WC: Shirts & Skins - Part 3.1
Three - Nor’easter
New York City, February 2004
“Come back to bed, Neal. It’s fucking 6 a.m.” Kate raises herself onto her elbows and fluffs up her pillow with several punches that are clearly meant to vent her frustration at the early disruption of her sleep. She settles back into the down pillow with a theatrical sigh that fails to gain any acknowledgement from the young man eagerly bent over the hotel room desk. The incandescent light of the desk lamp at its lowest setting throws a warm glow onto his face. Dressed in a plush hotel bathrobe, Neal is unshaven and his bed-head hair is spiking in all directions, yet his blue eyes are alert and animated. His fingers keep turning the pages of the small pocket-size notebook in his hands and his brow is furrowed in concentration as his eyes pore over every neatly handwritten entry.
“You’ve been looking at that thing nonstop since yesterday afternoon. You must have every word memorized.”
“Actually, I’ve had it memorized after reading it once,” Neal corrects her, finally tearing his eyes away from the notebook and looking over at her. He’s not really seeing her, his mind still preoccupied with his reading. Kate hates to be anything but the center of his attention. Fuck him. She fumbles for the remote on the nightstand and turns on the television. The inane banter on the local morning newscast annoys her, but it beats staring at Neal and his latest fixation.
“Moz thinks you’re obsessed with him,” she states flatly.
“With Peter?” Neal looks at her like it’s the most absurd thing he’s heard all week.
“Oh, it’s Peter now, is it?” Neal feels a twinge of irritation at her mocking tone.
“Burke’s a good man, Kate. He risked a lot to get me out of that place in Mexico. He didn’t have to take me back to Mozzie’s, you know. He could have arrested me.”
Kate rolls her eyes. Moz and she agree that Neal doesn’t have to know just how far Burke had gone to make sure he was okay. Mozzie thought that Neal would be crushed to know that Peter had seen him at his weakest. Kate, secretly, thought that Neal didn’t need any more reasons to put Peter Burke on a high horse.
Mexico wasn’t a good memory for Kate. Before Mexico, she had always gotten a dirty little carnal kick out of having Neal just a tad off his A-game. Sex with Neal is almost frustratingly perfect, his moves orchestrated and controlled, pushing the right buttons at the right time. An elaborate opus performed by the perfect body. Not that she was complaining. Sex with Neal when he was working injury-a sprained ankle or a sore shoulder-was thrilling. She loved to see his perfection crumble, his moves become gauche and his frustration build steadily as he struggled with the unfamiliar limitations of his bodily capabilities. She loved to tease every bit of this frustration out of him in those moments, loved to watch him try so hard to be nothing less than perfect for her, loved to hear him curse with vexation and sometimes, only sometimes, she loved to hear him moan with something other than pleasure.
When she had shown up at the villa in Mexico on the day after Neal’s escape, the reality of the damage his body had taken in the weeks of imprisonment was sobering. He hadn’t been awake when she had arrived. Moz had warned her and then he had folded back the soft cotton sheet covering Neal’s sleeping form to reveal the bruised and battered body of the man she loved. She had cried when Moz had told her how they had denied him food for a week after his first escape attempt and how the guards had broken three of his ribs after the second attempt. After he had run the third time, they had dragged him across the graveled parking lot and back into the prison courtyard by his leg irons until his denim overalls were torn to shreds. He had been given a fresh set of overalls to cover the dirt-ingrained wounds on his body, and he hadn’t tried to escape again until Peter Burke had busted him out three days later.
Kate wasn’t equipped to deal with seeing Neal like this. She wasn’t the nurturing type. He was supposed to look out for her. He was her charming, smart, seductive hero. Neal in Mexico didn’t need to be fucked, he needed to be fed. Kate wasn’t the feeding type. She had asked Moz not to tell, and she had left. Two weeks later, when Neal was mostly out of bed and the bruises and scrapes were mending nicely, she had returned. He had been elated to see her and she had been gentle with him. No teasing, no pushing him to his limits. Mexico had ruined that.
“You’re playing with fire, Neal,” she grumbles.
“I’m playing. That’s all. Just a game.”
“You shouldn’t pickpocket him. He knows you too well. He knows what you look like, how you move.”
“He looked straight at me when I bumped into him. He didn’t even recognize me.” Neal can still feel his skin tingle when he recalls the fraction of a second he locked eyes with Burke on the street the previous afternoon. He had gone for the wallet and gotten hold of Peter’s pocket calendar instead. Birthdays, anniversaries, vet appointments, it was all there. Neal smiled like a Cheshire cat.
“What are you going to do with that?” She asks without really caring.
“I’ll slip it back to him. He’ll never know it was gone.” Neal thumbs through the calendar pages until he finds the entry he’s looking for. “And reliable sources tell me he’ll be meeting a witness at two this afternoon.”
“Great. Can we get the hell out of here after that?”
“What, The Plaza not good enough for you, my delicate flower?” He mocks with the languid Texas drawl he’s been perfecting for a recent con.
“New York City in February?” She huffs. “Whatever happened to living the good life somewhere on the Cote d’Azure? Or at least in Tampa?”
“I can think of something we can do to keep warm.” Texas drawl still in place, Neal wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and she rolls her eyes. He turns off the desk lamp and gets to his feet. In the flickering light of the TV set Kate can see the robe drop to the floor. He stands tall and toned and naked and he looks at her. She knows he is mentally charting his next course of action. It will be nothing short of perfect, and she doesn’t mind a bit.
