SAVE ME IF YOU CAN
Chapter 3
By
Lacadiva
Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. Oh, how I long to call him boss. But I know I don't deserve it.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
It was a penthouse apartment, spacious, meticulously appointed, with a view of New York that was unparalleled. When Neal stepped off the elevator he knew he was in deep trouble because the 'muscle' who had delivered him remained on the elevator. The doors closed, and down he went. If security wasn't needed, then his host must have been quite certain Neal was not going to pose a threat.
Linus Hauser entered. He was a man who was not only used to the finer things, but one got the feeling that the finer things were created specifically for him. He was elegant, tall, and perhaps a bit too thin. He wore all black, looked perpetually close shaven and camera ready. His public business - a thriving art gallery that catered only to the obscenely rich – had been the perfect front. Hauser's real money had come from the import, export and sale of illegal weapons. Homeland Security, ATF, as well as the FBI, had been chomping at the bit to get their hands on Hauser, but no one had been able to get close enough, until Peter had sent Neal in undercover as a high-end art collector with a disposable income and a secondary interest in grenade launchers and assault rifles. Hauser was arrested and held without bond, yet somehow he had been accidentally released after a highly suspicious "clerical error." By the time the Bureau had caught on to the unfortunate snafu, Hauser was already miles away and deep underground, and would remain at the top of the most wanted list. Why would he come out of hiding now, after two years, and come after Neal?
"Mr. Caffrey," he said as he moved to the bar. "Or are you still going by your alias? Mr. Holden, I believe it was." Hauser poured two glasses of expensive single malt and held one out to Neal. Neal didn't want to take it, but somehow felt as if he never really had a choice.
"That was quite a disappearing act you pulled," said Neal. "What brings you back? A guilty conscience?"
Hauser smiled. It wasn't a happy smile.
"Hardly," he said, and then gestured around the room with his glass-filled hand.
This place," he continued, "is all that remains of my former life. The FBI, fortunately, didn't know about it. I've decided to sell it, find a more humble dwelling. To the simple life." He lifted his glass in a half-hearted toast.
Neal lifted his glass slightly, and made sure to smell the liquor before taking a sip. It warmed his mouth and throat, and felt even warmer when it landed smoothly in his stomach. He raised an eyebrow when he recognized the exceptional quality of the single malt.
"So you spent two years successfully eluding the FBI, only to resurface to sell a piece of real estate? Must be a peach. Or you're reckless."
"I came out of hiding because I've lost everything," Hauser spat, "thanks to you. And Agent Burke, of course. I am a man who has nothing more to lose."
"Don't expect me to feel sorry for you. Your weapons were falling into the hands of terrorists. You deserved to lose every cent."
"I'm not talking about the money. I could care less about the money. I'm talking about my son." Hauser sat in a black leather chair and gestured for Neal to have a seat in the chair facing him.
"Daniel was my life," Hauser lamented. "He was bright and clever, though sometimes he seemed a little too sensitive for this world. I wanted to protect him. I know, what kind of father could I possibly be, fighting to protect my child from the evils of the world while contributing to that evil. It was what I knew. Just as a life of deceit and thievery is what you know, Mr. Caffrey.
"You did what no one else had ever been able to do: you brought me down. Your deception helped the FBI make the charges against me stick. I was looking at a lifetime behind bars. So I ran. The hardest part was leaving without saying goodbye to Daniel. To keep him safe from harm, I felt it best he know nothing of my plans. My only dream was to be able to come out of hiding someday and make amends. But thanks to you and Agent Burke, I shall never have that chance."
Hauser finished off his drink in one angry gulp, then rose to go back to bar. He opened a cabinet and removed a metal case. It was about the size of a paperback book. Hauser did not reveal to Neal what was inside.
"Daniel had picked up a very deadly habit while I was away. He became an addict. His drug of choice…heroin. In the time I spent in absentia, my son joined a rather dangerous crowd. He ran away from his mother, and was reduced to living on the streets. Reduced to stealing to support his rather unmanageable habit. There was only so much I could do while in hiding. So I made the decision to reach out to him, risk the FBI finding me. But I was too late.
"Daniel, my only son, died of an overdose. He was found, two weeks ago, in an alley, where he had crawled between two trash dumpsters to give himself what would be his final injection. He was only fifteen."
"I'm sorry," Neal said with sincerity.
"Thank you. But having your pity or condolence was not my objective in bringing you here. You and Agent Peter Burke destroyed my life. You took everything from me. It is only fair that I take something from the both of you."
DING! The elevator doors opened, and the Big Man stepped into room once again. He was wearing black gloves this time.
Neal calculated that the odds of a successful escape were not in his favor. While he hadn't seen any guns yet, it was a sure bet Hauser as well as the Big Man would be carrying concealed weapons. Jumping from the window was not an option, and if there was another door, he hadn't any idea which way it lay. The only way out was the elevator.
Neal stood and threw the glass of single malt as hard as he could at the Big Man, hitting him square between the eyes. He cried out and went down on one knee, temporarily blinded by pain and for the moment out of commission. Neal ran for the elevator and reached for the down button – and found that there wasn't one. He turned to look at Hauser, who was smiling and holding up the white plastic key card.
