Not a Fan of the Bittersweet
Chapter 10
A Thousand Regrets
"She raced for him, propelled by the strength of a thousand regrets."
— Lisi Harrison
….
As the afternoon wore on, the waiting area had begun to resemble an FBI convention. Or what Elizabeth imagined an FBI convention would look like—if you added an overwhelming air of gloomy tension.
Some of the agents and other employees Elizabeth knew from trips to the office and the occasional Christmas party, which she'd sometimes been enlisted to help plan. From the looks of it, most of the staff of the White Collar unit was here—minus Reese Hughes, whom she knew was out of town. But as many of them as were present, they were slowly being outnumbered by people she didn't recognize—agents and personnel from other divisions, she realized, who were here to support Peter and sit vigil for Neal.
As dire as things were, she couldn't help but find that comforting, somehow. And she knew that Peter did, too.
"Oh, El. I just remembered Satch," Peter said, sitting up in alarm from where he'd been slumped in the chair. She'd had to almost forcibly drag her husband over to sit down; he'd embarked on another round of incessant pacing and it was making her crazy. "I was supposed to take care of him tonight. I—"
"It's okay," she told him, putting a hand on his arm. "I called Charlotte on my way here, she's handling it."
He smiled wanly at her, then pulled her close for a quick hug. "Why would I even worry? Of course my planner has all the bases covered."
"That's my job," she said, smiling back. "Fortunately she was home and happy to do it."
"She's a good friend."
"Yup," Elizabeth agreed, and then remembered her earlier conversation. "Say, did you know that Charlotte knows Neal?"
Peter squinted at her, frowning. Then he leaned back and looked heavenward. "Ohhhh," he said, the word degenerating into something approaching a groan. "Do I even want to know how that happened? He didn't pick her pocket, did he?"
"You know, you are incorrigible," she told him sternly.
He sighed. "It was a joke. Mostly."
"Sometimes it seems that you . . . always think the worst."
"I don't think the worst," he protested. "And I can't help the fact that I think like an FBI agent. Let's just say that, knowing Neal, I'm . . . prepared for the possibility of the worst."
"Well, he did not pick her pocket. He met her while he was out walking Satch—"
"And struck up a conversation with her and was his usual charming self," Peter put in. "Maybe asked her out?"
She rolled her eyes. "They discussed her article. You know, the one she had published in Mother Jones?"
Peter's look of confusion said he knew nothing about said article.
"Peter, don't you remember? The one about twenty-first century feminism? She was so proud of it."
"Umm, I guess I recall hearing something . . ." Peter said vaguely.
Elizabeth threw him a look of mild disapproval; Peter looked sufficiently chastened at the proof that he'd tuned out their friend's dinner conversation. (Okay, true, Elizabeth hadn't read it, either, but at least she'd known about it, whereas her dear husband was utterly oblivious.)
"She said Neal had some very thought-provoking comments on the topic."
"Oh, really," Peter said, his skepticism plain.
"Yes, really. According to Charlotte, Neal expounded quite thoughtfully about feminism in developing countries and . . . modern ideas about empowerment."
Peter simultaneously frowned and raised an eyebrow. It wasn't a good look for him, Elizabeth decided.
"Right, feminism. Okay." Peter paused for a moment to contemplate. "Let me guess. He claimed he'd read the article and then used her cues to make himself sound like an expert on the subject. Like any good con artist would."
"You sound awfully sure of yourself."
"Well, I know him," Peter said, sounding resigned—and maybe just a little bit smug.
"Well, you're wrong, Agent Burke," Elizabeth said, throwing smug right back at him. "Yes, they talked about the article. He never said he'd read it. But the next time he ran into her, he actually had read the piece and proved it by asking her all kinds of questions. She said she never gets feedback that detailed."
Peter looked thoughtful, then mildly suspicious. "Hmm. I wonder what his angle was."
"Peter!" she said, frustrated. "Does there always have to be an angle?"
He didn't say anything, just gave her with a wry look and a little shrug that said, It's Neal, so, probably.
"Oh, fine," she shot back. "You refuse to accept that maybe he's just interested in this and wanted to do something nice. Maybe he was just curious. And he is! He's curious about all kinds of things."
"Oh, he's curious all right. Often about things he probably shouldn't be . . . but, yeah, he's curious. Does she know he's a felon?" Peter asked idly, pulling out his cell to check it as it buzzed.
She hesitated. "I have no idea. I didn't tell her and I doubt Neal did." Elizabeth thought for a moment and then added, "He did tell her he's not an agent, though."
"Oh?" Peter said, looking up from his phone, curiosity piqued now.
