Chapter Fourteen: Near Miss
Saturday, June 26, 4:10PM
Peter was frowning. He was trying desperately to maintain his frown.
It wasn't meant to be a frown, exactly, just a look of concentration. But if he didn't focus on frowning, he was worried he would burst into a grin that would make him look like a clown.
That was because Neal was thinking again.
Watching Neal think was quickly becoming Peter's favorite pastime. He loved the way his blue eyes darkened a couple of shades, the little wrinkle between his eyebrows, the way his tongue peeked out from between his lips.
He loved watching it so much because he knew that whatever came out of Neal's mouth – when he was done thinking – would delight and surprise Peter. It would send a chill down Peter's spine, as his heart sped up and he realized they had a lead, a plan, an idea.
An hour and a half earlier, he had unleashed Neal on a pile of old children's books seized by Customs at JFK International Airport. It all had Peter scratching his head; what did a dead rare book dealer, the definitely not-rare copies of a Spanish version of Snow White, and a killer lawyer have to do with the Dutchman?
After making cute humming noises and poking at the books, Neal had grinned a triumphant grin. It wasn't the books themselves that the Dutchman was after, it was a sheet of blank paper in the book – a specific type of blank paper, from a specific region and time – that the counterfeiter needed. An appointment card in the rare book dealer's wallet had led them to the National Archives, opened special at the request of the FBI.
The archivist had brought out a sheet of paper that he proudly said was a "Spanish Victory Bond." The man had explained its history – supposedly entire boxes of them had been lost and never redeemed. Neal had been impressed at the history, and at the fact that the artwork on the bond was a Goya.
Neal was leaning close to the parchment, his nose nearly touching the paper. He swiped lightly at it with his gloved hand.
"This is the only surviving copy," said the archivist.
Neal glanced up at Peter, and then looked at the archivist. Here it comes, Peter thought.
"Except…it's a forgery," said Neal.
"What?" asked Peter.
"It's the ink," explained Neal. "This is an iron-gal dye mixed to match the period colors. But it hasn't dried yet. You can still smell the gum arabic."
Peter leaned in to sniff. He wasn't sure what he could smell, but Neal seemed certain.
"No, no," said the archivist. "That's not possible. That's been here since 1952."
"It's been here a week," said Neal, firmly.
Peter rocked back on his heels and let the grin out.
* WC – WC – WC – WC – WC – WC *
Saturday, June 26, 4:40PM
Neal exited the National Archives behind Peter. He was feeling proud of himself, and a little relieved. He knew how to do this. He could be useful, prove his value.
He was also feeling a little…lightheaded. He hadn't eaten lunch, he realized. His stomach hadn't yet figured out how to adjust to eating more, and so after the sizable breakfast, his body hadn't told him it was hungry again. That didn't mean he didn't need to eat. He was also still tired.
"You're starting to earn your keep," said Peter, waiting for Neal to catch up. They detoured around a pedestrian who was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, head buried in his phone, and moved down the sidewalk, side by side.
Neal shot Peter a cocky smile. "Peter, did you doubt me?"
"If I had, you wouldn't be here," said Peter.
Neal blinked a little at that. It was more direct of a compliment than Peter had ever given him.
"Where to now?" he asked.
"The office. I told Diana and Jones to meet us there. We'll put our heads together, tell them what we learned about the Victory Bonds, and try to figure out exactly what this guy is doing."
Ask him for something to eat, Caffrey, thought Neal. But he couldn't. Peter was so fired up about the case, he would be annoyed by the delay, or distraction. Neal could wait until they got home.
"The real question is, who is this guy, and where is he?" asked Peter. Neal didn't respond, since Peter was more thinking out loud than asking him. "We've looked at known counterfeiters, and nothing matches the profile. Come on, car is this way." Peter waved his hand towards the garage across the street.
"Maybe we've been looking at the wrong—" Neal turned toward the curb, and suddenly, stars swam in front of his eyes. He stumbled.
"Woah." Peter reached out and grabbed Neal's arm, steadying him. He looked down at the ground. "What, did you trip on something?"
"Must have," said Neal. Peter let go, and Neal swayed on his feet. He took a step backwards and off the curb, into the street.
"Neal," said Peter, sharply, grabbing at his arm again. "What's wrong?"
Neal shook his head, took a deep breath. The stars disappeared.
"I'm fine," he said.
"Stop saying you're fine," said Peter. "If something's not okay, you've gotta tell me."
Just what he needed, Peter continuing to see him as helpless. He wanted Peter to see him as a valuable partner, not as a liability.
"I said, I'm fine." Neal wrenched his arm out of Peter's grip, and whirled, taking a step into the street.
There was the roar of an engine and the squealing of tires. A flash of silver.
Then something yanked the back of his jacket, and Peter's arm was a band of steel across his chest, hauling him backwards and up onto the sidewalk. They tumbled toward the ground.
Neal landed first, half on his side, and Peter landed on top of him. All of the air rushed out of Neal's lungs in a whoosh, and he screwed his eyes shut, gasping for breath.
