Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television, and is merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: T
Summary: Neal is in serious trouble and this time, Peter might not be able to help him.
Author's notes: The story is completely written, but not yet betaed. I will post as fast as possible, but my wonderful, ever patient beta, Susan, is in the process of moving house, so the chapters might not appear with my customary speed.
When I finished my last story, I promised the next one would be shorter. I lied. My muse took off in a completely unexpected direction, and my efforts to rein her in were in vain. Actually, I blame my son who suggested I brought Garrett Fowler back. I don't think this was what he meant.
I started writing this right at the beginning of Season 4, so this is based on a time line after Neal's return from the islands, but before the whole family shenanigans. There really aren't any spoilers other than that.
Senseless Chapter 1
Agent Peter Burke experienced no presentiment of disaster at the ringing of his phone. Its simple tones were no inherent harbinger of doom. The weekend had left him feeling mellow despite its inauspicious beginnings the previous week. His father had called to say that his mother needed to go into hospital for a minor operation and would he mind coming up. Further questioning and some consultation with El had revealed that it was truly a routine procedure, and his presence was needed more for moral support than for a potential farewell. El offered to perform the same function for him, but he knew she had deadlines coming up, so regretfully declined.
The surgery was on a Friday, so Peter took a long weekend and drove up after work on the Thursday night. To the relief of father and son, everything had gone smoothly, and Mrs. Burke was due to be released from the hospital the following day. Visiting hours were over, and the two men had returned home. Peter's father had insisted on fixing them both sandwiches, so the agent was sitting on the porch, allowing himself a moment to wax nostalgic. There was still a reminiscent smile on his face as he plucked the phone from his pocket.
"Peter Burke." He hadn't bothered to look at the display, but he recognized Diana's dulcet tones immediately.
"Hi, Boss."
Peter had left his customary instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed unless somebody died or Neal did something stupid. Either way, it didn't bode well, and he felt a slight sinking feeling in his stomach.
"What's Neal done now?" he asked, half as a joke, but it contained an edge of trepidation.
"It's not good, Boss. He's been arrested."
"Dammit!" Without conscious thought, Peter was on his feet, shoes describing a tight circle on the worn boards in what could almost be called a spin. "What the hell happened?"
Neal certainly had a deleterious effect on his language and his patience. Despite that, his first question was not now a repetition of, 'what has he done?' His immediate thought, perhaps due to Kramer's machinations, was that Neal's past had caught up with him. There was also a more inchoate fear that his CI had been engaged in one of his well-intentioned, but totally illegal, investigative shortcuts, breaking into the house of a suspect or pulling a con on the wrong witness. Only on the most haunted, paranoid, unconscious level did the idea that Neal had committed a cold-blooded crime fester.
It wasn't that he considered Neal rehabilitated. From impulse, bad judgment, bad company or even misplaced charity, Neal was always in danger of sliding perilously close to or over the border of legality. He deliberately skirted its boundaries, yet Peter truly believed his friend's moral compass had swung to a truer North. His sense of right and wrong was strong, just slightly askew from that written in the law books. Quixotic crimes had replaced shallow, selfish gain.
None of these rationalizations stopped the queasy feeling in Peter's stomach from boarding the express elevator to the basement. He was already calculating what he'd have to do to get his young friend out of jail this time. All speculation ground to a halt with Diana's next words. "We don't have all the details, but he was arrested for murder."
Incredulity and an inappropriate sense of relief startled a short laugh from him. "That's ridiculous. Neal's no killer. He never used violence in any of the crimes we even remotely connected him with. In fact, the nearest I came to catching him the first year was when he stayed to help a security guard who'd had a heart attack. I don't know what Neal's got himself into; I'll buy self-defense at the outside, but it's more likely that he's just an innocent bystander – to murder at least. I'll bet there's some other explanation."
Peter's forceful response had brought his father to the front door, so he shot the older man a forced smile and lifted a pacifying hand to indicate that he was fine.
"We have very little information at the moment." Diana's voice was tentative, an occurrence rare enough to ring warning bells. "But we do have the name of the dead man. It was Garrett Fowler."
Peter sat down abruptly. Luckily his meanderings had not taken him far from his seat, or he would have ended up on the floor. Garrett Fowler – maybe the exception that proved the rule - the one person Neal had tried to kill. In retrospect, Peter was not sure that had been his CI's intent. He'd seemed more focused on forcing a confession, or at least information, but anything was possible in the heat of the moment.
