Chapter 2
It wasn't the hollow echoing silence nor the long dragging hours in solitude nor was it the monotony of the bad food nor the unspeakable boredom nor even how acutely he missed Elizabeth that kept Peter awake at night. It was not the hard military cot which was sadly lacking springs, nor was it the threadbare woolen blanket tossed in after him as the jail cell door clanged shut either. It was the bewildering hurt the FBI agent felt that cut so deep in his psychic – or was it his heart? – that bayed at Peter's mind with a cruelty unmatched by anything he'd ever encountered.
The fact that Peter was locked in jail, actually the special "Isolation Unit" reserved for officers of the law, did not occupy his mind as much as – why? Why did Neal betray him? Neal would have known, when he and Mozzie flew away with billions of dollars of art from the now famed sunken Nazi U-boat, that all eyes would turn to his "handler". Peter fell under suspicion so quickly it was almost as though Neal and Mozzie plotted to make it so. Why, why, why? It was the sea of "whys" that kept the suspended agent awake at night, staring unseeingly at the peeling sea form green paint on the ceiling of his 8 by 8 foot cell.
That he'd misjudged Neal Caffrey ate him like a cancer chasing its' victim to an early grave. His own trusted gut betrayed him as well. He'd been conned. By the very best of them, granted. Everything – the friendship Peter offered Neal, the give-and-take banter, the basic goodness he sensed in the young man – it was all a con, lies, lies, lies. A shimmering mirage in a desert of his own gullibility. Peter berated himself mercilessly, assuring his imprisoned self sternly that he deserved to be in jail if nothing else just for the sheer stupidity he evidenced in befriending – sincerely befriending – a known con artist.
Three years of working together – and Neal felt no friendship for him, no caring, not the least iota of humanity. Peter was only a mark – one of thousands, undoubtedly. Probably Neal conjured the con up long before his escape to find Kate, he plotted and planned the whole thing with meticulous care - a masterpiece of deception and cunning. Worthy of a spot in the Louvre, decided Peter morosely. People generations from now could walk by and admire Neal's artistry, thought Peter, tossing and turning on his uncomfortable narrow bed. Peter imagined the fine marble stand, the golden display case, the cryptic title in front: "Anatomy of a Con", artist Unknown. After all, wasn't the very name 'Neal Caffrey' a lie as well?
Without her sweet loving Peter snuggled next to her in bed, Elizabeth, too, was awake. Although her thoughts ran in a different vein from her husband's that night. Wrinkles she'd never seen before had suddenly appeared on his now sallow face. His body was stooped and aged, he look 20 years older But that wasn't what concerned her most. In the dark of night as the shadows of passing cars flickered past their little house, dancing deceptively cheerily across her bedroom wall, it came to her. Defeat. Since the shock of discovering Neal and Mozzie gone, along with the artwork, Peter had progressed from disbelief, to anger, to deep hurt and finally to numb depression. Peter wouldn't defend himself to his accusers. Interrogated day after day, Peter simply refused to talk except to repeat Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones were not involved. He, Peter Burke, he alone was responsible. Neal Caffrey was his responsibility from the beginning - and would be to the end. It was in writing (actually it was).
Just as Elizabeth was remaking her bed for the third time that night, the doorbell rang and she jumped a foot at the tinny grating off-key sound that Peter had promised to fix but never did. Oddly, Satchmo hadn't warned her there was anyone on the porch. Who could it be? Slowly she crept down the stairs, cell phone in one hand, Peter's old Smith and Wesson revolver in the other. "Some watchdog," she remonstrated in a whisper, glaring at Satchmo in the street light coming through the front windows. The big dog whined, then circled two times, and laid back down on the throw rug by the couch with a heavy sigh as though to point out dogs too have a right to sleep. Elizabeth slowly pulled back the curtain and peered outside but there was no one there. Great, she thought to herself. Just great. She turned to go back to bed when Satchmo whined again and thumped his tail. "What is it, boy?" she asked sotto-voiced, glancing apprehensively again at the locked front door.
Taking a second look through the lacey curtain, Elizabeth noticed a small object on the Welcome mat. Reluctantly, she turned the lock on the front door and opened it slightly, putting her hand out and around to snatch the object and draw it into the house before quickly slamming the door shut and locking it again. She held the small black boxey item up to the street light streaming through the windows. A phone! Who would leave a phone on her doorstep? Just at that moment the device lit up. She cautiously put it to her ear. "Hello?"
"Elizabeth!" said a familiar voice. "Are you okay?"