"Charlotte mentioned that he was the first agent she'd met, except for you, and he said, I'm not an agent, I'm just a guy Peter puts up with."
Peter managed a small laugh. "Okay, have to give him points for honesty there."
"And he said something about us."
"Us?" Peter asked, looking puzzled. "'You-and-me' us?"
"Yes. He said something about the fact that we make people feel welcome. Even if they don't deserve it," Elizabeth said with just the slightest emphasis, watching Peter carefully.
That got to him. The look of confusion transformed into something softer and a little wistful. Peter sighed and looked down, smiling slightly. "A little self-deprecating for Neal."
"Not so much," she told him. "How many times do you think Neal's been welcome in somebody's home, honestly welcome? When he wasn't conning them?"
"Probably not too often," he admitted. "I don't think Neal's had an overabundance of stable relationships in his life. Hell, his best friend doesn't even have a home. Or, at least, not a home in the traditional sense of the word anyway."
She smiled a little at that. "Speaking of—you didn't tell me how your conversation with Mozzie went."
"It didn't," Peter said, serious once more. "He didn't pick up; I had to leave a message."
Elizabeth pursed her lips. "That's not good."
"No," he agreed, voice somber.
As Rita Karstens entered the waiting room, two things struck her. The first was the size of the crowd. It pleased her to see that the FBI came out in strength for own of their own (even if he did happen to be a convicted felon).
The second was the sight of Peter. Her heart went out to him. He was surrounded by a cluster of people—mostly other agents, she realized—but his eyes were roving restlessly around the room. He looked like his thoughts were a million miles away.
Then he saw her and something sparked in him. Peter excused himself and met her not far from the door. Impulsively, she hugged him and he reciprocated.
"Rita, I didn't expect to see you here," he said, pulling back and scrutinizing her. "You got my message?"
She nodded. "Where Caffrey's concerned, I figured you could use all the help you could get." He smiled weakly and her voice softened. "How is he?"
Peter gave a grim, one-shouldered shrug. "He's in surgery. And that's all they'll say. He scrubbed at his face, looking both angry and defeated. "It's been hours with no word. It's—" he halted suddenly, glancing away.
Rita shook her head. "This is Caffrey we're talking about, Peter. You think a little thing like a gunshot wound is going to keep him down? Hell, no. And I'll tell you why. Because there is no way he's gonna miss the chance to drive you crazy for—what? Three more years?"
"I hope you're right."
"I'm always right, remember?" she shot back.
That got a smile out of him. "I remember."
Elizabeth had come to stand at his elbow and, belatedly, Peter remembered his manners. "Rita, this is my wife, Elizabeth. El, this is Rita Karstens, the prosecutor I told you about."
"It's so nice to meet you," Elizabeth said enthusiastically. "Peter was just telling me the story again of how Neal convinced you to let him testify in court."
"Oh," Rita groaned. "I was dead set against it at first."
"And then you met Neal," Elizabeth said with a sly smile.
"Well, he has a way," Rita replied.
She wasn't sure why that made Peter and Elizabeth look at each other and laugh.
Sara walked into the hotel suite, dropped her bag of hastily-gathered clothes and toiletries on the floor, and then stopped. She'd been focused on getting here, on having somewhere to be, since she couldn't stay at her apartment. Unlike her residence for the last few days, at least here she'd have a shower. And an actual bed, with a real mattress and everything.
But now that she'd made it this far, Sara felt lost somehow. Like she didn't know what came next or what she was supposed to do. Half of her wanted to make a stiff drink, imbibe until oblivion took over, and then fall into bed so she could pretend today had never happened. Pretend that, instead of fighting for his life, Neal Caffrey was at home plotting an art heist or forging a Picasso—whatever it was that someone like him normally did in their off hours.
She wondered how much alcohol it would take, though, to make her forget the agony on Neal's face, in his voice. How many drinks would be required to wipe away the memory of all that blood . . . .
So, yeah, she wanted to forget. Longed for it, actually. But there was also a side of her that seethed with nervous, angry energy, suddenly desperate to get out of this room (somehow, it was already making her feel claustrophobic), so she could roam the streets of New York City looking for trouble and hoping she'd find it. Because maybe then she could take out all of her frustration—all of her fury—on some bastard out there who deserved it.
Forget? Fuck forgetting, she thought viciously. As if you could ever forget any of what happened today, how badly Neal was hurt. But you could hurt somebody else. God, that would feel good.
The thought of using her baton on someone was frighteningly appealing right now.
She must have been standing there too long, because Diana's concerned voice broke the silence. "Sara? You okay?"