--
Sipping his hot latte, Neal leans against a lamppost outside the corner coffee shop and waits for the caffeine to kick in. He rushed out of the hotel less than 15 minutes ago, unshowered and groggy after a long contented nap in Kate’s arms. Hastily dressed in dark blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a pea coat thrown over it, his bare feet shoved into a pair of leather loafers, the cold February breeze creeps up his sleeves and into his collar. He welcomes the reviving chill, knowing that he’ll be back in the warmth of the hotel bed soon enough. He wishes he had brought gloves as he curls his fingers tightly around his paper coffee cup. A black knit hat is drawn deep into his forehead. Kate always says the hat makes him look like a common burglar, and he tells her that it is close enough to the truth. On this cloudy afternoon his sunglasses would look out of place anywhere but in New York City, where eccentricity is a virtue.
Neal feels his adrenaline rush in as he sees Peter’s car pull up to the curb. His fingers dip into his breast pocket to feel the small calendar hidden there. The sidewalk is crowded with shoppers and school kids when Peter steps out of the car. The cold breeze whips up and blows the front of his tan wool sports coat open. He doesn’t seem to care as his eyes are scanning the surrounding faces, looking for the witness he is supposed to meet in a few minutes. Neal freezes momentarily as the agent’s gaze brushes over his face. There is no hint of recognition. It’s not him he is searching for. Neal sees the corners of Peter’s mouth curl up in that small clever smile of his. It irks Neal that the smile remains impossible to decrypt. He decides that for the moment the smile simply means that Peter has spotted his target.
Peter locks the car and joins the bustling stream of people on the sidewalk. Neal decides to make his move. He takes a last long swig of milky coffee and tosses the cup into the nearest trash bin. Catching up with Peter through the crowd, he falls into the rhythm of the other man’s steps a few feet behind him. Looking over Peter’s shoulder he can spot the man the agent is heading for. The nervous looking middle-aged, heavy-set man is still twenty yards away.
Neal is set to move in for the drop when he catches movement on either side of Peter. Two tall figures sidle next to the agent. The figure on the left whispers something into Peter’s ear. His right hand, buried in his jacket pocket, pushes against Peter’s lower back. The agent’s stride stiffens at the touch of the concealed weapon. The figure on the right grabs hold of Peter’s upper arm and pulls him to the curb. The back door of a black Suburban opens and Peter is urged to climb inside after the man on the right. The man with the gun glances around the afternoon crowd and flashes Neal a grin. Hidden behind his sunglasses the con man pretends not to notice as he hurries past the parked SUV. From the corner of his eye he watches the vehicle merge into traffic.
His heart pounding in his throat, Neal steps into the street and walks close the driver’s side of the endless line of cars parked by the curb. He knows he’s heading in the wrong direction, the SUV disappearing behind his back with every passing second. He curses at his mistake but he can’t turn around now without raising suspicion. His nimble fingers curl around every door handle until one unlatches. He smoothly slips into the driver’s seat of a late-90’s Corolla. Through the windshield his eyes lock on the vanishing tailgate of the black Suburban up ahead, while his fingers struggle with the wiring under the dashboard. The hotwired engine finally springs into life. With one arm extended out the window in an apologetic gesture Neal muscles his way into the dense flow of traffic. He flips open his cell and hits the speed dial.
“Moz. I need you to check on a license plate number for me. It’s urgent.” He passes on the Suburban’s plate number and hangs up.
--
By the time Moz returns his call Neal has crossed the state line into New Jersey.
“Neal, whatever you’re doing right now, I need you to stop.” Mozzie’s no-nonsense tone is briefly interrupted by static. “That plate number you gave me is bad news. I don’t want you to get involved with those people.”
“It’s not me. It’s Peter. I watched a couple of goons pull him into that SUV. I’m following them right now.”
“You don’t have a car, Neal.”
“I borrowed one.”
“My mother’s chihuahua has better impulse control than you, Neal, and he eats his own poo!”
“Just tell me what you found, Moz, before I get pulled over for talking on my cell while driving.”
“The car is registered to Vito DiScalia.” There is a pregnant pause on the line as Moz is waiting for a response.
“And that is supposed to mean something to me?” Neal’s blatant ignorance elicits an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line.
“Maybe if you got your nose out of those art history books and followed the evening news once in a while you wouldn’t be quite so clueless as to who is about to put a bullet in your head, Neal.”
“Cut the dramatics, Moz, and give me the cliff notes, okay?” Neal pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder and pops the car into third gear for a lane change.
“Organized crime. Big bad goons. Bigger, badder guns. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Clear as mud. Peter’s in trouble, Moz. I owe him.” The line is silent for a long time.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Thanks, Mozzie. Tell Kate not to worry.”
“Please be smart about this, Neal. I don’t want to fish you out of the East River tomorrow morning. Call me.” Moz hangs up.
Traffic is slowly letting up as they increase the distance to the city and abandon the highways for smaller country roads that wind through wintry woodlands. Neal falls further behind the Suburban, allowing several vehicles to pass him. Steady snowfall sets in and he can feel the occasional slip of the Corolla’s tires as they fight for purchase on the slippery pavement. Staring past the squeaking windshield wipers it takes all of Neal’s concentration to follow the SUV through the deteriorating driving conditions.
