Fic: "Beyond the Sea" 1/5
Title: Beyond the Sea
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Neal/OFC, past Neal/Kate
Rating: Teen
Contains: Amnesia. Medical trauma.
Word count: 27,000
Summary: Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.
Notes: Written for whitecollar_bb. This fic is an AU taking place around the time of Neal's arrest in "Forging Bonds."
Thank you very much to slytheringurrl for the wonderful artwork! Her art post is here.
I would also like to thank wise_old_crone and treonb for betaing. This fic was a little overwhelming, and getting their feedback was a huge help. Credit also goes to wise_old_crone for coming up with the title.
Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man’s memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull. - Mark Lawrence
It was a bright, breezy day in late June, and the Catch Me If You Can was gliding on the water.
Neal was not immune to the appropriateness of the sloop's name. A few weeks ago, he'd had a close call while stealing Byzantine coins, and now he was relaxing in Cape Cod while he waited for everything to blow over.
He held on to the mainsail rope loosely in one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out as though it was infinite, and the sun glinted off the water.
"I can't believe I forgot the sunblock," Annabelle said. "I can already feel myself burning."
Neal looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. "You look great."
She gave him a faux-modest smile. "You won't think so if I burn."
"If you burn, I could rub some aloe on your back."
"Really? You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were happy my father couldn't join us today."
The sloop belonged to Annabelle's father. It'd been a couple years since Neal had been sailing, and he'd never done it without a more experienced captain. But he knew his way around a boat, and Annabelle told him she'd been sailing since she was a teenager.
"It's not a crime to want to get to know you better," Neal said with a smile.
"If you want to get to know me without my father around, we'll have to get together once I'm back in New York."
It was funny-Neal had come to Cape Cod to get away from New York for a while, and he and Annabelle had found a connection in the fact that they were both from Manhattan. At first, he'd considered conning her father-the man had a first-rate art collection. But he liked Annabelle too much to do that now. And right now, he felt like taking it easy. He was enjoying Annabelle's company and hospitality.
But Neal doubted he would continue their fling. He planned to return home within a few weeks, and that would give him a head start on Annabelle, who was staying at her father's summer house until late July. By the time she returned to Manhattan, Neal doubted she would even care about him.
It was for the best. It wasn't that he didn't care for Annabelle-she was wonderful. But she was a good match for Steve Tabernackle. Not Neal Caffrey. And Neal knew that when he returned to New York, he would feel magnetically drawn to Kate again.
But after months of trying to win Kate back, and trying to evade Agent Burke and the FBI, spending some time as Steve was a nice diversion.
On the starboard side, another sailboat was gliding nearby. Neal watched the men on board.
The wind started to pick up, blowing the sloop off-course. Neal stood, preparing to adjust the sails.
What happened next felt like it happened in slow-motion. A strong gust of wind bombarded the boat. He heard Annabelle cry "Steve! Look out!" The wind caught the mainsail, and before Neal could move, the boom swung toward his head.
Everything went black.
* * *
When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. His left eye was blurry, but with his right, he could see that he was covered in a mess of wires and IV lines. He fumbled around with a weak arm and his hand landed on a remote control. He pushed the button he found as hard as he could.
He tried to lift his head, but he didn't have the strength.
Two nurses rushed into the room. One quickly turned around and left again, and the other came inside. He found himself staring at her pink and black scrubs. He blinked, hoping to clear his left eye, but it didn't work.
"Awake, huh? How are you feeling?"
"What happened?" His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.
"You had an accident. Your doctor will be here in a minute."
An accident. The beeping coming from the monitor on his right grew faster.
"I don't remember...."
"That's normal after head trauma. It might take some time for you to remember what happened."
A minute later, a woman in a white coat came into the room, followed by a younger woman and man.
"I'm Dr. Britt. I've been taking care of you. This is Dr. Krauss and Dr. Newton, a couple of my interns. They're going to observe, okay?"
He had a hard time taking that in, but he nodded.
"You've been with us for about a day," Dr. Britt said. "You suffered some serious head trauma, and you had an intracranial hematoma-that means blood had collected inside your skull and was putting pressure on your brain. We had to relieve the pressure, but you're stable now. Do you remember what happened to you?"
"N-no. Why can't I? What's wrong?"
"Maybe nothing. Some memory loss is normal. But I need to look you over and ask you some questions, all right?"
She took a small flashlight out of her pocket and shone it in his eyes. As she looked, she said, "Can you tell me your name?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but he realized he didn't know. When he hesitated, Dr. Britt frowned.
"How about where you live? Can you tell us that?"
"St. Louis. I think I'm from St. Louis."
That earned him another frown, and he didn't know why.
"Can you tell us today's date? It doesn't have to exact. If you just know the month, you can say that."
"I-I don't know."
"According to your ID, your name is Steve Tabernackle. Does that ring a bell?"
He pushed at his memory, trying desperately to remember if the name was familiar. But it might as well have been a stranger's.
"I don't know. Maybe...." Tears welled up in his eyes. He felt like he was going to cry, but he didn't know why. He didn't know what was happening to him.
"Okay, Steve? You're going to be all right."
"Why can't I remember?"
"You've had a serious head injury. It's going to take some time to know how your memory is going to be affected. Now, I need you to try to make a fist for me. Can you do that?"
His muscles felt weak, but he closed his left hand into a fist. The rest of the tests were a blur. He was instructed to move his legs and wiggle his toes. Dr. Britt asked him more questions.
Finally, she said, "Good. I'm not seeing any signs of serious brain damage. We'll need to get you in for an MRI, but I think you're going to be lucky."
He didn't feel luck, or okay. "But I can't remember."
"We just have to wait and see. You'll probably start to remember things over the next few days."
When he realized she was planning to leave with her interns, Steve said, "No one's told me what happened. About the accident."
"You were in a sailing accident," Dr. Britt said, "Your girlfriend was on the boat with you. She'd like to see you, if you feel up to it."
"Yeah, I want to see her."
He had a girlfriend. He tried to paint a picture of her in his mind, but it was unclear.
The woman who came into his room several minutes later wasn't recognizable at all. She had long auburn hair and her face, though lovely, was pale and tired. Her eyes were puffy.
"Steve?" she said softly.
He tried to smile. "Hi."
She walked slowly over to the bed. "The nurses told me you're having trouble remembering stuff. Do you remember my name?"
"I'm sorry."
"That's okay," she said, though her voice cracked as she said it. "I'm Annabelle. Annabelle Pryor."
"And you're my girlfriend."
"Sort of, yes."
"They said we were on a sailboat."
Annabelle blinked away tears. "Yes. We were sailing, and the boom swung and hit you. I'm...I'm so sorry."
"They said it was an accident."
"Yes. Of course. But I'm still sorry." She placed her hands on the bedrail. "How are you feeling?"
"Like they cut open my head." He knew they'd told him why that was necessary, but he couldn't remember. He'd felt around near where they'd drilled into his skull, but all he could feel was thick bandages. "Do I look horrible?"
"No...no. I mean, I think they had to shave off some of your hair. And you have some bruising. But no."
"I want to see myself."
Annabelle bit her lip. She reached for the purse hanging from her arm, but hesitated. "I don't know if you should. You're-you're really bruised."
"I want to see."
She opened her purse and pulled out a small folding mirror. She opened it and held it in front of his face.
Maybe he expected to recognize himself. But even if he could remember what he was supposed to look like, he wouldn't have been able to tell now. The left side of his face was swollen and black and blue. His left eye opened only enough for him to see that it was bloodshot. There was an ugly row of thick black stitches across his temple.
He stared numbly at his reflection until Annabelle closed the mirror.
* * *
The first couple days were a blur, and he thought he spent most of that time asleep. He wasn't sure-waking and sleeping didn't feel drastically different.
He felt like he was adrift.
His doctor, whose name he had a hard time remembering, explained patiently that he had both retrograde and anterograde amnesia. One meant that he couldn't access old memories. The other meant that he had trouble forming new ones.
His doctor assured him that this could improve, and that he would probably get better. Steve had no memory of what being better felt like.
When Annabelle visited him, he sensed that she was patiently repeating stuff he'd once known. Maybe even stuff that she'd told him the previous day.
But after the first couple days, information started to stick better. When Annabelle arrived in the morning to visit him, he remembered both her face and name. He recognized the nurse who brought him his breakfast.
When Dr. Britt saw him that afternoon, she told him this was a sign of great improvement. But he still remembered almost nothing from before the accident. He had vague memories of being a child. He knew he'd lived in St. Louis, and could remember walking down a sidewalk with a woman who might have been his mother. But according to Annabelle, he'd been living in New York, and had spent the past couple years traveling the world.
His left eye was still blurry. Dr. Britt explained that he had something called traumatic optic neuropathy, caused by the blow to his temple. They were giving him steroids to treat it.
He still tired easily, and he fell asleep after lunch. He woke up to the sound of voices in his room. One of them was Annabelle. The other was a man he hadn't seen before. He had a fresh tan that contrasted with his neatly-cut white hair.
"There's no use dwelling on it," the man was saying softly, "it was an accident."
"I know, but I can't stop-" she noticed Steve watching them and smiled tensely. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Hanging in there." He looked at the newcomer curiously.