Swearing mentally at herself—get a grip, Sara, and put the crazy revenge fantasies to bed while you're at it—she started to turn, but the agent was right beside her.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Diana looked dubious, but didn't challenge her statement. "Would you like me to stay for a while?"
Sara laughed, tried to convey how silly it was that a grown woman would need an FBI agent to stay with her because she was upset. Diana had driven her here—she'd already done more than she should have. "No, no. I'm good."
The agent didn't answer, and Sara asked, "Are you going to the hospital?"
Diana nodded. Yet she made no move to depart.
"Do you think—could I go with you?" The words came out in a rush. Sara hadn't planned to say them; she wasn't even sure where they'd come from.
She just knew that it was suddenly very, very important that she say them.
Diana looked at her, startled. "To the hospital? Um, of course. But you don't have to. I can call you when there's any news."
"No, I do have to go. I want to. I just—I need to wash up first."
"Sure, okay," Diana said. "I can wait."
Sara slipped off her shoes, grabbed her bag and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Glancing at the mirror, she was a little taken aback by how flat-out awful she looked—face pale, makeup smudged and nose red from crying. Well, that wasn't important. She just needed to do the bare minimum to make herself presentable. The first step was to strip off her clothes, balling up the top and skirt because she would never wear them again. She left them on the floor, to be dealt with later.
The second step was to remove all remaining traces of Neal's blood.
She reached for the faucet and hesitated, hand hovering in the air. No. It would take a few minutes longer, but she had to step into the shower and rinse off—from the neck down, at least.
When the water was hot, Sara stepped in, enjoying the feel of the warmth coursing over her skin for a moment. But there was no time to waste; Diana was waiting. She'd always rolled her eyes at those hotel shower caps, but today she was grateful for it; she didn't have time to wash her hair. Quickly, she began to scrub at her skin with some of the heavily scented hotel soap as steam rose around her. The water was hotter than it needed to be, strictly speaking, but maybe it would help her to feel cleaner, somehow.
Now that she was naked under the unforgiving bathroom light, Sara could see that there was blood on her knees, her legs, her stomach—splashed in more places than she'd realized. Getting it off took longer than she'd thought it would. She had to rub fiercely where it had dried and settled into the little cracks and fissures in her skin. Sara tried not to look down at the shower floor as she scoured herself and rinsed off; she really didn't need to see the blood swirling down the drain in her own personal little reenactment of the shower scene from Psycho.
That task finished, she dried herself off, blotted her face with a washcloth, and quickly put on a fresh shirt and pants. She combed her hair, surveyed herself in the mirror, and sighed.
At least she wasn't a bloody mess anymore. Time to go.
Diana was examining her phone when Sara emerged from the bathroom.
"Any news?"
"No," Diana said. "Neal's still in surgery and there's no word yet."
Sara made her way to a chair and sat down to dig out a pair of more sensible shoes out of her bag. She watched Diana out of the corner of her eye, feeling suddenly awkward. "You—you're sure you don't mind if I come to the hospital?"
"Of course not; why would I?"
"I don't know, when I said I wanted to come, you looked . . . ." Sara's voice trailed off.
"Oh." Diana nodded. "I don't mind. I was just . . . surprised. I mean, it's pretty obvious how you feel about Caffrey."
Sara hesitated. She almost blurted out, Why would you say that? but stopped herself. Of course, it was obvious how she felt about Neal Caffrey—God knew, it was no secret. He was a criminal and he'd stolen from her (well, not directly, but the result was the same), and everyone knew that. So why was it that hearing Diana state something that had been an indisputable fact of life for years now sounded . . . well, not wrong, exactly, but not quite right, either.
It's pretty obvious how you feel about Caffrey.
But was it still?
Sara didn't know. She only knew that right now she couldn't speak ill of Neal Caffrey. Not with his life hanging in the balance.
"Not that I hold that against you," Diana hastened to add when Sara didn't respond right away. "If I were in your position, I'm sure I'd feel the same way." At Sara's questioning look, she explained, "Peter told me the history. And that you testified at Neal's trial. What was that like, by the way?"
It didn't take long to answer that one. "Infuriating," Sara admitted. The image of Neal, smiling smugly at her after she got off the stand, was burned into her brain. He'd shrugged, then shaken his head at her, in a parody of sadness, as he mouthed, Nice try.
Really, she could have smacked the bastard, right then and there. It had taken every bit of restraint she had not to react. Which was good, because it would be kind of hard to contest an assault charge when said assault had been committed in front of a judge, numerous court personnel, and a bunch of FBI agents.
Diana smiled knowingly, like Neal had infuriated her a time or two, as well. "He did get convicted, though."
