SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 7

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to the mighty mighty Jeff Eastin.

Summary: His four years are up. Off comes the anklet. And Neal disappears. After months of exhaustive searching and finally giving up, Peter finds Neal…in the worse way imaginable.

TWO MONTHS AGO

He was sitting on the terrace of a sumptuously appointed suite at Chateau Eza, overlooking the magnificent Mediterranean. He sipped a most perfect espresso and nibbled on warm bread, soft cheese and strawberries, while marveling at the incomparable beauty of the Cote D'Azur. How he longed for this place to remain his home forever.

He heard the sound of movement inside the room and remembered he was not alone. She would be emerging fresh from the shower, skin still warm with beads of moisture being happily absorbed in a soft oversized robe made of the most exquisite fibers. Her hair would still be damp and wavy against her shoulders, smelling of lilacs or roses or warm vanilla sugar. She would join him any moment, and they would share in the beauty of this magnificent view.

This was going to be his immediate future: He was going to tell her, say the words he had been meaning to say for so long. He was going to hold her hand, taste the sweet-tart of strawberries still lingering on her lips as they kissed, and tell her what his heart was moving him to say. And she would smile, he knew. She would smile and her eyes would sparkle and dance and her elegant reserve would be betrayed by a girlish giggle.

From somewhere, a suite just below them perhaps, the sound of music would drift from a window to enhance their moment. It would be Clair de Lune. He would stand, hold out a hand, and she would take his hand and allow herself to melt fully into his embrace. And they would dance, moving so slightly that it would appear to the naked eye that they were not moving at all. But they would dance this way until the end of the song, with the calm, salty sea as their only witness. They would never be closer, and no time would ever be as perfect as this. Neal Caffrey would finally know what it meant to be truly, unequivocally, irrevocably happy.

And then Kate would…

…or was it Sara?

"Wait…"

Wasn't it was always Kate and he who spoke of the Cote D'Azur?

But it was Sara's eyes, Sara's smile, and Sara's arms around him.

"Wait…" he said again, confusion tearing at his heart, clouding his brain, torturing his psyche. "Where am I? When am I? Sara…Kate…?"

Sara/Kate speaks. "Kate's gone, Neal. She's dead."

Kate/Sara speaks. "I'm here, right here in your arms. We can be like this forever."

Sara/Kate begins to cry.

"Why are you crying?"

"We didn't earn this," says Sara/Kate, "And I won't cross any line I can't come back from."

"I would never ask you to."

Then the music stops.

And Neal is suddenly, wretchedly, crushingly alone.

~WC~

Neal awoke with a harsh gasp that damaged his throat like steel wool to soft flesh. It graduated into a coughing spell that made his gut clench and ache. He was cold, chilled to the bone, even though the evening air was mild and humid on his sweat-slicked skin. The left side of his head throbbed; he touched it and felt something warm and wet. Blood decorated the tips of his fingers. He realized he was lying on the hard pavement, surrounded by darkness and dozens of overstuffed trash bags. The fetid smell of garbage was suddenly overwhelming as the rest of his senses gradually began to resume function.

Gagging from the stench, Neal fought to rise on wobbly legs, his head spinning. He felt strangely detached, as if only part of him were present and aware of what was happening to him, while the absent part of him watched from some faraway place, unable to help, unable to participate. He closed his eyes to listen, to see if he could identify his whereabouts by the ambient sounds. There was traffic – cars honking, engines revving and shifting gears as they passed by. There were voices – a few, but nothing strikingly familiar, nothing out of the ordinary. There was music – a low, thumping baseline keeping a repetitive dance club beat. He quickly deduced that he was somewhere along the main drag of the city's night life. Where there was night life, there was bound to be people who could help him.

As he made his way to the lip of the alley, the memory of how he came to be there came roaring back.

He had taken the shot Hauser had deviously left on the table. Not much mattered to Neal after that. He had a vague recollection of the Big Man, an indeterminate amount of time later, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and lifting him from the floor of Hauser's suite. He then dragged Neal's dead weight into the elevator and threw him against the wall. Neal's strength, as well as the urge to defend himself both tragically deserted him. He could not find the power to fight or rebuff the Big Man as he hauled Neal from the elevator and pitched him into the back of a black sedan. Neal slammed head-first into the leather seat. Hauser was there suddenly, peering inside the vehicle, smiling triumphantly.

