carries the high-mounted camera. He is naked but for a pair of gray boxers. The only other item on his body is a metal shackle, clamped tightly around his left ankle and tethered to the far corner of the room by a chain no more than two feet in length. The symbolism of the restraint doesn’t escape Peter. Neither does the fact that Neal’s clothes have been removed to offer him an unobstructed view of his consultant’s beaten body.
As Peter takes in the condition of the man on the screen he feels all blood drain from his face. His stomach turns at the sight of the dried blood crusting the skin under Neal’s nose and around his mouth. There’s a cut over his left eye, bruises covering his cheekbone and temple and disappearing among the roots of his unkempt hair. Contusions are spreading over Neal’s chest and abdomen, heavily concentrated on his left ribcage and flank. There’s a long, deep scrape across his chest and smaller ones on his shoulders and arms. His right forearm is held close to his body, the swelling and the awkward position suggesting more than superficial injury. The ligature marks on his wrists seem minor in comparison. Peter wants to believe they are a testament to Neal’s determination to flee his captors. He doesn’t want to consider that he may have been helplessly bound when his injuries were inflicted.
Peter finishes his survey with the large patches of discolored skin on Neal’s thighs and the scuffmarks on his knees and shins before his eyes travel over the padding on the room’s floor. The white vinyl bears smudges of rusty red where Neal must have crawled. Or was dragged.
Now Neal remains motionless. Peter stares at his chest, watches it rise and fall in quickened, shallow breaths that are the only signs of life in the room. Peter searches for any irregularity in the picture to convince himself that he is not looking at a looped recording but a live feed. The digital counter in the bottom right corner of the screen says as much.
12h:13m:24s.
The timer is counting up.
“Peter?” Elizabeth says softly. “You’re white as a sheet.”
He tears his gaze away from the screen and meets her wide, apprehensive eyes. Elizabeth slowly steps around the kitchen island. Peter knows he should stop her, shouldn’t let her see what’s been done to the man she’s come to think of as their friend. He doesn’t hold her back. He takes her hand and watches the tears well up in her eyes as she silently stares at the laptop display.
“He…” The words refuse to leave his dry mouth. “He wants me to watch him die.”
***
Two hours later Peter has rolled up his sleeves and is bracing his arms on the FBI conference room table. His laptop is positioned in the center of the table, surrounded by his team. They are an oddly mismatched bunch, with Jones in his gym clothes flanked by Diana and Christie in their Friday dinner date attire. Elizabeth buzzes around them, filling their mugs with fresh coffee, then she settles at the far end of the table. She looks out of place here in his office space. Peter knows he couldn’t have convinced her to stay home if he tried.
“Okay, folks, tell me what we know,” Peter requests. He is relieved to hear a semblance of confident authority return to his voice. It helps to have his team here, to have them look at him for leadership as they struggle to deal with the images of a man they’ve often considered one of them. “Jones?”
“Nothing yet, Peter.” The agent continues to rapidly enter code into his own laptop that is now connected to Peter’s notebook. He looks up for a moment, his eyes alert and focused under the visor of his baseball cap. “I haven’t been able to pin the origin of the camera feed. I’m bouncing from one IP address to the next, all over the tri-state area and as far as Korea. Our IT specialists are on their way in and should be here any minute. They may have better luck. Whoever set this up knew how to cover his tracks.”
“I highly doubt Keller has the expertise to do this himself, but he has a knack for enlisting the right kind of muscle and brainpower,” Peter muses and locks eyes with his wife. “Any word from Mozzie, El? He could ask around his circles. Whatever happened to his hacker girlfriend? Maybe she has some insight into who helped set up the feed.”
”No luck so far. He’s not answering my calls. I’ll leave another message.” She hits redial on her phone once more.
“Thanks, honey.” Peter moves on to the next person. “Diana?”
“Using Neal’s height as a reference I’m estimating that the room is about 7 feet wide and at least 11 feet long. No visible windows or doors. My best guess is that access to the room is via a door on the wall the camera is mounted on. We might be looking at a storage unit or utility room.”
“A cell?” Peter suggests. “A mental facility? What about the padded walls?”
