![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanClose Your Eyes and Think of Me (call out my name) - Part Three
Mid-February
The incoming call log was, in a way, terrifying. For nearly a year, someone had been calling his phone between one and two in the morning almost every day. Except when they weren’t. There were periods when no one called at that time – for two or three weeks. Then the calls started again. Until the last call, the one that Peter had answered. There were no more calls after that.
It took about two weeks, but Eleanor from IT came up aces. The phone used to make the calls had a Paris city code attached to the number, but the cell sites where the call originated from were in Montreux, Switzerland. The first thing Peter did was call that number, but it was disconnected. And unless there was another call to his office phone that lasted at least two minutes, they wouldn’t be able to narrow down an exact location.
Peter looked on this as progress, completely and utterly convinced that the calls were from Neal. He also checked the area covered by the cell towers identified in the report. There were several high class hotels, as well as a number of luxury apartment buildings, hospitals and businesses. And Lake Geneva. But no prisons, court houses or jails. That was, at least, a relief.
Another interesting thing, and another point in favor of Neal being the mystery caller, was that the calls lasted only a second or two longer than the voicemail greeting, never long enough to even get to the “start recording now” beep.
Peter was troubled by the periods when there were no calls, and even more troubled that there hadn’t been any calls for the last few weeks. He had even changed his greeting, rambling on for the full two minutes, in hopes that the pen register would be able to pinpoint the caller’s location. But there was nothing.
So he proceeded on a different tactic. If technology wasn’t going to work for him, then he’d have to resort to good old-fashioned police work. Peter called an old contact he had in the Geneva cantonal police force, someone he had met during his original pursuit of Neal. Even though the calls weren’t originating from a prison cell (hopefully), Gerard Macht was a good cop, intelligent, thoughtful and thorough. They hadn’t been in touch for a while; Peter only hoped he remembered him and would be willing to assist.
And he did, responding to Peter’s email with gratifying speed. Peter replied with a simple request – could he check police records for any criminal activity relating to “Neal Caffrey” or any of the aliases on the attached list, in Geneva and Montreux.
Gerard replied that it would take a little time to go through all thirty names, and he didn’t have access to the records in Vaud, but would reach out to a colleague in that canton. Peter thanked him and tried not to be frustrated. A few hours later, he had responses. Neither Neal, nor any of his aliases, was in either police departments’ systems. In truth, Peter was glad Gerard and his colleague came up empty handed; he didn’t want to know that Neal had come to the attention of the police.
Diana and Clinton were highly skeptical of his belief that Neal was responsible for the phantom calls, and for the first time in their long association – their friendship – Peter found he couldn’t talk to them about this. But he could talk to El. She might not be convinced that it was Neal, but she deeply understood his need to believe that it was.
That night, over dinner, she asked him how the search was coming.
“Every time I think I’m making progress, it falls apart in my hands.” Peter sighed.
“It’s like you’re starting from scratch.” She looked at him from over her wine glass. “Like nothing you’ve learned about him is any use.”
“I keep wondering about that, hon. That he’s using what he learned about our methods to keep himself off the radar. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s terribly wrong.”
“Have you reached out to Moz?”
Peter shook his head. “Moz disappeared right before Neal did. Said he was going back to the islands. I’ve tried to find him, but he’s even more ephemeral than Neal.”
“What about Sally?”
Peter struggled for a minute to remember just who ‘Sally’ was. “The hacker?”
“Yeah. Didn’t they have a thing going?”
Peter had to laugh. “Oh yeah, they certainly did. But don’t think it lasted.”
El was persistent. “Maybe they’ve kept in touch, maybe she can help?”
“The Vulture help the FBI?”
“She did before. Why not now, when it’s personal? It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”
Peter had to agree. That night, before going to bed, he posted a message on one of the less notorious Deepnet accessible bulletin boards.
He waited, not really expecting an answer, but unwilling to give up.
The message board stayed dark and after a few hours, he started to shut down his computer. It was a card played, he’d check back tomorrow.
Except a cell phone rang. Not his FBI phone, nor his El phone, but the burner that he used only in emergencies. Or when he needed to get in touch with Neal. These days, he kept the phone charged and in easy reach. Elation filled him as he answered the phone. “Neal!”
“No, it’s not.” The voice was feminine, a little husky and vaguely familiar. “You said you needed to talk to me.”
Sally. He wasn’t surprised that she knew this was his burner phone. He tried not to let the intense disappointment bleed into his voice. “Yeah – I’m trying to find our mutual friend. Any chance you could help?”
There was a pause that stretched out for an uncomfortable length of time. The phone connection clicked and for a moment Peter thought the call dropped.
“Suit? You’ve become surprisingly resourceful.”
“Mozzie.” Peter closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks. “Do … do you know where Neal is?” He hoped that Neal had kept in touch with the little guy – they had been inseparable for years.
He heard the other man sigh. “No, and before you break out the water boards and rubber hoses, I really don’t. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth. If he wanted to be found, you’d find him.”
“I don’t know about that – and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.”
“I’m not helping you drag Neal back to a life of unremitting respectability again. You kept him chained for four years, he deserves to be free.”
“And he deserves to have the help he needs, Moz.”
“Only if he wants it, Suit.”