Peter remembered the terror of that moment, the poised knife edge of tragedy. It wasn't Fowler's fate that concerned him, but Neal's. Two lives would have ended there if Neal had pulled the trigger with intent, and Peter felt responsible. In the spirit of the promise of openness they had made, he had passed on the information that had triggered the events. He'd seen the brittle quality of Neal's smile in the van when he'd divulged the news, and sensed his desperation when he'd benched him. He should never have let Neal leave unsupervised.
Neal had been hanging over a precipice of both their making, and he was slipping out of Peter's grasp despite the agent's attempt to tighten his grip. It took every ounce of authority he possessed over the young man, and, more importantly, every fiber of the connection they shared, to pull him back to safety, from the destruction of his life and a perpetual future in jail or on the run. Afterwards, Mozzie's shooting had acted as more of a reprimand than anything Peter could have devised.
Peter was vaguely aware that Diana was still speaking, but the hand holding the phone had fallen onto his thigh, and his brain was too occupied to send a signal to lift it again. It made no sense; Neal had moved on. Moreover, he had accepted that Fowler wasn't responsible for Kate's death. Why had Fowler made a reappearance in New York? Peter hadn't kept tabs on the man. At the time he had been at something of a loss to know how to best deal with the errant agent. Lacking any concrete evidence against him, it had seemed best to cut him loose. Truth be told, Peter held a certain sympathy for the man which had only been enhanced by Elizabeth's kidnapping at the hands of Keller. By all accounts, Fowler had been a good agent before the death of his wife. Judging by Peter's own inclination to throttle Keller, his own reaction wouldn't have been so very different.
Neal had no more interest in Fowler, and with the death of Adler, he had gently, but firmly, closed the chapter of his life labeled 'Kate.' How had the two men crossed paths again with such devastating results? It was a place to start. He picked up the phone. "Diana, I'm heading back. I want to know everything that Fowler's done since he last left the FBI building, and everything that happened last night. I should be back in around five hours."
"Boss, you do realize that we're not officially on this case. It's NYPD homicide's jurisdiction."
"It may not be our case, but Neal's our CI. That makes it our business. I'll see you soon."
He turned to find his father standing beside him, a rueful smile on his face, Peter's suitcase in one hand, a paper plate with a sandwich in the other. "It sounded urgent, so I took the liberty of packing your things."
Peter took the proffered bag, then placed it on the ground to give his father a quick but heartfelt hug. "I'm sorry, Dad. It's an emergency."
"I can tell; I've seen that expression before." At Peter's raised eyebrow, his father elaborated. "In the mirror when you had that motorbike accident when you were 17."
There was something in that concept that Peter wasn't ready to examine, especially not at that moment, so he deflected it with humour. "That's when the gray hairs started, right? Well, at this rate, I'll be either bald from tearing out my own hair or completely grey within the year."
"I hope things work out, son. Keep in touch."
Peter remembered little of the drive back to the city. His mind churned with worry and speculation. He didn't believe Neal was guilty of murder, but even if he proved his friend innocent, the charges were serious and Neal's position in the department was precarious. Each time Neal ended up in jail or in serious trouble, it became harder to convince the review board that their deal was in the best interests of the FBI. So far, their unmatched closure rate and Hughes' backing had tipped the balance in their favor. Peter was now firmly convinced that Neal did not belong in jail. In fact, the thought of the danger and privations his friend would suffer there truly nauseated him. Not only could he not protect Neal there, but their relationship actively jeopardized him. Peter would go to considerable lengths to prevent that from happening.
He had just crossed back into the city when his phone rang again. Diana sounded harried and apologetic. "Sorry, Boss. The news just gets worse. Neal's disappeared from his holding cell. It looks like he's escaped."
"No, no, no, no!" Peter slammed the steering wheel in frustration. The car behind honked as he failed to move on at a green light, but Peter ignored him, his mind occupied with this new catastrophe. "What about his anklet?"
"It was damaged in some way during the confrontation and isn't sending a signal any more."
"We need to find him before anyone else does. I'm nearly back, and I've got a few ideas. I want you to find Sara and tell Jones to try to locate Mozzie. If that fails, contact June."