"Are we going somewhere?" Neal managed to ask.

"I am releasing you. Go home, if you like. As a matter of fact…"

Hauser reached into a pocket and pulled out a few coins and tossed them at Neal.

"Why don't you give the FBI a call and see if they'll come get you. I'm sure Agent Burke will be quite happy to see you after such a long absence. Especially in your condition."

Hauser slammed the door shut and climbed into the front seat. The vehicle was moving, lurching along a street Neal could not see – it was night, and the windows were regrettably darkly tinted.

He heard Hauser talking in quiet tones, making plans. Neal kept his eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness, and listened as much as he could. Most of the conversation was lost on him. But a few of the more specific facts he was happily able to grasp; and he hoped he could retain and recall this information later.

"As soon as we have disposed of Caffrey, Aldo, I'll need to get to the airstrip by the Hudson."

So…the Big Man had a name – Aldo.

"I'll be taking the jet. It won't be returning. Once we have landed, we will no longer be in communication, and our arrangement will end when you finish with the penthouse. Your money will be transferred into your bank account at midnight. Enjoy it."

"I plan to," said Aldo.

"Torch the penthouse. Make sure there is nothing left. Then leave New York City. I don't care where you go, just don't ever come back."

"There's an island with my name on it somewhere. What about your wife?"

"There is no time. It's probably for the best. Sentimentality can be a very dangerous thing. I cannot afford that."

"Mr. Hauser, if I may ask…why go through all this – doping Caffrey – and not stick around to see the pay off? Why not just put a bullet in him and leave him on Burke's doorstep?"

"A bullet is quick. There's a certain…mercy inherent in the delivery of such a swift death. Most find it cold and inhumane, but to me, it's like ripping off a bandage. Give a man a lingering, protracted death, prolong his suffering, lengthen the hours of his darkness, and you not only kill the man, but you break him. You end him long before death occurs. My son was broken. His life ended long before the fatal dose. Caffrey and Burke deserve nothing less."

Neither Hauser nor Aldo the Big Man spoke for the remainder of the drive.

Time seemed irrelevant and flowed oddly to Neal. It could have been hours or mere minutes later when the luxury car stopped and Aldo pulled Neal from the back seat.

"Thanks for the lift," Neal said facetiously.

Big Aldo responded by throwing Neal hard to the ground, amidst the trash. He passed out – again time was indefinable – and he lay there until he woke from an odd dream about dancing on a terrace somewhere in the Cote D'Azur.

~WC~

He walked as if in a dream, somewhere near Columbus Circle. He was shoeless, filthy, and smelling to high heaven. Neal had never found himself so close to bottom before; it unnerved him. He shivered, not so much from the leeching cold in his bones, but because of the fear that had wound its way through his gut. His thoughts were addled from the last remnants of the drug in his system, but also by his desperately injured spirit. He knew it would be difficult, coming back from this, and no con in the world could make this seemingly implausible situation less impossible to explain or deal with. Who would ever believe him?

He buttoned his shirt and tucked it as best he could. There wasn't much he could do to improve his battered and impoverished appearance. People avoided him, jay-walked into oncoming traffic and skirted to the edge of the sidewalk just to keep from making contact with him.

"Excuse me…may I use your cell phone?" he asked. "It's an emergency…"

Eyes dropped, refusing to connect with his.

"I need to call the FBI…"

People looked at him as if he were out of his mind. They nearly tripped over their own feet to steer clear of him.

"Could you help me…please?"

Some spat curses at him.

"I need your help. If you could just…"

At first he was offended, deeply wounded and driven to the point of despair. But soon he became morbidly amused and darkly fascinated by his affect on his fellow pedestrians. It occurred to him that in his present condition he could expect little or no help from anyone. He was dejectedly, miserably, on his own.

Until he remembered Mozzie.