Peter didn’t get angry or even annoyed at Moz’s hostility. It was as much a part of him as his bald pate and incessant literary quotations. He thought of all the times that Neal dragged Mozzie into something he didn’t want to be a part of. He thought of the times that Mozzie did the same thing to Neal, usually with disastrous consequences. And then there were the times that Moz, of his own volition, helped Peter. Because it was the right thing to do. He decided to share the information he had.
“I think Neal’s in Switzerland.” He gave Moz the broad picture. “I don’t think Neal’s out on a crime spree, Moz. If he’s in trouble, I can’t let it go.”
“You mean you can’t let *him* go, Suit.”
Peter wondered just what Moz was implying. “He’s my friend, and for that reason alone I need to help him.”
“Noble words, Suit. But you’ve made a career out of chasing Neal Caffrey, out of catching him and locking him up. If he wants to be found, he’ll find you.”
He wanted to argue that point with Moz. “But what if he can’t reach out?”
“Peter?” Sally interrupted them. “Do you have the number that was used to call your office?”
He read it out to her. “But it’s a dead number.”
“Nothing’s ever quite dead – it just changes state. Hold on.”
Peter listened to Sally and Moz bicker and he wondered if the two were actually together.
“The last time that cell phone was used, it was at the Clinic de Chillon in Montreux, the last call was made on December 19th at -1 UTC. The phone was registered to an email account george dot devore at icloud dot com.”
Relief and anxiety warred in him. “Sally, thank you.”
“You’re not going to thank me, Suit?”
Peter sighed. “You haven’t helped – you’ve just thrown up roadblocks.”
There was silence on the other end, and Peter wondered if they hung up on him. Moz finally replied. “Peter – ”
He sucked in a breath. When Moz used his given name, it meant something.
“If Neal doesn’t want to come back to New York, leave him be. He’s earned his freedom.”
“All I want to do is make sure he’s okay. Help him if he needs it. He’s my friend.”
“And he’s mine, too. Don’t forget that.”
Sally came back on the line before he could say anything else. “I’ll be in touch when I find anything.” There was a series of clicks and the call abruptly ended.
Peter went to finish shutting down his laptop when an email popped up in his private account. It had no header, but the subject line said “Don’t share with the Little Bear, not just yet.”
The content of the email was a link and against his better instincts, Peter clicked on it. It took him to the English translation of a local Montreux newspaper, specifically the local police activity. The article was over a year old, just before Christmas the year that Neal left. Buried amongst other small notices was a singular piece of news.
COLLISION ON ROAD TO ROCHERS DE NAYE
Yesterday evening, an automobile was struck by a truck traveling with its lights off. The driver of the car, identified as Neal Caffrey, an American from New York, was seriously injured and taken by ambulance to the hospital in Montreux. When he was apprehended several kilometers from the crash site, the driver of the truck, Eric Denhoff, a native of Lausanne, claimed that he was not aware that his headlights were not working or that he had struck the other vehicle. The driver is being held on suspicion of operating a vehicle while impaired.
Peter stared at the screen, reading the hundred some-odd words over and over again until they finally made sense. Neal was alive. He survived the crash, but in what state?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Today was a better day, the third such one in a row. For the first time in over a year, he was able to walk more than three steps. Making it from one end of the parallel apparatus to the other – a distance of eight feet – was more than a minor triumph. It was a victory equal to Waterloo or Saratoga. He did it each day, and today he even turned around and walked half-way back before collapsing in a shaking, sweaty heap.
With those steps, Neal started to believe he could have some semblance of a life back, that he’d be able to walk out of here under his own steam, maybe go back to New York, see everyone again. See Peter again. And then he killed that thought dead. There was no going back, and besides, if he began to hope, it would all fall apart.
His cell phone was on the nightstand when they wheeled him back to his room, waiting there like some cursed artifact. One he couldn’t resist anymore. It was Saturday morning in New York.
Peter would be home with Elizabeth, they’d be sitting at the dining room table, having coffee and bagels and talking about their plans for the weekend. Or maybe they were just perusing the Times, Peter working away at the crossword puzzle, El with the Book Review. Satchmo would be sleeping at their feet – or pretending to sleep but secretly waiting for leftovers. Maybe Peter had just a little smear of cream cheese on his cheek, maybe El would look up and smile. Instead of wiping it off, she’d lean over and kiss it clean, licking her lips at the taste.
Neal could see it so clearly. It was as if he were there, a ghost haunting their happiness. He wondered if they missed him. Probably not on weekend mornings when he’d stop by, lonely and bored and looking for a playmate. Or trouble.
Not for the first time, Neal admitted that it had been a mistake to have left New York. Hell, wasn’t that one of his last thoughts before his life changed forever? Had he been man enough, adult enough, he would have been able to deal with his feelings for Peter. He could have found someone else, someone to help sublimate those desires, someone to give him the distance, the strength he needed. Someone who would be little more than a crutch.
Thoughts of Peter, thoughts of his misguided, wrong-headed love invariably lead back to memories of that kiss. Their kiss. The memory was imprinted on his soul. If the light was just right, the air just right, if he caught a whiff of exhaust fumes and jet fuel, he could feel Peter’s lips on his, feel his arms, his hands.
It was so ironic. For years, the stink of jet fuel would bring back memories of Peter’s arms – not holding him gently, but holding him back with all his strength, keeping his from running to that burning plane, keeping him alive.