The hapless steering wheel received another blow before Peter eased back into the traffic. He had to find Neal immediately if he wanted to exercise damage control. Where would his partner go? Peter once told Kramer that Neal ran when under pressure, but like an Eskimo had different words for snow, there needed to be different words for Neal's flights. There were the genuine abscondments –- fleeing the law to countries without extradition - but he would only pull that now if truly guilty, and Peter was sure he wasn't. There were the short term bolts, temporarily evading the consequences of unwise actions. There were short skips of panic, flits for home.
Peter had learned to deduce the tenor of flight from his friend's mood and the mischief he'd committed. He knew that when Neal was accused unjustly, his running was a plea for help, and he was desperately hoping that Neal would run to him, as he had when Fowler had first appeared in their lives.
Urgency trumped discretion, and he slapped on the siren to make his way home through the night traffic as fast as possible unmolested by local police. Not wanting to spook Neal into more precipitous action, he turned it off as he approached the house. Everyone else on the street had already come home to roost, and there was nowhere to park, so, leaving the lights flashing as a precaution, he abandoned the car double-parked and sprinted to the front door. He flung it open, startling Satchmo, who had crept illicitly onto the sofa.
"Neal!' he shouted but there was no response. He called again, and the dog participated in his master's madness by contributing cheerful barking. The noise echoed emptily in the space, but Peter ignored the implications and strode into the kitchen, glancing around before running upstairs. He checked the bedroom that had been designated as Neal's for those nights when they returned too late from a stakeout to swing by June's.
Equally despondent and frustrated, he stared around the pristine, vacant room. Refusing to surrender to either emotion, he trudged downstairs, trying to work out Neal's next most likely destination. Satchmo's nose nudged the back of his leg, a slight vibration indicating a hopefully wagging tail. Peter's hand fell automatically to ruffle his ears, and his palm brushed something unusual. His pulse quickened at the sight of the paper wrapped around his dog's collar. He detached it and unfolded it carefully. Written in Neal's inimitably stylish script was one word – "Sorry."
He's missed him. Neal had sought him out, needing his help, and he'd failed him. Peter's heart slammed against his ribs in an alarming jump as he turned the page over and noticed the discoloration on the back – a smear of blood. Not in sufficient quantities to suggest anything life threatening, but providing notice that something was wrong.
What would Neal try next? Peter shoved the paper into his pocket and, in the same motion, pulled out his phone. El didn't usually work this late, but knowing Peter would be absent, she was maximizing her time in the office.
"Hi, Hon. Is everything alright?"
Her voice was immediately soothing to his frazzled nerves. "I'm fine," he reassured her hurriedly, "But Neal's in trouble. I need to contact Mozzie." He knew the little man had asked her not to divulge the number, so he added. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't an emergency."
"It's 555 8939. But I don't think he's around. He said something about Paris."
"Thanks Hon. You're wonderful." He really loved his wife. She didn't even waste time asking for explanations. He quickly dialed the number she'd given him, but there was no response.
"Dammit!" Peter returned to intense contemplation. Neal was running but doing so reluctantly. He didn't want to leave, so he'd tried to find Peter. Where would he go next? Peter sat down heavily on the sofa, phone still held limply in his hand. He was blind to his surroundings while his mind rifled through thousands of shared memories, searching for hints of likely exit strategies.
NYPD would be searching for their missing suspect, so Neal couldn't take the obvious transit routes out of the city. If Mozzie were truly out of country, it ruled out his seemingly endless sources of offbeat transportation, but Peter wouldn't put it past the two of them to have an emergency route preplanned. Mozzie especially liked back up plans for any situation. It probably involved hopping on an obscure freighter for some banana republic. Of course, just to be contrary, it was just as likely to be a luxury cruiser. Or maybe Neal would find a place to hole up until interest in him had died down, then make his escape.
This line of enquiry was getting him nowhere. Trying to predict Neal's travel plans had never been the way to catch him. Neal could be intensely practical, but he was also sentimental. Peter had always found him through his attachments to those he cared for – Kate, Ellen Parker, Mozzie and even Peter himself. Neal was most predictable in his loyalties and affections. Kate was gone, and he had Sara covered, although he didn't think the relationship between the two was strong enough to pull Neal back. Neal had gone to Elizabeth before, as Peter's proxy, but she would have mentioned it if he'd been in contact. It seemed like another dead end.
Neal had come to his house for help, so he wanted Peter to find him. Even without his anklet on, the two-mile radius might provide a psychological barrier, a symbolic proof of his good intentions. It was Saturday. Maybe Neal was waiting for him at 'Friday,' Mozzie's old safehouse. It was worth a shot.
