Hi, everyone! This is that idea I previewed at the end of Dance with the Devil. I hope you enjoy it, and please, tell me what you think! Thanks for reading!
~Erika
Neal walked into his apartment with a weary sigh, his mail in one hand, his coat in the other. It was dark outside his window. He was exhausted. He had had a fight with Peter before he left the office. Peter had misplaced his wallet, and for some reason, he got the idea into his head that Neal had taken it. He could be so prejudiced sometimes.
The conman flipped through the stack of mail as he got himself a glass of water and tossed his phone onto the table. Most of it was junk, but one thing stuck out. It was a plain white envelope. Neal's address was written on it in block letters, but there was no return address. Curious, he opened the envelope and took out its contents: a page-long letter.
Dear Mr. Caffrey,
I have to say, it's a great thrill to finally communicate with you. I have followed your work closely. I am quite the fan of yours, to tell you the truth.
As Neal read the letter, he began to feel strange. His fingertips were tingling, and his heart was beginning to race. He took a drink of his water, shrugged it off, and kept reading.
I think that it's time we meet. We could do so many great things, you and I. You may not see it now, but you will. Soon.
Neal was having trouble catching his breath. He began to see double. His hands were trembling. He knew something was wrong. But he couldn't stop himself from reading on.
I'll keep this short, since I'm sure that by now, the poison I laced this paper with has begun to soak into your bloodstream. It may have even started to take effect already. Don't worry, Neal, you won't die. You'll just be unconscious for several hours, more than enough time for me to get you out of there. I'm sure you're starting to regret opening this letter. I hope that after we meet you'll change your opinion. But in the mean time, you know what they say...
Neal's vision swam. He dropped his water. The glass shattered into countless pieces on the floor, and water went everywhere. He saw his cell phone on the table, and went for it. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table, and snatched up the phone. There was no time to call Peter. Nine. His hand was shaking so badly, he was afraid he'd misdial and waste precious time, time that he was sure he didn't have. One. Suddenly, his legs couldn't seem to support his weight anymore. He fell to the floor, dropping the paper and his phone. He watched helplessly as the phone, his only hope of saving himself, skidded from his grasp and slid under the fridge, out of sight. Seconds later, he was completely unconscious.
...curiosity killed the cat.
Peter got the call around two in the morning. Neal Caffrey officially ran. After everything, he ran. He was still trying to make sense of it when he parked his car in front of Neal's house and made his way up to the apartment, where Jones and Diana were waiting for him.
"It doesn't look good, Boss," Diana told him when he came up. "Neal's anklet is on the table. Some of his clothes are missing. There's no sign of a struggle or anything to dispute the statement that Neal ran."
"Neal wouldn't run," Peter said firmly. "Not now. I mean, there was no warning. Nothing that would make me suspect that he was thinking about running."
"Caffrey's an impressive liar, Peter," Jones reminded him. "None of us saw this coming."
Peter sighed, but didn't say anything else. It didn't take them long to finish up their search of the apartment. Neal Caffrey wasn't one to leave a trace when he wanted to disappear.
The next morning, Peter sat in his office, trying to find some kind explanation for what had happened.
"Peter," Diana, with Jones at her side, walked into her boss's office. "We got something. One of Caffrey's aliases bought a one-way plane ticket to Italy last night. Unfortunately, the plane left before we could stop it."
"Well, there you go," Peter grinned. "Neal didn't run. Now, did you have any luck tracing Neal's phone?"
Jones and Diana exchanged glances, confused.
"Yeah, the signal says it's still in his apartment, but we didn't find it the first time through. There's a team there now...Peter, we just told you he did run," Jones told him.
"Neal's not dumb enough to use a name he knows we know about," Peter smiled.
"But he doesn't know we know about this one," Diana told him, handing over the file in her hand.
Peter took it from her and looked at the name on the airline ticket. "Jonathon Adams," he muttered to himself. Then he remembered. "That's the one he used in Spain for like three months, right?" Diana nodded.
Peter sighed. "Neal, what did you do...?"
When Neal finally came to, his head was aching. His mouth was like cotton. His eyes burned. The consultant sat up and found himself lying on a bed in a decent sized bedroom with an attached bathroom. There was a television on the dresser in front of the bed. In the wardrobe to his right, Neal could see a few of his suits hanging. He had no idea where he was, or how he was going to get home. The conman slid out of bed and went to the door, turning the handle and finding it locked. Next, he tried the window. No luck there either.