"Dad," Annabelle said softly, "you'll have to introduce yourself, remember?"
The man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, right." He extended his hand to Steve to shake. "I'm Greg Pryor, Annabelle's father. I apologize for my lack of manners-it's strange to introduce myself to a man I've known for the past few weeks."
"It's strange to have to be reacquainted."
"I can imagine."
Steve fiddled with his remote and raised the backrest of the bed. "But thank you for coming," he said.
"Of course," Mr. Pryor said. "Listen, I know you're focused on recovering right now, and I don't want to overwhelm you, but I think it's a good idea if we talk. First of all, let me say that both Annabelle and I feel terrible that you were hurt. As a gesture of goodwill, I'd like to help out however I can."
"Thank you, Mr. Pryor. I appreciate that."
"Annabelle tells me you don't have a permanent place to live right now."
"Yeah, I was spending some time abroad." Now that he could remember them, it was easy to parrot the details Annabelle had told him, even though they felt like fiction.
"Once they release you, you're welcome to stay at our summer home while we're in town. That should give you some time to make plans."
"Thank you."
"Also...I feel I should help pay for your medical expenses. When you feel up to it, I'd like to work something out."
"That's very generous of you."
Earlier that day, someone from the hospital came to ferret out whether he might have health insurance. He knew the hospital would want some sort of payment soon, or at least the promise of money.
From everything Annabelle told him, Steve believed he must have money. He'd spent time living in Paris and Rome, and had talked about being an art collector. His wallet, which had been in his pants pocket, had a gold card and a debit card.
But he didn't know how much money he actually had, or how to access it. And he couldn't begin to imagine how expensive his treatment was.
He knew that sooner or later, he would have to put his life back together. He wondered if there was anyone out there who missed him. His phone only had one contact, and when the hospital had tried calling it in hopes of locating his next of kin, the number had been out of service. There was no name.
It was as though Steve Tabernackle was completely alone in the world.
* * *
The Pryors' summer home was a large cottage by the beach. Steve was set up in one of the guest rooms, which was decorated in art deco style.
It was good to be out of the clinical, sanitized confines of the hospital. He'd been there two weeks. In the final days, when he'd been cleared to leave his room, he'd taken walks outside with Annabelle. It felt good, but he was ashamed of how weak he was, and how quickly he had to sit and rest.
After his release, Annabelle had helped him collect his things from the hotel. He was relieved to find out that he still had a couple days left on his reservation, and that they seemed to have no trouble with the credit card he'd used.
Back at the Pryors' home, he got to work unpacking. Annabelle had offered her help, but he wanted to do it alone. He thought that by looking through his belongings, he might get a sense of who he was.
The items in his suitcase and duffel bag failed to trigger any recognition, but he analyzed them to get a picture of himself. The shirts were all made of fine cotton. He had a tie bar and a pair of cufflinks. Steve Tabernackle had style and class.
In the duffel bag, he found a sketchpad and a box of pencils. He flipped through the pages and marveled at the rough drawings. He was an artist. He wondered if he could still draw. There were a couple sketches of a pretty woman with large, round eyes and long, dark hair. He ran his thumb across her face and wondered who she was. Did he know her, or was she just a model?
He had a keychain, but no idea what doors the keys opened.
Next, he examined the contents of his wallet for what must have been the fiftieth time. In addition to the credit and debit cards, there was a New York driver's license. The hospital had apparently looked in his wallet for any information about a next of kin, but there was nothing. No emergency contact cards. Not even any worn photographs.
He found a crinkled note folded in a pocket of his wallet. It said, "Tabernackle acct: Sinclair. Meriwether. Harry. BMW. Memorize this and BURN IT!"
Steve raised his eyebrows. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but he didn't have enough samples of his own writing to know if it was his. It was probably a good thing he hadn't followed the instructions on the note-he got a sense the information was important, and if he'd had it memorized once, he definitely didn't now. He carefully stashed it back in his wallet.
Once he'd finished unpacking, he went outside to the patio and sat on one of the lounge chairs facing the sea. The Pryors' maid kindly brought him a glass of iced tea. He thought he would like something stronger, but he wasn't supposed to mix alcohol with his medications.
There was medication for the headaches he got. A blood thinner to prevent clots. Anticonvulsive drugs to prevent seizures. Steroids to help heal his damaged optic nerve.
He ran his hand over his short, bristly hair. A nurse had agreed to help him buzz off the rest of his hair. He didn't like it, but it was better than having bald patches where they'd stitched him up and drilled into his skull.
When he tired of watching the sea, he started to read a magazine he'd gotten from the hospital gift shop. He'd only been reading for a few minutes when he heard footsteps behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Annabelle.
Annabelle stopped behind his chair and, reached down, and rubbed his shoulders. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good. I'm still tired, but the doctor said that'll be normal for a while."
"Get all the rest you need. You can stay here as long as you like."
He squeezed her hand. "Thank you. But I need to start thinking about getting my life back in order."
She released his shoulders and walked around to sit on the lounge chair next to his. She sat down sideways so that she was facing him.
"Do you want to try to contact your family?"
"You said I told you I was an orphan."
"You could have siblings. Or aunts, uncles...."
"If I was close to someone, they'd try to contact me."
"I just think it would help, you know? If you had someone who can tell you about who you are."
She was right. It would make things easier, and sooner or later, he would need to look for his friends and family. But he didn't feel ready. Little things still overwhelmed him more than he liked. For now, he would try to take care of the immediate concerns on his own.
"I want to get access to my bank account. And my credit card. I need to find out what my resources are."
"You'll need to think about your birth certificate. And your social security card. You don't have either of those with you, do you?"
"I'll figure it out." He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "You know what will happen? Someone I know will call me, and I'll explain what happened. If it comes down to it, I'm sure there are people who remember me in Manhattan."
"Do you want to come back to New York with me when I go?"
One way or another, he would leave the beach house when Annabelle did-Steve didn't get the sense that he and Mr. Pryor had known each other well. Annabelle was their main connection.
Before leaving the hospital, Annabelle's father and his lawyer had presented Steve with a document outlining Mr. Pryor's intent to help with Steve's medical expenses. The document thoroughly spelled out what would be paid for, and the maximum amount Mr. Pryor was agreeing to give. In return, Steve had to sign and agree that he wouldn't seek legal damages in the future.
Mr. Pryor and the lawyer had assured him that it was just a formality. But Steve wasn't stupid. He still knew some things about how the world worked, and he could tell Mr. Pryor didn't want to be sued. As he'd signed the document, Steve had wondered if he might have a case if he sued the Pryors.
But it didn't matter. Thanks to the Pryors, the worst of his expenses would be covered. Steve was happy for simple victories right now, and the thought of suing was overwhelming. Besides, he believed he cared deeply for Annabelle, even if those feelings were lost to him.
Now, Annabelle wanted him to return to New York with her.
"Of course," he said. "That'd be great."
"You were telling me you don't have a permanent place to live in New York just now, so you're welcome to stay in my apartment while you decide what you'd like to do."
"I'd hate to intrude...."
"Oh, you wouldn't be."
Instinct told Steve not to question his good fortune, but all the same, he asked, "Why are you being so good to me? If you feel like you owe me...."
"It's not like that."
"I don't know how long we were together, how serious we were...."
There were a lot of questions about their relationship that he didn't want to ask. He wanted her to feel like everything was normal between them, whatever "normal" was.
"Well, we weren't serious. Not exactly. But I guess the accident put things in perspective. When you were in the hospital, they wouldn’t tell me how you were doing since I'm not family. But I couldn't make myself leave. When they told me you were awake, and that you'd see me, I was so relieved."
She got up and, after a moment's hesitation, perched on the edge of his chair. She leaned down and kissed his lips. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and fell onto Steve's chest.
He smiled as she broke off the kiss.
He wondered if it mattered that she still felt like a stranger to him, when he could imagine that he loved her.
* * *
The following week, he put on one of his suits and found a local branch of the bank listed on his debit card.
He needed to get an idea of what his finances were like, and he sensed that gaining access to his account could be challenging. He must have had some sort of experience to teach him that, but it was abstract knowledge that seemed unattached to memory.
He didn't have a birth certificate or social security card to help prove his identity, and obtaining those documents was a battle he would save for a later day.
What he did have was the note from his wallet. He'd been thinking about what the odd mix of words might mean, and now he had a pretty good idea. It was worth a try, at least.
At the bank, he was beckoned into a small office with glass walls. The woman behind the desk smiled as he sat down.
"What can I do for you today?"
"My name is Steve Tabernackle. I have an account, and need some help accessing it." He leaned forward and smiled regretfully. "See, I had an accident a few weeks ago. Sustained a head injury."
"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. "I'm sorry. I hope you're okay."
"I'll be fine. But see, my memories are a little spotty now, and I forgot my PIN. But I have my debit card. And my ID. So I thought I'd come in and get it sorted out."
"Of course. I'll do what I can to assist you. Do you remember your security questions?"
"Yes, I believe I do."
He handed over his driver's license and debit card and sat back while she pulled up information on her computer.
"Okay, Mr. Tabernackle? Can you tell me your mother's maiden name?"
"Sinclair."
"And the street you grew up on?"
"Meriwether."