Peter gave Satchmo a last pat and locked the door behind him. As he returned to his car, a few curtains twitched, but that seemed to have been the only interest the flashing light had generated.
Halfway to 'Friday', Peter changed his mind. It just didn't feel right. When in trouble, Neal's instincts were to run, not hide. There were a handful of places where Neal had run before and Peter had followed. There was the small airstrip where 'Mentor' had arranged for him to depart the country, but Kate had died there, and Peter couldn't see his CI voluntarily revisiting the location. Slightly more likely was the airfield where Jones had been captured. It might have more positive associations, but it was hard to arrange an illicit flight on such short notice.
It was possible that Neal had hot-wired a car – it was certainly within his skill set, and it offered greater flexibility and anonymity. Perhaps he was waiting in the obscure location where they'd rendezvoused after Peter's 'borrowing' of the Lamborghini. It still didn't match all the items on Peter's mental check list, and it didn't trip his internal Neal sensor, that sixth sense that clued him in to his partner's whereabouts and well-being.
There was only one place that did – the tram to Roosevelt Island. It marked the boundary of Neal's radius and was an unlikely exodus from Manhattan. It was also where Peter had expanded his radius, allowing Neal to right an old wrong, before following him in time to render vital aid, symbolically choosing his partner over his old mentor and the force of the FBI. It all fit and suddenly Peter's Neal sonar was pinging a satisfied refrain.
This time, Peter wanted to draw no attention to himself. He'd betrayed Neal's position to the authorities once before, and it was a mistake he wouldn't make again, but the sands of time were running out and every grain weighed heavily on his foot. He had to consciously ease back on the accelerator every mile. He parked in an inconspicuous space, pulling on a baseball cap before exiting the car, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.
He scanned the small crowd there, working a visual search pattern, but to no avail. He moved casually further into the area and finally, in the viewing area where he'd last seen Kramer glaring stonily at him, he spotted a familiar figure. Wavy black hair was concealed under a baseball cap that was almost the twin of Peter's. Casual clothes hung off him in an unfamiliar manner, but Peter would recognize him anywhere. Less familiar was the tension that ridged his shoulders while his eyes were fixed on the other side of the river.
Relief branched warmly through Peter's veins, and he took a moment to relish the sensation, taking his first unconstrained breath since Diana's first call. He knew the moment Neal sensed his presence by the way he relaxed his stance and his head slumped forward. Peter sauntered forward, adopting a similar pose to his friend, arms resting on the iron railing and looking out over the water.
"Nice view," he commented as a neutral opener.
"I was thinking it was getting a little boring."
"Ah, well, there's a reason for that," Peter said sagely. "There's no one doing death-defying stunts up there." The first two fingers of his right hand gave an illustrative hop. "Things would liven up if that happened."
"I hear that riding on top of the tram is the only true way to travel," Neal offered gravely.
Peter looked up and out, remembering the jolt of true terror he'd experienced as he'd realized his friend's intentions. After seeing it accomplished, he'd give it ten out of ten for sheer daring and creative brilliance, but a negative seventeen for self-preservation. "If they gave Nobel prizes for self-destructive decisions, you'd be on the plane to Sweden right now."
He was no longer referring to Neal's daring jump, and they both knew it. Neal however, evaded the issue. "Actually the peace prize is issued in Oslo, Norway. I think the award you are referring to is the Darwin award. However, I don't qualify because you have to be dead to be nominated, you know, removing yourself from the gene pool."
"It's these perfectly priceless pieces of trivia that make me want to keep you around." It was a not-so-subtle declaration of Peter's intentions. He risked a glance sideways at his partner, but the shadows and the peak of Neal's cap concealed his expression.
Peter turned round, now leaning backwards with his elbows against the railing. He figured one of them should keep an eye on potential trouble approaching, and it was better if Neal kept his face hidden. Without looking like he was doing more than shooting the breeze with a friend, he watched a couple of beat cops walk past. He said nothing more, allowing Neal to digest what he'd already said and start the next conversational gambit.
"Are you going to arrest me?" Neal's voice was low and impossibly young.
If there were any doubts on the issue in Pete's mind, they were settled at that moment. His decisions might be damaging to his career prospects, but his priorities had changed in the last few years. He smiled softly, at peace with himself. "I believe I'm retiring from the business of arresting you, although I reserve the right to keep my options open. Besides, I'm on leave right now. I'm not going to arrest someone when I'm off duty. What's more, I haven't been to the office, so I'm not caught up on the latest developments."