Now, he couldn’t stop from associating that odor with morning sunlight and the shocking touch of Peter’s mouth on his, his hands cupping his face, threading through his hair, holding him, shackling him, forever keeping him there and letting him go in the same breath.
Neal picked up the phone; he didn’t need to call up the number from a contact list. It was etched too deeply in his memory. Country code 001. Area code 212. Then seven digits to Peter’s direct office line. He wouldn’t be there today.
Today was Saturday.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter didn’t book a seat on the next flight to Geneva. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had too many goddamned responsibilities to just leave like that. It wasn’t like he was going to go on vacation. The week between his discovery and his departure was the longest week in his life.
“You want to take a six-month leave of absence, Peter?” Hughes wasn’t aggravated, just puzzled. “Why?”
“It’s personal.”
“Is it Elizabeth? Is she sick?” Peter was gratified at the intense concern in his boss’ voice.
“No, it’s not Elizabeth.”
Reese looked at him, that keen-eyed stare that always made Peter feel as if he were nine and trying to explain about the broken window. “It’s Caffrey, isn’t it?”
Peter nodded.
Reese shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh. “You can’t just go riding to his rescue, over and over again, Peter. He’s not your concern anymore. If he got caught doing something, he probably did it.”
“It isn’t that. Neal’s …” He couldn’t explain, because he didn’t have all the details. “Here.” He handed Hughes the printout of the article that Sally sent and watched his face as he read it.
There was a shocked, sympathetic look on the man’s face, one mirrored in his next question. “Is he alive?”
“I’m almost positive.” Peter told him about the late night calls into the office, and how he traced them back to Montreux.
“But why?”
“I think Neal’s calling to hear our voices. He never leaves a message, just hangs up right after the recording.” The thought still had the power to hurt.
Hughes said nothing; he just reached for the leave request form that Peter had prepared and signed it with an emphatic gesture. “Go bring him home. He should be here, with his friends and family. We’ll give him the help he needs.”
“Thank you.” Those words were never more heartfelt.
Leaving still wasn’t easy. He wanted Elizabeth with him, not for her wisdom and companionship, but because what he afraid – afraid of what he was going to find, and he needed her – like a security blanket. But El couldn’t come – too many commitments that she couldn’t pass off to Yvonne. Peter suspected that she saw right through him.
“You’ll be fine.”
He grabbed her hand, pulled her into his lap. “You sure you can’t come with me, even for a week?”
She kissed him. “You’ll do fine. You’ll find Neal, you’ll bring him home. You do that better that anyone.” She chuckled. “You’re the only one who can do that.”
Peter nodded. “But what if…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“We’ll deal with it.” She hugged him. “Whatever he needs, we’ll deal with it.”
Somehow, everything that needed to get done got done. A ticket to Geneva was booked, lodgings in Montreux, too. Peter contacted Gerard Macht again, who promised to meet his arriving flight.
The eight hour plane ride was bearable, if only because El got him a seat in business class so he wouldn’t be crippled on arrival. Customs was efficient; it was Switzerland after all. But by the time Peter walked into the Arrivals terminal and spotted Gerard, he was exhausted.
Gerard was blunt in his assessment. “You look like crap, my friend. And I’m not talking about the years, because they have otherwise treated you well.”
“Danke, you son of a bitch.” Peter laughed, and gave Gerard a one-armed hug. Their original association had been brief, but they had forged a lasting bond, the way lawmen do.
“You haven’t changed, Peter Burke. Still chasing after Neal Caffrey? It’s been ten years and you’re still gunning for him?”
Peter gave his friend a sharp look, and realized that he knew nothing about his recent and not-so-recent history with Neal. “You want the whole story?”
“Of course I do, it’s about an hour or so to Montreux. Or we can have dinner here and then head out, whichever you prefer.”
It was a quarter past eight, local time, but Peter’s body clock was screwed up. His flight left from Newark at five in the morning, which meant he hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours (he wasn’t the type to sleep in-flight). He considered Gerard’s offer. “Dinner does sounds good, then Montreux, and then the Clinic de Chillon in the morning.”
Gerard nodded.
It was close to nine by time they parked in front of a small café. Everything was very orderly, very tidy. Even in the middle of winter, there was little snow on the sidewalks and streets. Peter absently wondered if they just dumped it into the lake.
They settled down at a prime table near the fireplace. “One of the perks of a badge, as I’m sure you know.”
Peter shrugged. He never used his to get privileges, but he wasn’t a local cop. Feds were always treated differently. He ordered an espresso, then changed his mind and got a beer instead.
“So, Peter Burke, tell me the story of Neal Caffrey and why you’re still hunting him down.” Gerard relaxed against his seat, beer in hand.
Peter gave a huff of laughter. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I always have. And I’ve admired that craziness.”
“Neal Caffrey is one of my closest friends.” Peter watched Gerard’s face, the dawning confusion, the shock.
“I don’t understand. How does an FBI agent, an officer of the law, become close friends with a criminal?”
Peter took a sip of beer and organized his thoughts. “About nine years ago, I finally caught Neal Caffrey. Set up his girlfriend as a stalking horse – she didn’t know it, though. Neal was besotted by her, and he later confessed that a lot of what he did was because he wanted to get her attention.”
“Really? One of the greatest crime sprees in this century was just to impress a girl?” Gerard’s eyebrows hovered near his receding hairline.