Half an hour later the SUV pulls onto the access road of a remote State Park campground and Neal almost misses the turn save for the tire tracks visible in the three inches of snow on the ground. Having lost sight of the vehicle Neal follows the tracks for half a mile along the unpaved road until they curve to the left into what is designated as the A-loop of the deserted campground. He steers the Corolla to the right, following the B-loop signs. The tires are spinning as he heads up a short incline and then backs into a parking spot tucked behind a group of pine trees. Neal checks his cell phone and curses when there is no signal. Pulling his knit hat down over his ears and drawing his coat tightly around his body, he steps into the cold silence of the wooded campsite. He blinks away wet heavy snowflakes as he stands and listens intently for any sound.
Weaving in between trees and shrubs Neal slowly cuts across the primitive campground, his Italian loafers soaked and ruined within minutes. His bare feet slip on the soggy insoles, and he shudders at the sensation of icy water sloshing between his toes. The snow is up to his ankles in some spots and moisture has wicked up the denim fabric of his jeans to his knees by the time he makes it to the A-loop.
Shots suddenly cut through the silence and reverberate off the barren tree trunks. Neal drops face down into the snow and buries his head under his coat sleeves. He can’t pinpoint precisely where the shots are coming from but it doesn’t take long to realize that they are not aimed at him. He counts. Seven shots. Then silence. Raising his head he surveys his surroundings and finds no one in sight. He crawls, then gets his feet under him to jog in the general direction of the shots, brushing snow from his coat front and pants mid-run. His left shoe gets stuck in the snow-covered underbrush and he has to backtrack a few strides to reclaim it.
Neal spots the parked SUV at the far end of the loop and takes cover behind a tree. His chest rises and falls rapidly, quick puffs of condensing breath escaping his open mouth. The thickening snow and the fading afternoon light make it increasingly difficult to see beyond the immediate vicinity. At first, only their voices carry over, then he can make out the shapes of the three men approaching the Suburban from a densely wooded area to the left. Peter is not with them.
Neal doesn’t wait for the men to make it to the vehicle before he takes off running in the direction they came from. Ducking between tree trunks and young pines he chooses a path he hopes will keep him out of the thugs’ sightlines. By the time he crosses their tracks, snow has worked its way down the back of his collar and mingles with the trail of sweat that runs down his spine. Prickly pine branches have whipped across his face, leaving marks on his flushed cheeks and a faint taste of pinesap on his lips. Somewhere in the distance behind him he hears the Suburban’s engine start. Neal continues sprinting up the path the men’s boots have cut into the snow for him. The slick leather soles of his loafers slip and he crashes down hard. He ignores the instant pain when he awkwardly lands on a twisted knee. Forcing his aching limb to bear his weight he gets up and continues running until he comes to a dead stop with Peter at his feet.
The agent lies motionless on his back. Blood is seeping into the snow from his left shoulder. More crimson is staining the pants over his right thigh. He is sporting a bruised cheek, a bloody nose and an ugly tie. He isn’t breathing.
Neal drops to his knees by Peter’s side and leans over him until his ear almost touches Peter’s mouth. He can’t hear anything over the wheeze of his own frantic panting. His fingers slide under Peter’s shirt collar and he finds a pulse. He doesn’t want to trust the thready throbbing sensation under his fingertips when he notices how much his own hands are trembling.
“Damn it, Caffrey! Get it together!” He berates himself and shakes his hands while flexing his fingers. His palms come to rest on Peter’s chest and his heart jumps with relief when he feels the unyielding, rough texture of a kevlar vest. Neal loosens the tie around Peter’s neck and pushes it aside. He runs his uncooperative fingers down the row of buttons on Peter’s shirtfront, opening some and popping off others. He parts the cotton and sees the bullets lodged inside the tightly woven fibers of the vest, five warped pieces of metal spread over the center of Peter’s chest. Neal’s hands dip to Peter’s sides, fumbling for the Velcro fasteners. He tears them open. His left hand slides under the vest, prying the kevlar material away from the warm, soft skin underneath.
Peter wakes with a pain-filled gasp that turns into a cough. His eyes wide with confusion, he blinks rapidly before his gaze meets the pale blue eyes of the disheveled-looking man above him.
“Oh shit,” he rasps. “I died and went to hell to be eternally mugged by Neal Caffrey.”
“Surprised?” Neals face all but splits open with a grin makes no attempt at hiding his tremendous sense of relief.
“By you?” Peter’s voice is breathless. “Never.” He manages a semblance of a smirk before a coughing fit rips through him and his face contorts in pain. Neal’s smile vanishes in an instant. Under the kevlar vest his hand rests soothingly on Peter’s rattling chest as he waits patiently for the cough to subside. When it does, Peter’s head sinks back onto the snow-covered ground as he breathes through the worst of the pain.
“Caffrey, get that freezing cold hand of yours out from under there unless you’re planning to buy me dinner anytime soon,” Peter grumbles when he regains control over his voice. Neal retracts his hand and wishes it would stop shaking.
“You’ve been shot.”
“I’ve noticed.” Peter squints incredulously up at Neal as his right hand carefully touches his bleeding left shoulder. “Real perceptive, Caffrey.”
Neal’s eyes narrow with a hint of indignation, before an expression of genuine concern returns.