“It’s possible, but the padding could have been retrofitted to any room,” Diana replies. “We can’t see the ceiling. There might be an access hatch there, which means we could be dealing with a basement. Without a sound feed from the camera we don’t have any ambient noise to help us pin the location. ”
“What about a shipping container?” Jones chimes in. “Those could be parked anywhere.”
“If it is, it wouldn’t be outside,” Christie quietly points out, drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s been 95 degrees all day. The temperatures in a closed container would have been too high for him to survive.”
“Good point. Let’s concentrate on indoor locations.” Peter offers her an encouraging nod. For a civilian, inadvertently torn from a Friday night movie and drawn into an FBI investigation, she has been admirably composed. Peter glances at the laptop screen then back at Christie. He had been hesitant to ask Diana to bring her girlfriend along when he had interrupted their evening together. Peter respects his colleagues’ need to keep their jobs out of the safe havens that are their personal lives, but he knew the young physician’s expertise would be of value. Diana hadn’t objected. Everything about this situation is personal.
“Christie,” Peter is reluctant to ask what must be asked. His hesitancy has nothing to do with Christie or the boundaries overstepped when he brought her in. It has everything to do with the man on the screen and the cruel reality Peter is unwilling to face. “Could I ask you for your professional opinion on Neal’s condition?”
“Of course,” she slips into a calm, neutral tone that Peter assumes she reserves for dealing with anxious relatives of her patients. She pulls the laptop closer. “The facial trauma suggests that he took several blows to the head. That makes us concerned about cerebral hemorrhage or a possible concussion. Without a proper neurological assessment, there’s no way for us to know. I would have a better idea if he were awake. I haven’t seen him move since we arrived, but let’s assume he is asleep not unconscious. Unconsciousness would be very worrisome at this point. Internal bleeding is our second big unknown. The abdominal bruising is fairly severe, but his muscle tone may have offered some protection. We’re probably dealing with a fractured right arm or wrist, possibly several rib fractures judging by the extent of the bruising on the lateral torso. His respiratory rate is a little elevated, but otherwise looks good. That gives me hope that we can exclude a pneumothorax and that his lung wasn’t punctured. Most of the other injuries appear minor at first glance. Abrasions and bruising on the extremities. His knuckles are bleeding. Looks like our boy didn’t go down without a fight.”
She briefly looks up at Peter. His grim expression mirrors the distress in every face around the table. His nod asks her to go on.
“Assuming none of the injuries are acutely life-threatening and assuming there is proper oxygen supply, we need to worry about dehydration on the long run,“ Christie continues and points to a corner of the image on the screen. “It looks like there’s a small bottle of water. If he drinks and does so judiciously, it will buy us some time. There are a couple of large empty bottles, I’m assuming to relieve himself. I’d like to see him use them.”
All eyes turn to stare at her blankly.
“To see that his kidneys are functioning, that there’s no blood in the urine.” Christie adds. “I’m not going to lie to you, Peter. Monitoring him superficially from afar won’t be very helpful. But it may give us an idea of what timeframe we have to work with.”
“Could you venture a guess?” Peter says and his voice is unsteady for the first time since they’ve assembled here. His thoughts race back to a courtroom years ago, where he sat with mixed emotions and waited to hear the sentence imposed on a brilliant young criminal. The punishment was just and fair then. This is neither, and Peter’s feelings couldn’t be more certain.
“If it wasn’t for the injuries and given that there is at least some water provided, I’d say a man in his physical shape could last for a few days. Depending on temperature and exertion. If he is seriously hurt, then we’re looking at significantly less than that. Hours perhaps.”
“How bad is the pain?” Elizabeth asks quietly.
Christie exchanges a helpless glance with Diana and then with Peter.
“It’s hard to tell without knowing the full extent of his injuries,” she finally replies. “But unless he’s medicated, it would be substantial.”
Uncomfortable quietness fills the room as Jones stops typing for a moment.
“Okay, everybody,” Peter announces and injects his voice with the assurance they need from him. “Caffrey’s situation isn’t good, but it’s not hopeless. We’ll figure this out! Jones, keep working on tracing the signal. Get every techie with a laptop you need. I don’t care that it’s the weekend. Diana, get a team to check into the leases of every storage facility that rents rooms of the approximate size. See if anything connects to Keller or one of his aliases. Start in Manhattan and work your way out. Check upholstery companies. Find out if anyone was hired to install vinyl wall padding in the past week. I know it’s a mammoth task, people, but it’s all we got. The clock is ticking.”
