OooOooO

Drifting in Peter's footsteps, Neal felt as if he was coming home and frowned at the idea. Home had meant nothing to him in the past. It was wherever Moz and Kate were. Oh, sometimes he dreamed of having a beautiful house somewhere safe, but in reality, it would have never worked. Kate was restless and she would never have been content in one place.

Moz would have hated having a real address. That's how they find you, he always said.

Until his friendship with Peter and El, Neal had never yearned for suburbia. The very thought repelled him. He chastised himself for his lack of imagination, not a frequent sin on his part. He has mistaken conventional trappings as all that there was to be seen. He had not realized that there could be unique, passionate people beneath.

Peter's suits, his inexpensive haircuts, and nondescript ties were a thin brushstroke over the masterpiece beneath.

As for El, put her anywhere and she was the finest, most lush beauty that Neal had ever seen. Unlike most of the women that Neal had dated, she had real curves and genuine smiles, unafraid that her laugh lines would age her. Oh, how wrong the focus on flawless was! Even the Mona Lisa was fraught with imperfection which merely enhanced the whole.

Knowing the Burkes had given Neal new respect for ordinary people or perhaps, it was that he found a new fascination with the world. Especially now, knowing his body floated in a tank and that his only connection to life was through this miracle of out of body experiences, Neal realized he had grown jaded before prison, seeking refined pleasures and finding that one taste was all he could stomach before finding them bland. Imprisoned, Neal had little choice to endure monotonous food, clothing, and less than ideal companionship.

Neal had encountered individuals in his former life that he did not like, but until prison, he had not realized how much he despised the criminal element with rare exceptions such as Kate, Moz, and Alex.

Neal enjoyed the good life; he felt entitled to it, but he always thought of his crimes as being victimless. It was all a game, pitting Neal against the world. Peter made the stakes higher and was the competition Neal craved. That did not end well except it did. Neal found his time with Peter happy. If there had never been a Kate, he might have no real complaints at all.

OooOooO

Satchmo greeted Peter as if the sun had rose and steak had fallen like manna. Neal understood the feeling.

After greeting Peter, Satchmo wiggled his way to Neal. Both Peter and El cast wary eyes on Satchmo's wagging tail and tongue licking air. Peter said, "Vet."

El's expression was troubled as she replied, "I don't think that the vet has a cure for the supernatural."

"Do dogs have psychologists?"

"I think so, but, Peter..."

Fending off the unwanted thought with outstretched hands, Peter shook his head. "I won't believe it. I can't start to believe it."

Hugging Satchmo who whined at the vehemence in his master's tone, Neal wished Peter would accept that there were things beyond his knowledge. Maybe then Peter would really hear Neal and Neal could tell him where to find him before something worse happened.

OooOooO

There was a blank period for Neal. He either was awake or asleep; he wasn't sure if his spirit roamed free when he was awake or asleep in the isolation tank. All he knew is there were periods of time when he knew nothing but the warm water, the absence of sensation, and the loneliness. Other times, there was nothing. The best of times was when the essence of him traveled to where his heart knew best, to Peter and El.

This time however, Neal popped out of his body, feeling as if Peter had called him, that Peter needed him. He felt disorientated for a few seconds before he took in his setting, a dark warehouse, furnished with racks, some of which still had plastic pipes stacked on them. Peter sat in a decrepit office chair, his hands bound behind him so thoroughly that he couldn't even move his thumbs. That didn't stop Peter from struggling however.

Neal wanted to be with Peter and he was, no sense of movement, no time expended. This time he had to struggle to have an impact on the material world, perhaps because he felt so much fear for Peter and for Jones who was also a prisoner. Neal kissed Peter's sweaty forehead, tasting briefly salt and essence of Burke. He moved through Peter, which gave him a jolt as he tended to think of his ectoplasm as real. Neal's hands were as clever without a body as they were with one. He tugged here and there, making the ropes fall away. Peter couldn't repress a startled sound although he did keep his hands behind him.

A sharp eyed captor walked toward Peter, his eyes on the ropes which had fallen to the floor.

Thinking was doing. Neal pushed a rack of pipes to the floor, creating a cascade of sound which drew everyone's attention from Peter. To further distract, Neal imagined himself shoving the pipes as hard as he could. Some of them bounced off the floor and kept going in the direction of Peter's captors. Neal slipped a cell phone out of the nearest of the criminal's pocket.

No kiss for Jones, but Neal yelled in his ear, "Wake up. You have to get away."

Freeing Jones took seconds. Jones woke, complaining. ""Geez, I'm awake, Neal. What the..."

By the time, Jones woke, Neal had saw an opportunity as a tall, thin man dropped his gun. Neal shoved it across the floor, aiming it for Peter. Although both agents grabbed for the gun, Pete caught it, shooting the gun out of one of the thug's hands. Neal was thrilled. Just like the movies!