“Apparently. But mind you, Neal never confessed to anything specific.” Peter took another sip and lost himself in the memory of a night spent talking, standing shoulder to shoulder and sharing secrets.
“So? What happened?”
Peter shook himself out of the reverie. “He went to trial – wasn’t interested in cutting a deal. We threw a lot of charges at him, but the only thing what stuck was bond forgery. The case that brought him to my attention.”
“And how did you manage that if Caffrey was so slippery?”
“Caffrey was an arrogant little bastard back then. He actually came up to me one day, just after he cashed in a forged bond, and introduced himself as a concerned citizen. Handed me a lime-green sucker and walked off. It was only because I could place him at the bank, at the scene, that we got the conviction. He slid out of everything else.” Peter could still taste that lollipop, bitter and slightly rancid.
Gerard laughed. “No matter how smart the criminals are, they’ll always trip themselves up. Too vain, I suppose.”
“Maybe.” They paused to order supper.
“And so?” Gerard was riveted.
“Caffrey got four years – the AUSA wanted to throw the book at him. The judge was persuaded to be reasonable.”
“You intervened?”
“Caffrey was young, he wasn’t violent, and I don’t like sour grapes.” All true.
“That still doesn’t explain how you became such close friends.”
“The best part’s yet to come.” More beer, because some of these memories were painful. “Neal broke out of prison with just a few months left on his sentence.”
“That’s … that’s absurd. Didn’t you once say that Caffrey had a genius IQ?”
“Genius or not, Neal’s a human being with a very romantic … heart. Remember the girl – the one he was supposedly committing all those crimes for?”
“Of course, I hope she was pretty.”
“Yeah, Kate was pretty. She was also – ” Peter sorted through all the adjectives he had used over the years to describe her. “A manipulator. I’m not saying she was evil or that she didn’t love Neal, but she knew how to use him, how to play him.” He wasn’t going to go into details here. “The long and the short of it was that after nearly four years of weekly prison visits, three months before the end of his sentence, she tells him goodbye. Neal – being the resourceful romantic – gets himself a guard’s uniform, programs a key card using a tape recorder, and walks out of a maximum security facility. Six hours later, I found him, heartbroken, sitting on the floor of her apartment, clutching an empty wine bottle.”
“You are serious? Caffrey risked going back to prison for a long time because of a girl?”
“Pretty unbelievable, isn’t it? But that’s Neal. More often than not, a fool for love.”
Their food arrived, and between bites, Peter told Gerard about the deal Neal had struck with him, about the Dutchman, how Neal’s quick thinking won them the prize.
Gerard was impressed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like that. You hand Caffrey a law book, he reads it and arranges the arrest of your suspect on a legal loophole? Brilliant!”
Peter gave him a wry smile. “That was Neal. Brilliant. And reckless. And he’d tie you up in such knots you’ll never know if you’re coming or going.”
“But he had his own agenda, of course. He had to – right? The girl? A big score?”
Peter wiped his mouth, finished his beer and just shook his head. “That first year, it was all about Kate. He was convinced that someone was holding her against her will. He once thought I was keeping her hostage.” Going back to those old days made him weary, sick at heart. “But oddly enough, we learned to trust each other. And Neal delivered, big time. My division’s closure rate skyrocketed.”
“And I guess this is how you became friends?”
He nodded. “It wasn’t easy. Neal …” Peter found himself lacking the right words to describe those early days. “It was like he needed me for everything, but he insisted on doing things his way.”
“Sounds like my thirteen year old.”
Peter had to agree, in part. “Neal had been rootless for so long, he was looking for someone, something to hold onto. I don’t think he was looking for a father figure. He needed a friend.”
“I’d have thought that the FBI frowned on their agents becoming friends with their informants?”
“They do. But Neal was more than my CI. I was responsible for him – he was out of prison because I could make that happen.” It wasn’t necessary to tell Gerard that he liked Neal even as far back as the chase.
“Sounds like it was inevitable that you’d become friends.” Gerard signaled for the check and waved Peter off when he went to pay. “My treat. Haven’t been quite so entertained in a while.”
Back in the car, Gerard prompted him for the rest of Neal’s story. “Did he ever find the girl?”
“Yes. And she was murdered before his eyes.” Peter couldn’t go into the whole thing with Mentor and Adler and Fowler. And certainly not the Nazi treasure or what came after that.
“That’s horrible.”
“Neal made it through, though.”
“You admire him.”
“He’s made some poor choices in his life – but he’s learned from his mistakes. I know he’s a criminal – he was a criminal, but that’s not what defines him anymore. Neal’s honorable, loyal, brilliant, everything you’d want in a friend. When his sentence was finished, Neal wanted to travel, see the world again. I wanted him to stay in New York, stay with the Bureau, but I had no choice. I couldn’t keep him chained up; I had to let him go.”
There was no comment from Gerard as he negotiated the highway that ran along Lake Geneva. The minutes passed in silence.
“Truthfully Peter, it sounds like you love him.”
Peter swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “I do.”
Snowflakes drifted out of the heavy clouds hanging above the lake, shimmering like crystalline fireflies in the headlamps. Gerard flicked on the windshield wipers. “Then I hope he’s all right. I hope so, for both your sakes.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Go to Part Four On DW On LJ
Mid-February
The incoming call log was, in a way, terrifying. For nearly a year, someone had been calling his phone between one and two in the morning almost every day. Except when they weren’t. There were periods when no one called at that time – for two or three weeks. Then the calls started again. Until the last call, the one that Peter had answered. There were no more calls after that.