“Let me look at that?” The request comes out sounding like a question, Neal suddenly feeling self-conscious in the face of Peter’s sardonic attitude. With careful, trembling fingers he opens the vest’s Velcro shoulder strap and peels away the shirt and jacket that cover the bullet wound in Peter’s left shoulder.
“I think it went right through, but we need to stop the bleeding.”
Without hesitation Neal shrugs out of his pea coat and pulls the white V-neck T-shirt over his head. The cold air and thick snowflakes assault his bare skin and he rushes to slip back into the warmth of his jacket. He starts to pat the outside of Peter’s coat and pant pockets. Peter eyes him quizzically until the con man produces the small pocketknife hidden in Peter’s front right trouser pocket. Neal holds up the knife with a triumphant smile.
“I knew a boy scout like you would have one of these.” He unfolds the blade and cuts down the midline of the T-shirt. He rolls it up vertically and bisects the cotton to yield two long strips of dressing material. Neal cuts one of the pieces in two and folds one half into a thick rectangular pad and tucks it under Peter’s bloodstained shirt to cover the entry and exit wounds on his shoulder. Peter’s jaw is clenched as he struggles to bite back a scream and fails miserably when Neal applies gentle pressure.
“Sorry.” Neal mumbles and truly means it. “We need to hold this in place somehow.”
Peter nods weakly and turns his head to the side to watch Neal’s clumsy attempts to tie the remaining strip of cotton around his shoulder.
“Thread it under my left arm,” Peter instructs. “Then cross it over the left shoulder. Loop it under my right arm and tie the ends tightly.” He feels Neal’s hand wiggle between his chest and left upper arm to push one end of the sleeve under his shoulder blade. The pain is excruciating.
“Stop, stop,” he yells. His back arches off the ground, his right hand shooting up to claw at Neal’s jacket, nearly throwing the young man off balance. Neal reacts quickly and wraps an arm around Peter’s uninjured shoulder, gently pulling him into a sitting position. Peter slumps against his chest, his forehead coming to rest against the side of Neal’s neck. The young man remains motionless. Peter’s ragged breathing feels hot against his throat.
“You okay sitting up?” Neal asks softly when he feels Peter straighten and lift his head from its resting position against the con man’s collarbone. Peter nods mutely, still trying to regain his composure. Neal continues to apply the makeshift dressing to the injured shoulder, following Peter’s earlier instructions. He tucks the folded cotton compress under the bandage, pulling everything as tight as possible. He hopes the pressure on the wound will be enough to stem the bleeding for the time being.
“How does that feel?”
“Don’t quit your day job, Caffrey. You’re a terrible nurse.”
“I’m trying. Okay?” Neal feels utterly humiliated by the high-pitched whiny voice that doesn’t sound anything like his own.
Undoing the remaining Velcro straps that hold the kevlar vest in place, Neal slides the protective garment out from underneath Peter’s shirt and puts it aside. He can see the bruises that have begun to form on Peter’s chest where the bullets have impacted the vest and he winces with sympathy. Neal closes the shirt over Peter’s chest as well as his cold fingers and the missing buttons allow, then pulls the front of the sports coat closed. He doubts that the clothing will provide much comfort as Peter is thoroughly covered in wet heavy snow by now. The cold is going to hit him hard as soon as the adrenaline wears off. They will have to get moving soon.
Neal turns his attention to the bleeding wound on Peter’s thigh. Using the knife he widens the small hole in the pant leg. He dabs some of the blood away with the edge of the chino fabric and Peter’s leg twitches under his light touch. It looks like the bullet has missed major blood vessels but lodged itself deeply into the thigh muscle. He folds the remaining piece of T-shirt and presses it over the wound.
“Give me that sorry excuse for a tie around your neck.” Neal requests. Peter tugs at the knot and finally manages to pull the tie free. Neal watches his sluggish movements with concern. He wraps the tie around the thigh and ties a knot as he slowly pulls the fabric taut. Peter bites his lip when Neal continues to tighten the improvised bandage and pain sears up his body.
“Sorry. This needs to hold.” Neal’s voice is apologetic and small. Peter notices how the young man’s lips quiver with cold and tension as he repeatedly blinks away the snowflakes collecting on his eyelashes.
“You’re doing great, kiddo,” Peter replies warmly, all traces of ribbing sarcasm gone. He manages an encouraging half-smile that draws out a glimmer of relief in Neal’s eyes. He puts his right hand on Neal’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the heavy wool of the pea coat for leverage. “Now help me up. My butt’s freezing to the ground.”
Peter grunts with pain and Neal with effort as he pulls the agent to his feet. Peter sways unsteadily, his vision swimming, as he awkwardly clings to the young man’s coat. He feels Neal duck under his right arm and pull it across his shoulder.
“Ready?” Neal asks, shifting more of Peter’s weight onto his frame. With a sideways glance Peter eyeballs the young man at his side. With his coat front open, melting snow is running down Neal’s rapidly heaving bare chest. In his soaked pair of jeans and sockless footwear the young man looks anything but dressed for a trek though the snow-covered woodlands.
“Button your jacket, Neal. You’ll catch a bad case of death.” Peter’s tone is fatherly, and Neal catches himself with the urge to roll his eyes in juvenile annoyance. Peter watches patiently as Neal closes three of the large buttons. “Attaboy. Now let’s roll. Where to, anyway?”
“My car.”
“You don’t have a car.” Neal pleads the fifth and starts pulling the agent in the direction of the parked car.