14h:53m:18s
***
“Peter?”
His head feels too heavy to lift from its resting position in both of his hands. His knees are sore where his elbows are digging into them. He has been sitting in the same spot long enough that he is convinced that he has worn a permanent dent into the sofa cushion. His eyes feel dry and gritty, his lids heavy, but they refuse to close.
“You need to go to sleep, Peter.”
Peter finally musters the energy to straighten his back and raise his eyes. He wonders how long Elizabeth has been standing there, watching him in the glow of the laptop display that is the only source of light in the dark room.
“Hey, honey.” He yanks his eyebrows up and blinks at her rapidly. “Sorry, did I keep you up? What time is it?” He glances at the bare patch of skin where his watch is usually found. He took it off hours ago. The only time that still matters are the hours, minutes and seconds on the screen.
88h:45m:14s.
She sighs heavily as she folds the front of her silk robe closed and ties the belt. Her eyes briefly scan the coffee table. His water glass is full and the plate of fruit is untouched. His mug of coffee is empty, but he can tell that she has decided to no longer be his pusher for an escalating caffeine habit. Elizabeth drops onto the couch by his side. She takes a cursory look at the computer display, at the white room and at the bruised back of the man curled up in a corner of it. Peter watches the flicker of pity in her eyes. She has been guarding her emotions well these past days, hasn’t permitted herself to break down in front of him. She wants to be strong for him so that he can be strong for Neal. Peter knows she will crack under the pressure soon, and he’ll be here for her then. Soon, but not now. Her focus is back on Peter.
“He’s asleep. You should rest too,” Elizabeth says softly. “It’s been three days. You can’t keep this up any longer.”
“He’ll wake up again soon,” he replies and looks at the screen instead of her. “I think the constant light is messing with his head.”
Neal is only dozing off for short periods of time now, two hours at the most. He wakes increasingly disoriented. He gave up trying to slip his shackle two days ago. The cries for help that Peter can see but not hear stopped yesterday. Neal hasn’t been able to get to his feet since this morning. This afternoon he finished the last of his water. Peter was there to watch it all, to bear witness to every bitter milestone in the life that is fading in front of him.
He doesn’t want to watch. He doesn’t want to see the confusion in the other man’s eyes whenever he wakes from his fitful sleep. He doesn’t want to watch that confusion turn to despair when the man passes a hand over the vinyl tufted walls and slowly realizes that his nightmares are an inescapable reality. He doesn’t want to see that man curl up in pain and shield his eyes from the glaring light.
Peter can’t bear to see his name on his friend’s soundless lips.
Sitting in his house, staring through this 15-inch window into the artificial brightness of The Room, Peter wonders what Neal is hearing in his soundproofed prison. He tries to imagine faint elevator noises and droning air conditioning units-anything but the punishing silence that the camera transmits. Neal doesn’t deserve to die in isolation with nothing but his hazy thoughts and his unheard shouts to keep him company.
Elizabeth’s fingers curl around his lower arm and Peter jerks out of his reflections.
“Then you need to keep a clear head for the both of you,” she says in reply to something he thinks he uttered hours ago. “Lie down, Peter. Please. Just for a while. I’ll watch Neal.”
She scoots to the far end of the couch, pats her lap in an invitation for Peter to rest his head there.
He capitulates with a noisy exhale.
“You’ll wake me if anything happens?” He asks.
“I promise,” she says and gestures him to get moving. She cushions her thighs with a pillow.
He kicks of his shoes and is ready to settle onto her lap.
“Take off your shirt and tie. Pants too,” she requests in no-nonsense tone and ignores his querulous frown. “Trust me, you’ll be more comfortable.”
His muscles protest the work required to get up from the couch. Under the watchful eye of his wife Peter strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He tosses his clothes onto the floor in an immature act of protest to being told what to do. He climbs onto the sofa, stretches as best as he can on the piece of furniture not built for his tall frame. His head sinks onto the pillow with a contented sigh.
“Nope,” Elizabeth isn’t satisfied just yet. “Face the other way. I don’t want you looking at that computer.”