It took about two weeks, but Eleanor from IT came up aces. The phone used to make the calls had a Paris city code attached to the number, but the cell sites where the call originated from were in Montreux, Switzerland. The first thing Peter did was call that number, but it was disconnected. And unless there was another call to his office phone that lasted at least two minutes, they wouldn’t be able to narrow down an exact location.
Peter looked on this as progress, completely and utterly convinced that the calls were from Neal. He also checked the area covered by the cell towers identified in the report. There were several high class hotels, as well as a number of luxury apartment buildings, hospitals and businesses. And Lake Geneva. But no prisons, court houses or jails. That was, at least, a relief.
Another interesting thing, and another point in favor of Neal being the mystery caller, was that the calls lasted only a second or two longer than the voicemail greeting, never long enough to even get to the “start recording now” beep.
Peter was troubled by the periods when there were no calls, and even more troubled that there hadn’t been any calls for the last few weeks. He had even changed his greeting, rambling on for the full two minutes, in hopes that the pen register would be able to pinpoint the caller’s location. But there was nothing.
So he proceeded on a different tactic. If technology wasn’t going to work for him, then he’d have to resort to good old-fashioned police work. Peter called an old contact he had in the Geneva cantonal police force, someone he had met during his original pursuit of Neal. Even though the calls weren’t originating from a prison cell (hopefully), Gerard Macht was a good cop, intelligent, thoughtful and thorough. They hadn’t been in touch for a while; Peter only hoped he remembered him and would be willing to assist.
And he did, responding to Peter’s email with gratifying speed. Peter replied with a simple request – could he check police records for any criminal activity relating to “Neal Caffrey” or any of the aliases on the attached list, in Geneva and Montreux.
Gerard replied that it would take a little time to go through all thirty names, and he didn’t have access to the records in Vaud, but would reach out to a colleague in that canton. Peter thanked him and tried not to be frustrated. A few hours later, he had responses. Neither Neal, nor any of his aliases, was in either police departments’ systems. In truth, Peter was glad Gerard and his colleague came up empty handed; he didn’t want to know that Neal had come to the attention of the police.
Diana and Clinton were highly skeptical of his belief that Neal was responsible for the phantom calls, and for the first time in their long association – their friendship – Peter found he couldn’t talk to them about this. But he could talk to El. She might not be convinced that it was Neal, but she deeply understood his need to believe that it was.
That night, over dinner, she asked him how the search was coming.
“Every time I think I’m making progress, it falls apart in my hands.” Peter sighed.
“It’s like you’re starting from scratch.” She looked at him from over her wine glass. “Like nothing you’ve learned about him is any use.”
“I keep wondering about that, hon. That he’s using what he learned about our methods to keep himself off the radar. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s terribly wrong.”
“Have you reached out to Moz?”
Peter shook his head. “Moz disappeared right before Neal did. Said he was going back to the islands. I’ve tried to find him, but he’s even more ephemeral than Neal.”
“What about Sally?”
Peter struggled for a minute to remember just who ‘Sally’ was. “The hacker?”
“Yeah. Didn’t they have a thing going?”
Peter had to laugh. “Oh yeah, they certainly did. But don’t think it lasted.”
El was persistent. “Maybe they’ve kept in touch, maybe she can help?”
“The Vulture help the FBI?”
“She did before. Why not now, when it’s personal? It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”
Peter had to agree. That night, before going to bed, he posted a message on one of the less notorious Deepnet accessible bulletin boards.
A friend of the Little Bear Lost hopes the Vulture can help find him. Little Bear’s friend is in trouble and needs his help.
He waited, not really expecting an answer, but unwilling to give up.
The message board stayed dark and after a few hours, he started to shut down his computer. It was a card played, he’d check back tomorrow.
Except a cell phone rang. Not his FBI phone, nor his El phone, but the burner that he used only in emergencies. Or when he needed to get in touch with Neal. These days, he kept the phone charged and in easy reach. Elation filled him as he answered the phone. “Neal!”
“No, it’s not.” The voice was feminine, a little husky and vaguely familiar. “You said you needed to talk to me.”
Sally. He wasn’t surprised that she knew this was his burner phone. He tried not to let the intense disappointment bleed into his voice. “Yeah – I’m trying to find our mutual friend. Any chance you could help?”
There was a pause that stretched out for an uncomfortable length of time. The phone connection clicked and for a moment Peter thought the call dropped.
“Suit? You’ve become surprisingly resourceful.”
“Mozzie.” Peter closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks. “Do … do you know where Neal is?” He hoped that Neal had kept in touch with the little guy – they had been inseparable for years.
He heard the other man sigh. “No, and before you break out the water boards and rubber hoses, I really don’t. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth. If he wanted to be found, you’d find him.”
“I don’t know about that – and I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.”
“I’m not helping you drag Neal back to a life of unremitting respectability again. You kept him chained for four years, he deserves to be free.”
“And he deserves to have the help he needs, Moz.”
“Only if he wants it, Suit.”
Peter didn’t get angry or even annoyed at Moz’s hostility. It was as much a part of him as his bald pate and incessant literary quotations. He thought of all the times that Neal dragged Mozzie into something he didn’t want to be a part of. He thought of the times that Mozzie did the same thing to Neal, usually with disastrous consequences. And then there were the times that Moz, of his own volition, helped Peter. Because it was the right thing to do. He decided to share the information he had.