How could he have neglected to think of Mozzie? The little guy must have been worried sick at Neal disappearance. Surely he had put the word out on the street; surely he was, even now, searching all of Neal's old haunts, perhaps even pestering Peter with tips on possible whereabouts. A darker thought lingered in his mind…why haven't they found me by now? Darker still: Where was Peter?

His vigor somewhat renewed, Neal battled to clear his mind and focus in on the problem at hand and not on the bleak visions and thoughts of abandonment. Where would Mozzie be right now? Come to think of it, what was now? How much time had actually transpired since this nightmare began?

He stopped to stare at his pale, haggard image in a storefront window. The man who stared back at him seemed as almost a stranger. He looked…what was the term? Oh yes….

Strung out.

The thought stunned him, made him shudder. Neal reached out to touch the glass, just to make sure that the reflected image moved as he did.

"Hey, buddy…you, in the window!"

Neal turned to find two of New York's finest staring him down. One of the officers, stepping out of the police unit, looked as if he were former linebacker for the Giants. All muscle, no mercy. The other had bright red hair under his tight-fitting cap.

"Evening, Officers," Neal said, approaching with caution disguised as humility.

"You weren't thinkin' about breakin' that window glass and snatching somethin', were you?"

"Not at all," Neal said, taking one slight step back. "I need your help."

Both cops looked at each other. "He needs our help," Red said to Muscles. "What can we do for you?"

Neal took another stepped back.

"Don't run, or my partner here will have to Tase ya."

"That won't be necessary, gentlemen," said Neal.

Red laughed. "Oh…'that won't be necessary,' he says. We'll tell you what's necessary. Up against the wall."

"What? Why?"

"'Cause you're sweatin' and shakin' like cat in a roomful of rockin' chairs. That can only mean one thing. You're a junkie and you're lookin' for a fix. Well, you ain't getting' any tonight, buddy."

"Look, officers, I'm not asking for trouble. Just a little help. I need to contact Agent Peter Burke of the FBI."

"Oh, the FBI?" Muscles laughed. "Yous got important business with the FBI, do ya?"

"I'm a C.I. for the Bureau. My name is Neal Caffrey. You can check that out easily with a simple phone call."

"C.I.? What's that stand for?"

Neal didn't want to say anything. Something in the back of his mind told him that, regardless of what he said, this wasn't going to end well.

"Hey, I asked you a question, buddy," Muscles said threateningly.

"Criminal Investigator."

Muscles laughed. "Ain't that something! We got ourselves a 'criminal investigator' here."

Red laughed, too. "Sure looks like a criminal to me. Let me ask you something, Mr. FBI Criminal Investigator. Don't federal agents usually wear shoes in pursuit of their duty, or is footwear optional these days?"

"I can explain my lack of footwear."

Both officers, Neal contemplated, appeared to be working from the same cruel playbook. Both crossed their arms, both smirked and waited for Neal to enlighten them.

"I was kidnapped…" Neal said, hoping they would listen to the entire story before rushing to judgment. Couldn't they see his desperation?

"I was kidnapped by a man named Linus Hauser. He forced drugs into me..."

"This story keeps getting better 'n better. Okay, Mr. FBI Informant on drugs, why don't we take a little trip to headquarters and sort all this out."

"You're arresting me?"

"We just wanna talk."

Neal attempted to back up again but found himself flush against the cool plate glass. He was trapped.

"I know all this sounds crazy…"

"Y'think?" Red quipped.

"…but I haven't done anything wrong," Neal said pleadingly. "I'm just trying to get to Peter Burke. Agent Peter Burke! He'll vouch for me, I swear!"

"You can call him from the station. I'll even dial the number for you. So…You're not gonna make this hard for us, are ya?"

Red made a move for his TASER.

Neal considered running, but realized all too soon that the odds were hopelessly against him. The officers were faster, stronger, armed and sober. Neal recognized that he was teetering dangerously on the verge of withdrawal. He'd dodge bullets before, but never when his body was working so formidably against him.

Before he could attempt his doomed-to-failure escape, the strident, mechanized voice of the dispatcher interrupted the moment.

"All units, all units…"

Muscles and Red actually looked disappointed.

"This must be your lucky night, junkie," said Muscles. "Go on, get lost. And I better not see yous around here again!"