Neal jumped when he heard the door open behind him, and whirled around. A man stood in the doorway. He was about six-foot-two, with dark hair and green eyes. Neal guessed his age to be about twenty-six.
"Hello, Neal," the man greeted him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. And sorry about the living arrangements; can't have you running off before we have a chance to reach an understanding."
"Who are you?" Neal demanded. "Where am I? Why am I here?"
"Oh, right, how rude of me," the man chuckled. "My name is Jack. And you, Neal Caffrey, are somewhere the FBI won't find you. Neal, you read my letter. You know what I want. I want you to be free and back to business as usual."
"Really?" Neal sounded skeptical. "Well thanks, but no thanks. I'm happy living the way I am."
"That's the problem, Neal," Jack said earnestly. "They've actually got you believing that."
"No they don't," Neal tried to convince him. "Look, just...let me go home."
"See, that's not an option," Jack informed him.
"Why not?" Neal asked, his skin growing slightly pale. "What did you do?"
"Well let's see..." Jack sighed. "When we left, I took some of your clothes. I put your anklet on the kitchen table. I cleaned up the glass and the water so there was no sign of a struggle. The letter I wrote has been destroyed. And then, to top it all off, I bought a plane ticket to Italy using one of your old aliases—John Adams, you remember him, don't you?—so, sorry, Neal. But they think you ran. There's no turning back."
"You son of a bitch," Neal shouted, stepping forward and shoving the man. Jack stumbled back into the wall by the door. "You've ruined everything! I had a life! I had friends! I was happy!"
Jack, angry and frustrated, pulled a gun from behind his back and aimed it at Neal. The conman instantly fell silent and froze. "There's no need to get violent, Neal," Jack said with an icy calmness. "And for the record, you're wrong."
"Oh am I?" Neal laughed, seeming to find this amusing
"Yes!" Jack said with an exasperated sigh. "Don't you see that? They gave you the illusion of freedom, but you were still in a cage! They had you on a leash with a choke collar. I still don't understand why you didn't run before. I personally put my money on Stockholm Syndrome."
"I was happy where I was," Neal repeated firmly. "Peter was—is—my friend. I don't know what you were hoping to accomplish, here, but it's not going to work. I'm not the same person I was before."
Jack laughed, his gun still aimed steadily at the man before him. "Oh, that's rich," he said between laughs. "Wow, they've really got you wrapped around their finger, don't they? Come on, Neal. Don't lie. You can't honestly say to me...I mean, you can't look me in the eye and say without a shadow of a doubt that you don't miss it."
"Miss what?" Neal pretended to be oblivious, even though he knew exactly what he was talking about.
"The thrill!" Jack said impatiently. "Aw, don't tell me you've gone soft on me, Caffrey. You know what I mean. The thrill, the rush, the...high, for lack of a better word, that comes with the con. No one can just walk away from that and quit cold turkey. It's not possible. Admit it, Caffrey. You're just itching to get back in the game. You're lying to yourself if you think otherwise."
"I don't want to go back to the way I was before," Neal told him. "I am perfectly happy where I am now, pulling FBI sanctioned...and not quite so sanctioned...cons. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go home and try to convince Peter that I didn't run, and maybe—just maybe—get my life back while I'm at it."
Neal started for the door. Jack moved to block his path, both hands on his gun, aiming it expertly, like Peter did. He had done this before. The look in the young man's eyes told him that he had not only aimed a gun before, but used one, too. And not for hunting. No, Jack had used a gun on a person before. And the gleam of anticipation in his eyes told him that he had liked it. Neal had to be careful. This guy was a psychopath, and he held all the cards.
"I'm not asking, Neal," Jack said firmly. "I'm not taking no for an answer. I'm not going to let someone as talented as you spend the rest of your life as the FBI's performing monkey. You're better than that. You'll thank me later. I promise."
Neal watched as Jack turned and left the room, leaving the conman alone with his thoughts. He heard the lock click into place, sealing him inside the room. Neal sighed and reached into his suit jacket pocket, pulling out Jack's cell phone. He had seen it in his captor's breast pocket, and when he shoved him, he made sure to lift it off of him. Neal sat down on the edge of the bed closest to the window, his back to the door, and called Peter...
They say curiosity killed the cat. But frankly speaking, aren't we all guilty of that? We all have questions we'd like to have answers to, but cannot find. It may not be to our advantage, but no stone will be left unturned, or left behind. If you're looking for the proper answers, don't veer off course. Just be certain it's coming from the right source. Most importantly, make sure what you're being told is true. Then beyond a doubt, you're going to find out, and all your wondering days will be through! -Audrey Heller