“I think Neal’s in Switzerland.” He gave Moz the broad picture. “I don’t think Neal’s out on a crime spree, Moz. If he’s in trouble, I can’t let it go.”
“You mean you can’t let *him* go, Suit.”
Peter wondered just what Moz was implying. “He’s my friend, and for that reason alone I need to help him.”
“Noble words, Suit. But you’ve made a career out of chasing Neal Caffrey, out of catching him and locking him up. If he wants to be found, he’ll find you.”
He wanted to argue that point with Moz. “But what if he can’t reach out?”
“Peter?” Sally interrupted them. “Do you have the number that was used to call your office?”
He read it out to her. “But it’s a dead number.”
“Nothing’s ever quite dead – it just changes state. Hold on.”
Peter listened to Sally and Moz bicker and he wondered if the two were actually together.
“The last time that cell phone was used, it was at the Clinic de Chillon in Montreux, the last call was made on December 19th at -1 UTC. The phone was registered to an email account george dot devore at icloud dot com.”
Relief and anxiety warred in him. “Sally, thank you.”
“You’re not going to thank me, Suit?”
Peter sighed. “You haven’t helped – you’ve just thrown up roadblocks.”
There was silence on the other end, and Peter wondered if they hung up on him. Moz finally replied. “Peter – ”
He sucked in a breath. When Moz used his given name, it meant something.
“If Neal doesn’t want to come back to New York, leave him be. He’s earned his freedom.”
“All I want to do is make sure he’s okay. Help him if he needs it. He’s my friend.”
“And he’s mine, too. Don’t forget that.”
Sally came back on the line before he could say anything else. “I’ll be in touch when I find anything.” There was a series of clicks and the call abruptly ended.
Peter went to finish shutting down his laptop when an email popped up in his private account. It had no header, but the subject line said “Don’t share with the Little Bear, not just yet.”
The content of the email was a link and against his better instincts, Peter clicked on it. It took him to the English translation of a local Montreux newspaper, specifically the local police activity. The article was over a year old, just before Christmas the year that Neal left. Buried amongst other small notices was a singular piece of news.
Yesterday evening, an automobile was struck by a truck traveling with its lights off. The driver of the car, identified as Neal Caffrey, an American from New York, was seriously injured and taken by ambulance to the hospital in Montreux. When he was apprehended several kilometers from the crash site, the driver of the truck, Eric Denhoff, a native of Lausanne, claimed that he was not aware that his headlights were not working or that he had struck the other vehicle. The driver is being held on suspicion of operating a vehicle while impaired.
Peter stared at the screen, reading the hundred some-odd words over and over again until they finally made sense. Neal was alive. He survived the crash, but in what state?
Today was a better day, the third such one in a row. For the first time in over a year, he was able to walk more than three steps. Making it from one end of the parallel apparatus to the other – a distance of eight feet – was more than a minor triumph. It was a victory equal to Waterloo or Saratoga. He did it each day, and today he even turned around and walked half-way back before collapsing in a shaking, sweaty heap.
With those steps, Neal started to believe he could have some semblance of a life back, that he’d be able to walk out of here under his own steam, maybe go back to New York, see everyone again. See Peter again. And then he killed that thought dead. There was no going back, and besides, if he began to hope, it would all fall apart.
His cell phone was on the nightstand when they wheeled him back to his room, waiting there like some cursed artifact. One he couldn’t resist anymore. It was Saturday morning in New York.
Peter would be home with Elizabeth, they’d be sitting at the dining room table, having coffee and bagels and talking about their plans for the weekend. Or maybe they were just perusing the Times, Peter working away at the crossword puzzle, El with the Book Review. Satchmo would be sleeping at their feet – or pretending to sleep but secretly waiting for leftovers. Maybe Peter had just a little smear of cream cheese on his cheek, maybe El would look up and smile. Instead of wiping it off, she’d lean over and kiss it clean, licking her lips at the taste.
Neal could see it so clearly. It was as if he were there, a ghost haunting their happiness. He wondered if they missed him. Probably not on weekend mornings when he’d stop by, lonely and bored and looking for a playmate. Or trouble.
Not for the first time, Neal admitted that it had been a mistake to have left New York. Hell, wasn’t that one of his last thoughts before his life changed forever? Had he been man enough, adult enough, he would have been able to deal with his feelings for Peter. He could have found someone else, someone to help sublimate those desires, someone to give him the distance, the strength he needed. Someone who would be little more than a crutch.
Thoughts of Peter, thoughts of his misguided, wrong-headed love invariably lead back to memories of that kiss. Their kiss. The memory was imprinted on his soul. If the light was just right, the air just right, if he caught a whiff of exhaust fumes and jet fuel, he could feel Peter’s lips on his, feel his arms, his hands.
It was so ironic. For years, the stink of jet fuel would bring back memories of Peter’s arms – not holding him gently, but holding him back with all his strength, keeping his from running to that burning plane, keeping him alive.
Now, he couldn’t stop from associating that odor with morning sunlight and the shocking touch of Peter’s mouth on his, his hands cupping his face, threading through his hair, holding him, shackling him, forever keeping him there and letting him go in the same breath.