Continued in part 3.2
New York City, February 2004
“Come back to bed, Neal. It’s fucking 6 a.m.” Kate raises herself onto her elbows and fluffs up her pillow with several punches that are clearly meant to vent her frustration at the early disruption of her sleep. She settles back into the down pillow with a theatrical sigh that fails to gain any acknowledgement from the young man eagerly bent over the hotel room desk. The incandescent light of the desk lamp at its lowest setting throws a warm glow onto his face. Dressed in a plush hotel bathrobe, Neal is unshaven and his bed-head hair is spiking in all directions, yet his blue eyes are alert and animated. His fingers keep turning the pages of the small pocket-size notebook in his hands and his brow is furrowed in concentration as his eyes pore over every neatly handwritten entry.
“You’ve been looking at that thing nonstop since yesterday afternoon. You must have every word memorized.”
“Actually, I’ve had it memorized after reading it once,” Neal corrects her, finally tearing his eyes away from the notebook and looking over at her. He’s not really seeing her, his mind still preoccupied with his reading. Kate hates to be anything but the center of his attention. Fuck him. She fumbles for the remote on the nightstand and turns on the television. The inane banter on the local morning newscast annoys her, but it beats staring at Neal and his latest fixation.
“Moz thinks you’re obsessed with him,” she states flatly.
“With Peter?” Neal looks at her like it’s the most absurd thing he’s heard all week.
“Oh, it’s Peter now, is it?” Neal feels a twinge of irritation at her mocking tone.
“Burke’s a good man, Kate. He risked a lot to get me out of that place in Mexico. He didn’t have to take me back to Mozzie’s, you know. He could have arrested me.”
Kate rolls her eyes. Moz and she agree that Neal doesn’t have to know just how far Burke had gone to make sure he was okay. Mozzie thought that Neal would be crushed to know that Peter had seen him at his weakest. Kate, secretly, thought that Neal didn’t need any more reasons to put Peter Burke on a high horse.
Mexico wasn’t a good memory for Kate. Before Mexico, she had always gotten a dirty little carnal kick out of having Neal just a tad off his A-game. Sex with Neal is almost frustratingly perfect, his moves orchestrated and controlled, pushing the right buttons at the right time. An elaborate opus performed by the perfect body. Not that she was complaining. Sex with Neal when he was working injury-a sprained ankle or a sore shoulder-was thrilling. She loved to see his perfection crumble, his moves become gauche and his frustration build steadily as he struggled with the unfamiliar limitations of his bodily capabilities. She loved to tease every bit of this frustration out of him in those moments, loved to watch him try so hard to be nothing less than perfect for her, loved to hear him curse with vexation and sometimes, only sometimes, she loved to hear him moan with something other than pleasure.
When she had shown up at the villa in Mexico on the day after Neal’s escape, the reality of the damage his body had taken in the weeks of imprisonment was sobering. He hadn’t been awake when she had arrived. Moz had warned her and then he had folded back the soft cotton sheet covering Neal’s sleeping form to reveal the bruised and battered body of the man she loved. She had cried when Moz had told her how they had denied him food for a week after his first escape attempt and how the guards had broken three of his ribs after the second attempt. After he had run the third time, they had dragged him across the graveled parking lot and back into the prison courtyard by his leg irons until his denim overalls were torn to shreds. He had been given a fresh set of overalls to cover the dirt-ingrained wounds on his body, and he hadn’t tried to escape again until Peter Burke had busted him out three days later.
Kate wasn’t equipped to deal with seeing Neal like this. She wasn’t the nurturing type. He was supposed to look out for her. He was her charming, smart, seductive hero. Neal in Mexico didn’t need to be fucked, he needed to be fed. Kate wasn’t the feeding type. She had asked Moz not to tell, and she had left. Two weeks later, when Neal was mostly out of bed and the bruises and scrapes were mending nicely, she had returned. He had been elated to see her and she had been gentle with him. No teasing, no pushing him to his limits. Mexico had ruined that.
“You’re playing with fire, Neal,” she grumbles.
“I’m playing. That’s all. Just a game.”
“You shouldn’t pickpocket him. He knows you too well. He knows what you look like, how you move.”
“He looked straight at me when I bumped into him. He didn’t even recognize me.” Neal can still feel his skin tingle when he recalls the fraction of a second he locked eyes with Burke on the street the previous afternoon. He had gone for the wallet and gotten hold of Peter’s pocket calendar instead. Birthdays, anniversaries, vet appointments, it was all there. Neal smiled like a Cheshire cat.
“What are you going to do with that?” She asks without really caring.
“I’ll slip it back to him. He’ll never know it was gone.” Neal thumbs through the calendar pages until he finds the entry he’s looking for. “And reliable sources tell me he’ll be meeting a witness at two this afternoon.”
“Great. Can we get the hell out of here after that?”
“What, The Plaza not good enough for you, my delicate flower?” He mocks with the languid Texas drawl he’s been perfecting for a recent con.
“New York City in February?” She huffs. “Whatever happened to living the good life somewhere on the Cote d’Azure? Or at least in Tampa?”
“I can think of something we can do to keep warm.” Texas drawl still in place, Neal wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and she rolls her eyes. He turns off the desk lamp and gets to his feet. In the flickering light of the TV set Kate can see the robe drop to the floor. He stands tall and toned and naked and he looks at her. She knows he is mentally charting his next course of action. It will be nothing short of perfect, and she doesn’t mind a bit.