"Your first pet?"
"Harry."
Her smile was promising. "Almost done. First car?"
"A BMW."
She turned to him and said, "All right. We're in. I'll just reset your PIN for you. Would you like me to reset your username and password for our online banking site, too?"
"That would be great."
He could barely contain a smile at his success. With luck, he'd be able to use the same answers to access his credit card account. He just wished he knew why he had the note in the first place. He sensed he wasn't the one who'd written it-why would he tell himself to burn it? But who else knew his security questions, and why had they needed to give them to him?
The banker was still looking at the computer screen, and raised her eyebrows.
"Have you considered opening a savings account with us?" she asked.
"Do you think I should?"
"Well, considering you balance, a savings account would keep your money more secure. You could easily transfer money to your checking account as needed."
"Right. And could you remind me of my balance?" He smiled and tapped his forehead. "Again, my memory...."
Looking back at the screen, she said, "You have two-hundred thousand two-fifty, and ninety-five cents."
"That sounds right. I'll give the savings account some thought."
He didn't know if the amount of money she'd read was a lot for him or not. He wondered if he had more somewhere, or if he had much money tied up in assets. Annabelle had told him he was an art collector.
How long would it take him to find all his resources? At least his bank account would keep him afloat for a bit, assuming the remaining medical expenses didn't bankrupt him.
On his way back to Annabelle's house, he stopped at a liquor store. He felt like testing his debit card and getting some wine to celebrate his success.
Did he like wine? He couldn’t remember much about what food and beverages he liked. He would have to ask his doctor if that fell under episodic or systematic memory. It was mostly his episodic memory that was affected, but his systematic memory was spotty. He could remember plenty about how the world worked, but this morning he hadn't known how to make scrambled eggs. When the maid had come to his rescue, he'd joked about feeling like his brain was scrambled, and she'd laughed awkwardly in response.
In the liquor store, he solicited the aid of an employee to help him choose a bottle, and after his new PIN worked, he left with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He hoped that when he came home with it, it would remind Annabelle of the man she'd met.
* * *
Annabelle intended to leave Cape Cod at the end of August, and Steve was prepared to go with her.
On their last day there, Steve got his suitcase out of the closet. As he opened it on the bed, the light caught the top and he noticed something strange under the lining. He ran his fingers across it and realized that he could just make out an irregular shape. He poked and pulled at the edges of the lining until he found a small opening.
When he pulled out the lining, several items fell loose and landed on the floor. He got down on his hands and knees to collect them.
There was a passport. He opened it and saw a picture of himself, but the name in this passport was Nicholas Halden. There was a small stack of cash, mostly high denomination bills. There was a leather sleeve holding several credit cards in various names, including Nicholas Halden. Another leather case contained several thin metal tools that he thought might be lock picks.
Steve sat on the floor with his back against the bed. As he continued to study the items, his mouth went dry.
Who was Steve Tabernackle?
He got up and fetched his passport from the nightstand, and compared it to the Nicholas Halden one. They both looked authentic.
Perhaps it was innocent. Maybe he'd changed his name at some point. It would explain why the hospital had been unable to find any record of Steve Tabernackle or his family in St. Louis.
Still, he sensed that this was not something he should share with the authorities. Or with Annabelle.
Other possibilities occurred to him. He didn't know exactly what he did for a living. Perhaps he worked for the government. But he stopped himself in his tracks. If he was undercover, wouldn't someone have looked for him by now?
He stashed the items back in their hiding place, and made sure the lining concealed them. He was glad Annabelle was driving them to New York. It was going to be a long drive, but Steve didn't like the idea of explaining the hidden items to TSA agents.
For now, Steve's plan was to act like the items didn't exist.
* * *
It had been almost three months since his accident. Steve's recovery was noticeable but gradual. He still tired easily, and on those occasions he enjoyed sitting on the balcony of Annabelle's apartment. She had a nice view of the East River.
Today, while he sat outside in the breeze, he thought about Annabelle.
The other day, he'd accompanied her to a charity ball that her father sponsored. He'd ended up asking to go home a little early because he was getting another headache. He'd been embarrassed, but during the cab ride home, Annabelle had assured him it was okay.
"I don't enjoy those things much, anyway," she'd told him. "I was glad to have an excuse to go home."
The headache still embarrassed him. If he wasn't prone to nausea, he would have tried to ride it out. But throwing up at the party would have been worse than leaving.
Back at her apartment, he lay down in the guest room while Annabelle took a bath. He took some of the migraine pills the doctor had prescribed, and closed his eyes.
When Annabelle came into his room later, her hair still wet and stringy, his headache was starting to clear up. When she climbed onto the bed next to him and asked, softly, if he was feeling better, he nodded.
They had not had sex since his accident. He wasn't sure if they'd slept together prior to that or not. It seemed ungentlemanly to ask. As she untied her bathrobe and slipped out of it, the sight of her naked body was new to him. He didn't know if he'd ever touched her before.
She reached for her robe and pulled a foil packet out of her the pocket. She started to tear it open, but Steve held out his hand, and she gave it to him. She lay back and watched as he pushed his pajama bottoms down and started to stroke his dick.
Between the physical trauma, the stress, and the medications he was on, Steve hadn't felt much like sex. A couple weeks ago, he'd masturbated and found it to be an oddly clinical experience. Afterward, his head had hurt and he felt worn out.
This time, with Annabelle lying beside him, he felt stirrings of pleasure. After putting the condom on, he laid back and let Annabelle climb on top of him.
When it was over, he was exhausted. His heart was pounding, and, somehow, he knew that the sex had taken a greater toll on him than it would have if he'd been healthy. But it was worth it.
They'd barely spoken about what they did. It was not an awkward silence-it was like the progression of their relationship was expected.
Steve had no objections. He didn't know if he would ever regain his memory, and all he could do was plan for the future. He saw a good future in being Annabelle's boyfriend.
Steve looked at his watch and stood up. Annabelle was at work. She worked for an art gallery, something that, according to her, was one of the things that initially brought them together. Steve had liked art.
Steve considered going out. He hadn't been out on his own much. He wasn't worried about navigating the city, but there was still something safe about immersing himself in Annabelle's world. It was simpler than trying to rebuild his own life.
But he'd barely been alone since the accident, and it was starting to wear on him. Annabelle seemed to think he'd get lost if he went out on his own. As much as he'd taken comfort in sticking close to Annabelle, it was restrictive, as well. Sometimes he felt like a dog, following her and relying on her kindness. He hoped that wasn't how she saw him.
Today was a prime opportunity to get out and do something. It was a nice day in early September, still warm but no longer stiflingly hot.
He stepped into the apartment and walked over to the table by the front door, where Annabelle kept her mail. He shuffled through a messy pile of old flyers. Annabelle was on a lot of mailing lists, and was always getting leaflets about upcoming events hosted by organizations she belonged to. Steve found the one he was looking for: there was a wine tasting at a high-end shop not far away. Steve had discovered that he liked wine quite a bit, though he had to be careful with some of the medications he took.
A wine tasting seemed safe enough.
He changed into a suit and tie and left, locking the apartment behind him with the key Annabelle had given him. After a few minutes, he managed to hail a cab.
The wine store was already busy when he arrived. A blonde woman in a navy blue dress greeted him as he stepped in.
"Welcome," she said warmly. "Have you been here before?"
"I don't believe so, no. I've been in Europe for a while."
"Ah, I see. Well, we have some great European wines here today."
There was a fifty dollar entry fee, which he gave little mind to. After processing his debit card, the woman led him into the interior of the store.
"Was there anything in particular you were interested in today?"
"Do you have any White Zinfandel? It's my girlfriend's favorite."
"We do. Our Zinfandels are on the second floor."
He thanked the woman and took a look around. He would go upstairs in a minute. First, he decided to investigate the Pinot Noirs that were on the first floor.
Steve found wine comforting, because he remembered it, more or less. He couldn’t remember which kinds he liked, so tasting it was an adventure. The names were foreign to him. Yet, when he tasted it, he could understand the qualities of it. He understood the aroma, the bouquet, the body.
He mixed with the other guests on the first floor for several minutes before heading up the spiral staircase to the second story. The crowd up there was smaller, and one corner was dominated by a short, bald man wearing a garish orange and black ascot.
"The last time I went to Central Park at night, a man claiming to be Hunter S. Thompson tried to sell me peyote." The bald man laughed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his listeners' laughter was much more forced.
Steve made his way to the other end of the room, where a small selection of White Zinfandels was available for tasting. As he tried one, he looked up and the bald man caught his eye.
The bald man had just taken a sip of wine, and when he saw Steve he choked and coughed. His eyes widened. The people he'd been talking to had now turned their attention to each other, and the man scurried over to Steve. Steve's heart quickened as a sense of foreboding enveloped him.
"Where you have been?" the man asked quietly. "I haven't seen you in months. Months! I was starting to think the worst."
"I'm sorry, I don't know-" He was about to say that the man had mistaken him for someone else. But he didn't know that, did he? Had he just found someone who knew him?
"How long have you been back? I thought you'd call me."
"Not very long."
"And you went to a wine tasting before you came to see me?"
Steve ignored the question. "Have you tried to call me?"