"Yeah," Sara said, sighing. "He did. But . . . ."
"Ah," Diana said, understanding. "But not by you. Peter won, but you lost."
"Exactly. In more ways than one. Do you know how much that Raphael is worth?"
They exchanged a smile.
"Not exactly, no. But I know it's worth enough that you're still thoroughly pissed. Enough that you're still determined to find it," Diana observed. "And enough," she added shrewdly, "that you can't figure out how the hell Peter signed on to this."
Sara nodded. "When Peter told me that Neal was working for the FBI, I was—" she stopped mid-sentence as Diana's phone beeped. The agent glanced down at it and smiled.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Jones was texting me about Agent Blake."
Blake. Sara narrowed her eyes, thinking. She'd gotten to know most of the White Collar unit, having lived in their space for several days. It took a moment before she remembered. "Blake. Blake. Oh, I know. The wet-behind-the-ears one, right?"
"That's him. Jones and I sent him to the hospital first thing." Diana hesitated. "We were—well, we just wanted someone to be there with Peter, in case . . . just in case."
Sara saw the concern in her eyes and thought back to Peter, frozen in place as he stared at the pool of blood on her apartment floor.
"You were worried for Peter, too." she said.
Diana nodded, a bleak look on her face. "If Neal . . . if anything happened to him, it would hit Peter pretty hard. I'm sure you know that."
Sara nodded. She did know. Even if she didn't quite understand how they'd reached that point.
As if reading her mind, Diana remarked, "You were about to say something earlier, about your reaction when Peter told you about Neal. You were . . . surprised?"
"Stunned would be more accurate," Sara admitted with a wry smile. "It seemed like such a recipe for disaster."
"It does, doesn't it?" Diana agreed. "And you weren't the only one who thought so. Except . . . it hasn't been." She was trying to think of how, exactly, to describe what Peter and Neal were, but before she could, Sara spoke.
"How much does Peter trust him, really?"
The phrasing made Diana smile. It was proof of how far Sara had come in just a few days. Before, Sara would have been asking if Peter trusted Neal. Now, she was observant enough to already know the answer to that question and to move on to how much.
The agent pondered for a moment. "How much does Peter trust him? It varies. Not completely, but maybe . . . more than you'd think." Which, Diana realized, wasn't much of an answer.
Sara didn't call her on it, though. She looked thoughtful. "So Peter's afraid that Neal might still do something illegal?"
"For Neal, the temptation is always there," Diana acknowledged. "I sometimes think he's kind of . . . wired that way, you know? But I'd say, at the moment, that Peter's worried more that Neal might do something—not so much illegal, but impulsive."
Raising her eyebrows, Sara asked, "Aren't they pretty much the same thing?"
"Not always." Diana thought of that damned music box, hidden in her apartment. The box that meant everything to Neal because it held the key to solving Kate's murder. The box that Neal didn't even know was there, because Peter was too afraid of hurting Neal—and too afraid of what he might do with that knowledge.
None of which could be shared with Sara, obviously.
"Neal's been under a lot of stress lately," Diana said delicately. She saw the look on Sara's face and cut her off before she said something dismissive or flippant that she'd regret. Sara probably thought stress for Neal Caffrey would mean running out of champagne or something. "He lost someone very close to him, very suddenly. She was . . . murdered."
Sara's eyes widened in horror. She thought back to their conversation on the rooftop: Neal gently probing, asking about her parents, her siblings. A fleeting feeling of shame washed over her as she realized she hadn't asked those questions of him.
It hadn't even occurred to her to wonder, let alone ask.
Because you were thinking about yourself, as usual . . . .
"And Neal," Diana continued, "well, he doesn't have many people in his life." She paused.
Diana wasn't prone to emotion or sentimentality. From the very beginning—and she'd been there on day one with Neal—Diana had always seen him with clear eyes. (Also, Jones had given her regular Neal - and Peter-and-Neal - updates during the time she'd been away.) So she knew what Neal was, she knew how he operated, and she was instinctively disinclined to cut him any slack. Diana had no compunction about taking a firm hand with him—firmer even, than Peter, though she kept that thought to herself—and she'd been careful to make sure that Neal knew that. He'd tried to pull something over on her, once, and she'd discovered it and told him that if he ever tried again, he'd regret it.
He never tried again. He didn't try to charm her, or cajole her. Neal knew better than that. One thing about Neal: he certainly made his share of mistakes—and yet he was usually smart enough not to make the exact same mistake twice.
Diana didn't feel any sympathy for his situation either, since that was entirely of his own making—and since he had it ridiculously good, anyway. By rights, he should be looking at prison bars, not enjoying a breathtaking view of Manhattan every day.