Peter reluctantly turns over and is rewarded by his wife’s tender fingers raking through his hair. She pulls the thin afghan over him and continues to caress him gently. The effect on his exhausted body is almost instantaneous. He tries to hold on to conscious thought, but his focus drifts the moment he closes his eyes. Sleep is pulling him under and Peter is ready to let it claim him. Then the quiet sobbing at the edge of his consciousness pulls him back.
“El?” He struggles to open his lids halfway.
“I’m sorry, Peter.” She says, her voice raw. “Go to sleep. I’m fine.”
Peter sighs and wonders why he surrounds himself with people who are convinced that he is incapable of telling the difference between fine and thoroughly miserable. He rolls onto his back to look up at her, finds her tear-filled eyes trained at the display.
“Honey?” It is a tenderly spoken threat.
“I should have been more careful,” she says. “I shouldn’t have let him take me.”
The guilt in his wife’s voice makes his heart ache.
“Elizabeth,” he infuses his voice with all the conviction he can summon. “Don’t you think for a second that any of this is your fault. You became a pawn in an egomaniacal game of chess that Caffrey started with Keller years ago. Don’t beat yourself up over this, El. Be angry with Keller. Or with Neal for never knowing when enough is enough. Or with me for letting Neal get close enough to us to put you in his enemies’ crosshairs.”
“I liked having Neal in our lives,” she admits quietly.
Liked? Peter stumbles over her words. Is she willing to acknowledge what he dares not think about? Is Neal’s end a foregone conclusion in her eyes? Or is it the end of their friendship, as she knew it, that she has resigned to? Does she secretly know that, regardless of the outcome of Keller’s sick game, there will be no going back? If Elizabeth, the steadfast apostle of his friendship with a criminal, the eternal advocate of everything good in Neal, was faltering, how could Peter still hope?
“I know, hon.” Peter simply says and softens his tone. He pulls her hand to his chest and entwines his fingers with hers. He looks up at her saddened face. He wants to tell her that he liked having Neal around too, as a colleague, a protégé-as a friend. He stays quiet.
“I tried, you know,” he continues after a long pause. “I tried to get through to him. I wanted to offer him an out from the trajectory his life was on.”
“I know.” Her palm smoothes the wrinkles on his forehead. “But you can’t give up. Neal may need more than a friendly push in the right direction. Let’s face it, he needs a team of oxen to drag him down the right path.”
Peter chuckles, politely and with immense relief. She hasn’t abandoned Neal. She hasn’t abandoned her hopes for their friendship and for a future. He squeezes her hand and doubts she will know it to be the gesture of gratitude that it is. He takes a deep breath. Then his brow furrows again.
“Wait. Am I the oxen in this scenario?”
Elizabeth takes her time to reply.
“No, baby,” she finally says, with a somber voice but a twitch in the corner of her mouth. “We’re a team in this scenario.”
She bends down to kiss him.
***
Peter sits stooped over his office desk. He hasn’t looked at the laptop screen for almost five minutes. He doesn’t have to to know the numbers on the counter.
126:34 and change.
Peter’s eyes are glued to the map in front of him and at the ten by twelve block rectangle drawn on it in heavy marker. So close.
They have Mozzie’s hacker girl to thank for that demarcation line. She had been able to pinpoint the origin of the webcam feed to this area in Lower Manhattan. Pinpoint. On a map of the state, even of the five-borough city, that term would certainly apply. In reality, searching an area of that size in one of the most densely populated and built up cities in the world amounts to the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. Every dot on this map means another high-rise, another vertical stack of offices and apartments and storage closets. The odds of finding Neal are next to impossible.
They’ve waited in vain for any word from Keller, for a gloating phone call, for a ransom note, for another move in his sinister game. There was none. Keller’s game is over. Leaving Neal to die right under Peter’s helpless hands isn’t a strategic maneuver. It is a victory lap.
Peter looks around the nearly deserted office space. Every available man and woman is out, determined to beat those odds. Hughes made the search the unit’s top priority, put every other case on hold. Perhaps because Hughes knows that everything else can wait because it won’t have to wait for long. Their efforts will be over soon. One way or another.
Peter sweeps his eyes over Neal’s empty chair in the bullpen and back to the laptop screen on his desk. Neal hasn’t been conscious in hours. He is almost gone now, his breathing nearly imperceptible. The only other sign of life are the tremors that intermittently run through him as his body is trying to shake the man inside awake.