"Of course. The number didn't work, so I figured you got a new burner. I thought you'd just come see me when you got back. But it's been months! Didn't you realize I'd be worried?" The man looked around, as though to see if anyone was watching them. Lowering his voice further, he said, "Wait, is this a job? Is that why you ignored me?"
"What? No. I just wanted to taste the wine." What type of job? Did he have a career?
The man grinned. "Isn't it great?" He motioned for one of the attendants to give him a sample of the White Zinfandel that Steve was trying. As soon as he got the sample, he downed the wine.
"You're not supposed to swallow it like that," Steve said. "Actually, I don't think you're supposed to swallow it at all."
"Wine tasting without swallowing it is a waste of good wine. Seriously, Neal, where have you been? I've been at your place almost every day."
Neal. Steve remembered the Nick Halden passport. He hadn't found any identification with the name Neal on it, but if he had one alternate name, who was to say he didn't have any others?
"I've been staying with someone. I mean it-I haven't been in town that long."
"Oh? Is this a female someone?"
Steve narrowed his eyes. "Maybe...."
The man smiled. "See? I told you it was only a matter of time. There's so much I have to tell you. Wait 'til you hear about Estelle-"
Steve held up a hand. "Listen, I have to tell you something. When I was out of town, I was in an accident. I hit my head."
"What?! Are you okay? Why didn't you call me?"
"It's okay. I'm great. But I'm still recovering, and sometimes I get these memory lapses, you know? So if you have to remind me of some things, that's why."
"What do you mean by memory lapses?"
"Just random stuff. It's not a big deal."
He didn't want to admit to the extent of his memory loss. Not yet, anyway. And until he knew why this man knew him as someone named Neal, he wasn't going to tell him that he was living as Steve Tabernackle.
"Listen," Steve said. "Maybe we could go back to my place to catch up."
"Sure! We can have more wine there. I'm afraid I may have gone through some of your collection, though. I had no idea when you'd be coming back."
As they left the wine store, Steve tried not to make it too obvious that he was following the strange man's lead. If he had an apartment, this might be his only way of finding it.
There was an empty cab parked on the curb a couple blocks away, and the bald man unlocked it. Steve raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have pegged his apparent friend as a cabbie.
With traffic, it took them a half hour to reach their destination. Steve followed his companion to a modest apartment building, where they rode the elevator up to the ninth floor.
Standing in front of an apartment door, Steve hesitated. His life could be behind that door, and he didn't know if he was ready to find it. He reached into his pocket and grasped his key ring. He'd developed the habit of carrying his keys with him. It made him feel like someone who had someplace to go.
He pulled the keys out and selected the largest one. It went into the lock smoothly.
It was a studio apartment. Steve could find no fault with it from first glance, but it wasn't what he'd expected considering the extravagant lifestyle Steve Tabernackle purportedly led. The place was surprisingly clean. He'd expected a layer of dust over everything, but this supposed friend of his must have kept the place neat.
As Steve stepped into the interior of the apartment, he tried not to show his unfamiliarity. He wished he was alone, so that he could study everything and put these new pieces of the puzzle together.
"I've been collecting your mail," the man said, pointing to a small pile on the kitchen island. "Of course, you don't get a lot."
"Thanks," Steve said. He walked over to the kitchen to go through the pile. There wasn't much, but everything was addressed to Neal Caffrey.
He must have had another mailbox somewhere. A PO box, maybe. He thought about asking his friend, but decided to wait.
He had no intention of telling this man that he was living as Steve Tabernackle. There had to be a reason for the multiple identities, and if this man only knew him as Neal, it was better not to chance it.
As he thumbed through the sparse mail, it occurred to him that he couldn't be positive that Steve Tabernackle was his real identity. It seemed real enough-there was the bank account, for one thing. And Steve knew he'd been a gambler. Annabelle had mentioned him playing poker in the days before his accident. Perhaps he had debts. Perhaps the other names were a way to avoid paying them.
Or...maybe he was in law enforcement. A deep-cover agent. If Neal Caffrey was a cover, he couldn't blow it.
"As loath as I am to remind you, I'm surprised you haven't asked about Kate," the friend said. "Your new sweetheart must be something else."
Kate. The name didn't ring any bells. "What about Kate?"
"Nothing. She's still in the wind, my friend. It's good you're moving on. I know you loved her, and I know you hate me for saying this, but I knew this day would come."
"I guess you were right."
The man opened his mouth as though he was prepared to argue his point, and then closed it. He narrowed his eyes.
"Are you sure you're okay? You don't seem like yourself. You know, when you took so long to show up, I was starting to worry they got you. But I figured if they did, I'd see it in the newspapers."
"Wait, what?"
This was starting to feel more and more like some sort of spy caper.
"Oh, sure, accuse me of being paranoid. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you!"
Steve scrunched his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. There was no way he could get answers without revealing the extent of his memory loss. And the more he heard, the less he was sure he wanted any part of Neal Caffrey's life.
Steve walked over to the corner that served as a bedroom. There was a queen-size bed, and an armoire a few feet away. He opened the armoire and took a look at his clothes. There were a few very nice suits, some colorful button-down shirts, some khaki pants, and a couple pairs of jeans. The drawers underneath contained socks, underwear, and t-shirts. None of it gave him much to go on. Neal Caffrey's wardrobe was a little less extravagant than his own, but that was fitting given the size and style of the apartment.
A thought occurred to Steve. Pulling out his phone, he turned to his friend and said, "Listen, after my injury, I've been having some trouble remembering phone numbers. I think I might have had your number in my phone, but I don't remember, and when I tried calling it, it was out of service."
He brought up his almost-empty address book and showed the man the number listed in it.
"Oh, yeah, I had to ditch that phone. I have a new number, now."
"Do you mind programming it in?"
The man took the phone from him and started pushing some buttons. Steve smiled. When his friend handed the phone back, Steve looked down at the name and number that had been added.
"Thanks, Dante."
"Oh, sure, make fun of my alias. You have to admit Dante Haversham has a little more spark than Nick Halden."
Alias. There went that plan to find out his friend's identity.
"No, no, it's a good name. I like it."
"Yeah, though it does lack the je ne sais quoi of Mozzie."
This guy's name was Mozzie? Steve wondered if it was another alias. It probably was.
"Listen," Mozzie said, "I'd love to stay and catch up more, but I have to meet with Hale. See you tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"Great. If I don't see you, I'll give you a call."
As soon as Mozzie left, Steve started a more thorough examination of the apartment.
There was an empty easel by a window, confirming his suspicion that he was an artist. There was a stack of finished paintings against the wall, and Steve got down on his knees and looked through them. He recognized some of them from when he and Annabelle had gone to the Met a few days ago. He'd painted reproductions-very good ones, from the look of it.
On the bookshelves, he found a lot of books about art, coins, and antiquities. In a letter tray, he found flyers and programs from various events: gallery openings, museum shows, auctions, parties....
In a drawer, he found a New York driver's license and a passport, both with his picture and the name Neal Caffrey.
His doctor had told him that amnesia couldn't be cured with reminders. Either he would recover his memory or he wouldn't. Regardless, he'd hoped that if he found his home, what he found would make sense. He would recognize his life, even if he couldn't remember it. But there was no recognition as he went through Neal Caffrey's things. Some of the things, like the easel and the art books, made sense. But for the most part, he didn't know what made sense or not. He felt like an outsider.
What if he never came back here? Annabelle didn't know about Neal Caffrey, and Mozzie didn't know where to find Steve Tabernackle, if he knew about Steve at all. It didn't seem like anyone had reported Steve or Neal missing.
What was stopping him from just...being Steve Tabernackle? He could find out how many months he had left on this lease, pay it up, and let the lease expire. He could destroy the other IDs and pretend he never knew about them.
Annabelle had been hinting that he might be able to get a job in her father's company. He hadn't wanted to accept her pity, but now he was inclined to pursue the matter. His life would be simpler if he could just be Steve Tabernackle. With enough time, people wouldn't notice or care that he lacked a past.
He looked at his watch. It was almost five. Annabelle would be home soon, and they had plans to go out to dinner later. He took a final look around the apartment before leaving.
Steve caught a new cab home. When he arrived, Annabelle was already there. She was sitting on the sofa looking at a magazine, and quickly got up when he came in. She was still dressed up from lunch, wearing a coral-colored dress and a large pair of pearl earrings.
"Where did you go?" she asked. He could tell that she was trying not to sound concerned, but her eyes gave her away.
"To a wine tasting. Remember that flier you got last week?"
Her smile became a little more relaxed. "Oh. Did you have fun? I hope you didn't have too much to drink. With your medication-"
"I'm fine. And yes, it was nice." He remembered he'd meant to purchase a bottle of wine to surprise her with. After meeting Mozzie, his plans had been forgotten. But he was home now.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.
"Let's go out to dinner tonight. Anywhere you want. My treat."
"No. Save your money until you have all your assets again."
"It's fine. You're always doing so much for me. Let me treat you tonight."
She pressed her forehead against his. "You're such a good man. I know things have been hard, but I'm glad everything's worked out like this."
He breathed in the smell of her perfume and told himself that this was his life now.