Seeing one of the men fleeing, Neal sent additional pipes in all directions, hurtling one of them like a javelin. He picked up a fallen cell phone and contacted Diana, telling her the address and that one of the criminals was trying to escape.

Eager on the chase, Neal followed the fleeing man until some invisible leash jerked him tight. He still managed to distract the man by hurtling a garbage bin in his path. The man dodged that, but tripped over a concrete block that someone had left lying on the loading dock. He tumbled over the side and screamed loudly, his gun flying out of his reach.

A good day's job, but now Neal felt himself fading rapidly. Apparently there were limits to what he could do in this form after all. He would have liked to have stayed to make sure Peter and Jones were safe, but his body drew him back.

OooOooO

Waking, Neal found himself in the bedroom that was his other cell. A man with a stethoscope had just turned away from him.

"Mr. Anthony, this man's vital signs were dangerously low. Perhaps he has a heart condition or something like that. Whatever you're doing...well, you should stop unless you mean to lose him."

"He's fine now," Gregorovitch said, scowling at Neal. "I pay you to keep guys alive, not to give me advice. You get that."

The doctor nodded and said, "I get that, Mr. Anthony."

"Keep it in mind and you keep getting those nice wads of cash too."

The doctor's qualms vanished from his face. He nodded, gathered equipment and left.

"Doctor says you need to rest, that your body seemed to have endured a massive amount of stress. He said your blood chemistry was out of whack, all your electrolytes and that stuff out of balance like you had been running a marathon."

Neal took that in. He had thought of his out of body experiences as exhilarating and entertaining, never guessing there could be a physical toll. He fluttered his eyelashes at Gregorovitch and said, "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Yeah, right, I still know you're up to something. Pull your shit together fast. I just heard about a visiting exhibit with a rare icon I got to have. It's in New York so you better be real good. You get out of line and you're dead."

Neal nodded. He pretended to sleep, but pretending rapidly turned into real sleep. He was so tired.

OooOooO

Moz watched the young gangster he hired slip his hand into the post office box. Much as it went against Moz's instincts, he had chosen this twenty four hour lobby next to the police station for his drop. Not that he would go into the place himself. He had hired a kid in gang colors for the role. Neal wouldn't have liked it as he had protective instincts even when the kid had a longer record than Neal had. The kid took out an envelope, walked out with it.

Moz followed the skinny black dude for a few blocks. The kid sat on a park bench for a while, humming to his I-pod and then moved on with the envelope. The contents were hidden in a discarded newspaper. Moz waited. There were no followers and he finally felt comfortable enough to sit on the bench, glance at the paper and saunter away with it.

What the feds didn't know couldn't hurt Moz. He had worked for the assholes once when he was young and stupid. The first time he was around an execution, Moz slipped away from that life, that name, and any trace of the young idiot after a fast buck. His first real forgery was a death certificate for his old self.

Despite that regretful part of his past, Moz kept his sources in the Russia mafia, not that it was really one organization. In reality, there were several crime syndicates that were unfortunate imports from the former Soviet Union and its unwilling satellites. Moz kept his eyes and ears on the one which used to employ him and it happened to be the one that Gregorovitch ran. Or not.

Scowling, Moz considered whether Gregorovitch knew that he was alive, knew that Neal was his friend, and took Neal because of that.

After a few moments of thought, Moz had to reject the idea. No, Gregorovitch would have come after Moz directly. He was capable of being subtle, but not in defense of his criminal empire. Moz hunched his shoulders. He was terrified of getting too close to his old boss, but he was even more afraid of losing Neal.

Honestly, Moz should have turned the other way and ran away rapidly the moment he drifted near the radiant sun that was Neal Caffrey. It was too late now though. He was caught in Neal's gravity, a hopeless satellite to his charm and brilliance.

The motel at which Moz was staying was almost as anonymous as his storage units. It was one of many built during the sixties, two stories surrounding a court yard with parking. There were rickety steps with battered, barely holding rails which once had been painted black, but now were mostly rust. Moz's room was on the corner and near overgrown shrubbery that could cover his escape. The one large window actually opened...now. Moz had pried it free of paint and planed it so he could escape through it silently if he had to. On the other side of the motel, there was a construction site with plenty of hiding places. If Moz was the kind to ever grow complacent, he might have felt safe here.

Good thing Moz knew that safety was an illusion.

However, it was an okay place to sleep a few nights and to examine the data he bought with a web of favors and some of Neal's hidden money...hidden from Peter but not from Moz.

The thin protective inner package contained a disc. Moz ran it on a cheap mini lap top which he would drop at an electronics recycling center after he accessed the information.