"I believe you need this to leave, Mr. Caffrey. But you're not going anywhere at the moment."
The Big Man, having pulled himself together rose and delivered a swift and agonizing punch to Neal's gut. Neal immediately collapsed and hit the floor, red faced, coughing and fighting for breath.
"Bring him," Hauser said. The Big Man pulled Neal up by the back of his shirt and vest, then delivered a swinging blow to Neal's face. He was floating somewhere on the edge of consciousness, someplace where pain only registered as a clouded concept, as the Big Man hoisted Neal upon a substantial shoulder and carried him effortlessly out of the room.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
Music was playing. Guitar…amazing guitar…amazing voice.
"Hey Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand…
Neal fought to open his eyes, feeling the pain of every hit the Big Man had delivered growing as awareness was becoming sharper.
"He Joe, where you goin' with that gun in your hand…"
When his eyes did finally open, he saw a high ceiling, a sky light with a waning sun angling through tinted glass. How long had he been out? He shook his head. Realized he was lying on a bed. Not his. He tried to rise but something forced him back down. He looked and found that his hands were restrained, cuffed to the bed's shiny brass railing.
"I'm going out to shoot my old lady, you know I caught her messin' 'round with another man…."
Neal tried to sit up, but the restraints left no room for any movement. And he wasn't alone. The Big Man stood nearby, watching him. Hauser was sitting in a chair next to the bed. He was holding an old battered spoon with a bent handle.
"Welcome back, Mr. Caffrey. Do you like the music? It's Hendrix, Jimi Hendrix. Genius, isn't he? Listening to him breaks my heart. I remembered when he died. I was a little boy, maybe eight or nine. At the time they said he had died of a drug overdose. I didn't truly understand what that meant. I do now."
Neal was becoming more and more agitated. He tried to sit up again, but still could not.
"You should know Peter Burke will not give up until he finds me!"
"I want Agent Burke to find you! I want him to tear up all of Manhattan looking for you until he finds you. And when he does, I want you both to wish he hadn't."
Hauser held the bent spoon closer to show Neal. "This is the only thing I have left to remind me of my son. I found it when I visited the alley where he died, long after they'd removed his body. I image it was his, and that he used it." Hauser then picked up a small packet of white powder from the table and shook it in a tantalizing manner. "He used this, too…or something like it. I made sure this was purer. I wanted your first experience to be…special."
"You can't do this, Linus!" Neal said, fighting to keep his voice steady, hoping to somehow appeal to the man on the most human level. "You want me dead, I get it. You want to hurt Peter Burke, I understand. But you can't hold us responsible for the choices your son made!"
"I can and I do. Besides, this is far more merciful than my original plan."
Hauser tapped the contents of the packet into the bowl of the spoon. He then opened the silver metal case and revealed its contents to Neal – four identical hypodermic syringes.
Neal pulled harder, feeling the steel of the cuffs bite and rub raw the skin of his wrists as he tried to free himself. The Big Man moved forward to stop him, but Hauser calmly held up a hand to stop his employee.
"Hauser! Don't do this."
Hauser kept about his business. He squirted a bead of water into the spoon, then held the flame of a disposable cigarette lighter under the spoon and watched with twisted fascination as it bubbled up and melted and turned into the concoction that would be the instrument of his revenge.
"Roll up Mr. Caffrey's sleeve," Hauser said. The Big Man moved forward immediately and unbuttoned the right cuff of Neal's shirt, then rolled it up. Neal did everything he could to move away from him, but his efforts were in vain.
"What heroin lacks in elegance," Hauser began, "it makes up for in efficiency. One can develop a rather urgent habit in as little as one week, if used daily, frequently, and consistently. Or so I have been told. We are about to find out, Mr. Caffrey." To his aide, he said, "His tie, if you please."
The Big Man removed Neal's vintage silk tie and knotted it tightly around his upper arm.
"Hmm," Hauser said with a glassy eyed smile, "you have good veins."
"Please," Neal said, "Don't do this. Don't…"
Hauser didn't listen. He drew the liquid into the syringe and put down the now empty spoon. He carefully checked the syringe, squirted out a bit, then clicked it a few times with a finger.
"We must make sure there are no air bubbles…that could cause a nasty embolism, and that would drastically cut short our time together."
"I have…I have a Raphael…" Neal said, making a last ditch attempt at bargaining.
"A Raphael?" Hauser seemed to consider this for a moment. "You would give me a Raphael to keep me from doing this to you?
"Yes! Yes," Neal said, barely able to breathe. "It's yours. Just let me go, and I'll take you to it."
"It's very tempting," Hauser said as he pondered the possibility. "But I have my heart set on this. This is your new prison, Neal Caffrey. This is your new master." To the Big Man, Hauser said, "Hold him still."
Neal fought has hard has he could even with his limited mobility. The Big Man held him down as Hauser moved in, bringing the syringe closer to Neal, light glinting off the sharp point of the needle.
"Don't," Neal said. It was all he could say. "Don't…"
Hauser was not at all gentle has he jabbed the needle into Neal's blood-engorged vein. Neal closed his eyes, unable to watch, not wanting to know, praying to escape, and hoping against hope that Peter was on his way.
End Chapter 3. Reviews are like food to me.