Chapter 2
This entry was originally posted at http://citrinesunset.dreamwidth.org/126805.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Neal/OFC, past Neal/Kate
Rating: Teen
Contains: Amnesia. Medical trauma.
Word count: 27,000
Summary: Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.
Notes: Written for whitecollar_bb. This fic is an AU taking place around the time of Neal's arrest in "Forging Bonds."
Thank you very much to slytheringurrl for the wonderful artwork! Her art post is here.
I would also like to thank wise_old_crone and treonb for betaing. This fic was a little overwhelming, and getting their feedback was a huge help. Credit also goes to wise_old_crone for coming up with the title.
Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man’s memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull. - Mark Lawrence
It was a bright, breezy day in late June, and the Catch Me If You Can was gliding on the water.
Neal was not immune to the appropriateness of the sloop's name. A few weeks ago, he'd had a close call while stealing Byzantine coins, and now he was relaxing in Cape Cod while he waited for everything to blow over.
He held on to the mainsail rope loosely in one hand, and shaded his eyes with the other. The Atlantic Ocean stretched out as though it was infinite, and the sun glinted off the water.
"I can't believe I forgot the sunblock," Annabelle said. "I can already feel myself burning."
Neal looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. "You look great."
She gave him a faux-modest smile. "You won't think so if I burn."
"If you burn, I could rub some aloe on your back."
"Really? You know, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were happy my father couldn't join us today."
The sloop belonged to Annabelle's father. It'd been a couple years since Neal had been sailing, and he'd never done it without a more experienced captain. But he knew his way around a boat, and Annabelle told him she'd been sailing since she was a teenager.
"It's not a crime to want to get to know you better," Neal said with a smile.
"If you want to get to know me without my father around, we'll have to get together once I'm back in New York."
It was funny-Neal had come to Cape Cod to get away from New York for a while, and he and Annabelle had found a connection in the fact that they were both from Manhattan. At first, he'd considered conning her father-the man had a first-rate art collection. But he liked Annabelle too much to do that now. And right now, he felt like taking it easy. He was enjoying Annabelle's company and hospitality.
But Neal doubted he would continue their fling. He planned to return home within a few weeks, and that would give him a head start on Annabelle, who was staying at her father's summer house until late July. By the time she returned to Manhattan, Neal doubted she would even care about him.
It was for the best. It wasn't that he didn't care for Annabelle-she was wonderful. But she was a good match for Steve Tabernackle. Not Neal Caffrey. And Neal knew that when he returned to New York, he would feel magnetically drawn to Kate again.
But after months of trying to win Kate back, and trying to evade Agent Burke and the FBI, spending some time as Steve was a nice diversion.
On the starboard side, another sailboat was gliding nearby. Neal watched the men on board.
The wind started to pick up, blowing the sloop off-course. Neal stood, preparing to adjust the sails.
What happened next felt like it happened in slow-motion. A strong gust of wind bombarded the boat. He heard Annabelle cry "Steve! Look out!" The wind caught the mainsail, and before Neal could move, the boom swung toward his head.
Everything went black.
* * *
When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. His left eye was blurry, but with his right, he could see that he was covered in a mess of wires and IV lines. He fumbled around with a weak arm and his hand landed on a remote control. He pushed the button he found as hard as he could.
He tried to lift his head, but he didn't have the strength.
Two nurses rushed into the room. One quickly turned around and left again, and the other came inside. He found himself staring at her pink and black scrubs. He blinked, hoping to clear his left eye, but it didn't work.
"Awake, huh? How are you feeling?"
"What happened?" His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.
"You had an accident. Your doctor will be here in a minute."
An accident. The beeping coming from the monitor on his right grew faster.
"I don't remember...."
"That's normal after head trauma. It might take some time for you to remember what happened."
A minute later, a woman in a white coat came into the room, followed by a younger woman and man.
"I'm Dr. Britt. I've been taking care of you. This is Dr. Krauss and Dr. Newton, a couple of my interns. They're going to observe, okay?"
He had a hard time taking that in, but he nodded.
"You've been with us for about a day," Dr. Britt said. "You suffered some serious head trauma, and you had an intracranial hematoma-that means blood had collected inside your skull and was putting pressure on your brain. We had to relieve the pressure, but you're stable now. Do you remember what happened to you?"
"N-no. Why can't I? What's wrong?"
"Maybe nothing. Some memory loss is normal. But I need to look you over and ask you some questions, all right?"
She took a small flashlight out of her pocket and shone it in his eyes. As she looked, she said, "Can you tell me your name?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but he realized he didn't know. When he hesitated, Dr. Britt frowned.
"How about where you live? Can you tell us that?"
"St. Louis. I think I'm from St. Louis."
That earned him another frown, and he didn't know why.
"Can you tell us today's date? It doesn't have to exact. If you just know the month, you can say that."
"I-I don't know."
"According to your ID, your name is Steve Tabernackle. Does that ring a bell?"
He pushed at his memory, trying desperately to remember if the name was familiar. But it might as well have been a stranger's.
"I don't know. Maybe...." Tears welled up in his eyes. He felt like he was going to cry, but he didn't know why. He didn't know what was happening to him.
"Okay, Steve? You're going to be all right."
"Why can't I remember?"
"You've had a serious head injury. It's going to take some time to know how your memory is going to be affected. Now, I need you to try to make a fist for me. Can you do that?"
His muscles felt weak, but he closed his left hand into a fist. The rest of the tests were a blur. He was instructed to move his legs and wiggle his toes. Dr. Britt asked him more questions.
Finally, she said, "Good. I'm not seeing any signs of serious brain damage. We'll need to get you in for an MRI, but I think you're going to be lucky."
He didn't feel luck, or okay. "But I can't remember."
"We just have to wait and see. You'll probably start to remember things over the next few days."
When he realized she was planning to leave with her interns, Steve said, "No one's told me what happened. About the accident."
"You were in a sailing accident," Dr. Britt said, "Your girlfriend was on the boat with you. She'd like to see you, if you feel up to it."
"Yeah, I want to see her."
He had a girlfriend. He tried to paint a picture of her in his mind, but it was unclear.
The woman who came into his room several minutes later wasn't recognizable at all. She had long auburn hair and her face, though lovely, was pale and tired. Her eyes were puffy.
"Steve?" she said softly.
He tried to smile. "Hi."
She walked slowly over to the bed. "The nurses told me you're having trouble remembering stuff. Do you remember my name?"
"I'm sorry."
"That's okay," she said, though her voice cracked as she said it. "I'm Annabelle. Annabelle Pryor."
"And you're my girlfriend."
"Sort of, yes."
"They said we were on a sailboat."
Annabelle blinked away tears. "Yes. We were sailing, and the boom swung and hit you. I'm...I'm so sorry."
"They said it was an accident."
"Yes. Of course. But I'm still sorry." She placed her hands on the bedrail. "How are you feeling?"
"Like they cut open my head." He knew they'd told him why that was necessary, but he couldn't remember. He'd felt around near where they'd drilled into his skull, but all he could feel was thick bandages. "Do I look horrible?"
"No...no. I mean, I think they had to shave off some of your hair. And you have some bruising. But no."
"I want to see myself."
Annabelle bit her lip. She reached for the purse hanging from her arm, but hesitated. "I don't know if you should. You're-you're really bruised."
"I want to see."
She opened her purse and pulled out a small folding mirror. She opened it and held it in front of his face.
Maybe he expected to recognize himself. But even if he could remember what he was supposed to look like, he wouldn't have been able to tell now. The left side of his face was swollen and black and blue. His left eye opened only enough for him to see that it was bloodshot. There was an ugly row of thick black stitches across his temple.
He stared numbly at his reflection until Annabelle closed the mirror.
* * *
The first couple days were a blur, and he thought he spent most of that time asleep. He wasn't sure-waking and sleeping didn't feel drastically different.
He felt like he was adrift.
His doctor, whose name he had a hard time remembering, explained patiently that he had both retrograde and anterograde amnesia. One meant that he couldn't access old memories. The other meant that he had trouble forming new ones.
His doctor assured him that this could improve, and that he would probably get better. Steve had no memory of what being better felt like.
When Annabelle visited him, he sensed that she was patiently repeating stuff he'd once known. Maybe even stuff that she'd told him the previous day.
But after the first couple days, information started to stick better. When Annabelle arrived in the morning to visit him, he remembered both her face and name. He recognized the nurse who brought him his breakfast.
When Dr. Britt saw him that afternoon, she told him this was a sign of great improvement. But he still remembered almost nothing from before the accident. He had vague memories of being a child. He knew he'd lived in St. Louis, and could remember walking down a sidewalk with a woman who might have been his mother. But according to Annabelle, he'd been living in New York, and had spent the past couple years traveling the world.
His left eye was still blurry. Dr. Britt explained that he had something called traumatic optic neuropathy, caused by the blow to his temple. They were giving him steroids to treat it.
He still tired easily, and he fell asleep after lunch. He woke up to the sound of voices in his room. One of them was Annabelle. The other was a man he hadn't seen before. He had a fresh tan that contrasted with his neatly-cut white hair.
"There's no use dwelling on it," the man was saying softly, "it was an accident."
"I know, but I can't stop-" she noticed Steve watching them and smiled tensely. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Hanging in there." He looked at the newcomer curiously.