--
Sipping his hot latte, Neal leans against a lamppost outside the corner coffee shop and waits for the caffeine to kick in. He rushed out of the hotel less than 15 minutes ago, unshowered and groggy after a long contented nap in Kate’s arms. Hastily dressed in dark blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt with a pea coat thrown over it, his bare feet shoved into a pair of leather loafers, the cold February breeze creeps up his sleeves and into his collar. He welcomes the reviving chill, knowing that he’ll be back in the warmth of the hotel bed soon enough. He wishes he had brought gloves as he curls his fingers tightly around his paper coffee cup. A black knit hat is drawn deep into his forehead. Kate always says the hat makes him look like a common burglar, and he tells her that it is close enough to the truth. On this cloudy afternoon his sunglasses would look out of place anywhere but in New York City, where eccentricity is a virtue.
Neal feels his adrenaline rush in as he sees Peter’s car pull up to the curb. His fingers dip into his breast pocket to feel the small calendar hidden there. The sidewalk is crowded with shoppers and school kids when Peter steps out of the car. The cold breeze whips up and blows the front of his tan wool sports coat open. He doesn’t seem to care as his eyes are scanning the surrounding faces, looking for the witness he is supposed to meet in a few minutes. Neal freezes momentarily as the agent’s gaze brushes over his face. There is no hint of recognition. It’s not him he is searching for. Neal sees the corners of Peter’s mouth curl up in that small clever smile of his. It irks Neal that the smile remains impossible to decrypt. He decides that for the moment the smile simply means that Peter has spotted his target.
Peter locks the car and joins the bustling stream of people on the sidewalk. Neal decides to make his move. He takes a last long swig of milky coffee and tosses the cup into the nearest trash bin. Catching up with Peter through the crowd, he falls into the rhythm of the other man’s steps a few feet behind him. Looking over Peter’s shoulder he can spot the man the agent is heading for. The nervous looking middle-aged, heavy-set man is still twenty yards away.
Neal is set to move in for the drop when he catches movement on either side of Peter. Two tall figures sidle next to the agent. The figure on the left whispers something into Peter’s ear. His right hand, buried in his jacket pocket, pushes against Peter’s lower back. The agent’s stride stiffens at the touch of the concealed weapon. The figure on the right grabs hold of Peter’s upper arm and pulls him to the curb. The back door of a black Suburban opens and Peter is urged to climb inside after the man on the right. The man with the gun glances around the afternoon crowd and flashes Neal a grin. Hidden behind his sunglasses the con man pretends not to notice as he hurries past the parked SUV. From the corner of his eye he watches the vehicle merge into traffic.
His heart pounding in his throat, Neal steps into the street and walks close the driver’s side of the endless line of cars parked by the curb. He knows he’s heading in the wrong direction, the SUV disappearing behind his back with every passing second. He curses at his mistake but he can’t turn around now without raising suspicion. His nimble fingers curl around every door handle until one unlatches. He smoothly slips into the driver’s seat of a late-90’s Corolla. Through the windshield his eyes lock on the vanishing tailgate of the black Suburban up ahead, while his fingers struggle with the wiring under the dashboard. The hotwired engine finally springs into life. With one arm extended out the window in an apologetic gesture Neal muscles his way into the dense flow of traffic. He flips open his cell and hits the speed dial.
“Moz. I need you to check on a license plate number for me. It’s urgent.” He passes on the Suburban’s plate number and hangs up.
--
By the time Moz returns his call Neal has crossed the state line into New Jersey.
“Neal, whatever you’re doing right now, I need you to stop.” Mozzie’s no-nonsense tone is briefly interrupted by static. “That plate number you gave me is bad news. I don’t want you to get involved with those people.”
“It’s not me. It’s Peter. I watched a couple of goons pull him into that SUV. I’m following them right now.”
“You don’t have a car, Neal.”
“I borrowed one.”
“My mother’s chihuahua has better impulse control than you, Neal, and he eats his own poo!”
“Just tell me what you found, Moz, before I get pulled over for talking on my cell while driving.”
“The car is registered to Vito DiScalia.” There is a pregnant pause on the line as Moz is waiting for a response.
“And that is supposed to mean something to me?” Neal’s blatant ignorance elicits an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line.
“Maybe if you got your nose out of those art history books and followed the evening news once in a while you wouldn’t be quite so clueless as to who is about to put a bullet in your head, Neal.”
“Cut the dramatics, Moz, and give me the cliff notes, okay?” Neal pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder and pops the car into third gear for a lane change.
“Organized crime. Big bad goons. Bigger, badder guns. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Clear as mud. Peter’s in trouble, Moz. I owe him.” The line is silent for a long time.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Thanks, Mozzie. Tell Kate not to worry.”
“Please be smart about this, Neal. I don’t want to fish you out of the East River tomorrow morning. Call me.” Moz hangs up.
Traffic is slowly letting up as they increase the distance to the city and abandon the highways for smaller country roads that wind through wintry woodlands. Neal falls further behind the Suburban, allowing several vehicles to pass him. Steady snowfall sets in and he can feel the occasional slip of the Corolla’s tires as they fight for purchase on the slippery pavement. Staring past the squeaking windshield wipers it takes all of Neal’s concentration to follow the SUV through the deteriorating driving conditions.