Neal picked up the phone; he didn’t need to call up the number from a contact list. It was etched too deeply in his memory. Country code 001. Area code 212. Then seven digits to Peter’s direct office line. He wouldn’t be there today.
Today was Saturday.
Peter didn’t book a seat on the next flight to Geneva. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had too many goddamned responsibilities to just leave like that. It wasn’t like he was going to go on vacation. The week between his discovery and his departure was the longest week in his life.
“You want to take a six-month leave of absence, Peter?” Hughes wasn’t aggravated, just puzzled. “Why?”
“It’s personal.”
“Is it Elizabeth? Is she sick?” Peter was gratified at the intense concern in his boss’ voice.
“No, it’s not Elizabeth.”
Reese looked at him, that keen-eyed stare that always made Peter feel as if he were nine and trying to explain about the broken window. “It’s Caffrey, isn’t it?”
Peter nodded.
Reese shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh. “You can’t just go riding to his rescue, over and over again, Peter. He’s not your concern anymore. If he got caught doing something, he probably did it.”
“It isn’t that. Neal’s …” He couldn’t explain, because he didn’t have all the details. “Here.” He handed Hughes the printout of the article that Sally sent and watched his face as he read it.
There was a shocked, sympathetic look on the man’s face, one mirrored in his next question. “Is he alive?”
“I’m almost positive.” Peter told him about the late night calls into the office, and how he traced them back to Montreux.
“But why?”
“I think Neal’s calling to hear our voices. He never leaves a message, just hangs up right after the recording.” The thought still had the power to hurt.
Hughes said nothing; he just reached for the leave request form that Peter had prepared and signed it with an emphatic gesture. “Go bring him home. He should be here, with his friends and family. We’ll give him the help he needs.”
“Thank you.” Those words were never more heartfelt.
Leaving still wasn’t easy. He wanted Elizabeth with him, not for her wisdom and companionship, but because what he afraid – afraid of what he was going to find, and he needed her – like a security blanket. But El couldn’t come – too many commitments that she couldn’t pass off to Yvonne. Peter suspected that she saw right through him.
“You’ll be fine.”
He grabbed her hand, pulled her into his lap. “You sure you can’t come with me, even for a week?”
She kissed him. “You’ll do fine. You’ll find Neal, you’ll bring him home. You do that better that anyone.” She chuckled. “You’re the only one who can do that.”
Peter nodded. “But what if…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“We’ll deal with it.” She hugged him. “Whatever he needs, we’ll deal with it.”
Somehow, everything that needed to get done got done. A ticket to Geneva was booked, lodgings in Montreux, too. Peter contacted Gerard Macht again, who promised to meet his arriving flight.
The eight hour plane ride was bearable, if only because El got him a seat in business class so he wouldn’t be crippled on arrival. Customs was efficient; it was Switzerland after all. But by the time Peter walked into the Arrivals terminal and spotted Gerard, he was exhausted.
Gerard was blunt in his assessment. “You look like crap, my friend. And I’m not talking about the years, because they have otherwise treated you well.”
“Danke, you son of a bitch.” Peter laughed, and gave Gerard a one-armed hug. Their original association had been brief, but they had forged a lasting bond, the way lawmen do.
“You haven’t changed, Peter Burke. Still chasing after Neal Caffrey? It’s been ten years and you’re still gunning for him?”
Peter gave his friend a sharp look, and realized that he knew nothing about his recent and not-so-recent history with Neal. “You want the whole story?”
“Of course I do, it’s about an hour or so to Montreux. Or we can have dinner here and then head out, whichever you prefer.”
It was a quarter past eight, local time, but Peter’s body clock was screwed up. His flight left from Newark at five in the morning, which meant he hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours (he wasn’t the type to sleep in-flight). He considered Gerard’s offer. “Dinner does sounds good, then Montreux, and then the Clinic de Chillon in the morning.”
Gerard nodded.
It was close to nine by time they parked in front of a small café. Everything was very orderly, very tidy. Even in the middle of winter, there was little snow on the sidewalks and streets. Peter absently wondered if they just dumped it into the lake.
They settled down at a prime table near the fireplace. “One of the perks of a badge, as I’m sure you know.”
Peter shrugged. He never used his to get privileges, but he wasn’t a local cop. Feds were always treated differently. He ordered an espresso, then changed his mind and got a beer instead.
“So, Peter Burke, tell me the story of Neal Caffrey and why you’re still hunting him down.” Gerard relaxed against his seat, beer in hand.
Peter gave a huff of laughter. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I always have. And I’ve admired that craziness.”
“Neal Caffrey is one of my closest friends.” Peter watched Gerard’s face, the dawning confusion, the shock.
“I don’t understand. How does an FBI agent, an officer of the law, become close friends with a criminal?”
Peter took a sip of beer and organized his thoughts. “About nine years ago, I finally caught Neal Caffrey. Set up his girlfriend as a stalking horse – she didn’t know it, though. Neal was besotted by her, and he later confessed that a lot of what he did was because he wanted to get her attention.”
“Really? One of the greatest crime sprees in this century was just to impress a girl?” Gerard’s eyebrows hovered near his receding hairline.
“Apparently. But mind you, Neal never confessed to anything specific.” Peter took another sip and lost himself in the memory of a night spent talking, standing shoulder to shoulder and sharing secrets.
“So? What happened?”