"Dad," Annabelle said softly, "you'll have to introduce yourself, remember?"
The man raised his eyebrows. "Oh, right." He extended his hand to Steve to shake. "I'm Greg Pryor, Annabelle's father. I apologize for my lack of manners-it's strange to introduce myself to a man I've known for the past few weeks."
"It's strange to have to be reacquainted."
"I can imagine."
Steve fiddled with his remote and raised the backrest of the bed. "But thank you for coming," he said.
"Of course," Mr. Pryor said. "Listen, I know you're focused on recovering right now, and I don't want to overwhelm you, but I think it's a good idea if we talk. First of all, let me say that both Annabelle and I feel terrible that you were hurt. As a gesture of goodwill, I'd like to help out however I can."
"Thank you, Mr. Pryor. I appreciate that."
"Annabelle tells me you don't have a permanent place to live right now."
"Yeah, I was spending some time abroad." Now that he could remember them, it was easy to parrot the details Annabelle had told him, even though they felt like fiction.
"Once they release you, you're welcome to stay at our summer home while we're in town. That should give you some time to make plans."
"Thank you."
"Also...I feel I should help pay for your medical expenses. When you feel up to it, I'd like to work something out."
"That's very generous of you."
Earlier that day, someone from the hospital came to ferret out whether he might have health insurance. He knew the hospital would want some sort of payment soon, or at least the promise of money.
From everything Annabelle told him, Steve believed he must have money. He'd spent time living in Paris and Rome, and had talked about being an art collector. His wallet, which had been in his pants pocket, had a gold card and a debit card.
But he didn't know how much money he actually had, or how to access it. And he couldn't begin to imagine how expensive his treatment was.
He knew that sooner or later, he would have to put his life back together. He wondered if there was anyone out there who missed him. His phone only had one contact, and when the hospital had tried calling it in hopes of locating his next of kin, the number had been out of service. There was no name.
It was as though Steve Tabernackle was completely alone in the world.
* * *
The Pryors' summer home was a large cottage by the beach. Steve was set up in one of the guest rooms, which was decorated in art deco style.
It was good to be out of the clinical, sanitized confines of the hospital. He'd been there two weeks. In the final days, when he'd been cleared to leave his room, he'd taken walks outside with Annabelle. It felt good, but he was ashamed of how weak he was, and how quickly he had to sit and rest.
After his release, Annabelle had helped him collect his things from the hotel. He was relieved to find out that he still had a couple days left on his reservation, and that they seemed to have no trouble with the credit card he'd used.
Back at the Pryors' home, he got to work unpacking. Annabelle had offered her help, but he wanted to do it alone. He thought that by looking through his belongings, he might get a sense of who he was.
The items in his suitcase and duffel bag failed to trigger any recognition, but he analyzed them to get a picture of himself. The shirts were all made of fine cotton. He had a tie bar and a pair of cufflinks. Steve Tabernackle had style and class.
In the duffel bag, he found a sketchpad and a box of pencils. He flipped through the pages and marveled at the rough drawings. He was an artist. He wondered if he could still draw. There were a couple sketches of a pretty woman with large, round eyes and long, dark hair. He ran his thumb across her face and wondered who she was. Did he know her, or was she just a model?
He had a keychain, but no idea what doors the keys opened.
Next, he examined the contents of his wallet for what must have been the fiftieth time. In addition to the credit and debit cards, there was a New York driver's license. The hospital had apparently looked in his wallet for any information about a next of kin, but there was nothing. No emergency contact cards. Not even any worn photographs.
He found a crinkled note folded in a pocket of his wallet. It said, "Tabernackle acct: Sinclair. Meriwether. Harry. BMW. Memorize this and BURN IT!"
Steve raised his eyebrows. He didn't recognize the handwriting, but he didn't have enough samples of his own writing to know if it was his. It was probably a good thing he hadn't followed the instructions on the note-he got a sense the information was important, and if he'd had it memorized once, he definitely didn't now. He carefully stashed it back in his wallet.
Once he'd finished unpacking, he went outside to the patio and sat on one of the lounge chairs facing the sea. The Pryors' maid kindly brought him a glass of iced tea. He thought he would like something stronger, but he wasn't supposed to mix alcohol with his medications.
There was medication for the headaches he got. A blood thinner to prevent clots. Anticonvulsive drugs to prevent seizures. Steroids to help heal his damaged optic nerve.
He ran his hand over his short, bristly hair. A nurse had agreed to help him buzz off the rest of his hair. He didn't like it, but it was better than having bald patches where they'd stitched him up and drilled into his skull.
When he tired of watching the sea, he started to read a magazine he'd gotten from the hospital gift shop. He'd only been reading for a few minutes when he heard footsteps behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Annabelle.
Annabelle stopped behind his chair and, reached down, and rubbed his shoulders. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Good. I'm still tired, but the doctor said that'll be normal for a while."
"Get all the rest you need. You can stay here as long as you like."
He squeezed her hand. "Thank you. But I need to start thinking about getting my life back in order."
She released his shoulders and walked around to sit on the lounge chair next to his. She sat down sideways so that she was facing him.
"Do you want to try to contact your family?"
"You said I told you I was an orphan."
"You could have siblings. Or aunts, uncles...."
"If I was close to someone, they'd try to contact me."
"I just think it would help, you know? If you had someone who can tell you about who you are."
She was right. It would make things easier, and sooner or later, he would need to look for his friends and family. But he didn't feel ready. Little things still overwhelmed him more than he liked. For now, he would try to take care of the immediate concerns on his own.
"I want to get access to my bank account. And my credit card. I need to find out what my resources are."
"You'll need to think about your birth certificate. And your social security card. You don't have either of those with you, do you?"
"I'll figure it out." He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "You know what will happen? Someone I know will call me, and I'll explain what happened. If it comes down to it, I'm sure there are people who remember me in Manhattan."
"Do you want to come back to New York with me when I go?"
One way or another, he would leave the beach house when Annabelle did-Steve didn't get the sense that he and Mr. Pryor had known each other well. Annabelle was their main connection.
Before leaving the hospital, Annabelle's father and his lawyer had presented Steve with a document outlining Mr. Pryor's intent to help with Steve's medical expenses. The document thoroughly spelled out what would be paid for, and the maximum amount Mr. Pryor was agreeing to give. In return, Steve had to sign and agree that he wouldn't seek legal damages in the future.
Mr. Pryor and the lawyer had assured him that it was just a formality. But Steve wasn't stupid. He still knew some things about how the world worked, and he could tell Mr. Pryor didn't want to be sued. As he'd signed the document, Steve had wondered if he might have a case if he sued the Pryors.
But it didn't matter. Thanks to the Pryors, the worst of his expenses would be covered. Steve was happy for simple victories right now, and the thought of suing was overwhelming. Besides, he believed he cared deeply for Annabelle, even if those feelings were lost to him.
Now, Annabelle wanted him to return to New York with her.
"Of course," he said. "That'd be great."
"You were telling me you don't have a permanent place to live in New York just now, so you're welcome to stay in my apartment while you decide what you'd like to do."
"I'd hate to intrude...."
"Oh, you wouldn't be."
Instinct told Steve not to question his good fortune, but all the same, he asked, "Why are you being so good to me? If you feel like you owe me...."
"It's not like that."
"I don't know how long we were together, how serious we were...."
There were a lot of questions about their relationship that he didn't want to ask. He wanted her to feel like everything was normal between them, whatever "normal" was.
"Well, we weren't serious. Not exactly. But I guess the accident put things in perspective. When you were in the hospital, they wouldn’t tell me how you were doing since I'm not family. But I couldn't make myself leave. When they told me you were awake, and that you'd see me, I was so relieved."
She got up and, after a moment's hesitation, perched on the edge of his chair. She leaned down and kissed his lips. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and fell onto Steve's chest.
He smiled as she broke off the kiss.
He wondered if it mattered that she still felt like a stranger to him, when he could imagine that he loved her.
* * *
The following week, he put on one of his suits and found a local branch of the bank listed on his debit card.
He needed to get an idea of what his finances were like, and he sensed that gaining access to his account could be challenging. He must have had some sort of experience to teach him that, but it was abstract knowledge that seemed unattached to memory.
He didn't have a birth certificate or social security card to help prove his identity, and obtaining those documents was a battle he would save for a later day.
What he did have was the note from his wallet. He'd been thinking about what the odd mix of words might mean, and now he had a pretty good idea. It was worth a try, at least.
At the bank, he was beckoned into a small office with glass walls. The woman behind the desk smiled as he sat down.
"What can I do for you today?"
"My name is Steve Tabernackle. I have an account, and need some help accessing it." He leaned forward and smiled regretfully. "See, I had an accident a few weeks ago. Sustained a head injury."
"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. "I'm sorry. I hope you're okay."
"I'll be fine. But see, my memories are a little spotty now, and I forgot my PIN. But I have my debit card. And my ID. So I thought I'd come in and get it sorted out."
"Of course. I'll do what I can to assist you. Do you remember your security questions?"
"Yes, I believe I do."
He handed over his driver's license and debit card and sat back while she pulled up information on her computer.
"Okay, Mr. Tabernackle? Can you tell me your mother's maiden name?"
"Sinclair."