“Hang in there, buddy,” Peter says to the screen and to himself. His words sound foolishly trivial and as awkward as the slug on the shoulder he would deliver along with them if Neal were here. Peter wishes he could have been more forthright in showing his fondness of his friend. He wishes he could have found it in himself to comfort Neal better when he needed it, through the death of Kate, through the hours when Mozzie’s life hung in the balance. Maybe it would have made a difference, would have helped the other man to drop his guard and let Peter in.
Peter sighs. Who is he kidding?
He looks at the still man on the screen. This thief, who was always generous with other people’s possessions and who walked out of Peter’s life willing to pay his debt with the only thing that was truly his. The only thing that mattered. His life. Peter hopes that Neal will find some peace in this thought in these final hours, that his last act of consequence was one of giving, not taking.
“Damn it, Caffrey!” A wide sweep of his arm clears stacks of paper and his pencil holder from his desk. The act is senseless and largely dissatisfying. It beats doing nothing. Peter gets out of his chair, paces his office, trying to revitalize his weary body. He doesn’t remember when he slept last. He couldn’t if he tried. Not until all is over. Perhaps not even then.
The phone on his desk rings. He answers it in a hurry, steeling himself for another No luck, boss.
It’s Delaney from the Counterterrorism division a few floors down. Peter has lost interest in the conversation already. He drops back in his chair, pinches his nose and waits for the other man to stop talking.
“So, can my guys borrow it for a couple of hours?” Delaney ends his explanation.
“Sorry, what?” Peter rubs his forehead.
“Your surveillance van.”
“Sure, um, when?” Peter switches windows on his laptop, briefly checking his teams’ whereabouts on the map.
“Now,” Delaney replies and sounds about as annoyed with Peter’s inability to listen as Peter is with his insistence to keep talking.
“What? No,” Peter frowns. “Both of our vans are out. One of my boys went missing. Try me again in a week. Alright?” He is ready to hang up.
“Come on, Burke,” Delaney grunts. “I parked my car next to your van five minutes ago. I’m still on the elevator up from the parking garage.”
Peter looks at the screen again, trying to figure out what the man on the line is talking about.
It’s impossible.
He hangs up the phone without another word, dials Jones’ cell on his way out the door, requests an ambulance before reaching the elevator.
No.
***
Peter exits the elevator on the lowest parking level and stops to survey the rows of cars. His eyes lock on the far Northwest corner. It couldn’t be. Keller wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have brought Neal here, trap him right under his nose, leave him to starve right under his desk. Peter’s blood runs cold. That is exactly what Keller would do.
Peter’s head whips around when the second elevator pings behind him. The unsuspecting security guard who steps through the parting doors stops mid motion when confronted with the agent.
“You!” Peter calls out and flashes his badge. “Find me something to break that van open. Now!”
The guard briefly looks around the garage, nods without any grasp of the situation but dutifully retreats back into the elevator. Peter turns on his heel, takes a half step then changes his course. He heads over to the vending machine by the stairwell access, hastily searching through his pockets for change. He comes up a quarter short. He slams his hand against the side of the machine, cursing the extortionist who determined that it is acceptable to charge three dollars for a bottle of water. A moment later the glass front of the vending machine shatters under the butt of his gun. He grabs two waters and rushes off in the direction of the parked van.
His steps slow as he approaches the vehicle, his legs suddenly reluctant to cooperate. His heart is beating in his throat. He slowly circles the van. It looks perfectly ordinary. The paint job, the model year, the FBI license plate. He peeks through the window. The view of the back of the van is blocked by a sheet of plywood. The sinking feeling in Peter’s stomach is suddenly sickening. Peter pulls a penlight out of his pocket and drops onto his front. He scans the underside of the vehicle. Concealed by the bumper, a power cord snakes under the vehicle and disappears. He takes a second look, for explosives or wires or anything that hints at a booby trap. Nothing else catches his attention. Peter is back on his feet instantly. He tests the side door of the van. It is locked. He backtracks to the rear of the vehicle.
Peter stares at the door latch then slowly wraps his fingers around it. Keller wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have left Neal here, chained only inches away from an unlocked door. Peter takes a deep breath and pulls the latch. The van’s backdoor opens without resistance.