Peter shook himself out of the reverie. “He went to trial – wasn’t interested in cutting a deal. We threw a lot of charges at him, but the only thing what stuck was bond forgery. The case that brought him to my attention.”
“And how did you manage that if Caffrey was so slippery?”
“Caffrey was an arrogant little bastard back then. He actually came up to me one day, just after he cashed in a forged bond, and introduced himself as a concerned citizen. Handed me a lime-green sucker and walked off. It was only because I could place him at the bank, at the scene, that we got the conviction. He slid out of everything else.” Peter could still taste that lollipop, bitter and slightly rancid.
Gerard laughed. “No matter how smart the criminals are, they’ll always trip themselves up. Too vain, I suppose.”
“Maybe.” They paused to order supper.
“And so?” Gerard was riveted.
“Caffrey got four years – the AUSA wanted to throw the book at him. The judge was persuaded to be reasonable.”
“You intervened?”
“Caffrey was young, he wasn’t violent, and I don’t like sour grapes.” All true.
“That still doesn’t explain how you became such close friends.”
“The best part’s yet to come.” More beer, because some of these memories were painful. “Neal broke out of prison with just a few months left on his sentence.”
“That’s … that’s absurd. Didn’t you once say that Caffrey had a genius IQ?”
“Genius or not, Neal’s a human being with a very romantic … heart. Remember the girl – the one he was supposedly committing all those crimes for?”
“Of course, I hope she was pretty.”
“Yeah, Kate was pretty. She was also – ” Peter sorted through all the adjectives he had used over the years to describe her. “A manipulator. I’m not saying she was evil or that she didn’t love Neal, but she knew how to use him, how to play him.” He wasn’t going to go into details here. “The long and the short of it was that after nearly four years of weekly prison visits, three months before the end of his sentence, she tells him goodbye. Neal – being the resourceful romantic – gets himself a guard’s uniform, programs a key card using a tape recorder, and walks out of a maximum security facility. Six hours later, I found him, heartbroken, sitting on the floor of her apartment, clutching an empty wine bottle.”
“You are serious? Caffrey risked going back to prison for a long time because of a girl?”
“Pretty unbelievable, isn’t it? But that’s Neal. More often than not, a fool for love.”
Their food arrived, and between bites, Peter told Gerard about the deal Neal had struck with him, about the Dutchman, how Neal’s quick thinking won them the prize.
Gerard was impressed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like that. You hand Caffrey a law book, he reads it and arranges the arrest of your suspect on a legal loophole? Brilliant!”
Peter gave him a wry smile. “That was Neal. Brilliant. And reckless. And he’d tie you up in such knots you’ll never know if you’re coming or going.”
“But he had his own agenda, of course. He had to – right? The girl? A big score?”
Peter wiped his mouth, finished his beer and just shook his head. “That first year, it was all about Kate. He was convinced that someone was holding her against her will. He once thought I was keeping her hostage.” Going back to those old days made him weary, sick at heart. “But oddly enough, we learned to trust each other. And Neal delivered, big time. My division’s closure rate skyrocketed.”
“And I guess this is how you became friends?”
He nodded. “It wasn’t easy. Neal …” Peter found himself lacking the right words to describe those early days. “It was like he needed me for everything, but he insisted on doing things his way.”
“Sounds like my thirteen year old.”
Peter had to agree, in part. “Neal had been rootless for so long, he was looking for someone, something to hold onto. I don’t think he was looking for a father figure. He needed a friend.”
“I’d have thought that the FBI frowned on their agents becoming friends with their informants?”
“They do. But Neal was more than my CI. I was responsible for him – he was out of prison because I could make that happen.” It wasn’t necessary to tell Gerard that he liked Neal even as far back as the chase.
“Sounds like it was inevitable that you’d become friends.” Gerard signaled for the check and waved Peter off when he went to pay. “My treat. Haven’t been quite so entertained in a while.”
Back in the car, Gerard prompted him for the rest of Neal’s story. “Did he ever find the girl?”
“Yes. And she was murdered before his eyes.” Peter couldn’t go into the whole thing with Mentor and Adler and Fowler. And certainly not the Nazi treasure or what came after that.
“That’s horrible.”
“Neal made it through, though.”
“You admire him.”
“He’s made some poor choices in his life – but he’s learned from his mistakes. I know he’s a criminal – he was a criminal, but that’s not what defines him anymore. Neal’s honorable, loyal, brilliant, everything you’d want in a friend. When his sentence was finished, Neal wanted to travel, see the world again. I wanted him to stay in New York, stay with the Bureau, but I had no choice. I couldn’t keep him chained up; I had to let him go.”
There was no comment from Gerard as he negotiated the highway that ran along Lake Geneva. The minutes passed in silence.
“Truthfully Peter, it sounds like you love him.”
Peter swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “I do.”
Snowflakes drifted out of the heavy clouds hanging above the lake, shimmering like crystalline fireflies in the headlamps. Gerard flicked on the windshield wipers. “Then I hope he’s all right. I hope so, for both your sakes.”
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: salie,
- genre: angst,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: ot3,
- genre: post-anklet,
- genre: pre-ot3,
- genre: pre-slash,
- genre: sick fic,
- genre: slash,
- genre: ust,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: wcbb,
- year: 2012
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-09-25 07:01 pm (UTC)OK, on to part 4. Eeeeeee
no subject
Date: 2012-09-25 08:05 pm (UTC)HUGS YOU TIGHT.