"Then why are you here?"
"Would you believe it's just an amazing coincidence? I just happened to wander by and met my best friend and partner here."
Neal gave a low pained laugh. "Is that the best you can come up with? I can practically see your nose growing from here."
Peter glanced down at the referenced appendage, causing him to go temporarily cross-eyed. He scratched his lower lip with the edge of his thumb. He'd known that Neal wasn't going to make this easy for him. His partner kept his defenses up at the best of times and, poised to run, wary and scared, he'd raised deflection to an art form. However, Peter theorised that the thicker the armor, the more chinks existed, and he carefully aimed a verbal arrow right for a vulnerable area.
"You haven't heard my most important reason for not arresting you yet."
Neal said nothing, but Peter could feel that every cell was tuned in to his frequency.
"You didn't kill him."
It was a palpable hit. Peter could see its impact in the shudder that ran through his friend's body and the white knuckles that grasped the railings. Neal had so rarely been offered unqualified trust, at least by those who saw beneath the surface.
"Then you understand why I have to go," he forced out hoarsely.
"On the contrary, that's exactly why you have to stay," Peter returned promptly.
"Peter, they are accusing me of murder!" In his agitation Neal's voice rose, and he took a quick glance around to make sure no one had overheard before continuing. "It would be life in prison and I couldn't...I just couldn't. Either I'd escape, which would leave me in the same position as if I ran now, or I'd..." He broke off with a savage twist of his lips which left Peter in no illusion as to the alternative.
"I just couldn't do it," he repeated. "You have no idea what it's like. You can't imagine."
This time it was Peter who winced. At the time, he had genuinely believed that a check to the young man's headstrong, destructive career was vital. If Neal had continued in the direction he was going, it was only a matter of time before a security guard's bullet or a vengeful mark ended his life, or he became more hardened to the distress of others and lost his principles. Either way, considering the variety and extent of his crimes, a four-year sentence had been remarkably light, no more than a slap on the wrist.
Part of Peter believed still believed these rationalisations, but a much larger part, the part that called Neal partner and friend and cared for him so deeply, now recoiled at the cost of those years. "You're missing the point. You're innocent. You're not going to jail."
Neal shot him an incredulous look. "I hate to burst your idealistic bubble, but there are innocent men in prison."
"None that I put there," Peter shot back defensively.
"This isn't your case. You won't be allowed to work on it."
"You think that's going to stop me?"
"Don't you think I've damaged your career enough for one lifetime? Do you want to go back to filing boxes?"
Stung, Peter grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him around until they were face to face for the first time. "I think I've already proved that you mean more to me than my career. Have I done anything to make you think otherwise?"
"I didn't mean it like that," Neal protested. "I just don't want to screw things up for you again."
Peter was no longer listening. He could feel a constant tremble ripple through the arm he held, and even in the artificial light he could see that there was something wrong with Neal's color - an unnatural pasty gray. As he peered closer, he could also see a glazed, unfocused look in Neal's eyes.
Neal tried to pull away, but the agent held him firmly, but gently. "You're hurt!"
"I'm fine," Neal stated automatically.
"What happened to your promise not to lie to me?" Peter couldn't help wondering where his friend's inability to admit vulnerability came from. He hoped Neal had run to his mother with a skinned knee when he was young, that it was a recent development, merely part of a conman's exterior.
"I'm not," Neal insisted. "It's not that bad, just a bump to the head. I've had worse."
That was one of Peter's least favorite assertions to hear. "Neal, look at me."
With a put-upon sigh, his friend complied. Peter had enough medical experience to come up with a quick diagnosis. "You have a concussion. How did it happen?"
Neal's veneer of composure cracked. "I don't know. I don't remember. That's why I have to go. What am I supposed to tell the judge? 'Yeah, I know my fingerprints are on the gun and powder residue shows that I fired it, but I didn't do it.' I just don't see that going down well. But I didn't, Peter. I swear I didn't. I had no reason to. I just don't remember what happened."
This changed everything. Peter turned back towards the water again, his posture no longer displaying its earlier tranquillity. "I believe you. How much time have you lost?"
"I don't know. Ten or fifteen minutes, I suppose."
Some memory loss wasn't unusual with a head injury, but it did complicate the matter. "Do you remember why you were there, why you went over to his place?"