"Yeahhh," Elizabeth replied slowly. Was this who she thought it was? It couldn't be…
"I need to see you. Can I come to the backdoor? Please don't call the police."
Elizabeth stood frozen, her mind racing. What in the world…? She should be texting the police right this very second. Yet she wasn't. She glanced at Satchmo again for guidance but he'd gone quickly back to sleep. Was Neal trying to implicate her as well? Send her to prison too? To what end? Throwing caution to the night winds, she answered, "Come. But I won't promise not to call the police." The phone went dead in her ear. Elizabeth paused a moment, then tossed the device on to the kitchen table making a mental note to tell Peter's attorney about this in the morning when there was a soft knock-knock at the backdoor. She glanced at Satchmo, who didn't so much as open an eyelid. Oh well, she thought to herself. What more could Neal do to her? Did she even care at this point? Her husband was gone. She had nothing left to lose.
Pulling the curtained door back, Elizabeth didn't recognize Neal Caffrey standing there in the shadows of their cherished maple tree, now half shed of autumn leaves. His thick hair was longer than she'd ever seen it, and it looked as though he hadn't shaved in a week. He was tanned, if not sunburned, and he was uncharacteristically dressed in rumpled black sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt three sizes too large for his tall thin body. There was no hint of his usual dapper self or usual breezy, confident air.
The two of them stood for a moment in the doorway facing one another, the exhausted wife of a man unjustly imprisoned and the con who was responsible for putting that good man in jail. Neal made no move to come in and Elizabeth made no move to invite him. Neal's eyes were sunken in his face and Elizabeth noticed, under the dim light of the porch, a painful spot of fresh open skin on his nose that seemed to be working its' way toward infection. Neal ran his tongue over his cracked lips nervously and his mouth opened several times but no sound came out as his eyes looked down shamefaced, unable, unwilling to meet Elizabeth's bleary gaze. The moment was so bizarre Elizabeth wondered if she'd actually fallen asleep and was deep in a nightmare. That doubt was dispersed when Neal finally asked politely with his best polished manners, his voice hoarse and low, "may I come in? Please?"
Elizabeth pondered the request in her tired mind. By now Satchmo had wandered into the kitchen, his tail wagging happily at sight of this human who always provided a treat for him from his pocket. Did he have anything now? Sniff, sniff. Sigh, there seemed to be nothing beyond the overwhelming smell of diesel fuel and – ocean? Not one to hold a grudge, the big dog leaned against Neal's leg, begging a pat on the head. Lacking Peter's counsel, Elizabeth was forced to rely on the dog for guidance and stepped back from the door.
Neal stepped quickly through into the darkened kitchen lit only by the Halloween pumpkin nightlight Peter had given her years ago. Flicking the overhead light on, Elizabeth's hand went automatically to the coffee pot on the kitchen counter. She plugged the device into the electric outlet and reached up to an overhead shelf for a can of store-bought ground coffee. The best coffee – hidden in a canister on the kitchen counter – certainly wasn't going to Neal. Busying herself, she ignored the young man, who from the sounds of it had pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down with a tired thump, the chair scrapping back from the table on the new Pergo floor. Neither spoke for the few minutes it took to measure out the coffee, pour the water, and line the coffee maker with a new filter. If this was a dream, it was certainly turning out to be her weirdest one yet, mulled Elizabeth to herself.
Having done all she could do in the coffee making process, Elizabeth turned around and faced Neal. What she expected to see, she didn't know. But of all the things she might have imagined she would see, what she actually saw would probably not have been on her top 10 list. The young man had laid his tousled head down on his folded arms on the table and from the sound of his rhythmic breathing – he had fallen asleep.
Elizabeth stared at Neal for a moment, astonishment on her tired round face, her hair in disarray, coffee aroma percolating up behind her. Satchmo was asleep as well, nestled as close as he could get to Neal's feet, shod strangely in workmen's boots, heavy soled and worn, stained with a dark greasy substance which glistened in the kitchen's light.
You know what? thought Elizabeth to herself. I'm going back to bed and in the morning this will all have been a bad nightmare. Unplugging the coffeemaker, Elizabeth quietly crept out of her kitchen, turning off the light as she went and made her way upstairs. Nightmare or not, she didn't hesitate to lock her bedroom door behind her.
Downstairs, a buzz buzz sounded, waking Neal. He reached into his boot and pulled out a cell phone, studying the bright words on the screen. "Jeff says you have to come back! This isn't in the script!"
"Screw you – I am not betraying Peter," whispered Neal. He turned off the phone and dropped it back inside his boot. Once again he laid his head on his folded arms and quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
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