A wave of stagnant air hits him before the door is fully open. Then he stares into the white box that has been his consultant’s personal hell and his. He squints in the garish bright light, lets his eyes brush over the padded walls before he has the courage to look at the man curled up by the far wall.
“Neal?” Peter’s voice wants to fail him. His legs aren’t faring much better when he climbs through the door. Lying on his right side with his back to him, Neal doesn’t move. Peter drops to his knees behind him, slides two fingers against the pulse point on Neal’s neck.
“Come on, Neal,” he pleads and exhales in relief when he picks up the throb of the carotid artery and notices the shallow expansions and contractions of Neal’s chest. He rests a hand on Neal’s shoulder, superficially assesses the state of the other man’s body. Up close the injuries are more shocking than Peter is prepared for. He forces himself to look, to accept that what he stared at for days were more than pixels on a screen. He carefully touches his fingertips to Neal’s grossly discolored left side. The broken and scraped skin over the bruised tissue has begun to scab over and feels rough under his touch. This feels real. This was done to Neal. To destroy him. To ruin both of them.
“Neal?” Peter calls with more urgency. “Caffrey? Can you hear me?”
There is no noticeable response. Peter moves down Neal’s body to inspect the chain that tethers him to the corner of the van. The terminal link is welded to an anchor in the floor of the vehicle. At the other end of the two-feet chain a heavy bolt closes the metal ring that is clasped tightly around Neal’s left ankle. He grabs the head of the bolt. It is slick from Neal’s desperate attempts to free himself. Peter wipes his fingers on his pants. They will need a heavy-duty wrench to undo the bolt if not a saw. He sighs and crawls over to Neal’s head again.
“Hey, Neal,” he says softly. “I’m going to turn you onto your back, okay?”
Grabbing him by the shoulder and knees, Peter rolls the other man toward him. His body limply falls into the new position. Indecisively Peter settles a palm on Neal’s chest, rests the other on his forehead. His skin feels damp and too warm. He is breathing and that’s all that matters for the moment. Peter takes his consultant’s face in both hands. The thickening stubble is crusted with dried blood and conceals a discolored jaw. Peter carefully runs his fingertips over the bruising and scabbed wounds around Neal’s left temple and hairline. Then he cups his face again and strokes his cheeks with his thumbs.
“Neal. Wake up, buddy!” He demands and is surprised by the strength and authority in his voice. Neal’s forehead wrinkles. His eyelids flutter and open a small crack. His hazy eyes brush over the ceiling and over Peter’s face as if it was indistinguishable from the white padding on the wall. His lids drift shut again.
“No, no, no.” Peter pats his cheeks gently. “This is happening, Caffrey. I’m here. Open your eyes.”
Neal stubbornly ignores him.
“Damn it, Neal,” Peter shakes the other man’s shoulder now. “I know you can hear me. Now wake up. That’s an order. You don’t get to play possum with me, you got that?”
There is a small twitch in Neal’s face. Nothing more.
Peter rapidly changes plans. He lets go of Neal, leaving his head to loll to the side. Peter grabs one of the water bottles he confiscated from the vending machine. He digs through his pockets for his pocketknife. He folds out the corkscrew tool and drills three small holes into the plastic bottle cap. Peter takes hold of Neal’s chin, works the tip of his thumb between the dry and cracked lips. He squirts a small amount of water into his consultant’s mouth.
The effect is immediate. Neal opens his eyes wide.
“See,” Peter smiles softly and brushes his palm over Neal’s forehead. “Told ya I was real.”
Neal opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing but a voiceless croak escapes his throat.
“Shhh. It’s alright, buddy. Don’t talk.” Peter soothes. He doesn’t need to hear him speak when his consultant’s feelings are evident in the moisture that wells up in his bloodshot eyes. Neal’s hand comes up to clutch his sleeve. It takes more than one attempt to keep his grip of the fabric. Peter briefly rests his hand over Neal’s for a moment of comfort then he extracts his arm from the other man’s weak hold. He slides his hand around the back of Neal’s neck.