"And the street you grew up on?"
"Meriwether."
"Your first pet?"
"Harry."
Her smile was promising. "Almost done. First car?"
"A BMW."
She turned to him and said, "All right. We're in. I'll just reset your PIN for you. Would you like me to reset your username and password for our online banking site, too?"
"That would be great."
He could barely contain a smile at his success. With luck, he'd be able to use the same answers to access his credit card account. He just wished he knew why he had the note in the first place. He sensed he wasn't the one who'd written it-why would he tell himself to burn it? But who else knew his security questions, and why had they needed to give them to him?
The banker was still looking at the computer screen, and raised her eyebrows.
"Have you considered opening a savings account with us?" she asked.
"Do you think I should?"
"Well, considering you balance, a savings account would keep your money more secure. You could easily transfer money to your checking account as needed."
"Right. And could you remind me of my balance?" He smiled and tapped his forehead. "Again, my memory...."
Looking back at the screen, she said, "You have two-hundred thousand two-fifty, and ninety-five cents."
"That sounds right. I'll give the savings account some thought."
He didn't know if the amount of money she'd read was a lot for him or not. He wondered if he had more somewhere, or if he had much money tied up in assets. Annabelle had told him he was an art collector.
How long would it take him to find all his resources? At least his bank account would keep him afloat for a bit, assuming the remaining medical expenses didn't bankrupt him.
On his way back to Annabelle's house, he stopped at a liquor store. He felt like testing his debit card and getting some wine to celebrate his success.
Did he like wine? He couldn’t remember much about what food and beverages he liked. He would have to ask his doctor if that fell under episodic or systematic memory. It was mostly his episodic memory that was affected, but his systematic memory was spotty. He could remember plenty about how the world worked, but this morning he hadn't known how to make scrambled eggs. When the maid had come to his rescue, he'd joked about feeling like his brain was scrambled, and she'd laughed awkwardly in response.
In the liquor store, he solicited the aid of an employee to help him choose a bottle, and after his new PIN worked, he left with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He hoped that when he came home with it, it would remind Annabelle of the man she'd met.
* * *
Annabelle intended to leave Cape Cod at the end of August, and Steve was prepared to go with her.
On their last day there, Steve got his suitcase out of the closet. As he opened it on the bed, the light caught the top and he noticed something strange under the lining. He ran his fingers across it and realized that he could just make out an irregular shape. He poked and pulled at the edges of the lining until he found a small opening.
When he pulled out the lining, several items fell loose and landed on the floor. He got down on his hands and knees to collect them.
There was a passport. He opened it and saw a picture of himself, but the name in this passport was Nicholas Halden. There was a small stack of cash, mostly high denomination bills. There was a leather sleeve holding several credit cards in various names, including Nicholas Halden. Another leather case contained several thin metal tools that he thought might be lock picks.
Steve sat on the floor with his back against the bed. As he continued to study the items, his mouth went dry.
Who was Steve Tabernackle?
He got up and fetched his passport from the nightstand, and compared it to the Nicholas Halden one. They both looked authentic.
Perhaps it was innocent. Maybe he'd changed his name at some point. It would explain why the hospital had been unable to find any record of Steve Tabernackle or his family in St. Louis.
Still, he sensed that this was not something he should share with the authorities. Or with Annabelle.
Other possibilities occurred to him. He didn't know exactly what he did for a living. Perhaps he worked for the government. But he stopped himself in his tracks. If he was undercover, wouldn't someone have looked for him by now?
He stashed the items back in their hiding place, and made sure the lining concealed them. He was glad Annabelle was driving them to New York. It was going to be a long drive, but Steve didn't like the idea of explaining the hidden items to TSA agents.
For now, Steve's plan was to act like the items didn't exist.
* * *
It had been almost three months since his accident. Steve's recovery was noticeable but gradual. He still tired easily, and on those occasions he enjoyed sitting on the balcony of Annabelle's apartment. She had a nice view of the East River.
Today, while he sat outside in the breeze, he thought about Annabelle.
The other day, he'd accompanied her to a charity ball that her father sponsored. He'd ended up asking to go home a little early because he was getting another headache. He'd been embarrassed, but during the cab ride home, Annabelle had assured him it was okay.
"I don't enjoy those things much, anyway," she'd told him. "I was glad to have an excuse to go home."
The headache still embarrassed him. If he wasn't prone to nausea, he would have tried to ride it out. But throwing up at the party would have been worse than leaving.
Back at her apartment, he lay down in the guest room while Annabelle took a bath. He took some of the migraine pills the doctor had prescribed, and closed his eyes.
When Annabelle came into his room later, her hair still wet and stringy, his headache was starting to clear up. When she climbed onto the bed next to him and asked, softly, if he was feeling better, he nodded.
They had not had sex since his accident. He wasn't sure if they'd slept together prior to that or not. It seemed ungentlemanly to ask. As she untied her bathrobe and slipped out of it, the sight of her naked body was new to him. He didn't know if he'd ever touched her before.
She reached for her robe and pulled a foil packet out of her the pocket. She started to tear it open, but Steve held out his hand, and she gave it to him. She lay back and watched as he pushed his pajama bottoms down and started to stroke his dick.
Between the physical trauma, the stress, and the medications he was on, Steve hadn't felt much like sex. A couple weeks ago, he'd masturbated and found it to be an oddly clinical experience. Afterward, his head had hurt and he felt worn out.
This time, with Annabelle lying beside him, he felt stirrings of pleasure. After putting the condom on, he laid back and let Annabelle climb on top of him.
When it was over, he was exhausted. His heart was pounding, and, somehow, he knew that the sex had taken a greater toll on him than it would have if he'd been healthy. But it was worth it.
They'd barely spoken about what they did. It was not an awkward silence-it was like the progression of their relationship was expected.
Steve had no objections. He didn't know if he would ever regain his memory, and all he could do was plan for the future. He saw a good future in being Annabelle's boyfriend.
Steve looked at his watch and stood up. Annabelle was at work. She worked for an art gallery, something that, according to her, was one of the things that initially brought them together. Steve had liked art.
Steve considered going out. He hadn't been out on his own much. He wasn't worried about navigating the city, but there was still something safe about immersing himself in Annabelle's world. It was simpler than trying to rebuild his own life.
But he'd barely been alone since the accident, and it was starting to wear on him. Annabelle seemed to think he'd get lost if he went out on his own. As much as he'd taken comfort in sticking close to Annabelle, it was restrictive, as well. Sometimes he felt like a dog, following her and relying on her kindness. He hoped that wasn't how she saw him.
Today was a prime opportunity to get out and do something. It was a nice day in early September, still warm but no longer stiflingly hot.
He stepped into the apartment and walked over to the table by the front door, where Annabelle kept her mail. He shuffled through a messy pile of old flyers. Annabelle was on a lot of mailing lists, and was always getting leaflets about upcoming events hosted by organizations she belonged to. Steve found the one he was looking for: there was a wine tasting at a high-end shop not far away. Steve had discovered that he liked wine quite a bit, though he had to be careful with some of the medications he took.
A wine tasting seemed safe enough.
He changed into a suit and tie and left, locking the apartment behind him with the key Annabelle had given him. After a few minutes, he managed to hail a cab.
The wine store was already busy when he arrived. A blonde woman in a navy blue dress greeted him as he stepped in.
"Welcome," she said warmly. "Have you been here before?"
"I don't believe so, no. I've been in Europe for a while."
"Ah, I see. Well, we have some great European wines here today."
There was a fifty dollar entry fee, which he gave little mind to. After processing his debit card, the woman led him into the interior of the store.
"Was there anything in particular you were interested in today?"
"Do you have any White Zinfandel? It's my girlfriend's favorite."
"We do. Our Zinfandels are on the second floor."
He thanked the woman and took a look around. He would go upstairs in a minute. First, he decided to investigate the Pinot Noirs that were on the first floor.
Steve found wine comforting, because he remembered it, more or less. He couldn’t remember which kinds he liked, so tasting it was an adventure. The names were foreign to him. Yet, when he tasted it, he could understand the qualities of it. He understood the aroma, the bouquet, the body.
He mixed with the other guests on the first floor for several minutes before heading up the spiral staircase to the second story. The crowd up there was smaller, and one corner was dominated by a short, bald man wearing a garish orange and black ascot.
"The last time I went to Central Park at night, a man claiming to be Hunter S. Thompson tried to sell me peyote." The bald man laughed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his listeners' laughter was much more forced.
Steve made his way to the other end of the room, where a small selection of White Zinfandels was available for tasting. As he tried one, he looked up and the bald man caught his eye.
The bald man had just taken a sip of wine, and when he saw Steve he choked and coughed. His eyes widened. The people he'd been talking to had now turned their attention to each other, and the man scurried over to Steve. Steve's heart quickened as a sense of foreboding enveloped him.
"Where you have been?" the man asked quietly. "I haven't seen you in months. Months! I was starting to think the worst."
"I'm sorry, I don't know-" He was about to say that the man had mistaken him for someone else. But he didn't know that, did he? Had he just found someone who knew him?
"How long have you been back? I thought you'd call me."
"Not very long."
"And you went to a wine tasting before you came to see me?"
Steve ignored the question. "Have you tried to call me?"