Neal wasted no time, accept to look briefly over his shoulders to see both cops climbing into the squad car and pulling off, sirens blaring, lights flashing. He thanked God silently and kept running as hard as his weak and wobbling legs would carry him. His immediate concern was distance, not so much direction.

He was racing across the street when the first severe pang of withdrawal bashed him in the gut, making him feel as if his insides were being torn asunder. Neal practically collapsed before an on-coming car. The indignant driver saw no logic in braking for some raggedy transient on the street. Neal threw up a hand, as if to stop the car by sheer force of will. The rebellious driver swerved to the left of him and kept going, blowing his horn accusingly as he drove away, leaving Neal panting and shaking with fear.

Neal continued on, his intention set on searching every possible place Mozzie might visit until he found him, before his body betrayed him completely. If push came to shove, Neal would steal a cell phone to call Moz, lift a wallet for cash….

His muscles were beginning to ache down to his bones. He was freezing even as he was drenched in sweat, his clothing saturated and heavy. His body had begun to respond to the monster's voracious hunger.

It wanted to feed.

Neal found another alley and quickly ducked into it to vomit out of sight and sound of others. Once the piddling amount in his stomach and other mysterious fluids had cleared, he leaned against the wall, out of breath. He lost his balance and fell onto his backside. He sat there, trembling, aching and cramping…

And this, he knew, was only the beginning.

"You need something?"

Neal looked up quickly, frightened by the gravelly voice that interrupted his suffering.

"What? No!" Neal said quickly and fought his way back to his feet. He teetered and held onto a wall as the ground seemed to shift and move under him. He regarded the thin blond man who stood before him with a good dose of fear and mistrust. After all, he had seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Y'sure about that?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

Neal tried to leave, but the thin blond man would not step aside, would not yet allow him passage.

"Call me Blondie."

"Blondie...? Deborah Harry or Dirty Harry?"

"Aw, Clint Eastwood all the way, man. You look like you could use something."

Neal attempted to get past the man again, but failed.

"First hit's free," Blondie tempted.

"What?"

"First hit's on me. Everything after that, standard rates apply."

Neal considered Blondie's generous yet malevolent offer. He could end the pain, or ride it through until it went away.

Another aching wave. Neal let slip a convulsive groan. Yet another physical betrayal.

"Not interested," he said in a breathless whisper.

Blondie held up a small clear packet of dirty white powder.

Neal looked at it, eyes wide, holding his breath.

"No," he said. "I shouldn't….I shouldn't want this."

"Nobody's twisting your arm, man." He dropped the stuff back into a pocket. "I'm just trying to help."

Blondie laughed and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" cried Neal, loathing himself for this weakness. "Wait…"

Blondie stopped, but didn't turn around. "What's your name?"

"Nick. Call me Nick."

Blondie pulled the packet from his pocket and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder.

Neal stared at the packet on the ground, holding his breath while a battle waged within him.

He didn't want to.

God knew Neal didn't want to.

But the pain gave him no choice.

Neal picked up the packet and stared at it sitting in the palm of his filthy hand. Just this one last time, he promised himself. To clear his head, to stave off the agony to come. This, surely, would be the last time. Wouldn't it? He would find the strength later to say no.

"I don't have…" His voice trailed off apprehensively. How do you ask a stranger for a hypodermic needle?

"Fixin's?" Blondie laughed maliciously. "I got everything you need. Let's find a cooler spot to do this. What do ya say, Nick?"

Neal nodded and followed, fighting not to acknowledge the dreaded truth – that his life was becoming enthralled to the monster, and that he had begun the sad and repellent process of dying inside.

~WC~

Hold me now

I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking

Maybe six feet ain't so far down…

"Six Feet from the Edge" by Creed

THE PRESENT

"Neal…"

Sara had stood with an ear to the bathroom door for more than ten minutes, listening to the hellish sounds of his suffering. Her head hurt, but more, her heart hurt as she listened. She trembled and cried mutely, unable to do anything to ease or share in his agony. She had never heard such retching before, nor had she ever heard Neal cry.