“I need you to drink some more,” he requests and lifts Neal’s head a little while tipping the bottle against his lips. He continues to squeeze the bottle, dispensing small amounts of water at a time. Neal struggles to swallow, his parched and bruised throat resisting to take in the life-saving liquid. He coughs and turns his head. The agony the ripples of cough send into his broken bones is written all over his scrunched face. Worried, Peter puts the bottle aside for now and keeps his hand on Neal’s shoulder, hoping his gesture provides small comfort. Neal recovers slowly and blinks the tears away when his eyes meet Peter’s again.
“Where?” he speaks in a husky, feeble voice.
Peter sighs heavily and looks around the padded space. Neal must have nearly lost his mind in here, without a concept of the time passing, without a clue to what or where this room was, with a door and the answers to these questions just inches away but out of reach of the shackled man. Maybe one day Neal will appreciate the irony in Keller’s cruelty.
“Your least favorite place, Caffrey,” Peter says cryptically with a pitying half-smile.
Neal’s brow furrows.
“Tallahassee?” Neal breathes.
Peter chuckles.
“Not quite, partner. Guess again.”
Neal twists his neck, trying to peek past Peter and out the opening in the wall of his prison. Peter looks on as Neal’s head sluggishly puts two and two together.
“Shit.”
Peter can only nod his complete agreement.
“How long?”
“Days,” Peter states vaguely. He sorts through his thoughts, debating how much detail of the few days Neal can process right now. Did he know about the camera feed? Did he know that Peter and the FBI-Elizabeth and Mozzie-were forced to be helpless witnesses to his suffering? Neal has a right to know, but not now.
“Peter?” Jones, as he often does when his presence is most needed, materializes in the open van door, the security guard in tow. The junior agent takes a cursory look at the scene and doesn’t let his face reveal what is going on inside his head. “Ambulance is on its way, Peter. ETA in 5. Diana is waiting for them by the gate.”
“Thanks, Jones,” Peter nods gratefully. “They can’t move Caffrey until we get that chain off of him. There’s a 7/8-inch bolt closing the anklet.” Peter shudders at using that term for the heavy shackle around Neal’s leg.
“Maybe 15/16,” he continues. “That’s our best bet short of having to cut through the steel. See if you can find a wrench.”
Peter points at the toolbox the security guard is carrying. The guard silently hands over the tools and nervously stares into the van at the nearly naked, injured man sprawled out on the floor. Peter follows the guard’s line of sight. Without a word he shrugs out of his jacket and covers as much of his consultant as he can.
“Coming in,” Jones announces. He drops the toolbox by the door and slips off his jacket, handing it to Peter who folds it and slides it under Neal’s head. The junior agent grabs several wrenches and carefully steps over Neal, offering the wounded man a small nod.
“Hey, Neal, let’s get you out of here, alright?” He squats in the corner of the van, rests a hand on Neal’s shin as he inspects the shackle and the wounds Neal inflicted while trying to escape the restraint. “I’ll be careful, but this may be a little uncomfortable.”
Neal nods and doesn’t look at Jones. He looks at Peter instead, still circumspect, still worried that Peter may be nothing more than a fabrication of his clouded mind.
“El?” He asks hoarsely. He gasps in pain when Jones turns the shackle around his ankle. The fingers of his good hand clamp around Peter’s forearm.
“She’s fine. Worried about you, but okay.” Peter pats the back of Neal’s hand until it relaxes. “So is Mozzie. Well, what qualifies for okay in his case.”
Neal’s attempt at a smile is nothing short of sad. Then he grits his teeth, his fingertips digging painfully into Peter’s arm once again.
Jones shoots Peter an apologetic look.
“Sorry, this bolt is tight.”
“Do what you have to do, Jones,” Peter assures him. He pries Neal’s fingers from his forearm, lets Neal grab his hand instead. There is surprising strength in the hurt man’s grip. Perhaps the pain mobilizes the last physical reserves Neal has. Perhaps Neal needs the contact to convince himself that Peter is real. Perhaps he fears to slip away should he let go.
“I know it’s bad, kiddo. But it’ll be okay. Soon. I promise.” Peter squeezes Neal’s hand.
Neal looks at him as if his words have stopped to register.
“Tired…” he whispers and his eyes can no longer hold their focus.