There was more squealing, more roaring, and then it was over.
Peter rolled off of Neal and immediately grabbed at him. His hands were on Neal's chest, his head, his thighs…anywhere they could reach.
"Neal! Neal," said Peter, urgently. "Neal, are you okay? Talk to me."
Neal opened his eyes. Peter's face was inches from his, eyes scanning Neal wildly.
"Ow," Neal said, then let out a groan.
"What? What's wrong?" The hands were roaming again. One gripped at Neal's knee and squeezed the bandage over his raw skin.
"Peter," he said desperately. "That's my – your hand –"
Peter jerked his hand off Neal's knee, but then resettled it on his thigh. It slid higher. Neal tried to ignore it, but it was hard, especially when Peter began to gently stroke his thigh in what he probably thought was a reassuring gesture.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," he said frantically. "I swear."
"Did you hit your head?"
"No. Can you – can you get off? I can't…"
Peter backed up, and rolled to his feet. He offered Neal a hand and pulled Neal up beside him. Neal began brushing at his pants and jacket.
"Is it okay?" he asked. "I can't see the back. Is it torn or scuffed?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "You nearly get hit by a car, and you're worried about your damned suit. Christ, Caffrey, get some priorities." But he looked relieved, as if hearing Neal complain about his suit meant Neal really was okay.
Neal straightened the jacket, and then the rest of what Peter had said registered. "I'm sorry, nearly get hit by a what?" he asked.
Peter eyed him. "Why do you think I yanked you out of the street?" He looked around. "It's long gone. Maybe someone caught a plate. Or one of the cameras did."
He pulled out his phone. Neal listened with one ear as he talked to an agent, requested the agent pull security footage from any camera on their block and intersection.
Neal thought for a second. He remembered the roaring engine, the flash of silver, the squealing tires. He swallowed, hard, his breathing shallow.
Peter hung up, and eyed him. "You sure you're okay?"
"Damn," he said, the wonder evident in his voice. "I nearly got hit by a car. And you saved me."
Peter smiled. "Yeah, well, don't go all hero-worship on me. Just protecting my investment," he said.
"You saved me. Again," said Neal. Stars started swimming on the edges of his vision once more. He closed his eyes, but the stars remained. He could feel his pulse increasing.
"Neal?"
What was it Peter had said? If something's wrong, you've gotta tell me.
"Peter, I think I need to sit down," he said.
"Okay," said Peter. He stepped to Neal's side, took his arm. "Lean on me a minute."
Neal gratefully followed the instructions, taking comfort in the solid form at his side. Peter was there, so it would be fine.
"Walk with me," said Peter. "Right foot, now left, good."
Neal let Peter guide him. His eyes were open, but his vision was blurry. His stomach rolled with nausea. Instead of struggling, he gave up the reins and just listened to Peter's voice, responded to his movement. A few minutes later, Peter deposited Neal in a plastic chair.
Neal blinked around him. They were in a café.
"Stay here," said Peter. "I'll be right back."
Peter moved away. Neal couldn't have moved if his life depended on it. Well, maybe then. But for nothing less. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and hung his head in his hands until his heart rate evened out and his stomach started to feel more stable. Then he sat up, and Peter was back.
"Here," he said. "Drink this."
Peter pressed an open water bottle into Neal's hands, closing them around the plastic. He kept his hands around Neal's, and guided the bottle up to his lips. The water was cool and felt good. When had he gotten so thirsty?
Right. He was dehydrated. He probably should have been guzzling water all day.
"Good," said Peter. "Now this." Peter handed him an open PowerBar.
Neal didn't think about the fact that he hated PowerBars. He just took a bite, and then another. By the time he had finished, his head felt clearer, his breathing was steady, and his stomach was growling.
He smirked. "I think we've awoken the beast."
Peter was glaring at him.
"What?" Neal asked.
"Neal, when was the last time you ate?"
"I think…breakfast," he said.
Peter shook his head. "Damn it."
"I'm sorry," said Neal. "I sort of didn't think about it. I'm not used to eating frequently, and I was excited to be working on the case—"
"It's not your fault," said Peter. "I should have been paying more attention." He sighed. "Can you walk? I want to get you home."
"I can walk," said Neal. "I'll be okay. I thought we were going to the office?"
"That was before you nearly got turned into roadkill and then practically fainted on the sidewalk," said Peter.
Neal felt himself panicking. He had to be useful. He couldn't let Peter go off and solve the case by himself.
"I'm really okay now," said Neal. "I want to be there. I want to—"
"Relax," said Peter. "You still want to work, we can work. At home. With dinner and comfortable clothes. I'm thinking Chinese food, what do you say?"
"What about Jones and Diana?" asked Neal suspiciously.
"If they want in on the fun, they can come over too. We'll get extra moo shu pork."
Neal stared at his hands a moment, then grinned up at Peter. "Dibs on the spring rolls," he said.