"Yes, I remember that. It's not amnesia. I just don't remember how I got the blow to the head and what happened afterwards. Anyway, none of that matters now. I have to go. It's 3 a.m. and the last tram leaves in 30 minutes, and I'm going to be on it."
"No, you're not." Peter's denial was automatic.
"Are you going to stop me?" On the surface it was a challenge, but underneath it, Peter heard the plea and understood. Neal wanted his partner to override his instinct to run, to give him a reason to stay. He heard once again his friend's voice from the hanger, 'You are the only one who can change my mind.'
He rocked back on his heels, torn between the answer he wanted to give and the answer he should give. "No, I'm not. You're a grown man, and you have to make your own decisions. But I know you don't want to run."
Neal's laugh was bitter. "Oh, Peter. You underestimate both my survival instincts and my peripatetic desires."
"No, I don't," Peter denied firmly. "I know you, and I know it might be your first instinct, but underneath, you're tired of running. It might have been necessary once, it might have even been fun, starting life anew, with fresh possibilities, leaving behind betrayals and failure. But now you have everything to lose and you've already lost too much."
Neal's trembling had increased, a constant vibration that Peter believed was no longer entirely physical, so he slipped his arm up around his partner's shoulder, offering comfort, but also a tactile reminder of what he had to lose. He didn't need to enumerate the losses; judging by the moisture on Neal's cheek, he was already doing that himself.
Peter was playing dirty pool, and the guilt tasted acid in his mouth. He couldn't even claim his actions were entirely altruistic. The six weeks he'd spent without his partner the last time Neal had run had taught him that life without Neal was considerably dimmer, duller and filled with formless worry. Neal had added an extra dimension to his life, one he hadn't known he'd needed. He might claim it was full of exasperation, but it was also full of fun, excitement, and the trust and love of friendship.
He was ready to acknowledge exactly what Neal meant to him and how far he'd go to fight for him. Alleviating his guilt was the knowledge that he was mostly doing this for Neal. Going on the run with a murder charge hanging over his head, every hand would be turned against him; his life would be miserable and almost certainly short. Peter only had one chance to fix this, and it had to be now.
However, it was obvious to him from the taut muscles under his hand, that Neal had not reached the same conclusion. Indecision quivered through the long muscles of his legs and the set of his spine. Maybe it was because of the head injury, but clearly instinct was overriding logic. Peter needed to give him something more concrete to hold onto. He turned Neal to face him again, a hand on each shoulder as much to steady his friend as for any other reason.
"Listen to me. I guarantee that you won't go to jail. I promise you that. I will clear you."
Neal's eyes flickered to meet his, desperate hope fighting with disbelief. "You can't promise me that, Peter."
Facts were irrelevant against Peter's insistent conviction, his mouth set with assurance. "Yes, I can. You know me. You know my record. You think I'm going to let this one slip when it's so important to me?"
There was a shuddering exhale. "The evidence says I'm guilty."
"Your head injury says something else went on there."
"They don't give anklets to killers, Peter, even if it was self defense. It's over."
Peter wanted to shake him, but remembered the head injury in time. "I'm asking you to trust me. I won't let anything happen to you."
Crystal blue eyes were dull with despair. "Of course I trust you. You've always had my back, but this is different. It's not your case. They're not going to let you work on it. Anyway, it's already too late. I'm already a fugitive. I broke out of my holding cell, remember."
Peter wasn't going to let details stand in the way of necessity. "It's not too late. I can fix that. You're injured and didn't receive the proper medical treatment. You were confused and scared and went looking for me. You surrendered yourself to me, a Federal officer. I'm going to take you to the hospital and have that diagnosis verified. We can make it stick."
For a moment, Peter thought he'd won, but with the catastrophic timing of a reprieve call to death row a minute after the switch has been pulled, the speaker system announced the final tram of the night. Neal tore himself free. "I have to go!" he gasped.
"No! You have to understand." Peter played his final card, brutal but true. "Neal, if you leave, you can never come back. You'll have burnt all your bridges." Hand empty, Peter was left with a last desperate gamble. "I'm not making this decision for you. I'll wait in the car."
On impulse, he pulled his friend into a hug, aware that this might be the last time they saw each other. It was hard to let go, but he released him with a final pat. "You have a choice, Neal. Please make the right one - for both our sakes."
He walked away, resisting the impulse to look back.