“No, Neal!” Not letting go of Neal’s hand, Peter leans over his friend. He takes hold of his face, turning it to force eye contact. “Listen to me, Caffrey. I haven’t slept in days turning every filthy stone in this city for a trace of you. And you better show some damn gratitude by staying with me right now, you hear me? You get to sleep when I get to sleep. And that won’t be until some overpaid guy in a white coat has convinced me that my headache of a consultant will wake up the next morning to complain about the hospital coffee. You got that, Caffrey?”
Neal’s lips try to curl again. He opens his mouth to speak but can only nod weakly. Peter feels his friend’s fingers trying to grab his shirtsleeve but his grip slips.
“I’m here, Neal,” Peter softens his tone. He wraps both of his hands around Neal’s. “I’m not letting go. But I need your help. Just keep looking at me. That’s all I ask. And for once you’re going to do what I ask, you hear me? ‘Cause I’ll be damned if I go home to Elizabeth to tell her that I came this close and let you go.”
Neal is fighting. Peter can see that. Neal has been fighting since he was trapped in here. The white vinyl walls bear his bloody handprints. His escape attempts have done enough damage to his shackled leg that Jones’ careful touch sends waves of agony up his body. Now every ounce of strength Neal has left is consumed by his struggle to keep his eyes open.
“Where’s that ambulance?” Peter yells at the world outside the van.
“Coming, boss!” Diana’s voice sounds from a few yards away. She appears in the open van door seconds later. She tips her head at Peter and runs her eyes over the man covered by Peter’s jacket. Then she exchanges a worried look with Jones. “Do you need my help getting that thing off of him?”
“No, almost done,” Jones replies.
Diana steps aside to allow two of the EMTs to pass and climb into the van, which is suddenly as crowded as ever.
“Stay,” Neal breathes. “Please.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to move.” Peter feels a hand settle on his shoulder.
Neal shakes his head.
“Sir, there is not enough room.”
“Peter,” Neal begs.
“Sir?” The EMTs hover impatiently at his back.
“I’ll be right here.” Peter squeezes Neal’s fingers. He reluctantly releases Neal’s hand and retreats to a corner of the van, giving the EMTs and Jones room to do their jobs.
Peter slumps back against the padded wall, and it suddenly feels like he needs the support to stay upright. His knees are wobbly, his hands trembling. His body screams for rest. The tension that has kept him going for days is draining from his muscles and collecting into a tight ball in the pit of his stomach. The sensation is nauseating. He can hear his pulse race in his ears. Everything else sounds muted and distant. Peter blinks rapidly, shakes his head to clear it. He wants to follow what is happening to Neal, wants to stay present for his friend, but what follows is a blur of sounds and sights.
He hears the EMTs speak to their patient with loud voices. They ask his name. Neal. Neal Caffrey is the quiet, sluggish reply. Peter doesn’t know if he expected something different. There are more questions about what year it is and what city they are in that Neal can answer. And questions about what day of the week it is and how severe the pain is that are beyond him. Peter thinks he hears his name, called in hoarse despair. He tries to peer past the busy hands that tend to his friend, that insert needles and hook up monitors and feed him oxygen through a mask over his mouth. He finds Neal’s eyes, wild and afraid and looking for him.
Then there is Jones’ triumph over the shackle and Neal’s heart-rending moan when the metal is lifted from the raw skin underneath.
They move Neal into the ambulance, and Peter refuses to leave his side. The space in the back of the vehicle is cramped. As the ambulance weaves in and out of lanes on the busy downtown streets, Peter sits quietly in a corner, keeps out of the way, wraps his fist around a grab bar as if his life-as if Neal’s life-depended on it. The sirens blare outside and he is convinced he can feel the sound throb behind his eyeballs. Inside, there are beeping monitors. Calm and regular, at first, then escalating in frequency. Then all rhythm is replaced by the agitated voices of the EMTs, by the buzz of the charging defibrillator paddles, by the thump that releases the current into Neal’s chest, by the squeaking noise the gurney makes when Neal’s battered torso arches up to crash back down an instant later. Once. Then again.
“He’s back.”
The EMT’s words enable Peter to breathe again.
“You alright, sir?” One of the technicians surveys him with concern.
Peter thinks he nods. The other man offers him a stick of gum. Peter thinks he accepts.
“A couple more minutes.” The man keeps talking to him, perhaps trying to avoid arriving at the hospital with two patients instead of one. “He a friend of yours?”
Peter knows he nods.
Back to Part 2
On to Part 4