"Of course. The number didn't work, so I figured you got a new burner. I thought you'd just come see me when you got back. But it's been months! Didn't you realize I'd be worried?" The man looked around, as though to see if anyone was watching them. Lowering his voice further, he said, "Wait, is this a job? Is that why you ignored me?"
"What? No. I just wanted to taste the wine." What type of job? Did he have a career?
The man grinned. "Isn't it great?" He motioned for one of the attendants to give him a sample of the White Zinfandel that Steve was trying. As soon as he got the sample, he downed the wine.
"You're not supposed to swallow it like that," Steve said. "Actually, I don't think you're supposed to swallow it at all."
"Wine tasting without swallowing it is a waste of good wine. Seriously, Neal, where have you been? I've been at your place almost every day."
Neal. Steve remembered the Nick Halden passport. He hadn't found any identification with the name Neal on it, but if he had one alternate name, who was to say he didn't have any others?
"I've been staying with someone. I mean it-I haven't been in town that long."
"Oh? Is this a female someone?"
Steve narrowed his eyes. "Maybe...."
The man smiled. "See? I told you it was only a matter of time. There's so much I have to tell you. Wait 'til you hear about Estelle-"
Steve held up a hand. "Listen, I have to tell you something. When I was out of town, I was in an accident. I hit my head."
"What?! Are you okay? Why didn't you call me?"
"It's okay. I'm great. But I'm still recovering, and sometimes I get these memory lapses, you know? So if you have to remind me of some things, that's why."
"What do you mean by memory lapses?"
"Just random stuff. It's not a big deal."
He didn't want to admit to the extent of his memory loss. Not yet, anyway. And until he knew why this man knew him as someone named Neal, he wasn't going to tell him that he was living as Steve Tabernackle.
"Listen," Steve said. "Maybe we could go back to my place to catch up."
"Sure! We can have more wine there. I'm afraid I may have gone through some of your collection, though. I had no idea when you'd be coming back."
As they left the wine store, Steve tried not to make it too obvious that he was following the strange man's lead. If he had an apartment, this might be his only way of finding it.
There was an empty cab parked on the curb a couple blocks away, and the bald man unlocked it. Steve raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have pegged his apparent friend as a cabbie.
With traffic, it took them a half hour to reach their destination. Steve followed his companion to a modest apartment building, where they rode the elevator up to the ninth floor.
Standing in front of an apartment door, Steve hesitated. His life could be behind that door, and he didn't know if he was ready to find it. He reached into his pocket and grasped his key ring. He'd developed the habit of carrying his keys with him. It made him feel like someone who had someplace to go.
He pulled the keys out and selected the largest one. It went into the lock smoothly.
It was a studio apartment. Steve could find no fault with it from first glance, but it wasn't what he'd expected considering the extravagant lifestyle Steve Tabernackle purportedly led. The place was surprisingly clean. He'd expected a layer of dust over everything, but this supposed friend of his must have kept the place neat.
As Steve stepped into the interior of the apartment, he tried not to show his unfamiliarity. He wished he was alone, so that he could study everything and put these new pieces of the puzzle together.
"I've been collecting your mail," the man said, pointing to a small pile on the kitchen island. "Of course, you don't get a lot."
"Thanks," Steve said. He walked over to the kitchen to go through the pile. There wasn't much, but everything was addressed to Neal Caffrey.
He must have had another mailbox somewhere. A PO box, maybe. He thought about asking his friend, but decided to wait.
He had no intention of telling this man that he was living as Steve Tabernackle. There had to be a reason for the multiple identities, and if this man only knew him as Neal, it was better not to chance it.
As he thumbed through the sparse mail, it occurred to him that he couldn't be positive that Steve Tabernackle was his real identity. It seemed real enough-there was the bank account, for one thing. And Steve knew he'd been a gambler. Annabelle had mentioned him playing poker in the days before his accident. Perhaps he had debts. Perhaps the other names were a way to avoid paying them.
Or...maybe he was in law enforcement. A deep-cover agent. If Neal Caffrey was a cover, he couldn't blow it.
"As loath as I am to remind you, I'm surprised you haven't asked about Kate," the friend said. "Your new sweetheart must be something else."
Kate. The name didn't ring any bells. "What about Kate?"
"Nothing. She's still in the wind, my friend. It's good you're moving on. I know you loved her, and I know you hate me for saying this, but I knew this day would come."
"I guess you were right."
The man opened his mouth as though he was prepared to argue his point, and then closed it. He narrowed his eyes.
"Are you sure you're okay? You don't seem like yourself. You know, when you took so long to show up, I was starting to worry they got you. But I figured if they did, I'd see it in the newspapers."
"Wait, what?"
This was starting to feel more and more like some sort of spy caper.
"Oh, sure, accuse me of being paranoid. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you!"
Steve scrunched his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. There was no way he could get answers without revealing the extent of his memory loss. And the more he heard, the less he was sure he wanted any part of Neal Caffrey's life.
Steve walked over to the corner that served as a bedroom. There was a queen-size bed, and an armoire a few feet away. He opened the armoire and took a look at his clothes. There were a few very nice suits, some colorful button-down shirts, some khaki pants, and a couple pairs of jeans. The drawers underneath contained socks, underwear, and t-shirts. None of it gave him much to go on. Neal Caffrey's wardrobe was a little less extravagant than his own, but that was fitting given the size and style of the apartment.
A thought occurred to Steve. Pulling out his phone, he turned to his friend and said, "Listen, after my injury, I've been having some trouble remembering phone numbers. I think I might have had your number in my phone, but I don't remember, and when I tried calling it, it was out of service."
He brought up his almost-empty address book and showed the man the number listed in it.
"Oh, yeah, I had to ditch that phone. I have a new number, now."
"Do you mind programming it in?"
The man took the phone from him and started pushing some buttons. Steve smiled. When his friend handed the phone back, Steve looked down at the name and number that had been added.
"Thanks, Dante."
"Oh, sure, make fun of my alias. You have to admit Dante Haversham has a little more spark than Nick Halden."
Alias. There went that plan to find out his friend's identity.
"No, no, it's a good name. I like it."
"Yeah, though it does lack the je ne sais quoi of Mozzie."
This guy's name was Mozzie? Steve wondered if it was another alias. It probably was.
"Listen," Mozzie said, "I'd love to stay and catch up more, but I have to meet with Hale. See you tomorrow?"
"Sure."
"Great. If I don't see you, I'll give you a call."
As soon as Mozzie left, Steve started a more thorough examination of the apartment.
There was an empty easel by a window, confirming his suspicion that he was an artist. There was a stack of finished paintings against the wall, and Steve got down on his knees and looked through them. He recognized some of them from when he and Annabelle had gone to the Met a few days ago. He'd painted reproductions-very good ones, from the look of it.
On the bookshelves, he found a lot of books about art, coins, and antiquities. In a letter tray, he found flyers and programs from various events: gallery openings, museum shows, auctions, parties....
In a drawer, he found a New York driver's license and a passport, both with his picture and the name Neal Caffrey.
His doctor had told him that amnesia couldn't be cured with reminders. Either he would recover his memory or he wouldn't. Regardless, he'd hoped that if he found his home, what he found would make sense. He would recognize his life, even if he couldn't remember it. But there was no recognition as he went through Neal Caffrey's things. Some of the things, like the easel and the art books, made sense. But for the most part, he didn't know what made sense or not. He felt like an outsider.
What if he never came back here? Annabelle didn't know about Neal Caffrey, and Mozzie didn't know where to find Steve Tabernackle, if he knew about Steve at all. It didn't seem like anyone had reported Steve or Neal missing.
What was stopping him from just...being Steve Tabernackle? He could find out how many months he had left on this lease, pay it up, and let the lease expire. He could destroy the other IDs and pretend he never knew about them.
Annabelle had been hinting that he might be able to get a job in her father's company. He hadn't wanted to accept her pity, but now he was inclined to pursue the matter. His life would be simpler if he could just be Steve Tabernackle. With enough time, people wouldn't notice or care that he lacked a past.
He looked at his watch. It was almost five. Annabelle would be home soon, and they had plans to go out to dinner later. He took a final look around the apartment before leaving.
Steve caught a new cab home. When he arrived, Annabelle was already there. She was sitting on the sofa looking at a magazine, and quickly got up when he came in. She was still dressed up from lunch, wearing a coral-colored dress and a large pair of pearl earrings.
"Where did you go?" she asked. He could tell that she was trying not to sound concerned, but her eyes gave her away.
"To a wine tasting. Remember that flier you got last week?"
Her smile became a little more relaxed. "Oh. Did you have fun? I hope you didn't have too much to drink. With your medication-"
"I'm fine. And yes, it was nice." He remembered he'd meant to purchase a bottle of wine to surprise her with. After meeting Mozzie, his plans had been forgotten. But he was home now.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss.
"Let's go out to dinner tonight. Anywhere you want. My treat."
"No. Save your money until you have all your assets again."
"It's fine. You're always doing so much for me. Let me treat you tonight."
She pressed her forehead against his. "You're such a good man. I know things have been hard, but I'm glad everything's worked out like this."
He breathed in the smell of her perfume and told himself that this was his life now.
Chapter 2
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