Brave Agent Jones was with him, no doubt holding Neal's shoulders while his sickness raged, speaking to him in awkward gentle words and tones to encourage rather than to intimidate, as was his stronger suit. Silent moments were fleeting and deceptive; just when she thought the worst was over, it would all begin again. How much more could a man bear?

Sara jumped at the sound of the elevator activating and went quickly to receive or dispatch whoever was visiting unannounced. When the door slid open she was relieved to find Mozzie standing there, but also concerned to see that he was not alone.

The stranger had thick white hair, yet his face was unlined and mildly tanned. He was a head and a half taller than Mozzie, and broad across his shoulders. He wore a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt inside a dark suit that looked as if he had paid good money for it a few years back. And he carried a telltale physician's black bag that helped put Sara, for the moment, at ease.

"I'm Shamus," said the white haired man. "Where's the patient?"

"In the bathroom."

Before she could say more, the chilling sound of Neal's ordeal reached them through the walls. Sara could have sworn she saw Mozzie pale by a shade or two. But Shamus remained clinically unmoved by the sound as he stepped into the room. He gave cavernous Thursday a look, nodded, then made a bee-line to Neal's bed.

"When he's finished, I'll need some privacy with the patient to do a quick workup."

~WC~

Neal sat on the bed, fighting the urge to fidget while Shamus placed the cold end of the stethoscope on his bare chest.

"Inhale…"

Neal did, fighting the shivering cold that was plaguing him.

"Exhale."

Neal did. And looked up at Shamus with watery, bloodshot eyes.

Shamus silently conducted the rest of his examination, blood pressure, reflexes, taking blood, checking old injection sights, asking a few terse questions here and there. Once done with his ministrations, he gingerly wrapped a warm blanket around Neal's shoulders, and sat next to him on the bed.

"How are you feeling right now?" Shamus asked.

"Same as an hour ago. Like I've got the world's worse flu, and it's not done yet."

"Muscle and bone aches are pretty standard. It will get worse before it gets better."

"Yeah," said Neal dejectedly. "I read about it. Cold and hot, vomiting, diarrhea."

"Any involuntary movements?"

"Akathisia? No. Not yet anyway. What else can I expect?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Neal," the unofficial doctor said. "You've got a rough patch of road ahead of you. This is going to be the hardest thing you ever dealt with. The normal course of treatment would be hospitalization and the administering of a few meds to help reverse some the effects of the heroin in your system. I'll see what I can do about getting a few meds, but I can't promise you."

"What happens without the meds?"

Shamus let out a tense breath. "You're going to wish you were high. Or dead."

Neal felt the blood rush from his face.

Shamus stood and began packing his doctoring tools.

"Best I can tell you for now…keep anti-diarrhea medicine on hand…when the muscle aches get worse, hot baths will help a little. Eat when you can. Keep a plastic bag within reach. And, for the record, I think you should get off your high horse and put yourself in the hospital or a program. You don't have to go through this without help."

"I have help. My friends…"

"You're lucky, you know, to have all this support. But it may not be enough. If you insist on going through with this, I can't stop you. But it's going to be hell. Not just for you. If they're still your friends when this is over… You're going to want to use, and if it means taking out one of your friends..."

"I wouldn't hurt them."

"Yes you will. I've seen it. I'm going to have a chat with your friends. Any objection?"

Neal shook his head. He was fixated on the fear that he might hurt someone…Jones, Peter…Sara…just to feed the monster. Neal lay back and stared at the ceiling, fighting the untenable fear rising in him.

~WC~

Jones, Mozzie and Sara convened with Shamus at the dining table.

"Fasten your seatbelts," Shamus said. "The next few days are going to be the making of you. Your friend may have initially been forced into this addiction, but make no mistake, he is an addict now, and therefore subject to all the pain, deceit, and mental anguish any addict can cause or experience. He needs to be accompanied at all times; at no point is he to be alone. If you sleep, and he makes it to that elevator he's gone, and he's going to use.

"Check his clothes - whatever he came here with - for drugs. Don't just check the pockets. Check the lining, hems, cuffs, everything. Here's a list of symptoms to be on the lookout for…"

Shamus pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Mozzie accepted it, and held it so that Jones and Sara could read it with him. They were overwhelmed by all the torturous possibilities.