Half an hour later the SUV pulls onto the access road of a remote State Park campground and Neal almost misses the turn save for the tire tracks visible in the three inches of snow on the ground. Having lost sight of the vehicle Neal follows the tracks for half a mile along the unpaved road until they curve to the left into what is designated as the A-loop of the deserted campground. He steers the Corolla to the right, following the B-loop signs. The tires are spinning as he heads up a short incline and then backs into a parking spot tucked behind a group of pine trees. Neal checks his cell phone and curses when there is no signal. Pulling his knit hat down over his ears and drawing his coat tightly around his body, he steps into the cold silence of the wooded campsite. He blinks away wet heavy snowflakes as he stands and listens intently for any sound.
Weaving in between trees and shrubs Neal slowly cuts across the primitive campground, his Italian loafers soaked and ruined within minutes. His bare feet slip on the soggy insoles, and he shudders at the sensation of icy water sloshing between his toes. The snow is up to his ankles in some spots and moisture has wicked up the denim fabric of his jeans to his knees by the time he makes it to the A-loop.
Shots suddenly cut through the silence and reverberate off the barren tree trunks. Neal drops face down into the snow and buries his head under his coat sleeves. He can’t pinpoint precisely where the shots are coming from but it doesn’t take long to realize that they are not aimed at him. He counts. Seven shots. Then silence. Raising his head he surveys his surroundings and finds no one in sight. He crawls, then gets his feet under him to jog in the general direction of the shots, brushing snow from his coat front and pants mid-run. His left shoe gets stuck in the snow-covered underbrush and he has to backtrack a few strides to reclaim it.
Neal spots the parked SUV at the far end of the loop and takes cover behind a tree. His chest rises and falls rapidly, quick puffs of condensing breath escaping his open mouth. The thickening snow and the fading afternoon light make it increasingly difficult to see beyond the immediate vicinity. At first, only their voices carry over, then he can make out the shapes of the three men approaching the Suburban from a densely wooded area to the left. Peter is not with them.
Neal doesn’t wait for the men to make it to the vehicle before he takes off running in the direction they came from. Ducking between tree trunks and young pines he chooses a path he hopes will keep him out of the thugs’ sightlines. By the time he crosses their tracks, snow has worked its way down the back of his collar and mingles with the trail of sweat that runs down his spine. Prickly pine branches have whipped across his face, leaving marks on his flushed cheeks and a faint taste of pinesap on his lips. Somewhere in the distance behind him he hears the Suburban’s engine start. Neal continues sprinting up the path the men’s boots have cut into the snow for him. The slick leather soles of his loafers slip and he crashes down hard. He ignores the instant pain when he awkwardly lands on a twisted knee. Forcing his aching limb to bear his weight he gets up and continues running until he comes to a dead stop with Peter at his feet.
The agent lies motionless on his back. Blood is seeping into the snow from his left shoulder. More crimson is staining the pants over his right thigh. He is sporting a bruised cheek, a bloody nose and an ugly tie. He isn’t breathing.
Neal drops to his knees by Peter’s side and leans over him until his ear almost touches Peter’s mouth. He can’t hear anything over the wheeze of his own frantic panting. His fingers slide under Peter’s shirt collar and he finds a pulse. He doesn’t want to trust the thready throbbing sensation under his fingertips when he notices how much his own hands are trembling.
“Damn it, Caffrey! Get it together!” He berates himself and shakes his hands while flexing his fingers. His palms come to rest on Peter’s chest and his heart jumps with relief when he feels the unyielding, rough texture of a kevlar vest. Neal loosens the tie around Peter’s neck and pushes it aside. He runs his uncooperative fingers down the row of buttons on Peter’s shirtfront, opening some and popping off others. He parts the cotton and sees the bullets lodged inside the tightly woven fibers of the vest, five warped pieces of metal spread over the center of Peter’s chest. Neal’s hands dip to Peter’s sides, fumbling for the Velcro fasteners. He tears them open. His left hand slides under the vest, prying the kevlar material away from the warm, soft skin underneath.
Peter wakes with a pain-filled gasp that turns into a cough. His eyes wide with confusion, he blinks rapidly before his gaze meets the pale blue eyes of the disheveled-looking man above him.
“Oh shit,” he rasps. “I died and went to hell to be eternally mugged by Neal Caffrey.”
“Surprised?” Neals face all but splits open with a grin makes no attempt at hiding his tremendous sense of relief.
“By you?” Peter’s voice is breathless. “Never.” He manages a semblance of a smirk before a coughing fit rips through him and his face contorts in pain. Neal’s smile vanishes in an instant. Under the kevlar vest his hand rests soothingly on Peter’s rattling chest as he waits patiently for the cough to subside. When it does, Peter’s head sinks back onto the snow-covered ground as he breathes through the worst of the pain.
“Caffrey, get that freezing cold hand of yours out from under there unless you’re planning to buy me dinner anytime soon,” Peter grumbles when he regains control over his voice. Neal retracts his hand and wishes it would stop shaking.
“You’ve been shot.”
“I’ve noticed.” Peter squints incredulously up at Neal as his right hand carefully touches his bleeding left shoulder. “Real perceptive, Caffrey.”
Neal’s eyes narrow with a hint of indignation, before an expression of genuine concern returns.