Moz peered at the laptop as he sat at the rickety table in his motel room. Huh, Gregorovitch had lived here with his wife in an expensive mansion. The wife was dead now. No suspicious circumstances according to the police report he had purchased from a hacker. Ha. Moz believed in that like he believed there was no moon landing. Of course, the USA had landed on the moon unlike some of Moz's paranoid friends believed. What was not true was that the astronauts found no sign of life. Moz believed firmly that the US government was thoroughly infiltrated with aliens, but even they could not fix the economy, damn it.

Gregorovitch was collecting. The old man had cancer and he knew his time was limited. Perhaps the medication had destroyed his mind because Gregorovitch was obsessed with collecting icons of Saint Christopher.

That must be what he was doing with Neal. Moz shook with anxiety. What to do now?

Go after Neal on his own or go to the suit and ask for help?

It was against Moz's immoral fiber to involve the FBI, but it might be impossible for Moz to get near Neal. Gregorovitch knew Moz.

OooOooO

Peter woke with a start, looked around and saw nothing. He had turned the videotape into the local police, but asked them to make a transfer to a DVD which they had done. He had already viewed it several times, but he started the disc again.

A voice quavered from the balcony. "The one pushing the wheelchair is Dima Arshan, one of a set of twins, both of them in the employ of Gregorovitch."

Peter nearly shot Moz before realizing it was him.

"Are you trying to get me to shoot you?"

"Not in particular," Moz said. "You're not exactly the trigger happy sort of suit."

"That could change rapidly," Peter growled.

Moz was clad in a short sleeved shirt, his concession to the warm weather. Dolefully, he glanced out at the fading glory of a Florida sunset and said, "It looks like hurricane weather."

Peter was sure it was no use explaining that there were no storms predicted. Moz would surely find a way to explain how that was a plot meant to delude them.

"You know Dima from where?"

"Suffice to say I know him," Moz evaded.

Neal could have done it better, more playfully and without the shifting eyes. Peter tried to focus but his head was pounding.

Before Peter could demand that Moz be direct, Moz surprised him by saying, "I have Gregorovitch's address."

Peter reached toward Moz but restrained himself from touching. "Give me it. I'll need some sort of proof so we can get a warrant to search."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Peter held back a threat. Threats with Moz would only make him vanish and Moz was very good at disappearing.

"I mean I don't care if you make another collar. I want Neal back and that's all. You and Gregorovitch can play some other day. You go in like a FBI agent and Neal is dead."

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't get a word out. Moz was right.

"What's your idea?"

Moz plopped down in one of the sparsely padded chairs that stood near the small table on which Peter had put his laptop. Moz sagged. "I wish I had one."

"What is Gregorovitch into besides icons?"

"Twins," Moz said. "He has a real thing for twins. His wife was one, but something happened to his sister right after they married. His mistresses were all identical twins and his servants, guards, whatever, they are too."

"I don't think I can provide a pair of twins to infilterate."

"Gregorovitch is superstitious beyond the icons. He believes in ghosts."

"So we get you inside as a spiritualist?"

"Problem, suit," Moz replied, rubbing his forehead as if giving birth to a full grown headache. "It might be that Gregorovitch knows me."

"Might be?"

Moz winced and shifted away from Peter's gaze. "What about Diana? I could teach her enough to run a con."

Peter smiled and nodded. It was a perfect idea. Jones would have loved the role, but Peter didn't want to risk it. Gregorovitch might have researched Neal's associates. Diana hadn't been back for long. She was the safest bet.

OooOooO

"Word is that Gregorovitch might have killed his sister in law and maybe the wife being left too long in the isolation tank..."

"What?" Peter interjected.

"Isolation tank. It was a treatment for her fibromyalgia."

"Hmm."

Moz tilted his head to gaze at Peter with speculation. "Spit it out, suit."

"Nothing, a stray thought."

It was another hotel room, nondescript, this time the color scheme was gray and blue, including the watercolor on the wall. Peter focused on the battered gilt frame, thinking of how Neal would have winced to see the badly printed Renoir. Somehow the lake scene was even more out of focus than the artist had intended. There was a blur in the lower left corner that did not belong.

The room itself also seemed a blur. The bed spread had frayed threads. The Venetian blinds had bent slats. There was a dark spot on the ceiling that seemed to bulge.

However, the room had two admirable qualities. It was cheap and did not come with a bed-defensive dog.

Peter gazed at Diana who was attired in a very nice black business suit, a subtle moon goddess pendant at her velvety throat above the lacy camisole. He shook his head and said, "Shouldn't she wear a turban or something?"

Together the withering looks from Moz and Diana made Peter miss Neal all the more. Neal would have laughed at his comment, his head thrown back, neck arched, blue eyes shining like the sky after a cloud burst rinsed the grey and left only the sun.

Swallowing his sorrow, Peter picked up his phone. "We're going to want a wire."

"Got one," Moz said. "Got more than one. Don't worry about it."

Diana grinned fiercely. That woman loved her work, the more dangerous the better.

"I'm ready for my close up, Mister DeMille."

OooOooO