But then she'd spent a night in a hotel room with Neal, where they'd ended up, quite uncharacteristically, baring their souls.
And even the practical, decidedly unsentimental heart of Diana Berrigan broke just a little when she thought of Neal, tempted by Garrett Fowler—with that bastard knowing there wasn't a chance in hell that Neal would be able to resist, because all he was offering was merely everything that Neal had ever wanted. Neal believing he was finally back in control of his life, that he had it all planned out—he'd have freedom and he'd have Kate—only to have that idyllic future torn away at the last moment in the cruelest, most devastating way possible.
It should have been me on that plane, he'd said, voice rough with emotion.
There was something achingly poignant about Neal in that moment as he sat there, looking forlorn and strangely small in his hotel bathrobe, the evidence of his past transgressions glowing green on his ankle—for once, exposed.
Along with the anguish he'd kept hidden under the surface.
Peter had been beside himself with worry over Neal, quietly terrified about his mental state after Neal had witnessed Kate's murder and then been abruptly thrown back in prison (despite Peter's best efforts to keep him out). Diana knew that, when it happened, Neal had tried to run toward the burning plane. That Peter had had to hold him back. And she knew, from the haunted look in Peter's eyes, that he didn't know if Neal had been trying, desperately, to save Kate, or to join her.
Diana had known about all of that. But it wasn't until she heard the quiet anguish in Neal's voice that night that she'd truly understood how vulnerable he really was. Neal didn't display his emotions, but that didn't mean that he was immune to having them. He was just so practiced at putting up a front that it was easy to forget that that was all it was: a mere façade, with all the grief and worry and fear bundled up behind it, where no one could see.
That night in the hotel room, she'd gotten a glimpse behind the façade. It had lasted only a few seconds before Neal's customary mask was back in place, but it still made her heart ache for him, for all that he'd lost.
Sara's words brought Diana out of her reverie. "About Neal . . . I—I didn't know," she said hesitantly.
"When it comes to Neal, most of the time, you don't," Diana told her with a sigh.
Their eyes met for a moment and then Sara looked away.
"It should have been me."
Her words, spoken in a low tone and coming out of nowhere, were so eerily reminiscent of Neal's, that night in that other hotel room, that Diana looked up in surprise. Sara, staring into space, didn't notice.
"I'm the one he wanted to kill. Me. Not Neal. He wanted me. I'm the one he should have gone after—"
"But he didn't," Diana said, and now she really was flashing back to that conversation with Neal. "You can't help that. You can't control what a—a killer does. You can only do what you did, and that's put him down."
Sara looked at her, then, eyes filled with doubt.
"I've been where you are," Diana explained, thinking automatically of Charlie and steeling herself against the sharp, familiar pain she still felt anytime that scabbed-over wound was touched. All these years later and it hadn't gone away.
It had taken a long time for her to accept that it never would.
"I know how it feels to see someone hurt and feel that guilt because it should have been you," Diana continued. "It's natural, but you have to get past it. It's a waste of time and energy, because nobody blames you. Neal wouldn't. I know him, and I know that he wouldn't."
"That's what he said," Sara admitted.
"You talked to him?" Diana hadn't known that.
"A little, before he . . . before he passed out."
Diana nodded. "Sure. Neal's practical—and smart. If Black had gone after you, you both might be dead. Which, I'm sure, is why Neal deliberately drew attention to himself. You being armed is the reason that either of you had a chance, and he wanted to give you the time to use that."
"But I didn't use it," Sara retorted, and Diana could hear the anger, the frustration in her voice. "By the time I fired, Neal was—he was already hit."
Diana studied her for a few seconds before responding. "I heard you tell Jones that you've never been in a live fire situation. Just target practice."
"That's true, but—"
"No buts. Do you know how long it takes, the amount of training you need to feel comfortable firing your weapon under those conditions? Meanwhile, you're dealing with a professional, here, Sara. Don't forget that." Diana stood up. "You did the best you could, better than anyone could have expected."
Sara wasn't sure she quite believed it, even though she really wanted to try.
"At the risk of stating the obvious—or scaring the crap out of you—by rights, you should both be dead." Diana's voice was pragmatic—and chilling. "You know that, right?"
Swallowing hard, Sara didn't answer.
"But you're not. Instead, you're both alive, and that's because you came through. Now, you ready to go?" Diana asked.
Nodding assent, Sara grabbed her purse and the room key and followed Diana out the door.
"Maybe I should have left him in prison."