"If at any time he stops breathing or complains of anything not on that list, you better have 911 on speed dial. And whatever you do, don't mention my name."

"Goes without saying," Mozzie said, eyes still focused on the list.

"I'll call you every four to six hours or so, just to check in. If you need me…"

From another pocket he handed Mozzie a black burner phone.

"Only if you need me. You get one call, then get rid of it. Understood?"

"We got you," said Jones. "Only if Neal goes south."

"He should be over the worst of it in about a week. But it still won't be over."

"What do you mean?" asked Sara.

"I'm talking about addiction. Sober or not, he's going to want to use again. He's going to need some serious therapy. Especially considering how this all come to be. I have a friend…she'll be in contact with you in a couple days."

"Who is she?" Sara asked.

"One of the best therapists in New York City. A former patient of mine who understands Neal's situation first hand. You may have heard of her. Actually, you may have heard her. Mornings, drive time, 99 FM.

"Doctor Leslie?" Mozzie said, a bit too loudly, a bit too excitedly. "You know Doctor Leslie?"

"Yeah, and in a few days, you'll know her too. Now, are there any questions before I hit the road?"

~WC~

It's been a while since I could hold my head up high

It's been a while since I first saw you

It's been a while since I could stand on my own two feet again

It's been a while since I could call you

"It's Been A While" by Staind

Neal was curled on his side under the covers trying to rest. He had taken an over-the-counter sleep aid, at Shamus's recommendation, and it was working marginally well at making him drowsy. He had eaten a small bowl of warm chicken soup and drank a bit of sweet herbal tea that Sara had made for him. All he could think about was what lay ahead. He had never felt such palpable fear before.

"Neal…" Sara's voice came softly, checking to see if he were awake or asleep.

Neal moved just a bit to look at her, big blue eyes wide while the rest of his face remained hidden under the covers.

"I'm sorry, Neal. Did I wake you?"

"No."

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty rough. Guess you decided to stick around. I'm glad you did."

She smiled through tears.

"Me, too."

She boldly moved forward and sat on the bed. He moved to accommodate her, but not too far. He was strengthened by her warmth and her presence, and surprised that she would even want to be close to him, after everything he had put her through.

"I feel so…useless…" she said.

He uncovered his head and sat up weakly.

"What are you talking about? Why?"

"Because," she began, then took a moment to consider her words. "It just sucks. What you need is a nurse, or a doctor, or someone with medical experience. You don't need an insurance investigator who can barely boil water."

He reached out from under the covers and took her hand.

"There's more to Sara Ellis than her dazzling Sterling Bosch reputation. You're kind; you're loyal to a fault. And you're the most beautiful woman…"

"…in this room?" she said, a mischievous twinkling in her eyes.

"In my world."

She was driven to silence for a beat.

"Listen…my shift is almost up. Peter should be here any minute."

"I wish you could stay," Neal said. "You smell a lot nicer than Peter."

She giggled. And then she became very serious. "You really gave me a scare today."

"I'm sorry."

"Actually, I've been afraid for you for such a long time, long before you disappeared. I'm so glad you're back. And I'm here for you. But I want you to understand…things haven't…changed. Not for us."

Neal let go of her hand and lay his head back on his pillow. "I know that," he lied. He'd hoped.

"I just wanted to be clear. No expectations. No false hopes."

Neal let his eyes stray away, to the floor to ceiling window. It was dark now, and the lights of the tall buildings were dazzling.

"I'll be back day after tomorrow," said Sara.

"You may not want to come back. Things may be a little…out of control. And the last thing I want to do is hurt you."

"I can deal with anything you throw at me, Caffrey."

She stood, but she was far from ready to leave.

"You rest, okay?"

And she walked away.

This was going to be a very long, excruciating week, Neal thought. He began to panic, feel closed in. He wasn't ready for this. He needed a way out. He sat up, got up and sauntered toward the bathroom. As expected, Jones intercepted him at the door. He gave Jones a quickly look, and noted the agent's service weapon at his side. It would be nothing to feign a stumble and fall against Jones, and lift the gun from the holster…

End of chapter 7.

Thanks for your continued reading. I hope you'll review.