“Let me look at that?” The request comes out sounding like a question, Neal suddenly feeling self-conscious in the face of Peter’s sardonic attitude. With careful, trembling fingers he opens the vest’s Velcro shoulder strap and peels away the shirt and jacket that cover the bullet wound in Peter’s left shoulder.
“I think it went right through, but we need to stop the bleeding.”
Without hesitation Neal shrugs out of his pea coat and pulls the white V-neck T-shirt over his head. The cold air and thick snowflakes assault his bare skin and he rushes to slip back into the warmth of his jacket. He starts to pat the outside of Peter’s coat and pant pockets. Peter eyes him quizzically until the con man produces the small pocketknife hidden in Peter’s front right trouser pocket. Neal holds up the knife with a triumphant smile.
“I knew a boy scout like you would have one of these.” He unfolds the blade and cuts down the midline of the T-shirt. He rolls it up vertically and bisects the cotton to yield two long strips of dressing material. Neal cuts one of the pieces in two and folds one half into a thick rectangular pad and tucks it under Peter’s bloodstained shirt to cover the entry and exit wounds on his shoulder. Peter’s jaw is clenched as he struggles to bite back a scream and fails miserably when Neal applies gentle pressure.
“Sorry.” Neal mumbles and truly means it. “We need to hold this in place somehow.”
Peter nods weakly and turns his head to the side to watch Neal’s clumsy attempts to tie the remaining strip of cotton around his shoulder.
“Thread it under my left arm,” Peter instructs. “Then cross it over the left shoulder. Loop it under my right arm and tie the ends tightly.” He feels Neal’s hand wiggle between his chest and left upper arm to push one end of the sleeve under his shoulder blade. The pain is excruciating.
“Stop, stop,” he yells. His back arches off the ground, his right hand shooting up to claw at Neal’s jacket, nearly throwing the young man off balance. Neal reacts quickly and wraps an arm around Peter’s uninjured shoulder, gently pulling him into a sitting position. Peter slumps against his chest, his forehead coming to rest against the side of Neal’s neck. The young man remains motionless. Peter’s ragged breathing feels hot against his throat.
“You okay sitting up?” Neal asks softly when he feels Peter straighten and lift his head from its resting position against the con man’s collarbone. Peter nods mutely, still trying to regain his composure. Neal continues to apply the makeshift dressing to the injured shoulder, following Peter’s earlier instructions. He tucks the folded cotton compress under the bandage, pulling everything as tight as possible. He hopes the pressure on the wound will be enough to stem the bleeding for the time being.
“How does that feel?”
“Don’t quit your day job, Caffrey. You’re a terrible nurse.”
“I’m trying. Okay?” Neal feels utterly humiliated by the high-pitched whiny voice that doesn’t sound anything like his own.
Undoing the remaining Velcro straps that hold the kevlar vest in place, Neal slides the protective garment out from underneath Peter’s shirt and puts it aside. He can see the bruises that have begun to form on Peter’s chest where the bullets have impacted the vest and he winces with sympathy. Neal closes the shirt over Peter’s chest as well as his cold fingers and the missing buttons allow, then pulls the front of the sports coat closed. He doubts that the clothing will provide much comfort as Peter is thoroughly covered in wet heavy snow by now. The cold is going to hit him hard as soon as the adrenaline wears off. They will have to get moving soon.
Neal turns his attention to the bleeding wound on Peter’s thigh. Using the knife he widens the small hole in the pant leg. He dabs some of the blood away with the edge of the chino fabric and Peter’s leg twitches under his light touch. It looks like the bullet has missed major blood vessels but lodged itself deeply into the thigh muscle. He folds the remaining piece of T-shirt and presses it over the wound.
“Give me that sorry excuse for a tie around your neck.” Neal requests. Peter tugs at the knot and finally manages to pull the tie free. Neal watches his sluggish movements with concern. He wraps the tie around the thigh and ties a knot as he slowly pulls the fabric taut. Peter bites his lip when Neal continues to tighten the improvised bandage and pain sears up his body.
“Sorry. This needs to hold.” Neal’s voice is apologetic and small. Peter notices how the young man’s lips quiver with cold and tension as he repeatedly blinks away the snowflakes collecting on his eyelashes.
“You’re doing great, kiddo,” Peter replies warmly, all traces of ribbing sarcasm gone. He manages an encouraging half-smile that draws out a glimmer of relief in Neal’s eyes. He puts his right hand on Neal’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the heavy wool of the pea coat for leverage. “Now help me up. My butt’s freezing to the ground.”
Peter grunts with pain and Neal with effort as he pulls the agent to his feet. Peter sways unsteadily, his vision swimming, as he awkwardly clings to the young man’s coat. He feels Neal duck under his right arm and pull it across his shoulder.
“Ready?” Neal asks, shifting more of Peter’s weight onto his frame. With a sideways glance Peter eyeballs the young man at his side. With his coat front open, melting snow is running down Neal’s rapidly heaving bare chest. In his soaked pair of jeans and sockless footwear the young man looks anything but dressed for a trek though the snow-covered woodlands.
“Button your jacket, Neal. You’ll catch a bad case of death.” Peter’s tone is fatherly, and Neal catches himself with the urge to roll his eyes in juvenile annoyance. Peter watches patiently as Neal closes three of the large buttons. “Attaboy. Now let’s roll. Where to, anyway?”
“My car.”
“You don’t have a car.” Neal pleads the fifth and starts pulling the agent in the direction of the parked car.
Continued in part 3.2