Peter was back, sitting next to Elizabeth once more. The sheer size of the crowd, combined with their various comings and goings, meant there was always someone for him to talk to—a fact for which Elizabeth was infinitely grateful. Yet it warmed her heart that Peter never stayed away from her side for too long, even though she'd assured him that he didn't need to. There were plenty of people for her to talk with, plenty of emails for her to read and respond to, plenty of things she could do while time ticked by. She didn't need Peter by her side.
But he kept coming back anyway. For the moment, the two of them were alone. And his topic of conversation was one she'd been expecting.
Peter's words had come out of the blue, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't quite conceal. He'd tacked on an awkward laugh at the end, as if to make it sound like he wasn't serious. But Elizabeth knew that, in his heart, he wasn't kidding. Not entirely.
She frowned and shook her head. "Honey, don't be ridiculous."
"It's not ridiculous," he retorted. "Not completely, anyway. Being locked up is no picnic, but Neal came out relatively unscathed. I mean, he sure as hell never got shot while he was in there."
"But he was in prison. Cooped up in a tiny cell, and would have been for four more years . . . ." Her voice trailed off. She thought of Neal, who so often seemed larger than life, striding around New York as if he owned it. It was hard to imagine how he'd existed in a supermax prison cell for nearly four years. She said as much to Peter, hoping to distract him.
Peter nodded. "You might think. But Neal's nothing if not adaptable. It's probably his most developed skill. He's got that phenomenal ability to fit in anywhere, and prison was no exception, from what I can see. It's why he's so good at undercover work . . ." he stopped abruptly and looked away.
Elizabeth heard the guilt in his voice and her heart ached for him.
"Peter, you can't blame yourself for this."
He didn't answer, and she leaned forward in the chair, turning to her right so she could face him.
"Sweetie, look at me."
Reluctantly he turned and met her gaze. She didn't like what she saw in his eyes and impulsively grabbed his left hand in both of hers, gripping it tightly.
"You are not responsible for every bad thing that happens," she told him solemnly.
Peter let out a short, bitter laugh. "No. But this wasn't some random mugging, El. I sent Neal undercover—unknowingly—as a contract killer. Then I did it again—but with full knowledge the second time."
He heard his own words echo in his mind then, from after he'd sent Neal to meet with Halbridge.
You're playing with guns. I'm not letting you back in there.
The memory of his belated, useless attempt to protect Neal made him wince.
"And that same man ends up shooting him. I set this whole thing in motion." Peter paused before adding, "And I am responsible for Neal, in the end."
For the moment, Elizabeth let that lie, deciding she'd circle back to it later. Right now, she wanted Peter focused on specifics, and there were more questions she needed to ask to fill in the gaps of what had happened, anyway. "How did this man end up at Sara's apartment?"
"He was in Canadian custody. But they had no cause to hold him, so they let him go."
Ah. "And they didn't tell you," she supplied, as the pieces began to come together.
"No," Peter said, in a voice that promised that someone would be very sorry for that particular omission. "And I will get to the bottom of that, I assure you." The look in his eyes sent an icy chill down her spine.
Elizabeth sincerely hoped that no one in the FBI's New York office had played a role in the communication failure. Peter was slow to anger, as a rule, but on those rare occasions when he got there, he got his money's worth out of it. And nothing was more likely to trigger fury in Peter Burke than someone threatening the safety of his agents. Anyone on the receiving end of that fury would regret it.
Real anger was so rare for Peter that it always disturbed her, a little, to see it. It was so different from the gentle Peter that she loved. She tended to forget that her husband had an enormous capacity for rage under the right circumstance—mainly because she hardly ever saw that side of him.
But now she'd accept that fierceness gladly. Better that than the anguished guilt it had replaced.
"So someone screwed up," she said succinctly, counting on logic to win the day. Logic was always a good approach to take with Peter.
'Yes," he agreed. "Someone screwed up, all right."
"But that someone wasn't you."
He pursed his lips and gave her a knowing glance. "Not directly, no. But—"
"Did you even know Neal would be there?" she cut in, pre-empting the "but" where he'd inevitably blame himself.
"No," he admitted, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "After we arrested Halbridge . . . ." his voice faltered and he shook his head.
"What?"
"I keep thinking, now, about how easy it would have been to prevent . . . all of this. I keep thinking: if I'd just had Neal with me, at the takedown . . . ."
Elizabeth took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his face. She'd wondered about that from the beginning, of course. One of her first thoughts (which she'd only just managed to avoid blurting out to Peter on the phone) had been to wonder why Neal hadn't been with him. It terrified her, now, to think that the reason was something that would only compound her husband's guilt. Like, maybe, he'd told Neal he couldn't come. Or Neal had done something that annoyed Peter and he'd reacted in haste. Maybe they'd had an argument . . . .
She was afraid to ask the question of why Neal hadn't been there, afraid of what the answer would be. But Peter just sat there, looking pensive and volunteering nothing. Finally she ventured, hearing the timidity in her own voice, "Honey, I . . . I thought Neal liked to be there when you arrested someone."
"Oh, he loves it. Especially when he's been undercover," Peter answered quickly, a melancholy little smile on his face in spite of himself.
Elizabeth seized on that. "Okay, I see that smile. What are you thinking about?"
"When we arrested that doctor running the organ donor scheme. Right in the middle of the street. Neal was right next to me, proudly flashing that damn fake badge, you remember—the one from the cereal?"
"I remember it well," she said, smiling, too, at the recollection of Neal barging in on their breakfast and digging the toy badge out of the box. That amused look on his face when Peter had chuckled at the idea that Neal was bringing him a case, and Neal's cocky reply as he clipped the badge onto his pocket—that's what us lawmen do.
The memory was vivid because it was one of her favorite Neal moments. Taking things further than he probably should, but knowing that he was so charming no one could hold it against him. Gleeful about the whole idea and not even pretending to hide it, like a child who'd been told he was getting some reward he'd been dreaming about for the longest time.
That kind of exhilaration was infectious, even for Peter, who already loved his job more than just about anyone she knew. It was just another reason that Peter and Neal fit together so well.
"Given that, I'm . . . surprised he didn't want to be there," Elizabeth said carefully, praying as she did so that her assumption was correct.
Peter shook his head. "I know. I offered. I always do. Especially for Neal, it's important that he feels involved, particularly in the parts of the job that he actually likes. I mean, if I'm gonna make him do paperwork and stakeouts, it's only fair that he get to be there for the arrests, too. So I always ask him. Unless there's any chance it could be dangerous—"
Elizabeth bit her lip at the irony of that comment; from the frown on his face, Peter was aware of it too.
"But he didn't want to," Peter continued sadly after a small pause. "At the time, I couldn't understand why. It seemed like just the kind of thing he would have wanted to be there for." He lifted both hands in a helpless gesture. "Now I know why. Although he didn't say anything to me at the time, he must have already had the idea to help Sara. Because once we had Price in custody, Neal apparently offered her a ride home—she had all of her things at the office. He borrowed a car, drove her back to her place."
She didn't try to hide her surprise. "Well, you certainly couldn't have predicted that. I thought you said those two were constantly sniping at each other. When did they get so friendly? "
Peter snorted. "Good question. I told Neal to play nice and, for once, I guess he listened to me. His face fell. "And look where it got him."
Elizabeth wanted to swear in frustration. No matter what tactic she tried or how she tried to steer this conversation, Peter found a way unerringly, to turn it back to his own culpability.
She was no quitter, though. "Okay. So if I have this right, Neal was where you had no idea he would be. And that—that man was where you had no idea he would be." She looked at him expectantly, waiting for his slight shrug of acknowledgment before continuing.
"And he hurt Neal. But as far you knew, the case was over. You couldn't have known, and you couldn't have been there. So tell me again how this is your fault?"
Peter sighed. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, hon."
"Stop appreciating it and start thinking logically," Elizabeth shot back, a little angry now. "And while you're at it, stop patronizing me," she muttered, lowering her voice to prevent a roomful of FBI agents from hearing their boss get chewed out by his wife.
He smiled at that, an apologetic smile. "Sorry," he said, meaning it. "But Neal is my responsibility."
"And a hell of a responsibility he is, too," said a deep voice from behind them.
An instant later, Jones appeared, carrier full of coffee cups in hand. "Coffee, anyone?"
Elizabeth, already more keyed up than she wanted to be, declined, but Peter accepted gratefully, sipping with a look that said it tasted better than he'd hoped. A couple of other nearby agents relieved Jones of the rest of the cups.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," Jones added, easing himself into a seat across from them. Elizabeth shot him a swift, imploring look that Peter didn't see. Jones' answering glance told her he'd overheard enough to know exactly what he was interrupting.
She gave him a quick smile. "Not at all," she said and Peter nodded.
"I heard there's no news," Jones said.
"No, he's still in surgery," Peter said, then, more eagerly, "Everything's finished up at Sara's?"
"All done," Jones assured him. "The ME has the body, and NYPD will coordinate autopsy and ballistics—all the forensics—with us. I'll follow up to make sure on that."
"And Sara?"
"She's okay. Gave a preliminary statement and we got her out of there. She'll have to follow up with them later."
"Any complications?" Peter asked.
Jones shook his head. "Nah, don't think so. It's a clean shoot, Peter. I don't see NYPD harassing her on this. Her account's held up so far, and it matches the evidence."
"Good," Peter said. "Where is she now?"
"Diana's with her. She took her to a hotel; she's gonna stay there until she can get back into her apartment."
With an anxious expression, Peter studied him. "How'd she seem?"
"Pretty shaken up," Jones admitted. "Said she never shot anybody before, never even discharged her weapon outside of the firing range."
"Her first time," Peter said darkly. "She made it count."
"Yeah," Jones agreed. "If she hadn't been carrying, they'd both be dead."
Elizabeth shivered involuntarily at the matter-of-fact way he'd said it.
Stop it, she thought. They're not dead. Sara's alive and so is Neal. And he's going to stay that way.
"Um, does anybody need anything?"
Agent Blake, dear thing, had wandered up yet again. The kid had a boundless supply of nervous energy, which he apparently had to burn off by being in constant motion. Elizabeth wondered how on earth he managed to get through an entire day of sitting at a desk. She'd have to ask Peter about that.
"No thanks, Blake," Peter said kindly, raising the cup Jones had just handed him. "I'm good."
"Right. Well, then, Mrs. Burke, would you like some coffee, or . . . . "
"No, Agent Blake," she answered, smiling at him. "I'm fine, but thank you for asking."
"Nice to see you, Blake," Jones said, giving him a meaningful nod.
"Right, y—yes," the younger agent stammered. "Okay, well, if you need anything, just call," He slipped away again.
Peter watched him go, a fond expression on his face. "I understand you're responsible for Agent Blake's presence," he said to Jones.
"Ah, you know," Jones replied, voice deliberately casual. "Poor kid was going cross-eyed, staring at paperwork all day. Figured I'd give him a break."
"Mmmm," Peter said, a glimmer of a smile playing around his lips. "Thoughtful of you."
"I've been there," Jones continued. "You look at that stuff too long, it gets to you."
"Yeah, it can get pretty rough," Peter agreed. He paused, cleared his throat and said, "Thanks."
"Any time, Peter," the younger agent said, clapping him on the shoulder as he got up.
Elizabeth, listening in, realized the conversation wasn't about Agent Blake anymore—if indeed it ever had been.
When Jones left, she excused herself with a be right back to Peter and followed Jones unobtrusively, waiting until they were far enough away that her husband couldn't hear.
"Excuse me, Clinton?" she said, laying a hand on his arm. He turned immediately.
"Mrs. Burke." His eyes were warm and concerned. "You need anything?"
"I wanted to thank you. You, um, you sent Agent Blake for Peter, didn't you?"
He smiled at her. "Yeah. I did. Well, Diana, too. We thought it would be a good idea."
"Thank you."
"No problem. We were tied up at the scene. I was worried that Peter . . . if anything happened . . . I just didn't want him to be on his own."
"I appreciate that." Elizabeth looked back over to Peter, who was talking earnestly with an agent she didn't recognize and—she was happy to see—smiling a little. "This is so hard for him." She realized she was wringing her hands and deliberately brought them to her sides to still them. "Beyond worrying about Neal . . . he blames himself."
"Yeah," Jones said, cutting a quick, sideways glance at Peter. "I kinda heard that part."
The words came out in a rush. "If Neal—if anything happens to Neal, it's going to devastate him. He'll—"
"Mrs. Burke." He took her hands in his, wanting to provide some measure of comfort. "Let's not think worst-case scenarios right now, okay? Neal is a lot tougher than he looks. And Peter will get through this. He's got a lot of people to make sure he does, you being the most important."
She managed a tremulous smile at how he seemed to know just what to say to make her feel better. And how he was unknowingly echoing her own words to Peter earlier - about trying to stay positive.
"And you've got to remember," he added pragmatically, "that's Peter. That's who he is." He waved a hand that encompassed the crowd around them. "All these people? A lot of them know Neal and they're worried about him, but they're here for Peter, too. Because he's the kind of guy who worries constantly about the people he works with. And everybody knows that. He wouldn't be Peter if he didn't care."
She nodded. "I know. I just worry."
Jones looked over at Peter then, affection written all over his face. "He'll get through this." A moment later, he added, "We all will."
"Starting with Neal," she said resolutely.
"Absolutely, starting with Neal," he agreed.
Jones' phone rang. He glanced at her; she gestured to him not to hold back on her account and he answered it.
"Hey, Lauren. You never call any more." He smiled grimly, listening. "Bad news travels fast, huh? No, Neal's in surgery, there's no update yet. . . ."
TBC . . . .
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